#both are stubborn and downright fucking rude

[zenyuumi]

am incredibly pissed off i do not like it here

[criminalmindsgonewrong]

HEAT.

18+, NSFW, pwp. 8.9k words of utter filth.

This is…the definition of shameless. I'll never read this again because I can't reread my own smut, but I hope you enjoy it x

there's Only One Bed. the AC is broken. you know the rest.

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Emily had three problems.

The first was that the hotel room they'd booked only had one bed. The second was that the person outside the door, the person she had to share the hotel room with, was her boss. The third was that, expecting she would get her own bedroom, she had not packed appropriate pyjamas.

No, what she had instead was a tiny, cropped white tank and shorts so tiny she would be hesitant to wear them around her best friend, JJ, let alone Hotch.

She looked at herself in the mirror, at the way the tank clung to the curvature of her breasts. Turning, she tugged down the shorts, but they only went so far before revealing far too much of her midriff. She tugged them up a little, resigned, instead, to half of her ass being on display.

"It's fucking Texas, what was I supposed to pack?" she said to her reflection.

That was fair enough; August in Texas was no joke. Still, she wished she'd been a little more conservative with her choice of attire.

The bathroom was still warm with the steam from her shower, but as she stepped out into their shared hotel room, she realised she'd made a cyclical sort of error when Hotch looked at her from where he was standing near the thermostat.

Did she imagine it, the way his throat bobbed as he took in her appearance? Did his eyes really linger at the hem of her shorts, far too high to be appropriate in present company, or was she making that up?

"It's broken," he said, shortly, about the AC. Emily shivered on the spot, already too cold, and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Can we call reception?" She asked, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"Already tried," Hotch said, gruffly, "They said there's nothing they can do until morning."

"Well, that's just great," Emily shook her head, "Cheapest hotel in the state, the AC is fucked and we couldn't even get our own damn rooms."

He tried not to take offense to that, shaking his head as he crossed to the bed and grabbed for his go bag. "I hope you left some hot water."

Emily, wringing out her damp hair, rolled her eyes, "I was in there all of five minutes."

"Hmmph," was all the reply she got as he slid past her and into the bathroom. As he manouvred around her, his hand grazed her exposed midriff, and she tried not to let her breath catch at the contact, turning with his hand and finding the bathroom door slammed in her face.

Afterwards, she would insist that he made the first move. He, of course, would do the same.

She was already in bed when he came out of the bathroom, too aware of both her state of undress and the possibility of seeing him emerge shirtless and damp from the bathroom. She didn't think she could handle that, honestly.

Aaron Hotchner was stubborn, impossible, immovable and downright rude sometimes. He was also, unfortunately, fucking hot. And, franky, that was Emily's type down to a T. Probably best not to psychoanalyse that.

Their relationship had been rocky from the beginning, and not really improved in the time she'd been with the team. He didn't trust her, after that business with Strauss, and she didn't particularly like him after all the times he'd been harder on her than the rest of them. But she still noticed the way his eyes seemed to darken whenever he looked at her, narrowing with such intense dislike. She noticed his hands, when they held his phone and made the same model that looked huge in her own hand look tiny, and the veins that stood out along the back of his hands, down into his wrist. She'd probably spent too much time thinking about his hands, if she were truly honest with herself.

So, really, the thought of sharing a bed with him was torture. Knowing he was inches away from her, breathing in the dark, all six-foot one of him, and all of him off limits.

She resigned herself to ignore him, turning her back on him and feigning sleep when he came out of the bathroom. She had tucked herself into the comforter, pulling it tight around her shoulders so that only her head was visible, dark against the white pillows. Still, she was shivering.

She felt the bed dip as he sat on the edge of it, tried to keep her breathing steady as he lay down. On top of the comforter. Emily frowned, her brows forming a little divvet inbetween them. So much for pretending to be asleep, she rolled over and looked at him.

In the sliver of moonlight that filtered between the curtains she could see him laying there with his eyes closed, one arm resting behind his head, the other resting on his bare stomach. All of the muscles she had imagined he would have were present and accounted for, more defined than even she had pictured, and she felt her mouth go dry at just the proximity of him.

"What are you doing?" She whispered into the dimness of the hotel room, and tried to ignore the fact that he was shirtless.

"Trying to sleep." He didn't bother opening his eyes, and she could hear a faint trace of annoyance in his voice. She quirked an eyebrow. "Stop looking at me like that."

"How do you know how I'm looking at you if you have your eyes closed?" They were about to start bickering like children, she knew. This, also, was part of their dynamic.

"Because I know you." He said it simply, and the four words shouldn't have meant much, but they made her pause in the act of whatever she was about to say, her mouth closing, softly as she watched him. He opened one eye, surprised by her silence, and then the other followed as he caught the expression on her face. Something like curiosity, something that stirred something else inside of him. Something that pooled low in his belly.

She gave a little shake of her head, rolled her eyes, "Just be an adult and get under the covers."

She rolled over, effectively putting an end to the coversation, and not really expecting him to listen to her order - because when had he ever before? She was therefore surprised when she felt him move, sitting up, standing up, and then felt the covers pull away from her body as he slipped into them.

Aaron tried not to stare at the curve of her waist into her hip as he lifted the comforter to get into the bed, tried not to let his eyes linger too long on her ass in those little white shorts. He turned his back to her, too.

"Goodnight." He said, gruffly.

"Goodnight." She whispered.

Unsurprisingly, neither of them could sleep.

Whether it was the presence of the other, or the chill of the room, they both lay awake, both pretending they weren't.

Emily kept shifting, presuming Hotch had fallen asleep, curling her knees up, tucking the blanket in even tighter around her, tucking her head into the duvet and then back out, anything to try and take the chill out of the air.

Hotch ignored it, at first, closed his eyes and really did try to go to sleep, despite the image of Emily's silhouette lingering unwantedly in his mind.

He couldn't understand her effect on him; from day one, even back when he was still married to Haley, he'd been more aware of her than the rest of the team. She tapped into something inside of him that he didn't fully recognise; something ancient and primal; desire.

He tried to distance himself from her, pair her with other members of the team, mostly Morgan, in the hopes of reigning in the inappropriate way he so often thought of her. Once Haley left him, it only got worse even though nothing had changed, not really; she was still off limits, as part of his team.

But he would have to be blind not to notice her. The others had noticed her, too, he knew. Morgan certainly had. He'd seen the way the younger agent's eyes sometimes lingered on her, the way he looked at her, hungrily. It made him - and he would never admit this to anybody - jealous, whenever she heard Emily laugh at one of Morgan's jokes, or when he heard them bonding over their favourite author, or when she rested her hand on his arm. It was harmless, he knew, but it still made his jaw tight.

So when this case came across his desk, he knew he had two options. He could send Emily and Morgan, or he could go himself. The decision he made was not the professional one, although anybody outside of his own mind wouldn't think twice about it. He was good, almost too good, at withholding his emotions, and confident that nobody knew of his attraction towards the younger profiler.

Still, even he hadn't anticipated that there would only be one hotel room, one bed. He hadn't imagined that those were the type of pyjamas she packed for a case. Well, okay, he had…but he hadn't thought his imagination would be so accurate.

When she moved again, he let out a frustrated growl and reached behind him, grabbing for her and grasping her hip, without really thinking. She stilled, shocked by the touch that sent currents of electricity through her body, made her heart beat that little bit faster. He let her go as quickly as he had grabbed her, immediately aware that he had overstepped.

"Can you stay still?" He asked, frustrated for more than one reason, and she didn't reply, but she didn't move again, either.

For a few minutes.

"God, Emily, what's wrong with you?" He asked, shoving himself to sit up and switching on his bedside light so that he could look at her. He'd pushed down the comforter, but Emily snatched it back around herself again, and not out of modesty.

"I'm fucking cold," she whined, and, true enough, he saw that her lips were slowly turning blue.

He raised his eyebrows, as she glared up at him, nestled down into the thick duvet. Then he rolled his eyes, switched off the light and lay back down.

Emily continued to glare at him in the dark, until she felt his hand back on her hip, shoving her this time, and she rolled back away from him as he nestled himself against her, his chest against her back, his knees locking in behind hers, his arm flung over her ribs.

Oh. That certainly had the desired effect; instantly, Emily was hotter than she'd ever been in her life. She knew he felt it, too, because he had gone so still behind her. She couldn't even feel the rise of his chest, he was frozen. Panicked by his own action, probably wishng he could take it back instantly. But it was helping with the cold, and Emily arched her back, tucking herself in closer to him.

His hand hung right there in the dark, and Emily's breath hitched with the knowledge that just the twitch of his fingers would have him grazing her breast.

She bit her lip, tugging it between her teeth. She would be lying if she said this wasn't exciting; the sudden wetness between her legs was a testament to that. She hadn't been close to sleep, and certainly wasn't now. They lay like that for a while, Emily breathing steadily, and, slowly, he began to do the same. His chest rose against her back (and even that touch had her breath hitching in her chest) eeking out all of the cold from her bones as they breathed together.

She had never been this close to him. Hadn't ever imagined that he could excite her this way, but his proximity had ignited a fire in her belly and Emily felt as though all of her nerve enddings were raw, exposed, the excitement of what might happen next making her almost vibrate with anticipation.

"Are you warming up?" His breath brushed her ear, and Emily had to close her eyes, her lips trembling as she exhaled, hard.

"Yes," she breathed, unable to help herself, and well aware that her tone told on her.

Afterwards, she would insist that he made the first move, but the truth was that she was the one who pushed her hips back into him, feigning the need for closeness, for warmth, and that the movement of his hand, the way he involuntarily cupped her breast, was more of a reflex than anything. He gasped into her hair as she pushed her ass back into his crotch.

Emily's heart stuttered in her chest, beating so hard she was sure he could hear it, the tension between them only increasing now that she could feel that he was hard against her backside, and she knew this was having the same effect on him as it was on her.

He still hadn't let go of her. She still hadn't moved away.

Emily turned slowly, her breathing the only sound in the darkness and Hotch leaned in as soon as she turned. His lips were a hair's breadth away from hers, his breath tickling her upper lip. She swallowed, loudly, and then he brushed his lips against hers, barely skimming them. He pulled away. Emily chased him, but he was out of reach at this angle. She pouted in the dark.

Then, he did the most Hotch thing ever.

"Can I kiss you?" If she said no, he was going to have to get up and leave this bed, splash his face with cold water, because he was achingly hard now, and still pressed against her ass. Emily couldn't help but smile into the darkness, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth as she said,

"You'd better."

His tongue was in her mouth immediately, and Emily lifted her hand to slide her fingers into his hair. He used his mouth like he did his gun, all focus and strength, sure of his aim; she couldn't help whining against his lips at the sudden, welcome invasion. She craned her neck at an awkward angle, her back twisted almost impossibly, but she didn't care as his tongue licked through her mouth, as she tasted him for the first time.

His hand tightened around her, the squeeze almost painful, but still she pushed her chest forward, offering him more, still, even as he ground his pelvis into her ass. His cock was hard, laid up against his stomach, and wedged into the crevice between her ass cheeks. She pushed back into him and even through their clothes, she could feel the heat coming off of him as he pushed back against her.

It was exhilarating. She didn't even really believe it was happening and the pitch blackness of the room only heightened her other senses.

They kissed like that for a long while, like teenagers discovering sex for the first time, afraid to take the next step. Take it they did, though, as Hotch slipped his hand into the neck of her tank top, greedily searching out her nipple with his fingers, his hand moving from one breast to the other, as though he couldn't get enough of her, as though he couldn't believe his luck. He caught her nipple between two fingers, squeezed it, and Emily's mouth fell open in a gasp, releasing the airlock between their lips even as his tongue swept across hers. Her breath was little more than a stutter as Hotch moved on, his lips on her cheek, her ear, her throat. He paid attention to her pulse point, just below her ear, kissing and licking there as his fingers continued their ministration of her nipples, teasing and twisting and tugging them into hard, rigid peaks. He alternated between that and palming her, the soft warmth of his palm a relief after the roughness of his calloused fingertips.

"God," she breathed, shifting just enough so that she could lay flat on her back, unwinding her arm from the back of his head and turning herself into him, seeking his lips once more. His hand withdrew from her shirt as she moved. They kissed quickly and wetly, each as afraid as the other that one of them would come to their senses and stop this before it had a real chance to begin.

Hotch's strong arm went around her waist, pulling her in closer to him still as he kissed her, and then that same hand, satisfied that she couldn't be pressed more tightly against him if he tried, moved down past the hem of her shorts, to grip her thigh. She was sure his fingertips would leave imprints, he grabbed her so tightly, hitching her leg up and over his hip so that he could push his hips forward, and, again, she felt the promise of his arousal. This time he pressed up against her pussy, the thickness of him a familiar feeling as he nestled into her slit. Her shorts were pulled up and tight, and she could feel him even through two layers of fabric, her imagination running wild as she anticipated the feel of him inside of her, and her stomach jolted with just the thought.

He kissed her ravenously, like a man starved, and he was. The divorce was finalised a few weeks ago, making it nearly six months since he'd so much as touched a woman, longer even since he'd been nestled between the thighs of one. He was painfully hard, now, and rutted against her between their clothes. Her hand slid between them, and she suddenly grasped him through his boxers. He felt her gasp as she closed her hand around him and felt his thickness, and couldn't help but smirk to himself, feeling smug. Hotch moved, tilting his head and focusing his kisses on her throat, alternating between kissing, sucking and licking, all the way back up to her ear, again. Once there, he paused, his breath hot on her skin.

"Think you can take it?" Emily's insides seized as he growled into her ear, his words a teasing taunt she had never imagined he was capable of, had never imagined was his sort of thing. It made her curious what else he might be capable of.

"Only one way to find out," She responded in kind, and slid her hand past his waistband. It was his turn to gasp then, as her fingertips grazed the head of his cock, felt the wetness of precum there and then she gripped him, and pumped him once, twice, slowly.

"How long have you wanted me like this?" She asked, certain that his hardness couldn't just be a product of tonight. She continued her movement as he buried his face in her throat, the beginnings of his beard scratching sensitive skin.

"Fuck, Emily, since the first time I saw you," he said, between kisses, as his hips bucked involuntarily, his cock sliding in her hand. She closed her eyes, smiling, smugly, to herself at his admission, and rewarding him with a few quick pumps of her hand. He groaned against her skin, slid his hand up from her thigh. It lingered at the hem of her shorts, tracing soft lines back and forth over her skin, and Emily felt herself grow wetter at the teasing touch.

Pressing kisses down the column of her throat, Hotch moved down, trying not to shift his hips too much, wanting her to keep touching him, keep working his cock, and licked teasingly at the curve of her breast, down into the crevice of her cleavage.

In the dark, Emily was all touch and no sight, and she felt everything as he pressed his tongue flat against her skin and licked her, tasting the salt on her skin. It was a teaser, she knew, a trailer for the movie he would play later, and as his tongue danced quickly over sensitive skin, she knew he was making a promise. The thought of him performing those same moves between her legs made her thighs clench together, a movement that did not go unnoticed by Aaron, his fingers playing at her inner thigh. She trapped them between her legs, felt the brush of him against her pussy, and froze, holding him there. Her hand, too, stilled on his cock.

Her breath was coming in quick, her brain fuzzy, so high was her arousal.

"We can stop-" Hotch started, but she shook her head, quickly.

"No-" she breathed, "god, please, don't, I just-" her hips stuttered, and, smiling, he understood. He moved his fingers, still caught between her thighs, twitched them just a little.

"Are you desperate to be touched, Emily?" he whispered in the dark, and curled one finger down. Through her shorts, his knuckle grazed her slit, and Hotch moved his finger back and forth, more of a tickle than anything. Emily moaned in frustration, releasing her thighs and trying to grind down against his hand as best as she could.

Chuckling, Hotch pulled his hand away, to another frustrated noise from Emily, and instead grabbed her thigh once more.

"Up," she might normally have bristled at the order, but it sent bolts down into her pussy and she was only too happy to oblige, finding that she enjoyed taking his orders in the bedroom. Eagerly, Emily straddled him, all too happy to settle herself across his crotch, to feel his hard cock laid against her slit and grind down against him.

With a growl, he slid one hand into her hair, pulling her down, his lips reclaiming hers as she rolled her hips against him. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her to him, and Emily fisted the pillow either side of his head, scrunching the fabric into her hands, as he kissed her, deeply.

Then his hands were moving, grasping at the hem of her cropped tank, pulling it over her head. He kissed across her chest, quick and brief, then reached behind his head, flicking on the bedside light.

"I need to see this," he was as breathless as she was, she was glad to hear, and she felt herself flush as his eyes raked over her, lingering over her chest, his pupils blown wide with desire for her. She had the urge to cover herself, her arms moving involuntarily to do so, but Hotch caught her hands in his, twining his fingers through hers, and bucked his hips, jolting her. Emily laughed, the sound breaking through the tension. Hotch smiled at that, at the way she lit up when she laughed. A topless Emily was a beautiful sight, but the smile…god, the smile made her radiant.

Emily paused, looking down at him, the smile lingering around her lips but her eyes curious and wondrous.

"What?" Hotch ran soft, reverant hands over her hips, over the smooth skin he found there, into the dip where her hips gave way to her narrow waist. His thumbs grazed the underside of her breasts.

"You're smiling," she said, "I just don't get to see that a lot."

"You're worth smiling at," he said, and then sat up, keeping her on his lap as he kissed across her chest and licked over a nipple, a hand playing absently with the other. Again, his tongue danced skillfully across her skin and Emily's head fell back with pleasure, her own hand tangling in his soft, black hair as he pulled her tight against him with one hand splayed across her back and nipped, playfully. She hissed through her teeth, bucked her hips against him, and he groaned against her skin.

"Do that again and you'll be in trouble," his voice rumbled against her, and Emily felt it low in her belly, pooling between her legs. Curiosity, more than anything, made Emily roll her hips once more, hard, and she could have sworn she felt him pulse beneath her. Hotch chuckled, low in his throat. "Oh, you wanna play it that way?" He asked, and leaned back against the pillows.

Again, Emily felt exposed as he looked up at her from beneath eyes hooded with lust, her rosy nipples standing taut in the cold air now that he'd left them coated in his saliva. He wasn't smiling now, and Emily felt a hint of something that lingered between excitement and fear as he looked very seriously at her.

"Get on your knees."

She laughed, actually laughed, because no man told her, Emily Prentiss, to get on her knees. No, she only did that when she wanted to, and sure, she absolutely wanted to right now, but the order was unexpected and made her giggle, nervously. Then the smile fell from her face as she realised there was no hint of a joke in his eyes. She raised an eyebrow.

"You're serious."

In response, Hotch twisted his hips, Emily falling sideways onto the bed beside him. She yelped her surprise, then watched as he stood up. Her eyes went wide as she watched him tuck his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and push them down. He was…Emily swallowed, audibly, and felt her mouth fill with saliva as she looked at him, as her eyes traced his thick, rigid cock, standing to attention, poking at the air, desperate for somewhere soft and warm to be. She felt herself clench around nothing, her eyes darkened with lust, as images of Hotch burying that thing inside her pussy filled her mind.

"I said," He repeated, his tone measured as he grasped the base of his cock and brazenly, slowly, pumped it, completely unashamed in front of her, "Get on your knees."

Emily met his eyes and saw, for a brief flash, the moment when she could have backed out. His eyes softened just a touch, as through asking if this were okay. She knew if it wasn't, he would come back to bed and they would fuck, all vanilla and nice, and then sleep. But Emily was never one to back away from a challenge, and her insides were turning to liquid the longer she stared at him, the longer she contemplated exactly what this version of Aaron Hotchner could do to her.

In answer to the question in his eyes, she moved slowly, compelled by lust and intrigue, entranced by this version of her boss that was not so different to her boss at work, just naked and painfully hard for her.

Emily sank gracefully to her knees on the rough carpet in only her shorts. Clasping her hands together behind her back, she arched her back, pushing her tits forward as though in offering, and looked up at him with huge, innocent eyes. She looked phenomenal, willing and waiting, and it didn't go unnoticed when the hand pumping his cock sped up, nor when his tongue shot out of his mouth to wet his lips.

"Open your mouth," if she'd missed the signs, she knew the effect she was having on him just from his tone of voice, the way it was lowered and quiet. His eyes had darkened and, again, Emily did as she was bid, opening her mouth and sticking her tongue out.

Hotch didn't waste a moment.

She gagged, involuntarily, as he slid his whole length as far into her mouth as it would go. And then repeated the action. She felt her eyes water at the invasion, Hotch not having given her any time to adjust, but she saw from the way his eyes gleamed that this was the intended effect. He wouldn't keep it up forever, he just wanted to see her gag around him, so gag she did.

"Good girl," Emily's thighs clenched around nothing at the praise. She tried to pleasure him, tried to use her tongue on the underside of his cock, but he slid in and out of her mouth so fast that all she could do was be there. He was using her mouth like a pussy, she realised, and the thought made her mind go fuzzy.

He thrust forwards a few more times, and each time Emily felt herself gag, until her eyes were streaming and he was grinning at her, proud of his handy work. When he stopped, she looked up at him with those big, wet brown eyes, her face flushed, her chest heaving as she breathed, hard.

"You're so beautiful," Hotch said. He held her face, one hand on her forehead, the other holding tightly to her chin, and bent to kiss her, quick and rough, "You're doing so good, Emily," she hummed at the praise, and he smiled against her lips, speaking into her mouth, "You're going to work for it now, though, my girl," he said, and she nodded, only too willing, slowly going mad with lust, "You're going to work for all of the nice things I'm going to do to you, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," the title came out involuntarily, but Hotch closed his eyes, his mouth opening wider against hers, not quite kissing her, but sharing breath, and she knew she had pleased him. When he looked at her again, it was with open lust and approval, and he straightened up, sliding his hands into her hair.

