#blindness implication cw

[galaxofmuses]

"Can't see....

The Noise....

Stop Please...."

"You need to run."

[dantakeyoman]

Neteyam Has Something Important To Tell You As You Patch Him Up (SFW)

Reader is Fem! Omaticaya

CW: fluff, Neteyam is smooth asf, little bit of blood, Neteyam is a simp, Mo’at is an awesome wing-woman, Utral Aymokriyä is where Jake and Neytiri mated

“Be sure that mushroom is ground well, (y/n). We will need it when the hunting party return,” Mo’at instructed, implying the bioluminescent fungi that sat next to you.

You nodded firmly, placing the plant into something that was the earthly equivalent of a mortar and pestle, and promptly starting your work.

You loved your job as a healer, and took it very seriously. Even more so since, recently, Mo’at has been giving you lessons in perfecting your craft.

The right way to turn your wrist when grinding ingredients, how one’s blood can tell their origins, better methods to connect with Eywa.

Because of her, you have become 10x the better healer than you were before, and you were beyond thankful.

Throughout your childhood, you had dreamed of becoming a healer and helping your people. But once you met a certain Sully, who was next in line for Olo’eyktan, that dream slightly warped throughout the years.

Of course you still wanted to heal your people, there was no doubt about that. But instead of being a healer, you wanted to be the healer.

His healer.

“Not too much, (y/n). You don’t want the paste to be too thin,” Mo’at calmly reminded, keeping her eyes on her own grinding.

You snapped yourself out of it, slightly embarrassed that you let yourself become so lost in thought.

“Sorry,” you apologized, quickly putting the bowl down.

“Is there something on your mind, child?” she asked, a slight smirk on her face.

Just by your flustered face, she could tell what you were thinking about. 

Or rather, who.

She wasn’t blind to how you looked at Neteyam, or how Neteyam looked at you. She had known about your feelings for each other since you were children. 

And since her grandson was fast approaching the age where he would become Olo’eyktan, she figured refining your healing abilities would improve your candidacy for Tsahik.

Not like anyone else held a candle to you in Neteyam’s eyes anyway.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I am just-.” You suddenly remembered why you had busied yourself with medicine-making in the first place.

“Nervous for the hunting party,” you told a hafl-truth, sighing as you picked up the next mushroom, dropping it in the bowl.

Jake was letting Neteyam lead the hunting party for the first time.

And to say you were nervous was an understatement.

“He will be fine. His father taught him well. And he has a fine healer waiting for him at home,” she knowingly smiled, pouring this small satchel of powder into her bowl.

You blushed, focusing back to your bowl at the woman’s implications.

Surely you hadn’t made it that obvious.

And by the grace of Eywa, the familiar scent of the man you love ( he had completed Iknimaya a while ago ) filled the healing room.

“Grandmother! (y/n)! You must come and see what we have brought back. You will never believe it’s size!” Neteyam exclaimed as he quickly opened the tent flaps, his voice beaming with happiness

You quietly laughed to yourself at his excited manner, feeling foolish for ever being worried in the first place.

You giddily turned around, only to be met with his proud, bloody-faced smile.

“Neteyam!” you worriedly gasped, frantically getting up an rushing over to him.

He had large scratches on his cheek, and one big slash on his chest, all of which left large stains of blood on his skin.

You quickly, and carefully, held his face in your hands, ignoring his insisting that he was fine as you turned it to see if there was any more damage. 

“Are you alright? Does it hurt?”

Neteyam smiled to himself, stupidly, relishing in the feeling of your soft hands on his face.

He could feel himself heating up just by your closeness. And by this distance, he could see every beautiful feature on your face perfectly.

“Why are you smiling? This is serious! Please, sit down,” you ordered, taking your hands from his face and grabbing his forearm, walking him in the middle of the room and sitting him down.

Mo’at smiled, carefully placing her bowl on the floor and standing up. “I shall give you two a moment.”

And with that, she walked out the room, but not without shooting you a wink before closing the flaps.

You sighed, grabbing the bowl she put down and sitting in front of Neteyam.

“It does not hurt as bad as you think. Truly,” he smiled, your fussing over him making something stir inside his stomach.

“Well pain or not, I must put this on your wounds so they may heal properly,” you dismissed, scooping up a small glob of paste with your two fingers.

When you looked back up at him, you realized that you were too far away. In order for this medicine to work, it must be rubbed in well.

Neteyam looked at you, confused, as you took a deep breath, quickly sitting yourself in his lap, practically straddling him.

His breath hitched.

He had never had his crush sit on top of him before. Hell, you had never even been this close to him before.

Every part of him that was touching you was now heating up by the second, so much so that he’d thought he’d burn.

But looking at your face, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, like you had done this a million times before.

“I’m sorry, but I have to rub this in correctly,” you apologized, beginning to massage the paste into the cuts on his face.

“I have no complaints,” he smiled, resting his hands on your waist so you wouldn’t fall off.

When you got to a particularly large cut, he winced, the paste making the wound sting.

You smirked, giving him a soft flick on the forehead. “I know the future Olo’eyktan is not taken down by a little medicine.”

He smirked off the pain, looking you right in the eyes. “Never.”

You chuckled, moving on to next cut, when the mention of the position reminded you of your thoughts earlier.

But your thoughts soon turned for the worse. 

“You are going to become Olo’eyktan soon. How do you feel?” you asked emptily, placing your two paste covered fingers on his chest.

He was concerned with your sudden mood change, but also loved the way your fingers felt on his skin, sending another stir to his stomach.

“It is exciting. And scary at the same time. I have so much to live up to,” he truthfully answered, looking down at himself.

You scooped some more paste on your fingers, giving him a quick glance.

“Well, you are not alone. You will have a Tsahik,” you sadly smiled, halting your massages on his wound.

You did not want to cry in front of him, but the tears were beginning to well.

“We have many that will surely be a good fit. Eyati is a strong hunter. And beautiful, too.”

It all clicked for Neteyam.

That was why you looked so sad. You believed he was going to chose someone else as his mate ( like he would ever ).

Amused, he laughed, slightly offended that you would ever think that anyone could take your place in his heart.

“What is so funny?” you asked softly, looking at him sad eyes, quite hurt that he was laughing.

He smiled, cupping your cheek in his hand. 

“You talk of me mating with another woman as you sit in my lap, massaging my chest. My love, that is funny.”

My love?

His thumb caressed your cheek as he pulled you in closer, resting his forehead on yours.

“(y/n), I see no one better fit than you to be my Tsahik. You may not be a strong hunter, but you are a strong healer. And more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen. Eyati may be a good fit, but you are the one I wish to mate with, not her,” Neteyam spoke sincerely, his eyes not leaving you for a moment.

You were flustered to say the least.

You’d never thought you’d hear those words coming out of his mouth. And boy, did it sound amazing when they did.

“(y/n)...I see you,” he finished, smiling as you cupped his cheek, placing his hand on top of yours.

“I see you, Neteyam,” you smiled back, a few happy tears managing to slide down your cheeks.

That was all he needed before he roughly kissed you, pulling you in by the nape of your neck.

You kissed just as roughly, moving your hands down to his chest as he tilted his head, getting better angle on you.

He wrapped his tail around your thigh, you doing same, trying to keep each other as close together as possible.

But sooner or later, you had to breath.

The both of you separated, panting with smiles on your face as you rested on each other’s forehead again.

“Forget dinner. I want to take you to Utral Aymokriyä right now,” Neteyam seductively growled, wrapping you in his arms and standing up, twirling you around the room.

“Neteyam! You still have to heal!” you blushed, resting your hands on his chest as you buried your face in his shoulder in embarrassment.

[harmonysanreads]

Dosis Sola Facit Venenum

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Yandere!Jiaoqiu x Reader

cw(s) : yandere themes, force feeding, drugging, implications of munchausen syndrome, biting, gaslighting, non-consensual touching, intrusive thoughts, victim blaming. read at your own discretion.

「 word count : 900+ 」 「 read on ao3 」

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Tagging @yandere-romanticaa I did not expect to write Jiaoqiu content so soon TvT

Your naïveté knows no bounds. Pushing, objecting, fighting and defying a phenomenon your senses can't even perceive. Blinded in spite of a functioning vision, immobilized even at the absence of tangible restraints. You protest and mewl and reject, but you're oblivious to what against. It's enough to lure out the claws kept in check, entice them to sink into layers of tender flesh.

Your turned head and stretched palm before his insistent advances are delightful to spectate, so much so the healer can't for once peel his eyes away. “I feel full.”

“Full? From two measly spoons of medicinal stew?” he tilts his head as though to better gauge the increasing pressure between your reddened lips. Blood rushes to and paints your skin in a flush, he can very well predict your next words.

“You call that medicine? It's spicy enough to burn my whole digestive system!” you all-but roar at his placid face, Jiaoqiu gives but a hum in exchange.

The bite of the capsaicin renders you restless, his scheming gaze doing little to soothe your distress. You are a pitiful, confused thing ; aiming your arrows without direction in hopes of eliminating whatever it is that sends you in disarray. A hunter lost in a maze of a forest, soon to lose their titular identity and succumb to the shadows' calling.

Your stare is dumb when his thumb swipes across the residue stew clinging to the corner of your lips, a shudder nearly cracks his facade when his tongue acquaints with the taste.

“Barely stings. If I add any less of a spice than this, it's going to taste like distilled water.”

Jiaoqiu nearly tsks at the way your fingers clench the ends of your garment, it should've been him — not some measly piece of fabric in the clutches of your attention. But the silence that now spreads around the room intrigues him, for once you have nothing sassy to say.

“Whatever. I'm not eating any more of that Jiaoqi—mmph!”

Silly little thing. Cloaking yourself in sickness in order to escape your duties, provoking a famed healer to cure your mystery, non-existent ailment. You're a sinner just as much as you're a sin, bit by agonizing bit, ensnaring his soul in your dainty grasp yet sporting the audacity to not see it. Jiaoqiu knows he could never escape from beneath your fingertips, but he can attempt to seize your flighty little being in a death grip.

There's a scintilla of defiance in your pupils even as his hand grasps your jaw, shining through the discomfort induced by the silver spoon shoving a mouthful of that detestable stew and not relenting until the movement of your throat determines its consumption. Your breaths are stirred in abrupt patterns, titillating the Foxian's interest. You eye his lingering fingers absentmindedly squeezing close the flesh of your cheeks, a few dots of darkness almost blurring your vision.

“Was that necessary?” you bite out vengefully.

“I think I need to cure that attitude of yours before whatever sickness it is that prevents you from doing that one particular work. As for whether this is necessary?” Jiaoqiu's free hand slides down to your right wrist, the fabric of his glove makes unwanted gooseflesh appear on your skin.

“Look at how skinny you're getting. Even an old fox like me could snap this in half and you're whining about me keeping you under observation? You really don't know what's best for yourself.”

You sputter at his pointed words, “I'm not that weak... and I definitely don't need your specialized medicinal stew to cure me—heck, I'm not even actually sick!” you snap with vigor but can't find the energy to snatch back your wrist.

“Oh really?” a squeeze to your cheeks shuts you up, the heat in his orange eyes threaten to engulf the spark still keeping you alight.

“But that's where you're wrong. You are sick and you do need me and my healing art. If you aren't in fact sick, how come you can't even keep your eyes on mine anymore?”

No amount of spice could rival the image that paints itself before him, muscles fighting the pull of slumber and sagging before his voracious gaze. Not even a single coherent word can escape from your heavy tongue and shut lips, no finger vigorous enough to lift against his grabby hands.

Jiaoqiu observes the pliant face in his grasp. The scent of fear and desperation tickles his nose and beckons him closer to the sin, fangs so insistently obscured now sinks on the first bite of his demise. You flinch upon the intrusion of something sharp on the skin of your throat, collapsing to a pair of awaiting arms. Indentions marr the previously flawless canvas, a sheen of saliva shines obscenely and the Foxian is certain he's too far gone.

Your resilience is an infuriating trait, especially in response to the forces that try to weaken the fire in your soul. When one drop of Tumbledust fails, a second is added and if this continues for more than one meal — even the most roaring flame will be rendered suppliant.

The dosage of medicine is an area of caution for any physician, prescribing more than what is necessary can accelerate the erosion of health. But without sickness and ailment, what value does a healer hold? Without the presence of this flame that brightens his stale life, what purpose is there for Jiaoqiu to continue pursuing this existence?

Naïve, pitiful, agonizing, sinful, intoxicating — he'd never run out of adjectives to describe you. You brought him to ruination, and an eternal damnation he'd choose still before the prospect of losing you, too.

[sailortongue]

Laboratory Mishap

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

wc: 2.9k

summary: after a lab experiment goes awry, you and spencer find yourselves in a heated situation

cw: smut, aphrodisiac/sex pollen (its not actual pollen but it fits the trope), oral (fem receiving), dubcon?, power dynamic, unprotected sex, semi-public sex

-------

Chemistry was the bane of your existence. You had never struggled so much with a subject. You had completed three general chemistry classes, two genchem labs, three organic chemistry classes, two ochem labs, and now you were taking biochem and a biochem lab. But despite all of your academic background, you still didn't have the slightest iota of understanding.

Even so, you couldn't stop yourself from looking forward to the weekly lab. You hated having to change from shorts into pants in the tiny bathroom stalls (no way in hell were you walking all the way across campus in high-humidity weather wearing pants). You hated the red line on your forehead from the goggles. You hated having to stand for 2+ hours because the lab wasn't equipped with stools. You hated chemistry in general. But you loved seeing the uber attractive GA, Spencer Reid.

More often than not, you spaced out during his pre-lab instructions. You were too busy focusing on anything about him that wasn't the jargon coming from his lips. Your poor lab partner always ended up having to re-explain the procedure. But today, that wasn't an option. Your lab partner had a wedding to attend today and, instead of being in your usual lab session, had opted to join yesterday’s lab session, leaving you all by your lonesome. Initially, you had cursed their name to hell and back for forsaking you like this, but, after Spencer offered to give you all the extra help you needed, you were suddenly exceedingly happy that your partner wasn't here.

You could see the scathing looks directed at you by some of the other girls in class. Of course you weren't the only one who had immediately taken a liking to the young GA. Only a blind person wouldn't be able to see how good looking he was. And the girls in your class were definitely not blind. You couldn't help but feel a bit smug that you would be getting his extra attention and not them.

Spencer, unbeknownst to you, was having similar thoughts and was mentally extending his gratitude to your absent lab partner. He was more than aware of the implications of coming onto a student, especially since as a GA he was in a position above you. But he wanted to be above you in the literal sense, and it was beginning to cause him to question his morals. You were the same age, so how bad could it really be? He’d noticed your frequent glances at him and reveled in the fact that you couldn't keep your eyes off of him.

During the course of the lab, Spencer was essentially your replacement lab partner. In an attempt to not show his blatant favoritism, he didn't actually guide you through the lab and instead just followed your instructions, such as pouring out chemicals into the waste bucket and washing beakers. Labs were lengthy enough with two people working together, and although Spencer would like to keep you all to himself past the time the others had already left, he remembered how miserable it was to have to stay late.

But even with his help, you still found yourself to be the last one. And not only were you the last one, but you weren’t even close to being done. Since there wasn't anyone to tell him otherwise, Spencer took pity on you and gave you far more help than he probably should have. But if he was being totally honest with himself, he just wanted an excuse to be close to you. Even though there was more than enough room at the bench, he still stood near enough that your arms occasionally brushed. Every time you handed him something he made sure his fingers met yours. And when you asked for his input about the data report? That was his favorite. His stature gave him the perfect excuse to lean down under the guise of seeing better, but he always bent down lower than he really needed to, just to have his face right next to yours and give him a front row seat to your flustered expression.

