#over his face scar (obvious) and over his wrist that hurts (less obvious)

[threepoint14art]

Day 7: Flowers/Flower Language

Funeral flowers

[adventuringblind]

Breathe For Me

LandOscar x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst

Dialouge: "It's okay, you can rest. We've got you. Just Breathe."

Summary: Marks on your soulmates skin appear on yours. Oscar and Lando hope they find whoever it is before they run out of time.

Warnings: SELF-HARM, Alcohol, scars, blood, panic attacks,

Notes: This is Part of my 1000 follower event. Feel free to click the link and throw me a request!

Masterlist

It's not every day you meet your soulmate. It's certainly not rare, but it also isn't an everyday event and is supposed to only happen once. If you're Lando Norris, then you get to go through it twice.

Originally he thought only one. I mean, maybe his souldmate is just clumsy. That is not the case however, because Lando has more scars, cuts, bumps, and bruises then anyone else he knows. He would be fine with it if he wasn't on national television all the time.

Max and Charles were lucky and found each other in Karting. Max had a bruise on his face from his dad and showed up to the race with it still getting darker. Charles had one to match. Now they're happily in love and the public doesn't now (is what they tell themselves).

So Lando finds himself stuck in between a soulmate who bruises every occasionally and on who gets scrapes nearly every day. He feels for whoever the first is because Lando is clumsy and is always running into things. Between himself and whoever the latter is, he probably is already exasperated.

Aside from his family, Carlos is the first person to notice. He double checks nothing is happening in Lando's own life that is causing all the marks. He assures happily that he's clumsy and the two soul mates certainly don't help.

Lando has heard of people carving names and addresses into their arms to find their destined partner. He lets it happen naturally. It's supposed destiny and who is he to rush it?

Daniel admits to an extreme worry of Lando. The older driver kept a close eye on him and Lando has to reassure him non-stop that he's clumsy, but it's not that bad.

He soon realizes that it's not the bruises Daniel is worried about, it's the scars. When his sweatshirt sleeves roll up the red lines are visible. It's something he's gotten used to over the past couple of years, but he dosen't think about it when he's not being filmed.

They cover a good amount of space on his body. Biceps, collarbone, thighs, stomach, and shins. It wasn't that bad until 2021 when it got significantly worse. It's stressing him out if he's being honest with himself.

He's is pieces when Daniel tells him he's losing his seat. No other driver lined up yet. Another teammate gone.

Daniel reassures him that Oscar looks like he'll make a good teammate. Lando is skeptical. Oscar is younger and a rookie.

The first time he meets Oscar is at the MTC. They shake hands, two sets of sleeves role up and Lando can't help but stare.

They match. Their wrists are completely identical.

They don't talk about it until a while later after spending the off season getting to know each other. They determined in Febuary they would be really close friends. It obviously escalated and now Charlotte keeps tell him to make it less obvious.

He's nit afraid to say he's weak for Oscar. A calm in his storm of emotions. The one person who can get him to actually rationalize his anxious thoughts.

In 2023, three rookies came to the grid. One of them being a female driver for alphatauri and a good friend of Oscar's. She then consequently became a friend of Lando's.

Which would be so terrible if Lando didn't know for a fact she's hiding something. She's shy and closed off to everybody unless it's him or Oscar. Mostly because he's forced his way under her skin.

"There is something about her, Osc. I can feel it in my bones."

"Are you sure it's not the cup of milk you downed getting to your head?"

"Rude!"

Oddly enough, it's max who approaches them about her later. He'd gotten to know her through media things and race weekends and often asked Lando about her or vice versa.

He pulls Oscar and him aside early one morning in the paddock. Oscar is still half asleep and Lando doesn't know what's happened until Max slides their sleeves up.

The ones they decided to wear to the cameras didn't pick up the fresh scar close to their elbow on their forearms. Completely identical to each other.

"You said you have another soulmate right?"

"Yes?"

"I think I might know who it is."

This is how Lando and Oscar find themselves in front of her hotel room door after the race. A DNF that wasn't her fault had ended her race early. Max had been about to go get her himself, but Lando and Oscar had said they would. If Max is right then they have a higher chance of getting through to the female driver.

Max sent them with the key card he has to her room. The one he forced her to give after he found her last night with a blade in her hand.

They knock out of curtosey first. No answer, as expected, but at least they tried. Maybe She’s asleep? Lando knows that’s probably not the case but he really doesn’t want to and see what is most likely happening. If the sting on his thigh says anything, it’s definitely not sleep.

Oscar keys the door open and hesitantly steps inside. Lando follows right on his heels. The lights are off and he would probably think it was empty if it weren’t for the visible blob of blankets in the corner that’s sobbing violently. to close to hyperventilation for Lando’s liking. He takes immediate action and pulls her out of the blankets.

Immediately, he keeps her body from curling in on itself so her chest is open and can get air easier. Oscar manages to find a lamp switch. She’s a wreck. So incredibly broken that Lando doesn’t know where to start.

“Breathe.” Is all he can come up with. "It's okay, you can rest. We've got you. Just Breathe."

Somehow he coax’s her to sleep. Him and Oscar combined manage to get her to bed, wrestle her shoes off, and bandage what they could see without removing clothing.

Oscar practically forces Lando into the be with her and he takes the floor. He’d said he’d take the floor with him, but Oscar claimed that Lando is the lighter sleeper and would know if she moved at all. Curse his soulmate and his logical thinking.

She manages to sleep until five in the morning. This time she just cries and huddles closer into Lando.

“I’m sorry you have to see me in such a state… I didn’t know you were stopping by.”

Lando maneuvers then int a sitting position. He then takes a pillow and throw it at his lover on the floor. Oscar stirs and groans.

“Must you.”

“Yes, It’s funny.”

Oscar makes his way up onto the bed and looks immediately like he’s going to fall asleep. Lando consequently throws another pillow at him.

“You should know something…” Lando starts. He doesn’t finish because the word are not doing what he needs them to. They jumble on his head and he can’t figure out where to start.

He’s entirely to grateful for Oscars presence. “Max thinks that the three of us are soulmates.”

Lando was thinking it would be like the first. Realization followed by smiles and laughs. This is not that. Instead it’s panic. She defends into the depths of her mind as she studies the match scars, even revealing her own identical one.

The pain, embarrassment and shame are written all over her features. She’s mumbling through some kind of an apology.

“Breathe.” He repeats. He says it over and over again until it’s all her own mind can hear.

Oscar looks gutted and lost. He’d helped Lando through many panic attacks, but this is completely different.

“I didn’t think I would ever find you. The doctors had tried to cut me off because it was a mistake since there were two. They said I wasn’t supposed to have one.”

Are the two boys shocked? A tad. Why would a doctor do that?

Lando doesn’t get time to ask as she pulls out a bottle of medication from the drawer in the nightstand. It’s stuff he’s heard of, but never actually seen. “This has been suppressed to sever the connection, but it hasn’t worked. They said to take it in higher doses at smaller intervals until it stops.”

She pops open the lid and pours a couple into her hands. Thank goodness for quick reflexes because Lando goes to get the ones in her hands, and Oscar goes for the bottle. She's too focused on Lando to notice the Aussie who manages to swipe it from her.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Didn't feel relevant."

"But this is incredibly dangerous! I've heard most people who do it end up -" Oh. It dawns on him why she's doing this to herself. The connection between them was already rough for her. She had been trying to 'fix' it like her doctors said. Had been told her entire life that the people who are fated to lover her unconditionally won't because she is nothing to them.

"How long have you been taking the meds?" Oscar's voice is so careful. The Brit would love to swoon, but it feels impolite at the moment.

"Years. They've tried everything. Put me on different kinds and change the dosage."

"Thirteen?" Lando whisper asks. His voice was barely audible. The small nod from the female confirms it. That's when the first scars arrived.

Lando places his hands on either side of her teary face. "You are not a mistake. You have never been a mistake. We've been aching for you. Scared maybe one day there wouldn't be any more marks and the implications of it. I've wanted nothing more than to tell you for years that you are loved and wanted."

He didn't even notice his own tears. Everything is just so overwhelming at the moment. They came so unexpectedly that it almost startled him. Screw Oscar and his ability to be amazing emotional support. The hand on Lando's knee is the only thing keeping him grounded.

They don't let her go until Max comes to get her. She's flying to do some filming with him. Neither of the males want to let her go, so they don’t. They end up flying with her since McLaren hasn’t filled their schedules.

But then they don’t leave. They spend every moment possible reminding her she is loved. That they want her. That nothing between them is a mistake.

Soon the scars start to fade.

But have no fear, Lando is clumsy enough to make up for it.

[aidensteddybear]

can i get anything regressor yul with cg james (episode 19) plz

Regressor! Yul w/ Caregiver! James

“Yul?” James walked over to the other male, who looked extremely upset. Yul was just sitting on the sidewalk with his head down and holding a tissue to cover his burn scar.

“Hey, are you okay?” It was a dumb question, Yul obviously wasn’t okay, but what else was James supposed to ask.

James sat down beside of Yul, who answered his question with an incredibly sad whimper.

“Does your burn hurt any less?” Yul shook his head as James leaned over a bit, so he could see his face. Yul had a small frown and teary eyes, overall looking very pitiful.

James stayed quiet but slowly put his hand on Yul’s back and began to rub it up and down. The gesture seemed to comfort Yul a little, since he looked up at James, before shyly crawling into his lap.

From the start, James knew Yul was regressed. This wasn’t the first time James had taken care of Yul, though he could tell that this time was probably going to be different. Yul seemed to be very clingy.

“Come on, Yul. Let’s get you to your room.” James stood up with Yul and carried the shorter male to the motel room.

While carrying him, James could hear the same sad, little whimpers coming from Yul. James knew Yul deserved some kind of karma for what he did, but he couldn’t help but feel bad for him.

Yul was in a regressed state, and he was obviously very young. James doubted that, in the mindset he was in, Yul understood the real reason for why what happened, happened.

When the two boys got in the room, James quietly shut the door behind them and went to go sit at the edge of the bed, with Yul in his lap.

A low whine came from Yul while he put his hand up to try and touch his face, since it was irritating him.

“Don’t touch your face, Yul. It’ll only make it feel worse.” James said as he grabbed Yul’s wrist and gently pulled it away before he could successfully touch his injury.

“I can get you a clean tissue for your burn, if you want, but I don’t want you touching the burn with just your hand.” James told him. The only response James received was a very angry whine from Yul.

“I know, buddy. I know it doesn’t feel well, but you can’t be touching it with bare hands. If you do, we’ll have to keep cleaning it every single time, and I know you don’t want that.” Yul huffed as a small pout appeared on his face.

James moved Yul closer and kept a firm grip around him, which did seem to provide him with some comfort.

Yul laid his head down on James’s shoulder and stared up at him with a sad expression. The more James looked at him, the more he could see the fear and confusion in the male’s one open eye.

Maybe if he had listened to James and stopped being such an asshole, none of this would’ve happened. That’s something James would bring up later, as now was definitely not the right time.

It was pretty quiet for a while, until Yul started to loudly whine and began to rub his injured eye along with the rest of that side and his face.

That only made it hurt worse, which led Yul to begin crying while continuing to rub his face with his fist.

“Yul, you’re making it worse. Stop.” James spoke softly as he moved Yul’s hand away. Yul kept crying, making it obvious that the pain was coming back.

James figured Yul had taken some sort of medicine for the pain earlier, so he just needed to find that and give it to him.

James stood up with Yul, then sat him back down on the bed. That only caused Yul to cry louder as he pitifully reached out for the taller man.

“Hey, hey…it’s okay.” James kneeled down slightly and wiped away the tears from the non injured side of Yul’s face, as he didn’t want to cause him anymore pain.

“I will be right back. I’m just getting you medicine to help with the pain.” James explained. As he expected, Yul didn’t respond and only kept crying.

James was quick to go to the bathroom and find the pain medicine Yul had taken. He doubted Yul would be able to swallow a pill right now, so he crushed up and went to get a glass of water.

Once he returned with the water, James put the crushed up pill in the cup, letting it dissolve as he quickly went back out to Yul.

“Here, buddy. You need to drink this so you’ll feel better.” James told him. Yul didn’t really care about anything except for feeling even the tiniest bit better, so he listened.

James held the glass and slowly tilted it to Yul’s mouth, helping him drink the water. Once he finished, James set the glass down and picked Yul up.

He went to the bathroom to get a cloth, since he wanted to clean Yul’s burn a little, since Yul had been touching and irritating it.

James wet the cloth with cool water, before gently dabbing it against Yul’s burn. It didn’t seem to cause him any pain, but it probably was the most comfortable thing for him, as with every touch, Yul would whimper and flinch.

“I know, buddy. I promise, it’ll help.” James said as he continued to gently touch Yul’s burn with the cloth.

James did this for about a minute. He knew he probably should’ve done it longer, but Yul clearly didn’t enjoy getting his injury cleaned and was becoming more upset. But a minute was better than nothing.

After he finished, James brought Yul back to the bed and sat down with him on his lap. He cradled Yul in his arms and began to slowly rock him, in hopes of soothing him a little.

Thankfully, Yul didn’t seem to be in as much pain as he was earlier. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he was still very whiny, which James expected. Yul definitely wasn’t having the best day ever.

“You’re okay, little guy. Everything’s going to be fine.” James whispered to Yul, who was staring up at him with a small pout.

Whenever Yul would return back to his normal headspace, he and James could talk about what happened. Most of that talk was probably going to be James trying to convince Yul to apologize for how he treated Grett, which obviously wasn’t going to be an easy thing to do.

James would also tell Yul that he should’ve just listened to what he said weeks ago. Though, now wasn’t the time for any of that.

Right now, James’s main concern was helping Yul feel better. Physically and emotionally.

[ducknotinarow]

[2k7 Teen Ariel and Raph]

Ariel had seen them, briefly, but she knew what she saw decorating her Uncle's wrists. Scars. Many of them. It stayed in her mind for a while, Ariel feeling a sense of...familiarity to them. A sense of relation. She was sure she knew what they were, though, she did not know why her Uncle wore so many. How old they were, how many times he had hurt himself in the way she hurts herself. Ariel wondered if she should say a word, or keep their secrets...

But knowing someone maybe understood. Maybe she could finally heal...maybe.

She was at their home, Summer and Casey out, busy doing something the two mutants couldn't join in on. Ariel fiddled with the sleeves of her jumper, glancing at nothing, the sound of the TV drowned out by her own thoughts. Ariel began to wonder if what she saw was one of the same, if she was about to tell him something she wanted to keep to herself.

But she had to risk it, in hopes of finding common ground with someone. Finding a way to feel less alone.

"Uncle Raphie?" Ariel speaks so softly, hopes he doesn't hear her, but he does, "I can trust you with anything, right?"

Of course she can, and she always will be able to.

"Can you keep a secret?"

Usually when she asks for secrets to be kept, it's because she's up-to-no good. Or knows something she shouldn't. Ariel has her reasons though, she doesn't want her parents to worry or be upset. Ariel had done that already.

Reaching over, she gently takes a hold of his arm, turning it so his wrist was facing up. Ariel doesn't look at him, ashamed of herself,

"You and I have something in common Uncle Raphie."

She taps a finger to his wrist, before letting him go. She holds out her arm, tapping the soft flesh near her elbow joined, trying not to wince. There were fresh ones there, a few days old, still bandages and bleeding lightly,

"We share the same scars..."

| muse interaction

It was an old bad habit of his from long ago, when things got a bit too much. It wasn't uncommon for Raph to take off to the surface and vent out. Not everyone was aware that just hitting and fighting with street punks was the only way he tended to let some of it out of him. The end of his sais, a weapon used for many defensive techniques, blocking or capturing others weapons between the pongs. With how protective Raph turned out to be? seemed fitting but it was also a weapon for stabbing and striking. With his reckless behavior and brashness. But sometimes? the ends of his weapon slice and nicked into his own flesh. A need that would grow and grow, when a tingle came over his wrists when his breath shortened. Anger build and blinded him made him too dangerous. Thoughts would invade his mind eye things he didn't ever wish to act on honest he never would do what crossed over his head. Sometimes it was better to take it out on himself. It stung and it hurt but the moment he felt the cool of his blood over his skin it gave him a release. It could be a lot, too much even. A buzzing in his mind, it was like he had no space even if he went topside, he felt like he was suffocating. It was only a temporarily fix but it helped. It got rid of the intense feelings that rocked his body and seemed to turn and take over him. It felt just like yesterday he used to do that, he thought as he had sort of paused a moment when replacing the wrappings around his wrists. He tended to keep them covered, thanks to the scaring over his wrists. Only let them show to few, it was part of him trying to heal himself, as he had let his fingers trail over the old scars. Wondering if they would even fade. Raph stiffened aware he wasn't alone anymore as he returned to what he was doing. Raph was cover in scars, so seeing another wouldn't be a shock to anyone who knew him, even if they didn't know some were self inflicted. The ones of his wrist were a bit to obvious to tell. For anyone who dealt with what they did it be easy to tell these ones were deliberate, had thought behind the placement.

