#mild mentions of blood and injury

[bxtchboy2000]

Last Wish of a Dying Demigod

Their fight had raged on, flurries of flame and blade passed back and forth. The tarnished had watched in abject horror as Messmer pulled the scarseal out of his eye socket, crushing it and releasing the abyssal serpent that lurked within him. They had watched as he asked his mother for forgiveness and a part of them nearly felt sympathy, but they had little time to dwell on it before the serpent itself was coming for them. 

Messmer was quick, but the tarnished was quicker. With one final blow to his head, they watched his lengthy form crumple at their feet as he cried out, “Mother.. Marika.. A curse upon thee..!”

Standing over him with their blade still held tightly at their side, they watched him silently, waiting for the body of the demigod to disperse into the air as nothing more than dust. 

But it didn’t. His spear fell from his hand, the snakes rooted in his chest moving in a futile frenzy as if they might find a way to bring him back from the edge. He turned his head from where he lay beneath the tarnished, looking vaguely up in their direction, his voice pained and shaking, “Tarnished… mongrel tarnished…” 

They didn’t respond, their eyes remained focused on his face; the grotesque injury from ripping the scarseal out, the blood seeping from the final blow they dealt to his head. It was a curious sight, a demigod dying at their feet. 

“Tarnished,” he repeated, his large hand reaching blindly for them, “Please… do not leave.”

An odd request, surely. They considered him, the pathetic way in which he regarded them, and the thought of ending his misery then and there crossed their mind. Yet something about him, about how harmless and broken he was, bid them to kneel beside him instead.

They were quiet, studying him for a long moment before finally speaking, “What wouldst thou ask of me, Impaler?”

“T’is.. rotten, to die alone.”

The tarnished shifted uncomfortably. For everything they knew of Messmer and the things he had done, they could not help but feel that same twinge of sympathy rising in their chest. The despondent plea was so ill-fitting for a monster such as he, yet it made him seem so human.

“Thou wouldst prefer to die next to the one that has killed thee?”

He managed a mirthless, hollow laugh that seemed to cause him pain as he grimaced, “I have naught else, dearest Tarnished. My family, my mother, have long since forsaken me. I had hoped… my mother…” His voice trailed off as he found himself incapable of finishing the thought. 

“Thou hoped to see thy mother again,” they muttered, finishing the thought for him. The tarnished did not know why they found themselves entrenched in such guilt, such sympathy for such a terrible demigod, but they did. They reached their hand out, slipping it under his head, careful to avoid the wound they had given him mere minutes before. Their action prompted his serpent companions to dart feverishly around their face and their hand, though it seemed the serpents were acutely aware that the tarnished did not intend to bring further harm upon their master. 

Messmer’s body tensed at the sensation of their hand beneath his head, but he made no complaints.

“Yes… but thou needest not pity me, tarnished.”

“There is little less pitiable than a child abandoned.”

Messmer’s face twisted briefly, his expression lost somewhere between disdain and a deep sorrow. The tarnished saw the passing expression, “My apologies, I did not mean–”

“Nay, thou’rt not wrong,” his trembling hand found its way to their arm, grasping it as if in a desperate plea for some final closeness to something, someone, anyone, “I only regret that I have failed her, that I have failed my goal, that I shall die as the monster she sealed away.”

“But thou served her cause for so long. Surely she would not decry thee for thy final attempt at survival, at upholding her will,” they replied, their other hand carefully brushing the stray red hairs from his face. Their movements were delicate as they found themselves desperate to offer him tenderness in death, for they were quite certain he had seen little of it in life.

“Thou’rt far too generous, tarnished.”

“I speak what is true.”

“My mother… forsook me. And yet…”

Silence filled the air, Messmer seemingly lost in his thoughts. His grip remained tight on their arm, but they did not mind. They looked at his marred face, now that they had brushed the stray hairs away, they could see all of it. Part of them was almost glad they could not look into his eyes because they knew the sadness they would find in them would all but shatter them. 

They placed their hand on his cheek which made him flinch, but he seemed to settle quickly. They could feel his grip on their arm weakening.

“Messmer,” they whispered, not entirely certain he would respond.

Almost a minute passed before he did, his voice nearly inaudible, “Dost… dost thou truly think my mother would be pleased?”

“Yes.”

“Even… in my failure?” He was struggling to speak now. His grip on their arm failed, his hand falling hard to the cold stone of the floor. He was fading quickly.

“Even in thy failure,” they responded softly. They manoeuvred his head into their lap, bringing their now freed hand to his that lay on the floor.

He was quiet once more.

They could see his breathing slowing, the serpents were barely moving.

They tightened their grip on his hand as they spoke, “I believe it is time, my dear.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Already?”

“Already.”

“I… I am afraid. I do not think I can… I do not want…” his voice trailed off. 

“Thou can, thou must.”

“Art thou… certain?”

“Yes, Messmer.”

He took one last, staggered breath, “I… thank thee… tarnished.”

The tension in his hand disappeared as it fell limp in theirs.

The room was silent now. His serpents were as still as he was as the tarnished watched his body dissipate into nothingness, their fingers still curled around a hand that was no longer there. 

Link to work on AO3 <3

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[lesterlatte]

Let me kiss you in the rain (Hensper)

AO3 link / CW: mild injury and brief mention of blood

It was 3am while Captain Man and Kid Danger were out fighting a criminal on the streets of Swellview. Rain was pouring down, striking against the two heroes as they attempted to back the criminal into a corner. What had started out as a petty theft had now turned into a fully fledged battle, the skills of the criminal having taken the duo by surprise.

By the end of the fight they had to take a moment to recollect themselves, Captain Man being out of breath from the unexpected intensity and Kid Danger analysing the injuries he had sustained. While Ray had trained him exceptionally well to handle a fight he was still just a kid and therefore his safety wasn't always completely guaranteed, regardless of his hypermotility. This criminal had managed to get some solid hits in, the most noticeable being the bruise forming on his cheek and the blood trickling from his nose. 

“You doing okay kid?” Ray asked, looking over to Henry, who was slouching against a wall. “Yeah, I just need a moment. He really caught us off guard” Henry winced as he gently touched his nose, blood appearing on his glove and being washed away by the rain almost immediately.

“Tell me about it, that man could pack a punch” Ray placed his hands on his hips and looked over to where the criminal was being taken to jail by the cops. 

“Are you sure you don't need any help? Looks like he got you pretty good” Ray’s eyebrows furrowed, paying attention to Henry’s visible injuries. Henry pushed himself off the wall and moved over to Ray. Henry shrugged. “I’m sure. It's nothing a couple painkillers and ice packs won’t fix.”

“If you’re sure. Make sure to wrap up warm tonight, don’t want you catching a cold and having to miss work” Henry gave a light laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it, anyways I've got to head off home. See you tomorrow?” Henry started walking off, tuning his head back over his shoulder to look at Ray.

“Bright and early, Kid” Ray gave a small wave before heading off towards the Man Cave.

Henry moved into an alley to detransform, making sure no one was following him. Luckily flights in the middle of the night didn’t tend to garner public interest outside of the occasional civilian poking their heads out the door or watching from their windows. After cautiously exiting the alley Henry started his walk home. As he began walking his other injuries started to become more apparent, the adrenaline from the fight starting to wear off. He found himself having to limp slightly as he moved, due to what he assumed was most likely a twisted ankle. Dodging attacks isn't as easy as you’d think, especially in the rain.

As he approached the road he lived on he spotted another figure waiting by his porch. Squinting his eyes he managed to make the figure out to be Jasper. Confused, Henry walked up to his drive as Jasper rushed towards him, not caring about the rain that was drenching him.

“Hen are you okay? I saw the fight online and got worried” Jasper had an air of concern that was immediately apparent to Henry. Not wanting to worry his friend he waved his hand up “ I’m fine Jasp don't worry. Just a couple bruises that I’m sure will fade quickly.” This only made Jasper more concerned as he gently reached his hand up to Henry’s face, cupping his cheek and touching under his nose with his thumb. Henry winced as Jasper’s thumb touched his nose. Jasper's eyes glossed with concern as he pulled his thumb away.

“This,” Jasper held up his thumb, which was covered in blood, “isn't fine Henry and you know it.” Henry shrunk back slightly with guilt. He knew his job made his best friend concerned, especially with him not being indestructible like Ray. He always tried to make sure Jasper didn’t have to worry about his safety but he was always quick to notice when Henry was trying to hide injuries.

“It’s just a little bit of blood, it will dry up quickly I’m sure” Henry replied, pushing his hair out of his face, rain pushing his quiff into his eyes. 

“Just a bit of blood? Henry I saw the way you winced it's not just a bit of blood. And don't think I missed the way you were limping down the block. You need to stop hiding how you’re feeling from me Hen” Jasper said, tears welling up in his eyes, visible despite the rain drenching them.

“I don’t want to worry you Jasp, I always end up being okay and I'm sure this time will be no different” Henry replied, trying to sound confident in an attempt to calm his friend down.

“Well what if you aren't Henry! What if you get hurt and that's it. No more Kid Danger, no more Henry Hart!” Jasper almost screamed, not caring who heard them. “You aren’t invincible so stop acting like it!” Jasper was sobbing at this point, the dam of emotions having burst with Henry's repeated denial. 

“I have a job to do Jasper! I swore an oath to help Captain Man defend this city and if I get hurt in the process so be it! I can’t hide away during a fight because I may get injured!” Henry’s volume was now matching Jaspers, tears appearing in his own eyes.

“I don't want to lose you!” Jasper screamed, tears cascading down his cheeks, eyes filled with anger but more prominently, worry. Jasper took a deep breath and looked up at Henry.

“I love you Henry. You mean the absolute world to me and if I don’t want to live in a future without you by my side.” Tears were still falling from Jasper's eyes, the anger having dissipated, being replaced by a look of undeniable love.

Henry stopped and stared at Jasper, shock making itself present on his face as he processed what his best friend just admitted. Jasper… loved him? He knew the two of them were close, they were best friends, but never had Jasper said anything about love. He took a moment to think about his own feelings. He thought back to all the times he and Jasper had hung out as his stomach filled with butterflies. Henry had never noticed this feeling before, not being something he had ever thought about. Now that he was paying attention to it, his own feelings became a lot more clear.

Without warning Henry jumped forward and captured Jasper's lips with his own. This took Jasper by surprise but he quickly melted into the kiss. The two boys pulled each other closer, embracing in a tight hug as the kiss continued. It felt as if the world had stopped around them. Nothing else mattered at that moment. It was as if they had placed the final piece in a puzzle they didn’t know they were building. The kiss continued until Henry slowly pulled back, making eye contact with Jasper.

“You mean the absolute world to me Jasper, I’m so sorry I've caused you to worry so much, I guess I don’t think about my own safety in the heat of the moment.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Oh I can tell Hen. Even if you did I would still be worrying about you” Jasper smiled at Henry, who was quick to reciprocate. They took a moment to just stare at each other, not wanting the moment to end, until thunder could be heard in the distance. This caused both boys to jump back into reality.

“We should probably head inside, I am absolutely soaked” Henry said, gesturing at himself. Jasper laughed and agreed as Henry grabbed his hand and directed them both to the back of the house so they could climb through Henry's window. It was a fair struggle on Henry’s part due to his ankle but Jasper was there to lend a helping hand, assisting the boy in climbing up the branches to the second floor of the Hart House. Jasper followed shortly after and closed the window behind him.

Henry dramatically fell onto his bed with a sigh, letting himself melt into the bedding despite still being soaking wet.

“We should probably dry off and check those injuries of yours.” Jasper said looking pointedly at Henry who was close to falling asleep.

“But I'm tired, Jasp, can’t it wait till tomorrow? Just come lay down with me” Henry whined, reaching his hand out to Japer who was standing to the side of the bed, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not risking anything Hen so stop being a baby and let me have a look” Henry sighed and slowly sat up on the bed.

Jasper checked him over and made sure none of the injuries were serious before grabbing them both towels and spare clothes. Even though they were at Henry's, Jasper already had a drawer of clothes there. He spent the night often enough that it just made sense for him to leave some clothes at Henry’s for when they wanted to do an impromptu sleepover. Once the two were dry and changed they went to lie down on Henry’s bed, Henry pulling Jasper into a hug.

“I love you Jasp” Henry leant his head on Jasper's shoulder and closed his eyes. Jasper smiled and pulled him in closer.

“I love you too Hen”

[ollieofthebeholder]

And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 27: The little shivering gaping things

It had been a long, frustrating month. Actually a long and frustrating year. So when Tim got an email from Lou asking him to meet her for a late lunch to celebrate her birthday, he’d jumped at the offer, even if it meant he’d have to catch a cab or extend his lunch, since he hadn’t driven to work. He wouldn’t vent to her, wouldn’t ruin her day, but it would be nice to get to talk to someone who wasn’t involved in…all this. And maybe she’d know some places to find Gertrude.

He’d insisted on both Sasha and Martin going at their regular time, assured them he would talk to Jon, and used the span of time he had to himself to probe at a few threads he’d deliberately left hanging from statements he’d been assigned, secure in the knowledge that Jon wouldn’t call him on it…yet. He was just packing his laptop up to head out the door when he heard a thump, a clatter, and a rustle from the Archivist’s office.

And every sense he’d honed over the last two years fired off at once.

Tim was out of his seat and across the Archives floor before he had a chance to consciously think about it. Jon was standing over by the shelving unit he’d put up against one wall of the office, or what was left of it, anyway; it looked like it had collapsed, maybe because he’d put too much weight on it. There was dust all over that part of the office and a…tang in the air Tim couldn’t quite place but definitely didn’t like.

“You okay?” he asked Jon, who looked momentarily flustered.

“Ah…yeah,” Jon said, straightening his shoulders. “A…spider.”

Something prickled on the back of Tim’s neck. It could have been completely innocuous, but if the Web was involved…“Did you get it?”

“I…hope so.” Jon looked at his hands, as if searching for evidence. “I think so. Nasty, bulbous looking thing.”

A big, obvious-looking spider? If it hadn’t had a clear marking that told Jon it was toxic, it was certainly there just to draw attention, and that definitely meant the Web. Tim’s eyes roved over the shelving unit. “What did you do, try to tackle it?”

“No, just…” Jon waved at the shelves. “Cheap things, I guess. I was just trying to—”

Tim sucked in a sharp breath as his eyes locked onto what he hadn’t realized he’d been looking for. The shelving unit, as it had collapsed, had slammed into the wall. Not hard, probably, or at least it didn’t look like it should have been hard, but there was a distinct dent in the plaster. No…no, not a dent. A hole.

The tang in the air got a bit stronger, like a gust of wind had just come out of that hole, and he recognized it all at once: the sickly, musty odor he’d last noticed, last consciously noticed, in the corridor outside Martin’s flat. The smell of insects, and rot, and…filth.

Corruption.

Oh, shit.

“Jon,” he said sharply, cutting off whatever Jon had been trying to explain.

“What?” Jon looked at Tim, then followed his gaze. “Oh…uh…got dented when the shelf collapsed, I suppose.”

“That went clear through.” Fear was encroaching, threatening to choke him, but Tim had to stay calm, had to stay sensible. “Fuck, that’s supposed to be an exterior wall.”

“It—it should be.” Jon, in defiance of all logic and common sense but totally in line with his insatiable curiosity, bent over to examine the crack in the wall. “I think it’s just plasterboard.” He reached out, tentatively, and pushed at the largest portion; it crumbled away almost instantly.

“Jon, don’t, get away from there!” Tim shouted, lunging deeper into the room.

The musty, decaying smell got even stronger, and he heard the wet squelching sound of too many crawling, writhing things eagerly rushing towards them. Jon reeled back, throwing his arms up over his face. “Tim, run. Run…”

Too late. Way, way too late. The weakened wall ballooned briefly, then crumbled away at the bottom, and hundreds, thousands of the grey and white worms started erupting out of the wall. Jon yelled in dismay and backed off. Tim thought he was going to run—sensibly—but instead he lunged for the Archivist’s desk and began scrabbling with one hand across the surface, his eyes darting back and forth between the onslaught of filth and the desk.

“What are you doing?” Tim shouted at him.

“Almost—” Jon half-gasped, and Tim realized he was going for the tape recorder.

“Leave it, it’s not—” Tim half ran, half jumped over and reached for Jon’s arm.

Jon, not even looking in his direction, nearly folded himself lengthwise and managed to seize the recorder with a glad cry. “I got it!”

There was a sudden bang as the door to the office swung inwards and hit the wall, and Martin’s voice came from behind them. “Guys? Is everything—oh, Christ!”

“Shut up and get the extinguishers!” Jon yelled back.

“What?” Martin squeaked out.

“Fuck that,” Tim ground out. Jon’s eyes were still fixed in terror on the invasion, Martin was obviously too frightened to think clearly, and while it would obviously be best to extinguish these before they got any deeper into the Archives, his priority had to be getting Jon and Martin out of the line of fire. If these things got into them…no, it didn’t bear thinking about. He grabbed Jon’s arm and yanked him hard, then turned and dragged him towards the door, shouting at Martin, “Out, out, out! Grab the nearest CO2 and let’s go!”

“Right, right, right, right, right, right, right, right, yep.,” Martin babbled, backing out of the doorway, stumbling over his own feet, before turning and darting for the wall near the computer, where the little black-banded CO2 canister still hung. Tim knew, knew it had been serviced and replaced after he’d used it on the outlets behind Mister Megabytes and hoped and prayed nobody had used it since then.

In that, at least, his luck held; Martin grabbed it, aimed it at the threshold of the Archivist’s office, and let loose with the gas. Tim kept dragging Jon forward. “Come on! Don’t stop to fight them all! Document Storage, now!”

Jon was stumbling along at Tim’s side, running well enough on his own, and Tim, stupidly, released his arm, intending to drop back a little and go for one of the bigger extinguishers that had to be around somewhere nearby. Unfortunately, he did so at the exact moment as Jon looked back, presumably to check the pursuit of the worms. He slammed full speed into Sasha’s chair, which crashed to the ground with Jon on top of it. The recorder flew from his free hand and slid across the floor towards the shelves.

“Dammit!” Jon flailed, panicked as a drowning swimmer, and managed to free himself from the chair. Instead of continuing towards Document Storage, though, he started scuttling sideways to the worm army, obviously intent on the recorder.

