#compliant home documents

[tacticaldiary]

omg hi, i love your writing and saw requests were open for cod. i was wondering if you could write something where reader and simon are in an established relationship (can either be public to the team or a secret) and they are on a mission. reader has a scare during a mission and ghost has an “i almost lost you” moment with her.

Anyone But Her

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Their line of work has never guaranteed the assurance of coming home, but that doesn't make the fear of loss any easier to deal with, especially not when it happens right in front of his eyes.

Masterlist

If asked where one feels the most comfortable, people who respond with something like 'home' or 'the beach', something achievable and wholly normal.

Her? There was nothing more comforting than the feel of hot metal in her tight grip during a mission, the easy reloading of her sniper almost by muscle memory as she gazes down the scope. The commands, the back and forth with tasks and delegations, and the constant movement and adjustment needed to bring home a victory is what keeps her on her feet.

"In position on first building." Ghost's rough voice travels through the comms, bringing her attention away from the scope she's looking down. Laying down on the top of a hill, spotting the other members as they infiltrate a Russian warehouse, was an easy job. In and out before they realised that the team was even there.

It's an ugly thing, what the 141 deals with, but it's so far set from what normal is that she's long since accepted that there's no going back.

Part of her is glad she hadn't tried. If there was never a chance she'd have been selected for this squad, she never would have met the enigma that is Simon Riley.

Standoffish, brash, deadly.

Understanding, confident, loving.

They'd butted heads on her first day harsher than any of the others ever had, and after an order from Price to resolve their tension lest it interfere mid battle, the both of them had come to realise that they had much more in common than they thought.

The rest had been history. They already moved in sync on the field, and after a try they'd discovered they worked just as well together as something more than teammates. It was hard to keep things professional with glances so heated and words that no friend would ever offer each other.

Some of the things he's said to her in the heat of the moment and the privacy of their quarters makes blood rush to her cheeks just thinking about it.

She was just a precaution, really. A failsafe, because the odds may be in their favour but they were never always truly compliant.

"Breaching second on your command." Gaz's voice relays through.

"Sergeant, how are things from above?"

"All clear, L.T." She says, doing another final sweep of the grounds. "No visible hostiles near your vicinity." The good news is delivered with an undertone of caution.

If their intel was correct, this warehouse should be housing stolen US documents, information that could deal real damage to their operations if transported farther than it already had been.

So where were all the soldiers?

The only ones she sees are a few mulling around the grounds, three by the radio tower nearby and another few near the vehicles at the back of the compounds. Surely such valuable intel would be more heavily guarded?

Her gut speaks to attest that something is wrong, but before she can bring it to light, Ghost and Soap, and Gaz and Price breach the doors of their respective warehouses.

"Copy." Ghost rasps. "Breaching now." She pauses for a moment to fiddle with her comms unit, the voices filtering through to her earpiece crackling in a way they shouldn't be if the device was fully functional.

Looking down her scope, everything seems normal. The grass swaying in the wind, the silence that follows and-

Silence?

She stiffens at the sudden lack of noise. It was too still, the clam before the storm. Hand flying to her comms, she speaks into the device;

"Ground team, how copy?"

Static. Then silence.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she repeats herself louder, more firmly, frowning where there's nothing but muted static and crackling. She does another sweep of the facility with her sniper. All seems quiet until her gaze focuses on the radio tower.

Adjusting her scope's distance, her mouth goes dry when she realises exactly what the three at the base of the structure are holding. A device she herself has used many times during missions like these.

A jammer.

Sudden movement makes her eyes snap back to the vehicle form before. Her stomach drops as the doors to the truck swing open and soldiers armed to their necks pour out, spreading all over the facility.

An ambush. They knew they were coming. Jammed their comms to isolate them and hide their forces until the others entered the warehouses probably. Surrounded. They'd be surrounded in mere minutes if they didn't do something.

Her comms are useless, so she can't warn them, and can only watch in muted horror as they start to scatter around the building.

Fuck.

She can't take out the three men at the tower from here. That wouldn't stop the device and only act to reveal her position. Hands-on was the only way.

Slamming her sniper onto the strap on her back, she extracts her pistol, breaking into a harsh sprint down the hill. There was no time, she had to warn them herself. To hell with staying out of sight.

The 141...they were like family to her. Soap and Gaz's constant cheeky remarks and antics, Price's steadfast and reliable leadership, Ghost...Simon's patience and understanding, his muted passion and actions that when decoded conveyed more love than anybody had every offered her.

The day her team took a loss would not be today. Not like this. Not when she could help it.

Finding herself in the middle of the compound by ducking and staying out of view, she kneels behind a crate, unhooking one of her frag grenades, pulling the pin out with her teeth.

This would give away her position, a dangerous gamble while hostiles surrounded her from all sides, but what better way to alert battle-ready soldiers than with the bang of a grenade. A sounds they knew all to well.

She'd just have to hold her position until they could regroup. She's done tougher things before, and this was so or die right now. With the thought in mind, she steels herself and tosses out the grenade at the most densely packed area of soldiers, clenching her jaw and taking cover at the resounding bang that cracks through the air.

The gunfire follows soon after.

Her comms crackle, evidence that someone's trying to reach her, but with the jammer not sounds can be deciphered.

Soldiers yell, and fire at her location, the heavy thudding of footsteps on either side of her clueing her into their intentions to flank her sides and gun her down. Returning fire, she ducks between the crates to make her way to the radio tower, just a couple of metres away. Bullets clink and bang and ricchoet of fthe metal around her, but miraculously, she's mostly unscathed as dives behind a vehicle and takes down the three men aiming their rifles at her.

The jammer lays at the feet, blinking green.

Right in the middle of the open field. She had to get there, had to get it off so they could all communicate with each other and move smoothly. There was a higher risk of casualties if one moved without the knowledge of the others.

Unpredictability was the worst of enemies in the field.

Steeling herself for going out in the open under the inevitable spray of bullets, she unclips a smoke grenade and tosses it, holding her breath as acrid smoke obstructs everyone's vision. Stumbling into the mess, she keeps low to the ground to avoid the blind fire into the smoke and feels around for the device.

Her hands curl around the metal and she sprints back to cover.

She doesn't make it.

Their blind fire proves effective, as a bullet rips through her shoulder, another one through her calf wrenching out a choked scream from her. The smoke was slowly dissipating, and pretty soon visibility would be back and then any bullet wounds she'd sustain would not be as unfatal.

Panic claws up her throat, but years of practise allow her to swallow it down. She pulls herself up, but groans and collapses, her leg unable to support her weight and her shoulder unable to drag her across the ground.

Shit, shit.

Her breaths come ragged and uneven, her knuckles turning white with the harsh grip on the device. Changing courses, she brings the jammer close to her, focusing on it instead, turning knobs and pressing buttons.

If she bit the bullet here, she'd damn well do so making sure the others stayed alive.

The second the jammer switches off, voices filter through her comms, a flurry of mixed yells, gunfire and pounding footsteps.

"Sergeant?!" A familiar voice barks down the line, hoarse...worried? "Are you down?"

Lightheaded, feeling blood soak through her clothes, she can't bring herself to respond. The smoke starts to clear and the best she can do is shift herself behind a tree a few feet away, leaning against the thick trunk for cover while unable to grasp her weapon through the slippery bloody coating her hands.

Was it normal to have that much blood? Feeling a little delirious, she drops her weapons besides her and presses down hard on the wound on her leg, biting back a groan. Gunfire pings around her, gunpowder and smoke acrid in the air.

It's only when Ghost snaps her name through the comms does she come back to herself a little.

"I'm..." She squeezes her eyes shut trying to get her tongue to form words. "I'm down. Bleeding out near the radio tower. Fuckers jammed out comms. Ambush. Had to...had to warn you. Had to fix it." She coughs, spitting into the ground beside her as blood trickles down her chin.

Definitely not normal.

Swallowing is hard, her thoughts swim as the grass beneath her is stained crimson. Her body feels too heavy, head to light and she wonders if this is really the end.

Someone speaks through her comms, words to muddled in her head to make out. Gaz? Or was that Price? Maybe Soap? Or Simon?

God, what she wouldn't give to hear Simon again, just once. Her eyes flutter shut with a groan. Just once more. She just wants to hear that gruff voice one more time through the comms, saying her name. He's never told her he's loved her verbally, even when she expressed it herself, but words haven't ever been his strong points.

His actions spoke far far louder.

The ways he's memorised all her little routines, her favourite foods, her favourite activities, the particular way she likes to store and clean her weapons. the silent moments at night where he pulled her close and the shared a book together, the nights spent together in bed where he showed her that he was not lacking in love when it came to her.

Simon Riley had left a mark on her life that she wore with pride, and if this...this meant that he lived on another day. She grits her teeth, shallows pant soft breath as blood pools between her fingers.

Then it was damn well worth it.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

An unstoppable force by nature, Ghost is the scariest anybody's ever seen him right now.

That last comms transmission from her had made his heart practically stop in his chest, even if he was as apathetic as ever from the outside. He had called out to her again, demanded she stay awake and give a precise location but no matter how much he shouted and order through the comms he was met with a deafening silence.

Silence that suggested the worst.

Fuck, no. No way. This wasn't happening, this simply wasn't something Simon would allow to happen.

Not her. Not any of them, really, but especially not her. Not her soft smiles and meaningful glances, not when she made him feel as if he might not break everything he comes into contact with.

Not when she was the only one who's ever coaxed out Simon Riley from Ghost.

His actions grow harsher, more brutal. The moment he hears she's near the radio towers bleeding out, he's a man on a mission, and none of the others make a peep of protest as he clears the way through to her, a spartan leaving a trail of blood behind as he moves.

He does not rage. Rage implies something uncontrolled and fierce. No, this is not rage. This is something much colder, much more calculating. Every throat that he slashed with his knife, every bullet that lands home in a skull is done with precision and deadly force. He means every bit of hurt he causes, hurt that stems from his own panic at her sudden silence.

This was not rage. This was icy cold desperation disguised as cool anger.

He's the one who finds her after everybody spreads out to clear the facility.

Back to a tree, eyes closed, hands limp at her side.

She might have been sleeping if not for all the fucking blood.

Dropping down beside her, he shakes her shoulder firmly, calling out her name.

"Wake up, Sergeant." He orders, eyes raking over her figure to find the source of her injuries. His jaw ticks as he notes the two fresh wounds. She doesn't move when he extracts a rolls of gauze from his belt, doesn't flinch when he tightly wraps her injuries.

Does not wake up to notice how his hands are shaking as he ties the final knots.

"Wake up." He says, voice much lower, something deeply needing. Shifting closer, he pulls her into his arms, away from the rough bark of the tree. Her head falls to his shoulder limply, making his breath hitch, true, cold fear gripping his heart. "Wake up, sweetheart, c'mon." He urges. She's still alive as per the shallow rise and fall of her chest, but she won't fucking wake up and it's killing him, making panic claw at his throat because not her, not her, not her.

Reaching around, he pinches her sternum hard, relief slamming into him when she finally groans and whimpers, a weak hand reaching up to push his away. "That's it, love. There you go." He mutters praise, hooking an arm under her legs and hoisting her up, carrying her. "Keep those eyes open for me, yeah? Don't you dare fucking close them, you hear me?" His accent is thicker than normal

"..Simon?" She groans, barely a whisper, making his heart wretch painfully.

"It's me." He confirms, clutching her tighter as he makes his way back to the exfil he'd ordered Gaz to request. The heli stand waiting near the first warehouse, a mass of dead bodies paving the path for them to step over. "I've got you, love. Stay with me, just a little longer.

He doesn't know if she can hear him let alone understand what he's saying, but it seems to work, her groggy gaze taking in their surrounding, watching but not really seeing.

She shoves at his chest suddenly, weak but firm. "No...you gotta-they're here." She rattles in a breath that makes even him wince. "Ambush, Simon. Gotta-get yourself out."

"Fucking hell woman, you think I'd leave you?" He hisses, hiking her up closer so their bodies are pressed together. He feels a rush of anger peer through the crushing panic and worry he's beating down.

"No time." She breathes. "Leave-"

"Not another word." He warns, angry at the thought that she'd even think for one moment that he'd let her die on his watch, that he'd ever leave the one good thing in his life.

Her compliance scares him to the bone.

Simon practically runs the last few meters towards the evac heli, barking out instructions for a medic as they bring out a stretcher. Gently, an action so at odds with the flames burning through his veins, he lays her down on it, staying by her side as they hoist her inside.

The jolting makes her whimper, aggravating her injuries no doubt. "Careful," Simon demands, and a single glare from him is enough to make the team move her with much more cautiousness.

The team clamours in and it's not long before they're all in the air.

A silence is passed around the space, an acknowledgment and shared anger at her state, how she was riddled with bullets like a target because of her selfless nature to save and give.

They hadn't gotten the intel, but Simon has never given less of a shit about anything before, not when she's laying next to him pale and trembling, looking up at him as if he might be the one to make her pain go away.

May God strike him dead if he doesn't try his fucking hardest.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The steady beep on a heart monitor and the sharp smell of antiseptic is what slowly brings her back to the living world. She feels...

Well she feels like shit.

That's kind a given though, judging by how she determines by the scratchy sheets under her that she's in a hospital bed. One would be more disorientated by waking up like this, but she's seen her fare share of white bedspreads and jello cups.

Finally gathering up the courage to blink her heavy eyes open, she squints at the ceiling light, slowly getting her bearings.

They were...on a mission. She tries to recall. Warehouse. Men. Jammer...

The jammer! Were the others alright? All she remembers is passing out by the tree and-what else?

Alarm ringing through her, she moves to sit up but immediately groans at her body protesting, her limbs burning at the movement. Shoulder and leg tight with stitches, she tries to force herself to sit up when a large, warm hard pushes her back down.

"Easy does it. Lay still for me." The familiar voice washes away the alarm and when she slowly, groggily turns her head, there sits the one person she wanted to see.

Simon sits beside her bed, looking ragged and poorly even beneath his mask. She can see it by the tension in his shoulders.

"Wh-" She trails off, coughing and wincing at the pain in her dry throat. There's a rustling, and then a hand at the back of her neck, guiding her lips to a cup full of cool water. "Drink." Simon says simply, helping her swallow the liquid until she pushes on his hand.

"What happened?" She finally manages, meeting his eyes. "You look...like shit. You okay?"

Amusement may have flickered into those eyes of his, but it's next to nothing with the other concoction of worry in his eyes.

For someone so stoic, he had very expressive eyes if you knew how to read them.

"Am I okay?" He stares in disbelief. "Considering I didn't get shot twice and nearly bleed out, I'd say I'm doing better than you."

"Ever the comedian." Her joke doesn't crack a smile from him and that's when she knows something is truly wrong. "Simon what-"

The scrape of his chair cuts her off as he stands abruptly, moving over to her side. He seems hesitant for a split second, arms pausing as they reach out.

He decides to push away the doubt, however, because moments later, strong arms are wrapped around her, pulling her into him. She relaxes at the familiar scent of him, of his clothes as he tucks his chin over her head.

His heart is racing under his cheek, her fist loosely gripping his shirt.

She knows he'll speak in time, that she just has to wait for him to gather the words and decide how to express them out loud. So she does exactly that. She waits while he regulates himself, gathers his thoughts.

His arms tighten around her. "Thought I lost you." He says, and if it had been anybody but her, they might have missed the slight tremor in his voice. "When I saw you bleeding out against that tree...Fuck, I thought you were gone."

"Not that easily." She hums, pressing into him further. "Never than easily."

"Better fucking not be." It coaxes a hoarse giggle from her, what he growls in her ear.

"I'm alright, Simon." She assures him gently. "Alive and kicking."

He nods against her head minutely, his lips pressing against her head through his mask, a gesture that makes her melt because if Simon was resorting to such a thing he must have really had a scare. He hated PDA and although they were the only ones in the room, normally they reserved this kind of intimacy for their own rooms when they're alone together.

He stays like that for a while, convincing himself that she was there, that she was alive and breathing and in his arms and untouchable as of now. All the while she runs a soothing hand up and down his strong arms, mumbling assurances of their safety.

She'd do it again in a heartbeat, would put herself in harms way to save her team, but as she sits there pressed against him, the sun spilling into the room warming it with it's rays, she can't help but think of how thankful she is to have felt this again.

To have the chance to continue experiencing the protective love of Simon Riley.

Requests Are Open!

(25/06/2023)

[jolalibrary]

in my room

javier peña x f!reader | masterlist

summary: Because it’s an exchange, a two-way thing. He doesn’t tell you he likes your hair and you don’t tell him you fuck him so you don’t think.

wordcount: 6.2k (im so sorry, this was meant to be short)

warnings: explicit. smut + angst. colleagues who fuck for stress relief. grumpy-ish javi. file room shenanigans. unprotected p in v. oral!f receiving, mention of m!receiving. javi’s hand being a necklace. cum eating (by Javi), mild rough sex? mentions of grief (due to canon-compliant death), season two compliant/spoilers for season two. javi has a filthy mouth. joetics (jo and her poetic nature, credit to @/goodwithcheese for the name), no use of y/n but javi calls you princesa/baby.

an: dedicated to javi-edit-anon, hope you're doing okay.

It begins swarmed in grief.

A chest full of conflicting emotions, fingers itching for another smoke. It is all put into motion by the same person who became the catalyst—the match to the flame, the cause of the inferno.

He doesn’t usually wander around the building. But, today was a lot of firsts. Jaw clenched. Fingers digging into his palm at the memory, the realisation—the fucking play-by-play—of how he’d been played, fucked over, used.

Now, he’s left riddled with the knowledge that he’d lost a friend a few hours ago because of something he did. The understanding of it rusting in his stomach, right next door to the place disgrace is building a home where his gut had been.

He’s not thinking, not seeking—a desperation to run and hide, yet has nowhere to go.

And then he comes across you.

Finds you in the hallway like you were sent to save him. To pull him out of the water, pump the liquid from his lungs and smother the flames from burning his skin.

The two of you having stopped, paused in your travels.

Just two isolated shadows in the middle of the corridor—an invisible line being drawn, a noticeable white mark—backlit by sorrow and emptiness.

You don’t tear your eyes from him. Stubborn, even on your loss. Purposefully, intentionally, holding his gaze across the empty corridor.

Usually, you're so put together he feels contempt at how you seem unfazed at being surrounded by the shit they all have to do daily. But now, you look every bit as undone as him—shirt untucked, sadness stitched into your usually tight, rigid frame.

