#in the walls of our hearts and brains danger waits. there are holes in the floor of the mind (hannibal asks)

[filhosdatany]

‘ i refuse to listen to reason, i have to listen to so much already. ’ // chandler e hannibal

Mas então porque você veio procurar um psiquiatra? - Hannibal perguntou em um tom calmo, analisando o rapaz com seu caderno em mãos, olhando ele do outro lado da sala, ele era alguém interessante para ser estudado, e com essa fala, se tornava ainda mais necessário alguma intervenção por parte dele - As vezes, quando a gente deixa a razão de lado e acaba se movendo muito mais pelas emoções, isso acaba machucando a gente e as pessoas a nossa volta. E pelas nossas sessões eu sei que é algo que você não quer... Mas eu preciso saber, como eu posso ajudar você Chandler, atitudes como essa não vão te ajudar de maneira alguma.

[thelaurenshippen]

happy 10 years to "I've never known myself as well as I know myself when I'm with him" and "there are means of influence other than violence but violence is what you understand" and "with all my knowledge and intuition I could never entirely predict you" and "I deliberated as the phone rang, I decided when I heard his voice" and "killing must feel good to God, too. he does it all the time and are we not created in his image" and "in the walls of our hearts and brains, danger waits. there are holes in the floor of the mind" and "I let you know me. see me." and "if I saw you everyday forever, will, I would remember this time" and

"I don't find you that interesting" "you will"

[stesierra]

Find the Word tag game!

@dyrewrites tagged me! My words are; gloom, fiery, lie, laugh and fall. I'm drawing from Stitches and Memories.

I'll tag @elizababie, @macabremoons and @anonymousfoz. You can use the same words.

Gloom

Jedan was already standing, nothing but a looming shadow in the gloom. He asked, "Do you need a hand up?"

"Please."

Between the two of them, she got upright, although she was limping badly. Not only had the blister not healed in the night, it had gotten worse.

Nearby, Reza said, "What now? We can hardly walk down the road in the dark."

Antea said, "Well, we'll just have to, won't we." And she shuffled out into the night, the others on her heels.

Fiery

They walked in silence as the golden sun inched into view, casting strong stretched-out shadows that marched alongside them as they made their slow way down the road. The clouds had vanished in the night. Only the very edge of the sky turned a fiery orange that was gone in minutes, like a candle blown out as soon as it was lit. Not long after, a messenger trotted by on a fast brown horse, and he was only the first of many.

Lie

The water was gone, leaving a vast and empty cavern that arched high overhead. At the center of it polished marble walls stood beautiful and sleek, two stories high and curved around some treasure at their heart. They had barely started to crumble, some of the capstones falling to lie like scattered pearls on the granite floor. A door faced them, a perfect circular arch. It beckoned them inside.

Antea took a step back as pain split her head in two. They had come here. They had come--

She didn't remember anything about her father, this time, but she still had the fit. When it was over, Jedan helped her up, and if his hands lingered on her shoulders longer than necessary, well, she wasn't complaining. He didn't say anything. None of them said anything. The silence of the cave was too complete for that.

Laugh

"I've caught the trail," Jedan said. "We can leave now. Antea? We can leave."

Her head throbbed just out of time with the heartbeat that sounded loud in her ears, and her hands shook until they banged into her thighs. She buried her trembling fingers in her skirts and stayed staring at the dusty floor. She said dully, "I woke up here. Right here."

Jedan was beside her then. He said, "Antea."

Her vision was tunneling in, turning the peripheral world to empty shadows. "I was all alone. My memories of the whole last year of my life were gone, as if it'd never happened. I couldn't even remember how I'd gotten there. And there was this gaping hole in my brain. My mind spiraled around it and tore itself apart. I had my first fit. I thought that I was going to die."

Jedan touched her shoulder and squeezed, and she leaned into him and let him steady her shaking limbs.

She said, "There was a letter on my chest. From my father. The lights he'd lit on our way in hadn't died yet, so I could see the words. I want to say reading it hurt worse than anything, but that's not true. Nothing has ever hurt worse than my brain."

"Don't think about it," he urged her. "Don't think about it."

She laughed until her stomach hurt and her breath wheezed. Laughed as the convulsions descended upon her, as memories latched onto the place where her amnesia sat and found a brief foothold. She saw her father leading her through the ruin past dozens of fallen skeletons, telling her of ancient plagues. Nothing but ancient history, my dear, no danger and nothing to fear. Now, if she would occupy herself, he needed just a moment. A moment to do what? A moment to do what?

The memory didn't say.

Fall

Reza slapped at the back of Antea's head. "What are you waiting for? Bring me inside!"

Antea stared up at her, her eyebrows rising. "You want me to take a horse inside a temple?" A horse named Demon?

"Yes, I do! If someone must carry me before the gods, let it be a proper steed and not one of my own soldiers."

Antea shrugged and led Demon over the threshold and into the Gods' House. His shoes clicked on the polished marble floor, and the horse looked around, snorting softly. Antea glanced up and gaped, coming to a brief halt to stare, for the triangular windows that covered the curving ceiling weren't glass. They glowed with transparent blue magic, the same magic that had made up the magic bridge back at the river, and Antea had no doubt they were as solid as that bridge. This magic wasn't something her father would have done. The building had been designed for it, hundreds of years ago. It was awe-inspiring, and a little terrifying, to think of the power that had gone into making those windows and making them so well that they had lasted since well before the fall of democracy.

[wkemeup]

The Offer

summary: Zemo offers to sell the Winter Soldier in exchange for information. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 3k warnings: vaguely implied unwanted sexual contact a/n: this is based around the Madripoor scene in TFATWS ep 3, particularly Zemo’s suggestion of “he will do anything you want.”

“You must maintain your cover,” Zemo’s voice rang in your ear, drowning out the heavy bass of loudspeakers from the club down the hall. “If you break character, they will know... and they will kill us.”

You held your breath; arms folded tight across your chest, nails digging into the exposed skin on your biceps. It did little to ease the strain within your muscle as you watched Bucky standing guard at the edge of the room, his eyes overcast in a cold, emotionless haze. Ready for command. Empty of the needs and desire that made him human. Portraying the shadow from his past he was so desperate to escape.

Slowly, you shifted your weight on heels sharp enough to pierce skin. The clothes Zemo had dressed you in were unforgiving, exposing every dip and curve on your body, though you supposed that was his intention. You were meant assume the role of a wealthy arms dealer known only as Lilith, a woman whose reputation for the bedrooms of Madripoor outweighed even that of the weapons at her disposal. An affinity for the finer things in life, Zemo had snickered to himself. Sex, drugs, and power.

Bucky’s eyes shifted to the floor near your feet. You could tell he was watching you from his peripherals though his expression remained vacant. It was shocking to see him like this again, worse that he seemed to fall back into the role of the Winter Soldier so easily – like he’d never truly believed he could put his past to rest at all.

Zemo paced at the center of the room, discussing terms while Selby lounged on the couch. Her brazen comfort in a room of powerful agents on the dark market told you she had more leverage than any of you anticipated. You felt for the slight weight of the gun strapped at your thigh, keeping careful watch of the guards stationed just outside the door. The four of you were easily outnumbered and outgunned, even with Bucky throwing himself back to the Winter Soldier.

Sam caught your eye across the room, his face stern enough to communicate his uncertainty. He didn’t trust Zemo anymore than you did. The man was responsible for dozens of deaths, including the King of Wakanda, and he’d done the Avengers no favors by planting a seed of war between the most powerful people on the planet. You tried not to follow Sam's gaze when his eyes flickered to Bucky, a softening in his brow to see months of progress virtually erased within seconds.

“What’s the offer?” Selby’s voice broke through the haze. You hadn’t realized how focused you’d been on Bucky until you began to notice the music thumping through the walls and the scent of stale beer lining the floors – a disorienting state amongst precious stole artifacts and original paintings.

Zemo stood from his chair, crossing the room. He picked up a relic from the center table, admiring the shiny copper edges as he tossed it in the air. It nearly slipped from his grip and he shuttered out an apologetic wince at Selby before placing it back on the table. You rolled your eyes.

Adjusting the fur lined collar of his jacket, Zemo circled the edges of the room. He came to a pause over Bucky’s shoulder, gaze slowly trailing down his frame, tracing over the lines on Bucky's face as if he were studying for imperfections. A sinister smirk curled at his lips before he turned back to Selby.

“Tell us what you know about the super soldier serum,” Zemo bargained, waiting for her interest to peak before he continued. She shifted in her seat; a brow raised. His lips curved in a devious grin enough to make your stomach twist. “And we’ll give you him. Along with the code words to control him, of course.”

Bucky didn’t so much as flinch, his stare maintaining the same emptiness you saw the day on the bridge when he’d been muzzled by his captors and made to be a weapon. Nothing in his expression gave way to whatever was going through his mind and part of you wondered if he’d allowed himself so far into this role again, that he’d embraced the cold arms of the numbness it carried. It was easier than allowing himself to feel any of the rage that was rapidly boiling under your skin, you supposed.

But then, Zemo’s knuckles grazed at Bucky’s cheek. Lingering over unshaven stubble, a shadow along his jaw. A delicate touch though it seemed to burn as if steam could rise from the contact alone.

Zemo turned, grinning at Selby. “He will do anything you want.”

It was so impossibly subtle, you weren’t sure anyone else had noticed, but Bucky’s jaw clenched. The muscle shifted the shadows on his face, his breathing coming to a stop as his chest no longer carried the steady rise and fall under layers of leather and Kevlar. Zemo’s hand moved along Bucky’s jaw, fingers dangerously close to his lips, and you felt for the outline of the gun strapped to your thigh.

"Anything?" Selby inquired. Her tone was even though her eyes widened just enough, the dark of her pupils expanding as she glanced over Bucky's frame.

"When he is properly activated, the Soldier is incredibly–" Zemo paused, tapping the edge of Bucky's chin, "–eager to please. There's nothing else inside that brain of his except his mission. What that mission is, is entirely up to whoever recites the triggers."

“Fascinating,” Selby grinned as she slowly stood from her perch.

You followed her stride with every agonizing step towards Bucky. Just as she crossed in front of The Smiling Tiger, Sam’s gaze met yours. He narrowed his eyes, the slight shake in his head barely noticeable. He must have seen you reach for your gun – an instinct to protect Bucky from the demons of his past, a tangible weapon you hadn't been able to use against the monsters in his sleep. It took every ounce of your strength to relax away from the comforting metal.

You watched as Selby’s eyes roamed over Bucky – hungry, and like a vulture, she licked her lips. As she began to circle his frame, gaze trailing down from his shoulders, to his thighs, down to his feet, never once daring to meet his eyes, you found yourself inching closer. Bucky’s hand curled into a fist so tight his nails broke skin in his right hand, blood prickling at his palm. And still—his expression remained stoic, unfeeling. A paralyzing thought crossed your mind and you questioned if this dance was a familiar one – the art of being sold to another human being.

Selby paused as she faced him; examining the features on his face as if he were something other than human – a prize to be won, a possession to own, a trophy to show off.

“And he’s still in working condition? After all these years?” she inquired toward Zemo, standing so dangerously close to Bucky. His stare focused straight ahead, far beyond the wall across the room as if he could burn holes into the plaster.

"He's quite impressive," Selby murmured. Slowly, her hand reached towards his face.

Your grip was around her wrist before anyone realized you’d crossed the room. She flinched, startled by the vice-like hold wrapped around her wrist and a pained sort of whine escaped. She flexed her fingers and still, you held your ground.

“Is there a problem, Lilith?” Selby smirked, curiosity glaring as her eyes flickered between you and Bucky. You said nothing and yet, her lips parted in understanding. “Oh, I see. You control him. Don’t you, dear? He belongs to you.”

You tasted bile on your tongue – the very thought of owning Bucky as if his agency was not even in question made you sick to your stomach. Your grip tightened on Selby’s wrist and you would have broken it clean in two if you had the strength for it. But one look at Zemo and the cautious gaze upon his face, and you forced yourself to swallow back the venom in your mouth. You didn’t allow the disgust to touch your features or the shame to burn hot into your neck. Lilith would not be fazed by the selling of a weapon—even if that weapon were a man with heart so heavy, so full and so kind, he could hardly carry its burden on his own.

“Make your deal, Selby,” you hissed in an accident belonging to the weapons dealer you portrayed, “then, you can play with your toy. Until we have our intel, hands off the product.”

You released Selby’s wrist and she stepped back a few paces. She slid her left hand over the red marks forming over her skim, gingerly massaging at the area and still – the grin did not falter from her cheeks. Impressed, intrigued. She seemed inclined to ask you more about your bond to the Winter Soldier when you stepped in front of Bucky, blocking her view as she unabashedly stared down her hopeful new possession. Sam and Zemo exchanged a glance, though their expressions did not carry the weight their eyes did.

Behind you, you could hear Bucky exhale a heavy a breath, could practically feel as his fists released to be out of the woman’s eye line. It was short lived, of course, as all things in Madripoor were. A gunshot pierced through the window and lodged itself into Selby’s head.

***

You woke with a sudden start, the sticky smell of stale beer still on your skin as you jolted up on an unfamiliar bed. The room was vaguely a blur thanks to the pounding ache in the back of your head, but you could see enough to know it was not a place you recognized. To your left, the bed was untouched; sheets perfectly pressed as if they’d never been laid in at all. Glancing down, you saw you were still wearing the dress from the club, makeup smeared over your face and onto the pillows. You brushed at your cheeks to remove the mascara stains.

At the end of the bed, laid a fresh pair of clothes. Blue jeans and a black pullover. You sighed, pressing a hand over the soft fabric and bringing it to your face. It smelled of lavender and vanilla – fresh and inviting compared to the sweaty stale air of the night club.

The night before was mostly a blur. You didn’t remember much after Selby was killed; only Bucky’s hands on your waist, pulling you back towards the door as you tried to locate the shooter. You’d kicked off your heels and sprinted next to him in your bare feet – a man who could challenge the speed of moving vehicles and he was running in line with you and Sam while gunshots reined from every direction. Self-preservation was not a concept in Bucky’s vocabulary.

Your feet were bloodied by the time you caught your breath again and within the impossibly small moment you took to pause, an assailant had knocked you out from behind. Cold darkness. Instantaneously. After that, you could only catch vague memories of Bucky lifting you into his arms and Sharon Carter’s voice. But you hadn’t seen Sharon in years. Not since the aftermath of Vienna. The theory didn’t make much sense.

You felt along the dresser for your gun, only to find it empty. With a tired groan, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, hoping you could find Bucky or Sam before you found trouble. Your feet were wrapped in bandages carrying a slight pink color on the soles – courteous of Zemo’s ridiculous heels you’d left behind the chaos and the mile worth of pavement you’d run barefoot on.

The chill of the hardwood floors was a relief on the undersides of your feet, but you hadn’t accounted for the dizziness from your concussion to take over once you stood. The room went dark and you began to sway, trying to feel for the bed behind you, when suddenly you hard footsteps rushing into the room.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing out of bed?” Bucky’s arms wrapped at your waist, holding you steady. He guided you back to the bed, helping you to sit on the edge as you regained your vision. He sat down beside you, keeping a hand on your arm to help ground you as you focused on the permanence of the room, the sturdiness of solid ground.

“What happened?” you sighed, pressing your palms to your eyes. Your head was still ringing from the blow you took the night before. When you finally allowed yourself to adjust to the sunlight in the room, you turned to face Bucky. He was dressed in a plan black t-shirt and jeans; his Winter Soldier attire hung in the corner of the room.

“Sharon happened,” Bucky chuckled with a short shake of his head. You thought you might be surprised at his answer, and somehow, you weren’t at all. Bucky softened, his fingers brushing at the hem of your dress. “You should change into something more comfortable. Sharon left some clothes for you but um... you were pretty out of it last night and I didn’t want to... um...”

“Thank you, Bucky.” You smiled at him as you placed your hand on top of his. You squeezed at his fingers, curling under his palm against your thigh. For a moment, you nearly lost yourself in the sunlit reflection of blue within his eyes – the delicate intricacies of a complex man. So impossibly sweet and kind in the daylight; cold as stone in the night under the guise of the Winter Soldier.

Bucky helped you to stand, giving you time to adjust to the sting of healing wounds on the soles of your feet. He turned his back to give you privacy, though he kept close enough that you could grab hold of his shoulder for support. He pushed the clothes down the bed for you to reach easily.

Slowly, ignoring the ache in your body, you slid the zipper down your spine, letting the dress fall to a heap at your feet. You tried not to notice how Bucky’s shoulders tightened at the sound, his stance a little less balanced at the fallen fabric. Gingerly, you dressed yourself in the jeans and pullover Sharon had provided for you, trying to stifle a wince as you shifted on your feet. Bucky’s head tilted at your whimper, his instinct fighting to turn to you, to help you, but he held himself still.

When you were done, you reached for the necklace at your bedside, one you hadn’t worn on the mission but you carried it with you wherever you went – the last token you had of a distant life before the Avengers. Sam had kept it in his pocket in Madripoor.

“Would you mind?” you called softly, tapping a hand against Bucky’s shoulder. He turned cautiously, almost timid in his movements, and you smiled at him as he held his hand out. The delicate gold chain dropped into his palm – a beautiful contrast to the black metal, in mirror to the detailing work along his shoulder.

Before you could turn your back to him, Bucky stepped closer. He held each side of the necklace in his hands and brought them around the back of your neck. This close, you could smell the bar soap he’d used that morning, you could see the lines of scruff along his jaw he hadn’t been able to shave.

When he clasped the chain, he stepped back slowly, but only enough to admire his work. He brushed your hair away from your collar, a ghosted smile on his lips at he touched the pendent at the center. This wonderful, beautiful man who learned to find comfort in touch again, who sought you out when it felt impossible to reclaim that part of him. Memory of the night before etched into your mind and you swallowed back the lump in your throat.

“Bucky?”

He smiled a little wider, focused on tracing his fingers along your jaw, brushing away your hair. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to talk about last night?”

Bucky paused, his touch upon you skin turning near to stone before he pulled away. The smile he’d worn slowly faded from his lips, the cold rush of reality piercing through the tender moment, and you hated yourself for being the cause of such pain. Bucky sighed, sinking down onto the bed, his hands gripped tight to the edge of the mattress.

“Not sure there’s much to say, doll,” Bucky exhaled.

You sat beside him, close enough for your thigh to brush in line with his. He looked down at the little space between you, his eyes fluttered closed at the contact – the grounding sensation of welcomed touch.

“You're not him anymore, Bucky,” you said softly, setting your hand over his own. “No one is ever going to control you or... or own you again, okay? They can’t make you do anything you don’t want to... not anymore. You’re free. You know that, don’t you?”

Bucky nodded, though it was slow, almost aching. He squeezed at your hand, pushing out a pained smile as he looked at you. “I do.”

You reached towards him with your free hand, cupping the side of his cheek where Zemo had touched him the night before. You traced your thumb over his jaw line, tingling over the short hairs on his skin. So beautiful and lovely after decades suffering under the hands of cruel men.

“You know I’d kill anyone who tried, right?”

Bucky chuckled at that and you were grateful to see the lines by his eyes again, the smile pushing bright into his cheeks. “Yeah, sweetheart. I know that, too.”

He leaned forward a pressed a kiss to your temple. Short and lingering and not nearly long enough. But it was welcomed and warm and enough.

—

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[whisker-biscuit]

The Birds, The Bees, and The Bottles

Fandom: Psychonauts

Rating: T for mild language and discussions of underage drinking

Summary: Two teens are caught trying to sneak into a bar. Bob finally has a conversation he’s held off for far too long.

Because herbaphony is not the only thing that runs in the Zanotto family.

-------------------------------------

Bob’s phone rang at two in the morning. Judging by the jolly ringtone of Helmut singing Strawberry Fields Forever, it was his personal phone instead of his work one, and that was the real tip off to things being very, very wrong.

He woke up and groggily pulled out of his still-slumbering-husband’s arms to answer the little thing going off on his nightstand.

“H’lo?”

“Bob!” Truman’s voice came out far too loud for the time of night, and far too stressed. “Bob, I’m so sorry to wake you, but something happened with Lili. I need you to pick her up for me, please.”

The older man sat up, much more awake as worry and fear immediately rolled in his gut. Helmut finally began to stir beside him, sensing his partner’s agitation.

“Truman, what’s going on? Pick Lili up from where?”

“The city’s police precinct on Abbey Avenue. She – she called me, but I’m out of state and I wouldn’t get there for hours at least even if I left this instant. She’s not in danger!” He added hastily, hearing the concern before Bob could even voice it mentally. “She didn’t get hurt! She’s just…”

The way he tapered off, the way he hesitated, said more than words could.

“She just got herself into some trouble, and she needs someone to go get her.”

Helmut was sitting up now, and Bob felt the question cross their mental link.

 What happened?

 Truman needs me to pick Lili up from the police station.

“I’m up, I’m on my way right now,” He responded to his nephew verbally, heaving himself out of bed. His husband followed suit despite still looking extremely puzzled, bless him.

“Thank you so much, Bob. I’ll make it up to you as soon as I can, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The older man waved a dismissive hand even though Truman wasn’t there to see it. “Family is s’pposed to do that for each other anyway.”

“Did I hear that right? Our peppy petunia had a run-in with the law?” Helmut asked as soon as his partner hung up. He paused, and in a lower tone – “she didn’t kill anyone, did she?”

“I don’t think it’s that serious,” Bob said, pulling a coat on over his sleep shirt. “But something tells me we still have a few things to worry about. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Ohohoh, no, don’t even think about hoofin’ it without me. We both know I’m the better driver.”