“Jon! Santa cazzo Madre di Dio,” Tim swore. He put on a burst of speed, full Big Brother Mode activated, and caught Jon around the waist. Jon yelped, then screamed in the instant Tim hoisted him up over his shoulder.

“Jon, it’s okay, it’s just Tim!” Martin cried frantically.

“Martin! Get in the fucking storage room!” Tim bellowed, stomping a patch of worms with a disturbingly satisfying pop and vaulting over the chair. He was rewarded by the sight of Martin sprinting, almost as fast as he’d left his apartment, towards Document Storage.

His intention had been to toss Jon in, slam the door behind himself, and go back out to do battle with the things invading his Archives, dammit, Gertrude wasn’t here and she had left him in charge, Elias be damned, the Archives and those in it were his to protect, he’d already failed once, twice if you counted Breekon and Hope turning up to make their delivery, thrice if you counted Sasha getting lured out by the Twisting Deceit…all of that ran through his mind in the three bounds it took to get across the Archives to safety, but Jon’s hands were balled up in the back of his shirt and Martin was holding the door for him and he had to at least get in and get Jon down safely before he went back out there, and the second he was across the threshold Martin slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Jon was whimpering faintly as Tim slid him back over his shoulder to sit on the cot. Tim was about to reassure him that they were safe when his brain locked onto the pitch and timbre of Jon’s screams. Not fear. Pain. He instantly gave him a once-over and quickly found what he was looking for and afraid he’d find, in what little meat there was to his calf, just behind his left ankle. “Shit fuck damn! Martin, bottom left drawer, there’s a first-aid kit, I need it now!” He quickly patted himself down and—as he’d expected—came up with nothing but his key ring. He gritted his teeth. “This isn’t going to be fun, but it’s going to be the best I can do.”

“Wh-what are you—I, I didn’t get the recorder, I need to go grab the recorder,” Jon chanted, looking pale and dizzy. “I need to—”

“I’ve got one,” Martin said over his shoulder, rummaging through the drawer. He came up with the small metal kit triumphantly, then looked over at Jon and paled. “You’re bit!”

“I—nngh—“ Jon grimaced as he tried to move his leg.

Tim tried his hardest to keep his voice calm and level. “Jon, there’s a worm in there. I need to get it out. This is going to be messy, but—”

“Here. Use this.” Martin pressed something into Tim’s hand. “I’ll, I’ll get that recorder, okay?”

“I need you to hold him still,” Tim said, at the same time as Jon blurted out fervently, “Yes, please.”

Martin hurried over to his things, and Tim resigned himself to the fact that Martin was always going to do what Jon asked first. He looked at the object Martin had pressed into his hand and was surprised to discover it was a corkscrew—probably the one they’d used for Jon’s birthday wine last year. He eyeballed it, then the hole in Jon’s trouser leg…yeah, okay, that was probably about the right size.

“Okay,” he said, as calmly as he could. “This is still going to be messy, but probably not as bad. Sit still, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Despite the situation and the pain he had to be in, Jon still managed a pretty impressive glare, if not up to his usual standards. “I’m not a child, Tim.”

“You’re younger than my brother. You might as well be,” Tim shot back without thinking. “Sit still and try not to kick me in the face.”

He pushed the leg of Jon’s trousers up, exposing the bloody hole, and swiped at it with the first piece of gauze he found in the kit until it was clear enough for him to see. Gripping Jon’s ankle in a firm but not too tight hand, he lined the corkscrew up with the hole, gritted his teeth, and shoved it in.

Jon, unsurprisingly, screamed and—as Tim had more or less expected—jerked back, trying to pull himself free. Tim was stronger than he was, and he’d extracted enough splinters, thorns, and God knows what else from his daredevil baby brother, and he simply stiffened his arm to hold him steady and twisted the corkscrew in deeper. It squelched unpleasantly.

“And…there we go. Recording again,” Martin said. “Did you get it?”

Tim felt the tip of the corkscrew catch on something that he really hoped was the worm and not a muscle. Jon cried out in pain, and Tim’s heart, despite everything, clenched. He glanced up at Martin briefly. “Martin, I need you to sit behind him and hold him. Jon, Martin’s going to hold you, okay? This won’t take long, but it is going to hurt. I need you to be brave, okay?”

Evidently the pain was overriding Jon’s sense of indignation, because he nodded, then gave another soft cry of pain and closed his eyes. Martin, his whole face creased in anxiety, hastily sat on the cot next to him and wrapped his arms around Jon’s torso from behind, hesitantly at first, then more confidently and securely when Jon leaned back into him, almost involuntarily. Tim nodded, even though Jon couldn’t see him. “On three, all right? One…two…three.”

He pulled the corkscrew straight out. Jon cried out again and gripped Martin’s arm with almost clawlike fingers, but the corkscrew came free with a sucking pop and on the end was a feebly wriggling worm that, despite the bit of metal wrapped around its arse, seemed relatively intact. He pinched it off the end with the gauze, dropped it to the floor, and stomped on it as hard as possible. He wiped the blood off with a fresh piece of gauze, tapped a plaster in place, and—without really thinking about it—kissed the injured spot before rolling Jon’s trouser leg back down and patting it gently. “There. All done. Good job, Jon, you did good.”

Jon was breathing heavily, and his face was streaked with tears, but he sounded almost like his normal self as he opened his eyes. “Thank you, Tim.”

Tim glanced up at Martin, who—reluctantly, it seemed—let go of Jon. He didn’t go far, though. “Quick thinking with the corkscrew, Marto. Why do you have it, anyway?”

“For the worms.”

“What?” Jon looked up at Martin in confusion and some irritation, although noticeably less than usual.

“For pulling the worms out of people.” Martin gestured at the smear on the floor. “Like now.”

Jon followed Martin’s gesture, then cut his eyes away quickly; Tim swiped it up and lobbed it towards the rubbish bin in the corner. “How’d you think of that?”

Martin shrugged. “I used to carry around a knife, but I started thinking that, well, cutting laterally into someone wasn’t really the most efficient way to get them out, and besides which, they seem to be quite slow burrowing in a straight line, so, given their size, th-the corkscrew just seemed to be the better option.”

“Well, you’re right. Although I really hate that this is something you had to think about.” Tim found an alcohol wipe in the kit that probably wasn’t any good anymore, at least not for cleaning people, and began methodically wiping the blood off of the corkscrew.

“Thank you,” Jon said softly.

Tim glanced up at Martin. “You thought of this place without me shouting at you about it, right? That’s why the cot is in here?”

Martin’s cheeks turned pink. “Yeah. The room’s sealed. I checked it myself when I moved in.”

“Climate controlled, as well,” Jon put in. “Strong door. Soundproof.” He sighed. “These old documents are better protected than we ever were.”

“I did my best,” Tim muttered under his breath. He handed the corkscrew back to Martin and pushed to his feet. “Anyway, it’s a good place for you two to lie low.”

Jon looked up sharply at Tim. “What do you mean, you two? We’re trapped in here.”

“Look, someone’s got to stop those things,” Tim argued. “Gertrude Robinson trained me, so right now, I’m the best we’ve got. You two stay here and—”

“No,” Martin blurted out, his face drained of all color and his eyes huge with fear. “Don’t go. J-Jon’s right, it’s not safe, it—d-don’t go out there!”

They were well and truly scared…which was good, Tim supposed, it would keep them here and not getting themselves in trouble. On the other hand, their fear was going to draw the Corruption to them at some point or another, and even though the worms couldn’t easily access it, they’d get in eventually. He’d need to make sure they were either calm or protected before he could leave them.

Yeah. Good luck with that.

He glanced out the window of the door. No sign of Prentiss, not yet—that was good. And the worms seemed to be…backing off? Maybe he had a shot at this. He turned back to Jon and Martin. “Listen to me. Listen. It looks like we’ve got a clear path to the exit right now, but I know that’s bullshit. They’re waiting for something, and if we try to run for it they’ll be on us so fast, you have no idea. The Archives are in danger and so are we, and we’re not going to fix it by hiding in here. So unless you want to wait until someone comes to save us—”

“O-oh, God. Sasha!” Martin’s face, impossibly, got even paler. “I think she was out at lunch. She doesn’t know—we should, someone should call her, tell her not to come back inside.”

“There’s no signal in here,” Jon said, looking stricken as well. “We’ll just have to hope she heard the noise.”

Tim turned to look out the window again and cursed at the sight of the figure. “Too late! She’s just come in—fuck, she doesn’t see them.” He whirled back around and stabbed a finger at Jon and Martin. “Keep each other safe. Don’t open this door for anything unless I tell you it’s safe. The code word is ‘candlelight.’ If anything else tries to come through, you spray it to death and you run, and you get out of the Institute by any means necessary. Do you understand me?”

“Tim—” Jon protested, starting to try and get up, then collapsing to the ground with a cry. Martin rushed to his side. Tim used the momentary bit of chaos to open the door wide enough to admit himself and squeeze out, slamming the door behind himself.

His worst nightmare…well, close enough to it anyway…presented itself. Sasha had stooped to pick up the tape recorder and was looking at it carefully…but there was another figure behind her. This one wasn’t as tall as Sasha, with long, stringy dark hair and the tattered remnants of a red dress…and honeycombed all through it were holes, out of which poked more of the greyish-white worms.

“Sasha! Behind you!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

Sasha turned around and gave a ragged gasp, clutching the recorder to her chest like a talisman. The thing that had to be Jane Prentiss smiled at her with a mouth that was more worms than teeth.

“Do you hear their singing?” she asked. There was a swelling hum that was almost musical if you didn’t think too hard about it as hundreds of worms suddenly began squeezing up through the cracks between the floorboards around her.

“RUN!” Tim put everything he had into his bellow as he cleared the distance in two great strides and slammed into Sasha, tackling her out of the way as Prentiss and the worms sprang for them. She screamed and hit the floor, and honestly a whole lot of worms in the process, which made her scream louder. Tim quickly rolled to one side and onto his back, then sprang to his feet.

Prentiss was close. Too close. And they’d killed a bunch of worms when they landed, but there were still more, and more coming by the second. He leaned over, grabbed Sasha’s arm, and bodily hauled her upright.

“Go! Run!” he shouted, propelling her towards the door.

“Tim! Come on!” Sasha held onto his wrist and dragged him along behind her, still clutching the recorder with her free hand, worms popping and squishing under their feet.

Tim let her until they reached one of the shelves and he realized how full of worms it was. There were…way more than he’d expected, and yet somehow not as many as he would have expected if the Creeping Rot was seriously invading. He shook off the moment of analytical paralysis and let go of Sasha’s hand. “Run! Get help! I’ll hold them off!”

If she heard him, or responded, he didn’t notice; he only noticed that, thank God, she made it out the door of the Archives. Tim blew a raspberry at the shelf full of worms, then turned and bolted for the Archivist’s office. It was the logical choice—it was Ground Zero for the invasion, but also, it was Gertrude’s office. If there was anything in the Archives that could fight off an invasion, it was probably hidden in there somewhere.

Some of the worms leaped at him as he reached the door. He yelped, secure in the knowledge that there was no one to hear him, and dodged to the side to avoid them. Naturally, he overcompensated and tumbled headlong into a pile of boxes holding old case files. Or at least, they should have held old case files. From the solid nature of the things he hit, they didn’t—and from the faint clanking, they were probably fire extinguishers. God bless Martin and his paranoid hoarding.

Tim dove into one of the boxes and came up with an extinguisher. He twisted the pin and yanked it out, aimed the nozzle, and squeezed the trigger.

Just as Sasha had said in her statement, the worms died fairly quickly on contact with the extinguisher. He sprayed, and sprayed, and sprayed, until the extinguisher came up dry, then dropped it, grabbed a new one, and repeated the process. There were too damn many of the things, though, and he couldn’t get out of the office to get at them properly, so it was just…spray them until they stopped coming at him, specifically.

Had Elias actually had the new system installed? Tim vaguely remembered something about men coming to install, but had they…? Yes, yes they had, because the crew boss had gotten into a twenty-minute argument with Jon about it and then insisted on Elias signing about fifty different waivers saying they wouldn’t hold the company accountable if the Archives actually caught fire and the system didn’t do anything, and he recalled now the kid on the crew mentioning offhand that they’d assumed it was a computer archive rather than a paper one. And he’d managed to convince them not to install it in the Document Storage room, so if they managed to get it active, Jon and Martin would be safe.

Tim probably wouldn’t, but he’d suffocate if he had to.

He managed to clear enough space that he could slam the door shut. It wouldn’t help for long, though, since the hole in the wall was right there, but nothing seemed to be coming at him at the moment. He had five…maybe ten seconds’ breathing space. Well, breathing was optimistic. Still…he fished his phone out of his pocket and hit the preset number, then jammed his phone against his ear as he dug for more fire extinguishers. One ring, two, three…

“Delano.” Gerry sounded slightly distracted, like he’d been engrossed in his art, which he probably had been.

“Gerry, I love you,” Tim blurted out before Gerry could say anything else.

“What?” Now Gerry sounded startled, which was fair. Tim calling in the middle of the day was usually met with something joking, and since they rarely said that…

“I love you,” Tim repeated, the words tumbling over one another as he darted his eyes back and forth from the door to the ruins of the shelves. He could hear the squelching, squirming noise, and over it all, in his own head, he could hear the loud ticking of a clock slicing off seconds of his life. He didn’t have time for this, but he didn’t have time for anything else. “Whatever happens, I need you to know that.”

“Tim, what—?” Gerry’s voice sharpened with fear, but Tim had already seen the first worm poke its head out from under the door.

“Gotta go!” He hung up without further ado and kicked viciously at the worm attempting to squeeze through; he killed it, but he also put a noticeable dent in the bottom of the door. Oops.

It wasn’t safe in here. Sasha would get help, she’d—she was smart, she’d figure out a way to activate the fire alarm and get the fire suppressant system working in the Archives, even if there would probably need to be an actual fire to activate it, maybe one of the worms would bite through Mister Megabytes’ cord and short it out. Jon and Martin would be okay in their incredibly defensible position, hopefully, at least long enough for the system to activate; it wasn’t airtight, obviously, but they should be okay. Tim needed to go, though, and it looked like the only way out was to figure out where the worms had been. Probably just a narrow space between the walls, a secret passage that had been boarded up or a temporary wall put in to portion off the building when it was modernized or something. Either way…it wasn’t here.

The hole was bigger than it had been when he’d hauled Jon’s scrawny ass out of the office. Not a surprise, Jane Prentiss had to have got out somehow…God, she’d been in the damn walls. Tim moved a little closer and sucked in a sharp breath, ill advised as that was, when he realized it wasn’t just a gap in the wall. It was a proper tunnel.

Hadn’t Gertrude said the Institute was built more or less right over the remains of Millbank Prison? This could have been part of that original complex. Which meant these could go anywhere, extend for miles under the surface. They probably weren’t in great shape, except that if it was Millbank, it had been designed by Robert Smirke, who built to last. Either way, it also likely meant the space would be a bit more open, so he might be able to get away from the carbon dioxide. On the other hand, it was going to be dark, and he’d need both hands to work the fire extinguishers.

Actually, that was an easy fix. Tim whipped his belt off his waist, threaded it through the buckle, and tugged it around his head so it was almost but not quite snug. Then he activated the torch on his phone and tucked it on one side, then turned on the pocket torch on his keys and stuck that upright on the other before tightening the belt and securing the tang. Definitely not the most elegant thing he’d ever worn, but hardly the worst, and in the absence of a wreath to set candles in it would have to do. He grabbed a trio of extinguishers under one arm, crossed himself, and sent up a quick prayer to Saint Lucy, then plunged into the hole.

It was…dark, obviously, and the light of his improvised crown cast odd shadows on the sides of the tunnels, but it was cool and dry and oddly quiet. At first he thought there were no worms left down here, but then he saw some—moving faster, and much more quietly than they had in the Archives. Something up there, probably Gertrude’s wards, was slowing them down, but down here they were…stealthier. Quieter. A different kind of fear, maybe.

It didn’t matter. Tim unleashed the first of his canisters of carbon dioxide on the batch and watched them die, then ran over their corpses. He had to find…something. An exit. An answer. Fucking Gertrude.

She had to know about this, didn’t she? Was that why she’d put the shelves where she had? To know if something tried to break through that wall? Obviously there had to be other entrances, this couldn’t be completely sealed off…well, Jane Prentiss had got down here somehow, and even if the worms could squeeze through the floorboards, she couldn’t. She’d never mentioned it to Tim…or Gerry, probably…but that didn’t mean she didn’t know about it, only that she didn’t mean to tell them about it. Which meant that she was either not sure of how dangerous it was, or using it as a contingency plan for something. Either way, there was the possibility she was down here somewhere.

There was also the possibility that, if she was down here, she was lost. Hopefully she had enough food to last her a while, because this place was a fucking labyrinth. Tim wasn’t sure if he was more worried about meeting the Minotaur, the Goblin King, or the world’s biggest lab rat, but at least he didn’t sense the Spiral down here, so this was…probably real. Probably not changing. Probably. He didn’t really sense the Buried, either, so there had to be a way out.

He was…definitely a little dizzy. Okay, so maybe pumping six canisters of carbon dioxide into a room he was actively standing in wasn’t the smartest idea, but what was he supposed to do, let them get to him? Or worse, destroy the Archives?

He had to get back up there. Had to find another way up, had to find another way in. If he could get outside and loop in through the side door, maybe he could start a fire and—no! No, he couldn’t actually start a fire, Jon and Martin were trapped in there, even if the fire suppressant system put it out right away they might still get hurt.

Frith in a barn! What a business. The line popped into Tim’s head, and he took a deep breath to center himself. He was starting to think in circles. Right. Focus on getting out, then he could figure out how to save the others and stop Jane Prentiss.

The realization that, if this was the Creeping Rot’s attempt at a ritual, it was likely going to make Jon and Martin sacrifices for its ascension struck Tim at about the same moment as another small wave of worms appeared. He sprayed the fuck out of them with the first of the CO2 canisters and ran, ran like he could outrun his poor decisions, ran like he could outrun his past, ran like he could catch the future before it slipped out of his fingers. Ran like his life and the lives of everyone he cared about depended on him, because they did.

And, of course, he made a wrong turn and found a dead end. No…not a dead end. A room.

A room that was filled with worms. Tim quickly hopped backwards through the door—and then paused in the act of aiming the fire extinguisher. He turned his head slightly and cut his eyes to the side so he had a bit more light and could see better, because the vague impression he got looked…odd, and he needed to make sense of it. Without consciously being aware he was doing it, he crossed himself and recited the old familiar novena to Lucy of Sicily, Santa Lucia, bringer of light, patron saint of the blind and those who wanted clearer sight.

