#also i can feel that concrete slide/scrape in my brain and it makes me like... brain itchy. u know

[20s-turtle-posting]

something I’ll always appreciate about 2k3 is that it pays so much attention to small sounds. The sound of the turtles’ footsteps is the most noticeable, but often you can hear other soft noises when they’re patting each other, when they shift their weight, etc.

And also their shells! When Don puts his bo through the back of his belt sometimes you can hear it scrape or clunk against his shell. The sound of people patting or touching their carapace or plastron are both different noises too. Though the one that really does make me grit my teeth is the sound of them sliding on concrete because you can hear the scrape of their shell and it doesn’t sound pretty

idk i just love those little details. The show is guilty of reusing sound effects n stuff but eh, that’s just them doing what they can with what they have, and i still like it regardless

[silkscream]

wipe your blood off the concrete

pairing: peter parker x reader

synopsis: you are peter’s best friend in the whole world. the two of you can barely hold back your feelings for each other after peter is beaten badly after a night on patrol. he takes you by surprise when he insists the two of you go to a party afterwards and things get very confusing.

warnings: smut (18+ only), mentions of blood, mentions of mental illness/anxiety/panic attacks, alcohol use, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, protected sex

genres: best friends to lovers, uni!peter, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, fluff and angst and smut all in one

wc: 8k+

a/n: GOD this is a big bertha. i was listening i think you’re alright by jay som and then my brain spiraled entirely into... this. i recommend you listen to this song while you read. i could probably make a playlist based on this fic but i don’t want to self-indulge more than i already have. i’m a sucker for bffs to lovers, obviously. i’m also very wine drunk. do what this info what you will.

when i wake up in the morning

i’ll make you some coffee

we’ll lay about and let the day pass

College had taken a toll on Peter. He was an anxious boy, you knew this already. What you hadn’t seen in your years of knowing him was how hollow he could be, how he wouldn’t want to get up in the morning, how tight-lipped he could be in conversations when normally he’s always beaming. He doesn’t sleep at your place that much anymore because he hates to be a burden, even though you swear on your heart that you don’t mind helping him through his nightmares.

It often goes like this:

There are nights where Peter does unforgivable things. He watches Tony Stark die, he watches Aunt May look upon him in tears, he reaches out for your hand but you’re falling ten stories below him. It’s these nights where he shakes himself awake, suffocated by his own panicked breaths, but you’re usually right there to soothe him with hushed nothings in his ear. It’s an unspoken arrangement between the two of you that you don’t dare to discuss by morning. Besides, you’d had a few panic attacks of your own as you grew into your girlish flesh-suit, knobby limbs and scraped knees. Peter always liked you for how alive you always looked, even if you felt awkward roaming the earth in a body you were taught to dislike. You’re headstrong in your beliefs, however, and at your current age you’d been through enough bullshit to not fixate on the little problems you faced as a teenager. Peter considers you his rock, his other half. He often thinks it’s you who ought to bear the weight of a superhero. You’d do a better job than him, maybe.

It’s 10 am on a Friday and Peter is doing an awfully good job at zoning out the sound of you knocking on his door.

“Pierre,” you whine, holding a bag of donuts and a tray of coffees. “Let me in you son of a bitch.”

The lock on the door slides open. You’re met with a sleepy Peter, who’s traded his gangly figure to impressive biceps over the past five years. You try not to stare at how good his arms look in his fitted Led Zeppelin tee. You chuckle at the fact that he’s still wearing his boxers. Spiderman-patterned boxers, nonetheless. He groans. “Fuck, sorry. Real out of it today.”

“Oat milk, no sugar,” you smile at him, holding out your tray. You can see dark circles around his eyes. He must’ve been up late doing schoolwork or more technological advancements to his suit.

“You’re a godsend,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as he takes the paper cup.

“Whatcha been up to?”

“Physics,” he yawns. “Waiting for you.”

“Peter, did you sleep at all last night?” you pester, poking his under-eye circles.

He shoots you a look of slight annoyance and shrugs.

You roll your eyes, gracelessly hopping onto his couch. Without a word, he topples onto you, settling his head on your lap as he flips through the front page of Netflix. You stroke your fingers through his curls. “You finish your work?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Peter gripes.

“Is the Peter Parker slacking on his schoolwork?”

He grumbles and buries his face closer into your body, which makes your stomach flutter. “I finished everything, swear. Could probably spew out formulas in my sleep.”

“Get Tony to build you another EDITH but in reading glasses form. I’ll tap the answers to you. Or the formulas could probably just float across the lenses.” You steal the remote from him, much to his dismay and futile attempts to block you, and settle on a random episode of New Girl.

“Wow. We need more women in STEM like you.” You playfully smack the side of his face and it makes his nose scrunch up. Your fingers trace the freckles on his nose that aren’t very visible unless it’s the summer time, but you’re able to see them just from how close you are. The trance is broken at the vibration of your phone in your pocket, much to your relief.

He notices immediately how you chuckle at your screen, a smile lighting up your features. “Who’s that?”

“Um, Tinder message.”

“Can I see?” Peter asks, lifting his body to glance at your phone, though you swat him away. “Y/N, c’mon, I wanna see what goons are hitting on my best friend.”

“I don’t need your approval, Parker,” you giggle, holding your phone above your head. He intercepts it anyways, nearly falling into your lap and grabbing the phone. He blocks your squirming frame by laying his body on top of your sprawled out legs while his broad shoulders block your view.

“Tyler, 22, born and raised in Manhattan. Oh, please, business major? At NYU?” He swipes through the man’s pictures and squints. “‘You’ll probably see me hanging out with the dog at the party.’ Huh, how quirky and relatable of him.”

“Peter, give me my phone!” you half-laugh half-shriek, breathless from the fact that Peter’s weight is holding you down and preventing you from moving at all.

“Is he even your type? Seems like a dick honestly. You’re waaaay out of his league,” Peter muses mindlessly.

“And what exactly is my type, Parker?” Peter looks at you and opens his mouth, though nothing comes out. You smirk at him, able to flip him off of the couch and onto his carpet, snatching your phone from his hand as you sit on his chest. The two of you half-heartedly wrestle until you’re pinning him to the ground. “Tap out, motherfucker!”

“Ugh,” Peter huffs, sitting up slightly. “I’m serious, he looks like the president of a frat that’s on probation for some Title IX violations.”

“You’re an asshole,” you croon, shaking your head. “Let me get laid.”

Neither of you ever liked to address the pang of jealousy that came with seeing your best friend get attention from the opposite sex (okay, there were some girls enamored with you during your first semester of college, but you were too in your shell to actually follow through with anything). Secretly, Peter’s heart is dripping down to his shoes, but only slightly, of course. He’s laughing and teasing you the whole time, poking you in the ribs as you finally let him swipe through your Tinder. He sneaks a peek at your own profile, too, admiring how big and bright your eyes are in each photo — mostly which are photos he’s taken.

You’ve been on a few dates, give or take, but the end of the night is almost always instantly uncomfortable once things get physical. Peter Parker is like the devil on your shoulder, the New Moon-era Edward apparition to your Bella. You’ve been getting better at accepting that it’s him and always will be him. Even if you never have the guts to tell him.

___

i’ll wipe your blood off the concrete

take you to the party

we’ll drink until our brains black out

It’s past 8 pm when your texts to Peter quadruple. He’s usually very prompt and mindful in texting you back, especially when the two of you have plans to get Chinese takeout. The clock turns to ten when he finally answers.

peter: fuck

peter: can you cpme get m

peter: please

The bastard.

You swallow down your disappointment once you unlock your phone and the pit in your stomach is replaced with panic. Immediately, you tug on your shoes and grab your car keys.

___

“Peter!” you screech, seeing your battered friend on the concrete a few feet away from you. He’s struggling to breathe so he takes his mask off, exhaling heavily as he spits out a mixture of saliva and blood onto the pavement. Your eyes widen at the state of him — a bruise under his eye the shape of a crescent moon, a cut lip that’s still bleeding.

“Come here.” He’s able to get up, just barely, but he’s able to use you as a crutch as you usher him into your car. Luckily, this was a quiet neighborhood and your car was shielded by the dark alley. You wince at the sound of his groans in the backseat.

By the time you get to your apartment, his suit is completely off. You don’t expect to glance over to your backseat to see your best friend half-naked, though it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. It just makes something ache inside of you when you realize the damage of his wounds.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“It’s okay! Just some attempted assault on some woman. It’s okay, NYPD came just in time.”

“Fuck NYPD,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m serious, Peter.”

“Shit,” Peter groans, clutching his side. The thought that enters your mind when you hear him is ungodly. “Fumbled the web-shooters so they were able to get the upper hand. Not to mention one of their buddies fucking… hit me with their car.”

“Jesus, Peter!” you exclaim. You can’t really berate him for getting hurt, though situations like this have you worried sick. You pull into your driveway and get out of the car to assist him.

“‘m sorry, y/n,” Peter huffs, grabbing your hand to support himself as he gets out of the car.

“Don’t apologize. This isn’t the first time you scared the shit out of me. I’m just glad you’re not dead.”

Peter darkly chuckles. Under the streetlight, his eyes look a bit amber, and the gaze he fixes on you isn’t something you can really fathom. It’s a look of tenderness. Your eyes dart to the other side of the street and back at him. “Stop staring, creep. Mrs. Wilkins will threaten to call my landlord if she sees me parading around a dude in his boxers at the dead of night.”

Peter shakes his head at you, laughing, but follows you into your home nonetheless. He follows you around like a stray cat as you rummage your bathroom for the first-aid kit. The glow of your bathroom light shows off your cheekbones, and he knows he can’t hide his affinity for you especially when you’re like this, tongue in your cheek focusing on the materials you have. He sits on the edge of your bathtub and watches you.

“Hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze…” you muse to yourself. Picking up the dark red bottle, you wiggle it towards him. “This is gonna sting.”

Pouring a bit onto a cotton round, you wipe it across his wounds gently. Peter braces himself but the stinging you warned him about is much worse than what he’s actually prepared for. “Fuck!” he cries out, his jaw clenching. He nearly hits you by accident but misses. He manages to stay still by holding your shoulder with his large hand, squeezing and cursing expletives. Your breath hitches at his strong grip. You could probably hear his heartbeat if he wasn’t breathing so hard. Your faces are inches apart as you rub his cheek, sliding a thumb down to his split lip.

“Um, here,” you stammer awkwardly, spreading Neosporin on his cheek and bandaging him up. You wrap gauze around his wrist and around his left knuckle which blooms red and purple hues. “Hmm. Boxer vibes.”

“I’m already healing,” he shrugs, looking down at the budding bruise on his chest. It’ss entering its stage of pale green already, which still freaks you out despite the fact you’d known about Spiderman for years. “Y’didn’t have to do all that. Thank you, though.”

“Anything for you,” comes out of your mouth without thinking. You try to stay casual with a tight smile but Peter’s eyes seem to flicker the slightest bit at your statement. You turn your heels to your bedroom to dig out some spare clothes of Peter’s that he tends to accidentally leave after he stays over. The habit has turned into him having his own drawer at your place. How domestic.

“You still going to that party?” Peter asks as he pulls on a pair of pants. Your back is turned, which is amusing for him considering how close you are. There was quite literally a picture of the two of you naked at the age of five on May’s mantle downstairs. However, he couldn’t help but notice how your eyes would mindlessly wander to his arms and stomach when he would talk to you lately. Maybe it was a fluke, but he liked — loved — holding your attention.

“What party?”

“The one at that senior’s house? I heard you talking about it with MJ.”

“Um, maybe, but I was too busy worrying about you, and I was under the impression that we were spending the night eating Chinese and watching horror movies. Why?”

“We should go.” You turn around and raise an eyebrow. Peter Parker liked socializing, you could say. He was enigmatic and adorable and easy to be around, but you know that he’d rather stay at home with his documentaries or Star Wars movies than getting shitfaced at a rando’s house.

“Peter, you just got the shit kicked out of you,” you mutter in disbelief.

“All the more reason,” he shrugs, walking past you to flop onto your bed. “You worry about me too much. Gotta let loose, babe.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. You always imagine yourself as a shadow compared to Peter, like a friendly apparition. Casper the ghost. It’s not that you’re an outcast — hell, Peter goes on and on about you to classmates and friends alike if they haven’t met you yet. You’ve never been friendless. But the thought of going to a party with Peter makes your stomach churn a bit. The few times you had, the two of you would be attached to the hip because of your shared shyness, but Peter’s evolved into someone who probably knew more people at university than you did. You didn’t want to be left alone. Slight anxiety settles over you. You look at him and his smile is pushing daisies up from the earth. You sigh. When you had said “anything for you”, you truly meant it.

___

You didn’t dislike parties, but any house party in the suburbs of New York felt like the setting of a bad rom-com, not to mention the good amount of losers you could attract by accidentally blinking their way.

“You look really pretty,” Peter whispers into your ear assuringly. You feel validated, yes, but also you’d be lying the feeling of Peter’s breath under your earlobe didn’t make your organs flip around in your body like primordial soup.

You frown at a mirror in the foyer. You had opted for a green printed mesh top that hugged your features, black jeans, and Peter’s old denim jacket. Peter follows your gaze and snakes a finger to your hair, twirling around a strand. “I mean it, Y/N.”

“AYYYY, PENIS PARKER!” roars from behind a couple making out. Lo and behold, Flash Thompson is suddenly in front of you, nestling a Corona in one hand and waving furiously at you both with another. He’s gotten taller somehow since the last time you saw him, which was quite literally graduation. You roll your eyes at his arrogance. To your surprise, Peter knocks fists with the kid and gives him a half-hearted side hug. “Oh shit, dude, what the fuck happened to your face?”

“This one right here gets a little too rowdy when she loses Monopoly,” Peter smiles, hanging an arm over your shoulders.

“Shut up,” you whisper, voice laced with venom as you shoot Peter a glare. “He’s lying. This one is just… incredible clumsy.”

“Jeez, she bite too? Hey, I know a guy who’s really into that kind of thing.”

“Okay, relax, Flash-your-tits,” you sneer.

“Wow, still the wicked witch of Forest Hills,” Flash retorts. His eyes scan you up and down, then to Peter’s arm around you. “Didn’t know you guys were a thing. When’d that happen?”

“We’re not—“ stumbles out of both your mouths in unison. Your face heats up immediately, though Peter is merely holding back a laugh.

“Right. Save your virginities, fellow comrades! It’s a scary world out there. ’s some liquor in the kitchen,” Flash slurs, immediately making eye contact with another poor soul who’s about to be subjected to a similar greeting.

“Freak,” you mutter under your breath as you saunter past a rowdy beer pong table. Without bothering to rummage through the stash that’s sat on the kitchen counter, you take the first bottle of cabernet sauvignon you see. Peter grabs a shot glass and pours himself some Tito’s.

He meets your eyes. “What?” he shrugs, knocking back the shot with a scrunched up face.

“Nothing, you just like, never drink,” you smirk. You decide to keep the wine for yourself — it was the cheap kind, anyway. You down a good amount so that you can get a little warmth into your stomach. The effect is slightly numbing.

“Yeah, but my metabolism’s all weird since the bite, remember? Surprised I haven’t tried to drink more. I think I’ve only been drunk like… once or twice?”

“Better go easy, there, Parker,” you tease, jabbing him in the ribs. He grunts just a bit and you gasp. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry.”

“Nah, ‘m only a little sore. I could still take you in a fight,” Peter snickers. He grabs a red solo cup and fills it with more Tito’s, not paying attention to the amount he pours in, and then fills it to the brim with some orange juice. You practically gag at the sight. Vodka was never your forté and you were sure that it wasn’t much of Peter’s thing either. And yet, here he is. You wonder about his out of character desire to come to the party but ultimately shrug it off.

___

Seeing it feels like a kick in the throat, your face flushing hot like molten lava, chest creaking like a wooden floor in a haunted house. You didn’t expect to get everything you wanted, did you? Of course not. So it shouldn’t hurt that much to walk outside in need of that crisp autumn air and accidentally be met with some blonde eating off the face of your best friend. The love of your life. You don’t remember what time it is. You actually don’t even remember that you had been looking for Peter at all, but the realization hits you in the face once you recognize his brunette little head getting his hair pulled by some Walmart-brand Blake Lively.

and god you’re so pretty

your smile’s unforgiving

i’ll place it where nobody can find

You’re in too much shock to even beckon to him, but you know that the gears in your brain are turning with bells and whistles shrieking abort, abort, abort, abort! Before you can so as much turn around, Peter pulls away from the girl and yells for you. His face is carnation-pink, lips reddish from the girl’s lipstick. He’s waving at you like a little kid but your head feels like it’s underwater.

“Hey! Y/N! Been looking all over for you!”

Embarrassed, you wave back meekly before sliding back into the house. You hear hushed whispers of “shit, was that your fucking girlfriend?”, maybe a mild slap, Peter mumbling the words “best friend” and “not dating” and “what was your name again?” You could laugh if you didn’t feel like a literal hole was burning into your chest like the end of a cigarette charring flesh.

Calm, calm, calm. We are calm.

You don’t even know what to do with yourself, really. Your mantra isn’t helping and if you take one more sip of your wine you might as well throw up. Your eyes flash in surprise at MJ walking towards you, smiling but then settling her face into a confused frown.

“Hey, Y/N, is everything alr—“ MJ attempted to intervene, but you smile and nod your head maniacally as you pace through the house past her.

“I’m great! Fine. Um, I gotta go…”

You and MJ aren’t as close as you were in high school, but she knows well enough what you’re like when you’re in a state of crisis. She calls your name but you’ve dashed out of her grasp. She stares after you, puzzled, right before Peter nearly knocks into her, a collision of whiplash. The poor brunette stares wildly at the boy.

“Jesus, Parker, are you good?”

“MJ! Hi!” Peter exhales. His eyes are the size of flying saucers. He grips MJ’s shoulders and doesn’t realize the volume of his voice, which makes spectators around them look on curiously. “Listen, have you seen Y/N? I gotta talk to her.”

“Um, yeah, she went that way… dude, are you drunk?”

“No! Yes? All of the above,” he replies hurriedly, moving into the foyer and up the stairs.

You can’t really explain your emotions, process them even, so you do give into the wine bottle. Might as well detonate the bomb. Before Peter can call after you, you escape his field of vision in the hallway and immediately slip into the upstairs bathroom without him seeing you.

You stare at your reflection. There’s no point in crying, you think. Peter’s too good at prying and you’re too bad at explaining. It’s best not to worry him. Isn’t it? You want to believe you’re capable of staying sane with your little crush. Your stupid unrequited crush. You realize you’d have to reach into your guts and rip out all that you feel for Peter in order to get over it. It was best to drown out all those feelings now until you passed out. Maybe Michelle could take you home. Or a kind stranger could seduce you. Or you ‘accidentally’ fall out of the window and escape Peter’s questioning by being in a literal coma for a few days so you can forget the image of him kissing that girl that’s burned into your brain.

You frown at your reflection. You look pretty, Peter was right. It’s a miracle your makeup is still intact. Your under-eye liner is smudged a bit but the glitter on your cheekbones reflects even with this shitty bathroom lighting. With the alcohol inside you, everything seems to melt, like the walls are sweating and closing in on you. Before you’re able to control your breathing, the sound of your name reaches your ears like a harsh wind. It’s coming from your favorite voice in the whole world. Pounding on the door ensues.

“Hey! Y/N?”

“It’s… it’s occupied, sorry,” you caution in a high voice.

“Y/N, I know that’s you in there! Can you please let me in?” Peter begs. More raps on the door. You stay silent, staring at the sink.

“Please, Y/N, something bad’s happened… MJ’s…um…” Peter yells. You furrow your brows in worry. God, I can’t get a break. What a cursed fucking party.

Profanities are mumbled to yourself as you finally open the door. Peter rushes in and backs you into the wall, shutting the door promptly behind him and locking it. You gasp at how quickly he manages this without the two of you colliding, his swift movement and your intoxicated state dizzies you. Peter settles his palms on the wall, trapping you in between his arms.

“What happened to Michelle?” you glower. Peter sighs with a look of defeat and avoids your gaze.

“Nothing. Just needed you to let me in.”

“You asshole,” you roll your eyes and vociferate. Your teeth are gritted — you can’t bear to look at his face, but you do. Peter’s puppy dog brown eyes are boring into yours with desperation behind them. He takes his palm from the left of you and tilts your chin up, to which you shake your head in rejection.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” So you do. Your faces are inches away from each other. You can feel his hot breath in your face. It makes your body feel even hotter.

“What do you want, Peter?” you whisper.

“Want to talk to you,” he slurs.

“Okay, so talk.”

“Why were you running away from me?”

You scoff. You almost want to tell him the truth, but you can’t. “I’m in a bad mood,” you mumble. “I don’t need this right now, okay? I want to be alone. Why don’t you go back to that blonde? She seems to like you an awful lot.”

“Who— what? Are you… are you jealous?”

“Who you take home is none of my business, Parker, I swear on my heart. I’m a big girl, I can get an Uber by myself. Don’t worry about it,” you spit back at him. “Okay? Can I be left alone, please?”

“But I wanna be alone with you,” he confesses, absentmindedly twisting your hair between his fingers again. You didn’t think anything of it until now because this is something he always does. It’s as easy to him as breathing or blinking. But at the moment, he’s staring at your collarbone and your neck and the side of your jaw. You make eye contact with him and you gulp. Lipstick is smeared from the corner of his mouth like a streak of wine on a white sheet. The space between you feels like television static, like a red string you’re dying to pull into a knot to close the distance.

Instead, Peter does it for you. You blink once and his mouth is on yours, and you taste the other girl’s lipstick and mandarin oranges and a hint of copper from his bloody lip. You breathe in the smell of your own shampoo, which Peter keeps in his apartment for you even though he secretly uses it when you’re not around. His hand is gripped to your jaw, tongue peeking into your mouth as he pushes into your body. The hurt inside you crawls out of your throat and spreads your body like a blessing instead — a baptism, a rebirth.

His hands are to your sides now, pushing the mesh fabric of your shirt up so he can palm the skin of your upper hip. You sigh into him as he massages the skin lightly and he responds to your sounds with a subtle moan. You feel like your knees are buckling to his touch as your heat gets wetter and wetter.

“Touch me, Y/N,” Peter whispers in between your kisses. A whine emits from the back of his throat when you tug on his hair just slightly.

You pull away suddenly, though Peter doesn’t see this as a halt. He simply peppers wet kisses to your earlobe and down your neck. You sigh deeply and give him a slight push to the chest.

“What, what’s wrong?” he whispers. He’s drunk on you, maybe literally considering he lost count of how many shots he’d taken. He looks like an angel like this, brown hair mussed up with smoothed out curls falling over his face and a just-bitten pair of pink lips.

You touch the band-aid on his face. “You’re drunk, Peter.”

“Yeah? I know. So are you.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t want you to regret anything,” you mumble, biting the inside of your bottom lip.

“I couldn’t… I won’t. You know how much I love you, right?” Peter pleads. He’s breathless at the sight of you. You look away.

“Don’t say shit like that, Peter. You’d… you’d never say that sober.” Hurt flashes over Peter’s face as he listens to your words. He wants you to believe him so badly and he’s too drunk to process what you could be feeling. All he feels is that he wants to be absorbed into you at this very moment. His brain doesn’t even register the actions that made you upset in the first place.

“That’s not true, Y/N, you know that,” he urges. His thumb swipes over your inner eye, where a salty tear has fallen. His voice is hoarse, raspy, raw. “I only want you.”

You close your eyes and shake your head, tears flooding your cheeks that he tries to kiss away gently. “Why are you doing this?” you croak.

“What am I doing, baby?” he whispers, taking you in his arms and cradling you. Your cheek is against his warm chest and you can feel his beating heart. It ticks like a clock, which somehow comforts you in the most minuscule way. His tender knuckles are in your hair, combing your locks softly. Peter wants to find every jagged piece of you so that he can soothe it like nighttime tea and a spoonful of honey. Would you hate him for it?

“This is fucked up, Peter.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” is whispered through hushed breaths against your hair. You pull back after a few minutes, embarrassed at how red your eyes must look. He cups his hands on your cheeks, tilting your face to look up at him. “I’m not lying to you. I… I love you so much that it scares me sometimes because you’re my best friend. I always get scared that I’m gonna lose you. And… and I don’t even know that girl. The one I was making out with. I think I just needed a distraction from you.”

An awkward beat.

“I don’t know why I got so drunk. I think because patrol was so fucked up and I’ve been having more nightmares, and I was scared that if I told you I loved you tonight that I’d fuck everything up, and I wouldn’t remember, and I couldn’t find you anywhere…”

You shush his rambles with your lips against his.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, wiping your eyes. “Always have. It scares me too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, I thought it was obvious. You scare the shit out of me sometimes.” The two of you laugh darkly at your mutual drunken states. Your mutual confessions, the fear of your mutually assured destructions. The moment was making your heart swell up like a balloon.

A rude awakening breaks through with a pounding on the door. “HEY, ARE YOU GUYS DONE FUCKING? SOME OF US HAVE TO PISS.”