“Neither of us are very good drivers, Helmut.”

“Exactly! That little bit makes all the difference!”

The herbophanist sighed, charmed despite himself and the situation. “Alright, alright. Let’s not keep her waiting.”

The police precinct was nearly dead at this time of night. While it would’ve felt eerie to anyone else, Bob was grateful for the lack of people, and not just because he was still an introvert of the highest degree.

Two teenagers awaited them in the lobby, sitting on a bench together. One was hunched over and burning a hole in the ground with his downcast eyes. The other sat straight up, defiant, holding a glaring contest with the officer standing over them. When Bob entered the room first and met his great-niece’s eyes, her self-assuredness wavered for a brief moment. She hid the slip-up behind a wall of indifference.

“Lili,” he said softly. Then, just as softly but with a gruff tinge of surprise; “Razputin.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but the former scowled harder and the latter looked like he wanted to employ his invisibility. Bob studied them both a moment before his husband appeared and broke the tension with his mere presence.

“We’re here to bust you out, kiddos!” He announced with spread arms, cheerfully ignoring the looks he received from every person in the room.

“Are you Truman Zanotto?” Asked the officer who finally broke his gaze away from Lili to give them a disapproving once-over.

“No, I’m uh, I’m Bob Zanotto, and this is Helmut,” came the awkward reply. “Truman called me to pick Lili up. She’s my great-niece.”

A few seconds of silence passed as the officer made no move to do anything with that information. Bob cleared his throat.

“We’re, uh, listed in her emergency contacts for school?”

“I see. If you can just fill out some paperwork first, we can release her into your custody.”

The herbophanist watched the way Raz seemed to sink further in his seat at the mention of family contacts. The Aquatos were also out of state right now too, if he remembered correctly. Perfect timing for two minors getting up to mischief.

Well, up until they were actually caught.

“And…Razputin, too?” He asked, catching the teen’s startled gaze and giving him the mental equivalent of a thumbs-up.

The officer raised a brow. “Is he related to you, too?”

“Well, uh –”

“Yep!” Helmut interrupted, strolling right up to Raz and giving him a merry clap on the back. The teen had a physique comparable to most adult Olympic athletes, but even he nearly toppled forward from the force of such a big man. “He’s my third cousin, twice removed. Big family. Very close. Holidays are an experience, lemme tell ya!”

“Fine,” the officer pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, okay, I’ll make sure he gets cleared for release too. I’ll be right back.”

He stalked off, muttering something about it ‘being too damn early for this’, and the older couple turned to face Raz and Lili. Helmut steepled his fingers together to rest against his mustache.

“So! Now that Officer Spoil-Sport is gone, are we allowed to know what heinous crime has been committed in the night by my favorite pair of mischief-makers?”

The two glanced at each other. Raz was the one to break their silence.

“We, uh…got caught sneaking into a bar.”

Cold heat rushed through Bob’s core. Helmut blinked once, twice, then let out a boisterous chuckle.

“That’s it? Jesus! From the way you two were acting I thought you’d robbed the First National Bank.”

“…Helmut.” His husband murmured. The psi-king lost his mirth as he caught Bob’s eye.

“Ah…w-well, y’know, while I’m certainly glad we won’t hear about a righteous homicide in the news tomorrow, forgery ain’t exactly a humble hobby either.”

“It was just two IDs,” Lili muttered under her breath. “Not a big deal.”

The ice in her great-uncle’s heart turned frigid, but before he or Helmut could say anything to that, the officer was back. He shoved a handful of forms under Bob’s nose and the herbophanist fumbled to grab them before they all tumbled to the floor.

“Uh, uh, thank you.”

“Alright, we’re putting the pause on this conversation to make you free citizens again, but don’t think that means we’re done with it.” The Psi-King gave the teens the sternest look he could manage. “As soon as we get in the car, you two will have a lot of explaining to do.”

“O-Okay.”

“Uh-huh.”

------------------------------------

No one spoke a word as they got in the car and started the drive back.

Raz seemed content to continue his efforts to blend in with the background of his seat, still not meeting anyone’s eyes, and Lili stared out the window with her chin in her hand, leaning against the car’s backdoor and letting the lights of the city bathe her in neon sickness.

Helmut, bless his soul, dutifully kept the radio going while he drove, changing the station to something more mellow whenever a song started getting a little too upbeat for the collective mood of the vehicle. Bob sat in the passenger side with his arms folded awkwardly. His brain was buzzing, dreading the inevitable conversation he needed to have with his great-niece and trying to figure out how he was going to go about it.

It surprised them all when Raz spoke over the music.

“It was my idea.”

The two adults glanced at each other, then through the rearview mirror at the fidgeting teen.

“Your idea to go looking for a drink? Or to sneak into a bar to do it?” Helmut asked, turning off the radio.

“Both.”

He still wasn’t meeting their eyes. Bob sighed through his nose.

“I don’t believe you.”

Razputin’s head finally snapped up to stare at him in shock for the fast call on his bluff. “I’m telling the truth!”

“I think you’re only telling part of it, kid.”

“No! I’m telling all of it.”

“Razpu-”

“Oh, come off it, Raz,” Lili snapped a little too loud, making the whole car jump. “Quit trying to take the fall for me. It was my idea to try the stupid fake ID thing, okay? Happy now?”

“Wh – uh, who said anything about being happy about it?” Helmut asked, legitimately confused.

“Look. Neither of us had anything to do tonight, and we were bored, so Raz suggested getting a drink somewhere, but Adam and Lizzie are out of town so we couldn’t ask them.” She crossed her arms and spoke without any inflection. “So, we went out but no one would let us do anything cause we’re minors. I thought that was stupid, because we’re agents same as any of you, so I came up with the sneaking-in part. We only got caught cause one of the bartenders recognized Raz from a show.”

There were a lot of loaded things to parse through from that explanation, but Bob’s mind stalled on one particular detail.

“Adam and Lizzie give you two alcohol?”

“Not…often,” Raz admitted. “Just once or twice, when we asked.”

“Do you mean like, a literal once or twice, or a…an estimated once or twice?”

“Did Dad put you up to this?” Lili shot back. “It was just a few times, like he said. What’s with the inquisition?”

“…Lili –”

 “Raz.”

“Okay!” Helmut proclaimed as he slapped his hand against the steering wheel in boisterous aggression. “Who wants some ice cream?”

Everyone stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Cause I’m really feeling some chocolate-vanilla swirl right now. Basic bitch style. Right? Who’s with me?”

Silence.

“Great! Look at that, open Dairy King right there, better take advantage of this opportunity before it slips through our fingers like the melting ice cream we’re all gonna have in about five minutes!”

The psi-king swung into the parking lot in a frenzy and herded the car crew inside before any of them could come out of their shock long enough to protest. It was only as Bob was staring up at fifteen flavors of oversaturated sugary goodness that he realized what had just happened.

He couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief over his husband’s diversion. The tension that had been boiling over was cooled significantly by the sudden non-sequitur, and while the teens were rather half-hearted about picking out their sweet treats, there was no longer a risk of an explosion happening.

Metaphorically and literally.

Helmut caught his spouse’s eye with a meaningful look at Lili the moment all of them had their orders in hand, then slung his arm around Razputin’s shoulders and steered him away. “C’mon my lad! Nothing like the cool night air of three in the morning to keep your Hurricane ™ properly chilled!”

The poor boy had no choice but to let himself be pulled outside, leaving the two Zanottos standing awkwardly in the dingy restaurant. Bob gave a nervous scratch at his chin under his beard.

“How about we, uh, find a seat somewhere?”

Lili couldn’t fully cross her arms while holding ice cream, but she did a good job of making it work anyway. “Sure.”

They sat in a booth in the farthest corner from the front counter. Both great-niece and great-uncle stared at their respective sweet treats as if they could teleport them out of this situation. Bob glanced out the window and saw Helmut and Raz standing outside of the car. The former was on one knee with his hand on the teen’s shoulder, speaking earnestly but inaudibly, and the latter was scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the asphalt.

“Are you going to lecture me?” Lili finally cut through the silence.

Bob turned back to her. “No. Not really.”

“No?” She broke her gaze away from her ice cream just a little bit, eyeing him with surprise. “Then why did Helmut take Raz and leave us alone?”

She was so perceptive, so smart. And yet, still so young.

“Well, I… I still want to talk to you about what happened. I’m just not very, good, at this kind of thing.” He took his spoon and absentmindedly began drawing a flower in his soft-serve. “You already know what you did wasn’t a good idea, right? So I don’t think a lecture would help things any on that front.”

She didn’t respond. He continued.

“It’s less about the fake ID and more…the reasons you made the fake ID. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so, but I know what I’m doing, Uncle Bob. I’m not going to drink irresponsibly.”

The herbophanist shook his head. “But you’ll do irresponsible things to be able to drink in the first place.”

“That’s not –” Lili didn’t have a good rebuttal. She folded her arms and grumpily started eating her cherry chocolate delight. “Whatever. It’s two different things, anyway.”

Against his better judgement, Bob began picking at his own food as he thought about how best to bring the subject back up without making the teen defensive again. Spoons clicking against teeth was the only sound between them for a solid minute.

Finally, an epiphany.

“Did Truman ever…tell you anything, about your great-grandma?”

The girl paused with a bite halfway up to her mouth. She frowned, confused. “Grandma Tia? Not much. Just that she died when he was a baby.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she did.” He ran a tired hand over his face. The ache in his heart might have long-since healed into a scar, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt when pressed. “She passed away when I was nineteen. The doctors told me it was liver failure.”

He didn’t have to say anything else. Lili’s mouth thinned and she put her spoon down, uncomfortable.

“When I…found out the reason behind her death, I was horrified by it. It didn’t make sense to me why she would willingly do something that hurt her so badly, especially when I was right there to love her and help her. It felt like a betrayal that she never got help or made herself stop. I was…disgusted by the mere thought of doing anything like that.”

Bob took a moment to breathe and wipe his eyes. He wasn’t crying, but better safe than sorry.

“It sounds pretty hypocritical when I say it now, doesn’t it?”

His great-niece only gave him a hesitant look.

“Anyway, uh, where was I…” He worried his lip. “Oh, right. I told myself that I’d never touch the stuff after that. I was angry at what she’d done, and I was determined not to have the same ‘weakness’, so to speak. As you know, it, uh, it didn’t last long. I was at a college party barely a year later when I was invited by some friends to drink with them. I didn’t make human friends very easily back then – actually, I still don’t – so I was a little desperate to keep them. It turned out to be pretty hard whiskey, so I got hammered.”

The man leaned back in his seat, staring at the patterns in the booth table.

“Back then, no one really knew how alcoholism could run in a family. Everyone thought it was a personal choice to keep drinking. It wasn’t even classified as an addiction yet. So I didn’t know how susceptible I was, or how careful I had to be. I’d spend months not having a single drink, thinking I was fine and could handle myself, and then I’d get plastered for a week at parties and bars and God knows what else, and it would take me even longer to get myself to stop again. It was like that even when I was with Ford and his gang. It wasn’t until I started dating Helmut that I started trying to change those habits. I’d never met anyone who loved me so unconditionally that I wanted to be a better person for them, until him. And it worked for a while.

“Well, barring our wedding, of course. I got shitfaced at the reception. It was embarrassing afterwards, but Helmut told me it made our cake-eating ceremony a hell of a great time.”

Lili snorted, and it was accompanied by a tiny upturn of her lips. Then it dropped as her expression became solemn. “And then…everything with Maligula happened, right?”

“Yeah. I think you know the rest of that story.”

“Uh-huh.”

Great-niece and great-uncle sat together for a while, just thinking about it all.

“I know I have to be more careful drinking than a lot of people, Uncle Bob,” Lili finally said at length. “My dad warned me about it when I was old enough to ask.”

“Truman is a good dad,” he murmured in response.

“The best dad.”

“Definitely the best dad.”

More silence.

“I didn’t mean to worry you and him,” she continued. “Or scare you. I know it was dumb to do what we did tonight.”

Bob looked at her, and she gave a conceding sigh.

“Okay, it was dumb to do a lot of what we’ve been doing with this stuff. That doesn’t mean I’m not being careful.”

“Kid, it’s not always just a matter of being careful. I thought I was being careful. I thought that for years and years, and when I finally realized I wasn’t, I convinced myself I could stop any time I wanted to, and kept up the same patterns anyway. That’s what I’m trying to get you to understand. I just don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. I’m just worried about you.”

Lili closed her eyes with a grimace. “I know. I’m sorry, Uncle Bob.”

“Hey, kiddo, look at me.” He waited until she did so. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not disappointed, either. That’s your dad’s job. I get it, is what I’m saying. It gives you a buzz, and it’s fun and exciting, and you just wanted to have a good time with your, uh…”

Bob leaned in a bit, and dropped his voice to a stage whisper.

“Is Raz still your boyfriend?”

“Wha –” her cheeks went red. “Yes, he is!”

“Alright, sorry, I’m just always out of the loop. No one ever tells me when these things change or not. Anyway,” he continued before she could get brighter than the cherries in her ice cream. “I’m just saying that you gotta be more than careful with this kind of thing. Everyone should be, really, but especially people like us. Plants aren’t the only thing that runs in the Zanotto family, unfortunately, so we just have to be aware of it and act accordingly.”

The teen turned this over in her mind. He could practically see the gears moving. When she looked at him again, it was with a slow, contemplative nod.

“No more late-night bar-hopping?” Her great-uncle asked.

“No more late-night bar-hopping.” She answered, sincere.

“Good.” He looked outside. Helmut and Raz were both lying on the front of the car, pointing out stars to each other. The sight made him smile. “Come on, we’ll work on that whole thing about Adam and Lizzie giving you alcohol another time, when it’s not three in the morning. For now, let’s rejoin our boys again and go get some rest, okay?”

“Okay.” Lili slid out of the booth and tentatively took her family member’s hand. His fingers squeezed hers in reassurance. “And...thanks, Uncle Bob.”

“Well, what can I say. Us weird Zanotto plant people hafta look out for each other, right?”

“Right.”

They walked out together, hand-in-hand.

------------------------------

A/N: I knew from promotional material that we'd be going into the mind of someone struggling with alcoholism, but Bob's Bottles punched me hard in the gut. It's probably my favorite mind in the game, both because it's visually gorgeous and because it hit a little close to home with some of the themes, like generational alcoholism and how the addiction can make someone a shell of themselves.

I wrote half of this three weeks ago and then found myself really struggling to finish it because it brought up a lot of old feelings I thought I'd sorted through a long time ago.

Psychonauts, man.

[theramseyloft]

7/30/21

Waiting for the call from UGA to get Khou.

Doing the most urgent loft work in the meantime.

Just finished mucking nest boxes.

The time has come to employ the loft's little tower fan.

As well insulated as it is, it's still a metal building and the AC unit just cannot complete.

Blowing at full strength, you can't feel it more than 6 in from the vent.

Good gawd, I started at 7:30am, and it is SO humid that in an hour of work, I'm dripping, and have developed the tell-tale muscle aches, nausea, and lip-tingling of heat exhaustion.  Came in to cool back down after setting up the tower fan.

Patron: "A fan in the window would help"

"The easiest way to keep a space as cool as possible is to create a path of airflow"

Thank you

Ok!

Breakfast eaten, water get, time to resume!

I laid this fucking brick out to hose down yesterday...

The Fire Nation used it as scaffolding to build a nursery and fill it with larva that quickly.

This is why I have to be so aggressive about treating them, and why my loft help just turning the bricks and weight stones shit side down is so dangerous.

Patron: "Holy shit! Fire ants are insane."

Patron: "They are an aggressive species from the Amazon, of course they're aggressive and quick lol"

Patron: "Oh! They are not native to the US? I never knew that! I just remember learning very quickly when we moved to the south from Canada that they are mean little bastards"

They are not!  

They are adapted to the river banks and survive the frequent flooding by clinging together in living rafts.  

An individual can hold her breath up to 14 days, allowing the rafts to survive until they make landfall again.  

They really love the American south because the high humidity keeps soil moist enough to build mounds in very quickly without the disruption of floods to cause breaks in reproduction.

Patron: "That explains so much"

They are able to remain in constant larva factory mode, and with all US populations only coming from a few accidentally imported queens, they are closely enough related not to see any other US fire ant colony as a rival.

So the entire US population of fire ants is a single massive supercolony with neither predators nor competition.

Patron: "That is super disturbing"

"But also very informative."

Yeah, they are monsters here that absolutely will hunt and eat you if they get the opportunity.

My husband and I used to have our bed against the wall.

The little bitches swarmed in by hundreds through a hole in the insulation one night in the second year we were married, infested the blankets, and woke us up by stinging us en mass.

Patron: "i cant imagine how fucking horrifying that was to wake up to"

I still have nightmares.  

I can't fall asleep by laying there with my eyes closed.  

You know how there are always after images when you close your eyes? Usually just meaningless, wandering patches of light and dark?  

That's what the swarm on my skin looked like in the dark, and instead of just being patches of light and dark, my asshole brain highlights their segments, legs, and animates their attack behavior of clamp on with jaws, sting until prey stops moving, or ant is crushed or otherwise pried off.  

I get the most ungody adrenaline spike if I'm not too physically exhausted to notice the visual.

It makes trying to fall asleep a real bitch for me.

Got an update call about Khou.

They don't have a specific time for him to get his CT scan done, beyond that it will happen today.

If it happens late enough in the day that he won't be fully recovered from sedation by the time they close, we'll have to wait until tomorrow to come get him.

Patron: "How far is it to Athens from where you are? You said you took him to UGA right?"

Two hour drive.

Patron: "Hang in there. Fingers crossed they can do it early today"

Thank you.

Neither I, nor my husband are really ok with out him.

The house feels wrong...

Had to come back in for the permethrine.

The fire nation is trying a different foraging approach into the loft and fuck no.

Threshold treated.

Komodore asked Patch to smooch-feed her

Farthing tread Luxie.

Then he crouched to be tread and she, then Alex, tread him.

I think I was wrong about Mote.

Wukong looks lighter than he is because of his chest fluff.

Close inspection of their wings shows Mote to have the same pattern as Wukong, obscured by the deeper Dirty pigmentation of babies under 4 months.

Arco has been doing the best job helping Passenger set her Fegg.

Leela is quite insistently crouching for Nobu, but her foob kinda over balances her when he's on top, causing her to stumble into a tilted run under him to keep from faceplanting.

He hangs on with the brazen tenacity of a bull rider, and has managed to finish three times today.

It is exactly as hilarious as it sounds, and I'll try to catch it on video, if I can.

Look at Arco on his practice egg <3

Patron: "a grown boy!"

Just got an update from UGA.

khou just finished his CT, but they close at 5pm, and he's unlikely to have recovered enough to be discharged in two hours, even if I left right now.

The projected discharge is between 9 and 10am.

His little heart stopped.

(Pretty much every Patron sent their condolences)

Cousins: "We're on the way, Dani, I'm sorry!  30-40 minutes i think ..."

Can't wait.

We can go say goodbye, if we leave now and fold space.

Husband: "The vets are trying one more time to get his heart to start back up.  We are on the road now."

We got to UGA.  

No word on if the last effort succeeded.

Waiting for his Dr to come see us.

Husband: "He didn't make it."

Husband: "He had lesions in his lungs.  The sedation was too much for his damaged lungs to handle."

Patron: "im so sorry. is there any idea what the lesions are from?"

Husband: "Not yet.  They have not gotten all the results back from his tests yet."

"The vet took a clay imprint of his feet with his name on it."

Patron: "sending all the love to both of you"

Husband: "Thank you.  We both are recovering."

Thank you so much to all of my patrons for the outpouring of loving condolences.

[justdecadentcollectiondestiny]

“In the walls of our hearts and brains, danger waits. There are holes in the floor of the mind.”

Hannibal - Hannibal Lecter aesthetic

[fromthedeskoftheraven]

Always kiss me goodnight

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Content:  Pining, kissing, mention of food, oh no there’s only one bed,   helmetless Din (but it’s dark), baby Yoda is an adorable tiny terror

Word count: ~2200

Note:  I swear I was only going to write one Pedro character fic. Has this   kind of thing been done a million times? Yes. Am I doing it once more?   Also yes. It’s self-indulgent hours and this little love letter to our favorite space dad and his green baby has been nagging at my mind since I  first watched the show.

Tagging the people who asked (If anyone wants to be tagged or un-tagged in any future fics since it seems  I’m well and truly back on my bs just say the word): @songsformonkeys @yespolkadotkitty @emesispo @beccaplaying

———————————————

Fatigue has caught up with the little green child now that his belly is full, and crankiness along with it. The Mandalorian has been known to lovingly  call his adopted son a womp rat, but when the baby gets overtired, a rancor is more like it.

This time, you can hardly blame him. The three of you have spent the better part of the day traveling, finally landing on this backwater planet late in the evening. With some searching and a small fortune in credits, Din managed to find a safe, out-of-the-way place to stay, leaving you and the child to eat and settle in while he went to scout the bounty’s location for the next  day’s work.

As the child’s fussing gains momentum, you hustle to the small sink in the corner of the room.

“We’ll wash your face and go straight to bed,” you promise him, letting the   water warm before wetting a cloth and wringing it out thoroughly.

In the mirror, your own face looks as exhausted as he obviously feels. The bed in question is little more than a pallet with a mattress and some  blankets, but it might as well be a royal welcome at this stage of the game.

Despite your gentleness, the baby erupts in an indignant whine as you wipe the cloth over his face and ears. “I know, little love,” you soothe while he struggles in protest. “Almost done.”