It took all of your willpower to keep your head out of the gutter. You were trying in vain to rationalize his actions. Like maybe he just didn't realize how close he was actually standing to you, and you were definitely overthinking the hand-to-hand contact, and maybe he just didn't have his contacts in and that’s why he was leaning so close. But try as you might, it wasn't enough to prevent you from getting severely distracted by the handsome GA, and getting severely distracted in a lab was typically advised against. In your flustered state, you grabbed the wrong pipette, and Spencer, just as distracted as you, didn't notice and was unable to stop the impending mistake.

Pipettes were made to measure precisely, but they don't all measure the same. So you'd royally fucked up the experiment by adding 10x the amount you were supposed to. And thanks to the stir plate the beaker was on, the solution was rapidly mixed together.

“Is it supposed to smell like that?” you asked nervously. It was a sharp, acrid smell, one you surely would have noticed earlier when your classmates were on this step.

Spencer was abruptly snapped out of his thoughts and looked at the beaker, the stir bar still spinning wildly within. He noticed the smell you were speaking of and instantly pulled you backwards. “No, no it's not. Don't breathe it in.”

He covered the lower half of his face with his elbow and grabbed the beaker from the stir plate with his other hand. He made his way to the fume hood as quickly as he could and shut the beaker within. But it was too late. You’d both inhaled the gas already, and, thanks to your biology major, you were more than aware of how sensitive the lining of the lungs is. It was literally designed to allow for gaseous exchange. Whatever you’d accidentally created was already making its way throughout your body.

As Spencer was making his way back over to you, he noticed that he was beginning to feel incredibly hot, and his breathing was becoming shallower. It was shortly after the onset of those systems that he realized his pants were progressively getting tighter in the crotch. This could not be happening. What in god’s name had you created? He was practically panting when he got back to your workbench and found you in a similar state.

You immediately began to spew apologies, but Spencer wasn't listening. No, he was far too focused on keeping his hands at his sides and not on you. He held a hand up to stop you rambling and swallowed harshly, trying to get himself under control. “It was an accident. Are you feeling okay?”

“Feel like I have a fever and my heart is beating way faster than it was a minute ago.” Your panties were also becoming wetter by the second but he didn't need to know that.

Spencer’s normally sharp mind was in a flurry. Even though you hadn't told him in words, your body betrayed the fact that you were just as aroused as he was. The subtle rubbing of your thighs together was a dead giveaway. You had your back to him, hands braced against the edge of your workbench. If Spencer was thinking straight, he never would have acted on his inappropriate thoughts; but he wasn't thinking straight. He closed the distance between the two of you, leaving no space between your bodies. He placed his hands on either side of yours, effectively caging you in his arms. Your breath hitched at the intimate position you found yourself in.

“I know you feel what I do,” he said, slightly pushing his hips into yours, his hard cock straining against its confines. “We can help each other out. Or, you could tell me to fuck off and I’ll let go as soon as you tell me to. Whatever we do or don't do, it's your choice. Just tell me what you want.” His voice was breathy and high-pitched by the end, and his self control was splintering by the second.

You adjusted your stance, the movement causing you to brush against Spencer’s front. He gasped and his hands flew to your hips, gripping them tightly and holding you in place tightly against him. “Don't-,” he panted. “Don't do that. Not until you answer me. I won't be able to stop if-”

You cut him off. “I don't want you to stop.”

And that was it. Throwing caution to the wind, Spencer spun you around to face him. “Are you sure?”

You surged forward to kiss him. Your goggles clacked together and you pulled away with a giggle. “Very sure,” you said, pulling your goggles off. Spencer followed suit.

He nodded. “Ok. Ok.” He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself that this was really happening. Despite his nearly painful erection, he tried to be as gentle as he could with you. He reconnected your lips in a tentative kiss as he wrapped his arms around your waist, but with the strange gas the reaction produced was still in the air and still wreaking havoc on both of you, it didn't stay gentle for long. What had started as a hesitant kiss devolved into a harsh collision of teeth and tongue.

Spencer’s hands migrated from your hips to your ass, pulling you flush against him. He couldn't stop the involuntary thrust of his own hips, desperately seeking friction. His mouth separated from yours as he dragged his lips down your jaw and reattached to your neck, sucking harshly and surely leaving dark marks all along the column of your throat.

He lowered his hands just enough for his fingertips to brush the back of your thighs, squeezing twice in a silent indication to jump. You tightened your grip around his shoulders to give you leverage. He hoisted you up to sit on the countertop and pushed your shirt above your breasts. You removed it entirely to give him full access. He groaned as he took in the sight of you breathless before him. “You're so pretty for me,” he praised before roughly pulling the cups of your bra down, exposing your nipples to the chill air of the lab, a stark contrast to the heat that had spread throughout your body so rapidly. He latched his lips to the newly exposed skin, his hand groping the other one. You reached behind your back to unlatch your bra and tossed it aside.

You threaded your fingers through his hair and tugged, pulling him off of your chest and back up to your lips. Both of your patiences were wearing thin, and neither of you could get the other undressed fast enough. You tugged on his tie and it soon joined your bra and shirt on the floor. You continued to unbutton his dress shirt as his eager hands groped at every part of you they could reach. When you’d finally gotten his dress shirt open, he didn't even give you the time to admire his physique and instead pulled you from the counter top to stand again.

He tugged on the waistband of your pants and pushed them down, leaving you to kick the material off of your feet. He quickly spun you around and placed a hand between your shoulder blades, urging you to bend over. You did as he wanted and felt his hands caress and grope your behind before his fingers hooked under the waistband of your panties and pulled them down just enough to expose your cunt to his hungry eyes. He groaned at the sight. “You're so wet baby. All for me.”

Spencer dropped to his knees behind you and immediately pressed his face between your legs. You squealed at the sudden contact, his tongue doing wonders for the built up need you had for him. He licked a broad stripe up your pussy before alternating between suckling and licking the sensitive flesh. Your whines and whimpers only spurred him on further, becoming more vigorous with his ministrations. The increased intensity had you gasping for breath and calling his name. “That’s right, angel. Who's making you feel this good? Hm? Whose face are you going to cum all over?”

“Yours! Please, Spencer, don't stop!”

He chuckled briefly before resuming his eager lapping at your core. He hummed against you in affirmation, pushing you closer and closer to the edge until the pleasure was just too much to bear. You came with a cry of his name, and he didn't stop until you were begging for a reprieve.

The unnatural heat that had spread throughout your body upon inhalation of the fumes was finally dissipating, leaving you with the normal flush one would expect afterwards. But Spencer was nowhere near recovered, and he had no intentions of letting you go until he was satisfied. He stood from his place on the floor and made quick work of his belt, only pushing his pants low enough to free his aching cock, dripping with precum. He stroked himself as he spoke. “We’re not done yet, angel. Not by a long shot. Not until your sweet cunt is dripping with me.”

His words sent heat racing to your core. Who needs aphrodisiac fumes when Spencer can talk to you like that.

He swiped the tip of his cock through your folds a few times before lining his tip up with your opening. He pressed forward and groaned at the sensation of you squeezing around him so deliciously. He pushed further and further until he bottomed out. His jaw fell slack in complete and utter bliss. “Oh, you feel so good, baby. Can I move? Please, please, I can’t wait any longer,” he begged. You’d let him do anything if he begged you as prettily as he did then.

You hummed in assent, and he wasted no time in pulling out until just the head of his cock remained buried in you and then thrusting back in. You let out a loud moan, already completely overwhelmed with just how good he felt inside of you. The more he thrusted, the needier he got and the more that unnatural heat in his chest smoldered. His hands gripped your hips tightly and he pulled you back to meet him with every thrust into your sopping cunt.

“I'll bet none of those silly little frat boys can make you feel like this, huh. I’ll bet they always leave you unsatisfied. But you're gonna cum for me again, right? You can do that f’me, can't you? Be my good girl and cum all over my cock.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin increased in tempo as he chased his high, wanting nothing more than to feel you clench around him as he emptied himself inside of you. You moaned shamelessly, the deep and harsh thrusts of cock almost too much to bear. You couldn't speak even if you wanted to. The only word you were capable of uttering was his name.

His grunts were turning into whines the closer he got to his impending orgasm. “Cum with me, baby. C’mon, you can do it,” he said, moving one of his hands down to rub circles on your clit. That was all it took to have you creaming around his cock, your orgasm triggering his. The moan that came from him was pure sin as he spilled himself inside your cunt, just as he had promised. He collapsed on top of you, cock softening within you as it twitched with every flutter of your walls around him. When you had both sufficiently caught your breath, he stood back upon and gently pulled himself out of you. You winced at the loss of contact, still extremely sensitive. You pushed yourself off of the workbench and turned to see Spencer tucking himself back into his pants. It was then that you realized you were stark naked in a university laboratory. You saw your panties lying near your feet and you hastily put them back on, followed shortly after by the rest of your clothing, which Spencer helped pick up from the floor where they had been unceremoniously discarded.

“Would you want to get coffee with me sometime?” Spencer asked suddenly, the words spoken so fast they nearly blended together.

You were taken aback. You had expected him to want to pretend this never happened but here was asking you on a date. You grinned, a prominent blush on your face as you accepted his offer.

He beamed, a broad smile overtaking his face. “Great! I’ll pick you up Saturday morning?”

“Yeah, sounds good. I think I can safely assume it won't be the coffee shop on campus?”

“Even though we're the same age, you're still one of my students. So until you finish this course…” he trailed off.

You grabbed his tie and pulled him closer to you until your faces were a hairsbreadth apart. “I’m completely fine with being your dirty little secret until then as long as you fuck me like that again.”

[moonsaver]

hesperus

The evening star calls home. Ruin is your saving grace.

Tw/Cw; Suggestive/explicit scene, gender neutral reader, implications of religious themes (not great), dubious morals(?), reader is a COUGARRRR (implied), Sunday loves older authority figures (guilty), just guess at this point. Also reader is implied to be like a parental figure to Firefly. OOC because i love making canon characters my own ocs.

Pairings: Stellaron Hunter!Reader x Sunday (romantic), (hinted) Firefly x tb, (platonic) Firefly x reader.

A/n: 5.8k words, i hate this fic, enjoy whatever whatever.

——

“Will you be okay?”

The small girl looks up at you - trepidation and concern visible in her eyes.

“I should be asking you that, lovely.” You smile, gently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was beautiful, in your opinion. You often verbalized how beautiful it looked, mentioning it as silver under a blue moon.

Firefly still had concern in her eyes, dampened by your words, her hand clasped over the middle of her collarbone.

“I'll make it.. I think.” Her determination made way through uncertainty. You hum, smiling at her.

“You will, as shall I. If you ever need, I will be there.”

You wink, making the young girl smile a bit. The small, almost sad smile, still breaks through her worry.

“I've heard they've been on the lookout for us. I'm..”

She didn't have to continue. You already knew. Your hand comes up and pats her head, gently.

“We'll be fine. Go on, my sweet.”

You smile, softly. It seems to melt away the rest of her trepidation.

She takes a moment. Then nods. Worry and uncertainty now embers as determination fires through her eyes.

You wave her off, as she makes her way.

You are being watched. But you are aware.

–———

You hum, swirling the champagne glass in your fingers, watching the bubbles rise to the top, and stick to the edges in clusters.

“Interrupting your break, am I?”

The man beside you laughs, softly. Almost forced. He doesn't respond further.

“I'm guessing your weekends are spent tending to your white coat.”

You tilt your head, looking at him, a small smile playing on your lips. He doesn't bother acknowledging you.

“I give it to the dry cleaners, actually.”

“Ah, busy man. I suppose I should leave you be.”

“..I have an inkling you won't.”

His wings bristle slightly. His halo shines beautifully – a sort of warning that hangs over his head. Sharp edges, blinding gold. Angels crafted to deter the evil.

But you aren't phased. Perhaps it is the alcohol.

“There was a story, I remember. If you're up for it, of course. It's quite old.”

“Ah, an anecdote from your life?”

“I'm not an ancient tablet.”

“I wasn't aware.”

You chuckle, setting your glass down, the glass base clinking as you do.

You take a brief moment; simply to compose and immerse into the present moment. You look over at the man, allowing yourself to shamelessly scan him despite the unreturned glancing or staring.

“Owls and Ravens were once friends. And both had snow-like feathers. As pristine as white clouds on the expanse of a sky.”

His hair is soft, blue and hazy under the warm light of the bar, shimmering the slightest bit. He shifts in his seat, perhaps to get more comfortable.

“They decided, then, to paint each other, since nothing else was there to do. The Raven painted the Owl diligently, in patterns and dots. And the Owl sat patiently through the process.”

His eyes are piercing, golden, yet they rest, conserved and distant.

The alcohol hazed your vision, smoothing out the edges like a loving artist's strokes against the canvas of his visage.

Your fingers circle the rim of your glass, returning your gaze, watching the bubbles clear.

“But when the Raven's turn came, it never sat still. And as the Owl painted, it painted over the Raven entirely, marring it's feathers as black as obsidian.”

“What a shame.”

Your foot playfully taps the side of his, making his leg stop jittering up and down.

“Indeed.”

He hums, his gaze temporarily flitting from your foot to your hand, placed on your knee. He almost acknowledges you.

The background is a warm blur against your view of him, almost as though he's the sole performer on a podium – the light seemed to belong to him, and him only. 

“You have a daughter, am I correct to assume?”

His fingers tap, rhythmically, like patters of rain.

“No, just.. a friend. But I consider her as such.”

“She left in quite a hurry.”

“She did, didn't she?”

“has the dream not been to her liking? In the case something has gone awry, The Family hopes–”

“Oh, you know, kids these days. They see someone they like and skitter like a fool.”

He doesn't seem to take your words in stride. But you smile.

“I see.”

You stretch, spinning in the small loveseat, planting your feet down as you rise,

“See someone you like?”

“Already got a view.”

Sunday finally acknowledges you - his eyes trailing your form as you walk away.

——–

“I love you!”

The voice crackles from the plush toy's broken voice box, as Sunday peers down at it. He doesn't move – idly looking at it, and yet not bothering to pick it up.

He stares, for a few more moments, noting the grime and the tears at the seams. The small stains of probably candy or something sweet sticking to its “paws”. The bear had worn down inexplicably from love. The very love it spoke at every press. And from abandonment. He found himself wondering at the fleeting childhood passing by like a reeling ribbon from a child's hands, as if the bear had been dropped unwillingly, and had not been allowed to reunite with it's owner again. A strange dilemma – not alive, yet full of the most humanly feeling. So full, infact, the cotton burst at the seams, and it's button nose was dull. 

With careful movements, Sunday picks it up, by its collar behind its “neck” [if you could even say it had one]. His hand holds it at a bit of a distance.

“A fan of soft toys, Mr. Dreammaster?’

Your voice teases him. You watch his arm slightly falter, imagining a plethora of emotions on his face you'd love to pull at like strings of a tapestry falling apart.

“..I am the Head, of The Family. The Dreammaster would be–”

“It's alright. I was joking.”

“I wasn't.”

His voice is still, flat. There is no semblance of emotion.

“Feisty, today. Was your toy missing for a long time? Sour about how it looks, hm?”

Sunday breathes out; an amicable replacement for a drawn out sigh. He turns to you, still holding the bear at a distance, staying quiet.

“Now, that is no way to hold a gentleman.” 

You walk forward, and gently grasp the bear in both of your hands. Sunday's eyes flicker to your gloved hands, as though in his own curiosity of your lack of concern in terms of hygiene.

