#but he has to wedge his head into this narrow little space

[markothehusky]

[makoodles]

I would give anything to know Ghost’s inner monologue during any part of the last fic you posted. Is he purposefully getting into her space at the beginning (because we all know Ghost is too aware of his body and his trauma to accidentally touch anyone, let along have his entire side against them)? When he walks in does he just blue-screen, is that why he doesn’t immediately leave? What is he thinking when he sees our wet cunt still stuffed? When he finds out no one has touched us that way, or made us cum? When we want him to fuck us so badly we beg him to do it raw? Does his heart break a little when he heard us say we thought he left us, while we were so vulnerable and still dirty? Is he also freaking out about the fraternization stuff, or has he decided that we are his in the same way that he is ours, and Price will just have to cover up another damn thing for his team?

yes to all of this

(a little drabble part 2 to this)

Ghost has a little habit, when you're concerned. He's usually hyper-aware of his body and his limbs and where he's touching, what's around and beside and behind him. His skin itches sometimes when he's touched without warning, though he always hides his reactions. But with you... he's not so careful. He lets his legs spread, his arms stretch, lets himself crowd into your space. There's something intoxicating about the way that you let him, the way you never lean away from him. You're just so soft, so warm, always letting him infringe on your space with a sweet little smile as though you're happy to see him. You're one of the rare people who are happy to see him, and it makes something uncomfortably warm wriggle in his belly.

So yeah, he leans into you when he sits next you in the rec room. It's mostly muscle memory, because you've never minded before. But today, you're a little tense. Ghost knows you, knows you well. He can see the way your spine is a little stiff, the way your eyes are a little glassy as you stare off into the distance. You look a little... ruffled. Ghost watches you carefully out of the corner of his eye, probes a little, but backs off when you dance around his question. He's knows boundaries well, and he won't push yours. Even if he thinks it's... strange that you leave so quickly, eyes averted.

Finding your phone wedged into the seat after you left was like an opportunity. Simon Riley has never had much, he's always made do, and yet he's admittedly greedy when it comes to you. He's not often a selfish man - he's never had enough to be selfish about - and yet he's hungry for your time, your smiles, your touch. And you're always so generous with yourself, so he doesn't second-guess his decision to follow you down the hall to your quarters. He's never been there before, and he wants to see your space, hungry for any shred of you he can get.

He should have knocked. It was rude not to. But he's so, so fucking glad he didn't.

He's a little rough when he opens your door, a little too eager to get into the room and see your pretty grateful smile when he gives you your phone back. But when he gets that door open, sees the sight of you on your back among your sheets, legs spread, head back, eyes fluttered closed, his mind goes fucking blank.

He watches you scramble, watches the mortification flash across your face as you attempt to shut your adorable little pink vibrator off as you shut your legs, depriving him of the prettiest view he's ever seen. Ghost is not a man with a weakness for pretty things, but it seems only natural that you're the exception, you and your pretty wet puffy pussy.

He hardly even knows what happens, his fingers and toes numb and his attention narrowed down to you, only you. Before he knows it, he's sitting on your bed, feeling enormous and ungainly next to you as you stare up at him. He reaches out, his big hands scarred and ugly against your pretty skin when he holds your vibrator, his blood buzzing at the thought that this had been inside you mere moments ago.

He never thought he'd be envious of a piece of fucking plastic, but here he is. A big man, a deadly soldier, reduced to a fool at your bedside. And yet, you don't even seem to notice. You're so good, so sweet, parting your legs when he asks you to and letting him look.

He asks you to finish. It's bold, and stupid, and greedy. He wants to see you come - he already knows it'll be the prettiest thing he's ever seen, that it'll be seared in his mind forever. In this moment, he thinks he'd do anything just to watch your eyes roll back, your face go slack, to hear the pretty little noises he knows you'll make.

It escalates faster than he could have imagined. Such a sweet thing, laying back and showing him how you use your vibrator. And he watches eagerly, his breath catching at the realisation that this is how you play with yourself when you're alone. You're clumsy about it, which is absolutely adorable.

But then you make a confession, and Ghost thinks he might be spiralling. You've never been touched, never been fucked, never come. It feels like an outrage. He thinks of how tense you'd been earlier, shifting beside him in your blue jeans, and he just thinks... what the fuck? Prettiest girl he's ever seen, and you don't even know how to touch your own cunt properly? He wants to show you, more than anything he's ever wanted before. Greedy. You make him so greedy.

"Let me try."

He's between your legs before he even knows how he got there, pulling your stupid little vibrator out so he can replace it with his fingers. And if he thought he was greedy, he soon finds that he's well-matched when it comes to you. You're just as eager, just as hungry. Spreading your legs and whimpering, all those sweet, sweet noises that spill out of your mouth, just like he knew they would.

You have the prettiest cunt he's ever seen. Pretty, slick, swollen, just as hungry as the rest of you. He alternates between his fingers and his mouth and your little dildo, a little drunk on your taste and your soft thighs when they squeeze around his head. He kisses you too, because he can't help himself. Greedy.

He's never been a chatty man, but his cock is so hard now and he knows his mouth is running. He can't help himself. Your salty-sweet slick on his tongue has loosened it; he barely even knows what he's saying, or what he's promising, but by god he's going to live up to it.

Then, your lovely sweet voice, all breathless and pitchy, asking “Can I try yours?”

Not only that, you beg. You plead with him to fuck you, to do it raw, as if he was ever going to say no. As if he'd ever be strong enough to say no. He can hardly handle hearing you beg like that; he feels as though he's going to blow before he even gets his cock inside you.

In his wildest dreams, he never imagined you so needy. You writhe, you're soaked, you make the most heart-stopping little noises deep in your throat when he presses inside. You're so hot and wet and tight that it feels as though you're about to squeeze his cock right off, and he tries so hard to feed it to you slow, to give you time to take him. You're so good, taking him even though you struggle a little. He's not a small man, certainly not an easy man to take inside of you for your very first time, but it's a testament to how slick and eager you are that he slides in with minimal effort.

After that, he loses himself. Hardly even knows what's he's doing, working based on pure instinct, filling and fucking you until he's losing his breath. God, you're beautiful, and he clenches his jaw hard to bite back his orgasm - he has to focus on you, only you while the tears are streaming down your pretty face as you gasp and cry for him.

He can see your orgasm creeping up on you before you recognise it yourself. When it hits you, it's a whole body event. Your back arches, legs spasm, stomach trembles, eyes roll back. Your cunt clenches down so fucking tight that it's a little bit painful. Simon doesn't dare blink - he's never going to fucking forget this. Your very first orgasm, and you're experiencing it on the end of his cock.

He loses it a little after that, his thoughts fizzing and slipping from his grasp as he loses his coordination. By the time he comes inside of you, cock throbbing and skin tightening, he's already decided that he's going to have to make you come again. Once isn't enough, not for someone as hungry as him. Or you.

He thinks he might have fucked you stupid. Your eyelids are fluttering and your lips are parted, but you're a little bit dead to the world. It's cute. He feels his pride swell, smug at the thought that he's fucked you so good that he's sent you reeling off into dreamworld.

He leaves, only for a moment, unable to be away from you for too long. He just wants to get a cloth, something to wipe you off with to make you all clean and fresh again. You're already awake when he comes back, though you're still hazy and clumsy and all teary-eyed.

He's happy to wipe you clean, despite your quiet mewling complaints, and then he hauls himself into your bed just so he can curve his big-ass body around your smaller one, relishing your sweet softness. God, he's wanted to hold you like this forever, but he's still a little nervous about hurting you. Killing and maiming and hurting have been the only things he's been really good at his whole life, and he's irrationally fearful of moving wrong and hurting you, even after the sex. Or maybe especially after the sex.

He can see your brow crease, the uncertainty in your eyes. He realises you're probably a little uncertain about where you stand with him, or what this is. That's fair. Simon has never been the most demonstrative man, but he's also been the type to cling on like a tick to the things he values, the things he wants to keep safe. He holds you, checking his strength, proud to be able to keep you safe in his arms.

He's going to make sure that you don't worry about it either. Your hair smells sweet, your skin is so warm, and your ass is so soft where it's pressed against his crotch. He's reaching for you before he can think about it, and his heart pulses hard when you spread your legs for him so easily. God, he's gonna ruin you. Just like he promised.

[lovebugism]

“don’t you dare touch him” eddie x shy!reader

idk i need a situation where reader never really speaks up but she finally does when it comes to eddie because she loves him sm😭

thanks so much for your request! hope you like it!! — the one where eddie melts when his quiet gf sticks up for him in front of jason (shy!reader, fluff, 2.4k)

bug's summer fic fest ♡

The drive from Forest Hills to the arcade is spent with Lucas and Dustin bickering in the backseat and Eddie’s hand on your thigh.

“It’s been two years, and you still can’t beat my high score, Dusty Bun,” the former boy taunts. The nickname spills like venom from his smiling face. “Just give it up, okay? It’s not happening.”

Dustin grins back at him. It’s more so mischievous than it is taunting. His deep blue eyes narrow in a challenging squint. “You are so gonna be eating your words by the end of the night. When we leave, Princess Daphne is gonna be mine, alright? For good.”

Their arguing becomes background noise. With your cheek lolled against the hand you’ve got propped against the window, you’re pulled into the wispy lilac cloud your gaze is so heavily fixated upon. The sky billows lavender against a sea of pink and golden orange — a summer sunset so vivid you can taste it.

The only thing keeping you grounded is Eddie’s palm on your knee, wide and warm and all-consuming. His thumb rubs against your skin so softly you think it must be absentminded. It feels like static shock, anyway. He laughs quietly to himself, and his fingers tremble gently against you. This time they squeeze you with a newfound intention as he brings you back to him.

“What do you think, babe?” Eddie asks, pink mouth spread in a pearly white grin. His chocolate eyes glimmer with the golden hour sun as his gaze flits between yours and the road. “Think Dusty Bun has a chance here?”

You nod, scrunched nose and squinted eyes, silent in your support for the curly-headed boy who’s still yelling over Lucas in the back of the van.

“What about me?” he presses. And because he knows better than to give his quiet girl anything other than a yes or no answer, he follows quickly, “You think today’s the day I finally beat your Space Invaders high score?”

A beat passes. The momentary silence is filled with arguing boys, old tires on older asphalt, and Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train” spilling softly from the radio. A quiet smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You purse the mischievous expression to the side as you turn away from him again.

Your non-answer makes him laugh. It sounds exactly like the colors of the sunset.

His beat-up van jerks when he puts it into park. The door on the side squeaks as the kids file out of it. Eddie’s does too, but you can’t hear it over him telling you to “sit tight.” 

You wait patiently in the passenger seat like you always do, smiling to yourself as the boy rushes around the hood to open the door for you. The hinges screech in protest. His wild curls billow in the wind as he smiles. “C’mon, sunshine. Our palace awaits.”

The group of you stand beneath the spinning neon sign he parked next to — glowing orange and white beneath a setting sun. Someone calls from across the parking lot, “Well, well, well. Look who it is.”

Your heads snap in the direction of the painfully familiar voice. 

Jason and the rest of his abnormally tall goons stand outside the new gym that just opened on the strip. The dark, vacant building wedged between The Palace and Family Video was no longer as scary as it used to be now that it was occupied. You were just hoping it’d be something more exciting. Forcing arcade nerds and gym bros into one spot feels like a crime.

“And they brought little miss wallflower, too,” Jason lilts with his pretty smile and straight teeth. His blonde hair is a darker shade of brown, damp with half-dried sweat. His lean form is unnaturally built underneath his white tank top and basketball shorts. 

It isn’t any wonder why he turned out to be such a raging douchebag. 

Someone so perfect needed at least one flaw.

“The gang’s all here, huh?” one of his other friends — Andy, you think — concurs from behind him, always in the boy’s shadow.

“Like what you see, fellas?” Eddie calls out from across the slab of pavement separating the group of you. He’ll never turn down an opportunity to take the piss out of the so-called jocks, all muscle and no brain. 

“What do we do when those assholes give us hell?” he’d often ask when you’ve had a particularly shitty day with them. “We give ‘em hell right back.”

Jason’s thin lips curl into a more mischievous smirk. His blue eyes are lighter in the golden sunlight, and they twinkle beneath the neon signs as he looks you up and down. “Yeah, actually,” he hums with his unabashed ogling. “I do.”

Mike’s lanky legs sidestep to stand ahead of you. He does it so swiftly, so instinctually, you don’t think he even really meant to do it. Despite the raven-haired boy halfway covering you, you cross your arms over your torso in a further attempt to keep yourself hidden. 

You feel so suddenly exposed in your frilly floral sundress — especially considering the only thing you wear to school is baggy jeans and baggier sweaters. You feel like you might as well be naked standing in front of them just now.

The younger boys stand on high alert as Eddie walks the short distance to Jason. The brief journey is made quicker when the blonde boy strides to meet him halfway. It’s a high school sort of standoff — neither particularly wanting to get physical because the real-life repercussions aren’t worth it. They just want to see who can piss each other off the most.

“She is pretty, isn’t she?” Eddie concedes with a grin, flashing you a brief glance over his shoulder. He turns away quickly at the sight of your wide, pleading eyes. He scrunches his nose in feigned sympathy. “I bet you’re real jealous, huh? Especially now that you’ve got nothing but your right hand keeping you company ever since Chrissy dumped your ass.”

“Watch it,” Jason warns through gritted teeth.

“I think I saw her riding around last week with Harrington, actually.”

The blonde boy’s sneakers scuff against the concrete as he takes a daring step closer. His piercing stare never wavers. “Don’t talk about Chrissy.”

“Don’t talk about my girl, and I won’t talk about yours,” Eddie retorts in lilt. And then, because he can’t help but twist the knife, he tilts his head to his shoulder and continues. “Well, I guess she’s not really yours anymore, is she?”

“I said don’t talk about Chrissy!” Jason repeats, louder than before, when he lets his anger get the best of him. One hand shoots up to shove at Eddie’s chest, using only enough force to make the boy stumble slightly back. 

While Dustin, Lucas, and Mike gear up for a fight, Eddie only laughs in response — big, boisterous, and boyish.

You don’t even realize you’re stepping in front of the group until you’re already doing it. The words seem to fly from your mouth without you even thinking about them. “Don’t touch him!” you shout. 

And even though it wasn’t particularly loud, it quiets in the mindless bickering all at once. Everyone turns to gape at you — Jason, Andy, Dustin, Eddie. Everyone is equally surprised by your outburst. Because you don’t speak. Ever. At least, not if you can help it. 

And it’s not because you don’t have anything to say, because you do. It’s just that your brain works too much, and your mouth can’t keep up with it sometimes. It’s easier just to be silent.

That’s what you’ve been known for ever since you were little. You went through all of it — the bullying, the sad eyes, the talks with teachers, the ‘is everything alright at home’s. Everything was fine, for the most part. Your childhood was equally as middling as everyone else’s. You just had a harder time being human than most people.

Jason smiles again, amused by your warning. “What was that, sweetheart?”

You swallow through a tightening throat. Your sweaty hands clench into balls at your sides. The words come out quieter than before, but no less meaningful. “I said… Don’t touch him.”

“Oh, so she does speak. Here I thought no one ever taught you how to,” the blonde boy laughs. You feel disgusting when his attention settles solely upon you. The lingering sick feeling is eclipsed by your gratitude that Eddie’s no longer in his line of fire. “I’m gonna be honest… I thought you were cuter when you were quiet.”

You don’t know what he means by that. You can’t tell if he’s being genuine, or if he thinks you care enough about what he thinks to slink back into your shell.

“Leave Eddie alone,” you retort drily.

He snorts. “Yeah? Or what?”

There’s a thousand words you want to say. You open your mouth to spit all of them at the boy across from you, but nothing comes out.

“Yeah,” Jason laughs at your silence. “That’s what I thought.”

You stand your ground when he walks towards you. His strides are slow and menacing, like he’s expecting you to back away. You might’ve if you were anywhere else — if Eddie wasn’t a couple feet away and the rest of your friends weren’t crowding behind you. You’re made somehow braver by their presence.

“This is a really cute dress, though, sweetheart,” the blonde boy compliments with a thin smirk. “You should dress like this more often. You know what? You’d really fit in at the strip club downtown— what’s it called?”

“Pink Paradise,” Andy answers without missing a beat.

Jason smacks his lips against his teeth. “That’s the one.”

“Is that the one your mom works at?” you wonder with your arms crossed over your chest. Your head tilts to your shoulder as you squint at him. “Is she still giving those two-for-one discounts?” 

Jason’s confidence stutters at your biting reply — even more so by the choked-back laughter accompanying it. Your boys don’t bother to hide their humored giggles, though the basketball team covers theirs by coughing into their fists.

“Ooh. I didn’t know you had such a much on you,” the blonde lilts as his blue eyes narrow. “I’m like… fifty percent more attracted to you now.”

“Leave Eddie alone,” you deadpan once more. “And go be a douchebag somewhere else.”

One of his friends breaks free from the pack. He’s tall, thin, and toned. He’s got the same haircut as Lucas: compact curls, squared off on the sides. You know him — Patrick McKinney. He’s the only one of Jason’s friends that was actually nice to you. Or, at the very least, he wasn’t a total asshole.

“Let’s go, man,” the boy ushers, nudging at Jason’s bicep. “Let’s go shoot some hoops or something. This isn’t worth it.”

You scoff out a laugh. “Oh, please— the only shooting Jason Carver does is into a kleenex. It’s why you were benched all last season.”

“I twisted my ankle!” the blonde boy defends, sounding weak and pathetic beneath the chorus of laughter as Patrick drags him away.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you mutter, perhaps too quiet for him to hear, as Lucas pulls at your forearm to guide you in the other direction. His touch is still gentle — it would be uncharacteristic of him to be rough with you. It would also be a terrible idea with Eddie just a few paces behind the both of you.

The walk to The Palace is a silent one. There’s too much to say, and everyone’s just a little too amazed to say it. Eddie, however, never had a hard time killing a quiet. He rushes on long legs to match your quick strides, reaching you rather easily. 

“Hey, hey, hey— you okay, babe?” the worried boy wonders. He takes a gentle hold of your wrists when you reach the awning beneath the arcade. His chocolate gaze flits attentively over your form, nowhere near as leering as Jason had been. 

He can tell by your heaving chest and glassy eyes that you’re a little overwhelmed. When he takes your face in his hands, he finds that your cheeks are burning, too.

You nod into his warm palms in silent reply, back in the comfort of your shell all over again.

“What’d you do that for, huh?” Eddie singsongs with a quiet laugh. His thumb dances over your cheekbones as he grins at you. “You know I don’t like you getting involved with those assholes.”

“They don’t get to talk to you like that… Or put their hands on you,” you mutter. Despite your soft tone, Eddie can see the fury flashing in your eyes, getting angry about it all over again.

His smile widens — proud and hopelessly in love with you. “No. They don’t. Especially not with my girl around, huh?”

“Nope,” you murmur, popping the p. A sheepish grin pulls at your mouth, equally as proud and in love.

Eddie leans down to kiss you, guiding your mouth to his with the hands cupping your jaw. It’s innocuously chaste, being that you’re still standing in a public parking lot. You could never quite stomach the attention of PDA, anyway. His pink lips lock with yours in a fleeting peck, and his arms wrap around you a second later.

