#Worm writes

[wormwrites]

villains like yours

jason todd x f!reader | 1.4k words | hurt/comfort

warnings: allusion to sa in reader's past, very self-indulgent fic, if i should include any other tags let me know!

a/n: this is my first fic in a very long time, so be gentle lol. excuse any awful grammar mistakes, enjoy!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Most of the time, when Jason came home after patrol, you were ready to take care of him. Comfort him, help him rinse the blood from his knuckles, stitch his wounds, and hold him. He’d rest his head on your heart, and be reassured that despite the violence on the streets, you’re still here, heart beating steadily, each thump reminding him why he fights, adding to the overflowing cup of his love for you.

It took a long time to get to that point, for him to let you see him like that, his soul stripped raw from whatever had happened on patrol. He’d go to a safe house to wash up first, lock himself in the bathroom, or even go to the manor. He’d do whatever he could to keep that violent and dark side of his life away from you, but somewhere along the line, he saw your own darkness, and found parts of it had nestled its way into his ribs, beside his lungs, where it had wrapped itself up with his own. 

Today was different. Where he’d usually open the window to you laying in bed, scrolling on your phone, he saw an empty bed, sheets rumbled, empty of you or your two cats.

“Princess?”

If he hadn’t had the extra edge to his senses, both the one crafted by the bat and by the pit, he wouldn’t have heard the soft hiccup that came from the bathroom, or  the soft sobs that preceded it. 

Quickly his gear was dropped in a haphazard pile on the floor and he was knocking on the bathroom door.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was soft as he tried to calm his quickly rising heart.

“I-I’m alright Jay.” Your voice sounded heavy, your throat sore. He could still hear sniffles. 

“It’s just some bad cramps, I’ll be out soon.” 

He didn’t believe that for a second, and before he could think about it, he had roughly shoved the door open. The building's old lock stood no chance against him when you were hurting.

When Jason opened the door, he saw you, curled up on the ground next to the bathtub, face flushed and eyes stung red with tears. You were holding your knees so tightly he could see the strain on your knuckles and wrists. He quickly bent down and swept you into his arms, and despite your earlier words, you immediately crumpled into him. You buried your face in his neck, desperate for any comfort. One hand quickly went to hold your head, the other to your back, both stroking softly.

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” he murmured alongside other soft words of comfort. 

After a minute or two, he carefully rearranged the two of you, setting you on his lap so that you didn’t bruise yourself on the hard bathroom tile. Carefully, Jason coaxed you out of his neck, hand gently cupping your face and wiping your tears away. 

“What’s wrong? What can I do?” You quickly just began shaking your head, mouth opening a few times, unable to form words.

“It- It’s nothing” You said quickly, but with a soft and meaningful look from Jason, you stuttered for a few moments before finally speaking. 

“I can’t- I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it, about…” you made another soft sob sound, and your eyes glazed over, unseeing of your lover in front of you, seeing something, -someone else.

“...him”

Immediately, Jason understood. Of course he understood. He wasn’t the only one with villains in his past; memories he’d rather avoid. Long before the Joker had picked up that crowbar in Ethiopia, Jason knew of villains like yours. 

Your villain didn’t need to paint his face or employ goons to commit his evils, he just needed to say the right words, smile at the right moments. He didn’t need a weapon to destroy and violate you, he just needed to say a few choice words at choice moments. He only needed to ignore a few choice words from you.

Jason wasn’t good with handling emotional situations like these, he was still learning, improving his emotional intelligence after being raised by the most emotionally constipated man in Gotham. He never knew what to do or say, but you always insisted he does the right things, so he holds your face in his hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead and tries his best to push all the love and care he feels for you into it.

“Everything is alright my love, you’re okay. I’ve got you,” he cooed, arms wrapped impossibly tighter around you. As he holds you, whispering soft reassurances, it takes all of his will power to not to hunt down the man who did this to you years ago, to not tear him limb from limb. The strongest restraint comes from him knowing that you deserve to be the one to do that, not him. 

Eventually he picks you up and carries you out to the kitchen, setting you down on a stool and quickly leaving to grab a blanket from the couch. On his way to wrap you up in it, he gives a look to your cat, Moose.

“Go comfort her, hairball,” he whispers, pointing at your slouched figure. The petulant cat, usually indifferent to Jason, agrees, jumping on the counter and licking your face in earnest, while Jason begins fixing some tea.

“I’m sorry…” you breathe out, finally having stopped shaking. Jason puts your favorite mug, filled with some comforting Earl Grey, in front of you.

“You have nothing to be sorry for sweetheart” He reaches his hand out, palm up.

“No, I know how hard some nights are for you. I don’t like adding to it.”

“Hey, nuh uh, what is it you always tell me when I’m in a bad place?” Your eyes meet and he sees you are back to yourself, although still clearly shaken.

“.. we take care of each other,” you eventually let out, meeting his outstretched hand with your own. Your other arm is wrapped around the cat now curled up in front of you, practically on your chest. “Still...” you let out a small sigh 

“How was patrol?”

“The usual. Stopped some muggings, beat up some of Black Mask’s guys." Then a grin appears on his face, “Saw Tim get his BatBurger stolen by a crow.” he adds with a laugh, his eyes gleaming with gentle light. 

“I think the most rewarding part, though, was when I comforted this sweet girl on 22nd street. I wasn’t really sure what to do, but I think I got through to her.” He waited with a baited breath to see if you’d follow the bit.

“...I bet you did, you’re better at comforting people than you think you are. I bet she feels a lot better now that she knows the big bad Red Hood is always going to protect her.” A small smile starts at the corner of your lips.

“I hope so. She was real pretty too, the kind of girl that makes me speechless, I think if I see her again I may just ask her out.”

“She may just say yes.” You finally smile fully, a small and muted smile, but Jason sees it as a victory nevertheless. “Maybe you should just come kiss her right now?”

Jason needs no more invitation. He quickly rounds the kitchen island and meets his lips to yours as the butterflies that seem to have lived in his stomach ever since he met you flutter their wings once more. His fingers hold your face. It’s not a heated kiss, it's sweet and soft. A comfort for you both to feel your pieces meet each other in perfect harmony. The darkness and hurt behind each of your ribs blending into one, a burden carried equally between the two of you.

“Meooooow,” the cat between you two protests. You two separate with a small laugh, both your hearts a little lighter.

“Sorry baby” you coo at your cat, scratching his favorite spot under his chin, and Jason pouts.

“What about me? I’m the one losing kisses here!” He whines, and you playfully roll your eyes and give him a peck. 

“Thank you, Jay,” you say as Jason puts the now empty mugs of tea in the dishwasher. 

“I.. I would have had a hard time pulling myself out of that place alone.” 

“Always, princess. Now why don’t you pick out a movie while I shower real quick?” He wanders off to clean up, leaving you to sit with the cat. 

You smile, and later, after you’ve fallen asleep on his lap while watching a Ghibli film, Jason will carry you to bed. When he’s sure you are both settled for the night, with the apartment locked up, phones charging on your nightstands, he’ll press a kiss to your temple, and repeat his words.

“Always. I’ll love you always.”

[wigglywormy]

unexplored territory [bakugou/deku, 2.3k, nsfw]

first prompt request! thank you for sending it in, I hope you like it xoxo (also cross posted to ao3!)

warnings: nsfw, light dom/sub, frottage, nipple play, minors DNI

-----

Izuku isn’t always amazing at things on the first try, while Katsuki on the other hand seems to catch on to everything so quickly and with such ease. Perfectionism at least is a quality that they both share, so even when Izuku fails in the beginning, he refuses to quit until he can do it with his eyes closed. Breaking his fingers, breaking his arms, breaking the plethora of bones in his body trying to master his quirk was easy, because the drive to make the quirk his own was such a powerful motivator. Well, maybe not easy, but the motivation deep within his core truly was the biggest push he needed. 

Staying up all hours of the night studying for exams, spending hours upon hours in the gym to perfect his body to handle his quirk and whatever else comes his way, and attempting to keep a steady and healthy diet are mindless tasks now, ingrained in his blood and expertly learned and honed. 

Which is why, Izuku thinks as his hands slip underneath Katsuki’s tank top, this particular task is so…. daunting. 

They’re still in the new stages of dating, slowly melting away all of the awkwardness of first kisses and hands touching hands, and even though it’s only been a few months, Izuku is frustrated that he’s not an expert at Katsuki’s body yet. He’s stupidly determined to change that. 

“Izuku,” Katsuki grumbles from his position on the bed, sprawled flat on his back with his notebook held up in front of his face, “Cut it out. We literally graduate in a fuckin’ month, we have to study for our final exams.”

Izuku swallows thickly from his place hovered over the blonde, his hand pausing where it’s pressed over Katsuki’s stomach. “We’ve been studying for hours, Kacchan.”

Katsuki scoffs, “And? You gonna tell me if I sit you down right now and quiz you, you’ll ace every subject I throw at ya?”

Izuku pouts. “It’s not good to cram too hard. Can we just take a break?”

“And do what?” Katsuki replies mindlessly, going back to flipping through his notebook. 

Izuku slides his hand higher, Katsuki’s tank getting bunched up further until his pink nipples are exposed to the warm air in the dorm room. Katsuki shifts a bit, but doesn’t push him away. He also doesn’t put down his notebook either, so Izuku bites his lip and takes it as a green light. 

Katsuki’s body is something out of Izuku’s wet dreams, really, and after they got together, once Izuku was allowed to touch, he decided to make it his new mission to figure out exactly all of the ways to make Katsuki tick. 

He’s already discovered the spot behind Katsuki’s ear that makes him gasp, the spot right in the dip of his throat that, when Izuku latches on and sucks, causes Katsuki’s fingers to spasm and his breath to stutter. He’s figured out that Katsuki doesn’t really like the back of his neck touched, but he loves when Izuku drags his nails sharply down his spine when they are kissing. 

He’s honestly discovered a lot about his boyfriend’s body, but there’s so much territory that’s currently unexplored, and it’s driving Izuku mad. 

They haven’t really gone past making out and hand jobs, and Izuku tries not to get too handsy since he’s not really sure what kind of boundaries there are at this new, fresh stage in their relationship, but Izuku’s been watching. He’s been analyzing, calculating, and watching. He notices how Katuski’s breath hitches when he’s cold and his shirt rubs against his chest, nipples hard and poking out beneath the fabric. He’s noticed how Katsuki’s hips twitch up when they’re making out on his bed and Izuku’s hands drag up his chest, over his pecks. 

It’s time to test his theory, and see what kind of reactions Katsuki will give him. So Izuku can see if this is another discovery he can add to his ever-growing list of everything Kacchan. 

Izuku situates himself so he’s straddling Katsuki’s thighs, and though he can’t see the blonde’s face behind his notebook, he sees how Katsuki’s fingers clutch at the pages just a bit tighter. Izuku has his tank top bunched all the way up to his armpits now, pale muscular torso on full display, and Izuku’s mouth nearly waters as he zeros in on those cute pink nipples, just begging to be touched. 