That was all the encouragement Emily needed before she took him back into her mouth, this time using her hands, too. She was no novice, and proved as much, no longer gagging as she was able to set her own pace. He was thick, too thick to fit comfortably down her throat, but she did her best, desperate to please him, to pleasure him.

"Fuck, Emily," his encouragemnt, his open approval, only made her work harder and Emily pumped him, pulling her mouth off of him long enough to spit on the head of his dick, using her hand to spread it, making him slick, her hand moving more easily over his stiff length. He groaned at that, and his hands slid into her hair. She looked up at him, and he nodded, tightening his grip. Emily lined him up and opened her mouth, and then she could only taste him as Hotch bagan to fuck her mouth, his hands so tight in her hair that they almost hurt.

Stars burst behind her eyes as her senses were overwhelmed by him, and the sounds of her throat, of her gagging, of his groans, were obscene.

Emily felt her throat constrict, as her ears bagan to ring, and had to slap Hotch's thigh. Immediately, he withdrew, a string of saliva still connecting her lips to his cock as it stood, red and rigid, and she knew he was close.

Swallowing, hard, she was breathless as she looked up at him and grasped it in a fist, "Are you going to come for me, sir?"

She knew exactly what she was doing, and she felt his dick throb in her hand, to her pleasure. Her shorts, she knew, were ruined, and Emily grinded down against her own heel, searching for any relief she could get. That didn't go unnoticed by Hotch, who stroked her cheek, gentle even as he guided her back to his cock with his other hand.

"You'll get your turn, princess, I promise you that," he said, as she popped him back into her mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head at the pleasure, "But for now, be a good girl and let me come down that pretty throat."

It didn't take long, Emily's mouth and hands working in tandem over his huge cock. She felt his hands fist in her hair, so painful she had to close her eyes, and then his hips stuttered. He held onto her, her nose pressed into his pubic hair, as he came, and she didn't gag as she swallowed his huge load, hot and salty in her throat and when he jerked his hips back, now oversensitive, she caught the rest of it in her hand. Looking him in the eye, she flattened her tongue against her palm, licking the last of him from her skin.

"Fuck, Emily," he growled, grasping her under the arms and pulling her, roughly, to her feet. His lips crashed against hers, and she knew he could taste himself and that he didn't care as he walked her back against the wall. His hand was down her shorts, finally, fingers sliding into her underwear, and when he ran two of them down her slit he found her wet and hot. His fingers slipped over her and he had to stop kissing her long enough to comment.

"You're fucking dripping," he said, appreciatively, his finger gently circling her clit. Emily's legs almost buckled, she was already so sensitive, and she clung tightly to his biceps to keep herself from falling. He smiled, amused and endeared by her. "All this for me?"

He withdrew his hand, much to Emily's disappointment, and brought his fingers instead to his lips. She watched, mesmerised, as he sucked her juices from them. Emily's stomach twisted at the sight, as she watched his tongue dance around his fingers, cleaning every drop of her from them. He pressed his forehead to hers, looked her dead in the eyes.

"You taste so good, sweetheart," he said, running his tongue over his lips, "I'm going to make you come with my tongue, and then I'm going to fuck you, and make you come again, all over my thick cock, okay?" His voice was gravelly, low, even as dropped the hand with his wet fingers to her breast, played with her nipples again, and all Emily could do was nod, weakly, her body feeling like a live wire about to burst into flames. Hotch smirked, clearly proud of the effect he was having on her, and kissed her, again, the taste of them both now mingling in her mouth.

His lips travelled from her mouth to her throat, his lips leaving searing specks over her shoulders and her collar bones, her sternum and across both breasts as he occasionally paused long enough to suck a sore, red bruise into her pale skin. He paused at each nipple, swirled his tongue, nibbled playfully, and she ran her hand through his soft hair. Her head fell back against the door and she sighed, contentedly, at the comfort of that sensation, as his hands circled her waist and she felt him drop to his knees in front of her. She was so engrossed in the attention he gave to her breasts that when he grabbed her shorts and yanked them, and her underwear, down, it knockled her off balance.

Hotch chuckled, darkly, "Sorry, sweetheart," he said, but he didn't sound very sorry. Trying not to feel self conscious as she now stood as naked before him as he was, Emily let him lift one foot, then the other, and stepped out of her shorts. Hotch looked up at her as he threw them elsewhere in the room, maintained eyecontact as he leaned in, kissed her belly button, both of her hips, the very top of the little triangle between her legs.

"Aaron-" she started to protest, and he stopped, sitting back on his own heels. She paused, and he waited, his hands finding hers at her sides. He twined their fingers together, as he had earlier.

"You're perfect," he said, with the slightest shake of his head, leaning in and repeating the same kisses. Tummy, hips, triangle. Then he met her eyes, "Let me."

Nodding, overcome with need for him, Emily breathed out, "Please."

He grabbed her leg, lifted it onto his shoulder and she clenched his hands as she tilted her head back against the door again. His breath was hot against her, and Emily was shaking with anticipation as she waited for him. The first swipe of his tongue against her was slow, drawn out, as was the moan that escaped her lips at the contact. His tongue was hot, pointed, skilled.

"You taste divine," he said, into her cunt, and Emily gushed at the praise. He chuckled, "Oh, she likes that," he said, making her stomach clench at the vibrations his voice sent into her pussy, "My good girl likes that."

It was the my that did it, made her hold his hands tighter, made her whimper, desperately, and then he pressed his tongue flat against her, licked between her lips, tasted all of her, caught her juices with his tongue and swallowed her down as she gushed over his lips. Her mind was blank, her chest heaving as he went to work, his tongue fulfilling the promises he had made earlier, skilfully flitting over her clit, fast as a snake's, or sliding, rigid and probing, against her hole, or flat and wide and wet between her slit. When he circled her hole with his tongue, pushed it inside, his nose slid against her clit and she thought she might lose her fucking mind right then. He alternated, never letting her get too used to his actions, never letting her settle into the motion, building her up and up until she was a frustrated bundle of nerves, until she wanted to hold his head in place and fuck herself against his tongue.

She did wind her hand through his hair, like he'd done to her, did thrust her hips a few times, but Hotch grabbed them and held her in place, and she could hardly fight that. He was much stronger than she was, and held on to her, easily, letting her go only so far as he wanted.

He teased her, tasted her, taunted her with his tongue until she was whining, all but grinding down against his face, and she knew what he wanted, then.

"Please," she breathed, and felt him grin against her, his cheeks in a wide smile between her legs.

"Hmm?" He hummed into her pussy, and she hissed.

"Please," she repeated, through her teeth, tightening her grip on his hair until she knew she was almost pulling it out at the root. He didn't seem to mind, his tongue flitting even faster against her clit.

"Please, what, sweetheart?" He prompted, smugly, and Emily might have shoved him off of her right then if she wasn't so fucking desperate to come, so drunk on this version of him.

"Please, let me come," she gasped, "God, Hotch, I need to come."

"I want you to come, sweetheart," he agreed, "I want to taste you, I want you to lose control all over my face," she whined, hips starting to move erratically, and he let her go, let her hump against his mouth, "Lose control, Emily," then he latched onto her clit and sucked, hard, and she stopped breathing entirely as a searing, scalding orgasm wracked her body, making her blind and deaf all at once. The only thing that kept her on her feet was Hotch's intuition, as he grabbed her hips and pushed her back against the wall.

When she came back down from heaven, Emily felt pleasantly dazed.

"You're too fucking good at that," she said, her voice weak, her hand now soft as she stroked through his hair.

Hotch rose to his feet in front of her and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he leaned in to kiss her, the taste of her still fresh on his tongue. Against her belly, she could feel that he was hard again, and, again, she clenched around nothing, aware that she would soon know how it felt to be taken by him.

Hotch swept her feet from beneath her, lifting her in his arms and carrying her the few feet back to the bed, where he laid her down, her head on the pillows. She looked at him from beneath eyelids heavy with lust.

"I'm clean," she said, without prompting, and he looked at her with approval, stroking his cock as he climbed onto the bed between her legs.

"Good, me too," he leaned over her, and she felt the tip poke against her folds, felt his length slide against her slt. Her slick coated his shaft, and Hotch lazily moved his hips, each gentle thrust bumping the head of his cock against her sensitive bundle of nerves, "I was hoping you'd say that," he said, his lips against her throat, "because I'm going to fuck you senseless until I'm empty, sweetheart, and I'm going to fill you up with come," Emily's mouth went dry, her nails digging into his shoulders where she'd been gently drawing circles, at his words, "How do you feel about that?"

She couldn't believe he still had words left to play with, because she didn't; there was barely a coherent thought in her head as she felt him line himself up against her, as she breathed erratically, anticipating him. Luckily, he wasn't waiting for an answer, and slid, slowly, inside of her. He was even thicker than he seemed, but her tight channel was slick with her orgasm and he slid in easily, even if he did take Emily's breath away with the sheer stretch of him. He went slowly, though, letting her adjust, moving only when she encouraged him with a nod, her eyes closed with concentration as she relaxed around him.

"Fuck," Hotch said, his breath hot against the sensitive skin beneath her ear, "Em, you're so tight."

This time his praise wasn't solely to elicit a reaction; she could hear it in the raspy way he spoke, the effect she had on him and she knew what it was taking for him to not immediately begin pounding into her. His arms shook as he held himself up, and Emily stroked a hand up and down his back, searching for his lips and sliding her tongue into his mouth, kissing him deeply as he notched one last inch inside of her and bottomed out, his balls pressed against her. They were locked together and Emily's breath was shaky when she broke their kiss.

She nodded, shakily, "Go slow," she said, and he did, pulling out of her leisurely, agonizigly, only to surge forwards and repeat the motion. It was bliss. She could feel every contour of him as he slid into her, every ridge as he slid out, and as she grew accustomed to his size, she nodded again and, understanding, Hotch snapped his hips forwards, jolting her up the bed slightly.

"Hotch!" Emily gasped, her mouth open, as the pleasured bordered on pain. He smirked, playfully, at her, and did it again, sending pleasurable waves through her body. "Fuck," she cursed, under her breath. He chuckled, darkly, dropping himself onto his elbows rather than his hands, his chest pressed against hers and bending his legs at the knees to give himself more leverage.

"Fuck, indeed," he said, and started a brutal pace that stole the air from Emily's lungs. He pounded into her with reckless abandon, snapping his hips expertly, his balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. Emily could only hold onto him and she wrapped her legs around him, tilting her pelvis and giving him an even deeper angle. She would have sworn she could feel each thrust in her throat.

It didn't take long until her second orgasm was building, already sensitive from her first. The last thing she wanted to do was become too overstimulated, but she wasn't about to tell him to stop when he was eliciting rivulets of pure pleasure from her body, and as her climax washed over her, she clung tight to him and felt his hips stutter, overcome by the clench of her around him.

"Oh, baby," he praised, the nickname coming easily to his lips, "Sweetheart, you feel so good, milking my cock with that pretty pussy."

The dirty talk still surprised her with every word, unexpected but welcome, and had her coming harder. Hotch dropped his hand between their bodies, rubbing her clit with the pad of his thumb, dragging out her orgasm until she had to push his hand away from her, gasping, and he grinned, slowly thrusting his hips back and forth.

"You're not done yet, Emily," he told her, as she ran her hands over his chest, over the strong muscles she found there, and he lazily thrust into her, giving her a moment to come down, "You're not done until I say you're done, are we clear?"

Again, even through his words, she saw in his eyes the need for her reassurance, her consent, and, licking her lips, Emily nodded, pulling his face back down to hers for a kiss.

"Take me," she said, against his lips, and felt the sudden snap of his hips against her, as his control faltered at her sensual words, eliciting an involuntary groan from the back of her throat, she breathed, hard, and fixed him with her eyes. He stared down at her, as she ran her hands into his hair, and her pupils were blown with lust and desire, her pale skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat, "Fuck me, Aaron, harder."

And maybe it was the use of his name that did it, breaking the last of his resolve, or maybe it was the plea for him to go harder. The permission she gave him to be ruthless.

He pulled out of her, Emily whimpering at the contact and lack of, all at once, and she reached for him. Her hand was on his chest when he grabbed her wrist tightly, bone scraping bone, and pulled her palm to his lips, kissing it, a moment of tenderness before he dropped her hand and grabbed for her hips, instead.

His strength was impressive, and he flipped her like she were a ragdoll, Emily landing on her stomach on the bed, her cheek against the pillow as he manouvred her according to his own will, spread her knees and lifted her hips.

His hand came down, hard, on her ass, the sound splitting the room, and she yeled, her world narrowing to the burning sensation. Hotch stared at the red imprint he'd left on her pale skin, licked his lips, and did it again.

"Aaron," she gasped, pleading.

Hotch stared at her, at where she was pink and glistening, at where her pussy clenched, desperate and needy, around nothing, and couldn't help himself as he leaned in and swiped his tongue through her, once more.

"I'll never get enough of you," he said, burying his face between her legs, and Emily hissed, fists balling up the pillowcase, so sensitive was her pussy. He pumped his cock as he licked through her, high on the scent and taste of her. He fluttered his tongue against her clit, and she groaned, grinding back against his face, as Aaron speared his tongue into her hole. Pathetically, she felt herself winding up again, like a coiled spring, and as Aaron's fingers joined his tongue, his thumb sliding into her hole as his index finger rubbed over her clit, she was coming, again.

She was still coming when she felt him slam back into her pussy and the cry she let out was pathetic, delirious, as she involuntarily tried to escape his overstimulation. Aaron held fast, though, reaching beneath her, grabbing onto her breasts and using them to leverage himself, jamming her back onto his cock roughly, spearing her, hips snapping against her in a relentless rhythm.

"God, you're fucking perfect, Emily," he leaned forwards, biting at her neck, his back pressed against hers and he was everywhere, all over her, all around her, all at once. He was the only thing she knew as she felt her walls clench around him again, and she knew he felt it too by the gutteral moan that came from deep in his chest and rolled over her like a wave. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed himself so close to her, deliberately angled his waist so that he bumped again and again against the same delicious spot inside of her, driving her to the point of insanity.

"Come for me, Em, you can do it again," he told her, lips at her ear, and kissed down her throat. He grabbed for her face, turned her to look at him and then his tongue was in her mouth and she did as she was told, spasming beneath him as she came, again, only moments after her last, searing, brainmelting orgasm, and she knew he was close, too, as his lips opened against hers, his breath ragged, "Where?" he could barely manage to breathe.

"Fuck, in-inside, please," Emily gave him all the permission he needed and then she felt the hot spurt of him inside of her as he came, buried to the hilt in her pussy, her walls still clenching him, prolonging his pleasure as she milked him dry. The groan against her ear was gutteral, primal, animalistic and Emily's head was empty of anything but him as she spiralled with him.

He collapsed against her back, spent and exhausted, the delicious weight of him pushing her into the mattress, and Emily realised she wasn't cold anymore. Her skin was on fire, her insides were on fire.

They lay like that for a moment, both of them breathing hard and fast.

Hotch pressed soft kisses across her shoulders, pulling her hair, stuck with sweat to her slick skin, out of the way. Each kiss soothed her, and her breathing began to slow, her heart finally slowing to a normal pace in her chest. She whimpered as he slid out of her, soft now, sensitive after his brutal but satisfying treatment, and felt the gush between her thighs, knew they'd ruined the bedsheets.

Hotch lay beside her, a gentle hand on her back as he tucked himself close and tilted their foreheads together.

"Still cold?" He asked, softly, and Emily chuckled, the sound reverberating through the now silent bedroom.

"Actually, yes," she said, truthfully, the chill creeping back in now that she was exposed to the room and the adrenaline was settling in her veins. He shifted closer to her, pulling the comforter over them both as he lifted his leg over hers and pulled her into him.

"I have to-" she started, but he shook his head, pressed a kiss to her temple.

"In a minute," he said, and she could tell by his voice that he was already falling asleep.

"Alright," she sighed, contented, against his chest, the smell of him, of them, on his skin a comfort she'd never realised she was missing, "Alright, in a minute."

His hand ghosted softly over her back, fingertips tracing patterns she couldn't make out across her soft skin, and he looked down at her with gentle eyes, under tired, hooded eyelids. "How are you feeling?"

"Wow, aftercare, too?" she teased, smiling lazily up at him, and he smirked back, shaking his head a little.

"That was intense," he clarified, flattening his palm against the small of her back, "I'm just making sure you're alright."

Emily reached her hand up from where it lay beneath her head, pressed it against his cheek and pulled him down to her, to kiss him, to reassure him, "I'm great," she said, honestly, because she wasn't about to say I feel like I'm glowing golden.

He kissed her once more, and these kisses were somehow more intimate than those they'd shared before, when they were led by lust. They were soft, searching and almost hesitant as his lips moved against hers.

"We're going to do that again, right?" Hotch said, as Emily finally rolled away from him and stood up on shaky legs. He caught sight of the red marks he'd left behind, whether by his fingers or his mouth, and knew she would be carrying him around for days.

She cast a cheeky glance over her shoulder, caught his eyes roving appreciatively over her body, the slope of her waist, the plump curve of her ass, and grinned. "I hope so."

In the bathroom, Emily caught sight of herself in the mirror and realised that she still had three problems.

The first was the lack of clean - or dry - bedding on which they could sleep tonight. Although she figured they could remedy that by…not sleeping.

The second was the rapidly reddening marks Hotch had left over her throat (over her entire body, really, but the throat was the problem) and the way she knew she didn't have either the clothes or the make-up to cover those the following morning. She traced them with her fingers.

The third was that the man laying in their shared bed, in their shared hotel room, was the best lay she'd ever had, and just so happened to be her boss.

There were, Emily Prentiss figured, definitely bigger problems to have.

taglist: @hopefulfangirl24 @thebewingedjewelcat @platypus-whit-boots @luhwithah @cvtsbutcut3 @acetheticlytired @ccmattis-22 @duchessas @lucreziaq2001 @scorpiofangirl1109 @natasha-barton @lil-koala @themetaphorgirl @sequinsmile-x @emobabeyy @my-mummy-dust @section-chief-prentiss @canyouhearmeyet @psychicmuffinpandasludge @loriprentiss @eobangingwhen @thenerdthatwrites @daffodil-heart @cloudlessly-light

[rae-writes]

mephistopheles/gn!mc; nsfw, brainrot brainrot brainrot

Obsessed with the thought of Mephisto being an absolute prick to Mc, even after they’ve tried literally everything to become his friend. The demon’s constant rudeness eventually makes them bitter, so when Lord Diavolo sends the two of them out to gather intel, Mc is brimming with irritation.

That irritation burns bright, even after they’ve been cursed. The spell makes them hunch over and writhe, feeling a strong heat lick away at their insides. Mc curls in on themselves, hellbent on not letting Mephisto see them in this embarrassing state but he’s grabbing at their chin and forcing their eyes to meet his with a “stop being so fucking stubborn and tell me what’s wrong!”

The contact sends you mewling, head pressing further into his warm touch. “it ‘urts. make it go away…please Mephisto.”

He decides it’d be irresponsible of him to leave Diavolo’s favorite human in pain like this (at least that’s what he tells himself), so he yanks off a glove with his teeth and shoves his hand down the front of your bottoms.

The sound that escapes you is downright sinful as your hips buck up to chase the feeling of his fingers. Your head is pressing back into the ground harshly when they enter you, mouth dropping open at the curl towards that spot.

Mephisto also decides that, if he’s going to do his job at helping you, he might as well do it right (it’s most certainly not because his mouth is watering at the smell of your arousal). He barely thinks as he moves down your body, yanking the offending material out of the way before his mouth is all over you, tongue darting around to catch every single drop you give. 

Then all he can think about is how fucking good you taste and how tight you’re squeezing around his fingers and fuck- did you just moan his name? Mephisto has no time to mull over what he thought he heard cause now your body is shaking and his mouth is involuntarily opening wider to savor all of your cum.

Not even a second later, you’re bucking into his touch again, “Not enough- ‘s not enough, please Mephisto, more! Make it go’way- hurts!” Your hand blindly finds his wrist and starts tugging, eliciting a growl from the demon.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out what you’re after and it certainly doesn’t take him long to shove down his pants or line himself up at your entrance. “No? My fingers and mouth not fucking enough for you?” 

He should be more gentle, he’s fairly big, but a fleeting thought about one of the brothers having already claimed you- whether it’s true or not- makes him growl louder and slam the entirety of himself into you.

Your breath hitches, eyes snapping open to meet intoxicating green as he begins a pace that was surely not meant for humans. The fire raging in your body subdues and burns solely in the place where his cock is hitting the deepest parts of you- it feels like you’re going to fucking explode.

“K-kiss.”

Mephisto’s eyes narrow, tongue swiping out to wet his lips before he’s crashing them against yours sloppily. It’s absolutely fucking disgusting feeling your spit swap with his, dribbling down both your chins, but if it’s so disgusting, why is it making his cock (and heart) lurch? And the way your tongue bullies its way into his mouth without a care in the world- like he’s not a noble and you’re not just some human - sends him spiraling. 

“You’re fucking mine, you hear me? I swear if I catch any other fucking demon or human or angel trying to put their grubby hands on you, I’ll kill them.” His teeth, sharper than they were, bear menacingly at you but the sight only makes your walls clench around him. 

“Form a pact with me.”

You’re so fucked out you can’t even begin to decipher his demand, but the feeling of his lips brushing your ear and the words ‘just say yes’ are clear as day- so you do. “Yes! Yesyesyes!” 

And you don’t know what the hell you’ve just agreed to, not until you feel the familiar tingle of a forming pact etch itself into your skin; the sensation makes your back arch and eyes roll white as the ache between your legs finally dissipates.

