#can he like mess up the coordinates and put you half way in the ground or floor

[maximusboltaqon]

so is there anything stopping lockjaw from like... teleporting into a wall or something. what happens if he's trying to take a group of people into a room that's too small to fit them all. can lockjaw detect this and prevent it from happening or is that just like a risk you have to consider

[qvrcll]

Hello :) I saw you are tking requests and I have something on my mind for a quite some time...If you maybe could write Leon Kennedy ID x younger (like in her early 20s) girlfriend reader where they are making love and chris walk on them. But if you dont want to write it you dont need to so feel no pressure. have a nice day :)

rosemary

summary: whilst you and leon share skin to skin contact in the fervent heat of your bedroom, a gentle intrusion seems to knocks things out of prospect. still, does it have to be so complicated?

warnings: female reader, ID ! leon, nsfw under the cut, getting walked in on EL OH EL, fluff if you squint i swear

a/n: hi lovely thank u for the request!! i had a great time writing this and i hope you enjoy :-)

Leon was 180 centimetres of hard, breathing flesh — that, put up against you in such a compromising position as this, made things all too complicated. Brooding, in a sense that make things sweat, heave with pounding release.

Of course, he never played the fair game, however many times he swore he would.

He’s got you folded in half already, quivering cunt spurting a heat so delicious, it sinks him in like a vice when he gives into it. His hands, dangerous aviaries that hold every part of you in place, scavenge across your body like he has never seen you like this before. Never had you quite this deep, this desperate and thrashing before.

But he has, and he knows it all too fucking well.

“Like it when I do that, hm?” he spits out, throat abused by the abundant swell of groans and other string of pathetic noises that leave him. Still, he’s zeroed in on you only — the way you croon against him like a helpless little thing, bundled up beneath him in a mess of nerves, an assortment of pleas, pitching high from “r-right there!” and “m-mhm… just—like that…”

He’s learnt it all — your noises, twitches. The sensitive grip of skin underneath your thigh that leaves you breathless and moaning. Two, three, four slick fingers intruding your cunt, leaving you sore and satisfied the next day. He’s made love to you, and this only seems it, that familiar beckoning gush of your walls pressing against his cock like it had so many other times before.

And it’s barely coordinated, when your hand sinks lower, between the fervent slaps of either of your bodies in a distorted rhythm, seeking to pay attention to the awful throb of your clit and you mewl when his own hands quickly supersede yours in quick fashion. They’re larger, cover more space and bear more weight beneath the flesh, when he grants you some mercy by slathering any wetness against your clit and doing the work for you.

Aw, how sweet of you, Kennedy.

Is what you would have uttered. Smirked with a superlative sense of ungratefulness, if he wasn’t aiming to drill another hole into you.

“Fuck—“ he curses above you, and it all falls out of rhythm. A delicious combination of all your senses. A sign of your impending release.

You remember the gruelling trip back in his car.

You remember the awful coldness of the elevator as he pressed you against the familiar glint of it, mouth all full of the taste you and a raging sense of impatience.

You remember tripping into his room, already bare. Already responding to his cut-throat presses and licks in seconds.

“You close, sweetheart?” He calls you. But for you, it’s a reminder, that you are still here, underneath him. Writhing, thrashing, but with him nonetheless. Heated and throbbing, but fingers interlocked with his in ceremonious fashion. And the thought makes you smile, sloppy and twitching, through the lewdness of the thick air.

And you can do nothing except claw at him, use him as a living, breathing grounding machine. Can do nothing but hold him so desperately as you break, count the wrinkles against his forehead as he pushes into you again. Await the swift hit of release as you choke out, “Y-Yeah… I—I’m… close… mnng—“

“Leon? You in here?”

The additional voice is distant, airy almost. You almost wonder if you’d imagined it, sorted it out of nothing from your deeply calibrated mess of a brain.

The sex must’ve driven me mad, you think. Almost laugh, but don’t, as light hits your eyes.

And that familiar coil in your tummy dampens, aches, is reduced to ashes as Leon scrambles for the blanket with a large scoff, wraps you gently with it and shields your body against his — the heat of your sweat and the lathering material from the blanket does more to irritate you, but it would do, when Chris himself was standing calcified and struck dumb with confusion in the arch of your doorway.

So much for locking the door.

“Chris, get out!” Leon yells, sifts for his shirt. Cards the floor for his pants and undergarments. He’s almost fully dressed as Chris grumbles out an apology, staggering out of the room with a limp you didn’t recognise he had ever worn before.

And you’re moth-eaten, hot, underneath the covers. Some part of you is mortified, but the larger part is aching for relief. Your legs are tense with the course of your muscles and sweat coats you in a messy sheen. But the ache between your legs is stagnant, mulling in sick waters like a beaten soldier.

“Sweetheart?”

It takes you a few counted minutes to realise your current predicament — Chris had seen the two of you in bed by pure accident, and with the last shred of consciousness you possess, you burst with colour. Still, Leon’s voice is molten. Electric. It sends sparks flying and frothing at your skin, as his arm skirts over yours in that familiar fashion — a silent kiss inked into your skin by touch alone, a low voice muttering ‘It’s alright. It’s okay.’

And he smiles, wide and large, smile lines soothing the ache and bringing you to be. You’re almost relieved, almost rid of that throe in you, sex nearly forgotten until he speaks again,

“Don’t touch yourself until I’m back. You can do that, can’t you? Hm?”

And as he leaves, smirking, you swiftly melt into the suffocating creases of your shared bed, charged up all over again.

© 2023 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[in-flvx]

We all love a possessive Sirius, but, going from Canon, I think Sirius is also the first person to stand back given the vibes.

Like, sure, he'll hunt down Peter to safe Harry, and he'll live in a cave for his benefit. Bur he's also first ask if Harry is even interested in a relationship with Sirius, and then gives Harry the reins to coordinate it.

He'll be obnoxious towards snape, bc Harry doesn't like snape, and Sirius has no reason so trust him at that point either (like, literally. The guy straight up set him up for the dementors kiss just about a year and a half ago. Excuse Sirius to be a bit short and antagonistic toward snape!? As if it's Sirius' fault Remus didn't take his potion and then went on to hunt down children. But noooo Sirius, who had a million other things to consider is the bad guy in this situation, of course! Not the man who insisted on both his, and Remus receiving the dementors kiss) and Sirius, at that point, had spent over a decade in prison. But azkaban isn't just prison. It's emotional torture and solitary confinement. Aka more emotional torture. The fact that sirius is downright sensible, if a little cruel, is a goddamn miracle. And he is, by a landslide, the only grownup Harry actually regards as a guardian and safe haven.

But nooo, he sometimes has a few emotional outburst (let me reiterate: after over a decade of emotional torture and solitary confinement), so he must be the only bad grownup around!!!! [this is still sarcastic obv. Even with that, Sirius was one of the most responsible adults hp has to offer by a landslide])

Stepping away from the rant: Sirius is the one to tell James that he's being a pushy asshole with lily, and that she has no interest in a relationship with him. And this comment alone is, if you ask me, the reason why James gets his shit together over the following years. Like, yea, it's Sirius being bored who brought the entire mess of snapes worst memory into motion, but in the end it's James who is the most cruel, snape who lashes out against lily rather than James, and Sirius who tells James to calm the fuck down regarding lily, who obviously can't give a shit about james.

You have to be super freaking special for Sirius to care about you, and for Sirius to call you out!

His fight with Molly is so interesting in that regard. From the way they talk to each other before, and after their confrontation, and even in the time of it, it's obvious that they have a positive rapport with each other. He only gets volatile when she tries to baby Harry, when Sirius knows intimately (going from Harry's letters) how crazy it drives Harry to be out of the loop. Which is also why he give harry the two way mirror only after Christmas of Harry's fifth year. He could have given it to him much earlier, except it was a sacred part of his and James' relationship. So Sirius only gave it to harry when he knew both of them needed it as a tool of survival.

Sirius isn't easy with the trust he puts into the world. And he never expects anything back (if anyone ever looked for a martyr character, this is it. Sirius is the martyr among false martyrs. He's the only one ever getting to the ground of it. Remus can only ever get the aesthetic of the martyr, and with him not mastering 'reparo', he really sells that aesthetic. Sirius has much more real and dramatic shit going on than that though.

[likeshipsonthesea]

death and taxes (the ship)

spoilers for 6x15 bc the auditor (debbie) had a ring and honestly natalia’s way out of buck’s league, here you go

Debbie closes the door behind her and immediately slumps back against it. She lets her bag, jacket, and keys fall to the ground in a cacophony of thumps and follows it up with a truly impressive sigh.

“Babe?”

Debbie closes her eyes. “I’m home,” she calls back. She listens to the soft steps of socked feet against the hardwood floors, inhales the alluring scent of fresh coffee, and opens her eyes to see her beautiful amazing wonderful wife standing there in a pair of Debbie’s shorts, holding a mug with a Death Becomes Her quote on the side of it.

“Bad day?” Natalia quirks her lips in a perfect half-smile.

Debbie grunts. Natalia holds the cup out in invitation. Debbie steps out of her heels as she moves forward, hands outstretched and reaching. Natalia, because she’s beautiful amazing wonderful and kind, allows Debbie to gulp down two large, scalding sips before corralling her toward the couch. Debbie manages another wayward sip as Natalia bullies her into putting her legs in Nat’s lap.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Nat asks as she begins doing something lovely to Debbie’s left calf.

Debbie grunts once again, this time muffled by her fourth sip of coffee.

“Talking about it makes you feel better.”

The doubtful sound Debbie makes in response goes through both her fifth and sixth sips, but no longer because with that Debbie finishes her coffee and has nowhere else to go. Too bad it didn’t really scald her mouth, otherwise she would have a valid reason not to talk about her terrible day at work.

“Come on, we’ll start easy. Tell me the best thing that happened today.”

“I just finished it,” Debbie says, staring forlornly at the Now, a warning script at the bottom of her empty mug. Natalia digs meanly into her calf until Debbie grunts and tries to flail out of her grip.

“Tell me the funniest thing then.”

Debbie sighs, pushing the mug onto the coffee table and turning to pout up at her wife’s encouraging face. “This straight couple was called in because they didn’t coordinate their taxes before filing.”

“Huh? How do you mess that up?”

“Straight people don’t talk, apparently, I don’t know. They both put their kid down as a dependent and both filed as head of household. Then they confessed all their tax sins like I was their priest or something.”

“You’d make a hot priest,” Natalia says, which unfortunately pulls a smile from Debbie’s lips. Damn it, if Nat wasn’t so damn cute when she looks all triumphant like that Debbie would be annoyed.

“Maybe I should become a priest. No tax season.”

"You’d get bored of all the pageantry before your first sermon.”

Debbie inclines her head. Nat’s probably right. “What about a bartender? They’re kind of like priests.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Natalia says, switching to the right calf. “Anything but a firefighter.”

Debbie lifts her eyebrows. “Your date with the dead dude not got well?”

“It wasn’t a date,” Natalia says, like she’s said every time Debbie’s called it that.

“Did he know that?”

“I hope so.” Natalia gets to a tight spot and Debbie winces. Pausing her sentence for a moment, Natalia bends down to press her lips softly against the spot before continuing. “He talked about his post-death coma dream the whole time, so if he thinks that’s what a date is, I worry about his chances.”

Debbie smiles and reaches out to twirl a strand of Nat’s hair around her finger. “Did you have fun at least?”

“Totally. It’s weird to meet someone with the knowledge that isn’t, like, about to die, yaknow?” Natalia leans her head into Debbie’s hand so Debbie can play with the baby hairs at the base of her neck. “He felt like a kindred spirit. He knows how precious every moment is, the beauty of our mortality. I don’t know. It felt--good. Like a book club when everyone actually read the book.”

“You’re never going to let Sandra live that down, are you?”

“We had a whole month, who shows up without having read a single chapter?” Debbie massages the base of Natalia’s skull. Nat’s shoulders lift and fall with a deep breath. “But anyway. It was nice. And the coma dream stuff was a cool insight into how our brains work when we’ve experienced death. I bet it has something to do with how our bodies flood with...”

Debbie is a horrible wife because she tunes out all the sciencey stuff Natalia adores to just take in her wife’s joy as she talks about her favorite thing in the world. The flush to her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, the flyaway hairs stuck to her forehead. Tax season always burns Debbie out, but the thing that gets her through the long days is the thought of her wife at home with a hot cup of coffee and her masterful massages.

Debbie will admit that she enjoys a good bit of certainty. Her job is about making things add up. She likes knowing that everything’s accounted for, everything fits, everything’s certain. She likes knowing what she’s coming home to every night, her wife and coffee and some cuddling on the couch.

Some people might find it boring, but Debbie likes knowing what her life will look like. Maybe they’ll move, maybe she’ll become a priest or a bartender or anything but a firefighter, maybe they’ll decide they want kids or a dog or that ferret Natalia’s been gunning for. But Debbie knows, through it all, she’ll have Natalia and her everlasting joy for life, borne of the certainty of its ending.

Maybe it’s more faith than certainty. But what’s life without a bit of faith?

Nothing but death and taxes.

[lunartearrose]

Oc kiss week 2024 #2 - Rain

Ocs: Forage the Tiefling druid, Gwen the seamstress living doll.

Gwen belongs to Sammy, my DM! I don't think she has a public tumblr as i was not told it, but she is on discord. Didn't get permissions to tag or tell either way, just to use Gwen ^^;

World: DnD campaign(s) and maybe an extensive minecraft au i chuck a bunch of ocs into

Another drabble under the cut! Warning for typical dnd violence.

Whenever it rained, Gwen always thought of her boyfriend. And whenever he was away on hunter guild business, it always made her long for his return.

Tonight, it was one of those nights. The rain was pouring loudly against the walls of her boutique, a comforting and constant sound as she wrapped up her work for the night. In Particular, she had been commissioned for a beautiful wedding dress…

“Hey, so… I didn't want to bring this up earlier, but….” Harmony spoke up from the sidelines, using a pair of opera glasses to look at Gwen's tightly packed order list writing, “Didn't the client want a white dress? White with a dragon motif?”

Gwen paused, glancing at her work. “Well, they did. Did I make a mistake?”

“Well, for one, that's not pure white - it's an off-blue. But I guess it's subtle. The more interesting choices you have on that dress are the pearls and the coral. You're also definitely sewing eels instead of anything dragon-like.”

“I- well-” Gwen stammered, doing a once-over of the dress, “a subtle blue is often used to accent white and make it feel whiter - and I'm not done with what you're calling an eel! Just gotta add the scales and the. The head… and don't dragons like treasure?”

Harmony gazed at the dress through her pair of opera glasses. “Are Forage's shed coral antler-things a typical choice for dragons to hoard?”

Gwen sighed, shoulders slumping as she hid a blush. “...to me they are.” She muttered softly. “I'll fix it in the morning…”

“I'll get you up early so you can get it done without a rush.” Harmony replied.

Wrap-up continued, and Gwen inspected her spools of thread. The stuff she used for embroidering was almost out!

“Hey, do you think the supply shop is open still?” Gwen asked.

“Maybe the one in the hunter's guild.” Harmony answered, “If not that one, try to find Miranda's or something.”

Gwen frowned. “Miranda kinda scares me… I also don't think I want cursed thread, but I'll try the hunter's guild. Thank you.”

As Gwen put her coat on and grabbed an umbrella, Harmony called after her, “Keep to the populated streets. You know. The murders.”

“Y-yeah Harmony thank you Harmony”

With that, Gwen went to brave the storm. It was a heavier rainfall than she thought!

And with weather like that, barely anybody was on the streets. She was about half way to her destination when she realized this wasn't exactly safe. And the people that were there… weren't exactly minding their business.

She tried to pay it no mind, but more and more people were beginning to follow her. Take the same turns, move almost beside her… something was deeply wrong.

Seeing a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye, she quickly dodged out of the way of a dagger meant for her. She ran as fast as she could, as voices shout to each other, coordinating her downfall. She screams, but her voice is muffled by the rain.

She eventually slipped on the rainy ground, landing hard on the coral and rock cobbled ground. As blades of all kinds pointed her way, dripping with what was surely poison, she curled up, arms blocking her face in defense…

But then, strangely, she felt something. A dizzy sensation that messed with her sense of up and down, making her ears pop. As much as it made her hair stand on end, the sensation was familiar. She knew this power.

The blades never came down.

She found herself sitting on the surface of a puddle, now looking miles deep, to unknown depths. Several of the men carrying blades were entangled in tendrils that extended from the deep blue darkness, choking them even after their blades dropped, plunking into the darkness below. Soon to follow, the men were dragged down, a rush of bubbles the only signifiers of their screams for mercy.

One assailant had managed to avoid the deep pool, and attempted to string a bow as fast as their trembling hands should.

“WHERE ARE YOU, YOU MONSTER?!” the scared ranger shouted, “I SWEAR, IF YOU DON'T COME OUT, I'LL SHOOT HER!”

“Oh, but were you not planning to shoot anyway? Do not talk out of two sides of your mouth.” A sweetly cruel voice pierced the rainfall, clear as crystal waters.

The ranger spun while the druid talked, attempting their last-ditch effort - but in a blink, their body had been pierced by stalks of shimmering coral. There was no bloodfall - the stalks of coral greedily soaked up everything that was meant to fall, not a drop to spare for the ground.

“Watch your step. The coral still bites.” The druid giggled.

The ranger screamed in agony. Forage appeared from the stalks, his eyes cold as he surveyed his prey. In the heavy downpour, his hair wavered like tentacles, enjoying the soaking rain. Feeding off of it. His shark tail waved from side to side, and the fins beneath his ears perked at the sounds of fear.

“Now. Either you talk, or you die. What possible purpose could you have for attacking my dear Gwen? She'd never hurt a fly. Surely you were all about to strike the wrong person.” Forage asked.

“FUCK YOU!” the ranger screamed, pulling a leg off of a spike to kick Forage, “BOTH OF YOU GO TO HELL! DIE!”

Forage let their boot hit his wrist. In turn, the water clinging to it was heated to boiling by his Tiefling blood, cooking his enemy's injuries for good measure. He smiled, teeth pointy like a shark's.

“Die it is, then. I am certain the guild must've caught plenty of your ilk by now. Your sob story does not interest me in the slightest. You hurt Gwen, after all.”

With that, the coral grew wildly, engulfing the ranger, crushing, spearing, sucking the life from them until all that remained were the horribly beautiful stalks, glowing softly in the rain. Slowly, the coral began to grow down and away, flattening itself to seep back into the cracks of the cobblestone and filling any gaps.

“Forage…” Gwen spoke. She was shaking, wondering if this was real, or if she hit her head when she fell.

The purple tiefling spun around to face her, the coldness washing away with the heavy rain. “Gwen! Are you alright?! That cut was not deep, was it?”

He was quickly by her side, wrapping up her arm with some bandages. He's really, real… and… he really, really went crazy on those guys for trying to hurt her!

“I am sorry, I was not careful with my spell slots - I do not think I have the juice to do much healing. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I-I’m alright… j-just help me up…” Gwen replied.

Quickly, Forage did just that, hugging her tightly. At that time, she noticed the state of his clothes.

