#fuck color theory but at least you have a good grip on it

[jamandjazz]

This is my personal reminder for the next time I color to remember to power through the ugly phase cause you are a fucking genius who knows what’s what

[lordprettyflackotara]

decode || ticci toby || part two

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: overstimulation, brief descriptions of blood? moral delima , choking, toby’s a lil rough but it’s okay

Toby did not come back to see you.

It wasn’t anything personal. If anything it was for your own good.

Toby thought he did a good job at attempting to forget you. It had been a few months, the sound of your voice beginning to disappear in his memories. He had protected you by not mentioning you to anyone around him. His continuous obedience made The Operator completely forget about you. This didn’t stop Toby from wondering though. How you were, what did your dreams actually mean, what kind of attachment did the two of you have? He steered clear of the missions revolving around the forest. He opted to take on more complex tasks in the city. These tasks were much more hard for him considering his gruff appearance was far from traditional. He couldn’t explain why he wanted to switch either, Masky and Hoodie figuring he must be sick and unable to feel it.

Toby never really had an opinion on anything, nevertheless a preference when it came to missions. He did what he did when instructed and went on about his day. The Operator didn’t think much about it at all, while Masky and Hoodie came up with their own conspiracy theories. The longer Toby stayed away from the woods, away from you, the better things would be. That was of course, until he was forced to run into the forest for cover.

He zipped through the trees, grunting as he held onto his leg. The bastard that was supposed to be his target had more backup than he had anticipated. Physically Toby couldn’t feel the pain, but the blood gushing out of his leg indicated he wouldn’t be able to escape much more if he kept applying pressure to his right leg by walking. Toby scanned the area, his vision beginning to see multi colored specs from the blood loss. The mansion was no where near here. He dug in his pocket, scrambling to grab the cell phone Ben had custom made for him. The glass was shattered from irresponsible care, his thumb shaking as he tried to power it on. The screen failed to flash to life, causing Toby to panic. He was careless as always, not charging the stupid magical block.

He gripped it in his hand, continuing to limp deeper into the woods. In the distance he could hear yelling, the men seemingly too scared to chase after him in the eerie forest. Toby was becoming light headed, his tattered jeans soaked with crimson as he struggled to carry himself. Without any other option, Toby had one simple thought: he was fucked. He had lost one of his axes in battle, having thrown it at an opponents skull. He was down a weapon and possibly bleeding out. If he was smart he would’ve stopped running, allowing his leg to stay still. At least then he could’ve tied something around it to try to prevent the blood loss. But his well being never came first. As a proxy, your responsibility was to never be found. Dead or not.

Toby had no doubt he had out ran his pursuers, but the risk of being found in the forest by an explorer was too risky. He leaned against a tree, his vision becoming more dazed by the moment. He was tragically dizzy, his hand scraping against the bark of the oak tree before hitting the ground as he sank into unconsciousness.

\/

Slowly blinking his eyes the sun was bright and merciless, causing him to screw his eyes shut before blinking rapidly. He forced himself to sit up, surprised to see himself in a living room. He pushed himself up all of the way, his jeans discarded and leg bandaged. "You look like shit,” You commented. His gaze landed on you, your legs crossed and a cup of tea in your hand. “Cup of tea on the table for you. Chamomile,” You offered. Toby couldn’t believe his eyes, seeing you right in front of him. He felt rather stiff, awkwardly popping his shoulders as he rolled them down his back. He reached over, grabbing the cup of tea with a shaky hand. “How’d you find m-me?” Toby asked. You shrugged, sipping your tea. “You ended up in my neck of the woods,” You replied. If it weren’t for Toby’s shock he would’ve chuckled, all of the forest belonged to The Operator.

“My turn, how’d you get shot in the leg?” You asked, looking at Toby over the rim of your teacup. Toby blinked, realizing his goggles were no longer over his eyes. “Assignment g-g-gone wrong. How do y-you know medical s-shit?” Toby questioned. You tilted your head to the side, setting your cup of tea aside. “What are you? An assassin?” You countered. Toby rolled his eyes, frowning. “W-what are you? A d-doctor?” He quipped. You leaned back in your chair, smoothing down your pajama pants decorated with little dogs. “Well played. How about I ask you something much more important?” You suggested. Toby set down his teacup on your coffee table, noting it was made of glass.

“What happened to your face?”

Your question made Toby’s blood run cold, his eyes widening. He brought his fingertips to his gashed cheek, feeling the breeze of the AC. While knocked out you had taken off his mask. Toby went to spring at you, unable to feel his wounded leg and falling over. He fell onto the floor, grunting in frustration as he glanced down at his leg. You quickly crouched down next to him, cupping his wounded face with your small hand. “Hey, calm down, I just want to help you,” You say softly. Toby pushed himself up, shoving away your helping hand as he forced himself to stand. “Y-you can’t help me. I’m a m-motherfucking p-proxy,” He spat. You stood up as well, your eyebrows furrowed as Toby struggled to stay standing upright. “Is that what this means?” You asked. You grabbed his hand, flipping it over so that his palm was exposed. You had taken off his soiled bandages, revealing the chewed away flesh from him gnawing at his hands. However it also revealed something you found much more concerning, the proxy symbol carved into the palm of his hand. “Y-Yes. It’s also w-why I must leave,” Toby said, pulling his hand away from yours. He tried to reason with himself. Your intentions seemed pure, you saved him when you didn’t have to.

You didn’t understand and truthfully you couldn’t, Toby could never tell you about his life. You could never be apart of anything that involved him. If you did it promised you death, something Toby didn’t want for you. You grabbed his arm as he hobbled over to the dining room, noticing his clothes were cleaned and folded, sitting on the table. Your grasp made him willingly stop, his chocolate eyes meeting yours. “How do you not feel that? Your leg? The bullet broke into eight pieces. I had to extract it myself,” You asked. Toby stopped in his place. He sighed, realizing he might as well answer truthfully since you’d seen all of his secrets. “I-I don’t feel p-pain. Some sort of n-neurological disorder,” He answered honestly. You released his arm, watching him unfold his clothes. Toby felt bad for a brief moment, having you go through all of this effort for nothing in return. “There’s something that keeps drawing us to one another. I know you feel it,” You said. Toby paused for a moment, knowing the tug at his heart strings made your statement true. But he couldn’t risk it. Not only was everyone in his life dangerous, but he himself was a hazard.

“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about,” Toby argued. You grabbed his shoulder, turning him around to face you. “Yes you do! You’re telling me you get shot and somehow conveniently i’m there? I haven’t seen you in months and you don’t even thank me-” You began rambling, your rant being cut off by Toby’s lips pressing against yours. Teeth clashed with teeth, the kiss hot and heavy as he brought you closer to him. Toby couldn’t think, he refused to think. If he allowed himself to have anymore thoughts revolving you, it would become an infatuation. He’d become obsessed with the fantasies, obsessed with making them a reality. But there was no reality where the two of you could be together. The closest that he could get, was allowing himself to have you just this once. He guided you towards the dining room table, watching you jump up as his lips trailed down your neck. He began sucking harshly at the skin, nipping at it with his teeth. He liked the way you shuddered under the sensation. “I’m g-gonna thank you. T-then we’re d-done,” Toby huffed, feeling his cock growing hard in his boxers.

He grabbed the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. He quickly unclipped your bra, knowing time was running short. The proxies and/or The Operator were definitely looking for him by now. He leaned down, peppering your chest with kisses before tossing the bra aside. He brought himself to your left nipple, taking it in his mouth eagerly. You groaned, his spare hand slithering down to your clothed cunt. “F-fuck-” You whimpered, bucking your hips against his hand. Toby could feel his cock aching, dying to allow himself to fully have you. But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. “I c-can’t fuck you. B-but you’re gonna cum on my face,” He panted, releasing your nipple with a pop. He pushed you to lay back on the table, his hands fiddling with undressing you. Toby lowered himself onto his knees, ignoring the pressure he may have been applying to his wound.

He could feel the bandage soaking with fresh blood, something Toby willingly ignored. It would give him an excuse to stay longer and it wasn’t like he could feel it anyways. Toby grabbed your legs, throwing them over his shoulders. The brunette was nothing if not a determined, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. “S-such a pretty p-p-pussy,” He purred. You could feel your face flush pink, your hand finding his shaggy hair. Toby buried himself into your folds, mimicking what he had seen during porn. He listened to your body cues intently, noting which licks and sucks made you squirm the most. Toby couldn’t imagine anything hotter than making you cum in his face. It was not only a thank you, but also a memory he could look back on for the rest of his existence. His large hands kept your thighs pried open, his slender fingers digging into your plush skin. Toby didn’t really have any grasp of what being too rough was like, considering bruises were beginning to form from his harsh grip.

He lapped and sucked at your clit, making mental notes of what made you moan louder for him. His name sounded like heaven falling off of your tongue. Your unholy noises were shameless, echoing off of the walls. “T-Toby, please use your fingers, or something, please,” You whined, your soft eyes fluttered shut. Toby unsurely brought two of his fingers to your sopping wet entrance, briefly pulling away from your slick. He tried to listen to your body’s cues, your walls immediately clinging to his fingers and pulling them in further. You groaned at the stretch, your body trembling. Toby noted how tight your cunt was, compared to anything he had encountered in previous experiences. He spread his fingers out with a scissoring motion, before experimenting with how to make you feel the best way possible. To Toby it felt awkward, him trying to navigate the best way to ruin you. But you thought he was teasing, purposefully drawing out the experience. It was when he curled his fingers your back arched off of the table.

Bingo.

Toby curled his fingers again, grinning as your body reacted just the way he wanted it to. “You like that huh?” Toby asked mockingly, before reattaching his lips to your clit. He sucked harshly at the bud, finger fucking you as fast as he could. Your moans were incoherent babbles, your heart racing as the knot in your stomach tightened. “Oh my f- shit,” You moaned, your thighs tightening around Toby’s head. You bit your bottom lip, attempting to maintain some kind of composure as Toby devoured your cunt. Your attempt was cut short, your orgasm suddenly crashing over you as you came on Toby’s face. This didn’t stop the brunette, his fingers fucking you through your orgasm. It was only when he was running out of breath he pulled away from your clit. “Cmere,” He grumbled lowly, rising to his feet. His fingers continued to abuse your g spot, your sights dazed as you sat up. With his spare hand he grabbed your throat, squeezing the sides of it tenderly. You whined, the restriction of your airway only making you feel more euphoric. “Y-you like that? You l-like when I treat you like my p-p-personal whore?” Toby asked. He liked seeing how blown your pupils were with lust, your thighs trembling as he overstimulated you.

“It’s too much,” You whimpered, gasping as his grip on your throat tightened. He could feel your walls flutter around his fingers, Toby grinning sadistically as he shoved in a third digit. “T-too much? Cmon w-whore. Give me one m-more,” Toby commanded. You tilted your head back as brought you closer and closer to the edge. You tried to squeeze your thighs shut, Toby’s hand temporarily abandoning your cunt and slapping your thigh. “O-open em bitch,” He growled. You did as instructed with trembling legs, Tory abruptly shoving three fingers back inside of you. You finally met his dark gaze, his eyes filled with something far more sinister than you could understand as he glared down at you. You grabbed onto his wrist as you came again, your body shaking as you released again. Toby was going to continue, his own desires overriding your own, until a ringing from your doorbell made him stop dead in his tracks. He tried to not look as horrified as he felt, the brunette immediately pulling away. You swallowed, trying to get yourself pulled together as Toby scrambled to grab his clothes.

The doorbell rang again, this time causing him to hobble around hopelessly. You grabbed the remainder of his clothes, handing it to him. “Shh, go in the bathroom. It’s probably just a salesman or something,” You whispered. You guided him to your bathroom, shoving him inside. Toby grumbled to himself unhappily as he shoved on his clothes, realizing he left his axe on your dining room table. In the faint distance Toby could hear static, his heart dropping as he realized the fun was over. Without another thought he slipped on his boots and goggles, climbing out of the bathroom window and darting towards the woods.

[lovingksuki]

✰ SECRET ADMIRER

— highschoolers bakugo x fem!reader

synopsis: an anonymous love letter appears in your locker on valentine's day. surprised, you and your best friend start an investigation to uncover who was that person observing you from afar. meanwhile, a flushed bakugo tries to ruin your plans on the undercover alongside his shitty-haired buddy

cw: sfw; mostly fluff; lil angst; very insecure bakugo; romantic comedy; puberty; silly jokes; little swearing.

a/n: this is part one of three. let me know if you want this mini series to be continued :) and pls be patient since english is not my first language hehe ;;

word count: 1k

"oh c'mon! what if there's a heart shaped letter in your locker? you never know..."

"there's not."

"you can't be so certain about it. my girl is never looking her surroundings, who knows if someone got their heart pierced by an arrow?" mina pointed.

"shut up, every year the same thing..." you rushed and right after turning the corridor you captured by distance. "ok. maybe you were right." you said finding the metal compartment half closed.

then you grabbed the red paper in her hands, paying attention to the almost dry daisy taped lazily on the front; glanced around not spotting anything or anyone suspicious about it, then turned to your best friend.

"i got a feeling you're part of this." spurred.

"whoa, i was joking just now! even i am chocked. who's the sender?" the pink colored girl held her hands up in protest.

"i don't know, there's only my name." you stated carefully sticking the little flower out.

"let me search for a hint." mina took the letter from your hands suddenly, mumbling while quickly skimming through the words looking for something useful. she gasped before smirking at the content and then continued mumbling.

"enjoying yourself!?" you sighed waiting.

"mkay, done." handed the letter. "nothing between the lines. who wrote this sure is smart enough to not leak their identity."

"that's for me to decide. you ain't the smartest kind." you chuckled.

"hey!"

"more like the pretty girl type."

"you sly thing! you received a love letter, who's the pretty girl again?" both laughed at the statement and headed out to the cafeteria. "not reading it?"

"can't think when i am this hungry. we should hurry."

at the lunchtime the subject was the same. you two were discussing with your mouths full, sitting by yourselves on a table far enough from eavesdropping.

"hear me out. there's this line that seems to be rewritten over and over, it's a bit tattered." you mentioned. "it says: 'i'm still hesitant about what you think about me' and thanks to the pressure they put on paper seems to be 'afraid of who i am' underneath."

"adds a lot of nothing to our investigation. that's what everybody would say in a confession, i mean, nobody likes being dumped." pinky pointed out unfazed.

"yeah but, i don't think it's meaningless, what if this person is truly insecure about themselves." you pondered.

"or they're just ugly." mina chewed on her meal.

"i don't think that's the case... remember when you told me that thing you read about pretty boys' handwriting?" you brought up.

"did you actually believe that!? was just a discussion in a girl's meme forum." the pink one remarked.

"but there's some truth behind it. if you consider that people with a smaller hand can grip on a pen better when writing, also means the ones with big hands tend to have a sloppier handwriting!" you stated confident about your theory.

"girl, you're tripping... does this mean we're going across the school measuring boys' hands?" mina smirked unconvinced.

"precisely."

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦

"what a fucking waste of time..." said raging.

"dude, calm down. at least you poured your feelings out..." eijiro reassured his bestfriend trying to point out the bright side of things.

but while he's the bright side, katsuki was the dark side. they say a good relationship is based in balance, in this case it makes total sense.

"you even checked if she read it?" asked the red haired.

"when she and mina walked by me at the corridor they were whispering and giggling like little lambs. probably laughing at that letter though." pouted.

"you're being paranoid, they're always like that."

"they're up to something..." bakugo murmured.

whilst the two struggled to put up with the 'plan cupid', the other two were constructing the 'plan pretty boy's handwriting'.

"as i was saying, a pencil has six inches approximately, we're looking for a hand as big at least. if we measure our hands we can compare with theirs without them noticing." stated grabbing a pen off her case.

"you're truly a genius. i refuse to accept you failed strategic test last week." mina complimented.

"i was in a really bad mood that day... anyway!" justified while traced her own hand in a empty page of mina's notebook. "fifteen centimeters. do yours and we're good to go!" demanded agitated.

when looking for friends of theirs, the girls pretended to just have a walk around the school.

"what if it was a girl?" mina asked suddenly.

"i doubt. how many girls with large hands do we know?" claimed.

"mmm... asui-san?"

"you've got to be kidding...!" pulled her phone and dialed quickly a number. "hey!" you smiled. "no, nothing really urgent, i just wanted to ask... are you perhaps in love with me?" questioned without any filter.

"girl you gone mad?" mina whispered holding back a laughter.

"uh, ok. anyways, thank you. we talk later, kisses!" you hung up. "see? that's not her."

"woah you're so straightforward! it scares me sometimes..."

the boys exited the restroom still discussing, but when the blondie heard a certain voice he stepped back. pulled eijiro's tie to hide behind a pillar with him. "shut it!" mouthed.

"i just wanted to ask... are you perhaps in love with me?"

"uh, ok."

his face started to burn as he became more anxious. could only hear a few words, enough to bring the boy into complete state of panic.

after the girls left he released his breath.

"stop overthinking! she just received a love letter, of course she's curious!" kirishima said.

"i didn't say anything, shitty-hair!"

"your face shows!" sighed. "seriously, how can she be so oblivious? just look at you! you're terrible at hiding."

"i- i... she doesn't even talk to me that often..." katsuki pitied.

"bro, you're not the friendliest around here. but she doesn't seem to be afraid of you." kiri pondered. "have you ever tried to smile?"

he looked at the red spiked guy and opened a shy smile.

"a bit more."

every time bakugo tried to put on smiling face it looked creepy. "be more genuine." said eijiro.

trying his best, but even with so much effort... his buddy analyzed. "ok. it looks absolutely terrifying."

"shit."

[xxxevilfilms]

Bicurious Twenty-Somethings | Chapter 2

Info: Fuck buddies AU. Hwoarang and Jin attempt to see eye to eye after concluding that neither of them have anything to gain from their rivalry and decide to become friends...kinda. One thing leads to another when Hwoarang exposes Jin to recreational activities that colors Jin’s feelings about his former rival.

Kinks: Dirty Talk, First Time Blow Jobs, Rimming, Face Sitting, Anal Fingering, 69 (Sex Position)

T-Break | Jin Kazama x Hwoarang

Summary: Jin's lack of experience with same-sex intercourse hinders him from reciprocating Hwoarang’s foreplay. Hwoarang is, thankfully, a good friend and instills confidence within Jin by playing with his asshole.

Ao3 Link

Jin now spends his weekends with Hwoarang either smoking grass or getting his cock sucked, with occasional spur of the moment activities sprinkled throughout the week that usually ends with his pants around his ankles and his tongue halfway down Hwoarang's throat. It was a pleasant, albeit odd routine that he still isn't entirely sure he should be engaging in, but Hwoarang was his friend, and if his friend wanted to go down on him at a moment's notice then so be it. 

He just wishes he had the backbone to at the very least reciprocate...

Jin knows he's attracted to Hwoarang, knows that he wants to return the pleasures Hwoarang has been giving him, but Jin is simply too nervous to try. The thought of fellating or even reaming another man were concepts Jin never reflected on until now, and he was worried he'd make a fool of himself if he tried. What if he took it too deep and hurt himself? What if he did something to hurt Hwoarang? God, what if he hurt Hwoarang so bad that he'd never want to...?

Jin would shudder at such thoughts and tuck them away into the back of his mind, not willing to entertain them. As much as he wants to please Hwoarang, doubts brought on by fears, hesitancy, and lack of experience saps Jin's confidence, but he also didn't want to be such a selfish companion.

During an impromptu make-out session in the middle of Jin's bedroom, Jin decides to make his fears known to Hwoarang. It's very hard to do since this man always seems hellbent on swallowing his tongue whole but he's able to let a few words slip when Hwoarang pulls away from him for air.

Jin takes that moment to grab Hwoarang's chin, a move that freezes him in his tracks.

“Eh? What's this?” Hwoarang relaxes a little in his grip, smirking. “Wanna take the lead tonight?”

“Well, I...” Jin quickly lets go of him, suddenly bashful. “I just have some concerns.”

“Like?” Hwoarang narrows his brows a little before rolling his eyes. “Ugh, don't tell me you're worried about that little bitch hearing us again.”

“N-No, and...and don't call her that.” Jin shakes his head and then grimaces at the terrible nickname Hwoarang gave his little cousin. “I like this, whatever this is. I'm not concerned about Asuka.”

“Then the fuck's your problem, Kazama?”

Jin struggles to find the right words to say, a phenomenon that he notices only happens when he's around Hwoarang.

“I want to...please you.” He began. “I want to do the things that you do to me, but I don't know how...”

“Ohhh, I get it. So that's why I can't get you to suck me off,” Hwoarang sits up and crosses his arms. “Who knew such a big, strong demon stud like you would be afraid of suckin’ some cock, huh?”

“I'm sorry,” He apologizes. “It looks so simple, but--”

“I'm just fuckin’ with you, babo, relax,” Hwoarang flicks his forehead. “I get it, yeah? Look, it took me a minute to even get used to the idea of suckin’ dick and now look at me,” He sticks his tongue out and makes an obscene motion with his hand. “I can throat your cock no problem~”

“H-How did you get so good at it then?”

“I got plenty of head in my life and watched enough porn to know how to do it in theory.” He explains. “But I had to practice on something to get a gist of it, so I used whatever I could fit in my mouth pretty much.”

Jin moves closer to him. “What did you use?”

“Ice pops, the really long kind. They'd melt if I sucked it too much, but it numbed my throat really good whenever I wanted to take it deep.”

“Hm,” Jin nods and then flushes at the thought of Hwoarang throating a popsicle. He pictures him half-naked, tucking red hair behind his ear as he drags plump blue-stained lips up and over a frozen hunk of sugar.

No, Jin closes his eyes sharply. Now is not the time for that...

“So...I should use a popsicle?”

“Why the hell would you wanna do that when you gotta real cock to work with?” Hwoarang sits back on his ass to spread his thighs, showing off the tent in his boxer shorts. “Wouldn't you want this down your throat instead?”

Jin shifts a little, hard as a rock and yet unable to go forward. Hwoarang has such a nice, plump cock, a beautifully fat organ that deserves more than just a few shallow frots against its shaft.

It encourages Jin to finally reveal himself to Hwoarang.

“I worry that I'll do something to hurt you.” Jin confesses. “And if my performance will be too inadequate for you...”

“Tsk...” Hwoarang clicks his tongue. “You're such an idiot...”

Jin says nothing, just looks at the space between them, unsure of what to say to him, but is made to look up at Hwoarang when he grabs one of his hands.

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“I dunno...” Jin shrugs. “I was...”

“Embarrassed?”

“Maybe...”

“Aigoo...” He shakes his head. “You really are hopeless.”

“Sorry...”