But it’s not over, not even when he, the demon who fucking swore to himself he’d never fall so low as to be entranced by a mere human, curses lowly and ruts his hips frantically while ropes of his cum fill you to the brim. 

Because now you’re fucking his. And he’s not going to be done until he hears you say you want him, that you’ve wanted him. Because Mephisto doesn’t think he can handle this happening only because you needed him to relieve a curse.

[xxghost-zombie-jesus]

genuinely i think if babs had enough time to learn (like longer than one musical number beej come ON) she could be scary. she grabs that severed head and she's the first one to learn the voice trick and during the dinner party she's having a good time. she's just too nice to do it maliciously but come halloween time? oh my god she's pulling so many tricks for lydia's haunted house

No, I think you're on to something.

Out of the two Maitlands, Barbara is always the first to change. The first to decide, "hey, what we're doing isn't working, we need to try something different." The first to do.

She's the one who starts with the Maitlands 2.0, as Barbara 2.0. She's the one who decides that they have to try to haunt the house because if not them, then who else? They're dead, fuck it! They can do what they want!

I think there's something holding her back. And, no, Adam, as reserved as he is, isn't it. It's her own reservations. She is, undeniably, kind of reserved, especially in the beginning. She has to act a certain way, do the right things in the correct steps, she has to be a model wife and woman and do everything the way it's supposed to be done. Get married to someone she loves? Check. Have a house, get hobbies, start a family? Check, check, and they're... uh they're working on it. Fall through their floor and die? Check--wait what?

She's tries to be your traditional housewife, you know? Calm, collected, demure, et cetera. She isn't, and we do see that throughout the musical, especially in the part where she picks up the head and immediately starts messing with it, or when she's the one who decides fuck it, we're doing this. She's strong, and independent, and is aware of her strengths and weaknesses and failings.

And yet, she doesn't want to accept this. She wants to fit the model mold of a housewife. She wants to be normal, and sweet and kind without a stubborn streak ten miles wide. But she is a little stubborn, and selfish at times, and a a tad narrow-minded occasionally. She isn't perfect, she can't fit into a mold.

Barbara is intuitive. Upon meeting Lydia she can tell something is UP. She knows that this teenager isn't okay, and yet, she agrees to help her not because she thinks that it'll actually help Lydia heal, but because she wants her house back. She wants her old life back. When it doesn't work and she realizes that this isn't what she wants, she changes, and wants to be there for Lydia. But at first? She's selfish.

I agree with you whole-heartedly, that out of her and Adam, she'd be the first one to get being scary down pat. She has a better grasp as to how things work, but as you said, she's too nice.

And I feel like some of that niceness has been learned. It's not fake, she is, genuinely, a really sweet ghost, but she had to work to get to that point. Because she does have a few moments where she isn't nice. She knows how to put her foot down, and she knows how to lie and manipulate, a lot better than Adam can, that's for sure. And that isn't something someone can just, suddenly be good at. Something tells me she used to be quite a little stinker when she was younger. Not mean, never malicious, but definitely mischievous.

It's like. You can be nice, but not kind. Or you can be kind, but not nice. And Barbara is nice. She is very nice. But she isn't always kind. She isn't above calling Beetlejuice names. ("That meaty pervert was right.") Adam tries to be rude but instead just says that Beetlejuice needs a therapist, he is both kind and nice to a fault. Barbara is downright kind of mean about him, but in a nice way. She is nice, but not kind.

She could easily use her occasional lack of kindness and be scary. But she... doesn't want to be unkind. Because that's not something people do. Everytime she's unkind she seems to regret it, even just a little, like she doesn't mean to be unkind it just happens. She tries not to curse, and to be a good person, but deep down she isn't always and she is aware of this.

It's why she has an easier time (not an EASY time, mind you, but easier than Adam) doing what Beetlejuice shows them. Like letting her death bother her, or using ghostly abilities. But also why she seems almost hesitant, at first, to do so.

And if she just accepted that sometimes its okay to be a little unkind, if its for the right reasons, then maybe she'd be right there with Beej scaring people for fun.

I don't know if any of that made sense. I won't apologize for it but uh... yeah. Hope this is what you were looking for.

One hundred percent, though, Adam decides he doesn't want to be scary but Barbara wants to try. And so when you have your inevitable 'Beetlejuice comes back', she wants him to teach her how to be a proper ghost, how to be really scary. And he does, and now that her entire heart is in it, she can do much better.

She's still too nice, though, and can't put her all into it, but it's much better than ripping some sheets and ghostly wailing.

[t0wnspersonb]

Kiss it Better (Tsukishima Kei x Reader)

Anonymous said:

Hello I just read your fics about Kuroo, Akaashi and Bokuto and I really liked them 💞 So I was wondering if you could write a fluff fic where tsukki gets embarassed trying to make the first move you can also just add things to your liking If you don‘t want to that‘s totally okay I‘ll be waiting for your upcoming fics thank youuuu 🧡

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Omg that’s so funny because my next story was literally going to be just that! I had a lot of fun writing this one and might do a part two with some *cough* smut *cough* just like Kuroo, everyone is lowkey a Tsukishima girl. I hope you like this anon! 