The only thing similar is the way you look at him, just like you did when the hours ticked on during those late nights you were forced to work together.

Files opened, documents scoured. Two eyes fairing better than one in their search. The toe of your shoe tapping against his desk, your fingers circling the rim of your mug full of coffee (never liquor, only coffee), pen clicking and clicking—

It had been Carrillo who had paired the two of you. Handing him a task, a surname—one Javi hadn’t heard—and the option of an extra pair of hands: you’ll see she’s good, and we don’t want her poached.

Then, he’d laid eyes on you.

You who’d he’d seen around, but never the chance to talk to. Had no reason to. You forever moved in any direction but the one he was heading in whenever he came into sight. That had been well over a month ago, weeks now.

In that time, he learnt your snark, your laugh—the way you take your coffee and your petulance for sugar after 8 pm—all proper in how you handle yourself, like royalty.

It’s then he learned that you hated being called princesa. Lips curling when it dripped from his lips, back straightening—all close to fracturing, snapping. So naturally, he called it you more.

It became—like the rest of it—a habit. He dropped the name as easily as he began pushing some of his shit to the side for you, so you had a space, a small corner of his desk you could commandeer when you joined him.

It didn’t mean anything. A thing be recited, thought to himself as he buried himself inside Gabriela—who looked nothing like you.

Then, a week ago, you were already there before he got back. The soles of his shoes had come to a standstill at the top of the steps, staring at the back of you—taking you in.

There was no need to see your face, Javi knew that you knew he was there. Not saying a thing when he seated himself down, the same way he didn’t with each tap of your shoes’ toe against the metal frame and you bit the end of your pen. He’d decided weeks ago, when you wore a shirt you felt the need to undo two buttons off, that if you weren’t paired with him to torture him, he wasn’t sure what else you were sitting next to him to test him for. But he’d find out, work it out.

Then you cracked it—found it, the anomaly, the name, a connection. A semblance of something in a sea of shit. A straw to grasp, to pull—your lips, likely stained from coffee and ink, twisting into a grin, one he couldn’t help but admire.

“¿Cómo?”

Pulling a face, he had only shrugged, feeling you watch him, answering with a, “You’re good.”

“You just realised? You just notice I got tits, too?”

Leaning back in his chair, he shifts his jaw to the side. Watching you stack papers before holding his stare, letting you see him flick his eyes from yours to your lips. Suddenly all unsure how to even begin telling you that he’d noticed you—had done so since they were all forced into this fucking building.

But you’d caught him, snapped him in plain sight with those beautiful eyes of yours. “Resorting to kissing colleagues now. Fucking whores not doing it for you, Peña?”

He had smirked, wider, but it had been tough. Leaning forward, he traced his bottom lip with his thumb. “You heard about that.”

Nodding, you’d smiled—cockily, full of something other than kindness. “Half the women will be lining up if they think you have free time.”

“But not you?”

Then, you’d stood, head tilted, files in the neatest pile compared to the rest of his desk, as you rolled your lips. “No. Not me. Goodnight, Peña.”

That exchange had been before things had gone to shit.

Before his cock had undone it all, left several people dead and the person who’d paired you together, gone. Taken—leaving a widow and children without a father.

Snorting, he focuses on clearing his throat as he replays it all. How much of a fever dream it all feels, his other hand pinching his thigh as he stares at you studying him, not scurrying off like he half expects.

And the fact you don’t makes his fingers itch at his side.

A part of him, suddenly stronger than all other parts, battles to move closer to you—like he needs to see what your mouth feels like on his. Like he’s been without his fill. It’s why even as much as he wants you to close the gap, he doesn’t move. Wants you to have an out—an escape.

A chance to choose whether you want to wake up with regret. Because even he knows sleeping with him ends in two ways, and shame is usually one of them.

“You should go inside your room.”

But of course you don’t. Instead, it’s the soles of your shoes on the floor that get louder, closer.

“Do you want me to, Peña?”

It’s building, rising. His eyes trailing up and down you, mouth chewing his tongue as he gets another taste of liquor, as he finally lets his gaze land back on yours.

“You want me to walk away from you?”

No. It’s final. Gruff. More spat out than said—laced with failure and remorse—but you hear him. Loud and fucking clear.

So much so, your lips twist up, smirking more devilish than he knows what to do with. “Good.”

It’s quick—you’re quick. Yanking him close as he forces you flush against him. His mouth crashes, steals and takes as his lips sear themselves to yours. And he learns, quickly, you’re not soft, but biting.

You are all jagged sweetness that throws a curve ball in how he knows how to handle this. You. Your lips taste of sadness, tears and liquor, all cheap—so very unlike what he imagines for you—and you make a knot tighten in his core as your palm flattens over his hardening cock in his jeans.

“You tested?” he asks, hand cupping your jaw, tilting your eyes up, pulse racing against his wrist—skin warm, scorching.

“Are you!?” you spit, and he almost snorts until your fingers knot in the base of his hair, pulling, likely hoping it hurts.

And it does.

Makes him groan—but he’s quick to smother it in the back of his throat. Flatten it, hide and conceal. Getting his answer for an exchange of your own.

“We should go inside my room,” you say in response to him, pulling down on him, Javi finding he bends with far too much ease as his ear finds itself close to your lips, “I’m not quiet when I’m enjoying myself.”

Twisting you, he flattens your back to his chest, rough, hearing you breathlessly laugh. “You know what you’re doing, baby, huh?”

And you’re silent, brain whirring as he begins walking you, till your chest is almost against your door.

Open it, he whispers, watching your hand dig for the key, his mouth latching to your neck, swirling a circle on your skin, tasting lingering perfume and sweat as he grips your waist.

“Last chance.”

He hears you laugh, low, buried somewhere in your throat just as the door unlocks, all loud, cutting through the silence other than both of your racing breaths. It’s why, he supposes, his words echo in his stare as you turn your head. Rolling your lips. It's all so reminiscent of the stare you gave him at the foot of his desk—but this time, you collide your mouth with his.

Not leaving—not doing anything except turning in the space between your door and him. Those nails, the ones that tapped now scrape across his hair, burying, carding, as you lightly pull on strands—forcing a groan to bury itself in your throat, find a new home, live there.

It's quick, practically animalistic the way he sheds your layers—baring you, finding (unsurprising) that even in misery you still match. His fingers run over it on your hip, rolling his lips, the tip of his tongue swiping across as he admires, as he steals a second to commit you to his mind.

Because he’s not sure if he’ll ever get to again.

“Last chance,” you echo.

Repeating his words, using them against him. Flicking the fabric against your skin, he snorts and he flips you. Sharply telling you to get on your bed, all-fours—bend over, hermosa.

“This how you pictured it at your desk?”

He barely registers your words until he’s behind you, bare, hand sliding between your thighs as he smirks at the noise you make. How you take him, all the way up to his knuckles—his free hand stroking himself to the in and out his other hand sets, desperation mixing with a need to forget—for a moment peace from thinking, existing, being.

And you’re drenched. Practically desperate. Hips moving with his movements and strokes, the air tinged with the littlest whimpers before replacing his fingers with the head of his cock, dragging it, skating it spitefully over your slick folds.

That’s when it meets his ears, those distinct words—ones he doesn’t know will haunt him just yet—I want to feel you inside me, Peña.

It unlocks something—floods him. Taking in a breath before he glides in, burying himself in you, right to the hilt, going deep.

He revels in your tightness. The way you gasp at the feel of him—fingers digging, scrunching them into your sheets, before he wrenches you up off your hands, needing your back flush with his—a move he realises, painstakingly, he’s done before.

Softening his palm anchored on your hip, lips pressing to your jaw—the other hand busy feeling, enjoying, basking in how you swallow against his palm on your neck.

“You like that, princesa?”

You moan as his hips snap, taking him so well, so perfectly—a thing he tells you, a rush of good girl, good princesa taking me like this. And he expects a bite, a flurry of insults—an exchange that would mean this would shift from stress relief to hate fucking.

But it never arrives. Instead, it’s a barrage of chants, all yes, please, yes, painting the shitty room—giving the crumbling paint something to be disgusted at, other than its own despair. The metal legs of the bed squeal against the floor, the headboard hammering, and cluttering, leaving a mess of years of repainting along the cheap flooring.

“Take me so well. Y’know that?”

Fingers just above your collarbone, pressing, feeling your head resting on his shoulder, eyes seeking his, determined to locate them and take something from him for it. He lets you. Briefly, just enough.

“Harder, Peña,” you hiss, shoving it out through clenched teeth, blinking, breaking the eye line.

“Javi,” he hisses deep into your ear, hand sliding down between your thighs—above where the two of you are joined.

Thumb expertly swirling, tracing the letters of his name against your throbbing clit—the sound of his cock fucking into you growing louder, sloppier. Arm thrown around your waist, feeling the way your skin is sheened in sweat, practically a mess from head to fucking toe, all because of him. Crown slid, shattered in a thousand parts across the floor, because of him.

A realisation that almost nears him to the edge, to bursting, to emptying inside your perfect fucking pussy and stuffing you full of him.

Teeth gritted together, jaw tight as he peers at the place your bodies join—watching, in admiration, as you take him, suck him in, barely let him able to leave your tight pussy as your heart hammers against his forearm.

“When I’m doing this to you,” he grunts, teeth pinching at your ear, your hand gripping his wrist—thumb still swirling, the A and V being a favourite from the way you clench around him tighter, and tighter, “You call me Javi.”

It undoes you. It ripples and then bursts through you—clenching all around him, tightening, squeezing him until his vision blurs and your name curls somewhere on his tongue, all set to be spat, spoken, even fucking whispered. Somehow able to swallow it when it unfurls through him, when it shoots up his spine and surges through every nerve and muscle.

The two of you collapsing against the shitty mattress, the squealing bed, as you turn in his grasp—lips finding his, burying words against him, only soft murmurs finding his ears.

He’s hard to avoid.

More so, when a part of you wishes to be a puzzle—a thing he cannot crack. Something that would take time to understand and figure out. Because then you’d be interesting, layered, something that could matter.

All of which, you suspect he knows when he kisses you after having his face buried before your thighs, tongue saturated in you, now licking into your mouth.

There’s something truthful in it, in the way his palm cups your entire jaw and chin, holding you, keeping you rooted for a few moments before you taste yourself on his tongue and can take note of what he’s done to you. For you.

Except, you don’t meet his eyes. Somehow fearful the space between your thighs has spilled all your secrets to him. Because he’s a connoisseur, likely gifted in being able to decipher the text on your inner walls. Hooked nose dragging along your slick core before coming up for air and seeing how ordinary you were, how boring, how average. He’s likely traced the pads of his fingers over the etchings of all the things that haunt your mind, the things that thrum and go bump in the fucking night.

But he comes back. Again, and again.

And you can't understand why.

You don’t ask either. Instead, you bury any of that against his tongue, and when it’s desperate to come out, a wish to ask him, you instead choose with fluttering lashes and parted lips if you can suck his cock. If he can fuck your throat, if he can stuff you full in one end before the other—

Words can’t escape if your tongue is occupied.

A thing harder to do in the day-to-day. As things around the place return to normal—other priorities sweep over and make people forget their sadness.

It’s why you’re not avoiding him, but you haven’t sought him out.

Too afraid of what you’ll confess when you’re not on your knees. A simple softening of his brown eyes almost forces words to rip up your throat and colour the air.

It won’t do any good. No words will. Not after waking again entangled in an empty sheet. All evidence of his presence gone except the littering of bruises on your hips and thighs and the mess between your legs.

It’s easier, less complicated to keep it like this—a thing you tell yourself as you brush your teeth and wash the leftover tang of him from your mouth.

Stress release, an undoing, an antidote to sadness and a bandage that allows you a moment to heal. You don’t judge him, because he doesn’t judge you either—not the first time, the second or the tenth. Because like recognises like—eyes deciphering how you’re not that different from him.

On the surface, you may pretend to be. Layer secrets and annoyances on top of the other, until it slips into something perfect—a mask, one that any of them can’t peer through and see that you see them all. Because working here is more than hard, it’s more than difficult and often rough.

It’s mornings with your forehead resting on your door wondering if you have it in you and moments alone in dark corners silently wiping away tears.

Most people don’t see your brain, your skills all too quickly forgotten, discarded on the same bit of paper the rest of your history lived when you approached for the role.

You reckon he sees you.

Not because you hoped for it—or because of some teenage fantasy. But, because of the way he looked that night at his desk. Not surprised, but confused as to why you were mainly pushing paper, why you weren’t based where he was, doing what he does. All questions you’ve asked yourself late at night, when your mind doesn’t stop ticking, stop whirring.

You suspect he ticks too. Another thing in common.

While he may have begun his dalliances to gain words, secrets, and stories, you have come to recognise it’s more than that. You know he knows all the names of them—likely lingers in their room. Offering them more than a good time and some money, but something he seeks from them too—companionship, a moment where he’s not DEA and rather something akin to a lover.

From the way he holds himself, Javi doesn’t think he shares that information. But it rolls from him in constant waves when he lights another smoke and drowns his throat in whatever is in his mug. He likes to think he’s effortless and austere, all too weighed down, while being complex, brilliant and wonderful.

It’s why you had wanted to fuck him. Why you had fucked him.

Because, objectively, he is beautiful. All soft in places and firm in others; he has scorching eyes and can offer searing touches. But, under all of that is what made heat blossom up your spine and commanded your thighs to press together for relief.

The way he thinks. The way he shifts his jaw from side to side and traces his finger down the length of his nose. It’s the way he holds himself when he doesn’t have to hold himself at all that makes you want him.

As it makes you feel less alone.

Less like an oddity in how you need to carve your nails into something. Your palm, other people’s flesh; wood, your sheets. All of it just so you become grounded, so there was pain, so there were feelings, so you didn’t float off or drown in a sea of mistakes, regrets and guilt.

It was a combination of both that floating and drowning as to why it happened that first time.

It had been a simultaneous tangling of limbs, a battle, a war both of you attempted to claim—a fight with your mouths, thighs, hands, tongues and bodies. Only stopped when you were both slick with sweat, the tops of your thighs coated with him and your breaths laboured. Your ear to his chest, hearing it—the way he beats, the way he lives. How blood rushes through him, all alive, real, not a fabrication.

Now, though, it’s different.

The grief is lessoned, yet you still find yourself pretending it's as rife as that first night.

A compromise, an opportunity to pretend that’s the reason the two of you do this. When in truth, the reason you don’t judge him, is because you too use sex to feel something. Needed it to claim something, prove something to yourself—that you’re desirable, attractive and fucking wanted. That you’re more than a sharp tongue and a brilliant mind, more than compliments through your way that never land—

That you’re worthy of being fucked to the point you cannot walk straight.

And, he does that so well, twists you, bends you—makes your ears ring with how attractive you are, how good you are, how perfect. A sin that rages a storm in his dreams and a thought he can’t silence.

So you avoid him. Fearful that you no longer wish to feel worthy of being fucked, but be worthy of being fucked by him.

And then he finds you instead.

Palm shoving open the file room door, all loud, like an announcement, before he lets it click into place. Allowing the air to tighten, to squeeze—all so thickening—before he’s charging, so much so the breath is knocked from your lungs with far too much ease when he flattens your back to the wall. The dust blowing from the shelves next to you from the sudden movement, the room quaking, shaking and fucking trembling as his brown eyes flick from one eye to the next.

As though he’s seeking something out.

Some truth, perhaps? A reason, a rhyme.

He splays his fingers across your hip, a hiss trying to escape from your pursed lips as your body threatens to betray you—wishing to curl into him, feel him flush, all warm and easy to escape to. Then, the other finds a home on the wall beside your head, no place to move to, to go—not that you fucking want to.

“I don’t fuck in file rooms, Peña.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. All well-versed, practically a library of quick retorts. “Where do you fuck then? Just your room?”

Surrounded by him, in all the ways that could torture. Nose smothered in the scent that is unabashedly him; eyes unable to look anywhere but him. Slowly, bothersomely, he begins to easily unpick the carefully placed resolve, practically cracking through like it was made of paper and not woven each night as you attempt to stop thinking about him.

Sometimes, it’s easier to think about him.

To snake your hand inside your underwear and ride your fingers with how much you loathe how good he feels. His name is both a curse and a fucking blessing on the tip of your tongue when you come—heat licking up your spine, washing you in something you suspect should be a shame.

But it never is.

Because it’s an exchange, a two-way thing. He doesn’t tell you he likes your hair and you don’t tell him you fuck him so you don’t think.

Instead, you leave that, fold it up, and make it as small as it can be, before you undress for him. Then you fixate on his eyes, on the darkness, the way his pupils swallow the colour you know all the flecks off. You stare, because you hope to see yourself in them—an outline, a shadow, evidence of living, remaining, not chipped away until you’re just stiff work attire and coffee. Something, anything—

Especially when you’re bare. When he stares at you like you’ve been carved for him, by him. When he makes you feel weightless and also like you are never allowed to be anywhere but right here.

It’s an illusion though. A trick of your mind—a delusion where want, need and hope all blend into a concoction that is sold in pink bottles and smells like fruit.

Lifting your chin, you want to chill your eyes and harden your expression. Neither happens.

You’re thrown from your axis, deep brown managing to shroud you, make your mind empty, clear.

“We don’t have to fuck,” he continues, letting it slide from his tongue—slither out, practically hissing. “There’s plenty of ways I can make you moan.”

“I’m sure there is. You’ve paid for the practice, after all.”

His chuckle does nothing to stem the fire—the one out of control somewhere in the pit of your stomach. Clothes suddenly uncomfortable on your skin, your earlier standpoint waning, thinning to the point of transparency.

“Yeah, but I bet you’ve been getting off to thoughts of me—us. How fucking good we are,” he retorts.

Your face blanks, and you hope it’s unreadable.

Because you already have witnessed how skilful he is. Had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing him hold his desk phone since, how he grips his gun, marvelling at the memory of how his fingers feel inside of you, both long and thick. How they engulf yours, practically able to grasp both your wrists in his one hand if he wishes.

But, from the glint in his eye, he’s seen you. Already solved you—cracked you.

“You only had to ask, princesa. Would never leave you wanting.”

You snarl. And it’s that which forces your lips to crash against his, steal more lines from his tongue and tease his mind. Ridding him for once, shaking him empty as your hands clutch the sides of his cheeks. Thankful, more than you care to fucking admit, that his tongue slides past your lips, moves past the back of your teeth—accompanied, and wrapped with it, a groan that vibrates down to your oesophagus.

