#the renders are a little rushed but I wanted to get his ready for the eve of the Day of Unity

[days-until-burnout]

For whenever you're feeling better and refreshed and not burnt out!!! :

Scott x Impulse, romantic pairing, first kisses and/or cuddling perhaps?

(also!! Thank you for doing all of these stories, they're incredible!!!)

thank you for reading! and sorry i couldnt make them justice. _____

📧 Day 73 -

Characters - Impulse/Scott Words - 702 Time - 25 mins Content - Band AU

In between blinks and flashes of light, from one thundering moment to the bustling next, the show is over. The crowd is cleared out and they are ushered to the back, alcohol wipes for their faces and water bottles for their dry mouths. Everything happens quickly, at least their side happens quickly as they are in the car then their hotel room in a single breath.

(Well, more than that, but it feels the same.)

"Ough, I hate morning flights," Scott gripes from the en-suite. His voice is louder than his phone taps, which brings an amused smile to Impulse's lips. "Absolutely ridiculous. I'm going to have no time to get ready."

Impulse chuckles, sends the last few texts before pocketing his phone. "I mean, you don't have to get dressed up and all facied out."

Scott gasps, offended. "Public appearances, Impy, public appearances."

Impulse says nothing else, instead, he shoves the still warm towel on his face, rubbing a little hard to get all the glitter from his face. It had been at Gem's insistence, for their initial gigs, and now it became a stapple. Hate is a too strong word, and dislike is hardly comparable.

There is a quiet sigh as Scott saunters out of the en-suite, robe tight on his body, damp hairs shaken from his forehead, skin clear. Impulse gives him a look, and Scott can only dramatically fall on the bed.

Scott does not sleep, however, but he lays on his side, arm perched and apple of his cheek on the heel of his palm. "Well then, we have yet to discuss sleeping arrangements. How will we do this? I don't want to—"

"We'll share, that's what we agreed on. Did you forget?"

One thing, a very good thing about Scott's pale skin, is that Scott blushes easily. Noticeably. Not like those subtle blushes when he is teasing someone or playing a part, but a deep blush when he is taken by surprised. Like now, rendering him speechless as Impulse looks at him over his shoulder.

"Plus, the couch is too small for either of us. Gem, maybe, but she's got her room."

It happens between heartbeats, Impulse wipes the sides of his face, his hairline, then tosses the towel among the dirty pile. Nonchalantly, he makes his way to the lightswitch and turns it off, using his phone's light to guide him to the bed.

Every step, Scott follows, mouth agape and utter… blankness in his eyes. Unlike other times, Scott takes longer to recover and retort. Impulse will like to think it has something to do with tiredness, though he knows it has everything to do with the headlines from ealier that morning.

'Impulse isn't bad on the eyes,' Scott had said with that flirty tone of his, the smoothness and confidence that everyone knows and expects. It had been on defence of yet another rumor, something stupid Impulse did not even bother remembering. He had missed the interview, having been in another by himself at the same time because of some miscommunication. But he had seen the clip, and he had seen Scott stumble when Gem mentioned the possibility that Scott might like him more than just eye-candy.

Impulse is not one to rush to conclusions, but facts are facts, and his phone is telling him that is nearly midnight, so they should both sleep. He slides under the covers, leaning over to press a brief kiss in a still frozen Scott, something small under his temple, beside his eye. Not quite where he had planned, but the little light made it hard to aim.

"G'night, Scott. And by the way, I think you're good on my eyes, great even."

It takes a while longer, that edge where Impulse can only respond with a hum to Scott's voice, his eyes refuse to open and his pillow too comfortable. Despite that, his brain is barely awake enough to feel him, finally moving. Settling behind.

Nothing grand, nothing loud or flashy, just arms around his back, a burning face pressing on the back of his neck.

Impulse drifts off not long after, and he likes to image the whispered confession is not something he dreamt.

_____

sigh. brain will brain brain one of these days</3

[moominsuki]

✎ᝰ. REMEMBER THOSE TIMES WHEN YOU WERE LAUGHING, AND NAKED ON MY COUCH ; — silly sex tropes with the boku no hero academia boys.

FEATURING: bakugou katsuki, midoriya izuku, todoroki shoto + kirishima eijirou.

࿄ ! warnings — f!reader, all characters aged up 20+, suggestive, sex talk but silly all around, crack lowkey. / note. this was fun to write. pls take this as a bit of filler while i finish up my super mega bkg fic. loves ya!

✎𓂃BAKUGOU KATSUKI。°˖⌕

it was a rare occasion for bakugou to actually want to show up to a hero gala - when you usually caught wind of any formal event, your blond haired man would vehemently oppose going, opting to stay at home and order some food instead. you couldn’t place what spurned bakugou’s sudden interest in attending the annual convention but as you get into your car, all dressed up and ready to go, you understand why.

“come on, they’re not gonna care if we’re a few minutes late,” pleads bakugou when you arrive at your seats, pressing displaced kisses on your done up face and swat him away slightly.

you whine at him to behave, grabbing at the hand groping at your thighs, your breasts, anywhere he can put his big hands on and you always resort to placing his hands back into the culprit’s lap.

unfortunately for you, bakugou knows how easily turned to mush you are by sweet nothings and fondling because it only takes you 8 minutes for you to cave in, inconspicuously meeting your husband at the rendezvous point. it then takes another 5 for bakugou to have your chest pressed against the mirror, lifting up your gown to touch at your most intimate parts.

“tell me how badly you want it,” he grunts, pulling down his own slacks while you grind your ass and whimper at him.

“be a good girl and take it,” bakugou breathes out gruffly, desire running through his voice and he’s just about to dip inside you-

“i’ve been holding my damn piss in all day - what the fuck? bakugou?!” yells out kaminari and bakugou practically launches himself at the cubicle door to throw the yellow blond out while you’re scrambling to cover up your indecency.

with kaminari sporting a fresh bruise on his jaw as a shameful reminder, you and bakugou vow to never get down and dirty in public spaces. bakugou still adamantly swears to this day that the door was locked.

✎𓂃MIDORIYA IZUKU。°˖⌕

you roll your eyes when you hear another pitiful groan come out of izuku, who’s sprawled out on the couch with a bandaged leg propped up on multiple pillows. he has been out of action with a broken leg for a few weeks now due to an unprecedented villain attack at the agency. it’s rendered him useless, and quite frankly bored and horny out of his mind.

that being said, you outright refuse to have sex with izuku now that he has a broken leg but it hasn’t stopped him from pleading with his big green eyes, pink lips pouting as he guilt trips you from across the house.

“please, y/n, you can just sit on it. i won’t even move a bit. you look so pretty, baby,” izuku whines as you rub lotion into his hands and arms. and what kind of girlfriend would you be to deny him in his time of recovery.

it’s rushed the way that you’re both still half clothed; already grinding on his cock and you’re doing everything in your power to make sure you don’t rest even a little bit of weight on his leg. izuku has never been good at preventing the buck of hips when you clench down on him and today is no different.

he starts subconsciously rutting into you - as he does when his orgasm starts to creep up on him - and one tight clench of your walls forces his lower body to jolt and practically throw you on to his right leg… i.e. the leg that is currently out of action.

a howl of pain emits from your boyfriend and you frantically run to your phone to call the physiotherapist, butt jiggling on the way and izuku doesn’t know what hurts more: his leg or the blue balled dick.

the next time you have sex isn’t until the cast finally comes off and no matter how many puppy dog eyes the man lays on you, you stay resolute on the decision. you even so kindly send him some nudes so he finds solace in his left hand instead of you.

izuku vows to never get another injury again; though his incentives might be slightly skewed.

✎𓂃TODOROKI SHOTO。°˖⌕

it is never a smart idea to have sex in your partner’s childhood home. it’s one thing to fuck in their bedroom; but it’s a whole other bridge to cross when it’s in their parents’ bedroom.

that being said, todoroki hates needlessly having to go to his childhood home. however, fuyumi is out of town for work; being that none of his siblings except for him could house sit and that shoto has a soft spot for his older sister, he decided to just suck it up.

luckily for him, you offer to keep him company for the next few days at his childhood home and shoto would never pass up an offer for the chance to be alone with you - considering both your inflexible work schedules and the fact that you both have roommates, shoto knew this would be a once in an annual experience.

so it was inevitable, really, that shoto would come home from a long day of patrolling and to see you donned in sexy, red lingerie, strolling up to him with your manicured hands placed delicately on his chest. and, being the succubus that you are, you both decided to do the deed in the nicest bedroom in todoroki estate: his father’s bedroom.

with every flex of his hips, shoto has you and the bed nearly folded into one being - you're moaning, begging for him to go faster as you grapple pathetically onto his shoulders while he grunts, grabbing the headboard to speed up his movements.

“that's it, pretty girl, just like that,” shoto groans, lifting your thigh to place it on his shoulder and this new position means that you feel it so much more; but it also means that the legs of the bed start scraping on the hardwood floor... and has the headboard always been so creaky?

you get your answer when a snap! releases above your head and you're about to look up when the middle of the bed caves in with a pitiful oomphh. at this point, the duochrome haired man is still snug inside you and he quickly wraps a hand behind your head to cushion the fall. the silence is ridiculously loud until you both look at each other and burst out laughing.

“my dad is going to kill me,” shoto sighs into your neck and you comfort him with a few soft touches to the nape of his head.

naturally, the pair of you continue your romp in other places of the todoroki home and by the time fuyumi comes back, she's met with a raging enji todoroki holding a sketchy, sprawled out note of:

“sorry >:] - shoto.”

✎𓂃KIRISHIMA EIJIROU。°˖⌕

kirishima regards himself as someone with high restraint and while that does dwindle when he's around you, he's still able to control himself, despite the lust-filled glances and borderline sexual touches you throw at him.

today is not one of those times.

he’s already very pent up, extremely touch starved from this three week long mission away from you. yeah, they bagged the villain, as to he expected. but at what cost? he’s found company in two pillows and pictures of you in the meantime but they do little to quell his thirst for you.

it’s around 5am when you pick him up from the airport and even though you’re both tired as hell - kirishima being jet lagged and you not being used to waking up at these ungodly hours, - the way you touch him is not that of an exhausted woman. and given the days, weeks he’s had, who was he to deny you?

throwing his suitcases haphazardly in the trunk of his your car, nary a word is said as he throws you on to his lap in the backseat, touching and fondling every bit of you to relieve himself. the red head is rockhard in mere minutes (no pun intended) and the two of you don’t even bother to partake in foreplay, both pent up from the time apart.

kirishima grunts into your neck, the back of your thighs sat in his wide palms as he hammers into you, “missed this pussy so damn m-much, fuck.” it’s desperate and the windows start fogging as an effect of the rushed ministrations but you can’t find it in yourselves to care much.

kirishima lets go of one of your thighs to hoist it around his hips, opting to place a palm on the window and unknowingly leaving a incriminating handprint.

it was just his luck that the paparazzi caught wind of the heroes that would be leaving this airport, camping outside of the building all morning. it was just their luck that they recognised red riot’s car sat idol in the parking lot. with their cameras set to burst multiple frames a second, they make a beeline to the car… and upon further inspection, they notice the car shaking slightly, as if there were somebody inside.

it’s a shame that all the paps didn’t exactly get the memo of what was going on, with a bright faced obvious newbie giddily taking a photo, flash and sound click on at full blast.

the shaking stops and muffled shuffling ensues. the group of shutterbugs are mortified to see a ragged kirishima exit the car, brows furrowed and lips pursed.

the paps didn’t really lose much out of this equation, though: who even needs those photos when a hefty check was on offer instead?

࿄ ! — all rights reserved © moominsuki. please do not copy, translate, repost nor recommend my work outside of tumblr. this is strictly prohibited.