The two of you are broken out of your spell. You both erupt into laughter. You wipe your face with your sleeve as you open the door. Your toothy smile flashes the unfortunate spectator when you open the door.

Flash stands there with a look on his face that is both bewildered and dopey. His eyes flit between you and Peter, mouth agape.

“All yours, babe,” you taunt, holding Peter’s hand as he follows you across the hall.

___

i’ll be your old broken tv

your stuttering baby

your puppy when nobody’s home

He can barely take his hands off you once you get the door of your apartment unlocked. Immediately, his hands are all over you, pushing up your top to reveal your stomach. He kisses you roughly which has your head spinning.

“Peter… I—“ you giggle in-between kisses. He can’t detach himself from you. He doesn’t want to. He takes matters into his own hands and rips your jacket off for you, picking you up effortlessly so that your legs are around his waist until both of your bodies collapse into your bed.

You feel like you have motion sickness. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the uneasiness of letting yourself fall blind to Peter’s desires. He knows how stubborn you are about literally everything and he doesn’t know how to fully convince you how much he wants you. He’s hovering over your body, forehead to forehead, pawing at your clothed body. “You’re so pretty,” he says, thumbing your cheek.

His eyes are glistening like the earth wet from being kissed by autumn rain. You swear to yourself it’s just lust but you know this is exactly how he looks at you when you’re just there. Existing. In his room, on his lap, on his fire escape in the middle of the night. You’ve always noticed but decided you’ve made it up in your head. But he really does love you like this, vulnerable and soft like a cherub out of heaven. He could certainly get used to the sight of you underneath him. His mouth turns up into a grin.

“What’s got you so happy?” you coo.

“You,” he breathes, dipping his head back down to meet your mouth.

“Cool,” you mumble in between your kisses, sighing as you feel Peter massage little circles underneath the hem of your shirt. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Mmm, lots,” Peter sighs. “There’s this girl… thought she’d never… like me back. But I think she does.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Well, she’s a hard one to chase down, y’know? She’s too pretty and smart for literally anyone. And she’s really good at playing with my hair, and knowing everything I like, and beating me at wrestling. And she smells like flowers. And looks like flowers.”

“Hmm, sounds like a catch,” you flash him a candy-sweet smile. The glow between you two is bioluminescent. Every part of you that Peter touches feels like electricity.

“Mhm. That you are,” Peter nods. He’s feeling feverish, sobering up from his many shots but still drunk on the sight of you. In the past few months, Peter feels like he’s only present between peripherals and the only time he’s even remotely tuned in to the world is when you’re beside him. His mind is swamped with only you and your kiss tastes like honey dripping into his mouth.

A low hum reverberates from your throat as you feel Peter’s lips on your neck. He settles back to your lips like he’s diving underwater. He doesn’t care about coming back up for air. Your brows knit in concentration as you try to pull him closer, despite the fact he’s basically falling through you like fog. Your brain is begging him to devour you, burn you, lick up all the hurt inside your chest from the night.

“Can I touch you, please?” Peter asks carefully, his voice low, brain spell-bound.

You nod fervently, heart beating out of your chest when you’re suddenly aware of how hard he is. Peter helps you slip out of your shirt and your jeans, leaving you in your underwear. He can barely breathe. He chuckles like he’s seeing something that shouldn’t be possible.

“Don’t laugh when you just stripped me naked, freak,” you chastise, covering yourself up with your arms.

“‘m not teasing you. I’m… I just can’t believe it. How pretty you are.”

“Shut up and touch me, Parker.” Peter feigns a look of seriousness before attaching his lips to your bare stomach. He loves the way your body reacts to his touch, breaths rising and falling to the pitter-patter of his heartbeat and his fluttered eyelashes. He teases you with kisses close to your center and descending down your thighs. You whine at how sensitive you feel, coaxing his head forward with your hands.

“Okay, needy,” he taunts, which makes you whine in response. He slides your underwear down your legs and doesn’t hesitate to lap you up at your clit. You gasp in response. He’s ravenous in the way he works, responding to all your little sounds by gripping your thighs harder until you’re nearly bruising. Your mouth gapes open wider when he slides in one finger, then two into your pussy, your wetness making his entrance easy.

“Jesus, fuck, where did you learn that?” you ask breathlessly as he pumps his fingers in and out of you in all the right places.

“Secret,” he murmurs, pausing his sucking to curl his fingers into your walls in a way that makes your insides flip. You immediately feel a pressure inside your core that slowly rises like a rollercoaster rolling upwards on a track. He brings his tongue back to your bud and scissors his fingers in a way that makes your hips buck upwards, which makes him lose his balance a bit. He chuckles, adoring the sound of your moans and the way your long eyelashes blink rapidly like a butterfly’s wings.

“Say my name,” he groans, desperate to hear your voice.

“Fuck,” you moan. “Fuck— Peter, just like that. Oh my God, Peter!”

He decides right then that his name sounds like it was made for your mouth, how it sounds like a hymn, a magic spell, a word invented by you, his creator. You grab fistfuls of his chestnut curls as you feel your body plunge into saccharine warmth. You surprise yourself with your restrained moans; you don’t recognize the sound of your voice. Peter’s moans echo yours as he watches you come undone. His lips part at the way you come, gazing at the way your body flexes like a viscous liquid with your hair fanning the sides of your face like Juliet on a bed of roses.

“Peter!” you strain, breathing heavily on the comedown. You blink at him, bleary-eyed, tasting yourself on his tongue once he reaches up to kiss you again. “Take your clothes off. ’s not fair that I’m fully naked and you aren’t.”

“Anything for you,” he says, echoing your words from earlier that night. You think that maybe you’re melting or you’ve been struck by lightning. Peter blesses you for your request because his cock is quite literally straining against his jeans. He can’t believe you’re real — that this version of you is real and right in front of him, instead of being a dizzying made-up thought in his brain. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t fantasize about what your pussy feels like, how you’d sound with your toes curling into the mattress as he fucks into you. He’d always shake the thought of you after he comes when he’s alone, embarrassed after his orgasms when he’d come back to reality. But now he doesn’t have to. You’re fulfilling his dreams at this very moment.

Not even thirty seconds pass before he’s stripped just like you. Your mouth waters at the sight of him. You’re convinced he must be carved from Ancient Rome, porcelain skin and smooth edges. His size is certainly unexpected and you’re shy about how your eyes are probably bugging out of their sockets.

“Do you… do you want me to get a condom?” he asks you, voice cracking slightly. You’re reminded of how boyish he really is, how despite everything, he’s always been your Peter. Your puppy, your best boy. You nod at him and grin. “Right… ah— where are they?”

“Under the bed, blue shoebox.”

He comes back from under the bed and rips the silver foil. He toys with it for a second, awkwardly. “Ah, this is… a good brand. Very safe.”

“Yeah, good reviews?” you gush at his awkwardness.

“Like I’d know,” Peter blushes and shrugs. You know that Peter’s not a virgin but he’d never been the type to be cocky or promiscuous. It was you in senior year of high school who broke down where a woman’s clitoris was, after all. You playfully hit him, urging him to continue. He nods sheepishly.

“Wait, do you want me to… do you want head, too?” you ask curiously.

He shakes his head, sliding the condom onto his length. “No, ‘m okay. Just want to be inside you really bad.”

You kiss him hard, and to his surprise, you push him onto his back. His eyes widen at your shift in attitude and newfound dominance. His taut mouth widens when you push down onto him, going up and down at an agonizingly slow pace as you grip his shoulders. “Oh, fuck.”

You respond graciously with a breathy sigh, eyes closed as you grind against him. “Fuck, that feels really good,” he whispers. “Gonna be the death of me.”

“That’s why they call it la petite mort, yeah?” you smirk. You start to grind faster and Peter’s eyes screw shut, mouth slack in a blissful fashion. He grips your hips harder and gives your ass a light smack as he groans.

“Ass man, aren’t you?” you tease. “Figured you were more into tits.”

“Can’t talk, feels too good,” Peter mumbles. He palms your breast with one hand in response to you, which makes you giggle. “Please don’t tease me at a vulnerable time like this.”

Your laughter is like music to his ears. He looks at you with a dark expression on his face, a sort of pained desperation that secretly begs you to wreck him. He wishes he could tell you that you could have him in any way possible, but he figures that the enormity of his desire would scare you away. Peter caresses your cheek and your head lulls backward at the elation of him inside you. Teasing a finger on your bottom lip, you take his finger into your mouth and you suck on it gently. He feels like he’s about to lose it. It’s a miracle he’s even lasting this long, he thinks to himself. He swore he almost came when he was just giving you head.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Peter breathes. The aura of you is everywhere in the room, the smell of your skin permeating his senses. He can’t get enough. You’re surprised by how vocal he is and it kind of makes you feel a bit cocky. His lips are slick and swollen from your love bites and you can’t help but admire how he looks underneath, curls loose over his warm forehead.

“Fuck, hold on. Can I do something?” he asks, his eyes doe-like. You nod quickly. “Can, um, can you get on your stomach?”

You oblige to his request, getting off from his lap and sinking into the bed, ass up. You nearly choke when he fills you up from behind, his hands cradling your hips. He’s slow with his thrusts at first, wanting to be careful to both control himself and to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. He reaches you at a deep angle and you nearly scream out, which encourages Peter to rock his hips a bit faster.

“Oh my god, Peter!”

Your head twists slightly so you can see his face. He reaches over immediately to kiss you, holding you by the chin forcefully as he pulls your hips towards him. His hand stays wrapped around your throat as he bends over to pepper kisses to your neck and down your back. A finger rests on your bottom lip that you take into your mouth. He moans at the feeling of it.

“Fuck, you’re gonna… make me come soon…” you breathe. You whine as he pulls your hair slightly to get better access to the side of your neck.

“Fuck, I fucking love you,” Peter pants. His breath is hot beneath your ear and it makes you shiver. His hushed curses are like little love notes spilling onto your shoulder. “My favorite girl.”

Your face falls into your bedsheets once he hits your sweet spot repeatedly. Your whole body vibrates at the feeling of it as you grip your sheets hard enough to strain your knuckles. Tears are pricking from the corners of your eyes on impact. Your orgasm is white-hot, blinding, paradisiacal.

“Hey, hey, hey, are you okay?” Peter whispers worriedly, slowing down his strokes and wiping your face gently.

“Yes,” you moan, shutting him up with a kiss. He pulls out of you and melts into your lips, the wave of your orgasm and the tenderness in your chest igniting a small fire in the pit of your stomach. The two of you are side by side now, limbs entangling one another in a blob of lust and warm bodies and languished breaths. He’s confused at your husky laughter but stays attached to your mouth, tasting you in all your sugared glory. The taste of blood pools into your mouth again and you pull back slightly. You lick his bottom lip carefully, lacing his mouth with your sweetness.

You smile devilishly at the red marks on his neck, marks that you left. He rubs his neck and it’s like he’s blushing all over, because he knows that although he’ll complain about the hickies in the morning, he feels blessed to have any remnants of you on his body. A burn, a bruise, a red stamp on his forehead with your name on it. He doesn’t care.

“You wanna stop?” he questions. He traces shapes on your hip, then letters. I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

You shake your head and nuzzle his neck. “No, I want you to come. I want to see your face when you come inside me.”

The alcohol has definitely worn off but he still feels intoxicated in your presence. How can someone look like that? he wonders. You’re underneath him now, bright-eyed in anticipation. He licks his lips, amber eyes wide like a puppy. He wants to come — no, needs to — but he's also entertaining the idea of holding himself in so he can hear you orgasm ten more times.

“C’mon, Spidey,” you whisper, pulling his length towards you. He slides in slowly and exhales like it’s the first time again. You sigh dreamily, eyelashes fluttering at the halcyon feeling of warmth inside you. You feel so fucking full. Your nails dig into his muscular back as he moves faster, and the feeling is so euphoric that you’re sinking your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your screams.

“Oh, shit,” Peter sputters, whispering your name like it’s a poem he’s memorized. You nearly are a poem he’s memorized and it feels like heaven and more that he’s able to experience your body in this capacity — every inch, every curve. He’s about to be pushed to the edge once he hears you stutter his name mindlessly.

“Peter, Peter, Peter… f-fuck… gonna come again…”

Your back arches as shockwaves course through your body and suddenly Peter is gripping you from your hair to your shoulder hard enough to almost hurt in the best way possible. His knees buckle as he releases his come into you and you’re coming up for air after hearing his guttural moans and whines.

“Ffffuuuuckkkk,” Peter cries out, murmuring your name over and over like it’s the only word he knows.

You clutch his body like he’s a fallen hero (ha ha) and push the hair from his forehead, pecking him with kisses all over his face. His face is warm and so is his smile — so pretty, so unforgiving.

“We should do that, like, all the time,” he sighs, flopping his head onto your chest. You giggle, pulling him in your arms. His body is like a weighted blanket. He purrs at the feeling of your fingers through his hair.

“Definitely.”

___

i’ll be your cigarette ashtray

come back when it’s too late

worship you til morning comes

It was an annoying habit of yours. For some reason, your biological clock decided that when you got really drunk, you wouldn’t sleep in. Instead, like clockwork, you’d wake up at the crack of dawn.

Your eyes squint at your phone. 7:09 am. You groan, turning your body away from the sunrise that was perching itself higher and higher into the sky. The body next to you stirs at your movements, mumbling something unintelligible and laying an arm over your frame.

Your eyes flutter open to see Peter’s face, angelic and blue-tinged in the dimness of your room. His breaths are slow and quiet. You want to trace his cheekbones and his slightly crooked nose but you’re afraid to wake him, so you settle for a longing gaze.

“Morning,” he whispers, making you wince. His eyes are still closed but his mouth turns upwards into a smile.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Maybe, but I’m a light sleeper.” His pupils are blown out and black when he opens his eyes. He takes his hand and strokes your hair, inching over to your face and peppering a chaste kiss to your nose. He waits a second, then gives you a more passionate kiss on the mouth.

“Mmm. Morning breath,” you chuckle lightly.

“Hey,” he pouts. “That’s not how I like to be dirty-talked.”

You’re used to waking up next to Peter but the sight of him now is something new. He’s grown into his body and the way he looks naked right now, wrapped in your comforter… it’s like an alternate universe fr you. The sound of his morning voice is slightly raspy and low and you absolutely adore it.

“‘m not getting you off right now,” you mumble. “Make me breakfast first.”

He groans dramatically. He pulls you closer so that your nose is nestled into his warm chest. “Nope. Haven’t slept in like twenty-six hours, baby. Sweet dreams.”

[cvtqr]

cammed

series master list

chapter one; touché, jaeger

content warning; public sex, cheating, wall sex, unprotected, cream pie, slight degradation 

the sun was setting as you walked out the front doors of your dormitory, closing them behind you. hearing your phone quietly ring, you pulled it out from the waistband of your skirt.

‘hello’

babe, are you guys almost here? games about to start and the other girls need historia

‘leaving now, hist just got here’

alright, if i can’t catch you before it starts we’re still on for dinner... right?

‘yeah of course. good luck reiner, win one for me.’

your life right now made you feel like you were in some cliche romcom. dating the college football superstar, best friends with the head cheerleader, all the cliches made you feel like you were still in high school. historia has been your best friend since birth, so of course the two of you hadn’t split up entering college. she had the cheer scholarship, you had the brains to get in with an application. you met reiner through mutual friends, but you couldn’t figure out why he fell for someone like you. usually, in the movies, the hot popular guy falls in love with the hot popular girl... but that wasn’t you, it was more like your best friend. you were more laid back, just wanting to get your degree.

your relationship with reiner was... slow, to say the least. it’s almost the end of your freshman year of college and he seems to be more focused on football than you. but you don’t blame him, he just wants to be successful with his passion. you do hate the fact that you have to take care of yourself all the time. he’s never able to stay the night, as he has training early in the morning. sometimes you wish that he could just be more available to you.

running out down the small path, you stopped in front of a car full of people. this was the way all friday nights were. you were picked up by a jammed pack car holding historia and a bunch of other people, before driving off to the football field. opening the car, it was really full tonight.

“you’re gonna have to sit on someone’s lap, just for the ride” jean said with a grim smirk on his face

“hist you’re tiny, sit on ymir’s lap”

ymir of course not having a problem, pulled the small blonde into her lap with a grin on her face. you then hopped into the car, taking historia’s previous spot.

arriving at the field, historia had to run off to her team and get a lecture by the coach on why she has to stop being so late. after giving her a hug for good luck, you wandered off to the concession stands.

“just a pretzel, please”

receiving your snack, you were about to walk over to the bleachers until you heard your name being called over the short fence.

“Y/N!”

letting out a sigh, you ran over to the voice calling you over.

“quiet down, unnecessary attention.”

lifting his helmet off, he used his large hands to pull your head into his, capturing his lips with yours.

“and? ya look pretty tonight, what if i want people to see my gorgeous little girlfriend.”

“don’t you have a game to play, tough guy?”

talking to your boyfriend, you felt like someone was piercing into the back of your head. people were probably watching the two of you, but no... that wasn’t the feeling. it felt like one person had their eyes glued to you. saying goodbye to your boyfriend, you started to walk over to the bleachers. they were packed with people and you had no one to sit with. your eyes started to scan looking for either bertholdt or colt, two quiet boys you seemed to get along well with.

bertholdt was reiner’s best friend. you noticed him the first time you met everyone. he was always following reiner around like a lost puppy, but reiner seemed to love his presence. when you and reiner started dating, he left you guys alone most the time, but he’s still was always around. colt you also met through reiner, on campus. you really strengthened your friendship after visiting reiners hometown over mid-winter break. while you and reiner were babysitting his cousin, her best friend tagged along, who was the little brother of colt.

you were getting a little nervous until you heard someone call your name and wave you over. jean kirstein, from the car. jean pissed you off on so many levels, but he also made you feel safe in a way. running over to where he was, you took a seat in between him and his best friend.

“hey marco! kirstein.”

“ouch... you’re so cold sometimes, y/n”

jean always had to make a dramatic comment no matter what the situation was. settling into your seat, you stayed quiet for the most part after that. the game was close to being over when you got up from your spot.

“gonna use the bathroom, ill be right back.”

you didn’t actually have to pee, just needed a moment away from the screaming and loud noises. running towards the extra, empty parking lot. you felt someone grab your arm, dragging you into the darkness. about to scream, you felt a hand cover your mouth.

“shhh, its just me.”

wiggling out of his grip, you pushed him into the brick wall. he let out a chuckle, surprised you could shove him like that.

“you dipshit, i thought i was getting kidnapped.”

you felt rough hands pull you by the waist into his chest.

“yeah well anyone would want to get their hands on a pretty girl like you, i’ve warned you about wandering at night by yourself... haven’t i?”

“touché, jaeger”

his slender fingers found their way up your thighs and under your skirt, teasing the hem of your panties.

“not here jaeger, i have to get back to-”

“back to the boyfriend, yeah.” - he didn't stop though, he snuck his hand down to make contact with your clit, rubbing small, soft circles around it. “remember our agreement though? if you want, i can break it... show everyone your-”

“fine. make it quick.”

“you don't make the rules here, ill take as much time as i need.”

eren jaeger was popular around campus, not in the same way as reiner though. he wasn't some big shot blonde football player, just well known for being a jackass. his reputation started in the beginning of the year. he was a pretty low-key guy, just down to fuck almost anyone who asked. but then he'd just break their hearts, but girls always still tried getting him to fall for them.

he released your skirt and pushed you back up against the wall. as you both switched positions, you could see the faint red in his eyes, pulled out by the street light.

his lips found yours, roughly shoving his tongue into your mouth. once he felt that was enough, he flipped you over on the wall. to avoid scraping your face or getting your shirt dirty, you pushed your hands up onto the wall. you heard the familiar unbuckle of eren’s belt, and the shuffling of him trying to free his erect cock.

brining his hand in front of your mouth, he cupped it a bit. knowing what he wanted you to do, you spit right into it twice. he then brought his hand back and lathered his cock with your saliva. pulling the bottom of your skirt up to your waist, he pushed your panties to the side before slowly sliding himself into you. 

not bothering to care about the stinging you might've been feeling, he brought himself back out before slamming right back in. repeating and repeating, going at a roughly fast pace.

“‘ren sl-... slow down.”

“shut up, whore. you should... fuck- should know your place by now.”

letting out a whimper, you felt your fingertips push so hard into the wall, bound to leave a scratch. you then had them peeled off the concrete wall, as eren pulled both of you backwards. pulling out, he spun you around and pushed you back up onto the wall. 

he brought your thigh up to meet his hip, before thrusting himself back into you.

“your little pussy takes me so fuckin’ well”

clenching around him from his words, you let your head fall down onto his shoulder.

“want me to fill you u-”

he was cut off by the sound of your phone ringing. brining your head up, you went to go pull your phone out and hit decline... but eren beat you to it. he took your phone and hit accept, holding it up to your ear.

babe?

‘r-reiner!’

nice win, right?

‘y-yeah you were... you were amazing as always’

cuz i was thinkin’ of you. anyways i'm heading to the locker room, you with bert?

you felt yourself start to panic at the heat of the moment. you were on the phone with your boyfriend as you were getting pounded by the biggest dick on campus. he was ruthless. not bothering to slow down or stop, he just thrusted in harder and faster than before.

‘no actually-’ you were about to let out a moan but you covered it up with a cough ‘just i-in... the bath- the bathroom’

you okay?

‘yeah i’m... fine, 'm fine. ill see you in a few’

alright, love you

‘i love, love you too.’

right when you hung up you choked out a load moan that's been building up. without warning, eren came and shot right up inside you. of course he wouldn't make you cum at a scene like this.

pulling out, he pushed the seeping cum back up with his fingers, before pulling your panties back in place and fixing your skirt. 

“now go hangout with your boyfriend while your full of my cum.”

“eren-”

he turned you around back out of the darkness and playfully smacked your ass before giving your back a little push.

“i promise i’ll make it up to you, now run along like a good girl.”

giving him a frown, you made your way to the exit of the locker room. you stood there waiting for reiner, clenching your thighs together. 

dinner with reiner was sweeter than usual. most times after a game you were dragged to a loud diner with all his friends, forced to hangout with them. but tonight, reiner just wanted it to be you and him. nothing special though, just a quick food joint. walking back to your dorm, you felt the guilt build up in your chest like it always did. 

arriving at the front door of your single-person dorm, reiner pulled you into a soft, sweet kiss.

“practice is canceled tomorrow, i can stay for once.”

of course, the one night you're stuffed to the brim with another man’s cum.

opening the door, you let him in. the two of you laid kissing on the bed, before he tried sneaking his hand up your skirt.

you felt yourself start to internally freak out. if he were to finger you right now, he'd just be met with a load of cum. 

“i-im on my period.”

reiner was always understanding, so of course he was in this position.

“ok, that's fine. we can just cuddle and watch a movie.”

“sounds good” after placing a kiss on his cheek, you got up to go put a pair of sweats on, before returning back to your bed.

he must've been worn out from the game, as he almost immediately fell asleep in your arms. you couldn’t help but feel guilty, thinking about eren. do you wish it was him laying in your arms right now? no. reiner is everything you could ever ask for. you knew he deserved the world, you don't want to hurt him like you are  now. 

but you knew what would happen if you didn't give eren what he wanted.

and that'd be even worse.

[onemoresomething]

unchained melody

a matchablossom ghost au I GUESS

i partially blame @teaisolde for this

also on ao3

It was hypnotising, almost, the way the clay spun atop the wheel. Round, and around, yet somehow this structure, essentially made of merely dirt, and water, stood tall, barely wavering. Kaoru could make it into anything he wanted, if he focused hard enough; he could make it beautiful, and useful; something to be treasured.

He often found himself in his pottery studio at odd hours. When inspiration hit, or when a project was past due, or he was struggling to sleep.

Tonight was the latter.

He would dim the lights, keeping just enough directed towards the wheel so he could see what he was doing. Although, some nights it hardly mattered to him. Some nights, for Kaoru, the end product was not important. Some nights, he simply craved the feeling of wet clay moving beneath his fingers.

Like tonight.

A song that Kaoru recognised, despite not understanding the foreign lyrics, played softly over Carla’s speakers. He liked to have music playing while he worked, filling the empty corners of his studio. Somehow it felt like the melody was cursing through his body, travelling down his arms, his fingers, into his creation on the table. Each song made one of his pieces unique, endowing it with a story that Kaoru could never describe with words.

He marvelled at the way the pot he was currently shaping (or was it a vase, he couldn’t decide) was able to stand, narrower in the middle than it was on top. To the inexperienced eye, it must have looked as though it was about to topple right over. But as Kaoru delicately reached a hand through the mouth, moulding the curves with his skilled fingers, he could feel how perfectly balanced it was.

Kaoru heard a soft set of footsteps behind him. Despite his large build, Kojiro was surprisingly light on his feet. He always took care when entering Kaoru’s studio, especially when he was working, conscious not to distract him. Kaoru loved that about him.

A quick glance over his shoulder in Kojiro’s direction let the other man know that his presence was known, that he could relax. Speak.

“Love,” the deep voice from behind him said, still weary from sleep. “What are you doing up so late? It’s almost 3am, you know.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Kaoru replied. He could feel Kojiro’s gaze on him, watching him as he let his fingers slide down the side of the vase (it was a vase now, he had decided).