"Hey Guppy" voice as raspy as ever as he speaks thinking he had managed to keep it hidden still. "ya all packed up?" he follows up with, having her over was pretty common. The girls tended to go back and forth from Don and Von's place to his and Casey's. She seemed like she had something on her mind but soon came back to earth. Hmm odd but she seemed fine by the time he went and left with her once it was safe enough to head back home.

---

Friday night was still movie night, it was always Raph's favorite tradition growing up. Choices were made as Case and Summer got ready to head out to the rental store to get the movie, Summer insisting to grab any snacks he and Ariel would like as well. Raph just smiled at her when she whined at him saying he was fine. Summer knew he and her cousin could tag along so anything that would make them feel included. Raph just idly bumped his snout against her nose and it seemed to get Summer to relax and smile. A quick kiss was placed to his cheek before she ran off to join Casey, Raph looked over the back of the couch and gave a wave back as the two humans of his family left, once again. That did always bring a sort of sting but well Raph knew it would be like this.

Turning around he idly rubbed over his wrist for a moment, letting his attention shift over to Ariel. She been a bit quite, sure she was no where near the loud and talkative levels as Summer could be. But, she still was pretty spacey today it still seemed. Looking back to the tv it was just some sport highlights from the week, a nice round up to catch up of what teams were winning and other news going on. Raph quirked his beak when hearing about one of the Rangers still being out due to an injury. "aw come on ya brutes smashed in ta each other all the damn time! tsk bein' a wuss now." Ariel likely was not interested he more spoke to break the silence between them. She just had that look on her face.

A Look he knew Donnie for, the gears in her mind were clearly turning. But her face was still.

"Uncle Raphie?"

He sighs out in relief when she finally speaks, slightly turning to face towards her so to show she had his attention in the moment, Resting his head to his knuckles, offering a shrug of his shoulders as a way to say go on.

"I can trust you with anything, right?"

He hums a bit and raises his brow as he crocks his head a bit, seemed like an obvious thing to him course she could. "yeah, course." He repeats out loud. Ariel may just need that extra push after well that whole Bishop incident.

"Can you keep a secret?"

Oh no. Is Raph first thought because every time this kid had a secret? well it lead to something bad. "Hold up kid hows 'bout you tell me-" He lets his words fall into the air and trail off as he really takes this moment to look at her. There's a reason shes asking if she can trust him, and if he can keep this secret of hers. He can feel that as he takes in how small her voice sounds right now. He knows that voice because, of all the times his own became small when speaking to Casey. Sometimes Don even. She's coming to him because she knows she can trust him with whatever it is she needs to speak up about. So he lets his shoulder fall and slumps back against the couch a moment. He throws up his arm to admit defeat. "Ya know I can' resist those big bug eyes of yas. Go ahead." When she reached out and gently took hold of his wrist though, he dose question what she was up to. He lets it hand limp though so she can turn it over, wrist facing upwards. He still has no idea what shes trying to say but he dosen't push. Raph of all creatures knows how sometimes you needed those extra seconds to collect your thoughts into word or else you simply lashed out when feeling unheard. Which was far from what he wanted to do to her now. He can't explain it and he tries not to think much about the fact it was his wrist she seemed to be directing her focus towards. He only really shown them to one person so, nah there's no way she knows right?

"You and I have something in common Uncle Raphie."

"Somethin' in common?" he muses over, freezing when she taps against his bands that cover over his wrists, and he question her wording twice as much eye widens as he looks at her.

No.

Is all he thinks at first when he thinks he starting to sort together what she is trying to say, that cant be true can it? Slightly moving to sit upright now as she moved her sleeve and showed him her arm. Again she taps her finger like she had tap his own wrist. Bring his gaze to the fresh bandages sitting on her arm, easy to see the blood staining them was fresh.

"We share the same scars..."

"oh" Is all that slip out of his beak, tentatively feeling over the bandages careful not to put pressure when he saw she tried not to flinch from the simple tap she set to her arm alone. "Oh guppy." He adds on as he drew his arm back.

Raph went to undo the wrappings on hist wrist a moment so she could better see them now, sure she only had the glimpse before. From all the scars he carried it be easy to assume they were just from fighting but hey this little kid was risking showing someone what she's been doing. Raph just, he knows she felt a connection there and he wants her to know she was right. As he hold his wrist out to her to better see now. "Been awhile since I done it but well," he shrugs a little, "Aw kid I never want anyone to feel 'ike I do, 'specially not you." He moves in to sit closer to her side now. He knows it gose without saying that he won't tell anyone. he understand more now why she came to him. She had a reason to put trust in him about this. Raph knows how hard that is to do.

Didn't matter if you were a young girl, or a self proclaimed warrior. Fessing up to those voices that are in your head, something that takes root into your heart. The only way it seems able to get it out is to bleed it out from yourself. Inflict that pain and sadly? you find some sort of relief at the pain you cause. Raphael had such a problem being take care of by others so he bared things and bury anything he felt he didn't need to worry about. As if it was never there in the first place. Just another fight Raph dealt with, struggled with, fighting against those fears he wanted to pretend just were not there. He always hated seeing anyone feel how he felt it was not something he wished on anyone, if he could help them? He tried. Letting his arm move around her he tugged her over to his side and he held her tight, arm curling in as he kept her close to his side. What was he meant to say now though? Other then hold her. Say things he knew others would say to him? That he needed to stop doing that? Be told another thing was wrong with him? Another thing that made him broken that needed to be fixed? Shit that damn bastard! his hold around her only grew firm. He bit his tongue and kept his beak shut, heh he should be reward for that. When he was younger he would have just cursed and said their name. Uncaring who was around to see him exploded like he wanted to.

Bishop.

This was his fault, they all knew she wanted to be human. When told she just couldn't it must have. He lets his thoughts trail off if he let them go on he might not be able to hold back. He sighs out again. Slipping his phone out from his belt a moment he sends a text to Casey keeping it out of Areil's sight. Just simply asking Casey to take a bit longer. Maybe stop and grab ice cream at a gas station even for them all. Casey well he knew Casey wouldn't understand why he was being given that request he just hopes the bone head will just do as he always dose. Raph just needed a bit more time was all. He was sure Summer was trying to hurry up so they would be back though.

"Funny 'nough, ice helps." Funny to maybe only Raph. Slowly he reaches for the cup on the coffee table fingers digging out an ice cube as he slightly shook it off before he settled back in and went to show her, as he trailed the ice over once of his scars. "Dunno guess the icy bite helps when 'hat needs comes up." He doesn't really look at her maybe she was expect a lecture, concern, or some positive enforcement. That wasn't Raph's way though. "I usde ta wear rubber bands to, snap my self wit' 'em if I got the need." He offers as another option. "Or ya know my phone always on me, if ya just need someone to listen to ya talk?" he offers to her, leaning in to repeat the action he had done to Summer before. Bumping his snot to her nose, "I'm 'ere guppy however ya need okay?"

[tteokdoroki]

𑊡˚+₊🍼✦ — for better or for worse + kbkg.

૮ ͈>◡< ͈ა warnings — hurt comfort, angst, happy ending, newlyweds, misunderstandings, bkg implies reader cheats but they don’t, gn!reader, husband!bakugou. 4 @bfbkg who wanted some hurt comfort!!

“you weren’t there for me when i needed you.”your voice trembles, even when you shout the volume wracks your entire body— has you shaking and even you stumble back from the power behind your voice. “you’re never here when i need you.”

bakugou’s red eyes flame up with fury, and he crossed the room within quick and simple strides. he’d never hurt you, never touch you in a way you wouldn’t like— you know that, he knows that but it doesn’t mean it stings any less when you flinch away from him. “‘nd what? you think that’s an excuse to call him up? fuck off with—“ he starts, but you’re quick to match your husband’s energy.

toe for toe, beat for beat you go through your arguments— emotions clawing at one another through the crisp night air, leaving battle scars, making one another bleed.

“who izuku?” you ask exasperatedly, cutting the blonde off with narrowed eyes. “i needed a ride home and he’s my friend. our friend! how many times do i have to tell you he’s not a problem for you!?” you add when bakugou gives you a curt nod, throwing your hands up in the air. “he’s the only fucking person i know in this city aside from you.”

“not this shit again—“ he walks away from you now, eyes rolling and heart pumping wildly in his chest.

following katsuki, you go on. “you left me alone tonight, at a restaurant you were supposed to meet me at. for a date you planned!” you’re pouring your heart and soul out like it’s blood from an open wound. begging him to see the pain that’s been there all along. “i don’t know anyone here, i moved to this city for you and time and time again i’m just the afterthought to you katsuki. i’m not doing this anymore.”

“then don’t? why the fuck do you stick around if that piece of shit nerd is so much better?” bakugou’s screaming and he tells you like it’s obvious, like he’s giving you an easy out to the relationship you’ve built over the years. cutting down the flower before it’s bloomed, offering its sweet scent to the world. “‘cause you love him, right? he’s oh so fuckin’ good to you. you can always count on good ol’ deku.”

so you scream right back, until your throat is raw and your eyes burn with tears. “i love you, not him,” you sniff. “because i’d do anything for you and for once i want you to do the same. to show up to dates on time and to treat me like a priority. like your partner!”

“maybe you ain’t a priority to me.”

no matter how angry he gets, bakugou would never hurt you, never touch you in a way that you wouldn’t like— but in that moment, he knows he’s gone against all of those rules. he regrets the words the instant he says them— he sees it on your face, the flash of pain, the sparkle of tears in your eyes and the room is rendered silent, quiet except for the rain outside and the occasional clap of thunder.

you don’t say anything when you turn on your heel, footsteps light as you tread to the bedroom and bakugou follows suit— bumbling apologies, feeling like he can’t breathe, feeling like he might die when you pull out a small bag already packed with everything that you need. he didn’t mean it, he doesn’t want you to go, why the fuck would he say that?

“where are you going?” the blonde is desperate now, gripping onto your wrist and when you flinch again he lets go like he’s touched something hot. “s’late ,you can’t go anywhere.”

you look up at him like he’s burned you too. “i booked a car to my mother’s, she’s the next town over and clearly this isn’t working out—“

“you can’t go anywhere.” bakugou repeats, quieter now, wavering with gravel etched into his tone. “you can’t—“

“bakugou. let go of me. i need to go.” you push at his chest as he corners you in.”

“katsuki. you can’t—“

“bakugou—“

“katsuki!” you’re facing one another now, chest heaving and his cheeks red from exertion. he’s tired of running from this and from you, bakugou knows you are too, so he hangs his head and says. “for better or for worse.”

“what?”

“for better or for worse, you remember when we took those vows?” of course you do, it’s been but a year since you stood up in front of a crowd of your closest family and friends and told katsuki bakugou you’d go through whatever forever with him. so you give him a nod, lips wobbling and body shaking as katsuki wraps his arms around you. “we’re in our worst right now…i’ve been bad to you, sweetheart. but i swear, fuckin’ promise you…i’ll be better. i’ll do better. for you.”

your fingers sink into the cable knit sweater katsuki wears, you touch him like he’s warm and not something that burns you, and even though silent tears slip down your cheeks, you manage a quiet response. “for me?”

“always for you.”

the bag you’d packed slips from your grip and you can hear your ride pull up on the wet gravel outside— but you can’t bring yourself to pick it up, pick yourself up from katsuki’s grip as you break out into small sobs, slinking deeper into his arms while he brings you into him, pressing his chin to your head.

“promise me katsuki.” the rain beats down on the car parked outside, the horn honking through your worst moments, through your silence.

“i promise, i’ll show you better days.” bakugou swears by it, sealing the deal with a kiss to your hairline.

for better or for worse, he promises you, it’ll be better from now on.

[n1ghtw1ngz]

𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗺 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹 | 𝗱𝗼𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗼

𝟭𝟭𝘁𝗵 𝗱𝗼𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿/𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿/𝟭𝟮𝘁𝗵 𝗱𝗼𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴.

You are awful at coping. 

You're stubborn and you hate change and you love with all your heart. (You drink the same drink every morning and order the same go-tos at every restaurant because you never, ever end up liking whatever new dish you'd force yourself to try.) Even when you know change is inevitable, even when you think you've steeled yourself against the horror that is 'things no longer being what they used to be' you hate it. 

Because even though you'd done all of the above, this change hurt.

He'd warned you, reluctantly, forever ago. You'd been stranded in a prison on a foreign planet, marked for sacrifice because he had been too busy doing whatever it is the Doctor does to let you know, hey, the locals are grooming you. (That's what he thought, at least. You'd felt too stupid for falling for their obvious bait to bother blaming him.) (He has been inattentive. The Pond-shaped hole in his heart had barely begun to scar over.) He'd snuck into your cell, somehow, because he's the Doctor, draped in an executioner's robes. 

"You alright there?"

You'd huffed at him in return. 

"C'mon. At least tell me you're alright." 

"'m fine," you muttered, smooshing your cheek harder against your drawn up knees. 

"Really? 'Cos I'm not the one with the death sentence, and even I'm not doing quite right." 

That distracted you from your moping. "You better be joking, because you're supposed to be the man with the plan." 

"And I will be." He stood in front of you, willing you to look up at him. (You didn't, because you're stubborn and irritated with yourself, but more irritated with how long it'd taken him to find you again.) (You'd been younger. It's easier to project your own insecurities then.) "But right now, and I'll be honest, it's not looking too good." 

"And you're telling me this why?" Your head had snapped up to spit the question out. "I can't die in peace, thinking the Doctor would come save me?" 

His face crinkled into that all too familiar smile. (It stuck out of place underneath his hood.) "You can't die in peace yet. You really doubt your Doctor'd come save you?"

"Then what are you talking about?" 

"The people need a sacrifice." 

Now you're angry for an entirely different reason.

"Because you getting thrown into a chasm is supposed to make me feel better?" 

"Can't please you people, I swear."

"Could you quit joking for three whole minutes, just so we can sort out your insane plan that is not going to happen?"

The way you looked up at him made his innards curl in a way that's very unbecoming of a Time Lord his age. "I don't have a plan yet, remember? Try to keep up; these are rather high stakes." His tone grew serious, even as he froze his smile into place. "You remember my two hearts, yeah?" You'd nodded, half-listening in your daze. "Well, us Time Lords've got a couple of other handy bits and pieces that make dying properly hard." 

"You're immortal?" You'd cried for him, feared for his life countless times, and he'd been immortal the entire time? You jumped up, only to be yanked back viciously by the cuffs cinched around your wrists. 

"Nope!" 

"Well?" 

"Well I'll explain when you stop interrupting with your harebrained jumping to conclusions."

"..go on then." 

"Rather than die, we cheat." He'd beat around the bush forever if he could; you couldn't even ask him to get to the point because then he'd give up on his explanation altogether. "My body rebuilds itself—regenerates is the proper word, really—until I'm me, but in a different body." 

"I don't follow." 

And the Doctor hated that, because he hated having to explain this altogether. "Before I was me I was taller, and quite gangly, and a lot less handsome." He grumbled for a second before admitting, "Well a little less handsome, until he'd regenerated into me. Another me regenerated into him before then, and before then too." 

"But he's you?" 

"I'm me. I'm all of the different mes to me. But to the humans...well, your sense of object permanence is a little wonky, no?" 

You raised your chained hands as high as you could. He'd hunched over to take them in his. "Doctor?" 

"Yes?" 

"Please don't sacrifice yourself. Please." 

You must've looked sad, all trussed up and pleading, because he'd given in without a single argument. (The dreadful thought that he was lying, because how else could he have answered so fast, had tickled the back of your mind.) "Don't you mind that. What you should be minding is figuring out my signal for whenever I figure out my plan." 

He'd saved the day, without regenerating, and you'd forgotten his talk of change. (You hadn't really forgotten. It'd been the type of voluntary ignorance, where you'd stave off thoughts of a ganglier, taller Doctor replacing your own without warning.) 

He hadn't been lying about the regeneration. He had given the world's shittiest explanation though. (You'd thought surviving the gruesome sickness—which he had never mentioned—and exploding would be the worst of it. That wasn't even the half of it.) (Maybe the half, because at least you could now focus on the grief weighing you down instead of also running yourself ragged from the sharp of fear of something going wrong.) And even though he'd warned you, it hadn't helped. 

(You pretend to be angry with him, because it hurts less than missing him.) 

Looking at the new Doctor—the same Doctor but not your Doctor—pained you. He only spoke to you when he needed, which was never after he'd regained his strength. (You want to ask Clara how she's held up so spectacularly but you know she's hurting too. It's unfair to her.) He was a sullen introvert, a combination that made opening up to him first impossible.