He takes it slow, dragging both hands up along the curve of Katsuki’s waist, and at the first brush of his thumbs against his nipples, Katsuki jerks so hard he drops his notebook. The pages flutter as it bounces off the bed and onto the floor, and now Izuku can fully see how pink Katsuki’s cheeks have become. 

Oh, okay. Yeah, Izuku is going to get a lot of research done tonight. Katsuki is his favorite subject, afterall. 

“Izuku,” Katsuki growls, low and quiet, almost like a warning. Izuku happily ignores him, thumbing his nipples a bit more firmly this time, and when his nail catches against the skin, Katsuki straight up squeaks. 

“Jesus - calm down,” he manages to grit out through his teeth, but his hands have come down to clutch at Izuku’s thighs, and his gaze has darkened the way it always does before they fool around. 

“Have you ever had your nipples played with before, Kacchan?” Izuku asks quietly, massaging his pecs with large, calloused hands. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Katsuki snaps, and then softer, quieter, “You… you know you're my fuckin’ first. Or whatever.”

First kiss, first boyfriend, first love - Izuku feels his heart swell that’s he’s managed to collect so many things from Kacchan. It makes him so happy his heart could very well burst. 

But - first, he needs to focus. Katsuki’s eyeing him curiously, and so Izuku settles more firmly on his hips before gently, so gently, fluttering his fingers over the sensitive nubs. 

“What - ah, f-fuck,” Katsuki chokes out, and the startled laugh that escapes his lips makes Izuku pause. 

“Sensitive?” Izuku asks with delight, because he knew deep down they were, but he didn’t know that Katsuki’s chest would also be ticklish. 

“Just - do it harder,” Katsuki grumbles out, not meeting Izuku’s gaze. “None of that gentle shit.”

Izuku happily ignores him yet again, scraping his nails feather light around the pink buds until Katsuki’s full on squirming beneath him, lips twitching on a smile as he tries not to laugh. His hands dart up to grab Izuku’s wrists, but Izuku is quicker, snatching the blonde’s hands up in one of his own and pinning them above Katsuki’s head. Izuku’s hand is large, and able to wrap completely around both of Katsuki’s wrists to keep him in place, which is nice because it allows him to have a free hand to continue his exploration.

“Are your nipples ticklish, Kacchan?” 

“No - ”

His words are cut off with a gasp when Izuku leans down, flicking the tip of a tongue gently across his left nipple, and Katsuki’s back arches up, his body trembling as he chokes on a giggle - but then moans when Izuku sucks on the bud firmly. 

“Ah - mmm,” Katsuki moans, and Izuku notices his cock throbbing in his sweatpants. 

“You’re so cute,” Izuku teases, enjoying the way Katsuki’s cheeks flush at the compliment. He’s still firmly holding Katsuki’s wrists above his head, and he uses his free hand to trace his fingers softly along the side of Katsuki’s chest, squeezing his pec before dipping dangerously into the hollow of his underarm. That has Katsuki snorting softly around a surprised laugh, and Izuku notes with glee that his hips grind up at the same time. 

Oh, he likes this? Izuku mentally notes that in his head. 

“Izuku - fuck cut it out!” Katsuki’s voice is shaky, his head turned to hide in his shoulder as Izuku continues to drag his fingers teasingly across his chest, tickling at his nipples, the sides of his ribs, dipping into his armpit before coming back to those pert, hard, sensitive nipples. Izuku can feel Katuki’s cock pulse, his hips grinding up unconsciously.

“I wonder if you can come like this,” Izuku muses, “I wonder - how would a feather feel? If I just… tied you up, tickled your nipples for hours until you couldn’t take it anymore. They’re really sensitive, huh?”

“Shut - sh-shut up.”

“Hm - we don’t have any feathers - oh!” Izuku exclaims, releasing Katsuki’s wrists to lean over, digging around in the bedside drawer before pulling out a small vibrator they like to play with occasionally. Izuku’s only used it on their cocks before, but he’s so curious - 

“Don’t you dare,” Katsuki groans. 

“Hold onto the headboard,” Izuku commands softly, and Katsuki swallows and does as he’s told. 

When he turns it on, Katsuki visibly tenses up, his gaze growing dark, and when Izuku gently grazes his nipple, Katsuki’s entire body arches up, his arms shooting down to shove the toy away as he shrieks. 

“Oh my g - f-fuck!”

It’s like music to Izuku’s ears, the strained laughter and desperate gasp that the blonde lets out. 

“Arms up, Kacchan.”

He grumbles but does as he’s told, fingers gripping the headboard so hard it creaks, and he bites his lip as Izuku lowers the setting on the vibrator before pressing it back to his nipple. The reaction is instant, Katsuki wriggling aggressively underneath Izuku, and finally after a few moments, Izuku hears little broken giggles from Katsuki’s mouth. His eyes are squeezed shut, beads of sweat popping up on his forehead, and when Izuku uses his other hand to pinch and roll his other nipple, the blonde cries out a shaky moan. 

“Ah - ahah - Izuku it’s - fuck, I c-can’t - ”

“Does it tickle?” 

Katsuki’s face burns. “Fuck off - yes, ahahah! You fuckin’ asshole - !”

“Does it feel good?” 

Izuku rolls his hips down, grinding their arousals together, watching at Katsuki’s mouth parts and eyelids flutter with pleasure. He switches the vibrator to the other nipple, and darts back down to flick his tongue ticklishly over the other one. Katsuki’s shaking violently, as if his body has no idea how to handle the sensations, and when Izuku thumbs the vibrator up to a higher setting, he nearly groans at the shriek of laughter that fills the room. 

“God - you drive me crazy,” Izuku groans, “You’re so cute, I can’t believe your nipples are so sensitive.”

“I c-can’t help it,” Katsuki whines, and his fingers are turning white with how hard he’s trying to keep his arms up. When Izuku drags his fingers back into the dip of Katsuki’s armpit though, the blonde can’t hold out any longer, and his arms dart down to grip Izuku’s wrists. The action simultaneously causes the vibrator to press harder onto his nipple, and Izuku bites his lip, drunk off of the moans and laughter coming out of his boyfriend’s mouth as he squirms helplessly against the bed. 

“Oh - nng - Izuku, Izuku, I’m - ahahah, g-gonna -!”

“You gonna come like this?” Izuku says in a low, deep voice as he grinds harder against Katsuki’s lap. His fingers are trapped now in Katsuki’s underarm, fingers fluttering sporadically as he circles the vibrator torturously over a nipple. This time, when he darts down to lick, bite, suck at the other nipple, Katsuki screams, gasping on a sob as broken laughter forces its way out. It’s so much, too much, but Izuku’s feeling mean, so he hums against sweat-damp skin as he flicks the vibrator to the highest setting, pressing it right over the sensitive bud. 

Katsuki’s covering his face now, embarrassed tears leaking out from under his trembling palms, and with one last roll of his hips, he’s coming, body going taut like a live wire as Izuku tickles and licks him through his orgasm. 

“Stop - st-stop,” Katsuki gasps, and Izuku tosses the vibrator to the side in order to bring both hands to Katsuki’s chest, teasing those cute nipples, grazing down his sides, pinching at his hips and trailing back up again to squeeze his pecks as he feels the blonde’s cock twitch and throb, his sweatpants growing damp through his release. Katsuki paws at him weakly, tiredly giggling and whining as the overstimulation short circuits his brain.

“Ahaha - ah, p-please,” Katsuki writhes, clutching at the front of Izuku’s shirt as the boy leans down, kissing and nipping up the side of his neck. Katsuki’s strained laughter is right in his ear now, and Izuku groans loudly as he brings a hand down to squeeze his own cock. 

“Just  - fuck, just a little more, Kacchan, you can take it, right?”

It’s less of a question and more of a demand. Izuku pants wetly into Katsuki’s neck, one hand rolling a nipple between his fingers as his other squeezes his own arousal, and finally, when Katsuki’s sobbing and babbling nonsense into his ear, Izuku finally comes with a loud groan, pressing his forehead to Katsuki’s temple as he rides out his orgasm. 

“Jesus - fuckin’ quit it,” Katsuki whines, finally batting away the hand that’s still teasing his oversensitive nipples. Izuku mumbles out a half-hearted apology and sits up, smoothing his palms firmly over Katsuki’s chest to soothe the blonde’s trembling nerves. After a few moments of catching their breath, Katsuki’s eyes flutter open, and he looks utterly debauched. 

“Holy crap,” Izuku mumbles, leaning down to kiss the blonde deeply, cupping his face in large hands and wiping his tear tracks away with his thumbs. He has so much content to add to his Kacchan folder now. 

“So much for a break,” Katsuki grumbles, shoving Izuku off of him and splaying his limbs out tiredly. “Now I need a goddamn nap, you fuckin’ menace.”

“Sorry?” Izuku offers, but they both know he’s not actually sorry at all. “I didn’t know your nipples were so - ” 

He’s cut off when Katsuki shoves a hand in his face, his cheeks glowing pink. “Shut up, oh my god.”

“Kacchan’s so cute,” Izuku coos, voice muffled beneath his boyfriend’s palm, “I wonder where else Kacchan is sensitive?”

Katsuki just groans loudly and shoves a pillow aggressively over his face to hide his blush. 

God, Izuku is going to be the death of him, he swears. 

[urlocalwormtoday]

do you think they ever found Williams body? or did he just disappear and reappear one day, pale and followed by a trail of unseeable creatures?

how long do you think he was missing for? was it weeks or months? possibly even more time than that? did the wisps bring him back healed, or did he trudge from the bottom of the cliff with broken ribs and a cracked skull?

do you think his parents held out hope for the first however long he was gone? did they sit, night after night, praying for his return? do you think they regretted hoping he'd come back, 'no matter what' they'd said, when he was changed? when those around him started getting miraculously injured?

what do you think his parents thought when he would fall through the floor if someone snuck up on him too quietly, or when his body would topple like a puppet with its strings cut, lifeless?

and if he didn't get up on his own, if the Unwitness Program spent sleepless nights meandering blindly through the woods in search of him, do you think they believed what they saw? do you think when they peered over that cliff, expecting the worst, they could predict his body laid broken at the bottom?

do you think his mother clawed through the thicket to get to him? did she see his head split on the rocks? did she get to cradle his bloody body?

i wonder if they buried him. i wonder if he had to rip himself from the wooden boards of a coffin and muddied dirt in the dead of the night. did he show up to his parents house covered in grime, wondering, in a haze, why the door was locked? wondering what exactly they wanted to keep out.

i wonder if they ever found Williams body.

