#i clutched my head in agony very dramatically

[butchsaint]

i washed my hair with water so cold it gave me a brain freeze outside my head. like it Hurt My Head. crazy business!!

[solxamber]

Making Up After an Argument With: Vice Housewardens + Kalim

part 1 with overblot gang + rollo

more hurt/comfort for the soul!

Trey Clover:

It had been days since your argument with Trey. Days of agonizing silence. Days of avoiding each other in the hallways, sidestepping glances in the cafeteria, and pretending not to exist when you crossed paths in class. It was ridiculous.

You could barely even remember what you had argued about. Something about cake batter consistency? Or was it his relentless calmness in the face of your very valid cake-related frustration? Regardless, this had gone on long enough.

And you? Well, you were dramatic by nature, so if you were going to apologize to Trey, it needed to be big. Monumental. The stuff of legends.

So you did what any normal person would do: you put together an apology that could have come straight out of a Shakespearean tragedy.

The setting: Trey's dorm room.

The plan: Apologize with flair.

The execution? Well… here goes.

You kicked open the door to his room—literally, because who needs normalcy when you’re trying to make a grand entrance?

“TREYYYYY!!!” you wailed, throwing yourself to the floor dramatically as if you had just collapsed under the weight of your own misery. You didn’t even bother getting up—no, you stayed there, prone on the floor, arms stretched out in a cross shape like you were trying to summon a deity.

Trey looked up from his desk, eyes wide in utter disbelief at the absolute spectacle in front of him. His glasses slid down his nose slightly as he blinked, staring at you as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be concerned.

“...what are you doing?” he asked, his voice slow, measured, and cautious. This was so much even for you.

You grabbed a pillow from his bed, clutching it to your chest as you rolled over dramatically, eyes squinted in faux despair. “I have wronged you, dear Trey,” you moaned, as though you were performing an award-winning monologue on stage. “I have been a FOOL, a BRAT, a mere shadow of the decent human I once was. I came here to THROW MYSELF at your FEET and beg for FORGIVENESS!”

Trey blinked again. He was so calm that it almost made you want to scream. This was serious! You were performing your soul out right now!

You pushed yourself up to your knees, crawling a little closer to him, throwing your arms up to the ceiling. “I have spent these past few days in agony,” you continued, voice now filled with the heavy weight of tragic longing. “My life without you has been like a cupcake without frosting! Like tea without sugar! Like—like… a world without your glasses to reflect the sunlight into my soul!”

Trey pressed his lips together, clearly fighting back a smile. You continued, undeterred.

“My heart is broken, shattered, like the eggs we once cracked together to make the finest sponge cake. And now… now, Trey Clover, I come to you, humble and pleading. I ask you to take pity on this poor wretch who was too blind to see the treasure before them. Forgive me, Trey. Please. Don’t let me die from this—this unbearable torment!”

There was a pause. A long one. Trey stared at you with that soft, almost amused expression, and then he sighed, shaking his head as he got up from his desk.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” he said, walking over to you. He crouched down beside you, his tone gentle despite the absurdity of the situation.

Still fully committed to your performance, you grabbed his hands and held them to your chest, staring up at him with wide, imploring eyes. “Ridiculous for you, Trey. Only for you.”

He finally broke, a chuckle escaping his lips as he looked at you, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Get up. You don’t have to be so over the top.”

You hesitated, playing up the pause before you dramatically threw yourself onto him, burying your face into his stomach like a child seeking forgiveness. “I won’t get up until you forgive me!” you cried, muffled against his shirt.

Trey let out a sigh of fond exasperation, patting the top of your head like you were an unruly puppy. “You’re impossible.”

With a final chuckle, he pulled you up to your feet. “I forgive you. You don’t have to grovel,” he said, his voice warm, but there was something in his eyes that looked a little distant, a little… sad?

That’s when the theatrics faded. You could see it, plain as day, the little dip in his expression, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Something wasn’t right.

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “Hey… is something wrong?”

Trey blinked, glancing away for a second before letting out a small sigh. “No, it’s… it’s nothing. Really.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice as you rested a hand on his arm. “Trey, come on. I know you better than that.”

He hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair, glancing out the window before he finally spoke. “It’s just… I didn’t know if you’d come back.” His voice was quieter now, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it. “I thought… I don’t know, maybe you’d decide that I’m not as interesting or… exciting as some of the other people around here. I’m just the guy who bakes and keeps everything running smoothly.”

You felt your heart twist at his words. Trey, always so calm and collected, always in the background, thinking he wasn’t enough? How wrong he was.

“Trey…” you said softly, stepping even closer now, so close that your forehead was practically brushing his chest. “You’re wrong. You’re everything I want. You’re more than enough.”

He looked down at you, surprised by the sincerity in your voice.

You reached up, cupping his face gently in your hands, making him look directly at you. “You don’t have to be flashy or dramatic or anything else. I don’t want that. I just want you. The Trey who cares, who listens, who’s always there when I need him, even when I’m being a total idiot.” You smiled softly. “You’re steady, and that’s what makes you special. Not everyone else.”

Trey’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he just stared at you, like he was trying to process your words. Then, with a small, almost shy smile, he pulled you into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around you as if he was afraid to let go.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low and full of emotion.

You squeezed him back, your earlier theatrics now a distant memory as you felt the warmth of his embrace. “I mean it, Trey. You’re perfect the way you are.”

There was a moment of quiet, just the two of you standing there, holding onto each other. It wasn’t grand or dramatic—it was simple, and honest, and perfect.

And then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you whispered, “Plus, your cakes are way better than anyone else’s.”

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You really are something else, you know that?”

You grinned against his chest. “Only for you, Trey. Only for you.”

Ruggie Bucchi

The silent treatment between you and Ruggie had stretched on longer than either of you expected. And it was killing you. The worst part? Neither of you was budging. Stubborn as all get-out. But you weren’t just any regular person—you were extra. If you were going to break the silence, you’d do it in the most dramatic, over-the-top way possible.

And what was Ruggie’s greatest weakness?

Food.

So, here you were, standing at the doorstep of Ruggie’s dorm with a feast in your hands. You had collected everything from the cafeteria—pies, cakes, sandwiches, chips—anything edible that would appeal to his sense of taste, because this wasn’t just about an apology; this was an event.

And like any event, you were about to turn this into the most theatrical, food-based apology in the history of NRC.

You knocked on his door three times. The door creaked open slightly, and Ruggie peeked through the gap, eyes narrowing when he saw you standing there. “What do you want?”

He still sounded salty. But, of course, you had prepared for this.

“I come… bearing gifts,” you said, lifting the massive tray of food with all the grandeur of a royal presenting treasure to the king. “A peace offering! An apology! A banquet for the ages!”

Ruggie’s eyes widened as he took in the sheer amount of food. “What is all this?”

“Our reconciliation,” you declared, dramatically. “I come humbly, with my arms full of all that your stomach desires. For I have wronged you, Ruggie Bucchi, and I must beg for forgiveness in the only way I know how—with food.”

Ruggie stared at you, lips twitching as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or kick you out. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I know,” you wailed, feigning anguish. “I’m a fool, Ruggie! A foolish, foolish person! But a fool who knows that you won’t stay mad when there’s a perfectly good tray of sandwiches right in front of you.”

He arched a brow. “You’re bribing me with food?”

“Absolutely.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at you as if sizing you up. “What if I say no?”

Without missing a beat, you plopped yourself down on the floor, placing the tray on your lap. “Then I’ll just sit here and eat everything in front of your door until you feel so guilty, you’ll have to forgive me.”

There was a beat of silence before Ruggie snorted, unable to keep the smirk off his face. “You’re crazy.”

“And yet… you haven’t closed the door,” you shot back, giving him a sly smile.

Ruggie let out a long-suffering sigh but stepped aside, allowing you into his dorm room with all your extravagant offerings.

Once inside, you laid the food out on the table as if setting up for a feast. Plates and bowls and trays—everything perfectly arranged in the most ridiculous spread you could muster. You turned to him, arms open wide like a game show host revealing the grand prize.

“For you, my dear, a meal to rival kings!” you announced with a flourish. “And also my heartfelt apology.”

Ruggie eyed the spread, trying to keep his expression neutral, but you could see the gears turning. You knew him. He wasn’t one to say no to free food, no matter how petty he was being.

“I’m listening,” he said, finally, leaning against the table as if he wasn’t already plotting which dish to devour first.

You placed a hand on your heart, staring at him with as much sincerity as you could muster. “Ruggie, I’m sorry. I was being a brat. I didn’t mean to snap at you over something so small, and I definitely didn’t mean to let it drag out like this.” You paused, grabbing a sandwich and holding it out to him as if it were a peace token. “Please forgive me?”

He looked at the sandwich, then at you, and then, after a long moment of hesitation, he snatched it out of your hand. “Fine, fine. You’re lucky I can’t stay mad when there’s food involved.”

You grinned, relief washing over you. “You’re easy to bribe.”

“You’re easy to apologize to,” he shot back, taking a huge bite of the sandwich. “But yeah… I forgive you.”

You relaxed, plopping down into a chair across from him as you watched him devour the food with the same efficiency that he handled everything in life. But there was still something in his eyes—something that looked a little off, even though he was joking around now.

And then, almost as if reading your thoughts, Ruggie spoke.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now, less playful. “I… I gotta admit something.”

You blinked, straightening up a little. “Yeah?”

Ruggie leaned back in his chair, staring down at the sandwich in his hands. “I know we fought over something stupid, but... I’ve been thinking. I was scared, y’know?” He let out a bitter laugh. “I thought maybe you were realizing you could do better than someone like me. I mean, look at me—I’m always hustling, always trying to scrape by. Penny-pinching, scheming… I’m not like all those rich, flashy guys you’re surrounded by.”

His words hung in the air, and your heart squeezed at the vulnerability in his voice.

“Ruggie,” you said softly, standing up and walking over to him. You placed your hands on his shoulders, making him look up at you. “What are you talking about? I don’t care about any of that. I care about you.”

He frowned, glancing away. “Yeah, but… it’s hard not to feel like I’m just some background guy, y’know? Like you’d get tired of me eventually.”

You shook your head, feeling a rush of affection for this boy who always acted like he had the world figured out but was still so worried about being left behind.

“You’re wrong,” you said firmly, cupping his face in your hands. “You’re not just ‘some background guy.’ You’re everything to me. I don’t care about money or schemes or any of that. You’re smart, you’re funny, you make me laugh every day, and you’re always looking out for me, even when I don’t deserve it.”

Ruggie’s eyes softened, his lips parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say.

You smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “And besides,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, “if you think I’m gonna find someone better than the guy who can steal a whole feast from the cafeteria without getting caught, you’re seriously underestimating how much I value your skills.”

That finally earned a chuckle from him, his shoulders relaxing as he let out a breath he’d been holding. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you,” you teased, planting another kiss on his cheek, then another on the tip of his nose, and then—just because you could—one more on his lips.

Ruggie, now thoroughly kissed, wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap. “I guess I can’t stay mad at you, huh?” he murmured, his voice soft now, all the tension from earlier melting away.

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck as you rested your forehead against his. “Not when I’m this cute.”

He snorted, nuzzling into you. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make a habit out of fighting with me, or I’m gonna get spoiled from all these fancy apologies.”

You grinned. “Deal. As long as you promise to remember that you’re more than enough for me.”

Ruggie looked up at you, his usual mischievous grin returning, but there was something warmer in his eyes now, something softer. “Yeah. I’ll remember.”

And with that, you pulled him in for another kiss, sealing the apology and the promise with a little extra love.

Jade Leech:

The silent treatment between you and Jade Leech had been going on for far too long now. And, sure, you could be stubborn. You could match his pettiness tit-for-tat. But at some point, even the most ridiculous battles need a ceasefire. And this particular cold war was starting to wear you both down.

The tension had grown so thick it could probably be bottled and sold as premium-grade eelskin moisturizer. You weren't sure what had gotten you both so worked up in the first place—something about a miscommunication over a rare mushroom and your tendency to call out his cryptic grins. It snowballed from there.

But today, you were going to be the bigger person.

Which meant it was time to break the ice. And not with any ordinary apology—oh, no. Jade Leech wasn’t a man swayed by simple words and chocolates. You needed something grander, something that spoke to his peculiar interests and refined tastes.

And that's how you found yourself in the local black market—er, highly exclusive specialty shop—shelling out way too much money for some ultra-rare terrarium material. You didn’t know what it was, exactly. It was glowy, mossy, and something Jade would probably coo over like a proud parent. Perfect.

And you had a plan. Not just any apology plan—oh no, you were going to kill this with a one-two punch of heartfelt apology and a sweet gesture that no petty argument could stand up to.

That evening, you found yourself standing outside Mostro Lounge with your rare terrarium goods tucked under one arm and a small, handmade "I’m Sorry" cake under the other. Because if there’s one thing Jade Leech loves, it's weird, rare plant materials.

The Mostro Lounge was quiet, the perfect setup for your grand gesture. You pushed open the door and slipped inside, only to find Jade sitting at one of the tables, clearly deep in thought.

You cleared your throat loudly, and his eyes flicked up to meet yours, narrowing slightly. Oh, good, he was still feeling salty.

"Jade," you called out in a dramatic, over-the-top tone, walking toward him like you were making a royal entrance. "I come bearing gifts. The finest of gifts." You carefully set the rare terrarium material on the table before pulling the cake out of the box with a flourish.

Jade raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral. “Ah, how… thoughtful. And what, pray tell, is this?” he asked, eyeing the mossy material as if it were an amusing trinket.

You straightened up, grinning. “A rare moss that only grows under the full moon in the volcanic pits of the Obsidian Islands. I fought off twelve merchants for it. I might have bruised a kidney in the process, but hey, it's worth it for you."

Jade blinked, but his lips twitched. "How charmingly excessive," he said, though his tone was still icy. “And the cake?”

You set the cake down with a proud smile. “Homemade. No eels were harmed in the making of it, I promise. Consider it a peace offering… because, you know… maybe we’ve been a little ridiculous?”

Jade’s eyes slid back to the terrarium material, then back to you, and you could see that familiar glint of amusement cracking through his carefully composed exterior. “A little ridiculous? Hmm, perhaps that’s one way to put it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Jade. We’ve both been petty, and it’s getting us nowhere. You don’t want to be in this weird stalemate forever, do you?”

He tilted his head, regarding you with that infuriatingly polite smile. “I was under the impression that this was a competition to see who could hold out the longest. But perhaps I underestimated your resolve.”

You groaned, but before you could say anything snarky back, Jade’s gaze softened. He looked down at the cake, then at the terrarium material, and sighed—a sound so small and uncharacteristically vulnerable that it made your chest tighten.

"Truth be told,” he murmured, “I was beginning to think that this was the final straw. That I had ruined something good by being… well, myself." His voice dropped in volume, and for once, there wasn’t a hint of teasing or sarcasm in it.

You blinked. Wait—what?

Jade Leech thought you were going to leave him? You? Sure, you'd had fights before, but this one was different, wasn’t it? Still, the way he looked at you now—guard down, that polite mask starting to crumble—it hit you like a ton of bricks.

“Jade…” You set the cake aside and moved toward him, gently tugging him into a hug. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

For a moment, he was stiff, still clinging to his composure. But then, ever so slowly, his arms wrapped around you, and he buried his face into your shoulder.

“I didn’t realize how much this argument was bothering you,” you said softly, running your fingers through his hair. “I thought we were both being silly, but… I should have known better. I should’ve just apologized sooner.”

Jade was quiet for a few long moments, his arms tightening around you. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come back. I thought perhaps you’d realized you deserved better than… well, someone like me. Someone so focused on... mischief."

You leaned back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Jade Leech, do you honestly think I’d walk away because you’re… what, a little mysterious? Please. I love that about you.” You smiled, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “You’re smart, and you make life interesting. You mean the world to me.”

Jade’s eyes widened slightly, and for once, he looked genuinely surprised. Then, slowly, a small smile crept onto his lips—soft, real, and free of his usual smugness.

“You have quite the way with words,” he murmured, leaning into your touch.

“I’ve been practicing,” you teased, before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

Jade melted into the kiss, and when you finally pulled back, he looked more at ease than he had in days.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours.

You kissed him again, softer this time, before pulling him into another tight hug. “No more silent treatment, okay? Next time, let’s just talk things out before it gets ridiculous.”

Jade chuckled softly, nodding. “Agreed. Though I must say, your dramatic apology was quite entertaining.”

You grinned. “I aim to please.”

And with that, the two of you spent the rest of the evening laughing, eating cake, and—most importantly—making up. The argument was forgotten, and all that remained was the warmth of knowing that, no matter what, you and Jade would always find your way back to each other.

Kalim Al-Asim

It was completely out of character for you and Kalim to fight. Kalim Al-Asim—the boy with the heart as bright as a thousand suns—wasn’t exactly the type to harbor negativity. Arguments just didn’t happen between the two of you. He’d smile, laugh it off, and find some extravagant way to make peace, usually involving some form of spontaneous celebration or showering you with gifts.

But this time, something had gone awry. The fight had left a sour taste in your mouth, and, even more surprising, you had given him the silent treatment for days.