He smothers you into his chest, and you revel in every second of it. He smells like cigarette smoke and the cologne he tried to cover it up with. He smells like a home you could live in forever. 

You smile into the thrifted Blondie tee you got him — which he happily accepted because he loves you (even though he hates Blondie). He presses a kiss into your hair and smushes his nose into the crown of it as he laughs.

“‘Is that the one your mom works at?’” Eddie repeats with a soft chuckle, chest swelling with pride once more. “God, babe. That’s good.”

“Shut up…” you murmur.

“I’m serious! I didn’t know you were such a good smack-talker! I think you might be a genius, actually.”

“Don’t,” you grouse with a lighthearted scowl. You pull away from him only slightly — enough for him to put your face back in his hands again. You feel safest there, even if you are pouting up at him.

“You’re so cute,” the boy muses with a beam. His eyes glimmer like a sea of chocolate syrup, melting with all the love he has for you. “You’re like a cinnamon roll. A cinnamon roll that could bite people.”

“That’s exactly what I am,” you monotone and try your best not to smile.

Eddie couldn’t hide his grin if he tried. “And that’s exactly why I love you.”

[yesimwriting]

Known

A/n i see this as taking place a little after  this , but they're both separate drabbles that can be read on their own :)

Summary: Late night drinking turns into reminiscing between friends. Or, in which you realize that you've always felt safe around Logan.

Warnings/info: age-gap (both characters are of consenting age!!), casual drinking, unnoticed pining, technopath!reader

----

The colors and voices radiating from the TV screen are easier to feel than experience, the electric current buzzing against your skin.

You move to sit up a little straighter, hands pressing into plush cushioning as you adjust. There's a distance to the way you're feeling, as if some odd lightness has managed to wedge itself between you and the world around you.

You lean forward, reaching for the bottle abandoned on the coffee table in front of you. Your fingers press into the glass as you move back into place, the side of your thumb tapping against the neck of the second beer you've finished tonight. A third might be nice, but the darkness around you makes the door feel too far to even think about getting to the kitchen.

There is a bottle of whisky only an arm's length away...it'd be easy to--

"No." The word is flat in its finality.

A soft laugh gives you away immediately. You press a palm against your lips as if that'll take the sound back. Sometimes Logan reads you so well you have to wonder if he has secret psychic abilities he hasn't told anyone about. "I didn't say anything."

He turns his head, lips pressing together in what feels like an attempt to dismiss the amusement behind his eyes. "Didn't have to." Logan's attention shifts back to the glass in his hand. "You're not drinking it."

You shift, turning to better analyze him. There's a stiffness to him that doesn't suit the amount of alcohol in his system. Maybe he's overcompensating for something, like his level of commitment to the stance he's taking. "Okay," the response is warm, cheery.

Logan lets out a breath as he leans forward, angling himself so close his forehead nearly touches yours. He watches you with an openness that's more dizzying than the alcohol in your system. "I mean it."

His proximity is so disorientating you nearly forget that you're meant to respond and not just stare at him.

"Fine," a genuine concession. Nothing else comes to mind, and you can't bring yourself to look away from him. The overwhelming desire to look at him is far from rare, but you're usually better at suppressing it.

You set one of your hands against the space between the two of you. "I'm gonna go get another beer."

He sighs, as if something about the statement has deeply drained him. "You're not."

Your lips part in a mock gasp. "Are you cutting me off?"

The joke seems to ease him, the corner of his mouth pulling itself upwards. "You're drunk."

Please--who gets drunk off of two beers? You narrow your eyes, not sure if you're more offended by the assumption or his hypocrisy. "Am not."

He has the audacity to smile fully. "Then let's keep it that way." The side of his hand moves to rest against the back of your palm. He's--Logan's always so warm. "Don't need to make putting you to bed any harder, princess."

An uneasy warmth begins to crawl its way up your neck. "Y'know you've had twice as much to drink as me, and you're still going."

You press your lips together in an attempt to hide the fact that you're arguing for the sake of it more than out of a desire for more alcohol.

There's a beat of silence as Logan tilts his chin downwards, making the distance between the two of you feel even smaller than it really is. "And when you're my age, you'll get a third beer."

You let yourself openly frown. "You're no fun."

He sighs, attention shifting back to his glass. "Don't pout."

"I'm not," it's a little more directly dishonest than you'd usually be, but the mood seems easy enough for you to get away with it. "I'm just...talking."

Logan watches you for a moment, doubt etched into his expression. "Sure, kid."

You roll your eyes as you shift away, arm stretching forward to place the bottle back on the coffee table. When you lean back, body pressing into the couch, a strangely poignant wave of drowsiness hits you.

The show you had been forcing Logan to watch has been replaced by something bright and loud. The sitcom had been familiar in that slightly off way, the theme song and characters like something out of a recurring childhood dream.

Before your thoughts can snag on the blurriness of your past, you lift a hand. You let your mind give into the draw of the electric current, the two melding until all you have to do to change the channel is flick your wrist. You flick through a few of them before settling on a show you're much more familiar with.

"You're a regular universal remote."

Despite yourself, you smile. The more you've worked on using your powers, the better you've gotten at motor control. Before, sometimes so much as touching something plugged into the wall was enough to make you lose control. "Much cooler than being the person that blew up the toaster."

He laughs once at the memory, the sound low but warm. "Or electrocuting me."

You glare. "I never electrocuted you." It's the truth. Your first few days here had been hectic, the stability you were being offered seemed too good to be true; every instinct in your body begged you to get out before it was too late. But you hadn't hurt anyone.

"But you thought about it." You don't have decent response. When you met Logan, you were running on nothing but adrenaline. "It's okay, I didn't make the best impression."

When the two of you first met, Logan had been...gruff, and maybe defensive in a warranted way, but you can't remember ever not liking him. Maybe that's why you felt more comfortable around him than anyone else, Logan never spoke to you in a way that felt like a facade.

But he doesn't need to know that, so you just shrug. "We're good now, though."

The show cuts to commercial break, an ad for detergent filling the screen. You let yourself relax further into the couch, your head moving to rest against Logan's arm.

"Yeah," he mumbles, "We're good."

You're aware of your blinking, of the weight of your eyelids and the focus needed to pull them back into place. Logan's presence makes it easier to accept the sluggishness and the vulnerability that comes with it. This isn't the first time he's made you feel okay about something like this.

"Logan?" He hums once in acknowledgement. You let out a quiet breath, the words briefly tangling in the back of your throat. "I'm glad you were the one that found me when I was like that."

He's quiet for a moment, and then his hand squeezes yours. "Me, too."

His voice is so quiet it almost feels like an extension of the electricity floating through the air, another thing that's easier to feel than to know. Your eyes fall shut, and you're comfortable enough to let them stay that way.

----

Taglist: @whyausername99

[wildechildwrites]

Relax

Shinsou Hitoshi/Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Depression, self-esteem issues, mind control (not in a bad way but it's in there)

No use of Y/N, gender neutral reader

Summary: You haven't left your bed in days, too depressed to get anything done. Shinsou stops by your apartment to check on you and helps in his own way.

A/N: Wrote this because I've been too depressed to get out of bed, forgive any mistakes or ooc I didn't even really want to post it in the first place.

AO3 Link: Relax

You think you’ve hit a record for continuous hours spent in bed, and probably permanently fucked your kidneys because you don’t even have the energy to get up to use the bathroom. The floor of your room is disgusting, and dishes are piled up in the kitchen. You know you smell, and that there’s so much work for you to do, deadlines you’ve barely managed to avoid by calling in sick to the hero agency you do secretarial work at, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

There’s a knock on your door, but you just ignore it, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. You don’t want to see anyone, and you’re not expecting to anyway. 

Whoever is at your door doesn’t stop, knocking harder and more insistently. You even hear your door knob jiggle, which spurs your anxiety on enough to get you to drag yourself out of bed. Your legs feel slightly wobbly, the inactivity of the last few days catching up to you as blood flows through your limbs. Catching your own reflection in the mirror makes you wince, but it’s a lost cause you’d rather not address. Whoever is knocking hasn’t stopped, and you yank open your front door irritably. If it’s some stupid solicitor–

Your jaw drops at the sight of one of the heroes from your agency, Shinso Hitoshi, standing outside your door. He’s dressed for patrol in all black, wrapped in his scarf, his voice modulator hanging loosely around his neck. His hair is wild as always, purple locks sticking in all directions, and he scans your form quickly, as if checking you for visible injuries. You remember how disheveled you look and your face heats up. 

“What are you doing here?” your voice is hoarse from disuse and your most recent crying jag, and you immediately wince at the way you sound, but Shinsou’s expression doesn’t change.

“I’ve come to check on you. I heard you were ill.” His tone is blandly neutral, as though it’s something that he does all the time, like you’re not just some stupid underling he’s contractually obligated to tolerate. His violet eyes narrow. “You’re not sick though.” 

You shrug self-consciously. You don’t understand why he’s here. You’re friendly at work, going out of your way to make conversation with the normally reserved hero, but you’ve never spent any real time together. You’re not sure what made him decide a house visit was in order. He definitely has more important things to do than checking up on you, and now you’re just wasting his time. You wrap your arms around yourself.

 “I just needed a day off.” You step backwards, going to shut the door. “Thanks for checking on me.” Shinsou’s foot shoots out, wedging the door open. There’s a beat as you two stare at each other, your mouth open in surprise.

“You’re not doing well,” Shinsou says, a frown on his face. He pushes your door open, and before you can protest, pro-hero MindJack has crowded into your disgusting apartment. You’re pretty sure it’s only because his poker face is so good that he doesn’t grimace at the mess, just stares at you, a crease in between his eyebrows. Humiliation burns in your chest. Now he knows you’re a gross waste of space, and he’ll probably tell everyone at work that you can’t even manage to keep your apartment clean. 

“Oh, little one,” he sighs. You pray for a black hole to spontaneously appear and swallow you up, but don’t get any such mercy. “You need tea,” he says firmly. “Tea, and then you’re going to tell me what’s making you depressed.”

Shinsou heads towards your kitchen with a strange amount of confidence for someone who’s never been in your apartment before, ignoring the dirty dishes piled in the sink in favor of the kettle.

Part of you knows you should protest, but you can't bring yourself to care, scraping the bottom of the well and coming up empty. You shove the pile of clothes strewn on your couch to the floor and sink into the cushions, your eyes on the hero in your kitchen. Maybe you’re just having a really weird dream.

All of your mugs are dirty, so Shinsou washes your favorite, plucking it out of the stack. You wonder if it's a part of his quirk to pick up on things like that. He even remembers how you take your tea, cradling the mug gently in both hands and plopping down beside you, sinking into your couch, his long legs sprawling out in front of him. Your fingers brush against his own, thin and unnaturally warm from the heat of the drink as he hands it to you. You're reminded of the last time you saw him. 

You've got two full trays of coffee balanced precariously in both hands, fighting a losing battle against flimsy cardboard and gravity. Your face is furrowed in concentration, your eyes fixed on your full hands when someone plucks the trays out of your grasp with nimble fingers. Your head shoots up, and you're about to protest when you see a pair of familiar purple eyes on yours. They’re beautiful up close, blue flecks making them seem almost periwinkle in the fluorescent office lights. Bashfulness hits you like a tsunami, and you try to tamp it down.

“Seems you've got your hands full,” Shinsou comments dryly. You smile and shrug, flustered by his proximity. 

“All in a day's work.” You bite your lip, feeling awkward. “I um, I got you one too, even though I wasn't sure if you'd be in today. You drink it black right? Dark roast?” Deftly, you pluck his out of one of the trays, then hold your other hand out expectantly. “Trade you?”

Shinsou stares at you intently, his expression unreadable. An odd shiver runs down your spine, like cold water dripping through your veins, and there’s a beat of silence before he finally responds, like he had to reboot. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly. He hands you one of the trays and accepts the warm cup from your hands, fingers brushing against yours. Despite your protests, Shinsou insists on helping you with your errand, trailing behind you to the meeting room you’re headed to. 

You pass out the drinks quickly, ignoring the odd stares that come with having a purple haired shadow lingering behind you, obediently holding the tray as though it’s the most important part of his day. 

Shinsou doesn’t speak until you're both out in the hallway. 

“You didn't get yourself anything.” There's a slight crease in between his eyes. It's adorable, the singular sign of concern in his placid expression. You’d like to reach out and smooth it out with your thumb. 

“They ran out of the tea I like,” you say, trying and failing to not sound like you’re pouting. Shinsou hums in acknowledgement. He’s suddenly distracted, his mind obviously elsewhere as he shoots you a vague goodbye before abruptly turning on his heel and heading in the opposite direction. You smile to yourself. Sometimes the heroes were so odd.

After your lunch break, a cup of tea appears on your desk. You don’t see Shinsou again, but you can’t keep the smile off your face for the rest of the day.  

You’ve sat in silence for at least twenty minutes, unsure of what to say. You wish Shinsou would just leave, but you’re not brave enough to say so. You just want to be left alone. The idea of talking about your pathetic problems with someone who has real responsibilities is mortifying. Shinsou seems content to remain unnervingly quiet beside you, relaxing on your secondhand couch.

“I’m not even sad, really. I’m just bad at being a person,” you finally say. “I fuck up everything and I'm going nowhere.” Your head thunks back against the couch cushions. Shinsou is staring at you, and you wish you could just disappear, but the floodgates have been opened, everything that’s been weighing you down spilling out.

 “It’s so exhausting to even just be alive. I feel so overwhelmed and stressed constantly about the most miniscule things. I wish someone would tell me what to do because I seem to be incapable of making decisions, even with little things like what to eat and how to organize my closet. Every choice I make is the wrong one.”  You sniffle, desperately fighting back the threat of tears. 

There’s a quick change in the placid expression on Shinsou’s face, a ripple in the still waters of a pond. 

“I could help.” His voice is hesitant but his gaze is sharp, lilac eyes pinning you down. You run a hand through your greasy hair absentmindedly, confused.

 “How?”

He stares at you with a deadpan expression until you realize what he’s implying. Duh. 

“I could… make some decisions for you. Help you be productive.”

You've never seen a mind altering quirk in action. Your curiosity sparks, and you push yourself to sit up.

“Can you just tell me to… not? Be depressed?” you ask.

Shinsou tilts his head, a small frown on his face. “It doesn’t work like that, unfortunately. But I might be able to make you feel better. At least temporarily.”

The silence while you mull over his offer is tense. You don't want him to use his powers superfluously. You're not sure if his quirk has limitations, but you don't want to exhaust it for a stupid reason like this. 

“I can't ask you to do that.” You say.

“You're not asking,” he replies firmly. “I'm offering because I want to help. It'll–” he hesitates, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I've heard that it's not bad, the sensation of it.”

You stare at him, absentmindedly chewing on your lip. Nothing can make you feel worse than you do right now, you reason. Maybe you can get him to make you clean. Or fill out bills. 

“How do we start?”

Shinsou looks surprised, then pleased, his eyes warm. He shifts closer to you, and you catch the scent of cologne, light and clean. Your heart gives an odd stutter.

“Are you going to be good for me?” His voice is barely a whisper. Heat rises to your face at the question, warmth kindling low in your stomach. You ignore your own reaction, focusing on his question.

“Yes Shinsou,” you reply. His mouth curves up, his demeanor changing instantly, slipping on intensity like a glove. A long arm drapes across the back of your sofa, boxing you in, closing the gap between you. He's bigger than you realized, so close like this, wiry muscle covering his slim form. His eyes are dark and deeper than you've ever seen them, like a twilight sky. You can't look away, a rabbit caught in the hypnotic gaze of a snake.

“Relax,” he orders, his voice silky smooth but impossibly firm. The words have an immediate effect, melting into you, tugging at your brainstem. A shiver runs down your spine, and you feel the tension in your body unfurl, like you’re slipping into a warm bath.

There’s a part of you that’s panicking, a jerk of animal instinct that fights against the downy sensation that’s settling into your mind. You try to quiet the protest. You want to be good for Shinsou, want him to think that you're good. He sees the conflict in your expression and leans impossibly closer, a gentle hand reaching up to tip your chin towards him. Your eyes drop down to his mouth, and his breath catches.

“You’re doing so well,” he says quietly. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but I’d never hurt you.” He cocks his head, voice slipping back into a more authoritarian tone. “Now, go take a shower and brush your teeth.” 

The words have an instant effect on you, pulling an invisible string. You jerk to your feet, unsteadily beelining towards the bathroom, his little marionette doll. Shinsou rises as well, heading towards your bedroom. 

The first time you meet Shinsou is in one of the many break rooms of the agency you work at. He strolls in, and you have to make a concentrated effort from keeping your jaw from dropping. He's tall and handsome, his surprisingly delicate features thrown off by the dark circles under his eyes. The coffee you're pouring overflows onto your hand in your distraction, and you curse quietly under your breath, spinning around to grab some paper towel to clean your mess. 

“Careful, the coffee's hot,” a dry voice speaks from behind you. It's low in an unexpected way, appealing despite his lack of inflection. You let out a scoff at his comment. You go over a mental list of the heroes at your agency, trying to pinpoint who he is.

“You're MindJack, right?” you finally ask, turning back to face him, your curiosity getting the best of you. He looks surprised. 

“You know who I am?” 

“Yeah, I guess. I’ve seen what you can do, read your file and stuff.” You're desperately trying to come off as nonchalant, throwing your shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug. Hopefully he doesn’t think you’re a stalker or anything. You clear your throat. “You’ve got a pretty interesting quirk.” 

“Interesting is a kind way to put it, I believe.” His tone is light, but there’s an edge to it. You read the sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his lips thin. “Most people think it’s a villainous quirk to have.” 

You roll your eyes. Morons. 

“People are just shitty about it because they’d probably be evil if they had your power,” You say, trying to sound matter of fact. “If anything, it just proves you’re a better hero, you resisted the pull because you’ve got strong morals.”

 You smile at him, and he returns it, a quick crescent moon flash of teeth that has you ducking your head.

“I guess I’ve never thought of it that way,” he murmurs thoughtfully.

Shinsou found your stash of clean sheets and is making your bed when you walk into your bedroom after your shower, squeaky clean and wrapped in a towel. He turns to you, and you see his cheeks go pink, his eyes trailing down your form before shooting back up to your face with a guilty expression. Shame rushes through you, disturbing the detached serenity you feel. You should've told him you needed to change, instead of barging in practically naked. He's being so nice, and you’re ruining things like always. You can feel the corners of your mouth turning down, anxiety fighting against the artificial calm Shinsou has coached your mind into.

He clicks his tongue, matching your frown with one of his own. “I’m sorry, I lost focus. You’re alright, relax for me.”

It’s an odd sensation, a roller coaster drop and then you’re back to tranquility. He smiles at you with that half crescent flash of teeth. Your knees feel weak. 

“I’ll go start the dishes while you put on some fresh clothes and start some laundry. Sounds good?”

The sun's dipping low in the sky, the shadows growing long as you and Shinsou fold the mounds of laundry you've finished. Time feels strange, chores that normally take hours slipping by in moments, the sound of Shinsou's voice filling the silence and echoing in your head. He tells you about becoming a hero, about training and about work. You like the way his voice sounds, the lack of inflection giving way to little tells, peaks and valleys in his speech pattern that you’ve never picked up on before.

