#but i wanna go farther away anyway so when i do that ill try to take some pictures

[cozy-in-my-head-my-bed]

i got a camera!!

[gaiuswrites]

Thread the Needle | Yoga!Din

Pairing: Modern!Din x Yoga Instructor!Reader

Rating: Explicit (minors, goodbye)

Word count: 3.5k~

Warnings/tags: Yoga!Din (yes, he gets his own warning), hurt/comfort, language, smut, good ol' fashioned cunnilingus, piv

Notes: ✨ HI FRIENDS ✨ Yoga!Din rides again. This idea has been stewing (pun intended, you'll get it later) in my dumb brain for a while now and I've finally decided to write it. Technically, this takes place a little farther into the future (perhaps when the pair is more of an item, and less of a fuckbuddy fling, but thorough plot? We don’t know her). Anyways, enjoy! Cheers x

He doesn’t mean to be dramatic, but it’s the most agonizing sixty minutes of his goddamn life.

He’s seated on his mat, legs folded into a fucking pretzel—lotus pose, a calm voice inside his head corrects—and he’s steaming.

She isn’t here.

He is—Din, for all his faults, showed the fuck up to class but she didn’t, and in her place there’s some smelly old bat, this woman’s wrinkly ass – sits bones – plunked down at the front of the studio— occupying her spot, where she should be.

His eyes stalk the movements of this other woman as she putters around the studio—the godawful stench of something earthy wafting behind her— and it looks wrong. It feels wrong; like a violation somehow—of the space.

Of their space.

“The light in me recognizes the light in you,” they all utter in unison like a fucking hippie cult, and he books it out of there, swiping his mat up with an aggressive slap and rolling it under his arm.

“Hey,” he calls out, pacing towards the front desk. The receptionist— Riley? Kylie? Din can never remember—glances up from her phone, bright eyed.

Poor thing.

“Who the fuck is that?” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder towards the studio, the gaggle of ladies trickling out of it already gossiping and clucking away. Din doesn’t mean to sound accusatory; he doesn’t mean to be this intense. It’s not this girl’s fault, he knows that— but she’s in proximity and she’s shit out of luck.

“M’sorry?” she sputters, blinking up at him.

Breathe, that same voice coos—he can feel the tickle of it behind his ear.

“Our usual Wednesday instructor,” Din begins again, clipped. “Where is she?”

“Oh," she shrugs, "she called in sick.”

With a furrowed brow he pitches forward, craning over the desk. “Is she okay?”

The girl— Miley? —all but flinches back from him, a quizzical expression wormed onto her. “Uhm, yeah she has the flu—nasty one, too, but she’ll probably be back by ne-"

Din doesn’t linger long enough for her to finish. He’s wheeled around, striding from the building, the tinny chime of the bell ringing out as the door creaks closed behind him. The women exchange waggling glances in his wake, tittering in mouthwatering delight—more juicy fodder for their post-yoga soiree.

///

He doesn’t remember driving there. He made a quick stop to the grocery store— their grocery store, now— to pick up what he needed and before he knows it, he’s at her front door, bringing his fist down upon it in hard raps.

He hears movement—can sense it there, can practically imagine it: her lithe body tip toeing over— no, she’s got the flu, maybe it’s more of a shuffle—and peeking through the peephole. There’s a weighty pause and then—

The slow, dubious clicks of unbolting locks, the turning of a handle, the yawn of the wood as it opens.

Her voice is made small with disbelief and exhaustion. “Din?”

“Can I come in?”

She cracks the door ajar, standing in the frame of it now, a thick blue comforter slung over an arm, and she can’t quite mask the stupefied look etched onto her face.

He’s never done this. She’s never done this. He’s been to her place twice—three times, if he counts them fucking in the car in her driveway—and he’s certainly never showed up unannounced.

“Uhm, I-”

“Great.”

Din pushes past her, plastic bag swinging heavy at his side.

“W-What?”

She’s left gaping, mouth and eyes opened incredulously, ogling the way he struts through her entryway, before finally having the wherewithal to close the door. “Hey, what are you-”

“You need to keep your fluids up,” he says roughly—as if it’s obvious—making a beeline towards the kitchen.

She follows after him, bunching the throw snuggly around her shoulders. “Din,” she utters feebly, “I really don’t think you should be here right now.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Please, I don’t wanna get you sick."

He thunks the bag onto the granite countertop, producing two cans.

She doesn’t know why she bothers, it’s not like he’s listening to her anyways. If she’s learned anything about Din Djarin, it’s that he’s nothing if not stubborn—impossibly immovable. He’s tossed his jacket off, slinging it over the island, a determined glint in his eye as he prowls around the kitchen, opening cupboards at random.

“Seriously, I don’t want you catching this. I feel like shit… Oh my god, I look like shit,” she groans in realization, burying her head in the blanket, hermitting herself away.

“You look fine,” he replies gruffly, delving through the drawers in search of a can opener.

Frumpy sweats and a baggy t-shirt with some faded logo on it that’s absolutely hanging off her. Hair tossed up and sloppy, coiled into a loose bun, errant pieces rebelling every which way. A little pale, maybe. Tired eyes. Messy.

Beautiful, he meant. She looks fucking irritatingly beautiful.

Din continues to rifle through her cabinets and he exhales in frustration, “Jesus, where do you keep your pans?”

“Bottom right,” she points begrudgingly.

He grunts, finding one big enough and sets it down on the stove.

She can’t stop fussing over him; making comments here and there, asking if he wants anything, needs anything—water, kombucha, tea, a beer, a snack—if she can help in any way possible—and it nearly sends him over the damn edge.

“Would you quit it and just let me take care of you?” he grits out, and her mouth clamps shut with a pop.

She’s quiet after that, picking anxiously at a thread poking out from the blanket she wears like a shawl—observing as he empties the cans into a large pot, lights the gas stove, and brings it to a boil. She gives him space, stationing herself by the kitchen table, leaning a hip into one of the four chairs there.

Honestly she does try to keep to herself; she tries to accept what Din is doing for her, but she can’t help it. As soon as she sees him ladling the soup into one of her favorite cups—it looks so tiny in his grasp— and bringing it over to her like a goddamn patron saint, she breaks.

“You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Yeah well, you need to get healthy so you can take your class back from that fucking fossil.”

“Din,” she admonishes.

“Baby,” he gives her a pointed look and she gnaws at the inside of her cheek, a blush blotting her clavicle. “She fucking smells. Now sit your pretty little ass down-”

“But-”

He presses a hand to her shoulder, forcing her to sink into the chair with a soft oomf, and places the bowl in front of her. “Don’t fight me on this. Drink the fucking soup.”

She huffs, glancing down, and then back up to Din.

“Progresso?”

He grunts.

She blows at the steam rising from the hot liquid. “Chicken noodle?”

Din crosses his arms over his chest and plops back onto the island.

“Classic,” she praises, mumbling into it.

She loathes to admit it, but the first sip tastes like heaven. It soothes her raw vocal chords, worn hoarse from nights of coughing, and seeps deep to warm her cold bones.

Din remains mute through the whole affair, staring owlishly as she spoons it down, slurp for slurp, until he’s satisfied she’s finished. When she does, she arches an eye brow at him— mouth pressing into a thin line. Happy now?

He tips his head and pads over to her.

“Wait, no you don’t have to-" He swipes it from the table, the spoon clanking against the ceramic rim. Din moves to the sink and she groans.

“Just leave it,” she whines, but he ignores her—stubborn stubborn stubborn— he’s already got soap on the sponge and the water running. Again, she huffs and rises to her feet, hem of the blanket trailing behind her.

“Thank you,” she gives in a hushed tone.

It’s so strange— being taken care of in her own place. She doesn’t know what to do, where to go. It’s ill-fitting, foreign, and she can only hover there, buzzing like a pesky insect beside him.

He’s wiping the dish off with a towel when he chances a peek back at her, practically stuttering when he does.

She’s swaddled in that fucking quilt, awkward and impossibly sincere and precious just standing there—watching him play house in her home. A brush of color has sprung up on her cheeks—more light in her eyes, too—and Din, try as he might, can’t pry himself off her.

She’s sick—she’s sick and gorgeous and he wants her. He wants her to feel better, he wants to fuck her, he wants to hold her. He’s overcome with it.

He swallows.

Fuck.

He abandons the bowl and rag in the drying rack and turns to her, her eyes widening, glassy and bloodshot, as he tucks a stray hair behind her ear— knuckles trailing down her jaw.

“Din…”

Her tongue skips over her lip—mocking him—damp and full and begging to be taken by his own, and her breath catches as he drags a thumb across that plump flesh, enrapt with the way her mouth parts so effortlessly for him—so fucking supple. Din’s gut twists and his blood thickens in his veins—the air between them rippling with something velvet and carnal.

He takes a step towards her. Her throat bobs.

“You’re gonna get sick,” she pouts in protest, rutting her palm into his chest, but there’s no fight in it. The blanket slips from her shoulders, hitting the ground with a dulled splat.

“Din,” she tries again, “I don’t want you to-"

He leans in, cradling her cheek, murmurs fanning over her face. “I’ll risk it.”

And he dissolves the gap, sealing her mouth with his in a tender kiss. It’s almost chaste at first, how they rove tentative and unhurried over each other—an innocent exploration— all until his tongue darts out to touch along her lip and she whimpers into him, letting Din dip into the dark cavern of her mouth. She tastes warm, like comfort and broth and rainy days, and he sighs as she brings her hands up to weave into his hair.

Neither of them fight for dominance like this—their tangle of soft sounds is perfectly balanced— Hatha; effort and ease, breath and body. He pushes, she relents—she surges forward, Din bends. They dance like this, slow as tar, until she catches his bottom lip between her teeth and tugs.

It’s like a switch has been flipped.

He seethes, inhaling sharply as his hands slide possessive and greedy down her body, grabbing fistfuls of her waist hidden under all the oversized layers, and crushing her into him. She’s making these airy noises, panting and urgent and fuck if it doesn’t tear him apart—viscerally, from the inside out.

Din walks her backwards, step for choreographed step, foxtrotting until she bumps into the kitchen table. He breaks away from the kiss to reach past her, frantically pushing away the unopened mail and receipts and loose change, the jingling of her keys cutting through the wanton quiet as they clang onto the tile, and he hitches her up to sit there with one fell swoop.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he husks, inbetween the bites he’s searing onto her neck. “Please, just lie back for me sweet girl.”

“Din, I-“

He silences her with a nibble to her ear, coaxing a breathy yelp out of her. “Lie back, baby.”

It doesn’t take much convincing after that. She acquiesces, Din’s wide palm splayed on her breasts, guiding her to recline back onto the table. He makes speedy work of her sweatpants, yanking them down her legs and flinging them off to land in a crumpled heap.

He sinks to his knees, pulling the cradle of her hips to the edge of the table before parting her thighs. The gloss of her cunt, wet and glistening for him, makes his hardening cock jump up to his stomach, and she twitches as soon as the cool air brushes against her.

“Fuck me,” he groans, whispering into her heat like he’s pained, like the sight alone is torturing him—like it’s slowly but surely ending his fucking life.

Din breathes her in with a sigh, that summer fruit tang— the scent of her aching and pulsing for him— and he starts tracing up and down her inner thigh with his tongue and teeth, nibbling along the path there until he’s at her apex. He’s dimpling her pliant skin with his calloused fingertips, strong hands wrapped under her knees, keeping them splayed as he kisses along her outer lips, nipping at her hip bones, teasing everywhere but where she needs him most.

It’s devastating—debilitating—and she’s shaking now. Every muscle, every fiber of her, convulsing with anticipation—with the promise of being dissected, of being torn apart and stitched back together again. She’s already got a hand covering her mouth, muffling the sobs he’s drawing out as he toys with her— playing her like a fucking fiddle.

Din’s eyes flit up to find her like this, brow pinched tight and cries stifled, and he chuckles— he fucking laughs— heady and ambered into her legs.

“You doin’ alright up there, teach?”

“F-Fuck you,” she hisses out with a weak whine.

God, she’s fucking perfect.

“You need something, sweetheart?” He smirks— she can feel the shape of it against her thigh, the way his stubble grates along her skin— and she can only mewl, speechless. Pathetic.

“Yeah, I know what you need...” Din hums, before finally - finally - taking mercy on her.

With one single drag, he tongues a broad stripe up her slit.

The noise that rips through her sounds like she’s being strangled— it gets caught in her throat like a trapped animal in hot car— a desperate little thing clawing to get out. Her nails scrape against the wood, leaving nicks in the chestnut lacquer. Immediately, she cants up to him, searching for his mouth hungrily and Din all but obliges as he clasps onto her hips, keeping her still while he fucks into her.

He’s carving her out— hollowing her; burying himself in her folds, nosing against her mound. He laps her up in kitten licks, delving the muscle of his tongue in and out of her, leaving her weak and gasping. Din laves up and down and side to side in clever little swivels, before he reaches her clit and sucks.

Her fist shoots from her mouth to grip his wavy locks, grinding shamelessly against his face.

“O-Oh my god, Din - fuck - Din. Oh fuck oh fuck-"

He loves it when she gets like this; that serene and tranquil exterior— the one that can quell a studio full of strangers into a haze with only the sound of her voice, that voice he can’t get out of his fucking head, the one that got them into this mess in the first place— shattered, mutilated beyond recognition and all she has left is her need— her wild, unbridled need.

Her need for his tongue, for his fingers, for his dick. Din Din Din, she only wants him— only needs him.

He slips a finger into her, easing past his knuckle in one movement, and her chin tips back, crown of her head digging into the table, hair mussing against the wood grain.

Her nipples have pebbled through her shirt, her pretty feet arched and contorted, and she’s heaving - writhing - like this above him.

He adds another digit, pumping in and out, the squelch of her pussy sounding lewd and obscene and fucking divine as he grazes her clit with his teeth, pulling at it.

“Fuck-” she rasps, legs quivering on their own accord— instinct and reflex demanding she tremble— and Din moans into her sex, feeling her walls constrict around his fingers, and he curls them up as he thrusts, hitting against that spongy patch insider her that makes her vision go white.

“Din, I- I’m—"

She can’t manage the rest. Instead of words, she cries— high pitched and wounded, as if she’s barely making it out alive. Her legs clamp around his head, bracing him there, and she cums— she loses it for him— her slick coating his nose, his lips, the hair speckled around his chin. She soaks him, and it leaves Din rocking his hips and humping the fucking air— as randy as a teenager, ravenous for anything, even if it’s just the friction of his pants drawn tight around his erection.

He takes her through her orgasm, lapping at her softly until she’s warbling—a slew of nonsense babbling out of her— and he leans back on his heels to admire his work, eyes singeing into her cunt made puffy and swollen pink, fluttering at the loss of him.

He plants one final kiss to the cleft of her pussy before shifting his weight back up to his feet, slotting himself between her.

Fuck, he isn’t as young as he once was— he feels his age in the ache of his knees. All the yoga in the world can’t erase his scar tissue, can’t undo time.

But he thinks maybe—if he’ll let himself—that she makes him feel younger. Lighter.

He squeezes her calf and begins to move away when she whimpers, bolting upright to palm greedily at the bulge pressing painfully against its constraint, her fingers fidgeting with his zipper and Din— in an uncharacteristic show of strength and self restraint— gingerly clasps onto her wrists, holding her still.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and her eyes snap up to meet his. “This isn’t about me.”

“No, but-”

“You don’t- we don’t have to-"

“Din,” she pants, grabbing onto the waist of his jeans and pressing her center into him, smearing herself along the denim there, her pearled clit catching on the rough fabric. Her eyes have gone jet-black with desire, obsidian lust burning through them. “Din, fuck me. Please fuck me, plea-“

Shit.

He’s never moved so fast in his goddamn life, unbuttoning his jeans in a flash, untucking himself— throbbing, leaking already—from his briefs. He gives himself two rough jerks, his blunt tip prodding at her entrance, before pushing into her with a gasp.

Fuck, she’s warm— not just warm, she’s hot. She’s molten, and she’s milking him for all he’s worth, gripping around him, fucking strangling his cock with how wet she is—how tight. God, she’s a fucking dream—a nightmare too, undoubtedly.

“Fuck baby - shit - you’re—hnng-” He groans—can’t even form a real sentence—all of his blood has rushed out of his brain and straight to the juncture where their bodies meet.

His eyes flutter deliriously at the feeling of her stretching around him like this and for a passing, fleeting moment, he considers the fact that he should be gentle with her— that she’s not feeling well, that she’s probably sore with body chills and God knows what else and that she should rest—

But once her knees are split apart and legs spread long— so fucking flexible, fuck she’s killing him— his well-met concern all but abandons him.

He fucks her hard— so hard she falls back, that unforgiving surface bruising into her spine. He probably hurts her a little—just how he likes, just how she loves.

Din plows into her, digging into the meat of her thighs, slamming into the pussy that takes him so fucking well, the pussy that feels like it’s made for him— like she’s made for him— and the table shudders with each roll of his hips, scraping it inch by inch along the tile, knocking against the chairs with loud, clattering bangs.

“W-Wait— wait wait wait-“ she pants, hands scampering up to his arms.

He slows his thrusts until he’s stilled inside of her, worry creasing around his eyes. “W-What? Are you okay—what’s wrong?”

“T-The table," she whines, “it’s from fucking IKEA. I built this piece of shit myself— there’s no way it’s gonna stay standing with you fucking me into it like this.”

Din barks out a laugh, throaty and genuine, and for the second time today, he comes to the conclusion that she’s perfect.

“Bedroom?” she nods down the hall.

“Bedroom,” he growls before scooping her up, lifting her off the table, her legs scrambling to hook around his waist, forearms bracing around the broad plain of his shoulders.

“Din!” she squeals in surprise, “I can walk, you know.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, giving her a bounce and a light slap to her ass. “You’re sick.”

///

“Onions,” he mutters, leaden eyelids nestled shut.

He didn’t mean to stay over this long—well past sunset, later than he’s ever allowed himself—but how could he be expected to leave? After she came on his cock - twice - and he had filled her up until his cum was gushing from her, extricating himself out of this exact position of woven, spent limbs and sweat stained sheets sounded criminal.

“What?” She cranes groggily up at him.

“The sub. She smelled like onions. And patchouli.”

“Hey,” she tuts in mock offense, “Brenda is nice.”

“Good for Brenda. Doesn’t make her smell any better.”

“God, you are so rude,” she laughs, shaking her head as she nuzzles into Din’s side, lips curving into a sleepy grin against his chest—right above the aching thump of his caged heart.

Taglist (I apologize if I missed anyone!):

@radiowallet @pedros-mustache @djarinsbeskar @chasingdreamers @greatcircle79 @iamskyereads @imnotinlove-thisisnotyoursong @fan-of-encouragement @read-and-rec @helmet-comes-off @keeper0fthestars @hellabaybee @ourmotherofyearning @krissology

[daimonhalos]

Appreciation post for the eggpire and more during the red banquet cause I'm not seeing enough love for how well they organized and delivered and because I'm so proud of cc!Bad for how far the Bloodvines arc has gone ♥ (this stuff is from Bad's vod btw)

Also something to cheer people up a bit in case the lore got u hard like it got me cause I'm still not okay bestie <3

The starting soon screen being an animation (with glitches to show another frame!!) plus the jazzy electro-swing soundtrack underneath. Just such a good intro, I felt like I was actually in the waiting line for an event, just awesome.

Ponk. Just Ponk, dapper man, handsome Ponk just standing there. Gorgeous, thank you, standing ovation, I love him.

Just everything Bad and Ant did with the building of the room, the stairs!! The coat room!!! The statues right in front of the table, everything looked SO pretty.

ANT MY BELOVED LOOKING HANDSOME AS ALWAYS I just loved all their outfits. The banquet's skins just SLAPPED HARD.

