#sed boi hours

[kechiwrites]

gentle touch

könig x massage therapist!reader kinktober countdown day 5 (body worship)

synopsis: oh, the military boys were your favourite.

wc: 2.8k

cw: massage therapist reader doing bad medical-ish practice, body worship, light sub!konig, mentions of edging, hand jobs, a little oral as a treat, biting, konig being petnamed as he should (honey), size kink, hints at touch starvation, groping, begging, uncut konig, afab!reader, no gendered pronouns or language.

author's note: i know his dick hex code and it's glorious. mdni.

He’s your last appointment of the day. And what a fucking day it had been, ten hours that should’ve been eight, cinnamon scented candles instead of eucalyptus, a rushed lunch because a client had shown up early, not taking “I’m on break” for an answer.

You knock on the faux bamboo door, waiting for your appointment to allow you entry. When he does, so quietly you almost miss it, you open the door, only for your eyes to land on a broad, strong back, still wrapped in a dark grey long sleeve. He turns slightly, just enough for you to see the thin stubble on his chin, cheek and jaw.

"Hello! I didn't catch you undressing did I?" This time he turns all the way around and you are sure your swallow is audible. Hell, you hope it's audible, you want this dude to know just how impressed you are with what you're seeing.

"No." He shakes his head, rubbing his aquiline nose against the inside of his wrist. It must’ve been broken once before, if the uneven bump on his bridge is anything to go by. Why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You eat up the motion, eyes tracking every twitch or movement of his massive arms.

“Oh…" you're ogling him. You need to stop ogling him. "I actually need you to strip down.” The words burn on your tongue. You must say that a thousand times a work week, but this time, when you say it to him, it sounds…dirty. Like a shitty porn set up. Makes your clean white polo feel vacuum sealed to your skin. He takes a step towards you and you shudder a breath, tensing until you realize he’s getting closer to the lockers to your left.

He’s huge, you think, and when he still doesn’t look up at you, content to let the strands of dark brown hair, nearly black hair, hang in his face, you figure he’s shy too.

Cute.

“And you can use the towel to maintain modesty, Mr. König.” You get the inflection of his name wrong, you know because you’d googled it prior, held your phone to your ear in the staff washroom and listened to a soft spoken German man lilt it to you. There’s a hard ‘g’ on the end where it shouldn’t be, and you apologize, trying again to master it. “König.”

“Right.” He murmurs, “Just around my waist, yes?”

Or it could go on the floor and I could rub my clit on your abs.

“Yes, sir. Around your waist.”

You exit the room, closing it softly behind you. You figure you’ll use the few minutes you have to get a bottle of water, or a sedative. Something strong enough to bring you back down to your customary professional detachment.

When you return, he’s where you expect him to be. Face down on his stomach, his head in the cushioned hole. “S-sorry.” He speaks, voice muffled by his position. The apology comes immediately upon the sound of the door closing and you worry his large frame has cracked the massage table or something. You peer around him, looking for any chunks of polished wood or loose screws.

When you don’t find anything you realize he’s apologizing for his scars, the pit marks of bullets dug out in haste and healed with spite, lacerations haphazardly stitched, then redone a second time with the careful, practiced hands of a doctor in no rush.

“Oh, please don’t be. We get military boys all the time. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” You murmur, and it’s a lie of course. Not that you’ve seen scars, of course, you’ve seen some really storied skin in your time here, being near a base and all. No, it was the man who was an oddity. Mandy at the front desk told you that he’d had to duck through the front door.

His skin is also ultra pale in a way military men usually aren't. Near transparent, the sprawling blue lines of his veins thread underneath his skin, and you can see yourself getting distracted tracing some of the pathways with your fingers.

He hums, and you hope you’ve put him at ease a little bit. You haven’t even touched him yet and the tension in his back is glaring. Anxious people tended to hold a lot of stress, anxious soldiers? You’re just glad he’d booked a two hour instead of the customary hour and twenty.

The oil is cold straight from the bottle and you warm it between your palms before you make contact. He’s warm to the touch, bridging on hot, and he flinches when your hands meet his skin. “Was that too cold?” He groans, but doesn’t affirm or deny it, so you figure it must just be the contact. Slowly, you begin with his calves, tending to and pushing on knotted muscle and tense areas, working out kink after kink, soothing his compounded aches. The oil smoothes down his leg hair and you must be going insane because even that is hot to you. His thighs are even worse, strong and muscled and dimpled in the sweetest places. He shivers when your palms glide over his inner thighs, and he clenches them together when your fingers brush the hem of the towel shielding his ass from your greedy view. As quickly as it happens, he relaxes, murmuring another apology. You hum your own response, and push your thumb into an adorable cluster of moles you see just under the towel.

By the time you get to his lower back, König is almost purring, his gentle breathing often interrupted by drawn out, guttural moans. Whines and whimpers that make your blood hot. He’s holding the worst of his tension there, and you have to lean almost all your body weight into the motions of the massage. His hips jerk up and then down just as sharply when you crest your palm over her shoulder blades, and you don’t imagine the keening noise he makes as he grips the massage table. You’re used to military clients being a lot more stoic but it seems Mr. König is most assuredly not the sort. You reach his neck, framing his throat with your palms and using your thumbs to rub firm circles into his nape. His breath hitches and you find yourself cooing. “Breathe for me, I got you.” The soldier’s hips snap downward again, this time hard enough to shift the table beneath him. Which is more than enough to make you pause. 

No.

It couldn’t be.

The soft music and sound of the water feature on the wall nearly drown out the curse König whispers, but you catch it, and can’t stop your lips from curling into a pleased little smile. This was just too good. You start to finish up his neck, brushing some of his hair out of the way so you can rub your fingertips into the skin just below his earlobes. You guide him to turn over and when he doesn’t respond, you wonder if he’d fallen asleep.

“Mr. König?”

He makes a wordless groaning noise low in his throat, laying motionless.

“I need you to turn over, honey.” You don’t even realize you’ve pet-named a grown man you don’t know. Which is just as well, because it seems to be what the soldier needs, and he rises from the table, clutching the towel in a tight fist to maintain his scant modesty.

You turn towards the side table, pouring more oil into your palm. When you return to face him, you witness why exactly he was so reluctant to face the ceiling.

He’s at least half-hard, a very noticeable ridge lifting his towel. You can’t stop staring at it, even though you know König is trying his best to ignore it. You circle around him, and begin at the foot of the table, going through the massage cycle again; feet, calves, thighs, arms. You zone out, following through your motions, listening to the man beneath groan and sigh his contentment. You reach his chest, spreading your hands over his pecs. They’re big, just like the rest of him, you think and it’s hard not to fucking drool on him. He’s firm but soft, still pleasantly warm, despite being exposed to slightly below room temperature air. He shifts again when you hit a stubborn knot right below his collarbone, and you pause to check in.

“Still good?”

His breathing is uneven, shuddering and laboured. His hands clench and relax from white knuckled fists.

“Yes.” he hisses through gritted teeth, and you’re worried he’s undoing every bit of relaxation you’ve tried to bring him. It’s painfully clear where the stress is coming from, hidden underneath a paltry white towel, the enticing elephant in the room. You put your hands back on him.

Still got 45 minutes left, after all.

You try your best not to look smug, and you fail miserably.

Every stroke and rub you perform across his chest makes his cock jerk and twitch under the towel. You can practically see the cloudy drops of precum that’d be beading as his tip. Your thumb nail skates across his pectoral and catches his nipple and the whine he makes is so sweet you just have to do it again. Soon, you’re barely massaging him, groping the poor man under the guise of your job. A weak grunt snaps you out of your reverie, and when you glance down his abdomen at that godforsaken towel, you can’t stop the quiet gasp of shock you release at his erection. “Ah, I’m so sorry. Very sorry” His flush spreads from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, a gorgeous stewed cherry colour that overwhelms the pale skin you’d worked into submission. His eyes are screwed shut when you can bear to drag your eyes from his cock to his face. His soft, pink mouth is pulled down at the corners, and the heavy, dark slashes of his eyebrows are furrowed together, creating a wrinkle between them you want to smooth out with a kiss.

“It happens all the time. Are you alright to continue?” Your voice is deceptively calm, serene and soft, when all you really want to do is snatch the towel off the battering ram he’d smuggled in here. Your blood thrums, and you ache at the sight of it, at the mere thought of the ungodly stretch he’d put you through.

You will yourself to keep your hands where they are, force yourself to look literally anywhere else. The faux waterfall ahead of you, the wireless speaker droning pleasant, melodic mood music, fuck, you even try staring at the dimmed light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. But every cry and whine forces your eyes down, tempts you to catalogue every inch of flushed skin and threaded muscle. You gnaw on your own lip, and find your hands drifting down, back around his abdomen. You’ve worked through the area already, there is no excuse to be down there, to slip your finger tips under the towel, to push your digits into the skin around his pelvis. “Is this okay?” You have the gall to ask, when you push your fingers lower still, and basically sign your own severance package. Oh but it’d be worth it, to get what you want, to make this big strong man sob with pleasure, to have his mouth on your throat while you stroked him to completion. The memory of his cock in your hand will keep you warm in the unemployment line.

König nods, turns his head towards you but doesn’t open his eyes. His hips cant upwards again, and his towel shifts, parting to reveal his angry, desperate hard-on. He raises a hand from the massage table, letting his mammoth paw land on your hip. He squeezes you, and exhales sharply through his nose when his thumb touches your bare skin, skating over your flesh underneath your work shirt. “Say it.” You mutter and his eyes crack open, just wide enough for you to spot the crystalline blue of his irises between his inky black lashes.

“Please.”

And that’s all you need.

He’s uncut, and the veins blanketing the length of his cock are visible under his foreskin. Pretty in a way you aren’t used to, a denser blush than the rest of his body, but still quite pale. It feels like your hand is moving in slow motion towards it, your fingers twitching in anticipation. The heat of his dick warms your skin before you even make contact, and when you do, wrapping your fingers around the root of it, your fingertips can’t touch. You press your lips together and try not to squeal happily, glee crinkling your eyes.

God is real and he’s an uncircumcised cock on a shy giant.

König’s erection is searingly hot. Soft skin and hard core, jerking in your palm, leaking steadily, nudging at your hand, insistent. Your brain is working full steam and connections necessary to utilize common sense are still not being made. Slowly, you tighten your hold on him, the weight of it is so imposing, you wouldn’t be surprised if imprints of the veiny surface were branded onto your hand once you withdrew. If you ever withdrew. You should fucking withdraw.

You do not withdraw. Instead, you slide your hand up slowly, choking up on the head of his cock before dragging your grip back down. You chance a glance up at his face, watching his Adam’s apple bob with each laboured swallow. The poor man’s jaw clenches and relaxes while you slide your palm over his flesh again and again. Somehow, he hardens further and your eyes widen impossibly larger, the pit of your stomach doing somersaults at the idea of where you want that thing to go, what you want it to do. You get fevered flashes of König bending you over the massage table in your mind, hands on your hips, rutting without sense or logic into you, so hard the surface scrapes against the floor, all while he sobs, his overwhelmed, overstimulated tears splashing against your back while he rearranged your insides. The head of his cock is exposed every time you slide your hand down towards his pelvis. By the third peek, you’re dragging the pointed end of your tongue over the tip of his dick, licking against his head, and coating your mouth with the taste of him. He grips at your side harder, his fingers digging into your hip as he chases the warmth of your mouth. He keens loud, almost mewling when you pull off him, using your spit to ease your hand’s path. By this point, your handiwork is audible, noisy and wet, König’s voice filling the small room. You use your free hand to guide his head to your chest, letting him bend toward you, press his nose into your tits while he begs for you to finish him.

