#even did some proper smear frames :]

[ferngle]

grumpy peebo

[drivinmeinsane]

i need you to talk more about colts nipple piercings please

I hope some filth will suffice. Any mention of tits (especially with pierced nipples) is enough to pry me off the projects I'm working on and drag me out of my cave to post a drabble. I’m a simple person.

COLT SEAVERS {Playtime}

Colt Seavers x GN!Reader ※ { drabble } ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: Colt's chest gets some appreciation. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Male Breast Worship, Consensual Use of Restraints, Nipple Play, Cumming in Pants, Bottom Colt, Edging, No Use of Y/N, No Pronouns Given for Reader ※ Word count: 1028 ※ Status: One-shot / Complete

Muffled sobs and the creak of a bed frame pollute the room’s silence. It’s not something that can be helped. Not when the creator of the noises is so fraught with the desire to be used.

There, put on display atop the mattress, is Colt. His mouth is stretched open wide, jaw straining to accommodate the gag tucked between his teeth. The stuntman’s hands are bound over his head and secured to the bars of the frame. He’s anything but relaxed. How can he be when he’s still wearing pants? His erection is straining at the material of them. Moisture is pooled at the place where his cock’s head bulges the distressed fabric of his jeans. If he were not also confined in his underwear, you’re sure you would be able to see his flushed skin and dribbling slit through the unraveling threads.

He’s been left leaking for a long time. You have reduced the blond man to bucking in place, squirming, in the attempt to find the friction you’ve not been granting enough of. Tears are leaking from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks until they are stopped by the strap holding the gag in place.

You like Colt spread out like this. Maybe moreso than when you have him on his knees. He is more desperate this way.

Tearing your eyes away from the pretty picture he makes all wet and eager for your attention, you focus your gaze elsewhere. You’re not here for his cock. It’s an afterthought. It’s his chest that you’re interested in. All bare and reddened from where you have already mouthed at the tender flesh long enough to drive the bound stuntman insane, it waits for you.

In gestures of proper care, you have let him have a rest that he did not want, but needed. You had offered him water, carefully angled the glass so that the liquid slid into his mouth with ease before gagging him again. Even his arms and hands had been rubbed to ensure his circulation is satisfactory. It’s time to resume your play.

“Are you ready?” you question only to get a frantic nod in response.

Pleased by his enthusiasm, you slowly get onto the bed. He’s nearly shaking with how badly he wants this. Catching his raised knees with your hands, you push ever so slightly. He lets his legs fall open, hoping you will finally give him what he has been not so silently begging for—a filled hole.

You’re not.

Instead, you shuffle forwards, feeling the mattress shift under your weight, until your own knees are nestled in the apex of his thighs. You lower your body, draping yourself over his. His cock twitches, eager, underneath your stomach. Colt tries to rut against you without permission. Your shirt gets rucked up in the attempt, smearing the precum that has beaded up through his pants against your bare skin. Punishment for the infraction comes quick.

The fingers of your left hand clamp down hard around his left nipple. Upon receiving the harsh contact, Colt moans around the gag and throws his head back. The motion bares his neck, highlighting the sweat gleaming tantalizingly over the curve of his Adam’s apple. It makes you want to lick the column of his throat. You resist.

Letting up on the pressure, you roll the nub between your fingers. It’s hot to the touch, nearly as firm as the bar adorning it. His piercings had seemed so impractical at the time, but they’ve quickly become a source of entertainment for the both of you.

Needing to chase your own release, you brace your knees against the bed and swing one leg over to straddle his thigh. It’s thick between your own. Setting a steady pace, you grind your pelvis down against the firm appendage. Having just had a reminder, Colt knows that he is not allowed to move with you, to race to completion at your side. He keeps himself still even as your mouth seals around the nipple that is not being caressed long past the edge of over stimulation by the dry brush of your thumb.

Your tongue traces over the ends of the barbell, flicking lightly at the metal rather than his skin directly. It drags a guttural, pleading moan from the man underneath you. You raise your head, sucking firmly on the stuntman’s nipple as you do so. It leaves your mouth with a wet pop, swollen and used.

“Not yet,” you tell him.

Spurred by his quiet whines, your pace becomes hurried. Your underwear is soaked through, chafing against you with every thrust of your hips. You’re hovering on the edge. This session is rapidly reaching a conclusion.

Colt shifts under you again as you stop teasing his nipple with your fingers and switch to cupping his other breast with your right hand. You adjust your position on top of his body to lick over the newly abandoned teat with slow passes of your tongue, wetting it. At the newly introduced sensation, the stuntman jerks, drawing his legs up just enough to give you a better angle to rut against. Your licking turns into sucking bites of the soft skin under his nipple.

Like thunder rolling over the plains, your orgasm hits you. You ride him as you ride it out, hips stuttering and pressing against the tensed muscles of his thigh. Your release leaves you panting wetly against his chest. Your lips are grazing his sternum as your hips slow and finally still.

As a reward, your hand leaves his tit. You drag your fingers down the blond man’s sweat-slick body. His abdomen tenses in anticipation when your touch graces it before reaching his belt and then finally one of the places where he’s been craving your touch. Not bothering to undo the button and fly of his jeans, you press the palm of your hand against his erection. You rub it against Colt, traveling along the swell of him. Your fingers find and circle the head of his cock through the layers. His precum clings to your digits, sticky. He cums, making a further mess of himself.

“Good boy, Colt.”

Do not repost, copy, or reproduce my work to other sites or in other media formats. Do not use it for anything to do with AI. Thank you.

[wtfdemother]

Give me a little love…

CW: Day 3 of Kinktober 👻🤝 fair warning for the following: dubious consent + non-con voyeurism + public masturbation + mentions of stalking. König is a lovesick dog. NSFW

The air is crisp and cold on the skin, the moon bathes the forest floor in a white, glowing light. The bitterness of autumn sets in.

He hates himself for this.

He hates that he’s so awkward in his ways that he can’t even come up to you and ask you out proper. You were a joy to be with, sometimes. Other times, he cursed your insubordination, often wondering how you got this far with all your quips and brashness. Perhaps it was because you ruled with an iron fist. “It’s my truth,” you’d say, “I say it as I see it.” He liked that, he respected that you stood your ground, loved it even. He cherished every bit of interaction he had with you.

His large frame stalks the dirt road, out of the tree line to your house. A lump forms in his throat and he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the slow descent of his saliva. You’re home, he can see it as he crouches, eyeing the window that frames you. He sneaks up to your porch, pressing his broad shoulders up against the white wood, his temple sweaty with nerves. König’s heart is in his mouth, nevermind his throat—he’s ready to vomit. His ears ring with discomfort, was the world always spinning so fast? What is he doing, spying on the one he loves the most? This is insane, he thinks, she’s your coworker, it’s immoral, it’s shameless; depraved even, it’s—

Wunderschöne.

It’s everything he’s wished for, hoped for in finding love. He stills himself in the bushes, captivated by you. Or maybe it was the way your living room light bathed your surroundings in a nice, warm, orange hue that gave you that extra hint of coziness he longed for. You’re dancing to love songs, singing with a wooden spoon in hand while something delicious simmers on the stove. Steam wafts through the air, transporting the smell of home cooked food to the porch door left slightly ajar. It hits König’s nostrils, going straight to his stomach. It pulls a longing sigh from him, you looked so at peace like this, pouring all of your love and attention into the things you do because you seemingly had an abundance of it.

He’d do anything to get a crumb. He’d stoop low, lick whatever you had to offer off the floor.

For now, he’s content pretending he was right beside you while you eat, huddled in the corner of the couch with your blankets and your bowl of food. He can’t see what you’re watching from this angle, how he wishes he could. How he wishes he was the one you were cuddling against and not some uncomfortable armrest. It was unfair.

It was unfair how he’d have to resort to fisting his cock in the cold, open air while you whine and fuss on the couch, legs spread wide as your fingers try to curl up against that particularly spongy spot in your weeping cunt. It was disheartening, your fingers brushing just barely, almost like a feather-like touch on the spot you so desperately wanted to reach. But you couldn’t, and it frustrate König as much as it did you.

He got off on it, his thumb carefully smearing his precum all over the tip, slowly pumping out more until his shaft was coated with slick and sheen. He got whiny, he wanted more; needed more. Carefully, silently, König rose from the bushes and padded his way onto the patio, getting closer to your muffled sounds. He nestles himself just below the large, wide window leading into the living room, where he can hear everything clearly.

“König…” His name. He almost topples over the edge. A hand quickly clasps over his mouth, a deep, wanting whine arose from his chest. You say his name like a prayer, it fell from your lips with such devotion. “König—König, I need you… I need you so bad…” Squelching noises and moans all travel straight to his ears and down his twitching dick, König begins to fist himself in fervour to the rhythm of your fingers plunging deep in your sopping pussy. Your cries like honey.

“I’m here, Liebchen…I’m right here…” His hips buck into his hand, lost in the image of giving you the release you deserved while chasing his. “But you don’t get to cum yet…not yet, meine liebe, not yet…! Liebling!” With a shuddering rasp, König comes undone, spewing thick ropes of his potent seed on your porch.

He had the time to collect himself, feel the breeze on his softened cock, and still he could hear your pleads for release above. He tuts, “Meine liebling… don’t worry, I got you…”

He decided to call you. On his knees peaking through the window, watching you squirm while you panic over where you last put your phone. Your eyes narrow on the buzzing device on the table, with your clean hand and chest heaving, you answer it.

“H-hello?” You try not to sound too out of breath, König’s baby blues land on your hand still cupping your mound.

“Coworker!” He’d say just to bug, revelling on how your shoulders would slump upon hearing his voice.

“König,” your voice was like a balm to his ears, his cock twitched in his hand. “It’s late, boss. What’re you calling me so late for?”

He’s caught in a box, he doesn’t know what to say. König’s at a loss for words, and the only ones he can think of are the truth. “I… I missed hearing your voice.” He admits slowly, his words hushed. “I miss being with you, ——.”

He rarely says your name, you take it as a sign. The syllables that fell off his lips pool straight into the warmth below your belly, you press your lips into a fine line. “Why don’t you come over?”

He’ll be on his way before you even know it too.

[mychlapci]

(K9 Prowl)

You're so right about the overloads actually. They freak him out. Even when the enforcers would come to 'play' with him or relieve his heat, he didnt always overload. That's something for the officers, not him. But, even when he did overload, the brief loss of control scares him and the mess that he creates gets him into trouble. He would actively try to avoid overloading (when hes not in heat at least) when he could. He would rather lay down with his spike hard and throbbing and aching whilst he waited for it to depressurise.

But whatever the handler is doing to him this time is different. No servos grab his plating until it hurts. There's nothing on his spike or in his valve other than the handler's fingers. It doesn't hurt. In fact, it feels so good that is scares him even more. His fans are working on overdrive as he desperately bites his lip to keep himself quiet, not believing he could vent from his mouth without making any more bad sounds.

The fingers in his valve scissor and then drag over his swollen nodes. The servo curled around his spike strokes him in time with the thrusting in his valve. He can't help it at all that he rolls his hips against it. It feels so good it feels so good it feels so good and his frame screams at him that he needs it

But the panic builds just as quickly as his overload does. He finally lets out a terrified but quiet whimper when he feels the familiar coil of pleasure in his abdomen. He tries to paw at his handler's arms, somehow hoping the mech would stop, and then paws at the bedding placed under him even though he doesn't even know what he could do with it-

The handler just shushes him gently. Their servos dont stop despite Prowl's pathetic attempt to make them.

The overload crashes into Prowl hard. Days worth of accumulated charge suddenly courses through Prowl's tortured frame. His hydraulics and actuators tense and freeze as he throws his head back in a silent scream, his vocaliser shorting out entirely from the charge, his hips stuttering, his valve clenching around the handler's servo, his spike spurting out shot after shot after shot of backed up transfluid.

The overload is so intense that he just falls limp after. He finally whines softly as the handler keeps working on his array. He no longer has enough control over his frame to keep himself silent.

He can feel himself crying again. Pathetic. Unable to control his frame AND crying like a newspark again. He's made such a mess. He can feel all the slick from his valve pooled beneath his aft and smeared all over his thighs. His torso is spattered with his own transfluid, and he's sure he must have gotten some on the handler too. And yet he can't stop. The servo's massaging his swollen array feel so good he can't stop. He keeps bucking his hips into their servos even though he knows he should stop

His handler leans over him, again telling him it's okay... Prowl doesn't believe it, but they are now so close- He gives in to his instincts that have him press his face into their neck, desperately taking in their comforting scent

The handler keeps going until they've wrung a few overloads out of Prowl, until his frame is finally no longer overheating and he's so blissed out that he's temporarily calmed down. When he's picked up, he whines softly and curls against his handler's frame. Just for the moment, he's comfortable and his processor is too fuzzy to tell him he should be afraid.

At least once he's at the medbay, he gets a proper physical examination to make sure he's not fried his circuits from all the heat and charge, and then they give him something to help with the heat. They can't completely negate the heat now that it's already started, but at least they can tamp it down a little, and hopefully make it pass more quickly.

Prowl isn't going to get over his fear of all of this any time soon, but it adds to his internal conflict. The way these handlers touch him feels so good. He wants them to keep doing it- but that alone scares him. And he shouldn't want it anyway.

The handler definitely notices that Prowl has a hard time overloading... he always starts shaking and trying to close his thighs around their hand, as if in an attempt to force it off of him. A less observant mech might think he was just getting excited, but since his door wings are lowered in submission, and the panic on his face is apparent as he examines the mess he's made, they know they've upset Prowl. They keep whispering encouragement to him, trying to keep their voice soft and calm because they don't want to risk upsetting him further. Stress is bad for him. They don't want him to associate the rescue with being stressed and hurt.

Prowl never before wanted to be touched. It was something the enforcers wanted and when they ordered him to stay still through it all, he stayed still. This time is different, though. This new handler smells so good, so clean, their hands are gentle on his array and there is no pain paired with the pleasure... But, after they've had him checked over and cleaned up, Prowl still stays jumpy. He doesn't like the fact that his frame is making demands, and it's not made better by the handlers coming in and out of his room, spreading their scent around, making him want to make a mess. Prowl knows he's being bad. But why won't they discipline him for it?

[peakyblinders1919]

i saw that you were asking for some dad requests and i was thinking maybe dad!john just being domestic with his kids and wife

“Daddy home!”

You were quite used to the incoherent babbles of your youngest, if not on your hip then she was always close by. Currently, she was in the high chair smearing some kind of berry puree over her face, your back to her as you slaved over the sauce for dinner. It was harder work than you remembered, actually, it had always been hard work, at one point in time you were just more used to it. Part of you, the part that was a bit sweaty from the heat of the burner, or maybe the part that could only mumble at Lucy’s words, not giving her your proper attention, it was those parts combined that made you regret dismissing the cook and the maid earlier this week. It was just easy to keep your mind busy when you literally had your hands full.

“I told you sweetheart, Daddy will be home soon. Not too long now, four more days.” You weren’t ashamed to admit to counting down the days until your husband’s return, not to the 2 year-old at least. Some of the others were old enough to know, and everyone in the household was old enough now to miss John when he was away on these “required” trips. You suggested the others play outside, figuring the sun and the distraction would do them all some good. Which it did, taking a peak out the window about the sink to see George, Peter, and William chasing after their big sister through the fields to the side of the house. The only bad thing about your motherly suggestion was that it left the house quiet. 

Too quiet. 

You were glad for Lucy’s babblings, however incoherent.

“Daddy home! Daddy home! See Daddy.”

“Yes baby, soon.”

“Not soon enough, aye?” It was the familiar smell of tobacco that made you stop in your tracks, but it was the Brummie accent that nearly brought happy tears to your eyes before even trying towards the door. The kids’ giggled with excitement by his side, nearly hanging on him, more excited to see him than you were.

“John Shelby, what is the meaning of this?” Shock, excitement, and faux annoyance folded onto your features, hands on your hips as you looked at him. Though, the longer you looked at him, the quicker you wanted him in your space again, breathing your air, taking it away from you in the style of a kiss.

“Can’t a man surprise his wife and family?” His voice reflected your annoyance, though his was rooted in his surprise not being appreciated when it was far from the truth.

You thought about hitting him with a quick-witted quip, but decided better of it, not wanting your first time in two weeks being make-up sex.