“There. Better. You ought to be respectful to your elders.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies. I should have bowed when you spoke to me.”

He bows slightly in jest, his hand on his heart,

“Hm, that's right.”

Sunday smiles, looking up at you from his bowed state. You seem to pay more mind to the bear in your hands, an array of similar thoughts in your head as you process it's appearance.

“Do you want to take it with you? Who knows, you might come to like it.”

“Please, that's no way to ask someone to get rid of it.”

You eye his non-faltering, feigned innocent smile. He simply closes his eyes and continues smiling.

“Well, turns out it has a nametag. It won't hurt to stitch it up a bit and return it back.”

He hums, watching you fix the bear's little dishevelled bowtie.

And then he clears his throat, catching your attention.

You tilt your head, curiously looking at him.

“Yes?”

Sunday points to his own tie, slightly miffed. You chuckle,

“Well, now. Whoever shall fix that?”

“Perhaps an elder. They know better than I.”

You roll your eyes, setting the bear down gently onto the side, removing your gloves and fixing his tie.

———

“Cozy, cozy.”

Kafka purrs into the phone, the rasp of her voice not blurred by the digital medium, as you stare in the distance at the blue-haired halovian.

“Kafka, I'm gonna have to call you back soon.”

“Just when things were about to get interesting..”

You roll your eyes – she can't see it, but she chuckles, knowing what your silence meant.

“Alright, goodluck. Looks like you'll need it.”

You hang up before she has anything else to say, pulling out a compact mirror, and adjusting your appearance. Just as you snap it shut, a small creak of the loveseat beside you indicates his occasional arrival.

“You're late. And I hoped a man of your stature was more punctual than that.”

You tease, watching his eyes never meet yours. Only this time – you catch it. He swallows, rather thickly, watching his adam's apple bob as he does. 

“I don't recall having scheduled any meetings with you.”

“Oh?”

His reply is curt, almost condescending if you weren't the type to brush it off.

“Seems my last story hasn't melted the ice yet.”

“Not an inch.”

“D'aw, alright. Wanna hear more, lovely?”

His wings – not his ears – twitch slightly at the pet name. You notice the faint rush of blood to the tip of his ears.

He doesn't answer, choosing to be chaste in silence. You huff out a chuckle,

“Alright, drink's on me then. I'll tell you something interesting.”

——

In your travels as a stellaron hunter, you've assorted many into repulsions and desires that draw you in.

To fast thrills, versus the indignancy of a dragging present. You find yourself drawn to the bright lights of a night bar, versus the blinding array of a scorching sun. To shallow connections in lieu of heavy and complex relationships. Attachment would be your downfall. Ruin is your saving grace.

However, you find yourself looking for your repulsions.

The grey haired girl stands in front of you once again, shuffling from foot to foot, her eyes low and shy as her hands fiddle with a stray lock of her own hair. You eye her for a moment, before humming, and gently coax  her to face you by placing an index finger under her chin and raising it up.

“Little bug, what's on your mind?”

“Um..”

“Script not to your liking?”

You watch her mumble under her breath, her face slightly tilting down as she resists the urge to tuck it away again. As she does, you gaze from over the top of her head; a familiar blue haired man walking into the distance, followed by panicked coworkers. It seems he will be amiss once again, for today.

“I couldn't.. tell them.”

“The trailblazer?”

She hums, nodding.

You huff out a chuckle, patting her head.

“You have your chances, do you not? Rest easy, your time will come.”

She visibly relaxes, her shoulders slightly dropping, and her hands leaving the lock of hair to return to her sides. Her eyes are still low, as though scanning the pavement under your feet, as she contemplates. You watch her bite the inside of her cheek before she raises her face again and nod.

There is a fire in her eyes.

It is almost like the Sun.

You are almost afraid of it.

“I'll do it. As many times as I need to.”

You smile, leaning back onto the cold wall behind you.

“We should go shopping after your next attempt.”

You find your jaw clenching after the words slip from your mouth. Your repulsions are your weakness. Yet you still seem to subconsciously seek them out. It's a testament to your human nature.

She nods, smiling at you. She stays in her place for a moment, before she speaks again,

“I could.. ask Kafka to go with you if I don't make it.”

You turn and glance back at your usual spot at the open bar‐empty without you and the man you've been missing lately. Your smile only widens at her perception. Clever girl.

“No need. I'd like some silence anyways.”

She seems a bit unconvinced, as she continues to gaze at you for a brief moment more, scanning you for any deception. Out of worry than any ulterior motives, unlike the woman she mentioned a while ago.

Truthfully, you were lonely. This is what your ruin does to you, regardless of how it saves you. A few conversations lure you into a false sense of companionship, regardless of however brief it must have been, even encouraging you to divulge more than necessary if desperate enough. You find your eyes flitting at anything the colour of pale blue. At anything that glows gold under a light.

You chuckle and wave,

“I'll be fine, honeybee. Go, be on your way, now.”

She nods, smiling at the pet name. 

You find your repulsions carry you elsewhere, the bar fading into the background as you walk the opposite direction, once all spying eyes have cleared. You find your eyes flitting to find him. However, no matter how blessed your vision may be, the absence left behind can only be described, not pointed to. Ultimately, it is your mind that hinges on the assessment of what you have lost, or gained. 

But it seems this time your heart has taken the hit – a burrowing feeling between the slats and the depths of your ribs as though an animal had sprung from it, and left it behind as a husk of what it once was. 

–——

Sunday tuts, his fingers taking a bold graze of your hair, sliding and gently tugging out a lock.

“You ought to take better care of your hair.”

You stay silent for a brief moment, and it's apparent to him aswell that you hadn't expected him to do something so.. casual, considering his formalities. He takes his time to address it in your period of silence.

“I simply noticed and commented on it, no need to look like a deer caught in headlights.”

His eyes flicker to yours for a moment, and avert immediately. You watch his hand fall to his side, his fingers slightly shaking. You can't tease him on it – it would be hypocritical. A slight, excited sort of feeling sparks in your stomach.

You lick your lips, and take a sip of your beverage, feeling your senses dry up a bit. The liquid instead burns at the dryness of your throat.

“You're into haircare, hm?”

You reply, ignoring the brief silence and the tension it carried.

“Often. It comes with taking care of my wings.”

“Ah, I see.”

Silence once again. Unlike the pleasant one you two usually shared, this felt different; it felt electric. Thick, a bit suffocating. 

“I like your piercings.”

His hand, previously resting on the counter, subconsciously raises up to fiddle with his earring,

“Thank you.”

You stay silent again, almost inviting in the tension that causes him to graze his teeth against the inside of his cheek, a step away from chewing on the sides of it.

You break the ice first.

“Do you prefer gold or silver?”

“Silver.”

He stays silent for a moment. He's often found his mind wandering when it comes to you – wondering how various adornments would suit you.

“Really? Didn't take you as a silver type.’

“Ah, about me?”

“Who else?”

He felt silver suited you; more than your complexion, he simply felt.. drawn to it. Like the faint glimmering of a moon's reflection on a lake. You were someone who's depths were mysterious, almost alluring to him.

You stay silent, too. The question hangs in the air for a brief moment.

You watch his shaky fingers rub slightly at his nose. You've noticed a lot of things about him. The tips of his nose and ears that turns red a bit too easily. The faint fluttering of his ghostly blue lashes. The twinkle of gold – not just of his halo, but the various imprints of it on him; jewellery, and the woven golden threads of his pristine suit.

His eyes follow to your hand, on the bar's countertop, swallowing thickly again.

It seems despite everything, he's still a fool in the grasp of his shame.

He looks away,

“I prefer gold.”

——

Sentience is a curse, he thinks.

His fingers tap and circle the perimeter of the frail glass, a clink accompanying each one. Waves form on the surface of the shimmery liquid from the small force.

Morality is a cruel beast. Because it is unrecognisable. And it knows you.

It follows you, through your ages. A small, ghastly and putrid thing, akin to a shameful, big animal. Hunched over, following you like a chore. Like a lost, stubborn child. It grows with you. It becomes bolder. It becomes aware. It has your voice. Soon, the mind caves and buckles into the grasp of the dastardly beast, that grows like uncontrolled weed on a substrate. It grows and envelops. And it tells you – can you truly allow yourself to do this? And the answer is never yes. Morality is a curse. A big ugly thing, unafraid to show it's face. It fills the room when silence staves arguments in the form of chastened tension.

Yet he finds himself, almost seeking it out. Searching the cruel shackle of his morality, almost wanting it to shame him into hiding. 

Your place is empty. He notes. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, fluttering lashes coming to a halt. He envisions the faint waft of your perfume, the dainty clicking of your fingers over the rim of the glass, the cheeky tap against his agitated foot. Sunday would find himself already ashamed, if he'd outright admitted he'd actually been staring at you, from his periphery. You overshadow the ugly beast, drawing out a sort of soft, beautiful serenity with a hollow voice, and an elusive persona. 

Angels are, by design, made to stave evil. Somehow, however, it seems he has attracted one. A devil in the form of you. And yet, like a man yet to feel the cold relief of forgiveness on his lips, he wanders aimlessly in his mind, as though in search of you. Sin is unbeknownst, ignorance is plaguing, and yet he revels in it. Even for a moment.

He huffs out a laugh. A novel turn of events. Its his turn to wait for you, isn't it?

Yet it seems easy to do, simply imagining your form beside him once again, telling him another strange tale, either for your own amusement or to reel him in. He disregards the source. His weary face finds an ache, a pleasant one, as it pulls into a faint smile. 

As sentience drives a being to deviate from instinct, his awareness has driven him to exhaustion. Yet you are a double edged sword – a balm for his exhaustion yet endlessly pushing him to caution.

——

“You've been gone too long, haven't you?”

You croon, a cheeky smile on your face, Sunday bashfully keeping his eyes locked to his drink. Despite everything, he cannot meet your eyes.

“I have.”

For the first time, the pastor is of the guilty. The devil has come to exorcise him. But exorcism does not mean erasure of sins, neither does it mean cleanly cutting off the strings that attach one to them. You may as well weave more of these strings, and craftily ground him to you.

“How will you make it up to me?’

You drawl, leaning on the palm of your hand, speech slightly slurred from the alcohol.

“..How would you like me to?”

His gaze is trained on his hand – gripping the fragile neck of the glass with a bit too much force. 

You hum, twirling your own glass, watching the liquid rush and bubble at the edges.

“Tell me a secret.”

He swallows. 

A secret?

“Is that.. truly what you desire?”

“Mhm.”

You take a sip of your beverage. Sunday is relieved, yet almost disappointed.

“..very well.”

He breathes in, and takes a moment to compose himself. His eyes flit to you, a small flicker of boldness somehow making him hover over a line he dares not cross. His gaze wanders to your lips, the slight crinkle beside your eyes, the squish of your cheek against your palm. He eyes your clothing. 

A stellaron hunter.

It was as though he was placing himself as the bait in a trap. As though he was the one caught in the trap. What else could he complain about? Except for that of which he can't admit – his unbecoming is his fault.

His fault for unreeling like a ribbon under your daft fingers. He finds himself wanting to spill like an ink bottle, the surface tension of the liquid keeping it from just flowing over the thick, glass borders.

And he breathes in your perfume. He breathes in the expanse of the night's air. And he spills. He spills so cautiously, so quietly, as though he is afraid of staining his own lips with the tenacity of his words.

He has many secrets. Most of which were handed to him, more akin to an heirloom than an actual personal matter. More akin to a treacherous contract than whispered confessions. How he wishes this was a confession to you, than an unveiling over his disgusting innards.

But you listen, unwavering. A lazy smile still gracing your lips, stained with grapes and understanding. It is as though you were stained in so many ways, his words are unflinchingly simple to you. It becomes a confession, rather than a revelation at the altar of the cartilage shell of your ear.

And you keep it. You keep it like a lost prayer. Like a silent vow. 

“..want me to whisper it to you?”

You return the sentiment, offering a request. It seems you are no guiltier than he innocent. 

———

“Can't convince you, can I?”

“Not at all.” Please don't try, anyway. He lets those words die on his tongue.

You huff out a laugh, a bit forceful, as you look away from him, folding your arms.

“Shit, you don't pull any punches, huh?”

A pang of guilt hits him at the slight hurt in your forced laugh. But he can't be deterred.

Not that you were going to, considering Elio's script. It's on you, really. But you didn't expect it to actually hurt.

You watch the empty audience seats, his back turned to it.

“It's a pity. I wish I could have seen this theatre when it was filled to the brim with people.”

“..it would have been an extraordinary view. It always is.”

“You look forward to it?”

…

“Not anymore.”

You hum, your teeth nipping at the skin of your lips. The quietness of the theatre is exemplified at the rustle of your clothes, as you turn to look at his back. The light of the podium makes him look beautiful. His halo is almost blinding. He looks like the Sun. You'll be lead to your death, at this rate. Wasn't Ruin supposed to be your saving grace? Here you are – disguised as both Icarus and the blinding Sun.

Sunday stands still, a cleancut form, unable to face you. You can stare at his back all day. But the pain resounding in your chest from your heart hurting strings you back into the present. You breathe deeply, and sigh,

“Alright. Goodluck, then.”

With one step forward, you disappear as quietly as you came. It's a trick familiar to your group; as Sunday knows. But even then, he braces himself to greet the empty space you leave behind, his heart sinking further at the loss of your presence. 

———

Sunday finds the shackles of punishment more liberating than death on his knees.

He learns this in isolation. He learns many things in isolation.

He learns how to miss you.

Phantoms and taunts of your words echoing the empty expanse of his empty mind, wafting through the many whispers of the stellaron that plagued his mind. 

His finger twitches upwards, when his lifeless eyes imagine the faint illusion of your affection, grazing fingertips over his knuckles. You hadn't actually ever gotten so physically close to him, but he indulges himself. He imagine the soft sensations of your lips on his jaw, trailing up to ghost the shell of his.

“Miss me, Mr. Dreammaster?”

He shivers at the illusion. Your voice is close yet far; reverberating in the hollow wasteland of his mind like a single thread of gold.

A lot. He wants to say. He swallows the words, and for the second time, the fruit lodges in his throat. To admit is to acknowledge the sin.

“Make it up to me, Mr. Dreammaster?"

A knock. Your phantom, agonisingly so, vanishes like a mist casted away by a gush of wind. But the interruption is far from divine.

Jade, from the IPC. 

——

Like gently settling fog, rumours stagnate over a crowd. The whispers and the hushed words are not elusive to your ears.

Your phone buzzes, but you ignore it. Firefly is accompanied by Silver wolf, you wouldn't have to worry.

As much as your thrills lure you to the lavish party to celebrate the Nameless, your repulsions seem stronger. 

You sip your beverage, tipping the glass up, but your eyes stay on your phonescreen. You hadn't ever texted Sunday, and neither had he texted you. You two hadn't even called. There was no history. It would be as though you could keep your phone open for hours and no one would bat an eye. Even for the most prestigious of those in stature would have to occasionally practise patience when it came to him. Who would you be? The vague, elusive stellaron hunter who's suspected of causing trouble wherever they go? Like a stray piece of pebble that's easy to disregard and kick away, who is he to ever glance at you?

And so you stare, measuring in silence, the strange stirring of feelings in your stomach. You could blame it on your beverage, but you hadn't drank enough really, mainly because you couldn't even bother keeping it down.

Buzz

You blink, watching a notification pop up, and promptly retreat as you click on Sunday's contact again.

He messaged you?

No, it couldn't be. It must be one of The Family's members.

You push yourself off of the wall you'd been warming with your back, and take a small step forward in contemplation, your eyebrows knitted as you stared.

Why would they send you to his office's location?