It's Hwoarang's turn to be silent, but it doesn't last long. He chuckles and lets go of Jin’s hand to swipe his thumb over his lips and poke them gently with his nail.

“Told you I'd help you, didn't I?” He pushes his thumb into his mouth then. “Help you be a good slut for me?”

Jin internally frowns at Hwoarang's choice of words, but is too distracted by the thumb sliding over his tongue to get too upset.

“You're not gonna hurt me and I ain't gonna throw you to the curb either.” A slow methodical thrust of his knuckle is enough to send a chill down Jin’s back. “Here,” 

Hwoarang pulls his thumb out of his mouth and wipes it over Jin’s jawline, hot to the touch from arousal as well as embarrassment. Hwoarang then sits back to palm his erection, stroking the flat end of the long shaft that hung over his thigh as he beckoned Jin over with a curled finger.

“C’mere, I'm gonna show you a few tricks.” Hwoarang gestured to the spot next to him. “You okay with that?”

“Mm.” Jin affirms him quietly and crawls next to Hwoarang, until his chest is touching his shoulder. “What are we going to do?”

“You wanna make me feel good, yeah?”

“Of course...”

“Take me out then.”

Jin does what he's told, but can't help but be a little shy about it. He watches Hwoarang's face when he slips his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. He lifts his hips for Jin so he could pull his boxers down to his thighs, just enough to free the long, dark prick that throbbed mightily with need.

Delicious was the first word that came to mind for Jin, and yet he lacks the confidence to fully appreciate such a sumptuous thing.

“See all that, baby?” Hwoarang adjusts himself, member bouncing with him. He then turns his head to kiss Jin on the neck and run his hand through his hair. “That’s all for you, and you get to do whatever you want with it.”

“Like,” Jin feels Hwoarang push gently on the back of his head, bringing him down to the prick in question. Jin lets him, and stares at Hwoarang's shaft before asking his question. “Like what?”

“You can lick it a little,” He scratches his scalp. “Kiss it, play with it, whatever you want, guy.”

“Right,” Jin looks at it for a little longer. “Will you tell me if I'm doing something wrong?”

“Yeah, yeah, I will.”

“Thank you.” Jin takes it into his hand and gives it a gentle stroke, manipulating thick foreskin that slides up and down a fat cockhead. Hwoarang sighs deeply at that and laughs a little, clearly enjoying himself.

“That's it, just like you're stroking your own cock, yeah?"

“Right...” Jin holds it a bit firmly now. “Tell me if you want me to do more.”

“Uh-huh,” Hwoarang rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. “Do what you want man, I don't care.”

Jin listens to him, at the sharp puffs of air he takes into his nose and the groans that rumble in his chest. Hwoarang likes it, Jin is sure, but he can't just spend the rest of the night jerking him off and doing nothing else.

Jin girds his loins and decides to pretend Hwoarang’s cock was an ice pop by licking at the tip. Thankfully his taste is mild enough to tolerate which allows Jin to lick and eventually suck around the head with little difficulty.

“Ooh, that's good,” Hwoarang holds the back of Jin's neck now. “That's real good...”

“Mmph...” Jin pulls off the tip to swirl his tongue around Hwoarang's urethra, sampling his precome for the first time. He tastes sweet, ironically, much like an ice pop. Jin finds that he likes it and sucks on his hole to drink more of his essence.

“Fuuuck...” Hwoarang opens his eyes to look down on him, lips curling into a smirk. “What, you like how I taste that much, Kazama?”

Jin nods, drawing confidence from Hwoarang’s praise. It emboldens Jin enough to open his mouth wide and take in what he could of his friend’s length, a move that elicits a louder, more rapturous moan from Hwoarang’s mouth.

“That’s the stuff,” Hwoarang brings his free hand down to his loins to fondle himself. “Work it, baby, it’s all yours.”

Jin lifts his hips off the bed then to keep pressure off of his stiffening cock. Hwoarang’s yapping mouth certainly helps, but he didn’t think sucking cock would feel this good. No wonder Hwoarang offers to blow him so much...

For a while, Jin was fine with sucking off what he could reasonably fit in his mouth, but Hwoarang was starting to get impatient. Hissing through clenched teeth, Hwoarang grabs himself by holding his balls to the base of his shaft and starts moving in time with Jin’s mouth, the hand at the back of Jin’s neck preventing him from moving too far from him. Jin furrows his brows but doesn’t pull away, willing to accept a face fuck so long as Hwoarang didn’t make him take it too deep.

“Fuck yeah, you little cocksucker...” Hwoarang bites his lip. “You want my cock, you’ll get my cock.”

Jin knows he shouldn't like this, being degraded and treated like a whore, but his cock is twitching in defiance, making his loins hurt. It's a harsh reminder that Hwoarang has effectively ruined him for good, at least when it comes to how he enjoys sex, and rather than part from the beautiful organ that ravishes his mouth, Jin white-knuckles gray sheets and takes Hwoarang’s cock down to the hilt. 

“F-Fuck, fuck...!” Hwoarang bucks up into Jin’s face, hand on his neck tightening. “Hoooly shit, that’s good, feels so fuckin’ good...” A long, drawn out moan leaves him then, a sound that overpowers the gags and gurgles that erupt from Jin's throat. It was uncomfortable to have his throat stretched to its absolute limit, but it certainly didn't hurt. It felt...good. Sure he was gagging and slobbering like a dog, making an absolute mess of himself with Hwoarang's slick and his own drool, but it somehow added to the pleasure surging in his core. God, was he always this much of a degenerate, or was Hwoarang really just that bad of an influence?

“You're such a liar, Kazama.” Hwoarang says, voice shuddering when his hand leaves Jin's neck. “You know how to suck dick no problem.”

Jin can feel fingers hover over his nape as they descend to the curve of his ass, making his skin tingle pleasantly with need. Jin expects Hwoarang to stroke his back again or even grope him, but hums in a mix of shock and pain when Hwoarang brings his hand down on his rear end instead.

It hurts in ways Jin isn't familiar with.

“Nngh!” Jin sputters around Hwoarang's cock, tries calling his name, but then remembers the prick still in his mouth. He parts from it finally to jerk it off and glare at Hwoarang who's grinning like a fox.

“That was uncalled for...”

“I like your ass,” Hwoarang fondles the part of him he just smacked. “Always wanted to play with it.”

“There are other ways you can pleasure me if that's your goal.”

“Alright then,” Hwoarang helps himself to the boxers clinging to Jin’s waist and pulls them down. “Can I play with your hole then?”

“H-Huh?”

“Did I stutter?”

“But...” Jin squirms, unsure of himself again. “So suddenly? I didn't think that I'd be the one to...”

“Bottom?”

“Is that what that is?”

“We'll take turns, how about that?” Hwoarang's already groping him down there, taking a handful of his right buttock that he squeezes and shakes in the palm of his hand. “I don’t mind giving you a break every now and then.”

“Will it hurt?”

“I know my way around an ass enough not to hurt you.” Hwoarang then licks his lips, scheming eyes raking over Jin’s body like he was a slab of meat. “Want me to show you?”

“You have experience with this as well then?”

“Sure do, I love doin’ chicks in the ass, a guy ain’t gonna be any different.” Hwoarang is already adjusting his body to lay down on the bed, prompting Jin to follow after him.

“Come sit on my face, Kazama.”

“Won’t I crush you...?”

“Ugh, not literally, dumbass,” Hwoarang rolls his eyes. “Just hold yourself over my head.”

“Ah,” That helps Jin understand his task. “Should I fellate you more, or...?”

“I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock, guy, yeah I want you to blow me.”

“Okay, okay,” Jin turns his back to Hwoarang so he can crawl on top of him. “Don't do anything too strange back there, please.”

“Relax, I ain't gonna beat up a pretty ass like this...” Hwoarang grabs Jin’s waist once his ass is above his face and kneads his hip bones. “Goddamn, Kazama, you're fat as hell...”

“Is that good?” Jin grabs Hwoarang's cock again. “I never thought it was...that big.”

“Do you know how many bitches would kill for a bubble butt like this?” Hwoarang spreads his ass apart, revealing a pale pink hole and a plump taint dusted with fine hairs. “If you had tits, you'd be the perfect woman.”

“Gosh, you have a big mouth...” Jin doesn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. “For your sake, you better put it to good use, baka-yarō.”

“Someone's antsy,” Hwoarang smoothes his thumb over his taint to tease him. “Fine, fine, I'll give you what you want.”

Finally, Jin says to himself, and quickly goes back to blowing Hwoarang while Hwoarang makes his intentions known to Jin's ass. As Jin sucks and slurps around the top half of Hwoarang's cock, Hwoarang helps himself to Jin’s hole, dragging his tongue along his skin like it was the easy thing in the world. Jin flinches a little at the wet heat that squirms against his anus, but lets it happen anyway, trying to get used to it. It feels strange, but certainly not unpleasant.

“Mmm...” Hwoarang parts from him briefly to rub his fingers over his hole, slathering them in spit. “You taste like a girl, too.”

Jin, annoyed, drops his backside to the bed to smother Hwoarang. 

“Mmph!” Voice muffled, Hwoarang flairs underneath Jin like a flipped beetle, hands smacking his ass for relief. “O-Oi, Kazama!!”

“Didn’t I say to put that mouth to good use?” Jin finally lifts his hips to give Hwoarang some air. “I swear, you’re incorrigible.”

“Fwah!” He gasps. “The fuck was that for!? You tryna kill me!?”

“You would've died happy.”

“Tsk, fuckin’ killjoy...” Hwoarang spreads him apart again. “I thought you liked it when I talk dirty.”

“Sometimes you talk too much,” Jin goes back to servicing him as well.

“Fine, fine, I'll be nice.” Hwoarang drags his tongue over his hole. “You're a good boy, Kazama, how about that? You like it when I talk like that?”

“Mm...” Jin felt his cock twitch. “I might...”

“Ha, what a sap,” Hwoarang brings his arms around Jin’s waist to hold him tight, keeping his ass close to his greedy tongue. “You a good boy for me, baby?” He laps at it in tight circles, poking it with the tip. “Gonna let me play with this sweet hole?”

Jin moans out his pleasure, his approval, and rocks down into Hwoarang's face, enjoying the attention his friend gave to his hole. Hwoarang smirks against his skin at that and starts sucking around his hole, worshiping it with smooth lips and a flat tongue. It makes Jin's length tremble deliciously with need and return the favor by sucking Hwoarang's cock again. He takes it so much easier this time, still gagging like a slut, sure, but he enjoys it all the same. Hwoarang moans against his skin and opens him up further, until he's able to bury his tongue up Jin's ass.

Jin doesn't try to smother Hwoarang this time, but it's very hard not to. His tongue reaches places he never knew existed, squirming against an untouched prostate that has Jin trembling over Hwoarang’s legs. He rocks into his mouth in hopes that he can get Hwoarang to give him more, a silent plea that he can only express by bouncing an (apparently) large ass on his friend's face.

“Oh fuck, baby,” Hwoarang pulls his tongue out, replaces it with a thick finger that curls into his walls. “You shakin’ it for me now?”

Jin emphasizes his excitement by fucking himself on Hwoarang's finger, hole pulling along his knuckle like a real pussy.

“You want more?” Hwoarang twists it, pulls it out to line up another one that's already pushing against his hole. “Want me to fuck it up?”

Jin nods, bobbing his head faster as he prepares for the stretch of two fingers.

“That's a good slut, good whore,” Hwoarang works it in, fighting against the tight ring of muscle that keeps him out, but eventually his hole accepts him. “Fuck yourself on them, baby, enjoy yourself.”

Jin obeys, eyes rolling into his head when Hwoarang curls his fingers. Damn, was he already about to come? He usually lasts way longer than this, but of course that's never the case with Hwoarang. As much as he hates it when Hwoarang treats him like a girl, Jin can't help but get off to it, can't help but compare his asshole to a cunt ready to be taken by Hwoarang's cock. 

Jin hollows out his cheeks and sucks as hard as he can, eyes brimming with unshed tears when he swallows him whole again. Hwoarang gropes him tightly and twists his wrist, working his fingers in as deep as they can go, filling him up. When he pulls out, his tongue is lapping at the edge of his swollen rim incessantly, joined tentatively by a third finger that prods him before it joins the rest of his hand.

“More, baby, more, pretend it's my cock,” Hwoarang thrusts up into his mouth then, fucking Jin’s ass faster. “Pound this pretty pussy open for me.”

Jin flexes his stomach and does what he can to chase his high, humping his cock against Hwoarang's hard stomach as he batters his own prostate with his friend's talented fingers. He didn't think being played with back there would feel so good, but here he is, sucking cock as he rode another man's hand, desperate to come. Jin can only wonder what a cock up there would feel like, how much of a sputtering whore he'd become whenever Hwoarang decided he was ready enough to take it.

Jin's orgasm sneaks up on him like a snake in the grass, completely overwhelming him when it finally happens. He spills all over Hwoarang’s abs soon after, drenching his navel in thick white seed, while his asshole flutters and clenches around Hwoarang's fingers. He feels Hwoarang briefly struggle to pull them out, but once he does, he wipes Jin’s mess on his right ass cheek and fucks his face like the cock-hungry slut he was. 

“Lookit you, creaming all over me...” Hwoarang throws his head back, hips moving a mile a minute. “You like it that much, baby boy? Like how it makes you choke?”

Jin closes his eyes tight and bobs his head as fast as he can, determined to make Hwoarang come. He fights through tears and a smiting ache in his jaw to bring him to orgasm, helped along by Hwoarang's stuttering hips and silver tongue.

“Take it, baby, take it,” He smacks his ass one last time, punctuated by a strong thrust that reaches so deeply into his throat, it makes Jin's neck bulge outwards. “It's all fucking yours...”

The haze that fogs Jin's head prevents him from struggling when Hwoarang creams in his mouth, filling his throat with hot, thick come that shoots straight into his stomach. Jin is able to swallow most of it, but he can't help but let some seed drip from his lips, making a mess that he can't help but clean off with his tongue when he pulls himself off of Hwoarang’s cock for good this time.

“A-Ah,” Hwoarang jolts upwards. “Easy, guy, it's sensitive...”

“I'm just helping you out,” Jin replies, feeling coy. “I never knew you would taste this sweet.”

“Heh...” He pants a little. “If I'm sweet, you taste like a damn candy shop.”

“You flatter me,” Jin rolls off of him, careful of the spunk that coats their stomachs. “When we have anal sex, will you go easy on me?”

“I'll do whatever you want me to do.” Hwoarang sits up a little, cocking his head. “Why? You feel brave enough for it?”

“So long as you're gentle, I don't mind it.”

“If you can take half my hand, you can take a cock,” He brings a hand down on Jin's hip. “You did pretty good for a first timer.”

“Didn't know I'd like it that much.”

“Being a butt slut?”

“...Hwoarang.”

“What?”

“You're talking too much again...”

“Oh my apologies,” He's sarcastic with him. “Does prissy bitch sound better?”

Jin kicks his side, a love tap against the ribs that Hwoarang yelps at, but isn't too shaken up by.

“You're such a hot little cock tease, Kazama...” 

“And you're still incorrigible...”

[balioc]

I've been asked to provide brief commentary on some specific books from my 2023 reading list, so --

Achieving Our Country: Leftist Thought in Twentieth-Century America, Richard Rorty

I was not super impressed by this one. The core thesis -- the radical theory-driven left is not particularly helpful in terms of advancing concrete leftist political goals within the American system -- is, at this point, not news. (It wasn't even really news in 1998 when the book was published.) And everything surrounding that thesis...well, it is very serious about the idea that it is Good and Helpful to develop a nationalistic-but-leftist ideological consciousness, which should raise a lot of eyebrows no matter who you are.

This book was recommended by Matt Yglesias, and it reads very much like part of the ideological grounding of someone like Matt Yglesias. Which is not a compliment. I like Yglesias, but -- ideological grounding is not his strong suit.

The Tatami Galaxy, Tomihiko Morimi

It was...fine, I guess.

There are four stories, which are theoretically all alternate-universe versions of the same events. (Not a spoiler, that fact is revealed extremely quickly.) They're all very modern-Asian-style magical surrealism. The last story is substantially the longest and substantially the best; its vision of the titular "tatami galaxy," a Borges-style labyrinth made from endless iterations of your own college dorm room, is at the very least punchy and memorable. But there's not really enough there there, and the first three stories are a slog.

The Man Who Was Thursday, G. K. Chesterton

This is fucking amazing. Probably the best book I read all year, unless that goes to the Oscar Wilde.

It's witty throughout, although it's the wit of an old stodgy conservative British guy who sneers at a lot of things, so you have to be willing to live with that. But it's also...well, ballsy is the best word I have for it. Saying that it's a "twist book" fails to do it justice. There is a twist -- but the more-relevant thing is that it sneaks around behind you and kicks you in the back of the head in a way that is mostly not about the twist, but about a much-more-fundamentally-weird thing that Chesterton is doing. The book you are reading at the end is very much not the book you thought you were reading at the beginning.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, Gabrielle Zevin

Mnr mnr mnr mnr. My feelings here are complicated.

On the one hand: this is a book about a small number of people with incestuously-tangled lives who make art together and in reaction to each other, who are absolutely obsessed with the art that they're making. This is a theme that has a lot of resonance for me, and, like, it gets the feel of that thing largely right. There are also other, more-idiosyncratic reasons for this book to have resonance for me.

On the other hand: it's a character-driven litfic book, and I don't love any of the characters, or even particularly like them. They are the wrong flavor of nerd, with the wrong kinds of thoughts and emotional issues. Also, it is a book about making and selling video games that...reads like it was written by someone who doesn't quite understand how video games work or how the video game market works.

On the gripping hand: it does a very good job of portraying the aspect of life experience that is "as you get older, the intense dramas of your youth don't get forgotten, but the colors kind of fade and the feelings come to seem much less important with perspective."

In particular: Near the beginning, there is a side character who is portrayed as the Absolute Fucking Unforgivable Shitbag Monster of a contemporary story told using contemporary norms. He does the kind of things that are specifically tailored to make you think this guy deserves nothing but hate, forever. The characters, to the extent that they know about him and what he's done, by and large do feel that way. And then...well, it's not like there's ever a comeuppance or a redemption or anything like that. But at the end, the feeling is much more -- well, he's this guy we know, there's a lot of awkwardness related to past pain and past wrongdoing, but even so we're something sort of like old friends and really it's mostly just water under the bridge at this point.

Which is, complicatedly, interesting.

[jayflrt]

the consent is so sexy, making sure everything is fine, the dirty talk, JUST EVERTHING WAS SO SEXY AHHH!!! MAYBE ILL LOSE MYSELF TOO ALONG WITH YN, ME TOO GIRLIE ME TOO !!!!

“I’ve never had sex like this,” you admitted in a breath, gripping onto his shoulders a little harder. It was true; you had never had all of your needs fully satisfied without any expectations of returning the favor. “Never?” You shook your head. “And… can you start slow for me? Please?” “I plan on taking my time.” He moved your hair out of your face. “Hoon didn’t?” Again, a hesitant shake of your head. Jay’s eyes narrowed.  His laugh was devoid of mirth. “Of course.”

hoon is a fucking disappointment and asshole. fuck him. i blushed at this (i need help) jay pls fight him. if i was jay i will bring this up to him idc. (love being a bitch 0.00001% of the times) they are so cute end me lord. me fucking when. honestly when can i have a man like jay !

“I don’t have a condom.” You groaned. “Can we just buy Plan B tomorrow?” “Do you know how expensive Plan B is? That’s, like, at least—” You rolled your eyes and cut him off by sealing his lips with yours, cupping Jay’s face with your hands. After you pulled back, much to his displeasure, you asked, “You have me naked underneath you right now, and you’re worried about how much Plan B costs?” He cocked his head to the side, as if the answer couldn’t be any more obvious. “Yes?” “We can deal with that tomorrow,” you insisted, “just please.”

i laughed sm about this, idk what's funnier that jay is me. i would have said this. so true king these things are so expensive for what in this economy...

getting suit right after that woah. they are so insane, THEY ARE MY INSANE PARENTS AHHH. they are so horny why you doing all that in the public /j Jay's text..... honey no pls lets not. also ye sim ignoring part about yn dad because we talk about later lets not ruin the fun shall we ? honestly thank god my finals are end of next month. i can ignore the conflict part so i can come back to when they are together, so they never broke up in my head. (im delusional)

theory anon

celebrating the day mc finally got the man of her dreams 🥳🥳 (even though it's gonna go to shit soon but let's just celebrate the moment!!!!) she no longer has to be chained to a requited(?) situationship(?) where both want to make a move but can't(?)

HAHHA honestly the hardest part was keeping their conversation on track 😭 i would always steer into something unserious and have to go back and fix it like /?:9;!/&:!

ah yes the tailor shop,, almost considered writing a scene for that part but decided to leave it up to your guys' imaginations 🤭 also omg exams next month?? good luck! i hope you pass with flying colors!! 🥰💖

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hey do you have any fic recs where Stiles is in hospital for a long time due to injuries or illness? Thank you!

I got you, @sparty-time!

Emergency Contact by Drapetomania

(1/1 I 1,392 I General I Sterek)

"You're awake." And there a million questions in Stiles' eyes, a million theories shooting from his mind, dexterous and reaching, searching, just the same way his fingers found Derek's blanket, just shy of any contact.

After all, it's been years. Stiles' face had matured, there was even a new mole, though Derek could count all the old. He held himself strongly, confidently and curiously calmer than before. Not a glitching, zapping force, but a steady thrumming charge. Powerful. Trained. Not just a spark, but a solid fire. A sun.

Derek swallowed and rasped, "What are you doing here?"

It Was My Fault by ohhitsanna

(1/1 I 8,850 I Explicit I Sterek)

“There’s a patient,” she chocked on the words. “I need you to take care of him. He’s practically family,” she is crying now, half sobs forcing their way out of her throat and it’s a horrible sound that makes Derek want to step back, but her grip is still strong on his top. “They won’t let me back there with him, because I’m, well,” she scoffs, “Just look at me. You have to take care of him, you’re one of the best nurses here.”

Derek finds himself nodding before he even realizes he’s doing it. He’s not sure if it’s just blatant curiosity making him want to help or the fact that he’s never seen the strong Melissa McCall break down and almost beg Derek to take on a patient. Maybe a little bit of both, he decides. “Do you have his file?” she nods, handing him a thick manila folder with different colored paper sticking out of it everywhere, this patient must see be here a lot. What the hell kind of name is that? He can vaguely make out a ‘z’ somewhere in the name, but it mostly looks like a bunch of random letters.

“Stiles, do not call him anything but Stiles.” Melissa says, as if reading his mind.