“Did a pack of wolves tear you up before you got into town?” Gwen asked.

“Well… I did end up having a… well… scylla moment again. Hence the quick cover up with my ripped coat. But it was only briefly! That's why I was able to grab all those jerks at once.” Forage explained, ears drooping a bit. “I-I didn't scare you, did I? I think my brain would explode if I hurt you…”

“Nono, you didn't attack me at all.” Gwen explained, “I'm just… gosh, it really is you. I really missed you.”

“Okay, I'm glad. I missed you too, Gwen…”

At this, she glanced up, still hugging him tight. Even after ten years, He still took her breath away… with his cute looks, and mesmerizing eyes… and oh, what a gleaming smile…

“Right! What am I thinking… I owe you one of these, right?” Forage smiled. He leaned in close and whispered, “A kiss has its own healing magic, right?”

Not even pausing to agree, Gwen quickly pulled him in for that kiss. They held each other closely for a long while, giggling and kissing, over and over. They were soaked by the end, but neither cared at this point.

Or well, Forage worried over Gwen's state! Her body was stitched, wasn't it?!

“Shoot! We should get home, shouldn't we? I do not want you to catch a cold or anything!” Forage said, glancing up at the sky. “The rain will not stop until tomorrow. The ground's been begging for it.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Uh, where did I put my umbrella…?” Gwen said, glancing around.

Forage perked up for a moment, running to grab his staff from where he had left it on the ground. From the orb in the middle, a tentacle emerged, offering up the missing umbrella.

“There it is!” Forage said with a smile.

Gwen gently took it. “Thank you, octopus.” She said.

With that, the two walked home together, Gwen under the umbrella while Forage held her hand, getting soaked without a care, as he liked to be. They got through the doorway and Forage took the time to help her dry off, joyously talking about his trip back home.

“Oh, hey.” Harmony greeted the two from by the stairwell. “You get your thread, Gwen?”

Gwen paused… and then facepalmed. Forage gently patted her shoulder, and promised he would get some for her early tomorrow.

[appocalipse]

Hi!! Babe could u write something with drunk steve andd drunk reader where robin has to handle them both coz they're sooo drunk and they both eventually end up falling asleep on each other on Steve's couch (where the party is happening)

hi babe! i hope this is okay, but if it's not what you wanted please feel free to request again ♥ ily

“No, no, no!”

As you awkwardly stand on the arm of the sofa, far drunker than she's ever seen before and certainly far more stubborn, Robin wonders why in the world she decided to be friends with you and Steve.

Steve, who is barely standing on the arm of the sofa opposite you. Not for long — he trips, landing on his back as Robin moves to check on him. It's a miracle he didn't hit his head, because he, too, is very drunk.

You stand on one foot and scoff, the words slurring as you say, “Ha! You lossssst!'

“Oh my God,” Robin grumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’ll end up snapping your neck one of these days.”

Nancy puts a comforting hand on her shoulder and says, looking at you with amusement. "Well, you have to admit she has a lot of coordination."

"I'd like to know why the hell she has this need to climb on things every time she gets drunk."

“She can climb me anytime she wants,” Steve offers from his spot on the ground, a very drunk-sounding giggle shortly following after.

Robin covers her ears with her hands as if the damage hasn't already been done. “Oh my God,” she groans again. “Too much information. Way too much.”

Nancy is trying to get you to come down. Robin realizes, however, that you are closer to pulling her up than she is to pulling you to the safety of the ground. "C'mon, Y/N."

“You're so smart,” you tell her out of nowhere. Then, even more out of the blue, “I love you, you know?” And, to Robin, “I love you as well.”

Nancy giggles, amused at your newfound need to express your fondness. “We love you too.”

Robin folds her arms, but she can't hide her smile.

“I mean, when you're not trying to climb anything-” she says, trying to sound serious and failing miserably. She turns to Nancy and comments, “She’s now in the affectionate stage, be warned.”

Steve has somehow gotten up and is walking towards you on clumsy legs. “What 'bout me?”

Your boyfriend is a beacon. He approaches you and all your attention is immediately on him, though your only response to the question he's asked is to stretch both arms toward him lovingly, expectantly.

He happily indulges — and Robin is astonished to see that he manages to grab you around the waist and put you safely back on the ground. She's definitely less astonished, though, when she sees you immediately put your arms around his neck and mumble something that sounds suspiciously like love you against his skin.

You pull away just one second, fanning yourself. "I feel hot."

"You should," Steve replies in a beat, all smug smirk and wandering hands. "You are."

"Jesus," both Nancy and Robin say.

Robin pushes her towards the door as you and Steve collapse onto the couch still entwined, your hands in his hair telling her exactly where this story will end. She covers her ears and yells before closing the door, "Don't break anything!" Again, she forgets to add.

But hours later, when the party really is over and only the chaos of plastic cups and trash on the floor is left behind, Robin opens the door just enough so she can poke her head inside and peek in; she sees something she really didn't expect.

You're both dressed — thank God — but far beyond unconscious, sleeping in a way that simply cannot be comfortable to either of you; you're stretched out over Steve, back against his chest in a mess of splayed limbs. Judging by his happy expression though, Steve doesn't seem to mind that, or the way your hair is covering half of his face, at all.

Robin tries not to smile. It's impossible.

“Idiots,” she mumbles, and closes the door again.

[kiridarling]

[a/n: is this a week late? yes. happy belated-valentine's day angels <3]

—ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴀɴ 𝟷𝟾+ ʙʟᴏɢ. ᴍɪɴᴏʀs ᴅɴɪ

𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮; 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥

→ Definitely went to work that day

→ Not a huge romantic but wake up to find a hot breakfast with a note left on the counter.

Happy Valentines Day, dumbass. Love you.

— k.b

→ When he returns from work, Katsuki buys you roses and shoves them into your chest with an eye roll. You thank him and he responds with a grunt before insisting you put on something nice because he’s taking you out on a dinner date whether you like it or not.

→ Katsuki takes you to the fanciest restaurant—so fancy you feel a little bad that he has to pay, even despite his Pro Hero status. But you’re his, and spoiling you might as well be his love language.

→ Halfway through dinner, Katsuki starts getting a little frisky. Sliding the rough leather of his oxfords up the inside of your thigh, winking and biting his lip. You tell him to stop but you only half-mean it, and the knowing grin on his face lets you know he knows.

"Careful, baby. You don't want the waitress to know how much of a dirty slut you are, do you?”

→ He’s condescending as fuck but you’re totally here for it, and the second he pays for the meal you two are speeding down the highway to a love hotel (per Katsuki’s plan, apparently). You barely make it to the bedroom before you’re all over each other, and if it weren’t for that family of four in the elevator, you definitely wouldn’t have.

→ He tells you to get on the bed and strip, and who are you to deny him of such a luxury? He pulls a plastic black bag out of a different bag—it’s clearly full. With what, you may ask?

→ Sex toys!

→ Katsuki’s endgame is simple—make you cum until you can’t anymore. Not that he’s told you explicitly, but he’s got a Hitachi pressed to your sex and two fingers slamming into you just the way you like it. With your wrists comfortably tied above your head, it doesn’t take him long to bring you to your climax, cheeks burning and thighs shaking.

→ Peering at you under the sweaty mess of ash-blond hair, the fire in Katsuki's eyes only adds fuel to the burning of your gut as the vibrator continues whirr. The realization settles in with a shiver. Oh. Oh fuck, he's not stopping.

“Again.”

→ So, you cum again. And again, and again, and by the time you’re on the fifth it gets a bit hard to feel your toes and you’re so sensitive your thighs burn. All you want is his cock, but for some reason, it’s fucking impossible for him to give it to you.

→ Upon voicing your concerns, Katsuki’s devilish smile only grows wider.

“You want this cock that bad, slut? Yeah? Fine then, fuckin’ choke on it.”

→ It’s basically cannon that one of Katsuki’s favorite things to do is watch you struggle to take all of him, but in this position, all you can do is lay back with bound hands as he fucks your face. It’s sloppy and your eyes and throat burn, but it's totally worth it to hear Katsuki fall apart in your mouth.

“S-So good—fuck—such a good whore, taking all of me, aren’t you?”

→ Katsuki pulls out before he cums in your throat in favor of flipping your limp body into downward dog and stuffing you full of cock in one swift move, the bastard.

→ Katsuki’s never been one to take things slow in bed—to him, it’s all hard and fast and now. You’re scrambling for purchase in the sheets as he pounds into that sweet spot he knows you love, and you feel your fully spent sex twitching back to life anyway. Fuck, fuck. Are you going to cum again?

→ Katsuki seems to catch onto this as well, sweaty chest dropping against your back and the cool of his dog tag tickling your neck as his hand rubs between your legs, muttering dirty nothings in your ear.

“You gonna cum for me, baby? Yeah? Gonna make a fuckin’ mess all over yourself like the slut you are? Fuckin’ do it. Fuckin—fuck—”

→ You two cum at the same time, toes curling and ribcage shuddering, and then—

→ Darkness.

→ You wake up in a few hours, properly clean in fresh sheets. Turns out baby boy fucked you so hard you passed out, but it's okay because he’s found reruns of your favorite show on and is fully prepared with water and snacks.

→ (And he’ll never tell you, but he fully panicked and called Eijirou. Obviously, he knew you were alive, but…what if you passed out because of a problem? A concussion? Internal bleeding, maybe?)

→ (Eijirou ensures him that though this should NOT happen every time, it can happen from exhaustion. To say Katsuki relaxes after that is an understatement.)

(Stay safe angels <3)

And speaking of Eijirou...

𝐄𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚; 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐤𝐞

→ Definitely did not go to work that day.

→ Today, Eijirou plans to treat you like the princess you are. Cooks you breakfast in bed (after almost burning down the kitchen trying to make bacon but shhh we don’t talk about that) books you a full day spa and has Mina take you shopping for a new outfit for your "fancy date" that night.

→ The location? A surprise.

→ It’s dark by the time you and Mina pull up, but the moment you hop out the car she speeds away. Um. She could’ve at least said bye.

"[Y/N?]"

→ Looks like Eijirou brought you to a lake. You wonder who helped him bundle the fairy lights in the trees and set up the picnic because knowing your man and his coordination, it would’ve taken a forever for him to set this up.

→ But all those thoughts shatter the second you see that he’s on his knees, clutching a velvet box with a gorgeous diamond ring sat in the center. Not too flashy, but not too dull.

“U-Uh.”

→ Eijirou swallows then blinks, the only sign that he’s the least bit nervous for this.

“See…I swear I had planned something to say, but you look…holy shit, um—stunning, you look stunning.”

→ His compliment goes over your head though. Of course it does, he’s holding an engagement ring. He chuckles, averting his eyes to the ground.

“Listen, um, you can say no...B-But uh, I love you a lot—obviously—and I’ve been thinking about this a lot, kind of, because you’re like…the love of my life, ya know? I mean, I know everyone says that and everything but like, I really mean it? But if I’m going too fast o-or you just don’t wanna get married or something, I totally get it because obviously this is outta the blue and everything b-but um…yeah.”

→ You let him stutter through the whole thing because, well. It’s cute.

→ ...And then you tackle Eijirou to the ground with renewed passion and slam your lips onto his. His “babe! The ring!” is muffled but you snort anyway, blindly groping for it through the grass. The moment you find it, you shove it into his palm and stick your hand in his face, and with a (very sexy) chuckle, the redhead slides it onto your ring finger.

“I’ll take that as a yes then?”

→ No shit, Sherlock.

→ Either way, the picnic in the dark is abandoned in favor of yanking Eijirou's pants off and giving him the best head of his life. Because goddammit, you love this man so much and he needs to feel it.

→ Afterward, he insists on returning the favor. A wild Gentle Dom Kiri appears and as he eats you out, he mutters a deadly combination of the sweetest and dirtiest things you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, you feel so good. So tight and wet. And it’s all for me, isn’t it, baby?"

“You’re gonna cum, angel? Do it. Cum all over Daddy’s face.”

→ Once you semi-recover from your orgasm, he flips you on your hands and knees and slowly pushes inside of you (though not without putting on a condom because safety first, angels). You tell him to speed up, but he denies your request. This time around, Eijirou's going to take the time to love you.

→ As he slowly fucks you under the stars, he dips his chin into your neck as his bigger hands encompass your own. As he starts to play with the ring on your finger, you watch something wet hit the picnic blanket, followed by a sniffle.

“Gosh, fuck—I love you so much. A-And I’m really happy you said yes. I…”

→ You cum first and Eijirou isn’t far behind, shuddering against your spine. Your fiancé unceremoniously rolls onto the picnic blanket next to you, his temple kissing the crest of your skull as the two of you use the comfortable silence to cool down, half-naked under the milky way.

→ In your comfortable silence, you lift your left hand to the stars, fingers splayed to reveal the twinkling diamond solidifying the bond between the two of you. Eijirou hums, hooking his chin on your shoulder.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

𝐃𝐞𝐧𝐤𝐢 𝐊𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢; 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲

→ Both of you are painfully single and most importantly, strangers. Strangers who think alike and had the glorious forethought to drown your sorrows at a nightclub with a lot of alcohol.

→ Denki, as he does, accidentally knocks over his liquor-filled cup, completely drenching your bottoms. He apologizes and insists on helping you clean up though getting awfully close to your crotch, but both of you are too tipsy to notice.

→ After the liquor spill, you swap embarrassing love stories and lament over the “hardships of being single.” (Denki’s words.)

→ A few hours pass. You’re tired and ready to go home and Denki requests to walk you home to make sure you get back safely. Not that you live far, maybe ten minutes, but by the time you reach your door, you feel like you've known the electric blond your whole life. After saying goodbye and almost closing the door, Denki blurts out a half-drunken confession...or something like that:

“I—uh, y-you are—uhm, no…this is—“

→ You give him a look, a half-smile at best, and it seems to churn the gears in his brain again.

“This was uhm, really fun and uh, I think you’re really cool.”

→ So naturally, when you invite him inside, he squeals.

→ After a few more drinks and a few more spillages (Denki’s never been a deft drunk), you two finally get over your inner thoughts and start kissing on the couch. It’s hot and messy, and the alcohol in your veins makes it oh, so hot.

→ Denki doesn’t expect you to offer head but when you do he nearly cries, scrambling to pull his pants off while you make space for yourself between his thighs.  Due to the fact that there’s alcohol pumping in Denki’s veins and he hasn't been touched by someone else in at least a year, he’s extra-sensitive. And vocal. 

"F-Fuck gorgeous, you're so good at this...o-oh shit, do that again—yeah, yeah just like that."

→ His hips quiver, and he bucks into your mouth on accident. It earns him a glare and a light slap on the thigh, and you make a mental note to unpack the broken moan that interrupts his apology later. 

→ It doesn't take Denki a long time to cum—five minutes max. He plans to give you a warning but his orgasm runs up on the electric blond so quickly he doesn't even get a warning. When Denki orgasms in your mouth with a choked moan, it's only natural that you pull away in alarm, ribbons of semi-translucent cum flying just about everywhere.

→ To say you're pissed is an understatement (because your poor, poor carpet), but Denki feels terrible and is already reaching for the roll of paper towels you left on the coffee table from your cleaning spree this morning, apologies flying out of his mouth like an auctioneer.

→ Obviously, he's going to make it up to you. Not only for making an absolute mess in your living room (seriously, Denki doesn't know if he's ever come that much in his life) but for the bomb head, and he wants to make you feel just as good as you made him feel.

→ Both of you stumble to your room, the mood miraculously rekindled, and you're not sure what to make of Denki's desperation as he claws at your bottoms, pupils blown to the size of dinner plates. And though it's cheesy, you can't help but shiver when he finally gets eyes on your sex, wetting his bottom lip and the grip around your thigh tightening as he catcalls the apex between your thighs before diving in.

"Hello pretty~"

→ Like any pervert with a vivid imagination, Denki's got a mental warehouse of sex tips and tricks and burns to watch you squirm from his touch. He wants you red-faced and breathless and isn’t shy about it, actively paying attention to your reactions when he curls his fingers or uses his tongue just right.

"Oh, you taste so good sweet thing. So pretty and wet...did I do all this, gorgeous?”

→ Also, electro-stimulation? Yes please.

→ Denki's tentative about it at first because he’s not sure how you’ll react, but once you give him that pretty little moan you've been holding back all evening, you two are going nowhere but hell.

→ His dick hurts from being hard for so long and the second you cum, he’s practically begging to fuck you.

“Please? Please gorgeous? Shit, you felt so good in my mouth I just wanna—I need to—please?”

→ Like you needed any convincing in the first place.

→ You ride him per his request—and will definitely make you repeat things back to him, just because he likes how embarrassed and blushy you get. If you refuse? He’ll be an absolute tease about it. (But only for a bit, because we all know his patience isn’t that great.)

"Yeah? You like this cock? Tell me. Tell me how good my cock makes you feel, gorgeous."

→ There's no way Denki lasts very long (again)—definitely with you in his lap. When he cums, it’s cute and breathless, and his nose scrunches into his eyes. But if he came twice, you should too right?

→ The next morning, Denki's gone. But in his place, there’s a note with his number and an explanation:

had to go to work! lol i have the fattest hangover kill me now ty. either way, you should text me. i wasn't kidding when i said i thought you were cool lol.

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx

— kaminari

[a/n: gah XD my brain melted from writing that um-

also don’t worry about the family of four at the love hotel...they were...um...forced to stay there due to an emergency...lol :) see you soon, angels <3]

[pascalpanic]

hello lovie how u doing? sorry for bugging again but I was thinking.. how about reader lil jelly of the DEAs new secretary hitting on Javi but he's not giving a shh and reader go to the office for a visit with cinnie and kisses javi like out of nowhere and he gets ?????? and she's suddenly shy

Covetous (Javier Peña x f!Reader)

Summary: see above

W/C: 2.1k

Warnings: jealousy, flirtation, language and innuendos

A/N: HI I hope this was what you’re looking for!! I hope it’s clear enough that reader is insecure and not demonizing Javier or Luisa... you’ll see. Enjoy!

Javier naturally attracts attention. You’re not quite sure what it is about him that does- or rather there are so many things about him that you don’t know which one it is. Is it the tight shirts that show off his broad shoulders and thick arms? His commanding aura? The sex appeal he radiates like humidity on a hot Colombian morning?

You love him more than anything. How can you not? He gives you all of his love, and expects nothing in return from you. His love is a passionate and all-consuming one; Javier fears commitment, but once he’s in, he’s all in. He’s the strong and silent type, but he melts with you, allows himself to be soft and gentle.

You know Javier would never do anything to hurt you. He can, has, and will go out of his way to protect you, especially with the danger of being the DEA agent’s girlfriend. That doesn’t lessen your anxiety, the fear that some poor judgement lapse on his part will lead to a broken heart. You know the man’s past. You’d be lying to say you weren’t a little scared.

When he started mentioning Luisa, you’d brushed it off and frowned. Javier is an adult. He can be friends with whoever he likes. Plus, she works with him. He can’t exactly ignore her. You didn’t know much about the woman other than the fact that she was young and pretty, as Murphy had told you. She was intelligent, a skilled worker as their receptionist. The only reason you had to dislike her was the little demon inside your head named Jealousy. Hell, you’d never even met her.