Bodies pressed together, his mouth slanting over yours as though he’s been wishing to do this for as long as you have. Dizzying, heart-stopping—that’s what kissing him feels like. That’s what indulging feels like.

“I don’t like you.”

Smirking, he runs it over your swollen lips, traces his confidence over your mouth. “Your pussy does though.”

His hand moves, snakes between the two of you—fingers proficient, unwavering from their mission—undoing your trousers, zip sliding down, cutting between the silence as your mouths part, lips ghosting, breaths twisting together in the small gap.

The space is filled with a moan when his hand slides inside your underwear, fingers brushing the delicate nerves that make his name illuminate in your head like it’s been spelt out in light—in candles.

“See? Soaked. Drenched, aren’t you, princesa?”

Your head spins, legs weaken. Body betraying you as it rocks against his movements, curling, craving—desperate and hungry. Because you knew it would be good, that he’d be good. There’s no smoke without fire, and there’d be no discussion over shitty baked cake and decent coffee about his skills if he weren’t best-in-class.

“So fuckin’ needy for me, aren’t you?”

It’s there, ebbing on your tongue, yes, yes yes.

And fuck, you didn’t have him down to be like this. To have you at his mercy, practically dumbfounded, his name and a yes the only things you know, think or say. It falls, rolling from your tongue before his lips busy yours. Kissing you as if he’s starved, as if he wishes to coat his tongue in the way you moan against him—his hand getting slicker, coated in your faux hatred and practised indifference that holds no weight now.

Because you want him. Would gladly let him spin you around and, press your face against a case file box and kick your legs apart. You’d beg for it, want him to hold your hands behind your back as he spears his cock in and out of you, not giving a single fuck that someone could come in—

“Stop thinkin’ about what I could do to you, and more what I am doing to you.”

His eyes on you, blown, full of lust and shimmering with a desire that embeds into your skin until it reaches a whole new temperature. Your tongue is heavy and thick, as your throat struggles to swallow.

If anything, it proves he can listen—just to what he wants. And apparently, that is you. Making it flicker, it suddenly impending, slamming itself onto the track with a focus on its station.

“Think y'like being naughty and letting me do this here.”

Your nerves ablaze, legs quaking as your trousers slide a little further past your knee, pooling at your ankles—his breath dancing across your neck and little hairs.

In vengeance, you nip at his lips, charming kisses that leave him chasing—breaths tangling, teeth biting your bottom lip as you tilt your head. But, he’s resilient, unwavering, hand all but burning inside your underwear, fingers rough, middle and trigger finger calloused and pressed against your swollen nerves as you dig your toes into your shoes so you don’t unravel.

So he doesn’t get to have this so easily.

He knows.

You know he does. Likely knows your brain is firing, tension building, muscles all but quaking in faux-determination. Just barely present to hear what he whispers, but you know it pushes you over.

Gently guides you over the edge as your hips still, throat hoarse as it whispers moans, falling, descending from you as you quickly lose control. He makes you feel alive, full of electricity—blood pumping in your ears as he tastes the way you moan his name. Waves hammering against you, suddenly needing to crash, and they do, they do—

“Fuck, I love making you come.”

His chest rising and falling, pebbled sweat on his brow as he retracts his hand, offers a finger to you—finding you wrap your mouth around it, basking in how he says you’re his good girl.

You suppose that’s why he ends up at your base door past midnight—a silent exchange, a non-verbal promise.

Him and you. You and him.

A brown bag in hand; corruption and a need to not sleep present in his eyes. Drinking you in, lingering his eyes up and down your frame—a sheet clutched against your chest.

You suspect he knows that under this thin fabric, its lace, all ready to be snapped, thrown into some corner, the places they sat covering replaced by the wet expanse of his mouth.

It’s why you let him in, mouth conjoining to his, hearing the door slam behind him as you ruck the leather from his shoulders, down his arms, floor.

“He estado pensando en ti toda la noche.”

A part of you knew he’d come—sensing it. Dressing for the occasion, sliding the lace into place.

Because you know him as much as he understands you.

It’s why you smile, if only to yourself, when he spreads your thighs, coats his cock in your want, and sinks deep into you, rectifying all that is wrong, groaning into your neck as you feel thankful for being full again.

He shouldn’t think you’re a vision, but he does.

Javi learned it quickly, but ignored it at a speed faster than that. Not wanting to be in awe, not wanting to allow himself the chance to think of himself worthy of it.

Except, he’s forever salivating for more of you—desperate for another chance to taste, to hear how your whimpers sound, feel the way your fingers card through his hair, gripping, twisting, pulling.

If someone asked him, he’d confess it on his knees that it’s all he’s thought about. The way your nails feel, how your skin feels. The noises—fuck, the noises you make—and the way your eyes glisten, shimmer, bloom and explode with fucking desire.

“Javier…”

I know, he soothes. The sheet ripped from between the of you, discarded, removed from play as your fingers work his buttons open—more and more skin appearing until he can feel the warmth of your body, your tits against him, nipples peaked as the back of your legs meets the bed.

He’s surprised at the ease you fold for him. Dragging him down, and then you’re under him. Obedient, waiting, needy. He knows it. You know it.

Just like it’s probably obvious that you make him want. That he’s ticking, watching you, unable to tear his eyes away, more so since the other night. Your face close, eyes on the file, cogs turning, brain firing on all cylinders—and when you’d slid your eyes over, he hadn’t been able to not drop his sight to your lips.

The same way he suspects you hadn’t been able to fight doing the same yourself.

It’s why he fucks you with an increased pace, skin slapping, moans more deranged than usual. The drenched fabric between your legs pushed to the side as he drags moan from your lips, wringing them out, stuffing them into some cabinet in his mind that he only opens when he can’t have this, you, writhing, squirming as he fills you to the brim, stuffs you.

“Gotta taste you.” His tongue slides a line down your breastbone, eyes on you, fixated, waiting. “Can I?”

He’s fucking grateful that you nod. Moving, sinking to his knees on the hard floor of your base room—cock hard, dripping, all but throbbing and practically fucking angry. Fingers teasing the fabric, his mouth latching, lace and the taste of him and your desire singeing on his tongue.

And you’re heavenly—a rolling thought which appears as he licks, hearing you react, capturing it all, pocketing it.

Waiting, and waiting, until he feels it—you carding your nails through his hair, tracing lines you likely already suspect others have walked themselves. He wonders if you’re thinking it must be nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary for him, except it was, is.

Because it’s you, they were your fingers—your nails. The ones that type up his reports these days because he can’t type for shit, now typing a story into his scalp, leaving a tale for him to decipher when he tried to sleep later.

He doesn’t look up, too fearful of the sight that he’ll find and never be able to rid of. He keeps his head buried between your thighs, focused, panties still hooked on one thigh, hanging there, pointless and occasionally catching on his palm as he grasps and squeezes your leg. All focused, moving his tongue, working it on you, in you, as though attempting to sort out a kink in the chain—attempting to unravel you in the same way he has done others.

Except, Javi learns, you’re not like them. You’re not something linear, you’re not easy to understand, and there’s no transaction at the end. You’re more than a concept, more than a thing he can undo and figure out just with his tongue, but fuck, he’s sure you would let him try—or at least, he hoped you would.

Right now, he’s enamoured with a task that he finds more rewarding than asking: making you come.

Tongue sinking in, tasting you, coating all of his mouth that he can with you as your hips buck into his face. Nails all perfectly manicured and in a lighter shade than when it was wrapped around his cock last week, drag through his hair. The air punctured with his name—all Javi and Javier’s, not Peña’s and Putas.

He wonders as he spells it on your bundle of nerves, whether you feel it too. This thing—this pulsating, breathing, existing thing that is there all on its own.

A click of his jaw when you laugh at someone else; a flex of his fingers when he finds you in the heart of danger.

Javi reflects—thinks.

But then it goes, fades from mind like dust when you tug on him to move closer, so close your thighs are trembling—likely dangling on the edge of release.

“Need your cock, Javi.”

He doesn’t think about feelings, emotions or the flame he carries for you again—not until you’ve left, leaving him alone, sated, the memory and scent of you being all he has.

The base of his palm presses against his forehead, kneading, cigarette billowing in his other hand because it’s all a fucking mess. From the fact that the fantasy has turned into a reality; the dream has coloured itself until it has become true.

He knew this was real, not concocted by some blackened part of his imagination looking for an escape because you say his name more sweetly than you do in his reverie.

It’s a secret—not known, a thing kept unseen. His walls and sheets know, but not a living soul. And he suddenly wants to change that. Says so much as he moans that you’re mine.

Eyes widening as they stare down at him, hands poised on his chest, hips steadying as you remain seated—filled with him, tits slowly not bouncing.

So he repeats it, “You’re mine.”

No question, no ask.

Watching you swallow, painted in yellow-light which makes the sweat shimmer like glitter.

Rolling your hips, you hold his gaze, consider it, likely question your own goddamn sanity. But then you say it:

“Yours, Peña. I’m yours.”

And he knows he liked it. More than he’ll ever admit. Coming so hard and so quick inside of you once your mouth has twisted into an O and your nails have branded lines into his chest. Hearing it, over and over as he spills into you, relishes in it.

It’s only after, when Javi runs his knuckles along the underside of his jaw, thoughts populating, appearing and popping like balloons, he realises he doesn’t just like it.

It’s more than that.

And that’s why, more than he likely should, he wished he’d asked you to stay. To remain beside him. Let him hold you and make your morning a little better.

Javi could ask. Could half-dress and hammer his fist on your door.

But he doesn’t.

There’s always next time, though.

an: grins wickedly, thought i'd try something new.

[storm-angel989]

Part 2 please of sleep deprived Val’s daughter I’ll give you my first born 😭

(Love your works!)

Hi friend,

Thank you so so much for the compliment- I’m glad you like my writing! As much as I adore kids, I do not want your first born (but it was very kind of you to offer!). I am a much better Aunt than I think I would be a mom. I am 100% guilty of taking my nieces/ nephews to the store, buying whatever they want ( particularly slime, things that light up and loud, noisy toys), give them a huge bowl of ice cream and send them back home to my siblings house. So you probably don’t want me babysitting either LOL. 

That being said, please enjoy the below part two! 

All I can say is Good Luck, Vox!

<3 Mandy 

I slept most of the next day. 

The few hours I did spend awake, I was overly supervised. The crabbiness, the crankiness was in overdrive. I wanted nothing more than an energy drink, hell, even a cup of coffee and I was more than willing to make it everyone's problem. Finally, my Uncle Vox took me by the hand, told me he had had enough of my attitude and pulled me onto the elevator. 

“Uncle Vox, I am not allowed in Daddy’s studio,” I grumbled. “And I’m in my pajamas, so I know I’m not going to yours.” 

“You’re right on one account. But your father is waiting for us,” Vox replied as his flingers flew across his phone. “We’re going to have a little discussion.” 

I crossed my arms and pouted. With one hand on my shoulder, he guided me through the empty studio down to where I knew the nurses office was.

“Oh fuck you, I don’t need a check up,” I snapped as I stepped back. 

“Watch your mouth crabby pants,” he replied as he pushed me forward. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Which is it?” 

I grumbled but didn’t respond. I didn’t doubt that one look at Vox and I would be walking into the doctor's office, calm as could be. He had that effect on people. With a sigh, I allowed him to push open the doors and lead me inside. 

My father and Aunt Velvette stood, waiting. 

“We really didn’t have to make this a family affair,” I growled. “Really, it’s not even like its complete.”

“We are grouchy today,” Velvette said dismissively. “Get into the gown. Sit on the bed. You know the drill.”

“I would like it documented that I hate all of you,” I snapped as I pulled the cloth screen closed behind me as I stepped into the little room.

“Duly noted,” my father said drily. “Let us know when we can come in.”

I changed into the gown and plopped on the bed, leaning back with my arms crossed. “I’m done,” I called. “Come in if you have to.”

“We do,” my father told me as he pushed the curtain aside. I crossed my arms as the doctor walked in. 

“Uncross your arms,” my father told me firmly. “This is how it’s going to go. You’ll get an EKG, physical exam, an ultrasound of your heart and your blood drawn, in that order. You will not fight, or your Uncle Vox will step in and you will be compliant. Do you understand me?”

The tone of his voice indicated that challenging him would be the worst idea I could have. Dejectedly, I laid down on the bed and kept quiet as the doctor stuck sticky pads all over my body. 

“I promise, the rest will be just as painless,” the doctor told me cheerfully as he detached the wires. “Sit up for me, I’m going to listen to your chest.” 

I didn’t answer and instead gave my dad my best scowl. He raised an eyebrow as if daring me to protest. 

“Babygirl,” Vox’s voice floated through the room. 

Inadvertently, I turned my head and was met with a swirling red eye and a brightly lit screen. 

“Relax and do what the doctor says,” he continued. “Come now, you don’t want to make this harder than it has to be.” 

I felt a fog flow through my brain and without really knowing why, I complied. Without protest, I obeyed the doctors every command, staying still as he listened to the inner workings of my body, and quiet even when then cold gel hit the skin over my heart. As soon as he was done, he handed me a towel and I sat up as I wiped the leftover goo away.  

“Just some bloodwork, and we’re good to go,” the doctor told me as he stood up. “Let me go get a few things while your dad takes your blood, and then we can chat.” 

“Reader,” Vox’s voice came instantly. “Look at me.”

I did as he demanded and our eyes met. Like magic, the fog lifted and exhaustion crept through me. My father sat down next to me and I laid my head on his shoulder. 

“Tired?” He asked as he pulled my arm across his lap. “Bebita, you can lay down. I can’t take your blood with you sitting like this.” 

I didn’t answer. After a moment, he stood up and Vox took his place next to me. 

“I’m sorry babygirl, I know its a long day, but we need to make sure your healthy. You really put yourself through the ringer,” he said. 

I couldn’t care about the feeling of the rubber band being pulled around the skin of my upper arm, or the coldness of the alcohol swab. “

“Little pinch, princessa,” my father warned. “Just relax and stay still.” 

I felt the sting of the needle and closed my eyes. A few seconds later, I felt him hold cotton over my arm and the sting of the paper tape to hold it in place. 

“That’s my good girl,” Valentino praised. “All done. Now we wait for the doctor to come in.”

“I want my jammies,” I mumbled into Vox’s shoulder.

“I think all the testing is done, you can get into your jammies,” Velvette replied. 

Vox stood up and as soon as the curtain was pulled behind them, I slowly undid the gown and pulled my pajamas back on. The fog had lifted, but I still felt tired. Like it would be too much effort to fight or argue anything that was said. I tossed the gown to the side and opened the curtain.

To my dismay, the doctor stood, speaking quietly to the V’s. I couldn’t read the expression on my father’s face, but all at once, I felt very, very awake.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as I stepped across the floor. “Daddy?”

My father turned to look at me and all at once, his expression relaxed.

“Nothing, baby,” he said as he stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder, guiding me back towards the bed. “Not this time, at least. Come, sit on the bed, we need to chat.” 

I sat quietly next to him as the doctor listed the dangers of caffeine addiction. From mild to severe, long term effects. 

“Most adults have some form of caffeine addiction,” he told me. “And up to 400 milligrams a day is fine for those adults. But what you inadvertently did was an overdose.”

“You can’t overdose on caffeine,” I protested. 

“Yes you can,” my father said sternly. “Your blood pressure skyrocketed, your heartbeat was through the roof. And when the doctor looked at the EKG your watch took during the time, you can quite literally see the irregularity in the rhythm.” 

“You’re fortunate you didn’t drink anymore,” the doctor continued, “and that your family stopped you when you did.” 

I leaned my head on my fathers shoulder as the doctor continued on. According to him, I was one more energy drink away from risking hallucinations, vomiting, confusion, muscle spasms, or even convulsions.

“Okay, I get it, no more caffeine, now what do I do? Am I going to be okay?” I asked.

“This time, yes,” the doctor said firmly. “The best thing you can do for your body is minimize your caffeine intake.”

“That means no more energy drinks, or coffee, for you young lady. Or for any of us, for that matter,” Aunt Velvette said.

I watched Vox’s screen glitch ever so slightly at her words. But the four sets of eyes on me again meant I had no way out. 

“I mean it, there isn’t any lasting damage that I can see, but you need to take really good care of your heart,” the doctor told me. “Got it?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I got it. No more caffeine.”

“That’s our good girl,” my father said with a kiss on the top of my head. 

“You don’t really mean no coffee, did you?” Vox asked Velvette as we walked back across the studio.

“Yes, I did. We can support Reader,” Velvette said with a firm smack to Vox’s upper arm. “Wouldn’t hurt to do a few days without caffeine.”

Vox mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out, but whatever he said was rewarded with another smack from Velvette.

“How about a movie when we get back upstairs?” I suggested as I stepped into the elevator. 

“I think that sounds like a good idea,” my father told me.

[strawberrystepmom]

to forgive is divine & to err is human

pairing: Natsuo Todoroki x F!Reader (romantic), Touya Todoroki x F!Reader (familial)

word count: 7.5k

about: when Touya is released to Natsuo’s care following his 8 year prison stay, the fragility of the dynamic between the three of you threatens to derail everyone involved.

contents: cw: contains descriptions of depression, trauma, smoking, bad coping mechanisms, alcoholism, Touya dyes his hair black in a white sink (ugh). angst with a happy ending, set in canon universe but not canon compliant, established relationship between Natsuo and reader (married), Touya and reader are both assholes at certain points.

notes: tbh I've been meaning to repost this and since I'm currently in my "yes girl give us nothing" era, the time has come. Thank you to everyone (then and now) that has read this baby bc I did indeed put my ol' Kendussy into it so I didn't really change anything about it other than fixing grammar and I'm sure there are still mistakes. This is is how I wrote a year ago and that's okay and I'm proud of how far I've come.

Posting this as a double feature bc it feels too idk self promo-y to split them up again so enjoy my creature feature with my beloved Natsuo and his stinky brother. chain divider thanks to @/cafekitsune ♡

The large, red letters across the paperwork make your eyes hurt by simply gazing at them. 

“RELEASED” stamped with what you can tell was a mostly dried out ink pad, the red darker at the beginning of the word than at the end. You wish you could close the growing pit in your stomach knowing Natsuo will soon arrive back to your home, rehabilitated brother in tow, but the uncertainty makes it hard to settle as you re-stack the documents given to you by the Hero Public Safety Commission when they formally announced they would permit Touya’s release so long as someone would be responsible for him.

