#he might feel spur-of-the-moment sparks but that’s all it is and doesn’t go any further. it also happens few and far in between

[taterswithranch]

Tabi headcanon: he’s somewhere on the ace spectrum due to trauma

No I’m not biased what makes you say that—💥💥

He just keeps his label bisexual since he doesn’t really think about the aspec aspect all too much and doesn’t tie it to his identity as strongly even though it very much affects how he defines his relationships. It’s also easier for him to organize it in his head hdhdjsk

[blahkugo]

𝟏 ༒ 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔬 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔤𝔬𝔡𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔢

⤷ dirty valentine m.list

⤷ complete bnha m.list

katsuki bakugo — worship kink

wc: 1.9k

cw: oral (cunni), seems like dubcon at first but it’s not at all, this is pretty tame for me tbh ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

“Try me.”

They had been fighting words, spoken to provoke a reaction and nothing else. Katsuki was so sure of his strength, so utterly convinced that your quirk would have no effect on him. It didn’t matter that he’d seen it in action, watched as mountainous men and women were reduced to rubbles of their former selves. The Number Two Hero was tougher than a rookie’s feminine wiles, had to be.

And he was—at first.

The practice match had gone on like countless others, Katsuki deflecting every kick or stab thrown his way, shooting off small explosions that only roughly missed their mark. He’d been taking it easy on you, dragging on the fight until your inevitable forfeit. He’s unsure why he even bothers asking you to partake in these private spars when you never bother with your quirk; Katsuki always wins.

It wasn’t until that first rush of blood, the unmistakable tightness of his uniform, that he realized his mistake.

“Seems you’ve got a,” your brow quirks as you glance downwards, “small problem.” The taunt is thrown his way with a cackle—high-pitched and nasty—sending a cold sweat down Katsuki’s back. The mere sound of your voice spurs him to anger, clouds his vision and urges him to prove you dreadfully wrong. The dig at his size doesn’t go by unnoticed either.

Heat blooms and crests within his chest, tides rising and falling. One moment he’s ablaze, unable to breathe, much less think, as he struggles to fight through it. Seconds later, the fire is quelled, replaced by a rose-colored twinge that fogs the corners of his vision and renders him helpless against his rising concern for your safety.

With every one of your throwing knives flung his way, a rude laugh or jeer is quick to follow, and yet, your voice is soft around the edges, sinfully sweet notes prickling at Katsuki’s ears and settling deep in his gut.

Try as he might to focus on the battle at hand, Katsuki realizes he’s unable to suppress the ever-growing bulge in his pants. The nagging feeling isn’t one of the superiority complex Katsu’s grown accustomed to, isn’t the need to put someone in their place purely to assert his dominance. There’s an enticement to it, a longing to prove himself to you, to show you he’s worthy of your gaze. His punches and kicks lose their gall and– fuck, did he just take a hit on purpose?

Of course he did; he doesn’t want to hurt you, wouldn’t risk harming such a precious, ethereal being.

He goes on like this for a while, in waves of disoriented, amateur mistakes and reprieves of chastisements. He knows better than this—is better than this. But it seems the harder he struggles, the tighter your grip on him becomes.

And it isn’t just his mind. Katsuki can’t slow his heart when he glances at your pillowy thighs, bare and dripping with beads of hard-earned sweat. He can’t stop his cock from twitching when he notices the quick rise and fall of your chest, scantily-clad and practically begging to be touched.

From the edges of your fingers to the steel-tipped toes of your boots, everything about you drips seduction, compelling Katsuki to drink from the poisoned glass. Desire grips him by the throat, parches him, and burns harder and brighter than any explosion he could ever attempt to spark.

“Lust,” he finally finds the strength to choke out, calling out to you as he drops to his knees, “enough.”

The use of your hero name—as opposed to the colorful assortment of insults he usually calls you—must be enough to spark concern, because you immediately discard your throwing knives and crouch at his side. He doesn’t immediately notice you, his gut still heavy and pulsing with need.

Despite the pain, he isn’t quite sure whether he wants you to turn off the damn quirk or keep it on long enough to fix the mess you’ve gotten him into.

“Bakugo?” There’s no hint of triumph in your tone, no gloating or celebration of your ambitious victory. It’s sympathy, braided through your scrunched brows and stamped into your tooth-torn bottom lip.

It makes him furious.

In seconds, he flips you beneath him, back hitting the mat with a soft thud. “Bakugo?” You repeat, seemingly stunned by his sudden change, mouth agape as he removes his gloves. “What are you—”

And then, his lips are on you, slick with sweat and spit, the kiss all tongue and teeth as he attempts to quench the insatiable thirst you caused. He doesn’t know what to expect, but when your hands wrap through his matted locks to pull him closer, he’s satisfied; he’s worthy. If the drink is poisoned, so be it.

Katsuki allows his hands to roam as they yearned to earlier, running rough fingertips down the sticky skin of your neck. They travel further to trace circles against your heart and further still, until he grazes at pebbled nipples.

“Mmph.” Your mewl is muffled against him as you tap at his shoulder, most likely asking for a second to breathe. How long has it been since he came up for air? Katsuki’s unable to shake the fuzz clouding his brain, hand-spun sugar on your tongue keeping him placid.

When he finally lifts his head from yours, he’s unable to tear his gaze from the string of spit connecting you, even going as far as running a digit across your swollen lips. Your chest still shakes, your eyes glazed over. Bliss. Does your power affect you as well, or is he not giving himself as much credit as he should?

He’ll be damned if he allows you to upstage him yet again.

“Turn it off,” he grunts, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. You don’t quite answer, just offer a tilt your head and a sickly sweet, ‘hm?’ that has the blonde itching to leave you breathless again. “Shut off your damned quirk.”

At that, you let out a soft chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face towards you once more. Your lips ghost the shell of his ear, sucking at it until he lets out a weary breath. Chills travel Katsuki’s body when your sultry voice whispers,

“Baby,” another twitch of his cock, another chill at the pet name, “I stopped using it ages ago.”

It’s all he needs to hear to pounce.

In seconds, his lips are all over you again—drinking that sweet, sweet nectar as his tongue slides against yours. It’s dizzying, mind-numbing, far more intoxicating than the charm of any quirk; even more so when he peppers kisses down your jaw and neck, the sweat-soaked skin offering the perfect balance.

The rough blonde sucks lower, and lower still, peeling off your bodysuit as he travels your hills and valleys. When you’re finally bare, he pauses to stare, a poor sinner basking in the divine for the very first time. And you? You simply relish in his attention, don’t rush him along or cover yourself from his prying eyes.

“Fuck,” he sighs, brushing a digit lazily across your waist. Your body pebbles at the contact, shivering lightly beneath him. “All for me.” He nudges your legs apart, crouching low so he’s eye to eye with your pretty cunt. “And this,” he runs a finger against your slit, watches as it glistens over with your slick, “this is all because of me.”

“Ah– Katsuki.” He smirks when your hips jerk, silently searching for more. “Please.”

Who’d allow a deity to ask twice?

He tongues you with fervor, taking his sweet time to savor every part of you. It begins with your thighs, bruised a pretty purple in the shape of Katsuki’s mouth, closer and closer to where you need him most. No matter how much you gripe and whine, threading your fingers through his wiry hair to nudge him towards your cunt, he doesn’t let up. You’re not getting off that easily—and besides, a proper oblation requires precious time and patience.

A long stripe up your slit, slow and steady, his tongue flattened against you to sop up every bit of you. He wants to be soaked, wants you to see him covered and gleaming in your essence, to know how long he’s longed for this moment. When he suckles at your clit, sparks prickle his own body, reveling in the low mewls of his name—the littles ‘ah’s and ‘oh god’s that spill from your mouth like a mantra.

Of course, Katsuki can’t quell the throbbing of his cockhead beneath his pants. He’s always been a taker, and the desire is relentless, every slight shift of his body causing him to groan, every lap at your slit making him scrunch his brows together and sigh against your bundle of nerves. But he simply settles for rutting against the mat, unable to sacrifice your pleasure—the obscene parting of your lips, the glazed over look in your eyes as you stare down at him—for his own.

“M’so—,” you whimper, panting, “so close.” Your legs tremble, thighs pressed tight against either side of his face, smothering him so that everything sounds a bit muffled. “Keep, ah- fuck, keep fucking going.”

Something about the vulgarities slipping from your lips only makes Katsuki hungrier, urging him to lap harder at you—and hump faster against the mat. At this point, the two of you are a true mess, drenched in slick and sweat and too much heat, but the sloppiness leaves him light-headed, aching for more.

“Wanna see you,” his voice is gruff and sharp as he rubs circles into your clit with the pad of his thumb, “cum all over me, princess.”

Maybe it’s the pet name, or perhaps the pressure in your gut has finally come to a head, but his wish is your command. Within seconds, you’re gushing on his tongue, crying out a long, repeated string of ‘fuck,’ and ‘oh god, yes.’

Katsuki fucks you through it, feeling the coil in his own gut pulled taut and ready to snap. The entire time, he doesn’t stop rutting against the mat, disregarding how needy he must look to you. When he cums, he does so with a loud groan, lips pressed around your clit even as you tug him away with shaky hands. The taste of you, the flash of white that sears through him, could keep him going forever.

“I can’t.” Your heels dig into his back, pushing him closer even as you surrender, “N-need a second.”

The plea seems to snap him out of his haze, glancing up at you to see tears streaking your cheeks and a soft, fucked out smile plastered across your face. “Oh God,” you mumble, hands moving to cover your eyes, “your face.”

Katsuki only raises a brow and grins wolfishly, swiping the back of his hand at his chin and his tongue across his lips to lap up what you left behind. “My face is fine. Prefer it this way, actually.”

Then he’s moving again, rising to pick you up into his arms even as you slap at his shoulder and squeal,

“Where the hell are we going?”

“The showers,” he responds cooly, smirk still glued to his face, “Need to test the limits of your quirk.”

Maybe he’ll power through it, maybe you’ll overpower him once again; he wins either way.

[marmolady]

The Fountain

Main Pairings: Estela x (f)MC

Summary: Post-EndlessEnding. A Broken Chains AU. The world has been restored, but at the price of Taylor's life. And Estela isn't ready to let her go.

Word Count: 2121

Warnings: Major character death.

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove

Hug prompts-- 29. group hug. Thanks @mauvecatfic! I'll make Raj's next hugs more cheerful.

Through the rumblings of an oncoming rainstorm, the silent figure of Estela Montoya limped and crawled through the thick La Huerta jungle, driven by a thought that had become a need… to see the face of her beloved again, to hear her voice.  It spurred her on, a tiny glimmer of something worth living for that she clung to with desperation that increased with every unsteady step.

Estela’s last memory of her wife, of her beautiful Taylor, wouldn’t be that hollow shell-- bloodless, devoid of all the fire and spirit… all the easy warmth that should have been there-- that she’d laid sobbing next to the dark medical room. No. She was going to take her minute more. Everyone else… they had a world raised from the dead; a world that meant absolutely fucking nothing to Estela now. After everything she’d sacrificed… god, Taylor… the world owed her that moment.

The Fountain of Youth was a long and arduous trek from Elyys’tel at the best of times, but half-dragging a savaged leg, it was near insurmountable. If it weren’t for the promise of hearing that voice, of seeing those sapphire eyes alight with life… well, Estela would endure the harrowing journey over again if that was the end. Her knees, the heels of her hands… they were badly grazed and muddied from catching herself as she’d stumbled again and again. Her senses, usually alert to her surroundings, had been dulled by the haze of grief that preoccupied her every thought. She was lucky to have gotten all this way through La Huerta’s treacherous jungles without coming to serious harm, but it was of little concern to Estela. The worst that could happen was that she’d die. And that…. In all honesty, it would be welcome. What was there worth surviving for now? Were it not for all that had been sacrificed so that she might live, she’d end her fucking life herself and be done with it. There was no future… no future save for this time they had together. When their moment was over, Estela would be once again plunged into the abyss that was the depth of her grief, an abyss that would surely swallow her up. She couldn’t look that far ahead-- she just couldn’t. She had to keep it together for Taylor… one last time.

Estela fell to her knees as she came through the doorway of the abandoned temple. Dread flooded her body. All that was left now was for her to summon the courage to reach out to the woman she loved from across time… to do so knowing that she’d been setting in motion the last minute they’d have together. Once it was done it was done; that much she as certain of. She could keep going back to that tree until she drove herself to insanity-- but doing so would be to inflict that pain on Taylor, forever colouring her too-short life with a darkness she didn’t deserve. Just once. Just once in the rest of her life-- that wasn’t asking too much, was it? Estela’s stomach turned as she thought it out. There had been no thinking it out while she’d slogged through the jungle; she’d moved onwards robotically, her mind and body detached from one another while grief drove her to the last hope, the last scrap of her person. Only now did she doubt everything. She hauled herself back to her feet, her weakened leg trembling violently beneath her weight. And she kept walking forwards, all the while her mind whirred.

It wasn’t as though Taylor would see this future, see the heartbreak in her wife’s eyes, and be able to change the path she’d set herself on. This path had tortured Taylor. She’d sacrificed herself because she simply couldn’t live with the alternative. And she’d died with hope. A hope that had been for naught, a spark extinguished along with the life in her eyes, but a hope that had given Taylor the courage to give away her very life force. What right did Estela have to take that away?

But I need her. I need her!

She’s gone.

The minute would be over and… Taylor would still be… gone. Would Estela hurt any less? No, but she’d endure a world of pain for even a second of feeling Taylor’s presence there with her. She’d endure it again and again, over and over until it killed her.

If it’s gonna hurt her…?

Estela’s shallow breathing became even more rapid as she stood before the tree. Tears spilled down her dirty cheeks. Blind grief had gotten her this far, but she’d been so blind. She couldn’t do this. Not now, not ever.

Taylor was dead. Dead and gone. They’d said their goodbyes down beneath Atropo, before Taylor had touched that damned crystal.  She’d close her eyes and see the terrible, sickening way her sweet Taylor had writhed in agony… the way her face lost almost all semblance of her self as it contorted with the pain. As Estela had seen again and again, near constantly since she’d woken to a healed world, but a world without Taylor. It was more than she could bear.

With tears and snot rolling into her mouth, dripping from her chin, she stumbled toward the tree… toward the Fountain of Youth. If she was careful, if she thought it through properly, she could find solace elsewhere. Panting for air, Estela wiped her face hurriedly. She couldn’t be crying for this, no matter how much she was tearing up inside.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t do it. It was risky; she’d need to be certain not to say or do a thing that could alter the events that would shape, well, everything. But it was different now. She needed it; she needed her mom to tell her everything would be okay. Because the person she’d otherwise have turned to was lost forever, and… because it wasn’t okay…. She wasn’t… she wasn’t.

Raising her hand to the tree’s surface, Estela closed her eyes and imagined her mother’s face… the words of comfort that would come. Just enough… just enough to keep her from crumbling. But as her fingers were about to graze the bark, she hesitated. That face in her mind warped with shock and fear. Of course. That fucking scar. She wouldn’t even be able to get a single word out before it would be clear to Olivia that something had gone wrong… that she’d been badly hurt. Estela felt the cold weight of her heart sink down to her toes. She… couldn’t do that to her mama.

A tortured cry wrenched itself from Estela’s lungs as she threw her body forward against the hard, cold bricks. There were no more loopholes… no cheats that could give her even a moment more of an existence that wasn’t this fucking, fucking nightmare. She screamed into the damp ground, and screamed until her throat and lungs were raw.

Why did she have to go on living?

It was like she was drawn to people who were like her-- people who cared too much, people who would die for a cause. They’d die and they’d leave her. She’d tried to warn Taylor off; ‘you get close to me, you’ll get hurt’. Bullshit. Because no matter how Estela might put her life on the line for what she believed in, somehow she ended up the one still breathing. But she didn’t fucking want to. She didn’t want to live anymore. She didn’t… want to….

She howled.

_________________________

A small party emerged at last from the thickest part of the forest, the ruins of No’ox Naj illuminated by a flash of lightning as if to welcome them to shelter.

Shivering from the wet that sent a chill to his bones, Diego huddled close to Varyyn, who guided him with a gentle steer of a long and muscular arm.

“You must watch your step. It would be easy to slip on the wet moss.”

Gazing around the temple, taking in the gloom that hung there, Raj shuddered violently. “Maybe it was all that talk of ghosts and the whole ‘dead Zahra’ thing, but this place just gives me the heebies….”

“Well, yeah. That’d… that’d do it.”

“Estela?” Quinn called out, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “Esteeelllaaaa…!”

No answer. Diego’s heart sank. He’d been so sure he’d been onto something. Not only was this place a strong connection to the Endless-- and by association, with Taylor-- but it held within a magic gift that could never be more tempting than it was right now.

“We should go further in,” he decided. If this ‘Fountain of Youth’ thing did work, maybe they could ask…? The thought made a hard lump rise in his throat. The thought of seeing Taylor again. But they couldn’t… they couldn’t.

“You’re right,” Michelle agreed. “As if Estela ever comes running when anyone calls her name at the best of times…. If she’s anywhere, she took herself there to be alone; she was never going to make this easy.”

Diego winced so hard he was certain it hadn’t gone unnoticed by a single one of the group. She’d have come running for Taylor. Every time. He cleared his throat. “We should at least check around the tree. Um, maybe check in with the others?”

Somehow, he’d found himself leading the search party. A role, he was so painfully aware, that would usually have naturally fallen to Taylor. That should still be falling to Taylor. His imaginary friend had left him, so… so it was time to grow up. To step up. He supposed it helped that everyone was handling him with kid gloves just as they were Estela; if Diego needed something to happen, everyone just about fell over themselves to make it happen. Right now, all he wanted-- all any of them wanted-- was to know that Estela was safe. If anything happened to her now….

Quinn checked her phone; still a bizarre feeling after so many months without such communications. Her face fell, even expecting no different to the response she got. “Still nothing on their end. But the Elysian could take days to check properly, even with whatever scans Iris has access to, and all the cameras-- just because they haven’t found her there yet, doesn’t mean….”

“We’re not losing anyone else!” Michelle said shrilly as she paced the floor. “I’ve just lost one sister and I’m not about to… about to….” She gasped and dissolved into sobs. “…Taylor would be losing her mind.”

There was a shuffling sound… stumbling feet. Everyone hushed, a joint breath held.

Limping into view, one hand-- stained with blood as were her forehead and knees-- propping her up with the wall as she came forward; Estela.

“It’s okay. I… I’m safe.”

Safe. Not ‘okay’, but safe. It was all she could give them.

She could have hidden away. Her friends--- though she loved them so much-- were living reminders of what had been torn away. She could not look at a one of them and not see Taylor.

“Oh, thank god!” Michelle exclaimed, and she rushed forward. She had a moment’s hesitation, holding back from taking her friend in her arms and squeezing her to within an inch of her life, not knowing if any physical show of affection would be welcomed. But Estela reached out, her eyes welling, and Michelle guided her into an embrace.

The feeling of being taken in a friends arms, of being held… it was wonderful, and yet it hurt, and all at once the dam broke and Estela could not have held back her tears if she’d wanted to. She collapsed to the cold, damp floor, eased down by her friend's steadying arms.

Raj was next in-- never one to hold back when a group hug was in the offing. As he got down on the ground, Estela flopped forward and cried into his chest. There was nothing to say, so he just wrapped her in a hug and squeezed her there, while Diego and Varyyn, and Quinn piled in too. There they wept together. Sharing in loss and relief and exhaustion and a deep and overpowering sadness.

In the centre of the mass of arms and bodies, Estela closed her eyes against Raj’s warm chest… surrounded in a scent so reminiscent of happy memories and better days when the world was not so dark… feasts and laughter and… her. Her Taylor. She sighed deeply… and let herself feel it.

The comfort she needed was right there. It wasn’t enough-- how could it be when her world had ended?-- but it was warmth and it was love, and her heart was not breaking alone.

[my-writings-and-musings]

Hello! Thank you for answering my Ravage request, I love it so much! Also your last Rodimus prompt really helped me yesterday, thank you.

Can I request some headcanons about how would Megatron, Swerve and Rung react to love confession from their human crush? Free to ignore it if there's too many characters

(sorry if it's not okay to send more than one request in such short amount of time)

Yay I'm glad that you liked what I wrote and that some of my other stuff helped you out! Sorry for the delay in answering these, I've been quite surprised by the volume in my inbox! I have three lovely bots reacting to love here, and feel free to send in requests so long as my inbox is open!

Megatron

·The confession thankfully occurs while he's seated, as the impact force of a thirty foot mech collapsing to the floor would have been... considerable. That's not to say his physical reaction is at all subtle though. Eons of combat training and discipline dissapear in a flash and his expression shows the full extent of his shock. Was he dreaming? Or did his audials need repair? There must be some confusion, because he's fairly certain the little human on his desk just said that they loved him. No matter his own considerable feelings for them, he must be considerably mistaken, because that would simply be impossible.

