#that is a broken pipe he's holding. yes

[slimmestslime]

deserted

[aspenmissing]

ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ: ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ

4362 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ/ᴊɪɴx

JAYCE

Jayce Talis was fresh-faced and full of ambition when he first arrived in Piltover. Accepted into the academy (19) as a promising young inventor, he was determined to make a name for himself. But ambition wasn’t enough to build the dreams he had in his mind. The academy had resources, yes, but they were cautious, slow-moving—bound by tradition. Jayce’s ideas demanded materials and ingenuity that Piltover wasn’t ready to supply.

That’s how he found himself wandering into the Undercity one fateful evening.

The narrow streets of Zaun were a stark contrast to the polished halls of the academy. Steam hissed from broken pipes, and the air smelled of oil and metal. Jayce clutched a hastily scribbled map in his hand, given to him by a fellow student who claimed there was a workshop deep in Zaun where you could find anything—if you were brave enough to look.

He nearly missed the place entirely, tucked away in a crooked alley. A flickering sign above the door read: “Y/N’s Fixes & Finds.”

Pushing the door open, Jayce was greeted by the faint hum of machinery and the clatter of tools. The workshop was a chaotic haven of gears, wires, and half-finished devices. At the centre of it all stood a young woman, roughly about the same age as him, goggles perched on their head, a smudge of grease streaked across their cheek as they worked on a mechanical contraption.

The sound of the door creaking drew their attention. They turned, narrowing their eyes at the well-dressed stranger. “Lost, academy boy?” they asked, their tone sharp but not unkind.

Jayce hesitated, taken aback by the directness. “Not lost,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Looking for something I can’t find in Piltover.”

Y/N leaned against the workbench, crossing their arms. “You’ve got the wrong place if you’re looking for shiny toys and fancy gadgets.”

“That’s not what I’m after,” Jayce replied earnestly. “I’m working on an idea—something that could change everything. But I need better materials, better tools. Someone told me you could help.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite themselves. “Big words for someone who doesn’t look like they’ve built anything that’s actually worked.”

Jayce smirked, feeling a flicker of determination. “I can prove it.”

They tossed him a battered device from the workbench—a mangled mess of gears and wires. “Fix that. If you’re half as smart as you think you are, it shouldn’t take you long.”

Jayce took the challenge without hesitation, sitting down at the workbench. The device was poorly assembled but fixable. With a few careful adjustments, he realigned the gears and connected the wires properly. Within minutes, the device clicked and whirred to life, emitting a faint pulse of light.

Y/N was impressed but tried not to show it. “Not bad, academy boy. Maybe you’re worth my time after all. Names Y/N” She holds her hand out to him.

"Jayce." He responded, shaking her hand.

They spent the next few hours talking, trading ideas and challenges. Y/N’s resourcefulness fascinated Jayce—they solved problems with a practicality born from necessity, creating brilliance out of scraps. In turn, Y/N couldn’t help but admire Jayce’s vision and his almost reckless drive to push boundaries.

When it was finally time for Jayce to leave, Y/N handed him a small pouch filled with rare components. “Call it a loan,” they said with a sly smile. “Don’t screw it up.”

Jayce smiled back, his grip tightening on the pouch. “I won’t,” he promised.

As he walked back to Piltover, the weight of the pouch felt heavier than it should. It wasn’t just components—it was trust. And for the first time, Jayce felt like his dreams weren’t so far away. He didn’t know it yet, but this meeting was the start of something that would change not just his life, but the world.

VIKTOR

The halls of the academy were always bustling, students rushing between lectures, papers scattered across desks, and the constant hum of ambition hanging in the air. Y/N was no exception, constantly moving, juggling tasks, and brimming with ideas. It was her first semester, and she was already feeling the pressure of living up to the academy’s towering expectations.

Lost in her thoughts about an upcoming presentation, her arms full of papers and books, Y/N’s focus slipped for just a moment too long. Her foot caught on the corner of a rug, and the next thing she knew, her carefully organized notes and diagrams were flying out of her grasp, scattering like autumn leaves across the polished floor.

Before she could fully register what had happened, a soft but firm voice broke through her embarrassment. “Careful now. The floor may not be as forgiving as it looks.”

Startled, Y/N glanced up to see a young man crouched beside her, already gathering her scattered papers. His lean frame was accentuated by the slightly oversized academy uniform, his posture careful as he balanced against a sturdy cane. His unruly brown hair seemed perpetually at odds with the studious air he carried. Most striking, though, were his golden-brown eyes—intense and thoughtful, but not unkind.

“I—uh, thank you,” Y/N stammered, still flustered as she scrambled to pick up the rest of her notes.

“It happens,” the young man replied in a calm, measured tone, his Czech accent thick. He leaned slightly on his cane as he handed her a stack of neatly organized papers. “You’re not the first to underestimate how much these corridors demand your attention.”

She managed a sheepish smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah, I suppose balance isn’t my strong suit.”

“Balance,” he mused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His cane tapped lightly against the floor as he shifted his weight. “An elusive concept, especially here. The academy is good at keeping everyone on edge.”

Y/N accepted the papers, her initial embarrassment giving way to curiosity. “Thanks again. I guess I owe you one.”

He shook his head, his expression softening. “No debt incurred,” he said with a faint chuckle. “Just… perhaps slow down a little next time. Rushing rarely yields the best results.”

As the weight of her papers settled back in her arms, Y/N hesitated. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Viktor,” he said simply, his cane tapping softly as he adjusted his stance. He offered a slight nod, polite but reserved. “And you are?”

“Y/N,” she replied, finally feeling steady on her feet. “First semester, and clearly still figuring out how to survive the academy.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Viktor said, his tone thoughtful as he studied her. “Even those of us who’ve been here longer still stumble now and then—metaphorically, of course.” A faint flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

Y/N smiled, her initial awkwardness fading into warmth. “Well, Viktor, thanks for the save. I’ll try not to make this a habit.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “See that you don’t. But… if you do find yourself in need of assistance, you know where to find me.” With a slight dip of his head, Viktor turned and walked down the corridor, his cane tapping a quiet rhythm on the polished floor.

As Y/N watched him disappear into the crowd of students, she couldn’t help but feel that this brief encounter was the start of something far more meaningful than a simple rescue.

JAYVIK

The flickering fluorescent lights of the lab cast long shadows over the scattered blueprints, glowing crystals, and intricate machinery. It was late—most of the academy's halls were silent, the usual bustle of students and researchers replaced by an eerie stillness. Perfect timing for someone who didn’t belong.

Y/N moved carefully, her footsteps light as she navigated the sprawling lab. Her Zaunite instincts guided her, sharp and survival-driven. The tools and devices on the workbenches were unlike anything she had seen back home—polished, cutting-edge, and dripping with the wealth of Piltover’s privileged elite.

It wasn’t personal. She didn’t particularly want to steal from anyone. But things in Zaun had been dire lately, and every stolen blueprint or shard of hextech crystal could mean another week of food, another day of keeping her family afloat.

Her gloved hand reached for a shimmering blue crystal embedded in an ornate device when a sharp voice cut through the silence.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Y/N froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She turned slowly, her mind racing for an excuse. Behind her stood a tall man with broad shoulders, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. His piercing brown eyes bore into hers, his expression a mix of suspicion and annoyance.

“I—uh…” Y/N began, but another voice interrupted her.

“She doesn’t look like one of the academy staff,” Viktor said, stepping out from behind a stack of blueprints. He leaned on his cane, his golden-brown eyes sharp and calculating as they swept over her. “Too quiet. Too... resourceful.”

Y/N’s gaze darted between the two men. She was cornered. Jayce’s strong, commanding presence on one side, and Viktor’s sharp intellect on the other. Her hands instinctively tightened around the crystal, but she knew she wouldn’t get far if she tried to run.

“I can explain,” Y/N said quickly, raising her hands in mock surrender, the crystal still clutched in one fist. “I wasn’t going to take much, I swear. Just... borrowing.”

Jayce raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “Borrowing? From our lab?” His tone was incredulous. “You know, breaking in and stealing aren’t exactly the best ways to ask for a favor.”

Viktor tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “You’re from Zaun, aren’t you?” he asked, his accent softening as he studied her.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

“Your tools,” Viktor interrupted, nodding toward the small pouch at her hip. “Zaunite make. Efficient but improvised. And your shoes—worn from the chemical streets.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You’re observant,” she muttered, uneasy under his scrutiny.

Jayce glanced at Viktor, his frustration softening slightly. “So, what now?” he asked, clearly deferring to his partner.

Viktor considered Y/N for a long moment before speaking. “Running won’t help you. Security will catch you before you leave the building. And if they don’t, Piltover’s lawkeepers will. But…” His gaze flicked to the device she had tried to steal. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”

Y/N frowned, her suspicion evident. “An arrangement?”

“You’re resourceful,” Viktor said simply, his tone calm and measured. “And I assume you wouldn’t be risking your neck unless you truly needed to. If you’re willing to explain your situation, perhaps we can find a way to help each other.”

Jayce crossed his arms but nodded, his earlier irritation giving way to a grudging respect. “We’re not heartless. If there’s something you need, just tell us. Stealing isn’t the only way.”

Y/N hesitated, her eyes darting between the two of them. There was no malice in their words, only curiosity and... understanding? She wasn’t sure what she expected when she’d broken into this lab, but it definitely wasn’t this.

“Fine,” she said at last, lowering her hands and relinquishing the crystal. “I’ll talk. But don’t think for a second that I trust either of you.”

Jayce chuckled softly. “Fair enough. Trust takes time.”

Viktor gave a faint smile, his grip on his cane tightening as he gestured toward a nearby stool. “Then let’s start now. Sit. We’re listening.”

As Y/N sat down, her nerves still buzzing, she realized that she might have just stumbled into something far more complicated—and far more intriguing—than she’d anticipated.

VANDER

The Last Drop wasn’t much to look at back then. It wasn’t the thriving hub it would later become, but a small, rough-hewn bar tucked into the heart of Zaun’s chaos. The air inside carried a mix of sweat, cheap ale, and the faint metallic tang of machinery. It was a refuge for the weary and the desperate—a place where even the broken found a moment of peace.

Vander was behind the bar, as usual, wiping down the stained counter with a rag that had seen better days. He wasn’t much older than twenty, broad-shouldered and already carrying the weight of the Undercity on his back. Silco sat at a bar, drinking from a glass as he writes in a journal.

The door creaked open, and Vander glanced up out of habit. He expected another familiar face, maybe a regular, or some poor soul looking for a drink to drown their troubles. What he didn’t expect was her.

Felicia strode in first, her usual swagger in place, but behind her was someone new—a woman he’d never seen before. Y/N stepped into the dim light of the bar, and for a moment, Vander forgot how to breathe.

She didn’t belong here—not in the way most people did. Zaun had a way of dulling beauty, grinding it down with grime and despair, but she seemed untouched by it. Her eyes carried a spark of resilience, her posture a quiet defiance against the city that tried to break everyone. To Vander, she was a flower blooming in the middle of a wasteland.

“Oi, Vander!” Felicia’s voice snapped him out of his daze. “Quit staring and come over here.”

Silco smirked from his seat, clearly catching Vander’s momentary lapse. Vander muttered something under his breath and stepped around the bar, doing his best to play it cool as Felicia waved him over.

“This is Y/N,” Felicia said, gesturing toward her companion. “She’s new to this part of Zaun, figured I’d show her around. Thought it’d be good for her to meet the famous Vander.”

“Famous, huh?” Vander said, his voice gruff as he extended a hand.

Y/N smiled, and the warmth in it caught him off guard. She took his hand, her grip firm but gentle. “I’ve heard a bit about you,” she said. “Felicia talks like you’re some kind of legend.”

Vander chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Don’t believe everything she says. I’m just a guy with a bar.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Felicia chimed in, slapping Vander on the shoulder. “He’s got a heart as big as this place—and fists to match.”

Vander shot Felicia a warning look, but she only grinned. Y/N laughed softly, the sound light and melodic, and Vander felt something stir in his chest.

“Well,” Y/N said, her gaze meeting his, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Vander. This place has a charm to it.”

“Charm, huh?” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s not a word I hear much around here.”

She shrugged. “It’s all in how you look at it.”

Vander nodded, his respect for her growing. It wasn’t often someone saw Zaun with anything other than disdain or despair. “Can I get you a drink?” he offered, his voice softening.

“Sure,” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “But only if you join me for one.”

For the first time in a long while, Vander felt a flicker of something he’d thought Zaun had taken from him—hope. He poured two drinks and joined her at the bar, Felicia smirking knowingly as she goes to Silco’s side, the two watching with a smirk

As the night went on, Vander found himself captivated by Y/N’s stories, her laughter, and the way she seemed to light up the dim room. In a city that thrived on shadows, she was a rare glimpse of light, and Vander couldn’t help but wonder if meeting her was the beginning of something he’d been waiting for his whole life.

SILCO

The night Vander betrayed him was etched into Silco’s mind like a blade carving into flesh. The cold waters of the canal still burned in his lungs, and the searing pain from his infected eye was a constant reminder of the man who had once called him brother.

He’d managed to escape, his hands slick with blood, the knife he used to fend off Vander still trembling in his grasp. Every step felt heavier than the last as he stumbled through the labyrinthine streets of Zaun, his vision blurring from pain and exhaustion.

When he finally collapsed in a dark, narrow alleyway, Silco wasn’t sure if he’d ever rise again. The city around him was a blur of muffled sounds and shifting shadows before everything went black.

==

Silco awoke with a start, his instincts kicking in before his body could fully respond. He bolted upright, only to be met with a sharp, stabbing pain radiating from his face and ribs. His hand instinctively reached for his eye, but a firm, unfamiliar voice cut through the haze.

“Don’t touch that.”

His head snapped toward the source, his remaining eye narrowing. A woman stood in the doorway, holding a small basin of water and a cloth. She looked calm, her expression unreadable, but there was an undeniable edge to her tone—a warning.

“Who are you?” Silco demanded, his voice rough, his body tense despite the obvious strain it was under.

“Someone who just saved your life,” Y/N replied, stepping closer and setting the basin down on a small, rickety table. “You were half-dead when I found you. If you move too much, you’ll tear the stitches I just put in.”

Silco’s gaze flickered to his arm, now wrapped tightly in makeshift bandages. His mind raced, trying to piece together how he’d ended up here. “Why?” he asked, his tone sharp.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his hostility. “Why what? Why did I help you?” She shrugged. “Let’s just say I don’t like seeing people bleed out in the streets, even in a place like this.”

“Charity is rare in Zaun,” Silco said, his suspicion evident.

She let out a dry laugh. “You don’t say.” Her tone softened slightly as she sat on a stool beside him, wringing out the cloth. “I’m no saint, but I couldn’t just leave you there. Now, sit still. Your eye’s infected, and if you want to keep what’s left of it, you���ll let me help.”

Silco hesitated, every muscle in his body screaming at him to leave, to get away from this stranger. But the throbbing in his eye and the sharp pain in his side were undeniable. Reluctantly, he leaned back against the wall, his remaining eye watching her every move.

