#but i sure am going to be ringing up the urgent care before i take any more of the steroids tomorrow

[beingatoaster]

At the point where I'm not sure what is Symptoms (of what? my brain is generating a dozen horrible possibilities), what is anxiety, and what is exhaustion--though the anxiety is happily seizing on all of them to be more dire Symptoms, which is not exactly helping me get to sleep to resolve the exhaustion.

[etfrin]

— ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜɴꜱʜᴏᴛ ⋆

ꜱᴘᴇɴᴄᴇʀ ʀᴇɪᴅ x ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: NSFW | subby Spencer, dom-ish reader, praise kink, hints of overstimulation, edging, orgasm denial, hint of dacryphilia, pinv sex, creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it dumbfucks), riding | lmk if I forgot anything!

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀ��ʏ: inspired from season one, ep nine; Spencer is safe from danger but you're still scared about losing him, leads to a night of passion <33

ᴀ/ɴ: first time writing Spencer, this is season one Spencer, hopefully I got his character right, he's so fucking sexy, lmk if there's anything I can do to improve writing his character!

bc: @cafekitsune @saradika | masterlist | navigation

You flinch as the sound of the gunshot seems to ring. Spencer was inside and Officer Gideon was walking inside the train. You were looking away from the camera, afraid about the worst outcome. That is until Derek said, “He is fine. Spencer is fine.”

You let out a shaky breath and glance at the monitor. Derek didn't lie. Spencer is fine. The situation is under control. But you weren't.

✧ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✦✧✦ ▬▭▬ ▬▭▬ ✧

You were in your shared apartment with Reid. You had cooked dinner, something simple as Spencer was looking at some case files. “Anything interesting?” you asked as you set the plate down on the table. You ignore the way your hands shake.

Spencer doesn't. “Your hands are shaking,” he points out, “Shaking is an indication of fear. There is nothing to be afraid of right now.” He furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “Is everything fine?”

“Yes,” you lied.

“You're lying,” he calls out immediately, “Some researchers estimate that the average person tells around 1-2 lies per day. But you never lie to me. This is a first. Does that mean-”

“Spencer,” you interrupted him, a hint of guilt in your mind as you saw his confused expression. You don't want anything more than to kiss it away. You look away from him. “Dinner is ready.”

The rest of the night no other exchange of words happens between you and Spencer. You take one of his t-shirts to wear for the night, and you like how the scent of his cologne engulfs your senses.

Spencer was already in bed, lying on his side as he waited for you to join him. You quietly slip beside him and turn off the lights. “Goodnight, baby,” you whispered to him in the dark, your mind craving the heat his body was radiating. But you didn't want to cross a boundary so you don't go closer.

“Do you want to break up?” he thought out loud.

You let out a surprised noise. “No!” You say loudly, turning your body towards his. Despite the darkness, your eyes were connected to his. You practically feel his nerves.

“Well, because of your behavior today, it's clear that something is wrong. I am not sure what it is but such behavior indicates that there's a chance of breaking up. I am sorry for whatever it is. Don't leave me, love,” he lets out in a single breath.

You take in his words and shake your head. “No- no, baby, it's nothing like that.” You go closer to him, snuggling up until there's no space left between both of your bodies. “I was scared of losing you. You could have been dead right now.”

“I am alive though,” he points out.

You roll your eyes, not truly expecting him to understand. But it was fine because, in the end, he was fine. “Please, please be more careful next time,” you whispered. “I wouldn't know what to do without you, Spence.”

Spencer doesn't reply and you frown, before you can call out his name, his lips seal yours in a kiss. You whimper at the sudden uncoordinated clash of teeth that was so unlike the agent you knew. You moan into his mouth as your tongue tangles with his. There was no fight for dominance, you were both eating each other alive with the way you kissed. Spencer whines as you have to break the kiss to take in oxygen.

“What was that?” You chuckled, surprised in the best way possible.

“I need you,” he admits unashamed. “Right now.”

You giggled, but your hands urgently worked to unbutton his shirt. Your lips meet his for another kiss, and it's just as good. Your mouth is sucking his tongue, and you enjoy the taste of him. He groans, his hands exploring your heated skin. He clumsily unhooks your bra and curses as he begins to knead your breasts.

His fingers pinch your nipple, and you let out a sharp gasp. “Let me take care of you,” you whispered to Spencer as you changed your position to straddle him. “I want to ruin for everyone else like you did to me.”

Spencer’s eyes are wide, his lips are parted. He looks like a mess and his mind scrambles. He couldn't reply, too lost in your touch. “Please,” he lets out, begging for you.

“Such a good boy,” you praised, and he fucking whimpers.

You start by pressing soft kisses to his neck while your hand snakes down on his body to free him of his pajamas and boxers. He was unbelievably hard, his slit had beads of pre-cum decorating his cockhead. You swipe your thumb and gather the pre-cum to smudge it all over his cock as lube.

You knew you should have prepared yourself, taking his cock like this would stretch your walls out. It would hurt. But God, you wanted to make it hurt, you wanted it to burn so you'll remember this night forever.

You let out heavy sighs as you raise yourself to sink into his length. “Spencer,” you moan, your eyes closed as you take him inch by inch. “Baby,” you cry out as his cockhead pressed against your spongy spot.

“Oh, oh, ahh,” Spencer groans as he feels your tight, slick walls around his length.

Spencer grips your hips as a way to anchor himself. He was afraid of cumming too fast. You felt so good. He felt he would burst any second.

Spencer sits up and wraps his arms around to keep you caged so you couldn't move and he wouldn't embarrass himself by cumming too much. “Wait,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your skin.

“As long as you need, baby.”

Your walls squeezed his length and he groaned out your name as a warning. You giggled, absolutely loving his reaction to you. You begin to clench your walls repeatedly around his length, milking him. He responds by biting your skin, his teeth digging into your flesh, marking you. Your eyes roll back from the flash of pain and the pleasure that follows.

“Fuck, baby,” this time your pussy flutters around his dick genuinely and he whimpers.

“Let me ride you, Spence,” you said, pressing your lips to his. You whispered, “I'll be good, I promise. I won't tease.” He believes you. He nods.

You start slowly, getting used to his dick kissing the deepest part of you. You grind your hips against his and moan out his name. The pace was driving both of you insane. Spencer, even more so wanted to drive his cock into you. The urge to pin you down and thrust into you roughly was foreign to him, so he didn't act on it.

He feels himself getting closer, “‘m close,” he rasps out. You stop moving your hips. You take in deep breaths as Spencer gets confused. He feels his orgasm fade. He whines from the loss.

“Not so soon, darling.”

You begin to ride him again, loving the way how desperate he is getting. “You're doing so good,” you coo at him, “let me use you. That's my boy.” He whines, his tongue eagerly licking stripes of your salty skin between your breasts. When you feel him twitch inside of you again, you stop.

He cries out, his cock getting overly sensitive, his balls heavy with cum. He was waiting to breed you with his seed, but you were being mean. He begins to beg, “Please- please, please…”

“Why should I let you cum?” You whispered.

You weren't going to lie, you explained an entire Wikipedia explanation on exactly why you should let the pretty boy cum inside of you. What he says instead shocks you.

“Please just let me cum,” he whimpers.

How can you deny this sweet, pathetic man? Wait, you can. You stop again and he cries out, the salty scent of tears filling the room. “Please, please,” he moans your name, “I would do anything- let me cum.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you won't put yourself in danger.”

“Huh?” He said, not expecting those words.

You begin to slow down your pace until you eventually halt. “Promise me you won't put yourself in danger. You'll always take precautions when getting into dangerous situations. What happened today… I can't lose you, Spence.”

You lean forward to kiss his forehead before your lips sloppily kiss his lips. It was filthy and slow. Saliva dripping down on both of your chins, any other day Spencer would be disgusted. Today it made his cock leak out more pre-cum inside your slick cunt.

“Okay,” he promised.

“Then cum whenever you are ready, darling.”

You lay him down with a hand on his shoulder. Despite the fact your thighs burnt from pain, you fuck yourself faster on his cock. One of your hands holding his, you squeeze it as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. Every time you stopped before, you ruined your own orgasm as well.

It was fucking worth it though.

You moan out his name as your pussy pulsates around his length. Your free hand snakes down and you begin to play with your clit. You begin to draw sharp circles on the pearl, and you lose pace, getting lost in the pleasure. Spencer takes over, raising his hips to fuck his cock into you.

Neither of you has the time to warn each other as you cum. Your cunt milks him dry. His cum painting your walls. Spence fucks his cum into you until his cock slips out.

You take a moment to catch your breath.

“You're mean,” Spencer whispered.

“Whatever it takes to keep you around, genius. You like me mean.”

[swanimagines]

ooh how about a fic where morpheus and his wife have been married for a really really long time (think like 4000 years) and he like stands her up on their 4000 year anniversary or something like that because he's helping calliope. ALL THE ANGST AND FLUFF PLS TY

Summary: When Morpheus doesn't show up to the banquet you had planned together for your 4000th anniversary, you're concerned. But then you find out what he has been doing — or rather where he had been.

LOOSE ENDS

After four millenias of marriage, most would think that the love that was once there would have dimmed long ago — but that wasn’t the case between you and Morpheus.

It had been 4,000 years since Morpheus had told the stars to forge a ring that he’d place on your finger, 4,000 years since he vowed his pledge, his loyalty, his love to you in front of his Kingdom. 4,000 years since he made you his wife, the Queen of the Dreaming.

You had planned out your anniversary for some time now. You both being immortal didn’t really make yearly anniversaries meaningful, so you decided to spend it every century and the grander, bigger events, massive banquets, on every millenia to celebrate your love and how you thrived in the Dreaming.

Morpheus had left early in the morning, supposedly to take care of some urgent business, but you expected him to be back by the evening.

But he didn’t. It took days of him being gone, and you had no idea where he was. The whole week of your anniversary went by without a word from your husband.

So one day, you decided to risk it and went to the library to see Lucienne, who was working on her usual task with the ledger. She smiled upon seeing you, but her smile faltered as soon as she saw your expression.

“My lady, may I ask if there is something wrong?” she asked, and you sighed before nodding.

“I reckon you know where my husband is?”

The librarian lowered her quill on the table. “He did not inform me of his exact destination, my lady. Only that he had pressing matters in the Waking World.”

You laid your hand on her table before glancing around yourself. “He didn’t say when he’d return?”

Lucienne hesitated, and you could tell she was slightly uncomfortable. She was loyal to Dream above all else, but she was also loyal to you, his queen. But after a moment, she shook her head. “I am sorry, my lady. He gave no indication of how long he would be occupied.”

You sighed, rubbing your face, but then looked up to Lucienne again. “Thank you, Lucienne,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand from her desk. “If he sends word, please let me know immediately.”

She nodded, picking up her quill again. “Of course, my lady.”

—

Two days later, you finally felt his presence at the palace, and you hurried down the corridors, eager to see your husband, slightly concerned about what happened to him. He had already been imprisoned for a hundred years once, maybe it was something where he was trapped and had no way out. Surely he wouldn’t skip your anniversary by choice.

But then you heard two fairies talking around the corner, and you caught up a name.

Calliope.

“It must have been a relief to see Lord Morpheus,” the other fairy whispered. “He’s loyal to her after all this time.”

The other fairy sighed. “Well, she’s the mother of his child, of course he’s loyal. If she needs him, he will go.”

“Such a shame that it hit right on the Queen’s and his anniversary. Her Majesty worked so hard on that day, and then he just stood her up.”

You felt blood rushing up to your face as your heart started beating faster.

He had been with Calliope doing… you didn’t even want to know.

So in the next moment, you were storming towards the throne room, basically slamming the doors open to hear a surprised caw caw from Matthew, and he flew right past your face.

“Whoa, whoa, my lady! What’s the matter?”

You spinned around to face the crow after seeing the empty throne. “Where is he?” 

Matthew folded his wings and bowed his head. “I, uh, we haven’t–”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t lie, I know you know.”

“Oh, uh, he’s... well, uh... probably still in the Waking World, dealing with some loose ends from–"

“Calliope. I know he’s out there dancing around Calliope.”

"Oh boy. Look, it’s not my place to–"

“Matthew,” you warned, taking a step towards him, which sent him flying a little farther away.

"Okay, okay! Yes, he’s been helping Calliope. She’s, uh, been through a lot, you know? And he felt–”

You interrupted him again, your anger too strong to let the poor crow finish. “What can possibly be more important than our anniversary he absolutely must take care of for a week, without even reporting back?”

Matthew let out a squawk again. “Look, my lady, I get it, okay? You’re upset, and you’ve got every right to be. But Dream… he’s not great at juggling things, you know? He’s in the gallery. Please don’t tell him I told you.”

“The gallery?” you repeated, crossing your arms.

“Yes, the gallery,” Matthew repeated, glancing around him. “I swear, he’s been wrapped up in this Calliope thing, but… well, you’re his Queen. You should talk to him.”

So with a huff, you turned away and stormed down the stairs, towards the gallery. You heard Matthew mutter something, you guessed it was a prayer for Morpheus to survive from your fury, and frankly, you understood perfectly why it may be necessary.

Soon, you pushed the gallery doors open to find your husband standing in front one of the paintings, his head bowed down.

“Morpheus.”

His head lifted slightly before he turned to face you, and a small smile appeared on his face. “My love. I’ve missed you.” 

“Don’t ‘my love’ me,” you snapped, making his smile disappear. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you? A week, Morpheus. A whole week. On our 4,000th anniversary.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I understand that Calliope was in distress. I even understand you had to help her. What I don’t understand is why you couldn’t send a single word. Not to me, not to Lucienne. You could have sent Matthew. But you chose to be silent, I knew nothing. Do you have any idea how that felt, how I was scared for you?”

“You are not being fair,” Morpheus told you, and you scoffed, turning away from him.

“Not fair? And you were fair to me?”

He was quiet for a moment, and you saw his shadow nearing you, and knew he stood right behind you. “Calliope was imprisoned,” he said, his hands lowering themselves on your biceps. “For decades, she was held captive, forced to endure unspeakable cruelty. When I learned of it, I could not… I would not delay. It was not just a duty to her but an obligation to myself — to the part of me that still feels guilt for how our relationship ended. She deserved my help, my immediate intervention.”

You closed your eyes, but didn’t pull away. “If you sent a word, I would have understood. I would have been glad you chose to help her. I understand you share a bond forever with her because of… your son, even when he’s gone. But leaving me in the dark, I was terrified you’ve been captured again, and then I learned you were out there with your ex-wife.”

He was quiet again for a moment, before his hands slid down your arms. “You’re right. I should have sent a word. I should have thought about how you’d feel when you don’t know where I am on such an important date.”

You nodded, finally turning in his arms. “Swear to me you will never do anything like that again.”

He nodded. “I swear.”

You smirked. “Good. Because if you do, Morpheus, I might just take a vacation to the Waking World and see how you like being left in the dark.”

He chuckled. “I would not survive such a punishment,” he said, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “You are the Dreaming’s heart, and you are mine.”

Before you could respond, his lips captured yours in a kiss, his lips moving against yours slowly as his hands encircled you.

You pulled away from the kiss after a moment, but stayed close enough for your lips to still touch. “You’re going to make this up to me, Dream of the Endless. Our 4,000th anniversary only comes once, and you owe me a celebration worthy of it.”

“Then come,” he said, tugging on your hand. “Allow me to make amends properly. I have a few things in mind.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, and followed him upstairs. You might have a great late anniversary party after all.

Requests are open! FANDOM LIST | PROMPT LIST(S) | RULES (READ!!!)

[soulofapatrick]

Stripped Down - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: You and Joel haven’t found the time to see each other for a few weeks which means a ‘family dinner’ at your dad’s has a lot of pent up frustrations

Words: 3.8k 

Warnings: smut; fingering; somewhat choking; dirty talk 

Notes: Chapter Four of Forbidden Fruit

Y/N’s POV

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been able to see Joel due to work, Daisy wanting to drag me out and my dad wanting to see me but today Dad wants a family meal which means me, him and The Millers. My heart is racing as Daisy has invited herself as well, pretty much being another daughter to my dad at this point. 

I arrive at my dad’s with Daisy early so we can help him prepare as my dad is definitely a decent cook but Daisy? Shit, she should be a fucking chef. Dad greets us at the door, pulling us into tight hugs as he asks, “How are my fave girlies?” 

“Daadddd,” I laugh, wriggling out of his grip while Daisy just flicks her auburn hair over her shoulder and hip checks me on the way to the kitchen with a shit-eating grin, “We’re here to make sure you don’t burn the house down and I brought the beer.” 

“Thanks pumpkin.” Dad joins us in the kitchen as Daisy goes over to the hob to see what Dad has for dinner and pulls a face that has Dad frowning slightly, “What’s wrong with my meal head chef?” There’s a teasing tone as Dad moves to stand next to Daisy. Daisy just raises as eyebrow at him and begins to rummage through the cupboards while I busy myself with filling the fridge with the different types of beer and ciders I bought with me. Daisy has begun pulling out some various herbs and spices and is ordering Dad chop up certain vegetables to add to the dish which looks like it’s going be a good old-fashioned roast dinner. The pair work together perfectly, having a father-daughter bond I’ve never quite managed to create with him, a small flame of jealously igniting in my chest but I quickly stomp it out as I’m just happy they get along so well. 

The doorbell ringing snaps me from my thoughts and I find myself smoothing down my hair and wiping my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans before I head to the front door to open it. I’m greeting by the sight of the Millers standing there, a case of beer and some soft drinks in their hands so I’m stepping aside to usher them in. Sarah and Ellie pass me with sparkling and knowing eyes, heading straight to the kitchen to greet Dad and see where they can help Daisy. Tommy’s next, pulling me into a brotherly hug before he’s following the girls which leaves me and Joel standing there. 

Joel steps inside, closing the front door behind him and putting the case of beer down before he’s glancing past me then his warm honey eyes find mine again, lips curving into a small smile. Without a word, he pulls me into a tight embrace, his hands sliding down to my waist, we have to be so careful as we know how dangerous our relationship is. I tilt my head up to meet his gaze and he’s leaning down to press his lips to mine in a gentle but urgent kiss, as if we’re trying to make up all that time we’ve spent apart in the last few weeks. After a few moments, too soon for my liking, Joel is reluctantly pulling away, foreheads still touching as we catch our breath. 

“I missed you.” I whisper, feeling my heart race at how pained his honey ones turn. 

“I missed you too,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing circles on my hip, “Are you okay?” 

I just nod, even though I know I’m not. It’s hard to be around him yet not be able to show everyone that he’s mine as we still don’t know how my dad would respond to us together. Joel is my dad’s best friend and I am his daughter but hey, if he finds out a disowns me he still has Daisy. No, what am I talking about?! 

Joel is stepping away, squeezing my hip once more before he’s picking the crate of beer back up and heading to the kitchen to greet Dad. I can hear their excited voices and I have to take a deep, shaky breath before I join them. Almost immediately Ellie is moving to my side and hugging me in an awkward sideways hug but I don’t reject it, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she speaks, “I’m gonna kick your ass at Monopoly later.” 

I just caught, pulling her closer to me, having always felt such a bond with her I wished I could have had with my own mother before she cheated and left us. Ever since meeting the Millers I have always strived to have a somewhat maternal bond with the girls, unintentionally at first until Ellie once accidentally called me ‘mom’ one night while I was babysitting them. Sarah is only three years younger than me and Ellie is six years which makes my bond with them both slightly different but I wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Sarah is hovering over the stove with Daisy, trying to get a glimpse of what’s cooking while Tommy is setting the table with plates and cutlery. Joel and Dad are already engrossed in a conversation, their laughter filling the room and I can’t help but smile at how happy and content everyone is together. My gaze being drawn to Joel and it’s like he can sense my gaze on him as he sends me a small smile, honey eyes full of understanding which makes me feel a little better about this all. The knot in my stomach loosens a little, my mind telling me to just be grateful I have him, secret or not. 

“Come on Trouble, let’s get drinks sorted.” I hip check Ellie lightly and she reluctantly lets me go before we move head for the fridge. I can feel eyes burning through me when I bend down to grab the ice from the bottom freezer tray, sending Ellie a glare when she snorts into her hand before taking the ice from me to fill glasses with, her eyebrows shooting up when I hiss out a quiet, “What?” 

“Joel’s staring at your ass.” She whispers back and I’m jumping up, too quickly for Ellie to shut the fridge door and I smack the crown of my head against it, letting out a yelp of pain. 

“Shit, you okay?” Ellie asks, sincere concert lacing her voice as she rushes back over to me, ice forgotten. Dad, Joel and Tommy have migrated into the dining room now so none of them got to witness my idiocy, “I was only joking.” 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear it seems as the broad shouldered man appears in the doorway, warm eyes flickering to where Ellie is hovering close to me and I’m rubbing the crown of my head and kicking the freezer door shut in annoyed pain, “Everything okay here?”

“Hit my head,” I grumble, trying to ignore the heat rising to my cheeks and the frustration bubbling in my veins as how can Joel be allowed to look this good. It’s unfair. Joel is wearing a simple navy t-shirt that hugs his broad chest and toned arms perfectly, paired with faded jeans that fit him like a glove. His hair is styled messily, giving off a laid-back vibe that he somehow pulls off effortlessly. His scruffy beard only adds to his rugged and masculine appearance, and it's hard not to notice the way his muscles bulge and flex as he moves closer. I somehow have to keep my hands off of him for the whole evening after not being able to see him for nearly three weeks. 

“Let me see,” Joel steps closer, hands coming up to bush my hair from my forehead, leaning in to examine the spot I smacked my head. It sends a flutter through my stomach as his breath brushes against my skin but I force myself to focus on the pain. Joel’s touch is gentle as he checks for any bumps or bruises, his fingers trailing over my scalp. When he’s satisfied that I’m okay, he straightens up and gives me a playful wink, “Be careful sweet girl.” 

I roll my eyes fondly, unable to hid my smile at the pet name that he’s reserved for me. Ellie pushes three cans of beer into her dad’s hands, nodding towards the dining room where the other two men are waiting. Joel nods knowingly before he leans down a presses a quick and extremely risky kiss to my lips before he’s gone. 

Daisy’s excited voice interrupts my thought and I turn to see her with a grin as she leans against the counter, arms crossed and perfect eyebrow raised, trusting Sarah to make the gravy, “Sweet girl, huh?” She teases, wiggling those eyebrows at me and I can feel my cheeks flush with heat. Sarah and Ellie are laughing lovingly along now, telling Daisy all the details I haven’t been able to tell my best friend yet and Daisy’s grin just gets wider and wider as the three all serve up the meal parts onto plates.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant as I carry the tray of roast potatoes and assorted veg to the table where Dad, Joel and Tommy are talking about their latest construction job. 

“Don’t worry, sweet girl, we won’t tell anyone?” Daisy snorts, setting down the sliced chicken, the smell mouthwateringly good. 

“Won’t tell anyone what?” Dad quirks an eyebrow at me, eyes narrowing as Daisy flashes an innocent look at I feel myself flushing an even warmer shade of red. 

It’s Sarah who jumps in, covering for me, “Oh, just about how Dina and Ellie have been getting close recently and how she’s such a sweet girl.” Dad’s expression softens while Joel’s head whips around to Ellie who is now sat next to Daisy and Dad. Sarah and Tommy have the heads of the table which leaves me with the open spot next to Joel. From the glances shared between Daisy, Ellie and Sarah this was very much planned. 

The meal is fucking amazing, a classic roast dinner with all the trimmings. Daisy’s worked her magic as usual, the chicken being to tender and juicy, the roast potatoes are perfectly crisp and crunchy and the veggies are cooked to perfection. The gravy is rich and flavourful, the aroma of it filling the room and making it feel warm and inviting. It’s the kind of meal that feels like home. As we eat, the conversation flows easily and I find myself laughing along with everyone else. I can feel the warmth of Joel’s thigh against mine under the table as I try to focus on a stupid joke Tommy is telling us but all I can think of is the way Joel’s hand feels on my thigh. It’s a secret little touch, one that no one else can see but it feels so intimate and personal. I can’t help but feel a little thrill of excitement and a slowly building amount of frustration, wanting the meal to hurry up and finish so Joel can drive me home and hopefully come inside. 

*

Ellie did in fact kick my ass at Monopoly and it’s currently just past one am, everyone having mellowed out and I can see Ellie is struggling to stay awake. Joel notices it too as he’s breaking the comfortable silence that has fallen, the muffled sound of the TV in the background. 

“I should take the girls home, I can drop Y/N off on the way.” Joel tells Dad. We all get up, thanking Dad for the meal and each of us hugging him goodbye. The tiredness is creeping up on me as we head out the front door, the cool night air refreshing against my skin. Dad’s telling us to be safe and to message him when we’re all home safe before the front door is closing with a quiet click. 

Tommy’s voice is breaking the silence as we reach the cars, “You know, I can take the girls home Joel. You should take Y/N home.” He tells Joel as I lean into the older man’s side, head on his shoulder and eyes struggling to stay open at the warmth radiating off of him plus the safety his muscular arm has wrapped around my waist. I’m rolling my eyes but can feel my heart skip a beat at the thought of being alone with Joel finally after so long, gripping onto him when he agrees with Tommy. 

Joel’s helping me into the passenger seat and I can feel the warmth of his hand on my back as he steadies me until I’m settled into the seat, the leather still warm from the day’s sun and I’m letting our a content sigh. As Joel starts the car and pulls out of the driveway, I lean my head back and let my eyes close. The sound of the car and Joel’s voice talking about the last weeks events lulls me into a sleepy haze. I struggle to keep my eyes open, the comforting feeling of being with Joel making me feel relaxed and at ease, trying to keep up with the conversation but my mind keeps drifting and I’m fighting off sleep. 

“We’re here, sweetheart.” Joel’s telling me softly after what feels like minutes but when I’m trying to blink the sleep from my eyes I see we’re outside mine. I thank him as he helps me out of the car, gasping when he presses my back to the cool metal of his car and crowding his body with mine. His hands find my neck, thumb rubbing my jaw lovingly as his honey eyes search my features. Before I know it Joel’s lips are crushing against mine, my breath hitching in my throat as I’m quickly swept up in the intensity of the kiss. His tongue exploring my mouth with a sense of urgency that sends shivers down my spine. His hands are firm against my neck, fingers sliding into my hair as he pulls himself even more flush against me. My arms are wrapping around his waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as I hold on tightly. I can feel the heat radiating off of him, the hard planes of his body pressed against mine as he continues to kiss me with a fierce intensity. 

It’s a few moments later when Joel’s bulling back, both of us gasping for air, my heart pounding in my chest. The cool night air doing little to cool the heat pooling between my thighs and I’m whispering, “Stay the night.” 

“Sweet girl, you’re tired and-“ 

“Please.” I feel a little embarrassed begging but Joel’s eyes are darkening and his pupils are suddenly blown out wide. 

“Fuck me,” His voice is low and husky as his head falls against my shoulder, “Don’t beg like that.” I smile against his hair as his arms tighten around me, knowing he’s staying and that he feels the same intensity that I do. The way his fingers are pressing into the flesh of my hips has me knowing he’s just as frustrated as I am and it has me taking his hand and leading him inside mine. 

My small one floor apartment is cozy and cluttered, filled with mismatched furniture and decorations I've picked up over the years. There's a comfy, worn-in couch with a colorful throw blanket tossed over the back, a coffee table stacked with books and magazines, and a TV on a stand in the corner. The walls are painted a soft shade of blue-green, and there are various framed photos and artwork scattered throughout the space. As Joel toes off his shoes and pulls his shirt over his head, I can't help but notice how right he looks inside my home. His broad, muscular build fills up the space in a way that makes me feel both safe and incredibly turned on. He looks around, taking in the cluttered space with a small smile on his lips, and I feel a rush of affection for him.

Joel’s moving through my apartment, heading for my bedroom and I can’t help but admire the way his muscles ripple as he walks. My heart races with a mixture of anticipation, excitement and desire as I kick my shoes off along the way, my jacket falling somewhere between the living room and the bathroom. My mind buzzing with the though of finally getting to be with alone, of feeling his touch and exploring the depths of our desires. 

He’s sitting on the edge of my bed and I watch with bated breaths as he shimmies out of his jeans, leaving him in only very tight looking boxers. My eyes roam his body, taking in every inch of him as I bite my lower lip, eyes gliding between his thick thighs and loose curls before he’s patting those thighs, voice low and husky as he says, “Come here Doll.” The pet name sending shivers down my spine as I find my body moving towards him eagerly, straddling his lap and pressing my body against his. The heat between us is almost tangible, something heavy and sweet on my tongue as one of his large and calloused hands finds its way to my hair and the other settles on my hip. He’s dragging a gasped moan from me when he tugs at my hair, dragging me into a hot and hungry kiss. 

The kiss is fiery and passionate, sending jolts of pleasure through me, Joel’s lips soft and plump against mine, his tongue exploring my mouth with an urgency that has my head spinning. He’s swallowing a moan, my hands finding his hair as I press my hips down and feel his hard length press against me through his boxers and I’m breaking the kiss to whine out, “Need you Joel.” 

“F-fuck,” He’s groaning, eyes fluttering shut, “No, not tonight. You’re tired and I want it to be meaningful and-“ He brings his lips to my ear, breath hot against my cheek, “And I plan to have you screaming my name so loud your neighbours hear it.” 

“Need you.” I’m begging and before I know it I’m being flung onto my back, Joel’s frame hovering above me, his eyes so dark they’re almost black and his pupils blown wide with want, “Fuck, Joel please.” 

“What did I say about begging?” One of those hands finds my neck, fingers squeezing my pulse point gently, as if testing the waters and I arch my back into it. His hand moves away, replaced by his lips as he leaves hot and open mouthed kisses all along the bare flesh. His kisses leave a train of fire across my skin, making me gasp and moan as I tilt my head back, giving him more access to my neck. I can feel him pressed against my thigh and the thought of him wanting me just as badly only makes me want him more, ‘You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs against my skin, fingers dipping into the waistband of my jeans and tugging lightly so I’m raising my hips for him. He leaves me open and exposed, sitting back and gently prying my knees apart, eyes glued to my soaked and fluttering heat, “Fuck sweet girl, that all for me?” His fingers slip through my folds, gathering as much arousal as he can on his fingers before he’s plunging in two fingers with no warning, making me arch my back and cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. 