·Except it isn't impossible. In fact, it's the truth, you tell him more than a few times over once he starts asking if you're confused or perhaps unwell. He wants to be elated, but a lifetime of training keeps that reaction well contained, as he knows from experience that these things simply cannot happen to bots like himself. Kneeling before the table you stand on, he tries not to sound pitiful or ungrateful as he requests clarification one final time, saying that he couldn't possibly expect love from one who had so much to hate him for.

·You're firm but as gentle as you might be with a fragile bit of glass as you make it undeniably clear; you love him. The only thing you're unsure of, and hoping to find out yourself, is whether or not he feels the same. All the expectation in your eyes compels him to act as impulsively as a sparkling, and he emphatically returns your feelings in a hushed reply, raising a tender hand to hold your little body in the rush of emotion shooting through him.

·There's a moment of icy reality to stop him in his tracks. Don't you know what he's done? What being with him could put you at risk of? That there's nothing to be gained from entangling yourself in the mess he's made of his life? Well accustomed to this behavior, you stand your ground and look him square in the optics, affirming that you're well aware of everything he's just said, but that the only thing you want from him is him, so everything you must endure in relation to him is already worth the struggle. In a rare burst of emotion he pulls your little body to his chest for the gentlest of hugs.

·He laughs for the first time in what has to be eons. There's the smallest hint of a fog in his optics as you find yourself tearing up too, overwhelmed by this hulking bot finally opening up to you completely and just being happy. For his part, he can't truly believe any of this is yet real, but he isn't going to bother with that for now. To know you love him is the greatest peace he's ever experienced, but also the most invigorating kind of euphoria. There's youthful hope in his spark again, encouraging his desire to explore and experience the wonders of life now that he has you at his side, but for this single moment he's content to just... be. One bot, one human, embracing through their laughter and tears.

Swerve

·Somehow he forgets he was polishing a glass at all in the second it takes for it to shatter upon impact with the ground. You had been talking, going round in a way that suggested you were intent on getting to a particular topic, but then...? The glass is forgotten as he gently cuts off your attempt at an apology, spark pulsing and voicebox constricting as he asks you to repeat yourself, looking like he's terrified beyond all belief as he does so. A kind of fear he hasn't felt in a long time prevents him from pretending to be okay like he's so used to doing.

·At your careful reassurance that you did indeed say you love him, and that you meant it, he speaks so softly in response you can barely hear him. The questions he whispers are slow and deliberate, and if he could see anything but you he'd be grateful no one else is present to witness him acting so... shy. He has to make sure though, because it just doesn't seem possible; you love him? Beautiful, intelligent, funny, caring you is in love with... him? But he loves you too, and that means you love each other, and how is that possible?!

·Disbelief slowly melts into a happiness he's afraid to let in only because it's so foreign to him, but bit by bit he begins to realize this is actually happening, and his lonely spark lets the feeling in. Tears start to drop from his foggy visor as a trembling smile pulls up his cheeks, compelling you to reach out from your spot on the bar and invite him into a comforting hug. While he clarifies that he's never felt better, he still happily takes the hug, pulling in your tiny body with his large servos and carefully holding you close.

·Feeling the warmth of you against him sends another wave of beautiful confirmation through him; this is real. The loneliness that always plagued his spark seems insignificant now, as if he's gained a kind of perspective just knowing someone like you could care so deeply for him. All of his friends, all of his patrons, and you at the very center of it all... Why wasn't he ever able to see just how much warmth and goodness there was before this moment?

·Tears are streaming down his face when he lets you go, and at your concern he assures you it's nothing to worry about. There are more questions, but they're happy now, and he's smiling like never before as you dutifully answer every query whilst dabbing his cheeks with a towel that's blanket sized for you. He wants to know; when did you start to have feelings? Does this mean you really don't mind his jokes? Can he tell the others? Is he handsome by human standards? There's so much for him to say but, for once, no rush to say it. Somehow he's finally realized that he doesn't need to talk to get your attention, he just needs to be himself, and the banter is simply a lovely bonus.

Rung

·Though he's certain he misheard, he removes his glasses almost on instinct, looking to the little lifeform he's grown so close to with an unguarded expression of apprehension tinged with hope, gentle but rarely seen optics looking to you with that vulnerability he keeps so well hidden from everyone else. You only remain silent because you briefly lose yourself in his gaze, which is as desperate as it is due to him wanting so badly to believe he did indeed just hear what he's uncertain is actually possible. The request for you to repeat is so soft it's barely audible. Thin digits try to polish his lenses as is his custom when concealing stress, but he fumbles so frequently he has to cease just as he begins.

·You stand near the edge of the table, speaking slowly and clearly so there can be no misunderstanding. The confession is indeed irrefutable this time around, the simple words breaking the silence with their surprising weight and drawing a tiny gasp from him in the process. His hand over his mouth prevents further exclamations, though he's certainly not capable of making any in his current state. Something in the depths of his being has always yearned for this, but he never dared to even dream it could happen, that he could love and in return be loved.

·Tears on his precious face spur you to act, if only because they're absolutely heartbreaking, but as he moves his hand from his mouth you see that despite his sobs he's absolutely beaming. You're surprised even further when he laughs through the tears, and at your prompting says that he's just overwhelmed. You, wonderful and thoughtful and brilliantly unique little you, in love with the bot no one can remember? What has he ever done to be this fortunate? Admittedly he's not fully convinced that this isn't a dream, but he has no intention of letting that stop him from basking in this wonderful feeling.

·You can't help but cry a little too, seeing him overwhelmed in a way you never could have anticipated. Tiny human hands take his offered servo and guide the tip of his digit to brush adoringly over your cheek, just as he so often does, but you notice that for the first time ever there's no hesitation to the action. There's only pure, serene affection. Looking into his optics, you see a mech almost made new, as if the validation you give him just by existing and loving him has changed his entire outlook on life. For a bot who does so much for others, you can't even begin to describe how wonderful it is to give him that peace.

·Still as bashful as they come, he blushes when you move in to embrace him from the tables edge on a whim, but the sheepish hesitation quickly gives way to a mutual hug. The hum of his spark is almost melodic in your ears as you press your head into his warm chest. Your tiny heartbeat, just perceptible to the servo he has cradling you close, is equally jubilant to his touch. The beauty of it all is almost enough to make him dizzy; for the first time in his life he feels truly seen, truly heard, truly here. Reality is still moving just as it was before, but now he genuinely feels like he is a part of it all, here with you in his loving arms. You make him certain that he's worth remembering.

[ahkaahshi]

on this segment of spur of the moment hq content:

things that keep them up at night

sakusa sometimes stays awake contemplating the possibilities of the next day and wondering if he’s well-enough prepared. he runs through his mental to-do list for tomorrow to make sure he’s not forgetting anything. he also checks his alarm several times to reassure himself that it’s set. he likes to think he’s the guy that can get up on the first alarm but definitely turns on another one just in case his body gives in to the temptations of “just a few more minutes” of extra sleep in the morning. he’ll also get out of bed just to double check that the front door is locked since he has a tendency to fixate on the idea of things not being done.

ushijima doesn’t have many problems with sleeping, at all. however, in the rare moments when he finds he can’t drift off as easily as usual, it’s often because something happened during the day that bothered him or made him feel uncertainty. maybe he got into an argument with you about something that might not have been as trivial as it seemed, or one of his teammates made an offhanded comment about something that he didn’t quite understand. he’ll often contemplate the meaning of these things or what he should do about them, but once he settles on a decision, he’ll be able to head back to bed with a clear mind.

bokuto has too many ideas running through his head for him to sleep sometimes. they can be about anything, really, from a new type of tandem play he wants to suggest to atsumu to a new recipe he wants to try recreating--with supervision, of course. his inability to quell all these new ideas often keeps him up for longer than ends up being good for him in the morning. when he arrives at practice with bags under his eyes, his teammates know he’s had an epiphany of some sort that he’s going to want to share. whether or not it’ll come out coherently is another matter, though.

kuroo gets easily disturbed by noises. the gentle hum of a car’s engine as it passes by, the sound of rain pattering against the windows, or the nearly inaudible creak of the house settling will all catch his attention and spark wonderment within him. where’s the car going? when is it going to stop raining? was that the house settling or a ghost? there’s no end to his natural curiosity, and, unfortunately for him, not knowing the answers to these things sometimes makes it harder for him to sleep than necessary. it’s okay not to know where the car’s going, kuroo! get some rest!

hirugami sometimes finds himself losing sleep over imagining the things he could’ve done differently. though he’s able to take his losses in stride and shake them off easily now, he’s still retained slivers of his tendencies to ruminate. during times like these, he lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling in the darkness of his room, watching how the scenario he’s picturing could’ve played out differently. when he really struggled with this, he stayed up for hours, just tormented by what his brain convinced him were wrongdoings or mistakes. now, however, he’s got a journal and pen by his bedside to write down his thoughts just so he can clear his head and go back to sleep once more.

oikawa is mostly kept awake by thoughts of failure and the what ifs. what if this wasn’t the right decision? what if I wasn’t ready for this? what if I never end up being as great as I want to be? usually when these ideas plague him, he thinks of you or of iwaizumi and what the two of you would say to make him feel better. of course, he has no qualms with texting either of you, no matter what the time may be. anything the two of you say will help, even iwaizumi’s text that reads, “go back to sleep, jackass,” because any response--no matter what time it’s given or how it’s delivered--means that he’s important to you.

iwaizumi the thought that he could always be doing better is what often keeps him up in the middle of the night. he wracks his brain to come up with ways that he could be better tomorrow than he was yesterday. have I really done/tried my best? is a question that always seems to haunt him in the late hours of the night, when there’s no distractions. the answer’s usually no, and while having the persistence and dedication he has to being his best self is an honorable one, it’s not great when it disturbs the rest he very much needs to be his best.

akaashi often finds his sleeping difficulties are associated with stress. when he’s got a lot going on in his life or feels like he’s holding onto too much, it manifests in the form of stress dreams--specifically those where he’s being chased but he can never seem to escape. even though he feels mentally exhausted, he can’t find a position that feels comfortable or stop fidgeting. he keeps a bottle of melatonin by the bed to help him fall back asleep during moments like these so he can delay dealing with his worries until the sun is up, at least. he can’t cope with much if he’s too tired.

atsumu has trouble sleeping when he’s lonely. while he loves having freedom from his brother, and has wished for it many times before, it never feels quite right for him to be alone. he’s used to having osamu in the same room as him, or you sleeping peacefully beside him, so if he’s the only one occupying his entire home, it’ll create this strange void within him. in situations like these, he’ll often end up calling or texting you and asking if he can come spend the night--if you’re nearby--or moving his head underneath the covers so he feels completely ensconced in warmth to make up for the emptiness he feels within.

osamu gets caught up in ideas about the future. unlike sakusa who reserves his further-reaching thoughts for when his brain is more alert and focused during the day, osamu tends to live more in the moment then and delve into the ideas of long-term, future goals at night. to be fair, it’s one of the few times when he doesn’t have someone needing his attention, but that doesn’t mean it’s the optimal time, especially when it’s past 2am and he has to get up in less than five hours. however, solidifying--or at least contemplating--his goals for the future is something he usually finds he can’t go to sleep without doing every now and then.

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[whump-town]

Moments Too Late

Part two!

I don’t know it’s fun writing all this college nonsense (while ignoring my own college nonsense) and I think I’ll probably write a chapter three because this is giving me a little kick and it’s fun

Warnings: panic attack, briefly mentions Derek’s childhood, Carl Buford, and the insinuations of what that entails 

Part One is Here

The quad, a great expansion of grass covered in a sea of moving sweaty twenty-year-olds, is nearly unaware of the scene played out before them. A mismatched group of a twelve-year-old, a Chicago born here on a scholarship football player, a brightly adorned orphan, a blonde basket case, an alcoholic, the Italian mobs missing link, and somebodies lanky older brother don’t typically need so much attention. They’re the sort to pass quietly through college. The blonde basket case might make honor roll and the football player might be seen in the back row of some newspaper before an injury takes him out but that’s about it. For them, that’s a point of pride -- not being noticed.

Derek knows from the pull of Aaron’s shoulders to the rattling sound of his breathing as he stumbles away from them that he’s having a panic attack. He watches Emily step to follow, knows she means well but will only make things so much worse. “Stay,” Derek shouts at Emily. Alliances mean everything to them, young and dumb and alone in a world not yet fully accessible to them. They need the little promises -- that Spencer will only eat red skittles out of the bag, that JJ will carry rocks in the pockets of her pristine clothing to give to Penelope, and that Derek sides with Emily.

Out of shock, Emily rocks to a stop. Derek’s never yelled at her.

“I’ll go,” he offers, not waiting for anyone to argue even though it looks like Dave might try. “Don’t follow.”

Aaron’s spider-like legs carry him quickly but he’s got nothing on the suicide’s Derek’s football coach has had him running for the past six months. Derek pulls them hip to hip, glad that the sun and the chatter pull all attention away from them. They look like tipsy girls on their way back from a party, stumbling into one another heads pulled in as if to discuss something of great importance.

Derek’s never been so thankful their dorms are on the main part of campus.

“Hey--” the RA, some poor kid just trying to put himself through college, watches Aaron and Derek come barreling into the building. He’s not on duty but he’d gone to get one of his kids the extra key to their room and been on the ground floor to watch Derek loop his arm around Aaron. Nearly having to pick the older boy up by his hips to plant him back on his feet. He’s got a split second to decide what to do.

To his defense, he knows Aaron and Derek. Aaron is a sophomore and never causes anybody any problems. Hell, he spent spring-break in the dorms and didn’t tell anyone the hot water went out. He just showered with freezing water for a week. Derek is a football player but not the sort that drags in all their muddy crap all over the carpets, when Derek comes in from practice there’s not a trace of his existence. When the two are together, they’re the least rowdy group to deal with (even though one or both has at least three or four more people in their rooms).

So, the RA looks at Aaron, looks at Derek, and decides whatever those two are doing… they can handle on their own. “Don’t fucking run! This isn’t a barn!” Hmm, just another job well done. Nice.

Derek looks over his shoulder, smiling despite how hard his hands shake with his anxiety. “Right!” he offers. “Sorry!” He’s not worried about tearing past everyone they see or that pulling Aaron’s heavy ass behind him is making his biceps burn. He’s worried about the tears Aaron seems to have no control over or how broken, how lost he looks. “Just a second,” Derek promises, throwing his weight into the bathroom door. The communal showers are empty, not many people take showers at two in the afternoon, and that’s what Derek’s banking on.

“I -- I --” Hotch goes where he’s pulled. His face numb and his feet heavy, it takes his brain a moment to really compute where he is. “What are we--” he coughs on a breath that doesn’t come outright. Whimpering and pulling his hands in towards his chest, trying to soothe the feeling of his sternum chipping away to shoot hard bone fragments of pain down his arms and up his throat.

His cry startles Derek enough to spur him to further action. Grabbing Aaron by two fist fulls of his ratty old sweater, a beige monstrosity that Aaron will never admit to having bought at Salvation Army with the last twenty dollars he owned, Derek pushes him into the shower. Holding him against the wall as he sputters against the shock of the freezing water beamed at his chest. Caring about neither of their clothes, he ignores his shirt wetting and sticking to his shoulders and back.

“Derek please--” Aaron cries, weakly pushing at Derek’s arms. He’s too disorganized, too frantic to push the stronger boy off. It’s nothing for Derek to grab Aaron’s thin wrist and pin them to his chest; not an issue of strength but it pains Derek to watch Aaron sob and try and pull himself free. If anyone were to walk in they’d think Derek was hurting him but this is just all Derek knows will help.

Derek feels Aaron’s body start to take to the cold, become too shocked to panic. “Just breathe,” he instructs. “Just calm down.” Carl Buford had been the person to teach Derek about this little trick. Naked and terrified and too trusting in all the wrong men. Buford had lifted him and dunked him in a freezing bath, shushing him when he’d scrambled madly out of the painfully cold water. Buford had held him, pinned Derek’s thin arms down, and held him down in the water. Buford held him close until he calmed down, Derek nearly felt safe once again as if the atrocities done to him never happened. He considered maybe they hadn’t.

“Shit,” Derek scrambles closer, grunting when Aaron’s knees just give out from beneath his body. They both as they hit the floor, a clatter enough to draw attention to them. Derek hits his elbow against the wall, sending sparks of pain through his nerves. “Alright, alright.” Aaron’s teeth are chattering but he’s not fighting, he’s not panicking. “Just --” he didn’t think this far ahead. To the aftermath. He needs a towel and someplace warm but not too warm. “I’ll be right back.”

He leaves Aaron sitting on the floor, curled as far as he can get from the water but just limply leaning into the wall. Temple resting against the wall and arms wrapped around his body and fingers clenching the wet material of his shirt. Staring vacantly at nothing.

He runs to his own room where his towels are sitting in his clean clothes basket from where he cleaned them three days ago but hasn’t needed to put them away just yet. He grabs two because he’s not sure what the damage is and it’s likely they’ll both need one. He’s in such a state he nearly busts his ass. His sneakers slipping in the water dripping off his clothes. He lands with a plop on his hands and knees, brain short-circuiting for a moment as all he takes in is the sting of the skin on his knees and the ache of his wrists.

In the hall, legs of a fawn not yet certain how to move its knees, arms wrapped tightly around each other, and jaw clenched tightly to prevent his teeth from clacking together and sounding out his painful retreat back to his room Aaron shuffles down the hall. Derek catches sight of just his drenched clothes, hanging pitifully off his frame and weighed down by the water, and can’t help but be frustrated but not entirely surprised.

“I told you to stay,” Derek fusses as he jobs up behind Aaron. He wraps a towel around his shoulders, wincing when Aaron looks up at him and Derek gets a good look at his face. Aaron’s always had bags under his eyes and he’s naturally just very pale but the cold has drawn any color out of his face leaving behind only the darkly contrasted proof that though he might tell them he’s sleeping well that he’s lying. That’s where you have to be careful with a man like Aaron -- they have long ago mastered the art of redirection and lies. A skill he learned at his mother’s hip as she dabbed concealer over his eye. Redirect their attention to protect yourself. It hasn’t failed him yet.

Well… except for today and, evidently, every day before that.

Derek allows Aaron to keep shuffling in the direction of his room with the assumption that the room will be a nice warm space to get comfortable. The problem is supposed to be in getting Aaron out of these clothes; Derek knows he won’t strip in front of him. Not that Derek is going to enjoy himself watching Aaron -- mostly because he’s a little afraid of what those oversized sweaters are hiding but also because Derek typically prefers women.

What Derek isn’t taking into consideration is that Aaron is a borderline masochist.

“Why is it so cold in here?” Derek takes a step back when Aaron manages to get the door open. Shivering at the cold air that comes rushing out.

Aaron shrugs, lips blue and jaw starting to betray him. “Can’t sleep under the blankets if it’s too warm,” he offers as if Derek might be the silly one here. But they both are really, standing in the doorway of a dorm shivering in soaking wet clothes. “Whatever you say, boss,” Derek mumbles with an eye-roll, stepping around Aaron. They’ve all grown very familiar with the layout of each other’s rooms. Even when new school years bring new floor layouts, some of them are more reliably the same than others. Emily is a bit of a wild card but people like JJ and Aaron have the same habits. And Derek knows where the changes of clothes he’s looking for are.

He’d borrowed a pair of Aaron’s slacks last semester for an advising meeting with people from his major and they’d been snug. Snug is an understatement -- he thought his ass was going to bust out of them. He’d even had to have Penelope bring them up two inches because, despite being the same height, Aaron has freakishly long legs. Derek would never comment on this, Aaron might come across as your normal brooding angst but he’s kind of sensitive. Though the others might not think so (given Derek’s nature to push and shove at everything Aaron says) Derek values Aaron’s friendship tremendously and Aaron knows that when Derek pushes it’s to understand boundaries and because he trusts Aaron.

“Oh my God,” Penelope exclaims from the doorway. “What did you do to him?”

Aaron jumps, wrapping his arms around his naked chest in a hurry. He shuffles back, trying to put some distance between himself and Penelope standing in the doorway of his room. Glancing at Derek as he does so, pleading with the other boy to do something and get the attention off of him.

Derek tosses a pair of pajama pants on Aaron’s bed, motioning for Aaron to turn and pay them mind. “Get out of those clothes before you get sick.” Turning his own attention to Penelope he averts her, shuffling her back until their both out the doorway. Giving Aaron the privacy he needs and letting her air-out her loudly proclaimed worries as he does so. “Baby girl,” he says over her rapid speech. “Baby girl, hey. Hey, he’s fine. Look at me, he’s fine.”

Penelope stops, mouth open and brows pulled down with great concern, “Derek, he’s soaking wet and pale--” She stops and really gets a good look at him. Standing before her in a shirt clinging to his skin and shivering slightly in the air-conditioned hall. “And-- And you’re soaking wet too. Derek Morgan, what did you do?”