“Absolutely.” You smiled, walking towards him and finally settling against him, feeling every ounce of tension leave you when his arms wrapped strongly around your frame. “You can surprise us any day.” A kiss to your temple his only reply until you finally unburied your head from his chest so he could kiss you properly. 

All the kids cringed. All for Lucy, who clapped and holster, proud of herself for announcing his return. 

So much time and yet so little had passed, but John missed you. Missed you more than you could know, though you had the slightest suspicion because of the way he looked at you when he stepped in, and the way he continued looking at you now. Eyes dark with lust and desire and hunger for you and only you.

“Daaaaadd…” Katie whined, pulling at his arm for some of his attention.

It was hard for him to take his eyes off you.

“Right,” he cleared his throat, “speaking of surprises. You lot didn’t think Dad’d come ‘one empty handed, did ya?”

The next few minutes we’re like Christmas- special candies for the boys, a silk skirt for Katie, a pair of booties for Lucy, “and yours you’ll have to wait to use in the bedroom later,” he whispered in your ear. Slapping his chest, though his humor might not have been missed, or his inappropriate innuendos, you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You couldn’t resist kissing him again, his lips tasting even better than you imagined, better than you remembered. You lost yourself in his lips, their softness, their gentleness, the way they knew exactly when to push and yours pull and vice versa, moving in synchronicity that can only be due to years of exploring each other. You only knew you’d both gotten over zealous when the kids began their teasingly disgusted sounds, and it wasn’t due to the candy they’d devoured.

“Well, now that Dad’s back, it’s his turn to tuck everyone in and read them to bed,” you declared with a devilish grin his way, the kids cheering, practically racing upstairs to change into their nightgowns. Your stories just weren’t as interesting (which also meant they were more effective at sending them to sleep). 

“And while you do that, I’ll be in our room… unwrapping that present of yours. I think I have a little surprise of my own for you.”

And you swore you’d never seen John Shelby blush, not that you could remember anyway.

[astro-break]

New hypmic anime season and I'm BACK IN THE FUCKING BUILDING AGAIN (I feel like the Martha I'm coming home sweetie audio)

Thoughts on the 1st ep of Hypmic Rhyme Anima+. Spoilers beware

New plotline lets gooooooo I like that they're straying away from the drama tracks actually, Rhyme Anima is fundamentally a different experience from the core drama tracks which gives new material for both new and old fans OP is an actual banger, Ramuda's verse is the best fight me all you want but you know i'm right Nemu!! uh spoiler chara for anyone new to the anime I guess? Like they spoil her right at the introduction and iirc they didn't really build off her mystery in the first season. Makes her impact here a bit weaker but I'm willing to let it slide since some might not catch it (Post Editing Astro here: I haven't rewatched Rhyme Anima since it finished airing and uh. Nemu definitely was a plot point there lol they dropped it after ep 11 but she was there!) Jyushi my son I love you so much you idiot I love the little stingers for each team that they did for each team, its so cute and gives so much personality The visuals have definitely improved, a big step above the last season in terms of animation i don't see an improvement with story writing though… Pacing is still all over the place and very squished/fast paced makes sense since the cast has grown by a quarter since last season but still makes me sad that there isn't much time given to each character individually I forgot how much I love the localization of Doppomine Okay so Pink hair and Green hair in the flashback are most definitely the two in the white cloaks. Theres just no subtly with this series lmaoooo Nice that they were able to incorporate everyone somehow but too many people means that too many parts to handle I'm getting deja vu, this exact same thing happened last season…. Oh. Its the same guy. Makes sense lmfao Listen bud I have minimal rap experience but that rap was just embarrassing wow. No rhyme or flow, there was only straight passion which i mean props I guess but you suck ass Look at me being so smart and predicting all of these ahead of time without looking at any materials Did Rio just contact Jyuto with his hypmic???? Samatoki have I ever said that I love your for being a bullheaded idiot? bc I do. you're so silly Damn the typography has gotten even better, its just a lot more smooth and the animation too especially during Jiro's part is just so stylish The animation has improved a lot I'm glad it got a little more love compared to last season My guess is that maybe someone from the six divisions will fall under the anger thingy that's going around, something like the stage show. My biggest guess is that they might re-incite the Samatoki and Ichiro conflict again but I hope not. Another guess is that there will be old MCD or Naughty Busters beef which seems more plausible given that this is Sasara and Kuko's anime debut but I guess we'll wait and see THE OUTFITS!!! THE STUPID OUTFITS I LOVE THEM the art style of the ED is super pop punk and has a strong sense of style which i love. its simple but stands out really well which i love Very jjk but more toned down. Feels a bit like a cleaned up croquis drawings the smear frames is just so stylish and good, very simple and a bit messy and sells the gesture drawing kind of feel of the ED Ramuda's parrot costume i love you Those hand signs just make the first letter of each word which is really fun. Not proper JSL though I guess beggars can't be choosers esp for a series like this

Overall, a really strong start. It shows how it built off the first season and where it improved and while some things (like the horrid pacing) never change, at the end of the day its still a fun and delightful watch

If anyone wanted to read my thoughts on the first season, they're all archived here

[chickenscratchjournal]

What can a journal be?

this is two things, one is me saying an answer and hopefully the second is some other folks saying other answers.

I want to start with I have been writing in a physical journal again. I am often no at my computer and I really do hate writing on my phone. I would much rather carry around a little notebook and a pen. So, that is what I am doing. I tried doing a google doc table situation, but I found it hard to stay motivated to fill in all the boxes, sometimes I didn't have anything to say, or any energy to say what I wanted. I think handwriting some notes throughout the day is a lot less daunting than writing a summary at the end. But, for those interested this is the setup I was using.

It was an attempt at simple checking in on when, what concrete things happened, what my body was feeling and how I cared for it, my feelings that popped up throughout the day, and some final thoughts on it all. But, as you might have picked up in that description, not so simple. Also, yes, I did make the google doc page purple.

So, I am back to pen and paper. My pen of choice is currently a blue Pilot G-2 07. This is my mom's favorite pen to use and I have definitely inherited that opinion.

While prepping for therapy on Tuesday, I took some notes to bring in. I made a list of questions for myself and her, I condensed that list into general points: body, vampires, Names of People, serial dumper, over sharing, fear, french accent, shame, etc. I then took those a drew out a mind map, tying together the ways these events/ideas/people were connected to my feelings. It was really helpful to have already mapped out where I wanted to go before going into the 50mins.

I also transcribed some of my work that I had previously typed up. So, while working on my ptsd and trauma this year, I am also writing a novel about vampires. I wrote a head to toe about the vampire's body according to the lore I decided would appear in my book. I then wrote next to it a head to toe of my body. I looked at how I wrote about monsters and myself, and I didn't love the comparison.

While in the session proper, we talked about a lot of things that I won't go into detail about here. But, my therapist brought up a really important point about abuse and grief. She asked me if I was ever mad at my abuser. She noticed that every time I told her details of the abuse I framed it with my own shortcomings. Now, I have been in therapy for almost eight years, and four of those were during and after my abuse, so I knew it wasn't my fault. I had been a variety of feelings about it in the past four years, but in all my notes and all my metaphors, I never was mad at my abuser in isolation, it always came with anger at myself.

So, I took another approach, an epistolary approach! I wrote a letter to never be sent. Pen to paper, I wrote my "sorry's" and my "I don't forgive you's" and I wrote just a page, nothing too detailed or long winded, just a page of the things I would say if it wasn't an absolutely terrible idea to open communication again.

So, a journal can be a google doc table, a page of scribbled questions, a mind map, a list of metaphors, a blazon of a vampire, a letter to never be sent, and it can be a tumblr post.

I won't share photos of my journal here because their are a lot of details I don't need to share with a bunch of strangers, but despite having all these grand ideas about journaling, I have terrible, messy, big, uneven, ever changing, and smeared handwriting. And no matter what people say, or what I think in the back of my head about it. I am very proud to write down my experiences, because I am important. I am a person and even if I have bad handwriting I deserve to tell my story and to use writing to heal. If I ever write a page that isn't too personal I will definitely share it so we can all look at some journaling that isn't perfect and enjoy it together.

But, until then, thank you for reading and I hope to hear about what else a journal can be.

- El <3

[truckreincarnation]

fragile icy anger || yuliya || trial 2.2 || attn: frank, nao, harriet, avery

Immediately after what Frank says to Esmée, Yuliya’s head snaps up. And her gaze is cold, an unrelenting glare as he childishly shifts the blame to Esmée, who’s clearly grieving. And even when other people chastise him for it, not for a single second does her gaze move away from Frank, her blood boiling with genuine anger directed at someone for the first time.

“Don’t talk to Esmée like that. You never gave a shit about Perry, so don’t waste your breath and pretend you have any right to blame her. Instead of dragging out pointless and childish arguments, perhaps you should make yourself useful instead. So let’s ask some questions then, shall we?”

She very well knows that Esmée can easily take care of herself, judging from how she responded to him herself. But it still doesn’t change the fact that Yuliya is angered on her behalf for one, but also the fact that she does have some things she wants to direct at him. 

It just so happened that it was at a horrible time where her temper had been ignited, instead of how she was just moments prior. And from there, she addresses Frank again.

“Considering your timing for when you were at the orchard, it doesn’t matter if you were still there the moment she fell. The proper time that needs to be accounted for is the duration after that. There needs to be a direct time frame. Luz and Germain only saw you in the orchard at 10:30pm, so unless Harriet and Avery can attest to your specific time over there, seeing as they didn’t show up in the orchard until 9:30pm, then that’s reasonable enough of suspicion for me. To which, I would appreciate it if either of you can answer.”

A brief glance at Avery to see if he can at least confirm that. Sorry Harriet, she’s still not looking at you, but she’s at least addressing you as well. With that, she continues, or voice tensing more.

“I think Perry herself did get a hold of the shatterstone because of the blood smear that was on the shelf. The emerald and sapphire could be on the ground because she knocked them over when she tried to grab the shatterstone.“

“Personally, I don’t think she would’ve dropped it. Most of her shard wounds were at her torso. If she had dropped it while standing, her wounds would have mostly been around her legs. And if she was on the ground while reaching for the stone, it would’ve likely been on her side. The wounds centered at her torso suggest that it was directly thrown at her. And if she had it in her grasp, she would’ve been too weakened to fight back. This was no accident.”

“Whoever took the shatterstone as a result, likely has good aim. Perhaps… some proficiency with a sport such as baseball? And isn’t it awfully strange… that your motive punishment specifically had to do with violent, intrusive thoughts?”

She likely sounds incredibly cruel, but considering his comment to Esmée, shifting blame onto her, and partially in extension to herself as well for not being found, she finds it reasonable enough to regard him with enough suspicion. Not without confirmation from Harriet or Avery. And it’s only when Theophania brings up the point about Nao that she moves her gaze away from Frank at last, before she presses her lips thinly together in contemplation.

“On the other hand, the only part of Nao’s whereabouts that we know of is when Shinjuku saw Nao in the training hall while he was checking the entire first floor. We all know that they are able to disappear from sight as well, so it is still possible for them to head to the second floor without being spotted. Nowhere with what you have said suggests a clear timeline of where you have been, only that you claim to have never seen Perry at all for the entire night.”

Even before had been said, both Frank and Nao had been her own prime suspects, the former more so over the ladder. But now with Theophania’s new point, her suspicion has been completely evened out, her shoulders tense as her eyes narrow.

“I would suggest you both to be as specific as possible.”

[ex0rin]

Whumpcember 2022 - Day3 (NSFW)

@whumpcember Day 3: Storm accidental part 2 to Day 1: Hypothermia winterbones - 1700 Words Brock Rumlow, The Winter Soldier, Jack Rollins noncon, reverse winterbones (brief), some whump for Rumlow, some whump for the soldier, cock stepping, boot stepping, violence, masturbation, me just mentioning a storm a handful of times that totally counts right

Rumlow wakes to the sound of wind whistling through the small cracks in the window frame and the absolute white-out of the winter storm still raging outside of the safehouse. 

He also wakes to the heat and throbbing push of the soldier behind him, cock hard and wedged up between the crack of Rumlow’s ass - there’s soft panting along the back of his ear; the soldier’s metal, body warmed arm is still wrapped around his chest, holding him so tightly against the soldier’s body that Rumlow can feel where the bruise is already forming beneath his skin. 

“Soldat,” he says - he tries to be firm with it but the word comes out strained from his parched throat; the man at his back doesn’t stop the way he’s moving, shifting in short, rough thrusts that nudge the head of his cock up against the small of Rumlow’s back and he’s at least a little grateful for their positioning, he’d be a whole lot more pissed if the soldier was shoving inside of him. 

“Soldat,” Rumlow repeats, harsher this time - his sleep and cold fogged, barely conscious mind struggling for the right word in Russian, “ostanavlivat'sya” he manages, but it’s slurred, all blurred together and barely a word let alone the proper pronunciation for it to dig into the soldier’s brain, “stop.” he says again, in English. 

He brings his hand up, fingers that have only just started to regain feeling shift to wrap around the solid metal of the soldier’s wrist; he struggles uselessly, overpowered even while the other man is so clearly not awake - there’s a slight hitch in the breath along his ear, the warm, wet slide of precome dragging lines along his lower back and he shudders, tilting his hips forward to stop the feeling of it. 

The soldier shuffles forward instinctively, pushing back in with his arm squeezing even harder around Rumlow’s chest; Rumlow curses under his breath, his own stupid, traitorous cock flooding to near full hardness when all the shifting between them causes the soldier’s cock to glance up along Rumlow’s clenching hole. 

“Soldier. Stop.” he grits out, molars locked down and grinding through the words. 

Another rough breath from behind him, a warm smear of more precome - this time it smudges over his hole while the soldier’s other hand finds his hip to tug him back even further, easily ignoring the way Rumlow twists away from the touch; he’s flushed and vulnerable and maybe he wouldn’t hate this so much if the soldier was following his orders and not half-asleep and using Rumlow’s body like his own personal – 

The door to the room swings open and Rumlow almost wishes he was looking away when Rollins steps through - there’s half a second where his second in command just looks at him before Rumlow can shutter whatever his expression is doing and then Rollins is moving, crossing the room and striding past the bed to grab the soldier out from behind him. 

He hears the slight fight behind him, the arm around his chest swinging out and suddenly stopping - he turns in the sheets with enough time to watch the soldier stop his reflexive punch barely a breath away from Rollins cheek; the soldier’s eyes are wide, immediately terrified as he looks between Rumlow and his second. 

“Nyet, no, no,” the soldier begs, sleep-confused and panicked. 

Rollins has a hand wrapped into a fist in the soldier’s hair as he drags the other man from the bed and off onto the floor and Rumlow shifts, pulling himself up to lean back against the headboard with the blankets still curled around him.

“What did I fucking say?” Rollins says, wrenching the soldier’s head back before throwing him towards the ground - the soldier doesn’t bother bracing, those instincts already beaten out of him; he hits the floor, only turning his head to stop his nose from cracking down along the floorboards.

“What. Did. I. Fucking. Say?” Rollins repeats, stepping closer to land a solid kick to the inside of the soldier’s thigh - it spreads the other man out on the ground with his legs spread wide and still-solid cock standing heavy and tell between his thighs; Rumlow watches his second move between the part of legs to press the full weight of his boot down along the soldier’s cock, forcing it down along his stomach. 

“Keep my arm off of him,” the soldier says. 

“And?” Rollins asks immediately, refusing to give the soldier any time to do anything other than glance Rumlow’s way - those silver-blue eyes begging for his handler to step in; Rollins grinds his heel down against the base of the soldier’s cock until the other man has to bite back a pained sob with tears beading along his long eyelashes.

Even if Rumlow was back to capacity after that shitshow of a mission and the blizzard and the hypothermia he still wouldn’t stop Rollins from doing what needs to be done, he never has before, besides, his soldier failed already once outside and despite Rumlow only having the vaguest of memories from getting back to the safehouse it’s clear that he’d been given specific instructions from Rollins. 

“Look at me,” his second starts, snapping his fingers in front of the soldier’s face to get his attention - he slaps the other man as soon as the soldier looks up, cracking him along the jaw and cheek with the back of his hand; he leans forward, pressing his weight purposefully down, “what else?” 

“You’re gonna make it worse babe,” Rumlow says, words still a little slurred. 