Javier mentions her in passing, just something she did at work or something funny she said. Never anything to be suspicious, and you know deep down that your Javi would never do something like that. He’s a good man, he loves you. You know it’s irrational, that you have no reasoning at all, but you can’t help but feel insecure when he talks about her.

Javier works ridiculous hours. He doesn’t have time to do much other than work and work and come home to you and do more work on the couch. He loves you for that more than anything: you understand it. You understand the busy hours and that he doesn’t often have the energy to do much when he gets home. You just sit next to him and quietly rub his shoulders, pressing kisses to his skin while he grinds out some paperwork. You don’t always understand what he’s doing at work, but your outside perspective often offers valuable ideas. You’re not just a girlfriend to Javier, but more of his partner. You are his other half, his comfort and relief and love in his hectic life.

If he’s being honest, Luisa bugs the shit out of him. She’s a smart girl, really, but her job is not as an agent. She likes to think she is, but she doesn’t have the training or knowledge to do so. She’s a go-getter, and Javi admires that, but it’s just another problem on his endless pile of them.

The most annoying thing is her flirting. Javier is no stranger to flirtation, obviously, and in any other situation he’d love to play along; she’s pretty and funny and a good conversationalist, but Javier, of course, only has eyes for you. He’s given her signs to back off, clearly, but she hasn’t picked them up. He’s tried to be more blunt, but nothing works. She is dead set on Agent Peña, and she’s a determined little thing.

You don’t visit Javier at work often. It’s rare that you get the chance, since you’re busy yourself. Usually, you’ll coordinate a day with Connie to bring lunch for the boys and sit with them for a while. They obviously both enjoy it, other than the mockery they receive from the other men when you leave. You love doing it, preening under the attention of your boyfriend and laughing at his annoyance with the other men. You’ve been there enough to know some of the other agents, and you know plenty about them from Javier’s annoyance at them at the end of the day.

Planning a day to surprise Javier at the office is fun. You usually do it when you know he’s extra stressed, when he could use the diversion and a little break in his day. That’s why you decided on it last night. Connie has the day off, and she insisted she’ll help you cook something to bring into work; Steve has been a mess lately too. They need it. She was right.

With a fresh tray of cookies out of the oven, you sigh and climb onto the couch to knock on the ceiling. You rap three times; moments later, two come back in response from Connie. It’s easier than using the phone, Connie suggested one night while you and Javier steadily got the Murphys drunker and drunker. It was funny to you at the time, but she was right. You smile remembering it as you put some cookies into a container and walk out of the front of the apartment building.

Connie is in a cheerful mood today. It’s probably because she has the day off; normally, she’d be asleep at this hour, thanks to long night shifts. She chats with you as the two of you drive to the embassy together, humming along to a song on the radio. She tells you all about Steve, the latest recipe she found, her new favorite grocery store. You smile and nod, mind elsewhere. Her blonde head bobs along to the rhythm as she finds a spot and parks.

You are irrational, you remind yourself as you walk in. You know and trust and love Javier. Luisa is nothing to worry about. Then why do you have a painfully tight grip on your container of cookies? “Hey, you’re gonna crack that,” Connie chides and swats your hand. “You okay, babe?”

You shake your head and smile it off. “It’s nothing. Guess I’m just excited,” you chuckle and loosen your grip on the cookies, though your spine is rigid as a board.

There’s a desk and at the front sits a woman, slightly younger than you, writing something in a book. She looks up when she hears the two of you enter through the lobby deeper into the building. “Hola. Soy Luisa, bienvenidos. Necesitá-“

That’s Luisa? She’s sweet, you frown. You’ve been all worked up over this? She’s cut off when Steve walks past. “Woah, hey ladies,” he chuckles as he sees the two of you. He wraps an arm around his wife and kisses her forehead. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Connie shrugs, beaming up at her husband. “We just thought we’d bring you lunch.”

“I made cookies,” you offer weakly, holding up the tupperware. You’re surprised it isn’t shattered into plastic shards on the ground by now.

“Hell yeah,” Steve smiles and snatches the cookies from your hands. “Luisa, this is my wife, Connie.”

She nods. “I could tell,” she chuckles, gesturing to the blonde hair and blue eyes. Who else would she be around here? “And you are?” She asks, turning to you.

“Ah, that’s Peña’s girl, remember?” Steve says for you, which makes you breathe a sigh of relief.

Her smile becomes tight-lipped and passive-aggressive. “Ah, yes. Wonderful to meet you,” she tells you, turning back to her books immediately. “Steve, you will show the women back then?”

He nods. “Thanks, kid.” He steals a candy from the jar she keeps on her desk and leads you back into the bullpen. He and Connie talk about their days, and you trail behind, nervously tapping your fingers against your sides. Now that you don’t have the Tupperware to clutch, you fidget until your heart warms at the sight of Javier. He’s hunched over his desk, shoulders straining against his tight shirt. He’s rapidly banging out a report on a typewriter, and your smile becomes a little bittersweet with how hard you know he’s working.

He’s a jumpy man, but scaring him is your favorite thing in the world. You hold a finger to your lips to the Murphys, telling them to be quiet, and they nod in agreement. Silently padding up behind him, you cover his hands with your eyes. “Boo,” you squeal.

“What the fuck?” Javier jumps, rapidly pulling the hands off his eyes and spinning in his chair. His hand hovers over his weapon, but his anxiety fades when he sees it’s you. “Hijo de puta… cariño,” he smiles softly, laughing a little. “What are you doing here?” He asks as he stands, pulling you into a hug.

His face is all the reassurance you need, his smile and his arms squeezing you making you grin. “We brought you lunch. Wanted to surprise you,” you tell him as you break away, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Got a spare minute?”

He sighs and sits back down at his desk. “Can you give me five? I need to finish this report then I’m all yours.”

“Fine,” you sigh teasingly and kiss him on the head. While he types, you and Connie set up the desks, arranging chairs and plates on top of piles of cluttered papers. Javier’s handwriting is messy, you notice as you look at a folder of information, but legible. Hurried but still nice, looping and arcing.

“Hey,” Javi booms playfully and startles you, snatching the folder from your hands. “That’s classified.”

“That’s about as classified as your dick is to the Colombian population of women,” Steve snorts.

“Stephen!” Connie gasps and scolds, smacking his arm.

It doesn’t matter. You and Javi are laughing, falling onto each other and giggling at the joke. Steve sniggers under his breath, trying to avoid Connie’s wrath from the rude joke.

Straightening up, you take a sip of your water and try to collect yourself, though you’re still chuckling softly. “Does this mean you’re done?” You ask him hopefully.

Javier sighs and signs the bottom of the paper. His signature is beautiful and classy: J. Peña. “Now I am,” he smiles at you and tucks the file away in a desk drawer. “What did you bring us to eat, hm?”

The four of you converse over the meal, waving forks around aimlessly to make your points. The Murphys talk on their own, chatting about plans for the night. The meal is clearly finished and Javier cracks open the container of cookies, winking at you. You know he loves them, adores the little fluffy things. You smile and snag one from the tupperware before he can. He frowns. “I wanted that one.”

“Poor baby,” you tease and cup his face, taking a bite from it.

There’s the clacking of heels on tile approaching before you hear it: “Agente Peña!” a feminine voice sings. You roll your eyes, completely missing the way Javier rolls his too. “Javi?” She asks as she gets closer, about to round the corner.

God, you can’t stand that she calls him that. He’s only Javi to you and the Murphys, to those who love him. Your rational brain is far out of the window, possessed by jealousy as you do the only thing you can to, what, stake your claim? It doesn’t matter. Javier won’t be mad with the tiniest bit of affection. Your other hand cups Javier’s face too and you kiss him.

He’s used to kissing you. The two of you do it all the damn time. He’s just not a big PDA man; never has been. He prefers to keep his passion in private. But he doesn’t care, and cares even less when he knows Luisa is watching. He kisses back, rolling your chair closer to his and cupping your face too.

Luisa huffs at the sight. “Guess you’re busy,” she scoffs in English.

You break away only to find her walking away, and you can’t help but smirk. At least now she knows that Javier is truly committed to you, if she even caught a glimpse of the way he kissed you back. “What was that for?” Javier asks.

“Because I love you?” You chuckle and kiss him one more time, soft and quick.

He knows exactly why you did it. He doesn’t ask again. “I love you too, cariño,” he chuckles and rests his hand on your thigh.

-

Taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain @tacticalsparkles

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mind The Gap: One

Summary: In an age of Heroes, there's always one more Villain. Can Shang- Chi handle his girlfriend needing to walk a Hero's Journey of her own? And how will he handle the two of you not being the only "people" in your relationship?

“Where are you?”

“I’m safe- well. Relatively speaking.”

“Y/N-” He tightened his grip on the phone like it was a life line. Like if he clung on hard enough, he could find you somehow.

“I promise to explain it all when I get back,” you say slowly, in what you hope is a relaxed tone of voice. It’s a little had to do with a desert Eagle pointed directly at your nose but for Shang-Chi, to keep him out of this you’d try.

“Please,” he whispered. He could hear the difference in your tone. It wasn’t your usual easy going voice. The one that filled him with a sense of calm. There was a sharpness. And under current he’d only heard once before. And it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“Tell Katy I’m sorry I have to miss Karaoke night,” you try, hoping to break his concentration. “I have to go, I love you.”

And before he can get anything else out, the line goes dead. The line goes dead and he can feel a hollow ache in his chest. One that tells him you’re in trouble. Big trouble. And without being able to keep you on the phone, there’s no telling where you went.

“She’s smart,” Xialing said frowning. “Either she’s done this before or she was warned. But we couldn’t get a fix on her.”

“She’s an archive,” Shang Chi said, trying not to sound bitter, “Smart is an understatement.” He folded his arms and looked over Xailing’s shoulder frowning. There had to be a pattern. Something had to make sense. You were a creature of habit. Very particular habits. When you ate and when you slept was a strict schedule. And on the run you’d be trying to hold on to something… Unless that was all part of your cover, too.

“What happens if-”

Shang- Chi felt his head jerk up and his eyes narrow, making Katy flinch reflexively, “If we can’t find her?” he finished.

Katy nodded hesitantly and he exhaled slowly trying to rein in his temper, “I don’t know, but it can’t be good.”

____

You toss your phone away carelessly and listen to the sound of a heavy boot crushing it under heel and scattering the pieces. But still, you don’t look away from the man pointing a gun at you.

“Not bad for a librarian… A little on the nose don’t you think?” he scoffed.

You force yourself into a nonchalant shrug and smile a little, “The best place to hide is in plain sight. At least some of the time.”

And that’s the last thing you managed to get out before that Desert Eagle cracked across the side of your face, sending you into the dark once more.

________

Wenwu watched his son pace, trying to stem the tide of panic. Your phone had gone from ringing out to nothing. Straight to voice mail.

“You got me, leave a message. Or don’t. Whatever.”

“Does she have enemies?”

Shang-Chi exhaled slowly and took a deep breath, “None. At least none that I know about. She avoided the snap but… There’s a bit of time before she wound up in the City she doesn’t really talk about.”

“So she could have enemies?”

He stopped and carded his fingers through his hair, “If not enemies because of who she is then… maybe because of what she is.”

“What she is?”

Shang Chi nodded reluctantly. He wasn’t even sure he completely understood. He only knew that your brother had warned him. Told him that there were things you could do that were… rare. That might attract attention. And he wasn’t sure if he could share that information. Even if it might bring you home. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. For all he knew you could be dying. You could be dead and it could already be too late. But if there was a chance… No matter how small, he could take your anger. He could take you never speaking to him again. As long as he knew you were alive.

She’s an- an Archive,” he said slowly. “At least. That’s what the world knows them as now, I guess.”

He watched in apprehension as he saw his Father’s eyes widen in understanding and it was clear that he’d met, or at least heard of the Archives before.

“What does she hold?” he asked, seriously.

“Secrets. Things that are hidden.”

Even as Shang-Chi heard himself say the words, he knew he didn’t understand, not really. That had been what your Brother had told him. Quickly. Quietly. While you were distracted with a tea kettle and getting out the mugs. And even his most intense searches could turn up no information.

“Secrets?” Wenwu repeated, “Such as?”

And all Shang-Chi could do was shrug. He’d seen you at work. Your fingers brushing the spines of books. Tenderly. Almost lovingly. And he’d thought that it was cute. That it was an extension of your curiosity. A love of knowing. He thought of the way you’d told him once that Libraries were where you felt at home. Where you felt safe. He thought of the evenings when he came to walk you home. The serenity in the security lights. The way you smiled at him. And his chest throbbed. The secrets you knew probably didn’t include any martial arts.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, leaning heavily against the table, hanging his head. “The only information I have came second hand from her brother. And even then, he only told me that she isn’t human. At least not all human.”

He didn’t like to think about it. And he didn’t like to think about the distance he tried to put between you when he found out. Or how that distance had lead him here. The reaction that had made you avoid coming to him for help. He felt the hand on the back of his neck. But it didn’t register. Not really. In the back of his head, he could hear you. A casual fact. Things about Aliester Crowley. Or Agrippa. Or the Knights Templar.

You’d always written off questions about it as being a weird kid. Or by reminding people that you had a doctorate in Anthropology. But it wasn’t… It never felt like that. It felt like you had just… said it.

Shang Chi didn’t need to be looking at his father to know he was frowning. Thinking. “If we can’t get to her, I need to try to call her brother.”

“What is her brother?”

“An engineer,” Shang Chi said smiling a little. And a former Marine. But he was going to keep that to himself. He had a hunch that your best chance wasn’t going to involve his Father going on a recruiting mission simultaneously.

Wenwu’s frown deepened but he nodded as he watched his son pull a card from his wallet and dial the number.

“Kai-”

“We have a problem,” Shang Chi said quickly, “Y/N is missing.”

“Missing missing or went camping for a couple days?”

“Missing, Missing,” he clarified, “I got a phone call an hour ago and she hung up before we could trace it.”

“Let me call you back-”

And the line went dead before he could say more. “Shit,” he hissed. He wasn’t sure what Pandora’s box had been opened with that phone call. And he hated bumbling around in the dark. He hated not knowing if you were safe. If you were hurt.

“He said he’d call back,” Katy said helpfully, “Maybe he’s calling family.”

“I don’t know if there’s any family to call,” he said pinching the bridge of his nose. He could kick himself for not pressing you for answers. He hadn’t because he’d not been prepared to give you any. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to drag you into his life but. It was looking more and more like he might not have any choice.

When the phone in his hand rang he almost dropped it and had to fumble with it for a second before he could answer, “Kai-”

“I’m assuming you aren’t alone,” the other man said shortly, “I’ll text you the coordinates. Get there as quickly as you can. I’m not sure if we’re going to extract her or clean up the mess. Those idiots have a tiger by the tail and they don’t even know it.”

The call ended and all Shang-Chi could do was stare at the phone for a second, “What the fu-”

“Y/N,” Katy demanded, “Our Y/N? The dirty chai loving, vintage wearing Y/N that cried for 30 minutes at the end of the brave little toaster?”

“Evidently-” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Does anyone else here have a secret badass origin story?” she yelped, “What the hell?”

_________

The coordinates were, So far as anyone could tell, in the middle of nothing. A waste land of tall grass and trails left by herds of cattle in Montana.

But, even without asking he knew he was in the right place. There was a palpable sense of… mayhem in the air. Like the feeling before a nasty storm. Rising anxiety and energy crackling on the wind. Everyone was affected and everyone was quiet.

It wasn’t until they got closer that Shang-Chi and Katy could pick Kai out of the small knot of people. And it was something of a comfort that he looked relaxed. Or at least unconcerned.

“Hey,” Kai said taking a slow drag off his cigarette and exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the sky. He didn’t seem the least Perturbed that Shang-Chi hadn’t come alone. Or that they were all dressed for a fight.

“What-”

“We’re waiting,” Kai said shrugging. “She’s got to take the vortex apart. Then we mop up whatever comes out of it.”

Almost on cue, a Motor Cycle comes roaring over the flat ground as an explosion rattled the ground beneath their feet. “2 hell hounds and at least a baker's dozen in demons, grades 4 to 2.” The words sound like they're coming from you but. You don’t look like you. Skin coated in soot and eyes shining like silver in moonlight. It makes Shang-chi want to shake you.

“Y/N-” He starts, but when you look at him, he doesn’t know what to say. Or where to start.

“You’ll know what it is when you see it,” you say, spitting a mouthful of blood into the grass. “Take it down quickly. Headshots. If it doesn’t go down run for me. Demons don’t play. And, I make better bait. The rest of you are kinda like designer purses. Nice to have but ultimately disposable.”

“Is the vortex closed?” Kai asked grinding the cigarette out with his heel.

“With half the Golden Dagger on the other side of it. Everyone else scattered before I could get anything else for Lea.”

And then there wasn’t time for you to answer anything else. As the small hoard surged into the open field, Kai almost lazily tossed you the other sword he’d had strapped across his back and it was all a blur.

You were a blur. Almost preternaturally fast as you dismembered the bodies that hurtled towards you. It wasn’t until the last demon crackled on the fire that you crumpled like paper, sagging heavily against Shang-Chi who had made his way to your side.

“Shi-” he caught you, if only just. The dead weight taking him by surprise. And the warmth of the blood running over his hands. He could only gasp before the rest of Kai’s team descended like a plague of helpful locusts, loading you quickly onto the nearest stretcher and starting to try and repair the damage.

“I wonder how long she was out,” Kai mused, lighting another cigarette. “Or if she remembers anything. She doesn’t always.”

Shang- Chi opened his mouth to ask, wiping blood off his lip with the back of his hand, but Kai only shook his head. “She told you she’d explain. Let her do it.”

“Will she be okay?” He heard himself ask, but as he watched you loaded into a helicopter, nothing felt real. He’d just watched you dismember a demon. You’d looked at him… But hadn’t seen him. You didn’t look at him like you even knew who he was.

“She will,” Kai answered, looking at him sympathetically. “It takes time… but. The Archive has a vested interest in keeping her alive.”

____________

“Hey.”

“You look like hell.”

“Gee thanks,” you sigh, wincing as you try and sit up straighter. “You should see the other guy.”

“I did,” he said. And he can’t stop the frown when he looks down at your hands. They’re clean now. No trace of the black blood you’d been coated in. You looked like you. Your eyes were the same color that they’d always been.

“I’m sorry that I lied,” you tell him. “That I didn’t come clean when you came back from Ta-lo with Katy. I just… I guess I was still holding out hope that I could be normal.” You look away from him, taking a deep breath. “Becoming an Archive… I always hoped it wouldn’t be me. And then it was. And it was… it was a blessing and a curse.”

“You weren’t born an Archive?”

You shake your head and exhale slowly, “I was born a witch. If Lea and my grandmother can be believed, the most powerful witch born into this family in 400 years. I became An Archive when I was 12.” You swallow hard and take the hand that reaches for yours. “It- I remember the pain. I don’t remember much from before. I remember smoke and screaming. And I remember… I remember hunters and- and- when I woke up I was here.”