[kamesama]

domesticity with ryōmen sukuna

— note + warnings: my lil' head is full of him; headcanons but not rlly formatted like them idk; modern! au; disgusting domestic fluff; spicy moments here and there ( feat. brief mentions of nudity, pet names, degradation, praise, just some basic intimacy yo ); mentions of food; brief mentions of alcohol and tobacco; fem! ( wife! ) reader; long post ( almost 1.5k and i still wanted to write more but i need to get ready for class ).

every now and then, he comes home with burdened hands; a thickly arranged bouquet, your favourite pastry from that bakery standing a pesky distance away from your home, little bag with lace and frills and silk neatly folded at its bottom. he adores your reaction — the way your eyes are rendered overwhelmed with shimmer the moment you see him and whatever saccharine little thing he decided to please your wits with that day. the way you cling onto him, your muscles nearly aching from a sense of gratitude and excitement, or merely tenderness on the days you are fatigued and just quietly thankful. it's so fun to see you pleased with such a gesture; so silly, so endearing.

his armchair is his throne, and your throne is his lap. at times, he settles for the spot on the sofa; the one that has his name engraved on it with an ink of memory and habit. lounging there provides a proper view of the space around him, so when you walk in, showing off whatever delicacy he's bought to hug your curves, he sees the entire picture, perfectly framed. he cocks his head to the side, his knuckles pressing into his cheek as he tells you to twirl around for him, princess, so that the skirt of your dress may flutter or so he could have a good look at the way that lace-edged hem of your brand new knickers lightly sinks into the soft flesh of your buttocks. he pats his lap for you to come and take a seat like a good girl, and he may just show his appreciation for how ravishing you look.

yet, on the drearier days, when time seems to drip painfully slowly and when the invisible frost seems to linger in the corners of your home and bodies, he leans back into his mighty armchair and pulls you close — bare or modest, it matters not, as long as you are against him and he can trail incoherent patterns across your hip or run his fingers through your hair. something weighs on his vision and his eyelids threaten to falter underneath the dull pressure — he yawns and closes his eyes, aware that you, too, have given in. his thick glass of whiskey sits empty, sweating cold droplets of water; the cigarette butt squished in the ashtray.

meals are greatly indulged in; homemade, takeout, eating out. after all, sukuna's a connoisseur of gastronomy. wrinkled widows and middle-aged housewives did not utter a single word of lie whilst making the statement that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach, for sukuna indeed shows immense pleasure if you decide to treat him to a little something, whether it be some quick morsel or a sightly dinner sprinkled with the grandiose. his tastes are peculiar, however, so your outings in the evening either start or end up at a pricy spot with mouth-watering dishes.

when either one — or both — of you demand a rest from the confinements of your home, thoughts or chores, cruising through the highway and city roads is a welcome option. whether it be in a car or sukuna's motorcycle, a ride is a ride. underneath the streetlights after dark, or in the minutes just before the sun starts to sink into the horizon, or right after the rush hour when the roads are suddenly free of a tremendous burden. it's a little bit of adrenaline, and head free of pesky thoughts, your arms around his waist and your laughter that seems to fade into the breeze after a few seconds. the glimpse of you staring out of the car's rolled down window as your favourite song plays on is oddly sweet, and sukuna finds himself content with smaller things in life.

the ultimate betrayal of trust is giving in to the unholy, godforsaken urge to watch that one episode after a frustrating cliff-hanger — alone. there are spots in your routine which you fill with some stupid reality show or a theatrical series, most of which neither of you expect to grow so attached to. the image is that of a dimly lit living room, a bright screen and sound of chewing as you lay close to one another, occasionally commenting on and reacting to whatever is occurring within that wondrous glowing box of visionary delight. sukuna is transparent with his tastes; his expression twisting in some vague sense of disgust at poor writing, or brows raising in interest as the music shifts to a melody that is a tad more dramatic. the salt remains on your tongue and sticks to your lips.

he loves the way you attempt to be subtle with your affections and desires when the movie you're watching proves to be too dull. he sees you within the periphery of his vision — how you throw a glimpse or two towards his handsome profile, your gaze smoothly trailing down the line of his nose, dripping from its tip onto his lips only to take a turn up his sharp jaw. he'd call you dumb and naïve for thinking that the gears within your skull are not being obnoxiously loud with some starved intent, but he bites his tongue for the sake of indulgence. the tip of your index finger ghosts over his skin before you press your lips to his cheek gingerly, begging for a sprinkle of attention, and when he does not go out of his way to satisfy your whims then and there, you whine and complain into his ear how the movie is so boring... truthfully, he would have scoffed and wrinkled his forehead at the terrific acting and horrendous story-telling, too, but he swallows down whatever atrocity his eyes are witnessing on screen lest you grow bolder and needier with your advances, because he adores seeing you try harder.

some days you're bolder, when you come stomping to him as his eyes follow the rows and rows of black-ink characters pressed into the paper or glowing from the screen. your perfume is demanding, your outfit revealing, your lipstick's shade a herald of debauchery. try harder, he wordlessly dares as he spares you but a single glance, acknowledging the intent that you're absolutely overwhelmed with. sometimes he is not in the mood for your little schemes, so when you push at all his buttons with that voice thick with desire and relentless attitude that ignores his every warning, what else could he possibly do than give you what you've wanted, tenfold? he bruises your thighs with violet handprints and paints your neck with ruby red stamps of wanton need and irritation and leaves your legs quivering, shaking like a leaf because you, needy, naughty little thing, have asked for it.

other days he demands your attention. when you're reading your book, or watching your show, he approaches with bold, shameless kisses to your neck; open-mouthed and wet, not shy of whatever thought clouds his mind. sometimes there is barely any lechery in the way his fingertips sink into the flesh of your thighs or the way his palm caresses your back. sometimes he hungers for that which he deemed unfamiliar before you; for his head to rest against your breast and the sound of your heart-beat echoing in his ear. no matter what the motive is, his approach is direct, and his arguments temptingly good.

the smell of clean bedsheets, stained only by a whiff of slumber, is intoxicating on the weekend mornings; those always end in some lounging and rolling around, small kisses and sleep-laced grumbles. it's slow, it's leisurely, as if time holds no weight or consequence. they lead to another thirty minute nap, or a hungry yet slow session of love-making that ends up lulling you all the more. it's a shared shower, toast for breakfast, smell of bitter coffee or matcha, and the two of you in your own little world for the day.

sometimes you wake up before him and abandon your spot on the bed; let it grow cold and lonesome. standing on the sidelines, by the nightstand, provides you with a different view from the one you're used you when your cheek is sunken into the pillow. other than sukuna's resting face, you see the entirety of him fully — the cover half-heartedly trying to hide any indecency; the expanse of his muscular back moving rhythmically with each breath, resembling the way sea-waves come to hug the shore before being pulled back by an invisible force. the scratch-marks from your desperate fingernails are faded red on his shoulders, and he seems so tenderly mellowed as he roams his own dreamworld. you could lap up the sight, eat it up and engrave it into your brain, but settle for acting like a little stalker for just a minute or two, appreciating the sight of peaceful, unburdened sukuna who has his features halfway devoured by the soft embrace of his pillow.

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

[shoyoist]

— 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐒 ?! : hanma shuji

content: f!reader. sin&punishment tattoos on your tits. he calls you doll and babydoll + playful use of the term 'slut'. he calls himself daddy. size kink, choking, manhandling, tit sucking, body marking, fingering, orgasm denial, begging.

an : god i might actually get these tats on my tits </3⠀⠀⠀

 ⠀⠀⠀ — . ｡˚ ♡ you've always wanted to match tattoos with hanma.

you sit there, wrapped in your towel at the edge of your bed, smelling of soap and hanma's cologne, waiting for him to come home.

it's a little later than usual, but he'd sent you a message ( [18:26] shuji: i'll b home l8 baby ) so you knew to wait patiently. you also knew that as every other time that hanma came home late from work, he'd be tired and needy for you.

hungry to dig his fingers into you, sink his teeth in and relish your sweetness as it meets his insatiable tongue. it's his favourite way of winding down after a long day. and tonight is going to be special — because you've got a little surprise for him ♡.

the house is quiet as you wait, and you hear easily enough when the front door downstairs is opened. a jingle of keys, a click! and then a slight creak, as it swings ajar.

hanma doesn't call out when he comes in. there's no “i'm home!” or “i'm back sweetheart!” with him. he walks in silently, not even bothering to turn the lights on — he's like a panther stalking prey in the dark, as he saunters in and makes his way up the stairs to the bedroom.

you cup your chest with your palms as you listen intently for his footsteps, feeling the supple skin up, thinking of how his hands would feel over them. his big, calloused palms and long fingers — squeezing so harsh and good.

and then you hear his footsteps — heavy, rhythmic steps that thud closer and closer to your door, and you can't help but rub your thighs together, hot and bothered just by the thought of him and the sound of his arrival.

you watch, as the door handle twists so silently, not a single squeak — before it swings gently open.

hanma stands right outside, peeking through the narrow gap — long and lanky figure accentuated by his pinstriped suit, hair falling over one eye in wavy blonde and black locks, the round lenses of his glasses reflecting the light of your room, concealing his gaze.

a thrill rushes up your spine when his mouth eases into that sly, lopsided grin. “baby.” he croons.

he kicks the door open with one foot, stepping in. the door slams against the wall with a bang, and he chuckles in amusement when it startles you — and his grin only widens as he eyes you up. “you feelin’ your tits up, huh? made you wait too long tonight, did i?”

god, his voice makes you go insane. and he's so tall — so big, shoulders so wide and legs so long as he stops in front of you and bends at the waist to lean closer. those lidded eyes glinting gold behind his glasses as he smiles down at you, watching you squirm.

“daddy's home now, babydoll.” he giggles, knowing that it flusters you. “and he's ready to play.”

“shuji.” you breathe, caught off guard by his presence, the heat that radiates from him, his scent of cigarettes and dior invading your senses and rendering you just slightly dizzy — and your hands slip from your chest, towel falling loose to reveal what you've been keeping for him as a surprise.

and there's silence for a minute. you think you hear hanma's breath catch in his throat.

his eyes drop to your tits — to the freshly inked tattoos that stare up at him from the twin swells of your chest — pretty, black and exactly alike to the sin and punishment tattoos he has on the back of his hands.

he stares for a full minute, before he finally exhales, and exclaims with his eyes lit up— “dollface, you didn't.”

he falls to his knees at the foot of the bed, still at eyelevel with you because he's just that fucking big, and places his hands on your knees to push them apart so he can get closer, between your legs. “let me see ‘at, let me see.”

one hand latches at your waist, big and warm as he grips you, sliding his palm up your ribs and sending shivers up your spine. stretching his thumb out, he presses into the tender flesh of your left breast, rubbing a circle into punishment.

“m—mm,” you whine, arching into his touch, all of a sudden realizing that you're sitting on the bed wearing nothing, and that hanma is fully clothed, in his expensive two piece suit. it makes you feel vulnerable — and turns you on even more. “wanted to—to match your tattoos. you know? like a little symbol that shows i belong to you.”

the corners of his lips quirk up at that, as he glances up at your face for a second. his thumb keeps rubbing circles into your tattoo, grazing your nipple ever so slightly each time, and you can feel your patience running thin. “how you belong to me, hm? tch, such a good fuckin’ thing for me. you want to be branded?”

his other hand, that had remained on your right knee, starts to move then. gentle strokes up and down your thigh, slowly moving up to give your hip a little squeeze, digging his nails into the plush skin, before trailing up your waist.

sin waits atop the rise of your right breast, for his thumb to press into the black ink and give the sore skin some release. “look at that,” he grins, watching how your tits dip under the pressure of his thumbs, soft and pliable, newly marked by his trademark tattoos. “looks fuckin’ adorable, sweet doll. like you're all mine.”

his voice is deep, raspy and it cracks in all the right places — you feel hot, and with your legs spread apart like this, you can't even hide how wet you're getting with each passing second.

and even though you know he'll only tease you for it, you can't help but whisper, “shuji, please.”

“ah? speak up, baby.” he smirks, leaning even closer and letting his breath wash over your bare neck, goosebumps pricking up over your collarbones and down your arms.

his lips hover over your chest, just inches away, and you need him to press them into your skin — need him to hurry the fuck up and take a bite out of you already, before you lose your mind over the damn wait.

“need me t’ mark you up a lil more, ‘s that it?” he hums, and you can feel his words ghost over your skin. “make you really mine, yeah? with my teeth over these tattoos?”

“mhm.” you whine, desperate as you feel wetness pool out your cunt. “please, daddy.”

he squeezes your tits in his hands then, and fuck — it feels good, better than you could ever imagine or remember. a moan spills from your lips, body tilting forward — but he suddenly has his hand pressed flat against the middle of your chest, and without warning, he shoves you onto the bed.

the impact of your back against the mattress is cushioned, but the air is still knocked from your lungs in a gasp — and hanma chuckles again, climbing on top of you and tugging the towel away from underneath your body, throwing it aside.

“get down f’me then.” he reaches up for a moment to loosen his tie, and you stare up at sin with hazy eyes, until he's got his hand wrapped around your throat. he pushes his knee between your legs, and the material of his slacks feels delicious against your puffy clit as you grind on him, slick soaking through so pathetically quick. “let me taste you, a’right?”

“need it, shuji. need it so bad.” his smell and warmth overwhelm you — the space between your bodies so minimal, that you can nearly feel how heavy he is as he hovers over you. he's big, so deliciously big.

“fuck—” he groans when you reach over to squeeze at his boner, loving how his cock twitches against your fingers through his pants. he's so receptive, it's so obvious how badly he wants to eat you up.