And his eyes opened, and he Saw.

The worms were knitting themselves together, weaving themselves into a solid mass. The structure rose into the air, creeping up the wall. Two structures, really—two columns, curving slightly in on themselves, not quite meeting but getting closer by the second. Silent but fast, the worms crawled up over their brethren and twined themselves into the ends, securing in loops and links and chains. It would take so little time for them to meet. At the rate they were going, Tim estimated another ten minutes, tops, before the two halves connected into an arch.

Into a doorway.

“Not on my turf, bitch,” Tim snarled. His voice echoed oddly in a way he wasn’t entirely sure had to do with the tunnels but couldn’t spare the brainpower to think about just then. He dropped the two spare canisters to the ground, raised the nozzle of the one he’d already started using, and squeezed the trigger hard.

The gas hissed as it dispensed into the room. The worms didn’t scream—of course they didn’t, that would be ridiculous, they didn’t have mouths—but he felt them screaming to the core of his being as the ones he touched with the carbon dioxide died. Not enough of them. Not nearly enough. He squeezed and sprayed until the fire extinguisher was empty, then dropped it to the ground, snatched up the next one, and sprayed it into the room as well. It was definitely getting harder to breathe by the time that one was spent, but Tim was absolutely not finished. Coughing violently, he scooped up the third one, backed out of the doorway, and sprayed it into the room, filling it like a hellish steam room.

Maybe Gertrude would have had a better solution, but hey, it was Tim’s first time disrupting a ritual. And he was improvising a bit.

He wasn’t stupid enough to think that was the end of it, though. He’d disrupted the portal, but Jane Prentiss was still out there and she was still going to try…even if she couldn’t bring the Corruption into the world fully now, she might still hurt his people if he didn’t find them and get them out. He hefted the canister to gauge if there was still anything in it. Felt like there was.

Right. Tim backed further down the corridor until he was far enough away from the tendrils of carbon dioxide that he could safely take a deep breath, then turned on his heel, squared his shoulders, and kept moving. Briefly, he touched the Saint Anthony’s medal beneath his shirt and murmured a quick plea for assistance—hey, Lucy had done him a solid back there, no reason to think the other saints wouldn’t get in on it—before focusing his attention on finding his way out of the tunnels, back to the Archives, and back to stopping Jane Prentiss.

Back to saving the others. Back to saving the world.

Gertrude had left him in charge. She had trusted him with her Archives in her absence. He had to keep proving himself worthy of that.

[ingo-ingoing-ingone]

Ingo and Emmet are perfectly in sync. They have to be, living as conjoined twins. The Subway Masters of Nimbasa City, the two are happy with their friends and family and trains.

Of course, the universe contains chaos and random chance that can affect even the closest of people. The two find themselves in situations that neither would have ever expected, and it will test them both.

Through it all, one thing is certain. Family, both blood related and chosen, will never let you be alone. And, no matter the trials, a two-car train will always continue onwards.

Oh boy! Well, we're finally getting back to Unova, and to what's going on with Emmet.

Warnings for this chapter include blood, injury, mild gore, grief, mentions of vomiting, and lots of medical stuff. It's much less intense than chapter 4 but it deals with the whole aftermath from Emmet's side (ha) of things. Please be mindful of this!

As always, disclaimer is linked in first reblog!

[naomiknight-17]

I hit the wrong spot with my injection on the weekend and I got a big ol nasty blue bruise on my tummy :(

[ansicred]

too much power in youngers | dg-verse full moon transformation (uncollared)

Azz is initiated into Cerberus during his first uncollared full moon. setting: On a green, somewhere in South Eastern London, Spring 2005 characters involved: Azz & Paul. warnings: violence, mild body horror, mentions of blood & injuries

[pygmi-says-hi]

STOP DOING THIS IN INJURY FICS!!

Bleeding:

Blood is warm. if blood is cold, you’re really fucking feverish or the person is dead. it’s only sticky after it coagulates.

It smells! like iron, obv, but very metallic. heavy blood loss has a really potent smell, someone will notice.

Unless in a state of shock or fight-flight mode, a character will know they’re bleeding. stop with the ‘i didn’t even feel it’ yeah you did. drowsiness, confusion, pale complexion, nausea, clumsiness, and memory loss are symptoms to include.

blood flow ebbs. sometimes it’s really gushin’, other times it’s a trickle. could be the same wound at different points.

it’s slow. use this to your advantage! more sad writer times hehehe.

Stab wounds:

I have been mildly impaled with rebar on an occasion, so let me explain from experience. being stabbed is bizarre af. your body is soft. you can squish it, feel it jiggle when you move. whatever just stabbed you? not jiggly. it feels stiff and numb after the pain fades. often, stab wounds lead to nerve damage. hands, arms, feet, neck, all have more motor nerve clusters than the torso. fingers may go numb or useless if a tendon is nicked.

also, bleeding takes FOREVER to stop, as mentioned above.

if the wound has an exit wound, like a bullet clean through or a spear through the whole limb, DONT REMOVE THE OBJECT. character will die. leave it, bandage around it. could be a good opportunity for some touchy touchy :)

whump writers - good opportunity for caretaker angst and fluff w/ trying to manhandle whumpee into a good position to access both sites

Concussion:

despite the amnesia and confusion, people ain’t that articulate. even if they’re mumbling about how much they love (person) - if that’s ur trope - or a secret, it’s gonna make no sense. garbled nonsense, no full sentences, just a coupla words here and there.

if the concussion is mild, they’re gonna feel fine. until….bam! out like a light. kinda funny to witness, but also a good time for some caretaking fluff.

Fever:

you die at 110F. no 'oh no his fever is 120F!! ahhh!“ no his fever is 0F because he’s fucking dead. you lose consciousness around 103, sometimes less if it’s a child. brain damage occurs at over 104.

ACTUAL SYMPTOMS:

sluggishness

seizures (severe)

inability to speak clearly

feeling chilly/shivering

nausea

pain

delirium

symptoms increase as fever rises. slow build that secret sickness! feverish people can be irritable, maybe a bit of sass followed by some hurt/comfort. never hurt anybody.

ALSO about fevers - they absolutely can cause hallucinations. Sometimes these alter memory and future memory processing. they're scary shit guys.

fevers are a big deal! bad shit can happen! milk that till its dry (chill out) and get some good hurt/comfort whumpee shit.

keep writing u sadistic nerds xox love you

ALSO I FORGOT LEMME ADD ON:

YOU DIE AT 85F

sorry I forgot. at that point for a sustained period of time you're too cold to survive.

pt 2

also please stop traumadumping in the notes/tags, that's not the point of this post. it's really upsetting to see on my feed, so i'm muting the notifs for this post. if you have a question about this post, dm me, but i don't want a constant influx of traumatic stories. xox

[kflixnet]

Check out our member SMT's oneshot!

[12:14] boxer!san × nurse!reader

⇀ he's your favourite outlaw and it's not because of his rugged charm, surprisingly it's because of how tender he actually is

⇁ bouncy killed me istfg

⇁ happy sannie day ❣️❣️

genre : boxer!au, romance, outlaw!ateez

wc : 1.8 k

It didn't take much for you to recognize him.

Even with his body sitting down and leaning on the stairs as he faced the floor, you could easily recognize that it was him.

You wanted to greet him as you usually would, but as you got closer, you noticed something weird about him. His back was moving in a rhythmical manner like how he usually would when he was breathing but it was slower than usual. The closer you get, the more you realize that he had cuts on his arm and some bruises.

"Oh my God, San," you called, rushing to his side as quickly as you could, your fatigue from 12 hours shift suddenly went away at the sight of his bloodied tank top. You knelt in front of him and peeked up to see that he had his eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed but he wasn't responsive. Usually, at the sound of your voice, the flirt would throw you a lazy gaze and a Cheshire-like grin that would make you blush and sputter. But seeing him in this unresponsive position actually scared you. You genuinely felt like something was wrong and knowing that he was an underground fighter makes the situation even worse for you.

"San, can you hear me?" you asked as you made an initial assessment, hands brushing his bangs out of his eyes to look at his face. From the get-go, you could see that he had a bruised cheekbone, a busted lip, and possibly a concussion. You can only imagine what his body must be like. And you meant that as in the bruises on his torso and not how it must look. Because you know damn well it's sculpted as fuck from the many times he walked past you and intentionally flashed you his abs.

You tried lifting his head up but he let out a grunt and shook his head. "Too bright," he complained.

Understanding this, you nodded and moved to sit next to him closely as you brought one of his arms and rest it on your shoulder. "I need to take you to my apartment so I can properly tend to your wounds. Do you think you can move?" true to his mannerism, he chuckled and leaned his head to the crook of your neck like a feline seeking contact, "How 'bout you give me some sugar first? That might help me gain some strength." You automatically rolled your eyes at his remark but you had to admit his words made you feel better because at least you know that he was fine. "Okay big guy, we're moving you," you stated as you started pulling him up and leading him to the elevator. "Big guy? Have you been checking me out, pretty?" he teased. You kept quiet thought because a. yes, and b. he needs to shut up.

The elevator ride up was thankfully not that hard as San was holding his own weight for the most part, you just guide him so he wouldn't sway or even fall down. He also stayed quiet which concerned you but you were just glad that he was still moving. Sure, he stumbled slightly as he got into your apartment, but other than that, he settled down on your couch easily and even respectfully towards your cat.

You rushed to get the first aid kit that you always kept stocked in your bedroom, knowing that San and his roommate, Wooyoung, would sometimes come knocking in after a night of fighting be it in the ring or in an alley with people they messed with. So it wasn't really a surprise to go back to your living room to see your tabby cat, Taco, splayed on San's lap looking like he just found the comfiest bed ever. You obviously wouldn't mind trying but for now, you just wanted to make sure that San was alright.

"Taco, move away from Sannie, mommy needs to clean him," you called out as you sat next to San. But Taco, in all his absolute pettiness, simply lift his head up and stared dead straight into your eyes as if challenging you as he fluff up San's thighs with his pudgy paws. You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at your hellraiser with equal challenge, letting him know that he was not the boss of you. When he didn't move his chubby butt, you were forced to deliver the last blow, "Or else no snacks." That seemed to speak to him on a profound level as he jumped off after giving you one last dirty look and retreated into your bedroom. "Sorry about him," you grinned sheepishly, taking San's hand into your lap as you began cleaning the first wound your eyes fell on. San couldn't even feel the pain of his wound getting cleaned anymore, so instead of worrying over the result of the last night's fight, he focused his eyes o you, "No worries, I like him. And I love the fact that you called me Sannie to Taco which leads me to believe that you might have been talking about me to him a lot," he teased.

Your eyes widened at his (very accurate) assumption and you wanted to believe that he didn't notice the blush that bloomed on your face, an absolute testament to what this man could do to you without doing much. "So," you cleared your throat, "What happened?" you asked, changing the topic before he could tease you more. "What else do you think? I won," he boasted, proud that he made bank from his hard night's work.

Though it was a good thing that he won, you couldn't help but sigh in disappointment hearing that he went rounds upon rounds to secure his achievement. "I worry about you," you blurted out, turning around to get betadine and a cotton pad to dress his wound properly. Though San had a confident look on his face, he could feel his heart skipped a beat at your confession. "Why so?" He asked, hopeful. Without lookinf up at him, you answered casually, "Because I don't like seeing you getting hurt like this," but even in that tone, San could sense that you were being genuine.

In all honesty, San teased you because he thought that was the only way he could get your attention. Sure he had hoped that the the spare glances you threw at him were actually sincerely from your heart but he can't convince himself that someone with a legitimate career like you would want to have anything to do with a bloodied bastard who beat people up for money. So San settled for the lowest expectation because that's what peope always expect of the underdog anyways. But your words were shaking his belief down like a stickhouse in an elephant stampede, which goes to show how strong San's resolve is towards you and it's bad. He was down bad. Part of him was glad that you seemed to want to keep an arm's length from him but part of him want to be in your lap at night, having your fingers card through his hair softly as you told him again and again how glad you were that he was able to come home in one piece. Because that's what he actually want, a home.

San's mind was snapped back into reality when he noticed you were snapping your fingers in front of his face and calling out his name. "San??" You called out again with furrowed eyebrows, "Shit, I think you're having a concussion," you muttered, moving your position so that his body was straight, facing forward. "Eh?" San blinked confusedly with a slightly tilted head, looking so much like Taco whenever you brought a jinggly toy near him. Thankfully you were too busy making sure San didn't have brain damage to blush and sputter, trying to do your job as best as you could for him. You situated yourself at a fair distance, not to close yet not too far and you put both of your hands between you and him and held out a finger each. "Can you see my fingers clearly?" With your best effort, you tried to suppress the fact that you were very much worried about him because it wasn't your time to show emotions and ended up having him worry over you instead. Looking at your fingers, San did a double take before his relaxed-confused look turned into disbelief-confused, "Are you flipping me off?" He scoffed. Almost immediately you let out a sigh of relief before straightening up and nodded, "I had to get a reaction out of you, you were mumbling about a parrot talking about chilli peppers when you were zoning out, I had to know if it was concussion or perhaps you took something."

Just as you were about to turn around to get a damp rag, San pulled you with his powerful strength, causing you to yelp and freeze when you realized that you had fell into a particularly compromising position. Your hands were on his strong, broad shoulders with your left leg bent and resting on the outside of San's right thigh and the other in between his spread legs while San had one hand on your wrist and the other on your waist with a confident, lazy smile on his face. God how much you want to wipe that grin off his face. With your own lips.

"Baby, why would I take drugs when a moment with you gets me high for days?" And of course he had to make your stomach flip by pecking you gently on the nose. Your breath hitched and a small squeak escaped from your clamped mouth, not knowing what to do other than stare at him with wide eyes. San seemed amused at how you reacted however, pulling away and leaning back against the couch with arms spread wide, the confident bastard.

For a moment you sputtered, eyes darting everywhere but San's face before remembering what you wanted to get merely moments ago. You somehow found the strength to stand on your two feet and turn to the kitchen but not before tripping on your feet slightly and almost falling. You didn't even have to turn to know that San was looking at you amusedly, delighting in how affected you were by him but this time it wasn't because he just wanted to see a reaction out of you. He was seeing you in the light of someone he had a chance of having normalcy with. So while you were cursing yourself for being a klutz, San was enjoying the domestic fantasy in his head.

That was until loud knocks were heard from your front door that was followed by a very familiar screeching voice that made Taco jump out and hiss at the direction.

"CHOI SAN YOU LITTLE BITCH YOU LEFT ME IN THE DUMPSTER!!"

So much for domestic peace.

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[lalunanymph]

THE CHAMPION'S PRIZE

✧₊⁺ SUMMARY the crow wins against kane and decides he wants to claim his most precious prize—you.

✧₊⁺ WARNINGS first time, mention of injuries, mention of blood, size kink, cunninglingus, big dick sylus!, sylus king of consent, semi-public sex, brief mention of handjob, oral sex, possessive, pet names (sweetie, little dove, kitten, little one, baby), voice kink, sweat kink, nipple play, girl on top, missionary, sex on the floor, unprotected sex, creampies, mc and sylus are both idiots in yearning, mild angst if you squint, 18+, mdni

✧₊⁺ DAWN SAYS if you know me... you know i love my ufc aus.... the second i saw boxer!sylus in his new card i ran to my google docs and birthed this not so h0rny piece

✧��⁺ A03 | x/twt

The cheers of the crowds erupting from the stands vibrated through the soles of your boots.

Formidable and cocky, Sylus approaches the side of the ring, shouts and boos from the spectators gathering today, lending to the erratic yet eclectic atmosphere of this surreal championship fight. Before he enters, he takes something in his hand and kisses it, dropping it back into the safety of his short’s pocket. It’s the pouch you gave him weeks ago, the blessing of a grassland warrior’s lover bestowed onto him for this momentous night.

You’re my lucky charm, sweetie, he had texted you a few days ago when he told you to come meet him for a boxing showcase. And I want my lucky charm right there in the stands where I can see her. 

Your grip tightens on the bouquet of flowers you were holding, heart right in your throat as Sylus’s opponent enters the ring, too, and much to your consternation, he receives a bigger round of screams. He’s stocky and broad, the same height as the red-eyed menace who invited you to visit his boxing showcase right in the heart of the N109 Zone. As the bell rings, you hold your breath with the crowd. Sylus is fast and sure, his movements fluid and punches almost mesmerizing.

He moves like poetry in motion—if poetry could leave a man with a black eye and bruises, lying face down on the ring, unconscious before the second timer could go off, that is. The referee cards his win and blows the whistle. The crowd shakes and moves, their cheers and sounds reaching to the highest point of the domed ring.

It’s chaos out in the front, and you have to protect your bouquet from getting squashed by the numerous bodies thronging in the front. Suddenly, a hand shoots out to grab your arm and you find yourself right at the corner of the ring, a smug and sweaty Sylus grinning at you. You hesitate to step closer, aware of the numerous eyes on him and you. Word could get back to the Association and your return to Linkon could be sabotaged—there’s too much at stake to be seen with Sylus in broad daylight. 

But, the notorious leader couldn’t care less, gesturing for you to come closer. There's a bit of dirt on his face and you take it upon yourself to rub it off, shooting him a grin. 

“Congratulations, champion!” You enthuse, shoving the bouquet right in his face. Sylus grins and takes the arrangement of lilies, tulips and datura from your hand, tossing you a cocky smirk.

“Is that all a champion should get?” he teases, and you shake your head in mirth, crossing your arms right in front of you. 

“What else would the champion want, pray tell?”

In answer, Sylus takes your hand in his, his palm much larger and scarred compared to yours. His knuckles are red raw, and you take it upon yourself to lift them to your lips, kissing the contused flesh softly. “Are you hurt?”

“If you keep that up, kitten, I won't be,” he laughs, and you roll your eyes, smacking his chest lightly. 

Cad, you tease and he smirks again, wrapping an arm around your waist. The championship ring on his finger shines under the blinding lights, and Sylus notices how overwhelmed you're getting. The way you fidget and shift your eyes, and how you're clinging tightly to the rope of the ring, makes him think he needs to distract you for a bit.