You'd tried it, after he'd resettled into his comfortably chaotic routine. You'd ask him how his adventures had gone only for Clara to fill in the blanks around his dry responses. You'd ask him to watch the movies you'd shown him (the old him) (the him that's gone), and when that didn't work you'd asked about his favorites.

Nothing worked. He still avoided you like the plague. 

You don't blame him for it.

(Still.)

/

Clara wanders into your room, hair tousled from the humidity on whatever planet she'd nearly died on today. "Phew. D'you got any windows we could open?"

"On the TARDIS?"

"Figured I'd check, 'cos I love you from the bottom of my heart but you reek." She waves her hands around dramatically. "It reeks in here!"

Your embarrassment surprises you. It's a welcome change from the leaden weight that'd pinned you to your bed. "Go on then, announce it to the whole entire universe why don't you?" 

"Your entire universe," she teases, smirking at your mortified expression. She gingerly hovers over your bed. "D'you mind if I sit?"

"Go on, seeing as I'll have to change the sheets anyways." 

Clara still perches on the edge, just close enough to cover your hand with hers. "You've lost your taste for adventure lately, yeah?" 

You can't decide whether to nod or shake your head. "Adventure sucks. I dunno how you keep up without vacation days." 

"I take vacations!"

"The Doctor is your vacation, Miss Oswald." 

"And your life," she notes, quieter. "It hurts."

"Yeah, but it's better. it hurts less." 

"Yeah." She squeezes your hand. "He hurts too, you know. More than us, I think sometimes. But it hurts less now." 

You kick the covers off your legs. "I don't know how you do it. You get along with him so wonderfully, so easily."

Her brow furrows in that stern manner of hers. "He sure doesn't make it easy but you don't exactly either." 

"What?" 

"I do love you so I'll be honest with you again, and you've honestly walked around like the living dead since his regeneration. The Doctor's been mourning you just as you've been mourning him." 

"It's not mourning," you plead, and for some crazy reason Clara believes you. (Because she'd seen that way you'd looked at him then, and sees the way you look at him now.) (You love the Doctor, so she'll wait for your explanation.) "He left so fast—so soon—and now he's so different. I know it's still him, in the rational part of my brain, but he'll brush me aside and I know it's selfish but it hurts after being adored."

"He's always adored you." 

You flop back onto your bed; she grabs your wrist and pulls you up. "He doesn't have to. I'm not his captor." (But.) "But if he doesn't, I wish he'd be kinder about it. I dunno if that's awful, but I mean it." 

"I know what you mean. This one's prickly around the edges." 

"And on the inside."

"He's always been prickly on the inside, in the deepest parts that matter. You had braved that."

"...I know." 

"Good." She pinches your cheek, satisfied by your reluctant admission.

You roll your eyes. "You're a natural teacher, Miss Oswald. You have a knack for lecturing." 

"I do, don't I?"

/

"Hi." You resent the way your voice bends unnaturally around the normal, regular greeting. "What's up?" 

"I'm thinking maybe another resort planet for next time? Clara really needs it."

"What, her hair?" The Doctor gestures around his head, and while you have to agree that her hair was poofier than usual it wasn't exactly a cry for help. "Pot, kettle." 

He harrumphs loudly, tossing a hand up dismissively. 

"What? You know I'm right." You slowly make your way towards him, leaning on the TARDIS' console with what you hope is a relaxed stance. "I've been meaning to talk to you." 

"Oh, really? Have you been hunting me down in your bedroom now?" 

Well you're definitely not relaxed now. "And now I'm hunting you down out here." 

"Well here we are." 

He is not making this easy. At all. "It's just...I'm not very good at this, so bear with me, but...things have been...weird." He raises a grizzled eyebrow in response. "Fine. I'll just say it. We haven't talked since your regeneration, not the way we used to." 

"We can't talk the way we used to, now can we?"

"...is that supposed to be funny? 'Cause it wasn't." 

"S'not. It's a fact." 

"Oh haha, because you look a little different? That has nothing to do with you avoiding me." 

He laughs. (You tuck the sound away in an important pocket of your brain, because you haven't heard that yet and the loud peal almost made you smile.) (You half-smile instead.) "I'm not the one camped out in bed." 

"I don't want to fight—!"

"—I'm not fighting. I'm chatting, like you wanted." 

"Stop!" 

He stands, unblinking, until you finally say what you'd wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You hope he knows how much you mean it; you can’t think of how to make him feel what you feel. (Lonely. Mourning. Guilty. Awful.) (You’re confused by the Doctor, who is by all accounts your doctor with the same memories and feelings and brilliance, and thrilled by this stranger who makes you laugh almost as much as he did.) (Thrilled, but like when you ride roller coasters. You teeter between ‘too scared to get on’ and ‘if this doesn’t slow down I’m going to puke’ and ‘this could be the best ride of my life’ all at once.) You sputter, trying to tell him somecoherent version of your warring thoughts, but you can’t. You cannot. 

“Sorry?” You can’t read him yet; between his cursivey accent and stony face he might as well be speaking in a foreign language. “You’re sorry?” 

You nod. 

“What’re you sorry for?” 

You clench your hands into fists, clench then unclench. “You don’t have to make this any harder than it already is. I promise, this is bad enough.” 

“Bad?” He rolls his eyes when your sputtering becomes frustrated. “I’m a genius, not a mind reader. Spit it out then.” 

“I don’t...know you.” 

He turns away from you almost immediately, fiddling with some buttons that absolutely did not need fiddling with. The arc is natural—this body’s way more graceful—but none of the buttons are lighting up so he must be escaping from what you've clumsily spit out. (You add selfish to your list of bad feelings.) (Think this is awful for you?) (You soften your form.) 

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” 

“Why lie?” 

Your face begins to burn. “I’m not.” 

“Li-ar. You don’t know me, but I remember everything about you.” 

He doesn’t sound sad; it doesn’t make that any less sad.

"I know that. I know you're still the same...brain I guess, or soul, or whatever makes you you, but you're a new person. I bump into you when I walk and I can't tell when you're being sarcastic or serious, even less than usual, and the only thing you still like, as far as I can tell, is tea." You sniffle loudly; the last thing you need while pouring your heart out is to distract this half-stranger with a snot bubble. "Do you still like tea?"

"What d'you think?"

"I don't know Doctor, which is the entire point!"

"...I do."

"And getting that out of you was like torture. I don't know who you are, and you won't tell me, and I don't know what to do."

He wipes his face with a palm. "I thought I'd explained it. To Time Lords physical appearances or paltry personality differences don't mean much. I'm still the Doctor so no, you do know me now, the same as you always have. Now if we've finally got that settled, I can take you to our lovely resort planet, or I can drop you off at yours." He scans you up and down before adding, "Maybe after a shower." 

"He wouldn't have said that," you snap. 

"Well leave then! You don't have to know me. Just know that your Doctor is never coming back. I am the Doctor now." 

You wipe your cheeks with the butts of your palm. (Your touch is rough.) (At least this pain is tangible. That makes it more bearable.) 'I can't. I tried to leave. and I can't. I miss him when I'm here but I'd miss you more."

"But you don't know me." 

Your Doctor was never cruel. (Another novelty.) You want to be cruel back, but haven't you already? 

"Do I have to say it? Are you going to make me say it?" The embarrassment makes you cry. "I thought about you forgetting me—finding someone else who'd latch on to you long enough to worm their way into your life—and I thought I'd die. Really. I was sick. My suitcase is still packed because I just sobbed for three days. I hurt if I stay and hurt if I go so I chose you, but you won't choose me." 

"No. No, that's not true, because I chose you."

"You don't even talk to me anymore." 

"You look at me like a ghost!" You bite down your lip; the taste of metal teases the tip of your tongue. "D'you know how much it sucks, yes sucks, to watch someone mourn you? D'you know how awful it is to see you walk around, glassy eyed and half-conscious, and I can't even say anything, 'cos I'm the problem? You won't die if you leave. You won't." 

"So I should?" Your voice cracks on the last word. (Shou-ld?) (You feel yourself crack; there's a deep fissure tearing through you.)

His veneer shatters, first a little bit then all at once. 

"You should, but don't. There's worse things than dying." He should know. "Far worse. You won't die, I can promise you that, but I can't promise it won't be worse." 

(You finally admit defeat.)

"Ask me to stay." You sniffle after every other word, an ugly sound that grates against your raw emotion. "Ask me, and I'll stay." He doesn't answer. Your chest heaves up and down, so fast that you have to think about breathing. 

He finally, finally turns around. (It's a mistake.) (He feels a feeling worse than death.) "I can't." 

"Can't or won't?" The pain makes you mean. "Ask me to go then. Ask, and I'll go." You cry out when he doesn't answer, "Just ask something!" 

"I can't!" The shouting scares the mean out of you. (The Doctor's never mad, not without a perfectly reasonable reason.) "And I won't. Stay, if you want, or leave, if you want. But you have to want it, not me." 

"Can...can I?" You turn around and try to scrub off all the wetness form your face. (You scrub, hard enough to hurt. You scrub and stammer around your words, and he doesn't interrupt because he's not that Doctor, and he wants what you want.) "Can I hug you?" (You don't have to remind him that he hugged—he'd loved touch, from you and friends and companions—because he remembers how you felt in his arms.)  

He wraps his arms around you, hunched over and scrubbing. "Stop that. Stop that now." He lets go to turn you around; you struggle because this Doctor is fickle, and you're still snotty, but you give in to your human sentiments. "You'll tear something. You people are altogether too fragile." He wipes at your dried cheeks, until they're wet again. 

"Why'd you do that for?"

"What?"

"I just cleaned off." 

"You don't have to. You don't have to do anything." His hand settles on the back of your head. It's enough to comfort you. (It's not enough for him.) (It's not enough for you.) 

"I get that." You hope he can understand you, muffled as you are against him. "I've told you I want you seven million different ways, you stupid, stupid idiot. I want you, but I don't know how and you won't help and you always help." You smack him, lightly. (Kinda lightly.) 

"D'you want my help now?" 

"Yeah." Your relief, breathed out with the admission, is palpable. "Help me relearn you. Please."

"Alright. But after that shower." 

"Doctor!"

[difx-writes]

Wildest Dreams - In the Death of the Night

Masterlist

After turning 10 and losing her soulmate, Marinette would imagine how Damian Wayne would be.

Would he be tall or short? Did he have blond hair or brown or did he dyed it? Would he be shy or have a bold personality? Perhaps he was an artistic soul, a poet, a writer? Or would he be a baker like her parents? Why did his last name change?

The wonders and questions took over her mind for days with no end.

On good days, she imagined how he would interact with her friends, how her parents would take him in as their own son, how he would fit into her life.

She liked to talk to him, pretending there, alive, with her. She asked his opinion on what to wear, how she should do her hair, what colors with go well with the design. He was her voice of reason. Talking to "Damian" brought a smile to her face, even when she knew she was deluding herself.

On bad days, she pretended he was right there with her, comforting her, encouraging her, whispering that everything would be alright... Sometimes it worked and she felt better the next days but most times she felt bitter, she felt robbed of a future where he was in her life.

The realization that the person she was supposed to share her soul with was no longer alive, that his death was painful, gruesome, and... lonely... It always ended with her taking a few days to prevent a breakdown...

When she turned 13, Hawkmoth appeared and Marinette became Ladybug, the hero of Paris.

Soon after, Marinette stopped talking with "Damian", she couldn't afford to wonder about him anymore. She couldn't afford the bliss of her own delusions. She couldn't afford to let herself grief and fall pray to Hawkmoth's manipulation.

As she couldn't fail Paris and its citizens, Damian Wayne mostly disappeared from her life.

But there were days when her “friends” demanded a lot from her, akumas were too violent and draining and everything was just too much, those the godawful days.

On godawful days she wished Damian was there to take her away to a place she could feel she belonged. Away from everything to a place she could call a home.

_______

Most nights Damian recalls a voice talking to him during the time he was dead.

His soulmate, he supposed, talked to him regularly, she started her day asking his opinion on her outfit for the day, when at home she would tell him how her day went, what she did with her friends, what she learned in class, etc...

At first, Damian was pretty much annoyed that he couldn't "rest in peace" with all the noise pollution but after a few weeks, he slowly started to tolerate her talking to him.

Unfortunately, he couldn't talk to her nor see her very clearly so it was a pleasant surprise when Marinette would ask his opinion to make a decision, she always picked what he chooses.

Perhaps it was their bond that allowed her to know what he was thinking without actually hearing each other's thoughts. Or maybe they were more in sync with one another. Most likely it was pure luck on her part. (Him being dead is enough proof of how bad his luck was.)

In the months he was dead, Damian learned a grand lot Marinette. He liked how she made him feel he wasn't alone, like how her voice calmed him when he remembered the family he left behind in his death. Marinette was his only lighthouse in the vast void of the afterlife

_______

Impotent, despair, and hopeless.

That's how Damian felt every time Marinette had to relive his death. He hated it so much. She didn't deserve that and it broke his heart every damn time.

Why did he have to die? Why did it have to be in such a painful way? Why did she have to feel it on repeat over and over and over again? Was it a twisted way the universe tried to make them reunited? If they can't find each other in life, then they can be together in death? That isn't right!

But it always hurts more when she wakes up and talks to him. Wondering if he was happy and in peace, in wherever place he ended up.

He was there but she didn't know.

He felt sick.

After being revived, Damian felt an immense sense of loss. Sure, he was kinda happy to reunite with his family and grateful for being alive again, but he missed her.

It was difficult to readjust to being alive again, it was crystal clear that Damian Wayne wasn't okay. What hurts him the most was how her name turned into a scar on his wrist.

During the day paranoia settled in making him always on high alert, lashing out when it got too much for him.

In the night, he couldn't sleep properly as a feeling of unease latched onto his every nerve and when he did sleep, nightmares plagued him.

Damian tried to calm down in various ways, but ultimately it was Marinette's voice that soothed him and lulled him to sleep.

It quickly became a habit to replay their one-sided conversations as he tries to fall asleep.

He went over what Marinette Dupain-Cheng spoke to him time and time again as to engrave her voice in his mind. Unfortunately, her voice was fading away, every time he recalled it, he hear his own voice.

At least some memories remained, which was relieving for Damian, even when important ones like what language she spoke or the name of her school were completely wiped out.

He never told his family his experience while he was dead, he guesses Jason was the most likely to know about it but he never brought it up to anyone, so Damian did the same.

Now he was lying in bed, remembering about the time Marinette tried embroidery for the first time.

She started by searching up what she wanted it to be and after much talking, she chose a Robin, Damian smile at the eagerness he felt for her to chose it. It was a fun day, with her making comments here and there about the work, he wishes he could see it.

A knock woke him up of his thoughts, Alfred emerging from the door.

"Master Damian, I'm here to inform you a guest will be joining us for tomorrow's dinner."

"Whose guest?" He didn't really feel like dealing with new people.

"It's Master Jason's guest."

Damian groans, perhaps he could go visit Kent.

"It would be in your best interest to participate, Master Damian." Alfred gave him a look.

He sighed, definitely can't miss tomorrow or he'll have to face Pennyworth.

So, I've written another chapter while listening to a sad song on repeat :') I know it doesn’t really connect to the last chapter but I wasn’t feeling okay and didn’t know how to continue from where I left off.

I hope y’all enjoyed this and have a nice day!

P.S.: The taglist is temporarily closed as some tags aren't working. Again, I'm very sorry if I missed anyone. If you no longer want to be tagged please hit me up.

Taglist:

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[chiwhorei]

wick(ed)

pairing: dabi x fem!reader

genre: smut, 18+ mdni

word count: 2.3k

tags: very, very sacreligious themes, trespassing, (pink) waxplay, blindfolds, bondage, public sex, oral

a/n: this is my contribution to the sewer’s valentine’s day collab: two in the pink, one in the kink. check out everyone else’s pieces here! valentine’s day was on a sunday this year, so as far as sacrelige goes, my hands were tied. this is dedicated to @undermattsun, as all bastardization of the catholic faith should be.

hymn: take me to church by hozier

For there shall be no reward to the evil; the candle of the wicked shall be put out. -Proverbs 24:20

The smell of musty wood and a subtle fog of smoke traps you as soon as you’re guided blindly. From the sound of creaking and the loud slam behind you-- the door you’ve been pulled past is tall and heavy. The sound makes you jump backwards into the body of your captor.

“Dabi, please just tell me where we are. You’re freaking me out.” You try to reason with the man escorting you, careful to ensure you don’t trip as you walk forward into the undisclosed building. You slump forward slightly, every sense trying desperately to piece together what’s covered by satin fabric.