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Word Count: 2,293

Summary: Tsukishima has always liked you, but you’ve never noticed his advances. A trip to the nurses office might change your mind. 

~~~~~~~~

You liked to think that you were friends with the tall blonde sitting behind you in class. 

 But sometimes…

 Thunk. 

 Sometimes…

 Thunk.

 Sometimes you really wanted to fucking strangle him.

 Thunk. 

 “Can you stop kicking my chair!?” you hissed, staring at the smirking middle blocker.

 “My foot slipped.” he replied coyly, causing your scowl to deepen. 

 Before you could retort back to him the bell rang, signaling the end of class. You started packing up your stuff, grumbling to yourself about how rude Tsukishima was.

 “Don’t you want to walk to the clubs together?” He called out to your leaving form. 

 You huffed turning around to see him and Yamaguchi looking at you.

 There were times when Tsukishima didn’t annoy you, and those were the times you would walk with them to your after school club activities. 

 You were part of the photography club, which was on the way to the gymnasium that held their volleyball practice. 

 But again, you only walked with them when Tsukishima wasn’t being an annoying little prick.

 Today definitely wasn’t one of those days. He had been bugging you all day. It went from his annoying comments to him poking at you harshly, and then to kicking your chair.

 You weren’t sure if it was because he was bored and had nothing better to do, or if it was because he actually didn’t think of you as a friend. Or because he was just simply an asshole.

 Maybe it was a combination of all three, you didn’t know.

 “No way.” you sniffed, sticking out your tongue to him. “I don’t want to walk with you anywhere today. If it was just Yama-kun then I would. But not if you’re there. Stupid.”

Tsukishima visibly looked annoyed at your statement. 

 “Y/n-chan.” Yamaguchi called out, raising his hands up as he looked at both annoyed expressions. “You guys should try and get along yeah?”

 “Be quiet Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima sighed, moving to walk past you. “If she wants to be childish then just let her. I’m surprised she even got into this class.”

 “I’m surprised Yama-kun is even your friend.” you fired back, crossing your arms over your chest. “I bet you aren’t even good at volleyball.”

 Tsukishima paused, and then before you could even register what had happened, he was leaning down, incredibly close to your face and to your body. You could physically feel his body heat radiating into your own. His hand resting on the doorframe, preventing you from leaving the room.

 “Why don’t you come by and find out?” he said slowly, ignoring the panicked squeak that escaped Yamaguchi’s lips. His gold eyes were piercing into your own, but you couldn’t see any anger in them at what you had said, you couldn’t see an ounce of annoyance either. But there was something else there, something you couldn’t place.

 Ignoring your hammering heart and the heat creeping up into your face, you shoved his arm away scowling. “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll take pictures of you sucking and have an article published in the school newspaper about you being a terrible person and sucking at volleyball!” you huffed stalking away from the tall first year angrily.

 You ignored the calls of Yamaguchi and just focused on heading towards your club.

 Today was definitely one of those days where you wanted nothing to do with Tsukishima.

 The relationship you had with the middle blocker was incredibly strange. One minute you guys were perfectly fine with each other, and next - well it was exactly what had just happened.

 Tsukishima scoffed as he watched your retreating figure. But he couldn’t deny the fact that your reactions were incredibly lame, but incredibly cute.

 “You shouldn’t tease her like that Tsukki.” Yamaguchi sighed. “She’s never going to like you back if you keep making her mad like that.”

 Tsukishima didn’t say anything as they continued their way to the gym. 

 Everyone knew that he liked you. It was incredibly obvious, and Tsukishima always made sure to make it incredibly obvious.

But it wasn't obvious to you.

 The one person that it mattered to the most.

 You were frustrating and amusing, stubborn and incredibly smart, quick-witted and incredibly beautiful.

 The entire package.

 And Tsukishima wanted you to be his.

 But you were too fucking dense to realize that.

 And quite frankly, he was getting sick of it. For as smart as you were, you were incredibly thick when it came to stuff like that it appeared.

 It frustrated him to no end.

 Usually what he depicted as playful flirting you thought as him just being downright mean.

 It was a constant cycle, neverending. 

 It was ridiculous.

 Actually scratch that. 

 This was ridiculous.

 It had been a couple of days since that last encounter, Tsukishima deciding his chances at winning you over would probably be better if he stopped his teasing for a little bit.

 But right now you were nodding your head rapidly in understanding as Hinata talked to you. You were there during one of their practices, to take photos of them. A project that you had to do for your photography club. Takeda-sensei had given you permission to be there to snap pictures of the team.

 “- And then I go boom!” Hinata exclaimed bouncing around.

 You smiled at his antics. “That sounds incredible Hinata! Do you think I can take a picture of you doing your crazy jump?” you asked, holding up the camera for emphasis.

 But before he could utter an answer, Tsukishima interrupted. “We have to start practice, you can just take pictures then.” he said to you, glancing at you briefly. 

You rolled your eyes at his aloofness and apologized to Hinata who was protesting loudly at what Tsukishima had said. “He’s right Hinata, I don’t want to impede on your guys’ practice so just pretend like I’m not here and I’ll take as many pictures as possible.”

 Reluctantly he agreed and everyone continued the practices Ukai had asked them to do before splitting up into different teams. They were doing a match.

 You were honestly in awe as you watched them play. You didn’t think that volleyball could be so… amazing. You had teased both Yamaguchi and Tsukishima about how boring the sport was.

 You were so wrong.

 You had almost forgotten to take pictures, you were so captivated.

 But what had surprised you the most, was Tsukishima. You had never seen him so… concentrated? So serious? So… so attractive?

 You felt your face flush, shaking your head to rid yourself of the thought. That was ridiculous. You had never been attracted to the middle blocker, you found him annoying, a completely arrogant, unnecessarily tall asshole, and… and he was incredibly good looking.

 What was wrong with you? How could you even think of something like that? How could you - “Watch out!” your eyes went wide as a volleyball came hurtling at you with rapid speed.

 Your eyes squeezed shut, readying yourself for the impact.

 Only it never came. You heard a loud grunt and opened your eyes to see Tsukishima clenching at his fingers, the ball rolling away from his feet.

 He… he protected you from the ball. 

 Tsukishima’s pointer finger throbbed in pain, he knew it wasn’t broken, but the nail had torn just a bit, blood seeping out of his wound.

 He wasn’t sure what possessed him to move, he knew that Nishinoya was closer to you, he knew that he was heading towards the ball to stop it from hitting you. But his body just moved after he called out his warning.

 “Oi Tsukishima are you okay?” Tanaka asked running up to him, several of his teammates surrounding him.

 He removed his hand to reveal his bloody nail, causing you to gasp lightly.

“I need to stop the bleeding. I’ll go to the nurse.” Tsukishima said quietly.

 “Let me help you.” You blurted out immediately, causing all eyes to be on you now. “It’s my fault you got injured.”

 The tall blonde nodded, and both of you left the gym quietly.

 “He’s got it bad huh?” Tanaka smirked, staring after you guys.

 “I hope he can confess properly.” Yamaguchi sighed.

 ***

 The walk to the infirmary was incredibly quiet, awkward almost. But it was just your luck that the nurse was nowhere to be found.

 “You can go. I can take care of it from here.” Tsukishima said quietly.

 You shook your head. “No. You got hurt because of me. At least let me help.” You started to take out the necessary equipment to help disinfect and wrap his finger. “Go ahead and sit down.” you said gesturing to the bed.

 Tsukishima didn’t bother arguing, silently sitting at the edge of the bed and watching you closely.

 Even sitting down, he was still incredibly tall. The top of his head just below your chin. You held your hand out his expectantly, he sighed quietly before placing his much larger hand in yours.

 Carefully you cleaned up the blood and began wiping down the wound with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol. The smell stingy your nose, but the atmosphere around the both of you was quiet, calm almost.

 His hand dwarfed your own, his fingers long and elegant, and surprisingly soft against your own touch.

 Tsukishima couldn’t deny the fact that he was enjoying this immensely. You stood incredibly close to him, slightly between his parted legs as you worked. He could smell the soft perfume on your skin and the laundry detergent you used on your clothes.

 It was a wonderful smell.

 Maybe… maybe now would be a good time to tell you… right?

 “I’m sorry Tsukishima.” you said quietly, wrapping his finger. “If I wasn’t there you wouldn’t be in this position.”

 “It’s fine. It’s nothing serious.” he said, equally quiet.

 “Does it hurt?” you asked, tilting your head to the side slightly as you stared into his gold eyes.

 Tsukishima could feel the blush rising in his face, you were just too cute. The way you looked concerned about him. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

 “It might hurt less if you kiss it better.” he said. He couldn’t resist, this situation was incredibly ideal to him.

 You looked incredibly confused for a moment before taking his hand and gently pressing your lips against the tip of his injured finger.

 Tsukishima felt like his heart was about to leap out of his chest, his face burning at the sweet gesture. And even though his finger was wrapped up, he just knew that your lips were incredibly soft. His other hand came up to press against his face, the backside of his hand covering the lower part of his face in embarrassment. 

 “What’s wrong?” you asked frowning, you had just done what he had said. Your heart was racing for some reason though, you weren’t sure why. 

 Tsukishima couldn’t take this anymore. He grabbed your wrist and tugged, pulling you into his chest, and then flipping you over onto the bed, his upper body hovering over yours.

 Your face was completely red, you thought your heart was about to pop, he was way too close and his face held nothing but seriousness.

 What did you do?

 “Tsukishima-” “Quiet.” he demanded.

 You snapped your jaw shut.

 You watched him take a deep breath in before speaking. “You are the most infuriating person I know. You’re stupid and you don’t pay attention to what’s going on right in front of your face.”

 Your nostrils flared slightly in anger. “Well right back at you asshole!” you grumbled back.

 He rolled his eyes and moved his face closer to your own, causing you to quiet down once more.

“But despite how incredibly dense you are, you’re smart, you’re witty, you’re stubborn, you’re hardworking, you’re pretty -”

 You have never been more confused in your entire life. Did he just insult you and then compliment you? Did he just call you pretty?

 “ - and I literally can’t take this anymore.” he pushed up his glasses just a bit. “I’ve given you so many hints, made it so ridiculously obvious, and you still don’t understand you dimwit.”

 You frowned further at his insults. 

 “I like you.” He said, “I’ve liked you for a while now. You just have never noticed. I want you to go out with me.”

 He couldn’t handle the shy expression on your face after his confession. The soft look on your face, and the dark red blush coating your cheeks. His eyes flickered towards your lips, and he started to lean closer. Your soft hands came up and gently rested against his chest, but you never pushed him away. Your eyes fluttered shut as you prepared yourself for what was about to come next.

 You could feel his breath hitting your face gently, causing your lips to part as you readied yourself -

 “Tsukishima! Everyone wanted me to go check on you and -” the door opened suddenly, and Hinata stood staring at the scene before him.

 Tsukishima whipped his head around with a hard glare at the orange haired male who had gone pale, and then had turned dramatically red at the sight before him.

 You couldn’t help but cover your face in embarrassment at the position you and Tsukishima were in. 

 “I-I’m so sorry for interrupting!” Hinata screamed and slammed the door.

 Tsukishima sighed, deflating slightly before removing himself from on top of you. He ignored the blush in his face as he stood up, looking back at you still laying on the bed.

 So incredibly tempting.

 “Wait for me after practice. We can walk home together.” He said simply before leaving the infirmary.

 Did you… did you just get yourself a boyfriend?

 You hoped so.

[the-cult-of-russo]

Hiiii, headcanons for how Billy would react to getting into a big argument for the first time with his partner pls, and what kinda fighter he is. Does he yell? Does he go cold & distant? Does he have a reckless mouth? Ooooh, and also how the make up will go like... thank u

Buckle up, kids. We're going on a trip to AngstVille.

This has many layers to it and I'll dissect it all in a way my brain can handle it lmao

For your first big fight, Billy loathes it. Of course in the moment he's too caught up in it, but afterwards it plays on his mind. The first real fight is always hard and it feels like a turning point for you both. He feels like absolute shit afterwards and tries his best to make it up to you.

As for how he acts during a fight. Well, Billy's stages of rage are like the stages of grief. Let's talk about them, shall we? 🙃

Sometimes these follow on from each other in this order. Typically if the fights going on and on and his rage is steadily building. But depending on the context of the fight and what it's about, he might skip a stage or two and jump right in.

Stage 1: The Snark

The beginning stages of his anger is him being a little bitch. He's sarcastic, mocking, downright annoying. He's quick witted and knows just the right annoying thing to say to piss you off. This is usually how it starts off if it's not too bad of a fight and if it's something pretty small it stays this way.

Stage 2: The Loudmouth

This can follow on from the snark or if he's annoyed enough he might start right here. He's still snarky, rude and sarcastic but it's accompanied by yelling. Also his comments become downright mean. He knows just what to say to hit where it hurts and he uses that to his advantage.

Stage 3: The Brute

He's pissed. Super pissed and his body can't handle it. This is where his mouth isn't the only thing involved. He's still yelling, but now he's throwing a tantrum. A vase thrown at the wall, the opposite direction you're in. A chair kicked over. Wild pacing across the floor and maybe a fist colliding with a wall. It's worth saying, never in a million years would he lay a hand on you and none of this is done to intimidate you. He's just beyond upset.

Stage 4: The Snowstorm

At this stage, the fight is because of something you did. This stage never happens if he's in the wrong. It never gets to this point if he's at fault and he realises it before it gets here. So if this is the stage you're dealing with, you fucked up big time.

You might think you'd be grateful for some peace and quiet or for the yelling and childlike tantrums to end, but when this stage happens, it's actually so much worse.

This is where he switches off, becomes cold and detached. Billy's anger is usually a result of him being upset and he doesn't know how to handle that emotion. His brain can't comprehend it. So it usually goes to anger at default. So if you've hurt him this badly, his defence mechanism is to switch off. He can't hurt if he doesn't feel, right? Something he picked up when growing up.

His eyes are cold, his words are clipped and monotone. Emotionless. He either doesn't speak at all and leaves or he 'agrees' with whatever you're saying in a way you know he doesn't actually mean it but he's just so done with the bullshit.

Honestly, good luck navigating out of this one if you've done something this bad.

Game over:

For the first three stages, if at any point you cry, it's game over for him. It doesn't matter what the fight was about or who was in the wrong. If you cry, especially because of his stupid mouth and the shit he's come out with, he's apologising profusely, begging you to forgive him as he tries to comfort you. The second he sees your lip wobbling, your eyes tearful, he's done. He needs it to stop. The last thing he wants is to hurt you and no amount of pride is worth making you cry.

'Baby, don't cry... I'm sorry, alright? I'm an asshole. Just please... don't fuckin' cry...'

That being said, tears won't budge him from the last stage. Like I said, that's reserved for when you've done something awful. Your tears will hurt him but he's switched off to the point where it won't change anything.

Making up:

Stage 4 is pretty much irreversible. Only some time apart might heal whatever rift you caused.

The other three stages though are different. Of course if you're to blame you can't expect Billy to be the one to make it up. But if you extend the olive branch and apologise, he's more than willing to take it. He hates fighting with you. He doesn't get any enjoyment out of it. He won't dangle it over your head or make a big thing out of it. The moment you say sorry, he's got you in his arms again.

If he's in the wrong, it might take him a moment to realise it. He's stubborn to a fault and sometimes finds it hard to see anyone's point of view but his own. He does get there eventually though. He feels like the biggest piece of shit going. The apologies don't stop and he's not above getting on his knees to beg for forgiveness if he has to. And you better expect flowers everyday for a whole damn week too. The guilt plagues him for a while after and he dotes on you more than usual. Especially if he's said hurtful things to you. He takes the time to show you he didn't mean any of them and he was just being an asshole.

[wonhaebunny]

📂 I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU WRITE TODOBAKU BEFORE i think so tdbk please:( i wanna see your take on it

OKAY SO DURING MY EXAMS I STARTED THINKING ABOUT THIS HC BUT I NEVER GOT TO WRITE IT AND THEN I REMEMBERED THIS ASK SO HERE IT IS NOW!!!!

i think the main reason katsuki and shouto get along (?? questionable phrasing but i’ll run with it) so well is because they are both completely socially inept; katsuki deliberately so, while shouto just doesn’t know any better. they get close very very quickly because katsuki has absolutely no patience for small talk and niceties, and shouto isn’t socially aware enough to care for such things. in this way, the two of them understand each other on a fundamental level. 

so the two of them kind of... skip over a lot of things that normal friends would do. shouto is stupidly stubborn and intrusive in a way that would be considered rude for most people, and katsuki doesn’t mention it because he secretly prefers it this way.

the class is completely unaware of how close they are, as they’re both pretty private by principle. so the first time shouto off-handedly mentions katsuki’s house while sitting with the dekusquad in class, their jaws all drop simultaneously.

“it’s a little silly,” shouto is saying obliviously, “but somehow all his walls are pristine despite his quirk.”

“wait.” ochako cuts in. “you’ve been to bakugou’s house?”

she doesn’t, thankfully, mention the fact that shouto seems to be on first name basis with katsuki. she’s not sure whether her heart could handle an answer to that.

her words draw the attention of denki and hanta, who are sitting on a nearby cluster of tables. the two tune in almost instantly, with an urgency that only makes itself present whenever there’s potential blackmail material on katsuki available.

“yes?” shouto replies, a tad bemused. “that’s what i was just saying.”

“dude,” denki breathes, leaning over. “no way! he let you come over? the guy doesn’t even let us look at his dorm room!”

shouto blinks.

“i go there quite often. it’s not like he could stop me.” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“c-can’t stop you?” ochako echoes. “todoroki, he would murder you.”

to his credit, shouto just blinks again. “well,” he says simply. “he hasn’t. he lets me pet his cat, and he feeds me whenever i come over, so i don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.”

his words are met with utter silence.

“his cat?” hanta repeats slowly.

“feeds you?” tenya adds on, incredulous.

“yes,” shouto says, to both.

“are you playing a prank on us?” izuku asks, looking a little terrified. “it’s not that i doubt your word, todoroki-kun, but kacchan would literally rather die than let anyone come to his house. i’ve only ever been there because his parents invited me.”

shouto gives him a somewhat impatient look. 

“he doesn’t let me.” he says, wearily. “but he’s not going to turn me away if i turn up. the reason you all haven’t been is because you make a big deal of it.”

it makes sense, when he says it like that, like it’s easy.

“you’re telling us he feeds you?” hanta presses on, more than a little skeptical.

at this, a fond, almost soft look comes over shouto’s face.

“yes, he’s oddly courteous like that.” he says, lips curling upward ever-so-slightly in a rare smile. “he’ll curse and bluster but once i’m there he’ll still serve me tea and food no matter what. his discipline trumps his pride, it seems.”

he says the words with an air of familiarity, and the others are left wondering when exactly shouto and katsuki grew so close.

“wait,” denki says, looking extremely frazzled. “not that this isn’t scintillating and all, but can we go back to bakugou having a cat?”

“yes. her name is hime.” shouto says happily.

there’s an almost audible record scratch.

the students all pause, making eye contact with each other over shouto’s head for a long moment.

“and katsuki let his family name her that?” hanta says weakly.

“oh, no,” shouto responds, eyes bright seemingly with the opportunity to talk about the elusive cat. “katsuki is the one that named her.”

hanta and denki look like christmas has come early. ochako and tenya look vaguely disturbed. izuku, on the other hand, looks downright terrified.

“wait,” denki says, suddenly very invested. “tell me more about his cat. no, tell me about his bedroom. is there anything embarrassing? have you found his por-”

he’s cut off by the slamming of the classroom door. in the doorway stands katsuki, as if he’s somehow sensed that he is the subject of conversation. but to their relief, he simply frowns and stalks to his desk, pulling out a folder and rifling through it.

“hime is a rescue kitten,” shouto says, completely unbothered by katsuki’s entrance. the others are gesturing to him frantically, signalling to cut off the conversation lest katsuki blow up at them, but he ignores them blissfully. “she’s lovely. i’m trying to get her to like me more than she likes katsuki but it’s proving very difficult.”

“that’s because she has fucking standards, dipshit!” katsuki barks over his shoulder, not looking up from his folder.

shouto pouts.

“she’s illusioned,” he sniffs. “i’ll bring her to my side soon enough.”

katsuki’s eyes narrow, and he fixes shouto with a severe glare over the tops of the group’s heads, like they’re not even there.

“you keep your filthy hands off my child.” he says venomously.

hanta falls off his seat, and denki chokes on his own spit.

“she’s basically ours at this point,” shouto says conversationally, absolutely fearless in the face of katsuki’s ire.

to everyone’s utter shock, katsuki doesn’t erupt at the declaration.

“as if,” he simply huffs. “you haven’t even seen her in a week and you think you can call yourself a decent parent.”

then, under his breath, “fuckin’ half-assed trash.”

shouto puffs his cheeks out, looking a tad guilty.

“tell her i’m sorry, i’ll come over tonight,” he says imploringly. katsuki simply harrumphs, finally pulling a paper from the file and shoving the rest back under his desk, turning to stomp out of the classroom.

“will you make yakisoba today?” shouto calls at his retreating back.

“go fuck yourself!” katsuki spits, not turning back to spare him a glance.

“that’s a yes,” shouto informs the rest of them matter-of-factly, looking very pleased with himself.

the others stare at him, wide-eyed and completely speechless.

“you-” ochako begins, a little faintly. after a moment’s deliberation, she shuts her mouth again. 

she doesn’t want to know.

[pirates-and-posies]

Ask and you shall receive! Lemme explain some reasonings- also this is going to get long so I'll put it under a cut!

Thank you for the asks anon, @sisididis, and @helian-skies! 💙

For 🇵🇹:

He didn't get enough screen time and I am mad about it, same applies to many characters!! But him especially!! Give me MORE PORT!! I quite enjoy his design a lot because more characters need long hair.. but I also need Hima to draw him with his fucking hair down please it's all I ask!!! But also his design is weird (mostly in the anime) because they twinked him up. Hima make up ur mind you drew this man so fucking beefy put more meet on him!! I would marry him if he was real no balls (if he's human.. nationverse is complicated and I would be terrified of an immortal hottie ok)

For 🇪🇸:

He's so fucking stoopid I love him but also I legit don't know how to feel about him yk? Like,, I've been in this fandom for years and he's basically been my fave for so long, but at the end of the day I cannot describe him crystal clear. He's strange and I want more content from Hima of him, tho he has more content than some characters I still wish for more in-depth stuff! Mooore!! I'd marry him if I could but also nationverse strikes again.

For both:

They're extremely complex characters in my mind, not only just from what we know in canon but also from peer and personal interpretation! I think these two can easily be made morally grey, and that's extremely important when exploring their history. Like I don't think they're awful individuals, but fiction is an endless space and people tend to have their own fun. I make them assholes here and little shits there, but I don't think they're downright evil. Humans are complex, and Nationverse is the last situation I would consider them NOT be difficult to pin down. Antonio is mentioned to be two-faced, which is something I enjoy exploring a lot because there is no way with his history his happiness and obliviousness isn't some sort of coping mechanism he chooses to use rather than a natural thing. Also, my views on these two are not superior to anybody else's btw I just thought it would be funny to put that since I do deal with my own interp the most! Other people's interps are so fucking good okay (I am looking at you two!!)

But at the same time, I also hate the majority of fanon's interp over the years. Making Port some weirdo with a victim complex confuses me a lot looking at how absolutely stubborn this poor fucker is in my mind, but I do believe he would have depression issues and some form of imposter syndrome. But he's not weak and he doesn't see himself as a poor sod, he can acknowledge in some situations he's helpless and in others he can solve them. Older nations are stubborn and hate asking for help, I don't doubt he hates it lmao. But yeah kinda over the whole "poor Port" thing he can be a dick when the situation calls for it! This can apply to Antonio too, he's not a pathetic little shit either but they both have their moments obviously

And with Spain.. don't get me started on him. Please. I know his obliviousness is canon, but obliviousness doesn't equate to stupid and they make him so ignorant like there's just no way in hell. I know he may not read social situations well, but he sure as fuck knows how to read people (all except Port from what I'm seeing haha but that's a different situation). Spanish people are relatively blunt, but he wouldn't say something so awfully rude it would hurt somebody unless he intended it to lol. And he seems like the kind of person to be extremely smart with the things he enjoys! Canon kinda supports that as well, but it's a very recent development with the trivia thing being a new strip reveal but hshdjc you get my point hopefully!

Also the idea that they're related gets on my nerves sometimes because over 3/4ths of the people I've seen headcanon that get ignorant with it (as in, they culture blend and don't actually differentiate between Spanish and Portuguese people and are SUPER disrespectful! Also the name Carriedo doesn't exist in Portuguese at least be a little bit accurate if ur giving them the same names lol) Those who do it and aren't wild with it tho? I adore seeing all dynamics between the two. Go ham! Just be more kind and try not to make Spanish and Portuguese people out to be a monolith and also listen to them pls they would know a thing or two!!