“The flowers. How thoughtful. I feel like I should give you something in return.” He notices the way your eyes linger on the ring, and he grins wider. “Do you like the champion's ring? It's yours now.” 

He removes the bulky circle and gently takes your hand, thumb softly brushing the rise of your ring finger knuckle. He slides the ring onto your finger, taking his time to admire how sweet the circlet looks contrasting with your skin. 

“There. The Champion's ring for the champion's lover.”

Your ears heat up at his words and you toss him a quick scoff, trying hard to keep the embarrassed delight from showing too apparently on your face. “You're a tease.”

“Am I now?” He takes your hand in his again, and tugs you closer to him. Close enough you have to stumble past the boxing ring ropes. Sylus is decisive when he tugs you closer to him, almost leading you right into his Champion's Box, where the world and the strobing lights fade away. Inside the VIP room, the bruises and cuts become more apparent. 

“Sylus—”

Panic consumes you, and he lets your distress marinate, playfully not reminding you how easily he could heal himself; loving how sweetly you fret on him. 

“You're hurt.” Tersely, you pick up the first aid kit by the side of the door, rummaging inside for antiseptic and bandages. 

“You're cute when you're worried about me, kitten.” He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, touch tender despite the violence you just witnessed a few minutes ago. You ignore his jab, focusing on dabbing the freely flowing blood from a cut on his face. Sylus staves off his body loudly blaring at him to use his healing tendencies. But, despite how badly his skin is itching to close the wound, he still wants you to treat him. 

You notice him staring at you and chuckle, a playful gleam in your eye. “What?” 

“Nothing. You’re beautiful.”

You pause from swiping on antiseptic onto a cotton roll, wondering if the punches he sustained in the ring were finally starting to manifest in the form of his boldness.

“And you… have been hit in the head one too many times.”

Not one to be deterred, Sylus chuckles and snakes his arm around your waist, dragging you right onto his lap where you fall forward in a huff, eyes growing wide at how close his lips are to yours. 

“Sweetie,” he speaks and you can practically feel him breathing on you. “I might have sustained a few injuries, but none of them severe enough to not give you credit where credit is due.” He lifts his hand to a loose lock of your hair, his smirk deepening. “And you, my little dove, were an absolute vision on the stands. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.” 

His thumb touches your lower lip, and you instinctively part your mouth. Sylus’s eyes darken with desire at your little subconscious tick, his mind pumping full of lewd thoughts which he tries to put off. Not wanting to scare you too soon.

Instead, he tilts his head closer, waiting for you to make the first move. The tantalizing sight of his lips is too much for you to resist, and you take his bait, closing in to where your breaths meet as one. 

Sylus groans into the heat of your mouth, the taste of you after so many years of yearning rendering him speechless and needy. He’d imagine this exact scenario a million times, yet the reality of it happening makes it that much sweeter. You taste like pomegranates and sin, a heady combination which makes his blood sing, body tensing at the onslaught of arousal flooding his veins.

You pull back slightly, the red string of fate manifesting as a single strand of saliva connecting you two together. Sylus greedily snapped it with a flick of his tongue, tasting your growing desire.

“Kitten…?”

He was usually more glib than this. But, the way you stare at him, eyes warm and melting with affection, makes any smart remark he has left in his arsenal shrivel up and die. Sylus swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and your eyes trail to that subtle movement. 

Without thinking, you touch the base of his neck, gingerly thumbing the swell of his throat. Sylus isn’t in the least concerned to hide his shiver from you, those ruby eyes seeming to glow with restraint as he lets you have your fill of exploring him. The sweat beading down his chest trickles past his red tank top, and your eyes follow the droplet’s motion; wondering what was waiting for you underneath… if he would let you explore him again like you did that night in his shower.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” His voice, deep enough to be a rumble, vibrates against your chest. He lifts your head to meet his eyes, and in those ruby hues, a devastating hunger was waiting for permission to gorge on you. “That night in the shower… how I had to restrain myself from taking you right there and then. You really are a tease, kitten.”

Sylus traces the outline of your lips with his thumb as his voice turns rougher. 

“Imagining what it would be like to have this soft mouth on mine… how you would sound… the look on your face when I finally claim you as mine… all… mine…”

Lower, and deeper. His voice hypnotizes you to give into your full desire, and you knew in the deepest recesses of your soul, that his Aether eye didn’t need to gouge the truth from you.

You want Sylus, in his entirety and totality. You want him like you want to quench your thirst. 

The collision of your lips together brought sparks flying from the deepest roots of your mind, connecting to your fingertips which tangle right in his hair, drawing him closer. Sylus is always careful to never scare you off with his brute strength, and in this moment, he couldn’t resist hoisting you up into his arms, pressing you right against the wall like he did the first time the two of you showered together.

Devouring your lips with a slow sensuality he reserves only for playing with his prey, Sylus teases your tongue with his, tasting the ridges of your mouth and unearthing more delightful, soft mewls and moans from you. 

“Do you feel this, kitten?” He whispers, and to your surprise, grabs your hand, placing it right on the bulge of his crotch. “This is all my desire for you—all of my wanting for you. I need you, kitten. I will never get enough of you.”

Yearning encroaches his admission, and you glance up into his love sick eyes, feeling a wave of desire surmounting your need to be cautious. There is nothing in this moment you want than to give all of you to him, but the fear of being found out—of being hunted—takes precedence in your wavering mind.

As if reading your thoughts, Sylus removes your hand from the throbbing heat of the tent in his shorts and brings it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles reverently. “I know this is a lot to consider, little dove, but take your time. I’ll be here waiting for you—always.”

The truth is, you didn’t want him to wait. Sylus has been nothing but patient in his endeavors to court you. It’s about time you return the favor. 

The moonlight shines through the blooms hanging from the edge of the table, highlighting the two figures entangled on the floor, their lips pressing insistently onto one another, bodies and breaths twining as one. 

He tastes like sin and danger, a hint of whiskey on his breath. But, you drink him up, growing drunker on his unceasing devotion. Sylus feels you tugging on the edge of his tank top, and obeys you without a word, lifting it off his toned torso and tossing it to the other side of the room. You touch the dips and divots of his chest, committing the shape of him to your memory.

Sylus thinks it’s time for you to return the favor and smirks, sliding his hand underneath your blouse. He runs warm, his touch drawing goosebumps down your arms. It’s a strain for you to hold back when you nod, the urge to take it slow yet have him completely rendering you paralyzed with inaction.

But, Sylus has got you. He takes your consent inch by inch, letting your skin appear to him in a slow creep of growing anticipation. 

Once you’re down to your bra, Sylus takes the chance to plant soft and warm kisses on your chest and shoulders, his touch gentle yet clear with his intention to take you.

“Can I look at you, sweetie?” He tugs on the cup, crimson eyes never leaving your expression. You nod, flushing when he unhooks your bra, letting the bothersome material slide down your arms, revealing your bare breasts to him.

For a man who’s used to getting what he wants, Sylus’s touches are colored with hesitation as he slowly drags his fingertips down your shoulder, sliding closer to your heaving mounds.

“May I?” His voice, a deep, reassuring rumble, instantly puts your fears at ease. 

“Yes,” you whisper, and it’s the consent he needs to run the edge of his nails over the swell of your tits, finding how they move with each breath mesmerizing.

“Can I… suck on them?” 

Your breathing catches, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you nod. “Yes… please,” you add politely. He smiles at the touch of submission in your tone, loving how you’re trusting him explicitly with this first experience. Sylus takes care to taste you like you’re a rare, exotic fruit in his lap, his tongue running across the soft flesh of your most sensitive areas, leaving behind little hickies for you to find tomorrow like a reminder of this moment you shared with each other.

You moan when he slowly explores the shape of your turgid bud with his tongue, sucking with enough pressure to get you grinding down on his bulge. “Mhm,” he releases your nipple with a soft pop, “Doll… you’re driving me crazy.”

He takes his time with your other nipple, pinching and rolling the other one with his free hand.

“Sylus… yes…” your whispers incite him to give you more; needing to hear his name rolling from your tongue. 

The heat is simmering, building to an unbearable crescendo. This time, you lick a droplet of sweat running down his jaw, inciting a deep chuckle to rumble against your throat.

“You naughty, naughty kitten.”

He trails one long, nimble finger to the heart of your arousal, gently parting your folds to find the treasure he wants to tease. You’re so wet, your body doesn’t need much coaxing to accept his finger, the tight opening of your muscles relenting to allow him to sink his middle digit knuckle-deep inside of you. With his thumb, he rubs your clit in unbroken circles, enjoying your puffs of hot breath against his neck. You feel him growing harder, his desire to claim you unmistakable. 

To his surprise, you tug the band of his shorts down, revealing his throbbing need for you. The sight of your smaller hand grasping his thick base shoots a bolt of desire through his entire body, the cool metal of the ring he gave you sliding up and down his shaft enough to make him hiss and wince.

“Kitten… you’re playing a dangerous game.”

His chest heaves with unabashed yearning, and he licks his lips when he sees the glassy look in your eyes, your mouth wet with want as you slowly lower your head to his cock. Sylus has no choice but to retract his fingers from your loving depths as he sinks his hand in your hair, cursing under his breath when you stretch your mouth around his tip. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, running his free hand through his messy mop of silver hair. God… you were much too tempting, ready for the picking.

The sight of your cherry red lips wrapped lovingly around his cock is enough to send his mind into a dizzying spiral of lust, blood pumping rapidly south. He grows and thickens in your mouth, the taste of him almost musky and sweet with a hint of salt from his sweat. Sylus groans when you run your tongue over his balls, his entire body tensing in anticipation when you bring one soft globe into your mouth. 

He takes a few moments to enjoy the feel of your warm mouth on him, before he switches up the game and puts you on your back this time.

“As much as I love the thought, kitten, I think you’d taste better,” he murmurs as he trails his obscenely long fingers up your thighs, unbuttoning your jeans in one swift movement. 

“Sylus,” you gasp when he tugs it down, revealing the captivating lace hugging your hips almost lovingly. He takes his time to admire you, cock throbbing and aching to sink right into you. But, he has to warm you up to him first. It won’t be an easy fit.

He shushes you, hooking his thumb under the band of your panties, dragging down the last barrier protecting your modesty from him.

“Trust me, kitten.” The sight of him kneeling right in between your thighs, kissing the plush flesh reverently, burns through you with desire. “I would rather make you feel good instead.”

And his mouth was on you. His tongue parting through your folds, teasing your clit, drives you wild with desire, sparks running down your spine. 

You taste so good… he murmurs. You’re doing so well for me, doll. So well. His voice is deep enough to vibrate through your cunt. His tongue moves inside of you, deep enough to touch a special spot which makes your toes curl. 

Mhm… Sylus… more… 

Who was he to say no to you? Sylus is putty in your hands, willing to give you everything and anything. 

He delves deeper, taking his sweet time to sample your wetness and submission. He curls his tongue, latching on your clit to suckle on the tight bud which makes your toes curl, heels digging deeper into the back. 

Maybe for your next trinket, I should get an anklet with my name, he mumbles, planting a brief kiss on your ankle, the thought exciting him. The image of his name sparkling off your skin, glinting with his claim on you, makes him hard enough to cut through steel. 

You nod, mouth parting to pant out his name. Yes… please…

You’re so good for him. Sylus wants to reward you, and he does so with a tender kiss to your clit. 

“Please, Sylus,” you whimper, clipping your hips against his. “Want more… need more…”

So eager, he chuckles under his breath, but he could never deny what you need. He slips off his boxer shorts and his underwear, tossing it to the floor. It’s not everyday the great Onychinus leader would bare himself for anyone’s eyes. But, you weren’t just anyone.

You were his beloved, his love, his shivanika. 

The only one who is allowed to see him like this.

Your eyes widen at how much bigger he is up close, weighing heavily on your thigh.

Is that all…?

“Why?” He teases. “Can’t take it all?” 

You swallow. Part of you thinks you can’t, but the other part—the stubborn one—knows you would do anything for him.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, as if he can read your mind. “I won’t hurt you, sweetie.”

He’s so incredibly big, you wonder how you’ve never noticed it before. The thick trunk of his forearm braces beside your head, his powerful thighs planted on either side of you. In the circle of his embrace, you feel small and delicate like a flower waiting to be uprooted by a great tree.

It enthralls you. It scares you. 

His kisses soothe you, taking your mind off his great, hulking physique. 

You dig your nails into his biceps, hanging for dear life as he preps himself to enter you. He runs his tip through your folds, smearing your juices with his pre-cum. Slapping the weight of him on your clit, again and again, each jolt driving your hips up to meet his.

Sylus… you mewl his name. Need it… need it inside…

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs sweetly, “I’ll give it to you.”

You see a sliver of his smile as he cranes his head down, kissing your jaw reverently. You weren’t joking when you said you were terrified of his cock, but Sylus took his sweet time to prepare you for him.

The first stretch always hurts the most, and he makes sure to deepen his kiss as a distraction.

It works. Sort of. 

You tighten involuntarily around him, and he hisses under his breath, brows knitted together. “You’re still tense… relax, sweetie. Or else, I can’t get in.”

To help you, he sucks on the tip of his index and middle finger, drawing them slickly towards your core. He massages your clit with feathery soft circles, stimulating you over and over again until you’re whimpering and shaking.

“Does it feel good?” He hums into the crook of your neck and you nod, embarrassed at how easily it is for him to slip deeper inside. “Mhm… you’re loosening up just nice for me, kitten.”

It’s insane how much his voice vibrating against your throat is driving you wild. 

Desire coats your begging—Please, Sylus. I need more… more…

Deciding you’re ready enough, he nods, crimson eyes softening at the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

No need to cry, sweetie. I’ve got you.

The smell of him, musk and sweat, envelopes you as he curves his body over yours, intent on driving you crazy with how close he is. But, he’s never close enough.

Until, finally, he’s pressed inside you, skin-to-skin, breath-to-breath, buried right to the hilt. It’s a mess between your thighs, slick and pre-cum staining your thighs, drawing a lewd symphony of wet squelches when he finally begins to move. 

Thrusts so deep, you feel it right in the heart of your desire. It turns you on, to have him invading your senses like this. The scent of him burning your nose, the taste of his tongue heavy in your mouth. Staining you with the very essence of him till your pores are heavy with his presence; your entire body marked with him. 

Sylus doesn’t hold back any longer, the beast inside of him unleashed the second you murmured your assent for him to have you in every way possible.

So good for me, baby. You feel like a dream, he whispers. Good girl—letting your lover have you like this. You’re so good for me, aren’t you, little one? 

Your eyes flicker to where he’s stretching you out and he chuckles, noticing your minute gestures.

You like watching me, huh? As he speaks, his cock sinks deeper inside of your warm depths, the both of you hissing at the same time. Mhm, fuck… dirty little girl. 

The spark of degradation reminds you again who exactly is fucking you. A dark man, wanted for his misdeeds, and yet here he was with you on the floor, entangled with your body and taking the last of your innocence away. You force the thoughts away, focusing on the now.

The now of having Sylus in your arms, feeling his devotion marking the delicate skin of your neck, leaving his claim on your skin. 

That’s it… you’re doing so well for me…

You always had an inkling of how good Sylus is at talking, but you never expected for him to be this glib while balls-deep in you.

Feels like a dream, kitten. I love you.

Your breath catches right in your throat.

Did he just…?

Sylus’s ruby eyes warm at the confused look on your face, and he slows his thrusts, nuzzling your jaw.

“Yes. You heard right—I love you. I love you. Is that so hard to believe?” 

He doesn’t wait for you to reply, focusing on giving himself to you. A part of him holds no hope for your response, but he’s taken aback when you tip his face closer, drawing his mouth to yours like a moth to a flame.

Your kiss burns through him, and he moans when you taste his lower lip, your honeyed whisper of reciprocation enough to bring him to his knees.

“I love you, too.”

Sylus groans, letting his head fall on your shoulder, the protective arch of his body drawing you closer into his arms. 

Kiss me, kitten… kiss me and never regret me again.

You behave so well for him, following his every instruction. Even ones you don’t exactly understand. 

Your lips seal on his like a covenant, and his blessing is given in the form of his seed pumping hotly into your depths; the feeling of your walls squeezing him tightly enough to bring him to the pearly white gates.

Fuck, kitten—he gasps and it’s all mounting again. Getting hotter and better.

His voice is tinged with desire, breathy and deep as he noses your hair. 

You’ll be the death of me, Y/N. 

Of all the names he loves calling you, your own name would forever be the sweetest utterance on his lips.

Please… you gasp, needing to feel more. 

You’re so greedy, it’s almost unlike you. But, you know Sylus is a giver. He will always give you what you need. 

I got you, he rumbles, and the mixture of slick and his cum spills down to the ground, staining your thighs. He doesn’t let up, fully needing to have you cream on him till you’re spent. 

He feels how close you are from the tensing of your thighs, your body poised at the edge again. Ready to take him. 

And he can’t hold back. You were like the sweetest addiction he would always relent to.

Come for me, you murmur and it shocks him—this unexpected boldness. Come inside me, Sylus… make me yours.

Yours… yours… you were always his. And this confirms it. You and him were tied together in a red string of fate, packaged neatly as soulmates in this life and for every life that would come.

No matter if it kills him. No matter if he would lose his heart again.

It was always yours in the first place.

Sylus leaves you with his burgeoning warmth, ropes of it shooting inside of you as you come for him again—fully, completely and wholly his.

Beginning till end, from time immemorial. You would always have his heart. 

He stays deep inside you until it’s done, leaving lazy kisses on your face, on your chest and lips. The crowds have long disappeared, this room cordoned off by his organization to give him space.

His men know better than to barge in, and the organizers are wise enough to stay out of the champion’s way if they know what’s good for them. 

“I’m so… full,” you whisper, twitching your hips. “Full of you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks, and leans down on his bruising elbows to plant a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth. “Is that a complaint I hear, kitten?” 

You shake your head, the movement setting dull sparks of desire shooting into his lower body when he feels your walls tensing around his softening cock. 

Good, he swipes his thumb over your cheek, catching a stray sweat droplet before it could fall to the ground. Because I’m far from done with you, kitten.

When he kisses you this time, it tastes of a promise already fulfilled.

feedback and reblogs are much loved!! thank you for your support <3

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, or claim as your own. do not feed my works to AI.