He quiets when you scoop him up into your arms, pressing a kiss to his fuzzy head. You hum bits of a song from your childhood, rocking him from side to side, and his little face crumples with a yawn. His tiny fingers curl into the fabric of your tunic and his head goes heavy on your shoulder, but still he fidgets, making pathetic little sounds in the direction of the door.

“I know,” you murmur again, still swaying on the spot. “He’ll be back soon.”

You’ve grown to love the child and you know he’s fond of you, but as far as   he’s concerned Din is the one who hangs the stars in the sky. He’s always a little agitated when his father is out of sight, and truth be told, so are you.

“I know what we can do,” you say. “Let’s make a plate for your buir for when he comes back. Don’t you think that’ll be nice for him?”

Neither you nor Din are sure how much the child actually understands, but you don’t let it stop you talking to him. If nothing else it makes you feel a little less alone in the long hours when Din is hunting his quarries.

His drooping ears twitch upward with this suggestion. He watches with interest as you lay a plate with some of the fresh fruit, bread, and stewed meat Din bought from the innkeeper for your supper.

“There we go. Now then, bedtime for little ones.”

You turn to survey the sleeping area with a stab of nerves. The minuscule size of the room isn’t a challenge -- the Razor Crest has made you an expert in living in small spaces -- but the lone bed is a wrinkle you hadn’t expected.

Din, ever pragmatic, had been quick to point out that it was plenty big enough for the three of you, and it was only one night. He was right, of course.

Still, you’d never been so grateful for dim lighting, sure that your secret longing for the Mandalorian was written plainly on your flustered face.

You couldn’t have said exactly when your feelings for Din Djarin had strayed  into dangerous territory. Somewhere in the months of traveling with him, caring for his child, helping maintain his ship, reminding him to eat, and tending the worst of his wounds your initial wariness turned to admiration, admiration to fondness, and fondness to something alarmingly like love.

It’s a fool’s errand.

For all his kindness to you Din is an island of a man, set apart from the world in  his shell of beskar and the even more unyielding armor of his creed.  Even if his heart is big enough to encompass the child, you don’t dare to hope there’s room for you too.

And now this bed -- this one kriffing bed -- sits there mocking you and all your silly fantasies of you and Din and the child being a real family, bound together by love instead of convenience.

You turn off the light overhead, leaving only the small, sickly lamp at the table to light Din’s way to his supper.

The mattress is clean and the blankets are a bit threadbare but soft, and the baby only has the energy to grumble a little when you lay him down on the side closest to the wall and tuck the thickest of them around   him. Yawning widely, he stretches out a hand toward you, fingers grabbing at the air.

The gesture warms your weary heart.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

You lie down beside him and face away from the table, mindful that Din will need privacy to eat. The little body shuffles closer to you, curling into your shoulder, and a surge of fierce affection pricks your eyes with tears. You wrap your arm around the baby to hold him close as the full brunt of the long day overtakes you.

“Good night, little love,” you say around a yawn, just as your eyes fall closed.

***

You wake with a start. The windowless room is pitch black, and in the absence of any landmarks your brain races to orient itself.

At your back, the child’s soft, snuffling breaths. A well-worn blanket draped over you and a slightly lumpy mattress beneath.

The inn, you remember in a flash.

At your front...something warm and broad and solid. You’ve nestled into it  in your sleep, one arm thrown over it, your hand grasping soft fabric. A familiar, comforting scent surrounds you, a scent you cherish from laundry days and the cramped quarters of a small ship.

Oh, Maker.

You clearly slept through Din coming back and getting into bed, and now you’re wrapped around him like a second set of clothes. The rush of blood into your cheeks flames so hot you worry he must feel it through the base layers he’s wearing to sleep.

Shrinking into yourself, you begin to pull away, as stealthily as you can. If you  can just get back to your own side of the bed and brazen it out in the  morning, maybe he’ll never be the wiser.

Slowly, so slowly, you  release the handful of his shirt you’re holding and move your arm from where it’s resting across his chest...

In the darkness, a hand encircles your wrist.

Oh, Maker.

You’ve watched Din wrestle enough uncooperative bounties into the carbonite   chamber to know you’re not getting away from him if he doesn’t want you to. But his grip on your wrist is light, gentle. His thumb rests on the place where your pulse is fluttering like a trapped bird, whether from embarrassment or his closeness you’re not entirely sure.

“Din.” It comes out barely a whisper, sabotaged by the sudden dryness of your mouth. You swallow hard and try again. “Din, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s all right.”

His voice is a revelation. Free of the modulator’s rasp, it’s warmer, richer, somehow softer and more resonant at the same time. You’ve never even been in the same room with him when he has his helmet off, and the realization that he’s right there, a breath away, is dizzying.

Silence stretches before he speaks again, more quietly. “It’s...nice.”

Your brain fails you entirely. “Oh.”

You search desperately for something more intelligent to say, but his thumb is drawing feather-light circles over the soft skin of your wrist and your pulse is thundering in your ears. Those touches, so delicate from a man so strong, blur your thoughts like liquor and drag a confession from your lips before you can bite it back. “I’ve always wanted to hold you.”

You wait, blessing the darkness that swallows your shame,  and hope he’s not going to tell you to pack your things and find a job in this bleak little skug hole for when he leaves you behind.

Instead, you feel the mattress shift and know he’s turned toward you.

The sudden fear of breaking Din’s creed is overwhelming, even in the dark. Instinct has you squeezing your eyes shut so tightly that white specks float behind your eyelids.

“I can’t see you,” you say quickly. “I promise.”

“I know.”

His thumb moves from your wrist across your palm, uncurling your fingers to map each one in turn, trailing up to the tips and back down again. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s touched anyone’s bare skin.

He sighs, which is nothing new, but this one doesn’t sound exasperated. It sounds almost...content. “Mesh’la,” he murmurs. “Beautiful girl. I thought so the first time I saw you.”

You’re overcome with a wild, childish urge to pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming.

His praise gives you a rush of courage to ask for something you’ve only dreamed of. “Din...can I touch you? Is it allowed?”

His only answer is to cradle your hand in his, bringing it to rest on his cheek.

Stubble prickles your palm as your fingers slowly trace his scruffy jawline and the thick column of his neck, savoring the feel of him. His hair is soft, long enough to curl at its nape, and when you comb your fingers through the tousled strands he makes a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat. It reverberates through your body like a bell, making your head swim with the thrill of affecting him.

You only just resist the urge to suck a mark into the spot where his pulse races under his warm skin.

Your greedy hands move on to discover a strong brow and the curved bridge of a prominent nose. A mustache frames lips that are more plush than you imagined, a note of sensuality in an angular, warrior’s face.

“Can you tell me what color your eyes are?” you ask, fingertips traveling over his cheekbone.

“Brown.”

Brown. You see them in your mind’s eye, soft and dark, expressing all the   things he doesn’t say out loud. Stroking his lower lip, you repeat his own word back to him: “Mesh’la.”

Din’s mouth twitches under your fingers. “You can’t see me.”

He has no idea. His body warming yours and the sweetness of his voice   calling you beautiful is everything you’ve ever wanted and thought yourself unworthy of having, and he thinks you’re only talking about his  face.

You cup his cheek, smile at him, even though he can’t see it. “I don’t need to, Din. I just know it. I always have.”

“You’re so good to me.” His hand catches yours in his large one, his voice   rough with some nameless emotion. “To me, and the baby. All the time.”

“You deserve everything good,” you whisper past the lump in your throat.

He’s caressing your hand again, holding it in place to press his lips to the pad of your thumb. “I want to kiss you, cyare.”

Your exhale is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Please.”

His hand moves to cradle your head as he closes the distance between you. If you were expecting him to pounce, you’re completely unprepared for him to linger, breath hovering over your lips for a long, agonizing moment as he brushes his nose over yours.

You’re almost startled by the first touch of his lips, a little chapped but warm and lush. His mustache is softer than you thought it would be, and so are his kisses, a series of slow, gentle presses of his mouth. Like he wants to do with his lips what you’ve done with your hands, sketching and learning.

It’s only when you slide your hand into his hair again that something inside him breaks. His arm snakes around your waist, holding you to the refuge of his broad chest as he slants his mouth over yours, claiming you in earnest. He’s possessive and tender in equal measure and the tease of  his tongue against yours, his teeth nipping your lower lip, the span of his hand on your back has you drunk on him and whispering his name between kisses like a prayer.

...Apparently not quietly enough.

A little hand scrabbling at your shoulder blade brings you out of your haze. As you pull away from Din the baby is climbing over you as quickly as his short limbs will let him. He wedges himself between the two of you with a delighted coo at Din, hands flailing to find his father’s face.

Din heaves a sigh, but there’s no malice in it. “I’m here, ad’ika,” he says, with unmistakable fondness. “We’re all here.”

You can’t stifle a breathless laugh as the baby snuggles into Din’s arms, making himself comfortable for the night.

Your Mandalorian surrenders good-naturedly, wrapping an arm around you with  the child tucked safely in the middle. He presses a kiss to your forehead before settling on the pillow beside you. “Sleep, cyare.”

Drowsiness is already fuzzing the edges of your mind again, but it catches on the word he’s said twice now. “What does that mean?” you murmur. “Cyare?”

You feel him smile against your temple, one last brush of his lips. “Share my bunk tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you.”

[dashielldeveron]

and i’ve gotta crow | takami keigo

hawks x pro-hero! reader. quirk unspecified.

summary: “You’re suffering from amnesia,” says Hawks to you, in your hospital bed.

No, you are not.

“We’re engaged to be married.”

No, you are not.

After an accident that was that bastard Hawks’s fault, you decide to play along with your diagnosis of amnesia, among other things, because how far can you make your former bully bend over backwards for you?

fluff/trickery??? completely avoidable angst, bc reader is a little shit. hawks is a scumbag bully at first. reader is honestly kind of violent. dealing with acne in a scene.

When the first things you saw after groggily blinking your eyes open were multiple IVs in the back of your hand, you flipped over and snuggled farther into your hospital bed to deal with it later, but against your will you were forced to lie flat on your back to stare into the hospital fluorescents.

When the nurse fiddling with your IVs came into focus, he said, “You need to lie on your back. You have deep gashes on your lower abdomen, and tossing about too much could open the stitches.”

That sounded like bullshit, but you were too out of it to care. “Yeah, okay,” you said through a croak, “Oh, fuck.” You wrestled a hand to your throat, massaging it. “Am I waking up from a coma? Don’t let anyone see me until I’ve done my eyebrows.”

The nurse laughed through his nose. “No, don’t worry. You’ve barely been—” He cut himself off and frowned. “The news should probably be broken to you when you have emotional support. I’ll be back soon.”

He left.

Emotional support? Wouldn’t that fucking gash on your stomach be—ooh, ouch, don’t move.

Where’s your phone? Where’s your goddamn phone; where’s any of your personal belongings? If they got crushed, you’re killing Hawks on sight.

Hawks, oh, my God. Where is he? He’s dead. If he still has the audacity to bully you professionally—fuck.

He’d cornered you on patrol earlier—whenever that was—and cut into you in that casually, negging-type way that wasn’t enough to report but enough to make you stay up late and freak out about being good enough. It hurt your chest whenever you thought about it.

But this was the first time he’d gotten seriously physical.

He’d alit on the top of the warehouse next to you, landing what would have been haphazardly for anyone else (the arch of his feet against the edge, his toes barely touching roof) and had crouched next to you, his scarlet wings completely blowing your cover as they stretched and shuddered.

“What’s a little girl like you doing in this part of town?” Hawks had propped his chin on both his fists. “Thought shoplifters were more your calibre.”

“Hawks, this is actually really important to me, so please, please leave,” you’d said, keeping your eyes on the group you could barely make out through the skylight. They’d already been partially concealed by crates, so they were hard to see.

“Someone else give you a tip for their location?” He’d tapped your opposite shoulder with the end of his wing, but you hadn’t even flinched.

“Bruh, you know I’ve been on this for weeks,” you’d said, shifting away from him, “I even shared intel at your last briefing.”

“Is that what you were talking about?” Hawks had scratched his chin. “I zoned out. Usually the little cases female heroes present aren’t in my circle, and I like to unwind when brain power isn’t needed.”

You’d planned to rip his wings out feather by feather while you’d gritted your teeth. “You can’t talk to me like that, Hawks.”

He’d laughed, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “C’mon, babygirl, have a slice of chill, won’t you? I thought you were one of the cool girls. Relax. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“Leave me alone, Hawks. You’re not gonna bully me into joining your agency. You’re not gonna bully me into quitting being a hero,” you’d said, inwardly screaming, “I’d tell you to go talk to someone who’d fall for your shit, but then, she’d have to suffer, too. So, fuck off into a sewer, jackass.”

“Oof,” Hawks had said, placing a hand over his heart and shaking his head, “You don’t have to be such a bitch, sweetheart. I’m only looking for my better half. Didn’t think it could be you, but I’d thought I’d give you a chance to prove me wrong. Don’t take yourself too seriously; just be along for the ride like the rest of us.”

“Huh,” you had said, and you’d stood and strode to the edge of the warehouse to your harness and rope, and you rappelled down the side of it as stealthily as you came up.

“I’ve been watching you all these years, sweetness, and I know you by now; I know how you really feel,” Hawks had said a bit too loudly while he flew downwards at your speed (braggart). “Strip away all of your busy work, your so-called hero trappings, and we’d mesh together just fine. We may be rough around the edges, but we clean up really nicely, don’t we?”

You’d unclipped your carabiner and stepped out of your harness, stashing it in your pack. “Fuck off.”

You’d moved towards the back entrance, but Hawks had slammed a hand against the concrete wall in front of you. You’d ducked under it and carried on, and he’d grabbed the back of your shirt.

“C’mon, if we didn’t know each other, and our eyes met from across the room at some hero gala, you’d be all over me, wouldn’t you?”

You had swiped his hand away. “I’d be putting a lid on my drink.”

His arms behind his back, Hawks had followed you through the door and behind the exposed pipes and closer to your targets. “Saw you coming onto Todoroki at the last one. You looked fine in his colours, but you would’ve looked better in mine.”

Don’t grace him with an answer; don’t grace him with an ans— “I wasn’t coming onto Shoto,” you’d said, pulling yourself up a couple of pipes for a better view—and you’d hit him when he flapped his wings to hover the few feet you’d ascended, because the noise might alert them.

“Yeah, you just simp for him, right? Then you didn’t step outside your comfortable ice queen act?” Hawks had gripped onto a pipe just underneath your ass. “You’re too much of a natural tease for that.”

How can you report him when he’s the head of his own agency? You guess the commission might listen, but what can they do besides slap his wrist? There’s really no one who can stop him, is there?

You hadn’t replied but instead crawled onto the iron catwalk. If you could position yourself about three-quarters of the way across, you’d be able to effectively activate your quirk and get this over with—wait, why would you think like that? You’d been waiting for this for ages.

A hand spreading across the small of your back had reminded you.

You’d flipped over with fire in your eyes and kicked him away as quietly as you could, but all he’d done was sit back on his knees to grin down at you, army-crawling your way through a dirty warehouse.

Would he take credit for your work again?

You’d shaken yourself. Eat my entire ass, Hawks. And with that, you’d continued inching towards your targets. When you’d gotten into position to watch them, Hawks had merely watched you.

You had scowled. “I’m gonna tear you a—”

“You had a hard childhood, didn’t you?”

A chill had unfurled up your spine, simple as that. Hawks now not only had the annoying air of an arrogant pick-up artist but also gave you an intense sense of danger. You’d moved away from him, regrettably away from your target, but Hawks had followed you, getting closer until his body heat had seeped into yours, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his dumb face.

“I could take suuuuch good care of you, little girl,” he’d said under his breath, “if only you’d let me. No one else is crazy enough to call me out or want more than the bare minimum.” His wings had folded in on his back, making themselves as small as possible to get closer to you. “If you give in, tell me yes, say please, you wouldn’t have to let any worries cross your pretty little mind. All you have to do is let me in.”

“Yikes,” you had said, sucking in through your teeth, “God, you’re a creep.”

Hawks had slammed you down onto the catwalk, iron reverberating through the warehouse as it struck your head, and your targets had looked up by the time the catwalk hinges had loosened and had come crashing down in the midst of their meeting.

You’re really not supposed to shoot guns inside. Don’t they know that’ll ruin their ears? No matter, really. You had fought them anyway, amidst crates splintering open from whatever they were shooting at you—fuck, that was a big hole. What’s oozing out of that? Gross, don’t step in it.

One with a normal revolver—his arm had given a woody crack when you’d bent it backwards—God, that was nice. Good sounds. If you could sample them into a rap track, you would.

You’d been planning a collab with a popular rapper while you’d hurled yourself at another villain, sawdust flying—just to keep your mind busy, really, but fucking—fucking Hawks had bested whoever he’d half-assed to the ground and had shouted your way.

“C’mere, you little shit—”

He’d scooped you up while you’d been taking care of it by yourself, and he had pinned you down behind a stack of crates that reached the remains of the catwalk, straddling you but keeping most of his weight off, his wings outstretched yet still hidden from the cloud of sawdust rising with deep gurgling on the far side.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he’d said over the chaos, spit flying, “You can’t handle this; you’re gonna get fucking killed. I can’t babysit you all the time.”

“Get fucked; I’m the number fourteen hero,” you’d said, deadly still, but twitching in fury, “I can handle anyth—”

“Aww, fourteen. And one day babygirl might reach the single digits.” Hawks had sneered in your face. “If she manages to fuck her way through them.”

Your jaw had dropped, and you pretended to cough on sawdust and kicked him off in the confusion. Hawks had grabbed a hold of your calf, grappling for your thigh, while you’d scrambled to climb over crates to the gurgling mess on the other side; you could handle it, and you would.

You’d slapped his hands away, wrestled out of his grasp again and again, and you’d launched yourself into the dust—

Yeah.

While the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, you picked at a hangnail. You hadn’t braced yourself for the explosion, so, you guessed you deserved whatever was wrong with you now. Big-ass gashes on your stomach. Probably broken ribs. Something felt off in your left leg, besides—oh, ho, what had the doctors thought when they’d seen Hawks’s scratches?

What an idiot.

When the door creaked open, the nurse returned with a mug of water for you, but—what? Who’s that bitch following him?

You blinked, twice. With his hands in his pockets and his nasty little wings tucked in behind him, Hawks meandered to your bedside, his gaze on your throat as you swallowed down water.

God, you’re too tired to deal with him. Let’s get this over with.

The nurse glanced over his clipboard. “I’ve already told your partner this, but I thought you would want him here.”

Maybe if you ignore Hawks, he’ll leave.

“You were very brave today,” said the nurse, “Your work as a hero is greatly appreciated. You’re on temporary leave to heal, though. Like I said, you’ve got three, major gashes on your stomach, and your leg’s broken—the fibula split, if you want to know. You’ll be on crutches for a while. You have four broken ribs, and—” The nurse bit his lip and softened his voice. “You hit your head pretty hard. Nothing’s broken, but you should have amnesia, with the trauma you’ve endured.”

Should have? They don’t know? You sure as hell don’t fucking have amnesia. It barely happens in real life, and it definitely hasn’t happened to you. You remembered every fucking infuriating thing Hawks did to ruin your mission, and if he doesn’t square up—

“I’m so sorry, baby,” said Hawks, grabbing your hand. He stroked the back of it with his thumb, and then he took his glove off to hold you skin-to-skin. “You remember who I am?”

You just stared at him.

“Your fiancé’s been a real presence in the waiting room,” said the nurse, “He hardly stopped pacing the entire time you were in surgery. He wouldn’t even talk to fans.”

Oh, my God.

Holy fucking shit.

“Oops, sorry,” said the nurse, covering his mouth, “I know you were keeping it a secret. Don’t blame him, please; he only told me to be able to see you immediately.”

Shutting your eyes, you took a deep, deep breath. You have been handed a golden opportunity on a fucking Hawks-shaped platter, holy fuck, and by God are you going to take advantage of it. Imagine how much you can fucking humiliate him, how far you can take it. How much you can make him pay for how he treated you, and now, if he says he’s your fiancé, then he’s gonna fucking worship you. You’re going to mould him into your little bitch, and he’s going to thank you for it. And you’ll get endless dirt on him just by seeing his place.

Don’t fuck this up.

Exhaling, you opened your eyes, blinking a bit. You curled your lips into your mouth, biting the lower one. “I remember you’re Hawks,” you said in a nervous voice, “and I remember, uh.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” Hawks squeezed your hand, his tone kind. “It’ll come back in time.”

You clutched Hawks’s hand while the nurse rattled off instructions and gave you your crutches, and Hawks squeezed your hand back, softly smiling at you.

When the nurse left, you turned to Hawks and said, “I’m so, so sorry, but I—I feel like there’s something big missing that I can’t remember.” You scratched your forehead with your free hand, dragging the IVs with you.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hawks tilted his head, still gazing decidedly down at you.

“Oh, God,” you said, “Oh, fuck. I don’t know. Um.” Take it back. Take it way back. That way he’ll dig himself into a deeper hole. The more lies he has to create, the funnier it’ll be. “Let’s see, I, hm.” You already weren’t speaking like yourself, but you looked upward as you faked combing through memories. “I don’t know how things work chronologically, but the most recent memory I have of you is—it’s after a press conference, and I’ve never been in the building before,” you said slowly, “And I can’t find the bathroom, but some press keeps following me, and I—I faceplant in between your shoulder blades, right between your wings. You—” You lowered your voice, shrinking a little in the hospital bed, “You got rid of them so easily, with just a gesture, and you put your arm around me. You were—” You shook your head, staring at both of your hands. “—so warm.”