Derek grimaces in preparation for how crazy he knows he’s about to sound. “I--I threw him in the shower.”

Penelope raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“He was…” Derek hesitates. He’s not entirely sure how much he should tell her, for the sake of Aaron’s privacy. If it was Spencer, there would be no doubts but Aaron is far more complex than that. “Sometimes cold showers can help nerves and so I directed him to that solution.” Leaving out the bits about Aaron’s panic or maybe anxiety attack, his vulnerability, and the wrestling that took place to get him there Derek feels he’s left Aaron’s virtue intact. A win. “It sounds crazy,” he admits, “but it helps, I swear.”

Penelope considers what she’s just been told and while she would like to implement further comments on the terms and conditions of a shower (even if it’s a cold one) with Derek Morgan, she just narrows her eyes and knows that Derek always seems to know what’s best. She trusts him. “So, he’s better now? Asides from the pale, shivering bit?”

Derek nods, “yeah but in my defense, he’s always pale and shivering.” Which is true, no matter where they go they carry blankets and jackets something to offer Spencer and Aaron when they inevitably get chilled. 

“Okay,” she caves. That seems to settle some of her own anxiety. She looks sadly to the shut door separating her from Aaron. “Okay,” she repeats again, deflating at the thought of her poor Aaron sitting on the other side. Hurt and upset. “Do you think there’s anything we can do?” She looks to Derek, so hopeful that he’s come up with some solution she hadn’t come up with on her own. 

Derek shakes his head, “I don’t think so, Penny. I think we’ve got to let them work it out. It’s not about us.” He sighs and he’s frustrated that it’s true but he can’t amend Emily’s words and he’s not so sure she can either. With a sigh he opens Aaron’s door back up, peaking in to see where the other boy’s gone. 

Aaron’s climbed into his bed, lights off, and back facing them, covered in his mounds of blankets. 

“I hate it when they fight,” Penelope whispers. 

Derek takes one long look at Aaron, watching his back move as he sleeps. Panic attacks are draining, he’s just glad Aaron’s sleeping for once. “Yeah, me too.” 

[slasherholic]

synopsis: Michael bullies the shit out of you and then finger-fucks you into oblivion.

Just Another One of Those Days | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

You aren’t awake when Michael digs his fingers against your scalp and wrenches you off your pillow, dragging you out of bed by your hair alone.

You are only half awake by the time he starts to tow your body like a ragdoll across the carpet, rug burns searing your skin from the friction; despite that, some self-preservation instinct kicks in, compelling you to clutch at his thick forearm and hold on for dear life.

Michael’s strength is monstrous and he does not let you forget it. He hauls you into the bathroom and hoists you to your feet and bends you over the sink and plants his elbow squarely between your shoulder blades and shoves your head beneath the faucet—and for a moment time hangs still, frozen, leaving you blinking in a stupor up into the empty black spigot above you, your heart skipping beats—until your brain finally catches up with the rest of your body to form its first coherent thought; 

god help me, it’s one of those days. 

Not one of those days when Michael’s wolfish urge to hunt and stalk and kill pervades his frame like a raging fever, the only cure being to step out into the dark cold night and dirty his hands and his clothes and his knife with red; today is not that day. 

This morning, Michael is afflicted only by innocent, honest boredom; and his cure is both simple and rewarding. 

He’s going to turn your every waking moment into a living hell.

Simply for the sheer fun of it. Simply because you can’t stop him, although you know he’d love it if you tried—if you thrashed in his steely grip and resisted him and begged for the cruel treatment to end—if only to indulge himself in your cries, to study the way your lip quivers and your body quakes and your eyes wrinkle shut as you struggle and struggle and then go limp.

There’s a rusty squeak as Michael turns the faucet on. Freezing water rushes down and gets in your nostrils and floods your lungs and you jerk away hard, sputtering violently. 

Michael seizes your hands behind your back and secures you rigidly in place beneath the flowing water. He watches you thrash. His face is blank and stony and his eyes are too; but you know it’s a ruse. 

You know that just beneath his empty veil, Michael is harboring all the detached amusement of a child burning ants with a magnifying glass.

For ten wretched seconds Michael lets you drown; after that his hands come entirely free from your body and he lets you crumple. 

With a gasp and a sputter you collapse to the floor, hacking up water until its coming out your nose. You watch Michael’s boots and don’t dare to lift your head any further than that. He towers above you, monstrous. You know that he’s inspecting you. Drinking in the results of his work. Satiating some carnal hunger—or maybe just stoking its flames.

You stay on the floor and don’t pick yourself up for another five minutes after he leaves; a simple precaution. Michael will be back for more. If not right this very moment, then soon enough. Soon enough. 

The day drags gruelingly on, and Michael’s bullying ranges from downright wicked to alarmingly petty. He seizes you up against walls and strangles you there until you teeter on unconsciousness; he snatches objects from your hand and holds them up where you can’t possibly reach; and when you go to wash your clothes he appears like a phantom in the doorway, blocking your exit, holding you captive in the laundry room to do nothing more than stare at you and breathe, and blink occasionally, and stare at you some more until you give in, and give him what he wants.

You try to push past him. You plant your hands on his thick chest and shove with all your might until you are huffing and puffing and your face is beet-red, but Michael doesn’t react. Doesn’t budge a single centimeter.

And then he steps briskly to the side. And you fall flat on your face.

Come afternoon, Michael has thrown his usual ambush tactics to the wind. Now when he approaches you he does so in plain sight, eyes locked on your bruised and battered form like a lion, presenting you every opportunity in the world to flee from him—no doubt trying to spur you into a chase. 

Good, you rejoice. Great. He’s getting excited. He wants a hunt. 

With any luck the torment will be over soon; because this sort of ruthless, non-stop bullying always culminates in Michael bending you over and fucking you raw. Until your muscles are putty and you can’t think nor see straight and all you know is Michael’s cock rutting into you, stabbing your cervix, over and over and over again. And with a bit more luck, that will be the end of the torture. 

For today, at least.

You guess the most fucked up thing about all of this is how badly your body wants it. How your cunt seems to know that Michael’s abuse means a good, long fuck is in your future, and prepares you for it accordingly, leaving you to suffer with that terrible heat pulsing through your pelvis and pair after pair of soaked panties.

Evening draws nearer with no relief in sight. And another pair of underwear is damp with your slick.

You haven’t seen Michael in over half an hour and you suspect he’s back to his old tricks, crouching in some hidden place, poised to strike, waiting for you to open the wrong door or enter the wrong room. 

Well good for him; but you’ve long since grown tired of waiting.

 You sink into a heap on the couch and shuck your pants down your legs, reaching with two fingers to massage your throbbing clit through your panties, the silky, slick cotton clinging to your folds. You arch up into your own touch and murmur swears beneath your breath, taking care to keep your voice hushed.

You’re not even sure if Michael is listening. And it doesn’t matter. Sooner or later your mewling will reach his ears and when that happens, you know his curiosity will get the better of him. 

Truth be told you’ve never pulled a stunt like this. You’ve touched yourself before of course, but only when you were dead-certain that Michael wasn’t around. Right now, you’re stumbling through the dark without the faintest idea of how he might react to finding you like this; with your hand on your cunt and his name on your lips.

You slip a finger down below the fabric of your underwear and hook into your warmth, coating the digit with slick. You slip two more in after that, rubbing along your plush walls, feeling them contract and spasm around your own hand. Your pussy is throbbing.

You tilt your head back on the armrest and scrunch up your eyes—pretending the fingers in your cunt are actually Michael’s—and you fuck yourself like there’s no tomorrow.

It’s nowhere near enough to get the job done. With a frustrated hiss you open your eyes again to sulk up at the ceiling.

And you nearly wet yourself when you discover that Michael is standing over the couch, staring down at you.

He’s probably been there for awhile; watching and waiting. Waiting for you to feel his presence, waiting for your heart to plummet, waiting for you to gape stupidly up at him just as you’re doing right now and to say your silent prayers that you didn’t just hammer the final nail in your coffin with your little stunt.

He looks at you for a few seconds more and his eyes are paralyzing. Unreadable. 

When Michael strikes it’s faster than a cobra.

You yelp as his dangerous hands seize your shirt. One hard tug is all it takes him to sweep you clean off the couch. 

You flail to get your hands beneath your body and stop your fall, managing to catch yourself just before your head bashes against the tile.

Michael sinks down in your place on the couch. You race to scramble out of his way, clambering to your hands and knees; too slow. His hot palms close around your ankles and envelop them with ease. You squeal in alarm as your lower body is hauled up between his legs, forcing your naked ass straight up in the air. He rips your panties away like paper. One of his hands grips your ass cheek and he squeezes hard, powerful fingers digging deep down into the muscle. You grimace and choke back a whimper and try not to imagine the ugly blue bruises you’re going to be dealing with tomorrow.

And then, perhaps just to add insult to injury, Michael plants the heel of his boot on your head—right down on your temple—smushing your cheek hard into the unforgiving tile. 

For the third time today you find yourself face-down on the floor; and a sinking, hollow feeling in your gut tells you that you won’t be getting up anytime soon.

Michael knows by now where your clitoris is and he finds it with ease. Your heart races as he gives the hood a lazy, taunting flick, making it undeniably clear how easily he could have you screaming. Blood rushes to your head and your chest heaves up and down with your strained breathing and tears shimmer in your eyes. You steel yourself for the worst.

Instead of furthering the torment, the pressure on your clit vanishes. You can’t help but shudder when you realize what it means; Michael is saving that part for later.

His index finger slides down the length of your sex to explore your dripping slit. He prods your opening for just a moment—rubbing around it in a brief, tight circle—before growing impatient. Your pulse throbs in your cunt and in your face as Michael fills you to his knuckle, a wave of heat sweeping your entire body.

He doesn’t move it at first; he seems almost intrigued by the feeling of your walls clenching around something other than his cock. But Michael’s curiosity fades as quickly as it sparked.

You let loose a choked sob as he rams two more fingers up inside of you, just as you had done; and yet it feels nothing like what you had done. You’ve never had to think about just how much Michael’s fingers dwarf yours in comparison; not until right now.

His fingers plunge in and out at a pace that puts your own to shame. You quickly become a whining mess, a rivulet of drool dribbling past your open lips and down your chin and pooling on the floor beneath your cheek; but still, it isn’t enough.

In your moment of weakness you make a horrible mistake. There are rules you’ve set for yourself when it comes to dealing with Michael and now, your dumb ass just has to go and break the golden fucking rule:

Never beg. Because begging never works.

“Please Michael, please just give it to me, I swear to god I’ll do anything you want just please—nngh!”

Your begging is cut short as the pressure of Michael’s boot heel on your temple turns agonizing. His weight bears down on your head like a press. You know that if it tickled his fancy he could crush your skull like a watermelon.

And you could do absolutely nothing to stop him.

A horrible tightness spreads throughout your chest. You give one more whimper, a frail and shattered sound, just because you can’t help it.

In response, Michael withdraws his fingers. He takes your clit between his thumb and index. And he pinches so hard that stars explode across your vision.

You writhe on the floor beneath his boot, sniveling like a kicked puppy, your fingernails clawing and clacking against the tile. Michael’s savage treatment is just that; cruelty for cruelty's sake. 

He doesn’t let up the pressure. The tortured little nerve-bundle throbs beneath his hot fingertips. Your pussy clenches around nothing. Blood rushes to your head and it makes your world spin. Your orgasm is building like a tidal wave, sweeping in a sickening crescendo of pain and pleasure and delirium until it is hanging over your head—

And then Michael lets go. You make an utterly broken sound and tremble against the cold floor and sob.

“No, no no no, don’t stop… please just fuck me…”

When you hear him fidgeting with his clothes you go limp in utter relief. Michael’s erection bobs out against your ass and finally, finally, you’re going to get the stretch your body aches for.

You feel him line up with his target; your eyes widen. A realization hits you like a brick wall.

Fuck. Wrong target.

Oh, Michael is going to fuck you alright. Just not where you want it.

[talpup]

I just found read your crossroads fic over on Ao3, and damn sweetheart, I am in LOVE with this classy mob styled version of Overhaul you have going on. The smut in that last chapter was abso-fucking-lutely to die for! But I really need to know something about his character in this story. He was obviously a virgin, but r there any specific kinks he’s been thinking about or planning on trying with her?

*blush* THANK YOU!!!  You can blame my good friend and favorite Kai fanfic author @inorganicone2230 They’re the one that spurred me into having the idea for this fic and then (like they’ve done with all my bnha fics) encouraged me to write it and brainstormed with me.

Yes, Kai was a virgin. Though his skill level might test some folks suspension of disbelief (something I try not to do too much in my fics, even though I write mostly fantasy).

Kai’s kinks in this fic might be fairly tame by our standards.  But it is a 1920′s era au fic.  Don’t really know if they’re kinks; but Kai would love to spank Maya then bend her over his desk and…

...so I don’t know if you saw my post.  But I decided to do a short smutty scenario thanks/inspired by this ask.  So here you go.  Sorry it’s so short.  Between having my ‘poison juice’ (aka infusion) last Friday and unexpected visitors yesterday and the day before I’ve been kinda wiped.

FYI this little scene would take place after things settled a bit from the last and (eventual) upcoming chapter.

WARNINGS: spanking, non-con, creampie, cockwarming;  Please remember, this fic is rated explicit and has warnings of sex, violence, and other possible triggers.  For a full list of story tags please check the fics AO3 (link to that at the top of my tumblrs homepage).

Promised Pleasure

Removing his dust mask as Maya entered his office, Kai frowned at her attire. “That’s not what I told you to wear today.”

Maya’s shoulders tensed.  She foolishly hadn’t expected her choice of clothes to be an issue.  She should've known better.  Still, her pride wouldn’t let her apologize.  And she knew Kai would sniff out any lie.

Deciding a gently put truth was best, she stepped further in his office.  “I felt like wearing this.”

Kai’s golden eyes narrowed.  She was testing boundaries again.  And her testing was trying his temper.  “Close the door please, my Dear.”

Despite the politeness of the ask, a shiver ran up Maya’s spine.  Mouth suddenly dry, she turned and closed the door with a shaky hand.

“Lock it.”  Kai ordered, voice taking on a twinge of sharpness.  He had called her in here hoping for a nice diversion.  But with his beautiful girl acting so spiteful he would have to resign himself to giving her a lesson.

Maya’s hand paused on the door.  The hair on the back of her neck prickled.

“Maya. Lock the door, Darling.  You know how I dislike repeating myself.”

The slow scrape of the lock setting in place deafened Maya to everything but her ragged breathing and thundering heart.  She didn’t hear Kai’s next words.  So when she turned back around, it was to find him looking more annoyed then ever.

Smothering her nerves, Maya met Kai’s piercing gaze head on.  “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

Unlacing his fingers, Kai sat back.  “I told you to come here.  This is the second time I’ve had to repeat myself.  I won’t do so again.”

Maya shuffled hesitantly toward Kai’s desk.

Kai pushed back and slightly turned the chair he was sitting in.  “This side.  Come around near me.”

She moved around the desk, stopping a couple paces from his spread legs. Skin prickling under the caress of his roving gaze, her breath caught glimpsing the bulge in his pants.

At least Kai always brought her pleasure.  Unlike the disgusting landlord who had used her and left without care or glance after.  Kai always made her feel special.  Beautiful.  Loved.  In those moments of heated bliss she lost herself and forgot she was doing this solely for justice for her brother.  Basking in Kai’s twisted affection and the delightful pleasure he gave she’d start to believe she truly cared for him in return.  That they could make something of this.  Possibly enter a real relationship that wouldn’t end when he did as he promised and saw those who killed her brother put down.

Maya stared at the tailored suit jacket hanging over the back of Kai’s chair.  Anything to avoid seeing the twitching cock in his pants.

“Why don’t you serve me some water and unbutton my vest for me, Sweetheart.”

It wasn’t a question, or even a suggestion.  Maya knew well enough it was an order.  But with Kai’s honeyed tone and adoring gaze it was easy to trick her mind into believing there would be no consequences for disobedience.

Turning over a heavy tumbler that sat on a silver tray at the end of his desk, she took up the crystal carafe and poured.  Setting the glass in front of him, her fidgeting hands fell to her side, smoothing her skirt.

Her delay in following his second commend had Kai rising to his feet. Maya stepped back even as she hurriedly reached for his vest, seeking to rectify the offense.  Kai grabbed her wrist before she touched him.

Maya grimaced at the too tight grip.  “I’m sorry.  I--”

Kai pulled her roughly against him.  Maya stumbled, heels catching on the plush area rug.  She fell against his chest.  His expensive cologne assaulted her nose.  She loved the smell but hated smelling it as she only got a whiff when Kai had her in his space.

Suddenly gentle, Kai’s strong arms steadied her.  “Careful, Sweetheart. We don’t want you hurting yourself.”  He caressed her cheek, brushing the hair out of her face with a tenderness that didn’t match the blazing fire in his amber eyes.

Maya held perfectly still, struggling not to flinch. The way Kai flipped from loving and sweet to caustic and hurtful on a penny dime was what frightened her most about him.

Smiling, Kai’s head dipped.  “You’re so beautiful, Darling.  So soft and beautiful.”

His tender lips graced hers in a chaste kiss.  Maya’s lashes fluttered closed accepting the kiss, thinking she had escaped his anger.  Her body jerked at a sudden tug.  The sound of something ripping rang out in the room.  A sudden cold strike of air hit her front torso pebbling her nipples.

Maya’s eyes shot open with a gasping cry.  Kai had rent her blouse and camisole open.

“If you refuse to wear what I tell you to.  Maybe you should be left with nothing to wear at all.”

“Kai… I’m--”

Kai cupped her cheek.  “I don’t want to hear it, Sweetheart.  You apologize and apologize but keep on going astray from the clear, defined rules I’ve set.  My love for you has seen me be more than patient.  But I’m afraid my patience has come to an end.”

Maya stumbled again, her world spinning as she was quickly turned and shoved down against the desk.  The glass of water she served slid off the surface and fell to the floor.  It’s crash accentuated Maya’s surprised cry.  Mind reeling, she didn’t feel the splash of water soak her hose.

“Ka—ah!” She broke off with a scream, senses assaulted by the sound of her tearing skirt.  The cold hard desk against her breast and torso and Kai’s painful grip on the back of her neck.  Her nose burned, eyes watering from the lingering smell cleaner that clung to the polished surface.

Hand still holding her down, Kai dropped her ruined skirt.  His freed hand slid over the silky slip she worn.  So soft, he mused.  But not anywhere as soft as the flesh beneath.  That covering was pulled down along with her panties.

“Kai! What are you--”  Maya broke off with another shouted cry.

The crack of his hand hitting her ass echoed about the room.  Maya’s back arched at the blooming fire but was roughly pushed back down against the desk.

“Stay, my Love.  You wouldn’t want to upset me further and earn yourself another lesson after this.”

Wiping tears from her eyes, Maya tried to look back at him.  For a moment she swore she saw a horrid bird-like beast in place of her handsome tormentor.  But the monstrous vision was gone quicker than she could blink.

“Le—le—lesson?” She stammered.

“For continually testing your bounds.”  Kai leaned forward, low rasp tickling her ear.  “I’m afraid this will hurt, my Dear.  But know, that it will hurt me to do it more than it’ll hurt you.”

Ass still stinging from the first spank Maya doubted that.  By the third strike she was certain Kai enjoyed it and was glad for the chance to discipline her supposed disobedience.  Confirmation of his delight came when he paused after the fourth hit and ran a hand over her blazing butt-cheeks.

Kai’s fingers traced the red marks, trailing over the rising welts.  He loved Maya’s perfect, soft skin.  But there was a possessive pride in seeing her flesh temporarily marred by the work of his hand.  It sparked something primal in him, turning his tender caress into a rough, digging grope.  She was beautiful, his beloved.  A perfect little darling that would fit so well beside him in the new wholesome world he was working to usher in.  Or at least she would be once she learned to listen and obey without hesitance or question.

No one but him could touch her.  Certainly no one else was allowed to see her in such a weakened and debauched state.  Kai growled at the thought, fingers digging into the meat of her ass.  He would gouge the persons eyes out.  Cut out their tongue, and break their knees and fingers.  Then grant them a slow, painful death for having seen his darling like this.  Because this…  His other hand loosened and trailed down her neck, slinking around her side to cup her breast, reveling in the weight as she lifted a bit thinking they were done.   ...this was for him, and him alone.   His throbbing dick ground against her raw ass.

Maya’s lips pressed together between clenched teeth, biting back a cry at the burning pain.  Halfway into righting herself her back bumped Kai’s chest.

Weight rested on his hand planted to her side on the desk, Kai’s chin hooked over her shoulder.  “Think you’ve learned your lesson, Beautiful?”

Breast heaving with a shuddering breath, Maya nodded.

“Doesn’t appear so.  You know how I prefer worded responses.”