“ah-ah, naughty slut.” he recovers quick enough, giving your throat a squeeze and clicking his tongue as he lets go, grabbing your wrist and pinning your arm beside your head. his grip is strong, hand so big and rough. “‘s my turn first. yeah? so behave.”

he wraps his hand back around your throat, forcing you to tilt your head up and gasp for air as he finally bends down and latches his lips around your tits.

“hngh, shuji—” his tongue is long, wet and sticky as he circles the hot tip around the sensitive bud of your nipple, hollowing his cheeks in and letting out a pleasured groan as he sucks at the soft flesh.

“mmm,” he moans, nose pressed to your skin, sucking in a lungful of your scent, tasting your soap and his perfume and you at the back of his throat. and as he takes his mouth off your tits with a wet pop — trailing his lips over to the tattoos, he whispers in a drawl, “say my name again, babydoll. tell me you're mine. should fuckin’ sear it into your head, heh.”

“i'm yours!” you moan — and he rewards you by sliding one hand back down to your hip and giving you another squeeze before cupping his palm at your pussy.

“all yours, shuji. all yours,” you repeat, encouraging — and he laughs into your skin, a low rumble that spreads tingles through your limbs. “of course you're all mine, look how fuckin’ wet you are. just ‘cause i called you a sweet thing ‘nd sucked these tits of yours?”

his fingers slip between the puffy folds of your cunt, dipping into the dripping hole for a moment before trailing slowly up to your clit — and he gives the little pearl a flick, chuckling when he feels your body jerk underneath him in response.

“sh—shuji, don't tease!” you beg, and his lidded eyes glitter with lust and excitement as he meets yours. “hey, let me have my fun now, dollface. y’re my little toy, aren't you?”

and immediately, your face heats up, tongue falling still — so weak to his smooth talk and that heavy stare of his. you look away, squeezing your eyes shut because fuck, he's all over you right now — no matter where you looked, you could still see him and feel him.

“hah,” he smirks down at you. “that's what i thought.”

his dick throbs underneath his slacks as he slides his fingers deeper into your cunt, feeling your walls clench desperately around the thickness and length of his digits. and just as a little treat, he finds that sweet spot of yours and curls his fingers in nice and hard—

“fuck, shuji—” your eyes open up, rolling back into your head, back arching as you scramble to grab at his clothed bicep. “nngh, more. please.”

“aww,” he coos, “all pent up for me, huh? need daddy to make you feel good so bad.”

“yes, need you—” he does it again, laughing when your begging is cut short by another moan. his mouth finds your chest again, front teeth and canines sinking into the plush skin as his tongue laps at your nipple, biting an arch over sin before doing the same to punishment, your pretty gasps and cries of pleasure and pain nearly drowned out by his heavy, strained groan.

“god, baby,” hanma breathes, ignoring the way you whine as he slips his fingers out of your cunt for a moment, leaving you fluttering around nothing as he pops the digits into his mouth and sucks at the slick coated on them. “shit — think i need you, sweet doll. sweet fuckin' thing.”

“give it back,” you beg, needing his fingers, needing him to hit that spot and press into it again, again and again. “please daddy, give it back.”

“a'right, dollface, calm your tits,” he chuckles, but you don't even hear his stupid little joke because he slips his fingers back in your pussy at the same time, and your vision blurs, the ringing in your ears getting so much louder with the increase in pleasure.

he rubs at your clit, letting go of your wrist now so he can watch how you grab at your own tits, feeling the marks he left on them with his teeth as you kick your legs under him and beg mindlessly for more. “little doll wants a fucking so bad, ah?”

“mhm,” you mumble, and he kisses you, his tongue meeting yours and wrapping around it, teeth clicking together as you lean up, wanting more.

“if ya want it so bad,” hanma rasps in between kisses, half joking. “then don't you dare cum just yet.”

“h—” your breath catches in your throat. “why?”

“heh,” he smiles, showing teeth. amused by the way your eyes widen in shock and how your voice lowers with indignance. “cause daddy said so, dollface. i'm saying you're only allowed to cum on my cock, yeah?”

you want to be good. you really do.

but right now, the fact that hanma is still fully clothed and doesn't even have his dick in you yet — it's driving you crazy.

you'd behave and endure his games, usually. but not this time. how can he expect you to control yourself when he's making you feel so good — just with his hands and his mouth? you need more. “no.”

reaching up, you grab at his jacket and pull him ontop of you — wanting his heavy weight, his heat and his boner on you. “baby,” hanma chides, barely getting his hand out from between your legs before your bodies collide. sympathy dripping from the rasp of his voice. “so fucking needy tonight? did ya drink something before i got home or somethin'?”

“no,” you whine again, too busy enjoying his pressure, the feel of his dick, hard and heavy against your bare thigh, to come up with a good response.

too needy for his cock to tell him properly that you've been wanting this since so early this morning, when you'd gone to get the tattoos as soon as he was out of town for his meeting. that even while the lady was soothing your nonexistent anxieties and talking away while inking the kanji onto your tits, you'd been thinking about him.

about him and about his reaction to your pretty tits being marked by his very own tattoos.

so delirious, you can't tell him you've been wanting him all fucking day, and even before today you've been wanting this to happen all fucking month ever since you got the idea — so you just grab his face, the harsh line of his jaw digging into your palm, and drag him in for another kiss.

“can't take it tonight, shuji. need you too much, 'n i know you're tired, too.” you say into the kiss, hoping the feel of your plush thighs against his dick and your tits squished against his chest will be enough, along with your sweet kisses and your voice, to convince him to reward you rather than punish you.

taking his face in your hands, you pull him back in when he tries to pull away. “please, daddy. just — just want you to make me yours.”

and hanma just can't resist.

“fine, fine.” the groan he lets out into your mouth is in sync with the twitch of his cock. his hands find your waist again — big, big hands feeling your naked body all up before he straightens up onto his knees on the bed, tugging at his belt.

you hook your legs around his waist, cupping your tits and showing them off to him, and he grins, the gold of his eyes wicked.

“wanna be fucked senseless so bad, ah?” he chuckles, throwing the belt aside, taking his jacket off before unzipping his pants and pulling out his big, big cock.

“mhm,” you stare at it, so long and beautifully curved upwards, the tip drooling a pearl of precum that trails down to his full, heavy balls — and you almost wish you could lick it up. “please, shuji.”

and when you look up into his eyes, you know he's about to do everything you'd been daydreaming about, and more.

“yeah.” hanma breathes, giving himself one good stroke, fist around his girth, before taking your legs and throwing them over his shoulders.

the triumph you feel at being able to win hanma over, when usually you know that if you begged like that he'd only toy around with you more, sits bright in your gaze as you smile all giddy up at him. “mmm, missed you too much. 'm sorry.”

you say sorry, but there's not an ounce of apology in you. hanma smiles anyway. “don't hafta be sorry, baby. 's how i like you.”

eager to be fucked. such a slut for his cock. even getting his tattoos on your tits, just to be all his and only his. god, hanma loves you.

“and whatever my babydoll wants,” he leans back down to kiss at your chest, tongue lazily licking at the tattoos once more, before he angles himself at your entrance, meeting your lips with his again so he can eat up your whine as he works his tip into your cunt. “my babydoll gets.”

tagging : @b1ackdragon @virtue-and-beneviolence + @haruchiyos (az ik you didn't ask for a tag but i thought you'd like to see the finished product<3)

[cherubchoirs]

I'm sure you've seen that post about Gabriel finding out how V1 sees him, this post in case you haven't, it's pretty funny.

I was thinking though, what about the opposite of that? What if when V1 and Gabriel were in a safe space together V1 chooses to crank up it's graphics and look around. Partially since it gets a chance to actually look at how things are without having to worry about someone getting the drop on it in such an inefficient state but also so it can look at Gabriel in his entirety. A kind of love language exclusive to machines.

It's most likely that V1 probably wouldn't be able to articulate what it's doing to Gabe or that it's a form of trust/compassion, but what would Gabe think of it anyway?

GOOD POST....and yes i absolutely love this little thought...v1, as a war machine, likely doesn't even consider its capacity to have improved "eyesight" and would never otherwise utilize its higher resolutions. it's set at what it considers to be optimal, not only as it conserves its power properly but also because simplifying its field of vision is actually highly beneficial to the chaotic combat of hell. but being with gabriel makes it consider a whole world of things it never could before, its mind growing rapidly in unexpected trajectories and producing thoughts and feelings of a complexity far beyond what it was ever meant to be. and something like this, though it seems small or simple, is relinquishing its capacity to fight in that moment which should be against every protocol v1 has. yet gabriel takes its priority, overriding such concerns to be deemed more important...to be deemed safe from combat-readiness. it sees him in full clarity with a rush of its vents, hot air blasting through fans as gabriel as he truly is renders in its vision - the radiant gold of heaven, the pearlescent armor highlighted in luminous rainbows, gabriel himself gently lit from the inside in a form so solid yet gently shimmering as though on the edge of being a mirage. his wings and halo are unlike anything it's seen, light made manifest, air and glass melded together into brilliant blue hues that contain an entire spectrum within them when they shift - he is full of light and color, and all it wants is to process every pixel of him when it sees what's it's missed all this time.

gabriel is a bit worried at first, v1 going so still and so hot never being a good sign, but soon it's looking all around him in different angles, taking him in enthusiastically enough it's no longer too concerning just. unsettling lol it's hard for v1 to explain this to him when he demands to know what's gotten into it, but once it's able to offer a basic idea of how its visuals operate...gabriel is quietly stunned. v1 is so different from himself, from anything god had made, and he had never considered how it sees the world. how special it is to see it now, taking up so much of its capacity just to look at him, to know that it cares to see nothing else in its true reality but him. he even asks it if there's anything else they might look at, but v1 just flippantly shakes its head, that nothing else is worth the effort. what does it care about the world? and for gabriel, that's striking...to be the one thing in the world that v1 wants to remember in true detail, that he will stand out in its mind against a backdrop of polygons and textures clearly divorced from their realities. so he lets it take all the pictures it wants, and his wings show how they can change their color with a very true, very unique sense of love.

[fr-18]

Rompecorazones// Jenni.H

the game ticked slowly on. From the roar of celebrations in the 81' minute to the solemn faces around the stadium at the + 1' minute of extra time.

the stadium was bursting with joy after the first half, clearly Spain were dominating the game and it seemed already written in the stars for the spaniards to be going through to the semi finals.

until a through ball from Pelova was smoothly caught by van der Gragt which meant that spot in the semi's was anybody's to snatch up.

the spanish side clearly deflated as the replay of the goal played on the screen whilst The Netherlands celebrated.

the opportunity to regroup and ignite some fire into the girls was snatched up by vilda.

it was doubtful anyone was listening to a word coming out of his mouth, his decisions were normally what made Spain suffer.

you caught Jenni's eye in the huddle as she squirted the drink into her mouth. All you could do was give her a reassuring smile.

even if all you wanted to do was walk over to her and kiss her and tell her everything will be okay.

throughout all the criticism and mistreatment she had gone through she was still standing strong, ready to go again for possibly another 45 minutes.

You went back to sit on the bench as the game was starting again, but before you sat down Jenni had pulled you towards her and enveloped you in her arms.

"go" your whisper in her ear before pressing a soft kiss to her neck.

she nodded before releasing you and sprinted back onto the field.

sighing you flopped back into your seat and rubbed your palms over your face.

"ella es una chica fuerte, ella sabe lo que hacer." Alexia reassuringly whispered into your ear as she pulled you into her side."she is a strong girl, she knows what to do."

"Lo sé, solo me preocupo." you softly say before realising how it could come across to your Barcelona captain. "como hago con todos ustedes" you rushed out."i know, i just worry" "like i do about you all"

Alexia let out a chuckle whist squeezing you closer.

"tu preocupación por ella es un poco más profunda, ¿no?" the older women spoke into your ear as both your eyes were fixated on the game. "your worry for her runs a little deeper no?"

"quizas" you meekly spoke. “maybe”

Alexia left it at that as the both of you were called to start warming up.

the stadium became ear-deafening at the sight of alexia getting on the pitch.

you stood there waiting for your substitution and looked around the stadium, spaniards singing and shouting hoping to ignite a flame in their home team.

and that they did.

with 9 minutes left to play Salma slotted it into the goal with an assist from jenni.

instead of running over with the other girls to celebrate she made a bee-line towards you crushing you into a hug.

"we're so close" she whispered as she squeezed her eyes closed in hopes to not let her tears fall.

"9 más, entonces eso es todo" you said into her neck before walking with my arm around her waist leading her to our celebrating team."9 more, then that's it"

finally the whistle blew and all you were able to do was collapse onto the turf. sobbing into the dirt for a complete different reason than the dutch.

you'd done it and now it was on to your next challenge.

it wasn't long before you were being pulled up by recognisable, tattooed arms.