“Are you gonna come, Mr. König?” You thread your fingers in his hair, letting your nails scratch against his scalp, drift down to his nape and up to his crown again.

“Yes, please, please. Fuck.” His voice is reedy and thin, and he wraps his arm around your waist, burying his face deeper in your chest. And then his whole body trembles, and his hips roll towards you, and for a fleeting minute you consider edging the poor bastard, sliding your hand completely off his cock and watching it twitch violently, uselessly in the air.

But he begs so sweetly. And his next session was already pre-booked.

The hand you kept on his head leaves his hair, and you rub the head of his cock with your flat open palm, jerking him off with firm, fast strokes. He bites down on the curve of your breast, and you’re grateful he still managed to retain enough brain cells to not break skin.

“Do it then. Come, honey.” You trill, feeling his tears wet your skin through your shirt. It’s almost instantaneous, so fast it’s kind of impressive. His body goes bowstring-tight, and he squeezes you so hard it almost hurts. Ropes of sticky white seed shoot from his cock, covering your hand and his spasming abdomen. You slide your hand up, milking just the first two inches of him through his orgasm, until he stops your movements himself, covering your hand with his own.

When you finally break contact, you stare at your hand for what feels like ages, thick beads of his cum rolling down your palm, sliding to your wrist. You extricate yourself from his hold, using your clean hand to brush his sweat damp hair from his forehead. You press that kiss you wanted to the space between his brows. Why start restraining yourself now? His body shivers periodically, and you turn to the sink, to wash your hands clean, clenching your own thighs together, his moans and sighs echoing in your mind. You turn to face him, grinning wide and cheery,

“So...I’ll see you next week?”

hoe, you are getting fired! at least you got a man outta it though.

support city girls who love gummy worms, reblog what you like.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

[briefalpacashark]

~Darkest fear~

The boys of 141 find out your darkest fear.

Warning: Swearing and mentions of needles.

================================================

How well did you fit in with the boys of 141. Too well. From day one you and Soap instantly connected. Price called you Soap 2.0. Why? Because your sarcasm and wit had you and Soap bantering for hours on end. Everything you two would say would just feed and complement the others. And God help whoever you were making fun of that day. One time Gaz had to endure two hours of back and forth. You had worked with Price before, and you were already close. Gaz you become quick friends with. And Ghost, well although slightly intimidated by the giant you came to respect one another, and the specialist abilities you both held. 

After all, you were respectful and kind. You always wore a smile and they would never admit it but to them you were like a little ball of sunshine. Or like a cute little puppy.

One day, about two days before your next mission you walked into base. Into the shared common area. To your surprise you found Gaz, Soap, and Ghost all standing around the far side of the table.

“What's going on?” you asked. Hearing the door shut behind you. You glanced back to see Price locking it and then placing his body in between you and the exit.

“You alright captain?” you asked hesitantly seeing his nervous look. 

“Damn cap, you look like you're trying to shit a brick,” Soap commented with a bemused chuckle. He wore a smirk that showed he was far too happy to be there.

“She can't be that bad,” Gaz shrugged, gesturing to you.

“What am I bad at?” You asked with a confused chuckle.

“Alright love. Now I want you to be calm,” Price raised his hands like he was talking to an injured animal. Love, it was a nickname all the british lads used. 

“Calm, what you on abou-” Your words trailed off as you spotted the syringe in his hand. It was a shot. A vaccination of some kind. Instantly you scooted away from him moving around the table. Your blood ran cold as adrenaline filled your every being. You were scared of needles. Scared to the point where you would do anything to keep away from them.

“The fuck is that cap?” You asked lowly.

“Wait, you're really scared of needles?” Soap chuckled at your reactions as you hide yourself behind him.

“Love, come on now,” Price was really trying his best.

“Price, I told you. I fucken told you. You drug the fuck out of me and then that's when you give me the fucking shot,” You had a plan, one Price knew about and had done before for quite a few of your shots. You would take a sedative and that's when they would stick you. Was it ethical, no in the slightest. but it was the only way of giving you a shot without anyone getting hurt.

“I know, but this one needs to be taken when you're conscious. Something bout side effects or what not,” he explained calmly.

“I told you how I get cap,” you mumbled, pointing an accusing finger at him as you shifted from side to side.

“I know, that's why I got the lads here,” he said, nodding to them. You looked at the three that surrounded you with betrayal.

“You're in on this?” You asked. “Come on lass, it's just a little needle,” Soap smirked loving the ammo he was receiving to tease you later with. "I thought you Australians were supposed to have nerves of steel?" he joked.

“I don't think you guys understand the severity of this. I turn feral ok. I once almost bit a doctor's finger off, ok,” You admitted honestly.

“Almost?” Ghost asked.

“It doesn't matter. Cap you can't do this alright. Let's just do it tomorrow yeah?” You said as you went to slip out of the little corral they had you in only for Gaz to hold up his hand to stop you.

“Grab her,” Price gave the order. 

“Eat a dick Price!” You snapped. Gaz was the first to reach for you. With a cocky and bemused smirk, he went to grab you. A cocky smirk that was slammed against the table. Everyone's eyes went wide at the movement. You had ducked under his hand taking ahold of it and grabbed his neck slamming his face onto the table. It was a reaction; one you had no control over. 

“Oh my god, I'm sorry,” You rushed out the words shocked at your own actions. Soap was the next one to reach for you, well more like tackle. You crouched sliding to your left through Ghost's legs.

------ 

A few other soldiers on the base stared in confusion at the barrack building. What sounded like a bar fight was happening inside. The sounds of breaking furniture and shattering plates filled the air. 

There was a shocking amount of swearing and a few choice sentences before you slammed through the window. Shattering it upon impact and landing from the three story building in a tuck and roll.

And then you legged it. Like the devil himself was on your heels. There was another commotion before the three men stumbled out of the room, Pierce with a busted nose, Gaz holding his head, Ghost dusting the remnants of a broken glass of his shoulder and Soap still laying on the floor inside curled up in the fetal position. His hands clutching his family jewels. 

“How the fucks did she do that?” Price muttered in confusion as they watched your disappearing figure.

The boys in all their wisdom beside to treat giving you the shot like a mission. On the thoroughly planned and scoped out before enacting. Little did they know it would be one of their hardest missions yet. They tried to administer the shot 29 times. Every time they would come up with a different plan. They had tried everything, bribery, outsmarting you, trapping you. None of it worked, you always managed to get away.

“Macgyver!” You bloody froze as you heard your call sign. At that very moment you sat perched up in the very high corner of an aircraft hangar. Had you scaled the walls to get there, yes, was it your greatest idea, no. But you weren't thinking logically. You knew it was stupid how frightened you got but you just weren't able to control it.

“We know you're here,” they called again. You peeked around the large beam spotting only Ghost in the entrance. Instantly you looked for the others. Were they trying to trap you again? 

“Come on Sargent,” He was your Lieutenant. You should have listened to him. But you kept your mouth shut happily perched in your little hidey hole. 

“It's fine. Just so you know Gaz it hurt. Idiot sprained his ankle running afta ya,” He informed. Instantly you felt guilty, and a little worried for your teammate. You wanted to get down and help, but you also knew the possibility of it being a trap. Ghost waited a few moments before cursing under his breath. He began to search the hanger. Under every trap inside every plane. Around every corner. He looked like he was about to give up. Then out of sheer luck for him, and anything but luck for you he looked up. Instantly the two of you made eye contact. He stared for a moment truly grasping the situation, trying to forget about how exactly you got up there. 

“The fuck you doing up there?” his gruff voice asked as he folded his arms over his chest.

“Thought it looked like a comfortable place to sit,” you shrugged nonchalantly. Ghost took in the awkward sit/balanced crouch you had going on.

“Oh yeah, it looks real comfortable,” he said.

“Well I am,” you stated.

“Right, well come on now, fun's over,” he nodded for you to come down.

“Respectfully sir. Suck a dick” Ghost propped an eyebrow at the insult. With your apologetic expression he knew you didn't mean it, but he had to admit. It was refreshing to see someone who was willing to insult him. “Fine, well it's either you get down yourself or I come get you,” he gave you the ultimatum.

“You're right, Let my just give up now and come down. Just like you said,'' You pretended to get ready to descale the walls.

“Thankyou,” Ghost was actually genuinely thankful. He thought by some miracle you were actually going to listen to him. 

“Yeah you know just let me,” Quickly snapping back to your original position you flipped him off. He stared for a few bewildered moments.

“That's just childish,” he said.

“You're a child,” you snapped back.

“Right,” Ghost huffed, walking up to the beams. You watched him as he struggled to scale the walls. After all he was a big man, he was carrying a lot of weight. As he finally reached the beam you were on he turned to look at you. Only you weren't there. He frowned looking down to see you sliding down a beam and hitting the ground. 

“Fuck,” he quickly did the same. Hearing the thunderous footsteps of Ghost feet would be encouragement enough for anyone to run for their lives. To you it was a reminder that you not only insulted your lieutenant but you flipped him off and called him a child. You had just made it outside of the hanger. 

Now you were fast, the fastest on the team when it came to running. You could have outrun him. Only when you stepped out into the open did you feel a sharp pain hit your left ass cheek. 

“Fucking Ass!” you came to a small hopping stop as you looked for the culprit. A little red feathered dart had been plugged into the soft tissue of your ass. 

“Did you just shoot a dart at my ass!” Your bewildered and angry yell was directed to the general direction of where it had come from. Price sat on the roof of a nearby building, dart gun in hand, Gaz by his side with a pair of binoculars.

“Direct hit,” GAz announced.

“She's pissed,” Soap commented as they watched your little tantrum. 

Later that night you stood outside on your little makeshift patio area. You hand rubbing the still stinging spot on your ass with a permanent frown. Hearing the door open you snapped your head around to glare. Ghost silently walked out and stood beside you.

“Using Gaz was a low blow,” you grumbled. Ghost silently looked over you, your cute little frown. It reminded him of a toddler that wasn't allowed to have chocolate. 

“Then what do you call kicking Johnny in the balls?” he asked.

“Tactical,” you grumbled. You were surprised to hear the softest huff of a chuckle come from Ghost. It was times like these you wish you could see his expression. But you were sure you saw the side of his mask where the edge of a smile would be, tilt upwards. The idea of Ghost smiling had you chuckling.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“All this, I'm a medic you think I'd be comfortable with needles,” you chuckled.

“That ain’t funny. Soap getting kicked in the balls. That's funny. Fucker deserved it,” Ghost said. You chuckled again. Ghost glanced over at you, he liked your laugh. It was always a true honest one.

“Well I guess I should apologize about the disrespect I've shown today,” With a deep sigh you stood at attention. “I apologize for the disrespect I showed and not listening to orders,” You said with an embarrassed smile.

“So what will be the punishment, Lieutenant?” You asked. This was the first time you had done anything wrong with the boys. While they seemed ok with it, you were used to the military hierarchy. You had insulted a higher ranking officer once. It didn't go so well. You expected Ghost to be no different.