Joel curls his fingers deep inside me, his thumb finding my aching clit, already knowing how to make my body sing for him. He’s pumping his fingers in and out, groaning softly and groaning out, “That better?” His dick would be so much better but I’ll take whatever I can from him so I’m whimpering out a broken ‘yes’ rocking my hips down into his hand, meeting his thrusts. My hands are reaching for him and he complies, my hand finding the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck as I yank him down into a dirty kiss. My lips parting under his, welcoming him eagerly as our tongues slide together in a slow and sensual dance, his thumb quickening on my clit as my legs begin shaking as the pleasure builds. I’m whimpering and moaning into his mouth, my hands tugging at his soft curls and his kisses become deep and demanding. His hands speed up until my nails are digging into the back of his neck and forearm, my back arching off the bed and my head flies back as an orgasm ricochets around my body, leaving me shaking and crying his name so loud I’m sure my neighbours are going to complain but right now I don’t care. Joel’s fingers continuing their abusing pace until I’m trying to wriggle away from him in overstimulation. 

I feel numb for a moment as I come back to myself, Joel whispering sweet praises and pressing gentle kisses along my neck and jaw before he’s pulling back enough to meet my gaze. He looks completely blissed out, voice low and rough as he moans out, “Fuck, what would your daddy say if he saw you like this hmmm?” 

“J-Joel,” I’m whining, my hands running down his chest and a gasp is drawn from me when my fingers meet stickiness, eyes flying down to see he came. Fuck, that’s hot. He came from pleasuring me alone, untouched. Fuuuuuck. I’m swiping my fingers through the sticky mess and keeping my eyes locked on his as I suck the bitter come from them, walls fluttering at the way he lets out a guttural groan. 

“Not tonight sweet girl,” He’s climbing off of me and shimmying out of his now soiled boxers, using the fabric to wipe his torso clean before he’s manhandling me under the covers. I don’t hesitate to throw my shirt and bra aside so we’re cuddling naked, feeling completely content and sated in his strong arms. As I lay there, my head resting on Joel’s chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat and feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest, I realise that this is what I wanted for such a long time. 

“Sleep well sugar.” Joel’s pressing a kiss to the crown of my head and I’m pulling him closer. 

“You too handsome.” 

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

The Last of Us Masterlist

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[pigeonwhumps]

Kidnapping

Kidnapped masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @fuckcapitalismasshole @ghost-whump @whump-tr0pes

@rainbowsandwhumperflies @whumpinggrounds @actress4him @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds

@a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

AI-less Whumptober alt 8: kidnapping

(I am absolutely not writing these in order lol, I needed to fit them into the story. Also this one is mostly background I think)

Phoenix discovers that Brynn has gone missing.

2k

CWs: hero whump, panic, uncontrolled transformation, assumed kidnapping, past abuse and whump, nightmare, asshole managers

“Phoenix.”

Phoenix looks around in their dream, very confused. That voice, coming from the roof of the shed, there shouldn’t be anyone there.

“Phoenix!”

Phoenix jolts upright with a gasp. It takes them a moment, but then they see the string of coloured lightbulbs, the light-up sign, the glow-in-the dark stars on the ceiling, feel the weighted blanket wrapped snugly around them. They're not in the shed. They're not in the shed.

“Phoenix! Get down here, we need to speak to you!”

Phoenix flinches, and then– oh. It's Wildfire. They throw a hoodie on and hurry downstairs.

The cell block is cold tonight, but they hover around the entrance anyway, red lantern shining off the brickwork. Wildfire looks agitated in it, tracking Phoenix urgently.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sovereign has escaped.”

Phoenix staggers back a few steps. Sovereign. Escaped. No.

“When? How? Brynn– I–”

“Three days ago. The guards were discussing it. I thought you should know.”

“Right. I, um, thank you, I– I should–”

“Go!”

And Phoenix bolts. Straight back up to their flat, flying into their room and ignoring any commotion, dialling the number because if Sovereign's out that means he'll be coming for them, he'll be coming for Brynn because she double-crossed him and nobody lives to tell that tale.

Brynn's phone goes straight to voicemail. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck no.

Gemma. They can try Gemma.

She picks up after a few rings.

“Hello?”

Her voice is groggy and Phoenix immediately feels guilty.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to, um, wake you up, but do you, um, is Brynn there? And can I, um, can I speak to her?”

“Phoenix?”

“Yes, sir?”

“It is you then. She left yesterday, to surprise you by coming back early. Did she not arrive?”

Phoenix's heart skips a beat. No. No. This can't be happening. They can't lose her.

“No. No, um, no, she didn't. And Sovereign's escaped and–”

“Sovereign's escaped?” Gemma sounds alarmed, and far more awake now. “When?”

“Three, um, three days ago. And they didn't tell us and Brynn–”

“I understand. They didn't say anything to us either. I'll keep my eyes peeled for Brynn, but your contacts will probably be more useful.”

Phoenix nods, then remembers Gemma's on the phone. “Right. Thanks. You, um, thank you.”

“Call me if there's any updates.”

“I, um, I will.”

They say their goodbyes and Phoenix dashes out and up the fire escape, heading for the roof. Because Gemma's right, their contacts are more useful.

They're just not sure exactly how to reach him.

It's crossed their mind before that he might have the place bugged. They've never been sure how to feel about it, but right now, they cross their fingers and pray to everything they no longer believe in that he does.

“Electrocus!”

They scream their call to the cloudless sky, a desperate plea for the only person who might be able to help. Because Brynn is missing, and Sovereign's out, and the only person who might have a clue where they are is another villain.

They watch the skyline, fists clenched. Come on, come on, please let him be spying.

They watch.

And watch.

He’s not coming. He’s not coming.

They look down, blinking hard. He didn't hear. He doesn't care. He's not coming.

There's a soft thump behind them.

Phoenix spins around, heart leaping to their throat. “Electrocus?”

And there the supervillain stands, arms crossed, weight shifted to one side. Silhouetted against the streetlights.

“Firebird. Who do I need to kill?”

Phoenix flinches slightly at the strong voice. They still haven't quite worked out whether he'd do that for them.

“Sovereign's out. I think he, um, he's kidnapped Green Raptor. Have you, um, have you heard anything?”

“No. But there have been… rustlings. Among the villain community.”

Phoenix swallows hard. They don't know what these rustlings could be, but if Electrocus hasn't heard anything… how are they supposed to find her?

Electrocus steps forward and squeezes their shoulder. “I'll keep my eyes and ears open. We might hear something.”

“Thank you,” they choke out. Not the answer they were looking for but… maybe. Maybe there's still time. Maybe Sovereign will do something stupidly obvious.

Yeah, that last isn't likely.

He steps back, nods, and they turn their back for him to disappear. They don't know how he arrives on or departs from HAL’s rooftop and out of respect for them both it's a secret that's kept.

Phoenix wipes their eyes as they descend the metal stairs and enter back through the broken door (thankfully, it hasn't locked automatically for as long as they've known it). They just want to curl up and cry, but they can't. They can't. If Sovereign has Brynn, their team is probably next, and they need to tell someone. The door slams shut behind them and they stand there, uncertain, all their brain on Brynn, Brynn, Brynn.

“Phoenix? Come in, Phoenix, what's wrong?”

Phoenix blinks. Warm, steadying hands on their forearms. Santhiya's face in front of theirs, brow pinched in concern.

They try to shape the words, to convey, somehow, the depth of what's happened.

“Brynn. Sovereign.”

_

“...and you didn't think to tel us that the supervillain who we helped capture, who Brynn defected from, has escaped? You didn't even think to tell Brynn?”

Phoenix huddles under the blanket against the sofa and watches as Kai paces, phone to his ear, looking increasingly frustrated.

“You thought– why would she do that? How would she do that, she betrayed him! He'd kill her! Just because you can't conceive that someone might have a change of heart– yes. Yes, she's disappeared.” Huh. Phoenix didn't know Kai could grow claws when not in wolf form. “Fuck you. Fuck you, if that's your assumption! She's a member of my team, she's a good person and has made amends, she's been a hero for years now and your takeaway is that maybe she’s joined Sovereign again just because she was once his sidekick? That she can't have changed her mind despite how she helped arrest him? Fuck you.” He pants. “Yes, sir, I apologise, but– I– yes. No, we're not just going to leave them! And–” Kai listens, and then growls, wolf-like. “No. No, if we need to go after them, when we do it, it won't be for an arrest, or questioning, because we don't operate on assumptions of guilt. She helped us arrest Sovereign, what more do you need? For her to not have been adopted and abused by him in the first place, since she was a small child? God. We're not arresting her.” Another, longer pause, in which Kai twitches violently, his nose seeming to start lengthening. “We're rescuing her. I won't leave a member of my team to be arrested over bullshit. You can always order us not to go, or put us on probation, but we can resign, sir, and I know that Phoenix Costello and Santhiya Choudhary, for two, are willing to if you keep trying to stop us from doing our jobs. Everyone is worth rescuing, they're worth second and third chances, and I'm not going to let you stop us rescuing Brynn.” His ears, changing shape and colour, twitch. “Yes. Thank you, sir. You'll inform us of any developments? Thank you.”

Kai drops the phone and growls.

“Management didn't tell Brynn because they thought she might see how powerful Sovereign is and decide to join him.”

“What? But that's, um, that's not– she wouldn't! And, um, and any of us could do that. Just because she used to be a villain?”

Kai nods. Phoenix pulls the blanket tighter around themself, hiding what they're sure must be messed up patterns on their arms by now. If anyone knew how close they'd been to joining Electrocus that one time… and not even because he was a villain, just because he cared. They'd deserve their punishment but even so, they don't want management ever finding out.

“Gemma had lots of shouting matches with management over me,” says Morfydd, dumping cinnamon into the hot chocolate pan and stirring. “They didn't like that I came from Razor originally.”

“Assholes,” grumbles Lian, setting the mugs down with more force than necessary. “As if you'd have been more loyal to someone who did experiments on you and tried to shoot you.”

More and more, Phoenix wonders why they don't just leave. Just get up and walk out of here. But they can't – people are relying on them. There's no point in them if they're not going to be a hero.

They hum in agreement. They hate this. And Kai is– Kai is–

Santhiya kisses them on the forehead. “What's on your mind?”

They nod at Kai, whose claws have definitely lengthened. “Wolf.”

“Oh yeah. He did that when your secondment got increased too. Er, Kai? Claws?”

Kai looks down at his hands with visible surprise. Clearly his senses haven't started changing yet then. Are physical changes first?

“Oh.” With what looks like enormous effort, the claws shrink back into his hands, and his nose and ears go back to normal. He blushes. “Sorry.”

Santhiya glances at Phoenix, squeezing them tight. “It's fine. We need to talk about Brynn, and not losing anyone else.”

Kai nods, pacing. Lian and Morfydd bring over hot chocolate, sitting down together. Phoenix curls their hands around their mug, taking a gulp. It's scalding. Good.

But Morfydd’s hot chocolate is definitely not something to punish themself with, so they try to just nurse it for a while. It feels nice.

“We need to pair up,” says Kai decisively, “like we’ve done before. One pair and one three now, I guess. We each have a specific person to look out for. And if we have to leave the flat we don’t do it alone.”

“We should, um, call Aaron too,” adds Phoenix quietly. “They're, um, part of the team and Sovereign probably, um, probably knows.”

He's very dear to Brynn. Phoenix knows he was the first person she trusted here, and if Sovereign finds out just how important he is to her…

Kai nods. “Good idea. You'll do that?” Phoenix nods, already pulling out their phone. “One more thing. The trackers, from the time with The Chosen Ones. Do you still have yours, Phoenix?”

Phoenix shudders, blinking hard to banish the memories. “No, sir. It um, I was, um, it got lost.”

They worry Kai will want to know more but he just nods again. “Right. We’ll figure something out. Everyone else, put yours on. I know Sovereign is likely to remove them straight away but… just in case.”

Just in case. Just in case Sovereign infiltrates, or blows up a wall, and kidnaps one of them.

Of course, being in pairs won’t help if both of them are kidnapped. Would that be better or worse?

Lian stands abruptly. “I'm going to cook. If I sit here doing nothing I'll go mad. I can't help being angry at Brynn but she wouldn't betray us again. That's a stupid excuse management are using because they don't like that she used to be a villain. And I can't just sit here while they try to do what they would've done to Morfydd if it hadn't been for Gemma. They take ex-villains because it looks good but they can't deal with fucking nuance. So I'm going to cook.”

“They’d’ve liked me to disappear,” explains Morfydd quietly. “I wasn't a hero or a civilian, so.”

Phoenix shivers. They're close enough to villains that if anyone found out…

If Gemma helped Morfydd, maybe there’s something they could do to help people more. Before they get to medbay. Maybe Aaron will know. Or Gemma, but they… she’s still a bit of an unknown.

Not now, though. Later. After Brynn is back home safe.

They clutch Santhiya tightly, watching as Morfydd disappears into the kitchen and Kai sinks down to the ground, running his hands over his face. They don't want to lose anyone else.

Please don't let them lose anyone else.

[slaveofemma]

10 Years of Slavery - Ch.32

I moved to the guest bedroom after that night. And Ellie started telling people that we broke up. Everything else was pretty much the same, but I was going to the guest bedroom to sleep. I was craving her presence and smell in my room, but I didn't complain and followed her will. Ellie also didn't have sex with anyone for a while until things calm down and people stop caring about us.

Around that time, I believe soon before Ellie and Kyle broke up, I got a cold call from Hazel. I even struggled to remember who Hazel is when I answered the phone, but she reminded herself to me saying that she's Dylan's sister, and Ellie gave my number to her. And she was asking me to help her with an assignment. What she told me is that she asked Dylan first, which send her over to Ellie, saying her major is related to that -which was not-, so eventually Ellie sent her over to me saying I can help her. It wasn't a big deal so I helped her.

Then a week after, she called me for the second one. Soon, the third one wasn't an ask for help, instead she asked me if I can do the entire assignment for her as she had some other urgent stuff to do. At that point, I told her that it would not be appropriate and I can't do the full assignment for her. I was trying to be a responsible adult, but also knowing that I should be respectful towards her, I added that I am happy to help if she needs any support for parts of it.

She sighed, and thanked me briefly before hanging up. But the same evening, Ellie called me into her room, and asked me why I didn't help Hazel. It was the first time we actually talked about me helping Hazel. I told her that I was helping her already for a while, but this time she asked me to do the entire work and that's why I refused. But then Ellie gave me very clear commands:

"You are not an epitome of merit pinky. It's not even your concern to be a responsible adult or a role model for her. You are just a tool to do whatever you're told to. So you will call Hazel now, apologise and ask her to send over that assignment. To make up for your disrespect, you'll do the other schoolwork she has too. And you will ask her to send assignments straight away from now on. Clear?"

"Sure Ellie, I'm sorry."

"Don't say it to me. Call her now and make sure to apologise properly."

So I called Hazel. While it's ringing, Ellie asked me to put it on the speaker:

"Hi Hazel, I'm sorry to refuse helping you with the assignment. Can you please accept my apologies? To make up for it I'll do this one and the others you have."

"No worries, no need to apologise... and thanks for this..."

I heard in her voice that he wasn't sure how to respond, but also willing to continue exploiting my services. Then, Ellie urged me silently to continue. So I carried on:

"And after this one when you have an assignment that you think I can help, please forward them straight to me with a deadline and I'll do my best to help. I hope that would make up for my rudeness earlier?"

"I think so... it would be nice actually... thanks..."

"My pleasure. Happy to help anytime."

After that day, I did numerous tasks and assignments for her. She was simply forwarding me emails, or sending a photo of the assignment paper and I was getting that done with an "executive summary" as soon as possible.

...

Back then, my entire life was evolving around doing the housework and assignments for Ellie and Hazel, and taking care of my own studies whenever I have time. Actual in-person serving to Ellie was mostly limited to occassional worship sessions whenever she asks. Other than that occassions, a real slave's life is quite dull. It's not a constant latex-dressed freakshow as internet makes you believe. It's much more of doing the dishes, cooking, laundry, vacuuming, and boring schoolwork. I was also given up all of my social life to be able to keep up with everything. Since we announced our break-up, I wasn't being invited to social gatherings as much as before, and my other friends were slowly giving up on me.

Actually, one of my once-close friends tried to talk to me, thinking I'm depressed and need some help, but I assured him that everything's fine and I'm doing great. Which was sort of true. I tried to attend some gatherings, but I was sensing a pitiness towards me from people, most likely because everyone was thinking that Ellie cheated on me, and then dumped me but we were still pretending to be friends and living together. Yeah that's sort of something to be pity of, but it still made all those gatherings annoying and I stopped going anywhere. Sometimes, when Ellie has people over, I was greeting them before disappearing in my room for assignments.

....

Then, one night Ellie came back with a friend, Ava.

I was in my room when they made their way into the living room. Just seconds later, I heard Ellie shouting my "slave name":

"Pinky!!!"

It was my unofficial slave name, and she was almost exclusively calling me "pinky" by then. Still, I felt something worrying was about to happen.

When I entered the room, Ellie was sitting on the armchair while hanging her legs over one of the armrests, and Ava was on the sofa. I saw an eager glow on her eyes. Then, Ellie told me something I was dreading to hear about:

"Take off my shoes slave!"

She had an evilish smile on her beautiful face. I heard Ava's laugh.

[space-mermaid-writing]

The witchling and the god [Loki x Witch!Reader] Chapter 27

Summary: The Avengers were looking for someone to help Loki fit in with the team. To become socially acceptable, so to speak. He had been given the choice of sitting in a cell in Asgard or serving some sort of community service probation on Midgard. The Avengers and Shield both felt that as long as Loki was on Earth, he should be under supervision. This is now your job. Why? Because you’re a witch. You’re not sure why this qualifies you, but here you are, giving it a shot. What could possibly go wrong?

Tags: Witch!Reader, Magic, Witches, slow burn, everybody lives in the tower, character development, Loki‘s redemption, Stephen Strange is a friend, Loki and Stephen are frenemies, Tony Stark is a good bro, kids love Loki, Tony has stupid nicknames for everybody, eventual smut

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Read it on AO3 | Previous | Next

Chapter’s Note: Beta by @zaria-04

Chapter 27: Old Wounds

You hum softly to yourself as you stand in your garden and pick berries. Normally you wouldn't bother with it and float magically to reach the high branches. But since the witch hunters attacked Gabriel, you've become wary of showing your magic in public. Even if it's in the safety of your own garden and you have no direct neighbors. You never know who may be watching.

The harvest of berries is unfortunately meager. You missed the right time and most of them have been eaten by birds or are already starting to mold. There won't be enough for jam, but maybe you'll bake a pie with them.

Since you spend so much time in New York, you've neglected your garden. The pumpkins and zucchini are doing well and promise to grow big again this year. They also need less care than berries.

You've already weeded to give your important plants more room. Because of your absence, everything is a bit more overgrown than usual.

After you’ve raided the bushes, you go into the house with the bowl and put it in the kitchen. Eloise has placed an order for potions, but you decide that it can wait a few more days and that the pie is more important. With a flick of your hand the berries start to wash themselves in the sink and fly back into the bowl. In parallel, you open a book where you collect your recipes and flip through until you find what you're looking for.

You have two of these books, one for regular recipes and one for magical ones. It's important to keep the two strictly separate, otherwise you may have some unpleasant mishaps, as you've learned.

Your phone rings with a message that you ignore for now. Only when a second and a third message arrive shortly afterwards you do pick it up.

It's Tony, there are a lot of exclamation points and it sounds urgent.

"Alarm! Code: Dangerous Jazz Hands"

You have no idea what that means, but you put your work aside and touch a rune on your doorframe before stepping through.

"Jarvis, what happened?" you ask, after barely setting foot in the compound.

"Thor has returned from Asgard. He and Loki are currently on the thirty-fifth floor."

You hear a loud crash that sends a vibration through the building.

"On the thirty-fourth floor,” the A.I. corrects.

Cursing softly, you run. The elevator takes you up and as the doors open, you hear loud yelling and more crashing.

"...he never cared! It does not matter what I do! I could die and he wouldn't even bat his eye."

That is Loki's voice – furious, hurt – and you rush in that direction.

"You know that is not true." Thor is more collected and firm. He tries to reason with his brother.

"Really? Did he even ask about me? How I am doing? If I'm fine?"

The pause that follows speaks for itself and you hear another crash as something is thrown against a wall and breaks. You turn around a corner and see a hole gaping in the ceiling with metal struts peeking out. The path in front of you is blocked with rubble, which you climb over. You are now very close to the voices and hear the brizzle of raw magic. Shit, that's not good.

"That's what I thought." Loki's words are cold with venom. "I am just an unpleasant thorn in his foot and he has finally found the perfect way to get rid of me."

"Brother, please!... Stand back, Rogers. It's fine. I handle him."

"I do not need to be handled!"

You meet Tony, who is in his Iron Man suit, but faceplate open. "Good, you're here," he greets you, "Tell him the sun is getting low or whatever helps to calm him down."

You nod, but otherwise acknowledge him no further, instead pushing past Steve into a room. It's one of the lounges, but half the furnishings are destroyed. Pictures have crumbled from the walls, a table lies in pieces and the couch is overturned.

Loki's hands glow with magic, his whole body seems to be radiating it. He glares angrily at his brother. Thor has Mjolnir in his hands and the cracks on the wall testify that he has already used his weapon.

Thor puts a hand on Loki's shoulder to calm his brother, but Loki shakes him off and a hand to hand combat fight breaks out between the two. It doesn't look like they truly want to hurt each other, but the two Asgardians are inhumanly strong. A normal person's bones would break over this.

"Loki."

He pauses at the sound of your voice. Thor too, waiting to see what his brother would do, how he would react. Loki doesn't turn to face you. "Leave."

As if! You don't move an inch, not wanting to risk getting too close to him, because you don't know how much control he has over himself right now. But you don't back down, either. "No. This is about Odin, right? Screw him! You deserve better."

That makes him look at you. He sees you standing in his corner, even though you have nothing to do with this. But he also sees Tony standing in the doorway in his suit and Steve on your other side, without his shield but ready to step in if necessary. He feels Thor's gaze on him behind him. The men look at him with a mixture of waiting, wary and pity. Loki hates it. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid. He doesn't need to be handled.

You notice the shift in his aura, similar to when Felix died in the hospital. With your next words you get his attention back on you. "You want to smash things? Sure, I understand that. There are canyons we can go to. Just let's go together, okay? You promised me." Grasping at any straw, you reach out your hand for him to take.

Loki remembers and hesitates only for a brief moment. He prefers to be with you alone over being with these oafs of Avengers. The glow of his hands goes out and he slowly steps toward you. No one else dares to move, but the tension in the room is almost palpable. Only Thor suddenly looks much more relaxed and smiles.

Loki grabs your hand and the next moment you're both gone.

Tony breathes a sigh of relief. The witch still got it. "Jarvis, where did they go?"

"They are currently on the roof-deck," chimes the A.I.'s voice.

Thor steps up to him, his hammer leaning casually over his shoulder. "Stark, I take full responsibility. This has nothing to do with my brother's rehabilitation." He gestures to the resulting mess, but Tony waves it off while retracting his suit.

"I get it, Thor. I've never thought I'd say this but I understand Loki. Your father is really a dick, huh? I know that feeling all too well."

"Howard wasn't-...," Steve starts, but falls silent when he notices Tony's look.

"Let's not open that bottle, Cap, shall we? And don't worry, Manowar," he adds, turning back to Thor. "My insurance got that covered. But for the sake of my beloved tower, next time you want to talk about family with him, please go to that canyon."

He leaves the room to call construction and orders Jarvis to inform him in case Loki did something funny.

~~

Meanwhile Loki and you are standing on the roof terrace, still hand in hand. It's a beautiful day, sunny, but not too hot. Just the right amount of clouds in the sky and with a light breeze in your hair. And of course the noise of the city below you.

You're surprised that Loki transported you up here, but you don't ask about it. Instead, you turn to him and look up at him.

His face is turned away and he is looking at a point in the distance. You know what it looks like when old wounds cut open, relieving the same old fights.

You press a kiss on his cheek. "Hey, you with me?" It's a cautiously, gently question and he snaps out of his spiral of thoughts.

"Yes." His answer is as short as it is cold and he takes a step away from you. He's still angry, a mess of emotions. Loki was expecting it. He knew what Thor would tell him when he returned. Still, he would have liked to be taught better, had still had hope. After all, he is still the little boy who wants his father's approval. A snort escapes Loki. The recognition of his surrogate father. His biological father had abandoned him to die.

You give Loki his space, but squeeze his hand as a sign that you are there for him. "Family can be tough," you offer.

"You have no idea what it's like to be an outcast from your family. To not belong, no matter what you do. No matter how hard you try to please or get even a little attention." Loki's voice is venomous, his eyes narrowed like a snake's, ready to bite. It's defensive, you know he doesn't mean it. Or maybe he means it, but he'd be sorry for his tone later.

"You're right," you relent, looking at your intertwined fingers. "I'm glad that no matter what, at least I could always count on my family. On my siblings. But you have Thor. No matter what might have come between you two in the past, he's there for you now, supporting you."

"That's not the same thing. You don't understand. Your humans' lives are too short to understand some things. You are just too dull."

You inhale sharply by his rude words and your tone gets somewhat colder. "I'm not just a simple human," you remind him, but he laughs tonelessly.

"Of course you are. You just live a bit longer than the average human. But you're still one of them." Loki realizes he's derailing, but there's nothing he can do about it. It's like an out-of-control steam engine hurtling at high speed toward an abyss. And he's not only sitting in the front row, but shoveling coals into the fire to speed it up. It's absurd. He knows better. But he can't help it.

"You're adopted and that's bad, it complicates your life. But if you would just look out of your little shell of sulking, you would find that there are people who love you. Even within your family. And as for the rest: you are a prince. After all, they have to respect you for that. They don't hunt you down and kill you," you say more harshly than you intended, thinking about what just happened to Gabriel.

"I'm sure that they would just love to do that," growls the Asgardian.

"But they don't!" you exclaim and something snaps inside you. Loki seems a little surprised, you have never raised your voice to him like this. His expression darkens a bit more, a reflex whenever someone uses a tone towards him he doesn't like. But before he can even open his mouth, you continue speaking, angrily. "In the past, it wasn't just witch hunters we had to watch out for. I couldn’t stand out and I had to be careful who I trusted. So I know what it's like to live in a world where you're not wanted. They got me once and I pray I don't have to go through that again!" Your fingers slip from his and point accusingly at him.

"These witch hunters don't look like much of a threat to me," Loki says dismissively. "After all, here you are, standing before me, alive."

You stare at him. This is not the Loki you know. This one is cold, heartless with a total lack of empathy. Nothing suggests the kind and charming Asgardian you've become so familiar with. You don't know which of the two is the real one, how much of both is him.

You want to yell at him, you want to shake him, to get him back to his senses. But would that do any good? You're no longer responsible for him, you've quit and you're only by his side as a friend, as a lover. And this part of you is deeply hurt, and it shuts down. You don't feel like dealing with him at the moment. If he really wants to be an asshole, he can do it without your presence.

You open your mouth, but you don't know what you want to say.

A cruel smile creeps onto Loki's face, barely preparing you for his next, devastating words. "Cat caught your tongue? I thought you were so quick-witted. Or did those witch hunters damage your brain in the long run?"

You clench your hands into fists to stop yourself from smacking him. "Do you think your mother would be proud of you right now?" It may be a low blow, but you don't care. You don't even wait for an answer, you wouldn’t get it anyway. Instead, you turn around and swallow your tears as you walk away.

Loki's eyes follow you, the shock of your words bringing him back down to earth and leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He is aware that he has made a mistake. He just doesn't understand why he let this happen.

For quite a while he just stands there, shoulders slumped. The anger is gone from him - he gave it space, unfortunately against the wrong person.

With slow steps he starts to move, his eyes silently fixed on the floor, and returns to the prince's suite.

Thor is there. He is sitting on the couch with the television on. Nothing about his demeanor suggests that just twenty minutes ago he was destroying half a floor of the tower by fighting his brother. Next to him is a bowl of popcorn he made. In the microwave, of course. He wouldn't be stupid enough to use his lightning powers inside the tower for that. There wouldn't be much left of the corn afterwards.

He hears the door and Loki's footsteps. "Did you get it out of your system?" Thor looks up from the TV, but then sees his brother's expression and his face falls. "Oh no, Loki..."

"I made a mistake," the younger Asgardian mutters and drops down on the couch next to Thor.

Thor turns off the TV and turns to his brother. Loki has his head buried in his hands and Thor waits silently until he begins to speak. There is a pause, but Thor knows to be patient with his brother.

"How does mother put up with father? With everything he has done and is still doing?"

The question surprises the elder, but he thinks about it. "I guess she loves him and understands him, even if she doesn't approve of everything."

Another pause.

"How is she?"

"Good." Thor smiles gently. "She misses you, but she said you found something more dear to you since you don't write as often as you used to."

That is true. Since the Lunar Convergence, Loki has taken to pen and ink only sporadically. He has spent most of his time with you. A fact that makes him sigh. "I said some horrible things to her."

Thor frowns. "To mother?" Finally Loki looks at him and it clicks with Thor. "... Oh, I understand. Your Witchling." He says the word with a smile because it's Loki's nickname for you and he talks about you a lot. "So...?" he asks.

"So?..." Loki retorts.

Thor looks at his brother waiting, but nothing more comes. Loki has no further retort, but merely stares sadly at a point somewhere between the wall and the floor. Thor knows this look all too well, knows that a lot is going on in Loki’s head right now. It's a look that is often followed by a long self-isolation, because the younger Asgardian has never learned any other way to deal with the emotional chaos inside him. One would think that Asgardians would be wise and clever due to their long life, but the truth is that they are stubborn and take much longer to learn a lesson.