Shang-Chi squeezed your hand and reached up to touch your cheek, wiping away tears with his thumb. He’d been ready to be angry. He’d been hurt. But now all he wanted was to pull you closer. “The scars on your back-”

“I’ve been told it’s best that I don’t know,” you murmur. “Lea- She knows but.” You stop and take another deep breath.

For a moment, there is silence. It stretches out around the two of you while Shang-Chi digests those pieces of information and you try to try to put together a coherent explanation. Beyond the door, you can hear voices mingling in the kitchen. Katy. Kai. Lea. Wenwu. Xialing. Cousins. Your Grandmother. Both familiar and strange.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Shang- Chi asked quietly.

“Calling you… I know I told you I’d explain I just- I don’t know how.”

Shang-Chi smiles a little, “It’s probably harder given there’s a lot you don’t remember.”

“A little,” you murmur. “Sometimes, the Archive condescends to tell me what they’ve been doing with my body but other times? It feels a little like waking up from closing down the Karaoke bar.”

“How much time are you missing now?”

“A day. Maybe two. I’m not sure.”

“What’s the longest time span you don’t remember?”

“Close to a year,” you sigh. “If my physical body is in danger, The Archive will take the driver’s seat until the danger has passed OR It’s deemed that I can handle it on my own… Now that I’m older and I’ve grown into the powers I was given I spend a lot more time driving.”

“Even when you’re with me?”

“The Archive seems to think it can trust you. Though if it’s just with my physical body or with the things we know I’m not sure. Sometimes it views those things as one and the same.”

“Do you- I mean. When we’re alone?”

“You mean when we’re having sex?” The blush that blooms over his cheeks makes you smile a little. “I mean. The Archive lives in my head. Sometimes it has notes though… I don’t know how it would know-”

“Notes?”

You nod and roll your eyes. And even if he’s confused and a little offended, he can’t help but chuckle, “What kind of notes?”

“Ugh-” you groan, “No. We’re not humoring the freeloader in my head.”

[anthemxix]

I had an angsty interesting idea and thought you’d maybe like to hear it (since you’re a fan of Wars and Time bonding)

Time and Warriors get separated from the group and are fighting a big ol’ horde of monsters when Time gets hit hard. Like, he-needs-a-fairy-NOW hard. And Wars knows he can’t protect Time while fighting off all these monsters, he’s horribly outnumbered without him, he needs help, he needs more power-

Then he remembers the Fierce Diety mask.

anon, thank you for thinking of me!! i do adore these two bonding! <3 hope you enjoy this little thing i wrote~ uwu

The realization that this ragtag monster horde was capable of implementing a coordinated battle plan carries myriad unsettling implications, but Warriors puts all that aside for later consideration. Right now, he’s rather more preoccupied with his other realization: he and Time are kind of fucked.

Separated from the other heroes by the latest portal (and maybe that was all part of the enemies’ strategy, too?), Time and Warriors are severely outnumbered, two to two dozen. The only reason they haven't lost already is because they've managed to stay back-to-back, fighting together fluidly, watching each other's blind spots. Everything they're doing is purely defensive, purely reactionary, and their stamina is quickly getting whittled away by endless waves of brutal attacks.

And maybe their draining stamina is why there's a slip-up. Warriors hopes that's why there's a slip-up, because he can't bear the idea that his carelessness caused whatever just happened behind him to make Time shout in agony.

Warriors whirls around just as Time crumples to his knees. He steps in front of the Old Man in time to block the heavy stroke of a darknut's broadsword. The blunt impact forces him back half a foot. He grits his teeth and smashes his shield into the darknut's helmet as it winds up for another strike. Armor rattling, the monster stumbles back, briefly stunned.

Swinging around, Warriors throws out his shield against the thrust of a lizalfos' spear, but both weapon and shield collide instead with a translucent blue wall that materializes between them. Sapphire-colored and diamond-shaped, the sudden barrier surprises Warriors for a second before he remembers a child casting the same spell on battlefields some years ago.

"Can't hold it for long," Time says, voice strained, as he presses one hand against his side. Warriors drops down next to him, ignoring the sounds of baffled and angry monsters pounding on the barrier encasing them, and pulls Time's hand away to reveal a terribly deep gash.

Time coughs, and a trail of blood mars his chin. Cursing, Warriors carelessly rips a swatch from his scarf and stuffs it into the wound in the hopes of slowing the bleeding.

"Give it to me," he blurts before he knows what he's saying. His conscious mind takes a moment to catch up to his mouth, but then he feels it. Beneath the clean, blessed magic that Time exudes beats the pulse of something darker, something that wormed into Warriors’ mind without him even noticing.

Suddenly, Warriors knows with certainty how this fight is going to end. He reaches for Time's satchel without awaiting an answer. The Old Man clamps a surprisingly firm hand onto Warriors' wrist.

"No," he says, the tremble in his voice belying the sternness of his tone. "I won't allow it."

The magic, which feels like frenzy barely contained, wraps more securely around Warriors' heart. He wonders how it leaked into him without his consent, how it made him its pawn before he even considered using the mask.

"It's our only choice." Warriors drapes his other hand on top of Time's. The barrier around them flickers, disappearing for half an instant.

Time retrieves the mask from his bag without looking, like he knows exactly where it is. In the open, the mask's alluring magic is more potent. It feels like chaos masquerading as calm, like a threat camouflaged as salvation.

"I could do it," Time weakly offers, even as more blood beads on his lips, as more color drains from his wan face, as resignation clouds his eye.

When Warriors' fingers graze the mask's smooth wood, a shock runs along his spine, prickles the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. The faded red and blue lines that mirror Time's remind him that dabbling with something this powerful has irreversible consequences. In an odd moment of detached lucidity, Warriors recognizes that after he puts on this mask, his life is never going to be the same.

But as he takes the cursed object, he looks down at Time's weeping gash, poorly plugged by blood-drenched scraps of scarf, and feels at peace with his decision.

"I'll be fine, Sprite," he says. "Just promise me you'll be fine, too."

As Time's spell withers and the blue diamond barrier shatters, Warriors puts on the mask.

He's dropped into an abyss that somehow feels both bottomless and claustrophobic. He can't see or hear or touch any more, can't feel his body or what he's doing; he's confined to his mind, condemned to an inky, oceanic emptiness that is filling up with poisonous magic. The deity's overwhelming presence invades more and more of Warriors' mental space, grappling for control.

And it hurts. It's agonizing, the way the subjugating magic bleeds into his every crevice, sunders him at his seams. Peels him apart layer by layer. Breaks him down to his basest pieces. Divides. Consumes.

Rational thought disappears; his darkness is lit only by instinct now, and his instinct tells him to fight. So Warriors resists. As puny and piteous a creature as he is compared to the deity's wrath, he resists, struggling to retain a foothold in his own mind.

And just as abruptly as this hellish internal fight begins, it ends. Full consciousness slams back into Warriors with merciless force. The world seems like a hazy mess of colors and light that he can't decipher. His body feels foreign, and he can't distinguish, spatially, where he is, what he's doing. He thinks he's standing--no, he's falling--

Warriors tumbles back into something solid. Someone solid, who secures their arms around his middle and lowers him to the ground. Dizzy and muddled, he squints up at the concerned face hovering above him. Twilight. The Rancher's mouth is moving, but the words are distant and incomprehensible.

Simply holding his head up is a strain, and Warriors lets himself go limp in Twilight's arms. Through blurry vision, he can see the signs of a massacre: the decimated remains of all those monsters, strewn around the battlefield. He vaguely registers Twilight's fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse, and Twilight's hands running along his limbs, his torso, feeling for injuries.

There's a swirl of red and pink in his periphery. Legend, not bothering to conceal his concern, appears on one side of him. He's speaking, too, and though the words sound a bit clearer than before, Warriors still doesn't understand. Exhausted, he doesn't worry about it, and lets his eyes slip closed.

Twilight and Legend's conversation drones over his head as comforting white noise, and the Rancher's steady breaths begin to lull him to sleep. Then something tugs at his hand, and he pries his eyes open, annoyed, to see Legend trying to take the mask from him.

Warriors blinks down at the cursed item, surprised to see it still clasped in his fist, his unyielding fingers coiled through the eye holes.

"Let go of this damn thing, Pretty Boy," Legend says when he sees Warriors' eyes are open. The Captain can't decide if Legend's voice is actually quiet or if it still sounds weirdly far away. Regardless, he loosens his hold and watches Legend take the mask, grimace at it with a mix of revulsion and anger, and artlessly toss it out of view.

"Captain?"

Turning his heavy head, Warriors finds Wind kneeling at his other side. His expression is all unrefined concern, the watery eyes and exaggerated compassion of a child. Warriors wants to comfort him, but he can hardly move at the moment. He supposes speaking is out of the question, too.

"Are you okay?" the Sailor asks, taking up Warriors' hand in both his own.

Getting no reply, Wind glances between Twilight and Legend. "Why isn't he saying anything? He's okay, isn't he?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Twilight replies. It's a stilted, rote response that holds little conviction. Warriors thinks that should bother him, but he's too tired to care.

"What about those?" Wind says, nodding towards Warriors.

On reflex, Twilight brushes his fingers against the Captain's cheek, looking sadly at whatever is there. "The magic imprinted on him, but he wasn't changed for long. The marks will fade."

Marks? Warriors tunes out the rest of the conversation, trying to deduce what marks they're referring to--until he pictures the red and blue lines tattooed onto--

Time. Warriors twitches, wanting to sit up, wanting to ask after the Old Man. Legend puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, instructs him not to move. Still, he swivels his head around, trying to squint through the still-indistinct mass of shapes and lights that make up the world beyond his little sphere.

Finally, he sees, past Wind, the rest of their troupe. As Warriors is with Twilight, Time is reclined against Sky, with Four and Wild on either side of him. Hyrule is bent over him, hands aglow with golden healing magic that surges into the dangerous wound on Time's side.

Warriors tries to focus on the Old Man's face, and his eyes finally adjust enough that he can see Time, grim and weary, looking straight back at him. He looks sad, Warriors thinks. Sympathetic. Pitying.

It's off-putting, and Warriors looks away. He closes his eyes again and sinks back into Twilight, deciding for now that he'll pretend this is a nightmare, and soon, he'll wake up somewhere else with his soul and mind intact. Yes, he thinks, he’ll let himself pretend for a little while.

[amiedala]

Something More (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 3: TO TRUST

Rated: Explicit (not this chapter, but future chapters will be)

Warnings: descriptions of violence

Summary: “What…” he starts.

“You got hit—” you interrupt.

“…Are you wearing?” Mando finishes, and your cheeks flush, looking down at his giant shirt you never changed out of.

“I was—when you called, I was in the fresher,” you say, scooting slightly closer to him, resting on both knees. “I didn’t have time to put anything else on before you told me to hide.”

“Oh,” he sighs, and then he’s pushing himself off the floor despite literally every single warning you spurt at him, and finally, he’s up against the same wall you’re leaning against. The space is small, small enough that two people would be pushing it, and the fact that one of those people is much larger than the other and in giant beskar armor means that your forehead is almost flush against the visor when he turns his head into you. Your breath catches in your chest. It’s not lost on you that in the heat of the moment, you didn’t run. You ignored where you were, and you forged on to save him. That didn’t happen the last time you were on this planet and the fact that belonging to something—to someone—was enough to push past the fear and do it anyway sung inside you.

The baby is in your face. You startle awake to a sea of green. He babbles as you jolt up, clapping his tiny hands together in celebration. He’s all swaddled up in his own robes, but he’s so much warmer than you are, and you groan as he hops up against you, fingers beating around your arm as you bring him in closer to your chest, hoping to leech off his warmth. Slowly, painfully, you push yourself off the ground and push on your neck to make it crack, the pain shooting up behind your eyes like starfire. You don’t want to see what shape your belly’s in.

“Good morning,” you slur through sleep, as the baby giggles and pushes into you. You just stay there, half awake, slouched against the wall of the ship, when suddenly the baby is being plucked from your arms and you’re staring into beskar.

It’s not lost on you that you’re at eye level with the Mandalorian’s crotch, and while you try your hardest to not let your gaze linger there in an obvious way, your eyes stutter once or twice looking up to where the helmet is.

“You’re awake.”

“Barely.”

He kneels so that you’re almost at eye level, and he’s dangerously close to you again. You feel your cheeks flush, the rush low in your belly, deeper than your injury, deep down somewhere warm.

“I need to see you.”

“Huh?” You manage, and hope it’s not as croaky as it seems.

“Your stomach. I need to make sure you don’t need a shot or to get checked out by a professional.”

You nod as his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, going slow, giving you a chance to stop him if you want. You want to sit on your hands and just let him take it all the way off, but you try to focus your brain elsewhere. Literally anywhere else. You fail. His hands are just as large as last night.

“You’re telling me you’re not a professional?”

“I know how to take care of injuries. I mean… a nurse droid, or something.”

“Last time I checked, this was an injury,” you pressed, a smile breaking out of your face faster than you can control it. “And you hate droids.”

“The injuries I usually take care of are my own. I can gauge how bad the pain is, how deep the cut goes. I’m not inside you,” he says, and it’s so fast that you think you imagined it, “so I can’t tell how bad it is.”

You blink at him, stunned into silence. Your heart is so loud and fast you’re terrified he can hear it. In the background, the baby is staring at you with his giant, magic eyes, and you know he can hear it, the little womp rat, the way he’s smiling at you. “Not bad.”

The Mandalorian taps your stomach, not enough to really hurt you, but enough to startle the bruise. You wince. “Bad,” he says, simply, point proven.

You let him check you out and argue about how it wasn’t that bruised, and it ached but you could move, and finally, very begrudgingly, he let you stand. You tried to gesture him up the ladder to the cockpit, but he shook his head, arms crossed.

“You first.”

You squint at him, shocked by his brazenness, shocked that he’s insinuating watching below you as you ascend the ladder, and your tummy does full back flips before you realize that he’s probably waiting to make sure you have enough working muscles in your abdomen to keep yourself upwards as you climb. You’re thankful you’re going up first, now, with the way you’re blushing again.

The ladder is a beast, but you’re up, and you’re not hurting that bad, so you make your way over to the chair where you usually hold the baby and fall into it. The ship is hurtling through hyperspace, smoother than the X-Wing did, but still shakily, and you have to avert your eyes from the rush of it because it’s starting to make you dizzy. Something brushes your leg, and you realize it’s the Mandalorian’s cape, worn and tattered, but fluttering past you even in the cockpit, and you bring a knee to your aching chest to hide your smile as he breezes past you to the pilot’s seat.

“Are you hungry?”

You can’t tell who he’s talking to until the baby looks at you, bug-eyed and questioning. “Not really.”

“You need to eat something.”

“I will. I can’t eat too soon after I wake up or I get sick. I don’t think vomiting would do my stomach any favors.”

He cocks his helmet back at you and you smile again, jutting your chin into your hand. He’s silent, but it isn’t an unsettling one. After sleeping a foot from him last night, you don’t think his silence will ever make you feel unsettled or uneasy again. It’s just there, permeating, surrounding both of you. You want to ask him a million things, and you don’t know which one to pick, but you also don’t want to force anything through the quiet.

It feels like hours have passed by the next time you open your mouth. You want to ask him where you’re headed again, but what falls out instead is, “Do you even know my name?”

He looks back at you, swings his helmet back to center, and then spins the entire chair around instead. “What?”

“I’ve been living here for almost a month,” you realize, counting the days on your fingers. “I babysit your kid. You trust me with your ship,” you say, looking up at the stars flying past the Crest. “Do you know my name?”

He stares at you. The helmet is obscuring his vision, but you know he’s staring at you. You can feel his eyes on your face, looking how your lips are parted, your hair still piled in a mess on your head.

“Of—” he starts, and then both of you are thrown sideways. Something on the dashboard is blaring, and before you can haul yourself off the floor, the Mandalorian is extending a hand to you as he navigates the ship out of hyperspace. You scramble back to the chair and buckle in, grabbing onto the baby’s floating cradle so that he won’t get knocked around either. You want to ask if the Mandalorian needs your help, but as quickly as the ship fell into disarray, the beeping stops. Your heart is hammering.

“What was that—?”

“I forgot about the shields,” he muttered under his breath, and then you look outside the window, and you realize where you are. You swallow, looking out at the planet in front of you, wide and purple and all-encompassing. You fold your legs up under yourself, not focused on anything except where you’re headed. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, hungry and roaring.

“Hey,” his voice filters back in, and it’s sharp, and you look over at him, trying to look neutral. You can tell it’s not working. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell again?”

“No,” you whisper, and then repeat it louder, “No, I’m okay. I just wasn’t expecting to…be back here anytime soon.”

The Crest pulls through the planet’s atmosphere, and you breathe a sigh of relief that you aren’t anywhere close to the heart of Galactic City, that wherever the bounty’s new coordinates were, it was on the opposite side of where you had been the last time you were here. Besides, you were staying on the ship, and you didn’t have to breathe any of the air of the planet if you didn’t want to. You swallowed, and as he pulled into a landing bay, you realize the Mandalorian’s helmet is still trained on you.

“You’re not a fan,” he says. It’s not a question. “Of Coruscant.”

“No,” you say, and you don’t elaborate because you’re not sure if you can without your voice shaking.

He keeps his visor trained on you, and you try to smile, but you’re afraid it’ll come out looking more like fear. “I’ll be quick,” he says, and his voice is low, honest. It reminds you of the way he talks to the kid, not to you, but you’re too shaken by being thrown out of hyperspace and landing on the planet you almost died on to understand the significance of his cadence. “Come downstairs with me.”

You follow him, aware of his gaze on your body as you descend the ladder. In any other circumstance, you could feel it burning straight through you, but you were too focused on trying not to fall. Silently, you match his footsteps as he walks over to the armory. His body is so large, so present, that you focus on the beskar and try to keep moving. The Mandalorian pushes a lever and the armory opens, and you blink at all the metal as your eyes adjust.

“Pick one.”

Hazily, you remember he told you to pick a weapon last night, and you let your eyes survey all the glinting metal before you settle on a small blaster, one that looks like a cousin of the one you lost in your crash landing. Similar enough to be strapped to your thigh in the same belt you still have around your waist, and you fit it in there triumphantly. You give the Mandalorian a half smile, and he nods, shutting the case.

It’s dark in the Razor Crest, even in Coruscant’s glitz and glamour. You rest your head against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

“I’ll be quick,” the Mandalorian repeats after prolonged silence, after you’ve made it clear you aren’t going to say anything else. “You stay here, with the doors locked. Sleep more, if you need it.” He tosses you something, and you don’t catch it in time. You bend down to grab it, but his hand is already around it, glancing off your hand for a second too long as he presses it into your palm. “This is to be used for emergencies,” he says. You stare at it. It’s a commlink, a new, fancy one. You nod. “If… if something happens, or if…” he trails off, cocking his head at you, “if I need you to come get me, you just press this button, and you can talk to me.”

He lingers for a second longer and then descends the gangplank, and it isn’t until he’s gone that his words fully register.

If you have to come get him? That’s new.

“Hey!” you call, and you know he can’t hear you anymore, but you can’t help yourself, “what constitutes as an emergency?”