Was that too thick? That was too thick, wasn’t it?

His free hand shot to his mouth, and he bit his knuckle. “But sweetheart, that’s,” said Hawks, his eyes watering, “That’s only around the third time we met.”

You know.

“Shit,” you said, widening your eyes, “How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Hawks squeezed your hand and kept the pressure longer than was necessary. “Three fucking years. You don’t remember anything past that?”

You pretended to be scared to look at him. “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry—”

“No, no, you don’t have to be,” said Hawks, and he leant towards you to lift your chin, rubbing his thumb against it, “It’s not your fault.”

You had to hand it to him: Hawks was a good actor.

But so were you.

***

Hawks disappeared for a while after that, but he manifested the day you were loosed from the hospital, more than giddy to carry all of your shit all the way to your flat. He was probably getting some sick pleasure from watching you hobble on your crutches.

“I can help you, if you lean on me,” said Hawks, giving you an easy grin, “I don’t want you to be in any more pain than you have to.”

“This is something I should do myself,” you said in what was hopefully a tough-it-out voice, “I’d like to be able to walk without depending on anyone.”

“I honestly think you ought to be in a wheelchair.” His wings bristled. “But what do I know? I could fly us to your place, if you like.”

“I don’t like. I’ve gotta concentrate on limping. Stop talking, Hawks.”

You got to your flat, and Hawks had guessed which key opened the door on the first try. Drat! He was already doing a good job of acting like he’d been here before, like he’s not surprised that the number fourteen hero lives in a pretty shitty apartment (you started living here as a student and got too damn comfortable for your own good—plus, you didn’t want your cat to endure the trauma of moving).

Hawks plopped your keys in the bowl by the door with a clatter, and he shut the front door behind you, flipping one of the locks.

He set your stuff neatly on the kitchen table—your purse, your tactical pack, your ropes—and lay your dry-cleaned hero suit over the back of a kitchen chair, and his hands were on you the next moment to guide you to your tacky, sunflower couch. Removing one crutch, he put your arm over his shoulder instead, one hand planted on your lower back above your bandages, and he eased you down onto the cushions.

Hawks then stepped over your legs to sit on your opposite side, and he brought your legs to rest in his lap, his hand gripping your non-casted leg. “Gotta keep it elevated, chickadee.”

You let yourself giggle. Time to get this shitshow started. “Thank you so much for helping me, Hawks; I know I’ve been a real hassle these past few days, and you shouldn’t have to deal with that sort of stress. You’re already under so much. I don’t understand how the commission would let you date anyone, let alone propose.”

“Oh, I know,” said Hawks, spreading himself out on the couch. He shifted himself to face you in addition to accommodate his wings—he was now positioned so that they’d drape over the arm of the couch instead of being squished against the back cushions. That bitch, he probably wasn’t used to couches that weren’t custom made to his special body requirements. Spoiled fuck.

“The commission was really pissed when they found out. Do you remember how, sweetness? Right, I’ll tell you,” said Hawks, running an ungloved hand through his hair before shaking it loose. “You remember up to the press conference with the faceplant. Short version is that you hated me for a good year before something clicked. You started acting awkward whenever I was around, avoiding me, and stuff. Sometimes getting red. I thought it was cute.”

You ducked your head. Flustered. He probably likes easily flustered women.

Wait. That’s not who you are. And he’d like you for who you are, if you’re engaged.

But at the same time, if you’re (gag) in love with him, wouldn’t you be flustered by some of the things he says?

Easy, baby. Take it as it comes. Pick your battles. Go with your gut.

And gut says make Hawks eat shit.

“You think I’m cute?”

“I know you’re cute.”

You’re going to stuff his own feathers down his throat.

“We got together at that dinner Endeavor’s agency sponsored. Do you remember that at all? That place with the purple lights. You’d gotten nervous from the crowd and had gone to take some of your anxiety meds. I caught you in the hall back from the bathroom and talked you down before going back out there.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’d like to say I’m the one who kissed you, but you took initiative before I had the guts.”

Funny. Hilarious, in fact. That was the night Hawks had solidified himself as the Biggest Dick in the World, because yeah, he’d caught you in the purple-lit hallway, but he’d caught you on the way to take your meds, not on the way back. You were talking yourself down from a panic attack and couldn’t argue him away, so he’d followed you into the bathroom, running his mouth and acting like it was an accident when the tip of his wing had knocked your two capsules down the sink.

He’d told you that if you’re a big girl, you’d be able to handle the rest of the night. Or you could leave at any time with him, and he’d make excuses that everyone would have to accept.

Honestly, you’d love to let his fake memory be true, because then, you’d be able to wear purple again without feeling queasy.

Cocking your head, you smiled. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

Hawks let out a light laugh, craning his neck to rest his head on the back of the sofa. “That’s what you said that night, too. About how it felt out of character.”

“Was I good?”

Lifting his head, he raised an eyebrow at you: probably the first genuine emotion he’s shown you the whole time he’s been here. “Hm?”

“When I kissed you. Was it good,” you asked flatly.

“Oh,” Hawks said, his wings puffing out just barely, “Oh, sweetheart, you were amazing. Groundbreaking. Show-stopping.” His tongue flicked over his lower lip, and he shifted underneath your legs, leaning slightly towards you but holding eye contact before carrying on.

You shook your head. “I don’t have the energy to give you the makeout session you deserve,” you said, envisioning drowning him in the bathtub, “I’m exhausted. Forgive me.”

“Always,” said Hawks, “Want me to keep going?”

“You can hardly eat me out when we haven’t kissed yet.”

“I meant,” said Hawks, pausing to visibly swallow (was it real?), “about our relationship, but if you wanna eat—”

“Nah, keep going. So, I started the relationship? I must be crazy. Neither of us have fucking time to sleep, let alone be in a relationship.”

Hawks never shut up about how he was taking time out of his endlessly packed days to spend time with you, how time was precious to him, and if he’s spending time with you, why, then, you’d better pay up, bitch (always accompanied with his hands on his belt, subtly pointing his thumbs towards his cock).

Hawks shrugged with his wings instead of his shoulders. Interesting. Has he ever done that before? “The commission said that, but after I insisted we’d make time, they relented. Eventually,” said Hawks, jerking his head to the side, “Our quirks don’t exactly fit well, so we haven’t worked with each other professionally too often, and, of course, we’ve had to hide our relationship so that we can’t be a public weak spot to each other. Plus, we’re more marketable as eligible, young heroes.”

“Fuck the market,” you said, slumping into the pillows.

“There’s my girl,” said Hawks, grinning with his tongue caught between his teeth, “There’s her spark. I know, baby. I feel the same way, but being made into libidinous body pillows pays the bills, y’know?”

Nodding, you brought one of the couch pillows around for you to hug, and you smushed your chin into it. “Hawks,” you said, so quietly you almost couldn’t be heard over the A/C kicking on, “How long have we been engaged?”

“Four months,” he said, his grin unconsciously fading until he was essentially baring his teeth, “Since the twentieth.”

Taking a moment, you said, “I can’t remember anything at all.”

“That’s okay. It’ll come back.”

“No, I can’t—” You slid your hands through your hair, pulling at it, and you heaved a sigh. “Goddammit, Hawks. I wish I could—fuck. I’m missing something huge. I know I am.” Make him nervous. Make him lie awake at night. “I’m sorry, Hawks. It’s probably something really important, and I—”

“Shh, shh, shh, shh, it’s all right,” said Hawks, and he stood to lean over you, his hands rising to cup your face, and holy shit, his hands cover so much of your skin; is that legal? He’s got hands. “Don’t worry, baby. You’ve had a big day. Turn your brain off. I’ll take care of you.”

Red flag! Big, red flag! Creep! He’s a creep!

Your gaze fell to his jacket pockets. Does he carry date rape drugs on his person?

“Hawks, I don’t wanna inconvenience you any more than I have.”

“I’m your fiancé,” said Hawks, actually looking you straight in the eyes and not breaking, “I want to take care of you.”

“Sure, in the way the mob takes care of people.”

Hawks’s mouth opened slightly, and his eyes narrowed.

Cover it up. “I’m not sorry. I don’t trust your cooking. You’ll poison my spaghetti!” You made a dumb gesture, pinching your fingers together. “Have you seen The Godfather? There’s actually a pretty legit spaghetti recipe in it; it’s not too bad, but it’s kind of watery—”

Hawks brought your hand to his mouth to kiss your knuckles and let his lips linger. “Watch it with me?”

You shook your head. “I’m too tired. I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll join you.”

“No,” you said, “My bed’s not made with your wings in mind.” Fuck off to your own little sex next, Hawks. Get out of here. “If they got hurt, it’d be my fault. Go sleep in your own bed, all right?” Go home. Get mugged on the way.

Hawks sighed, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “If you insist. But you’ve gotta reach out to me for anything you have trouble with, yeah? Memories, opening jars, orgasms, you know.”

“I’m leaving,” you said, reaching for your crutches, “Ten minutes ago.”

***

“You didn’t tell me how you proposed.”

Hawks froze mid-bite of his ramen, but after a quick beat, he slurped the rest of the noodle up. “I was hoping you’d recall that on your own, baby. Get your own feelings about it, instead of me telling you how to feel.”

If you weren’t faking amnesia, you’d fucking break his nose for that. Bastard.

“I imagine once you tell me, the feelings will rush in,” you said, clicking your chopsticks twice for emphasis, “I want to remember everything, and if I don’t, well, I want to fall in love with you again.”

Hawks’s gaze glazed over for an infinitesimal moment. Score.

“It’ll sound goofy once I describe it.” With his wings cramped against the back of the booth, Hawks scratched the back of his neck—a classic move for pretending to be embarrassed. “I’m not exactly known for being romantic.”

Yeah, he’s known for fooling around with anyone who’s glittery, like a goddamn crow. If you’re paying attention.

“Aw, but Hawks, you’ve been nothing but so effortlessly romantic to me since I’ve been convalescing,” you said, rolling up the paper wrapper of your straw and soaking it in the ring your cup left on the table.

“Right, well. I flew us out to the countryside, to this overlook halfway up a mountain. You liked going rappelling there a lot. To practise for missions.” Hawks had some of your habits down, at least. Bet he gets the location wrong, though. “We watched the sunrise. We shared a thermos of tea. I asked you once the sun had risen, but you didn’t say yes right away,” said Hawks, “You jumped off the overlook without your gear, and I caught you. You were furious about it—you didn’t want me to see you overwhelmed. But you said yes.”

Ugh. That sounded about right. That sounded pretty realistic. Hawks was a fucking stalker.

“Fuck,” you said, burying your face in your hands, “That’s cute.” You stretched the skin of your cheeks before releasing, and you returned to your ramen. “Question: did we put the ring into storage, or something? I don’t have the little indent on my ring finger from wearing a ring too long, and I haven’t found anything at home.” Make him sweat. Make him stumble. Where’s the ring, Hawks?

With a flash of his eyebrows, Hawks maneuvered his straw to his mouth using only his lips, looking quite stupid, in your opinion. “Figured you’d ask that at some point. I’m so overjoyed to see you every time that I forget to bring it up. The ring’s been sent off to a high-level, government-backed, support company. I’ve pulled in a favour from the higher-ups. I wanted to turn your ring into something a little more personal and incorporate one of my feathers into it,” said Hawks, taking a moment to slurp his drink noisily, “Depending on how well it goes, I’d be able to help you if we’re separated and know where you are. At the very least—” Hawks ducked his head to give the illusion of staring up at you with wide eyes, his blond eyelashes light against his skin. “—I’d be able to feel your heartbeat. It would bring me great comfort.”

Great, so he’d have a GPS on you at all times, knowing whether or not you went somewhere he didn’t want you to. He’d be able to tell if you went somewhere your non-amnesia self would know about. Great. Phenomenal.

“Hawks, that’s very sweet,” you said, fiddling with the remnants of your straw wrapper, now fizzled out of its snake shape, “Wouldn’t the process hurt you, though? Since you can feel it.”

“Nothing more than a twinge, sweetheart,” said Hawks, holding up his hands, “And I’d bear any amount of pain for your sake.”

You fantasised about beating his head in with the back end of a rifle.

***

When you were told Hawks was waiting for you outside of the recording booth, you told the messenger that Hawks could wait until you were finished with five more takes. You could picture Hawks’s little pout at the news, his feathers bristling despite the closed space, and resigning himself to sit in one of those clangy, metal chairs out front, having to hunch forward so that he didn’t crush his wings.

The idol group adored the ingenuity of bone-crunching as percussion in a song, and along with that and some other combat foley, you were singing the bridge with the rapper of the group (the dance captain would sing your part for live shows). It’d be a good promo for the girl group and for you, and the song, “Spine,” was going to be released as a single as soon as it was polished.

Hawks perked up the moment you stepped through the secondary door to the booth, his eyes brightening and wings spreading to take up more space. “I didn’t think I’d catch you,” said Hawks, standing to take your hands (the cold leather gloves sucked the heat out of your hands), “I’ve got to fly, soon, but I wanted to tell you personally.”

“You’re not pregnant,” you said, fighting the urge to break his goggles/visor/hat thing.

His lopsided grin widened. “Not yet, baby. There’s gonna be a heroes’ gala held at the end of the month, and I wanted to let you know that I’m doing everything in my power to make it a positive experience for you. Here, I’ve got this woman’s phone number,” he said, fishing a slip of paper out of his jacket, “She’ll help accommodate the venue for your leg.”

Stupid fucking bastard man. He probably wanted to pick out your clothes himself, infantilise you and dress you up like a goddamn doll. Deny you your personhood. “I’ll be out of the cast by then.” You slid the paper into your back pocket.

“I know,” Hawks said in a way that was a fucking lie, “I just don’t want there to be any accidents. I can’t have my babygirl any more hurt than she is.” Hawks placed his cold, gloved hand against your cheek, and you, shutting your eyes, made yourself lean into it. “But contact her. She’ll make it the safest place it can be for you, even when I have to leave your side.”

God, galas were great. Big events for villains to ruin. You licked your lips thinking about using a new move you’ve learnt to take a villain down (involving clamping your legs around the villain’s neck to choke him as he crumpled to the floor—your combat coach had banned you from the move after you made her pass out). “Are we announcing our engagement, then? If we’re going together?”

“I’d love to,” said Hawks, “but only if you want to. The ring could be ready by then, if I ask them to rush it—”

“Let’s do it.” If you plunged the ring into icy water, would he start to shiver? Ooh, your ring’s going to act as a fucking bay leaf in your soups for a while.

“Oh,” said Hawks, sighing lightly with his eyes fluttering shut. He pressed his forehead to yours and rubbed his thumb over your cheek. “You have no idea how much that means to me, sweetheart. You are so dear to me, and I want everyone to know it. The best damn thing in my life. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, placing your hand on his face to push him away, “Don’t you have work to do, screw boy?”

***

“Did we have a date?” you asked from the edge of the bathtub.

Hawks dipped the razor in the water, washing off the hair and shaving cream. “We’ve gone on so many, darling; you’ll have to specify.”

“No, I meant for the wedding.” Let’s once again play: Can Hawks Cover His Own Ass?

Hawks dragged the razor down your freshly exfoliated, freshly-un-casted, freshly not-broken leg, starting at your knee. “Nope!”

“No explanation?”

“You wanna get married tomorrow? A six-month engagement is rather short, don’t you think?” His nose twitched. He’d said the scent of your shaving cream irritated his nose. Good.

“I don’t. Why didn’t we have a date for the wedding?” You eyed the actual and literal pile of your dead skin on the towel. Maybe you should make Hawks snort it.

“We were too busy working; you’d said you didn’t mind having a long engagement, so long as I was yours. Then, uh, you know. The accident,” Hawks said with a shrug—with his shoulders this time, because if he moved his wings while he was crouched in your bathtub, he’d soak them, and they were a bitch to dry, apparently. Suffer, you rat bastard.

“The commission isn’t involved in that decision?”

“I thought that was implied,” said Hawks, gripping your ankle to turn your calf to the side, “They don’t want it to be a huge spectacle, so even I don’t know how much of a wedding wedding they’d let us have.”

He’s too damn good at this. If he weren’t a pro-hero, he’d fit right along in a theatre troupe.

You’re going to wring his neck.

You caught him staring at the crotch of your underwear (bone-dry, you might add) while he shaved your thighs, and he spent more time rubbing lotion into your inner thighs than anywhere else. He tossed your dead skin before you could make him eat it, and he scooped you up against your protestations about your weight and capability, humming while he carried you to your bed.

The fucker tucked you in and rounded up your cat to place in your arms (your cat disagreed with him and promptly leapt off the bed).

“Let me stay with you,” said Hawks, kissing each of your fingertips. It’s an order.

Yet you shook your head.

***

“The doctors said you shouldn’t drink,” Hawks said under his breath, taking the champagne flute gently from your grasp.

“But I want to,” you said, sticking out your lower lip, “I’m wearing goddamn heels and a fucking dress. I’ve got on makeup, for Christ’s sake. I’ve done my time; let me drink.”

“Baby, you’ve got to stay safe,” he said, and he set the glass next to some 40s-level hero’s place at the long, white tablecloth. “There’s already press paying more attention to us than usual. You wanna make a fool of yourself?”

“Yes,” you said, lifting another champagne flute from a passing gala waiter, “Who gives a shit about the press.”

Hawks laughed too loudly to be natural before lowering his voice. “Baby, you are gonna be the death of me.”

“Promise?”

***

When “Spine” was released on a cool, spring morning to an excitable audience, you were lurking in alleyways by the docks, searching for a fight. When the music video dropped, you were smashing some guy’s face into a concrete wall. While more and more citizens recognised you and your talent, your work for the community, your connections, your popularity—with your rank steadily rising—you were rappelling down a port sewer to pummel a slime villain into dust.

You wiped his blood off on your pants, hands devoid of anything that could taint. You’d left the ring at home.

***

“You tricked me,” you said, scowling as Hawks pushed you forward, “This isn’t the rock climbing park.”

Once you deliberately smashed your face into the glass door and crossed your arms, Hawks held the door open for you. “Would you have dressed up so nicely for rock climbing?”

“A meta-game challenge,” you said, “to rock-climb in a long skirt.”

You glowered about the restaurant while you and Hawks stood in the lobby, his hand low on your back, suspiciously respectfully. You made no effort to hide your distaste: it was the place with the purple lights.

Over there at the absurdly long bar, Endeavor had drunk flat whisky without so much of a growl at anyone, despite it being his event. Hexagonal tables with lilac tablecloths dotted the floor—you’d hidden in one of the few booths, up against the exposed brick wall—but your hiding place had been ruined once a violet disco ball had emerged from the ceiling. Shiny, wooden floor that had reflected your post-panic attack face right back at you and let every shoe strike it with a clatter. No silence allowed.

The whole restaurant had lavender LED lights running around the walls, swathing the place in a distorted sort of purple haze, and any candles lit on the centre tables had indigo flames—you’d focused on how those might have been made in the process of coming down from your panic attack.

God. You’re going to throw up.

The hostess escorted you and Hawks to a farther back room, this one with booths separated by small, brick walls that didn’t reach the ceiling yet concealed the booths’ occupants from each other—unless you were passing directly in front of one.

Hawks made you sit in the booth first, trapping you in as he settled. He had to be on the edge, anyway, he told you, because of his wings. You’re going to rip them off and boil them in the soup.

The two of you ordered. You don’t remember what. You can only channel so much of your nerves into jostling your leg. This is not cool. This place is not cool. You need to get out.

“Hey, let me through,” you said, nudging Hawks, “Bathroom.”

Once there, you lightly slapped your cheeks a couple of times, trying to ground yourself through physical sensation. No use. Can’t they fucking use normal lights in this place?

You didn’t have your panic meds, because you’ve never needed them rock climbing. You can do it. You’re fine. You’re fine. Your tongue is too big for your mouth.

You took your time meandering back to the booth, coming to a halt at the end of the narrow hallway and ducking behind the corner.

Endeavor stood by your booth, his arms crossed over a flaming chest. You caught your breath at the sight of his orange fire, a comforting contrast to all the damn purple, but still—Endeavor. Talking to your (gag) fiancé.

Without the courage to interact with Endeavor, you listened at the corner for his departure.

“Nah, she can handle her bladder just fine. It’s her nerves,” Hawks was saying, hidden by the bricks, “She likes hiding. She doesn’t necessarily like being in the spotlight.”

“Yet she hasn’t completely withdrawn as Eraserhead has. You’ve picked a strange one to marry.”

From the angle Endeavor glared at him, Hawks must be slumping in his seat. “But that’s what so great about her. And it’s hard to process, y’know, like, she’s finally mine. You follow?”

“Regrettably,” said Endeavor, “Regardless, I offer my congratulations that your courtship finally worked out in your favour. You should have told me sooner.”

Courtship. That’s a funny way to pronounce bullying.

“Eh, I’ve gotta have some secrets, don’t I? Can’t betray my otherwise cool exterior.” Hawks laughed. “I can’t believe I’ve been allowed such happiness. The woman I’ve loved for years is gonna be waking up to me every day soon, y’know?”

Hawks has got to know you can hear him, otherwise he wouldn’t be saying those things. Endeavor must be in on Hawks’s ruse, since Endeavor is Hawks’s closest—actually, Endeavor isn’t the type to revel in romantic shit. Endeavor straight-up isn’t the type to revel. To the best of your knowledge, Endeavor doesn’t genuinely like Hawks as so much as tolerates him; when did they get so close? It must have taken a long time—

Time.