Thor is willing to nudge his brother in the right direction. By force, if necessary. "You said you made a mistake. So go, fix it." He reaches for the remote again, turns back on the TV, and grabs the bowl of snacks. Leaning back, he puts his feet up on the table.

Loki gives him a sour look. "It's not that easy."

"Good. Then it’s a challenge for once. You're always complaining that everything is so boringly easy here on Midgard," Thor replies nonchalantly. He has averted his eyes from his brother and watches the animated characters on the screen as if they were more interesting than what Loki is telling him.

Loki is gobsmacked by his brother's behavior, not used to him being so dismissive. "You seem to misjudge the situation."

"And you seem to be forgetting something important." He says this like it's something pretty obvious and throws a handful of popcorn in his mouth. "You're Loki, Prince of Asgard, worshiped as a god by Midgardians for centuries. Use your magic, use your silvertongue. Or don't. Maybe it's not worth it. You can watch the time of adventures with me." Thor gestures to the yellow dog on the screen.

Furious, Loki jumps up and glares at his brother. "There's nothing more worth it! I'll show you what I-..." He notices Thor's smirk and realizes that he stepped right into his brother's little trap. That sneaky bastard. He learned a lot from Loki. "Fine," the younger prince sighs, "You are right. There, I said it. Are you happy now?"

"I was happy to see you blossom at her side in these past weeks." Finally Thor is looking at his brother, his face nothing but honest. "It would sadden me if our family quarrel drove a permanent wedge between you. So, I mean it: fix it."

His brother's nod is enough for him as answer. "Do you want some of my popcorn? It's buffalo wing flavored." Thor holds the bowl out to him, but Loki makes a face in disgust when he sees the sticky brown texture. "Absolutely not."

"Your loss." Shrugging his shoulders, Thor shoves another handful into his mouth.

Loki steps up to the large panorama window, hands clasped behind his back, and ponders what he can do. He realizes he has gone too far. Normally he is a master of words, and knows how to use them in his favor. He made a mistake, but he'll be damned if he can't make things right again.

It's a sensitive subject for you, and Loki feels that it's not just the attack on your brother that's the reason. It must be something else. Something older.

Loki thinks about who he could talk to, who could tell him more about it. Because he is sure that you are not interested in talking to him or even seeing him at the moment. He has no contact with your siblings. Loki knows that he can get to your sister through the door portal in your room, but he doesn't want to use it. The risk of him stumbling over you is too high.

He can only think of one other person who might know something, and he doesn't like the prospect of that. Loki straightens his shoulders. It doesn't matter. If it will help him, he will do it. With renewed determination, he turns and strides with a "Thank you, brother" as he passes Thor, out of the room.

Thor smiles softly. "Anytime."

_______________________

(Please don't hate me. Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. It's the last time Loki and the Witchling fight. I swear!)

Loki: „I hurt the Witchling with the greatest weapon I know.“Thor gasps „You stabbed her?“Loki: „No!“Thor: „Did you attack her with magic again?“Loki: „No, I meant words. I hurt her with my words.“Thor: „Ooooh….“

Code: Dangerous Jazz Hands = Loki’s hands glow with magic and not in a fun way

Tag List: @lokisgoodgirl @lokixryss @itsybitchylittlewitchy @yokshi-unbeliebubble @fictional-hooman @elennair @all-envy-suyu @purplekitten30 @elisadmaggiore @nothing2113 @ceo-of-stfu @moonlightreader649 @ronipiamka @fluffybunnyu @ninjarose23 @ozymdias @huntress-artemiss @sofi786 @thedistractedagglomeration @rosaline-black @msrawog @moonlightreader649 @paetonnn @eldriidd @r4inlov3r @eleniblue @eleniblue @maeisonline @marvel-love24 @sinsandguilt @kalinaselennespeaks @ohtellmelove @eleniblue @hyojin-2579 @just-someone11 @marygoddessofmischief @fall-myriad @melavoris @baebeepeach

[forgottenyear]

[tw: blood / gore - clearly marked sections]

I got the attic storage space completed before the end of year two of the project. I need to move things from the basement to the attic, to make room for the new CNC Mill. The new machine arrived on Tuesday, just after I finished in the attic. I assembled that yesterday, and now I need to tune and to calibrate it.

[this part (one paragraph) may be a little disturbing because my kitty has cancer]

Everything is slowed because I have to give my little kitty tummy rubs. Her tumor is now visible on her left side and can be felt on either side. But she still gets around and has good and bad days for eating. I try to be available when she needs me.

--

[this part (the next three paragraphs) is very likely disturbing and a bit gory]

On Sunday, as I was installing the attic ladder, the spring-arm that helps to lift the ladder into the attic slipped and my head was in the way. It was not especially painful after the initial shock. I did not lose consciousness and I was not sick, dizzy, or confused after, but the amount of blood was so ridiculous. I got cleaned up and dressed the inch-long cut on my temple, then I went back to work in the attic. (Not be gratuitously gory, I did leave out a bit.)

Tuesday night, as I was changing the bandage, I noticed some redness around my eye. By Wednesday morning, yesterday, I had a bright red ring around my eye. I got in touch with my doctor’s office and they wanted me to go to urgent care for x-rays. At urgent care, they explained that x-rays do not show enough, and that even if they did detect a minor fracture, there is nothing they could do for it anyway. They did poke and prod to be sure there was no cause for worry and said it is a good bet that I do have a fracture. They explained that it is not unusual for a head wound to take a couple of days to find its way to an eye. They also told me that it should continue to get worse until the weekend, and then it should start slowly getting better.

Today I had sort of a cats-eye effect with a neat little sweep on the outside corner of my eye. The whole eye socket has been puffy. I cannot wait to see what is in store for tomorrow.

--

[all is clear as far as the goriness goes]

I shut down within seconds of seeing the first gory indication that this was more than just a bump on the head. My partner is not good with emergencies, so I was co-con while the unfused part took over.

We mostly went back to our usual roles in the system on Monday and Tuesday, but Wednesday was difficult again. I think we are still mostly co-con again.

Being co-con during projects is nice. Being co-con during emergencies is uncomfortable. I would not change the arrangement because the unfused part is better at this stuff than I am. But it is uncomfortable.

It is possible that it would be more uncomfortable without the unfused part, since they appear to have a greater tolerance for pain than I. And now it makes sense why it hurt only briefly.

[redvelvetnat]

little valentine

natasha romanoff x reader x wanda maximoff

summary ➞ the hottest and richest married couple in town have a dirty secret - the pretty little thing down the street that they like to indulge themselves in from time to time.

disclaimer ➞ strong language, legal age gap, threesome, smut, food play, dirty talk (praise + degradation + pet names), brief mention of sexual punishment

a/n ➞ this is late for no other reason than i am an idiot. this piece of work is not to be copied or translated anywhere. thank you for reading!!! comments and reblogs appreciated <3

“Go on, peach, don’t be shy.”

Natasha’s encourages fall onto unattuned ears, too busy with the urgent sound of the heart beating in your chest and the guttural moans escaping from the other redhead in front of you. She watches you stutter in action and a breathy chuckle rumbles in her chest.

“Look at her, Wanda. That pretty head has already gone all stupid and she hasn’t even been touched yet.” Wanda fights between breathy moans to muster a laugh and the sound makes your eyes flicker, momentarily, onto the vibrator hard at work between her quivering thighs.

Natasha’s hand brushes adoringly against your blushed cheek, wraps around your jaw, and guides you towards her wife’s shoulder where a dollop of whipped cream decorates her ivory skin. “Don’t you want a taste, sweet girl?”

You don’t have to answer as Wanda takes it upon herself to bury her hand into the roots of your hair and pull you towards her neck, black nails scraping against your scalp. Your lips enclose around the sweet condiment and three satisfied hums ring out in unison.

Wanda doesn’t let go of you, reveling in the feeling of your tongue stroking against her shoulder and up her neck, and you don’t protest either. It would take much stronger hands to pull you from her as your teeth sink into her throbbing pulse point. “Oh.” She whimpers against your ear, tightening her hold on your hair.

You can hear the hissing of the canister once more and throw a glance over your shoulder but Wanda pulls you into a frenzy of hot kisses and you can’t be bothered to investigate the noise any further.

Tongues clash, fingernails sink into unmarked skin, and both of your lungs seem to be void of air. “You’re so filthy.” Natasha comments from somewhere behind you, hand sliding down between your legs to collect your arousal on her fingers and spread it over your clit. “And so perfect.”

Your head falls back into a moan and Wanda takes her chance to attach her lips to your throat. Her hands are hot and burning on your oversensitive nerves when she slides them down your back.

“Let me have a turn. We’re supposed to share around here.” Wanda parts reluctantly at the older woman’s huffing and, before you know it, you’re being bent over her knees.

You know a punishment will follow and you wonder what you’ve done to deserve it, though you don’t very much care as long as you’ll be rewarded afterwards.

But there are no heated slaps to your ass or harsh spew of degradation from either woman. Instead, a cold runs up your back like a snake slinking itself around your spine. The canister sputters as Natasha sets it down and you can smell the sugary cream wafting through the air.

“Open.” Wanda commands gently, turning your head to her. Your mouth falls open without question and she raises a single strawberry to you, wedging it between your teeth and collecting the juice that dribbles down your chin with the pad of her thumb.

“Good girl.” She sings, bringing the digit to her mouth to suck it clean. You almost feel bad, as you dwell on the taste of the fruit, that they’re wasting so many of their Valentines treats on you. But you’re sure if you dared to call it ‘wasting’ out loud, they would punish you then.

It’s Natasha’s tongue that you feel next, at the base of your spine where it warms the icy skin. You moan at the feeling but the strawberry between your teeth only plugs the sound. “Be still, dove.”

You whimper when she draws her tongue up the middle of your back, collecting the cream in her mouth without leaving a single drop on your dampened skin. When she reaches the sharp edge of your shoulder blade, you can feel her breath creep up your neck.

She comes around you and wraps her lips around the protruding end of the strawberry, biting off as much as she can and Wanda’s disembodied voice instructs you to eat what is left.

Natasha’s mouth is on yours a second later, tasting of nothing but strawberry and cream. She kisses you hungrily and her hands explore whatever of the naked skin she can reach.

“No wonder we keep you around.” She comments against your mouth, Wanda’s fingers delving inside your cunt without much warning. You squeak in surprise, hand flying to Wanda’s leg to hold yourself steady.

“You’re just so good. Our perfect little Valentine.”

[mozak-hh]

Genshin impact Headcanon:

When they have a nightmare:

Rating: angst, fluff, sfw

Featuring: Xiao, Kaeya, Childe, Diluc

Xiao:

You could hear it, the sharp painful grunts that escaped Xiao's mouth. 

it was in the dead of night. You decided it would be a good idea to spend the night with Xiao at Wangshu inn. However, you did not realise how difficult it was for him to sleep. With his past, you should have guessed it. 

As if writhing in pain, Xiao clenches his fists and turns his head. Sputtering whimpers of desperate pleas and utter nonsense.

“Wait! no.. take me.. instead...” Sweat runs down his forehead. 

“Xiao,” You lightly shake him, moving closer to his side. 

“Doesn’t... deserve- take me... Please!” he jolts, scrunching his face in agony. 

“Xiao!” You slap him hard across the face, becoming more urgent to wake him up. As soo as your palm leave his cheek his eyes flash straight open. Something in them doesn’t seem right.. 

A quick force shoves you into the sheets, tight hands wrapping around your delicate throat. Xiao’s eyes gleam with crazed panic. His grip is too strong, and your shrieks don’t reach his ears. 

Only after he notices that it’s you, and not some intruder, does he take his hands back as if he’s burnt them. Letting tears fall down his cheeks as he rests his head on your abdomen, legs kneeling on each side of your body, arms pulled into his chest tightly. 

“I didn't.. no-” he flinches when you bring your hand to run through his hair. Your soft touch brings more tears to his eyes. He leans into your hand, almost purring at the relief of knowing you aren’t hurt. 

“Take it slow Xiao. Things will get better, I promise.” You sit up in the bed, causing Xiao to shift his weight, sitting in front of you. You lift your pinkie finger and whisper another “I promise” until he wraps his own pinkie around yours. Kissing you deeply in the process. 

Childe:

Spending the night in Childe’s bed was not out of the ordinary. The ginger-haired fellow seemed enlightened in the fact that he could wrap his arms around you and rest. 

But Childe would often have nightmares. Blood curdling agonies of the events he faced in the abyss. 

It was in the early hours of the morning when you could hear hard thumps coming from the other side of the house. The other side of the bed completely empty save the thrown about linen, damp with sweat. 

You leapt out of bed at the sound of metal clashing against metal.  a thunderous clap ringing in your ears. Fetching the pointed dagger from your bed side table, you sprint towards the entrance to the training room. Perhaps there may have been a break in?

A stupid question. As soon as you round the corner you bare witness to a dishevelled harbinger. Hair tossed about and slick with sweat, eyes peeled towards the training dummy sat pathetically in the centre of the room. 

Childe pants hard, centring him balance before hacking away at the dummy’s torso with a sharpened blade. Thinning its waist before it almost comes clean off. 

But not before a smaller blade shoots out from its chest. You poke your head out from behind the dummy, giving Childe a winning smile. 

“What am I gonna do with you,” you cross your arms. Seeing the way his eyes darken at remembrance has you frowning. 

He steps back from you, gesturing towards his trembling build. Tall and strong, but tired. “didn’t think you’d see me like this,” he says. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. 

“Nothing a cup of tea cant fix. Besides, we promised to take care of each other right? I’m not leaving your side tonight babe,” you wink at him jokingly.

Childe breathes a sigh of relief before following you to the kitchen. You knew just what to say…

Kaeya

Kaeya never liked to cry in front of anyone. Well, no one really knew what to say when he did. He was always so cunning and joyful, why would he ever cry?

It was one of those nights. Kaeya leapt out of bed after shaking himself from his night terrors. Trying not to wake you up, he crept from the bedroom before falling to his knees in the study. Furiously wiping his tears and internally kicking himself for being so weak.

“Kaeya…?” Shit. You woke up shortly after he’d left. Knocking quietly on the door while waiting for him to open it.

You could hear a fumbling of things and silent muffles before seeing a very worn kaeya open the door. He was smiling, but you couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a grimace.

“Hey pretty lady, up quite late aren’t you? Let’s go back to bed shall we?” He tries to lead you back to the bedroom. What takes him by surprise however, is when you wrap you arms around his back and embrace him.

“Don’t try and hide it… I love you, so let me take care of you,” he never knew words could break his walls down so easily.

Kaeya looked at you from a split moment before balling into the crook of your neck. Returning your embrace and locking his arms around you waist. You could feel your shirt getting damp from his tears.

You two shared this moment for some time. Kaeya sobbing while you stroked his long hair. It was when his sobs had turning into quiet sniffles that you started to speak.

“Let’s get you fixed up big fella,” you say softly. Holding his hand as you walk him to the bathroom. His face was red and eyes wet. Hair in a dishevelled way. Once you two each the bathroom, you wash his face in a wet cloth before starting to do his hair.

You put it into once long braid, and when your done you take his face in you hands, cupping his cheeks. You smile and chuckle quietly,

“Petty boy,” he leans his head on your chest. Breathing in your scent before leaving a tender kiss on your collarbone, eyes fixated on you with love.

“Oh how could I not adore you?” He kisses you on the lips this time.

Diluc:

Diluc didn’t hate anyone more than himself. That was a fact. The thing he said to his brother and the actions he’d done to shut people out haunted his dreams. Regret always lingering in the back of his mind.

One of these terrible dreams had diluc walking outside the winery late at night. Tears silently rolling down his cheeks while gazing at the sky. Cursing the stars at his misfortune.

His steps slowed down at the sight of the lights being turned on at the mansion. Hearing a loud bang of the front doors being flung open before seeing you scramble out the house. Bunching your night gown to make sure you don’t trip. Hair flowing in the wind behind you as you looks around.

Your eyes look with him, and you race towards him. But seeing his face raw with emotion has you stopping just a few meters in front of him.

“What’s wrong? God you scared the shit out of me,” you breath heavily. You weren’t even wearing shoes, diluc thought.

He looks at you meekly before whispering, “why is it always me?” More tears falling from his eyes.

Your sad expression and you open arms has him racing towards you instead. Picking you up and holding you in his arms, face nestled in the crook of your neck. He slowly puts you back down as he cries silently.

“Oh Diluc, sweetheart..” your words only make him cry harder. “Let’s go sit”

You gesture him towards the river, and the two of you sit on grass and sit in comfortable silence. Rubbing his hand with you thumb, you let him wrap his arms around you, making you sit in between his legs.

Diluc kisses your head. Silently worshipping your body as if this is your last night together. Slowly rocking you and pressing your bodies as close together as possible. His tears keep flowing, but he’s content. Being with you is all he needs right now.

Hope you enjoyed lovelies xx

By me a coffee? ❤️

[genz420]

The Fire That Burns With Us - Chapter 42: Cut Short.

Previous Part - Next Part

137 - The Red Keep

Aemond had been eager to take Visenya up on her words, leaving court in the calmest manner they could without drawing much attention to themselves. Aemond loves his children more than life itself, but sometimes he just wants to spend some alone time with Visenya without having to worry about the twins.  Even if the two go on dragon rides alone or sneak away to some dimly lit hallway, it is never enough time for him.  

The two had been rather excited once, inside the privacy of their room.  Aemond pushed away the contents of the table in the center of the room so that he could put Visenya on top of it, and he had almost ripped off her top before she could stop him.  Visenya had just been eager to make the most of their time, and she doesn’t know where she had thrown his eye patch or where the clasps of his jacket had fallen either.  

Aemond loves his wife.  She is truly the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eye on, and when she pulled off his shirt and pushed him down onto the bed, his heart nearly stopped.  Aemond keeps himself propped up on his arms as he watches Visenya kiss down his chest, her hair tickling his skin, but Aemond doesn’t care.  

A knock at the door makes her stop.  Aemond will cut off the hands of whoever is at the door.  Visenya looks back to Aemond and smirks at the frustrated look on his face. She ignores the knocking and goes back to kissing down his torso.  Aemond wishes that she would hurry up and not be such a temptress, but he knows her well enough that she loves to torture him.  

Another knock, and Aemond thanks the gods when Visenya doesn’t stop but starts to undo his pants.  

“Princess Visenya!” Someone yells from outside the door, and Visenya sighs as she rests her forehead on Aemonds stomach.  

Visenya stands up from between Aemonds legs, and Aemond grunts as she leaves to answer the door.  Visenya fixes her shirt as she walks, knowing that it would not be appropriate to answer the door with her tits out.  Visenya makes sure she is dissent before she opens the door to show two Kingsguards standing.  

“What?” Visenya asks.  It is very clear what she had been doing before she had opened the door, flushed, lips red and bruised, hair wild, and slightly out of breath.  The Kingsguards both move on their feet while waiting for the other to speak up.  

“Princess Helaena is asking for you,” One of them tells Visenya, and she looks between, slightly asking them if they are serious.  She loves her grandsire but would rather spend some alone time with Aemond than sit at the king's bedside.  

“Can it wait?” Visenya asks. “I am rather preoccupied with my husband at the moment,” 

Once it becomes clear to Aemond that Visenya is having a conversation with the person on the other side of the door, he has no choice but to get up.  Not bothering to fix his pants or put on a shirt, Aemond walks to stand behind Visenya.  The two Kingsguard take a step away from the door once Aemond comes into view.  

“It is urgent,” The Kingsguard tells Visenya, keeping his eyes on Visenya rather than the half-naked Aemond. 

“Are the twins okay?” Aemond asks, pulling Visenya to lean into his naked chest.  In any other circumstance, Aemond would have put some clothes on, but he is annoyed that someone even dared to bother them. 

“Yes, Prince Aemond, but-”

“Then the princess can visit her after we are finished,” Aemond tells them as he pulls Visenya back from the door, closing and locking it when she is further into the room.  

Visenya turns around to face Aemond, smiling as Aemond grabs ahold of her face.  The cold metal of his ring is an amazing contrast to the heat of her face.  

“Dear Husband, that was rather forward of you; the Kingsguard might talk amongst themselves,” Visenya jokes as she leans into his hold.  Aemond hums as he leans down to rest his forehead against hers.  

“The horror and shock when people find out that we love each other,” Aemond jokes back. “I do believe we have a rather busy day,” 

– – 

Visenya and Aemond lay on the bed together, the light from the setting sun bleeding into the room.  Aemond watches as his wife draws symbols on his chest with her fingers, smiling as she glows in the light.   They are happy that the rest of their time together went uninterrupted and that they got to spend some much-needed quality time together. 

Visenya pulls herself off of Aemond, smiling down at him.  She makes her way to sit up, and Aemond does the same, pulling her to lean on him as he kisses her bare shoulder.  Visenya turns her head to look at him and smiles. 

“Are you not tired yet?” Visenya asks, and Aemond lays back down on the bed, crossing his arms behind his head as he smirks at Visenya.  Visenya takes him in for a second before moving to straddle his hips; Aemond uncrosses his arms and grabs ahold of her hips. 

“The day is not over yet,” Aemond tells her as he moves his hands up her sides. “I do believe that you said the rest of the day,”

Visenya hums at his words and leans down to kiss him.  Aemond leans his head up to meet her, but a wailing cry makes Visenya snap away.  Both listen for a moment before Visenya gets off Aemond, grabbing her clothes off the ground. 

“That Laenor,” Visenya tells Aemond as she quickly puts her clothes back on.  Aemond follows her actions. Both parents know that Laenor doesn’t cry often; it is never a good sign when he does.  

Visenya makes her way down to the door as she hears a knock.  Part is relieved when she sees the twins being held by Ben, but the wailing cries of Laenor instantly make her worried something might be wrong with him.  Visenya takes Laenor out of the overwhelmed Ben's arms, gently shushing her son and rocking him in her arms.  Visenya walks back into the room, and Ben follows her, still holding a happy Daenys who keeps playing with her dragon despite her brother's cries.  

“What happened?” Visenya asks Ben as she kisses Laenor's head; Aemond walks down from the bed area and checks on the babe in Visenya's arms.  

“Well, Helaena tried to bring the twins back to you two a couple of hours ago but didn’t want to bother you guys when she realized that you two were rather busy,” Ben starts to tell them as he hands Daenys to Aemond.  “She was going to give the twins to the Queen to watch, but I ended up running into her, just randomly in the halls.  Laenor started crying not too long ago, I have checked everything, but I don’t know what is wrong,”

Visenya listens to Ben as she tries to calm him down, Laenor keeps crying, but he starts playing with Visenya's hair.  Laenor had inherited the same wild curly hair as Visenya, and in the past six months, it had grown out; Daenys had the same straight hair as Aemond, and it had only started to grow.  

“Thank you for watching them, Ser Blackwood,” Aemond thanked Ben as he moves to see Laenor. 

“Of course, I would have kept watching them, but I don’t know what is wrong with Laenor,” Ben tells them as he looks from afar at the crying baby.  He had been worried that something might be wrong with him, but Ben had already taken him to the midwives, who just told him to bring the twins back to their parents.  “Is he okay?”

Visenya nods as Laenor quiets down. Visenya kisses his head as Laenor buries his face into his mother.  Aemond brings one hand up to rub the back of Laenors head, still worried that something might be wrong with him even if he has quieted down. 

“I think so, and I think I know why he was upset,” Visenya says as she walks to his crib and takes the wolf out of it, she shows Laenor, who takes it from her and starts to bite on it.  “I am surprised he didn’t get upset earlier,”

Aemond smiles at his son's mood change once he sees the wolf.  

“I don’t think he was upset because he didn’t have his wolf. I think that he just missed you,” Aemond tells Visenya as he moves to stand next to her, gently rubbing Laenors back as he holds Daenys with one arm.  

“Ek sjá at þú tveir vóro haffunr,” Bens says as he looks around the room, Helaena had told him why she hadn’t given the twins back that the noises coming from the room were a clear sign not to disturb the married couple.  “Eru meiri smár einn koming brátt?”

I see that you two were busy.  Are more little ones coming soon?

“I’ll see you tomorrow for training,” Visenya tells Ben as she smiles at him. “Thank you,”

Ben smirks at the two as he nods his head down. He is quick to leave the two alone with the twins, and Laenor has quieted down, but Visenya keeps rocking him.  Aemond takes a step closer to Visenya and Laenor, making sure that Daenys doesn’t try to grab Visenyas hair or upset her brother, he leans down and kisses Laenor's head.  

“Vestragon hae īlva tubis iksis nektogon mība,” Visenya tells Aemond and he hums in agrement.  

Seems like our day is cut short.  

Aemond must admit that he doesn’t hate their day being cut short. He missed the twins throughout the day, and having them back in their presence is nice.  Aemond smiles as Visenya rubs Laenors back, lulling the baby closer to sleep.  He kisses Visenya's cheek before sitting on the couch with Daenys, asking his daughter what she has in her hands. 

[that0newriter]

⚙️❤️Faulty Heart❤️⚙️

Chapter 1

Summary: Freddy finds out some devastating news, resulting in a heartfelt sleepover with him and his funky crew.

Notes: I am very rusty at writing for characters and fanfiction in general. Hopefully I'll shake off the rust on these old bones as the story progresses. For now, please enjoy! This is also posted on my Quotev & Ao3!

'Okay, Matthew, You have to tell Freddy exactly like the others that Fazbear Entertainment decided to make a new animatronic after these years to practically replace Bonnie.' The tall, slender, ginger male thought as he paced- typing on his ipa- err. Fazpad. Matt runs a hand along his face- seemingly upsetting himself more and more with the simple idea. With a sigh, the neatly dressed Mr. Caddel makes his way toward the head of the entire company's room- trying to breathe. The manager hesitates, hand raised in a fist to knock on the door- his other gripping on the fazbear branded iPad for life. Matt took a deep breath; his knuckles made contact with the piece of metal- making a tune of his knock. Matt knew he had the ID and authority to enter the bear's room. However, the lovely side of him understood a straightforward thing. They were like him—human in every way- even if they were from circuits and metal parts.

"Who is it?" The Fazbear's voice erupts from the other side, causing the human's voice to not come from his throat. With a gulp and hesitation, he speaks.

"Freddy, it's me- Matt. Can you let me in, bud? It's urgent.." Only seconds before, the tall animatronic was shown in the open doorway- looking down at the manager. Brows were furrowed with worry as he looked at Matt. It was rare for urgent news and information to come from the first in command himself. Without words, the bear steps aside- Matthew walks in and takes a seat on the orange-colored sofa. The head bear closed the door and walked over to the opposite-facing sofa- sitting down and crossing a leg over the other.

"What's wrong? Did something happen-?" "It's about Bonnie-" The older man spoke, holding a hand up not to get questioned further. However, it was clear the mention of the purple rabbit made Freddy's face fall- blue eyes drifting to the floor as he went quiet. The ginger-haired male lets out a sad sigh, looking at the poor bear with worry.

"Fazbear Entertainment decided to... last minute... build a new animatronic to be placed in Bonnie Bowling. They're already building it." Horror wrote itself all over Freddy's face at Matt's words. New animatronic? Bonnie Bowling? What were they going to do?! The bear's face dropped- horrified.

"W-What are they going to do- rebrand? Are- are they going to change anything..?" Freddy tried to remain calm as he listened. But alas, he sighs in relief at the answer. No. They weren't. Thank gods.

"They're not sure how the audience will take to them, even still...you know I'd fight for them not to change it. Bonnie meant a lot to you. To all of us.." Matt gets up, going to the bear and gently lifting his head. Carefully he hugs Freddy- feeling him embracing back and beginning to sob. The human didn't blame him one bit. Knowing your companion who was so close to you- one you seemingly couldn't get over when they were gone and now being replaced? It hurt. It was a knife jab to Freddy. But...he, unfortunately, knew the company didn't care. Like many corporations...all they wanted was Money. Matthew pulls back, gently wiping the bear's tears and speaking- soon leaving just as a familiar chicken walks in.

"Freddy-? Freds..?" her voice rang out, her voice wasn't... the usual and cheerful chicken she usually was. Chica's posture shows her upset as she makes her way to the bear- sitting down next to him.

"Chica...are you okay?" Chica freezes- she wants to be here for her best friend. The only one who was left, tears suddenly fell from her eyes- causing her to tug on her hair after letting it down- sobs ringing out.

"I-It's not fair-! W-Why can't they rebuild him?! I-I'm happy to get a new member, don't get m-me wrong, b-but... He was like a brother to me-!" The white chicken sobbed out, some of her makeup starting to run down her face as the taller bear pulled her into a hug- holding her gently with care. His colored claws slowly ran through her hair as she continued to sob, burying her face into his neck.

"Why do they have t-to do this to us, Freddy..?" "I-I...I don't understand either, Chica...I know it's hard without him...we all miss him..so...so much." Freddy's voice wavers as he holds the smaller animatronic close- trying his damn best not to start sobbing. But he couldn't hold it back like he usually could. All this stress, shock, and horror plagued his mind in ways he couldn't imagine. A knock on the door and the familiarity of an alligator and wolf walking into the lit-up room were enough to make him look over through his tears. The orange bear's smile was weak as he watched Roxanne roll her eyes jokingly.

"See, Gator boy? I told you they'd be crying-!" Roxy piped up, walking over to the two, holding onto each other. She carefully grabs the chicken- lifting her in her arms just as Montgomery gator did the same for the Fazbear, despite many protests. The green gator lets out a playful huff at the grey-purple wolf- slinging the main rockstar over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Well, 'am sooo sorry, Queen Roxanne- but may I remind ya whose idea it was to set up some smoothies and our mandatory sleepover?" "WELL, EXSCUUUUSE ME, PRINCESS-!" the wolf lets out a playful scoff before lightly hitting the other with her tail- ears perking up as giggles erupt from both Freddy and Chica. A sly grin appeared on the duo's face at hearing their s/o's adorable giggles- of course, they knew them like the back of their hand. It was clear that Roxanne and Monty wanted to make them smile and have a good time with this devastating news- especially since it's so close to what happened to Glamrock Foxy... it's a shame. It was still so fresh. Forcing a smile back on her muzzle, Roxy quickly puts Chica down after arriving in the gator's surprisingly neat room- her hands fast going at the pink-loving chicken's sides.