He's propped himself against your bed, making quick work of the pile of socks he’s folding, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as he concentrates. You're struck with the soft domesticity of it all, the compassion of Shinsou taking so much time to help try to pull you out of the hole you’ve found yourself in. Gratitude overwhelms you, your chest tight with it. 

You don't realize there are tears running down your cheeks until Shinsou looks up at you, and lets out a soft gasp, abandoning the pile of socks.

“Are you alright?” he asks, concern lacing his tone. “Did I push you too much today? Did we do anything you didn’t want?” He’s so close to you, hands hovering hesitant around your face, desperate to comfort but afraid to close the gap. You shoot him a watery smile, wiping your eyes before you pull him into a tight hug. He freezes at the contact, a heartbeat of surprise before melting against you, long arms wrapping around your body.

“You're just so nice,” you say, voice muffled against his chest. You feel his lips brush against the top of your head softly. You don't feel better, necessarily, the empty hole in your chest still present, but you feel less heavy. Your apartment looks great, and your to do list is down to an almost manageable level. He’s done so much more for you than you can express, so you just hug him tighter, burying your face into his neck. 

You want to stay like this forever, huddled on your bedroom floor, cradled in each other’s arms. The warmth of the moment is shattered by the ring of his phone. 

Being a hero is a ceaseless calling. He answers, and you try to convince yourself that the curt note in his voice is disappointment at the interruption. You pull back and pretend not to eavesdrop, schooling your face into a neutral expression for when he hangs up, regret coloring his features.

“I have to go,” he says, and you muster a smile.

“I’ll walk you out.” 

MindJack stands in your doorway for the second time tonight, lingering in the warmth of your apartment. You’re back to feeling stressed, hyper aware of the vulnerability he’s seen today. You hope he doesn’t say anything to anyone. You hope he still likes you after all of this. His next sentence catches you completely off guard, your own self doubt totally off base. 

“I'll stop by to pick you up for work tomorrow morning,” he says, his voice almost casual. There's a soft pink to his cheeks, and you feel an answering heat rise to your own. “Unless you’re planning on calling in sick again.” 

“You really don’t have to do that.” You feel like you’ve put him out enough tonight already.

“I’d like to.” Those purple eyes have you pinned again, and you feel yourself nodding without thinking. Before you can blink, he leans into your space, wrapping a long arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him and pressing his lips to yours in a fierce kiss. His mouth is warm and soft. He nips at your bottom lip and you quietly gasp. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss, pulling you impossibly closer, his tongue sweeping against yours. You reach your hands up, weaving your fingers through his hair, and he lets out an appreciative groan when you tug him closer. His phone buzzes again and he pulls away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says breathlessly. You don’t know how to tell him what a difference he’s made for you. You’ve got so much you’d like to say to him, but you know he has to go. He’s stayed longer than he should already.

“Thank you,” you say simply. You hope he understands the true weight of your appreciation. You gaze tenderly at each other for a moment before he reaches a hand out, fingers ghosting against your cheek, then slips out of your apartment.

[cakerybakery]

“I never loved you.”

Lucifer was taken aback. He and Adam had been arguing about Eden and blaming each other for all the things that went wrong. Where had that come from?

Adam screwed up his face and stormed out.

“What the fuck was that?” Lucifer wasn’t going to let this go. Something about it bothered him. He never expected Adam to love him. Why would it upset him if Adam didn’t love him? Why would Adam say that?

There’s one place Lucifer knew Adam always hid in hell when he needed to get away.

Where everything started. When Eden was corrupted, Adam and Eve weren’t expelled just for disobedience, they were exiled to be saved. Eden had fallen along with Lucifer and Lilith.

When the ground shook, the animals fled Eden to save themselves, but some were caught in the fall. Evil infected them, turned them feral or made them demons. Monster sprang where their blood spilled and they devoured the fruit from tree of knowledge and gaining intelligence. They had become dangerous.

The tree was dead but it would not rot away. Lucifer needed to hide the tree and its putrid fruit to put a stop to the growing hoard of intelligent demons.

In a vain hope that it could be revived, and perhaps heaven would find mercy for Lilith at least, Lucifer had sought out any sort of holy light for it to sprout in but had found only one single ray in all of hell.

So he moved the tree there but to no avail. The tree and the garden never recovered.

Adam had been drawn to it from the start, as Lilith had been.

Lilith would climb the branches and settle into a crook of the wood and bask in the light. The same place Adam would hide.

They both said the same thing, they needed to feel the warmth, to hear heaven. It made them feel better.

Lucifer made his way to the garden, down the narrow path and through caverns to a sinkhole that contained the remnants of the garden. He reached for the dead plants and they turned to dust at his touch. Flowers, faded and brittle, cracked in his wake.

A single streak of holy light fell down through the red sky and smog and nestled in the top of the tree.

Branch by branch, Lucifer climbed. The tree was too thick for him to fly up and get to the hidden spot. Only that single beam of light made it through.

He had to climb a bit higher than the crook to get into it. So when he got up to the spot he was looking down at Adam.

“Fuck off.” Adam’s words held no venom to them and Lucifer slid down into the space.

It was tight. Lilith had fit nicely into it but Adam had a good fifty pound on her, adding in Lucifer and they had gotten a little wedged in. Lucifer wasn’t worried, he could teleport, but it kept Adam from being able to take off.

Lucifer has slid himself down so he was between Adam’s pulled up knees and chest. Even in Adam’s lap, Lucifer had to marvel at their height difference. Adam was still half a head taller than him and he was sitting suspended a bit between Adam’s thighs and gut. He wiggled his legs on either side of Adam’s waist to get a little more comfortable. Grinning, he looked up into Adam’s aghast face.

“Wha-wha-what the fuck are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable. I want to know what the fuck that was about at the hotel.”

“What is fucking wrong with you?!? Get out of my lap, asshole.”

“So you can take off again? Yeah, no.”

Adam tried pushing Lucifer up and off him but hooked his feet under Adam ass and wedged himself down farther. And realized why Adam wanted Lucifer off his lap.

He could work with this.

Lucifer pretended he couldn’t tell Adam’s hard dick was pressed against his ass and leaned against Adam’s chest.

“You want me to get off you?” Lucifer shifted to wiggle a little more. “Then tell me what that was about.”

“Nothing. It wasn’t fucking anything. Get fucked, asshole.”

‘Now that’s an interesting choice of words, Adam.’

“You brought it up.” He shifted again and watched Adam’s face.

How he muttered, “shit,” under his breath, how hard his breathing got, Lucifer could feel Adam’s heart racing under his hands. Lucifer was sure he had his answer without ever needing Adam to vocalize it.

Adam wore a mask to hide his face and his feelings because he had no poker face. He was nearly as red as the sky and wouldn’t met Lucifer’s eyes.

Lucifer took Adam’s face in his hands, sat up, and kissed him. The hands that had tried to push him off now held him close.

Pulling back he asked, “did you love me in Eden?”

“I did.”

“Hmm.” Lucifer kissed him again, perhaps too enthusiastically. His tongue swept into Adam mouth and he gagged.

Adam pulled away and started coughing and gagging off to the side. Lucifer patted his back. He didn’t think Adam’s gag reflex was that strong. It didn’t bode well for what Adam could do in bed, but Lucifer could figure something out.

He rubbed Adam’s back some more until finally Adam spit out a chunk onto the tree.

Lucifer stared at it. Sticking out of the apple piece was a seed.

“You-you didn’t happen to have an apple for breakfast, did you?”

“I’ve only ever eaten one apple in my fucking life.”

Lucifer pulled the seed out and held it into the light. In his hand it sprouted. Growing larger by the second it began to crowd them and Lucifer teleported them out of the tree and onto the ancient dried prairie grasses that no longer existed on Earth. Driven to extinction by humans.

They watched as from the tree roots, branches, and bright green leaves burst out of the dry dead wood. In the aftermath a beautiful new tree stood. Everything it touched turned green, the ray of light spread and so did the green. Lucifer jumped as fat cold raindrops fell for the first time. No acid, no danger, just rain.

He and Adam ran for the cover of the tree as the heavens broke and it poured.

Adam laughed. “This is fucking insane.” His voice was a little higher than it had been, more like how he sounded in Eden. He grabbed Lucifer and kissed him.

Lucifer didn’t know what Eden coming back, what the tree regrowing, would mean for hell or heaven or even Earth. But as Adam kissed him until they lay in the grass, as the rain fell, and the sounds of insects returned, Lucifer didn’t care. Adam could have been his Eden once, had he paid attention. Like the garden, Lucifer was being given another chance, and he was going to take it.

[angelmichelangelo]

hi i noticed u reposted prompts yesterday and because i am literally on my hands and knees scavenging for autistic rise donnie fics i am going to request "stop looking at me like i'm damaged goods". you can make it as fluffy/angsty as you please; i trust you entirely to absolutely eat this concept

autistic donnie is. so important to me. i cradle him gently in my hands for you my friend. hope you enjoyed this :3 ty for trusting me with him lol

x

In the aftermath of Donnie’s meltdown, Leo gives him approximately fifteen and a half minutes to cool down, because in the lifetime that he has known his brother, he knows that those fifteen and a half minutes was enough time for him to clamber into bed, press his shell against the wall and take enough long, sobering breaths to dig around his hoodie pouch for his cell and for him to connect it with his bluetooth headphones and work through a good chunk of his chill playlist and settle the fuck down. Fifteen and half minutes go by. He approaches his bedroom door, knuckles rap gently against steel. Three, equally spaced taps. A pause. He doesn’t need to be welcomed in; if he wasn’t, he’d just be told to ‘go away and die’ from the other side, which he isn’t, so he allows himself to enter his room. As predicted, Don is wedged up against the wall by his bed, pillow tucked tight to his chest so he can chew the end of it between his teeth, headphones still blaring out his music loud enough to be heard in a second-hand-tinny kind of way; his eyes eventually skate upwards from his screen to watch Leo cross the room and drop himself onto the end of the bed with a sigh. It takes another two full minutes for Donnie to pause his music and paw his headphones off his head, letting them clatter to the floor without care. He says nothing, still chomping on the soggy remains of his pillowcase, giving Leo the floor to speak. “He didn’t mean it,” Leo says, eyeing his brother up with a steady look. “You know that.” Donnie’s mask wrinkles on the account of his brow quickly furrowing. He chews a little harder, grinding the material with circular motions of his jaw. Leo watches him for a second before he lounges backwards, shell hitting the wall, he’s almost trapping Donnie against the wall, but in a less-intrusive way. He sighs wearily. “He’s pretty upset,” he adds, hoping to coax something out of his brother. It does. He lets the pillow go from his jaws and shoots Leo an incredulous look, sitting up just on his elbows. “Good,” he says shortly. “So am I.” A breathy laughter bubbles up from Leo’s chest, squinting at his brother with slight askance. “Donnie, he’s twelve. He doesn’t—He doesn’t always get it.” Donnie actually hmphs and turns his head away, tongue feeling around for the wet material of the pillowcase and drawing it back between his teeth to chew. Leo does nothing but watch for a moment as his brother purposely ignores his presence. Because today’s meltdown was indeed brought to you by: Mikey making waffles. There had been a lot of noise and mess and everything happening at once when Don had come into the kitchen just to simply make himself toast. He’d snapped at their youngest, unable to bridle some of that bubbling frustration that was prone when he got rowdy and loud, and because Mikey was twelve and Donnie was thirteen, the pair of them overflowing with all of that incredible, powerful, teenage hormonal angst had caused something like a volcanic, chemical reaction the moment it breached into the others space.

“Don.” Leo says again, this time reaching out to place his hand on his shoulder, only to have it harshly shrugged off, Donnie’s head coming around to glare at him so fast it might just spin right off his shoulders. “I don’t care!” He says coldly and spitefully. His eyes are sharp and narrow, the corner of the pillow rests heavily in the corner of his mouth where he’s still begrudging to let it go. “I don’t care, he… he annoys me.” Leo frowns. “Yeah.” He says with a shrug of his shoulders, his hand retreating to rest lonely in his lap. “Little brothers tend to do that.” Donnie scoffs, now choosing to bury his head in said pillow, a long, drawn out sigh is muffled from where he’s pressing his snout against the plush. “Raph is gonna make him say sorry,” Leo tries. Donnie’s shoulder just hike upwards, like a dogs hackles rippling in self-defense. “I just wanted to make sure you were good first.”

Donnie finally peels his face away from where he was previously content with suffocating himself, face tight and angry looking. 

“That’s a surprise,” he says, voice icy and spiteful. “Raph usually lets his favorite brother get away with everything.”

Leo’s heart skips about in his chest at the accusation. “He doesn’t have favorites,” he says wearily, mouth opening to try and back his claim up when Donnie sits up suddenly, like a shaken up can of soda, he’s got all his energy back again just to fizz out over the top of him. “He so does. Mike is everyone’s favorite, making me the least favorite!”

There’s a wet glossy sheen to his eyes now that makes Leo want to press forward. He doesn’t, only because it looks like his brother might bite his hand off if he tries, so he just fixes his brother a sympathetic look and tries desperately again to calm him.

“That’s not true,” he says, then offering his brother a smile. “You’re my favorite.”

Donnie blinks at Leo, scowl still etched sharply across his features before he flops back down again. “You’re just saying that because there’s something wrong with me.”

Leo blanches. Not long ago, Don had clambered into Leo’s bed of an evening and shoved his phone under his beak and rattled off a list of symptoms and spectrums and a bunch of fancy words that didn’t quite compute with the turtle until his twin and gripped his arm with an iron bar hold and told him with a shaky breath,

“I think this is me, Nardo. I think this is what I have.”

Donnie sniffs and once again turns his head sideways, avoiding eye contact. “You can stop that.” He says, voice flat. “You can stop looking at me like I’m— I’m damaged goods.” Leo feels all the space in his chest around his heart go very tight very suddenly, all the air that occupied that space suddenly being sucked outwards, leaving him feeling somewhat hollow.

“You’re not damaged goods,” Leo tells him, as sternly as he could possibly muster, because even if he couldn’t quite catch his breath after such an accusation, he was gong to make damn good sure that his brother believed the words he spoke. Because Leo really didn’t see Donnie in that way whatsoever.

“I mean, you’re a little odd and strange but, dude,” he says, this time finding the courage to land a hand on his brother’s arm without him trying to shake him off or eat it. “It’s cool. You’ve always been cool.”

Donnie blinks at him, and the only time he moves Leo’s arm away is so that he can use the back of his wrist to scrub away at his wetted face, muffling a tiny little sob into his forearm.

“It’s okay, Dee,” he says, leaning in a little closer. “Do… do you need another fifteen minutes? Before Mike comes in to say sorry?”

Donnie says nothing, leaning into the warmth Leo offers him, but not before he’s gingerly slotting the chewed up corner of the pillowcase between his teeth, making a small laugh bubble out of Leo as he watches on.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says softly, and Donnie says nothing more – he doesn’t have to, because as long as he knows where Leo stands on his viewpoint of his brother, favorite brothers aside, Don does indeed hold a very special, irreplaceable spot in the deepest parts of his chest, where there was no air and no ache, and that, to Leo was the very opposite of damaged goods.

That was something pretty damn amazing.

[moving-asfateentertwines]

quiet mornings

Aged up characters, sweet domestic fluff, mated couple, slice of life - Rotxo is about 25 and Spider 26

Rotxo X Spider Socorro Sully

Word Count - 778

______________________________________________________________

They sun has only begun to rise when Rotxo stirs. The early amber light is beginning to filter into the marui he has called home for nearly 8 years now.

He stifles a yawn and stretches his shoulders back with a satisfying crack. He's careful not to stir the warm body tucked into his side.

Spider isn't supposed to spend the night often, the shack a little ways from their home being for him to sleep in at night in order to keep his mask off for a few hours at least. Rotxo knows it gets uncomfortable at time and has seen the seemingly permanent indents on his lovers skin where it presses in.

Still, Spider is nothing if not stubborn and is hard pressed to make leave when he's decided he's spending the night. For a brief moment, he ponders scooping up the other man and making him return to the building the humans so kindly crammed into the limited space of Metkayina beaches, but the thought filters away as quickly as it came when Spiders eyes begin to crack open.

Gently, always gently - his hand is the size of his mates head, he strokes back the braids and curls that have fallen over his face.

He selfishly tries to lure the blonde back to sleep. He caresses the skin above the mask, stroking gently like he knows he likes after so many years together, and watches Spiders eyelashes flutter lazily.

Distantly, his ears swivel to pick up the sounds of the fisherman and cooks leaving the lazy warmth of their own homes to begin the day. Thankfully, and admittedly a bit smugly, he thanks Ewya for their marui's distance from the others.

Spiders shack needed more stable room than the majority of their structures could offer. As such, his marui was built a little ways back from the water in order to allow the couple the chance to share their home. The shack is only a handful of yards beside the marui with foliage tucking it into the treeline to remind him of his first home.

It is a bittersweet addition to be forced to keep the human they've known so long now separate, but they'll be damned if they don't reap the rewards.

"Ro?"

Internally, Rotxo sighs at the admittance that the day was unfortunately starting. Still, he can spare an hour before patrolling the nets and reef.

"Mornin', Nì’it fko."

Spider opens a judgmental eye and scoffs. Nevertheless, he burrows deeper into the larger mans warmth. A pale thigh wedges itself between his blue and soon he is on his back with the human splayed across his chest.

"The sun is just beginning to rise...we could spare an hour." He directs down a cheeky grin that only spreads at the matching one from his mate. "You read my mind."

He snickers softly and lays a hand on the others back. His fingers stretch from the humans mid back down to the base of his spine in a familiar sight. They have grown up together at this point but the realization still leads him with a bit of awe.

"Mmm...you're warm. Probably cause you stole my blanket."

Spider peers up with narrowed eyes and Rotxo knows the sort of day they'll have. "Na'vi don't even use blankets."

"Maybe we should. And your blanket shouldn't be big enough for me if you don't want me to use it." The blonde scoffs and lightly smacks his chest, right over the still-healing tattoo he earned a few weeks past. The na'vi winces.

"Its that big because my thief of a mate would take it even if it just covered his dick."

"So my dick is big?"

They stay still for a long moment before Rotxo cracks and lets out a loud laugh. Said blanket is pulled up and he wraps it around the man in his arms. "There. Now we both have the blanket."

Spider snorts and Rotxo thinks he'll sling another retort before the smaller man lays his head back down into the crook of his neck. With a quiet hum, he begins to trace the twirls of ink and the stripes of darker blue on his skin. "Tsireya is helping me make another one."

"Of course she is. I'm sure Lo'ak introduced her to them. They're fucking amazing."

Spider just laughs and closes his eyes. The sun is coming in fully now but they can steal a bit longer. He closes his eyes and nuzzles his head down into blonde braids.

"Oel ngati kameie. Nga yawne lu oer."

He can feel the other mans smile against his skin.

"Oel ngati kameie. Nga yawne lu oer."

______________________________________________________________

Translations:

Nì’it fko - Small one

Oel ngati kameie. Nga yawne lu oer. - I see you. I love you.