Days! As if that was even possible. Kalim had tried to make things right, sending you lavish gifts, offering up trips to the oasis, and practically begging with those big, shimmering eyes. But you had stood firm, giving him the cold shoulder. It wasn’t until now, while pacing your room, that you realized just how ridiculous it all was.

Kalim wasn’t a bad guy. He wasn’t even remotely deserving of being treated this way. Life was too short, and giving Kalim the silent treatment was like trying to dim the sun itself. It was painful, unnatural, and only left the world a little darker.

You had to apologize. But you couldn’t just say sorry. Not for Kalim. No, you had to do something that would reach deep into his soul, something that screamed, “I am sorry for being a fool and depriving you of my radiant presence!”—in true Kalim fashion.

The door to Scarabia swung open with a flourish, and you marched in, carrying your “apology” in the most dramatic, over-the-top way possible. In your arms was a golden tray, laden with every dessert known to man.

Sweets from the farthest reaches of the desert, cakes stacked like miniature mountains, and the crown jewel: a massive tower of Baklava, glistening with honey and topped with an edible diamond (you might have gone a little overboard).

Kalim was sitting by the fountain in the common room, looking forlorn. But when he saw you approaching with this ridiculous confectionary masterpiece, his face lit up like a firework display. "Wha—? What’s all this?!" he asked, scrambling to his feet.

You set the tray down with a flourish, sweeping an arm dramatically over the display. “Kalim Al-Asim! I come bearing a humble offering. It may not be enough to express the depths of my regret, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me!”

Kalim’s face softened immediately, the ghost of a grin pulling at his lips. "Aww, you didn’t have to do all this! I was just about to apologize to you, I swear!"

You shook your head dramatically, pretending to wipe a tear. “No, Kalim! I’ve been a fool! Life without your smile is like the desert without water—a barren wasteland of misery! Please, let me make it up to you with this absurdly lavish, entirely unnecessary, but very tasty display of affection.”

He burst into laughter, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Okay, okay, you’re forgiven! You didn’t have to go this far!” He gave you a playful nudge, already eyeing the tower of sweets with a twinkle in his eye.

Naturally, Kalim being Kalim, his first instinct was to throw a party. “This calls for a celebration!” he exclaimed. “Let’s invite everyone over, get the music going, and—"

But something was off. His words were as excited as ever, but his smile—his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Normally, Kalim's enthusiasm was infectious, a hurricane of joy sweeping everyone up in its path. But now, there was a dimness to it, like someone had put a filter over the sunshine that was Kalim Al-Asim.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait a second.” You grabbed him by the arm, dragging him toward his room without explanation.

Kalim, too surprised to resist, blinked as you pulled him inside, shutting the door behind you. “What’s going on?” he asked, still trying to piece together what was happening.

“Sit,” you commanded, pointing to the bed. He sat, confusion still written all over his face, and you kneeled beside him, hands resting on his knees. “Alright, spill it.”

“Spill what?”

“You know what,” you said, voice softening now. “Your smile… it wasn’t right. That’s not your real smile. What’s wrong, Kalim?”

He hesitated, looking down at his hands for a moment before sighing. “It’s just…” He trailed off, fiddling with the fabric of his pants. “I don’t like it when we fight. And I keep thinking... maybe you deserve someone better. Someone who won’t make you mad in the first place. Someone who’s smarter, more… competent. I always mess up, don’t I? And you shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Your heart clenched, and you felt a surge of both love and exasperation well up inside you. How could he think that? Him, of all people? You reached out, grabbing his face in both hands and squishing his cheeks together. “Kalim,” you said sternly, “You listen to me, and you listen good.”

His cheeks were smooshed, making him look utterly ridiculous, but he nodded as best as he could under your grip.

“I don’t want someone else. I don’t want someone more ‘competent’ or ‘smarter.’ I want you, Kalim Al-Asim. You, with your big heart, your endless optimism, and your ability to turn every day into a celebration. You mean everything to me, and no amount of silly arguments is going to change that.”

You released his cheeks, and he blinked at you, wide-eyed. “Really?” His voice was muffled and still slightly smooshed.

“Really,” you said, smiling warmly. “You’re my sunshine, Kalim. Life would be so boring without you.”

Before he could say anything, you leaned in and peppered his face with kisses—on his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, anywhere you could reach. He laughed, the sound bubbling up from deep within him, and you could finally see that brightness returning to his eyes. The real smile. The one that could light up an entire palace.

“Okay, okay! I believe you!” he managed to say between fits of laughter, his arms wrapping around you in a tight hug.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar warmth. “I’m sorry for being petty,” you murmured. “I love you, Kalim.”

His grip tightened around you, and you could feel him smiling against your hair. “I love you too. And hey, no more fighting, okay?”

You nodded against his chest, feeling the weight of the past few days lift off your shoulders. “No more fighting. And no more throwing parties after apologies, okay? Let’s just… enjoy this.”

He chuckled softly. “Deal. But can we still eat the Baklava tower?”

You pulled back, grinning. “Obviously.”

With that, the two of you sat there for a while longer, tangled in each other’s arms, basking in the warmth of reconciliation. And for the first time in days, everything felt right again.

Rook Hunt

You had been giving Rook the silent treatment for far too long now. At first, it was easy to ignore his poetic attempts at reconciliation—his dramatic speeches and flowers left in odd places (your shoes, under your pillow, even in your lunch). You had to admit, the guy was persistent, but you were stubborn. Stubborn, and maybe a bit petty.

But you missed him.

Which is why, today, you’d decided it was time to apologize. And not just any apology. No, no, no. This was Rook Hunt, the king of extravagance, drama, and all things flamboyant. If you were going to apologize, it had to be big.

You strutted through the hallways with purpose, a plan in place. Rook wouldn’t know what hit him.

When you finally found him, he was in the courtyard, gazing wistfully into the distance like some sort of Renaissance painting brought to life. Of course. Typical Rook.

You cleared your throat loudly, enough to get his attention. When his head snapped toward you, his eyes widening, you saw the hopeful glimmer in them. But you didn’t let him speak—not yet.

“No need for words, Rook Hunt,” you announced dramatically, extending one arm out wide and placing a hand over your heart as if you were in a Shakespearean tragedy. “For today, I come to seek your forgiveness!”

Rook blinked, clearly confused but intrigued. That was your in.

“I have wronged you, my dearest huntsman,” you continued, falling to your knees in a sweeping motion, as if you were collapsing under the weight of your guilt. “I have ignored you, punished you with silence for far too long, and for this, I am truly repentant.”

By now, Rook was staring at you, utterly captivated by your performance, which only encouraged you to go bigger.

“I have been petty, unreasonable, and blind to your affections,” you said, throwing your hands to the sky as if appealing to the heavens themselves. “But today, I seek redemption! I beg of you, O Rook Hunt, forgive me, for I cannot live another day without hearing your flowery prose, without basking in your eccentric glory!”

Rook’s lips twitched, and he brought a hand to his mouth, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. But you weren’t finished.

“To prove my sincerity, I offer you a token,” you declared, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a single, crumpled daisy. You held it up to him with both hands as if it were a royal gift. “A humble flower, to represent the fragile beauty of our love. Please, accept it.”

Rook stared at the flower, then at you, before finally, he cracked. His laughter spilled out, echoing in the courtyard. He dropped to one knee in front of you, his shoulders shaking with amusement. “Mon trésor, only you could outdo even my own dramatics.”

You gave him a triumphant grin, still holding out the flower. “So… am I forgiven?”

Rook’s eyes softened as he reached out, taking the daisy from your hand as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “Forgiven? You were never truly condemned, mon amour.” He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his usual playfulness shining through.

“Good,” you said, relieved. “I was running out of material.”

But just as you were about to stand, Rook moved faster. In a blink, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into the tightest hug you’d ever experienced. You were practically squished against him, and while you appreciated the affection, it was getting hard to breathe.

“Rook…?” you managed to mumble into his shoulder. “I can’t… breathe.”

But he didn’t let go. If anything, he hugged you tighter, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “I thought I had lost you,” he whispered, his voice low and shaky in a way that caught you off guard.

You paused, your heart sinking at the tone in his voice. Slowly, you pulled away, struggling a bit against his grip until you were able to meet his eyes. “Rook? What’s wrong?”

He sighed, finally loosening his hold just enough to let you move, but he didn’t let go entirely. His gaze flickered to the ground for a moment before he finally spoke. “I was afraid,” he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically small. “Afraid that my eccentricity… my quirks, my passion for the unusual—had finally driven you away.”

You blinked in surprise. Rook, of all people, thinking you would get tired of him? The man whose energy practically radiated confidence, who seemed unshakable?

“Rook…” You reached up, cupping his face in your hands and forcing him to look at you. “I love your quirks. I love how weird and dramatic and over-the-top you are. It’s what makes you you.” You leaned in, planting a kiss on his cheek. “And I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

His eyes widened, but you didn’t stop there. You kissed the other cheek, then his forehead, peppering his face with kisses until he started laughing softly under the onslaught.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered between kisses. “I was being petty, and I took it too far. I never wanted to hurt you like that.”

Rook shook his head slightly, but he didn’t pull away from your affection. “You have no need to apologize, mon cœur. I just… I couldn’t bear the thought of losing your light.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to make your point clear. “You’ll never lose me,” you said firmly, your forehead resting against his. “Not for being who you are. I love you, Rook. Every part of you.”

A soft smile spread across his lips as he leaned into you, his arms wrapping around you once more—though much gentler this time. “Je t’aime,” he murmured, his voice full of warmth. “More than words can express.”

You grinned, pulling back just enough to kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you too, you dramatic dork.”

He chuckled, holding you close, and for a long moment, the two of you just stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing quiet kisses and soft words.

It was, in its own way, the most perfect apology you could’ve ever given.

Lilia Vanrouge:

It had been days since the argument. Days! And you could practically feel your willpower disintegrating with every second that passed.

It was completely out of character for you and Lilia to fight. Normally, Lilia’s mischievous grin could melt away any tension between the two of you, but this time, something had gone awry. The disagreement wasn’t even over anything important, but you both had dug your heels in out of sheer stubbornness. Now, the silence stretched on like a never-ending opera that had lost its charm halfway through Act 2.

You were on the verge of cracking. If there was one thing you couldn’t handle, it was seeing Lilia go a whole day without teasing you or giving one of his random, nonsensical life lessons. And now? There was just silence. Deafening silence.

Even worse, Malleus had started giving you the look. You knew the one: his trademark “kicked puppy” expression, like you had personally thrown a thunderstorm over his parade. Every time you walked by, his wide, draconic eyes would lock onto yours, as if begging for you to fix things with Lilia.

The final straw came one evening, after Malleus lpoked at you like you had just told him all the gargoyles were being demolished.

That was it. You couldn't take it anymore.

Lilia was sitting in the Diasomnia common room, reading some old tome, looking as composed as ever. But you knew him better than that. His usual mischievous sparkle was missing, replaced by an uncharacteristic somberness.

You needed to apologize, but it couldn’t just be any apology. No, this was Lilia Vanrouge. You had to match his energy with something equally as ridiculous and dramatic.

So, you walked into the room, threw yourself onto the ground, and sprawled out like a dramatic character in an ancient tragedy, arms spread wide, face contorted in over-the-top despair. "LILIA!" you wailed, your voice echoing off the stone walls. "I cannot bear it any longer! The weight of my guilt crushes me like a boulder atop my fragile soul! Forgive me, or I shall wither away into nothingness, a mere shadow of the person I once was!"

Lilia looked up from his book, eyes widening slightly at the sheer spectacle of your apology. You threw an arm over your face, dramatically flopping onto your side, as though consumed by your own sorrow.

"If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me," you continued, "then I shall simply expire here and now! Right here, in the common room! My ghost will haunt these halls forever, wailing tragically, and Malleus will be even sadder than before!"

Lilia finally broke into a grin, setting his book down and crossing his arms, clearly amused. "Oh, dearest, you really are laying it on thick, aren’t you?"

"I’m serious!" you declared, sitting up with dramatic flair. "Look at me—this is the face of someone who’s very sorry! And if I have to do more, then I will escalate! I will serenade you in the courtyard! Or... or bake you something!" You paused. "Actually, no. I wouldn't subject you to my cooking. But something dramatic will happen!"

Lilia let out a laugh, the tension that had hung between you two finally dissipating with his amusement. "Alright, alright. I believe you." He stood, walking over to where you were still sprawled out on the floor like some sort of tragedy-stricken poet. "You are forgiven."

You blinked up at him, suddenly feeling a rush of relief. You stood, brushing yourself off and giving him a lopsided grin. "Thanks, Lilia. I missed you."

But just as you were about to revert back to normal, Lilia's expression shifted—his amusement fading into something softer, something deeper. His hands, usually light and playful, gently gripped your arms as he looked at you with an intensity that made your heart ache.

“Though,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, “there’s something I need to say.”

You blinked, tilting your head as he continued. "Your recklessness... it scares me sometimes," he admitted, his playful tone gone, replaced with genuine vulnerability. "I’ve seen too much, lost too much over the years. And I worry. I worry that one day, you’ll be the one I lose. And I can’t... I can’t stand the thought of that.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he kept going, his grip tightening slightly. “I’ve lived for so long, but you—you’re the brightness in this endless existence. I never thought I’d find someone like you. And now that I have, the thought of you being the one that got away—” He shook his head, his voice faltering. “It terrifies me. So I’m begging you… stay. Stay with me. Forever.”

Your heart clenched at his words. It was rare for Lilia to be this open, this raw. He always wore his playful mask, but right now, that mask had completely fallen away, leaving only the ancient fae who had seen too much and was so afraid of losing more.

Without thinking, you surged forward and wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly. "I’m not going anywhere, Lilia," you whispered into his shoulder, squeezing him as hard as you could. "I promise. As long as you’ll have me, I’m staying."

He clung to you, his small frame surprisingly strong as he hugged you back, as though afraid that if he let go, you might disappear. You could feel his breath hitch, and you pulled back just enough to look at him, your heart breaking at the sight of the unshed tears in his eyes.

Gently, you leaned in and began peppering his face with soft kisses—on his cheeks, his closed eyelids, his lips. “I love you more than words can express, Lilia Vanrouge,” you murmured between kisses. “I’m sorry for being petty, for making you worry. I’m staying. Forever.”

Lilia smiled through his tears, leaning into your affection, his fingers gently brushing your hair as he held you close. “You’re far too good to me,” he whispered, his voice a little shaky. “Thank you.”

You hugged him tightly again, resting your head against his shoulder, and for a long moment, the two of you simply stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms. The fight seemed so far away now, the pettiness and stubbornness replaced with a warmth that filled you both from the inside out.

After a while, Lilia pulled back just enough to look at you, his usual mischievous grin finally returning to his face. “Though, I have to admit, your dramatic apology was rather impressive. I might have to start a new trend of grandiose reconciliations.”

You laughed, feeling lighter than you had in days. “Don’t get any ideas. I don’t think I could top that performance.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Lilia teased, pulling you in for another kiss. “I’ll handle the dramatics from now on.”

And with that, you melted into his arms once again, the fight nothing but a distant memory as you basked in the warmth of each other’s love.

Masterlist

[stararch4ngelqueen]

cute bath with jason, candles and bubbles and light music playing and he’s sitting behind you and giving you kisses as you just talk about eachothers days

—

Time Written - 10:50 p.m

—

“I saw somewhere that they sell these trays that hang on the tub, like hooking on the edges. You can use it to read your book inside. With a glass of wine or tea, or scotch too.”

Rough fingers along your back rolled any remaining knots in your muscles, calloused hands gently stroking along the junction of our shoulder and neck.

“Scotch?” Jason huffs in amusement. “C’mon, y’know I’m not a scotch guy.”

“Whiskey, bourbon. Whatever,” you giggle, leaning your head forward as you swipe along any stray wet hair, only to feel his fingers completely halt.

“You forgot my tastes??” Jason expressed with complete shock at this horrifying discovery. “Baby, I’m hurt.”

Any further giggling was unavoidable as you see his face; twisted into mock pain, his lips formed into a tragic quiver as he gives his version of puppy dog eyes.

“An’ here I was, so very very proud of myself to drive all across town to that lush store you like so much, All for the bath salts!” Vocally expressing his pain, he clutched his chest in one hand, dramatically swooping his damp curls back to dress his palm over his forehead.

“Oh my god, Jason!”

“And they weren’t even on sale!” Jason continues on, leaning his head back further with feigned agony. “I spent good money on my woman, an’ she forgets that I’m a bourbon man!”

“Jason stop it!” You turn yourself just a little more, both hands coming out of the milky waters to settle along his upper arms.

“I got you that bottle of Four Roses earlier, I know what my man loves.”

Jason smirks whilst withdrawing his hands from their prior positions. He can’t help but laugh a little himself, lowering one of his hands under water to rest along your hip.

“What I love is that pretty look on your face, Doll.” He pinches your chin with feather-like softness before kissing you.

Coming home to this everyday; you, was a gift.

Getting to spend every minute in your intoxicating presence. What drug or alcohol could be possibly infect himself with when his brain provided such ecstasy with one look at you?

The lights were dimmed, the water still clung to its toasty warmth. The milky waters seeping with sweet soap, pearlescent powders, crushed oats and herbal oils.