When the conversation came up, Natsuo volunteered without a second thought. It hurt at first that he did not ask you before making the decision but after having spent nearly a decade at his side, you trusted his judgment. Six months after the initial inquiry, you still do. Touya is a practical stranger, someone you have only met through grainy video chats, but you have been briefed by many HPSC coordinators. They have conducted home visits, interviewed both of you as if you were the criminals, combed through every bank account and piece of mail to ensure that they are putting their inmate into good hands. A good word from Endeavor, something your husband reluctantly accepted, sealed the decision. Your eyes scan over the handwritten letter from Enji, tucked in the stack of documents. 

“No one is more qualified to care for his brother Touya than my son Natsuo. He is a licensed medical professional, specializing in psychology and mental health services and has experience in dealing with traumatized children. I ask that the Commission consider no other placement for Touya.”

A tired sigh escapes as you flip through a few more pages, squinting through descriptions of you and Natsuo. Your personalities, your hobbies, where you work, who you associate with - all vital information, the panel assured you. The final page of the documents has the official ruling, the top left corner of the page curled in from how many times the pair of you have read over it.

“Todoroki Touya, thirty two years of age, is to be released to the custody of his brother Todoroki Natsuo, twenty eight years of age. Todoroki will be required to wear a location monitoring device at all times per the agreed upon terms of release. He is not permitted to be in contact with any of his prior associates. If contact is initiated, he will be required to return to the custody of the HPSC immediately and will no longer be eligible for release.”

Your eyes scan the document again and again, searching for some kind of strange loophole that could prevent all of this from happening. Guilt crawls up your spine and makes you shudder at the thought. How could you not want this for your husband? He has spent years dreaming of having a second chance to love his brother differently, to help him heal. It makes you feel vile to even entertain negative thoughts about Touya. 

Touya. You know little about the man aside from his name, or names, rather. His time as Dabi concluded, he was sentenced to 8 years of rehabilitation instead of prison. A victim of child abuse needed recovery, the commission reasoned, and they were willing to give him the space to do so within reason. The entire Todoroki family agreed with and supported the commission and their decision, his siblings and parents being granted permission to visit him if they chose to do so. 

Natsuo went as frequently as possible, excitedly telling you how much his brother has improved after every visit, eagerness infectious. You listened to his every word, rapt, as he talked about how different Touya looked now that he was eating well, how far he had come, how he seemed emotionally stable for the first time in his life. Genuine excitement danced in his eyes at the thought of having his brother back, not a shell of a boy or a man. Not Dabi but Touya, someone who was cruelly taken from him when he was too young to fully understand why. 

The true agony was seeing the metaphorical stitches ripped open, cruelly and callously. The entire country was witness to the explosive truth - Touya Todoroki was alive. Even Fuyumi with her limitless poise gnawed her lower lip hoping it would ground her enough that she could stay strong for everyone else. “I can handle this,” she assured you as you wrapped your arms around her shoulders the day after the video aired. She knew the person who would need you the most was her brother. Looks were deceiving - Natsuo was big and strong, a grown man, but his feelings were delicate. She trusted no one but you to look after him.

Natsuo had only asked you to be his girlfriend weeks before his brother revealed his true identity publicly. You will never forget the way grief was etched into all of his features, his strong brow downturned for weeks; retraumatized. It took every ounce of strength in his body to muster a smile, much less anything else, but he did it. For Fuyumi and Shouto, for his mother. 

You can remember every moment of the years following Touya revealing himself. The nights when Natsuo woke up sobbing, burying his face into your chest and balling the fabric of your shirt up between his fists as if it would keep him from losing touch with reality completely. He stopped eating for days at a time, depression sinking him into depths he didn’t know existed. You were always there with a soothing touch and okayu, a rice porridge Fuyumi taught you to make for him. 

“When Touya died, it’s all he would eat,” she explained. Your heart crumbled at the thought of a 13 year old version of your beloved future sister in law having to keep her 9 year old brother moving through the pain of loss. How did they keep themselves together?, you wondered more than once as she breezed through the difficult times with a tight smile. 

The more you watched the man you love sink, the more conflicted you felt about Touya. Those feelings lingered even into today. Natsuo is healing, therapy and love and compassion all coming together to create a whole man instead of pieces of a hurt child in a big body, but you can’t help the simmering anger you feel when you think about watching him experience the hurt in real time. Some memories stay etched forever. 

Natsuo continued to live despite the difficult times. You helped him study and make his way through medical school - a feat that he often credited you wholly for. It wasn’t true but the praise always feels good. Three years after Touya was sentenced, Natsuo opened his clinic that offers a variety of therapeutic services for children with difficult quirks or those who have suffered because of them. A year after that the two of you were married. 

“I knew you were the one when you gave me a reason to keep trying,” he tearfully admitted as you exchanged vows during your small wedding ceremony. The details weren’t for everyone else to know, but the pair of you knew exactly what he was talking about and the admission still makes you feel weepy if you start to think about it for too long.

Love feels like too shallow of a word to explain how you feel about him which is why you agreed to this in the first place - your love for Natsuo is stronger than your distaste toward Touya. You remind yourself of the mantra as you hear voices outside of your front doorstep, one immediately recognizable as belonging to Natsuo. You stand and take a deep breath, composing yourself and closing the file folder on the table as the door opens and the two white haired men crowd into the small genkan, talking amongst each other. 

“We’re here!”

A practiced, measured smile is what you can manage as you watch the situation carefully. Touya scratches the back of his head and offers a small and impersonal wave and you’re surprised by how different he looks. Thin but healthy, his skin grafts have been properly secured, his lashes are the same white as the ones that frame your husband's kind, gray eyes. The similarities between the two are striking but so are the differences - Natsuo greets you with a smile and a peck on your forehead and Touya glowers from the doorway. 

“Welcome home, Touya,”

He looks around, eyes narrowed as he takes in the sights of your well lived in home. It reminded you eerily of the way the representatives from the commission sullied your safe place away slowly, searching every corner to make sure you would not enable any more bad behavior from the man standing in the doorway. Your home had only just begun to feel like yours again.

“Nice place. Guess that’s what being married to a doctor gets you.”

His crass comment made you feel stricken, flinching slightly as your practiced smile wavers. You aren’t Fuyumi, full of endless grace and forgiveness - you can’t fake it. You aren’t Natsuo who believes in the potential of people more than anyone you’ve ever met. You are you and right now you are angry. Clenching your fists in a way you hope is imperceptible, you fake a laugh and your husband looks at you with wide eyes, noticing your change in demeanor.

“Well, it’s your place too now. Guess that’s what being a doctor's brother gets you.”

Touya purses his lips and nods, arms folded across his chest. You look over his scars, his healed skin, his cold eyes. “Do you want to show him to his room, babe?” Natsuo asks, voice shaky, as if he’s anxious for your response. “I can find it myself,” Touya answers for you, heavy boots in his hands as he pads through your home toward where his room lies. You spent weeks helping Natsuo prepare it for him, filling it with photos and books to help him gain back the time he lost while he was away. The taste in your mouth is nothing short of bitter and sour as you think about it.

“I don’t know what that was about, I asked him no-,” you raise your hand, cutting your husband off mid sentence as your fake smile finally falls and gives way to a slight frown, corners of your mouth downturned. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Touya has always felt suspicious of you. Your intentions, your affections for his brother, your involvement with his family - it’s hard not to be uncertain about someone who fits so flawlessly in the dysfunctional outline created by being a Todoroki. What are you hiding? What do you want? 

He tosses his boots down on the floor of the room at the end of the hallway. Instinctually, he knows this is his space. Covered with childhood photos of the Todoroki family, a quilt he received as a child covering the bed, he wants to be impressed with the effort put in but instead he feels hollow. This life never fit him in the first place, happy smiles for photos and dinners and whatever the fuck was expected of him, and now he had no choice but to live it. 

It is a hell of a lot nicer than the four white walls that housed him for eight long years. The bed looks a lot more comfortable, he thinks as he settles down on the edge of it, lying back with his arms behind his head. Fixing his gaze on the ceiling, he takes a moment to think in the silence of the space. The entire car ride his brother talked about you and your life together. Touya eventually began to tune him out, watching the trees pass by the window with the occasional red light flashing on his monitoring anklet catching his attention.

Rehabilitated. The connotations of the word weighed heavily on Touya - one fuck up and it would be so easy for you to convice Natsuo to send him back. You could never understand him the way that his family does. You couldn’t forgive him the way they had either, something both of you would never communicate to each other. 

“Hey,” Natsuo’s voice rasps from the doorway and Touya sits up slightly, grunting his response. “You like it alright?”

“It’s fine.” 

Natsuo sighs, carefully entering the room and shutting the door behind him as he slumps down on the bed next to his brother, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the huge change that has come over his otherwise peaceful life. “You don’t have to lie, Touya.”

Touya sits up, using his elbows to support his weight, and offers a half smile toward his brother. “I’m not lyin’, it’s fine. Just feels like too much.”

Natsuo nods, trying to tamp down his urge to play therapist instead of brother. It was something he did all too often growing up and probably why he has made fixing people his mission in life. Touya was no exception.

“It’s the least we can do. You’ve been through a lot.”

We, Touya thinks to himself. Always we. He wonders how much Natsuo has surrendered of himself for your sake. Does he have any hobbies besides being a doting husband? Is his world filled with anything besides this little bubble the two of you live in?

“Don’t act like she had anything to do with all of this, Natsu. I was released to you.”

Touya slips a hand in his jacket pocket and fishes around for his pack of cigarettes, popping one out of the packaging with expert precision and sticking it between his lips as his brother sits next to him silently. “Lemme guess, need to do this outside?” 

Natsuo nods and Touya sighs, sliding off of the bed and leaving a rumpled quilt behind him. Heavy footsteps trail down the hallway as he peers into the kitchen and notices the backdoor, quietly slipping through it only to be met with a glowing red cherry on the other side, smoke streaming from your mouth as you stand with a cigarette between your fingers.

“Didn’t take you for the type,” he starts, pulling his lighter from his pocket and clicking it until a bright flame catches the cigarette dangling from between his lips. Once upon a time he would’ve just used his quirk but the prescription blockers he was given by court order prevented that. “All he ever talks about is how perfect you are.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” you shoot back, flicking your cigarette ashes onto the ground below before taking another drag. 

The mutual distrust permeated the air between the two of you. Touya reminded you so much of your father in law it was like looking at another version of him. You reminded Touya of everything he hated about this world - false pretense and unattainable perfection. He doubts you have ever walked around without a hair out of place, a Todoroki would never.

“Any other deep dark secrets I should know before being trapped inside of this house with you 24 hours a day?”

You chuckle, dropping your cigarette on the ground and stomping it out, bending to pick up the butt once you’re done. 

“Your brother won't let me drink anymore,” you start, hoping the vulnerability warms your brother in law. His steely gaze convinces you otherwise and you begin to walk away, arms folded over your chest with a cigarette butt in your fist. “Just another fun part of the aftermath of your little warpath.”

Touya knows he fired the first shots but he’s taken aback at your accusatory tone. 

“Anything else you want to question me about? Figured the commission briefed you on all of my dirty laundry.”

He shakes his head and exhales smoke through the corner of his mouth, the plumes drifting in your direction. “Good chat, Touya.”

The back door slams as you enter your home through it, windows rattling slightly. Your first instinct is to pour a drink but the reminder of your rock bottom lingers on your mind as you instead toss your cigarette in the trash and turn down the hall and head to your bedroom, Natsuo sitting on the bed.

“Why does he hate me so much?”

You hate how hysterical your voice sounds, anxiety rising like bile. Rising to his feet, your husband gathers you against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Give him time, he’ll warm up.”

You don’t share your husband’s boundless optimism as you hear the back door slam and hear footsteps heading to the bedroom opposite yours. Natsuo plants another soft kiss atop your hair and squeezes your hand gently as he walks back over to Touya’s room. 

“You alright?” Natsuo asks and Touya rolls his eyes, shrugging off his jacket and draping it across a hook on the back of the door. “Fine. Thanks for the concern.”

Natsuo slips through the door completely and closes it softly behind him, leaning against the solid wood.

“What happened out there?” 

Touya chuckles and shrugs, sitting on the bed in the same place he had left. “Nothing worth mentioning. I’ll make sure I keep my bottles hidden from her though.”

His eyes widened, Touya’s antagonistic tone nothing new, his shock coming from the fact you told him about your struggles with substance abuse in the first place. It wasn’t a secret but it certainly wasn’t a fun fact you gave out at trivia night. 

“Uh, yeah, thank you.” Natsuo fumbles through his words, unsure of the right thing to say. “That would be great. She has come a long way but there are still times that are difficult, especially when big changes occur.”

Your substance abuse issues began about a year after your marriage. Blissful happiness wasn’t enough to numb the intense pain of the years prior but copious amounts of whiskey while Natsuo was busy with work were good enough. Blind confidence convinced you he didn’t notice a thing, not your sunken eyes or decreased appetite, but he did and he confronted you as gently as he could.

The next day you started therapy of your own and have continued to go to meetings for others struggling with addiction since then. Nothing drastic has happened in your life since you quit drinking, calm falling over the Todoroki household, making it easier for you to maintain your wits.

He would never say it but Natsuo truly worried about your sobriety. Every time he left for a trip or wine was passed around at family dinner, he wondered if it would be the day you changed your mind. Sticking with you was easy, though. You did the same for him at his low point and he would never stop doing it for you.

“She smokes, you know that?”

Natsuo nods, Touya’s raspy voice breaking the silence caused by his brother’s overthinking. “Have to let her have one vice, you know?” 

“I think you forget that you weren’t the only person who had to live through that fucking horrifying life! It didn’t just go away when you did.”

Your voice cracks as you raise it at your brother in law, his turquoise eyes wide as he watches you yell with an intensity that leaves your hands shaking. He has never looked more like your husband than he does now, the same white hair sticking up on top of his head, his fingers carding through it and yanking the strands as he paces your living room floor. 

“There are times I don’t think you realize that your actions have always had consequences because you’ve truly faced so few of them,” you feel your face flame as Touya’s expression turns from surprised to angry. “You didn’t have to clean up the messes. I did.”

Seeing the similarities makes something inside of you crack, a piece of your heart perhaps, your chest heaving. Regret consumes your mind; you’ve gone too far. You struggle to catch your breath, rubbing your fingers over your cheeks to hide evidence of your tears. Silence blankets the room like a dense fog.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Your voice sounds meek and thin even to your own ears, the screaming match you have been engaged in rendering your throat raw. Painfully, you swallow what little spit you can and shut your eyes tightly as you listen to Touya’s rhythmic footfalls. Taking a deep breath, you sink into an armchair and dab at your eyes with the back of your hands, opening them long enough to see Touya staring intently at you. You drop your hands and sigh. 

“I can’t imagine what you have been through,” you hiccup, warm tears sliding down your cheek and dripping onto your wrists where they sit in your lap. “But you weren’t the only one going through it and I hope your brother can forgive me for saying all of this to you.”

The white haired man remains silent as you rise from your chair, hands balled into fists at your sides. Your gaze turns directly to him and you sniffle, tears subsiding. 

“He has always loved you despite everything you’ve done, exactly as you are. Please remember that.”

The words feel cathartic to say aloud, astute eyes narrowing to watch you as you turn on your heel and begin to walk away. Your tense posture tells him exactly how you feel about the entire situation and you reason that giving Touya space seems like the best option to end the strange battle of wills the two of you have found yourselves in. 

The gravelly sound of Touya’s voice from over your shoulder stops you in your tracks. 

“Then I owe it to him to try.”

There is no apology to be found in the words but you swear you can feel it as he says them, looking over your shoulder. For the first time you don’t see Dabi or Touya, you see someone completely new - your brother in law. A blank canvas, someone you could perhaps get to know under better circumstances. 

“We both owe it to him,” you respond as you turn around and make your way back to the chair you were sitting in moments ago, sitting stiffly against the back of the chair, shoulders still held tensely by your ears. “But how do we begin?”

Touya sighs and sits opposite you, rubbing his hands over his face as he rests his elbows on his knees.

“Hi, I’m Touya.” You laugh for the first time in a week and he can’t hide the half smile that comes across his face. “I did some fucked up things and spent eight years paying for them but I fucking love my family.” He stomps his foot, emphasizing his point. “That includes you now so we better get our shit together, yeah?”

Another tear falls as you nod, a watery smile settling over your features.

“Yeah, we should.”

A year later, when you think of your brother in law Touya, a memory from your childhood comes to your mind.

You are six, maybe seven and at the zoo. Your parents hold both of your hands dutifully to make sure you don’t run off, squeezing your tiny palms between theirs as you excitedly gasp and croon at birds, snakes, and butterflies. A flamingo makes you shout, a duck makes you quack.

Steps slow down as the three of you approach a large glass enclosure. “Black panther - panthera pardus” says the sign extending from the ground in front of the glass. You don’t know that, of course, until your dad reads it aloud to you, asking you to repeat the name.

“Panthera,” you repeat, a tiny voice bouncing back at you off of the glass.

As if you summoned the cat itself, it appears and you flinch. Black, lithe, wild eyed with muscles wound so tightly you can see the shape and size of each of them. You wonder if the panther knows how to relax, the same way your mom tells you to when you cry too hard. Maybe he needs to take a deep breath. 

“Why does he look so nervous?” 

In your young mind, the question surfaced before you had time to think about it. Of course he’s nervous, you reason, all of these people are staring at him like the attraction that he is. A dazzling thing to see locked between four glass walls. 

“He isn’t nervous honey, he’s probably just thinking about what he would do if he were outside with us.”

Pondering your mom's polite whisper, you nod and accept the answer. Grown ups always know best anyway. 

As a keeper enters the enclosure and carefully stalks toward the cat, your eyes widen in surprise. How can he let someone so close? You wonder if you could ever get that close to him. To see the sunlight in his fur just enough to reveal the spots under the dark of his coat or to watch his ears twitch as he listens for sounds of danger. Would he ever trust you? Could you trust him?

The crowd around the glass increases in size, delighted whoops as the keeper dangles the cleaned carcass of a large bird above the panther. You drink in the way he crouches and springs, tight muscles unwinding for a moment as large paws capture the food between them. 

A sight you’ll never forget.

A sight you see as Touya stalks through the living room of your home, tightly running his fingers through his hair. Muscles taut, standing and walking but trying to simultaneously fold in on himself.

“What the fuck would they even want to talk about?”