[heartofaskywalkerprincessleia]

Luke Found Out That Leia Was Adopted (Fanfic Part One)

(Contains spoilers for Episodes 4-6.) 

Mark Hamill has talked about how he made up stories about Luke that take place between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back to help him fill in the blanks about what his character was doing between those movies. With 3 years between ANH and ESB, it’s certainly a vast period of time in Luke’s life that is never seen. 

We know that Vadar was searching relentlessly for Luke, and from his conversation with the Emperor in ESB, it seems that he had been keeping his knowledge of his son’s existence a secret. (The audacity of Anakin to act ‘surprised’ at the Emperor saying that he has a son, when he has known for a long time!) 

But, as far as Han Solo, Luke, and Princess Leia? 

On a typical day, Han Solo probably followed Princess Leia around reminding her that he was leaving any day now, while trying unsuccessfully to flirt with her and getting roped into missions with the Rebels. 

Luke obviously rose through the Rebel ranks to become a Commander by ESB, achievements likely fueled by his skill as a pilot and his victory over the Empire in ANH. 

Leia began to form a friendship with Luke in spite of herself, as she was hesitant to form any lasting connections with anyone (evidenced by her reaction in the deleted ESB scene where she finds out that Luke is leaving). 

The only thing that we know for certain happened is that Luke found out that Leia was adopted. 

In ROTJ, before telling her that he is her brother, Luke begins by asking her what she remembers of her mother—her real mother. That shows that Luke and Leia have had this conversation before. 

I think that this story could be told in so many ways. So, here’s Part One of a short fan fiction story: 

“I’m going to be leaving soon, you know,” Han Solo said, stepping in front of the princess as she attempted to walk away from him, “One day, you’re just going to wake up, and…” he gestured with his hand. 

Princess Leia met his gaze, unfazed, “Then that’ll be the day that my dream comes true,” she said coldly. She pushed past him in the narrow corridor, and kept walking, leaving Han Solo to stare at the wall as Luke came around the corner. 

Han Solo looked after her for a moment, and then nodded in her direction. “I think she’s starting to like me,” he said. 

“Right,” Luke said doubtfully, smiling. “Listen, Han—“ he began, as Han Solo turned to leave, “I was hoping that you could give me some help.”

Han Solo walked back to him. “Sure. What is it?” he asked. 

Luke looked around the corner after the princess, and then whispered, “Wedge told me that this Saturday is Leia’s birthday—“

“Is it?” Han Solo asked, failing to sound disinterested. 

“I was wondering if you’d… uh…” Luke began hesitantly. 

Before he could finish, Han Solo placed both hands on Luke’s shoulders, and smiled. “Say no more,” he said, “I know what women like. I’ve charmed more girls in a parsec than you could in a lifetime. No offense,” he added quickly. 

“Non taken,” Luke said, looking offended, “Han, what I want is for you to be nice to Leia. And not just on Saturday.” 

Han Solo gave a look of exaggerated astonishment. “Me? Nice? Hey, I—“ he began. 

Luke gave him an incredulous look. 

Han Solo looked away for a moment, too furious to speak. “Look, kid,” he began, “I’ve done everything that she wants me to do. There’s a bounty on my head right now, and have I gone to pay it off yet? No. Because the Empire’s watching me. Why? Because I helped her to defeat their battle station. How else do you want me to be nice to her?” 

Luke looked away, ashamed. “I know, Han, I know,” he said. 

“Seriously,” Han Solo said, still annoyed, “If anything, she should be nice to me.” 

Luke sighed, and watched as Han Solo walked past him and began to leave. “Just,” he called after him, “just give her a little space, okay? It doesn’t have to be a parsec, either,” he added, after Han Solo had left. 

Luke remained standing in the hallway for a moment, looking after Han Solo. Then, he continued down the hall after Princess Leia. 

(Note: I know that the Han Solo movie apparently explained the parsec thing, but I added that in as a joke like the Mandalorian has done.)

[skylarstark4826]

They sun has only begun to rise when Rotxo stirs. The early amber light is beginning to filter into the marui he has called home for nearly 8 years now.

He stifles a yawn and stretches his shoulders back with a satisfying crack. He's careful not to stir the warm body tucked into his side.

Spider isn't supposed to spend the night often, the shack a little ways from their home being for him to sleep in at night in order to keep his mask off for a few hours at least. Rotxo knows it gets uncomfortable at time and has seen the seemingly permanent indents on his lovers skin where it presses in.

Still, Spider is nothing if not stubborn and is hard pressed to make leave when he's decided he's spending the night. For a brief moment, he ponders scooping up the other man and making him return to the building the humans so kindly crammed into the limited space of Metkayina beaches, but the thought filters away as quickly as it came when Spiders eyes begin to crack open.

Gently, always gently - his hand is the size of his mates head, he strokes back the braids and curls that have fallen over his face.

He selfishly tries to lure the blonde back to sleep. He caresses the skin above the mask, stroking gently like he knows he likes after so many years together, and watches Spiders eyelashes flutter lazily.

Distantly, his ears swivel to pick up the sounds of the fisherman and cooks leaving the lazy warmth of their own homes to begin the day. Thankfully, and admittedly a bit smugly, he thanks Ewya for their marui's distance from the others.

Spiders shack needed more stable room than the majority of their structures could offer. As such, his marui was built a little ways back from the water in order to allow the couple the chance to share their home. The shack is only a handful of yards beside the marui with foliage tucking it into the treeline to remind him of his first home.

It is a bittersweet addition to be forced to keep the human they've known so long now separate, but they'll be damned if they don't reap the rewards.

"Ro?"

Internally, Rotxo sighs at the admittance that the day was unfortunately starting. Still, he can spare an hour before patrolling the nets and reef.

"Mornin', Nì’it fko."

Spider opens a judgmental eye and scoffs. Nevertheless, he burrows deeper into the larger mans warmth. A pale thigh wedges itself between his blue and soon he is on his back with the human splayed across his chest.

"The sun is just beginning to rise...we could spare an hour." He directs down a cheeky grin that only spreads at the matching one from his mate. "You read my mind."

He snickers softly and lays a hand on the others back. His fingers stretch from the humans mid back down to the base of his spine in a familiar sight. They have grown up together at this point but the realization still leads him with a bit of awe.

"Mmm...you're warm. Probably cause you stole my blanket."

Spider peers up with narrowed eyes and Rotxo knows the sort of day they'll have. "Na'vi don't even use blankets."

"Maybe we should. And your blanket shouldn't be big enough for me if you don't want me to use it." The blonde scoffs and lightly smacks his chest, right over the still-healing tattoo he earned a few weeks past. The na'vi winces.

"Its that big because my thief of a mate would take it even if it just covered his dick."

"So my dick is big?"

They stay still for a long moment before Rotxo cracks and lets out a loud laugh. Said blanket is pulled up and he wraps it around the man in his arms. "There. Now we both have the blanket."

Spider snorts and Rotxo thinks he'll sling another retort before the smaller man lays his head back down into the crook of his neck. With a quiet hum, he begins to trace the twirls of ink and the stripes of darker blue on his skin. "Tsireya is helping me make another one."

"Of course she is. I'm sure Lo'ak introduced her to them. They're fucking amazing."

Spider just laughs and closes his eyes. The sun is coming in fully now but they can steal a bit longer. He closes his eyes and nuzzles his head down into blonde braids.

"Oel ngati kameie. Nga yawne lu oer."

He can feel the other mans smile against his skin.

"Oel ngati kameie. Nga yawne lu oer."

[trouticecream]

What Does It Mean To Be Strong?

What does it mean to be ‘strong’?

That’s the very first question that enters his mind as small clawed fingers (almost impatiently) tap an overly smooth white-greyish console with no apparent buttons, the only indication that anything is happening at all being the way small and circular bits of white light flare up and linger around the areas touched before vanishing.  His intention is to initialize a kind of extra-dimensional training space and into it, slot the very same training exercise he had done (up to a certain point) many times over prior to this moment.  Many iterations of moving through an ‘obstacle course’ of sorts whereby the ‘obstacles’ in question served as the difficult terrain itself and many blank-faced silvery enemies in humanoid shapes of various sizes which would attack him in a variety of ways as well.  Many iterations of ultimately falling short of the end point–due to an exceedingly low ceiling to his physical abilities–but perhaps today would be different.

The pocket space, previously a seemingly endless white, momentarily displays his input commands–in accordance with the control console wedged in the ‘middle’ of the endless nothingness–in plain black and enlarged in all directions before expanding out to engulf the area.  For a moment, it seems as though the endless blankness had merely been exchanged for eternal darkness until blocky and almost digital splotches of various colours appear, splattered in particular points before reforming into components which altogether form the environment whose trials he would undergo; a would-be ascent up a rocky mountain dotted with patches of grasses, flowers, and trees.  The small alien gently extends an arm out, hand outstretched and facing up, and within the span of a second, a silvery revolver-style gun appears in his hand in a flare of white light.  He had always had a high level of skill in hitting targets with a high degree of accuracy under challenging circumstances; observing, predicting, and calculating ways to optimize the chances of hitting even an erratic target within an unreliable environment… had always been a strength of his.  But, this exercise isn’t about that.

Gregory closes his hand around the weapon and shifts it into a position which best suits his needs.  Rather, this is all a matter of bolstering his ability to even use this skill at all, by developing complementary abilities to it.  Ones that do not rely on PSI.  Skills that he would continue to have when all else fails, especially now that he is in a position where he cannot indiscriminately rely on his PSI to pull him out of more challenging scenarios with a sufficient degree of confidence.  He stares straight ahead, dark blue voids narrowing in a focused and faintly determined way, and his posture tenses with anticipation as he runs a mental countdown until the exercise starts.

5… objectively-speaking, it is impossible for a Psion to change non-defensive characteristics like that.  Ordinarily, he would not entertain things like this because of that.  And yet, here he is anyways.  4… somehow, post-reassembly… something feels different about that which has always existed beyond the psionic energy which fills the otherwise empty exoskeleton that functions as his body.  3… the data which constitutes his very essence feels as though it’s experienced a fundamental shift in its mode of existence.  A multi-faceted sensation which seems to almost be reaffirmed by the fact that he has experienced a permanent physical change upon exiting that little space in-between lived reality and… not;  the short, almost stubby, horns growing out his head in a simple and upright design.  2… with his free hand, he reaches up to gently tap one, as if to run a cursory inspection that would somehow reveal more than what limited details he already knows about them.  Psions do not have horns in their design–nor do they have any use for them–but Ancient Ones did and though most data isn’t entirely clear about this, the horns had quite a bit of significance to them beyond mere cultural connotations.  The horns of Ancient Ones strongly correlated with the evolution and ascension of power; the very essence of power itself.  Another tap to the pointed protrusions.  1… In that light, perhaps his horns are more than just a mark.  Perhaps, today would be different; a repetitive mantra, but one that he needs on some level to avoid conceding prematurely.  After all, if there is something worthwhile to the pointy additions to his head, would it not be challenging by nature?

Training Exercise Start.  He starts moving ahead, as quickly as he can by foot, while silvery opponents blip into existence as if they had been there the entire time.

What does it mean to be ‘strong’...?

Expertly, he shifts his gun–efficiently and precisely—in an array of graceful motions punctuated with a shot right at each target (their heads and chests in this case).  No movement wasted.  No hesitation spared.  No mistakes made.  No matter how much they move, no matter how difficult it can be to follow the    variables thrown in a dizzying array, he will calculate a means to ensure that the targets get hit.  Just as he would have to under real-world scenarios that he would likely encounter on the path to becoming good… to maybe even becoming a hero, if it’s possible at all for someone like him.  One, two… five gone!  And he continues on down the path with great and rather practiced efficiency.  Rinse.  Repeat.  It’s quite easy at this stage early on.

A lot of different things; contingent on time, place, subjects involved, and the way that all of these intersect at any given temporal-spatial point.

Contextual details.

In that way, there are many ways to be ‘strong’, but whether or not it matters is an entirely different matter altogether.  It has a lot to do with, again, contextual details and due to the somewhat subjective nature of it, the perceptions of others and oneself.

But, he is only concerned with his own perception.  And in turn, whether or not he is ‘strong’ in a context set to the tune of ‘becoming good’ and ‘heroism’.  A perhaps broad goal, but one that is important to him all the same nonetheless.

A significant rise in the density of silvery targets as he obliterates the earliest (and easiest) stages of the exercise and shifts into a more median subset.  So many silvery blips that they could be part of the simulated area’s own ecosystem with the way that they dot the ragged and irregular mountainous terrain.  More complicated patterns of attack incoming.  A charge and swipe, its arm extending like water, aimed directly at his feet from one the silvery targets charging him, a few others flanking its sides for backup.  Picking up speed, whatever painfully average amount he has –especially for his stubby stature, the Psion throws himself out of the way and onto the ground, firing shots which manage to perfectly hit the critical points as he slides right past his attacker and downs the others with it.

Determination and willpower are something that he possesses.  But, good and heroism requires more than just spirit.  It also requires the power to manifest that determination and willpower into a series of tangible actions.

Does he have that particular kind of power?  Is he ‘strong’ in the way that he needs to be?  In a way that really matters here?

Dark blue voids flicker down to his arm as he pushes himself back up like a spring, without missing a beat, and continues on.  As scheduled.  Like every other time prior.  He would not expect any less of himself.  A silvery target appears right before him in a flash, but he’s almost as quick to shift his gun upwards and fire in a single motion; a shot to the head before utilizing the same weapon to smack the figure off to the side and push past.  He might not have been designed for very much–his most defining ‘trait’ among the Psion species being his status as a special experiment–but, he can at least do this much.  But for how long?  He abruptly moves to the side and behind a particularly large rocky formation as a series of attacks come from several directions, more silvery figures jutting out from various points in a way that simply-put, he’s too slow to weave around and attack with the proficiency from before.

Psion physiology has something to it.

Very little is needed to maintain the body and there is no need to breathe or sleep.  There are no specific weak points that can cause critical damage, if struck, like organs and arteries.  It is impervious to biological attacks to the effect of poisons, paralytics, and disease.  And it is incredibly durable; capable of surviving in exceedingly harsh environments with the ability to adapt to novel circumstances (if survived) which exceed the body’s innate ability to resist completely.

He peers out from behind his cover, the rocky formation battered slightly by the simultaneous attacks that just barely missed him, and sizes up the pattern of movements from the targets.  With every step forward and towards the endpoint… the targets or ‘obstacles’ get more complicated and difficult.  He had improved the way he makes use of what little physical ability he does have, so as to make the most of it, but eventually he hits that frustrating ceiling to his own immovable limitations.

In that way, it could be said that Psion physiology makes one strong, but only as far as durability is concerned.  Because he is a Psion, he has effectively been spared from many unpleasant experiences that befall many life-forms with more lively bioforms… but in other ways, it’s also limited him; a limiting form by design.

Pattern identified.  The Psion tightens his grip on the gun with thinly veiled anticipation as he closely observes his assailants.  Opportunity coming up… right now!  He takes a few shots, hitting each target right on point, before pulling himself to the top of that which had served as temporary cover and nailing the remainder.  He slides off immediately after, a soft thud to the ground indicating a successful landing, before going back on the move and into a sharper ascent.  A maneuver that he completes with some trepidation.  The point of failure is getting comfortably close.  Everything else has been routine thus far.  Everything else had gone exactly as it always had in the latest runs; hardly much of an achievement.  But now? he’ll be able to truly discern whether or not anything has changed in the way that it needs to for his goals.

And so, by design, he can never be strong.

He just isn’t that type of Psion.

Nonetheless, at first each wave of the silvery targets–strangely shimmery under the generated sunlight of the setting–is handled with the same ease and grace earlier on as a sort of unspoken testament to his skill with wielding such weapons and experience in how to handle such situations.  But, as anticipated, not only do the targets get more numerous but they get much faster and stronger with every step taken up the sharper ascent.  The lit-up endpoint–a bright blue circle levitating overhead at the very peak–is still so far away and he’s already hitting what feels like the cold and unrelenting ceiling of his subpar physical abilities.

He can only be durable and psionically-proficient.

And almost as soon as that conclusion is made… the situation rapidly jerks out of his control as the difficulty level continues to increase at a rather steep rate.  No hits on him yet, but he cannot do anything but dodge a complicated assortment of swipes, charges, kicks, and more.  He can do nothing, but bide his time and look for enough time between attempted strikes to return fire.  Time that is rapidly running out as more targets blip into existence and the distance between Gregory himself and the older variants quickly comes to a close.  Dodging ability that is rapidly becoming as obsolete as much of his psionic abilities as the speed of the still-unvanquished targets increases.

But, the significant lapse in control over his powers has virtually negated the latter and so, he can only be durable.

Only durable, but if his goals are to be met, then even that much isn’t enough.

Abruptly, the speed and complexity of the attacks towards him increases enough that, while he can follow movements at blinding speeds without an issue… he cannot react at quite the same speed and thus winds up getting his only weapon knocked cleanly out of his grasp.  The silver handgun goes sailing through the air in a graceful arc and off beyond the hordes of silvery and contorted humanoid shapes making their way towards him with renewed vigour, now that he’s been disarmed.  Disarmed with no hope of actually getting his weapon back.  Utilizing PSI would defeat the purpose of this exercise and even if it did not… he would never be able to pick up the gun like that anyways.  For better and for worse, its entire structure was designed to be completely impervious to PSI, courtesy of some ancient robot series remains he had uncovered during one of his many investigations into Ancient Ones-related matters.

And so, with no further recourse, he rather swiftly gets knocked to the ground by an especially violent swipe from the target closest to him, landing facedown with a rather hard thud.  He can’t feel physical pain very much, but if he were an organism with a full set of such capabilities, then it would definitely hurt a lot.  After all, a training exercise isn’t of much use if any elements of it take things ‘too easy’ when one fails.  He snaps his fingers and all at once, everything freezes as though time itself has stopped.

Punching bags are durable too, but punching bags cannot be heroes.  Only punching bags.  Only a virtually PSI-less Psion.

How useless is that?

A black symbol appears midair–an outline of diamond surrounded by a star at each point–as the infinite blankness wipes away the frozen settings.  The exercise has been halted.  It was very clearly over.  He could not recover his lost ‘footing’ the moment his weapon had been flung out his grasp.

How useless is a Psion without the very thing it was engineered to do?

But, the Psion himself doesn’t get up off the ground.  Rather he remains firmly planted on the ground, face-down, and with an unusual statue-like stillness and silence.  Nothing happens for the entire span of five minutes until the faintest of tremors pulses through the entirety of his diminutive body, the very tip of his rat-like tail sharply tapping the ground with agitation that could only be guessed at by the random passerby (if such a thing were possible at all in this particular extradimensional space).  Sharp teeth grind rather tensely against the chaos of the red-hot and petulant sensation at the very core of the shaking while sharp nails dig into the emptiness beneath him, as the collective weight–previously held at bay by ironclad self-control and level-headedness–of all his previous failures seems to hit him all at once.

An illogical reaction to a predictable result.

He knew that this would happen.  This was an experiment too and like any good scientist… he had noted all potential outcomes prior to initiating it.  All that was left to do now was to get up and go over the data collected.  To determine where he could feasibly improve and see if anything unusual had been caught, despite the lack of tangible results.  And yet, on the ground he remained, as though glued to it with a single thought sequence coming through clearly amidst the chaos of his own emotions.