He watches the way Rollins hits the soldier again and shifts beneath all the sheets that are still piled on top of his lap - his cock had flagged once the heat of the soldier’s body had been pulled away from behind him but there’s always been something about watching Rollins work that gets the blood pumping again, especially with the way he constantly manages to make the soldier’s cheek bruise so nicely with each new slap to the face. 

“Commander, I–” 

“You’re not talking to him,” Rollins reminds him, his boot twisting down hard enough that a normal man might have passed out from the pain grinding in against his cock but Rumlow’s soldier grunts through it, still hard with his cockhead leaking along the thick treads - Rumlow shifts his hand down to find his cock under the blankets and circles the heavy base with loosened fingers as Rollins repeats, “what did I fucking say?” 

Rumlow’s uncoordinated - his body still coming back to him after the shock of nearly freezing to death out in the wilderness but his cock doesn’t seem to mind the laziness of his strokes, not with the way his length throbs up along his palm like it’s not gonna take him long to get there at all; he can still feel the smear of the soldier’s precome between his cheeks with more drying at the base of his spine and his hole clenches on nothing from even thinking about it. 

The soldier whines from the floor, his mouth open on a hitched cry - his face is flushed from pain or just being turned on from the violence Rollins keeps inflicting down along his cock, “Keep my,” the soldier starts, stops, gasps through another sob, “keep my dick off him too,” he finally manages and Rumlow’s own cock twitches in his grip.

There’s a groan at the back of his throat at how quickly Rollins steps back just to brutally kick the inside of the soldier’s thigh again; it’s close enough to the juncture of his legs this time that the other man yelps and physically stops himself from locking his thighs together and protecting his cock and sensitive balls by reaching down to grasp just beneath his knees with both hands, pulling them open for Rollins instead. 

Rumlow’s cock pulses, leaking over his knuckles at how exposed his soldier makes himself - still hard, still waiting for whatever punishment Rollins feels like dishing out. 

“You left your Commander out in this fucking storm,” Rollins says, far angrier than Rumlow’s seen him in a long while - he pauses to kick a little closer to where the soldier is spread open, digging the hard steel-toe of his boot into the other thigh, “you failed the mission,” another kick, harder this time, “you disobeyed orders,” he nearly growls, reaching forward to fist his gloved-hand back into the soldier’s hair. 

Rollins wrenches him forward, dragging the soldier up to his knees and shoving him towards the edge of the bed - the tears in the soldier’s eyes have spilled down his bruised cheeks and he’s sniffing through the snot in his nose; Rumlow’s hard cock jerks in his hand again and he has to grip the base to slow the quick rise of his orgasm when Rollins pulls the soldier’s head back so that the other man is forced to make eye contact with Rumlow, “apologize for it.”

“Sorry,” the soldier starts, his voice wrecked; there’s the soft, desperate pleading behind even that single apology and it drags a low groan up from down in Rumlow’s throat - he loosens his fist to stroke up to the tip of his cockhead, dragging his thumb through the wet mess there and shuddering through the way his cock pulses and spills over his hand at the next whispered words, “I’m sorry Commander, I didn’t –”

“I didn’t say explain,” Rollins says; he catches Rumlow’s half-lidded look just in time to raise an eyebrow, rolling his eyes before he tangles his hand up even more roughly into the soldier’s hair and pulls, dragging the other man towards the door, “let’s see how you fucking like the cold.” 

Rumlow watches the way the soldier goes, shifting as best he can to turn onto his bare knees no matter how much it hurts - he leverages himself forward, pushing with his toes to minimize the damage he takes; Rumlow listens to the sound of the soldier’s body getting further away, through the hall and back towards the main door. 

He hears it open, hears the noise of the soldier being shoved out into the raging storm before the door is slammed shut.

[comicaurora]

Youth gymnast and former black belt in TKD here- I've always really liked how the movements in your action are very identifiable and make sense as an overall flow. I remember looking at Kendal's Falst takedown and thinking it was very close to some of the mid level self-defense series I did. Something I've found interesting in body drawing is that balance between making your art anatomical, making your art LOOK not weird, AND conveying intensity of movement, because the body is really quite a lot more flexy than anyone might think. At least for me (who actually might have a connective tissue disorder but no one's sure :x) I'm very twisty but sometimes it's hard not to look at literal actually tracings of my body's skeletal form and be like "hm... that looks Wrong actually." And with the martial arts portions, I know how much is proper for a body to extend even for a bendy person like me, but it often doesn't actually give that movement impact because usually that real full body level is BAD. So sometimes you get a mess of joints that look dislocated bc you had to frame to show the limb or moves that just logically are unfeasible or stupid.

Which actually brings me to Spy x Family again (sorry) because I've really been in love studying how the mangaka does Yor's extremely powerful movements by giving her body that almost smear frame effect and ending up with INCREDIBLE panels. It's something very much helped by the black and white, fairly line-emphasis style, but it's really really cool to me how impactful they are, especially putting it next to the anime aka ACTUAL MOVING MEDIUM and seeing the translation

Yeah! One of the hardest things about drawing good action poses is you have to start by learning to draw how they realistically LOOK, and then you have to learn to draw how they FEEL so they'll actually look right. A still frame from a video of a movement won't communicate the movement overall. A realistically extended punch won't look as powerful as a fully overextended one that'd in real life endanger the limb. A fully plausible and realistic stance can look awkward and confusing, details obscured by the position of its own limbs or body, while a technically impossible pose can look dynamic and strong. Art involves abstraction; physical training and an understanding of your body in motion can help you narrow in how and where to abstract to get the effect you need.

[strawbabysimp]

Faking Beauty || Dom!Hisoka x Reader

Genre: Smut

Category: Dom!Hisoka x Fem!Sub!Reader

Warning(s): Blowjobs, Cum Play, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Grinding, Pet Names, Rough Sex, Somnophilia, Unsafe Sex

A/N: Decided to dust off Dom!Hisoka and release him out into the world

“Y/N~ I’m homeeeeee”

Hisoka walked through the entrance of your shared bedroom, quickly spotting your sleeping form under the covers. He made note of the way one of his crop tops gripped your curves, barely covering your breasts that seemed to perk up just a bit more at the sound of his voice. He didn’t let the slight potential movement disrupt his current course of action, taking another quick moment to bask in your appearance. You always seemed to calm him down, or excite him even more, there was never a dull moment with the two of you.

His eyes drifted over your body, a small sigh leaving his mouth along with some of the tension he was oh so aware of. He always tended to get a bit riled up after fights, never feeling he had been able to release enough of his bloodlust on his opponents, which was all the more reason to take it out on you in other more life-friendly ways, as he liked to describe it.

Hisoka quickly undressed, preferring to sleep completely bare, which you were never one to complain about. He peeled the covers away from your body and snuggled up behind you, curling his form to accommodate your smaller frame. He couldn’t help but let out a small moan at the sweet contact, trying his hardest not to wake you - it would spoil his fun.

You shifted slightly, gripping firmer onto the pillow that rested in between your arms, a small hum of contentment forming in your throat. That little sound was all the encouragement Hisoka needed to go forward with his plans. His perfectly sharpened nails grazed over your hip, settling firmly onto the soft skin, pressing you firmer against him while he began to move leisurely against your ass. His nose grazed the side of your neck, nuzzling just underneath your ear as his breathing intensified.

You could feel the small smile that played on his lips as his mouth opened slightly in a breathy moan. "You're such a good little thing for me, even when sleeping," he spoke in a low whisper, finishing his sentence with a mirage of kisses before biting down gently on your lobe. You arched into the touch without a second thought, causing him to tear his lips away from the weak spot.

"And what are you doing little one?" He growled gaining an even harsher hold on your hips. You could feel the way his claws threatened to puncture through your skin and how his hands were slightly colder than your own body creating a cooling sensation in the same area he held a painful grip on. 

His thrusts began picking up their pace, it was no longer relaxed rocking but rather harsh grinding against your backside. "You're so cute when you pretend you aren't desperate for me," he said licking a stripe up the base of your throat, curling slightly over you," I know you're awake. There's no need for all these silly little games of yours now pet."

You allowed your eyes to crack open and meet his glowing ones. The small smile on his lips morphed into a cruel smirk, typically reserved for his victims, which in this situation I guess you were. Though, a willing one at that.

"C'mon now love," he said, voice filled with deceitful sweetness. He had quickly removed himself from behind you despite his noticeable hindrance and snuck your hand into his palm. "I said come on." He still chose to speak in a light airy tone yet the force in which he used to pull you up with him was nothing of the sort. You wouldn't have been able to stop yourself from moving along with his insistent hand even if you tried.

Right before you managed to be yanked fully off the bed Hisoka paused, allowing you a small moment to ready yourself for the next forceful jerk. This time it led you to the floor, staring up at the man in front of you. Your fear lessened at the knowledge that he was still far in control of himself. You trusted Hisoka -- to an extent -- but you still felt more secure when there was noticeable conscious thought into his next course of action.

He tapped lightly on your lips. "Open on up now pet." His eyes shined down on you uncannily. You remained looking up at him, positioned painfully on your knees, as his fingers found their way into your mouth, using their newfound position to pry your lips open wider. His naked form hardly surprised you but you couldn't help but feel intimidated as his arousal laid fully on display.

The two digits dipped in and out of your mouth, sliding smoothly along your tongue as you sucked lightly on the welcome intrusion. A few more seconds passed as he continued to watch them sink deeper and deeper. Finally, he finished, but not before shoving them harshly to the back of your throat -- mindful to yank them back quickly so as not to cut up the inside of your throat with the sharpened points.

Tears gathered in your eyes as he traced the lining of your open lips. His finger left your skin-tone sensitive head of his cock, throbbing painfully as precum gathered at the tip. He gave himself a few measured pumps before setting himself softly on your laid-out tongue. He slid in slowly, ignoring your wanting stare in turn of gazing hungrily at his slowly disappearing length.

His pace didn't remain slow for long, plunging the last couple inches in rapidly. A groan left his lips at the sudden sensation encasing his cock, head tilted back as he breathed out shakily. His smile brightened as he spotted the drool leaking from your mouth as he pulled out at a slow pace only to slam back in harshly.

“Who’s the dumb one now? Drooling over the nearest cock like a little fucking whore? I wonder if you’re still asleep, so desperate for dick that you dream about taking me into that slutty throat of yours.”

“Mhmm.” You moaned at his words, eyes watering with soon-to-be-shed tears as his member roughly hit the back of your throat. His nails dug surprisingly light into your scalp compared to the force he used to hold you against him.

He didn’t seem to be satisfied with your response though because less than a second later he grabbed a hold of the back of your hair, roughly pulling you off of him. A thin strand of spit connecting the two of you broke and his gaze darkened even further as he watched it snap back to your thoroughly fucked lips.

The magician stepped leisurely towards you, you could see the small smile adorning his face, expression clashing enticingly with the firm grasp he gained on your chin, forcing your eyes up to meet his before allowing his thumb to replace his cock’s previous spot in your mouth. He roughly massaged the muscle found there, smearing his precum around, before making a tsk sound as he shoved your face away once again.

“I said,” the aura surrounding his frame filled with a concerning amount of bloodlust, “who’s the dumb one now? Or are you stupid and deaf?” In these moments you didn’t see your protective and playful boyfriend, but rather the blood-thirsty hunter he had earned himself the title as. You knew better than to even worry about your safety at times like these, even if you did run, he’d always catch you. Not that you’d ever want to. The fun that ensued was always worth the risk.

His eyes glared down at you, the gold of his iris taking on a cold intensity, but you could see the waves of lust hidden behind the cruel exterior, or perhaps they were intertwined; two sides of the same coin as the man liked to say.

You left his question unanswered, so out of it at the moment that you couldn’t form a proper response by the time he sat himself down on the edge of the bed. His eyes glanced down at your form as he silently beckoned you over, using his middle and ring finger in a lewd gesture.

You silently made your way to him and made to sit down, straddling his thighs. Just as you began to graze his noticeably hard length he lifted you by your hips, turning himself around so you both were higher up on the bed, him hovering above the spot in between your legs.

Pulling down the thin piece of fabric covering the spot between your legs, Hisoka maintained eye contact with you, smiling softly.

He used his position to his advantage, staring obscenely at the layer of juices coating your inner thighs despite the thin lace covering your most sensitive spots. “Such an impatient little thing. Are you that desperate my dear?” The rhetorical question had you clenching around nothing, your boyfriend must have noticed because a soft laugh sounded between the two of you. “I knew it. You can’t hide anything from my pet, your pussy’s too honest for all that.”

As a wet sensation hit your stomach, your gaze was easily drawn down to his arousal. A fresh feeling of wetness soaked your core at how he allowed it to leak down onto you unabashedly. You were tempted to make a comment about which one of you was the desperate one here but the thought quickly left your mind as he placed his mouth gently onto yours. Keeping a slow pace, allowing his tongue to slip between your lips,  you didn't even fight as he took control of the kiss.

His movements quickly became rougher before he stopped altogether, tugging your bottom lip as he pulled away. “You were so cruel to me little fruit,” he whined fake-hurt, “lying so easily to me. Who’s the transmuter here darling?” You whined at his words, you knew he wasn't hurt but that didn't stop his words from affecting you.

"I didn't want to ruin your fun," you explained in a small voice.

"You thought it was fun to make a fool of me? To lie to me? What ever have I done to deserve such treatment?" 

You felt the teasing hum against your throat as he dipped his head to your neck, effectively pressed his chest to yours. The magician chuckled against your collarbone, lowering the rest of his body to connect with yours, his cock resting firmly against your lower stomach. You could feel how it pulsed against you as he moved his hips up and down in smooth languid strokes.

You could feel his teeth graze slowly down your neck, his hands making their way up the shirt to grip harshly at your chest before gripping onto the fabric. A harsh tearing startled you but he still refused to let you up, biting down hard on the junction of your neck and shoulder. The shirt was quickly thrown to the floor as he sucked harshly on the flat expanse of your breastbone.

You saw his hand slip down between the two of you before you felt a small tap at your core. He groaned out lowly as he allowed his tip to slide up and down between your folds, smearing his precum across your hole and clit. You gave him a shaky nod you're not sure he noticed as he slipped into the tight heat. He gave you a few seconds to adjust to intrusion before his hips began to buck. His nails dug into your thighs as he held them up to fit you around his waist.

"Does it hurt, my fruit? Well, lucky for me that's not my problem now, is it? Tighten your legs for me, I'm not done with you just yet. You're taking me whole, just stay still looking all pretty for me. Let me do all the work for my dumb little plaything."

He massaged roughly into your thigh muscles as his movement began to pick up pace. "Aren't you going to say you're sorry," he cooed down at you. His grip hardened and you could tell he would break the skin if he didn't let up his force soon.

"H-Hisoka! I'm sorry," you whined, your eyes struggling to meet his as your body began to arch towards the source of its pleasure. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He chuckled lightly at your whispered chanting, leaning down to give your nose a soft kiss, changing the angle of his thrusts in the process.

"That's all I wanted to hear, darling."

His face fell directly by your ear, he whispered praises against your neck while his hips continued their onslaught. “I think you've made up for your little mistake earlier. I think you deserve to come today, what about you?”

"I t-think I've been good," your voice shook as he hit your sweet spot over and over again. "I think I-I d-deserve to c-come." You cried out as his pace quickened for a final time. His unrelenting movements caused waves of pleasure to run through your body, unable to control the noises that he praised so admiringly.

"You feel so good for me you know that," Hisoka began on a tangent. "You wrap around me so fucking tightly but I can still feel you leaking more and more down my cock as I fuck you. I love it and I know you love it too."

His voice was reduced to no more than harsh grunts and moans usually reserved for his more entertaining fights. He peppered your neck in lightly kisses as you felt the familiar tightening of your core, shakily lightly in your arms as he let out a small chuckle. He maintained his cruel pace as you clenched around his cock, your arms came up to drape over his neck as you rode out your orgasm. You could feel as he began to spill into your heat, carding your fingers through the back of his hair as you held him against you as he used your body to milk his cock.

The magician did nothing but breathe out steadily for a moment before pulling away to detach the two of you. You felt him spill out onto your thigh before falling limp against your neck once again, heavy breathing spread across your pulse point.

"You should have 'woken up' sooner Y/N."