Y/N worked in silence for a while, dabbing gently at his swollen, reddened eye. Her hands were steady, her touch careful despite the obvious discomfort it caused him.

“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” she said after a moment. “Another hour out there, and you’d have been done for.”

“Lucky,” Silco repeated bitterly, his jaw tightening. “That’s one way to put it.”

She paused, meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But whatever it was, it left you in a bad way. You should rest.”

“I can’t stay here,” Silco said firmly, starting to rise again despite the pain.

Y/N placed a hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back down. “And go where? Back into the streets? You’ll be dead by morning.”

Her words hung in the air, and for the first time, Silco found himself unable to argue. He hated the vulnerability, hated relying on someone else, but something about Y/N’s unwavering composure kept him from pushing her away.

“You’re stubborn,” he muttered, leaning back reluctantly.

She smirked, sitting back on her stool. “Takes one to know one.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Silco allowed himself to close his eye and let the tension in his body ease, if only slightly. The woman tending to him was a mystery, but as the night wore on, he couldn’t deny that her care was keeping him alive.

And in the shadows of Zaun, where trust was scarce and betrayal ran deep, that simple act of kindness was enough to plant the seed of something unexpected—something Silco would carry with him long after he left her care.

JINX/POWDER

Y/N once lived in Piltover with her mother, enjoying a modest but stable life. However, when her mother passed away unexpectedly, the weight of mounting bills and the high cost of living in the gilded city became too much for her to bear. With no other options, she made the difficult decision to move to Zaun, a place she had only heard about in whispers. The contrast was stark—Piltover's polished streets were replaced by Zaun's gritty alleys and thick, smoky air. Struggling to find her footing, she spent months navigating her new reality, unsure of where she belonged.

Fate intervened when Y/N stumbled across Silco in an alleyway, unconscious and wounded. Taking a risk, she helped him, unaware that this single act of compassion would alter the course of her life. (Silco's Part) After recovering, Silco saw something unique in Y/N—her resilience and resourcefulness—and offered her work. What began as a professional arrangement quickly deepened into a bond built on trust and mutual respect, a connection that only grew stronger over the years. Their dynamic shifted again one evening when Silco arrived at their base of operations with a new addition to their unnatural family.

Powder.

She was small, thin, with wild blue hair, and bruises marring her skin. But it wasn’t just the physical damage that caught your attention—it was the hurt in her eyes. The guilt. The grief. And something darker beneath the surface. You could see it clearly, even through the panic and shock she was clearly experiencing.

“She’s... she’s alive,” Silco muttered, almost to himself, as he carefully laid Powder down on a makeshift cot. His eyes were bloodshot, his face streaked with soot and grime from the aftermath. “She needs care.”

You nodded silently, stepping forward with a calm that belied the storm of emotions swirling inside you. You were no stranger to pain, and you knew what needed to be done. You had seen plenty of broken souls, but something about this girl... something about her was different. She wasn’t just another casualty of Zaun’s brutality—she was a spark, a raw potential waiting to be shaped.

You crouched beside her, noting how tightly she was curled in on herself. She was trembling, hands clenched into fists at her sides as though bracing for something. Her wide eyes, still filled with fear, flickered to Silco’s figure, and you could see the tension in her shoulders, the uncertainty in her gaze.

“Powder,” you said gently, your voice soft but steady. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

She didn’t respond, but you saw her stiffen slightly at your words. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, and for a moment, the silence hung in the air between you both. You continued your work, not rushing, not pushing her to speak, only ensuring she was comfortable and that her injuries weren’t as severe as they seemed.

“You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” You muttered, more to yourself than to her. “Zaun doesn’t make it easy for anyone.”

Silco stepped back, leaning against the wall. “She... doesn't talk. Hasn't since the explosion. Going to need a lot of patience with this one.”

“I can handle patience,” you said quietly, glancing at Silco with an understanding nod. There was something else there, though, that you could see behind his eyes—a recognition. Maybe even a kind of resignation. He had likely seen far too many broken people in his time, but for the first time, you saw a flicker of doubt in him. Whether it was for himself, for her, or both, you couldn’t be sure.

But the moment you looked back down at Powder, you knew she needed something more than just care. She needed someone who could see past the explosion, the destruction, and the chaos she had been a part of. She needed someone who could help her rebuild what had been torn apart—not just her body, but her heart.

“Hey,” you spoke again, this time more firmly. “You don’t have to carry this alone. I know it feels heavy right now, but you can’t carry it forever. It’s not all on you.”

The words didn’t seem to break through at first. Powder stayed silent, still as stone. But you could see the smallest tremor in her hands, the slight quiver in her lip.

The guilt was suffocating her.

"I'm a monster… A Jinx," Powder's voice was soft, barely a whisper, and laced with hesitation. "It's my fault."

You moved a little closer, sitting down beside her. You didn’t touch her, but you stayed there, just close enough for her to feel your presence, warm and steady. You understood what it was like to feel like the world was on your shoulders, to feel like you couldn’t make amends, but you knew one thing: she had to be given the chance to heal. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but it would happen.

“You're not a monster,” you said softly, placing a gentle hand on the girl's knee. "And it's not your fault. You're just a very brave girl."

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the distant hum of Zaun’s underbelly and the faint sounds of Powder’s breath. Silco didn’t respond, but you saw the sharpness in his gaze soften, just a fraction. His stance relaxed, and his lips pressed into a thin line, contemplating your words.

Finally, Powder’s voice, quiet and small, cut through the stillness. “I... I didn’t mean to...”

“I know,” you said gently, offering her a small, comforting smile. “But it’s not about what happened. It’s about what you do next.”

The weight of her past might have been too heavy to erase, but there was still time for her to change. There was still time for healing. And in that moment, you knew: whatever happened next, you would be there to guide her through it.

A new chapter had begun for both you and Powder, one where she wouldn’t have to walk alone in the shadows of Zaun any longer.

[inkdrinkerworld]

jack of all trades

wc: 3.7k

pairing: handyman!james x teacher!reader [though can be read as any reader]

cw: fluff, life mishaps, handyman!james, mention of a break in, family dynamics [healthy], mention of food

You were fucked. You should’ve just called a plumber from the beginning.

Now your pipes were all wrinkled and your sink wasn’t draining.

Your heart was in your throat as you pulled out your phone and called your brother, Michael.

“Do you know any plumbers? My sink’s pipe is fucked,” you send him a picture and he chuckles down the line. Your brother is a mechanic, but he's got friends in many places.

Places you hope include wherever they hire plumbers.

“Yeah, I’ll call someone. Make sure you don’t use it again, dummy.” you nod, chewing at your cuticle.

“Thanks,” your voice shakes and you know your brother is frowning.

Life had been fucking you with no prep for the last couple months. Someone had broken into your house almost five weeks ago, stolen a couple small pieces of jewellery and fucked with your locks.

You’d had to change the locks, your front door and you’d taken to sleeping in the living room with a three inch knife under your pillow.

That had put you out of money for groceries and your brother had taken over doing it for you till you could again.

Now you can’t wash your dishes and your anxiety is all over the place.

“Stop it, go get ice cream or something. I’ll come over with him if he can swing it, okay?”

“You're the best,” you say earnestly and he chuckles, “I’ll buy shit to make the buns you like as payment.”

Your brother doesn’t deny himself the delicacy- it had taken a while for you to get back into doing things that made you happy and he was also a sucker for them.

“I’ll text you what he says, be safe. Love you.”

You return the sentiment and head out, double checking that you’d locked the gate and the front door.

You’d gotten a pint of orange creamsicle, and a pint of caramel biscuit and cream before getting the stuff to make the buns for your brother.

As you set them all down on your counter your phone pings off.

‘He can come tomorrow morning at 9, I’ll come with him. He’s a good guy though, don’t worry.’

You send your brother a thumbs up and then he sends you a photo of the man you suppose is coming to fix your pipes. He’s good looking, his hair is long in the photo, tied back in a low bun but there’s curls on his forehead. Another thing you notice is how massive he is. He’s broad and muscular but in the photo you’re looking at he’s got a warm smile on his face that shows off a dimple.

He looks friendly enough. Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad.

You try to sleep in your bed, you don’t want your brother to notice that you’re still on the sofa in the morning, but being so far from the door makes your heart clench and you find yourself dragging your blanket out to the sofa that you’re sure by now has your body’s impression.

“Last night,” you say to yourself as you cuddle your pillow and tuck your blankets under your chin.

Your alarm has you groaning. 6:30 is a nice time, but not so nice when you don’t actually have to go into the preschool to teach, but for parent meetings at 11. Rubbing your eyes, you sit up, legs already moving to the kitchen to set the kettle on.

You go through your morning routine and only feel alive when you have a cup of tea and a bite of the last of sourdough toast you’d made last week. Your phone rings and you already know it’s your brother, “Yes I’m awake, dork.” he might be older than you by four years but you’re really close so the teasing is nice.

“Open the door then, and make sure you have on your glasses.” you flip him off over the phone but walk across the floor, glasses on, to unlock the door.

“Where’s your key?” you ask as you open the door, finding your brother holding two brown paper bags and the man in the photo standing next to him in grimy coveralls.

“I hooked it on the look of my pants, James was being prudish about touching me.”

“I wasn’t,” the beefy man starts, jingling his toolkits as an answer. His voice is nice, deep, cherry and his drawl is a little slow, but still very pleasant.

“Come in,” you step to the side and open the door wider. “Don’t worry about him, he just likes people touching him.” your brother scowls but doesn’t deny it.

“Don’t laugh when you see it, this one already did. I know it’s bad.” you say nervously as James sets down his stuff.

“S’fine, can’t be much worse than some of the other stuff I’ve seen.”

“Come eat, I got you that breakfast cake thing you like.” your brother sets the box before you, sliding over your cup of tea and a bottle of orange juice.

“Did you eat?” you eye him as you sit on the island.

“Shanice made eggs and toast.” you love your future sister-in-law, but the mention of her in the kitchen has enough merit to make your stomach roll in discomfort and your body to produce a gag.

“There’s chicken salad in the fridge and the bread’s there too,” you turn to James, “Do you want anything to eat, James? There’s vegan stuff in the fridge too if you don’t eat meat.”

Your brother rolls his eyes, “He could eat an entire chicken if he really wanted to.” You’re positive there’s a small blush on James’ face. He’s even prettier in person and you’re really trying not to stare.

His hair is tied back like it was in the photo, inky curly spirals slipping out around his ears and the nape of his neck. His eyes are a shade of brown that reminds you of sand- dark but flecked with lighter hues; he’s captivating.

He’s almost as wide as your fridge and his arms are huge, but he looks soft, even with all the corded muscles. You will your eyes not to linger on his hands.

Your brother makes himself a triple sandwich and takes one of your iced teas.

“I’m alright,” he eyes your cup of tea, “I could do with a cuppa though.” you nod and set the kettle on.

“One sugar or two?” He holds up a single finger before opening the cupboards. He hisses and you suppose that’s better than the laugh that bursts from your brother.

“S’not that bad,” you can tell he’s being extra nice when he sees the embarrassed look on your face, “I’ll have to change all the pipes though. Whoever installed these ones used really thin PVC so under the heat it crumpled.” James stands and accepts the tea from the dainty mug without a complaint.

“Will it be super expensive?” you ask, and your brother flicks your forehead. “What? You know I can’t afford many more swings right now.” You only feel a twinge of embarrassed heat licking at your neck as you look between James and Michael.

“You’re such an idiot, I’ll go half with you.” He says and you nod, giving him your best smile but your brother draws the line when you try to hug him.

“It won’t be, but I can’t do it today. The better pipes have to be ordered in, but they only take like a day to get here.” James explains and you nod.

“That’s fine, I’ve got most of my stuff already cooked so there won’t be much dishwashing.” James finishes the tea and pulls out a pen and paper from his bag. “Here’s my number, you can text me in like two days about it if I don’t call Michael first.”

You nod again, thanking him as he gathers all his stuff and moves for the door. Your brother waves him away and then turns to you, frowning.

“You still sleeping on the sofa?” It’s then that you realise you hadn’t put your blanket or your pillow away and scowl.

“I can’t sleep in the bed, my mind just runs wild.” you say as you finish your tea and cake. “I’ve been trying though.”

The door shuts and you realise James has probably heard what you’ve said. Your mouth can’t seem to not run away from you when he’s around.

You brush the slight shame away with the semi-reassuring thought that ‘at least he doesn’t know why a grown woman can’t sleep in her own bed,’ it doesn’t last long, but it mellows the initial sting.

Michael ruffles your hair and you shrug, “It’ll just take some time,” he says softly, “Want me to get a security system?” You shake your head at that.

“You’re already going half and half with me on this, and you paid for my groceries for like three weeks. I’ll be okay.”

Your brother doesn’t look convinced, but he can’t argue with you because his phone rings.

“Work, I gotta go, but think about it okay? Shanice won’t mind either,” you nod but you both know you won’t be thinking about anything.

“Have a good day at work, I’ll bake those buns the second the sink’s all good.”

-

You’re coming back from work the next day when your phone rings, an unknown number. You frown and then realise it might be James.

“Hello?”

“Hi, angel. This is James,” he says, like you’ve forgotten his name over the last twenty four hours.

“Hi James, is everything okay?” you ask, shoving a couple folders into your bag from the passenger seat of your car.

“Yeah, was calling about the pipes. I’ve just picked them up and I’m near-by. Would you mind at all if I came to install them today?”

You stick the key in the ignition, “I wouldn’t mind, but I’m about twenty minutes from my house, would you wait?”

You really hope he can, you want this problem resolved as soon as possible.

“I can, angel. Don’t sweat it,” he says before he hangs up. You do a happy shimmy in your seat before pulling out of the school’s parking lot.

Next, you call Michael.

“James is coming over to fix the pipes today, just in case you know, I go missing or something.”

Your brother laughs, “He’s a sweetheart. Maybe stop listening to your crime podcasts, you’re getting even more morbid.”

“Oh whatever, I’ll stop by tomorrow with the buns.”

“Make sure you get some sleep,”

“Yeah yeah, I’m going now.”

James is in his car when you pull up, a bronco that looks very well kept. “Sorry for the wait,” you say as you unlock your door.

“S’fine, had enough time to have a late lunch.”

You check your watch, “It’s almost four James, that’s more like an early dinner.”

The man lifts his shoulder and drops it with a smile, “It’s been one of those days.”

“Do you want a cup of tea or iced tea?” you ask as you open your fridge. “I should warn you though, they’re addictive.”

“What flavour iced tea do you have?” you smile, James might be someone else you get hooked on them.

“Peach, hibiscus and I think I see one last cucumber melon.”

“Which is your favourite?”

“Peach! It’s not really that sweet though, but if you like it super sweet maybe hibiscus would be better.”

James smiles at the way you ramble as he opens up his toolkit and then the pipes.

“I’ll take the peach angel,” you pass him the glass bottle after tipping it upside down. James takes a long sip and sighs, “That’s good.” you nod and then move to take out a bowl of rice and chicken.