Why?  Why… do things… never change in a good way?

Why does he always have to change in a bad way?

He defied the ‘story’ set out by fate itself.

How can he be unable to defy something so comparatively trivial?

Why can’t he be strong, in a way that matters, when he needs to be?

A few more minutes pass in relative silence, posture unchanged, before he curls both hands into fists as if to release the last of the especially nasty bits of tension before forcing himself back to his feet.  He’s still a bit emotional, but calmed enough to slowly start at pulling himself together.  It’s very unlike him to lose focus like this, but evidently he was more… –‘frustrated’ over this than he initially suspected.  Cue a deep inhalation and exhalation of air.  A temporary feeling, like mom would always say, during the worst and most overwhelming moments in time.

‘It will be okay.’

He wants to be effective, even if his limited PSI and supplementary technologies were to fail, but nothing is more ineffective than receiving a failure with anything but seeing its value as raw data.  Gregory slowly begins to walk towards the discarded weapon, now a short distance away from him.

Even the heroes of many stories he had heard a… very long time ago, technically, by now… suffer failures and setbacks like this.  Part of what makes them so heroic, after all, is not their raw strength but their willingness to persevere despite the overwhelming odds and darkness.

He reaches the weapon and bends over to pick it back up, firmly closing his hand around it as he does so, before using a sleeve on his free hand to dab away tiny pinpricks of wetness which had mysteriously accumulated at the corners of his eyes.

The ability to never give up.

To have hope, even when it is illogical.

Gregory himself won’t give up either.   If he keeps on failing, there must be something that he has overlooked in the previous data collected, and so his next course of action should be to reassess all data (including the latest set) accumulated thus far.  He moves to the control console in the center of the endless blankness and taps away at it.  To see if there’s something that could prove to be of utility to improving his base condition.  A beat and he vanishes in a flash from the extradimensional space.

[omgreally]

Stuck Din Djarin/F!Reader smut oneshot - E - 1k words Warnings: Claustrophobia warning, accidental? erections, gloved hand gagging, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v sex (unrecommended), a little bit of dom!Din, filthy unbetae’d smut inspired by the wonderful @actuallyprettylucky​

“Stop moving.”

The digitized rasp of the Mandalorian’s voice raises the hair on the back of your neck - and not just because he’s right behind you, pressed flush against your back, wedged in between you and the walls.

You’ve been tracking the mark for hours. The day bled into night and the city streets dipped into shadow in between the light columns. You followed the bounty into the dark, quiet backstreets, he turned a corner and you lost him in an apartment bloc.

“He’ll come out eventually,” you had agreed, and you were right; you just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. He stands in clear view as he lights the local equivalent of a cigarette; Din Djarin grabs you by the arm and yanks you back into the narrow space between two buildings.

Now you’re trapped, waiting for the bounty to go back inside. Din is pressed against your back, a hand braced on the wall next to your head to try to hold him away from you. It doesn’t work.

 The space you’re wedged into is too small; there’s barely room enough to turn your head.

“I’m not moving,” you hiss, but you can’t help it; it’s uncomfortable with the Mandalorian’s Beskar digging into you. You can feel the edges of his thighplates against the backs of your legs, the wedge of his breastplate pressed between your shoulders.

“Quiet,” Din hisses, grabbing your hip to still you as the bounty suddenly looks up. He peers towards the alley, and you hold your breath and freeze. 

Din’s gloved fingers are tight on your hip, just shy of bruising. You bite your lip, arching back against him in protest, trying to push him away. It only succeeds in pressing his back against the wall and his hips forward into yours.

You think you hear him mutter “Dank farrik,” but he doesn’t say anything else; he, too, has gone hunter-still, poised in wait for the prey to turn away. At last he does, drawing on his smoke; you feel the Mandalorian’s chest contract as he releases his breath, and you shiver.

“Do you think he saw us?” you whisper. Something about your current predicament has the adrenaline surging through your blood in an entirely different way than usual. You feel your stomach dip as Din leans closer to murmur in your ear, and all the tiny hairs on the back of your neck, your arms stands on end.

“I don’t know. But you better shut up if you don’t want him to hear us.”

“We better be quiet, then,” you say, your voice turned honey-warm, and you feel Din stiffen behind you. 

Yes. 

You have him - you know it - you’ve always known it, long before that first, frantic time in the cockpit of the Crest.

He groans a Mando’a curse under his breath and the leather of his glove creaks with the strain as his fingers flex on your hip. “And quick,” he says, and true to his words, his hands are swift as they reach around to lift up your tunic and tug down the waistband of your pants.

 “Din,” you sigh as you hear the rasp of a fastener lowering, and there’s  only a moment’s pause before you feel the impossibly hot, solid weight of his dick nestling in between the V made by your naked thighs. 

His freed hand closes over your mouth, the leather worn soft by use wrapped around a blaster. Your moan is muffled as the tip of his cock nudges at your entrance with pinpoint precision. 

He’s got good aim, your Mandalorian.

Your eyes drift from the target across the street, the lids slipping closed as Din takes that moment to slowly feed his cock into you. You’re grateful for his muffling hand to swallow an embarrassing noise of pure bliss, the aching stretch always a little painful at first but in a fucking good way. 

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath, echoing your thoughts and defying his own command. He’s panting by the time his hips are flush with your ass, buried his full length in the clench of your cunt. “This is a bad idea.”

“Mmm mm,” you mumble, in place of shut up; he seems to garner your meaning easy enough and punishes you with a short, sharp snap of his hips that shoves you tits-first up against the wall and makes you squeak. Then he does it again, and again.

He’s so deep it’s impacting against something devastating every time he drills into you, and your voice is lost. Din fucks you like he’s on a mission - single-minded, determined, powerful, and he overwhelms you quick.

You forget about the bounty, about the fact you’re outside, in an alley, everything. All that matters is the gunshot-sharp, searing slide of his cock, and the heat growing in you from your pussy to your toes that suddenly reaches an undeniable peak.

Din grunts as you exclaim a warning lost to the palm of his glove. Then you bite down on the leather to muffle your scream as your orgasm thunders through you.

Your legs shake beneath you, your pussy spasming in clutching waves around the throbbing intrusion of Din’s cock. He slows, dragging it through the fluttering grip of your insides, and that’s how you know he’s close; he holds himself deep until you can feel the nudge of the head against your cervix, and the flood of warmth and the throbbing of his dick inside you as he comes.

You think he must have muted his vocabulator, for it’s a moment before you hear the rush of his panting breath once more. His fingers relax and you slump in his grip, grateful now for the wall holding you up. 

Your entire body tingles, from your scalp to the soles of your feet, and you want nothing more than to collapse in your Mandalorian’s arms and sleep for a day, but when you open your eyes you realize the mark is gone.

“Shit. We lost him!” you exclaim, and you try to wriggle free of Din’s grip - but he pulls you back against him suddenly, and you swallow a gasp as his cock starts to harden again within you.

“I don’t fucking care,” he growls. “Now stop moving and let me fuck you again.”

You grin. And you do. 

[punk-in-docs]

🎃Trick? or Treat?🎃

Summary: Eddie’s friends don’t actually believe you’re really dating him, and they require some proof. Cause no way has the freak scored a girl like you- 3k- a dirty funky little drabble really…

Reader is related to my Eddie Series. Come take a look-

“There is no way. There’s just no way.” Dustin piped up. Dismissing it with a shake of his curly head.

“Agreed.” Mike pitched in, solidly. “I don’t buy it.”

They’re talking to each other like you aren’t even there.

“It’s gotta be a set up.” Comes Gareth’s opinion. Nodding as he points his fork at Mike. A wedge of yellow fruit speared on the end.

“A bet right?” Says Jeff. Crossing his arms and eyeing you up, like he’s waiting for the punchline.

You were currently sat at the Hellfire table, so dubbed the freaks’ spot by the jocks, in the canteen.

It was Fall. Inside there were paper streamers looped about the walls in twisting orange and black. Cardboard cut-out Jack-o-lanterns and skulls sneer from the walls.

Outside was a mucky amalgamation of Indiana Fall. Bone chilling rain and sticky brown-gold leaves, that had come off the trees days earlier. The huge windows in here misty muggy and smeared condensation with rain knifing down the glass the other side. The sky is dark grey, all bruised, and heaving with chowder thick clouds.

Droopy paper halloween decorations are tacked everywhere in this space that smells like stale pepperoni pizza. Hand made felt tip posters are tacked up on every surface for the ‘Fright Night’ party happening in the gym.

Now you were looking down the table at five very concerned faces. All of whom were waiting for you to spill the truth.

Quite frankly, they’re all looking at you like you’re Judas Iscariot at a disciples reunion.

Your eyes darted around from person to person.

They don’t believe you exist. They can’t believe it.

They cannot buy that you’re dating the curly haired scarecrow that is their metal headed Hellfire Leader. Your Eddie.

Who at this moment had dashed out in the rain to the parking lot with his black hoodie yanked over his wild hair, cause he left his lighter in his van.

And cause you’d left your chapstick in there in the glove compartment. And well, he did offer to retrieve it for you. Such a Prince.

“What part of are you guys having trouble understanding?” You ask as you reach in your bag for your book, and your brown paper bag of home made lunch. Chicken salad sandwich and a bag of chips. Extra large portions. You knew who would be stealing half your lunch.

Your chunky blue sweater slides off one shoulder. Revealing a lilac bra strap and a definite indication of a grape-purple hickie nestled in the crook your neck. The mystery continues.

“It’s gotta be fake. You’re like, dating a jock or something, aren’t you?” Jeff narrows his eyes at you like you’re a suspect.

Your gaze is packed in snow. Something razor cold skimmed off the Arctic Ocean.

“I take offence at that, dweeb.” You lob your eraser at his head.

That move is eerily similar to… someone else.

You hold your hand out, palm up to him, with a thundering frown. He throws your pink eraser back.

“But you’re-“ Mike starts. Then his tongue stunts itself.

You pause. Brows shooting up your head.

“I’m what, Wheeler?” Your tone invites him to think very carefully about his next words.

“You’re a girl.” He splutters.

“Hey. Only on the outside, kid.” You wink and click your tongue at him. Grinning. Widening your eyes. You learnt that from someone else too. The Kubrick stare.

“No- you’re, like. You’re a girl, girl. Like, you’re popular and. Normal? You get good grades. You’re friends with Jonny Lopez’ girlfriend. You’re going to like, a big league college.”

“I wouldn’t say popular. And we’re not entirely like friends. She just sort of bitches at me, and I occasionally give her a ride to school.” You shrug honestly.

“And hey excuse me, I’m not normal.” You point out. “I was reliably told this was the table that celebrates being ‘not normal’ anyhow.” you curl your fingers with air quotes.

They shrink down a little with that point. “Well yeah- actually.” and a chorus of shuffles, awkward coughs, and agreeing grunts comes your way.

“Good. Cause if I wanted to be ordinary I’d go sit at that table over there.” You nudge your head across the way where Jonny and Linda are sitting.

He’s telling some stupid macho story about a keg party to his fellow guffawing gorillas. She was busy chewing gum, not listening and painting her nails slutty cherry red.

“Did he pay you to do this?” Dustin asks. “Like $20 bucks if you come sit over here and prank the nerds.”

You slowly crunch a chip on your tongue and shoot him a spiky look. “Careful, Henderson.”

“Who paid who, to what, to the nerds?” Bursts a new voice into the conversation.

Quite possibly your favourite voice ever.

Eddie thumps himself down on his throne at the end of the table. Nudges his chair right up close to yours.

He’s flicking rain drips off his hoodie, some beaded down his leather arms. Some still clung to his big dark doe lashes and his messy bangs now growing wonkily down into his eyes. You’d seen him loping into the trailer bathroom the other day with a cigarette on the go, and a pair of scissors to just whack at those bangs. Messy as fuck.

A few rolling rain drips are still skating down his forehead. Soggy black sleeves nudge your chapstick into your palm on the table. He shakes off the rain like a wet dog.

Eddie drops a kiss on your head. A soft “Mwah” before he takes his seat. His hair hanging on your nose smelling like your dreamy coconut conditioner, because he’d spent the night at yours last night.

Neither of you got much sleep, naturally. You were sore in places you didn’t know could be sore. That boy was a sexual menace.

“Dude. We were just talking about your not girlfriend here.” Gareth pointed out. Jeff was deciding to take a cowardly out and hide behind a comic book.

Eddie tilts his head at the guy. Winding his cold knuckles through yours. Right there on the table top. Skin chilled from the rain.

“Is that a challenge in that sentence I’m hearing?” He asks with a stormy edge to his expression.

Eddies gaze could be lethal if he willed it to be. Shredding metal he could cut you on. These geeks rarely wanted to be in the ireful wrath of their leader’s disapproval.

“There’s no way you’re dating! It’s a hoax!” Dustin exclaims, loud. Laying his hands on the table in emphasis. Almost rising out his seat.

Eddie flicks those dark eyes to his curly haired companion.

“Alright punk. What about this are you struggling to get through your little head?” He barks out.

“How about, I don’t know, all of it. The fact she’s sat eating here. The fact you’re supposedly dating…” Sinclair lays out.

“Stop putting adverbs and negatives before the word dating.” You scowl at them.

Eddie chuckles, sneers and slings an arm around your shoulders. Looping you right close to him. You’re munching your lunch and smiling as he brings you in closer.

“Is it cause I’m so hot and so so way out of her little arty girl indie state league? I know. Poor baby girl, she can’t help that.” He coos.

You twist your head and his smirk is right there. Would be a shame not to kiss it. You lean in and peck him on the mouth sweetly.

When you pull away the pair of you take great delight in the shock still on their faces.

Eddie nuzzles his nose into your neck to make you squirm. Then he sits there with his chin on your shoulder. Opening his mouth like a little baby bird when he wants you to feed him chips. You do and he bites and sucks on the salty ends of your fingers.

“Seriously Henderson, You couldn’t shell out the amount of money required to fake constantly wrangling this one’s humungous ego.” You pat Eddie’s cheek three times.

“Not the only humungous thing she has to wrangle.” Eddie leers. Does that curling devil tongue at you. Tries to shove his tongue in your ear. You laugh and bat him away.

“No. No. Gross.” Says Mike. Shaking his shaggy head.

“….Plus serious compensation would be required for anyone to sleep in his flea pit of a bedroom.” You tell. Eyes turned down towards your book.

Eddie reached over you with his free hand and pawed at your chip packet for more. Scooped up your sandwich and stole a bite. Extra crispy bacon. Lettuce, Chicken mayo and that spicy mustard he likes- oh he was in love.

“Hey, I tidied it up for you, pencils. I put clean sheets on the bed. Made sure you could see the floor.” He spoke through chewing. Cheeks full. Sucking a glob of mustard off his thumb.

And yet, they’re all sat there looking at you like you’re selling bullshit.

“Alright you little assholes.” You clap and dust your hands off. Some of them actually jump back. Flinching.

Eddies staring at you with literal red bursting heart eyes watching you get irate with his table full of nerds.

You’re sat here all puppy love bundled up with him. Cupid arrow pink kinda gooey love, enshrined with little hearts squished above the i’s. Surrounded by pink ribbons and fucking bluebirds. Mushy love like a damn Carpenter’s song, and you’re so fused together at the hip bones. Like it actually hurts to break apart.

They’re still not buying it.

“What will it take to convince you, that we, are a real thing?” You nudge your thumb at you and Eddie.

They eye you shrewdly. Mike is the first soldier over the top the face the clattering guns.

“What’s his favourite band?” He fires out. Twisting towards you. All elbows and angles and those Wheeler nuclear-family enviable cheekbones.

“Bandsss plural.” You correct. “Metallica, Black Sabbath, Megadeath, Iron Maiden, W.A.S.P, Judas Priest, and Van Halen...”

“Don’t you dare do it.” Eddie warns to that naughty gleam in your eye. “They’ll never look at me the same.”

The guys lean in all interested.

“… And Dolly Parton. Especially Jolene.” They descend into laughing uproar. Eddie throws chips at Sinclair who was cackling.

They were never to know you two hollered along to that at the top of your lungs, on the drive to school in the summertime. Windows open. Hair flying. Shades on. Soupy sunshine and enjoying another cloying Indiana July.

That was the month you’d met this gorgeous creature. Watching fireflies come out laying in the long cool grass at the trailer park, sharing a joint. You in a gossamer sundress the colour of blushing peonies. It was like a way too good fever dream. Hazy days and deep purple sticky summer midnights.

“Favourite food?” Comes the next.

“His favourite meal is a chilli dog, with jalapeño loaded dirty fries with everything, and I mean everything, on it, and one of those strawberry mega monster shake things you get at the diner over on Admiral. He also loves sour candy, like a ridiculous amount. Sour patch kids, nerds, jolly ranchers.”

Eddie who was eating next to you frowned through chewing your sandwich down. The whole thing was nearly gone. Your half was looking pretty tasty too.

“I also know he doesn’t really have a great sense of a varied diet. He won’t eat for hours and then he’ll scarf it down in five seconds like a seagull. Case in point-“ Wave your hand across at him. Like you were presenting him.

“Hey-“ He mumbled. Mouth stuffed with almost all your sandwich.

“All in all, Bottomless void when it comes to food. Runs almost entirely on nicotine and caffeine. Or gas station beef jerky, and out of date mini powdered doughnuts.” You finish.

“Celebrity crush?” Dustin points a finger at you.

“Eartha Kitt. In her skin tight Catwoman costume.” You smile sultrily. “Next?”

“Damn.” Jeff laughed.

“Favourite subject?”

Oh you scoff.

“DND. Obviously. He hates science and math. But he’s actually shockingly good at English. He’s a reader. Reads more comics and fantasy books, than anyone I know. If you can’t find him, guaranteed he’s in the fantasy section.”

“Wow dude, really?” Gareth asks.

Eddie actually blushed.

“It’s actually pretty cute. You know Mrs Coulter, the elderly librarian? Yeah. They exchange Xmas cards. She properly dotes on him. Adorable. Calls him Edward.” You chuckle.

“No way-“ Dustin grins. Giggling. “Edward.” He preens. Cheeks all squidgy with his smile.

Eddie flicks a gaze over at you. It’s almost edgy, but he’s smiling. He’ll remember that- for later on.

“Henderson, I will jam that fork in your eye.”

You overlap the violence and pat the back of your boyfriends hand. Nudge your lunch towards him as a consolation prize.

“He’s just terrible at being forced to read and write stuff. Nonconformer in him really rails against being told what to do.” You lay out nodding.

Cause that was kinda a given where he’s concerned.

“Oh, oh, I know. Favourite movie…” Jeff clicks his fingers at you.

“Friday 13th. The Goonies when he’s stoned out his crazy brain.” You pat Eddie’s head affectionately as you speak.

“Ok those are fairly standard. How about a random trivia round?…” Dustin decides very loudly. Slamming his fist down on the table top. Almost knocking over Mikes can of tab. Jesus Dustin. Watch it man-

You roll your eyes and think. You also shut your book cause you know you won’t be cramming for your English test with the current inquisition going on.

“What does Eddie hate… what are some of his dislikes.”

