#his suit of darkness compresses his chest

[ruuari]

unhinged little transgender man

[seiwas]

for ur blurb: Midoriya, hands, and for a trope im thinking like first date ? first touch?

thanks for sending scout! 🫶

midoriya + hands + first touch

contains: pro-hero!deku x assistant!reader (i am a sucker for this), very cliche but i am a sucker for that too, reader wears flats and is also really clumsy

contrary to popular belief, pro-hero deku does not run as "hot" as the internet proclaims he does.

it's a reasonable expectation, you think, with how lively and bubbly he is. his hyperactivity must stem from some urge to constantly move, after all.

but, that's not what you feel on the first impact. on the initial collision.

routine patrols almost always result in your boss trudging up the emergency stairs, geared up and sweaty, because he refuses to occupy half of the elevator with the added real estate his hero suit takes up. it's sweet of him, awfully thoughtful really. the kind of person he is. but―

his office is on the 15th floor, and though he insists it's good warm up for the rest of the day, he's practically shedded off half of his suit by the time he reaches his floor, not quite heaving, but not quite breathing easily either.

today, you decide, you'll meet him half-way―bring down one of his extra shirts from the alarming amount he keeps stocked up in his office cabinet. and a bottle of water too, in case he's thirsty.

the trip down the emergency exit is made easier by a pair of flats you wear, a change initiated by midoriya during your first few months on the job. most assistants wear heels—an unspoken rule no one can quite explain. but—

“are your feet okay?” he asks as you both walk past a plaque that reads "gear support".

you look down at your feet before turning to him, confused, tilting your head slightly.

the corners of his eyes crinkle as he stifles a chuckle, endeared, "sorry.” his green mop of hair sways lightly as he shakes his head, “i mean, i noticed earlier. you were moving your feet a lot.”

your eyebrows shoot up, shoulders tensing as embarrassment washes over you. you immediately scramble on what to say, but your exchange quickly becomes a back-and-forth of who’s-realized-what when you notice midoriya’s freckled cheeks tint a dark pink.

“not—not like that’s wrong! or anything," he shakes his hands in front of him, palms splayed out in front of you. he immediately pockets one of them, taking a deep breath, "just,” before he sighs out, fingers hovering over the keypad to his personal gear room, “if your feet are starting to hurt, you should wear something more comfortable.”

and so here you are now, just having passed the tenth floor as you make your way down to meet your boss half-way. you can already hear his footsteps a few flights below, the heavy clunking of his boots echoing in the empty staircase.

you take another step, the bottle of water and t-shirt clutched tightly to your chest. you're careful to keep your feet light so as to not alarm him, but it must be his hero senses when you hear him call your name, his voice curling up in question as he stares at you from below.

you peer from the railing, smiling sheepishly as you raise up the items in your hand and wave.

some strands of his hair have matted to his forehead, the top portion of his suit zipped down to reveal the compression shirt he wears underneath. his eyes widen as he notices what you're holding, expression morphing into a small, relieved smile as he extends his legs to skip a step. you don't miss the small bow his head makes at your kind gesture.

it's at the landing of the eighth floor that midoriya pauses and waits, adjusting his pants and tucking his gloves into his utility belt as he watches you make your last few steps.

now, wearing flats to work has definitely solved a boatload of your discomfort in the agency; you no longer get blisters at the sides of your toes and your calves don't cramp the same way they used to. but while it's reduced the amount of times you've tripped and fallen by at least 50%, the constraint of a pair of heels is not the only factor that contributes to the little mishaps you typically get yourself into.

you're clumsy, to a fault―

as you take the second-to-the-last step before the landing, you somehow lose your footing and find yourself tripping, body going out of balance as it tips forward. you're preparing yourself for your inevitable fall when you think―

―not even a pair of flats can save you from that.

"oh my god―!" you squeak, voice involuntarily pulled from your throat as your hands fail to grab onto the railing. the split second you manage to get a glimpse of midoriya's face shows you that he's just as shocked as you are.

nothing can save you now, you fear.

except, maybe, a pair of pro-hero hands that just so happen to belong to your boss.

you're fully expecting to hit the floor when you're met with the firm surface of midoriya's chest instead, the damp fabric cool against your forehead. his hands are positioned separately along your waist and your hip, the one by your ribcage just centimeters shy from your chest.

if you aren't going to die from falling down the stairs, you're pretty sure you're going to die from embarrassment right now.

you blink, once, twice, a few times before his voice registers to you, the rumbling by your cheek accompanying his speech.

his concerned "are you okay?" feels like it should be a staple greeting at this point.

you maneuver yourself to stand upright slowly, the bottle of water and t-shirt still clutched in your other hand. his fingers grab a hold of yours to keep you steady, calloused skin touching yours.

you don't expect it, the slight shock you feel as his hand clutches your own; it’s cold and a little clammy amidst the bumps and grooves you feel from his scars.

the moment crashes onto you when you finally look up to face him, the embarrassment doubling you over to bow an almost perfect 90 degrees in apology, "s-sir deku, i'm so sorry!"

"h-hey," he laughs awkwardly, his hand reaching lightly to tap your back, "i-it's okay, you don't have to apologize―"

"i should've seen the last step, i didn't mean―" you remain in your bow, rambling.

"it's o―"

"i just wanted to deliver the shirt and maybe some water so you wouldn't have to―"

he glances at the items gripped tightly on your sides, his lips curling into a soft smile, “i really appreciate―"

"i didn't mean to cause more work―"

he sighs, amused as he crouches low to meet you eye-to-eye. you stop speaking, stunned by a pair of pine green staring at you. his freckled cheeks are dusted a familiar dark pink.

"please stop bowing," he requests, smile genuine and voice a little shy.

you scramble to stand straight, hands outstretched to give him the bottle of water and his t-shirt.

"h-here, sir deku. i'm sorry again, i'll do―"

"'deku'," he quickly replies, his hand reaching for the items. his fingers brush yours as he takes them from you—the second touch. it’s still a little cold, clammy as he says, "i mean, thank you. and just... just 'deku' is fine."

a/n: if i were to characterize reader, i would say they’re pretty similar to midoriya 😭 atp, they’ve also been working for a good year. reader has a developing crush on him (this scene is the trigger) and midoriya is really fond of reader! everyone teases him that his assistant is clumsy as heck but he kinda just shrugs it off and says it’s just their quirk (no pun intended), and that they’re really hardworking 🥹

[hurriane23456]

The Tenant's Request

Max knocked on the door of Officer Tyler’s apartment for a routine inspection, clipboard in hand, dressed in his usual work attire—a crisp suit with polished loafers. As the door swung open, Tyler stood there in part of his uniform: the navy-blue uniform pants and a tight black compression T-shirt, his police shirt, vest, and other gear hanging neatly on a valet stand behind him.

“Come on in,” Tyler said, his casual tone a stark contrast to the imposing figure he cut in his partial uniform. Max stepped inside, trying to focus on his clipboard, but his eyes kept drifting toward the uniform on display. It wasn't the first time he'd been in Tyler’s apartment, but something about the uniform, about the idea of wearing it, captured his attention more than usual today.

Tyler noticed Max's gaze lingering. “You keep looking at it,” he said with a slight smirk. “Ever wondered what it’s like to wear one?”

Max blinked, feeling caught. He chuckled nervously, trying to downplay his curiosity. “Well, I’ve always thought it looked… impressive. I’ve never been close to a uniform like that before.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow and gave him a once-over. “Want to try it on?”

Max’s heart skipped a beat. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Why not?” Tyler interrupted, already moving toward the stand. “It’s just fabric, right? You’ll see what it feels like. Come on, give it a go.”

Max hesitated, glancing down at his tailored suit. His professional attire felt so different from what was laid out in front of him—so civilian compared to the authoritative uniform hanging just a few feet away. But the offer was tempting, and with Tyler already taking the uniform off its stand, it seemed the decision was being made for him.

“Okay,” Max said, trying to sound casual.

Tyler nodded, unbuttoning his uniform pants to hand them over. Max couldn’t help but notice how easily Tyler peeled off the compression T-shirt, revealing his muscular torso. Tyler tossed both the pants and shirt onto the bed. “You’re gonna need all of it,” he said, nodding toward the bulletproof vest and duty belt.

Max swallowed, suddenly nervous, but the excitement simmering under the surface pushed him forward. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, slipped out of it, and laid it neatly on the chair. His loafers clicked lightly against the hardwood floor as he bent down to take them off, followed by his dress socks. The last to go was his dress shirt and tailored pants, leaving him standing there in just his boxers, feeling oddly exposed.

Tyler watched with a faint smile. “Ready?”

Max nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up the uniform pants. The material was thicker than what he was used to—tough, durable. He stepped into them, pulling them up over his hips and fastening them. The pants fit snugly, hugging his legs with a weight that felt both strange and grounding. The contrast between the sturdy fabric and the softness of his suit was stark.

Next, Tyler handed him the black compression T-shirt. Max slid it over his head, feeling the tight fabric stretch across his torso, holding him in place. The shirt clung to his skin, making him feel almost like he was putting on a second skin, something built for action, not just appearance.

Tyler took the bulletproof vest from the stand. “This is the real deal. Ready for it?”

Max nodded, and Tyler handed it over. Max pulled it over his head, adjusting the straps so it sat firmly against his chest. The vest was heavier than he anticipated. It compressed his body, the padding pressing into him with every breath. It was an odd sensation, at once restrictive but also strangely secure, like a shield protecting him.

“Now the shirt,” Tyler said, handing him the crisp, dark blue uniform shirt.

Max slipped his arms into the sleeves, the stiff cotton brushing against his skin. He buttoned it over the vest, the fit tight but not uncomfortable. As he fastened the last button, he caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. His posture had already changed—he stood straighter, broader.

Tyler nodded approvingly and grabbed the boots. He handed them to Max, who slid his feet into the stiff black leather. The boots were snug, the thick soles giving him a sense of height and purpose. When he stood up, the sound of his boots hitting the floor was heavier, more deliberate.

Tyler chuckled softly as he handed over the duty belt, fully equipped with handcuffs, a baton, and a holstered gun. “This is the real weight. You’ll feel it.”

Max took the belt and wrapped it around his waist, the weight of the gear immediately pulling down on his hips. It felt like more than just tools—each piece represented responsibility, authority. He tightened the belt, adjusting it so everything felt secure.

Finally, Tyler tossed him the patrol cap and a pair of aviator sunglasses. Max placed the cap on his head and slid the sunglasses on. He turned back to the mirror, and the man looking back at him was unrecognizable. The suit, the loafers, the polished professional look—all of it was gone. Now he stood there, fully transformed into something else—someone who commanded respect, who carried authority with every step.

“How does it feel?” Tyler asked, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

Max took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the vest, the tightness of the shirt, the solid grip of the boots against the floor. “It feels… powerful,” he admitted, the word coming out almost shyly. But there was no denying it. The uniform had transformed him.

Tyler smirked, but as Max admired his reflection, he noticed Tyler moving toward the chair where he’d left his suit. Without a word, Tyler grabbed Max’s tailored pants and started pulling them on.

“Wait—what are you doing?” Max asked, turning in surprise.

Tyler shrugged as he zipped up the pants and pulled on Max’s white dress shirt, buttoning it casually. “You’re in mine. Seems only fair I try yours.”

Max watched, mouth slightly open, as Tyler slipped into his suit jacket and adjusted it over his broad shoulders. The sight of the police officer dressed in his suit—so clean, polished, and professional—was jarring. The contrast was stark: Tyler, normally the embodiment of power in his uniform, now looked more like a businessman, while Max stood there in the uniform, feeling a surge of authority.

Tyler smiled, straightening the jacket sleeves. “Not bad,” he said, looking down at himself. “I could get used to this.”

Max stared at him, feeling a strange mix of unease and fascination. Here they were, standing in each other’s clothes—Tyler looking sharp in his tailored suit, while Max stood in the heavy, official uniform of a police officer. It was disorienting, a reversal that neither of them could have anticipated.

“You wear it well,” Tyler said, still looking at himself in the mirror.

Max shifted, feeling the pull of the duty belt and the pressure of the vest. “I… I don’t know if I can pull it off like you.”

Tyler laughed, slipping on Max’s loafers, completing the look. “You’re doing just fine. It’s all about how you carry yourself.”

Max stood there, feeling the weight of the uniform settle into his bones. The sensation was exhilarating but also overwhelming. And as Tyler adjusted his tie in the mirror, Max realized that the clothes didn’t just change how you looked—they changed how you felt, how you moved, how you thought.

[spidernuggets]

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

MINORS DNI

Warnings: NSFW, soft smut, sub!jason, praise kink, riding, blowjob, boob sucking

"Let me take care of you."

Jason came through the window of your shared room, tired and spread the scent of blood, gunpowder, and musk. He was already peeling off the heavy chest plate as he entered your room, his mood slightly lifting as he saw you in bed with your reading glasses on and his book in your hands.

He'd be lying if he said that seeing you in his shirt that hung loosely around your shoulders didn't turn him on right there, but he was just so exhausted. He doesn't think he could please you tonight, even though he said he would after all the dirty messages sent back and forth just a few hours ago.

You picked up his tired state just as he came in. You bookmarked his novel, placing it carefully on the bedside desk together with your glasses before quickly getting up and helping him remove his armour and tactical pants, his compressed shirt following suit.

"Sorry, ma. Last hour of patrol was a tough one," Jason grunts, rolling his shoulders back in circular motions, which you quickly noted.

You shushed him, telling him it was okay as you dug through your wardrobe, looking for a shirt and sweatpants for your boyfriend.

You threw a pair of dark grey sweats to Jason, looking for a shirt for him as he puts on the sweatpants.