On a more personal note, the they're literally me thing is a complete joke because I have hazel green eyes and brown hair lmfao. Depending on when I cut my hair I can make myself resemble them relatively easy with the exception of glasses because I'm blind as fuck hahaha. I also project onto them a lot because I project on all of my characters. I make them both Bi and mentally complex in some sort of way!! They're both impulsive and stubborn like me, and Antonio in my heart has ADHD to the max. Port has my weird affinity with the sea and the color blue while Antonio my obsession with fire and the color red. Just little things, they're obviously not me in the slightest but I give them elements of myself because I am controlling them in a fictional environment, and because it helps me cope knowing they can be liked and have similarities with me (I have,, unfortunate self esteem issues lmao) so yeah I just really adore them and I also replicate their characters as well. I will be honest in saying I project more on Antonio than Port tho hdhrjf- If I'm kind like Antonio and calm like Port, maybe I'll be liked more ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Just like them, I am a complex individual as well. We all are, humans are fucking nuts and it's fun to think about- also as you can see I'm mentally ill as fuck about them so not much explanation needed there LMAOO

Sorry for the long rant but I was really happy to have answered this!! Thank you for the asks dears 💙💙💙

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Still a Little Bit Yours (Part 1) - fic

Characters: Jon Kent, Damian Wayne, bit of Tim Drake and Maya Ducard Pairing: jondami Summary: Damian broke up with him, out of the blue. It didn’t make any sense. But, as it turns out, there’s a reason why it didn’t. A/N: Damian and Jon are in their mid-twenties and no longer go by Robin or Superboy (but not really Batman or Superman either, Tim’s last line is kind of a joke.) Title, and maybe vibe of this part, is based on ‘A Little Bit Yours’ by JP Saxe.

Part One | Part Two

~~

The phone almost slipped from his fingers.

Damian…did Damian just say what he thought he said?

“…What?” He whispered near breathlessly. “W-what did you just say?”

“I said I think we should see other people.” Damian replied calmly. “It would be for the betterment of both of us.”

“Since when?” Jon snapped, anger flaring immediately, but instantly morphing into confusion and sadness. His heart breaking by the second.

They’d been together for three years. Secretly pined after each other for the two years prior to that. Had recently talked about moving in together. Had been happy.

Jon was so, so sure they’d been happy.

“Since…recently.” Damian hummed blankly. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

“And the thought of doing this in person didn’t occur to you in your fucking contemplation?” Jon snapped. “Christ, Damian, we were just talking about getting an apartment!”

“I’m sorry if I hurt you. I know this isn’t what you want.” There was a hint of regret in Damian’s voice, but not enough for Jon’s liking, so it only fueled his growing anger further. “I…I don’t know what else to say.”

“Oh, really? Three fucking years and this is all you have to say?” Jon hissed. “I know you’re emotionally constipated, Damian, but…god. This is low. Even for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not!” Jon shouted. A store clerk nearby glanced at him. And that was right, he was in the grocery store. He’d…forgotten. Forgotten the whole world existed, forgot it was collapsing around him by the second, as Damian hummed those words. “Because if you were sorry, you wouldn’t have fucking done it this way in the first place!”

He heard a mother a few aisles down murmur to her children to not use language like that. That people who talked like that were pathetic.

“I…I don’t know what your game here is, Damian.” He whispered harshly.

“It’s not a game.” Damian promised. “I respect you too much to play games with you. I’m just trying to be honest.”

“But you don’t love me enough to break up with me in person, apparently.” Jon countered. He closed his eyes, wouldn’t allow the tears to fall. “I…Damian, I’m going to hang up on you right now. I…I don’t want to say something I might regret.”

“That’s fine.” Damian promised. Then again: “I’m sorry, Beloved.”

Jon scoffed and pulled the phone away from his ear. He hit the call end button so hard the screen cracked under his touch.

…Great.

He stood there a moment, trying to take deep, even breaths. But it wasn’t working real well. Each breath was trembling, and it’s like his lungs suddenly didn’t work, couldn’t hold any air.

Did he do something wrong? Did he say something? They’d fought before, all couples do. They were getting better at communication, Damian was coming out of that emotional shell the League of Assassins put him in.

They’d kissed yesterday. Jon had held him in his arms, had kissed his nose and told him how beautiful his smile was. Damian had laughed and held Jon’s face, stroking his thumb along his cheek.

And now…now they were here?

“…Honey?” Jon jumped as a hand gently touched his elbow. He spun to find an old woman in an apron matching the store’s color scheme glancing up at him. “Are you okay?”

The world around him came whooshing back. He was in the middle of the grocery store. He…he was sobbing in the middle of the grocery store. Fat, ugly tears rolling down his face as he practically crushed his phone in his hand.

“Do you need me to call someone?” The woman whispered.

“No, I…” He gently placed his shopping basket – half full of this week’s groceries – on the floor and backed away. He clumsily ran his nose along his sleeve, a trail of snot left in his wake. “I’m alright. I’m…I’m sorry.”

He turned and barely stopped himself from flying out of the store.

~~

Jon laid in bed for two days, exhausting himself racking his brain, trying to figure out what happened, what changed, what he did.

He texted Damian, almost exactly twenty-four hours after the fateful call, but the other never answered. Never answered any text Jon sent. Or any call that he drunkenly made after that. Didn’t even give him the knowledge of being left on read.

He cried a few times, threw things a few other times.

None of this made any sense.

He thought about going over to Gotham. Walking up to the manor and banging on the door until someone answered. Thought about staging a protest until Damian agreed to see him, if the door answerer wasn’t said boyfriend.

…Ex-boyfriend.

Tears welled up in his eyes every time he thought of the term.

Ex. Boyfriend.

Jon closed his eyes, buried his face in his pillow. Honestly, he thought they were going to get married. He thought they were going to be together forever. He wasn’t ready to plan a life without Damian, not yet. They were supposed to grow old together, die minutes apart like in the movies. Holding hands until the end.

He didn’t lose Damian to death, like he always thought he would. He didn’t lose Damian to space or assassins or even to grief in the potential loss of Bruce or Dick. He lost Damian because Damian…simply didn’t want him anymore.

God. They weren’t supposed to break up after three years. They weren’t supposed to part ways in their twenties. They weren’t supposed to end things for no reason.

He thought he’d gotten pretty good at reading Damian. His ticks, his quirks. What upset him, what didn’t. He thought he was an expert. The world’s leading expert in Damian Wayne.

Apparently he was fooling himself.

He sighed, pressed his face further into the fabric of his pillow. Tried to ignore the memories threatening to overflow. Of he and Damian in this bed. Kissing, cuddling, lazing. Of Jon promising Damian the whole world, and Damian countering with the whole universe instead.

He wondered if he should call Kathy. Or Maya. Hell, one of Damian’s siblings. See if Damian had talked to them, if they had seen any signs. If they knew of anything going on.

He just burrowed under his covers, and kept his eyes closed.

~~

In the end, he didn’t tell anyone about the breakup. Not even his parents. There were intergalactic wars starting and government coups commencing – they had more important things to worry about than their youngest’s love life. And judging by the fact he hadn’t heard from any of the Bats, he had a feeling Damian didn’t mention it to his family either.

Just as well. They were adults. They could handle this as just that. Adults.

So he wallowed in self-pity for a few days, but eventually forced himself up. Took a deep breath, dried his own eyes and distracted himself with continuing his life. Focused on his job, on heroing. The world kept turning, even if he and Damian weren’t together.

His heart hurt less as the days passed on. Not by much, his heart was still utterly shattered after all, but it didn’t hurt as much to inhale. Didn’t hurt as much to smile. Didn’t hurt as much to get a text or a call and it not be Damian.

Damian never answered when Jon tried to contact him. The first few days were understandable, but now the texts were housekeeping. Do you want your shirt back? I think you left Alfred’s cat treats here. I have a box of your stuff and your apartment key, if you’re in town soon, you can stop by and get it.

And still, like always, nothing. Damian was always stubborn, but now he was just being downright rude. It’d been almost a month now! Surely if someone as emotional as Jon could somewhat start to get over it, someone as stoic as Damian had probably completely forgotten about it by now!

He huffed as he watched a couple walk by the park bench he was sitting on, taking the momentary surge of frustration-induced courage to hit the call button on his (recently fixed) phone and hold it up to his ear.

They wouldn’t have to talk. This was just tying up the loose ends. Getting rid of the sentimental things. Getting rid of things that didn’t belong to him. That was all. That was all.

But the line didn’t even ring. It went straight to voicemail. And the frustration turned to hurt. Did…did Damian change his number? No, impossible. It still went to Damian’s voicemail, his phone was just off.

But Damian never turned his phone off. No hero did, and especially no one in the Wayne family. They were always on call, even when they shouldn’t be.

So, for Damian’s phone to be off…was he avoiding someone? Avoiding Jon?

He lowered his phone to his lap and stared at it. He was one of those people who put emojis in people’s contact names. Damian’s name was surrounded by the pink, growing heart, and the cat emoji that looked like Alfred.

He didn’t have the strength to take those away. Not yet.

He swallowed the lump in his throat that he didn’t realize was there, and put his phone back in his pocket.

He’ll just ship Damian his shit, then.

~~

He shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have. It’d make him the crazy ex. The ones Taylor Swift wrote songs about.

But at least once a day, he found himself listening. Tapping into his powers and listening for Damian’s heartbeat.

He didn’t do it often while they were together. Mostly because while together they were almost always together. Physically. So he could just reach out and hold Damian’s wrist. Put his ear to Damian’s chest. Watch the pulse as it beat along Damian’s neck.

It was a coping mechanism back then, used to calm himself. When the world got too much. When his day was bad. He could just focus on Damian’s heartbeat in any form. Drown the rest of the noise out.

Damian’s heartbeat now sounded far away, but Jon didn’t feel like pinpointing how far. It was slow and even, and that almost made him angry. Damian was calm. Damian was relaxed. Probably sitting at his easel drawing without a care in the world, while here Jon was listening for him like some kind of fucking lost puppy.

Every time he listened, it was slow and steady.

Stupid Damian, he’d think as he tuned his powers back out, furiously go back to whatever he was doing. Stupid relationships.

Relationships were overrated. Damian was overrated.

~~

“He what?!”

Maya’s shriek had Jon pulling the phone away from his ear with an amused grimace. He laughed as he switched the audio to be on speaker, and absently opened an app on his phone.

(A…dating app.)

“You didn’t know?” Jon hummed. His friend had called to ask some questions on a man she was tracking, someone who rumours said was from another planet. Kathy hadn’t known of the solar system, so she was trying the next best alien. As they talked, something about a crime scene came up, and she asked if Damian could help, if Jon could give him the phone. He had to break the news. “I thought you guys talked like…every day.”

“No way.” Maya scoffed. “Once a month, if that.” Jon could hear the frown in her voice. “And we did talk about a month ago. Maybe a bit longer. He didn’t say anything. In fact, he told me you guys were going to move in together, that he wanted me to plan a trip back to the States for a housewarming party.”

“Well…life comes at you fast, I guess.” Jon chuckled bitterly, remembering that call. He was in the room for that call, dozing in Damian’s arms, half listening to their conversation. He sneered at the choices the app was giving him. None of them were very attractive. “Because about a month ago was when he called it off.”

“Huh.” Maya mumbled. “I’m so sorry, Jon. If I’d had known that’s what he was planning, I would have beat the shit out of him. You were the best thing to ever happen to him, for gods’ sake! What the hell did he willingly throw it all away for?!”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Jon shrugged. This potential match wore a shirt that said Joker’s Biggest Fan on it, and Jon cringed instantly. “He didn’t give a reason. Just said that it was for the betterment of both of us, and that he was sorry.”

“Fucking turd.” Maya sighed. “I’ll call him here in the next few days, and see if he’ll tell me anything.”

“Good luck.” Jon drawled. “He hasn’t answered a single text or phone call since he broke things off. And I don’t know if that’s to just me or everyone.”

“You ask one of his brothers? Which one’s friends with your brother again? Jason?”

“Tim.” Jon corrected. He hesitated on this potential match option. Just stared. It was a woman. Dark hair, tan skin, standing in a desert. She was beautiful. And she reminded him of Damian. “And I haven’t seen or talked to any of them either. No cases have taken me out to Gotham lately.”

The next match had sharp eyes, ones that said they were smarter than everyone else. Cocky. That was like Damian too.

“Eh, they’d probably cover for him anyway. They’re all a bunch of freaks like that.” She grumbled. “Are you…doing okay?”

“I’m fine.” Jon lied, and he knew Maya heard right through it. “Time heals all wounds and all that. Better every day.”

“Oh, Jon…” Maya sighed sympathetically. Jon didn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed at her pity. Not when the next person on the app was standing on a rooftop, flag tied to his neck, blowing gloriously behind him. Looking far too much like every hero persona Damian’s ever been. “Hey – I’ll be back in the States soon. And I promise, I’ll make my first stop coming to see you so we can get drunk and stuff ourselves with pizza and scream about what an asshole Damian is. Okay?”

The next match was posed in the photo in a fencing match. Damian. The next surrounded by Great Danes. Damian. The next playing a violin. Damian. The next wearing a Batman costume at a Halloween party.

Damian.

Damian. Damian. Damian.

He sighed and closed the app. Stupid.

“Yeah. That sounds like exactly what I need, Maya.”

“Great. It’s a date.” She paused a moment. “Love you, dude.”

Jon hesitated, because he hadn’t said those words since Damian. Hadn’t thought them. Hadn’t wanted to think them, not for anyone. Not for family, not for friends. Not for a single person in his life. Still left in his life.

“Love you too, Maya.”

~~

Jon wasn’t a dreamer. He didn’t know if it was his Kryptonian side, or just how he was, but he didn’t dream often. And if he did, if he remembered them, it was only flashes. Only later moments of déjà vu. Never full sequences. Never lucid.

But…this.

They were in Kansas, out in one of Pa’s fields, lying among the wheat. Damian was flat against the ground as Jon laid over him, kissing him as hard and deeply as he could. They both had their arms around the other, grips tight and unyielding. Like if one of them let go, the whole world would disappear.

He doesn’t know why, but it was a noise Damian made. A quiet moan, and his fingers digging desperately into Jon’s shoulders that snapped him out of it. Made him realize.

This wasn’t real.

He began to lean back, pulled his arms from Damian’s shoulders to steady himself. Damian shifted too, but only to hold Jon’s face, to try and chase his lips.

“No, I…” Jon stuttered, his body wanting to do just that. Dive back in and devour Damian whole. But his mind didn’t let him, forced him to continue back until he was on his knees. “We can’t.”

He got to his feet and backed up a step, half turning away. Couldn’t bear the sight of Damian lying in the dirt, shirt half open and hair disheveled, chest heaving from arousal and exertion. “…Jonathan?”

“You’re not real.” Jon almost whined, running his fingers through his hair.

“Is that so?” Damian scoffed. “Since when?”

“Since I know we haven’t been back to Kansas in like a year.” Jon sighed, turning back. “Since I just remembered you broke up with me.”

“Absurd.” Damian laughed. Jon glared down at him, watched as Damian stood, and wiped the dust from his butt. “I would never do such a thing.”

“Well…you did!” Jon spat. “And over the phone! Not even in person!”

“You’re not listening to me.” Damian scolded. He raised his sharp gaze. “I would never do such a thing.”

“…What?” Jon whispered incredulously. “I just…I just told you that you did! And I…” He snorted, shook his head. “You’re not even real. Why the hell am I even trying to argue with you?”

“Because despite what you tell those around you, you miss me.” Damian sauntered over to him with a smirk, and poked at his temple. “Now I need you to use that big brain of yours and focus on what I’m saying. What it means.”

Jon looked down sadly. Gently reached up to take Damian’s hand in his, and turned so he could kiss his palm, could hide his face against Damian’s hand.

Damian just smiled warmly, stepped closer into Jon’s space. Cupped his other hand around the side of Jon’s throat. “Please just remember.” He begged softly. “I would never do such a thing. Never.” He leaned up on his toes, and pressed their foreheads together. “Not to you, Beloved.”

Jon leaned into the gesture, and parted his lips to kiss Damian again.

But then he woke up.

He woke up in the dead of night, with tears streaming down his face, and the memory of the dream burning against his skull.

I would never do such a thing.

“But you did, Damian.” Jon sobbed, clutching his pillow, curling his knees to his chest. Because it felt like his heart was going to tumble out, all the pieces that it had shattered into were going to come spilling out onto his sheets. “You did.”

He didn’t go back to sleep.

~~

Jon let out a low growl as he stomped out of the café. That was a bust. That was a huge fucking waste of his time.

But that’s what he got for trying to jump back into the dating pool.

The girl seemed nice enough in their limited texting interaction. She was cute and not purposefully looked nothing like Damian. She was bubbly and loud, and also not purposefully acted nothing like Damian either.

(Totally not purposefully. Totally.)

But he’d just spent the last hour listening to her rant about conspiracy theories that were already disproven one hundred times over, and rave about how Lex Luthor was the best and coolest and smartest person to ever exist, because he was rich and going to get them all to Mars. She never stopped to let Jon talk. Never stopped to take a breath for herself either.

Needless to say, there’d be no second date. He’d frankly excused himself with a lie to get out of this one early.

(And she’d already texted him about how great of a time she had, and she couldn’t wait to see him again, despite still sitting in the restaurant ten feet behind him.

Jon didn’t like to ghost people – not like certain ex-boyfriends of his – but this one…he couldn’t wait to.)

So it must have been fate that he chose that moment to leave. Not a few minutes before, or decided to suffer through the rest of his rendezvous. Because as soon as he walked out of the café, he spotted one Tim Drake coming out of the building across the street.

Funnily enough, Tim spotted him at almost the exact same moment. Except instead of waving or smiling like Tim normally would, his face visibly paled and his eyes widened, like Jon was the last person on Earth he wanted to see.

Jon frowned when he saw Tim glance around, like he was looking for an escape route. “Tim!” He called before the other could do just that, glancing up and down the street before jogging quickly towards him. “Hey, wait up!”

Tim took a step backwards, like he was going to try to bolt, but in the end stayed where he was, waited for Jon to reach him. Quickly pulled his phone out and scanned the screen before pocketing it again. “Hey Jon…what, uh. What’s going on? How are you?”

“Oh…been better. But trying to stay positive.” Jon laughed knowingly. Tim didn’t react. “How’s the family?”

“Good. Busy.” Tim shrugged. “Lots of, uh…stuff to do. You know how it is.”

Jon nodded, and the two fell into an awkward silence. Tim pulled his phone out again, but quickly threw it back in his pocket.

“How’s…” And Jon didn’t want to ask, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. Wasn’t desperate to actually know, instead of guessing and assuming. “How’s Damian?”

But to Jon’s the surprise, at the sound of Damian’s name, Tim seemed to practically deflate. He threw his hands across his face, began shaking his head. “God, Jon, I’m so sorry. I know we should have called, or kept you in the loop or something. But we didn’t want you to become a target too or get hurt, or…”

“What?” Jon cut off, gut suddenly dropping. “What are you talking about?”

Tim peeked between his fingers, eyes narrowed. “…What are you talking about?”

“I…I haven’t talked to Damian since he broke up with me.” Jon murmured. Tim’s eyes instantly widened even more in surprise. “I just…wanted to know if he was doing okay?”

“Damian broke up with you?” Tim whispered. “When?”

“Um, I don’t know a month or so ago?” Jon shrugged. “Why? Tim, what’s going on?”

“How did he break up with you?” Tim demanded, suddenly all but lunging at Jon. His eyes darted between Jon’s desperately. “Was it in person?”

“No, it was over the phone.”

“What day?” Tim asked, almost giddy now. “What day did he break up with you, exactly? What day did you get that call?”

“Uh…” Jon pulled out his phone, and went to the call feature. He scanned the list until he found the one he was looking for. The one that ruined his whole life. “The seventh.”

“What time?”

“Like three or four in the afternoon?” Jon huffed. “Tim, why is this relevant? What happened?”

“Have you talked to him since then?” Tim continued, undeterred. “In any way? Text? Call? Carrier pigeon?”

“What? No! I…I tried calling him a few times, to return his stuff and all that, but he never answered.” Tim suddenly backed away from him, running both hands through his hair, like a case was just blown wide open. For the third time, Jon asked: “Tim, what the hell is going on?”

Tim hesitated for a moment, then looked Jon dead in the eyes. “Damian’s been missing for a month.” He said plainly. “He disappeared on the morning of the seventh.”

And just like that day on the phone, it felt like the world was being swallowed into a black hole beneath him. That the universe was disappearing around him, that it wasn’t real.

He could barely breath. “…What?”

“He, Duke and Cass were on a case in France. Without warning all three of them went radio silent. When we got there, we only found Duke and Cass half dead in a vineyard. They said they were attacked by a…a shapeshifter or something, lured them in by transforming into members of the Justice League. That they saw the shapeshifter and their crew dragging Damian away, but they didn’t see where to, or even what direction.”

Jon’s head was spinning.

“We’ve been looking for him day and night ever since. And when you didn’t come looking for him…” Tim winced. “We assumed he’d told you that he would be away on a mission, potentially for a long time. So your absence didn’t concern us. In fact, like I said, we were grateful. We didn’t want you getting wrapped up in this too, and potentially hurt.”

Jon was barely listening anymore, too wrapped up in what he’d just been told. That Damian had been missing since that day. That the reason Damian’s heartbeat sounded so far away was because he was, he was somewhere in Europe. That he wasn’t answering his phone because he was being held captive.

…That it wasn’t Damian on that call.

I would never do such a thing. Never. Not to you.

“…Beloved.” He murmured. Tim instantly stopped in his ramblings.

“…What?” Tim asked.

“On the call, when he broke up with me. First, he never gave a reason, which I thought was crazy. I guess…I guess it makes sense now.” Jon said thoughtfully. “But before we hung up. He said ‘I’m sorry, Beloved.’”

“…So?”

“That’s what Damian had me as in his phone. Not my name.” Jon explained. “Why would he still call me Beloved if he was breaking up with me?”

“…He would have said your name.” Tim said, the truth dawning on him. “The kidnapper wouldn’t know that. They wouldn’t know your name. So they called you what you were listed as.”

“And recognized that I was someone important to him.” Jon finished. “But…why? Why call me just to…break up with me? Why call me at all?”

“I don’t know. We can think about it later.” Tim was instantly back in detective mode, holding out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“Because we can track where that phone call came from.” Tim wiggled his fingers impatiently. With his other hand, he pulled out his own phone, typing furiously with his thumb. Jon realized that’s why he was checking it so much, that’s why he was in Metropolis at all. He was looking for clues for Damian, anywhere he could. “And that might take us to where this bastard took my brother.”

“...Need a ride to the Batcave?” Jon asked with a sheepish smile. “…The sooner we get there, the sooner we can track this fucker and find Damian.”

Tim pursed his lips in thought, clearly not thrilled at the idea of including Jon, not after they all tried so hard to keep him detached, but eventually returned the grin.

“Get us in the air, Superman.”

[princessamericachavez]

I wanna write a long multi chapter fic about Jack and Shitty becoming friends but also I don’t have the mental bandwidth right now so instead I’m just gonna blurt out a long bulletpoint fic so bare with me

Okay so Shitty B. Knight arrives to Samwell hungry for life and friends and finally some fucking air to breathe and be himself away from his conservative family

And it is fucking great, okay? From the get go he finds that his loud left wing talk is welcomed here, he gets to joke around and be as weird as he wants and no one cares

He hits it off pretty quickly with nearly everyone in the team. Sure, Johnson is a little weird and keeps talking about this merely being the “prologue of someone else’s story” but what he’s really curious about is the quiet Canadian guy that barely talks to anyone

Now, Shitty knows about Jack Zimmermann. Obviously. You have to grow up under a rock to not know about Bad Bob and his kid.

He also knows what happened. It must be a sore subject.

Is that why he’s so quiet?

It’s not that Shitty makes Jack a project. Not really. It’s that Shitty has been in a place where he felt lonely and out of place before and it sucked ass. He wants to help.

So he tries. Constantly.

Because Shitty sees the spark hiding behind the ice cold facade. He sees the way Jack’s face lights up in the rink, how loud and youthfully he celebrates cellys, how protective of others he is in the ice.

That’s a guy he WANTS to be friends with.

Except he can’t. After every training, Jack shuts back up

“Hey, Jaques, wanna go grab a bite?” “Thanks but I should sleep. We got an early day tomorrow.”

“My man, Zimmermann, lets go to that fucking party across campus!” “I’d rather not.”

“Hey, let’s celebrate this fucking win!” “I was actually gonna watch the game tonight. There was a play there that keeps bothering me.”

Anything that isn’t hockey is an instant No from Jack but Shitty is too stubborn to give up.

“Hey, Jack, I was going to train a bit extra on Sunday. Care to join me? You could teach me some of those sick moves.” “Sure.”

VICTORY. Sort of. Working out extra with Jack is exhausting, physically and mentally because Shitty keeps trying to come up with jokes and keeping up 90% of the conversation.

It takes nearly a month until Jack agrees to grab a bite after their Sunday skate and Shitty is so fucking beat that he nearly falls asleep on his burger.

“Hey, Shits, nice ketchup mustache,” Jack chirps him suddenly. And it’s the smallest, dumbest possible thing but Shitty laughs a little too loud and Jacks shoulders seem to lose a bit of that perpetual tension he’s always carrying.

It gets better after that. Slowly, painstakingly, but Shitty finds himself enjoying Jack’s company more and more.

He’s a genuinely good bro. He listens, even when he’s just grunting along time Shitty’s monologues, and he asks questions that shows that he actually cares, every now and then. It’s odd, being taken seriously.