“Jocks. Uh, He uhm, hates mushrooms on his pizza. Picks the pickles out his burger. He prefers winter to summer. Cuts all the scratchy labels out his clothes cause they annoy the hell out of him. Gets hay fever pretty bad. He thinks playing or watching sports is dull as shit. He can’t stand CCR, or mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

“I’m sorry but no ice cream should taste like toothpaste. It’s sick.” Eddie whines.

“He has little scars on his back that he likes to claim are scratches from sex.” You begin.

“Yeah he’s showed those us a lot. It’s sickening.

“Okay, wait til I tell you that he actually got them from falling ass first into my moms rose bush when he was sneaking in through my bedroom window one night.”

“I brought you chicken noodle soup when you were on the very verge of death. Pencils.” Eddie defends.

You turn and catch his pouty little eyes as he leans into you.

“He thinks I don’t know that he sometimes feeds the trailer park strays. Leaves out a can of tuna and bowls of water for them. Has given most of them metal names.”

Holy shit. Eddie makes this face at you like he’s in awe of all the little things you’d grasped about him. Made his stomach feel all slippy and gooey. Yeah. This is definitely love, kid.

“Awhh.”

Eddie snaps his eyes across to his friend who dares make that noise. He picked up the fork closest to him. Shooting feral eyes.

“Oh, He’s named his van.”

“Pencils.” He warns.

“Shut up.” Mike counters. “What is it?”

“Galadriel.” You chirp all sunny.

Dustin looks so happy.

“You’re single handedly ruining my reputation here, honey.”

You lean in and smack a kiss on the end of his nose.

“You have a sex rep I don’t know about, Munson?” You raise one brow. Up in his face about it. That jumper sliding down a silky skinned shoulder he wants to nose at. Call a spade a spade. He wants to bite it. Soothe the bite with his tongue and hear you coo oh, Eddie.

“Not in front of the halflings, Baby. They’re fresh faced and innocent right out the shire.” He dotes at you.

“Hey we’ve seen some shit.” One of them defends

“Not talking about a DND campaign you little pipsqueak.” Eddie smirks.

His hand is sliding around the waistband of your hip. Scooping around your back and pulling you to him. Clutching at his leathered shoulders and your thighs guided sideways over his lap. He snatched you right out your seat.

“Children avert your gaze. Some very 18+ activities are about to happen here.” Eddie warns them as his hands smooth up your jumper. Over your hips and back. He growls when he gets his ring clad fingers clutching your ass through your jeans.

“Ok, I really didn’t need to see that.”

“Buckle up, Pencils.” He whispers into your ear and brushed his tongue over your pulse.

“I’m going for public indecency to prove a point to these assholes.”

Then he seals his lips across yours and pushes his tongue into your mouth, as with any wild Eddie kiss, you melt. You feel his jaw open.

Your spine uncurls and slopes down your body like jello. It’s a movie star kiss that demanded Dolby technicolour and surround sound. A swooning kiss off the silver screen that could curl toes, and bloom whole fields of daisies.

You grasp his hair and reel him in. Kiss him back all spitty and wet to prove a point, and you’re not shy about shoving your tongue in his mouth. He moans.

You scratch his scalp. He sucks your bottom lip like you’re a delicacy. It’s way too much. So filthy. Fucking beautiful is what it is.

Then you feel his wicked, wicked hand pinging dangerously at your bra clasp. Snapping it to your skin. He bites his lip when he pulls back and shoots you those sultry black bedroom eyes.

“This is the one I hate getting off isn’t it? The goddamned purple one.” He says all lusty as he rubs the tip of his nose into yours. Your cheeks are so hot. Blood lava hot pushing in your face.

“You’re a trooper. Munson. You’ll figure it out.” You tell him with a teasing voice that you can feel makes his dick throb under your thighs.

“Can’t wait to get in those panties, later.”

“I’ve got art class after school. Come by around eight. Moms out tonight.” You flirt. Which means takeout, and suffocating, hands wandering, kisses, til you can’t remember which way is up or down. And so much Eddie. It feels like you’ll burst with love of him.

His lips taste like sugary tab and, now, your chapstick. Ash swirls on his breath from his last smoke. He’ll be itching for another one soon. Maybe you’ll sneak away and join him. Make out for the remainder of lunch time.

“Good. I really love it when you can scream loud when I bury my face in your pus-“ You clap your hand over his mouth.

“They don’t need chapter and verse. Baby.”

Eddie responds by licking a big hot stripe up your palm.

“You know, guys, maybe they’re not faking it.”

“Please, people are trying to eat here!”

“I’m definitely gonna barf.”

~

[lazywriters-blog]

UNHAPPY BULLY

SERIES PART 14-15

Warning: It May contain triggering content, kidnapping, violence, and non-consensual touching, some scenes might be too troubling to the viewers so take caution.

Summary: Being trapped inside a car with your kidnapper and bully isn't exactly a pleasant combination.

Word count: 7.4k

The next part might be the last instalment of this series, I feel like this whole series should be a trigger warning. Errors might be present, please don't mind them, enjoy!

The trunk lid slammed.

The luggage she had packed with her to bring along, now wedged in the rear compartment, with no other way to retrieve without the key, she had nothing on her, except her phone, the car door he willfully prone agape, with her on the front seat, tempting her to take the bait, but even if she attempted, with her ankles tied and tight, she would fall short.

Her hands weren't linked together, thankfully, just in case, someone with authority caught the heinous ploy in action. His method of avoiding unneeded issues.

Her head slouched on the backrest, eyes drowsy but remained wide-open. Crickets chirped, the soft smell of the night providing some ounce of normality, and intimacy, she heard the door collide, the noise now contained, and distant. He settled in the driver's seat, locking the entrance, he side-glanced, expression firm and sombre. The car engine roared, her heart plummets, nauseous, remotely feeling like this might be the last time she would be close to her home.

The drugs were wearing off. She noted.

Katsuki focused on the road, the streets quiet, taking a route where not many vehicles drove past, perhaps, the dose he mixed with the water wasn't as potent as he had thought, or he was testing her loyalty. To be sure of her choice-making and be cognizant of what her silence meant. In other words, he was trying to learn her stubborn habits.

Her stiff posture slackened. Respiring deeply, slightly darting her gaze to the male, watching his vermilion pupils dilated, calloused rough hands controlling the stirring wheel, he briefly glanced at her, suddenly placing one of his hands on her thigh, his veins on display, tightly gripping her clothed skin, he smirked, gently nipping his lips.

He commented, "I still remember our first kiss, you were such a coward even back then."

Her face slightly inclines forward, shunning her despondent eyes to the right, her chest heaving up and down, he continued, "Then, you blocked me." he spitefully muttered, the cramped layout of the car seems more suffocating, more restrained, and foreign, the tension tangible. She casts her gaze to the darker region of her little space, sensing the poorly-hidden antipathy radiating from his sullen narrowed eyes.

"Changed everything I knew about you, to push me away."

Her hands slightly trembled, with no gap between her fingers, and clasped her lips tighter, swinging her arm across her body and gripping the other arm, intensely focused on her breathing. Tears were mere seconds away from spilling.

"How did that end up for you? Running away, ignoring me when I texted, refusing my calls, and then, deleting your number. Sure ended well for ya." he spouts, broadening his angry smile, prevaricating the situation into his perception, strong-headed enough to defiant an inculcating belief. Much less listen to the anxious female beside him.

"Now that we've reunited, don't you think it's appropriate to be welcoming towards me? No? Or has your mind grown weak?" she bents her head lower, slouching her shoulders, eyes peeled, adsorbing in most of the negativity, growing queasy by the minute, he looked at her, incapable of withdrawing into her cracked shell. It dawned on her that, she was truly alone with him, trapped, and nobody might help her. She held her breath.

"Can't even talk to me. Real mature, loser," he grumbled, scorning.

She didn't please him with a reaction, drinking in his vile words without question. It's been years since she contemplated her waking the next day, dreading and hesitating, it's all coming back at once, uncomprehendingly overwhelming, blowing up in her face.

He carried on driving, peering at her from time to time. Watching her with vehemence, promising her if she does anything kindred to an escape, he'd chase her down with as much desperation she possesses, like a taciturn predator monopolizing its prey.

"Place your hands where I can see," he demanded.

She wordlessly obliged, after having seen him activate the child-lock system, the doors won't open from the inside, unless it's made inactive, she's stuck in a corner, just fearfully discerning her worst nightmare closing in on her frame.

"Have you... ever had a dream, where you can't seem to forget the past..." she gently uttered, speaking without any truculence for the first time, immediately, his attention is directed at her, her glimmering tears slowly overflowing from her eyes, "because, I can't just shut out the words you used to mock me. Every day, it haunts me. I..." Her under-toned voice ruptured, forcing out the remainder of her speech.

"I need to forget them..."

Her voice quavered, a lump forming in her throat, lowering her shoulders and curving within her herself, hazy sight trained upon her black jeans, stained white, then pledged, "Please let's just go back, we can fix this. It isn't too late yet..."

His ruby eyes hardened, blown open, his body expressing the turmoil he was undergoing, his knuckle turning white as his fingers pressed onto the stirring wheel harder, nostrils flared, driving with her on mind, his exhale audibly, and his fist encasing her supple skin subjected to a harsh grasp, at this point, she could see his visible veins, even clearer.

He said nought in response.

Staring at the monotonous highway, soulless, dreary, and ghostly. She softly weeps, her statement gone ignored and invalidated, she couldn't barter his motivations when he's dead-set on having it done, accomplished, and achieved. Like bringing home a trophy for a job well-done, for bringing victory.

"Please stop the car." She went on.

"Stop... Please stop," she begged, it prompted him blind to anger.

"SHUT UP!!!" He yelled at top of his lungs, expression painted with rage and resentment, dissuading all his thoughts, and, for a split second, he snapped. Her body quickly recoiled to curve towards the car door, face away from him and hiding her chest and thumping heart, fearing he might raise his hand and hit her as he had four years prior.

He continued steering the wheel, befuddled, his hand that was in contact with her skin, itching for her presence, but to no avail, she had pushed herself away, he grew restless. Irritated, he speeds up the vehicle, the air around them unquiet and disturbed by his sudden outburst, the girl opposed to opening her mouth, mindlessly observing the outsides, the adrenaline fading but her worries heaped up.

Within a minute or two, a bright lilted store came within view, the quietude only multiplied upon slowing at the stop, she heard him pull the lever, the jingling of the keys, and the hush breeze flooding in. He loudly slammed the door, startled her, quickly locked the car, and stridden towards the shop, leaving her unwatched. Alone.

She hastily pulled out her phone, thinking how he hadn't noticed it by now or was this another one of his plans for an excuse for punishment, she didn't care, with trembling hands tapping in her password and to her contacts, glancing up to see him parking at the counter, her legs shook in fear, frantically tapping one of the numbers, Izuku's mobile number.

It rang, and it rang.

He didn't pick up.

Katsuki had paid the sum of money and on the way towards her, she attempted to steady her shaking hands, but it wouldn't. Swiftly dialling in 911. Her heart was in her throat. She could hear it in her ears.

He saw her, frighteningly gazing in his path, he instantly knew she had done something.

He walked to her side, the sound of the car unlocking surprising her, and the door unbolting leaving her exposed, her phone still clutched in her hands.

"911 what's your emergency?"

The call connected, and he clearly heard it. Quickly muffling her voice with his bigger hands, pushing her in, he grips her wrist, dragging the phone away, face to face with her wide eyes. Voicelessly communicating her to zip her mouth, she wasn't going to, she screamed as hard as she could in his palms, he densely clenched her face, feeling her cheekbone against the tips of his rough fingers. He jerked her phone further away from her.

"Hello? What's your emergency?" The woman's voice asked again.

Forcing the blood to clout, she sensed her fingers loosening the hold on the device, her head was hurting, and it wasn't getting better, she squirmed, trying to shake him off with all her might, restlessly kicking him, but who was she kidding? He merely suppressed her squabbles.

She was experiencing dull pain stemming from her wrist, and Katsuki had his hands full.

"Hello? Please say something."

Eventually, her grip waned, and he snatched it, shutting the door into her face, and throwing the gadget to the ground as badly as he had endured her obstruction.

Then, rapidly began plodding on it, crushing the chucks under the base of his boots, the glass shattering into tiny pieces, unrecognizable. Exhuming all his anger on the fragile object, she was there to witness through it all, appalled.

If only she had the key to her bounds.

She didn't look at him, closing the door as he stepped in, bitterness making him unaware of what he just committed.

The engine rumbled, and then the car drove off. The shopkeeper watched the scene, daring not to intrude. He only glanced when the young man lob something on the ground, then proceeded to step on it.

Something about it unnerved him.



The both of them didn't utter a word to one another, the atmosphere in the car was unsettling, something kept off to contrive and rot, creating more hardships that could take years to untangle.

The incisive event that just came to pass smothering the girl, in a sense of foreboding, shedding a few tears, her shoulders would shake, every so often, mustering the courage to look at the infuriated male, driving them 'home'.

For certain, she could say, he was unhappy.

Nervously switching positions poised a pained low hiss to fill In the equanimity, and it attracted his uninterrupted focus on her for a split second, she feebly quaffed the discomfort, drawing in a deeper breath, and further leaned back into the seat. Posing her head towards the window, her arm swung across her stomach, observing the dingy road extend and disappear behind them.

It would have been tranquil.

But it wasn't.

Her heart was still racing, albeit less rapidly, the beats were steady and profound, knowing most of her uneasy fears by heart, and more aware of it when he is around, a frail trial to preoccupy her brain. So, she doesn't scare herself to death.

What hurts most? The fact that she failed, or her aching body, her face that still senses his hand gripping it, even after it no longer was present, her eyes that prickle, persisting insights with far less than 24 hours of rest.

The adrenaline was dwindling and exhaustion was balancing in, making it a difficult stint to remain vigilant.

She whimpered, all the agonies her body had overlooked in favour of surviving making themselves known.

They halted at a serene location, which she least anticipated. Katsuki got out, closed the door, and unhooked the trunk to acquit her bags, while she stayed inside the vehicle, heeding the pitches of crickets, the wind, his footsteps distancing from the car, slowly, she freed the space provided in the front to place commodities, to her surprise, finding it empty.

She couldn't carry on her search as he had shortly returned, wearing the most vexed expression she's seen, he unfasten her side, the breeze gently touched her skin, he sternly mouthed.

"Put your legs out."

Her breath hitched, nonetheless, without question, pushed herself onward, her body faced towards him, he dived in and heaved her up, she reflectively grabbed his neck upon the sudden movement, stressing she might fall. She only bemoaned it later.

He seemed slightly appeased, darkly cackling, the glum in his eyes withering, the unhealthy thought crossing his mind. She needs him, he entertained that belief.

He entered the house with her in his arms, shutting the door with his shoe, a low airy tone ringing shortly, the place reeked of fresh paint, an intense smell of coffee, and then the cologne she breathed in while he carried her near, she didn't reckon he would fancy such a locale. However, it oddly suited him.

Her eyes trained on the entrance, pondering what password it would need to unbolt, he glared, accurately assuming what she was thinking, walking to the common room, and he let her down to sit on the couch.

He hates to admit, that he's grown soft.

She didn't meet his eyes.

"When did you eat?" He coldly implored, looking down at her, she hampered her response, quietly glancing around the place, looking for something, he could guess what it was.

"Uh, the night you came knocking at my door." She replied. How was she supposed to consume anything when she couldn't, she was worried, alone, and her peace was stolen.

He illustrated the subtlest hint of shock in his eyes, she didn't see it behind his fierce facade.

If he left her unsupervised, she might as well just succumb to death. "Who told you to starve?" He firmly chastised her, she doesn't speak her thoughts, solely avoiding eye contact. He didn't like that.

"When I'm talking, you look at me. Loopy." He commanded, close to her face. Hiding her view of the house, she curled within her skin, gazing into his scarlet red pupils.

"Okay..." She muttered.

She's weak to sheer pressure when it comes to him, it's a whole different case of emotions, feelings, and terror.

He has hit her in the past, she vividly recalls it even after these few years, it's affected her. On a personal level.

"Good." He grinned. It intimidated her.

This wasn't how she remembered his tactics or behaviour, he's certainly changed as izuku mentioned, but not his temper.

Old habits die hard.

If izuku has seen the call, he was long too late to receive it and save her.

Within the next hour, she kept eyeing the windows, anything she could use as an escape route, Katsuki was busy in the kitchen, he got to work as soon as he tied her hands, and grimly ordered her not to move or misbehave, even if she did, how long before she trips and plunges to the ground.

He would turn around, with a suspecting gaze even when she sneezed, he was hypersensitive to any noise.

It would make running off at night tougher than it ought to be, she didn't notice him when he sat down with a steaming hot plate of noodles, she made a face but instantly diffused it when he tauntingly frowned.

Thanks to the ordeal back at her home, she didn't refuse it when he feeds her, hesitating to chew it down, he felt content, gratified that she needed him now, that she was helpless without him.

She needed him more than he ever did.

"Chew it faster! You've kept it in your mouth for long enough." He criticized, shoving the spoon to her lips, the casual attire he changed into was so odd to her.

She shook her head, saying, "I can't."

"You haven't even finished the entire plate!!" He loudly replied, "I'm not letting you sleep until you finish your meal."

"I can't eat anymore..." She cried, just on the verge of letting the tears outpour, if he kept forcing food into her mouth even when she was full, she would throw up.

"Don't be such a crybaby." He growled.

"I really can't..." She begged. That ticked him off, he furiously got up, careened to the kitchen, and plonked the dish down harder than necessary, the water gushing from the faucet, while she practically repented her choice. Being the non-confrontational person that she is, perhaps, she disliked edging others towards anger.

She bows her head, staring at the one glass piece set on the delicate table, briefly peeking at the male's back. His frustrated body language was maintained.

Katsuki was only trying to care for her, but she kept distancing herself even at the smallest of inconvenience. He loathes that about her. The drugs should kick in, eventually.

With wet hands, water cascading from his hardened skin, he made his way towards her figure, surly tone barking out an order, "Get your ass up." he said, she looked up at him, slightly raising her voice to demur.

"Why?" she timidly abjured, involuntarily shrivelling into herself. Restive to abide with his spoken words, treating it like if a threat, as if he was going to hurt her, what could she think when he appeared so sardonic.

He groaned, dismissing her lachrymose nature and just proceeding with what he wanted.

Carrying her to the room he had prepared for her long 'stay', he plopped her down the mattress, moving back to lock the exit, whilst she was struggling not to yield and relent, she could not sleep in a situation like this, she needed to concentrate.

He sends her a hurried glare, unzipping her suitcase, rampaging through her finery contends, taking his time to pick a lighter, stumbling across her expensive shirt, see-through and pellucid, he scooped it out.

She really couldn't handle the headache raging inside, controlling the need to throw up for the third time, suddenly, she jolts back as katsuki's shadow towered over her, he swiftly steadies her, she slipped out of his grasp, "Shut up, it's not like you can change your clothes in that state anyway, come back here!" he caught her ankle, slithering her retreat.

"No! I- I can change myself, please let go!" she endured his tugs, pushing him away.