"Don't need a shirt, babe. Just come to bed with me." He mumbles, cracking his neck, trying to feel some sort of relief.

Your eyebrows scrunch together in worry for him. They quickly rise as an idea pops into your head.

You walk over to Jason, who is already sitting in bed, leaning against the headboard, and blanket half draped across his legs.

"Want a massage, my love?" You asked innocently, wanting to help out your oh so tense man.

Jason always loves it when you call him that. Your love. Yours. That's right. He's yours. Jason has devoted his love and loyalty to you and only you. In Jason's eyes, you are the most beautiful, perfect woman he's ever seen. Even if you had curves or folds or scars or stretch marks or whatever you found a part of your body as an insecurity, he'd still see you like you are a beautiful sculputre, handcrafted by the most talented artist ever, or even carefully sculpted by God himself, and brought to life just for him. For Jason. For someone who has committed unforgivable things. Yet you're here, and you stay with him.

Jason sighs deeply, a weak yet encouraging smile stretching across his lips. "Sounds good, mama."

You smiled at his acceptance as you threw your leg over his thighs, straddling his waist. You place a soft kiss on his forhead before laying your hands on his broad shoulders, squeezing them as sighs and grunts escape Jason's lips.

"Feels good, baby," he was able to mutter. "'m sorry."

Your face displayed confusion. "I was supposed to be the one to take care of you," he says. You roll your eyes, smirking, knowing that he was referring to his previous texts.

"It can work both ways, lovely," you reply, your massage on his shoulder becoming more firm. Jason smile grew wider, leaning forward to place a kiss on your collarbone and his hands resting on your hips.

With every squeeze of his shoulders, your grip became firmer. And then boldly, you gently rolled your hips against his.

Jason sucked in a sharp breath. "And what do you think you're doing," Jason grunts.

You look at him innocently. "What do you mean? Just taking care of you, sweetheart," you say, grinding yourself against his semi-hard crotch again.

Jason tries his best to contain himself. "You're a god damn minx. You know that, yeah?"

You shrug a shoulder, a cheeky smirk growing on your lips. "You've said a couple of times here and there."

Jason scoffed as he pulled your hips closer to him, attaching your lips together with teeth clashing and tongues fighting for dominance.

Jason shuffled, trying to flip your current position, bht you held onto the headboard, keeping you in place.

"Didn't I say I was the one who was taking care of you tonight?" You said, sending a sharp stare into Jason's eyes. You lightly sigh, wrapping your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, your moist lips dragging along his skin.

"You're exhausted. Let me take care of you. Please?" You whined, rolling your hips against him once more.

Jason mentally cursed at himself as he found you so fucking cute and hot at the same time. "I'm all yours, mama," he said, kissing your shoulder.

Your eyes shimmered in excitement, and Jason swore his heart melted.

Your hands roamed the bumps and curves of his abs that had different shapes and sizes of scars littered across his torso. You then placed wet kisses along his chest as you continued to grind against him, just for a little further teasing.

"Fuck- Y/n, please," you barely heard Jason whisper out.

You stopped what you were doing and kissed his lips. "What is it, love?"

"Please... Please just touch me already. Need- Ngh. Need to feel ya," Jason whined, bucking his hips up as you felt his cock was diamond hard.

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "So polite, hm, Jason?" You say, slipping your hands past his waistband, pulling his sweats down for his already leaking dick to pop out. You licked your lips at the sight.

"Just sit back and relax for me, alright, my love?" You remind him as Jason nods.

You move your hand to wrap around his cock, your thumb rubbing over the flowing tip, precum dripping down. Your hand starts to pump up and down on his dick as Jason throws his head back, stifling back his whimpers and moans, his grip tightening around your waist.

You pouted at him and stopped your movements. "Don't tell me you're trying to keep quiet, Jay. Let me hear you, yeah? Be good f'me," you encouraged him.

"Mm-ngh.. ye-yes, okay, ma," he whines. "Just... Just please move- fuck."

You kiss his nose. "My sweet, good boy," you whisper, earning another pathetic whine out of Jason. "Mama's gonna take such good care of you," you say, kissing your way down his chest, his abdomen, your lips grazing across his happy trail and finally gking up to where his red tip ached for contact.

You kissed the slit that leaked the milky seed as your hand went down to his balls, applying slight pressure, which made Jason's fingers that was tangled in your locks tug against them and his other hand that made creases in the sheets has its knuckles turn white.

Jason's sounds of desperate whimpers and whines are music to your ears. You finally wrap your lips around his length, your tongue swirling around the underside.

"F-fuck!" Jason cried out. "Mm.. good, that f-feels so good, baby."

You responded with a muffled hum as your cheeks were stuffed with his cock.

You felt it twitch in your mouth, and before Jason could reach his high, you pulled away from his length with a pop sound as Jason whined with a tear coming out of the corner of his eye from the loss of warmth around him.

You kneeled up, holding against the headboard for balance. Jason looked up at you with glassy, teary, and confused eyes.

"You're gonna be good for me again, yeah?" You question him, Jason nodding in response, willing to do anything for you.

You shifted yourself so that your sopping cunt was hovering directly above his tip, just begging for more of you.

"Please, please, I need you so bad," Jason groaned, trying to lift his hips up, and you couldn't help but giggle at his neediness.

"You'll get me, don't worry, baby," you say, letting yourself sink onto his throbbing cock, your nails digging into Jason's shoulders.

Sure you and Jason fucked multiple times before, but you still couldn't get use to how big he was every time he fucks you.

You laid your head on his shoulder, adjusting yourself to his size before pushing yourself up, and then down again, your body bobbing back and forth, the sounds of skin slapping echoing in the room.

"Shit, love-" You choked out. "So... So fucking big... you feel so so good. Ngh- My good boy."

As Jason is fully unable to form any words or sentences from his euphoric state, more tears slip from his eyes. You quickly notice, your hands rushing to his face, wiping them away with your thumb. You made sure to make eye contact with Jason as you put your thumb in your mouth, licking away his salty tears, which made Jason throw his head back, followed by a desperate moan.

"Every part of you just gotta taste so good, huh, pretty boy?" You taunt, enjoying seeing face scrunch up in pleasure and need.

As you ride him, you comb your fingers through his hair, a handful of locks in your hand as you tug it back to make him look up at you. You puff your chest out at him as Jason licks his lips.

"Want a taste, love?" You ask as Jason nods his head vigorously. You hum in response, kissing his forhead before pulling his head closer to your boobs, letting his mouth attach to one of them.

Jason's eye rolls to the back of his head, and his mouth is covered in his dribble as his hand massages your other breast. His tongue brushes over your nipple back and forth, making you moan in pleasure.

"Fuck, baby, I can’t- I just need to-" Jason stutters, his voice muffled as his mouth is currently occupied. His arm wraps around your back as he flips you two over. "Let me fuck you, please, mama. I can take care of ya," He begs, pleading eyes watching over you.

Your hand reaches up to caress his cheek as you nod. "Yeah.. Yeah, you can take care of me, my love," you assure him. Jason buries his head into your neck as he thrusts his hips into you, his tip reaching thay sweet spot that always made your back arch.

"Fuck, yes! Right there, Jay, oh god," you whine, nails dragging down his back, leaving streaks of red behind. "Feel- ngh, feel so good, m-my sweet boy."

Jason's spine shivers at the constant praise, his thrusts becoming deeper and faster. "Love y-you. I love you so much, Y/n. Fuckin' love you," Jason was finally able to grunt out, feeling his climax reach.

But for you, that's when you started seeing stars. It wasn't the first time Jason told you he loved you. But every time he did say it, it always had a special effect on you. For this time, his little daily confession had you cum before you could even process his words.

"Fuck!" Jason hisses. "Just a little longer, baby." He says, continuing to pump in and out of you.

"Nghh.. fuck- my love. Always so perfect. I love you too. My- oh! My perfect boy," you stutter. Jason's arms hold themselves tight around your body, your skin clamped together as his seed shoots out.

Jason continues to rude out his high as he deeply panted, leaving weak kisses on your shoulder. As Jason pulls out, he reaches for the cloth inside the bedside drawer and using the water from the cup you always leave on the desk to dampen it.

He silently cleans you up and lazily throws it onto the floor, saying he'll deal with it in the morning as he lays back down on your chest. Your fingers roam free through his tangled hair, whispering sweet nothings to him before the two of you fall asleep in each others embrace.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

I know you probably JUST posted the FNAF Movie request where the reader possesses Sparky, but after reading it this idea popped into my head and I need to get it out there.

Could we have a sort of continuation of the 'Sparky reader' fic that takes place towards the finale of the movie? The idea I had is that after Abby helps the animatronics remember that it was William Afton who killed them, the reader actually joins up with the others in confronting him. Additionally, William is shocked because he wasn't expecting the reader to have also possessed an animatronic, let alone that they would have command over the others (he probably thought he was the only one with that kind of power).

👀

The first Sparky!Reader part

........

"Look at you...look at the nasty things that you have become! Look at how small you are! How worthless you are!! You are wretched, rotten little beasts! I MADE YOU!!!"

Even as William shouted angrily at the animatronics, pounding a gloved fist against his chest, he realized how quickly he was losing his ability to keep them in line.

Thanks to that brat showing them the truth in a stupid drawing--which proved that he, the yellow bunny they once trusted, was the cause of all their pain--they didn't obey him anymore.

Now he couldn't control them like he used to.

No longer were they blindly singing and dancing to his tune.

Because they finally remembered what really happened that day.

He then heard another pair of heavy footsteps, and from the darkness emerged a character he had almost entirely forgotten about:

Sparky.

But how was he moving? And why?

William swore that mutt was sitting in the backstage area, deactivated and unable to walk freely.

It was impossible.

Unless....

"Of course..I figured you would have woken up eventually, too." He chuckled weakly, taunting you all. "So what's your plan now? To kill me? Shove me into a suit like you did to those poor people?! Well you can't...because I know how you all think!! I'm smarter than you!!"

"No. You are a fool, Afton. It isn't us who will kill you."

His laughter ceased upon hearing your disembodied voice speaking to him, and he froze for a moment, bewildered by what you had said.

It was extremely unnerving to learn that your ghost could even talk to him at all, considering the other children have been silent.

What made you so special?

Unfortunately for him, he realized far too late what you meant by those words...as he noticed you gesturing to Chica, who sent her Cupcake after him.

It lunged with a growl, biting into the torso of his suit and not letting go.

He grabbed onto it, struggling to tear the feral little bastard off of him, not knowing that would be the last mistake he ever made.

When he finally managed to toss the Cupcake away from him, it took a chunk of the suit's fabric with it, exposing part of the springlock endoskeleton underneath.

And without any material for the mechanisms to stay compressed against...

They snapped, one bar stabbing into his side and sinking deep into his flesh, blood leaking through his shirt almost immediately.

With a gasp of pain, William collapsed to his knees as the springlocks continued to puncture him one by one--with you and the other animatronics simply staring him down, watching him endure the same torment he brought upon each of you.

None of your suits were made from springlocks, of course...but now he, too, will know what it's like to be encased inside a tomb of fabric and metal forever.

He scrambled for the Springbonnie head that laid beside him, only to see your brown paws snatch it off the ground.

You kept his above his head, just barely within his reach.

All he did was stare into your glowing red eyes, shocked at the commanding presence you held over his creations. He had no idea how you got them to follow your lead so easily.

Yet despite knowing that he lost, he refused to lie down and show any sort of fear.

Instead a grin appeared on his sweaty face, each exhaled breath growing more strained than the last.

And before you shoved the Springbonnie head onto him, forever sealing him inside his tomb, he made one final haunting declaration:

"I always come back."

[kairiscorner]

what if miguel and y/n switched bodies for a day bc of sum villain that put a spell on them or smth imagine how weirded out the hq would be to see miguel smiling and all cheerful just not being his usual self 💀💀 and y/n being grumpy and petty

HFIREOGHRJTNVEIFBBREUFI BOO, I ... you have awoken my younger self's love for freaky friday (yeah i liked that movie as a kid BWAHHAHAHAHAH) anyway, I LOVE THAT

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

being in your shoes. — miguel o'hara x reader

"wow... i'm a fucking statue come to life." said miguel's awestruck voice with a chuckle following his statement of disbelief. he admired his palms, then his knuckles and the backs of his hands and arms—every vein and every curve, groove, and bump of his muscular arms were just a sight to behold; and the way his fists looked when clenched, and the way his fingers unfolded like the blooming petals of a flower... it was too much for your heart to handle, which, in this case, was technically his heart—anatomically speaking. as he admired the beauty of, well, himself–you went up to him with widened eyes, which quickly morphed into a scowl. "this is... humiliating." your own voice muttered in a low voice, almost as a growl, but miguel chuckled and ruffled your hair. "ooh," the big man let out a soft sound of curiosity at the discovery that he was practically twice your size.

he pressed his elbow down onto your head, making you–rather, miguel–grumble at this act of degradation and disrespect upon shorter people. "wow, y'know, i wouldn't blame you for doing this to me if we ever got back to normal. hell, i don't even want to go back to normal! have you seen this body?" you asked him aloud with a chuckle, his own chuckle that was hardly ever heard, reverberating out into the atmosphere and making the you inside of his body swoon. "stop laughing, it's not funny, this is a cause for concern." he said with your voice as he folded your arms over your chest and glared at you, instinctively pouting despite his lips not appearing as pouty on purpose anymore.