“If I told you where we were, wouldn’t that ruin the surprise?” You let out a shaky huff, Dabi has never been one for romantic displays of affection, so you’re doubtful there’s a bouquet of roses and chocolate written into the night’s activities. You feel his breath fanning in hot puffs against your neck, he’s close enough to graze the shell of your ear.

“And don’t call me Dabi. That isn’t who I am to you when we’re alone,” Your skin prickles at his touch, one arm snaking its way to circle around your neck. He presses his pointer finger and thumb into the skin, dragging the pressure upwards to tilt your chin, “What’s my name, princess?”

Even blindfolded, you can feel the scorch of blue eyes on your face. A warmth that burns if you get too close. No matter how many times Dabi tried to push you away, whether with actions or sharp words, you always remained fireproof.

“I’m sorry, Touya.” Your voice is little more than a whisper, words filling the still secret space around you. Dabi hums, pleased at the way your body is reacting. Without being able to see, you’re sensitive and jumpy. Every sound, every movement, every feeling is amplified.

“Just a little farther, princess.” You lean against his chest, the feeling of rough skin and hard muscles calms the fraying ends of your nerves. You know Dabi-- Touya, he’s not even close to a good person. Under purpled scars and blue flames, he’s still a villain. But you know at least one thing for certain, he would never hurt you.

At least not in ways you wouldn’t like.

Wherever he dragged you probably didn’t come with a formal invitation, that much was obvious in the sounds of metal instruments against what you could assume was a lock. The tight little dress he had “bought” for you does nothing against the cold air assaulting your uncovered skin. Your teeth chatter, skin icey and hyper-sensitive. Dabi notices the way you bristle, and runs his warm hands over your arms. His fingers press into the skin, pushing you forward.

You can feel the drag of carpet under your shoes, the heavy footsteps directly trailing yours are muffled where Dabi’s boots usually stomp loudly. You’re stopped abruptly, his hands finding the fat of your hips, turning you around to face him. Your own come up to brace against his chest, the clamoring in your heart calming slightly at the comforting smell-- sage and freshly struck matches.

Dabi drops his grip onto the skin right below your ass, squeezing slightly as his lips hover over yours. You feel his mouth an inch from you, lifting up on the balls of your feet to connect them. The man above you laughs as you try to catch a kiss like a carrot dangling on a string.

“Hold on tight, kid.” Dabi rewards you a chaste peck before hoisting you up, your legs circle around his waist, instinct guiding where your sight can’t. The overwhelming anticipation for what he has planned ignites in your core. It’s not lost on him, with the damp fabric of your panties pressed right against his abdomen. Dabi can already feel his cock straining in his boxers, pressing obnoxiously against his zipper.

You nuzzle against the crook of Dabi’s neck, careful not to rub against the staples lining his collarbone. He braces you, holding on to your ass tightly as he walks up three short steps.

Rough linen hits the back of your thighs as he sets you down. Your fingers come down to your new perch, crinkling the farblic in your fingers. From what you can feel, it seems like wood covered in some kind of table cloth.

Dabi steps away, his warmth dissipates but you’re still trapped under his stare. From this position, you realize you’re propped up higher than where Dabi stands, His eyes burn in a trail from your face to your slightly parted legs.

“My beautiful girl.” He marvels at where you sit perfectly on display, his voice now loud enough to eccoh against high ceilings. The sound startles you, every inch of skin submerged in a fresh flight of goosebumps.

“Touya, p-please,” Your voice sounds like a stranger’s as it reverberates around the room before it hits your ears. What are you pleading for?

You’re not sure if your begging for less of his torture, or more.

“Patience, princess. Don’t you trust me?” His question is loaded, knowing full well that you absolutely shouldn’t be trusting the villain before you. It’s almost funny how easily he crept into your heart; staking claim on your body, seeping into your blood.

“I trust you, Touya,” Your voice is barely above a whimper, your words feel like a salve dripping down his scarred shoulders, “always.”

He stole your heart, he’s probably ruined you in more ways than either of you would like to admit. But in exchange, unlike anyone who has come before, unlike any other person on the planet-- you have his heart too.

Dabi lets the backpack on his shoulders fall to the ground, you can hear the rustling of whatever he brought with him. He’s quiet as he approaches you again, reaching up to rub his thumb over your lips. Upon the contact, your mouth falls open to capture the digit, closing around it to suck lightly. Your temperance is a stronger hit than any drug Dabi could find.

He pets your cheek before bringing the satin rope in his left hand up to your lap, you feel the soft fabric against the top of your thighs.

“Give me your hands, princess.” Dabi almost coos when you put your wrists together and lift them towards him as an offering.

The silken rope snakes around your wrists, just tight enough so you can’t move them. He sets your hands to lay comfortably back in your lap. You’re now robbed of sight and touch, all you can comfortably do with your hands is fidget with your fingers.

“You’re always so agreeable, kid, shouldn’t you be worried? All alone with a big bad villain.” His words are desperate confirmation, poking at your resolve to see if this will be the time you cry out and demand your freedom back.

“Never.” One word reads like novels, your tone clearly extending past tonight. Not an ounce of duress to be heard even as you bristle with anticipation. It’s true. The touch that no one else has ever found welcoming is one you lean in to.

The hands that could turn buildings to ash have never scared you.

Dabi leans in to capture you in a kiss, his teeth grazing your bottom lip in the way he knows will make you gasp. His tongue slides into your now open mouth, desperation pushing in to explore you. Dabi tastes like Seven Stars and mint gum-- you swear the nicotine seeps right into your nerve endings. Fingers tangle into the straps of your dress, pulling them down your shoulders. You jump at the cool air against your exposed chest, nipples hardening immediately. Every new sensation is acute when you aren’t given any forewarning.

His hands come up to either of your cheeks, anchoring himself to the earth. The world seems to stop on its axis when it comes to you. The moment frozen, suspended in time. He would live in your orbit every available moment if you let him.

Dabi snaps out of the spell you have on him at the sharp whine that leaves your lips. His forehead lands against yours, catching each other's unsteady breaths in the small space between you. Dabi looks down to see the way your thighs are rubbing together, laughing lightly at how worked up you’ve become. You can’t see it, but he’s fairing just the same.

“You always submit so sweetly, princess,” Dabi bites your lip with a playful growl, turning away to grab the last of his surprises, “but the fun hasn’t even begun.”

The first notable sound your ears pick up is a light crackle. Your brows crease under the blind, trying to place the small pop and flicker. Dabi brings a small flame towards your body, you can see the smallest outline of blue past the silk barrier covering your eyes.

Flickering fire is an inch from your skin, but you don’t flinch away. When it comes to Dabi, all you ever seem to want is to be closer.

The next thing you notice brings realization crashing against your skin like a bucket of cold water: the smell of a burning wick. All of your senses still available piece together the remaining puzzle. The cold echoing, the feeling of scratchy linen against your ass, the smell of wood and perfumed smoke and candles.

“C-church. You brought me to a--” Your realization is cut off with a sharp prick of heat dripping down your chest. You yelp at the feeling of melted wax trailing around the swell of your breast.

“Clever little girl,” Dabi punctuates each word with another splash of hot wax. It runs down your now sweaty skin and hardens in lines on your exposed chest and stomach, pooling in the bunched up fabric of your dress.

“You look so beautiful like this.” You hang on his words like they’ll save you from the onslaught of a melting candle.

“Please, Touya I--”

But you aren’t begging for mercy. You’re begging for more of his touch, for more of anything he wants to give you, even if it’s searing hot.

“You’re gonna want to see this, kid.” Dabi’s fingers are at the back of your head, loosening the blindfold so it drops around your neck. Even in the dead of night, you wince at the moonlight spilling through large stained glass windows. You look to where Dabi stands before you, a mix of lust and adoration flashes in the blue of his eyes. Your own gaze comes down to the lashes of pink splotching your skin.

“This is definitely your color, princes.” Dabi stares for a moment longer. You look equally angelic and depraved like this, almost naked and glistening in an onslaught of melted pink, positioned like the most holy sacrament. He’ll take you.

Dabi pushes you gently so your back falls against the altar, pulling both legs so they’re propped against the table top and spread for him. Your bound arms fall to lie above your head.

It’s so irrefutably evil-- both the breaking into a place of worship and the sick joy he gets from making you a mess below a god he doesn't believe in. Dabi pulls your panties away, the fabric almost matches the pink he dripped against your overly sensitive skin.

“So wet for me,” he muses, kneeling down to be eye level with your sopping cunt, “you like being on display like this, don’t you.”

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of Dabi’s tongue against your lips, your cunt all but quivers at his attention. Dabi wouldn’t be caught dead in the stiff wooden pews on any given Sunday, but he still kneels before the closest thing to religion he has ever known.

Both of his hands come up to either of your thighs to keep you from squeezing them together. There’s no escape from the devil between your legs, there’s nowhere to run from the whip of his wicked tongue.

His pace gives you no time to breath, lapping against your folds like a man dehydrated. Every long swipe against your skin ends in his lips closing around your painfully hard clit to suck harshly. You’re hurtling towards orgasm, twitching in Dabi’s hold.

“Oh fuck, oh my God.” Your chanting of prayer makes Dabi chuckle against the puffy skin, pulling back only slightly to slap your clit with a wet pop.

“Not quite, princess.”

His prodding is relentless, slurping at your pussy with no care to how you’re definitely dripping against the white cloth under you. The knowledge that your arousal is crisiting the altar below you should be mortifying. Instead it’s driving you higher.

Dabi can tell you’re close, the shaking begs for him and the way you clench around his tongue is warning enough. He’s well familiarized with how your body stiffens before the final--

“T-Touya, I’m gonna cum.”

Your warning is almost screamed, muffled only by a series of whimpers. You contract every muscle in your body tightly, it feels like your spine could snap in half before relaxing limply against the wood below you. Your eyes are squeezed shut but fall open as bliss consumes you, your body feels boneless and limp.

The first things your gaze can focus on is the cross behind you, from your position bent over the altar, it’s upside down. You shiver at the blaring symbolism but are quickly pulled from any impending guilt at the feeling of Dabi’s cock against your cunt. All you can, all you want, to do is let him have anything. Body and soul and whatever could exist of you.

As Dabi presses the head in, you welcome him like home. He has to steady himself with a rough grip on your hips as you suck him in inch by thick inch.

God doesn't exist, Dabi thinks to himself.

But he’ll take you like communion.

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[plush-rabbit]

Intimacy and Vulnerability In A Different Form

Request: Can I please request for some angst with Shigaraki, Hawks and Dabi. Their S/O acts like she enjoy choking but she feels like it’s what she deserve (basically triggering some suicidal/depressive thoughts) so they’ve always thought she liked it until one particularly rough session she started breaking down and begging them to kill her and they found out about her depression. Sorry if this is against the rules, I’m not sure what you don’t write for. But kinda need this in my life rn. Angst+Fluff and aftercare please!!!

Warning: self-harm mentions, suicidal thoughts

A/N: I hope you like it!! Take care of yourself and remember to do the best that you can to take care of yourself and if you can, take your meds!!

-

Dabi:

His hands are heavy around your neck, a pressure that makes it harder to breathe and even harder to think anything coherent. His lips are bitter, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue and his smile presses itself against you in soft kisses. Dabi hovers above you, and as pleasurable as this all should be- the attention that he gives to you and the words that usually makes your body tremble- it’s only making you sick. The pressure tightens and all that can flash through your mind is the horrible mistakes of your past, every wound left open and salt poured on it as his words reach your ears. You aren’t sure what makes this night different compared to the others but your own hands are placed above his, your eyes squeezed tight as you press your hands down on his.

At first, he thinks nothing of it, believing it to just be you simply telling him that you want more pressure but as you continue, your face burns. Tears tracing down and marking you, your moans jumbled out and sounding so pitiful that he stops immediately. Your lips move, words slurred and are told out of order and he knows that something is wrong. You mumble something about wanting to die, and he pulls his hand away from your neck and your own hands that replace where his hand used to be. Your hands curl around your neck, scratching and pulling taut at your skin and you’re left sobbing as he stares down at you. His hands are soft, curving around your wrist and holding them together, watching as you rest against his bare chest, your tears slipping down his skin and burning against his scars.

He isn’t sure what to do. He’s unable to figure out if he should outright ask you what’s wrong but between your sobs and mess of words, he figures that that isn’t wise. The only thing that he can do is hold you close, let his hands rise in heat and rub them against your back, hoping that the motion will soothe you. He has you against him, crying and he knows- or at least has gathered enough information- to decide that you do indeed want to die. You lay against him, crying and letting your emotions get the best of you and he is unable to do what he should do, but yet, he stares at you, looking around the room hoping that the answer will be written on the walls. But, it's just him and you and a wall with chipping paint. There’s no answer to this and he isn’t good at playing therapist, and the most he can offer is a simple question of “are you okay?” even if it’s obvious that you aren’t.

While he isn’t good at sorting things out and giving advice, he is good at listening, taking things to heart and paying attention to the small details. He listens to you talk about how you have your own bad habits- you hand threads with his when you say that- and that sometimes you wish that something or someone would end your life so you didn’t have to do the dirty work. He knows enough about that to nod his head and hold your hand tighter. Your lips brush over the swell in his chest and you rest on his lap, your body shaking with the aftershocks of your sobbing, and your face still wet with tears. He listens well when you talk, nodding his head and squeezing your hand to show that he is still listening to you and his lips press against your head.

The last thing that Dabi wants is to hurt you. He doesn’t want you to see him as something that can only bring pain and destruction; he wants you to view him as a person. He tells you in a whisper that anything rough is out of the question, he doesn't want this to happen again. He tells you that he’ll be with you because he wants to be and that you two can still remain intimate but he won’t hurt you, he doesn’t want to be the reason that you cry. His hands are gentle as they move you away from him, his hand holding your jaw and his eyes linger to when a tear touches his thumb. He kisses the tip of your nose, his smile lazy and he offers a shower- just something to get rid of all the tears and sweat. It isn’t a permanent solution, but it’s the best that he can offer and he’ll stay true to his word, not wanting to go against our trust and safety. There’ll be another conversation about your mental health, but only when you’re more coherent and less in a negative state.

Shigaraki Tomura:

It’s already a dangerous situation to place yourself in with Tomura- his hands around your neck, his focus already diverting to pleasure rather than focusing on you. It’s times like these that he regrets not remembering where he placed the half gloves. His entire being is centered around death, his hands clawed and already so close to closing, the air becoming thin and harder to catch and you’re left with burning tears in your eyes. Your lips meet his in a desperate kiss, straining your neck and making his hands close tighter around your neck. A part of you wants for it to hurt more, for his hands to close around your neck and squeeze until your lips are cold and he’s over your body. You call out in a croaky voice for him to tighten his grip, placing your hands over his and begging for his to close his fist. It’s getting harder to breathe and your vision is dotted in black, tears fall and catch on his hands and your moans have turned to cries. His hand loosens around your neck, his movements stopped and he carefully removes his hand away from you.

The air is tense in the room. Your cries echoing around and he stares down at your body as it closes around itself, your arms hugging your crying form. He carefully crawls beside you, clenching his teeth when the bed creaks under him, his body careful to not touch yours. Beside you, he sits, his back propped by pillows and his lips bitten as he calls your name. He isn’t sure what he’s hoping for in a response- he knows that the answer he wants is unrealistic given your state and he isn’t sure whether he can touch you or if that would lead you to spiral down. His hands catch at a piece of your hair, rubbing the ends between his thumb and index finger. He calls you once more, nudging his leg against your body, hoping that you’ll at least give him a sort of reply.

You give an odd sort of sound- something stuck between a cry and a hiccup- but he takes it. He leans over you, brushing away the stray hair and tears, grabbing at a shirt and cleaning your face with it. You hold his hands with yours, your palm over the back of his hand, the cloth pressed against your face, the warmth of his palms warming at your cheeks. He turns over to lie beside you, his chest against your back and his lips pressed over a bruising spot on your neck. You both lay in silence for a long moment, his hands sliding down until they curve around your stomach, his nose pressed against the back of your head as your cries turn into whimpers. He whispers words of comfort- telling you that it’s okay, that he’s stopped, and letting you just cry as his hands circle around your abdomen.

He asks you what happened, his lips pressed against your neck, his hands still and his words are solemn. He doesn’t know what set it off and he isn’t aware of what he should say and a part of him thinks that it’s his fault. He asks if it was his fault- that maybe he triggered something or something else that he doesn’t know what happened. Your confession about your state of mind makes his body go pale, a shiver running down his spine and his hands curl around your stomach. You make it a point of telling him it wasn't his fault- he hadn’t known, it was something that you kept as a secret. Your hands hold his, your face dry with tear stains still lingering against your face. After the sudden outburst, your tone grows drowsy, eyelids heavy and breaths deeper. He can sense that you’re growing tired, that the outburst took a lot of energy and he moves to grab at a blanket, letting it rest against your waist until you’re ready to move it closer to your body.