"I heard that giggle, Chic! You know I heard it~!" Monty laughs as he watches, putting down his honey bear and watching as the two shorter ladies begin to tickle fight. It was seconds before he busted out in his own laughter as the "sophisticated and proper" bear was attacking his sides, which caused a tickle war and turned into a pillow fight.

"Haha! Monty! Monty-! Come help me-!" Chica called as she gently hit the wolf with her pink-coated pillow- earning a purple one hitting her side with laughter following. "Fazbear-! Come join the best team and take these two down~!" Roxanne barked with a grin. Of course, she didn't mean she made their team the best, unlike before. Over time, being in the pizzaplex and becoming much more comfortable and close to the band made the narcissistic wolf mellow out. She was much happier now despite the losses they all faced. With laughter and stuffing filling the air, the crew finally settled down with each other- sighing in relief and trying to catch up on their breath.

"I honestly forgot how great this felt.." "Indeed, we all needed this." The dark-skinned bear turns on his side after switching to his human form, the others following suit. Smiles were all on their faces as they settled for bed- Freddy being the one to turn off the light before getting in bed with his gator man.

"Goodnight, gang." "Night.." "Nighty night!" "Monty, you better not goddamn snore again-" Laughter bursts from the darkness as Montgomery lets out an offended gasp. He sat up, placing a hand on his chest as he looked over where Roxy was lying. "How dare you! I don't snore! Right, Freddy??" however, the blue-eyed man looks away, innocently whistling before his nose was flicked, causing him to let out a giggle.

"Heh, you do, Hun. And you're- lovingly, you are so loud.." "Why I never-!" Freddy gently pulls the pouting alligator into a kiss, feeling him practically melt in his touch. Night falls upon Hurricane- the sound of...well. Almost silence filled the air. Monty was snoring loudly, but Roxy and Chica were seemingly fast asleep, listening to music or ASMRs to block out the loudness of the gator. One remained awake, however- Freddy lifted his hand up at some of the glow-n-the-dark stickers Monts had placed on the room's roof, face faltering. A frown was on his lips as his eyes started to swell with tears.

"Oh, Bonnie...Foxy. If you both could join us now. You both would've loved this.." The bear muttered- reaching out for a series of colored stars. The color of himself and his band. That included the purple bunny and red fox. Freddy turns on his side, slowly snuggling up to the gator who sturred- arms instinctively wrapping around the teddy's frame as tears fell from his blue eyes. They were the only ones left now... as much as it pained them, they all knew a new family member was coming soon.

[weekend-conspiracy-theorist]

(an entry in the tim&steph role swap au)

When Tim's phone rang the first time, he swiped it away as soon as he saw Stephanie's caller ID on the screen. She was his Robin; his best friend; his platonic soulmate; the piece of himself that had become bigger and brighter and more by growing outside of him. But that didn't change the fact that Tim had a job, and unfortunately he couldn't drop everything to listen to his better half rant about her analytical chemistry professor's draconian late work policies.

(It was 10 AM on a Thursday, which was the end of Professor Morgan's office hours. Tim got this phone call nearly every week.)

"Sorry, please continue," he said, crossing one leg over the other as he turned his attention back to his client. (Potential client. One he was pretty sure was trying to use him to dig up dirt for the express purpose of blackmailing one of his employees.)

"Right," Jack Curry said. His smile didn't reach his eyes. He'd been unimpressed ever since Tim informed him that, sorry, but Alvin Draper wouldn't be available any time in the next week. "Like I was saying--"

Tim's phone started buzzing again. A spark of annoyance shot through him, followed near immediately by a wash of worry that left him furrowing his brow. Stephanie didn't usually try to call him again if he ignored her; she launched herself straight into paragraph long text rants and strings of nonsensical emojis. Contrary to what he liked to accuse her of, she was fully aware that his life did not revolve around her.

"Sorry," Tim repeated, tuning Curry's huff of annoyance out as he dismissed the call again. This time he also shot off a text, letting Stephanie know he was with a client and could call her back in twenty minutes or so.

His phone started ringing before the text had even finished sending.

"Excuse me; this must be an emergency," Tim said distractedly, standing and pressing his phone to his ear as he disappeared into his shoebox of an office. Curry seemed pissed, but Tim wasn't sure he cared; he'd already pretty much decided against taking the case, although he'd intended to wait the full conversation out to see if Curry managed to pull himself back out of the skeezeball hole he'd been digging.

"The world isn't ending or anything, is it?" he asked, kicking the door shut behind himself.

It wasn't that he expected Stephanie to call him as if there anything Tim could do to help--the apocalypse was lightyears above his pay grade--but he had gotten a distressing handful of "Hey, just in case, I wanted to tell you I love you and that your hair is stupid" phone calls over the last seven years.

"Oh!" a deep, male voice said. "Uh, no?"

"Wait--Dick?" Tim said, bewildered. He pulled his phone far enough away from his face to double check that it was Stephanie's caller ID that had popped up. So why the hell was it Dick Grayson on the other end of the line? "What's going on?"

"Well, it's a good news, bad news situation, I suppose. Good news, things are less catastrophic than what your mind apparently immediately jumped to, and we'll have to circle back to unpack that at some point, bud. Bad news..." Dick uncharacteristically hesitated. "First and foremost, Tim, she's going to be fine."

Ice ran down his spine.

"What's going on?" he repeated, his voice flattening. He'd never been the type to respond to panic by getting loud or frantic; he'd always been the type to shut down. To grow still and silent.

Dick didn't mince words this time, sensing Tim needed him not to. "Steph's in the hospital."

Not, "Steph's injured," a statement that could include anything from a sprained ankle to a straightforward fracture that Alfred had been able to set himself in the Cave. Not, "Steph's at the clinic," a statement that could include anything requiring simple surgery.

"Steph's in the hospital."

That meant something bad enough Leslie Thompkins thought it required specialized care, or something urgent enough that they'd needed to get Stephanie to the closest hospital, risks to their secret identities be damned. He tried to convince his heart to slow its racing. Dick had said she was fine. No--he had said that she was going to be fine.

There was a world of difference.

"Have you already called Crystal?" Tim asked, remarkably calmly considering his vision was swimming. He'd never before been grateful that his office was so tiny that his desk was within arm's reach no matter where you stood. His grip on its edge was white knuckled.

"She just got here." There was a note of guilt in Dick's voice. "She asked if you were on your way."

Tim could forgive them the lapse in judgement. Steph and Tim were... important to each other, the kind of important that words could not possibly express, but the Bats hadn't known that for very long in the grand scheme of things. And Stephanie had been so used to hiding their friendship from them that she probably still did so at times, out of habit; Tim doubted she'd thought to add him to her list of emergency contacts.

(She was the only one on his.)

Except, he'd still always been notified when she was injured in the past.

Tim forced himself to breathe. "How badly is Cass hurt?"

The only sign of Dick's surprise was a split-second of hesitation. "She's just a little banged up. Currently sleeping it off. I'm sure she, uh, would have called as soon as she woke up."

"Okay," Tim rasped. Oh, right, breathing was an ongoing thing. He was having trouble focusing. "Why--why are you calling from Steph's phone?"

"Figured you were more likely to pick up," Dick told him, his tone aiming for levity.

Tim could understand the thought process, but... "I would have assumed it was an emergency immediately if you'd called from your own number."

It's not like they'd ever talked on the phone before this.

"I didn't realize you even had it," Dick told him honestly. "I guess I should have figured Steph gave it to you."

She hadn't. All of their numbers had just showed up in his phone the day after Bruce Wayne first decided that he wanted to give Tim additional training; he was pretty sure it was Oracle's doing. Not that that was important at the moment.

"Has anyone emailed Steph's professors?"

Bewildered, Dick said, "Uh, I don't--"

"I'll take care of it," Tim said, automatically, and dropped heavily into his desk chair, fingers clattering across the keyboard as he logged into his account and then, further, into Stephanie's school email. Of course there was a bitchy email from Professor Morgan, chiding her for missing their appointment. Tim took vindictive pleasure in informing him that--he paused. "What's the official cover story? Car accident last night?"

"Mugging."

Tim's typing faltered. That probably meant GSWs, or something else they couldn't easily explain away. "Which hospital?"

"Gotham General."

The closest of Gotham's major hospitals to Red Bird's offices; there were small mercies in life. Tim copied and pasted his draft email into four other windows, adjusting the salutation to address each of Stephanie's professors, and then sent them off. "I can be there in ten minutes."

Tim stood, and his vision tunneled as his heart did something funny in his chest. "Dick," he said, his voice suddenly small, and then found he had no other words.

"She's going to be okay, Tim," Dick promised again, his voice softening.

"And how is she right now?" he asked. His hands were shaking. The trembling had reached his voice as well.

(Tim had had this recurring nightmare for years now. He was sixteen years old and his best friend was hanging limply from heavy shackles. There was a pool of blood on the floor below her. He pressed his fingers to her neck and he didn't find a pulse.

He was sixteen years old, sneakers catching at each creaking metal step as he carried his best friend out of the basement she'd been tortured in, and she died in his arms.

He was sixteen years old, hanging tight to his best friend's hand as she lay in a hospital bed, looking impossibly tiny for a girl who had always been so much larger than life. Robin, the Girl Wonder. He hadn't realized that he'd still thought of her as something more than human, until the machine flatlined and his brain just refused to compute that Dr. Thompkins couldn't bring her back.)

"She's hurt pretty badly," Dick admitted quietly. "But she's a fighter, Tim. You know that."

"Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I do. I'll--ten minutes."

"Breathe, Tim. We'll see you in ten."

***

Tim paused in the doorway to his office, staring blankly at the man on his couch. "You're still here?"

"Excuse me?!" Curry snapped. "You--"

"Have a family emergency," Tim said flatly. "And I wasn't going to take your case anyway. You can get out."

***

Stephanie's hands were tanned a honeyed brown. They were callused, strong, warm. Well--they were usually warm. They weren't, today. Tim had one of her hands folded between both of his, giving her back what warmth he could.

He couldn't help being relieved that she didn't look small, even lying there so still and so silent, an IV line trailing from her opposite arm and a cannula in her nose. She was terrifyingly pale and cold, but--she wasn't small, and it had been a long time since he'd thought of her as anything but oh-so-joyously human. That made this all a little easier to stomach than it had been when they were kids.

(He'd say it had been a while since his hero worship had worn off, but that would be a lie. Stephanie Brown would always be his hero, as Robin, as Batgirl, as herself.)

Damian was curled up in a chair in the corner of the room, his arms crossed over his chest and his knees pulled up, his pointy chin touching his chest as he snored. He'd been awake when Tim had gotten there, greeting him quietly and without his usual spit and vinegar. Batgirl and Black Bat, Dick had already told him quietly, had gotten hurt while rescuing Robin. Damian wasn't taking it especially well.

For once, it was easy to remember he was fourteen years old.

Tim had ducked out a couple hours earlier to run by his apartment; he'd called Bernard and had the breakdown he'd so narrowly avoided while on the phone with Dick. He'd pulled himself back together and let his neighbor Kerry know that he was going to be gone for a couple days, if she'd be willing to swing by to feed the goldfish that Cassandra had given him as an early birthday present. (Their apartments shared the landing of the fire escape, and he always left the window unlocked. He didn't even need to give her a key.) He packed clothes and toiletries; his laptop; a Scrabble board, coloring book, and set of colored pencils that he'd already handed off to Dick, Duke, and Jason where they were hanging out in the waiting room.

(The younger Waynes were all just unrecognizable enough to escape scrutiny. Bruce had also come by, face hidden behind sunglasses and a hat, but there was no explaining why Bruce Wayne would be concerned for a random college student when Stephanie had no official connection to their family, and so he didn't stay long enough to get caught. Tim thought there was a very obvious solution to this dilemma, which would be hiring Stephanie as a math tutor for Damian, but what the hell did he know?

Better, she'd be good at it, and from what he heard, the kid actually needed it.)

But most importantly, Tim had also brought blankets: a massive, fluffy one with a print of Stephanie's own face on it--his Hanukkah present from the year before--and a quilt that his great-grandmother had made back in Germany. It had made it to Gotham in a steamer trunk, wrapped around picture frames and the family menorah, and throughout Tim's childhood, Jack had used to keep it folded on the couch in his study. Tim had added the quilt to Stephanie's hospital bed (her hands were so cold) as soon as he returned.

He stood, now, and draped the fluffy one around Damian. It was a mark of the kid's exhaustion that he barely twitched, even when Tim awkwardly leaned down to prod it down into the space between Damian and the chair to tuck him in. The Waynes had been here since 4 AM the night before. It was well into the afternoon, now.

Tim straightened and pressed his hands over his face, forcing himself to breathe in and out, slowly and calmly.

The door clicked open, and he dropped his hands, blinking, as Crystal Brown slipped into the room, juggling a tray of coffee cups and a bag of bagel sandwiches. "I'm back," she said unnecessarily, her voice kept low in deference to the sleeping birds.

There was a side table next to Stephanie's bed, just large enough for all the food Crystal had brought. She handed him one of the coffees--and his credit card, a quirk of amusement on her lips. "Dabbling in reverse pick pocketing now, I see. It was a nice try," she told him dryly. "But I didn't use it."

Tim sighed, but he folded it back into his wallet without an argument. "Thank you, Crystal."

"Have a sandwich," she ordered, and she squeezed his shoulder as she ducked around him to take the seat he'd vacated. "Hey, sweetheart," she said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of Stephanie's beautiful blonde hair back behind her ear. She kept talking, her voice low and sweet, and Tim fiddled with his phone as he politely tuned her out.

He snapped a picture of Damian and texted it to Dick. He snapped a picture of his bagel and texted it to Bernard as proof that he was eating. He thought about it for a moment, and then he texted both of them to Stephanie, too.

His phone buzzed a moment later as Dick added him to a groupchat with all of his siblings, Stephanie, Harper, Wendy, Barbara, and Alfred; he'd shared the picture of Damian with the rest of them with approximately a hundred hearteye and sobbing emojis appended to it. There was a cascade of responses, mostly amused--

Then Cassandra called him.

Tim flashed the screen at Crystal, tipping his head towards the door, and slipped out as she nodded and waved him off. "Hey," he said, sandwiching the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Come break me out?" She sounded exhausted. "I have a concussion. Alfred and Bruce won't let me leave."

"Come break you out of... Wayne Manor?"

Cassandra hummed a negative. "Batcave."

Tim took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich. It was cream cheese and lox, because why mess with the classics? "Shouldn't you be calling Jason for this?"

Cassandra snorted.

Yeah, okay. Just because she'd used one of Batman's offworld Justice League missions to spend three months lovingly beating the shit out of her brother and tearing his criminal empire apart until he got over himself and stopped purposefully antagonizing his family members by brutally murdering criminals, didn't mean the two of them didn't still have some significant differences of opinion. They were friendly, usually, and siblings, always, but Tim could see why she wasn't interested in going to him for help when she was hurting and vulnerable.

(In the interest of full transparency, Tim could understand why anyone, ever, in any situation, wouldn't want to ask Jason Todd for help. Stephanie would be laughing at him if she were awake.)

"All right, sure," he said, shrugging. "Give me thirty minutes."

***

For Timothy Jackson Drake, breaking into the most secure location on earth was as simple as walking up to the hidden door and punching in a passcode.

He couldn't even take credit for it. See, six years ago, Batman's most innovative Robin had run into a dilemma: in case of an emergency, she wanted Tim to be able to remove her utility belt, drive her motorcycle, or even access the Batcave, but it was all locked with biometrics and/or finger print scanners. She couldn't just add his information to the system; Batman would have noticed that immediately, and if he hadn't, then Oracle certainly would have.

That's when she had one of her moments of brilliance--because there was a default profile with basic administrative access that Batman used as a template when he added new users to the system. It was originally constructed as a clone of Batman's own user profile, and so had biometric and fingerprint information associated with it, not that anyone ever opened those files. Because why would they?

He texted Cassandra that he'd arrived, leaving Stephanie's shitty impala parked just out of sight of the cameras (accessing the Cave with a viable passcode and matching biometrics meant that no alarms would be activated, but that didn't mean Bruce or Alfred couldn't glance at the cameras and spot the car), and tucked his hands in his pockets as he waited for her to confirm that the Cave was clear.

Recording Tim's fingerprints and a copy of his biometric scan would have been harder before the Mount Justice base was handed over to Steph's team, but afterwards, it was the work of moments to replace the data associated with the Batcomputer's default user profile. The next time Bruce pushed a system update to all of their interfaces: bam.

All Tim had to do was memorize the twelve-digit default passcode that Stephanie had copied down for him.

His phone pinged a moment later, and he descended the long, narrow passageway into the earth. Cool air washed over him, leaving him hunching his shoulders towards his ears and tucking his elbows even closer to his body. Water clung to the walls, and it glistened dimly in the orange glow of the thin tracks of emergency lighting.

For all that he'd theoretically had access to it for over six years now, Tim had never been to the Batcave before. He'd never encountered an emergency that drastic.

He had been training "with Batman" for months now, but in reality, he'd been training with Batgirl and Black Bat at the secondary Cave that took up the entire floor below Cassandra's apartment. He suspected that Bruce was easing him into things, probably in large part because of the overwhelming paranoia that had driven his lifestyle since before Tim had been born, but Tim was, in all honesty, quite grateful for the reprieve. He may have been best friends with Robin since he was a freshman in high school, but he was pretty sure that if Batman had just taken him down to the Batcave and tossed a bo staff to him, his brain may have imploded.

Today, he fully expected to be too tired to have any kind of fanboy freak out. And he was... mostly. He'd heard a lot about it, even seen a few pictures over the years, but the Cave still brought him up short when he cleared the final corner.

The line of costumes on the far side of the room was tempting. But he forced himself towards the soft white light of the mock-medbay on his left; they only had maybe ten minutes to make their getaway before Crystal couldn't keep Bruce on the phone any longer or Alfred finished signing for the flower delivery that Tim had arranged for.

(He didn't get tricky with it. They were addressed from him to Cassandra as a get well soon.)

"I have some questions," he said, crouched at Cassandra's side as he helped her unhook herself from the IV line.

Her eyes crinkled in a tired smile, and she guided him to turn around so she could climb, koala-like, onto his back. (She didn't need him to carry her; but she was exhausted and hurting and worried, and Tim was a warm, steady presence.) Her bony chin dug into his shoulder as he hooked his hands under her knees and pushed himself to his feet.

"I don't know why there's a dinosaur, either," she told him.

"Makes me feel better," he admitted. He waved at the nearest camera, knowing that Alfred and Bruce would be reviewing the footage as soon as they noticed Cassandra was gone (and her motorcycle wasn't), and Cassandra echoed the motion with a huff of laughter.

"You should ask Dick," she told him. "It was before the rest of our time."

"Even Barbara?" Tim kept his steps smooth as they entered the rougher floor of the tunnel, remembering that the world's deadliest limpet on his back was nursing a mild concussion.

Cassandra hummed thoughtfully. "I don't know. But I don't think she spent much time around the Batcave back then anyway. Batgirl was... different when it was hers. The mantle is still a partner and not a subordinate, but... we work more as a team now, all of us, and Batman does a lot of the coordinating for the team. When Barbara was Batgirl, she didn't take any orders from Batman."

"Still doesn't," Tim said, with a wisp of a grin.

"Damn straight," Cassandra agreed.

"Damn straight," Oracle echoed, and Tim flinched, spinning to peer towards the speaker on the ceiling of the tunnel. "Relax, I'm not going to sell you out. But Alfred's on his way down, so you better put some pep in your step, Timmy."

"Right," he said weakly, and he started walking as quickly as he could without jostling Cassandra.

"And Tim?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I can see Steph's fingerprints all over this. As soon as she's awake, you two are going to tell me how the hell you got in here."

"Busted," Cassandra snickered.

***

"You're cheating."

"How could I possibly be cheating, Jason?"

"I don't fucking know, Duke, but I know you're--"

"A7."

"Fuck off!"

Duke cupped a hand around his ear, leaning toward Jason across the coffee table they'd commandeered. "Sorry, what was that? Did you mean to say that I sunk--"

"You sunk my battleship," Jason grit out. "Quit fucking cheating."

"You started it," Duke said calmly, as he stuck another red pin in his map.

"How dare you. I would never cheat at something as holy as Battleship." Jason stretched. "J4."

"Miss."

"Stop fucking cheating!"

"It was a miss!"

"It was not!"

"Oh, my god, you're both complete shit at this," Tim said exhaustedly, as he traded out his yellow colored pencil for a purple one. "Jason's using the mirror behind your shoulder to look at your map, Duke, and Dick's been using morse code to tell Duke what moves to make, Jason. Get some class and bend your aircraft carrier into an L like the rest of us."

If he hadn't already been certain that Bruce Wayne was a few eggs short of a carton, he'd have known as soon as the man capitulated to his children's requests for further board games by bringing Battleship. At least it wasn't Uno, he supposed.

(And at least Bruce hadn't tried to get Cassandra to go back to the Manor with him when he left again, because Tim was pretty sure it would have turned into Bat v. Bat brawl in the middle of the hospital waiting room. Bruce also hadn't asked how Tim had gotten into the Batcave, although he'd pulled Dick aside and had a quiet conversation that had left Dick glancing thoughtfully at Tim and Cassandra for an hour afterward.)

"Who asked you for your opinion, Encyclopedia Brown?" Jason shot back, as Duke spun in his seat to squint at the curved mirror that the nurses' station used to observe the door from their seats behind the desk.

"Behave," Cassandra ordered. She was tucked into Tim's side, doodling abstract designs into the corner of his coloring book while he shaded in the cartoon butterfly at the center of the page.

"Yeah, Jay, behave," Dick said, laughing, and Jason turned around to sock him, hard, in the shoulder.

"I'll show you--"

Crystal cleared her throat, and every head in their corner of the waiting room snapped up to look at her. She didn't leave them in suspense:

"Steph's awake." She held up a hand, stilling the scramble before it could begin. "A couple of you at a time, please. Let's not overwhelm her."

Tim lifted his arm, letting Cassandra crawl out from underneath it, and then oofed with surprise as she grabbed his hand in a vice grip and dragged him up after her. "Dibs," she declared, and flicked Jason in the forehead as they passed.

Tim hopped the leg sweep that Jason fired off in retaliation and shifted his hand inside of Cass's so that he could interlock their fingers. "I could've waited," he murmured, bumping his shoulder gently with hers. This was the first time he'd even been able to be at the hospital when Stephanie was injured; he was used to waiting until the Bats were done fawning over her before he got the chance to.

"She'd be sad," Cassandra told him confidently.

"Well, we can't have that," Tim drawled.

The door to Stephanie's room was cracked, and Cassandra held a finger up to her lips as they approached, her head tilting to the side as she slowed Tim to a stop.

"--unacceptable risk." Damian's voice drifted out of the room, stiff and quiet. "You never think through the consequences before throwing yourself into--"

"Damo," Steph cut him off, her voice rough and distant from the pain meds. "I love you, too. Shut up and cuddle me."

"You are not listening--"

"I will never apologize for getting hurt instead of you," Stephanie said flatly. "Okay?" Her voice dropped, a whisper that barely reached Tim's ears where he stood, the toes of his Converse just out of sight of the open door. "It's Batgirl's job, kiddo. Do you know how many fires Cass pulled my ass out of when I was Robin?"

Cassandra squeezed Tim's hand and slipped past him into the room then, and he crossed his arms and propped his hip against the wall. There was more whispering, even quieter than before, and the hitched breath of a child fighting tears. Tim closed his eyes, waiting until the whispering and the rustling of blankets and creaking of ancient bedsprings abated before he knocked, lightly, and poked his head into the room.

Cassandra had pulled a chair even closer to Stephanie's bedside than Tim had, her legs folded like a lotus underneath herself and the trailing edge of Tim's quilt pulled across her lap as she held Stephanie's hand. Damian had crawled up onto the hospital bed at Stephanie's side, his hoodie pulled up and its cords yanked tight so that all that poked out from underneath it was his reddened nose.

Stephanie's dark blue eyes met Tim's... and her entire face lit up.

"Boyfriend," she said, a little breathless, and he sank into a crouch next to her bedside, opposite from Cassandra. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal railing, fumbling to find her hand beneath all of the blankets--the one with her face on it had joined the stack when Damian did--and clung to it desperately.

"Girlfriend," he rasped.

"You're here."

"Another advantage to coming clean to Batman." Tim rose back up on shaky legs, cradling Steph's face between his hand as he pressed a dry kiss to her forehead. "Of course I'm here. You're my best friend."

"That's reductive," she teased sleepily, raising her hand to squeeze the nape of his neck, and Tim huffed a watery laugh.

"Yeah, well, platonic soulmates would be reductive, and people would get the wrong idea if I went around calling you my other half."

The old joke made her smile, just like it always did. She stroked the fine hairs at the back of his neck, her eyes hazy with pain meds. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this," she told him, her voice wobbling in a way that made Damian peer out from beneath his hoodie, a frown etched between his heavy eyebrows. "I know that it makes you think about..."

Tim's eyes flickered shut, and he pressed his forehead against hers. "I'll get over it," he said thickly. "You just focus on getting better, Stephie."

She snorted. "On it, boss."

"Yeah, yeah." He pulled away, swiping tears off of his face as he straightened and stepped back. "We need witsec, by the way," he told her, as he pulled over a chair to drop heavily into it. "I busted Cass out of the Batcave today, and Oracle's going to kill us when she finds out what you did. I think it worked even better than you expected it to; I'm not sure it logged an entry into the system at all."

Stephanie hummed her amusement, pulling the fluffy blanket up to her chin as she wiggled down into her pillows. "Really? You finally saw it? What'd you think?"

"Bruce Wayne should be on Hoarders," Tim said, immediately, and Stephanie started laughing so hard it sounded painful.

"You're the fucking worst," she wheezed. "I have bullet holes in me, Timothy; you're not allowed to say shit like that."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

"I literally hate you."

"I'm literally your favorite person in the entire world."

"Ugh, stop projecting."

Tim squeezed her hand. As soon as her laughter faded, her exhaustion had begun to creep back in. "You want me to go trade out with one of the morons in the waiting room before you fall asleep again?"

"Nah," she mumbled, twining her fingers with his. "They'll get their chance later. Just... just stay, Boyfriend."

"Whatever you want, Girlfriend," he promised softly. "I'll stay as long as you want me to."

[jingyismom]

Time for more sex-cursed Lan Wangji!

a messy, self-indulgent spree imported from twt and lightly edited

explicit, wangxian, 9k, canon divergence fix-it

mild dubcon because of the nature of sex curses (but like, they do their best to communicate around it), and cw for brief thoughts of self harm, no other warnings

This curse's origin is mysterious, perhaps politically guided. Someone is trying to throttle Gusu Lan's alliance prospects by removing Lan Wangji's stellar marriageability after Sunshot. It works, after a fashion.

Wei Wuxian is in the Burial Mounds, farming and hardening his heart as the resentment worsens his health, subsisting on memories of Lan Wangji's single visit.

Lan Wangji is at home in Gusu, pining away while they rebuild the Cloud Recesses.

One day, he begins to burn up with unexplained fever.

The healers examine him quickly and thoroughly and determine first that he's been cursed. This is not entirely shocking, but it of course angers the entire sect. Next they test for the curse's nature. It turns out to be a very classic, very coarse type of love curse.

The afflicted will burn up, losing all their sense and senses, and eventually die, if their body's “needs” are not satisfied by the one it craves most.

The healers are disgusted. Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren are outraged. But Lan Wangji becomes very calm at the news.

Before, he felt anxiety. The urgent desperation of a dying man waiting to be told how to live.

Now he is just waiting to die.

For you see, the choice between throwing himself at another human being—no matter who they may be—and meeting death with dignity, is an easy one.

Everyone else privy to this information disagrees. The argument that follows is short, but heated:

"Well, Wangji?" Lan Qiren begins once the initial furor has died down. "How do you wish to...go about this?"

Lan Wangji, over-warm and aching, looks up at him from the examination bed. Gusu Lan funeral rites are ancient and immutable. He does not understand the question.

Lan Qiren purses his lips and glances around. "We must find the person first," he prompts.

Ah. The person responsible. Yes, Lan Wangji does have business with them before he dies. He stands, only swaying slightly. "I am well enough to exact justice. Let us cast the rebound."

Lan Xichen steps forward then, and gently pushes him back to sitting. "It has been cast. However, justice can wait. Your health must come first."

Lan Wangji looks between his uncle, his brother, and the one doctor allowed to be present. Surely they would not be joking at a time like this.

"I do not understand," he says.

The three exchange a look. "Breaking the curse must be our priority," says Lan Xichen.

Lan Wangji is not sure he heard correctly. But it would be cruel to give him unfounded hope. "I was unaware there was another way."

"...There is not," says Lan Xichen, his gentleness unfailing.

Lan Wangji experiences a moment of deep confusion before the horror sets in.

"You cannot mean this," he says through his shock. "Surely you cannot mean to cast aside so many disciplines at the whim of a base villain."

"The disciplines are a guide," Lan Qiren says, hands behind his back, looking into the distance, "to ensure a life well-lived. They are not meant to inspire martyrdom."

Lan Wangji's mouth falls open. He stares at his uncle, mute with betrayal. He has never heard of any such leeway before, not in regards to disciplines of such a serious nature.

"You can understand, can't you?" Lan Xichen says. "That no rule is more important than your life.”

Lan Wangji disagrees vehemently. "I would not buy my life with such behavior."

Lan Qiren huffs in irritation. "We may perform a marriage in haste, if you wish."

Lan Wangji balks at him. That his uncle should speak so flippantly of...such a thing. It is unimaginable. And besides, forcing a marriage on Wei—on anyone in this way is surely only adding insult to heinous injury.

"I refuse," he says.

Lan Xichen exchanges a look with the doctor, and sits beside him. "Perhaps the other person should be allowed part of that choice."

Ridiculous. "There is no such person." Preventing this course of action is worth one lie, Lan Wangji reasons.