"we did it" you screamed.

history had been made today, you only wished there were different circumstances…

crying into your shoulder jenni only nodded, clearly she had been rendered speechless from the last 120minutes.

walking around the pitch with the team you couldn’t keep the smile off your face, not on the changing rooms after.

it being full with laughter in singing only meant your grin became toothier.

you weren’t involved in the horrendous yells your teammates called singing and it seemed neither was Alexia.

“you love her?” alexia whispered as she watched your eyes follow the tattooed women around the changing room.

“i love her” you whisper more so to yourself, which means you take your eyes of Jenni.

“Ay Dios Mío, me encanta Jenni” as the words came out of your mouth the loud chatter seemed to of decreased. This meant everyone heard the personal words escape your mouth.“oh my god, i love jenni”

including the one women you didn’t want to know…

“eh me amas?” the women spoke as someone turned of the music.“huh, you love me?”

“maybe you should-” Alexia tried to usher you both out the room in hopes of saving you from at-least some embarrassment.

“no Ale” Jenni said as she pushed the other women’s off her.

“is it so hard to believe?” speaking in english made this easier as the majority of your team weren’t confident with the language.

“you can’t.” she says with a confused laugh.

you hadn’t looked up from the floor since Jenni had started to speak, too ashamed to see the faces of your teammates whilst you were so vulnerable.

“no i’m sorry, i can’t do this with you.” she shakes her head as she looks to Alexia who was stood beside you.

Alexia shook her head at her old partner in hopes she wouldn’t stamp on your heart in front of all your teammates.

“you understand that i am 11 years older then you yes? i don’t date people that were 12 years old when i debuted for Barcelona. I will not get bashed in the media for dating a 21 year old!” as she went on her voice rose until it all got too much and you broke down.

hearing her be so degrading and saying it so carelessly made you think that she wasn’t the person you looked up to anymore.

Jenni carried on with her reasons on why your feeling for her were so silly and idiotic, clearly not noticing the distress she was causing. a few of the other girls tried to get her to stop for your sake but she only shrugged them off. “ i will be retired by the time your at your prime. these feeling you have need to go, otherwise don’t talk to me. If you can’t grow up and push your feelings aside i don’t want anything to do with you”

the team were taken aback by the older women’s harsh words, clearly their english wasn’t as bad as you once thought.

“i’ll stay out your way Jenni, after the final you will never have to see me again. i promise you that.” Were the first words you had spoken.

you looked up at her, grabbed your things and walked out of the changing room.

you walked through the backs of the stadium until you found your destination.

you knocked on the door until it was opened by a not so friendly face, “umm is Vic in here?”

tbe women nodded and allowed you in.

“yn? what happened” the Dutch women quickly rose to her feet at the sight of your tear stained face.

“jenni. i told her”

[666writingcafe]

Level Three

Content Warning: male masturbation, voyeurism, dirty talk/teasing

The third stage is in your room. Look, but don't touch.

My initial reaction to the note was one of annoyance. Since when am I not allowed to touch anything in my bedroom? The idea's simply ridiculous.

But when I open my door, the actual meaning becomes rather obvious in a matter of seconds, and I have to stop myself from slamming the door shut and running away.

Diavolo is laying in my bed, completely naked with his hand wrapped around his dick. Our eyes meet, causing him to smirk as he begins stroking himself. His boldness renders me speechless. Even if I wanted to, I can't look away from him. The only thing I can do is gulp as he continues.

"What's wrong, MC? Have you never seen a man masturbate before?" I slowly shake my head, feeling my face heat up.

"You know, I used to think about all sorts of different people while doing this, but lately there's only been one."

"M-me?" Diavolo hums affirmatively.

"You looked so cute trying to fit my cock in your mouth last time. You were bound and determined to stick as much in as you possibly could, even if it meant gagging on it in the process." His hand moves slightly faster. "Such an over-achiever."

"I can't help it," I mumble, making him chuckle.

"I know you can't. I saw the look in your eyes. It was clear to me that it was the only thing running through that pretty little head of yours. It's nice that I'm capable of shutting your brain off, even if it's for a little while."

My hand grips a corner of my dresser as I try my best to keep my composure. Hopefully Asmo and Solomon don't consider this as me breaking the rules, because I need something to ground me.

To prevent me from pouncing on Diavolo.

"Aw, is my baby upset at me?"

"Quit teasing." My voice sounds strained.

"But I like seeing you like this. Your blushing makes you even more adorable." Damn, he's good. He is totally taking advantage of the fact that I can't touch him to tease me relentlessly.

And to be honest, it's turning me on.

Diavolo closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the pillow as he quickens his pace, appearing to focus solely on his pleasure. His moans get louder as he begins thrusting into his hand, and I clench my free one into a fist. It'd probably be consider cheating if I started touching myself, and I really want to pass this stage of the test.

After what seems like an eternity, Diavolo cums in his hand. I bite my tongue to prevent myself from whining. Once he's calmed down from his high, he opens his eyes back up and looks at me.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Barely," I whisper hoarsely. I glance down at the ring keeping track of my progress. A few moments later, a third tally shows up, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Oh good," Diavolo responds, smiling at me. "I'm so proud of you, MC." He reaches over to my bedside table and grabs a tissue. He then wipes the fluid off his hand and tosses it in the trashcan when he's finished. Finally, he lifts up one of the other pillows on the bed, revealing a piece of paper.

"Only when you're ready," he tells me as he gets up and grabs his clothes off my desk chair. "There's no rush. Let me know if I can do anything for you in the meantime."

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf

[callsign-phoenix]

I wrote this as a part of my falltober fics, I hope you like it!

It is a Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x female!reader imagine.

Thank you @famfan-1034 for proofreading!

Day 12: Costumes

Warnings: none

You were so extremely single that you decided to pimp up your costume to make it a little more provocative.

You had opted for one of your favorite childhood films, deciding on Jessie from Toy Story, but pepping it up a little.

Your last relationship had ended quite a while ago and you were ready for something new, to get out there and party, including a lot of drinking.

Halloween was the perfect time for it, so you joined your coworkers in going to a Halloween party.

Bradley had suggested it and all of you had agreed to it, deciding to all go in costume.

While no one knew what the other was wearing you were sure it would be fun and you decided to carpool with Nat.

She was dressed as some kind of superhero and you entered the bar receiving an approving whistle or two.

After downing the first shots of the evening you found your friends and joined them, taking each of their costumes in.

Bob and his boyfriend were dressed as Frodo and Sam, Mickey wore a USS Enterprise uniform along with Spock’s telltale pointy ears and Bradley had donned one of his typical Hawaiian shirts along with a hairdo that was only fitting Ace Ventura.

When you looked at Jake though your breath caught in your throat, and everyone else started chuckling when they made the connection.

You hadn’t talked to Jake much in your joint time at base because he seemed too cocky for your liking, but you couldn’t deny the fact that your heart started beating faster at his sight.

He was undoubtedly dressed as your costume’s better half, Woody.

Jake was already staring at you and in the dim light you could swear that his pupils were dilated as he took you in.

You could feel the heat rush to your cheeks and you shifted in your stance.

“Toy story was my childhood,” you said simultaneously and once again everyone laughed out loud.

There were a few seconds of silence between you and you could see a blush playing around the top of Jake’s ears.

“You look very grown up, though,” he said more shyly than you had ever heard him speak and your eyelids fluttered in response.

You didn’t know why seeing Jake so taken aback affected you so much, but you felt a heat run through your lower stomach at rendering Jake so speechless.

You were just as speechless as him, though.

“Well, I think you’ve found your dates for the night. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, babes,” Nat said with a daring and excited smile on her face as she stepped closer to Bradley, lacing a finger through the belt loop at the back of his jeans.

It became clear quickly that Nat didn’t shy away from spending the night with a friend and fellow aviator so you had no chance but to give Jake a chance.

You got yourselves a drink and you downed it quickly with Jake watching you.

When your eyes met again you decided to just go for it, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips.

Jake was as surprised as you were but he eagerly kissed back, wrapping his arms around your waist as your cowboy hats connected and tumbled to lay on the strings around your necks.

When he finally pulled away he looked at you with a hunger that made your knees buckle.

“Shit, you’re so hot,” he whispered before reaching up to retrieve his hat and setting it suggestively onto your head.

“You know that means you’ll have to go home with me tonight,” he said with a voice huskier than usual, and you nodded breathlessly.

You did go home with him and you found out how much more than just Toy Story you had in common, starting a relationship that though having a rough start became something neither of you ever wanted to live without.

tagging: @starkleila @mayhem24-7forever @green-socks @letsfvckingdance @shadeds-library @kmsryles343 @yespolkadotkitty @whateverbagman @neptunes-curse @sweetheartlizzie07 @top-gun-rooster @iloveprettyboysblog @ateliefloresdaprimavera @imjess-themess @littlebadariell @angstyjellybean @marchingicenotes7 @midget713 @supernaturaldawning @gspenc @adorephina @gigisimsonmars @dempy @bespinnn @tipsykeen @malindacath @aerangi @kassieesworld @kwanimations @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @marvelandotherfandomimagines @luckyladycreator2 @mavericksicybabe @kendra-rose @desert-fern @mavrellover91 @allivingstone01 @rhettabbotts @withakindheartx @trikigirl271 @cherrycola27 @airedale17 @bonitanightmxres @ratcatcher2world @glowingtree @wingmanvenus @classyunknownlover @oliviah-25 @natasharomanoffisbaebby

(please tell me if you want to be added to the taglist, or use this link)

[em-prentiss]

when you hold me, it holds me together

----

“Emily,” he murmurs, and she hates that she can tangibly feel the concern in his voice. God, she’s a wreck. “How long have you been in there?”

What time is it anyway? Emily’s sure she doesn’t want to know, so she shrugs.

Or, Emily is stranded at a bar. She calls Hotch.

Word count: 3.5k

----

She can see her reflection in the empty glass.

It’s too reminiscent of the pictures she’d hung up on boards for the past week. The girls were younger, yes, but they had the same arch of her brows, the same contrast of dark against light, the same rebellious set of her jaw when she was their age.

Mirrors, parallel universes. They could’ve been her; she could’ve been them.

And yet, for all their similarities, she couldn’t do anything to help them.

Emily closes her eyes as the guilt rises, crashing into the ready anger in the back of her throat. It all tastes bitter, but her own uselessness somehow stands out as it joins the roiling in her stomach.

The bass of the music reverberates through her skull, and suddenly the need to leave the dark bar itches under her skin. Her lungs are too small, the back of her eyes pound with a dry ache in time with the music, and there’s an immovable boulder lodged in her airway. 

She opens her eyes and is met with the multiple empty drinks on the table. Even through her drunken haze she recognizes the stupidity of calling a cab in her state, so she fumbles for her phone and calls JJ, her name more than a little blurred in Emily’s vision.

She holds the phone to her ear and waits as it rings, tapping her feet until the line connects and she hears a suspiciously deep voice after the click.

“Hotchner.”

Emily blinks. Surprise renders her silent, shoulders tensing as she thinks she’s imagined the voice, until a deep, “Hello?” comes through and breaks her out of her daze. 

“You’re not…JJ.” She says dumbly. Her voice is drowned out by the music, swept away in a current of cheers.

“Emily?” It’s easier to hear him as his voice raises in alarm. “Where are you?”

“A bar.” She supplies unhelpfully. As she looks down at the sticky table, the rush of pounding music incessantly fills her ears and the need to leave intensifies, pulses beneath her skin. The need to leave drowns out the memory of the parking lot, so she breathes in and bites the bullet. “Um, can you come pick me up?” For some reason, her words tremble as she digs a palm into her eyes. 

The other line is silent. Tears well beneath her closed lids; she should’ve known, it’s a stupid question. “Sorry, I’ll just call JJ, I misdialed anyway—”

“What’s the name of the bar?” 

She hears the squeak of bed springs, the jingle of keys as they crash against each other.

Instead of relief, her chest tightens further. Emily bites her trembling lip between her teeth and breathes in through her nose, forcing the tears away before she tells him the name of the bar she’s in.

A door slams on the other end of the line. “Stay there, I’m coming.” Hotch tells her. His voice is rough with sleep.

She should say something, probably something a lot like ‘thank you’ or ‘it’s alright, JJ’s house is closer,’ but instead she opens her mouth and all that escapes is, “I don’t wanna be here anymore.” Her voice is a low whisper into the phone, and her only salvation is that the music might’ve been too loud for him to hear. 

He’s silent, so she can only hope it was. “Please come get me.” She says, louder this time, even though he already is. Her voice cracks in the air, and this she knows he hears.