During the entirety of your relationship, Tomura has always put your wellbeing as a priority; he wants to know that you’re safe and healthy and when you confess about your issues, about how your mind works against you, he asks you to turn around. He holds you close, allowing you the option to look at him or hide your face, and he speaks slowly. He isn’t going to be the one that brings out painful memories, he’s going to be here for you. Perhaps, he won’t be the best at it, but he’ll do what he can, he’ll offer to listen and to talk, he’ll offer you snacks and hold you when you need to be held. He’ll try and that’s the best he can offer. For now, you’ll rest against him, your body covered by a blanket as he keeps you close, letting his arms wrap tight around you.

Takami Keigo:

A caring lover, Keigo takes great pride in giving in to your needs, wanting you to feel heard and seen during acts of intimacy. If you want his hands around your neck, then he’s willing to do it for you. His face will be pinched, a string of curses hissed under his breath as his hand tightens around your neck. You’re under him, a cloud of negative thoughts forming into a storm, your stomach twisting and churning with every move, your eyes closed tightly and yet, the pressure against your chest isn’t enough, the way that he has his hand wrapped around your throat simply isn’t enough.

It’s a simple bad day turned worse with sex. Despite the act of intimacy and the enjoyment that you derive from it, your thoughts scream loud, drowning out anything and you’re simply just tired. You beg him with a choking voice to tighten his grasp and he does, pressing his forehead against yours for a moment, pulling away with a crooked grin. He doesn't realize what you want- that it isn’t tight enough for you, that you’re pleading for more and that you want him to close the gap until you’re heaving and gasping for air. You beg for it to be tighter and the most that he offers is a squeeze around your throat before he loosens. His hand pulls away as you start to cry, his face falling into a frown as your words are slurred between each cry, your hands covering your face, taking deep breaths with a bitterness that lingers on your tongue.

He ground you, grabbing your hands and lifting you up, his wings pushed back in an attempt to make you feel less crowded. You’re crying, your body trembling and chest shaking with every breath, as he tries to calm you down, asking you to mimic his breaths and tell him the colors on the bed sheet. He’s desperate, fear thick on his words and his hands wanting to hold you but he refrains. His voice is steady as can be, hesitation on the end of his words but nothing like yours that trembles and breaks with every sentence. He’s a hero, he knows what to do, how to calm those who are almost seen as being uncontrollable. He gets your breathing back to normal, holds your knees and has you play with his hand, the lines and calluses traced and touched under your jittery hand.. He lets you catch your breath, your body shaking and tears slowing down into heavy drops.

You open your arms, hands curling close in an attempt to ask him to come closer. He follows, wrapping his arms around you, and bringing you close to him. Careful as ever, he makes sure his wings are extended, careful to not wrap them around you nor him, wanting you to have as much space to breathe. Your hands roam around back, clinging to his shoulder blades, the tips of his feathers teased with your fingertips. His voice is calm, letting you start the conversation or choosing to save it for later and focusing on you right now. You move him and he is putty in your hands, molding into whatever you need him to be, leaning against the headboard and holding you close, feathers twitching restlessly as you lean on his chest. His hands circle back around you, his chin on the top of your head as you start to speak. He lets you take your time when your voice starts to crack, his presence nothing but soothing.

It’s difficult to listen to you talk so negatively about yourself and to know that the rougher stuff introduced during acts of intimacy were more of a punishment rather than something for pleasure. Keigo is patient in listening to you, holding you close to him and kissing your knuckles as you talk and go further in detail. He won’t push you to do things that are outside of your comfort zone and would prefer for you to take your own pace and come into realizations for yourself. He’s your partner and he’ll help you as much as he can, but he isn’t good at taking care of himself and can often find him going further than what’s good for you. He talks to you and runs his hand down your spine, moving around until you’re side by side, his smile almost pained. It’s a minute before he rises, holding you close to him and leading you to the bathroom, turning the water on and letting you stand under it, his hands covered in white fluff as suds cover your body, his body close to yours.

[imperfectcourt]

pre canon memory loss au

a twitter thread from last night that i tweaked enough to put here

tw: knives, minor violence, panic reactions

Neil finds himself in a sorry state in Arizona, hurt and hungry and a duffel bag with all the essentials. He assumes he ran away from a shitty home that he can't remember. Probably for the best if these scars are anything to go by...

He enrolls in a school a few towns away and just decides to lay low and coast until he legally turns 18. He lies about his parents so they don’t come sniffing around. He does a daily search for missing kids and he's never there so nobody is looking for him which is a relief. He relaxes. He plays exy.

He keeps the dye and contacts because that's what his ID says. It's just.... easier to go along with for a while. Until he can remember why his id is different from reality. It's fine. He squats in a house and the school has free breakfast so it's fine. His name is Neil and he has no reason to think it might not be (he has every reason). 

When Wymack comes to recruit him he has to hold in his excitement. He recognizes Kevin from his binder and though he doesn't remember being a fan before he's looked up old games and that's Kevin Day and he wants to recruit Neil? It doesn't matter that the foxes are a team or rejects. He can't say yes fast enough.

Andrew is a different problem that he'll deal with later. Drugged off his rocker but less out of his mind than he would have others believe. He's annoying but not enough to stop Neil from moving to Palmetto as soon as possible. 

Thousands of miles has to be enough. No family or authorities ever came looking for him since the day he woke up bloody and concussed in that empty house (and it must have been close to where he fled from. There's no way he could make it so far with a bleeding head wound).

He throws out the dye and contacts and tells Wymack it's just a fresh start. 

Kevin startles when he comes to drag Neil to court but Neil doesn't give him a chance to ask about the change. He wants to see the court. He needs to see the court.

(It's amazing. It's beautiful. It's everything. Andrew says he wants to bash his smile in with his racket and Neil doesn’t care, just says, "Yours, too.") 

They don't talk about it because they're too busy being volatile. Neil can't really stand them but he's too desperate to play every second Kevin lets him all summer long. 

Neil is changing in the shower stall when he hears the cousins speak German and chokes on nothing.

He understood that.

He's never learned something about himself like this. His memory was just.... it was just memory, not knowledge. Why didn't he know he could do that? Why could he do that? Does he speak any other languages? What else is hiding out behind brain trauma and avoidance? 

Whatever. It doesn't matter because it isn't exy. 

In August, his roots become obvious and unsightly. Nicky tugs at his hair and questions his poor fashion taste and offers to help him go back to his natural color.

Neil agrees.

Nicky hugs him and makes a joke that he doesn't understand about going au naturale and then Andrew is there-

"What did I tell you about touching him?"

-He has a knife 

It's small but Neil can't take his eyes off it as it's twisted against Nicky’s shirt. His body won't let him look away.

Kevin, from a distance, tells Andrew to put it away with such authority in the face of violence that Andrew actually complies- not because he was told to but "as a reward for having a backbone," he says. 

Neil finishes zipping his bag and leaves and doesn't question what brought about Kevin's out of character confidence.

After Nicky helps him with his hair, Kevin doesn't come to take him to court for 3 days. Wymack says they're in Columbia which is fine. He doesn't care about not being invited again but he does care about being ghosted when they had plans.

They come back Sunday evening and Andrew corners Neil as he's coming off the court from solo practice. He's off his meds and Neil can feel him like a thunderstorm. He grabs the front of Neil's jersey, slams him onto the bench, and braces a heavy boot by his hip.

For all that he's 5 foot nothing, he looms over Neil like this. There's a fury in his apathetic eyes and honestly? Neil is fascinated and annoyed in equal measures. 

"Is this some sort of pissing contest I'm not aware of?" He asks.

"Is this a fucking game to you?" Andrew counters and Neil isn't quite sure what he's talking about. 

"....Exy?" 

His confusion does nothing to make Andrew back off. Suddenly, Neil finds a knife tip at the apple of his cheek, right over where Kevin has his tattoo 

"Did Riko send you?" 

But Neil can't answer. He can't even think of what Riko has to do with anything. He can only choke around the panic in his throat.

His hands fly from bracing on the bench to Andrew's wrist, all logical thought of "do not touch" gone with his heartbeat. Andrew's grip on his jersey is the only thing keeping him from falling back and braining himself but this knife is overriding every natural reflex and instinct. 

Andrew doesn't budge, the knife never getting any closer than a prick despite the jarring and shoving. Neil's desperate fingers push at him, at his arm bands, catch on something beneath the cloth.

And then he's the one with a knife 

His body remembers what his brain doesn't and suddenly Andrew is the one on the bench, Neil's forearm over his throat and a knife poised at his upper thigh. One good jab there would kill him in minutes. He knows that for a fact. He doesn't know why he knows that. 

Andrew’s own knife at his stomach has him blinking back to himself. One good jab there would not kill him quickly. 

He's up and away in a flash, dropping the knife and himself and skittering away until his back hits the plexiglass of the court. He brings his hands up to claw at his face and finds a smile there of all things. Through the blinding panic he's smiling terribly and he hates it.

"Sorry," he says and it's nearly a laugh. Andrew approaches, puts the 2 knives back in his bands without looking away from Neil. When he gets to him, he grabs him by the hair with one hand and uses his other to pinch his cheeks together hard 

"Shut up." 

"I don't like knives," Neil says.

"Pretty good at them," Andrew points out and it's not a compliment.

"I think that might be why."

"You think?"

It's too crazy to say out loud but maybe he doesn't have to. Fingers in his hair trace over the bumpy scar that started all of this

"You think." It's not a question

[skellebonez]

Hmmm how about MK and Monkie King with number 1 and number 45

I wanted to write a follow up to a certain fill that got some wonderful art recently too! But then the finale happened and now I made it depressing, sorry. Spoilers for... everything as this is set 3 days after the final episode. This also plays around with the “Sun Wukong is still super immortal and powerful but...” and other theories. (second prompt line is only used as inspiration in fill)

Do not give me that look./ You may technically be an adult, but you’re still my child.

The moment MK's curse was lifted and he was re-aged from 4 years old to adult Wukong acted like nothing had happened at all. No understanding conversations about how his powers could hurt him, no cooking together, no video games, and no accidental couch naps. It was as if the entire day had been undone to the sands of time.

But MK remembered and when the literal next day Wukong announced he was going on vacation... let's just say he was not happy in the slightest. He had tried to voice his objections, citing the Spider Queen as a prime example for why they should be worried, but the immortal monkey just flashed him dual thumbs up with a “Monkey King Out!” and flashed off somewhere MK couldn’t follow.

And now he was back and while MK had been more than happy to get going at first, to push everything that happened deep down inside him and ignore it for as long as possible (why was he doing that, he needed to stop doing that, look where that got them he was a mistake a bad choice as a successor and now he’s barely a successor at all) there was only so long he could go before it became clear there was more wrong than what Sun Wukong was telling him.

There was more wrong with Sun Wukong himself that he refused to admit.

He tried to hide it as well as he could. Despite the heat outside and the fur covering his body he still wore full body clothing. Hiding away the gashes and healing scars that riddled his form now. There was a nick in his eyebrow that had never gone away, and when MK watched closely he could see his mentor sometimes place his hand too far to the left when grabbing something. He walked with a slight limp, though that had improved over the last few days.

And he was quiet. Yes, when someone was addressing him he was “yeah totally, we got this fam, onward westward!”, but when MK caught him alone... especially outside on the deck of the drone, watching the horizon, he was more quiet and still than the Monkie Kid had ever seen him before.

Or maybe he was always like this and now Wukong was too hurt or distracted enough or just didn’t care anymore that MK was finally seeing him.

It was hard to tell with how distant he had been the last three days. Distant in the same way the day after the curse was lifted, but quieter.

“We need to talk,” He said from behind his mentor, watching as Wukong’s tail jumped only a little. Maybe that was just surprise at the words themselves. “Alone. Please.”

He expected Wukong to brush him off, to say “aw bud, can’t it wait? look at the sunset!” despite the sun having set so far they barely had any light left or something else. But instead he straightened up (MK heard the slight crack of his back again, much softer than when he had first heard it after their crash landing, and he wondered how much his back had healed from whatever injury it had) and turned to his student with an odd expression. Somewhat soft and fond and somewhat worried and resigned. Like this was more than just 3 days coming (and it was).

“Let’s... get something to eat first, alright?”

MK didn’t mention that they had eaten just over an hour ago.

~

They sat in the kitchen of the drone, alone under the dimmed lights with cups of tea and sliced fruit between them (mostly for Wukong). Neither had said anything as they prepared the small snack, and neither said anything as they sat down and took sips of their tea.

MK had made it slightly too strong.

“What did you want to ask first?” Wukong started off, picking up a peach slice and biting into it carefully. Slowly. This was something else that was noticed. Before when eating the Monkey King would just shove whatever he was eating in his mouth and MK wasn't certain he tasted it. But now it was like he was trying to make every meal last as long as possible. “There’s... a lot. I can tell.”

“We spent an entire day together and then you left without telling me anything,” MK said firmly, gripping the tea cup in his hands. He squeezed harder, just to see what would happen. It should have shattered... it didn’t. “Why didn’t you just... say something?”

“... I thought I was protecting you,” Wukong admitted honestly, taking another bite of peach. “And the city, the others...  That if I acted distant you wouldn’t wonder where I went a-”

“Wouldn’t wonder wh- no!” MK interrupted, gritting his teeth. “No, Monkey K- Wukong.” The change in how MK addressed him made Wukong jolt, looking at him with wide eyes. He had never called him by his name before now. “We spent an entire day together. You took care of me, helped me when my powers went haywire, helped me make food! You never treated me like that before! You treated me like... Like I was...”

“My kid,” Wukong finished for him, now looking down into his tea cup. “MK... You’re an adult, I know that, but somewhere down the line I started to think of you as... I didn’t know till then I guess, and that terrified me. The idea of you getting hurt that day was the only thing that compared to admitting I got attached to you as more than just my student.”

Had this revelation come sooner MK might have been more surprised. More disbelieving. But after that day and everything that happened once the curse was gone...

“... you have a funny way of showing it,” MK snapped without thinking, eyes widening and jolting upright when he realized what he had said. “I-”

“Don’t,” Wukong said with a shake of his head, sipping his tea with a sigh. “You deserve to be angry with me. I talked to, uh... Pigsy? Sandy too. Tang.... Mei. Your boss in particular laid into me pretty hard after the excitement died down... Don’t know how I went 1000 years without knowing what a ‘lie by omission’ was.”

“... you abandoned me.”

“Yes... I didn’t mean it that way, but that doesn’t change that I did.”

“You didn’t trust me.”

“NO.” Wukong said firmly, voice raised for the first time in days. MK glowered at him. “No, that is one thing I will not back down on. Yes, I lied to you and left you behind and that was a mistake I will need to make up for over a long time, but it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. I trusted you to take care of yourself, to teach yourself the lessons I left behind, and take care of the city. And you did! You did so much better than I even hoped for, and I hoped so badly that you would do as well as you did! I didn’t leave you there because I didn’t trust you, I left you there because I did... and because I thought I had to do everything myself...” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “I’ve been alone so long... I forgot I could do things with help on my end, I guess...”

“If... If Lady Bone Demon hadn’t finished what she was doing...?”

“Had the Lady Bone Demon not been working faster than I thought she was I would have come back with nothing less than even more trust in you as my successor.”

“... am I even still your successor without...?” MK trailed off, trying to keep his voice level. The tea cup still held strong.

“Yes,” Wukong assured, reaching out to put a hand on MK’s shoulder. MK noticed how he almost missed and corrected his hand. “The staff and my powers alone didn’t make you my successor. I picked you before those, remember? You’re still the Monkie Kid, MK. Nothing is going to change that for me.”

The young man went quiet for a moment, taking a shaky breath. He wanted to ask why he was chosen, what made him so special... but there would be time for that in the future. For now he had gotten at least some of his questions answered. But there was something much more pressing to touch on.

“,,, you’ve been lying to all of us,” he accused suddenly, reaching up and grabbing the wrist of Wukong’s hand on his shoulder before he could pull back. He looked his mentor in the face, watching as Wukong’s eyes widened in realization and horror. “Do not give me that look. Stop... please, stop lying. I’m not stupid, I can see you’re still hurt bad. You’re supposed to be invincible but you came back hurt and... and almost nothing can hurt you!”

Wukong didn’t meet MK’s gaze, looking down at their snack as he breathed heavily and shakily. He knew he was caught, that much was obvious.

“Please... talk to me, for once. I know I do the same thing, I lied to everyone else by not telling them about LBD or the calabash or Macaque coming back-” Wukong tensed at that, an odd sound escaping his throat. “-and look where it got us. We both need to talk. To everyone else. To each other.”