  Hours pass. One, slowly, and then two, and then three. You finally eat, you make sure the baby has too. You think about showering, but you haven’t been able to lift your arms above your head since you got your stomach bruised yesterday, so you lay spread eagled on the floor babbling halves of songs and whatever random thought runs through your head. You do everything you can to not look outside at the planet around you, to ruminate on the sleek buildings. You haven’t been on Coruscant for years, not since you were first out on your own when you were still a teenager, and you’ve tried everything in you to forget what happened the last time you were on the planet’s surface.

The baby coos at your feet, and you prop yourself up on your forearms, still sore. It doesn’t ache as much as it did this morning, and your bruises have turned this ugly yellow color around the edges, but you can flex without agony, which definitely means you’re just banged up.

“Hi bug,” you say, and he giggles, climbing up onto your sore belly, and you groan. “Hi. What’s up?”

He makes a series of noises, and you can’t understand him like his father clearly can, but you can gather the gist of what he’s saying. He’s babbling away, now pointing his tiny finger up to the ceiling, and you pretend you know exactly what he means.

“You’re absolutely right. Mhm, yep, I know. Is that true?”

He claps his hands together.

“You’re right, again, you little womp rat. Excellent point.”

He giggles.

“You’re much cuter than a womp rat, you know.” You pause. “I gotta tell you though, buddy, I don’t know what a womp rat looks like.”

He gasps, all awe. You look at him. There’s something about the kid, something magical, something that feels…elevated. You look into his big eyes, and you see yourself. You know that it’s because the things are huge, but it’s that same gnawing intuition in your belly that you had when you first met the Mandalorian, the same one that told you to crash land on Nevarro instead of trying to make it somewhere else, the same one that got you out of Coruscant the last time—you shake your head, trying to clear it from your head. You softly touch the baby’s nose, just once, and he giggles and climbs into your arms.

It doesn’t take long until you start itching for something else to do, so you peel yourself off the cockpit’s floor and start cleaning, using part of your torn shirt to dust off the dashboard and the pilot’s seat, humming ancient lullabies under your breath. You stop short when you realize you’re singing, and you double check the air locks, making sure you’re safe in here. You don’t dare to put on the radio, and you don’t sing louder than under your breath, because even though you have the new blaster strapped to your hip, the memory of yesterday is still too recent in your head. It isn’t long until you find yourself in the tiny room where the fresher is, looking at yourself in the mirror for the first time in days.

Your eyes are wild, that’s the first thing you notice. Frazzled, on edge, the kind of gleam that you used to get flying in the Alliance, but without the pride and the adrenaline. Your hair is a hot mess. You touch the lock of hair the Mandalorian pushed behind your ear last night, reverently, softly. Your shirt is ripped and stained to hell, and your necklace is hanging at a strange angle, the chain link touching the insignia, totally off kilter. You see the small blaster on your hip catch the light, and you pull it out of its hold. It’s shiny, sturdy, and much newer than the one you lost in the fire. You’ve never been a perfect shot, but the gun fits in your hand as well as the old one did, and when you hold it, you feel confident enough to know how to cock it back and pull the trigger, and you think you probably hit the target.

You look forlornly at the shower, and before you can think about how sore you are, you strip the rest of your clothes off, leaving the gun and the commlink on the small counter beside the mirror. You’re planning to be quick, just a rinse and scrubbing soap off of the leftover blood and grime from the night before, but when the water hits, it’s warm and inviting and it envelops you. You let it unfurl your messy hair from your head, let it permeate into your sore shoulders and all the way down your spine, temporarily washing away the years of nights spent sleeping in uncomfortable positions on makeshift beds. You touch your fingers over your belly, following the scar straight down to where it drifts off on the left side of your stomach. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but the bruises resist your fingers. You reach for the soap, and it’s blindly, and you don’t realize until you’ve been scrubbing for a minute that it’s very much not the subtle lavender scent you picked up a few bounties back, but the Mandalorian’s. It smells like clean wood and leather and strangely, cinnamon, that amalgamation of freshness that fades off skin slowly. You push the full bar up to your nose, and when you breathe in you can almost see it lathering into his skin, can almost feel your tongue licking clean up against it if he was in here with you—you catch yourself. Again. It’s there again, the arousal and want that had been long dormant before you ever met the Mandalorian. He’s infiltrated everything. You shake water out of your hair and think of anything else while your hands slip down the rest of your body, trying and failing to forget the way his voice got low when he found you hurt, how he touched you, how he held your throat with a singular hand—

Something is making noise, and you force yourself out of your fantasy to the sound. “Hey,” comes a disembodied voice, and your wet hand fumbles for the blaster before you realize it’s coming from the commlink. You sigh, turning off the water, tripping out of the fresher, scrambling to pick it up.

“Are you okay?”

“I need you to come get me.”

You stare at the commlink, then at your reflection in the mirror. You don’t have clothes on. Come to think of it, you don’t know if you have clothes to change into, and you’ve suddenly been promoted to getaway driver.

“Can you hear me?”

Even through the modulator, his voice is deep. You startle yourself out of your reverie.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I need a minute—”

“I’m going to give you coordinates,” the Mandalorian says, and then there’s a huge blast, and silence.

“Hey. Hey! Mando—”

“I’m here,” he says, but it’s gruff. “Dank ferrik. I’m hit. Here are the coordinates.”

You scramble out of the fresher, looking for clothes. You can’t find anything, and your bag must still be upstairs in the cockpit, so you shove open the alcove where the Mandalorian sleeps in a desperate attempt. There’s a shirt, just a shirt, but it falls to your knees and you make your compromise with the underwear you stepped out of before the shower. “I’m coming. Please hold on. Pleaaaaase hold on,” you whisper, low enough that you hope he can’t hear your wheedling, and then you’re up the ladder, your hair wet and wild, dripping on the cockpit floor.

“Do you have your blaster?”

“Um,” you say as you navigate the Crest out of the landing bay—hell, this ship doesn’t know how to move. “Yes?” You scramble down the ladder and back up again with your blaster in hand. You punch in the coordinates and let the ship go into autopilot as you scramble back down the ladder and grab the gun, wrapping your wet hair up in a towel.

“Grab the kid and put him in his cradle,” the Mandalorian says, and you do, and the wild look in the baby’s eyes makes you give him a quick kiss before you shut the crib and push him into the darkest corner.

“I’m almost here,” you say, and you can see what he was talking about. You’re still not near the hustle and bustle of Galactic City, but Coruscant has layers, each of them grittier than the last. The Mandalorian is attached to what you hope to the Maker is his quarry, lugging the conspicuous body up a hill, blasting at what looks like twenty other men. “I’m here. I’m gonna land—”

“You need to get out of sight,” he manages, and the commlink goes quiet. You do your best to land the ship—it’s not handling well at all—and then scamper down the ladder for the third time in wet feet. You grab the baby’s floating egg and your blaster, strapping the commlink to your wrist, and scrambling into the little alcove that holds the Mandalorian’s bed.

There’s a minute before he enters the ship, and everything is quiet. You huddle at the back of the chamber, the baby next to you with the blaster in your hand. Your towel has come loose and there are wet chunks of hair in your face, and you wait in the silence before he comes in. The cot is tiny, and not that comfortable, but this small space smells like his soap and the dirt he carries around, and despite it feeling lumpy in all the wrong place, you could absolutely fall asleep here, surrounded by him. It distracts you, and you hum lowly in your throat before you hear the hiss of the gangplank and you swallow all the air.

You’ve been seen by bounties before, they’ve made comments about you, and then they’ve been frozen in carbonite. A few looked dangerous, a few were just creepy, but the Mandalorian always let you handle yourself around them. This is the first time he’s ever told you to get out of sight, and you don’t know if it’s because the events of last night are still fresh in his mind, or because whoever he captured was dangerous. You wait with bated breath as you hear blows land, and when it’s been quiet for what you gauge is long enough before you peek out of the alcove. The Mandalorian is on the ground, and you can’t tell if he’s just resting after a fight until someone peeks back at you and you pull the trigger the second the alcove doors fly open. You rocket up on your knees, punching one arm out at a swaying body before he hits the ground, and the Mandalorian comes to. The man on the ground is livid, swinging at your bare feet, and you kick him backwards, not gracefully, but powerfully enough, and he collides with the carbonite gas, and before the Mandalorian can get to his feet, you press the button. The blue faced bounty is frozen, instantly, and you gasp in air as you sag back on the Mandalorian’s bed.

“What did I say about getting out of sight?”

“I did,” you manage, between gasps, “and then you got knocked out.”

He trains his visor on you, and you smile victoriously for a full second before you realize his hand is bloody. You follow it down to the slip in the beskar and see that there’s a nasty gash under where his hand is pressed.

“You’re hurt.” You scramble forward, grabbing the towel off your head. Your hair falls in your face, and it definitely smells like his soap, but you’re not sure if he’s conscious enough to notice. “Hey. Hey you. Mando. Stay awake.”

“’M fine,” he slurs, and you want to pull the helmet clean off his head and look into his eyes when you tell him to shut up.

“Definitely not fine,” you say, pulling him down to the ground with you. It’s messy, you know that much, and you know he has some bacta patches hidden around you, but you need the bleeding to stop. “Hey. Listen to me. I have to take this off,” you say, gesturing at the plate at his midriff. “You’re hit, I think it was a blast, but I need to make sure.”

“No,” he says, and you grab his visor and drop to your knees on his left side, pushing your palm flat against it.

“I’m not going to look at anything except the cut. You weren’t hit in the head, were you?”

“No,” he repeats, and you nod.

“Okay, then I’m not gonna see your face. I won’t look at anything else except the cut. But you’re losing blood, fast, and there’s definitely people shooting at the ship, and I need to make sure you’re okay before I get us the hell out of here.”

He nods. It’s small, but you catch it.

You inhale sharply when you lift the small piece of armor. He’s bleeding, but the wound is small, and you’re able to shove the towel on it to suffocate the blood while your hand flutters around in the small hold behind you until you can find ointment and the bacta patches. “Hey. Mando.” His hand finds your free wrist, and you stop investigating the ointment to look at him. “What?” you ask, your voice softer.

“Cauterize,” he manages, and you look back and forth between him and the wound, and you shake your head.

“It’s not that bad,” you promise, checking to see if the blood has started to clot around the wound. “Look, it’s gonna hurt for a few days, but the bleeding is slowing down, and I can give you this ointment and then put the bacta patch over it, and you’re going to be okay.”

He flails at your arm again, and before you can realize what you’re doing, you straddle him, one hand on his abdomen against the stifled wound, and one reaching up to touch his helmet, as lightly as you can, in some desperate attempt to soothe him, “I promise, I know when a wound needs cauterizing.” You point at your own stomach, hoping he’ll remember the scar. He nods again, and you exhale. “I swear, I’m going to fix it right now, okay?”

You pull the towel away and press the ointment into his skin. You can tell it stings, he hisses and groans through the modulator, and if you weren’t so preoccupied with trying to save his life, your brain would have fixated on the noises he was making as you straddled him. Once the bacta patch was secure and you were sure that it held, your fingers grazed over his bare skin. It was golden, soft to the touch, such a stark contrast to the shiny silver beskar exoskeleton that you stopped just for a moment to stare at it. You touched as lightly as you could, and once you were positive that he had stopped bleeding, you pulled his undershirt down and reattached the armor, sliding sideways off of him, resting against the same wall for the second time in two days.

It took a few minutes and lots of nervous babbling from the baby, but the Mandalorian finally eased himself back into consciousness, and when you heard him stir, you whipped around.

“What…” he starts.

“You got hit—” you interrupt.

“…Are you wearing?” Mando finishes, and your cheeks flush, looking down at his giant shirt you never changed out of.

“I was—when you called, I was in the fresher,” you say, scooting slightly closer to him, resting on both knees. “I didn’t have time to put anything else on before you told me to hide.”

“Oh,” he sighs, and then he’s pushing himself off the floor despite literally every single warning you spurt at him, and finally, he’s up against the same wall you’re leaning against. The space is small, small enough that two people would be pushing it, and the fact that one of those people is much larger than the other and in giant beskar armor means that your forehead is almost flush against the visor when he turns his head into you. Your breath catches in your chest. It’s not lost on you that in the heat of the moment, you didn’t run. You ignored where you were, and you forged on to save him. That didn’t happen the last time you were on this planet and the fact that belonging to something—to someone—was enough to push past the fear and do it anyway sung inside you.

“I know,” the Mandalorian says, and you inhale, hoping you didn’t just unintentionally say all of that out loud.

“What?”

He sighs, and it comes out through the modulator, but he’s not annoyed. You can tell that much through his filtered air—you know when he’s exasperated, and more and more lately, it hasn’t been directed towards you.

“Your name.”

You swallow. “Say it.”

He does. Perfectly. “It suits you. Names…Mine has only been shared once since I became a Mandalorian. I was on my deathbed, and that’s the only reason. I haven’t named the kid. He might already have one, but I don’t know it, so I don’t use it.”

You nod against the visor, your head touching his helmet. The beskar is surprisingly warm, and you pause there for a second, not wanting to move it away.

“Names don’t hold significance to me,” he whispers, and it cuts through the darkness of the hull of the ship. “I don’t need them to trust someone.”

You want to say you understand, even if you don’t entirely get it, but he sighs again and then you think he’s asleep, his helmet sliding down to the crook between your head and your shoulder. If you reached with your pinky, it could interlink with his gloved one, and you wait a few minutes to be sure he’s okay. When you hook his pinky with yours, he breathes, cinches it at the knuckle, and fades off into sleep.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

One, Two, Three: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: You and Geto have to get away for a week because clerical work isn’t fun, and he’s dying for a break from Satoru. But a private balcony on a private residence on the beach doesn’t exactly equate to playing in the sand, does it? 

words: 2092

tw: nsfw (smut, light pain play, exhibitionism?)

Lips dance around the crook of your neck and down your shoulder blade, making you gasp into the crisp spring air. 

“A private balcony… a private residence…” You begin to put the pieces together as your wrap dress easily comes undone in Suguru’s hands. He chuckles behind you, smoothing his fingers over the swell of your breasts and down to your slightly rounded stomach. 

“I’m nothing if not purposeful,” he breathes into your ear, making you shudder. “This week is just for us. Like I said, no missions, no curses, and definitely no Satoru.” The promise of no Gojo elated you to the point that you were pushing Suguru out of the door the day of the trip, hoping to avoid the terribly nosy companion on the way out. 

Ever since you and Suguru had quietly announced your pregnancy four months ago, Satoru had launched into a full campaign to be the “best uncle” to your unborn child. It was mildly annoying at first, with him showing up unannounced to your private dates to make sure “you were eating the right things”. Then it progressed to shadowing you during your training as a desk worker, making sure no one “stressed you out too much”. If you so much as sighed at the computer, he’d grab the keyboard and type faster than you could comprehend, thus doing your job for you. 

But this week, you’d be relaxing with Suguru on the beach, listening to nothing but the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore and the occasional sound of wildlife. No clicking of keys, no shuffling of papers, nothing. 

Suguru brings you back to the present moment by taking your neck in one hand and sliding his other hand down the front of your underwear, pressing your pussy lips apart. “I’ve got you to myself all week.” You moan low in your throat as he begins his slow ministrations around your clit, his fingers tenderly rubbing the nub. His lips come to the sensitive point behind your earlobe, and you exhale deeply as you feel the tension building in your core. The raven-haired sorcerer behind you takes in all of your exhales, all of your pants and moans, and delivers them back to you in an endless stream of pleasure. Another shudder passes through you and goes straight to your clit. The sensitivity builds as his fingers dance over it, smearing your slick around and almost playing with it to torment you. 

“Su…” At this, he dips a finger into you, and your head sinks back onto his broad shoulder. You see his eyes widen just a fraction, a gentle breath passing between his lips as he fingers you shamelessly on the balcony of the rented home. His middle finger rocks against the inside of your cunt, hitting the soft spot with ease. You can’t help but rock your hips against the palm of his hand, painting his unoccupied fingers with your wetness. “Suguru, please!”

“Say my name as loud as you want,” he sings, making his movements just a little faster before adding another finger easily into your dripping cunt. You grip the wooden railing of the balcony just a fraction tighter and hope that soon, his fingers will be replaced by the thick cock rubbing against your ass. Bucking against his hand, you feel the pressure of release building even more and engulfing your thoughts. 

His fingers are doing a delicate kick against your soft spot, and you’re losing your control as Suguru reaches a hand down to palm your breast, tugging at the nipple. You cry out, feeling the tender flesh give way to pain as he rolls it between his fingers again. “Should’ve given it to you much sooner, huh?” His fingers slide out of you, and with one hand, he forces his boxers down around his ankles. With his wet fingers, he pumps his now freed cock eagerly, the angry red tip a sure sign of his desire to be buried inside of you. 

Without apologies, he pulls off your underwear, snapping the flimsy thing in half and letting it fall to the ground before angling your hips upward. “Lean forward,” he mumbles, and you rest your elbows on the railing. The head of his cock slides around your entrance for a little while, becoming wet from your own arousal. 

When he pushes in, your mouth forms a neat “o” and you inhale deeply while Suguru groans. The filling sensation takes you a minute to adjust to, but when your walls unclench from around his cock, he knows he can move without restriction. He rocks his hips back and forth, hissing at the contact of his balls against your cunt once he sinks into you fully. It takes you both a minute to decide to incrementally speed up, and you thrust your hips back to meet his with ease. 

“Shit, y/n…” His hands rest on your hips while he sinks into you time and time again. You look over your shoulder at the man and find his hair is slipping from the neat bun he always wears, his bangs flopping over his grimacing face. You reach a hand between your legs and play with yourself while he maintains his speed.

“Fuck, Suguru,” you growl, and he takes your expression as a need for more, which he answers with a hand on your swollen breast as he tweaks your nipple again, moving his hips much faster. “Su-gu-ru!” A whine begins low in your throat, but is torn from you while your walls contract around his cock and fingers rub the last sensations from your clit. The orgasm lasted a fraction of the time it normally did, and Suguru notices right away.  

“That’s it…” His thrusts stutter a little, but he isn’t coming. Not even close. He resumes his normal pace, and your hands quickly find the railing again. “Count your orgasms for me.” 

“One,” you pant, and he smiles sweetly, pushing your curls away from your face. 

“Three should do the trick, hmm?” His question is punctuated by a deep thrust, and you gasp, losing your balance. “Or maybe four will do…” He pulls out and turns you so you’re facing him before picking you up. With his impressive strength and coordination, he presses you between the stone wall and his bulky frame, capturing your lips in a kiss before sliding back into you. 

“Unhh…” The feeling of his hard length inside of you empties your mind, and it isn’t long before Suguru starts to move. His face hovers above yours, eyes focused on your facial expressions as he takes his time drawing soft cries and moans from your lips. “That feels so damn good…” A smile tugs at his lips while he moves your arms around his neck, then trails a few kisses down your face. The sorcerer’s hips rut forward eagerly, but his thrusts aren’t ravenous enough to repeatedly smack your back against the stone wall. But they are enough to fan the flames of desire tenfold. Somehow, every single time you were at his mercy, he found a way to make you unravel until you held no thoughts or memories in your head. The only thing that would be left were the ripples of pleasure he’d give you. 