"With respect, Hanguang-jun, if that were true, the curse would not have been able to take hold," says the doctor.

The use of his title feels uncomfortably ironic from a woman who helped deliver him at birth. He glares at her. She smiles tiredly in return.

"Wangji," Lan Xichen says. His tone is beginning to grate on Lan Wangji's raw nerves. "You will at least try, won't you?"

Lan Wangji stares at him in disbelief, in anger, in righteous indignation.

"Never," he says.

A hand slaps his shoulder. "Apologies," says the doctor, and the world goes dark.

-----

Lan Wangji wakes to dark wood beams dappled by lacy sunlight, and a faint smell of char in the air. His head is heavy, his limbs full of lead. He swallows around the dry thickness in his throat.

"Water," comes a familiar voice.

With effort, Lan Wangji sits up. His stomach is roiling, his mind fogged from the coma and the curse both. The doctor, crouching beside him in the carriage, offers him a bowl of water.

He takes it, and asks, "What have you done?"

She sighs.

"My duty," she says, "with the help of your brother."

She draws back the curtain at the carriage entrance, revealing a sea of black, twisted trees and gray tumbled walls.

Lan Wangji's blood freezes in his veins. He just barely stops himself from asking how they knew.

"Why," he asks instead, a much safer question.

She considers him. "Your brother said if he was wrong, he would beg forgiveness afterward. But it couldn't hurt to have an expert in resentment and curses look at you anyway."

A stab of sick embarrassment makes Lan Wangji’s stomach clench.

Has he been so obvious? Is he such a lovesick fool that anyone with eyes can see his shame?

The doctor pats his shoulder gruffly and he flinches, expecting more needles.

"Ah he's your brother, he's bound to know things you don't want him to," she says. "Come on. Out you get."

He allows her to tug him out of the carriage and onto solid ground. The air is stifling with resentment, but he is glad to be free of his bonds. Now he can look for his chance to get away.

There are six Lan disciples flanking them. He eyes them warily, wondering what they know. When the doctor pulls him out of earshot, and pitches her voice low, he is satisfied that they have not been fully informed.

"Your family and I agreed to give you a chance first," she says. "You have 24 hours to take care of this yourself. After that, I will personally tell Wei-gongzi of your brother's message. I have been assured he will not jeopardize your well-being if fully-informed."

Lan Wangji gapes at her. He does not know what he expected to happen, but it was not this...this...mercenary attempt at...forcing...

The curse has weakened him such that he cannot fly his sword. He can hardly walk in a straight line, let alone run. He has very little recourse now that everyone in his life has gone absolutely mad. His heart is racing with the adrenaline of upheaval, of fear, of impending death.

He wrenches his arm from her grasp and stalks off of the road, into the brush. She calls after him, but he does not mean to escape. He cannot manage that alone. Instead, he sits. He takes a deep breath. He sinks into meditation.

"Hanguang-jun," she calls. She approaches, hands on her hips. She sighs. "Well, if it's like that, then there's nothing stopping me from telling him right now."

She turns, and Lan Wangji feels a lurch of helplessness, when a new voice rings clear through the fog.

"Tell what to whom?"

Lan Wangji's eyes snap open. Wei Wuxian is standing on the other side of the carriage, the child A-Yuan in his arms, eyeing the Lan delegation with suspicion. Wen Ning is with him, and the Lan disciples shift nervously just looking at him, but Wei Wuxian sets A-Yuan in his arms, and he leaps away up the mountain.

"Might I assume this little party has come for me?" Wei Wuxian goes on, twirling his flute. His eyes are shrewd and cold, similar to the way they had looked when he had first returned during the war.

At the sight of him, at the sound of his voice, the curse...reacts.

A horrid, uncomfortable shiver of need runs through Lan Wangji's body alongside his own simple relief and joy at seeing Wei Wuxian again, looking relatively well. He fights it, keeping still among the weeds, hoping against hope to go unnoticed.

"Yiling Laozu," the doctor greets him with a deep bow. "We have indeed come to humbly beg your aid."

"I see," he says. "And what will you give me in return?"

The doctor hesitates, clearly discomfited by the context Wei Wuxian is currently unaware of. "We may...discuss that. Once we have informed you of the details."

Wei Wuxian hums, considering. Cold. Detached. "And if I am disinclined to—"

He breaks off. The doctor has moved so that she and Lan Wangji are both in Wei Wuxian's line of sight. Lan Wangji closes his eyes rather than see the moment of recognition, rather than feel the weight of Wei Wuxian's eyes on him, like this.

"Lan Zhan?"

Lan Wangji clamps his jaw shut. It is a struggle not simply to crawl to him.

The renewed ice in Wei Wuxian's voice when next he speaks makes Lan Wangji aware of the warmth with which he had said his name. His curls his shaking hands into fists on his knees.

"What have you done to him?"

The doctor sighs. "We have done nothing. He has been cursed, which is why we brought him here. If you—"

"Daifu," Lan Wangji interrupts, his voice thin.

She stops speaking.

Lan Wangji opens his eyes, but does not look at Wei Wuxian, not yet. If he is careful, and uses his remaining strength correctly, he can perhaps...perhaps guide the situation. Toward escape. With Wei Wuxian's help.

He may have to lie to him. He hopes he will be forgiven, all things considered.

Lan Wangji stands slowly, carefully, considering each movement so as not to reveal the state he is in.

"I will speak with him," he says to the doctor.

She eyes him. "24 hours," she says.

He does not acknowledge this. He thinks they both know it will not come to that, though his idea differs greatly from hers. He judges, from the time they have allotted and his own weakness, that he has perhaps a day and a half, total, to wait them out. Doable, if he is careful and intelligent about it.

He can manage.

He walks over to Wei Wuxian, careful to keep two arm's lengths between them. This close is already too close: a fine, constant tremor has made a home in all of his tightly-locked muscles. He feels the moment his fever begins to rise further. The sides of his throat hurt, the interiors of his ears. He wonders if his hearing will go first, or his eyes.

"Allow me to explain," he says to him.

"Of course," Wei Wuxian answers.

He sounds strange. Cold, still. Lan Wangji wants to look at him, and almost slips, but manages to stop himself. He follows him up the hill, past the wards, through the resentment that clings to them both, now. He keeps his careful distance, following behind.

"What happened?" Wei Wuxian asks, as they walk.

"A curse," Lan Wangji says carefully. "Origin unknown. The rebound has been cast. I did not wish to burden you with this, but they are...they will not listen to reason. Wei Ying, if you would but help me, I would deal with this on my own."

"Oh?"

"I...wish to seek justice. They will not allow it. But you understand. If there is another path off the mountain, if you would show me the way past them, I could—"

Wei Wuxian stops dead, and Lan Wangji, with his eyes in the ground, runs into him. 

For a blazing, agonizing moment, he is touching Wei Wuxian, clinging to him, every element in his body sighing and crying out at once in satisfaction, in the torturous need for more.

He tears himself away, stumbling back, almost falling. Wei Wuxian reaches out as if to catch him, but falters.

"Lan Zhan, you can hardly stand," he says, alarmed, "and you want to go and fight someone?"

Lan Wangji draws himself up taller again, trying hard to stop his shaking. He cannot look at him. He cannot look. He is already dying, now, just from not looking. "It is my right."

"...It is..." Wei Wuxian says at length, watching him closely. "And it still will be once you're well again. Your doctors really couldn't tell what type of curse it is?"

Lan Wangji says nothing, trying to think past the way every inch of his skin feels as if it is burning clean off. The pain of it screams through him, worse than anything he has ever felt. Wei Wuxian is still speaking, but it is hard to make sense of it. When Wei Wuxian begins walking again, slowly, it is all he can do to both follow and stay away from him. This, here, now, is worse than death. If it lasts, he certainly will not be sane when the end finally comes. He lets go of any thoughts of a dignified death.

Fortunately, by the time they reach the cool dark of the cave Wei Wuxian calls home, the pain has subsided to a distant roar. Unfortunately, he hoped never to reach this point. He tries his only play again, unable to think of any new tactic.

"Please show me the way off the mountain," he says without preamble.

Wei Wuxian is quiet for a beat. "You really don't want my help that much?"

Lan Wangji is so confused by this question, and then struck by the irony of it, that he almost begins to laugh. A shivery, jittery feeling fills his chest, and he leans against the nearest solid surface. He wishes he were wearing a loose outer layer over his blue travel robes, the better to hide his shaking. He does not know how to respond.

"You haven't so much as looked at me once since you got here," Wei Wuxian goes on, digging through strange pots and objects on a table, "so I get it. But you'll have to forgive me if I disregard your objection to the kind of work I do, when it comes to your life."

"My life, my life," Lan Wangji mocks, accidentally out loud. Why is everyone suddenly so obsessed with his life? He was ready to give it freely in the war, but chance let him keep it. What difference does giving it now in the name of keeping himself clean of shame make? Why will nobody allow him this choice?

"What shame?" Wei Wuxian asks.

Lan Wangji buckles at the realization that he has said all of this out loud. He goes to the floor, to his knees.

"Nothing," he says. "The shame of not having warded off such a simple attack."

"Lan Zhan...you want to die because you didn't defend against a curse you didn't know was coming?"

Lan Wangji lapses into silence. He has said too much already. He does not know how to get out of this. He can only...he can only stay quiet. Refuse to speak or move.

"Lan Zhan...I feel like I'm missing something here. I only want to help.”

Lan Wangji grits his teeth and stares hard at the floor in front of him. He has rarely ever felt so trapped, so utterly helpless. The extended, full-body pain is dulling his mind by the moment. The hems of Wei Wuxian's robes come into view, and it takes everything in him not to fall forward into him, to plead, to beg. His breath is hitching at random intervals now, his heart tripping as it prepares to fail entirely.

There is a soft gust of air, and an odd prickling sensation across his face.

"Now let's see—oh," Wei Wuxian says. "I...oh."

Lan Wangji wilts at his stilted, awkward tone. He knows now, surely. Can see him truly.

"So that's why you want to leave, and why they won't let you. They want me to find another way to break it, to stop you from...ah."

Lan Wangji sorts through the words, trying to comprehend them.

"Sorry," Wei Wuxian goes on. "I...it's unbreakable, otherwise. A very old, airtight spell. You...will Gusu Lan start a war with me if I do just let you go...ah, handle this the old-fashioned way?"

Comprehension dawns. And with it, a way out.

Lan Wangji rushes to agree. "They—" He cuts off. Will they? If they think Wei Wuxian has willingly let him die, rather than...

He takes a breath. Another. Forces his mind past the endless litany of pleas for relief.

"Show me the way " he says, his words breathless and short, "and then tell Lan-daifu what you have done. And why. But give me time to. Get away. And you will be safe."

Wei Wuxian pauses. "How...ah. How far—how much time?"

Lan Wangji tries hard to come up with an answer for that. His progress will be slow. But he need only find a place to hide.

"Half a day," he hazards.

Wei Wuxian seems to vacillate. "Are you sure you can make it on your own?"

Lan Wangji wants to rage. To weep. To curse himself to the heavens for being so depraved toward so endlessly kind a man. His heart hurts, even as his body strains toward him.

This lie may be the worst he will ever tell.

"I will be fine,” he says.

"Alright." Wei Wuxian sounds unconvinced. "I trust you."

Lan Wangji nearly convulses, holding back a sob. How will he ever be forgiven?

He cannot think of it. Only this, only what comes next. Only keeping Wei Wuxian safe from this mess.

"Lan Zhan?"

"Mn," he manages.

"Would you look at me, now? I haven't...used any demonic cultivation on you. It's safe, I promise I won't. I just. Can't we say goodbye properly?"

Lan Wangji has not moved from the floor. He does not move. He should try. A parting gift. Just one look.

But if he is going to leave. If he is going to succeed. He cannot.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says again, frustrated now.

Lan Wangji does not look. He is so close to freedom from the horrible pull, from the way his very veins are trying to tear themselves free to wrap around Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian steps forward, and Lan Wangji's breath leaves him all at once. Suddenly, there are fingers beneath his jaw, kind but firm, tilting his chin up. He has no choice but to look.

(Inspired by this art.)

Wei Wuxian is there. Tall and strong and perfect, tiredness mixed with something bittersweet on his lovely face. Lan Wangji's entire being melts toward him, a deep, sharp tug from inside his bones, a mindless, helpless, straining need that pushes a low, wanting sound from his throat.

Wei Wuxian snatches his hand away and backs up half a step, staring at him.

"Sorry," he says, blank. Confused. "I thought it was...I didn't realize...sorry."

Lan Wangji, now that he has looked, cannot look away. He has overbalanced without Wei Wuxian's support, fallen forward onto his hands, but he cannot stop looking at him. He will look at him, and keep looking; he prays Wei Wuxian is the last thing he sees before he dies.

The most shameful part of this is that none of it is the curse twisting his thoughts. None of this is. All the curse is doing is making the way he always feels impossible to ignore.

"Wei Ying," his voice implores. He does not mean it to.

Wei Wuxian takes another step back and looks down at the bowl of powder in his hand, confused. "I was certain it was that curse," he says to himself. "If I was wrong, then maybe I could break it..."

Lan Wangji tries to scrape his composure back together. He tries. He tries. His fingers scrape on the rough stone floor. He does not reach out for him. That is something.

Wei Wuxian looks at him again, then hastily away. Lan Wangji does not ever want to know what it is he sees.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, as Lan Wangji shakes, and shakes. "Where...where were you trying to go? I thought you...I thought you were, ah, thinking of a certain someone."

Lan Wangji's arms are weak. They are going to give out. He cannot answer him.

"I'm confused, and I...may have made a mistake," Wei Wuxian goes on, still backing away slowly, "but I just want to help. Can you tell me what was happening before, and what's happening now?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head, and the motion shatters his fragile balance. He falls, and curls tightly around himself in the dirt.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian says, suddenly close.

Lan Wangji sees his hand reach out, then pause, and he can't stop himself from taking hold of it, just to be touching him. His body screams for it, and he gasps raggedly at the contact.

Wei Wuxian wrenches his arm free. Lan Wangji wishes he were dead.

"Fuck," Wei Wuxian mutters to himself. "I...I'm sorry. I made this so much worse, I..."

"No," Lan Wangji rasps. He cannot hear Wei Wuxian berate himself thus. His dignity has now died, and he himself will soon follow. This is all that matters. "Not your fault."

Wei Wuxian huffs, crouching beside him. "It is...at least partially my fault, at this point, I'm pretty sure. You wouldn't be...reacting. Like this. If it weren't. Is...can I...do a few more tests? To check what I got wrong, and maybe—"

"You were not wrong."

He does not mean to say it.

His need to reassure has overridden his sense, and his mind is too slow now to piece together what it will mean before it leaves his mouth. The regret once it does is instantaneous. He tries to curl himself yet smaller in the dirt.

Wei Wuxian is silent. Lan Wangji cannot stop making small, pitiful, pained sounds in the back of his throat. Everything hurts. Everything.

"I don't understand," Wei Wuxian says quietly.

Lan Wangji lies shivering on the floor, arms locked around himself to prevent any more untoward behavior. He cannot take it back. He cannot try to explain. There is nothing he could say, regardless.

"Lan Zhan...but you..."

He can hear Wei Wuxian thinking, but it only registers in the far back of his mind. The rest of his consciousness is taken up by pain, and by ruthless restraint.

"You wanted to leave to get away from me," Wei Wuxian says, finally.

Lan Wangji does not answer. He wishes he had his sword. He would use it now to end this.

Wei Wuxian begins to back away again, and Lan Wangji’s body moves without his permission. He grips the skirt of Wei Wuxian’s robes in his fist and drags himself closer, pressing his cheek to Wei Wuxian's knee.

Shameful. Wanton. The small part of himself that is still aware berates the action. But he cannot let go. He cannot move away. The only part of him that is not howling with pain is the side of his face pressed to coarse fabric.

"Lan Zhan, you…," Wei Wuxian is trying to gently pry Lan Wangji's fingers from his hem. "You wanted to leave, remember? You don't want...you don't."

"Want," Lan Wangji croaks, pressing closer. "Wanted to spare you."

"Ah, Lan Zhan...I...I'm still not sure it's that specific curse, it could...there could be other..."

"It is," Lan Wangji says, half-crawling up Wei Wuxian's leg. He wants to stop himself. It is impossible.

"Lan Zhan...you...you shouldn't—"

"Stop me," Lan Wangji pleads, nuzzling against Wei Wuxian's thigh, "Wei Ying, I can't...please. Stop me."

There is a long near-silence filled with harsh breaths, in which Lan Wangji is almost certain he imagines the light touch of fingers brushing his mussed hair back from his forehead. Then Wei Wuxian speaks.

"No," he says. "You'll die, if I do. Lan Zhan. I won't let that happen."

He touches Lan Wangji's face. Lan Wangji whimpers into him.

He knows this will break the fragile repairs they have made to their friendship. He will likely never see him again, at least not on good terms. The thought makes him feel ill. He should protest. Refuse. Flee. He can do exactly none of these things. He reaches for Wei Wuxian's wrist, to hold his hand to his face, but Wei Wuxian flinches away.

"You can't...Lan Zhan. I'm going to help you," he says, "but you have to...you can't...you can't touch me."

Lan Wangji feels another tight clench of shame. He nods against his leg. He understands: he knows any small part of this is too much to ask, let alone bearing his unwelcome, curse-fevered grasping.

"Okay," says Wei Wuxian. He slides his fingers beneath Lan Wangji’s chin again, tipping his face up.

He looks so uncertain. So beautiful in the dim light. Lan Wangji wants to weep with it.

"Lan Zhan, I know it doesn't count for much like this, but you have to tell me. You have to tell me what you need."

Lan Wangji turns his head, pressing his face between Wei Wuxian's thigh and stomach, trying to reach into him, to feel more of him, to stop hurting just enough to think. It does not work.

"You," he breathes, into the scent of earth, and stringent soap, and Wei Wuxian.

A harsh, uneven breath ghosts across his hair, and Wei Wuxian's hands grip his shoulders. He thinks he is about to be pushed away again, but instead Wei Wuxian pulls him up, pulls him close, folds him into his embrace.

Lan Wangji sobs into his shoulder, trying at once to get closer and to hold himself apart, instinct demanding, even now, that he try to conceal his obvious, disgraceful hardness. His muscles quake under the strain of doing both and neither, and Wei Wuxian smooths one hand down his back, pressing him close, pressing them flush. Lan Wangji chokes back a shocked sound.

"Shh," Wei Wuxian soothes. "It's alright."

It is not alright. It is the end of the thing Lan Wangji holds most dear.

But he does not have it in him to argue. He is shifting against him, his overheated body begging for touch, indeed for ravishment. He is mindless with it. The pain is not subsiding but slipping sideways into something more, something different, something necessary.

He is on his knees on hard stone, breathlessly held in the arms of his beloved. He has dreamt this: sweetly, hazily, with and without hope. But never like this. Never sick with remorse, with need, dying and demanding and defiling. His deepest desire twisted into a nightmare.

He whimpers again, his lips finding the soft coolness of Wei Wuxian's throat. Wei Wuxian jerks away again, and Lan Wangji fists his hands tighter at his sides, trying, trying not to overstep again.

"I—sorry," he gasps out. He will never be able to apologize enough. But he will try.

"Don't apologize," says Wei Wuxian. "I—"

He cuts himself off. Lan Wangji does not have enough sense to wonder why. In the same moment, one of his thighs gives under the strain, and he falls against him heavily. They tip over, to the floor, and he reaches out on instinct to brace them both. When he is again conscious of himself, Wei Wuxian is lying on top of him, breathing hard, both of Lan Wangji's wrists pinned to the floor in one hand. Lan Wangji arches against him inadvertently, and turns his face into his own bicep.

"Sorry, I...so sorry," he pants, his hips flexing, searching for friction. "I have...no control...”

"I know," Wei Wuxian says, "I know, I shouldn't have..." he swallows hard. "I'm going to keep you like this. Can I?"

Lan Wangji nods frantically, his eyes shut tight. He does not care. Anything that he can do to make this any less invasive for Wei Wuxian, he will do.

Wei Wuxian pulls away then, his hold still firm on Lan Wangji's wrists. Lan Wangji squeezes his eyes shut and tries to stop moving, to stop searching for touch, to stop making such a disgusting spectacle of himself, but to no avail. What feels like centuries later, he hears the telltale sounds of talisman activation. He is too far gone in his pain to look up, to see what they are. He simply lies there, pinned and writhing, his breath catching in his throat. The sounds it makes are small, pitiful, desperate.

Just like him.

Eventually, Wei Wuxian leans back over him, a considering look in his eye. His hand hovers at Lan Wangjis belt.

"I—should I..."

"Yes," pleads Lan Wangji.

He needs Wei Wuxian's skin on his skin. He does not know how discerning the curse is about what happens now, but it feels as if he will die without it. Wei Wuxian takes what looks like a fortifying breath and unties the belt. Lan Wangji, unable to help, instead hinders the process with his ceaseless movement. But Wei Wuxian manages it with deft hands, and immediately unties each layer of robes in quick succession until Lan Wangji’s chest and stomach are bare.

The cool air of the cave does not soothe his burning. It burns like ice instead. Lan Wangji shivers, an ugly whine escaping him.

"What," Wei Wuxian asks, pausing, "what is it?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head. He will bear it. He will not make demands.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, "you need to talk to me, I...I don't want to make this even worse, or, or draw it out longer."

Something small and dark crumples in Lan Wangji's chest. He does not want that either. He will need to speak. To ask.

"Hurts," he says, rough and thick.

"Where?"

"...Not...not touching me."

Wei Wuxian makes a distressed noise and lays both his palms flat over Lan Wangji's ribs. Lan Wangji groans, pressing up into them.

"Please," he whispers, helpless. "Please."

"Oh, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian murmurs, something sad like regret. He leans closer and slides one hand down. Lan Wangji shudders under him. "I'm just going to..."

Lan Wangji nods again, holding his breath to stop the whines from escaping the back of his throat.

Wei Wuxian unties Lan Wangji's trousers and slips his hand inside. Clever fingers wrap hesitantly around him, and he bucks up into them with an obscene moan. It is minor relief from the most consuming pain he has ever felt, and it is simultaneously the most intense pleasure he has ever experienced. All of these sensations, coexisting in his fallible human body, feel likely to rip him apart.

"Wei Ying," he moans again, when Wei Wuxian moves his hand.

He gasps for air, his body twisting into it, his whole being searching for Wei Wuxian. He makes another piteous sound, the torment of it all overwhelming. Wei Wuxian leans down against him then, his own robes open, pressing them skin to skin.

Lan Wangji sobs. It is something. It is something. The pain abates somewhat, and he sighs, turning toward him, his mouth brushing Wei Wuxian's hair. He has the wherewithal now to fight the urge to kiss his head properly, his face, anything he can reach. He holds himself still beneath him instead. And Wei Wuxian touches him, and touches him. The incomprehensible pleasure builds, and builds, until Lan Wangji cannot breathe. But it does not break.

Something almost like soft lips brushes his throat.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says into his ear, "this, is this...will this be enough?"

The pleasure is just another kind of pain, now. Lan Wangji shakes his head as sweat rolls off of him, as he tries and fails to get enough air to speak.

Wei Wuxian clears his throat. "What, then?"

Lan Wangji's body knows what it needs. But he does not want to tell.

"Come on, Lan Zhan, after all this? Don't get shy on me now."

He misses the joking tone he is aiming for, but the pure, unmistakable Wei Wuxian-ness of the tease sends a surge of genuine desire through Lan Wangji. He wraps his legs around Wei Wuxian's hips and pulls him down. Wei Wuxian breathes in sharply.

"You just...you want...but only..."

"Please," says Lan Wangji, barely voiced. "In—" he cannot say it. "Please."

"Ah," Wei Wuxian whispers, into his skin. "If—are you sure?"

Lan Wangji whines. He wishes he were not so very sure. He wishes he were not asking Wei Wuxian to do something so intimate, so extreme. He wishes Wei Wuxian had let him die before it ever came to this.

"Alright Lan Zhan, just hold—hold on," he says, and is gone.

Lan Wangji clamps his mouth shut on a scream as the agony slams back into him, worse even than before.

Not soon enough, Wei Wuxian returns to divest him of his boots, socks and trousers. Lan Wangji fights him without meaning to, trying to keep his knees curled up to his chest, trying to minimize the hurt. Wei Wuxian is briskly patient, handling him with aching care he does not deserve.

And then he is upon him, chest and stomach, hips and thighs, smooth and hard and exquisite. Lan Wangji almost forgets the pain in the rush of gratitude, of solace. Their robes trail off them both, gathering dust as they move together in halting fits and starts.

"Don't let me hurt you, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian grits out, a strong hand lifting one of Lan Wangji's thighs by the back of the knee.

It is nonsense. He could not hurt Lan Wangji any more than this. And Lan Wangji could not stop him now if he did.

But the kindness. Even in this. Tears prick at Lan Wangji's eyes. He will miss him. He will miss all of Wei Wuxian with all of himself. He will never stop missing him. He will never move past this regret as long as he lives. How could he? Every breath he draws will be by the grace of Wei Wuxian.

Suddenly there is slick pressure against him, against his most private of places, and he gasps, loud and wretched. Wei Wuxian exhales, uneven and deep, and pushes in, in, in. Slowly. So slowly. Lan Wangji bites down hard on his lip to keep from begging for it. His arms are pinned, as are his hips, Wei Wuxian holding him steady, holding him still. Lan Wangji loses all sense. There is only the weight of Wei Wuxian, the full, stinging press of him, the searing pain, the devastating euphoria of being this close, and yet so very far in every way that counts.

Ages pass before Wei Wuxian is fully seated inside him. By then Lan Wangji's breaths are wet and shallow; scraping, desolate things. He does not know any longer what hurts and what feels good. It is all one and the same. He only knows he needs more, in some primal, wordless way.

He asks with the arch of his back, the squeeze of his thighs. He tries, somehow, to keep quiet, but fails more often than not.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says tightly, "try to relax, I'm going to move. Tell me if it...if it's right."

Lan Wangji manages a loose nod, though he barely understands.

And Wei Wuxian moves. He rolls his hips against him, shifting inside of him, and Lan Wangji groans. Each deep, short thrust pushes air from his lungs, and he lacks the strength to catch it again. It is beyond pleasure. It is ecstatic. To have Wei Wuxian around him, inside him, panting above him. A deep, villainous part of him wants it never to end. The rest of him howls for release.

He is dripping now, steadily, onto his own stomach. He can feel it pooling on his belly, unpleasantly cool. He whimpers between desperate, panting breaths, beyond words.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, breath shivering across Lan Wangji's collarbone, "I can't...can't keep this up, you feel too—" his breath catches, and he pauses. "I'm going to finish. You need to come."

Dimly, distantly, the idea that Wei Wuxian should derive pleasure from this, no matter how perfunctory, gives Lan Wangji a perverse sort of satisfaction. It snuffs out like a candle at the nebulous thought that perhaps in another world, they could have had this for real.

In this world, the fact remains that this has gone on far too long. But Lan Wangji can do nothing about it. He meets Wei Wuxian's thrusts, leans into the pleasure, tries to gain the momentum to go over the edge. He should be able to. It should be easy. He has been so hard for so long, has been given more now than in his absolute wildest and wettest of dreams, and yet he hovers, scant inches away.

Wei Wuxian loses patience, his head dropping to Lan Wangji's shoulder. He grunts softly and fists Lan Wangji's wet cock, quick and merciless. Lan Wangji cries out, shuddering violently with the extended, expansive stimulation, worked both inside and out, helplessly, utterly unmade by Wei Wuxian's touch.

And still he does not crest. He is sobbing steadily now, ugly and jagged, and Wei Wuxian kisses his shoulder, his throat, his cheek.

"Were we wrong?" He asks, breathless. "Lan Zhan please, tell—show me, I...I can't...you...I can't lose you. Lan Zhan?"

Exhausted, Lan Wangji turns his tearstained face toward him, blindly seeking. Perhaps they were all wrong. Perhaps he will die now, like this. And perhaps it is selfish of him, but having heard those words, he finds his regret to be less than it should be. Everything, everything hurts. But Wei Wuxian will miss him, too. Of course he will. They are zhiji. This, miraculously, will not erase that. It is more than he deserves. Wei Wuxian has always been more than he deserves.

Lan Wangji heaves, and writhes, and cries.

Wei Wuxian kisses him. Soft, gloriously cool lips on his.

An odd, fleeting, hollow feeling.

The dam breaks. The pain goes suddenly quiet. Roaring to fullness in its absence is the killing swell of such a long-delayed climax. It is possible that he calls Wei Wuxian's name. It is impossible to know.

The world, again, goes dark.

-----

Lan Wangji wakes to gray light and distant birdsong. A sharp edge is digging into his shoulder. He shifts, then goes still at the deep ache in his entire body.

He remembers.

"Hanguang-jun should drink this," says a brisk voice to his right.

Wen Qing sits there, watching him. His heart skips a beat and he looks down. But he is fully clothed once more.

Her smile is wry as she holds a cup out to him. Laboriously, he sits up to take it. It is bitter, but familiar. A restorative. He thanks her formally.

She shakes her head. "No need.” She turns to go.

"Wen-guniang," Lan Wangji says. She pauses. "How long has it been gone?"

She turns to stare at him. He knows she knows what he means.

"How? When?"

She looks away. "You'll have to ask him."

The pang of loss he felt upon waking with Wei Wuxian gone speaks for him. "Will he let me?"

 He lies on the slab of rock that serves as Wei Wuxian's bed for too long. It is difficult to tell the passage of time in the Burial Mounds, but it seems slightly brighter than it had...before. He reasons that it could well be the next morning. He wonders if Wei Wuxian slept beside him, then tosses the thought away as gross indulgence. He wonders instead, as he has many times since his last visit, if Wei Wuxian sleeps at all.

First, his excuse to tarry is meditation. He works at it, simultaneously restoring his drained core and healing himself, until the discomfort fades from his every movement to just a specific few.