You could feel your IQ dropping as you actually considered: had you been in a legitimate coma? Had you (fuck) genuinely had amnesia?

No, no. You don’t live in Crazytown. Your eyebrows hadn’t been overgrown when you’d woken up in the hospital. You’d only been there a day.

Of course, Hawks is a vain piece of shit and does his own eyebrows, so he might have considered that yours were a piece of pride/insecurity for you and may have done them while you were—did Hawks do his own eyebrows? That spoiled fuck probably had someone else to do them for him. If they were naturally like that, you were going to throttle his ass.

You didn’t fucking have amnesia. Hawks is and always has been a stupid, clammy birdbrain. He’s always been cruel to you. He didn’t fucking like you.

He sure as hell wasn’t in fucking love with you.

Oh, my fuck, what if your memories of Hawks have been fabricated by a coma-addled mind and that—

“Hey, there,” said—said someone, some pale-ass, sleep-deprived freak who startled you out of your head, “Are you all right? You look—I mean, do you need some water? A chair?”

You blinked, yet he wouldn’t come into focus—you were taking in details about him, ones that didn’t fucking matter (chain on his wallet, three rings all on the left hand, a button-down missing the last button, a cloud of axe body spray), but he didn’t register as a human person. He couldn’t; you hadn’t grounded yourself yet. You yourself still had a frazzled, cartoon scribble buzzing inside of your chest, and until you vomited it up, a panic attack may yet still happen.

You can’t deal with anyone new right now.

A spark of recognition crossed the new guy’s face, and he, through a smirk, asked if you were your hero name.

Oh god oh fuck not now

“Sweetheart,” came Hawks’s melodious drawl (registering first his voice, then bodily warmth, then the wingtip covering your ass), “You were taking so long that I came to check on you.” He pulled you by the waist towards him, blocking the guy from seeing your face by pressing it into his chest. “Who’s this?”

Who cares. All you could focus on (sharp and overwhelming, nothing else but) was how fucking incredible Hawks smelled, and at this point, you’d use anything to bring yourself back down to earth. A small voice in the back of your head told you that freaking out to this degree in this particular situation was leaning towards pathetic, since basically nothing happened, besides being in an uncomfortable environment and being accosted by a fan at the wrong time, but you? You did not control the rate at which your brain panicked.

And really, no rhyme or reason played into why your grabby little hands itched for human contact once safe in the booth again, why Hawks’s scent lay on your tongue more heavily than your soup, why the overwhelming sensation of being so fucking spaced out of it threw its entire weight upon your shoulders—you couldn’t find yourself. You were lost.

And in this horrible, purple place, the only thing that’s familiar was Hawks.

When you scooted as closely as you could to him in the booth, keeping your glare towards your lap while you looped your arm under his to snuggle into it, Hawks cleared his throat to say, “What’s this?”

You scowled into his jacket, both hands gripping his forearm.

He set his chopsticks down. “How can I help, darling?”

Growling, you bonked your forehead against his shoulder, dragging your hands down to his.

“Hey,” said Hawks, and he guided your face towards his and stroked your cheek with his thumb, “Did that guy bother you too much before I got there?”

Turning your mouth towards the hand cupping your cheek, you kissed his palm, bit the leather, and kissed it again before burying yourself in his shoulder again.

He rested his hand on the crown of your head. “What’s the matter? Can you tell me?”

“Not sure I can put it into words,” you said, “I think I wanna go home.” You bit the fabric of his jacket and gnashed it between your teeth.

“I can handle that,” said Hawks, “Gimme a moment to get takeaway boxes, yeah? Then we’ll leave, and you’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”

Unfortunately, you were still clutching onto his arm by the time he unlocked his darkened penthouse (because you’re not gonna hold his hand. God), but you slapped his hand away from the light switches.

“Turning them on would be too much stimulation,” you said, “Please don’t.”

Hawks hummed against the top of your head, placing keys and both of your phones on the kitchen counter. “Bed or couch?”

“Window,” you said.

“Window?”

“I’m assuming you’ve got one.”

“I do,” said Hawks, guiding you through his dark apartment, probably past scarily expensive, posh shit. He led you to what was most likely his living room, with the cool, dim light of the night sky through a vast, single-frame, wall-to-floor window illuminating furniture custom built for his wings, but he eased you down onto the carpet, tugging your shirt upwards so that the window would be touching your bare skin on the small of your back.

Hawks yanked his boots off, late, instead of at the door, and he tossed them over his shoulder. He took yours off, too, and once he’d set them aside, he sat next to you against the window, a hand on your thigh.

“Better?”

“Probably,” you said, staring at the triangle of light beige carpet between your crossed legs.

“Need me to talk? You need to talk?”

“Not right now.”

Hawks was a dumbass. He’s such a fucking dumbass. But he’s a dumbass who’s here right now, and he’s interested (?) in you, interested in helping you. And good golly, you have to be touched. Hawks’s offering warmth, freely, potentially lovingly, and all you had to do was reach out to take it, even if you didn’t reciprocate whatever sentiment was motivating him yourself.

Do you really want to take what you have no feelings for?

Hawks lies a lot to Endeavor. To everyone. He might not have been lying earlier. What reason had he to lie?

Guess it didn’t matter, because you were lying.

But good God, you haven’t been kissed in a long time. Haven’t felt safe or loved. You could…you could indulge for a few hours in order to calm down. You could pretend.

The last ten months had proved that.

“Hey,” you said idly, reaching out to grab the inner fleece lining of his jacket to rub it between your fingers, “Hawks, I’m gonna—I’m gonna put my mouth on your mouth. Okay?”

Hawks’s wings ruffled and constricted themselves so that he could move closer to you, and his hand has migrated from your thigh to grip your hip—how could anyone’s hands encompass that much of you? Your fucking hands couldn’t, not in the way his does.

(Bird man big and safe.)

([No, fuck you, don’t think that.])

(BIRD MAN SAFE—)

Shoved is how you’d describe the first few seconds of the kiss, followed closely by wet and you’d think his teeth would be sharper. Your lips didn’t line up with his completely until he adjusted your chin with two of his fingers, guiding it open just barely, as well, so that his tongue could graze your teeth—it took you a moment of processing before parting them, with a final don’t think! shouted to your neocortex.

Birds have a higher body temperature than other animals, on average having a body temperature of 105 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius). The colour of their feathers, of course, affects how much light and heat they absorb, with the lighter coloured feathers—say, red—reflecting more, rejecting outside heat sources.

Yet Hawks gripped you like he’d fucking freeze if he weren’t clutching you, if he weren’t straddling your legs, one palm flat against the cool of the window by your head. The other snaked around you, his forearm lying almost vertically up your back to press down between your shoulder blades, keeping you as near to his chest (he probably didn’t realise it, but his fingers ran across the curve of your shoulder blades where his wings were on his own body.

For some reason, the thought crossed your mind that you weren’t enough for him, because you were too dissimilar.)

Don’t think!

When he massaged your tongue with his, applying pressure sporadically, you returned the action—have you ever seen a bird tongue up close? They’re fucking nasty little things, looking more like a grub than anything else. Thank God Hawks had a normal, human tongue that performed particularly delightful, normal things, like drag across the roof of your mouth and aid in sucking phenomenal hickeys onto your jawline, licking over where he’s bitten and kissed.

Stop thinking about bird anatomy. Hawks has no discernible bird traits except for his fucking wings. He’s not a fucking bird man. He’s just some dude with wings. And not all birds have functional wings; for example, the ostrich and the penguin do not have wings to be used in flight—

Oh, my fuck. Turn your brain off.

Your stomach lurched. That had been something Hawks had told you too often, back before your accident.

It’s what he wants.

Hawks fucking whimpered when you pulled the shorter hairs at the back of his neck, prying him away from your skin with great difficulty—he kept trying to touch you with his mouth and tongue in the process.

“Let me have more,” he said, panting, his breath heavy and just below your ear, “Please.” He pressed his lips to the spot in front of your ear in a weak kiss, having spent himself for the most part. “I’ve missed you so much, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me for so long.”

“I don’t—” You fake-stuttered, but it turned out you needed the time to put your thoughts into words. “I don’t think I’m back yet. I’m,” you said, taking as deep a breath as you could with Hawks smushed against your chest, “Something’s missing. Something big.” That’s right. Steer it back in his direction. Make the bird man sweat. “I don’t—something doesn’t feel right.”

It took a moment, but Hawks nodded fervently, shutting his eyes. “Of course. Yeah. Yeah, I get it, sweetheart. Can’t do anything when your heart’s not in it.”

Your heart’s not the problem. “Thank you for being so understanding, Hawks,” you said, untangling yourself from underneath him, “Would you just, uh, hold me for a while?”

His wings wrapped around the both of you on his enormous bed, still fluttering with each slow breath he took. Hawks almost looked genuine while he slept, and probably for the best—at least he was getting rest; at least his guard might be down.

You couldn’t sleep. Your mind was racing.

***

“Rank speculation is out,” you said, scrubbing the pumice stone over a patch of dry skin on Hawks’s back and scrolling through the twitter with your other hand, “Take a look.”

He opened the link you sent once he’d safely removed a dead feather that had been lodged in an odd spot in a wing. “Huh. Think I could truly take on Endeavor?”

“Well, he’s got that abusive-to-his-family thing, while you’re rocking the preparing-for-my-wedding look, and he can’t network non-aggressively to save his life.”

“Nor can you.” Hawks shot you a smirk over his shoulder.

“Zoom in on my speculated nine, baby,” you said, flicking away some dead skin with a satisfied/disgusted sneer, “And I didn’t have to sleep my way there.”

“Ah, ha, ha,” said Hawks, “Knew you could do it. Whoever’s told you that is gonna have to deal with my foot up their ass. You’re more than capable of getting there on your own.”

“Which I did. I have.” Wait. Hawks told you that. No, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s a commonly said, misogynistic comment towards women heroes. Hawks isn’t special. “But having your foot up someone’s ass wouldn’t be good for PR, unless you wanted to advertise that you’re a kinky son of a bitch who’s cheating on his fiancée.”

“I would never,” said Hawks, and, contorting his arm, he grabbed your hand with the pumice stone to kiss the back of it, “But my PR is solid, regardless.”

“If the public knew how much time you had to spend preening these fucking wings, they’d probably appreciate you more. Or call you conceited.”

Hawks hummed. “It’s a necessary evil,” he said, returning to his wingtip to search for dead feathers. “Thank you for helping.”

“No problem. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get to see how—Hawks, holy fuck. Do you feel that?” You ran a finger near the base of a wing.

“It’s your finger?”

“No, this,” you said, tapping the spot.

“No?”

“My God. It’s a dilated pore of a winer,” you said, already reaching for the tweezers, “Right at the base of your wing. It’s basically an enormous fucking blackhead. I’m popping it. Oh, my God. I’ve never seen one in real life.”

“You’re popping it?”

“You didn’t have a problem with my getting the ones where your costume sits.”

“No,” said Hawks, rolling back his shoulders, his wings spreading with them, “Gotcha. Get on with it.”

“Can I film it?”

“What? No,” said Hawks, “No one can see me preening, let alone dealing with acne.”

“There’s sure to be another hero out there with a wing quirk, right? I don’t know how you can’t feel it.”

“Yeah,” Hawks said slowly, “Since my feathers can feel—I suppose where the wings merge with my skin is pretty numb. I haven’t ever had to think about it.” He licked his lips. “Funny.”

He continued to scroll through his feed and tend to his feathers while you worked at his back. “Bad news: the tabloids got a hold of our grocery list from the last time we went to the shops. I must have dropped it at some point in the store.”

“Oh, so do they know what kind of ice cream we prefer? The horror.”

“No, but they’ve brought in some hack handwriting analyst. Talking about our annotations for each other on the list. Something about how you’re logical and I’m a romantic. The writer of the article is practically swooning.” Hawks pulled out a clot of feathers with his teeth and spat them aside. “With good reason, though. The trashy pictures they snapped of us are hot.”

“Describe them to me.”

“I can show you—”

“No,” you said, concentrating on your work, “I don’t want the image imprinted on my brain. Describe them in your own words.”

“All right,” said Hawks, crossing his legs and placing his phone on the coffee table in front of him, “To start, the flash is on.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah. We’ve got that distantly surprised look going on. It looks like we’re near the eggs and cheese. You’re not looking at the camera, but I believe it’s in the moment I caught it.” Hawks flicked away a feather and let it fall to the carpet. “My hand’s on your waist. The other’s on the cart. You’ve scrunched your face up in concentration; it’s really cute.”

“Aw, we should get it framed,” you said, wiping away the gunk with a tissue and wadding it up so that no one will ever have to see or touch it ever again.

“Never,” said Hawks, “The first picture of us I wanna get framed should be on our wedding day.”

“It’s coming along quickly,” you said, setting aside the tweezers, “Bit more quickly than I’d thought it would.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” said Hawks with a light laugh, and you ducked to rest your head against his shoulder, straining your neck to reach him over his wing.

Hawks clicked his non-nasty, non-bird tongue. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Sighing, you said, “Turn your head this way.”

He did you one better, since he anticipated your plan. He twisted around, keeping his legs crossed as he pulled you into his lap. His wings initially bristled but wrapped around you when his arms did, and Hawks kissed your cheek, once, twice, until he arrived at your mouth, where he barely grazed your lips, rather letting his hot breath spread over your face—and he grinned up at you with half-lidded eyes (he’d left off his eyeliner today, but the natural marks below his waterline kept his eyes sharp, anyway).

“Kiss me, you fucking idiot,” you said, overriding whatever he was about to do by kissing him yourself, hard and open-mouthed, almost violent in its fervent. Yet Hawks held you lightly, delicately, but still close enough to freeze.

You ran your cold, cold hands over his bare abdomen, pressing your thumb down with considerable force to trace his muscles (he grunted at that, and that’s it; that’s right—make him squirm; make him sweat; make him yours). His finger only toyed with the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, as if waiting for you, which didn’t line up with what you had garnered about Hawks at all, but c’mon, man, come on; didn’t you want this all those months ago? Almost a year, now? Years, if what he said to Endeavor is true? But when he flinched away with a shaky breath once your cold fingers circled his nipple, you knew this was where you were supposed to be: right here, in Hawks’s lap, completely destroying him with hardly anything at all. Nothing but light touches and a strategic flick of your tongue. Idiot man. He must really like you if this is doing it for him.

You slowed and opened your eyes at that thought, frowning, and you pulled away. With the back of his hand, Hawks wiped saliva off of both of your mouths, yours first.

He waited for you.

“If you can’t take all of me, then what’s the point?”

He tilted his head. “I’ll take whatever part of you you’re willing to share.”

“I’m missing something.”

“I know.”

“I want to find it before we get married.” You laid your palm flat on his chest, and he grinned at the cold.

“You can find it,” he said, “I know you can.”

“I don’t know what I’m blocking out,” you said, lying—or maybe you weren’t? Fuck it. “Whatever I’m repressing is really fucking with me.”

“Take your time,” said Hawks, running his tongue over his lower lip. “I’m here for—”

“Hawks,” you said, faking the light of realisation in your eyes, accompanied with a sharp inhale, “I can’t remember your name.”

Hawks’s mouth snapped shut.

“You told me once. I know you did,” you said, moving to cup his cheek after tapping the mark underneath his eye, “but the memory—there’s a blur where you spoke. I—” You cut yourself off, biting your lip. “That, that might be it. I don’t know. Everything else about the scene is in perfect detail. I remember what fucking socks I was wearing, for Christ’s sake. But you. What you said. Maybe it’s something so personal, so intimate, that I’ve repressed it. Maybe it was too much for me to handle.” You cupped his face with both hands now, forcing him to look at you. If you hadn’t been scrutinising him for some evidence of breaking character, you wouldn’t’ve seen the minute quivering of his upper lip. Hardly there, but it was there. “It’s a part of you that I want. Even if I couldn’t handle it before, I want to try now.”

Hawks averted his gaze, even though he couldn’t move his head. And bang, you’ve got him. Hawks’s name was still strictly secret, hidden by the commission, but if he’s genuinely in this dumbass situation for the long haul, if he’s truly in it for you, then he would have told you. Even if he wanted you to continue to call him Hawks, your own fiancé would have told you his damn name.

So, this is it. The way out.

Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out you’ve been faking all this time. Good. Let each feather burn.

“Keigo,” he said, staring into your eyes with a newfound determination, “My name is Takami Keigo.”

Oh, shit—you clapped a hand over your heart, your eyes widening. Maybe you could play this off as memory recovery instead of absolute shock? But you hadn’t any memories to recover, probably. Holy fuck.

Where do you go from here?

You tried to say his name but ended up simply mouthing it, and after clearing your throat and coughing a bit, you managed to say it aloud. “Keigo,” you said softly, reaching for his hand, “Keigo, I fucking love you.”

You’d only been kissing him for a few moments before his wings shuddered in a muscle spasm and flung you off to the side.

***

Only a commission higher-up witnessed your wedding. She stood silently to the side the entire ceremony in the courthouse and only shook Hawks’s hand afterwards.

You and your cat essentially moved into his penthouse and adjusted. Your mostly empty apartment stayed leased under your name.

Sometimes, you’d note that you turned your brain off and instantly be hit with a lightning strike of self-loathing—but you didn’t have to consciously decide to be affectionate with Hawks. Being with him came naturally and easily. Probably for the best, since if you had to think about it, you’d screw it up.

You stayed together. Supported each other. Sneaked out to see the other on patrol. Took care, listened to each other. Defended each other. Worked it out.

And now, you stared up at the ceiling fan whirling in your darkened bedroom, Keigo lying on his stomach next to you in the bed as he slept. Your cat catloafed between his wings and nestled into them, rising and falling with each breath he took. Hawks was perfect, always saving the day, working up a routine to mesh with your fighting style and quirk, always charming and easygoing with the people he rescued, indulging you in your ferocity, and Keigo, Keigo whispered sweet and dirty things into your ear when he spotted you in public, made you laugh, worked wonders with his cock, helped you clean up before he even thought of preening himself, held you, and made you feel held. He’s got it bad.

And maybe you do, too.

Hawks was going to feel so stupid when he found out.

[strange-lace]

Macaque

I was in the mood to make more content for Inverted AU, so here’s a short-ish fic of how episode 9 would go in this AU with Macaque, Wukong, and MK! Enjoy the shadowpeach!

Another demon defeated but still no sign of Sun Wukong. Macaque let out a sigh before rolling his shoulders to bring relief to tense muscles. Oh well, he'll just have to keep looking, not like he hasn't been at it for years now. At least this city he wandered to was quite nice with pleasant people, nothing too out there aside from demon attacks.

"Hey! Hey you! Shadow monkey man!" Macaque wouldn't deny that the sudden voice made him jump, considering he was on top of a pretty tall building. Apparently not tall enough to stop the young man from climbing up the side, somewhat out of breath yet that didn't deter from the determined look on his face. He simply brushed his messy hair out of his eyes and adjusted his teal backpack, which looked surprisingly heavy. Macaque couldn’t help but be somewhat curious as to what was in that thing.

Wait was that the Monkey King's staff in his hands?

Indeed it was, he'd recognize that weapon anywhere.

“Ah, you must be the Monkie Kid I’ve been hearing so much about, am I right?” That got him a look of suspicion before the young man also seemed to remember the staff in his hands, causing him to let out an amused huff at his own paranoia.

“Yeah, the staff kind of gives it away, don’t it? Name’s MK though. Now whomst is you? Most of the time, demons who ask me who I am are five seconds away from trying to kill me.” Macaque couldn’t help but chuckle at that, already finding that he was starting to like this little guy and his attitude. Perhaps if a person like MK was chosen to wield Wukong’s staff, then perhaps that meant his love had finally started turning things around for the better. Maybe it meant he finally stopped being someone he wasn’t all for the sake of keeping a memory alive.

“The name’s Macaque, though, the Six-Eared Macaque is actually my full name. But what brings you up here exactly bud? I doubt you’d climb up this high just for anybody.” MK’s face showed that he wanted to argue that point out of principle before remembering his purpose for coming up here.

“Simple, teach me.”

Wait what?

“What what?” MK scoffed at the question.

“I want you to teach me to fight, like how you fought that demon back there. I don’t intend on leaving you alone until you do and that is a threat!” Macaque didn’t doubt that he meant it that way and could very easily follow through on that. Sensing he wasn’t going to get out of this, he let out a sigh before giving MK a smile.

“You sure your mentor won’t have a problem with me teaching you?”

“Bold of you to assume Wukong’s disapproval will stop me.”

“Well alright then, I think we’re gonna get along just fine, bud.”

---

“I see what you’re trying to do, you’re afraid of holding back and giving your enemy the opportunity to win. But the first strike isn’t the most important one. Every strike counts. Other people may tell you that patience and focus don’t matter but a fool allows himself to rush without restraint. While you have power inside you, you have to use it carefully. Take the power to defend others, not just destroy those who stand in your way. You’re not a weapon kid, you wield the weapon above all else.”

---

It started with a fairly innocent question from MK after one of their training sessions, him slowly going through a water bottle given to him by Macaque while the monkey made them something to eat. He needed a distraction to stop himself from taking over the cooking, years of feeding others making him feel guilt the moment someone else took over.

“So Mac, how exactly do you know the Monkey King?” To his credit, Macaque only fumbled the slightest bit at that sudden question and was able to save the plate before it crashed to the floor.