“Do you need me to get anything? To help?” you ask and James shakes his head.

“Not right now,” you think about going to eat before asking,

“Can I watch? Just to know what you’re doing?” then you back track as James doesn’t say anything.

“Not because I don’t trust you to do it well, I just like knowing. Like with my door, I learned how to put it up when I had to change it,” you realise you’re rambling when James smiles and his dimple is visible through his stubble.

“You can watch angel, you can hand me the tools I’ll need.”

You and James make a good team- you’d been nervous at first and then when James was so close you could smell his coconutty cologne you felt your head go a little light but almost two hours later, your pipes were changed.

“Moment of truth is if the water goes down,” you say as you stand, knees cracking in the process.

James nods, “You’re not a bad assistant, if you ever change professions I’ll put in a good word for you.”

You beam at that before opening up the tap and letting the water flow. Not even a drop of it pools in the sink and your heart feels like a feather floating away in the breeze.

“You did it!” you turn to James with a pleased smile and he blushes. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you exclaim and he chuckles, already packing up his toolkit.

“You’re welcome angel, Michael already paid by the way.”

You shake your head at your brother’s actions, but you can’t find it in you to be upset, not when your sink is fixed. “Can I entice you to have dinner then? I’ll feel bad if you just go,” you tack on when James doesn’t answer. “I’ve got pizza or taco bowls.” you sing-song and that breaks him.

“What kind of pizza?”

It’s how James ends up on your sofa, overalls hanging off his hips, revealing a dark red compression shirt as he holds his plate.

Your blanket is still on the sofa, but you shove it to the armchair.

“Wanna watch anything specific? I’m going through Christmas movies right now,” James’ eyes are wide at your confession.

“It’s the middle of August,” you nod and bite your bar-b-que chicken pizza.

“I’m making a short list of Christmas movies for this Christmas. Last three years in a row I did one.”

James grins, “So I take it you like the season.”

You nod, “If you ask Michael, he’d tell you I was obsessed with it,” you shrug, setting down the slice of pizza.

“When we were kids, I used to go crazy about it. Write letters to Santa with our address and mail it, play Christmas songs all through the month and I was a little excessive with the decorations- especially when I started working and could buy the ones I wanted. It just always feels like a good time- eternal joy and hope and all that jazz I guess.”

James looks around your house now and finds a few trinkets in the space and for a moment he can imagine it decked out for Christmas. “I can see it,” he groans as he takes a bite. “That’s delicious, angel.”

Your face gets hot under the compliment and you give James a small smile.

“What are you watching now?” he asks, taking another bite.

“The Holiday,” you search for the remote and find the movie. “It makes the shortlist every year, but it’s so good.”

James and you watch the remaining forty five minutes, and he nudges your shoulder during the sad parts so you don’t let the tears in your eyes fall.

“Do you think people rent that cottage?” He asks you and you frown.

“I dunno, but if it’s for rent it’ll be so nice! It’s so cosy looking.”

James doesn’t point out that your house looks just as cosy. It reminds him of the houses you see in magazines- not the boring ones that’s all one colour and minimalistic, but the ones that seem to be alive with colour and things.

He’s sure they all serve a purpose- the small statues in one corner near your window, the coasters that look like flowers, it all seems to complement you and your home and James thinks to himself, ‘this is what a home should be.’

He stretches as he stands and you do as well, reaching for his plate that he doesn’t give. Instead he takes your own and walks to the kitchen.

“You’re a guest, guests don’t do the dishes.” you try to get your plate back but it’s no use, James is already washing them and stacking them in the draining board.

“Thanks for dinner angel,” he picks up his toolkit and the bucket of parts that need to be tossed out.

“You’re welcome, thanks for fixing my pipes.”

James waves it off, “I’d say we should do this again sometime, but changing your pipes so frequently isn’t ideal.”

It isn’t till after you hear the innuendo in his words. You do laugh a little in the moment, so James counts it as a win. Your laugh reminds him of that fairy in the show his niece loves- a sweet tinkering, bell-like sound that makes him smile.

“It was nice though. You’re good company.”

You walk James to the door, “Make sure and lock up,” he says kindly and you nod.

You notice that you don’t hear his boots don’t move till he hears the locks click and your heart flutters stupidly at the action.

You can’t like him already, you barely know him. A voice in the back of your head says, “But he’s already so dreamy,” you’re very inclined to agree.

-

You’d thought that would’ve been the last time you saw James too, but three weeks later, he’s at your brother’s house for his summer party and you’re fucked all over again.

He’s not a bad sight to be greeted with, arms exposed in his black tank top and his thighs. They’re thick and you can see the outline of muscle on them, even from far away. There’s a couple smattering of tattoos that peak from the hem of his shorts and you have to stop yourself from drooling.

He’s laughing at something Shanice is telling him, and he looks even more gorgeous.

It should be illegal, you think to yourself, for the man to look that effortlessly beautiful.

“You made it!” Michael says, handing you the drink in his hand before gesturing for you to follow him.

“You said if I didn’t come you’d have called me non-stop. I love you, but that’s annoying.” Michael leads you over to his fiance and James. You hug Shanice and wave politely at James.

Conversation is easy, and James hopes he’s being discrete as his gaze falls to you a little longer than necessary. You catch him once, and the look in his eyes confuses you just a little.

You don’t think badly of yourself, but you’re just in a pair of jean shorts and the top of your bikini- a pretty pink colour, after you’d read an article about lifeguards having a hard time spotting people in pools and the ocean if they had on blues and greens- is exposed by your lack of shirt.

In any case, you didn’t think it was cause for his stares to linger and look so… primal if that was even the right word.

Michael says, “James, do you know any good alarm systems?” as you sip your peach iced tea and vodka. You elbow your brother as James nods.

“There’s a few out there that I’d recommend, why?”

“Don’t,” you murmur to Michael who ignores you entirely.

Your brother doesn’t hesitate as he says, “Someone broke into her house a couple weeks ago and she hasn’t been able to sleep in her room since.”

“Yeah, just talk about me like I’m invisible,” you mutter and James feels anger and fury for you fester in his chest. It blooms rapidly and takes him by surprise.

“You’re not invisible, you’re just a hard head.” your brother says, James is inclined to agree as well- especially after the portion of the conversation he had overheard that first day you met.

“I can stop by the hardware tomorrow if you want, should have some of the ones I usually recommend.”

Your brother smirks and you feel shame and something you can’t yet name balloon your belly.

“Thank you, James,” you say as you finish off your vodka iced tea, already feeling for another one.

As the food comes out, you help yourself; ensuring to avoid James’ gaze because over the last couple weeks he’s seemed to come to know a lot of the bad things about your life. You pile watermelon and pineapple on one side of your plate before picking some fries and a bar-b-que chicken breast. Your hand reaches for a lemonade when a bigger one grabs it.

“I got it angel,” James’ own plate is full too. More meat than fruit but it’s fuel either way so it doesn’t bother you. “Where’re you sitting?”

You point to the seat near the pool.

“You don’t have to be so nice, James. Michael’s mouth is just too big for his own good.”

James rolls his eyes, “I’m not being nice because of him,” he says, taking the seat beside you and handing over your lemonade after cracking the seal. “Or because I fixed your pipes, or anything else.”

You frown as you chomp on a piece of watermelon. “You’re not?”

James shakes his head, digging into his food.

You squint at him and James chuckles, “No, you should feel safe in your house.”

You don’t say anything much after that, overwhelmed by his care- even if you’re stopping yourself from reading too far into it.

“You’re real sweet, James.” you say after a while, spearing a look at him to find his eyes already on you; that same kind of hungry look in his eyes like earlier.

“Yeah?” he hums and for a moment you want him to kiss you. You want to feel the press and the heat of his lips on yours, then you catch the thought. You hardly know him. But you want him and him coming over to install the security system might not go as smoothly as the plumbing had gone. You find you wouldn’t mind if James does something other than install the alarm system.

“Yeah.”

[goodlucktai]

29 with Mikey and Leo please!

29. “Tell me where it hurts, and be specific.”

x

It really was his own fault. If Mikey didn’t want to be babied, he shouldn’t have broken his wrist. 

He was mostly just annoyed it happened in such a boring way, catching himself wrong falling off his skateboard.

Yes he’d decided to sneak off and find a sewer tunnel to attempt the full pipe loop a full two weeks before Draxum said the gross mystic mandrake tea would finish running its course, but he felt fine! His hands barely shook anymore, only when he overworked himself or let himself get too tired or too excited.

But from the look on everyone’s faces when he slunk home ungraciously dragging his board behind him, you’d think he was at death’s door. 

What was worse, Donnie wheeled him by the shoulders into the infirmary and deposited him right in front of Leonardo, the only person Mikey couldn’t out-stubborn, whose affable smile faded at once into that serious look that made all of his siblings straighten their spines and pay attention.  

If the skateboarding accident had happened pre-almost-apocalypse, Dr. Leo would have probably led with a joke instead of, “Tell me where it hurts, and be specific.”

Mikey resigned himself to a ridiculous amount of mother-henning for the duration his arm was stuck in its short cast. His brothers took his newly fragile hands so personally, like they were the ones who couldn’t hold an inking pen or color inside the lines or even cook a meal more complicated than lasagna without having to give up in the middle and have someone else take over. Like they were the ones who woke up shaking in the middle of the night from some distant, half-forgotten dream of disappearing into fragments of light, arms radiating pain like it was their job, a confused jumble of grief and fear and farewell on his tongue until he went and climbed into bed with papa or Raphie and let them hug it all away. 

Leo said Mikey’s wrist wouldn’t need the full six-to-twelve weeks that a baseline human’s would due to their genetic modifications—“Thank you, Barry,” they had chorused in varying degrees of sincerity (Mikey, Raph and Casey) and sarcasm (Leo, Donnie and Splinter)—but that he still needed to give it time to heal.

“You’re the toughest guy I know,” Leo had said, poking Mikey on the beak to stall the inevitable whine, “but you gotta give yourself a break, Miguelito.” 

He said it like his skin wasn’t still bruised like a peach and his shell all wired together from going one-on-one with an actual living nightmare even as he found the energy to take care of someone else. 

He sat there in the doctor’s seat, pressing carefully around the wet fiberglass to mold it to Mikey’s wrist, all his attention bent to the task. He always tended to his brothers’ hurts the same way, as if it was the most important and remarkable thing he’d ever do. 

Leo’s own casts had only been removed last month, and he was usually very good about following his own medical advice, if only because he knew his siblings would cite his behavior in a heartbeat if it meant they could loophole around doctor’s orders. So Mikey really had no choice but to sulk and accept the distant cousin of scolding he received. 

“It’s not a race,” Leo said, smiling at him. “No one’s gonna run off without you. Where would we go that’s half as good as where you’re at?” 

It was his knee-jerk reaction to smile at Mikey, like his day got better automatically when Mikey was in it, and it soothed that jangling, frustrated thing inside of Mikey’s chest that only got loud when no one took him seriously. Leo always took him seriously, was always the first of their siblings to believe he could do anything he said he could do, and that meant taking Mikey’s injuries seriously, too. 

He’d seen the way Leo had to run himself ragged making sure Donnie kept up with the treatments to his shell and Raph followed instructions on taking care of his eye to the letter. They were trying to spare Leo additional stress, but if they knew they were only compounding the stress he was already in and making it ten times worse, Mikey was pretty sure they’d shut up and take their medicine. 

Mikey wanted to be on Leo’s team, not playing against him. So he put his sulk away and put on his best listening face instead, rewarded when some nearly-invisible line of tension in Leo’s shoulders relaxed until it was gone.

Besides, it wasn’t all bad. He got to pick what color cast he wanted, and got everyone to sign it. And it wasn’t the most horrible thing in the world not to have to do any chores. 

And when Leo announced to the lair as a whole that he was going to visit his tío Hueso and bring back pizzas for dinner—in a tone that made it very clear he was not asking for permission or inviting any worrywart older siblings along—he followed it up with, “You coming, Angie?” 

Maybe because he had been under the scrutiny of worrywart older siblings, too, and understood better than anybody how close Mikey was to biting the next person who tried to baby him. Or maybe because Mikey was the exception to Leo’s rules and he always had been—always invited and always welcome and always wanted. 

In another place, in another time, Leo asked Mikey to die for him, and Mikey died for him. 

In this kinder one, Mikey jumped to his feet with a grin and said, “I’m with you!” and it didn’t cost him anything.

It should have been silly to say something out loud that they both knew was true, but sometimes it was nice to hear it.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

omg stop a cap mactavish drabble where they're caught 'n he's gotta keep the reader calm would feed my soul

—Listen To My Voice

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [He orders you to focus on him as the sounds outside the cell get closer. He promises nothing will happen to you. You know he's lying.] ❞

“Jus’ keep your eyes open and listen to my voice, eh?” The heavy Scottish drawl snaps you back into focus, your head pounding awfully and pain ricocheting up and down your limbs. It’s a stiff and unyielding order. “C’mon now, Sergeant.” 

Coughing, you hack up splatters of blood onto your cargos—hands and arms tied down with rough rope that skins you every time you shift. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, blinking rapidly as the footsteps walk away from your holding cell and disappear with the slam of a far-off door. 

The Captain ahead of you grunts, his hard blue eyes sliding down the wreckage of your uniform; the open wounds and torn fingernails. He doesn’t look much better, truth be told. Your captors had taken pleasure in making you watch the other get brutalized—the vile rage in your eyes yet the inability to do anything. 

It was mental torture as well as physical.

“Oversight ought to know we’re gone,” Soap slides out smoothly, tilting his mohawked head to the side to study the room in casual sweeps, as if not bloodied and broken. “—they’ll be sendin’ out recon teams to scout the area in little under a day. Standard protocol.”

His voice trails, seeing your gaze locked onto the door of the cell, pupils nothing but tiny dots in your burst veins of the once white sclera. Blue finds the way your body shakes, and the man’s large fingers twitch along the arm of his chair.

In the back of his throat, he lets off a rumble and resets his stubbed jaw; the scar along his left eye shifting with his expression. 

“Sergeant,” your face twitches, but you don’t look at him. Inside your chest, your rattling lungs can nearly be heard aloud. 

Captain MacTavish’s lips tighten. “Didn’t I tell you to listen? Pipe up! This is important.” 

Your mind dances between hysterics and the numb oblivion of shock. While Soap had years to adhere to the idea of bare torture—even going through it before—you had no such luck. Experienced with weaponry, yes, but One-Four-One had only taken you on with the idea that you could become better than you already were. 

You’d never gone through an actual interrogation beyond training. 

Fast flinching eyes dart to your superior, chest heaving and adrenaline coating your expression. Blood drips to the floor. 

Soap grinds his teeth and sighs through his nose.

She won’t last like this, he tells himself—blunt and honest. He’d told Price it was a bad idea to let you tag along, and without the reassurance from his fellow, he would have straight-out denied you coming. Too inexperienced. 

This was exactly what he had been worried about. 