“Another nightmare?” Kojiro asked, slowly approaching, as if Kaoru were a frightened animal he was trying not to scare off.

“Mmm,” he hummed, casual in his response. Nightmares were a regular occurrence for Kaoru, not something he considered worth fussing over. He heard the light scraping of a stool on the concrete floor, and leaned back to kiss Kojiro chastely on the lips as the other settled in behind him, before returning back to his work. “Did the music wake you?”

“No,” Kojiro replied, keeping a little distance between them. “Rolling over to find my husband missing from our bed woke me,” he explained, and then added after a pause, “You could have woken me up.”

Kaoru just hummed another reply. He could feel the frustration exuding from his husband in hot waves - Kojiro hated when Kaoru didn’t let him take care of him.

“You notice Adam’s eyes at ‘S’ tonight? They were all over you,” Kojiro said, clearly an attempt to get a reaction out of him. But enough time had passed for Kaoru that the mention of their former friend no longer had the effect on him than it used to.

“What? Are you jealous?” Kaoru mocked, unable to hide the grin from his lips, receiving a cheeky poke to his ribs as punishment that made him jump in surprise. And then after a moment of thought, added, “He's not looking at me anymore. He doesn't see me at all.”

He sensed Kojiro stiffening behind him at those words. Perhaps his words sounded nostalgic, or full of regret to his husband. But that wasn’t really it. The only thing Kaoru regretted was how long he had let the memory of Adam reign over him. So to ease Kojiro’s mind, he added, with a smile in his voice, “Anyway, he's not my type.”

The stool scraped closer on the concrete, and then there was a large hand creeping around his waist, coming to rest firm and grounded on his stomach.

“Mmm? And what exactly is your type?” Kojiro asked, giving his belly a gentle squeeze. The man pulled himself closer, breath fanning out hot against the back of Kaoru’s neck, making him squirm. The unexpected movement caused Kaoru’s hands to shift, the action sending the pottery slightly off centre as it continued to rotate.

“Muscle-brained gorillas, apparently,” he answered, berating his husband with a playful slap to the wrist. But that didn’t seem to deter Kojiro, whose hands slid up Kaoru’s forearms, until they were hovered over his own. He could feel static electricity in the infinitesimal space between their skin, and suddenly he was torn between not wanting his creation to be destroyed, and wanting desperately to be touched.

“What are you doing?” Kaoru asked, even though they both knew it was a warning.

“I suddenly feel inspired,” Kojiro whispered against his skin.

It took just a moment for Kojiro to distract him, with a press of hot, wet lips to the back of his neck. The kiss sent shivers down Kaoru’s spine, and Kojiro was cunning enough to take the opportunity to close the space between their hands. Kaoru whined as the force of the movement sent his vase (no longer a vase, he supposed) toppling over, collapsing back into a clump of clay, just as he had started with.

“Clumsy gorilla,” he chided, but without any real anger.

“I hope it wasn’t a masterpiece,” Kojiro chuckled, against his skin. He shuffled even closer still, pressing his warm, solid, naked chest against Kaoru’s back.

“Not anymore, it isn’t,” he replied, and then wetting his hands, and entwining their fingers around the shapeless clump, added, “But you can help me fix it.”

He proceeded to guide Kojiro’s hands over the wet clay, instructing him to just “let the clay slide between your fingers,” until both their hands were covered and messy.

Kojiro was humming, deep in his throat, as their hands moved together, and he was pressed so close that Kaoru could feel the vibrations in his body. And his hands started roaming, up his forearms, over his wrists, tangling their fingers, and Kaoru had never imagined that his craft could be this intimate before.

Then there was another hot kiss placed against his neck, then another, and another, until Kaoru was squirming in his lover’s embrace, desperate for more. He turned his head, finally allowing Kojiro to capture his mouth, breathing him in.

It was hot, and wet, and messy. And there was clay everywhere, on everything, every inch of bare skin as Kojiro devoured him and groped him with his large, powerful hands. But Kaoru didn’t care, because that’s what they were. Their relationship was messy. They were dirt and water. And sometimes they toppled over. But sometimes they could be strong, and balanced, and beautiful.

Breaking away to breathe, Kaoru took in Kojiro’s flushed, handsome face, and thought to himself that if anything were to happen to his love, he really was not sure how he would ever survive it.

“I love you, Kojiro,” he said, bringing a clay covered hand up to rest against the other man’s cheek. And the other man smiled, so glorious and dazzling that Kaoru thought no other smile would ever compare with it, and simply replied:

“Ditto.”

[straightouttaneptune]

You’ll come with me, won’t you?

Pairing: Harley Quinn x Reader

Warning: It’s different. Joker is a bitch. Reader becomes kind of morally weird as the fic progresses. People die. 

Summary: Y/N is a baby psychiatrist, who just started out. Suddenly, she is trusted with the most feared case of all. Harleen Quinzel. Y/N thinks it’ll be good for her career, or will it?

A/N: I couldn’t find a good ending to this for the longest time, I’m so glad I did. Also, this is for my 500 followers fic queue :) Thank you for the love, darlings✨

—————————————————————

“Harleen Quinzel?”

That was a name you’d heard before. That was a name everyone’s heard before, at least once in their lives. But it was not the name that had surprised you, but it was the fact that her name was right there on top of your long patient list.

“Yeah, congrats Y/N. She’s pretty famous around here. Straighten her out and you’ll probably be in the big city in less than a year.” Your colleague, Megan peered into your books over your shoulders and patted your back affectionately.

You were one of the new psychiatrists in the business, and you had been dealing with criminal minors, the less mental mental patients and all the clients that newbies would usually handle. Being fresh out of university after holing up in the labs and libraries, you needed to gain some experience first before taking on the really hard cases.

Or... that’s what you were told.

“C’mon, Meg, you gotta know more than that. Why would they pass her case to me? She’s a rank SS psycho.” You pushed, looking up at her through your lashes in a slightly accusatory manner.

She gave you a look that asked; “Do you really want to know?” And you nodded.

“Well, I heard the other docs, the guys who were like 10, 20, hell, 30 years into the business, they all got their brains scrambled by... this girlie.” Her index finger landed on the profile photo of Harley Quinn, an apologetic look in her eyes.

You rolled your eyes, not necessarily at Megan, but at whoever it was that tried to deal this card to you. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“It’s cruel, but you can always turn it down, y’know?” Megan set her books aside, her left arm cradling your slumped shoulders.

“Yeah... But I might not.”

Megan’s dropped gaze snapped back up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s a good way to kick-start my career, I guess.”

\|/

“Hello, new doc.” The moment you entered the room, you regretted making this decision immediately. Harley Quinn sat in a big contraption-looking chair, her hands and feet shackled onto the armrests and legs of the seat. Her platinum blonde hair was untied and unkempt, its bottoms still dyed red and blue, although it seemed to have faded over time.

The only thing dividing the space between you and Harley was a metallic table bolted on the floor, wide enough so even if Harley broke off her arm shackles and reached for you, she wouldn’t be able to touch you. You swallowed your nerves and entered the room with a confident stride, smiling sweetly at the guards as they closed the door with eyes of concern.

“Hello, Miss Quinzel.” You thanked heavens that your words came out right, especially in front of a woman who could sniff out people’s fears from thousands of miles away.

“You’re the first girl I’ve had.” She mused, her eyes twinkling with mischief. But the light in her eyes has lost its original color, you thought. She looked much more lively in photos taken way back then. When she was just a psychiatrist.

“Hm. I guessed that it would be nice to have some heart to heart, female to female.” You reassured your anxious self calmly in your head, repeating the words ‘you got this, Y/N.’

“Do you know why I’m here, and not... Damien? Who usually comes in for your check-ups?” Stowing your clipboard away on your lap, you continued.

“Yeah. Before him was another guy, then a grandpa and just... a buncha stupid-lookin’ guys. But I didn’t like them.” She replied as if it was the most simple thing in the world. The files back in the company would argue differently. Every single guy, either was tormented by her psychotic attacks or totally gone insane from her mental tricks.

“Are you going to do the same thing to me?” You asked, not really knowing what answer to expect. Your eyes remained soft, a small smile gracing your lips as you waited for her answer.

“No. I like ya.” She answered quickly, shrugging and adverting her gaze away to look down at her shackles. “Can I sit down like you?” She shook her wrist lightly, the chains rattling against the armrest.

“Maybe next time, Miss Quinzel.”

“There’s a next time? Yeah!”

You internally smiled to yourself, what a successful human being she would’ve been if not for a man like Joker to ruin her life. Right then, you vowed to whatever higher power was out there, that you’d get Harley Quinn to break free from his spell.

The people in your office were surprised, to say the least, that you were able to keep up your visits to the prison, and that an amateur therapist like you could get the queen of Gotham in a tight little leash. You didn’t like to think about it like that, but rather that she trusts you better than any of the others.

The weekly visits became 2 days a week, and from weeks of good behavior, Harley was allowed to be without handcuffs during her sessions now. You weren’t afraid she’d leap up and strangle you, because of some sort of connection the two of you formed after all those times spent together.

“Hey doc, why can’t you visit me more ‘round here?” Harley pouted, interrupting the current therapy session with an abrupt comment.

You looked up from your clipboard, dumbfounded. Why would she want to have you around more?

“Harley, I’m just your therapist.” You tapped the end of your pencil against the material of the clipboard, locking eyes with the woman. Anyone could see that she was starting to look better, particularly her eyes. They looked more human, compared to the hollow shell they used to be.

“I know, Y/N. But I’ve been doin’ some thinkin. It’s pretty fuckin clear that Mister J isn’t coming for me, and the suicide squad was probably just a one-time thing. And... You’re all I have.” She admitted, slowly sliding down from her pipe chair and laying down on the concrete floor.

The wooden chair you sat on scraped against the hard floor as you pushed it back. Standing up from your seat, you walked over to her in 3 steps. You kneeled down beside her, her skin just inches away from you. “Do you want a hug?” You questioned quietly, your voice softer and more inviting than usual. Harley felt this too, sitting up in a millisecond just as the offer left your lips.

“Yeah.” She almost crawled over to you, her arms wrapping around your neck desperately. That would’ve been terrifying if it was out of context, but she actually wasn’t trying to kill you. She genuinely just wanted a warm embrace.

You felt her slender torso tighten and loosen as if she was trying to repress a sob. Hand carefully sliding over her back, you whispered; “Let it out.”

And she did.

\|/

Time flew by as you continued to work on her case, and you fell into the worst situation a psychiatrist could possibly be in while working. You grew emotionally invested in your client. As a friend, who cared for her well being and happiness. 

Maybe... even more.

You still didn’t know if you could trust her though, you managed to keep a cool head and your mind was rational, but that only confirmed the fact that Harley wasn’t playing any tricks on you. That you were genuinely becoming attached to the beautiful prisoner.

Harley, on the other hand, did intend on ruining you at first. Make them run back to where they came from crying, so no one would disturb her again while she waited for her puddin.

But it was all starting to feel different with you.

“Hey, doc?” Harley called out from inside her electric cage. She was being a little bit mischievous that day, and she pulled an armed guard against the buzzing bars when he wasn’t looking. He probably died, she guessed.

But she didn’t like that she couldn’t be near you during your sessions. So a man died, big deal!

“Can you let me out?” She pleaded in the sweetest voice she could muster, calling out to you who was currently propped up on the usual desk, writing down some notes on your clipboard.

“No, Harley. I don’t have the keys to your cell.” You replied without looking up, but you could imagine the cute pout that Harley had when you denied her of something.

“But would you open it if you did?” You looked up at that question, seeing her smiling from ear to ear now, anticipation glowing in her eyes.

“Maybe. I know you won’t hurt me.” You smiled back at her, watching her facial expression carefully. How would she react if you showed some warm friendliness towards her? Could she possibly return to the life she used to have?

“Maybe I will, doc. You don’t know what goes on in here.” Harley leaped up to her cloth swing she’d made for herself, her now almost completely platinum hair draping down her back.

“I hope you won’t hurt me, then.”

You couldn’t forget that split second where Harley’s eyes looked more humane than it ever has been for many, many years.

\|/

“Warning. Warning. Escape Attempt in Sector 9H11.”

The sound of the speaker and the blasting alarm merged together in a chorus of chaos, guards and officers running around to stop whoever the escapee was.

It was 9:30AM and you were just about to enter the asylum for your shift, when this sudden noise almost blasted your ears off. Before you could process what was happening, a bomb went off right next to you, making you scream and clutch your head as you ducked.

The debris fell everywhere along with broken pieces of concrete, and you just stayed there trying to collect your thoughts. Right when a random hand grabbed you by your wrist. 

“Hi, doc. I was lookin’ for ya. You’ll come with me, won’t you?” Harley pulled you to the side, hiding the two of you behind a few bushes. Her eyes were electric making you realize that the true “Harleen Quinzel” you’ve been trying to look for is right in front of you now.

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” You didn’t hesitate to take her outreached hand. Your mind had already been made up since the first time you laid your eyes on her. 

[azozzoni]

idk what this is. I just felt like writing something.

*

Jens couldn’t help smiling to himself as he watched Lucas stumble off his skateboard, not at all as graceful as he usually appeared. Mid-afternoon sun shone through the shifting leaves as Jens watched Lucas retrieve his board from where it had rolled away, a chill breeze heralding the end of fall whipping past the back of his neck.

“I thought you said your boyfriend could skate,” Moyo said from beside Jens on the wall.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Jens replied, for what had to be the third time in the past week. He knew it had been a mistake to get drunk and tell the guys he wouldn’t mind making out with a guy, that he could understand what Robbe saw in Sander. Maybe it had also been a mistake to befriend the new guy with beautiful blue eyes that Jens found himself thinking about far too often to be platonic.

“You sure?” Moyo asked, making annoying kissing noises in Jens’ ear as Lucas glanced over.

Jens shoved Moyo away, rolling his eyes. So maybe he hadn’t just invited Lucas to be nice. After all, it wasn’t like Lucas had any other friends here, and maybe when Lucas laughed, it made Jens’ stomach flip-flop in a completely ridiculous way.

Fuck. He wasn’t a ten year old girl.

Or maybe he was as he watched Lucas head down a ramp, coming up the other side, catching his eye at the top, a giddy feeling flooding his chest. The board under Lucas’ feet seemed to move on its own, shooting out from underneath him a second later and Lucas went down hard—Jens could hear the smack of the concrete even from his spot on the wall.

“Oh!” He heard Moyo from beside him, the sharp intake of breath from Aaron.

As Moyo laughed, Jens hesitated. A part of him wanted to rush over to Lucas to make sure he was okay. The other part knew exactly what the guys would say if he did.

It was Lucas’ shaky arms pushing himself up that made Jens slide off the wall, sliding down into the pit and reaching for Lucas’ arm.

“You okay?”

Jens swallowed as Lucas looked up at him, blood smeared over his chin, lip split as Lucas ran his tongue tentatively over it.

“I think so,” he said slowly, rubbing his elbow, grimacing.

Hesitating, Jens reached up with his thumb, wiping away some of the blood on Lucas’ chin. He told himself it was to check it was just a scrape, that he hadn’t accidentally knocked out a tooth, but he couldn’t help feeling nervous as Lucas let him, watching him carefully.

Jens didn’t know why he felt this way, why he suddenly cared about touching another guy. If it had been one of his other friends, he would have just propped them upright and gave them a slap on the back.

“Thought you said you skated,” Jens said, pulling his hand back when it was more than clear that it was just a scrape on his chin, and Lucas frowned.

“Sure, on flat surfaces.”

Laughing, Jens shook his head. “What? Were you trying to impress me or something?”

Lucas didn’t reply to that, clearing his throat instead, still rubbing his elbow, not meeting Jens’ gaze. Something swooped into Jens’ stomach, unexpected. Had he been right? Lucas wanted to impress him?

“I think I’m done for today.”

Jens nodded instead of pushing, though he couldn’t stop thinking about it as they returned to Moyo and Aaron perched on the wall.

“You sure your elbow’s okay?” he asked as Lucas held onto it.

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse.” Lucas shrugged, dropping his hand as they reached the guys.

“That was impressive, man!” Moyo said, reaching out to slap Lucas’ shoulder. “I haven’t seen anyone go down that hard since Aaron was last on a board.”

Lucas merely forced a smile, as though he wasn’t quite as amused. “I try.” He dug his phone out from his pocket a second later, though. “Shit, I gotta get home before my dad does.”

As Lucas took a step back, Jens didn’t want him to leave, a strange urge to follow him rising.

“I forgot, I told my mom I’d watch my little sister,” he said quickly, grabbing his board off the ground. “I’ll walk with you, Luc.”

Jens didn’t miss the kissy faces Moyo made as he turned away, glad Lucas was already heading for the edge of the park. He caught up to him easily, falling into step and glancing at the blood already drying on his face.

“Will your dad be pissed?” Jens asked as they turned a corner and the park vanished behind them. Lucas, who had been keeping his gaze on the sidewalk, lifted his head finally.

“That I’m late?”

“About the—” Jens nodded at Lucas’ face. He was still pretty, even with a split lip and scrapes all over his chin, and Jens caught himself thinking it, looking away sharply instead. He wasn’t sure what his brain thought was going to happen here—he’d only known Lucas a few weeks, and even if he’d thought about guys in the abstract, the idea of really kissing one hadn’t seemed important until just now.

“Probably not,” Lucas said, shaking his head, touching his lip gingerly. “He’ll just want to know what I was doing, where I was.” He sighed and kicked aside a leaf on the ground as they walked.

“Parents can be so annoying,” Jens agreed. His own mother had long given up on knowing where he was at all times. She still had his sister to corral and that kept her busy.

“Yeah,” Lucas muttered. “It’s just ever since we moved here, he’s, like, trying to make up for everything somehow? Always wants to know what I’m doing, if I’m okay. It’s exhausting.”

Jens didn’t ask what his dad was trying to make up for. He knew Lucas had left his mom in the Netherlands, but they hadn’t talked much about it.

“Just tell him you got in a fight,” he said, more following Lucas than heading for his own house, watching the way Lucas tucked his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket, how he smiled at the suggestion.

“I guess that’s less embarrassing than what really happened.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Jens assured him. “I’ve fallen plenty of times. We all have.”

“Yeah, but probably not in front of a guy who—” Lucas cut himself off sharply, swallowing visibly, glancing up at the street signs. “Isn’t your house the other way?”

“A guy who what?” Jens asked instead of answering the question, his heart thudding against his ribcage as Lucas hesitated, frowning, running his tongue over the cut in his lip.

“Guys you want to be friends with,” Lucas muttered finally, shrugging, looking away, and Jens got the distinct feeling that hadn’t been what he’d been about to say.

The corner was quiet, a shop across the street, and Lucas was right. Jens’ house was to the left, but Jens didn’t actually have to watch his sister. He’d only said that so he could leave with Lucas, which seemed stupid in retrospect as they stood there, and Jens knew he should at least pretend to go home.

“I could take the long way,” Jens heard himself say, catching a slight smile at the edge of Lucas’ lips as he did.

“What about your sister?”

“She’ll be fine if I’m a few minutes late.”

“Babysitter of the year,” Lucas joked as Jens joined him crossing the street. He did glance over as they reached the other side, though. “You know, you don’t have to walk me all the way home. I’m really fine. I didn’t hit my head or anything. I know where I’m going.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Jens said before he could stop himself, watching the way Lucas’ eyebrows furrowed. Fuck. “I mean, you have only been here a couple weeks. You could still get lost, concussion or no.”

For a second, Lucas frowned, as if unsure whether or not to believe Jens. It was a terrible excuse—the real reason even more ridiculous—that Jens just hadn’t wanted to part ways so soon back at the skate park, that he just wanted a few minutes alone with Lucas. The last few weeks, it seemed as if the guys were always around when Lucas was, that he couldn’t find even a minute to just talk to Lucas without it needing some really weird excuse.

“Do you walk all the new kids home?” Lucas asked finally, turning from Jens and heading forward.

“Nah, you’re special,” Jens said, grimacing to himself as the words came out, and he nudged Lucas with his elbow instead, relieved to see Lucas smile slightly.

God, he was an idiot, he thought as they turned another corner onto a block filled with apartment buildings. He hadn’t been this bad at flirting since Jana, and that had partially been because he was dating her best friend at the time. Not exactly his best moment.

But he was free and clear now. Free and clear and had no idea what he was even trying to do with Lucas.

Lost in his own thoughts, Jens was surprised when they stopped, at least until Lucas nodded at the door to the building.

“This is me,” he said with a shrug. “I should probably at least try to get cleaned up before my dad gets home.”

“Yeah,” Jens agreed, glancing up at the building, shifting his weight, casting for the right thing to say.

“Yeah,” Lucas echoed after a second, not making any moves to head inside.

A cold breeze swept leaves past them on the street as they stood there, and Jens felt himself reaching for Lucas, thumb brushing under the cut on his lip.

“I’m sure it looks worse than it is,” he said, raising his gaze to Lucas’, an unfamiliar intensity in the irises as Jens licked his own lips, nervous, unsure, swallowing down the butterflies crammed in his throat.

“I’m sure,” Lucas said, practically whispered, and Jens was close enough to hear, close enough not to stop himself as he leaned in, fingers sliding up to Lucas’ ear as their lips met.

The bubble in his chest burst, a wave of relief as Lucas kissed him back, opened his mouth to the slide of his lips, taste a little coppery from the dried blood, but Jens didn’t even care. This was what he’d been waiting for since that day Lucas had stepped into their classroom and the teacher had sat him right in front of Jens.

They broke away slowly, and Jens opened his eyes, smiling at the blush on Lucas’ cheeks.

“Next time we go to the skate park, you can just watch, yeah?”

A smile spread across Lucas’ face as nodded. “I can do that.”

Nodding, Jens let his hand fall from Lucas’ cheek. “Tell your dad I got you home safe.”

Lucas laughed, stepping away reluctantly, and it made Jens smile. “I think I won’t tell him about this,” he said, stepping up to the door and pausing. “It’s just mine for now.”

Jens couldn’t help grinning as Lucas stepped through the door and it shut behind him. It was just theirs for now, and that was good enough for him.

[blushnote]

Can I request a Jeonghan smut? Reader and Jeonghan goes swimming in a private pool for their anniversary. Jeonghan’s needy, reader’s nervous but he calms her down. Things get heated in the pool and the rest is yours to finish :) Hot and steamy if you can. Thank you!

↳ requested | 2.3k

↳ jeonghan smut

a/n: I KNOW I HAVEN’T DONE A REQUEST IN AGES. right now i am so buried in work that i can seldom write. only two more requests left until i reopen my inbox at least! thank you so much for your patience! hope you enjoy!

at the tranquil hour of one in the morning, you and jeonghan manage to slip from your hotel room and locate the beautiful, rooftop pool that glows beneath the nighttime sky. thankfully, there’s not a single soul who occupies the shimmering water, to which jeonghan drops the white towel draped around his shoulders and smiles in utmost satiation.

he walks toward the edge, dipping in his ankle to test the temperature.

“feels perfect to me,” comes his nonchalant declaration, “maybe they heated it, just for us.”

“yeah right.” you snort while accompanying jeonghan at the edge of the concrete. “i think we got lucky.” still holding the soft towel around your shoulders, you hide from the crisp breeze and observe the aurora of city lights that glint against dark silhouettes. it’s a breathtaking sight, one you’re easily mesmerized by, the ideal setting to celebrate your anniversary.

jeonghan scoffs, his lips curling into a faint smile. “how do you know i didn’t bribe the hotel clerk? you think i wouldn’t put in the effort to make this night perfect?”

rolling your eyes innocuously, you lean into jeonghan’s cheek and plant an appreciative kiss, one that engenders him to gaze upon you fondly with his copper eyes.

“it was going to be perfect no matter what.” you assure him.

jeonghan bobs his head. “true,” he agrees, “i can’t plan a bad date. it’s not in my power.”

you can’t help but laugh at him and his antics, a big dumb, lovestruck grin blossoming from your one cheek to the other as the boy sits down on the ledge and sticks in his legs. afterward, he slips quickly into the turquoise water which laps up to his chest. he dampens his dark, coffee locks by running a wet hand through his hair, before proceeding to stare at you mischievously.

“well,” he says, “what the hell are you waiting for? get your pretty ass in here.”

a cool breeze continues to ghost against your warm flesh, and you can sense the little hairs on your arms bristle when you shoulder off the hotel towel. it’s an exhilarating feeling, but you’re also somewhat anxious. the manner in which jeonghan’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as his gaze lazily plagues you from top to bottom – you know he wants to fool around no doubt.

repeating what jeonghan had done earlier, you sit at the pool’s edge and submerge your legs. like he mentioned, the water isn’t too cold nor hot. it’s a mild temperature, making it easy for you to tentatively slide your body the rest of the way in. you swim toward jeonghan, admiring how the pool lights set a dewy mist to his honeyed, bare complexion.

you almost want to tell him how beautiful he looks – until he pulls one of his classic stunts.

as soon as you’re close enough, jeonghan quickly tucks his hands beneath your thighs, pulling you forward to sit on his waist just before he spins you in a circle. with your arms tightly woven around his neck, you release an abrupt scream, one that echoes deep and far into the night. however, it instantly ceases as jeonghan uses his strong grip to flip you right over his shoulder.

you dunk head first into the water, and only just manage to plug your nose. jeonghan’s laughter is a muffled symphony above the surface, the particular sound flooding your ears once you remerge to wipe the heavy droplets and hair from your face. jeonghan is giggling like a student who pranked their teacher, his expression almost as bright as the full moon.