[canarydarity]

(Happy Team Rancher week!! :D this is for today, the last day, AU fest. this is an au that I've had on the back burner for a while, but its for a ya book series I read in middle school and absolutely adore, and so I'm really glad I was able to finish this scene up and get it out here for the event!! The very basic premise is that Tango, Impulse, Skizz, and Etho are students at a teenage spy school. On their first ever field training mission, Tango meets Jimmy. Exceedingly, exceptionally normal Jimmy. Enjoy :) <3)

Hermitville looked as if every store-front was painted neatly on wooden slats and propped up from behind by a 2-by-4, its display perfectly weathered and distressed to look as if you could turn the cardboard handle and walk through the door of a family-run business, 75 years strong. But the fact was that you actually could do that—these were real stores in a real town, no matter how striking their resemblance to the set of every small-town-America movie in the world, ready to be broken down and disposed of to make room for the next.

The phenomenon was always made worse by how little Tango actually entered the town despite living 12 miles down the road from it. Its existence was just close enough to feel, parsable from the air like the scent of rain off asphalt, and simultaneously far enough to be alien to him, made all that much weirder by its small town charm, suffocatingly mundane and unconditionally normal. No strings, no contingencies, no Christmas dinners interrupted by last minute covert missions to foreign embassies. 

There were string-lights hanging between the lamp-posts, it was cute. Tango felt unbelievably itchy. 

The comm in his ear crackled. “How ya doing up there, Legacy?” 

Skizz sounded like he was enjoying himself entirely too much. It made Tango grumble a little under his breath, not caring if it was loud enough for the comm to pick up or not. Maybe if he was lucky, the others would attribute it to static. 

Or maybe they’d attribute it to Etho, giving he whined back, “I hate that code name.”

“Okay, Prodigy.” Tango cut in, knowing Etho would hate that one equally as much if not more. What could he say, he gets bitchier when he’s grumpy, and wandering around in the cold stuck in the state of perpetually failing his first CoveOps mission was certainly doing it for him. 

“Tang—”

Maybe he went a little too hard, though, if he got Etho to break protocol and use his real name over what technically counted as a confidential communications outlet. Oops.

“Tango,” Impulse interrupted—not overly-peeved enough at his friend to use his real name, just equally as hopeless when it came to CoveOps to the point he likely forgot they were supposed to be using code names in the first place. “Where are you, I lost you again.” 

Tango didn’t have to turn around and face the direction he’d last seen Impulse to be able to picture the frown that he absolutely wore. Besides, that would give up his cover, and staying hidden—unmemorable, ignorable, unnoticeable, any of those were fine—was just about the only field trait Tango had. 

“Over by the bank, Impy.”

“Well, wave your arms or something.”

Tango nodded at an old lady who was walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of him, glaring like they were in a store and Tango was sweating carrying too large and heavy a bag as he suspiciously made his way toward the door. She glared harder at his attempt of being polite and turned her head away as they passed one another by. Tango just really couldn’t get enough of that small town charm. 

When she was behind him he dropped the grin and responded, “That kind of defeats the purpose, now doesn’t it?” 

What could’ve been a break of static but was probably Impulse groaning cut through the comm and Tango winced. At least he was good at getting passed by, he imagined Impulse was failing to do even that at the moment. “Well, how am I supposed to follow you following Doc if—”

“He’s flipping,” Etho cut in, and Tango didn’t glance to the left at the park where Doc—their certifiably batshit insane countries of the world professor—was currently using every trick he’d ever been taught on how to lose a tail; not that he knew he was being tailed, he was just that vigilant. Constantly. Cause that was how every normal and well-adjusted person lived their life. 

Instead, Tango kept walking the way he’d been going, stopped to look both directions before crossing the street, approached the closest vendor and bought himself the first thing on the menu without stopping to look at what it was. 

Why on Earth Professor Beef thought the best way to ease them into the field of Covert Operations was to assign them to tail their most paranoid and least sane staff member was beyond him. He could imagine what Beef would say if Tango dared question this decision of his out loud: well you don’t have to get it, you just have to do it. Yipee, he was so glad to be taking this course. 

He couldn’t look for Doc, so he looked for Etho instead. He scanned the street, the sidewalk—hell, even the rooftops—but there was no sign of him. He was that good. 

Show-off, Tango thought as the vendor whistled to get his attention and he turned back with a smile and a thanks accepting a corndog. Nice. 

Tango headed off again, this time towards the park, the direction Doc had been going in, presumably, before he’d flipped. He saw Skizz amidst a sea of letterman jackets, smiling and laughing and miming throwing something with his hands; the crowd he’d accrued laughed with him, boys of all shapes and sizes slapping each other on the arm and guffawing over a guy they would all swear later that they’d had to have had a class with at some point. 

Their methods were different, but it was undeniable—mission one, and Skizz and Etho were good at this. They’d all known they would be. 

Tango wandered around for a while longer, ate his corndog and listened to the chatter of his fellow operatives over the comms, always keeping their updates on Doc’s position in mind and staying busy as he steered clear enough as to not get noticed but close enough he could keep his options open should an opportunity arise. 

In theory, the mission was simple: what soft drink did Professor Doc like to drink with his funnel cake at the Hermitville fall carnival? In practice, it was a lot harder than it looked. They’d all been students of Doc’s for almost 5 years, and while this meant they might know him well enough to predict his patterns in what was maybe a reasonable way, it also meant he knew them well enough to call out their first and last name if he spotted them—and to skip the questioning portion of the interrogation in favor of going directly into doling out detentions. 

This was their professor who used a trusted—and highly confidential—surgeon to give him a new face before the start of every school year for the sake of avoiding some long list of threats still interested in apprehending him that he constantly alludes to but never explains. And Beef wanted them to tail him. It’s not like they had any chance to succeed. And Tango was missing Below Deck for this.

The carnival was beginning to thin out, slowly, by the time anything interesting had begun to happen—at least to Tango. The square had one of those large metal things that looked like a lamp-post but actually had a giant clock in the center, and based on the last time he’d seen it and his impeccable internal clock, it could only be nine-fifteen p.m. It was like this place couldn’t get any more boring if it tried. Tango couldn’t stand it. Tango was jealous. 

He was cutting through the alley behind the town’s lonely diner, heading towards Skizz’s last known location, and was about to throw a line out over the almost eerily empty silence of his comm when Skizz spoke first. Something about the sound of his voice nagged at Tango, and it occurred to him before he opened his mouth to respond that he’d heard Skizz speak out loud, not directly in his ear. 

A second later, and it wasn’t just Skizz. At the first raise of Doc’s voice, Tango stopped walking and leaned as hard as he could into the brick. “I don’t even want to know how you got out and—actually, how did you get out?”

Tango only spent a moment questioning whether or not he was about to make a mistake before he leaned towards the edge of the alley until he could get enough of a picture of what was going on. Doc’s back was to him—thank god—but Skizz and Impulse were done for, the two of them sitting on a bench before their increasingly irate professor. Skizz was at his most diplomatic, sitting still and face severe with the kind of look that said I am listening to you and I understand. Impulse was cringing so hard at the having-been-caught that his left eye looked swollen shut.

Skizz raised one of his hands to halt Doc’s tirade—a risky move, but if anyone could pull it off it was Skizz. “Professor, if you’d just let me explain—”

“Explain what!” Tango winced with his friends in solidarity, even though he wasn’t the one getting reamed. “You’ve been following me for thirty minutes, which means you have to be—wait,” Doc said, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Wait a minute—where’s Beef?”

Tango watched as Skizz and Impulse—spies in training, yes, but still teenage boys at heart—shared a look with each other that gave away exactly what Doc needed to know. Skizz said: “Why I don’t know what you could mean, Professor, we were just—”

“Oh you—” From behind, Tango watched Doc shake his head to cut Skizz off, and then he did something kind of miraculous: he turned and tossed something—something shining and made of brown glass, something suspiciously bottle shaped—into the closest trash can. “Go on, now. Back, back to where you came from.” 

Tango stared at the garbage that couldn’t be more than twenty feet from him, even as Doc herded two of his best friends off of the bench and on into the night, the vague direction of the mansion; in his peripheral Skizz turned to glance at Doc and open his mouth, one more attempt at reason, before Doc departed one more and I’ll be giving you an extra credit assignment to really complain about. 

Tango honestly wasn’t even sure they were out of sight by the time he left the wall and the relative safety of the alleyway, not even considering the risk as somewhere inside he reeled at the thought it couldn't possibly be this easy. As he crossed the street, half of him expected to get scruffed by the back of his shirt and dragged all the way to his dorm, the other half expected to look inside and find the bottle to already be gone, even though his eyes hadn’t left the can, and for Etho to wander out of some shadow with it already in his hand. But the street was blessedly, amazingly quiet the whole time Tango made his way over. 

The garbage can was mostly empty even though the town had just had a carnival—because of course it was, towns like this probably didn’t produce any trash at all, Tango should’ve goddamn known—meaning Tango had to brace one of his arms on the lip of the metal can and hop slightly with his other arm outstretched to grab the bottle and pull it safely out of the trash. 

The condensation had made the paper labeling start to peel away in places, but the brand was still, for the most part, entirely legible—their mission was complete, and by Tango no less. He couldn’t wait to get back and rub it in Etho’s face. 

Tango tossed the bottle in the air and caught it, mood turning around for the first time all night—not even the 12 mile walk home in the dark could daunt him now. 

He turned around to begin his trek and found himself instead frozen immediately to the spot. 

There was a boy. 

Across the street, paused in the middle of the sidewalk and staring right at him, was a boy. And he’d seen Tango. 

Tango, whose only natural talent in CoveOps was going unnoticed. Tango, whose codename was cipher, after a joke Impulse made about his tendency for hiding in plain sight. Tango, who’d just rooted around in the garbage for someone else’s trash. 

The boy stopped to look both ways before crossing the street, even though it was now almost 9:30 pm and seemingly passed town curfew by how empty it’d gotten. There were no cars by sight nor by sound on this road or any of the surrounding blocks, but the boy looked to his right, then his left, then his right again before stepping off the concrete and onto the asphalt. There was even a moment of pause when his foot touched down on the road, and a slight furrow to his brow that had Tango imagining him thinking but there’s no crosswalk here! 

A better spy might’ve done something else—found the closest out, used the perfect excuse or expertly timed joke—but Tango just stood there, and watched the boy approach. 

“Hi there,” he said, a slight Virginia twang to his words that really drove home the all-American look about him, the swoopy blonde hair and lithe but athletic build—perfect for winning throws at football games or moral-gathering posters of government propaganda. 

“Do you….dig through trash cans often?” The prom king illusion shattered immediately as the boy cringed and shook his head, descriptive adjectives like polished becoming more awkward, perfect turning into endearing. “No—that sounded rude, I’m so sorry, I meant it as more of a joke, really…an unfunny one, I guess.” The rounder part of his cheeks pooled, filled deeply with blush. 