“Yes!” Maya expelled.  “Yes.  I’ve learned my lesson.  Please, Kai. I’m sorry.  So very sorry.  It won’t ever happen again.”

Kai’s knuckles glided down her back.  Other hand gripping her hip he pulled her blistered ass against his leaking erection.  “Why don’t we test that?  Bend over, Sweetheart.”  Annoyed as he was by her hesitance, he smiled lightly.  “Either you haven’t learned your lesson.  Or liked it so much you want another.”

Before Maya could respond she was pushed and held down on the desk.  Her eyes shot wide at the resounding spank.  Fresh tears sprang from her eyes as they squeezed shut at the sharp boiling pain.  “Kai! Please!  I’m--”

Another hit landed.  Then another.

Kai stopped after the tenth.  Staring down at her trembling frame he had a moments regret.  He should have made her count.  Next time, he told himself.

He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his vest.  Amber eyes skimmed over his handy work.  Just when he thought she couldn’t be more beautiful…  Even her mix of drool and tears puddled on the desk were lovely.

Lost in the consuming tumble of dull thudding pain accentuated by sharp stinging bursts, Maya didn’t hear the jangle of Kai’s belt being undone.  She jolted at his hand slipping between her legs. Whimpering as his prodding fingers dragging through her folds.

Kai frowned at the minimal moisture.  Usually Maya got so wet for him. It wounded and upset him.  But before those emotions could take root his eyes drifted back to the pool of saliva on his desk.  His heart lightened.  Even with her punishment his darling had thought of him and his needs.  Proving she loved him as much as he loved her.

He leaned over her and kissed her tear-stained cheek.  “Thank you, my Dear.  You’re so sweet and good for me.”

Maya’s lashes fluttered.  She watched Kai’s hand trail through her drool, gathering it.

Bringing his wet hand to his freed length, Kai slathered her saliva over his shaft.  He grimaced, skin prickling with the beginnings of a inch. But soothed himself that was Maya.  She was clean.  Worthy.  His.

It’s like indirect oral, he thought with a steadying breath.  The prickling itch diminished then fully disappeared as he focused on Maya, pumping his fist to fully wet his cock.

Lining up his cock he leaned back over her and kissed her shoulder.  “You’ve had you’re punishment, Darling.  And you took it so well.  Now, let me remind you of my love and the pleasure I can give.”

Maya’s shining eyes flicked to Kai’s.  Her brow furrowed.  Was it the light?  Or was there a dim otherworldly glow in those honeyed depths? The image of the demon Dabi’s bright burning eyes flashed through her mind.  But it vanished in an instant from the breach of Kai’s fat cock head.  She would've cried out at the burning stretch if her breath hadn’t seized in her lungs.

Kai hissed at the pull of his sensitive skin.  Maya’s drool helped. But it didn’t provide the smooth silky glide her delicious arousal did.  Wanting the discomfort over with he snapped his hips flush against her, driving his length in her tight hole.

Fully sheathed, Kai slowly exhaled.  His eyes closed, head rolling back. Taking a moment to simply feel, he basked in her velvety embrace.  This would never get old. Slipping his aching cock into Maya’s perfect, tight pussy.  Feeling her walls stretch to make room for him then flutter as they adjusted to his penetrating presence was something that consumed his thoughts; just like everything else about her.

Maya mewled the most pitiful whine beneath him and Kai lost it.  His darling was just so sweet.  So beautiful.  So helpless.

His hips pulled back and slammed right back against her.

If asked, Maya wouldn’t have been able to say if her scream was from the hard thrust or Kai’s pelvis pounding into her blazing red backside.

Her back arched, lifting her off the desk.

One hand gripping her hip, Kai’s other hand grabbed the back of Maya’s neck and shoved her back down.  Never once did his ramming thrusts stop.

The once dulling pain of Maya’s welted ass sharpened again.  Fresh tears seeped from her eyes.  Kai had lied.  He had said she had her punishment.  The pain was suppose to be over.  But every thrust was just another spank.  Until…

Kai’s feet shifted.  Angling his hips he hit that spot in her that had her seeing stars.

Pleasure mixed with the pain.  The rough scrape of his trousers zipper didn’t hurt as badly.  Even the occasional jab of his belts buckle didn’t make her want to crawl up and die.

Kai almost reached around to finger her clit.  But an idea struck him. It was scandalous.  But so was fucking his darling over his desk.  He groaned, cock twitching at the thought.  His pace sped seeking his own release without a care for hers.

Maya rocked against the desk.  Her hips started to push back against him despite the blazing pain to her ass.  A different kind of heat pooled in her belly.  But just as the coil started to tighten another warmth filled her.

Kai thrust deep inside Maya, cock coming alive.  He grunted, pushing his hips firmly against her, driving her against the desk, seeking to get even deeper as hot ropes of cum spit from his pulsing cock.

Building orgasm lost, Maya deflated atop the desk.  Her nails clawed at the polished surface, hands balling into weak fists.  Though grateful it was over, she couldn’t help but be bit bitter about Kai’s second lie.  ‘...let me remind you of my love and the pleasure I can give.’ Yes, she had felt some pleasure.  But she hadn’t gotten her full pleasure.

She waited for Kai to pull out.  When he didn’t she looked back at him.

Kai greeted her with a smug smile.  “You didn’t cum.  Did you?”

Maya’s mouth fell open.

Before she could respond, her torso was pulled up off the desk.  Heated as his skin was through his button-up shirt, Maya shivered the instant her back touched his chest.

Kai’s arms wrapped around her.  He held her firmly against him, keeping his cock snugly inside her.   His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Did you think I forgot about my promise, Sweetheart?  I said I was going to remind you of the pleasure I can give.”

Keeping her glued against him, Kai retook his seat.  Head a whirl of confusion, Maya barely grimaced at the discomfort of his softening cock shifting inside her.  The heated pain of her abused butt numbed by her racing mind trying to figure out what Kai was doing.

Soon enough she got her answer and wished she never had.

“I’m a man of man word, my Love.  What do you say you keep me warm while I do some work?  Then I can give you that promised pleasure.”

After this, Kai might develop a breeding kink to go with spanking, rough office sex, and cokwarming.

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated.

Thank you all for being so patient with me and the posting of this fic.  Special thanks to Anon for the ask and inspiring this one shot.  And as always, an extra special thank you to @inorganicone2230​ for being the best fellow writer friend (and friend in general) and encouraging and brainstorming with me.  I mean it when I say I would’ve given up posting long ago if it wasn’t for your support.

[bigtimetired]

Red ‘n Blue

another one-shot in a wider au- in which robin and superboy meet for the first time (set near the beginning of reign of the supermen, in this au not long after damian wayne meets his father)

Sunday 5th November 1989

[Palisades Avenue, Metropolis, DE]

Tim’s never been in Metropolis in person before, which is far from ideal.

Obviously, he’s looked at maps and pictures- he’s not an idiot- and he’s fairly confident that he could navigate the main streets. There are plenty of signs on the ground after all.

Unfortunately, Tim is neither on a main street nor on the ground.

He’s on a cold and miserable rooftop, somewhere rather far from where he stowed the bike he shouldn’t be riding between cities- between states- after dark, but hey, that’s just life.

It had been a spur of the moment idea, coming to Metropolis- an idea Tim had had (purely coincidentally) after a phone call from Bruce, reminding him that patrol tonight was cancelled.

(Tim hadn’t heard anything to suggest that he was there but had been fairly fucking certain that Damian had been smirking somewhere nearby.)

(Tim had also very carefully not thought about how this was the third time Bruce had either cancelled on him or brushed him off since his son had come to America. He had also very carefully ignored the burning feeling in his chest at the thought- such things didn’t bear further investigation.)

It had been a spur of the moment decision which Tim might be starting to regret, just a little bit.

One would have thought that there would be plenty of crime to stop here, considering what had happened to Superman a few weeks back. (Rest in peace, Big Blue.)

One would have been wrong though, because Metropolis has been cool and quiet and melancholic so far, and altogether very lacking in the crime department. That’s good obviously- great even- but if Tim doesn’t find an outlet soon he’s going to start fucking screaming.

He’s just a tiny bit on edge, recently.

He wonders why.

Tim makes the leap to another rooftop, peers down over the side with disinterest- a darkened movie theatre, shutters drawn, and doors locked. Just like every other building around here seems to be.

(Would Gotham do the same for Batman?)

“Nice costume, dumbass,” says a nearby voice, and Tim whirls, heart thumping and staff in hand.

There’s a boy- only about his own age- floating (actually floating) by the edge of the roof, arms crossed and face unimpressed.

Tim’s eyes skitter around, desperately trying to find some inspiration for a plan. His gaze catches on the bright insignia just visible under the boy’s leather jacket.

Tim blinks. Surely this isn’t…

“Superboy?”

The boy huffs, annoyed. “No, I’m the new Superman.”

Tim eyes the boy’s messy hair and very young face and snorts rather rudely.

Normally he would feel bad- Robin has faced similar disbelief in the past- but Tim hasn’t been in the best of moods lately.

“Sure thing, man. Whatever you say,” says Tim, and the boy’s face twists.

“Yeah, and who the fuck are you?”, he spits, and Tim scoffs, feeling like an absolute asshole and enjoying it.

(And if he’d much rather direct all this vitriol at a certain assassin-in-training rather than a complete stranger, then that’s no one’s business but his own.)

“Robin,” says Tim, as if it’s perfectly obvious.

“Uh-huh,” says Not-Superboy. “Don’t you have a gargoyle to be standing on or something?”

“Don’t you have kittens to be saving from trees or something?”

Not-Superboy floats closer, mouth opening in response.

And then there’s an explosion from down the street.

Tim stumbles badly, is saved from tipping off the roof by Not-Superboy himself, who looks more than slightly dazed.

“Thanks,” says Tim quickly, before taking off towards the smoking crater which used to be a building.

Finally, finally, something to do, to investigate, to-

After a moment Tim realises that he seems to have acquired a shadow.

He slants a hard look at Not-Superboy, who takes this as an opportunity to grab his arm and yank him to a halt.

“What the fuck man?”

Hot, simmering, rage is starting to build in Tim’s chest.

Not-Superboy frowns at him. “What are you doing?”

“My job? What’s it look like?”, Tim snaps, and Not-Superboy rolls his eyes in response.

“No, you’re gonna stay here, out of the way.”

“And why’s that?”

“‘cause you’re just a kid?”

Oh hell no.

“Oh yeah?”, Tim’s ears are burning, and he finds himself stretching up- because the bastard’s still floating like a complete dick- into Not-Superboy’s personal space. “You’re pretty fresh-faced yourself, bud.”

Not-Superboy throws his hands out from himself in frustration. “Yeah, but I’ve got superpowers. You’re just a civilian with a stick and a cape.”

Tim would very much like to smash said stick into someone’s face right now.

It’s at this point that the cause of the explosion decides to make itself known; a huge, spider-like, machine of gleaming silver trundles its way out of the wreckage and into the street, headed towards what Tim thinks is the city centre.

Not-Superboy lets out a harsh breath. “Fine. I don’t have time for this- if you get yourself killed, that’s on you.”

He shoots off after the machine, and leaves Tim standing there, fuming.

A civilian with a stick and a cape.

That’s a fucking challenge right there, in Tim’s book.

He unholsters his grapple gun and zips ahead of the metal spider-thing, mind already whirring with plans and ideas.

If he creates a blockade up here, that’ll hopefully limit collateral damage and buy him more time to shut this thing down before it gets to somewhere slightly livelier.

Tim squints at the scene behind him- the silver thing is still making its way towards him, seemingly undeterred by the colourful shape floating alongside and hammering dents into it.

Tim rolls his eyes, before snapping back into professionalism.

Assess the situation, Robin.

It’s got spidery leg things, that’s for sure, but the machine is actually trundling along on thick caterpillar treads, which gives Tim an idea.

Out of his belt he pulls the largest and hottest flares he owns, and chucks them at two faded patches of road, roughly around where the treads will run over them in several moments’ time.

Hopefully, the tar should start to melt around there and stick to the treads for a few minutes until Tim can stop this thing permanently.

Tim jumps from the roof, swings himself onto the back of the spider with his grapple and a well-placed girder, and starts poking around for a weak spot.

A vent, an escape hatch, any gap in the armour.

Tim narrows his eyes at a tiny space next to a panel of some sort and unceremoniously wedges the end of his staff into it.

Levering a panel that doesn’t want to move is easier said than done- even more so when one is on the back of a trundling monstrosity and in danger of being flung into the street at the next sharp turn.

Tim glances up and catches Not-Superboy’s eye, who has stopped whatever it was he was trying to accomplish and is instead staring at Tim in askance.

Tim jerkily beckons him closer with his chin, not letting go of his bo staff for a second.

Not-Superboy drifts over and yanks the cover up with relative ease- that fucking show-off- and Tim slams the end of the staff into the revealed circuitry over and over until it sparks.

It’s inelegant, but it generally works.

Some of the spidery legs rise up and twist around on themselves in an admittedly very impressive display of dexterity before one of them shudders violently and pierces the shell of the machine with a horrible scraping sound.

The vehicle judders then- once again Tim nearly falls and has to be steadied by the floating dumbass- and slows its steady trundle forward.

Tim glances around and realises that they’ve driven over his melted asphalt and mentally pats himself on the back.

Not-Superboy has landed at long last and is currently stomping on the shell with one foot. Tim wants to ask him what the fuck he’s doing, but it becomes obvious as soon as one stomp makes a slightly different sound than the others.

He’s found another weakness.

This panel is also ripped off with sickening ease, though this time Not-Superboy goes, “Ha!” and reaches in.

Finally showing some sort of effort- see how it feels motherfucker? – Not-Superboy uses both hands and starts levitating again to pull out a full-grown, wriggling, man dressed in various shades of grey and not in the least bit pleased about the current state of affairs.

The man breaks free and takes a swing at Not-Superboy who dodges it, and Tim decides to delegate that particular task to him and instead focus on turning off the whatever-the-fuck’s engine, as the whatever-the-fuck is still slowly inching forward and may or may not have some form of explosive on board.

Tim drops down through the hatch and into the cabin. There are a whole load of monitors and wires and stupidly complicated-looking panels in here, so Tim takes a nice, deep, breath and compares it all to the most complex machine he can think of- the Batcomputer.

Tim knows how to turn the Batcomputer off- he pictures it in is head, the flickering lights, the hum and whirring of machine parts, the button sequence required to switch it all on and off.

And then he slices as many wires as he can with the side of a Batarang until all the lights go out and the ground stops shaking.

Never fails, that one.

Tim clambers up on the ladder back to the top and peeks his head out strategically.

Not-Superboy is still struggling with the man, taking a glancing blow to the arm and being knocked back surprisingly far.

Tim decides to not be an asshole about this and creeps up on the pair.

He kicks out the man’s legs and Not-Superboy takes advantage and socks him in the jaw with an audible cracking noise.

The man crumples, out cold.

For a moment, neither of them say anything, just catching their breath.

Then Tim says, “Do you wanna call the cops?”

“…yeah,” Not-Superboy decides. He hesitates then, “Do you have, I dunno, zip ties or something?”

Tim nods.

“Cool- back in a sec.”

Tim watches Not-Superboy dip down to ground-level, making a beeline for the nearest phone-booth.

Tim rolls the man over with some difficulty and cuffs him like Bruce taught him to. He predicts then and there that Bruce will have called him by midday tomorrow about this whole thing and a part of him lights up with a savage kind of pride.

Not-Superboy is back then, staring up from the ground with an unreadable expression.

Tim raises an eyebrow and nudges the man’s unconscious form with his boot. (Lightly, because he isn’t a complete ass and is feeling a great deal more vindicated than earlier, for some unknowable reason.)

“You gonna help me with this or not?”

Not-Superboy’s face crinkles. “Huh?”

“We’re not leaving him on top of this thing, dumbass,” says Tim, with significantly less venom in his voice than earlier.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Not-Superboy blinks, and Tim rolls his eyes, dragging the man to the edge by the armpits.

Not-Superboy takes him then and Tim hops down to the ground, surveying the scene. He decides that this is a victory for Robin on the collateral damage front and awards himself bonus points for managing it on someone else’s turf.

There are already police sirens in the distance, and Tim blinks.

“Huh. That was quick.”

“There’s a precinct a couple of blocks over,” says Not-Superboy matter-of-factly.

“Ah.”

Tim grabs his grapple again and decides that the top of the movie theatre looks promising.

“Wh-where are you going?”

Tim shrugs, cocks his head slightly. “I dunno how you do it over here, but back home we don’t tend to stick around for the cops too often. Vigilantism, and all.”

“Oh.” Not-Superboy seems to consider this for a moment. “Alright, I guess.”

Tim salutes him and zips up to the rooftops again.

He makes it all of ten seconds before a voice calls after him, “Wait a sec!”

Tim obligingly waits a sec and is only kinda exasperated to see Not-Superboy floating up to him. (Again.)

Not-Superboy rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t quite look at Tim when he says, “Thanks, I guess. I mean, I had it covered, but it was nice of you to stick around, so, uh, thanks.”

Tim nods, not quite willing to unbend yet.

“Am I still just a civilian with a stick and a cape?”

Not-Superboy winces. “Yeah-uh, that was maybe kinda shitty of me and, uh, I guess I was wrong. So sorry about that.”

It’s definitely not the best apology in the world, but Tim’ll take it.

He shrugs. “It’s okay- I was kinda a dick earlier, so we’re even.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Where’re you going now?”, asks Not-Superboy.

Tim rolls his shoulders. “Home, I guess. Just gotta find my bike first.”

“Bike?”

“Yeah? I mean, I hardly walked here from Gotham, did I?”

“Guess not.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Not-Superboy glances around furtively.

“Is he here?”

Tim blinks. “Is who- oh, you mean Batman?”

Not-Superboy nods.

“No,” says Tim, and he decides not to elaborate on that.

“Alright,” Not-Superboy’s shoulders relax a little. “Where’s your bike?”

“In the alley next to some diner back that way,” Tim gestures vaguely behind them.

“Lou’s?”

Tim squints, tries to remember. “…maybe?”

“Oh my god.”

Not-Superboy’s rolling his eyes but his tone is light, so Tim doesn’t feel too offended. He drifts back a few feet, gestures that Tim should follow him.

“C’mon- I don’t think Gotham will ever forgive me if I leave Robin stranded over here.”

Tim snorts but follows anyway.

 Tim’s bike is stowed neatly in the alley next to Mary-Anne’s diner, as it turns out. Not-Superboy stares at it for a few moments, eyes starry.

Tim grins. “Her name’s Redbird.”

“She’s gorgeous,” says Not-Superboy, sounding as if he means it.

Tim nods. “Yeah, she is.”

“You know your way back, right?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Dude.”

Not-Superboy grins, honest and open. “Just checking, man.”

Tim swings his leg over Redbird, settles down and brings the engine to life.

He looks at Not-Superboy, who looks much friendlier than he did earlier.

“Thanks again,” says Tim, meaning it. “This was fun.”

Not-Superboy shrugs, but he’s still smiling. “Yeah, it was a lil bit. See you around?”

Tim nods. “See ya.”

He shoots off into the night then, feeling much lighter than he did on the trip in.

 (He gets to school by lunchtime the next day, waves a forged doctor’s note at the necessary people and doodles in the margins of his notes until the final bell.

Bruce is either busy or getting old- he doesn’t call the house phone until 6pm. Tim lets it go to voicemail, grins a little as he listens to it over dinner, despite himself.

Bruce is disgusted, Tim is benched until the weekend, and somehow he’s not quite as upset as he thought he would be.

Funny, that.)

[my-writings-and-musings]

Could you do Fort Max and First Aid for the oxygen loss?

Seriosuly loving it, angst and comfort/fluff is the best combination lmao

It is the best combination and those are two of the best boys so I am ON IT! Fort Max is in part eight listed below, but here's First Aid!

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: You're Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

First Aid

·Ever one for new experiences, he'd been quite enthusiastic to have a human join the crew, and perhaps it was his penchant for thoroughly appreciating every unknown he came across that had led to your fast paced courtship. The bot had simply demonstrated an almost overwhelming fascination towards you from day one, and in short time the connection between the two of you had been discovered through his efforts. Now you were nearly inseparable. Off days and breaks are always used for bonding, and today is no exception. Atop his lap as he sits comfortably, you happily listen to his enthusiastic and commentary filled reading of a Wrecker's Declassified, loving how he has the most obvious and adorable starstruck look while doing so. You could listen all day just to see his schoolboy crush play out before you.

·For him, having someone who listens and values his opinions without hesitation is enough to get his spark humming. He's rather accustomed to being passed over for bots with more experience and fame, so seeing your eyes focused on him with such rapt attention is... well, it's just nice. Finding you exceptionally adorable doesn't make it any less sweet. Being human also means a great deal of his favorite topics are new to you, so he gets to introduce you to all the wonders of the Wreckers, something that he loves every moment of. It's also not unpleasant to have your tiny body close to his, practically snuggling against him... Cuddling is something more or less new to him as well, so having it at all is yet another wonder you've brought to his life. There's a vague hope in the back of his processor that he'll be brave enough to suggest sharing a berth someday, just for a nice nap together, as he's not yet been brave enough to ask such a thing of you.