[sweetcathedral]

Note: First Toji story! Your "mom" that I had in mind for this one is basically a female Nanami, and your adoptive mom. Tried my best not to get burnt out from this one, so it might sound a bit rushed and repetitive, but I’ll be taking a two week break after I post Gojo’s sometime this week (hopefully tomorrow or the day after). Enjoy !

⚠️: 18+, raw, bulge, plot (?), voyeurism/exhibitionism (phone), eating out, fingering

It was obvious why Toji was around your mother lately, and why your mother still bothered keeping him around.

“Cut the sweet talking and just say you’re broke again,” you overheard your mother say. There wasn’t any anger or resentment in her voice, she didn’t need any sweet talking for her to lend Toji money again ‘cause she was also someone without any need for attachments. In fact, your mother hated attachments, so her pretend relationship with Toji was perfect. Not only did he fuck her any chance he got, but your mother even asked if he could take you into his place until you found a suitable apartment close to your university (of course he’d be getting paid double the amount for the hassle).

“I don’t have an extra room, so take mine for now. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You sure? I don’t mind taking the couch instead,” now that you’re finally facing him, you take in the details of his gruff features, hardened by whatever work he does for a living.

“Something wrong?” he cocks his head to the side and rubs his hand at the back of his neck.

“No. Sorry, it’s just—it’s my first time properly seeing you,” you can feel the heat rise up in your body.

“Oh, I guess it is,” he walks up to you and looks down, realizing how big he is and that you’re no longer looking at him from afar. “You’ve changed from the last time I saw you though,” measuring you against him, using his hand to see where your height compares. He smelt of smoke and something metallic, a foreign scent your memory had nothing to contrast to. A dark red smear on his forearm catches your attention. You thoughtlessly brush your fingers on his arm, triggering him to grab your wrist. His eyes widened in a wilderness you’ve never seen before with a hint of panic.

“Um . . .” you didn’t know how to react.

“Sorry,” he clears his throat and collects his composure back, “I’m gonna go take a shower first. Make yourself comfortable.”

The grip around your wrist lightens, leaving a red imprint that’s a bit sore to the touch.

Fuck. Toji had been too caught up with the bounty hunts he took that he forgot you were temporarily moving in with him today. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. It was his calendar app that reminded him, in the middle of a fight with a curse user, that he quickly finished the job and rushed back home to see you already standing at his door. Patiently waiting for him to answer the first few knocks and hesitating to knock again, which he found cute. He didn’t even have time to clean his wounds up when he snuck in through his back window.

Once Toji strode into the bathroom and locked himself in, he took off his shirt, thankful for the black shade concealing the blood slowly oozing out of his wound on the side of his torso. “Tch, for fuck sakes,” he mumbled before cleaning off the excess blood and throwing his shirt in the garbage. He thought his forearm was wounded too, the pain concealed from the rush of adrenaline he still had from running back home, but it was just the blood from his torso.

Toji wasn’t sure how to react when he’d see you again, especially as a proper person, since he has never paid any attention to you back then, until now.

“Take in my daughter until she finds her own place. She’s currently shopping for ones near her university since the other one had a person who died in the building,” your mother told him over the phone, neither sounding like a question or a demand.

“Huh? You have a kid?”

“Are you blind now too?”

“Don’t give much attention to kids.”

“Well she’s an adult now, so how ‘bout it?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Money, of course.”

“Heh, deal,” he answered, not giving much thought to the details as long as he’s getting paid for it.

“Now you’re making it sound like I’m selling my daughter off to the Devil.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her.”

“She’ll be coming over in two weeks time,” your mother sighed in relief before hanging up.

Toji pulls himself back to the present hearing the faint scuffling of your feet across the floor, probably carrying your boxes and luggage into the living room. I should help her out. He carefully lifts the towel off his wound to check if the bleeding started to slow down. He lost track of how long he’d been in the bathroom, so he went against the thought of stitching it up and just slapped on some gauze for now. It’d be suspicious if he holed himself in the bathroom for too long. As Toji inhaled his breath to pull himself together, he raised his head, losing his sense of his equilibrium.

“Shit,” he softly chuckles, seeing his blurry reflection in the mirror falling out of the frame and hitting the floor. His body goes limp as his mind slowly succumbs to the darkness, only the sound of your frantic voice through the door being the last to leave his senses.

When you finally busted the door open, Toji was shirtless and laying on the floor drifting in and out of consciousness. You flipped him over to see that he was trying to patch up his wound. “We need to get you to a hospital,” you started dialing 911, but his heavy arm stops you from doing so.

“. . . don’t . . .” he desperately said through ragged breaths before going limp again.

“Fine, but I need to at least get you to your room. I’m not strong enough to carry you,” you try to heave him up to his feet, lugging his arm over your shoulder, opposite from the side where his wound is.

Once you managed to get him in his room, you guided him to his bed before rushing through your boxes to find your medical stitch kit. Although it was hard trying to disinfect his wound before stitching him up and placing a clean gauze over it, you managed to help him dodge the hospital bills he wanted to avoid. Cheapskate, just use the money you get from my mom.

You let out a sigh, tired from the nervousness of moving into a new place shared by a man with a mysterious background, and the panic that ensued when Toji looked like he was knocking on Death’s door. Peering up at him from the side of his bed, you take in his other scars along his body; there’s a jagged one on his chest, a couple clean slits along his shoulder, and some small rigid circular ones scattered over his stomach. You lightly run your fingers over the soft pink flesh like tracing a roadmap of his past life, his scars standing out like checkpoints.

“Home. My father threw me into a . . . fighting pit,” the rough vibration of his voice startles you, breaking you from your trance.

“Sorry, I—!” you pull away, retracting your hand back. But instead Toji grabs it back, unfurling your fingers to place them back on his scar.

“Also home. A fight with my cousins . . .” he continues guiding your fingers throughout his body, dragging you from scar to scar and telling you the story of his past, like there was nothing to hide. “And finally,” he gently places your palm on his fresh wound, “. . . another bounty hunt . . .” There was a moment of hesitation in his voice, his eyes laid on your hand as he thumbs over your knuckles, twiddling with your fingers before firmly yanking you over him onto the bed.

His finger traces up the curve of your spine, the small of your back, feeling the bulge form under his joggers—nudging at the plump bulb of your cunt through the thin fabric of your satin shorts. Keeping yourself calm and collected, you push yourself up from his shoulders, his muscles tensing up from your touch.

“Toji, I don’t have money to pay you. The medical courses in university are expensive already.”

“Who said I was asking for money?” he traces down your neck with his eyes before bringing you towards him, rubbing a lock of your hair between his thumb and index finger as he kisses your neck.

“You’re hurt and acting delirious from the pain. I’ll look through my boxes to see if I still have painkillers,” you huffed, trying to fight through his strength and the aching need to continue to see through to the end. It felt wrong, but his desperate hands kept you from making the right decisions.

“Don’t leave, stay,” he whispered between kisses, now trailing down to your breasts, sucking at your nipples. The straps of your tank top and bralette slip from your shoulders as his fingers softly drag down your back, your garments now clinging to your waist. Your soft moans bounce off the walls of the room. Your fingers laced through his hair, continuing to tease your nipples and thoughtlessly riding your hips on his bulge, leaving a wet stain through your shorts and his joggers. A wave of shame clashes over your need to have more of him, but the movements of his hands, arm, tongue, body keeps you from turning back.

“I can’t take it anymore,” you moaned through huffs of breaths.

“Then, what are you waiting for? Do it. I’m right there,” he valiantly bucks his hips up, pressing his erection into your pliant cunt, holding your thighs down on either side of him.

Your fingers reach for his cock from under you, molding around the shape of him as you push his joggers further down his hips. There was already precum dripping down his cock, painfully pulsating at your soft touch. You hold the tip at your entrance, glossy and slippery from your eager juices, and slowly ease yourself onto his cock. Toji groans at your plump walls hugging him and pulling him deeper inside of you. Your body blooms into a lustful behaviour that even he was surprised in awe at the honesty, forming a bemused grin across his face.

When your hips started to tremble beyond control, Toji continued, propping himself up with his arms and careful not to bust the stitches you gave him. At this point his pain had melted into pleasure, gratefully thrusting into your cervix and feeling the satisfaction of the shape of his tip protruding from your lower abdomen. You wrap your arms around him, spreading your legs wider so as to not touch his wound.

“Ngh, I think I’m about to pass out,” you bit back a moan, struggling to keep from cramping.

“Heh, that’s cute,” he rammed himself harder into you, the sound of slapping intertwining with your moans & grunts. Your body twitches in intervals, keeping up with his rhythm, nearing your climax. Toji grasps onto you, clamping you down on him as his warm cum fills up your womb, unable to keep the excess from flowing out.

“Shit, sorry,” he reaches down to touch your vulva, the tips of his fingers feeling at his thick substance leaking out from you..

“Mm-mm, it’s fine. Infertile,” you said, trying to catch your breath.

“Did you cum yet?”

A giggle fell from your lips, “not yet—!” he flips you over before you could finish whatever you were about to say, switching places so that you’re laying on your back now. He wasn’t gonna take that for an answer cause he always finishes what he started.

“Allow me,” his head settled in between your legs, hands firmly placed at the back of your thighs. You sharply inhaled at the soft velvety feel of his tongue to your sensitive clit, and the strong feeling of his fingers pushing through your swollen walls. Your head falls back into a lustful daze, allowing him to do whatever he wants to do to you. Only the sound of your rapid breathing and cute moans fill the air of the room, as Toji satisfies himself with your lewd expressions and lolled out tongue.

“Did you make it safely to Toji’s place?” your mom asks through the phone.

“Yeah . . . everything, went well,” you bit your tongue, flailing your hands behind you to try and get Toji to slow down.

“Are you okay? You sound too out of breath in the morning.”

“Yeah—! I just, just came back for a—jog,” he thrusts harder into you, having fun watching you try to keep your composure. Ready to hear a moan slip out from your wet lips. “Anyways, I need to, to go, bye mom!” you hung up before she could say her goodbyes.

“Someone held up pretty well,” he chuckles at the nape of your neck before leaving his marks along it.

“Fuck you,” you pant, hating yourself for obliging in this situation, but loving the hard feeling of his cock splitting you apart. He hooks one of your legs up to the kitchen counter, your other fighting to stay on its tippy toes as you reach your morning climax—squirting on the kitchen floor.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he growls in your ear, flipping you over and stirring his cock back inside of you. “Get ready to go rounds with me.”

[someonestolemyshoes]

So... during the time skip, Hange is on a business trip to Marley. Levi stays home to deal with some installation or important project for Hange, gets injured in some stupid way, falls off scaffolding or something. And he doesnt think too much of it because it's such a stupid way to get injured. And he hides it even when it gets worse and Hange is the only one who notices because she knows him so well. BUT when she gets back, it gets worse. And Levi hates hospitals so Hange forces him to go <3

Hello! Thank you so much for the prompt :) I’m not super thrilled with the way this one turned out, but I had a lot of fun anyway, and I hope you enjoy it! Angst ahead, if that’s not your thing. 

(Drinking game: take a shot every time Levi says he’s fine) 

Levi was no stranger to pain. While he had been luckier than most, Levi had sustained his fair share of injuries. Bruises and breaks were commonplace. Pain became easier to handle, wounds less debilitating to endure.

It didn’t make them hurt any less.

**

It wasn't a particularly bad accident, but it was a particularly stupid one.

Hange had been tied up in meetings for days, stuck inside Sina with other military personnel, with carnivorous media, with business moguls eager to ensure their pockets would be well lined by any negotiation plans with Marley and their neighbouring countries.

She had taken Armin and Jean alongside her; Armin had a mind with similar mechanics to her own, and as such he was best suited to help her formulate a compelling case with their higher ups, while Jean had attended at Levi’s insistence. Hange had already made it clear that, with Armin gone, they needed somebody to oversee continued construction on the railway line, and Levi, uneasy with the idea of Hange being without an attack dog, had demanded Kirstein attend in his place. The brat was becoming something of a budget Moblit, always trailing after Hange whenever she was around—Levi thought he looked a little pitiful, following her around like an eager puppy, but he supposed he was grateful for it now, if it meant he had no objections taking a trip into the interior with her.

Levi had been left with the rest of the brood. Eren and Mikasa worked diligently, though Eren—distant and despondent as he had been since the Queen’s address after Shiganshina—remained sullen, while Mikasa alternated between shooting Eren looks of concern, and staring scathingly at Levi whenever he came into view. She tolerated him far better, these days, but Levi was unsure she’d ever fully forgive him for his public display at Eren’s trial.

No matter. She did as she was told, reluctantly as may be. Connie and Sasha, on the other hand, were proving problematic.

They lacked focus. The four of them were working on construction of a rail house near the coast, somewhere to store equipment for maintenance, with a few flat beds for workers to rest in between commutes. The walls were coming along, but the space was still lacking a proper roof, covered only by tarp to keep the metal beams and frames inside from rusting before they could be treated and on the tracks. Eren and Mikasa were working quietly on one side, while Connie and Sasha were goofing off on the other.

Levi clicked his tongue. The work was, in theory, far less hazardous than slaying titans had ever been, but they were still a couple of stories in the air on flimsily constructed scaffolding, without any gear to catch them if they fell. The drop wasn’t deadly in itself, but the inside of the half-built hut was full of great mounds of metal, beams and poles and wires covered only by papery thin sheets. A fall onto that, from this height, would result in breaks and bruises at best. 

"Oi,” Levi called, making his way around the rickety structure. Connie and Sasha either did not hear him, or chose to ignore him. That had been happening upsettingly often, of late; whatever intimidation tactic Levi had employed when they were still bratty kids had lost its effect. Connie teetered around Sasha as she tried to smear mortar on his cheek, edging along the scaffolding on only his toes until he made his way around her. Levi picked up his pace and called again, more of a snarl this time, a warning, but Sasha let out a shriek of delighted laughter as she managed to slap a trowel full of mortar on the top of Connie’s head. Neither of them heard him.

“You fall and break your necks and Hange will kill me,” Levi said. Sasha twisted to look at him but offered only a smile. Levi was within feet of them, when Connie moved quickly behind Sasha—he was doing nothing suspicious that Levi could see, but Sasha, awaiting retaliation, tried to scurry hurriedly away. Her foot missed the edge of the scaffolding, and there was a fraction of a second in which her eyes widened, body tilting, before Levi moved.

His hand closed around her wrist. With a sharp tug, he jerked her back onto the safety of the scaffolding, but in his rush to grab her he hadn’t the time to brace himself—with his weight unbalanced, the force of his pull sent his body careening forward, tipping over the edge of the plank.

He barely managed to release his grip on Sasha before he lurched over the edge.

Levi was no stranger to pain. While he had been luckier than most, Levi had sustained his fair share of injuries. Bruises and breaks were commonplace. Pain became easier to handle, wounds less debilitating to endure.

It didn’t make them hurt any less.

Levi hit the beams with a resounding clatter. Metal clanged and wood splintered, dust gathering in great plumes as Levi hit the tarp. The beams, built with enough strength to hold steam engines, had no give to them—Levi struck one solidly with his side and his body bowed around it. Something—his ribs, his spine—crunched on impact. The sudden stop made his neck whip down, temple cracking hard against the stone floor.

Every last drop of air punched out of his lungs and a white, dizzying pain exploded in his head. He slumped the rest of the way to the ground, gasping fruitlessly, but his chest, all empty, crushing pressure, would not expand, would not allow for a single wheezing breath.

He lay in a heap on the cold stone. Dimly, he could hear voices, the clatter of feet on wooden planks and the echo of sturdy shoes on the scaffold poles as the kids clambered their way down to him, but everything sounded muffled and distant, warbled by the pound of his pulse and the rush of blood in his ears. He blinked rapidly, squeezed his eyes closed to push the fuzziness from the edges of his vision, then gathered himself slowly, shifting to lay on his back. His every muscle felt tight, seizing from the shock of the impact and sharp, stabbing pain, but despite the tension, something in his side felt loose. He sucked in a few small breaths, pausing at every spike of pain before trying again, and then he pushed himself up to sit. His head felt thick and full, stuffy, too heavy for his neck to hold up. It throbbed with the change of position, a crack of pain so sudden he thought his skull might split in two. He resisted the urge to grab at it as the kids’ footsteps sounded close by, several sets of feet scuffing and clicking against the stone.