"oh, shit, you do pout?" you asked him with a chuckle that made you giggle internally. miguel didn't appreciate how you abused his laugh so much that he grumbled and turned on his heel–in this scenario, it was your heel–and stormed out of his office as you remained there; admiring his wonderful body and flexing, asking lyla to take pictures of this rare moment when the photo shots of miguel are candid but also taken with such flare that you'd think he was crazy for agreeing to this–the miguel o'hara everyone knew was... nothing like this.

as you walked down the halls in a pink compression shirt and yoga volleyball shorts, as opposed to the usual spider suit miguel donned on every day–you smiled at everyone you met, even if they didn't greet you first–stunning and shocking everyone out of their minds. wide-eyed lenses and hung open mouths greeted you as you greeted them with a warm smile that nobody had ever witnessed before. it was like an silver lining had unexpectedly shown through as the eternal, dark and thunderous clouds tore the sky asunder and welcomed the first rays of sunshine that the spider society had sworn they saw before... on you. but that sunshine was replaced by a gray rainy day hovering over your head and furrowed eyebrows that didn't complement your soft, adorable, amicable face.

whenever anyone greeted you, with miguel in your body, he'd practically growl at them to a loud silence–he'd nod without even looking anybody's way, confusing everyone into thinking you woke up on the wrong side of the bed today or something really bad had happened to you. as everyone went over to you, patting your shoulder, asking you if you're okay–he's scream in your higher pitched voice that you were just peachy.

everyone was astonished at how boldly angry and furious you were being, and at how boldly sweet and darling miguel was being today–everyone kept referencing that a freaky friday situation must've happened to you two, with only miguel in your body explaining that was exactly the situation, but they all laughed it off as a joke, since it came out of your mouth. "yeah, pequeña–oh, fuck, that sounds sexy–yeah, uh, chiquita–you're acting out of your mind right now, darl." "darl?!" your voice snarled in an angry, squeaky voice, making miguel chuckle and ruffle your hair again. "so sweet for me, chiquita." you said in miguel's voice, teasing him in your body as he grumbled.

oh, this was not gonna be fun for him, at all... but it was gonna be way, way too much fun for you.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @hearts4gabri @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @fictarian @yuridopted0 @simsrandomstuff @luvstarrstruck @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @arachnoia @melovetitties @fable-library @ophanimgold @smokeywhalee @capnshtfce

[hisyntha]

The Bartender

WARNING: This story contains EXPLICIT CONTENT and you are here by WARNED. Read at your own risk. Oral, three-some/ mention of four-some, vulgar language

A/N: thank you so much for reading, this is posted on AO3. I enjoyed writing this a lot so I hope you enjoy it as well. I recently started watching supernatural again and couldn’t help myself, anyway, ENJOY!!! 💕✨

It was an unusually slow night at the bar, with only a handful of patrons scattered about, nursing their drinks and chatting quietly. As the door swung open, the bar's calm atmosphere was shattered, and my gaze was drawn to the trio like a magnet. The two men, their suits a stark contrast to the casual attire of the other patrons, exuded an air of confidence and authority. The taller man, with his long hair and chiseled features, seemed to embody the phrase "tall, dark, and handsome," while his companion, sporting a Tex-turned-crew cut, appeared more rugged and rough around the edges. The young woman, dressed in a fitted dress that accentuated her curves, trailed behind them with an air of quiet compliance. As they approached the bar, their eyes scanned the room with an unspoken understanding, as if they were on a mission.

My gave warm and welcoming smile before I asked, "What can I get ya?" My hands moved on their own, quickly whipping up a tequila shot and pushing it forward to the shorter man. His smirk was a mixture of amusement and mischief, and I felt a shiver run down my spine as our eyes met.

“I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks.” He shot me a quick wink before slamming the empty shot glass down on its rim. I nodded grabbing a cup and filling it with ice before looking to the taller one.

As I poured the whiskey with a gentle flourish, I turned to him with a sly smile, my fingers drumming a tantalizing rhythm on the counter. "And what about you?" I purred, my voice husky as I raised an eyebrow, my free hand resting suggestively on my hip, hoping my tight fitted clothes would draw him in closer. He gave me a slight, uncomfortable, look before glancing at their female companion who stood between them, not exactly paying attention to me. I kept my flirtatious smile up, but deep own, I was hurt and taken aback by the look he gave me. Something was off with this one, it only seemed to make me want him more. I’ll just have to up my game.

With a courteous tone, “I’ll just have a draft,” his eyebrows arching slightly as he did so, his lips compressing into a subtle line. My eyes locked onto his, my mind whirling with tantalizing thoughts as I looked him over again. I couldn't help but bite my lip, my thoughts conjuring up images of him in a different light – one that left me trembling with anticipation and my heart racing with excitement. My hand reached under the bar, slightly bent over knowing my breast will definitely catch his interest. With a quick pull, slightly bouncing, I pop the bottle cap off and placed it in front of him. His gaze averted me before he turned around, once more scanning the bar. I hid my frown turning to the petite woman, but before my lips even parted she spoke up.

"I'll take a shot, whatever you prefer," she said, her voice as smooth as honey, yet devoid of any warmth or flirtation. Her words hung in the air, and I noticed her gaze linger on me, waiting for a response. Without thinking, I crafted a buttery nipple and slid it across the bar to her. A faint furrow appeared on my brow as I turned away, feeling an inexplicable tension in my chest. There was something unsettling about her, something that piqued my curiosity. I'd met many people before, effortlessly reading their emotions and intentions, but this trio was different. I needed a breath of fresh air. I looked to my coworker, giving him a quick way to take over the bar before I slipped out to the storage room then out the back door to the empty alley way.

I lit a cigarette and took a long drag, savoring the bitter taste as I paused to inhale the toxins. The cool night air filled my lungs, and I let out a slow exhale, feeling the stress of the evening's events begin to dissipate. As I stood in the alleyway, lost in thought, I shake everything off dropping the half cigarette and stepping it out. I made my way back inside, deciding to take a chance on striking up a conversation.

“So, you guys aren’t from around here are you?” I give my best smile watching the three. I noticed the paperwork spread out on the counter top of the bar as the woman began to quickly shuffle it back together into the folder she had.

“Uh, no we aren’t.” The taller one gave another tight lipped smile, placing his empty bottle in front of me. I quickly pop another one from him trading for the empty one.

“I see,” the tension seemed to rise in my chest, but they seemed as calm as daisies. “Well, if you’re staying for a bit longer I’d love to show you around.” The shorter one seemed to chuckle lightly, leaning on the bar, a flirtatious smile playing on his lips.

“I’d love to,” he paused waiting for me.

“Oh, Amy.” I smile softly, his eyes trailing me up and down.

“Amy.” He repeated softly that earned an elbow jab in his ribs. He hissed glancing at the women, but the taller one hid his amusement by drinking his beer. “well, I’m Dean and that’s my brother Sam.” He jesters to him and his brother while his other had loosened his tie like he hated wearing it. I raised a brow taking note that they were brothers, I wouldn’t have guessed that. Dean opened his mouth but was cut off.

“I’m Y/N.” Her voice never changed from earlier. My brows raised slightly but quickly shaking the expression away. I study her a small moment while her gaze was fixed elsewhere. Her skin was flawless, not a scar or pimple in sight, long hair pulled in a tight pony tail, curves of her body well accentuated by her dress. I couldn’t help the slight jealousy I had building up in my chest by looking at her. I finally shook the thoughts away pressing a smile.

“Well, Sam, Dean and Y/N,” I began, “If you need anything while in town, you know where to find me.”

———

I watched as the trio finished their drinks and left the bar, and I couldn't help but feel an unexplainable urge to follow them. I excused myself to my coworker, claiming I needed to leave early and for him to close up without me. My mind racing with a growing sense of curiosity. Without being seen, I slipped out of the bar and into my car, the engine purring to life as I blended into the night. I kept a discreet distance, my eyes fixed on the Impala as it led me to a rundown motel on the outskirts of town. As they pulled into the parking lot, my brow furrowed once more. My curiosity was sparked by the unusual choice of a motel on the outskirts of town, a place that seemed to be perpetually shrouded in a thin layer of neglect and disrepair.. The shorter man emerged from the vehicle, his movements calculated as he unlocked the door to room 217. The other two followed, their gazes scanning the area with an air of caution before disappearing into the dimly lit room. My eyes lingered on the door, my mind whirling with questions. What were they doing here? And why did I feel an unshakeable sense of unease as I watched them disappear into the shadows?

I hesitated, grappling with the conflicting thoughts racing through my mind. I knew I shouldn't be here, and I certainly shouldn't have followed them, but I had. I quietly closed my car door, my footsteps silent as I crossed the parking lot to the opposite side of the motel. The forest loomed behind the motel, a dark and foreboding presence. A light flickered on in one of the windows, illuminating the room I assumed was theirs. I crept closer, crouching low to peer through the glass. Dean sat on the bed's edge, flipping through channels on the TV while his brother hunched over his laptop at the table. My brow furrowed in confusion wondering where their female companion had vanished to. Just as I was pondering this, the bathroom door swung open, and she emerged, her robe clutched tightly around her small frame. I ducked just in time, holding my breath as she turned towards the window. My heart pounded in my chest like a drum, my breaths coming in short gasps as I feared she might have seen me. I remained frozen for a few tense moments before slowly turning back to peer in, my eyes widening and my mouth parted a small gasp. Y/N’s robe was off her body and she stood before Dean naked. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. Why is she naked in front of them both?

“What the fuck?” I let the words fall from my lips. Quickly, I glance behind me seeing only the forest still standing silently. I turn slowly to look through the window, my hands pressing to the brick of the shabby motel reminding me this is real, what was happening right before my eyes was indeed, real.

"Dean," she said, her arms crossing over her breasts. A small smirk playing on Deans lips as he tossed the remote onto the other bed, his attention fixed solely on her. Her expression clearly showed she was upset, but I struggled to make sense of the situation. "Do you like her more?" she demanded. Dean's gaze flicked to Sam, who watched with an air of amusement, his hands clasped together in a relaxed pose as he leaned back into his seat. My brow furrowed at Sam's state of relaxation while Y/N stood there.

“Who?” Dean finally replied after a long pause then snapped his fingers, “OOH! The woman on the tv?” He playfully teased going to reach out for her waist, but she pulled away giving him a threatening glare that I could even feel through the glass. “The women at the bar?” He raised a brow, still having that teasing smirk. I watched as Y/N just stared at him for a moment before slowly swaying her way to Sam, who openly removed his clasped hands and letting her take a seat in his lap. His hands finding themselves resting under her breast and the other wrapped around her frame to grip her hip. I bite back a whimper, my chest tightening seeing how large his hands were compared to any other mans. Just one hand engulfed her body, a snippet of jealously filled my chest.

I watched as Sam nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, her lips parting and letting a soft moan escape them. He then pulled away slightly, giving his brother a look before attacking her neck once more while his hand cupped her breast and the other gripped her hip tightly pulling her closer to his chest. Dean only tightened his jaw, his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed saliva. Y/N only continued to whimper and moan softly, keeping steady eye contact with Dean. I couldn’t pull my eyes away while Sam only moved her to sit directly on his erection and spread her legs for dean to watch in silent pain. Sam’s long fingers found their way between her folds, his middle and ring finger gently caressing her clit. I swallowed the salvia building up in the back of my throat. I felt like a creep watching him fondle her, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. At this point, I was to invested and I had to admit aside form the jealousy, I wanted to watch.

“Y/N,” Deans voice pulled my attention to him. Sam stopped, to see what his brother had to say. She eyed him, sitting up, purposely grinding herself against Sam to earn a grunt from the taller one. I could see the dying, begging look from here, Dean wanted her too. “I want you,” He began again, “only you.” His voice raspy and deep with a hint of pleading behind it, as if he might even choke if she said no. She eyed him for a bit before lifting a finger, curling it, allowing him to come over. He stood, hesitating before taking a few steps in front of them. Sam’s hands lifted towards her breasts once more, cupping them while his finger and thumb pinched her nipples, letting them roll between his fingers. Dean lowered himself between her legs, one hand on her knee while his lips pressed to the other, leaving a trail of kisses into her inner thigh. She gasped slightly at the soft touch of his tongue lightly dragging on her out folds, teasing her before his tongue dove deeply into her. Another moan came from her, louder than the last, she went to close her legs on him, but his hands held them apart. Sam grabbed her wrists in one hand and his other held her throat.

“Shh,” Sam cooed in her ear, “you’ll wake the neighbors.” He then tilted her head up so their lips met. Dean moaned into her, his lips pulling away with a popping kiss, his lips and chin glistening from the mixture of her wetness and his saliva.

“I love the way you taste.” The comment hung in the air while he leaned back down, his tongue working faster to please her. Her hips bucking with the friction earning a throaty moan into Sam’s mouth who savored it with his own moan in response. Her leg lifted to push dean away, his head tilted with a pleased smile. “All done?” He propped her foot on his shoulder, holding her ankle.

She shook her head as her lips parted, “I’m not even close.” A small smirk played across her lips. Dean and Sam shared a lustful look to each other, Dean pulling her off his brother’s lap to connect their lips while Sam begins to remove his clothes. Sam pulls her away from Dean catching her lips, deepening the kiss while Dean glared at his brother removing his own clothes. With swift motion dean stood behind Y/N, kissing the side of her neck and shoulder, his hands finding their way to her breast. Sam continued to kiss her, stealing every moan and breath that escaped her. I finally looked away in disbelief, pressing my back to the cold brick wall of the motel. Their voices echoed through the window, each moan sending a shiver down my spine. A loud “yes” and “oh god” from Y/N brought me to look back through the glass. My lids couldn’t get any wider, Sam, leaning against the wall, held Y/N just by her thighs, her legs spread apart while dean stood between her. His hands gripped her thighs just below Sam’s larger ones. My eye stuck on their cocks, slowly moving in an out of her, the way her chest arched and her eyes rolled back. A ghostly feeling ran through the lower parts of my body, as if I could feel it, the pain and pleasure being received by the brothers.