A Piece of Me is a Piece of you by DropofWater

(6/6 I 13,038 I Not Rated I Sterek)

“Derek, I’m going to be completely honest with you.” Melissa squeezes his arm gently. “My stepson-he’s an amazing kid. I love him as much as I would if he was my own son-he’s smart, and sarcastic, and witty, and just plain good. But he’s sick-and he needs a kidney transplant, badly. Like as soon as possible. And you-Derek-you’re a match.”

Derek gives Stiles a kidney and sappiness ensues

Thirty Messages by Julibean19

(8/8 I 16,368 I Teen I Sterek)

“Look. I think my friend is obsessed with you… or your cell phone at the very least. And if your stupid fucking voice saying the same two words is all he’s ever gonna have of you, then you have to let him go. You don’t let him get attached and you don’t drag it out. If you hurt him, or lead him on, even just a little bit, I swear to God I will kill you. So call him back, and end it.”

In which Derek leaves town with Cora, and Stiles thinks he might be going insane... because no one would leave this many rambling voicemails for someone they weren't even dating... right?

AND

@alexchouette suggested this one!

Don't Speak by fatale

(13/13 I 68,916 I Teen I Sterek)

The Alpha pack has systematically attacked Stiles and his friends for months, testing their strengths and weaknesses. When one of the Alphas goes after Stiles, he awakens in the hospital and realizes that something's wrong. Very wrong. All sounds seem to hurt him, he can't understand what anyone is saying, and when he tries to speak, it's gibberish. How is he supposed to deal with the fact that he's lost the ability to communicate with his dad and his friends?

Without his ability to talk, his sarcasm, and his wit, what does Stiles even have left? Enter Derek, the only one who seems to make it better.

[robozombii]

lets say. metaphorically. i am gripping your shoulders with upmost strength (if thats cool lmao) sorry in advanced because im gonna get really annoying rq BUT ive started talking about duet and i WILL. NOT. STOP. also i dooo plan on sharing the slides to some but its been a wip for like a whole year😅so i doubt ill finish it soon. anyhow [inhale]

WARNING FOR mentions of the backrooms, death, but its not the main focus

about duet being an inciting incident, i could only GUESS as to what the gangs situation was like prior to duets encounter. but arthur in the comic dismisses lewis as soon as he mentions him. and THIS??

ITS JUST A LINE. BUT IT SHOWS that the gang avoided anything to do with lewis. and thus, without duet slapping arthur in the face with cryptic literature, they wouldve probably been stuck in a depressing state of avoidism. which DOESNT MOVE A PLOT. BUT DUET DID!!! DUET THE FUCKING MADMAN

duet literally couldve had SO MUCH CONTROL over the gang. in the beginning at least- from encountering arthur at his most vulnerable state (which would be easier to influence), to giving the magic book, to telling arthur to get some gas for the van. that seems like a minor detail but imagine if they didnt and went to a gas station instead of the mansion. duet couldve literally had their ENTIRE ROAD TRIP planned out.

and another note- this???

theres a lot of things to note about the comic panel by itself -how a book connected to duet has vines? connection to shiromori or rose thorns that point to lewis- AND THE COLOR IN ARTHURS EYES which does sort of resemble the possession and control reverb had over him. could this be a way of duet controlling arthurs will? but theyre both purple which caught my attention because COLOR IS IMPORTANT!!! it might be a stretch but it really is in msa. and i dont think duet and lewis would team up necessarily- i doubt theyd have the same motives. but duet isnt just 'the weird boss of tome tomb' theyre so much more CAPABLE. they could possibly forsee the future and shit?? IDK??

and going back to chloe- while i feel she has a bit of a motive to mess with the gang -its immature but a motive. go look at her wiki for an idea- duet could have the actual CAPABILITIES to put a plan into motion. a theory i saw stated that chloe was the 'SOLO' in reverbs intro, and thus a contrast to her friend duet, but could it also be that SOLO is an alternate name for duet themself? its just something to speculate, if one or the other could be malicious, or both.

OK RANT PART TWO: NOBODY FUCKING WRITES DUET and neither do i.. yet. but i rarely see them mentioned either!! WHICH SUCKS BECAUSE THE CANON HAS LITERALLY SHOWN THEM TO BE A SIGNIFICANT TOOL IN DRIVING MSAs PLOT. BEING THE INCITING INCIDENT.

this isnt so prominent in my fics, theyre mentioned in both of my published ones though- in full bloom, they say an odd phrase to vivi, just as they did to arthur in canon. it doesnt really do anything BUT i plan to utilize it in a possible sequel

in my BACKROOMS FIC THOUGH? theyre.. not mentioned that much either oops. but it goes to show just how odd an interpretation of duet could get. i stated earlier that duet possibly had control over the gangs future, part magic part manipulation, and thats fine in canon. they probably have good motives by pushing the gang together and FORCING them to make up- but in the backrooms fic, the gang literally ends up in a fucked up world and one of them ends up DEAD. like. if duet was aware of such a thing, and led the gang with full intentions to such a thing..

like- do you see what im saying? there could be tons of aus where just a touch of their influence fucks everyone up and turns them into a darker character than what they are right now. AND I LOVE MAKING FUCKED UP BLORBOS. PLEASE WRITE DUET AND CHLOE MORE OR AT LEAST IMPLEMENT THEM INTO PLOTS THEYRE THERE TO DO SHIT LET EM DO SHIT!!!!

if you wanna im not forcing you😭i hope i get an opportunity to REALLY really write em but a lot of my fic ideas are centered around arthur and vivi woops. anyways- thats just a FRACTION of what youd see on my msa presentation lmaoooo. i dont even have this rant added on there- so i probably should. feel free to add your own thoughts and stuff i love the fanart and fics this fandom has to offer but can we also offer SEVERAL PARAGRAPHS OF RANTING. please

[yanderenightmare]

ooh I wanna see ua bakugo frustrate with his affection over this clueless moron, kinda like shoto, like he gives her like a flower and she's just like wuut .__.

yandere ! BAKUGO KATSUKI

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

This is so cute, I can’t. Don’t know if this is what you wanted hahahaha, but I have a weak spot for like Luna Lovegood girls, like Alice in Wonderland derpy pigtailed pastel Melanie Martinez lookin’ cupcakes. And made this still in the UA au... hope that’s ok!

goodiebag WARNINGS: slight yandere, slight dubcon theme, profanity, anxiety, hallucinations, stalking

SCARY LOVE

He felt like such a stalker, like a wolf hiding in the grass, just a disgusting waste of a human being standing and ogling her from the safe distance, far enough away that she wouldn’t care to look up, but just close enough to see the color in her eyes from where she was planted in the shade under the campus willow-tree.

Why was she so fucking cute?

Her locks knotted up into two big messy buns, big splendid pastel bows tying them both into place, one blue, the other pink, matching puffy scrunchies decorating both her wrists. Cute. Small wisps of light flowing hair falling in front of her face, tickling her nose, making it scrunch like a how bunny would every now and again. Cute. White ruffled socks reaching halfway up her leg. Cute. Her knees baring pastel-colored band-aids and small scrapes and purple bruises, in the same state her elbows were. Cute. Nimble fingers handling the book that seemed so out-of-place in its size where it weighed down heavily in her lap. She looked like such a fucking fairytale. A soft-tinted cotton-candy daydream. 

Ready to have his bloody hands fuck up everything.

Bloody hell. What the fuck is he doing?

He can’t just stand there like some lovesick freak and do nothing, simply waiting for the school-bell to sound off its alarm, making her jump up like a little bunny popping up from its rabbit-hole where she’ll struggle with carrying that ridiculous book and sit down in class only to daydream about going back outside, but not before she’ll walk past him, allowing him to smell that sweet perfume that always has his heart clenching furiously in his chest and his cock growing warm and heavy in his pants.

What is wrong with him?

He can’t be thinking of her like that. This sweet precious little flower sitting so quietly with no wish to bother anyone, so soft and sweet he bet she’d cry if she so much as stepped on an ant. He wondered if she was a crier, if she’d be this adorable little crybaby ball of sobs and wet moans beneath him. He wondered what types of sound she’d make if he shoved his cock inside her. If she’d squeal and gasp and hiccup at his size, if she’d mewl, if she’d whimper, if she’d scream.

Fuck.

He needed to calm the fuck down.

To think he would never have met her if he hadn’t been forced to sign up to that stupid side-course. To think he was so mad that he didn’t make the cut for the class about war-theory and was forced to take philosophy with a bunch of air-headed freaks instead. To think he almost didn’t meet her. To think- fuck, he’s even starting to sound like one of them fucking philosophy-ditzes.

To be or not to be, or to drool over the girl sitting beneath the willow-tree.

Maybe that’s what he should submit next time they have one of those moronic poetry sessions. Perhaps then she would look at him with interest, with surprise and even praise, maybe even reverence, mirroring the look he gives her when she stands on the podium reciting her swirling words and artful descriptions, looking as though she’s entirely in her own world, dreaming, not just speaking but preaching, preaching to him about gods he’s never heard of yet somehow always believed in.

He used to believe gods drank blood and could only be celebrated through pain, that they made creatures like him, crafted him from dragon bones and fire and everything sharp and deadly, crafting him from war for war to become war itself, to find purpose in conquering, to find worth in glory. But now… looking at this creature, this creature who celebrates life and not death through laughter and daydreams and love far away from pain, he knows he’s had it all wrong.

He’s no good with words. He never has been. Except when insulting people, then he turns into a fucking lyric. What she can do is a gift. Either that, or she’s simply just insane. Either way, he doesn’t really care. She’s still soft, a tender type of madness, sweet and small and would look so good with a couple of love-bites to crash that display of milk and cream and cotton, so fucking brilliant with his handprint marking her ass… and he’s doing it again.

Fuck.

None of that will happen if he doesn’t grow a pair and go talk to her. But he can’t just talk to her. He has nothing to say. Or he has plenty to say, but nothing she could hear. He needed to find the most straightforward approach, however… while it needed to be unmistakable or lest she misunderstand, it couldn’t be aggressive. That would frighten her and he couldn’t risk spooking her away. He couldn’t risk ruining everything. It was apparent she didn’t think too much of him except that he was an angry looking boy in her Friday-classes, he needed to prove he too could be… sweet… or at least something akin to it.

He was wrong in thinking that anything would make her look up from her book. Even as he stood a mere meter away from her, she didn’t look up, completely lost and submerged in her own world as she always was. Only when he cleared his throat did she finally lift her gaze, eyes fluttering from traveling the pages and blinked softly to look up at him.

Cute.

He forgot to say anything, with a hand reached out, fisting the air, knuckles whitening in his grip, where inside the seemingly furious hand was something to contrast his otherwise deadly red stare.

The look of puzzlement on her face was insurmountable. Her small hands giving no indication to receive whatever he was offering.

“Is this a threat?” Came her soft voice, shaking him out of the faze he’d slipped into, though quickly plunging him into another one, this time not so much anticipation but confusion.

“What? No!” The both of them simply looked at each other for a moment. Bakugo’s hand still protruding out towards her, the thing in his hand no more tempting to accept than before to the girl who was still planted, making no action to get up from her spot.

“I don’t understand…” She admitted, wondering if he perhaps wanted her seat in the shade, but wasn’t given the time to ask the question as he decided to clear things up.

“It’s a flower.”

She could see that. It was a flower ripped from its root, an otherwise healthy flower before being suffocated in Bakugo’s death-grip.

“It’s a dead flower…” She corrected, a hint of sorrow on her features and he knew he was already failing in his pursuit, wanting to make things right before they could derail even more.

“It’s pretty... like you.” That came out as even more an ominous threat he realized, indicating she’d end up like the proven pretty dead flower in his chokehold.

“Are you sure this isn’t a threat?” The fact that she felt the need to ask him not only once but twice told him all he needed to know of her thoughts regarding him. She obviously thought he was a deranged explosive beast from the Hero-course.

“Goddamn it, no, I…” He frustrated, finding it hard to arrange the words, finding it hard to even find the words. “You… You’re so… You-” She was oblivious to how much he was struggling it seemed, as her personality suddenly shifted and she jumped up, book thrown to her side rather recklessly, skirt with ruffles and all bouncy with the same vigor as her tits.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands together, eyes wide with such bright light Bakugo almost felt blinded by, it even managing to frightened him a bit. “Thank you, that’s very good to know! I’d be terrified if I was anyone but me!” His brows lifted in dawning realization, feeling safer by being calmed by the reminder of how he was talking to a ditz, a complete mental-case… though… a mental-case who’d managed to dance her way and get lost in his heart. “Pardon me for being so blunt, but I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t ask.” Preparing him for her question, she leant in just a bit more, looking at him intently. “Are you yourself today, Bakugo?”

As absurd as the question was to him, when it rolled off her tongue it nearly seemed like the most casual of things to ask someone, as though she was requesting his thoughts on the weather. And though it was the epitome of peculiar, the more he thought about it, the more he realized how appropriate the question was, because he were, in fact, not at all feeling like himself.

“… No.”

She gave a contemplative look and a hum. “Then you must be Baku-gone…” He couldn’t hold back the snort that followed her statement, again being reminded of what a complete klutz she was, something so far away from his cynical view of the world and something far more relaxing than what his fears had managed to conjure of her rejection. It seemed so ridiculous now, that he’d thought she would run away or scream, never having let himself imagine her in what he knew was her true nature, light-hearted and incapable of doing any harm, at least not on purpose. “Wow, you really must be, huh?” She continued, fishing him out of his curt chuckling. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh. Come to think of it… I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you smile.” She mused, admiring the small pleasantness stretched upon his face.

But then his brows furrowed, the happiness seeping from his features and leaving them contorted with annoyance, much to her dismay, regretting her choice of words. “I smile.” He argued, looking at her as though demanding she explain herself.

She cocked her head to the side, eyeing him, scrunching her brows and biting her lip for a second or two as though she were in deep thought, not wanting to upset him any further, though not wanting to speak without candidness. “No… you… bare teeth… like a wolf eager to catch its prey.” His ears retracted, features taken aback by her observation, finding he couldn’t quite say otherwise, though he’d never viewed it that way, but again, the more he thought about it, the more all her strange words made sense as he found them to be true. Silly of him to think his wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing approach could fool her, silly of him to think he could fool himself into believing she’d ever consider going out with someone so… predatory.

Though, minds are easily swayed, he reminded himself of. Her opinion of him wasn’t set in stone after all. “Does it scare you?” He finally asked, finding that was the only thing he was actually curious about. Though… perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing if she did fear him just a bit, because god knows how terrified he is of her and how she makes him feel as though he’s bleeding or falling or stripped of everything, cut by the knees and naked and so very needy to have her just look at him.

“I would say no, but I cannot lie.” His heart sunk upon hearing her admit it, disappointed, not sure if it was in her or in him.

She’s scared… Of course, she is scared! Who wouldn’t be? Dumb of him to think anything else.

“But, that’s rather the point isn’t it? To scare people?” She took a step forward, eyes bright and hopeful, hating to think she’d upset him.

“Not you.” It was barely above a whisper, words simply cast out there, and it left the girl looking perplexed, curious and even guilt-stricken or ashamed.

“Well… I shouldn’t fear things I know too little about… that would be silly…” She felt the urge to touch him, wanting him to truly hear her words, wanting to enforce them by touch, yet as her hands reached out to take his all so brazenly her eyes fell upon the flower again. She didn’t really have any wish to touch something dead, it always being such a cold and empty feeling running like ice through her veins, yet she reached out to receive the flower anyway, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “So, if not my fear, what is it this Bakugone wishes of me then?” She slipped on a tender smile, genuine and perfect, her soft fingertips brushing against his.

“I…” He was so focused on how she was touching him, the pressure, the elegance, the perfection, so focused he forgot the words again, so focused on her soft fingertips, her warmth, her pastel-manicured nails, he didn’t realize how the movement had stilled.

“You want to eat my heart.”

Her voice made him look up from where they were conjoined, crimson orbs dragged slowly to meet the oddity of her voice no less her words, yet as he looked, he continued to search because he found no eyes looking back at him, only whites, wide gleaming glowing void whites staring at him.

“You want to rip open my ribcage and feast.” Shaken and confused his brows twisted as he yet again tried to find her eyes. “You want to see me burst and bloom for you.” He hadn’t tried pulling his hand away, not really wanting to either, but he realized he perhaps wouldn’t be able to even if he’d wanted with how hard she was now digging her once soft fingers into his wrist. “You want to cripple me. You want to hear my deathbed confession. You want to lick the sin from my expression.” Her brows were the ones to crinkle now as she inhaled a shuddering breath, her hand shaking as she held onto him, seemingly as though her life depended on it. “You want and you’ve been wanting for so long. You want and want, there’s no end to what you want.” Her voice was now frantic, sporadic, hitched and frightened. “You want more and more and more and more and more-” She shook so much she lost her footing and tripped, staggering back and hitting the dirt with a sharp thud, knocking her out of whatever trance she’d slipped into, no more words coming thundering from her lips except for a cute little exclamation of oof, fluffy skirt puffed out around her like a jellyfish.

“What the fuck!” He shouted once she let go, flower falling to the floor, dropped in the midst of his shock and confusion as to what had happened, yet also feeling embarrassed with how she’d seemed to have caught him red-handed, and shaken with how much she knew, disturbed with how it all had been phrased, yet concerned, concerned because he knew he’d failed, he’d scared her so much she nearly melted, but somehow even more concerned with how she’d hit the ground. “I’m-” She looked up at him and he was left dumbstruck with how wide her eyes were and how full they now seemed with the return of her irises and pupils. No longer looking like wax, but like great gems or galaxies he couldn’t help but fall prey to, especially with how glossy they were, shining and glimmering and wet, wet with tears.

“No wonder you feel gone.” She suddenly mumbled, or it wasn’t exactly a mumble, but in contrast to whatever voice she spoke in before it surely seemed subdued. “Someone’s run off with your heart!” She clumsily got back to her feet, gripping his shoulders, nearly making him stagger back and fall with just how intense and vivid her actions were thrown at him. “You’re in love!” She squealed, nearly screaming it at him, before reeling herself back in, probably only now realizing how she’d attacked the boy. “Excuse me, I mean pardon, I mean I’m terribly sorry if I frightened you.” She backed away, fingers playing with each other as she tumbled through her sentence. “It’s my quirk you see. It has a habit of living its own life. I didn’t mean to spout out your desires like that, it was a total invasion of your privacy and completely rude and unethical on my side. I really am so sorry. Would you forgive me?”

Wasn’t he the one who should be apologizing to her?

He remained stunned and confused and growing even more so by the second as she spoke. “Perhaps I could make it up to you? Perhaps I can help you in your quest to retrieve your heart? Who is the thief?”

And there it was.

She was so overwhelmed she didn’t even pick up who the emotions were for.

Silly thing.

This made him ease up. He hadn’t spoiled everything yet. In fact, she seemed even more enthusiastic now than before, even more eager to talk to him and help him even. “Is it that green-haired boy? What was his name again? Something with D or M, I can’t for the life of me remember! Or perhaps it’s the floaty one? You know, the one with the big brown eyes. No! I know who it is, it’s the one with the shark teeth, and the spikey red hair-” She rambled, and even though some of her suggestions revolted him, he couldn’t bring himself to stop her when she was so… so bouncy with thrill, so cute with how her tits squeezed together in her top and jumped for him with every word that fell from those lushes pink lips that would feel so good to bite into and feel on his neck and down his chest and-

“You can help me.” He suddenly blurted, whipping her from her rambling.

“Really?!” Big eyes, filled with such expectancy and acceptance of whatever he was about to request even without a shred of knowing what. “How?” It was as though it were her life wish to help, that denying him would mean death or something even worse in her eyes.

“By making it up to me.”

His grin returned, the one that lacked… not exactly happiness, because there was still a certain glee to it, a certain enjoyment, yet lacking altruism and was instead left looking greedy and gluttonous and as though he was made up of… teeth, and only teeth, and too many teeth, and that those teeth were too sharp.

“Oh.” She seemed drained of her vigorous passion, like a light snuffed out, swallowing thickly. And though she knew it all to be in her head, knew it all to be but a figment of her fears, she still took a step back as though she’d seen something that worried her, and was quickly followed by what had worried her as Bakugo paralleled her backtracking, leaving her no further away from his hungry open-mouthed smirk.

“Kiss me.” She realized she’d backed all the way into the tree, her back meeting the hard trunk seemed to shake her from her vision as the biting image submerged and left her with a quite normal-looking Bakugo towering over her, no longer Bakugone or just a toothy grin, and she was left deciding whether it was any better or maybe even worse than what she had been picturing.

Yet, she had no time to think as Bakugo’s hand raised to cup her cheek, where in the seconds it took for him to do so, she needed to prepare herself for all his obsessive lovesick thoughts she knew would yet again flood her mind, only now she wouldn’t shake from them, and what more, now she knew who they were about. Poor thing had taken Bakugo’s heart without knowing, without knowing to prepare for Bakugo’s blood-stained scarred hand to reach into her chest and hold her own terror-wide heart in a chokehold as he too took it for himself. Without knowing how to protect herself from his many sharp teeth that would steal and eat to satiate what livid hungry fire, what desperate thirst she’d awoken inside his heart, to relieve the pain of it all, to finally breath again, to find safety, to find belonging, to find life. And she had no way of preparing for it, no way of protecting herself from it, no way of hiding from Bakugo’s sharp teeth… but when his hand, his calloused sandpaper-textured palm handled her cheek she was met with a new image, a soft-tinted mellow yet dramatic rhapsodic fire, one that she rather cherished than feared, one that she felt like chasing, one that seemed like it was calling her.

Bakugo leaned in slowly, as though asking for permission, receiving no complaints, just a set of large eyes staring at him. Her hands, feeling as though their fingertips had plunged deep into the bark of the tree behind her, ripped loose to touch him, feeling the simmering plethora of brutally violent passions swimming beneath them as they hovered on top of his skin. Tasting it on her tongue as he captured her soft lips with his own stiff ones. She could taste the hunger, the teeth, the longing, the pain, the fire, the waiting and time he’d suffered in the darkness all alone, she could taste the war, but more… she could taste the fear, the fear of losing or not having at all, and at the very tip of her tongue, stronger than anything else, she caught it, the flavor crystalized like sugar… hope… love.

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 13

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary: Ahsoka takes Din on a journey through the past.

“You should know though, you might not like what you see.”

Din shakes his head, dismissing the warning. “What’s one more nightmare?”

Rating: T

Word Count: 5,958

Warnings: angst, swearing, character death (canonical, but with my own twist), made up planet name that is ridiculous, dialogue heavy, plot plot plot, backstory

Author Note: Good lord this is soooo late coming out. To anyone who sent me an encouraging message I am beyond grateful because I really needed the encouragement to finish this segment. I hope more than anything this segment gives more answers than it raises questions (although reading your theories is both awesome and entertaining so keep them coming too!)