An exquisite tastes of both lavender and honey soothing elegance, bodies dripping in glittering gold.

In some cases, you didn’t wanna do anything sexual when Jason came home. This bath, for example, both of you were naked yes, but it was possible to not think such thoughts in a precarious state.

Your one and only was home safe and sound, You loved nothing more.

Jason was more than okay with that.

If you weren’t up to it, neither was he. Vice versa.

A perfect, consensual balance.

This was much better than a book, even better than a drink. The sleep he always got after these baths were heavenly, nearly slumbering like a baby each time.

“After the day I’ve had, I prefer this right here instead of a drink.” Jason re-swipes his soaking wet hair back along his head, growing slightly irritated from his dipping curls dripping onto his face.

“What a way with words, handsome.” You smile as you turn your body slightly, letting your upper half settle more comfortably against his. His hand settles along your back, running soothing circles against your glistening skin.

“Jason.”

“Hm?”

“If I did buy you that bath tray, would this mean you’d read to me in here?”

“Probably,” he replies, pondering over which book exactly. Also if he believes he could be comfortable enough with literature in the tub.

“Might as well do some skincare too,” you ponder over the idea, to Jason’s confusion.

“Like, some eye masks or something. Make it a spa day.”

Jason remained… intrigued, adamant. Only eye masks he’s seen you use were those glittery jelly ones you put under your eyes. He’s tried them once, per your request. They weren’t bad, but he didn’t understand the uses to this day.

“You’re just giving Dick more things to talk about.” Jason chuckles, his eyes closing as your hand readjusts his sopping wet, snowy curl out of his face.

“As if he needs to know what we do. This is our time, remember?”

“Mhm.” He leans close, pressing a kiss along your cheek before leaning just a little lower, leaving a softer peck underneath your ear.

“Our time.” He murmurs, feeling your head lean against his touches.

“The day I can dress you in a bright pink robe—“

“Babe no.” Oh boy. “C’mon—“

“-With feather lining and fuzzy slippers. You’d look adorable!” Your purposefully cheery accent had him groaning your name in false irritancy against your neck, rolling his eyes.

“There’s no deal you can make with me for that to happen, Princess.”

“I can be very persuasive, Mister Todd,” your tone drops from its cheerful tease into a more slow, much familiar tune he was well accustomed to.

His chest rumbles with amusement, teal eyes narrowing with interest in your statement. You’re really eager for him to do such? Now you piqued his interest.

“I’d like to see you try, pretty girl.”

[kquil]

SIRIUS BLACK | MUSIC LOVER

request. : Hi love! Could you do one with sirius where, reader and him is in his dorm and reader asks him to put on music on (record player probably cuz they don't have phone) and he gets really insecure, bc what if she doesn't like his music. Buuuut when he sees her tap her foot along to the drums he gets soo happy, and when she mumbles along to his favorite song (i feel like is probably like dancing queen or sum) he just know he's found the person he's going to marry and he's just so happy and cute. If not that's totally fine! Take care 😘😘—@valencia-rou

g. : fluff ; muggleborn reader ; secretly pining sirius ; sirius being dramatic again ; reader isn't having it ; they're besties ; sirius is an ABBA lover ; reader is an ABBA lover too ; record player is the secret matchmacker

length : 0.6k

You sigh heavily and slump back into Sirius’ bed, putting aside your unfinished essay. This attracts the attention of the marauder, who was propped up against the headboard and flicking through a muggle book. 

“No progress, huh?” there was a touch of amusement in Sirius’ tone that made you frown deeper and raise a hand to hit his shin. As soon as the resonating slap echoed through the dorm room, Sirius immediately shouts in mock pain and brings his shin up to clutch at ‘painfully’, “Ow! The pain! Ahh!” he hisses dramatically as you roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips shyly from the display, “It hurts soooo much! Why would you do such a thing, Dollface?!”

“Stop playing Sirius…” he ignores your sass and continues his exaggerated but amusing spectacle. 

“I’ve never felt such agony before in my life!” he lifts the back of his hand to rest on his forehead, sweeping some of his hair to the side and swoons as he peaks an eye at you. In that brief moment, he sees your amused, disbelieving face and quickly formulates a plan, “this pain can only be calmed by a kis-”

“Music!” you gasp and stand from the bed as soon as you see the record player sitting atop a set of drawers beside a stack of books. It was a new addition to the room that Sirius had begged Remus to buy for him in the muggle world so it was fair that you were surprised to see it. Rushing to the record player, you see that there was a vinyl already inside and look up at Sirius with excitement. Lost in your elation, you miss the anxious look Sirius gives you, “Is this yours, Siri?”

“Uh, yeah,” 

His mind raced with insecurities as you examined the record player in an attempt to deduce its mechanics. You’re a muggleborn and probably had immaculate taste in muggle music compared to his limited knowledge. He wasn’t sure about how you’d react to his taste in artists and songs. 

“Can I have a listen?” you’re still admiring the record player and almost fail to notice how Sirius doesn’t answer right away. 

Turning to the marauder, you smile and tilt your head curiously, finally prompting him to answer, “go ahead…” he watches you turn to the record player again, “you just have to flip the switch on the right si—” 

ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ promptly begins to play, which makes Sirius wince. He was new to the group but he was quickly beginning to like them just as much as Queen. The grimace on his face wasn’t for distaste of the music, however, it was, rather, in anticipation for your judgement. 

“Oh my god! I love this song!” you squeal, jumping in place before you begin to sing along, swaying your hips and moving your shoulders to the beat. From your perfect citation of the lyrics, Sirius could very well argue that you love ABBA as much as he does, if not, more. Before he knew it, his worries were wiped away, long forgotten and you were pulling him up from the bed to dance together in the middle of the dorm. 

Sirius had no choice but to admit that you had never looked so lovely or cute. And to think that she couldn’t get any more perfect… he internally praises, grinning widely and happily dances with you

“Je vais l’épouser…” Sirius utters under his breath, still staring at you with an awestruck look on his face. 

“Hm? What was that Siri?” you ask, turning to look at him with an innocent tilt of your head, hips still moving to the music. 

“Nothing, Doll,” Sirius assures and kisses your forehead.

Translation : 

Je vais l’épouser — I’m going to marry her

navi.

a/n : sirius liking ABBA is canon in my book, sorry not sorry! what i am sorry for is the fact that it took me so long to write this adorable request! i'm so sorry, my love! i hope you liked it, it's short and sweet but so adorable!

taglist : @melinajenkins @aastonishment @until-i-found-you @corp0real @celestcies @lovelydoveval @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @calums-betch @futurecorps3 @hihihi1112 @simpingforthe80s @yrluvjane @neeezza101 @chaosofmanyfandoms @storyofaromance @loving-and-dreaming @somewereinthegalaxi @rosaleenablack @samanddeansannoyingsis @marina468 @rosalyn-s @seungtelevision

[bat-mom-writer]

Theatrical Trio

Reader(Mother) X Bat boys (Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and a little bit of Damian)

(I do not own any DC characters)

"Jason, have you seen our dearly beloved mother?" Dick say with a dramatic flair, to his non biological brother, even as they stood outside the open office where she ignored them.

"No, Dick. I can't seem to locate her anywhere. It's as if she's vanished into thin air," Jason quipped with a smirk, his eyes scanning the corridor as if expecting her to pop out from behind a painting.

Their adaptive mother, from her perch behind the large mahogany desk, couldn't help but overhear the commotion her stepsons had brought into the otherwise serene office. She took a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of leather and the lingering aroma of paper and ink. Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she paused for a moment, her eyes momentarily closing as she felt the weight of her responsibilities press down on her.

"Surely she hasn't left us," Dick exclaimed with a dramatic flair that was only matched by the theatrical tilt of his head. "

Jason rolled his eyes, his smirk widening into a full-blown smile as he leaned against the wall. "Oh, I'm positive she's around here somewhere, playing the devoted wife to our dear father, Batman."

"What if she has been captured?" Dick gasped, his eyes widening as he clutched at Jason's shirt. "What if our poor weak mother has been taken by a villain?"

Jason also gasps, grabbing Dick by his shirt as well, "The horror! The humanity!" he exclaimed, playing along with the melodrama.

Tim, noticing the attention he's not receiving, decides to one-up his brothers by dramatically collapsing to the floor, writhing in exaggerated pain. "Mother! Oh, where is my mother?" he cries out, his voice echoing through the hallway. The sound is a mix of desperation and the theatrics they've all become too familiar with. His eyes are squeezed shut tightly, and his body contorts as if in the throes of a terrible agony. The floor beneath him is cold and hard, but he ignores it for the sake of his performance.

Dick, playing the heroic sibling, rushes over to Tim, dropping to his knees in an instant. He cradles Tim's head in his arms, his grip firm but gentle. "Brother!" he exclaims with a mix of concern and irritation at Tim's dramatics. "What's happened?"

Tim, his eyes still squeezed shut, fake coughs, the sound a pitiful and exaggerated rasp that seems to resonate through the very walls of the Wayne Manor. He lets out a dramatic moan, his body shaking as if with fever. "I... I have gone to long without mother's attention."

She can't hold back a chuckle at their antics. But holds her eyes on the papers in front of her, not daring to also her dramatic adaptive sons win.

Dick, his eyes widening. "Don't go into the light, Tim!" he yells, "Mother will return to us, I swear it!" 

Tim's dramatic act reaches its crescendo as he flings an arm dramatically across his face, his body going limp. "Tell her... tell her that I... I..." He pauses for dramatic effect, his chest rising and falling in exaggerated breaths, "that I loved her." With his tongue shot out, he lays limp, and dies.

Dick, not missing a beat, lets out a wail that could wake the dead. "No!" he cries out, his hand flying to his heart. His eyes brim with fake tears that threaten to spill over any second. He looks up to the high ceiling of the manor, as if pleading to the heavens for their mother's return.

Jason, his smirk now replaced with a dramatically furrowed brow, says solemnly, "We are orphans once more!" His arms spread wide, gesturing to the empty space around them. The light from the chandelier above casts shadows that dance along the walls, adding an eerie touch to their over-the-top performance.

Their mother finally looks up from her desk, unable to suppress her laughter any longer. She stands up, her figure poised and elegant even amidst the chaos. "You three really need to get a grip," she says, her voice a blend of amusement and exasperation.

Her sons' heads whip around to face her, their expressions a mix of shock and relief. Dick jumps to his feet, his dramatic wail cutting off abruptly. "Mother!" he says, his voice now genuine.

"Rise, my dear Timothy," she says with a gentle smile, "Your dramatics, while entertaining, are unnecessary. I am right here."

Tim's eyes flutter open, "Mother, is it really you?" he says, the fake strain in his voice more clear then air.

"No, it's Alfried. Who do you think it is?" she teases, her voice light and playful.

In an instant, the three brothers drop their dramatic facades and rush towards her, their arms outstretched. They group hug her with a collective sigh of relief, the tension in the room dissipating like mist in the morning sun. Dick's strong arms wrap around her waist, while Jason's embrace is tight and fierce. Tim, ever the youngest, wraps his arms around her legs, his head nestled into her stomach. "We were so concerned, mother. You mustn't leave us again." Dick's says, with a voice could have fooled Shakespeare.

"I assure you, I had no intention of abandoning my post," she responds with a laugh, her arms circling around their shoulders, her hands patting their backs in a comforting gesture. "Your father had some urgent business to attend to and I had to step in for him."

Damian, the youngest of the trio, strolls into the room, his eyes scanning the scene with a raised eyebrow. He's used to his brothers' dramatics, but the addition of their mother to the mix is a new twist. "Should I ask?" he says, his voice dry and unimpressed.

She shakes her head, "No. Did you need something?" she asks him, her tone warm despite the earlier theatrics.

Damian, with a slight smirk, "Dinners ready. And it smells like Alfred went full Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen."

Dick, breaking the embrace, straightens his posture. "Ah, the sweet scent of roast beef and... is that rosemary?" He inhales deeply, his eyes lighting up. "Lead the way, my esteemed siblings, for we shall make haste to the dining hall!"

Jason nods solemnly, "Indeed, our stomachs cry out for sustenance. On words, brother!" He and Dick, with a sudden burst of energy, each grab one of her arms, lifting her off the ground with surprising ease.

"Put me down, you hooligans!" She exclaims with a laugh, her feet dangling in the air. She feels the strength of her sons, a reminder of the powerful young men they've become under their father's tutelage and her own nurturing care.

Tim, not missing the cue, grabs her legs, his grip firm but playful. "Make way for the queen!" he calls out, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

She laughs, a sound that fills the hallway and dispels any lingering tension. "Fine, fine," she says, allowing them to carry her. "But remember, I expect no less than a royal treatment at the dinner table."

The four of them make their way to the grand dining hall, their laughter echoing through the hallowed halls of Wayne Manor. The walls, lined with portraits of the Wayne ancestors, seem to watch with amusement as the modern-day heirs act out their playful drama. The chandeliers cast a warm glow over the polished floor, which reflects their jovial procession as they move towards the enticing aroma of dinner.

[onmydelulushitasalways]

the marauders with a nurse reader

Characters: James Potter, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black

Synopsis: The Marauders have a tendency to get into trouble, and consequently getting hurt. They’re well acquainted with the matron of the hospital wing. What they weren’t acquainted with was you - the matron’s new assistant

James Potter

James had been knocked off his broom by a foul-sport Slytherin during his latest quidditch match. His broken bones were quickly mended, but the severe concussion he faced left him in the hospital wing for a week.

Not that he was complaining with the cute [your Hogwarts house] student working there.

James tried to be sly, like Sirius had taught him. He tried to flirt and wink and make you blush. But the way his heart monitor picked up in pace whenever you were around gave him away.

“You’re burning up, James,” you frowned, sat on his hospital bed, feeling his forehead.

“I feel fine,” the Potter tried to come off smoothly, but his voice was breathy and lovestruck.

“You’re all red, Potter. I think I better call Madam -“

“No!” he cried out all too desperately. “I mean, no. No, you don’t need to do that. I’m alright. Just stay here with me. That’s all I need.”

“Smooth, Potter. And clever too. But your glasses are fogging up,” you smiled as you went to go get him some water.

Once you were safely out of sight, James raced to clean his glasses. He wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought he was.

Remus Lupin

During the last full moon, Remus had gotten a bit scratched up. He considered hiding his injuries, but the risk of an infection caused Remus to head to the matron. Consequently, spending three days in the hospital wing.

His friends kept him company, but when they couldn’t, he had you. A sweet and curious [your Hogwarts house] who would sit on the edge of his bed and talk to him.

“So how did you get these scratches?” you inquired as you rubbed disinfectant on the decently fresh wounds.

“It’s a secret, I’m afraid,” he sighed.

“Trying to avoid a detention? I won’t tell on you, I swear!”

“No, I believe you. I just… I can’t say. I’d rather discuss something else. How about you?”

“Me? Well I work in the hospital wing for extra credit. But I also just like seeing the patients,” you shrugged.

“Do you like seeing me?” The moment the words left his mouth, Remus wanted to take it back. He sounded like Sirius, flirting with you. He hoped he didn’t come off too forward. He hoped he didn’t make you uncomfortable.

“Yes. Yes, I like seeing you.”

Remus warmed up. He suddenly became very aware of the way your hands massaged the disinfectant into his scratches so gently.

“I like seeing you too,” he mumbled.

Sirius Black

“I’m dying over here, darling!” A dramatic Sirius whined from his hospital bed. “I require attention! Assistance! Affection!”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t’ve gotten into a duel with a Ravenclaw. She hexed you into next term!”

“I’m skilled in other ways, love. Believe me.”

“Oh, I do, Black. But I’m not your love, or your darling, or your sweetheart, or your baby, honey, princess. If you want attention, go find some groupie. Otherwise, I’ll go find that Ravenclaw.”

“Ouch. What’d I do wrong?” Sirius feigned hurt.

“You’re annoying,” you stated bluntly.

“Egad!” Sirius clutched his heart in mock agony. “If I’m so annoying, why don’t you just heal me already? Then I’ll be out of your hair!”

“It isn’t that simple, Black,” you sighed, as you started ruffling through a nearby drawer.

“Or is it maybe that you just enjoy my company? Maybe even like me?”

“Don’t be delusional. I only hang out with you because it is my job to look after patients.”

“If that’s what you say, love. But things would go by a lot quicker if you just gave me all your attention and got me out of here.”

“You’re messing with me. I either ignore you, and you stay here. Or I get you out of here by giving you all my attention. You win in both cases!”

“Yes, well, that is because even though you might not like me, I like you.”

“I’m sure you say that to plenty of girls. You probably said that to the Ravenclaw who put you here!”

“True. But with you, I mean it.”

[cassieoz]

Sultan's Heir

Sapphire screamed wildly! The birthing pangs brutally raged through her core like a fire storm. She collapsed and clutched the silk quilting in front of her. Sapphire could feel the enormous head spreading her. The torture of birthing a royal heir was completely overwhelming the mother to be. Her eyes were filled with tears as her suffering echoed through the curtains of the birthing tent.

"It started at dawn, Your Highness! She has been taken to the main tent in the encampment. The princess has her birthing assistants. They are very experienced and will help her to bring your royal heir into the world!"