The little moment where Bad changed view of his character and we could see him, Ant and Ponk cwc

Bad singing >>>>>>>>>>

Everyone getting lost despite the oak signs

THE ARC ABOVE THE DANCEFLOOR, WHAT THE HELL YOO

Bad complimenting everyone on their outfits and giving out some gapples here and there

Bad also always repeating the same catchphrases

Sam just drinking copiously and the dumpy situation

People actually dancing + HBomb being the dj

Puffy walking around Bad to see his outfit and complimenting him, just felt like their old friendship cwc

FOOLISH GAVE BAD A FLOWER <3

Bad scolding George for not wearing an outfit (Sam's "his name is Gogy and he is beautiful")

"It's almost time for the feast. It's gonna be delicious." the foreshadowing

Everyone dancing together cwc

"minecraft dancing is speed squats" eret ilu

Bad and Ant complimenting moment ♥

The eggpire all on the same side of the table. Them

Ponk's little "Hello!" after Bad said he made the soup, plus everyone going "good job!!" just twt

When Bad started asking if anyone wanted to give a toast, I realized eventually that this was more of a disguised "Want to say your last words before death?" and it now sounds s o freaking cool. ye s

P O N K 'S S P E E C H

"you look beautiful right now" sam i will cry

When in the middle of his speech, Bad turns to Ant who's already looking at him, nods, Ant nods back, and as Bad turns around again we can see Ant walking away from his seat. I am OBSESSED with this scene, like you already know something is about to go down and oh gosh it was delivered so good

THE LAVA COMING DOWN FROM THE CEILING AS BAD KEPT TALKING, NONE NOTICING, HIM TALKING ABOUT HOW THE BANQUET WILL BE UNFORGETTABLE. SO HOT

"And yeah! Thank you for coming everybody" the little mischievous giggles right after "And prepare uh ... yep. Prepare to die." AND THEN HE FUCKIGN DRINKS FROM HIS GLASS LIKE COME ON YOU CANT BE ANY COOLER THAN THAT YOOO

"The leaf is staying the way it is" you can hear the laughter in his voice like HAH GOTTEM that's so good

Bad still giving Hbomb gapples cwc

"Where you looking for this perchance?" AND THEN EQUIPS THE ENTIRE ARMOR AND WEAPONS E Y E when the twists started dude. this si where the twists started and never ended

HANNAH CROSSING SIDES AND SIDING WITH THE EGGPIRE. QUEEN SHIT that was such a cool moment for her i'm so glad she's getting her moment

The eggpire laughing, just pure villainy, love them

"Time to get on the main event" the nonchalance. The way they equipped the crossbows and readied the arrows at the same time. B r u h fucking awesome they are

The eggpire faking being afraid when Sam was talking about blowing the egg up. Sad that we already knew about the obsidian thing, but still made it a very cool scene. Especially right after when they started laughing at them again. I don't know what it is about it but I love them being so sassy.

FREAKING EXECUTIONS THEY WORKED FOR MASS EXECUTIONS they were able to trap all those freaking people!! And trick them and counter attack all the time! what the fuck, I'm so impressed

Thank you Fundy for sounding super terrified /gen ♥

Wait ahah they really said EGGSECUTION-

THE EGG HATCHES THE EGG HATCHES THE EGG HATCHES im not saying IT but im saing Velvet

"Follow me! Follow me!" HANNAH SOUNDED SO ENTHUSIASTIC i love

"We trusted you!" "Well, that was your first mistake-" THE WAY BAD WAS ABOUT TO LAUGH. DUDE they definitely had so much fucking fun making this

sassyboyhalo

Foolish acting thank u ily. Also the thunder not working what the heck i wanna know what was going on inside his mind right then he sounded so lost. THE ACTING

"Sacrifice!" Hannah idk how to say this but I love you

ANT MOMENTTTT

When puffy called them selfish i was expecting bad to just do a huge double take. I wanted him to snap immediately PLEASE SNAP-

BAD DELIVERING AGAIN WITH THE AMAZING ACTING

"Not just for the egg but for what the egg is going to give us" he's so desperately trying to make them udnerstand it promised him his friend back he literally mentions it every single time but everyone calls him selfish because they think he wants power when he just wants skeppy's friendship back in this essay I will- Anyway yes I love that he never explicitly says it because it kills us viewers with pain cause we KNOW and then the reveal will be 100 times more powerful. This is so awesome

"I can't stop Quackity and you know why I can't stop. If I stop I can't get what I need." his voice grew so much lower like he's just holding back MAN I HH IT WAS SO GOOD

SECRET RETREAT ROOM YOOO

Ponk giving Bad some food and telling him to stay safe, Bad telling both Hannah and Ponk to stay safe too. My tears

And now the solo Bad lore part, where we actually see the true part of him that's absolutely devastated and makes me cry, the way he acted all confident and then saw everything crumble in a few seconds and now he's destroyed again because what if they find a way to destroy the egg what then? what if he never gets skeppy back? dude, you can just read his emotions it's so sad and i love how it was portrayed

"I know where I can go. I know who I can see!" BDI REF BDI REF FOR SURE I have a feeling that's going to be explained in the next lore stream with Skeppy and I'm so hype. I love the little crumbs of references here and there.

"But now they have it.." he sounded so broken??? bad your acting please ill cry

"I didn't really want to hurt anybody" his true self trying to get back cwc especially because he's farther away from the egg. I just love the transition between the guy Bad portrays who's so sure about the egg when it's in front of others and the doubts and anxiety he actually has when he's alone. Just so cool

"Did I screw up?" im just pointing out everything that moves me emotionally cause these people's acting is so cool

Ending the stream with simple black background my beloved

Okay but really I'm so so so proud of the ccs for making this happen and it's only going upwards, I'm literally so in awe, they really said go big or go home

Free space for Ant's villain speech I wasn't able to hear yet, but they said it was v cool, so I'm trusting people on this

Thank you for listening, stan Bloodvines arc /hj

If I made typos no I didn't

[blazingparker]

What’s Up, Danger? (Chapter 2)

The response to this fic has been absolutely incredible, and I am so pleased to give you chapter 2 of What’s Up, Danger? Chapter 3 is on its way, and I can’t wait to share it with you all! :)

read it on ao3!

---

“What’s up, Peter?”

Peter’s name on Tony’s lips was one of the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard, and he couldn’t help but smile even wider. He shifted his weight to one hand, slumping even farther against the strong arms helping him stay upright as he waved his now-free hand dismissively.

“Not much. Followed by the Avengers. Swinging. Got stabbed.” Peter counted off the events of the night on his fingers and looked up at the man practically holding him up at this point. Tony just scoffed and shook his head.

“You wanna save the one-liners for when you’re not bleeding out on a rooftop in Queens?” Peter’s brow furrowed and he looked up at Tony.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He asked, eliciting a sharp laugh from the man. “Besides, I’m not bleeding out anymore.”

“Well, you’re not fixed either. C’mon, we gotta get you to the medbay.” A flash of panic went through Peter and he tried to push Tony’s hands away and get up, feeling his heart rate increase.

“I think the fuck not!” He yelled, ignoring Tony’s quiet pleas with him to stop moving, stop aggravating his stab wound.

“Okay, okay. No medbay. Peter. No medbay.” Peter stopped struggling at the assurance, looking back up at Tony. He was met with an open, honest expression and almost felt bad for trying to shove Tony away.

“I’m not going anywhere near the Avengers.” His voice was steely, leaving no room for questioning. He didn’t really think it was an unfair demand, given that they’d been hunting him down for weeks, trying to unmask him and eventually taking a shot at him.

“I’m an Avenger,” Tony retorted, a smirk making its way onto that beautiful face. God, Parker, shut the fuck up.

“But you’re Tony,” Peter reasoned before flushing brightly and looking away. What did I literally say about shutting the fuck up oh my god this is why we can’t have nice things-

“I’m flattered, Peter.” A shy glance to the billionaire’s face told Peter he really did mean it. “But I’m also dead serious about getting you fixed up properly. I’m not letting you swing home like this, you could tear it open and then we’re right back to square one.” There were a few moments of silence, each man trying to think of the best way to move forward. Peter bit his lip, looking down at the ground.

“I have a first-aid kit at home,” Peter mumbled softly, and Tony just stared at him incredulously. Peter could understand why - he’d spent weeks avoiding the Avengers and now in the span of five minutes he’d given Tony his name and invited him to his apartment.

“You mean to tell me every time you get hurt, you bandage yourself up?” Tony asked, sounding almost...sad? Maybe he wasn’t staring at Peter that way for the reasons he’d thought.

“Yeah? I don’t exactly have a multi-million dollar tower with a functioning medbay,” Peter said, raising an eyebrow as he looked at Tony. “I have a shitty apartment with a broken radiator and a first-aid kit that runs out faster than I can afford to replenish it.” Tony swore rather creatively under his breath, and Peter found himself smiling again. Was it possible that Tony actually cared?

“Not anymore, you don’t.” Before Peter could question what Tony meant, he was being bundled into those strong arms and leaning against the chest of the Iron Man armor. “Point me in the direction of your place.” As the armor carried them into the air, Peter gave Tony directions until they landed on the fire escape of a run-down apartment building in Queens. He hurriedly threw his mask back on before opening the window and crawling in. Tony stepped out of the armor and through the window, leaving the suit on sentry mode.

“Jeez, you weren’t kidding about the radiator,” Tony remarked as he straightened up. The apartment was just as chilly as the December air outside. “That suit can’t be very good at keeping you warm, either.” Peter scoffed as he took the mask off again, rolling his eyes.

“Do you make a habit of insulting the people who call you for help, or is that special treatment reserved for me?” He quipped. He tried to take a step towards the bathroom, but his knees buckled and Tony rushed to support his weight.

“All for you, Pete,” Tony said with a wink, and Peter very pointedly ignored the blush that it brought to his cheeks. They slowly made their way to the bathroom, where the young man pointed out where the first aid kit sat under the sink.

“If you could just bend down and grab it, I’ll stitch myself up,” Peter said with a soft groan as he leaned against the wall. His eyes closed for just a second, but when they opened he found he’d earned another incredulous stare from Tony. “What?”

“You are not stitching yourself up. I got this, I’m going to help. Just-you can trust me. Okay, Peter?” The vigilante just looked at Tony for a moment before nodding.

“I know that,” he murmured, surprising even himself at the admission. Tony blinked in shock before smiling - all soft and sweet in a way Peter hadn’t seen before. Usually that expression was more snark and arrogance, and he felt privileged to see what seemed to be the real Tony Stark.

“Good.” Tony swiped the first aid kit from under the sink and guided Peter to the couch in the small living space that was barely separated from the kitchen. “Just-take off that costume so I can get a good look at this, yeah?” Peter blushed but stripped off the hoodie of his makeshift suit, revealing pale skin and smooth muscles. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn he saw something flicker in Tony’s gaze. Something like hunger.

“I’m gonna lay down before I pass out,” Peter grumbled as he settled on the couch, laying back so Tony could see the wound. He hissed softly as fingers gently poked and prodded, each of his sounds of pain met with a hushed apology from the surprisingly sweet billionaire.

“I’m gonna stitch this up, you got any painkillers?” Tony asked, rummaging through the first aid kit. Peter just laughed, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I picked up the meds that work with enhanced metabolisms on my way home from class. I get them over at Superheroes-R-Us. Just go ahead and stitch it - that’s what I always do.” Tony looked a little ill at the suggestion but got to work anyway. With each stitch, Peter grimaced and Tony ran a hand through his curls - another act that surprised and confused him but he wasn’t complaining. He loved when people played with his hair, and it helped distract him from the pain in his side. After a few moments of silence, he decided to finally ask about what Tony had said back on the rooftop.

“Hey, what did you mean? When you said ‘not anymore’?” He asked, and Tony briefly glanced at him before going back to the stitches.

“I’m gonna take care of it. The broken radiator, the bare first-aid kit. The shitty pajamas you call a suit.” Before Peter could protest, he held up a hand. “I know you don’t want to be an Avenger. I get that. Just-it’ll ease my conscience if I know you aren’t struggling so much when all you’re trying to do is look out for the little guy, okay?”

A beat of silence. Tony looked up to find Peter just staring at him, with something like adoration in his eyes. A hand wrapped in fingerless gloves found its way to the one holding gauze to Peter’s side.

“Thank you, Tony,” Peter whispered, still looking at him like he’d promised to rearrange the stars outside his window. Tony coughed, glancing away.

“It’s just a suit and some medical supplies. It’s not a big deal,” he insisted, trying to pass it off as he finished stitching Peter’s wound and sat back.

“It is. It’s a big deal to me,” Peter said, sitting up and tentatively placing a hand on Tony’s knee. “No one-no one knows about me. About this.” He gestured to the mask now lying discarded on the table with his hoodie. “No one knows enough to check in on me. To make sure I’m okay. So just-” Peter swallowed when his voice threatened to break. “Don’t say you caring about how I’m doing isn’t a big deal, because to me...it’s the biggest deal.”

Tony looked over at the injured man on the couch, and Peter felt something like fear worm its way into his chest. Tony was about to reject the notion that he cared and leave, he was sure of it. This is why you need to shut the fuck up-

“I care about you way more than a first aid kit or a radiator could ever express,” Tony blurted out. “I don’t-I don’t know where it came from. But every night, I wait and wait for your phone call and all I want is to hear your voice and know you’re okay. If something happened to you..” he trailed off, just looking at Peter like he was really taking him in.

“Tony?” Peter asked softly when it had been a few moments and nothing else had come from the man sitting next to him. He rubbed his knee and shifted a little closer, trying to convey without words he wanted to hear everything Tony wanted to say.

What he didn’t expect was the descent of gentle, chapped lips. A hand working its way into his hair and another resting on his cheek. The press of another warm chest against his own. Peter made a soft sound and leaned into the kiss, one hand reaching up to clutch Tony’s shirt. He never wanted this to end, but the need for air grew imperative and he was forced to pull away. Their foreheads pressed together, noses nudging each other as the two men caught their breath with matching smiles on their faces. Tony is the first one to speak.

“Well, I can say with confidence that this was not what I expected to get out of that phone call.” At Peter’s fearful expression, he ran a soothing hand down his side. “I’m not complaining,” he murmurs. Peter relaxes into him, sighing in relief. For once, his inability to shut up had done him a favor rather than hurt him.

“Yeah, me neither.” Peter huffed out a laugh and winced when it tugged at his stitches in a painful way. He tried to hide it, but Tony was too observant for that.

“You need rest. Let me take you to bed, okay?” Tony suggested, and Peter nodded.

“Just-help me up?” He asked, embarrassed at needing the help but also unwilling to potentially tear open the stitches Tony had just done.

“Of course,” Tony said with that signature smirk, and Peter opened his mouth to ask what that look was for when he was whisked off the couch and into Tony’s arms. A rather undignified squeak left his mouth, and he rested his head against Tony’s shoulder with a blush.

“What? I helped you up,” Tony teased as he carried Peter to the bedroom. There was a mound of blankets on the bed, and he moved them aside so he could lay them both down. “What’s with the blanket fort?”

“I told you the radiator is broken, and I can’t thermoregulate. I get really cold at night. Hence, blankets,” Peter explained as he tugged the blankets over them. Seeing the look of shock on Tony’s face, he hesitated. “Did you-not want to stay?” He asked with a blush.

“Of course I do,” Tony said immediately. “I just didn’t think I’d be welcome.” Peter didn’t dignify that with a response, just wrapping them both up in the blankets so they would be warm during the night. His movements grew slow as sleep crept up on him and a yawn left his lips.

“‘M sleepy,” he mumbled, feeling Tony chuckle as he was cuddled against that strong chest again.

“Go to sleep, Danger. I got you.” With those words, Peter gave into the exhaustion and drifted off, hand still clutching Tony’s shirt.

When Peter woke in the morning, he was absolutely roasting. Throwing the blankets off, he realized Tony was gone and he quickly walked out to the living area to see if he was there. The billionaire was gone, but what was left in its place made Peter’s heart flutter and brought a smile to his face.

A fixed radiator and a stocked first-aid kit.

---

After that, Tony and Peter found whatever excuses they could to meet up at Peter’s apartment. First, it was a new suit to replace the “slashed-up onesie” that Spider-Man was infamous for. It was clearly well-made, but subtle enough that it didn’t scream Stark Tech to everyone who looked at it.

Then, it was a bottle of painkillers Tony had engineered specifically for Peter. They actually took the pain away and allowed him to rest comfortably after a bad night. For the first time, he got loopy after taking one too many. Tony had teased him about the resulting phone call for a few days until Peter threatened to never take the pills again.

A few more weeks had gone by since that first evening at Peter’s apartment, and things were good. The Avengers still caught up with him regularly, but hearing Tony’s voice or cuddling in his arms after each encounter made Peter feel so much better. His life wasn’t a constant mess anymore, now that he had someone who understood what he was going through and could provide support. Peter had repeatedly insisted Tony shouldn’t worry about him so much, that he didn’t want to be a burden, but was consistently met with the same assurances that Tony adored him, adored their relationship and wouldn’t change it for the world.

Tonight was shaping up to be the same, with a phone call to Tony and maybe a chance for them to meet up, eat some pizza, and relax. Peter had just finished up stopping an ATM robbery, and had paused to catch his breath before swinging home.

Of course, things couldn’t be that easy, though. As he stood on the rooftop, chest heaving, his spider sense flared briefly. Before he could discern why, he felt a prick in the side of his neck. Confused, he reached a hand up and plucked a dart from his skin. He just stared at it, not understanding as his vision started to swim and staying upright became increasingly difficult.

The last thing he saw before he slipped into unconsciousness was a flash of red, white, and blue.

[pizadowa]

generally a lil nervous to ask, buuut, since I’ve seen a few people chat about how Ivy/the sibs would take care of Carmen when she gets sick, but how would Carmen take care of Ivy if she got sick? I curious to see your take on this 👀 (Carmivy intended?)

oh anon don’t be nervous or shy, this is a very benign ask and I like to think I'm not intimidating 😢..😭

but anywhoooo ... I actually have thought about this before, so I felt like whipping up a quick Ivy POV ficlet rather than strictly talk about Carmen ... :)

-- --

Unlike Zack’s sensitive chemical makeup, Ivy's immune system is built like a supercharged ox, and when it comes to sickness she has vastly more experience being other people’s—namely Zack’s—begrudging caretaker than catching anything herself. 

In the nearly three years she’s traveled the world with Team Red, she can count on less than one hand the times she’s fallen ill, and each instance hardly interfered with their capers, not to mention her self-prescribed medicine of “toughing-it-out” has gotten her through even the roughest days. She's not exactly a fan of admitting defeat to a cold, nor being so useless that someone would need to take care of her, especially when that someone is almost always Zack. His questionable understanding of the human body means he's less adept at relieving any real symptoms and more so at keeping her company enough to distract her frazzled, sickly mind. It's not ideal, but it’s the only thing she knows, and it’s better than getting Carmen involved; Ivy would rather their getaway driver catch her sickness than their very important team leader.

So when she wakes up one day in their new HQ to immobilizing muscle pain, a presumably contagious case of the sniffles, and a very concerned Carmen seated at her bedside instead of Zack, she’s more than a little bit freaking out.

“Wh… Carm?” Ivy submerges part of her face under the covers, fearful of spreading her mystery contagion despite their distance. For extra good measure she directs her head away to her night table, taking note of a glass of water and tissues that definitely weren’t there before. “How long have you…?”

Carmen brings one leg onto the bed and curls her palms around it as she speaks, “Not too long. I was actually just wrapping up some sets when Zack ran in screaming like a banshee about you. It’s amazing that didn’t wake you up.”

Ivy’s vision focuses out of its watery haze enough to comprehend Carmen’s tight athletic wear and exposed skin that’s somehow less sweaty than her own. A cold-hot chill sends her into shivers. 

“I’m pretty sure that was the demon in my fever dream." She cringes at the sound of her own nasally voice wreaking havoc on her aching head. "Where is he, anyway?”

“I sent him out to the store and had Shadowsan tag along to make sure he doesn’t go overboard with the anecdotal home remedies.”

The imagery has Ivy falling into laughter that quickly becomes a strained coughing fit beneath her thick blanket. Carmen noticeably teeters away, which only adds to the discomfort in her chest.

“Ugh, sorry for the gross sound effects.”

“Don’t be. I had a feeling you wouldn’t be doing too hot in the morning. You were hardly eating and going to bed earlier than Shadowsan.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yeah. So, all-in-all, I was expecting this.”

“Double ugh.” She buries herself within the bed until the only thing she can see is threaded darkness. The weight by her legs shifts closer, and then there’s a gentle hand on her blanketed bicep. It’s warm even through the fabric.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. Actually, I guess do sweat it if you have a fever. Do you have a fever?”

Ivy’s about to answer when the blanket peels back and the hand that was on her arm presses firmly to her forehead. She blinks past the slender forearm in her view and over to Carmen’s determined face leaning closer with each passing second. For a moment their intense eyes cross paths, lock on to each other before softening completely, and Ivy is overcome with an urge to hold on. To what, she doesn’t know, but one of her hands takes the initiative and reaches up to Carmen’s wrist—which pulls away just as her fingernails make contact with smooth skin.

“You feel warm, but it’s hard to say,” Carmen contemplates aloud and returns to her previous spot on the bed. “We’ll need that thermometer once Zack and Shadowsan are back, but in the meantime, I’m here. Whatever you need.”

Ivy struggles to push a scratchy lump down her throat as she shoves her hand back under the covers. 

She's not used to this. Unless it’s Zack—who’s almost too obliging for his own good—she avoids asking for help as much as possible. She prefers to handle most things perfectly well on her own, and she’s since learned her hard lesson of what happens when you owe a debt to others. The very thought of burdening Carmen with something as dumb as a little cold sets her nerves even more haywire. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she grumbles weakly.

Carmen shoots her a look like she's just said a profane insult. "I shouldn't?"