You sigh, shrugging at his words. The “they'' in question is the Commission and one year after his monitored release, he has been asked to return before the panel and answer some questions. Natsuo sits next to you on the floor in front of the chabudai, sorting through the papers sent to him to review ahead of Touya’s scheduled meeting. The three of you only found out about the date today.

“I dunno, Touya,” your husband shoots a bit impatiently toward his brother. “Let me read this and then I’ll tell you.”

Silently, you watch as he scans the documents, flipping them between his fingers. You hear the heavy pounding of Touya’s footsteps across the floor, reverberating through the otherwise silent room. Your house is too quiet. There is no crowd to filter out the silence.

“Potential restoration of privileges,” you hear Natsuo mutter from beside you. He continues to read to himself and you wonder what that truly entails. Would Touya be released from his supervised period completely? Would he be allowed to wander more than 50 feet away from his guardians? 

“God Natsu, read faster.”

Natsuo’s eyes shoot a frosty glance toward Touya from over the top of the papers in his hands. Placing them on the table, your husband sighs.

“They want to see your progress and maybe give you a little more freedom.”

Touya freezes in place for a mere second before turning on his heel and rushing to the edge of the table to snatch the documents and look over them, brows furrowed in concern that this is some evil trick the two of you have decided to pull on him. Revenge for the last twelve months of him and his fits, his angry words, his snarling. 

You’ve realized during the months he’s more meow than he is hiss.

“But,” Natsuo starts, clearing his throat, Touya tossing the papers back on the table and interrupting his brother with a clear as day “fuck!”, beginning to pace once again. “We have to give testimony.”

The royal we is something Touya has hated since the day he moved into your home. It always makes him feel as if it’s two against one, no separation between yourself and Natsuo and how you feel about the situation. He assumes if you’re mad at him, his brother is too. If you’re frustrated with Touya drinking the last of your nice matcha, Natsuo must be too. If you’re angry at Touya for dying his hair black in your bathtub and staining the shiny white tiles, Natsuo must be too.

He’s wrong about that, of course, his brother never holding any of his minor blunders against him. You don’t either but it would be tougher to convince Touya to believe that than it would be to build a house by hand, despite the tentative peace that exists between the two of you. You’ve allowed him into your home, your world, your once peaceful little family and have found that you are better for it. Natsuo is better for it. But there will always be a level of distrust. 

Like that panther you think of so often, Touya must wonder what it would be like to be free and trusted. 

“Touya, I don’t know how to say this,” Natsuo says, trying to keep his tone even and calm despite how anxious you know he must be feeling. You feel your stomach drop as well, balling the fabric of your linen pants between your palms to keep your hands from shaking. You looked at the date on the documents and noticed that it was a day you knew he’d be unavailable, working on a particularly tough case with multiple children from one family. “I can’t do it.”

Touya chuckles, a bitter and hollow sound that makes you flinch. “Of course not.”

“She can, though.”

Unexpectedly, Touya’s bitter chuckle turns into a belly laugh. You wonder if he’ll double over from the strength of it, scarred hands clutching his middle. Natsuo stands, approaching his brother carefully.

“Her?” He points at you and you feel like the one being questioned. Despite the grasp on the thighs of your pants, your hands do shake and your fingers slip. “She probably wishes I would have died every single day despite the little “play nice” bullshit she does for your sake.”

Gasping at the accusation, you hope he can’t see the way your eyes glance downward. You had assumed the two of you were past this, arguments coming to a halt around six months ago when you told him you simply didn’t have the energy for them anymore. 

You then began taking him to pick up cigarettes every other day, riding in your car together silently but comfortably. His fingers always drum against his thighs impatiently and you clear your throat, mouth dry until you arrive. You have to be close to him the entire time but you linger on the edges of the small shop in your neighborhood, giving the elderly shopkeeper time to fuss over Touya the way he needs. 

The two of you then silently ride back to your home.

“How could you say that, Touya?”

Much like the smaller version of you felt compelled to speak outside of the gleaming panther exhibit, you do the same now. Your voice sounds weak, thin, defeated. Natsuo rushes to your side, kneeling back down and placing one of his large arms around your shoulder.

“Oh here we go, gotta rush to defen -” 

Touya’s words are cut off by a sharp glance from his brother, a look he has never seen before. Smothering all of the fire inside of him, hurting the one person who has endlessly forgiven him, he is doused by humility.

“I don’t hate you,” you look up and see Touya’s turquoise eyes that are narrowed and hard staring directly at you. “I don’t wish you were dead,” you continue as you shrug your husband’s arm off of you and begin to stand. “In fact, I was stupid and thought we were finally fucking past all of this!”

Punctuating your shout with a frustrated grunt, you stomp off down the hallway and leave the brothers to figure it out amongst themselves. Natsuo would simply have to find a way to make the date work for him because you couldn’t bring yourself to beg the Commission to be merciful toward someone who detests you so much. You aren’t a big enough person for that, lacking the careful compassion of your husband.

“Are you fucking serious, Touya?”

Natsuo cursing at his brother makes his steely gaze falter, eyes glancing downward toward the floor. Touya remembers a time you went too far, not long after he first moved into your home, and he feels guilty knowing he has done the same.

“Whatever,” Touya responds dismissively as he stomps off. 

Natsuo hears the back door slam and rubs his hand over his face, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. He’s transported back to 12 long months ago when he didn’t even want to be in the same room as the two of you, the tension making him incapable of dealing with his own uncertainty about the ability to rehabilitate his brother. 

As Touya steps outside into the cool air, far less suffocating than the inside of the house, he fishes around in his pockets for his lighter and mutters obscenities as he realizes it is inside. Of course, he still can’t use his quirk thanks to the very strong suppressants he has to take daily as part of his release, so he flings the door back open and stomps inside. 

Hearing hushed muttering from the living room, he closes the door quietly and creeps to the doorway of the kitchen. He shoves himself against the wall, trying to hide from view as he hears your voice.

“I don’t understand why he won’t give me a chance, Natsu.”

His brother sighs and Touya sinks further against the wall. He knows the sound - fed up, frustrated, struggling. Natsuo is the last person he ever wanted to create those feelings in and shame, a bit of an unfamiliar feeling for him, creeps up his spine and makes his stomach turn. 

“You didn’t exactly make the best first impression, of course he doesn’t completely trust you.”

Natsuo’s words make you blow out air in frustration. Touya can’t see you, but he imagines you look as downtrodden as you always have after these little battles. His brother’s defense of his behavior is surprising, though, and he idly rubs his thumb across one of the graft scars on his hands.

“I know,” you relent with a sniff. “I know.”

Your words shift Touya’s perspective, precious humility trickling over him and making his left eye twitch - a stress reflex he tried to hide for years. 

You were the first person who noticed it and on your usual trip to the small store to pick up his cigarettes after, you passed him a box of anti-inflammatory medication and a bottle of eyedrops wordlessly as you buckled into your seat. He hasn’t twitched since.

Acknowledging the hurt you’ve caused is the first step of atonement, he remembers reading in a book Natsuo brought him while he was still locked up.

He peeks from around the wall, stretching his arms over his head and locking his fingers on the back of his skull, buried in poorly dyed black hair. Natsuo looks up through his light eyelashes at his brother who approaches carefully, settling on the opposite side of the table from where the pair of you sit.

“You can do it.”

The words are simple and cause both you and Natsuo to look up. Touya refuses to meet your puffy eyes and rises back to standing as quickly as he sat, slapping the tabletop once before skulking down the hallway to grab his lighter.

You and Natsuo resolve not to ask questions, with only two weeks until the panel meets time is of the essence and your testimony will be key to helping Touya if you choose to help him. 

Sitting in front of the panel is more nerve-wracking than you expected. A group of five familiar faces all staring at you with discerning eyes as you shuffle the hand-written pages of your testimony between your fingers.

These people have rummaged through your home on more than one occasion, interviewed all of your close friends and family, sifted through every piece of your dirty laundry and you’re at their mercy once again but this time you’re more willing.

“You may begin as you wish, Todoroki-san.”

Nodding respectfully toward the head of the panel, you clear your throat and exhale as you look down at the papers in your hands. You can feel Touya looking at you from across the room, Fuyumi and Shouto seated beside him and Rei on the other side of his sister, but refuse to look up at them for fear it’ll make the little courage you’ve summoned disappear.

“When Touya first moved into our home, I was uncertain of his ability to be rehabilitated.”

You spent the last two weeks reading this exact same speech to Natsuo, rehearsing it in your bedroom while pacing across the floor. The ink on the page is smeared in places from wet tears that dripped down onto the paper, black bleeding into blue and drying into rippled and raised spots. Those spots remind you of Touya, the way he has woven his way into part of your everyday existence. 

“The process of allowing him into our lives felt very invasive. Respectfully, our lives were torn apart in preparation for him. Our home was combed through, our mail was intercepted, my husband was followed by a member of this committee on his way home from the clinic he tirelessly uses as a means to help others on more than one occasion.”

You keep your tone even to avoid sounding accusatory. These are all facts the Commission themselves have confirmed via their own documentation but standing in the face of the very force that can decide your future as well as Touya’s is more intimidating than you expected.

“The day Touya moved in, our lives shifted in a way that no amount of preparation could have made us anticipate. Difficult interpersonal dynamics forced us to take a good hard look at the future of our family and the future of what we desired for Touya. How did we want his rehabilitation to look?”

Taking a breath, you look up from the sheet of paper for a moment to meet Touya’s gaze and it strikes you as odd to see something almost tender. You sniff, nose twitching, vowing to hold yourself together until you’re alone or with Fuyumi or anywhere but sitting in front of people who have made their living off of judging, doling out punishment, changing lives for better or worse.

“While we’ve had many difficult times, I am not here to talk about the difficulty I caused Touya with my inability to coexist for the first several months. Rehabilitation takes a team and I was not a team player,” you pause and hear shuffling from the seats across the room. “Despite this, Touya has dedicated himself to improvement and has continually adhered to every request the commission put forth in the original terms of his release.”

While you don’t want to continue to air out your dirty laundry, there is a therapeutic feeling in knowing you’re publicly admitting to handling things wrong. In front of Natsuo’s family, nonetheless. Touya’s family. Your family. 

At the end of this lies the fact that you are all a family and forgiveness is inherently woven through the relationships and bonds you share.

“It is the recommendation of both my husband and I that Touya’s privileges of release be expanded upon, including reduction of supervision and permission to travel to the homes of his mother and siblings independently if he chooses.”

Rising to your feet, you bow before the panel once more before walking toward the back of the room and quietly exiting as they take time to deliberate and make their decision. 

Touya rises and comes to the front of the room, standing before them. He hates the way he feels, like a caged animal with his muscles tensed, in a suit that doesn’t even belong to him because why the fuck would he ever own a suit? The sleeves are too long, it is Shouto’s after all, and he pulls the cuffs over his hands with his thumbs.

The panel head speaks and the room is so quiet you’re even unnerved from the other side of the door. Pressing your ear to the wood, you listen.

“Our decision will not be immediate. You can expect further communication from the panel in the coming weeks. As of right now, your terms of release remain the same until you are otherwise notified. Thank you for your time today, Todoroki-san.”

Touya bows and joins his family, missing the member he wishes to see the most.

You back away from the door as you hear the knob turn and rest against the wall, arms over your chest as you greet your in-law’s with a subdued smile. 

“Natsu will be so proud of you!” Fuyumi beams, rubbing your bicep in a comforting gesture. You just shrug, unable to speak. You exchange a few additional pleasantries with Shouto and Rei, wishing them goodbye as they leave you and Touya standing on opposite sides of the hallway.

“It’s okay, you know.”

Touya’s voice is a rasp, as always, and you look up through your eyelashes at him. Fiddling uncomfortably with the cuff of your shirt in the same way he’s been fiddling with his own cuffs all day, it just further emphasizes the similarities you share. It isn’t just love for Natsuo you have in common anymore.

“None of this shit has been easy and you’ve done your best. I’m not exactly a fuckin’ easy person to get along with.”

You chuckle, tension diffusing.

“I think you’re going soft, Touya.”

He chuckles back and your eyes meet, the two of you walking toward the center of the hallway to leave the building together and walk back to your car. Your footsteps are quiet and so are his, both of you slumping as you saunter out of the door and into the bright midday sun.

“Nah, just tired of being an asshole all the time.”

The news comes as you stand at your kitchen sink, Touya bent over as you help him rinse black hair dye down the drain. Your hands are wet, his shirt is soaked, but you agreed to help him after noticing a huge white patch still at the back of his head from his attempts to do it himself. 

“I dunno why you want it to be black so bad, don’t you want to look like Natsu?”

Touya snorts and the sound echoes through the steel basin. “I have to keep a little edge. Let me live.” You shut off the clean running water, allowing the dark droplets to work their way out of your sink. There was more rinsing to do but you wanted to be sure of how much more.

“It’s here!” Natsuo shouts from the doorway and you hear his hurried, large footsteps trek into the room, ripping of paper ringing in your ears.

You want to leave Touya’s side and go to Natsuo, to read over his arm, to see for yourself but you resolve to be patient and continue to lightly massage Touya’s scalp. He needs comfort right now, you can tell.

“Expansion of privileges,” Natsuo mutters to himself, scanning the page as quickly as he can. “Unsupervised access to other family homes! Holy shit!” 

Tossing the papers onto the counter, your husband bolts toward you and wraps his arms around your waist. “No, no, no,” you chant as he picks you up and you accidentally pull Touya’s wet strands of hair. He yelps and you let go, hissing apologetically.

“God Natsuo, down boy.”

Your snarky brother-in-law draws a giggle from you as your husband presses a kiss against your cheek and reaches down to slap him on the back. “Do you wanna tell mom or should I?” Touya looks up, head still dripping, and rolls his eyes at his brother. “I could just show up at her house, that’d have more impact.”

Wiggling away from Natsuo, you reach for the towel on the counter and wrap it around Touya’s neck so he can sit up and not drip black water all over your floor. He gives silent thanks in the form of a tight half smile and you smile back, stepping away to let the brothers converse about how they’re going to break the news to their siblings.

As you watch the two of them, the panther and his handler once again come back to your mind. 

The reason that the handler was able to come so close to the cat is because he trusted him. The cat could learn to trust others, to let people in, to let them be on his side. You won’t have to wonder if you could have gained the panther’s trust any longer and he won’t have to wonder what it’s like to be on the outside with the rest of us. 

[weasleys-wizard-writes]

A Sorry Substitute {R.B}

Synopsis: In a home full of photographs depicting memories of the past, it can be hard to move forward... Good thing you have remarkably little interest in doing so.

Notes: Absurdly non cannon compliant (mentions of the Yule Ball, completely ignoring Sirius and Regulus' strained relationship, etc.) Also, warnings for angst, mentions of underage drinking, and mentions of death.

In the photos littered throughout your home, Regulus Black was thoroughly documented, portions of his life (or rather, your conjoined life together) suspended in time for all to see.

There was a small framed photo in the parlor of him and his brother as children, with the older chasing the younger through the ever familiar back garden of their home. Regulus had at one point kept it at his bedside after his brother left for Hogwarts, which was how you'd come to have it in your possession years later. It was one of few images depicting Sirius as a child that hadn't been destroyed by a bitter Walburga.

Beside it, sat a slightly larger frame, within which was a similarly moving image of a far older Regulus as he snatched up the golden snitch in the the 1974 Gryffindor vs Slytherin quidditch match. You were quite proud of this particular photo, having taken it at the very moment that the young man's expression had begun to morph from one of utter concentration to victorious pride. It also helped that you'd managed to frame it in a manner that captured Sirius' reaction from his position as Keeper in the background. He'd cursed his brother up and down for catching the snitch after the match was over, but judging by the photo, his initial reaction was as proud as could be.

On the opposite wall, dual photos of your evening with your boyfriend at the Yule Ball during your fifth year were hung proudly, one having been taken by Lily, and the other by Sirius himself, whose presence pervaded many of the memories you'd decorated your home with.

In his photo, you and Regulus stood posed together, he in his dress robes and you in your gown, with several other couples visible in the background conversing amongst themselves. If you looked closely enough, you could see the subtle shaking of the camera and the slight glare that came over the younger Black heir's eyes as his brother laughed at the hesitant manner in which he'd placed his hand upon your hip. "Her Mum is going to see this, you utter fool." He'd reasoned afterward, which you recalled had only sent Sirius into a far greater fit of laughter than before.

Lily's photo, on the other hand, was far more candid, and a personal favorite of yours. In it, you were dancing casually with your love, arms resting gently upon his shoulders as he'd finally put those years of dance lessons that all pure blooded families seemed to make their children endure to good use. He looked happy, smiling down at you as a hand moved up to gently caress your cheek, a subtle gesture of affection that had sent your heart racing even after a full year of dating and another of pining before that.

Of course though, the parlor was not the only room decorated with photographs.

Your entryway, for example, was home to a group photo of you and your friends aboard the Hogwarts express together as you prepared to begin the 1977-1978 school year, after which Lily, James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter would all graduate. In this particular picture, you were all crammed into one little area aboard the train, basically on top of one another as you struggled to fit everyone into frame. In fact, toward the end of the image's looping movement, you could see where the train had lurched, pushing you off balance and making Regulus' eyes widen as he'd tightened his hold upon your arm. And beyond that, you could even see the shifting expressions playing about people's faces as they realized you were falling, genuine smiles briefly morphing into looks of comical panic before the loop started over once more. Unfortunately, what was not captured in the photo was the next few seconds of time, which featured you and your boyfriend of nearly 1.5 years toppling down together atop your friends, sending everyone into a fit of laughter so loud that the other inhabitants of the train car had all turned to see what the commotion was.

In addition to this, your kitchen in particular was absolutely littered with little photographs, many of them far too silly to have printed out and displayed properly in your home. Of course, this was exactly why you'd simply turned them into little gold framed magnets for your refrigerator instead, covering the appliance in happy memories for all too see if they only chose to look.

For example, one of your favorites included Regulus at the aftermath of a party in the Gryffindor common room after the house had beaten Ravenclaw during their quidditch match earlier that day. In it, he was clearly somewhat inebriated and incredibly exhausted, because rather than fixing the photographer, a seventh year James Potter, with his typical glare, he instead resolved to simply flip him off with an unsubtle roll of his eyes before he rolled onto his back atop the couch he'd been laying on when he'd noticed that the stag animagus had been aiming the camera in his direction. At the edge of the frame, you could just barely make out the sight of you and Sirius bursting into laughter over the interaction, leaning on one another to keep your (certainly not sober) selves from tumbling to the ground.