Tango opened his mouth, unsure what he planned to say, but then the boy went, “Oh my gosh, not that I judge that—or, well, maybe a little. But I—I’m sorry, and I shouldn’t, that’s wrong and, and—“ he paused abruptly, his head clearly moving faster than his mouth, the level of disaster that was this conversation running away from him and seeming far worse than it was when it’d started. 

“There are nicer trash cans, even,” He said when he opened his mouth again, and Tango nearly lost his mind, turned his laugh into a cough and wondered if all exceedingly normal people were so…cute. “Closer to the center of town. I can…show you where those are instead, if you prefer?” 

Tango couldn’t help his smirk. “You offering to take me on a tour of the nicer trash cans in town?” 

“I—“ Tango watched the boy's face buffer as all the things he just said caught up to him, and he looked down, bashful. After a moment, he smoothed out the embarrassment like wrinkles on fresh sheets and looked back up at Tango confidence renewed. “That or a milkshake, maybe?” 

The boat had stopped rocking, they’d made it to solid land, and the conversation righted itself and worked its way towards something normal—or at least, what Tango thought normal was supposed to look like. He’d never been asked something so simple as would he like to get a milkshake with a cute and utterly mundane boy. 

Things that Tango most definitely was not. His cover, on the other hand…

Right, his cover. In a logical and completely sane move, Tango blurted out, “I have a cat.” 

The boy blinked a blink that pushed his whole head back an inch from its force. “Ex…cuse me?” 

“I have a cat,” Tango repeated, begging his brain to fill him in on the rest of the reasoning behind why he said this particular thing at this particular moment. Were cats deathly allergic to milkshakes, or something? Well, screw his imaginary cat, Tango wasn’t! 

He said: “She…likes to play with bottles. I kinda grab them whenever I can.”

“Etho!” He added, and then mentally slapped himself upside the head. This was precisely why he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near field work. “That’s my cat’s name, yup! Mhm, so, I’d take you up on that, but—“

“But you have to get back to your cat?” The boy said, his cheek bunched under one of his eyes like he wanted to believe that but had heard one-too-many a ridiculous excuse before and wasn’t quite sure. 

“Exactly.” Tango let out a breath. Jesus Christmas this was hard—where the hell was Skizz when Tango needed him? Oh, right. This was not at all how the night was supposed to go.

Conversation lapsed, but Tango failed to notice his opportunity for an out. The spy in him knew deep down that this was his chance to leave, to apologize for the lack of a milkshake and laugh off the fumble that was their interaction and begin his long walk back to school, knowing by the time the boy god home he’d forget all about having met Tango at all; the teenager in him stared at the freckle at the inner corner of the boys left eye. 

“Sorry, you’re new around here, aren’t you?” 

Tango continued staring. This was the third time the boy had apologized. 

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve lived here…all my life?” His voice lilted higher at the end, almost like he was posing a question rather than making his case. “Everyone here has lived here all their life and I’ve…never seen you before.”

Tango has too, in a way. Home was a complicated concept for a spy; he may not be one yet, but his parents were—he knew enough to understand. It wasn’t like his childhood went untouched from the transient nature of spy work, a suitcase and go-bag always ready by the door. Even if he was the one being left and not the one doing the leaving, Tango knew flexible, he knew inconsistent. 

For years his most stable constant had been school, his mom in the headmasters office, Skizz Impulse and Etho. Where was home but here? 

He couldn’t say that, that wasn’t the cover. After years of being told I’ll be back soon with no indication of when soon was and little clarification of back from where and absolutely zero certainty that was something that could be promised, Tango resented lying. He wasn’t meant to be forming covers—he was meant to be locked in a lab somewhere, but one term of CoveOps at the start of sophomore year was a requirement. A requirement Tango would have to get through. 

Tango had never seen the boy before either. He didn’t know how to respond. 

“But, hey, I guess I’ll be seeing you around? At school?”

“No!”

The word was short and sweet, one syllable, something if the rampant apologizing was any indication the boy had not insignificant experience hearing. But his head tilted on the axis of his chin, lilting higher into the air and away from the middle of his chest—the dog that thought it’d heard a word it knew and was trying to determine if it was of the good or bad variety. “…No?”

Tango cringed. Probably visibly. “I’m…homeschooled,” was the lie, this time. 

“Oh, alright,” Tango hoped the drop in his tone was disappointment and not disbelief. He hoped the boy blessedly naive of the ways Tango was being false and not incorrectly assuming him indifferent to their chance encounter. 

Unwilling to bet on the chance and deeply reluctant to do what he knew a good spy should—remembering too many holidays gone remiss, and birthdays of the ill-get-you-next-year variety—Tango said, “I’ll be around, though.” 

The boy brightened, one of those artificial lamps that mimics sunlight where sunlight doesn’t reach, from darkness to light in mere seconds—like it was simple, easy. Ill so readily forgotten. 

“Good,” the word was delivered with an amicable nod. “Better get home to Etho, then.”

There was a moment of pause as Tango prepared to exclaim Etho?!? Suddenly in fear that he’d somehow found the one normal boy who wasn’t normal at all and was actually some sort of enemy spy, Tango accidentally blubbering his way through giving up national secrets he didn’t even know he knew—and then he remembered what he named his fake cat. 

“Right! Etho, yes…right, gotta get back to,” —had he given his fake cat pronouns?!— “yup! Okay, bye then.” 

Tango turned with great effort, his eyes shut and the rational part of his brain begging him to get a grip, his hands clasped tightly around the slightly icky with condensation bottle of soda that he’d come here to claim and by some miracle had. He hadn’t gotten more than a step or two away before the boy called, “Hey, what’s your name?” 

And Tango made possibly the stupidest decision of the night—despite all the competition, that’s pretty impressive, he knows—and called back, “Tango.”

“It was nice to meet you Tango!”

Tango smiled over his shoulder at the boy, walking backwards down the road he’d been so cautious to cross before, wanton joy on his face and something Tango didn’t dare to name, hands in his pockets. “You too,” Tango laughed. 

“My name’s Jimmy, by the way!”

The comm in his ear crackled to life after too long staying suspiciously silent before Tango could do anything about that, and he heard what he knew to be Etho saying, “Cipher, meet me at the corner of Pine and Cherry.” 

The sobering bucket of ice water dumped on your head after a particularly rough all-nighter, Tango felt his nerves wake up one by one; his spine was suddenly straighter and everything a little more on edge than it’d been a few minutes ago. He resisted the urge to scan the roofs and the streets and the shadows. He ignored the shame that said he just got caught doing something he shouldn’t have been; he kind of already knew that, but something in him also wished this had just been for him. Bye Jimmy, Tango thought in reply before saying, “Yeah man, on my way.”

Forget milkshakes and normal boys, Tango had some bragging to do. Other than to resent lying, if there was anything being the child of spies taught him, it was how to mask disappointment. 

He turned the corner toward Etho without looking back. 

[echoing--stars]

Malayna Malon and Golden Wolf Time watching over Wild, perhaps with a side of Lord Satori Legend

I couldn't fit Lord Satori Legend in there, but Golden Wolf!Time and Malanya!Malon was fun to write! Also, Pumpkin is the name of one of Wild's horses.

(If you read this and would like to request a short snippet, see this post!)

Link had noticed something following him since he’d left the Great Plateau. For the longest time, he hadn’t know what it was. He’d only caught glimpses out of the corner of his eyes, flashes of gold in his periphery vision. The scream of a monster dying before it could ambush him and a sense of warmth at his back on the coldest of nights sleeping on the forest floor. But by the time he reached where the monsters should have been, the only thing left was whatever rusted weapon it had carried and the usual loot. When he turned to look at what was pressed against his back, nothing was there. It wasn’t until he’d followed the rumors of the Horse God into the canyon that he’d finally caught sight of his steadfast companion. A golden wolf, larger than any he’d seen since he’d started this mission. Slightly fuzzy around the edges and still keeping far ahead of him. But Link got the feeling it was leading him along. Link knew he could trust the wolf. It had helped him along on his journey, after all.  When Malanya rose from the fountain, Link nearly fell over backwards. Their presence was different than that of the Great Fairies. Just as powerful, but Wild in a different way than even those spirits. He didn’t sense any malice from them, however, in spite of the initial threatening words. “My child, I can sense that you show your loyal steeds the respect they deserve. It seems you’ve learned well. May we meet again in happier times.” Link didn’t understand what they meant, but he could sense the warmth behind the god’s words. When he turned to leave, the golden wolf stayed behind, Malanya leaning down until their noses touched. It was an intimate gesture, one that made Link feel as if he was intruding. He didn’t turn back as he left. The wolf would find him again, and perhaps he would come back to visit the horse god. He was sure that Malanya would adore Pumpkin.

[randombrainworm]

Anyone up for some Priest thinking about his Fucked Up Boyfriend With Eldritch Brainmate short fic?

(yes this is oscar x arthur from malevolent)

[vitalis-crucifix]

UHHH IF YOU LIKE SUCCESSION MAYBE READ THIS FIC I WROTE ???? THANK U

[wormgremlin]

I've gotten three unnecessary, unwanted, and ultimately useless hateful comments on my fic in the first 24 hours since posting it. So a quick refresher for people out there:

First, foremost, and most concerning: If someone is in critical condition, unless you have medical training and supplies, HOSPITAL HOSPITAL HOSPITAL. That includes both urgent and emergent triage statuses (in this case, severe blood loss and abdominal wounds going into the abdominal cavity -- intestinal rupture is no joke! Nor is uroabdomen!).

Second of all, I'm sorry if you and your friends have never talked about or looked at each others boobs/chest. Genuinely. On the other hand, me and my friends make fun of each other constantly in good fun and are comfortable enough around each other to talk about our bodies. Your sexually repressed puritanical views have no place in my comments and no place in an irl queer space. Between the two of us, I am not the "weirdo."

Third of all (and whoo boy is this a long one), just because I represent a ship a certain way does not mean I condone their actions in a real life setting. Ffs, I like Hannigram. That means I definitely recommend committing malpractice, non-con drugging, and tubing your crush like a horse. Not To mention cannibalism and framing people for your own serial murders. I'm writing things based on my own experiences and perspective as a queer poc who grew up and got out of a conservative home and state. I'm writing as someone who lives paycheck to paycheck. I write as someone who still fights an internal monologue of shame and repression, of not being good enough, of bitterness and self-loathing making for a critical lens of others. I write as someone who affectionately calls my friends buffoons. As someone who has only ever used terms like "babe" as a derogatory. And I know that isn't for everyone. And I know my experiences aren't universal. But they do shape how I write. And I'm not asking you to like it. I am, however, asking you to consider how your actions affect others and click that back arrow before you say something unnecessary and rude.

Gonna be honest: the slew of asshole comments I've gotten have been more annoying in a "ooh comment oh that's disappointing, look an asshole" way than truly upsetting to me. But I thrive on spite. Not everyone does. For some people, the shit being said would be incredibly hurtful; for me, I thought worse while writing it.