The Sultan looked at the other men in the room. They were all married and had many children. They reassured the Sultan that the princess would deliver a healthy child. He slowly nodded but he secretly longed to be with her.

Sapphire bent forward and yelled out loudly. The head pounded her savagely as the pangs grew more unbearable. She curled her hands in the soft cotton sheets as she rocked back and forward. On her hands and knees, she could feel the full force of the birthing head between her folds. Sapphire shouted in birthing agony as she bore down on the merging dome. She was shaking and sweating profusely from the intense throbbing of each contraction.

The Sultan walked the halls of the Palace. His nerves were raw and his mind was racing. It was not acceptable for him to be with his princess as she gave birth. He was crazy about her! He had passionately impregnated his heir into her womb. He could only hope she could endure the turmoil of releasing the child into the world.

Sapphire frantically panted as she pushed and strained heavily against the crowning tip. Sapphire layed with her legs wide and supported as the need to bear came without mercy. Her echoing sounds filled the entire encampment as the birth slowly progressed. The agonisingly strong contractions bombarded the first time mother. Sapphire shoved down hard whenever a pain exploded at her entrance. The orgasmic intensity erupted with each surge. Sapphire shook wildly as she rode the exhausting journey towards delivery. The mixture of bearing and stretching made her orgasm painfully as the head grew enormous at her opening.

The Sultan ordered for his helicopter to fly him to the desert encampment. It had been one long day and still no news. As the helicopter landed, attendants rushed forward to welcome him to the encampment.

Sapphire howled madly as the next pain detonated like a mega bomb at her entrance. The head thrashed forward as her cries became deafening. She was finally entering the final stages of birthing. Sapphire vibrated wildly with an unstoppable pulsing as the head thrusted her wider and wider. The princess was completely exhausted. She was lost in the final round of contractions. Her torturous birthing ordeal was coming to its dramatic end.

The Sultan could hear her suffering but his attendants held him back from entering the birthing tent. He was white with fear as he listened to the roaring screams of his princess fighting to deliver.

"I can't!......I can feel all of it!......Make it stop!......I have to push!......I need it out!......RIGHT NOW!"

The princess roared at the top of her lungs. The orgasmic birthing explosion split her wide as the head pushed its way to freedom. Moments later, the second eruption brought the rest of the baby out of her exhausted frame.

The Sultan rushed forward and hurried into the bed chamber.

"Darling? Are you alright? I am so sorry that you had to suffer for our child!" Sapphire looked up with tears of joy, holding their child within silken wraps.

"I would do it again, my love. Whenever the pain came, I thought of you and I knew our son would be born safely. I can't wait to do my duty all over again....and soon!"

[agrazza]

AU ficlet

so if you're looking for something hurt/comfort from TG/Astarion and you are not in the discord (where I already shared), can I interest you in this probably-will-never-become-canon excerpt under the cut? setting is vaguely On Darkness era, in which Tav recalls a memory (probably the one from my most recent fic, but it's not specified) and... copes in an unusual way.

He wanted to get away from these memories. They were too big, crushing his mind under the weight and the grief and he hated them. Wanted to carve them out in a way that he hadn’t been tempted to take a knife to himself since he’d rejected Bhaal for good. He wanted to be small, too small for the memories to find him, too small to understand them, small enough to hide from them. 

He clutched at his head, gasping quietly as Astarion said something soothingly to him, a cool hand on the back of his neck, but it wasn’t enough. Tav couldn’t understand him over the buzzing in his ears. Tav didn’t want to be in this body that could now remember a hurt deeper than he’d been prepared to bear. If only he could just… not be. 

Yes. There had to be something. Some escape. Out of his head, out of this shape, away. “Darling, I really need you to breathe,” he heard suddenly, quite clearly, a voice that was tense with worry, and Tav gasped obediently, trembling, but only so that he’d have enough air to grasp for his flute and play. 

. . .

Astarion had no idea what was going on. First Tav had been clutching his head and crying, softly, so quietly that it broke Astarion’s heart more than if he’d been yelling in agony or sobbing. Like he was afraid to bring too much attention to his pain but couldn’t bear it any longer. No catharsis, just suffering. 

Then he started hyperventilating, which was very Not Good, as far as Astarion remembered. His bard needed air to breathe, to speak, to live. “Darling, sweetheart, it’s alright,” he tried, not wanting to smother, but needing Tav to know he was there. He settled for cupping the back of Tav’s neck, but it didn’t seem to help with Tav’s misery. “Darling,” he said, more firmly. “I really need you to breathe.”

Tav took a shuddering sort of breath, then another, then fumbled for something on the bed. His flute? What—? He played, something Astarion had never heard, yet it had real power in it: magic. There was a flash of light, and then his bard vanished. 

Briefly, Astarion panicked. That hadn’t been Teleport, or any of Tav’s spells that had a teleportation effect that Astarion knew. What had he done? Where—?

“Mrow,” the rumpled bedsheets said.

Astarion froze, then reached down and flicked back the blanket. A blue-eyed cat with a notched ear looked at back at him. 

“You didn’t,” Astarion said, and if he’d taken a moment to gawp, well no one could prove it. The cat had long fur, a broad head and a short neck, and its fur was a whitish light brown color, mostly cream with a darkening slightly at the nose, ears, tail and paws. He was not a delicate cat, broad chested with round paws, but he had a terribly-soft-looking coat. 

Astarion reached down without meaning to, and the cat began purring immediately, butting his head against Astarion’s knuckles. “Well,” Astarion said, not sure if he was amused, shocked, or worried. “My dear, I know we compete for most-effective way to ignore painful feelings, but spontaneously learning how to turn yourself into a cat seems a tad extreme.”

“Mrrp,” Tav-as-cat said helpfully— it wasn’t Wildshape, he wasn’t a Druid, so it must be Polymorph. Astarion really didn’t understand Bard magic— and went utterly limp when Astarion went to pick him up, half-expecting the cat to protest. Instead, it purred louder, draping itself dramatically over Astarion’s arm and curling its fluffy tail around his wrist. 

“Well,” Astarion repeated, helplessly charmed. The cat was terribly warm, and its fur was very soft under Astarion’s fingers. His whole body was practically vibrating with how loud the animal purred at Astarion’s attention. 

“Just for a little while,” Astarion said sternly, sitting on the edge of the bed and settling the puddle of an animal on his legs. Tav’s round paws kicked once, twice, gleefully, before he sprawled all across Astarion’s lap, getting cat hair all over his breeches, no doubt. “A short break can’t hurt you, I suppose,” Astarion mused, relieved at least the Tav-as-cat wasn’t crying and didn’t seem to be in any emotional pain. 

The cat meowed again until Astarion resumed scritching his ruff, rolling to bare his belly without shame, and Astarion gave in to the urge to coo; it was unlikely Tav would remember. “You handsome specimen,” he murmured. “Of course you’d turn into a great lazy, lummox of an animal who only cares about using me as a pillow,” he said, his tone at odds with his words. The cat’s startlingly blue eyes were lidded in animal pleasure as Astarion petted him, utterly lax. 

“Rest darling,” Astarion murmured, words almost lost under the sound of Tav-as-cat’s contentment. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

[theluckywizard]

WIP WHENEVER

I've been working on this pun battle for an upcoming chapter of my longfic In the Shattering of Things the last few days (after it sat stewing in my brain for a solid month). I researched by watching pun championships and got some help from fellow DAFF writers, @kiastirling, @bluewren, @nirikeehan and @warpedlegacy and finally it is DONE.

WC: 916

Rating and CW: Gen, puns and utter torment

Rose Trevelyan POV

Scene is they are on the road to Crestwood and trying to keep Rose entertained for *reasons*.

It's truly cringe, so proceed with caution below.

Excerpt:

On the second day I find myself sandwiched between Varric and Hawke who busily share tales of their exploits in and around Kirkwall, keeping my attention captive and forcibly restraining it from chasing misery for an hour or so. Hawke is eager to set the record straight for me, although Varric points out that his version invariably has significantly more panache.

“If Sebastian hadn’t had his bow trained perfectly on the Wyvern’s eye, Hawke wouldn’t have made it,” sighs Varric, the memory a twinkle in his eye.

"I remember it was an arrow escape!” says Hawke, a grin of pure triumph breaking across his face. As I drop my head back in amused torment, Varric’s head jerks side to side with sudden vehemence.

“Oh no. Oh no no no,” says Varric, a weak look drifting over to his best friend.

“Yes.”

“I… can’t.”

“You will,” says Hawke with certainty. “Topic: weapons. Go!” A sudden effervescence bubbles up inside me as my mind immediately grasps for the next play. I glance apologetically at Varric and then at Hawke and unleash my worst.

“This sounds like a sword spot between you two,” I remark, my smile twitching well into my cheek for the first time since we left. Hawke’s brows pop up and he grabs a fistful of his hair in shock and delight. 

“If you don’t fight back, Varric, she’ll pommel us both!” he counters, leaning around me to regard the dwarf. The energy shifts around the three of us, craning to put eyes on the brewing chicanery, muttering to themselves about how terrible it all is.

“Fine, fine. I’ll take a stab at it,” grumbles Varric, rapidly losing his grip on his smirk.

“And I shall saber the experience,” grins Hawke. I hear Cassandra’s rumble of agony somewhere behind me.

“Spear us your groans, Seeker!” Varric calls.

“Like the dregs of the worst theater company in Val Royeaux,” scoffs Vivienne into her horse’s mane. “Wordplay is the lowest form of comedy.”

“Cleave us alone already, will you? We love edgy humor!” gripes Hawke, hamming it up for the audience around him.

“Cutlass some slack, Iron Lady,” says Varric.

“Come Madame Vivienne, surely you enjoy wincing until your face hurts like the rest of us?” says Dorian. Vivienne merely lifts her chin, thinly veiling her disdain for it all with a distance gaze ahead. 

“Shield get used to it. Eventually,” says Hawke with a shake of his head, directing his obvious glee at me again.

“Oh, wipe that dirk off your face,” I swipe. He clutches at his chest dramatically.

“You stagger me, Lady Violet. You axe too much of me!”

“Amateurs. You’re making a mace of things,” calls Bull, glancing over his shoulder with a wide grin as he falls back to ride closer to the chaos.

“Terribull,” Hawke strikes back. “Truly Terribull.”

“Like I haven’t heard that one a thousand times before, Champignon. Weak jab.”

“True, but I still think I prefer Prose. Your punnery impales in comparison,” says Hawke.

“Thrust me, we’re all well aware of your preference,” says Bull with a laugh. Laughing, Hawke steals a pointed look at me that prompts a momentary surge of heat to my cheeks.

“It would be a greaves mistake to underestimate me, Bull,” I call ahead to him.

“Ha! Knife one.”

“Sad how you flail about for such low hanging fruit. You don’t haft to say them maul, for Maker’s sake,” Hawke says, his triumph provoking hollers and aching moans from the lot of us. He takes a slight bow over his horse’s ashen mane. “Shank you very much.” My laughter slips out at last, breaking free from the ache that hasn’t left my ribs since that awful morning.

“They’re words but they’re the wrong words,” mutters Cole, suddenly appearing at a jog alongside Varric.

“But they’re almost the right words and that’s why it’s funny, kid,” explains Varric.

“Hawke uses a lot of wrong words,” observes Cole. 

“A true rapier wit,” says Dorian, testing the waters, earning a cheeky grin of approval from Hawke and another exasperated sigh from Cassandra.

“Maker, don’t encourage them,” says Vivienne, believing that she and Dorian are a sort of team above it all. 

“Ah, you think you’ll cuirass of our affliction?” Hawke continues over his shoulder, his eyes practically glowing with delight.

“I’m not engaging with you,” she answers, fixing her eyes firmly on the road ahead.

“Don’t be bashful, Vivienne, it’s just a friendly gauntlet of sorts,” I say and my snort pops out so suddenly that I fail to clamp it under my hand, a joyful tear collecting the corner of my eye. Maker, I’ve needed this. 

Vivienne’s eyes flutter and roll.

“Ouch. A parry of puns no less,” says Hawke and my pained look is clearly the reward he seeks.

“Maybe we should claymore gently around her,” says Varric. Cassandra cries out in indignation.

“I agree. Perhaps we should break for lunge?” I inquire. And then we see it. The barest little twitch of the corner of Vivienne’s lips. We all trade sudden looks of astonishment.

“Let it be known that the Iron Lady smiles!” declares Varric. “At lowly wordplay no less!”

“An insect alighted on my cheek, nothing more,” she says, her smirk sneaking away from her again and the roar of approval is immediate. 

“Admit it, we’re pretty stunny,” says Hawke.

“Knife one!” shouts Sera, having listened to all of this and waited for her moment.

“Sera— just— no,” says Varric. “You never steal someone else’s pun.”

Tagging others for WIPs, even on this, the last day of the weekend!

@skyeventide, @effelants, @about2dance, @melisusthewee, @monocytogenes, @rowanisawriter, @smutnug, @breninarthur AND YOU

[pulpman2]

The Gun

“All right, Red, take it nice and easy,” a male voice snarled in Dani DuPont’s ear as she wandered out from her kitchen and into the hall. She heard unmistakable sound of a safety catch being released and a rough hand grasped her round her waist, ruffling the purple material of her expensive silk dress. “Now you are going to do what I say, honey!” the desperate voice came again. “Hello, Carl,” Dani replied matter of factly, seemingly unafraid, “and what precisely will that be, “honey”?”

Carl snorted with frustrated anger at the woman’s refusal to be intimidated. “You know darn well, you supercilious witch!” he retorted. “Now give me the key or will I be forced to splatter your brains all over the walls of this dump and look for it on your cold white corpse?” Dani sniggered slightly. “Very dramatic, Carl” she rejoined and turned her head over her shoulder to look at the him, a sardonic smile on her face, “you been reading Hard Case Crime books in your spare time?” The redhead could feel the impotent fury of the dark haired man. “Why you- “ he began. “Take it easy, Carl,” the woman laughed, “you won’t have to commit the first crime in your life. Do you really think I’d leave a loaded gun out in plain view?” Carl’s face turned pale in disbelief and he glanced at the weapon clutched in his hand. Dani suddenly brought her high heel down hard onto the man’s foot in one swift movement. Carl cried out in pain and dropped the gun and Dani quickly scooped it up. “Well done on getting loose, sweetheart,” she told the cursing man, his face still creased in agony, “but this is as far as you go!”

Later, with Carl, now sobbing in frustration and broken hopes, safely retied, gagged and bound once again by his arms and ankles to a chair, but a lot more tightly, Dani rang her clients. “When are you sending someone to come fetch this schmuck?” the female kidnapper demanded down the phone. “He is getting harder to handle. Besides I want my money!” She listened intently and put down the receiver. She walked into the front room, very deliberately and visibly loading her gun. “Come on, sweet cheeks,” she told the bound man as he raised his tear streaked and cleave gagged head to face her, “we need to go downstairs and I need to get you comfy in the trunk of my car. We got a long drive.”

My interpretation of the story behind the cover to Gun Work by David J Schow, Hard Case Crime Books (November 2008)

[kodaiki]

꒰ PLAYING DEAD IN FRONT OF THEIR KID ꒱

↳ note ⨾ repost! ↳ genre ⨾ dad!au, fluff! ↳ feat ⨾ bokuto, atsumu & suna

ʚ BOKUTO ɞ

"ah," your husband wails, clutching his chest in mock agony. the small child in front of his bursts into a fit of giggles at their father’s grunts and groans of pain. "tell mama i love her," bokuto then says hoarsely, taking a dramatic breath before collapsing onto the living room floor.

your child howls with laughter, waddling over to their father lying peacefully on the floor.

"what's going on here?" you ask, stepping into the the room scattered with toys when the only voice you hear is your child's.

"i beat papa," your toddler grins, pointing a chubby finger at your husband.

"did you now?" you smirk, raising an eyebrow. "you beat the love of my life?"

the child nods blankly, looking over their shoulder, awaiting for bokuto's big reappearance of 'I'M ALIVE!' to thus restart the game they were playing. only, it doesn't come as soon as they expect.

"papa?" your child furrows their brows, crouching down to gently pat his shoulder.

"how hard 'ya hit him?" you stifle the smile on your face at your kid's ministrations.

"not that hawd," they sniffle as their gentle pats turn to more forceful hits on their father's shoulder.

before you know it, your child snaps their head to you and their eyes brim with tears. "papa," they croak, outstretching their arms, reaching for your comfort.

bokuto's fatherly instincts kick in at the sound of your child's cries and he's quick to sit up, engulfing them in his arms. "hey, hey, i'm here! don't worry!"

"ko," you scold, watching as your child's sniffles look over at bokuto in recognition. "we decided it was a five second dead time!"

"'m sorry, mama," bokuto pouts at you as the child clings to the fabric of his shirt, burrowing his head against his chest. "i went too far."

"don't apologize to me. apologize them for the trauma."

"you okay bud?" bokuto looks down at his chest. "papa didn't mean to make y'cry."

the toddler nods, chewing on their lip. "mhm. 'want ice-cweam."

ʚ ATSUMU ɞ

"how do you even own so many nerf guns," osamu mutters, hanging the plastic toy over his shoulder as he glances around the empty hall.

"sh," atsumu hushes his twin, looking around the vicinity. "the kid's gonna hear 'ya."