But, hell, if that fear in your eyes didn’t make his stomach knot; a heavy rage at the image of your broken skin as all he could do was watch. But it was a silent kind of fury. Weighted with the knowledge of revenge. 

While the man hated dogs, he sure acted like a loyal one. 

“One day,” the Captain tells you—hardened; inflexible. His orbs are like hard steel and his stiff body like rock. “You can take one more day. Just need to focus on me…Copy? I don’t want your eyes to leave me. Not through any of it.”

You push through your haze, staring into his eyes with the vile stench of fear in the air. It was human nature to not want to be harmed. To dread pain and suffering in all senses. 

This man seemed apart from that. 

The Captain grunts, harsher now, “Copy?”

“I-I,” you stutter, lashes fluttering. “I copy, Sir.” 

“Relay.” He barks, watching you closely.

“One day.” Answering immediately, you clear your throat and stifle your whimper of agony—a few of your ribs are broken. “I can make it one more day.”

“Good.” Soap’s accent makes the words clipped and true. Taken as law. “Nothin’ll happen that won’t be repaid. Keep that close, it’ll help.” 

“How many times have you been through this?” Talking helped with the nerves, your focus leaving the sounds in the distant hallways and the loud voices wafting in the vents. The room was cold; you shiver and grimace as your body moved. 

“Too many.” Soap huffs, pulling at his restraints with a heavy hand and growling under his breath when nothing happens. “Comes with the territory, you’ll get used to it.”

You lick your bloodied lips and feel the cuts in them. “...Is that a good or a bad thing, Sir?” 

His lips twitch into a low smirk, shooting you a sly narrowing of his lids. “Well, I’d say that’s up to you now, isn’t it?”

In the grimness and the barbarity, you huff what can be described as a dead woman’s laugh. 

The Captain, still trying to find a loose area of the rope, grits his teeth and utters, “There’ll be no deaths here ‘cept the ones outside this cell, eh? Like I said—focus. When I tell you something, I don’t care how hard it is, you’ll be listenin’ to me. Got that?” 

Footsteps sound up again from beyond, and you tense, eyes flinching wider. Soap grunts out an order and you keep your feral gaze locked on his. Blue eyes bore into you, flaying their meaning deep into your body like you’re made of clay. The uptick in your pulse makes you shake wildly. 

“Keep those eyes right on me. Nothing’s goin' on that’ll kill you, aye?” The door turns and the unlocking of the barrier snaps like electricity up your spine. You want to run, but you know you can’t.

And through it all, you stare straight into Captain MacTavish’s frozen eyes—his strong brow pulled in with authority. He nods his approval with a quick jerk of his head. When the door opens, you can’t help but fear he’s lying.

TAGS:

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[twilightakiishi]

FEED ON MY DESPERATION — C. TAKIISHI

cw: fluff. gn! reader. mention of sex but no sex. implied poly with endochika. synopsis: what romance looks like with takiishi; the first kiss you share and how he's grown fond of you without you really knowing. wc: 1.1k.

chika takiishi takes your breath away in the most mundane of moments. he doesn’t really understand it. 

when you’re standing near him and you catch a glimpse of the way the light reflects off his cheekbone and the curve of his upper lip, you get a quick side eye from him. he huffs under your stare that bores into him out of his peripheral. 

you just don’t look away. so he meets your gaze, expectantly. what do you want. 

a smile twitches at the corner of your lips. he’s learned to communicate more softly with you— still in a way that caters to someone who doesn’t care much for speaking, but with a newfound curiosity. it’s his own selfish desire to know why you are intrigued by him. interest is interest, you think. take it or leave it. 

slowly, you lift a hand to his jaw. his eyes follow it carefully, staying locked onto it for a few moments before his brow twitches, unsettling gaze once again falling on yours. 

your eyes flicker between his to gauge his reaction— chika isn’t so used to random displays of affection. it’s surprising that he even allows you to share his space. the last thing you want is to scare him off, and that means doing everything thoughtfully. however, sometimes, in an effort to give him time to adjust to something, you end up being brushed off by his impatience. 

a tense of his jaw and a twitch of his brow, and he’s turning his head, returning his attention to the broken clasp of his earring endo told him to stop touching an hour ago. (he breaks things in his impatience, whether he’s trying or not. it’s the reason it broke and the reason he can’t fix it.)

a lot of your relationship with takiishi is hit or miss. you are learning him as he is learning you. there is bound to be rejection. so you sigh, returning to your side of the couch and picking up your book, as both of you sit in each other’s company. it’s enough. 

the next morning, endo sweeps into the kitchen to say goodbye before heading to the gym. takiishi watches curiously from behind the counter as you reach out to pull endo’s face down to your level, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. you feel eyes burning into you as endo giggles, pulling away to give you a proper kiss. 

takiishi’s eye twitches, unbeknownst to you as he chews his waffle. he notices that the way you held his jaw the afternoon before is the exact way you hold endo now, but you waited much less time to lean in. as soon as endo is out the door, he pipes up. 

“you wanted to kiss me yesterday.”

you turn to face him. “i did.”

“you hesitated.”

“i wasn’t sure you would be comfortable with it.”

he blinks. “we have sex.”

you stifle a laugh. he isn’t intending to make a joke, and it’s all the more amusing to you. 

“yes, but a kiss is a different type of intimacy that i know you aren’t accustomed to. endo craves that kind of attention, so i don’t hesitate with him.”

he stares at you as he takes another bite. you can see the gears turning in his brain as he chews again. you sip your coffee and stare back, leaning against the counter as you wait for his response. it may never come. you know this. 

and then he stands, tendrils of hair swinging as he moves. the light streaming in from the kitchen window sets him aglow, little particles of dust in the air rising like embers around his figure. in two short strides, he’s in front of you, a lock of red and yellow loosely falling over his shoulder as he leans in.

his lips are syrup sweet and enticing, encouraging your tongue to glide over his bottom lip. you don’t see the way his own hand hesitates to come up to your jaw, but it does. with much less gentleness than you, but what matters is that it does. 

takiishi’s been mimicking you, you’ve noticed. in the way that a robot or an alien would collect data, he copies; tries to understand by following your lead before he decides it’s not exactly his style. so his fingertips trail down until his palm wraps around the base of your throat, thumb resting in the dip of your collarbone. you’re warm where his other fingers rest over your pulse, and he squeezes ever so slightly. 

chika’s found that his favorite part of physical affection is the feeling of another being alive. the sound of a beating heart, warm panted breaths, the steady thrum of pulse points scattered around your body. he especially enjoys when he is the source of these bodily responses, but he’s still getting used to you being the cause of them for him. 

he remembers the way it felt the first time his heart beat for you. 

his body betrayed him— gut writhing and skin broken out into goosebumps under a gaze with intensity that could rival his own. 

the day will never come that he’d admit it, and it took months for him to accept what it was. but it’s why he never kicks you out when you show up, lets you sit a few feet away from him while you both do your own thing. it’s why he even seeks you out on days that endo drives him up a wall— your presence is peaceful, comforting, welcomed. 

you’ve communicated so much to him without words, learning the complexities of him day by day. like the way you’re touching him now, the way you’ve discovered he likes— hands gently pressed to his lower back, because he feels caged in with arms around his neck and the distance between your bodies with a hand to his chest irks him. 

you nip at his bottom lip, sweet and sticky, remembering the way he recoiled the first time you ever tried it. the memory of his expression– completely bewildered, defenses up– flashes in your mind, and you can’t help but smile. the two of you have come so far since then; sharing a random kiss in the middle of the kitchen for the first time, partly initiated by chika. 

the thought increases your heart rate, and he notices the instant your breath grows more shallow. his calloused hand moves down to sweep over your chest, stilling at the sensation he’s grown so fond of. takiishi pulls back, taking in the way you pant through parted, glistening lips. 

“just do what you want.” like you always have. his hair covers his face when he turns away, murmuring his own declaration of love, “I don’t mind.”

dividers by cafekitsune ! <3

[rottenpumpkin13]

Let’s reverse the question, AGSZC get stuck in a timeloop COLLECTIVELY, what’s the first thing they do?

The Nibelheim Time Loop (from hell)

Nibelheim Loop #1

Cloud: Man, I had the weirdest dream last night.

Zack: One where Sephiroth burns your village down?

Cloud: That's so creepy! How did you know?

Zack: I had the exact same dream.

*Sephiroth walks up to them*

Zack: Sephiroth, did you have any weird dreams last night?

Sephiroth: I had a dream where I turned into an infant kangaroo and was taken from my mother at birth, deprived of the comfort of her pouch, and forced to work for Shinra. Years later I discovered my mother was complicit in denying me the pouch. Seeking solace, I found an artificial pouch from a robotic alien kangaroo mother. I then rode contentedly in her pouch as she burned everything around us to keep me warm.

Zack: A simple yes would've sufficed.

-

Nibelheim Loop #5

Zack: You're living the same day over and over too, right? I'm not going crazy?

Sephiroth: Actually, I just noticed that we're in a time loop this morning.

Zack: You burned down Nibelheim four times.

Sephiroth, gaslighting him: What a touching story.

Zack: !?

-

Nibelheim Loop #8

*Nibelheim is burning*

Cloud: WHY!? WHY?? WHAT EVEN IS THE POINT ANYMORE!? WHY DO YOU KEEP DOING THIS?

Sephiroth, roasting marshmallows: Professor Hojo never let me roast marshmallows when I was a child. He claimed the sugar would provide excess dopamine, tricking my brain into thinking I could be happy and want more out of life.

Cloud: Shit man I had no idea

-

Nibelheim Loop #12

*Zack, Cloud and Genesis are holding Sephiroth down to keep him from entering the library*

Zack: QUIT IT! YOU ALREADY KNOW THE TRUTH!

Sephiroth: I YEARN.

Zack: FOR WHAT!?

Sephiroth: I YEARN.

-

Nibelheim Loop #16

*After tying Sephiroth up and sedating him*

Zack: There! Now he can't escape, and Jenova can't do mind control on him! Problem solved! No more Jenova cell people running around.

Zack:

Zack: *smells smoke*

Zack: That apple bastard.

-

Nibelheim Loop #23

Cloud: You know what!? This is a time loop! There are no consequences! I can go up to Sephiroth and kill him right now! Fuck it!

*Sephiroth walks up to him, Cloud punches his chest (nothing happens)*

Sephiroth: …..

*Cloud punches him again. He doesn't move*

Sephiroth: …..

*Cloud tries again. It's like punching a brick wall*

Sephiroth: Please stop fondling my chest.

Cloud: Oh my god.

-

Nibelheim Loop #36

Sephiroth: Am I….a human being?

Sephiroth: ….

*Sephiroth turns around*

Sephiroth: Where's Genesis?

Zack: He's not here, but he left this note. Here, let me read it—"Dear Sephiroth, I grew tired of flying from Banora to Nibelheim 35 times only to be met with disappointment, so I'm spending this loop in Costa Del Sol. Best Wishes, your friend, Genesis Rhapsodos."

Sephiroth: Wow. And he didn't even insult me this time.

Zack: "P.S.: No such luck kitty-boy you're a monster and yer mum's an alien. Get rekt."

Sephiroth:

-

Nibelheim Loop #???

*At the library*

Zack: Sephiroth! Stop!

Sephiroth: Each time I return here, my mind becomes clearer, more adept at absorbing information. This only fuels my bitterness and resentment, rather than allowing me to grow accustomed to it. I think this time I'll burn—

*Vincent appears and knocks him out with a pipe*

Zack: Woah! You got sick of the time loop too?

Vincent: What time loop?

Zack:

-

*The next day, after the time loop is broken*

Vincent: I'm glad I could be of assistance.

Cloud: Who would've thought that would end the time loop.

Vincent: Yes. It appears all Sephiroth needed was paternal discipline.

Cloud, gasping: You mean....? You're...?

Vincent: Yes. I'm Sephiroth's parent—

Cloud: !!

Vincent: —tal figure since I was in love with his real mother and his father is Professor Hojo, a role I've assigned myself purely due to the fact that I see myself as his primary caregiver during trying times, which is how an adequate father should act.

Cloud:

Vincent: Not that I would know.

[love-toxin]

I'd like to request “Don't fight me, baby. Struggling is pointless.” with Makoi pleeeaaassee <33

comin right up !!!!!

nasty sentence starters

VII - "Don't fight me, baby. Struggling is pointless."

(cws: sequel to this prompt, gn!reader, noncon, dirty talk, overstim, creampie, possessive makoi)

“Fuuuck, I need a cigarette after that.” Hayao had commented cheekily when Makoi kicked them out into the courtyard, where the three of them sat on the patio smoking while the boss got his licks in with his new toy.

“Don't fight me, baby. Struggling's pointless.” Makoi grinned from ear to ear, nothing but pure, impassioned love in his eyes. “You're yakuza property already. Fuck, that's good-” He groaned, sweat pouring down his sculpted chest in the hazy, musky heat of the little paper-walled room.

“That's right, just melt into it, baby–so much easier if ya just give it up.” The Azumako heir cooed with utmost condescension–and it was warranted, because what could you possibly do? He was strong, and he pinned your arms down when you tried to swat at him initially. It only made him hornier, which only made it more agonizingly sensual when his flesh slid against yours and he stretched you out to make it fit. You moaned, overstimulation dominating every cell of your body–and Makoi laughed, echoing your pitiful cries of ‘Noooo’ back at you.

“C'mon-” He panted, his thrusts slapping wetly throughout the condensed haze of sex in the air. “-Gave it to my boys so nice, I'm feelin’ left out.”

Suddenly, he pulled out and held your legs aloft, sitting back to peer down between them and force your hands up to cover your face in embarrassment. “S'winkin’ at me, baby.” He chuckled. Makoi tested the abused flesh with his finger, circling tightly around your entrance before he dipped it inside. “Oh, fuck.” He dragged it out and slipped it into his mouth, sucking on two of his digits at a time just to taste your essence and bring them back down for some more probing. But your foot kicked out, you knocked him off balance, and he wobbled, giving you the perfect opportunity for you to flip over on your stomach.

Crawling away, however, was a pipe dream. He dragged you back against the tatami by your hips, his fingertips pressing bruises into the soft dips of skin. “Likin’ doggy more anyway.” His pearly teeth gleamed in the low light at the panicked expression you cast over your shoulder. “Relax, you'll take it so good for me. Pretty thing…” He murmured the praise into your ear with a slow, soft nibble as he slipped it in. It contrasted with the harsh thrust he delivered afterwards, his hands gripping your shoulders to yank you back to meet another, and another, and another. His palms smoothed down your arms until they met your wrists, and he tightened his hold around them to put you right in the position he wanted; your ass pressed up against his groin so every plap vibrated from deep within.

“Yeah?! Like that?” He roared, his open palm coming down on your jiggling ass with a sharp smack. “My fuckin’ bitch, my fuckin’ hole–goddamn squeezin’ on me like–hrgh-!” Makoi's voice grew pitchy and broken with each buck, clearly enjoying the ride twice as much when you made it harder for him. Something about you squirming really got him off.