“Not gonna punish you,” he shrugged. You let out a relieved sigh closing your eyes. “But,” when you opened them again, Ghost was standing directly in front of you. On instinct you stepped back, hitting the pole you had been leaning on. Ghost closed the distance. You swallowed as he stepped close enough for you to feel his body heat, your neck craned back to make eye contact with him. 

“Don't ever call me a child again,” he stated his voice dropping into a serious tone. You quickly nodded with an awkward chuckle. It was meant to be intimidating, Ghost had used his size to intimidate before. While you were intimidated there was one thing that kept your attention. You could have sworn you could see a smirk under that mask. 

“Um, yeah sure,” You muttered. Leaning down he hovered his head by your ear, his hot breath faint through the mask but you could still feel it. You felt your heart jump. skip a beat and then rattle the back of your throat. Why was he so close?

“I promise you love I'm no kid,” he whispered. You were barely able to frown at his comment when something pricked your thigh. 

“The fuck was that?” you asked at the small amount of pain giving Ghost’s chest a soft shove. He stepped back holding his hand up that held an empty syringe.

“You bastard,” you whispered. Now you were sure he was smirking. You could see it in his eyes.

“Price thought it best not to tell you about the second shot,” he shrugged nonchalantly. Wow, so he basically just gave you a mini heart attack just to give you a shot.

“Next time I need to take blood from you I'm gonna miss your veins so many times,” you threatened half heartedly.

“Good thing I'm not scared of needles,” he said, his eyes shining smugly.

“You..” You glared at the tease. He simply turned towards the door. 

“Fuckers,” you grumbled as you watched him walk back into the barracks.

================================================

--COD Master List Here--

================================================

[jumpyl123]

I don’t have any new art to share… so I’m should going to repost some of my other Star Wars art from this summer until I do 🥰 If anyone wants to follow me on other platforms, I’m also on DeviantArt, Instagram, and Toyhouse!

Since Omega is ultra skilled in strategy games to where she never looses, and Tech plays against himself because it’s the only time it’s a challenge, what if Omega and Tech played against each other? Who wins? (In this scene, definitely Omega, he’s still loopy on pain killers and sedatives, maybe she’ll go easy on him XD)

This is after s2e2, my poor heart was hurting so much for my nerdy boy when he broke his leg! Then this idiot decided to walk out in the woods alone at night on it and went and fought some troopers. DUDE, REST YOUR LEG. He may be smart but he’s also dumb. When he finally collapsed, I was internally crying for someone to help him!! I needed to know he got help but the episode ended before that, so I went and did it myself. Because he was stupid with his injury, he probably made the fracture even worse and needed surgery. You know I research a lot of medical stuff for my stories, right? So Omega is playing balaans with Tech to help him kill boring recovery time 🖤🩶❤️

and big protective sibling (father figure) Hunter stays with him as he stays over for the night. He is exhausted and sleep deprived but silently celebrating that his insomniac brother is getting extra hours of Z’s at last! XDD thank the force hes actually sleeping tech is insomniac i dont make the rules

Please do not trace, recolor, edit, or repost my art without permission, even if you are planning to give me proper credit!

Tech, Omega, and Hunter belongs to Lucasfilm/Disney

Made with Procreate

[aimedis]

IDIOTS - D.A.M.N CREW

i wrote this a while back (months ago lol) but i'm just now getting around to editing and posting it since i've been semi-active on tumblr these days

cw - lighthearted argument between damien and lasko, fake hostility, gavin being whipped for freelancer

wc - 1.1k

Lasko huffs, “Stop making fun of me, asshole.”

“It's not my fault. For a teacher, you're stupid." Damien clicks his tongue.

“W-well you’re just being absurd!”

“I’m being absurd? I’m being absurd?!”

“Yes, you are!”

Huxley groans into a throw pillow, collapsing back against the couch, “Where is Rainshower when you need them?”

“Off doing their teacher duties. They're helping Freelancer with water control or.. something back at D.A.M.N.” Gavin hums, not even paying attention to them both as he goes through his phone absentmindedly. He was mostly thinking about when the Freelancer was coming back and waiting until he could feel their familiar aura again.

They had both left before the boys arrived at the apartment. It was supposed to be their lazy Saturday morning before their hangout and Gavin was seconds from falling back asleep on their chest before they’d gotten a phone call from Dear.

The conversation was quiet and mundane enough for Gavin to ignore it and let his breathing even out until his Freelancer sat up at the end of it.

Of course, Gavin protested, as much as he could while being half-asleep at least— but they’d still gotten away from him.

“I gotta get up, Gav.” They’d hummed quietly as they ruffled his hair

“Nuh uhh.. ‘re not goin’ anywhere.” Gavin’s sleep-addled voice called out, clinging tightly onto their shirt with his eyes still closed.

"Yuh huh, Lasko's partner is helping me out with my water magic."

They’d slipped out from under him pretty easily and Gavin rolled over to glare at them. When they kissed him softly with a little smile playing on their lips, he’d kissed them back out of instinct (and when did he not want to kiss his love?) and then they slipped out of bed—away from his arms

Gavin had whined and pouted and used his very effective persuasion skills but apparently, last-minute practice before an exam was more important than his happiness.

"I love you, I'll be back in a little bit."

Gavin huffs and opens his eyes then, his hair pretty much blocking his entire view of them.

Freelancer laughs and kisses his forehead, "Relax, clingy, it's only like two hours. You don't want me to fail do you?"

"Do it tomorrow.." Gavin whines, reaching out to hold onto them so they couldn't leave but they escaped him again, blowing him a kiss and telling him to go back to sleep. Which he did, begrudgingly.

And now he's here trying his best not to sulk, wallowing in the feeling of half-hollowness that always came with being apart from his Deviant. He should be put off by that feeling, the feeling of missing a part of himself when they’re not near should scare or annoy him. But he can’t find it in himself to care much when his person is still gone.

“Lasko, you fatherless freak, would you just listen to me?!”

“Me?! Damien you hypocritical piece of shit-”

Gavin is startled out of his thoughts by the laugh that leaves his body, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. Huxley groans even louder then, his hand covering his face “Why is this happening to me..”

“That was so uncalled for,” Gavin says still laughing but about to try and futilely console Huxley when his phone chimes with a notification.

freelancer ❤️ hey gav we're like five minutes away, we got snacks

He perks up, not bothering to be embarrassed about the wide smile spreading across his face.

me hurry back i miss you

freelancer ❤️ just be patient you baby

“Okay!” Damien groans and looks over at Gavin and Huxley on the couch in exasperation, “I think we need a second opinion-“

Lasko huffs, “I think you need a sedative-"

Damien looked as if he was about to slap him, “Shut up! Guys, tell Lasko that-“ Damien cuts himself off when he glances at Gavin smiling like an idiot at his phone, “What on Earth are you smiling about over there?”

At those words, Gavin looked up and his face returned to normal but it was already too late—Huxley and Lasko had also seen the lovesick grin on his face while he was looking at his phone.

He was done for.

Huxley’s signature smile was back on his face when it clicked in his brain, “Aww, were you texting Freelancer? You look so happy!”

Lasko holds his breath to keep from laughing at Gavin’s reddening face but it only made him laugh harder.

“It’s sickening is what it is.” Damien snorts leaning against the couch, crossing his arms, “Did they send you a sappy message about how much they miss you and wanna kiss your stupid face?”

“Did you respond with a ‘I miss you baby’?” Huxley laughs and his voice goes up an octave at the last phrase

“Did you add a bunch of sickly sweet emojis at the end?” Lasko chimes in between his laughter

“Did you add a bunch of sickly sweet nicknames too?”

“Shut up,” Gavin groans lightheartedly, sitting up as he scratches the back of his neck, “You guys are annoying. And hypocrites. Did you forget I'm a demon?” He smiles sweetly.

That gets Damien and Lasko to shut up, suddenly averting the other two's gazes

At that moment, Freelancer is heard opening the front door and calling out.

“We're back!”

“Thank god,” Lasko whispers in a completely different tone than Gavin does.

By the time any of them look back up, Gavin was gone to the doorway as well.

“Whipped,” Huxley snorts.

“Says you,” Lasko chimes in softly, looking back at his phone.

Damien huffs, “Says you. Didn’t you cry for three hours after you and-“

Lasko shoots a gust of wind at a sheet of paper on the coffee table to fly into Damien’s face. He responds by setting the sheet on fire, raising an eyebrow at the air-elemental.

“Shut your mouth, Damien, I’ll suffocate you,” Lasko glares.

Damien rolls his eyes and gets up to sit next to Huxley again, “Yeah, as if, air elemental who's scared of heights.”

“Says the guy who's half French and can’t even speak the language.”

Damien looks as if he would get up again to start another less verbal fight but Dear is now standing in the doorway, clearing their throat.

They raise an eyebrow, "What are you two fighting about this time?"

And the two of them immediately jump back into yelling over each other, ranting about some stupid move Damien loved and Lasko thought was absolute ass.

Huxley shakes his head and wraps an arm around his boyfriend with a smile, keeping Damien trapped at his side while Dear tries to mediate like an exhausted parent.

Outside in the doorway of the apartment, Gavin has his arms wrapped around Freelancer's waist, theirs around his neck. He sighs happily, feeling tension bleed from his body at finally having his lover back in his arms. Safe and happy.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

blah blah blah two twinks fighting huxley sigh freelancer this freelancer that deviant mom friend dear whipped gavin french damien mention and post

[bumblesimagines]

Imagine:

Escaping The Woods

Request: Yes or No

Finally giving my fem!readers some crumbs

~~~

"Sam, you need to go! Now!" She had no idea where this strength came from to shout at the boy. They constantly sedated her, keeping her numb and tranquil against her will, even when they claimed it was for her own safety. They feared her, just as they feared every other student trapped below the school. She knew well that her food had been tampered with, tainted with a sedative that would keep her from fighting when they did blood tests. The sedative would kick in soon and she'd be left to sleep for hours until she awoke with the hope that Sam finally escaped. 

"But- I can't leave you!" Blood dripped down his cheek, hands and clothes stained with the blood of the guards who had tried stopping him. He'd escaped his cell, just as he had done numerous times before, but he had a chance to finally leave and never return. Her eyes watered and he swallowed, punching in numbers into the pad on her door. It clicked and she gasped softly, wide eyes watching the door slide open. At her feet lied a puddle of blood and a guard with his jaw broken clean off. 

"Sam..."

"Come with us." He pleaded softly and she spotted what he held in his hand. A small supe. A girl. Drenched in blood and sound asleep in the palm of his hand. He held her carefully, as if afraid he'd hurt her with his superstrength. "Let's get out of here."

A chance at freedom. A chance to go home and far away from the corrupt humans keeping her trapped. She swallowed and took his free hand, a wide smile breaking out on his face. He led her down the bloody, corpse-ridden corridor and held the small supe close to his chest, his legs turning corners automatically and leading them to a dead end. Her brows furrowed but then Sam released her hand and braced himself, ramming his shoulder against the wall and making the hidden door burst open. He turned back to her, panting and smiling with his floppy brown curls falling over his forehead. 

"Almost there, (Y/N). Come on!" He took her hand again and they hurried up the stairs, leaving the building and stepping out into part of campus. The fresh air hit her like a truck and she inhaled deeply, the first breath of clean air she'd taken in years. Sam ran out into the field and toward a forested area, the grass beneath her worn sneaks crunching. Real, living trees. She was back in nature. But it wasn't enough. Her hand slipped from Sam's and she collapsed on her knees with a low groan. 

"Sam," She breathed out, feeling the grass against her palms. So soft, so comforting. The grass blades grew and wrapped around her fingers, the use of her powers only straining her more. Sam stepped toward her and offered his hand again.

"It- It's okay, (Y/N). I'll carry you-"

"No, you have to go." She pushed his hand away. "I'll only slow you down. If- If they catch you, who knows what they'll do to you. Save yourself and the girl. If they come, I'll hold them back for as long as I can." 

Sam hesitated, his lips beginning to tremble with anguish and eyes flooding with tears. He nodded and wiped his tears away with the bloodied sleeve of his sweater, turning his back to her and running forward before taking a leap into the air that left a small crater behind. She watched him disappear into the night and sighed, praying to whatever higher power above to let Sam go. To let him finally live a life outside four walls. To let him find Luke and run until nobody could find either of them. 

Headlights suddenly shone behind her and she swallowed thickly, staggering up onto her weak legs. The sedative. She could feel its effects beginning to set in. Her world began to turn and twist but she couldn't let it deter her. She had to protect Sam. She had to. (Y/N) took another deep breath and tried to focus, trying to summon the last of her strength. Nature was all around her. It was her strength, her power. But her vision became blurry and her movements became sluggish. 

"Hey, you okay?" A hand grabbed her elbow and she spun around, swinging as hard and fast as she could but even then, her wrist was easily caught. Her vision grew blurrier and she stumbled right into the chest of the stranger before her legs gave out and her vision went dark. 

Jordan stared at the girl passed out on their bed, teeth anxiously chewing on their bottom lip. They recognized her. She'd ranked 8th in the Top Ten before disappearing, or per Brink's words, 'dropped out due to pressure.' Yet there she was. Weak, delirious, and in the worst state they'd ever seen another person in. Famished, dehydrated, and likely tormented. "Fuck," They cursed softly and ran a hand over their face in frustration. Maybe if they hadn't been so meek back in freshmen year, maybe if they had gotten the courage to speak with her... maybe she wouldn't have been taken. 

She groaned and their heart nearly skipped a beat, shooting up from the couch and watching her closely for signs of consciousness. (Y/N)'s head lolled from side to side, slowly rolling onto her back and carefully sitting up with her eyes cracking open. Jordan slipped into their femme form, their smaller and softer form where they wouldn't be as intimidating. She'd almost cracked their cheek the previous night when they'd been in their masc form, and they'd rather not risk it again. (Y/N) slumped back against the wall with furrowed brows, her fingers curling around the sheets and comforter. 

"Where..." Her voice sounded hoarse. Jordan quickly moved around the bed and bopped open their mini fridge, snatching the first bottle of Vought Water they saw and opening it. They returned to the bedside and held the bottle up to her cracked lips, slowly tilting the bottle so she could drink and refresh her throat. She drank the water without protest before gently pushing their hand away, wiping her wet lips and chin with the tip of her fingers and finally getting a good look at her surroundings. "Where am I?"

"You're in my dorm. I-I'm Jordan Li." Jordan licked their lips and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

"Jordan? The... the freshmen that always tried sucking up to Brink?" Their skin flushed and they chuckled sheepishly, screwing the cap back on the bottle. She'd noticed them back then. Butterflies fluttered around furiously in their belly. Oh, how could she still affect them so much after three years? She tiredly rubbed her eyes and leaned forward a bit. "You look... different."

Right. She knew them before they came out and fully accepted their two forms. "Yeah, I..." They pressed their lips together and slipped into their masc form before going back to their femme form. Her brows raised and they braced themselves for a reaction that would shatter their heart. But instead, she nodded and leaned back, content with the wordless explanation. 

"Dorm.." She repeated quietly and her eyes widened, suddenly ripping the comforter off her legs and swinging them over the edge of the bed.

"Woah, woah, easy!" The bottle slipped from their hand and fell to the ground, arms shooting out to steady her before she could stumble and fall. She braced herself against the nightstand and took in short breaths, one hand gently pushing away their arm so she could stumble toward the broad window and peer out of it. She gasped sharply and jerked back. 

"I-I can't be here, Jordan." 

"I know, I know." Jordan's hands found her waist, digging their fingers into the fabric of the grey sweatpants to steady her. Her hands bunched up their jacket as she held onto them, the fear in her eyes making their heartache. 

"No, you don't know. If- If they find me, they'll take me back to The Woods and they'll wipe you so you forget about me. They hurt Sam but he's too valuable to them. I'm not. Jordan, they'll kill me." Her eyes flooded with tears and she shakily inhaled, voice trembling with each word she spoke. "They are going to kill me." 

"I won't let that happen," Jordan assured firmly. "I won't let them hurt you."

[limerenceheart]

yan! hsr boys and being sick.

concept - they have to look after a sick darling.

trigger warnings - drugging and violence.

i'm low on requests, please send some in!

lucoha

the absolute worst. being sick should be over within a few hours considering his healing ability but he left his darling in the lurch. the idea of her being completely dependent on him made his heart skipped a beat. so I f his darling got too carried away, he could just slip some sedatives into her medicine. if she piss him off, the blonde could always take more drastic measures.

gepard

The silverman guards captain discovering that his darling had come down with the fever made things backfired. she hope that the rules would become slightly bend. this was proven wrong when finding herself being manhandled back into bed along with being lock inside the room just for trying to go to the bathroom. gepard have just become a prisoner warden.

blade

his darling was expecting to be neglected but the cold brought out another side of him. she thought she was imagining things when blade entered the room with a hot steaming bowl of soup. his softer side was almost terrifying because if she met him under normal circumstances, a crush would have develop. but his darling was reminded of his true colours though when he threatened to force the soup down her throat if he didn't let him feed her.

jing yuan

his darling disliked how he temporarily took leave from his duties since it meant that jing yuan care about her. the slight silver lining that the general left her alone since he still had some paperwork to do. but when his darling tried to step outside for fresh air, jing yuan completely flipped. it was hard to say no when being handcuffed to a chair in his private study along with jing yuan just signing off documents along while stating it was her fault for being difficult.

[shaybreezy-17]

Zoro and the Aphrodisiac (Zoro x Fem!Reader)

smutty, silly lil one shot ;p

*TW: Explicit/sexual content*

Fanart credits to: @rrrotten!

This image makes me feel things every time I look at it 🙈…

-

It was a dark and stormy night on the Thousand Sunny, but that didn’t stop you from heading into the kitchen for a midnight snack…

-

“What are you doing with that?!” You whispered, slapping Nami’s hand away from the booze barrel she was pouring something into.

“Relax! It’s just a little calming sedative for the boys to chill out tomorrow morning so I can rummage through their clothes and sell some of the ugly ones for a couple extra berries.” She had her tongue out in focus, pouring a clear substance into the barrel. “Something caught my eye in one of the boutiques in town…”

She placed the bottle down to mix what was inside the barrel, so you picked it up to inspect it, making a mental note to bother her about what she wanted later.

The label had a bunch of hearts and upon reading it a bit further, “MAXIMUM STRENGTH AROUSAL SEDATIVE?” You gasped. “Nami, this might put them to sleep but we’re gonna have to spend a couple hours running away from them first… it’s like an aphrodisiac or worse! Practically liquid viagra…”

Snatching the bottle out of your hands, she read the label carefully, scrunching her eyebrows. “Well, fuck.” She chuckled nervously, “At least they’ll knock out eventually…”

“We have to do something about this before breakfast in the morning.” You sighed, placing the lid back on the barrel. “Should we just toss it out now that everyone’s asleep?”

Nami opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a larger presence behind her.

“Throw what away? Better not be talkin’ about my sake.” It was Zoro. He walked past Nami, approaching the barrel.

“Hands off, now.” He lowered his voice, eyes on your hand over the barrel. “Why are you meddling with my stuff?”

You looked over at Nami, silently begging for help.

“It’s pretty late, huh? I’m just gonna leave you two…” Nami began to back out of the kitchen, mouthing an “I’m sorry” before closing the door behind her.

She’s so dead tomorrow, you thought.

Looking back over at Zoro, “You can’t drink this, bud.” You retorted, placing your other hand on it.

He looked visibly more annoyed. “This isn’t a barrel for everyone to drink out of, it has my sake in it so who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” He began to walk toward you, forcing you to back up into the kitchen wall. “Y/N, you just pissed me off and it’s late. You should go to bed.”

“But, I-”

“Go. To. Bed.”

You rolled your eyes, wishing he’d stop treating you like a child.

If he wanted a drink so bad, he was about to find out why he should’ve stayed outta that damn barrel the hard way.

You opted for sleeping at the Sick Bay for the night as you were sure if you saw Nami right now in the Girls’ bedroom area, you’d probably lash out on her over Zoro annoying you.

-

As you drifted in and out of consciousness, you felt your body being shaken by something. You opened your eyes, blinking a couple times to adjust them but all you could see was a blurry silhouette hovering over you in the dimly lit room.

“About fucking time you get up!” Zoro whispered. “I was looking all over for you.”

You sat up in confusion, rubbing your eyes. “You here to pick a fight over your stupid booze again?”

“No, idiot.” Zoro spat, “You put something in my sake! It’s making me feel… weird.”

“It wasn’t me and you’re the idiot for drinking from the barrel when I told you not to!” You slapped his shoulder.

“I don’t take orders from you last time I checked.” He scoffed.

“Yeah? Look where that got you now.” You retorted. “Get out if you don’t need anything else from me.”

He licked his lips, “You always been this feisty or am I just noticing?”

The sudden change in his behavior threw you off guard, but you knew the affect must have been kicking in worse by now.

“Oh, shut up.” You lightly shoved his chest, “That drink is messing you up, making you feel things you shouldn’t…”

He sat on the bed, leaning towards you. “The drink that you’re responsible for spiking?”

“I-I didn’t-”

He began to caress one side of your face, giving you the most intense eye contact he’s ever had, “I think it’s only fair that you’re responsible for relieving me of what I’m feeling right now…”