——

Sunday breathes in, the cool, familiar air of his office hitting the back of his throat as he does.

There is a certain pleasure in ordinary things. 

The patience of a ceramic cup that stays warm with coffee. The smooth crafting of the surface of a wooden desk. The ambience of the air conditioner accompanying the steady scribbling of a pointed tip on paper. The comfort in reclining back in a cushioned office chair. Things he may as well soon never come across again.

He swallows, his eyelids doing little to shield the overhead lighting of his office, but still keeping them closed to simply savor the feeling.

A shadow emerges, obscuring the light from his eyes, casting a shade on his face. It's soon accompanied by the faint wafting of perfume.

“Miss me, Mr. Sunday?”

This wasn't Ena's dream. But for a moment, he could have considered it.

You're leaned over from behind him, watching down at his face as he opens his eyes. He opens his mouth, but decides to stay silent.

Your hand comes up to gently cup the side of his face, your palm pressing beside his eye, fingers reaching the bottom of his chin. Your thumb lingers around the edge of his mouth. You both stare at each other, simply noticing the dilation of each other's pupils.

“It's just Sunday.”

He tells you. There is no animosity, no hostility in his voice. It's almost a whisper, as though he's unsure if you are real. His own hand reaches up, and cautiously, his fingers graze the side of your face.

Your skin is warm. Your relaxed smile widens as he does so. He shivers.

“Savouring your final moments?”

He smiles.

“I am.”

You stay that way for a moment, before slowly leaning back and standing up straight. Sunday gets up from his chair and moves to stand across you.

“Couldn't let me know where you were a little earlier?”

You tease him, but he can sense the slight irk in your voice.

“My deepest apologies. How can I make it up to you?”

You hum, spinning on your heel and walking around his office, fingers grazing the edge of his desk as you walk beside it, and to the front. You turn, leaning on it, your back facing him.

“A secret won't be enough this time, y'know?”

He watches your hand fiddle with a few trinkets on his desk, your other hand supporting you. He makes his way to you again, rounding the desk, and stands in front of you,

“What may help?”

You hum again, but he knows better. You're feigning your contemplation.

You smile, still leaned back against his desk.

“I wouldn't know. Something special before we depart?”

“Hm.. is that so?”

He steps closer, his hands placing themselves right beside your waist on the desk behind you, caging you in. His eyes never leave yours.

“Mhm.”

You smile, looking at him.

He leans in, eyes falling lower, on your lips, as he asks,

“Now, what shall I do?”

His warm breath fans over the lower half of your face, and the small exposed bits of your collarbone.

“Perhaps do as your seniors advise you.”

“Hm? Who?”

You grab him by the collar of his shirt, push off of the table and swerve him, pushing him against the desk as you lean in,

“You can listen, can't you?”

He breathes in, slightly winded at the switched positions.

“I might need guidance.”

You huff out a laugh,

“I'll guide you, so listen well.”

You lean in, your lips almost brushing his, but pull away when you sense he might lean in, his lips stay slightly parted as he watches you.

“You need to be patient, okay?”

He almost doesn't hear you, swallowing as he eyes your lips, his abdomen constricting, feeling something tighten and coil.

“I will.”

You smile. And lean in, testing his resolve,

“Do as I say, alright?”

His lips twitch, and his breath hitches. He waits, agonisingly, as your lips brush against his, but don't press. He whispers out,

“I will.”

.

“Good.”

You finally press your lips against his, and it's as though a river rushes through his veins, as he eagerly kisses you back. His breathing is heavy, his hands unsure as they hold onto your waist, but you're made aware of his desperation as his nails unconsciously dig into your flesh, through the thin fabric of your shirt. You suck in a breath at the feeling, and he almost moans, his wings bristling and tensing as he desperately tries to deepen the kiss, almost panting into it as your tongue brushes against his lower lip, eagerly parting them open.

Sunday can taste the alcohol mixed with your sweet saliva, causing his head to spin a bit, but instead he presses further, his tongue eagerly lapping at every inch of your mouth. You pull away for a moment, but his mouth follows close, kissing the side of your mouth and trailing them down the column of your throat. You breathe in, shivering as you close your eyes for a moment, each wet kiss electrifying and going straight down to your core. 

He mumbles your name against your skin, his tongue laving at a spot before his teeth nip at it, causing you to gasp. Your hands crawl up to the base of his head, one pushing into his fluffy hair and fingers entangling within the strands.

“It's okay.”

You breathe out, but he shakes his head slightly.

His tongue presses against the base of your throat, and drags up all the way to the corner of your mouth, before his lips envelop yours again in a heated kiss. He parts, panting,

“I wanted to see you. Every second I spent there..”

His hands run up and down your sides, feverish at the contact they'd been restrained from,

“I know.” You say, looking at his dishevelled state, your hands coming to rest on his chest.

"I wanted to return to you."

You feel his hands slide down and rest on your hips, his knee nudging between yours, before he slides up further and pushes his thigh at your core, making you jolt for a moment at the contact. His hands stay firm on your hips, almost pressing you down onto his thigh. Your hands clench at the fabric of his shirt as the contact shoots up your spine, making you arch slightly into him.

He breathes in, leaning down, his lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath coming out in puffs as he whispers,

“I'm yours, aren't I? So go ahead and prove it.”

You smile.

“Alright, then.”

–——

“[Name]!”

Firefly's voice calls out to you, and you smile, looking over her winded appearance.

But you weren't in the state to complain. You looked similar, if not even worse. Your shirt was slightly wrinkly, tie askew, your hair patted down in a rush. You hope no one noticed you wobble.

“are you okay?”

Firefly would be more worried instead of confused if not for the wide smile you've donned. She glances over her shoulder at the bustling crowd, her eyes almost searching for someone, before returning to you.

“I'm alright. Your hair.. seems exciting.”

You comment, and Firefly blushes, patting down her own hair.

“I'll tell you what happened later, but.. we should leave now.”

You nod,

“Silverwolf?”

Her hologram appears without a second's delay, her annoyed resting face almost lovingly familiar to you.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard.”

You both chuckle slightly at her.

The party ends on a positive note.

———

“Quite a pleasant surprise.”

“Greetings, to you too.”

You smile, your virtual form glitching slightly. Although Himeko doesn't disregard you as she does Kafka, she's still wary of you, as are the rest of the crew.

“Settling in well, chicken boy?”

Himeko cuts in,

“What do the Stellaron hunters need now?”

You chuckle, softly,

“Miss Himeko, it's been a while, hasn't it? Regardless, I sincerely apologise, but these questions are solely for Mr. Sunday here.”

Her face shifts, almost unnoticeable, clearly displeased by your words. She sighs, and glances back at the new recruit. The rest of the crew follow her suit.

Mr. Yang's voice flows in,

“Perhaps there remains any unfinished business with the stellaron hunters? It would be wise to address it sooner than later.”

“None of the sort, Mr. Yang.” You reassure, hands neatly folded, as you smile,

“Just a few, simple questions. Think of it as a.. survey, of sorts.”

“A survey?”

Sunday steps forward, facing your hologram directly. You would have blushed if it wasn't virtual.

“3 questions. That is all.”

“..alright.”

You sense his hesitation, slowly melding into trust as his thoughts process. Although relationships between your factors are complex and messy, it is you that's asking him.

“What is your name?”

“..I am Sunday.”

“Where are you stationed?”

“The Astral Express.”

“Are you happy?”

The question makes him hesitate, words stuck in his throat like a grape seed for only a moment.

“..yes. i am.”

You smile. Sunday faintly returns the expression. After a brief moment, you turn to Himeko,

“Kafka will speak to you shortly, Ms. Himeko.”

And you vanish. Just as mysteriously as you'd come into his life.

[ryder-writes]

Your Daughter is Getting Bullied- Dad!Kiribaku x Reader

CW: Bulling, your kid has a bruise, implication of Kirishima dealing with SH in the past

A/n: I randomly got motivation to write angry dad Kirishima so here we are lmao.  It is not said whether you had your daughter biologically or if she were adopted. If u read my Dad!Bakugo fic and recognize your daughters name no you don’t. Also u can tell when I lost motivation💀

WC: 1.1k

Eijiro Kirishima was blinded by rage. He couldn’t see anything but red.

"What do you mean my daughter is being bullied?!" He yelled, demanding an answer.

"Mr. Kirishima, please calm do-"

"Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!" He slammed his hands on the principal's desk. "When I come to pick up my daughter I should not see a bruise on her arm!"

"Mr. Kiri-"

"No. I'm going home to talk to my daughter and partners about what to do about your unprofessional and incompetent school staff." He spat. He turned around and grabbed his daughter's backpack from the office chair before walking toward the door. He stopped in the door way and turned his head back toward the principal. "Expect a letter from my office." He snarled. He made his way to his daughter's classroom, controlling his breathing as he walked. Once he was calm enough, he walked into the classroom.

"Dada!" Enya yelled, running to hug her dad.

"Hey, Sunshine." Eijiro smiled. He turned to her teacher. "Thank you so much for looking after her."

"Oh of course, Mr. Kirishima. I apologize for not noticing sooner." She apologized. He raised his hand;

"No, no. This isn't your fault." He sighed. "I want to say thank you for being such an amazing teacher. Enya really enjoys your class." He chuckles under his breath, "She talks about it all the time at home." The teacher smiled.

"I'm thankful that I could teach your daughter."

"Well, we should get home." Eijiro said as he picked up Enya. "Say goodbye, Sunshine." Enya turned around and waved:

"Bye-bye! See you tomorrow!" Eijiro bit his lip.

-

Eijiro turned the key and unlocked the front door to your house. Enya immediately ran inside to go greet you and Katsuki. He sighed and closed the door behind him. He dropped his duffel bag (filled with his hero gear) and Enya's backpack on the organizer by the door. He walked into the dining room to see Katsuki at the dinner table. Enya was on his lap, talking to him about her day. Eijiro assumed he was reading, as there was a book folded on the table, as well as his reading glasses perched on the top of his head. You were across the way in the kitchen, cooking dinner. He walked over to you, letting his head fall on your shoulder and his hands grab your waist.

"Hello, Ei." You chuckled as you turned your head and kissed his head. He grumbled in response. "What's wrong, love?" You asked. You knew that it wasn’t good to hide your emotions; Eijiro taught you that. He buried his head deeper into your shoulder and mumbled something. "Hmm?" You asked for clarification. Your moment, however, was interrupted by a loud voice.

"WHO THE HELL DID THIS TO YOU!?"

"Katsuki! Language!" You yelled, leaving Eijiro's grasp and making your way towards Katsuki. "Now, what…happened..." You were in shock. Right there, on your daughter's arm, was a bright purple and yellow bruise. You immediately ran over and crouched down next to your daughter (who was still on Katsuki's lap). "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, it doesn’t hurt anymore." She answered. In your peripheral, you saw Katsuki's eye twitch.

"Okay, that’s good. Go change out of your uniform then we'll have dinner, okay?" She nodded and walked away to her room. As soon as she was out of earshot, Katsuki dragged his hands across his face.

"Fucckk." He groaned. "Why would anyone do that to her?!" He stood up from his chair and started pacing. You grabbed his glasses off of his head, just incase he accidentally broke them from his rage again.

"I don’t know, Kats." You sighed. Your heart sunk. "Do you think it's because of us?"

"What? No, of course not baby." Eijiro comforted you by grabbing your hand.

"I don’t know." Katsuki interjected.

"Kat!"

"What? I mean it's possible. I know for a fact that no one else in her class has three parents." He reasoned. You shifted your weight, uncomfortable with the fact that Katsuki was probably right.

"Okay, but that doesn’t have to be the case." Eijiro tried to reason. "There could very well be another reason."

"Like what, Red?" Katsuki took a step toward Eijiro. "Fuckin' tell me what else." Eijiro remained silent. "Can't, can you?"

"Guys." You sighed. They both immediately stopped and looked at you in unison. "Let's just ask Enya." You suggested.

 Eijiro chuckled dryly:  "Yeah, that might be better."

-

"So, Squirt, do y'know why you got hurt?" Katsuki asked. You four were now in her room, putting her to bed.

"Well, Abby pushed me into my desk today." She answered.

"Did she say why?" You inquired.

"Uh- she said it was cause I didn’t have 'good normal parents'." She made air quotes with her hands. Your eyes all widened . Eijiro immediately stood up and left, clenching his fists. You noticed Enya watching him leave.

"Don’t worry sweetheart, Dada just needs some time." You kiss her forehead tell her goodnight before heading out to where Eijiro had gone. You found him pacing around the living room, hands mindlessly scratching at his arms. You immediately walked over in front of him and grabbed his hands, ceasing his movement. You interlaced you fingers with his, bringing his attention to the semicolon bracelet he wore.

He exhaled. "Thank you." You hummed in response. "I just don’t know what to do. I want what's best for her but… she loves that school."

"That doesn’t matter if she's getting hurt." Katsuki remarked from the hallway. "I don’t care what she thinks. I'm not willingly let her go to a school where she's getting bullied."

"Her opinion is still important, Kats." You reasoned.

"Yeah, yeah. Sure."

"Okay, but I think Katsuki is right, Hun." Eijiro Let go of one of your hands to grab onto one of Katsuki's. "I don’t feel safe sending her there anymore."

You sighed: "Yeah, you're right. I just feel bad for her."

-

"Dada, why didn’t you wake me up?"

"Oh, sorry Sunshine. You're not going to school today."

"Oh." Enya paused. "Why?"

"Uhm, we just want to make sure that you're getting a good education." Eijiro rubbed the back of his neck. You and Katsuki both knew that meant he was lying. Luckily, Enya hadn't realized that yet. You walked into the living room, seeing him sitting on the couch on his laptop, talking to Enya who had just woken up. He was looking at new schools, since his patrol wasn’t until later. You called Enya into the kitchen, telling her it was time for breakfast. Eijiro got up and joined her as well (Katsuki had left already).

"Honey, can we talk real quick?" You asked.

"Of course." He answered, following you into the hallway.

"I was thinking, what if she gets bullied at her new school?" You whispered, voice laced with concern. Ei gave you a sympathetic smile.

"I don’t think she will. And, even if she does," He rested his forehead against yours "we'll be there for her."

A/n Pt.2: Okay, okay. I know the ending sucks, I had plans to write more I swear but motivation's a bitch. Anyways, if you enjoyed Dad!Bakugo and Dad!Kirishima, feel free to check out my masterlist, with more dad content.

[purin-gambler]

‘a piece of advice’ - suna rintaro

wc: 1.3k

cw: timeskip spoilers, minimal cursing

⚄ notes: bestfriend suna, fem reader, fluff, heavy implications of romantic feelings, suna might be terribly in love you as way more than friends- but you didnt hear that from me, mentions of past failed dates, suna kinda clowning atsumu at one point ( affectionate )

☁︎ a/n: i kept thinking about this troupe with suna??? the ‘hes your best friend but hes in love in you and is tired of seeing you go through other men that isnt him’ troupe and ughhh i had to write it myself. this was supposed to be a drabble oops, but i started to write it like a fic… i just might love this man. like a lot.