“Su… I need you t--” When one of his fingers hits your clit, you gasp and angle your head back. Your eyes close as he moves his fingers in circles; somehow knowing exactly what you need before you can even articulate it. He presses his lips to yours again, muffling your cries of pleasure only a fraction. “Oh, god,” you moan into his mouth, giving him a chance to slip his tongue between your teeth and kiss you even deeper. You tangle your fingers into his messy hair, tugging gently on the strands as he continues rutting into you.

When Suguru breaks the kiss, he hoists you off the wall and into the bedroom, laying you gently on the impossibly soft sheets. You expect him to re-enter you, but the expectation was only met with a tongue lapping against your core. “Oh, fuck!” You almost shoot right off the bed, but Suguru steadies you with hands against your legs, pressing them back open easily. You lift your head a little higher to watch him eagerly devour you, his eyes meeting yours. 

Watch me, he seemed to say without speaking. Watch me turn you into a mess. 

The thought was too much. You lay back on the bed as his teeth graze your overly sensitive clit, groaning from the equal dose of pain and pleasure. His tongue swirled around you without care, hitting all of the right spots as if it were a pinball machine. Suguru moans into your cunt when you grab his hair again, and his hairtie falls out completely, letting his inky locks cascade around his face. Combined with his hand pushing back the hair that obscured his view of you, his gaze transfixed you completely. 

It was all just too much, and you gasp before your mind hits that point where the only thing you can think of is nothingness and the only word that flies out of your mouth is Suguru’s name. You rock against his face greedily, hoping that you can ride out just one more orgasm on the heels of your second one, but Suguru knows your tricks by now. Lifting off of you, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grasps his cock, and sinks into your heat once more. 

“Count,” he whispers darkly against your ear, reminding you of your duty.

“Two!” The word comes out choked, as if he had his hand around your neck, but the only thing he’s doing is making you see stars after your second orgasm. 

“You can’t tap out now,” Suguru laughs, seeing your cross-eyed stare. “I need you to hold on for me; only one more.” You only whine in response, feeling the tip of his cock touch your cervix. His arms were caging you in, holding you underneath him with precision. 

“I don’t know if I --” 

“Oh, yes you can.” His response is clipped short by a loud moan, and you feel his pace quicken. “I know you can.” Suguru’s lips latch onto your other nipple, tugging and pulling and driving you insane. You write beneath him, lifting your knees to add to the depth of his strokes and perhaps even allow him to hit that one spot…

The sensation of needing to pee crashes over you quickly, and you grasp Suguru’s arm, struggling to hold on. He hisses at the feeling of your nails digging into his skin, but it only adds to his own feelings of euphoria. “Oh, my god, y/n.” 

You whimper, trying to find purchase with anything anywhere, even going so far as to dragging your nails across his back hard enough to draw blood. But in your ecstasy, you don’t hear Suguru exclaim in shock. All you can feel is his cock sending you straight to heaven with no stops along the way. When the dam finally breaks, your legs shake vigorously, wetness running down to the sheets like a river. And Suguru finds his release in yours, pumping his cock into you as he cums, adding to the mess. You both lay there for a moment, sweat dripping down Suguru’s body and onto yours as you both catch your breath. 

While he goes soft inside of you, you kiss his face before finding his lips and pressing tender pecks there. Suguru slides out of you completely after a moment, then falls onto the bed beside you. Rolling onto your side, you nestle close to his body heat, feeling cum leaking out of you but not minding the sensation at all. “Three.” 

Suguru chuckles, wrapping an arm around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

And that’s when you feel it. 

A little flutter on your right side. 

You lift your head to meet Suguru’s eyes and find him, as always, looking back at you. This time, it’s not with laser focus, but with confusion. “Did he just--” Suguru insisted it was a boy - because he” just knows these things” - even going so far as to call your unborn child “my first-born son” whenever he spoke about it with Shoko and Satoru.

“I think so…” you laugh, and when you look down at your belly, you see a little raised bump slowly receding for the first time.

[respectable-username]

Oh look, another quick one-shot! This time, a quiet scene between Grian and Mumbo.

Read on AO3 or keep reading below

---

<Grian> Hey Mumbo

<Grian> Where are you?

The pinging of his communicator dragged Mumbo from his redstone-induced haze. He put down the stack of repeaters in his hands to ping the coordinates of this latest project back to Grian.

It was only a couple minutes before a burst of rockets could be heard from the sky above, followed shortly by a Grian swooping in to land with perfect ease amongst the mini chest monster that had sprung up beside Mumbo's contraption.

"Hey G," said Mumbo, noticing the lack of spark in Grian's eyes. "Everything alright?"

"Do you mind if I just sit and watch for a bit?" asked Grian, already starting to sit down in the grass amongst the shulker boxes.

"Of course not," said Mumbo.

"Thanks," said Grian, leaning back against a box as he drew his knees to his chest.

Mumbo gave Grian one last concerned look before turning back to his massive contraption.

He was almost finished the next module of the machine. He just needed to figure out the timings on these last few repeaters.

If this signal goes through there it should take 2 ticks. Which means that signal needs to take longer. Better make it 3 ticks total. Then that should trigger this one 2 ticks later. Yes, that should be right.

Mumbo stood back, taking in one last look at the wiring, crossed his fingers, and pulled the lever.

The whole module broke.

Mumbo sighed, walking back over to the machine. It looked like the second piston fired too early, causing it all to get out of sync. That means he had to add another tick of delay there and another there. That should do it.

Mumbo tore down the broken part of the contraption and started rebuilding with the required changes.

"How do you stay motivated to keep going when your redstone keeps failing?" asked a small voice from behind him.

"Trial and error is just part of redstoning," said Mumbo, turning to face Grian with a smile. "Or should I say trial and error, and error, and error, and error, and small success, and error, and error, and error."

"That sounds awful," said Grian.

"It's just part of the fun," said Mumbo, gesticulating with the spare pistons in his hands. "You expect things to fail, so you keep the bits you test as small as possible, and use the way it fails to figure out how to make it work next time. And then when it does finally all work, it's the best feeling ever!"

"I failed and now everyone hates me," said Grian suddenly, pulling his knees closer to his chest.

"Oh Grian," Mumbo said, putting down the spare components and walking over to sit down and hug his long arms around Grian's small body. "I'm sure they don't hate you."

"I messed up and now they're all mad at me and they keep sending messages about how I messed up and hurt them and I don't know what to do and I'm so sorry but I don't know how to fix it and..."

Grian's train of thought was cut off by a sob. Mumbo pulled him in closer as the floodgates broke open.

Grian buried his face in Mumbo's lapel. He knew he should be worried about ruining Mumbo's suit with his tears and snot, but, well, it's Mumbo. Mumbo doesn't care. Mumbo doesn't get angry. Mumbo's just so... Mumbo.

"What happened?" asked Mumbo gently, stroking Grian's hair as the stream of tears slowly let up.

"I made it all about me again," said Grian, voice slightly muffled by Mumbo's shoulder. "I put so much time into planning the whole thing, so much time into making sure everything would play out correctly and would make sure everyone had a good time, and the one time I ad libbed, it was on something entirely selfish and now everybody's mad at me. And they should be. I can't believe I broke from my plan."

"Have you said sorry yet?" asked Mumbo kindly.

"Haven't had the time," Grian replied. "The meeting ended and I got a half dozen private messages and I freaked out and came right here."

They sat together in silence as the cogs turned in Mumbo's brain.

"Is there a way to make the selfish thing apply to everyone?" Mumbo eventually said. "Then it won't be selfish anymore."

"I don't know," said Grian.

"Well," said Mumbo, pausing again to think, "could you ask the others how you could do that?"

"What do you mean?" asked Grian, looking up from Mumbo's shoulder.

"I mean, you always plan so much of everything by yourself, Grian," said Mumbo. "You don't have to do it all. If the others are the ones who've recognised the mistake, maybe they'll have an idea of how to fix it."

"But why would they want to help me after I just bungled everything?" asked Grian.

"Because it was one mistake, and because they're your friends," said Mumbo. "I mean, you said they private messaged you about the issue, right? It's not like they've locked you in the stocks outside Town Hall and started throwing rotten vegetables at you!"

Grian let out a small chuckle. "Not yet anyway," he said.

"So, why don't you message the group, say you're sorry, and ask how you can fix it?" said Mumbo.

Grian curled back into himself again. "Because I'm scared," he said. "What if things go wrong? What if I say something to make it even worse?"

"And pigs could fly in the next update," said Mumbo. "But we can deal with that problem when we get to it."

"Hasn't Zedaph already made pigs fly?" said Grian.

"He did what?!" said Mumbo.

"He shot them with shulkers I think," said Grian.

"That's ridiculous,"  Mumbo said with a smile. "Anyway, back on topic. Let's try writing that message, ok?"

Grian pulled out his communicator, temporarily set it to only send to himself, then hesitated.

"What if I send the message and it doesn't fix anything?" said Grian. "What if everyone still hates me?"

"Well, I don't hate you," said Mumbo. "I'll still be here. You're one of my best friends, G. Even if everything else falls apart, I'll always be here for you, ok?"

Grian nodded. He took a deep breath and pulled up his communicator again.

He typed out his message. Then edited it. Then edited it again. Then undid half his edits. Then fixed the 'to' line. Then hit send.

Then put the communicator back in his pocket and crossed his arms against his chest.

"Good work, Grian," said Mumbo with a smile, squeezing his fellow Hermit.

"I hate this," said Grian. "I hate the waiting. I've already thought of three better ways I could have worded that message."

His communicator pinged.

"I don't wanna look," said Grian.

"Take as much time as you need," said Mumbo.

His communicator kept pinging.

Grian took a deep breath, then another. He pulled open his communicator and looked at the screen.

And burst out crying.

"What happened?!" said Mumbo, alarmed.

"They... they accepted my apology," Grian said between sobs, smiling through his tears as he faced the small screen towards Mumbo. "They don't hate me."

Mumbo relaxed. "See, I told you so," he said warmly, squeezing the small Hermit again. Grian gently pushed him in retaliation.

"I can't believe they're all being so nice after I was so thoughtless," said Grian, trying to wipe away the tears with the sleeve of his jumper.

"Of course they're being nice," said Mumbo. "You made one mistake, and now you're trying to fix it. They know you're a good person, G. One mistake doesn't make you a failure."

"Thank you so much Mumbo," said Grian. "Just, thank you for being there and for being so... so Mumbo-y."

"Any time, G," said Mumbo. "You know I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

"Can I just stay here for a minute?" asked Grian, resting his head back against Mumbo's shoulder. "It's just... it's just all a lot."

"As long as you like," said Mumbo.

And so they sat there, as the sun set in the distance and the wind ruffled the grass around them, the half-built contraption throwing strange shadows across the ground. It wasn't working, yet, but it would be. It would be with a little bit more trial and error.

[derekmorganscrocs]

Galentines Gone Wrong

Pairing: Wendell Bray x Reader, Valentine’s Special.

Word Count: 2,623

Summary: Y/n Booth is an FBI agent who works under her brother Seeley Booth and is also partnered with the Jeffersonian. Valentines rolls around and Cam, Daisy, and Y/n are all painfully single. Brennen and Angela join in and the group decides it’s girls night, get absolutely smashed, cause major chaos and get arrested for disturbing the peace. When their counterparts show up to bail them out, girls night turns to date night... or whatever this is.

Edit, March 11th: I hate the end of this. I reread it and it’s lowkey trash, but I’m going to keep it up because people seem to be enjoying it. Just a disclaimer that this is not my best work.

Notes: Tbh I second guessed this yesterday, hence the late post. I want to clarify that Wendell IS NOT preying on a drunk girl, and there was no drunk hookup. This is definitely not my favourite thing I’ve written and I was so out of ideas for the ending, but fck it, I have a migraine and feel like the personification of death. ALSO I WOULD NEVER USE GALENTINES IRL IK ITS LAME BUT I SIMPLY DO NOT CARE. HOLDIDAY SPIRIT BABES. Anyway, on with the show.

It’s been a long night. Fun, but long. You wake up against Daisy’s side, stretching lazily, and still partially drunkenly. As you sit up, you recall the events that led to your current seat in a drunk tank.

The five of you ended up in a biker bar, huge leather-clad and big bearded dudes all over the damn place. Despite being big scary bikers, they were chill and actually bought half of your drinks. Then you and Daisy got a little too close to an attractive younger biker, and his girlfriend was not having it. So an argument turned full on brawl caused the lot of you to bail out of the bar and trek back into town.

Only you were real rowdy, laughing and singing, a little to loudly for anyone’s liking. And got the cops called on you. And got thrown in a dunk tank. Unfortunately “you can’t arrest me, I am the law” doesn’t work if you’re drunk. The cops weren’t a fan of your badge, either.

You’re torn from your thoughts at the sound of voices down the hall, and you stumble over the the bars of the cell, holding onto them for balance. A half-hour nap didn’t do much to sober you up. The voices get closer, and your friends and brother walk in. Wendell’s the first one you notice, your eyes immediately darting to him. He’s wearing a hot ass black jacket, jeans and a white T-shirt, and you stare at him for a lot longer than you should.

“Hey, BJ. Never thought I’d see you on the other side of the bars.” Hodgins laughs at your expression of annoyance, and lets the cop they’re with open the cell door. He walks over to grab Angela, and you scoff.

“I told you to stop calling me BJ. I know you mean Booth Junior, but other people might think something else,” you mutter, much less than impressed at the innuendo tied to the nickname.

Your brother and Sweets go collect Brennan and Daisy, and Cam stands up on her own. She’s the most level-headed of all of you, and she’s completely sobered up now. Wendell walks to your side, your brother is too occupied with his (much less coordinated than you are) wife. Wendell puts an arm around you, and you gladly lean into him, hands settling on his chest.

“You’ll never guess what we did,” you giggle drunkenly against Wendell’s chest, overcome with the giddiness of a schoolgirl with a crush.

“Apparently you guys disturbed a lot of peace.” Wendell has somewhat of an impressed/concerned/entertained smirk on his face. He looks down at you, massively interested in the story as to how you got here. Not that he’ll hear it anytime soon.

“How’d you know?!” You look up at him with surprise written all over your face, a gasp escaping your lips, and it takes a lot for him not to burst out laughing.

“The sheriff told me. Let’s take you home, okay?”

“Okay,” you mumble, much more sullenly than five seconds ago.

Wendell keeps an arm around you, more than a little worried that you’re gonna fall over, and takes you to his car. You get in the front seat, smacking his hand away as he tries to help with your seatbelt. After successfully buckling the seatbelt, you glance back at him with a smirk.

“You know if you wanted to get on top of me all you had to do was ask.”

Wendell nearly chokes and dies at what you’re insinuating. He’s also not sure if this is the tequila talking or if it’s you talking. Composing himself quickly, he lets out a chuckle, saying something along the lines of ‘okay then,’ and closes the door for you. He walks around the front of the car, making his way to the driver’s seat. Hodgins drives by, Angela and Cam in the car with him, and waves as he heads home.

Seeley pulls up beside Wendell, looking at him sternly. Daisy and Brennen are singing in the back seat, and Wendell can see Sweets in the front seat, holding back laughter. It’s a funny sight really, the usually stoic Dr. Brennen and overly excitable Daisy, swaying together in the back seat singing an off-key rendition of piano man. Seeley makes a face at a certain piercing high note that comes from Dr. Brennan, before turning to Wendell.

“Listen man, I appreciate it. If we didn’t live on the opposite side of town, I’d take her home.” Seeley leans out the window slightly, looking at Wendell.

“It’s no problem, really.” Wendell smiles, giving your brother a small wave as he turns to get in his car. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

“Wait! Not that I think you will, but don’t try anything. Alright?”

“Course not, man. Don’t worry, I got this. Head home, I’ll text you when I get Y/n home.” Wendell knows your brother means no harm, obviously, yet can’t help but think about why he’d even think to say that to him.

When he gets back in the car, seeing you sleeping soundly in the passenger seat, curled up and leaning against the window, his worries melt away and he smiles. He turns the car on and lowers the radio volume before driving off.

Tonight summarizes the two of you pretty well, actually. Y/n, the chaotic do-good-er badass, and Wendell, the (sometimes also chaotic) best friend, who always has your back. Sometimes it pains him that you only see him as that, a best friend, but he’s okay with just being that. A friend. Because it means he gets to see you happy. Little does he know, you wouldn’t have gotten so sauced tonight if you weren’t drinking away the thoughts of his lips on yours, his skin pressed against yours as the night turns to morning, the idea of a spark that doesn’t exist. The day of love sucks.

And for some reason, neither of you can see that you’re crazy about each other. Maybe it’s because you’re afraid to ruin what you have, or maybe it’s because you’re both just oblivious, but it doesn’t make a huge difference. Nothing seems to be happening.

Wendell is occupied with a lot of thoughts as he drives to your place. His mind bounces all over the place. He thinks about how you met, when you first walked into the Jeffersonian covered in dirt and sweat (in a cute way... even though he thinks anything is cute on you) after a chase in the desert, just to see your brother and make sure he was okay. He also thinks about the time he literally ran into you and the two of you fell down the platform stairs. The alarms went off, and everyone stared at the pair of you tangled up on the floor. Needless to say it took a while to live that one down. He thinks about every time he’s seen you laugh, and the few that he’s seen you cry. Not that you really even cried, you just couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. You don’t exactly do emotions, not out in the open at least.

He thinks about every reason he’s so smitten with you. You’re courageous, selfless, you protect your friends and family, you’re cutthroat and ferocious, yet simultaneously the sweetest person he’s ever met. You care about every detail of his day when you ask how he’s doing, and you can tell when the slightest thing is off with him, or anyone else at the lab, except for noticing his flaming crush on you. And as he thinks about all the little things, he realizes it can’t stay bottled up forever. He has to tell you.

Before long, you’re home. The two and a half hour drive have Wendell a lot of time to think, yet somehow it also feels like he’s had no time at all. The time has also started your trail toward sobriety, and you can at least think coherently. Wendell wakes you, and when you wake up, your hand goes to your head.

“Good god. Did I get hit by a bus?” Your words are still slightly jumbled together, but you’re getting back to business as usual, and that’s good enough.

“There she is,” he singsongs playfully, glad to see your usual demeanour starting to return. You unbuckle your seatbelt, groaning when you go to move. Wendell offers you a hand, and you take it.

Helping you up, he puts an arm around your waist again. You stumble slightly, and when he catches you, you fall against him, leaning against his chest. He ends up just scooping you up off the ground and carrying you inside, placing you on the couch. You’re mostly in good shape, just awful clumsy and distracted due to your headache. Wendell heads into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and some crackers.

“How you doing?” He sits by your thigh, putting an arm on the back of the couch and looking over at you. You cover your face with your hands, laughing gently.

“Ugh, please tell me I didn’t actually make the worst sex implication joke ever.”

“Um...”