“Oh um well… funny thing about that is, well… we used to be together actually. Like y’know… together-together,” he explained while he plated their food, wincing internally at how awkward he sounded. With his back towards MK, Macaque didn’t notice him go tense and grip the couch arm so tightly that the wood underneath cracked at the pressure.

“Used to be together, huh? What happened?” Macaque couldn’t help but shiver at the chill which traveled down his spine. MK’s voice was perfectly even and calm yet he was filled with an overwhelming fear that warned him to not turn around and remain perfectly still until the danger passed.

His ears twitched at the sound of sparks behind him, magic power permeating through the air.

“I… I messed up honestly. We had an argument about something, I don’t even remember what it was so long ago. But I had to leave to just get some space and air before I said something I’d regret, something I couldn’t take back. It was only meant to be a couple hours but some stuff out of my control happened and by the time I got back… Wukong was gone. I had been looking for him for centuries after that and then… well then you found me.”

“What, you hoped getting on my good side would mean that you’d win the Monkey King back?” His tone promised nothing good if Macaque kept digging himself a deeper hole.

“No! No, nothing like that at all. I don’t expect Pe-...Wukong to take me back or anything like that. I just… wanted the chance to apologize to him is all. If he wants anything to do with me afterwards, then I want that to be his choice. Nothing more, I swear.”

MK remained silent behind him before the sudden tension in the air dissipated as quickly as it appeared. Macaque let out a sigh of relief, slowly turning around to see MK still sitting on his couch, placing the staff back in his ear nonchalantly.

“Fair enough, sounds like you both were just idiots who don’t know how to communicate. If you actually intended on using me to get to the Monkey King, you’d have actually mentioned him during our training and yet you haven’t. And you can’t lie to save your life anyway. Just don’t be an idiot again alright? Monkey King… Wukong, he’s a mess and I don’t think he could handle thinking he’s been abandoned again.”

Macaque could feel his heart break at the idea that his Peaches, his love, thought that he had left permanently. He wanted nothing more than to run to him now and make things right. But that was Wukong’s decision to make, nobody else’s.

The two ate their food in silence after that.

---

Sun Wukong may have supposedly “lost his edge”  but he was by no means dense or oblivious.

And while he was certainly happy about his successor’s vast improvement over the past couple weeks, a part of him sensed something was off. Like his successor was hiding something from him. And those moves he watched MK use to absolutely demolish the old mural, the Monkey King swore he had seen them before.

But it couldn’t possibly be. He hadn’t seen him in centuries. Not since he… left, like everyone else.

“I’m impressed, my boy! Tell me, how did you do that? Have you been seeing another mentor perhaps?” Wukong asked, his typically serene smile straining the slightest bit at the idea of his son student learning from someone who wasn’t him. The sensible part of his brain was gently poking at him, reminding him that it seemed silly to get upset about such a thing as, if anything, MK had appeared significantly calmer during their training compared to when they started. This could be a good thing, it told him.

Yet it was silenced by the majority of his brain which ran on fatherly protectiveness and had immediately been plagued by images of the worst case scenario. A demon had approached MK, promising him to make him stronger while also poisoning his student as a bid to turn him against the Monkey King before stealing his powers or, Heavens forbid, harming him.

No, Wukong refused to even allow a chance of that happening, logic and reasoning be damned.

“Hey, you’re the one always going on about ‘patience and focus’, I’m just finally putting what you said into practice,” MK answered, the picture of being casual which only set off further alarm bells within Wukong’s head. But before he could question him further, MK’s phone dinged to tell him of a new text message which he quickly read over, his eyes widening slightly at the message.

“Welp, looks like I gotta cut things short for now Wukong, something came up and I gotta head out. See ya later! Don’t forget to eat something tonight and sleep, I will know if you don’t.” And with that, MK was off through the hole he had created in the wall where the mural was before the Monkey King could get a word in edgewise. 

Wukong waited long enough to allow MK to get a reasonable distance away before transforming into a bird, flying after his successor.

Something fishy was going on and the Monkey King was determined to find out what it was.

---

“Why exactly are we climbing up to this giant mountain again Mac?” MK wheezed, hating to admit it but this hike had genuinely winded him despite all his training. He had immediately gone to Macaque’s place the moment he got his text only to be told to follow the six-eared demon, leading them to where they were now.

“Well, consider this your ‘final exam’ bud! I want you to use everything I’ve taught you to fight against me, no holding back. Think you can do that?” MK couldn’t help the twitch at the corners of his mouth at the sight of Macaque’s genuine excitement as he explained, all six ears twitching while his tail was wagging like a dog. A demon who was centuries old and had fought countless powerful demons had no right looking that endearing, but here MK was looking with his own two eyes.

MK gave a chuckle before straightening himself out, wordlessly pulling the staff out his ear.

“You sure you’re comfortable getting your ass kicked by me, Mac?” With a smirk, Macaque summoned his own weapon in a flash of purple with the beginning of two shadow clones pooling at his feet. They shyly peeked from the ground from behind their master.

“Oho, a couple training sessions with me for a month and you think you have what it takes to defeat me, bud? Well then, bring it Monkie Kid!” MK didn’t hesitate to charge forward with Macaque mirroring him, weapons at the ready and adrenaline already running through their veins.

“Enough!”

A sudden force landed in between them with enough force to send them both flying backwards.

MK and Macaque recovered in time to see who decided to interrupt their duel.

Both of their hearts nearly stopped at the sight of the enraged Monkey King but for vastly different reasons.

“You have 5 seconds to explain yourself for trying to harm my-” Wukong’s rage quickly deflated as the dust cleared enough for him to truly see who it was he had thought was attacking MK. “Mango Flower?”

“Um… hello again, Peach Blossom. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Macaque joked, voice weak as he restrained himself from acting out of bounds even if he wanted nothing more than to gather the other into his arms. It had been so long, far too long. 

He nearly broke at the sight of tears beginning to form in Wukong’s eyes.

His resolve finally shattered as the Monkey King ran towards him, arms outstretched, and before Macaque knew it his legs were moving on their own. The wind was knocked out of him at how tight Wukong squeezed him yet he returned the embrace back with gusto, ignoring the groaning of his ribs. He simply buried his face into the other’s fur, the smell of peaches still there even after all these years. Faintly, Macaque realized he was also crying once he felt a wetness on his cheeks.

Macaque let out a squeak in surprise as Wukong picked him up in the hug and spun him around, the sound of his laughter echoing throughout the mountain. The sight of such unabashed joy on his face was enough to make the six-eared demon to start laughing too, joy contagious in the best of ways. 

MK would deny it unless under the threat of death but he couldn’t help but smile as he watched the two monkeys get lost in their own little world. It made the guilt which nagged at his chest at having to manipulate the two to make this meeting happen ease up, seeing how happy the two were.

“It’s been so long…” Wukong whispered as he placed Macaque back on his feet, gently cradling his face as if afraid that if he stopped touching the other, that he’d disappear again. “But, why are you here? I had thought that you hated me, isn’t that why you…” Macaque went stiff in shock before taking the Monkey King’s hands into his own.

“What? No! If anything, I thought you hated me for leaving instead of talking things out and that’s why you were gone when I came back. I always intended on coming back to you Peaches, I swear on it.” Wukong’s eyes went wide at that, extremely close to crying again a second time that day. “I had been looking for you for centuries now to apologize.”

And now the warm feeling was gone, leaving MK to bite down on his staff to stop himself from screaming at how much those two had failed at the simple of communication.

“We’ve both been absolutely foolish, haven’t we?” Wukong couldn’t help but laugh at it all, which only worsened as he noticed all six of Macaque’s ears turn red in embarrassment.

“Yeah, I guess we have been-” His words were cut off as the Monkey King grabbed his scarf, pulling him into a sudden kiss that made Macaque jolt in surprise before he practically melted into the other’s arms. A purr rumbled in his chest and neither noticed their tails wind around each other.

The sound of MK clearing his throat, loudly, was enough to get them to break apart in embarrassment.

“If you two are done being romantic idiots, I have to beat the shit out of Macaque to prove that I’m better than him. I mean ace my ‘final exam’.” The grin on his face showed that he was lying through his teeth.

“Don’t think I forgot about all your trash talking, young man. How about it Peach Blossom? You willing to go all out with me and the kid?” 

Wukong’s face was the epitome of ‘Every part of my body wants to say yes but I shouldn’t.’ He was already terrible at saying no to MK and now with Macaque’s endearingly earnest face, he knew he was done for, at least with these two working together now.

“...Oh alright.”

The two mutual cheers at his agreement made Wukong feel slightly less guilty in letting his lessons go for a brief moment. But not completely.

But that was okay, Wukong was used to living with constant guilt.

[filhosdatany]

hannibal lecter: tags

[undermattsun-archive]

flavor of the month

(skate rat) matsukawa x fem!reader | word count: 2k

slight!hanamaki x reader (established relationship)

a/n: based off this post i made n spurred by some enabling :^) “no beta we die like men” -lin

18+ university age | PLS READ WARNINGS

warnings: cheating, public sex (fingering), toxic behavior, manipulation, bad language, dubcon (if u stare too long/squint at it) mattsun is a bad friend

hanamaki takahiro was a godsend in your final year of college. the sweet, doting boyfriend you had been waiting for —what felt like— your entire life. there was nothing under the sun he wouldn’t do for you, he helped you study, do your chores and had even carried you across campus, carrying both of your backpacks simply because you had a bad fall and twisted your ankle ever so slightly. he was perfect in almost every way. almost. you suppose his choice of friends could be chalked down to a little less than perfect, specifically, when it comes to who he so proudly calls his best friend.

matuskawa issei’s name was tacked with some of the dirtiest of rumors that were accompanied with a plethora of gross truths. when you had met him you were floored, your dearest, loving makki, called this entitled, smug skate rat, his best friend? it didn’t take long for his sliminess to seep through immediately and in the beginning of your relationship with makki you did everything in your power to avoid being near matsukawa. but as your relationship grew, so did your face to face contact with his dangerously flirty best friend.

“i just want two of the most important people in my life to get along!” makki had said one night while you two readied to go out for drinks with his friends. you had melted at the sparkle in his eyes when he smiled so lovingly at you. you know that could’ve told makki just how much his best friend made you uncomfortable, but the endearingly fond tone of voice he used when he spoke of the other man made you keep your lips shut tightly on the manner.

it was how you ended up in your current position, sitting at the back corner booth of one of your favorite restaurants, makki seated across from you and matsukawa seated beside you. you had made a point to sit as closely to the wall as possible, punctuating the action with a curt glare at matsukawa before focusing all your attention on the love of your life.

“it was incredible really, i can’t believe you tried to climb a tree that tall.” makki amuses as he recounts another mischievous act from their childhood.

“now now makki you mean succeeded to climb,” he spreads his legs further under the table, forcing you to squeeze your legs together to dodge any contact, “i was a tree climbing god.”

“yeah tell that to the broken arm you got when we were 10, oh excuse me we’re ready to order.” you almost sigh dreamily at the polite smile makki has on display as he waves the waiter over. as the waiter makes his approach, makki continues on with the story behind matsukawa breaking his arm and you do your best to ignore said man yawning dramatically, stretching his arms out and almost swiping at your face. he shoots you an unapologetic smirk as he scoots just little bit closer to you, you lean your head against the wall trying to focus on whatever makki and the waiter were idly chatting about.

“and for you miss?” you snap your eyes up to look at the waiter, opening your mouth to recite your order when you feel a hand land on your knee, making your eyebrow twitch. this isn’t new, you couldn’t pinpoint when it had started, but matsukawa had always been a little bit too touchy, so a hand on resting on your knee or an arm thrown around your shoulder was nothing new. what is new, is when you slightly jerk your knee to tell him to remove his hand, only for him to keep it there firmly planted with the audacity to even squeeze lightly.

“babe?” makki stares at you intently, and with a clench of your jaw you ignore the hand on you to tell the waiter what you would like. as the waiter turns away, makki dives into a story from his russian literature class, detailing just how insane he thinks his professor is as you nod along, forgetting that matsukawa has planted his hand on you. until you feel his hand slowly start to creep up your leg, making your entire body tense up, you send him another narrow look as he shifts in his seat leaning towards you a tiny fraction. for a split second, you wonder if the metal of his rings were cool to touch, or had they siphoned the heat off his hand, and would feel as if it was burning into your skin, branding each inch of bare flesh he touched with the crawl of his fingers.

“-okay love?” the soft coo brings you from your thoughts, making you flush with shame, your hand comes down and grips at matsukawa’s wrist to stop him from going any further.

“i’m sorry i might’ve...”

“spaced out? thats okay. i was just saying i don’t think i can do our usual monday study date. iwaizumi and i have this biology project and...” his voice drowns our as your focus is pulled to the sensation of matsukawa forcing his way out of your hold and pushing his fingers between your thighs, continuing to slide his hand up at an achingly slow pace.

say something, your brain screams, anything, get up and go to the bathroom, do something, your boyfriend is right there.

you press your legs together tightly, hoping the message comes across, but matsukawa is on a hell path, shamelessly trying to push you beyond your limits as his fingers dig into your inner thighs. at the back of your mind is that tiny voice that’s tormented you since meeting him. a part of you wants this, you’ve always been curious, that carnal attraction to such a rotten and handsome man is undeniable. because despite the perfection and bliss of an achingly sweet, tooth rotting boyfriend, the utter taboo of his disgusting best friend is far too tempting to not think about.

“th-that’s okay hiro.” you chew at your lip trying to play off the the stumble of your words by relaxing your shoulders, hoping that he won’t question you. you try to start a round of idle chatter as you make another weak attempt to remove matsukawa’s hand from you.

“hey you know what we haven’t done in awhile? bothered oikawa.” matsukawa leans back, looking almost innocent with his signature lazy grin. you wrap your fingers tightly around his wrist, trying to keep your position as natural as possible so that makki doesn’t pick up on what’s happening. makki agrees with a flourish of words and you don’t miss the way matsukawa’s eyes slide over to you, as if challenging you to say something to makki.

“it’ll break his heart,” matsukawa had said once when he had trapped you on top of your washing machine in the apartment you shared with makki, he had the tendency of backing you against a wall, making you feel small under his presence, “besides who do you think he’ll really believe about who came onto who? i’m his lifelong best friend and you’re just the flavor of the month.”

the memory causes a searing sensation to burn at your chest and your face, this time you dig your nails into matsukawa’s wrist, a more adamant command to leave you alone. only to make your resolve crumble as his fingers dance along your clothed cunt, making your legs fall apart just a touch. it’s a shameless action that incites a bubbling of shame in your stomach and you realize your fatal mistake. you’ve shown a sliver of interest, you’ve given in just enough that he’ll only push further.

the moment you spot the waiter holding plates of food you breathe out in relief, figuring it’s the end of his little game as the plates are set out in front of you. you release your grip on his wrist and he retracts his hand slowly, a wave of relief washing through you. tinged with something resembling disappointment.

“here babe try this.” makki holds out a spoonful of curry and you lean in to take a bite, spluttering at the feeling of matsukawa suddenly shoving his hand into your pants. you choke and cough as makki scrambles to hand you a glass of water, matsukawa a disturbing pillar of silence beside you. you stiffly turn your head to look at him, eyes pleading for some sort of answer as to why now he’s decided to hurdle himself past the line he’s been so keen on toeing since you’ve started dating his best friend. to your horror he’s sitting there quietly, as he peacefully uses his right hand to feed himself, as if his left isn’t currently shoved into your pants teasing at you with the full intent of driving you insane.

“sorry sorry i’m,” yours eyes widen as matsukawa’s fingers press harder against your covered folds, harshly dragging his fingers up to your clit, “f-fine.”

“are you sure? you’ve been looking a little red the past half hour or so, are you really feeling okay?” the concern in makki’s voice punctuates your guilt as you squirm slightly at the way matsukawa teases your clit through your panties.

“promise love, i’m fine. i think i j-just,” in one swift motion matsukawa pushes your panties to the side just enough to thrust a finger into your core, “didn’t sleep well!”

“mm it’s the stress from your history class?” you don’t trust your voice to not shake as matsukawa pushes deeper and deeper, achingly slow there’s an almost delicious burn from the sudden entry.

“mhm.” you grip your silverware tightly in each hand, a helpless shake of your hips as matsukawa curls his finger inside of you. the way you clench around his finger only encourages him, a soft huff of amusement spilling from his lips as he thrusts his finger into you.

“makki, did you finish the chem homework?” he pulls his finger out just to the first knuckle, teasing at the rim of your hole, you try not to jump when you feel the tip of another finger settle near your entrance.

“don’t.” you whisper, but the word goes ignored as he thrusts in the other finger, the sting of the dry addition burns through you and biting back a moan as your eyes widen at makki who’s so peacefully eating before you.

“did you say something love?” you feel your legs start to shake a little as matsukawa ruthlessly thrusts his fingers in and out, pressing the heel of his palm against your swollen clit.

“i um don’t forget to, empty the dishwasher?” your words come out breathless and makki only hums in agreement before continuing to shovel curry into his mouth.

“doing okay there? haven’t touched your food.” the glint in matsukawa’s eyes is borderline sadistic as he pointedly looks between you and your food. before you can reply he sharply curls his fingers again before scissoring them apart making your legs spread further, silently and shamelessly asking for more.

“i’m fine? see?” you make a point to take a big bite of your noodles, swallowing them down as matsukawa presses in a third finger. there’s barely an ache this time as he works in another finger, your dripping cunt practically begging for it at this point. the familiar tightness begins to coil deep in your belly and with a particularly harsh curl of his fingers, your head snaps down, jaw dropping as you clench around him. without hesitation he continues to knead the heel of his palm against your clit as your cunt greedily squeezes his fingers. his motions become lazier as your body shakes from the searing bliss shooting through your veins. and the thought of choking him when this is all said and done is at the forefront of your mind.

“y/n?” makki reaches across the table and intertwines your fingers. guilt swirls in your chest as you raise your head to meet makki’s eyes, a weak smile at your lips.

“thought i was gonna sneeze.”

“say makki can you get the waiters attention, i want some more water.” he makes a point to shake his cup of ice. makki pulls away from you and looks away from the table. you pant out a few breaths as matsukawa pulls his fingers out, leaving you feeling empty and shaken. you take the risk to look at matsukawa, looking painfully proud of himself as he brings his fingers to his lips, licking the glistening juices coating them.

“sweet.”

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Things You Said When You Were Scared- Prompt Fill

Bit of an au after the worm attack. Jon is having a rough time.

CWs injury (canon typical worm related), paranoia, exhaustion. nausea, vomiting (it's not gross, I promise), pain, dizziness, fainting, medication mention, canon typical quarantine mention, food mention.

@janekfan @sukurarose92

Jon can’t remember the last time he felt this terrible.  There probably had been other times.  A few terrible flus over the years, and getting almost eaten by a spider once upon a time…. but time has a tendency to dull the particularly bad stuff, aside from say, flashbacks and nightmares.  But it’s the brain protecting itself.  You don’t remember the pain.  You don’t remember the fear.  You remember the memory of the pain, wrapped in spun-sugar-strands of time, growing dusty on a shelf.  You remember the taste of fear, the gripping anxiety of it.  You remember surges of it in the depths of the night and you panic… but you can’t remember it all the time.  That just isn’t how the brain works.  

Which is irrelevant.  All irrelevant, because the pain medication he’s been given is wearing off.  He thinks Sasha and Tim went off to do something….?  Probably panic together about the fresh worm trauma.  Martin?  Jon hasn’t the foggiest clue.  

Possibly because he’s hazy with pain and the last of the drugs that have been keeping him going this long.  Staggering into the walls as he tries to exit the institute.  Eyes closing involuntarily against the pain and the exhaustion.  Limbs feeling so alien between the bandages and the aching, weeping holes they hide beneath them.  Pounding dizziness down to his core.  

He aches.  

Phantom itching-crawling-squirming on his skin, through his muscles, down to the bone.  The actual holes chewed into him.  

He isn’t sure how he’s going to get to his flat.  He can’t stay in the Archives, not with the police in the tunnels and the ECDC still doing whatever it is they are doing.  But the thought of taking a cab or the tube make him want to tear his remaining skin off.  Makes him want to just lie down on the sidewalk.  

He even thinks making it to the front doors will end him.  

He’s dizzy and sick and his limbs won’t carry him.  

He has to sit down on the first step outside the door, sticking his head between his knees.  He can’t do this.  He can’t.  He’s just going to sit here all night, or risk passing out or throwing up or risking any other horror of the late twilight consuming him before he can collapse into unconsciousness in the comfort of his own bed.  

He waits for the world to stop spinning, and tries not to cry.  

Because he can’t have more pain medication until he eats something.  He can’t eat anything because it won’t stay in him, and even if it would, he can’t go anywhere.  He’s stuck.  Less than a five minute walk from his office where Gertrude DIED, from where he was attacked where he thought he’d be Safe, where he thought Martin would be safe.  A few paces from where the dead worms were pulled out of him and he was scoured raw and sterile in a hastily assembled quarantine on the sidewalk.  

He tries not to spiral into a panic attack right here.  

Trying to pull his breathing under control, because it isn’t helping his tenuous grasp on the directions of up and down.  

Where is the next danger going to come from?  

Is this when Mr. Spider will strike?  Letting him go until he’s weak and exposed and alone?  

Or is this where some unknown (or known) hostile comes in with a grand betrayal and a gun.  Leaving him to be another mystery, or a willfully ignored casualty of something he can’t begin to understand?  

“Jon?”  