·Unfortunately, the universe has very little respect for his plans. Accustomed to interruptions as an always on call medic, he can't help but be a little frustrated when Ratchet starts comming him out of the blue, but he knows better than to show it. Something serious must be going on if their CMO needs assistance. Still in your partner's lap, you watch as he answers the communication, quite used to sudden messages like this pulling him away. It's a part of dating a medic; but nothing about this seems standard. First Aid shifts his expression to one of concern as the voice comes through the comm in broken static, though he's experienced enough to put together what little there is. A warning of failing systems gets him moving on instinct, his arms scooping you up as he moves to stand, and the instructions to head to his emergency stations is almost unnecessary when the line goes dead.

·You're surprised but not offput by the sudden change in your position, if only because being swept into his arms is... very nice. That doesn't prevent you from knowing something is off though, and thankfully he is just as aware of you as he is his responsibilities as a medic, more so of you to tell the truth... A calm visor reflects your face as he lifts you close to relay the situation. Something is wrong with the ship, he explains, and it's bad enough that Ratchet made a preemptive call for medical bots to get moving. That means he needs to get to the medical bay, and before you can ask he brings up the possibility of you coming with him. Worry is just perceptible on his face as he hesitantly expresses that having you there would be safer, and thus he'd feel better... The bashful look is so cute you momentarily forget the danger to give him a reassuring kiss on his faceplate while accepting the proposition.

·Ignoring the stars you make him see with a tiny smooch, he gets right to work, securing you in one arm and ensuring his room is locked before heading out. He can't help but feel protective as he does so, almost like your guard against the threat that feels omnipresent in every hallway. You feel the same, and he can tell by how you hold him tighter in his grasp, something that stirs his spark with almost overpowering affection. It's enough to make him certain he'd fight like a Phase Sixer to protect you... For your part, a similiar drive to keep him safe is present, despite the difference in size between you. Hopefully you help him feel a little more secure as the two of you move through the eerily quiet hallways.

·The protective instincts First Aid has honed in his career as a medic give him a half second warning that danger is inbound, but all he is able to do in that time is curl around you protectively when the world seems to shake itself asunder. Hard floors meet his back in a painful rush, and you're similiarly jostled against him, though thankfully the worst of the blow is softened by his reflexive brace for impact. Tremors continue to rock the ship once you both realize you're on the ground, but a great cacophony of noise fails to die down when the shaking does. It's not a noise you've ever heard before; though you can compare it to metal being torn, the echoing and overbearing sound is at a scale you can't even comprehend.

·First Aid, having a natural coolness under pressure, is able to collect himself even as the situation continues evolving. The alarm begins to go off as he gets himself off the floor, and he notes that had it not the entire crew would probably still be mobilizing. There was no way anybot didn't feel what he just happened to be a front row spectator towards. While being on a ship of soldiers meant backup would soon be available, he had a few concerns that just couldn't wait for the guards to be scrambled. With one path to the medical bay now inaccessible, and you being so vulnerable, he needs to get somewhere safe to plan. He holds you close as the first open room becomes a makeshift shelter.

·Still reeling from the shock of everything, you find yourself atop a table in one of the Lost Light's many maintenance rooms, watching as First Aid attaches a portable operating flashlight to his helm. Before you can ask a single question the light is covering your body as he looks you over, asking for clarification on your basic functions while checking for injuries at the same time. Only when he's satisfied you're stable does the opportunity for speech present itself. Half expecting another massive tremor to hit at any moment, you ask what on earth made the ship move and sound like it had hit a Titan sized can opener, and his visor darkens with worry. You take hold of his hand to reassure and encourage him.

·The explanation is a bit rushed, but understandable; the ship has been ambushed, no doubt the enemy is preparing to board through the makeshift docking station they just created, and enemies will soon flood in... Also, most of the ship's systems appear to be offline. It's bad enough news that you feel suddenly woozy and need to sit back on your little table. Seeing you afraid drives First Aid into action, his processor working overtime to formulate a plan that will get you to safety, though admittedly the situation is a tough one. It's only when he takes proper stock of his surroundings and notes the monitor station that an idea takes shape.

·Intent on finding a clear path, he lays out his plan as he starts typing, explaining his thought process as he hacks into the virus addled program to get what he needs. Though you find solace in his confidence, the surprise from before is still wearing you down. Exhaustion seems to be the only thing you can truly comprehend... First Aid breaks through the enemy programs holding information back, but his victory proves short lived when the many systems start showing their current status, and his triumph turns to horror at one in particular. Critical to your survival, the atmospheric generators are among the malfunctioning systems. Oxygen levels are dropping by the minute. Without a word, he turns on the spot and begins looking you over again, earning a cry of surprise as he scoops you up.

·Alarmed and confused, you haven't a clue what might have spurred the usually in control bot to act so rashly, and have to sputter out the question when your clouded head fails to settle. Something like an explanation pours out of him, but there's very little you understand due to an increasingly sluggish mind. The growing exhaustion alarms him further. There's precious little time before you reach critical levels of oxygen deprivation, and the hypoxia has already rid you of the ability to process the situation... An ache in his spark is joined by one in his head as he tries to formulate a plan, and when he is left with only a long shot, he's forced to take it for your sake. There's a shake in his hands as he cannibalizes the room for parts, throwing together a makeshift air scrubber that will generate just enough breathable oxygen to get you to the medical bay. You smile as you watch him make it, suddenly too tired to stay awake but wanting to watch him craft, if only because his ingenuity is one of your favorite traits. The pleasant haze is still there even as he lifts you again to bring a makeshift oxygen mask to your face and begin running.

·All he can really do is hope, but there's precious little optimism in his spark as he makes the journey to the medical bay in a blind run, not running into enemies by sheer luck. The countless mistakes he's made so far are all that exist beyond your terrifyingly expressionless face. It's distracting enough that he's surprised when the team of Autobots appears from nowhere, particularly as Ratchet is amongst them, but before the CMO can say a word First Aid is pleading with the more experienced medic for help. He feels like a student on their first bad rotation in a hospital ward, facing the possibility of death for the first time, only a million times more agonized because you're on the line. The older bot is mercifully understanding as he gently takes you and guides him back to the medical bay, where he enters a fog and settles in to his job without conscious thought. He sees everything; Ratchet stabilizes you with proper equipment, wounded bots start to come in with news the battle is over, the systems maintaining the ship all come completely online... None of it registers.

·All he can think of is how he failed. The machine he built could have been more effective, he should have predicted oxygen issues from the start, and had he not been distracting you with his foolish interests to begin with... It physically hurts, but he doesn't allow himself even a moment of reprieve from the self admonishment, and dedicates himself entirely to your wellbeing. Every tiny facet of your recovery is microanalyzed, down to the thousandth of a percent. He won't risk losing you to more of his mistakes. It's bad enough that he doesn't permit joy to show on his face when you finally begin to stir, not even cracking a smile when your beautiful eyes finally blink open and you look into his visor. Your own expression, however, immediately shifts to one of exhausted but emphatic relief. Seeing the bot you love alive after the chaos you remember enduring is more than you could have asked for.

·He can't help but be incredibly gentle as he asks how you feel, his affection too strong to ever suppress in its entirety. But you can see the struggle in his actions, having become so accustomed to his presence that the out of character reservation is as obvious to you as a fireworks display, so you quickly ask if he's okay after everything that happened. The innocent question actually makes him flinch. Not a moment later he breaks and loses the calm air of a medic, collapsing into a nearby chair to confess that your injuries are his fault, caused by a myriad of failures he can't reconcile. Head in his hands, he's caught off guard when you make an effort to move from your little bundle of blankets and tubes keeping you stable.

·Before he can say a word to stop you, he is silenced by a little hand taking hold of his digit, and though the mask is firmly fitted you still speak loud and clear enough for him to hear the firmness in your voice. As lovingly as you can, you insist that he stop what he's doing. Loving him is worth any risk, but because he's as resourceful and brilliant as he is, you had made it through a situation most wouldn't have survived. The rest of the universe may not always see his worth, but you do every time you see him. Growing dizzy from the force of your conviction, you're gently shushed and encouraged to lie back, yet to your exhausted delight First Aid appears anything but pained as he works. Adjusting your blankets and tenderly ensuring your comfort, he doesn't need to say thank you through anything but his actions. As always, you've brought him back down from that exhausting despair he grappled with so often in the past. After all, he must be capable indeed to have earned the love of someone so wonderful and unique. The least he can do is show his gratitude in a gentle brush of his thumb over your palm as you drift back to sleep.

[ussgallifrey]

America's Suitehearts

✦ Summary: Life on the run rarely lived up to the glamour that was portrayed.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Minor violence, basic medical procedures

✦ Word Count: 3.5k

The mission went south almost immediately after the doors to the abandoned warehouse were opened. Life on the run rarely afforded the luxuries of such insurance as having readily available back-up. And while one half of the team remained in the public eye - or under house arrest in two cases - you valiantly remained at his side. And that was the Achilles heel of the situation.

Louisiana summer rained down with a vengeance that a New York upbringing left you rather unprepared for. The open windows of the beater truck - with its broken air conditioning, of course - drove over the hazy black-top rivers of backcountry vastness. Kicking up dust and rocks as it sped through empty farmland. Natasha and Sam had dipped over to New Mexico for intel while you remained at his side.

And you certainly hadn't planned on anything happening in their absence - hoping to reclaim a moment of reprieve, if you will, between running and fighting and clawing to survive. But between the diner off the main road and the blatantly out-of-place men congregating in the corner booth, his mind had easily been made up.

Scarfing down the greasy breakfast behind a low baseball cap. Your legs propped up on his lap under the table. Swirling the straw through the ice water - droplets forming on the side of the glass and running down your finger as you glanced up at your companion behind hooded eyes. Sugar-sweet syrup coating the tongue that poked out to swipe your lips.

His demeanor gave nothing away, though he was clearly listening in on their conversation - super-hearing comes in handy more often than not. And with the group abruptly leaving, it only took a moment to throw some crumpled-up dollars down and head to the door. 

Under the pretense of looking at travel brochures and carefully displayed pies under the fingerprint-smeared glass case, you were able to follow the car's path. With enough distance put in place, you hopped in the passenger seat and took off after them. The ride was silent outside of the steady thrum of the tires and occasional creak of the engine.

Words, conversations, long heartfelt declarations were rare and far in-between these days. There was no need, let alone time for them. If the split hadn't happened, maybe you would be on a date in the park. Hands looped around his waist as he drove through the streets of the city on his motorcycle. Lounging happily on the plush couch at the compound with the rest of the team. 

But that wasn't your life anymore.

And he felt that guilt every day with it. Despite your reassurances those first few weeks, the wall had slowly slipped in place. Now, almost a year into this vagrant nomadic lifestyle, it was rare to see that golden-haired man you had first fallen for. Summer love and cherry-sweet as innocent touches and flirtations grew. Turned to magma, gunpowder, tantalizingly ice-cold bitter love.

His stoicism hides the grief well. The guilt that eats away at him each night, with a burn only you can soothe with feather-light fingers on his brow and lips. Occasionally his gaze will be drawn from the road to you and then you might see the spark in his eyes, but only for a flash of a moment. A hand might dare to squeeze your thigh, but not much else.

Darling, sweetheart, babydoll. Puppy dog love, teasing cautious going steady cupcake baby love. No more.

Before this, he would have demanded a larger team for the mission. But now, now he was reckless. Even where you were concerned, despite his best intentions. And with no shield to his name, it was even more disturbing to witness. The fearless charge of Icarus and Ares. Out for blood and flying too close to the sun, to a death, he seemed to welcome more often than naught.

The sure thing, across all lines of low-level criminals, is their repetitive nature. Barely ready guards at the entrance easily pushed aside. The next, startled shouting and untrained shooting. It doesn't take much to disarm them at this point, not with all the practice you've had lately. Even tiresome in some regards. How boring, only AR-15s? Surely, even these guys could manage something more interesting - something more challenging.

And of course, after wading through a group of guards, there's the split option. Left or right, up or down. Either way will lead to something of value - their boss or their goods. Sometimes illegal arms, sometimes drugs, and the worst of times people.

This is not one of those times, luckily. He takes the upper floor on a hunch of finding the man in charge. And you descend the rickety metal steps to the basement without so much as a spare glance each other's way. There'll be time for that later, in a motel off the beaten path, bandaging each other up, trading long kisses and reassuring caresses.

Under flickering caged lights, you find the cargo. Spilling over, barely contained or organized. Three pallets in total, probably worth a pretty penny to a crime lord higher up on the food chain. 

An easy anonymous tip to local authorities will have it cleared up by the weekend as most cases went for you these days.

Barely subtle footsteps have you pivoting and ducking a badly thrown punch. The guard stumbles with the momentum of his swing, at least a hundred and fifty pounds of muscle on you. But you're quick on your feet in comparison, darting around him in such a way as to wear him down. Any punch you deliver will be worthless on his mass anyway.

He lunges forward, trying to sweep you up into his arms. You jump onto his forearm and wrap yourself around his back, arms going tight around his neck as you settle on his broad shoulders. The guard flails, trying to bring you down, but you just hold tight.

This leads to you being pounded into a wall. And somehow, he has enough air left to fumble for a broken off pipe, which he then tries to hit you with but to little avail.

Finally, he succumbs and slowly collapses forward onto the dirty concrete floor with a heavy thud. Standing with a stretch, you feel the bruises already forming and hope to god that that'll be the worst of it. Giving the unconscious man a kick in the head for good measure, you're ready to wrap this up and meet up with your partner when you hear it.

A distant little puff of air. Followed by creaking and groaning and then -

You run for the stairs as the illuminated hallway starts to cave in from the explosion. The walls crumble and break as the dust flies Your heart races with adrenaline as you slide towards the metal staircase, only for it to collapse in a heap of rusted iron. Who the hell has a self-destruct button anyway? It was almost comical. And maybe you'd laugh and scoff if the roof and upper floors weren't starting to fall down.

As sheets of metal and concrete cascade in an ungodly horror, bits of wires and metal and wood coming down on top of you, blinding your sight with clouds of debris. You scramble, coughing and hacking, trying to find your way as quickly as possible. If you can make it to the doorframe, a support beam. If you can just -

"Agh," you gasp, only to struggle to even cough. 

You can't see anything and your chest aches, you can't breathe and you're struggling, you can't - oh, it hurts. It hurts so damn bad.

Asses, goddammit, remember your training.

Unable to see, feeling trapped under a heavy blanket of darkness, you reach out, only to immediately come in contact with something solid. You try to push, with your hands, with your chest, and even with your legs - but nothing happens besides a sharp shot of pain. Burning like molten metal as it sears through your arm. Traveling right through your veins, screaming ahead like a locomotive before colliding with your brain as fireworks and shrapnel explode behind your eyes.

You try to call out, but it feels like you have a mouthful of dirt. Spitting furiously, you finally manage to croak out, "St-eve."

Hoping, praying that he's okay, that he can hear you at all.

"Steve!" Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Concrete crumbles and breaks off in the distance, something muffled and far away. A sense of being underwater, at the bottom of the ocean. Drowning, down down down. And then -

"Sweetheart?!"

Your senses flood with relief, head falling back to the ground as you attempt to scream back, "Steve!"

Sheetrock and slabs of concrete are pulled and thrown until a halo of sunlight breaks through the darkness. You shield your eyes from the onslaught as a sigh of relief catches your attention. Carefully squinting against the light, his face comes into view. Bloodied and bruised. Blue eyes shining with something desperate and wide with terror.

"Just a second, baby. Almost got you."

He grunts and heaves until he's down at your side. And from there, he pushes against the slab that has you pinned down. Groan turning to a feral scream as he shoves the broken-off piece of flooring from your aching body.

And then he's kneeling at your side, assessing the damage. Fingers tracing your face with absolute fear.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he crumbles with a drop of broad shoulders, head bowed in anger. But not at you - never at you.

"Hey, Cap," you manage with a weak smile. Your mouth stings with iron - thick and heavy as it coats your tongue. 

He resigns himself with a nod, hands moving under your head and legs as he lifts you up - cradling you carefully against his chest. 

You hack and wheeze as more debris flies, filling the air with clouds of dust. It stings your senses, blinds your vision even further. 

Steve tucks your head in closer to his chest, "Come on, baby. Let's get you out of here."

The journey to the truck is a complete blur. But the wail of sirens in the distance spurs him on as he floors the gas. Your head jostles roughly against the window as the smoldering warehouse disappears in a plume of smoke in the mirror.

And then you notice the hand holding yours. Fingers entwined, resting on your leg. Gaze traveling up the dirty arm, past the open cuts, to the concerned face of your love. Eyes focused on the road, but every ounce of fear still gracing his features.

From there, things get even hazier. There's a voice in your ear. But it's distant and far too insistent. The dark seems welcoming and easier, tugging you down into the depths of unconsciousness. Into the void where even nightmares can't reach you.

"Hnnng."

You feel immediate agitation as you try to snuggle further into the pillow. Another tug on your arm has you groaning, but it's quickly followed by a sudden yelp as your eyes shoot open and you struggle to sit up.

"The fuck was - what are you doing?!"

Steve eyes you carefully before giving a gentle push on your shoulder, forcing you back down onto the bed.

"Stay still," he murmurs. Gathering the rag in his hand as he gently blots at the festering wound on your left arm. One you hadn't really had the chance to notice earlier.

You watch him, methodical in his movements. All of you were, unfortunately, rather used to home-nursing by now. Evac wasn't an option on your table anymore. The best you could do sometimes was a bottle of whiskey and a makeshift tourniquet until a real professional could be sought out. Not that you minded when it was you, of course. But being on the other end, watching the one you love being treated? It was a completely different battlefield.

"What happened?" Your voice comes out sluggish and rough.

Blue eyes briefly meet yours before dabbing the rag in Isopropyl alcohol and continuing on with the deep cut. Hands moving slowly, feather-light as you wince from the sting.

"Homemade bomb."

You grind your teeth before managing, "No shit?"

A sliver of a smirk appears. And then you spot the needle in his hand.

"Oh, come on. How bad is it - "

Sitting up to bring your arm into view - oh, yeah. It was that bad. Without another word, you lie back down.

He's efficient, you'll give him that. Suturing like a pro, tying it off in a small knot before dropping a kiss to the untouched skin right next to the stitches.

As he moves on to other, far smaller cuts and bruises, you're able to take in the room. Another motel, another day. Bright orange walls with grungy white popcorn ceilings. And you swear the picture by the bathroom was in a place you stayed at three weeks back as well.

"Where are we?"

He doesn't even look up from where he's examining your ankle, "Thirteen miles from the Texas border."

Giving a little nod, "You made good time."

Your foot is carefully lowered onto a stack of folded white towels, elevated enough where it isn't uncomfortable. And then he's moving up your body, hovering above you with hands positioned on either side of your head.

"Well," he starts. "I had precious cargo."

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, "Still cheesy. I appreciate it in these trying times."

His eyes flicker with something reminiscent of easier times. "Thought you would."

Warm lips, chapped lips, scabbed over and still holding a hint of blood, meet together. Careful, veering on gentle. Desperation slowly slips in. Fear bubbling up from the mission rears its head as Steve takes the lead in deepening the kiss. Tongue darting out to pull the pain from you. Mingling and twirling with your own. Hands eager and ready to roam and claim. But as you go to reach up to his hair, a sharp inhale has you reeling.

The welcomed weight and warmth of his body is gone in an instant as he sits up, carefully holding your arm in the palm of his calloused hand.

He studies it for a moment, "Wasn't sure if it was - " a slight pull has you wincing with a wave of pain.

Sitting back, Steve rubs at the back of his head, " You, uh, wanna take a shower?"

Strong and demanding gives way to strangely innocent at the mention of you being unclothed. But you take it in stride. Beckoning him back with your good hand.

"Only if you help me, Captain."

In simpler days, it was fun. Something exciting and bold and downright erotic. Now, it's convenience and comfort. Slipping out of torn and bloodied clothes, easing pants down and toeing off boots. Watching each other undress down to the barest of forms. The shapes and grooves never change. The injuries do, spackling the skin in strange new patterns.

Steve, as always, looks worse for wear underneath his civvies. He'll heal by tomorrow, where you'll have a nice limp for a few more days. A sling for much longer.

He gets the water going. The old faucet groans and creaks as a dribble of water trickles out. The shower pressure isn't right, but it's hot and he's there helping you into the tiny white tub. Holding you steady by the waist as he takes the first burst of water.

You let your good hand wander up to ruffle his hair - so much longer than you had ever seen before. It grows dark under the pelt of the showerhead. Droplets cascade along the edges of his face, dripping down his beard, before landing on your nose.