By the end of their first semester, Jack and Shitty are spending a lot of time together. Which is why he asks him to come to the art kids party where Larissa is going to be.

Who? “Brah, Larissa Duan? Just the coolest fucking chick ever! I told you about her the other day, man. She said we should come over to this thing and I would go, but I know shit about art and I would rather not go along and bring my best fucking bro with me.”

After the word vomit he worries that maybe he pushed too far, judging by the way Jack freezes and stares at him like a deer on headlights. But then Jack sighs and says “fine, I’ll go,” and Shitty whoops with excitement

The party goes better than Shitty could’ve ever dreamed. Larissa’s super chill energy seems to have an effect on Jack, who half an hour in is talking about photography with some other art kids and he even agrees to come grab a beer with him and Larissa afterwards.

Until, of-fucking-course, Jack goes into hockey-mode and asks Larissa if she would like to be their team manager. They need one and she seems good at organizing stuff.

“Brah!” “I think it would be cool” “wait, what” “I’ve been looking to do more stuff and you guys are dope. Would I get my own nickname?”

And Jack looks her with that seriousness that means he’s thinking about hockey and firmly says “Lardo” and she says “sweet” and Shitty corrects “swasome” and things are good.

Thing don’t stay good, because as chill as Shitty tries to be, life rarely stays chill.

After winter break, in the smothering tightness of his folks’ home, Shitty finds himself craving that weird and easy friendship with Jack.

Why he finds is a Hockey Robot. All Jack seems to do and talk about is how to get the team to the play-offs. He trains longer than anyone (more than Shitty can keep up with), and when he isn’t on the ice, he is thinking about hockey or talking about plays or or about eating more protein.

Shitty is angry. Not that he would tell anyone (except Lardo) because it’s really not his place (he knows about shorty family dynamics, no pun intended) but he’s mad because Jack’s folks seem to have done quite a fucking number on him over the break and it kills him to even think about it.

And then family weekend comes and Bad Bob himself shows up to Samwell with his beautiful wife and Shitty has to swallow down his anger because Jack wants them to go have diner together and it’s the first human interaction he’s had with Jack in a month so sure he’ll go.

Shitty is good at being nice and polite around people he dislikes. He hates doing it, but it’s like muscle he had to work on growing up.

Except, Bob and Alicia are nice. Like, fucking nice. Even for Canadian standards. They are sweet and funny and normal and keep reassuring Jack about their love and support every third sentence.

And still, Jack has that grim “thinking about the next game” look on his face the whole time.

Shitty is confused as fuck.

The game goes well and Jack is the happiest Shitty has ever seen him as he celebrates his goal in the ice. He even hugs Shitty and thanks him for his assist.

Three games later they are out of the playoffs and Jack shuts down everything and everyone around him.

Shitty tries. He knocks on his door at least twice a day to see if he wants to go over to the Haus to hang out with the team. He offers going out for burgers or a beer or both. He even enlists Lardo, hoping the team manager will be able to snap him out of it.

Jack leaves early for a Hockey Summer camp and doesn’t say goodbye but Shitty hears from Johnson that he also got dibs on a room at the Haus.

Jack actually texts Shitty during the summer. It shocks him so much that he has to double check his phone before replying.

The texts are just to comment on the NHL playoffs and finals, sporadic and robotic at times, but Shitty does his best to drag the conversations for as long as possible. Once the season is over, so are the texts.

Shitty assumes Jack must be pretty happy though since his old bro won the cup.

When fall comes, Shitty stumbles again into Jack’s hockey-robot mode. His intensity is nearly terrifying. He barely speaks out of practice, only leaves his room to go to lecture or the rink. Looks like he hasn’t been sleeping at all.

Shitty is worried. He’s hurt, too, because he misses the friendly Jack that had slowly started coming out of his shell, and he wonders if it’s going to be like this, back to square-one after every break, but most of all he’s worried about Jack.

Lardo tells him to give him space. She says she sometimes gets “on the zone” for an art project and can forget about the rest of the world. Shitty likes thinking of Jack as an artist, but he hates seeing him this unhappy. None of the old tricks work to cheer him up.

Then comes the first Kegster of the year. Two frogs, Hostler and Ransom, take over planing duties and the party is the biggest the Haus has ever seen.

It’s freaking dope.

And then, fucking Kent Parson fucking shows up asking about Jack.

Lardo and Shitty nearly have to drag him out of his room to greet his old best friend.

Jack is cold towards Pars, in a way Shitty has never seen before. He’s downright rude and mean in every comment, no matter how much Kent tries to joke around, and five minutes later Jack turns around and leaves him talking to himself.

He’s jealous, Shitty realizes, and he’s being petty and awful and he doesn’t know this Jack Zimmermann at all.

Shitty runs after Jack upstairs, maybe a little emboldened by the alcohol.

“Hey, brah, what the fuck was that?”

“Stay out of it, Shits.”

“Nah, man, that was weird as fuck.”

“Seriously, you don’t know what you’re talking about”

“Then tell me, man, I’m your fucking friend! Just talk to me!”

Jack slams his bedroom door on his face and Shitty deflates. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they are not friends after all.

The rest of the semester is tense. Shitty tries to focus on his classes, on the ice, on how fucking cool and pretty and funny Lardo is, on the parties and the rest of the team.

It just bothers him. He misses Jack. He’s still there but he’s been absent any time they aren’t in the rink. He’s still great and focused and nearly friendly in the ice, but anything else is like the fucking twilight zone.

It’s before a game that he finds Jack sitting outside Faber, curled into a ball and physically shaking.

Shitty thinks of the headlines about Jack OD’ing, thinks of his tension around his loving parents and his reaction to Kent Parson showing up. Anxiety. The word takes form in his head, clear and obvious and the relief of having an answer hits him so hard he wants to laugh.

Instead, he sits next to Jack, who stirs when he feels him by his side but actually seems to relax when he realizes it’s Shitty who found him like this. Jack lets out a breathy “I’m fine” and Shitty says “sure, brah, but I’m fucking nervous about tonight, mind if I sit here for a while?” And Jack shakes his head. So they sit, in uncharacteristic silence, until Jack’s breathing normalizes.

“Thanks, Shits. Could you not-“ “Don’t worry man, I ain’t saying fucking shit to anyone.” And Jack smiles for the first time in months.

By the end of the semester comes the Epikegster to end all the kegsters. Which means, of course, Shitty gets shitfaced.

Which is why he ends up stumbling drunkenly to his room in the middle of the night to grab another pair of sunglasses because who knows where the fuck his other two pairs went

And it’s why he doesn’t know how to react when he finds two linebackers throwing up on his bedroom floor

“Brah, what the fuck, get outta here!” He yells, trying to grab one of the guys and pull him out to the hallway.

Except, the guy is huge. And he is angry.

Shitty doesn’t know what hit him when someone throws him to the floor.

His brain thinks he’s been checked for a second but then he remembers he’s not in the ice.

The other guys, however, apparently don’t remember they aren’t on the field because the second dude tries to tackle Shitty just as he’s getting up and he barely has time to dodge before one gigant ducking foot goes through the bedroom wall

“Hey, man, what the fucking fuck?!”

Shitty tries to steady himself, increasingly accepting that he’s about to get into a fight he didn’t ask for. He has time to think it’s ironic that his first real fight in Samwell will be off-the-ice.

And then the bedroom door opens and in comes Jack Laurent Zimmermann in all of his gorgeous badass glory.

“Let’s all calm down, eh?”

Here’s the thing: it’s easy to forget how strong Jack is. Shitty is used to hanging out with Hockey Bros and it’s easy to forget that not everyone’s bro’s are big muscley athletes defying toxic masculinity standards one day at a time. But Jack, even when he doesn’t look that big, is one of the strongest people he’s met.

He remembers all this when Zimmermann grabs the two by their shirts and drags them out of the room and all the way downstairs.

Shitty stumbles after them, as Jack pulls them like they aren’t both huge masses of muscle and throws them out to the street.

By the time Shitty reaches the porch, a bunch of big as fuck guys are standing there, looking drunk and angry and ready for a fight.

So Shitty does the one thing that makes sense to him: he squares up next to Jack, ready to fight back to back with him.

Before they can get run over by fists, however, Jack reaches for the only emergency measure in the house: an old as balls fire extinguisher.

Two minutes later, the football bro’s are running away and Shitty is laughing so hard he collapses on the floor next to Jack.

Jack kneels next to him, with his serious hockey face on, puts a hand on Shitty’s shoulder and asks “you alright, Shits?”

Shitty nods, still laughing, and to his surprise Jack laughs too, sitting by his side on the floor. They sit there, chuckling, until the sound dies down and they both sigh at nearly the same time.

Whatever tension there was between them seems to have desipated with that clouth of dust of the fire extinguisher.

“Thanks for having my back, bro”

“Hey, you always have mine,” Jack shrugs. “What are best friends for?”

Shitty cries. Jack freaks out that he might have said the wrong thing. Shitty just hugs him and shouts about being the best bros.

That winter break Jack invites Shitty over to his house and Shitty accepts eagerly.

Bob and Alicia are sweet and happy to have him and keep saying how much Jack talks about Shitty and how thankful they are that Jack’s found so many good friends in Samwell and they’ve heard about Lardo and Hostler and Ransom and Johnson and Shitty most of all.

This time he manages not to cry.

At the end of the break, Jack and him are hanging out and Jack says “Hey, Shits, I’m not good at this but I wanted to say thanks, for not giving up on me when I was acting kinda weird.”

And Shitty just laughs and says “it’s alright man, I figured you have like hockey robot mode and then human mode.”

Jack makes a face. Shitty shrugs.

“I’ll take them both, brah.”

Jack doesn’t cry, because he’s Jack and even his human mode struggles with emotions, but he smiles and throws a snowball at Shitty’s face and that’s all he wanted really.

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 19

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: Hmmm...weapons, fluff, dealing with trauma, mention of rape, masturbation, violent reaction, difficult choices, more fluff, and kissing. A/N: Thanks to all of you who like and especially reblog <3 On a second note: been looking for houses (need to move out of my parents’ place with my husband bc omfc).  Also that GIF just is epic.

19 - An offer you can’t refuse

…   Romanoff   …

The tinny jingle from the Goldfish commercials doesn’t cause hesitation to the hands moving rapidly to find and connect the right parts needed in the task of assembling three different guns. Only when the last weapon is locked (and loaded) does Natasha spin the cell phone on the table with a frown. Unknown caller, but the small dots in the corner indicate that Jarvis is tracking down the number already and will have an answer in three…two…one…ugh! Langley.

“Afternoon.” The tone is flat enough to show the lack of enthusiasm without being downright rude. “What more does Langley want post-hearings?”

She can almost hear the crooked smile. “Hrph…I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, miss Romanova.” The twist to the last name sends shivers down the former Russian’s spine but the familiar voice continues. “I’m agent Ross…we met during the hearings…?”

The silence is allowed to reign in an attempt to get the man to talk, maybe say too much. Meanwhile, Natasha brings the Glock 26 behind the back and starts to dismantle it, counting the seconds it takes before every piece of metal is spread out on the couch cushion behind her, careful not to lose the pins or the little spring for the trigger.

“Miss uhm…miss Romanova? You there?”

Nervous. Not enough. “…yeah.”

“Good! Good. Yes…” Some paper rustles through the line. “Right…I know the hearings’ve been long and prob’ly bothersome,” agent Ross hesitates to allow for some comment but gets none, “s’I can completely understand and respect if y’aren’t interested, however…I believe that you may ‘ave information that could be of benefit to u- to the Agency, I mean, in terms of filling some gaps. Erm I think…what I’m trying to say’s would it be possible for you to – off record – have a look at our older intel?”

Wait…waaiit…one more second. An intake of breath is Natasha’s cue. “You want me to shed light on old cases that’ve gone sideways?”

“Well –“

“You think either SHIELD, Hydra, or maybe my former handlers could’ve botched it for you guys?” By now the short agent’s sputtering in embarrassment, maybe hoping for the weak protests to soothe any slights the insinuation could have caused. “Send me a top ten and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Really?!”

Yeah, why would I? Simply put, Natasha hates being out of the loop, and the spy in her is aching for the chance of (legally) getting hold of CIA intel. More than that, though, she’s learned the hard way how precious the currency known as “favours” are. Owe someone something? They’ll have a hook in you forever. Someone owes you? It can be the difference between life and death. An IOU from a CIA agent…that could be handy.

“No promises I can actually tell you more than y’know already.”

Movement behind her makes the Avenger turn her head, a smile already curving her lips at the presence of [Y/N] who eyes the weapons (and parts) cautiously.

“Oh, no! That’s okay, no worries!” An idiot might refuse the tentative offer and Ross is far from that. “I’ll compile the files and get them to…you…uhm…”

“I’ll text you an address.” A slightly oil-greased finger hovers over the phone already. “Bye, agent Everett Ross.”

…   Rumlow   …

The fly circles the room a few times before finally settling on the person in the corner, climbing across brown-stained jeans in short sprints before reaching the lax hand and taking off again. Next time the insect lands it’s by the dried spatter on the wall where the bullet had made a small crater when it exited the skull of…who was that? A glance at the pens and the old-fashioned glasses makes Brock guess at some dusty field of expertise like history or literature. Whatever it had been, the man had decided it was better to risk it all and go looking for Hydra on nothing but a rumour.

“Don’t mind zat,” Strucker dismisses the sight easily, “ze interesting zing is zis.” Careful not to touch, he points at the darkened veins and (with the help of a metal rod) the unnaturally blue eyes. “Ze experiment was quite a success, my friend. We are able to channel ze power of ze weapon into humans.”

“They all end up like this so far?” The eyelid hasn’t lowered again, so the endless glow of space is staring blindly at Brock no matter where he moves. “A bullet in the brain? Why did he get that?”

Chuckling softly, Strucker wipes the little stick in a handkerchief which he folds before depositing both in a pocket. “Zis man gained immense strengz but lacked control.” Oh. “Perhaps zere is a stronger connection between the state of mind and ze results zan we anticipated. We are now looking for actual volunteers.”

…

Fuck. However Loki did it remains a mystery still, but Brock won’t give up the hope that it will be possible to figure out how to control another person with the staff. Damnit, he’d seen the bit of salvaged footage and read the debriefs portraying the events when the Asgardian came to Earth and brainwashed top agents in no time.

The results of Strucker’s and his team’s work is vital both for the promotion of Hydra’s scheme…and to get anything useful from [Y/N] when she will get back again. I’ll be damned if it kills her. Brock’s all too aware that his craving for the ex-girlfriend wouldn’t be condoned if anyone knew – to be fair, he doesn’t quite like it himself because it makes him feel like he isn’t in control of his own damn mind. Every dream is either about missions and kills, sending adrenalin pumping through his veins, or they feature every detail of [Y/N].

The little smile when she was lost in thought. Her spine curving to jut the breasts upwards, skin subtle under Brock’s hands. Remembering the teasing hitches in her breath on a sunny morning, light filtering through the windows to catch in her hair as they made their bed creak together a lifetime ago.

“Godfuckingdamnit!”

Already, an erection is pressing painfully hard against tac-pants and Brock shoves a fist down to reposition the stubborn cock only for a new memory to appear the moment his fingers close around the shaft. Shea-butter mixed with sweat on pebbled nipples…perfect taste. There’s not much room to move the hand, but at least the pants are easily opened allowing for longer strokes.

The speed accelerates with each recollection, fist tightening and twisting while the echoes of [Y/N]’s moans are replaced by cries tearing from her throat when he took her with force. Fuck, it was so good, the man admits to himself, the struggle…oh yeah…the…the control. Breathing laboured, Brock has to lean against the wall, unable to stagger the last few steps over to his cot. She’d begged and pleaded, and he had been the one to grant her peace…or not.

He grunts as he comes. White stickiness spurting between his fingers, adding to the blurry haze from the inability to focus on anything else than the rush thrumming through the veins. It’ll be a short reprieve before the need returns like an endless hunger that nothing can sate. One thing can. But [Y/N] isn’t here, she’s tugged away somewhere with the fucking Avengers and that makes it all a million times worse because to think that Romanoff or maybe even Steve get to be close to her. Get to touch her, smell her.

It stings pleasantly when the hand connects with the drywalling and the structure behind it, thin strings of cum hanging from the torn plaster. At least that clears Brock’s mind a bit.

…   Reader   …

Lying awake all night, it’s almost a relief to sense the grey dimness take over the room and allow the outlines of furniture to stand out – not even Natasha’s steady breathing has been able to calm your mind after the hours of training spent to tire out your body at least. Why this time?! You’ve spent more than enough nights trying to escape nightmarish memories and negative thoughts but this…this issue is different and you’re happy with the decision you’ve made. I should just tell her.

It’s almost possible to make out the contours of Tasha against the white pillow, darker hair spreading like a halo of smoke. You know she sleeps lightly. Brushing your lips featherlight across her cheek, and she already turns to find your mouth with her own. Sweet and lazy kisses, a single tug to your bottom lip. Morning breath is a non-issue when she invites you into a bubble of gentle safety. Home.

“Morning, babe.” Her fingers tease the shortest hairs in your neck. “You’ve managed to sleep at all?”

There’s no reason to answer, just plant a peck on her nose. “I’ve made up my mind,” you offer as consolation, “and I hope you’ll understand why it’s important to me.”

The love never disappears from the touch while she sits up against the headboard. If it was light enough, you think you might see cautious interest mingled with concern in her eyes because Tasha isn’t as good as hiding it as she thinks she is. That’s a secret though.

“Okay…” She drags you onto her lap, straddling her so the strong arms can wrap around your waist. “Is it about the call from Ross?”

The scent of shampoo still clings to her hair as you bury your face in it, happy to talk into the red mess. “Yes, but mainly it’s about wanting to do what I can.”

Of course your reasoning isn’t perfect, but Natasha doesn’t interrupt even once as you explain how you want to do your part to support the hearings and the new request from the CIA by giving a testimony. Gifted or not, at least there’s information about Brock that can be of use and it seems someone else than just the Avengers are trying to clean things up…hopefully that includes tracking down the people that can be identified to Hydra through the data dumped on the net the day SHIELD fell. You promise to keep the ability secret to anyone outside of Natasha and her friends...admitting that you’ll have to be careful although you’ve got the most convincing cover to any strange phrasing “thanks” to what Brock and his people have put you through while in their hands.

The colours have returned to the world by the time you finish explaining. Dusty lavender heightens the rosy cheeks of the woman looking at you with a serious expression that makes your stomach knot. I have to do this. It’ll be hard as fuck, but it feels right. Feels important.

“I’ll let him know,” Tasha whispers, pulling you in for a tight embrace, “and I’ll be with you all the time.”

[livayl]

Finding love or how to compromise an Archmage

A little cross-post again. Because it´s still early and I´m awake since for ever which makes me really really bored. Feel free to ignore it here if you’ve read it already. Aaand: Please don´t re blog to non-fetish blogs, thank you. 

It takes place in the same fantasy world as my other story Veiled In Nocturnal Shadows. If you need or want any background for the characters feel free to ask. :) Also a little warning: it is about inducing which might not be everyone's thing. 

Marya would have never dreamed of dating another Elf, especially not one so highly born. One of those nobles that were usually too busy digging trough decades of lost elven glory to see the really important now. She actually preferred a more down to earth company. Like the dwarven blacksmith and mischievous woodfairies she used to live with. Before that crap of a war had started.

The all so high and mighty Amaziah seemed like a resurrection of old strength and magic. All things heavy that would normally rather crush than tolerate the lighthearted and playful person she mostly was.

Yet, lying awake in the darkest times of night, she knew that THEM was important. THEY did matter. As clear as daylight. Which she suddenly could not wait for. So she snug out of her room, skulked across the peacefully silent guardhouse and scurried her way over the court towards the main hall. Through the doors and then upwards to her Loves´quarters. Guided by a lot of newly found love and a little ever present mischief. There were no soldiers but instead a buzzing, crackling force of defensive magic that warded the whole castle from outside and bled through it´s warren intestines as well. Maryas heartbeat quickened with joy as she passed the thick barrier unharmed. It felt… Welcome? She had almost reached her destined destination, slim fingers already brushing over the cool door handle, when a sharp sound tore apart the drowsy tranquility and nearly made her jump. “- HAESSCCCHh-hah!” - discard nearly, that had been one hell of a sudden… Sneeze? Whilst listening to the slowly recurring silence she started to wonder: Had she ever heard the Archmage sneeze before? Probably not, as she could not recall nearly shitting her pants around the commonly soft-footed elf before. Still processing this new situation, Marya was about to finally open the now ajar door when a vocalized gasp escaped from the room beyond. Someday, she grinned, eavesdropping will make my ears grow even bigger. “hh… hehh…hhahh….HEEEah-!… snnfff- shit!” Now that had been close. And strangely exciting to listen to… The way Amaziahs usually controlled breaths had become more voiced with need each time they were expelled. Underlined with desire as well as with growing desperation. Almost a little panting , aiming to release the building pressure only to abandon her one heartbeat away from granting it. That seemed teasingly frustrating… Still, even after a harsh nose blow, the tickle did not seem to show mercy as it returned in vengeance to make her hitch with increasing force. Marya could not help herself from peeking through the gap. It felt strangely intimate to witness her fierce Love trapped in a situation so longing and helpless. The scene in front of her was bathed in the soft amber light of a still smoldering fireplace that send tiny dusts of ash dancing in rays of moonshine. Amaziah sat amid ruffled bedclothes that surrounded her like blustering white waves. Her head was titled back, short raven hair tinted both golden and moonlight silver. Her lids seemed half closed, vivid amethyst colored eyes cloaked by dark, fluttering lashes and shining with irritated tears that had already left opalescent traces on her pallid cheeks. Her slender hands were cupped together and hovered in front of her twitching nose and slightly parted lips. Those tender lips that now opened fully, quickly altered into a snarl as the itch intensified once more. Her sinewy, androgynous frame nearly shook as her chest began to rise and fall in a frantic rhythm given by mounting need. “Hhh…hhh… hhAH!..Huh? hhhrr come on !” She crushed a fist into her pillow while the other started to give her straight, long nose a vigorous rub. Her whole expression seemed so… Upset, annoyed, overall wholly un-Noble-Archmage-and-Savior-of-The Radiant-Alliance- like that Marya failed to suppress a snorting laugh that made Amaziah turn towards her hidden audience in an instant. “Mah-hahhh…Damn it… Marya? What are you doing here?” She asked in recognition of the two sky-blue eyes that beamed at her from under curly, copper colored bangs. “Enjoying the sight. It actually was a really entertaining performance. And mhmm helping you out with your little problem?” “I don´t know of which problem you are spe-heh-akihiing off. Also, it´s incredibly rude to- iiiihn-vade an others personal space like th-haa-” Amaziah tried and failed as her otherwise sharp yet delicate features crumpled, marred by the again rising need to sneeze. Her long nostrils grew even wider, shaking against the stalling press of knuckles. “Oh you really don´t know? Because you look like you really need but can´t sneeze.” Marya scoffed, slowly drawing closer despite her Loves shooing motions. “I wonder why you don´t simply do so.” The compromised Archmage looked more than ready to comply as her eyes drifted shut beneath tightly knitted brows, contrasting her now open mouth gasping with turned down corners. Leaning back, hands swiftly steepled over the lower half of her face, Marya heard a powerfully building breath that made her Loves eyes swim with tears and ended in another frustrated growl. “Gods FUCK!” Came the infuriated exclamation that drowned Maryas laughter. “That right there was the best thing I have seen in a while!” she giggled while her girlfriend used a handkerchief to wipe away any leftover moisture. “That ridiculous nonsense is bothering me since hours. It´s neither enjoyable nor funny…” Amaziah muttered under her breath. “Not for you. But I will help you if you say please my lovely Marya make me sneeze.” “Are you out of your mind? N-huuh….Never.” “Oh, spoilsport. Then just please or Marya or sneeze.” Amaziah seemed unable to answer, eyes incapable to stay focused, blearily blinking away tears and hazed with that stubborn urge. “How…” She swallowed down another fruitless hitch. “Would you help me?” Marya pecked down with a fast kiss towards Amaziahs nose that was rewarded with another sharp inhale and sour grimace. Her eyes caught the long, fluffy quill on the desk. That would be good. A mischievous smile curved her plush lips upwards. “I would tickle your nose with that feather there until you get what you need. But only if you´re polite enough to say please.” A resigned sniff, disgruntled rub and then a whispered: “Please.” Marya, the feathery quill securely held in one hand, slowly made her advances towards Amaziahs nose. It was still twitching with flared nostrils on occasion and was blushed an angry red. She sat down in front of her Lover, close enough to feel the erratic breath brushing fervently over her skin. “But don´t sneeze on me.” “I won´t. Just… Be quick please…” “Oh wow, please two times a night! Someone´s really in need of help, mhm? Alright, I promise to save the banter for later.” The first fine wisps made contact with irritated skin, causing the mages nasal bridge to wrinkle. Marya did not want to tease too much, sensing the tension and exhaustion behind the other woman´s eyes, but was scared of hurting her with being to rough. She slowly circled each nostril, marveling at the sudden and strong reactions she was able to evoke. It took not more then three light strokes to educe two of those deliciously desperate gasps that made her own skin tingle. Another four and Amaziahs eyes were closed behind soft lashes wetted with fluid. Her nostrils responded pulsating open with each breath while her mouth hung ajar to suck in air in preparation to…. She quickly hid the foreboding grimace behind her hands, swatting the feather aside while her chest swelled against Marya. Warm, cloth-veiled skin stroking her arm. A deep breath…. “Hhh-HEHEA!-” only to slump back without executed duty and an almost desperate sniff. “Lost it again?” Marya asked and felt true pity at the floating gaze out of weary lilac depths. “It is not strong enough on the outside… Can you… Never thought I would say anything like that… Stick it inside my nose?” That made Marya chuckle again. “Yes, but only because you asked so nicely. Be ready.” This time she concentrated her efforts on her Loves left nostril, inserting the tip slowly to avoid injuries, only to have it ripped out again as Amaziahs head reflexively jerked backwards. “You need to keep still.” “S-sorry… It really tickled…” “That´s the point of it, silly.” Again, the now damp feather set out for it´s destination. Disappearing a little further this time, tickling and tingling as it went up. Marya noticed that Amaziahs hands were already half raised in preparation and that her face seemed almost peaceful despite the obvious struggle. Weird but true. She then poked the soft pink insides, one and then another twirl around with the feather and Amaziahs head reared back with a downright feral inhale and ferocious snarl. Her hands brought up just in time to cover an incredibly relieving: “HA-EHSCHUE!” That seemed to ascend from deep inside her chest. It caused her complete upper body to bend and stumble into Marya who hastily dropped her tool in favor to stabilize her Love which immediately seemed to gear up for another. She shuddered with another mighty inhale, face hidden behind protective hands and braced against Maryas shoulder. “hhh HA!- AESCHOO!…-EISCHHAH! hhh-HAH-EERSSCH~IUH!” The sneezes were almost violent and echoed through the chamber while Amaziah helplessly convulsed in Maryas arms. The fourth one seemed to dispel the tickle, judging how the mage nearly melted into her Loves embrace, uttering a sight that seemed equally underlined with something akin to pain and relieve. “Wow that was… Quite some sneezing you have there.” Marya noted with astonishment while stroking her Loves back. “Sorry, I could not help it…” Amaziah replied almost timid, nose nuzzled into Maryas shirt. “Thank you for… well… You know.” “Sounded like you needed it. And there´s no snot on me. Everyone´s happy.” “Always when you are with me.” Amaziah sniffed and gently pulled Marya to bed with her. “No ewww that´s cheesy.” She answered already wrapped up in equal parts strong arms and warm blanket. “Now, what did you really want here? Please don´t tell me you heard my sneezing throughout half of the castle.” “Would have been no surprise but no…” Marya paused, head nesting into Amaziahs shoulder, hand drawing lazy circles above her Loves heart. “I just… Missed you.”