Levi pre-empted their concern with a wheezy, “I’m fine,” as Mikasa, followed swiftly by the others, rounded the corner and stopped short of him. “Get back to work.”

None of them moved. Levi focused his swimming gaze on them as well as he could, attempting a glare, but the corner of his eye and the side of his face felt fat, skin tight over the rapidly swollen flesh, and his breathing was tight, uneven, chest jerking with each attempt to fill his empty lungs. Nobody looked intimidated by the sight of him—in fact, all four of the little brats looked almost frightened.

“Captain…” Eren said. Levi scowled, fought not to wince.

“I’m fine.” Gritting his teeth to muffle each pained grunt, Levi grabbed a nearby beam and used it to drag himself up to his feet. His head spun, the ache intensifying to something almost unbearable, and that, coupled with the sickening grinding sensation in his side as he straightened up, was enough to make him sway on the spot. Mikasa was the first to step forward, hovering awkwardly. Levi suppressed the manic urge to laugh—there was some irony somewhere in Mikasa, grudge so steadfastly held, being the one ready to catch him if he fell. Levi shooed her away. His chest ached something terrible, a persistent, resounding swell behind his rib cage. It should be impossible to feel so full, so bloated, yet so empty at the same time.

“You should rest a little more,” Eren said, at the same time Sasha erupted with a wailed apology. Connie looked pale and guilty behind her.

“Hange wants this—shitty thing—finished, by the time—she gets back.” Levi hitched stilted breaths as he spoke. He took a careful step forward. His side screamed, and his head pounded, but he remained upright, which was good enough. He passed by Connie and Sasha, who both looked ashen-faced, and clicked his tongue against his teeth. They’re too tall now, so tall he almost lost his precarious balance when he stretched up to pat them both roughly on the head. Then he brushed past them with as much ease as he could manage.

“Hurry up. The damn walls won’t build themselves.”

**

Levi had expected to be better by the time Hange returned.

The pain had not subsided at all in the three days that passed between the injury and Hange’s arrival—if anything, it had intensified, and Levi’s bouts of dizziness and breathlessness were near constant. He hid it as well as he could from the others, compensating with vicious scowls and quick, barked instructions, but he couldn’t escape their concerned glances.

The building, at least, was almost complete. They had laid the rafters for the roof the day before, and were hammering on the felt when Hange, Armin, and Jean appeared in the distance.

The weather was blisteringly hot. Eren and Connie had removed their shirts long ago, while Sasha and Mikasa had tried fruitlessly to keep their hair off the base of their necks and out of their faces. Despite his lack of manual labour Levi was just as sweaty as the rest of them, though his skin was pale in comparison. He had argued, albeit rather feebly, to do his part in aiding the construction, but the damn brats had put their foot down on that, at least—as such, Levi had spent the last three days sitting beneath the shade, glumly watching their progress.

He stood when he saw the horses approaching. The others climbed down from the scaffolding, wiping sweat from their hands and faces. They cast Levi a sidelong look, and he glared in return.

“Not a word,” he reminded them coldly. Levi had already demanded that they keep the details of his incident quiet. The swelling on his face had gone down some with the aid of a bag filled with cold sea water, but the bruises were persistent, mottled from his eye to his ear. He could play it off as a far smaller incident than it was, so long as he could keep the ugly welt on his torso well hidden. The bruising there was dark, a deep, violent shade of purple, wrapping around his side and bubbling out over his back.

Eren looked uncertain. Mikasa gave him a stoic, level look, while Sasha and Connie still looked sheepish, avoiding his gaze. They had apologised profusely, and on multiple occasions,  for causing such a mess. Levi had, at their insistence, scolded them for messing around, but in truth he had little energy left to care.

Hange waved as soon as they were close enough. She kicked her horse on, Jean and Armin following dutifully behind her. The three of them pulled to a stop and dismounted, leading their horses to shade and water, looking tired, but satisfied. Levi kept his angled down, twisted to one side. He was prolonging the inevitable, he knew, but if he could get Hange talking about the meetings, or with some luck the upcoming expedition, or maybe even the mostly completed rail house, Levi could at least wait until they were alone before Hange battered him with questions.

All three of them had dark circles under their eyes. Armin yawned widely, he and Jean bumping into one another as they walked. Hange, as tired as she looked, strode forward with a delighted confidence—Levi, in spite of himself, quirked his lip in a small smile. It has been too long since Hange looked excited about anything. The prospect of an expedition had breathed some life into her.

“We’ve still got to work out some kinks,” Hange said, “but things are looking good. We’ll set up another meeting with Kiyomi. It might take a little while, but we’ll get out there ourselves. See the world with our own eyes, and—more importantly—let them see us.”

Connie and Sasha exchanged excited glances. Mikasa and Eren shared a more subdued look. Levi understood both perspectives—the prospect of venturing out into the world opened them up to a lot of risks. Each of them carried targets on their backs. One wrong move, and they would be in trouble. But, if all goes according to Hange’s plan, there would be plenty of reward. Freedom was worth any price they could pay, if only they can secure it.

Levi listened as the group reacquainted. Eren and Mikasa seemed pleased to have Armin back in their company, while Sasha hounded Jean endlessly until he relented, and surreptitiously pulled a small pack of cured meat from the inside pocket of his jacket. He had the decency to look embarrassed when he caught Levi’s eye on him, but his abashed expression quickly turned to one of confusion when he caught a good look at Levi’s face.

“The hell happened, Captain?”

Hange, who had been quietly engaged with Armin and the other two, looked around. Levi tutted and curled his lip, letting his fringe fall to cover part of his bruised brow.

“None of your business,” he said. His chest spasmed and he clenched his teeth, fighting the sudden urge to cough. “If you’ve still got the energy to stand around talking, you can get up there and help them finish the damn roof.”

Jean, who either hadn’t quite developed the same immunity to Levi’s brash tone as the rest, or was nervous about Levi scolding him for stealing food from the interior, nodded once and shrugged out of his jacket. Sasha’s eyes followed longingly as he hooked it over the nearby cart sitting on the tracks, but then her gaze shot back to Levi, and she scurried after Jean towards the rail house.

The others followed. Hange’s eye was still on him, and she waited until the group had scrambled up onto the scaffolding and picked up their tools before she crossed over to him. She bent a little, tilting her head to get a good look at his face. Hange let out a low whistle.

“Quite the bruise,” she said. Levi gave her a somewhat guarded look, and carefully shrugged one of his shoulders.

“Brats were messing around,” Levi said simply. “Caught me with a stray elbow.”

He didn’t dare look Hange in the eye long enough to determine whether she believed him. He nodded towards the rail house and said, “They’ll be done in a few hours.”

Hange beamed, bracing her hands on her hips. “They’ve made good progress! I wasn’t sure they’d get it finished by the time we made it back.”

“You wanted it finished,” Levi scowled, “those were your orders.”

“Calling it an order is a little harsh, Levi.”

“You’re our commander, Hange,” Levi said. “You tell us to do something, we do it. By definition, it is an order.”

Hange grimaced. It had been years since Shiganshina, years for Hange to come to grips with the position that had befallen her, and to her credit she had taken to it admirably enough, on the outside. It was only in small, private moments like this that she allowed herself to show doubt. The lack of cooperation from Hizuru had been a blow Hange had expected, but hoped to avoid—she had worked hard on her proposals and her negotiations had been sound, but the rejection stung nonetheless. With each new trial and each new error, Hange felt herself all the more lacking. Her distaste for her own position, for Erwin’s faith, grew stronger, and showed face more often.

Levi took in her sullen expression and winced internally. After a moment of heavy silence, he said, “They give you a hard time?”

“Who?”

“Zackley. The reporters. The kids.”

Hange let out a low chuckle. “Zackley’s as rigorous as ever. Picked apart every last thing we had to say, highlighted every possible flaw in the plan. Made us work hard, as usual. The reporters...asked a lot of questions we didn’t have answers to. They’ll smear our names in the papers tomorrow, no doubt, but it can’t be helped. We did our best. Armin was a huge help, though. He’s still a little nervous, but—so clever! So full of interesting ideas, and he negotiates well. He’ll make a good commander one day.”

“And Kirstein?”

“He’s an excellent paperweight,” Hange said, shooting Levi a sideways grin. “I appreciated the company, but I think we would have been fine without him.”

“Never know,” Levi said gruffly. He couldn’t be sure whether it was the heat of the sun or simply standing too long, but Levi was beginning to feel woozy. Breathing was still a chore, a concentrated effort to suck air into his aching chest and let it out again without choking, coughing, and more often than not he felt lightheaded. He nodded towards the boxes he’d been using as a seat over the last couple of days. “Sit. You look like shit.”

“For once, I don’t think you get to judge me for that.”

Levi had already begun walking stiffly to the boxes, and made no comment. He had no valid argument to give—he did look like shit, far worse than Hange, and he felt even shittier. He dropped a little heavily onto the box and bit back a grunt of pain.

Hange sat next to him. The box shuddered. Levi tensed as pain lanced through his side. He took in a quick, sharp breath, holding it high in his chest when the pain intensified. He could feel Hange’s eye on him and clenched his teeth, fighting to keep his face somewhat neutral.

“You sure you’re okay?” Hange said to him. Levi grunted. He busied himself taking slow, shallow breaths, staring resolutely ahead, avoiding Hange’s keen stare. “You look a little clammy.”

Levi made another quiet noise. Levi wasn’t very talkative at the best of times—this, he knew Hange was aware of, and most of the time Hange was content to fill the silence herself, but today she was quiet, and watching him too closely. Scrutinizing. Levi had often praised Hange for her powers of observation—she had an incredible eye for detail and a knack for spotting patterns and anomalies, a talent which had served the Survey Corps very well, but right now, Levi was cursing it. He didn’t need Hange surveying him.

He was hurting. He’d had a near constant headache since the incident, and his chest felt tight, riddled with pain both dull and sharp, stabbing whenever he breathed too deeply or gave in to the pressing urge to hack out a cough, but more than that, he felt unwell. Groggy, sickly, light-headed. His heart beat frantically, and his skin did feel clammy, cold sweat sitting on his brow. He stared ahead, blinking the fuzziness from his head and resolutely ignoring Hange’s steady stare.

Hange’s palm pressed to his forehead. The sudden touch made him jump—his muscles tensed, his ribs screamed in protest, and Levi let out a strangled groan, biting his tongue a second too late to trap the sound.

He was barely aware of Hange’s fussing as he fought to draw breath. Air grated in his battered lungs as Hange’s hand pressed flat to the back of his neck, her voice warped and muffled in his ear as she felt his sweat-damp skin. His vision tunnelled. He blinked rapidly to clear the black spots and wheezed in the humid air. His chest felt like it might split open, pressure billowing out from behind his ribcage, pressing agonisingly against his damaged bones.

He breathed short and shallow until the haze of pain lessened. Hange’s voice was loud beside him, the sharp, deep bark she used when she felt it necessary to assert her authority. Through the fog in his head he could barely make out her words, but he knew exactly what it was she was demanding. Sasha’s voice was meek in comparison, but it still carried over the distance enough for Levi to hear her.

“It was an accident,” she was saying. “It was our fault—my fault—”

Levi hissed through his teeth. Hange’s hands—one still at the back of his neck, the other curled around his arm—tightened their grip on him.

“Drop it,” Levi said. “Stop grilling them. It doesn’t matter what happened, I’m fine.”

Hange had the audacity to laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Fine? Levi, you can’t even move. You can barely breathe! What the hell did you do?”

“Fell,” he said shortly. His voice sounded weak, but he didn’t have the breath to put more force behind it.

“From where? When? Hell, Levi, when did this happen?”

“Hange, leave it.”

Hange turned her question to the rail house, and Connie answered immediately. Traitors, Levi thought scathingly. Mikasa explained without prompt that they didn’t know the extent of his injuries, that Levi had refused a proper medical examination despite the head wound that had left him unable to stand straight. She explained that they had managed with very little effort to get him to observe the construction from the ground, which, it seemed, was enough to concern Hange—Levi wasn’t the type to sit around doing nothing. He despised being idle and she knew it.

“You should see a doctor, Levi.”

“I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not. What else did you hurt? Just your head?”

Levi felt ill. Hange’s persistent questions were making his head spin and his entire body felt sore and spent. He mustered enough strength to glare at her, but nothing more. Hange was watching him carefully, brow furrowed in concern, but at his silence her expression hardened, and she stood abruptly. Levi bit back another groan as the box moved beneath him.

“You can ride, then?”

Levi squinted up at her. “Hah?”

“If you’re fine, you can ride back into town with me.”

No. “Sure.”

Hange stared at him a little longer, waiting, no doubt, for him to backtrack, admit defeat. Levi clenched his jaw and maintained steely eye contact. Hange narrowed her eye at him, then turned towards the rail house.

“Oi!” Hange called up, cupping a hand around her mouth. Six heads turned their way, popping up over the roof. “We’re heading back early. Leave the scaffolding when you’re done, we’ll send for it tomorrow. Good work!”

She turned on her heel and headed towards the horses, still tacked and tethered beneath the shade of a small copse of trees.

“We’ll go get your head checked.”

“Hange, I said I’m fine.” It was a weak argument, made even moreso when he stood too abruptly and swayed on the spot. Hange darted back towards him and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, and a little of her angry resolve cracked, worry creasing her brow. She led him, more slowly now, towards the horses with her hand hovering over his back. He braced himself for the agony of her touch, if she pressed her palm against him, but Hange—perhaps in fear of not knowing what other injuries he had sustained—didn’t touch him.

“Humour me,” she said. “If you’re really fine, and it’s really nothing, no harm done. I’ll feel better knowing, and you—” she drew them to a stop by the horses and turned to face him fully, grinning, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, “—you get to say I told you so.”

Levi said nothing. The thought of riding for hours on end made him feel nauseous.

“This is pointless,” he said. “I’ll rest here, if you’re so worried.”

Hange shook her head at him. She untied her own horse and Jean’s, holding the reins out for Levi to take.  

“We’re going back now, Captain. That’s an order.”

**  

An hour into the journey, Levi began to struggle in earnest.

No part of the ride had been pleasant—the heat was oppressive, and the motion of the horse required a fluidity in his hips and back that sent sharp jolts through his side with every step. Hange was uncharacteristically quiet, occupied instead by watching Levi from the corner of her eye. His head pounded with increasing intensity the longer they travelled, and between the pain, and the scorching sun, and his pitifully shallow breathing, Levi was feeling more faint by the second.

It was an unsettling sensation. Injuries were always difficult, but Levi had never felt so completely wiped out by physical damage in the past. Three days was enough time for his body to at least begin healing, but Levi had seen no improvement since the moment he struck the beam during his fall—if anything, he’d felt worse by the day.

Now, he was fighting to keep himself upright in the saddle.

They were approaching another clump of trees, great leaves wilting in the heat, when Levi, jaw tight and teeth bared, grunted out a request that they stop.

Hange looked torn. She wanted to hurry back into town, and was already impatient enough that Levi had requested they walk—”It’s too hot, for the horses”—but something on his face must have reflected the severity of his discomfort. Hange directed them to the treeline, dismounting and taking Levi’s reins while he did the same. His feet hit the ground and his knees buckled.

Hange caught him about the elbow but only after he had sunk to the grass. He felt shaky, weak, but more than that he felt vulnerable. Realistically, Levi knew that there was no shame in being hurt, in needing help, but he was a stranger to it. He had been self-sufficient since he was in Kenny’s care, and had grown up with the express understanding that showing weakness was a death sentence. And then again, in the Survey Corps—an injured soldier was titan bait.

There were no titans now, but Levi felt distinctly exposed, sitting in the long grass with his vision swimming and his lungs burning, barely functional.

Hange knelt next to him in the grass. She brought a hand up to his face, fingers curling against his jaw. Her gaze darted over his face, all of her righteous anger forgotten as she took in his state. Levi wanted to shake her off, to shake off the spinning in his head, to stand up and get back on the horse and continue their journey, but he couldn’t find the strength to gather his legs beneath him. Hange’s hands—one on his arm and one still on his face—kept him sitting upright.

“Levi…” Hange said slowly. Words sat on his tongue, reassurance that he was fucking fine, that he just needed a minute, but try as he might, he couldn’t get enough air in to voice them. His chest bubbled and rattled as he drew in a thin breath.