And this bit didn't make the list, but deserves honorable mention: Just because you don't like the way I write something doesn't mean I hate the ship. Yeah. I spent hours of my life writing this and editing it and posting it because I hate it. Sorry, but I'm a full time grad student with a life, a job, and shit to do. I don't have time for ship phishing. I've written more than one fic for this ship, each portraying them a different way. Clearly because I hate the ship?

All of this of course to say:

If you don't like it, write your own, hon.

[echoing--stars]

As someone who went years without commenting or leaving kudos, (largely because I didn't have an account and didn't understand how things worked) and recently started making an effort to do both, yes!

Comments don't always have to be in depth (though those are very beloved). I recently got one that was just "thank you for the chapter" and I still appreciated it very much.

I'm a big proponent of "write/create for yourself" and I do - some of my fics are very self-indulgent, things that I wrote because I want to read them. But I share for others. If people quit interacting - on ao3, discord, or tumblr the rare times I share here - I'd reach a point where I'd no longer be interested in sharing. I'd keep my stuff between me and Rock, or just between friends in a small Discord server.

I write pretty niche stuff, so I don't expect a ton of interaction. But a comment here and there is nice! It means I'm not shouting into the void!

Had to share this here because you're right and you should say it. It's incredible how many people came out of the woodwork as soon as AO3 was down and suddenly had no compunctions at all about screaming how much they love and need fanfic--on the AO3 twitter. Is it so much harder to do in the comment section?

At this point I don't care anymore if people call me entitled or think I'm out of line. If fanfic is so meaningful to you that you cannot go half an hour without, let alone 24h, then you can get over yourself long enough to write a fucking comment. No excuses.

"writing comments is hard and scary" yeah well GUESS WHAT so is writing fanfics. fandom as a community is dying, because it is instead treated as a COMMODITY, a CONSUMER PRODUCT. We're not asking for much. We're asking for a CONNECTION. We don't want to sell, we want to share.

You've shown your hand. You've admitted you cannot live without us. Now ACT LIKE IT. Go write a fucking comment.

[wormwrites]

I just can't get the idea of soulmate!jason where you share scars out of my head. Jason is a canvas of scars. We all find them beautiful and wouldn't judge him even if we were held at gun point. But imagine you were getting those scars at the same time he was... it would be hard. Of course you are worried about your soulmate, but when you wake up with a permanent, very purposeful J branded onto your face, can you really tell me you wouldn't be embarrassed to go outside? Afraid of meeting your soulmate who seems to be either a criminal or in a very dangerous victim situation? Would you not be even a little angry that now your face is ruined? (I know there is makeup, but we are ignoring that for a second) Yes, you share these scars with your soulmate and somewhere along the line you'd find peace with them. But in the moment when you look in the mirror and find an autopsy scar... I can only imagine what you would feel. Oh, and poor Jason. He would never be able to forgive himself. He probably wouldn't even realize he has a soulmate because if you get a scar he wouldn't notice it beside all of his. This isn't a request. I just wanted to share my thoughts and hear yours. I'm asking a few different creators so feel free to ask for another person's opinion as well!

oh my god, anon, ur brain!!! i’m sure this is messy but 1: i love requests and 2: i just started typing most of this late last night

((i also saw a few other respond to this but i purposely didnt read them so if anything is similar its witchcraft or smthing idk))

i think the smaller robin scars sort of annoy you, when you’re younger. you don’t see how the trade off of your small acne scars is fair to these constant random but mostly well healed ones scars are. you have a running joke with your closest friends about how you have a lecture for your soulmate whenever you meet them.

you’re a dumb kid, teenager at best, but when you wake up one morning, dozen of burn scars, scars of a deep beating, and a harsh ‘j’ plastered on your face, you have a breakdown for both of you. so scared for whatever your soulmates been through, when, a day or so later, autopsy scars appear, you go numb. you aren’t an idiot, you know what those scars are from.

you’ve never heard of scars from a soulmate post death, but you don’t know what else they could mean, and no more scars show up after that.

how do you deal with being so young knowing you had a soulmate who had a hard life cut short, and now you’re doomed to be alone forever? maybe you go numb, just float through life, dissociating. or maybe you devote yourself to your studies, maybe you work to help kids in tough situations like your almost love. maybe somewhere in between.

i think if you live in gotham, you have a small feeling why there was a j, i think maybe you learn some makeup skills, use things like cosmetic wax and a precise foundation routine to cover it, you can’t afford the fancy kind of plastic surgeons who specialize in soulmate scars.

you think you’re done, accept this is your life.

then years later, more scars start appearing? precise, dangerous scars? given only the bare minimum medical care? you think you must be broken. you start spending even more time with your therapist, maybe start researching even more.

one of these late nights at the library you’re walking home in gotham, you’d lost track of time but the sweet redheaded librarian named barbara reminded you to leave before it got too too late, still, you live in a rough part of town, and batman’s been busy lately with this new crime lord, you don’t care either way, too trapped in your own world of hurt and confusion, you don’t even realize what you’d walked into.

jason never gave much thought to his soulmate, he’d never even noticed any scars, thought maybe he didn’t even have one. definitely didn’t have one after his death.

he’d stalking after batman one night, both are aware the other one knows, but they arent confronting each other tonight, and when they turn onto a certain street he gets an odd feeling and he suddenly finds himself in front of of you,

and hes speechless, his world crashing down so quickly, because all he can see is the ‘j’ on your your face.

jason never gave much thought to his soulmate, and now he literally walked face first into them, and nothing is the same for either of you from there on out.

[wigglywormy]

blurred lines, sharp twine [bakugou/deku, 5.6k, nsfw]

okay. so I haven't written a fic in over 5 years!! can y'all believe that? i used to be so active on this blog, pumping out fics day and night, but life got busy and before I knew it over 5 years have passed omg.

of course my first fic back would be something like this lol. this was written for @wreckingtickles who shares my undying love for bakugou getting absolutely destroyed. they prompted me with a fic featuring bakugou's stirrup leggings and that kinda spiraled into this huge monster of a fic.

please enjoy 8) (also i made an ao3 to cross-post my tickle fics on!)

warnings: nsfw, feet, intense tickling, bondage, veryyyy slight dub-con, minors DNI.

Izuku wouldn’t openly call himself a weird guy, but he definitely doesn’t really try to hide the fact that he’s a little on the strange side. He knows he’s a gigantic nerd (he’s thoroughly reminded of that fact by Bakugou everyday), he knows he’s a little awkward, and he knows he’s maybe even a little bit of a freak. But, through the years of trauma, war, violence, and near-death, he’s come to accept that life is much too short to deny who you are.

Moving in with Bakugou after graduation was something Izuku didn’t even have to think about. Bakugou set up a few apartment viewings, and it went completely unsaid that the smartest decision for both of them would be to stick together. Roommates equaled cheaper rent, and since they both were working under the same agency it was easy to align their schedules. Normally they patrol together (the Wonder Due didn’t get its name for nothing), but occasionally - especially lately - Bakugou has been picking up more shifts than usual. 

Izuku can’t help but notice how tired Bakugou has been lately, especially tonight, coming home  from his 9th day in a row of patrol. The door closes softly behind him - he must think Izuku’s asleep already as it’s around two in the morning, and Izuku turns slightly from his position curled up on the couch to watch Bakugou toe his boots off. He’s already changed out of his hero uniform, clad in only his leggings and a soft, worn looking hoodie that Izuku’s pretty sure belongs to him. 

Bakugou leans his head against the wall in the foyer for a brief moment, sighing deeply, and Izuku’s heart aches at the noise.

“Late night?” Izuku asks, closing his book and setting it on the coffee table. 

Bakugou jumps. “Jesus - shit, you scared the fuck outta me.”

“Sorry,” Izuku murmurs, a slight smile on his face. 

“The fuck are you still doing up?” Bakugou grumbles, finally making his way over to sprawl on the opposite end of the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt. 

Izuku shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Which, technically isn’t a lie, but. Still. Even when he lays in his bed at night during one of Bakugou’s shifts that he’s not partnered on, he finds himself teetering between sleep and wakefulness as he listens carefully for the front door to open and shut, signaling Bakugou has gotten home safe for the night. Codependency wasn’t something Izuku was planning on adopting after the war, but his heart just can’t seem to relax if he doesn’t know that Bakugou is home and safe. Breathing. Alive.  

Normally it’s fine, but since Bakugou has been working himself to death the past few weeks, Izuku’s own sleep schedule has taken a toll. 

Bakugou doesn’t look bloodied or bruised now, though, which is a good sign. 

“I thought your shift ended at midnight?” Izuku asks, his eyes unconsciously skimming over Bakugou’s exhausted body as he slumps further down into the cushions. He folds his arms over his chest, burrowing into the oversized borrowed hoodie, and Izuku smiles because Bakugou is so loud and brash, but right now, here and safe at home, he allows himself to be soft with Izuku.

“It was supposed to,” Bakugou grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. “One of the interns got caught up in a stupid bank robbery and ended up with a fuckin’ concussion, so I stayed late to help finish up some of his paperwork.”

“That’s sweet of you, Kacchan,” Izuku teases, and Bakugou rolls his eyes, stretching his legs out to rest in Izuku’s lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugou says, voice tense with exhaustion, “I’m a fuckin’ saint.”

Izuku let’s his hands fall onto Bakugou’s ankles, rubbing gently with his thumbs, and he swallows heavily as his eyes trail down Bakugou’s body, the black leggings hugging his muscles tightly, all the way down to the thin straps holding the stirrups along the arches of his feet.

Izuku wouldn’t openly call himself a weird guy, but shit, that’s another thing about moving in with Bakugou after graduation. Getting to see all of these new and exciting sides of him; tense and angry and bloody after a fight, soft and exhausted after a long boring shift, sleepy and comfortable on his day off. 

But the damn stirrup leggings have Izuku trying desperately hard not to act up. 

“Do you - uh, want a foot rub or something?” Izuku blurts out, his thumb pressing into the bone of Bakugou’s ankle.

Bakugou’s eyes narrow, and Izuku offers a small nervous smile, trying not to seem as if he’s too interested. He just wants to help his friend relax, okay? Nothing weird about that. It’s not like they haven’t massaged each other before after a long day of hero work. Bakugou’s great with his hands, and Izuku’s arms and shoulders get knotted up so tightly after hours of using his quirk. 

Bakugou still has smudges of dark eyeliner around his eyes since he hasn’t washed his face yet since patrol, and it makes his gaze piercing in the low light of the living room. He’s quiet for a moment, contemplative, before shrugging eventually and folding his arms across his chest.