“I guess they startd without me.” A rugged raspy voice, followed by the swooshing of wind startled a yelp out of me, throwing myself away from the window to fall on my butt. My eyes darted to a man in a trench coat who only watched through the window, the erection clearly showing in his pants. I continued to blink looking to him when he finally laid his eyes on me. I sat there, shaking, seen as I had been found by this, man who appeared from no where. He approached me, my heart beating loud by how close he knelt down before me. He raised a hand, two fingers pressed to my forehead, “Goodnight.” Was the last thing I heard, my eyes fluttering close and the cold grass caught me.

[frillydolle]

period relief

arthur morgan x female reader

꒰ 𝝑𓏲 ꒱ comfort and tooth rotting fluf

no one has seen u all day, confined in the pirvacy of ur tent. u have been on and off sleep the entire day because u hurt so bad. the girls were kind enough to do ur chores for u, anything to have ms. grimshaw off ur back. but god, u have never been in so much pain until ur hormones course through u even more.

arthur checked up on you. well, sort of. he'd take a peek of the tent flap for a small conversation before he had to leave camp or before someone asked him for a favour of something like that. he knew u didn't feel right, but he wasn't sure why - assuming u were just feeling unwell.

soon the skies were decorated from bright colours of orange and pink, giving a sort of glowy light within camp grounds, to dark blues and blacks as it faded into the night sky. many were starting to turn in for the night or have some time to themselves.

u were under the comforts of ur blanket as u lie in ur cot, ur arms across ur lower abdomin, attempting to lessen the pain, even keeping any sort of warmth u have within the covers. the only thing that u were grateful for is that ms. grimshaw wasn't nagging u about chores.

“god, i hate this so much.. wish it would end quicker..” would often leaves ur lips, only for ur own eyes or ears from passing ur tent would know what ur problem is. arthur had no idea, not that he was naive but he was too busy going in and out of camp, at dutch's beck and call to properly realise.

“hey, darlin.. 'm sorry ive been away fer so long.. what's wrong?” “the usual.. 'm fine 'nd dont be sorry, u silly man.” u reply with a small hum, adjusting ur position in ur cot.

“oh, my girl... do ya need anythin?” “get in here, mr morgan.”

without hesitation, he undressed himself down to his union suit before climbing into bed with u, his chest pressed against ur back while his hands glide over to ur lower abdomin, his thumb caressing as his own little way of comforting u.

“tell me 'bout yer day..” u say softly, trying to compress the pain ur bottling in. his hand continues resting on ur abdomin while the other interlocks with ur fingers.

and so he did. while he mindlessly rubbed ur abdomin, being his breath against ur skin as he talked. oh, u did do ur best to pay attention, to listen to his voice and focus, but oh, his voice was just so nice. so nice and rough. with that, ur eyes soon slowly begin to close, even though u were fighting sleep. but it beat u.

“after that, i went-” u tried so hard to stay awake.

but his voice...

“yeah, so it ain't much fun.” he soon realised u finally quietened down.

“...darlin'?” no response.

he wasn't that stupid. so, of course, he adjusted himself beside u, getting more comfortable.

“g'nigh', doll.” what a sweet man he was.

[tunastime]

Restful Dreaming, Mr. Freelancer

hi everyone :3 so um. I may have gotten very much into rvb smiles. and you know what happens when I really love something! and when I really love some guys from a something! yeap. here we go again. I just think caboose could be friends with everyone. I'm a caboose enjoyer what can I say. I love him.

Washington follows the Blue Team back to Valhalla, where he tries to get some much needed rest. Emphasis on tries. (3828 words)

When Tucker and Caboose find the unused, fourth room in the base, it’s Tucker that sweeps his arm out and gestures grandly to the room around them. It’s not very large—bed, closet, table, desk, bathroom. Enough space to walk around in—enough blue-white light to make sure nobody goes insane in somewhere so dark. Caboose goes on about how they’re almost neighbors, listing off what they could do being so close, gossip and sleepovers and the like, and Tucker goes on about how that’s nice, Caboose, and sure thing, buddy, and both speak to a Wash that’s not listening. He’s looking over the room, filtering in through a fine layer of yellow, just enough to change the hue from cool to warm, and something settles in the slope of his shoulders. He turns after a beat, folding his arms.

“You’re certain I can stay here?” he asks. Tucker shrugs.

“Yeah, I mean…” he starts, in the way that Tucker always seemed to do when he was on the edge of a decision that ultimately made him uncomfortable. “Just repaying the favor. Plus you’re the only one who really knows how to get Church outta that thing.”

“Epsilon,” Wash corrects. “And it’s a memory unit, not a thing.”

“Sure,” Tucker shrugs. “Whatever.”

“We still don’t know where that thing is,” Wash says, but it’s without any of the usual bored sting he might’ve normally laid on. He can feel the worry in the room like water around the ankles, like it invaded his boots. He steps side to side for a moment, trying to shake the feeling.

“We’ll find it!” Caboose pipes up, nodding several times. “We’ll find Church. I know we will.”

Wash sighs. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I hope so.”

There’s a beat of silence. Wash feels his lungs work against the tight feeling in his shoulders all the way up until the point where Caboose breaks the silence.

“I’m going to go make lunch,” he says. “I’m starving.”

“Good point, Caboose,” Tucker agrees. He turns to Wash as he adds: “You, uh, let us know if you need anything. You’ve got the tour, now, so…”

Wash nods.

“Right,” he manages. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

The silence leftover is mostly full of the sound of air circulating through the room and pulling into his helmet. Washington stands in the room in that long moment, finding his head spinning just enough to rock his balance. He’s not so sure he should even be standing, but Tucker had handed him enough med-kits to keep him running, and his bones felt mostly in place, despite some nasty bruising up his shoulder and back, all the way down his right hip and thigh and knee. He pulls himself from his stuck spot, finally gathering the strength to unlatch his helmet. Both thumbs hook under his chin until it clicks, and he sets it in the armor stand. 

The thing about the armor is that they’re not necessarily supposed to take it off. It does come off, huge chunks of titanium alloy perfectly compressed to fit each wearer, to sit comfortably against layers of computer arrays and magnetic fasteners, bolts and straps and sealers. As soon as he starts pulling, chest pieces and arm braces come loose, and he sheds the exosuit slowly. Underneath is the cool-black bodysuit. That’s the part that really shouldn’t come off. It did, every once in a while, when there was enough time to spend recalibrating, readjusting, resyncing. The suit and all its layers, down to the skin, down to the channel of his spine, from tailbone to nape of neck, aligned with sensors and biocomponents along a fine, white scar to a thick, but equally healed one at the base of his skull, took time to adjust to. That time was precious.

But it didn’t matter with this suit. There was no connection. The suit would simply communicate without having to know, would respond to forces it knew best, and rely on what he had without a physical, grounding connection. He was free of it. The scar and its components would fade from his body. They’d be nothing but a memory.

Carefully, Wash dissects the titanium bodysuit—kevlar—coming apart at the seam, carefully fastened, skin-tight. It’s uncomfortable at first, adjusting to the air of the base, without the suit’s micro-adjustments for temperature and humidity, but he eventually shirks free and places everything in the armor compartment. 

He feels light. He also feels exposed and a little small. He searches for any sort of replacement, sleeping clothes, uniforms, anything plastered with UNSC across the arm or chest or back. When he does find it, he’s quick to pull it on and over his head. The shirt falls crooked across him, pants similarly too large, and he has to wonder what sort of Spartan these were made for, knowing how he certainly wasn’t the smallest soldier he’d met. It’s something, though, and he doubts he’ll be wearing it for very long. In fact, he finds himself tugging it off as soon as he figures out the shower, and douses himself in hot water long enough to get the plastic smell off his skin. 

Without the shadow of the day, his reflection in the mirror takes on a sunken quality. His eyes are dark and tired, lines stretching out underneath them, and the already-pale, now-bony quality of his face does little to hide it. He’s turned all sharp angles all too quickly. But if he’s got anyone to bitch to it would be himself. Well, maybe Caboose and Tucker would listen. But they probably wouldn’t understand. Epsilon might’ve ratted out his bad sleeping habits to Caboose, were he still around to actually see them. But he very well was half the reason they existed, so, touche. 

Besides, now Wash was looking out on a bed that was impossibly too big for him. He pulls back far too many layers of blankets and pushes aside pillows and makes himself a space between it all.

The lights are dim, casting long, fine shadows in the cool light. They dim further to a blackness as he settles, lying back in the few pillows and pulling still-starchy sheets around him. His tired body all but sinks into the mattress, body aching at every joint from overuse, begging to stay and to be comforted. It's there he lies for a moment, adjusting to weight and pressure, air and texture around him. He sighs. It’s the longest exhale in what feels like a very long time. The back of his throat, up through his nose, starts to burn. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. He takes a sharp breath in.

Washington’s hands come up on instinct, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes as he fights back a sound from deep in his chest. It’s hard—it feels so stupid to call this hard, because he could just crack, just for a second. Just for a moment of relief, and—he does, shutting his eyes tight still and willing in a breath through his nose as he turns his face into pillows that he hopes were nobody else's and probably never were and never would be again. Nobody knows he’s alive. Not Command, not Project Freelancer, not the Meta—Maine. Not even Epsilon. For now. The weight off his shoulders was so instant it nearly winded him, on a bed seemingly too large. It was simply him, unshackled, and the blue-white armor in its case, and Caboose, and Tucker. And the base around him was quiet. 

Washington lets his body relax. Sleep comes like a heavy blanket.

His second week’s worth of sleep doesn’t go as well. Tonight, Wash is still awake. It’s not of his own choice—if it were he’d already be asleep, curled into the plush pillows and firm mattress. He stares up at the ceiling. His eyes are dry, and it’s not all that comfortable to blink, actually. He’d prefer to focus on sinking into this nice bed, but he’s having a bit of a hard time. What he means by nice bed is that he’s gotten so used to sleeping on the ground or in the back seat of a moving Warthog or the jet or his cot so folded and unfolded that it stopped being comfortable, or the bunk that was just the right size but not nearly deep enough to fit him without moving, that having actual room to move around is really good. It’s really good, actually, and he’s not sure when the last time he had such a nice sleep was. 

He’s not even sure when he woke up that first day, aside from the fact that it was Caboose waking him up and it was still dark out—or had just gotten that way. Maybe he’d slept that whole day. But he wandered around the Valhalla base instead, swallowing down the ache low in his spine. He mapped the rooms in his head, twisting around the circular hallways. Kitchen, armory, five rooms, garage, a small central living quarters that remained barren and empty, aside from bits of broken computers, radios, and robot parts. The floor still smelled like cleaner, remnant from the UNSC’s thorough cleaning.

Anyway—he’s still awake in his own room. His eyes hurt. He’s looking into the dark grey ceiling and wondering if sleep might crawl its way back to him when there’s a knock on the door. There’s a brief pause before it happens again. He frowns, scrubbing at his eyes as his brain fights the fog settling over it.

“Agent Washington,” a voice says, feigning a whisper through the sliding door. 

“Caboose?” he whispers back, furrowing his eyebrows. Isn’t it late? He looks over to the bedside table, reading the dull red numbers on the clock—yeah. Late. “What are you still doing up?”

He hears Caboose sigh. If he thinks hard enough he can imagine him leaning against the metal frame, cheek pressed against the door, looking about as pathetic as he sounds.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, part tired and almost part sad. 

“Why’s that?”

“I—” Caboose lowers his voice even further. “I had a nightmare.”

Wash blinks slowly, sitting up, eyebrows still furrowed as he frowns. He counts himself lucky that his head isn’t spinning from lying down too much. Sighing, he presses his fingers to his eyes, rubbing the sleep from them, trying to make the blurry room come back into focus.

“You—” he tsks as he words jumble in his brain, hazy with sleep. “Why did you come here?”

“Can I come sleep with you?” Caboose asks, completely ignoring the previous question. Heels of the hands to his eye sockets. Alright. Fine. He waves uselessly at the door, knowing full well Caboose can’t see him. Then it clicks in his brain: response. Right.

When Wash goes to give him an answer, it’s replaced by the sound of his bedroom door sliding open and shut and Caboose wandering in. The muddled dark obscures his silhouette more than usual and the normally wide slope of his shoulders was much more drawn in than Wash was expecting. He’s partially shrouded by his own blanket, wrapped around him as he steps in. 

Wash feels something rolling around in his chest as he watches Caboose shuffle over, like his brain isn’t absorbing the situation properly. He mostly just feels lost. He’s still sitting up, slouched forward, mouth a fine line. His arms pool in his lap, head tilted just so as he observes Caboose in front of him. This is weird, right? Not in a bad way. It’s just weird. 

Caboose stands there, frowning just a little bit, enough to almost be a pout, mostly looking at the bedside and not at Washington.

“I—” Wash starts, trying to protest. Caboose looks up at him for a moment with wide, brown eyes, and Wash feels his chest tighten. He shuts his eyes, sighing out of his nose. Then he pulls the covers back, gesturing vaguely to the space next to him as he lies back down. If there was one thing he’d learned from Caboose, it was that there was no arguing a point once he’d made his mind up. He was as stubborn as he was strong, and the man wasn’t slight. 

There’s a beat of silence as Washington gets comfortable again against the mattress again, feeling Caboose move to his left. He worms around a bit, knee bumping the outside of Wash’s leg, elbows knocking together as Caboose makes more of Wash’s bed his own space. With Caboose’s arm now pinning his own, he clears his throat.

“Caboose,” he says firmly.

“Washington,” Caboose says, like his name holds the same weight as it did so long ago. At least someone’s impressed.

He sighs. Caboose is a heavy, warm weight against his side, and although he clings to his left arm like his life might depend on it, Washington couldn’t necessarily call it bad. 