You were speechless. It was like Zoro left and let Sanji posses his sexy body. This was so unlike him.

You tried to dismiss the fact that the closer he got to you, the more you realized just how damn good looking he was.

“I need you, Y/N.” He whispered, thumb rubbing the corner of your mouth. His eyes followed, looking down at your lips. He licked his own intently. “Make me feel good.”

His voice made you weak in the knees. You closed your eyes in defeat, letting him finally kiss you.

You were torn between wanting him to make you his or still hating him for never taking you seriously and it caused a fire within you. You kissed him back, angry with passion.

You shoved him, making him lay down at the edge of the bed. Crawling on top of him, you kissed him again. You wanted control of him and this situation so badly… you wanted him to take you serious.

Zoro couldn’t handle his excitement as you felt him struggling to take off his pants until you felt something long and hard spring out and slap against your ass. Breaking the kiss, you positioned yourself over his pre-cum soaked penis.

“Slow and steady,” He placed a hand on your hip to support you, “I don’t wanna tear you up just yet…”

His words made your pussy throb. Looking down at his penis, you lowered yourself down, pushing him further and further inside… 

Once he was fully inside, you clenched your stomach, letting out a tiny grunt. He let out a smirk knowing he would be a lot for you to handle.

Rolling your eyes, you balanced yourself upright before you started working upwards and downwards on his cock. Zoro’s eyes closed shut and he let out a moan before stifling it by biting his hand.

This gave you a nudge of confidence as you began to quicken up your pace. Following your lead, he placed his hands on your waist, lifting you up as he began to thrust up inside you.

He threw his head back and you heard a stringy mess of the word “FuUuUcK!”

Before you knew it, he flipped you over so you were below him. “Sorry, Y/N, but I’m about to destroy you. I won’t hold back anymore.”

Without giving you a moment to even register what he had just said, he shoved himself back inside you causing you to tremble at the feeling of him completely spreading you apart, hitting all the right places.

He fucked you so hard, letting all of his past frustrations and desires toward you roll out with every thrust he made.

“Fuck! I hate you and how good you make me feel.” He growled, not letting up anytime soon.

Without even thinking, you reached up and slapped him across the face. His expression flashed with anger but quickly turned into something darker and more lustful…

“Not rough enough for ya?” He grinned, repositioning your legs over his shoulders to dig even deeper inside you, wrapping one of his hands around your throat as he spit into your mouth. “You’re taking me so fucking well, Y/N, I’m a little surprised.”

Little did he know, you began to feel an orgasm coming on. The way he was so rough with you yet made you feel so good had the knot in your stomach forming, tighter than ever, as your body begged you to let yourself cum.

Zoro hovered over you completely now, digging his face in your neck, leaving bites and kisses all over you. He pulled down your dress at the neckline, letting your breasts come out. As he sucked on your left nipple, he let his hand find your throat again. You couldn’t help but throw your head back at the overwhelming sensations he was giving you, rolling your eyes in pleasure.

“Zoro!” You screamed, “I-I’m gonna-”

Unable to finish your sentence, you felt that knot in your belly pulsating with energy that you were just dying to release. Running your fingers through Zoros hair, you gripped it as you felt yourself coming undone.

You let out a bunch of stringy moans and curse words as you came all over his cock, quivering under him as you attempted to push him out of you, but he held you and your hips down in place and kept ravaging your pussy.

You began to wimper with every additional thrust he gave you after you came. Your pussy was so sensitive now, you felt like you’d cum again any minute now.

Knowing you had no choice but to beg for him for mercy. “P-please, Zoro!” You struggled to find the words as he seemed to have fucked the shit out of the brains you once had, “I-I can’t take it anymore!”

You felt his pace get sloppier by the minute, his breathing heavier than before. You were both covered in each others sweat, but you were too dick-drunk to care or else you woulda dragged the both of you to the showers.

Zoros groans got louder as he fought back his own orgasmic sensation. His throbbing cock made your walls tighten around him even more, causing even more pleasurable agony for him. Eventually, he shoved his cock deeper inside you, making sure not to leave a single inch out. It pulsated and throbbed, followed by Zoro moaning your name loudly in your ear as he released deep inside you.

-

You were both utterly exhausted. Zoro let himself lay on you, no longer supporting up his body weight. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and your arms around his neck. You both laid in silence, only the sounds of you both trying to catch your breath could be heard.

“You look a mess.” Zoro smiled, kissing your forehead, moving a strand of hair out of your face. “A very, very sexy mess.”

“I promise you look worse.” You replied, playfully shagging up his hair. “Well, now you do. Look at that mess on your head.”

He gently flipped you back over so you were on top and he was resting on his back. He looked up at you with sleepy eyes, almost in a drunken state. “Whaddya say we both drink out of that barrel tomorrow night?”

“No way!” You slapped him on the shoulder, “You just wanna go for round two tomorrow, you horny fuck.”

His face formed into a grin as he let his hands rub your naked inner thighs as you straddled him, “More like round six, let’s keep this going ‘til sunrise and save sleeping for the morning.”

“How ambitious of you,” You chuckled, remembering he took a sedative that was clearly already kicking in, but still giving in to the urge to challenge him once more before he was out for good, “to think you’d last much longer…”

[munsster]

shut-eye

A/N: i siimply love sleepy boys and their puppy dog tendencies

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x GN!Reader

Summary: Billy Hargrove loves sleep and you. 0.8k words.

Warnings: implied smut and kissing, cuddling, lots of sleeping + snoring, general fluff!

The second you get your hands on Billy, he's snoring. His cheek is smushed against your thigh, and your fingers are soft on the back of his neck. Soft enough that he's humming in two minutes flat. You never knew your boy could be so tired. Every time you tell him to work less and sleep more, he tells you he's saving up for your future together and then immediately passes out on the couch.

He doesn't even know it's happening until he's snoring softly and draped across your lap, all deadweight with his boots heavy strapped to his feet. You usually give him a couple minutes to blink awake again. It borders on Pavlovian when he waits five minutes to stand silently in the hall and let you lead him to his bedroom.

Though he's practically unconscious, he insists on stripping down to his underwear to sleep comfortably. Which has become your job because he says he likes how gentle you are. You never really mind anyway, and he's always polite about it—sure to huff out those pleases and thank you's. You're careful to keep him at peace while you slowly unbutton his shirt or push the jacket from his shoulders. It's rare that it gets him riled up when you push his jeans to the floor, but rare doesn't mean never. You know you've got him revved up when he groans and his eyes flick open. And sleep has evaded him with his hand in your panties.

There is nothing more important to him than you. When you tell him he's sweet and special and worth it, he feels content enough to kiss your neck and breathe you in until he's all drained and humming. It means so much that you take the time to make sure he's tucked in at night. He's never had anyone keep track of him like this. Even with work kicking his ass, he's happy to wake up to you after you insist he gets all eight hours of rest.

Sometimes, the day and its people will make him groggy. Worse than overtired and overworked, he gets explosive until he slumps through the front door. One time he couldn't find you, and he nearly tore the whole house apart just to find you curled under the covers. And the small, sleepy smile that graced your face made all that grievance worth it. The bad days are the worst until he's warm under four different quilts and tucked into your side with a peck lingering on his forehead.

If you’re not careful, he’ll beg you to sing to him. He’ll crawl onto your tummy and bat his lashes and beg and beg like he can’t do without a lullaby. Doesn’t matter if you can sing, you will end up singing. Some sickly sweet jazz tune, but really you could sing your grocery list and have him cooing like a little baby by the end. And if you’re not in the mood and he really can’t sleep, he’ll ask you to read to him. It knocks him out like a sedative. Forget warm milk, spit some Murakami and wait for the snoring to sink in.

He doesn’t even have to be tired to fall asleep across your lap. If he sees you looking comfortable on the couch, he will simply squirm under the blanket next to you (or on top of you) and blink up at you until you smile and run your fingers through his hair. He’s so puppy dog coded. But at the same time SO orange cat. He could be running on six cups of coffee and still be sound asleep to your heartbeat tender against his cheek.

He's cursed without a goodnight kiss. Won't get a wink of sleep 'till he gets a kiss from you. It gives him nightmares just thinking about it. He can't—he won't fully conk out until he's wrapped around you, your palm resting in the crook of his own, kiss settled on his forehead or cheek or lips or eyelids. He refuses because it's not safe. He needs the bedtime routine of you to keep him weighed down and promise forever in dreams.

When he's especially tired, you'll whisper things like, "You are the sleepiest boy in the whole world,” or calling him “sleeping beauty,” just to rouse a half-hearted reaction from him. It's usually a mumble of some gruff protest or a coo of laughter before he's out cold with his hands tethered to you. He's always so determined to stay good and awake for you, but it's usually a futile effort that ends when he wakes up with the sun the next morning.

Do not try to make him sleep without you, it won't end well. Seriously, his solution to a fight is not "I'll sleep on the couch"; it's "I'll kiss you until we're both feeling better," and when that doesn't work, one flash of that deviant smile and soft blue bedroom eyes will stop any train in its tracks.

He spends all of his free time sleeping and loves to call a cat nap across your tummy ‘date night’. It might’ve annoyed you if you didn't love him so much. Plus you never really mind the extra shut-eye. That kind of forgiveness is part of what fuels his obsession with you. If your smile is the last thing he remembers before bed, it's a good day.

How can you be mad when he purrs like a kitten and finds you like a heat seeking missile. He doesn't remember when he got so tired, but he's glad he found someone to keep him healthy. And maybe a sixty-hour work week won't be so bad once he can buy you that pretty silver ring and make you happy for the rest of your lives.

masterlist

[mykoreanlove]

serum 💦

Minho groaned dramatically as he rushed back into the bathroom and took a seat on the tub behind you.

„Kitten, you are doing skincare for hours. When is this finally over? The cats need you!“ His whining reminded you of a little boy. You smiled sheepishly while applying silky lotion all over your body.

„Are you sure it’s the cats who need me?“

He rolled his chestnut colored eyes at you, never wanting to admit his vulnerability.

„Yes. They do. And maybe… I do, too.“ Your left brow rose in surprise. „Only maybe? Well, then I can take my time I guess.“

Minho got up hastily and swung his arms around your body. „I lied. I need you, kitten. Please don’t make me wait any longer.“ He placed kisses on the back of your neck as he looked at you pleasingly. „Please, y/n.“

You loved how much he needed you. When you two first started dating he was so closed off and cold but now it’s like he’s pouring his innermost feelings out to you without even thinking about it. It warmed your heart knowing that he trusted you that much. And at the same time it turned you on - badly. Minho was not one to beg often but when he did? Instant panty dropper. Something about his lowered body language and glistening eyes made you feel powerful and dominant – feelings that were normally his to occupy in your relationship.

Your voice was hoarse, you were already vividly imagining what was about to come. „I.. I‘ll hurry up, Min.“

This moment of vulnerability only lasted for a short moment as Minho decided to take another route by showing you exactly what he thought of your pre-bedtime agenda.

He was pampering you with kisses as his hands roamed your body. Minho sensed you getting wet just by touching you like this, knowing exactly what his little kitten liked. Your head fell back on his broad shoulders as he was playing with the hem of your lacy thong, his long fingers sliding in effortlessly. Little moans escaped your lips as you were trying to steady yourself.

„What’s wrong kitten? Are you too distracted to do your skin care?“

His tone was malicious but you didn’t care. You let out a deep moan as his index finger found your clit, massaging it lightly. He sucked in his breath, getting harder by the second.

„Fuck, how are you so wet already?“ Minho thrusted harder against you, pushing you against the hard sink. The cold marble felt amazing against your hot skin, almost as amazing as his throbbing cock against your ass cheeks.

„Min“, you huffed out.

„Yes, kitten?“

„Let’s go to the bedroom. Please.“ He chuckled into your ear and intensified the pressure on your clit.