Wukong’s arm was shaking where MK held it, but he didn’t try to pull it back. Not until MK let it go. He sat back down, looking at the table like it held all the secrets of the universe before bringing his hand up to cover his eye. The one with the nicked eyebrow.

“Bud...” Wukong started, biting his lip. There was something wrong in his tone. “I... you were going to find out eventually. I can’t keep this up forever, not like Macaque can.” MK tensed at the mention of the other immortal monkey, watching as Wukong did not move his hand. “This takes a lot of focus. And... with my invincibility partly gone-”

“What?” MK asked, so soft he thought Wukong hadn’t heard him.

“... You didn’t get my powers from the staff, MK,” Wukong said. “And they don’t just duplicate. That’s not how they work. From day one I have been... siphoning my powers to you. Bit by bit. As you got better at controlling them I would give you more until I felt I didn’t need them myself anymore. When I locked away your invincibility I just undid what I had given you and slowed down the transfer... you’d been half invincible for weeks.”

“No...” MK started, slowly realizing what Wukong was implying. “No, no you’re lying again! This is a terrible, horrible prank!” Despite wanting to be quiet before MK found himself yelling. “Say you’re still lying!”

“No,” Wukong shook his head, looking down at the scar on his arm that was now visible as his sleeve had slipped down. “Most of this will probably heal eventually, except maybe one thing, and I’m still immortal! There’s no undoing that no matter what I do. I’m not dying any time soon. But my transformations? Cloning? My cloud...” He trailed off at that, breaking in a shaky breath. “You didn’t even get to use that... Lady Bone Demon took all of it when she took it from you. I still have some powers, some of my transformations and hair stuff and some invincibility... but I’m not the same overpowered Monkey King you met when you freed DBK...”

And as he trailed off, Wukong lowered his hand. Something flickered, something familiar. Too familiar. Reminiscent of Macaque’s shadows but brighter. And after there was something else reminiscent. In reverse.

MK had only seen it for a split second, when all of Macaque’s glamor magic had dropped. The milky white right eye and the scar over it that was left behind from his battle with Wukong 500 years ago.

And now Wukong looked at him with a similarly white left eye, a similar scar that wasn’t just a nicked eyebrow running down his face.

It makes sense in retrospect, much more. MK supposed that when you lose an eye you lose depth perception and it takes a while to get used to judging where things are.

“... what happened before you came in to save me?” MK asked quietly, watching as more of the glamor fell with a curse from Wukong. There was another nick on his cheek that was still healing, a piece of one of his ears had been ripped off too. No doubt there were more injuries under his clothes that Wukong hadn’t let anyone see.

“She has Macaque under her control,” Wukong said plainly, groaning as he held his head. “Damn, that... letting that down...” He groaned again and before MK could realize what was happening Wukong’s eyes rolled back into his head and he slipped from his chair to the floor.

“WUKONG!” MK shot up, rushing over to his side and yelling over his shoulder in the hopes someone would hear. “Pigsy! D-DADSY! Help, SOMETHING’S WRONG!”

When Pigsy rushed in with the others in tow Wukong hadn't regained consciousness.

[starcunning]

2. Bolt

Breath of Morning

For @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast's FFXIVWrite 2022. [AO3 mirror] References to adult situations/NSFW content. Not explicit.

She wakes with a start to unfamiliar environs.

This is not her ceiling—not the canopy of canvas hung over the bed in her cliffside waystop; not the stone facade that rises above Mor Dhona, giving a name to the likeliest place for her to lay her head. This is certainly not the gilt-tracery mosaic of some Amaurot apartment.

It’s warm.

She hears the rise and fall of breathing far too steady to be her own, and Shasi slowly turns her head.

The spill of his blonde hair is lank and damp from the shower—bells must have passed since then, and in Thanalan the desert air would have wrung them both out long since, but … she strains to listen past Eros’s breathing, and yes; there is the distant rush of waves.

La Noscea, then. With him—neither should be a surprise. How often had she returned to Limsa Lominsa simply for him? Her head hurts and her throat is dry. His arms are heavy, still wound around her.

One touches the small of her back, fingers splayed loosely over the branching, fern-like scar, twin to the one on her front. His other hand is between her legs, thick fingers not quite reaching inside her. Shasi shifts her weight and finds herself sore; his fingertips spark that sensation anew.

Not a surprise that she’d come here. An inevitability. She had found him dancing for money, stole him away for a drink, and turned his head by refraining to follow up with the usual proposition. In return he had poured out a measure of trust; had laid before her a banquet of secrets and suffering, speaking of things too long unspoken. This she was used to.

Then Eros van Aventis—no, Eros yae Galvus—had asked her to unburden herself before him in turn.

This was strange.

So too the fact that she had fallen asleep in this rented bed—she had meant to linger only so long as it took him to fall asleep, but perhaps she had succumbed first. It will take some doing to extricate herself from his grasp, and yet she must. With war-callused hands she grasps his wrists, marveling at the black and red whorls of ink that decorate his skin. Slowly—ever so slowly—she unwinds them from about her.

He stirs, and she freezes, ears trained forward to catch any hitch in his breathing. Her attention lingers upon his face; the fringe of his pale lashes hides those golden eyes, and with his face slack in sleep the resemblance to his kin is more obvious than ever. Awake, he is rather too animated—not given to Zenos’s apathetic anomie nor Varis’s dour mien, the relative he most resembles, she finds, is his grandsire Solus. But Eros’s smiles are more expressive than wry, and that dimple in his cheek is not of the Galvus canon. Something of his mother’s, she supposes.

He does not rouse as she lays his arms loosely atop his chest. Shasi finds the room far colder once she’s slipped from the bed; she gathers her discarded clothing, clutching it to herself. There comes the oddest impulse to stay—after all, he had invited her to, less with words than deeds when he had turned on its face the chronometer meant to keep the time she was allotted with him. No less so when they had washed in the wake of their coupling and he had not handed her those garments she now holds against her body, but tugged her back into the bed that still smelled of them both. But she had been lucky to wake silent once and would not be so again. His face is so peaceful in repose, she thinks. She will not be the one to steal the ease from that countenance.

If she does not go now, she will never make it out. Shasi creeps across the floor, and quiet as she can, puts a door between them, standing naked in the silent halls of the bawdyhouse that—however impossibly—hosts a prodigal prince of the Empire. The sky is pre-dawn grey outside the distant windows, and she hastens to dress, confident now that the sound of her footfalls should not give her away.

Knowing not what she flees, X’shasi Kilntreader steals away into the last of the night.

[hypnomicimagines]

Alone Time [Werewolf!Yamada Ichiro]

(You guys can also have this as a treat... a nice 2am treat. afab reader but no pronouns used)

Ichiro’s tail swished nervously behind him as he fumbled around with the dishes, his mind on anything but doing the rest of his household chores. Part of it was caused by both Jiro and Saburo being away, he had made Saburo promise to call him once his class reached their destination, but the other part of it was because he had been bold enough to ask you to stay over. He had even made it known his brothers wouldn’t be present which you had giggled about but said nothing more on the topic, agreeing that it would be nice to have a night in together.

“Hi!” You’re happy to be greeted by the excited werewolf who quickly lifted you up into his arms, squeezing tightly as it had been quite some time since you’d seen each other. His hand lingered on your lower back for longer than normal, as though he didn’t want to pull away at all if he could help it, but the sensible side of him won out as he pointed to the kitchen.

“I’m cooking but you can relax if you want.” You noted that the living room was cleaner than it normally was, no soccer balls around though there was a vacuum positioned in the corner filled to the brim with wolf fur. Did their tails shed that much? Poor Ichiro, it must be an endless cycle having three wolves living under one roof.

“I’ll sit with you in the kitchen if you don’t mind. I like watching you be all domestic, it’s cute. Should we get a hairnet for your tail?”

“I’ve never had any issues with-” Ichiro noted the way you were smiling at him, “Oh, you’re just messing with me, huh? I’ll remember that.”

Dinner was served shortly after and you weren’t lying about liking domestic Ichiro, thinking it was quite sweet to see him making you a plate and putting it down in front of you before sitting across the table. He even took the dishes to clean them before you could offer to help, saying he had invited you over to take a break and that he didn’t expect you to lift a finger. Your insistence was a little stronger than his stubborn need to do it all so you ended up drying and putting the dishes away as he scrubbed, pleased when everything was said and done so you could both relax together.  

You managed to make it through exactly one movie before you began to feel sleepy.

You stretched, yawned, and his response came quickly.

“Should we go lie down?” You knew his request didn’t have ulterior motives, at least not in the moment, because as soon as he realized what he said his mouth hung open like he didn’t believe he’d just said that. You gave him a knowing smirk but didn’t tease him out loud, knowing he was probably beating himself up over it now.

“Sure. Lead the way, casanova.”

Ichiro hopped up off the couch and nearly forgot his manners with how quickly he was trying to leave the situation, turning before you get up to offer his hand. You thank him and take his hand, noting it’s a little sweatier than it was when you were holding it before. His anxiety is palpable and your own nerves are starting to build, knowing there’s nothing technically stopping you from having your way with each other. You had thought about it, God knows you had thought about it, and though you can’t speak on Ichiro’s own naughty daydreams you were sure there was something running through his mind with how stiff he had been acting tonight.

“Let me borrow one of your shirts, won’t you?” His eyes widened at that and you heard a shocked noise that you weren’t quite sure came from Ichiro. He stared at you a moment longer with his flustered expression before he fully processed your request, heading over to the dresser and fumbling through until he found a long, comfortable shirt suitable for bedtime. You made sure to brush your hand over his as you took it from him, shooting him a coy smile and thanking him. You admit that you’re starting to feel eager yourself as you remove your clothing, slipping into the t-shirt—And only the t-shirt.

Ichiro’s distracted as you walk out of the bathroom, mid-changing as he hadn’t expected you to be so quick. You’re disappointed that he’s wearing pants but you’d never seen him shirtless before, eyes scanning his back and soaking in all the scars that were left there. There were big and small, healed to the best of their ability; werewolves had a supernatural healing element to them so the wounds that caused scars to grow were ones either gained in adolescence, when the healing factor was much slower, or the wounds were near fatal in nature thus taking longer to heal. Your footsteps are quiet but Ichiro’s ears twitch in your direction, whipping around to face you. His eyes are on your face for only a moment before dropping to your bare legs, noting that his shirt was a little long on you but still left plenty for him to admire.

“I didn’t mean to leave you shirtless! How will you keep warm now?” You grabbed the shirt out of his hand, tossing it in the direction of the dresser as he certainly wouldn’t need it tonight.

“But wolves don’t get cold- Oh…” Ichiro was so intelligent normally but it seemed his mind was elsewhere, all your come-ons causing him confusion until you gave him a look that said ‘think about that a bit more’. He leaned in to kiss your cheek, slowly leaving a trail of kisses anywhere he could reach, helped by you tilting your head to the side to give him more access to you.

You tried to muffle your groan as Ichiro’s sharp teeth grazed against your neck, him purposely repeating the action to see if it was just a fluke. When you give him the same type of response you feel him press closer to you, his tail beginning to sway again to show how he happy he was (though it was obvious he was trying to control it as well). You gently touched his chest after you pulled away from him, fingers grazing the scarred Chuuoku brand on his skin, something that made him look away. You’re worried that you’ve agitated him at first but he grabbed your wrist as you went to pull away, pressing your hand to his chest and looking into your eyes.

He was giving you permission.

Your finger traced over the brand on his chest again, feeling guilty that you were looking at it when there was the rest of his beautiful body to admire. It was hard not to think about the burning pain that had been inflicted on him, that each and every scar must hold a sad story behind how he’d received them. You knew he had been a bit of a punk when he was younger but that seemed to be the type of lives werewolves lived, especially the ones with no parents to guide or protect them. He hadn’t talked about his father much but there was a bitterness there, a betrayal that had wedged itself deeply into Ichiro’s heart and had been the reason behind him breaking up their pack to begin with.

It wasn’t time to worry about that now.

If anything, you wanted Ichiro to forget his worries, at least for now.

You crawled into the bed first, flashing him the fact that you weren’t wearing underwear as though he needed another reason to snuggle in beside you as soon as possible. You teasingly turn to face the wall but are pleased when Ichiro pulled you flush against him, his dick hot and hard on your ass. He’s trying not to rut his hips but it’s hard, just like him, and he’s restraining himself in fear of his strength accidentally hurting you. The plan had been to allow you to set the pace, to take control so that it’d be less likely an accident like that would happen, but it seemed useless now.

His attraction, his burning desire, it was too much for him to handle.

“I guess being tempting is just in your nature,” He whispered against your neck, hands running up your leg until they caught the end of his shirt; he lifted it up, slowly, slowly, until it was at your waist, leaving it there and going down to squeeze your hip. He’s started to move his hips in a steady rhythm that was turning him on more, thinking about how soft you felt against him. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Oh, is that right? You’ve met a fairy, right?”

“They have nothing on you.”

“Ooh, I’d be careful with that.” You turned your head to look at him, eyes taking a second to make out his face in the darkened room. “The fae don’t take kindly to being outdone. You might have put us both in danger.”

“I’d do anything to keep you safe.” Not normal bedroom talk but you’d be lying if that didn’t make your chest tingle, or perhaps that was just because his hands were now sliding up your stomach, cupping your chest but making no other moves just yet.

“Oh, my hero…!” Your teasing gets you everywhere, his hand rearranging itself so his fingers could gently pinch your nipple. You moaned quietly to show him that you appreciated what he was doing, arching back against him to temporarily stop his hips from moving. He’s breathing a little heavier now, which is why his next request isn’t a surprise.

“Turn around.”

His lips crashed against yours the second you did so, his hand on the back of your head as his tongue forced its way past your lips. He’s still a little clumsy when it comes to navigating such a passionate kiss but you can tell he’s putting his all into it, allowing you to explore his mouth as well; you couldn’t stop yourself from running your tongue over his canines, squeaking as it feels like you sliced your tongue though there’s no coppery taste to accompany the slight pain. He pulled away quick, a panicked look on his face as he opened his mouth to apologize.

“Shh…” You pressed a finger to his lips, “You don’t have to say sorry, baby. There’s something I want to do…but be careful of those fangs, alright?”

The only sound in the room is the shuffling of blankets as you pushed him onto his back, moving the blankets out of your way and stripping yourself of his shirt. He gets only a glance of your chest but you can tell he’s licking his lips at the thought of sucking on them, thinking he could have his way with them later when you were done with your request. You carefully positioned yourself over his, lowering cautiously as you didn’t want to totally smother him (at least not yet). Ichiro’s impatience is finally shining through and he throws caution out, strong arms wrapping around your thighs and pulling you down on his face.

Werewolves had been stereotyped as being voracious eaters and Ichiro wasn’t proving them wrong, the way his tongue was working you over being more than enough proof that he was one. You’re trying to keep yourself quiet despite knowing you don’t have to but that’s not good enough for Ichiro, no, he has to hear your voice full volume or he doesn’t believe he’s doing a good enough job. He teased your clit with his tongue, sucking, licking, going back and forth between the two as you grinded down on his face. He felt a certain thrill at how rough you were being now that you were close to the edge, being far less careful than you had before as you rode his face, desperate to come yet not really wanting the moment to end.

He would be sure to request this later, seeing how irresistible you acted when he ate you out.

You nearly pulled away from him before you came but he felt the muscles in your legs beginning to move, holding you down before you could take this delicacy away from him. You cried out his name as you came on his face, whimpering at the delicate licks he continued to give your clit as you came down from your orgasm. He could probably spend the entire night down there if you allowed him but there was another part of him you were hungry for, something that couldn’t be put off any longer.

You spend a second teasing his cock, licking up and down the vein on the underside of it as it seemed to drive him craziest. There was another stereotype about werewolves that was proven correct but you couldn’t think about it for too long, straddling his waist this time and sitting down on his length (but not allowing it to enter you). You’re slick as you moved back and forth, the head of his dick hitting your clit every time you moved forward, and you took pleasure in seeing the internal debate on Ichiro’s face. What would he do? Would he sit there and take it like a good boy, or would he let out that inner carnivore and show you who’s boss?

You’re pleased it’s the latter, legs spreading as the positions are reversed and you’re now underneath him. He lets out a growl that makes you bite your lip, his eyes on your chest once more before drifting up to your face. He leaned down to kiss you as he lined himself up with your entrance, pressing himself inside of you and waiting an extra second before going deeper. He’s thick and burning hot but it feels too damn good for you to complain about it, your body growing used to the feeling of his thick cock inside you. You’re distracted by his mouth on your chest again, tongue expertly playing with your nipple; his one hand cupped the breast he was playing with while the other held onto your hip, helping him bring your hips to meet his as he thrusted.