Once that is done, he has no reason to be idle. But the voice in his head, Wei Wuxian's blisteringly cold one that had called him his proper name all those months ago, keeps him in place. He hears it saying all manner of things in response to seeing him now.

"What more could you possibly want of me?" Wei Wuxian sneers in his mind. And he would be right to do so.

But Lan Wangji does not intend to ask anything of him ever again.

And there is the other thing. The fact that his robes should be uncomfortable, filthy, but they have been cleaned, dried, and arranged back onto his body properly. Comfortably. Almost as if—

He dares not imagine. But at the very least it does not speak of utter contempt.

So he rises. He follows the path Wen Qing told him of. And he does something foolish. He hopes.

After no short while of walking, he comes to a slightly darker, more silent corner of deadened forest. He rounds a bend and sees Wei Wuxian crouched a little ways off, and then hears high, lilting notes as if through water. The energies are strange here, and Wei Wuxian is speaking to with them in their own language.

Lan Wangji approaches until he sees Wei Wuxian go still. He says nothing. Wei Wuxian drops his flute from his lips.

"Are you well?" He asks without rising or turning.

"I am."

Wei Wuxian nods. "Your people are waiting for you."

It is a dismissal. Lan Wangji recognizes this. But he will impose just a little bit longer.

"Your core," he says. Wei Wuxian stands abruptly, still facing away, gripping Chenqing. "Can it be replaced?"

Wei Wuxian whirls to face him, anger and fear warring with the questions on his face.

Lan Wangji has other questions, too. But they do not matter. He is intelligent enough to piece together the cold, empty space where Wei Wuxian's core should be, the tired guilt on Wen Qing's face, and...

"Your scar," he says, dropping his gaze to the scorched earth.

He should not know of it. But he does, now, and he also owes a greater debt than he can ever repay. Wei Wuxian does not respond. How dearly Lan Wangji wants to see his expression. But he will not infringe on any more of his privacy.

The wind howls. He waits.

"You won't tell anybody," Wei Wuxian says uncertainly.

Lan Wangji stiffens. "I will not."

"Nobody told you?"

"Nobody.”

Wei Wuxian pauses, momentarily satisfied.

"You're not going to ask how? Or when?"

Lan Wangji would like to. He would like to know everything of Wei Wuxian, even his sorrow, his pain. But he is not entitled to those things. There is only one point that matters.

"Can it be replaced? Can the procedure be reversed?"

Wei Wuxian sighs. Lan Wangji can tell he does not wish to speak of this.

"So single-minded, Lan Zhan," he scolds, then shakes his head. "The chance of success would be small; the chance of finding a donor, much smaller."

But this is all Lan Wangji hoped to hear. It is enough. He goes to his knees, arms circled in front of his chest.

"Allow me," he says.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian darts forward, trying to pull Lan Wangji up from the ground. Eventually he gives up and goes to his knees in front of him, pushing at his arms. "Lan Zhan, stop this," he says, panicked. "Don't be stupid, stop—Lan Zhan, you can't be serious."

"Please allow me," Lan Wangji repeats, eyes downcast.

"Stop this!" Wei Wuxian shouts. "It can't be done, and I wouldn't take it from you anyway!"

Lan Wangji flinches bodily. He had not considered...but yes. Everything in him is sullied. He bends at the waist, bowing further.

"Apologies for the offense," he says, then snaps his mouth shut. His voice is too obviously strained.

"Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian says, still alarmed.

Lan Wangji needs to leave. He has already overstayed. But he...he has not tried hard enough.

"This debt is too great to repay in one lifetime," he says. "Please inform this one of what he may do to begin."

Wei Wuxian sags, dragging one of Lan Wangji's wrists with him. "Lan Zhan, there is no debt between us."

Lan Wangji only just stops himself from glancing up. He does not understand.

"I owe you my life and more," he says. "You took great pains to save me, even as the situation proved me unworthy of it. I owe—"

"You owe me nothing," Wei Wuxian insists, shaking Lan Wangji's arm. "There were no great pains. Nobody is unworthy. Well...you aren't."

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to protest, but Wei Wuxian speaks over him.

"People have...desires, Lan Zhan. There's nothing unworthy about it."

"But you—"

"Stop," he says. He sounds so, so tired. "If you hadn't been...dying. If we—" He stops. "Just keep my secret," he says, and lets go of his wrist. "And live well."

Lan Wangji closes his eyes. The thought of going back to his home, his life, after this, had not yet occurred to him. It sinks him from his knees to the ground. How can he do this? How can he leave him this way?

"Wei Ying," he pleads. "I must...I must do something. I cannot...I..."

"Why, Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian asks, not unkindly. "You have responsibilities. People to protect, just like me. Live well, and count things even between us. Why not?"

Lan Wangji’s chest caves in. He does not make the sound clawing up his throat.

"You...truly, you must know why," he says. "After... you must know. I would not leave you in need. I could not."

"Ah, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says sadly. He shuffles forward. Lan Wangji startles at the feel of fingertips on his cheek. "You're too good. But all I need is," he huffs, "political asylum for me and 40 friends? It's not your burden."

Suddenly yet slowly, like the first burst of sunrise, an idea reveals itself on the horizon of Lan Wangji’s mind. It is unorthodox. And likely unwelcome. But it is all he has.

"My uncle made a suggestion," he says. "When my affliction became known. It is true that he did not know what it would mean, but I would hold him to it. If it is not...hateful, to you."

"I don't know what you mean," Wei Wuxian says warily.

Lan Wangji steels himself. "You are perceived as the head of a sect. A proper alliance could protect your people, and Gusu Lan is in need of hands for rebuilding. The person who cast this curse upon me has given the perfect excuse, and made themselves scapegoat. If you would...I would not ask anything of you, if you agreed. It would be a marriage in name only, as you wish it."

Wei Wuxian's silence turns to spluttering. "M—Lan Zh—marriage?? What—how—"

"If the idea is odious, I will not mention it again. But as I said. My uncle suggested it. And under the circumstances, he cannot refuse."

"Your—he—Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, look at me. Look at me, please."

Lan Wangji looks at him. His eyes are wide. Disbelieving. Concerned.

"Your uncle would qi deviate if you even hinted at such a thing," he says. "Gusu Lan is in a precarious enough position, you don't need...I have nothing to offer in return." He pats his lower stomach, empty of spiritual energy, emphatically. “Nothing. Don't be ridiculous."

"It is not ridiculous," Lan Wangji argues, certain now that he is right. "You can offer more protection for us, and we can offer legitimacy. The person who cast this curse can be seen to have forced our hands. Has—has forced our hands."

He stops himself. He should not push this. Wei Wuxian is looking at him as if he does not know him.

"You don't want to marry me, Lan Zhan."

This gives Lan Wangji pause. It is a confusing objection, to say the least. He stares, trying to comprehend. He clears his throat. Takes a breath.

"If you are under the impression..." he stops. Drops his eyes once more. "...that the...impetus of the curse. Is the whole of the way I—”

"Demonic cultivation," Wei Wuxian interrupts. "It would be unhealthy. For you. And your elders! They wouldn't let me, not if I were...attached to your sect. To you.”

A fair concern, and one Lan Wangji has been turning over in his own mind as well. "Is this your only objection?"

Wei Wuxian casts about. "Ah..."

Lan Wangji takes one last plunge. "The elders can be reasoned with, compromises can be made. I am not concerned for my health: being near you could never be harmful to me." He hears himself, then, and amends, "Though you need not. Be near me. That is not a condition."

"You would defend this?" Wei Wuxian asks, bemused.

"Defend what?"

"My cultivation path. You..."

Lan Wangji resists a sigh. "I understand the reason, now. And I believe...if you did not object. We could work toward making it safe, without stripping you of what your hard work has created."

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says. He reaches out, then stops.

Lan Wangji stares at his hand, hovering between them. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his eyes, in his tongue.

"Wei Ying."

"You would let me, though?"

His tone is gently mocking. His head is cocked to the side, the edge of a smile playing across his lips. It knocks the breath from Lan Wangji's chest.

"Let you?" He asks, dazed.

"Be near you."

Lan Wangji's heart stops. It is a moment before he can respond.

"I would. Always."

Wei Wuxian takes his hand, and sighs. "You don't owe me this," he says again.

"I do," Lan Wangji counters, off-kilter. "I owe you. And I want to. I would want to, even if—"

He loosens his tight grip on Wei Wuxian's hand. He is saying too much, taking too much, being too much. He settles himself. Finds the words that matter.

"It would be a thing happily given, with no strings attached, should you wish it."

Wei Wuxian laughs strangely. "Lan Zhan, you really..." He shakes his head. "I'd marry you in an instant, you know," says.

Lan Wangji's neck hurts from the speed with which he looks up at him. Hope, warm and liquid, blooms through his limbs.

"But I can't make this decision on my own," Wei Wuxian goes on. "It's not just my life. We have to talk it over with everyone."

"Yes," Lan Wangji says, surprised, and eager now that he sees the possibility of success. Of doing something of use.

"Alright," says Wei Wuxian, a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. "I can't promise...but it...it could work."

"It will," Lan Wangji says, certain that the strength of his conviction alone will carry them through if need be.

He feels strange and dreamlike, confused but heartened by the turn in this conversation. That Wei Wuxian can stand the sight of him, let alone wish to ally with him personally, seems too wonderful to be true. Another Wei Wuxian hallmark.

"But Lan Zhan, no more talk of strings," Wei Wuxian says.

Lan Wangji sobers and nods. It is unseemly. Of course their understanding must be a tacit one, now.

But his hand is suddenly in both of Wei Wuxian's.

"You need to stop feeling guilty," Wei Wuxian says, looking down at it. "If I were your husband...if I were. We could try all that again, but without the impending doom. We could try it again any way we like, any time—all the time—and we'd—"

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji interrupts, strangled. His heart is in his throat. He cannot comprehend what he is hearing. His ears, his face, are on fire.

Wei Wuxian smiles down at their hands, one part shy, one part mischief. "I think we could get really good at it, if we had the chance, don't you?"

Lan Wangji stares at him. "You..."

"Mn," says Wei Wuxian, meeting his eyes.

He shines so bright, even without any core to speak of. He takes Lan Wangji's breath away.

"I take it back," Wei Wuxian says, his voice suddenly urgent. "I like strings. Mine is that if this happens, I want to be your real husband. In name, in practice, in bed, and in your heart. Because you would be, in mine."

Lan Wangji's voice sticks in his throat. He feels...he feels unreal. He does not know what to do, to say. Perhaps they never broke the curse at all and he has simply gone mad. But Wei Wuxian's fingers stroking his palm, the root-knotted dirt beneath his shins, are real. He sways, unbalanced.

Wei Wuxian reaches out. Catches him. Folds him into his arms for a second time. Lan Wangji's breath shudders out of him.

He is on his knees, breathlessly held in the arms of his beloved. He has dreamt this many ways. But never has it been so real, so full of hope. He wraps his arms around Wei Wuxian in turn, buries his face in his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian huffs. "Jiang Cheng is going to be so angry."

Lan Wangji comes back down to earth. It is true he had not thought of this. He makes to pull away. "How should—"

Wei Wuxian clutches him tighter. "I don't care," he says, "I don't care, we can manage him." He pauses, then speaks more softly. "Maybe...I could see shijie's wedding after all. Or—no. It's too soon, I—"

"Yes," says Lan Wangji. "You will. We will go together."

Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath, and lets it out into Lan Wangji's hair.

"Together," he says.

It takes several serious, and at times uncomfortable, discussions, but in the end, Gusu Lan’s Second Jade is indeed thoroughly removed from the marriage pool of the great sects. The curse caster is found and punished. And everybody else lives happily ever after.

The end.

-----

(Thank you for coming on this wildly self-indulgent journey, I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to read some actually nicely-polished, fleshed-out fics by me—including another sex-cursed LWJ—check out my AO3.)

[inkykeiji]

little bit of poison in me

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut and angst

notes: okay FINALLY!! very loosely inspired by tag you’re it by melanie martinez!! uhh dabi’s a drug dealer, keigo’s in his third year of university and a track star, reader’s in her first year of university. please, please pay attention to the warnings below! if keigo’s your comfort character and you cannot handle him being physically abusive and a drug addict, then you might wanna sit this one out! promise he’ll be painted in a more sympathetic light in part two. | aaah dedicating this to @rat-suki​, because ur the only one who’s actually known the details of this fic since november, and because i put a lil something inspired by new moon in there for u ehehe <333 | title credit: tag you’re it by melanie martinez

warnings: 18+, noncon/dubcon, physical abuse, drug use & abuse + graphic depictions of addiction, mindbreak, overstimulation, manipulation, lowkey yandere vibes (which will get worse), daddy kink, a brother a lil too obsessed with his sister + questionably close sibling relationship, generally toxic relationships (possessiveness, jealousy), rough sex, semi-public sex, cumplay/cum feeding, minimal prep, degradation/dumbification, choking, kinda brat taming???

words: 14.8k

synopsis: 

“Do you wanna come home with Daddy, princess?”

He’s caging you between his body and the murky convenience store window as he asks, both palms pressed flat against the grimy glass.

No. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, can almost hear your brother’s voice in the back of your mind telling you not to. But you’re too enticed in sapphire to care, drawn into pretty, almost glittering blue fire, letting the flames lick your skin as you immerse yourself in it, deeper and deeper and deeper, and allowing it to wrap itself around you, to consume you, to knock the very breath out of you as you gaze into it.

“Okay,”

It’s well past midnight, but the moon is still hanging high in the sky, illuminating the dingy shopping mall parking lot, its reflection gleaming on the wet, cracked concrete. Breathless little laughs and squeals of surprise and pleasure ring out among the vast empty space, your own voice echoing around you.

“Gonna get ya, baby,”

He’s chasing after you, legs longer than yours, faster than yours, mischievous little growls getting caught in his chest as you daintily leap away from him, just out his grasp again, the tips of his fingers grazing the soft linin of your dress.

“No!” you giggle, pushing your burning thighs to keep running just a bit longer, propelling you forward.

But he’s getting closer and closer with each pound of his boots against the pavement, encroaching on you more and more with each tiny gasp exhaled through your parted lips.

Eventually, he catches you, like he always does, large hands wrapping around your hips as strong arms pull you backwards against a solid chest. You’re both panting, chests heaving with exertion, bubbles of laughter escaping your throats.

“Tag,” he breathes, hot breath curling around the shell of your ear. “You’re it,”

His arms encircle you, holding you tightly, your own arms covering his, little fingers digging into the skin of his forearms almost possessively as he uses his strength and bodyweight to guide you towards the car—a 1959 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz that runs like shit and guzzles gas like no tomorrow. But it’s pretty, and he loves it, with all its chrome and argyle blue, glittering in the moonlight.

“You’re being bad, princess,” the words are mumbled against the skin behind your ear, and you can feel the smirk on his lips. “Good girls don’t run away from their Daddies like that,”

And he says the word with so much disdain, cruel and mocking, making you feel sick for liking it.

“Baaad girl,” he whispers, dragging the word out.

A tiny pout settles on your face, eyebrows knitting. “Am not,”

“Are too,”

“Am not,”

“You are,” he chuckles, pressing you against the damp metal of his car as you finally reach it, his body still draped over yours. “What? You gonna fight me on it?”

Squirming a little in his grasp, you turn to face him, a playful glint shining in your glassy eyes as you nudge your nose against his. “I just might!”

“Hah,” the breath of air washes over your face, scorching and sweet, a stark contrast to the humid, cool air surrounding you, causing your exposed flesh to break out into chills. “I’d like to see you try, dollface,”

“Oh, I’m sure you would,” you murmur, yelping when his fingers dig into the supple flesh of your ass through your dress, grabbing a healthy handful and squeezing in retaliation.

“Mmm,” he hums nonchalantly, pushing his forehead against yours, eyes nothing but gaping pupils outlined by a thin ring of sapphire. “You gonna show me?” his rough voice fades into a whisper, unblinking eyes holding yours steadily. Calloused hands are sliding up your thighs now, slipping underneath the thin material of your dress and taking the hem with them.

“N-Not here,” you breathe, trying and failing to pull back from him, eyes widening in alarm as you feel his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties.

“Yes, here,” he responds, voice smooth as velvet as soft lips drag along your neck, sharp teeth sinking into your flesh like a hot knife slicing through butter.

Panic is beginning to rise in your chest, your throat closing up, and you choke a little on your words, shaking your head frantically. “Please, Dabi, no, we could just—”

“Wow, you really want me to bruise that pretty ass of yours,” he smirks, cutting you off and pulling back to gaze at you lazily, lips glimmering with saliva.

“No, I—”

“Especially with how much you’re saying no today,” he tuts his tongue in disapproval. “Such a bad girl; a silly, little, stupid, bad girl,”

Each word is punctuated with a sharp slap to your scantily clad ass, each bringing with them a sharp sting that you can hear, echoing out among the parking lot.

“Not bad,” you whimper, eyes shutting tightly against the familiar burn of tears. “Not bad, j-just wanna—”  

“Wanna what?” he teases, voice mocking yours as his palm collides with your ass again. “Huh?”

“W-Wanna—Want you to fuck me right,” you rush to say, the words exhaled as a singular huff of breath.

“Oh?” he pulls back slightly, eyes searching your face, his own features contorted with false concern. “Is that so?”

You nod quickly, eagerly, and he can see it in your eyes, how desperately you want him to buy your lie.

But you know he hasn’t the moment that trademark smirk returns to his face, mouth curling up at the edges as he leans forward, lips moving against your ear. “I think that’s a boldfaced lie, babygirl,” his voice is low, sinister, dangerous, traces of amusement sown into his tone. “I think it’s because you don’t want anyone to see how much of a little whore you truly are,”

“D-Dabi, please,” you whimper, vision blurry with tears as you paw at his jacket, pleading with him.

He thinks it’s so cute when you beg, his silence imploring you to continue, urgently rambling on in your quest to convince him.

“I-I want you to really fuck me; I want you to leave b-bruises all over my body, I want to feel you in my tummy, I want you t-to stuff me so full of cum that it goes to my brain and makes me stupid, please Daddy, I want—”  

Slim fingers wrap around your neck and squeeze, forcing a cry of surprise from your lips and effectively cutting you off. “I’m gonna make sure you remember those words, sweetheart,”

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

The thump of your own heart echoes in your ears as the Cadillac Eldorado thrums under your body, the leather sticking to the bare skin of your thighs.

“Open,” he demands, delivering a harsh slap to the thigh nearest to him, eyes never leaving the road as his foot presses down, car accelerating. Your thighs obey immediately, spreading as far as they possibly can in the cramped space, knees knocking against the door and center console box.

A rough hand, decorated with callouses and scabs, kneads the flesh once before sliding up, up, up, and then hooking in the elastic of your panties, Dabi spitting out a curse as he lets it snap back against your skin.

“Take those off,” he seethes, aggressively ripping his hand away from you as if he’s aggravated that you’re even wearing them at all. Your dress hitches up around your waist in your haste to obey, little fingers catching in the lacy material as your hips squirm, seatbelt cutting into your flesh, wiggling a little as you pull the dainty material down your legs.

He’s already holding his hand out expectantly and you press them into it, waiting for his fingers to close around the garment before taking your hand back. He feels them, rolling the fabric around in his palm, between his fingers, chuckling darkly as he chucks them over his shoulder a moment later, onto the dirty ground of the backseat.

Those were your favourite, but you know better than to say anything, forcing your expression to stay neutral, to keep your nose from wrinkling up in distaste.

“They’re wet, but not nearly wet enough,” he tsks as if he’s disappointed, hand finding your thigh again. This time, they part instantly, without any verbal prompting, hips pushing towards his palm as it skims the skin of your inner thigh.

“Now, I’m gonna play with this cute lil clit of yours,” he begins, fingers brushing the sensitive nub, words tumbling from his lips slowly, lazily, unhurried, as if you’re stupid, as if you need an ample amount of time for each word to sink in.

It makes your pussy throb, and the borderline malicious smirk that spreads across his face tells you that he felt it, too.

Speaking through his smirk, he continues in the same patronizing voice. “And you—you’re going to be Daddy’s good little girl and get nice and wet for him, so he doesn’t hurt his cock when he fucks you. Do you think you can do that for me, sweetheart?”

Yes Daddy, of course Daddy, anything for you, Daddy.

It’s torture in the most delightful way, coarse pads of his fingers just barely grazing your clit, just enough for you to feel it, just enough for you to want—no, need—more. Heat, thick and sticky, pools in the pit of your stomach, thighs straining to open impossibly wider, edges of the car’s interior digging into your knees as you desperately try to shift your hips, to press further into his touch, to evoke anything harder than these teasing, feathery touches.

Blunt nails sink into the tender flesh of your inner thigh, hard enough to make you yelp, entire body flinching from the sudden pain. “Big girls use their words,” he chastises, voice fading from a growl into a pleasant, light tone.

“Please, Daddy, I-I want more,” you whimper, hips still trying to catch your clit on his fingers, on his palm. “Touch me more,”

The hum that vibrates in his throat has your heart sinking, corners of your mouth tugging down as you blink against the sting of disappointment—you know that hum, know it all too well, know all of Dabi’s bizarre mannerisms at this point and what they mean for you. And that hum, the one that only lasts for a moment, the one that’s barely a noise at all, the one that doesn’t even sound like he’s considering anything, means no.

His eyes don’t leave the road in front of him, despite the fact that his car is going faster, and faster, and faster, whipping through the empty city streets, neon buildings and harsh florescent lights becoming nothing but a blur. And if it weren’t for the hard lump straining against the black denim of his jeans, you’d figure him disinterested; facial features relaxed, breathing normal, entirely unresponsive to the pathetic little noises he’s so effortlessly pulling from you.

It ignites a fire in your chest, blazing with the need to make him react, to make him pay attention to you.

Wearing your best pout, you arch your back a little, the action shoving your hips towards his hand again. “Daddy, Daddy,” you whine, low and needy in the back of your throat, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Please, touch me more? Please, Daddy, I want it so bad, want your cock so bad, please, help me get wetter? Wanna be dripping for you, Daddy, I wanna be soaking for you,”

“Fuck,” he breathes, smirk growing into a full grin as he glances at you from the side of his eye. “Such a brat,” he shakes his head, through the grin is still present on his face as he finally presses two fingers against the swollen bud, rubbing slow, hard circles into it. “You better be drenched for me by the time we get home, you little bitch,”

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

Large hands are on your body as the two of you stumble up the stairs, nimble fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, obscene sucking and slurping amplified by the stairwell, bouncing back to your own ears, saliva slicked lips slipping and sliding together messily as teeth clack together, practically tripping over each other’s feet and fucking Christ he needs you, he needs you now, his cock hurts, goddamn it.

And you’d be lying through your teeth if you said you didn’t absolutely love it when he gets like this, all clingy and needy and desperate, hushed little whines catching in the back of his throat, fading from deep, rumbling growls as rough hands paw at you.

A sharp gasp is knocked from your chest as he slams you against the wall on the landing of floor three with such force that your head ricochets off the concrete, your resounding cry silenced by Dabi’s lips, tongue invading your mouth as he swallows your beautiful little noises of pain.

You can feel his cock pressed up against your hip, hot and hard and throbbing through the denim that conceals it as he grinds against you, fervent, eager, impatient.

That panic is bubbling up in your throat again, bitter and acidic and eroding, rendering your voice weak and frail as scabbed knuckles drag across your bare thighs, inching higher and higher.

“Da-Daddy, wait,”

“No,” he growls, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to break the skin. “I’m done waiting,” hands are rucking up your dress. “You made me wait that whole fucking car ride,” sharp hipbones keep your thighs spread. “I can’t wait any longer,” the clinking of his heavy belt buckle echoes throughout the stairwell, sending chills pebbling across your skin.

And then he’s forcing himself into you, shoving his cock into your tight little hole, a choked cry bouncing off the dirty white walls as your eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking from the edges.

The stretch is magnificent, little cunt aching as it sucks in his thick cock, and you swear you can feel the burning in your belly, little pinpricks of pain shooting through your gut.

“G-Gonna tear me in half,” you wail, head falling forward, forehead bumping against his.

“Shh, baby, Daddy’s got you,” a callous laugh leaves his lips after he spits out the nickname, the singular word filled with such derision it must sting his tongue. Large hands hoist you up, and your legs immediately latch around his waist, seeking comfort in the monster that hurt you.

“Daddy, Daddy,” Tears drip down your cheeks as you bury your face in his shoulder, the word escaping your lips in tiny half-sobs catching in your throat, little fingers curling against the worn leather of his jacket.

And he can’t help but soften a little as you weep into his neck, thinks it’s so cute that you need him so bad, your little stuttered breaths hot against his neck as you cling to him, reminding him that he is the only man that can make you feel like this; he is the only man that can make you cry while simultaneously finding solace in his embrace. It makes his blood surge, sends cinders searing up his spine, gives him a high better than any other drug every could, and he finds himself hushing you gently, twitching cock buried in your cute lil cunt, snugly pressed against your cervix.

“Okay, okay,” he’s saying as his hips begin to pump, slow and languid. “Quiet, Daddy’s gonna make it feel good, alright? Daddy’s here, Daddy’s gonna make it go away,”

The sweetest, airiest little mewls of Daddy, yes, Daddy, soak into the inky skin of his neck, sandwiched between uneven hitched breaths. He’s gaining speed with each thrust, though, working up a steady rhythm that has you practically bouncing on his cock, little wails of pain fading into whimpers of pleasure. The combination is dizzying, infecting your mind with a haze that is only Dabi, surrounded by him, immersed in him—glowing sapphire and burning hickory and spicy nicotine—unable to quell the little noises spilling from your throat, each one louder than the next with each bump against your cervix and drag against that spot.  

“That feel better, princess?” he breathes out, pausing just to readjust his grip on your ass—to angle your hips just right, chuckling at your selfish, needy whine—and then he’s drilling his cock into you, head pounding against the spot that has his name escaping your lips in high pitched squeals that break in your throat, heavy belt buckle clanking against the wall with each of his thrusts.

It sends sparks of mind-numbing pleasure burning through your abdomen, your chest, straight to your very core and collecting there, each spark adding to the growing fire that’s beginning to blaze, followed by intense spears of pain, slicing through your gut and down the muscles of your thighs, legs beginning to quiver as ankles hook tighter, tighter, tighter, the heels of your sneakers digging into his back dimples, trying to get him closer, closer, closer, desperately begging for more, more, more.

Yet it’s all so much, too much, please, Daddy—the harsh sound of metal colliding with concrete mingling with your pathetic whines and his panted breaths, rough whimpers catching deep in his chest, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard a more beautiful sound.

“C’mon, babygirl,” he gasps, pace never slowing, never faltering once, even though there’s glistening dewdrops of sweat decorating his hairline, inky strands beginning to stick to the skin of his forehead. “Be a good girl and cum for Daddy, cum before someone catches you being such a sweet little—God, Christ—a sweet little slut for me,”

And your cunt submits, would never dare to disobey a direct command from its master, from its owner, clenching around him as you cream all over his cock, a sharp cry ripping up your throat as your nails scrabble against leather clad shoulders.

A growl rumbles, deep and dark and dangerous in his chest, as his hips piston a few more times before they still, tips of his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, branding his name in tiny blotches of navy and violet as his cock throbs, coating your insides with spurts of thick cum.

Head falling forward, his forehead collides with yours, chests heaving and breathing laboured. And he can’t help the little chuckle he huffs out as you wiggle your hips a little, eyes still closed as you rock in little motions against him, clit catching on his pubic bone.

Needy little bitch.

But he isn’t nearly done with you yet, because that desire, thick and sticky in the very pit of his stomach, only wants more, insatiable and voracious, desperate for more of your whines, more of your tears, more of your cunt.

You’re gonna make good on all those words you spewed in the parking lot, baby, he’s nearly snarling at you, cutting off your whiny complaints as he drags you up the final flight of stairs, stopping halfway to haul you over his shoulder with a huff and a deft slap to your ass, carrying you the rest of the way to his apartment.

“Dress, off. Now.” He orders as he throws you onto his mattress, pulling his shirt over his head, belt buckle jingling as he walks, still hanging undone.

And then he’s crawling over your naked body, lips attacking yours, smashing and smacking and slurping, a large hand wrapping around your wrists as he shoves his tongue into your mouth, laving over yours in slow, deliberate drags, pinning your wrists against the cold cracked drywall behind his nearly bare, minimalistic bed, squeezing hard enough to grind the bones together between a singular rough palm—a silent warning—and forcing a yelp from your throat into his.

“Don’t move them,” his lips mumble the command against yours before he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, between sharp gleaming teeth that bite down hard, sinking into the soft flesh and refusing to release until he tastes copper, the tip of his tongue tracing the harsh indents left behind, licking at your lip once more before pulling away completely.

“I want you to leave bruises all over my body!” he mimics, voice absurdly high as lips skim the curve of your neck, tongue darting out to trace along your collarbones. “Isn’t that what you said, baby?”

But you can’t answer, too busy sucking on your now swollen lip, trying to soothe the incessant throbbing as metal stains your tongue. That’s disrespectful, you think you hear him growl into your unmarred skin before something sharp pierces your nipple, clamping down around it and tugging. A resounding cry tears through your throat as your body instinctually bows off the bed, pressing further into him, a muffled snicker vibrating against your chest before his tongue flicks, licks, slobbers, thick strings of saliva glimmering in the dim light as he pulls away, breaking and slapping against his chin.

“Answer me next time I ask you a fucking question,” The words are spit so harshly they slice into your skin, head nodding fervently before he’s even finished speaking, blinking the bleariness from your eyes. Smoldering sapphire holds your gaze for a moment, burning into your very soul—digging, prying, searching, scrutinizing, his breathing slow, calm, controlled with each deep rise and fall of his bare chest.

You aren’t sure what it is he’s looking for as he peers into the depths of your eyes, but you don’t dare let your gaze stray from his, don’t dare blink, don’t dare breathe until he breaks the spell, blinking once as his lips curl up into a wicked smirk.

“I’m gonna turn your body into a work of art,” he promises you, voice low and guttural, forcing thorns of ice up your spine as lips drag across your jaw.