“You can either get comfortable,” he says slowly. “Or I’m going to ask you to leave.”

“Okay,” Caboose says quickly, wriggling further over. As his head lolls, it falls against the bone of the high of Wash’s shoulder. He ends up curled up in the space Wash’s side leaves open, head on his shoulder and arm over his ribcage. He’s heavy, holding himself and Wash to the mattress as he relaxes. Wash’s arm ends up pinned under him, bendable at the elbow, enough to shift around and find a comfortable spot to rest it. Caboose manages to pull the blankets over them both haphazardly, lying part on him and part over Washington’s torso. He squeezes his eyes shut. Caboose cannot be serious. This can’t be his solution, right? He takes a long breath in. Caboose finally says:

“Thank you, Washington,” in a soft and sleepy voice mostly muffled by his shoulder.

Washington sighs.

“Sure, Caboose,” he says, resigned. “Glad I could help.”

Caboose hums, sounding comfortable. In the time it takes for Caboose to finally knock out, how short of a time that was, Wash finally relaxes. He lets the weight around him settle him on the mattress, tired and heavy, and lets his eyes close. He can’t catch the edge of sleep just yet, but he can lay here, quiet and still, so that Caboose can sleep. He matches the slow rise and fall of Caboose’s shoulders, feeling his muscles slacken as he drifts off. Maybe it’s nice, actually. The weight against his side, pressure to the muscles that ache, warmth and heavy comfort. He can’t remember the last time someone shared the same bed space as him—those bunks were too small to really fall asleep next to somebody in, and sleeping in shifts wasn’t the same as someone sleeping against you. 

He can faintly feel where Caboose’s cheek is crushed against his shoulder, where his arm rests over his chest, hand tucked against his other side. When he looks over, Caboose’s eyes have shut, face relaxed in sleep. There, he leans, pressing his cheek to the top of Caboose’s head, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe it is nice. Maybe being needed for something so innocent as comfort could be nice. His chest twists, something as painful as it is warm weaseling up next to his lungs. 

It reminds him of Invention. Nobody really wanted to leave York alone after the accident on the training room floor. He could fall or trip, he could miscalculate and hit into something harder than expected. They spent time crammed into the bunk spaces, shoulders to shoulders, to hips, to legs over knees, trying to catch sleep in between missions, how little time that was. Washington found himself in these moments more often than not, and now more than ever it seemed that touch was a thing not often disseminated. But he had it now, and he let himself have it. He let Caboose snore into the hollow of his shoulder and tuned it out as he tried to rest.

In the morning he’ll ask him what bothered him so much that he couldn’t sleep, or why he thought Wash could help. It wasn’t important now. 

For now, he just tries to sleep.

Wash feels heavy. 

He blinks his eyes open, the world coming to in barely-there light and soft blankets. There’s a weight over him, warm and solid. Caboose still sleeps soundly even as Wash shifts to stretch pins and needles from his left arm. The world stays still, held in a quiet balance. In it, Caboose breathes slowly and evenly against his shoulder, torso still haphazardly thrown across Wash’s chest. He’s curled his hand in a loose fist, snagging part of Wash’s shirt. 

Washington sighs. There lingers a heavy, groggy feeling over his mind that he thinks he’ll have a hard time shaking, remnants of running too hard, too fast without stopping. He fought so hard only to again come up empty handed, aside from the now-bitter taste of his freedom. But for now he focuses on this moment. He rests his cheek against the top of Caboose’s head. 

As he does, Caboose hums, waking enough to tense and relax again.

“Good morning, Caboose,” Wash manages tiredly, lying still. Caboose doesn’t move either, except to shift his cheek to a more comfortable position.

“Hello, Washington,” Caboose says, slow and sleep-thick but cheery. “You let me stay!”

Wash huffs out something, maybe a laugh and maybe a sigh.

“You’re surprised?” Wash asks, staring at the ceiling. It takes a minute for Caboose to answer, and in that time, Wash’s eyes shut, too heavy to hold open. Caboose draws his arm back from his chest.

“Tucker’s not very cuddly,” he says, only partially answering the question. “I can’t really judge if people will like it.”

“I take it not many do?” He asks. Caboose shrugs, somewhat stilted, speaking in that long, sighing way that he does.

“It varies.”

Wash hums.

“Right.”

In a beat of silence, Caboose unravels himself. He sits up, swaying a bit, shuffling around. It leaves a cold hollow where he used to lie, and Wash pulls his arm back from where it used to curl around him. He folds his hands over his sternum as Caboose sits up and shifts back.

“How did you sleep!” He asks, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees. Wash nods, finally blinking his eyes open.

“It was fine,” he says slowly. “How did you sleep?”

Caboose shrugs again.

“I slept okay—” he says. “You scared off all my bad dreams I think.”

Wash snorts, furrowing his eyebrows. Caboose blinks down at him with wide eyes. It’s almost catlike, the way he watches over him, like he’s waiting for Wash to reach out and force him to move out of his space. He’s still slightly blurry, courtesy of the sleep in Wash’s eyes.

“I did?” Wash asks. Caboose nods, looking sincere

“Yep.”

Wash looks away, huffing out. Something turns in his chest, warmly at that.

“Well that’s good,” he says. Caboose nods again. He’s just far enough away that in the dim lighting Washington can’t really read his face, but it seems soft and comfortable and Wash tries to remember if that’s a good thing. There’s only so many times you see someone’s face while being out in the field that you sort of just learn reactions based on tone and less on body language. After a beat, Wash says, haltingly, brain trying to find the words:

“Caboose, what… what is it that you had a nightmare about? What—why did you come to me?”

Caboose shrugs, waving his hands back and forth. He’s not looking at him.

“Oh, you know, just about Church and Epsilon, and Tex, and you, and everyone dying and exploding and dying again,” he sighs, shoulders falling, looking distinctly less bothered than Wash expects him to be. It puts something cold-to-cool in the pit of his stomach. “But it’s okay, you’re still here! And nightmares are afraid of you.”

Wash swallows.

“Oh,” he says lamely. It doesn’t feel right, all of a sudden, to just be sitting here. Caboose tilts his head at him.

“Did you have a nightmare, Agent Washington?” he asks, leaning forward a bit. He squints at him. Wash stares back, eyes wide. “You look kinda pale.”

“Um, no,” he says plainly. “No I don’t… normally dream.”

“Oh,” Caboose says. His face drops. “That sounds sad.”

Wash shakes his head.

“It’s fine.”

Caboose hums, tapping his hands on his knees.

“You can tell me if you ever have a nightmare,” he says, smiling, a pleased look crossing his face. “I can come and scare it away.”

Wash snorts, a smile creeping onto his face. He folds his hands together, tracing out the edge of his thumb with his other thumb. He furrows his eyebrows as he looks up at Caboose.

“Are you looking for an excuse to sleep next to someone?” He asks, a curious lilt to his voice. Caboose blinks, eyes falling to his hands. He shrugs.

“No…” he says. Then, “Maybe.”

“Well it…” Wash sighs, shutting his eyes again. “It was nice. Thank you, Caboose.”

“Mhm,” Caboose says sleepily.

There’s a moment of silence. Wash moves to get more comfortable, shifting back to rest his head properly on the pillows. He can feel his body sag as he does, that tired tug pulling on his shoulders and hips and eyes. He drums his fingers against his sternum, watching Caboose. Caboose’s eyes slip shut for a moment as he leans hand against his hand. 

“I’m uh…going to try to get some more sleep,” he finally manages, clearing his throat. Caboose stays still, as if he’s fallen asleep again, shoulders weakly rising and falling as he breathes. “Caboose?”

There’s no answer. Caboose leans sideways as Wash goes to reach for him, folding like he’d lost all his core stability. As he crumples, he falls forward, half onto Wash in front of him, half into the bed itself.

“Caboose,” Wash tries again. Caboose doesn’t move, sinking further into his side.

Wash sighs. Caboose stays, solid and heavy and thrown over his chest. He feels like a little kid again, sharing a room with his sisters, or he feels like it’s some time back in training, both cats making their home on his chest. Caboose was kind of like a cat. If a cat were a dog, were late to the punch, were the same level as unable to catch the joke as he was. It was kind of sweet. Wash shifts him ever so slightly, until he’s leaning into his side again, head against his shoulder.

Caboose yawns, sighing out against his shoulder, shuffling to get comfortable. Wash curls his arm over his back, hand cupping around his shoulder, smoothing his thumb over the seam of his shirt. Caboose makes a little noise, a little sigh, and falls quiet. The world, too, is warm and quiet. Somewhere in that warmth, a soothing feeling washes over him.

Just a little more sleep, he thinks. Then he’ll get up.

[sillygoose067]

A Masked Promise

Ch.11

Dick Grayson(Nightwing) x Reader

You shot up from the couch, your heart pounding in your chest. The sound came again, and your instincts kicked in. You rushed to the window, pulling it open just in time to catch a glimpse of someone—a dark figure—climbing up to your fire escape. The figure wasn’t familiar, but the shadows were… too familiar.

Before you could react, the window creaked as it was pushed open. Nightwing staggered through it, his body sagging against the frame as he collapsed to the floor. His armor was torn in places, blood dripping from his side, his chest heaving with labored breaths. You froze for a split second, your stomach sinking, before panic surged through you.

“No. No, no, no,” you muttered under your breath as you rushed to him, your hands shaking. “Nightwing?! What happened?”

He glanced up at you, eyes half-lidded with pain, and gave a weak grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess I pushed my luck a little too far.”

You knelt beside him, the sight of him in such a vulnerable state pulling you in ways you weren’t ready for. His mask was still on, but his body was practically screaming at you—bruises, cuts, and the dark red blood staining his costume.

“Don’t talk. Let me help you,” you said urgently, your voice trembling, but you tried to keep your hands steady as you quickly grabbed medical supplies from the cupboard. The moment your fingers brushed against the bandages, the weight of the situation hit you with full force. This man—this hero—was in your apartment, injured, and you had to help him. You couldn’t let him fall apart in front of you.

His breath hitched as you gently touched his side, the cut deeper than you expected. He flinched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. There was no bravado in his expression, just exhaustion and pain.

“I’m fine,” he tried to reassure you, but his words were strained, and the pain was written all over his face. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing,” you snapped, trying to keep your voice calm. “You’re bleeding all over my floor, Nightwing.”

His eyes softened, despite the obvious exhaustion. “I know. I know, but… I’ll be okay.”

Your hands worked quickly, cutting away the fabric of his suit to get a better look at his wounds. You could hear his breath catch with each movement, but he didn’t complain. He never complained. It only made you more anxious, because you could see the pain in his eyes, feel the subtle way his body tensed every time you applied pressure to a particularly bad wound.

When the stitches were done and the bandages securely wrapped, you stepped back and took a breath. You glanced at him, catching his gaze. There was something there that made your heart do a funny little flip—something in the way he looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time, or maybe like he was realizing something about you that he hadn’t before. The look made you feel both exposed and… seen in a way you hadn’t anticipated. It was the kind of look that makes you feel raw, and yet it didn’t scare you.

He laughed weakly, the sound a soft rasp that was more from exhaustion than humor. “You’re really good at this, you know that?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, still not meeting his gaze as you grabbed a cold compress to place on his forehead. You could feel your heart beating erratically in your chest, but you pushed it down, burying the confusion under a mask of practicality. You had to take care of him. That was all that mattered.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing the edge of your wrist. It wasn’t a deliberate gesture, but something about the way it felt against your skin made you pause. You looked at him, his gaze softer than you had ever seen it, filled with something that wasn’t just gratitude. Something more.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You didn’t know what to say, and he seemed to be lost in his thoughts as well. The air between you was thick with unspoken words, and you felt it in every inch of your body.

Then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, he spoke again. His voice was low, fragile. “I need to tell you something. Something important.”

Your heart stopped. You had no idea where this was going, but your mind raced with possibilities. Could it be that… could he be—?

Nightwing paused, his eyes locked onto yours. The weight of the moment pressed down on you, and you held your breath, waiting for him to continue. He winced, as though he was deciding whether to go on, but when he spoke again, his voice was steady despite the pain. “I’m Richard Grayson. Gray.”

For a heartbeat, time froze. Your mind seemed to short-circuit, unable to process the words that had just fallen from his lips. It wasn’t a revelation. Not entirely. You’d suspected, pieced things together, but hearing it—him admitting it—was different. It felt like the ground beneath your feet shifted, tilting in a way that made your world feel both solid and fragile.

But you didn’t react the way he expected. You didn’t gasp or stumble back in shock. Instead, you stared at him for a long moment, your thoughts spinning.

“You’re—?” You whispered the question as if it would change everything, but somehow, it didn’t. Not in the way you thought it would.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah. I’ve kept this from you, and… maybe I shouldn’t have. But I needed you to know. Because you’re the only person I trust. You’ve… been different from the start.”

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the room feeling suddenly too small. But you still couldn’t find the words. What was it that made him think he could tell you this? You felt like everything you knew had just been shattered and rebuilt, all in a matter of seconds.

“I’m… not surprised,” you said quietly, your voice almost inaudible. “I think I always knew, in some way.”

He raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “You knew? How?”

You shook your head, a small, nervous laugh escaping your lips. “The moves, the agility, the way you disappear sometimes… I just put two and two together. I didn’t know for sure, but I knew.”

He smiled, a flash of amusement in his eyes despite the circumstances. “You’re smarter than I thought.”

You felt a nervous heat rising in your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. “I’m not really that surprised, though. I just… never really thought it mattered.”

Nightwing laughed softly, the sound almost making you forget the danger he’d just put himself through. “I think it matters now. More than you think.”