He takes great pleasure in the feel of your hand on his scalp. Working a lather in with the complimentary soap, digging your fingers in to get the remaining dirt and debris from his golden mane. 

His head dips back into the stream. Your fingers travel down, following the bulge of shoulder and bicep. The swell of forearm, the broad plain of chest. And then you're spun around and a wave of pleasure falls over you with the spray of water.

A bottle uncaps and then strong fingers are easing their way through your hair. Gently pulling and pushing and digging a lather in. Your head falls to his chest as he holds you against him. Soapy hands press in along your back, easing the aches of the mission from your body. Leaving a trail of kisses along your shoulders.

You linger as long as the water allows. And then Steve's helping you back out onto the cold white tile floor. Carefully drying your body down with the scratchy towels. He does a quick dry for himself before scooping you up and carrying you back into the main room. You feel lightheaded by the action.

Another version of yourself might have blushed. Another version of Steve would have found the entire thing downright scandalous to be walking around like that. Completely naked with his girl in his arms. My how the times had changed. As if this was the most daring thing you'd done together.

He pulls the sheets back on the bed before setting you down. The comforter, which had a few fresh bloodstains mixed in with the hideous floral green print, is quickly rolled down. With your back against the headboard, Steve props your right leg back up on a pillow. Fingers careful and light trace the smooth skin of your bare leg. Lips press down on your knee, calf, the top of your foot, trying to ease that pain in the way only a lover can.

Steve momentarily gets up in search of his duffle bag. A bit of rummaging produces the roll of bandages and medical tape. The entire experience of watching your partner wrap your ankle is something that just warms your very soul. It's so incredibly domestic and sweet. Domestic for you two, that is.

Your arm will have to wait. He'll, no doubt, be making a supply run after you fall asleep. Some quick meals, a sling, more condoms. Definitely more of those.

He finishes with a kiss to the fresh wrapping.  Sliding down the bed, pulling the pillows with you to rest your head on, Steve moves in beside you - pulling the covers with him.

It's still early enough in the night for the setting sun to break through the white vertical blinds. You leave the TV off for the meantime. Mr. Serious will be keeping a more watchful eye as you recover and therefore will force himself to stay away from the news (in your presence, anyway).

The thrumming AC is welcome in the humid room. Between the lingering heat from the shower and the near-constant furnace temperature radiating from Steve. The sheets are crisp and cool, the twinges of pain fade as the comfort of having him right there, holding, caressing, bringing you down.

"'m sorry," he admits with a whisper against your neck, nose nuzzled in tight.

Your fingers glide slowly up and down the forearm draped across your stomach, "Hush. I'm not accepting apologies for things out of your control right now."

You can feel his eyes open, he's probably trying to stare you down, but you remain happily in the dark of your closed eyelids.

"Sweetheart," it's deep and throaty, a heavy husk of gruffness trying to break the spell.

There's a quick pinch to his arm and a following hiss of displeasure. 

He's unrelenting in his unending self-guilt, so you force your eyes open and catch the worried sea of blue.

"I mean it, Steven. You're gonna give me a headache. So, can you just shut up and hold me?"

It's like an order. And he only takes them from one person now, so he obliges. Framing his body around you, but being mindful of your elevated foot and pained arm.

You can't stand to see him so stuck in his own neverending thoughts, the worry sits right on his brow for all to see. With your right hand, you drag a fingertip over his cheek. Along the curve of his lips, the rough hair of his beard. The damp mane of gold deserves the carding of your fingers. He relaxes into it, the tight stretch of lines ease on his face as you feel the thrum of his heart.

It's comforting as always. It sings, I'm here and I'm not leaving you. For now, it's something to focus on. Something to draw you down into the heavy drape of sleep. He'll be here when you wake, probably fully healed too. But he'll watch after you, care for you until it's time to move on. Another city, another mission.

But it's just the way your lives run now. And you wouldn't trade it for anything. So, with the warm musk of your golden hero love settling in, you allow yourself the luxury of falling asleep in his arms.

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[rhosyn-du]

Title: A Wonderful Institution Artist: @bidnezz​​ Pairings: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, various background pairings Word Count: ~53k Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, discrimination against Downworlders, reference to rape, Clave-typical homophobia, implied character death, minor character death Summary: Magnus doesn’t have time for this bullshit. Warlocks are disappearing in New York City—five people in less than three months—and Magnus is determined to find them and protect the rest of his people from whatever took them. He doesn’t have time for politics, and he certainly doesn’t have time for whatever nonsense the Clave is proposing about marrying a Shadowhunter to a Downworlder as part of the new Accords. He doesn’t really have time for a pretty Shadowhunter who’s surprisingly kind to warlock children, either, but, well, he’s always been good at multitasking.

Alec always knew he couldn’t have what he wanted, but he’s spent the nearly four years since the newly-appointed Consul recalled his parents to Idris without explanation making the best of what he can have. When life suddenly offers up almost everything Alec actually wants on a silver platter, he can’t quite bring himself to trust it, especially when it comes with a million caveats and a side of impending disaster. But he knows how to handle disasters, even if the return of the Circle on top of Clave secrets that could destroy the Accords is way beyond the disasters he’s used to fielding. Hope, on the other hand? He doesn’t know what to do with that.

This fic was created for the @malecdiscordserver​ Mini Bang 2020.

Chapter Eleven

The floor of the cell was steel, Magnus knew that much. He thought it was maybe four feet by four feet wide, not long enough to stretch out fully lying down, but almost long enough corner to corner. He was fairly certain he was on a boat of some sort. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He couldn’t see the sun, and no one spoke to him. The door and walls were opaque, so he couldn’t see out. If they were feeding him regular meals, and Magnus suspected they were, since they’d been very careful to tend his injuries and keep him from further injuring himself, then he’d been there for maybe two days.

When he’d been taken by the Circle, when Valentine insisted on keeping him alive, Magnus had assumed that Valentine or one of his cronies would eventually explain why they needed him alive. He’d expected to be questioned, at least. He hadn’t been. He’d merely been put in this cell and forgotten, other than to have his basic needs met. No one even bothered to gloat. Whatever the Circle needed him for, he was nothing to them.

He tried not to think of Alexander, of the way Alexander’s screams echoed in his ears as his captors dragged him through the portal. He tried not to think of Alexander’s blood staining the rug on their dining room floor. He tried not to think of Ragnor, captured by Valentine and forced to commit this awful act. He tried not to think of the wards on his loft he hadn’t thought to update after Ragnor had been taken. The wards that had allowed the Circle into his loft, allowed them to take him. Allowed them to kill Alexander.

No, he wouldn’t think about Alec. Not now. He couldn’t. He needed to keep his wits about him because he was going to escape. He was going to escape and kill every single person responsible.

It was the same circle of thoughts he’d been through for the past however many hours he’d been here. It was his fault, and he was going to kill everyone who’d been responsible for hurting Alexander, and then... He never got past that part.

The sound of approaching footsteps signaled what was likely another meal. Magnus thought it must be too soon. He was sure he’d only just finished breakfast (or was it lunch?), but no one ever came to his cell for any other reason, so clearly that’s what was going on. Except the footsteps didn’t sound like the heavy boots most Shadowhunters favored, or the dress shoes some of the more dapper Circle members were prone to. Personally, Magnus thought it made them look like mobsters, but in a sense, they kind of were, so he didn’t question it.

These footsteps, though, were soft, almost cautious. It was only somewhat of a surprise, then, when there was a quick tap on the door of his cell, and a familiar voice called softly, “Magnus? Are you there?”

“Dorothea!” Magnus jumped to his feet, pushing as close to the door as his restraints would allow.

“Oh, thank god I got the right cell,” Dot breathed. “We’ve been trying to figure out where they were keeping you for days.”

“Dot, do you know what’s happening?” Magnus questioned. “Where are we? Are the other warlocks who were taken here, too? What does Valentine want from me?”

“I don’t have much time,” Dot told him, “but I’ll tell you what I can. We’re in a cargo ship on the East River. We only come and go by portal, so I never know the exact location. At least some of the Downworlders Valentine has kidnapped are here. I don’t know if he’s keeping others at another location, or if they’re all dead. Not everyone survives his experiments.”  Her voice dropped. “One of the little girls they brought in didn’t.”

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Magnus told her. He couldn’t bring himself to ask about Ragnor, although Dot had mentioned him. He knew what happened to Alexander wasn’t Ragnor’s fault, not really, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind of Ragnor’s magic ripping Alec’s skin open, spraying blood across the table and floor. “And that you were able to find me. Dot, we have to find a way out of here.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Dot told him. “There’s not much Ragnor and I can do. Whatever Valentine injected us with, we can’t disobey a direct order from him, and it’s hard enough even getting around what he hasn’t told us. There’s powerful magic protecting this place, too. Anyone trying to leave on foot or going over the side is killed instantly, and all of the warlocks have been ordered not to open any portals except under Valentine’s explicit command.”

“I don’t supposed Valentine conveniently forgot to tell you not to release me?” Magnus asked.

“No, but Jocelyn is awake, and she thinks if Valentine is distracted enough, she might be able to get you free.”

Magnus snorted. “No offense to Jocelyn’s clearly amazing and well-considered plan, but I sincerely doubt after everything that’s happened, Valentine is going to trust Jocelyn enough to let her out of his sight.”

“That’s where the distraction comes in,” Dot told him. “Valentine is planning to contact Clary and offer to trade Jocelyn for the Mortal Cup. He’s not actually planning to make the trade, of course. He wants Jocelyn and the Cup. And Clary. But when Clary shows up, he’ll be distracted, and Jocelyn thinks she’s figured out a way to use that distraction to get you free.”

“What makes any of you think Clary is going to agree to the trade?” Magnus asked. “Even if she did, the Clave isn’t going to just agree to hand over the Cup.”

“Magnus, I’ve known Clary since she was a child. If there’s any chance of getting her mother back, she’ll take it, no matter what the cost is. I know it and Jocelyn knows it, and unfortunately Valentine knows it.”

“But the Clave—” Magnus protested.

“Are distracted right now,” Dot said gently. “It’s all part of Valentine’s plan to start a war between the Clave and the Downworld. He killed Alec Lightwood and made it look like you did it.”

The words hit Magnus like a blow to the chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He’d known, of course. He’d seen. But there had been some tiny spark of hope left, deep in his heart, that Alexander had somehow managed to survive. Dorothea’s words snuffed that spark like it was a cheap candle.

He had to remind himself that Dot didn’t mean to be callous. She’d never met Alec. She didn’t know—couldn’t know—what he’d meant to Magnus.

“That’s why you’re here,” Dot continued. “Valentine plans to kill you in a couple more days and leave your body somewhere conspicuous, to make it look like you were killed by Shadowhunters in retaliation. Even the people who don’t believe you’re responsible for the murder will believe that.”

“But why?” Magnus asked, swallowing down his grief and trying to focus. “Surely, even Valentine knows what a disaster a war between the Clave and the Downworld would be. It would be a bloodbath!”

“He doesn’t care about Downworlders dying—he wants us all dead—and he sees the Shadowhunters who would die as necessary casualties. He thinks this will convince the Clave that he was right all along, that it will open them up to being taken over by the Circle. He thinks it will destroy the Accords.”

“He’s insane.” Magnus said. It all made a horrible kind of sense, and Magnus hated it. He wondered how long Valentine had been planning this. Was this his plan even before he and Alexander had been chosen to make the marriage for the Accords, or was this plan specific to the two of them? It might not have worked with someone less well-known than he was, at least not as well. It was just one more thing to feel guilty for. If not for him and his ridiculous, spur of the moment decision to volunteer, the Downworld might not be in danger. Alexander might still be alive.

“He’s beyond insane,” Dot agreed. “I think he actually believes that he and Jocelyn and Clary can be a happy family once they’re all together again.”

“At least,” Magnus said, “a madman is more likely to make mistakes. Tell Jocelyn that I’m being held in manacles that bind me from using my magic. If she can get me free of these, then I’ll do everything in my power to take Valentine down.”

“We’ll try to get word to you about when the exchange is going to happen, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to, so you’ll have to be ready.”

“I don’t exactly have a good way of keeping track of time anyway,” Magnus said. “Be careful, all of you. And Dorothea?” He took a deep breath, needing to say the words, needing to mean them. “Tell Ragnor I don’t blame him.”

There was a beat of silence before Dot promised, “I will.”

Magnus listened to her soft footsteps fade away down the hallway, leaving him alone in his cell with his thoughts once again.

Consciousness returned in fits and starts. Alec was aware of voices first. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he recognized Jace and Izzy and a third voice he knew but couldn’t place. He knew the third voice was friendly, though, so he let it go, let everything go and slipped back into unconsciousness.

The second time he woke, sort of woke, it was to touch. On his arm, on his face. This time, he recognized the voice, the third voice from before. Catarina. She must be healing him, he realized. He was injured. That was why he was unconscious. Semi-conscious. Whatever. But he was with Catarina, and Jace, and Izzy, and he was safe. He let himself drift again. 

The third time, he was aware that something was missing. Someone was missing. Something was deeply, deeply. Wrong. Catarina was there again, and Izzy. He could hear them talking, but still couldn’t tell what they were saying. He recognized one word, though. Magnus. That’s what was missing. Who was missing. Magnus. And then he remembered. The portal, the Shadowhunters and warlocks and pain and blood and Magnus. God, they’d taken Magnus. This time, he fought unconsciousness tooth and nail, but he was no match for it, and it pulled him under once again. 

The fourth time Alec woke, he was determined to stay awake. There were no voices this time, but he was aware of a presence sitting beside him. Jace. With great effort, Alec forced his eyes open. He was lying on his side, facing a small, wooden table. From the table, a folded paper frog stared back at him.

His eyes flickered to where Jace was sitting beside the bed. “Where’s Magnus?”

“You’re at Catarina’s,” Jace told him. “We brought you here after we found you bleeding out at the loft, and then Lydia thought it was best if you stayed here instead of the Institute. I'll explain everything in a minute, but I have to call Izzy and Lydia and tell them you’re awake, and Catarina will probably want to look you over again.”

Alec reached out to grab Jace’s arm, even that small movement making his head spin. “Jace,” he said as evenly as he could manage, “where’s Magnus?”

“I don’t know,” Jace said, shaking his head. “You were alone when we found you.”

“Alec?” came a small voice from the doorway.

“Madzie,” he said, struggling into a sitting position and forcing a smile. “Hey.”

“You got hurt again,” she told him, walking over to the bed. She had Mr. Flopsy clutched tight in her arms.

“I’m going to call Iz and let Catarina know you’re awake,” Jace said.

Alec gave him a quick nod, then turned back to Madzie. “I did,” he agreed, “but Catarina healed me and now I’m all better.”

“You were asleep for a long time. I couldn’t stay all the time, but I left a frog to watch you while I was gone,” she added, pointing at the paper frog on the table.

“Thank you,” Alec told her. “He did a very good job guarding me.”

“I wanted to make you a dragon, but it’s not finished yet.”

“Maybe you could work on it some more while I check Alec’s injuries,” Catarina suggested as she entered the room, Jace following behind her.

“I want to stay with Alec,” Madzie insisted.

“We’re going to be doing boring, adult stuff," Alec told her. "You should work on that dragon so you can show it to me when I’m done being boring.”

Madzie stared at him for a long moment, considering. “Okay,” she said finally. “You’re not allowed to get hurt while I’m gone, though.”

“It’s a deal,” Alec told her. He waited until he heard a door open and close elsewhere in the house before demanding, “What happened? How did I get here? Why am I here instead of the Institute?” 

“I felt you dying,” Jace said. “I felt you get hurt, and I knew that you were dying, and I just. I grabbed Iz and Clary, and we ran to the loft. We got there as fast as we could, and you were still hanging on when we got there. And then Catarina showed up.” 

“Someone made a very obvious, very loud mess of Magnus’s wards,” Catarina explained. “On purpose, I suspect. I couldn’t help but notice.”

“Ragnor,” Alec said. “Valentine and the Circle attacked us at the loft. They had warlocks with them under the influence of that mind-control serum, and Ragnor was one of them. If someone was trying to attract attention, it was probably him.”

“That sounds like something he’d do,” Catarina agreed. “You were close to dying when I got there, but I was able to stabilize you. You lost a lot of blood.” 

“We brought you back here,” Jace explained. “We weren’t sure what had happened, and we didn’t know where Magnus was, so we brought you here. And this is where Catarina keeps all of her healing supplies. We called Lydia to let her know you’d been attacked, and she told us to stay where we were.” 

“I was worried about moving you,” Catarina said. “Along with the blood loss, you had some spinal injuries.” 

Alec remembered that searing flash of pain through his middle. Yeah, spinal injuries would definitely explain that. 

“How long have I been out?” Alec wanted to know. 

“Almost three days,” Catarina told him.

Three days. He’d been unconscious for three days. Magnus had been in Valentine’s hands for three days .

“We have to find Magnus,” Alec said. “Valentine took him. They took him and they left me to die. We have to find him.” 

He tried ineffectually to get out of bed, but he was weak enough that Jace was able to hold him back with one hand. He was weak enough that Jace didn’t even flinch when Alec tried to throw a punch. 

“Dude, relax,” Jace said. “You’re not strong enough to get out of bed, let alone go after the entire Circle by yourself.” 

“Believe me,” Catarina said, “no one is planning on leaving Magnus in Valentine’s hands.” 

“Right now, we don’t know what Valentine is planning,” Lydia said, striding into the room with Izzy and Clary trailing behind her, “but we do have some clues. I heard rumors of your supposed murder before Jace and Izzy even told me you’d been attacked. It seemed pretty suspicious, which is why we decided to keep you here while you healed instead of taking you back to the Institute.” 

“You wanted to keep it a secret that I’m alive?” Alec nodded in understanding. “That was a good plan. The Consul warned me there was a possibility that the Circle might have infiltrated the Institute.” 

Lydia’s eyebrows shot up at that. “The Consul never felt the need to tell me anything about that.” 

“She kept it under pretty tight wraps,” Alec told her. “Only a few people knew, and I’m only one of them because the Circle chose to make its reappearance in New York.”

“And you’ve deemed me trustworthy now that I haven’t killed you when I had the chance?” Lydia guessed. 

“Pretty much,” Alec told her. “No offense.” 

“None taken. You barely know me, so of course you didn’t trust me. I’m just glad you do now because we have a serious problem on our hands.” 

“No kidding,” Alec agreed. “Do you know why Valentine wants me dead?” 

“We’re pretty sure he’s the one who started the rumors that Magnus killed you,” Izzy chimed in. 

Alec stared at her. “That’s ridiculous. Who would even believe that?” 

“People who don’t know you,” Lydia said. “People who don’t know Magnus. There are plenty in the Clave who thought this marriage was a mistake from the start. Those people are more than happy to believe that it ended in murder.” 

“Then we need to tell them that I’m alive,” Alec said. “The Accords—” 

“The Accords will survive another day,” Izzy said. “Until you’re healed enough to protect yourself, we couldn’t risk it. Consul Penhallow knows you’re alive, and so do Mom and Dad. They all agreed keeping it quiet was the best choice.” 

“We didn’t know who to trust, either,” Lydia said. 

“And as long as Valentine thinks you’re dead, then he still has the incentive to keep Magnus alive for whatever scheme he’s working on,” Catarina said. 

“That’s good thinking,” Alec agreed. “What do we know?” 

“We know that Jocelyn Fairchild is awake,” Jace said. “Valentine used the portal shard to contact Clary a couple hours ago. He offered to make a trade, Jocelyn for the Mortal Cup.” 

Alec looked at Clary. “Did you tell him to fuck off?” 

“I told him I needed time to think about it,” Clary said. “If there’s even a chance we could get my mother back, we have to try.”

“But we’re not actually planning to give him the Cup,” Jace said quickly. Alec appreciated the clarification, even if he’d figured that was the case. Even if Clary was reckless enough to do so, even if she’d managed to weave whatever her magic of persuasion was to convince Jace and Izzy, there was no way Lydia would have agreed to any such thing.

“We can trade a fake,” Clary said, “and get my mom back.”

“And then follow Valentine back to his hideout,” Catarina added, “so we know where he's keeping the missing Downworlders.”

“Then we raid the hideout, rescue the Downworlders, and take Valentine and the rest of Circle into custody,” Alec concluded. “It's a good plan. I'm leading the raid on Valentine's hideout.”

This pronouncement was met with a chorus of disagreement, but Alec held up a hand to forestall them. “The only reason I'm not out there looking for Magnus right now is that this plan is probably the fastest way to find him.”

“And because you can't stand up without falling over,” Jace muttered.

Alec threw him a fierce glare, but Jace glared right back.

“Dude, you almost died. You're in no shape to go back into the field yet.”

It was a conversation they'd had before, more than once. Alec distinctly disliked being on this side of it.

“How long before I'm fully recovered?” he asked Catarina.