“I’m coming, Emily. I won’t be long.” She can hear the car door slam, the engine roar to life. Emily exhales.

“Thanks.” She ends the call and presses her palms into her eyes again, chasing away the strobing lights with the blissful dark. That’s how Hotch finds her, tucked into a booth behind the bar with her elbows on the table and her head bowed.

“Emily.” He touches his fingertips to her shoulder. She startles and drops her hands, looking up in alarm, but her tense form relaxes when she sees him. 

She can’t hold his gaze, but she notices the lines of his face are softer than they should be. His hair hangs over his forehead, messy, and his usual neat parting is nowhere to be found. Blurrily, Emily takes in his quarter zip and sweatpants, finding both rumpled. 

“Hotch.” 

Her voice is rough; she clears her throat.

His eyes flit over her before sliding lower, taking in the multitude of empty drinks on the table. His brows draw together, and between split second glances, she sees the question in his eyes. But Hotch being Hotch, he doesn’t ask about that.

“Is your tab settled?” Is what he asks instead, surprisingly gentle. 

Emily nods jerkily. 

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

She nods again and looks up at him when he extends his hand to her. Heat burns in her cheeks; she ignores his hand and stands up herself, less than gracefully, but Hotch just tucks his hands in his pockets and follows her as they dodge through the dancing people. She can feel the prickly heat of his gaze searing right through her back.

Emily rubs at her eyes as she walks past. They’re heavy with exhaustion, continually blurred from a mix of alcohol and held back tears, so she rubs hard, sparks flashing in the dark, not noticing a waitress until she almost slams into her. A loud, “Hey!” forces her eyes open and Emily startles back, just barely dodging the irate waitress and her full tray.

Hotch places a hand on her back, steadying her. He throws an apology over his shoulder as he gently guides Emily out of the bar.

Maybe it’s his touch. Or the ungodly amount of alcohol in her blood. Or possibly the slap of cold air that greets them as they walk out into the street. Either way, Emily stumbles. Over nothing, of course, her feet tripping over themselves as she lets out a quiet yelp, her stomach dropping, eyes screwing shut in anticipation of the cement.

Hotch grabs her before she face-plants onto the sidewalk. His hand is a band of warmth around her bicep, his heat soaking through the thin material of her shirt as he helps her regain her balance.

“Emily,” he murmurs, and she hates that she can tangibly feel the concern in his voice. God, she’s a wreck. “How long have you been in there?”

What time is it anyway? Emily’s sure she doesn’t want to know, so she shrugs.

Hotch lets go of her arm with a low sigh, his eyes scorching on her face as he looks at her and she continues to look down. Emily ignores the sudden chill in that band of skin around her bicep, wrapping her arms around herself as Hotch starts walking to the car and she follows him. The silence between them is thick, heavy with cold air and tangible concern and choking guilt. She breathes in through her nose and tries to trap it inside her, sealing it away with her swallow.

It gets stuck in her throat.

The tense silence stretches on.

Emily’s sight is blurry, but she still recognizes his car when they reach it. Hotch reaches for the door before she can, his fingers wrapping around the handle as he pulls it open. Emily fights the urge to shove off his kindness, instead ducking her head into her chin as she gets into the car.

Still so good to her. Too good.

“Thanks,” she whispers, the letters crashing into each other as she clumsily tries to buckle her seatbelt. Emily doesn’t look up at Hotch as he replies with a quiet yeah and shuts the door, crossing over to the other side and getting into the car.

“Bedtime now, I think.” He murmurs under his breath as he fits the key in the ignition. 

Panic sparks under her ribs.

“No,” Emily says immediately. Her chest tightens, the thought of going back to her apartment squeezing the air from her lungs. “I don’t want to go home.” Her words slur together, either from her hurry to speak them out or the alcohol swimming in her blood, she doesn’t know.

Either way, her reaction makes Hotch pause. He turns to her with a frown. “Why not?” 

His voice is too gentle. She wants to sink into it; she wants nothing to do with it.

Emily swallows. The corners of her lips drag downward, her vision growing foggy as she looks down at her hands. Why, why, why? Because it reminds her of another time. 

“It’s lonely there,” she whispers, speaking to her pale knuckles. The answer seems childish, even more so in her small voice. “Quiet.” She grabs a piece of loose skin around her nail and pulls until it tears off and leaves behind a sharp sting.

She used to love the silence—craved it after the noise and rush of the BAU—but now it haunts her. Even the tinkling bell of Sergio’s collar inexplicably makes her jump sometimes, reminding Emily that no matter how hard she tries to forget, nothing is the same anymore. All she can hear is the thick silence of her apartment in Paris, the scary quiet that came when she was sinking into the dark, her heart giving out because it was too tired to fight. Nights at her apartment are too reminiscent of nights she spent cowering in fear, waiting for Ian to reclaim the life she’d clawed at with the skin of her teeth.

Hotch snaps her out of her thoughts, though he doesn’t speak; it’s his breathing, bringing her back to him. Even, almost soundless. Steady.

“I want to go with you,” she says quietly, realizing the measure of truth in her words as she speaks them out. Hotch is the last person she should ask, but he’s a person, he’s here, and going with him means she won’t be alone. 

Silence rings in her ears and Emily tries again. “Please?” Her voice threatens to break; she bites her lip between her teeth, pinching another bit of skin around her cuticle and tearing it off.

A warm hand lays on top of her left one, protecting the ragged skin around her nails. Blocking it from the damage she inflicts on it herself.

Emily turns to look at him. His brows are pulled low over his eyes, his gaze unreadable in the sparse light. She involuntarily tenses to prepare herself for the crushing blow of his rejection. 

He’s going to say no. Of course he would. Of course he’d let her down easy anyway, even though she deserves all the harshness she’d shown him, because why—

Her muscles loosen when he gently squeezes her fingers. 

“Okay.” 

The grip on her chest loosens; her airway clears, and Emily draws in a breath. “Thank you,” her voice wobbles and she looks back down at her hands—and Hotch’s. He removes it, the skin of her hand turning cold with his absence. It takes her back to the cold of the jet, the fluorescent brightness of the parking lot when she’d snapped at him. The guilt rears its head again, nausea cresting and swirling in her gut.

Emily swallows down the bad taste in her mouth. “Thanks for picking me up,” she says hoarsely, turning to the window; his reflection is faint in the glass and she focuses on it, though hers is much clearer. How many times has she thanked him in the past five minutes? It’s consolation, she supposes, though a poor one—a substitute for all the sorry’s she should be throwing at his feet instead.

“Of course,” Hotch replies. He pulls out of his parking spot, the buildings blurring outside the window as the car picks up speed. “I’m glad you called. I’d rather you call me than take a cab at this time.” 

She’s grateful he’s looking at the road, unaware of the tears rising in her eyes. Emily forces deep breaths through her nose and closes her eyes against the tears, trying to trap them in.

The ride to his apartment is a quiet blur. When Emily walks into the dark living room, she remembers a detail gone forgotten in the corners of her mind. 

“Jack,” she rasps, guilt hurtling through her as she curls her fingers into a fist, “is he—”

“He’s at Jessica’s.” Hotch says softly. The keys clink as he drops them in the bowl. “He was asleep by the time we landed.” With a hand on the small of her back, he nudges her to the guest room. “You can sleep here.”

He flips on the light switches, stepping back out of the room as Emily winces at the sudden brightness. With it, though, her eyes absently take in the plain room and en-suite bathroom as she pads across the floor and sits down on the edge of the bed. She toes at her shoes, frowns down at her feet when they don’t budge, before remembering she’s wearing her work boots that zip up.

Emily’s pulling them off as Hotch comes back into the room with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants neatly folded over his arm. He doesn’t comment on the fact that she’s still in her work clothes, sans blazer as he hands them to her with a small smile. 

Emily takes the clothes without fuss; she’s invaded his home, his car, and interrupted his sleep. Borrowing his clothes for the night is hardly the worst way she’s inconvenienced him lately. He leaves again after they’re in her hands, shutting the door behind him and sparing both of them from another guilty thank you.

She’s just changed into his clothes when he knocks on the door. 

“Come in,” Emily mumbles, her eyes on the crumpled mess of her clothes on the floor as she rubs her fingers over the collar of Hotch’s shirt, absently memorizing its softness, the way it faintly smells like him. She’s too drained to be embarrassed at the way his sweatpants pool around her ankles, the sudden softness of his clothes reminding her that she’s been awake since the sun rose, on her feet for just as long.

Hotch walks into the guest room with a glass of water and sets it on the nightstand. “Is there anything else you need?” He asks.

The gentleness of his voice is what breaks her.

Emily shakes her head. It’s not a surprise to her when the tears that had been ebbing and flowing all night suddenly spill down her cheeks in streams, dropping into her lap and soaking Hotch’s sweatpants. She wipes them away but they’re quickly replaced, rivulets of salt dripping off her chin, tinting her eyes and cheeks red.

“Emily,” Hotch breathes. The bed dips as he sits down next to her. “What’s wrong?”

Her chest stutters like a frightened bird as she tries to keep the sobs in, but some choked sound still escapes through the gaps between her teeth. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She garbles out, her voice as wobbly as the tremulous rise and fall of her shoulders, “I don’t deserve it.”

Not after the way she’d yelled at him, defensive and feeling like a raw nerve. 

The case had been long and brutal. It hit Emily harder than usual as she found herself resonating with the victims; young, dark-haired girls who were twin images of her own college self, rebellious and searching for escape in any and all forms. It was all too easy for her to imagine herself in their shoes, a tremor in her hands each time one of them turned up dead, the sights of crime scenes seared into her brain making it difficult for her to keep her dinner down. She had been restless, frustrated at their slow pace against the unsub’s increasingly violent one.

It quickly morphed into anger after dead ends and piling bodies and the increasingly lengthening list of victims. Emily had been sizzling like an exposed nerve, her tension clear to everyone as she barely held herself together, the frantic desperation shining in her eyes thinly veiled by determination.

By the time they caught the unsub, a river of blood was soaking her hands.

She’d completely shut off since then, her eyes going shuttered and haunted, a heavy cloud of silence gathering around her and the lone seat she occupied on the jet. It was all she could to stop herself from breaking down in front of her team, so when Hotch stopped her on her way out of the parking lot with a hand on her arm, gently asking her if she was okay, it was all too easy to explode in his face. Emily had snarled at him, teeth flashing in the fluorescent light as she shook his hand off her arm and sardonically asked, “What do you fucking think?”

It fell like poison from her lips, along with some other harsh retort she’s too buzzed to remember. But she still remembers the way his eyes had widened, the team behind them still as shadows as Emily shoved past him and into her car, slamming the door shut just as tears brimmed in her eyes.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she sniffles now, her reaction made infinitely worse by the fact that she’s in his home, wearing his clothes. “Y-You didn’t deserve it.”

“That’s long forgotten, Emily.” Hotch murmurs.

Emily doesn’t hear him. “And you came for me even though I was a bitch to you, and you brought me here because I didn’t wanna go home, and you gave me your fucking clothes, for god’s sake and I’m just—I’m so sorry.” Her chest caves with sobs as all her pent up emotions spill out of her in tumultuous waves, the guilt at lashing out being the straw that broke the camel’s back.

She’s still crying when he brings her into his chest, his palms warm on her shoulder blades. Hotch rubs them up and down her back, trying to smooth out the tremors as her wet cheek falls against his.

“It’s okay, Emily,” he murmurs soothingly, but she barely hears him over the pounding of her heart. “It was a hard case and I was pushing. I shouldn’t have.” 

This is a product of her bringing Ian Doyle into their lives, one all of them had started taking up; she knows it even though no one has mentioned it, because these days they always seem to prod, even when she insists she’s fine. Emily pushes away their concerns with carefully hidden clenched teeth, acutely aware that if it weren’t for all her secrets, none of them would be acting this way.

“Besides. You call, I answer. Doesn’t matter what you did.” 

Hot tears sting her eyes. They slide down her chin, soak the collar of his jacket.

“But why?” Emily rasps.

His pulse does something beneath her cheek. Hotch inhales, and it jostles her body along with his. “Because you’re my friend.” He says quietly. “And whatever you said or did in a few seconds won’t change the fact that I care about you.”

He says it so firmly, like nothing could ever change his mind. When Emily breathes in, a low hiccup escapes as the tears start up again. Maybe she should be embarrassed, but the alcohol has numbed any part of her brain responsible for that function, instead amping up her guilt. She stuffs her face in Hotch’s neck and tries to stifle her cries, her tears slipping over his skin and dampening his clothes. 

He lets her cry it out, rubbing her back until her head pounds and her throat dries and he shushes her gently. “Shh, sweetheart. You need some rest.” He whispers.