“Oh shit. This is embarrassing.” You sit up, still a little tipsy, but not as messed up as you were at the police station. Maybe if things go off you can play it off as Valentine’s tequila. “Fuck it. I’m just gonna go for it. Tonight was fun or whatever, but I really wanted to spend it with you.”

“We could’ve done that. We can hang out this weekend if you want.”

“No, no. You really are a blonde.” You laugh, nudging his shoulder with your fist. Suddenly nervous, you start to ramble. “Not that that’s bad, because you’re definitely pretty. You’re a cute blonde, and you do have really nice arms, they’re really toned, and you know, at the garage you wear these tight shirts and sometimes I just stare and I worry you see, but-“

“Y/n! You’re getting off track here.” He puts a hand on your shoulder, laughing at your rambles. “Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow.”

“I like you a lot.” The words are out of your mouth before he’s even finished his sentence. “Like I have feelings for you?” It comes out like a question, but it’s meant as more of a fearful statement.

“Wait, really?” His eyes widen and his smile falls. At first you think he’s about to run for the hills, but when a small smile appears on his face you’re not so sure.

“Ah, shit, I shouldn’t have said anything,” you curse, rolling your eyes at your own stupidity. That’s fuckin embarrassing.

“No, I like you, too. A lot.” Wendell takes your hand, and you lay against his side as he keeps talking. “We can talk more, when you’re sober. But I do like you. And I think that if we decided that this weekend’s hangout was more ‘ice skating in the park’ instead of ‘trying to kill each other at the rink’, I’d be more than okay with that. I’d like that a lot, actually.” He lets out a small, nervous chuckle, and he glances down at you, fingers grazing your cheek as he contemplates if it would be weird to cup your face with his hand and run his thumb over your cheek.

“Really?” You look up at him with an adorable awestruck expression, and he nearly bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, really.” A smile stays glued to his face, and he shifts slightly, which causes you to sit up. “Now, you should probably go to bed, so that you’re not completely useless tomorrow.”

Wendell plants a small kiss on the top of your head, before standing and scooping you up, bringing you to your room. He drops you gently on your bed, and you let out a small giggle as you bounce slightly with the impact. You banish him from your room so that you can change, and not really paying attention, grab a black hoodie and shorts out of your closet. When you open the door again, he’s just leaning against the wall outside.

“Sorry, I didn’t know where you wanted me to set up- is that my hoodie? I’ve been looking for that!”

“Huh?” You look down at the sweater, seeing the small Jeffersonian logo on the left side of the chest, and the initials on the sleeve. “Oh, I guess it is.” You remember when he gave it to you, he couldn’t stand the idea of you remaining in your blood soaked T-shirt, the grey had become a sticky maroon, too much so to be comfortable. “You can have it back-“

“No, you keep it.” He steps closer, lifting your chin so that you look at him, and brushing a stray hair out of your face. His voice drops, becoming softer and breathy. “It’s much cuter on you anyway,” he murmurs, making you blush profusely, a little laugh escaping your lips.

The two of you fall silent, each staring at the other’s lips. A hum comes from the furnace, causing you both to startle slightly, and it ends the moment. You glance back at Wendell again, before sitting on your bed. He tilts his head at you, mildly confused as to what you’re doing.

“Where did you want me to sleep?”

“Wherever you want. There’s blankets and a few pillows in the closet.”

He thanks you and walks out, and you breathe in deeply, not realizing how shallow your breathing had become. Your mind is racing, and so is your heart. This is simultaneously about the best and worst Valentine’s you’ve ever had. As you mull over the events of tonight, you slide under the blankets, laying back and staring at the ceiling. The shuffling in your living room comes to a stop, and you can hear Wendell coming back to your room. He stops in the doorway.

“Came back to say goodnight,” he says softly, making your heart melt.

“You mind staying for a while?” You sit up, looking at him. He glances over his shoulder at you, a perplexed expression plastered on his face. “What?! I’ve had a rough night,” you say, pretending to be offended. He makes his way over, laying on your bed, on top of the blankets. You roll over and face him, looking up at him lazily. “Goodnight, Wendell.”

You drift off to sleep fairly quickly, but not before you subconsciously lay your head on his chest. He’s terrified at first, frozen in place and afraid to breathe, but after a few minutes he collects himself and calms down. You sleep soundly, curled up beside Wendell. He’s warm and he smells good, and he’s pretty comfortable. By the morning, the two of you are completely intertwined, tangled in blankets and each others’ arms.

The two of you grab a greasy breakfast (and some Advil) and spend the day together, actually talking about what happened the night before. Most of the day is spent at your place, you and Wendell lounging around on your couch as you binge watch your favourite series and try to overcome your hangover.

The next days and weeks fly by, you and Wendell getting closer and closer. The pair of you go on a few dates before things are made official, Wendell going as far as taking you on a walk in the snow and officially asking you out by the outdoor rink. He even reserved ice time so the two of you could skate around like idiots and pass a puck around.

And eventually, when people start to see you’re together, and ask about your story, you have to tell them he bailed you out of jail after Galantine’s gone wrong.

[heyheydidjaknow]

If I bounce my foot, it makes this chair sound like someone is doing unspeakable things. Also, it has been a hot minute, but I have a chapter written now, and that's what matters. Hopefully the next chapter will be out sooner than later.

Chapter 16

You are going to kill him.

“That is absolute fucking horseshit!” You pace back and forth in front of the restaurant. “His ass was the one who invited me!”

You can practically hear his eyes rolling on the other end of the line. “How is it my problem if he flaked?”

“You’re guilty by association!” You cross your arms. “It’s a favor to you! How is it not at least partially your fault?”

“Because he said he’d be there.”

You hang up on him. You have been standing here for half an hour, and only now do you hear that he can’t be there because of something about a movie. While, under different circumstances, you would be relatively understanding, standing outside in a dress in November is making you a bit less amiable.

You sit down on the step, letting your hair down and leaning forward on your knees. ‘What a waste of a perfectly good twilight.’

You pull out your phone. It’s your father’s birthday back home, ironically enough. You smile bitterly. He and your mother told you when you were younger you wouldn’t be allowed to date until you were eighteen— something about them being worried about you getting in a bad situation— and here you were, flouting their rules, sitting alone on the steps of a restaurant with just enough money for food. ‘Does this count as disrespectful?’

Nobody online has said anything about it. No messages hoping he rests in peace, nothing from extended family.

You set the phone down at your side, quietly watching people walk by. You had your cast taken off today. The people at the hospital gave you some sort of weird juice, and now you can walk around with only the occasional ringing in your ears and half-decent handwriting. ‘Not that my handwriting was that great before,’ you muse. ‘Maybe I’ll finally be able to sit in a car without wanting to jump out.’

“Something got you down?”

There is a thing you have noticed about people’s voices thus far that, until now, you have not thought about in detail; people do not sound exactly like their voice actors back in your world. For example, Donatello does not sound like Rob Paulsen, but the way he shapes his words, the tone of his voice, and the general pitch is relatively similar. He sounds like a teenage boy who happens to talk like his character, and it is by this you have been able to identify voices.

Oddly enough, she sounds nothing like Kelly Hi.

Your blood goes cold. “Yeah,” you sigh, desperately keeping your voice steady. “My date bailed on me.”

Karai sits down next to you on the steps, looking out with you. “That sucks.” She chuckled. “Why’s that?”

“No clue.” ‘Why is she trying this?’ You rest your head on your knees, hands clenching and thoughts going a mile a minute. ‘I’m not made by the Kraang, and the guys shouldn’t have messed with her anyways, so she shouldn’t have my— but I did kill— but she doesn’t care about that, and neither does Shredder.’

“Well,” she sighed, “that’s teenagers for you.” She points back at the restaurant. “Can I get you something? My treat.”

You swallow thickly. “Sure.” Your hands are shaking despite your best efforts. You hope you do not look as completely terrified as you feel. “But I can pay for my own food.”

“Are you alright there?”

‘Sadist.’ You nod.

“Are you sure?” She chuckles. “You’ve gone pale.”

You scramble for a plausible excuse. “I’ve been fasting.” That is not a good example of an excuse. “I need to start getting more iron in my diet.”

“I’m sure some food inside will have iron in it.” The smile on her face— she is not a good liar herself— tells you all you need to know, all venom and quiet pleasure. You seem to shrink next to her.

It is not a request. It is a veiled demand.

You get to your feet. You will not make it far if you run. “Have you been here before?” You force yourself up the steps, opening the door for her.

“No,” she admits, nodding thanks, “but it’s supposed to have good reviews.”

“So you were here for the food?”

A shrug. “You could say that.”

The two of you settled in a booth not terribly far from the door, on your insistence. If you are putting yourself in this situation— ‘At least Casey knows where I am. Why did he have to suggest someplace where I know nobody?’— you may as well not make it easy for her. She orders a milkshake— you can not hear her very well over the roaring in your ears, but that is what she gets— and you drink water exclusively from the straw because your hands are currently incapable of holding anything. ‘What was even the point of all those dexterity-based exercises,’ you cannot help but internally whine, ‘if as soon as I need to be coordinated, I get all flinchy and shaky?’

“I didn’t catch your name.”

Your head rises too quickly. “Huh?”

Another smile. You hate her. “Your name,” she repeats herself. “You haven’t given me your name.”

“Y/N.” As soon as you say it, you know you messed up. “Y/N Collins.”

“Collins?” She leaned against her hand, quietly staring you down. “What is that?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, what country is that from?”

‘Great question.’ You strain to smile back. “No clue. My parents haven’t ever brought it up.”

“Really?”

Your face burns at how easy the clinking of her fingernails against the glass puts you on edge. “Is that unusual?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She took a sip from her drink. “I don’t have many friends, you understand, and I’m from overseas to boot. I don’t know much about what’s normal.”

“Yeah?” You follow her example. “What’re you here for?”

A shrug. “My father’s here on business. Cutlery.”

“For restaurants or?”

“Sure.”

‘If I call Casey, he— but then I’d have to be in his van.’ You clear your throat. ‘Bathroom. Maybe the bathroom has a window.’ “Do you mind if I step out for a sec?” You stand up. “I have to use the restroom.”

“Not at all.” She looks up at you through her eyelashes. “Want me to come with?”

You shake your head, trying not to trip over yourself as you make it to the back of the restaurant, purse over your shoulder. ‘Maybe she won’t think anything of it.’ You lock the door behind you, exhaling as you look around the small room. As is typical of your luck these days— though, you suppose, fighting back tears, it’s not so much these days if it’s been going on for months; you miss your mother— there is none. Graffiti, sharpie illustrations, no toilet paper, and no window. No plan for if the date went badly in the first place— you kick yourself for having forgotten that essential step— and no ride home. You have money for the ticket home— he said he would pay— and a phone and a charger and it is at times like these where you wish you valued your life more. The only chance you now have, as far as you’re concerned, is to either run or fake a phone call at the table.

You just got out of a cast.

You take a deep breath, walking back onto the floor, thanking her for her patience. She nods, waves it off as no trouble, and starts talking again as she drains her drink. You listen, you try to keep the conversation going the best you can, drink right alongside her.

You do not remember when you start having fun, when you start laughing along with her at something or other, but you are now.

“So,” she sighed, lacing her fingers together under her chin. “Who was the lucky guy?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“The guys you were here to meet.”

“Kid from Bio,” you answer. “Can’t remember his name.”

She nods. “Do you have many guy friends?”

“A couple, I guess.”

“What’re they like?”

“Busy.” You smile slightly. “Most of them are, anyway. The guy that set me up is free most of the time.”

“What about the others?”

“They’re into martial arts.” You glance down at your glass, and for a moment, you swear it looks slightly blue. “Their dad’s into it.”

“What’re their names?”

You blink, picking the glass up and placing it on top of your hand. “Reese and Donnie and Legoshi and the other one.” ‘Why is my drink blue?’

“The other one?”

You nod, eyes drooping slightly as you struggle to rationalize the color change. “Can’t remember his name.”

“Michelangelo, maybe?”

“Maybe.” You take another sip, trying to taste what it is. “That name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember from what.” Something with salt.

“You said your name was Y/N?”

You nod again. ‘Water isn’t blue, right?’

“Then, Y/N,” she smiles again, eyes slowly drilling holes into your skull, “do you know who I am?”

“Legoshi’s sis, right?” You look up at her. “You’re Karai Hamato.”

Your eyes are too blurry to tell exactly what is happening with her face. “What?”

“Your name.” You take another sip. “Karai Hamato. Or Missy. It’s one of the two.”

“I’m not a Hamato.”

“Yeah, you are.” You giggle before the words slip out of your mouth. “You’re fucking— well, not fucking— you let stepbrother, right? Half brother?” You are forgetting something important. “Are you two blood-related?”

“We aren’t.”

“You sound angry.”

A blink. “I do not.”

“Do too.” ‘I don’t like her for some reason.’ “You’re getting all red in the face.”

“Because you’re accusing me of something I’m not.”

“Fuckin…” you grin. “If you’re into that shit, I’m not gonna fuckin judge you or nothin, but at least fuckin… uh… own up to it.” Your eyes drag across the table lazily.

“I’m no Hamato.”

“You are too.”

They land on a plastic bag.

‘Oh. That’s why.’

“Who told you I was?”

“Your stepdad.” You get to your feet, holding your bag. “Or dad, I guess? I dunno, whichever one didn’t kill your mom.”

There’s something else in her voice as she gets up, following you out. “How do you know that?”

“I just said how.” The cold air outside hits you like a brick. ‘Run.’

“So you know where—“ You shove your weight back on her, slamming her body and in turn her into the brick wall and run.

She grabs your something. You fall, head slamming painfully against the ground. You kick her, she grabs your hair. In what you might later describe as a drunken effort, you reach your hands up towards her face. You feel something squishy, a cry, and she’s facing you now, dragging you into somewhere considerably darker than outside at night. You feel something in the back of your head, she covers your mouth as you cry out, and you do the only thing you can think of.

You taste something again. Something is in your mouth. She stumbles back. You trip up to your feet, and you fall in the direction of the nearest subway tunnel.

The things happening around that time are swirling around in your head, now, face held in your hands as you quietly curl up on the subway. You do not remember entering a train car, or buying a ticket, or even what happened to the object in your mouth, but the crying you remember. You remember someone touching your shoulder with a soft voice, looking up with your mouth covered in sticky, dried stuff and fingers covered in red and clear goo, and that being enough to have them get off at the next stop.

You do not know how long you are on the train. When you finally feel yourself again, your phone is almost dead. Hours must have passed. You do not remember leaving, but you remember the ringing in your ears again as you dial someone, sitting on the sidewalk in what used to be the only dress you owned. You are reasonably sure you are going to burn it.

—

“Is this okay?”

“What?”

“This.” Mikey gestures around himself. “What we’re doing.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“They’re people, right?” He looks over at his brother, currently skimming the same magazine again. “The Kraang, I mean.”

It takes a second for him to process the question, but Donnie does not have to look up from his sewing to know his brother’s reaction.

“It’s just a question.”

“A fuckin— do you hear yourself?”

“I’m just—“

“Leo,” he turns to his older brother, “is killing the threat to all of humanity wrong?”

“But we just blew up a giant ship of them though.” He crisscrosses his legs. “Aren't we killing a ton of people, then?”

“Mikey,” Leo sighs, not looking up from the TV, “there are more people in New York than there are Kraang that we could ever kill.”

“Eight million.” He sincerely hopes the gloves are not too large. “For number's sake, it’s eight million.”

Leo shoots his brother a thumbs up, glancing over at his brother’s project curiously. “Thanks, Donnie.”

“Even if we were actively going on a killing spree and mowing them down that way, there is no way in hell any of us could kill two million Kraang per person even if we wanted to. That’s not even talking about the number of people who would be fucked once they were done with New York.” Raphael punctuates this with a pointed and aggressive flip to the next page. “End of story.”

“But—“

“And even if they stopped at New York,” he continues, cutting him off, “that would still be eight million people dead because of us getting cold feet.”

Mikey opens his mouth again, sighs, and closes it. “Fine, okay.” He leans back against the concrete, eyes going back to his phone. “Anyways, why do you keep getting water on your thing?”

“Hm? Oh, you mean the gloves.” His taller brother looks up. “It’s easier to get the needle through it when it’s warm and wet. Plus, it makes the— stop laughing!”

“Then you thought it too.”

Heat rushes to his face. “You’re so immature.”

“But you thought it too. That's hypothetical.”

“You mean hypocritical.”

“I said what I said.”

Michelangelo’s phone rings.

He puts a finger, bringing it to his face. “Hel— hey, slow down.” His brow furrowed, the other three leaning towards him. “No, wait, what— who’s she?”

There’s a pause.

“She did— wait, hold on.” He tosses the phone to Donatello. “It’s for you.”

He catches it. “Hello?”

“Could you pick me up?”

He blinks. “What, with the Shellraiser?”

Your voice is paper. “Yup.”

“You hate the Shellraiser.”

“She wants to go in the Shellraiser?”

Donatello waves his younger brother off, letting you talk. “I hate Karai more, currently. Please pick me up.”

Leo pipes up. “What happened?”

He ignores him. “Where are you?”

There is a pause as she checks, his brothers watching for his reactions. “One-oh-three Saint Corona Plaza.”

“Got it.”

“What happened?” Raphael, this time.

“Need me to stay on the line?” With a pointed glare at his siblings, he climbs into the ‘raiser.

“Please.”

He calls behind him at his brothers. “I’ll be back before two.” The phone is brought back up to his face as they moan about a lack of info. The machine is spurred into motion. “What are you doing in Queens so late?”

“No idea.” He can hear your strained smile. “Ask Karai.”

His heart stops. “What happened with Karai?”

You repeat your statement.

“She didn’t—“

You cut him off. “I’m not back in the hospital, no.”

He resists the urge to sigh in relief. “Did she follow you?”

“I’ve yet to be hit over the head, so I’ll hasten to say no.” There is something off about your voice, a certain quality about it that he cannot quite pin down. “I’ve been essentially useless the whole time, what with her drugging me and all.”

“She what?”

“I think she did, anyway.” It is incredibly disturbing to him how calm you sound. “Unless water’s blue and kinda tastes salty now. I don’t imagine it would be though,” you ponder, chilling years off of his life, “even if you guys messed up the mission. It would be green, since that’s the color of the acid, right?”

He mumbles something out about indicators, head reeling as he tries to not hit a street lamp.

“That’s what I thought.” You sigh. “Say, have you got any hydrogen peroxide at your place? No, wait, scratch that, I’m burning the dress anyways.”

“Dress?”

“Yeah.” You huff. “Last time I’m letting Jones set me up on a date. Last time I’m going on a date period until all this gets worked out, actually.”

‘It is not okay to feel happy that she had a bad date.’ Still, he tries to steer the conversation away from the horrifying for a minute. “What happened?”

“I got stood up.”

“Why?”

“I forget. Where are you?”

He glances up at the street sign. “Still pretty far.”

A pause.

“You know,” you swallow, “I should really stop doing this. It’s not exactly great of me to have to ask for your help all the time.”

“None of us mind.”

“That’s not the point.” He hears a car on your end whizz by. “I should be able to go a week without making you go out of your way for me. You guys manage.”

“We’ve also been training in ninjutsu since we could walk.”