“Levi,” Hange said, sharper this time. Levi blinked blearily and searched for her. Neither of them were moving, but Hange’s image wavered and blurred in front of him. He swallowed. Wheezed. His heart hammered in his ears. Hange’s fingertips found the pulsepoint in his neck, pressing, counting. “Levi—what else hurts?”

Levi swallowed thickly, a nauseous tremor under his tongue. After a moment, he choked out, “cracked a few ribs, probably.”

Hange sucked in a sharp breath. “Let me see.”

He didn’t have the strength to fight her as Hange began unbuttoning his shit. He swayed where he sat, struggling to balance without her hands keeping him upright, until he heard Hange’s hiss as she uncovered the bruises wrapping his chest and back.

Levi looked down and grimaced. The bruising was worse than he remembered, stretching further up his chest, dark and mottled, the flesh tight and swollen.

“Levi, this is bad,” Hange said. “We need to get help.”

“Just need rest,” Levi said. His voice sounded slow and slurred in his own ears. Hange’s hand cupped the side of his neck, her thumb tipping his jaw up to look at his face. His eyelids felt heavy.

“I know it hurts,” she said, “and I know you don’t want to move, but—Levi, please. C’mon, I need you to get up.”

It had been a long, long time since Levi had heard that frantic tone from her. She sounded urgent, panicked. Desperate. Levi dragged his eyes open, but found he couldn’t focus on her face anymore. His lungs protested violently as he tried to speak, only coughing instead, dry and hacking. His chest burned.

Hange dragged him to his feet. Levi’s limbs felt heavy and clumsy, detached and completely out of his control. He leaned heavily into Hange’s side as she moved him across the grass.

“C’mon, Levi—work with me.”

Hange hefted him up onto one of the horses. Her horse, he realised, as she clambered up with him. She settled behind him, her arms gripping the reins either side of him. Levi tried to sit up right, but as she kicked the horse on, he slumped back with a low groan. Hange’s voice rumbled through her chest when she spoke.

“You good?” Hange asked quietly, and then, “stupid question, of course you’re not.” Levi found the strength to scoff, but it was a pitiful sound, and followed swiftly with another pained grunt and a fit of coughing. “Bear it a little longer, okay?”

Consciousness drifted, as they rode on. Levi was dimly aware of the sun on his feverish skin, and of Hange’s warm, solid body at his back. Her jaw brushed his head when she moved. Her voice was constant now, a rumble up his spine and in indistinct mumble in his ear. At times he could pick out her words, but his comprehension was hazy, mind unable to string sentences together, to find meaning in her chatter.

In this state, there was no focal point for the pain. It was consuming, indistinct but ever present, impossible to isolate in any one location. His whole body ached. His breathing was quick and laboured. There was no real respite even in this state.

Hange’s hand repeatedly found his throat, fingers feeling for his frantic pulse.

Time passed strangely. The ride seemed to last a lifetime, with Levi waking a thousand times to agony, consciousness barely breaking before he succumbed again to his feverish dozing.

At times, he awoke to new sounds and new sensations. The echo of multiple voices around him, all talking frantically over one. The scratch of crisp sheets beneath his bare back, the click of shoes on tiled floor. New, stinging, fiery pain, sudden and excruciating enough to make his body jolt in discomfort, followed swiftly by strong hands on his arms and legs to keep him still. Cool air blowing gently over his heated skin. His hand caught in a loose, tangled grip.

The aches in his battered body settled, localised. Levi felt it acutely in his chest, though the pressure no longer felt as intense. Breathing still hurt, but the air came easier now. He felt his lungs fill with it, little by little, for the first time in days. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly in the light, then rolled his head slowly to look around.

The small window had been cracked open, the fresh, cool air lifting Levi’s fringe, tickling at his brow. Thin morning light poured in, illuminating the small, sparsely furnished room. Besides the bed he lay on, there was only one small table and a stiff, uncomfortable wooden chair.

Hange was slumped low in the chair. Her legs were sprawled out in front of her, her chin dropped to her chest while she slept. She had discarded her military jacket, eye patch, and glasses in a heap on the floor, and her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, the top buttons of her shirt undone and splayed open. Her hair hung limp and ratty around her face. She looked pale and exhausted.

Levi’s tongue was dry, tacking to his teeth and the roof of his mouth. It took him three attempts to say her name, and when he did it came out raspy and ragged. He tried to move, to reach over and nudge her awake, to ask what the hell had happened since he’d last been lucid—but as he leaned over a sudden, white hot agony ripped through him, tearing into his side.

He gave a strangled groan and pressed himself back into the mattress, squeezing his eyes closed as he rode out the spasms. Wood scraped by the bed; Hange must have startled awake at his outburst. Levi squinted an eye open to see her blinking rapidly, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes before scooping up her glasses and taking in the sight of him.

The pain subsided little by little, though Levi didn’t dare move again. Hange sat on the edge of her chair and reached for him, her hand stopping short of his and falling to grip the bed sheets instead.

“How you feeling?”

Levi cleared his throat. “Like shit.”

Hange managed a weak smile. The bags under her eyes were considerably darker than they had been before, her skin paler, papery. Levi frowned at her. “You still look like shit.”

Hange waved him off with a small laugh, sitting back and scrubbing her hands over her face. She hung her head over the back of her chair, fingers pressing into her eyes beneath her glasses. She sat for a long while, observing the backs of her eyelids. Levi watched her through pinched eyes as the burn in his side settled to a more familiar ache.

“Don’t do that,” Hange said, voice strained by the stretch of her throat. “Don’t do that again.”

“Which part?” Levi said.

“All of it. Don’t get in stupid accidents. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Don’t—”

She stopped short, then, with a sudden hitch of her breath. Levi watched her dig her fingers harder into her eyes, watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed reflexively. For a moment she was quiet, then she sat up straight and turned watery, bloodshot eyes on him.

Hange was strong. She was a far more emotionally available person than he could ever be, but she had an incredible capacity to compartmentalise. To switch off. To accept the necessity, the inevitability of loss, to evaluate and recalculate and move forward. Hange mourned—Levi had witnessed the aftermath of it plenty of times before, repaired broken tables and reorganised upended bookshelves in the wake of her disaster—but she mourned later. Alone. Felt all her fears and frustrations in isolation, away from prying eyes.

Hange wasn’t the type to cry at peoples besides and beg them to live.

And yet.

“Don’t leave me on my own.”

“It wasn’t that—”

“You dare tell me it wasn’t that bad and I’ll kill you myself.”

Levi clamped his mouth shut. Hange was glaring at him like she might really mean it. Instead of arguing, he said, “what’s the damage?”

Hange slumped forward, elbows on her knees and head hung low. “Broken ribs. Ripped up a few muscles in your back. Collapsed lung. The air pressure in your chest was restricting blood flow to your heart.” She put her head in her hands and dug her fingers into her messy hair. “You got so fucking lucky, Levi. If we hadn’t left when we did—”

He watched silently as Hange groaned into her palms. She breathed deeply, back and shoulders raising as she did.

“You could have died.”

“I didn’t.”

Hange’s head shot up. “By the skin of your teeth, Levi. You—” she took a long, steadying breath, but her voice still shook as she continued, “—you were barely breathing. You couldn’t talk to me, you would hardly even respond to me.”

“Sorry.”

Levi wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to say. Hange looked distraught, her composure tenuous. Levi’s fingers twitched on the sheets, itching to reach out and touch her, offer some kind of reassurance that he was here, he was fine—but he wasn’t fine, and moving so far was out of the question. He gripped hard at the sheets instead. “Sorry.”

“Not you as well,” Hange said quietly. Levi’s chest tightened painfully at her tone—she sounded so small in that moment. Scared. Levi wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her sound so frail before. “What am I supposed to do if you—” she cut herself off again, shaking her head.

“Same thing you always do.” Hange curled tightly in on herself. Levi turned to stare at the ceiling instead. “You keep going, Commander.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“One day or another, everyone you care about eventually dies. You said that.” He listened as Hange’s breath hitched, but refused to look at her. “It sucks. It hurts. But we keep moving forward.”

The mattress dipped by his hand. Levi rolled his eyes down, and found Hange hunched out of her chair, her face pressed into the blankets. Levi sunk his fingers quietly into her hair.

They lapsed into a painful silence. Hange hiccupped and sniffled now and then, while Levi scratched lightly at her scalp. After a long while, Hange spoke again.

“I know those were my words,” she said thickly. “But I can’t accept that. Not now. Not after everything.”

“Stubborn,” Levi said quietly. He pulled lightly at her hair until she raised her head, wiping her cheeks and nose messily on her arm. “Disgusting.”

Hange managed a bare, wobbly smile. Levi’s hand fell from her hair as she straightened up, and Hange scooped it up in both of her own. She played absently with his fingers, curling and flexing them, rubbing her thumb over the lines on his palm. She seemed to be gathering herself, brow a little furrowed in thought.

“I know we can’t guarantee anything. I know how uncertain our world is. But just—” Hange paused, closing Levi’s fingers around her own, then looked up at him with a fierce determination. “Promise me anyway.”

Levi blinked sluggishly at her. “Promise you what?”

“That you’ll survive.”

Levi tensed. “Hange…”

“Indulge me. Just this once, please.”

A promise of that kind was unrealistic, Levi knew this. Hange had said so herself: there were no guarantees. Except, that wasn’t quite true—death, at least, was a constant. The only inevitability they had. The island may be free of titans now, but the threat of attack loomed over them like a persistent storm cloud, black and heavy, ready to give at any moment. And accidents, as he had painfully learned, could happen in the blink of an eye.

Levi was resilient, but he wasn’t invincible.

But Hange was looking at him steadily, her resolve unwavering. She wanted his word here and now. Needed it, maybe, but Levi knew her. Hange valued honesty over everything else. There was no way she could feel at ease with such an empty promise.

Levi sighed.

“You’re a brat, you know that? Looking at me like that.”

Hange’s gaze held firm. Levi felt her grip on his hand tighten.

“I can’t promise shit like that, Hange,” he said. She squeezed his hand tighter still, and her body tensed, shoulders drawing up to her ears. “You know I can’t. Nobody can.”

For one horrible, gut wrenching moment, Levi thought she might cry again. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes but when she opened them again, her good eye looked terribly blank.

“You’re right. Sorry, sorry!” She let go of his hand and sat back in her chair, hands resting on her legs instead. Her voice sounded lighter, more like Hange, but there was something off about it. Something forced. Strained. She adjusted her glasses but didn’t meet his gaze again.

This was the Hange he knew. The Hange who could bury her feelings in the moment, squash them down and push them aside to focus on the rational, the plausible. Seeing her like that didn’t relieve him the way it should have. It left a sour taste in his mouth and a discomfort in his gut, knowing that he was the cause of the grief she felt she had to hide.

It was stupid, the whole situation—how a moment of carelessness lead to this; Levi bedridden, and Hange struggling to hold herself together.

The space between them grew stagnant. Hange seemed a little lost in thought, gaze caught blankly on Levi’s blankets, while Levi watched her, waiting for her to say something else, to change the subject, to be Hange again. But Levi was never one for giving inspiring speeches, and in truth, he didn’t know that anything he could say now would make anything better. Hange would do what Hange always did—wait until she was alone, and vent in whatever way she could.

And Levi, as soon as he was able, would do what he always did, too—pick up the broken pieces and mend as much as he could.

“You should rest.”

Hange blinked tiredly over at him. It had been an age since Hange looked well-rested, years since Shiganshina and the exhaustion of that particular battle had never left her. The burden she carried—everything Erwin had left behind and all that they had discovered since—was so impossibly heavy, the expectations put upon her too much for any one person to handle. Hange had enough to deal with, she didn’t need to be worried about him, too.

“Eat something, bathe. Sleep. I’ll still be here when you come back.” After a pause, he added, “I’ll promise you that much.”

Hange gave him a weak, wry smile as she fished up her eye patch, strapping it into place and righting her glasses over it. “I guess I’ll take that. And then tomorrow, you can promise me the same again.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Go.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll nap for a couple hours and come back. You should sleep some more too, you know. It’ll help you heal faster.”

Levi grumbled in response, and grumbled louder still when Hange stepped up to the bedside, but he fell quiet when she leaned over, brushing his fringe back from his forehead and pressing a small kiss to his hairline. It was such a simple gesture, and nothing out of the ordinary—Hange had been a physically affectionate person as long as he had known her, always grabbing and hugging and kissing whenever she got the chance—but there was something so tender in it, this time. Levi’s eyes fluttered closed.

Hange lingered longer than was strictly necessary, and yet it still didn’t feel like enough. Levi could easily have let her stay close, feel the warmth of her breath and the softness of her lips on his skin until he drifted into sleep, but she straightened up after a moment and Levi was left instead with the cold breeze from the open window. Levi blinked sluggishly up at her. His own exhaustion barrelled in, making his eyes sting, lids heavy. Hange folded her jacket over her arm and pushed the chair into the corner, out of the way.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” She said.

“Mm.”

“You’re gonna feel like you got crushed by a titan when the pain meds wear off, so make the most of it.”

“Got it.”

“And you should let the doctor know if anything changes. Straight away, don’t wait around.”

“I will.”

"And there are nurses around, if you get hungry or thirsty. The bathroom is just down the hall too, but they've got bedpans if you need to—"

“Hange.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Hange had already crossed the room as she spoke, but she paused in the doorway, fingers curled around the frame. She deliberated with herself for a moment longer, then said, “hey, Levi?”

“Hm?”

Hange chewed on her lip, contemplating something, a faint blush building on her cheeks. And then she shook her head, gave him a small smile, and said, "Ah, doesn't matter. Sleep well."

She left quickly after that, closing the door quietly behind her. Levi stared at the space she'd vacated, brow a little furrowed; her hesitancy confused him.

But he was tired. His body hurt. His head felt thick and fuzzy, and without Hange's presence to keep him occupied, he consciousness began to drift. 

Tomorrow, he thought hazily. He would ask her tomorrow. For now though, he would follow his own advice; for now, he would rest. 

[beyondthebarrier]

Starker Festivals Summer Bingo

Prompt: Didn't Know They Were Dating | Title: Rising to the Occasion | Ao3

Summary: The media seems to think that Tony and Peter are dating. In fact, so does Rhodey. And Aunt May. And the team...

Don't worry. Tony sets the story straight.

This is my first proper Starker fic so bear with me!

It wasn’t abnormal for Peter to be alone when he woke up, if he was being honest. Tony was rarely still in bed in the mornings, presumably quick to dismiss himself from the actions of the night before. Peter never minded, usually always able to find the man elbows deep in some project that he might be able to pick the genius’ brain about.

“FRI, can you start me some coffee?” Peter asked quietly, his voice a little raspy from sleep.

“Of course. Good morning, Peter.”

“Good morning, FRIDAY.”

Peter got to his feet, finding his sweatpants from the day before and Tony’s discarded Black Sabbath shirt before making his way directly to the kitchen for the promised cup of coffee. It took a few sips for him to realize that he heard voices coming from the living room - he’d assumed he was the only one in the penthouse. He recognized the second voice easily though so he wasn’t shy about heading that way.

“Look who’s awake,” Tony announced with a smile when Peter and his bedhead popped up in the open door frame. Rhodey looked his way and Peter waved around his coffee mug.

“Hope you’re here on your own accord and not because he dragged you for some nonsense, Colonel,” Peter greeted with a smirk towards the man in question.

“I’m not here for damage control this time, miraculously,” Rhodey replied easily, chuckling.

“In that case, I’ll leave you two to it. Tones, I’m gonna shower and head downstairs. It was good to see you, Colonel!”

As Peter made his way back towards the bedroom, Rhodey looked over at Tony and sighed at the look on the billionaire’s face.

“He looks good on you, Tony.”

--

“Here, May, I’ve got it,” Tony swooped in, grabbing the woman’s empty plate before she could fully get to her feet. Peter rolled his eyes but stood as well, his own empty plate in hand.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to him,” Peter started, exasperated. “This man would rather buy new dishes than wash them at his own house and then he sits here and readily offers when we’re over here. Please, I need to know your secret. I’m tired of coffee rings in all the mugs.”