Another featured you all but bum rushing your boyfriend after he'd gotten hold of the snitch during a different quidditch game that same year, throwing your arms around his neck gleefully as he caught you with a visible but silent "oof!" before shaking his head in exasperation and wrapping his arms around your waist with a grin, happily accepting and eagerly returning the celebratory kiss you pressed to his lips shortly thereafter.

A much older photo next to that one exhibited a third year Regulus scribbling furiously at his arithmancy homework in the great hall after you'd all managed to convince him it was due that morning rather than the next one.

The following image, however, taken only a few minutes later by an uninvolved Peter, showed the young slytherin chasing you, James, Sirius, and Remus down the hallway after your growing bouts of random laughter had become suspicious enough for him to question what you were all up to.

Of course, while Regulus was indeed the most important person in your life, and certainly the one you were most keen upon displaying about your shared home, that wasn't to say every photo included him.

For example, one of your favorite pictures that adorned the fridge featured you sleeping on the floor just outside the room that Remus had locked himself away in during one of your many trips to a long forgotten Black family lakeside property whilst on Easter break. In it, your hand was resting gently atop the gryffindor's fingertips as they stuck out from underneath the door, which was the closest he would allow himself to get after you'd pleaded with him to come out all evening. It had been the night before a full moon, and he'd always preferred to be alone on such occasions, but since you'd rarely experienced that behavior of his, you'd been insistent that he continued to feel included. It was a sweet memory, and certainly one that you were glad to have the opportunity to display as you so pleased.

In addition to this, another image that didn't contain Regulus was the one of Peter, Sirius, James, and Remus passed out in the slytherin common area after a long night of studying during their sixth year. In classic gryffindor fashion, they'd all insisted that the slytherin furniture was far too uncomfortable to rest on, leading you, Regulus, and Lily to take plenty of photographs of them sleeping soundly the very moment the opportunity arose, shoulders shaking with laughter as you'd quietly mocked your friends.

Alongside all of these, various other memories clung to the magnetic surface of your refrigerator, including a few failed attempts at casting a patronus on yours and Regulus' part after James had tried to teach the spell to the two of you during your conjoined fifth year and his sixth.

Eventually though, you'd gotten it, and thus there was another photo up of your patronuses as they walked about together, a ginger and nebelung cat respectively (something James had tried to tease you both for until you'd reminded him of his and Lily Evans', quickly prompting him to leave well enough alone).

Still, even with all of those wonderful memories in mind, the one that remained your very favorite was one that didn't actually hang at all, but rather sat framed upon your bedside table for you to wake up to each morning.

It was an absolutely beautiful and intentionally shot photo, featuring the very same Black family lake house that you and your friends had occupied in some of the pictures located on your fridge. Having been taken just after James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, and Peter's graduation at a small gathering put together by you and your boyfriend to celebrate, the energy of the photograph itself was joyful beyond words, although that may have had more to do with the tear worthy moment captured within it than anything else.

In the background, the sun was beginning to set low on the horizon, casting a pink and orange glow across the waters behind where you and Regulus were stood.

That is, until without warning, the aforementioned man suddenly wasn't standing at all anymore, but kneeling before you instead, a black ring box in hand and a nervous expression playing about his handsome face.

He hadn't even gotten the chance to get the full question past his lips before you were tackling him even further to the ground with a hug and a hurried, repeated nod in agreement.

At the edges of the frame, Lily and James could be seen gaping at the scene while Peter simply pointed in utter disbelief and Remus tried (and failed) to hold back tears of joy.

And of course, pictured only in memory, was Sirius behind the camera, the only other party who had been privy to his younger brother's plans, and thus the man with the duty of taking the pictures for you.

He could not have done a better job if he'd tried (Not even with your second favorite image from that evening, which depicted a very inebriated you riding on the back of a very inebriated James Potter after he'd taken on his stag form. The two of you had become utterly determined to try it after Remus had cracked a sarcastic joke, and after a charm had been cast to magically make you lighter to lessen the weight upon the stag's back, you'd both set off victoriously with no particular destination in mind as your partners chased after the two of you with utterly horrified expressions plastered on their faces. It was a very good photo, indeed).

Yes, in the photographs littered throughout your home, Regulus Black was thoroughly documented, some of the very happiest moments of his life replaying time and time again for any and all to see.

That is, except, for him, and every other person besides yourself depicted in those dearly beloved photographs.

Your sweet Lily and persistent James, long gone, murdered in cold blood.

Your brave Sirius, unfairly returned in shambles before being taken away again far too soon.

Your loyal Remus, fallen alongside his love after years of being your only remaining solace in a world cruel enough to have taken everyone else away from you.

Your misguided Peter, who you could never forgive, but could not help but weep for when you saw the boy he'd once been in the photos on your walls.

And, of course, your darling Regulus, who you'd always hoped against hope that you'd see again until those very same hopes had been dashed to pieces as if against the rocks near which his final resting place could be found.

All around you, your love's life replayed over and over endlessly each and every day, acting as a sorry but needed substitute for his presence, longer gone now than you'd ever even had the chance to know it.

And in the end, there was no greater grief in your heart.

For no pain was worse than that caused by the scarcely explained and permanent absence of Regulus Arcturus Black from the life you'd planned together.

masterlist

[kindaasrikal]

“This, is a soul stone.”

“A…soul stone?”

“Yes. Once a soul leaves its physical form they create a soul stone to keep their…ghost-like form intact. This soul stone is surrounded by the actual projection of ourselves, similar to how a heart is encased inside the body. It cannot be taken out easily. In fact, the only ones who can remove anyones soul stone from their physical projection is the First spinjitzu master, Sensei Wu, Sensei Garmadon, and the consciousnesses of the two realms of the dead. Other then them, not even the person whose soul stone it is can remove it from it’s home, and its no easy task for the ones who can either.”

“…If all of that is true, then how are we both looking at your soul stone?”

“….Unfortunately, my soul stone had faced extreme abuse years ago, leaving it fractured and….weak.”

“Is that why it has pieces floating around it? It looks almost like a planet, surrounded by its moons…”

“An interesting comparison.”

“Ahm…that’s besides the point. Why are you showing me this? If its so delicate that it can almost never be removed from its home, then why would it help us in our mission?”

“…the merge, has shown to create unique consequences over the years. One of such, being the slow return of the Preeminent.”

“What.”

“I can’t explain in too much depth to what had happened, we don’t nearly have that much time and I need to use it sparingly.”

“What are you talking about?!-”

“A soul stone is indeed delicate, Lloyd. So delicate, so precious, that the very existence of a soul relies on it.”

“The..what?..”

“If my soul stone gets into the wrong hands, if it faces too much harm, I will no longer be able to keep it connected and in ‘one piece’ as I have so far. I will be erased from existence, and so will all the knowledge I have so painstakingly collected.”

“…Where are you planning to go, Morro?”

“…A place I should’ve visited years ago.”

——————

Will there be a fanfic of this? Probably not, since i can’t stick to finishing stories.

Anyways, take Morro from an AU i created in my head, theres no other content of it other then half completed stories in my notes/word documents and this post.

If anyone rlly wants me to, i can go more into depth of this AU and give it a name. But for now, all you need to know is that its mainly canon compliant, just with a few changes to the story of Morro and then the actual canon divergence starts during the merge. Some things before that will also be changed to fit ideas i have and things i like, such as the issue with Lloyds age.

Oh, alsooo! Morro in this drawing is still a ghost, but in this AU to differentiate departed ghosts from cursed, cursed ghosts look like how they did in the show and Morro’s og design, but departed ghosts tend to look more like how they did when they were alive (with some differences and yknow, being see- through)

So Morro in this looks like how his Departed ghost form would in this AU

I also realised that the gi itself looks a lot like Cole’s because of the black and orange. Pretend the orange is grey/green/yellow, pls and thank you.

AND MY FAVOURITE LITTLE DETAIL. Look at Morro’s gi and how its folded, see what i did there??

I had fun drawing this with another newly acquired art style, this is also one of my first few times drawing Morro and being happy with it. Turns out i am very picky when drawing characters i like over literally anything else.

[yoted-meister]

Alright so the ‘tism is striking again and I’ve come up with an oc idea for a game I don’t have much knowledge in. I hope to make them as accurate as possible so feedback is appreciated!

(I attempted to make an official Urbanshade document for them here)

Lots of text alert below I did a lot of thinking for this but am officially quite satisfied with what I now have

Enoch Reed, Z-13-b, The Aquanaut:

Before conviction, Enoch would help around their home town with anyone that needed a hand and overall just was a great person. This helpful attitude attracted a bad group of people who threatened them into helping with their burglaries and small thefts.

This caught up to the group as the area grew more and more alert and in the end, all 5 were arrested on scene. After interrogations, police note Enoch as very compliant, confessing to just about everything, and offering convicting testimony about the whole group, granting them a reduced sentence, which they would serve in a separate prison to prevent potential retaliation from the other arrested members.

After Sebastian's breach and as a result, the loss of the Hadal Blacksite, Urbanshade gains interest in intentionally recreating Sebastian’s transformation in an attempt at pioneering a monster both fast and strong for use as an underwater aid including maintenance, pest control, and other such tasks as see fit. However, as a first precaution, they sought a prisoner who was willing to go through the experiments and would not object to the tasks given.

Upon obtaining info on Enoch, they were immediately proposed for the experiment and, once permission was granted, people were sent to give Enoch their offer. Enoch, while willing to help, was reluctant to sacrifice simply leaving on parole. This reluctance immediately vanished when informed the 4 others had broken out of prison.

Once taken back to one of Urbanshade's many docks, Enoch was promptly given LR-P status and a cell to wait in as preparations were made to begin the experiments.

The plan was to use some dna strands used in the original Z-13's experimentation, not just for their gills, but for some of their other traits, such as the sea snake's shape, great white shark's senses, blue whale's lungs and echolocation, female angler’s luminescent lure, silver spinyfin's darkvision and ability to see color at depths, and a “smasher” mantis shrimp's strength.

However, further dna was used in an attempt to further enhance Enoch such as the blue marlin's to copy it's tail and, in theory, its speed, alongside great indulgence into the whale shark's in an attempt to both allow buccal pumping to allow Enoch to sleep and be still underwater, as well as recreate blubber to allow stronger insulation and the ability for Enoch to potentially travel longer distances on less food, possibly permitting use in swift delivery of physical items between sites. As it was Sebastian's transformations that inspired the experiment, they chose to designate them as Z-13-b; and for the aquatic mastery they would hopefully obtain, they were also granted the codename: “The Aquanaut”

While the traits were successfully gained, some such as the mantis shrimp's punch at an albeit reduced potencies than expected, Z-13-b's human nose conflicted with the attempted acquisition of buccal pumping, and as a remedy, minute amounts of western clawed frog dna were used to replace their nose with that of an amphibian.

As a result of their mutations, The Aquanaut has gained a form similar to Z-13 with some differences naturally, such as a more oval head, having a messier hairstyle with a ponytail, and goggles resembling glasses(at Enoch's request), and some unnaturally, such as a lack of third arm. While still larger than a human, Z-13-b is smaller than Z-13 in an intended effort to increase speed by having a reduced mass while maintaining similar muscles. As a byproduct of the indulgence in whale shark dna alongside the blue whale, Z-13-b's scales have darkened and their skin has become a dark blue, slightly brighter on their face and chest, and their back to gain the white spots owned by whale sharks. Their eyes are a lighter yellow than their anglerfish lure and their tail fin is thinner, resembling that of a marlin's. Starting from their elbows, the back of their arms and hands are covered with calcified scales resembling that of their tail's that enhance the impact of blunt force from said regions, most likely obtained via mantis shrimp's dna.

Enoch's mutations were always painful, your very being being altered at the core would do that, and yet, the first alterations always left Enoch in awe. The tests that made sure the dna was applied successfully always passed and there was a sense of pride at the scientists' joy and excessive affirmations every time. But as their body changed more and more, they felt as though they were becoming less human.

It was easy to ignore with the gills or the senses and lungs, the arm scales were too, the lure was harder to ignore. The blue skin, missing nose, and eyes were…suppressible, but the tail was unignorable.

It was after they completed their final test and first official task, an under the table delivery from one dock to another, that they were up for consideration to become an MR-P; that they were given their collar.

“A specially designed PDG” they called it, after the actions of Z-13, the scientists wanted a failsafe to ensure their safety, and since Enoch didn’t need any diving gear, they created an alternative to give them.

While Enoch understood their reasoning, having your potential death always ready to execute you doesn’t do good for the nerves. The “good job, Enoch” and other affirmations given after they completed tasks went from just nice words to lifelines, proof they were doing things right and safe from being killed and discarded. Just because they didn’t SAY doing a bad job would kill them doesn’t mean they WONT, right?

Officially ranked MR-P, Enoch's range expanded to all nearby docks, no longer returning to their initial destination after completing objectives and now being sent between docks as required. Now integrated into and familiar to all nearby docks, tasks Enoch would be given ranged from important undersea transportation, inspection, retrieval, maintenance, or retrieval; to mundane reduction of local fish population(one of the few times they get to eat), and the application of blunt force to recreational televisions in an attempt to fix them(with a surprising 75% success rate). Positive affirmations are given after completion regardless of importance, it has almost felt like TOO much affirmation. This has continued to the present day, efforts have not been made to mass produce Z-13-b until reacquisition of the Hadal Blacksite for additional secrecy and potential, but likely impossible, experimentation in crossing the Veil of the Let-Vand zone.

In the present, Enoch is usually seen moving from one place of the docks to another due to there constant utilization. In the rare conversation, Enoch is usually timid and cautious when conversed with, often playing with their hands in silence and doing as they are told without question in an effort to ensure they don’t come off as hostile and have their collar detonated. The few who make efforts to befriend Enoch, however, find them to be a chipper and upbeat individual, enjoyable to be around. On their own, they sometimes talk to themself as they work and try to come up with a way to, at the very least, earn enough trust to have their collar removed.

Though it is known Z-13 is still alive in the Hadal Blacksite, Z-13-b has not (yet) been dispatched for objectives there to ensure they are not severely harmed or killed by the entities that roam it.

[lilydalexf]

hi! do you know of any fics where mulder or scully (i think this fits either of them well) ask the other "can i kiss you?" ? its my favourite fic "trope" but i think ive only found one xf fic that does it and i cant even remember it, please help!

Thank you for this ask! I have (many) older asks I maybe should've answered first, but it was very fun compiling this rec list of fics where one of Mulder and Scully asks the other "Can I kiss you?" Enjoy! Anamorphosis by Megan Reilly Assigned to find a horrifying serial murderer, Agent Scully discovers things about herself and her past that she never suspected. City of Light by Bonetree On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them apart. (Part of the Goshen universe) Eleventh Hour by Rachel Anton Some feeling defy the confines of time. Fumbling Towards Ecstasy by Jenna Tooms Scully comes to Mulder with a wound only he can heal. general conundrums by @intrepidment Nonsense fluff. Impulse by Suzanne Schramm Mulder and Scully investigate some strange doings in a little town where people seem to have no control over their actions. Let's Bee Together by @baronessblixen Set during IWTB: Scully comes home from the hospital to find a bored and restless Mulder has picked up an interesting new hobby: apiculture. Little Notes by aRcaDIaNFall$ Mulder and Scully are bored in a meeting and start passing notes... The Mad Physicist & The Lab Rat by littlemisfit5290 (@alittlemissfit) "Who said I was even going to the party?” “I said you are if you plan on knowing whether I dressed up as a sexy alien or that beast woman.” MSR, pre IWTB, Halloween fluff. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Baroness_Blixen (@baronessblixen) For the first time ever, the FBI is doing a secret Santa exchange. But what do you do when you're not paired with the only person you can imagine exchanging gifts with? You do everything in your power to rig the game. Nuptiae Sub Rosa by SisterSpooky1013 and XFMaweezy (@sisterspooky1013 and @xfmaweezy) A series of canon-compliant missing scenes showing that some dynamics of Mulder and Scully’s relationship may have changed much earlier than previously thought. radiant by kittenscully (@kittenscully) Under normal circumstances, her vulnerability would shock him. But things are different now, the shift tectonic and undeniable. He owes her the same trust that she’s showing him. Saying the Words by Karen Rasch Mulder and Scully finally confront their feelings for the first time. (Part of the Words series) Tender Intent by A.I. Irving When Scully returns to work after recovering from her illness, Mulder discovers that she isn't quite the changed woman she claims to be. Untitled by @baronessblixen “I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.” / “Why do you only kiss me when I’m sleeping?” Untitled by @broadcastnews1987 a “what if one breath never happened au.” Untitled by @msrafterdark scully puts the moves on mulder post-millennium. What Happens In Vegas (Sometimes Finds Its Way Into Official Documents) by tiredmoonlight (@myshipsintheharbor) When some interesting news about the marital status of two agents finds its way to back to the FBI, questions are raised, the main one being that the agents don't actually remember getting married. While You Were Sleeping by Skinfull Mulder falls for an intoxicating red head he spots in the park, then saves her life but not before she is injured and put into a coma, then he meets her sister! Den den dehhhhhh! Seraphim by chekcough (@chekcough) After Mulder returns from the dead, Scully tries to pick up the pieces. AU, with Mulder/Scully relationship pre-established after FTF. Implied character suicide.

[anony-man]

This can be read as a standalone drabble, but it is also a sort of follow-up to the drabble written yesterday! The previous drabble can be found here.

Chubformers drabble #111!

Characters: Megatron and Soundwave (TFP)

Word count: 1.2k

Soundwave’s efforts were paying off, according to his carefully calculated measurements. If there was one thing that he had learned from the hours spent monitoring Megatron over the shoulder of a flaky doctor, it was that keeping track of his leader’s progress was vital to ensuring his home remedies helped.

Pumping Megatron full of more fuel than he could take every day was good and well, and he always enjoyed the outcome of that sloshy belly hanging from weight of too much energon in his tanks, but there was no point in continuing with the practice if it gave no good results. They needed great results, and great healing progress, if he was ever to return to his rightful place at the head of the Decepticons.

It felt a bit twisted, but Soundwave took amusement in the fact that Megatron seemed so flustered by their attempts at getting him back into working order. The fuel pump regimen was unusual, he had to admit, but it worked, and it worked well. His leader was already gaining back the mass he had lost in nearly half the time he would have without his subordinate’s assistance. What was there to discourage?