And he does, paints little galaxies across your skin with his tongue and his lips, asymmetrical blotches of blues and greys and purples, ivory bones scraping against your flesh, signing his name into his masterpiece in deep, dark indents of crimson and violet.

It aches and it pulses and it stings, glittery trails of salt water staining your cheeks, tiny shimmering droplets clinging to your clumped, spiky lashes, adding the finishing touches on the greatest piece he’s ever created.

And it’s so pretty, you’re so pretty when you’re like this, baby, covered in navy and plum and carmine, and, fuck, it’s a shame you won’t stay like this.  

It seems he’s in a trance for a moment, in awe of his craftsmanship, of what he’s produced, breathing laboured as shining azure eyes drift over your body, slowly, purposefully, as if he’s memorizing every single nick, bite, scrape, bruise, burning the image into his brain forever.

His gaze floats back up to yours, holding it for a moment, pupils big and gaping and swallowing you whole—before something snaps, breaks, and he comes back to himself, remembers why he did it.

Narrowing slightly, his eyes darken, that sadistic smirk returning to his lips. And then he’s shoving his cock into you again, hard and leaking and the prettiest red you’ve ever seen, cute little cunt stretching around him for the second time tonight.

But little girls who act like brats deserve to get fucked like brats, he tells you in a snarl, slender fingers collaring your neck and squeezing slowly, slowly, slowly, crushing the column of your throat.

Everything’s beginning to grow hazy, vision sliding in and out of focus as those calloused hands continue to tighten, and tighten, and tighten. He looks like some sort of sick angel as he looms above you, nothing more than a shadow of sharp edges and smooth curves, inky spikes and glowing sapphire, haloed by the weak neon light that spills in through grimy windows. Jutting bones prod the soft flesh of your inner thighs, carving out a space just for them as his hips snap viciously, relentlessly, obstinately.

And it’s all overwhelming, overstimulating on every front, uncontrollable tears streaming from your eyes as you choke roughly on your own sobs, each one being forced from your chest by your Daddy’s harsh thrusts, only to get caught on the palm pressed to your airway, ears ringing from the slap of skin against skin overlapping those harsh words spit at you in his falsely saccharine voice.  

Aw, no, baby, wispy words caressing your cheek as they float by, eyes starting to roll back in your head. Don’t pass out on me, dollface. I want you awake when I fill your cunt with cum.

The pressure around your throat lets up just a hint, and you wheeze in air, a rush of cold flooding your body. You can feel it, that contrasting, familiar heat scorching the pit of your stomach, beginning to curl in on itself more, and more, and more with each pump of his hips, until it explodes, your body arching off the mattress, unintentionally pressing into the hand adorning your neck, restricting your air entirely.

The chuckle that leaves his lips as you choke yourself is dark, would send spears of ice slicing through your veins if you weren’t otherwise focused on trying to fill your lungs with air. Nothing leaves your mouth other than a few choked whines, barely more than a huff of light breath.

But his hips don’t slow, and he’s glaring down at you with parted lips and lidded eyes, pupils gaping, so large you’re unable to detect even the slightest hint of blue outlining them—nothing but big black orbs, absorbing everything in their vision, sucking everything from you, every hitched sob and soft whine and gorgeous wince, each time he pounds against your cervix.

And it’s how your looking up at him—with those gleaming, adoring eyes and that blissful, fucked out grin—that has him cumming with a shuddered f-fuck, forcing his eyes to stay open as he pumps you full of thick cum, desperate to catalogue every little expression that crosses your face, the way your eyes flutter slightly, the way your neck arches, the tiniest little moan slipping through chapped lips as his cock pulses inside of you.

You must pass out for a second, Dabi’s calloused palm lightly tapping against your cheek as he murmurs to you in that sinful, silky voice, sugared sentiments twining around your exhausted body.

Wake up, princess. Daddy isn’t done playing with you yet.

Words tumble past your lips in a mumble, though you aren’t quite sure what you’re saying—everything feels hazy, like you’re gazing through a thin cloud of smoke, and despite the fact that you can barely move, your body feels light, almost floaty in a way, entirely numb to the immense pain it has endured thus far.

Two fingers, coated in thick, gleaming cream, are thrust into your gasping mouth, tongue met with the salty, bitter taste of his cum. You cough around the sudden intrusion, immediately obey when he orders you to clean, sluggish tongue sliding up and lapping at and slipping between them, sucking the digits free of cum.

Good girl, he leans away and your heart flutters weakly at the praise, saliva slicked fingers dipping into your hole again to gather more.

“C’mon,” he breathes as he brings his fingers to your mouth again, sticky viscous glops collected on his fingers. They catch in the dim light streaming through the window, a unique mixture of pale moonbeams and hazy neon, cum almost glittering, almost pretty. “You wanted me so bad, didn’t you?” your head’s moving—nodding, you think, you can’t really tell, breathing shallow as your eyes belatedly follow his glistening fingers—and he smirks down at you. “Then eat my fucking cum,”

Lips part instantly, mouth falling open as your tongue lolls out, eyes drifting up to his and pleading mutely, begging for the substance—the very essence of him—and nearly moaning when he drags his fingers across the saliva coated muscle, curling and sucking his digits back into the heat of your mouth.

And he’s fucking high off of it all, pupils blown to hell, outlined by the thinnest ring of cobalt, barely detectable, visible only when it catches in the moonlight.

A lumpy pile of denim sits abandoned and bunched up near the end of the bed—he must’ve kicked his pants off at some point, though you don’t remember when—and his cock’s hard again, head brushing your inner thigh. It’s hard for you to tear your gaze from it, fleeting thoughts of stamina and impressive grazing through your mind, turning to smoke the moment you try to latch onto them.

He notices, of course—you’ve been staring at it for nearly a minute now, glazed eyes unblinking, soft little pants passing through barely parted lips. But it’s the way you’re staring at it—in the purest, unadulterated form of desire—that makes it jump, twitching a little against your thigh. You think you hear your Daddy breathe out a curse, think his rough fingers brush some hair back from your drenched forehead, think he says something along the lines of how much he fucking loves you, but in your dreamlike state, you can’t be sure.

Because then rough hands are on you, manhandling you as whatever trance he had fallen into yet again snaps once more.

“We’re gonna put that pretty, empty head of yours to good use!” he’s saying almost enthusiastically as he hoists your boneless body up, propping you up against his chest and securing you with a strong arm wrapped around your waist. “Whaddya think about that, hmm, princess? Want Daddy to use your little skull as his own personal cumdump? Huh?” lithe fingers squeeze your cheeks so hard your lips pucker up, a high-pitched whine getting caught in your throat. “That’s all it’s good for anyway, isn’t it?”

You try to nod, but all your head wants to do is flop back against his shoulder.

“Oh baby,” he cooks mockingly, jutting his inky bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I thought that was what you wanted?”

“T’is!” you mumble through his grip, drool beginning to collect in the corners of your scrunched mouth, dribbling down your chin. Gazing at him through the corner of your watery eyes, your resolve hardens, doing your best to hold your exhausted body up on your own, expression steeling as you force your woozy head to nod as best you can in his bruising grasp.

“Yeah?” he breathes, mouth curving into a dangerous smirk before his lips are at your ear, voice dropping an octave lower. “You’re fucking stubborn, y’know that? Stubborn little brat, just like your bullheaded brute of a brother,”

And then he’s pushing you down, shoving your head into the mattress and pulling your hips up, a hiss spit through your teeth as he purposefully presses into the fresh bruises.

Your poor little pussy aches, fucked open and raw by his cock, but you are stubborn—you can’t help it, it runs in your blood—exhilarated by the challenge and pushing your hips back weakly towards him.

Your Daddy chuckles behind you, but it’s one of those annoyed chuckles, one of those disbelieving chuckles, one of those chuckles that consists of an audacious smirk, quick short nodding that’s more to himself than anyone else, and a tongue running along his top teeth, sucking on the bones, before it fades from his face completely, replaced with scorn in an instant, eyes cold and jaw clenched as he delivers a harsh backhand to your ass.

Then his body’s blanketing yours, chest hot and heavy against your back, lips moving against the shell of your ear.

“Oh, you really want me to break you, don’t you?”

No, truly, you don’t, but you grit your teeth, eyes shut tightly against the sting of a fresh wave of tears, trying to stop your head from involuntarily shaking no.

He laughs again, this time mean and sharp and full of malice, as he straightens up, lining his cock up with your hole.

“Nah, nah,” he’s saying as he pushes in, and God, it still hurts, it still stretches you, reopening little sutures created in the stairwell. “I think you do—Actually, I know you do. And Daddy knows best, right?”

Yes, of course, Daddy knows best, Daddy always knows best.

And it burns, that relentless snap of his hips, driving his cock into you with deep growls and grunts, with such force that it’s jostling you up the mattress, little hands planting themselves in a pitiful attempt to press back against him, to keep yourself in one place. Every muscle in your arms screams at the effort, stiff and rigid from being held, kept, still and obedient against the wall for an extended period of time.

The dreaminess has faded again, leaving behind a dull haze, and it all just hurts. It seems to come in bouts, inexplicable waves of numbness and pain, alternating sporadically and sprinkled with spikes of intense pleasure, a potent mix of chemicals swirling in your brain, lust and desire and terror and anguish burning through your veins.

You’re sobbing into the mattress now, fingers curling tightly in his soft black sheets as your bleary vision begins to darken at the edges, mumbling out something almost in a chant—his name, you think, though you’re not sure, it all sounds muffled to your ringing ears—vibrations of your voice getting caught in your throat, hitching with your sobs and the rough piston of his hips.

It’s building again, licks of fire scalding hot against the walls of your stomach, the temperature rising with each drag of his cock against that spot, until you’re sure the flames are going to engulf you from the inside out.

Little squeaks, poor imitations of moans, escape your lips, interspersed with your pathetic wails. He’s speaking once more—you can feel it, his chest reverberating against yours, lips moving against your ear again. Something rumbles, rattles, deep and dark and dangerous at the very core of his body, and then he’s tangling a hand in your hair and tugging, hauling you up, a choked cry slipping from your lips.

It pulls you from unconsciousness’s grasp, just for a moment, clears the mist from your mind as he snarls against your ear, taking the cartilage between his teeth and biting down, hard.

“Thought I told you to answer me the next time I ask you a fucking question,” he breathes, and he almost sounds gleeful, contradicting his voice, so rough, so hoarse, so hot.

You did, Daddy, you did, you’re trying to say, trying to nod in the vice grip he has on your strands, the words jumbled and muddled and near incomprehensible, wet and messy and coated in spit.

“But I guess my—Christ—my cock makes you too stupid to do that, huh?” he’s panting now, in time with his thrusts, huffs of breath sweltering against your already sticky skin. “What would your goody-two-shoes brother say if he could see you, hmm? If he could see how fucking dumb his little slut of a baby sister goes from my cum,”

It’s too much, too much, Daddy, too much, the brutal pounding of his cockhead against your swollen cervix and the continuous stream of strained, husky, filthy words he’s spewing in your ear and the sting in your scalp and that spot, that spot, that spot—

It hits you so hard it’s painful, knocks what little breath you had right out of you as your entire body convulses on his cock, little cunt clenching and gushing as you weep Da-Daddy! over and over and over, the only word your soupy brain is capable of conceiving, body going pliant in his arms as your head lolls back against his shoulder, struggling to keep your eyes open while he continues to drive his cock into you, hard and fast and messy.

He cums with the prettiest broken whine you’ve ever heard—or at least, you think he does, entire body gone numb once again, think you feel his hips juddering and his cock pulsing, think you feel that familiar, thick substance filling you to the brim. Everything is still for a moment, his chest heaving against your arched back, and then he laughs malevolently, though it sounds far away, even though you can feel the sound vibrating against you.

“That ought’a teach you to say no to me again,” he spits harshly in your ear, giving one more hard yank on your hair before letting go completely, your abused body collapsing in a heap on his mattress.

It feels like you’re more Dabi than yourself now, with his name written all over your body, signed by his mouth, his teeth, his fingers, and his cum leaking out of you, drying hard and sticky on your thighs, his scent being all you can smell, all you can taste, heady and fiery. And as you crawl into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness—finally, finally—you think about just how much can change, and how fast it does, in a mere 92 days.

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

Three months earlier

The air is hazy with thick smoke, heavy enough to dilute the already dim yellow light shining from the bare lightbulbs overhead. The stench of cheap beer, weed and sweat stings your nose, and it wrinkles reflexively.

You aren’t supposed to be here.

Throbbing music radiates through the house, causing the structure to tremble in time with the beat, the dirty drywall you’re currently pressed up against quivering in response. It’s so loud it hurts, vibrating through the warped linoleum floors and through your body. It makes you shiver in disgust, as if it’s some sort of parasite worming it’s way through your veins in timed intervals.

Your brother would kill you if he knew.

You’ve been backed into a corner—literally, surrounded by three college boys you’ve never seen before as they drunkenly leer at you. They’re a year or two older than you, glassy half-lidded eyes scanning your body in a way that makes you feel filthy, in a way that makes you want to scrub your skin raw to rid it of their slimy gazes.

They’re mumbling out something, speaking amongst themselves in low voices, peppered with raspy snickers that make your skin crawl. Pressing further into the corner, you quickly wrack your mind for something—anything—that will get them to part just a little, that’ll crack the wall of bodies you’re now surrounded by just enough for you to barrel through. Adrenaline begins to surge through your veins as you gear up, drawing in a deep breath, and—

“Whadda we have here?”

The men part immediately at the sound of that low voice, smooth as melted chocolate, revealing a figure with spiky onyx hair, an involuntary gasp escaping your lips the moment your eyes collide with sapphire.

“Ah, I thought it was you,” he smirks, peering down at you with a gaze so intense it feels like your body’s been set aflame. “What’s a good little girl like you doing in a place like this, hmm?”

Dabi.

This wasn’t the first time you had seen him, remembering the man with the pretty cobalt eyes and inky hair standing under a singular flickering lamp post outside of the tiny house you and your brother share, or lingering on the threshold of the front door, eyes lazily darting around the space as he waits.

He never comes inside. Your brother doesn’t allow it.

You’ve barely spoken any words to him, always responding to his polite greetings with shy nods or little waves.

But this is the first time you’re meeting him properly.

Feet bolted to the floor, you try to respond, only able to emit a pathetic little squeak.

He huffs out a condescending chuckle, gazing down the bridge of his nose at you, head tilted up just a touch, lidded crystal eyes glittering in the dim light. That trademark smirk spreads into something darker, something almost ominous in nature, something that whispers in your ear that it knows something you don’t, sending sharp spikes of ice shooting up your spine.

“Does your brother know you’re here?”

You shake your head quickly, eyes widening in panic as anxiety begins to rise in your throat. He isn’t about to rat you out, is he?

“Thought so. Dunno why I asked,” he heaves a heavy sigh, chest rising with the force of it, as if he’s extremely exasperated, as if you’re some sort of child lost at a supermarket and he’s bringing you back to your parents. “Alright, let’s go,”

A hand extends, hanging limp in the smoky air for a moment, waiting, before Dabi sighs again with a roll of his eyes, latching onto your wrist and all but dragging you out of the corner, maneuvering through the mass of sweaty bodies crowding the dingy living room.

“We’re leaving?” you ask dumbly as Dabi approaches the back door, hand still wrapped in a firm grasp around your arm.

“Yep. My work here is done, and you,” he tuts his tongue with a slow shake of his head, hidden smile on his face. “Your work here is done, too,”

“W-Where are we going?” you ask as the two of you stumble outside, shivering a little as the cool, fresh air hits your heated skin.

“No idea. Away from this place,” he looks back at your briefly, giving your wrist a soft squeeze before dropping it. “You tryna put your brother in an early grave or somethin’?”

A frown tugs at the corners of your lips as you shake your head again. “No, I just—”

“You shouldn’t have been there,” his words echo your thoughts from before. “You were in some real danger for a second, y’know that?”

“I-I know. Thank you for, uh, s-saving me, Sir,”

“Sir?” his eyes are bright with mirth, shining despite the weak light provided by the waxing moon. The smirk returns, and you feel it again—like he’s plotting something, like he’s got some big secret he’s hiding, a plan, something up his sleeve. “Sir is nice, but I think there’s another name you’d rather call me,”

Eyebrows knit in confusion, your eyes drift to the ground, mulling over his words. Something else you’d rather call him? Like what? You’ve only seen the guy a few—

“Still have no idea why you haven’t fucked him yet,” one of your friends muses as Dabi’s exiting his car, eyes watching him lazily from where you’re both seated on the front lawn.

“Keigo would murder me, literally,” you giggle a little, glancing over at the man with inky hair before looking away again, down at your lap as little fingers thread through the grass beneath you and shaking your head.

“Shame,” she sighs, twirling her sticky pink lollipop idly, the candy catching in the sun. “He’s Daddy as hell,”

A sharp gasp leaves your parted lips, eyes snapping back to her face and holding them for a moment before the two of you burst into a fit of giggles, your fingers tapping her bare knee in a silent warning that he’s approaching.

Heavy black boots collide with the front stone path, buckles jingling daintily, his head perking up in a catlike manner, trademark smirk forming on his lips as you both urgently try to calm your laughter.

“Ladies,” he nods with a wink as he passes, little giggles cutting off instantaneously, the two of you mumbling shy greetings in response.

That was the only time you had ever spoken to him, until now.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment. He did hear.

He chuckles slightly, dropping the subject with a shake of his head.

“So. Where to?” he asks expectantly, feet slowing to a stop on the cracked sidewalk as he taps out a cigarette. He whips a silver Zippo open, sharp twinge of metal swiping against metal cutting though the silent nighttime air. “Home?”

A shrill bubble of incredulous laughter escapes your throat. Dabi glances over at you, amused, raising an eyebrow in question as he cups the flame and brings it to his lips.

“Do you want to put my brother in an early grave?” you snort.

“I could just walk you to the street, you know,” he rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face. “Precious niisan wouldn’t even need to see me,”

You shake your head, idly kicking a rock with the toe of your shoe as you begin walking again. The campus is beginning to bleed into the city now, engulfing the two of you in familiar florescent light. “No, I can’t go home,”

“Why?”

“I…” you trail off, heat flooding your cheeks. “I, um, told him I’d be staying at a friend’s place tonight,”

Dabi gasps mockingly. “Baby, you lied to your niisan?”

Knocking your shoulder against his arm, you scoff, trying to hide the stupid smile the nickname conjures. “Oh, shut up,”

“Getting bold now, I see,” he hums to himself. “Could’a swore just a few minutes ago you were scared of me,”

“N-Not scared, just—uh, just surprised, that’s all,”

“Uh-huh, sure. Tell me again why you can’t just go to this friend’s house?”

“Well, she’s—she’s, like, y’know—” you shrug as a form of explanation, deflating a little at his unimpressed stare as he blows smoke out his nose. “She’s going home with some guy,” you mumble. “A-And I was supposed to too, but…”

Dabi tsks, shaking his head in false sympathy. “Sweetheart, you’re a teenage movie cliché,”

“Shut up,”

“You tell me to shut up one more time and I’m gonna have to do something about it,” he singsongs, a thinly veiled threat coated in sugar. Swallowing thickly, you glance up at him, blinking twice. His eyes tell you that he’s not fucking around, despite the relaxed features of his face, smile easygoing and gaze lidded.

“S-Sorry,” you murmur, looking away.

“Don’t you know? Good little girls don’t speak like that to Daddy,”

He spits the word out, almost patronizing in his tone, but that fails to stop the way your stomach flutters when it falls from his lips, fails to prevent the choked little gasp that escapes yours. He laughs loudly, your cheeks burning with shame.

Sapphire eyes glint in the pale moonlight, as if he’s just discovered the most valuable treasure, as if he’s just been given the key to the universe—a predator who’s just ensnared it’s prey, and the smirk that slowly etches itself across his face is nothing short of sinister.

“Do you wanna come home with Daddy, princess?”

He’s caging you between his body and the murky convenience store window as he asks, both palms pressed flat against the grimy glass.

“Hmm?”

No. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, can almost hear your brother’s voice in the back of your mind telling you not to, but you’re too enticed in sapphire to care, drawn into pretty, almost glittering blue fire, letting the flames lick your skin as you immerse yourself in it, deeper and deeper and deeper, allowing it to wrap itself around you, to consume you, to knock the very breath out of you as you gaze into it.

“Okay,”

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

He only has one bed and no couch, he informs you as he leads you up four flights of stairs, explaining that the elevator’s been broken for a few months now, panting out the words just a little.

A soft giggle slips from your lips, amplified by the empty stairwell and echoing off the concrete walls, and Dabi looks back at you, amused.

“Something funny, princess?”

And although there’s a friendly grin on his face and mirth in his eyes, something in his voice makes you tremble, shoots scorching sparks up your spine and sends them rushing through your veins, and your laughter immediately cuts off.

“No,” you say simply, shaking your head and hoping that he didn’t catch the full body shiver that coursed through your figure just a second ago, all thanks to his voice. “Just laughing at the absurdity of it, s’all,”

“Ah,” he says sagely, nodding once. “Well, here we are,”

A tattooed hand gestures vaguely to a white door with a large, black 4 painted on it, the paint beginning to chip away, worn down and faded in some spots.

Dabi’s apartment is small, but you like it. He’s surprised, he tells you, expected someone like you—someone brought up with luxury, someone who’s never had to ask for or want anything in their life, because they always already had it—would hate it.

“Or maybe, that’s exactly why you like it,”

It’s a little snarky, the way those words flow out of his mouth, biting your cheek as they pass, and you wince a little.

“I think it’s homey,” you say quietly, tiny voice raw and honest, deciding to omit the fact that you’ve never really had a space that felt homey yourself. “It’s very you. I really do like it.”

His eyes soften at your gentle confession, features relaxing a little as calloused fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Then, I’m glad,”

For a moment, you’re positive he’s going to kiss you, staring down at you so intently with that look in his eyes as they slowly sweep across your face. But he turns on his heel a moment later, stalking into the tiny bachelor and beckoning for you to follow with a wave of his hand, flicking on a lamp as he passes.

“You hungry?” he’s asking as he walks. “I know this kickass noodle place that delivers 24/7,” he collapses on his bed, outfitted in black sheets, looking up at you expectantly when you stop hesitantly a few feet away. “You should probably eat something,” he continues, pushing himself up on his elbows, legs dangling off the end of the mattress. “Especially if there’s still alcohol in your—”

“Oh no, I don’t drink,” you cut him off without thinking, the words etched into your permanent vocabulary, sitting down next to him, just a hint too close.

“No, no, of course you don’t,” he says with a laugh and a shake of his head, sitting up fully. “Let me guess; niisan doesn’t allow it,”

A frown forms on your lips, brows knitting together. “Well I—”

“Ah! Stop,” he cuts you off with a disinterested wave and a roll of his eyes. “I’ve heard enough,”

Normally, you’d scoff at someone speaking to you so rudely. But with Dabi, with Dabi, it’s different. A little giggle escapes your lips without your permission, the bubbly noise surprising you, and Dabi chuckles in response, a genuine grin spreading across his face, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“So. Food?”

The takeout arrives at 1:56am, Dabi bringing the bag full of noodles and other appetizers—too much food for only two people, if you’re being honest—back to his bed, placing it in front of you and then crawling onto the mattress, sitting cross-legged.

The action surprises you—he doesn’t have a table, but you had been expecting him to bring the food to the small breakfast bar, complete with two mismatched stools, not his bed.

Old Hammer Horror films flicker on the TV as the two of you pick through the food together, Styrofoam containers littering the bedspread. And it’s…fun—it’s the most fun you’ve had in a long time, a strange, unfamiliar giddiness fizzing in your tummy every time you make him laugh, every time his eye catches yours, every time he shoves your knee and calls you dollface, despite the deep, honey-coated voice echoing in your head telling you that you shouldn’t be doing this and he’s dangerous.

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

“Bedtime,” Dabi says simply as he returns from the little kitchenette after storing the leftover takeout in the fridge, using a hand to tug at the back of his shirt and pulling it over his head.

“Wha—”

The material hits you square in the face and an involuntary, entirely unsolicited giggle bubbles past your lips, pulling the garment from your head.

“Pajamas,” he nods at the fabric now bunched in your hands, but you can’t seem to find your voice to respond.

Teeth bite into your tongue hard enough to make you wince in an effort to keep a gasp within your chest when he comes into view. He’s lean—toner than you expected, muscles gliding smoothly under his skin as he moves—and you’re unsurprised to find his chest and back decorated with vibrant, intricate tattoos.

Of course, you knew Dabi had tattoos—they’re on his face, his neck, his collarbone, disappearing under the neckline of his shirt and resurfacing under his short sleeves, curling around his arms, brilliant flowing ink telling stories across his skin. They’re beautiful—they’re mesmerizing, inquisitive eyes slowly roaming the expanse of his chest.

But you had never noticed the soft, slightly puckered skin they hid. Scars, your mind provides dimly.

“Do you want to touch them?”

The rumble of his deep voice snaps you out of your revere, heat flooding your cheeks when you realize you were staring. There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you can’t quite tell if his offer is serious or not, your eyes floating up to his.

“Here,” he chuckles a little as he sits down, offering you his forearm, flipping it over and resting it on the bed.

He lets you trace every single one. He won’t tell you where or how he got the scars, and you don’t push, even as curiosity erodes your chest. It’s impolite to pry, Keigo’s voice echoes through your mind, and you nod once to yourself.

You don’t have sex that night. He doesn’t force you. You nearly tell him that you’re surprised, what, a man of his stature, of his reputation, has a pretty girl in his bed and he doesn’t fuck her?, petty retaliation for what he had said to you when you entered the apartment hours ago, but you chicken out at the last minute. You’d soon come to find that some things are better left unsaid.

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

Spring has just arrived, bringing with it cool, gentle breezes and swaying blades of grass decorated with glistening dewdrops that sparkle when the sun catches them in just the right way. The smell of freshly battered cinnamon sugar donuts and cheap coffee wafts in through the open window, drifting over your bodies and embracing you.

It rouses you, and your eyes flutter open to be met with Dabi’s face. And, God, he’s so damn pretty, with thick dark eyelashes fanned out delicately across inked skin and tousled onyx hair, breathing deep and calm, sharp jaw on display. Reaching out, you daintily trace over his relaxed features—circling defined cheekbones, sliding down the slope of his nose, trailing along his jaw—allowing yourself a moment to admire him before thick guilt begins to strangle you.

You should go. Keigo still thinks that you’re at a friend’s house, and doesn’t expect you to be home until late afternoon, but that belated bitter guilt finally brands the back of your tongue, face souring a little at the idea of deceiving your big brother. And after all he’s done for you, niisan tsks in your head, voice sweet and syrupy, and you can almost see the disappointment in his eyes as he shakes his head. We’re all each other has, you know. And you do, really, you do know, head nodding routinely, instinctual at this point, as you begin to push yourself up.

“Stay,” Dabi says softly, eyes still closed as a hand catches your wrist. You stop immediately, allowing him to pull you back down to the mattress as lids lift to reveal the most brilliant sapphires. Fingers trace down the curve of your neck and you hum, arching into his touch.

“Keigo—”

“Doesn’t have to know,” he cuts you off, his voice still quiet, rough around the edges and heavy with sleep. “C’mon. We’ll go get pie for breakfast, and I’ll have you home to niisan by dinner, promise,”

Giggling a little, you roll into him, allowing him to wrap his arms around you and pull you atop his chest as he flops onto his back.

“Pie,” you laugh, resting your chin on his toned muscles and gazing up at him. “For breakfast?”

“Why not?” He asks, and that smile is back again, the boyish one that looks like he’s hiding something, a little amusing secret just for him, the one that induces a whole flock of butterflies in your chest. “It’s Saturday,” he shrugs as best he can, then squeezes you to his chest. “You don’t got anything to do, I don’t got anything to do...”

Crystal eyes glitter in the morning sun as they gaze at you, golden rays creeping through the small gaps in his thick purple curtains, swaying gently in the wind.

Molars sink into the inside flesh of your cheek as you think, and Dabi tuts his tongue softly, a hand coming to gently pull the skin from between your teeth.

“Okay,”

His lips curl into a smirk, something sharp flashing in his cobalt eyes. “Okay,”

That’s how it begins—with deceptively bright, youthful smiles and cherry pie for breakfast— and five days later, in the backseat of his Cadillac Eldorado while James Cagney flickers on a worn out, off-white screen and two of his fingers are three knuckles deep in you, he asks you to be his, digits curling in your pretty little pussy as he breathes the words against the shell of your ear.

You’re whimpering out yes as you cum, nodding almost frantically against his shoulder as your hips roll towards his palm.

That’s it, that’s his good girl.

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

But it progresses faster than you ever thought it would—faster than you ever thought possible—like a shot of morphine straight to your bloodstream, pupils gaping as DabiDabiDabi surges through your veins, becoming all you can think about—all you want to think about, all you want to do, eat, feel, breathe.

Midnight double-features of old Hollywood films at the local rundown drive-in become one of the many staples of your relationship, finding comfort in the sharp smell of buttersalt popcorn stinging your nose, in the way the film’s sound cracks and pops as it travels through the car radio, staticky like an old record, in the way Dabi forces a cherry Jolly Rancher from his mouth into yours, the hard candy clacking against your teeth.

This is how you spend most of your weeknights for the next month or so—passing candy through kisses in the backseat of the Eldorado, tongues shoved down each other’s throats, stained red and purple and blue from the cheap artificial dye, hands wandering up dresses and little fingers tugging at beltloops and buckles.

On Saturday mornings—sometimes Sundays, too, if you’ve been a really good girl—you find yourself in a familiar red booth at The League—a little diner tucked away on one of the city side streets not too far from Dabi’s apartment—cheap speckled plastic glittering in the sunlight and sticking to your thighs as your favourite waitress, a young woman by the name of Himiko who insists that you call her Mimi, takes your order. She seems to know your Daddy—your Dabi—somehow, but you don’t press, because it’s impolite to pry, you know and niisan raised you better than this.