"Yeah, I'm all sick and stuff. Wouldn't you prefer to be...not...sick and stuff?"

"Checking your temperature is nothing. And besides, you were probably contagious days ago. If I got it, I got it.” Ivy’s face contorts into a sarcastic pout, but Carmen preemptively interrupts her griping with a raised hand. “I’m just saying it takes a bit more than that to knock me down, and if I’m fine now, I might as well help out. Seriously, I think I get sick even less than you do."

Ivy pauses to consider it, only able to recall taking care of a Carmen who has been downed by injuries and overexertion, not acute illnesses. Not even a little upset stomach from too much delicious food like she and Zack—though mostly Zack—are wont to do.

"Still, I don't wanna risk it." Ivy shuffles on her back to the farther side of the bed. "I appreciate your concern, Carm, I really do, but I'll be fine. Just send Zack in here once he's back."

"Oh." Carmen frowns at her in a way Ivy’s never received before, and for an intense split second she feels a strange pang of guilt. "Sure, but...this is the same Zack who thought the best remedy for altitude sickness was sticking a fan at the front of the tent to magically blow in more oxygen?"

"Uh—" 

"And who once drank a phony herbal miracle cure from downtown that made even his worst food poisoning look like a work of art?"

"Ew-uh, gross!" Ivy scrunches up her entire face, only relaxing it once she sees lightning behind her eyelids. "Okay, okay, I get it. You really don't want Zack taking care of me."

"It's not just that."

With great effort Ivy sits up out of her cocoon for the first time that morning. "What'd'ya mean?"

Carmen twists her torso completely toward Ivy. "You guys are always looking out for me when I'm down for the count. And you, you've been the only one taking care of Zack for how long?" 

Ivy offers a small chuckle of understanding. “Too long.”

"Exactly. So the least I could do is return the favor and pamper you for once. I may not be a doctor but I do cook a mean sopa de mondongo, and that's always helped me when I was sick on the isle."

"I don't even know what that is and I feel better already."

"Wait ‘til you actually try it. Funny enough we actually have all the ingredients, but not the basics for treating a nasty cold, go figure."

"Food is the priority around here."

Carmen snatches a glass of water from Ivy's night table and extends it over the bed to her. "Finish this, I'll go get started on the soup. The guys should be back soon with some medicine. Think you can hold out just a bit longer?"

Ivy takes the glass in her hands and peers down at its fullness with a warmth in her chest that crawls up her neck. “Yeah, yeah I think I can do that.”

"Good."

“Oh, and...I’m really happy it’s you here right now. Like, really really happy.” Ivy pauses. “Don’t tell Zack I said that.”

She peers up from her watery reflection to see Carmen beaming at her in silent affirmation, and she does her best to offer the same expression. She takes a few slow sips of her lukewarm drink, fully expecting Carmen to have left by now, but instead the other girl shifts closer on the bed. Closer into Ivy’s space.

"You know,” Carmen starts, her voice husked low despite not needing to, and Ivy can feel her heart beating across every inch of her body, “I'm told I give amazing massages, in case those muscle aches become too much trouble for you.”

She trails her hand along Ivy's covered thigh before lightly squeezing down her ankle, and the peculiar sensations have Ivy frozen with nothing else to do but gawk at her. She offers an unreadable smirk with lidded eyes that cast her mind further into delirium, and walks out of the room without another word.

When she’s fully registered that she’s alone again, Ivy wolfs down the rest of her water, barely managing to fend off a spell of wheezes, and quickly discards the glass to the empty sheets next to her. With a buzzing in her cranium that ripples throughout her entire body, she flings herself down to her pillows to smother her overheated cheeks with a shaky sigh.

"I should get sick more often."

[seanfalco]

Want | Priest!Kay x Reader {Part III}

Fandom: Season of the Witch Modern!AU Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: Catholicism, Religious imagery, Angst, Infidelity  (I’m also not Catholic, so hopefully I haven’t made any glaring errors.)

masterlist

Kay stood by the sanctuary doors under the pretense of greeting his parishioners, but really he was searching for one in particular.

He’d barely been able to eat or sleep since their mid-week lesson, [y/n]’s confession of feelings leaving him conflicted and distracted, barely getting this week’s sermon prepared on time.  Unsure what he would even say to her when he saw her— he knew nothing he could say would make things alright, not after he’d rejected her, but that didn’t stop him from just wanting to see her.

But when her fiance and his parents walked in, [y/n] nowhere to be seen, his heart dropped to his stomach, sharp disappointment filling him til he nearly couldn’t breathe.

“No [y/n] today?” he asked as he shook the others’ hands, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“No, she’s not feeling well today,” Matthew answered.  “She’s been feeling off for several days now actually.”

“Poor dear, hopefully it’ll pass soon,” his mother murmured and Kay nodded, watching them as they took their seats, a frown twisting his lips.

What were the odds that [y/n] was actually sick and not just feigning illness to avoid him?  His stomach churned at the thought, but he made his way dutifully to the altar to start Mass.

If he thought it was hard to concentrate when [y/n] was out in the congregation watching him, this was even worse, his thoughts continuously straying to what she was doing, and if she was alright.

He ended up losing his place several times and by the end of the service he felt so anxious he thought he might be ill himself.  He idly thought about calling her from his office to check on her, but it wasn’t as if she’d be likely to answer, and there was no way he could just show up at her apartment — that’d be incredibly inappropriate, besides, what would he even say?

He already knew there was nothing he could say, though he wanted to.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he noticed someone enter the confessional and he sighed, heading that way.

This is your duty, get yourself under control, Kay, he told himself, opening the door to the priest’s compartment and took his seat.  Through the latticed partition he couldn’t tell exactly who was on the other side, and his thoughts returned to the other day.

“I’ve been having… impure thoughts.”

He shivered at the memory, his mind wanting to chase that line of thought to speculate what sort of sinful scenarios she’d been imagining him in.

No, Kay, what is wrong with you? He thought frantically.  Do not be swayed by sweet temptation.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.  It’s been, uh… well, a while since my last confession.”

Matthew’s voice on the other side of the partition jerked Kay back to the present, his gut twisting with guilt at what he’d nearly allowed himself to think about the other man’s betrothed.

“Go ahead, my child,” Kay prompted, hoping the other man wouldn’t notice how strained his voice was.

“Right, okay, uhh, where to start…?” Matthew mused.  He paused for a long moment as if thinking.  “Well, I’ve had a lot of sex… like, a lot,” he began, and Kay’s gut twisted farther at the thought of him and [y/n] before he forcefully pushed that image from his head.  “—And not just with my fiance.  There’s been others, sometimes even two at once—“

Kay frowned, interrupting the other man.

“Wait, are you saying you’re been unfaithful to [y/n]?” he asked, trying to keep the sharp bite of his anger from his voice.

“Well, yeah,” Matthew replied.  “I mean, as good as she in in bed, I don’t wanna be stuck having the same boring sex with one woman my whole life.  In fact, this whole marriage was my parents’ idea in the first place, and if I don’t go along with it they threatened to cut me off,” he explained, Kay’s anger mounting with each word.

“Does… does [y/n] know about this?” he asked, seething, his hands balling in his dark robes.

“No, I mean, she’d flip out if she did, and then she’d bail.”

Kay couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he couldn’t even warn [y/n]— confession was sacred.  What he heard in the confessional couldn’t be revealed to anyone.  But the worst part about it was the irony.  He’d pushed her away when she’d tried to tell him she wasn’t happy, thinking he might be breaking up a loving marriage, but it was already doomed to begin with.  Of course [y/n] was unhappy.

“So… what, Father, how many Hail Mary’s do I need to do to be good?” Matthew asked, pulling Kay’s attention back to him and he scowled. 

“That’s not how it works,” he countered.  “To be forgiven, you must truly repent and feel sorry for what you’ve done, and vow to the best of your abilities to not give into temptation and repeat your sin,” he explained sharply.  “If you have no intention of ceasing your adulterous ways then you cannot truly be forgiven.”

“Alright, alright,” Matthew relented, “I promise to the best of my abilities to avoid temptation,” he exclaimed, though it was clear by the tone of his voice that he had no intention of stopping.

In a hollow voice, Kay absolved the man of his sins and sent him on his way, unable to bring himself to leave the solitude of the confessional yet.  [y/n]’s words swam in his head, guilt and desire and temptation following them, gripping him.

“I never wanted this!  I still have feelings for you.  They never went away!”

Who was he kidding?  She was still all he’d ever wanted.  And if Matthew couldn’t see just how special she was, he didn’t deserve her.  [y/n] was right, he couldn’t give her what she wanted… but maybe Kay could.

“Ah shit,” he muttered under his breath.  

Without another thought, lest he talk himself out of it, Kay pushed open the door and hurried back to his office, shedding his robe and grabbing his keys.

——

It was the insistent pounding at the door that roused you from your fitful slumber, and you rolled over to check the time on your phone.  It looked like Mass would be over by now, but you couldn’t believe that that was Matthew at the door.

Maybe if you didn’t answer, whoever it was would give up and go away.  Besides, you weren’t exactly fit to be seen at the moment—!not having bothered to shower or change for the last few days, your eyes swollen and bloodshot from crying for hours on end. 

However, when the knocking persisted, growing, if possible more frantic, you reluctantly pushed yourself out of bed and threw your robe around yourself as you shambled to the door.

“I’m comin’, hold your fucking horses!” you called, peering through the peephole while your hand rested on the door knob.

When you saw who was standing outside, looking nervously around, you jerked back, your pulse instantly pounding loudly in your ears.

For a moment, you pressed your forehead to the door, trying to decide what to do.

“[y/n], please, I know you’re in there!  I just want to talk,” Kay called through the door and you took a steadying breath, unlocking the deadbolt, but leaving the chain in place, pulling the door open only a crack.

“What’re you doing here, Kay?” you demanded, though you didn’t give him a chance to speak.  “I think you already know why I didn’t come to church today, and if you’re here to ask me to come back to do my lessons, I’m not going.  I’ll call the Parish office tomorrow and request a new teacher—“

“That’s not why I’m here!” he exclaimed hastily, cutting you off and your eyes widened.  “Please, can I come in?  I don’t want to speak through the door and I want — I need to talk to you!”

The desperation in his voice and the wild light in his emerald eyes made you pause.  Biting your lip, you considered his plea.

“Okay, just… hold on a sec.”

Shutting the door to unlatch the chain, you wondered if you’d come to regret this, but something in his voice, in his eyes had swayed you.  You’d never seen him quite so frantic before.  Opening the door fully, you stepped aside so he could enter and you noticed he wasn’t wearing his white collar.

“Thank you,” he murmured as he passed and you quickly shut the door behind him, turning to face him while folding your arms defensively over your chest.

You were about to demand why he was there again when he spoke first, rendering you momentarily speechless.

“Oh, [y/n], you look awful” he exclaimed softly, worry lacing his voice as he took a step toward you, his hand reaching out.

Quickly looking away, you wiped at your already raw eyes, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tears that were once more gathering.

“Kay… what do you want?” you asked instead, hating how your voice wavered.

He sighed heavily, his eyes going to the floor for a moment before lifting once more, his thick brows drawn down over a piercing gaze.

“Do you love him?” he demanded, his question taking you off guard and you faltered.

“I… I don’t know.  Why are you asking me that?”

At your answer Kay gaped at you in disbelief for a moment.  “Then why are you marrying him, [y/n]?” 

“I don’t know,” you replied automatically, your voice growing stronger as you continued.  “I don’t really have a choice, do I?  I need the stability Matthew can give me.  Besides, it’s not like I have much say in the matter, my parents—“

“That’s not a good enough reason!” Kay snapped and you recoiled as if slapped, knowing in your heart he was right.  “What about love?  Don’t you deserve that?” he exclaimed, a wild look in his eyes you’d never seen before.

The question stung and you bit your lip to keep from trembling.  “Yeah, well, maybe the man I love, I can’t have.  You made that clear enough the other day,” you muttered, drawing your arms around yourself and turning away so he couldn’t see the tears that filled your eyes.  “So, what does it matter anyway?”

Kay shook his head, opening his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come.  Instead, he closed the distance between you in one stride, his hands going to your face as his lips collided with yours, taking you by surprise.

As soon as his lips found yours, his hands reverently cupping your cheeks, you froze, your mind reeling and your breath catching, and before you knew what you were doing, you were kissing him back with a desperation that nearly tore you in two.

You were dreaming.  You must be.

But no, he was real, and solid, and right there, kissing you like you’d imagined so many times.  

Clutching at his shirt, you pulled yourself against him and his hands left your face, his arms wrapping around you, embracing you tightly and you responded in kind, slipping your arms around his neck as your lips moved against his hungrily.

Gasping a hasty breath, you didn’t pull back for long, your tongue darting out to taste him, and he moaned into your mouth as he gave in.

All too soon however, he was pulling back to look at you, his long dark curls falling into his face, and you lifted your chin, your eyes finding his.  “What made you change your mind?” you asked softly, barely daring to breathe, afraid all this would be taken from you again if you questioned it.

“I...I made a mistake,” he replied uncertainly, but as he continued, the fierceness from earlier returned to his voice.  “I was a fool, alright?  I lied, when you asked if I still felt anything for you.  I’ve been lying to myself for most of my life,” he exclaimed.

“All I’ve ever wanted was you.  I never stopped loving you, [y/n],” he confessed, the ache in your heart growing.  “You deserve so much more than… him,” he nearly whispered.  

At his words a myriad of questions sprang to mind, all clamouring for attention — what did this mean?  How was it supposed to work?  You were technically still engaged.  It would look rather suspicious if you and Kay were suddenly to run off together, but—

Before you could focus on any one thought for too long, Kay’s mouth was on yours once more and this kiss, if possible, was more passionate than before, your back making contact with the wall behind you with a soft thud and all those thoughts fled.

All you wanted to think about was what was happening now, in this moment, everything else could come later.

Afterall, how long had you imagined this?

“Kay,” you murmured, whining softly as he drew back, though he still held you tightly.

“[y/n],” he sighed, affection thick in his voice as he pressed his forehead to yours, his curls brushing your face.  “I need to get back,” he continued reluctantly, and you whined louder.

“Stay,” you begged, not loosening your grasp on him.  Part of you was afraid if you let him go, he’d disappear.

“I can’t,” he choked, as if it took all his willpower to refuse you.

“But… what happens now?” you asked, reluctantly, letting him step out of your embrace.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head as he caught his breath.  All he knew was that he wanted to stay and that was his sign to go… for now.  He was still a priest after all, even if his heart had given into this temptation.  “We’ll figure it out,” he promised, holding your face to press a kiss to your forehead.  

Watching him walk back out your door was one of the hardest things you’d ever done, but his promise echoed in your ears and you clutched to it. 

We’ll figure it out.

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

Everything Tag List: @magic-multicolored-miracle @midnightseance @etherealsxnder @iamsexytrash @orions-nebula @slutforrobbiebro @the-freckled-luba @xenteaart @gurlimtired @phoenixhits

[casnextdoor]

Hey honey, so uh I figured I'd send through a few ideas I might have?? If that's okay with you?

- Blind Date, where their respective friends set them up, i. e. Jin sets up y/n and Tae sets up Jungkook you choose whether it goes well or not.

- A coworker can't stand you, and you can't stand him, and to make matters worse, you're now trapped in an elevator together and the maintenance guy should be a few hours. How does it go with Namjoon/Seokjin?

- Your best friend jimin has always been your best friend. But not really. He's your favourite person in the world. He's just punched a guy for you, which you didn't ask for and he did anyway for you as if it was nothing, and it's just how he pushes his hair back, and looks unbothered sexy and shakes out his fist, that makes you think,, oh,,, ohhhhhh, that's a new feeling,

You can choose or do all, or none if you're not feeling it. No pressure. 💕

HI BBY I MISSED U IN MY ASK🥰! and of course ill do all of them but they’ll be in four different post in no specific order becuz i wanna do jin and joon for the 2nd one. so here’s my take on one. it might get a lil hot but i swear it won’t go any farther than a kiss.

warning; choking (a lil), kissing , name calling (not by jimin), sexy daddy jimin, mention of alcohol, drinking in LIGHT excess (she has a few)

———————————

You weren’t quite sure how you ended up wrapped in Jimin’s black silk sheets, enclosed in is tan arms and tangled in his strong legs.

He was your best friend for crying out loud. Boundaries were crossed that weren’t meant to be crossed. Lines blurred into nothing. But boy would you do it all over again.

****************

Night Before

“C’mon, babe. Its one night. Just a few drinks and if you’re not having a good time I’ll bring you back home.” That signature Jimin smile could make you agree to anything so there you were, dressed in your little black dress and black stilettos, sitting at the bar of a club you didn’t know the name of.

You watched on as Jimin worked his way through a dance floor full of women, a gross pit of unadulterated jealousy sat in bottom of your stomach, almost sending the unnamed brown liquor back up the tunnel of your throat. You’d never once seen Jimin as more than a friend, but watching him dance with a new girl every song had your palms sweating and your heart racing.

“Oye, what can I call you, sweet cheeks?” A man who smelled of booze and sweat sat next to you, slotting his legs in between yours.

You’re curls framed your eyes so he couldn’t quite tell by just the curl of your lips but you were unimpressed.

“You can call me nothing. Get lost.” You’re pierced tongue lashed out of your mouth to swipe over you’re already glossed lips before slipping back into your mouths and finding housing in between your gums and your lip.

“Don’t be like that. You’ve been drinking alone all night.” He moves closer, giving you a good whiff of what seems to be an undertone of Axe body spray.

You didn’t respond, only lifting your finger at the bartender, ordering your fifth drink of the night; if you were anything, it wasn’t a lightweight.

Jimin had since got a glimpse of you telling the man off. He was familiar with your body language and the way you tensed up as soon as the guy spoke to you let Jimin know exactly what kind of mood you were in.

He slowly moved across the dance floor, keeping a close eye on you. When he was close enough to hear the conversation, he wasn’t the slightest bit pleased with your situation.

“… bitch. Don’t be so stuck up.” By then the man had locked a firm grip around your arm, sneering in your face.

“Hey, dude. She’s not into it, leave her alone.” Jimin was trying to keep his already thinning patience from dissipating, but he wasn’t a fan of the way you were being touched or talked to.

“Back off. I’ve got this whore.” And then he snapped. Jimin cocked his fist back quick without a second thought, throwing a jaw breaking punch to your perpetrator’s face, sending him flying off his stool and onto the floor.

Jimin gave you a once over, checking for injuries or bruises while simultaneously shaking his fist out. Rushing a hand through his hair and fixing the color of his shirt, he called your name.

“Are you okay?” He asked, eyes trailing over your tan thighs for a second longer before catching your eyes.

You were drunk, you’d decided when you grabbed the collar of his shirt and snatched him down for a kiss.

Jimin hadn’t taken long to get the memo, wrapping a ring clad hand around the base of your throat to bring you closer, dipping his tongue into your mouth experimentally when you whimpered. You welcomed his tongue warmly, licking away at it, desperate for a longer taste.

His unoccupied arm had slipped around your waist, bring you down from the bar stool and closer to him.

He pulled away for a breath, watching with dark, blown pupils as you panted and caught yours. He waited for your pulse under his fingertip to calm down before speaking;

“Lets get you home.”

————————————

oi ,, might’ve made this a bit self indulgent 🤧. couldn’t help it,,, aggression makes my mind go brrrrrrrrr

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter one. 

wc: 2,034. original publish date: october 1, 2020.

Winter seems to drag on this year, pushing back Spring farther and farther until it steps off the chessboard of seasons completely. It's early April, but there is still snow piled up on the sidewalks, filling in the cracks of the concrete squares and melting into slush on the smooth surface. John F. Kennedy and Cleopatra walk down the sidewalk now, grasping hands dearly so as not to slip on the melted snow. Cleo is bundled up tightly in a black cardigan, John's varsity letterman jacket draped on top for extra warmth. She huddles close to the boy as she walks, trying to bask in some of the natural body heat wafting off of him. They like to walk in silence -- sometimes it's easier that way. Their questions don't have to be answered if they're never asked. But sometimes, the burden of carrying around the question is greater than the weight of hearing the answer.

"Why don't you ever take me on real dates, John?" Cleo asks in her shrill voice, almost whining.

"I don't know why you'd want me to, Cleo," he replies coolly, still grasping her hand. She wears elegant black gloves which hug her lean fingers fittingly. The cashmere is smooth and inviting against John's palm.

"Because some girls like romance, John."

"I thought you liked making out with me."

"I do!" She relaxes her hand, still holding onto John but not as violently. "But I don't feel like your girlfriend when I'm being shoved into a closet. I just feel like a pair of breasts and an open mouth."

John stares ahead nonchalantly. "That's because you're not my girlfriend, Cleo."