“Fuck it, I ain’t gonna say no to a free foot massage,” He shrugs, “Lemme take these stupid fuckin’ leggings off first - ”

“No!” Izuku blurts out, and he chuckles awkwardly as his grip tightens on Bakugou’s ankles. “I mean - um. You don’t have to, it’s fine.”

This time, Bakugou looks… curious, which is the only way Izuku can describe his gaze. He bites his lip a bit as he thinks, and when he wiggles his toes a bit, Izuku feels warmth pooling low in his belly. Bakugou’s feet are surprisingly slender, his arch defined beautifully, ideal for someone who has to be quick on their feet. His toes are slightly pink, as are the soles of his feet, and they look soft from being in his boots all day. Izuku swallows thickly, but god, he just wants to touch. 

Is he into feet? Who knows, maybe, he honestly hasn’t thought too much about it until recently. Maybe he’s just into Bakugou’s feet? When Bakugou wiggles his toes again, Izuku finally glances up and catches his gaze. 

“Well? What’re you waitin’ for,” Bakugou says, his voice softer than it’s been all night. 

Izuku’s hands are large, tan, and calloused - a stark contrast against Bakugou’s pale skin, and at the fist press of his thumbs into the arch, Bakugou exhales quickly through his nose, body sinking further into the couch. 

It’s a little difficult to massage his feet with the strap from his stirrups hugging his arches, but at this moment in time Izuku would rather die than ask Bakugou to take them off. He moves over to just one foot, pressing both thumbs into the heel of his foot, and he slowly works his way up, calluses catching onto the legging strap as he moves upwards. 

“Did the bank robber get caught?” Izuku asks, hands firm but delicate, watching as Bakugou’s toes twitch when he digs in beneath them. 

“What?” Bakugou replies, blinking his eyes open where they’ve fallen shut. “The - oh, shit. Yeah. Sero was actually patrolling nearby so he got him while I took the dumbass intern to medical.”

“Don’t be so mean,” Izuku chuckles, “We were dumbass interns once, too.”

“Interns, yes. Dumbass? No,” Bakugou shoots back, but then he smirks. “Well, I wasn’t a dumbass. Can’t say the same about you, nerd.”

Izuku rolls his eyes, and he can’t help it when his touch softens, hooking a finger underneath the stirrup strap to graze his nail along the delicate arch. 

The reaction is instant - Bakugou inhales sharply and twitches, looking ready to pull his leg back, but Izuku holds onto the strap, preventing him from moving away. 

“Deku,” Bakugou growls, and to everyone else on this planet, the expression on his face would scream angry, sharp, intimidating. 

But Izuku’s known him since they were kids. Izuku can read him like a damn book, and right now underneath that glare, Bakugou looks nervous.

Izuku keeps his touch soft, one finger hooked into the stirrup strap, while his other hand grazes right beneath the blonde’s toes. His foot twitches again, his toes curling up tightly, and the only word that comes to Izuku’s mind is cute. His feet are cute, and apparently sensitive, and Izuku has no idea what monster has taken over his brain but all he wants to do right now is see Bakugou squirm. 

He might be dipping into dangerous territory, but ever since they moved in together, Bakugou’s been much more open to physical touch. It almost feels like a game they’ve been playing, dancing around each other but never going to a place they can’t return from. They’ve fallen asleep cuddling on the couch. They’ve spent quiet days off with Izuku’s head in Bakugou’s lap, the blonde idly playing with his hair while they watch old reruns of All Might movies together. They’ve even spent a few nights together in bed, holding each other close when the nightmares creep up every few weeks. 

But this? This might be a place they can’t return from. Izuku’s not sure what Bakugou’s feeling right now, but the lines are so incredibly blurred in this moment, and Bakugou’s cheeks are steadily turning pink, and Izuku knows he could pull away if he really, really tried. 

But he’s not. He’s staying put, fingers clenched into the cushions of the couch, eyeing Izuku warily. 

“You know,” Izuku says idly, moving one hand to grip Bakugou’s ankle, the other hand trailing his fingers up and down, up and down, so soft it’s barely there. “You used to be so mean when we were kids, holding me down and tickling me until I cried.”

At the word - tickling - Bakugou audibly swallows. “Not my fault you were so damn ticklish, idiot.” 

“I could never really get you back because you were so much stronger than me,” Izuku muses. 

“It wouldn’t have mattered anyways, I’m not fuckin’ ticklish,” Bakugou replies. His voice sounds sure and steady, but his eyes keep flickering down to where Izuku is still stroking up and down his sole. He’s tense, and Izuku can feel it - Bakugou’s trying so hard not to move, not to give himself away. 

Izuku laughs quietly to himself. Of course Bakugou would see this as a challenge to himself. 

“Of course you’re not ticklish, Kacchan,” Izuku says, “Maybe if you keep telling yourself that, it might actually come true.”

“It is true, you little shit - ah!”

He squeaks, his breath hitching, when Izuku flutters his fingers under his toes again. His other leg, the one Izuku isn’t holding by the ankle, jerks back, and Izuku thinks no, we can’t have that now, before tendrils of black whip shoot out, pulling his other leg back and twisting around the ankle. 

“Okay, now that’s completely fuckin’ unfair,” Bakugou grunts, trying to sound unaffected, but this time Izuku can hear the shake in his voice. “The hell are you tryin’ do here, Deku?”

“Nothing,” Izuku says, a few more tendrils of black whip emerging to wrap around his other ankle so both of Izuku’s hands are free now. 

“You call this nothing?” Bakugou tugs at his feet a bit, and black whip tightens to keep him in place. 

Izuku ignores him. “I thought you weren’t ticklish?”

Bakugou frowns. “I’m not.”

“Then this is nothing,” Izuku teases, finally wiggling his fingers in earnest over both of Bakugou’s feet, now bound in his lap for him to do with as he pleases. The thought has his stomach flipping, molten lava settling low in his gut, and he can’t help his dick twitching in interest. 

Bakugou’s reaction is beautiful, finally a small huff of laughter escaping him as he wiggles his feet as much as he can with black whip holding his ankles down. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and they keep alternating from clutching at the cushion beneath him to hovering in the air as if he’s fighting his instinct of reaching down and showing Izuku away. His eyes are averting, as if the thought of watching Izuku tickle him is too much, and oh, he’s so cute. 

Izuku’s feeling a little nice at the moment, but Bakugou’s fighting his laughter, and Izuku wants to hear him, so he moves his fingers up, scratching underneath his toes. Bakugou does laugh this time, covering his mouth with one hand in surprise as the sound escapes him. His toes curl, trying to block Izuku’s fingers, and a few more tendrils of black whip slither out and wrap around each of his toes, effectively prying them back so Izuku’s fingers can burrow into the soft, sensitive flesh there. 

“Wait - no, Deku - ah, ahah.” His laughter is light and staccato, little gasps in between his growls as he covers his mouth with both hands now, muffling himself as his eyes squint in mirth. Once again, he could get Izuku to stop if he really wanted to, but besides the tugging and squirming of his bound feet, he’s not doing much else to get away.

That thought intrigues Izuku, and his confidence grows as he scratches in between his toes, pulled back and vulnerable thanks to black whip. 

“I always thought your feet might be sensitive, you know, with how much you sweat and stuff,” Izuku muses, gears turning in his head as he makes mental notes on where Bakugou seems to react the most to. Underneath his toes seems much more ticklish than between them, but the arch of his sole seems equally as sensitive, especially when he pulls back one of the stirrup straps and rakes all five fingers up and down. 

Bakugou gasps. “Y-you’re a d-dick,” he growls, but the words melt into laughter as Izuku does the same thing to his other foot before letting the strap go with a snap. 

He gives Bakugou a moment to breathe, and the blonde finally lowers his hands from his mouth. His face is extremely flushed now, and he’s looking at Izuku with a mix of murderous intent and… want?

“Still not ticklish?” Izuku murmurs, rubbing his palms over Bakugou’s soles. The blonde twitches again, tensing, before relaxing when Izuku just rubs firmly, soothing. 

“Once again - you’re a dick,” he grumbles. 

“And you’re ticklish,” Izuku teases back, scratching his nails up the sides of Bakugou’s feet this time before making their way back to the soft, pink skin right beneath his toes. 

“Don’t - Deku, st-stop! It f-fuckin’ - ” 

“It what?” Izuku’s feeling mean now, and having Bakugou squirming because of him has his dick hardening more in his sweats. “It tickles?”

“I - I c-can’t - ahahaha!” 

“You’re so strong, you can take it, can’t you?” And oh, Izuku’s playing dirty, because there’s nothing Bakugou hates than being told he can’t do something, and if he admits he can’t take the tickling, it’d be the same as admitting defeat, and Bakugou Katsuki is not someone who’s ever been defeated. 

Although, Izuku thinks, watching as Bakugou covers his mouth again and squeezes his eyes shut, tickling might just be the key to finally defeating this man. 

Izuku doesn’t like how muffled he sounds, though, so he uses more of black whip to sneakily slide up and twist around Bakugou’s wrists, tugging them away from his face. A few tendrils slip up his arms and slide underneath the sleeves of his hoodie, and Bakugou’s expression turns to panic. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” He hisses, but his lips are still twitching on a smile which ruins the intimidation of it. “This is an awful fuckin’ use of your quirk - ”

“So was last week, with yours,” Izuku interrupts, “when you were too lazy to microwave the popcorn and tried to just explode it instead.” Izuku laughs, remembering how long it took them to fish out all of the popcorn kernels from every single crevice in the living room. 

“At least that was for a good reason!” Bakugou protests, squirming when the tendrils of black whip slip higher into his sleeves, nearly grazing his underarms now. His breathing is short, body tensed and mouth turned down in a pout. 

“You’re saying this isn’t a good reason?”

“What, so fuckin’ torturing me is a good reason to abuse your quirk?”

“It’s torture?” Izuku murmurs. “I thought you weren’t ticklish.”

If Bakugou’s face could get any pinker, it would, and he bites his lip hard when Izuku wiggles black whip into the hollows of his underarms, keeping it light and feathery. Bakugou can’t hold out for long, though, and soon he’s gasping on a laugh and wriggling as much as he can in the hold Izuku has him in. 

This time though, Izuku fails to notice Bakugou’s feet squirming aggressively, and Izuku freezes and gasps when the blonde’s bound feet nudge against the very obvious hard-on in his sweats. 

Izuku swallows, his hands darting down to grab a hold of Bakugou’s feet. His toes are still tied back with black whip, and Izuku resists the urge to brush his fingers along the skin because something is unraveling inside of him and having Bakugou like this is quickly becoming addicting. Instead, he ducks his head, words escaping him as he opens his mouth but not coming up with anything to say. 

A few seconds pass, Izuku preparing himself mentally for an explosion to blast him away or for disgusted yelling and screaming to occur. He’s already mentally drafting the text to Todoroki to ask if he can move in with him when Bakugou inevitably kicks him out once he’s freed.