“Oh-ho fuck yes! Where you been all my fuckin’ life, sweet thing?!” Makoi's voice catapulted off the thin walls, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss on his face as he humped you for all you were worth. “Prolly fuckin’ some shrimp-dicked chumps, huh? Nah, you're fuckin’ mine now, mine an’ my boys’ for-fuckin’-ever.” He slurred huskily. He looked drunk but he only smelled of cologne and not sake–maybe it was cause he'd never found someone who cried so sweetly at his promises to make them his.

“I know you don't wanna cum again, but I'm gonna make ya,” He pinched your lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, jerking your head to the side to look at him. “Cum on this fat fuckin’ dick, and I'll buy ya the biggest fuckin’ rock for that little finger.”

Plap, plap, plap, plap–they sped up, grew louder, got deeper. Makoi yanked your head back again and bit down on your neck, your squeals echoing through the little room until they dwindled into helpless, unconscious panting. Your last sensations were of heat and fullness and sticky, thick ropes of cum, before the bliss wiped your mind blank and the world whited out for a long while.

You awoke to Makoi rubbing your trembling legs some time later, one of them laid over his lap as he looked out the now-open screen, where the distant sounds of cicadas peppered the quiet, starry night. The other three were gone, having left behind nothing but an ashtray on the step and a few empty bottles. He traced circles into your knee as he came to the end of your thigh, only drawn away from his contemplative stargazing by the rustling of your kimono as you struggled to sit up. It had been long flattened and soiled beneath you by sweat and Makoi's seed, but it at least provided some semblance of cushion over the tatami.

“Y'okay?” His inquiry came out soft, gentler than the cackles and taunting that still rung in your ears from earlier. A bit befuddled, you didn't nod or shake your head, just stared through him. Regardless, he still leaned over and kissed the top of your head, with a hand bracing your cheek for his thumb to graze over. “Tea's on the way. Just relax.” His voice was as hoarse as yours felt, though you couldn't bring yourself to speak a word except one. Hurts.

“Hurts?” He repeated with genuine sincerity in his eyes. At his side, he dragged over a heavy-looking bowl that sloshed with water–from the depths of it he pulled out a soaked, steaming towel, which he wrung out and tested on his arm before laying it out carefully between your legs. The little hiss and grab for his shoulder to brace at the initial sting had a smile creeping back across his lips. “Yeah, y’took it hard. Thought I came so hard I blacked out back there.”

Makoi's fingers remained gentle, nudging at your flesh through the warm towel to soothe those pains he and his friends had caused. Why it felt so personal, so loving, was as much of a mystery to you as it was to him. He couldn't pinpoint why he liked you so much…he just did.

“Are you gonna get rid of me now?” You croaked. Makoi raised a brow, scoffed, and just split the quiet night with a chuckle before he leaned in close to your face.

“What'd I say? You're-” Smooch. “-fuckin’-” Smooch. “-mine.”

[delusionalmultilingual]

IMAGINE SHOUTO TODOROKI BEING INJURED AND HIS LOVER THOUGHT THEY LOST HIM!!!

"Shouto?" Almost a cry came from your voice as you lifted large parts of concrete off the demolished grounds. Blood and sweat staining your clothes as well as debris and dust from the collapsed building.

The areas surrounded was rubble. Destroyed. The building collapsed after one of the villains in the area used a earth shaking quirk in the vicinity of 100 metres. Catastrophic, the evacuation protocol didn't even take place. And the villian was nowhere to be found.

You knew he bad to be nearby somewhere, he was right next to you before this whole shitshow happened. It was difficult to remember, it must have been at least 2 hours before you woke up underneath a large slab of cement. Was your ankle sprained? Yes. Your arm? Broken. But surprisingly you weren't dead, you weren't able to say for some other people.

The rescue team already found 8 dead people, all civilians, all innocent. A man who spotted the rubble moving above you quickly called over three more people, the all lifted you up and identifying you immediately. Ushering to get you medical attention, however your stubbornness leads you to wandering helplessly through the demolished buildings. A sad attempt of finding your husband of 2 years, boyfriend of 7 years.

Your voice was cracked and hoarse, holding your arm in pain and trying to find him. You just want him. Nothing else matters right now. "Shouto!" Cracked screams come from you as you slip and knock your arm on some old pipes in a column.

"Shouto!" Another pained yell came from your weakened state, sure. You've fought in situations like this, but the adrenaline of the fight was gone. Maybe it was more or less shock at the time.

Falling to your knees, weak and still probably concussed. You stand back up shakily, limping through the destroyed area, spotting soke blood stains on the dust covered concrete.

Your eyes widen as you get closer, running as best as you could before falling beside him. "Shouto!" A guttural cry came from deep inside of your throat, trying to throw the large slab off his blood soaked body.

His bicoloured hair was stained with a film of dust and blood, specks of cement on his face. Using one arm you manage to push the slab off him in three minutes before cupping his face with your non injured arm and begging him, begging him to stay. Screaming for someone to help you, help him.

"Please Shou... Don't fucking leave me!"

You scream at him, propping his head on your chest, your hero costume had been ripped and damaged. Holding his body with one arm as you weakly cried against his forehead.

"Shouto!" You scream at him against, only feeling his cold skin against your warm skin, a film of dust covering his beaten state, Blood over his face and cuts on him.

Sobbing and shaking him, some rescue team members were running towards the two of you, hearing your cry they stopped feet away from you. Watching as you were clearly unconsolable about the loss of him.

A slight movement came from him that you didn't feel, his arm twitching and his eyes opening to see your closed and tear stained one's watching you mourn and cursing at him, begging him to not go.

The rescue team took notice of the fact he wasn't dead and tried to move you so they could assess him but you pushed them away, not knowing they were trying to help before a weak and shaky hand also cups your face.

"I'm okay... Let them..." His voice was weak and quiet, this was something you never usually see. The fact he hides his weakened state with many other people.

More tears streamed down your cheeks as you embraced him and kissed his face. Not caring about the sweat and muck on his cheek, he was alive.

[realhotgirlshitah]

Okay but imagine doing Christmas baking with Ethan…

The kitchen was a mess. Flour dusted every possible surface, including your sweater and Ethan’s curls, and somehow, there was a streak of green icing on your cheek. The two of you had decided—well, you had decided—that baking Christmas cookies together in matching pyjamas would be a cute and wholesome holiday activity. Ethan, as always, had followed along with a shrug and an easy, “Sure, babe. How hard can it be?”

That was two hours ago.

“Ethan, no!” you shrieked, lunging across the counter.

He froze mid-action, a tube of red icing clutched in his large hands, poised over what was supposed to be a festive snowman cookie. Instead, it looked like Frosty had gone through an existential crisis and then faceplanted into a pool of despair.

“What?” he said, wide-eyed and trying to look innocent.

“You’re giving the snowman angry eyebrows.” You pointed accusingly at the cookie.

“Yeah, because he’s seen things, babe. He’s been through the storm.” Ethan’s voice dropped dramatically, and he narrowed his brown eyes at you as if channeling the snowman’s supposed backstory.

“Ethan,” you deadpanned, biting your lip to keep from laughing, “it’s Christmas. The cookies are supposed to be cute.”

“Alright, alright.” He sighed, tossing the icing tube aside and brushing flour-dusted hands on his sweatpants. “How about I make a reindeer instead? Easy, right?”

You watched suspiciously as Ethan grabbed another cookie, shaped like a reindeer, and began decorating. His tongue stuck out slightly in concentration, his brows furrowed. For about thirty seconds, you felt a flicker of hope.

Then he turned the cookie around to show you.

It looked… wrong. Very wrong. The reindeer’s antlers were lopsided, one eye was twice the size of the other, and the red icing nose looked more like a crime scene than Rudolph’s bright beacon of light.

“Is it… is it okay to say this reindeer looks like it’s seen way too much?” you said, covering your mouth to stifle your laughter.

Ethan huffed, holding the cookie up like it was a piece of abstract art. “Look, I think he’s charming. He’s the underdog of the reindeer team, alright? He’s been overlooked for years, and tonight—” he raised the cookie higher—“tonight is his night to shine.”

You burst into laughter, leaning against the counter for support. Ethan grinned proudly, clearly pleased with himself, and took a dramatic bite out of the reindeer’s head.

“Ethan!” you gasped. “You can’t just eat him after giving him such a heartfelt backstory!”

“It was his time, babe. He served his purpose.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling as you turned back to the bowl of cookie dough.

“Okay, you are officially banned from decorating. You can be on dough-rolling duty,” you said, pointing at the flour-covered rolling pin.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said with a mock salute before grabbing the rolling pin and, with exaggerated focus, beginning to flatten the dough.

For a brief moment, there was peace. You carefully piped green icing onto a tree-shaped cookie while Ethan hummed a random Christmas tune.

Then you heard it.

A crack.

You looked up. Ethan froze, mid-roll, the rolling pin snapped clean in two in his hands.

“How… how did you…?” you sputtered, staring at the broken kitchen utensil.

Ethan looked down at the broken rolling pin, then back at you, then back at the pin again. “I—I don’t know. I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

You couldn’t stop the cackle that escaped you. “How are you breaking rolling pins, Ethan? It’s cookie dough!”

“I don’t know, babe! I’m too strong for this domestic life!” He flexed one bicep dramatically, striking a ridiculous pose.

“Alright, Hulk,” you said between giggles. “You’re officially downgraded to… sprinkle duty.”

Ethan’s face lit up. “Sprinkle duty? Oh, I can definitely handle that.”

For about ten minutes, sprinkle duty seemed like the safest possible assignment for Ethan. He happily scattered red and green sugar crystals across your freshly iced cookies, humming along to Mariah Carey in the background.

Then you made the mistake of turning your back.

When you turned around, Ethan was standing with an unopened bag of sprinkles held over his head, his face wearing a look of sheer, unbridled mischief.

“Ethan…” you said cautiously.

“Do you dare me?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“No. Ethan, don’t—”

Too late. With one swift motion, he ripped the bag open, and an explosion of multicolored sprinkles rained down on both of you like confetti.

“ETHAN!” you shrieked as sprinkles bounced off your head, your sweater, and scattered across the floor.

Ethan was cackling, absolutely giddy with his life choices. “Merry Christmas, babe!” he said, arms outstretched like he’d just performed a Broadway finale.

You glared at him, then bent down, grabbed a handful of flour, and threw it directly at his face.

There was a brief moment of silence as the cloud of flour settled, leaving Ethan blinking at you with white powder coating his curls, eyelashes, and beard stubble.

“Oh, it’s on.”

By the time the flour-and-sprinkle war ended, the kitchen looked like a Christmas crime scene. You were both covered in a chaotic mix of flour, icing, and sugar, and your stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

Ethan collapsed onto the floor, leaning against the cabinets and pulling you down with him. You ended up curled against his side, both of you breathless and smiling.

“Well,” Ethan said after a moment, brushing some flour off your cheek with his thumb, “we didn’t exactly make picture-perfect cookies, but… I’d call this a success.”

You smiled up at him, your head resting against his shoulder. “Honestly? This was way better than a boring Pinterest-perfect baking session.”

Ethan grinned, his dimples showing. “Next year, we should probably just buy cookies and pretend we made them.”

You giggled, nudging him lightly. “Deal. But only if we can still have sprinkle fights.”

“Always, baby. Always.”

Outside, snow began to fall softly against the windowpane. Inside, the two of you sat surrounded by cookie crumbs, colorful sprinkles, and smears of icing—but it didn’t matter. The warmth of the moment, the sound of your laughter, and the way Ethan’s hand rested securely on your waist made everything feel perfect.

Yeah there was no reason for me to have not put this out in Christmas Day lol I just forgot. But enjoy this very rare fluff!!

Next up: SMUT. THE SMUTTIEST SMUT IVE EVER SMUTTED FOR THE WHORES.

Taglist as of now: @bettys-redwinesupernova @landry-day @fae-of-prey

[unparalleledtomes]

Be Buried in Thy Eyes (18+)

Ao3 Link

Pairing: Gale x OC Female Character

Summary: Gale's good with his tongue, a little too good, and Noa can't quit squirming. After one too many knees to the head, he figures out the best way to keep her still.

Warnings: minors dni, shameless smut, oral

Word Count: 1289

A/N: idk friends it's just boning for like 1300 words straight. i am horny for this magic man

Moonlight poured into the Elfsong Tavern, a striking glint of silver through the tracery that cut diamonds on the floor. Glass shattered beneath the creaking hardwood and Gale heard a chorus of cheers before someone started shouting. There was a muffled threat of last call before a strong knee clapped his ear.

He chuckled and glanced up. Noa struggled to breathe beneath the pillow clamped over her head, knuckles balled white around the fabric. Her hair spilled freely over the braided carpet beneath them, a coarse and filthy thing that rubbed his naked stomach raw, but he plunged his tongue further inside until strangled birdsong chirped beneath the pillow. 

Wax wept from the candles above each abandoned bed, Lae’zel and Astarion in their own bunks with the others. Just for tonight their only company was stripped clothing and a hookah pipe that tinkled whenever Noa moved. 

She twitched from the pleasure, squeezing her thighs shut until Gale reluctantly eased his talents. His tongue traced another languorous circle around her clitoris and he watched her breasts slowly rise and fall. When they rose again he brought a hand to her nipple, tracing it with his thumb while the other continued its reveries between her legs. Her head lifted at the touch and came back down with a dull thud. 

He wanted to close his eyes, to lose himself entirely in her taste, but every muffled squeal sent a jolt through his cock and he couldn’t help but revel in all he did to her. With a deep moan he kissed her, chuckling again when she jerked a knee into his temple. 

A pulse coursed through their heads, the parasites connected. “Perhaps we should save our kicking for the enemy, hm?”

She laughed into the fabric and yanked it off her face, flushed even in the moonlight. “Shut up,” she whispered aloud.

A nip to the inner thigh summoned her manners and she sharply inhaled at the pinch. He was already smiling when she glanced down, a long kiss pressed to her stinging flesh. Then he nipped again. 

She hissed and rolled her head back. “Gods damn you.”

Laughter tickled her skin and he clapped a hand over her knee to spare the blow. He tried to keep her in place, to hold her open through every warm lash of his tongue, but her strength overwhelmed him and it soon became an impish game of following her where she writhed, his mouth curled to a grin with every twist of her hips, every broken note she sung whenever he caught a thigh to the cheek.  

After another squeeze their parasites throbbed once more. “My love?”

“Y-yes?”

“Look at me.”

She peered down. He gently pried himself loose, backing far enough away that she sat up on her elbows. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. Are you alright?” 

He didn’t answer, too lost in the scars that climbed her neck and face like wild vines, the constellation of freckles on her breasts that shamed the night sky. But most important were those long legs open and sprawled beneath him. He looked at her, and he grinned. “Ad lapide.”

“Gale—”

There was the toll of a bell, a flash of purple, and then an enchantment cursed the floor. A great chain stamped the hardwood, Noa helpless to move within it. Her mouth hung open from the interruption and she could only watch as Gale eased himself atop her. 