Jon jumps.  And very, very much regrets it.  Heart racing, head spinning, a fresh hurt.  A fresh reminder of every opening in his flesh that doesn’t belong there.  “Ma… Martin?”  He asks around gasping and shuddering breaths.  “What …are you doing here?”  

His voice is a little distant, a little hallow.  “Don’t really have anywhere to do, do I?  You packed up my flat.  All in boxes at some storage unit.  Now, my bedroom is tangentially part of a crime scene.”

“…Right.”  It’s all his fault.  

He needs to sleep.  He needs some painkillers.  He might need to throw up, but that is an issue he plans to avoid, if at all possible.  Ditto to fainting.  Although that seems a little more inevitable.  

Martin makes no move to continue speaking.  “So… your plan was to just camp out on this bench?”  

Martin shrugs.  “Dunno.  Figured I might call Tim?  At some point?  Or try to sneak back into the Archives once the police leave?  Can’t really afford a hotel.   Maybe just sleep on this bench.  Try to decompress or something.  Jon.   Why are you still here?   Said you’d go home hours ago.”

Well he can’t exactly tell Martin he’d passed out in the break room for some indeterminate measure of time, then spent another eternity getting sick in the toilets.  And then possibly passed out again.  That’s not just something you tell Martin and expect him not to fuss over you.   And Jon tries to tell himself that that would be suffocating and not kind of welcome right now.   He tells himself that the thought of spending more time with Martin brings discomfort, and irritation, and fear.  It’s not like he can prove that Martin won’t kill him.  But he’s too tired to think about that.  He just wants to sleep.  

“....Um?”

Martin looks at him, probably for the first time.  “Jesus, Jon.  You look terrible.”

Jon hmmms in agreement.  Not like he can argue.  Martin’s too nice to comment on the bandages.  A little too tactful.  Right?  Martin’s bumbling and stupid, but he’s tactful.  He’s Nice.  As irritating as he can be, he’s just so Nice.  

But, it’s not like he can argue.  He’s covered in bandages and a clammy sweat and he’s halfway into a panic attack and he can’t really walk and he just wants to lay down right here until the world stops moving.  Both in the sense that he’s dizzy and in the sense that things beyond his comprehension are happening at a pace he can’t begin to catch up with.  

“Can I... call you a cab?   Or... or something?”   

Jon shakes his head as much as he dares, which isn’t much.  No cabs.  He gets carsick.  He doesn’t stand a chance.  

“Well you can’t just sit there all night.”  

“Right, like you plan to?”  

Martin looks away.  

And Jon goes back to trying not to pass out.  

“Tim lives close by, doesn’t he, I walk you there?  Or… um… carry you?”  Martin’s trying to be tactful.  Jon is pretty sure that is supposed to be a pointed look at his legs.  

Jon scowls.  (Not that Martin is wrong.  There is something very wrong with his knee.)  

“Can’t just …intrude like that.  I’m sure he doesn’t want me around.  Not professional…”

“Jon, you saw him in his pants today.  You were put in quarantine together.  I think you’re past all normal working relationship boundaries, even if he wasn’t your friend.  I can’t just leave you here, and you clearly aren’t planning to get yourself home.  Besides… maybe if he takes you in… maybe he’ll take me in, too.”  

Jon stares down at the sidewalk, drifting in lazy, nauseous, out of focus movements before his eyes.  “He doesn’t want me around.  Not after taking Sasha’s job.  Not after making him stay to get his statement.”  Jon whispers at the pavement.  

“Yeah like he’s still jealous for Sash, after that creepy worm lady went specifically for the “Archivist.”  Whatever the fuck that means.  And you know Tim was only pissed because he was in pain and tired, like you are now!”  

“I should just go home…”  

“Yeah, but you won’t.”  

Christ Martin’s stubborn.  

“Now.  Can you walk, or do I need to cary you?”  

Jon tries pull himself up to prove a point, but he comes to in Martin’s arms a few moments later, Martin loudly cursing at him.  He’s in too much pain to really hear what Martin is trying to say to him.  And he’s feeling even more sick.  And he wonders where his prescriptions and paramedic provided cane have gotten to, but he really doesn’t really care, because Martin is solid and warm and he’s so tired.  

He wakes up again on Tim’s couch.  Sick to his stomach from the oppressive oder of takeout.  

“Woah, boss.  Not on the couch.  I’ve got you.”

Throwing up nothing into the bin that’s been hastily shoved in front of him even though he’s got nothing in him anymore.  He sobs around dry heaves until it’s just the silence juddering sobs.  He Hurts.  

He wants to hide.  From Martin who is making tea, from Sasha running a bandaged hand through his hair.  From Tim supporting the bin, and Jon himself.  

He curls in on himself.  Wills himself into unconsciousness, but the injuries pulse with each uneven breath, stomach still roiling painfully.  He needs more medicine, but he can’t think about hoping to keep it down.  

He sobs against Tim, as the bin is pried away.  

“‘Hurts.  Tim ‘m scared.”  

Scooped up.  Held, gently.  

“Why didn’t you head home?  Why not go right away so you could get toast and water into you, and sleep until you could take some more meds?”  Tim holding him.  Martin awkwardly sat by his side with ginger tea.  Which Jon doesn’t care for, but Tim hasn’t kept mint tea since Jon stopped visiting.  Still… it should help.  Sasha clearing away the food smells, bless her.  “Why did you have to take our statements?  I would have invited you back here, if you didn’t?”

That last question doesn’t help.  

He doesn’t know he’s tearing at the bandages until Tim’s tugging his hands away, and Martin is bemoaning the splotches of blood now decorating the bandages that are quickly becoming sweaty and grimy.  Couldn’t even stay clean after he was scrubbed sterile.  Martin and Sasha and Tim are spotless and scoured.  

“I… I don’t want to disappear.  I… do-don’t want to be found in the tunnels.  I don’t want to vanish without a trace, I…“  He doesn’t even know.  He can’t breathe.  He’s lightheaded.  He Hurts.  

“Hey… hey hey.  It’s.. it’s okay to be scared.  Why don’t we get you cleaned up, okay?  Then see if we can get some saltines and tea into you so you can get some meds, eh?  Then we’re gonna all get some sleep.”  

“I don’t want to lose you…”  Jon’s voice swallowed by Tim scooping him up.  Martin hovering with the bin and Jon’s bag of medical supplies.  

Sasha’s back by then, brushing back Jon’s curls.  “And you won’t.  Sooner you leave, the sooner we can all get some sleep, alright?”  

Jon closes his eyes, and nods, letting Tim carry him to the washroom.  

[consumeconstantly]

The Only Antidote is a Kiss

Summary: Scarecrow always did come up with the most whacky chemical formulas to test on people. Red Hood gets dosed with his latest toxin, and the only way to cure it is with a kiss. The only candidate? Long time rival and almost enemy, Ladybird.

____________________________________________________

“No,” Red Hood said, resolutely. “No way in hell.”

Red Robin’s exasperated voice crackled over the comm. “Hood, if you don’t, you’re going to die.”

“Do you think I care? Death is better.” 

“I would say that’s insulting if I didn’t feel the exact same way.” Ladybird nonchalantly twirled a yoyo at her side. “Besides, ten minutes is plenty of time to get him someone else.”

“You two are in the middle of nowhere. It’s thirty minutes to the nearest city.”

“Yeah, but the suburbs are always an option. You Bats always seem to miss the obvious solution.”

“I’m not kissing her,” Red Hood repeated.

“I know that you two are…” Red Robin tried to find a more delicate way to word their relationship, “Not always on the best of terms, but you are on the same side right now. Ladybird, you don’t want Red Hood to die, do you?”

Plying Ladybird was always easier than trying to convince Red Hood. The woman had a heart of gold. Today? No such luck. 

“He’s not going to die,” Ladybird scoffed. “If he dies over this instead of the many, many, many assassination attempts that I saved him from, I’ll feel insulted. But I’m also not going to help. I’m not going to kiss an unwilling party, and certainly not one with a mug as ugly as Red Hood.”

“You’ve never even seen my face!” Red Hood argued from safely inside his beauteous red bucket.

“Yeah, well you’ve never seen mine either, and yet somehow, you have no issue with calling me disfigured every time our paths cross.”

“You’re wearing a mask. Only people who are horribly scarred wear full face masks.”

“Oh, so you’re admitting you’re ugly then?”

“No, I’m wearing a helmet, not a mask. Big difference.”

Ladybird barely stopped herself from bashing her head against the cement and steel wall. If the action didn’t break her mask, she would have considered going through with it. “God, this is why I’m not going to kiss him, Red Robin. Can’t you use one of those zeta things and drop in a girl for him to make out with?”

“You know they don’t work like that.”

“I wouldn’t know, it’s not like I’m in the Justice League.”

“Not for a lack of trying! We’ve offered you the position at least ten different times.”

“Yeah, on the condition that I get Red Hood to join up too. That certainly doesn’t sound like you guys actually want my help.”

“Nine minutes on the clock,” an automated voice reminded them.

“I say we blow this popsicle stand,” Red Hood pointed a finger up at the cement ceiling.

“Wow, what a stupendously original idea, Red Hood. It’s almost like the next thing out of your mouth might be something vaguely resembling intelligence. Oh wait, that’s right. We can’t get out of this hell hole because there’s three feet of cement on every side of us and we have no weapons that can help.”

“I haven’t had a crack at it, yet.”

“Be my guest. I’ll sit back and laugh at your failed attempts.” Ladybird reclined on a wall. “We both know that between the two of us, I’m the one who’s better at escape and solutions that don't require firearms. You don’t think with either one of your heads, you think with your AK-47.”

“My babies are all I need to get the job done. Your plans are always so unnecessarily convoluted.”

“They’re convoluted so I can cover my tracks instead of leaving evidence, debris, and dead bodies behind.”

“Uh, guys? Can you have your spat after Hood’s life is out of immediate danger?”

“No,” both of them chorused, immediately glaring at each other for speaking in sync.

“I doubt Scarecrow actually came up with a formula that will make you die if you don’t kiss someone of the opposite gender within ten minutes. That seems like the kind of chemical compound that’s featured in all of those really trashy romance novels, except instead of being unable to control your instincts, you die.” Ladybird considered the empty vial on the floor. “I’m confident that Red Hood can ride this out with minimal damage. Even if he does get horny, it’s not like he’s going to go for me-- drug induced state or not, he can’t stand my guts.”

“Can I just say that I don’t want to bank his life on that assumption?”

“It’s not like your life is the one at stake. Just try to get someone out here that can break down this welded door for us sooner, rather than later.” Ladybird gives Red Hood a once over. “Besides, if he does try anything, we all know that I’m more than capable of tying him up.”

#

“Hey, why don’t you use that Lucky Charm of yours?”

“Do you think I didn’t think of that already? That was one of the first things I considered.”

“So why didn’t you use it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that after I do, I detransform within five minutes? Not a big fan of exposing my identity, plus it’s not like anybody’s in any real danger because we’re locked up here. Scarecrow’s tied up, the goons that welded the door shut on us aren’t capable of using their brains, and a team is going to bust us out in thirty minutes anyways.”

For the millionth time, Red Hood pounded his shoulder against the steel weld, hoping that something would give. Nothing happened.

A beep sounded. 

“Ten minutes have passed.”

“See?” Ladybird crowed triumphantly. “I was right. Nothing’s--”

Red Hood fell to the floor, clawing at his chest.

“... happening. I jinxed it, didn’t I? I guess I’ll use it, then.”

Ladybird called for a lucky charm. No antidote fell into her hand. Just a sheet of paper, saying Kiss him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Tikki, don’t do me dirty like this!”

“Tikki? Who’s Tikki? What did the Lucky Charm give you?”

A wet cough sounded from underneath Red Hood’s helmet. He started to gasp for air.

Ladybird didn’t like Hood, but Red Robin was right. She had grown fond of him after saving his ass so many times. She wasn’t just going to let him die, especially not when she could help him. With a bone weary sigh, she knelt next to Red Hood. 

“I guess we’re doing this, aren’t we? Red Robin, comms off.”

“Off? But Hood sounds like--”

“Off,” she repeated, firmly. “Or I’ll break them.”

The telltale sign of static ceased in her ears.

Ladybird held Red Hood by his shoulders, maneuvering his mask off. 

“I hope you’re ugly,” she whispered.

He was not.

#

Even with blood on his lips, Jason Todd was unfortunately attractive. 

“Gonna--” he coughed again, the spray of blood accompanied by a wheeze. “Bless me with your face before I die?”

“I can’t believe that you’re still snarky while you’re on death’s door.” Ladybird touched the full face mask that she added during her years as a vigilante in Gotham. She still has the usual Ladybug eye cover, so her identity is safe. But the noh mask provides a sense of safety to her. She’s loathe to take it off, but in order for a kiss to work, it needs to be put aside. With a sigh, she places it on the ground and places a hand over Red Hood’s startlingly blue eyes.

“Kinky,” he spat. Ladybird grimaced. Why she ended up on this mission alone with Red Hood was beyond her, but they always ended up in the worst situations together somehow, anyways.

Her lips descended on his. 

Iron and sweat.

“Okay,” she said, wiping her lips with the hand that wasn’t preoccupied with shielding Red Hood’s eyes. “You feeling any better?”

He coughed again.

“Great, so Scarecrow was lying and I didn’t have to kiss you. You were just going to die anyways.” 

She placed her noh mask back on, then pressed a button on her comm. “You’re going to want to speed up the whole backup team. Looks like Scarecrow was lying.”

“You’re kidding me. Scarecrow never lies--”

Red Hood sat up shakily. 

“I’m fine, Replacement. Throat’s a little sore, but I’m fine.” 

“Good to know his MO hasn’t changed,” Ladybird remarked. “I’d suggest that you wipe your face with something. It’s covered in blood.”

“And Ladybird cooties.” Red Hood used his forearm to wipe the blood off. Ladybird had to admit that the man was objectively good looking. The artist in her wanted to take a picture or sketch him. The shock of white hair, symmetrical features, and prominent nose. His eyes had a certain darkness in them, like he had seen the worst of the world, but there was still a clarity to them that said he was fighting against those injustices. “C’mon, you’ve seen my face, don’t you think it’s time to exchange the favor?”

“Backup’s arriving in three,” interjected Red Robin.

“There’s nothing in it for me.” Ladybird tugged the hood of her cloak down lower. 

“Isn’t it weird that we kissed and I don’t know your face?”

“No.”

“You really are into some kinky shit.”

“Also no on that.”

“Then why not show me your face?”

“Stop being such a brat.”

“I know I’m older than you.”

“Bratiness isn’t measured in age, but in mental maturity. Which you have none of.”

“Please?”

“I’m almost tempted to take off my noh mask if only because that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say the word please.”

“If I say it again, will you?”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Pretty please, Ladybird?”

“... Fine.” She’d get a laugh out of this anyways, and the team was minutes away from picking them up.

She took off her noh mask to reveal the red and black domino.

Red Hood cursed.

@jasonette-july-2k20

it’s wild that yall are liking my fics when i basically vomit these things up im honestly scared to look back at some of the ones that have been posted because i do not proof read or edit 

[mxvladdy]

heyy i just read your fic Case of the Munchies on ao3 and im Loving it!!!! its amazing!! i was wonder if youre accepting requests and if you haven’t done it could you write the same for the rest: mammon, levi, satan, belphi, dia, barbatos and smth for simeon and luke (ofc platonic) like how angles have a true form and that means they can never relax around mc and how solomon has so much power at his fingertips he can just snap and end them or smth like that? pretty please and thank you!!!!

A/N: Of Course! Of Course! I already did Mammon and Levi HERE so I’ll do the other four in this request! You sent me a lot of good ideas and I’ll sprinkle them out into other requests soon!

Hope you like it!!

Case of the Munchies prt 3!

Word Count: 4.2k

Characters: Satan, Belphie, Diavolo, Barbatos

TW: Mentions of eating and cook humans, very mild gore

Satan

As the only full-blooded demon of the seven, he has thought about it...just hypothetically of course. When you were new to the Devildom he did find your scent more appetizing than the others. It’s a good thing he has the most restraint and control of all his kin, especially when it comes to his more base urges.

He doesn’t hide this knowledge from you. It’s readily available in the library and his own room in the history books. He just won’t bring it up. So if you don’t say anything, he won’t either. What would he say anyway? “Yes, I’ve thought about it, up until it was outlawed it was a staple of our diet after all…” Ye, probably not the best thing to say.

When you finally brought it up he was exasperated. Did you have to bring it up during the few hours he had alone with himself? He wasn’t going to lie but the thought of hurting your feelings would just about do him in.

He will alleviate your worries if you have any. If Satan was anything, he was genuine.

Mini Fic

His wine curdles in his stomach, turning sour along with the take-out he had nabbed for the two of you to enjoy tonight. Drinks and dinner were becoming a staple in your T.V. night tradition. If one of you had had a rough day you would drop by your favorite shop of the hour and pick up a meal to share while you vent.

Today in particular had been a shit day for him. Failed experiment after failed experiment, and one bottle that didn’t explode on impact with the potion he dropped. Sigh. At least your comforting words soothed his wounded pride a little. You chuckle at his escapades glad to see he is not hurt at least. It was nice to have someone to see the humor in something that normally would have dampened his mood.

“You’re a pest.” He laughs at you while snapping his takeout chopsticks in half to use. “I need sympathy-hours of work wasted.” You snort into your own bowl of udon.

“You need words of praise like Beel needs another stomach.” Satan gasps in mock insult pointing a sauce stained chopstick at you.

“How dare you insult your host! After I toiled over this meal of-” What did he get exactly? Honestly, when he placed the order he was near boiling with rage at his careless fumble. It was to be a surprise for you, something to give you a bit of magic while supervised by himself. He knew how frustrated you were with your lack of magical ability in class so he wanted to gift you something grand. Now he has to wait months to try again.

Ah, well...nothing ventured nothing gained as they say.

You watch him sulk over his soup dumplings, his mile away from the comfort of your company and his room. “Come on blondie.” You poke him with your foot before burying them under his pajama-clad thighs on the couch. “Eat your ‘hard earned’ meal before I do.” You snatch up his D.D.D forgetting your own food for a moment to set up your favorite streaming service to cast to his small T.V. “Want to watch a bunch of humans fail miserably at baking?”

"I thought you would never ask."

Satan feels you stiffen in his arms two hours into your bake-off marathon. Your takeout boxes are cold and forgotten on his coffee table, a bottle of wine gone between the two of you. He glances down at you curious.

You were transfixed on the screen. The novice baker on screen was struggling to keep his monstrosity of a cake upright. It was the annual Halloween episode and this fool went for a Silence of the Lambs inspired cake. A good concept really, but very poorly executed. The fake body parts and sugar blood weighted the pastry down dangerously. If he were, to be frank, the cake was also tacky as hell. Heh, he'd have to try to make this for Lucifer.

"Does his abuse of the piping gun offend you that much?" He jokes wrapping an arm around you.

Your laugh is breathy and lacks its usual warmth. "It is excessive isn't it?" You look up at him. "Hey, Satan-have you ever eaten people before?"

"Uhh…" Great, how eloquent. This came out of nowhere, did Lucifer set you up to this? No-no you wouldn’t. Would you hate him if you knew? “I have.” He admits through clenched teeth waiting for your reaction.

“Didn’t Diavolo ban it?” He can tell you are doing the mental math in your head.

He chuckles dryly. “Well, you never asked if I did it legally.” You move away from his touch and pause the show. “I mean...I did it legally! ” His mouth runs freely, his brain screaming at him to shut up.

“Satan.” You cross your arms unimpressed.

“It was a new law and I never meant to eat it for the most part. It was at a time where I was still struggling to control myself.” Young and stupid as Lucifer had said defending him every step of the way when he would slip up. Was it sold on the black market now? Yes. Did he know how to get it? Sure, but he would never nor would he tell you about it either.

You nod thinking about his words. “I can empathize.” Oh, thank the Devil. “Have you thought of eating me?”Ahhh. “Oh my God, you have.” You chuck a pillow at him with a laugh.

He catches the pillow and clutches it to his fiery hot face. “Everyone did at first!” If he was going down then he was going to take every one of his brothers down with him. “I wasn’t going to act on it! It was a spur of the moment-why are you laughing!”

“Sorry, sorry.” You wipe at the tears in your eyes wishing you had your phone to take a picture of his blushing face. “I kind of figured you did.”

Satan looks at you incredulously. “Shouldn’t you be a bit more torn up over this?”

You shrug. “After everything we’ve been through? I admit it was a shock to think at first but I mean, you would have done it by now right?”

“Well, thank you?” He flops back on the couch, still clutching the pillow to act as a barrier between you two. He’ll take it as a compliment.

You scoot close, nudging his knee with yours. “You ok?” He nods. “Can I touch you?” He nods again eagerly. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and squeeze. “Sorry, I made you uncomfortable.”

Satan chuckled, dropping the pillow to hug you back. “It’s ok.” He peaks your forehead. “Now, with that out of the way. Shall we finish this?” He swipes up his phone to hit play. You nod, flinging your legs over him to snuggle closer. “Good, I’m dying to know how he tries to save that thing. I’m putting money on icing.”

“You know.” You break the silence once more, unable to stop yourself. “I wouldn’t be opposed to being eaten...in some ways.”

Belphegor

After your first *ahem* encounter, he doesn’t bring up the whole food thing. He is afraid that if you learned about it, it would be the last strike for you and his relationship. Perhaps it’s paranoia on his part but better safe than sorry.

In all honesty, he didn’t eat it that much anyway. Killing humans was something he did often in his youth as a demon. A stupid attempt at revenge on his part. It filled the holes in his hearts to hurt those he believed killed his sister.