„Baby, we can’t. You still need to do your skincare“, he cooed into your ear. You grew impatient - the audacity this man had.

„Min, I swear to god. Will you fuck me already?“

He didn’t need to hear that twice.

His fingers slid into your dripping pussy - without a warning which made you tense up only to become even more aroused. He started pumping his fingers in and out of you, fastening the pace as he pleased. You felt so good, he made you feel so fucking good.

„Kitten?“ You were at the brink of your first orgasm.

„Yeah?“

„Remember how you prioritized your skincare over me?“

Eyes filled with lust and a hunger for dominance looked directly at you. You tried your best holding his gaze but failed as he was sliding in three fingers by now.

„I want you to do it. Do your skincare.“

You were too distracted to argue so you complied. You reached for the remaining products, all while trying not to come on his fingers. The bathroom was filled with sounds of Minho‘s shallow breathing, your melodic moans and the wetness of your core. You applied the eye cream as he was quickening the pace.

„Oh god, Minho, wait!“

He wasn’t having it.

„Do your skin care kitten, you now understand what you get by prioritizing it over me. Come on.“

You grabbed the lip mask and applied the thick cream on your plush lips only to part them right after as your boyfriend was massaging your clit now.

„Fuck I- I -Min!“

He smirked seductively at you, trying to last a little longer.

„Do I Make you feel good, kitten? Because you make me feel so good.“

He pushed himself against you even harder. Your hands trailed behind your back to his pants, wanting his dick so badly.

„Hmmm kitten, did you not forget something?“

His eyes darted to the serum on the right. You were too fucked out to notice that you had applied everything in the wrong order but so what? You grabbed the little glass bottle and opened it. You applied three drops on your face - forehead, cheeks and chin. It was nearly see-through and thick, staying on your face until you rubbed it in. But before you did you noticed Minho‘s eyes widen with even more desire. You smirked as you knew exactly what he was thinking.

„Min, do you like my new serum?“

Your question pulled him out of his daydream. You placed your index finger on your cheek and slowly smeared it all over your face, not breaking eye contact once. His breathing got heavier as he let go of your waist and started touching himself. Your eyes widened in shock as you realized that he was jerking off.

You turned around, wanting to help as he motioned you to go down on your knees. You followed his orders and looked up at him - even though he was doing the filthiest things he still seemed divine to you.

„Kitten“, he barely spoke. Sweat was forming on his forehead, his sharp jaw tensed as he was about to come for you. Your excitement grew bigger and bigger.

„Yes?“

You tried to get closer to him, eager to suck him off and swallow his delicious cum. You loved how he made you feel so dirty, as if you were doing the naughtiest things just for him. Minho smirked at you, he loved how eager you were for him. He loved how much you would take for him, just because you wanted him that much. He shook his head and denied your request to suck him off though. You started sulking until you heard his explanation.

„Before we do that kitten, let me do this.“

Minho came all over your face, covering you with his shimmery cum just how he liked it. He looked down at you, a mixture of love and possession in his aroused eyes. He placed his thumb on your cheek and smeared his own cum all over your pretty features.

„See kitten, I think my serum is way better for you.“

[holding-monsters-hands]

Okay angst idea, hear me out. AM noticing his s/o is in pain a lot and realizes that his prior treatment of them caused long-term health issues. Sad boy hours ensue.

AM with an s/o that has long-term health issues because of him.

This.. is a really, really hard realization for him. Though he has no room to feel pity for himself, nor throw a tantrum.

He does everything he can to ease your pain, your suffering. Yet every pained moan, or cry is just another reminder that he’s the one who ruined your quality of life, that he’s taken you to a point where there is no ‘fixing’.

He can feed you medication after medication, do a number of surgical procedures, and carry you where-ever you’d like. But, it will never, ever fix what he’s done to you.

Whether you’re willing to mentally heal and move past those bad memories with him, or if you still don’t forgive him. He’ll never stop trying to help you get through your day by day, he’s never felt so guilty over a human before.. and yet, here he is. Crying over the love of his life, who he hurt.

He might even offer to try and wipe your brain, though his technology is only so advanced.. and there’s only so much pain he’s able to take away, whether physical or psychological.

He’ll give you space if that’s what you need, though he’s a bit hesitant to do so. All he ever wants to do is be by your side, though he’d completely understand WHY you’d need some time away from him.

However, if you need him more than ever: he’s all yours, not a second will go by where you don’t have his attention on you. Do you want him to put on a comfort show/film for you? maybe you guys can play a game, or he can get you your favorite meals! clearly, he tries really hard to be the man.. or, computer, that you need him to be.

There are many nights where he holds your delicate form in his wires, ever-so gently trying to rock you to sleep while you wait for the sedatives to kick in, he’ll continue to hold you. To cradle you like precious glass, and to try and heal the deep scarring of your shared past.

[tipsynight0]

Muddied paths

pairing - jeff x female reader ft smile

Word count - 600

Synopsis - jeff and (y/n) take smile for a bath

Authors note - ah thank you for all the love on my writing <3 I was literally inspired to write this for 2 reasons the first being I had to give my bull dog a bath today, and I always walk by a water fall at work. Enjoy <33

Slick mud clung to the ground as Jeff’s and (Y/N)’s ratty sneakers sank into the earth, following the familiar path through the woods. The storm had only passed an hour earlier, leaving behind a crisp chill in the air, and Smile, their hellhound, had howled relentlessly until they caved to his demand for a walk. It was more than just for the dog, though—Jeff needed these moments, a break from the chaos that defined his life, even if he’d never admit it.

Jeff’s hand wrapped around (Y/N)’s, their fingers hidden inside the sleeve of his sweater. The steady sound of their steps and the distant rumble of the waterfall approaching brought a rare peace to him, a fragile kind that barely lasted, but he clung to it nonetheless. The air was heavy with the dampness of rain, the smell of wet earth filling their lungs.

Lost in thought, Jeff stared down at his muddied sneakers, grateful for the quiet. This path, these mundane moments, were their escape. Smile sprinted ahead, splashing into the shallow, muddy water beneath the waterfall. A heavy sigh escaped Jeff's lips as he locked eyes with (Y/N), who gave him a knowing smile.

“He’s going to need a bath,” Jeff grumbled, watching the dog shake droplets everywhere.

(Y/N) chuckled, her laugh cutting through the quiet like sunlight after a storm. “Yeah, and that’s all on you.”

Jeff snorted but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled her closer, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of her ear, before letting his lips graze her skin with a teasing nip. (Y/N) shivered, her grip tightening on his sweater as she turned to face him, eyes questioning. “What was that for?”

Jeff only shrugged, his lips curling slightly as Smile trotted back, victorious, a dead squirrel dangling from his jaws.

Back home, Jeff had managed to hoist Smile over his shoulder, despite the mud and the hound's squirming attempts to escape. By the time they got inside, he was covered in scratches, his sweater smeared with dirt and dog hair. (Y/N) stood waiting in the bathroom, armed with a towel and a sedative just in case. The clawfoot tub was already filled with warm water and bubbles, the soothing scent of lavender filling the room, though it did little to calm the wild energy bouncing off Smile.

"Come on, Smile. Let me wash you, and you’ll get a damn treat," Jeff muttered, his patience fraying as he lathered the dog with shampoo. Smile, unamused, growled and tried to nip at Jeff’s hands, but Jeff wasn't having it.

(Y/N) knelt beside them, her fingers combing through Smile’s wet fur, and whispered soothing words. “Good boy,” she murmured softly, earning a grumble from Jeff as he struggled to keep the dog still. But seeing her smile at the mess made the effort worth it.

Once they’d finally finished, Smile bolted out of the bathroom, leaving behind puddles and wet fur in his wake. Jeff leaned back against the counter, his chest bare and streaked with scratches. He smelled of wet dog and exhaustion, while (Y/N), drenched in fur and suds, stifled a laugh.

"I think you need a shower," (Y/N) teased, her eyes gleaming as she took in the mess he’d become.

Jeff’s lips twitched into a smirk as he tugged lightly on her tank top, pulling her closer. His voice dropped, low and easy. “I think you need to join me.”

[hold-him-down]

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled. 

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out. 

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract.  He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though. 

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore. 

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?” 

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks. 

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies. 

Otto nods. 

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them. 

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it. 

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable. 

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away. 

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself. 

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all. 

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable. 

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring. 

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure. 

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall. 

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head. 

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually. 

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.” 

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You��re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel. 

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue. 

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?” 

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears. 

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.” 

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog 

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

@squishablesunbeam

@considerablecolors

@whumpcereal

@whumperfully

@pirefyrelight

@whumpsday

@whumplr-reader

@lonesome--hunter 

@darkthingshappen 

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

[the-bi-space-ace]

I have a migraine coming on so I present to you:

How the clones react when they have a headache:

Rex: takes so many pain pills. Refuses to let this stop him. Drinks water constantly. And yet. This man refuses to try a snack to fix his headache. Cody has had Fives and Echo hold him down so he can make Rex eat a granola bar. (The granola bar helps Rex refuses to admit it.)

Cody: refuses to admit anything is wrong. Total hypocrite. Will bully everyone else into pain relievers, snacks, and water but will never take his own advice. Quite like his above mentioned brother he will never admit to something working and has to be tricked into doing something to relieve the pain.

Fox: chews on espresso beans to make his headache a caffeinated headache. Also is just in a constant state of discomfort from not sleeping enough. His headache would go away should he drink water or nap but the man would rather down another energy drink and move on.

Wolffe: will be grumpy about it until he can nap. Is really good about finding some sort of relief and is quiet about his pain. (Likes when someone will rub his head though that helps he won’t ask for it though.)

Fives: biiiiiiig mad. Super baby about it. Immediately wants an aleve and a snack but somehow thinks drinking something with sugar will help??? Instead of water??? And he’s somehow correct every time??? Lays his head in Echo’s lap and requests a head massage and promptly falls asleep.

Echo: I think he’s good about managing pain because he doesn’t want it to impact his ability to do things. He carries snacks and water and will take a reliever if pushed (although he says he doesn’t want to take it because he doesn’t want to ‘waste’ supplies on himself. Take the damn pill Echo you’ll feel better.) Refuses to be alone when he’s in pain and would always prefer someone to just sit nearby if he’s going to nap. As long as it’s dark and calm he’s pretty quiet about it. Tries to hide it 9 times out of 10 but he’s got nosey friends and they somehow always know and bully him into taking care of himself.

Hunter: oof. Poor guy gets migraines. Can never hide it. His eyes hurt so bad. His brain feels like it’s banging against his skull. Has to take some sort of medication immediately otherwise he gets sick. He’d prefer some solitude to be in pain alone but sometimes someone will take his bandana off and play with his hair to help.

Wrecker: Hates headaches but gets them concentrated right behind his eyes. Is not quiet about the pain and will request literally anything to make it go away. Tech is excellent at playing doctor here and knows exactly the combination of things to make it go away and keep Wrecker comfortable.

Tech: if it’s bad enough he will take a sedative and pass out for twelve hours and wake up fine. Does not fuck around and will not remain uncomfortable. He gets the slightest inclination of a headache and he’s eating a mini candy bar and a piece of cheese and also drinking eight ounces of water in five minutes before trying a pill that he knows will target the root cause of the problem. Scary efficient and competent.