"Shut up! I'm not going to do anything," he reassured, but it didn't sound very genuine. At least in her sleep-induced haze.

Clamped her thrashing frame to the bed, his hand snaking down to unbutton her pants, gently trailing it down her supple legs, she shouted, "Stop!!" He was very quick to shush her, fully removing her article of clothing, now, her black underwear was visible to his eyes. "Black doesn't look half-bad on you." he remarked, pulling her up, mandating, "Put your hands up so I can take off your shirt." he finished, she was crying, and her eyes were swollen.

"No- I- please let me change myself!" her tone barely above a whisper, positioned tight to his chest, he grimaced, prying her hands off her top and undressed her regardless, leaving her bare with her bra and panty. She curled her arms around her torso, feeling more vulnerable and humiliated. Credulous that he might harm her more.

He gently made her put on the transparent shirt, stating, "that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

She didn't seem in the right mind to soundly utter anything, he huffed.

"Go to sleep. I might not be as nice as I was today otherwise." He cautioned. Tossing one final glance and switching off the lights, letting her sit in the darkness.

He's going to take care of her, better than anyone else.

The scene at the table was vapid.

The female wearing a frown, as she reposed her hands on her laps, peering at the male opposite to her erratically glaring at her face, the young girl's hair was tugged behind her ears, visible eye bags, red lines showing at the rim, abnegating comfort while his carmine hued eyes were on her, louring balefully, then at the plate of half-eaten food she forced down her throat, it didn't feel pleasant.

"Why is your plate still full?" he firmly asked, splintering the scarce tensity in the air surrounding them, she peeked at the voice, nervously embracing her lips, slightly open eyes unable to sustain persistent eye contact with the strident man sitting across the dining table. She replied, "I'm not feeling hungry..."

She did the mistake of tearing away her gaze upon completing her sentence, his dour expression displacing itself with irritation, he meanly mouthed, "Just say you don't like my cooking." she quickly shook her head, hoping to damage control of what even the safest option had landed her on, even silence didn't help her case.

"No, that's not it. I promise." she calmly reassured, her exterior not coinciding with her inner mind, give her word to his meddling tetchiness so their conversation wouldn't be needlessly hostile.

"Don't lie to me." he said, "You didn't sleep all night, did you? What were you doing, looking for something to help you with your escape?"

She had somewhat foreseen his statement, all the more insecure and parsimony when she is in question, craving to decipher what her quietude meant by less peaceful norms.

"No, I did sleep right after you left, I only woke up when I had to... puke." she hesitantly answered, he wordlessly tests the veracity in her response, sneering, it did match up.

"Hmph, that's what you get for not eating in time, idiot." he scoffed, she excluded their exchange of words so he doesn't misunderstand more than necessary, as it was in his nature to doubt her no matter what. She was the diffusor in their conundrum pair.

The stillness endures, the clinks of her spoon against the glass as she puts some rice into her mouth, dithering to ingest it with curry, katsuki quietly watched her chew, thinking if the medicine dosage he put into her food needed to be stronger whilst observing her swallow and slowly finish whatever lingered on her plate.

The girl uncomfortably shifts in her seat, fastidious to his sullen attitude, she gulped, her mood-altering, unnerved by his stare, coercing herself to devour the last portion of rice.

He immediately took the dishes, letting her inspect her whereabouts, looking out the large window on the kitchen side when all she noticed were trees and greenery, there was a huge casement window in the living hall, but getting out by breaking it would attract his attention, which wouldn't be ideal with his speed and experience.

If she could lessen his disciplining methods by being sensible, then so be it, she could not overpower him, but outsmarting him when the time comes is worth an attempt.

A silent predator with a renounced and notorious vulture can get the better of it.

"I have my patrol tomorrow, you better behave if you want to live." he suddenly announced, veering his gaze to the female's presence in the room, "if I see anything out of place, I'm going to make you wish you haven't done it." He finished.

He would know. He did not install the cameras for no purpose, he was going to watch her, and she wouldn't know it. She nodded, pupils dilating, rapidly blinking her eyes as she quietly resumes caressing her fingers, just knowing even if she is not trying to lie, he would think that, he always doubts.

"When will you come back?" She inquired, ceasing her movement and focusing on the male. He answered after closing the faucet and scanning for a hint of dishonesty. "When my patrol ends, I'll come." he flashed her a look, "you don't need to know anything else."

She pushed away from the table, leaning back, suppressing whatever she had on mind to not reveal itself on her face, hiding her folded arms under the furniture and close to her stomach, gently rubbing the skin. He approached her, sitting down for something more to disclose.

"When were you planning to leave?" he sternly began, tightly crossing his arms and impetuously glaring, she kept her eyes darting to the side, sinking lower into her seat, feeling whatever she was about to utter would end up as a canard.

"In June, 1st week." It would be a useless lie if he was aware.

He listened.

She stole a glance, his expression staid, face slightly tilted back, then exhorted, "Give me your email address, phone number, everything. I will cancel it for you." He urged, opening his rough palms towards her.

She knitted her eyebrows, disliking his request, jaw jutting forward, straightening her posture, and answering, "No. I will not hand you anything of mine."

He pinched his lips up, espousing his need for control over her, otherwise, she will run loose, leave him as she did before, and who knows if he can ever see her. He would not let her have her way, not when he can indefinitely help, she was going to need him, whether she wanted it or not.

"Fine, I'll find it out myself." he challenged, which irked her the wrong way.

"No! You can't take hold of things that I need! You've done so much to hinder me already, how much more do you want to ruin my life?" she paused, her cries harsh and discordant, the softer edge of her voice still in place.

Drawing in a heavy breath, swinging her arm across to grip her elbow, "I'm not letting you take your place in my life again." she joylessly muttered, defiantly shaking her face, recalcitrant to the very notion of it.

"Too bad, I'm not going anywhere." he taunted with an angry smile.

She looked at him.

"Why do you hate me so much, what have I done to you? Are you holding a petty grudge against me for rejecting your feelings? Or was it because I did not praise you like everyone else!" she raised her tone, firmly planting her feet, she fumed, "Must have been nice being at the top, looking down on everyone." glaring back with the same intensity he held in his eyes, clenching her fist.

"How would you know how hard I've struggled to keep up in life." she continued.

"You wouldn't know how much I hated myself, every day even if I'm not in that forsaken place, it's always in my dreams, reminding me that I can't forgive you no matter how hard I try!!"

"Don't you get it? We are not made for each other, I... couldn't try even if I pitied you, I'm willing to put this behind us if you will stop and achieve your dreams that I have no place in. It's still not too late, please, let me cope with my issues." she voiced her worries, wrinkling her face and eyes as a means to dehort her grieving, grasping her clothing tighter, stifling down the tears from materializing.

She needed to be strong when crying is assumed to be nothing but a weakness.

She's learned it the hard way, displaying emotions is a hurdle to overcome so that she can preserve. The male was silent, speaking with a voice that eventually cracked if you were keen enough to hear it.

"Why can't you forgive me?" his knuckles turned white, paring down his tensed muscles and furrowing his brows.

"Is it so hard to look at me every day?!" he roared, squinting his red eyes and loudly exhaling, his chest pounding, biting his lips till it would bleed, concealing his face from her sight, "I've been doing so much, only to hear that you not only can't bring yourself to forgive me but love me as well."

"I don't care if you hate me or not, I don't care about anything you say about me!!" He yelled, his fist on the rigid wood, she quickly stepped in, but his resentful eyes halted her in her tracks. "I'm the best choice you have, only I can fill in the place beside you and nobody is going to take it."

"I'm not letting you leave me again, ever." she came to take note of the slight nuance in his voice, "So you better get used to it." he ended, he looked at her and her face explained all the things she felt understanding him, dismay, and inimical to dispute.

Deposing her position from her chair, she shouted, "you can't keep me here!! I have my family to go to, my own life.!"

She went on to upbraid.

"This is wrong and you know it! You have no right to keep me here against my will!!"

"You better shut up your mouth!" he yelled, his voice reverberating in the entire house, drowning out her own, abruptly shutting her up from saying anything more, her fist loosened, involuntarily leaning back from his person with big eyes, teary, and staring down.

"If I hear another word out of your mouth, you'll regret it!"

She hushed her sentiments. Not letting out anything when he rose to his feet, rushing to her weeping frame and grabbing her as hard as possible, brushing her struggles off as if it were nothing more than a minor hassle he had to deal with.

Quickly unbolting the entrance to her room and hurling her inside, closing it and walking away with loud footsteps.

Leaving her mind to wander through her unquiet thoughts alone.



She sat before the window, deep in thought as she observed the orange skies aloft, rarely blinking at the same spot, she decided to get up, gazing at the door with a distant look.

Arising to move toward it, pausing in front of it and watching, softly resting her ear to it, hearkening for any sounds, there weren't any.

She makes an effort to open it, but, it doesn't budge, he locked it.

The incident in the morning had left them both wounded, distancing from one other and eschewing. He hasn't confronted her yet, she was praying, he wouldn't.

There was no other way she can escape if there are no faulty features to utilize. The bathroom didn't have any safe points, the windows even if broken, no one can go in and out due to the cross-fenced iron bars, all she could hope was to drop a note and hope someone other than her kidnapper would discover it.

She did not yield, launching at the door with what strength she currently had, it didn't move, just the painful sound of her body crashing against it. She wasn't going to break it in a million years, not until she dislocates her shoulder before it.

She groaned, searching the room the second time during the day, and trying again after coming up empty-handed. Most of whatever was placed inside were just harmless objects, it had to contain a knife if she can ever succeed in getting it and going unnoticed.

She needed to get out before he confiscates everything.

She plonks down on the mattress, disheartened eyes and dimmed down from all the stress she's putting up inside her, thinking through her decision, crouching her torso further down, and skimming through her early recollections.

"Hey, loopy! Forgot to bring your toys again?" One of the five boys teased, in the lounge, the six children circled amongst each other, the single girl in the group looking away and scooting a little closer to the green-haired boy beside while curling within herself, wide innocent eyes soaking in the simple and modernized home.

"It's fine! We can share our toys together!" The greenette exclaimed, she gazed at him with happy eyes, unknowingly forming a smile on his tiny lips.

"Birds of a feather flock together, must be true for these two losers." The blonde-haired kid grinned, instantly goading laughter from the other kids gathered next to him, even though they hadn't truly understood the meaning behind the statement.

The two meek children wordlessly heeded, not saying as they thought hard about what he said, it's true, boys at this age are following one other's trends as they haven't developed their own sense of understanding. They are still learning, and in their younger years, no one realizes how wrong they were.

"Kacchan! Let's play some games today! How about tag and run?" Promptly a boy with black hair suggested, earning a couple of agreeing and eager nods.

She appeared like she didn't want to stay there anymore.

"Yeah let's chase these losers!"

The girl sheepishly gazed down, indecisively following behind the rowdy chaps, both brows uplifted and lips compressed into a thin line, stepping out the sunny afternoon.

Walking behind her friend, timidly inspecting the small playground at the back of the house, she came to play with izuku since her parents wanted to obviate staying at home when she was still so young, sadly for her, the greenette mostly hangs out with these unfriendly kids, so it was inexorable.

"Okay! Who's out?" asked kacchan.

"Who came last?"

All heads turn towards her, anxiously standing far behind the group and did leave with them a little later, so as per the on-spot rules, she was out. They chuckled, "Wow! Guess we are gonna get caught by loopy!"

"Loopy! Catch us if you can!" they mocked running from her figure, her friends meekly smiled and put up some distance, she didn't want to play.

Eventually, after much thinking and hesitance, she trailed after some of the ones nearest to her, taunting her to catch was kacchan who quickly dodged upon spotting her coming his way, at long last, she caught her only friend and desperately ran without drawing in any breath.

Then, it came to some of the blonde's friends and shortly, himself.

She was supposed to be an easy target, according to kacchan's logic, however, she simply managed to slip out of his grasp at the last moment, until one of them cried out, "Whoa dude!! You are losing so hard right now!"

"Shut up!!" he shouted back, he kept chasing after her as others stopped when they weren't being pursued anymore, enjoying the unexpected show.

"ARGH! You stay still loopy!!" yelled the boy, clenching his teeth, stretching his arms, just an inch closer to her and he would win, when she begins putting more space, he jumps forward, tackling her to the dirty ground, mounted on top of her back, his fall cushioned by the girl who fell face-first to the concrete.

"Hah! I win!" kacchan cheered, perking up whilst still mashing her tiny body with his.

The small spectators gawked, unsure whether to encomium or applause him after that sudden shift in behaviour, soon, they nodded and agreed, somewhat shocked.

One of them whispered to the other, "do you think he has a crush on her or something?" the only response was their rapid blinking, sealed lips, squinted eyes at the scene.

An unspoken sentence stuck inside their mouths.

In the next few days, as they were nearing parent's day, the teacher had decided to arrange a quick but cheerful performance by the kindergartners. It was a fun time, at first.

The brightly coloured classroom had most of the children pacing back and forth, bickering and chattering, the girl was attempting to draw a picture of her teapot, only to cease as a loud emollient voice called out to them, innocently glanced up from her efforts.

"Kids! We have an announcement to make, settle down!" calmly urged the teacher, gently motioning her hands to the children who silently gaped at her.

"We are going to host a special celebration for your parents and we need your help, it will be lots of fun preparing for it!" said the female teacher, grinning at the astonished younglings who probably might not have known what exactly this day for surprise was.

"We will select all of you one by one, so please let us know if you can't do it!"

First, she was elected by the teachers to be a queen in one of the skits, it only made her nervous, waiting beside the elder as they swiftly gave each student a role, in the end, who she was paired up with, regrettably, turned out to be her blonde nemesis, the prime excuse was that he suited the role and was similar to the character he had to play.

It was the story of a king and his queen, the emperor was a bad-tempered man with a queen unlike him, one day, she was upset with his stingy manners and decided to perform mischievous acts to infuriate him, it was a comical relief tale aimed to make jeers and have the audience laugh by the cute and faultless children, one of the scenes included the queen sneaking a kiss to make the king lose his dour, it was cut off until replaced with another idea.

A small peck to the cheek. That's what she had to do at the very end of the enactment.

"Katsuki, you shouldn't push her too hard, gently!" scolded the teacher, shaking her finger while suppressing her own ounce of awe from watching the two-act.

The kid glared but didn't say otherwise.

On the day of the spree, she had been dressed in a gaudy red gown, which she found extremely difficult to amble around with. Katsuki was given a crown, a blue royal suit, and instructed to smile a little.

When the two of them entered the stage and everyone seemed so taken aback and awestruck, grinning at the bunch of them, her favourite was she stepped on his shoe and he couldn't do anything about it, the crowd chortled.

Their knit went without a hitch, the last part just doubled the cheers as his reaction was so unpredictable even for her, he blushed.

In the final scene, he held hands even without her forcing her hand around his, from then on, the bullying worsened.

At times, he suddenly would pull up her skirt, she recalls immediately walking away feeling some sort of way her mind at that time couldn't comprehend, it was humiliation.

"Kacchan has a crush on loopy?!" The boy exclaimed, fortunately, was deterred by the other kids around him, terrified by his audible tone.

"Not so loud! If he hears us, we are doomed!" Fretted the boy, "what should we do? He always looks so different after seeing her man, I get so many bad feelings about it." Confessed another lad, placing his fingers on his mouth.

"Yeah, he's always looking at her!"

"I think we should do something guys, let's help kacchan!" Determinedly shooting his arm up in the air, then, their plan was in steady action.

"Hey, kacchan I heard something from the girls!!" Shouted one of the chubby boys in the bundle, leaning in to whisper.

Instantly the boy widened his eyes, saying.

"Are you sure?!" Implored the blonde kid. The other boy gave a big nod, flaring his nostrils.

"Yeah, that's what I heard! She has a crush on you dude, I saw her looking at you too!"

The kid's heart sped up, his gaze going to the girl who sat alone watching everyone.

She startles up from her place on the bed, throwing her attention to the unlocked door, soon, Katsuki stepped in, with a neutral expression, fastening the entrance as he shot her a glare devoid of its usual enmity, he looked at her face, pointing his eyes downward, fist at his sides.

He begins.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, peering at her body gradually faltering, gazing with wide eyes, he proceeded.

"I'm sorry for bullying you."

He noticed her disinclination to deny his statement, stiff and stuck to the spot, blinking and deflecting her eyes from him, jaw clenched. Then, muttered clear enough.

"I don't get it... Why are you apologising all of a sudden?"

He kept his eyes open.

Not daring to blink as he soaked in her facial display, he didn't say anything, striving to close the distance between them, he walked towards her, she instantly backed away, putting up her hand to soundlessly convey, 'stop'

He didn't.

She hastily shunned herself into a corner, he gave in to the temptation and tightly embraced her, dismissing her hands seeking to push him away. Put more space between them, let him grow apart and lose her yet again.

Her restlessness grew apparent, as she thrashed in his hold, but he wasn't affected by the slightest. They both settled down on the floor, her tiny painless strikes beginning again.

Shoving the girl closer to him, nuzzling his face Into the nook of her neck, softly breathing in her scent, he loosened his strained muscles, facing her, giving her an unstable sad smile.

"You used to love me... So much, I know you did, you would always look at me, smile at me and now, you act like... Like you hate me when I'm so in love with you."

He whispered close to her, she whimpered, still, hell-bent on harshly nudging him away, his tight grip pressing into her waist ripping out more pain, she lifted her head from his eyes.

"Look at me." He ordered. She wasn't going to obey his beck and call. He breathed in a little heavily, speaking a little louder, "I said, look at me." He sternly murmured.

She did.

He put on a small smile, her fearful eyes now in touch with his distressed yet hardened gaze. He lowly chuckled.

"Why do you look at me as if I'm about to hurt you. I'm just trying to protect you." He emitted, his gruff voice ringing in her ears, his eyes seeming scarier now that the light is withering away. She swallowed her nerves, finding it hard to commemorate his demands.

"I wouldn't ever hurt you willingly." He confided in her, drawing closer.

"I'm not letting you leave me, what if you get injured by someone, a villain no less, or worse try to avoid me as you've always done!" He didn't say, but, she could almost sense it from his miserable expression.

'The paranoia will kill me.'

"I don't care about your opinion, I just can't let you wander off to the outside world and never let me see you again." He pressured, his focus was only on her, staring into her pupils, the room had gone dark, barely any light rinsing from the impenetrable windows.

"You need me!" He raised his voice, a few tears had slipped past, she curled herself further away from him, looking into his frightening eyes made her heart pound and drive her insane as well.

"I won't let your parents take you away from me, not them, not anyone!"

"We are stuck together now, I know you've had a big fat crush on me ever since kindergarten, you like me." He smirked, clamping around her flesh harder.

"I know you do. Don't try to deny it."

He made her completely face him, believing what he needed to hear, to fix into his brain, that she and he weren't just lovers, they were something more intimate than that.

His smile dropped upon hearing nothing in response, she gulped, inching away from him despite how close they were.

It didn't please him.

"Are you still running away from the fact that you love me?" He brusquely started, causing more anxiety to flood her mind, not looking into his eyes, from how warm he was, and there being no space to breathe, she felt dazed, light-headed.

"Come on, say it don't make me choke it out of you." He smilingly imperilled, strengthening his maiming clutch.