Wetness trickled at the first press of fingertips on her tongue. He dragged his cock up and down her cunt in rhythmic torture that made her battle for freedom, the frustration almost painful as all her strength lay dormant. Yet on and on he went, unblinking as his own breath grew desperate and that little death nearly claimed her. She was there, right there, when he cruelly withdrew his fingers, and she had no choice but to watch him smirk and slip them inside of her. 

Her nerves ignited. Each kiss he left down her breasts and stomach burned in a trail of hellsfire. A second chain pulsed like a filthy taunt, mocking her every time it slithered past; she fought to follow it, to breathe through the flint sparks Gale struck through her, but everything betrayed her. 

Those large brown eyes peered upward, an innocence even now as he sucked her clitoris, his free hand rolling a pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She had no way to fight his hands or tongue and quickly came over both. He moaned, waiting only a breath before he inched deeper and stroked the very spot he knew would make her shake otherwise. But the chains beat around them. No sound came. She couldn’t move. All she could do was gawk at his merciless display until a second release spilled down his lips.  

He moaned again, louder, and gripped her breast to steady himself. The chain glowed with magic and she could hardly see past the lilac in her eyes, but she felt it—the thumb that parted her lips wider and wider before two legs graced either side of her own.

Breath sputtered from her nose, the soft tang of sweat on her tongue as he gently thrust inside. Her limbs screamed, hands desperate for palmfuls of his backside as he rocked into her mouth. Each time was a little deeper, a little stronger, and it didn’t take long before he tangled his fingers in her hair and begged the gods to help him. His knees buckled next to her head and she tasted him down her throat, wishing right then for him to cum with her, to release his hold and let her ravage him, but of course he stopped himself and pulled away just as the damp spot on the carpet grew wetter.

She tried to breathe, but the room clouded with stardust. Above her he panted, his cock hard and aching and slick with saliva. When his breathing finally calmed he sank back to his knees.

He caressed the dew on her cheek and smiled, suddenly bashful under the glow of her unmoving eyes. He leaned toward the shell of her ear and laid a kiss there. “I love you,” he whispered. Then the spell broke. 

Noa’s eyelids fluttered. She tried to sit up, torrents of air swept into her lungs with every shaky breath. In the throes of autonomy she lost her balance and collapsed backward onto the carpet, blades of moonlight swirling overhead as she came to. He quietly laughed but waited for her to sit up, to wrap a hand behind his head and roll him onto his back. She kissed him with a ravenous tangle of tongue and teeth before she slapped a hand on the hardwood. 

She fucked him so hard the hookah pipe rattled. His hands tumbled off her hips and onto the floor, obscenities hissed through gritted teeth. Over and over her backside clapped onto him and the pressure soon spread inside of him like a burst dam. She cried out but didn’t stop, both of them panting and panting against each other until everything at last went dark and all she knew was pleasure.

And then the night was quiet, slowly returned to them through licks of candlelight in a tavern that hadn’t yet stopped spinning. Muted snores rumbled through the common area and she crumpled to the floor beside him, her hand batting the space between them until she found his. He smiled and she waited for him to turn his head with that look of fervor he so often had after a night together, but his eyelids fought to open. 

“Gale?”

“Mm?”

She knotted their fingers together. “I love you too.” 

[r0tting-rat]

I'm so sorry for what y'all are about to read but I can't get this out of my mind. Again I'm so sorry.

Premise: I did not finish Pressure and this is probably full of inaccuracies but WHO CARESSS

Tw: cannibalism, gore

Just think about it. Back when Sebastian had just released all the monsters in the facility, there must have been so many bodies around. Scientists, soldiers, whatever. There must have been so much blood. Anglers, Wall Dwellers, you name it! If Sebastian hadn't been a killer before being sentenced to death and experimented on, he surely became one that day. I can basically see him.

He's not just angry, he's fucking livid. He does not care about sticking to what is left of his morals, he has long abandoned them. The fact that he is killing humans doesn't affect him anymore, after all, he's a monster now. They made him a monster, so it's all their fault. What goes around comes back around, right?

There's only one problem, after everything in the shut-down facility settles and everything that is left is the gentle sounds of the water dripping down broken pipes, and the problem is that Sebastian hasn't eaten anything in days. He's getting weak, he's getting hungry, he's getting desperate, and he's running out of time. Walking down a long hallway, Sebastian slithers through bodies and scattered limbs, ignoring the painfully empty stomach and trying not to focus too much on the arms, legs and torsos surrounding him. Yes, he did all of that, but it doesn't mean he loves the view. The smell is even more atrocious than the visuals.

His stomach complains loudly, growling and lamenting with need. Sebastian hisses with discomfort, clutching his midsection. "Hold on for just a moment," he tells himself, "Just wait!" But he doesn't know when his next meal is going to be, and before he even notices it his three eyes land on one of the most recent corpses. His DNA has changed and with it his needs and instincts, so—for just a moment—he considers it. Sebastian, no longer the man he used to be, looks at the corpse of one of the soldiers sent by Urbanshade to kill him, and his stomach growls.

He knows he needs it, he will die if he doesn't eat anything soon, and it's not like anyone will notice! No, it will just be another disappeared man, a nameless face to Sebastian and a faceless name to Urbanshade, the guy is basically a nobody! No one will miss him. That's what he tells himself as he kneels down, next to the body, and with one of his three hands he pulls it closer.

"You're not human," he thinks as he peels away what is left of the man's uniform from his mangled chest. His arms are laying a little farther to the left. "This isn't cannibalism, you're not human." Yet, as the ache for food becomes louder, something in his chest starts to grow heavy. With calculated movements, Sebastian forces one of his clawed hands in the guts of the man—no, food—easily tearing the skin open so he can gain access to his internal organs. The sight is quite disgusting, and normally would be enough to quiet his appetite, but he can't afford to be picky. He reaches blindly inside the eviscerated man and pulls out a mass of something. His hand is dripping with blood, his claws are piercing just slightly into the deformed mass in his hold. It's soft. Analyzing what he is holding would only make everything worse, so, before he can stop himself, Sebastian shoves the entire thing in his mouth, and begins to chew.

The mass is wet, slimy, he has to force it down his throat when he swallows. Just the act leaves him breathless, like it had somehow drained him of all his energies. "This isn't cannibalism, so stop whining!" his brain screams at him, like it would somehow get rid of the feeling in his chest, which has now grown heavier than before. As he reaches for a second handful with a shaky hand, Sebastian begins to cry.

"You're not human anymore!" Another bite, more blood trails down his chin and into the collar of his shirt. The metallic scent strokes his hunger like a flame, invading his nostrils and filling his lungs.

"You're not human anymore!" With the third bite his teeth snap over something hard, probably a bone shard, and they shatter it like it was a bread crust, like they were made for it.

"YOU'RE NOT HUMAN!"

Sebastian shoves his face inside the corpse, devouring anything his teeth can reach, reduced to just a starving and sobbing beast. He eats and cries, unable to stop doing either of those things, and his tears mix well with the crimson tainting the lower half of his face. He uses his claws to get bigger bites, pulling anything at arms reach towards his gaping maw, and he is unable to put an end to the massacre. He pulls open the ribcage and reaches for what's inside. Muscles tear under the strength of his jaw, the taste of sweet and fresh meat makes him go delirious, fat slithers down his throat like it's liquid.

What is left of the man once he's done might as well be the carcass of a very large dog, or a pig. The remains—which are few—are unrecognizable, just a weirdly shaped thing covered in blood and with some scattered bones. If anyone were to find it they would guess it must have been a group of Wall Dwellers, and not the sassy merchant at the 50th floor, no, they would never blame him. Just picture it; Sebastian hunched over a corpse, heavily breathing and feeding off one of the new expendables. Ridiculous, right? Yeah, sure, his teeth are sharp like a great white's, but he would never do something like that! No, after all, he is your only friend in that hellish hole, right? You can trust him, and only him. No one else.

Don't ask what happens to the bodies of the expendables once they die, that's none of your business. It's not like you'll ever see them again. They are nobodies. You are a nobody. You're not expected to return.

[marlynnofmany]

Double Dog Dare

“Are you warm enough?” I asked Paint as we walked. My fingers were chilly against the box I carried, but it was small enough that I could reach to rub them together.

“Yes,” Paint said firmly. She pulled her heat shawl close, nuzzling her scaly orange face into its yellow warmth. “This is fully charged, and much better than my old one.”

“Well, no falling in the water for you today.”

“No falling in the water for me ever!” she said. “Unless the water is warm. Then it would be nice.”

I looked around at the industrial ruins that we walked through, all damp concrete and convoluted passageways. Even the sunlight on this planet felt thin. “I don’t think anything around here is warm.”

“Not yet,” Paint said with a lift of her snout. “I’m sure they’ll get things back in working order soon. That box probably holds a key heating circuit or something, and the area will become more hospitable in no time.”

I smiled at her priorities. As a coldblooded Heatseeker, she could hardly be blamed for expecting warmth to be high on the to-do list. I would have focused more on landing pad repair personally, so visiting couriers didn’t have to walk through this maze of alien architecture to reach the inhabited area, but that’s just me.

At any rate, our delivery timeline was short but so was the best route, at least according to the map on my phone. If we kept up a brisk pace, we’d get there well before the client started to grumble. And in this chill there was no reason to dawdle.

Sudden voices echoed off the walls: laughter from a few people at once. Distinctly human laughter. The locals were Frillians, so who were these?

Paint craned her neck to pinpoint the source of the voices, looking just as curious as I was. Then we walked around a corner and met a cluster of humans in blue jackets with a logo that I recognized immediately.

“Hey, it’s the crew of the good ship Hold My Beer!” I said in greeting. “How’s the droid jousting business?”

“Hello again!” said Captain Parker, flashing that bright smile set off by his dark skin. “We’re here for an outdoor tournament. Just on the way to check in now. You guys making another delivery?” The handful of other humans nodded at us.

Paint said, “Yes! It’s probably important! But we don’t know for sure. They wanted it in a hurry.”

Captain Parker pulled out a holo map of his own, and pointed down a concrete corridor. “This is definitely the fastest route that we can see. Pretty bonkers city design.” He started walking with a glance at the gray sky.

I hitched the box up and fell in step with the group. “I don’t think it was a city originally. No idea what, but these don’t look like stores or houses.”

Paint took short-legged strides beside me, offering suggestions for what these reclaimed ruins could have been, and the walk passed quickly. We’d moved on to discuss the jousting crew’s latest wins and new uniforms — those Stabby the Roomba emblems were very stylish — when we passed through an open doorway and discovered a problem.

The passage ahead of us was a deep chasm between concrete walls, open to the sky and devoid of branching passages, with a doorway at the bottom of several concrete steps. The door was closed. And the steps were filled with water.

I stopped. “Hm.”

“Aw man,” Captain Parker exclaimed, getting out his map again.

“What do we do?” asked Paint, clicking her scaly knuckles together. “This was the fast route! Our client is on a timeline!”

I thumped my chin against the box. “I knew we should have used the hoverbike.”

“You would have crashed into a wall! These walkways are far too narrow.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

A sturdy woman from the jousting crew shone a pocket flashlight into the murky water. It was all in shadow, thanks to an awning up top that seemed ironically meant to protect from the rain. Like everything else around here, it was janky and broken, but made of metal that hadn’t rusted through yet. Canvas would have been long gone.

I eyed the many cracks in the walls, with pipes and alien rebar sticking out. “I don’t suppose anyone feels like climbing over?”

“The box doesn’t have a carry strap,” Paint pointed out. “And I am not one of you climbing experts.”

A heavyset man with gray hair chuckled at that. “You’re not the only one.”

This turned into a side conversation about how Paint was under the impression that all humans were talented climbers by her standards, until Captain Parker interrupted.

“While this would be the most direct route, I see three other possibilities that shouldn’t take us in too many circles. It really is a shame, though. This one’s a nice straight shot if we could get the door open. Can you see the catch, Ruby?”

“Barely,” the woman reported. “This light is garbage. But it looks just like those other doors. Too bad we don’t have a long pole or something to work the catch with.”

I looked up. “That awning looks like it has a couple poles! I wonder if they come off.”

Paint yelped, “The water is rising!” She pointed, clutching her shawl. “It was below that step before!”

“Dang, you’re right.” Ruby stepped back. The other crewmates gestured to cracks that reached above water, which could easily be causing leaks below.

“We should go,” decided Captain Parker. “Get a head start on one of the long routes.”

“But our client!” Paint exclaimed. “They need the package in a hurry, and will tell everyone we’re unreliable!”

While everyone voiced an opinion, ranging from “Route B” to “Route C” to “rock-paper-scissors for who gets dunked in the hypothermia water,” I shoved the box at Paint. “Hold this,” I said. Then I got a running start and leapt up for a good grip on a crack in the wall.

There were plenty of footholds. Some of the metal bits sticking out were loose, but not enough to fall out. I focused on making sure each step was secure as quickly as possible, and reached the top in no time.

Thankfully it was wide enough to balance on without too much worry. That water wasn’t deep enough to land in safely, never mind the temperature.

Speaking of water, I thought with dawning horror, This is about to be bad.

Several rows away in this maze was a broken pipe the size of my torso, spewing water into a reservoir that was near to overflowing. Some of the water was leaking out through cracks in the sides already, leading to a puddle that was dripping through to make the one on our side.

The route back is in the danger zone too! Maybe if we’re fast enough, we can get to that open area over there. Or get everybody else up here. But I don’t trust this wall to stay intact if that dam fails all at once.

My phone buzzed, making me jump. It was Paint. I realized she’d probably been yelling for my attention, and I didn’t hear. There were sounds of pouring water up here, not to mention the blood rushing in my ears. I answered the phone.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Get the pole!”

“Right,” I said, hurrying along the wall. “We may not have enough time, even if I can get it free. There’s more water that could flood the area at any moment. I think somebody has to swim for the catch.”

“What! How much water?”

“Lots. Hang on.” I stuck the phone in my pocket to free both hands for the awning. Up close, it looked much rustier and ancient than below. The pole at the side was welded on. I braced my feet and gave it a good yank. That produced a metal screech and a rain of rust particles, but not much else. Pushing and pulling to work it loose let me fold the awning back so watery sunshine illuminated the door catch far below. The jousting crew shouted about it indistinctly.

I leaned against the awning, holding it back while I got my phone out. “It’s not coming loose,” I told Paint. “Tell him there’s a dam about to break, and one of his people needs to open the door.”

There was lots of indistinct shouting at that. I couldn’t make out all of the words, especially since the water sounds were increasing, thanks to a new crack the water levels had just reached. Captain Parker was shaking his head at Paint, who’d set down the box so she could hold the phone and gesture wildly. He waved at me to come down, and pointed back at the way we’d come. I shook my head and pointed at the reservoir, but he was already looking away.

“Paint!” I called into the phone. “Tell him he’s got to!”

“He wants to turn back!” Paint cried.