"i can't believe you do this everyday."

"it's fun for the both of us."

"what, to feed your equal levels of competitiveness? yeah, i can see that."

your toddler hides in the corner of the play room, stifling their giggles at the sound of their father and uncle speaking in hushed voices not very far away. there's a small nerf gun tucked in their stomach, at a perfect angle towards the entrance of the room.

your husband and brother in law were done for in this game.

just as the kid suspected, atsumu presses against the outside wall of the room, carefully peaking around it, to give the room a one over. "the kid's too small, i can't even tell if they're in here."

"i think i heard something in the kitchen. they're probably in there." osamu nudges his head in the direction of ahead of them.

atsumu nods at his brother, moving to walk across the entrance of the play room. your child shrieks as he appears from their hiding spot, firing the foam bullets at their father. osamu stands of the side in slight amusement as atsumu jerks his body back and forth at the impact from the bullets.

when the child's bullets run out, atsumu collapses to the ground. your child jumps up and down in glee, giggling to themselves. "did 'ya see that uncle 'samu?"

"sure did. he's done for." osamu smiles easily at the toddler.

the kid waddles over to your atsumu and pokes his shoulder. "dada, i won."

at no response, the toddler scrunches their nose up. "daaa-daaa, get up."

"maybe, it was one too many bullets," osamu murmurs, crossing his arms.

"huh?"

osamu sucks in his lips to keep from snorting at the blank expression on your child's face.

"i can take his pulse, yeah?"

"what's a purse?"

"pulse, not purse," osamu corrects as he kneels down, holding two fingers to atsumu's neck. "'m sorry, little one."

"wha-?" eyes widen to saucers and he looks down at the face down volleyball setter.

then it all hits like a storm.

"dadaaa!!" your child wails, punching little fists at his back.

"hey, kid. it's alright, let's just-" when osamu's hand motions toward atsumu, the child quickly slaps it away.

"don't touch him!" the child cries, hitting their head against their father's back, gripping at his t-shirt.

"'tsum, stop being a prick. you're kid's scared."

"you started it!" atsumu's head quickly perks up in panic and he spins his body around to hold the child against his chest. "dada's here, kid." atsumu scowls at his twin. "you're the one who checked my pulse!"

after your child's sniffles die down, they stare seriously at their father.

"don't tell mama, ok?" atsumu mumbles in worry, knowing how you'd bite his ear if you found out.

"pwick." is all your toddler responds with a frown.

atsumu groans. now he's got two things to worry about. whether or not your kid tells you about what happened or the new vocabulary word they learned.

ʚ SUNA ɞ

"so, you just let them hit you with a pillow and they're happy?" atsumu raises an eyebrow as his friend's child giggles in happiness.

"basically." suna shrugs.

atsumu watches in slight confusion as suna and your child lay on the long sofa. the child lifts a plush pillow in their arms, throwing it at their father's head and when suna pretends to knock out, begins laughing maniacally.

"watching them must be easy."

"they're pretty fussy when it comes to food but yeah, it's a breeze. y/n deals with all the hard work of the morning."

"like what?"

"waking them up, getting them dressed. if y/n weren't around, this kid would sleep three days straight probably."

"wonder where they get that from."

"speaking of, i'm getting pretty tired." suna yawns, looking over at the toddler. "you? is it nap time?"

the child shakes their head, continuing their repetitive ministrations.

it goes on a few more times until suna pretends to knock out and just...doesn't lift his head again.

"pa," the child whines impatiently.

"darn, your own dad got tired of 'ya." atsumu snickers, looking at his passed out friend on the couch.

with a huff, the toddler climbs into their father's lap, leaning against his chest.

"whatcha gonna do? punch him? start a tantrum? i know my monster does that- oh, you're asleep."

atsumu sits awkwardly as he watches the sleeping pair. he snorts at the sight.

"what am i supposed to do, see myself out? some hosts y'all're."

[hotwings0203]

Idk what this is but the thought of you being scared of Bakugos quirk is so hot to me

Tw:noncon, predatory behavior

“I swear he’s getting to be more and more like a villain every time I see him,” you giggle with Mina as you two walk out of the class. Bakugo had yet again exploded at one of your shared teachers for correcting him in his pronunciation of a word, and as usual it was quite a scene to behold. Chairs were almost thrown, his friends had to hold him back from leaping up while others egged him on, itching for amusement in their mind-numbingly dull class.

“Maybe Shigaraki was right,” your pink-haired friend snorts and you both collapse in wheezes, clawing and slapping at each other’s shoulders as the ludicrous image of Shigaraki being unable to reign in Bakugo comes to mind.

“Hey ladies, what’re you two laughing about?” A lilting and charming voice comes right at your ear, and you turn to see Denki, Kirishima and…Bakugo walking next to you.

Just because of his proximity and how you were literally just talking about him two seconds ago, you jump away from Bakugo’s glowering face and not so subtly hide behind Mina in a half playful jest.

“Huh? Whatcha ya jumpin’ around for?” Kirishima laughs and you exchange an embarrassed look with Mina.

“Oh nothing, we were just talking about how Bakugo’s quirk is totally villainous. We’re lucky he’s on our side,” Mina singsongs, but you slap her arm in alarm.

And well placed alarm at that, because Bakugo’s scowl deepens as he turns his head to you in a death-glare. You swallow hard seeing his expression and try to nervously laugh.

“But, uh, we were just joking. Right Mina?” You give her a pointed look and she deflects it happily.

“Nope! At least you weren’t, you’re half scared to death of him, isn’t that right Y/N?”

Denki interrupts before you can sputter in horror.

“Honestly, who isn’t scared of this dude?” He claps the other blond on his back and yelps when Bakugo’s hands start curling with smoke.

“Watch it dumbass.” He cranes his head to meet your eyes, but when he finds that you’re still avoiding eye contact with him he starts moving around his friends to better talk to you.

“My quirk isn’t that scary you idiot. It’s not like I care enough about any of you to blow you up-“

But with the smoke still curling form his hands and with the permanently intimidating scowl on his face reading closer and close to your, you can’t help but squeal and scrabble around him to sink your nails into Kirishima’s shoulders for protection.

“Okay, I get it! You don’t have to come any closer, I can see fine from here.” Your voice comes out too high and strained to be deemed as joking, but nonetheless everyone laughs at your dramatic show.

Everyone but Katsuki. Because he can see you’re actually scared, he’s seen it a hundred times on civilians who try to pretend they’re fine but still have that panicked glint in their eye.

“Jesus Y/N, with a reaction like that maybe he really is a villain. Bakubro, want us to send you back to Shigaraki’s place? Maybe you should reconsider his offer.”

And finally at Denki’s quip everyone including you this time laughs again in playful agreement, but yet again Bakugo’s blood starts simmering further.

Why the fuck were you being so obnoxious? He didn’t do anything to you before, right? So why the hell were you embarrassing him in front of all his friends and making him out to be this bloodthirsty monster?

Well, whatever. If a monster is what you want, then a monster is what you’ll get.

And so he waits for you after school, trailing behind you a couple hundred feet yet still keeping you in sight. He curses when you giggle with your friends, no doubt in his mind that you’re still throwing dirt on his name and he swears under his breath when you talk to Deku and his dweeb friends.

Of course when you hang around ditzy dorks like Deku he’s gonna look like a psycho in comparison.

But at one point you’re by the vending machine alone in a deserted hallway, fumbling with your coins and trying to quickly get a soda before your friends up ahead leave.

Too bad for you, because when he’s done with you they’ll never want to be seen with you again for their own safety.

You’re shoving money in the slot when he silently walks up a couple feet behind you.

“No friends around to gossip about me?”

You shriek and jump a good foot in the air at the sudden voice behind you. Clutching your heaving chest, you whirl around to see who it is.

Your blood runs cold. It’s Katsuki Bakugo, the absolute last person you want to be alone with in a deserted hallway.

Your feet move a step back.

Wrong move.

His nostrils flare and his eyes widen at your insulting retreat. You know he doesn’t take kindly to it, but with an expression like that how could you not?

“Uh, w-what do you mean?” You chuckle nervously.

He doesn’t laugh. In fact, he does something worse.

He matches your steps and moves forward a little bit.

At this you fully take a stride backwards and clash with the vending machine behind you.

He keeps advancing, slowly getting closer and checking you out, his head tilted as his eyes roam up and down your vulnerable body.

“Don’t move back. Why the fuck did you move away from me? That’s rude, we were just having a normal conversation.”

You surprise yourself by sounding level-headed in retaliation. “‘Kinda hard not to be a little uncomfortable when your conversation sounds so accusing.”

He lunges forward and you actually scream this time, throwing your hands up above your head in instinct to protect yourself from his proximity.

Bakugo doesn’t touch you but you can still feel his breath puffing on your head, can still feel the heat from his hands on either side of your body.

“You got a smart mouth don’t you? Is that why you embarrassed me earlier in front of everyone?”

“Embarrassed you-?” You squeak but immediately cut off when he thrusts his face right in front of yours, a manic look on his face as all his facial features stretch into a irate leer.

“I guess we’ll have to fix that tongue of yours. Put it to better use than to talk shit about me, right?”

Vermilion irises move from your face down your body, lingering on your chest and at the apex in between your legs.

Bile rises to your throat as he licks his lips and lets his lips ghost over yours, oh so close yet not touching.

And in the second before he descends, you shove him off with nothing but pure adrenaline feeling your fear and race past him, blindly running down the halls as fast as you can.

Surprisingly, you don’t hear anyone behind you. That doesn’t mean you don’t stop running though.

The real reason you don’t hear anyone behind you is because Katsuki Bakugo has an eerie smile on his face at your bolt. He languidly stretches his arms above his head and relishes in the popping of his joints, and in succession the popping of sparks in his hand. He kicks one leg out, then the other just to ensure you get a fair head start.

You’ve just made this so much more interesting.

He sets off at a light jog, and even in his carefree pace his strides are enough to eventually catch up with you, instinct like an animal’s guiding him through the winding halls and ending up catching a glimpse of your feet as you turn into another lane.

You’re panting, sweat pouring down your eyes as panic makes it hard to breathe or think rationally. The adrenaline that was pushing you is now dying down but at the worst time.

You take a quick glance back and your rapidly beating heart falters as you see him with a grin on his face as he practically jogs leisurely behind you. You’ve seen this same face on him when he’s in the battlefield, blasting through enemy hearts and blowing up heads as if they were fireworks.

He’s bloodthirsty. He wants you.

“Running away again? That’s not very heroic of you babe,” he calls out, and it’s terrifyingly infuriating how he’s not out of breath.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” you half scream and sob, trying to run faster but failing miserably.

You see a bathroom sign out of the corner of your eye and frantically stumble towards it.

Katsuki knows you know he’s even you take a turn and he laughs to himself at how boringly easy this is.

Maybe he was scary.

He shakes it off and continues his hunt after you, coming forth until he faces the bathroom door in which you were cowering behind.

There’s a small window, and no other door. Just a couple of stalls, a terrified girl, and a psycho with the taste of revenge practically palpable on his lustful tongue.

He knock with faux politeness. “You wanna come out and do this the easy way or you want me to barge in and take you myself?”

You sob and wheeze in response, desperately pushing against the flimsy door in a pathetic attempt to keep him out. Bakugo merely crosses his arms and leans against the door, staring intently at it with a smile still on his face.

Judging by the weight pushing more at the bottom of the door, he can tell you’re probably sitting down in an effort to catch your breath.

You both know he can come in at any time he so well pleases, but he decides he’ll play by your rules for a bit longer, indulge you a little before your inevitable downfall.

He hums loudly and slides down to join your parallel position on the floor.

“I’m tryina be nice here, y’know. You acted so scared of me when I never even bothered you before. Aren’t I being nice right now by letting you choose for yourself?”

He sounds so conversational, as if he were talking to one of his buddies. You stay silent but your silence speaks volumes.

It serves as nothing but a means to piss him off further.

The two of you sit in silence for seemingly hours, even though it’s only around 20 minutes. Every second you feel like he’s going to break down the door any second and blast your face off, but miraculously he doesn’t.

You don’t know what you’d rather prefer: for him to prolong your strained agony by letting you be so close yet so far from him, or to end your suffering and get it done with.

But you needn’t sit in silence stewing in your own fear any further, for at the exact moment you begin to doze off with the dying of the light the weight on the other side of the door lifts and you startle awake at the scuffling on the other side.

You blink a couple of times and blanch when you see through the window the purple light indicating that you really have been here longer than you thought.

Bakugo cracks his knuckles and rolls his head, popping a few more kinks in his neck before breathing out and bracing for impact.

“Ready or not little bitch, here I come.”

“Bakugo, wait-!”

But your plea doesn’t last for more than two words. The door bangs open with such a sound that you actually think he’s blasted it straight off his hinges. You gasp and shield yourself, jumping backwards and covering your face.

“‘Thought I made it clear by now that you can’t run. So why’d you try to leave? Huh? Think you’re smarter than me? You think you’re stronger than me?”

He’s stalking forward again, and you’re left tripping back over your feet and whimpering at his salacious intent as he backs you up and corners you into a stall.

He already knows the answers to his rhetorical questions but he wants to hear you say it. He wants to hear that scornful conviction in your voice about how big and bad he was that you used earlier.

With you tripping backwards into the cramped stall, his approach quickens in hunger at feeling you, feeling the fear radiating off your body.

Bakugo presses up against you against the wall and takes up the space around you, invading your personal bubble. He’s everywhere, growling in your ear, hands gripping your waist so tight you’re sure bruises sprout from his touch, his erect penis grinding on the inside of your thigh.

Your trepidation and terror rises to an insurmountable height as he smothers you.

When he suddenly grips your chin and forces your head to face him you gasp. His touch is even more callous than you thought.

“You lookin’ here bitch? Good.”

His palm is raised towards you and before you can even widen your eyes in realization his appendage starts sparking madly. You shriek and try to throw him loose as little bits of embers fly out and made your face, his voice rough as always yet dangerously low and soft.

“S’not so scary after all is it? You’re reacting better to it than I thought.” Bakugo Blanca you mocks your writhing figure as you desperately try to evade the mini explosions.

“Okay, I get it, please stop I don’t like it!” You shrilly cry out but his hand moves from your jaw down to your neck, and squeezes the last remnants of opposition out of you.

“Yeah? Good, I’m glad you get it. But honestly, I don’t care if you don’t like it.

Because I like it. I fucking love this quirk, ‘specially when you cower so prettily under it like you did earlier.”

You choke and try to scrabble at his hands but it’s like a butterfly’s touch to him, barely producing any fruition.

“I kept wondering to myself: why do I care if she’s scared of it? And then I realized,” he leans in and lets his lips brush over your ear, lets his hand lessen ever so slightly so that your main focus is his words.

“You just looked good enough to eat when you know you’re beneath me. When you know how dangerous I am.”

He pulls back and assesses the look on your face. “Makes you look good enough to eat.”

And without further ado he lowers his hand and starts rubbing his alit palm on your clothed pussy, his erection getting harder as your screams wilt into whines.

Your legs flail uselessly as he burns a hole through your pants and his fingers hook aside the band of your panties.

Bakugo thrusts his hips forwards and grinds his straining cock on your moist lips, taking in your blubbers and teary eyes.

You can’t even speak, you can only cry out like a child as he thrusts harder and harder, so hard that your back hits the wall painful and the stall walls rattle behind you.

“You-pant-fucking scared-pant-now slut?” He rasps, his head bobbing on rhythm with yours as he practically lifts you off your toes to match his pace.

Your clit is caught between the fabric and rolled cruelly pleasurable as his tip leaks precum, staining your own panties in the process.

With your attention rapt on his now-uncovered dick sliding in and out of your folds, he takes this opportunity to take his other hand off your neck and blast the wall next to your face.

The second you open your mouth in shock as bits of tile rain down on your face he slams his steaming palm over your lips, burning the soft flesh as you weep openly.

He sets off two more near your sides and another above your head, his own face aligned right in front of yours so you can see the mean smile on his face all the while he sets your heart racing at an alarming speed.

When the smoke clears and you can start feeling glass and tile imprint on your once-smooth face, he positions his dick up so that it prods at your hole and yanks your hair back.

His eyes practically glow with the mini fires preserved in the walls with his blasts, the impact of the air rushing around him makes his hair even spikier, his body is taunt and even more imposing than before.

His teeth gleam with the orange and red light next to you. His chest doesn’t heave, because he’s at ease with your terror.

“You think you know fear?”

With one swift movement he shoves up into you, but this time he doesn’t cover your mouth.

“You haven’t met me truly yet.”

[sweetsbfreex]

a father’s duty

Summary: brought to u by the wholesome picture of Cevans sewing up dodger’s stuffed lion 🤧

Warnings: Talk of trauma (nothing too in depth) and talk of sex

Pairings: Dad, Husband!Ransom x reader

-

You and Ransom were cuddled up together on the couch, some random movie he had chosen that you weren’t paying attention to. You wanted to cuddle, but he insisted on watching this movie so a compromise had to be made. And the feeling of his hand going up and down, inside your shirt, against your arm; Could only make you purr in contentment.