Emily’s eyes are heavy, still damp as they fall closed. “Do you forgive me?” 

“I forgive you, Emily.”

So gently she barely feels it, he tucks her hair behind her ear. She leans into the touch, chasing the unexpected comfort that comes with it. She’s practically on his lap by now, clinging to him like a lifeline, but Emily can’t find anything but the instinct to get closer. His words rumble through her chest, but a nagging insecurity whispers in her ear. When she speaks, her voice is small.

“I don’t want you to hate me.” 

“I never could.”

His answer is resolute. Something about it, about his warm arms around her, makes her confess. “Today was a bad day.” she whispers into his neck. “S-Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Hotch says, just as quiet. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Emily, I just wanted you to know that you can.”

Emily’s head falls on his shoulder. God, he’s so warm. “I’know,” she mumbles. Too good to her, even after everything. 

It’s the last thought that echoes in her head before she sinks into the darkness, but this time, not alone.

Taglist: @kllingdaddy @luhwithah @cheetobreath07

[spxdxrpxnk]

PAVITR loves you with everything he has, and he knew you loved him just the same.

and.. and that's something he actually kinda hates- even though he'd never, ever say that out loud.

( notes: this is written by a minor, so nsfw/18+/'minors dni' blogs please do not interact with this post! thank you!

this went from a paragraph to 2k words. i am in love with pavitr prabhakar. reblog )

he loved you so much that you were the first person he revealed his secret identity to! ... or- or built that identity with, rather? seeing as he came to you when he first started experiencing spider powers.

peace and quiet was never really a thing when it came to your relationship with PAVITR.

his bright smile and seemingly endless energy was contagious, so you two often got into the craziest of shenanigans when he'd look at you with that glint in his eye and that smile on his face.

you felt like you were ready for anything pav could throw at you.

... but you really weren't ready for things to be sticking to him rather than being thrown at you.

you heard him when he came into your house, heard his polite yet rushed greetings to your parents before he burst into your room like a madman. there was a piece of paper stuck to one of his hands. he looked like he'd just finished a marathon, or just barely escaped a pack of angry dogs, all flushed and panting heavily.

and considering he lived a considerable distance from you but always chose to walk instead of taking public transportation, you didn't doubt he actually ran the whole way.

before you could even get a word out, PAVITR was frantically calling your name, closing your door and locking it and holding out his paper covered hand. you got a peek of it before he started pacing frantically, and saw that it was an essay for the physics class you both shared.

an essay for physics sounds crazy, and.. well, it is, but PAVITR wanted extra credit to ensure a big fat A+ for the class by the end of the semester.

ever the overachiever.

"what do i do, what do i do-" he questioned frantically, shaking his paper covered hand as if it was burned in an attempt to get his essay off. "you see this!!" PAVITR shouted as he stopped pacing and turned to you, showing you his hand again.

you only nodded, pure confusion on your face, before he started pacing again.

"it's finished, all of it, but it won't come off my hand-"

"pav-" you tried to get a word in, trying to think of a question that could clarify any of that, but you were rendered speechless before you could even finish his name.

you watched, in pure awe, as he just.. started walking up your bedroom wall, and began pacing like that.

he'd make it halfway up the wall, frantically mumbling about how he "can't pull it or i'll rip the paper and it's due tomorrow- literally tomorrow morning!!!- and i- she won't give me an extension and-", before he turned and returned to the floor as if it was nothing.

"pav!" you called a little louder, and PAVITR actually froze in his tracks while standing on your wall, like a cartoon character. he had to lift his head to look at you, eyebrows furrowed with a frustrated pout on his face.

"what??" he asked you, as if you were the one bugging him, when he was getting footprints! all on your wall!!!

and you? you loved him so much that you always worried for him whenever he had to put on the mask to go fight crime, save lives, and put himself in danger to keep the random citizens of mumbattan safe. even kiss a baby or two, when he could be kissing you instead and not some stinky baby, if the day called for it.

and maybe, just maybe, you were a little selfish. but you did have his best interest at heart, and that's what counts.

you always told him to come to you if he had big injuries he couldn't tend to on his own.

you weren't a certified professional, or even studying medicine like that, but.. who needs professional training when you have youtube and a few stolen practice materials from school?

when PAVITR came to you one day with a pretty deep cut on his arm, you were so mad. it was the first time he'd ever seen you so upset at him, and he didn't know what else to do besides apologize. but you were quick to shush him.

"i'm not mad at you, pavi," you said. but the furrow in your eyebrow, the frustration in your voice, and the way you pulled the gauze a little too tight didn't help ease him at all. "i'm mad at the.. the assholes that think it's okay for them for hurt a teenage boy!"

"... everyone thinks i'm over twenty, if that makes it any better...?"

the deadpan look you gave told him 'no, that didn't make it any better.'

"i know you have to be the big tough spidey and keep all the bad guys away, but it sucks seeing you get hurt for people who probably wouldn't even do the same for you. for a bunch of.." you struggled to find the word, pausing with the gauze pulled taut between the blades of the medical scissors from the first aid kit you bought specially for him.

PAVITR really wanted to rub the wrinkle between your brows away, kiss that pout off your lips until you were smiling and giggling, but he loved seeing you like this even more.

when you couldn't think of a word during your passionate rants, you always came up with something so good-

"NPCs!"

'snrk- sounds about right.'

"and you, honey." he reminded you gently, watching as your expression softened with just those three words. you sucked your teeth as the scissors snipped!, severing the gauze around his arm from the very skinny roll in your hand.

and PAVITR knew he got you with that.

he knew, because you always sucked your teeth or scoffed, and then started messing with something to give yourself an excuse to look away from him whenever you got flustered.

you gently tucked the loose strand into the wrapped gauze, patting his now-properly-taken-care-of arm like it was a shiny new car.

he almost, almost complained that you were missing something, before you kissed your palm and softly patted your hand on his cheek in the way that made him giggle and flush a little, because it was so dumb.

and PAVITR loves you for caring about him so much, he really does, but hates how much you do. and that actually makes a ton of sense, if you think about it.

because, well, he loves having you dote and fawn over him; gently reprimanding him for being reckless and getting more hurt than he needed to. you'd press little kisses on his cheek, which would be bruising from a hit he probably could have dodged, to distract him from the uncomfortable sting of the warm, soapy water you were using to clean an open wound.

but he hates that you care so, so much, that you'd run head first into danger for him.

you, who didn't have the super cool spider powers like he did.

you, without the agility, or the heightened senses, or the quick healing.

normal, average you.

you would risk your life for him, just because you didn't like seeing him hurt, even though he'd heal fully within the week while it'd take you months.

he really wasn't paying as much attention as he should have at that moment, PAVITR admits that much.

stopping a gang of armed men from robbing a bank should have had his full attention, but you were there at the time.

he was walking you home when you heard all the commotion from across the street, and you rolled your eyes with a huff before pushing him into an alleyway so that he could change into his spidey suit.

he wanted to show you how effortless it was for him to fight crime and come out unscathed.

so that maybe, just maybe, you'd stop worrying.

he'd disarmed the guys early into the fight, but they were a pretty slippery bunch. PAVITR got most of them webbed to a wall for the police to handle later, which he thought was all of them, and was ready to swing off to change.

but he was still pretty new to being spiderman, and his spidey sense sometimes lacked.

he wouldn't have sensed the guy running at him full force with a bat until it was too late.

you noticed, though.

and you weren't the smartest either here, sure, whatever. yeling at him to watch out, to turn around- almost anything else would have been better than what you did.

which was running at the guy, tackling him to the ground before he could swing the bat.

you had the spirit, you really did.

it took your very surprised boyfriend with his spidey strength and a few other random bystanders to pull you off.

you were really holding your own, just.. wailing on the guy that tried to attack him. wild fists, some harsh kicks to very sensitive areas thrown in there. even a full force headbutt that left the dude with a bloody, probably broken nose and you with a slight headache.

of course, you didn't come out unscathed, and PAVITR wasn't too happy.

thankfully, he can never stay mad at you for too long.

and yeah, he hates when you get hurt because of how much you care for him, sure- but he'll never get tired of the moments you share after.

"to be fair," you'd started, sitting on his bed with him standing in between your thighs as he placed some very soothing healing cream on your bruises.

he was quiet the whole way to his house, and quiet when he pulled out his own first aid kit ( which was way smaller than yours, by the way ). "he would have gotten you right in the head if it weren't for me. i saved you from possible brain damage, don't i get a thank you?"

and man, if looks could kill…

you'd probably be fine, because PAVITR could never bring himself to glare at you with everything he's got.

no, he loves you too much.

instead of the angered, fiery look he attempts, he gives you a look akin to that of a kicked puppy. "thank you for saving me from possible brain damage. my hero." he replies sarcastically, a pout evident in his voice as he applies the last of the cream and closes the tube, tossing it aside to cross his arms at you. "but i really don't appreciate you getting hurt in the process."

you didn't reply immediately, instead staring at him with an overly smug expression that he pointedly avoided, furrowing his eyebrows. before you could open your mouth to say the four words that would stop PAVITR's entire argument before he even started, he basically said it for you.

"i sound like you." he stated defeatedly, which made you laugh at how ironic it was.

PAVITR sighed heavily, head dropping to rest on your chest. you brought up your arm to pat his back. "now you know how i feel." you told him with a mocking voice, which he gave a muffled whine to since his face was buried in your chest. you laughed again, leaning your head down to press a kiss to his pretty head.

"please never do that again." he mumbled, pure sadness in his voice, and you think you can hear your heart break a little. you smile fondly, rubbing circles on his back.

"no promises, sunshine. spiderman has to get saved once in a while, so that his ego doesn't inflate too much."

PAVITR lifts his head to narrow his eyes at you, trying and failing to hold back a smile at the cheeky look on your face. "i'm being serious."

"i am too! i'm telling you, that guy has such a big head, it's a wonder how he gets that headband around it!" you'd tease him, giggling happily and reflexively shrinking away from him when he places his fingers on your waist.

you lifted your hands, one of them wrapped snug with the last of his soft cotton gauze since you kinda grabbed the guy's fist when he tried to swing on you- like the total badass you were. nothing was broken or fractured or out of place, but it did hurt like hell. neither of you knew what to do besides wrap it and hope the gauze inflicted a healing aura or something.

thankfully, your always honest boyfriend said you looked so cool when you did, which makes you think it was worth it.

"i love seeing this pretty face when it's not all bruised up- even though you're handsome either way." you tell him, tone all mushy-gushy and baby-ish the way it is when you're genuinely complimenting him but playing it off as a joke, a gentle smile on your face as you kiss his nose.

PAVITR smiles along with you, bright and happy and a total contrast from the tragic kicked puppy look he just had.

this was a pretty typical situation for you both, only the roles would be reversed: you'd be reprimanding him for getting hurt while he cracks jokes and flirts with you until you lighten up. and he's all flustered now, since he's always weak for your compliments.

he knows he has a point, the way you always do, and an entire heartfelt rant about how he's a superhero and you're not and you have to stay out of harm's way was right on the tip of his tongue.

but with his flushed cheeks and dopey smile, he decides to hold it off.

instead, PAVITR just pulls you close ever so carefully so that he doesn't strain any of your injuries further, nuzzling his nose to yours in a little bunny kiss before properly kissing you on the lips ever so softly.

and if he tasted a little blood from the benign split in your lip, he didn't say anything.

[katzkookiesshipping]

Forever mad I can’t find the flavor of L and Light fanfics that go into the complicated fucked nature of their relationship. The evershifting power imbalance tilted in Light’s favor. The way that they both valued each other as opponents. The brief moments of companionship they shared, which might be the most significant in both their lonely lives. The way Light kept finding himself surprised (and momentarily rendered vulnerable) by L. From L honestly saying Light is his first friend to drying his feet on his knees, L was openly sincere with his warmer feelings for Light. But I imagine he knew Light was Kira almost from the get go. And I imagine he was also, understandably, terrified of Light on some level for all their time together. I don’t think he is the type of character who wanted to die. I think he’s human, and he wanted to live, was scared of death, and sometimes he doubted he was right (rarely)— but kept on because of his strong sense of justice and morality. Because somebody had to do it, and he knew he was the best person for the job.

Look at this boy realizing that he’s hearing death warning him. I imagine he has his own relationship with death, like Light does. He’s an orphan— maybe the last time he heard those bells was when, well. He lost his parents. And working as an orphaned detective taking dangerous cases where he kept his identity hidden— you have to imagine this boy with his love of sweets and sitting weird and playful odd nature felt the keen risk he was under always. How else do you stay so perceptive?

Light has an interesting relationship with fear as well. His entire time with L he is on thin ice trying to prove his innocence, knowing how much he has to lose (his life, his vision for the world, his death note, his family) if L gets his way. He is playing 3D chess with the smartest person he’s ever met.