“jeonghan!” you shout his name with harmless anger. “you’re such an ass!”

to give him a lesser taste of his own medicine, you boldly whip a current of water toward his unmarred face. the boy blocks most of it using his arm, though some still manages to spray his pink cheeks. it’s enough to make you smile as your heart dances rapidly in your chest.

“awe,” jeonghan coos as you swim away from him, “c’mon now, i didn’t mean to upset you.”

“i can’t believe you would do that,” you playfully admonish him, propelling yourself further down the pool only to have jeonghan follow you, “and on our anniversary!”

“pfft, i was just trying to loosen you up!” he poorly defends himself, smiling widely.

“your brain makes no sense.” suddenly, you feel your back bump against the pool wall, thwarting you from making an escape. again, your heart starts thundering.

jeonghan notes that he’s trapped you, a satisfied gleam twitching in his eyes while he closes your body in further. with nowhere to slip away, you accept that you’re now like malleable clay to his hands, which he then proves by gently brushing his fingers down your damp cheek. you swallow thickly, your spine ridging against the pool’s edge when jeonghan pecks your temple.

“i’m sorry, baby,” he whispers in a saccharine tone, his warm breathing fanning against the cusp of your ear, “want to make it up to you…” he presses a kiss to your skin. “will you let me?”

“i-i don’t know…” you stumble in response, a sharp breath drawing immediately into your lungs as jeonghan licks softly behind your ear and releases a breathy, attractive sigh.

“please?” he nips at your ear lobe. “i want to make you feel good, baby.”

you hate that your body is betraying you. an intense ache starts buzzing in your lower abdomen, and despite the soothing balm of the water, your flesh feels scorched and sundried. without saying a word, jeonghan detects how you’re unconsciously yearning for him, his touch, his kisses, especially as you tilt your head to the side, allowing him access to your neck.

“what if someone comes up?” you attempt to reason, all while jeonghan’s thumbs rub circles against your hipbones.

“so?” jeonghan chuckles indifferently, nosing along the shallow pulse at your neck. “they’ll get to see what a pretty girl you are when i’m touching you, baby. when i’m fucking you just right and you’re begging me to give it to you harder. they’ll get quite the show, won’t they?”

you almost can’t breathe. jeonghan’s sweet voice is a complete contrast to the lascivious whims that consume his mind, and you feel a liquid warmth bathe between your thighs. your fingernails sink into his broad shoulders, a timid breath spilling from your mouth as jeonghan slowly swirls his tongue to a particularly tender spot on your neck. he bites down too, smirking.

“i-i just— i’m kind of nervous…” you exhale shakily.

jeonghan’s kisses drift to your collarbone. he nibbles too, just before the clever tip of his tongue licks at your bottom lip, prompting you to part your mouth so he can rub the muscle against your own. it’s a little messy, with saliva beginning to dampen your chin and glossily coat your lips, though you close your eyes and enjoy how wonderful the sensations make you feel.

a fragile moan rasps in your throat upon jeonghan’s hand sliding down your stomach and etching beneath the waistband of your swimsuit. his index and middle finger find your clit, to which he draws lethargic, deep circles against the bud. he smirks while suckling on your bruising, bottom lip, loving how your hips jerk in response to the intimate touch.

he then licks the saliva off your mouth, murmuring huskily. “hmm, you’re nervous? it’s alright, just let me relax you, baby. you know i’ll always take good care of you.”

suddenly, jeonghan’s index finger runs along the length of your slit. before you can get a word out, he’s pushing the digit inside you, sliding it slowly, as far as it’ll reach. your nails press down hard into jeonghan’s shoulders and a shudder encapsulates your body. while there’s a part of you that’s still quite apprehensive about fooling around in the pool, you can’t reject him.

he drags his finger out before proceeding to gently rub your clit, the moonlight splashing silver against his lustful but adoring eyes. your breath escapes in an unstable quiver, feeling jeonghan now return to your entrance, instead sliding in two slender fingers. he studies your face closely while scissoring you open, and you instinctually grab his wrist beneath the bright water.

“mmmff, f-fuck…” a curse tumbles helplessly from your mouth.

jeonghan smiles. “see? not so bad is it. i know you love this.” he then leans forward, his pink lips brushing your ear, “i know you love my fingers deep inside your pretty pussy, angel.”

you hate him – but, goddammit, your heart sings the exact opposite.

the cool, rooftop breeze blows calmingly against your face, and you can sense the water droplets start to dry from your cheeks. your eyes are closed, head tilted down, simply basking in the warm pressure situated in your abdomen. jeonghan manages to fit another finger past your slit, stretching you open until a high-pitched whine cracks from your mouth into the night.

his knuckles press strictly against your opening, and you know you’re damn well wet enough to take his fourth finger if need be. ever so slightly, jeonghan curls his fingertips, and they dig right up against your golden spot. there’s an evident gaping of your lips that indicates he’s ticked it, to which the boy begins rubbing against the area, causing your body to uncontrollably tremble.

your nails start to scrape gradually down his arms as the pleasure winds itself up. jeonghan proceeds to lift your chin up with his latter hand, an endearing smirk painted to his mouth.

“i want you to look at me, baby,” he orders you, “look at me when i have you like this. let me see what a sweet girl you are when you’re about to cum all over my fucking fingers.”

there’s a milky light in your gaze as you attempt to maintain your posture. the manner in which jeonghan keeps massaging that wonderful soft spot; it feels like the stars have rained down from the sky, like you’re merely floating with little sensation toward the ground. you know he loves to watch you progressively ruin. he bites his lip while ramming his fingers in harder.

you’re right on the edge, an overwhelmed plethora of whimpers sounding in your throat. you feel like you’re staring straight through jeonghan just as you start to tip.

however, the intense pleasure is suddenly torn away from you. jeonghan removes his fingers, and you can do nothing but release an abrupt, indignant cry. your head falls against the boy’s shoulder and you whine like an unfed kitten.

“w-what the hell? why’d you fucking stop? i was so close!” you raise your face from his damp shoulder to glare him down.

“aha! i knew you would enjoy this.” jeonghan teases, stealing a kiss from your pouted lips.

your face flares into a deathly heat. “y-yeah… and so what?” you nip back, folding your arms over your chest, “i knew you would do something like this anyways…”

“of course i fucking would.” jeonghan laughs. his hands suddenly grab your sensitive waist, and he pulls you close against him, the water waves unable to even lap between you. “obviously I’m going to let you cum, sweetheart. i wouldn’t be that cruel on our anniversary.”

you stare into his honey-brown gaze fondly, a tiny smile managing to bloom upon your face. no matter how much jeonghan riles you up, you will always have such a passionate and profound love for him, and from the intense warmth in his eyes, that sentiment is boldly reciprocated.

the boy delicately touches the back of your thighs, a silent urge for you to wrap your legs around his waist. your spine then presses against the pool wall, fingers winding into his hair while jeonghan kisses you deeply. though you’re more relaxed, there remains a nervous skip in your heartbeat as jeonghan guides his cock from his shorts and twists your bathing suit aside.

he sighs quietly against your mouth, rubbing his swollen head between your slick, silk folds. the second he begins pushing inside you, jeonghan sets his forehead against your own in order to kiss you again, much sweeter this time, with a gentle haze in his eyes. wrapping your arms around his neck, you allow jeonghan to thrust into you, the water sloshing quietly around your bodies.

“ff-fuck, my baby, you f-feel so soft n’warm, h-holy fuck…”

his voice is like velvet, and it soothes you despite your racing heart. you can’t even look away from jeonghan’s blissed-out gaze, to which you’re positive you reflect something similar. his cock pushes into that particular spot his fingers had reached earlier, and you’re so sensitive that you can’t help but whimper timidly. you can hardly form words with how exceptional it feels.

the difference is that his cock hits so much deeper, so much heavier, and jeonghan can feel you already beginning to clench around him. he shushes your abundant whimpering with a series of small kisses that make your chest feel like cotton; however, his grip on the underside of your thighs becomes quite fierce as he senses how close you are to release.

his eyes are utterly glazed over when he starts murmuring against your mouth. “want me to give it to you harder, baby? you want me to make you cum, hm? make your pretty pussy cry?”

“y-yyesss…” you’re beyond discombobulated, trying to obtain any form of coherency, “pl-please, hh-harder – wanna cum ss-so bad, jeonghan…”

the boy couldn’t be more content with your response. he presses you firmly against the pool wall, and breathes in the fresh scent of the nightly air and the mild water. he loves how easily he can unravel you, have you drooling and forgetting how to use your own words. yet, beyond that, jeonghan loves being able to make you feel good, knowing that you’re his to keep.

and as he pushes you toward your high, he knows he’ll think back on this night for quite a while.

[sunnyie-eve]

2 | One of a kind

Series: Terror (Simon Kalivoda x OFC Fraser!)

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: language, mention of drug use

"No creeping around and no sneaking in. Also to call you."

Previous

Later in the day mom made me go to the grocery store with her because she didn't trust me at home if she wasn't there. "Ugh, I don't understand how you are friends with that druggie." She eyes Simon from afar. "Because he's a nice funny guy. You would know if you talked to him when he checks us out before we leave." I tell her and I get a disgusting look from her. "You need to be friends with non-druggies." She continues to talk shit about him then Kate and Denna. "I'll be right back." I walked away since I saw Kate talking with Simon. "You got off the lease?" Simon jokes. "Haha, funny." I fake a smile. "We'll she keeps making you follow so close to her." He makes a point.

"Have you been watching me since we got here?" I ask him. "Yeah, so I could pop in to give this back to you." He shows me my necklace I never take off. "I didn't even notice. Thank you." I take it and put it back on. "How the hell did it even come off? I ask myself. "Who knows it was a wild night. When I got home after walking you I felt it in my pocket." He explains to me. "Huh? What am I missing? There are a lot of holes in this story." Kate looks between us. "I got high with Simon last night at the park. We took two different pills and fell asleep there." I keep it short. "You what? Miss goodie goodie when it comes to drugs, took drugs?" She whispers shouts. "What did you give her for her first time?" Kate turns to Simon.

"Being completely honest with you, I don't remember. I just knew it was the ones that take away all your worries and make you feel like you're flying. Nothing too serious and it was only two pills." He tells her and she keeps hitting him. "You're so fucking stupid!" He just takes the slaps. "Duh." He agrees with her. "What all do you remember?" Kate turns back to me. "We played around at the park. On the swings, playset, and monkey bars. On the monkey bars, we took a different pill and that's all I remember before waking up." I let her know. "Same thing. I guess we just passed out after running around." Simon tells her.

"Oh, by the way, my dad grounded me for coming home this morning so." I let both of them know. "So I can still sneak over but just can't sneak you out again?" Simon says, making me look at him. "No, you're the reason I'm grounded, dude. No more sneaking over. And start to call instead of creeping around outside my window." I hit him as my mom comes with the basket ready to check out. Simon goes around to scan and check us out. "Find everything okay?" He asks her. "Fine." She keeps it short not wanting to have a conversation with him. When he was done he tells her to have a nice day and again she ignores him. "See you guys Monday." I smile at Kate and Simon.

"I don't want you being friends with them." She tells me as we drive home. "You can't tell me who I can't be friends with." I laugh, earning a backhand slap from her. "I'm your mother so yes I can." I just nod my head staying quiet till we get home. When we got home I went straight to my room putting on music to zone out. "What happened?" Sam comes into my room. "Nothing." I started to sketch a picture. "Tell me." She slaps my bed. "She told me to stop being friends with Simon and Kate. I told her she can't tell who I can't be friends with. It earns me a backhand so." I let her know. "Why did you do that? Just do what she says." I stop so I can look up at her. "Okay then, so you agree to stop seeing Denna then." I smile at her. "That's not what I meant." She sighs.

"You told me to do what she says so shouldn't you too then?" I ask her. "I do what mom tells me to do most of the time unlike you. You choose to be the stereotype of someone from Shadyside. Gets in trouble, doesn't follow the rules, etc." She says pissing me off. "Get out of my room and don't come back in here." I point at my door and she leaves. "Bitch." I throw my stuff across the room. I end up spending hours laying on my back staring at the ceiling wishing I had a different family at times. Mostly a new mom and sister. "Time for dinner." My dad opens the door. "I'm not hungry." I let him know. "Fine." He shut my door. I get up picking up what I threw hours ago to start sketching again.

As I was drawing there was a tap at my window. I get up opening it, "What did I tell you?" I ask Simon. "No creeping around and no sneaking in. Also to call you." He smiles at me. "So why are you still doing this?" I laugh letting him in. "I was wondering if you can do my nails again." He walks over to my black nail polish. "I guess I can. Come sit down after locking my door." I tell him and he does. "Thank you." He puts his hand out to me and I take off the old polish. "I don't have much of a choice now do I?" I laugh. "Even if you did, you still would. Wanna know why?" He smiles. "Why?" I ask, looking at his nails. "You love me." I can't help but smile so I look up at him. "Then maybe I should stop because I don't." I close the nail polish bottle.

"But you do. If you didn't, you wouldn't have let me in." I shake my head at him. "You are so annoying, Simon." I started to paint his nails. "Just don't mess them up." I reminded him. As I was working on his second hand he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Sorry, I messed this finger up." He shows me his index finger. "I hate you. I'll fix it after this hand." I huff. Once I was finished with painting his nails, he made me blow and fan them so they could dry. "My mom backhanded me across the face leaving the store. She told me to stop being friends with you and Kate. I told her she can't tell who I can't be friends with, which earned me the backhand." I say as I can his nails. "Bitch." I agree. "Then my sister said I should listen to her. We got in a fight about how she does what mom tells her to do most of the time unlike me. I choose to be the stereotype of someone from Shadyside. Gets in trouble, doesn't follow the rules, etc."

"You aren't the typical Shadysider. Yeah, you break some small tiny rules, but you only ever get in trouble at home, not at school. And etc... what? You don't do drugs, except last night, which was a one-time thing." He makes a point. "I know." I sigh. "Lizzy, I can't think of anyone else in Shadyside that is as good as you when it comes to being the best they can be. You don't do anything that could fuck up your future. I have faith in you getting out of here on your own." I wrap my arms around his neck giving him a hug. "That's really nice to hear." I squeeze him. "And I really mean it. Hopefully, you will remember me when you make it." He says as I stop hugging him. "How could I forget you." I kiss his cheek, "You're a one-of-a-kind, Simon Kalivoda." I mess up his hair.

///

Simon just smiles at Elizabeth, falling for her smile even more. "I know I am but thank you." He kisses her forehead. "Elizabeth." Her mother knocks on the door making Simon rush into the closet while she gets up, unlocking her door. "Yes ma'am?" She opens the door and her mother looks into the room. "Time for bed young lady." Elizabeth just nods her head. "Yes, ma'am" She shut the door walking over to her bed grabbing the clothes she sleeps in. "Time to go home Si." She tells him and he comes out. "Don't wanna leave yet." He whines laying in her bed. "How much longer?" She asks, walking into her bathroom to change. "I don't know." He shrugs his shoulders. "I guess you can stay a little longer." She walks back laying down next to him. He sits up moving to lay his head on her stomach so she could play with his hair and she does.

"How did we even become friends again?" Simon asks, closing his eyes. "You tripped me a month into the new school year when we were 12 because you said I was too cute to talk to you. You thought the only way I would talk to you is if I had to yell at you." Elizabeth laughs thinking back. "Well, you did end up yelling at me." He looks up at her. "Because you made me scrape my knees on the concrete." She tugs on his hair playfully as he starts to draw on her thigh with her pen. "And now you have a scar to remind you all the time of how we met and became best friends." He tells her. They both end up falling asleep for about twenty minutes before both waking up. "I should get going now." He gets off the bed. "Yeah, I hate sharing my bed." Liz laughs sitting up. "See you Monday. Goodnight." He opens the window. "Night night." She closes the window behind him as he walks off.

Elizabeth's body takes over, straddling Simon, leaning down to kiss him while his hands grab her hips. He rolls them over so he is on top kissing her then down her neck and collar bone. He moves his hand under her shirt, sliding his hand up and down her side. He pressed his lips against hers again, and trailed his hand down her thigh, rubbing it. Elizabeth jolts up out from her bed not believing what she just dreamed. It felt so real it scared her. She wanted to go back to sleep but she was nervous if her brain wanted to continue what she just dreamed. But then again part of her actually wanted to continue that dream. She falls back to lay down staring into the darkness of her room till she falls asleep again.

Monday comes quick and as Elizabeth was getting things ready to leave she spots Simon's watch at the foot of the bed on the floor. She picks it up, putting it in her bag before heading to school. "How was being grounded?" Kate asks, walking up to Liz at her locker. "Alright, my mom slapped me because I said I won't stop being friends with you and Simon." Liz lets her know. "Bitch." Kate leans against the other lockers. "Hey by chance-," Liz cuts Simon off, "You left this in my room? Yes." She pulls out his watch. "I was going to stop by Sunday but decided to give you a day off from me." He puts it on his wrist. "Thank you so much." She laughs. "Didn't she tell you to not sneak over?" Kate asks him. "Yeah, but do I ever listen? Plus I wanted my nails done." He shows them to her. Elizabeth can't help but be uncomfortable with the dream she had about Simon.

"Kate, can I talk to you in the girls' room?" She asks her. "Sure." She agrees, making Liz grab her hand, pulling her to the bathroom. "What up?" Kate leans against the wall. "I had a dream about Simon Saturday night," Liz whispers to her. "What kind of dream?" Kate gets excited on the inside. "We made out in my dream, but the thing is it felt super real." She hides her face. Kate's jaw drops, not believing it. If the dream felt super real to her then that means it probably happened after they took that second pill. "So you like Simon?" She asks her. "I guess... Maybe... I don't know... Yes, okay yes." Elizabeth whines. "What's the problem?" Kate asks. "I don't know if he likes me and I don't wanna mess up our relationship. Just don't tell him please, Kate." She begs her. "I promise. You're best friend will keep your secret safe." Kate smiles.

Next

[simplyclockwork]

Having just read your latest fic with a vulnerable Sherlock and reassuring John (which you did brilliantly), I’d love a fic please where Sherlock has an accident that he fears might permanently harm him (eg. paralysed, blinded or scarred). John is reassuring, telling him that whatever happens he will see him through it. Be there for him. I would prefer it if ultimately Sherlock is ok, but this has been the push they need to get together.

Sorry that this took so long, but the words just didn’t want to come. Got there in the end, tho. Also, I wanted to recommend a fic I wrote that might also fit this prompt. It’s a sick fic rather than a trauma-based fic, but a similar premise:

Warm Heart.

You can also read your fill on Ao3 here.

The rest is under the page break. 

-------

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock ran ahead of everyone else, but it was the first time John felt a strange sense of disquiet at the sight of Sherlock’s coattails disappearing into the abandoned building ahead of him. Though his military life was behind him, the lessons learned in the desert still lingered, and John had learned to trust his instincts. Even if Sherlock was too far ahead for John to pull him back, he had a responsibility to listen to his gut and protect whoever he still could.

Stumbling to a halt, he threw out an arm, catching Lestrade across the chest and keeping him from rushing forward. “Wait,” he said in a hard voice, and the DI lifted a hand to halt his officers as John cupped his palms around his mouth and shouted, “Sherlock!”  Nothing. Silence. He tried again, growing unease twisting his stomach into knots. “Sherlock! Come back, something isn’t—" right, he’d planned to say, but then the windows in the building in front of them blew out, and a massive explosion shook the ground. It threw John off balance, nearly off his feet before he was running, eyes wide as dust and shrapnel burst out of the second-floor windows. “Sherlock!”

“John!” Lestrade grabbed for him, catching and missing as John surged out of his reach and toward the building. “John, you can’t just—John!”

He ignored the call, ducking low to the ground as he passed through the door. He had been a soldier, dammit, had run into worse situations than a burning building. He wasn’t going to let something as basic as structural integrity stop him from finding Sherlock. 

And what if you find him and the roof caves in on you both? John’s rational mind asked, making John shake his head. If he and Sherlock both died, crushed in the rubble, so be it. At least they’d go together.

And wasn’t that a thought John didn’t want to look at too closely.

As he ducked into the building, John narrowed his eyes against the grit and dust swirling in the air. He searched the gloom, gaze passing over scattered debris from the partially-collapsed second floor. He was about to move deeper inside when his eyes caught on a shape, blurred by the dark. Squinting, John moved forward carefully, glancing up at the roof as he heard the structure groan and creak overhead. 

Once he was closer, he found his suspicions confirmed: it was Sherlock. He lay on his side with his legs haphazard, and he wasn’t moving.

“Sherlock?” John called, stepping over twisted steel and jagged chunks of concrete. He scraped his shin on something sharp-edged and metal, the sound of emergency vehicles rising in the distance. John ignored the pain, adrenaline pumping through his veins.“Sherlock.” He knelt beside the man, realizing up-close that Sherlock was almost prone, half-on his side, half-on his front, the collar of his coat obscuring his face. Finding Sherlock’s pulse with his fingertips, careful not to shift his neck or spine, John sighed a relieved breath as he found it, fluttering but strong. 

Blood oozed bright red down Sherlock’s pale, dust-covered face, matting his curls against his skull, and he didn’t move when John called his name again.

____________

 Head injuries were tricky. A doctor himself, John knew the multitude of symptoms and side-effects of head trauma, could list them backwards and forwards, and rattle off a string of reassurances to patients who had taken a knock to the head. 

What he couldn’t do was look Sherlock in the eye and tell him he’d be able to move his right arm again, or reassure him that he would be able to remember forgotten words and new information with crisp, perfect clarity once more. 

All John could do was take the frustrated rage spitting out of Sherlock’s tight lips in silence, knowing his reassurance would fall on unhearing ears. Instead, John helped Sherlock up the stairs to 221B after the doctor discharged them both and tried not to take it personally when Sherlock snarled at him.

By the time he helped Sherlock settle into bed, the furious fight seemed to have seeped out of him. Sherlock slumped against the pillows, his face pale beneath the plasters and bruises on his skin, the thick, black thread of stitches high on his temple.

“How long?” he asked, his voice a rasp. “How long until I’m… me?” John paused in smoothing the blanket over Sherlock’s legs. He thought of the blast force that had thrown Sherlock against a concrete wall like a ragdoll. Of the swelling in his brain. His breathing faltered, and he brushed his hands over the comforter, fingers shaking slightly as he settled on the edge of the mattress.

“I can’t answer that,” he replied softly. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he sank deeper into the blankets. John reached out to touch his shoulder, expecting Sherlock to snap at him. Instead, the detective just sighed, and John breathed out a quiet, heavy breath of his own. “We’ll get through it,” he promised, letting himself grip Sherlock’s shoulder in a brief, tight hold. “I promise.”

He received no answer, and, gradually, Sherlock’s breathing slowed. Even when he seemed to be asleep, John lingered, finding himself unable to leave. 

 ____________

 Sherlock struggled to squeeze the end of a pipette with his reluctant fingers, and John carefully set aside his tea in the sitting room. He waited, counting silently beneath his breath as Sherlock’s expression darkened. Once he looked like an ominous storm cloud, John breathed a soft sigh before Sherlock flung the little plastic tool across the kitchen. The petri dish and microscope might have followed if not for John’s intervention.

“Hey, Sherlock. Wait, Sherlock—” He swept into the kitchen and caught Sherlock’s shaking hands in his. At first, he received a volley of harsh deductions and sharp words before they dissolved into furious breaths and closed eyes. Sherlock gripped John’s wrists in unsteady hands and pressed his lips tightly together. Looking down at him, the display of vulnerability struck John. With a gentle twist, he shifted his hands until their fingers interlaced, Sherlock’s eyes sliding open in surprise. 

“How do you handle it?” he asked quietly. John frowned, feeling the tremour in Sherlock’s hands vibrating against his own.

“How do I handle…?” John cocked his head questioningly, and Sherlock’s gaze shifted away.

“The restrictions…” he sighed, eyes closing once more. “Your body, no longer doing as it’s told.” 

John’s hands tightened, and he swallowed before finding his voice. “It’s not easy,” he admitted, slowly, with reluctance. He breathed a soft exhale and squeezed Sherlock’s hands again. “But it gets easier. And… and it helps, not being alone.” 

Brow furrowed, Sherlock gazed up at John with imperceptible emotion flickering in his eyes. Finally, after studying John’s face closely, he nodded. John forced a tight little smile before unlacing their fingers and stepping away. He paused to pick up the pipette and set it on the table, leaving Sherlock to his speculative silence. 

On his way back to his chair, John felt Sherlock’s eyes on his back. 