You felt your heart ache with a quiet, unexpected emotion, but before you could sort through the mess of feelings that flooded you, he closed his eyes, his body relaxing. The fight had drained from him, leaving only the man who had just revealed the biggest secret of his life. His hand reached for the blanket, and you made a soft noise of protest.

“You should take the bed,” you said, your voice just above a whisper. “You need rest.”

He didn’t argue, just nodded weakly, letting the exhaustion take over. As he settled into the bed, the room seemed quieter than before. You moved to the other side of the room, pulling a chair close by, watching over him. The silence between you felt peaceful, but also full of something new—something that was only beginning to unfold.

The man you’d been caring for, the one who had stolen your heart without you even realizing it, was him. Nightwing. But in your apartment, in this moment, he was just Gray to you. And somehow, that made everything feel just a little bit more real.

As he drifted into sleep, you allowed yourself a brief, tender smile. This… was just the beginning.

———————————————————————————

TAGLIST:

@mybones537 @thereeallink @ziziriaa-blog

[marvelmusing]

Ignite

Pairing: Dark!Alpha!Darklina x Fem!Omega!Reader

Summary: Aleksander and Alina return home from a date to find you on their couch, almost completely spaced out as your heat begins. But you’re on suppressants - aren’t you?

Warnings [18+]: a/b/o dynamics, dark!alina & dark!aleksander, manipulation, suppressants tampering, reader is starting her heat, mentions of smut and mating.

My Masterlist

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Honey?”

Aleksander takes your chin between his fingers gently, guiding your head up so that he can observe your unfocused gaze. There’s a soft pressure against your temples, as if your brain is being compressed slowly, making your mind hazy around the edges.

The seat of the couch shifts beneath you, dipping as Alina sits down by your side. There’s a prickling sensation running over your skin, like the gentle caress of a flame flickering. A bead of sweat rolls down the length of your thigh and you shiver.

“How you feeling, sweetheart?” she asks softly, stroking your cheek.

They both look as incredible as they did before they left for dinner this evening. Aleksander in a dark grey suit and Alina in a black dress that hugs her every curve. Just one look at them makes your mouth water.

Aching for the cool press of their leather couch against your cheek, you had draped yourself here in their living room for an undeterminable amount of time. How long have you been sitting here? They had only been gone for around an hour when you had finished your shower.

She smells sweet and you swallow hard at the thought of tasting her. The weight of her dark eyes on your body feels like a confident touch over your skin, as she stares at the disheveled state of your clothing. She tilts her head aside, her fingers playing with the loosened drawstrings of your sweatpants.

“Did you touch yourself, sweetheart?”

Her words send your thoughts spiralling down into nothingness, like a whirlpool of water swirling into a drain, as you nod weakly. The pleasure of an orgasm had granted you a limited amount of reprise, leaving you more shaky than satisfied.

“Thought it would make my head feel better… but now it’s all fuzzy.”

She hums knowingly, squishing your cheeks together between her fingers. Such a demeaning action would usually make you bashful, but you’re almost drooling at the casual dominance of her hold on you. Alina and Aleksander share a hungry look.

“Poor little omega,” he coos. “You’re going into heat.”

Shaking your head, you begin to mumble quietly, stumbling over your words as you struggle to focus on speaking through the hazy fog clouding over your mind.

“Can’t be… I’m on… suppressants.”

Alina hums quietly, smoothing her hand gently over your head, tucking you into her body so that your cheek presses against her breasts. Subconsciously, you nuzzle closer to seek more of that wonderful feeling as your skin meets hers.

“Awful things,” she muses in a low voice. “It’s not natural to deny your instincts.”

Thinking is so difficult now.

“What?”

Aleksander grips a fistful of your hair and you melt against Alina’s body, slumping down to kneel on the floor between her thighs. The scent of her cunt sharpens now that you’re at the same level with it and a low moan rips itself from the back of your throat.

Alina grins, her lips spread wide to reveal a dangerous flash of teeth that sends a thrum of need down to your cunt. It’s only now that you notice the mess of slick soaking through the fabric of your sweatpants and you whine at the sticky sensation. Omegas like to be clean. You need to be clean for your alphas.

With shaking fingers, you tug off the little pyjama top you had dressed yourself into after your shower. Now the sudden urge to shave and moisture yourself earlier makes sense.

The disconnect you feel in your mind makes the removal of your sweatpants much less alluring than you’d hoped for, but Alina’s eyes darken and a deep growl of approval rumbles from Aleksander’s chest.

Omegas aren’t taught much about their pleasure or even how to satisfy an alpha in the bedroom. Most people agree that instinct takes over and whilst desperation claws beneath your skin you have no idea what you want from them both. Then again, no one had told you it was possible for two alphas to be mated - let alone want to share an omega like you.

“Alina,” you whine, nudging your way between her thighs to mouth at her cunt, currently shielded by her underwear. More whines catch in your throat, drool smearing over skin as you attempt to lick over her panties.

When Aleksander pulls your head away from her, you cry pathetically, struggling against his firm hold. Alina growls, her eyes narrowed.

“Aleksander,” she says warningly.

“Alina,” he says smoothly, a wicked glimmer dancing in his eyes.

She looks almost feral, her dress pushed up to her hips by your eager nuzzling. Her eyes bright with arousal, a pretty pink flush glowing over her cheeks. She puffs her chest up, shoulders straightening as she eyes Aleksander.

He drags you into his lap, bare cunt pressing against the rough fabric of his dress trousers as he sits on the couch opposite his mate.

“Silly little omega,” he murmurs. His nose nudges at the scent gland beneath your ear and you tremble. “We were expecting you to be nesting when we arrived home.”

“What do you- what have you done to me?”

They both laugh and the sharpness of the sound bites into you, making you blush with embarrassment. Then Alina softens, cupping your cheek in her hand.

“We didn’t do anything,” she insists, her thumb stroking over your cheek. “Living with two alphas is clearly too much for your suppressants to handle.”

There’s something mocking in her words, something you struggle to decipher the meaning behind them. Have they tampered with your suppressants? Aleksander’s chuckle thrums down your spine and slick gathers on the fabric of his trousers.

“And, of course, we had nothing to do with your landlord ending your lease without warning.”

Alina’s smile twists, a dark amusement building between the two of them as they seem to be indulging in some sort of joke you can’t even begin to grasp.

“How could we do something like that?”

She leans closer, caging your body between Aleksander and her. When she presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, you whimper and they both breathe in deeply, groaning at the scent of your arousal and confusion.

They both make animalistic little purrs as their mouths wander over your skin. Occasionally, they will bump heads, foreheads or noses knocking together and they will growl at one another, trying to claim a space of their own on your body.

Simultaneously, they lick over your neck, taking a side each as their own. As they nudge against the mating glands on each side of your throat, you writhe and attempt to escape them. Aleksander wraps his arm around your waist, pining you down, and Alina grasps a fistful of your hair.

“Are you going to be a good little omega for us?” Aleksander purrs lowly in your ear, sucking lightly on your earlobe. “Are you going to let us mate you?”

Another whimper escapes your lips and tears gather in your eyes. Alina curls her hand around your throat, squeezing in warning. The skin under her palm simmers with a warmth that rushes down directly to your cunt.

“You need us, omega,” she tells you. “We both know how much you want us. Aren’t you sick of struggling?”

“We’d take such good care of you, little omega.”

Their words set you on fire, need burning beneath your skin as they continue to mouth over your throat. Aleksander’s hands grasp at your waist, smoothing down your sides as Alina squeezes at your breasts, rubbing eagerly over your nipples.

“Our sweet girl,” Alina coos in agreement. “All you need to do is keep our house tidy like a good omega.”

Aleksander hums, his fingers stroking over your aching entrance that yearns for some attention. Swallowing hard, your mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton, your tongue heavy and unable to speak any protests aloud.

It sounds appealing. Even if you weren’t so desperate with need, it would take very little time for you to relent. You’ve always been weak for the two of them.

“And keep this tight little cunt wet and ready for us to play with whenever we want it,” Aleksander adds, smirking deviously.

A moan wracks through your body and you nod eagerly.

“What was that?” Alina asks, her smile sugar sweet as she teases you.

“Please, alpha.” The words tumble from your lips, moaning and sighing breathlessly as you continue to beg. “Want you. Both of you. Please.”

They both grin in triumph.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur @ilikefictionmen @budugu @watersquirtpewpewboomm @mysweetlittledesire @dhampiravidi @morrigan-crowmwell

S&B Tag List: @motheroffae @daddymaster21

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224 @seronsalk @veescorneroftheworld

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny @two-unbeatable-beaters

[unfortunately-obsessed]

What Is Wrong With Us (2/3)

( Previous | Next )

Pairing: Batman x Reader

Word count: +3.2k | AO3 Link

A/N: the next chapter is ready! I'll just edit and post it! More than +7k on the way ;) please enjoy this one!

When you wake up, you feel warm.

Not in a hospital, you conclude first. It takes a while you understand you're also in movement.

On the passenger seat of a car, more accurately. Gotham is passing fast thought the window, orange lights blinding you.

You try hard to understand what streets are you passing by, but a pressure on your torso annoys you into paying attention to it. You look down and there's a... A compression tape? Yes, a compression tape right under the linen button shirt.

"This can lead to pneumonia," you whispered to no one, words slurring together.

The car proceeded riding smooth, but you noticed a sharp change in the breathing at your side.

"You broke two ribs," someone says, a familiar growl.

Although your effort, your eyebrows furrow together, fast to look at the driver despite your vision spinning in the process.

"Ah," it's Batman driving the car, what a strange fact. "This can lead to pneumonia," you inform him then, pointing at the tape.

His mouth sat in a hard line. Very human and normal. You're surprised.

Watching him was like seeing an animal you only saw in school book pictures. Like you're in fifth grade on a Zoo. You can see, you can't touch, nothing ever barely answer all your questions.

Bone-cracking but undoubtedly merciful, Batman has his hands unyieldingly grabbing the wheel.

You can discern his expression as of thinking hard.

Fascination clouded your mind before utter confusion set it even, the edges of your world blurring.

"Thought you were getting me to the hospital," you murmur, pressing you cheek against the passenger seat leather to have a better view.

Observing him drive, like a normal person – if not the bat suit and that he is driving way past the speed limit – was strange. Your heart thunder against your chest, gets you fiddling with the security belt.

Watching him match your shock-induced demeanor was stranger, when he say casually, "They're trying to kill you."

Trying yo make you aware but also not trying to instill panic.

His tone makes you wonder what happened between being arrested and your quick power nap. The man looks like he had been to hell and back, two times, debris and soot on his face.

It all happened so fast, like most things in Gotham. The city is permanently dark, cursed.

You want to ask why, logically. You don't, like always. Even then, his casual tone sends shivers down your spine.

"Taping makes it hard to breathe," you explain then, going back to your original train of thoughts as gesticulating. "Shallow breathing may cause pneumonia."

His eyes narrow, focused in the street. You're not registering how fast he is driving.

There's silence again while you're fumbling with your buttons and seatbelt.

You want to understand what is happening. So does him, probably. You fumble a little more with your shirt, stained with too much blood, hands urging to see how he made your bandages and--

"M'not in pain," you divulged, a surprising revelation that gets off your mouth the moment you came to the realization.

You should be in pain, regardless of what was the damage in your belly. Even more if you did break ribs and adrenaline had previously prevented you from feeling pain. You should be having a reboot effect.

For that, there's a hidden why I'm not feeling pain? on your phrase.

Batman poker-faced when you looked back to him. And he doesn't answer.

Your eyes feel heavy and you're head is tilting to the side, exhaustion oozing from you, your first bet was that you had a concussion. But in truth, Batman drugged you.

He didn't want you to feel pain so you're not complaining.

You change approach. Being incisive won't get him talking.

"Is this a Dodge Charger?"

He tries to keep that cold expression but you see his expression shifting slightly in surprise. Well, you can already tell you caught Batman off guard once. A good bar story will be all this.

After all, you were good at this, talking to keep yourself focused. You do this to most patients en-route. Habits that die hard.

You did not recognize the car by the interior, but by footage. Just short videos you saw on the break. A blurry black stain with a jet engine only an insane man would attach to the back of a car.

Your fault, actually, seeing so many of those tiny videos you connect the blur with your grandfather's favorite car.

The car is purring as it rushes through the city. Makes you half motion sick, half absolutely-need-to-see-this-engine.

But Batman still doesn't answer. Probably electing you the same any other talkative disoriented victim. Which you are–

He might have decided something, his expressions changes a little. You only can see because if you look somewhere else you might die.

"Why are they trying to kill you?" he questions. Interrogation approach it is.

Your mind wanders off. Why anyone would want to kill a paramedic? In Gotham, there's a million things people say to justify murder.

But Batman used "they", as in, "there's more than one people trying to kill you". This doesn't narrow the theories or reasons to kill a paramedic, it does make you a little more anxious.

He asked like you should know, which sounded as absurd than you being arrested for murder.

Your mind is wandering nevertheless, under whatever (probably borderline illegal) thing Batman injected into your veins.

Ah, you're still drenched in Gotham's rain. He has the heather on for you. Batman's car smell like rain and mint. Mostly, it smells like Gotham itself.

A senator, your remember. You were in a standby ambulance for a gala.

And there was a senator there, one whose both was born and died in Gotham, a man that used to wield more control over people around him than anyone ever needed.

And this shoots hot-anger on your lungs.

You lips tremble. "Dunno," you mumble. "Fanatics?"

Because, even then, you wouldn't shoot him.

By law, you can carry a firearm with you while on-duty, because you live in Gotham of all places. Not your fault violence against EMS personnel was that common. You have been punched, kicked, choked, thrown down a flight of stairs and even been bitten while trying to save people, but you never wielded the gun.