I think he wanted to win the whole time, but as much as winning meant relief, it also meant L wouldn’t be there. I like to think Light regrets, somewhere in himself, the loss of the boy who asked him if he’d ever told the truth in his life, and put this startlingly vulnerable expression on his face (even if for only a split second.)

Then, when he wins, he feels the euphoria of having won against the smartest person he’s ever met, sweet relief finally for all his fears, the rush of hard earned success and machinations coming to fruition— all validating his god complex. And cruelty lives in him too, in the curl of his mouth. He’s enjoying L losing face, being knocked down below him after so long of being untouchable and inscrutable. The furrow of his brow betrays focus and concentrations because he still has to pull this off. He feels the threat of L up to the moment he closes his eyes for good.

And L gets to see Light’s malevolence openly. Knowing that his work will be continued and he is right, having gotten to dry his only friends feet and leave the world ready to finish what he started (and I think a little bit in relief of the game being over, and of seeing Light’s true face), he accepts death and let’s himself go at peace.

Something about this scene, about their relationship. The way L is cradled by Light in his last moments, the slow fall of Light’s open smirk as his opponents eyes close, and as he never gets a response at the funeral. I have so many feelings about the dark sincere nature of their relationship with each other— and I cannot find more than one fic that explores this. If anyone knows some, please send them to me I am so ready!!!!

Them. Just, them.

[viking-raider]

Soothing the Shadows

Summary: You were Marshall's nurse, after he was shot by Simon Stulls. The two of you fall in love, and everything seems perfect, but it's strained by Marshall holding something back from you. His fear of losing you.

Pairing: Walter Marshall/Reader

Word Count: 6.5

Warning: M - Mention of Violence, PTSD, Severe Flashback, Mention of an ugly divorce, Language, Fluff, Alcohol Use, Mental Health battle - SMUT - fingering (F receiving), protected intercourse.

Inspiration: So, for this fic, I sort of meshed Marshall and Sy together into one.

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy it! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

Dating a homicide detective wasn't easy. Especially, when that homicide detective was Captain Walter Marshall.

The pair of you had met after Marshall was injured on the job, having been shot by Simon Stulls and his twin brother. You were the nurse that took care of Marshall, while he recovered from the near fatal wound that rendered him in the Intensive Care Unit for two weeks.

“How are we feeling tonight, Captain Marshall?” You asked, breezing into Marshall's private room, with a bright smile, finding your grumpy and sometimes difficult patient in his bed, one massive arm in a sling and the other working the remote control to his tv.

“Hm.” Marshall huffed back at you, rolling his eyes.

You chuckled at him, not taking it personally. “How's your pain level?” You inquired, checking his medical chart to see the notes from his previous nurse, before moving over to examine the vitals on his monitors. “Better than yesterday?” You asked, lifting a brow in his direction, remembering the discomfort he had been in.

“Six.” He rattled off the number, shrugging his good shoulder.

“Would you like me to get you anything for it?”

“No, I'm fine.” Marshall answered, sighing softly, setting the remote down on the little rolling table next to his bed and raked a hand through his hair. “I just want to get the hell out of here.”

“Is our hospitality that bad?” You quipped, giggling at him, hoping to get him to at least smile. “I could phone the manager.”

Marshall looked up, his blue eyes regarding you for a long moment, making you feel like he was reading your soul, before he finally responded. A twinkle in his gaze. “No, I'd hate to complain to the manager. Especially when there's one bright spot in the hospitality.”

“Well that's-” You gulped, shifting in your rubber nurse's clogs. “That's good to know, Captain Marshall.” You told him, a bit sheepish.

“Marshall.” He corrected you, gently. “Just call me, Marshall.”

“Marshall.” You smirked, nodding your head. “I'm glad you enjoy the hospitality. But I also hope you go home soon. I'm sure your daughter is ready for you too.” You said, changing the subject, so the heat in your cheeks would cool off.

“And, your wife.” You added, a small lump in your throat.

“Oh, she's-”

“Code Blue.” The Hospital P.A crackled over the speakers. “Code Blue. All personnel. Code Blue, room eighteen.”

“Oh crap!” You gasped, adrenaline starting to pump through your veins. “I'm so sorry!” You said quickly, before rushing out of his room.

Sadly, you weren't able to see Marshall again. Your code blue patient took up most of your time and when you were finished with them and your other rounds, Marshall had been released to go home. You were happy for him, even though you were a bit sad that you hadn't been able to say goodbye and see him off.

But you got another opportunity to come your way.

“Hey.” One of your co-workers tapped you on the shoulder as you stood at the nurse's station, filling out a medication request. “There's a super handsome guy asking for you.”

You looked up from the computer. “What?” You frowned at her, confused. “Who?”

“I don't know, I didn't get a name. But he's damned sexy.” She chuckled, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Shaking your head, you leaned over the counter of the nurse's station, looking down the hall and towards the doors that allowed entry onto your floor. You were shocked to see Marshall standing there, reading one of the posters on the wall. “Oh my god!” You gasped, quickly pulling back, before he could see you.

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah, he was one of my patients.” You told her, fussing over your black, whimsical bee, scrubs and hair.

“Well, you must like each other.” She commented, watching you with amusement.

“Shut up.” You chuckled, going by her and trying to act natural and calm, despite being nervous beyond belief. “Marshall, what are you doing here? Is everything all right? Is your wound healing?” You asked, trying to be professional.

“Everything's fine.” He smiled at you, instinctively touching his shoulder. “It's healing great.”

“Then, what are you doing here?”

“I-uh-came to see you.” He confessed, biting the inside of his lip. “I wanted to know, if you'd like to get some coffee with me, sometime?” He asked, shoulders stiffening with resolve.

You narrowed your eyes at him, cocking your head to the side. “Aren't you married?”

Marshall drew in a deep breath, tightly folding his arms over his chest. “I was married, yes.” He replied, his face darkening. “Angie and I divorced some time ago. It's complicated and not something I'd like to get into.”

“All right, as long as I'm not being a home wrecker by accepting your offer.” You answered, relieved.

“I assure you, you're not.” Marshall said, relief dancing in his blue eyes. “So, when are you next available?”

You looked down at your watch, tilting your head side to side for a moment. “I can take my lunch break right now.” You told him, meeting his gaze with a smirk.

“All right.” He nodded, turning to push open one of the doors behind him, for you.

That day had changed both your and Marshall's lives. You quickly fell in love with each other and craved each other constantly. But there was a drawback to dating Marshall. You hadn't made that step to move in with each other yet, as much as you wanted too. So, you went to one another's place. It was usually Marshall coming over to your flat though, after he got off from his shift at the station. You would make him dinner and the two of you would cuddle up under a blanket on the couch with a glass of wine, or more specifically, a glass of wine for you and a glass of whiskey for him, to watch a movie or one of the shows the two of you had become interested in together.

“Walter.” You giggled, shifting beneath the heavy comforter the two of you were under, trying to watch Peaky Blinders.

“What?” He husked back, turning his head into the side of your face, moaning softly, while his hand squeezed the inside of your thigh again.

“Keep that naughty hand to yourself, Captain.” You teased, turning your face into his.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Marshall replied, feigning innocence.

“Oh yeah?” You chuckled, smelling the sharp honey and caramel of the whiskey on his breath. “What's this?” You asked, rubbing your legs together against his hand.

“Oh, you mean that hand.” He smirked, gently nudging his nose against yours. “I don't know how it got there, but since it is.” He said, pushing it up to cup you through the thin, purple fabric of your panties.

Your gasp melted into a deep whimper, as Marshall started to rub you, watching you through hooded and lusty blue eyes. You turned, pressing your back against the armrest of the couch and opened your legs, giving Marshall full access to your dripping womanhood. He reached under the quilt, not removing it, to keep the chill of the room off of you, as he all but tore your underwear off your body. Tossing them absently over his shoulder and behind the couch, Marshall's hand was back on your privates within a millisecond.

“Oh Christ.” You mewled, arching your back against his hand, his middle finger slipping between your slick folds as he caressed you, teasing you. “Walt, please!” You begged him, pushing the heel of one of your feet into the top of his thigh, nudging his leg impatiently.

“Mm-mm.” He shook his head at you, curving that evil digit into your canal. “I haven't seen you in two days, babe.” He panted, licking his lips. “I want to enjoy it.”

“Then take your fucking shirt off, Marshall!” You barked, outraged and worked up as the tip of his finger grazed your sweet spot.

Marshall laughed, “That requires me to take my hand off of you.” He pointed out, amused by your situation.

You dropped your head back on the couch arm, then sat up, shivering as Marshall's finger reached different angles, and grabbed at his shirt. Bunching the knitted material in your hands, you yanked on it until you managed to pull it off over his head, then tossed it in his face for extra drama. Making him chuckle and toss it back at you, before driving his finger deep into your spot. Caught off guard, your hand flew out, clawing into the exposed skin at the top of his shoulder and leaving very angry crescents behind in their wake.

“Lord have mercy, Marshall!” You cried out, your head flying back, while you rocked on his hand.

“Lay back.” He purred at you, planting a kiss to your fingers. “Let me make you feel good.”

“You always do, Donut.” You teased, laying back again, tugging the blanket up over you as you did.

Marshall blushed slightly at your nickname for him. “I try, Angel.” He replied, gently working his finger inside of you, crooking it to tease your walls, knowing all the places to hit.

Your toes curled and you moaned softly, eyes rolling shut as you rutted against his hand, rolling your hips. Marshall looked at your face, a soft smirk on his own, seeing the pure pleasure you were in. He slipped in a second and started rubbing your clit with his thumb, drawing out a loud sigh from you. The want to keep that look on your face forever was so strong inside of Marshall. You were relaxed in the essence of pleasure and bliss, with no care in the world, other than what his fingers were doing to you.

“Walter, please!” You begged him, brows drawing together as you looked down your face at him.

Smirking, Walter freed his fingers from inside of you and grabbed you by the hips, pulling you into his lap and a heady kiss. He moved to the edge of the couch and stood, taking you with him, supporting you against his body as he carried you to the bedroom, one big paw rubbing firm circles over your back to keep the flat's chill away, until getting there.

“Why do you keep it so cold in here?” Marshall commented, resting you on the bed.

“I don't know. Guess I'm just used to the chill of the hospital. I don't really pay attention to it, until you show up.” You replied, giggling as you pushed the blankets to the foot of the bed.

“I should start a fire.” He said, glancing at the enclosed fireplace, in the corner of your room, as he stood at the side of your bed, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them down his tree-trunk thighs.

“You already started one.” You cooed at him, licking your lips at the titanic tent in the front of his boxer briefs, reaching out to palm it through the black material. “A big one, Bear.” You hummed, feeling the hot beast that lived within throb against your palm.

Marshall's eyes fluttered back into their sockets as you fondled him, pressing himself against your hand, growling deep in his throat and chest. You smirked up at him, leaning forward to press your lips to his hairy belly. Smoothing your palm upwards, you curled your fingers around the elastic waistband and slowly peeled his boxers down. Even with anticipation, your eyes grew and you gasped silently, when Marshall's thick and veiny, cut cock sprang heavily free from the confines of the garment.

Reaching into your bedside drawer, you removed a square object from inside and tossed it on one of the pillows, before looking at Marshall.

“Come to me.” You whispered, removing your shirt and heading up the bed.

Looking you over, like a hungry wolf, Marshall stalked up the bed towards you. Moving over you and nuzzling his face into your neck, he nibbled and kissed at the skin there and at your shoulder, while his hands smoothed down your sides, touching every inch of your body. You felt the rub of Marshall's beard as he left love-bites you'd be feeling during your shift later tomorrow. But that didn't bother you, you wanted to feel Walter with you. Always. You had one hand tugging at the curls at the back of his head and the other clawing into one cheek of his rump, as he grabbed at your knees, shoving them wide open to buck against you, his cock dripping against your slickness, mixing with the ultimate finale.

It didn't take love for Marshall's thought of lighting a fire to become nonsensical, the two of you were heated and glistening with sweat, from your combined actions and feelings. Perspiration pearled down Marshall's vast back as he pulled away from you, only slightly, his darkened blue eyes meeting yours in a hungry and sultry gaze, that sent a chill so powerful through your burning body, goose-flesh was raised.

“Mine.” He growled, in a deep pant.

“All yours.” You gulped back, nodding and sucking your lip between your teeth.

Marshall sat up between your legs, and you grabbed at the item you had tossed on the pillow earlier. It was a condom. You tore it open and took out the opaque-red and lubricated rubber, tossing the packaging carelessly to the floor, while Marshall grasped himself at the root, the head of his member changing a shade of purple, to hold his thick cock steady. You carefully rolled the protection down over his length, marveled at how it looked, snug over the throbbing veins. Wrapping your hand around the head of Walter's manhood, you stroked it downward, ensuring the sleeve was secure in place, before reaching up to grab him by the shoulder and pull him down into a heated kiss.