She did not answer.

"Say it." He nagged, tilting his face, letting there be no vacancy for her to evade his blood-red eyes. With bated breath, she peered up, parting her lips and acknowledging under her breath.

"I like you." It came out robotic and uncertain, but it elated the male nonetheless, he grinned wide.

"Say it with my name."

To elude a fight, she replied.

"I like you Katsuki."

If you wish to be tagged, let me know

@dhns-stuff @sluttius @maggiecc @chemtrails-club @spn-obession @exquisite-bands @corinnie @nalie110 @survivorofmath @illumisrat @palomaperuana @harmonbrooke @dickhitme @animexholic @readinggurl @darious @rainstorm22 @spin-garden @coolio-love @meismeandiamyou @pockey-tokyo

I couldn't tag some of you, apologies if I've forgotten any of you.

[blu-joons]

Jealous Of Holly ~ Min Yoongi

Your smile was weak as you watched Yoongi walk into the bedroom, watching Holly follow his every footstep into the room. You were hoping for one night, just one, where you could cuddle up to Yoongi without having any interruptions.

“Are we falling asleep as three tonight?” You questioned, watching Yoongi shut the door whilst pointing to the bed for Holly to jump on. As soon as he did, he made his way to Yoongi’s pillow, almost completely ignoring you.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Yoongi smiled in reply, “I think someone’s feeling a little bit needy.”

“When isn’t that certain someone feeling a little needy?”

Your comment caused Yoongi’s eyes to narrow as he kept his eyes on you whilst making his way across to his wardrobe. You paid no attention to him though, staring down into your lap, keeping the corner of your eye on what Holly was doing beside you.

“You don’t mind Holly falling asleep up here with us, do you?” Yoongi asked as he pulled his pyjamas out.

“I guess not,” you frowned, trying your best not to hurt Yoongi’s feelings with your own frustrations. “Holly’s a part of the family, of course, he should stay with us too.”

Yoongi’s head shook, pulling out his clothes before taking a seat at the bottom of the bed, “are you sure that you’re really alright about this Y/N, you seem a little…annoyed?”

You didn’t want to seem annoyed or irritated by Holly, most of the time you loved having him around, but during the evenings, you just wished for a little bit of space. Holly’s habit of cuddling as closely to Yoongi as possible left you feeling left out, with distance between the two of you every single night.

To begin with you’d hoped it would just be a phase, that he’d get bored and find a new spot to lay in, but after three weeks, you were beginning to tire of falling asleep by yourself, almost as if you should be in a completely different room and giving the two of them their own space.

Despite how irritated you were though, you knew that having Holly around didn’t bother Yoongi, he loved having you and Holly in the room. The one thing that he failed to see, which you always hoped he would see was how far away he slept from you every night, barely even able to find the room to hold onto his hand.

“Are we going to play this game tonight?” Yoongi challenged, “I’ll break you down until you tell me what it is that’s on your mind.”

“It’s no big deal,” you lied in response, looking away from Holly and out of the window in an attempt to calm yourself down.

As he followed your gaze, Yoongi soon picked up on what the problem was. His eyes landed on Holly who was busy washing at the bottom of Yoongi’s pillow, shuffling slowly across to your side of the bed to start innocently placing a wedge between the two of you.

“Do you want me to put him downstairs in his bed?” Yoongi suddenly spoke up.

“No,” you whispered, knowing without even looking what he was on about, “this is just as much Holly’s house as it is mine, it’s probably Holly’s even more.”

“But this isn’t Holly’s bed like it is yours.”

Your shoulders shrugged as Yoongi stood up and moved around to be in your eyeline again. “I shouldn’t be getting jealous over a dog; this is stupid anyway.”

“No,” Yoongi frowned, leaning down beside your end of the bed, “he has been a little bit clingy recently, I’ll admit, and maybe that has meant that I’ve not been able to be around you.”

“I can look after myself, I’m human, but Holly’s a dog, he needs you.”

Yoongi’s head shook back at you, refusing to let you play down your feelings. He got it, even if he hadn’t always made you feel that way, as he thought, he knew that the distance had been growing, he had just hoped that it would be something that would pass.

“Why don’t I go downstairs and bring his dog bed up, see if he’ll sleep in it up here knowing that we’re still around?” Yoongi offered, “it might get him off the bed.”

“Don’t you think he’ll just jump back up,” you sighed in reply, glancing momentarily across to the dog who was slowly pressing behind you, “it’s you that he wants.”

As far as Yoongi was concerned, it was worth a shot anyway as he made his way downstairs. The two of you needed your space still, no matter how big of a part of the family Holly was, his time had to be shared more equally.

The moment Yoongi arrived back in the room, Holly was looking up, noticing something familiar in his arms. Yoongi placed the bed down beside his side of the bed, tapping it gently to try and encourage Holly to give it a look.

“It’s just your bed, remember how fluffy and soft it is?”

After a few moments of encouragement, Holly jumped down into the bed, positioning himself right by Yoongi’s hand. You rolled across to be able to take a look at what was going on, noticing Holly beginning to settle on top of the material.

“There we go,” Yoongi whispered, slowly lifting his hand out, hoping that it wouldn’t encourage Holly to move. “How about you try and sleep down here tonight?”

“He still doesn’t look completely convinced by the idea.”

Once he was changed and into his pyjamas, Yoongi slowly slid across into the bed, keeping nice and quiet as he turned the light off in the hope that Holly wouldn’t notice him, not even looking in his direction to risk making eye contact.

He knew that Holly was still comfortable, even if he wasn’t going to be pressed against his chest for the night. But most of all, Yoongi could tell that you were a little more settled not having something separate you both again.

“How’s this?” Yoongi whispered, reaching underneath the duvet to take a hold of your hand, “I forgot how comfy it could be just the two of us.”

“I still kind of feel bad,” you admitted with a chuckle, “I didn’t want to force Holly to sleep down there, I just wish that he wouldn’t sleep right between the two of us. Can’t you put his bed at the bottom of the bed or something?”

“He’ll be alright,” Yoongi assured you, “he’s slept in worse places, remember the makeshift bed that we had for him at the studio once, that was horrendous.”

Your head nodded in reply to the memory, “sometimes I think he’s still bitter towards you for making him sleep in Jungkook’s stinky jumper.”

Despite your hurt at being pushed aside at night, Yoongi knew that you still had a soft spot inside you for Holly. You were the first one up to take him for walks or filling up his food dish when it was mealtime. But Yoongi knew too that space was needed for you both, even if Holly didn’t always agree with that.

“I reckon he’ll be bitter towards you now,” Yoongi teased, squeezing your hand, “I’ll make sure he knows who put him on the floor.”

“You were the one that got his bed,” you reminded Yoongi, “if anyone here is to blame, it’s you, you’ve got a habit now of this.”

“Maybe he’ll just end up hating both of us.”

---

Masterlist

[yesimwriting]

Falling Angels

A/n this literally poureddd from me, might be bad bc recently i’ve hated everything i’ve written (my drafts are full lol)

--

Series Summary: Y/n is a rising star in the most famous circus in Ketterdam because of her ability to see the future. Unfortunately for her, Kaz Brekker knows more of her backstory than he should, and he’s willing to use that to his advantage. The one thing he’s not betting on? That he doesn’t know her entire story

Chapter summary: Y/n gets a visitor before getting tricked into the most dangerous show of her life. 

Pairing: SOC x reader, Kaz Brekker x psychic! sunshine-y! reader

Warning: mentions of sexual harassment, slight cursing, near death experience 

--

Enjoy it, because it doesn’t last. That’s what the older girls whisper, mock casualness attempting to disguise bitter undertones as I walk past them. They say this, sharp nails ready to be covered in blood as red as their lipstick, because the pile of gifts from my ‘admirers’ keep coming. Circus hands keep approaching the long vanity in the dressing room tent, tapping me on the shoulder politely to shove cards and bouquets of flowers in my lap. They don’t understand that the praise isn’t because the patrons of our performances find me more beautiful--they’re desperate for my favor. They’re desperate to know their future.

Looking at myself in the mirror, the pageantry of it all has not yet grown old to me. My hair is still in the process of being styled, my stage makeup is half done, and I am not yet coated in that golden shimmer Senia always dusts across my cheeks and shoulders. But I am more enhanced than I normally am, eyes made bright by thick coats of mascara, cupid's bow made prominent by ruby lipstick. The lip look is more daring than I’ve been before, but there can’t be much harm in change. Not when half the women here keep looking at me like I’m the saint of virginity. 

It’s not my fault that the Ringmaster thought an angelic aesthetic would work best for the fortune teller who walks around before the show, reading palms so that people can have their pockets picked. It’s not my fault people want an angel to take the stage and call people down from the audience to get a detailed reading around the crowded circus tent. I don’t pick the costumes, and while I acknowledge that mine shows the least amount of skin, the Ringmaster found a way to dress me as suggestively as possible without ruining the illusion of innocence. 

At least the flowing tulle wings that are stitched into the back of my costume are beautiful. It’s easier when I enjoy the good. 

“Y/n!” The familiar call of Senia. I turn my head, beaming. “You’re a vision, and all of those jealous girls--you can tell them to take their wrinkling faces and--” 

“Seria.” For someone so much like a mother, she often needs to be reminded that not everything needs an aggressive rebuttal. “Think about it from their perspectives--their entire existence is dependent on how sellable they are, how attractive they are to men who only want to use them. If that makes them mad at me because they feel like my youth and novelty is taking from them, then that’s okay.” She raises a fine eyebrow. “I can take a few mean words.” 

Seria purses her lips. “Okay, but I’m just as old and tired and you don’t see me trying to poison you.” 

I roll my eyes. 

“Look, it's our very own saint.” I roll my eyes, Via’s shrill voice piercing through me like an annoying papercut. “And in such a scandalous lip color--has the Ringmaster finally taken you to the ivory tent?” 

Ivory tent. It’s been mentioned to me before and always in jest. “Where he takes me is none of your business, if not being the favorite hurts you so badly ju--” 

She laughs, the sound is pure vile. “Being the favorite is the worst thing you could be in a place like this. You’re shiny and new and soon you’ll be as used as the rest of us--Seria’s use is waning, what happened to her today is proof of that. Soon you’ll have no one to protect you.” 

When she looks at me I see more pain than hatred. “I think we’d get along better if I had it in me to hate you.” 

She raises an eyebrow before shaking a cigarette from a small box into her palm. “You’ll get there, princess.” 

The nickname leaves me burning. There’s nothing more consuming than fire. “You better pray to the real Saints I don’t.” 

via laughs, lifting the cigarette to her lips and lighting it with her abilities. She walks away, turning my threat into that of a child’s. 

“She’s right on two accounts.” Seria hums, “The Ringmaster will kill you if you wear that lipstick and Ketterdam turns people like you into people like me. We could save up, pay off your indenture--get you out.” 

Seria doesn’t need to make sacrifices like that. Not for me. Besides, there’s no leaving Ketterdam for me. Not anymore. “Being like you wouldn’t be a bad thing.” I scratch my arm, see through material wrinkling as a result. “And I can’t--I can’t just leave. I’m a psychic, no Grisha can see the future. I need the facelessness of Ketterdam.” Her lips thin in protest. “And don’t think I didn’t hear what she said about you--what happened to your foot, and what’s in the ivory tent? People keep saying it, whispering it like there’s--” 

“That tent is nothing that will ever concern you. I’ve given you my guidance, and the one thing I ask is that you never ask or go to the ivory tent.” 

I swallow once, the intensity in her eyes leaving me raw. “What if he tells me to?” 

“He won’t.” Seria breathes. “He doesn’t like that for you.” 

This isn’t an argument I can have now, not with two minutes until the show starts. “And your foot?” 

She shrugs, holding up a bandaged ankle. “You get older, your ligaments like the tightrope walk less and less. I’ll be fine.” 

“You’re not tightrope walking like that--” 

“Yes, I am. The Ringmaster doesn’t know and he can’t--if I start giving him performance trouble--you don’t know what happens to the girls who can’t pay off their indenture by performing.” 

I swallow once. “You’ll be careful?” 

“Always,” she grins, “Besides--one day you’ll know enough about tightrope walking to help me on days like this.” 

The last time I trained on the mini-tightrope had proven me to be a disappointment. Still, I smile at her softly. I open my mouth to respond, but a quick tap to my shoulder silences me. 

“Miss,” a circus hand I recognize begins.

I smile politely. “Please leave any gifts on my vanity--” 

“It’s not a gift,” he mumbles, voice taut, “You have visitors.” 

Something solid pushes itself into my chest, wedging itself between my lungs. Have they found me? “I-I don’t take visitors. Not before shows, if someone wants a private reading they’re to go to my tent at the front--” 

“We’re not here for readings or any of the other lies you sell.” 

...Surprising. I let my gaze move from the face of the circus hand and towards the individuals behind him. A man, tall and dressed in business attire--hat and all. His face is all sharp angles and his eyes are emotionless. His leather-gloved hands grip the head of an intricate cane. Next to him is another tall man, dressed a little more casually, with dark curls. Lastly, there’s a girl, with oil-black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. 

“Then what are you here for?” 

Seria, never one to leave me unattended around strange men, takes a step in front of me. “I know who you are, Dirtyhands, and I know there’s no business you could find with her.” 

What? Dirtyhands? Can people in Ketterdam ever just be normal? 

“I wouldn’t speak so certainly.” I don’t like the way his eyes narrow at Seria or the way his grip on the cane tightens. 

Thoughtlessly, I stick a hand between them, forcing Seria back slightly. “I apologize, she’s protective--always assuming the worst in people. Though considering she called you ‘Dirtyhands’, maybe that’s what you want.” 

Ugh. All I do is ramble when I most definitely shouldn’t. “Want what?” 

Eyebrows drawing together, I force myself to hold his gaze. “For people to assume the worst.” 

The response seems to confuse him. That’s okay--I’ll take anything over aggressive. “The only people I want to assume the worst are those I want to be right.” 

Okay. Dramatic was a fair assumption. 

“Seria.” Oh no. I know that voice. I know that voice too well. “They tell me you're injured.”

Seria stiffens, as does every performer when he addresses them. “Not too injured to perform, sir.” 

The Ringmaster sneers. “I can’t risk you falling and embarrassing me. Perhaps tonight you’ll make your money by spending the entire show in the ivory tent.” 

The way she hardens wrenches my gut. I press my hands to avoid reaching out for her. “I can do the tightrope.” The Ringmaster’s gaze shifts towards me. “I can do it--and I can do it well and I’ll give the profit to Seria.”

He tilts his chin, regarding me in a way a woman should never be regarded. He’s a predator and I’m a lamb that’s lost its way. Still, I hold his gaze. I don’t flinch, even when he moves to brush his knuckles along my cheek. His touch is acid. Pure, burning acid. “The wings I placed on your back are decorative.”

“I don’t need them.” Total bullshit. 

“Hm,” he breathes, letting the smell of alcohol fill the space between us, “I’ll allow it.” The Ringmaster drops his hand to his side. “Wipe that lipstick off your face before someone mistakes you for one of these common whores.” 

How I don’t throw up at the sight of him is a miracle in itself. By some small mercy, he turns and walks away before I have to respond. 

“You’re an idiot--you know you’re not ready for the tightrope.” 

“There’s a net,” I try to keep my voice light, dismissive. She remains tense. “Seria, I had to.” 

“No, you could have--” 

“It’s not fair that you’re always a shield for me. When the opportunity to shield you for once comes, I’ll take it.” Turning before she can protest, I try to walk forward. The stranger places his cane where I intend to walk, intentionally warning me that he decides when our conversation is over. Unfortunately, I used up all my patience with the Ringmaster. “130 kruge.” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s the estimated amount I’ll make tonight, unless I’m late and excluded from the show. Either make up the deficit you’ll be costing me or let me go.” 

His eyebrows draw together, shifting his expression from neutrally calloused to something much darker. “Kaz.” This comes from the girl. She takes a step forward. “Look one step ahead.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Everyone thinks you’re not supposed to look down, but looking up is just as impractical.” She pauses, expression strangely mesmerized, “Look one step ahead--not at your feet.” 

My genuine smile shocks me. “Thank you.” 

“I should be thanking you, Sankta y/n.” Her head bows, hands held together as if in prayer. 

Oh. She’s one of the religious that believes me an actual Saint. “I appreciate the sentiment, but if I was a Saint I’d be able to help people.” No matter what I do, no matter how much blood I offer, I can never help people. “And as you’ve seen--I can’t.” 

--

The crowd’s roaring is a different world to me. On the platform, feet away from the other wooden structure acting as solid ground, everything is different. I am now in a world where the only thing to believe in is a taut rope. The net is beneath me. I’ve seen it--I’ve checked it. 

“And for our grand finale!” The Ringmaster calls, voice billowing over an excited crowd. “Our very own angel defies death!” 

An odd way to phrase the tightrope walk. It’s never called ‘defying death’.  I had been surprised when I was told that tonight the tightrope walk would be the grand finale--I assumed it was because it featured me. I’m always the finale now. I try to move my foot off the platform but it’s planted firmly. No. I need to see Seria--I need to see who I’m doing this for. I force my gaze to the ground, panic rising in my chest. 

Instead of Seria, I see Via--her smirk apparent even from here. Spite’s a decent motivator. My foot descends off the platform, touching the tightrope cautiously. And then I move my other foot. All of me is now on this damn rope. I hadn’t been unforgivably horrible during practice, but I hadn’t been graceful either. 

Don’t look down, don’t look up--only look one step ahead. One step ahead--one step at a time. Balance. I take another step. The room is so silent there’s no doubt in my mind the sound of my bones cracking would be heard from the back row. But there’s the net. There’s always the net. I take a second step. And then a third--eyes focused on only one step ahead. 

And then the phantom of flame comes to claim me. Fire. The world around me is burning. Damning the consequences, I let my gaze fall to the world beneath me. The net--the Ringmaster had an Inferni light the net on fire. Via--that explains the look. 

I can’t fall--the guilt would kill Seria. 

Panic twists my stomach as I continue forward. One step ahead. One step ahead--the flames lick upwards, promising pain and grief all over again. One step ahead. One step--that’s all there is to it. The warmth of the fire calls to me. Burning. Burning--and one more step. This isn’t forever. This isn’t permanent--either way this will soon be over. 

There’s no miracle for me. No good grace, no wings that would let me save myself. There is only balance. 

One step ahead. And then another step. And then I see the other wooden platform. Thank the Saints. I grip the ladder of the platform as quickly as possible. The cheers mean nothing to me as I scurry down the ladder. 

I feel a sharp breeze, a Grisha putting out the flames. Anger pools in my chest as I move towards the exit of the tent. 

“Y/n.” No. Not him again. That man--Kaz, Dirtyhands, whoever he is--needs to go away. “Y/n.” I turn sharply, anger pulsing through me. My expression must be feral, because he stalls. “They didn’t tell you that they were going to burn the net.” 

The fact that he can tell--that he can see my panic and how close I came to death twists my anger into something more fragile. “No.” My posture straightens. “I need to go now, I do--I do readings after shows.”

“Y/n.” He repeats, firmer. 

My nails dig into my palms. “I’m going--” 

“I know what you are.” 

Tensing, my breathing stalls. “What?”