“i told you. you shouldve listened to me.” suna’s expression through the handheld device was deadpanned, as he knew from the very second your contact name popped up onto his phone for a video call, he would have to pull the ‘i was right, you were wrong’ card on you. all on the very same evening you would come home from this blind date, he would remind you of your decisions, and hed only received a huff of your breath in response.

clicking suna’s contact name and dialing his number was a common reflex at this point. especially during times like these. suna made it all too accessible to talk to him, knowing that he had no excuse not to answer, since the man was always glued onto that device of his no matter what situation he found himself in.

with all the times youve called, he would answer before the first ring had even rung, never wasting a second, always immediate to talk to you as if he were waiting to hear your voice again.

his willingness to chat and your endless rambles made it easy to connect, considering he was all over the country for the sake of his volleyball career. so video calls like the one you found yourselves in now were more common than youd like to admit. calls where suna found himself taking it easy in his hotel room, miles upon miles away from you to participate in a volleyball match the following morning. while you on the other hand, are on the line ranting in a frustrated manner to him. the opposite demeanors in your personalities clashing at this very moment, suna unsure of what to make of your current rambling outbursts of disappointment.

because calls like these were about men that werent him, taking you out on dates, and disappointing you again.

“i cant believe you went on a blind date with a guy atsumu set you up with.” he sneered.

with an elbow prompted against your desk to support your head resting on your hand, you slouched over your desk, the uncertainty of the matter apparent in your wavering tone. “but the guy sounded nice enough though… thought id give him a chance.”

hearing the way your voice faltered, he mused shortly after, “seemed nice? give him a chance? this guy walked out on you before you even got the bill.”

you watched the way he slouched back onto his chair, arms crossed, and not sparing you a second away from his disapproving gaze. “you couldve left first you know? but youre telling me you stayed, listen to him give you shit, watched him leave, and ended up paying the dinner for his sorry ass instead-?!”

silence was all that sat on the line, suna observing the expression sat onto your face. the display was clear as day, you embodied a disappointed frown that radiated your upsetness through his phone screen. all the time you wasted on some guy who couldn’t even spare you a glance, a ‘date’ that didnt care to let you utter a word, or understand you any more than just your name. an absolute waste of time he was, and it was a mutual agreement between the two of you. suna knowing well that you were way too good for him, and way too good for all these horrible excuses of dates you would find yourself going on. it was unfortunate to him that he knew all these experiences were accumulating in your memory, all too aware of the way they would tear you down.

these were absolutely memories you really didnt need. suna hadnt even experienced what you would tell him, but he began to grow frustrated with the way he had to hear you come home disappointed every single time. though he was never upset with you spilling all the details to him, in fact, he always encouraged it. always keeping an open ear to attentively listen to the spews of the pain and frustration you expressed onto him. listening to the way you explained how these dates wouldnt even give you the time of day. weather they had gotten too caught up in their distaste for your softer appearance, or found your personality unalienable with their own. your best friend couldnt deny his own disappointment that these guys were too stubborn to see you on a deeper level, hours gone on men who wouldnt dare to go as far as to desire any part of you. it upset him more than you knew, even though he never expressed all of it to you.

he just failed to understand time and time again, why they werent able to see you the way he did.

was it so hard? to love your curves of you body he found so beautiful, to love your face he was so happy to see, to love your voice that filled his heart with each of your words, to love the entirety of who you are and your existence without wanting to alter a single thing? he just couldnt understand.

because such a thing was as easy as breathing air for him.

loving you is just that easy.

“you know, atsumu can set volleyballs, not set you up on good dates. this better be the first and last time you take a suggestion like this from him.”

the stiffening weight of the silence between you both being fully broken once you responded with a grumbled, “lesson learned…” falling bitter from your tongue.

“good.”

though the frown on your face was all but faded, still all too prominent for his liking. he was fed up with this sight, because it was too familiar now. a light sigh escaped suna’s lips before he prompted himself forward, taking his phone into his hands.

“now give me the details. full name, photos- it can be some drivers license photo or some shitty thirst trap selfie- i dont care, occupation, date of birth- whatever atsumu showed and told you about. tell me everything.”

you scoffed in disbelief clearly laced with amusement, watching the way suna’s camera paused and cut off, indicating he was now tapping through his phone and opening up social media. ready for you to spill the details, until he was typing various combinations of your date’s name into the searchbar.

whatever he did with that information you provided him was far from your care or concern, knowing that suna was always just on his phone, doing who knows what. you assumed this was just him curiously trying to match a face to your story, since it wouldnt be the first time hes asked about these things.

though with you unaware of that growing irritation from your best friend on your behalf, you wouldnt have known that the second he found the guy, suna, with absolutely no hesitation, compiled together a little message to be sent his way. something he hadnt bothered doing before, but was sure as hell doing now. it was a message he couldve tied up in a little bow if he wanted to, hoping that it wouldve at least softened the blow of the contents written inside.

lets just say, the following morning, you received a heavily detailed apology from your previous date. a message which had caught you completely off guard and jolting you awake in the early hours of the day. staring at the detailed apology, you screenshotted the entirety of its pathetic glory, ready to relay the large paragraph to your best friend after his volleyball match later in the day.

if only you got to see the stupid look of pride on suna’s face after he received your messages.

[mothiir]

not a request, more of a fun fact because i saw another sanguinius fan here yesterday and i can’t find her blog for the life of me.

supposedly birds, particularly male birds, associate their wings being stroked with sexual stimulation and will become very sexually frustrated if it’s not taken care of. Stroking their wings too often will also cause them to associate you with being a mate instead of a friend or companion, which causes them to be jealous and possessive over you.

do with this information what you will

So what I did with this is write some sanguinius being a wee bit feral but also being the noble boy we love. Also I need to start writing things that aren’t dubcon because why is this the healthiest relationship I’ve written so far

—

—

cw: slightly lewd, implications of violence

—

—

It probably starts off completely by chance: you’re cleaning, and Sanguinius swans into his quarters without noticing you. Even the noblest of the Emperor’s sons will sometimes fail to acknowledge the staff, especially when he is distracted -- and oh, is the poor thing distracted. He’s just had to sit through a four hour meeting -- hosted by Roboute, with the Lion in attendance, and he has been zigzagging between acute boredom and blinding frustration -- and, on top of all of that, he is moulting. He claws his robe off his body, stretching his wings out to their full span. He makes a primal sound of pure satisfaction, contorting his sleek golden body to dig his fingers into his tender flesh, trying to unroot the snarls of not-quite loose feathers. Some come free easily; others snag. He wishes he was in Bhaal, where he could stretch himself out in the hot dry dust, and squirm back and forth, letting the acrid soil scratch the most stubborn of itches. Alas, there is no such amenity here, only -- 

It’s then he notices you, cloth in hand, frozen. At his gaze, you immediately drop to your knees, touch your forehead to the floor. 

“My lord Primarch -- forgive me --”

“Forgive you for what?” he says, lightly. “There is nothing to forgive; you are doing your duty. You are excused -- there is plenty aboard to be cleaned.”

You stand somewhat shakily, twisting the cloth between your hands. “Yes my lord. Of course my lord. It is just --”

You know a little about birds -- enough to recognise the signs of a highly uncomfortable moult. And Sanguinius is not a bird but the greatest man you have ever known, and yet…and yet you cannot help yourself. 

“--I wonder if I could be of assistance? With the uh -- with the pin feathers. The ones that aren’t open, I can see a few -- “

You make an aborted little gesture: fingers closing, as if around an invisible reed, pinching slightly, dragging up. Precisely the way he sees to his own pin feathers, letting the keratin sheathe surrounding them crumble against his grip, freeing the filament within. 

“My mother keeps birds,” you offer, as an explanation, then flush. “Not that you are one, my lord -- not --”

He chuckles at your unease, and settles himself down on his bed, patting the red silk quilt beside him. 

“Come. Assist me, if you are so keen.”

Many quail at the sight of him -- despite what Horus thinks, Sanguinius is more revered than beloved, and the difference between the two is stark -- but you do not. You approach him with downturned eyes, smelling faintly of fear, but you still approach him. 

Your hands are small and swift, deftly opening up the feathers in need of help, leaving the ones not yet ready. You work for hours, until your hands must be cramping from effort, but you do not quibble or complain. You smooth his primaries, straighten them in line with each other; you tug free lumps of down with sharp efficient gestures. Slowly, the itching fades, and with it the frustration. Before Sanguinius quite knows what he is doing, he has sprawled himself back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You use the new angle to your advantage, reaching under his flank to work at the feathers closest to his wingjoints. 

“There,” you say, just as he feels about ready to drift off. His eyes are half-lidded, and a slight smile curves his lips. “That looks…better. You’re not done moulting yet, but that’s what I can do for now.”

“You’ll return tomorrow,” he says, a request and a command and a question all at once. Your cheeks are wonderfully pink as you nod. He ponders briefly what all that delicious blood would taste like, spilling down his throat, and then shoves the thought to the side. He will not ruin your helpfulness with his hunger. 

The next night, you perform the same job, and the night after that, and the night after that. His moult ends, but he thinks it best that you keep returning: caring for his wings is an important duty, after all, and you are so very good at it. So eager to please.

(A voice that sounds distressingly like Konrad’s says what else would she do to please you, golden one? -- but he ignores that, for he must.)

The problem becomes apparent not during those long late nights as you preen him while he tries to think of anything but how sweet your blood would taste, but in the middle of his ship. He has just led his sons to an astounding victory, coming to the aid of a local governor against a fleet of xenos raiders, and -- as is tradition -- they are celebrating, hosting the Imperium’s great and good aboard the Red Tear. The ballroom they gather in is built to accommodate a Primarch, with a huge arched ceiling, draped with scarlet silk. The walls are festooned with artwork of immense beauty, most painted by the Blood Angels themselves: scenes of battles hard won, golden cities on green hills, birds flying free over great glittering lakes. Sanguinius makes a speech, praising the well-fought battle of the planetary defense force against the raiders -- and meaning every word -- and then retires to a corner to sip his wine and try to relax. He cannot walk amongst the delegates without people dropping to their knees in supplication, so he finds that becoming part of the furniture is the best approach for a restful party for all.

That is when he sees you. You’re wearing the same basic formal outfit all of the serfs wear -- fine scarlet linen, embroidered with gold -- but you’ve altered the wide-legged trousers into a skirt, which swishes around your ankles as you move; a slit halfway up your thigh gives him a tantalizing glimpse of pale flesh, and his mouth goes dry. 

Deep in conversation with one of the proud young soldiers, you’re completely oblivious to Sanguinius’s hungry gaze. At least -- he hopes you is, because you laugh at something your companion says and then he touches your shoulder.

Before he can control himself, Sanguinius crosses the ballroom, picks up the young human and rips him in two, showering you both with a fountain of gore. Your scream stills in your throat, eyes bugging with terror, as he gathers you close, tongue running along your pulsing jugular, claws biting into your flesh as he shreds your garment, intent on claiming you then and there, his mate, his woman, his --

That, of course, is not what happens. What actually happens is that Sanguinius stalks towards you, a beatific smile pasted over his face, and the poor young man immediately steps backwards; his logical mind sees the Primarch, and is awestruck; but his primal lizard brain screams this is a predator you have to run. 

“I will have to steal you away, if you don’t mind,” he says, and of course you do not mind -- because you are his. His woman. His mate. As he steers you out of the ballroom, you confide in a low voice:

“Thank you. He was lovely, but just a little too eager. I think he was all of seventeen!”

Sanguinius knows he should feel ashamed that he had come this close to gutting a child-soldier who had the misfortune of making you laugh, but he doesn’t. He feels a little guilty at his lack of guilt, but that is it. If he had slain the boy it would have been his right, as your lord and master --

No. No. That is not him; that is not how he acts, nor how he behaves. Those impulses come to him for he is a warhawk and a warrior, but he does not act on them because he is not a monster. 

“These parties do get tiresome,” he says, ushering you ahead of him. “I am glad I have you to keep me company while we avoid them.”

You end up back in his bedroom, combing your fingers through his feathers. He melts under your touch, every sinew in his back starting to relax. Soon -- hopefully soon -- he will have you squirming and mewling under him, your legs spread eagerly for him, your tight little body welcoming him deep inside. Soon. When he is sure that you are saying yes because you want to, not because the overwhelming force of his desire is warping your own feelings. When he can trust himself not to hurt you anymore than you want to be hurt. 

Sanguinius can hold tight to his self control for that. For your sake. For his. 

[show-your-fangs]

make a wish, huh? i wish i wish with all my heart for reader to have pissed off her daddy dom in the field. so as a punishment she has to sit on this big man’s shoe while he does paperwork. cockwarming him with her mouth until he decides no matter how bad she’s whining and needing him, that she can rock and get herself off. but only if she listens to him. if not? if she’s a brat and she’s being really really needy?? i do believe that causes for a spanking, don’t you? over his knee, skirt rolled up.. you know. just a wish 😈🙏🏻

Knees | Dom!Aaron Hotchner

The Secrets We Keep (a Bunny and Clyde story) - Blurb

Pairing: Dom!Aaron Hotchner x BAU/sub!Reader

Words: 2k

CW: 18+, nsfw, mdni.

Tags/warnings: master!hotch, bunny!reader, established D/s relationship, cockwarming, oral (m receiving), pet names (bunny).

a/n: when Morgan asks for something, you give it to her.

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.

You swallowed and his entire body tensed up under you. He hissed in disapproval, his darkened gaze almost searing a hole through yours. You couldn’t help it, saliva had been pooling in the corners of your mouth for a few minutes and it was either swallow or let it drip down your throat. And let’s be honest, the latter did not sound as naughty as the former. You knew how he’d react, knew that his cock would twitch at the slight change in pressure, knew that he would know what you were doing. 

You didn’t let his stare scare you. Instead, you returned your own — round, innocent eyes that glistened with tears. It wasn’t that he was hurting you, on the contrary, he was giving you something that you craved yet it was a punishment that he knew was sure to make you lose your mind. His cock in your mouth, warm and heavy on your tongue, thick and hard against your throat. Unmoving, still, agonizing. 

He’d asked you into his office the second the last agent had left for the night. You knew what it was about, knew what awaited you the second he locked the doors and closed the blinds. And fortunately for you, it had not been the professional reprimand that you’d thought.

Unfortunately for you, he had made you strip completely, only allowing you to keep your panties. The cold air made your nipples hard and your skin erupt in goosebumps. He led you down on your knees, your pussy landing on his expensive leather shoe. He was calm and collected as he rolled his desk chair further into his desk, caging you against the wood at your back and his wood at your front.

“Open,” he commanded, and fearing any more repercussions after your major, his words, mild, your words, fuck up in the field, you eagerly did as he asked. A hint of a smile graced his lips as he watched you, an overwhelming sense of pride and satisfaction burning through his body as he unbuckled his belt. It was painfully slow and you were overly eager as you realized what he was commanding you to do. You were about to reach out to help him speed along the process when his eyes darkened in warning, your hands immediately falling against your sides. 

“Color?” he asked, a hint of cockiness in his voice startled you.

“Green, sir,” you replied, the implications of your consent not yet clear.

“Good,” with that he sprung his cock free from his underwear. He was already semi hard, the tip glistened with pre cum and you couldn’t help but salivate at the excitement. “This is not a treat, bunny,” your eyes met his again before he continued. “You are going to take me in your mouth but you may not make me cum, am I understood?”

Oh no. Aaron knew how much you loved to give him head, how you reveled in watching him come undone by your skilled tongue. It was one of the first things he’d learned about you, one of the things he couldn’t believe you liked doing. Which is why he knew that every fiber in your body would light up in protest. You wanted to scream, argue, throw a tantrum — but you didn’t. Instead you simply nodded solemnly. You had done this to yourself and there was no one else to blame.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he praised and the excitement in your lower belly went up in flames again. “You will be a perfect, still angel until I finish my paperwork, and then we’ll see if you’ve earned the right to get yourself off on my shoe.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And with that he rolled his chair all the way into his desk, one hand around his cock, the other grabbing your chin and pulling you where he wanted you. The movement made your pussy graze against his rough laces and you had to stop yourself from moaning. You could already feel your wetness start to pool and he’d literally done nothing yet. His fingers pressed against your cheeks and your mouth opened on its own, wide and eager, as he placed a third of his length on your tongue. 