A beat passes. One. Two. The silence is deafening, and Izuku finally manages to raise his eyes up to glance at Bakugou, surprised at the curious expression painted there. Bakugou nudges his heels gently against Izuku’s dick again, and Izuku hisses and bites his lip, apologies already spilling from his mouth, 

“I’m s-sorry, shit, um - ”

“I should’ve fuckin’ known you’d be into something weird like this,” Bakugou says lowly, tilting his head a bit, almost like a cat analyzing it’s prey. “You’re a little freak, ain’t ya?”

The words should be harsh and piercing, but Bakugou sounds like he’s…. teasing him. And not in the mean, bullying way that Izuku was expecting. Their eyes meet, and Izuku sees a small hint of a smirk when Bakugou presses his heels in harder, wiggling against Izuku’s clothed cock as much as he can in his restraints. 

“Kacchan - ah,” Izuku sighs, cheeks burning. “What’re you - ”

“What is it you like about it, huh?” Bakugou asks, his voice low. 

Izuku’s head feels like it’s going to explode. “I don’t… I don’t know? I didn’t even - I mean… I like….”

Bakugou raises an eyebrow. His arms are still held tightly with black whip, the tendrils under his arms twitch when Izuku stutters, making Bakugou squeak quietly and jerk in his hold. That has Izuku’s eyes darkening again, and Bakugou still hasn’t blasted him away. If anything he’s egging him on, and Izuku’s mind races with what this might mean. 

“I like… you,” Izuku starts off slowly. 

“Me?” Bakugou questions, and if Izuku isn’t mistaken, there’s a twinge of something akin to hope in his voice. 

“Yeah, you,” Izuku breathes, all rational thoughts thrown to the wayside now. “But I also like… having you, like this,” Izuku plays with the stirrup straps on Bakugou’s soles, fiddling with the fabric, breathing hard when Bakugou squirms each time his fingers graze the skin. “I like feeling you squirm. Hearing you laugh. Having you all… y’know, vulnerable for me?”

As he speaks, a few more tendrils of black whip slip under the front hem of Bakugou’s hoodie, slithering up and tapping away at his ribs. That has Bakugou giggling again, and god, Izuku loves his laugh. This is different from his normal laugh, it’s softer and hiccupy and the sound sends white-hot heat straight to his dick. Shit, could he come from this? Just from having Bakugou squirming and laughing and bound up like a perfect little present?

“Jesus - Izuku,” Bakugou laughs, rubbing his thighs together, and Izuku’s eyes widen when he sees a bulge in his leggings, now visible from where his hoodie has ridden up. 

Izuku’s brain short-circuits then, and he’s now laser focused on the other boy, fingers moving almost mindlessly as they go back to scratching beneath sensitive toes. Izuku keeps his eyes on Bakugou’s face, his expressions, every twitch of his brow, and the blonde chokes on a laugh and ducks his head, trying to hide his face since Izuku has his arms pulled aside. 

“What do you like about it?” Izuku asks, growing bolder the more Bakugou squirms. 

“Fuck, oh my g-god, I d-dont - !”

Izuku moves finally, and though he keeps Bakugou bound with his quirk, he crawls up until he’s seated, straddling Bakugou’s thighs where they’re squeezed together, and now Izuku’s just a nudge away from Bakugou’s own obvious arousal. 

“You don’t like it?” Izuku says, and this time, he withdraws black whip from underneath Bakugou’s hoodie, instead sliding his own hands beneath the fabric to touch bare skin. His hands are warm and large, fingers curling gently over Bakugou’s deliciously tapered waist, and though he doesn’t do anything yet, Bakugou’s shifting and squirming beneath him already. 

Bakugou’s eyes meet Izuku’s finally, and when Izuku flicks his gaze down to Bakugou’s cock, hard as a rock in his leggings, Bakugou groans and ducks his head again. 

“It’s not - I don’t know!” Bakugou breathes out, frustration clear in his voice. “You’re just - fuck, it’s weird.”

“It’s not that weird, Kacchan,” Izuku murmurs, and Bakugou tugs helplessly at his arms again. Izuku hums, pulling his arms with black whip until his wrists are crossed, and then slowly - absolutely mean - he lifts Bakugou’s arms up and back until his elbows are bent, bound hands pulled behind his head and forcing Bakugou to lean back more into the arm of the couch. Izuku slides further up, straddling Bakugou’s thighs until their clothed cocks finally brush, and Bakugou breathes out a shaky noise. 

“It’s okay,” Izuku breathes. 

“Let me go,” Bakugou grumbles, but his eyes are averted, blush high on his cheeks, teeth gnawing at his lower lip nervously. And wow, having Bakugou nervous, beneath him where Izuku can feel the heat radiating off of his body, has Izuku grinding forward, rubbing their dicks together firmly. 

Bakugou instinctively tries to buck his hips up, but with the way he’s bound up, he can’t get too much leverage. Once again, he’s still not blasting Izuku off into the sun with his own quirk, so Izuku drums his fingers against Bakugou’s bare sides, drawing little circles with his thumbs right beneath his ribs. 

“Ah - ” Bakugou hiccups on another strained giggle, and Izuku grins at him sharply. 

“What do you like about it?” Izuku repeats, tickling oh-so-gently, because now that he has his hands touching him, he can’t stop. He can feel every hitch of breath, can feel his body tremble with restrained laughter, and there’s definitely no going back from here. 

When Bakugou doesn’t respond, Izuku creeps his hands higher, towards the upper part of his ribs. His hoodie is bunched up completely now, and although Izuku would love to remove the damn piece of clothing, he’s scared if he lets Bakugou go now, this electric bubble they’re both in will pop and Izuku will have missed his chance completely. 

He grinds against Bakugou again, while at the same time finally digging into his ribs, and the explosive laughter that Bakugou lets out has Izuku groaning out loud. 

“Okay - okahahay! Fuck!” Bakugou yelps, taking a breath when Izuku’s fingers finally pause. “I - fuck, I don’t know. I like… how it feels, not being… not being able to move or some shit, I guess.”

Bakugou looks like he’d rather die than tell Izuku all of this, but Izuku’s already gotten this far, and there’s nothing that would ever make him stop now. The blurred line is now vanished completely, and Izuku murmurs quietly,

“You like being tied up, Kacchan?”

Bakugou frowns, glaring at him, but doesn’t respond. 

Izuku continues, smirking. “You like being tied up by me?”

Bakugou squirms a bit, staying defiantly silent. 

“You like being tickled like this? Helpless, vulnerable, letting me do whatever I want to you while you can’t do anything to stop it?” Izuku has no idea where this filthy mouth of his came from, but he takes this newfound confidence and harnesses it, slipping a hand down to cup Bakugou through his leggings and squeeze. 

“Nn - fuck,” Bakugou pants. “No, you asshole, I don’t like being tickled - ”

“I disagree,” Izuku says, and this time when he pinches at Bakugou’s ribs, he can feel Bakugou’s cock jump beneath his hand as the blonde gasps out a laugh. “I actually think you really like it.”

“Just - when it’s you,” Bakugou finally gasps out, giggling softly as Izuku crawls his hand higher. His words give Izuku pause, Izuku’s heart beating rapidly in his chest because oh. Okay. Just when it’s him? Because it’s him?

Oh.

“Kacchan,” Izuku breathes, a magnetic pull tugging at his chest until he’s ducking down and kissing the laughter right out of Bakugou’s mouth. The blonde moans, tilting his head to the side to kiss him deeper, and Izuku happily licks into his mouth, chasing the feeling of god, fuck, finally. 

Bakugou jerks his head to the side though when Izuku’s hand creeps higher, fluttering dangerous fingers into his underarm, and he yelps on a laugh, squirming and bucking up into Izuku’s other hand still kneading at his dick. 

“Oh my god,” Bakugou giggles, shaking his head back and forth, and Izuku takes a moment to duck lower and kiss his neck, licking up beneath his jaw, biting gently right under his ear. That has Bakugou squeaking again, and Izuku moans as he feels the blonde tremble against him. 

“God, you’re so cute,” Izuku moans in disbelief. “How can you be so hot and cute at the same time?”

“Y-you should be - ah, ahaha - asking yourself th-that - fuck, Izuku, I cahahan’t!”

Izuku stops tickling him for a moment and grins. “You think I’m hot and cute?”

“Not right now, while you’re ti - ,” Bakugou cuts himself off with an embarrassed grunt, not even able to say the actual word, and Izuku takes note of that happily, “Also, fuck you, I’m not cute.”

Izuku doesn’t respond right away, instead opting for shoving Bakugou’s leggings down so they’re bunched around his thighs, freeing his dick, before settling back up where he was seated before. He pulls his own cock out of his sweats, and when he wraps a large, calloused hand around them both and strokes, squeezing perfectly tight, Bakugou throws his head back and moans. 

Tendrils of black whip slide down his legs where his feet are still tightly held in place, and as they flutter and scratch beneath his toes more intensely this time, Bakugou actually lets out a small sob, his eyes tearing up as he simultaneously tries to tug at his legs while also squirming up into Izuku’s hand on their cocks. 

“You’re feet are so sensitive,” Izuku muses, his pupils so dark his eyes look black, and although Bakugou can’t really kiss him back while he’s laughing, that doesn’t stop Izuku from swallowing up every little noise he makes, lips spit-slick and panting against Bakugou’s mouth. 

“Izu - Izuku, plehehease - ah, fuck, fuck,” He sounds like something straight out of one of Izuku’s wet dreams, and Izuku leans back again to stare at his face. Bakugou’s eyes are screwed up now, tears leaking out from the corners, and Izuku coos at him. 

“Baby,” he says sweetly, “Is it too much?”

“Y-yes, I can’t - Izuku please.”

“I think you’re stronger than that. It’s just tickling,” Izuku teases. Bakugou’s cock is leaking, and it’s making the slide of Izuku’s hand on them both so, so good. Izuku brings out some more tendrils of black whip, sliding them right back underneath Bakugou’s hoodie to return to the warmth of his underarms, and Bakugou screams. 

“It’s so - ahhaha, it’s t-too much,” Bakugou whines, his breathless giggling mixed with moans that sound as if they’re being punched out of him, and his body is strung tight, so tight Izuku can feel how close he is to breaking. 

There’s something so incredibly sweet about taking Bakugou completely apart like this. Izuku pants and grinds into his own hand, squeezing and rubbing the head of his cock against the blonde’s, and while black whip continues tormenting Bakugou’s poor feet and underarms, Izuku’s own free hand comes up to grip Bakugou by the chin, forcing him to look at him, eyes blurry through his tears. 

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, his lips just a breath away from Bakugou’s, feeling the warm desperate noises coming out of the boy’s mouth. 

Izuku swipes his thumb over the head of Bakugou’s cock, his own arousal forgotten as he slips down to squeeze at the base tightly, preventing the blonde from actually coming. Bakugou makes a guttural, desperate noise, and Izuku’s grip tightens on his face, keeping him there, watching him. 