[chuluoyi]

✎ forever

- gojo satoru x reader

the three times he asked you to marry him

genre: slightly suggestive, fluff/comfort, silly and lovesick gojo, wedding proposals, mild angst, mentions of injury and protective gojo

note: i was inspired by some fics with this kind of trope and i can totally see gojo asking you to marry him while he's dead drunk—

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

"Why don't we get married?"

The first time Satoru brought this up was right after you both had exhausted yourselves in an intense, passionate lovemaking session.

His bare skin was against yours, and the intimacy of it almost made you want to go along with his suggestion, until you grasped the profound meaning behind his words.

"Satoru," you breathed out, still breathless as you came down from your high. "Are you seriously asking me that now?"

A dopey smile was on his face. "Yeah, is there a problem with it?"

You blinked. The nerve of this clown-head—

"Not even a proper proposal? Or a ring?" you scowled. "Considering your usual flair, this is a rather lackluster attempt at a proposal."

Of course, you weren't a material girl, but considering his big ego and tendency to go overboard, you just had to call him out.

"Hmm? So if there's a grand proposal and I bought you a ring, then you'll say yes?"

There was practically a twinkle in those bright eyes of his now, and you were a bit caught off guard because well, so he is for real?

You’d be lying if you said that the thought of marrying him hadn’t crossed your mind. But to be frank, Gojo Satoru didn't strike you as someone who was interested in anything as cliché as marriage and everything that comes with it.

Which brought you back to this point—you had absolutely no idea what possessed him to bring up this question.

"Hah," you let out a sardonic laugh. "Not that easy. I'll think about it."

When he let out a “Ehhh?”, and started sulking, you were quite sure, and dismissed the question as one of his passing whims.

The second time he posed the question, he was a babbling, slurring mess of alcohol and hiccups.

"Can't we—hic!—" His face was flushed, and he was pitifully wobbling on his feet. "—just get married—hic!—already?"

This time you scoffed, partly out of disdain, crossing your arms in front of you. Satoru seemed to pick up on your unfavorable reaction and attempted to convince you. "I'm being—"

"No," you sternly interrupted, supporting him as he struggled to stay on his feet. You shot an unapologetic look at the other patrons in the bar who were watching you both with disapproving frowns. "Satoru, we're going home."

"I'm—hic!—asking you to marry me!"

"I said no."

"Why?!"

You sighed. "You're dead drunk."

"What will—hic—make you say yes?"

You let out another sigh. It already took a great deal of patience to deal with his immaturity as his girlfriend, and you could only imagine how much more challenging it would be as his wife.

"I'm so heartbroken," he whined, crocodile tears pooling in his eyes as he peered at you like a kicked puppy. "I got rejected twice already... How could you reject me twice?"

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics.

"Marry me."

The third time around, he was neither bringing it up on a whim or drunk, also he wasn't quite asking—his tone was almost pleading.

And you just woke up from your comatose state after a mission gone wrong, still in your bloodied uniform, eyes barely adjusting to the bright room.

Satoru let out a grunt, clasping your fingers in his warm, reassuring grip. It was evident how deeply distressed he was from the furrowed brow and the quiver in his lips as he looked down at you, as well as the gentle way he was stroking your hair.

At this moment, you wanted to cry. The fact that he was so genuinely concerned for you filled you with warmth and emotion.

. . .

He saw it happen right before him—the crimson blood flowing out of your wound like waterfall. He had screamed at you to breathe and not let go of his hand. The moment he felt your head loll back in his arms and you lost your grip on him, he could swear his own heart had stopped too.

He had never been more grateful that you—his best friend, love of his life, the only one he had left—awoke from that horrifying ordeal. Seeing you stained red by your own blood had undoubtedly distorted his point of view, but his desire to marry you, as what he had been suggesting as of late, clearly was not just a mere passing thought.

Because he is acutely aware of how cruel this world is. This damned world has always taken everything that's important to him, and before they can snatch you away too, he will claim you as his first.

"Marry me," he repeated, his voice now sounding more hoarse, not as confident as it had been the first time.

As you gazed into his beautiful eyes, it occurred to your hazy mind that you very nearly died. That you were that close to not seeing him ever again. You had been apprehensive with how he had phrased his proposals so far, and you didn't want your marriage to be a split-second decision forced by some sort of looming omen.

And yet, falling in love with Gojo Satoru had never been the easiest, but you did anyway. He still held onto your hand, patiently awaiting your response—

—but suddenly, like a sharp whiplash effect, what shocked you was that who you saw then wasn't your boyfriend.

But rather, the man with the mantle of the strongest sorcerer alive.

You could lose him just as much as he could lose you. Sooner or later, who knows? His title is both a blessing and a curse. Up until now, it has been a blessing, but who can say when it might suddenly turn into a curse that tears him away from you?

. . .

This time, you didn't snort or doubt his intention. Instead, you smiled, embracing the profound flutter in your chest as you were being proposed.

"Okay," you whispered, voice dry. "Yes… I'll marry you, Satoru."

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

— i’m in love with a dying man

rating: mature. or explicit? i’m not sure. angsty study on grief in unconventional forms. (mild) smut purely for poetic reasons

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

cw: terminal illness. several mentions of death. everyone is horny in a heartbroken way, so grab a napkin—but not for the reasons you think. and yes, you may dox me for making you even sadder after whatever happened in ep 6.

—

He licks a tear off your cheek, and it seeps in between the bumps on his tongue, all prickly salt running down your face in two glossy trails of sorrow. Stinging, when his calloused thumb swipes over a puffy eyelid, only to inevitably fall to your lip and tug, nudging your mouth agape. His desperate grip softens when you oblige and arch, letting him grunt over the slope of your throat; wheezier than you remember, raw, rhotic and ravenous. The hard shift of his lungs is palpable under your hand, ruckling heavily in his sternum. It almost breaks down to a cough when he cants his hips into you, slanting one last slow, weak slam. Spilling all his pent-up frustration deep inside you through that bitter orgasm, leaving a clumsy mess of stickiness to dry on your inner thigh. Stilling for you to hold him through that collapse, grateful for the shaky hand that you firmly fist into his hair. Not receding until at least a few kisses are strewn upon your shoulder. 

It’s always like this now. Viktor clings to you, and you cling to him, nails digging into handfuls of him hard enough to draw blood, each embrace so tight your ribs might just break if he doesn’t retreat in time. And god does he wish to let it linger, to drag it out until eternity tumbles in—even if his eternity is reduced to a question of mere months at best, even if he must crawl out of a casket to have your touch back. 

The night you almost lost him still has you in shambles. You remember it all too well—hell, it’s almost like that acute smell of hospitals and doom still coats his skin, more slimline than it ever was, its once ivory shade fading to chalk-like disaster. The utter horror of crushing verdicts, endless heaps of bloodied handkerchiefs and palms so cold that even the heat of your breath fails to make the feeling of him any less chilling. 

The dark humor of sneaky death: she’s right around the corner, the cruelest of all mistresses. Ready to snatch him away whenever your fingers ghost over his spine, stroking a languid count over each prominent vertebrae. And no matter how tight you curl up beside him, she will supplant you, and her proximity can’t be measured in miles, feet, or inches. Because death is a termite—she gnaws at his very heart. And blooms metastases everywhere you still have him. She’s inside him. She’s merged with him into one.

At first, you denied it. Knuckles drummed against the wall in a frustrated fistfight, painting that scabrous canvas bright with your frustration. White and crimson—the speckled pattern of your hysteria. You recall how bad it stung, and how shame creeped up your spine—frightening and so, so sticky. Throttling, when he tended to that self-inflicted disaster, bandaging your smashed hand in motions sick to the core with gentleness. 

And it felt so ugly. Like you’ve grown to loathe everything around you: the doctors, for their disgusting prognosis; life itself, for being hardly fair. And even Viktor. Especially him—for slowly slipping out of your pale-knuckled grip. Well, red-knuckled, more like. That angry stunt did cost you a decent injury. White and crimson, remember? 

Naturally, grief doesn’t always progress by the book. However, denial always comes first. It’s an axiom, an invariable component, and you’re sitting on Viktor’s hospital cot, hand in trembling hand, eyes snapped wide and ferocious. Wrapped up in fear while the silence rings in your ears. 

His doctor addresses the quandary. It doesn’t feel vicious—at least, not yet. Flimsy, more like. Deceptive, too. Like if you just blink it away hard enough everything will snap right in place, and you’ll find yourself at home again—where that aseptic smell of medication can’t reach either of you. 

Well, of course, there’s always a possibility of postponing the inevitable. Winning over a year or, even, two—if Viktor’s lucky enough, that is. But you both know that he’s lacking in that department.

And yet, you grab your little hope by the throat: to look into later, when your comprehension is intact again. Surely, it’s just not plausible: so what if Viktor’s cough pulls you out of sleep every night, so what if every shirt he owns has tiny blood stains on it? Yes, he spends more time in bed than he does at the lab. He’s simply tired. He needs the rest. Not in peace. 

The retraction doesn’t linger, though. It survives a few more blood tests and a lengthy, dreadful discussion of his calamity—most strikingly frightening when the doctor talks him through each option. And not a single one manages to appease you. To stop your fury from retching out and causing an ugly scene. 

So you fling the door to his room ajar and leap inside with a bitter scowl, teeth gritting hard enough to crumble into powder. Arms a tight crisscross over your chest, step wide and listless—punctuated with a muffled clack of heels. Viktor’s eyes follow your tremulous circles—a lazy, sheenless flick of pupils, each widened into a bleak void from the rancid dose of painkillers. He lays supine, with his hair ineptly slicked back, umber waves awry, loose and sweat-damp. He’s almost mellow, tongue barely a glide over his chapped bottom lip—a martyr-like stiffness, the carrion of a man. 

But you don’t look at him. You pace, and pace, and pace—in that same tiring route, all around his creaky cot. Viktor rasps something indistinct—a muffled plea that tickles the back of his throat, rupturing yet another coughing fit. You silently hand him the speckled handkerchief. 

He looks up, eyes the saddest shade of buckwheat honey—dark with remorse; seeking comfort. But you don’t have any to give. You stare past him, gnawing at your tongue hard enough to draw fleshy copper. Dodging the kiss he tries to press to your wrist—pulling yourself back and out of his loving grip, igniting a staring competition full of glassy eye-daggering. Blink slow and borderline drowsy. 

“Milackú,” he pleads. Pulls at the corner of his mouth to wipe the bloody evidence of his withering. 

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes. 

“Milackú,” he rasps again, kicking the blanket aside. Stepping one bare foot on the cool tiles and reaching for you: arms, legs, and heart—all yours for the taking. If only you consider crawling under his minty sheets again. 

You don’t. 

“Why?” It’s so meek you barely recognize it as your own. Taut throat tightens even more, and, suddenly, you’re choking on a gasp. “Why did you turn down the treatment?” 

“Please, if you could just—“ He husks, but you can’t hear him through the ringing in your ears; the room already smudged into wattery, astigmatic lumps, Viktor’s face but a bunch of fuzzy dots you’re struggling to make out. All missing jigsaws, blurry little fractions. 

“What did I ever do to you?” You yell, shielding your eyes. Turning away from the arm he extends, his weak fist clenching to grab thin air, then tumbling as he stares at his palm in sheer dubiety, upper lip trembling. 

He winces. Ceases you by the hand and tugs as hard as it gets—frail enough for you to easily nudge him away—but you don’t bother this time. Your knees ungainly bend into shaky arcs, drifting apart when he clasps around you and pulls until you finally land on the sheets next to him, your tears mingling with his cold sweat—a salty fusion of mutual suffering.

Then comes a sequence of guttural, squealing whines and you stay twined with him for a while. Lithe fingers run through your hair, spreading to untangle an occasional knotted strand—up, and down, and over your shoulder in a caress. His lips purse on your temple, sucking an indistinct kiss. His heartbeat trails off under your fingertips the second you rake them over his thin hospital gown, growing frenetic again when you tug at the fabric, demanding closure.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me.” You exhale your choked up entreaty into his neck and it pours over his skin in a rigid breath, aftertasting of stinging desperation. His hand seeks your face, taking a forcefully gentle hold of one puffy cheek, drinking in your unsightly, woebegone rebuke. Looking at you like a repentant devotee, his timid eyes meeting your fierce ones.

“This is not about you,” he wheezes, too stern for your liking. Presses his forehead against yours and holds you through yet another shudder—and there’s no avoiding his pleading stare. “I’m not trying to get away from you. I merely want to escape my conundrum.” 

“These aren’t mutually exclusive, Viktor,” you hiss, voice simmering with betrayal. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?! Is that all you have for me right now?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He sighs like he means it. His words keep slipping away from him, drowned in coughs and ambiguous humms. You get it, though. Your semantics became sparse the minute Viktor almost died in your arms. 

You melt into one-another in a teary, sniffling twine—simply breathing, trading tense silences. His stately stance collapses into a lifeless hunch, straightening a bit only when your fingers billow over his shoulder-blades—chiseled like ones of a famished dog. There are plenty of dog-like things about him now—the pleas lodged in his glances, the newfound hunger for your touch. Especially for the way you’re holding him; every embrace like a loving headlock—and the pressure soothes him. 

“I’m tired of taking risks,” he finally whispers against your temple. “All these… labored efforts for mere fractions of peace. Decaying steadily. Constantly hurting. I’m spent.” 

“Exactly. Which is why you need the treatment.” 

His lashes shudder against your cheek in a prickly tickle. They keep fluttering when he recedes, shaking his head with a bitter frown.

“But its success is… highly improbable.” 

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

“It’s running thin as we speak. I shouldn’t squander it on… the imminent.” 

Viktor’s irksome choice of words had you springing backwards in glossy-eyed delirium. Staring in disbelief as if he’d requested something inexorable: which he did, inherently so. 

He curses when tears slice your face again—tends to them with the softness of a man most contrite of his omission, shaky hands already catching holds of your waist, using your temporary pliancy to swiftly nudge you into his cot. Curling up close enough to have your weeps reverberate in his sternum. 

“I’m sorry,” he repents with a deep rasp. “Please, don’t cry.” 

He held you in reticence again: this time horizontally. Offered you every solace his body could provide: your fingers in his hair, fumbling mindlessly (he put them there himself). Tangled legs. Apologetic neck-kisses. His head heavy on your shoulder, its weight a welcome tranquility. And only when your last tear soaks his pillow does he commence with his explanation. 

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left miserable,” he tells you, drawing a breath. “Yes, the treatment might win me a year—a year I would spend bedridden, nauseous, and weary. A travesty of life. An illusive salvation. I’ve had enough of those.” 

Your hand stills in his hair, nestled within unkempt strands. You’ve run out of tears, so this bitter truth is met with nothing but a piteous sigh—the only thing you can still master after crying your heart out into his skin. Now you can only stare at the ceiling, chewing on your cheek in cruel denial. 

He’s right. He always is. 

Viktor sees the shift in your face—knits his eyebrows together in tender pity, tucking himself firmly against your face. Wincing, when he feels the aching tension in your temple. 

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Too much, even.” He’s sincere when he says that, and you can sense the gratitude in his voice—for even allowing him to utter this excruciating of a thing, for attempting to understand. 

You simply nod. Yes. It is a lot. But you want to hear everything he has to say. 

So Viktor continues.

“I would hate for your last memories of me to be tainted with despair and hospitals only for all the struggle to go to waste when I inevitably pass away. I have no desire to postpone this torture at the expense of growing indifferent towards everything that makes me feel alive.” 

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

“That’s too much of a ‘what if’ to risk dying a grim death for. I want to die…content. I want to enjoy myself before I do. Please. Don’t take that choice away from me.”

His eyes brim at you with every ounce of guilt he possesses, big tears wallowing in his eyes like an earnest plea—tacit, weary, earnest. Yes, it’s not like you have a word in his terrific decision, but Viktor wants your blessing. It’s only right that he includes you. Even if he’s intending to refuse the treatment regardless. As absurd  a bid as that is. 

You clasp his face like it’s about to vanish. Like you won’t be able to make it out when he’s gone if you fail to remember it right this instant, your gaze frantically jumping from one feature to another, seeking to embroider the image into your very eyeballs. Roaming over the artifically-white hospital light hallowing every streak of his hair. Indulging in a bittersweet smile when you note how prettily it spills over the pillow. Lingering on the patterns in his ochre irises—almost fully swallowed by his void-like pupils. Observing how they match the insomniac, mauve shades under his bottom lashes. Tracing every convex little thing—two lovely moles, thick eyebrows, the pointy mouth. Everything you’ve grown to love so dearly. Everything his illness keeps taking away from you. 

You wince, cradling his cheeks, your thumbs dipping into the hollows of them gently. Urging him to scoot closer—eye to eye, lips on lips. Breath over shuddering breath. 

“Are you sure?” You mouth the question on his skin, barely even uttering it. Hot pressure meanders into your head like a prickly impulse. It’s timid like motion sickness—borderline nauseating, too—all murky splashes of trippy lights under your closed eyelids. And the unease is diluted only when he finally kisses you—an approbatory, guilt-ridden thing. 

He’s certain. And for that, he’s so, so sorry. 

You try not to think of it, focusing on the feeling. No tongue, no teeth: just sheer tremor and so much rawness. A soft, soothing exhalation straight into your mouth like the gentlest of placebos—and yet, it works for you, slaps your pulse out of its frantic antics, and the stiffness slowly leaves your limbs under his touch. 

When it’s over, he winces at you in that sleepy, adoring way of his. Attempts a wry, sad smile. The cold light besieges his head into an even clearer halo—a foreshadowing of what is to come, an inconspicuous little thing. But everything about him is conspicuous to you. Loving Viktor has made you wary, and you wanted to hold onto that attention to the detail before it eventually slips away alongside him. 

 “Are you sure?” You repeat, tightening the inadvertent chokehold around his neck. The grip weakens only when he pulls away to clumsily clear his throat. 

“Yes.” And you know he means it when his face turns just as solemn as when he confesses his love to you. 

“I’ve had a nice life with you,” he adds, hoarsely. “I want it to feel nice when my time comes, too—whenever that might be. Sooner than later, I presume.” 

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise. 

“Will you stay with me?” He dares to inquire. Meek, shaky hope tingling in his throat. “For however many months I have left?” 

And when you look up at him with a hurt frown, he’s reminded not to ask you rhetorical questions. 

— 

A few days later, Viktor is discharged from the hospital and insists that you both go back to normal. Well, to the new, tainted definition of it—where one spoiled napkin less is considered an ephemeral improvement and grief is a fixed variable by your side. 