Maybe it wasn’t just the forced fueling, Soundwave had reasoned. Maybe it was the constant doting from his third in command, or maybe it was the fact that Knock Out and his hulk of a partner had started to catch on to their arrangement. They couldn’t get away with skipping past the extra medical check-ins without arousing suspicion, even if Megatron’s tests came back cleaner than before with every follow up.

No one’s snide comments or pointed remarks mattered to him, though. Knock Out’s attempts at encouraging more frequent visits only earned a cold stare from Soundwave as he guided their leader back to their quarters, and every attempt their incompetent air commanded made at undermining Megatron in his weakened state was met with calculated karma.

Nothing occurred without Soundwave’s knowledge, but it was only because he was so adamant about ensuring their leader’s health was protected. He had already learned what worked best for Megatron as he healed from his injuries, and what was best was making sure he returned to his normal self.

The hours after a feeding session were often spent pampering Megatron and his achy belly, but Soundwave always had plans for him once the worst of the pain had settled. They were nearing another major mark in the healing process, and he wasn’t going to miss out on a chance to gather every little bit of information on his leader’s progress that he could.

Megatron sat at the food of the berth on a stool far too small for him as he awaited the start of their private check-up. He busied himself with rubbing his belly fat in the meantime, all while trying his best not to let his mind wander. Taking measurements and documenting his increasing weight was definitely done more for their enjoyment than anything, but the fear that something would pop up that pushed his health back and triggered another decline was ever present in his processor.

What was there to worry about? Nothing, that was what. His wounds were healed, and his spark still beat strong. The dark energon he had consumed still tainted him, draining his energy as the days ticked by, but Soundwave was there to keep him going. This wasn’t another day of lying on that cold table while Knock Out picked through his chest and cleared his systems so he could live. This was a normal day of rest, and of recuperation.

He had sat pretty and lay compliant on his berth while Soundwave shoved tubes down his throat and up his valve, hadn’t he? He could make it through a bit of measurements.

The anxiety brewing in the pit of his stuffed tanks was immediately soothed by the gentle touch of lanky servos against his shoulders. Megatron lifted his helm and stared into Soundwave’s face, a small smile tugging at the corner’s of his mouth. He couldn’t see his third’s expression, but it didn’t take much to know Soundwave was looking forward to this.

“Well?” he said, slowly rising to his pedes with the insistent help from Soundwave. “Are we finally ready?”

Soundwave was silent as he nodded. He pointed to the mirror across the room, which was conveniently placed next to his table of strings and measuring tapes. Always prepared, he was, and more than ready to begin.

Megatron allowed himself to be dragged over to the mirror with one of Soundwave’s servos pressed into his back, the other held to the swell of his belly. He stood in place in front of the mirror and watched as his third gathered up the supplies, his small smile widening into a grin of amusement.

“Eager today,” he said, hardly missing the noticeable click of panels or the coils that were slinking free. “Forgive the assumptions, but I’ve begun to believe your insistence on two tubes instead of one earlier was just for show.”

There was a pause as Soundwave moved to stand behind him and reached around to hand over an end of the tapes. Despite his lack of words, Megatron could read the mech’s movements clearly.

“Indeed,” he said with a chuckle as he pulled the measuring tape around his belly and held the slack behind him for Soundwave to take.

The tapes were pulled tight around the mesh of his gut, but never enough for the plastic to dig in. They had to take accurate measurements, of course. Megatron stood still and silent, his gaze drifting over the reflection in the mirror, watching as Soundwave pulled the tapes this way and that, focused entirely on the task at hand.

Well, he was mostly focused. Megatron didn’t fail to notice the small pinches and fondling from those tendrils, their three-pronged digits grabbing fistfuls of his flab and giving it a good jiggle. Every twist or tightening of the measuring tapes meant another pinch or poke in a different area, and before long he was finding it nearly impossible to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Everything is as it should be, I assume?” he asked, almost breathless as Soundwave dropped to the floor to measure his thighs.

There was no response—not a shake of his helm, not a pause in his movements. Soundwave did, however, draw the tapes even tighter around the fat of those legs, and he didn’t stop until the excess was dangling between his fingers while the edges of the tapes dug into the mesh of Megatron’s thighs.

Megatron shuddered as those groping coils squeezed his belly even tighter in a relentless tease. For a brief moment, between struggling to steady his intakes and closing his optics against the measuring tapes unraveling against his frame, he catch Soundwave staring up at his reflection, his helm tilted ever so slightly to the side.

This was all a ruse, then. Measurements were being taken, but not without a bit of fun. Still… Megatron wasn’t going to stop him. No, he wouldn’t. For now, he would let Soundwave have his fun.

The ever-present sensation of those tendrils against his frame loosened, and Megatron opened his optics. At his pedes, Soundwave was staring into their reflection.

“Eager today,” he heard his voice say, a low and staticky sound.

Megatron only managed a breathless laugh in return.

[prime-adeptus]

LOST AND FOUND – ZHONGLI X READER

The lost star finds its place in the cosmos once more.

CONTENT.⠀Gender-neutral reader. Zhongli is referred to with they/them pronouns. Not canon compliant, light angst and hurt/comfort, reunions, god & devoted follower, religious themes, somewhat ambiguous relationships, introspective. 1,6k words

CROSS-POSTED ON AO3

The life you’ve chosen for yourself after centuries of activity is one of solitude.

For hundreds of years, you’ve travelled around Teyvat, witnessed the joys and hubris of humankind, and returned home to document endless pages of history. The people of Liyue once worshipped you as a god; offerings would be made at your shrine in abundance, and those lucky enough would get to see your splendour in person. You were loved and respected, loved enough to be made into art and poetry admired by thousands.

But as years go by, some parts of history go forgotten and decay with time, including you.

The shrine at the front of your temple has become unkempt, covered in vines and overgrown moss. The lampposts on either side of the broken cobblestone steps have become weathered, splintered and on the verge of crumbling. A traveller would believe this is nothing more than an abandoned temple, just an example of ancient architecture one could paint a beautiful picture of and sell. You’ve grown protective of your temple since you found refuge in it from a terrible storm when you were but a youngling. Perhaps you’re more attached to it for the sentimental value than you are for anything else, but it’s your home, and you’ll stay here until the end of your days whenever that may be.

The plum blossom trees are in full bloom, adding colour to what would otherwise be a dull and faded environment. Some of its petals have fallen to the grass and the river, languidly drifting by with the motions of the wind and the water. Cranes and deer have also found their homes in the surrounding forests. They’re the only company you get these days, but even so, you don’t see them quite often. Perhaps it’s yourself and the air around you that scares them off. With a quiet sigh, you don your hooded cloak (more for warmth than for a disguise, you think bitterly) and make your way down the steps, heading toward the festivities of Liyue Harbour.

The hustle and bustle of the city never fails to bring a smile to your face. Nostalgia crashes over you in waves, sinking into your bones down to their marrows as you reminisce about the days of the past. You’d walk a few steps behind your god, weapon tightly clutched in your hand as they effortlessly fit in with the people like a puzzle piece. A guard dog was what you were in your previous life, and in this one, you are nothing more than a forgotten memory. Duty no longer makes itself necessary in your being; you find yourself lost and aimless more than anything else.

Still, you breathe and you live.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt more disconnected than you do now walking among the joyful crowd. The bright lanterns and colourful ornaments decorating the stalls and pillars should fill you with at least a semblance of excitement, but instead, you find yourself shrouded in gloom. You’re not sure what they’re celebrating tonight — the Lantern Rite has already passed, so you assume it might be a new holiday you’re unaware of. You hear the harmonious sound of the strings, the hypnotic winds of the flute surrounding you in its warmth. It reminds you of your youth when you’d dance and smile hand-in-hand with a loved one, radiating happiness and innocence in the air. You wonder if you could ever find yourself in that state of bliss again even if you’ve been withering away like a flower without rain.

After what feels like a tumultuous journey, you finally make it to the docks where the festivities don’t reach. It’s cold and quiet, not that different from your home, but from here you feel less isolated. There’s a small sense of comfort from knowing that people are living their lives if you’d just turn around and go back to where the merriment takes place. Up in the mountains, all you have is the home mother nature granted you—it’s all you could ever ask for, but it’s not much if the only one who gets to see and stay is you. When you look in the sky, you find the moon and her companions of stars shimmering and shining bright in the dark. You’d recognise a constellation or two if you gaze long enough, and maybe if fate sees fit, it’ll send a shooting star that you can wish upon.

The lull into peace doesn’t last long, for a sudden shift in the air sends a shiver running down your spine. You can almost feel your heart in your throat as it races and threatens to break free from its cage. Something you haven’t felt in a long time thrums in your veins: a combination of fear, devotion, intense love, and everything in between, one that’s only felt when you’re in the presence ofyour god, the only one you’d go to hell and back for. 

(And you have, because they reward your loyalty with their praise and protection, their acknowledgement. Back in their prime, you’d battle side-by-side with the yaksha following suit. Your god smiling at your victory is the biggest honour you could ever receive.)

Someone calls your name. Not the aliases you used to go by, not the titles you once had, but the name of a promise you made a very long time ago—the name that only they would know.

Memories spanning centuries come rushing back to you then, seeking shelter in the back of your mind and begging you to remember. To remember watching Liyue be built from the ground up, immortalising their legacy for the years to come. To remember the feeling of their calloused hands caressing your skin with the gentleness that someone so bloodthirsty shouldn’t have. To remember the pride in their tone as they spoke of you to the other archons and adepti.

They call your name again. When you come to, Rex Lapis stands before you with a small smile on their features — a sight you never realised you missed so terribly. You scramble to your feet, ready to kneel the same way you used to do with them, but they stop you with a hand on your shoulder. They sit down beside you on the edge of the pier, a soft huff leaving their lips. It seems as though they’re just as relieved to see you as you are to see them.

(They know you, they remember you, and that alone nearly brings you to tears.)

Rex Lapis looks different from what you remember. The black and gold markings on their arms, the horns hidden in their hair, and the scales adorning their skin are long gone; they’ve chosen to appear as human this time, wearing an ornate coat on top of a suit fitting their frame perfectly. Yet at the same time, they haven’t changed at all. They’re still the very same being you swore your life to. You part your lips to speak, but seeing them again after such a long time has rendered you speechless. 

“You’re still so serious after all this time.” Their words are tinged with mirth as they speak to you. A wave of self-consciousness rises over you at how weak you must seem to them now. “It’s been many years since I last saw you.”

You swallow your nervousness down. There’s no use fretting over things anymore—you’ve lived long enough to know what matters and what doesn’t. Still, you can’t quite process the fact that they’re here in the flesh and talking to you.

“You remember,” you whisper. You hate how much it feels like you’re about to cry. “You remember me.”

“I do.”

“It’s been so long.”

“That it has.” Their amber gaze meets your own. You’ll always find yourself lost in them, you think briefly. Their eyes are fierce, sharp and commanding; they don’t need to lift a finger to get you to kneel for them. You’ll obey until the end of time. “But we’ve spent much of our lifetime and shared many of our memories together. You are not someone I’d dare to forget.”

You wonder if they’re aware of the effect they have on you. If they know how weak and vulnerable they have you with just one sentence—you are not someone I’d dare to forget.  You think you want to pledge yourself to them once more, make another lifelong promise, but what else can you give them aside from your company and strength? There is no longer a need to fight. There is no more blood to spill. You are no longer a god and there is no need to act like one.

Maybe the reason for your devotion to them goes beyond an adeptus following their archon. It goes beyond the need to protect. Maybe it’s for something you never thought you’d ever feel: love. Pure and unconditional love, stronger than any force to ever exist, all for your beloved god. 

“It’s an honour to be here with you again, Rex Lapis.”

“Zhongli,” they correct.

You repeat it, and you like the way it rolls off your tongue, so you say it again. Zhongli. It suits them. It’s a name you’d say with nothing else but affection and respect. It’s a name that will burrow itself in your system, making it all you’ll ever know every time you think of love.

Their gloved hand rests on top of yours. It’s warm and it fits perfectly like it’s where it’s meant to be. Zhongli smiles at you and the gesture feels unfamiliar, but you find yourself returning it. Tonight you may return home alone, but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, your life doesn’t feel so dull anymore. 

(In the sky, the stars inch closer to the moon.)

[cozza-frenzy]

Cat Food Prep Time!

Since the in-laws are still away, we're going to take advantage and prep some cat food over the next few days! We'll document the whole process, so anybody who's curious about home-made food can see how it's done. It's complicated and can be time-consuming, but for us it's a great option for a cat with special needs (elderly, overactive thyroid, food allergies) and I dunno, maybe tumblr will find it interesting. Disclaimers This recipe is provided by the nutrition calculator on Balance.it for our cat's age and weight, and is compliant with AAFCO standards for pet maintenance. If you're interested in home cooking for a pet, go to Balance.it to get a custom recipe for your pet's needs. We do not raw feed, nor do we endorse raw feeding. This is an example of a fully cooked pet diet that's safe for consumption when prepared correctly. Always consult your vet before making major changes to a pet's diet, especially if your pet is sick or has allergies. We have shown this recipe to our vet, and we've made our reasons for feeding home-made (allergies, poor appetite) clear

Anyway, with that out of the way - here's our recipe for about 3 weeks worth of meals! Balance.it originally generated a recipe using turkey breast - but since Canela's allergies include poultry, instead we're using pork loin. Pork is often used in "sensitive" cat foods and is nutritionally very similar to lean chicken or turkey, so I was basically able to swap this out one-for-one in the calculator, with it making adjustments as needed. Meat usually loses about 25% of its weight when "dry" cooked (via methods like broiling) - so for this we'll need about 5.14 lbs of raw Pork Loin. Sweet Potatoes I've found tend to lose a LOT of moisture when baked, so today we'll buy about 3.5lbs of raw Sweet Potatoes, and we'll see how much we have post-cooking.

We're using human-grade ingredients here, so expect to see what we do with the leftovers too. More posts coming soon, with luck 👍

[dhr-ao3]

From Hogwarts With Contempt

From Hogwarts With Contempt https://ift.tt/nPJZhlu by writetimewrongmuse Hogwarts wasn’t quite what Draco Malfoy expected. It’s colder, draughtier, and far more Gryffindor-infested than he was prepared for. In a series of scathing letters home, Draco documents his years at Hogwarts — from the incompetence of the staff to the baffling popularity of Potter and the infuriating brilliance of a bushy haired Muggle-born witch. If Hogwarts won’t bend to his will, at least his father will hear all about it. Words: 1640, Chapters: 1/15, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Theodore Nott, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: Epistolary, Letters, Enemies to Lovers, Canon Compliant, For the most part, HEA, Secret Relationship, POV Third Person, POV Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Coming of Age, During Canon, Family Dynamics, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Fluff, Angst, Romance, Fluff and Angst, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, No Beta We'll die like Cedric when we get there., Hogwarts First Year via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/tcIamC2 November 08, 2024 at 11:48PM

[fallingfadingdeepest]

So, you liked my previous ask about how the movement of your breasts, mind and eyes should be connected. In your own words: "fuuuuck oh that really got mee" <3. How about I make it even better, by reinforcing it? It's so much better if it's not a one-shot right? It's so much better if it comes back, again and again.

Warning: Use of hypnosis and triggers to reinforce triggers regularly, with continous reinforcement designed to make you come back for more, repeatedly. Only continue reading below the large gap below, if it's something you want and can handle. Otherwise, just answer the ask with no or enough, so I know to stop sending these.

On the other hand, based on your response, I think you might be open to the idea. <3

Be a good girl for me and bounce your tits.

Again, bounce.

And again, bounce.

Everytime you see the word bounce, you involuntarily bounce your tits.

As you feel your tits bounce, you see them flash before your eyes and and your mind drops so deep, making you so suggestible and making it more and more impossible to resist, more and more necessary to obey. Double as deep, every time they bounce. Double as obedient, every time they bounce. Double as willing to do whatever I say, every time they bounce.

Bounce.

Double as deep, every time they bounce.

Bounce.

Double as obedient, every time they bounce.

Bounce.

Double as willing to do whatever I say, every time they bounce.

Bounce.

Double as relaxed and happy with a warm fuzzy safe feeling, every time they bounce.

Bounce.

I don't even have to tell you to drop anymore to get you so deep and suggestible, I just have to tell you to bounce.

Wait a few seconds, and then realize what you have to to do.

What you have to do is bounce.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Double as motivated and desperate to make it easier to read the original text, every time they bounce.

Bounce.

Double as motivated and craving to read about how you should make your tits bounce, every time they bounce.

Bounce.

Getting a unstoppable impulse and need to read abou it and bounce, every time they bounce.

It feels so good to bounce your tits, to bounce and obey.

It feels so good to bounce your tits, to bounce and be completely compliant in helping me break your brain by making you bounce, to reinforce the need to bounce so incredibly deep.

Now be a good girl and copy my previous, original task that focused on making your tits bounce. Save it somewhere easily accesible on your phone, so you can be reminded to bounce whenever you want.

In fact, you should bounce your tits and then make the lock screen and your home screen on your phone be a picture of the word "Bounce".

Here, I made one for you: https://i.ibb.co/XbmDBqt/Bounce1.png

Be a good girl, download it and make it your homescreen, bounce and obey.

Be a good girl and save the original ask to a document on your computer or pad as well, putting the file on the desktop so you can't avoid seeing it, so you will bounce everytime you start it. In fact, if you have access to a printer, you should print the text, in colour if possible to get that nice pink bounce, and tape it to your bedroom wall, so you see it and want to read and bounce, every time you wake up

Be a good girl, bounce and obey.

Be a good girl, bounce and help me break your mind everyday, with the bounce.

Bounce and obey.

Bounce and obey.

Now bounce again, and feel how you will love the fact that you are going to be relentlessly triggered, when you least expect it.

Now bounce again, and feel how this will break you irreversibly, into even more of a mindfucked slut, who lives to bounce.

Now, as you feel so deep, so relaxed and so happy about how this is going to a part of your everyday life, you will just relax and enjoy the feeling for 10 seconds, before reading the next paragraph, down below the gap.

Good. Now you start feeling yourself very, very slowly waking up.

The feeling of so slowly waking up and so slowly becoming aware of everything.

As we count down from 3, you will feel yourself waking up, becoming completely awake when we reach 0. Count aloud with me.

. 3, feeling yourself starting to wake up a little faster.

. 2, feeling yourself half awake.

. 1, feeling yourself just below the surface, almost awake.

. 0, feeling yourself completely awake and ready to do the next thing in your life.