 ____________

 Four days after the accident, Sherlock barged into the bathroom, just as John was exiting the shower. Between the interruption and nearly having a heart attack, John barely managed to snag a towel to wrap around his waist and not slip on the bath mat. 

“My hand, John! My hand!” 

Filled with trepidation, John froze, turning wide, panicked eyes on his flatmate. “What happened? Are you hurt? Are you okay?” He tried to catch the hands waving wildly before his face, but it was Sherlock who grabbed John’s hands instead, holding fast. They were nearly steady, only a faint tremour rippling through them as their fingers fit between each other’s knuckles. 

“It’s working,” Sherlock announced triumphantly, his eyes glittering in a way John had not seen since the accident. He looked a little dazed, bruises still fading on his face, the stitches stark against his skin. But there was a hint of healthy colour in Sherlock’s cheeks, and John’s lips curled into an automatic smile at the sight of Sherlock’s satisfaction. 

“Wonderful,” he replied, turning Sherlock’s hand over in his own. “Flex the fingers for me?” Sherlock did as requested, his smile widening as each finger bent and straightened, only the barest hint of a shiver in his pinky. John grinned. “That’s fantastic.” When he looked up, the faint flush in Sherlock’s skin deepened, his lashes fluttering as his gaze dropped beneath John’s scrutiny. He looked suddenly bashful, almost timid, and John sucked in a breath at the abrupt softening. As if drawn by the display of fragile humanity, John tilted forward, caught himself, and cleared his throat. “Fantastic,” he repeated, his voice a little rough. Sherlock coughed as well, slipping his hands from John’s hold and taking a step back. He seemed to take notice of John’s state of undress and averted his eyes.

“I’ll just… leave you to…” he waved his fingers, barely a delay in the movement, and hurried from the steamy atmosphere of the bathroom. John bit his lip and looked after him before tearing his eyes away and closing the door. After only a moment of hesitation, he chose not to lock it.

 ____________

 After the excitement of Sherlock’s partial paralysis passing, Sherlock rode the high of his regained dexterity for all of two days before he tripped, knocked his head, and wound up back at the A&E. His memory issues, merely a mild frustration before, woke as a vicious beast. 

By the time they were back at Baker Street with a fresh warning for strict bed rest, Sherlock had forgotten John’s name twice, called a cab a ‘chariot,’ and devolved into a thin-lipped staring contest with the door knocker when he couldn’t recall the word. 

John ushered him inside, trying not to think of how the moment mirrored their first time home after the explosion. When he tried to steer Sherlock toward his bedroom, he met resistance in the form of Sherlock digging in his heels. Sherlock whirled on him (likely not a pleasant movement for someone with vertigo and a double concussion), and glaring hard into his face, now inches from Sherlock’s. 

“What?” John asked, startled, caught off guard, and flustered all at once. Sherlock’s mouth opened, but nothing emerged, and his eyes blazed. John winced in sympathy before he could suppress the urge, and Sherlock’s expression darkened. 

“John,” he hissed, finally remembering the name just in time to hurl it like a witch’s curse. 

“You remembered—” John began, his tone soothing, only for Sherlock’s eyes to narrow and his lip to curl.

“Don’t… p… p…?” Sherlock frowned, mouth twisting into a hard moue. When John cocked his head in silent inquiry, waiting patiently, Sherlock’s frown shifted into a scowl, and he jabbed a finger into John’s chest. “Don’t!”

“I won’t,” John promised with no idea what he agreed to, but willing to agree if it meant Sherlock might calm and concede to some bed rest. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock was just getting started. “Don’t. It,” he forced out through his teeth, and John pressed his lips together. 

“I won’t,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a calming tone. Sherlock’s hands found his shoulders, fingers curling around the ridges of John’s trapezius muscles. John winced at the force digging into the tender flesh but held his ground beneath Sherlock’s sudden wrath.

“Don’t,” Sherlock hissed one final time, and John nodded gravely, trying to steer Sherlock back around and into the bedroom at the end of the hall. But Sherlock, despite his wooziness and obvious vertigo, just dug his fingers harder into John’s shoulders and stared at him. His eyes narrowed to little slits, mouth a thin, white line in his flushed face. “I can’t,” he said, providing or unable to provide any further explanation. Looking at him, at the uncertainty in his eyes, John lifted his hands, hesitated, and set them lightly on Sherlock’s waist. He squeezed, drawing Sherlock marginally closer, surprised when he allowed it.

“Together,” John said in a voice made low by his fervent tone. “We’re in this together.” Sherlock’s eyelids flickered, and he wet his lips before nodding. The gesture filled John with a surge of relief, both at Sherlock’s lack of vitriol at the sentiment and for the easy acceptance of his support. “Now.” John cleared his throat and dropped one hand from Sherlock’s waist, slipping the other around Sherlock’s torso to help him stay upright. “Bed for you.” 

Sherlock made a sour face but didn’t fight. Instead, he let John guide him down the hall. To John’s pleased surprise, he leaned into the contact and slipped into bed without fuss. John settled the pillows around him, making sure he was comfortable. This time, he didn’t linger, slipping away as soon as Sherlock’s eyes closed.

 ____________

 Six days after the tripping incident, Sherlock began to move around more, shuffling about the flat with a perturbed expression on his face. The bruises had almost entirely faded, only a stubborn tinge of yellow lingering near his eye, the edge of his jaw. The stitches were gone, the wound puckered and red, but closed. His fingers and hand were cooperative, barely a shake now and then, mostly ignored.

His memory still hadn’t stabilized, far from its usual power, and Sherlock haunted the sitting room like a foreboding shadow. John, caught between wanting to support him or give space, found himself drifting aimlessly from sitting room to kitchen, carrying a cup of tea once, a piece of toast the next, then just lingering by the sink and frowning out the window. Sherlock’s aphasia had improved, but the smaller details remained out of reach, and Sherlock scowled at his violin. Having forgotten the name for the frets, he looked thunderous, and John ran water in the sink to sound busy.

The air inside the flat felt like the electric stretch before a storm, and he absently flicked water droplets from his fingers onto the counter. Things would get better in time. It would just take time. 

Sherlock began to huff and growl in the sitting room before his mobile flew across the room and landed in John’s chair. 

Still looking out the window, his hand on the tap, John pursed his lips and waited for the sound of his name. When it came, it was in a snarl, and he shut off the sink before turning toward the sitting room. He startled, finding Sherlock standing in the open space between the kitchen and living room and halted. Sherlock stood rigidly, hands locked into tight fists at his sides. He was eyeing John with a dark expression, and John watched him cautiously. 

“You alright?” he said slowly, bracing himself for a barrage of fury and acidic bite. To his bemusement, Sherlock held out his hand, flinging his arm outward hard enough that John heard the joint pop in his elbow. Shooting him a questioning look and receiving no explanation, John moved forward and took the offered hand. Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face, and his scrutiny was sharp enough that John thought he could feel it upon his skin. 

Still without speaking, his lips pressed together in a tight line, Sherlock turned and pulled John along with him toward the couch. John followed in a curious daze, letting Sherlock point him toward the cushion on the left side. His brows rising, John sat and allowed Sherlock to arrange him into the corner between sofa back and arm with his feet on the floor, feeling bemused.

When he opened his mouth to ask what the point of the display was, Sherlock abruptly turned away, lay across the sofa, and dropped his head in John’s lap. He stretched his feet toward the far arm and closed his eyes with a sigh.

To John’s continued and stunned confusion, Sherlock’s head lolled against his stomach, his tense mouth softened, and he went loose. John wiggled uncertainly and received a low, irritated, “John,” for his troubles. 

He subsided, still bewildered, and watched as Sherlock relaxed until he seemed to be asleep. His breathing came slow and even. After a moment of hesitation, John settled a hand on the side of Sherlock’s neck, fingers just brushing the soft curls at his nape. Sherlock hummed quietly, even as John braced himself for rejection. But Sherlock merely curled his legs toward his chest, his eyes still closed.

As the flat settled into a strange, comfortable silence around them, John let his hand creep a little higher, grazing his fingers into silky locks. Sherlock hummed again, shifting slightly, his face nuzzled into John’s thigh. The sensation of his warm breath sent a heady shiver through John’s body, and he sucked in a breath, holding it when Sherlock cracked open one eye and peered up at him. 

“You can turn on the… the…” his brow furrowed, and he lifted a heavy arm to flick his fingers at the television. “The thing.” Feeling the sudden ripple of tension through Sherlock’s body, John automatically stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, making the detective drop his arm and settle again. Still holding his breath, John dug for the remote in the cushion beneath him, lifting his hips to find the device and making Sherlock voice a soft noise of irritation. 

After John had sunk back down, he cautiously leaned into the sofa and flicked on the telly. The light from the screen danced over Sherlock’s face, picking up the silvery flickers of his half-open eyes. John turned the channel to something mindless but found himself ignorant to whatever was happening on the program. He watched the shifting illumination soften Sherlock’s sharp angles, lifting a slow hand to card his fingers into the curls at his nape again. Sherlock hummed low in his throat once more, eyelids still half-mast.

 ____________

 John woke with a stiff shoulder and a cottony taste in his mouth. He blinked once, then again, when he realized there was a blanket draped over him. Looking around the sitting room, John found himself alone. As he began to feel disoriented, a sound in the kitchen of metal against metal drew his attention. John tilted forward to see Sherlock retrieving a spoon from in the sink, his expression tense and irritated. 

Watching him, John felt a flood of warmth, his thoughts flashing back to the previous night. To the sensation of Sherlock’s cheek against his thigh, the warm brush of his breath through the thick fabric of John’s jeans. There had been nothing sexual about the event, and John’s reaction to it now wasn’t either. He felt lighter than he had since finding Sherlock lying on the floor in the wrecked building, his face red with blood and his body deathly still. 

After shaking the stiff tension from his shoulder, John padded into the kitchen. He cleared his throat, suddenly cautious, and Sherlock looked up from staring at the spoon in his hand. Their eyes met, and John froze, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. He waited, expectant and a little apprehensive.

To his surprise, Sherlock held out the spoon with a helpless, frustrated moue to his full lips. “What is this?” he demanded, and John peered at the object, confused.

“A… spoon?”

Triumph flooded Sherlock’s face, quickly replaced with irritation. “Spoon. Obvious.” He dropped it back into the sink with a clatter. “I can’t even remember the words for eating utensils, John,” he said, his voice strained and unsteady. “My brain is my hard drive.” Raising his eyes, he looked at John. “How am I supposed to do my work if I can’t even remember what a… a…” his brow furrowed, and he gestured angrily into the sink.

“Spoon,” John offered in a quiet voice, moving nearer until they were standing over the sink together, shoulder to shoulder. “And it could come back,” he spoke carefully, not wanting to offer false hope. “It might take a bit, and some work, but it might not be permanent.” 

“Might, could,” Sherlock repeated the words in a scoff, his hands tightening around the edge of the counter. “And if it doesn’t get better? If my mind is never the same?” He raised his head and looked John in the eye, their faces inches apart. John felt Sherlock’s tense exhale against his cheek and pressed his lips together. 

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he said, rock-solid confidence in his reply. When Sherlock began to look away, his jaw clenching with frustration, John reached out and caught his chin with his fingers. He did it without thinking, and Sherlock’s eyes widened just a little before John dropped his hand, suddenly self-conscious. “I mean it, Sherlock. Whatever you need to make it work, we’ll do it. If you need me to be your memory, I’ll do it.” His lips tugged upward at the corner, and he patted his temple. “I already write everything down, so I don’t forget. It’s like I’ve been in training.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. It was almost a smile, and John felt a surge of relief at the hint. Catching Sherlock’s upper arm, he squeezed gently. 

“Together,” he reminded, holding Sherlock’s gaze. 

Sherlock nodded slowly, breathing a loud, heavy sigh before he replied, “Together.” 

 ____________

 It was their first case since the accident. The case was a break-in, barely a four, but Sherlock had agreed to John’s suggestion to start small, to start simple. 

They’d barely been on scene for fifteen minutes when Sherlock turned to Lestrade to make a string of deductions, lost his train of thought as he forgot a word, and subsided into a bewildered silence. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he clenched his hands into fists, falling silent. Lestrade raised an eyebrow at John over his shoulder. 

Before John could step forward, before he could even open his mouth and offer support, Anderson interrupted, “What’s the matter, freak?” he snapped, nose scrunched up in disdain. “Cat got your tongue?”

John’s hand flexed into a fist, and he took a threatening step forward. But Sherlock’s arm shot out and stopped him. Shoulders stiff, his posture rigid and tense, Sherlock drew in a breath. As if he hadn’t heard Anderson at all, he turned back to Lestrade, spat out the word, “Sister,” then spun on his heel and strode out of the house. John hurried after him.

“You should have let me hit him,” John muttered, slowing once he had caught up to Sherlock, matching his pace. “It’s long overdue.”

“He’s a moron,” Sherlock replied, face flushed with anger that was beginning to ebb into something else. “Of course I remember that word.”

“Sherlock…” John caught his arm and tugged him to a gentle stop. “It doesn’t make you any less.” At Sherlock’s irate stare, he stroked a thumb over the heavy wool of Sherlock’s coat. “It doesn’t,” he insisted. “You’re still brilliant, still a genius.” After a second of hesitation, he reached up and drifted the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s temple. “It’s just words. Certain words. There are tricks, techniques, things you can try.” His hand dropped back to his side, and John found himself faced with Sherlock’s full focus. “I’ll help. We’ll figure it out together.” He offered a small, tentative smile, still gripping Sherlock’s arm. “Yeah?”

Silent, Sherlock studied his face, eyes darting over John’s earnest expression. Finally, he looked away. “Alright, John.” 

John grinned and squeezed his arm again. “Alright. Good. Great.” They began walking again, Sherlock scanning the road for a cab. 

As John’s hand dropped from his arm, Sherlock caught it with his own and twined their fingers together. The gesture took John by surprise, but he coughed and wiped his face blank, though a small smile lingered on his lips, mirrored on Sherlock’s face. 

 ____________

 “Okay, hey, wait,” John said, catching Sherlock’s angrily fluttering hands. He drew them together, clasped them between his own. “The word you want. Tell me what it means. Describe it.”

Huffing a sharp breath between his teeth, Sherlock closed his eyes. John stood over him, where he sat at the kitchen table, feeling the minute tremours in Sherlock’s fingers against his palms. He grasped gently and waited, watching Sherlock’s brow furrow in thought.

“It’s when… when you… cut something out.” His nose crinkled with the force of his frown, the sight deeply endearing. John shook himself out of his thought, resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the wrinkle away. “Remove something? Cut it out of someone. There’s an e-sound.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed open, the pupils huge then contracting in the kitchen light.

“Okay.” John drew in a deep breath, thought for a moment. “Expunge? Eradicate?” Sherlock shook his head, lips pressing together. 

“More… medical.”

John paused, thinking. He flicked through memorized medical terminology until something stuck. “Excise?” he asked tentatively and grinned as Sherlock’s face lit up.

“Yes! Yes, John, that’s it.” A genuinely pleased smile warmed Sherlock’s expression, and John breathed a soft laugh. 

“Good. I’m glad we found it.” He moved to drop his hands, but Sherlock tangled their fingers together and held his gaze.

“Thank you,” he said in a soft voice, and John felt his face grow warm. 

“Of course.”

 ____________

 Through fits and starts, they found a rhythm, a way to cover the gaps where Sherlock’s brain struggled. And, through it all, something changed between them. Drew them closer, shifted their dynamic. Boundaries blurred, reformed until sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the sofa was no longer a surprise. Until Sherlock’s head landing in his lap didn’t even inspire an eyebrow twitch on John’s part. 

At cases, they worked as a team, just as they always had. But things became seamless, the two of them playing off one another without speaking, communicating through shared looks and gestures. 

It carried through into their home life, where John had Sherlock’s tea ready before he even asked, and Sherlock called for takeaway minutes before John’s stomach began to growl. 

Life became softer. Even as Sherlock improved, the mellowness lingered. Once, John would have thought they might revert to the way things had been, but they didn’t. Sherlock’s memory gaps shrank, and his word aphasia improved, and still, each was like an extension of the other. 

The evening when John looked down to find Sherlock already looking back at him, head in its now-usual spot on John’s lap, he wasn’t shocked to see his feelings of love looking back at him. Catching the way Sherlock’s eyes appeared warm and liquid as they stared up at him, John smiled.

Sherlock mirrored the expression, and it was the simplest thing to bend down. To meet Sherlock as he tilted up on his elbow and reached for John, his long fingers wrapping over the nape of John’s neck. 

Their mouths met, lips brushing soft, then harder, John’s fingernails lightly catching in silky strands as he tangled his hand in Sherlock’s hair. He cupped his skull, that delicate, incredible, fragile bone structure as he kissed Sherlock again, breathing a fluttering sigh when Sherlock’s lips parted, and John tasted his tongue, his breath, his gentle, willing vulnerability. 

Sherlock kissed him back, touching the tip of his tongue with aching tenderness to the inside of John’s bottom lip, and John broke the kiss just enough to shift and lay down. With slow hands, he pulled Sherlock closer, trailed his fingertips over his jaw, and guided their mouths together. 

He felt Sherlock sigh against his lips and smiled, knowing they would be fine. Sherlock would be fine. Whatever came at them, they would handle it.

Together.

[prouvaireafterdark]

Drive Me to Distraction

Buckle up for some deeply self-indulgent smut that I am not even remotely sorry for. Along the same vein as Open Up.

Also on AO3!

***

“Guerin, can I talk to you a minute?”

Michael looks up from the calculations he and Liz are working on, the end of his pen clenched between his teeth. Alex, who had been typing away on his laptop at the table across the bunker last Michael checked, is standing by their work station with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yeah, what’s up?” he asks, taking the pen out of his mouth and twirling it between his fingers.

“Alone,” Alex clarifies, tracking the movement.

“Uh, yeah,” Michael says before asking Liz, “You got this while I’m gone?”

“I was a published research scientist long before you and your big alien brain came along, Mikey. I think I can handle a little math,” she says, her tone sarcastically amused.

Michael holds his hands up in mock surrender and gets up from the table.

Alex walks off without another word and Michael follows him mutely, wondering what Alex could want to talk to him about that he couldn’t say in front of Liz. He’s been looking into Project Shepherd, Michael knows, but Liz is part of the team; she should be informed about any developments on that front. Unless—is it about his mom? His mind is running through the possibilities a mile a minute as he follows Alex into the small bathroom, the only private place in the whole bunker.

When the door clicks shut behind them, what Michael is definitely not expecting is for Alex to spin him around and walk him backward until the porcelain sink is digging into his lower back.

“Are you teasing me on purpose,” Alex asks, voice low in his ear, “or do you really not know how fucking distracting you are?”

“Wha-?” Michael asks intelligently, his senses overloaded by the heat coming off Alex’s body and the scent of his aftershave. Alex tugs on Michael’s earlobe with his teeth, as if that will make him any more coherent. Michael has to close his eyes and count to five before he asks, “W-what do you mean?”

Alex pointedly rolls his hips into Michael’s so he can feel his erection, hot and hard in his jeans.

“Oh,” Michael says breathlessly, his own body reacting in kind as he looks down between them at the bulge in Alex’s pants.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Alex echoes.

“I did that to you, huh?” Michael asks, his hands reaching for Alex’s waist, pulling him even closer, eyes glazing over with want.

“Mhm, you and that mouth of yours,” Alex answers, eyes fixed on Michael’s lips.

“I didn’t even say anything,” Michael protests.

“Didn’t have to. I’ve been watching you suck on your pen for the last twenty minutes like you’re not supposed to be using it for something. It’s very distracting.”

Michael’s always had a pen chewing problem, the frenetic chaos in his head making him prone to fidgeting, but he never thought it would ever turn anyone on. Though, he supposes, if he saw Alex stick something vaguely cylindrical in his mouth like that he’d be hard pressed not to let his mind wander.  

Michael imagines Alex sitting across the room from him, trying and failing to do his own work as he watches the tip of Michael’s pen disappear into his mouth, a hint of tongue peeking out every now and then. The vision in his mind’s eye shifts suddenly to Alex palming his swelling cock under the table as he thinks about all the other, better things Michael could be doing with his mouth.

I can certainly come up with a few, Michael thinks, already calculating the distance between the bathroom and the main lab and the thickness of the walls surrounding them to determine whether they’re far enough away to avoid being heard. Michael licks his lips as he realizes they are, so long as they don’t shout.  

“Mm,” Michael hums. “I’m real sorry about that, Alex.”

“You are, huh?” Alex asks, doubtful amusement cracking through his expression.

“Yeah,” Michael says, looking up at him beneath his lashes. “I should really do somethin’ about it, don’t you think? Show you how sorry I am.”

Michael starts to get to his knees, but Alex stops him. Michael stands up straight again, eyebrows raised questioningly. Alex just smiles at him, naked affection softening his gaze as his hand comes to rest on Michael’s cheek, his thumb brushing against the stubble there.

“You’re not obligated to do anything about this, you know that, right? I mostly just wanted to ask you to take mercy on me and keep your pen out of your mouth, but I got a little carried away,” Alex confesses, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. “You can go back to your calculations now if you want, I can take care of it myself.”

Michael huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he leans in to kiss him, slow and dirty enough to make his intentions very, very clear. When he pulls away, Alex’s pupils have well and truly blown, his gaze locked on Michael’s mouth.

“That is very sweet of you, Alex,” Michael says, bringing his hand between them to squeeze Alex’s cock through the dark denim of his jeans. His smug smile widens as Alex’s eyes slip closed and his hips press into his touch. “But if I don’t get my mouth on you in the next five seconds I’m going to spontaneously combust.”

Alex swallows and Michael watches his throat work, transfixed.

“What are you waiting for then?”

In one smooth movement, Michael spins them around so Alex is the one leaning against the sink. Once Alex is settled, Michael kneels on the hard concrete floor, his hands sliding up Alex’s thighs as he licks his lips in anticipation.

Alex grips Michael’s curls tight at the back of his head and Michael’s mouth drops open, his own cock throbbing in his jeans. Alex’s free hand comes up to touch his bottom lip, still slick with spit.

“Look at you,” Alex muses, the tip of his finger running along the edge of his teeth, pressing down to open Michael’s mouth further. Michael moans softly, sticking his tongue forward for a taste of Alex’s skin. “Haven’t even gotten my cock out and you’re already gagging for it.”

Michael whimpers as Alex slips his finger deeper inside to swipe over his tongue, and goddamn it if he doesn’t love it when Alex talks to him like this.

Alex’s other hand pops the button on his jeans and frees himself from his boxer briefs, tugging the waistband under his balls. Michael stares hungrily at his cock, thick and hard in front of him, and his lips close instinctually to suck on the finger that’s already in his mouth.

“Fuck, I love how much you want it,” Alex comments, watching Michael’s face. Alex removes his finger and wraps his hand around the base of his own cock, angling it toward Michael’s mouth. “Go on, you can have it.”

Michael leans forward and takes the head into his mouth, moaning as soon as he gets that first taste of precome. He revels in the feel of him, heavy on his tongue as it forces his lips open wide. Alex’s blunt nails scrape along Michael’s scalp as he sucks, drunk on the way Alex bites down on his bottom lip to keep from crying out.

Michael bobs his head, taking him deeper and deeper on every downstroke until the dark wiry hair at the base of Alex’s cock tickles his nose. Tears leak from his eyes as he fights against his gag reflex, but Alex is there to catch them with the pad of his thumb.

“Fuck, Michael,” Alex groans softly. “So fucking perfect, baby, you’re so good for me.”

Michael moans and Alex’s hips twitch forward involuntarily at the vibration, shoving his cock deeper down Michael’s throat. Alex cants his hips backward almost immediately, an apology on his lips, but Michael slides his hands around to the backs of Alex’s thighs to push him closer, urging him to fuck his throat. Instead of following through on Michael’s silent demand, Alex pulls his cock out of his mouth entirely.

He lets Michael catch his breath a minute before he asks, “You sure?” brushing his thumb across Michael’s cheek. Michael blushes as Alex’s finger trails down to wipe away some of the saliva that’s dripped down his chin.

“Yeah,” he says, voice broken and rough. “Please.”

Alex nods and eases his cock back into Michael’s mouth. Once Michael gives him the go ahead, he starts pumping his hips in a slow, steady rhythm that gradually builds as Michael adjusts to it.

Michael’s eyes fall shut as he concentrates on breathing, giving himself over to the sensation of Alex filling his throat, to the soft sounds Alex makes as his pleasure mounts. Michael is desperate for all of it, but most of all for the feeling of being used by the only person he’s ever trusted enough to give permission. Because as much as Alex gets off on this, as easy as it would be to forget himself and push Michael too hard, too fast, Michael knows that Alex will never be reckless with his safety, and he’s finally starting to understand why that matters.

It’s not long before Alex pulls out again, a gossamer thread of saliva connecting Michael’s mouth to his cock. Michael kneels there, gasping as he looks up at him.

“Keep your mouth open,” Alex demands roughly.

Michael obeys, opening his mouth, his tongue sticking out just passed the edge of his bottom lip.

“That’s it, baby,” he gasps, taking himself in hand. “You’re so good, love you so much.”