Links to Part 1 and Part 12 and Part 14

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

“Who the fuck is Moff Gideon?”

Ahsoka looks at Din, her brow furrowed deeply. He’s seen the expression on her face enough times to recognize its meaning: this is the face she makes when she is about to reveal a message directly from the universe itself. As an Oracle, she is the only immortal who can glimpse details of the past, present, and future. She has a soft spot for mortals, sharing the few precious snippets the universe allows her to with them in the forms of riddles and vague prophecies that never fail to give Din a migraine with their crypticness when he hears them.

“Moff Gideon is a Seraph who grew discontent with his position amongst immortals,” she says at last.

“Is he the one responsible for keeping my soulmate from me?” he asks, voice as harsh and unforgiving as the environment surrounding them.

“He is responsible for many sins.”

“I don’t have time for your vague answers,” he growls, hands twisting into fists. “You tell me not to kill this Seraph, then in the next breath claim he’s a threat. I am not a mortal who will be entertained by riddles, Ahsoka. You summoned me here to talk, so start talking. Tell me what you know.”

The Oracle’s mouth purses into a thin line. Nearly a full minute passes before she speaks again. When she does, the calmness is no longer natural, but forced. “Telling you what I know would be impossible.”

“Ahsoka—”

“But,” she pitches her voice higher than his protest while narrowing her eyes disapprovingly, “I am capable of showing you. You should know though, you might not like what you see.”

Din shakes his head, dismissing the warning. “What’s one more nightmare?”

She reaches forward, pressing her index and middle fingers to the center of his visor. If not for his helmet, she’d be touching the space directly between his eyes and instinct tells him the positioning isn’t random.

“We’ll start at the beginning,” she says, but her voice has changed from its usual cadence. It is ancient and youthful, a harsh scream and a hushed whisper all at once.

Din has only the slightest of seconds to process this in addition to the way her facial markings start to glow and her eyes flash white before he finds himself standing in the midst of a crisis.

There is mass hysteria every direction he turns. People screaming in terror, pushing each other and tripping over those who have fallen in their haste to flee an unseen threat; whole buildings are crumbling, sending flaming debris and shards of glass raining down upon the streets as smoke billows into the sky. The edges of his field of view are blurred, like he’s looking at everything through someone’s glasses, and it creates an ache behind his eyeballs. Fuck, is this what it’s like for Ahsoka when she experiences visions?

‘You remember the Fall of Mandalore, don’t you, Death?’ Ahsoka’s voice resonates from deep inside his brain, as if she’s fused her consciousness with his.

His jaw tightens when he says, “Of course.”

‘Oh, look. There you are.’

Sure enough, when Din looks forward he sees himself moving swiftly through the crowd, unaffected by the chaos as he stoops to reap the soul of a woman who’s had her skull caved in by the stampede of frantic civilians. He wonders how many others can say they’ve had an out-of-body-experience such as what he’s dealing with right now: reliving a traumatic event all over again while observing himself the same way a stranger would from a distance.

“Why are you showing me this?”

‘Because it’s important,’ Ahsoka answers, and the image of her frowning face enters his mind unbiddenly. ‘The universe has a plethora of endings imagined for every civilization, but it is the individual choices of the community that act as stepping stones bringing them closer to a specific fate.’

“Mandalore was always meant to fall apart. It was just a matter of how, not when,” he surmises, voice devoid of emotion. His words are punctuated by another fiery blast from a nearby complex, followed by an ear-piercing wall of a terrified child.

‘Precisely. But the same cannot be said for an individual’s lifespan. There are consequences if someone perishes before their time has come. You should know that better than anyone.’ There is a hint of accusation thinly veiled in her tone that has his body tensing reflexively.

His location shifts, shapes and colors mixing together without warning before another scene gradually comes into focus. It’s a large chamber with sparse furnishings, but its beauty is tarnished by the copious amounts of glass littering the room as every single one of the ornately designed windows have been shattered from the force of the explosions outside. Din knows before he even lays eyes on the throne he’s inside the royal palace because he first sees the familiar face of his most trusted reaper standing next to a blond-haired woman. Both women have such strikingly similar facial features nobody who sees them side by side can have any doubt they are related.

Whereas Bo-Katan dons gray-and-blue armor with a jetpack strapped to her back and two blaster pistols holstered at her sides, her sister, Satine, wears a garnet colored dress with a gold belt wrapped around her slender waist. In this moment, the sisters differ from each other as much as night and day; one a military leader, the other a pacifistic duchess.

“You need someone here to protect you. We don’t know who or what we’re dealing with and it isn’t safe for you to be alone,” Bo-Katan argues, crossing her arms over her chest as if to intimidate her sister into submitting.

“Our people are scared and defenseless, Bo. They need your protection during this crisis more than I currently do,” Satine says, voice soft but firm in a way only those deeply involved in politics can master.

Bo-Katan glances out the broken windows at the burning city, stubborn loyalty to protect her sister warring with her duty to protect her people. “Then at least send a message to Obi-Wan to come here.”

Satine shakes her head. “Bo—”

“I know things are strained between you two right now—”

“That’s a glaring understatement.”

“—but he’s one of our best and most loyal guards. He’s proven more than a dozen times he’ll fight anyone who’s a threat to you.”

“I don’t need the reminder of what he’s done for me.”

Bo-Katan places a hand on the blonde’s shoulder and squeezes it when she says, “He’s the only one other than myself I trust to protect you if you were to encounter danger.”

“Just because I’m committed to peace does not mean I am incapable of looking after myself.” Satine reaches behind herself to detach a weapon that had been clipped to the back of her belt. She clicks a button on its hilt, emitting a white blade shining brightly like a beacon amongst the dark clouds of smoke tainting the air.

Din’s breath catches in his throat. “Is that…?”

‘The Lightsaber of Mandalore,’ Ahsoka confirms. ‘Made by the Armorer herself.’

The Armorer is deeply respected by both mortals and immortals alike. As the goddess of metalworking and blacksmiths, there is nothing she cannot forge and infuse with grand powers. However, she is exceedingly cautious about choosing who is a recipient of her creations.

Din is one such recipient, having been given his armor of pure beskar when the Armorer realized how dangerous his touch was to mortals. He remains eternally grateful for the gift not only because it prohibits unwanted physical contact, but also because it is invulnerable to damage or rust like other types of armor. Ahsoka’s dual sabers were also made in the Armorer’s forge, specifically designed for the Oracle’s grip alone and meant to protect her during her journeys throughout the galaxy, but in contrast to the white blade of the Lightsaber, the blades of Ahsoka’s weapons matched the same blue coloring as the stripes on her lekku and montrals.

According to the legends Din’s heard, the Armorer created the Lightsaber for the first ruler of Mandalore because she was impressed with their culture and strong military, and it was passed on to each new heir to the throne over the centuries. When wielded in battle, the Lightsaber made the user invincible against enemy attacks as it siphoned off energy from the souls of those it sliced through.

Throughout the long history of Mandalore, Satine was distinguished as the only ruler to avoid warfare as she sincerely believed negotiations and treaties could solve any problem quicker than bloodshed.

As such, Din isn’t surprised when Bo-Katan raises a judgmental eyebrow. “Did you forget who you’re talking to? I know you wouldn’t use the Lightsaber even to cut a piece of fruit.”

Satine sighs through her nose, sheathing the weapon once more. “Fine. I’ll contact Obi the second you’re gone.”

“You better.” Bo-Katan leans forward, pressing her forehead against her sister’s. A gesture of affection within their culture. “I’ll see you soon.”

And then she’s gone, flying out the nearby window and diving straight into the fray. As a mortal and as a reaper, the redhead is fearless in the face of danger. Some might consider the behavior reckless, but Din’s always been impressed by her dogged tenacity to achieve victory no matter the difficulty of her mission.

Din looks back at Satine. Now that she is alone in the room, she is able to freely express her distress at the unfolding situation, looking as if she’s aged ten years within the blink of an eye. She fiddles with the comlink around her wrist, seeming hesitant to call this Obi-Wan fellow like she agreed to.

‘They haven’t realized it, but they’re soulmates, ’ Ahsoka murmurs, low and melancholic. Hearing it makes Din’s chest constrict with unease. ‘They fought recently and parted ways upset with each other. Unfortunately, she dies before they can resolve their miscommunication.’

The next sequence of events play out startlingly quick, as if Ahsoka has chosen to suddenly jump forward in time. His eyes struggle to absorb the fleeting details—the doors to the throne room being blown open; a Seraph in black armor emerging from the smoke; his voice is unique, velvety and thorny at the same time, as he addresses the duchess by her full name Satine Kryze; Satine attempting to stall as she subtly taps at her comlink, only for the tactic to fail as the foe teleports closer, eliminating the space between them.

“You have something I want,” he tells her, seizing hold of her throat. “You may think you have some idea of what you have in your possession, but you do not.”

One of Satine’s hands claws at his face, attempting to gouge out his eyeballs with her nails, while the other reaches for the Lightsaber. Her fingertips brush against its metal hilt just as he throws her to the floor. The impact knocks the breath out of her lungs, eliciting a strangled gasp, and shards of glass dig into her exposed skin, dotting the pale flesh with beads of blood.

Gideon—Din doesn’t need Ahsoka’s input to know this, for who else could the Seraph be but him?—places the heel of his boot over Satine’s neck. He doesn’t apply pressure yet, but the action in itself has the duchess squirming with panic, hitting at his leg futilely. There is a red light on the comlink flashing insistently, indicating someone on the other end is speaking but they’ve been muted.

“Give me the asset I seek.”

Through clenched teeth, Satine wheezes, “It belongs to Mandalore.”

“I thought you might say that,” Gideon replies, feigning disappointment. “However, in case you haven’t noticed Duchess,” he gestures towards the windows, “Mandalore is dead. My accomplices have made sure of that.”

“You’re a coward for hiding behind others. You don’t deserve the Lightsaber.”

There is a sudden change in the atmosphere, air turning impossibly frigid and crisp.

“I deserve it more than anyone,” Gideon says, angry enough he is trembling. The Seraph’s stance shifts, and although Din has witnessed every type of brutal death imaginable, he flinches at the sound of Satine’s neck snapping beneath his heel.

Gideon rolls her lifeless body over and rips the Lightsaber off her belt, a satisfied smirk on his face. He disappears as quickly as he arrived, reward in hand, and an eerie silence envelops the room. It’s almost as if the palace itself is stunned by the loss of its ruler, struggling to make sense of the merciless act of violence.

Time skips forward again, showing a young bearded-man dressed in military armor clutching at Satine’s body, pressing his forehead against hers as he weeps. Over and over he keeps murmuring apologies for not being quicker, for failing to be there when she needed him, for never saying he loved her.

“How do you know Satine and Obi-Wan are soulmates if they never matched?” Din asks, feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment despite not actually being there.

He thinks of a similarly phrased question he’d asked his angel on their way to Sorgan what feels like entire lifetimes ago: how will I know it’s my soulmate? Her eloquent response remains embedded deep in his memory, safely stored away along with every other moment they’ve spent together. Longing twists like a knife in his side as he allows himself a second of weakness to look at the soulmate marking on his palm.

‘I saw the life they were going to share,’ Ahsoka tells him. ‘Satine Kryze was not meant to die here. She and Obi-Wan should have both survived the Fall of Mandalore, settling down happily with each other elsewhere in the galaxy. Gideon’s greed altered their destinies.’

The palace fades away to reveal a much older Obi-Wan, gray-haired and wrinkled. He’s in Mos Eisley; Din recognizes the crowded spaceport instantly having taken his ship there for repairs numerous times over the years.

‘The universe puts a lot of effort into making sure soulmates match with each other at a very precise moment. Even if the match is rejected, the individuals still had an important impact on each other’s lives. Timing is the most important factor for a soulmate pairing, and if it’s off then the universe will attempt to fix it.’

Obi-Wan stops to help a woman who’s accidentally dropped her shopping bag, contents spilling out onto the sandy ground. She thanks him as he offers her a polite smile, both of their attentions on each other’s faces and not their hands. More specifically: their marked hands. There is the barest brush of their fingertips as they reach for the same item before an invisible blast of energy erupts from their touch, splitting them apart and sending every person and thing surrounding them flying in all directions.

The shock on Obi-Wan’s face matches Din’s own beneath his helmet. He remembers his angel telling him after the failed match with Omera what happened on Sorgan wasn’t the first time an event like that occurred, but she hadn’t been privy to the details. Her superior had told her she wasn’t high enough ranking which Din had thought sounded like a load of bantha shit at the time.

“Ahsoka, what is the meaning of this?” Din asks the questions quietly, but there’s an audible coating of frustration that he knows she won’t miss. “Satine’s dead.”

‘You didn’t reap her soul,’ Ahsoka says. It’s said as a gentle reminder, but it nevertheless has Din feeling like the ground has disappeared beneath his feet as realization dawns.

“I...didn’t.”

A quiet sigh echoes through his head. ‘I forgot how ignorant you can be. You can’t reap a mortal soul that transforms into a new entity.’

“She’s a Cupid,” Din murmurs. Either that or a reaper, but he knows each of his reapers like the back of his hand and Satine isn’t nor has she ever been one. He shakes his head, thinking of Obi-Wan finding Satine’s body in the throne room. “That doesn’t make any sense. Obi-Wan clearly loved her.”

‘Rejection can sometimes stem from a misunderstanding. Satine’s last living encounter with Obi-Wan was him saying so long as he was part of the royal guard they had no future together. She perceived this as him denying he cared about her, not knowing he had made plans to retire in order to ask for her hand.’

In front of Din, Obi-Wan rubs at his soulmate marking while staring at the mess around him, lines of unease and confusion creasing his forehead.

‘You asked, what is the meaning of this moment?’ Ahsoka continues. ‘It’s one of the universe’s attempts to reconnect Obi-Wan and Satine so they experience their matching as they were intended to.’

“But they’re of different statuses,” he points out needlessly. “She’ll outlive him.”

‘Yes, but the matching of soulmates not only influences the lives of the pair, but the lives of other people as well in ways both obvious and invisible. Think of it as a ripple effect.’

“Did the universe’s attempt work?” Din wonders. “Were they ever reunited?”

‘When Satine awoke as a Cupid, it was a surprise to both her and Gideon. Rather than kill her a second time, the Seraph chose to inflict a worse fate. She became the first of her kind to have her memories erased. However, he’d never previously used his ability on another immortal before, resulting in him nearly wiping her entire mind clean. The universe is capable of many miracles, big and small, but every attempt of reuniting the pair failed. It remains the universe’s most profound regret which is ultimately the reason why the universe brought you to Trinomliaxeros without your armor so that history wouldn’t repeat itself.’

There is a strange, heavy feeling that suddenly inflates within the confines of Din’s chest like a balloon. It’s different from the rampant anger he can still detect simmering beneath the skin of his human façade. He tries to shake it off, focusing on his breathing and the desert heat emanating from the twin suns overhead, only to slowly realize that what he’s feeling is fear.

Within his memory he can recall just one other distinct moment in his existence where he felt this spine-chilling emotion, and that moment was experienced on Trinomliaxeros.

“What did you just say?” His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears, but he can’t find any energy within himself to care.

A long stretch of silence fills his head; it’s the fragile kind, too, preventing him from snapping at Ahsoka to answer lest she become angry at him and yank him out the vision entirely.

‘Twice the timing of a soulmate match has been disturbed. The first pair affected was Obi-Wan and Satine. And the second pair was...’

“Ahsoka,” he says when she hesitates to continue, but any additional words he can think of saying catch in the back of his throat.

‘The second pair was you and your angel.’ Another pause of silence, shorter but no less meaningful. ‘Only fifty years ago, she wasn’t an angel.’

This is what Din remembers from Trinomliaxeros: feeling a pull so forceful, impatient and unanticipated it drags him across the galaxy in his civilian clothes, arriving to find the planet engulfed in smoke, unable to see his hand in front of his face, even without his gloves on. Finding skeletal remains burnt to blackened crisps with the souls inside shaking and traumatized, practically leaping into his outstretched hand, knowing either the afterlife or damnation would be better destinations than lingering there even a second longer. Explosions in the distance, bursts of flames as intense and hot as the sun, greedily consuming everything in their radius.

Out of the smoke and darkness, a survivor. A girl, covered in soot and sweat, colliding with his chest. The dead are calling out to him, pleading for him to reap them, to save them. Their voices swirl around his head, clawing at his brain and pounding against his skull. Shoving the girl aside, one foot in front of the other, letting his powers guide him to the next soul. Her voice cuts across the distance, a plasma bolt striking him in the back. We’re soulmates, she says.

His breath stills in his lungs. Fear spreads like a virus through his bloodstream, slipping beneath his defenses, turning him into a stranger within his own body. The declaration is a lie, an impossibility, a delusion. He has no match, hands unmarked, flesh poisonous and lethal. His words, too, are weapons themselves. Sharp, ruthless, desiring to wound her as she’s wounded him. You could never be my soulmate.

And then he’d left her.

This is what Din remembers. But, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it hurts, I’ve remembered everything all wrong.

Phantom hands gently press against the sides of his helmet, offering comfort without caring about the dried blood. He keeps his eyes shut, knowing it’s just a manifestation crafted by Ahsoka in his head. ‘Don’t blame yourself. This was the only viable outcome the universe could produce to ensure the bad timing would be remedied in the future,’ she says, but it does little to lessen the weight on his chest. ‘Your rejection saved her life. It granted you both a second chance of a first meeting.’

“How did—” Din struggles to string words together, to fucking breathe. “She—She knew. What we were. How…?”

The Oracle puts him out of his misery. ‘She found out the way all soulmates do: through touch.’

Din’s eyes fly open at that, and he has to blink a few times to bring everything into focus because there’s him and his angel right in front of him, frozen mid-collision. She’s grasping the sleeves of his coat to keep her balance, the palm of her marked hand touching his wrist. He stares at the point of contact for a moment, then barks out a laugh, hysterical and strangled sounding.

“That’s not possible.”

‘Soulmates can’t kill each other. She’s always been meant to withstand your touch.’

Din swallows thickly, staring at his angel’s face. He hates the question forming on his tongue, but it will haunt him the rest of his life if he doesn’t ask it. “In your visions, when I meet her at the right time, what happens?”

'You’re different by then, less broody and more accepting of the notion you could be loved. You have a soulmate marking,’ Ahsoka tells him. ‘You fall for her hard, even before your hands brush. You love her throughout the entirety of her lifetime.’

“And...when she dies?” The words taste like blood in his mouth.

‘Don’t torture yourself, Death. That timeline doesn’t exist anymore.’

For one brief, fleeting second Din is actually grateful Gideon altered their destinies. However, in the next, he’s trying not to let the fear gnawing at the back of his mind increase as it belatedly occurs to him that the universe is not as infallible as he’s always believed it was.

He wishes he could see Ahsoka, if only so he could glare at her directly. “Everything you’ve shown me has only further convinced me Gideon deserves death. Why have you asked me to promise not to kill him?”

'Do you remember what happens after this moment on Trinomliaxeros?’

Din frowns at the change of subject. “I continued to reap souls.”

'Yes. And then?’

He huffs a frustrated breath through his nose. This is Ahsoka, he thinks, at her most annoying. But, as much he loathes admitting it, this is also the most helpfully transparent she’s ever been. Today may be the only time she trusts him enough to share her visions. He owes it to her to be as open as she’s being with him.

That being said, he’s still wary of the memories he’s kept in the distant, shadowy corners of his mind being pulled into the spotlight. “Tell me we’re not gonna talk about the kid.”

‘We talked about the universe’s biggest regret. It’s only fair we talk about yours too.’ Ahsoka has found the crack in his armor he’s tried so long to conceal, peeling it open without remorse.

She doesn’t spare him time to argue. All he does is blink and he’s looking at his past self locked in a staring contest with a little green-skinned child who is propped up inside a floating, orb-shaped pram.

Of all the buildings and homes on the planet, only its temple had remained untouched by the destruction. Din didn’t know if it had been the structure’s own holy foundation keeping it standing or if it was the personal choice of the mastermind behind the attack, but he’d been drawn to it regardless, finding souls there to reap whose hosts had differed from other victims in that their throats had been slit. The walls of the temple were adorned with intricate murals depicting immortal figures and religious events of ancient history, but before he could observe the artwork closer, a quiet coo had stopped him in his tracks.

When he opened the pram, he hadn’t anticipated finding a baby of all creatures. When their eyes connected, every background noise abruptly ceased. Even the voices of the dead fell silent. Rather than rouse his suspicions, Din had felt only a sense of peace he usually only experienced in the midst of hyperspace travel where the stars were his voiceless companions.

An unspoken conversation transpired between the two of them, one Din still can’t translate into words all these years later, but it concluded with him knowing he would take the child with him.

Din had reached for him unthinkingly, the child lifting his arms up in eagerness to be held, but self-awareness kicked in right before contact and Din retracted his hands away so fast it startled the child into crying, brown eyes filling with tears. Panicked, he surveyed the room, looking for something to put an end to the wailing, before looking down at his own coat, experiencing a lightbulb moment.

“Alright, kid, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Watching his past self shrug off the coat, Din remembers it had been his favorite of his civilian clothes, well worth the cost for its soft fabric and length. He managed to successfully swaddle the child, ensuring his arms were safely tucked away to prevent him endangering his life, and Din exhaled a quiet breath of relief when the tears dried up almost immediately.

However, the ensuing silence wasn’t as peaceful as the previous one. Both past and present Din turn at the sound of distant shuffling echoing off the temple walls from another room.

“Ignore it,” Din tells his past self. “Just take the kid and leave.”

But his plea goes unheard and the past remains unchanged. Ahsoka is silent inside his head, either because she knows he won’t accept any more comforting words or because she thinks he’s undeserving of them for choosing to leave the child behind in his pram, closing it when he starts to whine again, so Din can go investigate the noise.

Din exhales a quiet breath, fingers twitching restlessly at his sides as he watches himself stalk through the temple halls, checking each room he comes across. It’s strange, seeing himself from this perspective. The distanced viewpoint allows Din to glimpse new details he hadn’t been capable of noticing back then.

Such as the reappearance of a familiar Seraph emerging from the shadows to stab him in the back.

Here’s one of the perks about being Death: he can’t be killed. That fact doesn’t mean there haven’t been attempts though. As Death, people sometimes look at his armor as a challenge. Like if they can fire a shot or throw a knife at just the right angle, it’ll wound him and allow them to live longer. Simply put, all those people are idiots.

When he looks like a regular, unintimidating civilian, he’s also been involved in violent predicaments where someone’s attempted to mug him or where he’s tried to save someone else from a similarly sticky situation.