She lets go of his hand completely and scoffs. She shoves her own hands into her pockets -- John's pockets -- and watches her feet on the sidewalk. Her shiny black boots tick against the pavement, her movements slow and even steadier now that she doesn't have the boy's support. "Some girls like being girlfriends, too."

John sighs, shaking his head in exasperation. "We've been over this, Cleo. I don't date, but you like me and you're hot."

Cleo clenches her jaw. "That's a shitty thing to say, JFK. Don't you like me, too?"

JFK shrugs. "I like your ass."

The girl rolls her eyes, quickening her pace to walk in front of John. She slows down again, realising that the bottoms of her new boots are too slippery to risk a pace faster than normal. "Whatever. We're almost to my house anyway."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Cleo lets out a huff before grabbing onto JFK for support again. She wraps her gloved hands around the loop his arm makes as it sticks out of his pocket. "I'm not gonna argue with you when we're right on the verge of a make-out session," she says.

"I thought you didn't want to be used for your body."

She shrugs before giving the shameless answer, "I don't, but you give exceedingly good head."

John F. Kennedy smirks. "Oh, you bet I do."

Cleo blushes, and tries to hide her face from John.

"But I can't today."

“What?” She asks. “Why?”

"Because I've got a lot of homework," he says, knowing it's a half-assed excuse.

Cleopatra turns to him, her eyebrow raised. "You don't do homework, John."

"I have to help Van Gogh today," John explains.

"Van Gogh?" Cleo repeats. John nods. "He needs your help?"

John rolls his eyes impatiently, wondering why Cleo can't seem to get it. Wondering why everything about her is so superficial that she can't understand that he has a best friend; why she isn't the only one who matters. "No, he doesn't need my help, he just doesn't like being alone on Friday nights."

"Neither do I," Cleo protests, batting her eyes desperately. She means the action to come off as flirty, but she knows she's going to lose this fight.

"So call some of your other friends. Abe, Joan-"

"Abe Lincoln and Joan of Arc are both cool enough to have plans on a Friday night," she combats.

JFK smirks. "Surely you won't let them be cooler than you."

Before Cleo can protest, they are walking up her driveway, her hands still wrapped around his arm. John walks her up the three steps to her front stoop, whirling her around so her back is to the door and her face is to him. He holds her gloved hands delicately, pretending to feel bad about blowing off his hot not-girlfriend to go spend time with his emotionally deprived best friend. It does sound depressing and lame when he hears it in his own head, but there's no going back now.

"Call me tonight?" Cleo asks, the slightest hint of a beg in her voice. She tries to hide it again under a flirtatious lilt, but it falls flat for the second time this afternoon. Cleo already knows what JFK is going to say.

"I never call, Cleo. People who are dating call, and I-"

Cleo cuts him off with an exasperated eye roll. "-don't date. I know."

"So why did you ask?"

Cleo shrugs. "I don't know. But I'm going now."

Nonetheless, she steps toward John for her expected kiss. He leans down to give her one, as per their afternoonly routine, but it doesn't bury itself as deep as usual. John keeps his mouth closed, despite Cleo's best efforts to engage him in the endeavour. When she realises her plan isn't going to work, she pulls away and scrambles into her house, swiftly shutting the door behind her to close off her embarrassment from the rest of the world. She has enough to worry about it seeping through the cracks.

***

JFK knocks on his best friend's door nearly ten minutes later, his feet sopping wet in his tennis shoes. He'd made a mistake when dressing that morning. He could see the snow intruding the sidewalk from his bedroom window, but he'd still opted for his sneakers, full of breathable holes and heat-accommodating fabrics. His big toe feels like it could snap off at any moment. He thinks if he were to take off his cotton sock and look at it, his toe would be blackened with the final stages of frostbite.

Vincent Van Gogh answers the door himself, wrapped in a fleece blanket and feet smothered in three layers of sock. Kennedy can't help but feel a little bit jealous, sure his toes are nice and cozy in their thick woollen fortress.

"JFK," Van Gogh greets the boy, standing aside to let him through the door. Van Gogh wonders how Kennedy ever could've noticed him at school; he stands at 5'5” while the varsity cross country runner was 6'1" last time he measured. Van Gogh is often a traffic cone to be tripped over.

"Sorry I'm so late. Cleo was bitching at me," JFK apologises.

"That's okay. I'm used to being alone," Van Gogh shrugs.

"But I know you especially hate Friday nights. You hate when there are sports games because the town gets loud and the drunken yelling echoes through the neighbourhood, bouncing off of the shingles and spinning like tops in your ears -- ear."

Van Gogh scoffs. "Spare me the poetry, Kennedy. You don't need to romanticise my mental illness, okay? It's not fucking fun."

"I thought you liked all that flowery prose -- all that girly shit."

The shorter boy shakes his head, feeling even smaller under Kennedy's scrutiny. "Don't talk down to me. And just because literature is written like a painting doesn't mean it's 'girly'. You like my artwork, don't you?"

"I like the one you did for AP art last year... the self-portrait."

Van Gogh smiles internally, secretly pleased with his best friend's answer. "I never thought I'd get a real compliment out of you, Kennedy."

"I compliment you!" He protests.

Van Gogh shakes his head, still wearing his smile. His lips are like daisies soaked in blood -- full and dripping. "Not without coating it in some condescending insult."

"Whatever, Gogh. You didn't want to be alone, and I'm here. So what now?"

"Well, so long as I'm holding you hostage, you may as well do some homework."

"I don't do homework," JFK reminds him.

Van Gogh smirks. "I know that, Kennedy. I just had to remind you of your morals before you go off and give me an honest compliment again. Weirds me out when you go soft, even for me."

JFK follows Van Gogh to his bedroom. The hallway walls are oddly bare and would go without notice if they hadn't been painted a murky blue. No pictures are hung, which strikes Kennedy as uncomfortably odd every time he visits his best friend's house. JFK's dads have hundreds of pictures of him stuffed into each nook and cranny of their house -- it's striking to see a pair of parents who care so little about documenting their child's early years.

Gogh pushes open the door to his room tentatively, almost as if he's scared there'll be an apparition seated on his bed. He shudders at the thought, trying to shake it off by opening the door all the way. He sits on a chair instead of the bed, nervous to accidentally sit on top of the ghost and give it a perfect chance to tunnel its way up into his organs. JFK notices the boy's shuddering and raises an eyebrow, taking note of the closed window and the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Who knew such a small boy could be so hopeless at keeping warm?

"Cold?" Kennedy asks, and Van Gogh looks up from the spot on his hand where he'd been anxiously picking at a scab. "And don't do that; the skin's almost healed," he adds.

Van Gogh narrows his eyes at the boy on his bed. "Since when do you care whether or not my scabs are healed?"

JFK shrugs, nervous to admit that he feels like he has to care since his friend's parents so obviously don't.

"Sorry I snapped," Van Gogh covers quickly. "Reflex."

Kennedy nods dismissively as if to show that he understands.

A couple seconds tick by, filling the room like a hose in a swimming pool. The time collects in the bedroom, spilling into every corner and fault line crack of the walls. It begins to overflow, and that's when Van Gogh can't stand the silence anymore. He invited Kennedy over so he wouldn't have to drown in stillness. Why can't JFK talk, dammit? Why is he so self-absorbed that he can't carry on a conversation for longer than five minutes at a time?

"Do you wanna read a book?" Van Gogh suggests, but it comes out in an urgent blurt. Maybe that's for the best. It gets Kennedy's attention.

"I don't read books."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes, cheeks burning a violent fire from embarrassment. "That's because you don't have the attention span to," he spits. "I could read it to you."

JFK's head snaps up. Gogh's cheeks darken an even deeper shade of red and he can feel his heartbeat in his face. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Okay," Kennedy says at last. "Read me a bedtime story." His overconfident, annoyingly-flirty tone is back, and Van Gogh smiles in relief. The blood drains from his cheeks and his heartbeat follows, little by little.

He excuses himself from his chair to slide a book off of his shelf. Kennedy lies down on the bed, his head on the pillow and his too-long legs spilling over the edge. "Give me a blanket," he demands, clearly serious about the "bedtime" thing. Van Gogh rolls his eyes, but fishes a blanket out of his bottom dresser drawer and throws it over to Kennedy nonetheless. JFK has just finished unfolding the blanket and throwing it over himself when Van Gogh settles back into his chair, lifting the cover of the book with his long fingers gingerly. His nails grow out past his fingertips which is normally a girlish look, but Kennedy can't help but wash his eyes over the boy's hands anyway. It doesn't look girlish on Van Gogh. Nothing looks girlish on Van Gogh.

[mochees]

"𝗶 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗜𝗜"

-> headcanons, how they tell you they love you for the first time, part two!

characters: sakusa, iwaizumi, x fem!reader

warnings: fem reader, ✨healthy relationships✨, oikawa being oikawa

wc: 3.6K

a/n: WOAH okay uh did NOT expect that last set to be that popular,,,, y'all thirsty for love huh? me too anyway i thought id do a part two since i honestly really enjoyed writing the first set and my brain is vibrating with ✨thoughts✨ and seeing how much love it got really made me feel how i haven't felt in so long, so thank you! maybe ill turn this into a series so lemme know if u wanna see someone specific👀👀😏 also sorry for like posting and then dipping again lmao thats just my social media brand i have the attention span of a fucking worm

read part 1 here!

Sakusa Kiyoomi

okok i know its like common for sakusa to be shown as not interested in PDA (in private or public) unless hes feeling "needy"

BUT i believe that after a few weeks, maybe months if he's still unsure, he would definitely be much more comfortable with PDA

like, if its been a long time and your both serious about it and not just in a relationship to be in a relationship he starts to notice your routine

he notices the changes you make so that he's comfortable and so that you can be close to him without him being worried about icky yicky germy wormys (someone take away my thought privileges)

so now that he knows that you take care of your hygiene and exactly what you do for it, slowly he's wrapping an arm around you in 30° heat while you're both sweating

slowly he's "forgetting" his mask in the car for dates

slowly, but surely, he understands that a little bit of exposure, isn't a bad thing.

"kiyoomi?" your voice brought sakusa's eyes to yours where he could see the concern behind them.

"are you okay y/n?"

you'd decided, after three weeks of intense training and barely seeing your boyfriend, that you wanted just one day and one night with him. just the two of you, you know he'd never admit it, but he needed a break.

after atsumu decided to try out some new plays that didn't start off to well, sakusa had been silently groaning everytime he had to reach for something. he was excellent at making sure he wasn't overworking himself, and he wasn't, its just that the human body is an absolute wonder, and not in a good way. sometimes things that should have mildly injured you, left you with a tiny scrape, or a bruise or a very quick-to-fade red mark, and sometimes you drop a phone on your face and break your fucking jaw.

you offer him a gentle smile that completely washes away the concern in your eyes.

"im fine omi! but you," you reach your hands up to rest on both sides of his face turning his head side to side, studying it intensly.

"you're looking a little pale. and possibly grey."

"how do you mean y/n-chan?"

for such an intelligent man sometimes he really could be a himbo.

"i mean that i think you might be sick, baby."

sakusa stared blankly at you, as if he couldn't fathom the possibility of 'himself, sick?'

"omi? kiyoomi!" you nabbed his attention, "i think you're sick, and we best go home."

"but-" he started, but you were quick to cut him off knowing exactly what he was about to say.

"kiyoomi, it's inevitable. even if you were the worlds most decked out with ppe, and the worlds leading force in hygeine, you'd still end up catching a cold at least once. that's just how the world works baby. and don't worry about the date, all i want is to spend some time with you."

you ended up practically dragging your sad little puppy of a boyfriend back up the complex stairs and into his unit before settling him on the couch and getting to work.

"ill get you some water, you just sit here and relax. i don't want to think about what would happen if those dumbasses didnt have you there next week, bokuto and hinata would probably crack their skulls!" your attempt at a little light hearted humour helped sakusa forget for a moment, but he was quick to go back to not understanding how he was sick.

"thank you." he took the glass from your hand and rested it between his legs, when he noticed the rubber gloves you had clutched at your side. he knew what they were for, those were his cleaning gloves.

"what are you doing? you can't stay you'll..." he paused. "you'll get sick too."

"i'll be fine omi-omi! you just relax and drink lots of water, ill take care of this." you turned towards the wall with a soft smile before muttering, "ill take care of you."

sakusa watched you clean, the bucket full of diluted bleach, the duster, a cloth, and his cleaning gloves. he loved the way that they were too big for you, the way you kept having to pull them up every so often to keep them on. he loved the way that everytime he finished his glass of water, you were right there to fill it back up.

you don't even remember seeing, or hearing him lift himself from his spot on the couch and make his way over to where you were humming and covering the counters in the diluted solution. you felt a pair of big arms wrap around you, a chin on your shoulder and a kiss on your cheek.

"thank you, y/n. i love you."

thank god he caught a cold, or he might never have realized just how lucky he was.

Iwaizumi Hajime

family man

is a family man but not just ANY family man

yes, it's important to him that you like and respect his parents and vice versa

but its just slightly more important to him that you get along with his friends, his found family because im a SUCKER for the classic lilo n stitch trope

he knows that many people say that its his life and he doesn't need anyones approval etc.

but iwaizumi believes different, he believes that he doesn't need approval in the literal sense but rather approval through watching you interact with his friends and his family and how you do your best to learn about them and make time for them, even though you dont have to

and he thinks it's absolutely enthralling

the way your eyes light up when you see that book his mom has been talking about wanting to read and picking it up with no hesitation

how you're able to almost flawlessly keep up with issei and takahiro's antics while also making sure they don't go too far, something even iwaizumi struggles with

and most importantly, how effortlessly you connect with his childhood best friend.

there were many things that Iwaizumi Hajime enjoyed, volleyball, athletics, godzilla of course, spending time with three dumbasses (but he’ll never admit that) and a little while ago, he added you to that list.

you were so effortlessly able to connect with his team, his friends, and his family but most importantly, the way you were able to connect with Oikawa brought a smile to his face.

“oh, iwa-chan~, what are you admiring?” there he went again, Iwa thought, Tohru Oikawa’s dumb smirk and hyper awareness of his team, both on and off court. how he wated to head-butt him in the face. but, he showed restraint. after all, he wouldn’t want loserkawa to use you as a human shield from his head. so, he ignored the urge. but it passed as soon as he saw tohrus arm arond your shoulders, crossed feet and leaning on you ever so slightly while he took a few occasional swigs from his water.

and just like that, the incredible restraint vanished like morning mist.

you could practically see the steam coming off of his hot skin, and the vein popping out of his forehead, when you noticed what had him so heated. “trashykawa get your filthy hands off of my girlfriend!”

“excuse me!” he pouted, “my hands are clean and tailored! just like any responsible setters would be!” he stuck his lip out farther and gave you his irresistable puppy-dog eyes. “y/n-chan, i’m not filthy! am i?” he whined.

and, as the word suggests, his look was truly irresistable and you stumbled over your words. “n-no! of course not tohru!”

“see, iwa-chan! y-n thinks i’m squeaky clean!” his dumb smirk appeared again, and rather than continue with flirtykawas obvious games, Iwa opted for the less violen approach.

“don’t flatter yourself, dirtykawa. she’s just being nice.” he growled. “I’m done for the day, i have a project due. y-n.” he offered his hand to you like the gentleman he is not forcing you to take it, but the look in his eyes told you that he wanted you too.

“see you later, tohru!” you gave him a quick hug and intertwined your fingers with iwa’s.

now, technically, girls aren’t allowed in the boys locker room but since it’s after hours and just you and iwaizumi no one cared. to be fair though, literally no one knew except the team so, whatever you didn’t complain you got to watch yout ultra ripped boyfriend change. quality time. you thought, when you noticed him mid-change with his shirt over his head, resting on his arms. as any good girlfriend would, despite the devil on your shoulder, you came up behind him placing your hands on his seriously broad shoulders. taking notice of the tension, you started to work at the muscles. your care was quickly rewarded with a quiet sigh, and relaxed shoulders.

“hajime?” you continued rubbing at the tight fibers, “are you alright? you’re usually the one telling me im holding too much tension.” you giggled and he turned to face you placing one hand against the side of your face.

“hajime?” it came out shaky and worried.

“i’m okay,” he smiled “it’s just,” hesitation. he was never one to hesitate.

“i know i have no right to be but seeing oikawa so clingy with you it just, i dont know, it really gets to me i guess? he, just, he gets all the girls, all the attention, and i don’t want to-” you stopped him.

“sweetheart, it’s okay to be jealous or upset i’m not going to be angry, you have a right to your feelings. I understand how you feel, i never mean to flirt with him, if i ever have, i mean i don’t know, you know how bad of a flirt i am,” he chuckles at that. “it’s just that i know how important he is to you and you are so, so important to me and i want to be able to understand whats important to you, so you never have to choose between us, because that wouldn’t be fair. i love you, hajime iwaizumi, and everything about you.”

you expected him to be shocked, hell, he thought he would be shocked when or if you said it, but he wasn’t. and that’s exactly how he knew what to say next.

“i love you too, y/n l/n.” pressing a soft kiss against your lips.

“geez, it only took you two a century and forever.” someone snarked.

hajime chucked a towel at him “get out assykawa!” and he did, he bolted through the door laughing like the demon matchmaker he thought he was.

© sacchanwrites, 2021

do not repost, copy, or claim.

previous | next

[remmushound]

Curse of the Clans part 32! @scentedcandlecryptid @selfindulgenz

Content warning! Blood, bold!

Donatello turned around and found that he was being watched. Watched by two sets of eyes, staring at him from the very edge of the forest. The foxes had returned, still holding his bag and standing on their hind legs so they could match his height. Now, seeing them in the light of day, their proportions seemed so off that it was unsettling. Their legs and torsos looked like they had been stretched like putty while their heads were small like a normal fox, eyes cartoonishly wide in comparison.

“Hey…” Donatello breathed. He didn't know why he was talking to them, but at this point in his isolation, it was better than talking to a volley ball with a face.

The foxes tilted their heads at his voice.

“Do you understand me?”

The foxes closed their eyes and nodded.

“Good. Then leave me alone.” Donatello turned his back to them and, after a moment to take a breath, entered the building.

It was warm inside; at least in comparison to the chill of the exposed woods. Some light filtered in through cracks and wind whistled through those same flaws, but it wasn’t much to disturb the still warmth. There wasn’t any furniture except for some old mats and forlorn, fractured pots. Donatello welcomed the gentle darkness within and he could almost imagine that it was his home. That he was breathing in the smell of New York instead of the sharp smell of pine and decay. He closed his eyes a moment to savor the feeling, but opened them again at the sounds of snow crunching.

Turning, he saw the foxes were closer now, and just as curious. He found himself unable to care much. He didn't have anything else that they could take, and some part of him told him that they wouldn’t attack. He just wanted to get warm. He grabbed a hold of the first vine he saw, using his strength to pull it from the wall, and then shifting to use the sickle end of his bow to sever the vine so that he could remove it completely.

The moment the vine separated from the wall, the foxes went crazy. Their yips and shouts and hollers were a minor annoyance and offered nothing but frustration to Donatello. Still holding the vine, he spun around quickly to confront them.

“Oh I’m sorry! Did that vine have sentimental value?”

Now the foxes were in the doorway, silenced immediately by Donatello looking at them. That was the same pattern they followed for the next hour it took Donatello to clean up. Any time he’d remove a vine or peel moss from the wall or seal a crack, they started to sound off. They would only stop when Donatello looked at them, and they wouldn’t start again until the next time Donatello fixed or removed something. Slowly, Donatello came to realize it wasn’t entirely malicious.

“There.” Donatello said when the last vine was removed, sitting down on the soft wood to rest. “I could’ve done a lot better if I had my tech bo…”

Donatello screamed when he felt a sudden paw on his knee. He struggled away when he saw the fox right beside him, crawling to the wall to get away from its sudden presence. It was on all fours again, and gave a curious yip before pursuing Donatello to his hiding spot where he was now cowering under his arms. The fox raised a paw to touch the bo staff on Donatello’s shell.

“O-oh.” Donatello realized the intention and cleared his throat. “That’s not my tech bo. That’s just a normal, dumb regular mystic bo. I think.”

The foxes seemed to share Donatello’s sadness as he mentioned his broken staff, and both advanced to press their noses to his forehead before he could stop them. As clear as the day it had happened, Donatello saw his tech bo shatter and break. He gasped and pulled away from the cold noses, his mouth unbelievably dry. The foxes pulled away as well, shaking their heads sadly.

“D... did you…?”

Donatello couldn’t finish his question, but the glints in the foxes eyes were both answer enough. They looked from Donatello back to his bo staff. Donatello looked up at it as well, and after a moment of consideration pulled it out of its holster and held its power in his hands.

“It’s a mystic weapon, right?” Donatello asked softly. “I’ve been trying to figure out what it’s power could be…”

The foxes stood up and left. Donatello stared at their tails as they walked away, then shook his head and turned back to his bo staff.

“Figures.”