Once again, I hope you enjoyed that. If you did, and feel thankful for it, you should answer this ask with: "I will obey and help you make me the best mindless plaything ever, by helping me focus daily on my tits. Please give me more"

Once again, have a good day/night. :)

I will obey and help you make me the best mindless thing ever by helping me focus daily on my tits

pleeease give me more 💖

[mariacallous]

Hip-hop mogul Sean "Diddy" Combs was denied bail again on Wednesday after his lawyers argued for the second time that he should be released from "horrific" jail conditions while awaiting trial in a sex-trafficking case.

A New York federal judge remanded the musician into custody on Tuesday after prosecutors argued he was a "serious flight risk".

Mr Combs, 54, was arrested this week, accused of running a criminal enterprise from at least 2008 that relied on drugs and violence to force women to "fulfil his sexual desires", according to prosecutors.

He has pleaded not guilty to all charges.

Instead of jail, Mr Combs's lawyers were proposing a bail package that included a $50 million bond co-signed by Mr Combs, his mother and other family members, as well as home detention, surrender of his passport, weekly drug test and a visitor log that would be submitted to pre-trial services each night.

But the judge hearing Wednesday's arguments did not agree to the proposal.

“My bigger concern deals with the danger of obstruction of justice and the danger of witness tampering," Judge Andrew Carter said. "That is a real concern that I have here.”

After the ruling, Mr Combs's lawyer, Marc Agnifilo, told reporters the ruling "did not go our way," adding "the fight continues".

A 14-page indictment charges Mr Combs with racketeering, sex trafficking by force and transportation to engage in prostitution.

If convicted on all three counts, the rapper and record producer faces a sentence of 15 years up to life in prison.

Asked by US Magistrate Judge Robyn Tarnofsky on Tuesday how he wished to plead, Mr Combs stood up and said: "not guilty".

Mr Agnifilo said afterwards that the musician's defence team already had launched an appeal of the judge's bail decision.

"We believe him wholeheartedly," Mr Agnifilo told reporters outside the Manhattan court of his client. "He didn't do these things."

'Freak Offs'

According to court documents, Mr Combs "wielded the power" of his status to "lure female victims... to engage in extended sex acts" called "Freak Offs".

"During Freak Offs, Combs distributed a variety of controlled substances to victims, in part to keep the victims obedient and compliant," the indictment said.

In a news briefing, US prosecutor Damian Williams said officials found firearms, ammunition and more than 1,000 bottles of lubricant during raids on Mr Combs's homes in Miami and Los Angeles, about six months ago.

Mr Williams said federal agents also found three semi-automatic rifles with defaced serial numbers and a drum magazine.

He told reporters that further charges were possible, without offering details.

Mr Agnifilo, the musician's lawyer, maintained, "there's no coercion and no crime."

"He's not afraid of the charges," he said, adding that he believed Mr Combs was the target of "an unjust prosecution".

In court documents, federal prosecutors said that Mr Combs had "abused, threatened, and coerced women and others around him to fulfill his sexual desires, protect his reputation, and conceal his conduct".

Prosecutors accuse Mr Combs of "creating a criminal enterprise" whose members - under his direction - engaged in sex trafficking, forced labour, kidnapping, arson and bribery.

"On numerous occasions", the documents said, Mr Combs assaulted women by "striking, punching, dragging, throwing objects at, and kicking them".

The indictment did not specify how many women were alleged victims. It also does not accuse Mr Combs himself of engaging directly in unwanted sexual acts with women.

The Bad Boy records founder, who was also known during his career as P. Diddy and Puff Daddy, has faced many of the accusations before.

Last November, his ex-girlfriend, singer Casandra Elizabeth Ventura, filed a civil lawsuit against him that included graphic descriptions of violent abuse. He denied the accusations, but settled the case a day after it was filed.

In May, Mr Combs released a public apology after video footage from a Los Angeles hotel appeared to show him beating Ms Ventura in a hallway.

Tuesday's indictment against Mr Combs accuses him of similar violence.

Ms Ventura's lawyer, Douglas Wigdor​​​​, declined to comment on Mr Combs's arrest.

The indictment follows a string of sexual assault allegations against Mr Combs, one of the most successful music moguls in the history of rap.

Four women, including Ms Ventura, have filed lawsuits accusing him of sexual and physical abuse.

In a statement issued last December, Mr Combs defended himself against what he described as "sickening allegations" made by "individuals looking for a quick payday".

In June, he returned a ceremonial "Key to the City of New York" following a request from Mayor Eric Adams, who had bestowed the honour on him just nine months earlier.

Days later, Howard University announced it was revoking Mr Combs's 2014 honorary degree.

The musician is credited with helping turn rappers and R&B singers such as Usher, Mary J Blige and The Notorious B.I.G. into stars in the 1990s and 2000s.

[dubairealestate24]

Common Mistakes to Avoid When Applying for a Home Loan in UAE

Applying for a home loan in the UAE can be a complex process, and avoiding common mistakes can help you secure the best terms and conditions. This guide highlights common pitfalls to avoid when applying for a home loan in the UAE.

Understanding Home Loans

Home loans, or mortgages, come in various forms, including fixed-rate, variable-rate, and Islamic mortgages. Each type has its benefits and considerations.

Fixed-Rate Mortgages: These loans have a fixed interest rate for a specified period, providing stability in monthly payments.

Variable-Rate Mortgages: The interest rate fluctuates based on market conditions, which can lead to lower initial rates but potential increases over time.

Islamic Mortgages: Compliant with Sharia law, these mortgages involve profit-sharing rather than interest payments.

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Common Mistakes to Avoid

Not Shopping Around: Failing to compare different lenders and loan products can result in higher costs and less favorable terms.

Overlooking Fees: Be aware of all fees and charges associated with the loan to avoid unexpected expenses.

Ignoring Pre-Approval: Getting pre-approved helps streamline the home search and strengthens your bargaining position.

Taking on New Debt: Avoid taking on new debt during the loan process, as it can affect your financial profile and loan approval.

Not Understanding Loan Terms: Ensure you understand all terms and conditions of the loan, including interest rates, repayment terms, and early repayment penalties.

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Steps to Securing a Home Loan

Assess Your Financial Situation: Begin by evaluating your financial health. Calculate your income, expenses, and savings to determine how much you can afford.

Improve Your Credit Score: A high credit score improves your chances of loan approval and favorable terms.

Save for a Down Payment: Aim for at least 20% of the property's value to reduce mortgage insurance costs and improve loan terms.

Compare Loan Options: Different lenders offer various products. Compare rates, terms, and conditions.

Get Pre-Approved: Pre-approval provides an estimate of how much you can borrow, making the home search more focused and efficient.

Submit Your Application: Complete the mortgage application, providing necessary documents such as proof of income, credit history, and property details.

Loan Approval and Offer: Once approved, the lender will present an offer detailing the loan amount, interest rate, and repayment terms.

Finalizing the Purchase: After accepting the offer, work with your lender to finalize the purchase. Ensure all legal and financial aspects are in order.

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Tips for a Smooth Home Loan Process

Maintain a Good Credit Score: A high credit score improves your chances of loan approval and favorable terms.

Avoid New Debt: Refrain from taking on new debt during the loan process to maintain your financial profile.

Consult with a Mortgage Advisor: Professional advice can help you navigate the complexities of securing a home loan.

Understand Fees and Charges: Be aware of all fees and charges associated with the loan, including processing fees, valuation fees, and early repayment penalties.

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Legal and Regulatory Considerations

The UAE has specific regulations governing mortgages. Ensure compliance with all legal requirements, including property registration and transfer fees.

Dubai Land Department (DLD): The DLD oversees property transactions. Ensure all documents are registered with the DLD.

No Objection Certificate (NOC): If buying from a developer, obtain an NOC confirming no outstanding payments or disputes.

Conclusion

Avoiding common mistakes when applying for a home loan in the UAE can help you secure the best terms and conditions. By following the tips outlined in this guide, you can navigate the process efficiently and achieve your homeownership goals. For more resources and expert advice, visit home loan dubai.

[toraashi]

𝙪𝙣𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙.

pairings/characters: scaramouche x gn!reader, il dottore, pantalone (mentioned), original characters (very briefly mentioned)

warnings: angst, descriptions of violence in a medical setting, descriptions of fear and anxiety, brief mentions of vomiting, blood, unhealthy relationships, minor character death, needles, torture (lightly described, heavily implied), unhealthy coping mechanisms, spoilers for scaramouche’s backstory, pretty dark, characters are very traumatized, dottore is extremely fucked up (obsessive, apathetic, erratic)

notes from tori: wrote this all tonight. i fully plan to write more, but i wanted to get this out there as a start! i’m not sure how good it is, or how in character dottore is. there isn’t much romance so far, but i will definitely get into it in later segments!

Over time, it became easy to cast a blind eye, to discard the guilt buried deep in your chest, to justify your compliance with something that felt like an excuse if you thought too hard about it. 

Sure, he tortured children, dragged them from their homes — their families — with the promise of safety only to betray their trust again and again in the vilest ways, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. If you defied him, it would be your life rather than theirs. It wasn’t exactly a choice to work under the second harbinger, but rather a position you’d been appointed to. It wasn’t your fault he took a disturbing liking to you, dubbing you as “wonderfully compliant” and “an excellent helper”, and by extension, it wasn’t your burden to bear that your actions aided in the brutality of the Doctor’s experiments.

Today it was a young girl, her hair a jubilant red, sharper than the sunset, lashes draping against her cheeks and constellated with tears as she cried silently. A glassy, empty haze settled over the dark browns in her irises, and you couldn’t help but avert your gaze, blinking aimlessly over the clipboard in your hands.

“Pay close attention, [name]. I need every aspect of this test closely documented.” the Doctor mused, flicking a long needle with his gloved finger. The sharp twang that echoed through the room made you flinch just slightly, blinking at the implication as he strode towards the exper— child. “It won’t be long before I have the answers I need.” 

Dipping your chin, you stared intently at the pale tile beneath your uniform boots, swallowing thickly when the child cried out, the sound dying the second it left her mouth. You looked up when the room fell silent, examining the way she lay loose against the table, the Doctor disposing of the needle in a bin nearby. He shimmied his fingers beneath the latex of his gloves, dropping them in before tsk-ing to himself quietly. “I will say, I rather enjoy when they put up a bit of a fight. Wouldn’t you agree?” You couldn’t. How could you? But you swallowed your opinions on the matter, remaining silent as the Doctor filed through his tools for this experiment. “Have nothing to say? You’re always so stiff. You act as though this is anything new.” 

“You’re right,” You started, leveling your voice, occupying a neutral headspace as you lifted your gaze, holding his amused gaze, the scarlet of his eyes piercing through your facade. “It’s nothing new.” Chuckling, he tilted his head, holding out his newly gloved palm in anticipation.

“The archon residue?” Your heart stalled, but you complied, reaching for the delicately balanced beaker of festering purple fluid and pressing it into his palms, avoiding his touch as best as you could. “Superb. We’ll begin this experiment by injecting the residue directly into the subject’s bloodstream. I wonder if the interruption to her blood flow will have a different effect than the brain. An even dispersal through the bloodstream will certainly garner results.” He loomed over the young girl, and you were fortunate to bear witness to his back rather than the crazed grin pulling his features. 

Exhaling evenly, you scratched his comments onto the paper, the medical lights above turning the sheet a glaring shade of white. 

“Trial number one…” 

You left your soul in the lab with the young girl. Jiang from Liyue, you’d learned, it made the walk back to your room even more harrowing. The experiment hadn’t been successful, they never were, but perhaps some piece of your heart was content with the fact that the subjects usually lived to see another day. Another hopeless day filled with pain and torture, but a day nonetheless. At least before you could say you didn’t directly take a life, but after giving it some thought, you weren’t sure if death was the worse option.

The halls of the Doctor’s base were nearly empty in the early hours of the morning — usually, you’d stay til the analog clock hanging above the door ticked past seven, but the results of the night had left the Doctor in a frenzy. The typically composed man had trashed the lab, glass beakers shattered into choppy waves against the tile. You’d stood in shock as papers rained around you, barely squeaking before he turned to you with a derganged look in his eye. The room had plummeted in temperature, and you’d run out without thinking, shaking in your uniform, tearing up against your will. Weakness was not welcome in the Fatui, but amid an angered panic by the third most powerful being in Snezhnaya, raw fear had sprung up, a feeling you’d stifled in your years under the second harbinger — in the Fatui.

The door to your room clicked closed, and it seemed to crack the cement wall around your tightly locked emotions. Mindlessly, you stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink until your knuckles turned white, fixing your reflection in the mirror with a hollow stare. Your eyes remained red and bloodshot from countless sleepless nights, a tremor contaminating your body until you were too weak to stand. With a shaky exhale, you collapsed to the cement floor with your fingers wrapped around your biceps, digging in until the skin bloomed with pain. 

How did this happen? You pondered, mind spinning with flashes of the girl’s ruptured skin, purple spotting across her entire body as if the archon residue had been rejected. How did you end up here, how could you contradict your morals so greatly?

Truthfully, the transfer from Pantolone’s jurisdiction had seemed beneficial at first glance. The Doctor, although famously deranged, was higher ranking: the benefits of working under him were rumored to be illustrious. It hadn’t been by choice, but the two harbingers worked closely together, and the Doctor needed more “assistants”. It was clear that the cons outweighed the pros, especially after you caught his eye. 

Should you run? Now that you were a bit older, you’d given up on the notion. There was nowhere for you to go, and with the secrets you knew, there was no way you wouldn’t be tracked and killed. Yet somehow, the concept crept up in the back of your mind after frightening nights like this, when the Doctor’s eyes pierced you so deeply it felt like he was picking at your insides, tearing apart your soul and inspecting each bit. 

You felt sick. 

There was nowhere to run. Perhaps it was better you lived with your sins anyway and let the guilt eat you alive.

It was a week before the Doctor called on you again, another Fatuus, a younger recruit named Sava, delivered the note to your room with an edge to his cadence when he addressed you. The Doctor’s elegant cursive curled around your anxiety, but you swallowed the tendrils, flashing Sava an empty smile (amicable, freshly dusted off) before waving him off. 

Mx. [name]

I’m regretful that our last parting left on such a sour note, but I require your assistance for a follow-up project. My recent trip to Inazuma bore some ripe fruit. I expect this puppet carries an abundance of secrets I will never find in the frail subjects of the past. Return to my lab as soon as this letter finds you.

Il Dottore

Puppet? 

Crumpling the paper in your hands, you blinked back an itch in your eyes, tossing it aside and reaching for your violet coat hanging beside the door.

It was hard not to be surprised. 

The Doctor hadn’t been lying. This test subject was truly unlike any other. 

He looked ethereal perched upon the examination table, his hair and eyes a beautiful violet, like that of the thunderstorms of Inazuma. He had a slim build and sharp collarbones, but his porcelain skin wrapped around lean muscle in his shoulders and arms, making the mystery surrounding his origins even more intriguing. In all his nude glory, he was blemish-free — flawless. The perfect subject for the Doctor. 

“Kunikuzushi will be joining our ranks with the understanding that I will be modifying his vessel.” 

Vessel. It took you a while to stop correcting the Doctor’s dehumanizing verbiage as you had as a recruit. Back when you had a spark of life behind your eyes. 

Kunikuzushi’s eyes dragged over your form, lax and uninterested. You couldn’t help but note the sharpness of his jawline, the piercing glitter in his eyes, and the contrast of his hair against the silver metal beneath him. 

“In your letter… you said something about a puppet. Were you referring to…” You trailed off, your voice soft. The man on the table scoffed under his breath, flicking his eyes back to the light above him. 

“Why yes, Kunikuzushi is indeed a puppet, despite his best efforts. A puppet created by the electro archon herself. It seems despite his years of living, the power vested in him has been sealed away, locked deep in his empty chest. I intend to release that power.” There was a seed of condescension in the Doctor’s voice you were keenly familiar with, and you figured that it wouldn’t be such a cut-and-dry experiment. This was a trove of answers, and now that such an ideal candidate for testing had presented himself, it was clear the Doctor would not let him go so easily. 

“Anything else you ‘intend to do’?” You probed, barely concealing the bitterness that had festered since the death of Jiang. “Surely you’re not just unsealing his power without any personal benefit.” That coaxed a laugh from the Doctor, who folded his arms across his chest, cocking his head at you.

“What a clever bird you are. We’ve gotten to know each other quite well during your time under me.” He practically cooed, but you kept your expression flat, casting your eyes on your notepad. “But yes, you are correct. I do have my plans for this puppet, but they will be revealed in time.” 

“Do you intend to get on with it? I’m growing tired of your crazed ramblings.” Kunikuzushi bit, and your heart seized in fear, bracing yourself for an aggravated reaction that never came. 

“You have an awfully sharp tongue on you,” The Doctor mused, stepping towards a silver cart, and plucking a scalpel from the top, the tip glimmering beneath the lights. “Now then. You already proved your durability when you trounced into that furnace without a care in the world, but I’m eager to test how far that will go.” 

Kunikuzushi’s face remained impassive at his ominous words, eyes fixed on the overhead lights as the Doctor pressed the blade to the immaculate skin of his subject. It divoted before the skin broke, a pinprick of luminescent violet beading below the cut. You watched, transfixed, as it dripped down his ribs, pooling by his side on the table.

‘Violet blood — or bodily fluid — seemingly containing a fluorescent glow,’ you noted, the pen shaking beneath your fingers. Kunikuzushi flinched gently at the sensation, and although the reaction twinged your heart painfully, you shut it out, fixing an empty, dissociated stare on the scene before you. 

The Doctor dragged the scalpel down from the puppet’s collarbone to just above his navel. Kunikuzushi’s gentle flinch morphed into a tight grimace, and you forced yourself to ignore the clench of his fists. 

“You’ll grow accustomed to the pain, I’m sure,” The Doctor breezed, a recognizable line that you weren’t sure was meant to soothe or disturb.  

“Pain means nothing. Do what you promised.” The tension between his syllables spoke otherwise.

Within a few moments, you watched in awe as Kunikuzushi’s skin stitched itself together, not even a thin white scar remaining. Unblemished. You made sure to make note of it. The Doctor seemed to take great pleasure in this finding as well, humming to himself in a way that sent shivers down your spine, like the feeling of small rocks beneath bare feet. 

“Delightful. It appears this body of yours won’t allow itself to be obstructed easily. I look forward to our time together, Kunikuzushi.” the Doctor doted, and you barely caught the fire in Kunikuzushi’s eyes flickering. Melancholically, you wondered how long it would take for it to fade.