Your slow-paced, quiet life that keeps turning even more timid in a frail attempt to savor what’s left of it. Faux preservation, but he allows it—savors it just as earnestly as you do, and your weeks weave into a darling, familiar routine. With some minor, necessary changes, no less: rest comes before the lab now, all deadlines fashionably late to accommodate this newfound tempo. Mandatory hourly breaks. Weekly check-ups. Four days off for every three he spends bent over the parchment. But this time, he doesn’t protest. His body demands it, inconveniently so.

You don’t tell anyone about your horrific arrangement—not yet, at the very least. It’s all you can think about, and the words threaten to slide out every time you speak—but you’re forced to swallow them with a smile so lopsided that everyone around you can only suspect the worst. A mantra of countless ‘What’s wrong’s irritating your ears with pure sincerity. 

What is wrong with you, indeed? You’re a spectator to death—not just any death, but the one you dreaded most. And not only are you witnessing it in the making, but this decision was never forced—you handed Viktor the choice and accepted whatever he went with so obediently that it felt absurd, and it had your skin crawling every time someone vaguely mentioned anything even remotely related to his condition.

But they—whoever that refers to—could never get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like: to be stripped of your selfishness for the sake of Viktor’s peace. Defying your needs. Forcing yourself to find relief in demise. You might’ve failed to intimidate her into allowing you to keep him, but you could still accompany him into her arms and make it glorious. Here it is. Your new, appalling reason. It’s all that you want now.

Or is it? 

There’s plenty of nobility in being his chaperone—welcoming him into bed every night, painfully aware that it can become his death one. Treating every new invention of his like a soon-to-be postmortem legacy. Mourning the living. Anticipating the inexplicable. Marking every shared kiss the last, just in case. 

But then it came—unabashed and sudden. That blurry line where mourning merges into something dubious, a confusing paradox that leaves you full of filthy carry-over somewhere within your gut. The scorch his lips engrave into the column of your neck. The way it ignites a swell you can almost convince yourself is actually tangible, running your fingers over it recursively like a tactile little prayer. The gaze he throws at you across the lab ever so sneakily—a figurative punch that feels surprisingly close to a kiss. And you never resist turning it into one. Escalating. Claiming. Indulging those ambiguous, yet-to-be-defined things and having them wash over the remnants of your decorum. 

You try to fight it when it first happens, but it doesn’t last. There’s no place for restraint in grief—not when it turns into a beautiful desire to be all over him, to take everything life has to offer before he runs out of it. And Viktor doesn’t judge you. He encourages it. He craves it, just as bad—if not more—than you do. How many more undoings can he claim before the final one absorbs him? You’ve already lost that count. So much for having your love bleed on every inch of his skin.

Tonight you let it bleed mouth to mouth—a sweaty, heartfelt thing that commemorates your hunger for him in a kiss so dizzying that he has to lean back with a silent, breathless plea for brief interlude—foggy eyes staring up at you so devotedly. Shuddering, when your arms wander over his chest to feel the rasp, pointed lips bruised full of spit-slick swell. He’s a beauty—exquisite, albeit worn-down, his lines and angles blurring together into one eager, contourless essence, and you cage him in a firm straddle—your bare thighs over his clothed ones—grinding in a whiny attempt to reach him through his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, leaning back to let him breathe. He’s sprawled out beneath you, tortuous hands already busy with tugging his tie off—impatient, clumsily nervous. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” you say at last, averting your gaze almost shyly. His fingers lurch to your hip, locking it in a gentle cradle, stilling above your backside in hesitation—asking for a laze caress, pushing your flimsy limits. As if forgetting that you never set those for him. Or, perhaps, he simply likes hearing your excited ‘yes’ every time. You can’t quite figure out which it is. 

He grabs a handful of you with reverence, and yet there’s something resilient about that grip—like he dreads that you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on possessively enough, staring up at you with his head thrown back in a curious, admiring droop. Aiming to dispose of your shirt in a nimble pull. Plotting a sequence of kisses from neck to collarbone. 

You expect it when he rises on his elbows, then grips the bedframe to shift beneath you in a silly leap. Inelegant, but he couldn’t care less, releasing his hips from the hedge of your legs to make you slide up his crotch instead—a most welcome, brusque change that you adapt to in a squealing instant. Your moaning mouth agape under his grin. His hips thrusting through restraining fabric. Shaky. Erotic. With your arms tumbling astride his shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor insists in a lulling whisper, switching to a cautionary nip on your ear. “I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses somewhere into your hair, brushing through it with a tip of his nose—breathing you in through a tender whiff.  

Your words get lost in a deep fluster, rolling back into your throat and lingering there in a suffocating lump. They have you stiffening, heavy eyelids squeezing shut—a voluntarily blindfold to help you explore him through touch only. An invitation to feel you where he pleases. And, well—it just so happens that your whims align with his—a cohesive, welcome collateral. 

Viktor starts at the slope of your shoulder. Pulls the shirt down and traces that lovely curve—fingers first. Throws a brief, askance glance at your face to make sure that your eyes are closed, and, when met with the flutter of your lashes, gets back to his lovely tease. Tender, warm lips taste your skin with delicious, savoring sounds. Getting wetter when his tongue makes a fickle appearance—leaves a slick, capricious lick in the dip of your collarbone, fluffy hair tickling your face when he bends to tend to your chest, too—and you shiver as he sucks a plum love-stain that you’ll proudly wear under your shirts. 

“See,” he cooes. “Whatever gets into you must be contagious.” 

You give in to a half-lidded peek and find him begging for your assistance—a sweet request that you understand in half-nod. Arms up in the air and over your clouded head when he unleashes your skin from the thin garment—throws it on the floor for you to find later in the morning. 

“But it feels wrong.” You sigh. “Ever since we found out…”

“I’d rather you quit talking about that in bed, please,” Viktor reproaches, eyes heady with want. His fingers slide into your underwear, contemplating its fate—should he make it join your shirt or pull it to the side in hasty fashion? Either approach had him shivering at the thought. 

But the sudden sorrow stops the rush, rendering your urge for consolation. It wraps you around him all over again, legs locking in a tangle around his waist, drooping hands combing through his hair in a brusque, fervent tug. Seeking succor. Heart to heart and thumping an anxious march. 

“I’m afraid,” you admit, but it’s not a revelation. All shuddering shoulders under his idolatrous caress, and you pang with guilt at that, too—it’s you who should be fondling him this delicately, warm reassurance seeping into his ears—not yours. But Viktor wants to be your comfort. If anything, it’s the only thing on his mind.

“What are you afraid of, beloved?” A little shiver at the unforeign endearment—a rare occasion. His thick brows still drawn together in a concerned arc. They relax only when you rake your fingers down his body—counting ribs, toying anxiously. The hurry is gone, there’s only caution now: his enamored eyes, waiting for you to find your slippery words. 

“Of losing you before I get to show you how much I love you.” You whisper, suddenly tasting teary salt in your mouth. His thumb comes to the rescue, swiftly flicking the wet trails. So you chuckle at the affection in a silly stagger to bump sweaty foreheads together.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “You’re showing me right now.”

“Indeed.” You shrug. “But… Is this the right way?” 

And when he puts your palm over his eager heartbeat, you’re reminded not to ask him rhetorical questions. 

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @nausicaaandhermouth @thehistoriangirl @vyshnevska

[sideblogforsonic]

Awwww, poor little single-digit-aged Sonic got ow. 12-year-old Tails will help.

Hello! For the hurt/comfort dialogue prompts: #29. "Do you know how to use a first aid kit?" + Tails

here u go!!! this was a lot of fun to write, i decided to go with classic!sonic and modern/older!tails <3

///

Tails is halfway through an errand – dropping off seed packets to Vanilla to repay her for the flowers she donated for Amy’s birthday – when a portal appears out of the sky. 

A blue hedgehog drops out, which is just par for the course. When Tails was younger, he probably would’ve been worried and called out for him. But seeing as this has happened at least once a month for the last several years, Tails no longer wastes the adrenaline. 

Instead, Tails simply reacts. He flies a little faster than usual, and as always, hopes to catch Sonic before he hits the ground. 

(Not that he’s all that worried even if he doesn’t get there in time. Sonic has a tendency to break falls with his face, and it’s never done serious damage before, even falls from space. Tails doubts it’ll start hurting him now.) 

Still, as Sonic falls, Tails can’t help but think it’s odd timing. He wasn’t really expecting Sonic back yet, seeing as he was visiting the Wisps. It doesn’t take that long to travel to and from Planet Wisp, but Sonic was planning on spending at least a few days there. For once, they really weren’t expecting any trouble from Eggman. Though of course, that’s always what Eggman wants them to think, so maybe Tails should’ve known better. 

Either way, Tails will probably get an explanation once his brother has safely touched down. 

…It’s not until Tails actually catches Sonic that he realizes his mistake. 

This, it would appear, isn’t Sonic. Or at least, not his Sonic. 

Tails probably should’ve guessed it, seeing as he came through a portal. Speaking of, he glances up at the portal just in time to see it close, long before Tails ever would’ve been able to fly him back through. 

Then, he glances at the little hedgehog in his arms, and does some basic deductive reasoning to find that there’s no way this version of Sonic is the free spirited nineteen-year-old he knows and loves. 

For one, this Sonic is less than half the size he’s supposed to be – probably closer to a third. If that didn’t give it away, the short quills and round belly do. Even though Tails has seen Sonic’s younger form a few times, he never stops being surprised at just how small he is. Er, was. Seeing him up close, it’s always hard to believe Sonic was fighting Eggman at this age. 

This age being nine, at most. Give or take a few years – Tails was never great at identifying hedgehog growth patterns.  

Deductions made, Tails gently deposits Sonic on the ground in front of him. Thanks to Tails’s latest growth spurt, even at his full height, Sonic could stack three of himself and only just barely make it to Tails’s chin. Sonic doesn’t even seem to realize it’s out of the ordinary. Instead, he just squints up at him, hands on his hips. 

Right. Shorter Mobians hate it when bigger ones don’t respect their stature. Not wanting to be rude, Tails takes a seat in front of him and waves. “Hey there.” 

Sonic – Mini-Sonic, he decides – doesn’t answer. He only looks marginally less suspicious now that Tails is sitting. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you home again in no time,” Tails says, trying to sound friendly, remembering just how out-of-sorts Mini-Sonic had been last time he’d been flung into an alternate timeline. “It’s nice to see you again, though! What tossed you through a portal this time?”

Mini-Sonic just frowns at him – like he’s the suspicious one. 

“It’s okay if you’re upset,” Tails says. “I would be too, if I was in your shoes. But you can trust me. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll take you back to my lab and we’ll start working on a portal to get you back home.” 

Somehow, that’s the wrong thing to say. Mini-Sonic’s quills raise defensively, and he takes a pronounced step back. Almost, Tails realizes a beat too late, like he’s about to run off. 

“Wait!” 

On reflex, Tails reaches out and takes his hand. It’s only because Mini-Sonic is so tiny that Tails manages it. Mini-Sonic, try as he might, is just not fast enough to escape Tails’s grasp. Tails counts his lucky stars. He definitely wouldn’t have been up for chasing down a miniature version of his big brother today. 

However… When Tails actually grabs him, Mini-Sonic does not seem thrilled. He doesn’t look scared, exactly – but there’s an annoyance, a wariness, that Tails isn’t used to. He pulls against Tails’s grip to no avail. It’s almost funny how little a difference it makes, how hard Mini-Sonic seems to be pulling and how easy it is to keep him in tow. 

“Just tell me what’s going on, okay?” Tails says, not yet letting go. “I promise I’ll help.”

That’s when Tails remembers – embarrassingly late – that Sonic is years away from being able to talk. And he’s not entirely sure that this Sonic is fluent enough in sign to hold a conversation even if he did have both hands free. 

Not how Tails saw his Monday going, that’s for sure. 

He sighs. It’s bad enough that his Sonic’s somewhere out in space again, nowhere to be seen. 

But the fact that Sonic’s younger self is here probably doesn’t bode well. No offense to the little guy, but he never shows up unless Sonic’s in an awful lot of trouble. 

Still, it’s impossible to be mad at him. Especially since this version might actually be even younger than usual. Sonic’s usual younger self is usually still a couple of years older than Tails – but now that Tails has grown up a little, this one almost seems to have shrunk, even taking into account Tails’s own greater height. Sonic was definitely a bit of a late bloomer as far as hedgehog species go, but this one barely makes it up to Tails’s knees. 

It takes Tails a moment, but he finally realizes that just because he’s met a younger Sonic… doesn’t mean that this younger Sonic has met him. 

It’s entirely possible that this one is from even earlier in the time-stream than the ones he’s met.

Meaning Mini-Sonic probably has no idea who Tails is.  

Tails stares at the little hedgehog in front of him, and realizes he’s way, way out of his depth. 

That’s also when he notices the tiny red spots on Sonic’s socks. Tails frowns, and follows the red up to his spindly little legs, where there’s a purple patch of sticky fur just above his knee. 

“You’re hurt,” Tails says, feeling even guiltier for grabbing him now. “How bad is it?” 

Of course Sonic didn’t want to be manhandled. He never did anyways, but especially not if he was hurt and didn’t recognize Tails. He barely handled manhandling now, as an adult. 

Mini-Sonic still couldn’t talk though, and still showed no sign of recognizing Tails. And as much as Tails would’ve liked to let him go, Mini-Sonic just kept glancing between Tails’s hand and his easiest escape route, meaning that if he gave him even an inch, Mini-Sonic would shoot off, never to be seen again. 

Tails sighs. Time to do this the old fashioned way. 

“Chili dogs first,” he decides, and easily scoops up mini-Sonic – quills digging into his arms and all – “Then a first aid kit. We’ll patch up your leg, and hopefully by then you’ll realize I’m not trying to hurt you, Sonic.” 

Finally, Sonic’s ears prick up. Tails realizes it’s the first time he’s called him by his name. Duh – no wonder Sonic had reacted so poorly. 

“I know your name because I know you,” Tails says, and watches Sonic’s face turn doubtful. “...In the future,” Tails corrects, “Which is where you are. The future.”

(Under his breath, he mutters, “Chaos, how does Silver deal with this?”) 

Sonic’s doubtful frown doesn’t budge. 

Tails wishes he knew how to convince him. 

Still… even if it’s not good that Mini-Sonic doesn’t trust him, Tails can’t help but chuckle at the way distrust looks on his big brother’s tiny face, chubby cheeks and all. 

It helps Tails stay coolheaded, too, as he flies in the direction of the nearest city, hoping he’s got enough cash for some chili dogs. He’s flying a bit higher than he needs – hopefully the height will be enough of a deterrent to keep Mini-Sonic from biting and clawing him until he wriggles away. Truthfully, Tails is just surprised that Sonic hasn’t done so already. He always imagined Sonic would’ve been a bit more of a gremlin as a kid.

It’s weird that he’s so calm. Tails decides maybe it has something to do with the portal he went through, or the fact that he’s injured. 

“Don’t you worry,” Tails says, unable to resist the urge to rub between Sonic’s ears. Huge, shiny black eyes look up at him, clearly unused to the affection, despite how basic it is. “We’re getting you something to eat first, then I’ll fix up your leg. Or – you’ll fix yourself up, if you don’t want me to. Sonic never says much about his early years, but I figure you probably already know how to do it, right? I mean, clearly you have to, no way you got older without ever figuring out how to wash out an injury and patch it up, and…” 

Mini-Sonic tilts his head at him. 

“You know – patching up injuries,” Tails says, and taps the uninjured skin near Sonic’s knee. 

Mini-Sonic, for all that he seems to mostly understand him, just blinks. 

“...Do you know how to use a first aid kit?” 

Mini-Sonic just scrunches his brows at him, and Tails realizes that his Monday has just gotten even longer. Once the normal-age Sonic gets back, he’s going to need to answer a lot of questions… 

But first, he reminds himself with a deep breath, chili dogs. He might know nothing about raising kids, but at least he knows Sonic well enough to have a cheat sheet. Tails has a feeling he’ll need it. 

[rafesangelita]

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW | PROLOGUE

a pogue!sweetheart!reader series by rafesangelita ©

SUMMARY: nothing could’ve ever prepared you for the handsome kook that came crashing into your life.. quite literally. it’s hard to think that at one point you and rafe didn’t know one another, especially since you two have spent every passing day together for the last four months.

WARNINGS: drug use, driving under the influence, reckless driving, rafe arguing with ward, descriptions of a mild injury, mentions of addiction and sobriety, blood, reader tends to rafe’s wounds, fluff, opposite of slowburn, forced proximity (?), time skip (from four months ago to the current day), slight angst

AUTHOR’S NOTE: ahhhhh!! it’s finally here, and i couldn’t be more excited to share this with all of you!! all feedback is deeply appreciated <3 feel free to ask to be added to the taglist if you’d like!

LINKS: series masterlist | next chapter

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

rafe set a new record for himself tonight, and he wasn’t proud of it. not only did he lose count of the lines he snorted off of topper’s coffee table, he also had ward blowing up his phone. “aye, man, i don’t think you should be driving.” topper slurred, downing the alcohol in his glass. cleaning the residue from his nose, rafe shook him off, stumbling through the crowd of people in the living room before hopping in his truck and peeling out of the packed street.

jaw ticking, rafe cursed to himself when his phone started ringing, ward’s contact lighting up the screen. “i’m going home already, alright? yes— yes, dad! i know we have a meeting with some investors in the morning.. what? no i’m not fuckin’ high!” he rambled on, feigning offense when his father called his bluff. “just stop— i know, okay? i’ll be there in a minute—” before rafe could finish his sentence, he took a sharp turn, swerving onto the curb before hitting a light pole.

you were locking up the icecream parlor when you heard the high pitched squeal of tires against the pavement, a loud crash making you jump from your spot in front of the door. spinning on your heels, your eyes widened when you saw a black truck just feet away from the main street, smoke billowing from under the hood. unsure of what to do, you looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but of course, the strip was always empty at this time of the night.

“son of a bitch!” you heard someone groan before they tumbled out of the front seat, falling face down against the concrete. you gasped, dropping your purse before running across the street. “are you okay?!” you helped the stranger sit up, wincing when you saw blood dripping from his nose. he stared at you wide eyed, his pupils blown as you kneeled in front of him. he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

“it’s okay, you don’t have to say anything.” you reassured him, slipping off your cardigan before holding it against his nose. you noticed the open gash on his brow, your heart sinking when you saw his eyes soften. “we really need to get you to the emergency, do you have a phone?” rafe shook his head, leaning back against the tire of his truck. “no. well, yes, i have a phone.. somewhere.. but i can’t go to the emergency, not like this.” just then, rafe felt a sharp pain shoot up to his temple from his neck.