Alex strips his cock at lightning speed until he comes in thick white streaks across Michael’s tongue, shoving his cock back in his mouth at the last second so it doesn’t spill. Michael swallows greedily, sucking on the tip until Alex hisses in overstimulation and gently pushes him away. Michael rests his head on Alex’s thigh, his fingers dropping to curl around Alex’s left ankle as they both catch their breath.

Michael feels like he’s floating as Alex pulls him to his feet. He seeks out Alex’s warmth immediately, pressing close until their chests are flush together. He moans a little too loudly when Alex reaches for the waistband of his blue jeans, his need for release becoming urgent the moment he remembers it.

“Alex,” he whines as Alex gets his jeans open.

“Shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Alex promises.

Alex licks his own palm and takes him in hand. He doesn’t drag it out, instead jerking Michael off fast and rough. Michael buries his face in Alex’s neck to muffle his desperate sounds, his fingers gripping hard at Alex wherever he can reach.

“That’s it, Michael,” Alex murmurs in his ear. “Come for me, you can do it, you’ve been so good, come on—“

Stars explode behind Michael’s eyes as he comes in no time at all, shooting hard into Alex’s waiting hand. His eyes close as Alex milks him dry, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of him.

Suddenly, Michael feels something wet at his lips again. “Come on, don’t waste it,” Alex urges, and Michael opens his mouth without question. He registers the sharp taste of his own come on Alex’s fingers as they press inside his mouth and his spent cock twitches in interest against Alex’s palm.

He opens his eyes as he licks Alex’s fingers clean, enjoying the rapturous expression on Alex’s face. The second Alex’s fingers are out of his mouth, Alex claims his lips in a possessive kiss, chasing the taste of him on Michael’s tongue with his own. Michael lets Alex have his fill, content to submit to him.

“Mmm,” Michael hums when Alex pulls away, eyes half-lidded as he nuzzles closer.

He wraps his arms more completely around Alex’s waist as he leans heavily against his chest, his forehead finding a home against Alex’s neck. Alex rubs his hand up and down Michael’s back soothingly, making Michael want to melt into a puddle on the floor.

“How’re you feeling?” Alex asks after he’s had a moment to settle. “I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?”

Michael takes stock of himself. His throat feels raw, his jaw aches, and he’s sure if he looked in the mirror he’d see a goddamn mess, but right now he feels amazing.

“No, you were perfect,” Michael answers, his voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

“Good,” Alex says, pressing a kiss to his temple. After a moment he chuckles and adds, “God, you really sound like you just got your throat fucked. Liz is definitely gonna know what I did to you in here.”

Michael makes an amused sound. “If she doesn’t already. You weren’t exactly quiet while I sucked your brain out your dick.”

Alex’s laugh is fond as he asks, rhetorically, “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Whatever you want,” Michael replies, softer than he means to.

Michael feels Alex hold him tighter. “I love you,” he whispers into his curls.

“I love you too,” Michael says, squeezing him back and pressing a kiss to his neck.

Alex continues to rub his back for another precious minute before his movements slow to a stop. Michael makes a small noise of complaint in the back of his throat.

“I know,” Alex sighs ruefully, “but we should really get back to work.”

“Do we have to?” Michael whines.

“Mhm,” Alex answers. “Liz needs your help.”

“I think you’ll recall she said she could handle it,” he counters, though he’s already standing up on his own and tucking himself back into his jeans. Michael can feel Alex’s assessing gaze on him even as he zips himself up.

“Hey,” he says softly, and waits for Michael to look at him before he continues, “That was pretty intense, what we just did. We should still get back to work, but I’ll be just across the room, okay? If you want to go home or just need me close for a while, all you have to do is ask.”

Michael smiles, impossibly fond. “I know.”

They take turns washing their hands and give each other a once over to make sure there are no hard-to-explain stains on their clothes. Michael notes in the mirror that his hair is indeed a mess and his lips are red and puffy from use, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about that now.

“I’ll head out first,” Alex says, pausing to press a kiss to Michael’s cheek on his way out.

Michael spends another few minutes trying to make himself presentable before he leaves the bathroom.

When he reaches the drawing table he and Liz were working at, he finds a cold bottle of water in front of his chair. He locks eyes with Alex across the room and smiles, cracking the seal and taking a long pull, the cool liquid soothing his sore throat on the way down.

“So, you ready to—?” Liz starts, but freezes the second she looks at him. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Michael asks, feigning innocence, though he knows his performance is ruined by how wrecked his voice sounds.

“Don’t ‘what?’ me, Michael Guerin,” Liz says. “You two are fucking ridiculous, we’re supposed to be working!”

“I don’t know about ridiculous,” Michael smirks, “but we’re definitely fucking.”

Alex’s startled laugh echoes around the bunker as Michael narrowly avoids the eraser Liz throws at him.

[enigma-im]

Carry on Wayward son

Rating: Mature Relationship: Dwarf and Female!Human Warning: platonic relationship, Suicide attempt, Force help, lowkey kidnapping but it’s for the greater good, angst, fluff, hopeful ending

Word count: 2549

"if you would throw away your life, then I will claim it as mine" -rising from the depths

------------------------------------

"you going to jump?" I startle from the voice, stepping back from the concrete edge. I clench the support beam harder as I twist to look at the company. It's hard to make out a face from all the hair. Big bushy beard and long ginger locks frame the little bit of face visible.

"What? No," I lie with a scoff.

He hums with a quirk of his nose," well it looks like you were. If that isn't the case then what are you doing up on the ledge to a very dangerous fall?" I squint at the man, almost offended by his presence in such a monumental moment. I look from him to the edge, looking down at the water crashing over the rocks.

"Enjoying the view," I huff," it’s a beautiful place." he hums in agreement. I get captured by the distant view of the white-capped waves in the river. It really is a lovely view, a nice final vision before blissful blankness. I take a few baby steps forward, barely lifting my foot as I curt the edge. It's so easy, such a simple action to end the cremating feeling in my chest and head. Just take a step, almost like a leap of faith. It's that easy.

"Such a cowards way out," the man startles me to alertness again.

I snap my head to him," what?" he is closer now, leaning against the shoulder height barrier.

"Suicide, it’s a coward's way out. I can't imagine me saying that holds any weight but it’s the truth. Hurting others because you think its easier. Spoiler alert, nothing is easy. That’s what makes some things sweeter to obtain and others loud enough to tell you its not worth it. But I digress," he shrugs. He glances up at me then back out to the mountains.

I begin to shake, feeling cornered at his correct assumption. My chest feels like a hole and the always there feeling of panic rises into an engulfing terror. I take in shallow breaths as hundreds of lies thread through my mind, hanging onto the edge of my tongue like my feet on the edge of the bridge.

"I-I don- wh-," everything tries to come out at once. The dwarf turns his attention fully to me, regarding me in an almost relaxed pose. It's such a contrast to the black hole eating everything in my chest. I'm offended by his calm demeanor. Why does he get to be calm? Why does he get to be normal?

"Do you not have something better to do than make assumptions about me? I would love if you left now," I snap at him. Knowing what I want to say is a little different. 'leave' or ' please help' sits in the back of my throat.

"I don't think being alone is something you need right now, lass. The company would do you some good even if you don’t want company right now. Let's hope an audience will prevent you from doing something stupid," he answers passively.

"Something stupid? I would disagree, its probably the smartest thing I have ever done," I sigh. I glance back over to the edge with a shuttering breath. It might be my best gift to everyone really. I know it will be a wonderful present for myself. I can't be a burden anymore, as much as I can't keep feeling this. I can't tolerate another panic attack, I won't go about opening to someone who just doesn't get it. I can't help myself and no is willing to try so what's the point.

I forget about the man for a moment as I turn fully to the water. Just one step. Just one lift of my foot and I will be happy, free, content. I will be better once I walk forward. Just one step.

I lift my foot in almost a trance, leaning forward to the air. This I can do, I can do this.

I take the leap.

The first thing I feel is a flip in my stomach as gravity take hold. The next thing I feel is an air-punching feeling to my gut as something wraps around my middle. My elbows hit against the concrete as I fall to my back. My skin scrapes the rough terrain as my lower back skids over the corner. I suck in a gasp at the sudden pain then wince when my back slides over the lip and back onto the flat barrier.

"You damn crazy woman, making me fucking nearly fall with ya," the dwarf curses as he drags me back and over the barrier. "I didn't think you would actually do it if I was here, Jesus Christ saving you took ten years off my own life," he continues.

It takes me a second to survey the situation, I didn't fall. The white-hot fear from falling to my end transforms in anger. I twist in the man's hold and try to scurry away but he holds firm. I lash out in blind rage with a scream.

"Stop your shouting please, I rather not lose ten years then grow old as a deaf lad," he huff. I can't bother to care, just wriggling and screeching in his arms.

"You had no right! You bastard, that was my moment!" I flail till he manages to pin my arms to my sides. His grip is surprisingly strong for someone of his height. I continue to fight, showing more emotion than I have all year. I writhe and yell till I tire myself out, falling limp in his hold. I don’t know when I started crying, I also don't care to try. I drop my head to his chest and wail in grief, pain, angst, whatever.

"Let me die," I whimper," I can't take it anymore, I can't handle the emptiness. Please."

"Why are you so eager to off yourself? Why throw your life to the void," he asks. His fingers loosen on my arms then lift to stroke my hair. I can't answer him, I just want the silence to stop. I want the panic to end. God, please, it's all I want.

"well if you are going to give your life away then I shall take it," he huff as he thumps his head back against the wall.

I don't care what he is saying. This moment will end and I will be back here again. As fate for me to be here in the end.

---

I end up at his house once he managed to guide me from the bridge. He brings me inside and rests me on the couch. I don’t bother fighting, it would do me no good for now. I'm too tired to do anything, to feel anything. Sitting, I can do that for now.

He tries to get me into a conversation, I don't answer. He gives me food, I don't eat. He turns on the tv, I don't pay attention. As it gets late he gives me a blanket and pillow to sleep on the couch. I just lay down and stare emptily into the now darkened room.

He sighs," tomorrow will be better."

I don’t believe him

---

I wake to a bright light shining into my eyes, I groan and turn over on the couch. I feel something shake my shoulder but I brush it off with another groan. Someone huffs then the blanket is snatched from my body. The cold air runs over my legs in full tilt alarm. I snap my legs up instinctually and twist to scold the person holding my blanket.

"good, you can still get angry," he smirks as he drops the blanket to the floor. He doesn't pay me any attention as he heads for the kitchen attached to the living room.

"What is that suppose to mean," I shout as I snatch the blanket from the floor. I happen to glance at the clock attached to the wall, 7am. "Who the hell wakes up at 7am," I groan as I roll back onto the couch prepared to go back to sleep.

Before I could doze off the couch raises, the new angle knocking me on my ass. I thump my head to the floor with a loud thud and a colorful curse.

"You wake up at 7am now and eat breakfast soon after, got it?" I rub my head as I glare after the retreating dwarf.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't believe I stuttered," he passes a glance over his shoulder.

"Yea, I got that. I'm just curious who you think you are to be demanding that from me," I snap. I stand and snatch the blanket off the floor for the second time today.

"I am the person who owns your life so I decided what you do and don't do," he answers with a grin. It isn't sadistic or perverted like one would assume with a sentence like that. Either way, it isn't appreciated.

"Excuse me? You own me?"

He nods," that I do. You gave up your life yesterday and I claimed it for mine so you belong to me now. So come over here and eat, you are all skin and bones. Some weight and healthy food will do you some good." I don’t answer him, too flabbergasted to move. Am I being kidnapped? This is illegal, no one can claim a person.

When I don't answer he looks over holding a plate of a well-rounded breakfast. He cocks a brow, "What?"

"I'm leaving," I huff as I turn to the door.

"feel free to but know I will follow you so you don't go and do something stupid."

"You are going to stalk me?"

"if I have to, then yes."

"I'm going to call the cops."

"Do so and I will tell them you are a danger to yourself and they will put you into a hospital. Being with me will be more worth your time than being drowned in pills in a sterile room. Will it help, maybe. Will it be the best option, no. so those are your choices."

"You are an asshole."

"if that is what I have to be I will be the bad guy in your story."

"fuck you."

"Whatever you say. Here is what is going to happen. You will work with me on the river, then eat before we work out, then read or converse till bed. This will be your schedule during the week, then the weekend is yours. You will still wake up early but feel free to do as you wish. A schedule will keep you rounded and your brain in working order."

"I don't want to do that."

"Sometimes we don’t want to do thing but those things will help us in the long run. I don't like taking medicine but I know it will help. I don't like washing my clothes but I know if I don't then I won't have anything to wear. Often actions we bore ourselves with is beneficiary. Now quit whining and grab the bucket over there."

"fucking jackass."

"I will take insult over nothing."

We do exactly as he says, eat breakfast (though I manage barely nibbles) then head out to work on the river casting lines and cleaning up trash or debris. I fight every chance I get to not work but every time I act a brat he playfully splashes water or tugs a strand of my hair. Once we finish out by the river we sit on a dock and eat sandwiches. I barely touch my sandwich, instead, munching on the fruit. He takes the innards of my food then feeds the bread to the mallards swimming by. Watching the ducks is new, my mother always regarded the birds as disgusting needy animals. It's nice for a moment.

Next, we head back to his house where he offers some clothes to exercise in. we run for a bit then do some yoga to my surprise. He doesn't look like a fit man but keeps up pretty well to my lazy pace. We work up a good sweat before heading back to the house and showering. He offers more clothes then we settle in the living room.

"Wanna talk or read?"

"what?"

"This is enrichment time if you will. I generally sit and read before bed but the company is welcome. So would you like to read or talk?"

"Neither."

"I can talk at you if you like."

"do whatever you want. I played along with your demands today, I'm done."

"you aren't but if you wish to just listen to my voice then feel free to. I think today was nice, even if you were a bit bratty. Some hard work will do you some good, especially with your anxiety. Work calms the nerves if you do it right."

"how about reading."

"want to read now? Alright, here," he huffs before sitting up and grabbing a book from the shelf. There seems to be no thought in his choice as he grabs the closest in his reach. He tosses the hardcover to me, it lightly bouncing on the couch. I grab it, gloss over the title with little to no care, then open it. Out the corner of my eye, he opens up his own.

I stare down at the first page, not bothering to read it. I think about the day, think about how my legs ache and my stomach feels fuller than any recent time I can remember. I turn to the next page after a short moment, repeating the process anew.

The man scoffs, "I know you are faking it."

"Am not."

"'His eyes roamed around the room once they were adjusted to the faint illumination. He furn-"

"What are you doing?"

"reading."

"Out loud?"

"you need socializing, either it is from reading or from me. Why not both?"

"you aren't giving up are you?"

"on you? No."

"don’t say it like that."

"What?"

"Don't say it like that."

"I'm not giving up on you, that will be made very clear right now. You are worthy of living and worthy of being happy. Sometimes to get put in the right direction takes a helping hand, If I have to be that hand then so be it. I can't fix you, that isn't how this works, but I will give you the tools to help yourself. I will not give up on you, got it?"

He spoke with such benediction, so firm and confident. I had to believe him, there was no room for lies in his words. He is here to help me, I never doubted him, but he believes that I can help myself. That thought is oddly sobering.

"yes."

"Good, now are you going to read, or am I reading to you?"

"to me."

"Alright then."

I didn't believe his ways, I still barely do, but I think I can humor the idea. If only for a little while I think I can give it a shot. I trust the oddly caring dwarf man living by the river. Hell, if he can catch and pull me over a bridge then I think he can use the strength to help me find my own.

It's worth a try.

-----------------------------------------------

First off, if you feel anyway the character did in the beginning please seek help. sometimes the world feel crushing and we are either not worth living in it or unprepared to, it’s not true. as long as you are caring then you worth living. not saying it will be easy but with help anything is possible.

Now, this story was suppose to be just the first part but that was way too sad for anything i’ve written. so if it seems rushed or unfinished uhh, i blame work starting up this week. totally not my fault at all...

Book quote is from Rising from the Depths, great story. its about a kraken who takes care of a woman who loses her leg in a (alien) shark attack. its a long series that has a different couple ever book. i’ve read them all, super good. if you have read it, please DM me cause none of my friends are ever willing to read that.

“our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy” - Thomas Merton

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[shineonmalcolmbright]

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Table of Contents

Present

The world’s a murky place. There’s nothing black and white about it yet somehow Malcolm’s out there always trying to still piece it all together into a larger more concrete image. It’s full of murky rules and murky happenings and sometimes the world’s murky because water vapor grows too thick thanks to a cloud touching down into the ground. Doesn’t seem right though to have headlights beating down fog on a Christmas night in New York. Fog needs it to be humid and the air is too dry, the sort of dryness that makes your nose bleed.

Malcolm watches Owen put the car in park. Owen’s so busy trying not to look at Malcolm. They’re wedged between buildings full of people’s wanted and unwanted goods. Full of people’s secrets. Back to the murkiness.

You shouldn’t get into cars with strangers. It takes a lot of power to not look. Malcolm can barely recall the last time he heard his imaginary friend. Chances are it could be years ago or moments ago.

Either way, Tommy’s back again.

Tommy’s sitting in the back seat putting pressure on Malcolm’s headrest. Owen’s avoiding eye contact as he shuts off the headlights and unbuckles. Grabs his keys from the ignition with Malcolm watching his every move while his imaginary friend warns him again and again. Tommy’s always been right about his warnings, too.

You shouldn’t follow him. It’ll only bring danger. For a moment, Malcolm uses the rearview mirror to see Tommy there but it’s him, young him. It’s always been young him though. Young Malcolm who once was Old Malcolm compared to how Young Malcolm was when he first started having premonitions. Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

No going back. Malcolm watches Owen leave the car without a word forcing him to climb out without sparing a look at Young Malcolm.

Please don’t. Don’t!

Still, Malcolm climbs out of the car shutting the door as if it could turn his brain off. “What is this place?” he asks right away.

Owen’s leaning down pulling a brick from the ground. There’s not a window for its use, that’s if his use is to break inside the place in front of them. He’s busy bringing Malcolm somewhere but at least he also provides answers. “Turner was a private guy. He liked the quiet out here.”

“. . .You’ve been here before?”

Malcolm’s keeping an eye on Owen, trying to steady his breaths. You’re supposed to inhale deeply while counting to five to help with anxiety. Or is it seven? Or maybe it’s another number. Malcolm flinches as Young Malcolm pounds on the windshield from inside the car. Young Malcolm’s carrying such a fast beat. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. He’s screaming the whole time and it’s not like Malcolm needs to hear what he has to say word for word because he knows. He knows.

Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

It’s the question and not the sounds of the shining that stalls Owen. He has keys in his hand and his fidgeting with a lock. He looks at nothing, maybe he can see memories of his own. There are some flooding his brain. They’re blurs though. So many blurs of tumultuous times.

“Not in fifteen years,” whispers Owen as he continues to fidget with the lock. There’s no issue with it. His hands tremble. It’s a little warm for a winter night. “We were partners. We used to come and work out here sometimes.

The lock clicks, it slides open with ease. It’s frequently used. Young Malcolm continues banging on the windshield as he screamed into the window. Steam creeps across the glass. And not once does Malcolm move, his hand isn’t even trembling as he watches Owen move to the next step of opening the door before them.

Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back. Please don’t. Don’t!

Owen looks at Malcolm who moves forward as he hauls the door upwards leading to a garage. Some reason Malcolm walks past Owen, he pauses to peer at him as he holds open the door. Not a word is exchanged before the two and Malcolm slips right into the building.

Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back. Young Malcolm never stops screaming and pounding on the windshield. He could try and open the door.

Malcolm’s heading inside more and more only for metal to scrape behind him. Owen releases the garage door for a moment, he’s coming inside and drags it shut. Darkness collapses on them and Young Malcolm’s shouting is lost, it’s lost outside with his banging on the windshield.

Please don’t. Don’t!

Electricity hisses, it flickers hardly allowing shadows to retreat. There’s a blue hue to it and it almost sounds like those mosquito zappers some people have hanging right outside their doors. Malcolm is standing in the middle of the garage surrounded by archival boxes. It’s Owen’s turn to watch him. Malcolm pays no mind to the boxes or Owen as he watches the ends of a sheet flutter up, it’s covering something large, something that’s not archival boxes stacked up on each other. He means to take it one slow step at the time. Instead, he trips up, moves forward too fast, and almost crashes into whatever the sheet hides and pulls it off.

Crime scene photos decorate a board. Puzzle pieces are spread across it, Turner tried to fit them together but these puzzles aren’t so easy. There’s no edges to find and plant. Instead, there’s photos all across them including recent images from the junkyard where they found bodies, bodies, bodies.

Malcolm snaps his attention to Owen who’s trying to not look so startled. His jaws slightly ajar and Malcolm touches some of the images on the board. “Why-Why was Turner looking into the Junkyard Killer?” Maybe he should’ve listened to Young Malcolm. He shouldn’t have followed Owen inside because now it’s too late to turn around and return to the world before. “He never even worked on The Surgeon Case?”

Owen’s already turned on another light bringing some warmth to the room. He’s looking through a folder of some sort. He glares at Malcolm. “Yeah, but I did.” And it’s back to the flipping of the pages in the book. Malcolm leans back against a desk, he crosses his hands in front of him watching Owen, analyzing his words and movement. “These are all my files from 20 years ago.” All of them. Owen slams the folder down on top of a filing cabinet. Can’t believe him. All of them. Twenty years.

Puzzle pieces are surfacing in Owen’s mind as he turns his attention at the photographs on the board. He stares right at images of a younger Malcolm, walking home and another candid shot of him. There’s a post-it note that simply says “Malcolm Whitly” and it’s underlined twice.

“I always thought there was more.” He knows. He had to know. Bet he knows. “Martin must’ve had a cleanup man, but my higher-ups. . .” Malcolm again is stuck on Owen, trying to analyze but there’s a lot fluttering through his thoughts. His hand quakes and he needs to stay present, not fall out of time again. All of them. Twenty years. I knew it. I knew it! . . . “closed the case. . .” Owen’s eyes are bulging as there’s overstimulating thoughts circulating all throughout his mind. There had to-There had to be more. Twenty years. “They called it a day.”

Malcolm’s leaning forward into each of Owen’s words almost lost in between the spoken and the silent ones. “You kept digging.” It’s obvious on all levels but the old papercuts on Owen’s hands from researching still sting.

“Uh, hell yeah, I kept digging.” Here. All of them. Twenty years. There had to-There had to be more. . .He knows-He knows something. That look. Look. Owen sinks into the seat he’s on. “I was blackballed for my trouble and by the time Turner showed up, I was pretty well spent.” Words scraped his throat as thoughts continue to fluctuate. Owen snags his flask out of his pocket, shaking his head. Turner. “You know, he-he-he put up with me until. . .”

Malcolm looks away, he looks at the board as if he’s studying the images but he parts from Owen’s mind as best as he can. There’s puzzle pieces but private memories as well. The pain of them still clenched up in the pit of his stomach. Daggers in the intestines.

“He put up with me until-until he couldn’t and he gave up on me like-like everyone else did.”

There’s a faded snapshot. The sort of a polaroid aesthetic. Owen’s shaking his head trying to loosen it from the front of his mind. But it’s him at a bar, he’s sitting at the actual bar, mulling over another shot of whiskey, it’s burning his throat, tells himself it’s clearing his sinuses, somebody taps his back and he turns to see Turner there commenting on how it’d go down better if he grabbed a bite to eat before asking, Wanna go grab some pizza?

“I don’t think he did,” Malcolm whispers looking back at Owen to give him full attention but to also analyze, analyze, analyze. Malcolm points at some of the images on the wall and the archival boxes waiting around in the dark. Even his brain is almost stuck on the same repeat as Owen. All of them. Here. Twenty years. “Turner did all this for you.”

Like anybody, there’s some of Turner left behind. Memories spread all about everywhere.

“When the news about the Junkyard Killer came out, he must’ve dug up all your old case files.”

Owen curls into himself, he attempts not to and to hide it. There’s him at the bar again, him drinking at the bar again, him stinking up the bar again, this is different though. The bar’s barely open because the sun’s still out, people are casually walking by and there’s a tap on his shoulder. His nerves feel so deaden he almost doesn’t feel it until he hears it. Turner’s behind him simply saying, Owen. . .

“He was trying to clear your name.” Malcolm takes a few steps toward Owen.

Some semblance of silence enters the garage. Owen’s mind hits a sound, an emergency broadcast sort of sound as he sinks into the seat biting down on his fingernails. There’s not much of them left, his cuticles instead start to bleed. The emergency broadcast carries on for a second, two seconds, three seconds longer before his hand falls from his lips.

“Damn it,” Owen whispers. Turner. All of them. Here. Twenty years. “Damn him for being a good guy.” He never takes a swig from his flask as he stares down at his feet and the steady beat of overstimulation bearing down on his brain. All of them. All of them. All of them. . .Turner. Owen’s breath hitches, he’s close to possibly shedding a tear and he tries to take in one long steady breath and it’s back to the bar the first time. “For being my guy.”

“You and Turner were in a relationship,” Malcolm says as he continues to study Owen.