Tired, he decided. You sound tired. “Other normal people manage.”

“You’re not a normal person, though.”

“Sure I am.” Your words sound slow to him. “I keep interesting company is all.”

“That’s a word for it.”

“What, don’t count yourself as interesting?”

He turns a corner. “Not the first word I’d use, no.”

Another long silence. Occasionally, he notes, you will him something into the phone, say a quiet, unintelligible word of phrase he cannot quite make out, presumably in an effort to continue looking like you are on the phone to passers by. The streets, like most nights nowadays, are mostly empty, save for the occasional cop car or kid, making the commute a relatively uneventful one. It gives him time to think, anyways, and after a while of quiet contemplation and forced slow breaths so he did not look quite as panicked as he felt once he picked you up, a question quietly surfaces.

He would have come in a heartbeat. He was not exactly sure what he would have done, but he would have come running, regardless of if he could help. Why would you not call? Why would you try and deal with that sort of situation alone? Did you not trust he would come?

His fingers tighten around the wheel. What had you been thinking going out alone, anyway? After all that was happening, you thought it was a good idea to go on a date without a plan for if it went south?

Another sharp turn. If nothing else, he thinks, he can not say you are no longer naive or lacking in innocence. Maybe you are just incredibly prideful. Regardless, it will get you in more trouble than you had to be in.

What would he do if you got yourself irreparably damaged?

—

You are not having a good time.

You have managed to convince yourself that this is not, in fact, anything like the car. For starters, it is less aerodynamic; it is a metal box on wheels, designed for subway travel and is, therefore, not designed for optimum wind resistance, meaning it cannot go as fast with the same amount of energy. The inside of the vehicle is also distinctly dissimilar to a car, its origins blatantly obvious, and was entirely lacking in windows. While this is enough to convince you currently that climbing into the machine is not as serious a death sentence, the fact of the matter is that, yes, it is a metal monster on four wheels that drives on roads. If you keep your eyes shut, maybe you will not vomit as soon as you stumble out of the door.

Your stomach hurts. A lot of your body hurts, actually. You do not remember the “fight” with much clarity, but you do understand your head hurrying. You have yet to get a good look at yourself, but if you had to guess by the stains on your fingers that you can now identify as blood, the bad taste in your mouth that you are fairly sure is vomit and the flaky stuff on your face that also looks suspiciously blood-like, you would hasten to guess the answer is “not great”. You certainly do not feel great, if that is indicative of anything.

He has not said a word so far.

You do not force conversation, now. You would prefer not to talk about the ordeal, anyways.

There are monitors that he is staring at in order to steer. Why he would not just get an actual steering wheel or the old hull of a car from a junkyard is beyond you, though you guess a hippie van would not offer the same armored protection as a subway car.

“We got molested by a sea monster today.”

You look over at him, eyes half lidded. You want to sleep. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His eyes are focused on the screens. “Apparently it liked my submarine.”

“That’s… a thing.” You rub your hands on your thighs absentmindedly. “How did that work out?”

“Fine. It wasn’t all that strong.”

Your lips curl up into a weak smile. “That’s good, then. The mission went alright?”

He nods. “Without a hitch, funny enough.”

“That’s cool.”

The conversation dies as quickly as it starts.

The drive from that point on is an uncomfortably quiet one. You pick blood from under your nails, thumbs occasionally tracing the scars on your fingers— you are still not used to the difference in texture— as the hum or an engine rumbles underneath you. You are reminded of a memory from when you were younger, driving down the hallway, basking in the warmth of your own body heat with your arms tucked to your chest from under your top layer. The machine you were in now was colder, staler, but the hum of the engine, the time, all reminded you quietly of simpler times.

You swallow thickly. ‘I’m such a coward.’ You shut your eyes gently, stomach churning. ‘I’m going to get the people I care about hurt, aren’t I?’

Donnie says something.

The Shellraiser is stopped. You look up at him. “Huh?”

When he was younger, he and his brothers did not know the limits of their own strength. When they were first learning to fight, when they were first sent to spar against one another when their sensei was asleep, they would often go a step or three too far. He was never one to get involved— his brothers were stronger, more enthusiastic fighters— but he remembered distinctly what they would look like the morning after a fight, cheeks and eyes various shades of purples and blues and blacks. They would ask him, on occasion, after particularly brutal brawls, for him to paint over whichever brother’s face— usually Raphael or Leo— to hide them from their father. He got used to the sight, got better at understanding their anatomy, which chemicals mixed together would do which things.

He is getting sufficiently tired of seeing you hurt the worst he has ever seen.

You look so small in the seat, face black and blue, hands shaking. Your skin is paler than when you two first met, less healthy, a thin coat of sweat coating your skin and hair stuck to the back of your neck. Your dress— he has never seen you in one— is stained with rust, hidden poorly from under your jacket. He can tell already which bruises will take a while to disperse, where she had busted your nose and slammed your head against something hard. You need a shower and water and a blood test to make sure you do not die from whatever Karai gave you.

He clears his throat again. “I don’t want to be rude.”

“You’re doing me a favor. You have a right.”

He does not look you in the eyes. “It’s just… can I ask a question?”

You sigh. Even your voice sounds tired. “Shoot.”

His fingers trace the rim of the steering wheel. He takes a slow breath. “Why didn’t you call?”

“When she cornered me, you mean?”

A nod.

He glances over at you, staring down at your hands, turning them over. “You were on a mission. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“I would’ve come, you know.”

“I know.” You smile ruefully. “That’s why I didn’t.”

His fingers grip the wheel again, trying to not openly overreact. “Y/N,” he says carefully, “if a mission fails because we need to come save you from Karai, then we fail the mission.”

“How many people in New York would die if you guys did fail?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is.” You look up at him. “You get yourself in a lot of trouble because of me. You have to make sure I don’t kill myself all the time. Think logically, Donnie.”

He snorts, heart pounding in suppressed, almost overwhelming frustration. “Are you going to say something about thinking logically?”

“Fair point. But you get mine, right?”

“I don’t, actually.” He leans back in his chair, fingers gripping tighter still. “The only reason we’re messing with the Kraang at all, the only reason we started all this, is because I saw you and wanted to help you.” He counts on his fingers. “The only people I really, honestly care about this much are my family and you, and I know that, if I had never met you,” and he looks you dead in the eyes now, “I would just make a filtration system for my family and that would be the end of it.”

Your eyes are still gorgeous. Behind the bruises and the blood, you really are stunning.

“Sure,” he concedes, “maybe Leo would’ve gotten involved because he’s that selfless. I would’ve gone along with it, since he’s my brother and all, but if that were the case…” He takes a slow breath to calm down. He never thought it would come out right now at all times. “If that were the case, I would’ve never tried red velvet cupcakes. Mikey wouldn’t have a friend outside of the family. I never would’ve learned about crime movies, or had talks about science with anyone but myself, or any of the thousand other things you’ve given us.” He does not know exactly when he grabs your hands, but he is now, and you are so warm and alive right now. “I care about you. We care about you. You have to know that. For fuck’s sake,” he laughs, “I’ve told you outright, before!”

You open your mouth to say something. No words come out, for once.

He squeezes your hands. He cannot tell if your heart feels like his does, the straining against his chest, the aching feeling. He was never good at reading people or emotions or any of that.

But it’s time now. He can barely think. If he does not now, he might not ever.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Table of Contents

Chapter 15

Chapter 17

[diavolodigitale]

Dream Sequence. Asra

It is kind of surprising but I wrote all 3 stories about dreams in one day. Did I nearly lose my sanity in the process? Yes. Did it make me have a terrible migraine? Yes. Do I feel like it was worth it? Also probably pretty much yes. Hard to tell now, I don’t understand what is happening in real life anymore. 

All parts of the trilogy: Lucio - Asra - Julian - All stories in PDF

A part of the "trilogy" about dream encounters dedicated to Asra (because he is a cinnamon bun). Nothing special, just You (or the Apprentice, or the Reader, however you view it) and Asra spending some time together (if you know what I mean, which you probably don't, so go ahead and read it, it's pretty short, I promise). My character was male, but you are free to imagine whoever you want since there are no references to it in the text.

Genres: Romance, Fluff, Comfort, Dreams, POV First Person, One-shot, Light-hearted

Pairing: Asra/Apprentice(or Reader or You or Whatever)

Characters: Asra, Reader/Apprentice/You

Rating: G for Geez that’s another good story, how come?

Size: around 2500 words again

I open my eyes just to see that I am surrounded by white emptiness. As my eyes are adjusting to how bright everything around me looks, I am beginning to discern the line of the horizon that separates the cloudless greyish winter sky above from the frozen bluish ground under my feet.

It looks like it’s winter but it certainly doesn’t feel like one. I am dressed in my regular outfit and still no cold seems to penetrate my shirt and bite my skin underneath.

This must be a dream.

There seems to be nothing at all in front of me except for the vast emptiness and leagues and leagues of distance, so I turn around to investigate other directions.

Not far away from me I manage to spot a person sitting on a large round rock with their back turned to me. I realise that it’s probably his dream, not mine.

I approach, already knowing who the person is.

“Hello,” I say and put my hand on Asra’s shoulder, trying not to startle him.

“Oh, it’s you!” he says with delight in his voice and turns to face me. “Seeing you here is definitely a welcome surprise.”

Asra smiles and I take a seat beside him.

For some reason he is wearing an elegant snake mask. It is long and slender with the eyelids half-lowered, and really seems to accentuate the delicate features of his face. There’s nothing out of the ordinary with his clothes, so I decide to cast the strangeness aside as a result of this being a dream.

“I felt your presence some time ago but thought I was only imagining. How did you get here?” he asks, staring into the distance.

I shrug my shoulders. I really don’t know, but it’s not like there are many options here. Usually it’s all the same – either he gravitates towards me or I towards him. We’ve lived and worked together for so long that I feel like I can recognize his energy anywhere and anytime.

“Your magic must’ve brought me here,” I say, sneaking a glance at him.

Asra nods and it looks like he is smiling under his mask, but it’s hard to tell.

“You’re incredible, have I told you that?” he asks and turns to face me again.

“A few times, yes,” I say, a bit flustered at how straightforward he is. “But I can only locate you because your magic is so strong and vivid. I don’t even need to make any effort to find out where you are.”

“If you say so,” he says and laughs it off.

A cold gust of wind blows and makes a mess of his hair. I only assume that it’s cold, but I still cannot really feel much in this realm.

“Yet it won’t be long before you outgrow me,” adds Asra after a short pause, sounding a bit upset, “I’ll be looking forward to that moment.”

I notice how worried he sounds and cannot help but wonder what troubles him so much. He’s always been pretty open with me unless it came to some of the feelings he didn’t feel comfortable sharing.

I try to read the expression on his face, but the mask turns out to be a real hurdle, so I reach out to remove it.

“What are you doing?” asks Asra but doesn’t pull away from my hand.

“I feel frustrated when I look at your face and see this mask instead, so I wanted to help you take it off. May I?” I say apologetically, thinking that I should’ve asked before I actually tried.

“This mask…?” asks Asra in confusion and raises his hand to touch his face. His fingers find the plain surface of the mask instead of his skin, and he looks at me in surprise. “Yes… Sure, of course. I must look pretty strange with it, right?” he asks nervously and lets me remove the mask from his face.

I look at him attentively and notice that the tip of his nose as well as his lips are bluish. I frantically look down on his hands and note that they’re also much paler than usual and even seem to tremble.

“Are you cold?” I ask, scared and disappointed that I didn’t notice it earlier.

Before he manages to respond, I pull him into a tight hug with one hand and grab both of his shaking hands in the other one.

“Are you not?” he mumbles into my shoulder and gratefully nestles in my embrace.

“No, the cold doesn’t seem to affect me,” I say thoughtfully, stroking his hands with my thumb. I can feel his body gradually relaxing, washed by the warmth I radiate with a little help from my magic.

“Then this moment is even closer than I expected…” he almost whispers.

I still don’t exactly know the reason for his brooding but make an educated guess that he is yet again referring to me being more talented in magic than he expected. I can’t understand why it might be a bad thing and simply try to look for ways to cheer him up.

“If I grow stronger…” I start quietly, and he immediately turns his attentions to me, his wise eyes staring into mine, “will it be you who will be visiting my dreams then?”

He stares at me for a moment or two before letting out a soft chuckle and squeezing my hand.

“Only if you want me to. It’s not like there’s anything worth seeing in mine,” he responds, his smile fading a bit at the end.

“There’s nothing I would like more,” I say and feel like the tips of my ears are burning. “If it’s with you, though, I think I would agree to go anywhere.”

He’s been quite distant from me lately but I hope to change it. There’s no use guessing over his worries if he doesn’t want to tell me so I just hope I have enough determination and patience in me to show him that I’m not going to disappear anywhere any time soon.

My words seem to have hit the spot so Asra relaxes more and natural colour returns back to his face and hands. He makes a fluid movement with his hand and, suddenly, I see sparkling soft snow falling down on us. There’s no wind, so it just descends slowly and lands on Asra’s shoulders and head, getting lost in his white curls.  

I look at the intricate little snowflakes that got stuck in his eyelashes and make a sad face.

“I won’t be able to make anything this astonishing any time soon,” I say and pretend to be sullen about it.

Asra looks at me with a storm of unreadable emotions whirling in his eyes and smiles, raising both of my hands and intertwining our fingers.

“It’s not difficult,” he says in his best instructional tone and winks at me encouragingly. Previously he’s needed a lot of patience to teach me something but now he even seems to enjoy the process.

I nod, signalling that I am ready, and he begins coordinating my actions.

“You need to imagine the snow as carefully and accurately as you can, with all the possible details. Try to feel it’s texture under your fingers, hear the crunching and squeaking it makes when you walk on it.”

“What about some tender single snowflakes?” I ask playfully, fidgeting on my spot. I always feel excited when Asra teaches me something new.

Asra laughs and shakes his head.

“I’m afraid, if you’re going to imagine that, it will take us infinitely long to create even the tiniest snowfall. So, are you ready? Don’t worry, I will be here to help you and lend you some magic. Close your eyes and try to channel it,” he says patiently.

I squeeze his hands to make sure he is there beside me all the time and close my eyes. I try to imagine the tangible whiteness, soft and cold. How it feels on my skin, how it falls to the ground… but all of my thoughts are scattered after I get distracted by a soft and warm touch on my lips.

I open my eyes abruptly and stare at Asra. His face is as calm and kind as ever and a wonderful smile is blooming on it.

“It seems that you couldn’t concentrate hard enough. Don’t worry, take all the time you need. Go ahead and try again,” he says as if nothing happened, but I see him smiling with his eyes more than before, almost like he is observing something incredibly amusing to him.

I throw one more suspicious glance at Asra before closing my eyes again.

Snow. White snow squeaking under my feet as I go. Little white snowflakes stuck between Asra’s eyelashes.  

I feel another touch of his delicate lips, this time prolonged and more insistent. I do my best to keep my eyes shut, but it doesn’t really help me concentrate and I still cannot gather my thoughts. Straining myself as hard as I can, I squeeze Asra’s hands. I feel him pulling me closer and putting my hands on his shoulders. There’re already little piles of snow there so I quickly sweep it all away and throw my hands around his neck. I don’t want to start over again so don’t dare opening my eyes.

I feel Asra’s hands gently resting on the small of my back and I don’t mind it at all. They’re not cold anymore, so I want to enjoy his touch as much as I can. I feel his curls tickling my face and, reflexively, wrinkle up my nose.

I hear Asra’s melodious and vibrating laughter and move towards the sound to give him an awkward kiss somewhere on the corner of his mouth. He kisses me a few times in return before I finally decide to open my eyes.

Having gotten used to the dark, I have to squint for my eyes not to hurt so much because of all the whiteness. The only thing that fits into my limited field of view is Asra’s face adorned with one of his most charming smiles.

“Well, it seems like you will need some more practice with that,” he says lively.

I feel a few tangled snowflakes landing onto my cheek and my first instinct is to shake them off, but before I can do anything, Asra reaches with his finger and gets rid of them, leaving his hand lingering on my face.

I move my hands up and cup his face as well. He looks so warm and shining to me, so overflown with magic that his body cannot contain it and it escapes, changing everything around him. He is captivating, and I cannot force myself to take my eyes off him.

We don’t sit like that for long because soon Asra becomes jittery and suddenly tugs on my sleeve.

“Come, and let us explore!” he says, and gets up from the rock.

“But there’s nothing…” I want to say but stop before I am able to finish my sentence. I blink once, and there is a whole new mountain towering in the distance. I blink twice, and a dense forest, starting not far from us, is already covering its slopes. Everything’s under a thick blanket of snow, but I can clearly see a gleam of magical visions hidden in the depth of the forest.

Asra gives me a conspiratorial wink and I decide to follow his lead and stand up. Happy to see that I want to join him, he makes a few hasty steps in the direction of the forest and I try to follow him, but there’s one thing I have completely forgotten about.

Though the ground below is not cold, it’s still icy and slippery so instead of moving forward, I awkwardly twitch and fall back, wildly flailing my arms around. Asra makes an attempt to prevent me from falling, but I’m gripping his hand so tightly and pulling so abruptly that it makes him lose his fragile balance and he ends up heavily landing beside me.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” I ask hastily and rush to him on my knees.

He blinks a few times and a couple of chuckles escape his lips. Before I know it, he’s already burst into laughter, lying flat on his back.

My tail-bone hurts from the fall so I hold onto it and stare at him, confused but somehow also pleased and glad. Asra’s cheeks are red and I suspect that mine are as well.

When he is able to overcome his fit of laughter, he covers his eyes with one hand, preventing the newly emerged sun from blinding him, and looks at me, his eyes still smiling.

“Let’s not make haste anymore,” he says to me.

“Let’s not,” I agree, “after all, we have all the time in the world.”

Asra looks at me without saying anything, and for a moment I am worried I cannot read the expression on his face. He, however, decides not to give me much time to consider it and pulls me down and into a deep kiss.

I try to steady myself but my hands keep sliding apart on the icy surface. It is horrendously uncomfortable and I feel that I won’t be able sit like this for long, but he makes me feel like being so desired and cherished by him is totally worth the inconveniences.

When I finally move away, desperately grasping for air, he looks awfully satisfied.

I don’t know what to occupy myself with after such an interaction so I direct my gaze at the marvellous forest stretching before us, attempting to escape Asra’s attentive glance.

“You did such an incredible job with this place… I am simply in love,” I mutter under my breath.

I feel Asra’s eyes staring, practically piercing me, and turn to look at him, trying to understand what is happening.

“I know how you feel,” he just says and smiles mysteriously. I feel like I would give everything I have to know what is on his mind right now.

Not receiving any reaction from me, Asra stands up and shakes off small particles of ice and snow from his clothing.

“Shall we?” he says and offers me his hand.

“Of course,” I say and accept, embarrassed by my helplessness.

He lands a kiss on my hand and smiles with content.

“There are so many things I want to show you here, where do we even start…” he says thoughtfully, staring in the distance.

I shrug, letting him make the final decision.

Before we depart, I look back at the mask lying abandoned and forgotten on the ground. I don’t think we will be taking it with us.