The pace he set was rougher than you thought he was capable of yet it still felt good, you could feel his desperation for your touch leaking through. Your hand ran through his hair, tugging as you ordered him to slow it down as you would come to quick if he kept the pace up; he didn’t listen at first which meant finding another weak spot, your hand reaching down in the dark to squeeze his ass, rising up to touch the base of his tail. He let out a whimper at this but finally obeyed, showing he still had a little good boy left in him. You wanted to memorize the way it felt to have him inside you, to have him planting kisses all over your neck and chest, to hear his begging as he didn’t know how much longer he’d last going at this pace.

“Try not to break me in half,” You grinned at him but he didn’t process it, knowing he was given permission to pick the pace up once again.

You’re pressed into the bed as Ichiro fucked you hard and fast, desperate to snap that thread, to finally come after all the hard work he had done to make this a nice night. He deserved this, you think, he deserved to feel good and you were happy that you were the one to do it. If it wasn’t you he wouldn’t be satisfied, Ichiro knew that without the love he felt for you this would just be empty pleasure but his heart felt so full as his lips pressed against yours and he came with one last thrust.

“I love you…” He gasped out, face buried in your neck as he dropped some of his weight on top of you, just enough to create a pleasantly snug sensation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“I love you too, Ichi, don’t get so worked up.” You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching his ears in appreciation and trying not to laugh at the feeling of his tail wagging. “I love you so much it’s unbearable.”

“You think you have it bad, I’ve been thinking about sending my brothers out on a fake job just so we could be alone…” Ichiro sighed as he rolled off of you, knowing that the clean-up would be next but not quite finding the energy to move yet. “That would be bad, right?”

“…I mean, if they’re gonna follow in your footsteps you could at least call it training. Then it won’t feel like you’re lying.”

“…You’re right, that’s a way better idea.”

“That’s what I’m here for!”

“…Thank you for coming over tonight,” Ichiro’s voice is back to being a whisper, “We should get cleaned up.”

“Carry me to the bathroom, won’t you? I can’t guarantee my legs work right now.”

Ichiro laughed.

“Anything for you.”

[biggest-stupidhead]

Hi! :D I saw that request are open, soo can you do a reader x levi where reader and reiner were a couple, but she found out about him being the armor titan and now she is a mess and levi is making her forget about reiner or something like that, pretty please? 🥺

Oooo I like it :)

Summary: Reader is heartbroken with the revelation of the identities of the Armored and Colossal titans. 

Word Count: 1.8K

__

You sat numbly at the dining room table. It had been one day since Reiner and Bertolt revealed their secret. You and the others were still in shock, denial even for some of you. Connie sat to your left, his face in his hands, shoulders slumped. Levi and Hange had left you and the others alone to update the commander on the current situation. It felt wrong, to be without the blonde, someone who had slipped into your heart and become a constant in your life effortlessly. Someone you trusted implicitly with all your heart, he had been more than a comrade to you. More than a friend even, the two of you shared countless nights under the stars during your cadet days, talking about anything and everything. But now you wandered if it was all an act, an elaborate scheme to blend into the ranks, seem human. Because no human being could slip between roles the way that they had. But he had felt human when you kissed him, held him, talked to him. 

“Your turn to be on duty.” Sasha said, coming into the small space, shotgun slung over her shoulder. Mikasa held an armful of kindling, which she set near the stove before turning to retreat into the back room where Eren was resting. 

“Okay Sash.” Connie said, his tone deflated and dull. Sasha handed you the shotgun and Connie shrugged a cloak on, pulling the hood over his head as the two of you walked out into the night. You stood on the makeshift towers that had been constructed, looking up at the same stars that you’d gazed at with Reiner ages ago. It was all so fresh, the sting of the steam hitting your face as they transformed, the clap of thunder. The way he had begun throwing titans left and right with no regard for his former comrades, for you. All of you had nearly died in the fiasco, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him. No you were just plain hurt. Connie perked up beside you, pushing his hood down when the sound of hooves thundering down the deserted path became clear. 

“They’re back.” Connie stated the obvious as he climbed down the tower, you followed him. Once the superiors arrived you took the reins of their horses and rushed to put them away, eager to hear your next orders. With the horses fed and watered you both ran back into the cabin. You hung the rifle by the door and Connie threw his cloak onto one of the coat hooks. The others had already gathered at the table, Historia sat at the head of the table, a humble meal was prepared and placed on the table, soup and stale bread as always. You listened as Historia told you her story, of her true identity and what that meant for all of you. Levi and Hange informed you that the government was fed up with the scouts and planned to punish Erwin Smith. Everything was falling apart, the little family that you had found was about to come crumbling down once more. As soon as Levi gave the order for all of you to go to bed, the cadets fled to the two rooms, one for the girls the other for the boys. Hange left once more, something about checking up on the pastor and keeping Erwin company. You were doing dishes with Armin who was drying them with shaky hands. 

“Go to bed, I can finish this.” You assured him, wanting to be alone and do a mindless task to help you dissociate. 

“I couldn’t-” 

“I need this Armin, just go to sleep.” You came across a bit hostile but at the moment you couldn’t care less. He frowned but set the towel aside and retreated with slumped shoulders. Levi cleared his throat from behind you as he came back into the kitchen. You didn’t even spare him a glance as he reached into the cupboard for the tea leaves, he filled the tea pot with water and began to boil the water. As he waited he sat at the kitchen table in silence. 

“Finish those and head to bed.” His cold voice made you jump a bit, due to the randomness of his order. 

“Yes sir.” You answered as you scrubbed at the ancient dishes. Your hands were sore, they had been burned during your assault on Bertolt. The bandages were wet now, the salve Hange had applied earlier in the day had long since dried up. As you finished the last dish you turned and dried your hands off, a involuntary hiss escaping your lips as you applied too much pressure to your wounds. 

“What’s wrong cadet?” Levi asked as he poured hot water over the bitter leaves. 

“It’s nothing, just burned my hands yesterday...” You answered as you pulled at the bandages. 

“Hm I see.” Levi mused as he reached into the cupboard once more, you watched him carefully, waiting for him to tell you to get lost. But instead he produced another cup, pouring tea into it and walked over towards the door. You watched, confused when he paused before the door. 

“Bring the roll of bandages and that salve Hange had earlier. They’re in that bag over there.” He said with a vague nod in the direction of the humble living room. You found the bandages and salve, you carried them out into the cool summer evening, the sound of cicadas and tree frogs felt familiar and comforting. You found him on the porch on one of the rickety old chairs. The cups were steaming as they sat on a small round table, he watched you with a dull expression as you sat in the other chair and placed the bandages and salve on the table. 

“Let me see them.” He sighed, holding his hands out, his own palms were littered with callouses and old scars. You timidly obeyed, placing the backs of your hands in his palms. He inspected the bandages for a moment before he began to unwrap them. You watched as he uncovered your wrecked palms, the flesh red and blistered from doing the dishes and other chores all day long. 

“You should have said something.” Levi scolded as he unscrewed the lid of the salve and dipped a finger into the cool substance. 

“It wouldn’t have been fair. We’re all injured.” You pointed out as he began to smear the salve onto your left palm. 

“You’re no good to me if your hands get infected and need to be amputated.” He shot back, his dark eyes focused on the task at hand, you frowned but said nothing. 

“I suppose.” You said after a moment, your eyes taking the opportunity to study his features as he worked, the soft curve of his nose, prominent cheek bones and delicate brows. He was undeniably handsome, you had known this obviously, the women of the walls always threw themselves at his feet. 

“Tomorrow you will do look out rotations instead of cleaning or getting wood. Your hands need to heal.” He stated as he wrapped your left palm back up in fresh bandages. The burning had subsided with the aid of the salve, now he turned his attention to your other hand. 

“Yes sir.” You answered obediently as you watched him unwrap the bandages once more. 

“How is your knee?” You attempted to make conversation, eyes traveling to inspect the injured knee. He paused and looked up at you, his eyes weren’t as hard as they’d been moments ago, the sudden softness caught you off guard. 

“Better.” He answered with a clipped tone as he held your hand tenderly. His thumb rubbed the space over the inside of your wrist and your brows raised in shock. 

“You were close with them?” His words and actions alike caught you off guard, you blinked dumbly at him as he waited for an answer. 

“I was....” You said, his grip on your wrist tightened then eased up almost instantly. 

“It’s a shame. They were good soldiers.” He said nonchalantly as he ran his salve covered fingers over your torn skin. 

“Yes.” was all you could manage as he began to wrap your wounds. When he finished he sat back, crossing his legs, one ankle resting on his opposite knee. He reached for his cup and took a sip of the bitter tea, eyes wandering to scan the forest. Not knowing what else to do, you grabbed your own cup with your freshly wrapped hands and took a sip of the calming liquid. 

“Where are you from cadet?” Levi asked, once more shocking you. 

“A small village in wall Maria.” you answered, the memory of your cozy home and the unfortunate end that it met coming to your mind. 

“Hm, that why you joined the scouts?” He mused, eyes still not on you. 

“Yes, mainly.” 

“Mainly?” He looked at you now, eyes curious. 

“I wanted to fight alongside my brother.” You answered, remembering how he had been killed by the female titan during the 57th. 

“Ah I remember him now.” Levi said, his tone soft and understanding. 

“Good soldier, he would be....proud of you I’m sure.” You looked at him with wide eyes, he was being so kind. Did he put something in his tea? 

“I can only hope...” You said, taking another sip of the tea, hoping now that there was alcohol in it to calm your nerves and help make sense of this weird situation. 

“We must remember our fallen, that’s what I fight for, their memory.” Levi said, the vulnerability in his voice making your heart skip a beat. He had lost people too in that expedition, their deaths were the only reason that you’d been assigned to his squad. 

“Yeah..” you said lamely as you tried to make sense of where all of this was coming from. 

“Sir?” You started, unsure of if the next words you were going to speak would be appropriate or not. 

“Hm what is it?” He asked over the rim of his cup. 

“C-Could you...tell me a story or something? I can’t stop thinking about-” 

“What do I look like? Your mother?” He snorted, setting his cup down, you blushed profusely, instantly regret flooding your chest. 

“No forget about it, it’s stupid” You said, shaking your head and standing quickly. Levi leaned forward and caught your wrist. 

“Sit.” You dropped back into your seat without a second thought. 

“I guess...I could tell you about the time-” He trailed off, a thoughtful expression replacing his dull one. You found yourself admiring the rare expression fondly. 

“The time that I had to knock Hange unconscious to bathe her, filthy animal.” Levi scoffed and leaned back into his seat when he saw that you were no longer trying to get away. 

“That sounds perfect.” You sighed and sat back as well, ready to hear about the antics that Hange and Levi went through to get your mind off of the betrayal. 

“She got into some mud after a mission, wouldn’t bathe. Said there was too much work to do-” You closed your eyes, letting the baritone voice wash over your senses and sweep any other thoughts out of your mind. That night you fell asleep to Levi’s voice for the first time and the melody of cicadas and tree frogs. 

__

Kinda got carried away with this one. Honestly feels a bit cheesy but I kinda like it. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

OH ANTONI 🥺🥺🥺 my poor baby. I hope he will find it within himself to come clean to Jake or SOMEONE about this :((((

(((ALSO CANT WAIT FOR MORR))))

One Two Three Four Five Six

CW: Wound cleaning, burns, touch aversion, aftermath of torture, BBU, conditioned fucky headspace

"Lift your chin for me," she commands, and he doesn't really remember that he could choose not to obey.

Antoni dutifully shifts, his eyes moving to roam over a line of framed photographs along the wall behind her. A wedding photo, faded with time, a much, much younger version of the woman currently dabbing a cotton ball dipped in something cold and stinging to the fresh burn on his throat with a man he's never seen. The two of them are smiling, holding hands, looking right into the camera.

Bright white wedding dress turned cream with yellowing paper, with time, covered in lace. Powder-blue tuxedo. Brilliant smiles.

She touches the cotton ball to his skin and he hisses, hands tightening where they grip the edges of the chair he's sitting on. The sting rockets through him, only a pale echo of the original pain, but it's enough.

It's enough.

Fuck, that's hot.

He catches the sob before it can leave his throat, forces the burn behind his eyes to stay there and not turn into tears. He will not cry over this again.

Not now.

"There we go, just a bit more," She says, her voice gruffly compassionate. She presses a small rounded bandage against his throat, her fingertips are warm against his neck.

His skin crawls at even this slight, indirect touch, but he doesn't protest.

He wouldn't dare.

"All done. That's not s'bad, I think with a good bandaging it won't scar half so bad as all its little friends down south," She mutters, more to herself than him, really.

Where her fingers touch, he feels the echoes of other hands around his throat. Thicker fingers, heavy with rings. Smiling down at him.

Beg for me, love.

"Please-" It's automatic. He's drifting, in and out of this old kitchen that still looks like it must have looked thirty years ago, when the man in the wedding photo would still be here maybe cooking or cleaning or chatting up a storm to anyone who popped by for a visit.

"Hm? You say something, sweetheart?" Miss Ruth looks at him, and those dark eyes are shrewd. They know more than anyone is supposed to, they know things Nat hasn't told her. Hasn't had to.

"Ah, no," He whispers. "Just. I am very tired."

"No doubt. I'll finish these up and you can get back to your own bed and no doubt you'll be glad to get there." She looks him over, and his eyes dance to hers and away again. Back to the photos.

He sees a family photo, the two people from before and a daughter and son. Everyone is smiling, looking carefully just off to the side. They wear matching outfits.

"Get a look at 'em?"

There's a 35th wedding anniversary picture with a big banner behind the happy couple. The two people, much older, stand in front a cake nearly as tall as they are, surrounded by others. Everyone in the photo smiles in sort of the same way.

The next photo is a birthday, he thinks. There's a boy and a young baby in the photo, and the man from wedding and anniversary photo isn't there. Miss Ruth, holding her grandbaby he thinks, is wearing all black. The photo was taken in a church, and there's a spray of white lilies just visible at the edge of the picture.

Another, with Jaden, who Chris plays basketball with. The kid who more or less effortlessly opened his life for Chris when Chris badly needed a friend his own age, or closer to it, to remember what being a kid was like.

He is reading, in images, the story of this woman's adult life. Marriage, and death, and birth. Children. Life going on.

A life he won't have, that he gave up every possibility of having, because of... of whatever is inside him that Mr. Davies knew about, that the people who just hurt him could see in him even though he cannot see it himself.

He must look like someone who deserves to be hurt.

"Young man." She taps on the back of his hand and he flinches, blinking at her, struggling to pull himself out of his reverie. Her words filter through his mind, shift into the language all his thoughts are moving in, come back out in hers. He swallows, feeling a lump in his throat that refuses to move.

"I'm... sorry," He says softly, with difficulty. "I did not hear."

"I can tell. I asked did you get a good look at whoever did this to you." Her eyes roam over his chest, his stomach. The circle of new burns, placed so carefully compared to the haphazard placement Mr. Davies had favored, no pattern at all. "Looks like they took their damn time, anyway, to get you so much."

"N-... no." Antoni's eyebrows furrow, and he tries to think, but all he can remember is their hands holding the lit cigarettes, the quiet one touching his face, ruffling his hair. He can't... he can't remember their faces at all. "I am sorry."

You're fucking gorgeous, buddy, you know that?

"Hm." If she's disappointed in him, nothing changes about her expression, still held in a kind of skeptical compassion as she wets a new cotton ball in liquid from a small frosted plastic bottle and touches it to each burn, one by one, in the circle. It's like a ritual, the sting, washing away a bit of sin with each hint of pain. He clothes his eyes and breathes carefully through it.

When he is done, each circle covered with a bandage that is shades darker than his skin, she steps back to look him over, critically. She steps away and he takes in deep breaths free of her air, the powdery scent of her. He breathes in her absence, no one nearby.

She returns with a washcloth and he takes it, scrubs at his face until his cheeks are red but clean, until you can't tell anymore that he cried while they burned him.

Good boy.

"You can stay here," She says, voice low now. "Sleep it off for a while. I've got a guest room."

"No. No, I will go home. Thank you. I will... I want to go home." He looks out the kitchen window right at Nat's house next door. No lights are on... yet. But there isn't much time before they will be.

"Fair enough. You plan to tell 'em what happened to you?"

He looks back at her, searches for the judgement, finds none.

"No," He says. Confesses, really, his sin. "I will not."

I will lie to them.

"That's your choice to make, I suppose." She lays a hand on his arm. He doesn't pull away from her. He wants to unzip himself from his skin and step out of it, let them all have what they seem to want to touch so much.

Instead, he holds himself perfectly still, until she pats him a few times and steps away again.

"I've done what I can do. You come back over here tomorrow or the day after and we'll look 'em over again and make sure they're healing up nice, you got me?"

"Yes," He says. He is good. He can be good.