“Four days if you're lucky. A week or two if you're not.”

“That's too long,” Alec said, shaking his head. “How long until I can stand up without getting dizzy?”

“You'll probably be walking again by tomorrow, but—”

“Good,” Alec said, cutting her off. “Clary, contact Valentine. Tell him you need time to get the Cup, but you can make the exchange tomorrow night.”

He turned to Catarina. “You know any warlocks who might be willing to help take down the Circle?”

She gave him a grim smile. “I don't have the kind of connections Magnus does, but I know a few. And I know Raphael would be willing to conscript the entire New York vampire clan to help rescue Ragnor and Magnus.”

“Can he do that?” Alec asked.

“Yeah,” Jace said slowly, “There was kind of this whole thing while you were out where Camille illegally turned Clary's mundie friend—”

“His name is Simon!” Clary interjected.

“—and her clan didn't take too kindly to her breaking the Accords, so Raphael is in charge now.”

Alec blinked. “Okay. Any other major political upheavals I missed while I was unconscious?”

He meant it as sarcasm, but Clary piped up, “Luke is the Alpha of the New York pack now. And I know he'll want to be involved in rescuing Mom.”

“Sure,” Alec said. “Fine. Anything else?” He looked at Izzy, half expecting her to tell him a goat was the new Seelie Queen.

Izzy grinned. “Isn't that enough? I can ask Meliorn if any seelies want in on the action, though.”

“Might as well make it a party,” Alec said. “Lydia, I can give you a list of Shadowhunters I'm pretty sure we can trust on this mission. Can you get them ready without letting in what we’re actually doing? I don't want them to know what the mission is, or that I'm alive, until the last minute, just in case.”

“Not a problem,” Lydia said. “What do we tell the Council?”

“What have you told them already?”

“Not much,” Lydia admitted. “Just the message I sent to Consul Penhallow letting her know you’re alive and that we were keeping you hidden. I haven't exactly had time to make detailed reports with everything that's going on.”

“Good,” Alec told her. “I think you'll be too busy for the next couple days, too, don't you?”

Lydia made a face. “If this doesn't work, the Council will have our asses for not clearing it with them first.”

“If we make a report to the Council and any of it gets back to Valentine, our plan is shot,” Alec argued. “If the mission goes south, I'll take full responsibility. My Institute, my fuck-up.”

“All right,” Lydia relented.

Alec glanced around the room. “What are the rest of you still standing around for? I gave you jobs, go do them.”

For a wonder, they actually did.

[puzzle-dragon]

You said you wouldn’t mind a few more prompts? I’d love to see number 4 from the smooch list. Love your work!

4.  An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.

Thank you so much! Please enjoy some post-Labyrinth-date cuties being cuties—under a read more for length (or read on ao3) 

After Jasper and Eva return from their first excursion into the Labyrinth, they return to his library to do some research for the rest of the night. It is a comfortable sort of camaraderie—even with the nervous, affectionate tension that exists between them now, there is still the easy companionship and understanding that they have built over the course of their friendship.

They gather books as they talk—not only of the Labyrinth and the ley lines, but of the past month, of the fire and Jasper’s new jacket and a few of the things Eva saw on her trip to New York—the words coming easier now than they did at the start of their evening.

With books in hand, they settle in to research their new discoveries. Eva curls up in his armchair, a throw blanket draped over her lap as she reads from an old Latin text that he’s never been able to translate all of. She fits into his space so easily, as though his haven has always been waiting for her, and it makes Jasper smile.

She glances up from her book and catches him looking at her from his place on the couch. Jasper is about to avert his eyes, embarrassed, when Eva giggles and smiles back at him. She doesn’t make him talk about it, doesn’t ask him why he was watching her, simply returns to reading and allows the comfortable silence to drag on.

When Jasper gets up to move to his desk—needing more space to spread out his work, to reference multiple books at once—Jasper feels her eyes on him. Now it is his turn to catch her staring. When their gazes meet across the room, Eva gives him a look that says she’d blush if she could. Her skin remains the same deathly pale, but her eyes soften and she smiles at him again. It leaves him with the sort of butterflies in his stomach that he hasn’t felt in years and he can’t help but smile back.

He can’t think of anything intelligent to say and she says nothing in return. And so they return to reading.

Eventually though, Jasper finds something: a series of drawings consistent across three different books, each detailing the convoluted pattern of the ley lines. He can’t understand all of the surrounding text, but the diagrams are clear enough. It’s not much, but it’s definitely something and that promise of further understanding sparks that part of his being that craves new and secret knowledge.

“Eva,” he calls out from his desk chair, breaking the silence, “Would you, uh—I think I found something. Could you… come take a look?”

“Of course,” she answers, her voice gentle and far more at ease than his own.

Jasper glances up to see the way she rises with ease, the blanket discarded on the arm of the chair and her own book left open on the floor beside her seat. She all but floats through his library, pausing at his side and glancing from his upturned face to the books laid out in front of him.

“What did you find?” she asks.

Jasper swallows hard, trying to refocus on the research despite her standing so close to him. He looks down at the books spread out on the desk and points to the illustration in the oldest of the three books.

“So, um, see this drawing here?” Eva nods. “Well, the same one appears in two other occult texts I’ve found. All different languages, written decades apart, but the same illustration in each one depicting the pattern of the ley lines. It’s consistent with what we saw down in the Labyrinth, if a bit stylized, and while I haven’t translated everything yet, I feel like there’s got to be something to this. Right?”

His voice grows more confident with each word, falling back into an easy rhythm of explanation that is far less intimidating than making small talk with a pretty girl. Eva is still looking down at the desk, studying the books laid out before her. Jasper registers that she’s taken off her warded lace gloves at some point during the night, leaving her hands bare as she carefully traces the intricate red lines of each drawing.

Jasper watches her face as the ideas fit together in her brain. There is a spark of curiosity in her bright blue eyes, a need for discovery and understanding that matches his own. They are kindred spirits in this and the thought makes him smile.

“This is fascinating,” she breathes, her mind working just as fast as his, “If these are each from different countries of origin and were published in different eras, then that points to the idea of a global network of ley lines, with these types of… focal points scattered across the entire world. Meaning the set we discovered tonight could, in theory, extend far beyond the boundaries of Los Angeles to connect with or even affect locations hundreds of thousands of miles away. Though these pages are far more than we can translate tonight…”

With her last word, she turns her head to look at him and Jasper doesn’t realize just how close they are to each other until her lips brush against his as a result. It’s the barest hint of contact, not even really a kiss, but it still brings his mind back to that moment down in the tunnels—her body tucked in close to his to maintain the spell, the smell of flowers on her skin and in her hair, her gentle hands on his face and her soft lips pressed against his—and he wants that again.

They both freeze.

Part of him wants to apologize—for what exactly, he’s not sure, but an apology still weighs heavy on his tongue—but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t avert her eyes, doesn’t take a step back. She still stands at his side, mouth only a bare few inches from his own.

He desperately wants to kiss her again, but he doesn’t want to push her, doesn’t want to assume or overstep, doesn’t want to ask too much of her when she’s already given him so much trust and affection. But she seems to be waiting for him to make the next move. If she didn’t want this—if she didn’t want him—she would’ve pulled away by now, wouldn’t she? But she hasn’t. She’s still just as close as she was before. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Jasper still hasn’t moved, frozen in his chair, when Eva’s delicate hand finds his own on top of the desk. Her cold fingers brush against the back of his hand and that touch, that silent reassurance and gentle invitation that he has already learned to read, spurs him on. He leans forward at the same moment she does, their lips meeting once again. Her free hand cups his cheek and tilts his chin up to give her a better angle, just as their fingers interlace on top of the old books.

It is just as sweet, just as tender, just as wonderful as their first kiss and Jasper hopes there will be more to follow in the coming nights.

When they finally break apart, he lets out a soft, pleased growl and Eva giggles. She’s already learning the nuances of his sounds, the same way he’s learning to read her touches. A language without words that they share between them, slowly coming to understand the other’s way of communicating. She presses her forehead to his and shares his space for a long quiet moment.

“Will you come sit with me on the couch?” she asks sweetly, “Please?”

“Y-yeah,” he says, nodding quickly.

She takes a step back, pulling him to his feet by their intertwined hands.

“You can bring the books,” Eva says, pausing before she adds, “Or we could just kiss for a while… if you’d like.”

As if he’d ever say no to an offer like that. He smiles, letting out another low, happy growl at her suggestion.

“We have been studying for a while,” Jasper finds himself saying as she guides him toward the couch. Under any other circumstances, he might be surprised by his own boldness, but Eva always seems to bring out the best in him.

“We deserve a break,” she agrees, smiling up at him before settling onto the couch and pulling him down to sit beside her. Eva laughs again as she reaches out to cradle his jaw. Jasper gives her a fanged smile in return and rests a hand on her hip as she leans in to kiss him again. He relaxes into her touch and kisses her in return.

They’ll get back to researching the ley lines later. They have time.

[pilot-boi]

In Another Stream: Chapter One

Something was wrong. With the time stream, with all of this. Things were happening in the wrong order, and other things were happening that just...shouldn't have at all. A storm was coming, but would they be ready when it did?

The Calm Before

You can feel electricity in the air before a storm. You can tell that it’s coming, but you can never tell how soon the clouds and lightning will crash over your head.

AO3 LINK

They were fighting that woman, Neopolitan, Nora had called her. As they’d fought, the fight had slowly shifted away from the dorms further into the Academy. Neo kept vanishing, only to appear further down the hallway moments later.

She was taunting them, Oscar was sure of it. It was like she wasn’t even trying to fight them, just bait them into some kind of trap. He didn’t like this, not one bit, and he could tell that Jaune and his team didn’t either.

But they weren’t stopping either. They knew the woman from somewhere, but they certainly weren’t sharing the information with him.

To make things worse, she kept doing that thing. Her Semblance was illusions, Jaune had  shouted over to him while he blocked a hit from the umbrella the woman used as her weapon. She could disguise herself as anyone. Well wasn’t that just peachy.

She was certainly taking full advantage of that ability. Ruby, himself, Nora...the list went on and on. Oscar’s friends, people he recognized, and others he only knew by face.

She’d turned into Nora, which actual Nora had taken as a personal offense. 

It was lucky that Nora had that fight handled, but it looked like the thought of fighting Nora was causing Ren physical pain. It was especially lucky because Oscar couldn’t tell the two Noras apart for the life of him. Finally Nora had gotten in one good hit with her hammer, and Neo vanished in a cloud of pink-white crystal.

After a few moments of scrambling, and calming Nora down, Neo reappeared at the end of the hallway. In her hands she held a glowing red and gold sword, and her now amber eyes flickered with flames. A new disguise, but it was definitely her. That smile was unmistakable, even from this distance.

That woman from Haven. The Maiden, the one Jaune attacked. The one who’d stabbed Weiss, and then vanished below.

Neo turning into her certainly got a reaction, and Ren had to cover for Jaune when seeing her froze him up long enough for Neo to get a hit in. What she meant to the knight, Oscar had no clue, but it was those kinds of taunts that had them chasing her deeper into the academy. Harsh jabs at wounds Oscar didn’t know about, spurring them to follow the woman into the bowels of Atlas.

Deeper in, and further from help. Not that they weren’t trying to get help, but Jaune was having a terrible time with his scroll. He kept shaking and glaring at the thing as if that might make it work better. Time after time he called Ruby, trying not to think about why she might no9t be picking up.

This couldn’t be happening again. It just couldn’t, not again.

“I can’t get hold of Ruby,” Jaune said, barely hidden distress etched into his voice as they ran. Red lights were pulsing overhead, and alarms were blaring in panic the further in they went.

“Maybe the comms are still blocked?” Oscar panted, struggling to keep up with them, but stubbornly refusing to be left behind. Jaune hoped beyond hope that the younger boy was correct, because the alternative was too much to think about right now. There was a part of Jaune that was screaming at him to get Oscar to stay behind, to get him to get Ruby and the others, and to bring them here.

‘Go! Get to Vale, and call for help!’

But there was another larger part of him that knew far too well what that felt like, and he wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy, let alone on Oscar Pine. So he came along.

“Why’s she here, anyway?” Nora asked, glancing first at Ren then at Oscar. “The Relic?”

“Must be,” Oscar responded, eyes flicking down to where it hung on his belt. All this trouble, for something so small. “But how’d she know about them-” Oscar cut off as a man in a white lab coat running the other way bumped into him, and the elevator door they’d passed dinged open. 

He glanced through the closing doors just in time to see the man’s face morph with a shimmer into his own face smiling sweetly back. Oscar skidded to a halt. “Guys! Guys wait, she’s in the elevator!” He called, hammering on the [OPEN] button.

“Oh come on, that’s not fair!” Nora complained, jogging back over to him and kicking the closed metal doors dejectedly. “How’re we supposed to get her now?”

“We may not have to,” Ren reasoned, while Oscar stepped aside so Jaune could get at the controls. “Neo came for the Relic, and as we still have it, she will have to come back up before long.” 

Jaune pried the panel under the buttons off, and Oscar wondered where the hell he’d learned to hotwire an elevator. “Yeah that’s true,” Oscar sighed, resting one hand on the familiar weight of the lamp at his waist.

His hand closed on open air.

He looked down, alarmed to see the lamp shimmer away into fractals of pink-white crystal. “The scientist!” he exclaimed in shock, staring at the elevator she’d vanished through, “He took it!”

“What scientist?” Jaune asked, attempting to perform complicated electrical work with a sword.

“Neo! Disguised as a scientist! He- She- Bumped into me, and took the lamp!” Oscar spluttered in disbelief.

“She took it!” Nora fumed. “Of freaking course she took it, that little sneak!”

“Well no we’ve really gotta get these doors open,” Jaune muttered, his hands full of electrical wires. “Once I get the doors open, you two jump through, Oscar you’re with me. I don’t know how long they’ll be open for, so we’ll have to be quick.” 

“I think I’ve got it!” He connected one final pair of wires and glanced up at the doors just in time to see a second pair of security doors close over the first.

His face fell, and then they all heard it. Fighting, echoing up the elevator shaft. Swords clanged off each other, explosions rattled the floor under their feet, and the familiar sound of Penny’s laser fire pierced through it all.

“Penny,” Oscar breathed, staring at the door in horror. “We have to get down there and help her!”

“Yes, but against who?” Ren pondered as Jaune gave up on the panel to join them. “Who is she fighting? And why?”

“Cinder,” Jaune answered grimly, ushering them away from the doors. “With the way tonight is going, who else is it gonna be? There’s no way Ironwood doesn’t have the Winter Maiden locked up somewhere in here as well, what else would she be doing here?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said hesitantly, following them a short distance away, “I guess...but what are we doing?”

Jaune shrugged, and activated the hard light edges of his shield. “First plan didn’t work, figured it was time for the old stand-by.” He nodded at the only teammate not with them, and gestured to the doors. “Nora, just hit it with your hammer.”

“Got it,” she replied, sounding delighted.

“Wait, what-?!”

Any further words he might’ve been saying were drowned out by the cacophonous thunderous boom when Nora’s hammer impacted the elevator doors.

The door caved, crumpling like paper under the tremendous force. A woosh of displaced air chased the sound down the hallways, ruffling their hair as they stood well back from the destruction. Before the dust had even settled, Jaune was jogging forward and slotting his sword between the doors.

“Okay guys,” he called, prying the doors apart as the rest of his team joined him. “Once I get the doors open, Ren you go first, then you Nora, then Oscar, and I’ll be last.” he groaned, shifting the doors open and getting his body in between them to provide more leverage. “Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds good to me!” Nora said brightly, slinging her hammer in its collapsed form back over her shoulder. Oscar hummed his agreement, his hand resting on his hip where the Relic should have been, and Ren just nodded.

As soon as Jaune got the doors open enough for Ren to slip past, his teammate was moving. He leapt from the ledge onto the cables and slid down them, his braid whipping in the air behind him. Nora followed with a whoop, and Oscar moved to the edge of the pit in her place.

Jaune wedged his shoulders between the doors so he could free one of his hands. He put it on Oscar’s shoulder, and felt as that light-water flowed from his hand into the boy. Oscar’s sparse injuries knitted themselves closed, and the boy glanced up at him in surprise. 

“Can’t have one of my teammates going into battle unprotected,” Jaune commented, straining against the doors.

“But, what about you?” Oscar asked, brows pinched in concern.

“Don’t worry about me, it’ll just recharge I’ll be fine,” he groaned. “Now get down there, I’ll be right behind.” Jaune said, nodding at the hole. Oscar hesitated one more second, and then followed Ren and Nora down into the darkness.

“Right,” Jaune said, shifting as close as he could to the edge without getting crushed by the door. He collapsed his shield and sheathed his sword, leaving only his armor to prevent the doors from closing on him. The metal of his armor scraped against the doors and sent sparks spiraling down after his teammates as he moved. “Here goes nothing.”

And then with the harsh noise of metal grinding on metal, and a shower of sparks, he leapt down into the darkness. By the sound of it, Ren and Nora had already reached the bottom of the shaft and were cutting a hole into the roof of the elevator Neo had taken. 

Oscar was much further behind them, slowed by Jaune’s delay and by his own caution. He could see the boy slowly sliding down, lit only by the glow of the emergency light that pulsed in red down the edges of the pit.

Going down an elevator shaft in a ruined Huntsman Academy, to face what he had to assume was a fully empowered Fall Maiden. With nearly no back up, far too much on the line, and not enough information. It was a concerningly familiar feeling.

There was shouting below him. Clangs of metal on metal, explosions that he recognized from half repressed memories of that last disastrous elevator ride back in Beacon, and cries of pain that he recognized from far too crisp memories of the last fight in the Vytal Festival.

Ren and Nora had broken through the elevator then. And he could hear them fighting already, the familiar sound of Ren’s guns and Nora’s grenades echoed up towards him. A clang of Oscar landing awkwardly on the roof of the elevator car barely filtered up to him over the noise of the battle.

They were deep underground now. Far down into the bowels of Atlas itself. There would be no chance of getting a message to Ruby from down here, even if the others got service back online. Maybe a text in, or a text out, but calls were out of the question.

Jaune’s boots hit the roof of the elevator, jolting him back to the present. The light of flames filtered through the hole Ren had cut in the roof, but the green glow of Penny’s lasers had all but died out. Oh gods please let her be okay. He didn’t think Ruby could take losing her friend for a second time.

[blehbleehhhh]

It’s Always Been You ft. Eremika<3

I would like to request canonverse eremika first time during the 4 years skip, right after basement arc, when eren cant control his feelings for her any longer and she's in disbelief... naughty eremika... hehe... uwu Everyone's got so many ideas 😜 Let's see how it writes out! Keep requests coming :) This was SOOO fun to write! In the off chance you aren’t up to date with AOT, there are some spoilers, I tried to avoid them but the story didn’t make sense without any. This damn thing took over two months for me to write, so I hope you enjoy it!

Mikasa found him laying on his back surrounded by a field of luscious, green grass, staring up at the clear night sky. It's been a month since that huge battle with the Beast Titan where a massive amount of losses were felt and they almost lost their best friend, Armin. "Eren?" Her voice sounded so distant, like she were much farther than the crunching of twigs and grass beneath her boots would indicate. Suddenly, all he was able to think about was that moment right before opening one of his father's books of secrets, when Mikasa's hand touched his and they briefly looked into each other's eyes. "Are you okay?" Actually, Eren hasn't been able to get her out of his head since that day when the elusive Dr. Grisha Jaeger's basement was finally discovered. Most of the time, simply doing something other than laying around is how he's been able to keep her out of his head twenty-four seven all these years. But now? After Armin reminded him of their dreams to exist outside the walls, he started to think about what it would be like sharing a house again because 'living together' this way simply doesn't feel the same. If anything, it's more like they're further apart than they used to be. "Eren?" He couldn't help but wonder how much more difficult it would be to hide this thing he's had for her, especially since Mikasa is pretty much all he can think about these days. Hell, she's invaded his dreams, well, she's in them more often and they're usually incredibly sexual in nature. In fact, thinking about how aggressively this version of her was kissing him last night as he slowly slipped a hand down her naked body and between those beautiful, long legs - "EREN!"

"Hm?" He blinked and rubbed a hand down his face, tilting his head back on the ground so he could look up at her. “Fuck, I'm sorry. What did you say?" Mikasa smiled as she sat down beside him and brought her knees up to her chest; he couldn't resist admiring her face from the corner of his eye, but ended up forcing himself to look away when she pushed fingers through her hair, the mild wind is fighting to shield said beautiful face with a sheet of black satin, because pushing her hair out of her face is something the dream version of Mikasa always does. God, it's her lips, they're shaped like a tulip, and Eren begins to wonder what it would feel like to kiss them. No, no, perhaps it's her eyes? Or her porcelain skin that looked smooth enough to get him thinking how he would rather enjoy caressing it the rest of their lives. Perhaps.