And you were meant to doze off if it wasn’t for the dramatic, high pitched scream of pure agony. You both shot up from your seats, looking at each other wide eyed before dashing up the stairs (Ransom ahead). 

Until you were in the doorway of an overly purple room.

“Mommy! Daddy!”

Ransom let a small, stunned gasp at the feel of a teary eyed four year old, Celeste bolting to his legs. Her small arms had tried to wrap around his legs as she sobbed into his jeans, fists tight as she clutching the denim. 

Confused you had leant down adjacent to her, Ransom peering down from his stance, lifting her arms to softly run circles over her back. 

“What’s wrong baby?” a fake pout on your lips.

“She’s dead!” she had sobbed, her puffy cheek making contact with his expensive jeans to make eye contact with you. 

“What? Who’s dead babe?” Ransom asked, tilting his head downward, eye brows stitched together. 

She propped her chin up against his leg, “Daffy” she blubbered, extending her arm behind her to point at the limp stuffed bunny a few feet away.

“Fucking––” He couldn’t finish his sentence a hearty laugh emitted into the otherwise somber air, still laughing (some tears streaking his face) he had picked up the once blubbering girl so she saddled on his hip. 

“Ransom! It’s not funny and language, god”

“C'mon” he dragged the n, “You gotta admit this is hilarious, she’s so dramatic...I wonder who she gets it from” he smirked, looking at you knowingly. 

“You” you appointed, holding back your smile. 

“As if” he scoffs rolling his eyes. 

“Daffy!” Celeste exclaimed, snapping the two from their loving trance. 

“Right!” you snapped yourself back into mom mode, making way to Daffy and your way back to the two, watching Ransom wipe the tears from Celeste’s face, calming her down in a hushed voice.

You sidle up next to Ransom lifting the stuffed animal, so the both of you could evaluate the state of her favorite buddy. You looked up to him, watching his face scrunch up, almost like disgust, but you knew he was just very confused.

“Jeez leste, what’d you do?” 

The light yellow bunny up front was perfectly fine, but once you had turned it around a tear in the fabric of the it’s “spine” was parted, the thread poking out along the hem. 

“I–– I was just spinning her around”

“Is that really what you did” you prompted.

“No..” she set forward shyly, resting her temple against her father’s shoulder. “There was a string and then I pulled it by accident”

“By accident?” Ransom asked, eyebrows raised. 

“On purpose” she mumbled, eyes tearing up slowly.

Celeste is probably the biggest liar the two of you know. You both have been working on that habit, reassuring her that it was fine and being honest is better most times (minus surprises, safety, etc). You both had even resorted to acting out examples for her. She was getting better, but ever the fibber she still found a way to slip into the habit. And when you had asked her why exactly she loved lying, she only replied with a quib “It’s fun!” giggling to herself. 

“Hey it’s okay, you were curious” he cooed, “Mommy will fix it don’t worry” 

You looked up at him mesmerized, not so surprised at the father he was becoming. Remembering all those nights he had kept the two of you up, even the day you were in labor, he had been worried. How was he ever supposed to love a kid properly–– let alone his–– when he never had that benefit. All these what ifs running through his head in a cycle.

He had even taken it upon himself to sign you both up for those parenting classes. The ones with the fake dolls. Dolls that he held gently as if they were alive.

“I will. You’ve had a long day, love, you wanna go to bed now?” you asked her, smiling. 

She nods silently, reaching her hands out to you. Ready for the familiar night routine to begin.

––––

After Celeste had been put to bed, it was not you and Ransom being the only two up. You were both in your shared bathroom, getting ready for bed. 

You groaned, catching the attention of Ransom. “Sewing that thing is gonna be some work” watching yourself in the mirror as you rub in your lotion. 

“You’re tying that thing together, how hard can that be?”

“I’m sewing it together” 

“Tomato, Tomahto” he responded. 

“Fine, since you think it’s so easy why don’t you fix it for her?” 

“Deal. I’ll take another night of anal as my end” he says this confindently, not expecting another word for you, as he saunters past you briskly but not before placing a kiss to your check and a rough smack to the ass. 

Ransom.

–––––

And god did he take this seriously. Making sure you were up this entire time as he achieved his new level of domesticity. 

And you did, sitting up against the headboard as you watched him sit shirtless across the sized room. 

He sits in the barrel chair. the stuffed animal in his lap, a spool of light pink thread to match the bunny in between his legs, and a packet of needles in his hand. 

“Babe you have to––”

He holds up a hand, stopping you from saying whatever you were about to say.

“I got this babe” he tells you, looking at you wearily as he pulls up a video (‘how to sew stuffed bunny animal together’) on his phone. 

You watch him watch the video,switching the show you were watching to make it seem as if you weren’t watching him too carefully. 

He squints, focused as he listens to the lady in the video.

“You look so cute”

“Thanks” he grumbles, placing a thimble on his pointer finger. 

He was like a cute grandmother. His eyebrows brought together and tongue poking through his cheek, which you teased him endlessly about. There was just something about watching a brawly, grumpy man like him knit. So you pulled your phone out wanting to take a quick picture. 

“Put. it. down.” he tells you, not even looking away from his task.

“Wha–– You’re really creepy, you know that. Smile” you demand of him. “It’d be so cute for the album”

He of course doesn’t smile instead raising the stuffed animal to cover his face from the camera, but you were quick enough to get something before that. Smiling fondly at the adorable photo of his concentrated face. Once you had your fill of serotonin, you closed the device and reached over to set it on your nightstand. 

“You gonna give me a kiss goodnight before you go?” he asks you stoically, head still looking down at his task. 

“Yes Ransom. Just give me a minute’ you respond, shimmying yourself from the soft sheets. You make your way besides Ransom–– naturally he wraps one arm around your waist to bring you–– leaning down and placing a kiss to his cheek (which he smiles at) then his lips. He pulls back first only to return again for a deeper one. Sending you off, finally, with a pinch to your ass. 

“Goodnight, Baby” you tell him over your shoulder on your way back to the bed. 

“Night y/n/n.”

–––––

“y/n” is whispered in your ear and the shaking of your shoulder is what causes you to wake up. You turn your head over your shoulder to see Ransom standing over you gleefully. 

“Ransom?” you rasp, turning your whole body over to face him, looking at the clock on your night stand. “It’s two in the morning!”

“Thanks captain obvious” he mutters, rolling his eyes. Yet, he lifts up the stuffed animal. Both hands on either paws, holding it up to show you. “I finished!”

You instantly noticed the band-aid wrapped around his thumb and the brightest smile on his face. Through it you could see how proud of himself he really was. He really was getting a hand of this dad thing he was still figuring it out. 

Ransom, however, could only think about how tired he was and how strained his eyes felt––probably rimmed red. With the amount of times he had to rewatch the video because he missed or didn’t understand a step. But, for his little girl it was definitely worth it. 

“Well, look at you. You did so good bub” you extend your arm up lazily to then loop it around his neck, bringing him down for a kiss. 

If only his conceited friends could see him now. Thinking about how Danver, one of the many friends he had dropped, would berate him passively. Calling it a women’s role most likely. 

“Thank you” he settles one more kiss, “Let’s go”

“Go where?” you chuckle

“Leste’s room...where else? She’ll need him to sleep the rest of the night comfortably” he explains, removing your arm from his neck. To gently tug your hand.

“You sure?” you ask hesitantly.

“Hundred percent, let’s go”

––––

You open the door slowly, the creaking sound it emitted making you cringe. And when you’re hushed by Ransom, you twist around instantly sending him a stink eye.

And you both stand against the side of her bed, you crouch down. Raising your hand to her shoulder. 

“Lesty” you whisper, your thumb running circles over her shoulder. 

She wakes up slowly, as always. The clear indication that she is awake being when she raises her hand to rub at her eyes.

“Mommy? She stops and gasps, “Are we going to Disney?” asking the question with glee, she sits up, her hands placed over her book patterned pajama pants.

You and Ransom share a short laugh. Remembering how you surprised her just like this months ago. The frown that overtakes her face makes you both want to laugh. 

“I’m going back to sleep” she tells you both, already reaching for her blanket. 

“Wait” you laugh, holding her hand. “There's a surprise for you” 

At your announcement, Ransom steps up holding out the sewed up stuffy. Her tiny hands covered the gasp she let out, muffling it.

“She’s fixed!” she’s astonished, running her fingers  along the stitches. 

Celeste felt like a jumping bean with all this happiness filling her body and she wasn’t sure how to express how happy she felt. So, she jumped onto her mother, arms latched onto her neck. Kissing her cheek incessantly.

“Thank you thank you thank you-”

“Actually––” you start.

“Woah! Woah! Woah!” ever the dramatic, “Momma didn’t do this. I did babe” he tells her, a gobsmacked, playful expression on his face. 

Ransom’s replica quickly unlatched herself from y/n, rocketing herself into his arms. He held onto her tightly. Falling in love with the toothy smile–– albeit it was missing a front one–– she gave him. He was rolling around in her appreciation towards his gesture. This was all he wanted. To be a better man for you to marry and be a better father for his daughter.

He brought her into him a little bit, placing a kiss to her forehead. 

“Anything for you Leste” he tells her in a hush. 

You rise slowly from your crouch, knees a bit sore from how long you were down there. Just in awe of the love they both exerted towards each other. Ransom’s hand lightly flying over the back of her head and Her tiny palm coddling his cheek.

“Time for bed?” you ask the two of them, your hand naturally going to Ransom and Celeste’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m tired” she tells you, dragging out the h. Setting her cheek to her dad’s muscled shoulder. Nuzzling her cheek against it lazily. 

“Yeah? Well let’s put you in bed first” Ransom responds. 

You walk behind the two, as Ransom sets her down gently on her bed.

He sets a kiss to her cheek then he pulls back, watching the way her arms tighten around the stuffed animal. 

“You love it?” he asks, a proud smile etched on his face. 

“Yes” she whispers, “Thank you, daddy” her palm caressing the top of it’s head. 

“Anything for you Leste” he reaffirmed. He needed her to know that he’d do anything. Anything. To keep a smile that bright on her precious face. He didn’t want her to doubt if he ever loved her or if she could ever come to him about anything. He especially didn’t want her to think that she’d be second to his work. 

He loved her too much and decided, right when you told him the news, he’d learn from his parents’ mistakes and trauma he had to deal with. 

“Goodnight, honey”

He gets up from his spot watching you lean over placing a kiss to her cheek, tugging the crocheted blanket to Celeste’s chin. 

“Night baby” you tell her sweetly.  

“Night” she replies to the both of you before snuggling into the duck more. 

––––

RIght when you shut the door, you expect to face Ransom’s back walking towards your bedroom. But try not to scream, startled, when your head meets with his chest.

You look up, probably not the smartest thing to do. “You ready for bed?” you ask nervously, each hand landing on his broad shoulders. 

With the way he was looking at you, you would assume you were the last stash of biscoff cookies he always keeps fully stored in the house. Especially, with the other Drysdale in the house, the cookies went by faster when they used to.

“Don’t think so..We made a bet. Remember?” he smiles

“RIght now?!” you hiss lowly. He must have lost his mind. “You woke me up at like three in the morning”

“It was actually two” you whack his arm at his smart mouth, of course he doesn’t react.  “Anyway. A bets a bet. Let’s go baby” he crouches down, lifting you up swiftly into a bride-groom like position.

“Ransom!” you whisper, taken by surprise. 

“A quickie and then we’ll drop her off at your parents tomorrow to get to the real stuff tomorrow” he asserts.

With that, he picks up his speed. Taking you both down the hallway. Once he’s arrived at his destination–– the bedroom–– he throws you on the bed. Laughing to himself with how stricken you look. You should be used to this by now, he tells himself. 

“Ransom!” is the last of his name he hears with a tone of scolding mixed with shock, before he gets to work. When he climbs on top of you quickly––like a lion to prey––biting your neck. 

-

if you enjoyed pls don’t forget to reblog or give feedback if ur up to it <3

[stormbreaker101]

I am feeling cruel and bored so. Ranking my companions’ death animations

In the order my companions are in on the companion tab.

I have 20 companions so it’ll all be under the cut :)

1) El Toro: He just sorta. Collapses. He does a weird spin that looks like it’d break his ankles if he does it too much. Not quite dramatic enough for my tastes. You could do way better, Toro. 3/10

2) Fan Flanders: She drops her blades, grasps at her heart, coughs/chokes, and falls over. It’s like she’s having a heart attack. Simple, but quite dramatic, especially given the little spin as she falls. 8/10

3) Bonnie Anne: She stumbles. She tries to stand up using her gun. She falls to her hands and knees. She tries one last time before falling unconscious. I admire the determination! It makes the end all the more tragic. 10/10

4) Subodai: His hand goes to his chest. He stares at his hand as though it were bloodied. There is a pause. He falls flat. 9/10, loses a point because every other Horse Bucc in Mooshu has the same dying animation.

5) Sarah Steele: She falls to one knee then onto her side. A bit plain IMO. 3/10

6) Old Scratch: His head spins around on his neck before his entire body falls limp. Kinda humorous, but not my kind of funny. 8/10

7) Gracie Conrad: She falls onto her knees. Her neck and back hang limp before she falls. She makes a particularly pathetic sound that plucks at the heartstrings. Big sadge. 7/10

8) Ratbeard: Old man has a dramatic heart attack, shouts in old man agony, and flops onto the floor dead. So fucking extra. So fucking funny. 12/10

9) Milo Graytail: He grasps at his stomach and curls up like he’s got himself a debilitating stomach bug. Or like he’s been stabbed in his gut. Extra points for how pathetic he looks. 9/10

10) Catbeard: Ratbeard’s death but make it gayer. His sword flies in the air and he twirls in the air before falling from his own heart attack. 13/10

11) Contessa Argento: She drops her swords, and holds one hand up to her throat. Her eyes have already shut before she hits the ground. Quite elegant, strangely. 7/10

12) Buffalo Bill: His rifle goes first. He brings his hat to his chest, but as he falls his hat-holding hand falls to his side. 6/10

13) Froggo Villa: He grasps at his bleeding torso before quickly falling limp on his stomach. Quick and to the point, just like his personality. 7/10

14) Lt Springer: His sword falls from his hand. He slumps, turning away from the enemy that killed him, but doesn’t fall on the floor. How the hell do you die without falling on the floor. 1/10

15) Monquistador Veteran: He leans on his oversized halberd for support as he coughs the life outta him. One point docked for being used by all Monquistan Bucc enemies and all Monquistan enemies in Wizard101. 6/10

16) Crazy Monquistador: The enemy’s killing blow hits him so hard that he doesn’t just fall, he FLOPS onto his back. His head hits the ground first. If the enemy’s killing blow didn’t kill him, his head striking the ground will. 10/10 for being thorough.

17) Chicken Miner: He ragdolls to the side, clutching his pickaxe to the very end. Bonus points for sad chicken noises. 7/10

18) Monkey King: He places his quarterstaff down. He stands up straight, one hand in a fist and the other cupping it. He gives the enemy a respectful bow as he walks away. He doesn’t even fucking die. Bitch. I know the lore makes sense but I want him to DIE. 0/10

19) Hawkules: His club falls from his grip. he holds his beak as though it were the part wounded most. He flops over, dead. Basic, but with his own special quirks like not grasping at his torso instead. 5/10

20) Mustang Sally: She grasps at her bleeding side, then makes the mistake of letting go. She stumbles, the blood loss waning her strength, before she falls onto her side. Not bad for a character I disagree with on a fundamental level. 7/10

21) the Pirate themself bc why the fuck not: You stand there and your head rolls. A relic from Wizard101 that makes no sense in the context of Pirate101. In W101 all the combat is magical. It isn’t real wounds with real weapons and real blood. Makes sense that once your HP goes to 0, you’re stunned loopy. In Pirate101, there’s real weaponry. Real gore. The Pirate should at least collapse. 0/10

[notmrskennedy]

Bites and Bullet Holes

(Spencer Reid x Female leaning but sorta GN! Reader)

Summary: Spencer, during college, was bitten by a dog. Working a case involving dogs brings back old memories and friends...

W/C: 3,384

Warnings: Dog bites, bullet holes, bad writing? 

A/N: Guess what I found y’all? I haven’t edited it one single bit but I hope it goes over well anyway. When I was working at the kennel I kept having anxiety over one of my kids getting into a fight so I made this. Be a little extra gentle with this one. 

---

As he leaned over the victim, he made the mistake of thinking about you. Spencer thought he’d gotten over it. The whole randomly thinking about you thing—the thing that’s happened too many times before. He’d chalked it up to you being best friends 15 years ago. Told himself that it’s normal to miss your friends from college. 

But over a dead body? This was new. 

Though he supposes the dead girl could’ve looked like you in another timeline. There’s facial structure similarities—at least to you 15 years ago at 19. She’s been strangled with her dog’s leash and there’s some unspoken quality about her that just…jerks him into nostalgia over you. 

(You are probably the one that got away, but if he’s being honest, you live in DC. He could go see you right now if he wanted to.)

Morgan leans over Spencer and points at the dog leash. “It had to be someone she knew if the dog went off with our un-sub.”

Spencer nods, fidgeting with the 15 year old scars on the inside of his wrist. Whether or not Morgan noticed, he thankfully doesn’t press. Spencer is having enough trouble stamping down that knee-jerk reaction to think about you, let alone if Derek thinks to point out the magical, ‘hey weren’t you bitten by a dog?’