“Oh it’s easy, Peter. He’s scared of me,” Aunt May said in a faux whisper, winking at Tony before she settled on her sofa with the rest of her glass of wine as the boys worked to clean the kitchen. Tony washed while Peter absentmindedly dried and put away dishes, chatting away quietly to the older man. When Peter turned back to face the man, Tony quickly smeared soap bubbles onto Peter’s cheek, grinning. With a laugh, Peter reached into the sink, splashing the man with the water in the sink, despite the expensive suit Tony was wearing. Tony didn’t seem bothered as he grabbed the young man around the waist and pulled him in close for a hug, getting him wet as well. Peter squeaked, making Tony lean his head back in laughter before kissing Peter’s forehead and letting him go. Only Tony noticed the look that May was giving them both and he just smiled before turning back to finish cleaning.

As they left, Aunt May wrapped both men in crushing hugs to say goodbye. As Tony helped Peter into his jacket, he looked over his head at the woman, smiling.

“It’s our turn next Sunday, May. Be at the penthouse at seven.”

--

“I thought the little spider was supposed to be here? I brought ale for him to try!” Thor announced, holding up a large jug full of… well, not even Tony was eager to try the liquid sloshing around. Peter had been excited with the prospect of an alcohol that would give him the proper effects but Thor was right - Peter was nowhere to be found.

“Maybe he’s just running late,” Tony replied with a casual shrug, even as he slid his phone out to send yet another text to the missing member of the team. It was meant to be a little game/movie night and Peter was usually the one coercing him into attending so his lack of punctuality was bothering Tony. However, it wasn’t until Natasha and Steve also pointed out Peter’s absence that Tony excused himself. They weren’t sure exactly where he was going until they saw the suit fly off from the landing deck, heading in the direction of a shitty little apartment in Queens.

When Peter didn’t answer the door, Tony let himself in with his key, calling out Peter’s name frantically. It was a studio apartment and Peter groggily sat up in bed, blinking at the man who had just rudely interrupted his sleep.

“Pete, there you are. You’re missing game night, why are you- You’re burning up, sweetheart!” Tony sat on the edge of the bed, the back of his hand pressing against Peter’s forehead.

“M’cold,” Peter mumbled, trying to wrap the blankets around himself again so he could lay down.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

“Not hungry..”

“Okay, you’re definitely sick,” Tony pointed out, jumping to his feet to search the kitchen for food. Peter spent so little time here now that the cabinets were practically barren. There was certainly no cans of soup or really… anything. With a wince, Tony reached for a half-empty jar of peanut butter and a spoon, heading back to the bed.

“Tones, m’not hungry,” Peter whined as he scooped peanut butter out of the jar.

“Sweetheart, you need calories. Just a little bit and some water and I’ll let you go back to sleep. Your body will kick this in no time but it needs fuel to do it,” Tony said firmly, lifting the spoon to Peter’s lips. He opened them, accepting the spoon reluctantly and smacking his lips as he tried to get the peanut butter down. Tony got up, fixing him a cup of water. Between the two of them, they painstakingly got a full eight ounces of water and four big spoonfuls of peanut butter into the enhanced man before Peter gave up, flopping back into the pillows.

“Are you going back to game night?” he asked Tony, a rather pitiful look on his face. Tony shook his head, laying down beside him and wrapping his arms around him.

“No, I’m not going anywhere. Go back to sleep, I’ll be right here,” he assured, running his fingers through Peter’s sweaty curls and kissing his forehead.

--

Peter had decided to leave the tower for his lunch break, the idea of a sandwich from the deli down the block on his mind all morning. It was a beautiful day and he’d been looking for an empty space on a bench when he noticed the pointing in his direction from a few people by a magazine stand. He glanced down at himself, trying to see if maybe his shirt had come untucked or he had trash trailing on his shoe but he didn’t spot anything. However, he did hear the words, ‘Tony Stark’s boyfriend’ come from someone’s mouth and his stomach immediately twisted. He couldn’t stop himself from going over to the stand, dreading the idea of seeing Tony’s smiling face on a magazine cover with some- Oh. It was him. Peter laughed, picking up the glossy booklet. They’d attended a gala on Saturday evening for SI and the photo on the cover was the two of them all dressed up and smiling at each other in front of some rose bushes. ‘Tony Stark and boyfriend, Peter Parker, Rose to the Occasion.’ Peter scoffed at the title, setting it back down and reaching for his phone. He wasn’t sure Tony would find it as amusing as he did but he was just relieved that it hadn’t been someone else on that cover.

Thankfully, Tony didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He had already known about it, getting the alert from PR hours before, and even seemed a little concerned that Peter might be upset about it.

“Do you want me to put out a statement about it?” Tony asked him over the phone, as if sensing Peter’s slight discomfort.

“You won’t be rude about it or anything, right? Just clarify, sweet and simple?” Peter asked, noticing that he was still garnering a bit of attention. Thankfully, New Yorkers themselves were usually nonchalant about that kind of thing so it was only the tourists that were trying to draw attention to him.

“Of course. I’ll get it out right away,” Tony assured him.

Peter had no reason not to believe him. He thanked him, hung up, and moved further away from the news stand. He muted his phone before digging into his sandwich, taking advantage of the rest of his lunch break before heading back to work. It wasn’t until he was in the elevator going back up to R&D that he noticed his phone was blowing up. He sighed, expecting a tweet or something from Tony laying out the truth but what he found caught him off guard.

Relationship. Tony said relationship. He hadn’t claimed that they were just friends or fuck buddies or whatever. He said relationship. Peter was so hyperfocused on the words that the next thing he registered was FRIDAY’s voice.

“Mr. Parker? Mr. Parker, are you alright? Your vitals are concerning, should I alert Mr. Stark? ..Peter?”

“No! No, FRIDAY, no, don’t alert him, I’m fine!” Peter scrambled to answer, glancing up to see what floor the elevator was at currently. “Please don’t. I’m fine. I’m answering you, I’m fine!”

FRIDAY reluctantly agreed not to tattle just as the elevator stopped at his floor. Peter wasn’t feeling very fine, despite his protests, as he stepped out. He expected lots of stares and whispers, perhaps even direct comments about him ‘dating the boss.’ But there was nothing. Either nobody here had seen it yet or they just didn’t care. That certainly helped matters as he made his way to his table, intending on trying to focus on work but finding himself scrolling through the comments on the post instead. It was full of congratulatory messages from strangers but their friends didn’t seem very surprised. Rhodey, Nat, Ned, even Steve commented, all seeming as if this was barely news to them.

Peter got to his feet, heading back to the elevator to get to Tony’s lab. As the doors slid open on Tony’s R&D floor, Tony was standing there waiting to get on. The man flashed him his signature smile, stepping aside so he could get out.

“I was just coming to see you. May texted, said you seemed a bit out of it. Are you okay? I know the attention can be a lot but if I repeatedly make it clear that I want your privacy to be respected, it shouldn’t get too bad. Trust me, the fangirls will go rabid when reporters get too in-your-face about something,” Tony explained, leading Peter towards his office. Peter didn’t respond, staring straight ahead as Tony closed the door behind them. “They’ll want to protect you at all costs,” Tony continued, heading for the sofa instead of his chair. Peter remained standing, still just staring. Tony finally realized something was up and quirked an eyebrow at him, curious. “Pete?”

“Boyfriend.” Peter said blankly, staring at the man.

“Um, yes? I also have a name you can address me by.”

“Boyfriend.”

“Oookay, that works too. Peter, what’s wrong?”

The younger man started pacing the length of the office and Tony sighed, covering his face with his hands for a moment before regaining composure.

“FRIDAY, diagnose him. Fever? Has he been drugged? Is he having a psychotic break?”

“Sir, it appears that Peter is in a state of shock,” FRI replied easily. “His heart rate is elevated but nothing to be concerned about.”

“Shock over what?” Tony asked, watching as his partner continued to pace. He could practically see the gears turning in the boy’s head.

“It seems that Peter was not aware that the two of you were dating, Sir.”

Tony let out a humorless laugh while Peter came to a halt, his cheeks tinting pink as he stared at the floor. Realizing that there may be some truth in what FRI was telling him, Tony got to his feet, carefully approaching Peter.

“She’s right, isn’t she?” He asked softly, frown lines deeply engraved into his forehead. Peter refused to respond, not even looking up. Tony sighed, cupping the man’s chin and gently lifting it. “Pete? Is she right?”

Instead of answering, Peter’s face crumpled.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, hiding his face in his hands. Tony immediately pulled him into his chest, wrapping his arms around him securely. “I didn’t know that’s what this was.”

“That means I fucked up somewhere, Peter. Not you,” Tony soothed, rubbing the boy’s back. “If it had just been sex, I could understand, but Pete, sweetheart. I go to Sunday dinners with your Aunt. I host Sunday dinners for your Aunt. I take care of you when you’re sick, I let you wear my clothes.. Baby, we practically live together.”

“You never asked! You never used the words dating or boyfriend or-or-or relationship or anything,” Peter defended, lifting his head to look at the older man.

“Eight months ago, we laid in bed and I told you that I never wanted this to end. That I wanted forever with you,” Tony explained. “You agreed. I thought we were pretty clear from there on.”

“I thought that was pillow talk!” Peter exclaimed. “I’m so angry right now that it’s not even funny.”

Tony frowned once more, immediately letting Peter go and holding his hands up in surrender.

“Angry? You’re angry that I thought we were dating?”

“I’m angry that I’ve been holding back for eight months because I thought I wasn’t allowed to have you! I don’t kiss you first or touch you first or cuddle you whenever I want because I didn’t want to be too much for you!”

Tony’s face broke out into a grin, seeming relieved.

“Well, let’s rectify that right away.”

[thecreaturecrossroads]

Valeriu is so tuckered out from dancing around the bonfire that Samhain Eve, that he collapsed into the bed still in his costume, his skin still painted in bright, florescent colors that still glowed with a dull, smeared hue after a long night of partying. It had been a long night, and all he wanted to do was curl up in the bed, nestling among the blankets, and cuddled up close to a warm companion. It was any wonder in his spinning, tispy state that he managed to find his way to Caoimhe‘s room, but he managed in the end. Vali wiggled around, tearing the pristine sheets and blankets up, wrapping them around himself like a sort of make shift cocoon. He then inched closer to Caoimhe, laying his paint and make-up stained face on her chest. His messy after-party look served to make him seem even more like a wild fae. And tomorrow, he would end up doing it all over again. “I’m so tired,” Vali grumbled, his eye lids heavy. “I drank so much, I ate so much, I feel like I’m going to explode.” He said with a yawn. All things considered, it was a rather eventful Samhain Eve, full of clashing fae traditions, the joining of summer fae and winter fae into autumn, so much exotic food and strange, intoxicating drink, complete with loud, enchanting music and the reverberating voices of so many of his fellow fae having an equally lovely time. It was perhaps the only time of year that all fae, regardless of season, creed, loyalty, or nature, could find a way to come together. All fae could find an excuse to party. And there were many more festivities to come before it climaxed with the riding of the Wild Hunt. He would be dead on his feet by the time the evening festivities rolls around tomorrow if he didn’t get some proper shut eye right now, and so he made himself comfortable, wrapping his arms around Caoimhe’s frame, squeezing, and allowing himself to slip off into the realm of dreams.

Caoimhe was anything but sleepy this time of year. Infact, unless she was in the act of taking a mate this year, she wouldn't be sleeping again until spring. And her usual cool feeling skin was now almost hot to the touch. Her Autumnal markings and the like were firmly in place and her smiles were accompanied by the glimpse of sharp teeth. Something her usual mild mannered looks never alluded to. Fluffy and even more feathered she was laying propped up on pillows with the offerings of her people on the floor around her nest bed. Working tirelessly on their outfits for the next night.

When Vali stumbled into her room to rest from the nights' festivities, he did indeed find a warm bed companion. She chuckled and pushed aside the needle work she was doing with a shimmery starlight fabric. Holding her arms out to him as he wrapped himself up in all the sheets and blankets and inched along like an inchworm to cuddle and rest his head on her breast.

"Hoohoo CuddleBug! Ye've had a proper Samhain Eve then!" She began gently carding her black talons through his hair till it was out of his face. She kissed the top of his head and her golden eyes, now amber and orange like a harvest moon, watched him as he yawned.

"We'll get a bath drawn fer ye when ye wake an get us all sorted before things start again. I've almost finished with our matching outfits fer the crowning ceremony. They should be done right on time." Her voice was gentle and even so that even though she was talking it would only aid in sending him off to sleep.

[whump-town]

The Paths to Revenge

Warnings: same old, same old... just some stabbing

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Summary: Doyle nonsense but make it Hotch/Morgan for the fun of it.

Clyde goes first.

“No one else can know,” JJ had whispered feverishly. She’d looked nearly insane, had come unattached in her months away from them and now pulled back into the whirling black hole of the mess he created by force, cruelly unnatural. “He will kill her. If he—” she’d choked on the words, tears starting to fall down her face. She had looked up at him with a wordless inquiry, sadness and disappointment laced in the fingers she wove into his. If this wouldn’t break him, what would? If he couldn’t cry now, for his best friend, would he ever cry again?

“You can’t tell Derek.”

It’s not their first secret. Hotch severely doubts it's their last.

The grace with which Derek Morgan seems to live has always bewildered Aaron. There is something about the way that Derek breathes gentleness, cupped hands so gentle his fingers could pry apart and life would still be captured in his hands. The fluttering of delicate butterfly wings twitching in his warm palms. Torn between desires, Aaron could never understand if he wished for those palms to close around his throat. To solidify him as something wretched, so undeserving of Derek’s endless, gentle love that he might stifle it once and for all. In another breath, he wishes he could curl himself up to be something so small and so delicate that Derek might hold him like that. Like something worth preserving, worth loving.

Those hands do not wrap around his throat, applying crushing pressure until Aaron is no more. They come to frame Aaron’s face, their warmth seeping into the bone chill of his body. Thumb stroking along a worry line stretched wide by his deep frown. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Derek whispers, he’s desperate to be them again. For Aaron to settle back down and find him, to lean into his touch. Hotch’s weary but tense with panic and restlessness. Not sleeping. Hardly eating. Derek can’t keep watching this and he’s not sure how much longer Aaron can keep it up. “I can see it in your eyes, I can always tell.”

Before their relationship, Derek had been jealous of everything that Emily and Aaron had. At the time he hadn’t known it for what it was, his unrequited love making him bitter. He had just seen the way they looked at one another, the way they worked and he’d wanted to be that person for Aaron too. Emily’s intuition had lead her to find Aaron after Foyet’s attack, all based on nothing more than a feeling. While Derek had felt boiling rage and the inability to so much as look at Aaron while he suffered alone in that hospital bed. Derek had been jealous of how easily they spoke with one another, in a language no one else really understood. How Emily could comfort Hotch — she was allowed to touch him and hug him and press a kiss to his cheek or even drag him down several steps by the ear to reprimand him like a child. While even comforting gestures Derek attempted seemed to piss Hotch off.

But now Emily’s dead and Derek wishes she was here. So that he can hear Aaron laugh again. To argue loudly and pointless about Sean Connery vs Daniel Craig — how Aaron’s never cared about either but he gets all soft around the edges listening to Emily and Derek bicker more and more as the night goes on. To be happy and close.

And, maybe, Derek just misses his best friend too.

Both of them.

It starts with Clyde. National television doesn’t pick it up, it’s the sort of affair that’s quickly suffocated to prevent mass media from getting word. It reaks with the proper stench of death, Clyde Easter bound to a chair in his London flat. His own blood in a pool at his feet, head hung in the final submission of death. Severally tortured. The strain of an entire week of torture, hunger, and exhaustion taking its toll. Died of a heart attack. Aaron doesn’t need to be told what’s happening, he couldn’t even talk about it if he wanted to. He’s only given what he’s needed, a warning that he’s next and to watch out.

Aaron just prays Derek isn’t there when it happens. He’s allowed this one small grace.

“Ice cream,” Derek says more to the room than to Aaron, the idea had dawned on him so suddenly he’d spoken it out loud. Having spent another weekend inside, moping from their bed to the couch to the kitchen back to their bed, Derek is buzzing with energy he needs to do something with. Grief and this lie Aaron holds sucks him rather dry of the will to do anything. It seems the energy he’s supposed to have has gone to Derek, makes him worse. “Ice cream,” Derek repeats with a clap of his hand. “I’m going to get ice cream and you don’t have to come with me but I’d really like you to.”