A yip brought his attention back up and he saw the foxes hadn’t gone far. They were sitting at the doorway behind the bag of supplies that they had stolen from him. Donatello said nothing. He only watched as they pushed their noses into the bag and shoved it closer to Donatello. The softshell stood up and came over at a slow gait. He reached a hesitant hand toward the bag and, when the foxes showed no ill will to him, he grabbed the bag and ran back to the opposite side of the monastery. Only then did he feel comfortable enough to open it.

The first thing he pulled out was a bottle of water, half frozen but he didn't care. He hadn’t drank in so long that he had already gulped down half of the bottle before he was able to get a hold of himself and replace the rest back into the bag. Who knew how long he would be here for? Bishop said two weeks right? Or was it three weeks… or four? Donatello’s mind was too fuzzy to know. He pulled out an MRE, forced to use the rest of his water to activate it so he could get something substantial in his stomach. It tasted like sand with the consistency of a swollen sandwich, but he didn't care. Food was food.

Halfway through his meal, Donatello noticed something else in the bag and picked it up. Unfurling it revealed a map. A map with only one trail and two destinations marked; the place that Donatello was currently staying and the place he needed to go— back to the campsite. This wasn’t right. There hadn’t been a map in there before, Donatello was sure of it, he would have seen it! But it was there now. Could he had just missed it? And how lucky was it that it showed him just the right path he had to take to get back to his mission? Donatello zipped his bag back up and swung it over his shoulder, devouring the rest of the MRI and discarding the trash. What did he care about littering at a time like this, anyway?

Donatello stepped out into the open, scrunching up his beak and raising a hand to block out the daylight. Snow always made everything so much brighter. He made a mental reminder to change out his contacts when he got back to his tent. When the brightness subsided, Donatello’s eyes once more found the duo of fox statues and he fell to curious thought as to who the temple belonged to…

***

The foxes followed Donatello all the way back to the campsite. The map was true and trustworthy, so Donatello tucked it back into his pack for safe keeping. His tent was still upright and undisturbed from where he left it, so he quickly moved to place the bag and his staff inside. When he backed out of the tent, the foxes had ventured into the dead lands of the campsite, farther than they had the night before. Their hackles were raised, their ears flat and lips pulled back in snarls as they growled at the opening of the cave that Donatello had dubbed the ‘Stay Away from Cave’ cave. They looked almost like savage dogs or terrified cats, barking their anger at something unseen.

“What’s gotten into you?” Donatello almost scoffed

“I’ve gotten into them.”

The voice came from inside Donatello’s head and it made him shiver, and not in a good way. His body felt violated! There was never meant to be more than one voice in his head ever, and that voice was meant to be his and his alone. It was as if the entity tied a lead around Donatello’s brain and heart, going tight and forcing him to either live with the suffocating sensation of a noose around his neck or venture closer with the promise of a slackened line. Donatello followed the promise that pulled him along, even as the foxes yelled their dismay. The temptation was too much, like a sailor drawn to the sirens that would crash his ship.

Donatello felt the beat of breath and tickle of whiskers touch his hand as something long and wooden was jammed in his palm. Donatello tightened his grip around the blessed weapon as the sounds of the panicked foxes seemed almost a distant memory. The presence pulled him along to the cave’s entrance. The noose on his neck shifted to his hand, forcing it to touch the purple barrier that separated him from whatever was inside. He felt the power radiating, warming him all over but centering mostly at the dome of his head. So much power in such a small blockade. Ancient power that grabbed at him and sucked him into obedience like it had done with generations before.

Then there was a great, stinging pressure around his ankle that made him cry out. When he looked down, he found a disgusting, pink thing constricting his ankle, barbs digging into his flesh and staining the surrounding snow with the blood milked from the wound's trauma.

Donatello sucked in a deep breath and found his feet still firmly planted several feet away from the entrance, his ankle still intact. The foxes still at his side.

“I…” Donatello didn't know what to do or what to say. Leonardo would usually make a joke, or Michelangelo would make some heartwarming, yet dumb comment, or Raphael would make a brave declaration. All Donatello could think to do was say, “I don’t wanna talk right now.”

“Aw…” The voice and the strangling suffocation it brought with it remained just as sharp, even with the mocking sadness, “I am soooo sad! Why not?”

The foxes guided Donatello away from the barrier by nipping at his feet and forcing him to take shelter in his tent. That did nothing to keep him safe from the voice. It was in his head; he couldn’t get away from it! Still, the foxes forced him to lay down and they formed a protective circle around him. Through the rest of that day and into the night, the voice was all he heard.

“Come play with me!” It would say, “I’m lonely!” Or, “I promise I don’t bite!” Or, “It’s been a while since I’ve had a new friend!”

Silence for a short time. Becoming harder to breath. The foxes were a warming presence, but no matter how often they licked him, they couldn’t lick away the dreadful need to breathe. Donatello found himself clawing at his neck on more than one occasion, leaving it dark and bruised. The foxes stopped him every time, but his mind would always go back to trying to clear his throat of nothing. There was quiet for a long time now, the silence ringing. Maybe the voice too had grown tired? Maybe Donatello could finally get some rest…

CRASH!

It sounded like a gunshot had gone on outside, making Donatello sit straight up from his slumber. The sleep was immediately lost from his body as adrenaline swallowed him. The foxes tried to keep Donatello inside the tent by grabbing a hold of his clothes with their teeth, but Donatello shook them off of him and practically fell out of the tent and into the snow of the storming night. A new blanket of white was laying, falling in massive flakes all around him, but there was no disturbance. Nothing except for the evil, victorious laugh of the Creature in the Cave.

[r-worlds-blog]

Family

TRIGGER WARNING - mentions of suicide and self-harm

As much as I hate to admit, family is such a foreign concept to me. I mean I have a mom and a dad and a sister but they all feel so far away from me. So out of my reach. It feels like I’m desperately trying to grasp onto something that just keeps getting farther and farther away. It’s exhausting, I hate every part of it but right now there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I’m stuck in place, there is no way for me to et out. No matter how much I want to I really cannot get out. Since I can’t get out I try to make myself “good” well in the ways that they would see it but even then I’m still losing. I do something wrong and then I try to do the opposite of what I had previously done and it’s still wrong. Those people that are calling themselves my family have taken so many things away from me and I don’t understand why. Aren't they supposed to be here to help me. They are supposed to support me not tear me down. It’s like they took a parenting book and decided to do the exact opposite of what it said. I have no idea what it is I am supposed to do anymore. I’m still figuring myself out, I’m keeping so much stuff from them like me being a lesbian and non-binary and let’s be honest here I can never talk to them about that because that’s such a terrifying thought for me like I don’t even know how that conversation would go but I do know the outcome. No, I’m not overthinking, they have never hidden their homophobia, they have been very open about it. Since the beginning and I know that my coming out might s well result in cutting off our relationship. I’m not saying that our relationship is good as it is but at least there are some moments where I feel as though I can be a part of that family but that’s like five percent of the time. I was supposed to have an interview for a job and they made me cancel for some bullshit reason and then proceed to say that I will not amount to anything in my life and that I constantly disappoint. Them saying that just fuels all of my insecurities and they don’t even realize it. and then when Ill come forward and tell them that I wanna kill myself they will tell me to get over myself instead of getting the help I need, ( i know what I’m talking about it has happened before) those motherfuckers saw my self-harm marks, and dared to tell me to get over it and to grow up like… help is what I need. That was the biggest cry for help I could have ever demonstrated but somehow they chose to ignore it. They don’t care. They never did. Anyways guys don’t be like me. Stay safe and sane, R.

[inkribbon796]

Snow Angels

Summary: Illinois has a special surprise for Eric.

Directly after talking to the Host, Illinois ran from the library and into his bedroom where he promptly took a shower, trimmed his facial hair, and brushed his teeth.

For the finishing touches to his preparation he added a dab or two of cologne under his ears and quickly grabbed something he’d been hiding in his sock drawer for two years now.

He hadn’t intended to give this to Eric, didn’t think he’d ever give it to anyone after his third travel partner died. But Eric was everything . . . and he was incredibly resilient to Illinois’s luck.

Illinois ran down the hall, running into Dark. After a quick chat, Dark opened a portal for him about a block from the heroes’ base.

The instant the portal closed, Illinois pulled out his phone and made a quick call, “Hey Kay, it’s me, I need a favor. A big one.”

Eric was almost falling asleep on one of the lobby couches, resting his legs with his prosthetics on the ground next to him.

He was gently woken up to the sound of someone talking. Unlike most of the time when being awoken in his sleep would cause disorientation and anxiety, Eric had time to gradually wake himself up.

“Nah, I got it, don’t worry,” King said in the kitchen, pushing his glasses back onto his face. It took Eric some time to realize he was on the phone with someone. “Don’t worry lover boy, I won’t spoil the surprise.”

Eric groaned and picked himself up, reaching blindly for his glasses.

“Oh, hey Eric did I wake you?” King asked gently. “Sorry buddy.”

“Mmm’ fine,” Eric grumbled.

“Hey, you wanna head out with me, just for a bit, it’s not a patrol or anything I just don’t spend enough time with anyone,” King asked.

Eric shrugged and got up, wrapping himself up in a jacket and some gloves, he made sure he was wearing modified leg warmers so his prosthetics wouldn’t cause his legs to feel like they’d frozen over.

They made it two blocks, Kay joking around as he tried to get Randall to answer his texts. Then Illinois jumped out from behind a parked car and threw a whole mess of snow at Kay. The younger brother screamed in surprise and pushed Illinois away from, throwing snow back at him as Eric watched, mostly untouched by the impromptu snow fight.

After Illinois shoving some snow down Kay’s coat and almost getting his nose broken in retaliation, the three of them started walking. Eric and Illinois were walking hand in hand. Randall was going to join them for “security” but after a bit King stopped.

“Alright, something’s up,” King finally commented, looking at his phone. “I’m going to go and find him, Ills can you try not to eat Eric’s whole face while I’m not here?”

“No promises,” Illinois grinned, pulling Eric by his waist a little closer to him. “I can’t resist this face.”

Eric’s face flushed with more than just the cold.

King stared at him, and Illinois rolled his eyes.

“Fine we’ll meet you by the park,” Illinois took Eric’s hand and started to lead him away from King, the other hero on his phone.

They walked a bit until they made it to King’s park and to Eric’s surprise, Illinois took a couple of steps inside of it.

“King w-won’t mind?” Eric asked, looking around.

“I talked with him, so long as I don’t bring other people from work in, he’ll be fine,” Illinois dismissed.

They walked around the almost empty park. Illinois flopping into the snow and eventually coaxed Eric into making snow angels with him.

After a while they went and sat on a snow covered bench. Illinois tried to dust off most of the snow and ice. The bench was facing a river towards the back of the park, a sheet of ice coating the surface.

Eric was looking out over the park, a calm little half smile on his face. And Illinois thought that was the most beautiful sight in the world. “It’s so pretty with all the snow.”

“Yeah,” Illinois just stared at Eric. “The park is too.”

Eric looked over to notice Illinois was staring at him. He got all flustered and shy.

“I can see why King took the place over,” Illinois commented smoothly. “Lots of good memories here.”

“Like what?” Eric asked, leaning against Illinois.

Illinois smiled, leaning into him a bit and wrapping an arm around him. “Artie once pushed Kay into the river. Dark just about lost his mind, fishing him out of the river.”

Eric looked started, “Was he . . . uhmm . . . alright?”

“Oh yeah, he knew how to swim and it was late summer so it was like ankle deep,” Illinois dismissed. “You doing okay? Your prosthetics bugging you?”

Eric shook his head.

Illinois stood up, “if you’re sure, there’s this nice cafe we could go and warm up there. Or we can go out onto the river.”

Eric looked at the river nervously, looking down at his legs. “It . . . It’ll break?”

“What, the ice?” Illinois asked. When Eric nodded, Illinois smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you, and you don’t have to go any farther than the bank if you don’t feel safe.”

“O— Okay,” Eric allowed and let Illinois pull him out and the instant Eric set foot on the ice the nanites in his prosthetics shifted and the ends of them became ice skates, a wide base above the blades to help with Eric’s balance.

All Illinois did was put something on the base of his shoes and icicle blades magically grew from the soles of his shoes, magically strong enough for him to skate with.

Illinois was already out of the ice, testing it and proving the ice was sturdy but Eric’s few attempts resulted in Eric slipping on the ice a lot.

Eric tried to keep his balance while Illinois was already doing small little spins on the ice. All Eric could do was smile and watch him. His arms held out in an attempt to balance himself.

After pulling out of another spin, Illinois slid over. He dropped to a knee at the final part of his slide. He was smiling up at Eric. “You like my little tricks?”

“I can’t,” Eric paused a looked away in frustration for a bit as he tried to say what he wanted, “ca-n’t sk-ate like you.”

“That’s okay, I’m better at magic tricks anyway,” Illinois smiled, an expression of absolute adoration on his face. “Wanna see a new one, I just learned it?”

Eric gave a small smile, nodding as he looked back at Illinois.

“Okay,�� Illinois felt his heartbeat quicken with excitement as he prepared to do a sleight of hand trick. “Watch closely, I’m going to make something appear out of thin air.”

He grabbed Eric’s hand with one hand, distracting him as a black jewelry box seemingly appeared in his other hand. Eric stiffened in surprise and Illinois with one hand flipped it open to reveal a silver band with green and white stones set into it.

“Eric Derekson, these last few months have been the most wonderful I’ve ever been and felt in my life. Will you marry me?”

Eric just stared at him, eyes blown open in shock before he just started crying.

“Uhh,” Illinois just stayed kneeling on the ice, unsure what to do. If that was a no or yes.

But then Eric managed a tearful but smiling, “Yes.”

“Yeah?” Illinois smiled.

Eric was still crying as he nodded, Illinois sliding the ring on.

Illinois made this happy whooping cheer and scooped Eric up and stepped back onto the snow, his enchantment for his shoes running out just in time for Illinois to capture Eric’s lips with his own.

“You won’t regret this,” Illinois promised Eric, resting his forehead against Eric’s. “I swear, I’ll spend every day of my life making sure you don’t regret it.”

Eric hugged himself to Illinois, he hadn’t been expecting the proposal. He hadn’t even imagined even being in a relationship where that would be an option for him. But Illinois treated Eric like he was someone worth loving, and not just in a “we’re actually friends and I care about you” type of way. Illinois was different. The hope of something more . . . something that amazed and terrified him with how it made him feel.

“Let’s go break the news,” Illinois said in excitement. “We’ll start with my family then we can tell yours.”

“Wa-Wait,” Eric said in nervousness, pressing on Illinois’s shoulders.

“Let’s go,” Illinois smiled.

There was a clearing of a throat and Eric looked to see King standing about ten feet away with his phone, pointed at them. “Smile for the camera.”

“He said yes,” Illinois was all smiles.

“Yeah, yeah, do the future grooms have anything to say to the camera?” King asked.

“Did you get the whole thing?” Illinois asked.

“I started when you two got out onto the ice,” King smiled.

“Uhh, umm, Ran—” Eric started before King smiled.

“Nah, he’s at the base waiting for us,” King grinned. “He just got off patrol. You two should head off to break the news to Dark. Don’t worry kid, he’s an asshole but he won’t hurt you.”

“Oh, uh okay,” Eric said nervously. Illinois finally put him down.

The adventurer pulled his hat off his head and tapped at the bronze star. A portal promptly opened up for them. Illinois offered out his arm for Eric. “Shall we, or do you want to talk to the heroes first?”

Eric was nervous. Dark was — in his mind — a foreboding force of nature. And he knew from how Illinois spoke of him and he meant a lot to him.

Reluctantly, Eric took his arm and clung to it. He hid behind Illinois as they looked at the portal.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Illinois promised.

Clinging onto Illinois he nodded and they walked through the portal.

Dark was sitting on his desk, flipping through a magical tome with a look of frustrated concentration on his face, a stack of old looking books in front of him. “Illinois, do you remember which of these blasted books you got from Bagdad? The alchemy one with the concealer charm?”

“It’s the one with the eclipse diagram in it, because I know you can’t read Arabic,” Illinois commented.

“Right, right,” Dark tugged a book out of the stack and stood up. “It was the one with the Turkish Constantinopolitan dancers that Wil said—”

At that moment Dark realized that someone other than him and Illinois were not alone, Eric ducked behind Illinois in fear and Dark just stood on him.

Thankfully Illinois spoke up first before Dark could get over his shock of having a complete stranger in his personal home office.

“아빠,” Illinois said in pure excitement. “아빠 I have the best news. I want you to meet Eric.”

Dark seemed to recover quickly and tried to look around Illinois. “Eric?”

Eric glanced up and just about screamed in fear when his eyes met Dark’s.

“Oh, Derekson,” Dark recognized.

“You’ve met?” Illinois smiled.

“Twice, very briefly,” Dark answered firmly, “everytime else he was in that ridiculous outfit.”

“Oh yeah, he’s adorable in that,” Illinois commented.

Dark rolled his eyes, “Right, you had to inherit something from Wil.”

Eric braced to get hit or thrown out of Dark’s office so that they could “talk” about who Illinois chose to spend his time with.

The ringing from Dark’s aura was gone and when Eric bravely glanced up Dark’s wasn’t there . . . Damien was there instead.

“Hello,” “Damien” gave a small smile, Eric was a lot more willing to look at Dark. “Eric, right?”

“See, he’s not going to hurt you,” Illinois told him. “Show him, dulcito, we have great news 아빠.”

Eric still hid his face in Illinois’s shoulder but let himself be moved out enough for Dark to see his hand.

Dark caught the ring instantly, and his form flickered between, his red and blue forms.

“He said yes, we’re gonna get married,” Illinois smiled. “Isn’t this amazing?”

“I,” Dark felt a weight form in his throat. “I wasn’t aware your relationship was this advanced.”

“We met when I was in Brazil,” Illinois explained and he started going off about how brave and kind and wonderful he was and how the trip went. He very noticeably omitted Roman and Marvin’s presence and involvement in the strip entirely.

“How,” Dark began, but in his head his red soul thought: “you’re going too fast!” but he only said, “wonderful.”

His ring finger burned with the long-thought dead memory of his red soul’s own wedding ring. “You just met him, you barely know him!”

“You’re just,” Thoughts of a wedding that led to a marriage that ended in complete and utter disaster burned in Dark’s mind. A look of complete calm came over Dark as he took his blue soul’s form again. “I do wish you’d told me sooner, weddings don’t just happen in a day.”

“We can take as much time as we need,” Illinois dismissed.

“I can draft up the better housing areas in the city,” Dark quickly offered. “Or would you heather take the lake house?”

“We can talk about renovating the lake house some other time,” Illinois told Dark, feeling Eric grip his hand tighter a little. “Not getting married next week.”

“Of course,” Dark nodded.

“I gotta take Eric back home,” Illinois told him. “We’ll talk about the lake house when I get back.”

Dark nodded, opening up a void portal that was right in front of the hero’s base. As soon as it was closed and Dark was alone he let out a scream that he felt really encapsulated his raging storm of emotions. Only one he was calm and his screaming was done did he grab the time he’d been looking for and began heading towards Bim’s bedroom. He had to be quick before Bim’s aura got any stronger and started fighting him.

At the base the heroes were very hesitant with Illinois. He wasn’t allowed inside, obviously but King had gathered all the heroes currently in the base for “a surprise” and once the ring came out the reactions were mixed, but mostly positive.

Roman looked at the ring and then he screamed at the top of his lungs in joy, jumping up and down, shaking Virgil harshly in his excitement. “He’s getting married! Ahhhhhhh! I’m gonna die!”

“Princey, Princey,” Virgil tried to pull him off but Roman jumped away and rushed towards Eric, Illinois protectively and instinctively stepping in front of Eric to protect him.

“Please let me plan it, I promise it will be amazingly perfect, it’s my dream, please, please, please” Roman rambled.

“You can talk to the Old Man about that,” Illinois told him. “We’ve got time to plan this whole thing. Make it as fancy or simple as we want.”

Roman looked especially put out about that but his bruised ego and Illinois reluctantly left, kissing Eric only the lips before gently touching his lips to the knuckle that bore Eric’s new ring and waved his fingers as a ring appeared on his own hand, promising, “I’ll return for you soon, my sweet. Dream of me.”

Eric blushed and watched Illinois leave through a portal.

Everything was calm for a couple seconds as Eric stared at the space his new fiancé had just been in.

Then Ethan spoke up, questioning, “Didn’t you meet him like a year ago or something?”

“Hush, it’s true love,” Roman told him, waving in his direction.

“Congratulations my boy,” Wilford clapped his hand to Illinois’s shoulder, hugging him to his chest.

“Thanks,” Illinois smiled.

“Bring the nice lad around, we’ll give him a tour of the old place,” Wil offered.

Bim stomped into the foyer where Wil and Illinois were, looking pissed. Dark was coming from the kitchen with a glass of what looked like wine in his hand. “Could you fuckers be any louder?”