"I asked if you were okay. You weren't at lunch or at dinner, so I got concerned."

"Mikasa, you worry about me too much. I'm okay, really, I'm just fucking exhausted.”

"Yeah, I think we're all exhausted. Last few weeks have been an absolute train wreck.” She let out a frustrated sigh as the wind continued to blow her hair out to frame that angelic, fragile face. Eren just looked up at her and laughed to himself for feeling as nervous as he does, but the way her hair is falling across her face, the darkness of those luscious locks a perfect combination with her fair skin, and he briefly thinks that this woman just may be the death of him.

The pair sit together for a while, just enjoying each other's company and how still tonight is compared to the shit storm they've just had, grateful for the time they have off for the moment because, as far as titans go, things seem to be pretty quiet. But his mind persisted in pushing what Eren had always been telling himself were unwanted thoughts, though he’s recently found that his mind doesn’t fight with these thoughts often anymore, choosing instead to welcome them with open arms. What are you waiting for? You both almost died without her ever knowing how you feel. Again. Eren sat up with a sigh and leaned back, supporting himself with his hands, then eased himself to stand. Don't you fucking dare get up and walk away, dude. You know how much you want her so don't be a pussy! Mikasa pushed her hair back as she looked up at him with a confused face that’s easily just as adorable and irresistible as any other that he's seen her make over the years they’ve known each other.

Offering her a hand, Eren decided to bite the bullet and quit torturing himself because these feelings are twice as hard to ignore, especially now that he’s uncomfortably aware of how far apart they are. He feels an itch to simply just hold her in his arms even if just for a moment, and it's simply maddening as Mikasa graciously accepted his hand with a sweet smile, watching him with her ever inquisitive gaze as he stuffed a hand in his pocket, anxiously dragging the other down his mouth. Fuck it. On a spur of the moment decision, Eren cradled her face in his hands and hurriedly closed the space between them, an electrifying first kiss for both indeed. Despite the immediate spark, because she's wanted this for so long, Mikasa was much too surprised to even react and soon found herself awkwardly staring down the bridge of his nose, wondering what the fuck made his behavior change so drastically. At this moment, Eren doesn't care that she's not reciprocating, because kissing her feels like free falling and activating your 3DMG at the last moment; like the taste of liquor, how it warms your stomach, radiates from your core, and makes you feel out of control. After a minute or so of his advances still not being returned, for once, he actually started to feel a little embarrassed and even ashamed for throwing himself at her like this, all because he couldn't take it anymore. When he slowly started to pull away, Mikasa's shock was replaced with a sudden sense of emptiness from feeling as if her other half was being torn away. It was like a reflex; her fingers quick to curl in his shirt in the hopes of preventing any opportunity for him to pull away, her lips eager to play, finally allowing herself to succumb to his charms as her eyes fluttered shut. Kissing Eren feels like a free fall between slaughtered, collapsing titans that they had taken down together as a team; like the horrific day he transformed for the first time and she spotted his unmistakable silhouette through steam coming from the rogue titan's nape. Relief. So much relief that tears began to well up in her eyes. Eren sunk his fingers in her soft, raven hair as she leaned into him and sighed softly in his mouth, so entranced that she didn't even care when he pulled his lips away and gently bumped their foreheads together. He slid his nose alongside hers and set a hand on her hip, slowly stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Mikasa..." His breath tickled her lips as he kissed her again, again and again, then fiercely went in for more, eliciting a soft moan from her that filled his mouth and only served to worsen his burning desire. And then her back was pressed against a nearby tree, his knee parting her legs just as she hooked one around his waist in the hopes of hinting that she was more than okay with taking this further. He groaned into her mouth, and their lips slowly parted the smallest bit. "What do you want?"

“You..." Mikasa bit his lower lip, making him breathe a little deeper as he pressed his hard-on into her.

"Say it again."

"I want you, Eren.."

"Come with me." He glanced around to make sure nobody was near and walked off in front of her like they normally do, leading her to his room as nonchalantly as possible. They navigate through the barracks on guard to make sure they don't get caught entering his room together only to not come out again until some time the next day. When they succeeded and finally got on the other side of his door, she was already laying back on the bed, trying desperately to get control of her heart since it's beating way too fast. Eren was quick to crawl up between her legs, fairly certain that his own heart might explode because of how she’s smiling up at him and slowly sliding her hands up his arms and into his hair. Up until now, laying in a bed wrapped up in his arms was only something Mikasa’s dreamt about without once ever considering that it would actually happen someday. Yet here she is, allowing him to unravel her scarf and expose her neck as he peppered any new skin in kisses, his hand underneath her shirt, slowly gliding across her toned stomach and the waistline of her trousers.

"Why did you kiss me?" She blurted out, holding her breath for an explosive reaction that never came.

"Because you almost died. Because we both almost fucking died again. We were finally standing in that damn basement when I realized something," Eren paused to remove her hands from his hair so he could pin them to the bed and lace their fingers together. "I never wanted to kiss you more than I did the moment you touched my hand. And that got me thinking about my recovery after fighting Annie when you told me how happy you were that I came back, then that shit show on the battlefield with the smiling titan. Those are a few other times where I've felt that same way. You know why?" Stunned into silence from his words, all she could manage was a light squeeze of his hands and a hard swallow as their lips grew close enough, they were just barely touching. "Because it's always been you, Mikasa..." Her legs crossed behind his back as they engaged in a long, passionate kiss, happily using the new freedom of her hands to sink them in his hair. Eren took advantage of her neck being bare and slowly parted from the comfort of her lips to softly kiss the newly exposed skin, quickly noting that her moans tended to be louder and even more maddening the harder he pressed down with his lips.

"Oh my god," Mikasa breathed a quiet giggle with a pleasure induced sigh and flushed when she felt him smile on her neck. "This can't be happening..."

"Are you sure you don't want to wait? I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you." She just gently nudged him to give her space to remove her shirt in such a slow way that it was immediately clear she was teasing him; her soft, fair skin a light shade of pink that easily made her resemble a porcelain doll. Eren’s breath caught in his throat as he swallowed hard trying to suppress the animalistic desire to just ravage her, but he really doesn't want to hurt her. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the idea of touching her because he knows how hard it'll be to control himself when it finally happens, so his eyes carefully watch hers as he reached behind her back to unhook her bra. Mikasa gently bumped their foreheads together as his fingers slowly push her bra straps down the slope of her shoulders. "I don't want to hurt you, but I can't promise I'll be gentle." He breathed to her lips as her bra fell down her arms, his hands now swiftly unbuttoning the fasteners of her trousers.

"No, it's okay, I can take it.."

"I love you, Mikasa." Eren kissed her as she slowly lay back on the bed, sliding his hands up to touch her breasts for the first time and sending a highly erotic sigh into his mouth. They aren't huge, but they certainly aren't small, either, in fact, they're the perfect size for his hands to squeeze, which is something he’s already taken a liking to doing. He gently kneaded them with his hands and fingers to elicit more of those sounds from her mouth, slowly pulling his lips away to bury them between her breasts, leaving open mouthed kisses across the aroused mounds.

"Ohh, Erennn," She smiled, and he can hear the excitement in her voice as she sunk her fingers into his hair, cradling the back of his head with one of her palms. "I love you too..." He couldn't get enough of her; skin so soft and smooth, he could do this all day if they had the time, no obligations of any kind except to one another; stealing away together to help forget how shitty the world is. Eren’s lips slowly made their way down her body, pausing on her incredibly toned core as he tugged everything down her legs and threw them on the floor behind him, leaving the girl completely naked.

"Wow, Mika," He smiled, sliding his hands up her legs as he leaned down to kiss her. "You're absolutely gorgeous."

"Really?"

"You disagree? I mean, look at you..." Eren smirked when she smiled and grabbed onto his shirt to pull him closer, reaching down his back so she could tug it over his head. And then her fingers lightly trailed down his torso, slowly tracing the dips and ridges of his abdominals. But he surprised her again, kissing down her body so fast, that she couldn't process it until he was half on the bed, pulling her giggling form farther down by slipping his arms under and around her hips, right up to an eagerly awaiting mouth. He curved his hands around her thighs to pry the lips open and reveal the wet, pink flesh between them, then dove into her sweet spot.

"Haaaa! Eren!" It felt incredible; his tongue pressed against her truly aching clit, rubbing up and down so quickly it made her hips want to twitch, but they can't because she's trapped in his strong arms. Given the horrific things they see day to day, it's understandable that the soldiers might need some kind of release. As a result, Eren frequently has the displeasure of overhearing discussions other guys were having where people just brag about who they sleep with and, sometimes, there would be tidbits of advice about what to do in sexual situations with women. And if the way Mikasa is clawing at his back or tugging on his hair says anything, it seems to be going over well. "Ohgodohgodohgod! Don't stop!" He slowly eased a finger inside and moved it in and out faster and faster, eliciting more powerful moans sourced from deep in her body. So, he added a second and flicked his tongue across her clit. "Yesyesyesyes!" She whimpered and closed her legs around his head as she reached her first climax, squirming and trembling from the overwhelming waves of pleasure. He kissed up her body and swirled his tongue around both of her nipples, then along the side of her neck as he listened to her catch her breath, his fingers dragging her wetness up as they go.

"How was that?"

"Everything I hoped.."

"I'm glad." Eren smirked when she pulled him in for a kiss despite the sweet taste of herself on his tongue, on his breath. She reached between them and unfastened his trousers to pull them down, touching the head of his cock for the first time, sending chills down his spine and a groan into her mouth. His lips kiss down her neck and linger on the spot he gets the best moans from in response, kicking his legs to get the rest of his clothing out of the way.

"Eren, please!" Her voice was desperate, sensual, and much too loud.

"The begging is incredibly sexy, but you need to keep it down or we'll get caught," He smirked and watched her eyes as he slid his cock through the wetness. "I'm so sorry if this hurts..." He crashed his lips against hers in the hopes that a distraction would be helpful, then, slowly, so very slowly, pushed himself inside of the tight, wet heat. It was electrifying, nestling himself deeper and deeper until he heard a squeal, followed by the salty taste of her tears invading their kiss from the pain of loosing her virginity. He was surprised with himself for how gentle he's been; perfectly content to just lie there showering her with kisses and loving on her the way that she deserves. Mikasa moaned into his mouth, finally past the worst of the pain and experiencing just how incredible it feels to have him inside her, to hook a leg around his waist and raise her hips in the hopes of slowly working him the rest of the way in. She pulled her lips away and set her hands in his hair, making little moans with every small thrust. "Fuck." There's that potential loss of control, inspired by the sounds he has her making, showing nothing but pure, pent-up sexual tension that's years in the making at this point. Tightening her legs further up his back, she watched his eyes through an equally dreamy, half lidded gaze, quick to discover how much they both enjoy it when she follows his rhythm.

"Harder, Eren," Her voice cracked from desperately trying to keep the music to his ears from becoming too loud. "Fuck me harder..." So, he did, thrusting faster than before, much to Mikasa's excitement, who failed to conceal her little, pleasurable cry when he bit down on her neck, sucking on her skin where a hickey could be hidden with her scarf and uniform. "Ohh! Ohhh, Erennnnn!" She clung onto his body as an orgasm wracked through her hard, making her involuntarily grind on him faster until he let out what almost sounded like a growl and removed his cock just in time to blow his load across her stomach. It was an out of body experience, like you're floating on a cloud and slowly coming back down to Earth. It felt right, so, so right.

"You're incredible." Eren whispered breathlessly and smiled as she offered him a sleepy grin, snaking her arms around his neck to bring his face even closer for a succession of kisses that quickly turned into something more. She eventually relaxed, happily allowing him to kiss down her neck and swirl his tongue around her nipples, reluctantly reaching for a dirty washcloth to wipe off his mess. "I'm so sorry, but this is all I have at the moment."

"It's okay," She stretched out and smiled, watching him slowly drag the washcloth across her skin. "It is what it is."

"How much did it hurt?"

"It felt like I got stabbed for a minute or two, but mostly it felt really, really good."

"Good." Tossing the rag on the floor, Eren dropped down beside her and chuckled when she immediately curled up into his side, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "Wow, this is pretty entertaining when you're naked, too." He felt her lips smile on his skin as she slipped an arm around him and sighed with contentment, wrapped up in his arms and the blankets like they've both dreamed.

"Hopefully, things continue to stay quiet so we can keep doing this."

“You know the best part?”

“Hm?” Mikasa hummed softly in response and lightly tapped her fingertips on his chest, overwhelmed with that familiar feeling of relief once again because his heartbeat is so strong.

“I’ll last longer the next time.”

"Ooooh! Really?!”

"Heh, yes, really." Eren laughed to himself, gently squeezing her against him as he kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry that I’ve been a dick lately...” She looked up and set her hand on his cheek, bringing him in for a deeply passionate kiss that sent chills down his spine. “Uh,” He chuckled and kissed the grin on her lips. “Okay.”

“I forgive you.”

“Wait, really?”

“Of course,” Mikasa smiled as she studied his gorgeous eyes and lightly rubbed his lower lip with her thumb. “Eren, you’re literally all I’ve ever wanted, and we just -" She blushed from what she’s about to say, and the smirk on his face. “We just made love for the first time. So, as far as I’m concerned, you are most definitely forgiven...”

“I can’t believe I’m finally going to say it, but damn, Mikasa,” Eren groaned playfully and chuckled when she buried her face in his neck, lips curved up into a grin. “You’re so fucking gorgeous...” He slowly explored her body with his hand, focusing on the dips and curves he encountered by fingertip, his light, gentle touches sending goosebumps across her skin.

“Are you trying to get laid again? Because, if you are, it’s definitely working...”

“I mean, I’m not going to lie, I had high hopes that we’d do it again later tonight, but that only depends on you.”

“In that case,” Mikasa smiled as she rolled on top of him and straddled his lap. “I wanna be the one on top this time...”

[snazzy-suit]

LLoG Chapter (?) Wake Me Up Before You–! Oh no (Snippet)

It’s been far too long since we’ve seen King Boo (if you’ve been following this series since I posted the first snippet, anyway), so please enjoy this unbeta’d sneak peak into an upcoming chapter.

This entry is a little earlier in King Boo and Luigi’s odd relationship (takes place before “Tennis the Menace” in the LLoG timeline). You may notice quite a few parallels between the two chapters.

===

It has been a long day.

Luigi has been up for just over twenty-four hours answering ghost related calls. A few were false alarms, a couple were misunderstandings with relatively peaceful resolutions, but the vast majority had been malevolent activity that only the Poltergust could solve. The plumber hasn’t dealt with this many consecutive incidents in a long time.  

He is exhausted.

Luigi stumbles toward his bed, kicking off his shoes as he carelessly drops the Poltergust by his nightstand. The professor would probably be appalled by the delicate equipment’s treatment, but Luigi is far too tired to care. Not bothering to change, he flops onto the mattress and stares blearily at the ceiling.

“I can’t feel my legs, Pepper," Luigi mumbles.

The Polterpup, who is currently curled up at the foot of the bed, yaps once in acknowledgement.  

“Thank you for your concern."

The room descends into a peaceful silence. A gentle breeze whispers through the trees outside the plumber's home. The ticking of a clock echoes quietly down the hall. Luigi’s breathing begins to slowly even out.

A harsh buzzing in his pocket startles Luigi awake. He groans, reluctantly retrieving his phone and unlocking it. A text message from a number Luigi doesn’t recognize appears in his notifications. With growing dread, he opens it.

For a moment, all Luigi can do is stare at the single photo included in the message, instantly recognizing both of its subjects. To offer insight into the plumber’s current mental state, his first thought upon seeing the image isn’t: ‘Oh no! King Boo has kidnapped my brother (again)!', it’s: ‘When did King Boo get a cell phone?'.

Luigi slowly rolls over and buries his face in his pillow. A muffled scream startles the dozing Polterpup awake. Pepper tilts his head inquisitively and pads over to the plumber’s side, gently nudging the latter with his snout. Luigi blindly reaches out and pats the concerned canine’s head.

“I’m okay, Pepper," he lies. “Just...really frustrated."

An understatement, to be sure.

The plumber stashes the phone back into his pocket and, with great difficulty, pushes himself up into a sit. With even more difficulty, he stands, recovers his shoes, and fumbles to slide them on. Luigi takes one last longing look at his bed and trudges out the door.

Right past the Poltergust.

==

To an outside observer, it would appear that a zombie is limping its way toward a haunted mansion in the middle of nowhere. In a way, they would be correct—Luigi feels dead on his feet. Had he been more cognizant, the plumber would probably be embarrassed by the number of times he trips on his way up the stairs, or the way he leans against the front doors for an unusually long time before attempting to open them. Indeed, Luigi makes no effort to be cautious or polite in his entrance; he merely pushes his way through and stumbles into the foyer.

“’m here," he announces tiredly.

No response.

Impatient, and borderline apathetic, the plumber drags himself over to the stairway leading up to the second story and plops down on the bottom step. Luigi may have answered King Boo’s taunt, but that doesn’t mean he has to play his game. If the spectral monarch wants a showdown, he’ll have to come to Luigi.  

Time passes, and the plumber slowly finds himself leaning back until he is lying on the stairs. It’s far from comfortable, but at this point, anything vaguely horizontal feels inviting. When his eyelids start to droop, Luigi begins humming a tired, off-key tune to help stay awake.

“You know, just because I allow you to live doesn’t mean you can waltz in here whenever you please."

Luigi blinks, craning his neck back to see an unimpressed King Boo glaring down on him. Luigi returns the glare.

“You’re a jerk," he slurs.

“And you’re rude," the monarch retorts. “Not to mention entirely too comfortable in my presence. Now, am I going to have to put the fear of Jaydes in you or are you going to get up and show some respect?"

Luigi begrudgingly rises to his feet and turns to properly face the source of his torment. King Boo quirks a brow after he gives the plumber a once-over.

“You look horrible. Well, even more so than usual."

“Thank you."

“I would ask why, but I don’t really think I care."

“Uh-huh, where’s my brother, King Boo?"

The spectral monarch blinks innocently back at the plumber.

“Your brother? Why, I haven’t seen him in ages! How should I know of his whereabouts?"

"You sent me a selfie of you and Mario with the caption: 'Ha ha you weren't invited'."

"So you can read. Though your reading comprehension is clearly lacking seeing as you are here."

"Why am I here?"

"That's what I would like to know."

Luigi was way too tired for this. Any other time, he would be willing to tolerate the spirit’s antics, but the accumulated exhaustion from the last twenty-four hours has sapped his patience. The plumber knows attacking—and subsequently capturing—the ghostly monarch will come back to bite him, but in that moment, he decides it is future Luigi’s problem. Not even bothering to be subtle about it, he reaches back to grab the Poltergust’s nozzle—

And his hand meets air.

Luigi’s heart falters in his chest, and he is suddenly wide awake. In his haste to leave, he had completely forgotten to grab the one thing that could defeat King Boo—the only thing that stood between him and a place on the monarch’s wall. How could he have been so careless? How could he have been so stupid?!

The plumber looks up at King Boo, wide-eyed, and finds the spirit staring back with open shock. King Boo’s stupor doesn’t last, however. His expression quickly morphs into something triumphant—something sadistic.

“Oh my, what is this?” the king purrs, moving closer. “Did you leave something important at home, dear Luigi? Your keys? Wallet, perhaps?”

Luigi unwittingly takes a few steps back, feeling vulnerable in a way he hasn’t since his first encounter with a ghost all those years ago. King Boo’s grin widens exponentially.

“It’s not like you to be so forgetful. So…careless,” he continues. “I shudder to think what would happen if someone took advantage of you being so unprepared…”

The plumber keeps backpedaling as the spirit slowly, patiently, pursues him. Luigi clenches his fists, and lightning weakly sparks to life along his gloves.

“I-I can still defend myself,” the plumber retorts, hating the way his voice wavers.

King Boo cackles at his false bravado.

“Oh, I’m sure you can. But for how long? It would seem you have been…how does the saying go? 'Burning the candle at both ends'? I doubt you’d last five minutes, and that’s being generous.”

Luigi opens his mouth to refute the monarch’s words, but is startled into silence when his back hits something solid—the front doors. He doesn’t have to try the handles to know they’re locked.  

“What kind of frame would you prefer, Luigi? Gold? Silver? Or are you more of a bronze man?”

===

Remember these lines from chapter 4?:

“The plumber takes a steadying breath. It wouldn’t do him any favors to lose composure now.”   

“He had shown a sliver of weakness—of fear—and the Boo was attempting to intimidate him further. If Luigi didn’t want this encounter to go south, he’d have to keep face”

This is the incident that Luigi was alluding to—where he learns he cannot lose composure around King Boo. Yes, the absence of the Poltergust plays a part, but it’s mostly Luigi’s reaction to his vulnerability that spurs King Boo into action. Honestly, King Boo might not have even done much had Luigi stayed calm (he’d at the very least be offended by the plumber’s “audacity” to come unarmed).