He always lets you pick what you want for breakfast, but Daddy always orders it for you, always reminds you the mornings you decide on pancakes that if you get those, you aren’t allowed any sundaes or a slice of pie, because too much sugar is bad for his babygirl, and he knows how much syrup you drown those things in, dollface.

But there’s one staple of your relationship that you love more than all the others.

Joyrides.

That’s what he calls them, those drives through the bad parts of the city, the parts with cracked concrete sidewalks and shattered glass and needles littered in the dying grass.

Dabi takes you along frequently, tells you that you have an important job to do, that you play a crucial role in this whole operation, because the police—including your father—have been cracking down especially hard on dealing in this area. But nobody bothers to question a seemingly innocent young woman delivering inconspicuous brown paper bags—bags full of pretty little pills and tiny baggies of white powder—to shop owners and crumbling apartment complexes, eerily reminiscent of a Girl Scout selling cream filled cookies and thin-mints.

Keigo would kill you, if he knew.

It’s an instantaneous rush, though, being allowed to participate in Dabi’s business ventures, being allowed to help. It’s a privilege, you think, makes you feel like he trusts you, and you absolutely live for the praise, for that gorgeous smile he gives you after you deliver the sweets to the client, for the passionate kisses he rewards you with for being such a good little helper.

Joyrides are the best. Because it’s just you and him, the Eldorado’s radio struggling to play whatever station it’s picking up on—usually some sort of sixties rock—as you cruise the streets in his absurdly large car, the sky smeared with strokes of faded pinks and oranges, peppered with wispy clouds that look like loose strands of white cotton candy.

And sometimes, after his work is all finished, he’ll drive you to one of those cliffs you’ve come to know so well and let you ride him in the drivers seat—precious little whines and pathetic broken whimpers spilling from your lips as you rest your head against his shoulder, gyrating your hips in fast, shallow little circles, using his cock like it’s a toy, just like he told you to—before taking you back home to fuck you properly, to fuck you right.

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

It’s quaint, the little house you and your niisan live in, with its perfectly trimmed hedges and well-manicured grass, a stone walkway leading up to the front door, which is painted white. White windowsills, white brick, white, white, white, the whole thing is white—bright, pure, untarnished.

It’s just enough space for the two of you, your adoptive father, an absurdly large man by the name of Toshinori Yagi, had stated proudly, the first day he showed it to you.

And it’s only a short walk from the university, his wife chimed in with a smile too wide for her face, nodding excessively.

It’s convenient, they had said, the day you received your acceptance letter and scholarship offer from the university your brother attended. It’ll be good for you to stay with your older brother for a little, before going off into the world on your own, they had promised.

You hadn’t really wanted to go to this university—would’ve much preferred to go away to school in another country—but you didn’t. Keigo knew it, too, knew your desire to leave, to see more of the world, to experience it on your own without that hulking shadow with the wild hair. But he coaxed you into it, convinced you to stay, just like he always does, begging you softly not to leave your poor niisan all alone as gentle fingers pushed locks of hair from your face, trailing down your cheek and coming to cup your jaw, reminding you that you’re all each other has.

And you had nodded, nuzzled your face against his palm, sought comfort and relief in the presence of your big brother, just as you always do. He was right; you had your entire life to travel the world, what’s the rush? Why leave now? Stay with him, just for a little longer.

But your niisan, your niisan has a secret.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know. Keigo has always had a penchant for living fast, after all, seems to somehow incorporate conceptual and literal speed into all aspects of his life—his marks in school, his record-breaking track races, and now, his personal life, too.

It started in high school. He was in twelfth grade. You still don’t know who gave him his first taste, still don’t know why he decided to shoot up that night, but he did.

And it made him feel invincible. It made him feel like he could fly.

He hid it well, didn’t look like a heroin addict—at least, not what the words ‘heroin addict’ usually conjure up. His topaz eyes were bright as ever, even if his pupils were just a pinprick; nails cut so short it looked painful, to keep from scratching and scabbing his body; was always sure to keep his track marks well hidden, methodical in choosing his injection sites, and kept up with regular hygiene, even if his wild, windswept hair did get a little messier.

Yes, he hid it well.

But he couldn’t hide it from you for long, didn’t hide it from you well enough, becoming increasingly careless the deeper he spiralled into the addiction.

And it takes a while for you to truly acknowledge it. You didn’t want to—not at first, anyway—didn’t want to believe that your all-star, top-of-his-class, golden-child of a big brother was a junkie.

So you ignored it. You ignored the way he began recklessly disposing of the needles in the small trash can under his desk instead of hiding them in the kitchen trash whenever your mother asked him to take it out, ignored the burnt spoon you found in the sink and the bloody Q-tips you found littering the counter of the bathroom the two of you shared, ignored the way those tiny orange syringe caps had begun appearing in odd places, seeming to pop up more and more frequently.

Yes, you ignored it, until he stole one of the shoelaces off of your sneakers. And you still can’t explain it, exactly, can’t explain why that was the final straw, why that had you gripping a laceless shoe in a trembling hand as you stormed into the washroom uninvited and unannounced, catching him with the string between his teeth, just as the last of that disgusting orangish-brown liquid sunk into his veins.

The words disintegrate on your tongue, escaping in a pitiful little squeak, all of the fury you felt towards him for his behaviour melting the instant your eyes catch the end of the injection, wide and unblinking as they stare at the needle stuck in his forearm.

For a moment, neither of you are able to speak, Keigo’s mouth opening and closing a few times as his eyes flood with tears, the prettiest topaz shining in the warm washroom light as they frenetically search your face.

“Sit,” you tell him, finally breaking the silence, your voice not your own. His eyebrows knit together, and he shakes his head a little in misunderstanding, but you persist. “Sit,”

Shoulders deflating, he holds your gaze for a moment longer before nodding once and obeying, sitting on the closed toilet.

“We have to—” you stop as your chin begins to wobble, swallowing thickly against the sob crawling up your throat, quivering hands rooting haphazardly through a first-aid kit. “W-We have to clean those, so they don’t get infected,”

Glassy golden eyes watch you intently, his chest hiccupping just a little as he wordlessly holds his arms out to you, armed with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol, the scent stinging your nose.

There aren’t many—only a few little pinpricks on each arm, some decorated with dark blooms of periwinkle and violet, but they still cause your tongue to crumble to bitter, suffocating ash in your mouth.

Tiny fingers encircle his wrist, your touch always so soft, so gentle, as if you’re afraid to break him, and he chokes on a noise that sounds suspiciously similar to a sob.

“You don’t—You shouldn’t have to—” and he can’t even force the words out, breathing out forcefully through his nose as his tears finally overflow, glistening drops streaming down his cheeks, bleary eyes unblinking, focused on your little fingers as they continue their tender ministrations with so much care, with so much love it’s nearly stifling, and he can’t breathe, because he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve it—

“I want to,” a knuckle catches one of his fresh tears, swiping it across his cheekbone and leaving a glimmering trail in its wake. “Alright? I want to,”

And this—this becomes a habit.

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

You don’t tell Keigo about your relationship. Not at first, at least, conjuring up flimsy excuses that become more ridiculous as the days pass, as your disappearances steadily increase. Dabi doesn’t want to, makes up some bullshit excuse about how he isn’t ready yet. But you buy it anyway, and you wait.

Until the morning of one of your niisan’s big races, the ones where multiple trainers and coaches come from all over the country to assess his performance, when Dabi shows up entirely unannounced and uninvited, makes sure he’s in Keigo’s line of sight as he bounces around at the starting line, and kisses the life out of you, right in front of him.  

That’s the only time he attends one of Keigo’s races.

The rest you continue attending by yourself. Dabi doesn’t like it, doesn’t like to have you out of his sight at all lately, but he knows it’s moot to argue with you. You’re going, you told him firmly, the night before Keigo’s next race, whether he likes it or not.

But, boy, was your niisan fuming by the time the two of you arrived home that day.

He hadn’t cared that he had, essentially, lost the race, hadn’t cared that he didn’t even manage to place in the top three for the first time in literal years, hadn’t cared that he just blew several chances with potential coaches and sponsors.

None of it mattered.

With a rough hand wrapped around your bicep, he all but yanks you out of the car, doesn’t care that you’re stumbling over your own feet as he drags you towards the front door, doesn’t care that he shoves you inside the house so hard you do trip, crying out as your hands and knees collide with the cold tiled floor.

And he’s yelling, yelling at the top of his lungs, the moment that white door slams shut, shut so hard the walls tremble.

“Fucking Touya Todoroki!? Are you fucking kidding me?”

You can barely see him through your tears as you quickly flip yourself over, beginning to inch away on your hands and feet as you stare up at him, breath hitching in your chest.

“Wh-Who?”

“Dabi, for Christ sake!”

“T-T—” Touya?

“Oh Jesus, don’t tell me—He didn’t tell you his fucking name?”

No, you shake your head quickly, chest stuttering as the name echoes through your mind, your big brother nothing but a blur of crimson and gold advancing towards you, mumbling to himself about how no, of course he didn’t, why would he? Of course not, as he drags nimble fingers through his messy hair.

“To-Todo—”

“Todoroki,” he spits, so harsh it makes you flinch.

“Your coa—”

“Yeah, I know his father,” Keigo rolls his eyes as he crouches down, catches your trembling chin between his thumb and forefinger, and you cease all action immediately, freezing in his grip. “You know his brother,”

Your brow furrows as you belatedly search your memory for any instance of the name, gunmetal grey and snow white flashing through your mind, but everything’s too foggy, too hazy with the fear of disappointing your niisan more, eyes squeezing shut as you hiccup at the mere thought.

But then he’s sighing, always knows when he’s gone a little too far—you are very delicate, after all, so small and naïve and in desperate need of someone to take care of you, aren’t you?—collapsing back on his heels and pulling you into his lap as soft hands smooth down your hair, murmuring it’s alright, it’s alright and niisan’s got you, niisan’s got you.

“What’re you doin’ with a man like that, my little songbird?” his voice is gentle as he rocks your bodies back and forth, after your sobs have calmed a bit.

What are you? you want to ask, front teeth sinking into your tongue hard enough to make you wince, keeping those three tiny words inside of your mouth.

“I like him,” you mumble instead, nuzzling your face into his chest and hiding from those bright, inquisitive topaz eyes.

“You—You like him,” he snorts to himself in disbelief, shaking his head a little.

“I do,” you respond, a little firmer as you pull back to stare at your big brother’s face, eyebrows knit together in determination, sparks of fury igniting deep in your chest at the thought of Keigo thinking he knows better, when he’s just as bad.

“He isn’t good for you—”

“He isn’t good for you,” you shoot back, tone clipped as you level your gaze, squirming a little in his arms. His grasp tightens, like he’s terrified you’re going to leave, honey eyes holding yours for a beat before he lets out a breath, looking away, defeated.

“That doesn’t mean you should be allowed to see him,” he mutters, glancing at your tear-stained face for a moment before his eyes flit away again. “But…” his chest rises with a deep inhale, pressing against you. “I guess…I guess it isn’t very fair of me to, uh, judge you, is it?”

“No,” you pout a little. “It isn’t,”

He huffs out a soft chuckle, gazing at you from the side of his eye, a tiny smirk spreading across his face. “Stop being so cute,” he grumbles, squeezing you against him just a bit too hard, giggles spilling from your lips as your fingers curl in the cotton of his hoodie. “I’m trying to be mad at you, y’know,”

“Kei-nii,” you whine with a roll of your eyes, shoving his shoulder weakly, though there’s a smile on your lips.

“Alright, alright, alright,” he’s saying as lithe fingers brush some hair back from your face, palm resting against your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw rhythmically. “Just—Promise me, if he ever hurts you…You’ll tell me immediately, yeah?”

Blinking a few times, your eyes search his face, sobering up as gold bores into you. There’s something in his stare, something you’ve never seen before, something that you can’t decipher, and it sends chills pebbling across your skin. Swallowing thickly, you nod, little jerky movements as your eyes hold his. “Y-Yeah, promise, niisan,”

“Good,” he whispers, chin resting atop the crown of your head as he cradles you to his chest. “We’re all we have. Never forget it.”

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

You only question Dabi about his name once, lounging around on his bed in the early hours of the morning, tangled in his sheets, wearing his t-shirt, with his large hand resting on your bare thigh. His head’s tipped back against the headboard as he exhales smoke in pretty little curls that disintegrate into hazy nothingness only a moment later.

“T-Touya?” Your hearts thudding against your ribcage as you almost whisper the name, barely audible at all, but his head snaps forward, sapphire eyes finding yours immediately.

And for a moment you’re terrified you’ve made a grave mistake, that you’ve crossed some invisible line you hadn’t had a clue about, his glare scathing your skin; but then his features relax, and a little smirk spreads across his lips.

“Ah, so he finally told you,” his voice is quiet, and you can’t read his tone, eyes squinting a little as you lean towards him. “I don’t go by that name anymore,” he speaks up, voice ringing out clear and strong. “Don’t call me that again,”

The or else is implied, and you nod meekly, promising him softly that you’ll never utter it again.

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

It’s been gnawing at you all week, sitting heavy like a block of lead in your stomach, the cuticles on your left thumb bitten raw in agitation. You need to tell him. You’re going to tell him, it’s just…

It just never seemed like the right time to tell him—then again, is there ever a right time to tell your older brother that you’re spending the entire weekend at his drug dealer’s place?

But now it’s Friday, and Dabi will be here in a few minutes, and you still have yet to let Keigo know.

Because Keigo is currently otherwise occupied. With a girl.

You hadn’t been expecting to hear the tinny laughter of a woman when you entered the house, arriving home after your last class of the day, hadn’t been expecting to walk into the living room to find said girl splayed across your niisan’s lap, staring up at him dreamily as endless giggles spilled from her painted lips, hadn’t been expecting him to be so completely enamoured with her that he doesn’t even greet you.

It burns up all of the anxiety that had been building inside you in an instant, turns it into boiling rage that bubbles and pops, noxious as it rises up your throat.

And so, you decide that you won’t say anything at all. If he’s too busy to even acknowledge you like he normally does every single day, then surely he doesn’t care if you leave, right?

“I’m going out,” you toss airily over your shoulder as your halfway out the front door, a small grin spreading across you lips as you spot Dabi leaning lazily against his car. He gives you a nod of acknowledgement, smug grin of his own forming on his lips.

Keigo shoots up immediately, nearly knocking the girl to the floor, moving faster than he ever has in his life as he catches your wrist and tugs, hard. A loud yelp sounds from the back of your throat and you stumble backwards, right into your big brother’s chest.

“Where? Huh? Where?” he growls out the word through clenched teeth, squeezing again. “With who? That—That fucking scumbag?”

At the sound of your yelp, Dabi straightens up instantly, usual lidded eyes now wide open and alert, zeroing in on where Keigo has ensnared you.

“Not like it matters to you, not when you have a whore to entertain,” you spit, and though your gaze is blazing, your eyes are filling with tears, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. “Right?” you push, after a few moments of silence.

His grip loosens, although he doesn’t let go completely, fingers still clasped around you.

“Princess, I…”

“No,” you snap, viciously pulling yourself free of him. “Don’t princess me. Not after ignoring me like that,”

“You’re overreacting—”

“Then so are you,” you cut him off sharply, already beginning to back away and blinking hard to clear your eyes of stubborn tears. “I’m spending the weekend at Dabi’s. I’ll see you on Sunday,”

Dabi catches you the moment you’re within reach, drawing you close to his chest for a second before pulling back. Calloused hands gently raise your wrist, sapphire eyes assessing the damage. His thumb caresses the rapidly bruising area rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth, and he frowns deeply, his gaze finally meeting yours.

“Does he do this often? Hurt you like this?”

And it’s startling, shocking, to see the overflowing concern in his crystal eyes, studying your face intently as you try to find your voice. You don’t think he’s ever sounded that serious before.

“I—No, of course not,” you shake your head, tongue tripping over the words. “We—Y’know, siblings fight, and stuff, it’s—he doesn’t know his own strength, sometimes, uh, forgets it, a-and I bruise easily,” you shrug, wincing a little at the serious expression still etched deep into Dabi’s face.

“If he ever puts his hands on you again, I’ll fucking kill him,” Dabi says slowly, softly, as if he’s reciting the morning news to you, dark eyes drifting up to refocus on the figure still standing in the doorway. “Do you understand me?” he asks, though his stare does not leave Keigo’s, voice still calm, almost serene. “I’ll fucking kill him,”

He won’t, you reassure him, countless times over the next few weeks. Niisan’s never intentionally hurt me, Daddy, he won’t, I promise.

And they’re all true, those words you repeat to him, over and over and over again, while you comb fingers through his inky hair or press chaste kisses against his scarred skin. They’re all true.

Until they aren’t.

You should’ve known, really, not to talk about it. He doesn’t—not when you’re cleaning his track marks or wiping sweat from his forehead, not when he lays his head in your lap as he’s coming down, eyes fluttering as your fingers thread through his hair, not even when you’re feeding him teaspoons of water to keep him hydrated as his body forces him to throw up nothing, again, lips dry and cracked, skin clammy and cold—and you shouldn’t, either.

“Have you ever thought about switching to pills?” You ask one night, casually, as if this is mundane, normal, to discuss while washing dishes. “I heard oxy is like, heroin in a pill,”

His jaw clenches, you can see the motion out of the corner of your eye, quickly refocusing your gaze on the bowl in your hands, the same bowl you’ve been washing for about five minutes now.

“No.”

“Why not? They’re more controlled—”

“I said no,”

“And I asked why not,” you spit, dropping the bowl from your hands. It cracks as it collides with the aluminum of the sink, the sound piercing through the tense air as you turn to glare at your brother, soapy hands on your hips. “It would be safer—”

“Marginally—”

“That’s still better than nothing, Keigo! Christ,” you sigh, running a sudsy hand through your hair. “They’re all fucking opioids, what’s the difference!? They’re all gonna get you high the same way, aren’t they?”

“No—for fuck’s sake—”

You wouldn’t understand, even if he tried to explain to you. You wouldn’t understand that he’s already attempted this, attempted to switch from heroin to pills, and that it wasn’t the same—isn’t the same. You wouldn’t understand that oxy doesn’t give the same instantaneous rush as heroin does, doesn’t take his breath away like heroin does, doesn’t warm his entire fucking body the way heroin does.

No, you wouldn’t understand how most of the time he feels like he can’t fucking breathe until he shoots up, wouldn’t understand how, at this point, heroin feels like an old friend, safe and cozy and more comforting than anything he’s ever felt before, than even your arms are, wouldn’t understand how heroin makes him feel like he’s fucking invincible, like he can take on the entire world in one day, like he can continue living.

It makes him feel whole again, full again, put back together with no cracks or missing pieces. It distracts him from how irrevocably shattered his insides truly are, providing him with quick, fleeting relief, just long enough for him to keep going, keep striving, keep breathing. But you wouldn’t understand any of that. How could you?

He’s sighing as he walks away from you, raking both hands through golden hair.

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t see what this shit is doing to you! It’s killing you, niisan!”

God, no, not the honorific. Not when you’re gazing at him with tears spilling from your eyes, little hands desperately pawing at his t-shirt, urgent just to make him understand, to get through to him for one instant.

“I-It’s killing you and all I can do is watch,” your voice fades into a whisper, breaking on the last word as more tears streak your cheeks, leaving small gleaming trails in their wake, fingers readjusting, knotting in his shirt and tugging, latching onto him as he keeps walking, jaw clenching again as he tries to ignore you. “Y-You have to stop—no, no, n-not stop, just—just slow down, yeah? Slow down a little, it’s—it’s too fast, niisan, you’re going too fast—”

But it’s building, and building, and his head is throbbing, and throbbing, and your voice is rising higher and higher, louder and louder, and it’s all just too much, and before he even knows what’s happening, his hand is cutting through the air, knuckles colliding with your cheek so hard it sends you stumbling backwards, tripping over your own feet as you fall on your ass.

He regrets it the moment it happens, the very moment his skin makes contact with yours.

But that doesn’t matter; the damage is already done.

He’s never hit you before. Sure, he may be a little rough sometimes, and his grip may leave a few bruises every once in a while, but he has never deliberately hit you, until today.

He never thought he would.

Golden eyes dart from his hand, still raised in the air from where it struck you, blood gleaming on his silver rings, to your face, small and terrified, crimson flowing down your cheek, mixing with your tears as it slowly drips off your jaw, and then back to his hand.

And for a moment, he swears, the whole world stops.

Then, a mere second later, his whole world shatters.

You’re trying to form words, staring up at him with impossibly wide, unblinking eyes, but they’re just escaping your lips in little mumbles, half-formed and coated in spit.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, nothing more than a pitiful huff of air formed in the shape of a curse leaving his lips.

It takes your mind a moment to register what’s happened, numb with dizzying shock, stupid with the most heartbreaking pain, dazed as tiny, trembling fingers raise to tenderly prod at the wound, wincing the moment they make contact. But the throbbing of your cheek brings you back quicker than Keigo would’ve liked, and then your eyebrows are knitting together, mouth settling in a wobbly line, blinking hard to clear your eyes of pesky tears.

And all he can do is watch, watch as you shakily push yourself to your feet, watch as your hand grips your phone like it’s a fucking lifeline—a lifeline he very briefly thinks about diving forward and snatching out of your grasp—watch as you turn on the balls of your feet and disappear down the hall, the slam of your bedroom door echoing a moment later.  

You barely make it into your bedroom before your collapsing on the floor, wheezing out uneven breaths, sharp, hard huffs of air that slice through your tight chest with each exhale, vision blurry with stinging tears as you stare down at your phone, cradled in quivering hands.

You know that if you make this phone call, Dabi will never let you come back. You know that if you make this phone call, this is it. Trembling fingers hesitate over his name, those four glowing letters staring back at you, an unnecessary amount of various heart emojis cushioning them.

He doesn’t pick up the first time. Maybe it’s a sign, you think to yourself, a sign that you shouldn’t leave just yet, that you should stay and rot away with him for a little bit longer, remain with him for a little more and give him another piece of your soul that he can add to his prized collection as he slowly steals your life force from you.

But then searing pain radiates through your entire face, along your jaw and to the back of your head, and the coppery smell of blood stings your nose, and you press on Dabi’s name again.

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

If he’s being honest, he would’ve never picked up for anyone but you, probably would’ve killed the idiot that thought to interrupt him during one of the biggest deals of his career—of his life.

“What?” he snarls as he answers, pacing along the wall outside the warehouse like a rabid dog, anxious and eager. “This better be important, sweetheart. You knew I was meeting with one of the bosses today—”

“He hit me,”

It’s hard to understand you when you’re still sobbing, words all wet and garbled, and Dabi squints as he focuses his concentration, feet skidding to a stop as his heart begins to pound.

“What?”

“He hit me. Nii—Keigo hit me,”

And then, his blood runs cold. His ears are ringing, vision fading in and out of focus as red tinges the edges, breathing beginning to accelerate, exhaled harshly through flared nostrils. The thin skin stretched taut across his bony knuckles has turned white as he grips his phone so tightly he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter in his hand.

“Pack your shit,” he tells you, voice oddly calm, cold and sterile and sending shivers skittering up your spine. “I’m gonna fucking kill him,”

[marvelatthetwilight]

The Fight

Requested

Anonymous said: Could you do an imagine where Sam and the reader have like a really big fight or something like that but it ends in pure fluff?? Please! I just need more Sam content! ❤ thnx

“I can’t even look at you right now!” You shout across the room. Sam’s face is pink with anger, he’s shaking, with a small growl starting in his chest.

“Sam just go away!” You run up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind you and fling yourself on the bed, tears streaming down your face, your breathing heavy as you sob into the pillows.

You hear a door slam downstairs, then the definite sound of Sam’s wolf growling as he runs towards the tree line. You would recognise that sound anywhere, although normally it would be waiting for him to come home after patrol. This time, you weren’t sure if he would come home, but right now you didn’t care.

Wrapping yourself in a blanket, you curl up on your side of the bed, fully dressed. Suddenly feeling tired from the fight, eventually you allow the exhaustion to kick in as you fall straight asleep.

A week later

“You’ve got to come see him Y/N he looks a mess” Paul pleads through the door.

“Nope! He can come to me, I’m not apologising.” You respond, looking at yourself in the mirror, bags under your eyes, skin looking flat and lifeless. Being away from Sam was definitely having an effect, but you weren’t going to admit to Paul that you couldn’t sleep without Sam, that you were struggling to eat, or have any kind of fun.

“That’s the problem Y/N. He just won’t get up. He’s not sleeping, not eating. I don’t even know how long it’s been since he cracked a smile. Pleaaaase!” Paul pleads again.

“I’m not coming Paul. I need time.” You say softly.

“Ok. Just let us know if we can do anything to help you two. We need our pack leader back. Urgently.”

You hear his steps away from the house and the door slam to his truck. You sigh deeply, trudging back upstairs to throw yourself on the bed again.

The following week

After being sent home Monday morning for exploding at a customer, you realised you needed to get your life back on track. You needed to shower. Properly. You needed to eat. Properly. But to do all of that you needed one thing.

You needed Sam.

Grabbing your phone, you type a message out to Paul.

- Is Sam at yours?

- Yup. On the sofa. Not moved all day.

- I'll be over in 30 minutes.

- YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!

You smile at Paul's reaction. As much as you wanted Sam to be the one to come to you, the imprint link had left you both sad and exhausted, and you couldn't continue the fight any longer. You needed him. You knew from the fights you'd seen from Kim and Jared that the pack felt everything far deeper than their imprints. You didn't want to punish him any longer.

Jumping in the shower you start mentally preparing your speech for when you see Sam. I don't want to feel second best to the pack. I understand what the pack means to you but I need to feel important too.

You grab whatever bits of make up you can find and make your best attempt to cover up the bags which have formed under your eyes. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a loose fitting top, you brush through your hair and take a final look in the mirror. It'll do.

Before you even get to knock on Paul's front door, it swings open to show Paul and Jared, both looking tired but excited to see you.

"Y/N!" Jared shouts, running towards you to give you a hug. He pulls back and keeps a hand on either arm, looking you in the eyes. "Please don't feel pressured if this isn't what you want yet. I know Paul kept ringing...and Sam is in a pretty bad way. But we want you to be happy too."

You smile sadly at him. "I need this too Jared, don't worry. I'm doing this for me."

Paul gives you a thumbs up from behind Jared before coming to hug you himself. He leaves an army draped around your shoulders as you both walk up the steps.

"He's still on the sofa...we will leave you two alone. We're going out on a quick patrol!" With that he drops a quick kiss on your cheek and jogs towards the treeline with Jared in tow.

You look up at the house and take a deep breath, pulling open the door and stepping inside the house.

What hits you first is the smell. Sam’s smell. A smell that’s been a comfort to you every night since you met. A smell that you have desperately missed, but has immediately put your mind at ease now it has filled your senses again.

Walking through the house towards the back room, you walk hesitantly towards the sound of the TV. As you reach the doorway, he stands up from the sofa and turns to look at you. His face is etched with sadness, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, dark bags underneath them from lack of sleep, hair messy and dishevelled. “Y/N...” he whispers, his eyes wide with shock, hands desperate to reach out to you but hesitant in case it makes you leave.

You smile at the sound of his voice. “I’ve missed you baby.”

The corners of his mouth twitch at the word baby, and he rushes towards you, wrapping you up in his arms. He breathes in the scent of your hair, his arms wandering your body before they make their way to your face, delicately cupping your cheeks before hesitating again. He looks deeply into your eyes, searching for approval, searching for confirmation that things will be ok.

You step back. His hopeful expression looks deflated, then confused as you take his hand and lead him back to the sofa. “We need to talk first.” He nods in understanding.

You both sit down, side by side, and you take his hand back in yours, stroking it softly with your fingers. He looks up at you with sad eyes, desperately trying to read your expression.

“I know how important the pack is, not just to you but to the reservation. I understand the importance. But I need to feel important to you too. My life is overwhelmed with the pack, with this life, and I just feel like I’m a passenger just going along for the ride. I feel like I have no control. Like I have no purpose. I’m just “Sam’s imprint”...is that all I am?” Feeling confident in your rehearsed lines you look at Sam, who’s eyebrows are burrowed as he stares at the ground.

“You know you are so much more than that Y/N.” He says quietly.

“I don’t though Sam. You never tell me. You never talk about things. I only know because of the imprint bond.” You move away from him slightly, letting go of his hands, frustration evident in your voice.

“You...” he starts, then looks at the ground again

“I don’t know how much more I can take if you can’t tell me what you are feeling Sam. Please.” You beg, as you reach out to him again.

He takes your hand in his and turns to face you, looking down into your eyes. His expression is warm, immediately comforting, and you have to force yourself to not be sucked back in to his loving embrace.

“You. Are the love of my life. No one else’s love will ever come close to what I feel for you. But that scares me. It scares me because I never feel good enough, I never feel like I can live up to be the man that you deserve. The only thing I can do is to keep you safe. And to keep you safe I need to make my pack strong, I need them to be impossible to defeat. I’m so so sorry that in my eagerness to make the pack strong that you felt unimportant. But I’m making the pack what it is because you are so important, the most important person in the whole world. I love you Y/N and I promise to never let you feel second best ever again...if you will have me that is.” He takes a deep breath, his confidence wavering because you haven’t spoken.

“Y/N...?”

A tear slips from the corner of your eye before you reach over and wrap your arms around his neck, taking him by surprise so he falls backwards onto the couch.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, with his arms wrapped around you, lips pressed to the top of your head as your face is buried into his neck, taking in the comfort of his scent.

It’s only when you hear an awkward cough that you realise anyone is there.

“Take it the two of you have made up?” Paul jokes, as Sam growls at him for interrupting.

You smile up at him, placing your hand on his chest to calm him.

“It’s ok, I’m not going anywhere.” He returns your smile before pressing a kiss to your lips whilst Paul and Jared make gagging noises in the background.

“Ugh it’s like mum and dad kissing!” Jared complains.

“No one asked you to stand there. Go back on patrol, the two of you are pulling a double for interrupting.” Sam orders, and they quickly comply, complaining as they leave the room.

He turns his attention back to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb whilst looking deeply into your eyes.

“I love you Sam.”

“I love you too Y/N.”

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