“Here,” Dark offered Bim, his aura coming back from a portal he’d opened up just before entering the room. “This should help.”

“Thanks,” Bim snapped and downed it in one go. There was an odd aftertaste to it but he was too tired to register it as something he should be suspicious of.

“Good news Bimmy Boy,” Wilford smiled. “Old Illy here’s getting hitched.”

“What?” Bim demanded angrily.

“I’m getting married, you remember that hero I keep telling you not to eat?” Illinois clarified. “Him.”

“You’re getting married?” Bim looked conflicted. “You two living here or moving out.”

“Move out,” Illinois shrugged. “Stretch my wings out a bit. I won’t go far, Dark’s been talking about renovating the lake house for me. ‘Bout time we did something with the place really.”

“Wait you,” Bim started before collapsing on the ground in a sleep-induced unconsciousness.

“Oh good it works,” Dark commented.

“What was that?” Illinois asked, pointed at Bim as Dark picked him up with his aura.

“A potion for when Wil gets out of control,” Dark lied, his aura stroking Bim hair lovingly and gently removing his glasses. “It dilutes wonderfully in alcohol. Get some rest, Illinois, we have a lot to discuss tomorrow.”

“Can I have some of that, it looks fun?” Wilford smiled.

“Of course, give me a bit to put Bim to bed,” Dark smiled at him.

Illinois watched Dark disappear into a portal but did eventually go to bed, texting Eric as he did so.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The Fast and the Furious: Spectral Drift || Morgan, Nell, & Constance

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @nelllraiser @constancecunningham @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Just gals being pals.

CONTAINS: car theft, drowning

For once, Nell was gaining a moment of mediocrity in her otherwise far too lively existence. Not that she minded the chaos. Parts of her thrived on it, but she’d been learning as of late that not all chaos was good, and a spot of normality was welcome in an otherwise unforgiving world. She and Morgan had gathered at Coffee Plus, taking advantage of the quiet day to do a bit of catching up between one another. Leaning forward to take a hearty bite of her chocolate muffin, Nell finished chewing and swallowed before finishing the story she’d launched into. “I’m just saying- maybe if he couldn’t handle the whole sandwich, he shouldn’t have stuck his fingers in the hanyo.” Her tone was bright with a laugh as she remembered the ridiculous expression that had been on the man’s face. Ready to launch into another joke about the poor guy’s predicament, she stopped mid-sentence— realization dawning over her as movement caught the corner of her eye. “Morgan...isn’t that...your car?” Pointing towards the vehicle in question, Nell stood to get a better look. Sure enough, she recognized the license plate that was ever so slowly inching away from the curb, the back of a mysterious head seeming to fumble with the controls. “Someone’s taking your car!”

Morgan was relieved that Nell wasn’t so bothered by her Constance drama as Blanche had been. She missed her young friends and whatever good she was able to imagine she did for them by being around. They certainly did plenty enough for her. Nell, especially, never backed down from a fight or a favor if it seemed right to her, and she could brighten any day with stories from her daily whirlwind adventures. Even though Morgan couldn’t really enjoy anything at the cafe, she didn’t feel ill at ease slurping at her seltzer water with Nell across the table. Listening to the latest turn, Morgan couldn’t help but snort. “You know not everyone is in your league, right, Nell?” She asked. “A lotta guys who call themselves brave would pee their pants getting up to some of the stuff you do. Although, gotta say, even I’m not woman enough to go anywhere near that ‘hanyo’ stuff, even for money.”

She had another question on her lips when Nell’s face changed. “M-my what?” She couldn’t have heard that right. But she followed Nell’s finger and— “That fucking bitch,” she hissed, tearing her bag off the chair. “I gotta go, I’m sorry, Nell, you might wanna run.” She stumbled outside in disbelief. “You’ve got three seconds to get out of my fucking car!” She cried.

Constance jumped, startled at the fury in the woman’s face. She was still getting used to being seen by any old soul, and not just her fellow damned and dead. She could still get out. Apologize for the mischief. This crime was small, impulsive, childish. She had only been wondering at the miraculous contraptions since they had first frightened her months ago. And seeing Morgan, this other Agnes, slide in and out of hers with more pride than any girl she’d seen give to a bicycle. It hadn’t even been locked. How grateful could this woman be for it if she didn’t think to have it locked? Thus, Constance’s resolve solidified. “I think you’re wrong!” She called. Her foot tested one of the pedals and a delicious roar came out of the engine. “I only need three to get away with it.” She moved the lever next to her and pushed the pedal again. The automobile shot backwards, crunching into something behind her. Constance fixed the lever again and she was flying forward, into the road like a comet. “Try and stop me, Bachman!” She cried.

Immediately electing to ignore Morgan’s recommendation of running, Nell’s head whipped around in search of something that might help, an idea that could get Morgan’s car back, and possibly give Constance some hell at the same time. It came to her in the form of a bright and shiny sedan someone was just pulling up in, putting their own vehicle into park alongside the curb. They didn’t have a chance to take the keys out of the ignition before Nell was on them. “Can I borrow this?!” she yelled at the startled driver who was frozen in shock. His confused voice matched the hopeless alarm on his face.

    “Wha-? No! It’s my car! Who the hell are you?” Without answering, Nell wrenched open the driver side door, grabbing the shirt of the poor man to firmly remove him from his seat, and deposit him on the asphalt. “Sorry!” Nell quickly apologized, another idea quickly coming to her. “Uh- official police business! Detective Vural thanks you for your service and so does White Crest!” It’d only taken her a quick second to Summon the fake badge she’d magically made when she’d pretended to be police to Regan and shove it into the face of the driver. As Constance and Morgan’s car rocketed down the street, Nell quickly put her ‘borrowed’ car into gear, also ignoring the fact that she didn’t have a license, and had mostly driven tractors. “Morgan!” she called out, rolling the car to her friend. “Morgan, get in! We’ll catch her!”

Morgan screeched with outrage. “My girlfriend bought me that Subaru!” She started pelting the car with whatever she had on hand. Her drinking straw, crumpled up receipts, post it notes, half used packs of Trident, pens, embroidery needles, her planner. They all bounced off the red car and fell pathetically into the road as Constance reversed right into a light pole, switched gear, and drove straight into traffic.

Morgan followed her as far as the stoplight, screaming wordlessly until the car behind her honked. “Hey, lady! Don’t make us late too!”

Morgan stumbled back into the parking lot, just in time to see Nell wielding a police badge as she dove into a random suburbanite sedan. “D-detect--yeah! Detective Stryder thanks you for your service too! Call the station with my name if you have any questions!” She didn’t slide so much as topple into the shotgun seat, junk still spilling from her bag. “And thank you!” She called behind her. They sped off in the direction Constance had gone, fast enough for Morgan to feel plastered to her seat before she could even buckle up. “I uh--didn’t know you had a lot of getaway experience, Nell,” she said, laughing breathlessly.

Broken glass and confused drivers littered the road ahead of them. Skid marks striped the road. Up ahead, the faintest streak of banged up red zig zagged through the lanes before jumping the curb and tearing into the town common.

A snarky chuckle fell from Nell as the familiar name of Marley Stryder was thrown into the mix. “I didn’t know you knew Marley,” she said as casually as a person could while beginning to give chase to a car that had been hijacked by a ghost who could have belonged in Downton Abbey for all Nell was concerned. As for getaway experience… “Oh, I don’t! Unless you count racing games and tractors!” she answered brightly, the rush of piloting a car that was careening down the street in a chase already causing delicious adrenaline to pump through her veins. It’d been a long while since she’d gotten to enjoy a high like this without also fearing for her life. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to drive a getaway car! Or be in a car chase! I just didn’t think I’d get to since I don’t have my license or whatever.” The witch dropped the news as if it were the most inconsequential fact one could say at a time like this, accelerating all the while. A light turned red. Nell didn’t hesitate as she blew through the intersection. Thankfully, Constance had run the same light, clearing the way for Nell to pass through safely. “Don’t worry, we’ll get her!” In a jerky movement, Nell followed the ghost onto the grass of the common.

“We’re acquainted,” Morgan said, wincing at the memory. It clearly wasn’t in any way that could be considered ‘good.’ “Wait, what do you mean you--oh my fuck, Nell, no!” Morgan yanked the wheel, swerving the car away from a tree, bouncing painfully back onto the street. She could see her red Subaru swerving down towards the docks in the distance, the bumper just barely hanging on and sending a fireworks show worth of sparks down the street. “She can’t get much farther like this,” she hissed between her teeth. Morgan let go of the wheel and reached into her bag for her salt pistol.

This wasn’t really the ideal time for Nell to question Morgan further about her and Marley’s relationship, even if her need to be nosy was in full force and trying to get her to ask anyway. Later, she told herself before punching her foot to the gas once more. “Hey!” she objected as Morgan jerked the wheel. “I wasn’t gonna hit it! Talk about a backseat driver,” Nell grumbled. But the disgruntled mood was quickly past her. How could she stay upset when she was zooming along in a car chase? A grin split over her lips as she took the time to roll her window down, laughing as the wind whipped her hair with the sudden gust of air. “What is that?” Nell asked, not entirely sure what kind of gun the strange thing in Morgan’s hands was. However, she did know that if Morgan was going to get any kind of decent shot, they needed to be closer. Yet again, Nell stomped on the gas, laying the pedal flat against the floor of the car. Finally, she managed to catch up to Morgan’s car, the front bumper of Nell’s ‘borrowed’ car kissing against the back of Morgan’s Subaru. The nudge was more than enough to knock the Subaru’s bumper loose. “Ha!” Nell exclaimed as the piece of plastic clattered beneath them before remembering that it was Morgan’s car she’d just tapped. “Ah- I mean- oops?”

Morgan cried out to see her poor bumper. Her fingers stretched out helplessly to the windshield. “S-subaru…” she whispered. That did it. Morgan cranked down the windshield, because of course it still had a fucking crank, and leaned out, pistol raised. Three short pops burst through the air. Three brusts of smoke. The salt rounds exploded against  the Subaru. One landed in the spiderweb break in a window, melting on contact.

Constance’s joy was short lived. These monstrosities were no relief, no freedom. The beastly thing seemed to have a mind of its own! Then the windows began to cave in, dripping with salt. “No, no, no, no…” She whimpered. She tried moving the lever, but this only made the car jerk and fit. Panicked, she rammed her foot to the pedal. The automobile screamed as if she’d cursed it and spun out of her control. Constance shifted, ready to drift out like it was no matter of all, but no, her solid form was now her prison. The automobile crashed onto the docks. Wood shattered everywhere in its wake. Finally, it came to a stop, and Morgan Beck, the last of the Bachmans, was right behind her. Constance picked her way out of the debris and stumbled into the car’s path, her body clenched and unyielding. Let her do her worst, cruel coward that she was. To ruin even one of her ill-gotten treasures was worth the trouble this had cost.

As Morgan hung out the window of the car, Nell reached for her own door handle— ready to launch herself into whatever showdown it was that Constance was hoping to have here. What she was going to do she wasn’t all that sure yet. But Nell had to do something. If she didn’t, who knew if there would be another Maxine sooner rather than later? But as her hand reached for the plastic of the handle, she heard a click of the locks, and in a single second the witch found herself momentarily trapped in the car by some no good ghost mischief. If only it had stayed mischievous rather than lethal. Before Nell could so much as search for the unlocking mechanism, a weightlessness overtook her. She was...flying? No, the entire car was flying. Straight over the side of the dock as Constance wielded her power once more, sending the borrowed vehicle right into the hungry fingers of the waiting waves of the ocean. Morgan was gone from the window before Nell could make sense of what was happening, probably thrown adrift by the sheer force of the launch. And then...an icy coldness as water began to pour in through the open window, the car sinking steadily below the surface of the water while Nell remained trapped inside. She jerked uselessly at the handle as more saltwater began to fill the cab of the car, it not taking long to rise to her knees. It seemed whatever Constance had used to keep the doors shut wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Constance, don’t.

The voice wasn’t in Constance’s ears, but it shook through her strange body as she tried to stop the car. Locking it was no matter to her, but the rest, becoming an immovable object to its unstoppable force. If she were her full self, it would already be in the air. If she were herself, she could have gotten hands around Morgan and snapped her to pieces. She could have thrown her across the room, smashed her up and down and gathered the dust of her bones for--

Constance, don’t.

It was the girl’s voice. Blanche Harlow. And in remembering her warning, Constance stepped back from her rage. But the car was already trembling in her grip. There was someone besides Morgan inside. Another girl, as frightened as the school children had been, maybe more. She could see Constance. She knew exactly what was happening to her, and perhaps even why. Constance let go, it was too much, all of this was too much, she didn’t want to be cruel to innocents, but she couldn’t let Morgan cower behind her friends all the time either! Constance’s self-control was like that of a child and the car didn’t come gently down to rest. It soared into the water and crashed through its depth, hard enough to disrupt the waves. Constance watched it sink, helpless to move, to think. “Help!” She screamed at last. “Someone help! There was a crash, did you see a crash? The automobile just-- there’s more than one person inside there! Help!” She sprinted up the docks, arms waving like mad. “Help me, please!”

Even Morgan’s zombie nerves felt her body hit the water. She plummeted downwards, muscles burning as she wriggled to slow herself down. The ocean was veiled in salt and murk before her eyes, but she could just make out the outline of the subaru in the distance. She opened her mouth once to call, only realizing how stupid that was when water rushed into her mouth. Fuck. She had to get to her. She was not losing another person to this spoiled brat of a witch. I’m coming, Nell. I’ll make this right.

As the water got higher, and only the murky depths of the ocean could be seen out her driver’s side window, Nell screwed her eyes shut for a long moment— trying to assess, to find her way out. She hadn’t come all this fucking way to die via being tossed into the ocean by a god damned ghost. The sound of rushing water, and the coldness of it rising to chest height was enough to push Nell into action, and in a quick moment she’d drawn one of her hidden daggers, slamming the butt of it against a backseat window. It did what it was meant to, shattering the glass and allowing more water to fill the car. The witch couldn’t remember where she’d heard it, but somewhere along the way she’d gotten it into her brain that letting the car fill with water would make it easier to open the door and make her escape. A quick spell made easy work of the locks, and the whole handle flew off of the side of the door as the dire need of the situation had given her a little too much juice when it came to casting. Whatever. It would work. She’d been submerged enough to float towards the roof of the car at this point, and now all there was left to do was wait. Wait for the car to finish filling. Wait for the perfect moment to take her last breath and make a break for it. Finally, the moment came— and she took a shuddering and deep last breath of precious air as the car became entirely filled.

Nell fumbled it. Half of her final breath became water where there should have been air, and suddenly a reflexive cough was wracking her. In all of two seconds...her air was spent, and she hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet. It didn’t matter. That was what she told herself. It didn’t matter because dying wasn’t an option. Kicking open the door, it felt like time moved in slow motion as she finally came out from the car. She raised her eyes towards the light filtering above her to find that the sun seemed impossibly far away. Shit. Shit shit shit. Had she really sunk that far so quickly? Should she have tried her chances with getting out of the car earlier? It didn’t matter now. Swimming had never been a problem for her, but the surface seemed impossibly far. Nevertheless, she kicked her legs, making a desperate attempt to live. It wasn’t long before her lungs were screaming for air, begging her to take that breath of seawater that would begin the sealing of her fate and death. Just a little closer. Just a little more. But the little more wasn’t enough. It felt like every gallon of the ocean was pressing on Nell— her eyes, her ears, any crevasse it could manage to find. Dizziness began to take its hold, and Nell vaguely wondered how it was even possible to be dizzy underwater, the inane thought crossing her mind as spots began to appear in her vision. She wasn’t going to drown. She refused to drown. Barely aware of it, sheer will seemed to propel and jet her higher, and whether it was her legs or her magic, she wasn’t able to say.

Morgan was no expert swimmer, but she had determination and stamina on her side. She tore through the water, muscles aching. The pull of the ocean was not her friend this time. It weighed down her arms, making her slower. Salt and floating debris flung into her eyes. Morgan continued to swim. She could see her now, a limp ragdoll figure in the blue.

No. Not today. Not one more fucking person is dying because of Constance.

Morgan grabbed her around the waist and propelled them to the surface.

“There they are!”

“Look!”

“Someone toss ‘em a rope!”

“Grab on, honey! Don’t let go!”

Morgan’s eyes were blurry with seawater, but she made out the shadow of a life preserver flying towards her. Morgan dragged her and Nell towards it, trying not to focus on how much distance there was between them and the shore, the ruin of her Subaru, the weight of Nell’s motionless body in her arms. “We--” she called, her throat choked with salt. “We need-- CPR! She--” Morgan gagged on more seawater. Nothing was moving fast enough. Not her legs, not the human chain forming on the docks, not the clouds gathering over the blinding sun. Morgan kicked in the water to help move them along, but it felt like she was still being pulled down, squeezed until she broke and gave up.

When they reached the surface, Morgan remembered to give a few dramatic coughs and wheezes while a woman she recognized from Amity Row felt for Nell’s pulse. “How did you… did you see? What happened?” Morgan asked.

The crowd looked uneasily at each other. “Just the end,” one of them admitted. “Wouldn’t have seen it at all except for that weird little girl.”

They began to describe her in bits and pieces, red hair, funny dress, maybe a cosplayer, but Morgan had already heard too much. She didn’t care what Constance had or hadn’t done for them, what kind of crowd she wanted to draw for her latest maneuver. If she was still gawking by the time Morgan was through here, she’d take her new solid body and pound it into dough. “Out of my way!” She snapped. “She just needs CPR! Fuck, it’s not rocket science!” She started pumping on Nell’s chest, blocking out the rest of the world. She’d taken this training enough times to remember; she could get this right. “Come on, Nell…” She whispered. “I can’t let her get you too. Come on…” She breathed into her mouth. “We’ve got this, Nell. We got this… we got this…”

[impala-dreamer]

A Rough Debriefing

SPN FanFic

~Abby is taken on a hunt, leaving Sam and Dean behind in what they thought was a nest of vamps. Turns out her captors had bigger plans, and maybe it was all just an elaborate trap.~

Arthur Ketch x Abigail Watson (OFC), Dean Winchester x Abby, Sam Winchester.

5,009 Words

Warnings: Angst. Smut. Plot Twist. NSFW. Extremely rough relations. Slapping, fighting, kicking, biting, choking. Handcuffs, Breath play, Asphyxiation Kink, Dirty Talk, Marking, Claiming. It's rough sex, ok? Not like normal fic rough sex. It's actually... bruising... rough... beating up... rough. Just... yeah.

A/N: Written entirely for my darling Logan. I hope you all enjoy!

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Lightning cracked overhead as Abby crouched down beside Dean. The ground was slick and oversaturated, and her boot heels sank into the soft earth.

"Nice rock," she teased, leaning against the boulder Dean was using as cover.

He cocked his pistol in time with the thunder, making his smirk seem impressive and not nervous.

"This is gonna suck, you know."

Abby shrugged and tucked a wayward strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Not necessarily," she answered, trying to keep a bit of pep in her voice. "Besides, I thought you liked it when it sucked." Like a true Southern Belle, she batted her lashes and flashed an innocent smile

Green eyes smiled cautiously as they scanned the tree line. "Well...if you're offering…"

A laugh caught her by surprise and Abby punched his shoulder playfully. "Not what I meant, Sugar. But, maybe later."

Sam sighed louder than the rain, eyes rolling at their ill-timed flirtation. Pulling the gun from his waistband, he shifted onto his heels and started to stand. "You two wanna stay here and bang it out, or we are gonna do this?"

Abby clicked her tongue. "So much for romance."

Sam’s research told them that a baker's dozen of vamps were holed up in the long-abandoned Newton Asylum- the large, half-demolished, brick building that lay before them.

The trio had planned to arrive well before sunset, but a few minor setbacks had pushed their timetable back nearly three hours, giving them very little wiggle room on the clock. Not that it mattered much anyway; the sky was darker than night, lit only by harsh streaks of lightning that set the storm clouds aglow.

The front door was shut, but not locked; the windows void of their shatter-proof glass. Immortal weeds grew in every crack of the broken stone walkway and ivy crawled like streamers up every wall. Nature was taking the land back, but not before something wholly unnatural moved in.

Sam led the way, flashlight atop his pistol, arms high and locked at the elbows. He scanned the entryway as his boots crunched over dead leaves and shards of glass.  

The building was silent.

Thunder shook what was left of the decaying windows as they moved through the first floor, senses on alert, eyes wide in the darkness.

Every turn was taken with a quick step and a lung full of air that lingered, waiting, holding on until the coast was deemed clear. Shadows lurked but not a being, human or otherwise, living or dead, was found.

“What the hell?” Dean cursed under his breath, letting his light fall to illuminate the dark scuffs on his brown boots. “Sam must have screwed something up.”