You could’ve started crying right then and there, but you didn’t. You would not let him break you that easily. 

“Do you remember how to safe word, bunny?” He asked, he always asked.

You nodded, making your tongue rub against the underside of his length. You tapped his leg once. Yes. “How do you tap out?”

You tapped his leg twice and he rewarded you by patting your cheek, gently at first, but then his pats turned into soft smacks, right against the tip of his cock inside your mouth. He groaned loudly, the sounds slowly making you lose all sense of self as you felt him twitch inside your mouth. 

“Fuck, bunny,” he moaned. “This is going to be a long night.”

And long it was. You had lost track of time. At first you decided to count the seconds, minutes, hours, whatever to distract yourself from moving, from what you actually wanted to do. But it was impossible. Your arms had wrapped around his leg to hold yourself steady, your legs had started to wobble and so you’d given up and fully sat yourself down on his shoe.

You were gone, your brain wasn’t working anymore. All you could think about was the weight of his cock in your mouth and how much you wanted to move. Move your tongue, move your head, move your hands to wrap around his base, move your hips to give yourself some kind of relief.

You swallowed again, this time accidentally, and because of your miscalculation, your flat tongue grazed against his length, making you roll your eyes back in euphoria. You didn’t register as your hips started moving, as your pussy made contact with the rough, uneven surface of his laces, as your wetness drenched his shoe. Your clit grazed against a buckle and you moaned, loudly. That was the final straw. 

Without a word of warning he rolled his chair out, his hands quickly grabbing you under your armpits and effortlessly lifting you from under the desk. Your mind snapped back to reality in an instant. Glazed eyes turned sharp, numbness turned responsive, daze turned into realization. You were about to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, to let the tears fall when he sat you down on his lap, your legs on either side of his own. 

“Sir—”

His palm landed with a smack on your ass, the sting making you whimper. You had learned early on that there were times when he was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t bring himself to verbalize his commands. Instead, he’d gotten into the habit of turning them into action. A single spank was a warning to be quiet, to save whatever groveling — he wasn’t going to listen to it. 

“When I give you a command, I expect you to follow it,” he said, anger lacing every word.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your head hanging low avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t mean it—”

That made him snap, his right hand landing another smack against your reddening ass as his left tightly grasped your jaw, pulling your head up to face him. 

“Like you didn’t mean to go into that apartment without backup?” 

He was concerned, so much in fact that it was the easiest you’d ever been able to read him. You knew he’d been concerned for you. As your boss, you knew he cared for you. But as your Dom…that was a whole different story. You’d done your best to compartmentalize, to trust the other in your skills and training, to accept that you would both be put in scary situations when out in the field. But right then and there, you knew, you saw. He was terrified.

“Yes,” you breathed, the heavy understanding of your punishment washing over you like ice cold water. “It will not happen again. Sir.”

His eyes bore into yours, searching, but you knew what he would find. You cared too. It wasn’t like you had planned on going in without backup, it was that you both understood that the job came first, that whatever instinct made you follow through, no matter how reckless, had probably been for the best of the case. And as much as you both knew, if it made him feel more comfortable to remind you to be careful in this way, you would let him do it every single time.

“Good girl,” he praised, his lips hovering over yours teasingly. “I think you deserve a treat, don’t you?”

You nodded rapidly, making him smirk. You reveled in it, in his smile, in the warmth that was seeing him experience happiness in whatever form it might take. He gently guided you back to your knees in front of his chair and your eyes lit up.

“Make me cum, bunny,” he sat back down, legs spread open like inviting you to a buffet, chest rising and falling, his white button up straining with each breath.

You wasted no time getting to work, your hands quickly wrapping themselves around the base of his cock. He was still a little slick from your saliva, but it wasn’t enough, so you reached one hand down your panties, fingers eagerly collecting your slick before you slathered it all over his rock hard erection.

“Jesus Christ, bunny,” he groaned as your hands started to move up and down his shaft. Moves calculated, perfectly pressured, expertly avoiding his needy tip. Pre cum started to leak once more and that’s when you couldn’t hold back any longer. Your tongue darted out on its own volition, eagerly rolling around his tip, hungrily drinking him all in. He moaned loudly, his hand wrapping around your hair and pushing you further down against his length. 

You let him, flattening your tongue and opening your throat as you swallowed more and more of his length into your mouth. He stopped at your hand, letting you work your magic then. You wanted him to cum, needed to feel his spend down your throat. Your hands sped up their movements, meeting your mouth sloppily as you bobbed your head up and down to meet them at the base. You continued to roll your tongue around his length as you sucked in your cheeks, tightening around his cock. You could feel him tense, his moans becoming louder and louder, his breathing uneven, his heartbeat aggressive.

“I’m close—” he didn’t even manage to finish his sentence as you removed your hands and took him the rest of the way down your throat. His chest erupted in an animalistic groan as the tension snapped and he spilled down your throat. You moaned at the feeling, at the power that you had over this beautiful man in front of you. As much as you wanted relief of your own, there was nothing more satisfying than having him spill down your throat, than having him come undone by your tongue. The tears finally spilled as you kept him there, patiently waiting for him to finish before you pulled yourself off him. Your eyes locked onto his as you swallowed, making a show of it. 

You were both breathing rapidly, both stuck in a pocket of time where nothing else but the two of you existed, both completely satisfied in your own ways. He ran his hand over his face then, breaking the spell, knowing that if he stayed any longer, he’d say something he’d regret. Instead he took in a sharp breath and placed himself back into his pants before he reached out to help you to your feet. He led you back on his lap and this time he cradled you, warm hands running all over your cold body. You hummed against his chest, your own hands tightly grabbing a hold of his suit jacket. 

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he murmured before he pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“Yes, Master.”

idk if i'm "back" yet, but here's my offering to you on this saturday. but mostly bc i wanted to fuck with morgan while she's busy and can't do anything about it.

tags: @ssamorganhotchner, @criminalskies, @callm3c0nfus3d, @xladyxdreamer, @gr3enflowers, @lilyviolets, @howabouticallyou, @shadowmemory, @simp4f1, @honeylovemoon, @powerlvr25, @formulapierre, @spenciesprincess, @extra-trash77 (if i missed anyone please let me know!)

[whumpsoda]

WSFSP - A is for Apology

For the first prompt for this month’s event Alphabet of Whump by @alphabetofwhump!! Who knows how many of these I’ll do, I just loved the prompts!

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpees, implications of past abuse, recovering whumpees

——————

When Prince had brought up the prospect of joining the others for lunch, which in turn obviously meant leaving the two’s shared room, Mutt had panicked, instantly shooting him down with a shake of the head.

In the end Prince left anyway - as if he even needed to listen to Mutt in the first place - Mutt obediently and cautiously following in suit. Keeping his chest puffed and his scowl solid, Mutt ensured an intimidating presence.

It didn’t last long.

The glass, formerly halfway empty, was now a shatter of slick, knife sharp shards scattered across the wood of the kitchen. It happened so quickly Mutt couldn’t so much as tell how he broke it, too caught up in his own world to notice, only sure that it was his fault. He always was humiliatingly clumsy.

And everyone stared daggers at him, the room falling eerily silent, as if Mutt was under a blinding spotlight. The sting of their gazes made him cower, curling in on himself as a pounding sensation of horror began. nearly enough to get him to drop to his knees and beg had he not been paralyzed with fear.

“I-,” Should he have spoken, spilling meaningless apologies that could never overshadow the mess he had made? Should he have stayed silent, and be reprimanded for thinking something like him wouldn’t need to grovel? Mutt took a shaking breath, clenching his fists. “I’m- I- I’m sorry-,”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Isaac stole a swift step forward, far away enough not to step into anything that may cut her, hands out as if to stabilize him from feet away. “Just a glass. An accident.”

She said it so reassuringly, but Mutt was well aware that all of his accidents had piled up since he’d gotten to this strange place, and now he was finally going to be punished for every single little thing. How could they not be completely fed up with him?

Sniveling back ugly tears, Mutt choked out more apologies, biting at his quivering lip. “I- I, um, I’m sorry-,” his hands were trembling - no, his whole body was.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. No one’s mad, nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.” Her voice wavered with a slight of urgency, each wary of how the other might react. “You can cry if you need to, I understand. Just- look at me, okay, can you do that?”

“Y- yes, yes ma’am.” Doing exactly as ordered, all the while holding back his overflowing emotions, Mutt met her glimmering brown eyes. Leaning toward her, almost enraptured by her stare, he looked to Isaac for any sort of guidance.

“Take some nice, deep breaths. In, and out. In… and out. In… and out.” She guided him along as he obeyed, keeping a wave of sobs at bay all the while calming the drumming beat in his heart. “Better?”

Salty tears flooded his gaze as he stumbled backward, bumping into Prince who caught him by the arms. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-,” he always was a crybaby, as his masted had deemed him.

He hadn’t even noticed how long it had been without a punishment until then, he hadn’t been grateful for it. They were going to make him pay. Master always did.

She shook her head, just by a bit, curls shaking along with the movement. “Accidents happen, we all make them. You’re all good, man. Swear on it.”

His vision flickered to a woman - Edith Prince had called her - bumbling in front of him with a tall broom as she got right to work cleaning up Mutt’s mess.

He reached out for her. “Can- I can help, please-,”

A hand, absentmindedly and gently placed to Mutt’s arm, was soft with a slightly cool touch. Unfamiliar it was, but he didn’t realize until then how terribly he craved it. “Oh no, my dear. You have no shoes on. You might step on something and hurt yourself.”

“But, but, please-,”

“Isaac will help you to the other room, okay honey? Me and Oscar will clean this up, no problem.” She had this smile that bubbled a sugary warmth in his belly, even through the horror running about his mind. “Don’t even worry about it.”

Shaking his head, Mutt insisted, begging to be of service, to try even the slightest to make up for himself. “I can help, I can do anything, please.”

Swiftly and carefully Isaac cut between them, with a soft force stealing Mutt away from the kitchen, tears running down his flushed cheeks. “Come with me, okay? We’re just going to go over here by the couch.” She took him by the hand, her far smaller fingers curling over his as Mutt took Prince’s hand in his other, pulling the pet to his guard’s side.

Mutt whimpered, realization striking him hard in his knotted stomach as he stole a glance outside. “Do- do I… have to go in the dog house?” He was sure it was coming, positive there was no way they would let him off scott free for his undeniable insolence.

“Dog house?” Isaac took a piece of his tear stained hair, gently brushing it back into place. “Is that like… that’s a punishment, yes?”

“Uh, uh huh.” He sniveled, wiping one eye with a burly fist.

Her warmth hardened, expression going cold. “No. No, never ever, I promise you. There’s no such thing as that here - not even punishments.”

“No… punishments?” The idea was completely foreign to both him and Prince, the other pet quietly chiming in with his own confusion of the concept.

“Nope. You will never be punished, disciplined, or anything else your owner may have called it ever again and that’s final.” Isaac stated, sternly. “That goes for the both of you.”

“B- but-,”

“Never.”

“What if-,”

“Hey.” Isaac stopped the two, putting both of her outstretched pinky fingers to them. “Never. No what ifs, no buts. Pinkie promise.”

Prince carefully interlocked his own finger with hers, letting out the faintest of a chuckle as Mutt watched in confusion.

“It’s like a regular promise, just better. One for both of you.” Isaac whispered to him, and he, drying his face with his shirt, followed along with Prince. “Good.”

No punishments.

That’s what she said at least, and Mutt was inclined to believe her.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[galaxofmuses]

"Heyyyyyyy....Bluebird needs to wake uuuup. Why don't you help me my dear?"

"C............Can't."

"..........Can't see..."

[goldenseresinretriever]

Snitches Get Stitches: Chapter 3

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: Jake Seresin, golden boy of the NHL and Captain of the Dallas Stars makes headlines when he unexpectedly signs with newly-formed San Diego Dogfighters. When your future seems at the verge of crashing down, you receive the opportunity of a lifetime to become the team physician for the Dogfighters. You never expected to be working directly with your favorite hockey player. Jake has a secret and you have a job to do. Will he be able to trust you enough to help and will you be able to trust him with your heart?

Series CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, violence, sports violence, medical stuff, blood probably, angst, fluff, (eventual) smut, forbidden romance, sexual harassment, suggestive language, medical inaccuracies, hockey inaccuracies etc. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: This is a repost of my completed series, Snitches Get Stitches. It was originally posted in October-November 2023, and was lost when my blog was deleted.

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

You don’t see Jake again until the next day. Three days in and you’re up to your eyeballs in paperwork that Beau dropped into your lap this morning. You’re starting to understand why they call him Cyclone, he blows in and right back out, leaving you in perpetual chaos. Admittedly he got it for doing that on the ice and he’s actually an extremely reasonable person, you just don’t particularly appreciate getting swamped when you’re already booked full with the physicals. There’s only one way to get both done and that’s how you find yourself in your office working through your lunch break, trying to ignore the angry protests of your stomach after being on your feet all morning working through the last of the second line guys. You half expect the knock at your door, absently calling out to invite the knocker in, expecting Zam coming to investigate your absence from the unofficial girls' table in the break room. That’s why the southern drawl catches you off guard and your head whips up so fast you almost tumble out of your chair.

“Hey, Bugs.” Jake Seresin is standing in the doorway, holding a white plastic bag and a steel water bottle. “You got a second?”

You most definitely do not have a second but your patients come first so you rush to rearrange the paper chaos on your desk to clear some space, waving a hand at the chair opposite inviting him to sit. “Sure Jake, what’s up?”

He sits, his large body dwarfing the office chair and you do your best not to stare, the lack of food in your stomach must be making you mildly delirious. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday about trust, and you’re asking me to trust you. And not your title, you’re asking me to trust you the person if that makes sense?” You nod slowly. “And I was thinking that to trust you as a person, I can’t really do the blind faith thing. I can do that with a title because the title has implications, like because you’re a doctor I know you have over a decade of school and studying to back that title up. But I don’t have anything to trust you as a person because I just met you two days ago. You’ve done your research on me, you said so yourself, so I think I need to do my research.”

“Is this you asking for my Instagram…?” He laughs at that and this time you have time to appreciate how beautiful and full the sound is.

“No Bugs,” he chuckles, placing the plastic bag and water bottle on your desk. “This is me asking you to have lunch with me.”

“Oh. Oh yeah, sure.” You do your best to quiet the part of your brain that’s spiraling to figure out when you’re going to be able to finish all this paperwork. It’ll have to wait, you’re finally getting somewhere with Jake. He opens the bag pulling out a wrapped package and a plastic container.

“I didn’t know if you were more of a cheeseburger or salad person so I just got both.” You almost melt into your seat at the gesture. Before you can say anything, however, your stomach beats your mouth and growls so loudly you want to sink through your chair and die. Your cheeks flush as Jake grins. “Sounds like you’re a both girl.” He places the cheeseburger on top of the salad container and slides the stack across your desk.

“Thank you, Jake, seriously.” You stammer as you grab the cheeseburger with shaking fingers, doing everything to not rip the wrapper to shreds and devour half of it in one bite. “And for the record, I’m a cheeseburger girl.” You give him a shy smile as you bite into it, groaning.

He chuckles as he takes out three more cheeseburgers and starts on one as well. “And here I thought bunnies liked carrots.”

“Actually rabbits don’t naturally eat carrots. They’re too high in sugar.” You say around the cheeseburger in your mouth.

“Noted.”

You swallow. “So what do you want to know about me?”