Spencer doesn’t remember the incidence well enough to comment. He wonders if you do. 

“We’ll have to check shelters for the dog,” Spencer remarks. “3.3 million dogs enter shelters every year in the US.” 

Morgan nods, pulls off a glove, pulls out his phone. Spencer looks around the park. Behind the police tape are plenty of people walking their dogs. The sorts of breeds that you’ve gushed about 15 years ago. His brain knew too much about dobermans, shepherds, mallinois—he could even hear that pretty little gasp you had when you’d point out a particularly well trained monster of a pet. 

Spencer wonders if you ever did anything with your finance degree, if you even ended up finishing college at all. You’d come close to dropping out over calculus—he hadn’t been around long enough to help you through the even harder stuff. This wasn’t the first time he’d wanted Garcia to look you up, but it was the first time he’d considered it. 

“Music to my ears, mama,” Morgan laughs into the phone and Spencer tunes back in. 

“I’ll get that puppy BOLO out,” Garcia chirps back. Spencer can imagine her wringing a fluffy pencils through her fingers. “We’re going to find this doggie and make sure that psycho didn’t get him too.”

Spencer smiles despite himself. Penelope would’ve liked you. 

#

JJ sets coffee down in front of his stack of files. She smiles, gracefully sits down next to him. Spencer tries his best to ignore her insistence. Tries to ignore the ever prominent eye contact screaming ‘We’re going to talk about something uncomfortable!’ 

“So, Spence,” she says, pausing for his attention with a sip of her own coffee. He looks up for half a glance before going back to the files. He doesn’t know why, but he’s sure there’s something in this stack of work the first victim had brought home with her. They all knew the un-sub, he had to be somewhere. 

“Spencer,” she says more insistently. He makes the mistake of looking up, of letting her place a hand on his. She gently turns the wrist over and pointedly glances towards the teeth marks. “Are you doing okay?”

He opens his mouth, but decides some things are better kept to himself. He thinks about saying that no, he wasn’t alright, that being plagued by thoughts of the first-love-of-his-life is haunting him more than the dog fight. 

That he can see your face in each of these victims. In their dogs. In the places they died. 

Dogs didn’t like him. They never did. The dog bite wasn’t the big deal out of the altercation. 

JJ won’t understand, so he offers her a truthful smile and says, “I’m okay. Seriously. More than 4.5 million people are bitten by dogs each year. I’m not special.”

JJ nods. Spencer goes back to his files. He forgets to hide his lovesick agony. JJ forgets not to notice. 

#

It’s 4AM and he knows he’s remembering it wrong. That the dog hadn’t been that big. That the teeth hadn’t really gotten him that bad. The bright red devil eyes and thousand yards of slobber were more than grossly incorrect. 

He sits up in bed and forces himself to remember the parts that were real. How real you had been. Before and after. 

Your car had broken down as you were leaving for work—already late—and you’d begged him for a ride. Promised calculus homework on your boss’s couch and only having to let the dogs out. No shit. No bleaching crates. No nothing. Just you, him, and some calculus homework. 

He’d caved. Now, running his hands over his eyes, he laughs at how obvious he had to have been. A skinny little 19 year old pimple of a boy majorly crushing on the first person to pick him out of a crowd and decide they’d be friends. The first friend who’d forced him to a tailgate at a football game. The only person he’d do absolutely anything for. 

And it was just like you promised. Your cute little nose wrinkle. Your horribly frustrated glares. Your over dramatic ‘I’m dropping out!’s every fifteen minutes. And it’d been great until you both heard a thunderous snap of a wooden fence and the wildest, most murderous howling he’d ever heard. 

You’d both bolted for the door, scrambling to get through the gates into the back. There’d been a moment of calm. Another beat. Another. And…you both had stumbled around the corner to find the next door neighbour’s dog, broken chain, trying to kill one of the kennel’s dogs. 

There had been no moment’s hesitation on Spencer’s part. He’d stupidly rushed forward, lodged his hand between the neighbour’s mutt and the sweetest dog he’d ever met. He’d yanked her free from the mutt’s jaws, only to find his own wrist dragging along the teeth. 

(He realised later that he’d always had a propensity to run head first into danger. No calculations needed.)

There’d been two beats for the dog to process it’s chew toy was in Spencer’s arms. To process that Spencer made a better victim. That Spencer’s throat and limbs were softer and easier to tear. Thankfully, he’d scrambled back enough that when the dog launched, it didn’t catch flesh. It chomped on air. Less than three inches from him. 

Fangs. Tightened lips. Black gums. Slobber. 

The mutt could be equated to Stephen King’s The Sun Dog. Always hesitant to process his trauma, it’s the one book—gifted by you during a Halloween birthday for him—that sits untouched on his bookshelves. There’s too much of you in the inscription in the cover. Too much of that horrible mutt in the pages. 

The next part of the night blurred in his memories. In his near perfect memory, it blurred. Trauma, right? 

You’d screamed. You were in front of him. You had the dog’s chain in your hands. He was running. The dog was heavy in his arms. His arm stung. You were screaming. He should’ve gone back. 

Five god-awful minutes later, you’d come into the house. Limping. Clutching onto your arm. You’d taken one look at Spencer running his wrist under the tap and forgotten about your own injuries. Despite the blood dripping off your arm. Or the quiet yelp every time you stretched. You’d barely taken ‘I’m fine, you’re the one bleeding’ as a reason to not bandage him up first. 

The only thing that calmed down the dream every time he had it was the memory of holding your hand while you got stitches. How your face pinched with the pain. How you’d said, ‘next time, it’s your turn to take the bullet.’ How he’d smiled and promised. 

Spencer watches the clock tick by and decides it’s too late to go back to sleep. Hotch’ll be up in an hour. No need to delay his start. Women were dying. Women you would’ve been friends with.

#

“Okay, crime-fighters, I found our connection,” Garcia chirps over the speaker phone. “All of our victims attended very specialised dog training courses at a facility just outside of DC. The owner said they’d send in one of their trainers to talk to you. Should be there anytime now.”

“What kind of specialised training?” Emily asks. Spencer feels like he should be contributing, should be processing any of this, but his head is pounding. He doesn’t have a hangover, but god does it feel like it. 

Garcia hums as she types. “It’s a military facility. Awww, they’ve got puppy pictures on their website!”

“Garcia—“

“Right, right. It’s a top notch facility and oh! A bunch of the FBI dogs graduate from there. I wonder if they get little caps and gowns and—“

“Hey, baby girl, the trainer’s here. We gotta run,” Morgan interrupts, though he’s all smiles to stare at whomever is plaguing his interest. 

There’s another squeal of please get puppy pictures before the call cuts and Spencer finally has the self preservation to look. And god does he look. 

15 years has made no difference on your skin and he can’t believe he’s not staring at you from across a lecture hall. The only indication you’ve changed is the nervous smile you’ve plastered on and the dog at your side. Every fun fact about german shepherds instantly crosses his mind and he can’t help but drop his jaw a little further. 

It sinks to the floor when you spot him and wave. You wave. At him. In front of coworkers. 

He’s out of his seat before he can stop himself. That easy smile reserved for movie nights falls back into place on your lips. Twinkles in your eyes. 15 years haven’t passed. Maybe he needs to check for pimples again. 

“Y/n,” he croaks and the same time his name leaves your lips. The dog at your side stands and you correct the gesture with a harsh word in what he’s sure is German. 

“FBI, huh?” Your eyes trail over every inch of him, crossing your arms in a relaxed, familiar kind of way. “I expected more math, Mr. I Like Derivatives.”

“The shepherd there doesn’t look like finance either, y/n,” he teases back like no time has passed. Like he doesn’t immediately feel incredibly guilty for ditching you for the academy. 

“Oh come on,” you huff, “you really think that I was cut out for an office job? I lasted six months.”

And before he can warn you, even think about warning you about the team that’s slowly creeping up behind him, they are all suddenly there. Very keen on knowing the ins and outs of how you know Dr. Spencer Reid. 

“Reid, you gonna introduce us?” Morgan smirks, clapping a painful hand on Spencer’s shoulder. You busy yourself with petting the dog at your hip, looking everywhere but Morgan’s insistent gaze. 

“Guys, this is my friend y/n from college.” 

JJ raises an eyebrow at the lack of explanation, but plows ahead with introductions. Takes charge of guiding you to an interview room. Gets through the entire interview without once asking about your relationship with him. 

Morgan watches Spencer rubbing the scars and makes the leap. “You okay, kid?” 

Spencer breaks from staring at your face as you talk about getting your start in Germany—Germany—and swallows. This was fine. It’s okay to tell his friend—his brother—about the story he’s never really talked about. 

“I stupidly put myself in the middle of a dog fight,” Spencer grits out, flexing and un-flexing his fingers. Every scar burns and he can’t help but stare at your smile again. “Y/n saved my life. She choked out the dog, Morgan, before he got a hold of me. Left the hospital with 12 stitches.”

“Oh,” was his all too helpful response. They both turned back to the interview. How everything jovial about your entire countenance shifted once JJ started mentioning the victims. 

“Look, Agent Jareau,” you say, leaning dangerously far away from the conversation, “They are—they were really smart women with some dangerous dogs. I don’t know—I just—there’s a lot of sickos out there.”

Every profiler within a 20 mile radius can hear the change in tone, can hear the fear. Spencer knows a lot can change in 15 years, but he thought for sure you’d never become a serial killer. He doesn’t know if it’s all his years in the bureau or if he’s still too attached to you, but you don’t seem like the killer. Not like JJ seems to think so. Sure, you’re terrified, but the dog you have is nosing your arm. Giving you big ole puppy eyes. Spencer doesn’t think a serial killer can pour that much into a relationship with an animal. 

“What do you mean?” JJ clocks the movement and switches to a maternal type of body language, tone. “Is there something going on?”

Your hand pauses on the dog’s head, and it noses your hand into action. “I, uh, just got a weird letter two weeks ago. It wasn’t—it was just weird. Off-putting.”

“Right before the first victim,” Spencer mutters. Weird letters indicated stalking. Victims with you as a central point meant stalking. Stalking meant you were probably next. Oh, god, you were next. 

JJ stretched a hand across the table and took yours. “You’ll get through this. You’ll get through this, y/n.”

#

Spencer didn’t know what to do with his hands. It was so much worse than normal. Should he stand? But what should he do with his hands because crossing them seemed too defensive? Or should he just sit down? But where? And was that rude?

Instead, he just took the cup of tea you offered and followed you like a lost puppy. Granted, it was your house and he was definitely lost. He also felt vaguely at home—there were a decent amount of bookshelves by his standards and even more mismatched furniture than he had. The house was well cared for and when you sat him down on your couch, you swept away a stack of training manuals, all sporting worn covers. 

Was it wrong to feel like he was settling onto your old apartment couch for movie nights?

You puff out a breath of air and lean your head dramatically into the back of the couch. “So, since you’re my FBI escort, is it wrong to ask if you still like cheesy 90s movies?”

He shakes his head. Grins. “You still have Legally Blonde?”

You just giggle as you head for a stack of movies. You strike up some conversation as you rummage and he knows he’s hooked all over again. It’s going to take weeks to get over you again. It’d taken months the last time, and he feels slightly less attached this time. But did he really think it would take more than a simple question about the latest thing he’s read? He wishes he knew you better, just as well as you seem to still know him. 

Though by the end of the movie, you’ve both returned to your college days. Practically curled into each other’s side. You still have horrible commentary about the movie, peppered in with Spencer’s annoying movie trivia. If it was anyone else, he figures, he would’ve been kicked out long ago. 

You still distinctly smell of vanilla, flailing the scent around as you move closer and further and closer again. You wear enthusiasm with your whole body and if you aren’t turning rapidly between facing Spencer and the movie, how could you possibly begin to explain correctly? 

Your shoulder keeps a constant pressure against his, your knees half over his thigh. There’s too many instances of hollering and laughing that you grab onto his knee to steady yourself. If this hadn’t been a protective detail, he might’ve lost his mind. 

Thank god for focus. Work. Work. Work. Not your hands on his knee. Definitely not your smile as you declare your affection for scented resume stationary. Totally not how hot it’s getting under your too affectionate gaze. 

“Spence, I really missed this,” you whisper, nudging your shoulder with his. “I know it’s weird to be thrown together after 15 years, but I—I missed you.”

“I—“ missed you too; fell in love with you in college; think I love you now. 

But there’s no time for heartfelt declarations when someone’s incessantly banging on the door. Spencer’s got half a mind to get the door for you, holster his gun, focus on keeping you safe. The banging doesn’t soften as he calls out that he’s on his way. If anything it gets worse. 

And it should’ve been the first red flag of the night. 

Spencer opens the door and thinks very loudly, “why the fuck do I always run headfirst into danger?” 

Their un-sub, a buzzcut that looks more Army that not, shakes a pistol at Spencer and demands to be let inside. There’s only so many ways to defuse the situation, so he back ups, tucks you behind him. Their un-sub winds a little tighter, shaking like one of those monkeys with cymbals. 

“McLaggen?” you whimper behind Spencer and the Army man fires a shot into the floor. You grip tighter onto Spencer’s shirt, digging in your fingers dangerously close to his skin. 

The buzzcut is red, boiling over with rage, words bubbling out of his throat. “Y/n, I just can’t stand to see you with them. You never notice me. You’re always working, so I thought I’d get your attention. Cut the competition. I just—you mean so much to me, y/n. You mean too much.”

Spencer is sure he won’t remember this day accurately as he pushes you just a little further behind him. He’s about to do something so incredibly stupid. Dear lord, why the fuck is he like this? And he lunges. 

The gun’s trapped in both of their hands. There’s one more bullet fired—at the ground he’s sure. There’s a squeak of fear. Just enough of a distraction. One more ounce of weight thrown around. One more lasting punch. McLaggen lands on the floor. The gun skitters away. McLaggen groans as he’s handcuffed.

You gasp and he realises immediately that he’s bleeding. That he’s on the floor. That there is a bullet lodged in his thigh. Again. 

One string of swears later, you’re on the phone with 911. Yes, he’s shot. Yes, there’s another in handcuffs. No, I’m not a whore, send the damn ambulance.  

You take his hand as he lays there, much like he did in the hospital 15 years ago. Unlike then, you’ve got tears pricking at your eyes. You’re sniffling like a school girl, and he’s not sure if you’ve said that aloud. 

“Spencer!” You wipe a stray tear. Squeeze his hand too tightly. “Why the hell, you freakin’ moron, did you take a bullet for me?”

He laughs, bubbling up out of his chest before he can stop it. You are too pretty to be this upset at his laughter. You are too lovely to be worried about him. To still be worried, like nothing has changed one bit. 

Every inch of him is trembling. Blood loss and bullets are bitches.

“Y/n,” he wheezes through dry lungs and more leg pain than he remembers there being, “I promised.”

You blink your eyes. What the hell are you talking about, Spencer Reid, you absolute idiot?

“I promised I’d take the next bullet. In the hospital.” He grins, groans as he moves to drag you into a hug. “I’m a man of my word, y/n, and I promise that if I keep the leg, we’re going out. Properly.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” you grumble into his ear and squeeze his neck tighter. If the paramedics don’t bother to pull you off, who’s to say you won’t stay like that forever? Attached to the loveable, danger prone idiot, who traded dog bites for bullet holes?

[destiniesfic]

132 Hours, Chapter 13

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Absolutely not.”

Previous

Note: This chapter, like the last one, contains explicit content. Proceed with caution!

Read chapter 13 on AO3, or read below:

I wake up to Cardan nosing the back of my neck, murmuring my name.

My head is fuzzy. I blink my eyes open and, before I am totally aware of what I’m doing, I turn over onto my back so I can look at him. The echo ripples through me from years ago: on your back, like a good little omega. I swat it away. Not now. Plenty of time for shame later.

The light from outside is still so low that I can barely see Cardan’s face, but I know he’s close from the way his breath tickles my ear. And that’s not all I can feel. He’s hard against my thigh. I try to run through the sequence of events that probably happened while I was dozing. Round one had ended; round two is just starting. I wonder how long it had taken for his first erection to subside, or for him to get hard again. I guess I have another shot at finding out.

The insistent pang in my low belly, my constant companion these last two and a half days, throbs with urgency. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my skin prickling. We’re not out of it yet. It’s not done.

Cardan brushes my hair back from my face. “Jude?”

A question this time. Something flutters in my chest. Those words still lurk in my subconscious. Maybe I should feel ashamed now. Maybe this is all I’m good for.

But against all that, I say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Cardan pauses. “One second.”

“What—” One of his hands brushes my thigh, and I give a full-body shudder. He starts tugging my shorts the rest of the way down my legs. We were in such a hurry that they hadn’t really come off. I prop myself up on my elbows and look down at him. “What do you mean one second?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Absolutely not.”

He flashes me a grin. His teeth are so white. Without quite realizing what I’m doing, I touch the place where he bit me, wondering if I can still feel their indentations. “Trust me for the next few minutes.”

“Why—” I begin, but then he gently pushes my hand aside and presses his lips to my neck. I feel weirdly heady, but cover it up by rolling my eyes. “Fine. But you’re on thin ice.”