When people actively seek harm to others, it makes you thrilled. It makes you want to hunt.

But you didn't plan to kill that senator. You were trying to go to the bathroom. It happened: he was shot, you had a gun, you got drenched in blood while trying to save his life. No witnesses. Great sequence of misunderstandings.

Other people, however, were trying to kill you for only the suspicion you shoot their elected senator. Or so was your bet.

"I didn't kill him," you feel like clarifying. Maybe he had forgotten. Better safe than sorry.

Batman was probably getting tired of you repeating the same thing.

His jaw is clenched. Seeing him so close, you notice how factually handsome Batman is, or at least the bottom half of his face is; a strong jaw and pretty pink lips. Blue eyes. Batman is a heartthrob out of the mask, no doubt lay on your mind of this.

You give yourself this indulgent thought, as a treat for surviving until now.

He suppresses a grunt. Maybe annoyed you do not fear him enough to answer objectively?

You don't have time to fear when you're actively dieing.

Which was ironic.

"You pointed the gun to him." His voice cuts air, haul it out of your chest. Your whole body shakes, trembling from inside to out.

Even your drugged brain can catch on what he expects from you.

There's a knot on your throat. You don't want to feel pain. "I wasn't going to shoot," you say, "I was going to scare him."

Batman couldn't possibly have a worse frown on his forehead. He looks you from the corner of his eyes, catching you in the act of staring back. Makes your nervous.

(Although you are pretty sure you just bleed all over his car, which is ten times worse than staring.)

You're deluding yourself. Anyway, somehow his frown got deeper after you groan for feeling a sharp stab on your rib, just figuring out what side you broke. The left one.

It's weirdly comforting when he readjusts his hands on the wheel.

"You said you believed in me," you mutter, pouting, which was fairly childlike behavior. From all the things, ranging from jokes and reasonings, it's a mystery why you chose to say that.

Maybe this can lighten the mood.

Your eyelids flutter, a little pitiful.

Again, Batman doesn't say anything. You take on the opportunity. "Did you lie?"

Rusty, your voice sound hoarse. No one would fall for this because, yeah, he did lie.

That's what you do when people are dying in front of you, you lie. You want sincerity to work but will any of this be worth it? If someone is dying before your eyes, people turn utterly egoistical and lie to easy any heart, mostly their own.

Batman looks appealed. "I didn't."

Your breathing lays uneasy. It doesn't register as a heartfelt confession, rather a oath. Insanity. Does this man believe you with no proof? Does he have proof? He's The Batman.

You quickly imagine Batman, full armor, sitting on court as your witness, everybody staring flabbergasted but doing nothing, like the Bee Movie trial scene. No laugh set free through your throat though, Batman looks surprised that you did shut up.

As if you're not in trouble anyway, into several levels of I would rather die than to deal with this.

You need stitches, but it's so much trouble it might not be that high of a deal.

The car is dark, you can't comprehend Batman's expression fully.

Neither you can pinpoint where you lose conscience again.

------

Hearing voices as you wake up, can't help being weighed down by dread and fatigue.

You wonder why you're not in the hospital yet. The voices, male ones, are distant, arguing or almost getting into it. Flutters your stomach. It takes seconds so you eyes can adjust your surroundings.

The place looks both a building under construction and completely abandoned. Very common in Gotham. The smell is the same of seasickness.

You toss the seatbelt to your side, checking how he did the bandage. Precise but uneven. Not close to be professionally done. Good enough to keep you alive.

With increasing concern you theorize why you're not in a hospital. Does it matter, though? You're not in a hospital.

Terror stammered on your chest.

Breathing is hard.

How much blood did you lose?

There's an amount of blood on his seat, and on your clothes, that make you cringe.

You're so used to seeing blood, this doesn't make you afraid. Still, your heart beats strong when you start being aware that this is your blood.

A lot of blood. The inside of his car is too red now, tinted by orange streetlights, and Gotham is so cruel.

You're going to have to talk about it. Probably gonna receive some time off duty to heal.

In the middle of getting your own pulse, counting seconds, is when you start to make sense of it all.

"I saw the footage," a low hoarse voice says, secretively proceeding.

So he did have hard proof, you think. You're getting better at recognizing Batman's voice as the night passes.

It is on your back, the voices are from the back of car. You're still not sure where you are.

"She did not kill him."

You're almost touched Batman is defending you to however he's talking to. You would be, if not the excruciating pain you feel trying to move.

You should be in a hospital long before whatever Batman dosed you with started to wear off. Shouldn't he know this?

There's a discontent grunt that answers him. Another man say something, but you can't hear clearly.

A deep hiss of pain escapes your lips as you try to straighten up, trying to peek what's happening. Sweat, or rain, drips from your forehead.

Which is not the best of signs. Your skin feels clammy, so you tilt your head back in defeat.

You feel, rather annoyed, your conscience switching on and off easily as it is with a lightswitch.

Feeling anxious is sign of shock – you remember – so your body is reacting like it should. You don't want it to.

"She can get killed in the hospital," the other man reason.

Briefly, you can see him on the rearview, a respectable mustache man. Pretty sure you already saw him somewhere.

(Is it funny Batman has been driving around the city because he's stuck with you? You can die without him.)

Wincing, you ignore what the man says, and what it implied, and attempt to regulate your breathing.

Feel days should heal it, you say to yourself. This is what you would say to a patient in the same situation. You ignore, hardly, the bitter taste of half the times this was a lie. Or better, a joke.

So cruel it is to joke with people's lives. But it does lighten the mood.

Not to you, not now. But usually it works.

Brute-force won't work, trying to pressure the wound into numbness. You wanted it to work but it can't possibly.

It's pain and even pain ends.

Your eyes close without consent. Like being doused out in warm comforting water, a bathtub.

The drowning in ice water next, in agony–

–Next time your open your eyes, you're still in the car.

Minutes passed, clearly. The car is not warm anymore.

Batman, the man and legend itself, is looming over you, spawned out of nowhere, clinically assessing your carotid pulse. His hands– gloves don't feel nice against your neck.

There's this striking, flashing concern that bleeds off his cowl. Your hands, unfortunately, weights too much, if not you would raise it up to his face, haunt the concern away.

"M'not gon' die on your car," you promise, attempting a reassuring smile. You face feels a little numb at it.

His facial muscles tighten into sternness. Funny how you can sense disaprovement even dying. You taunt lightly, chuckling as he pull his hand back to himself.

(This is how you spend your nights, thinking, no one dies tonight. You wonder if Batman thinks the same and, that's why he looked so afraid.)

He regards your face next, unforgiving, makes you wonder why his mood jumps so quickly from one to another. Batman tilts your chin up, and this is another strange, strange statement.

"You're going to be fine," he assures you.

You can't say that, you want to argue. No healthcare professional would say that, and he been acting like such a professional–

Your vigor to fight drains out before your mouth open.

You stare at him. A blur of blood loss and–

Is surreal and very, very soft. You want the pain to end but you're only starting to feel it.

He's so efficient, checking all your vitals.

You're surprised. Again. Long night, it feels like you been bleeding for hours. Unyielding but fair, you allow a sing moment of weakness.

Shocked to coherence over anything. The tears are on your throat, you've been bravely holding it together, and just won't chase the blood back because it's physically impossible.

Your hands feel hungry, you want to touch and to have your questions answered. Oblivion just a second away.

Pretty sure you rambled about the car when he clicks the seatbelt back into place. Theories. You have a lot of those.

Batman is not a man of many words, you start to notice. He's more of a good listener.

His eyes, however, did relax when he looked back at you. You wonder if you were hallucinating it.

Blue icy eyes analyzing your face. You can feel your heart as it disobeys.

You don't know what you see on his face.

You can't start to name it. He moves slow, so you can see him while you doze off again, protest or question him about anything. You don't.

"Can you please take me home?" you request, words dripping slow. I don't want to hurt anymore.

You want to know what you see on his face. Desperately so.

It burns. A lot. Burns against your face and leaves an aching thing on your chest.

"You did well," he says, again very tender and careful. You wonder why he is like this only when you're about to pass out.

You don't know. You aren't even aware of all his face.

But you can't help if not believe his voice.

If not miserable, you look up to him. His eyes– he is observing you–

You breath is shallow, gulping down wet. You don't want to cry.

But you look at him and you see.

He's angry. This calm and careful demeanor is a facade. He's angry and hunting.

He's angry and very human. Batman has a fury boiling over his skin when he sees another victim – you, this time, – a gawking blood-red rage only somebody born in Gotham can have.

He's angry at being stuck. Gotham is such a place that chains everybody on heartbreak and limitations. It does make people angry, because you can't even hope for change.

But there's change, standing over you. There is hope.

Batman places his hand on your head, reassuring and tender. There's tenderness on his anger, because this fury is not directed at you at all.

And you can't remember closing your eyes. If not a little pitiful as your heart disobeys, you trust him.

Sleeping peacefully, like you never did before.

You do know that, when opening your eyes again, the dim sterile lights of a hospital blinds you momentarily.

Not waking up on Batman's car gets you more lost than anything. You also expected him to be waiting for you to wake up.

It's not him but another man uncomfortably sleeping on the chair by your bed. You recognize his voice as he introduces himself as Commissioner Gordon.

You lost a lot of blood. It is concerning!

However inappropriately funny, you know exactly where to find your blood. Too bad Batman's souped-up Dodge Charger is nowhere to be found so you can childishly point at it.

Doesn't matter how much blood you lose, though. Nothing makes you forget deep clear blue eyes, like the sky.

Death might as well be a summer day by how gentle and caring it is.

When your driver asks you, now, "what do you think of the Batman?"

You saw a human there. A man, a pitiful and tired one. An angry one. Laced, chained down with a promise.

Not only that. You believed in him. You looked at him and couldn't look away.

You can't answer because there's only much words will ever say.

There's poison shooting down your throat, into your veins. It's burns and all you can do is hurt everywhere, anywhere fit.

Gotham is so cold.

As natural it is to Gotham to be cold, your heart beats strong against your ribcage. You look up to buildings, anywhere, missing like a little child.

There's poison shooting down your throat, into your veins because you've been convinced:

Whatever is wrong with him is wrong with me.

Tagging: @diavolosbaby

[boushalaivre]

She'll be there with you, with her love, waiting only for you

Summary : Astarion winced as Eulalie cleaned his injured cheekbone.

"Sorry," she muttered under her breath. "Can you—" She lightly brushed his chin with her fingertip, encouraging him to hold his head high. "Thank you."

(Or in which Astarion (clumsily) steal a necklace.)

Tags : Act 2 - Soft Astarion - Fluff

(English isn't my first language, please be kind. ♥)

AO3 or below

Astarion winced as Eulalie cleaned his injured cheekbone.

"Sorry," she muttered under her breath. "Can you—" She lightly brushed his chin with her fingertip, encouraging him to hold his head high. "Thank you."

Unwittingly, his eyelids fluttered at her lingering touch. It's been a while ; since he had confessed genuinely feeling something for her, since he had admitted not knowing how to handle this –them–, and probably needing some time to apprehend this whole new notion of caring for someone, she dutifully had been careful not to overstep the line he had drawn. He didn't fully understand why, how, she had been so easily comprehensive — didn't she, now, have the right to demand something from him ?

Humming a tune he didn't know, Eulalie started to clean his cut lip. She stuck her tongue out, to concentrate, and Astarion couldn't help but stare at her, thinking she was the cutest tiefling he had ever met.

"Just a little more aaaand—" She applied a fresh compress on his left cheek, relieving the stinging sensation. "— there you go. Well, it would have been much better if Shadowheart had done it, but it doesn't seem too bad."

"Don't sell yourself short, my dear. I feel wonderful."

"Shut up," she giggled, a sweet melody that gave him a lopsided grin.

She let her fingers linger over his face, tracing faintly his jawbone, as if she was afraid he would reject her. He mused, not for the first time, that he did not deserve this kindness, even less her; he leaned against her hand, regardless, because he might die if she pulled back — him, overdramatic ? Certainly not.

Astarion sighed slightly.

"Thank you."

"Always," she smiled. "Next time, be careful when you see a sparkling, but weird chest. You know how these are always trapped."

"Worth it," he mumbled, eying her necklace set with black agates. "It suits you well."

"I feel wonderful," she mimicked, and he barked a laugh, something he didn't remember doing so naturally before her. "No, seriously, I love it."

She stroked a little longer his cheek with her thumb, the shadow of a grin on her lips, before starting to remove her hand; Astarion grasped her wrist. Holding her stare, he dropped a peck on her palm; with parted her lips and a hitched breath, she lowered her gaze to his mouth. For a brief moment, he thought she would close the gap between them, but Eulalie remained still.

"We—" She cleared her throat. "We should head back before dark. The others must—"

He swallowed the rest of the sentence with a sudden kiss. She suppressed a shriek of surprised, eyes-widened, before quickly melt against him. While she placed her palms on either side of his face, being careful not to touch his injuries, she felt fangs grazing her lower lip; a soft moan escaped her. Astarion pulled away too soon, but not far, his nose brushing hers. He could see a faint blush on her cheeks and something, a pleasant warmth, spread in him.

"Was it ok ?" he asked in a low voice.

"More than ok," she whispered. She leaned in once more, their lips barely touching. "Can I kiss you again, please ?"

The delightful warmth came back, fiercely. She asked. She always asked, never presumed, even though he had just kissed her, because she valued his thoughts, because he mattered; it was still something he needed to work on, but he began to like it — being his own person. And she had said please, sweet polite little thing.

Astarion ran a thumb along her jaw, teasing her gently.

"Of course, love. I'm all yours."

She beamed at him, putting the sun to shame.

[brighterdaysarebeforeus]

And the aftermath, in a new world!