[haiitanis]

Composition | Koo Junhoe

summary: You always thought that Junhoe hated you and you could never figure out why. |  college!AU, enemies to lovers!AU

word count: 4.4k (yeah, this was supposed to be a drabble)

rating / pairing: m (language, smut) / Koo Junhoe x Reader

A/N: This got... out of hand. 😅

The first time you met Koo Junhoe in your English 100 class your freshman year of college, you’d actually thought there was a chance the two of you could be friends. He sat right next to you, so why wouldn’t you at least try to become friends with him? And as the class proceeded, you found out he was quite smart, and funny too. But he’d been cold to you since the first day of the class, bordering on downright rude at times. You’d never really understood why; had you offended him or something when you introduced yourself? Junhoe had never bothered to explain, and after a week of him giving you sour looks every time you turned around, you switched seats with someone else in your class.

After that, it had become a competition between the two of you. You were always tied for top marks in the class, down to your grade percentages, and it remained that way throughout the semester. Even now as you started the fall semester of your senior year, you and Junhoe had somehow managed to remain in all of the same English classes as the other. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost say he was doing it on purpose, just to get to you.

The third week of classes, you stormed into the dining hall and slammed your bag down onto the table that your two best friends, Hanbin and Lisa, sat at before angrily dropping yourself into one of the free seats. Lisa almost leaped out of her skin at the loud sound of your books crashing onto the table, while Hanbin just looked up from his laptop at you with his eyebrows raised.

“I would ask what your problem is, but I already know it’s probably Junhoe,” he remarked, ever calm even as your glare turned to him.

Lisa giggled at his words slightly, clamping her hand over her mouth in an effort to keep your fury from spilling over onto her. “What did he do now?” she asked, surprised when instead of responding, you just let out a loud groan and dropped your forehead to the table.

When you finally did speak, you did so without lifting your head from the table. “We have group projects and the professor assigned partners,” you declared mournfully, your voice muffled from speaking into the table. “I got partnered with Junhoe again.”

Hanbin’s mouth dropped open slightly and Lisa’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry, what?” Hanbin asked, slowly closing his laptop. “You got partnered with who?”

“I swear, it’s like all the professors in the English department ship the two of you,” Lisa commented, much to Hanbin’s amusement. “Every semester, you get an English class with Junhoe and every semester, there’s a group project that you get assigned to work with Junhoe.”

You just let out a loud groan, picking your head up off the table before immediately slamming it back down. “Why does this always happen to me?” you lamented, hearing the giggles of your friends at your suffering.

“Why does what always happen to you?” a familiar voice asked, and all of a sudden you can hear the scrape of the chair beside you being pulled across the linoleum floor, creaking as someone made themselves comfortable.

Hanbin and Lisa were being unusually quiet. That could only mean one thing: you weren’t hallucinating or hearing things. Unfortunately. Slowly, you raised your head, turning to face your doom.

Or rather, Koo Junhoe.

He had sprawled himself comfortably in the chair next to you, that self-satisfied smirk that you’d hated since freshman year spread across his lips. Junhoe raised an eyebrow at you slowly, waiting for you to respond, but you kept your mouth shut, opting instead to just stare back at him, hopeful that your gaze was as icy as Antarctica. In winter.

After a long moment, Junhoe sighed. “Give me your number,” he finally declared, holding his phone out to you. For a long moment, you stared at the device extended to you before looking incredulously up at Junhoe. He let out an exasperated sigh. “For the project. You always make me email you when we get stuck together and it’s annoying. Texting is faster.”

You rolled your eyes, finally taking the phone and keying in your name and phone number. Before you saved the contact, Junhoe snatched his phone back and immediately lifted it, the sound of a shutter clicking coming from his phone. “What the fuck Junhoe-” you snapped, but Junhoe wasn’t paying any attention.

“Cute,” he snorted and you watched as he set the picture as your contact photo before saving your number. “I’ll text you when I can meet up to work on the project.”

Then he was pushing the chair back and lifting his tall frame from it, grabbing his backpack off the floor and making his way out of the cafeteria. If you had been angry before, now you were fuming. As if working with Junhoe hadn’t already been bad enough, he just had to come and annoy you more today than he already had in class.

Throughout the entire exchange between you and Junhoe, Hanbin and Lisa had been quiet, observing as though they were watching a rather riveting ping-pong match. “You two both still act like you’re in kindergarten,” Hanbin commented, raising a brow at you before reopening his laptop and resuming working on whatever he had been before you’d arrived at the table in your huff.

“What does that even mean?” you grumbled, shooting Hanbin a dirty look that he ignored.

It was Lisa who responded. “Come on, it’s so obvious he has a huge crush on you,” she said, propping her chin on her hand. “And frankly, I think you have a crush on him. You’re just both too stubborn to admit it.”

You sputtered, astounded that was the conclusion they’d apparently both come to. “I do not have a crush on Koo Junhoe,” you declared firmly, slapping your palm against the table to punctuate your sentence. “He’s a jerk.”

Hanbin lifted his head from his laptop and pointed at you, a smirk on his face. “Stubborn,” was all he said and Lisa giggled. ~ ~ ~ It was Saturday morning, before your alarm, when your ringtone went off. You groaned loudly, shoving your phone under your pillow and ignoring the sound but a few minutes later, it went off again. Then again. You let out a loud whine, annoyed to be woken before the 11 am alarm—only set to keep you from wasting the whole day—went off. When you finally dragged your phone out from under your pillow, you were surprised to see several messages from the same unknown number.

From: Unknown Number >> Hey, it’s Junhoe. >> Can you work on the project today? >> Wake up. >> Seriously, this is the only day I’m free for like a week. >> I’m going to keep bothering you until you wake up. >> Answer me!!! >> I’m getting your address from Hanbin and coming over.

The last message was sent as you were typing out a reply to him. You rolled your eyes at his impatience, finishing your snarky reply.

To: Jerk Junhoe >> Well, I’m awake now. >> Impatient, much? >> I guess we can work at my apartment. >> Come over in an hour.

You sent him your address before burying your face in your pillow and letting out a loud groan. Why did he have to come over to your apartment? Why couldn’t he just want to meet up and work at the library or a coffee shop? You know, like a normal person?

From: Jerk Junhoe >> Why an hour? >> Trying to get all prettied up for me or something?

To: Jerk Junhoe >> Ugh, you’re so annoying. I should have just made you email me like every other time. >> You wish.

You decided to drag yourself out of bed then. You weren’t planning on “getting prettied up” like Junhoe had said, but you were at least going to change out of your pajamas and do your normal morning routine. And maybe put on a tiny bit of makeup, if you had the time. You really didn’t need Junhoe making fun of your eyebrows when you were supposed to be working on your project.

You’d just made yourself a cup of coffee when there was a knock on your door. When you swung the door open, Junhoe just waltzed right in like he owned the place, dropping his bag by your table where he must have seen your notes. You just rolled your eyes. “‘Good morning, Y/N! Can I come in?’” you grumbled, shooting him a dirty look and closing the door behind him.

Junhoe just shot you a look. “Are you always so pleasant this early?” he retorted and you simply rolled your eyes again.

“Do you have to be such an ass so early?” you complained back, moving back into your kitchen and crouching down to peer into your fridge, looking for something to eat. You wound up settling for a bagel, but when you turned around, you were surprised to find Junhoe standing leaned against your kitchen counter, watching you carefully. “Can I help you?”

A contemplative look passed over Junhoe’s face and he remained silent for a moment. “Why do you hate me?” he finally asked, tilting his head to the side slightly.

You had to think for a moment. Hate was a strong word and honestly, you didn’t think you hated Junhoe. If anything, he frustrated you, because you’d never understood why he had always been so rude to you, especially in that first class where you’d just met him. So, that was exactly what you told him.

“I don’t hate you, Junhoe,” you murmured, watching as a look of surprise washed over his face. “You just really piss me off sometimes because you’re always so competitive over stupid shit. Plus, you’ve always been so cold to me and I’ve never understood why. So, why do you hate me?”

Junhoe ran his fingers through his dark hair. He almost looked, dare you to say it, nervous? “This was a bad idea. Maybe we should just work on the project,” he mumbled, starting to turn away from you, but now you were curious. Why was he so nervous all of a sudden? You’d never seen Junhoe falter even slightly, he had always been so confident, cocky even.

So, you reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him from all but running away from you. “Don’t,” he whispered, still not looking at you.

Oh, now you were really curious. “Why, Junhoe?” you asked, not letting go of his wrist. “Why do you hate me?”

Junhoe wasn’t looking at you, keeping his back turned to you for a long moment. When he finally turned around to face you, he yanked his wrist from your grip with ease, his hands moving to rest on your biceps as he began to walk forward, pressing you backward. “I don’t hate you,” he whispered. “I very, very much so, do not hate you.”

When your back hit the cool tile of your counter, you inhaled sharply, your hands finding Junhoe’s waist. When you made contact with him, Junhoe’s breathing stuttered slightly, something you wouldn’t have noticed if not for how close he was to you. “What are you doing?” you asked, your voice almost inaudible.

Junhoe just smiled slightly. “Something I should have done a long time ago if you’ll let me,” he breathed, leaning down until his mouth hovered just inches above yours.

You were almost incredulous. Was this seriously happening? When his slow exhale fanned across your face, you determined that it was, in fact, real, but then you were left confronting the fact that you were, to your surprise, very okay with the prospect of kissing Junhoe. Maybe even more than okay with it, because everything in you was telling you to just go for it. “Junhoe…” you whispered his name, trailing off slightly as you met his gaze. You bit your lip slightly, watching the way that his gaze dropped to your lips and his brow furrowed.

“Maybe you should let me do that,” he teased, voice still low, one hand moving to your face and tugging your lower lip from between your teeth and running the pad of his thumb across where you’d bit down.

You inhaled shakily when his hand dropped from your lips to your shoulder. “Oh, fuck it,” you muttered then jolted forward, your mouth colliding with Junhoe’s. His palm immediately slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck, his fingers knotting in your hair and tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

When you slowly started to trail your hands up his chest, finding purchase on his shoulders, Junhoe groaned against your mouth and let his free hand drop to your waist, pulling you closer. Honestly, if someone had told you two hours ago that you’d be making out with Junhoe in your kitchen, you wouldn’t have believed it. You also wouldn’t have believed how much you were enjoying it.

It was Junhoe that disconnected your lips, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” he said, punctuating the sentence with a groan when you attached your lips to his collarbone. “I’ve wanted this for three years. I’ve wanted you for three years.”

You leaned back, shooting him a dirty look. “Why did you never say anything? And why were you such a jerk?” you asked him as you laced your fingers through his and tugged him towards your living room, settling on the couch and tucking your legs underneath you before pulling him down beside you.

“I was trying to flirt with you! But then you moved seats and always had an attitude whenever I’d try to talk to you. I thought you didn’t like me! Why were you always so mean to me?” he grumbled back, looping an arm around your waist and yanking you onto his lap, his lips finding yours before you could respond.

You shifted in Junhoe’s arms, moving until you were straddling him but your lips never leaving his. When you parted again, you didn’t move from his lap as your hands tangled in his hair, your nails scratching at the back of his neck lightly. Junhoe sighed at the feeling, leaning his head into your hands, and you took the opportunity to press light kisses along his jaw.

“You know, if that was flirting, you really suck at it,” you commented, letting out a shriek when Junhoe grabbed your waist and twisted until he had your back pinned to the couch cushions. “And, I was only mean to you because you were a jerk first!”

As he hovered over you, a smile spread across Junhoe’s lips. “So you’re telling me that we spent all that time being assholes to each other when we could have been doing this instead?” he asked, leaning down to kiss you slowly, his tongue teasing at the seam of your lips.

You pretended to think about it for a minute when his mouth left yours. “Maybe we aren’t as smart as we think we are,” you joked and Junhoe just snorted before reconnecting your lips.

Junhoe pressed close to you and you wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him tightly against your body. “Don’t do that,” he rasped when you rolled your hips into him after he’d nipped at a particularly sensitive spot along your collarbone.

“Why not?” you breathed, tangling your fingers tightly into his hair as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, continuing to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against your skin.

When he finally lifted his head and met your eyes, you could see lust starting to darken his gaze. “Because if you keep doing that, I won’t want to stop,” he whispered, voice low and rough with wanting.

“Maybe I don’t want you to stop,” you breathed, experimentally rolling your hips against him again and watching as his lips parted, a low groan slipping from him.

One of Junhoe’s hands found its way to the hem of the tee you were wearing. “Are you sure?” he asked, toying with the fabric between his fingers even as you pulled him closer, grinding your hips into him.

You kissed him, hoping to convey everything you wanted to say, everything you felt. Everything Junhoe made you feel. “I’m sure,” you murmured when he pulled back from your lips. “I want you.”

That was all you had to say before Junhoe was pushing your shirt up and you leaned forward so he could yank it over your head while you attempted to do the same to him, wanting to feel his bare skin against yours. “Bedroom, now,” you gasped when his mouth attached to your chest, leaving a trail of plum marks even as you arched your back to press closer to him.

Junhoe just nodded. “Hold on tight,” he whispered against your skin and you had just enough time to lock your legs around his neck and get a good grip on his shoulders before he was pushing himself off of the couch, using one hand to hold onto your ass and keep you steady. He started to walk down the hall that led to the bedrooms and between kisses, you told him which room was yours and he kicked the door shut behind you.

You were dropped unceremoniously onto your bed but you paid it no mind, much more focused on grabbing Junhoe by his belt loops and yanking him down with you, finally dragging his shirt off in the process as well. You shed the rest of your clothing quickly, Junhoe practically ripping your leggings in his rush to get them off of you, while you fiddled with the button and zipper on his jeans.

When his hand started to move slowly up your thighs, you let out an audible whine, desperate for him to hurry up and just touch you already. “Junhoe,” you gasped his name, but he covered your lips with his, continuing to ghost his hands along your sensitive skin until you thought you were going to combust.

“I can’t wait to hear you screaming my name with that smart mouth of yours,” Junhoe whispered and you could feel his smirk against your skin as he left a trail of heated kisses from your lips to your collarbone, stopping to leave violet bruises decorating your throat, marking you as his.

There was the cocky Junhoe you were used to and you couldn’t help but smile. “You sound awfully confident,” you teased, pleased when you heard Junhoe growl low in his throat before the hand on your thighs slid up to cup your core, eliciting a gasp from you.

Junhoe lifted his head from your chest, his eyebrows raised. “You were saying?” he retorted but before you could dish a comeback, he was capturing your lips. Junhoe slowly pushed the black panties you wore out of the way and when he finally dipped his the tip of his finger into your heat, you let out a loud whine against his mouth, pushing your hips up into his hand. “So needy, baby. And so wet already?”

You shuddered when he called you baby. Why did that have to sound so sinful coming out of his mouth? Junhoe slowly pushed one finger into you, propping himself up so he could watch as your lips parted at the slight stretch and he pumped his digit into you a few times before withdrawing to circle your clit. The next time, he used two fingers, scissoring them and thrusting into you, occasionally pausing to grind the heel of his hand against your sensitive nub until you were on the brink of coming undone.

Junhoe pulled his fingers from you the second time and you let out a loud whimper at the loss of contact so close to your orgasm. He just met your gaze as he popped his fingers into his mouth, groaning at the taste of you on his skin. “Fuck, I really want to eat you out,” he muttered, his hand trailing slowly across your abdomen as he leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.

“Next time,” you gasped out, your hands tugging at the waistband of his boxers which were—annoyingly—still on.

Junhoe smirked at your words, nuzzling your neck and nipping at your collarbone slightly. “Next time, huh?” he murmured, finally getting around to unclipping the bralette you wore and exposing your breasts to him. He slowly rolled one of your nipples between his fingers, lifting his head to watch your reaction to his touch.

“Junhoe, please,” you whined, tipping your head back at the new sensation. Wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine, you reached out and palmed the bulge in his boxers that you still hadn’t managed to get him out of. To your satisfaction, Junhoe let out a low groan and pushed his hips upwards, into your hand.

Finally, he stood from your bed, stepping out of his boxers. “Condom?” Junhoe asked and you pointed frantically towards your nightstand. He opened the drawer, finding a box of foil packets and grabbing one but before he could do anything with it, you were snatching it from his hands and reaching for him. Junhoe stepped closer to the bed and you gave him a few strokes before tearing the packet open and rolling the condom down his length.

You tugged Junhoe back down onto your bed, on top of you, both of you fully relieved of your clothes now. “Are you sure?” Junhoe asked you for the second time, his brow furrowed even as his erection brushed against the inside of your thigh, so close to where you needed him to be.

“I’m positive,” you told him, crashing your lips into his as he lined himself up at your entrance before slowly pushing into you. When your lips parted at the stretch, Junhoe took the opportunity to slip his tongue past your teeth, exploring your mouth.

He stayed still for a long moment until you were rolling your hips into his and practically begging for him to just move. And move he did, pulling out of you almost all the way before slamming his hips forward and if it wasn’t for his grip on your waist, you were pretty sure you would have gone flying from his powerful thrusts. But holy fuck, did he feel good.

You lifted your hips to meet each thrust, his tip hitting even deeper than before and dragging a strangled moan of his name from your lips. That just seemed to encourage him, his mouth finding yours for a sloppy kiss. His hips slowed after a while, likely from him wearing himself out, so you pushed Junhoe off, his back meeting your mattress.

“What-” he started to question what you were doing, but you just straddled his lap before sliding yourself slowly down his length and Junhoe swore loudly at the feeling before he was sitting up, one hand moving to cup your ass and the other tangling into your hair.

This time it was him moaning your name when you rolled your hips, lifting yourself almost all the way off of him before dropping back down, Junhoe moving the hand not knotted in your hair to wrap his arm tightly around your waist and press you close to him. His lips found yours and he was kissing you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, and you continued to grind your hips against him.

He leaned back against your pillows, his hips starting to meet the motion of yours and one hand drifting between your thighs, brushing the pad of his finger across your clit until you moaned. Junhoe had already had you so close earlier that it didn’t take much for him to bring you right to the edge, and even less to tip you over it and into your climax.

When you came undone around him, moaning his name loudly with your nails biting into his biceps and your walls clamping down like a velvet vice on his length, the motion of your hips slowed to a stop and Junhoe managed to flip the two of you over, putting your back down onto the bed. He waited until your orgasm had mostly washed over you and you gave him a nod before he was thrusting into you, chasing his own end.

Junhoe’s motions grew sloppy quickly and you felt his length twitch inside of you before he was burying his face in your shoulder with a loud groan of your name. Once he’d finished, Junhoe all but collapsed on top of you, spent, and you ran your fingers gently through his hair.

Honestly, you couldn’t believe that you’d just slept with him. You didn’t mean it in a bad way at all, just that it was surprising after three years of thinking he hated you to find out that in reality, he was just awful at flirting and things had gotten out of hand. At that moment with Junhoe still flopped across you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, you’d never been more thankful for assigned project partners.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed but eventually, Junhoe got to his feet, disposing of the used condom and grabbing tissues to clean both of you up before grabbing his boxers and handing you your panties and his t-shirt. “Don’t you need this?” you asked him, holding the shirt on one finger and raising a brow at him.

Junhoe just smiled. “We’re taking a nap,” he declared, climbing into your bed and wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you down with him once you’d slipped into his shirt. “You’re exhausting.”

You snorted. “You should look in the mirror if you want exhausting,” you grumbled back, but the jab didn’t hold it’s usual malice.

“What was that? I should look in the mirror for handsome?” Junhoe replied, a grin stretching across his face. “I already know that. You’re too nice to me.”

You swatted his arm, deciding that you’d let him have that one. He was pretty handsome after all.

[10kiaoi]

For the 007 Fest Anon prompt: The Hour AU (Q as Freddie, Bond as the handsome new anchor; they start off hating each other, but is their hatred really something more? :D) Notes: Unbetaed, this one exploded well beyond my usual word count and several segments did give me a bit of grief.

The first time Bond was made aware of Q’s existence was a gorgeous, bespectacled young man splashing his tea all over Bond’s only suit. Bond’s disposition had whiplashed from casual appreciation to downright indignation. Any thought of potential connection promptly flew out the window off a high speed train and fell down three hundred feet into a raging river where it died a cold, hard death.  

On hindsight, it had been the precursor to the eventual state of their relationship.

The disgust in M’s face as she berated Bond in her office had cemented his absolute hatred for the skinny twig of an almost-boy, and he found himself fantasizing about retribution as he was sent off to Wardrobe for an emergency change of clothes.

People had stared as he had made his way towards the Wardrobe Department. Complete strangers. His colleagues now, Bond mentally corrected. Some, like his producer Moneypenny, had managed a brief chuckle and sympathetic smile before offering directions to Wardrobe. Others had turned away with their posture screaming derision, unceremoniously writing off the newcomer who could not even turn up for his first day at work without disaster lunging at his heels.

The other man had the gall to not even realise the utterly humiliating gaffe he had subjected Bond to. On Bond’s first day at his new workplace. As the anchor to a prime time news slot.  

A brief glimpse of Q with noise cancelling headphones around his slender neck, deep in animated discussion about one thing or another with another employee only served to infuriate Bond even farther. His eyes caught on how the tie was cinched tightly up to Q’s throat, how the soft cardigan hugged his slender frame. A hand reached up to sweep back long wavy locks out of his eyes and Bond’s mouth went dry.

Q looked up momentarily, some sixth sense alerting him to the scrutiny. His eyes swept over Bond, absent of the barest hint of recognition.  

It was only by sheer force of will that Bond managed to direct a charming smile in the Head of Wardrobe, Danielle’s, direction despite being half drenched with tea.