“yes, like this! you’re all scraped up.” you said incredulously. “no, i mean i’m not sober.” as if he was waiting for you to judge him, rafe watched as your expression didn’t falter. “i promise you, going to the emergency and getting help from a professional is a lot more better than not going at all. your truck can always be replaced; you can’t.” your words lit a fire in his chest, the sincerity in your tone making him crack a pained smile.

“i’ll go to jail for this, and i just can’t do that right now. i have to be somewhere in the morning, my dad will kill me if he finds out..” remembering that he was on the phone with ward before he crashed, he scrambled up to find the device, only to groan and plop back down on the street. still holding the pink cardigan to his head, you guided his hand to hold it for you. “what are you looking for? i can try to find it.” rafe let out a shaky breath, mumbling “my phone.” before you got up and spotted it near the tire.

turning it over, you held it up for him to see. it was completely shattered. “i don’t think it’s going to work..” you handed it to him, a bitter laugh falling from his lips. “what the fuck?” he breathed out, holding his head in his hands. you’ve never seen someone look so defeated before, your feet moving on their own before you could think. “do you think you can walk? my place is only five minutes away.” rafe looked up like he couldn’t believe the words that just came out of your mouth.

“your place?” he repeated, half shocked and half confused as to why you’d offer him help. “yes,” you nodded, taking his hand in yours, “i don’t have a phone there, but i can at least get you cleaned up..” rafe tried to weigh out his options, only to realize he didn’t have any. “are you sure?” he was truly at your mercy. “yes. here— just keep holding this to your head, let me go get my purse and we can be on our way.” you left him with your cardigan, running across the street and grabbing your bag before getting him up.

“i’m a lot stronger than i thought.” you joked, attempting to lighten the mood as you wrapped one of rafe’s arms around your shoulders. “fuck, what about my truck?” rafe leaned his weight on you, nearly making you topple over before you took a step. “someone will find it and call a tow, you could call the towing company tomorrow,” you explained to him, “do you have anything valuable in there?” rafe laughed, shaking his head. “just my piece of shit phone that has no value now.” he grunted, walking with a slight limp.

“hey, uhm, what’s your name?” rafe looked down at you, both of you sharing a glance before he looked away. despite him not being in the right state of mind, there was no doubting how insanely pretty you were. “y/n.. and yours?” why on earth were you getting butterflies right now? “rafe.” was all he replied before he started asking you an abundant amount of questions. rafe learned a lot about you in the short five minute walk to your camper. what you did for a living, where you currently worked for some extra money, what your hobbies consisted of.. along with being a pogue.

“so.. you live all alone in this pink camper in the middle of the woods? aren’t you scared some psycho will come across it and want to know who’s inside?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “a psycho?” you flashed him a playful smile, “like you?” rafe watched as you unlocked the small screen door, a chuckle threatening to slip from his throat. “i would laugh if it didn’t feel like i had a thousand needles stabbing me in my brain right now.” he swallowed thickly, accepting the hand you offered him to step in.

he was immediately hit with the smell of freshly baked cake and vanilla frosting. he loved it. “i know it’s really small in here, but you could just take a seat right there on that little couch and i’ll go get my first aid kit.” rafe did as you said, eyes darting around your space. pink florals, white lace trim, usually he’d be irked by this kind of decor, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, he didn’t mind it this time. rafe leaned back on the soft sofa, settling into the cushions while you scrambled for the little first aid kit somewhere in your bathroom.

spotting the small box on your little shelf, you grabbed it before making your way back to where rafe was sitting. he opened his eyes momentarily, finding you even more pretty now that darkness didn’t surround you two. he kept his gaze on you, watching as you took your bottom lip between your teeth. “sorry about this..” rafe took the pink cardigan away from his head, the fabric now stained with blood. “oh, don’t worry about it,” you smiled, “you needed it more than i did.”

pressing a damp cloth to his nose, rafe groaned when you applied the slightest bit of pressure. “i’m sorry!” you pouted, taking a seat next to him. rafe reassured you he was alright, a groan leaving his lips as he clutched his stomach. eyebrows knitting in confusion, you lifted his shirt, your eyes widening at the sight. he was scraped and bruised, a small wound adorning his lower abdomen. “here, lets get this off.” you pulled rafe’s t-shirt over his head, both of your cheeks heating at the compromising position.

“we could stop if this is too weird for you—” you shook your head, taking an ice pack out of your freezer. “no, it’s okay.” you pressed the cold bag to his skin, still wiping away the dried blood on his face. “i’m not sure how far you live, but i don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk anywhere.” your voice was barely above a whisper, the sound of it soothing rafe more than any kind of medicine he could take right now. “don’t worry about me, i’ll be fine.” rafe watched your fingers dance across his stomach, your nails sparkling underneath the dim lighting of your camper.

you thought for a moment. “i guess what i’m trying to say is; i think you’re better off staying the night here..” you trailed off, meeting his gaze, “you’ll be able to get to a phone in the morning and call whoever you need to. you should just get some rest right now.” rafe was stunned. you wanted him to stay? “i don’t know..” he sounded uneasy, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t help but feel like he was imposing. “it’s okay, i swear! you could take my bed since there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep on this little thing.”

“no, no way, i’m fine with sleeping on the floor.” you smiled at him, eyes flickering down to his lips. “no, really, it’s okay, rafe.” he liked the way his name sounded rolling off of your tongue, “i’ve fallen asleep plenty of times over here, i’ll be fine on the couch.” you got up, wringing out the towel you were using to clean him up. “i just have one rule, though,” rafe held the ice pack to his stomach, humming as you grabbed some ointment and a couple of bandages.

“you can only lay in my bed if you’re clean.. and you need a shower.” the corner of rafe’s lips quirked. “if you want to see me naked all you have to do is ask.” you blinked, pushing his chest softly. “that’s not what i meant.” you giggled. “i’ll get you a change of clothes, just get in there for right now.” rafe was already too far in to look back. getting up with your assistance, you guided rafe to the bathroom before shutting the door behind him. “there’s clean towels and wash rags on the shelf!” you called from the kitchen, yawning as all of tonight’s events started to catch up with you.

rafe didn’t know what to make of all of this. one minute he was high out of his mind, crashing into a light pole with his dad on the phone, and the next he was inside some gorgeous girl’s camper getting tended to before using a strawberry scented body wash in her shower. what the fuck was his luck? taking his time in the shower, rafe thought about how he’d explain everything to ward tomorrow, from the towed truck to the cuts and bruises.

he wondered if ward would even care.

by the time rafe was done, he was stepping out of the bathroom smelling like a slice of strawberry cake with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. he glanced over at the couch, your back facing him as you slept soundlessly. moving aside the pink curtain that concealed the doorway to your room, rafe slipped into the sweatpants you left out for him, settling underneath your silky soft sheets shortly after.

how was it that you just happened to be the only person around when he crashed? how did he crash right in front of where you worked? and why were you being so nice to him? rafe had so many questions and couldn’t think of any logical answers. he didn’t believe in fate, but looking back on it, that seems to be the only explanation. the next day he woke up to his clothes freshly washed and wearable again, your music playing softly in the kitchen. “good morning!” you chirped, your hair and makeup already done for the day.

“hey..” rafe was still shirtless, his eyes following your every move. “what time is it?” he took a seat at the little booth by the wall, his head no longer pounding the way it did last night. “it’s about to be ten. i was debating if whether or not i should’ve woken you up earlier, but you really needed to sleep.” you leaned back against the counter, admiring the handsome man in your camper. “your wallet should also be with your clothes there on that chair,” you started, “..so i was thinking; the little store just right outside of these woods has a pay phone that you can use.”

rafe nodded. “yeah, that sounds good.” he couldn’t think of the last time he woke up without not wanting the day to be over with already. “hey, listen— uhm, i owe you a huge one for everything you’ve done for me.. i apologize if it was an inconvenience in any way, but i really do appreciate you.” rafe got up, grabbing his wallet from your room. “here. please take it.” you looked down at the hundred dollar bills tucked between his fingers, shaking your head as you moved his hands away.

“absolutely not.” you laughed. “no, please, take it.” rafe got closer, opening one of your palms before closing it around the bills. “rafe, i don’t want it!” you backed away, “i’m serious.” rafe let out a sigh. he already knew how this would go, so instead of urging you to keep it, he placed the money on your dresser after he was done changing. “well i guess i’ll be leaving now.” you masked the disappointment on your face by offering him a smile. “yeah, i guess so..” without saying a word, you and rafe stared at each other before he wrapped his arms around you, the action giving you butterflies.

before you could say or do anything, he pulled away and left, leaving your camper feeling more emptier than usual. you walked over to the door where you watched him walk away until you couldn’t see him anymore, a pout on your lips as you did so. while you were sure that you would more than likely never see him again, you couldn’t have been more wrong. that day was the first of approximately one hundred and twenty one days, and counting, that you two would spend together. rafe came back to you the next day with a brand new pink cardigan to replace the other one you so selflessly let him ruin.

one icecream date turned into several, which then progressed into him coming over to your place with an overnight bag, his very own toothbrush now taking a spot next to yours. which then led to him picking you up and dropping you off at work, and so on until he finally said that you were his. you two spent the entire summer underneath the trees, rolling around in the grass as you two gasped each other’s names into your mouths, sharing sweet kisses and an even sweeter love that continued to grow with no intentions of ever stopping.

rafe had gotten sober out of fear that he wouldn’t remember what a love like this felt like if he was high all the time, and without judgement, you were there with him every step of the way. you stayed by his side when he felt like all hope was lost, and for that he could never thank you enough. although ward wondered where rafe would go off to, he didn’t bring himself to care as long as he was doing what he needed to do for the family business. with his dad off of his back, and you to come ‘home’ to everyday, he could say that he was finally, truly happy.

even now as you two sat in your favorite diner, sharing a milkshake and laughing at whatever the other was saying, you felt no worries when you and rafe were together, your heart threatening to burst at the seams everytime you looked at him. everything was perfect.. at least for now. all good things must come to an end, and when you two are threatened by none other than ward himself, the love bubble you two have been mindlessly floating in is suddenly popped.

taglist: @percysley @oceandriveab @archiveofvirtue @weirdowithnobeardo @mattyskies @ankoluvly @cnnamongrl @b3bybunny @littlelamy @nemesyaaa @lovinqbella @jeonmochi99-blog @corpsebridenightamare @whorelaud @mymvlody @idontknowwhyimhere33 @ursovaine

[ssahotchnerr]

An idea for Nanny!reader

R hurting themself (something small) and Jack telling on them to Hotch and after knowing r is fine some playfulness - you know the stuff you’re amazing at

wounds

hehe thank you <3 cw; fem nanny!reader, blood/small injury mentions, small talk of food, mutual pining 🥰🥰

The apartment was warm and inviting as Aaron returned home. The furnace humming, the living room brightly lit, the faint aroma from dinner still lingering. He instantly regretted his choice of staying a bit later at the BAU.

He also wasn't surprised; this is how the apartment always felt whenever you were here. Warm and inviting was who you were as a person. He couldn't remember the last time, prior to your addition in the Hotchners' lives, he had come home to such a calm and cozy atmosphere.

He found the two of you in the dining room; Jack and yourself were huddled over the table, conversing softly as Jack practiced the utter joys of fractions.

"Hey," Aaron greeted you both, shrugging his suit jacket off his shoulders, loosening his tie.

"Hi Dad," Jack kept his head low, continuing on his current problem while your gaze lifted, offering him a welcoming smile.

Aaron rustled his Jack's gently. "Whatcha up to?"

"Homework."

Aaron nodded slowly. And as he did so, his eyes began to study the spread across the surface: a math book, multiple worksheets, a few new-to-Jack books - the two of you must've visited the library this afternoon.

However, something stuck out; his attention fell to your hand, which you were attempting to subtly conceal. You were keeping it close to your body, leaning over the tabletop a little more than usual.

Just as he noticed it, and the initial alarm began going off in his head, it was as if Jack read his mind. He dutifully spoke up, telling his father how you unfortunately managed to cut your finger.

You shot Jack a playful glare, a humorous, 'really?' As a laugh escaped Jack, your eyes connected with Aaron's, your mouth dropping momentarily as you came up with a response. They were full of concern, his eyebrows drawn over his eyes.

By the look on his face, you were convinced he was ready to whisk you away to the closest urgent care.

"It's fine, really." You insisted, waving it off and hoping he would do the same. You weren't one for attention, especially when it came to your highly attractive boss.

But naturally, he didn't. "Let me see."

It was a question; a strained expression pulled onto your face, a do I have to? before Aaron reached out, holding his hand out in the air until you offered your own in defeat.

The second your hand connected with his, a jolt of electricity shot up your arm. You bit down onto your lip, your heart beginning to race and hoping you hadn't visually reacted the way you internally did.

As you expected, (and guilty of thinking many times) his hands were rough, similar to the demeanor an FBI agent would uphold (and to your mild understanding, he was on the authoritative side).

But they also had a softness to them, which made perfect sense as he has displayed nothing but respect and kindness to you. Aaron Hotchner was hard on the exterior, but gentle underneath.

Not only that, your hand fit perfectly into his.

He cradled your hand, carefully observing the bandage you had hastily wrapped around your left index finger. A deep blush developed quickly in your cheeks.

"How did this happen?" His brown eyes lifted to yours. The glint in them so sweet and genuine it caused you to flush more.

Pull it together. "Cutting up some veggies." You managed, taking a small, but very flustered, gulp.

"We had pizza." Jack chimed in, his pencil pausing amidst his worksheet. "To help me with my math."

"Oh," Aaron pointed a soft smile in your direction. Could he quit it before you turned into a puddle? "That's a smart idea."

At the compliment, as small as it was, you felt the heat rising in your cheeks even more. "The perfect way to visually learn."

He was still clutching onto your hand, holding it firmly enough to not cause you any more potential harm, and giving no signs of releasing. You may have been imagining it - your brain fuzzy beyond belief - but you could've sworn the pad of his thumb was brushing back and forth lightly on your palm.

"How long ago was this?"

"Hm, maybe an hour and a half, two hours ago?" You thought back, shrugging lightly.

He seemed pleased with your answer; the bleeding wasn't lasting, nor was it seeping into your bandage. A good sign. "And did you clean it?"

"Who do you think I am?" You teased, but nodded in confirmation. "Thoroughly, yes."

"Well, before you leave tonight, I want to take a better look at it. Change your bandage, apply more Neosporin, all that."

You weren't one to argue, so you nodded as he finally released your hand, mourning the loss of his contact right away.

But at least, a guaranteed moment alone with Aaron was in your near future.

You flashed him a small yet grateful smile, which he returned before his attention switched over to Jack. "Back to work bud. Those fractions aren't going to solve themselves."

"Can we practice with ice cream next?"

[saetoru]

BEWARE OF PHAGOCYTIC RAIN — AL-HAITHAM.

kinktober day three — aphrodisiacs ; find masterlist here

synopsis. the akademiya textbook reads as follows: consecrated scorpion stings are not deadly, but it is advised to proceed with caution in the event of encountering one. possible side effects of stings include swelling, pain, nausea, and mild sexual arousal. except the textbook lied. it’s not mild. al-haitham and you might need to pause your desert trip for a moment

length. 4.3k words (omg this is the shortest one so far)

contents. minors do not interact, fem! reader, aphrodisiacs + dub con, mentions of injuries and blood (al-haitham gets stung by a consecrated scorpion), reader sits on his lap, hand jobs, unprotected sex, no prep, riding, creampie, implied (future) multiple orgasms, reader is mentioned to have a dendro vision + is a haravatat scholar

notes. i made this up. the new consecrated scorpions lore is that their venom can be a sex stimulant thanks

“haitham,” you complain—although, you probably really shouldn’t. in fact, you definitely should not complain. al-haitham has so graciously allowed you to accompany this trip to the desert, and you should not get in the way. still, your feet ache, and the sun is blaring, and god—would kill you both to have a break? “can’t we just stop for a bit?”

but with you, al-haitham is always patient. you can see him diligently take the time to be patient as he stills and sighs quietly, not letting himself ever get frustrated with you. “it’ll get cold if night falls,” he reasons, “c’mon, you’ll definitely want to rest inside the ruins instead of outside tonight.”

“but baby,” you protest, “my feet hurt.”

“i know,” he nods, like validating your feelings will make them any better, “but the safest option would be to camp inside the ruins instead of out here—”

“hey, haitham?” you cut him off, suddenly whispering quietly as you huddle closer, “what…what’s that?” he looks over his shoulder to where you point—and then he stiffens.

“oh, great,” he hisses, groaning under his breath, “seriously? now?”

what looks like a giant scorpion seems to be pacing in the distance, the large, sharp stinger on its tail clear as day, even from where you stand, a good range away. you’ve never seen one of these before, never even heard of giant scorpions that roam the desert. al-haitham has certainly never told you about seeing them, with all the times he visits the desert himself. he seems rather familiar with them, too, staring exasperatedly off at the beast as it circles the territory you absolutely have to pass.  

“why is there a giant scorpion here? are there always these things in the desert? i’ve never heard of—wait,” you pause, “i have a textbook from the akademiya on desert exploration. i brought it just in case!”

“we don’t need that,” he insists, “i’ve dealt with these plenty of times. just leave it to me.”

you’ve never been to the desert—but al-haitham always mentions the ancient letters he sees in the ruins he explores. it’s tempting; being a scholar is always the never-ending temptation of knowledge—and you are both haravatat scholars, after all. studying an ancient alphabet is enough to make you plead with al-haitham to take you with him on his next trip.

he can’t say no to you, of course—he never can. but it’s your first time here, and evidently…it’s not going exactly as planned. 

you open the book, skimming through the pages before your eyes land on a sketch that looks strikingly similar to the same beast you see in the distance. the textbook reads as follows: consecrated scorpion stings are not deadly, but it is advised to proceed with caution in the event of encountering one. that seems like complete and utter bullshit—this seems rather deadly. 

“haitham,” you whisper, “i think we should leave. this doesn’t seem—”

“we can take it,” he argues, “i’ve taken them before on my own quite a lot in the past.”