A deep hiss replied from down the hall. “I didn’t screw anything up!”

Dean mocked him silently, shooting Abby a glance in the dark. She was a room away, but the doors were long gone, hinges hanging naked as old wood rotted away.

As Abby stifled a laugh, every amused by the brother’s biting bickery, her shoe hit something hard and she tripped, arms flying out in front of her to catch her balance. Rubber skidded, metal clanged, and Abby gasped as the room went dark.

“Shit.”

“What?”

Abby turned her blind eyes towards Dean’s voice. “My torch is out!”

A faint laugh hit her ears and Dean shone a spotlight on her from across the giant room. “Who says ‘torch’?”

She rolled her eyes but blushed, embarrassed. “I do...sometimes. Shut up!”

“Catch.”

“What?”

The beam of light went spinning across the room towards Abby’s head and she ducked out of instinct. The flashlight rolled into the corner behind her, light flickering as the batteries shifted.

“Great catch,” Dean teased.

“You ain’t exactly Aaron Rodgers, sir. Toss much?”

She couldn’t see it, but Dean threw a face that was somewhere between impressed and annoyed. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t bring that hack up in public, please.”

Abby reached the light and flashed it across the empty room. “Public? This place is emptier than a Nickleback concert. Where the hell is the nest?”

Dean shrugged, his shadow’s shoulders lifting on the floor behind him. “Let’s keep moving. They gotta be here.”

The rest of the main floor was just as empty. The vast rooms held nothing but old furniture and dusty memories.

They climbed the stairs one by one, Abby taking the lead for once, tired of always being pushed aside. She wasn’t afraid of what waited upstairs; ghost or vamps be damned, she was going first.

A cold breeze lifted the short hairs on the nape of her neck and Abby sucked in a deep breath.

“I don’t know about vampires,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder at Sam. “But this place is more haunted than the Queen Mary.”

“Always wanted to hunt there,” he replied casually.

“You’re a nerd,” she laughed, almost missing the top step as she did.

“You brought it up.”

A deep shush cut their banter and Dean snuck up between them, pushing Sam aside to step in front of Abby. “Someone’s in there,” he said, nodding towards a half-open door down the hall to their right.

Abby looked around his protective armbar and shook her head. “You hear something?”

“No, my spidey senses are tingling,” he snit. “Yes, I heard something. Now, shut up.”  

Ducking beneath his arm, Abby slipped around him and aimed her light at the door, pistol following. She raced off before Dean could pull her back, her tiptoed run silent on the antique linoleum.

A bolt of lightning set the windows ablaze.

A crack of thunder made Abby jump, her boots slipping through something wet on the cracked floor.

“Oh, fuck.” Her flashlight revealed a pool of blood filled by a stream coming from farther down the hall. “Wrong door, Parker.”

"What's that?"

Dean's voice was lost beneath a loud thud and a muffled scream.

Abby spun with her flashlight, nearly losing her footing in the slick flood. "What was that!"

Sam was gone, his spot behind Dean now empty.

"Sam?"

"Sam!" Dean turned on the spot, light shining upon nothing. "Sammy!"

Something creaked behind Abby and her heart skipped. Her face contorted in the shadows, filling with nervous energy as she tried to keep her hands steady. “Dean, someone’s in here!”

Dean was gone, pivoting away from her to find Sam.

“Dean?” She flashed her light but the hall was empty. She had two choices: follow and help, or get on with the show.

Abby continued up the river of crimson, following its flow to the end of the hall. The door was ajar, faint light seeping outwards, calling to her. The hinges moaned in protest as she pushed at the portal, gun raised, heart racing.

She held her breath as she stepped into the room, every cell on high alert, flight response threatening to kick in.

“It’s OK! I got him!”

Dean’s shout startled her back into herself and Abby exhaled in relief.

“What happened?” Abby asked, slowly turning back towards the hallway and his voice, boots sunk into the blood.

“Don’t know,” he called back, muffled by the distance and walls between them. “Knocked out. He’ll be fine.”

“Just what he needs,” she muttered, “another concussion. I swear to Go-”

Another bang of thunder struck, this time hitting Abby in the back of the skull. She thought briefly for a moment that thunder had never once actually hurt her before, but the idea soon died away as the blood-soaked floor rose to greet her. Her left shoulder hit the ground, sending a wave of pain through her system that shook the last breath from her lungs and made the edges of her vision fade to white.

It was dark.

It took a moment for Abby to realize that her eyes were closed, but once she opened them, the darkness remained, somehow seeming even darker.

She coughed, lungs struggling to take in air as if they had been still for hours, but her inhale was blocked, strangled by a leather strap pulled tightly between her teeth. The more she woke, the more details came through to her foggy mind. Her wrists were cuffed behind her back; cold steel digging into her flesh, her shoulders pulling and painfully strained. The leather in her mouth was wet, the hood over her eyes scratchy and thick, making it hard to breathe.

The world around her rocked rhythmically; wherever she was was moving. She uncurled her legs and hit a hard wall just inches away; lifted her head and slammed into the ceiling. She was in a trunk.

“Shit.”

Abby closed her eyes again and relaxed her body, trying to calm the painful pace of her heart. She listened to the engine, the wheels; pavement soon gave way to gravel and the car turned to the right, momentum slowing down.

She twisted her wrists, hoping to wiggle free, but there was no give. She squirmed, hunting for something to pick the locks with, but the upholstered trunk was empty around her.

The car jerked to a stop and Abby was thrown onto her back; arms aching as her weight crushed them beneath her.

A rush of air hit the hood as the trunk was opened and the faint scent of rain and mud passed through the tight fibers. Rough hands grabbed at her upper arms, yanking her from the car into the cold night air. She stumbled as her sleeping feet hit the true ground; toes numb, legs tingling.

“Walk.”  The voice was gruff and unfamiliar; the palm shoving into her back was hard and uncaring. “Now.”

A protest bubbled in her throat but was pushed out as a huff, failing to make a difference as it faded inside the hood.

Abby listened as best she could, counted each step she took, noted the temperature change as she was led inside somewhere. The smells, the sounds, the feel of the ground beneath her feet- it could all be used later if she ever got a chance to escape. It was a trained instinct, ingrained in her mind, and no amount of fear for the unknown or her life could make it stop.

Finally, her journey came to an end, and the big hands pushed her forward until she fell, knees hitting cold concrete, chest bouncing against the ground. Abby grit her teeth as pain webbed through her body, but she refused to cry out.

A door slammed shut.

She rolled and sat up; tried to stand but gave up, slumping down against an empty wall instead. The cold seeped into her back, soothed her raw wrists, but only for a small moment until panic made her blood boil, and she began to sweat beneath the hood, gasping for air. She screamed and the echo called back, mocking her. She struggled to free herself but it was no use and the twisting only made her hands go numb.

When the air became thinner and her head began to swim with lack of oxygen, she let herself fall, hoping to rest against the stones and dream of rescue.

The door opened.

Shoes clicked against the concrete.

Abby was pulled up suddenly by smaller but just as forceful hands that curled easily around her arms. Her balance was off but they kept her steady, helping her to her feet and shoving her back against the wall.

She screamed, muffled beneath leather and wool; still raging against the unknown captors.

The world was set aflame with bright white as the hood was pulled away and Abby blinked into the fluorescent lights, struggling to focus on the gray and black shape before her.

“Ms. Watson. So nice to see you.”

Abby blinked furiously until his face came into view. She growled at him, trying to speak against the strap between her lips, but doing little more than drooling and moaning.

Warm hands lifted to her face, pulling away the gag. “Please, allow me.”

Her eyes narrowed as he drew near, slinking close like a snake ready to strike. His right hand curled around her neck and shifted through her hair, tangling in the deep red locks as he tugged, forcing her chin upwards.

She sneered. “Ketch.”

Arthur smiled. “Abigail.”

His lips found hers, easily pushing against her willing mouth, feeling it part instantly for him. His tongue dove inside and she moaned against it; eyes closing as he licked into her mouth. She smiled, sucking hard on his bottom lip when he backed away, breathing a gentle sigh.

“You bastard,” she sang. “What are you doing?”

Ketch cocked his head and looked down at her, his hand still tight in her hair. “I wanted to see you.” His tongue shot out again and ran across her lips, making them visibly shudder.

She gasped as he let her go unexpectedly; backing away into the room and letting her stumble to catch her balance. “Where’s Dean?” she asked, regaining her footing. “And Sam? What have you done with them?”

A smug smile pulled at his lips. “They’re fine. Back home in their little Bunker by now, I’d assume.”

“They’ll come looking for me, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She laughed. “Dean’s going to kick your ass.”

Ketch’s jaw twitched. “Is he?” Rushing forward, he grabbed her throat with one giant hand and slammed her back against the wall. “Tell me about Dean Winchester,” he growled, lips ghosting across her cheek. “Tell me about how he’s going to burst in here and kick my ass.” He hissed, tongue pushing out the words on deep, rumbling breaths that vibrated through her his chest into hers.

She swallowed hard, barely able to breathe against the wide palm pressing down on her windpipe. “He’s going to kill you,” she managed, ruddy lips trembling as she spoke.

Ketch came back to center, hazel eyes boring into hers, lips meeting once again in a whisper of a kiss. “I very much doubt that,” he said softly.

She smiled, softening even as she began to collapse. Her vision faded once more as his fingertips bruised her throat. “So do I.” She kissed him hard, pushing back with all her strength until she had what she wanted. Her tongue snuck between his lips and he allowed it, savoring her desire as his grip loosened around her neck.

“Delicious,” she grinned, lapping at his lips when he withdrew. Somewhere inside the kiss, her voice changed, words taking on a crisp and proper accent much like his own.

“You’re awfully stuck on Mr. Winchester,” Ketch observed, dragging his thumb slowly down the middle of her, dipping into the curves of her collar and cleavage.

“That is my job, isn’t it?” she teased, neither denying or confirming her entanglement.  

“Have you fucked him yet?”

Abigail laughed politely. “I really don’t think that’s relevant information.”

Both of his hands rose to grip her shirt. “Did…” He tore at the top buttons, popping them without much effort. “...You…” Down and down until her shirt was open; plain black bra and full breasts greeting him in the bright lights. “...Fuck…” Deft fingers slipped under the thin strip of fabric holding her tits in place and snapped, shredding the fibers instantly. “...Him?”

Her chest was heaving, breaths shallow and fast. “You told me to get close to them,” she reminded him, slowly licking her lips as he pushed the satin cups from her nipples. “So I got close.”

Ketch huffed loudly and slapped her cheek hard, forcing her face to the side, left ear crushed against the cold wall. Her body shivered with arousal as the skin on her cheek prickled with pain.

“Do it again.” Her voice was hard and rushed, her pale skin flushing as his handprint bloomed on her face.

“You do not tell me what to do,” he grit.

Heavy breaths and a husky voice defied him. “Do it.” She turned her eyes back to his, lips slightly parted as she waited for his response.

It came like a wave of aching pleasure; his thick fingers nearly leaving a mark on her creamy skin. Abby moaned as her flesh absorbed the sting, sending prickling bliss throughout her body. She swallowed it all down and her cunt pulsed in anticipation.

“Again,” she begged, voice dropping to a pathetic whimper. “Please.”

“No.”

He leaned in, black lashes brushing like wings against hers. She reached with her lips, catching his and sucking the bottom in, taking a bite of revenge for his lack of compliance. Ketch growled, his hands sliding firmly down her body, grabbing and massaging, bruising and caressing. She slumped against the wall, knees weak under his weight and attentions. Every pinch of his fingertips, each suckling kiss down her body melted her strength until she was limp in his arms.

“Arthur, please…”

He ignored her, sucking a bright red mark over her left nipple. He scraped his teeth across the bud and she screamed, thighs shaking against him.

“Take the cuffs off,” she whined. “Please...I need you.”

Pulling back he looked her over, plump tits out and shining with his spit, body marked by his lips and hands. A smug smile pursed his lips and his jaw pulsed as he clenched his teeth, holding in a proud moan.

“You need me?” he asked, running his left hand gently through her hair.

“Yes,” she breathed, eyelids fluttering as he offered a sweet kiss. “Please.”

The moment was over too soon and Abigail sobbed as he jerked her around; rough hands digging into her shoulders. Her tits slapped against the wall and she cried out again, all the heat in her body flooding between her thighs. The cuffs were gone in a snap, hitting the floor with a harsh clash as Ketch tossed them aside to take hold of her now bare wrists. The skin was raw and his touch burned.

“What about this?” he asked, forcing both of her hands up above her head. “Is this what you need?” He held them tight in one big hand and let his full weight fall on top of her as his teeth found the crook of her neck.

Abigail gasped. “Yes.”

His breath warmed the nape of her neck as he pulled his hips away and kicked at her feet, violently spreading her legs apart. “And this?” She bit her lip as his free hand rammed between her legs. He rubbed at her jeans, pushing the hard seem up into her already aching pussy.

“Yes!”

She pushed back, shoving her ass against his crotch, feeling him already hard and ready for her. Abigail wiggled her hips, grinding on him, panting lips pressed to the wall.

“Oh, you do want this,” he mumbled, teeth cutting into her ear.

Her eyes rolled as his left hand dropped from her wrists and slid down the wall. He pulled her hips back just enough to pop the button on her jeans and slip his hot fingers inside.

“Yes! Fuck!”

He plucked at her clit, strumming his fingertips against it, grinning as her body jerked in his arms.

“That’s right,” he whispered, “my dirty slut needs to be fucked so badly, doesn’t she?”

Her voice was as shaky as her legs. “Y-yes...please…”

His hand pushed farther down into her soaking panties and Ketch shoved two fingers deep inside her cunt.

Abigail clawed at the wall, her arms falling as the sudden fullness took the last of her strength. “Oh please...please…” Her head fell back against his firm shoulder and Ketch took advantage, tasting her rapid pulse with hungry lips and sharp teeth. “N-need to be… to be fucked...need your-your cock.”

Suddenly, he was gone, hands leaving cold spots on her body where they lifted, lips abandoning her throat causing a chill that spread through her system.

Ketch took a giant step backward, smirking as she nearly fell over. “Then you shouldn’t have fucked the Winchester.” His voice was steady but filled with jealousy, words spilling out over tight lips into the empty room.

Body shaking and pleasure stunted, Abigail pressed her forehead against the cool stone wall and took a breath. She tried to calm herself, but he’d already wound her up too tightly. She wanted to turn and beg him, but rage churned in her gut and she spun, eyes like daggers trained on his face.

“You son of a bitch.” She took a step, mindlessly pulling the shirt from her arms and letting her torn bra fall away. “You’re so obsessed with what I did with him? Why don’t I show you…”

Ketch crossed his arms defiantly as she rushed to him, her hands out like claws about to scratch him blind. Her strike came against his shoulders, shoving him off balance unexpectedly, and Arthur flew back a few feet, jaw agape at her sudden fury.

“Well now,” he began, steadying his stance. “This is new. I didn’t think you-”

Abigail shut up him as she jumped into his arms, giving him no choice but to move to catch her. They stumbled backward together, thankfully braced by the door, and her hands moved roughly through his short black hair, scraping at his scalp and gripping what she could.

“He always likes it when I do this,” she growled, shoving her tongue between his lips as her slight nails dug into the nape of his neck. “He’s a glutton for pain.”

Ketch let out a breathless moan and regained himself by slapping her ass hard. “Not unlike yourself,” he noted as she tried to take a chunk out of his collarbone.  

She laughed against his throat as she dropped down, letting her feet tiptoe on the ground. She kept one hand around his neck, gently dancing through his neatly trimmed hair as the other tugged roughly at his belt. “He likes it when I take charge.” His slacks fell open, zipper pulling easily downwards. “Likes being used...being taken care of.”

“Is that so?” He tried to keep his composure, his face a mask of mystery, seemingly unaffected by her words or touch, but his blood was boiling, his cock throbbing, mouth watering.

Abigail tugged at his pants, nails scraping at his hip bones as she yanked his bottoms away. The cool air hit his cock and he tightened, letting his eyes fall closed for a split second.

“It is,” she replied, still on course, wrapping a tight fist around his full shaft. “He’s very needy. Very soft underneath all those scars and ripped flannel.” Her thumb slid over the tip of his cock and Ketch grit his teeth. “Very... compliant in bed.”

“Well, now I know you didn’t enjoy it,” he said with a smug laugh. “You’ve never enjoyed a wet blanket.”

Her lips curled in a secret smile as she rubbed through the wetness on the head of his cock. Ketch ran a finger up her spine and then grabbed the back of her neck, ripping her body away from his in a fury.

“You need to be roughed up,” he reminded her as she moaned loudly. “Need to be used like the whore you are.”

“And who’s going to do that?” she spat. “You?” Abigail cocked a condescending eyebrow and Ketch’s hand closed around her jaw, fingers puckering her lips painfully.

He leaned in; a devilish spark behind his eyes. “Yes.”

The floor greeted her, painfully jutting into her side as Ketch threw her down, barely using any effort to push her away. She landed with a thud and rolled onto her back, determined to fight him off despite the arousal deepening inside of her.

Ripping off his shirt, Ketch knelt down at her feet and caught her left as it came up swiftly, trying to connect with his jaw. While he was occupied with that, Abigail cocked her right knee and jabbed forward, aiming for his chest. Ketch was quick and dodged her attack, knocking both legs down and apart and reaching for her waistband.

“You fuck!” she cried, lustful anger burning her voice.

His hands tore at the denim on her hips, yanking it down and way as he sat back on his heels. “Don’t fight,” he cautioned, “it’ll only make this worse.”

She kicked at nothing, blows blocked by large forearms that bruised her calves and shook her bones.

He had her naked in no time, ducking beneath fists and soaking in her cries like nourishing sunshine.

Abigail fought him still; finding perverse joy in slapping his meaty shoulders and scratching at the soft down on his chest. The more pain she could inflict, the more would come back to her ten-fold, and all she really wanted, all she needed, was him to break her down to nothingness.

She didn’t have to wait long. Once Ketch was satisfied that the bruises on her arms and the marks on her stomach would set, he tugged at her knees and twisted them around his waist, lining himself up with her hungry cunt.

“Do it,” she hissed, “do it. Fuck me. Hard.”

His palm connected with her cheek, knocking her command away. “You’ll get what I give you.”

“Fuck!” Her cry faded into a desperate whine as he sank inside; thick cock filling her up perfectly. She whimpered as her body reacted, nipples stiffening, cunt tightening, lungs seizing. He’d been too long away, but her body remembered.

Arthur thrust in deeper. “I see Mr. Winchester wasn’t man enough to give you what you need. You’re just as tight as I recall.” Another hard snap of his hips. “Perhaps even more so.”  

Her eyes rolled and she clawed at his chest. “No. No. He was nothing,” she cried, blissful tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “Nothing compared to you. Fuck.”

“That’s right.” He smirked above her and then dropped down, elbows framing her face as he set his pace. Every thrust pushed her spine into the hard floor, every jerk of his hips made her gasp and curse under thinning breaths. “You’re mine.” His teeth reclaimed her flesh, marking the delicate spot just behind her ear and Abigail gave up all fight, going limp beneath him as her body trembled.

“Yours.”

“Again.”

Abigail arched beneath him, pressing her tits into his chest. “Yours.”

“Again!”

Her body convulsed as his shout tore through her. “I’m- I’m yours!”

He took her lips, sucking the last breath from her lungs. “Then prove it,” he snarled. “Cum. Now.”

It took but a moment for her body to catch up with her mind, and Abigail let out a wail as she came, the orgasm rushing through her like fire, burning her inside and out. Ketch slapped a hand down over her mouth and nose, muffling her screams as he rode her through the pleasure. Her mouth pulled at his palm, her eyes bulging as she tried to breath against his skin, and the look of terror and surrender in her eyes pushed him over the edge.

He spasmed as he came, body shivering and hips locking between her thighs. He laid down, dropping his full weight on top of her; grunting loudly in her ear, hand still sealed over her face.

When her jerking ceased and her eyes began to roll, he sat up, removing his hand and kissing the corner of her slack mouth.

“Good girl,” he teased, already pulling out of her ruined cunt.

She rolled over, curling into herself on the freezing floor; waves of aftershock making her body twitch uncontrollably. “Fuck.” Her lungs burned; her face swollen and hot. Not a single part of her body didn’t hurt, didn’t feel his lingering presence.

“Indeed.”

Ketch was already up and dressing by the time she regained enough of herself to sit up. She stared up at him from the floor, eyes wide, body wrecked and dripping; a beautiful mess.

“So,” she asked, reaching to pull her clothes back on. “What’s the plan?”

“You’re going to be debriefed and then put back in the field,” he replied, closing the final button on his shirt.

Abigail stood and buttoned her jeans. “We could have done this with just a phone call…”

Ketch rushed forward. “Could we?” He reached out and grabbed her tits, squeezing hard, molding them in his big hands.