“Yes, Alpha,” he says dryly, and my heart gives a thud so hard I feel it in my teeth.

I am so distracted I don’t realize his hand is stealing between my legs again. This time, instead of going straight to fingering me, he just touches me, almost leisurely. It takes him no time to find my clit, which is deeply unfair. I groan as he circles his fingers, taking his goddamn time. Not fair. I wonder if he can unhook a bra on the first try, too. His mouth is on my neck, and now my shoulder, and now my collarbone. I am heating up so fast, I think I am going to spontaneously combust before we can even have sex again.

“You know,” he says, sounding infuriatingly self-satisfied as he moves himself a little lower down, “this is way better.”

The sound that comes out of my mouth is somewhere between a whimper and a moan. I don’t know what to call it and am deeply embarrassed that I made it.

At first I think he might go down on me and feel something between anticipation and panic—panic because it’s basically been a swamp down there for days and I really wouldn’t want anyone putting their mouth on me, and also because, as dumb as it might sound, I haven’t gotten to shave. But he stops with his head about level with my chest, and cups my breast in his free hand, which makes me draw a breath in anticipation, but is nothing compared to the sensation that zings through me when he puts his mouth to my nipple.

“Oh,” I whine, and slide my hand around the back of his head to root in his thick, dark curls. “Oh, god.”

And of course it’s when he has me off-balance that he slides his fingers inside of me, two of them, slowly at first. I feel them curl and look up at the ceiling, clutching his hair for dear life, and think, Huh, he does know what he’s doing. He makes a sound but doesn’t falter, not with his mouth or with his fingers, his thumb now circling my clit, the pressure in my body building—

It’s too much. It’s too much.

“Stop,” I cry. “Cardan, stop, stop.”

Right away, he stops. His hand withdraws and he picks up his head, his dark eyes wide. “What? What’s wrong?”

What is wrong? I blink and my eyelashes feel wet. “I don’t,” I begin. Oh, I’m panting. “I’m going to—”

He gives me a sideways look, confused. “Yeah, that’s the point.”

I am equally confused and, more than that, overstimulated. Short-circuiting. Why isn’t he being selfish? Alphas are selfish. “But you haven’t.”

“Oh, god.” Cardan leans forward and presses his forehead against my shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. You’ll make it up to me. Do you want to come?”

My feelings are scattershot, frayed wires sparking, but I nod, because I do. I really do.

“So let me take care of you,” he says. He pushes me back so I’m lying down, my head on the pillow, and goes back to work, paying attention to my other breast and rebuilding the rhythm he’d established with his fingers. It isn’t automatic, but eventually I let myself be overwhelmed. I let him overwhelm me. And when I clench around his fingers, when everything seems a little too much, I don’t fight it.

You know how in old movies when people are about to go to bed together they pan away to fireworks in the sky? It’s like that behind my eyelids, resonating through my whole body.

Cardan is there when I come back to myself, of course. He rests his chin on my sternum and smirks up at me. In that moment, seeing how pleased he is, I want to make him feel as vulnerable as I do. I want to take him apart. I want him.

I growl and drag him up by the shoulders, and that smirk becomes a gasp when I reach down to wrap my hand around his cock. I nearly gasp, too; his skin is hot under my fingers, and he’s so hard that it must hurt. Good, I think deliriously—I was in agony for days, after all. But my heart probably isn’t in it because I’m trying to wrap my legs around his waist and get him in me.

“Wait—here—” he says, through gritted teeth, and he lines our hips up a little better. My hand falls away so he can enter me unimpeded. It’s easier than the first time because I am warmed up, because of all of the fluid, but there is still that beautifully unbearable friction. This time, I moan openly before pressing my face to his shoulder to muffle it, and he responds in kind, quieter but clearly less self-conscious.

He seems a little more in control of himself this time, working up to a demanding pace with surety. My hands roam up and down the skin of his back, which I’m surprised to find is not smooth, like I thought it would be. Instead, my fingers run over ridges of scar tissue, raised lines striping his back, a few of them. I would ask, but it is very much not the time. I tuck the knowledge away for later and concentrate on matching the rhythm of his hips. Not that I have to work very hard. With him, it’s easy. Our bodies seem to just know what to do.

I feel his breath on my cheek and realize his face is right there. What would happen if I tried to kiss him? There’s a chance he’d turn away. Omegas are for mating, not kissing—that’s what locker room talk would have you believe, no matter what the Ghost thinks or how he says the world works outside of what I’ve seen of it. Omegas are disposable, and when they aren’t… well, my mom did run from Madoc. But Cardan likes me. He said he likes me.

Worst case, would it really be such a bad thing if I kissed him and he hated it? I definitely don’t mind making him uncomfortable. We’ve done more than kiss—we’re doing more right now—plus, kissing him is an easy way to confirm whether or not he does like me.

And if he does, I’ll know. And if I know, I can use it somehow. Because if the real power is in being wanted, then…

I tilt my head up and brush my lips against where I think his must be, and end up finding half-mouth, half-cheek. Cardan freezes, and I feel a little thrill of satisfaction at being—right? wrong?—before he turns his head and finds my mouth with his again.

It’s like I’ve stuck my finger into a wall socket after being told explicitly not to. That is, it’s electric, and also like I might die from it. For a second we’re both holding our breath, closed lips pressed together, then I open my mouth and Cardan groans, clutching my face in his hands and kissing me hard. Now we’re truly right up against each other, my mouth to his, my chest against his chest, as though we could match heartbeat if we just got a little closer. His thrusts slow, but not in a bad way; they become deeper, more deliberate, like he’s trying to draw this out.

It feels surreal. It feels the way sex looks in movies. There’s nothing embarrassing about it. I am always watching, always analyzing, always anticipating, but now I am thinking of nothing but his skin against mine.

The end of this round is much less dramatic than my first panicky orgasm in the middle. I just hold onto Cardan, my arms around his shoulders, my legs wrapped around his waist, and let go, just as he does, his face now in the unruly cloud of my hair, the rest of him taut and shaking. When it passes, I lie there under him, breathless and slightly stunned. He doesn’t seem much better off. His entire body goes slack against mine.

“Oh,” he says in my ear. “Oh.”

I turn my face toward his in the dark. “What is it?”

He picks up his head a little, enough that I feel his mouth brush my cheek in passing. His arm reaches across me to brace itself against the mattress, and then his face is above mine again, black eyes shining. “That’s what that’s supposed to feel like.”

“Haven’t you had sex before?” I am incredulous. “Haven’t you had sex before a lot?”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. But not like that.”

I try to puzzle out what he means. I mean, in rut, with knotting, sure, and this time had gone a little smoother than the last, so that could be all. I’m pretty sure he’s been with omegas before. And I know he’s had a least one serious relationship, although that was with Nicasia, an alpha. Not that Cardan and I have a relationship of any kind, so that’s not comparable at all.

We’re stuck face to face this time, but at least he’s given me a model of what to do. To make it a little comfortable, I roll us onto our sides again, and he lets me. Then he kisses me again. We stay like that for a while, just kissing, riding out the residual tremors of climax.

I’m a little disappointed when he stops kissing me, but his wild grin more than makes up for it. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you asked me to stop.”

“I was overwhelmed!” I exclaim, blushing fiercely. I am very glad it’s still dark. “Scrambled eggs, remember?”

“Huh?”

“My brain.”

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “For real. And you’ve really never…” He trails off, trying to figure out how to phrase his question. “Like, what’s the furthest you’ve gotten?”

I raise my eyebrows. “What do you think?”

Cardan shrugs. “I don’t know. Locke implied some things.”

“Ugh, Locke.” I pull a face. “Locke barely got a hand up my shirt.”

He raises his eyebrows back at me. “Did you slap him for it?”

I shake my head. I can’t bear to tell Cardan that Locke, to his minimal credit, scaled back his advances when I seemed skittish. “I punched Valerian, though, and he technically didn’t even get that far.”

Cardan frowns. “Whatever he did, it wouldn’t have counted,” he says, surprising me. “You know that, right?”

“I’m pretty sure it would have.”

“I mean, not in the way I’m talking about. In the way that matters.”

I don’t know what to make of this at all. I have always thought of sex as something tthat would someday be done to me and not with me; it never occurred to me to differentiate between what I do or don’t want. That it makes a difference. I draw a line up and down his bicep, and before I can stop myself, I am asking, “How many of your times haven’t counted?”

“Oof.” Cardan is quiet for a second, then says, “I’d like to think they all have, but… I have done some things, shall we say, under the influence that I probably shouldn’t have. Wouldn’t have, if I had been sober. So, there’s that.”

“Yeah,” I say. It’s about what I expected him to say. I don’t want to ask him the horrible question of whether this counts, right now. Because, despite the horrible circumstances, I think it counts for me. I feel oddly brittle when I think about how it might not for him. So I ask a different question. “What about the scars on your back?”

“Aha.” Cardan puts his head down on the pillow. He was waiting for me to ask, I realize. “I fought a bear.”

“It feels like you lost.”

“Hmm.” He leans forward to tuck himself against me. My head fits perfectly under his chin. “You should see the bear.”

“I’d like to. Does he have a name?”

There is a long pause, then Cardan says, so softly I almost don’t hear him, “Yes.”

I reach around me to run my finger over one of the lines. I vaguely recognize the pattern and what might have made it, but people aren’t supposed to get flogged anymore. Instead of my angry fire, I feel fathomless sadness. The list of suspects is small, and none are good news.

I ask slowly, “Do you want me to kill him for you?”

Cardan lets out a little disbelieving laugh. “No. Thank you, but no.”

“I mean it,” I say, and am sort of surprised that I do. I had made a similar promise to the Bomb while I was delirious. Now I am much more clear-headed, although possibly a little dickmatized.

“I know. It’s complicated.”

“What’s complicated about it?” I demand, picking up my head. “He hurts you. What else is there?”

He lifts his hand and runs it through my messy hair. “Let me put it another way,” he says, curling a lock around his finger. “If it turned out Madoc actually did plan your parents’ deaths like Vivi thinks, would you still love him?”

I open my mouth, and then I close it.

“See.” I can hear his rueful smile. “It’s complicated.”

I put my head back down. I want to call on my fire and say, Of course I wouldn’t love him. Of course I would swear to enact revenge on him for all my days. But even as I think it, I remember how he rested his hand on my shoulder when he came to retrieve us from the hospital that terrible night, how he taught me to protect myself, the pride in his eyes when he watched me graduate. And I know it is not that easy.

“I was born when my father was in his sixties,” Cardan says, resting his chin on top of my head again. “I was an alpha, at least, but I was premature, and small. Dain tried to convince my father that I was defective, that I shouldn’t inherit anything. I overheard him talking about it on the phone. He didn’t care if I knew. And that part didn’t work, of course, but some of that idea stuck with dear old dad, or maybe he was just too old to have a child underfoot. He didn’t really raise me. No one did, until I started acting out in school. Then they sent me to Balekin.”

“To make you behave?” I guess. “Or, no… to make you more alpha. To toughen you up.”

“Yeah.”

I can connect the dots from there. Cardan got bumped down to my year, and he got worse. Maybe not when teachers were looking, but worse all the same. His home being hell didn’t excuse that, but it did explain a lot. “From where I’m sitting it just made you a terror.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. And by certain philosophies, that is how to be an alpha.” He pauses, stroking my hair. “But I’m beginning to think there are other ways, too.”

---

I am on the cold floor of my own basement, the one in Madoc’s mansion, wrapped in the scratchy blanket that used to be one of the layers on the king bed in my parents’ house. I’m not naked anymore, but fully dressed in my school uniform: white, collared shirt; blue and green tartan skirt and the bicycle shorts I always wore under it; too-long socks.

Valerian is here. I know before I even see him and dread looking up. But I do, like my eyes are the camera lens in a movie, drawn unfailingly toward the source of motion and conflict. His nose is bloody, his eye blackened, and he is sneering.

I try to roll away from him, but I’m caught in the blankets, and I panic. He plants his foot on my hip. “No, you don’t,” he says. “You should have just let me do it then if you were going to let Cardan do it now.”

“Shut up!” The more I try to struggle away from him, the more tangled up I become. The thudding of my heart is so loud in my ears.

Valerian snorts derisively and wipes the blood away with his hand, smearing it over his face. “You’re a filthy animal,” he snarls. “That’s all you are. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

My eyes snap open.

I am back in our cell. Cardan is stretched out next to me on his stomach; we must have both been asleep when we came undone. He is completely naked, because I have stolen all of the blankets. Dawn is beginning to shine through our one tiny window. I am on my back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make my heartbeat settle, the shapes resolve themselves.

“Jude?” Cardan asks, feeling for me blindly with an outstretched hand. “Whatsit?”

“Nothing.”

He opens one dark, sleepy eye. “That’s a lie. Bad dream?”

“No.” I roll onto my side to face him, pulling the blankets over my chest. “I’m really okay.”

Cardan’s hand settles on top of the blankets, pressing gently against them, which just makes my heart race again and undoes all my hard breathing work. “Your heart’s going crazy.”

“Are you a doctor now?”

“And you smell freaked out.”

My brow furrows. “You can’t smell when I’m freaked out.”

“I can. And when you’re angry. Your scent gets all… spiky. Spicy.”

“That’s racist,” I deadpan.

“No, it’s not,” he scoffs, but then he looks mildly concerned and sits up halfway, propping himself up on his side. “Wait, is it?”

I sigh. “Fine, you’re right. It was a nightmare.” I hold up my hand, tracing the outline of it against the ceiling. “But I’m fine. Dreams can’t hurt me. They’re just dreams.”

“Yeah,” says Cardan, but he sounds unconvinced.

“Aren’t you too horny for serious talk?” I ask. I can feel from the urgency of my pulse and the faint tingling in my fingers and toes that we’re not out of the woods yet. Admittedly, the nightmare did kind of dampen any urge I had to touch anyone ever again, but that’s not a problem he should be having.

“Um.” He glances down at himself. I also glance down. At that moment I am so glad I’m not a man; they can’t hide anything. His voice is strained when he says, “I mean, kind of horny, but obviously if you need to talk—”

I shove his shoulder to turn him onto his back, then crawl over to him. I’ve watched some porn, and also, you know, television, so even though I’ve never done this, I know how it’s done. I push myself up and swing my leg over him to straddle his hips. I have never gotten to be taller than Cardan before, but it’s not just the angle that changes him. He looks up at me like I am a beautiful stranger, someone he’s never seen before and might never see again, and then he tries to blink it away, but he’s too slow. I feel the breath woosh out of my chest.

“You’re trying to distract me with sex,” he accuses.

That was what I was trying to do—distract him and myself—but now I’m not so sure. Maybe I just want to have sex with him. Maybe I am choosing him just to choose him. Is that better or worse? I push my hair back over my shoulder, shaking it out. “Is it working?”

“Uh-huh, it’s—working great.” He runs a hand down my thigh. “But do you have it in you?”

“Yeah.” I nod, too, to drive the point home. The warm flush is starting to return to my body, but not as strong as before. My heat is finally, finally coming to an end. “One more time.”

“Okay.” He places his hands on my hips. “I should probably—”

Before he can tell me what he should probably do, I sink down onto him—and then gasp, because gravity is working with me this time so it happens way quicker than I thought it would. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s startling.

“Jude,” he groans. “I was going to say I should probably warm you up.”

“I’m plenty warm,” I say, moving my hips experimentally. As long as the heat lasts, I shouldn’t need too much stimulation to get going. I feel so full of him that it’s intoxicating.

I thought being on top would be more of an up-and-down motion, but it turns out grinding down on him or rocking back and forth feels just as good. I am surprised to find that I am not at all self-conscious, maybe because I have the best view of Cardan yet, and he is watching me like I’m a miracle, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he takes his eyes off me for a second. I run my hands over his shoulders, scratch my nails a little against his chest, just to see him bite his lip. Not the fake lip-bite he’d do in front of a camera, either. One he can’t help.

“Jude,” he says again, moving up into me as I grind down on him. His hands stroke up and down my thighs. His eyelashes flutter. “God, you’re so fucking pretty.”

I pause. “What?”

“Oh.” Now he looks startled. “Uh, I meant you’re—”

“You’re pretty, too,” I say, before he can take it back. A smirk is curling the edge of my lips. He is pretty, underneath me, his hair spread out on the pillow like that, his face flushed. Even the tips of his ears are red, although that’s probably from embarrassment.

Cardan blinks at me, then recovers his dopey grin. “Damn right I am,” he says, and then he shifts, coming to sit up with me in his lap. He cards his fingers through my hair again. “But you’re something else.”

I look at him, at his perfect, stupid, handsome face now nearly level with mine, and my heart aches in my chest. Soon my heat is going to break. We’ll have no reason to do this ever again. And when we’re let out of our cell, one way or another, we won’t even have a good excuse to keep in touch.

All at once, I realize how much I don’t want that. I don’t want it to be over.

I reach out to touch his cheek, and he presses his hand against mine, holding it there. “Do you trust me?” I whisper.

He watches me with those fathomless, dark eyes, and says, “Yeah, I do.”

Maybe that’s the wrong answer. Maybe he shouldn’t. But I guess he’ll find that out for himself.

I lean forward and sink my teeth into his neck.

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