Armor or no armor though, he’s always walked away from these encounters completely unscathed.

Well. With the sole exception of Trinomliaxeros where he was mostly unscathed.

It wasn’t the first time Din had been stabbed before. Usually knife wounds felt like a mild pinch. More irritating than painful, similar to a splinter stuck in one’s thumb. Once the weapon was removed, the damage healed within seconds, leaving behind no scar or proof he was ever attacked.

Usually, is the keyword to note here.

Ahsoka freezes time right when the blade of the Lightsaber is driven straight through the center of Din’s body, bone and flesh as easy to slice through as melted butter. His agonized expression—eyes screwed shut and lips open in a silent scream—would be comical if Din didn’t remember the exact emotions he was feeling in that moment.

Instead of a pinch, it’d felt as if thousands of invisible hands were pulling and scratching at him, attempting to strip apart his human exterior layer by layer—peeling off skin, scraping away muscle and bone marrow, seeking to reach the core of himself where his powers resided.

‘Looks like it hurts,’ Ahsoka says. The return of her naturally calm and neutral tone of voice seems almost cruel given the frozen, graphic display.

Din again wishes he could glare at her. “Is this funny to you?”

‘The transformation of the Lightsaber into the Darksaber is anything but funny.’

Lost in recollection, he failed to notice until now how the blade of the Lightsaber has changed in color from white to black. It’s the same inky hue that absorbs the brown in his eyes, that had dyed his veins during the execution of Hess.

‘The Armorer specifically instructed the Lightsaber only be used against enemies. As a neutral entity, you are, by definition, no one’s ally or adversary. By stabbing you, the saber became corrupted. It is a consequence Gideon still has yet to fully realize the monumental repercussions of.’

Time resumes, Din’s past self collapsing onto the floor, pressing a hand to the throbbing hole in his chest, attention too consumed by the franticness of his powers struggling to repair the trauma to notice Gideon lingering behind him. The Seraph’s stunned look of shock lasts barely ten seconds, morphing into one of deep contemplation as his gaze flicked between the weapon and Din, before he vanished.

When Din recovered enough to stand, he teleported back to the child’s location at once. He needs to get the little guy as far away from here as possible, somewhere peaceful and safe. His planning came to an abrupt halt upon finding the pram open and empty, his coat shredded and scattered about the floor in pieces.

“Gideon took him.” It isn’t a question.

‘Yes,’ she confirms. ‘The child was the intended target of this siege.’

“Why?”

‘He’s...very special.’ There is something about how her voice hitches when she says ‘special’ that has Din’s instincts prickling with alertness, but he holds his tongue. ‘Gideon considers him a tool he can take advantage of.’

The ugly, tight mass of anger swells inside of him and presses against his lungs, resulting in a low growl slipping out of his mouth. He curses his own ineptitude. If he’d paid more attention, hadn’t allowed himself to be wounded, he could have subdued Gideon and spared both his angel and the child from being captured.

“I warned you once upon a time, there would be consequences if you released your darkness,” Ahsoka says, her voice no longer emitting from inside his head. The vision fades back into reality the same sudden, jarring way one wakes up from dreaming. It takes all of Din’s self-restraint not to perform a full-body shake. “Your control is slipping as your rage increases. It’s making you not think clearly which is exactly what Gideon wants. That is the reason I am asking you to promise you will not kill him.”

Put like that, Din no longer thinks her request sounds quite so outlandish, even though he does still remain in the dark as to what consequences exactly will unfold. Ahsoka has remained stubbornly tight-lipped about the topic from their very first encounter, claiming the universe is adamant she can only share the details with one other person and it isn’t him.

“He deserves to die for all he’s done,” Din says quietly, but he’s self-aware to know his resistance is beginning to crumble.

“Between you and me, I think so, too,” she admits in the same low tone. Her ocean eyes are dark and stormy, reflecting her internal turmoil. “But rules are made for a reason and we would be fools to carelessly overlook the consequences of breaking them.”

The accusatory note from earlier has returned with a vengeance. He’s not surprised—of course the universe would utilize the Oracle to express its disapproval—but aggravation still thrums through his veins.

“Hess played a hand in my soulmate’s fate. He called her a whore.” Din’s upper lip twitches with the urge to snarl. “I don’t regret what I did to him.”

Ahsoka sighs. “I was afraid you’d say that. When you swore your creed, you promised the universe you’d only reap a soul when their host’s time has reached its destined end. By killing Hess, you not only broke a sacred rule, you also broke your creed.”

Din recoils, feeling like he’s been stabbed with the Lightsaber all over again.

“...What?” The anger is gone, extinguished by the weight of the revelation. Confusion and wariness are quick to fill the void. “What does that mean?”

She looks away then, but not quick enough to hide her troubled expression. “I...don’t know.”

He blinks, mind scrambling to understand the implications. “Isn’t that your purpose? To know everything?”

“For the very first time, the future’s unclear to me,” she murmurs, eyes briefly turning cloudy as if she’s trying to take a peek at the potential timelines right then and there. She shakes her head a beat later, frowning. “There are many choices left to be made, each one capable of influencing the fate of the galaxy. It is not possible at this time for me to predict our upcoming reality, let alone your consequences. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Din says, because it’s the truth and he doesn’t like seeing her crestfallen expression. Fuck, he might actually consider her a friend after all.

Whatever happens, he thinks to himself, it can’t be any worse to deal with than being separated from his soulmate. If he can survive this, he can survive anything.

“The last promise I made was broken.” He bites back a wince at the memory of his angel’s pinky promise. “But if making another one is the only way you’ll take me to my soulmate, then you have my word. I won’t kill him.”

A ghost of a smile pulls at her lips before she grabs hold of one of his vambraces. “Take me to your ship. I will guide you to her location.”

“You don’t trust me to go alone?” he asks, unsure whether to be amused or indignant.

“No,” Ahsoka replies bluntly.

Din huffs. “Fine.”

“I may not be able to see much at the moment, but I know it’s never wise to turn down support. You’re going to need us.”

“Us?”

“It’s Bo-Katan’s choice to make, but you and I both know she’s never been one to back down from a fight. Especially once she learns Gideon is her sister’s murderer.”

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[berrynarrybanana]

My Only Angel

A/N: A rewrite of one my favorite pieces that I’ve ever done. I added an entire extra part onto it and I hope that you all enjoy the new addition. 

Warnings: Smut, alcohol use, mentions of drug use, tiny bit of a daddy kink

Word Count: 5k+

I promise to edit this later, but for now, I am posting this as is! 

Masterlist 

The bass was shaking the sticky floor of the club, shooting straight up your spine as you swayed on your sore feet. It had been a long night and you were slowly starting to fade. The party was dwindling down, some of your friends trailing off to the bathroom to do lines before they moved onto the next party that would surely be held at someone’s flat. You were leaning heavily against Harry, his large (and deliciously warm) palm resting on your side as you sipped at the water in your hands. Your head found his shoulder almost an hour ago, the soft tendrils of his curls tickling your bare shoulders and collarbones as he chatted with one of your mutual friends. 

Harry had been trying to get away from the conversation for the last sixty minutes, squeezing your side sympathetically every time Nick brought up a new topic to chat about. It was only after someone pulled Nick’s attention away that you were able to escape from the elitist bar with Harry’s blazer draped over your shoulders. His fingers easily tangled with yours as he pushed the front door open, flashes greeting your heavy eyes aggressively. You knew the drill better than you knew most of the people Harry considered friends. Keep your head down, eyes on your feet, let Harry lead the way, and don’t talk. It wasn’t hard to do in theory, but in practice it proved to be a little bit harder than it sounded.

Harry shut the door behind you, jumping as a pap started to smack the glass. Harry’s driver, Benny, was quick to step on the gas at Harry’s command. Harry’s right hand slipped over your knee as the fingers on his left hand started to toy with his bottom lip nervously. You gave him a soft, reassuring smile when he looked in your direction with concerned eyes. He let out a shuddery sigh of relief before leaning over to kiss your forehead. You tucked yourself into his side once more, letting your eyes drift shut as Harry pulled out his phone. 

When you finally made it into his newly renovated home, you let out a content sigh. Lifting one leg at a time, you pulled at the straps of your heels until they fell in a heap by the front door. It wasn’t like you wouldn’t pick them up later and pack them away again. You were only here for a few days before you traveled off to another destination for work. As much as you hated it at times, you owed your demanding and stressful career for giving you Harry. Without a work trip to Amsterdam, you wouldn’t be sitting on his kitchen island while he kissed your lips. 

“Missed you.” He brushed his nose against yours as you let out a soft hum, your chapped lips curving into a smile. “How long ‘ave we got?”

“Four days.” You brushed your fingers against the crisp, white fabric of his button up. “But I don’t intend on leaving this house for anything.”

“S’that so?” He chuckled, ducking his head down bashfully. “Not even to visit Mum for a night?”

“Doesn’t sound half bad, I have to admit.” Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as you peppered kisses over his forehead. “I do miss her sangria.”

“I’ll let her know to make a batch.”

Your head tilted back, a breathy sigh of pleasure escaping from your lips as he sponged kisses over your collarbone. You felt it in your core first, the soft aching reminding you that it had been a while since you’d last been with Harry. If you remembered correctly, it had been at least six months since you’d last had him in a tiny Paris hotel room. It had been six months since you’d felt him, really felt him give it to you like you needed. Just as your fingernails dug into his broad shoulders, the doorbell rang out loudly. It made you jump, causing Harry to laugh into your neck before he pulled away. 

“Ordered us some food.” He pressed a fleeting kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ll be right back, angel.”

You watched him walk away with a pout on your lips and an unsatisfied throbbing between your legs. Had he been quick enough, he could have had you on the countertop before the food arrived. A quickie was better than nothing, and right now that’s what you had - nothing. Impatiently you waited for Harry’s return, gripping the edge of the counter with puffed out cheeks as your feet swung back and forth. Your heels tapped against the sleek cabinets softly as you looked over his kitchen, The remodel was finally done and you were so proud of what Harry had done with his London home. It was undeniably him, from the cabinets to the paint in his bedroom. A smile graced your lips when you noticed a picture of you and Harry hung in a cluster of photos on the wall. 

You were sandwiched between a picture of Harry with the band, and a picture of Gemma and Harry on the beach. You were so enamored with the pictures on his wall that you almost didn’t notice him walking back into the kitchen. Without the light flipping on suddenly, you probably wouldn’t have noticed him. A groan left your lips at the sudden brightness, and a chuckle left his at the sound of your annoyed noise. He set the takeout bag on his countertop before turning towards the cabinets opposite of where you sat. Two plates later and Harry was by your side, scooping chips onto your plate with his nimble fingers. He handed you the white, ceramic plate with a quick peck before he turned back to make his own plate up. 

“Sir,” You hummed out, popping a chip into your mouth, “Where is my malt vinegar and tomato sauce.”

“It’s comin’, angel.” He snorted, shaking his head before he lifted his thumb to his mouth. 

Your face paled and your lips parted as you watched him suck the salt off the tip of his finger absentmindedly. He turned around on socked heels, moving towards the brand new fridge to retrieve the condiments you requested. He held the bottles between his fingers, reaching out for his plate with one hand before he nodded towards the doorway of his kitchen. 

“Let’s take this upstairs and get comfortable.” He suggested. “I’m dying to get out of these bloody jeans.”

“They keep getting tighter and tighter, don’t they.” Your eyebrows moved in a suggestive manner as Harry rolled his eyes, turning his back towards you as you hopped from the countertop. “I do have to say I’m enjoying it.”

“You already know how big my dick is, there’s not really much left for you to imagine.” He snorted out a laugh as you both walked down the hallway, towards the staircase. 

“Your bum looks really fucking good in them though.” With a soft pinch to his rounded cheek, you proved your point.

“Oi!” Harry jumped, shooting a playful glare over his shoulders. “Keep your hands to yourself, missus. I don’t need my house smelling like malt vinegar because your grabby hands made me drop the bottle.” 

“You love my grabby hands.” You giggled as you followed him up the staircase. “Have I told you that I love the remodel yet?”

“Mentioned it once or twice.” He chuckled lowly. “Thank you for all of your very strong opinions on the color palette, by the way.”

“You’re very welcome.” You hummed out, reaching for a chip as you cleared the last few steps of the staircase. “I think it looks really nice.”

“I really like the darker tones that you picked.” He pushed his bedroom door open with his elbow, revealing the emerald, burnt orange, and blush tones of his bedroom. “I especially love your idea for the bedroom.”

“It’s almost as if people pay me to write about this kind of stuff.” You snorted, setting your plate down on the side of his bed that you claimed over a year ago. “Wild.”

“Piss off.” He rolled his eyes, setting his own plate on the velvet comforter. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you something comfy to change into.”

“Mkay.” You effortlessly lifted the hem of your little black dress over your head, dropping the garment to the floor before you slid under the emerald sheets. 

The rich, jewel tones combined with the blush and light tan created the perfect seventies rockstar vibe. The shapes and artwork on his wall brought pieces of his favorite time period to his everyday life, fueling his inspiration as continued to embark on his musical journey. After Harry returned, already dressed in his pajamas, you took the vintage band shirt he offered with a smile. You slipped it over your body as he climbed in bed next to you. The two of you settled into a comfortable silence, eating your late night fish and chips with content hums and greasy fingers. You felt your head start to come down from the high the tequila brought you, the dizzy cloud hanging over your head drifting away with each bite you took. When you were finished with your food, Harry disappeared with your dirty plates before returning with two large glasses of water. He turned the lights off in the bedroom, handing you a glass with firm instruction. 

“Drink up.” He started to sip at his own water as you rolled your eyes, tipping the glass back like you were asked. 

When your water was downed and you were finally laying down next to Harry, you reached up to brush your knuckles over his cheek with a sleepy smile. 

“Hi.” You whispered. 

“Hello, lovely.” He turned his head, kissing your wrist softly. “I’m glad to have you back for a while. It’s been far too long since we’ve caught up.”

“I know.” Your hips wiggled until you were nearly flush with Harry’s front, your legs slotted between his as your hand brushed over his side. “I missed you.”

“I missed you.” He mumbled against your forehead. “Don’t leave me for so long again.”

“If I recall, you left me in Los Angeles.” With a tilt of your head, you capture his lips with your own in a tender and slow kiss. 

Everything was innocent until your hand slipped between your bodies, subtly palming his cock through the plaid of his pajama pants. Harry gasped when you bit down on his lower lip, palming him with a little more enthusiasm than before. It didn’t take long for Harry to have you on your back, his hips pressing yours into the mattress with little rolls and grinds. Desperate hands pushed under soft shirts, grasping at clammy skin as Harry started to kick the duvet towards the end of the bed. When his lips started to trail over your jaw, and down your neck, you started to lose the patience you had stored up. 

You didn’t want to wait any longer. 

Impatiently, you tugged at Harry’s shirt until it was over his head and on the floor alongside your dress. Your shirt was the next to go, falling in a heap with the other fabric as Harry sponged kisses over the swell of your breast. 

“Harry,” You gasped as his tongue swirled over your nipple. “Please, baby.”

“M’getting there.” His voice was low and hoarse as he moved to your other breast “Let me take my time, angel.”

“Please, Harry.” Your fingers scratched lightly against his back as your hips lifted up. “I can’t wait.”

He lifted his head from the crook of your neck, looking down at your face with a smug grin. 

“You need it that bad, angel?” Sparse kisses were left over your warm cheek as Harry waited for your answer. “Need to hear you say it.”

“I need you.” You whispered. “I need you to fuck me.”

“There’s my good girl.” 

His lips pressed into yours hungrily as your hands pushed his pajama pants down. 

You gripped his bum, making sure to dig your nails into the sensitive skin softly. Your giggle was drowned out by the groan that vibrated against your lips. He didn’t stop though, his tongue slipping over yours as he pushed your panties to the side. Your hand worked over his cock in long, slow pumps as he panted against your lips. Soon, he was the one who was desperate to be inside of you. His hips were rutting into your hand, the leaking tip of his cock bumping against your soft thigh as you continued to tease him. 

“Thought you needed me.” He let out a breathy chuckle, glancing between your naked bodies to watch your hand stroking over his cock. “Let me in, angel.”

“I’m having fun.” You whispered, adjusting your head on the mound of soft pillow behind you as Harry looked into your eyes. 

“I’m not.” He grumbled. “Promise to make it so good for you, angel.” 

“I know it’ll be good.” You lifted your chin, puckering your lips out. “Kiss me.”

When his lips met yours, you guided the head of his cock towards your entrance. 

It took him no time at all to sink into your velvety walls. 

When you initiated this, you assumed the movements between you would be fast and desperate. You were both tired and sobering up, the clock reading well past three a.m. on Harry’s bedside table. In theory, you should be trying your best to rub one out before passing out in a heap in the middle of the bed. But Harry refused to let your first time after six months apart be rushed and desperate. His thrusts were planned and deliberate, sharp and precise as he hovered over your body with hungry eyes and a clenched jaw. His curls brushed against your neck and your chest, causing you to giggle and shrink away from time to time. 

“I swear to fuck I’ve never felt anything so heavenly.” Harry gasped against your cheek before his head tilted down. He watched his cock, coated in your combined arousal, plunging in and out of your needy walls. “So tight and wet fo’ me, aren’t you angel.”

“Yes.” Your fingernails dug into the slick skin of his sides, searching for something to keep you anchored to this earth. “I’m close.”

“Can feel it.” He nipped at your bottom lip. “Squeezing me so tight.”

“Are you close?” A whimper followed your question, the head of Harry’s cock nudging the perfect spot in your walls. “Fuck, H.”

“Yeah, angel, I’m right there.” Nimble and calloused fingers started to circle your clit, moving in the direction that never failed to push you over the edge. “Cum fo’ me, love. Cum on your favorite cock.”

Your lips parted, breath catching in your throat as you clenched your eyes shut. 

The tight knot in your lower belly exploded, causing your toes to curl into the sheets and your hips to lift off the bed. Soon, they were pushed right back down as Harry grunted into your collarbone, his hips pushing forward as his cum coated your walls. The skin of his chest against yours was tacky and warm, sweat shared between you both as his arms wrapped around your torso to keep you close as your walls milked his cock.

When all was said and done, you were sprawled over Harry’s chest. 

Your fingers trailed over his butterfly tattoo as you tried to keep the blissful smile from your lips. 

“I love you.” Harry’s nose nuzzled into the hair at the top of your head, his words causing your finger - and your steady breathing- to stop. “I love you so fucking much and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t. I’m tired of going to these parties and spending our nights out with those people. I’m tired of acting like this is just something we do when we’re bored of everyone else, Y/N. I love you and I need to know if you feel the same way.”

Your eyes watered, a happy emotion bubbling up in your chest as you tried to process his words. 

Harry loved you. 

Harry loved you. 

Harry loved you.

“You were never just something to pass the time when I was bored.” You croaked out, lifting your head up as a few tears fell onto his chest. “I’ve always loved you, Harry, and I don’t ever want to let you go.”

“M’yours if you’ll have me.” His voice was gruff as he lifted a hand, brushing his thumb over your soft cheek to catch your tears. “I promise.”

“If you’re mine, them I’m yours.” You pushed forward, connecting your lips. “S’about time you made a move. You’ve been calling me missus for years.”

You snuggled back into Harry’s chest as he let out a tired chuckle. 

“Always knew you’d be my missus one day.” He mumbled. “Gonna keep you around forever, angel.”

                                                     🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊

You had the string of the tea bag twirled around your forefinger.

Slowly, you dipped it into the mug of steaming water, humming along to the record you put on Harry’s vinyl player in the corner of his kitchen. Even after your very late, and very active night, you couldn’t find it in yourself to stay in bed past seven, no matter how hard you tried. That was something you had in common with Harry. You were both early risers, your natural body clocks pulling you out of slumber as the sun started to rise in the sky. 

After laying in bed for an hour with open eyes and a silly smile, replaying Harry’s words from the night before, you decided to stumble out of bed for a cup of tea. You slipped Harry’s discarded pajama pants, pulling the red and black checked flannel up your legs and over your hips before you grabbed his shirt. It was one of your favorite shirts he owned and you knew that he would have some choice words to share with you when he saw the fabric hanging off your frame. 

You set Harry’s mug aside as your tea steeped, leaving the bag in his mug without any added water. If you were going to get some work done while you could, you didn’t want his tea to go cold on the counter. Blowing the steaming liquid in your mug gently, you turned towards your laptop on the kitchen island, pressing your hip against the edge of the granite countertop. Your mug found it’s home by your left hand as you powered up your laptop. 

Harry liked to joke that you were a workaholic and that you needed to learn about work life balance, but you would always snort at his words and roll your eyes. He knew he was being hypocritical, but he loved getting a rise out of you from time to time. If you were being honest, you loved letting him do it. When your laptop was on, you started to move the wireless mouse around the granite countertop, squinting your eyes at the picture your editor sent you. As you lifted your mug of tea to your lips, you heard the shuffling of socked feet against the hallway floors. A happy smile pulled at the corner of your lips when Harry’s lips pressed into the back of your head, his fingers curling around your shoulder to stable himself as you put your tea down. 

“Woke up this mornin’ and I couldn’t find my pajamas.” His voice was still thick with sleep, his words cracking on every other syllable. “But I guess I’ve found the culprit.”

“Guess so.” You chuckled softly, tilting your head back as you lifted your hand to squeeze his fingers that rested against your shoulder. “Kettle is still hot.”

“You mean to tell me-” His arms were quick to slip around your body, pulling you close as he whispered in your ear. “You stole my pajamas, left me in bed all alone, and now you’re not even gonna fix me a bloody cup of tea? How positively rude of you, my love.”

“Harry!” You giggled and squirmed as he began to nip playfully at the skin of your neck. 

“What love?” He teased, squeezing you hard as he moved you back from the counter. “Can’t handle a bit of scruffy kisses.”

“More like toothy kisses!” You squealed as he lifted you a little, your toes brushing against the hardwood floors. “You’ve got no scruff!”

“Take tha’ back!” He laughed loudly, his arms loosening around you before he flipped you around. You were facing him now, his sleepy smile creating little wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, and his lips raspberry red. You glanced down quickly to see him in only his boxer briefs, his tattoos on full display. “Take it back right now.”

“No,” You giggled before pressing your lips together, shaking your head defiantly.

“Take. It. Back,” He said slowly, backing you towards the counter with a sinister smirk on his lips. You shook your head again and he returned the gesture with a soft chuckle. “You’re a brat.”

“I am not.” You smirked. “I’m an angel.”

“An angel?” He snorted, rolling his eyes. “You’re a little devil, that’s what you are.”