“I guess let’s start broad. What made you want to do this, working with athletes? You mentioned you watch hockey in your spare time?”

“Yeah, I grew up watching the Ducks with my dad.” You smile at the memory. “Hockey is our thing, one thing we can always talk about, do together.”

“I bet he lost his mind when he found out you’re working with three former Ducks.” He says with a grin. You laugh at that.

“Are you kidding? The man lost his damn mind. He always said he’d never go to an NHL game that wasn’t an Anaheim game but he’s already got tickets for our season opener. The man worships Maverick.”

“Are the Ducks your favorite team too?”

You hesitate at that. Before it was easy to keep yourself separate from Bugs, they were two circles that didn’t overlap but there’s nothing professional about eating lunch with one of your patients in your office. You’re finally making progress with Jake and while you hate lying to him, you’re not sure now is the time to mention that you’re a super fan. “I’m pretty sure I’m contractually obligated to say my favorite team is the Dogfighters.”

“Good point.” He chuckles. So you love hockey, but there’s plenty of ways to work with it without being a physician, so why that?”

“Well I’ve always felt connected to the players on a team, so naturally it always hurt a little to see them get injured, and as a viewer, I hated that there wasn’t something I could do about that. Turns out there was something I could do. I’ve always loved taking care of people but being able to apply it to something that means so much to me is kind of like the sweetest possible deal. I like to think I have a unique perspective with hockey athletes specifically since I grew up watching and playing the sport, I feel like I know them.”

“Wait a second, you play hockey?” His eyes are glowing with excitement.

“Played, past tense. Just for a little bit as a kid, until high school. I never really had the build and body for it, so I played as long as I could before it got to a serious level and I couldn’t make the teams anymore. My dad used to coach a kids league so that’s how I started.”

“What position?”

“Goalie and that’s the only reason I managed to make teams for as long as I did. The body was less of a requirement next to flexibility and agility.”

“Like Bob?”

“Yup, just like Bob, but look at him, he made it to the NHL. It’s nice to see, I think I would have fought harder to keep playing if I’d seen a goalie like him.” You give a rueful smile. “But if I’d kept playing, I never would have found my calling for sports medicine so it worked out in a way. This way I understand what it’s like to be a player so I can level with my patients better because I understand where their coming from.” He nods, turning this new information over in his head.

“Any siblings?”

“Two older brothers.”

“Did they play hockey too?”

You nod. “My oldest brother played through college but didn’t get drafted so he went to law school for sports law and now he’s the one signing players. My other brother plays for the Predators.”

“Damn Bugs, you’ve got an NHL player in the family? No wonder you’re so chill around us.”

“Idiot boys are idiot boys no matter how much they get paid. My brother may play for the Predators now but that’s the same kid who had to get his stomach pumped at age six for eating two whole tubes of play dough on a dare.” Jake chokes on his burger as he laughs.

“Are y’all close?”

You nod. “We all work in different facets of the same sport so it keeps us pretty tight-knit.”

“So who are you gonna be rooting for when we play the Predators in November?”

You make a face. “Are you kidding? The Predators can’t play for shit.” Jake barks out a laugh at the disgusted look you throw his way.

“And the Dogfighters?”

“That remains to be seen. I still haven’t seen their star centre at the top of his game so I can’t form an opinion about them quite yet.” You give him a soft smile, hoping that it comes across like gentle encouragement instead of a cruel dig. He sighs and sits back and you’re afraid you’ve crushed the delicate bubble you’d just created. “I didn’t mean it like that, Jake, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.” You stumble over your words as you try to backtrack. Before Jake can respond, a knock sounds at your door and you call out for them to come in. Cyclone enters and you can’t help but wither a little at the sight.

“Cyclone, what can I do for you?” You give him a tight smile trying to ignore the way his eyes rove over the scene in front of him, Jake, the food, the pushed-aside paperwork.

“Bugs, I wanted to see if you’d finished up with the paperwork I dropped off this morning?” Finished? You’d be lucky if you were even halfway done. “I’m going to need those on my desk by the end of the day.”

“Sure thing, sir.” You chirp, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. You’re so completely, totally, fucked. Your afternoon is booked full with physicals, so you’ll have to stay late to finish the paperwork.

“Jake? What brings you here?”

“Just chatting, sir, getting better acquainted with the person responsible for my health for the foreseeable future.” Jake offers Cyclone a wide grin that’s pure charisma. He could charm the pants off a horse. Cyclone nods in response, turning back to you.

“Bugs, if you could come by my office when you’re done here I’d like to have a chat with you as well.” You feel your stomach sink. You know what this is about. Your mind falls back to the day of your interview and you grimace at exactly what Cyclone is insinuating.

“I’ll be right up, sir.” You miss the worried look that Jake gives you. His eyes scan the papers scattered on your desk as Cyclone leaves.

“Hey Bugs, did I interrupt your work?” He looks guilty.

“No! Well technically yes I was working on some paperwork but you’re my patient so you’re my work too, and either way, I was on my lunch break so legally speaking I wasn’t working either way. There was no way this was all getting done by the end of the day anyway.”

“But Cyclone just said-“

“It'll be done by the end of THE day, just not his day. I’ll just have to stay late to finish it up. I’ve got back-to-back physicals for the rest of the day after this. It's no big deal.”

He shakes his head, frowning. “That’s not fair, you shouldn’t have to do that. Doesn’t he know how busy you are?”

“You of all people should know life isn’t fair, Jake. We’re starting a team from the ground up, this may be the first late night, but I promise you it won’t be the last.” You start collecting your trash, already missing Jake’s company at the thought of your meeting with Cyclone. He’s deep in thought, still frowning. “Sorry to cut things short, but I do have to meet Cyclone before my next appointment.” Something pops into your mind that you’d meant to mention as Jake starts to clean up as well.

“Wait, Jake, I need to tell you something.” He looks up, and the seas in his eyes are calmer than you’ve ever seen them even as you see the question in them.

“What’s up, Bugs?”

“Bob knows.” He looks confused so you clarify. “About your leg…” you watch the walls slam back up in his eyes as he frowns, anger flooding into his face. “I didn’t tell him, I swear! He asked me about it yesterday during his physical. Apparently, he studied kinesiology in college and has been watching you and he noticed something was up.” You’re suddenly worried that you’ve made a terrible mistake in telling him but ultimately you thought it was the right decision.

“Fuck…” Jake runs an irritated hand through his hair and you watch the blonde strands stick up on his wake. “FUCK!” You jump at his raised voice and he turns to you at the movement. He must see the fear pass through your eyes because his shoulders slump and you see the same look mirrored in them. You come out from behind your desk, laying your hand on his absurdly large bicep.

“It’s okay, Jake. I know this is scary but you’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.” You add without thinking. He turns to look at you and you see the fear swirling in his eyes and it breaks your heart. “But your team deserves to know what’s going on, Jake. You owe that to them as a teammate and especially as their captain. You have to lead by example.” He nods silently.

“I know.” You’re not sure if you imagine the waver in his voice.

“I gotta go before Cyclone comes back down here looking for me, but you can take your time if you need some privacy.” You take a deep breath that doesn’t go unnoticed by Jake, straightening your shoulders before grabbing your white coat from the hook on the back of your door, giving Jake a little wave as you leave.

***

The walk up to Cyclone’s office feels like walking through wet cement, but when you get there, the door is open and he’s waiting at his desk, lips set in a grim line. You close the door behind you, taking a seat across from him when he invites you to.

“Bugs, I was hoping we wouldn’t have to have this conversation at all, let alone three days into the job.” He looks frustrated and you can’t blame him but you also know he’s misunderstanding what he saw. “When I hired you, you made me a promise.”

“I know sir, and I’ve kept it. My relationship with Jake Seresin, if you can even call it that, is strictly professional. As the captain of the team, he’s expressed interest in maintaining a good relationship with me so he wanted to meet to discuss how the physicals have been going and lunchtime is the only free time we both have, currently.” You hope the lie sounds as convincing as you need it to as you silently chastise yourself for putting your hand on Jake’s arm earlier. It was unnecessary and unprofessional. Anyone could have walked in and gotten the wrong idea. You need to stop touching him so much, but you can’t help it. He’s like a magnet, and you’re helpless to his pull.

He nods curtly but doesn’t look convinced. “And how are they going?”

“Everyone I’ve finished with is in perfect condition.” This time it’s not a lie. Technically Jake hasn’t had his physical yet.

“Good.” He sighs. “Bugs, we’re not going to have a problem here, are we? I took a chance hiring you, you know that. There are multiple accounts that contrast the story you told me. You’re outnumbered and I still chose to trust you, I hope I made the right decision.”

“You did, sir. There won’t be any problems.” At least not in this department. You can’t imagine how he’ll react when he finds out his star goalie is injured.

“I hope so because if we do, I can assure you that you’ll never work in the NHL again, let alone in the hockey world.” You swallow, hard, glad that your hands aren’t visible where they’re tightly fisted under the table to contain your anger. This shouldn’t be happening, you shouldn’t have to be dealing with this, and yet you’re sitting here being scolded like a child for something that’s not even your fault, being threatened with losing everything you’ve worked so hard for, that you’re more than qualified to do.

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all Bugs, I expect to see that paperwork on my desk first thing tomorrow.” You do your best to leave without looking like you’re actively fleeing the scene, but as soon as his office door shuts you’re practically sprinting back to your office. With the endless pile of paper on your desk, every second counts.

***

You glance at the clock as you grab what’s finally the last piece of paper on your desk. It’s a little after eight and honestly, you’re doing a lot better than you expected. You silently thank Jake’s lunch interruption or else you’d be positively delirious from hunger at this point. Even now, you can feel the all-to-familiar gnawing that comes after a hard day’s work. You’re thankful to be sitting after standing for pretty much the whole afternoon. By the end of the week you should be done with all the physicals except Jake’s, ahead of schedule you might add. You can’t find it in you to be proud, though, as you try to focus your brain enough to read the letters swimming on the page in front of you. Letting out an exhausted groan, you lay your forehead down on the table, as a knock raps at your door.

“Sorry, I’m almost done here, it’ll be good to clean in like twenty minutes!” You call out to who you assume is the cleaning crew, anxious to finish their jobs and go home like you.

“Good to know.” A familiar voice answers as the door swings open to reveal Jake, holding a pizza box. He’s got a backward cap on his head and a gentle grin on his face as he takes a seat in his spot across from you, placing the box on the table and you can feel the heat coming off of it as your mouth starts to water. You’re sure you’re making heart eyes at it as he opens it and helps himself to a slice. “I figured you probably hadn’t had dinner since you seemed so used to skipping lunch.” You give him an embarrassed smile as you finally pull your eyes away from the pizza.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He waves you off with his free hand. “What’re you still doing here, anyway?” You turn back to the pizza, selecting a slice and barely stopping the moan from escaping your lips as you take a bite.

“You said you were staying late and I wasn’t sure how safe that was so I figured I’d hit the gym and get some extra reps. No leg stuff, don’t worry.” He says misinterpreting your wide-eyed expression.”

“You stayed here for me?”

“I mean you’re staying here for us, so yeah. Plus, I owed you after interrupting your work earlier.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know I’m almost done.” You wave your free hand at the paper in front of you. “Last one!” He lifts his fist in a silent cheer as he chews. You wipe your greasy hands on your scrubs and turn back to the paper, and suddenly the words are legible again. You skim the text before adding some notes and signatures where necessary. You work in a comfortable silence punctuated by the sound of Jake’s chewing. Finally, you set down your pen and sit back in your chair with a sigh.

“All done?”

“All done!” You turn back to the box to see two slices left.

“Those are all yours, Bugs. You earned ‘em.” You smile shyly at him as you dig in. “So, how’d the meeting with Cyclone go?” He looks slightly concerned and you wonder why.

You shrug as you swallow. “Fine, I guess. He wanted to know how the physicals were going. At least I’m ahead on those, they should be done by Friday, except for you, that is. You have until the end of next week.”

“About that…” Jake looks at you sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I think I’m ready.”

You almost fall out of your chair for the second time today. “Jake that’s great news! Thank you so much!” You pause to swallow. “Wait did you mean right now, right now, or like just generally ready?”

He chuckles nervously. “Just generally. You can fit me in whenever, I’ll be there.”

“I can do it first thing tomorrow if you’d like? Get it over and done with so you don’t have to worry about it anymore?” He nods at that.

“Yeah, that’ll work.” His eyes are fixed at some invisible point on the desk.

“Hey, Jake?” He doesn’t raise his head.

“Yeah, Bugs?”

“No matter what happens tomorrow, it’s gonna be okay. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” He nods, still not looking at you. “It’s okay to be scared, you know? You just can’t let the fear paralyze you, you have to move through it.” He lets out a shuddering breath and you wonder just how long he’s been holding it.

When he speaks again, you almost don’t recognize his voice. It’s gravelly and full of fear. “What if you can’t fix it?”

“Then I’ll do whatever I can to make you more comfortable and we’ll move from there. There’s no scenario where things don’t change, I promise. I can’t promise how much I’ll be able to do until I’ve seen your leg.” He nods again.

“Everything changes tomorrow.”

“Everything’s already changed today.” You say with a small smile. “We had an actual conversation like sane human beings, we shared two meals, and you decided to trust me with your care. The hard part’s already over.” You watch his cheeks flex as he smiles too.

“Thanks, Bunny, I mean it.” You try to ignore the way your heart beats a little faster when he calls you that.

“Thank YOU, for trusting me.” The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before you add. “Hey, Jake? You should talk to Javy. He loves you a lot and he’s really tearing himself up over this.”

He nods. “I know. We usually tell each other everything, I haven’t been fair to him.”

You stand. “I’m gonna run this paperwork upstairs if you want to grab your stuff to head out.” You stack the piles of paper in your arms, careful not to drop them, and Jake stands, holding open the door for you. You give him a smile of thanks before heading off to Cyclone’s office to drop them off.

***

You find Jake waiting with his stuff by the door to the parking garage. “Sorry, you didn’t need to wait!”

He shakes his head with a smile. “You just don’t get it, do you? I’m walking you to your car.”

“What if I’m staying late in an attempt to get kidnapped so I can sue for the money I need for my loans?” You pout up at him.

“I’d say you’re better off trying that on a team with more money.” You laugh. The only cars left in the garage are yours and a silver Ford F-150 that you assume must be Jake’s. “I’d say nice ride, Bugs, but what happened to the front?” He squats down to examine the scratches on your front bumper. “Oh, I hit Maverick on his bike.” His head whips up to gape at you.

“You WHAT?”

“Yeah, that’s actually how we met… He drove in front of me when I was pulling into a gas station. I was freaking out and told him I was a doctor so he’d let me check him out and then he offered me a job interview.”

“Damn Bunny, you’re a hustler.” You blush.

“HE drove in front of ME.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He stands back up. “I know a guy who could take a look at those scratches if you want?”

“Oh no, don’t worry about it, they’re just scratches, it’s not worth the money, honestly.”

“I promise you, Mav can afford it. And remind me to never let you drive my truck.” You roll your eyes, unlocking your car and tossing your stuff into the passenger seat.

“Goodnight, Jake.” You say as you slide into the driver’s seat, rolling down the window so you can keep talking to him.

“Drive safe, Bugs.” He gives you a pointed look that says he means it.

You can’t help it, you stick your tongue out at him as you shift the car into reverse. Jake stays and waves you off until you can’t see him anymore. All in all, today was a success, you think as you pull out of the garage. Jake trusts you, except now you have a different problem. Can you trust yourself with Jake?

[felinisnoctis]

Bonded Pairs: Apothecary pt 2

CW: Depression/self-hatred, mentions of past abuse/torture

Language guide: Gothic Battle Sign

More thanks to @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for the use of Zariel, I hope I did your boy justice with some difficult patients.