“Wait!” This was a dumb idea, but I’d had worse. “Paint, tell him you double dog dare him to do it.”

“What?”

“Human thing. If he doesn’t, he’s a coward. Use those exact words: you double dog dare him.”

Paint didn’t answer me, lowering the phone and jabbing a finger at Captain Parker. I could just make out her words over the water.

“I double dog dare you to do it! If you don’t, you’re a coward!”

He gaped at her for a moment while his crew burst into laughter. Ruby clapped him on the shoulder. A smaller man waggled his fingers like he was offering to hold the captain’s jacket. Captain Parker looked up at me, arms spread in a clear WTF.

I held the awning back and pointed emphatically downward.

Water rushed faster out of that new crack. People were laughing below. Paint repeated the phrase like an incantation.

And Captain Parker took off his jacket, handing it to the other man.

“Yes!” I breathed in relief, leaning harder against the metal. It really wanted to fold back down. But the captain would need light to see.

In moments he’d left his jacket, shoes, and pocket valuables with the crew, and was striding forward, shaking his head. Ruby aimed her flashlight at the door, though it was pretty visible now. I pocketed my phone and crossed my fingers. With a worried glance, I sent strengthening thoughts toward the dam.

Captain Parker stuck a foot in, swore loudly, then cannonballed directly into the deep end to the approving whoops of his crew. He surfaced, gasping at the cold, then took a few good breaths and submerged, going straight for the door.

The catch didn’t turn easily. Of course it didn’t. Why would any of this be easy? I watched him struggle with it, flicking my eyes back toward the straining reservoir. Water was starting to spill over the side. The big crack was spreading.

Then something clunked below me, and the door grated aside, gushing water and a very cold human into the corridor beyond.

I yelled my own wahoo along with the crew, and left the awning to jolt back into place with another rain of rust while I hurried back down. One of the pipes almost jerked out of the wall while I was holding it. I jumped the rest of the way.

“Take the box!” Paint told me. Humans were rushing down the wet stairs. I took it just as a thunderous crack filled the air, and the ground shuddered.

“Run!” I said. We dashed down the stairs to the sound of rushing water. The wall I’d just been standing on sprouted dozens of leaks, creaking ominously.

There was still a bit of a puddle at the bottom, but Paint bravely dashed through it with her heat shawl held tight. I was right behind her with the box. The other humans were already climbing dry stairs on the other side.

We made it through the door just as the wall collapsed, sending water and debris slamming into the place we’d been standing moments before.

I don’t think I’ve ever climbed stairs faster. Two of the nearest humans hoisted Paint up, her small legs kicking in the air. Water splashed behind us, wetting one of my pant legs in a terrifying moment that made me think we’d all be washed away after all, but then we were out of range and still standing.

Everybody stood in an open courtyard, breathing hard and staring. The water rushed in every direction below us, filling more passageways than I’d thought it could. We’d reached an area of high ground with the reconstruction offices in view, all freshly painted and gold in the sunlight.

But only just.

“We’ll need another way back to the ship,” said Ruby.

“Good thing we left all our stuff behind.”

“Hey Captain, you can use my shirt to dry off with.”

“Mine too.”

Captain Parker looked a little paler than his skin tone was really meant for as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Thanks,” he managed, sounding like he was keeping his teeth from chattering by force of will.

Paint approached him and made an elaborate bow, which I’m pretty sure she got from some media about old Earth customs since that’s not the kind of thing her people do. “Well done, Captain Parker,” she declared. “Your honor is unquestionable; you are not a dog this day.”

He smiled while the crew laughed again. “Thank you. Your challenge was well-timed.” He stripped off his wet shirt and toweled dry with someone else’s, then rolled up his pant legs instead of taking them off.

“Do you need to borrow my heat shawl?” Paint asked tentatively.

Captain Parker frowned, shivering violently. “You’re coldblooded. Don’t you need it?”

“I’ll be okay,” Paint assured him. “You need it more right now. The air isn’t as bad as that water.”

“You’re not wrong.” He accepted it when she handed it to him, settling it over his shoulders with a deep sigh of relief.

When Paint met my eyes, I gave her a smile of approval, and she beamed. Crew members were busy making calls: to their ship, to their local contact, and who knew where else. It occurred to me that we should do the same.

Paint told me, “Everyone’s going to want to hear about this. And you’ll have to explain the details of the double dog thing; I’d never heard of that before.”

I shrugged one shoulder, still holding the box. “It’s not a big deal. More of a kid thing, honestly. I’m sure there are lots of cultures with similar stuff.”

“Not mine,” she said thoughtfully. “Blip and Blop would probably appreciate it. And Trrili would probably appreciate it too much.”

“Oh man, Trrili would be an unholy menace.” I thought of our most frightening crewmate’s love of scaring people. “Let’s not tell her about double dares.”