You tossed your arms around his neck, gripping his hair as he ducked his head to your neck again, nipping at your skin as your back hit the counter. “Harry,” You said in a soft warning.

“What?” He mumbled into your skin. “Can’t take it?”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” You whispered, rolling your lips in after you’d said it. He lifted his head, his eyes narrowed playfully.

“You think I won’t finish this?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. “You think I won’t take you right here?”

“I know you won’t,” You taunted him, biting your lower lip. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would,” He chuckled, his fingers already digging into the band of his own pants on your hips. He snapped the band softly before leaning in to brush his lips against yours. “Turn round love.”

“Make me,” You whispered, quirking your brow up with a smirk of your own.

Harry laughed softly before spinning you around.

Your hands slapped down on the countertop, steadying you as your knees began to quake ever so slightly in anticipation. He quickly pulled your pants down, your panties sliding with them as he kissed over your t-shirt covered shoulder. Your lower belly clenched from the swift movement and you nearly moaned out as his hand gripped your bare bottom, squeezing softly as he sighed out. With a pained moaned, Harry’s thumbs spread you apart, baring you for his hungry eyes to feast upon. The cool air has you clenching, your eyes fluttering shut as you inhaled. 

Soon, his fingers skimmed around your hip to part your clenched thighs, slipping between your legs in a teasing manner. He brushed the tops of your right thigh with his nails in a light scratch as he pushed your hair aside with his free hand, kissing over the back of your neck. You were practically thrumming now. You didn’t know you were ready for him until he’d started teasing you so charmingly. That man could make you wet within seconds just with a look.

“Do you want it like my shirt says love?” He whispered in your ear, causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand up. 

You were confused for a moment as he pushed your feet aside with his own, spreading you a little more as his right hand pulled your hips back towards his, his left hand pushing your lower back until you were in place with your ass up and your knees knocked to the countertop. You felt so vulnerable and open, the cool morning air brushing past your soaked lips as Harry put you into the perfect position. You gasped when you finally felt him, the leaking tip of his cock brushing over your ass before he moved it between your legs. He brushed his tip over your lips, the sound shooting straight to your core as you wiggled your ass just a little for him in the form of a desperate plea.  

“Yeah, my angel wants it hot n’ hard this morning.” A devilish chuckle caused you to whimper before your teeth sunk into your lower lip. “Isn’t that right?

“Fuck, Harry.” You keened out as Harry sunk into your waiting walls, bottoming out swiftly. 

“You didn’t answer my question, angel.” He tutted, settling his hands on your hips as you felt your walls flutter around his shaft. “Tell me how you want it.”

“I want it,” You gasped out, nodding your head. “I want it just like that, Harry. Please fuck me like your shirt says, please.”

“See,” He grunted, pulling back out to the tip before pushing in again quickly, knocking your hips forward. “You’re no angel.”

“I am,” You whimpered  as he started his rhythm, desperate whines pulling from your lips as he continued his torturously slow thrusts. “M’an angel, H. I’m your angel.”

“Prove it love.” He gritted out between clenched teeth as you clenched around him. “Be good for me, my love. Be the sweet angel that I know you are.”

“I’m your angel, I- I promise,” You cried out as his hips started to pick up speed. He still pulled out, holding his tip in your entrance for a moment before slamming back in, but it was quicker and a little sloppier than before. You could tell that he was close. “Harry fuck, please.”

“Please, what?” He gasped, pressing his chest into your back as his right hand slipped up to fondle your breast, his left hand sliding down to your clit. “You want me to make you cum?”

“Oh,” You cried out as he started to roll his hips, his thrusts deeper with the new angle he was fucking you at. “Yes, please make me cum around your cock. Please make me cum, daddy.” 

“Such dirty words from such a pretty mouth.” His breath was hot against your ear for just a second, his hips knocking yours flush against the countertop with harsh thrusts. “Thought you were my angel?”

“I am!” You cried out as he lifted his chest slightly, his right hand gripping your hip tightly as he held you in place. “M’your angel.”

“Not with a dirty mouth like that,” He chuckled darkly as your torso fell to the countertop. “My beautiful girl, you want so bad to be good for me don’t you? You want to make daddy proud, don’t you?”

You nodded eagerly as he grunted, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a low curse.

“Then cum for me,” He growled out the order, moving his fingers faster against your clit. “Cum.”

By some miracle, his command had your body slipping over the edge just moments later. Maybe it was the sound of your hips smacking together in a place that wasn’t meant for sex. Or maybe it was the grip he had on your hip, holding you in place while he fucked into you without mercy. Or maybe it was just your body wanting to prove that you were his obedient little angel. It was like you belonged to him in the sweetest and most sensual way. 

Your ograsm hit you like an earthquake, causing you to toss your head back as your knees turned to jello. He stilled inside of you, crying out as he fell into you, pressing you harder into the countertop so that you both had some sort of support as he released himself inside of you just like he did last night. Nothing felt better than going bare with him, nothing felt better than him cumming deep inside of you this way, claiming you as his own in some sort of primal way. 

“Fuck,” You cried out, your voice hoarse and your throat dry. “Just wanted a bloody cup of tea you animal.”

“This was all you,” He snorted out a laugh, kissing your shoulder repeatedly as he slowly slipped out of you, trying not to hiss as the chilly morning air hit his softening cock. “You taunted me.”

“You were being mean to me,” You pouted, turning around slowly to look up at him. “Called me a brat and everything.”

“You know you’re my angel.” He rolled his eyes playfully. “You always will be.”

“Thank you,” You hummed softly as he gripped your hips and pulled you closer for a deep kiss before peppering his lips over your cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” He mumbled into your lips, smiling at the new sentiment that you now had the chance to share with each other. “But I am tired and I would like to spend the morning in bed with you.”

“I’ve got some work to do.” You whispered. “I’ll make you some tea and you can snuggle up on the couch?”

“S’not the same.” He pouted, whining softly. “I want you next to me, my love.”

“Fine, I’ll sit with you for a little bit.”

“Thank you,” He smiled happily. “Can you bring me cereal too?”

“Yes, master.” You snorted, rolling your eyes again. “Right after I finish cleaning myself up and putting my clothes back on.”

“I have an even better idea though,” He whispered lowly, brushing his nose against yours. “I take you upstairs and clean you up with my mouth and we don’t put clothes back on at all.”

“Fucking hell.” You whimpered as he dipped a hand down between your legs again, plunging his middle finger into your walls. “Harry, I’m-“

“Shh, let me clean you up,” He smirked, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Let me have a taste of us. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day after all, angel.”

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Stalker X Stalker, Part 5

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Perma tag: @nathleigh

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades @jayjayspixiepop @blueslushgueen @fan-written @seraphichana @nerd-nowandforever

Marinette listened in on Tim for three days.

Not actively, of course, she didn’t hang onto every word he said. She just let her consciousness drift in and out of the conversations he had while she worked on finishing up the outfit she had designed for Audrey...

And, yeah, she was getting to the point where she was willing to bet on him being an okay guy. Better than okay, even. He was just so… genuine?

The first two days he had come in sick. She knew the signs of working while sick by heart, the trudging around and the groaning and the constant banging your head on the desk when you pass out randomly, and damn she was pretty sure even she wasn’t as bad as him. He probably shouldn’t be working at all, to be honest, he was CEO and there was nothing stopping him from taking the day -- or even just a few hours -- off. But, no, from the sound of it he was drinking ungodly amounts of coffee and calling it okay.

And despite the fact that he seemed absolutely miserable, he hadn’t taken it out on anyone. She had yet to hear him be impolite to anyone, not even the people that worked under him. His secretary had made a scheduling mistake and he had not only assured her it was fine but didn’t even require her to fix it.

Even when he was talking to himself while working he never once said anything questionable. And he talked to himself a lot. It was like a podcast, honestly, just hearing him rattle off numbers and weird business terms she hadn’t learned because she was self-taught. He talked almost constantly and he should have slipped up by now, yet here she was three days later with nothing to show for it except for a whole lot of guilt.

Marinette hadn’t thought much about it on the first day, everyone had their good days from time to time. On the second day she said ‘oh, it’s a coincidence’, but on the third day she had to call it: her paranoia had been a little unfounded.

Literally the worst thing about him so far was that he didn’t seem to care much about his own health… and that wasn’t really a bad thing about him as much as it was a bad thing for him.

So, yeah, it looked like she had no real reason to listen in on him anymore.

… but…

Something about him was nagging at her. He was a nice guy and she’d like to be his friend… it was just that, sometimes, she could swear she recognized his voice.

And it wasn’t like there were a lot of people she knew in America, she knew who he probably was.

Her hand itched towards the tiny device hidden under her window seat. One click (and maybe a little researching) and she’d know for sure who the bats were. The only thing stopping her was the knowledge that, if she did know their real names, she’d accidentally call them by them once and immediately get thrown either into a cell or out of Gotham. She was a meta (kind of), she was already on thin ice. She didn’t need the paranoid idiots that were the bats being more wary of her than they already were.

So, she left it alone.

She kept the bug, though. Mostly just because she wanted to hear it directly from him rather than just guessing by his voice. After all, voices can be similar. If he were to directly talk about bat business while she was listening in, though… that would definitely be a point towards her theory, to say the least.

And, yeah, she knew it was kind of messed up. She could be listening in on some innocent guy for all she knew, but it was… morally kind of okay? The whole thing about stalking is that it makes your victim feel unsafe. If he was Red Robin then he had found the bug and hadn’t felt unsafe enough to remove it and if he was a civilian then he would never know about the bug and therefore couldn’t feel unsafe. Therefore, it wasn’t stalking, not really.

… yeah, that makes sense.

She glanced at her sketchbook and yawned. She really needed to get a new outfit idea soon. Good thing Tim said he was taking her out tomorrow --.

Shit, Tim was taking her out tomorrow.

She jumped up from her spot at the window and ran to her closet. What to wear, what to wear...

Frenchie: where are we going tomorrow

Spiderman: It’s a surprise.

Frenchie: fuck your surprises tim what do i need to wear

She heard his laugh crackle through her earpiece. Rude.

Spiderman: Casual clothes.

Frenchie: there are LEVELS of casual tim

Spiderman: Oh, so we’re breaking out the capital letters. This must be serious.

She scoffed. Of course it was serious.

Frenchie: just tell me what to wear

Spiderman: A t-shirt and jeans is fine.

Kwamis, send her strength. Like she was going to wear a t-shirt and jeans. Did he even know who he was talking to?

But at least she had a gauge on how casual she could go. She picked out a light pink button down and black shorts for herself and then, because she had a little bit of foresight, she added some black tights.

She smiled faintly and dropped back in her bed.

She couldn’t wait to see where he was going to take her.

She found out the next day. Because that’s how things work.

She raised her eyebrows. “There’s no way it’s actually called a ‘space museum’. You’ve gotta be lying.”

Tim shrugged, a grin poking at his lips. “Do you really think I’d make it up?”

“Well, considering your outfit, I’d say you aren’t the most creative of guys so maybe you did,” she teased.

Tim looked down at his outfit and pouted. He was wearing little more than a black turtleneck and pants under a white jacket. “Must you make fun of every outfit I wear?”

“Only the bad ones. Seriously, would it kill you to wear a little bit of color?”

He rolled his eyes. “At least I thought to bring a jacket. It’s thirty degrees!”

She had forgotten that Americans used Fahrenheit, sue her.

Of course, she was never going to admit to this. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Maybe I’m just not a wimp.”

He snickered. “Oh, so you’re not cold?”

“Not at all.”

“Then stop hugging that coffee cup.”

She looked down at the coffee cup that was her only source of warmth and happiness in this cruel world that had two different measuring systems (three if you counted Kelvin). She gripped it tighter. “... no.”

He rolled his eyes again and, after a beat of hesitation, shrugged his jacket off and offered it to her.

Marinette normally wouldn’t give in this easy… but she really was cold and his clothes were far thicker than hers were and she knew that her teeth would start chattering soon which would have been so embarrassing...

So she blushed faintly and slipped the jacket on. It smelled like ungodly expensive cologne. “Thanks.”

He grinned. “I’m taking your coffee as payment.”

“No --!”

~

After dropping by a cafe so Marinette didn’t kill him, Tim took her to the space museum (yes, that actually was what it was called).

He thought she would have missed the night sky. Gotham hardly ever had a clear night due to the thick smog that hung over the city like a curse. And they spent quite a lot of time outside at night, she must have been feeling a little homesick.

So, he rented out the museum for the day. Yes, the whole museum. He was rich and mildly famous and what was the point of that if he wasn’t going to use it to make the people he cared about happy? He doubted she would be able to enjoy the sights as much if people were constantly taking pictures of them and asking about their relationship.

She raised her eyebrows just slightly but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the lack of people.

They slipped through the rooms quietly in search of inspiration.

Many of the rooms were your typical museum things: exhibits showing off different space rocks and explaining stars and supernovas. They didn’t stop much here, obviously, there was little to be inspired by. The most that happened for a long while was Marinette stopping from time to time to take a picture of a nice color that she wanted to try and replicate later.

And then she had stopped to look at a spacesuit. She blinked a few times before breaking into a grin and flipping to a new page in her sketchbook. He could barely make out the name ‘Jagged’ from where he was fiddling with his camera a respectable distance away.

So, Marinette, at least, was having a productive time. Tim was… a little stressed, to be honest.

Tim was having a particularly hard time getting ‘inspired’.

It had been years since he had picked up his camera, which was certainly a problem but it wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that he had never been one to take pictures of locations or objects. Sure, there was the occasional picture of the Gotham skyline, but he had always had a tendency towards taking pictures of people. Batman and Robin working as a team to take out a bunch of thugs, Robin and Nightwing racing each other across the rooftops, Batman and Nightwing stopping for ice cream after a particularly long patrol… and now he wanted to take pictures of Marinette.

But that would be weird because a) the first day he had implied he took pictures of attractions in order to alleviate suspicion about why he just so happened to be on the same rooftop as her and b) she probably wouldn’t think they were close enough for him to take pictures of her.

He kind of wished he could just go back to the old days where his subjects didn’t know he was there and he wouldn’t have to worry about what they would think about him if he took a picture of them.

His fingers itched towards the camera hanging from his neck because she looked so cute with her tongue poking out of her mouth and her orange, yellow, and white colored pencils sticking out from between her fingers like little Wolverine claws and he loved the way his jacket looked on her and --.

“You can stop staring, I’ll be done as fast as I can.”

His brain shorted out and the only response he could come up with was a squeaky: “Sorry?”

She looked up from her work with an awkward smile. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long, I just… if I don’t do it now it’ll slip my mind. I’m working as fast as I can, though.”

He was rebooting. Give him a minute.

Ah, there it was.

Wait, she thought he was being impatient?

“Nononono take your time, it’s fine! I just...”

He trailed off before he could finish the thought because this was the second time they had hung out he couldn’t make things awkward between them already.

… but she was giving him a confused, vaguely concerned, look and he was pretty sure that if he didn’t come up with something soon it would be awkward anyways.

“IwasjustwonderingifIcouldtakeapictureofyou?” He blurted out before he could stop himself again.

She blinked once. Twice. And then a blush spread across her face.

“Oh. Uh… sure?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said.

“It’s fine. A little sudden but… fine,” she said with a tiny smile.

Tim couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.

Not one to be blushy for long, apparently, Marinette flashed a wink. “Should I call up my friend Adrien for modeling tips or…?”

He rolled his eyes and schooled his face back into his usual grin. “It’s fine, just keep working. I’ll figure out angles and stuff.”

She tipped her head to the side confusedly. “Don’t you need me to be still?”

He didn’t look up from messing with the settings of his camera. “Not at all. You’re probably going to be one of my easier pictures.”

“... thanks…?”

“I do mostly nighttime photography. Capturing things in motion without it blurring requires a --.” He cringed. “Sorry, um… basically, when you want to take photos of things that are moving fast, you need a lot of natural light.”

“... you can talk about it more in depth, if you want.”

He shrugged. “I’d bore you.”

“I like your voice,” she said… then she seemed to realize the implications because she cleared her throat and did her best to backtrack: “In comparison to every other American I’ve heard so far, at least. Why do your accents… sound like that?”

“Ah, yes, because everyone knows that French people have the best accents.”

“Excuse you, I have been told by many people that my accent is actually very nice.”

He grinned. “By whom? Half-drunk men on the street?”

She gasped as if offended. “I get my information from much more reliable sources... like drunk women in bathrooms, thank you very much.”

“I see. My mistake. I apologize.”

“As you should.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t you have a design to make?” She looked down at her sketchbook and a silence stretched between them as she squinted at her design.

“You forgot what you were doing, didn’t you?”

She groaned and rested her head in her hands.

He took a picture of her exasperated pout.

~

Marinette ended up with two outfits.

One was for Jagged, based off of the spacesuit she had seen. She had figured that, with all the songs he wrote about being free, there was bound to be one about how he ‘finally had his own space’. It was good to be prepared.

The other was for Cassandra Wayne. Marinette hadn’t thought much about it, to be honest. She just knew that Cassandra liked the color black with designs on top of it, and that the planetarium had a nice star pattern that would work for that. It would be super expensive, what with all the gems she would need, but it wasn’t like the Waynes couldn’t afford it.

… and then she looked up to see Tim pouting.

She giggled, resting her head on her hand. “What?”

“My sister is getting a dress and I’m not.”

Oh, so he was an actual fan. Interesting.

She brushed that conversation aside in favor of teasing him: “You want a dress?”

“Yes! No? Yes? I --.” He huffed and took a seat in the chair next to her. “I have faith anything you make will look nice.”

She felt a blush rise to her face and she rolled her eyes. “Hm. Telling the person in charge of your wardrobe ‘I have full faith in you’ is a terrible idea.”

“Oh? I don’t think you, in good conscience, can make and give me anything bad.”

She squinted at him for a minute before breaking into a grin. “Wanna bet?”

He leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing her for a few moments, before smirking. “Sure, how about we put five thousand on it?”

She choked. She’d forgotten he was rich rich.

She was quick to backtrack: “Nah. With all your fashion choices so far I can’t trust you not to wear it to some Gala or whatever it is you rich people do.”

“Damn, there goes that plan.”

She grinned and looked down at her sketchbook. After a few seconds she flipped to a new page. She squinted at his outfit for a few moments before starting to doodle something.

“What’re you making now?”

“I’m making you something with some color.”

He huffed. “Excuse you, I’m a goth in a family of goths. I can’t wear color.”

“Yeah, yeah. Trust me, I know. I’d say Richard is the black sheep of the family in that aspect but he’s the one wearing color.”

He laughed a little. “So Dick is the white sheep, then?”

“Yea --.” She stopped and then squinted over at him. “Dick?”

“It’s what he insists everyone calls him.”

She looked down at her sketchbook for a moment, processing, and then shook her head. “Your brother has a degradation kink.”

Tim brought his hand to his mouth in stunned silence before pulling his phone from his pocket and definitely not informing the family group chat of his discovery.

She snickered and went to work on the outfit again. It was a simple one, because she didn’t want to go too far out of his comfort zone, but there was no way she was going to be friends with a monochromatic idiot.

She leaned over until her head rested on his shoulder. He tensed up just a little before resting his head on top of hers.

~

When she had finished he took a picture of the planetarium to keep up pretenses and they had made their leave.

… but first, they stopped by the gift shop. Because why not?

Tim could have bought everything there for Marinette -- and probably would have, if asked -- but, considering she had freaked out about five thousand dollars earlier, he figured maybe he should keep that more or less quiet.

Instead, he followed her around while idly bouncing a Saturn shaped bouncy ball. It was a terrible shape for a bouncy ball and he kind of loved it, to be honest. Not to mention the little smile Marinette made behind her hand every time the ball would try another mad dash for freedom was pretty cute.

And then they hit the t-shirt section. And her lips twitched as she reached out and picked up a bright blue shirt that said ‘May the F=MA be with you’ in white text.

“It’s awful. It’s perfect.”

He grinned. “Wow, look at you. You know one of the simplest physics formulas by heart, aren’t you smart?” He joked.

She bowed. “I know, I know.”

He held out a hand for it and she stared at him for a few seconds in confusion.

“I’ll hold it until we get to the front desk.”

She squinted at him. “I’m paying for my own shirt.”

“I can afford it,” he said with a sigh.

“So can I.”

“Either you let me pay for it or I’ll keep track of everything you buy while with me and add it to your commissions.”

“... either you let me pay for it or I’ll never make an outfit for you ever again. I know your measurements and style, Timothy, you won’t be able to get past me.”

They narrowed their eyes at each other, daring each other to call their bluffs…

And then his shoulders sagged. “Fine.”

He’d just have to use his connections to lower prices on fabrics for her. Did he mention that he was rich and mildly famous? Yeah. It was pretty cool.

~

She smiled as she leaned against the doorframe to her apartment. “Thanks for taking me out. It was fun.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled back. She was determinedly ignoring the way his smile made little butterflies flutter in her stomach. She patently hated butterflies. They weren’t allowed.

“I had fun, too. Want to do it again, sometime?”

“... sure, I guess you passed my test.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your test?”

“Oh, yeah.” She waved him off. “If you had made any creepy comments today I would have blocked you.”

He seemed a little relieved by this information, though she wasn’t quite sure why. “That’s a pretty good test to have in Gotham.”

“I know, I’m pretty smart,” she said jokingly.

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

Damn it, now she was blushing. Shit.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you flatter every girl you take to the space museum? Is this your strategy?”

He snickered. “Well, considering you’re the only girl I’ve taken, I’m going to have to say yes.”

She hummed. “I’m glad I’m so special to you, because that means you won’t drop me when I never give you this jacket back.”

He huffed. “You can’t just do that.”

“I can and will,” she teased. Then, because she wasn’t a completely cruel person, she reached up to her coatrack and pulled down a red scarf for him. “Here, take this so it’s more of a trade than stealing.”

“If I don’t?”

“Then you get to walk back to your house in the cold like that.”

He snorted. “What happened to not wanting to steal?”

“At least I offered!”

He rolled his eyes and leaned down so she could wrap the scarf around his neck.

She looked up at him, a blush spreading across her face, and then carefully draped it over his shoulders. “There. Now you have a splash of color.”

He smiled at her. “Ah, I see, this was all just a plot to get me to wear colors. It all makes sense now.”

“Of course.” She tugged him down more by the scarf to press a kiss to his nose. “You should wear red and black more often. They’re totally your colors.”

He smiled a little dopily. “You have no idea.”

She pushed his face away. “Weirdo. Go be cryptic somewhere else.”

“Fine, fine. See you in a few days.”