"Right. Off you go, then, before your people wake up and you get to come up with a story about why you're in an old widow's house at 4:30 in the morning, hm? You're pretty enough, but you're no Wilbur." She laughs to herself, a dry and crackly sound, and he thinks that her laugh was the sort that could set a whole crowd to laughing, when she was young.

It still is.

The corners of his mouth twitch in an answering smile.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and pushes himself off the edge, standing up again. No one has seen his scars, no one but this old neighbor woman who looks at them like they are simply part of living, not something to be pitied. "I go. S-... thank you."

"Paugh." She scoffs, waves a hand in dismissal. "Go on, now. You've thrown off my morning coffee time. Tell your young man that Jaden will be over this afternoon."

She all but shoos him out the door, and the air is clear and clean and quiet. The only dirty thing is Antoni himself, smudged and mussed, still feeling in his scalp the prickles of Quiet One's hands, still feeling on his arms the sharp pressure of the shirt tied around his wrists.

Still aware of every single burn under the slight pull of the bandages pressed over them, the gentle sting that feels like a return to how he was always meant to be.

Even the walk from one yard to another feels like too much. Antoni's eyes move over the empty darkened windows of the houses all around him. How obvious he must be, if three people saw him in the darkness and knew him for a pet pretending to be human.

He shouldn't have left, shouldn't have gone on those walks. He'd left himself open and vulnerable, hadn't he? His scars are deeper than skin, and they must shine like the streetlights to anyone who knows what to look for.

Antoni stops at the porch, where he carefully lifts a loose bit of board from the porch railing, finds the small box hidden inside. The slightest scrape of metal on metal as he pulls off the lid makes him freeze, but no one is awake to hear it. He takes the contents of the box, moves it quickly back to its hiding place, replaces the board.

Like nothing ever happened.

Everything can be made as good as new, as long as it isn't him.

He slips inside the safehouse, where everything is still quiet, in the silent inhale that comes before the exhalation of morning. The clock in the kitchen reads 4:45, fifteen minutes until Jake's alarm will go off, until he - and likely Chris - will stir.

Fifteen minutes for Antoni get upstairs and look so deeply asleep that no one will realize he was ever gone.

No time to shower.

He will have to sleep with the grime of their hands still ground deep into every single pore. He will sleep with Deep Voice's we know what you are in his ears, with Quiet One's fingers tangled in his hair, running over his skin. He will sleep with Lookout's eyes locked on his chest as he presses the cigarette in.

Antoni hasn't worn a collar in years now, but he buckles it on, just one notch too tight like Mr. Davies would have, and climbs under the covers, pulling them over his head.

He breathes in as deep as he can, to feel the constriction. Breathes out, and runs his hand up over his chest, over the bandages that cover his burns.

They knew what he was.

Everyone always will.

Good boy.

The ashtray falls asleep humming a lullaby, afraid that if he pulls the blankets back down he will see bars on the windows.

[omnivoroussmut]

Substitute

Summary: Luke discovers what kind of relationship Deckard and Madam M truly have

Takes place during H&S before the trio ends up at the Eteon facility

Tags: pegging, bondage, rope bondage, voyeurism, dom/sub, role-playing, slight humiliation kink, spanking, praise kink, masturbation, aftercare

Rating: 18+

Substitute

Summary: Luke discovers what kind of relationship Deckard and Madam M truly have

Tags: pegging, bondage, voyeurism, dom/sub, role-playing, slight humiliation kink

           Looking through the many rooms of the ransacked mansion, Luke could see that M and her girls had already taken anything of value and destroyed anything not. The whole place felt as if it had been abandoned for years, even though Luke had a feeling it had been quite inhabited only a week ago before M got her hands on it.

           He was currently looking for M herself, only told that she was on the third floor by some of her girls. None of them seemed interested in helping him or even looking at him. And honestly, Luke preferred not interacting with them; the less he knew, the less he would be accountable for later.

           Slowly walking down the last corridor of the third floor, Luke finally heard M’s voice coming from the last room. Picking up his pace, he was at the slightly ajar door when he heard he speak again.

           “Get in position.”

           Luke tensed at the commanding tone in the woman’s voice and waited for what would happen next. Was she turning on them? Was she torturing someone else? What was going on?

           “Yes, Madam.”

           Luke’s eyes went wide. What was Deckard doing in there?

           Curiosity through the roof, Luke gently placed his hand on the door and pushed it open a few more inches. The bedroom was the only one he had seen that was still intact with a four-poster bed with expensive silk sheets. However, it was Deckard in front of the bed that caught Luke’s attention.

           The man was kneeling on a large cushion, completely naked. Luke could see everything; Deckard’s strong arms were folded behind him while his head was bowed as he stared at the floor. His legs were spread apart as he continued to kneel and showed off his obviously erect cock.

           Luke could only stare at the clearly submissive position Deckard had taken up. His body was relaxed as he waiting for M, who Luke couldn’t see from where he was standing. He didn’t care where she was as he kept his eyes on Deckard and couldn’t help but admire the man’s body.

           He obviously knew Deckard was extremely fit, but with the clothes he wore, it was hard to tell. But like this, Luke could get his fill of the lean muscles and pal skin that had scars scattered all over his body. Luke licked his lips, already wanting to map out all those scars with his own mouth and tongue.

           “I’ve heard that you’ve been getting into quite a lot of trouble lately.” M’s voice floated through the room and made Luke take his eyes off of Deckard as he looked for where she was. “And here I thought you would stop misbehaving.”

           “I’m sorry, Madam.” Deckard mumbled.

           “That’s not good enough. You’ll need to be punished.”

           Luke’s heart nearly stopped when he heard those words and saw Deckard’s cock twitch in interest. He finally realized what he had just walked in on.

           As for Deckard, he kept his position even as M finally stepped back into view, rope that was dyed red looped in her hands as she walked up to Deckard. With just a finger, she tipped Deckard’s head up and forced him to meet her eyes.

           “On the bed.”

           There was no hesitation from Deckard as he gracefully got to his feet and crawled onto the bed to lay in the middle. He was on his belly and Luke got a perfect view of the man’s ass and desperately wanted to sink his teeth into it. Luke knew he was an ass man and seeing Deckard all laid out and waiting, it was far too tempting for Luke. But, he wasn’t the one running the show; this was all M’s doing.

           Deckard was boneless as M crawled on top of him and kneeled above him as she grabbed his wrists. Luke tried to keep track of what knots she was using to tie his wrists to the headboard, but her hands were too quick and dexterous for him to follow. In less than a minute, Deckard’s wrists were tied together, above his head, and tightly secured to the bed. If he wasn’t a Shaw, Luke would have been convinced the man couldn’t have escaped from the expert bonds.

           Smoothly, M crawled off of Deckard to sit next to him and giving Luke clear sight to see her gently message Deckard’s ass. Her long fingers occasionally gripped his cheeks and brush up his back. Her fingers even dipped between Deckard’s cheeks causing the man beneath her to jerk harshly and let out a hiss.

           Eyes trained on M’s hands, Luke didn’t miss when she pulled out a small paddle, keeping it out of Deckard’s sight and lifted it above her hands. Time seemed to slow down as the paddle flew through the air and finally connected with Deckard’s pale cheeks.

           The smack of leather against skin was like a gunshot.

           “Ah!” Deckard moaned and arched his back, almost as if he was begging for more.

           From there, M didn’t slow down in the least. As soon as one blow fell, the paddle was coming down even harder the next. The loud smack of abused flesh being hit mixed perfectly with he moans and whines that poured out of Deckard in abandon. The man was practically writhing in his bonds, which encouraged M to speed up even further.

           Luke couldn’t take his eyes off the bright red Deckard’s ass had quickly become and he knew with the force M was using, Deckard would be feeling that for days. Oh, how Luke wished he was the one to do this to Deckard. The man constantly kept getting under his skin, pissing him off, and all Luke wanted to do was put him in his place. And what else than giving him something he obvious loved?

           M might have said this was supposed to be a punishment, but it was obvious that it wasn’t. This was almost a reward by how much Deckard was thrusting his hips downwards into the sheets. No, Luke had a feeling that no physical punishment would actually punish Deckard. The man was a pure masochist.

           Eventually, the paddle stopped and Deckard was left a panting, moaning mess and his ass a deep red, almost purple. M was smiling as she trailed her hand down Deckard’s ass like she had earlier, but this time, Deckard whined at the contact as she dug her fingers into his abused flesh.

           “So good for me,” M purred. Deckard whined and shoved his face into the pillow beneath him. Luke filed that little detail away for later.

           M rose to her feet and gently flipped Deckard over, carefully retying the ropes so as to not hurt him as he moved positions. But, as he settled down, Luke could see the pleasure and pain mixed on his face as his ass pressed onto the silk sheets. He looked like he wanted to turn over and press himself down further at the same time.

           Luke kept his eyes on Deckard’s chest, which rose and fell quickly as he slowly regained his breath. Meanwhile, M had walked away again, leaving Deckard to simply lay there feeling the affects of his punishment. He looked so vulnerable spread out, Luke wished he could simply walk inside and take the man for himself. He already knew what he wanted to do to Deckard himself. He would make sure Deckard couldn’t sit the next day.

           After a couple of minutes, M came back into view and Luke’s eyebrows rose in shock.

           The woman was completely nude except for the large strap on that hung on her hips. The dildo looked huge, with the black silicone almost shining as M sashayed closer to the bed. A proud smirk played on her face as Deckard looked up and moaned at the sight of her. His legs opened wide and Luke had to quiet his own moan. He wished he was the one Deckard was spreading himself for, not a plastic dick.

           “You’ve been needing this, haven’t you, Deck?” M purred as she climbed onto the bed again. Luke hadn’t noticed that she had brought several things with her. With an efficiency Luke had to wonder about, M slipped a cock ring over Deckard and ignored his whines of disappointment. Instead, she reached up and tied a silk blindfold over Deckard’s eyes. Luke didn’t know why she was doing it now, but knew he couldn’t ask her about it.

           M continued to work with Deckard’s body as she tied his ankles to his thighs, practically folding him in half. She then tied a rope from his bound legs to the headboard so they were spread wide open and showed off his hard cock. He was completely on display and Luke could imagine himself shoving his face between those powerful legs and eating Deckard out for hours on end.

           Instead, M was between his legs and pouring lube on her fingers.

           “I was surprised when you showed up with company.” M spoke up, voice casually as she dipped a finger between Deckard’s legs. By the way Deckard threw his head back, Luke knew exactly what that finger was doing. “Especially that agent.”

           Deckard didn’t respond, only arching his back and whining as he tried to shove himself back on her fingers unsuccessfully. Luke himself was only paying half of his attention to M while he stared at how taut Deckard’s body was. He could already see all the other ways he could tie the Brit up, using the same red rope. Who knew he looked so good in red.

           “Looks like you two are quite attached.” M hummed as she continued to work Deckard open. For the first time, Luke wished she would move so he could see what she was doing with her fingers.

           “I wouldn’t say that.” Deckard gasped.

           “Really?” M purred and smirked at him. “Because to me, you’re practically begging him to bend you over a table and fuck you.”

           Luke’s mouth fell open as Deckard whimpered and struggled. He shook his head vehemently and let out a shout. Glancing down, Luke had to guess by M’s sharp smile she had found Deckard’s prostate.

           “Is that who you wish was fingering you? Hmm, Deck?” M’s voice was like honey as she continued to open him up and her other hand trailed up to rest on his chest. Nimble fingers pinched one of Deckard’s nipples and Luke almost jumped back as Deckard nearly screamed. “I know you. You want him to be the one to hold you down just like this. He could easily keep you pinned and do whatever he wanted to your body. That’s all you want. For someone else to take control, even for a short while.”

           Small mewls of pleasure were pouring out of Deckard as tears escaped from under the blindfold and trickled down his cheeks. Luke’s fingers twitched by his side- he wanted to be the one to brush those tears away.

           “You wish it was his cock, don’t you?” M chuckled as she withdrew her hand. Deckard whined in disappointment, but M ignored him as she pushed his legs even closer against his chest. Angling herself, Luke could see the large strap-on start to push into Deckard and disappear slowly. Who knew he could take so much and love it by the way he was writhing to get it into his body even faster?

           Luke certainly wished that was his cock. Reaching down, Luke finally pressed his palm against his own bulge and hissed at the pressure. He was so hard, it almost hurt.

           “Say it, Deck.” M’s voice turned firm suddenly. “Tell me who’s cock you wish this was.”

           Deckard whimpered.

           “L-Luke’s!” He gasped. “I want it to be Luke’s!”

           It was too much. Biting down on his fist, Luke fumbled to pull down his zipper and pull out his cock. Watching M, he tried to match her pace with his own hand, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He wanted, no- needed to be the one thrusting into Deckard.

           As for M, she was brutal. Her thrusts were hard and fast as she rammed into Deckard, pushing all of her weight onto his legs so she could pound into him with as much force as she could. By her third thrust, Deckard was screaming in pleasure.

           “Say his name!” M hissed as she leaned down to leave bites on Deckard’s chest. “Who do you want fucking you?”

           “Luke! Please!” Deckard cried out and tugged at his bound wrists. “More! Please!”            Luke could feel his teeth breaking the skin of his hand as he pumped his cock even harder. How the fuck was he supposed to work with the man now when he knew Deckard wanted him this badly?

           “This is what you want, isn’t it?” M gasped. “You just want someone to fuck you until you can’t think anymore. All you’re good for is laying there and taking it. Hobbs would love using you day and night, isn’t that right?”

           “Yes!”

           “If he asked you, you’d drop to your knees and suck him off, no matter who’s watching!”            Deckard whimpered.

           “Answer me!” M growled and slapped Deckard.

           “Yes! Anything!”

           “You’d even want him to fuck you in front of his fellow agents, just to show them who owns the powerful Deckard Shaw.” M snarled. “Because at the end of the day, you’re just a cock slut.”

           Deckard sobbed in pleasure and nodded his head frantically.

           “Please, please! So, close!”

           “Hobbs would keep you like this for hours.” M plunged into Deckard and rolled her hips unmercilessly. “Just fuck you over and over, not letting you come until he gives you permission. But you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”            By this point, Luke was surprised Deckard wasn’t even able to understand a word she was saying. His face was twisted pleasure and his body was taut as he took M’s powerful thrusts.

           “Please, Luke! I need to come so badly!” Deckard sobbed.

           That was all it took for Luke to fall over the edge into his own orgasm. Biting even harder into his fist, Luke was sure neither M or Deckard could hear him over Deckard’s own scream of pleasure. Panting, Luke pumped himself through the pleasure and could feel his fist become coated in hot cum.

           Leaning against the doorframe, Luke looked up after a minute and saw the two on the bed were still. Cum was splattered all over Deckard’s chest as he laid panting beneath M, who was whispering in his ear and massaging his hips. After a few moments, M slowly extracted herself from Deckard and the smaller man whimpered at the loss.

           “Shhh, quiet, sweetheart. You did so good for me.” M gently whispered.

           She was gentle with him as she slowly untied him, massaging each limb as it was released. There were red marks all down his legs and most obvious around his wrists, but looked like they would disappear by the end of the day. Luke would have to figure out what kind of rope she used so Deckard couldn’t hurt himself in his struggling.

           When he was completely untied, M disappeared again and Luke couldn’t help but stare at the exhausted man on the bed. He had a layer of sweat covering him and his chest was still raising and lowering a little too quickly. But, as his head loll to the side, Luke could see the obvious contentness that filled his body. A small smile was on Deckard’s face and Luke wished he could simply lean down and capture those lips.

           But he couldn’t. Not when M walked back towards Deckard, now wearing a robe and carrying a towel. Slowly and methodologically, M wiped Deckard down, whispering praise the whole time. If Luke was mistaken, it sounded almost as if Deckard was purring at her words. With gentle fingers, she finally untied the blindfold and Luke saw Deckard was fast asleep.

           When M was done, she threw the towel to the side and laid back down next to Deckard. She laid behind him and raised the blankets over their bodies as she spooned him.

           Taking one last look at the two, Luke tucked himself back into his trousers and walked away.

~~

           Picking up the duffel bag of tools he would need, Luke looked up when he heard footsteps approaching him. He raised an eyebrow at the knowing smirk M was sending him.

           “You know he and I aren’t a thing, right?” She drawled. “I play with him occasionally, but he needs a gentler hand than mine.”

           Luke could only stare at her as her smile grew and she leaned in close

           “Treat him well, or else I’ll make you regret even being born.”

           “You don’t have to worry.” Luke narrowed his eyes.

           “Good. He follows orders well, so he won’t cause too much trouble for you. Good luck.”

           Luke could only nod as M walked away from. He was still staring when Deckard walked into the room, holding his own duffel of equipment.

           “Ready, twinkletoes?” Deckard snapped.

           “All set.”

           As he followed Deckard outside and towards the jet, Luke couldn’t help but stare at the small limp Deckard couldn’t hide.