Crosshair: oh boy. Will make it everyone else’s problem. He hates headaches. He’ll curl into a ball in whatever dark corner he can find and snap at anyone who tries to talk to him. Best bet is to silently bring offerings of food and water and leave him be until he feels more comfortable. He will never admit it but sometimes really quiet talking or even singing can help him at least feel better.

[ro-sham-no]

Sam’s wall breaks, and he won’t stop screaming.

it's his birthday so you KNOW i had to whump my boy

It’s been two days and fifteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming. 

Blood droplets fly out of his mouth with wracking coughs as he chokes on hurried inhales, mucosal spit gumming up his trachea.

It’s been two days and sixteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

The only times he’s been silent in the last two days and seventeen hours is when he’s unconscious. The first bout - four hours and twenty-three minutes of silence - Dean’d just clocked him in the jaw when it was clear Sam was going to scream himself into involuntary suffocation - diaphragm and abdominal muscles locking up from the abuse. Dean knocked him unconscious for those four hours and twenty-three minutes, after six hours of his weeping and gnashing of teeth.

By the time he had woken up, Dean had shots of sedative and they were two hours into a twenty-eight-hour drive to Bobby’s - if nothing else, Dean’s efficient. Sam didn’t take notice.

And if the sounds he won’t stop making can be described as screaming, then the sounds he makes when Dean has to touch him while he’s awake can only be described as a death wail. Wailing and scrambling to get away from Dean with a fervor that earns them both violent shades of bruises.

It’s been two days and twenty hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

During the drive, whenever Sam’s anguish would escalate back into hair-tearing, along with beating his fists against his arms and thighs and threatening to bash his head into the windows of the Impala, Dean would pull over to force another dose of sedative into him. 

The sounds he makes while Dean tries to subdue him… Well, even in the most remote location on their route, Dean was afraid the farmer whose house they could just barely see in the distance would be able to hear. It had to have been at least three miles away, with how flat the land was, and Dean was still worried that someone would hear. 

Sam won’t stop screaming, and his screams are deafening- except when he’s unconscious, from the shots Dean gives him, the screaming is just in Dean’s mind. A haunting kind of tinnitus that rings in Dean’s ears, just as nauseating as the real deal, but a touch less heartbreaking.

He only allows himself to sleep for the first few hours of Sam being down for the count, despite the catatonic state that seemed to have taken over him. Dean wasn’t about to risk Sam waking up without him. They sleep together in the car, in the weeds and the bramble off of back roads, hidden from view. Baby’s paint has never been so scratched up.

It’s been two days and twenty-three hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

They’ve been at Bobby’s for the last twenty-four of those, trying to hold back on the sedative, because god knows they can’t keep it up forever or Sam’s heart is liable to just straight up quit, so they’ve been rationing it. Walking the nerve-wracking line between acceptable amounts of incomprehensible human suffering and causing an overdose that could just kill Sam, for good this time.

On the 72nd hour - that’s two days and twenty-four hours, or three days and zero hours, or 4,230 minutes and zero seconds, or 259,200 seconds and -

It’s been three days and zero hours, and Sam is awake, but he stops screaming.

And on the third day he will be raised…

Dean rushes over to check on him, but Sam is still breathing, heart still beating, body still holding itself upright, and he’s stopped screaming.

Now, though, two lines of salty tears trail down his face. For all his hysteric shrieking over the last three days, through all the rocking and swaying and the occasional distinct syllable of “no” over and over again, he hadn’t actually shed a tear, until now.

It’s been three days and zero hours and Sam’s tears are silent. 

He’s staring far off into the distance - into the wall that’s four feet in front of him - and he is silent. Even his gasps are inaudible. No sniffling, not a single huff or quiver of breath. Just tears.

It’s been three days and zero hours and two minutes and both Dean and Bobby are in the room now, staring at Sam with undisguised fear-horror-confusion. 

They stare at him and he begins to shake. Lightly, at first, but it grows. It always grows. Sam is silent, and he’s shaking, and his eyes stream tears with the consistency of a downpour, and Dean moves back in front of him. He’d stepped away to yell for Bobby out the door when it looked like Sam would live after his abrupt descent into silence. Dean steps back in front of him and reaches out to touch Sammy, and now Sam’s not silent. A three-minute silence and now it’s broken by Sam scrambling backward with a gasp that’s really more of an inhaled moan of fear, hastening back so far that he pushes off of the bed he’d been sitting on.

He crashes to the floor, out of Dean’s reach even as the man leaps forward with a cry of, “Sam!”

But Sam’s flight had been too fast, so he crashed to the ground and has now fallen silent again, but Dean can’t tell if there are still tears because Sam has wedged himself into a ball in the crease between the floor and the wall, form-fitting his back and ass over the baseboards hard enough to bruise. He’s hiding his face in his knees, still trembling, but still silent, so Dean can’t tell if the tears have stopped. He isn’t sure if that would be better or worse.

Because now it’s been three days and five minutes, and Sam’s curled up in sublimation. 

He’s crammed against the wall, his knees are up in front of him, spread only far enough to shove his head between them - but down quite far, uncomfortably so, contorted - but his hands aren’t curled up like the rest of him. Instead, his hands are held out around his legs, stretched around them and then upward, palms out like he’s receiving something sacred. Or like he’s giving it away.

It’s been three days and six minutes and Sam is trembling in sublimation.

The room is silent, Dean and Bobby don’t know what to do, but he isn’t hurting himself and he isn’t screaming so they wait him out.

It’s been three days and thirty minutes, by the time anything happens.

At first, Bobby thinks it’s the creaks of his house. At first, Dean thinks it’s the creaks of his soul. They’re both wrong, they realize, as the sound is actually coming from Sam, but it reverberates in such a way that it’s equally loud from every corner of the room. Dean wonders, faintly and somewhat hysterically, when Sam learned ventriloquy. 

It’s a low but resounding utterance, indistinguishable at first, but becoming more distinct with every syllable, losing its eerie ambience and beginning to actually come from Sam as its focal point. Whatever Sam is saying, deep into his chest in a tone that aches, becomes clearer, but neither of the other two men can understand it.

Sam’s palms are still held up in front of his shins. His head is still shoved between his knees, and he’s still trembling. He finishes his recitation but doesn’t fall silent. Instead, he switches to a language that Dean realizes with a jolt that he can understand the words, seconds before Bobby realizes it, too. 

“Pater noster, qui es in שְׁאוֹל, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in שְׁאוֹל et in terra.”

A sickening aura falls over the room as both lucid men hear the exceptions to the otherwise familiar prayer. “On earth, as it is in שְׁאוֹל,” Sam had said. Sheol, the subterranean final resting place. The pit. “The place of no return, the land of utter darkness and deep shadow.” 

Hell.

Our Father who art in the pit of utter death and darkness…

It’s been three days and one hour by the time Sam finishes his contritions. 

By then, he’d recited that first chant in the same unknown language twice more, alternating it with the Latin rendition of the Lord’s prayer.

Hallowed be thy name…

Dean has a gnawing, sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly what that other language is.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in שְׁאוֹל, the deep shadow.

The cadence, the tone; they’re the same. Distorted by the foreign, guttural tones of the other language, but they cut through Dean with the same taste. Sam is repeating the same thing over and over again, just in alternating tongues. The familiar Latin combined with the unfamiliar, grating timbre of the other. 

The repugnant language of the wretched Divine.

Those accursed, winged beasts, just like the one his brother, his Sammy has been locked up with for an earth-year. And who knows what that timeline looked like, in the depths? Nothing sears in your mind quite like the crushing realization that virtually no real time has passed when you return from it, Dean remembers. The rock constantly lodged in the base of Dean's chest, taking up space where his lungs are supposed to go, which screams out, your pain was never real.

Did time distort further the further down you went in hell? Was Dean’s 40-year stint a mere blink in the face of the time Sam had been locked up with that thing that did this to him?

The only reason Dean’s stomach isn’t on the floor in front of him is because his stomach is empty, the pervasive ache of the last few days locking it up tight. Sam has been screaming and Dean hasn't been eating, but he's never been less hungry in his life.

It’s been three days and one hour and Dean’s been crying for every single second of them.

The wailing and screaming had gouged at him, in that way little baby's cries gouge at unsuspecting figures passing by, striking that deep, maternal cord within them. The same way little toddler-Sam’s cries had always gouged at Dean. The same way, too, that not-so-little teenaged Sam’s sniffles into his pillow that he thought were muffled had always gouged at Dean. 

If the screams had been gouging at him, this reverent recitation was gutting him. Viscerally, like a fish being pulled sharply off of a too-big hook that it had somehow managed to swallow down too far. Catch and release turned into a pitiful horror.

But it’s been three days and one hour, now, and Sam’s finished his latest round of the Lord’s prayer - Latin this time - and he’s fallen silent again.

His hands are still held out, despite how bad it must make his shoulders and wrists ache with the tension of his stillness. Before Dean can think to do anything, though, Sam continues, but he breaks the pattern. Instead, his voice is much shakier now, and he starts to plead, the only term applicable to the tone of voice Sam has taken on: wretched, and full of supplication. Pleading, in Latin still,

“Elohim, Messiah - Please take this temptation from me. Please, as you have so graciously promised, benevolent Savior, tempt me not with this Sin of the Flesh. I am too weak, Father. This temptation is too great and I cannot bear it.

Temptation? Father?

The formal tone rankles. The self-deprecation vexes. The use of Father to refer to the most foul being to ever walk above and below the earth seethes and horrifies. Dean is rankled. Dean is vexed. Dean seethes, and he is horrified.

“Take Him from my sight, יהוה, keep me away from His fraternal presence, please, Lord. Balm though He is to my soul, grateful though I am for this offering, I am too weak to refrain from Sin.”

Fraternal? Sin?

“I would naught but bastardize this precious gift, and thine hand wilt be forced against me, as thou shalt flay me apart; dissect me to make penance for my transgressions. I do not wish this, Father, so please: Take Him from me, do not allow my wretched Sin to pervade in thine realm.”

Just because Dean’s stomach is empty doesn’t mean it isn’t trying valiantly to make an appearance. At the word “fraternal,” Bobby had started pushing him out the door. Stunned, Dean hadn’t fought back. There’s bile on Bobby’s hardwood floor outside the bedroom Sam and Bobby were still in.

Sam spoke as if Dean’s presence was the temptation, one too great to bear. And he spoke as if to God, but Dean knew better, he knew where Sam had been. Where Dean let him go. No gods to be seen, not there. What Sin had Lucifer contrived between them, to make Sam pay penance for? What occurred between them for Sam to be… Flayed alive. Dissected. 

Dean’s not stupid enough to believe that's anything but literal.

Bobby swings the door mostly-closed just in time for Sam to finish his pleas and lower his arms.

It’s been three days and one hour and ten minutes, and Sam raises his head.

Dean watches through the crack in the door, concealed in the darkness of the hallway. He’s holding his breath and he’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself for not rushing right back to Sam's side. But something is holding him back, and he doesn’t want to name it. 

(Fraternal… Sin?)

Sam raises his head but keeps his eyes scrunched shut - tears and snot are dripping down his face, which is a blotchy red but somehow still pallid with fear. He’s shaking worse than before as he straightened his back out, sitting up and letting his legs fold down so he’s cross-legged. Not relaxed, but no longer contorted. Finally, he releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes, pointing down at the floor.

Bobby shifts his weight purposefully and Sam’s eyes fly to him with a wild flinch of fear. It hangs in the air uncomfortably long before he recognizes the man in the room with him, and he lets out a sob of what Dean hopes is relief.

He quickly bows his head and shifts up onto his knees in a simple prayer position, hands pressed together in a booklet of gratitude as he sobs out, “Thank you, Messiah, Morningstar. Thank you.”