When the captain had his shoes back on and his jacket thrown over the heat shawl, we all moved on toward the reconstruction office, leaving a trail of water droplets and honor in our wake.

~~~

Captain Parker and co made their other appearance in this story.

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

They're shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include some characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[longing-for-rain]

Can we please get rid of the idea that a “strong” woman with an effeminate guy is automatically a subversive and progressive relationship?

Look, I know this take comes from people whose only relationship experience is from fandom tropes and TikTok memes, but it’s frustrating. It’s frustrating to me because I am that woman, and even if it physically “looks” subversive, it often actually isn’t.

Just for context here, I’m speaking from my experience as the kind of woman I am. I’m tall; I’m 5’10”. I have a muscular build. I’m highly educated. I actually used to like the idea of being taller than a male partner, earn more, be the provider, etc. It felt empowering to me, so like a lot of you, I became interested in that idea when I thought about relationships with men. I always hated the “woman role” forced on me and I thought my stature would help me escape it by switching roles.

However, actual experience made it seem a lot less empowering. Because here’s the reality.

Despite what they say, men don’t like it when their wives/girlfriends are taller, or earn more. It makes them feel emasculated. You might notice this immediately, or it might take months for the mask to come off, for him to start acting insecure. But he will. And who will he take it out on? That’s right: you.

Sure, it will be “my girl acts like a booktok boyfriend I love her!” and “my wife is the coolest ever I love her!” at first, but in reality? There will always be some lingering insecurity. He’ll expect you to hold his hand and reassure him that he’s still a man to you and that you respect him constantly.

And that brings me to my next point—these relationships really aren’t as subversive as they seem. Sure, he puts on nail polish and flower crowns. But does he do the dishes? Does he help out around the house? Sure, he gushes about how “cool” you are. But does he support you emotionally the same way you support him? Can you truly be yourself with him, or do you find that you repress and downplay your feelings to protect his?

The unfortunate reality is, there is simply always going to be an unequal dynamic. It’s been instilled into us by thousands of years of patriarchy. You can’t undo that with some fandom tropes. It’s like painting over water damage instead of fixing the broken pipe. The fact remains that as a woman, no matter how physically strong you are, no matter how tall, and no matter how successful, that “progressive” man will still always see you as the woman. His woman. He’ll happily enjoy the benefits of your paycheck while still expecting you to do the majority of the work around the house. He’ll happily “let” you be strong because it also means you’re spending your energy coddling him emotionally. This isn’t subversive or beneficial for women.

There is, of course, an exception. Men who have fetishes—which to be clear, it is never a compliment to be someone’s fetish. I’ve experienced this as well. It’s dehumanizing. You become an object. Even a man who claims to “worship” you in the name of his fetish really isn’t worshipping you—he’s worshipping the gratification he’s using you for. Gratification which comes from the humiliation of being subservient to a woman, because to them, women are weak and inferior so therefore being the servant of one is the greatest humiliation imaginable.

So yes, I’m really sick of seeing posts glorifying these dynamics, because it’s obvious they’re either coming from people who have no experience with them or from fetishists. I don’t care if he wears a flower crown. I don’t care if he’s shorter and cowers behind his #girlboss wife while she epically stands up for him. It’s cheap faux progress and reminds me of how isolated and neglected you feel when you actually have to be that woman.

If you really want to be subversive, as a man, try actually treating your girlfriend as an equal instead of putting her on a pedestal. Try actually asking her what she wants and needs from you instead of assuming. Try sharing responsibilities with her like a partner instead of a grown child. Try defending her with the same passion she does you. Be just as strong for her as she is for you. Stand up for her against other men. Challenge other men. Learn about what she cares about and values. Focus on what you can do for her. Engage with her hobbies. Treat her like a human being and not a trope.

Now that would be an actually subversive heterosexual relationship for a strong woman to be in.

[seventh-district]

This Evening I Will Not Forget

“I jumped into the fray with the intention of helping you and next thing I know I’m standing there uselessly watching the first person I’ve dared to love in two fucking centuries take a warhammer to the stomach!”

He turned to face you as he emphasized his last few words, now standing all but frozen in the middle of the tent with his hands held out, gesturing toward your injury. You’re about to pipe up and insist that it wasn’t his fault, but the words dissipate before you can speak them as another part of his sentence echoes in your mind. You repeat them back to him in a disbelieving whisper.

“The first person you’ve dared to love?”

His tense, frustrated expression instantly falls flat.

“I didn’t say that.”

An injury and an argument lead to you revealing far more of yourself and your unspoken past to Astarion than you planned to.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Word Count: 3,292

Content Warnings: [injured Reader] (not graphically described, just mentions of bruising and pain) [mean/avoidant Astarion] [argument] [mentions of Reader's scars & non-specific allusion to their Tragic Backstory™] [vulnerability] [possibly (probably) OOC Astarion]

Author's Note: This is an excerpt from my fic An Evening I Will Not Forget, but can be read as a standalone one-shot. The only context I think you'll need is that this fic is written in the style of reliving memories, hence certain lines will mention Reader "looking back" on them.

“What's important is this evenin' I will not forget

Purple, blue, orange, red

These colors of feelin'

Give me love, I'll put my heart in it”

You’re lying on your back as cold, pale fingers press against your sensitive skin, pulling a small pained sound of protest from you.

“Sorry, sorry…”

Astarion retracts his hand, fingers curling into his palm. You reach out to catch hold of him before he can completely pull away, your voice tense with pain as you reassure him.

“No- no... don’t be. I know you’re just trying to help.”

You bring his hand back toward your exposed stomach, his fingers still coated in the healing salve he was attempting to apply. His hand hovers hesitantly over your bruised and broken skin.

“Yes, but- I’m not very good at it.”

Your thumb brushes across his wrist as you hold onto him, suspecting that if you let go he’d just retract his hand again.

“What do you mean? Of course you are.”

He shakes his head insistently.

“No. It seems like every time I try to help you, I just end up hurting you even more…”

Confusion is clear both in your voice and on your features.

“That’s not… that’s not true, Star.”

You tug lightly on his wrist to get his attention, your voice soft as you ask him a question.

“Is this about what happened today?”

He pulls his hand out of your loose hold and you let him, watching as he stands and begins pacing circles inside the tent.

“No, I’m in a bad mood because the weather isn’t quite to my liking- of course it’s about what happened today!”

The initial sarcasm in his voice gave way to frustration near the end. Not with you, but with himself.

Now that you’re observing this memory from his perspective as well, you can see the moment you sustained the injury playing over and over again in his mind, working him up further and further.

“I jumped into the fray with the intention of helping you and next thing I know I’m standing there uselessly watching the first person I’ve dared to love in two fucking centuries take a warhammer to the stomach!”

He turned to face you as he emphasized his last few words, now standing all but frozen in the middle of the tent with his hands held out, gesturing toward your injury. You’re about to pipe up and insist that it wasn’t his fault, but the words dissipate before you can speak them as another part of his sentence echoes in your mind. You repeat them back to him in a disbelieving whisper.

“The first person you’ve dared to love?”

His tense, frustrated expression instantly falls flat.

“I didn’t say that.”

Your eyes widen, nodding slowly.

“Yes you did.”

Nervous laughter escapes him as he takes a step back, distancing himself from you.

“No, no, you… you must have heard me wrong. I didn’t- I was talking about helping you, I didn’t say anything about love, what’s love got to do with this?”

You hate to push him, fearing he may bolt like a frightened deer if you double down, but you know what you heard. It wasn’t like the first time you heard him say it, slapping it on the end of a string of pick-up lines, the word obviously carrying no weight, no truth. No, this second time was different.

“I think it has more to do with it than you’re willing to admit, Astarion.”

He falters, one of very few times you’ve seen him truly caught off guard, truly speechless.

“Those are…” He searches for something to say that’ll cover up the truth that’d just spilled out of him. “...bold words for someone currently bedridden.”

You bark a laugh and it turns into a low groan at the pain it causes to flare in your lower ribs.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

If he’s being honest, even he’s hardly sure what he meant. He’s truly floundering here, for the first time in… forever.

“It means… it means that I can walk away from this conversation right now and there isn’t anything you can do about it.”

Stooping so low as to resort to childish threats, you can feel the embarrassment radiating off of him.

“Would you truly be so cruel as to do that to me right now? Walking away, leaving me vulnerable and confused just because you can’t handle the truth?”

You’re pushing your luck too far and you know it. Surprisingly, though, he takes one step toward you, moving away from the exit.

“Cruel?! If you think that me simply walking away from you counts as cruelty then you truly haven’t suffered enough.”

His words are suddenly laced with venom and they hit you harder than the barbarian’s warhammer did today, leaving a chill colder than ice in their wake.

He seems to actually hear what he said a moment later, the careless words ricocheting off of you and coming back to slam into his chest, nearly knocking him over and crushing him beneath the weight of his sudden regret.

A furious wave of heat and adrenaline courses through you as you bolt upright in the makeshift bed, ignoring the sharp pain that flares inside you in response to the sudden movement. Reaching down and grabbing at the tail of your shirt where it’s bunched up around your ribs, you hastily yank it up over your shoulders and head, tugging your arms out of the long sleeves and furiously tossing the garment directly at him.

“Suffered enough? You think I haven’t fucking suffered enough, Astarion? You don’t know the goddamned HALF of it! You’re not the only one in this tent that’s been abused, you know?! Oh wait- that’s right- you DON’T!”

Your voice cracks under the pressure of volume and emotion as fat, hot, angry tears roll down your cheeks against your will. Astarion stands there like a deer in the headlamps, your balled-up shirt having hit him softly in the chest and fallen anticlimactically to the ground. As his eyes rake over your heavily scarred arms, the angry purple markings showing no signs of lessening as they curl over your shoulders and disappear behind your back, it suddenly starts to make a lot more sense why you were so damned insistent that no one remove your clothes while treating your wounds earlier.

Shadowheart rips open the flap covering the tent’s exit, a very concerned looking Halsin ducking down behind her. Part of you is grateful that at least not everyone was currently at camp to witness your sudden breakdown, but even the sight of the two of them is enough to have you panicking. Pulling at the blanket gathered around your waist and shouting in an admittedly very childish, vulnerable voice, you demand they leave as you choke on your tears, hastily covering yourself up.

“GET OUT!”

Unsure of what to do, Shadowheart surveys the scene before her with a critical eye before sighing, seeming to understand that the best thing they can do right now is give you back your privacy. She knows that if you needed her, you would call. Turning to shoo away the concerned man behind her, she lowers the flap back down with a quiet murmur of “They’re… fine. Let’s give them some space.”

Astarion finally breaks free from where he’s been stood like a statue, slowly moving toward the exit as well with an unsure glance in your direction.

You bury your face into the fabric clutched in your hands, shouting into it in exasperation.

“NOT YOU!”

He freezes, no longer knowing what to do but wishing that the ground would simply open up and swallow him whole. Back under six feet of soil feels like where he deserves to be after what he just said to you.

He racks his brain for the right thing to say, coming up empty handed and eventually deciding that honesty might just be the best policy in this situation.

“I… I’m going to level with you. I have no idea what to do right now.”

In spite of it all, you laugh, a broken sound that cuts through your tears, causing you to cough, then the strain from coughing causes more tears to fall. Though he can’t admit it, Astarion knows right then and there that he never wants to hear or see you in such pain ever again.

“I… I’ll level with you, too.”

You pull the blanket away from your face, looking at him with watery, bloodshot eyes.

“...Neither do I.”

You glance down at the floor, attempting a deep breath and failing spectacularly as another broken sob escapes you. Dropping the fabric still held up against your chest, you press your hands down into the bedroll beneath you in an attempt to support your upper body and ease the pain radiating through your core.

Astarion takes one cautious step toward you, his unsteady voice the only thing filling the silence aside from your soft crying.

“I need… to apologize. For everything.”

You shake your head in disagreement and clear your throat.

“No, you don’t. You’ve been through a worse hell than I could ever even imagine. It’s… stupid of me to try and compete with you in that regard.”

He takes another step forward, insistent.

“That isn’t true. You have… clearly been through your own hell, and it was… stupid of me to assume you hadn’t. Even worse of me to try and downplay my avoidance by… holding my past over you like some sort of… like some sort of excuse.”

You shift your weight to the side in order to lift one hand, reaching out to grab at one of the small cloths stacked beside your bed. Astarion sees you struggling to reach them and rushes forward, closing what remained of the space he’d put between you as he lifted a cloth and handed it to you without a word.

You bring it to your face, pressing it to your eyes in a useless attempt to dry the tears that were still falling. Then, moving it down to blow your running nose into the cloth before you could make an even bigger mess of yourself than you already were. Finally able to breathe a bit better, you counter his point.

“Yeah, but- the thing is, I feel like you kinda have the right to do that, given all that you’ve survived. Of course you’d see the pain of walking away from a conversation as trivial when you compare it to… literally anything you’ve experienced.”

Now that he’s returned to your side, Astarion’s head angles to drag his gaze across your exposed back, finally seeing the full extent of your scarring as you lean forward a bit to toss the dirty cloth to the floor of the tent next to your shirt. Nausea swirls deep in the pit of his stomach as the upsetting sight of your marred skin burns itself into his memory.

“I believe… that’s called a double standard.”

You throw him a sad, confused look, and he explains.

“You’re trying to give me some sort of… free pass based on what I’ve been through, but I’ve never once seen you give yourself that same sort of leniency.”

“That’s… not the same thing.”

“I’m not saying we’ve been through the exact same thing, but…” He gestures vaguely to the entirety of you. “...clearly you’ve gone through something. If I get to lord my baggage over you then surely you’re permitted to do the same.”

Your tears begin to slow as you consider his words.

“I don’t… want to do that, though. Obviously. That’s why I haven’t told you. I don’t want you giving me special treatment because ‘poor pitiful me’ has gone through some shit. I don’t think that excuses any of my current behavior.”

The silence hangs in the air for a moment before he gently drives his point home.

“Yet you think it excuses mine?”

Hm.

“...okay. I guess you’ve got me there.”

You sigh, body beginning to feel heavier than lead as the sudden rush of emotion and adrenaline fades from you. You ease yourself back down, hissing at the pain as your bruised ribs and torn muscles protest the stretch and movement. Astarion wants to assist but truth be told he’s afraid to touch you. So, he watches on helplessly, still berating himself in the back of his mind for the role he feels he played in you sustaining today’s injuries to begin with.

Once you’re laid down and relaxing into the bedroll as much as you can, you make no effort to cover yourself up, not caring how long his eyes wander across your exposed skin. Silently, he tries to read the countless jagged lines and dots carved into you like they may eventually come together to paint him a picture of all that’s happened to you.

No picture anyone could paint would ever do the pain justice.

He settles himself down next to you as your tired eyes stare a hole in the ceiling of the tent.

“You do not have to accept my apology, but I will not rescind it. I do have the wherewithal to know that what I said was wrong. It was cruel. I…”

He exhales, the heavy sound full of the weight carried by a man that hasn’t been this honest with anyone in centuries.

“I…  tossed aside any consideration for how you may have felt, letting myself get lost in my own… stupid fears. It wasn’t right. It certainly wasn’t fair to you.”

Your head lolls to the side, appraising him with lidded eyes.

“You know… you’re surprisingly self-aware when you aren’t being a pompous ass.”

Your words draw a surprised laugh out of him and after a moment of consideration, he nods slowly in reluctant agreement.

“I’ve… had a lot of time to sit with myself and think. Eventually you get to know yourself pretty well.”

He looks down, idly picking at the loose threads on the edge of your well-worn bedroll.

“All of that self-awareness apparently doesn’t make me any kinder though, does it?”

It’s a rhetorical question but you answer it all the same.

“I still stand by my statement that you have good reason to be so… abrasive. Just being aware of those reasons doesn’t mean that they suddenly don’t affect you any more.”

Your hand raises from where it laid lifelessly beside you, reaching over for Astarion’s and pulling his anxious fingers away from attacking the weak points of your bedroll. You don’t release his hand once you direct him away from the loose threads, holding onto him as you continue to muse aloud.

“I think that a lot of us are just doing our best to not allow our past to affect our present, to varying degrees of success. Sometimes we fail. But- I believe all that truly matters at the end of the day is that we’re trying, though. … And, Astarion?”

“...yes?”

“I can tell that you’re trying.” You squeeze his hand. “And I accept your apology.”

You take a slow, deep breath, and listen as his voice comes out softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Thank you.”

You nod your head in a silent “of course,” laying in thoughtful silence for a few moments before speaking.

“I… feel like I should apologize as well.”

Now it’s Astarion’s turn to be confused.

“What ever for?”

You weakly raise your other hand to gesture all around the room.

“Just… this. The scene I just made. Heaping all of this emotion onto you when you were obviously already struggling with how you felt about me in the first place.”

He doesn’t take long to respond.

“No, I don’t think you need to apologize for that. This… seems like it really needed to come out. I could never be upset with you for sharing it with me, regardless of the… unideal circumstances.”

He then seems to realize something.

“I hope you don’t regret it, though. Sharing this with me.”

You shake your head decisively and the motion causes your impending headache to flare.

“No. I don’t. I- uh- you were going to find out eventually with how… close we’ve been getting. I just couldn’t find the right time to tell you- or- well, show you, I guess.”

Your hand releases its hold on his, reaching up to carefully brush your fingertips across the mottled skin of your stomach. You raise your head up, angling it down to look down at the injury with a thoughtful gaze. Glancing over toward Astarion, you ask him another question.

“Can you hand me that salve from earlier? It never really… got fully applied.”

He immediately reaches behind him for the container, but holds it in his grasp as he stumbles over his words.

“I- I, uhm… wouldn’t mind trying again, if you want me to. If you don’t I’ll understand, though. Just… want you to know that the offer is still there.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, but you’re completely willing to let him do it.

“Oh… sure? You’re welcome to, I just… assumed you wouldn’t want to.”

He holds his other hand up and only then do you realize he never wiped the salve from his skin.

“These fingers are numb already anyways, might as well spare yours the same fate.”

You vaguely remember Shadowheart’s words as she passed Astarion the container earlier, cautioning him to not leave it for long on any skin he didn’t want to temporarily lose feeling in.

“But hey, at least we know that it works now, right?”

You give him a tired smile, appreciative of his efforts to lighten the mood.

“Mmm, I suppose so.”

You pull your hand away, exposing your injury to him once again.

“Have at me, then.”

With your permission, he sweeps a scoop of the healing and numbing mixture across your sensitive skin and you notice how feather-light he keeps his touch this time. Looking down to observe his work, you note how the messy mixture of the massive bruise’s dark colors stand in stark contrast to his pale white fingers that brush across it.

A thought slips out of your exhausted mind.

“Pretty…”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, unsure if he heard you correctly.

“Hmm?”

“The colors. They’re pretty. Purple, blue, even kinda orange…”

You look away from the bruise and up into his ruby eyes.

“...red.”

He’s silent for a moment, his hand pausing its gentle motion. Then he scoffs, looking away and internally dismissing your words as the ramblings of a tired mind.

“You’re talking nonsense, dear.”

Your filter has all but completely vanished, feeling almost drunk on your current mixture of exhaustion and relief after such a hell of a day. Sleep beckons you and your eyes fall closed as the pain in your ribs fades, on its way to being numbed out by the potent salve. A hazy thought surfaces, reminding you to give your thanks to Shadowheart when you next awake. For now though, you relax, no thought given to the words that slip from your lips.

“But you love my nonsense, don’t you…”

His heart feels like it jumps in his chest as he hears you so casually speak the word that he’s still reluctant to even think to himself, let alone say aloud. As he finishes massaging the salve into your skin and pulls his hand back, his eyes pass over the expansive unspoken history of pain evidently etched into your skin, up across your chest, over your shoulders and down your arms. He figures the least he can do is answer you honestly before sleep pulls you under.

“I… suppose I do.”

End Notes: If you'd like to read my commentary on this scene, you can find that in the end notes of Ch. 5 on AO3 - right here!

Header Image Source: x

[forestclan-clangen]

MOON 2 (Final)

(Note to new viewers: the scenes have dead pixels on purpose! It's meant to emulate a cartridge game you found plugged into an old TV set!) << FIRST | < PREVIOUS |

Redstar goes to the border and finds a cat on the Thunderpath. She checks to see if this was the work of the woods, but no; the cat was run over by a Twoleg vehicle. She jumps when the cat groans in pain, still alive. Not wanting to leave a cat to die to the woods, she brings them back to camp. Windfur works quickly to fix their broken back, afraid of failing Redstar.

(Redstar, leader, female, 61 moons) (Windfur, medicine cat, male, 16 moons) (???, loner, female, unknown age)

---

"Windfur!"

The young medicine cat's ears perked as he heard his name being called. He put down the marigold and tansy he was sorting and quickly pushed past the hanging ferns that covered the medicine den's entrance.

The sunlight warmed the camp as it pierced through the tall pines that usually created dappled shadows, making Windfur wince for a moment before averting his eyes elsewhere.

"I'm needed?" he asked loudly.

"Yes! Redstar brought back someone," Cloudthunder piped up as she leapt off the top of one of the great walls surrounding their camp. She had already dashed towards the entrance with concern before Windfur could speak.

Windfur's eyes immediately fell on the camp's main entrance, and his fur bristled as he saw Redstar carrying a brown tabby she-cat on her back. Iciclepool and Talonpaw must have crossed into Redstar on the way back to camp, as the two were trying to keep the tabby stable by hugging Redstar's sides.

Windfur ran up to them and looked at Redstar crossly."Are you being followed?"

He knew his clanmates never liked him asking this one question before anything else. But he remembered the last time he started working before the danger was gone.

"No," said Redstar.

Windfur beckoned the three cats towards the medicine den with his tail. He started pushing around his herbs and a bed of moss. His heart started racing with anxiety. He forced himself down his routine checklist to keep calm. "Any obvious injuries?"

"I think her back is broken. She was run over by a Twoleg monster," Redstar replied.

Windfur frowned as he started grabbing flat stones and ripped tree bark, elevating certain sections of a bed. His mind fell into autopilot as he started reciting procedures like Chicoryglint used to teach him.

"Redstar, lie down on your stomach, as carefully as you can. Iciclepool and Talonpaw, stick your heads under the tabby's forelegs and back legs until her belly is under your necks."

Iciclepool complied, and Talonpaw grunted as he shoved his nose under the molly's body and wrestled with her fur to bring her over him.

"Then, walk over Redstar and slowly place the molly on her side. Have your paws as a cushion for her back. I'll grab her. Careful - "

As Windfur saw the condition of the molly's lower back, he panicked as Talonpaw lowered too quickly. "Talon, TALON! Slower!"

"Like you're about to stretch, Talonpaw," Redstar added, more calmly.

"Sorry, sorry," Talonpaw hissed as he glanced nervously at his mentor, trying to match her level. Windfur grabbed the molly and secured her back on the elevated segment he made, then secured her down, grabbing vital points where his clanmate's heads were.

"Okay, you're good," he said, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Now gently pull yourselves out from under her. I've stabilized her spine, it should be okay."

Windfur waited for the two cats to part from the tabby before beginning his process. He muttered under his breath the mantra his mentor taught him for broken bones - Brittlebone the Caster. How did it start again? His memory dug at a middle-aged molly looking down at him with a shine in her eyes. She then recited a nursery rhyme...

Broken was the bone of Brittlebone-he,

Low on the spine, the tail end-be...

"Lift up the back, and align the spine," Windfur mumbled as he started his work, grazing his tail over his patient's spine and finding the bone that seemed shifted from the rest. He found the proper alignment and shifted around the moss and lifting stones until her body didn't shift any more, then started applying his medicines as he remembered them. "Disinfect the wound and pull the twine..."

"Windfur?"

"Let me work," he said, careful to hold back on his bite. "Please. I'll let you know of her condition when I'm done, Redstar. I promise."

His surroundings became distant hums as he focused intently on his task. He shot the occasional glance at the molly's chest to make sure she was still breathing, and checked the pulse under her front legs. He barely registered the three cats leaving the medicine den, too determined to make sure that his patient lived.

That was his task. His job. It's what he was good at. He couldn't be distracted and possibly make a mistake. If he did, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. He had to do this right. He never had the gift of surgical precision in the midst of chaos like Chicoryglint did. So he needed the silence to get this right.

As he started building a cast out of hardened bark, hoping to mold the spine back in place, he imagined Chicoryglint's spirit watching him, and waiting, her dark grey, long-haired tail wrapped over her paws. Windfur's breath shook for a moment, and then he continued, mumbling the rest of the song under his breath as his paws gently pulled a temporary cast into place.

"Stable was the bone, of Brittlebone-he,

Of hard bark and soft moss, the cast must be,

Fitting for the Caster, of ForestClan, see."

---

After some time, the loner wakes and expresses gratitude, although her eyes and demeanor seem to speak otherwise. Her name is Olive, and she joins reluctantly, mainly because she can't go anywhere with a broken back. After listening to Clan life, she offers to be a mediator, having experience with negotiating with loners and kittypets.

(Redstar, leader, female, 61 moons) (Windfur, medicine cat, male, 16 moons) [NEW CLAN MATE ADDED] Olive (mediator, female, 58 moons. Calm.)

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