@hobiesgender @hadesdaughter2002 @lirulua

Masterlist

Miles winced hard as he landed on the floor, his back screaming in agony. He’d not anticipated fighting side by side with his counterpart against Kingpin (fighting against Kingpin a second time, even if it was technically a different Kingpin); though the man hadn’t been as big as he’d been in Miles’s universe, he was still much bigger than Miles was and was still hella strong. In addition to his back aching something fierce, his wrist felt like it might have had a hairline fracture, and he could practically feel the way his side was turning purple under his suit.

He twisted to his uninjured side with a groan, pushing himself up on shaking arms and near-immediately giving way to the ground again when he put too much weight on his wrist. Pain went up his arm, sharp and shooting, and he cradled it to his chest the second he was on the ground again.

There was a warm touch to his semi-uninjured side, and Miles flinched away without even thinking. The now-familiar soothing scent washed over him, Hobie doing his best to calm him down even as he reached forward again and grabbed his arm. Miles let him that time, drawing a sharp breath as he felt something firm and unyielding get placed on his wrist. It came out of him in a shudder, but it sort of made his wrist feel better, in a way, so he left it on; when Hobie dropped his arm gently against his chest again, Miles opened his eyes to see a dark brace on his wrist, supporting and compressing it gently.

Then he curled up again, still in pain but soothed by the fact that Hobie was nearby. He’d lost track of everyone, remembered that they’d managed to distract and hold Kingpin down long enough for some higher power to come and take him away (not the cops, Miles-42 was very insistent that the cops were in Kingpin’s pocket, he’d talked to a contact who went through someone else who talked to a different contact who — long story short, it might have been the IFBI or the ACI or whatever equivalent Miles-42 had in his universe), and that they’d scattered once they’d ensured he was pinned and they heard the sirens.

Miles had gone with Hobie, who’d called out a number before turning on his watch when they were a distance away, and the portal had opened with a bright flash. They went through, though Miles still wasn’t really used to the portal thing while he was completely fine, forget slightly injured.

So he gave himself a minute before getting up and realizing that they’re in a room, that Gwen was throwing herself on the bed in the corner, Peni also picking herself up from the floor, Noir and Ham already sitting at a table and talking quietly amongst themselves.

“All right, all right,” Hobie started off, rummaging around in a batter old cabinet that definitely looked like it had seen better days, “welcome to my humble abode an’ all, got some food if you lot want it, got some water — ”

“Drinkable water this time?” Gwen called out from the bed, and Hobie threw something at her. She squeaked as it landed on her, jumping just a bit and then clearing her throat with a light blush as she looked away. Miles snorted a laugh (he could hear it in the back of his head — Gwen’s awkward ‘sorry, sorry, it was…just so quiet’), and Gwen sent him a pleased look as he leaned against the bed. He smiled up at her, and watched as she relaxed just that much further.

“Fuck outta here with that, Gwendy.” Hobie shot back, still digging in the cabinet for food, “I’m offering it, right? Means next time shouldn’t grab what’s not offered.” He tossed a water bottle at Peter B, who had lifted his hand as if he’d wanted one, and at Noir who’d done the same. “And anyway, this is just a layover while we figure out our next step, so better eat and drink while we can. Don’t wanna send ya off to the next fight hungry or anything.”

“What’s it looking like for food?” Ham asked, “cause I’ll tell you now, I’m so hungry I could eat a horse — and those don’t exactly taste great, you know?”

Hobie shot Ham a dry look, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Not your best, mate.” He said, and Ham drooped dramatically. “I can’t — ”

“Oh, but wait!” Pavitr called out, and Miles jolted hard. Pavitr had been quiet so far, nursing his own wounds from fighting against a Kingpin for the first time, but he’d perked up into the conversation quickly. “What do you eat for meat in your universe? If you’re all animals?”

“Guys!” Margo burst into the room, startling everyone by her panic. She glitched a little, then brightened to a degree that was almost blinding, her voice distorted for a second before everything seemed to snap back into place at the same time. “Too much-too big-too many — bright…Guys, Miguel saw that last jump — ”

The door burst open, and chaos ensued a second time as they scrambled to get away. There was the roar of a motorcycle, but Miles couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Something also crashed through the window just next to Miles, and he felt himself getting yanked up to his feet. They grabbed his most-likely-fractured wrist, and he yelped in pain, and then he was dropped as Gwen lunged off the bed and hovered over him, snarling loudly.

He was grabbed a second time, much more gently, and the bright light of the portal blew into place nearby. Hobie slung his arm around Miles’s waist, quickly but mindful of his bruised side, and practically threw them both through the portal a second time.

[n1ghtwarden]

falling back into the easy sway of their bodies, two animals that have already found their limits, who have no desire to strain themselves when they can lay back into the familiar comfort of each others bodies. where they'd once shared a spark of heat in the bone-chilled shadowland, their frost bitten hearts, like blowing a warm breathe onto cold fingertips and savoring that warmth, now they share their compressed chests. collapsing in on themselves like a dwarf star, the beginning of a black hole. 

wanting to say, tell me how you crossed the threshold of that temple, an object of desire made manifest. tell me how you stepped across the marble, it matters to me, what you're thinking now.

hand to mouth, a sip of his wine, sating his desire to press lips to skin. not wanting to kiss her snarling mouth, the jaw full of sharp teeth, but to her hands, the thinness of her wrists, the sweet slope of her too tense shoulders. a remembrance done in flesh and blood, a present tense caring to hide himself in.

his lips over hers and his smile like the first ray of the sun at the break of day. 

there had been mercy in the darkness of the shadowlands - a realm that had not been bleached and blighted by the sun; but something darker. stranger. the night warden finds no such mercy on the road to the gate - her eyes are pained, sensitive; skin now heavily freckled - another mark of shame, another reminder that she is so far from home; and will never return. the night, at least, provides relief - temporary. welcoming. it is almost a pity, then, that the wizard does not grant her the lenience that the stars and shadows always had.

her eyes are burning, blurred - they often are these days; squinting up in the light that streams in from the haphazardly tied flap of her tent, keenly aware of gale against her, the memory of him; and that she did not have the sense to turn him away after they had finished. a weakness of both the mind and the heart; and the wizard had repaid her with distracted hands that could not hope to replicate her own regimented fingers.

head turns sidelong, burying into the warmth of his neck and away from the offending sun - it does little to alleviate the pain in her eyes; a soft sound of displeasure as she feels gale shift against her - waking, moving when she has not yet given him leave to.

" wizard. " an edge of admonishment in her voice with no heat; a blade the night warden sheathes for the time being; half-lidded eyes watching him warily as he moves; sluggish, unworried - far too comfortable for someone who is caught in her web ( there is another thought, barely simmering in the haze she has found herself in - gale is not so much tangled in her web as she is tangled in him ); but she allows him this - the privilege of not turning him away when she is satiated; the ability to touch her, and come away unscathed.

his lips are soft against the tender underside of her wrists, ghosting over bone and veins - an act of tenderness so sweet it may as well have been violence; red, red eyes fluttering shut at the sensation against the palms of her hands, her calloused fingertips as she hums in approval, fingers combing through his greying hair. wizard, she calls him - as if she does not know his name. as if she has not sighed it into his mouth and whispered it against his neck, his ear under the cover of darkness. his lips to her shoulders, her collarbones - no longer guarded or sharp as she ought to have been. no longer a blade, but a woman; raw and real. an exposed nerve, painful to the touch - ugly in some lights. her hand in his hair, slipping down to cradle the back of his neck and as with all things, the night warden holds on too tightly.

a part of her wishes to speak - to tell him that this silence suits him, that his deference does, too; sharp jabs to his underbelly where he is vulnerable. but the wizard ( no. her wizard. ) has yet to bring a blade to her back or a spell to her skin - and a moment is a moment that will be gone too quickly with the morning light; better left savoured, and kept for herself. instead, she curls into him - closer when she presses against his chest; when her leg, lithe and long, drapes over the curve of his hip. her body, always primed and ready for a battle she knows is imminent, melts into him - relaxes when she heaves a shuddering sigh.

his lips continue - the burn and drag of his beard against her sensitive skin; shuddering under the touch, leaning into him - looking up into the darkness of gale's eyes, the dawn of his smile, her own fingers tracing the lines of the netherese orb that curls down his cheek, cupping his jaw when he kisses her, all wanting; gentle. a gentleness she is still unused to, angling his head when they part so that she does not have to see the part of him that belongs to another, when she has marked him all the same - when he is hers, entirely.

" if your mind has not been muddied by those scrolls you consume - " a kiss to his jaw, her lips lazily trailing kisses up to his ear, nipping there. " - when you come to me tonight, ensure that you secure my tent properly. " another kiss - another mark of ruin; and when the night warden speaks, the venom she has laced herself with is nowhere to be found. all talk. " if you cannot obey, i will ensure that you do; and you will find no pleasure - nor the promise of it. "

looking at him now, hazy in the morning light that spills into her - no, their - tent, the night warden thinks that she might not mind the light all that much after all, if it brought gale to her like this.

[bubbl3zdaseaotter37]

Don't mind me. Just making my meagre offering to the starving members of this dead fandom. Since it's so short, I decided to add the entire thing under the cut. Enjoy, and happy Whumptober!

"Major lacerations detected. Vital signs dropping," Informed a monotone voice, after three short beeps. A long, metallic clang rang out on the cold floor, echoed down the long, dark hallway like a requiem bell, masking the sound of quiet panting.

With a ragged breath, Dr. Gordon Freeman wobbled, stuck out an arm in the dark to catch himself on the wall. Another series of beeps.

"Blood loss detected. Seek medical attention."

If only. Hand trembling, he hesitantly prodded the gash, and involuntarily jerked it back again with a choked gasp. The pain burned deep, but it needed some sort of pressure. He gritted his teeth and tried again.

Pull the band-aid off quickly, it won't hurt as much, his mother had always told him.

Still shaking, he speedily pressed a hand to the wound, feeling its slick texture despite the thick, chemical-resistant gloves on his hands. Fire blazed up and down his side, the corridor tilted sickeningly, and it wasn't for a dozen more agonizing heartbeats that he realized that he had screamed. As his breathing steadily slowed, Gordon listened to the low hum of Black Mesa underneath his heavy breathing and the pulse pounding in his ear.

"Morphine administered."

Leaning heavily on the lifeless metal wall, Gordon breathed a sigh of relief as the pain in his side almost instantly faded into the background like the thrum of the facility. Now that he could think clearly, there was something else he had been wanting to do.

Gordon turned, still keeping a careful hand on the wall, and stared curiously at the corpse of the strange creature with green liquid pooling underneath it. Judging from the substance's appearance, its consistency wasn't dissimilar to the blood from his own injury. With a furtive glance up and down the corridor, Gordon crept toward the creature.

Even with the ceiling literally crashing down around him, even with his own blood slowly seeping into the stiff fabric of the HEV suit, even with the end of the world as he knew it, Gordon still couldn't help the morbid curiosity that drew him closer to the thing that had tried to kill him moments ago.

Despite having run into many of them, Gordon hadn't truly gotten a chance to examine the creatures until now. There had always been more than one that had hurled glowing, green orbs of compressed energy at him, or slashed at him with its claws, or tried to shove him off a ledge. Speaking of which, the thing he was looking at had three arms, two connected to its low, stooped shoulders, and a single, smaller limb in its chest.

Out of habit, he adjusted the stained and battered glasses, which were still miraculously balanced on the bridge of his nose. It didn't help clear the spatters of blood (alien and human), dust, and other debris, but it made the situation feel a bit more normal. More like the carefully controlled climate of the labs, or his classrooms back at MIT.

Its skin was green and wrinkled, and Gordon was vaguely reminded of some of his favorite childhood characters. Except, E.T. had befriended Elliot, not tried to blast him into oblivion with his space lasers, and Yoda had taught Luke Skywalker the ways of the Force, not shredded him to chunks with razor-sharp talons.

Then there were its eyes, of which it had way more than generally allocated to creatures other than insects. At least, he didn't think it was insectoid. These things could be distant relatives of prehistoric fruit flies for all he knew. It had one, reddish eye in the center of its face, like a cyclops, and three smaller eyes on either side of that.

It certainly wasn't anything he, or anyone else in this doomed facility, had ever encountered before. At least that's what he assumed at first… so many strange things had been happening in the hours — or had it been days? — since the accident that he wasn't sure of anything anymore.

Barney would have told him it didn't matter anyways. They were the enemy; as long as they were the enemy, it didn't matter what they were. But Barney wasn't here. For all Gordon knew, Barney was… best not to think about it. Barney was resourceful and competent. Hopefully he had already found a way out of this deathtrap.

Gordon shook his head; he was getting distracted. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was from blood loss, either way he didn't have time to stand around staring at a dead alien. There were people who were counting on him, whether they knew it or not— his colleagues, those marines who kept trying to kill him, maybe even humanity itself. If someone didn't take out the portal punched into the fabric of time and space or whatever, who knew what would happen?

So, Gordon turned, slowly let go of the wall, and took a tentative step forward— clang. His foot hit something, sending it skittering away across the floor. In the dark hallway, he could just make out what it was.

Pressing his hand tighter to his side, Gordon took another slightly shaky step and bent stiffly to retrieve the long, thin, hooked object off the floor. Its once red paint was now hidden beneath a crusted layer of greenish, puss colored slime and blood.

Hefting the crowbar experimentally, Gordon peered up and down the hallway once more. The dim emergency lights flickered down the long corridor, casting unsteady shadows in the darkest corners of the room.

There has to be a first-aid station down here somewhere. With a long sigh, Gordon shifted his grip on the crowbar, pushed his glasses up his nose, and started down the hallway.