“See you then.”

~~~

Bonus Batfam group chat stuff

Timtamalam: What if Dick makes everyone call him that because he has a degradation kink?

LetMeLeaveTheChat: i fucking hate this family.

BloodSon: This is exactly the kind of lowbrow humor to be expected of you, Drake.

Timtamalam: I’m unappreciated in my time.

CAss: :0

Timtamalam: See, this is why Cass is the favorite.

YouDontSeeMe: DickJoke please respond

DickJoke: I raised each and every one of you and this is the thanks I get

LetMeLeaveTheChat: sucks to suck, dickwad.

DickJoke: That’s it when I get through all this dumb Heartless stuff I’m coming back to the manor and we’re all going to have family time

CAss: :(

ItsEggplantNotPurple: damn it

YouDontSeeMe: crap

LetMeLeaveTheChat: fuck. and an extra “fuck” on duke’s behalf.

BloodSon: Look at what you have done, Drake.

Timtamalam: Sorry guys.

[sableflynn]

Felivy - The Choice

Soooo after a solid week of constant gushing about this au with @whumpopology I decided to try writing a bit of it! I'm uh pretty much completely obsessed with this au at this point, the amount of brainstorming we've done is incredible and soooo much fun.

Very brief context: AU where Felicia and Ivy both end up at Volkan's mean man estate together. The girls bond, Volkan is mean, the teams try to find them. Volkan decides to spice things up, contacts the teams and tells them they can choose one girl to have sent home and he'll keep the other. This is the timeline where they choose Ivy to come home.

cw: drugging, noncon kiss/touch, general noncon implications (none happens), whumper pov. ao3 link here.

---

The girl was strapped into a chair, thick leather cuffs tight on wrists that strained against the imprisonment. Even with the needle still in her arm, the drug coursing through her bloodstream, she fought; she had fought from the moment he first showed her just how he planned to transport her back to her team.

Red, Harrison had called her, for the striking color of her thick curls, but her hair color wasn’t enough to set her apart here. That fighting spirit, though; that was something his healer lacked, a tenacity bordering on feral that kept things interesting in a way Felicia couldn’t. And yet all it took was one wandering touch, one comment dripping with innuendo, one look, and she fell apart. Beneath all her bluster and bravado, Ivy was a scared little girl, and he was happy to remind her of that every time.

Her head began to droop and he thought that was it, until she snapped back to full alertness with fresh fire in her eyes. “You’re—” Her words were slurred, the effort to get them out visible in her face. “You’re fucking sick.”

He smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgement. “You should relax,” he said, and just to make sure she couldn’t relax, he leaned over her where she sat, one hand rising to brush strands of hair from her face. “Just let this happen. Next thing you know, you’ll be waking up in your boyfriend’s arms.”

“Nuh—” Despite the determination blazing in her eyes, she shuddered. A thin sheen of sweat broke out across her forehead, and he imagined he could see the drug working its way through her body, slowing her nervous system until she succumbed. Yet she still fought it; she couldn’t not, not with the needle still in her, and the knowledge that there wasn’t a single thing she could do to stop him from taking anything he wanted.

He leaned in for a kiss, and she was still awake enough to snap at him. Pulling back with a grin, he watched the terror dancing in her eyes, drank in the soft hitch of her breath as his hand caressed her cheek before traveling down further. His second kiss dipped lower, lips tracing the curve of her neck, sucking hard enough to bruise until he pulled a weak sob from her. Her pulse was racing beneath his tongue; every touch from him would send the drug through her body faster, which would make her more and more vulnerable to his touch. A delicious feedback loop of her suffering.

He lifted his head to meet her gaze, and the fire he’d seen there moments before was snuffed out. She was breathing heavily, eyes glimmering with unshed tears, mouth working as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t push the words out. He took her in another kiss and she whimpered against him, and god, he was going to miss this. Her fear was so different from Felicia’s, tinged with frustration at her own helplessness, and he could spend months drawing it out, showing her again and again that she was small and weak and nothing. But he had made a deal, and he was a man of his word. Better to leave her a sweet memory to remember him by, then.

When he pulled back from the kiss, he let his hand drift lower, until his thumb fretted with the fastenings of her pants. He hadn’t thought she could become more despairing than she already was, but at that touch she let out another sob, her head shaking weakly, slurring out words that might’ve been stop, please, no, don’t. He didn’t particularly care what they were. Fingers deftly undoing the button of her pants, other hand rising to press a harsh thumb into the bruise he’d kissed into her, he took her mouth in his one more time. She had no resistance left, and his tongue touched hers, his teeth dragging along her lower lip as he tasted her once again.

Her cry left her in a rush of air, and she slid into oblivion.

He studied her face, hands still on her body. In sleep, her features softened, the panic and desperation of moments before dulled to the slightest downward curve of her lips. So different from the wild thing who’d spat blood in his face, laughed under the threat of his knife, fought against him with everything in her. So much more fitting for the weak, terrified girl she became whenever he began to undress her, the lost thing he knew she was deep inside.

Refastening her pants, he took his hands from her body and began undoing the leather cuffs holding her in place. She had somewhere she needed to be, and it wouldn’t do for her to be late.

***

Felicia blinked, and stared at the bare white wall of her room, and fought a losing battle with her emotions.

One of us is going home. Volkan had dropped that bomb on them, and then dragged them off to their separate rooms before they could fully process. Before they could think to ask a single question. Before they could say goodbye.

She couldn’t hope. She couldn’t dare to hope, because if she went home, that would mean Ivy was staying here, and if Ivy stayed here alone she would be dead within the week.

She couldn’t hope, because she wouldn’t be strong enough to survive if her hope shattered and Ivy went home and she was left here, alone, with him.

There was no solution; only branching paths that ended in different flavors of heartbreak. Even when he offered them freedom, he twisted it into a weapon against them. Her heart raged against the unfairness of it all, and she crushed that feeling down, closing herself off, a few stray tears leaking from eyes squeezed shut.

The door to her room creaked open and she gripped the edges of the cot she sat on. He filled the frame, silhouetted against the hallway lights. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, and yet she knew she had to. His expression was unreadable. Maybe she just didn’t want to read it.

“Come with me,” he said, and walked away without waiting for a response. She rose and followed him.

He brought her to his lounge, all dark leather and polished wood and a fire crackling in the hearth. At a gesture from him, she sank into the couch and he poured two glasses of amber liquor, handing one to her. He sat across from her, and in his eyes she saw that look, that fucking look that meant he was savoring the anticipation of breaking her down in some new way, and that was how she knew to prepare herself a heartbeat before he said, “Why do you think they chose her over you?”

She pressed her lips into a thin line and willed herself not to feel. From the moment she had woken up in his office, some part of her had always known she was going to die here. This changed nothing. At least Ivy was safe. She could take this.

He gestured at the glass in her hand, the drink within untouched. “Drink. It’ll help you relax.” She stared through him, setting the glass on the table without a word, and he took a sip of his own liquor. “I just want to talk tonight. I know you must have a lot of mixed feelings right now.”

She shifted her gaze to look him in the eye, and his face crinkled with a genuine smile. “I wish I could’ve been there for the discussion,” he mused. “What do you think was the deciding factor? What was it that pushed them over the edge, made them realize that Ivy was worth more than you?”

He wasn’t going to let up. She bit down the urge to say they made the right choice—self-deprecation was only playing into his hands. And she couldn’t do it, couldn’t dwell on what sort of conversation must have taken place, so she said, “I don’t know.”

“No theories at all?” He raised a skeptical brow. “You have no idea what might’ve led your girlfriend to look me in the eye and tell me that she was choosing to leave you here with me in favor of a stranger?”

Elyse. Her face flashed in Felicia’s mind, and shit, a few tears welled up before she could close herself off to the feeling, and then her chest ached with longing and grief and despair, and her fingers dug into the leather of the couch as her breath hitched in a sob, and then another.

Volkan shushed her with a faux-soothing hum, his hand like fire against her skin as he tucked her stray strands of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry. I know this must hurt.” Through the haze of tears, the smirk on his face was infuriating. “If it helps, I think their choice makes sense.”

“Nothing about this makes sense, and you know that, you—” Now that she’d started, the sobs kept coming, racking her body with shudders. “You know, because you rigged this fucking game from the start, because that’s what you do, you—”

“Shhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips as he shushed her this time, and she flinched. “You’re getting emotional. Try to think about this logically. I’m sure your team did when they made their decision.” He sipped his drink again, considering. “Ivy’s a strong girl. A much better fighter. She doesn’t just roll over and submit at the first threat of pain. Although,” and his smile turned mocking, conspiratory, “you and I both know she’s not as tough as she likes to pretend. For a girl with two boyfriends, she sure fell apart quickly as soon as I—”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about her,” Felicia lashed, stomach churning. Her skin warmed with the memory of Ivy’s touch, the only kind thing about this place. Ivy’s beautiful fierceness as she fought Volkan in every way. Ivy’s smile, and her tears, and her whispered promises in the night. “She’s—she’s so brave, and she’s good, and she’s not going to just leave me here.” Please.

Volkan’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Adorable. She already did.”

The flash of Ivy’s hazel eyes, wide with shock as she was dragged to her own room to wait for a decision to be made. “She didn’t leave. You took her.”

He chuckled. “Technically, you’re correct. Would you prefer she was still here with you?”

“I—” Felicia hated herself, then, for how close she came to saying yes, and she hated him even more for the slight quirk of his lips as he saw the indecision play across her face, as he read her like a book. “I’m glad she’ll be safe now,” she managed at last.

“Safe is a relative term,” Volkan said, setting his empty glass down on the table. “But I’m sure we can both agree she’s in a better place than you are.” He leaned in closer to her, pressing her against the couch, and his arms surrounding her were the jaws of a trap closing in on her.

[lover-of-skellies]

Song prompt with Connie?

Alrighty broseph, here ya go. I dunno if this really counts as horror, but hey. It's got angst at least, I guess

It's been a while since I've done any writing prompts like this, so I might be a little rusty ^^" gonna offer a tiny warning for nonconsensual kissing in the first part, and then character death toward the end

The song(s) that I used as prompts were "Bloody Mary" by Lady Gaga and "No Hero" by JT music

"Listen to me, Connie. Please. I'm not lying to you."

Conquest shook her head, her sockets wide in horror as she stared at the demon's outstretched hand. In his palm was a single black apple, and as he took one step closer to her, she took one step back. The demon let out a deep sigh, "Just eat the damn apple, will you? You desperately wanted everything to be perfect again, and this is how you'll get that. This apple will fix everything for you, all you have to do is eat it." Connie shook her head again, meeting his bright blue gaze, "No, I can't. I know what they really do, Othni. Retribution already told me about them, and I can't do this." Othni made a face, his tail flicking behind him in irritation, "Fine. Allow me to lend you a hand, then."

The rider stared at him in shock as he lifted the apple and took a bite of it. Before she even had the chance to run, brilliant blue magic pooled at her feet, and they felt as though they'd become rooted to the ground. Othni closed the distance between them, raising a clawed hand to firmly grip her jaw. As he leaned down, orange tinted tears began to prick at her sockets. The demon pressed his lips to her teeth and her sockets widened further. Conquest gripped his shoulders, her grip almost becoming painful as she squirmed and tried to push him away. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her head, holding her in place, and she began to tremble, letting out a muffled sob as the chunk of black apple was pushed into her mouth.

Othni pulled back, narrowing his eyes at her when she refused to chew the mouthful of apple. He dug his claws into the back of her skull and she whimpered, still trembling as he hissed, "Eat it. If you don't start chewing, I'm going to break open your skull." She very hesitantly began to chew, visibly shaking as she watched the demon. Othni stared at her as she chewed, and when she stopped, he hummed, "Did you swallow it?" She nodded quietly, and his gaze hardened, "Prove it. Open your mouth so I can see that there's nothing in there." The rider opened her mouth as instructed and he peered inside, "...Good, it looks like you did. Now we can move on to bite number two." Her eye lights constricted in fear and she began to plead with him, "Please, don't make me do this! I don't want anymore! I don't want this, Othni, please st-"

He shoved the apple partially into her mouth, effectively silencing her. More blue magic gripped her wrists to keep her from resisting, and she shook as he covered her nose, murmuring lowly, "If you want to breathe, you'll start eating." Orange tears dripped down her face and she sobbed, sinking her teeth into the fruit.

Sleeping soundly in bed beside Geno, Death was oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere. There was an odd creak here and there, but the house was old, so the sound wasn't of any concern. Slowly stirring, Geno yawned and climbed out of bed, making his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He grabbed a glass and held it under the sink, filling it halfway before shutting the water off. Turning to exit the kitchen with his drink, Geno froze, letting out a startled sound at the sight of a figure standing in the doorway. He drew in a shaky breath and tried to calm himself, "Death?... What are you doing out of bed? It's really late..." When there was no reply, he frowned, ".....Hello?"

A set of eyes opened, but only one golden-orange eye light could be seen. Recognizing the color, he furrowed his brow bones, ".....Connie? What are you-?" Behind her, a set of bright blue eyes opened, their owner noticeably taller than the rider. Geno took a slow step back, "Connie, what's going on?" Still shrouded by darkness behind Conquest, Othni purred, "I apologize, but she's not the Connie you knew... Not anymore, at least." Geno's frown deepened and he eyed the rider, setting his glass of water on the counter, "Connie, if you can hear me, I need you to say something." Finally responding, she let out a deep sigh, "What is there to say, Geno? You betrayed my trust and took Death from me, and that's that."

He blinked in surprise, "But... I thought things were ok with us now. What happened that changed that?" She tilted her head, her tone almost bored as a set of four tendrils sprouted from her back, "Nothing. I'm sick of having to talk to you every day, and just looking at you pisses me off. I should never have introduced you to Death." Geno stared at the tentacles in shock, unsure what to do. Othni hummed, "You should dispose of him before he tries to get in your way again. If you let him go, he'll only be a problem later on." Conquest made a sound in acknowledgment, "I know. I don't recall ever asking for your input though, Othni." The demon's content, vaguely amused expression shifted into one of confusion. What was going on? He'd done what he was supposed to, and he was told that she wouldn't give him any problems.

Geno swallowed the slowly forming lump in his false throat; Conquest was his friend. He had no idea what to do about her. He could try to fight her off, but he didn't want to hurt her. If he did too much damage, he could risk killing her. If she died, what was he supposed to tell Death? She began to walk toward him and he backed up. He could... Try to run, maybe? If he could wake up Death, then the situation might get back under control. As if Conquest could tell what he was thinking of doing, she hummed, her voice an octave or two lower than normal, "Don't tell me you're thinking of running from me, Geno. Surely I'm not THAT scary." Geno sputtered for a moment, trying to figure out what to say, "N-Nah, you're not scary. I just... Let me go get Death, and the two of you can-" "Don't." He yelped as a tentacle shot forward, curling around his neck. As he struggled to get free, she scowled, "I will face him when I'm ready. At the moment, I need to deal with you."

He stumbled over his words, desperately trying to breathe as the tendril tightened little by little. As Conquest stepped out into the light, Geno's socket widened and he froze. He took in her now goop covered form, the golden-orange tinted sludge covering one of her eyes. Atop her head sat a crown, likely the one that Retribution carried for a while. Her single eye light remained fixed on him and he shook; With the state she was in and the way she was looking at him, she gave 'fear' a whole new meaning. Conquest tilted her head in consideration, "Let's see... I could snap your neck. I could break your ribs and then shatter your soul though, too. Which one do you think I should do?"

Othni perked up, slinking across the kitchen and taking his place beside her, "I vote for whichever is more painful." Conquest slowly shifted her gaze and looked up at him, almost growling in annoyance, "Did I ask you, Othni? No. I was asking him. Bother me again and you'll be next." The demon was momentarily taken aback, "You can't be serious. As if you'd ever do that to me!" She narrowed her visible socket, a second tentacle coiling around his throat and squeezing, "Do you really want to test that theory right now? Because I'm getting tired of you always trying to worm your way into things that don't concern you." He growled, beginning to claw at the tendril, "I made you what you are, you stupid monster!" She glared at him, "Maybe so, but keep in mind, I told you NO. Now do us all a favor and fuck off before I actually kill you."

He fell silent and scowled at her, and she turned her attention back to Geno. In a last ditch effort to get free from her tendril's grasp, he relinquished control of his body, allowing Error to take over. The glitch immediately reached for his sockets and Connie arched a brow bone in amusement, a third tentacle catching his wrists with ease. Error glared and snarled, "Let me go, you disgusting anomaly!" She rolled her eye light, "How about no?" The black skeleton's body glitched, and in that split second, he slipped his hands out of her hold. His hands flew upward to his face and he produced a multitude of blue threads, which quickly ensnared the corrupted rider. She cried out in surprise, and then hissed, narrowing her socket again, "If you really want to fight, then so be it. That's all you worthless glitches understand, anyway."

The tentacle that held Othni suddenly snapped forward, and he yelped, finding himself sailing toward the glitch. Error's threads went to work and ensnared the demon as well, and he cursed, stepping aside as another tentacle shot toward him. He bound it in blue threads, his body jerking as the corrupted rider began hysterically sobbing, her speech incoherent. He furrowed his brow bones in confusion, and then froze as he noticed Death standing in the doorway, his eyes wide in shock as he took in the sight before him. The reaper glanced at Error, taking in his uninjured form and choosing to go to Conquest, who continued sobbing.

Death cautiously approached her, taking in her new appearance, "Connie? What happened to you?!" She shook her head and cried, "Othni forced me to eat a black apple, and I turned into this. I came here to see if you could help me, and then I got attacked by Error!" The reaper glanced in Error's direction again, "Error, you need to let go of her." Error frowned and hesitated, "I can't! She's lying, Death! I'm only fighting her because she attacked Geno first!" Death's voice gained a sharp edge that caused Error to flinch, "Error, I'm asking you to let her go. Fucking do it already! We need to make sure she's not hurt!" The glitch reluctantly loosened his threads, and the instant her tentacles were free, her sobbing came to an immediate halt. One tendril shot toward the glitch again, and Death's eyes widened as it broke through the glitch's ribs. Error's eyes widened as well, as he began to glitch, looking down at his hand and watching in fear as it began to slowly fade. Rather than dust, scattered zeros and ones floated around it, and Death immediately understood.

He looked at Connie, tears in his eyes as he grabbed her shoulders and shook her, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" The corrupted rider looked up at him, her eye light constricting as she burst into laughter. When he didn't receive an answer, he backed away from her, summoning his scythe. Her tentacles captured his arms and neck, tightening until his grip on the scythe loosened and it clattered to the floor. He was dragged back toward her as she stood, and she sighed, reaching out to touch his face, "I did what had to be done. You came along and stole my heart, and then you got me pregnant, decided after a little while that you didn't want me anymore. Then to top it off, you left me for Geno, who was my FRIEND. I tolerated the pain because I loved you, but as of right now, I'm done playing nice. You played games with me, so now it's my turn to play games with you." The reaper stared at her, sky blue tears beginning to drip down his face, "Connie... He didn't have to die. Neither of them did."

She hummed, "No, I don't think you understand. They DID. Now they're finally out of the way." He tried to blink back more tears, his voice soft, "...What do you want from me? What'll it take to make you stop?" All traces of her amusement vanished and her grip on his face tightened, "I'm glad you asked... I want some apologies from you for all the pain you caused me, and I want you to admit how pathetic and useless you are. As soon as you do those things for me, I'll do something for you." He furrowed his brow bones, "Like what?..." The corrupted rider offered him a twisted grin, the warped happiness not quite reaching her gaze, "Well, you always complained about not being able to die and experience reincarnation, so I plan to fix that little problem. You do what I asked, I kill you, and then I take over your team. It's as simple as that."

[lizardkingeliot]

So, do those of you currently reading time cast a spell on you (but you won’t forget me) remember that scene in chapter 4 where Quentin shows up for his tutoring session and Eliot says he wants to go to the edge of the campus and manipulate the magic of the wards so they can fly? You know... this one:

Only they never end up making it there because they start bickering the second they leave the library? Well, in the rough draft of this chapter I initially had this scene... ending very differently. And they also weren’t going to fly, they were going to... well. I think I’ll just let y’all read it for yourselves lmao. I think I talked about this a bit on twitter when I was working on the chapter so if it sounds familiar that’s probably why. ANYWAY. I have a ton of deleted scenes from this fic, most of which will never see the light of day, but I woke up this morning with the urge to share at least part of this one so... I guess that’s what I’m going to do.

This is super rough and unedited and honestly not up to my usual standards, but... you know. Rough drafts tend to be that way. It’s also all over the place in terms of tone and where they were at this point in the fic lmao. This might be bordering on crack honestly. Which is why I just scrapped the whole thing and went a different route in the final draft. Anyway. Shutting up now. This is about 2k words so I’m putting most of it under a cut...

—

Trudging across campus two paces behind Eliot, Quentin was stricken by the overwhelming feeling that he was trapped inside a dream. The eerie, quiet campus, lit only by the waning moon and a few dots of light spilling from the various student houses. He looked back over his shoulder, spotting the Cottage in the distance, the dim orange glow of the front bay window swimming in his vision like a boat lost at sea. 

As they approached the outer edge of the grounds, Quentin could feel the magic of the wards, buzzing on the air like insects. Bone-deep reverberations, strains of music swelling from within. He’d never been out this far before. The line where Brakebills ended and the real world began. Where there was nothing but the boat house and the wind. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He breathed in deep, the scent of the Hudson rushing nearby filling his senses as Eliot came to a sudden halt in the dark.

“Here,” Eliot said. Quentin could only just barely make out the shape of his elegant fingers pointing just ahead. “Can you feel the energy? I guess the Naturalists come out here sometimes and use it to light their bongs.” He laughed, a sound that warmed Quentin underneath his jacket at once. “And occasionally singe their own eyebrows off in the process.”

Quentin looked back. They’d come out to a place that the light from the Cottage couldn’t reach. Eliot formed an orb between his hands and pinned it overhead, a grapefruit sized pendant of magic swaying gently in the breeze. He stepped into Quentin’s personal space, giving him the once over. Head-to-toe and back again, settling at last on Quentin’s eyes.

“So,” he said with a smirk. “Cavaleri Animation. My memory of the First Year curriculum is a little hazy, but they’ve dazzled you all with that one already, yes? Turning your marbles into little glass animals, you know the one.”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, um… but Alice was the only one who could actually get hers to work.”