Owen comes close to smothering himself again. His fingernails still bleeding. There’s more hitches in his shaky breath. “I-I spent ten years hating him for ruining my career when all he was trying to do was save me from myself.” The flask in his hand feels more like the morning after, the taste of vomit burning his mouth and nostrils. “And-And now he’s dead. And. . .And I-I just want him to know that I. . .I just want him to know that-that. . .”

Emergency broadcast erupts again and Owen chucks his flask across the room. People not like us. They’re too good. And Owen’s sinking again while Malcolm pats the air knowing he should comfort and he should help him, but it’s hard. There’s such discomfort in emotion yet emotion intrigues him. So much emotion is left behind along these walls.

“He knew,” Malcolm whispers as he attempts to make eye contact with Owen. “All this, all this was because he believed in you, Shannon.” Malcolm picks up the folder Owen had been looking through for emphasis. He pages through it only something catches Owen’s eyes and stills his mind as he zones in on it. Without moving much, Malcolm pauses catching this silent drift.

Owen snatches something from the folder blurting, “What?” He’s staring at the paper, staring at it, the puzzle pieces are all into play. “Turner was hunting down my suspects.”

“You had suspects?”

“Everyone I thought that might be helping Martin. If there was a stone, we turned it over.”

Energy causes Malcolm to bounce about, he’s twitching warning to get his hands on the papers Owen holds. Owen gets up coming closer to him as he is staring at those names.

“Now don’t get too excited.” Owen makes sure Malcolm can see as well. “Each one was a dead end.”

Malcolm looks up trying not to grin. There’s so much energy, he might bounce right out of there. “Not if we compare them to my list.” The words almost slur together, he’s talking so fast. “The Surgeon met The Junkyard Killer at St. Edward’s Hospital and we narrowed it down to a possible 50 names.”

The words are still sliding together. Malcolm whips around to take off and grab what he needs. There’s banging outside the garage door. By the way Owen follows him, it doesn’t appear Owen can hear it. Instead, it’s gotta be Young Malcolm out there shouting his same warnings again and again and again.

Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

“So if the name is on both lists. . .” Owen comes up beside Malcolm ready for research. They’re standing with more light. He spreads the sheet of names out and Malcolm pulls out his phone so he can show his list. Owen snaps up, he almost accidentally headbutts Malcolm. “No, no, no, no, no, no. We don’t get to be so lucky.” Twenty years

“It’s not luck if it took twenty years.”

Malcolm lowers his head to study the names. Owen is teetering off balance as he gawks at Malcolm before getting to business. There are names to list and names to reject. Owen saying one, “Wade,” only for Malcolm to go, “No.”

“Waits?”

“No.”

“Walker.”

“Nope.”

The pounding on the garage door increases, but Malcolm’s too hyper-focused to even give Young Malcolm a second thought. Besides, what else is he going to say other than: Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

“Watkins.”

The name snaps like a brittle twig, a warning when you’re walking through the woods. Malcolm looks up forgetting how to speak for a second. He’s on the edge of falling out of time. There’s Malcolm squinting at a man trying to dig through his thoughts only to find nothing, nothing, nothing as the man kept them so tied up and private. The man made jokes. The man made apologies. The man said, ”John Watkins, a friend of your father. Told me I could stay here if. . .I helped with this place.”

Without a no following, Owen looks up and Malcolm finds words again, “Watkins! Uh, John Watkins.”

Owen’s breath rasps as he releases one long exhale. “Holy hell, I remember John Watkins. He was a really strange guy.”

All the way back then and in the past, back at the Overlook as life too often happened, Malcolm added no comment while he watched this John Watkins unable to remember a time he heard his name. For a person who could hear the spoken and unspoken, it seemed weird he had no idea who this stranger was standing in front of him. And John Watkins went on as if not a single oddity was apparent.

“He used to work swing shifts at the hospital.”

Malcolm glances at his information. “I have an address! It’s twenty years old, but still!”

Both Owen and Malcolm chuckle. They pop up ready to make a run for it. Malcolm gets the lights as Owen hauls the garage door back open. All along Young Malcolm stands there banging his fists on the metal. He spots when it’s no longer within reach. Owen holds the door open waiting for Malcolm to make a move, but Malcolm almost trips over himself. Startled by the fact Young Malcolm watches him so closely and with such silence.

Malcolm does his best to scurry past Young Malcolm, but Young Malcolm’s fingertips brush across his elbow. Malcolm watches as he continues toward the car.

Young Malcolm stares him down. But you already knew all of this all along. Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back. He wasn’t ever speaking of the garage and what they’d find. The door comes down with a racket. Owen talks but his words are gone. Malcolm is stuck looking at Young Malcolm. He wasn’t ever warning Malcolm about the garage but instead-instead, something else. . .

Thanks again! If you’re still here reading, thanks so much! This might be it for awhile because it’s where I left off and am 1. depressed 2. tired and 3. I have a lot of schoolwork but I hope to get back into writing more scenes because I miss this show so much.

[meaninglessblah-writes]

Prompts #200410: straddling their waist + leaning in to whisper with DickTim? Or with JayTim?

I’m sorry this took so long to do. Work flared up and I’m only just getting my bearings again. Thank you for being so patient ♥️ 

Probably not the DickTim union you were hoping for, but I’m trying real hard to keep to the opposed villain/hero rule. (Also thank you for using the code, helped immensely when I was frantically scrabbling to find that list!!). Hope you enjoy it anyway! 

2. Straddling their waist + 4. Leans in close to whisper 

It’s not often that Dick’s intuition steers him wrong. He wouldn’t still be here if he wasn’t able to trust the swoop of his gut before the grapnel caught, or the upswing of the trapeze as he twisted. 

Most people think Dick moves with his heart; but he’s an aerialist, and up in the air, where there’s only feeling between the catch and the crash, there’s nothing left to trust but his gut. It’s steered him through his years as Robin, through his tenure as Nightwing, and now through the mantle of the cowl. 

Dick’s intuition rarely steers him wrong. But he’d moved with his head (he tells himself) or his heart (Dick lies sometimes, even to himself), and he’s paying the price for it. 

He thought- 

He thought. He’d trusted his head, and not his gut. And now there’s a knife buried in it, the hilt slick with his blood. 

Tim’s above him, and Dick’s a little stunned by how much the red of his Robin suit matches the blood slicked up his arms. That, or the bloodloss might be making him dazed, slow to respond. 

When he reaches for the handle, Tim reaches over with his empty hand and shoves Dick’s gloved wrist back to the concrete with a grin. Slides the knife a few crucial inches deeper in reprimand, and Dick sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Tim,” he bleats, low and steady. Not low enough to match Bruce’s gravelly timbre, but Dick’s learning all the tricks that come with the cowl. “What’s wrong?” 

He laughs. Bright and strained and thrumming with rage, and Dick’s gaze skates over the twist of his lips, the sneer on his youthful features, looking for the needle puncture, or the stain of Ivy’s pollen, or- or- 

Tim shifts atop him, angles his hips down so he can drive the air from Dick’s lungs with his weight - and he’d known Tim was older now, bigger now, but he hadn’t noticed. He settles on Dick’s hips, straddling his waist, and his grip doesn’t falter on the knife. 

“I’m not dosed,” he says, and Dick’s gaze flashes up at how steady it is, how matter-of-factual. How he can seem to read his mind behind the lens of the cowl, almost as well as Dick can read bodies. Sometimes Dick thinks Tim can see the future, he’s so prepared. Other times he thinks Tim’s just too stubborn to let fate take them down any other path than his own. 

“Tim,” Dick tries again, winces when the knife scrapes his ribs. 

In his ear, his comm comes online, and Dick hears Damian say, “Batman?” 

“Here, Rob-in!” 

Dick’s wrist twitches in Tim’s grip when he tries to reflexively reach for the knife, the blade that Tim twists maliciously into his side. He flashes a stunned glare up at the teen, catalogues the two places his other arm is broken in, and tries to force his muscle to go lax around the intrusion. 

“Batman,” Damian repeats, an edge of concern to his voice. Dick can hear him moving, presumably running through Riddler’s traps with record timing. 

“Fine,” Dick grits out, holding Tim’s gaze. “I’m fine. Focus on the mission.” 

“The mission,” Tim repeats, a scoff of derision lodged in the back of his throat. “What do either of you know about the mission?” 

“Are you s-” 

“Robin,” Dick growls, and doesn’t miss the flash of loathing in Tim’s gaze this time. Is prepared for the flex of his grip on the knife. “Focus.” 

“How’s Robin handling my riddles?” Tim asks, and Dick’s stomach swoops sharply. 

“Robin,” he says, and knows Damian pauses, hangs off his every word in a way he never did his father’s. “Get out of there. Get out of-” 

His words are garbled in his choke when Tim clamps down on his windpipe, crushes it beneath a steady and sure palm. He hears Damian change course, hears the rush of wind as he takes to the rooftops, and he’s not close, but he has to be able to- 

Tim jerks him up, slams him back down on the concrete in a way that jostles the blade inside him, and Dick groans and focuses. 

“It was me,” Tim hisses, snarls around a mouthful of teeth. “I brought the Batman back. I brought back Robin. That suit is mine, and you gave it away!” 

“Batman,” Damian says again, quick and hurried, and Dick wants to comfort him, wants to reassure him, but Tim’s hand is still on that knife and- 

“Now he’s running around in my outfit,” Tim continues. “And me? ‘Be the bigger man, Tim’. ‘He’s just a kid, Tim, be mature’. ‘It’s just a suit, Tim’.” 

“Tim, I’m sorry,” Dick whispers, but Tim’s already laughing. 

“I don’t want your apology, Dick. You know what I want?” 

Dick groans, and arches around the knife, and hisses, “What? What do you want, Tim?” 

Tim shifts, expression blanking for a moment as he reaches down. Slides his fingers up Dick’s jawline to where his cheekbones meet the hard, smooth exterior of the cowl. Traces the outline of his features like a reverent child. 

When he tugs the cowl from Dick’s head, he doesn’t try to stop him. Doesn’t offer any resistance other than a grunt and a huff of hissed air between his teeth. Holds still and pliant - placating, even now - as Tim leans down close enough to brush his lips on the shell of Dick’s ear. 

He expects a whisper, expects a shout, but all Dick gets is silence. Chilling, tense silence. Almost as if Tim’s waiting. 

He understands why when his comm lights up, and Damian’s voice filters through with a terse, panicked, “Dick?” 

“I want,” Tim whispers, “Robin back.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Damian growls down the line, “Batman, I’m rerouting to your location. Just stay on the-” 

Dick doesn’t hear anymore, because Tim digs the comm out of his ear with blunt efficiency and flicks it across the rooftop. Dick swallows down concern and the first inklings of fear, and wets his lips. Finds himself slipping back into his basics while his pulse runs high. 

Stall and distract until help can arrive, Dick's head says. “Tim, you don’t need to- ngghuh!” 

“Have you ever known me to be distracted?” Tim reminds him bluntly, and Dick switches tacks. 

Sympathize with them; most crime comes from a place of desperation, a cry for help. “I understand how you feel,” Dick tells him evenly. “When I came back to find Jason in my duds, the outfit my parents had given me-” 

“And you did it anyway. You knew what that felt like, and you gave him Robin anyway.” 

He’s hurting, Dick’s heart tells him, he’s scared. “You’re right; I shouldn’t have done it. I know better now. Thank you, Tim, for making me realise. It’s going to be okay. I’m not angry, Tim. I’m just scared for you.” 

“I don’t care,” Tim tells him, and Dick swallows hard. 

Connect with him. “You should care. You’ve done so much for this family, so much for Robin, so much for Batman. And I need,” Dick says, pauses for air. Tries to muster up the tone Bruce used to use on him, has used on all the Robins. “I need you to do one last thing for me.” 

“I’d love to, Dick,” Tim tells him with coy levity. “I really would. One last thing for the Batman. The man I dedicated my entire life to. The ideal I gave up everything for. But there’s just one problem. You know what that is, Dick?” 

“What?” Dick says, prays Damian is close. He’ll be arriving soon, any moment, and he’ll stitch Dick’s wound, and they’ll get him to a hospital, and he’ll- he’ll- 

The glint of Tim’s teeth in the light makes Dick’s heart stall, makes his brain run empty as he holds Dick’s gaze. “I’m not Robin anymore.” 

Then he yanks the knife out, opens the floodgates, and Dick gives him a choked shout for his effort, more startled fear than actual pain. The shock is numbing the wound, but they both know, they’ve both been trained to count the crucial seconds of blood loss. Both over-familiar with the sluggish drip of consciousness fading. 

Pressure, his brain instructs. 

Pressure, his heart agrees. 

You’re going to die, his gut tells him. 

As always, Dick trusts his gut. 

If you want to ask me more questions, check out my list of prompts and quote the 6-digit number in the tags :)

[archiveofidentityconstellations]

cass won't share her cheese nibs and bruce doesn't love me and i think?? that i deserve better??? than this???? i'm moving to alaska where NO ONE CAN TELL ME WHAT TO DO

the sequel to that one trix yogurt fic

I feel like I should tell you that I am MASSIVELY fucked up right now 

 like i am such a garbage heap that oscar the grouch took a look at me and said 

 “fuckk off!! i have standards!” 

anyways

it’s Brimothy, bitch

what is UP mothertrucksrs it is Me i am back here to write a report on the UNBELIEVABLE SHIT I JUST HANDLED.

okay so u know how Gotham city is on crack cocaine all the time. with like some LSD and heroin and never ever any weed except for like who is that pig guy?? nevrm he doesn’t have weeeed but like he is definitely a Pig. what the fuck is his name. what the fuck.

 okay so anyways 

 is it Goyle

 Doyle

 Pigoyle 

 tin foil? lmao

OKAY FUCK anyways the City, who Also May Be My Lover, is in a constant life crisis (which i relate? a Lot) and do you want to know this s h i t

Crocodile

Killer Croc

who Steve Irwin would be v disappointed in

Is climbing

into people’s FUCKING TOILETS

???????????????

THIS ISN’T FLORIDA

THIS IS NEW JERSEY

WE WEAR SHOES IN THE WINTER

WHAT SORT OF FLIP-FLOP WEARING CUCKER DOES HE THINK HE IS

okay so obviously KC is a big guy. a Dude. a whack-o whaler of a Male. a Big Boh. the largest banananana in the pack. he is Big. so he cAn’t fit into most people’s toilets. he can, however, fit into Big People’s toilets (big as in wealthy, not As in Tom Hanks)

so KC (crispy,,,nuggest…i wonder if fried alligator is good—not that im thinking of eating him, though someone really should threaten him with cannibalism, like if you’re going to be a bitch about it then you deserve the same done to you, it’s just manners) is in cahoots and canoodles with Someone Who Shall Not Be Named (not bc i don’t know, I do, that’s how detectives work. it’s my JOB to know, and i was a prodigy) but bc there is a whole other report detailing this person and their movements and its case file #4461 if u don’t believe me, but i ain’t no snitch, but i will say that tonight’s events connect to file #4461 so Dad if you’re reading this you should already have it out bc it’s your JOB

speaking of jobs ding ding here is mine coming round the mountain as she comes bc the apple bottom jeans the boots with the fur will be coming round the mountain when she comes shE’ll be coming round the mountain she’ll be coming round the mountain she’ll b e coming round and getting low low low low low l ow low

It was a crisp October night. The sun was blinking its sleepy lids, setting the ballroom with an incandescent glow. Bruce Wayne strode across the floor, his daughter Cassandra accompanying him. They wore matching expressions that the privileged always wear: guarded, yet hungry. Hungry for what? Probably for the crab cakes just out of reach. Neither of them had an allergy, and Cassandra in particular had a propensity to shove anything edible in her mouth, so it really was a tragedy that those crab cakes were all the way across the room. There should really be a table right in the middle of the dance floor just for snacks. That way caterers wouldn’t have to do so much leg work, which is actually a good thing, because that ballroom floor is slippery af. This narrator should know, he has Died A Few Times getting there. Suddenly, the night’s festivities were interrupted by a social faux pas: a scream.

You don’t just scream at regular parties, it’s uncouth and hysterical. But you can scream if the social boundaries have already been crossed, and boy, were they crossed.

You see, Dear Reader, there was a man in the toilet.

I use the term “man” loosely, as his glaring yellow eyes do wonders when you might just crap your pantaloons. You start imagining things, like dinosaurs whcih i am personally a big fan of bc Jurassic Park has a kid named Tim in it and I am also Tim.

 hI y is our toilet so big that Killer Croc could wiggle his way up? also how long can he hold his breath. 

 it seems to be impressively long

 hey Bdad how long can he hold his breath? please let me know if you can, and if you won’t i will eat all your wafers becauzs i wa

Mrs. Trenton screamed and fled the impertinent bathroom guest, who wasted no time in ripping the commode to pieces. There was a roar and all the guests paused, unsure if it was merely pipe problems or if they were under attack.

Reader: They were, in fact, under attack. 

The guests, deciding that Mrs. Trenton was a social entrepreneur, followed her lead and began to scream. Killer Croc had made it to ballroom, standing at an impressive height just outside the doors.

He was Not wearing a shirt.

okay have u ever noticed that Killer Crog hasn’t got any nipples????? where are they? he’s got pecs but no nipples?? 

where did they go where are his nip nops i kno people don’t like to think about this but i hAve wondered since i was like 13 like where did they go. has anyone ever asked him. 

did they fall off

“Take the crab cakes!” shouted Matthew Fielder, a lil bitch.

“No, take me!” said Cassandra Wayne, who would literally rather die than give up those crab cakes.

Killer Croc paid them no heed. He desired one thing and one thing only, the sweet satisfaction for his carnal craving: Humain Flesh.

(alliteration hell yeah hell yeah take that Mrs. Johnson i do know shit and im creative as well u jusy don’t know how my brian works it’s like a golden goose egg trap ye ye ye)

 i just Realized 

 i am…a high school drop out

 i don’t know why im doing this

Dear Reader, as an Aside: Smoking can lead to many health issues, especially if one begins smoking at a young age. Harmful side effects include increased risk of stroke and brain damage; muscular degeneration, eye cataracts; cancer of lips, nose, tongue, and mouth, and nipple loss.

 Jason you may want to have a talk with you and your mipples

The terror in the air was stifling. Cannibalism conduct was not something conveyed in etiquette classes. Rich people never expect to be eaten.

Reader, everyone hardly breathed. Something deeply primal had occurred. 

From the doorway the golden eyes struck. Deadly. Lethal. Hungry. 

This was more than vengeance. It was a sadistic occasion of play.

  okay good thing Dames wasn’t there because he fucking HATES KC he gets all huffy and shrieky about him like “he’s a HYGIENE PROBLEM” and it’s like,,,,,.ur right but i don’t want to agree with you because where do we stand if i do that?? as brothers???

 i think the fuck not 

anyways i just realized i’ve been calling Waylon Jones KC the entire damn time (NEWSFLASH ASSHOLE) but to be fucking h, he wants to to be called that. i called him Allen once and he was so PISSED so i can only think of actually calling him by his name. he wouldn’t even be chill with me naming the sewer alligators even tho they were awesome names. i called one Dundee. that’s fucking genius. that’s just. i’m fucking amazing. stupenous. and unappreciated.

 maybe his nipples fell off because he swims in shit every night?????

 question: why do i swim in shit almost as often 

 what the dfck

 what are my life choices

 i feel like there should have been some fine print involved here 

 “Robin duties include scraping shit off your asschreks 3 times a week”

 mahbe,,,,maybe not what i want 

 personal choice

though i haven’t really seen any alligators in the sewers for years now, which is

oh my god OH MY GOD HE ATE THEM  HE ATE THEM OH MY GOD  OH MY GOD !!!!!!!!!!

HE FUCKING  HE FUCKING. HE. HE ATE HIMSELF  HE FUCNING ATE HIMAELF AND HIS FAMILY HIS COUSINS HIS CPOUSINS  HIS FAMILY OH MY GOD  THIS IS LIKE MY 8TH GRADE GRADUATION ALL OVER AGAIN

im so disturbed……..i like, need to eat something. Fucking hell. this Not what i had in mind when i decided to be alive.

i feel like as if i woke up one day and i was the only one in the entire world who remembered Caillou. also could pull off my face and eat it like taffy. imw so. i.

mom i know i refused to go to Shabbat when i was ten so i don’t get to say this but:

this is Not kosher 

oh heyy i want some pIckes

i was also thinking of takin a spin class?? like fuck it i like to bike. fuck it. and maybe iwdont want bruce and nigtwink fucking watxhing me with their beady eyes. like get those off my calves. my cleavage is up here, gentlemen. stop talking about proper form. some people can do things and suck at them. i’m never going to be like a professional ice curler. and i shouldn’t feel bad about that. who the fuck curls for fun. maybe Canada???????

note to self: look up the history of the sport of curling 

i’m going to get good at it to piss off Jason

Back On Topic:

Killer Croc took a step forward. His mouth trembled, watering in anticipation. He took another step.

Mrs. Trenton drew in a breath. 

The room was silent. 

Far across the room, Bruce Wayne clenched his champagne glass. Cassandra Wayne stopped chewing the crab cakes.  Reader, I won’t mince words: Waylon Jones crossed the threshold.

  and the instant he put his foot down on the ballroom floor he fucking slipped like a drunkass toddler

like when Damian is really really tired bc he’s like 2 years old (only an evil 2 years old like chucky) and Jason tries to give him a high five 

gremlin still doesn’t get that “down low” precedes “too slow” 

and he like. faceplants

onto the fucking concrete 

and then Bruce yells at Jason 

and then Jason yells back

“I NEVER ASKED FOR SIBLINGS”

like it was something we all did, like wrote it down on our batmas lists for Brucie Claus 

and im sitting there, a perennial Forgotten Middle Child

and Damian is like still. on the ground.

anyways KC is just slipping across the ballroom, slippering and sliding bc the floor was just waxed and it’s silent except for the wet slaps of his feet against the floor and the screech his tail makes every time he trips (sort of like this) and when he sometimes falls it makes that sound of when your thighs SLAP against the mats and it sounds like a wet walrus coming to cheer you on while a Giant simultaneously swallows a liquid-filled gummy worm down his throat like QAWAGGHHHHHHH only his falls reverberated against the ceiling panels and the cherubs looked down in like. disgust.

Cass began chewing the crab cakes again by the time Killer Croc fell for the twelfth time so idk it was an embarrassing situation

 we all did that Thing people do when a social barrier is breached 

 we like…..avoided each other’s eyes and made light conversation 

 meanwhile Killer Croc’s body screeched in the background

anyways Matthew Fielder was like “so I hear you dance ballet” and Cass responded “uh huh. tap too” and the chewed up crab cake crumbs fell out of her mouth and onto the floor

 i CAN’T

scrambled cock on a cracker, Cass why does Alfred let this happen????? what is this??????  like she can snort creme puffs like cocaine but GOD FORBID i put my elbows on the table and call damian “a poisonous little bitch” because he ate my croutons

 the standards in this family are unbelievable

So everyone is just talking and Mrs. Trenton is sipping champagne now and Luis Alvarez is doing that thing where he starts trying to eat caviar one teeny tiny egg at a time and KC is just like WHUMPH for the thirtieth time

finally dad takes pity on him and crouches down and is like “hey how you doing slugger” which???? Offended me. Very Much.

that’s MY nickname 

has Waylon No-Nipples Jones been adopted by Bruce Wayne??? has Waylon No-Nipples Jones retrieved HIS sorry ass from time?? i don’t fucking think so 

the audacity of this man

but before Killer Croc can reply

Red Hood

BURSTS INTO THE ROOM

guns out, voice modulator kind of fuzzy like a broke refrigerator that makes an “eeeeeeeeeee” sound ever since i tripped over it and fell on it

 which wASN’T MY FAULT 

 IM NOT “deformed baby zebra clumsy” FUCK YOU JASON 

 MAYBE HE SHOULDN’T KEEP HIS EXPENSIVE HELMET ON THE FLOOR THEN 

 you know what? I’m GLAD i tripped over it.

 yeah. suck it. 

 im glad you sound like a 90s japanese transistor radio 

 off brand too

 fuck you 

 I GOT A BRUISE NOT THAT ANYONE CARES 

 even Bruce was like “hey tim you need to watch where you’re going”

 ???

 how about YOU watch where YOU’RE GOING 

 “where” as in TIME TRAVEL 

 REMEMBER THAT BRUCE 

 REMEMBER THAT?!???????