Then, with a big sigh, he allows himself to look back at Bobby, but his gaze is clinical, observing. He whispers, through his hitching, wet breaths, “He did it. I can't believe he did it. He’s gone. I don’t have to do it again, not yet.”

Sam’s face crumples as he’s hysterical with relief, and Dean’s clawing his own arms raw and bloody outside the door, desperate to get to the crying baby and soothe it, desperate to kiss toddler-Sam’s scraped knees, desperate to tell teenage-Sam that nothing will ever change the way Dean feels about him, despite whatever darkness he seems to think is inside of him. But still, he’s held back by that unspeakable Sin between them. Lucifer didn’t contrive it, Dean knows that. He holds himself back.

Bobby speaks up then, gruff and wary, “Don’t have to do what, yet?”

Sam startles before finally, really looking at Bobby like he’s a human on the same plane of existence as him, not like he’s a mildly interesting fixture on a non-existent wall.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, Bobby. It’s good to see you,” Sam cracks a smile, and it encapsulates one thousand shades of grief.

Sam continues quieter, once again to himself, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sorry. So, so sorry. But you’re not Him, so it’s fine, it’s fine…”

Bobby squints at him long and hard, eyeing his more relaxed posture and at least somewhat lucid speech - odd though it may be - before he glances at the crack in the door and gives a tiny eyebrow raise that says, get your ass in here.

Dean slowly cracks the door open and calls out to his baby brother, just as he comes into view, “Sammy?”

His reaction is violent. If Sam was pallid before, he’s now a putrid shade of green, face twisting up in horror as he shakes his head, wringing his hands and mumbling out at first, devolving quickly into yells into the aether, into the corners of the room, “No! No, no- please, you promised, no-”

He collapses into himself on the floor, half hidden behind the bed, putting it between him and Dean. The trembling returns with moans and cries incessantly pouring out of Sam’s mouth as he buries his head in his hands, gripping at his face and whatever hair is in reach with too much force, wailing out a constant stream of no, no, no!

Dean takes an involuntary step forward into the room, drawn in by that maternal wretchedness. Desperate, always desperate, to comfort his baby brother. 

When his boot sounds on the carpet - muted but oh-so-loud to Sam’s ears - the cries lose their shape, hiccupping wails of no quickly becoming unintelligible and increasingly frantic, building and building until it can only be described as a howling scream.

It’s been three days and one hour and fifteen minutes, and Sam won’t stop screaming.

[reno-the-himbo-turk]

Pain that was the first and last things Reno experienced today. He woke up with a headache and some lower back pain from the day prior's workout routine. He'd gone to classes and made it through the day just fine until after classes it happened. Men came, more specifically men in suits. They'd been looking for him saying they wanted to have a little chat and offer him a job; claimed benefits, perks, a high wage and more but something about them had the ginger on edge. It was the look the bald one gave him the vibes were off and then he spotted it when the man looked to his handler the collar Reno saw it and knew he was fucked.

From there began the fight of his life. He hadn't noticed they'd drugged his cola but he was feeling the effects of it now but thankfully his speed mutation came in handy. The cafe they were at was public so he'd made a mad dash for it but the drug made his mad dash only slightly above average speed and before he could react a hand snagged his arm and tore it out of the socket before slamming him into the ground. Screaming in agony the boy discharged his other mutation and sent a strong electric shock into the other. It worked for a few moments but didn't stop the hit to his ribs let alone the sickening snap. The man behind the bald fucker kept giving orders and despite the bald man's desires he couldn't fully subdue Reno. After what felt like an eternity he had a plan. Using his feeble strength he gripped the others collar and poured as much electricity into it as he could. With that he fried the collar and soon enough the bald man was free and turned on his handler giving Reno enough time to let his speed dissolve the rest of the sedative and let him escape.

Running as his life depended on it he raced out of town his body breaking down the more he ran. It took hours to flee but eventually he could go no more. His body ran on autopilot and seemed to subconsciously guide him. Unsure of where he was and a lack of energy to go on Reno made it to X-Mansion collapsing right outside the gates in a bloody and bruised heap his body finally broken to the point he was unable to continue. As he collapsed he saw someone a plump and curvy woman that he looked at eyes wide as he struggled. "Help...." he managed to pant out before darkness overtook him.

[lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks]

part 3 of #FreeRei (temporary title) with a Rei POV! and I finally get to explore my favourite flavour of Rei Todoroki, completely fucking unhinged and absolutely determined to make it Endeavor's problem

(you can read from the beginning here)

She felt a little silly, practically vibrating with glee over a bit of basic shopping, but it had been so long, even just the feel and sound of the money jingling in her hands was almost nostalgic, like something from a long ago dream. It almost didn't feel real.

The woman behind the counter was tilted back on a tall stool, a braided tendril of dark brown hair streaked with grey lifted a can of coffee to her lips as she flipped through a gossip rag. There were was a photo of two heroes on the cover that Rei vaguely recognised, one with long white ears and one with red wings, she was pretty sure they were both in the top ten, but it was hard to keep up with current hero rankings when she wasn't allowed to watch the news. They were covered in obnoxious yellow text declaring something about a secret relationship, they just looked like friends having coffee together to her.

If only they knew of the scandal sitting right beneath everyone's noses, she wondered what kind of mockery the bright yellow text would make about her husband's misdeeds, had they not been covered up at every turn. Something outrageous and distasteful probably.

'No. 1 Hero or No Good Husband?'

'Flame Hero's Marriage up in Smoke!'

'Endeavor Beats Villains in the Streets and his Wife in the Sheets!'

Rei put her items on the counter and tried to hold back the giddy grin she could feel pulling at her lips, she failed to keep from bouncing on her toes. The woman put her magazine down and shifted her seat back onto all fours, she paused as tired eyes tracked Rei's constant motion.

"Someone's in a good mood this morning." she commented in a husky monotone, her hair grabbing the items to scan them. "What's got you so excited?"

"Oh you know," Rei laughed nervously. "It's just nice to be out of the house, I'm not normally allow- I don't get out much." she clamped her lips shut with an airy little chuckle.

Be careful be careful don't be suspicious don't get caught can't go back can't go back-

"Right," the woman said, gaze flitting over Rei as if looking for something, Rei tugged her sleeve down, making sure her hospital grade quirk cancelling cuff was well hidden beneath her hoodie, the woman's keen eyes tracked the motion before quickly glancing to the side. "He got something to do with that?" she asked, jerking her head toward the window where Touya was pacing back and forth on the phone.

"Oh, no! No no that's just my son, he's a good boy, he's nothing like his- he's just helping me with my shopping!" Rei could feel her legs trembling, she'd barely been out of the hospital for a few hours and she was already fucking everything up, shit she shouldn't have said he was her son shit shit shit.

Won'tgobackwon'tgobackwon'tgoback-

"Alright then," the woman's narrowed eyes shifted back down as she bagged the items, ringing up the total and counting the scattered change Rei's trembling hands dropped onto the counter.

"Sorry, but you're 100¥ short." The woman shrugged, frowning at the bag, a tendril of hair fidgeted with one of her earrings.

"Oh," Touya had scrounged through all of his pockets to gather that change, she was pretty sure it was the last of his money. "Um, you can take out the toothbrush then."

"So just the face masks and hair dye?" the woman asked in a carefully neutral tone, her braids curled over on themselves in the air behind her. "Going for a new look?"

"Haha, yeah I just figured it was time to do something different you know?" Rei tilted her head innocently, putting on her best unassuming polite smile, the one she'd learned could keep the new nurses from checking under her tongue after giving her sedatives at night.

The woman kept staring at the bag as she chewed at the inside of her cheek. Rei could feel sweat beading at her hairline, she glanced around at anything she could potentially use as a weapon should it come to that, she didn't particularly want to bludgeon this woman's head in but-

I won't go back I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I won't I WON'T-

The woman sighed heavily and pushed the plastic bag toward Rei, the toothbrush still inside.

"I'll overlook the 100¥, if you answer a question for me," she said, eyes locking onto Rei's, her expression sank into something softer, concerned. "If someone comes in here later asking if I've seen a woman with white hair, should I keep my mouth shut?"

Rei's stomach did an odd little swoop, her heart was beating in her throat. "I would... I would be very very grateful if you did." she said in a small, trembling voice.

The woman nodded, her smile melancholy, a braided tendril picked up the bag and dropped it into Rei's hands before going lax against her back, the rest stopped their antsy fidgeting to follow suit. "Good luck girl, stay safe alright?"

Rei's hands and feet tingled as she walked out of the store, as soon as the cool early morning air hit her face she took in a deep and desperate lungful, her chest ached like she couldn't get enough in.

Touya seemed to have finished his phone call as he was simply lounging low on a public bench just outside. His head was tilted back as he stared up at a nearby streetlight, eyebrows furrowed, lost in thought, his pale, almost translucent eyelashes practically glowed under the yellow tinted light. Despite all of his scars his face still looked so... gentle, so unlike Natsuo who'd inherited Enji's squared jaw and broad shoulders, Touya was all soft edges and elegant curves.

He looks like me.

The thought lightened her chest and her breathing slowed back down to a regular pace. A different emotion climbed up her throat, something warm and pleasant, this was her son, all grown up. Even after everything Enji had done, after he tried to mould Touya into a monster like him, after he left her baby boy to burn alive alone on that mountaintop, he was here, right in front of her, alive.

And he looks like me.

Touya lifted his head, whatever thoughts were ghosting behind his eyes cleared as he stood up and offered her his arm, Rei took it, and they walked out into the early morning, the barest hint of light seeping into the dark sky.

You tried to take him from me but he isn't yours anymore, he's mine mine mine mine and I will rip you apart with my bare hands before I ever let you come between me and my son again Enji I swear it on my breath and my bones I will never let you have him you don't deserve him you don't deserve any of us.

The distant sounds of birds and traffic began to wake the sleeping streets, as the edge of sunlight peeked at them between buildings, Touya pulled one of the medical facemasks from the plastic bag hanging from Rei's wrist and handed it to her. He tugged her dark blue hoodie over her head before the light could catch on the bright white strands of her hair, she always loved seeing her children play at dawn and dusk, especially in the winter, the angled sunshine from the snow making their hair practically glow, they looked almost ethereal, otherworldly.

You were right to be afraid of letting me out, I spent years pretending I wasn't clawing at the walls, fooling the doctors, fooling my own children, but I couldn't fool you, you knew you broke me beyond repair, you knew I wasn't going to forget what I promised you the last time you dared look me in the eye.

Sometimes she would hope that some spirit of light would realise it had left its children down on earth where they didn't belong, she would hope that one day when they played out in the late afternoon they would chase those sunlit snowflakes up up up into the sky, far away from the house that had wrongfully trapped them within its walls, far away from her husband's burning cruelty and blistering neglect, she would hope that when the sun finally set and took its light away from her garden, it would take her children home with it. Some days, the bad days after the fire on Sekoto, she would forget that it was only a daydream, she would sit in the yard with Shouto held up to the sky, and with tears in her eyes she would beg those sunlit snowflakes to take her baby away somewhere safe, to take him to wherever they took Touya.

Mark my fucking words Enji Todoroki I will bathe myself in your blood I will carve your hollow heart from your chest and crush it in my fist as I watch the light die in your eyes and I'm going to laugh and laugh and laugh and LAUGH-

"What's so funny?" Touya smiled gently down at her, his eyes as blue as his father's but utterly void of the terrifying cold indifference that once haunted her daily waking life.

"Oh it's nothing," she assured him, hysterical giggles still fighting their way up her throat, her cheeks ached but she couldn't stop smiling. "I'm just so happy to have you back sweetheart."

Touya was quiet for a few moments, when he finally spoke his voice was thick with something close to melancholy.

"I... yeah... me too."

edit: continued on AO3!