Her heart raced and her shoulders fell, feeling the rush of desire once more. “I suppose not,” she laughed, head flooded with endorphins. “What am I going to tell them?”

He turned away and she continued fixing her clothing, adjusting her shirt to fit better around her now unsupported breasts. “You know Dean Winchester won’t let this slide.” There was a hint of mischief in her voice, daring to bring his name up again. “He cares about me. He’s going to come looking for me.”

Ketch bent to retrieve the handcuffs from the floor. “That is the plan.” Grabbing her arms, he spun Abigail around and locked her wrists back up, tighter than before.

She was intrigued and let him do what he pleased. “What are you doing?”

The leather gag wrapped around her face and Abigail turned in his arms, confused.

“You’re going to wait here,” he explained, not a hint of sympathy in his deep voice as he fit the gag in place. “The Winchesters will call us for help and of course, we shall oblige, being the wonderful, helpful organization that we are…” He left her only for a moment to grab the wool hood from the corner. “And I shall help them rescue their poor, pathetic, little girlfriend.”

Abigail’s eyes went wide with anger and fear as he lifted the hood over her head. She shook violently and protested, drooling around the gag as her pleading words were stifled.

Ketch leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek before sliding the hood down over her eyes, sending her back into darkness.

“See you in a few days.”

It was dark, cold. Her body ached.

A muffled scream left her mouth as the door slammed behind Ketch, but no one could hear her.

She simply had to wait.

Wanna hear ‘Ketch’ Himself reading this in all it’s glory? Click HERE

2020 Forever Tags:

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Special tag for @manawhaat​​ for her gifspiration ;)

[pokeshippingflashfic]

Hi! Someone sent this request to mythgirlimagines and I loved what she came up with. Could you come up with something else or expand on her idea please? :) link: mythgirlimagines(.)tumblr(.)com/post/190057630070/hello-could-you-do-some-hurtconfort-for-ash-and

(I went to ask @mythgirlimagines for use/expansion of her headcanons before writing this. Here’s hoping I do it justice for everyone. Not really sure what to expand on but I don’t mind fleshing out the situation in prose. PS: User @nebli suggested the stories Ash tells of his younger!childhood. I’m bad at headcanons so I asked for help.)

You practically bite into your own arm to muffle the deep inhale of brisk late night air as it filters into your lungs, bracing yourself stock still behind a grand oak with easiest access to the stream nearby your group’s campsite.

Your redheaded companion is sitting with her back to you at the edge of the water, unoccasionally sniffling and shoulders heaving in a motion you’re semi-familiar with because, hey, it’s not like you’ve never cried before in your life.

Oh. Misty’s… crying? 

That’s… that was new. Or rather, new-ish. You could scarcely remember her shedding a tear or few during the last few years on the road, though you think there was something back in the hidden village where you met Bulbasaur, and then there was the Lavender Tower… (How do you even remember any of that anyway?)

You shake yourself from your reverie, returning to present thought process.

You’d wondered why she was missing from the campsite. And yet you told yourself you were only getting up to use the nearest foliage as your bathroom and not to search for her in the darkness while all other companions (your Pokemon as well as resident caretaker Brock, returned to your group after his temporary departure in the Orange Islands) slept the night peacefully away… but here you are almost ten minutes later after walking obstinately farther than was needed to relieve yourself.

You should have remained wrapped up snug in your sleeping bag.

After all, what are you supposed to do with this? Though you loathe to admit it, you can barely handle Misty’s ire and passion and weird girly personality in any other instance; what are you supposed to do with a Misty who’s crying alone in the middle of the night?

You sigh as faintly as possible, a few memories fluttering to the surface of your consciousness in response to that question.

Misty following you out to the deck of a large cruise liner and begging to know why you look so troubled, offering you rather obvious advice in hindsight… but it sure helped to know she understood. 

Misty reminding you that Butterfree is leaving to start a family of his own with his new mate and you’d better take this chance to say your goodbyes while you have it… because that was more important than sulking over losing a friend.

Misty stalking rigidly into your assigned guest room at Indigo Plateau after your loss in the league, strong-arming you out of your brooding state.

Misty appearing over you after your hometown battle with Gary, a faint expression of sympathy flitting across her face before she points out that you’d better get a move on and start your trek to Johto if you don’t want to fall even further behind your childhood rival.

You roll your eyes so intensely in response to all these rather telling signs that you feel a bit dizzy a moment later.

Misty is crying alone in the middle of the night… and you know what you have to do.

But how to go about it? By the grace of all gods, it seems she hasn’t noticed your presence yet (though it’s assumed that she’s rather preoccupied). However the last thing you want is to set her off down the path of righteous fury and end up her victim.

Tsking to yourself, you squint your eyes shut again, brow creased in frustration. You’re thinking too much into this. It’s not like you to dedicate so much time to mollifying Misty of all people.

Instinct takes over and you bungle your way loudly through the foliage, sure to get her attention, making it look like an accident.

“Oh, uh, Misty. Funny running into you here.”

Stellar improvisation from the future number one Pokemon Master in the world. 

However if she senses anything amiss in your approach, she doesn’t address it. Perhaps because she busies herself instead with wiping furiously at her splotched red cheeks, hiccuping and doing her utmost to rub the dry red from her eyes.

“I was just going to the bathroom,” you continue, “I didn’t know you were up too.”

Despite knowing your best option is to play innocent bystander… a twinging pierce briefly tugs in your chest over the thought of lying to her. But there’s no time to dwell, nope, gotta dig in whether she catches on or not.

“So anyway… Uh, is something wrong?” Yep, that sounded natural. Well, it’s not that it didn’t but you are suddenly overtly aware that you’ve never honestly asked this question of her since the start of your journey together. Instead the question was always a condescending rebuff in the middle of a fight.

Lips pursed, gaze averted, “… Of course not, Mr. Pokemon Master,” she responds in a brusque yet weak murmur. It’s not the least bit convincing. Well, you weren’t exactly expecting the confrontation to be a cakewalk…

Your initial approach had been sudden - element of surprise enough to distract her from her potential mortifying rage at being discovered in so compromising a demeanor. Over the past minute or so, you’ve cautiously edged yourself across the clearing, eventually coming to a stop just behind her before easing yourself into a sitting position at her side.

Welp… here you both are, you couldn’t help thinking warily, fingers drumming softly against your own knees, waiting for something to give.

Oh, and give something did as the redheaded girl beside you, in a much too far removed reaction compared to her previous attempt at concealing her despondence, suddenly leans forward, presses her rather wet and beet-colored face into your neck, one hand curling loosely around the hem of your sleeve to keep you there as she releases a sharp bawl.

Whoa, wait, mayday! you shriek internally, eyes wide and scalp and ears flushing uncomfortably hot. Alarms are ringing in uproarious, disorienting fashion and the panic sets in so instantaneous and intense that it’s enough to make you feel positively ill.

This doesn’t happen. This has never happened before between you two! What’s she thinking? What’re you supposed to do?!

It’s life or death, you know, as your instincts kick in, the hand closest to her reaching up and brushing the back of her neck, grasping her opposing shoulder and pulling her ever so slightly closer to you while she continues weeping.

It’s hard to tell if this is the right move or not. True, Misty hasn’t made any negative maneuver against you but she also hasn’t given you any signal that her mood is improving. Doing your best to smother your impatience, you internally count the seconds, minutes as they pass, staring vaguely into the dimly lit distance while the teenage girl beside you carries on grossly using your sleeve as her new personal tissue.

Ick, the thought crosses your mind before you push it aside and barrel forward, unable to take the awkward tension anymore… But what to do about it?

“Ya know, when I was a kid,” there’s a brief pause when, bless her, Misty offers a skeptical glance between sniffles, “Uh, a younger kid, Gary and I were racing around the outskirts of Pallet and I tripped over him and landed in this lake nearby. There was a school of Magikarp swimming by and one of ‘em stopped to slap me in the face with its tail ‘cause I disrupted their formation.”

Despite her gloom, you hear a distinct snort in response to your story. Feeling invigorated by your success, you continue with your distracting babble. At the same time you bide your time coming up with your next contribution. You want to help her but you also don’t wanna offer her any ammunition she can use for blackmail later on.

“Once, there was this time when my mom was super busy with work and I was worried she was gonna get sick so I tried to make her some homemade juice using fruits and veggies from our garden. It, uh… I wasn’t paying attention and it ended up all over the kitchen,” you finish rather lamely, wistful as the memory came to mind.

This time you’re rewarded with a faint, faltering giggle. It impresses you just how much making someone - Misty - feel a little better can fill you with so much pride.

Still, though the actual crying begins to subside, her features are contorted with a sense of mourning.

“So…” you try again apprehensively, “are ya ever gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

She stiffens, shrugging then shaking her head. A fleeting question crosses your mind. What’s more important; your curiosity over what may have happened or the intent of encouraging a friend when they’re feeling low…?

Of course, you know the answer in a heartbeat.

“Okay well… are you ok - uh, will you be okay?”

A pause, one final brush between her face and your sleeve before she pulls a few inches away with a sigh.

“Nngh, yeah… I’ll be… I’m better now. I mean, not one hundred percent,” she elaborates at the sight of your raised brow, “but better than I was b - before you came along.” She finishes her statement with her facial features arranged in a complicated expression.

“I guess I should thank you, Ash.” And, unable to help herself, she adds, “Who woulda known you’d be good company in an emotional crisis?”

Ah, well if she can throw out a line like that then she must be telling the truth.

“Well, you know…” you reply almost bashfully, puffing up your chest before sobering up. “But I’m glad… that you’re okay. So wait, I guess you’re heading back to bed now?”

“Oh, um…” She appears slightly troubled over such a probing suggestion, buying time, focusing on wiping her cheeks dry. “I still feel a little restless. I’ll probably just stay here and stare out at the water. You know how much I love this kinda view.”

“Then I’ll stay too,” you reply automatically, so much so that your eyes widen, shocked at what your mouth had decided to commit you to without conscious thought. “I mean... if that’s okay.”

She blinks, gaze never leaving your person, though she moves her cursory glance up and down as if checking for remorse or bad intentions behind your offer. And yet, notwithstanding your awe, you find you don’t regret your decision. Finally her survey softens and, taking things a step further, she resituates herself so that she can rest her head against your shoulder again.

The initially jarring predicament lulls into acceptance. You find that you rather like don’t mind relaxing with Misty in such close proximity, especially when she’s in a good mood though, in retrospect, you wouldn’t mind it if she wasn’t either, provided you were in the process of helping her. 

You won’t talk about it tomorrow but you also quite enjoy the way your arms bump together before she laces her fingers with your own, spending the final twenty or so minutes of your time together wordlessly holding hands.

Some say love is truest when you know as much as you can about the other person… but on this night, in this instance, love is respecting a boundary and offering whatever support you can when it’s needed despite your ignorance.

(Yeah, by the time the two of them do head back to the campsite, Ash is practically ready to wet himself. Lol. And, as a reminder, this blog is currently - and always but definitely currently since I’m trying to get back into writing - accepting new requests via ask! Please view the rules and FAQ as needed!)

[ahgaseda]

the NSFW alphabet | Jackson (Got7)

{ this post contains graphic descriptions and explicit content : please read at your own risk! }

A = aroused (how he acts when he's in the mood)

he will be the biggest flirt you’ve ever seen but also blunt as hell. like hey baby you wanna come take a ride on this thick dick. he will get real frisky when he is in the mood. hands roaming everywhere. kissing on your neck and nipping beneath your ear. he can finesse when he needs to and get you all riled up. but he aint above begging either. he will forsake all pride and dignity for a nut and you can have as much fun as you want with that.

B = body (favorite body part of their partner)

he loves your body. he will worship every inch of it and touch you for hours. he loves your boobs. he loves your ass. damn it he loves your thighs and your hips. mine mine mine he says. he always gotta have his hands on you and he just lives to play with your body. even in non sexual ways too he will pat your butt to a beat or jiggle your boobs when you come out of the shower. he just cant help it. youre his goddess and he wants to show his appreciation at all times.

C = climax (what he's like when he orgasms)

he is loud af. and you will know he’s getting closer by the way his voice pitches higher and higher. he is not afraid to let you know in great detail how good he feels. also swears quite a bit. probably mixes up his languages in the heat of the moment. you will become very familiar with swear words in each language he knows lol. he the type that warns you hes about to come even though its oh so painfully obvious.

D = dominance (is he dominant, submissive or a switch)

he is a switch and he is unpredictable. his desires change on a whim. if hes in the mood for you to tie him up and ride him he will tell you. if he wants to shove you against the wall and give you the work he will let you know. power dynamics don’t really concern him in the bedroom unless youre feeling a little frisky and need to be put in your place. he wants to please you above all else.

E = experience (how experienced is he in the bedroom)

he knows what he’s doing. and he is very confident in the bedroom. he knows hes hot and strong and can give you whatever you want. it needs to be said but aries are not opposed to loveless sex. being in love with your partner is a bonus not a requirement. despite that they will be the first to admit the sex is better when a connection is there. it just is.

F = fortitude (does he have a lot of stamina and energy)

one round is boring to him. if you’re both up to it once is not going to be enough. he likes to mix things up and keep the fire going until hes exhausted and blown off all that steam. he will eat you out or let you ride his thigh between rounds. the time it takes for him to get hard again is very short and in some cases he can stay hard after getting off but it varies.

G = gratification (what really gets him off)

mark him as yours. be aggressive and possessive. be spontaneous. he needs fire and passion but most of all he craves being needed and desired. hes fairly easy to please in the bedroom because he brings so much of the energy himself. getting to let it out is where he gets the most release. pleasuring you gets him off the best. seeing his partner taking what he has to give and losing themselves to ecstasy that he caused will make him bust in a heartbeat.

H = habitat (preferred place to get busy)

anywhere. anytime. he don’t care. yall regularly joke about having fucked on nearly every surface in the house. he also moves a lot so sex that starts against the wall can lead to the table or what began in the bed can end up on the floor. there is also a lot of bath or shower sex with jackson. plus he welcomes you visiting him in the studio. he loves a good distraction and orgasm combo.

I = intimacy (how emotional is he when it comes to sex)

not really during sex itself but it will come in afterward. he loves to cuddle and talk after sexy time. but there will be days when he slows it down and makes everything a really sensual affair. intimacy will be the focus and everything will be very intense. this doesnt happen too often but he takes great pride in those nights. usually birthdays or anniversaries or holidays.

J = joke (how much does he play around)

there is a time and place for humor and it depends on the mood. most of the time he is good at reading the mood. generally he likes to be playful and have fun during sex. if you cant laugh during sex then whats the point lol since hes such a dramatic flirt he will definitely have you cracking up before during and after sex but especially during foreplay.

K = kink (toys or kinks)

body worship. both giving and receiving. it definitely plays a big role in those really intense sessions. sex is his favorite hobby so you can expect plenty of kinks and toys in bed. keeping in mind he wants to please you so not much is off limits and he will always be down to test out anything you want to try. he also the type to be into pegging and you can expect him to bring it up during playful banter shamelessly.

L = lust (how often does he want it)

he is an Aries so his sex drive is quite high. very hot blooded and the type that gets hard at the drop of a hat. seriously you can just mention handcuffs in passing and his dick will stand up like hello i have been summoned lol

M = masturbation (mutual and solo)

he jacks off regularly no big deal. having such a high sex drive hes just gotta relieve the stress whenever he can. watching you masturbate is a kink of his but only in theory. once you get into it he has to jump in. it turns him on so bad and he doesnt have the patience to be a bystander. hes not into you watching him either. hes gonna want your hands on him asap. phone sex is a lot of fun with him though. he loses his damn mind over it and threatens to hop on the next plane to come home and fuck you.

N = never (what he will not do)

a hard limit for him is pain. he is not going to do anything that causes you considerable pain. sure he will spank you or choke you within moderation but dont expect him to push the limit with anything more hardcore than that. also degradation doesnt do it for him. he will call you a dirty slut or daddys little whore in taunting but hes not going to go farther. its too contradictory to his personality and even if its in roleplay it will still leave a bad taste in his mouth.

O = oral (giving and receiving)

the pussy eating champion lol. seriously he eats you out all the time and loves every moment of it. if you aint screaming like a demon is coming out of you then he aint happy. he also the type to suck you dry and totally not expect anything in return but he tends to do it before sexy time cause he loves you to be wet and sensitive when he fucks you. now when it comes to blow jobs he is the happiest boy alive. getting head is his weak spot. you can have him singing your name and shaking like a leaf. will not shut up about how well you blow him.

P = position (favorite position)

he loves them all. he the type to change positions rapidly during the same round. he cant stay still. he wants to hit it from every angle. but his favorite could be the Lotus. youre both sitting up face to face and youre straddling his lap which means not only can you ride him into the sunset but he can also move to meet you. he likes that youre both fucking each other plus the feeling of closeness and constant kissing melts his butter. though hes not opposed to doggy because he can dig in deep he prefers being able to see the way your face scrunches up in pleasure.

Q = quickie (what is a quickie like with him)

quickies are fun. he likes quickies. they happen very often. he loves the spontaneous and rushed nature of them. but he will also want more when hes done. once hes in the mood he has a lot of sexual energy to burn through. quickies are more a fast fix for a reservoir thats always overflowing. but the best part about a quickie with jackson is beast mode. when that kicks in just hold on tight and enjoy the ride.

R = roleplay (favorite routines and tropes)

fear not damsel he is coming to the rescue. he can start off strong with tropes but in the heat of the moment hes gonna forget all about it. at a certain point he runs out of patience and concentration and all he can think about is getting that nut. with that being said he likes a challenge. if you make him work for it he will be eating out of the palm of your hand. he also likes anything primal and animalistic. that fucks him up real good.

S = seduction (how he gets you in the mood)

he is playful. but his hands are expert. his kisses are sweet but intense. he starts targeting all of your weak spots and does not hold back. hes a professional smooth and dirty talker. the shit he says will have your mouth watering. he likes if you dont give in too easily and he can lay it on real thick. but then there are times when he will just point blank tell you hes hard and asks if you would like to help him with it.

T = teasing (what is the best way to arouse him)

if you wanna get him in the mood then tell him. tell that boy you wanna ride the soul out of him and hes all yours. he needs to be needed. he also very visual so wear something provocative. get handsy. touch him and get his attention. if it were up to him yall would never ever leave the bedroom. very rarely will he turn you down for some loving. he would have to be exhausted or ill to not want a romp with you.

U = underwear (lingerie and costumes)

oh yes lingerie will get him in the mood but beyond that its just gonna get ripped off anyway. the birthday suit is his favorite outfit. he does particularly enjoy costumes though. he will actively send you screenshots of lingerie or costumes that he finds to see if youre down to try them. he mainly prefers you sending him naughty pics of you in these ensembles. he saves them on his phone and looks at them whenever hes away from you on schedules or tours. he would make his fave the lockscreen on his phone if fansites wouldnt lose their shit about it.

V = verdict (what do you think of your sex life with him)

sex with him is fun but passionate. its also very frequent. morning sex is like part of the normal routine. despite how often the two of you get down it doesnt get stale or boring. hes always mixing things around or spicing things up that there is no shortage of variety. passion runs so deep in him that it spills into everything he does including his loving. even the quickies are mind blowing. jackson is very open about sex and the conversations you have with him about it are very natural and comfortable.

W = words (how vocal is he and dirty talk)

he is not afraid to be loud but he is ever unpredictable. if hes the one on top his focus is giving it to you good and may not be as noisy. if youre on top he will be as vocal as he needs to be to let you know youre doing a hell of a job on him. will wake all the neighbors when you blow him and will wake all of his ancestors when you overstimulate him. his dirty talk is shameless. will you text you raunchy shit and then go into sweet detail of how you are the precious love of his life in the same freaking breath.

X = x-rated (how does he feel about porn or sextapes)

a very big fan of both. he will watch porn on his own or with you. it doesnt matter. can be inclined to film the two of you in bed and will watch it all the damn time. likes pov cams the most. is the type to totally strap on a go pro and go to town on you as a gift to himself.

Y = yawn (what is he like after sex)

he wants to chat. he wants to know how he was in bed. he needs to know if sex with him made your day a little better. he wants to know what you want for breakfast in the morning. he will ask if the bills are paid. may even ask you to remind him to take his vitamins tomorrow. it takes him a few minutes to simmer down with all that energy. still flirts uncontrollably but mostly wants to make small talk until he finally drifts off while spooning you cause you his goddess. 

Z = zodiac (what his sign says about him in bed)

an Aries loves sex. they have a high sex drive. since they are a fire sign there is never any shortage of heat and passion in the bedroom. having a partner that is not compatible with them in the sack can be a major deal breaker. but despite being a selfish sign aries desperately want to please their partner or else they feel insecure. if you aint enjoying it then they arent either. while they prefer fucking over making love, they can temper this to suit their partner without any fuss but at the end of the day they really just wanna have a good time with you.

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