But to eat their flesh? Disgusting. He tried it a few times and it turned his stomach with every mouthful. He just hated them too much to even stomach them. He’s mellowed out with time but still never got a taste for it.

When you asked it was a shock but welcomed in a way. Like he could finally get this weight off his shoulders every time he looked at you.

Mini Fic

“It’s gross.” Belphie yawns, jumping up to sit on the high garden wall. He bends down to help you up placing you gently next to himself. The wind catches you by surprise threatening to topple you back from the wall before he rights you. He tosses his sweater over you with a nod of satisfaction.

You snuggle into the fleece lining burying your nose into the fabric. It smelled of elderberries and honeysuckles. Belphie watches you curl up into his side with a fond smile. “Seriously, you all are nasty.”

“Ouch!” You push his shoulder with a grin. “I feel like I should be offended on behalf of all humans.”

Belphie snorts, looking up into the bright colors of the night sky. “Good. Be offended. You, humans, are slimy.” You squawk indignantly. “It’s true, never in all my years would I willingly ingest it.” He shudders theatrically.

“Rude.”

“Shouldn’t you be happy? Lest I eat you?” He growls playfully, taking a swipe at you. He pulls you close to kiss the pout off your face. He stops only when your face is hot and your smile threatens to pull a muscle. “I’ll keep you safe, always.” He vows resting his chin on your head.

“Do you think other demons would try to eat me?”

“Have you met my twin?” He teases. He takes your jab to his ribs with a smile. “But if one of those lesser demons even tries to breathe in your direction I’ll kill them.”

“Ok, Mister sleeps till dinner.” You joke. His vow warms your heart a little, chasing away the small bit of fear that had rested itself in your chest. You saw how some demons looked at you at R.A.D, the longing and hungry looks got to be a bit much sometimes. A few older demons would discuss it loudly when they knew you were close by. Apparently, it was a long standing tradition of demons eating humans both body and soul when a pact was concluded.

Imagine what those brothers would do to them…

You shake your head hugging Belphie closer. You had nothing but his word that he would keep you safe, yet that was enough for you. Besides, he wasn’t one to follow the rules even at the best of times.

“I’m serious. You're off limits for everyone.”

You nod into his shirt, closing your eyes to enjoy the peace of the moment. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Diavolo

It is so far from his mind that when you say something it is like a rug was taken out from under him. He could be diplomatic about it, but you deserve better than a half-truth.

He was a wild child in his youth. Sometimes he would overindulge in his father’s heritage and gorge himself on his newfound powers and privilege. He would dine with the elders and eat with abandon under their proud eyes.

He regrets it now, in your company it brings up a slurry of emotions. Sometimes when he looks at you he sees flashes of his past behavior.

The urge is stronger in him than the brothers, a constant nagging tug in his guts, but he is strong. Stronger both in willpower and sheer physical prowess than them so the pull is more of an annoyance than a burning need. He can temper the hunger in other ways if need be *wink*

He fears what you might think of him if you ever found out the truth, but however you take it he will handle it in stride. He loves you too much not to.

Mini Fic

Dinners, when Diavolo could eat alone, were a rare and special treat. The solace of just being allowed to exist without constantly checking his posture or presentation was a blessing, just him, his thoughts, and a good meal. It was nice to have no paperwork to worry about staining this time or a tedious meeting where he couldn’t savor his meal. No, no this was good. He looks down at his heavily laden plate and smiles. Well, almost… Pulling out his phone he snaps a quick picture and sends it to you with a simple question. Join me?

Private meals were wonderful, but with you, they were perfect.

You arrive faster than he expected, flushed face and clutching a stitch in your side from rushing over. He almost felt bad before he saw the eager look in your eyes. Barbatos helps you with your school bags and coat before placing another plate of food across from the young lord. He winks at the prince before disappearing back through the door.

“Thank you for the invite!” You beam taking your seat across from him. “I hope you don’t mind that I'm not dressed for the occasion. I was just wrapping up a study session with the boys.” You look down at your rumpled lounge clothes.

Diavolo waved his hand disregarding your concerns. “I would emulate you if I had the time.” He looks at his own pressed school uniform. He had another meeting this evening, much to his distaste. “You look rather comfortable.” You smile in delight before tucking into your own plate.

You eat in a comfortable silence reading the room well enough to tell that he wished for some company but not needless chitter-chatter. Barbatos arrived moments after you put your fork down and left with the plate leaving behind a delicious smelling hot drink. You couldn’t put your finger on the flavor but it tastes spicy like cinnamon and coats your throat like warm honey.

Whatever was in the drink seemed to work some magic on the prince. His shoulder droop, his back sinking into the chair as his legs stretch out till they are close to brushing against yours. He starts talking over the drink, eyes slowly lighting up with delight. You drink, nodding along with him as he builds up steam. It was nice to see him so unguarded and light. You listen to him talk about simple innocent topics. You knew how he tried to have these conversations with the others to no avail. The brother’s always tried to stay clear of him, and Lucifer simply dismissed these things most days. Barbatos and the angels were a bit better but still listened mostly to placate him.

“Ah!” Diavolo stops mid-sentence as his door opens once more Barbatos holding a small platter in his gloved hand. Dia claps his hands in delight. “I’ve been wanting to have you try this with me for forever. The human palate is so different, but I hope this is tasty.”

“What is it?” You eye the covered plate curiously.

Dia says a word in infernal. It is harsh and guttural in his throat but his delight was evident in his tone. “It is like...a roasted nut? Sorry, it is difficult to explain but it has been a favorite treat of mine since I was a boy. I hope you like it too.” He opens the lid with little ceremony and tilts the bowl to you. Inside were several golfball sized pods piled on top of each other. Even from across the table you could feel the molten heat radiating from the porous black shell. It looked...ugly. Like a hunk of dried lava. You eye it suspiciously as Diavolo picks one up with his bare hands and bits it. The shell cracks under his sharp teeth, a fang catching in a weak spot with a noise that makes you shiver. Underneath the thick casing, you could see a dark red and fleshy core. He hums in delight pulling put the meat of the seed and discard the shell pieces onto an empty plate. He makes quick work of the innards already reaching for another by the time you casually pick up a seed.

The seed itself was dense and warm to the touch. You squeeze it, noting that the porous coating felt like a mass of steel in your hand. “Dia-how do I open it?” No way you could bite it, not without breaking your jaw in the process.

“Allow me.” He takes it from you and effortlessly cracks it. “It is a tradition to break them with teeth, instead of hands or utensils. Something about a show of strength. I just find it fun.” He shrugs, handing you the broken seed.

“Fun!” You marvel at his pearly fangs. “Those are some big chompers.”

“All the better to eat you with my dear.” He chuckles.

You blink in shock, eyes widening. “Would you? Eat me?”

Diavolo’s smile drops. “No.” He lies on reflex, his political nature kicking in. “No-no wait.” He shakes his head. “I...at a time would have without hesitation.” He feels you recoil. “It was common practice back in the day. To the common demon it was a great meal and for the ruling class a show. He looks down at the broken fragments of shell on his plate. Breaking the shell was far too reminiscent of other things. He squashes the unwanted wave of memories coming up. Instead, he looks up at you.

You sit quietly mulling over his words. You haven’t run yet. “Why did you stop?”

He leans back with a loud exhale. Why did he stop? There were many reasons, none he wished to divulge into at the moment, but he had to say something. “I grew up, and began to resent and regret it.” He used to read human stories of demons and his kind. They hurt their characterizations of him and his people. Yet, they had all been scarily accurate. He wanted to prove that they weren’t stagnating beasts, slaves to their desires. Even if it wasn't a popular opinion.

“I see.” You pick up the seed again. “Thank you for telling me. You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to, and to apologize… such admissions must have ruined your appetite. If you wish to retire-”

“Is it weird if it didn’t?” You cut him off. You felt-not apathetic to the knowledge but close to it. It confirmed a lot of things for you and put certain things in perspective. You still felt safe with him even with this new bit of knowledge. Without a second thought, you pop the treat into your mouth. You gasp in delight. The flavor and texture were not what you were expecting, but was delicious all the same. “Can you open another for me?” You push your plate over to him.

“Of course!”

The food was as wonderful as his company.

Barbatos

You knew he cooked it. He probably knows a million different ways to prepare a human. He is also very blunt about his dabblings in the market.

He doesn’t eat it, hasn’t ever. He sees no reason to, especially since he doesn’t need to eat anyway there is no temptation. He did find the meals he created beautiful though.

Once he lived for the praises of the courts and his young lord. He was a master at all mediums he cared to work with. Time, decorum, or of the flesh.

He is 100% unashamed of his past with the dark side of the Devildom’s history. In fact, he is damn near proud of it. He is a demon and it was a part of his life, if that frightens you, well there is nothing he can do about it.

He’ll entertain your questions and will try to put any lingering worries at ease. Just don’t expect to be coddled when he does.

Mini Fic

Barbatos had very few personal pleasures in his life. His schedule simply didn’t have the space for such things. So why even bother looking for a pastime. It wasn’t until Diavolo gifted him with an old worn cookbook did he find it.

Cooking was a necessity for his prince, but with that little book, it became something he looked forward to doing. Slowly, he began to seek them out, filling his growing quarters with cookbooks and loose-leaf slips of paper. He enjoys reading them. Each book was a little time capsule into the cook's life and memories. Could a mix of spices really remind someone of the arid heat of their motherland? Or does following a certain way of aging meat really honor the writer's late grandfather’s memory? He tries them all, each recipe a little invasion to a happier time.

He wrote his fair share of cookbooks too in his day. Simple modifications to things the young lord liked to the odd machinations of his own imagination. He got good at experimenting with flavors and textures over the years, mastering certain cooking techniques and flavors just for fun. He didn’t share many of them, a lot of his recipes were just too complicated for most. Luke was allowed to look at his pastry books only. The little cherub was enamored with his techniques and wanted to learn as much as he could in the short amount of time he was in the Devildom. Admirable, but he made sure to keep some of his...less savory books away from the boy. He shudders to think what Simeon would do if he scarred the young angel.

You are the only one who has full access to his collections. Whether you liked to cook was inconsequential to him. He simply enjoyed sharing this interest with you. Some nights you would take it upon yourself to be his “sous-chef”. Which meant you sat in the corner of the kitchen and read out the ingredients and steps for a recipe he knew by heart. Sometimes you would add in extra steps in an attempt to stump it. Cute...but ultimately failed each time. So, most nights when you tagged along to the kitchens you just flip through his collection, reading his immaculate scribblings crammed into the corners of the pages or where he scratched out certain ingredients for more demon-appropriate foods and more sustainable options.

You had gone through many beautiful books before you found it. The cookbook was small and inconspicuous compared to most. Just a simple black cover with a well-worn spine. What made you take notice of it was just how dusty it was. That wasn’t like him to do. Barbatos would never let something get so dirty. You wished you never had opened it. You weren’t stupid by any means, but after reading a few pretty graphic recipes it had unsettled you. So you withdrew from Barbatos trying to forget about the book tucked away deep in the bowels of your school bag.

“You’ve been distant.” You choke, hand flying up to your chest as you swear your heart skipped a beat. Damn demon. Should put a bell on him. “What’s wrong?” His eyes are piercing, cutting away at your feeble defenses.

“Nothing…” You fiddle with your bag’s strap. Your eyes drop to the floor taking in the differences between his polished shoes and your scuffed boots.

“Of course not…” You could hear the skepticism in his voice. “I trust that if there was something wrong you would feel safe enough to confide in me.” His words hit like a ton of bricks on your shoulders. He sighs seeing that his words got no reaction. “Please?”

Wordlessly you rummage in your bag and thrust the book into his chest. “Sorry. It shook me up more than I thought it would.”

Ah. He knew this book all too well. For a time it had been his favorite, one to pull out with Diavolo had guests or a deal that needed to be sealed. He accepts the book, noting how much your hands shook. “I understand.” He slips the book into his breast pocket making a mental note to hide it in one of his lesser used rooms. “Would you like to discuss this? In my room perhaps?” You follow with a timid nod.

“Where shall we begin?” Barbatos asks the moment he closes the door to his room.

“You don’t seem perturbed.” You frown. Barbatos shrugs, pulling the book out and opening it. He had a lot of good memories stored here. Some of these were still considered signature dishes, oftentimes a visiting dignitary would lament to him about the good old days when he could show off his craft when flesh was plentiful. He takes pride in that still to this day even. For as much as he loved you, he would not be ashamed of this.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” You shake your head when he says as much. “It just confused me. Do-do you see me as food?”

“I never saw humans as food, no more than I see demons or angels as it.” He picks at an imaginary bit of lent from his pant leg. “As for seeing you as food no. No matter how sweet your lips are, or how honeyed your words can be.” He smiles, taking impish delight in your squirming. “I merely did my job as a butler for my lord.”

“Oh- sorry for not coming to you sooner.” You felt foolish now. Barbatos waves it off, pleased to have this issue put aside so quickly and cleanly. “Wait-" You gasp as his words finally sink in. “Have you prepared angels before?”

He flashes you a mischievous smile putting a single finger up to his lips. “Perhaps~ do you wish to read that too?”

[unbridgeabledistances]

some ian/mickey prompts! (this is not a demand, just some ideas☺️)

• waking up/going to sleep

• cuddling

• domestic scenes in general

• hurt/comfort scenarios

• being in each other’s company (like ur recent fic) and falling in love with each other again

I really don’t know how to describe but I hope these are enough?

<3 ah thank u so much for these ideas anon! i couldn’t fall asleep last night bc i was stressed about a bunch of stuff, so i started to write this little bit of nighttime fluff that seems to fit with your requests:) i hope u enjoy!!

a drabble where ian can’t sleep, and mickey comforts him (can be set as a little coda to 11x05)

--

It was the dead of night at the Gallagher house— Ian was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes trying pierce through the blanket of darkness to count the cracks in the crumbling plaster above him and listening for something, anything, to distract his mind and finally get him to go the fuck to sleep. But it was no use— it was so late that even the usual summer chatter that bubbled up from the South Side street corners into open windows on wafts of summer air had stilled, leaving Ian sweaty and tired and restlessly laying in bed. Ian was more than tired; he was fucking exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed and scratchy and his muscles tense and rigid. Most nights Ian slept well, or slept okay at the least—he kind of had to learn to sleep in any situation after sharing a room with Lip and Carl and Liam for his entire childhood, always plagued with slamming doors and shouting voices. It wasn’t noise that usually kept Ian awake on nights like tonight, it was silence— a deafening, pounding silence that felt like it was crawling under his skin.

He looked over at Mickey, curled tightly on the opposite side of the bed, facing the wall with his arms around his chest and the covers practically up to his chin, the only really visible part of him the sliver of pale skin at the back of his neck that reflected the gauzy moonlight that was streaming in through the blinds. Ian noticed how comfortably Mickey’s face was pressed into the pillow, with even breaths escaping his half-open mouth, and instantly felt a pang of envy. That was the thing about Mickey—he never really had trouble sleeping. Mickey could always drift off the second he hit the sheets, whatever voices that lived inside his head easily quieting when the lights were dim and the world was still. Ian didn’t get it—the voices in his head always ramped up when the lights turned off, always churned and swirled and made him question his entire existence in the stagnant, pitch-black silence— and usually Ian could quiet them, after a little while, but on a night like tonight Ian knew he’d be stuck in the spiral, with his heart racing, until the sun came up. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to will his body to relax.

Ian could feel an odd sense of panic bubbling up in his throat as he laid there unmoving, feeling suffocated by the heat of the deep, dark night pressing in on him. His legs felt tingly and restless, and his head was throbbing because of how tired he was but the static in his mind kept whirring, like a broken radio set to the wrong frequency. He sighed loudly, letting the air burning in his lungs fizzle out of him, just wanting to penetrate the thick silence. He just wanted to be asleep—he was supposed to get up early to put the coffee on before Lip had a job interview, and then he wanted to go for a jog before he and Mickey had a shit ton of weed runs to do that would jam-pack the entire day tomorrow…

Beside him, Mickey shuffled beneath the covers. Ian froze. Fuck, he did not want to wake Mickey up right now. Mickey was crabby and groggy on the best of mornings, but when he didn’t get enough sleep he was truly a force to be reckoned with.

Unfortunately, Ian’s prayers went unanswered. Mickey drew in a deep breath, rustling under the sheets once more.

“Okay Gallagher, what’re you sighing for?” Mickey’s flat, muffled voice piped up from under his blanket cocoon, low and throaty and full of sleep. He sounded exasperated and deflated, and definitely not fully awake.

Ian let out another long breath, more quietly this time. “Nothing, Mick. Go back to sleep.”

But of course, instead of listening, Mickey aggressively yawned and turned over, stretching to shift his body weight and turn onto his opposite side to face Ian. Ian just remained where he was laying, his head lying limp and heavy on the pillow while he stared up at the ceiling.

Mickey dazedly rubbed his eyes, noticing that Ian was fully awake. Immediately, Mickey shook off the sleep that was clouding his eyes. He stared at Ian for a moment, his eyes wide and searching. After a moment, almost on reflex, he carded a quick, gentle hand through the front of Ian’s hair as he leaned in closer.

“You feeling okay?” Mickey’s voice was distant and drowsy, like he was still half-asleep but trying to will himself to wake up.

Am I feeling okay? There was so much latent meaning wrapped up in that question, and Ian felt a cavernous gratefulness bloom in his chest that this was the way Mickey asked—he wasn’t assuming that Ian being manic was the reason that he couldn’t sleep, but he didn’t rule it out either. Mickey was just waiting for Ian to tell him what he was feeling, what he needed, without assuming anything about Ian’s brain before Ian did.

Am I feeling okay?

Ian swallowed, his glassy eyes still fixated on the cracks in the ceiling that he could barely make out in the dark.

“Yeah. S’not anything to worry about, I’ve been taking my meds. I’m just… stressed out I guess.” Ian could hear the fatigue dripping from his voice as it glided across the darkness.

Mickey was still staring at Ian, his gaze piercing and concerned.

“Stressed out?” Mickey questioned lowly, like he’d never heard the two words before.

“Yes, Mickey, stressed out. I don’t know, it’s fucking stupid, just go back to bed.” Ian sighed in frustration.

Instead, Mickey shifted again, propping himself up on his elbow and leaning fully on his side, looking like a teenage girl at a sleepover who was ready to hear some juicy gossip.

“Well I’m awake now, mouth-breather, so why don’t you tell me what you’re worried about?”

Ian gave a quiet, strangled chuckle. What the fuck was he supposed to say? It just fucking sucked to not be able to sleep, to lie there frustrated with dry eyes and a parched throat, grasped tight in the clutches of whatever worries were lying hollow and dark in the pit of his stomach and not being able to do anything about it.

Ian knew it was stupid, but for the last few months he had been pretty much the only one worrying about keeping things together— getting steady money, putting aside fucking savings, trying to keep the house intact and fill the gaping hole Fiona left behind that Ian still just didn’t fit into right, for the sake of Liam and Franny and Carl now that Lip had moved out. Ian had never really given a shit about money, until he had to start caring about everyone else—and it didn’t bother him, it really didn’t, but now that Ian was caught in this fucking sticky silence, he realized how much worrying about taking care of everyone else was actually wearing him down, grinding away at him bit by bit without him noticing.

He exhaled a heavy, trembling breath.

“Just. I don’t know. Worried about money, I guess? And worried about our job. I know we agreed on guns, and I totally fucking get that now, but I’ve never done a job that’s so… dangerous? And then I’m panicking because what if we make total asses of ourselves with this business bullshit and fail and lose everything, and then we’d be back to square one…”

Mickey just sat there perched on his elbow, listening. He wordlessly reached to press the pad of his thumb to Ian’s forehead, above his eyebrows, smoothing the worry lines and creases that started to bloom there as Ian spoke.

“And I just… I don’t know, my heart’s just fucking racing for some reason tonight and I can’t make it stop.”

Mickey continued to silently run his thumb gently on Ian’s face, tracing above his eyebrow and the side of his temple in a soothing pattern that made Ian’s eyes want to flutter shut for the first time in hours.

“S’there anything I can do?” Mickey’s gravelly, sleepy voice cut through the darkness.

Ian peeled his eyes from the ceiling, and shifted them to meet Mickey’s. He was still staring down at Ian with searing concern, like Ian’s stupid fucking worries were a big deal if they were making him feel this distressed.

“It’s fine, Mick. Just get some sleep.” Ian held Mickey’s gaze for a moment, expecting him to turn back over and wrap the blankets around himself.

Instead, Mickey curled closer, draping a heavy arm over Ian’s waist, followed by a thick and heavier thigh between Ian’s legs, his nose nuzzling into the side of Ian’s neck. Ian froze, just for a moment—Mickey definitely usually wasn’t the one to initiate tender touches of intimacy, but he was half-asleep and he knew how much Ian needed this right now, knew it would calm his racing heart down to a steady beat. Instantly, Ian felt something, some heaviness that was burrowed deep in his chest, dissipate at Mickey’s touch.

“Mick,” Ian said. There was something in his lungs, in his throat, on his tongue. He didn’t know what it was. All he knew is that his heartbeat was slowing, his blood was running through his veins at a normal speed again, and the pressure building in his head starting to dissipate.

“This okay?” Mickey was almost asleep again, and mumbled the words into the crook of Ian’s neck, his breath tickling Ian’s chin.

Ian breathed out with relief, curling a hand over Mickey’s shoulders and drinking in the feeling of Mickey’s warm skin nestled against his, a grounding, solid weight holding him at bay. “Yeah, this is good.”