Izuku’s quirk is nearly everywhere by now, black whip slithering beneath the leggings to stroke behind his knees, a few more tendrils brushing and tickling at his neck, and even more settled beneath his hoodie, prodding and digging and relentless. The fight has completely left Bakugou finally, and he’s slumped against the arm of the couch, body shaking and fighting the plethora of sensations that are overwhelming him. 

“Hey,” Izuku laughs a bit, “Baby, c’mon. Tell me how it feels.”

It almost feels evil, watching as Bakugou tries to speak, to come with something, anything to get Izuku to - what, to stop tickling him? To keep tickling him? To stroke his dick again until he comes all over himself? Bakugou’s brain is mush, and Izuku revels in the desperation painted on the boy’s blushing face. 

“It - fuck, it f-feels like torture,” Bakugou manages to gasp out, but he bucks his hip up when he feels black whip dig into the ticklish dip of his hip. 

“You like being tortured, it seems,” Izuku points out as Bakugou’s cock leaks another bead of precome, so red and hard it’s nearly purple. 

“No - ” Bakugou hiccups on his laughter, eyes widening when Izuku raises a brow,, “I mean - fine, shihihit - yes, yes, I like it, god fucking d-damnit Izuku!”

“Shh,” Izuku soothes, but he doesn’t release his hold at the base of Bakugou’s cock. 

“Please,” Bakugou whines, and Izuku nearly comes when he realizes he has Bakugou exactly where he wants him. 

“Please what?” Izuku releases Bakugou’s chin and his hand slips under the hoodie, pinching right at Bakugou’s top rib, a place Izuku’s learned makes him absolutely lose it. 

“Pl-please let me - ah, ahaha fuhuhuck - please let me c-come!” Bakugou’s crying in earnest now, ducking his head down to press his forehead against the crook of Izuku’s neck, and Izuku’s heart leaps when the blonde bites down on Izuku’s shirt, trying to muffle his noises in the fabric. 

It’s adorable, and Izuku sighs happily. “Of course, Kacchan.”

He grabs ahold of both of their cocks again, this time stroking in earnest, fast and quick. It doesn’t take more than a few pumps of his hand before Bakugou is crying out against Izuku’s neck, writhing beneath him as he comes, and Izuku keeps tickling him through it. The sensation is electric, Bakugou’s body fighting to distinguish between pleasure and torment, and Izuku groans loudly as he uses Bakugou’s come to stroke his own cock. 

“St-stop,” Bakugou giggles, completely breathless, “Too - too f-fucking much - please - ”

Izuku ducks back down to kiss the sweet helpless laughter right out of his mouth, finally coming, his own come mixing with Bakugou’s between them. Izuku heaves a deep breath, slumping against Bakugou as black whip finally retracts, disappearing back into his body and releasing the blonde from their clutches. 

It’s quiet for a moment, Bakugou’s arms having fallen limp at his sides, head still buried in Izuku’s neck as he catches his breath. When he shifts, flexing his legs a little, Izuku leans back, sitting up and brushing Bakugou’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. 

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou manages, blinking leftover tears from his eyes. “You’re fuckin’ evil, you know that?”

Izuku giggles nervously, still riding the high of whatever the hell just happened between them. Bakugou finally lifts his arms, wrapping them around Izuku’s waist loosely, and Izuku’s heart flutters when Bakugou leans up to press a kiss to the corner of Izuku’s mouth. 

“You liked it,” Izuku says, turning to kiss him properly, now able to happily lick into the warmth without Bakugou’s laughter hindering him. 

“Fuck off,” Bakugou murmurs into his mouth. “So what if I did, huh?”

Izuku just hums, because that blurred line being gone means that now he can kiss Bakugou whenever he wants, and that thought has him grinning widely and winding his arms around Bakugou’s neck. 

“Ew, no, don’t get your nasty jizz-hands in my hair!” Bakugou protests, and Izuku laughs out loud, pulling his arms back quickly. 

“Shit - sorry, sorry! We should probably get cleaned up, huh? Your hoodie is covered in come.”

“Good thing it’s not my hoodie, then,” Bakugou smirks. His cheeks are still flushed, and Izuku rolls his eyes as he takes his come-covered hand and smacks it right into Bakugou’s cheek before darting off of him and running away like his life depends on it. 

Bakugou shrieks and scrambles to chase after him, and Izuku’s laughter echoes happily through their apartment.

[echoing--stars]

Many people (including myself!) have put a ton of work into this zine! It turned out beautifully, and the art and fics are amazing!

I hope you'll check it out!

Denouement of War: Hyrule Warriors Zine RELEASED

Happy Hyrule Warriors 10th Anniversary!

We are pleased to announce that Denouement of War: Hyrule Warriors Zine is available for free download!

The zine features 200+ pages of over 50 artists and writers contributions which includes artworks, stories, merchandises & more from our passionate and talented creators!

Download the zine here!

We thank you for everyone involved, from our mods to our contributors. We are very happy to present this zine and we hope you enjoy looking through what this zine has to share!

[urlocalwormtoday]

In every orchard

There is a tree

Bares rotten fruit

Drops dying leaves

And legend says

If one dies young

Bury them close

And they'll come back wrong

[canarydarity]

35

(I’m actually so beyond glad this was the one you landed on, because this is my second favorite rancher song of all time behind strawberry wine. It’s so tango pov dl to me)

The leather Tango had grabbed and hastily stitched into something resembling a pair of gloves was near falling apart by the time he’d gotten even halfway through clearing the smouldering pile of wood that used to be their home. They were so incredibly caked with soot and so thoroughly speckled with splinters that Tango knew he’d throw them out the second he was done here; a day or two ago, he might not have minded, would’ve shouted to Jimmy just toss ‘em if he’d asked—it wasn’t like they were any short on leather.

But that was yesterday and this was today, where the amount of things they had to call their own had suddenly become precious few and far between. They were poorly made, they were pockmarked with holes, and the inside of each was slick with a coating of the sweat coming off of Tango’s hands, and having to throw them away was going to hurt like a bitch.

Tango grabbed at another slab of wood, dry as the Sahara amidst a record-breaking drought and charred to hell and back, and hefted it over his shoulder, tossing it in the pile his brain had labeled unsalvageable—the one growing at an alarmingly fast rate.

He looked towards where he knew Jimmy to be at the exact moment he felt his health get knocked down a tick—not even half a heart, not even a quarter, just one singular oof. Jimmy was trying to wrangle the cows that had gotten out in the chaos—a task that would’ve been less difficult if they weren’t all terrified out of their minds and reluctant to let themselves be penned once more. Most of them had scattered towards the back edge of the property. Jimmy had been coaxing one out of the tree line, walking backwards, speaking quietly; his foot had taken a dip into some uneven ground, not having been watching where he was going.

Etho had stopped by, earlier in the morning, when the unsalvageable pile looked manageable and the damage—not yet inspected—could still be spoken of with a tentatively hopeful maybe it won’t be so bad. He’d watched Tango sort through a pile of ash and come up empty but for a book charred beyond use, a handful of cobble slabs, and three pieces of dried leather.

He’d asked have you thought any more about what you’re gonna do? And Tango had heard I think you need to express yourself physically, Tango. And Tango has, like, proper ‘hold me back’ energy right now. And you’re not really going to let Scar just get away with it?

Of course he wasn’t. But he also heard Jimmy address the crowd of spectators—you just want to see destruction.

Tango had waved Etho off with a half-hearted yeah uh-huh that was more sound than word, too gelatinous to meld into any mold, sliding around in his mouth unable to keep any one form.

How many of them actually cared if the ranch was razed to the ground? How many of them had just wanted to watch something burn? How many had been hoping for something more exciting to happen next—front row seats and eye for an eye for an eye.

Tango pulled another plank from the wreck, and a puff of ash came free with it, making him cough and choke and hack, waving his poorly-gloved hand in front of his face trying to ban the cause. With each wave, he saw the ranch as it was when he’d finished it, as it was lit entirely aflame, as it was now, collapsed in on itself. He saw horns that were being kept away and club meetings with childish signs that said no ranchers allowed. He saw him and Jimmy, the two of them, further and further from a finish line everyone else kept moving out of reach.

The fire may have been put out, but something was still burning, and these people he might’ve once considered allies, friends…Tango was watching them fan the flames. No neighborhood watch to the rescue, this time, but calls of higher, higher!

His eyes watering from the choking and the smoke, Tango pulled off one of his “gloves” and scrubbed at them, which only made it worse. He was squinting and swiping at his wet cheeks when Jimmy called I got another one! Tango turned to watch him fence in another cow—so far, he’d managed to wrangle three—and threw up a hand and a smile that came out more like a grimace, hoping to convey some amount of good job! Jimmy smiled back regardless.

They were an active house fire, dry and piled high with kindling for the winter and ready to be consumed without a trace. What could Tango do but hope—no, beg—for rain?

(Shameless plug, but also, if you want more like this I have this fic here that builds on some of these ideas more in depth^^)

[echoing--stars]

Prompt: Wars finds out Four can become a Minish, and makes him Minish-sized clothes as a surprise.

This is a quick one, but I hope you enjoy!

(If you read this and would like to request a short snippet, see this post!)

Ever since Warriors had found out about Four being able to shrink down to a Minish, he’d been working on something in secret. It was only ever when he was on watch, and only when he was sure everyone else was asleep. Somehow, none of the other heroes had been able to figure it out yet. Any time they asked Warriors about it, he brushed them off. “Just something to keep busy.” And that was that. Until almost two weeks later, at least. Four had pointed out one of the portals, this one in an old tree stump surrounded by wildflowers and mushrooms. He offered to visit the minish of this world and see what information they might have, and so the rest of the heroes set up camp in the clearing with the stump. Dinner came and went and Four had still not returned, but they weren’t worried. He would come back soon enough. Warriors took the first watch, offering to stay up until Four returned.  Warriors took out the project he’d been working on. The cloak was even smaller than he was used to making for the fairies, but at least he hadn’t needed to worry about wings for this project. The scarf was easy — he’d made many of those in every color imaginable. But the hat was the hardest part. It was getting cold out now and while the Four’s hood shrunk with him, it was nowhere near warm enough, especially not for such a small creature. It was lucky that when Four returned, it was from the side Warriors was facing. He waved to Four, trying to catch his attention before he could get to the tree trunk and return to his normal size. When Four got close enough, Warriors held out the items. “Here, I made these for you. So you wouldn’t be so cold.” Four said nothing for a moment, and Warriors felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Had he offended Four? But then the tiny hero reached out and took first the cloak, throwing it over his shoulders. Then he wrapped the scarf around his neck and pulled the hat down over his ears. His grin was visible even at that size.

[randombrainworm]

Russell is trans woman. I don't make the rules.