Both marines heard the heavy steps on the stairs to the basement. A voice called out to them from around the corner. “Ultramarine Apothecary Zariel, I was told there were a couple of brothers in need of care here?” As he rounded the corner the apothecary could see one of the marines curled up in a corner under a heavy knit blanket. The other was…ah, on top of the fridge, reddish eyes and bared fangs glaring down at him.

Asariel watched the apothecary’s entrance carefully, waiting for him to fully enter the door before signing to him, not shifting out of a wary crouch on top of the fridge.

Why are you here? And where is here?

The blood angel was in enough control to communicate rather than attack at least. You are on Terra, but in a different time. What year is it the last you knew?

Not sure. Been in the warp a few centuries. Not nearly long as my beloved has been though. Early M42 last I knew. This is Terra you say?

Terra in M3.

Asariel tilted his head for a long moment, considering all this information, still poised to attack.

My brother. Can you help him?

I will try. Another moment of consideration, then Asariel jumped from the fridge to land next to his companion, tapping a message rapidly onto the blind ultramarine’s shoulder. Gerhardt was shivering despite the blanket but tapped something in response, leaning back against his companion’s chest. His breathing was shallow and labored as Zariel moved closer.

An ultramarine apothecary, of all the things to find. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with me.

That’s my job, to patch brothers up. Zariel was getting close enough to listen to Gerhardt’s vital signs. He heard the sounds of twin hearts beating rapidly, and a single lung working to bring oxygen in. What happened to your lungs? I can only hear one of the three. For the moment he opted to ignore the implications of Gerhardt’s statement, other than to mentally file a note to recommend a chaplain.

Gerhardt made a noise that could almost have been a laugh but came out more like a sob. Removed to make me less dangerous. Along with several other things. One hand touched the blindfold covering his eyes thoughtfully. The owner of this place. Can you tell me what they look like? Asairel thinks I’m being foolish. Asariel shot a grouchy look over his brother’s shoulder at that remark, wrapping his arms around Gerhardt’s shoulders protectively. Gerhardt leaned back with a slight smile, nestling his shoulder in the opening of Asariel’s robe. Something about the shape of the robe looked wrong to Zariel - he would need to examine the blood angel as well of course.

They’re young, with long red hair and dark green eyes. When I came here they were wearing a grey t-shirt and black jeans and some kind of striped jacket. And sensible boots. Was the ultramarine bonded to this human? Zariel almost hoped so, since it would make his recovery and adjustment so much easier. Especially with a human who was already used to astartes.

They sound delightful. I wish I’d had a chance to know them back when I was useful. They worry too much; they need someone they don’t have to worry about.

Ok so “making recovery easier” might be relative here. I need to take a look at your chest. May I shift the blanket off? Gerhardt nodded at Zariel’s request, even as Asariel looked ready to pounce. Under the blanket he was shaking despite a heating pad and the relative warmth of the basement. Zariel reached out a hand to check on muscle tone and felt Gerhardt tense and try not to flinch.

Asatartes-grade painkillers. He’s in withdrawal. The blood angel signed over his brother’s head. Zariel signed back an acknowledgment. Addiction was more difficult in Astartes, but it wasn’t impossible.

If he’s in withdrawal, and with this much damage, he really needs to be in a clinic where he can be monitored.

Gerhardt pulled the blanket back over himself. No clinic. Not worth it anyway. The blood angel pulled him in closer to his chest, before signing back Will it help him?

He’s stable for the moment, but he needs to be somewhere where someone can keep a closer eye on him. And perhaps also find more answers as to what the hell had happened to these two, but Zariel wasn’t going to say that out loud. I’ll go see what the transportation options available are.

[mitchellpete]

Kinktober Day 12 - Voyeurism

pairing: tom “iceman” kazansky x f!reader (x pete “maverick” mitchell)

cw: penetrative sex, voyeurism, could count as cucking?, brief icemav implications but if you squint you can ignore it

word count: 1386

kinktober masterlist here.

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

-

Maverick immediately knows what’s going on the moment he steps through the door, the noises loud and clear. His brows immediately knit together in confusion, in surprise, at the absurdity of the situation. The front door to your house had been unlocked, for starters, and you’re somewhere inside, and he can hear you moaning and what sounds like shit being knocked around. 

A scowl meets Maverick’s knitted brows as he shuts the door and immediately makes his way down the hallway. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing; he’s certainly not gonna barge in and ruin your fun but Christ, is there any indication on who you’re with right now? He needs to know. And maybe he suddenly regrets everything you promised one another—that you wouldn’t catch feelings, that this fling wouldn’t last past his time at Top Gun—but maybe he actually did like you, and you just ruined it all the moment his hand turned the knob to your door. 

Maverick gets closer to the noises, a mixture of panic and intrigue seeping through him when he realizes the door is cracked open. Just enough that when he reaches the frame, he sees you. 

You’re laying on your side, a big body behind you, long strong legs and a sharp snap of hips meeting yours. An arm around your torso. A hand propping your leg up for easier thrusts, a blue Academy ring tauntingly sparkling at him.

And then his eyes catch the head of spiky blonde.

For fuck’s sake. 

For a moment, Maverick is almost blinded with anger. His heart stoops down to his feet and all he can think of is betrayal. How sick you are for doing this to him. 

You’d been fucking each other for weeks. Had made a comfortable situation out of it, and came to terms with the fact that it probably wouldn't last. But Maverick was sort of on top of the world right now, getting to fly with his best friend, competing for the Top Gun trophy, being the best possible pilot he could be up there. Taking his chance to prove himself once and for all. And Maverick is always all or nothing, and if he knew that this would backfire on him, then he’d shoved it to the deepest corner in the back of his mind and chose to go through with it anyway just for the fun of it. And now he’s paying the price, and the promises he made you don’t mean anything anymore. How could you? Yeah, yeah, you’re not together, you’re not in love, you’re certainly not chained to one another, but why? 

Iceman of all people.

That’s gotta be a personal fucking vendetta you’ve got against him. 

God, and he really did like you..? By the way..? No matter how many times he told himself he didn’t..? Fuck that. He does. He did. He decided the moment he stepped inside your house. And now all of it is fucking soiled. 

He considers running out, slamming the front door for effect and mounting his Kawasaki and taking a long drive out of here. Giving you the silent treatment the next time he sees you. Maybe finally punching Iceman in the fucking face the second he hears that irritating voice sound out his name in the locker room, just before going on a tangent about aircraft safety and some other bullshit Maverick never pays attention to. 

But he does not move.

And he realizes a little too late how entranced he is at the sight in front of him.

Maverick’s eyes roam, but they settle right at the junction between your legs. His lips part at the sight of Ice’s cock ramming into you. You’re so wet, he can see it pooling with every slippery thrust. The sound of skin on skin brings a heat to Maverick’s cheeks, his own cock twitching in his pants. 

Your moans are loud and repetitive, cries of pleasure he’s heard many times before.

Iceman’s pace is relentless, quick and hard and perfect. Even in the shadows, Maverick is slightly intimidated. 

Maverick doesn’t avert his eyes, lets out a stifled groan at the feel of his hardening cock in his tight jeans. It all worsens when he hears Ice moan, the sound prettier than he’d like to admit. It stirs the desire in him, flushes his entire body in heat. What he would do to be in Ice’s position right now, fucking into you like his life depended on it, sliding in and out of that tight, wet heat over and over. He knows how good you look; he can imagine how good Ice feels fucking into you like this. 

As if on cue, “You like to watch, Mitchell?” that familiar voice sneers at Maverick from behind you. 

Maverick flinches, unintentionally takes a step back, but it’s no use. Ice is hovering over the side of your body, angling his hips to find a better spot. He’s got a shit eating smile on his face, staring right at Maverick, and it’s then that Maverick realizes. 

It wasn’t you. None of this was you. Did… did Iceman know? Did he leave the door open for Maverick to find? He fucking would. And Maverick would get angry again if he wasn’t so turned on out of his mind. 

You continue moaning, in a hazy state of bliss, but your eyes flick over to the doorframe at the sound of Ice’s voice. Maverick stands there, watching with a fiery gaze.

“M—Maverick,” you cry out, an arm absentmindedly reaching out in his direction. Your brows furrowed together, you hope he realizes you’re inviting him in; that just the sight of him almost has you keeling over and letting go. You want him in the room, but he doesn’t budge, remains in the shadows of the hallway, so you moan out again, “Please.”

Ice chuckles behind you, giddy. You’re amazed at how composed he is, how his thrusts haven’t even begun to falter. You’re so close to your orgasm, but he seems to be doing fine still. 

“P–Pete,” you gasp a third time, and then Ice hits a very sensitive spot inside you. “Oh, fuck, Ice!”

The heat of Ice’s body pressed to yours, his tight grip on your torso and the force of his thrusts are dizzying enough, but it’s even beyond that when the door creaks a little wider. Maverick hesitantly steps inside, though his eyes remain glued to you. Leaning against the wall right next to the door, he watches as Ice’s hand clasps around your breast, roughly kneading at it. 

“Knew you liked to watch,” Ice remarks, but he’s not looking at Maverick anymore. His eyelids are lidded in pleasure, lips parted as he nears his own orgasm.

Maverick’s stomach flips at Ice’s words, but he doesn’t respond. He focuses on you and how high pitched your moans sound, knows very well that that’s an indication that you’re cumming soon. 

“Ice,” you sob, your hand reaching for his and then clawing at the skin of it. “I’m gonna cum.”

Ice leans in to press his mouth to your ear, teeth lightly grazing the skin of it. “Cum for me, baby,” he rasps quietly. 

Mouthing at your neck, Ice’s eyes flick over to Maverick again, whose gaze has gotten wider. His entire face is painted crimson, eyes roaming at the sight in front of him, wanting every detail of your incoming release. Are you gonna cum for Ice the way you do for him? Let out that gorgeous sounding moan, long and lengthy when you start to shake? 

You do. 

Maverick bites his lip at the sight and sound, has to palm at his cock through his jeans to ease the ache a bit.

He watches intently as it takes Ice too, his thrusts finally sloppy, his body going slack next to yours. Ice groans out loud against your skin, his grip around your body loosening. 

The sensation breaks your haze, and you throw your head back against the mattress as it sinks in. Finally making eye contact with Maverick and his flushed face, you bite back a smile as you try to figure out how you’re gonna explain the situation to him. Maverick is wondering what he’s gonna do about his fucking hard on. Ice is just sliding out of you with a laugh.

[fallershipping]

CW (Content Warning): Ableism in a fictional setting

Note: I do not like the 'Looker is a Zoroark' headcanon. I actively dislike it. I would like my headcanons to not be associated with something I consider dehumanizing.

There's a specific concept of how Zoroark and Human interactions have been historically negative, and is somewhat similar to the Changeling myth. It's said that the Zorua family will take the form of a mute child or barely parrot human speech in a very uncanny fashion in the case of stronger specimens. This is nothing more than an evolved survival strategy-- Zoroark never predated humans but used to be known as, at BEST, pests that steal food and livestock, and at WORST, wicked monsters that must be exterminated or else a bad omen will set upon the village. It was once superstition that a Zorua or Zoroark disguising as a human was plotting to replace them in the village.

This has, as you can infer, led to horrible treatment of people who were mute or exhibited any sort of traits associated with being Neurodivergent. For what it's worth, this wrongful manner of thinking was culled sometime after the events of Legends Arceus.

However, the side effects are present in modern times, to a lesser extent yet still harming. Comparing one to a Zoroark (or in modern times a Ditto due to its recent appearance) is mostly done out of blind ignorance, but it still carries the implication that the other is not human, exhibiting traits that can only be regarded as a non-human entity.

Nanu once referred to Looker as one for his disguise techniques, not intending to be harmful. Looker's very sour reception to his remark was enough of a message to the older agent to never use that comparison again. The Detective might have lost his memories, but something about that comparison struck a nerve somewhere deeply rooted in childhood.

[turtlecleric]

Rise!Leo x fem reader, angst with an unhappy ending (cw: blood, implication of deadly violence, gore?, reader death) - seriously, even if you're on the tag list, you might want to just skip this one

---

Donnie is in the middle of rolling his eyes at Leo's seventh complaint in the last two minutes about how long you're taking to respond to his text when the alarm goes off.

Sick dread settles heavily in Donnie's stomach like a stone. He lifts his arm to look at the bright red alert flashing across his tech gauntlet, and the span of a second feels like an eternity, stretching a single heartbeat into a lifetime. When Donnie looks back up, catching his brother's intense gaze, it's like Leo already knows it was you who hit the panic button.

“Where?” Leo snaps, unsheathing a katana.

“Her apartment, but we should-”

Leo is already gone.

Donnie silences the alarm, taking a moment to notify Raph and Mikey that they need to meet him in the tank before standing and running toward the garage. It's mere seconds later, though, when a crash comes from the medbay. Donnie pivots, almost falling in his haste, and sprints toward the sound, hoping, hoping, hoping. But then he hears Leo's panicked whispers, and his own panic clamps around his throat like a vice.

“No, no, no, please. Please don't- I can't- no, no, mi vida, please, please-”

Leo never panics. Not in the medbay. Never, ever, has he panicked in the medbay.

Donnie finally reaches the entrance to the medbay and freezes. Horror washes over him when he sees Leo kneeling on the floor, holding you in his arms. He's covered in blood, but none of it seems to belong to him. It's splattered across him in a way that tells Donnie that, without a doubt, whoever dared to hurt you was no longer breathing. The blood covering his brother isn't what turns Donnie's stomach, though.

It's the blood covering you.

It soaks the front of your shirt, still sluggishly pouring from a deep, jagged gash across your throat. The sight makes nausea rise up, sudden and intense, and Donnie has to clench his jaw and hold a hand over his mouth. Leo lowers you to the floor, keeping one arm around your back and bringing his other hand up to hover over the wound on your throat. Like he wants to press down, to try to stem the flow.

Donnie isn't the medic of the family, but even he knows that it's too late. It would only hurt you, fill your last moments with more pain, if Leo were to give in like he so clearly wants to and press down.

Wet, choking noises slip out of you, barely audible underneath Leo's desperate pleading. Your chest convulses as your lungs beg for oxygen. Leo's trembling hand moves away from your neck, instead cupping the side of your face. Your eyes, which started out wide and terrified, are hazy now. Tears stream lazily down the sides of your face and into your hair. Your arm hangs limply at your side, and the slight twitch of your fingers pulls Donnie's gaze.

“No, no, no, you're safe now, okay? I've got you. I've got you. I'm-” Leo's voice breaks, and tears fall from his eyes to mix with yours. “I'm sorry, please, I'm so sorry, alma. I'm here, okay? I'm here, I'm-”

Suddenly the room is quiet. The silence rings in Donnie's tympanum, and he doesn't want to look. He doesn't want to see.

But he does.

Leo blinks. Whispers your name like it's a question, like there's still a chance you'll answer. Says it again, louder this time. Jostles you in his arms. There's another long moment where he just stares. Stares. And then his face crumples, blind terror shifting into despair as his next scream of your name ends in a sob, as he presses his forehead to yours and keens.

Donnie barely registers the gasps of his other two brothers behind him. The grief threatens to swallow him whole, the sight and sound of his twin falling apart almost too much to physically take. He feels the childish urge to close his eyes and cover his ears. To run away.

But he doesn't.

Leo's heart beat for you. And someone has to be here to make sure it doesn't stop now that you're gone.

---

Tag list: @yorshie @luckycharms1701 @thejudiciousneurotic @khayalli @thelaundrybitch