 HUH BIG GUY?!???????!!???

 no one is allowed to criticize me from now on

 i am Above Reproach 

    anyways yeah Red Hood appears at the party and shoots KC and Bruce was like “why the FUCK would you SHOOT HIM” as if he has some misplaced paternal feeling for Waylon No-Nipples Jones because he called him slugger which is something he calls one of his other kids but whatever im not bitter im just insecure and sad all the time but don’t worry about it maybe i’ll die one day and you’ll all be sorry especially about Certain Things like not sharing cheese nibs huh Cassandra

so RH and Bruce Wayne kind of argue. like. literally sniping at each other bc SOMEBODY forgot that Red Hood is a criminal and not their misplaced son and RH is like “it’s!!!!! a tranquilizer!!!!! ya big hoe!!!!!” only he doesn’t really say it like that but everyone isn’t even listening at this point because this party has already been so goddamn weird and we’re all suffering from secondhand embarrassment

i am Assuming,,,,,that Killer Croc Jones “Jonsie No-Nipples” has been taken away to be put into jail and studied for his non-nipple properties but at this point i’ve been sitting here huffing that cold medicine or whatever Bruce gave me. which

 oh yeah i was crushed earlier 

 it was by “slugger” but whatever

 yeah his body broke mine 

 it was because Bruce and Jason were fighting again and not paying attention so 

 KC was tranquillized and like 

 fell on me 

 he drooled on me too 

 those ballroom floors really hurt 

 like my head feels like mush 

 Alfred’s oatmeal 

 on its second day 

 because i refused to eat it on the first day 

 that man has a spine of Steel and he Does Not Let You Waste Food 

 btw he fell on me because i pushed Luis Alvarez out of the way 

 he was really transfixed by those tiny fish eggs 

 it’s fun to put them on your tongue and let them like slide around 

 so i pushed him out of the way and was promptly crushed to death 

 B said something about a broken collarbone 

 i am more worried about a broken butt 

 fuck

 my coccyx

PROFESSOR PYM wait no shit that’s a comic book character

anyways my butt is broken and im hungry and dad wouldn’t let me get out of the chair so i write up this report because I am A Real Life Detective and I do my JOB

once again im the best

hey red jood can you get me some cheese nibs cassandrA won’t share which is p mean especially since i was all for being eaten to give her those crab cakes  red hoof red  why isn’t he responding to me i want xheese nibs red hanz  red  red  Red Hood please I require sustenance  red fhau red gjji red hhood ted joood redb hood red red edds red red edd dedd red red red red red wd red  what the fuck what a right bastard sometimes oh hi Badaman

EDIT: His name is “Pyg.”  Fucking. Pyg. Points taken off for unoriginality.

decided to have a tumblr version too ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 044 [To Be A Hero]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 3,289

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“You’re more than what they said that you could be, so believe. We are the broken, all that remains of our past are the scars. Our eyes are open, we’re not afraid to admit who we are.” Seventh Day Slumber, “We Are the Broken”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

Endeavor started toward me, his fists clenched and turquoise eyes blazing with anger. His lips parted, but a scream ripped through the air and the flying Nomu rushed past, chasing down a civilian. His eyes quickly scanned the area, landing on a nearby hero that was evacuating the area. He stalked toward him, speaking lowly before jabbing his finger in my direction and then taking off toward the sounds of screaming.

I grunted in annoyance, pushing myself to my feet. My legs are shaky but I can move just fine. Slow, but fine.

The man rushed over, a worried look etched on his face. He was wearing a skin-tight powder blue and white long-sleeved shirt with yellow gloves along with navy blue pants, boots and a biker’s helmet with a fin on the back. “Miss, are you okay?” He questioned softly, black eyes filled with concern.

I stared at him blankly. “Do I fucking look okay to you, chief?”

“Sorry,” his smile dropped a bit. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” He reached for my arm but I stepped back.

“Nah. I can make it on my own. There are other civilians that need you more than I do.”

“Endeavor ordered me to get you to the hospital -”

I scoffed. “Is flame fuck your boss? Look, I’m a hero in training, a U.A. student. I can handle walking myself a few fucking blocks. Do you hear those screams? Those civilians need your help, bro. Now go!” Using my right arm, I shoved him forward.

He hesitated for a moment before nodding and rushing off. My right hand clutched my left shoulder, which was completely numb. With a shaky sigh, I started down the street, keeping an eye out for anything that might need help along the way.

Something prickled the back of my mind suddenly.

I paused, my brow furrowed. Why does it feel like something is tugging me off to the side? My feet moved on their own down the chaotic streets of Hosu city. I honestly don’t know where the fuck I’m going right now or why my body feels the need to go there, but I feel like I should be going this way.

I turned down an alleyway to my left and my eyes widened in surprise. Stain was standing at the other end of the alley, but he wasn’t alone. Todoroki stood next to Iida, while Izuku was farther down on the ground, leaning against the left wall. There was another guy I had never seen before by Todoroki, on the ground against the right wall.

These kids are fucking brain dead, aren’t they?

“You’re a fundamental lunatic,” Todoroki spat. “Iida! Don’t listen to this murderer’s nonsense.”

“No… he’s completely correct.” Iida sounds so fucking broken. Just what the hell happened here? “I have no right to call myself a hero at all. Even so… there’s no way I can back down! If I give up now, then the name Ingenium will die!”

“Pathetic!” Stain growled, rushing toward him.

Despite the pain gnawing at my senses, I pushed myself forward. Shit, my body ain’t fast enough in this state… I have to try and port! I narrowed my eyes at the spot in front of Iida. It felt like a fucking knife was being slammed repeatedly into my skull, but I can’t focus on that right now. My blood boiled as flames wrapped around my body.

“Winchester?!”

I brought my hand down, sending a wave of flame toward Stain, making him jump backward.

“Idiots!” The unknown man cried. “The hero killer is only after me and that kid in the white armor! Stop fighting back, just get out of here!”

I glanced at him. He’s dressed like a Native American. If that don’t have anything to do with his quirk… man, I can just picture the fucking butterflies getting angry and screaming culture appropriation!

“I don’t think he’d let us run even if we wanted to,” Todoroki responded from behind me. “Something clearly changed in him just now. He seems rattled.”

“Winchester,” Stain growled. “I knew you looked familiar, daughter of Alissasears.”

“W-What…” Iida stuttered, his eyes snapping to me.

“No way…” Izuku’s eyes widened in shock.

“Is that true?” Todoroki questioned.

I clicked my tongue, eyes narrowed at him as he jumped to the side. Todoroki stepped forward, sending wave after wave of ice after him, but the hero killer easily cut through the ice like it was softened butter.

“Did you also come to seek revenge?” Stain taunted.

“Revenge?” I scoffed, sending a ball of fire toward him. It grew in size, morphing into the form of a phoenix to keep him busy. “Getting revenge is a stupid fucking concept. It don’t bring the person back to life, it just leaves you with a fuckin’ hole in your heart that can’t ever be fucking fixed.” I raised my hand above my head, a ball of flame forming against my palm and steadily growing in size. “Nah, I ain’t here for fucking revenge you Voldemort reject, I’m here to save these three dipshits!!” I cried out, launched the large ball of flame at him. Distracted by the phoenix, he wasn’t able to fully dodge the attack.

The ball quickly expanded, fire exploding out in every direction. I’m breathing heavily now and it feels like something is crawling on the back of my brain. Shit, I don’t know how much longer I can hold this form for, but the second I release it, it’s over for me. Then I’ll be a liability to them. I can’t let that happen.

“Hey, Todoroki,” Iida called frantically. “Can you regulate your temperatures?”

“Not well with my left, but yes I can!”

“You’ve got to freeze my leg for me, without plugging the exhaust!”

“You’re in the way!!” Stain jumped up, sending two daggers flying through the air. One headed straight for me while the other barrelled toward Todoroki. I leaned to the side, the blade scraping my left shoulder. Hah, jokes on you, fucker, I can’t feel anything in that arm!

Iida thrust himself forward, the blade lodging in his shoulder.

“Iida!” Zuku cried out. Why hasn’t he moved since I got here?

My eyes narrowed, flashing red. “If you hurt Izuku, I’ll slit your fucking throat!” My body pulsed angrily and I rushed forward. “It ain’t revenge if I fuckin’ stop you before you can kill him!!”

“It is time, little Winchester. Call my name.”

Your name? What –

Words flashed across my brain and I held my uninjured arm out to the side. “Rise… RyuuKaji!!”

Power shot out from the burning pendant against my chest, traveling through my body before settling in the palm of my right hand. Warmth flooded my hand as a sword materialized from the flames. It felt like such a natural thing, but… how?

“Stay focused, little Winchester!”

Stain rushed at me and I brought the sword up, metal clashing. He’s a lot stronger than me, my feet sliding back across the concrete from the impact. I pushed forward and he jumped backward, throwing another two daggers, one at me, which I smacked away with the sword, and another at Iida, who cried out in pain. Man, we really need to work on his dodging skills.

I growled out, fire engulfing the blade as I jumped after him. “You don’t have the luxury of focusing on them when I’m here, fucker!” I slashed at him, fire rushing toward his body. He sliced at the flames, but his cheek got singed in the process. His sword clashed with mine again, sending me flying back to the earth.

A white blur rushed past on my right, green on the left.

“I’ve got you!” My body collided with Todoroki’s and he stumbled, sliding down to his knees, his arms around my shoulders. “Go, guys!” Both Izuku and Iida were rushing toward Stain. Izuku punched him in the cheek while Iida slammed his leg against Stain’s back. “Winchester, it’s our turn!”

“You got it, edgelord!”

Stain sliced with his sword, just barely missing Iida’s face, who then cried out. “I will defeat you, Stain, because you are a criminal -!”

“Don’t let him get away!” Todoroki ordered, thrusting his left arm forward. I did the same with my right, my flames swirling around his own as the two powers bolstered one another, growing stronger as they shot toward the hero killer.

Iida turned in mid-air, kicking Stain again. “And I am a hero!”

Our combined flames engulfed him, curling around Stain’s body. Seconds passed by and Todoroki sent me a nod. I slammed my palm against the ground and the flames reacted, retreating into the ground. Ice shot up quickly to catch the falling boys and they slid backward, hitting their heads on the wall of ice behind us.

I was honestly torn between wincing in sympathy and laughing my ass off at their faces.

“He’s got to be knocked out after all of that… right?” Zuku breathed.

I grunted, approaching the fucker. Ice was curled around his body, suspending him a foot above the ground. I squatted down beside him, poking his cheek. “Oi~ fuckface.”

“Be careful, Jen…” Zuku spoke softly, as if scared his voice would wake the villain.

“Hm~ It’s shallow, but he’s still breathing. Out cold. For now, anyway.”

“Let’s restrain him and get him to the street,” Todoroki spoke up, taking charge as always. “Maybe we can find some rope.”

“Yeah,” Zuku agreed. “And we should probably take all his weapons, too.”

“On it, chief~” I waved my hand over my shoulder, settling down on my knees before resting my palm against the ice. It melted and his body flopped to the ground facefirst, making me snort. I started to remove the various weapons that were hidden around his body and holy fucking drunk Santa on Halloween, this guy’s is a walking fucking knife factory.

There was one dagger left and when I picked it up, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Why does this dagger feel so… familiar? I turned it over in my hand, thumb brushing over the cold black steel. It’s faint, but there’s something etched into the side of the handle. It’s so small, but… that symbol is…

“The Winchester crest.”

Wait, if that’s the case, then that means… it was my moms?

“I found some rope,” Todoroki approached from behind and I nodded, quickly shoving the blade under my belt, standing up and moving out of his way.

“Native, are you okay?” Zuku questioned the man. “Can you move?”

“Yeah… I think I’m good as new now.” Native stood up slowly.

I resisted the urge to scoff. Glad that you’re able to move after the battle is fucking over. Why are the cute ones always so damn useless?

While Todoroki tied up the hero killer, Native kneeled down and instructed Zuku to get onto his back, but the greenette was hesitant. “Are you sure?”

“I saw you hurt your leg back there. At least let me do this for you.”

“Ah, thank you very much.”

“I should be thanking you,” Native sighed, lifting his head back and closing his eyes. “I have to apologize. I’m supposed to be a pro, but I was useless back there.”

“No,” Zuku’s voice is full of exhaustion. “I don’t think any one person could take the hero killer on, not with that weird quirk of his. He’s too strong.”

I hummed, walking a bit behind the pro so I could keep my eye on the greenette. “What even is his quirk?”

“If he licks your blood, he can paralyze you temporarily.” Native explained, glancing at me.

“The time is different for every blood type, though,” Zuku added. “Blood type O doesn’t stay paralyzed for long. That’s my type.”

“What a weird-ass quirk,” I muttered. “Explains all the hardware, though.”

“The four of us barely won against him,” Todoroki added as he and Iida caught up, dragging the tied up villain behind them. “And even then, it was because of his own mistakes. He was getting riled up and desperate and forgot all about Midoriya’s quick recovery time. Then, he wasn’t able to block Iida’s last Recipro Burst or Midoriya’s assault.”

“Hey, Jen?” Zuku’s green eyes met mine, shining with worry. “Are you okay? You were already badly injured when you got here… and, umm…” His eyes trailed down before snapping away, his face bright red. “Y-Your clothes…”

I scratched my cheek as I glanced down at my school pants, torn and burnt in various places. “Well, I can safely say that the U.A. uniform is not fireproof.”

“Why didn’t you change into your costume?” Todoroki questioned, tilting his head. “And why is there a taco on your butt?”

Iida made a strangled noise. “Don’t look at her, Todoroki!”

“It’s, uh… complicated. And the real question is, why don’t you have a taco on your ass?”

His lips twitched up as we reached the end of the alleyway, Native speaking up. “Right, let’s get him to the police as fast as we can.”

“Ugh, what are you doing here, boy?!” Across the street was a short man with grey hair and a matching beard. He was wearing a cream-colored suit with a yellow belt, gloves, and thick boots. A black mask covered his eyes and the yellow cape was twice the size of his body.

“Gran Torino!” Zuku cried out in surprise. “I was only -”

The man jumped, zooming across the street and kicking him in the face with the bottom of his boot. “I told you to stay on the bullet train!”

“Who is this?” Todoroki asked.

“Gran Torino, the hero I’m interning with,” Zuku replied, holding his face. “I don’t get it, how’d you find us?”

“I was told to come here by someone else.” The shrimp responded gruffly. “I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m glad you’re not dead, at least.”

You and me both, chief.

“Me too… and I’m sorry.”

“Tch.”

“Around the corner!” A group of heroes appeared, rushing up to us in concern.

“Endeavor told us there was a request for help here, but…”

“Children? Those injuries look bad. I’ll call an ambulance right away!”

“Hey… look!”

“Ah!… is that… the hero killer?!”

“What?”

“I’ll… get the police on the line!”

Man, these pros are noisy as fuck. I got a headache over here, have some damn sympathy!

One of them approached Zuku, helping him down off of Native’s back. “Can you walk?”

“If you prop me up, then… I think so.”

“Okay,” The man glanced at Todoroki. “And you?”

“Only minor injuries, but Iida and Winchester -”

Iida approached the two, ignoring the hero that was trying to talk to him about his current state. “You guys…” The two turned to look at him and he bowed at the waist. “You were both hurt… because of me. I’m truly sorry!” His voice cracked as tears flooded his eyes. “I was just so angry, I couldn’t… see anything else.”

“I’m sorry, too, Iida,” Zuku responded sadly. “You were going through so much by yourself… and I couldn’t tell anything was wrong… even though I’m your friend.”

I stepped up to them, putting my hand on Iida’s head and ruffling his hair. “You’re a total dumbass for coming here, Iida. I can understand why, but…” My grip tightened as I tugged at his hair, eyes narrowed. “The next fucking time you decide it’s a better idea to bottle up your feelings instead of coming to your friends, I will personally see to it that every goddamn bone in your body is broken, do you understand me?”

He lifted his head a bit, eyes meeting mine. “Winchester…”

“Pull yourself together, you’re the class rep,” Todoroki mumbled and I knew it was his way of comforting him.

“Right…” Iida rubbed his face on his shoulder to get rid of the tears.

I chuckled. “Remind me when we get back to buy you the dumbass’s guide to comforting someone so I can throw it at your face.”

His nose wrinkled. “That’s not nice.”

The sound of flapping wings reached my ears and my head snapped up. Gran Torino heard it, too. “Get down!”

The flying Nomu’s talons scraped my cheek as it swept over us and to my horror, it latched onto Izuku, lifting him high into the air. Its wings were beating rapidly, kicking up a strong wind that kept up back.

I don’t fucking think so, ya ugly sack of dicks! Summoning fire beneath my boots, I propelled myself forward and jumped into the air, cocking my arm back as flames licked at my fist. Fuck, it’s too fast!

Suddenly, it let out a strangled noise and started to lose its altitude. Alright, I don’t know what just happened but I can work with this! I raised my flaming fist again, punching the Nomu in the back between the shoulder blades. Half a second after I made contact, I felt a strong presence directly behind me. My head whipped around, seeing Stain lifting a knife high over his head.

“The word hero has lost all meaning in this society. The world is overrun by fakes and criminals like you who chase petty dreams!” He sliced through the air beside me, the dagged lodging in the Nomu’s neck as his body collided with it, sending it flying straight to the ground with Stain on top. “You must all be purged.”

I landed a foot away, my heart racing against my ribs. Why… didn’t he kill me? He had the perfect fucking opportunity just now. Plus he… saved Izuku?? What is with this bipolar fuck?

“Everything that I do,” Stain gripped the knife and twisted it before yanking it free from the Nomu. “Is to create a stronger society.” He tried to stand up straight, but his body is shaking pretty badly.

“Everyone be on your guard! We’ve got a fight on our hands!” One of the unnamed heroes ordered.

“Why are you all standing around like fools? The villain must have flown this way, right?” Endeavor came running up, a constipated look on his face. If we weren’t in a serious ass situation right now, I’d say ya boi needs some Miralax.

“You took care of the rest?”

“Mostly. Things got a little rough at the end.” Endeavor paused. “Hold on… don’t tell me that man is…”

“Let go!” Izuku cried out, struggling under the hand that pinned him to the ground.

I slapped both of my cheeks to regain some focus, summoning the last of my energy. My eyes glowed red as flames raged across my arm. “Get your filthy fuckin’ hands off my cinnabon, Voldy!” Just as my fist was going to connect with his face, his body jerked backward, red eyes narrowing at Endeavor.

“Hero killer!” Endeavor grinned, calling forth his own flames as he prepared to attack.

“Wait, Todoroki!” Gran Torino cried.

I stepped to the side when Stain stood up straight, releasing his hold on Izuku. I grabbed the boy, pulling him back and away from the villain. The tattered cloth around his eyes fell to the ground, drool dribbling from his chin.

“False hero!” He cried.

Bruh, screw Voldemort, this bitch be out here lookin’ like a fucking uglier version of Ryuk.

“I’ll make this right! These streets… must run with the blood of hypocrites! Hero! I will reclaim that word!!” His boot slapped against the sidewalk as he stepped forward. “Come on, just try and stop me you fakes!! There is only one man I’ll let kill me… he is a true hero! ALL MIGHT IS WORTHY!!!”

This guy needs a five-inch ice rod shoved down his throat, sheesh.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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[pipermca]

Demon Lover

Ok ok ok ok I know if I don’t dump this somewhere it’s going to fester and bother me and interfere with the other stuff I’m working on so here: FIC BUNNY I AM RELEASING INTO THE WILD if you write it please let me know so I can read it.

Anyway. This is related to @doomspoon888‘s post/ask reply about Cyberverse season 2 and episode 8 and Starscream’s children and ghost writing and... You know how your brain takes a bunch of unrelated things and gloms them all together and makes connections that no sane person would ever make? Let’s just say that this post blessed me with such a connection.

All right. Let’s get down to business. First I need to talk about demon lovers. ...Then I’ll talk about Starscream and Megatron. 😈

Incubi and Succubi

From Wikipedia: an incubus is a demon in a male form, while a succubus is a demon in a female form. I’m sure everyone’s quite aware of how these demons seek out sex with humans and impregnate women with a child. (This was an explanation for how an otherwise chaste nun might suddenly “fall pregnant.”)

What I didn’t know until I was attacked by this bunny was that since demons aren’t supposed to have souls, a male demon can’t impregate a woman on its own. (Because, ya know, only men can pass on souls cue the eye rolling.) So the theory was that a succubus would have sex with a man, transfer the sperm to an incubus, and the incubus would have sex with a woman and impregnate her with the sperm. (The child was sometimes called a cambion, and exhibited symptoms of its demonic origin such as being very heavy, unable to be drowned, or malformed in some way... Or was occasionally perfect but in an unnatural way.)

But another theory was that incubi and succubi were actually the same demon. 

Plot Bunny

And here is what my muse handed me when I gave it all of those data points I just explained. Either enjoy this half outline/half fic, or feel free to expand on it yourself, or run away screaming.

I just needed to get it out of my head! XD

Setting: G1ish, prewar maybe. Before Megatron met Starscream, anyway.

Warnings: Dub-con to enthusiastic con, sleep paralysis, demonic sex, mech preg 

Plot: Megatron is a high-value gladiator, and his handlers frequently purchase buymechs for his use. Megatron doesn’t really want them, though. Usually he just ignores them and waits for them to leave. No matter how many times he insists he doesn’t want them, he will still return to his rooms after a match to find some shiny racer or aerial draped over his berth.

It’s a bother, really.

One night he returns to his rooms and there’s no one there. It’s a relief, really, because he was tired and wanted to recharge right away without having to wait for the buymech to leave. He falls asleep, but wakes a few hours later to find himself unable to move... And there’s a mech on top of him, grinding against him. All he can see is a wing at first, and then the mech’s face... It’s a Seeker, his optics glowing an unnaturally bright red, and his mouth is turned up in an impish grin... 

Primus, he’s gorgeous.

Megatron’s battle systems are trying to come online (he’s still freaked out that he can’t move and is getting molested by this strange mech) but nothing works, and the other mech’s motions finally build up enough charge so that his modesty panels slide aside on their own and his spike pressurizes, and suddenly the strange mech is on him, riding him like a wild zap pony, and it’s the best fucking sex he’s has in a while, and it’s not long before he overloads and slides into reboot.

When he wakes up, he’s alone.

He chews out his handler for sending a buymech into his rooms while he’s asleep, but his handler insists that he did nothing of the sort. He even shows Megatron the security tapes that show no one entering his rooms after Megatron goes in. There was also no evidence on him that he’d interfaced with anyone...

Maybe it was a dream.

Except a few nights later it happens again. Megatron wakes up to find the same mech on top of him, and his body remembers what it did before and it’s just a few minutes before the mech is riding him again, moaning and touching Megatron in just the right places and waggling his wings in the most alluring way, and Megatron overloads again.

Megatron manages to stay online this time, and the Seeker slides off of his spike with a low groan. His wings flutter as he reaches down at brushes his fingers against Megatron’s valve - oh hey, when did that panel open? - and Megatron can feel that he’s slick already...

And then the mech slides into him and starts pounding away. [yada yada, fill in sex details here]

Right when the Seeker overloads inside him, he leans forward and kisses Megatron in the most passionate way he’s ever been kissed. Megatron has his second overload of the night and that one sends him into reboot.

He wakes up alone again.

There’s no signs of interfacing, though. No paint transfers, no transfluid stains on the sheets, nothing in his valve...

...A dream. Yeah, definitely a dream.

This goes on and on, for weeks. It’s the same thing every night: Megatron wakes to find the Seeker on top of him. He always takes Megatron’s spike first, and then spikes Megatron in turn. It’s always in that order. There is never any sign of the strange mech in the morning, but...

A dream? Megatron decides he needs to find out.

Finally, one night, Megatron tries to stay awake. He puts himself in an attentive but meditative state (which is part of his gladiator training) - it slows his ventilations and mimics recharge - and about an hour later he senses movement in his room.

Megatron’s hand darts out, and he grabs the Seeker by the wrist before it can immobilize him.

“Who are you?” Megatron growls.

The Seeker smiles at him like he always did, and leans forward to kiss him. Megatron can feel his systems seizing, sliding into the paralysis that he’s always in when he wakes. As their lips part, the Seeker says, “My name is Starscream.” His voice sounds like glass scraping on concrete, and Megatron is sure that no mortal mech has ever sounded like that.

He wakes up alone again.

...

The next time Megatron has his maintenance check, the doctor frowns at something in the readings he’s getting. “I don’t understand this. Your inhibitor is still activated, and you shouldn’t...”

“Spit it out,” growls Megatron.

“You’re sparked,” says the doctor, turning the monitor around. It shows a clear image of Megatron’s spark with another circling it.

No wonder he’d been feeling tired.

Megatron keeps fighting until the swelling in his abdomen becomes too obvious, and the referees pull him from the ring. It’s irritating but... Megatron is more angry/worried/sad that his mystery lover has vanished. The sparkling is obviously his, but searches of records for a Seeker named ‘Starscream’ turn up nothing. 

It’s infuriating.

When the sparkling finally emerges, it’s grey and silver and blue and red, and has little wings and unnaturally red optics. When it cries, its voice sounds like glass scraping on concrete. And the sparkling is the most wonderful, adorable, precious thing that Megatron has ever seen.

But the strangest thing is after its emergence, Megatron’s handler insists on having the sparkling’s CNA tested. He’s positive that Megatron got knocked up by one of the other gladiators (since all buymechs have working inhibitors by law), and he wants to go after that other mech’s handler for his monetary losses while Megatron was sidelined.

However, when the results of the test come back, it’s the strangest thing... The little winged sparkling’s CNA is identical to Megatron’s.

That night, in his bed at the medical centre, Megatron drifts into a light recharge while feeding the little mech... But he opens his optics again when he feels a weight on the bed.

Starscream is sitting beside him, smiling at the sparkling in his arms.