Swift and warm as a pulse, Eliot’s hand curled around the nape of Quentin’s neck. Heat spreading down the column of his spine like a flame catching a wick. Thumb teasing over burning flesh. Eliot’s lips ghosted over his ear, not quite touching. Still, Quentin swore he could feel his smile. “Well,” he said, soft and dark, “I’m here now. And you’re going to do it. And it’s going to work.”

Quentin’s hand was bunching up the back of Eliot’s cardigan. He didn’t know when that had happened. The hum of the magic was making him dizzy. For a moment, it was impossible to breathe. His body a tight line of tension and desire. Eliot pulled away and Quentin released his hold, staggering a little as he tried to regain some semblance of control.

“Um, okay…” Quentin ran a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt at centering himself. “Why, uh—why do we have to do that here? We could have just done that spell in the library.”

“Because,” Eliot said with a tip of his head, “I have a theory.”

“A theory?” Quentin frowned. “You brought me out here for a theory?”

“More of a hypothesis really,” Eliot said with a wave of his hand. “But I think it’s going to work.”

“Great,” Quentin said with an exasperated sigh. “Dicking around with unstable magic in the middle of the night. What could possibly go wrong.”

“Look, it’s going to be fun,” Eliot said with that casual little air of his. “And we probably won’t explode even if I’m wrong. So we really don’t have very much to lose.”

“Okay, I’m—” Quentin threw his hands up. “For fuck’s sake, El, can you just tell me what we’re actually doing out here?”

“We,” Eliot said very slowly, reaching inside his cardigan, pulling a sliver of magenta colored glass out of the pocket of his vest, and looking through it, “are going to tap into all that crazy energy and make your little glass marble friend into a very big animal friend and take it for a spin.” He passed the sliver of glass over to Quentin. “Take a look.”

Quentin stared at Eliot for a very long time before relenting. “You’re actually a crazy person, you know that?”

“I think you mean certified sorcerer genius, but I’ll take it.” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Go on. It’s balls to the wall out here. So much energy we could power a fucking nuclear reactor and I doubt Henry would notice.”

Quentin looked through the glass, moving it from one eye over to the other. At first, it was impossible to make sense of what he was actually seeing. A latticework of stars. Billions of them it seemed, all bumping up against one another in a wild, cosmic dance. A galaxy of intersecting lines and patchwork patterns shimmering like the wings of a dragonfly. And every now and then, a spark. Popping off into the dark like fingers desperate for the night. Quentin handed the glass back to Eliot with a shake of his head.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Don’t be boring, Quentin,” Eliot said. It made Quentin’s chest ache with its normalcy. Like their past couldn’t touch them out here. Like out here with their bad ideas and their wild magic, maybe they could have some hope to start again. “But maybe… maybe don’t make anything that wants to bite our heads off.”

“Okay, so…” Quentin sighed with his whole chest. “To recap: you want to steal unstable magic from the wards of the school where we’re both currently students to make a giant glass animal that hopefully doesn’t swallow us whole so we can… take it for a ride?”

“Yes,” Eliot said, like it was the most obviously brilliant thing in the world. “Don’t make that face with your face. Tell me you’ve never wanted to ride a rhinoceros.”

“We are not riding a rhinoceros, Eliot. Absolutely not.” 

“Well, okay…” Eliot’s hand on his nape again. Heat, fire, a five alarm blaze encircling his neck like a collar. “If you could ride on any animal, real or imaginary—”

“The Cozy Horse,” Quentin said without thinking, heart pounding like hoofbeats trapped inside his chest. “Um… it’s from the Fillory books, uh…”

Eliot laughed softly. “Okay.” His hand slid down to Quentin’s shoulder, gripping it possessively. “Tell me about... the Cozy Horse.”

“Um…” Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, took a breath, shook his head. Eliot’s hand was stroking up and down the expanse of his upper arm and shoulder, making everything go all fuzzy in his brain. “It’s just, uh… it’s this horse that Jane rode on. It’s, uh… really tall. Like a hundred feet. Like a clydesdale on steroids.”

“You won’t ride a rhinoceros but you’re perfectly fine with a horse that’s a hundred feet tall?”

Quentin turned his face upward, trapping himself in Eliot’s gaze. Sinking, flying, falling. Close enough to kiss if he only went up on his toes a little. Tucked inside the safety of his warmth. Quentin wanted to burn, to melt into a puddle at Eliot’s feet and slosh around like muck. “I…” Quentin swallowed. “I don’t think the Cozy Horse would hurt us. It’s basically a giant stuffed animal.”

Eliot grinned, gazing down at Quentin for a long beat before pulling away. “Okay then,” he said, taking a few steps down the path under their feet. “Show me Cozy Horse.”

Quentin reached into his pocket, knelt down, set the marble on the path. “I don’t understand how I’m supposed to… harness the magic of the wards.”

Eliot made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, peering through it with one eye. “Just leave that part to me,” he said absently. “Go on. Make your horse. And don’t say you can’t do it. We both know that you can.”

Quentin gazed up the long line of Eliot’s body. Eliot was fully focused on the wards. The sound of night, the crackle of magic. Quentin shivered under his jacket. His hands hovered over the marble, focusing his energy on prepping the glass for transformation with Dempsey's Silent Thermogenesis. Once molten, the marble could be manipulated into almost any shape he could imagine. For the Cozy Horse, Quentin didn’t have much to go on but the memory of a single illustration, and a few lines from The Wandering Dune, but he figured it would probably be simple enough. How hard could it be to imagine a draft horse the size of something straight out of the Cretaceous period?

Quentin twisted the glass under his fingers, so fully focused on his task he almost didn’t notice when Eliot began to move. When, suddenly, through the loop of Eliot’s fingers, a beam of sharp, frenzied magic began to focus on the animal he had half-formed with laser precision.

“You might wanna hurry,” Eliot said. “I don’t know how long I can hold this here.”

Quentin scowled in his direction, looping a bit of the molten glass into the shape of a tail. “You’re shit at communicating, you know that,” he spit, letting the gentle rage rising in his belly fuel his magic. “I thought cooperative magic was supposed to be, I don’t know… cooperative?”

Legs, hooves, the gentle slope of a hulking animal’s back. The wispy tendrils of a mane. Eliot was saying something that might have been a warning. Quentin was too focused on his creation to parse a single one of his words. The magic of the wards cracked like lightning. He could feel it in his hands. Quickly, almost as an afterthought, Quentin gave the beast that had come to life beneath his fingers a shimmering loop around the back of the neck that might have passed for reins if he squinted.

A single hoofbeat on the soft ground. The beam of magic stuttering through Eliot’s fingers died away, and he let out a tremendous sigh.

“Okay so... “ Quentin frowned, eyes flitting from the tiny glass horse up to Eliot’s face. “I don’t think this is going to—”

A flash, a pop, a tremendous wave of heat knocking the air from his lungs. Quentin shoved his body backward off the path and into the grass just as Eliot was running over. Kneeling down, using himself as a makeshift shield as he pushed Quentin further back away from the molten monstrosity shifting and morphing and doubling, tripling, quadrupling in size. A deep rumble, the tinkling of glass. Quentin peered over Eliot’s shoulder, his eyes moving up, up, up, trying to take in what it was he was actually seeing.

The glass horse shook out its mane, rearing up on its hind legs and down again with an earth-trembling thud. The distance from the ground to its shoulder must have been twenty feet. It had no eyes and no mouth, but Quentin swore he could feel its glassy stare boring into him. The light of the orb dangling overhead passed right through the center of its body. For a long moment, everything went perfectly still.

And then Eliot started to laugh. “Holy shit,” he said, his eyes wide as dinner plates when he turned his face to Quentin. “That is a big fucking horse.”

A laugh sputtered out from between Quentin’s lips. “Yeah, um… yeah. Fuck. It really is.”

Eliot’s body pressed right up against Quentin’s body when he turned, and leaned in, so close they were almost kissing. A pulse of heat passed between them. Quentin felt it in his chest like a second heart. “So,” Eliot said, a hand curling around Quentin’s cheek for a fleeting moment before pulling away. “You wanna take her for a spin?”

Quentin felt absolutely out of his mind. Hazy, his body a liminal space. “Yeah,” he said with a short, stuttering burst of laughter. “Yeah, why the fuck not.”

Unreality set in hard as they stood and cautiously approached. Up close, they might as well have been gazing upward at the hulking glass back of a dinosaur. The haphazard reins Quentin had created looped around the beast’s neck like a string of fairy lights. 

“Um…” Quentin laughed, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear. “How the fuck are we even going to get on this thing?”

Eliot took his hand suddenly, threading their blood-warm fingers together. “Oh, Q,” he said with a full-faced grin, “we’re gonna fucking fly.”

[whump-town]

A Cumbersome and Heavy Body

Chapter Five: They Told Me That The End Is Near

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word count:  3195

Author’s Note: I’m about to fuck yall all kinda of ways-- buckle in babies cause shit is GETTING FUCKED

Warning: the subject of this fic is cancer and it’s treatment, cursing, maybe out of character (idk, man. hotch is weird)

Welcome to the final show Hope you're wearing your best clothes You can't bribe the door on your way to the sky You look pretty good down here But you ain't really good

She hates everything about labeling his days as “good” or “bad”-- this stupid emphasis on each thing that he does and how well he can perform it. The doctors will ask how he is, nearly expecting to be told something other than like he’s dying, and that always frustrates her beyond words. She can feel Hotch tense each time, looking to her in his desperate attempt to conjure a lie they will believe. “Good” or “bad” and he wants to say “okay” so that they don’t poke him more. So they don’t stand him up in the room and run their hands down his sides feeling for more swollen nodes and inclinations to infections or whatever other bad nonsense will rear its ugly head.

Mostly, she hates how there are “bad” days and there are days that aren’t gut-wrenchingly horrible but they aren’t “good” either.

Tuesday he’d smiled and sat for three hours with Reid. The genius turned on the sofa to face Hotch in the recliner, rocking himself gently as he spoke about anything and everything on his mind. Emily had watched them for a moment from the kitchen, shocked at the painless ease Hotch was sitting with. Enjoying something close to normalcy as Reid doesn’t look at Hotch and see the sickness overcoming his pale skin. Doesn’t see how tired he is or how weak. He’s just Hotch and they’re sitting in the living room talking about quantum mechanics and then attachment theory and diagnosing schizophrenia.

For three hours there is so much normalcy to their chaotic lives. For three hours there is “good” and for the remaining hours after Reid leaves there is something close to right in the middle. It’s fighting tooth and nail over some supplements he’s supposed to have in this meal replacement that tastes like chalk. She chases the fight with vodka and he locks himself in his office to drink the meal replacement in the sort of isolation that affords him endless frustration with no outward consequence. He ends up sitting in there and hoping she forgives him for being such a pain in the ass. He knows she probably will.

Then he does something stupid, something entirely brought on by impulse.

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

He can’t finish the job on his own, the clippers shaking painfully in his grip. His arm hurts and he can’t stand long enough to get the whole thing even. “It’s falling out, anyway.” He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he should be lucky he made it to this age without losing it. He tries not to think about it, mostly. To the way that his father used to smile at him and rustle it just to see the strands sit in all kinds of directions. How Haley would curl against him, arm over his shoulders, and brushing the strands as they talk.

But it’s just… hair. Mostly.

And “good” had melted into bad as Emily stood over him, running the clippers through his remaining hair. She’d cried and he had too but he had the free hands to wipe those tears before she could see them. She’s always the strong one, the least he can do is pretend for a moment.

Standing behind him, she can see every bone in his back. His pale skin stretched over each vertebra, like the hard pressure across knuckles clenched tightly. The plethora of scars in various stages of healing-- several from tubes and wires and tests and others from the childhood he refuses to speak of. A canvas with a story right there for her to see. There are no real secrets between them anymore.

The last bit of hair falls and she looks at what they’ve done. “You’ll have to wear a hat,” she tells him. She steps out of the tub, using his shoulder to balance herself. “I always thought you had a weird-shaped head but now I know.” There’s nothing abnormal about his head, she’s just thinking about how cold he always is. That at least now he’s got an excuse to wear a beanie inside and how he’ll look like a dork with the assortment of color and variations Garcia’s going to knit the second she catches wind of this.

She offers him her hands so that he can stand too and it’s a testament to their proximity that his shirtlessness isn’t strange. She’s watched his skin ease apart under the pressure of a scalpel. Sat beside him on the bathroom floor, head on his shoulder as the night moved on but they both knew he’d be back here all together too soon to get up. The scars are nothing to the vulnerability that he’s shown her.

Standing she… she sees the protrusion of his collarbone. Of the harshness, the invasion of the central line snaking into him. It overcomes her and she pulls him into her. Throwing an arm over one shoulder and around the other, pinning him against her. “I love you,” she whispers turning her face into his neck.

Her warmth seeps into him, in every place that her skin rests against his. The desperation in her tone makes him smile, the way that she holds him. He’s empathetic to her pain but it feels good to be held, to be loved like something someone is terrified to lose. “You know,” he says. “I kind of figured. You’ve stayed around too long for someone who, supposedly, hates me.”

She laughs. How many times had she gone out of her way to mumble “I hate you” at him? For waking her up to make her go back to bed so that she doesn’t spend her whole night on the floor as miserable as him. To have something to say in the face of the scary things that happen, when he squeezes her hand too tight or when he’s that numb calm she knows is no good.

“I do hate you,” she sniffles.

He laughs. An actual laugh. “Good,” he replies, wrapping his arms around her. “Good.”

Wednesday he makes her French Toast with a black beanie pulled down over his ears, one she’d seen only in the winter to stave off the threat of the ear infections the icy fingers of the wind give him. They talk while they eat and it’s a truly monumental thing to be shared between them-- a meal.

There’s something about sitting there and watching him perfect some glorified egg bread that annoys her. Knowing that likely, tomorrow this will be like a slap to the face. A taunt to see him now and then. Today he will the Aaron that she knows. The Aaron that peers over her shoulder while she’s trying to do things, baiting her into pointless arguments with his bad French and even worse German. To the Aaron who walks soundless and who grins when he turns up silently behind her and makes her yelp with a jump.

She watches the ease in which he takes to his french toast bleed away like the color in his face until lunch brings one of those meal replacements and he can’t do it. Then she finds the french toast she thought he’d eaten in the trash where he’d purposely tried to cover it. Knows that next week they’ll find the meal replacements didn’t work and do something else to his poor body. Cut another hole, insert another tube.

She hears him fall that night.

After hearing him laugh loudly over some stupid thing she’d said.

After playfully fighting with him over stealing one of his sweaters-- he has so many it’s not going to kill him to let her borrow one.

After just sitting with him on the couch for hours listening to music and sitting in the dark.

She hears him fall and, worst of all, she hears how hard he tries to cover it up. The sound is not as distinct as it should be with no crash that rattles dishes or a harsh thud. A stumble, really, a softer thump as he leaned into the wall for support but found none.

“Aaron.”

He’s sitting up against the wall, shoulders sunk in and head hanging. When he looks up she sees the blood pouring down his face, the tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. “...can’t stop it.” He coughs, wiping at the blood across his lips. “It won’t stop, Emily.”

She runs to the bathroom, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and not thinking twice about manipulating his face in her hands. One hand holding the back of his head while the other dabs the blood up. “We’re supposed to go to the hospital when this happens,” she reminds him. He’ll need platelets or something invasive but more than likely he’ll be submitted to an hour-long wait in the E.R. to be told it was the right thing to come in but altogether unnecessary.

He groans, not in pain but in the general theme of the awfulness he knows will ensue if she makes the decision they will be going to the hospital. To the cold beds and the wheelchairs.

“Water and bed,” she says, instead of what he’d thought would be her asking where his shoes and coat are. She smirks at him, knowing what he’s thinking and seeing the surprise written across his face. “We’ll tell them Tuesday about it,” she assures him. Tuesday when they’re probably going to tell them he needs to come back in another day. When they see the supplements aren’t working and he’ll probably need something invasive and painful. Then they’ll deal with the nose bleeds popping back (and that cough she’s noticed but has let convince himself she hasn’t noticed).

“Bed,” she says again when the words seem like they haven’t processed.  

“Bed,” he repeats thickly, her fingers clamped over his nose thickening the nasally quality of his voice.

They shuffle down the hall, Emily’s fingers curled around his hip and his arm over her shoulder. Heads bent in towards one another. He whispers an apology, feet hardly leaving the ground, and leaning on her a little too much. He imagines the beginning. When he’d laid on his bed, thinking about her and thinking about his father. The way the cancer had eaten his father away and he can see in the mirror, he watches closely and knows the same thing is happening to him.

His father had done what he can’t-- ended it.

It had been Aaron who found him. So strange to see such a violent man seemingly… peaceful. His memory is a patchwork of things, his childhood full of too many greys of undetermined moments, but that sight. Seeing his father’s lifeless body in the high-backed office chair he’d spent so many waking hours in has been unforgettable.

He can’t do that. He won’t make Emily see that or leave that sort of memory for Jack. It’s important to him that it be like this.

“You have to sit up.” She props him up on pillows, ignoring his complaints. The blood has slowed and there’s nearly no point in wiping it away. He just watches her, vacantly staring back as she tucks the blankets around his chest. “Sleep,” she instructs, kissing his forehead. “Do you want me to stay?” He knows she will. She’ll sleep right here beside if he asks but… no. He’ll be okay.

It snows.

He watches it from the only window in his room, she’d pulled the curtains back before she fell asleep. He sees her and her giant shadow with the yellowing light from the street pouring in, eating out the deep consuming darkness looming over him. Until today he’d only ever suspected she was dragging his office chair into his room but he’d never caught her, always waking up after she’d moved the chair back and gone back to her own room. Leaving behind only the three deep dents in the carpet where she’d sat for hours. There had been so many nights he’d spent sitting and watching Jack sleep as a baby-- some irrational fear that the baby would stop breathing in the middle of the night and so long as he was watching Jack would keep breathing. He needn’t ask silly questions, he knows she’s using the same irrational approach.

Clenching his teeth he tries to bite down against a cough breaking out, afraid to wake her some such peaceful slumber. He pulls himself upright, curling down as his temples throb, and his body shakes violently beyond his control. A goal in-sight-- the water on his nightstand and getting Emily back to bed-- he powers through it and overcoming the weakness of his body feels so satisfyingly familiar. To days when there was pain but no cancer and he loves the triumphant that washes over him.

The water is warm and stale, left there by Emily yesterday when she’d forced him to take his medicine (even though he thought he’d throw it back up and he had). It kills the ache of his throat, dry and bitter, and he clears his throat softly to take the rest away.

“Emily,” he whispers. Moving his lips cracks the dried blood on his face he grimaces as he smells the thick scent of the blood. “Emily, get up.” He won’t leave her to sleep in this chair all night. He’s made the mistake plenty of times, knows it’s no good. “Come on,” he touches her arm, palm against her bare skin. She jumps his touch is so cold. “Sorry, sorry--”

She really sees him and jumps even harder. Yelping in shock. “Oh! Oh, God!” She wraps her arms around her chest, breathing quickly, startled. “Fuck Aaron,” she shouts. “You scared the shit out of me!”

He rubs his nose, tries to dislodge the blood.

“Is-- Is something wrong?” She pushes her hair back from her face, “are you okay?”

God. He’s hurt her irreparably, hasn’t he?

“Nothing.” He offers his hand, even if the hand trembles visibly enough in the low light. “Nothing, I promise.” She takes his hand, allowing him to guide her up. “You shouldn’t sleep in that chair,” he informs her softly but still with that distinct fussiness to his voice.

She looks back to the chair and up at him, “I guess I’ve finally been caught.”

He smiles. The first time he’d put two and two together he was angry. Overly frustrated, seething over something so… sweet. She’d sat with him through the night, watching him sleep, just trying to be close and he’d been mad. Not now, though, now he can see how tired he is. He can feel her hand still clutching his. “It’s okay,” he shrugs. “It’s late, let’s go to bed.”

She frowns, brows crinkling as she looks around them in confusion. Sleep riddled brain torn between the rational thought that concludes he’s right, she should go to bed, and the worry she’d felt hours ago about leaving him in this room. She’s not sure what to do now, which thought to travel and act upon.

“Do you--” he looks down at the thrown back covers on his bed. Remembers this wouldn’t be the first time she’s slept in that bed beside him. Likely more than just the memories he can think of now, unprompted. He blushes, embarrassed he even had the thought but she looks down to and nods.

She doesn’t want to leave him alone.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

They start side by side, neither entirely comfortable. She falls back to sleep first. He can feel her breath even back out and within a few minutes she turns over towards him, her hand resting over his wrist. He looks back to his office chair, the giant back of the old thing. She’s so afraid to lose him, they all are. He can feel it in every little thing that they do. How Dave lingers a little more after each visit, hugs him a little longer. The way Derek looks at him, how close he stands. Even in Spencer and Jack who soak up his attention like flowers to the sun. Turning and facing him, finding him wherever he is to enjoy just one more moment. Hanging on to his every word.

He wakes soaked in sweat, shaking as Emily talks to someone rushed, too quickly to sound anything but frantic. Afraid.

He opens his eyes as a sea of red flushes through the room, the shrill of an ambulance breaking up the serene silence the snow has muffled the Earth with.

“Aaron?”

She’d woken to him struggling to breathe. Both had turned over in the night and while she’d turned toward him, he’d turned away from her. Her arm over his hip, her head against his back, they were nearly welded together. If not for the proximity-- his arm pulling hers closer, her leg in-between his, she likely wouldn’t have heard him at all. But she’d felt him jerk in his sleep, fighting his body for air.

And he wouldn’t wake up.

“Aaron?” she calls a second time. She should go open the front door, let the EMTs in but she’d seen a sliver of his eye. His cheek is cold against her palm but she cries, tears streaming when he opens his eyes. When he turns his face into her palm. “There you are,” she beams. His eyes slide back shut. “Stay awake,” she asks, her nerves getting the best of her and she shakes him. Pleased when his eyes open back up and find her. “Stay awake, don’t you want to see the snow?”

The stretcher is cold and he mourns the loss of his thick comforter but the drugs flooding into his blood makes him loose, pliable. He doesn’t fight being taken from his bed, even if he longingly looks back for it. Lets them strap his legs down place an oxygen mask over his face. The snow means nothing to him. He hates it, honestly, but as they step outside, Emily tossing his winter coat of him like a blanket, he looks up at it falling down on him.

Her hand slips away and he looks back for her, confused. She stands in the street, face turned to the fat snowflakes falling around her. All the light coming from street lamps high above her head. He’s reminded of a lifetime ago. When she’d gone against his orders and gone to investigate Michael’s death with a ferocity he hadn’t seen coming. When she’d avoided his eye and said she’d understand if he wanted her badge and gun after that little show. She’d forced his hand, made him call the Vatican, and consider his own allegiances. To when they were two very different people than they are now-- younger, naive… alone.

She catches up to them, slipping her hand back into his. Her fingers freezing cold as they curl around his. “Don’t you love it?” she asks. She looks back out, watching until the doors shut behind them and all she has is a tiny window.

He doesn’t but she does.

She looks young, weightless.

In a way, yes, he does love it.

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan, @lazyhater