The utter ignominy of his situation was an inferno in his chest.

-----

Bond flipped through a thick stack of notes Q had just dumped in his tender care. He scoffed haughtily, and sneered. Then proceeded to point out every minor typo and unrealistic suggestions in the printout.

Anathema was the word of the day and Bond relished the sick sense of satisfaction as an eager smile flattened with every caustic remark, then gained an increasingly annoyed cast.

A stubborn stick of a tongue out past wet pink lips nearly thoroughly derailed Bond’s train of thought, made him gape in disbelief.  

The following impudent quip about inflexibility and old dogs and new tricks was met with equal righteous force. The challenge in rebellious hazel eyes couldn’t go unchecked.

-----

“Whatever it is between the both of you, sort it out. With the director threatening a company-wide restructuring, we can’t afford having you two cock this up,” M, delightful M barks, “Get out of my sight and don’t come back until you start acting like the professionals you are!”

“If only old mutts could take instructions as well,” Q muttered mutinously under his breath.

“It would seem professionalism is a tall order for an untried pup,“ Bond drawled in response, posture forcibly relaxed.

M fixed a look of complete disappointment on them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bond caught sight of his barb striking true. He eyed the way knuckles whitened and the corners of eyes tightened. The sheer satisfaction at successfully triggering a rise made his toes curl in his shoes. It almost made up for the dripping tea forming a puddle between the both of them in the middle of M’s office.

M made a cutting gesture, dismissal clear.  

Bond gave a sarcastic little salute, holding the door open with his back. Q barged past him wordlessly, a bony shoulder colliding with his own. Bond’s lips curled, something territorial in him raising its hackles in offense at the blatant disrespect. His mood dropped even further when he detected several individuals, both men and women, whose eyes were glued to the way Q’s damp button up had turned translucent and clung to his skin.    

A low snarl from deep in his chest had everyone in the bullpen hastily ducking their head. They pretended to be engrossed in their work and not have been utterly captivated by the spectacular row that had just taken place. The grapevine had found their fodder and it would be good for a few weeks of idle chatter over the kettle in the break room.

Q stormed off towards the loo, shoes squelching loudly and leaving the imprints of his soles behind with every step.

When Q was well out of sight or earshot, Moneypenny finally approached with faint disapproval in her eyes. In her hand was a garment bag. She lifted it and declared loftily, “Danielle took the liberty of ensuring a spare suit in your size being on hand at all times.” Her lips twitched, “Word has it you share a rather familiar relationship with tea of all things.”

Bond grunted, disgruntlement surging, “familiar isn’t the word I’d use. And I would hardly call the thing between us a relationship.” He reached for the garment bag.

“I had pegged you as a coffee guy at first, you know,” Moneypenny chuckled, handing the article over easily. “Seems there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Miss Moneypenny,” himself and scandalised were two things he had never considered would ever be in the same sentence.

Moneypenny tutted, “Do try not to pull Q’s pigtails too much. We rather like having him here. You wouldn’t want him to start believing that accepting Max Denbigh’s offer would be an excellent idea, would you?” Then, shaking her head, she made her way back through the throngs. They parted for her like the red sea.

Bond stared after her, outrage warring with a complete loss for words.

Offer?

-----

The sight of Max Denbigh pushing his luck and cornering Q in the break room with slick words and an aggressive body language had Bond seething. Just shy of boiling right over, he swiftly retreated back into the shadows before the room’s occupants caught wind of his attendance in their little tête-à-têt.  

The mysterious malfunction in the breakroom sprinklers was just fortuitous timing, really.

A soaked Max Denbigh throwing a hissy fit as he was escorted out by security was the highlight of Bond’s day. Watching from the sidelines, he thought about how it was a crying shame that one could not frame the moment up in gold and glass.

Or maybe not, judging by the number of phones out.

Attention fully on a grinning Moneypenny who was gleefully recording the proceedings for posterity, Bond did not see the furrowed brows and knowing glance thrown his way from behind dripping curls.

-----

The apprehension on Moneypenny’s face informed Bond he hadn’t quite managed to temper his distraction throughout the live broadcast. His eyes repeatedly strayed back to Q who categorically avoided all eye contact with Bond and focused instead on ensuring the audio and visual feeds were free of issues.

A slip of a pink tongue darted out to wet dry lips. Bond barely recovered in time to smile charmingly into the recording camera’s lens. Moneypenny’s frown deepened.

Q? Going to work for Max Denbigh?

It had to be a joke. A dreadful, ghastly joke borne out of a paper pusher’s boredom. The very thought was offensive. No matter how much of a nuisance Q had been, he didn’t deserve being subjected to that dubious character.

A part of Bond, deep down and barely acknowledged, was aggrieved that Q would even entertain the thought of Max Denbigh as any semblance of a respectable choice in his career path.   

As loathe as Bond was to admit it… Q could do so much better.  

A casual probe around the office readily revealed that the grapevine had even more to say about Max Denbigh than about the quarrel between Bond, James Bond and Q, and that was saying quite the something.  

Bond’s heart recoiled in horror the more he heard.

-----

Bond paused at the sound of his name and familiar voices echoing within the lavatory.  

“I don’t know what to do, Bill,” the stark distress in Q’s voice would have affected Bond had it come from anyone else. Unfortunately, it came from the one upstart who had consistently picked fights with him since the first moment they came into contact.

Frankly put, the Bond of Before would have been hard pressed to give any fucks. That was, until recollection of the Offer doused him with a cold hard dose of reality. Damn Moneypenny for being nosy and interfering.

Bill Tanner, the chief of staff, chimed in softly, “perhaps you should sit down with Bond and have a chat over a cuppa. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding, clearing it up would do you both good.”

The bitter laugh sent chills down Bond’s spine. Set off something in him curling in utter need to set things right.  

“He abhors me,” Q had no right to sound so shattered, so wholly distraught when he had made it his personal mission to ensure that Bond’s work life resembled a private purgatory.  

“I don’t want him to despise me,” the broken, sincere admittance was like a punch to Bond’s chest, rudely stealing all his breath.

Bond did the only thing he could- he turned and fled.  

He had gotten out of earshot quickly enough that the cut-off sound of pure dismay behind him failed to register.

----

Though only half the day had passed, Bond shirked duty and escaped to the roof. The chilly wind had an effect, clearing his head and allowing him to think. After an hour or so, his mobile started vibrating with urgency. He finally turned it off altogether and abandoned it in his pocket.

Uninterrupted, Bond breathed.

The weak afternoon sun turned into a setting one, until finally it dropped low enough that surrounding buildings obscured it. Lights started going out, as the building’s day occupants left in droves, till only the essential remain lit. When even the sounds of traffic had died down, Bond finally made his way back into the office bullpen.

He located Q’s desk, by reasoning of it being organized chaos. It was littered with cables of all sorts. Thick technical manuals and full folders were slotted between utilitarian metal bookends. And when that filled up, they were stacked haphazardly on top of each other. A familiar set of noise cancelling headphones was hung up carefully on a stand. The desk and corkboard was plastered with notes and reminders. A little ceramic figurine of a tuxedo cat watched Bond with its beady little painted eyes from where it sat next to a keyboard.    

A cough had him whipping around, mind illogically jumping from a robber breaking in to Max Denbigh returning for retribution.

Instead, he found Q watching him with a cocked head, clutching a freshly cleaned mug. Droplets ran down the side of it, where they collected on slender fingers.

His mind came up short on excuses for entering Q’s space uninvited.

Q simply looked resigned.

“Bar might still be open,” Bond grunted.  

A pregnant pause permeated the air.

“A date, Mr Bond?”

“Take it or leave it,” Bond growled, then winced. “I meant, accept, or don’t. It could hardly do any more damage.” He had a feeling the nonchalance he had aimed for had fallen flat on its face.

Q studied him, gingerly setting his mug down on the edge of his desk. “I didn’t think this was the sort of conversation you’d want taking place three steps away from patrons already hyped up on testosterone.” Q’s lips quirked like an afterthought.  

Bond shrugged, unaccountably awkward.    

-----

They did end up in a bar. Everywhere else had already started cleanup for the night.

It was a dinky little place. Clean and polished enough and not terribly overpriced for an unexpected trip. The telly was on, a football match playing out and watched by a few avid fans. The drinks were decent, but they weren’t the main attraction of the night. That sat across the table in the booth they had claimed, food and drink barely touched. His was in no better a state.

Q was quiet, unable, or unwilling, to meet his eyes.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Q rose.

The background crowd booed as a penalty goal was a miss.

Bond caught his wrist in a burst of movement.

Q slowly returned to his seat.

“Max Denbigh.” Bond couldn’t help the instinctive hiss. It briefly earned him an amused look. “What did he want with you?”

Q shrugged, “He had an opening. He was looking to fill it. That was a neat little trick, what you did with the sprinklers. Did you hold a lighter to the smoke alarm?”

Bond’s face scrunched. “Are we playing twenty questions now?”

Contrition was sour in his mouth. Q had closed off again. The frustration was rising again. They were getting nowhere.  

A sharp piercing whistle from the referee restarted the game.

Miraculously, Q took another gamble. Laid down his own cards face up for the world to see. “Everyone said, this man was hell to work with. He was harsh and expected results. Discarded incompetent people like one gets rids of an old shirt.”

Playing with the edge of a napkin, Q continued, “But, he was good. He was excellent- the best. Was one in a million. To be accepted by him-” Q cut off, choked.  

“This amazingly capable man said, within a minute of meeting, to me,” Q took a deep breath, a distinctly wounded cadence woven through his words, “I could only have gotten where I was by trading favours.”

Saw me and judged me unworthy.

A lament went up as the favourite team of the night lost their possession of the soccer ball on the telly.

Bond had never felt such revulsion for himself. For having made such a brilliant person doubt himself.

Regret was unprofessional, M had said.

Bond had never been confronted with his own unprofessionalism more.

He swallowed, held himself tense in anticipation of the fallout of showing his hand. “M- she handpicked me. She chose me when she could have picked anyone else.”

“I didn’t want to- Couldn’t not give it my all.” Bond shrugged casually, at odds with the seriousness of their conversation. “That first day, I showed up in her office with tea all over my clothes.”

Realisation and mortification had crept over Q’s face. The napkin had long been abandoned. It brought Bond no pleasure now.

A loud, excited yell went up when the team managed to retrieve the ball.    

Bond smiled, a chagrined little thing, “I thought you had it out for me.”

Bond was startled when Q threw his head back and honest-to-goodness laughed. As he wiped a stray tear away, Q shuddered. “I thought the same of you.” The harrowed, self-deprecating grin hurt. An agonized noise escaped Bond’s throat.

“We’ve been a pair of utter numpties,” Q confessed. His fingers tapped out a nervous beat on the table.   

It had turned strangely tense, a quiet taking over the bar patrons and charging the atmosphere with something electric as the favoured team’s forward player made for the goalposts with the package.

Bond rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Speak for yourself,” he grumbled gruffly, reaching for his wallet. He pulled out a stylized black namecard, held it out in Q’s direction.

“Bond, James Bond. I can be a twat, but I get my shit together eventually, or so I’ve been told.”  

Q fingered the namecard reverently, awe on his face. His mouth opened, but no words came forth, the genius caught off guard and disarmed of his wits.  

“If we could start over at the beginning,” softly, Bond promised, “I’m game if you are.”

The bar broke out in raucous cheers as the match ended four to three.

-----

They met right outside the door to M’s office, exchanging a reaffirming examination of each other. A quick, standard crosscheck before they dived off a bridge- before they bit the bullet and pitched their project to the Evil Queen of Numbers. Then they stepped into the Queen’s court.  

“This would be utterly-” They could do this, together.

“-perfect. We wouldn’t get another chance like this. We-” They just had to find the right buttons.

“-need to act with all haste. It would just be dreadful-” Failure was a possibility, but they had done their best to mitigate it.

“-Christ knows Max Denbigh would jump at the chance-” The very mention of that name, the could-have-beens that it personified, still brought towering rage and relief in equal orders that was quickly repressed in lieu of their mission.

“And we need to stick it to that son of a bitch,” Bond and Q ended in a chorus. Both fixed M with resolute stares, ready to argue their case in the unlikely event they were refused.

With the both of them as a team, they could achieve anything they set their collective minds to.

“I think I rather preferred when you two were hurling a cuppa at each other,” M remarked dryly, fingers laced primly. Her gaze was piercing, and Bond barely managed to clamp down on the urge to fidget like a schoolboy brought up in front of the principal. Q didn’t quite manage the same level of control.

A firm press of Bond’s thigh to his under the table ended the nervous tick. Q straightened.

Brilliant, brilliant man. The pride welling in Bond was overwhelming.

-----

The door slammed shut behind them. They leaned against the partition, side by side. A peek in the other’s direction revealed matching, blinding grins. Q broke out in a laugh that dazzled Bond and warmed him right down to his toe tips. Moneypenny whistled. Tanner just looked entranced.

“What are you lot staring at!” Bond bellowed irately.

In the bullpen, their colleagues ducked, hastily returning to their work. They were left to contemplate their victory in all things in semi privacy.

They did it. Tonight, they were victorious.

[bemyhero-academia]

Bakugo is literally my favourite character so never feel afraid to request him I love him so much ahafhsjsjjss

So here are some head-cannons for when he is jealous hehe

Bakugo has always been known for being an angry and aggressive person. To everyone, he's mean, rude and has an uncontrollable temper that's downright dangerous. Some people would even go as far as to think that he isn't cut out to be a hero

You are pretty much the complete opposite of Bakugo. You are friendly, modest and just a bundle of sunshine to be around. The only thing you two have in common is that you're both stupidly stubborn.

That's probably the reason you two even come to have a relationship in the first place. You are stupidly stubborn after all, and when Bakugo first pushes you away and tells you to "fuck off, you extra" you are detirmined to befriend him.

You pretty much follow him everywhere, sort of like a lost puppy. At first you piss him off to no end; the persistent talking and persistent friendliness will just make him angry

After a while, he seems to grow to tolerate your company, maybe even enjoy it. He answers all your questions about his quirk and about how it works. He chats to you about unimportant things about whats for dinner.

Let's just get this clear: Bakugo chats to you

You are one of the only people, possibly the only person who knows about how truly insecure Bakugo is. He accidently lets it slip to you one time, but you just reply with,

"Your secrets safe with me Kacchan!"

At first he tries to blow your face off when you call him 'Kacchan' for the first time, but after a while, he becomes fond of the nickname, and inwardly growls when you call him anything else.

He think you don't notice. You do.

He also loves how you always remind him about how good of a hero you think he will be, and how amazing he did in his most recent training session. It makes his chest swell with a pride he had never felt before you complimented him.

Bakugo is dense when it comes to his feelings for you, even when everyone else can see it. It takes a situation where his closeness with you is threatened to make him realise it.

That's why, one lunch time, when Kaminari asks you to help him with his studies, Bakugo feels a bit lonely without you at his ankles, incessantly talking in his ear, which has actually become quite a pleasant thing for him.

When he first feels the feeling of missing something, he doesn't realise that it's because you aren't there.

He catches on very quickly though, when he sees you sitting at a table with Kaminari, talking him through the English homework Present Mic had set.

Something about the way Kaminari looked at you made him seethe. He looked at you with a sweet smile graced on his features, and it didn't even seem like he was paying any attention to what you were actually trying to explain to him, he just nodded mindlessly.

When Kaminari's hand slyly brushes your hand, despite the fact that Bakugo knows it's intentional, he tries to push away the strange anger he feels.

Bakugo knows he can't handle watching the two of you anymore when Kaminari clearly just completely ignores whatever you are saying, starting to fiddle with your hair

Accidently bending his fork in half in anger, Bakugo stands up and storms over to the two of you.

"Hands off you fucking discount pikachu!" He growls, making Kaminari raise an eyebrow.

He grabs your arm to pull you up, but unlike with anyone else, his touch is rather gentle. Well, as gentle as it can be when it's Bakugo.

"Hey, what are you doing Kacchan?" You ask, at first oblivious to the jealously seeping off of him.

Once he drags you into an empty corridor, he pushes you into the wall, softer than he would have liked to, an angered expression on his face,

"So what? Have you got a thing for Kaminari now?" He says

Your top lip curls up into a grimace, easing his worries slightly

"Ew, Kaminari? No way. He's a pervert." You say, looking at his red eyes with such an honestly that it makes his tone soften,

"So you... don't like him?" He asks, unsure, not knowing whether or not he actually wants to know your answer, worrying you would pick Kaminari over him.

"Of course not silly. What, are you jealous?" You tease, poking his nose with your index finger.

Instead of answering, Bakugo's face flushes red and he turns his head to the side with a pout, giving you your answer.

You stand on your tiptoes to reach his height, giving him a kiss on the cheek, making him even more flustered,

"Don't worry. I only like you Kacchan!"

You ruffle his hair slightly, making him snap

"Stop being so embarrassing!"

You giggle, covering your mouth as you look up at him with a cheeky look on your face,

"You love me really Kacchan,"

"You have no idea" he replies. The comment takes you off guard, and now it's your turn to blush.

Back with Kaminari, Kirishima approaches him with a grin, giving him a high five. Their plan to get you two to confess to each other had worked.

[jamesniall]

Hey I’m not the anon that u talked about but I follow u on twitter and wanna let u know that don’t worry!!!! That happened to me a few days ago too djdnxjsn. Are you posting today?

ahhh HI OMG thank u for understanding :’)

IT WAS SO FRUSTRATING bc i got it all written but there’s lil things to edit and words to change a bit but it was basically done and then the power went out and refused to come back for 7 hours :/

as soon as it came back i got to it but im sleeeeepy and i have a family thing tomorrow morning (basically today wow it’s 4 am) so i can’t post it until the afternoon :( BUT YES TODAY IT’LL BE POSTED FINALLY. NOTHING WILL STOP ME FROM POSTING IT TODAY.

if u want, and for the other super patient and lovely anon as well, here’s a lil preview of it; the first out of the 5 + 1 things of this fic!

(as i said, it still needs to be proof read again so if u find mistakes pls pretend u didnt, im gonna get to them tomorrow sdkfhds but yeah there u have 1,5k of this monster of a fic that took over 2 months of my life lmao what started as a lil hurt/comfort fic ended up in a 18k monster of developing relationship hurt/comfort and angst with a cHEESY ending wow)

Having the night shift at the E.R onFriday nights it’s always a chore. Harry always tries his best to change itwith one of his colleagues, even if he has to take Monday’s morning shift whereeveryone comes with the silliest symptoms to get some excuse to get out oftheir jobs for a couple days.

This time, however, Liam has a familything he can’t get out of and Harry has to cover the night shift.

It goes as he expected it.

Drunk college students with alcoholpoisoning are the most common gig of the night, followed by guys withconcussions and broken noses that can only be attributed to bar fights.

It’s around 10 pm when he’s making a roundthrough the new arrivals when he sees a guy sitting in the waiting room withwhat seems to be a scarf wrapped around his left arm and a guitar tightlyclutched in his right hand.

He looks downright miserable. Soaked tothe bone – though Harry doesn’t recall it raining when he started his shift –hair plastered to his forehead and a bruise in his right cheek that he can tellit’s gonna swell and hurt as fuck tomorrow morning.

He takes a look around the room andfigures he’s the most interesting case he can get out of the night.

“Hello there, I’m Doctor Styles. Did thenurse give you the triage paper?” He asks, looking down at the brown hairedguy, who startles at his voice.

“Oh, hi, yes, uh,” he searches around hispockets for a bit, hissing when he disturbs his homemade bandage, Harry doesn’tknow if he’s hiding a broken, burnt or cut arm, but he’s sure the scarf it’snot wrapped up properly for none of those situations.

He finally finds a yellow crumbled uppaper in the pocket of his jeans, “thought the red papers got attention first.”He says, looking up to Harry and handing him the paper.

“Yeah, Friday nights are usually full ofyellow ones, though.” Harry says, scanning the paper quickly and seeing Niall J. Horan, 25 year old male, reportedbar fight, probable broken wrist, no signs of concussion, vitals on order, pain8/10. “How’s your pain right now?”

“Out of ten? It’s been simmering between 8and 9 for the last hour,” Niall replies with a shrug. “Nurse told me x-rayswere necessary but that I’d have to leave my guitar outside,” he continues, “Irefused, because have you seen the people around this place? They’re all drunk.No way I’m leaving it out here only to find it broken, so if you can tell mewhat to do or what to take for the pain I’d appreciate it so I can go home.”

“You could have a broken wrist, judging bythe pain I’m pretty sure that’s the case, isn’t getting the x-ray moreimportant than a guitar?” Harry asks, an amused smile making his way through asNiall splutters and shakes his head.

“’Course it’s more important, she’s one ofa kind. Actually my arm might be broken because I fell out of the stage toprotect her.” He states. A stubborn frown taking over his face.

“Alright,” Harry nods, “You can leave itin my office while we do x-rays and get you proper treatment. That way both ofyou will be safe.”

“Really?” Niall asks, “Hey, thank youmate! I hope it’s not a bother.”

“None at all, just follow me and we’ll getit done quick enough.”

-

Half an hour later Niall’s sitting in astretcher as Harry wraps up his broken wrist properly. His guitar restingbeside him. “I cannot help but ask, what did you mean you fell out of a stageto save your guitar?”

“Oh,” he laughs, “well, you see, I play inthis bar on Friday nights, to help a bit with the bills, you know? Being ajust-graduated-nutritionist doesn’t give you much, so I was there, justchilling, getting ready to finish the set, when a bunch of assholes startedfighting, throwing punches and chairs and tables went flying. My guitar was inthe direct line of fire.” He says, pausing a bit to swallow harshly as Harrymoves his arm to check the blood flow is alright and the bandages are justtight enough. “So I try to yell at ‘em to be careful but just as I was about toreach the guitar and leave a guy was pushed over, I can only guess he was deaddrunk, because he didn’t even try to slow down the fall, and I could only seehis ass was for sure gonna land on my guitar, so I jumped head first to grab itand he fell on me, I fell on the corner of the stage, thus the bruising.”

“Is that why you told the nurse the reasonof all this was a bar fight?”

“Well, technically it all started with abar fight, but as I was about to explain it all she just went and rolled hiseyes and gave me a yellow paper.” Niall says, a sour look on his face, “realrude of her, you know.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to forgive her,” Harrysays with a small smile, “we don’t get much of anything other than bar fightson Friday nights.” He continues, handing Niall a sheet of paper with hisprescribed pain medication.

“Do I have to come for you to take a lookat it again? Like, remove the bandage or something?” Niall asks, looking a bitforlornly at the piece of paper.

“Oh, yeah but not here, exactly. You cancall this number,” he says, handing Niall a small card that just says Liam Payne and two phone numbers. “He’sthe best orthopedist you’ll ever find in this hospital. He’ll do an x-ray,check everything’s alright and in about 4 weeks you’ll be bandages free.” Hefinishes, smiling despite the fact that Niall looks kind of sad. Disappointedeven. “He really is the best, you’ve got nothing to be scared of, he’ll takegood care of you.”

“Not as good as you,” Niall mutters underhis breath as Harry turns his back on him to open the curtain that wasseparating them from the rest of the E.R.

“What was that?” Harry asks.

“Oh, nothing, just. Thinking out loudabout whether I should try to find a bus or just walk home.”

“I can call you a cab if you’d like.”Harry offers. Helping Niall gather his guitar, papers and card without losinganything.

“No, that’s alright. I left my jacket atthe bar so I have no change with me, just my very loyal Oyster card and twowell-functioning legs.”

“It’s really late, Niall, really. I canlend you some, it’s no trouble.” Harry says, searching in his pockets for hiswallet, “I’d be no good of me as a doctor if I fix you up only to let you walkhome at two in the morning. Cab is the safest option.”

“Also the most expensive,” Niall remarks,“we’re in an alright neighborhood and I live like half an hour from here, it’llbe alright.” Then, with a bit more of spark in his eyes, he says; “If you wantyou can give me your number and I can text you as soon as I get home.”

Harry seemed too busy looking into hiswallet to notice, though, “Here, just a couple of bucks. Just in case youdecide your house’s too far and you’re too tired or cold to keep walking.” Hesays, handing Niall a couple of folded bills. “Or in case you have nothing inyour Oyster card. Can’t never be too safe.”

He’s just finished talking when a beepcomes from his pocket. Eyes opening wide when he sees a red alert from hispager.

“Well, look at that. You can have a couplered cases on Friday nights too.” Harry says, shaking his head, “Have a niceevening. Don’t forget to pick up your meds tomorrow morning. What I just gaveyou we’ll be enough for the night but it might get really achey if you movearound a lot.” Harry says, walking fast towards the nurses’ station. “No guitarplaying, for at least a week, let you hand heal nicely. If there’s moreswelling, your fingers get really cold, dark or you can’t feel them or there’sany fever at all, please come back to the E.R immediately.” Harry says in arush as he checks the new triage papers. “Any questions?”

“Thank you.” Says Niall. “Really, you werethe nicest doctor I’ve ever met and I promise when I come back for that check-upI’ll hunt you down and pay you back.”

“No need,” Harry replies with a smile,“I’ve got to run. Have a safe trip home!”

And with that he leaves, back towards theentrance of the E.R where an ambulance is pulling in someone in a really bloodystretcher.

With a shudder, Niall turns to leave, notbefore looking back at Harry for the last time and saying to himself, “nexttime I’ll get his number.”