Aaron looks up, hair a mess on the top of his head and shoulders sinking impossibly low in their joints as exhaustion sweeps over him. He’s incapable of so much as looking at Derek, having to see how hopeful and how loving he’s being looked at. All he’s ever wanted was to be loved and now he’s got it and he can’t face the vulnerability that cracks through his sternum every time Derek touches him. How every demonstration of love is such debilitating proof of how broken he is. How hopeless.

“I’ll bring you back a tub of Rocky Road.” Derek slides his jacket on, he’s not annoyed. No matter how convinced Hotch is, Derek isn’t even bothered. He knew he was going to get ice cream alone and, though he’d rather not do it alone, that’s okay.

Once his feet are shoved into his sneakers he comes back around the side of the couch and kisses the top of Hotch’s head, messing further with his hair. “I love you.”

Derek couldn’t remember what the last thing he said to Emily was. It kept him up at night trying to piece together every last second he had before she was taken from him before the nurses pulled them in opposite directions. Did she know he loved her? How glad he was that she was someone that not only he could trust but that Aaron had too? It’s the sort of thing that weighs down heavily on him. Now he can’t leave anyone without saying it.

Aaron has the opposite problem. Pulls away so that in case this happens again he won’t get hurt.

“I love you too,” he answers but hoarsely and to the sound of Derek walking away.

Jack is with Jessica. She takes Hotch’s emotional distance with grace, allows him this little period of reprieve while he tries to get back into the swing of things. He’s lost both of his best friends in a year’s span of time and is still really struggling to understand how to integrate himself fully into his relationship with Derek.

Life, it seems, has been throwing hard balls and it’s not getting any easier.

Derek kicks his shoes off at the door, more Aaron’s habit than his but he’s learning to uphold it. “I got rainbow sprinkles,” he calls out. “I know you have a reputation to uphold but I also know you love them—” Derek tosses the bags up onto the counter, smirking even in his slight confusion. He’d figured Aaron would have come looking for him once the front door opened. He’s vigilant about that sort of stuff. Even if he does know logically it’s just Derek. “Hey—” he’s greeted by the dark living room. It’s undeniably odd. “Where’d you—” Derek smirks when he sees Aaron’s back, even bowed and distressed it’s still undeniably him. “Aaron?”

A gun cocks at his head and Derek freezes, eyes never leaving Aaron’s. “Sit down.” Derek opens his mouth, going to argue or fight but Aaron looks away. Gaze sinking to the floor as his head rolls down, chin on his chest. “Sit down!” Derek listens, not out of fear of the gun just in his line of sight but because he can’t think past the sight of blood smeared across the side of Aaron’s face. The way his right eye is red with blood, his temple drooling angrily down his cheek. “I have to admit,” the dark of the room caves to what little light is in the house, and Derek tenses. Recognizes him immediately.

“You fucker—”

The gun is moved, away from his head and to Aaron’s bowed temple. “Sit. Down.”

Derek hadn’t even realized it, he’d just stood like he could do something in the face of a gun. Now he certainly can’t, being the cause of his own life’s end is one thing but to hurt Aaron is another. He sits back down, eases his way back to a sitting position with his hands on the table. He won’t do anything fast.

“You know what I want.” Ian Doyle stands in their house, smirking at the wet sound of Aaron’s blood dripping on the floor. “Tell me where she is.”

Derek opens his mouth to answer, a snippy — “she’s dead” — but Aaron looks up at him. The look they share is laced with mixed truths and the bold lie woven between the three men. His bloody eye, pupil blown wide staring back at Derek with all the answers he needs. Emily had died for them. She’d chased down her past and fought it all alone for them. Derek wondered if that meant she didn’t trust them, didn’t think they were capable of undertaking this threat with them. Looking at Aaron, watching his chest rise and fall in choking breathes, Derek wishes he couldn’t understand the solemn warrior trope. That he didn’t know the truth.

“She’s dead,” Derek mumbles but he’s not so sure about that anymore.

Ian smirks, unfooled. “See,” he clicks his tongue, “that’s what your friend here keeps telling me.” Ian shakes his head, taking the muzzle of the gun and grazing it across Hotch’s head. Trailing it through his hair. “I remain unconvinced.”

Aaron looks hopelessly up at Derek, a tear sliding down through the blood on his cheek. Caught on his eyelash, trailing over the duct tape on his mouth.

The knife comes out of nowhere. Slammed down into Aaron’s thigh with no warning. The duct tape obstructs his breathing, leaves Aaron gasping, struggling to breathe. He groans, sucking in air through his nose but it’s not enough. Aaron’s eyelids flutter, his head tilted back as he trembles. Face drained of color, his breathing getting worse. More strained, shallow.

Derek jerks his head away, clenching his teeth when Doyle jerks the knife back out of the wound. Aaron makes an awful sound, pained and unconscious.

“Tell me!” Doyle slams his fist down on the table. Completely ignores Aaron’s noises, his pained cries as he wheezes around the ducktape. “Tell me or I’ll kill him.”

Derek shakes his head, “no, no—”

“It’s not that hard,” Doyle sneers, patience is gone. “Her for him, choose!”

Derek shakes his head again, his own tear falling down. “I don’t know,” he whispers. Derek starts to tremble, rage replacing hopelessness. Angered to the point of tears. “She’s dead! We buried her!”

Doyle shouts, “fine! You want to keep playing games?” Doyle raises the knife up between them, letting the blade punctuate the question. “You will always lose Agent Morgan. Always—”

“No!”

Aaron’s eyes fly back open, a scream muffled by the duct tape. “I’ll find her,” Doyle promises. “It doesn’t matter what you do.” Aaron’s head falls down to chest, eyes falling shut. “And when I find her, there’s nothing that you’ll be able to do to stop me.” Doyle reaches down, fingers slick with Aaron’s blood, and pulls the knife from Aaron’s chest. “Last chance,” Doyle whispers with a grin. He steps back, “last game, last question: me or Agent Hotchner?”

Derek doesn’t wait for Doyle to get out of sight, he moves immediately to the other side of the room. He steps behind the chair Hotch is tied to, seeing for the first time the ropes wrapped around his arms. The way he’s constrained to the chair, unable to move. “Aaron,” Derek lifts his head up, his fingers under Aaron’s chin. His skin is clammy, cold against Derek’s palm. “Aaron, hey! Look at me, keep your eyes open. Aaron?” His head is heavy, limp in Derek’s hold. “Aaron, please. Stay with me.”

He stops breathing in the ambulance, airway preserved by the tracheal tube bulged in his throat. His heart beats too quickly, pounding away in his ribcage. Derek feels like just yesterday he was living this exact horror movie, Emily’s cold hand unresponsive in his. Dark hair a crown on poignant contrast. Life held in the balance, raw existence. Again, Derek feels the pitter of a heartbeat against his fingertips. Again his breath is held as nurses pull him one way and his heart is torn from his chest.

What will JJ have to say this time?

Will the same tears shine in her eyes? The same trepidation? Their lie is bleeding out on a stretcher being pushed down a luminescent hallway. As pale as the death they created. Perhaps this is the price one pays when meddling with things beyond control. Things that are not to be messed with. The evil Derek’s mother forbade him from playing with. Worse than the handmade ouija board under his bed, death’s creator laying on his chest.

Lying dead in his arms.

Derek Morgan sits for six hours, entirely alone in the waiting room. Each breath could be the last he shares with Aaron and he won’t know for several more to come. They labor on, Aaron’s controlled by machines and Derek’s by the flood of emotions weighing him down. He can only control himself for so long, holding down the bitter failures of the last few days. His anger is intense, uncontrollable.

“You lied.” It’s the middle of the night, Garcia’s hair still pulled back in pigtails and JJ’s in a clip at the back of her head. The waiting room isn’t full of special agents, dressed to the nines ready for a fight. Derek sees only their family, leggings, and sweatpants, and he can’t take it.

“You lied,” Derek repeats to the floor. “She’s not dead and now Aaron—” his voice catches. Derek rubs his hands down his eyes, looks up at them unashamed of the tears falling down his face. Her fault. JJ and her stupid lie. “I’ll never forgive you. If he dies… If he dies because of this stupid shit, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Derek—”

“Not now.”

Sixty-two hours. Over two days of sitting and measuring machine regulated breathes. Three nights of sleeping in a chair, falling asleep to the sounds of machines and thin blankets pulled to his chin. Aaron twitches and each time Derek thinks he’s going to wake up but his pleas are meant with more silence.

It’s sitting. Waiting. Watching. The waiting room has become his third home, where he’s kicked to when Aaron’s getting another test or scan. He’s left with only the anxieties of the unknown. He spends hours just drumming his knee, head in his hands. That’s a long time to sit and think about all things you’ve said in the past.

They hunt him down, attempting to softly fill in the holes with medical jargon. Stammering and averting his gaze to the tiled floor under his feet. “Uhm,” he rubs at his eyes. “I--I don’t want to know.” He doesn’t care that the doctor looks stunned, entirely caught off guard. “Someone else,” he mumbles, head still ducked as he steps into the room. Leaving the doctor in the hall. “Tell someone else when they arrive.” He just can’t do it. He can’t hear all that medical bullshit and still have this blind hope that everything will turn out.

He grabs a chair from the ones lining the wall across from Hotch’s bed, pulling it right up to Hotch’s side and throwing himself into it unceremoniously. Derek looks everywhere but Hotch. He got a glance in and he knows what there is to see. Tape twisting Hotch’s lips around the tube down his throat. All pale skin, still hands, and machines. Derek huffs, shaking his head, and picks at his cuticles. They’ve all been through so much but Hotch…

They never really get a break, do they?

He wishes he could go back to when it was just the three of them. Hotch, Gideon, and himself against the world. When it was Hotch’s desk he kicked his feet up on, watching him eat his lunch or snack in a certain order. Thirty years old and still saving his dessert for after his sandwich and carrots. The only person Derek’s ever met that cared or noticed the apparent lack of yellow and green M&Ms compared to the other colors. Also, the only person Derek knows who sits and sorts them out. Putting them in a neat line and two of each color-- one M&M for each side of his mouth.

Derek’s eyes sting and he rubs them roughly, shaking his head and forcing himself to pull it together. He’s not going to cry over Hotch sharing those odd M&Ms with him. Not going to think about how close they used to be, how things have changed for the better and the worse. He’s not going to die, so there’s no need to think like that.

They’ll be fine.

Everything is fine.

Garcia finds Ian Doyle, he never left Virginia.

Emily’s already on a plane coming over.

Killing Clyde Easter was revenge. It had been personal. For creating Lauren Reynolds and then for taking her away. Hurting Aaron was just convenience. Doyle knew Clyde’s death would sting but it would be no reason to come home, no reason to bring Emily home. There would be nothing she could do about the affair by the time she got word of his death. Hurting Aaron, though. Hurting one of the people Emily had supposedly died to protect, would work like a charm. It would draw her out.

Ian Doyle hadn’t planned for Derek Morgan. Not fully. He knew Derek would arrive when he needed him to, with enough time to keep Agent Hotchner sparingly alive. To make sure Doyle made it clear he knew Emily Prentiss is alive, to stir the team. Pin them against one another. Even against their downed leader. Take out the strongest first -- and that’s where Doyle hadn’t really known them. Aaron is fearless, he’s stupidly brave, but he’s not stupid. He won’t be blinded by his feelings. What Doyle did was stifle their logic, he disabled the one person who would have allowed Doyle to escape. What Doyle did was piss off five agents tired of losing the people they love.

Aaron gets worse on his own.

Garcia stays home, someone needs to be there in case Hotch wakes up. It’s not hard to figure out why they’d want to leave her behind. She’s stronger at home, has what she needs. And Derek’s terrified something will happen.

Ian Doyle finds Declan, it’s all the same story. Confused children and manipulative adults. There are no bittersweet reunions -- not between biological father and son and not between Emily and the others. Doyle and Emily have set fire to the families they had. Held a lighter over the portrait and watched the color melt to grey and then to black. Piercing a hole in the heart.

The airstrip lights up in heavy gunfire.

Derek doesn’t fire a shot. He wishes he had, for his own selfish fire starving out. He doesn’t shoot for Aaron. This isn’t what he’d want. This mess that they’ve all made. Aaron’s morals are always getting in the way of things but as Derek lowers his gun he’s flooded with relief. His anger abating, exhaustion seeping in. Ian Doyle dies on the tarmac. Spread out on his back and choking on blood. It takes four minutes.

It doesn’t feel long enough.

Not after everything he’s taken.

“Derek?”

He can hear it in her voice.

“I think-- Oh God, I think something is wrong.”

Emily had died. Derek had watched the monitor run-flat.

She’s a ghost and Aaron’s dying. This time no matador’s cape will dance, shaking free the threat with deadly precision. No magician to pull up the curtain, to show them the trap door.

“How is he?” Emily asks

“Alive,” JJ mumbles. “They’re not sure for how long--” she shrugs and Reid makes a choked sound, blushing and wiping his face clean of the tears still dry on his cheek. JJ just glances at him. “He’s holding on, Morgan’s with him.” The dismissiveness in her tone is not a reflection of how she feels, truly. It’s just a protective measure to ensure she doesn’t break. If she stops for even a moment she will cry and she’s still trying to convince herself that this is going to work out.

Aaron can’t die now. He’s laced hesitation into Derek’s logic. Changed too many things about him -- taught him the magic of rainbow sprinkles and how to cut hair with nothing but kitchen scissors and the bathroom mirror. Derek’s learned the magic of loving his best friend. Hating the person he shares a bed with. Being unable to sleep without the heat of Aaron’s body close by, no more than a breath away.

With those gentle hands, meant to capture thrashing wild things, Derek Morgan cups Aaron’s face. “I can see what you’re thinking,” he whispers. The intubation machines are gone, one step forward. Aaron lays flat on his back, an oxygen mask over his face. Across his bare chest are machine leads, pads left stuck to his chest. His heart is giving out. “Don’t--” Derek shakes his head, clearing his throat. He uses the back of his hand to push away a tear. “Don’t leave me, Aaron. Not now.”

Every muscle in Aaron’s body is stiff with pain untouchable by the maxed-out morphine. Cold sweat streaks across his body, makes him shiver, and clench his teeth down when the small movements spike worse pain. The thin sheet across his hips does nothing. It feels colder than the rest of the room, not even the reassuring pressure of it seems to help. His muscles ache from the tension. From the rounds he’s lost against the crash cart.

If he could force his jaw open, unclench it from the pain, he’d beg Derek for a blanket. Something warm or comforting. For relief. Anything.

He wakes to movement. It takes him too long to realize it’s his body being moved. “Easy.” Aaron looks up, confused by the sight of Emily and Derek standing side-by-side. “Here--” They work together, moving his body slowly. They try not to hurt him but he feels lit up inside. A pyre in his chest set ablaze with a match. Agonizing. He closes his eyes tight, detached enough to lose focus of where their hands are on his body.

“Aaron?”

When he can open his eyes again, he’s looking up at the ceiling.

“Hey, there sleeping beauty.”

There are pillows under one of his sides, another tucked under his thigh.

“Don’t--” He’s not even aware he’s doing it, not until he’s looking at the hand Emily’s just smacked. “Are you an actual child? Stop touching everything.” She stands and he watches in amazement as she bends over him and fixes the oxygen canal under his nose. Her hand grazes his cheek and she’s real. She’s here. When she notices his confusion she smirks, “seeing a ghost, Hotch?”

“Emily.” Oh, Derek. Hotch looks over at him, a dopey smirk he’s not even aware of spreading across his face. When Derek sees it, he loses his tension. The sting of his reprimand, who still thinks it’s too soon for Emily’s dead jokes, is gone. “How do you feel?” he asks even though he’s not sure Hotch has managed to find his words. His answer is that smile, growing wider as Derek kisses his cheek.

Aaron closes his eyes the second he sees Derek freeing his hands, sighing contently before Derek can even lean over and cup his face in his hands. They’re warm from the coffee he went to get, familiar in all the safest ways. “I missed you,” Derek whispers. Derek kisses him again, on his smiling lips. Unbothered that Aaron’s too out of his mind to work his mouth, just hums back, turns further into Derek’s touch.

Recovery will not be fun. Aaron got his wish. His best friend and his boyfriend back and it hardly cost him a thing. They'll both smother him, taking turns bossing him around.

He's never been so relieved to hear them arguing this early in the morning.