“but baby, this one seems a bit big—”

“it’ll be fine,” he assures. 

you sigh, looking back at the book and scanning over the section that goes into detail about its attack patterns. “okay, fine—let me just read over how they attack so i know what to expect.”

phagocytic form—beasts enter phagocytic form immediately when in combat, resulting in an increase in resistance to all elements. there is double the resistance to electro attacks. well, you think, it’s a good thing cyno isn’t the one fighting today—otherwise, you think you might be screwed. 

this is fine. everything is fine. you and al-haitham both have dendro visions; this shouldn’t be too bad, right?

melee combo one—beasts perform a two-part combo with their claws. alright, not too bad. you can easily dodge that, you reason. melee combo two—beasts perform a three-part combo consisting of a single strike with both claws, a flurry of claw strikes while rushing forward, and a projectile fired from its stinger. now that seems a bit troublesome, but you’ve dealt with worse. 

“i’ll take care of it,” al-haitham calls over his shoulder, catching your attention as he draws out his sword. you look up from the pages frantically. 

“wait, i really think we should handle this together if we’re going to take this. just let me read on the attack patterns a bit more—”

he’s already made the first attack. you can hear the angry hiss of the scorpion, can practically see the fury in its beady eyes from behind the thick skull covering its head. al-haitham, to your slight comfort, dodges melee combos one and two expertly. 

maybe he was right—maybe you’ve been panicking for nothing.

you look back at the book. dig—beasts dig into the ground and attack the target from below, staying within the range of a visible electro ring. alright, as long as you leave the ring before the scorpion pops out of the ground, you should be fine. nothing to worry about. spikes—beasts plug their tails into the ground and rapidly produce spikes around themselves to shock targets. another easy dodge—you just have to make sure you escape the vicinity.

you look up, and al-haitham has already easily leapt from the ring and landed himself on higher ground. he waits, watches as the beast emerges from underground, and plants its tail into the ground—this must be the spikes. al-haitham is rather excellent at fighting these things—you have to admit. as soon as the spikes are gone, he takes his chance to plunge down, perfectly landing a hard hit to its head with the edge of his sword, making its body slump to the ground.

he might just finish this alone like he said. 

“there,” he nods, flashing you a smooth grin, “i told you i’d handle it. now then, let’s—”

the loud, sinister hiss from behind cuts him off—it makes you watch in abject horror as the scorpion rises and does a rapid spin. 

you look over the pages as quickly as you can—is there more? there’s nothing else on the page, is there? you quickly flick your eyes to the next page and—oh. 

oh no.

phagocytic rain—beasts rapidly spin and scatter many stingers into the air before slamming their claws and unleashing stingers down from above. these stingers, once pierced into the skin, can cause side effects as a result of consecrated venom.

“well, it’s never done that before,” al-haitham holds up his sword, getting ready to fight. 

no. he has to get away—he needs to get away. the words don’t come quick enough from your throat as you scream, “haitham, no! you have to get away—”

it’s too late. you can hear him let out a strangled groan of pain, clutching his arm as his sword instantly falls to the floor, a gash already decorating his skin from a stinger he didn’t manage to dodge. before you can even think, you grab your weapon and run, leaping between al-haitham and the scorpion and landing another perfect blow to its head—just before that giant, deadly-looking stinger on its tail can plunge into him.

it goes limp, falling to the floor with a thud, the glow of its body dimming instantly.

“fuck,” he curses—al-haitham rarely curses. this is not a light sting. “since when do they do that?”

“since forever,” you hiss, grabbing the edge of his cape to press on his wound and stop the blood flow, “maybe if you’d just listened to me and read the attack patterns with me, you’d have known that.”

“i’ve fought these plenty of times,” he says indignantly, teeth still grit in pain, “they never do that.”

“maybe if you weren’t such a know it all,” you grumble—but then you gently reach over, cupping his cheek as you trace a thumb over the skin comfortingly, “is it too bad?” you ask, concern evident enough in your tone that he feels slightly bad. 

al-haitham shakes his head, sighing quietly as you kiss his jaw. “i’ll be fine. i’ll just patch it up before we camp for the night.”

“are you sure? maybe we should—”

“it’ll be fine,” he hums, “their venom isn’t deadly anyway.”

—————

you and al-haitham manage to make it to the ruins by nightfall. somehow, miraculously, the two of you are able to trek towards the pyramid and seek shelter indoors for the night, right before it gets too dark and too cold.

al-haitham seems to act stranger and stranger as time goes on, quietly sitting in a corner against the wall and patching his arm up himself as you set up the fire by the tent. you look over at him and watch as he shudders and groans lightly. 

“are you sure you’re alright?” you ask in concern, walking over and sitting as you curl up next to him, raising a brow as his body seems to stiffen at your touch, “baby, you seem…”

“i’m fine,” he says curtly. 

you don’t seem to be convinced, furrowing your brows before pressing a palm to his forehead—hot. incredibly and unnaturally hot skin that’s flushed a shade of crimson you hardly see on al-haitham, even when you tease him in that cheeky, flirty little way of yours that dusts blush over his face every time. 

“haitham,” you gasp, hand brushing back his bangs to feel more of his skin—it’s only then, do you realize just how sweaty his skin seems to be, too. “you’re burning up!”

“i’m okay—”

“maybe you should take your shirt off,” you say quickly, wiping the sweat from his forehead as you sit up straight, “it’s just the two of us here, anyway. it’ll be fine—”

“no,” he grits, voice strangled, “i’m—hah” he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, “—i’m okay. just leave me alone, please. i’ll just go walk it off in a bit.”

he’s panting. you can hear the way his voice is strained and the way his chest rises and falls rather rapidly. you should check the book again, just to see if there’s anything about the side effects in the event you do happen to get stung. 

“hmm, the textbook says—”

“do not read the textbook,” he practically begs. 

you do anyway. “possible side effects of stings include swelling, pain, nausea,” you start, glancing up at him and eyeing his patched arm, “well, there was some swelling. are you nauseous?”

“no,” he almost wheezes out. 

“let’s see, and it also says it can cause—oh.” 

possible side effects of stings include swelling, pain, nausea—you pause and swallow thickly as you read over the final part—and mild sexual arousal. sexual arousal. well, that would explain the heated and flushed skin, you suppose. and the sweat. you glance up at al-haitham—he does anything but meet your eyes. 

“i told you,” he says stiffly, muffling a groan as he crosses his arms and hunches forward, “i’ll be fine—”

“baby,” you hum, chuckling slightly as you run a hand through his hair—he gulps, still avoiding your gaze, “why didn’t you just tell me?”

“don’t,” he warns, jaw clenching as he looks up and stares at you with that same look of hunger you’ve seen so many times before. it’s clear al-haitham is trying to fight off whatever he’s feeling—but the reality is clear. 

he’s very quickly losing himself to his desires. 

“but it’s just us in here,” you insist, hand trailing down his chest slowly before settling on his thigh. his breath hitches, following your hand with his eyes as it rubs along slowly and moves closer and closer inwards. “these ruins have been abandoned for who knows how long—and we’re the only ones from the akademiya cleared to explore them.”

“don’t,” he says again—there’s a warning tone to his voice this time, slightly more raspy and entirely more breathless, “if…if i start, i don’t know if i’ll be able to stop.”

“oh, but haitham,” you pout, slinging a leg over his waist and seating yourself on his lap. you stare down at his crotch—wet. there’s a very noticeable wet patch over the bulge in his pants. you wonder how you didn’t notice it sooner. “who says i’d want you to stop?”

“love, i’m serious,” he closes his eyes and swallows, panting as a bead of sweat rolls down his temple, “you should sleep. i’ll be okay—o-oh, fuck,” he cuts himself off with a gasp, hissing as you reach past his waistband and free his strained cock from the confinements. 

it’s thick, his erection—probably far more swollen than you’ve ever seen it before. it almost looks painful, with how red it is at the tip, with how it twitches from nothing else but the cool air hitting the heated skin. you think it might just be aching, in fact, from how he whimpers as you wrap a hand around it, just barely squeezing, just barely applying pressure to really relieve anything.

“hmm,” you look down, inspecting, “seems sensitive.” you give it a slow, experimental stroke, instantly making him groan loudly as his head falls back, a stream of pre cum leaking from the tip enough to coat his already slick cock. 

“fuck, fuck—more,” he rasps, hand grabbing your thigh and squeezing hard to ground himself.

“okay,” you murmur, nodding to yourself, “very sensitive. guess we’ll just have to get this out of your system.”

you drag your hand over his length, slow at first, before building up a quick, steady rhythm—just the way he’s always liked it. you lean in, kissing along his jaw as he writhes under you while you squeeze around the base of his cock, rolling your palm over his tip before repeating the motion over and over and over again. 

his mouth is parted, low groans and the occasional soft whine fall past his lips, making the ache between your own legs worsen as you watch him fall apart. there’s a dull throb in your core, and you can feel the fabric of your underwear dampen, but all you’re worried about for now is the man before you. any other time, you’d think it’s a bit shameless, doing something so dirty, so filthy, so inappropriate in the middle of the desert like this–especially while on a research expedition, no less. but you couldn’t just leave your boyfriend to suffer like this, could you? what kind of girlfriend would you be then? and you’re not so cruel as to leave al-haitham to suffer like this all night, or longer, even—who knows how long before the side effects wear off? it’s the wisest choice to just help him, to take care of him like he always takes care of you.

that’s right, you think to yourself—you’re helping him like any doting lover would. you’re not at all interested by this predicament of his…or aroused, for that matter. no, you’re simply worried for him, and it’s up to you to relieve him of the painfully frustrating tension he must be suffering through after he so graciously fought to protect you from the dangers of the desert.

“jus’ like that,” he gasps as you touch him, chest still rising and falling as quickly as before—his shirt is damp too, a noticeable wet patch forming over most of it as the sweat collects on the fabric, “d-don’t stop—fuck, feels so good.”

“c’mon, haitham,” you murmur, taking your other hand to tug at the end of his shirt, “take this off—i told you, you’ll feel better.”

he listens—whatever is in that venom must be something strong because al-haitham is the most stubborn individual you’ve ever met. under normal circumstances, he’d refuse to take his shirt off even if, deep down, he knew himself it’d help. but right now, he quickly reaches at the hem before pulling it off, tossing it to the side as his bare chest is exposed for you to admire. his usual pale skin is flushed, a soft pink that glistens from the sweat that he can’t seem to get rid of, even as you work his swollen cock with your fist. 

it’s pretty, the way he sounds, the way he looks. you run a thumb over his slit, and he whimpers. not too often of times have you heard al-haitham whimper—but today, he seems to have lost any and all control, too busy thrusting his hips up to meet your strokes as he moans lowly. 

“when’d you start to feel it?” you ask curiously, pecking his forehead as you leave scattered kisses along his face, “how long have you been trying to play it off?”

“s-since…” he starts, but he trails off as your thumb traces over a thick being along the underside of his length, letting out a soft whine at the feeling before bucking his hip into your hand more desperately. you don’t think you’ve ever seen al-haitham so worked up—so needy and riled up and painfully fucked out before he’s even cum yet. “since i f-first got stung,” he admits through labored breaths, “just got worse slowly.”

“you should’ve told me,” you coo, “not like i don’t see you like this anyway. poor thing,” you pout softly, eyeing the way his cock twitches in your hand, more beads of pre cum oozing from the tip and leaving a stream down his length, “looks like it hurts.”

“it does,” he rasps, “feels…feels like ‘m gonna pass out.”

“don’t worry,” you hum, squeezing tighter around him, working him quicker as your hand jerks his aching cock off with a tight fist, “i’ll help you cum. ‘s what you deserve for fighting that thing for me. my strong baby.”

“c-close,” he says through a cracked voice, like the praise is enough to send him hurtling over the edge, “‘m so close—sh-shit.”

“yeah?” you ask sweetly, pecking his forehead, “then cum, baby. think you’ll feel much better.”

you roll a thumb over his nipple, hard under the pad of your thumb, and enough to make him gasp loudly before he lets out a deep grunt, cum spilling from his sensitive tip. it’s more than you’ve ever seen from him—thick, endless ropes of hot, sticky cum coating your hand and his abs as you pump his cock through his orgasm. you’re glad you made him take his shirt off—this would’ve been an even more unpleasant trip if he’d had to walk around in a soiled shirt.

“fuck, f-fuck—so g-good,” he stutters, his head thrown back against the wall that supports his body, legs spreading apart to give you better access to working his cock through his high. one hand reaches to play with his balls as you milk his cock, squeezing as you stroke upwards and watch every thick drop of cum shoot past his tip. 

it feels like forever, his orgasm. it’s long, and his voice is strained from calling your name over and over by the time he’s finished—but he’s still just as hard as before. no—in fact, you think he might be even harder. 

“well…” you start, staring at his erection as it rests against his sculpted abs, “i don’t think that did much.”

“no,” he pants, staring at you through lust-hazed eyes, “it didn’t. but i have an idea that might help, though.”

“yeah? what is it, oh wise grand sage?”

al-haitham, for the first time ever, doesn’t correct you that he’s the acting grand sage. instead, he lifts you up slightly and pulls your pants down to pool at your ankles before lining your dripping cunt over his cock. you bite your lip, moving to ever so slightly drag his tip along your clit, making the both of you shiver with a desperate gasp at the ghost friction.

“i think,” he starts, finger circling your clit slowly as you whine before letting your head fall to the crook of his neck, “that perhaps fucking you might be the only way to get this out of my system. what do you say?”

“haitham, please,” you whine, fingers digging into his shoulders as you clutch onto him, “need you.”

“yeah?” he chuckles breathlessly, replacing his finger and teasing your folds with the tip of his cock, coating the head with the slick of your pussy as you quiver over him, “need me, huh? i thought i was the one who got stung. shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

you would scoff if you weren’t aching to feel the burning stretch of him intruding your neglected cunt—al-haitham always finds a way to be himself at the end of the day. always so frustratingly confident and painfully good at teasing. 

“fuck me, haitham,” you plead, pushing your hips down until the first few inches of his length push past your entrance, dragging his tip along your folds and pulling a whine from you as he chokes on a low groan.

“f-fuck,” he grunts, “so tight—a-always so tight.”

his hands grasp at your hips, slowly guiding you to sink all the way down on his cock, taking it inch by inch until he’s buried all the way, his tip nudging perfectly against that sensitive spot in the back of your walls. al-haitham feels like he’s been made just for you like that—fitting you perfectly enough that he hits all the right spots without even trying, without even having to angle his hips in order to give you what you need from him.

you feel sweat collect on your own forehead, mirroring the same glistening of his own skin as you bite your lip and whimper out a pathetic, “h-haitham, more—please.”

“it’s a good thing i brought you with me,” he pants as he snaps his hips up, his hands still guiding your hips to bounce on his cock as you pull up before slamming back down, your walls hugging his thick girth tightly while his fat tip presses against your sweet spot. “imagine where i’d be if you weren’t here. j-jus’ wouldn’t feel the same if i was fucking my fist instead of this sweet cunt.”

the stretch is too good—the way he splits you open as he bullies into your pussy, pushing past your folds and dragging his thick veins along your walls, makes your head spin, pleasure burning up your nerves and spreading across your entire body. your lips attach themselves to his neck, kissing and sucking along the skin as he groans and tightens his bruising grip on your hips.

“b-baby—fuck, ‘s so good,” you mewl, “h-haitham—oh.”

“take me so well,” he says breathlessly, face falling slack as your walls flutter around his length and relieve the ache that was all too overwhelming just a few moments ago—being buried into your pussy is enough to turn the tight grit of his jaw into a loose, parted lips as he moans your name. “taking it so well, like the good girl you are. you—ngh, fuck—you want to make me feel better, don’t you?”

“i do,” you nod, sobbing as his thumb finds your clit and rubs harsh circles into the delicate bundle of nerves, “i do, i do—please, haitham. faster, need more.”

“yeah?” he lets out a strangled chuckle, biting his lip and groaning as you snap your hips down particularly rough, squeezing around him tightly, “you need more? i’d almost say you were stung instead of me.”

your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving angry, red marks in their wake as his fingers dig into the plush skin of your hips. you slam down on him with every roll of your hips, his own meeting you halfway as he bucks up, fucking into you—you can feel it, the impending high that you reach closer and closer to, every circle of his thumb on your clit and every brush of his cock against your walls bringing you close to falling off the edge.

“‘m…g-gonna cum, haitham—fuck, a-almost there, baby,” you pant, mewling as you throw your head back while he leans in to kiss your neck, biting hard enough that you almost wonder if there’s blood.

“me too,” he groans, “you…you’re so perfect,” you feel his head bury into your shoulder, his forehead digging into your shoulder as you cradle the back of his head with a hand and whine, “i’m bringing you to every trip—fuck you in every ruin i explore. you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“yes, yes—please,” you babble, nodding as your back arches before you feel the coil snap—you gasp his name, a repeat of haitham, haitham, haitham, falling from your lips as he fucks into you through your high. the spasm of your walls around him sends him hurtling into his second orgasm—even more earth-shattering than the first.

“that’s it,” he moans, his voice deep and raspy as it cracks in the middle, “can’t even be mad i got stung—not when you let me fuck you l-like this. so…feels so good—’m c-cumming.”

it’s not the first time al-haitham has cum in you—but it’s never felt like this before. it’s hot, his cum—it spills into you and coats your walls in a sticky mess that forms a ring at the base of his cock as it pumps into you. the mess of his release and your arousal coats both of your thighs, leaking from your abused cunt and smearing along your skin. you can feel him twitch with every rope, can feel the way he throbs as he spills into you and paints your walls white with his release. it’s desperate—needy and so, so filthy, just like the sounds he makes into your ear, breathless pants that make your stomach do flips as you listen to him fall apart and break. 

he slumps as he finishes, your body falling against him as you both pant harshly and catch your breaths. he kisses your neck delicately as you stroke his hair, admiring his spent form under you.

“as much as i hate that you got stung,” you mumble, “this…this might not have been the worst thing.”

“oh yeah?” he snorts, looking up and raising a brow—it’s only then that you feel it, the twitch of his still hard cock, still buried deep in your abused cunt, “are you sure? because we aren’t nearly finished yet—i really hope you’re prepared to take it.”

the textbook may have lied, you think—this is not mild at all. this might delay your trip quite a bit.

i would go with him hoping he gets stung every time so i could suck the soul out of him tbh