While you kissed, Marshall lined himself up with your weeping entrance. It never seemed mattered how many times the two of you were intimate, you never quite grew accustomed to Marshall's sheer size. Even with the help of being aroused and lubricated, there was always that initial stretch of him easing inside of you, of his girth reshaping you for the billionth time in the two years you had been dating. But it quickly subsided into something so marvelously euphoric, that you couldn't help the soft smile that crossed your lips or the curl of your toes.

He wrapped his arms around you, pressing you against his body, an arm encircling your waist and the other around your shoulders, his knees planted into the mattress, as he rocked into you. The wood headboard smacked against the wall behind it, keeping time with each thrust. Thankfully, it was an outer wall, so your next door neighbor wasn't too bothered by the noise, and he was used to your and Marshall's love making, by now.

Good and patient, Preston.

“Christ, Marshall!” You cried out, your walls kneading around him, feeling every furious movement that begged his manhood to release his magic and bring you both into a world of unimaginable bliss.

“Fuck, babe.” He panted back, his hot breath wafting over the skin of your face.

He pressed his temple against yours, letting out small whimpers of effort and moans of pleasure in random intervals. His thrusts lost rhythm and became rougher, as he neared his climax, your own aiding the effort. Marshall throbbed inside of your quivering walls and you felt the muscles of his stomach clench and become rock hard. He made his tell-tale sound, a soft, groaning sigh, as he unloaded inside of the protective barrier between you. Nonetheless, your slick canal struggled to keep a hold of Marshall's unloading and still working cock, feeling it surge inside of you. Your back arched, pushing yourself up against his clenched stomach, nails racking down his sweaty back.

“Marshall!” You cried out, shuttering with each wave of pleasure that washed through you. “Oh god, Marshall.” You whimpered, slowly lowering yourself back down, spent. “I love you.” You sighed softly, after a few moments to catch your breath.

Marshall rolled you both onto your sides, tucking your head under his chin and against his chest. “I love you too.” He whispered back, hugging you hard against him, fingers tangling in the back of your hair.

You struggled to stay awake, not wanting to fall asleep, knowing what it meant, if you did. But you were spent from a long shift, the previous night, little sleep and the exhausted pull of your love making. Soon enough, you were snoring into Marshall's collarbone. But, when you woke with a jolt a few hours later, your heart thundering in your chest, a good enough fire in the fireplace to keep your room warm, but not roast you alive, however you were alone.

“Marshall?” You called out, hoping—praying, he was just watching tv in the living room like he did, on rare occasions. “Donut!” You yelled out a little louder, turning to grab your shirt off the floor and padded into the living room, but found it cold, quiet and empty.

You sighed, realizing Marshall had left. Turning, you went down the hall to the guest room bath and discovered the mirror was still foggy. Marshall would go there to take a shower, before he left, so he wouldn't wake you by using your master bathroom. Usually, when he showered at your place, it meant he was heading straight back into the station to work some more, without bothering to go home. You wondered how many hours your boyfriend had slept, before sneaking off into the night.

“Just one night, Walter Marshall.” You whimpered, stripping your shirt off as you headed to bed again. “That's all I ask of you. Stay one fucking night with me, without vanishing like some sort of ghost.” You sighed, crawling under the blankets.

Marshall scrubbed at his eyes, while trying to focus on the police report in front of him, Harper had given him a new case to work on. It was a double homicide with a few lead suspects, but no solid proof on which of them it could possibly be. He was hitting his wit's end, three shifts, with a four hour sleep between two of them, crashed out on the small couch in his office. He'd only spoken to you through text messages through that time. The two of you had tried to meet up for lunch, but one of his suspects had been hauled into the station and he had to cancel it, so he could interrogate them.

A soft knock sounded on his office door and Commissioner Harper popped in. “How's the case going?” He asked, depositing himself into a chair across from Marshall.

The Brit drew in a deep breath and let it out, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That well, huh?” The older law enforcement officer chuckled. “When was the last time you went home?” He inquired, seeing the dark circles under Marshall's bloodshot blue eyes.

Marshall looked at his watch. “Nine hours ago, to shower.” He replied, shooting Harper a look.

“You need to head home.” Harper snorted, shaking his head. “Don't you have a new lady in your life?” He said, lifting a brow at Walter, critically. “You shouldn't be keeping hours at the station, like you were when you were a bachelor, Marshall. I'm sure it drives her fucking crazy.”

“I know.” Marshall sighed heavily, knowing Harper was right. “It does.”

You had scolded Marshall several times about working himself into the ground and not getting a proper night's sleep. He wasn't a bachelor anymore, preferring to be at the station, then sitting alone, in the deafening emptiness of his flat. He definitely was a husband in the middle of getting a divorce, where he'd rather work eighteen hour shifts, against the alternative of going home to another argument or silent treatment from his soon-to-be ex-wife and making his daughter's life a nightmare.

He had you now, and was still acting like he didn't.

“You're right.” He said, flipping the case file closed and locking it away in his desk. “I am going to take the rest of the day off.” He nodded, stretching to his feet.

“And tomorrow.” Harper added, giving Marshall a stern look.

Marshall stared at him for a long moment, before slowly nodding. “Tomorrow as well.” He conceded, grabbing his jacket from the hook at the back of his office door.

“Hey.” Harper paused, as he stepped out into the hall, turning back to Marshall. “Surprise her. Women love that stuff.” He smirked, giving him a teasing wink before heading off to his own office.

“Yeah.” Marshall nodded, chewing on the inside of his lip.

Thankfully, he knew you had the day off, which made surprising you all the easier to do.

Marshall stopped by his place first, taking a quick shower and changed. Washed up and freshly changed, Marshall went to a small floral shop to get a bouquet of your favorite flowers, then crossed town to your takeaway spot, ordering your favorite dish with something to hit your sweet tooth, before finally heading over to your flat.

Situating things in his hands, Marshall knocked on your door and waited for you to answer, his heart pounding for a reason he couldn't put his finger on. At least, until the door cracked open and you peeked out, then his pulse calmed.

“Hey, Sugar butt.” He grinned at you, enjoying the surprised expression on your face.

You swung the door open, excited to see Marshall. “What are you doing here, Donut? I thought you had to work!” You said, bouncing on your toes towards him and wrapping your arms around his waist.

“I got some sound advice, and I decided to take it.” He replied, bending his head to kiss the top of yours. “So, I have the rest of the day off, and was told I'm taking tomorrow off as well.” He told you, holding up the bag of food and your bouquet of flowers.

“There's no one else I want to spend it with.”

“What about Fae?” You asked, your tone teasing.

Marshall rolled his eyes at you. “I'm far too boring and uncool.” He huffed, shaking his head.

“Well, you're entertaining and cool enough for me, Donut.” You giggled, pulling him into your flat.

“Thank the heavens for that.” He smiled, letting you drag him inside and into the kitchen.

“What did you get me?” You asked, dying to know what he had in the takeaway bag.

“Things you eat.” Marshall smirked, side eyeing you. “Hey, hands off!” He chuckled, batting your hand away from the bag. “Go pour us something to drink, Sugar butt!” He said, popping you on the butt and kissed your neck.

“My sweet detective, you drank all your Rich & Rare whiskey, the last time you were here.” You informed him, giving him a gentle pat on the chest.

“Oh fuck, I did.” Marshall sighed, his shoulders slumping a little.

You smiled, moving around him to go into a cabinet. “Luckily for you, you have a very thoughtful partner.” You said, pulling down a bottle of the amber colored spirit. “Who noticed it and bought another bottle for you.”

Marshall turned around, cracking a smile at you. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” He asked, reaching out to cup your face.

You nuzzled his hand for a moment, before answering. “You got shot.” You deadpanned.

“Right.” He nodded, taking the bottle from you, then turned back to the food, pulling it out and putting it on the counter, before taking down plates.

You took down glasses and set one of them next to the plates, before grabbing your chilled bottle of wine out of the refrigerator, wiggling your brows at Walter as he moved by you for the fridge himself. Winking at you, Marshall grabbed a black case from inside the freezer and turned back, smirking as he found you already nibbling on your food. Shaking his head, he set the case on the counter and opened it, before cracking the seal on the bottle of whiskey, pouring some into his glass.

“So, how was your day?” He asked, opening the case and lifting a brow in your direction.

“It's been good.” You answered, getting your takeaway on the plate. “Slept a whole extra hour and a half.” You snorted, smirking to yourself. “Took a bath, instead of a shower, which felt incredible, and started to catch up with all of the shows I'm behind on.”

“Sounds like a day off well spent.” Marshall nodded, pulling out a pair of small tongs and removed a medium sized, chilled, black whiskey stone that was nestled inside and placed it in his glass. “I hope mine goes as well.”

“Well, we can make that happen.” You told him, holding a fork out to him.

Marshall grinned at you, taking the fork. “Yeah, we can.”

The two of you took your food and drinks to the couch, finding something to watch together, while you ate. You smirked, however, watching your Donut doze on and off, his plate balanced on his knee. Setting your plate on the coffee table, you gently took his and set it beside yours, you grabbed his hand and coaxed him up to his feet.

“Mmm.” He grunted, responding to your nudges towards the bedroom.

“Ssshh.” You cooed back, not wanting him to stir from the soft doze he'd fallen into.

Getting him to your room, you lightly pushed him back, to sit on your bed, stifling your giggle at his 'umph' as he landed. Kneeling down, you untied the laces of his boots, biting your lip as you gingerly pulled them off, but Marshall barely stirred as they came free from his feet. You managed to get his shirt off, before laying him back on the bed and covering him up.

“Sleep tight, detective.” You whispered, stroking the curls off his forehead for a moment, listening to his deep and easy breathing.

Tip-toeing out of the room, you gathered up the hardly touched plates and wrapped them up, storing them away in the refrigerator for later on, carefully poured the remaining whiskey Marshall hadn't polished off into the bottle, rinsing the stones, slipping them back into their case and into the freezer. Rubbing your face, you stripped and crawled into bed with Marshall, snuggling in against his side with a smile, excited to be falling asleep with him, knowing there was a high likelihood he'd be there, when you woke up.

What you hadn't expected was how you woke up with Marshall.

You were too deeply asleep to even dream, comfortable and warm. It was pure heaven, that you were hardly aware of the loud bang, likely someone slamming a door shut or the lid of a dumpster being dropped; nothing that was significant enough to draw you from your slumber. Nothing, but the jolt and gasp beside you. You started to pull to the surface of consciousness, struggling to understand what was going on, before you felt a pair of abnormally strong tentacles wrap around your frame. Jerking you against something solid, the air was knocked out of your lungs. While you were dragged over the edge of the bed, your stomach clenched as you dropped to the floor, crying out at the force of the sudden stop.

Realization flooded you, feeling the huffing, puffing and mountainous body of Marshall move over you, one arm still crushing around your middle to pin you against him, one thick thigh wedged between yours. If you didn't know Walter as well as you did, you probably would have started screaming at the position he had you in.

But you knew him, and you knew there was something deeply wrong with your boyfriend. Even your nursing instincts were going off for something being out of place. Marshall was panting like a wounded animal, his nostrils flaring with each breath, every muscle in his body was rock hard and rigid, but he was trembling. His teeth were gritted, like he was in pain and his blue eyes were wide and on high alert, as if he was waiting for something to happen.

“Marshall?” You whispered, apprehensive to make a sound, almost afraid that he'd snap at you, but his arm only tightened, making you hiss and wiggle underneath him, but he only held you tighter. “All right.” You groaned, relaxing to rest your forehead against the carpet, taking a deep breath of relief when his arm eased against your stomach.

You racked your brain, he was a horror hardened Detective for the Manitoba police force, what could cause Marshall to react to this extreme? Could this be a flashback from Simon?

You took a deep breath, knowing you had to help Marshall out of this, to let him know he was in a safe place. You bit your lip, bracing yourself for whatever reaction he gave you. Wiggling your arm out from underneath of your body, ignoring his attempt to keep you still, you propped yourself up the best you could under his weight.

“Marshall.” You said, keeping your voice calm and as if nothing was wrong, reaching back to rest your hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. “It's all right, Walt. It's just a flashback.” You told him, pressing your head against his chest. “I'm all right. We're all right.” You reassured him, moving your hand to his neck, beginning to massage the tight muscles there.

“We're safe. There's nothing and no one here to harm us. I promise.”

“Unless, you look in my closet and notice the alarming ratio of scrub outfits to regular ones.” You said, making yourself giggle, hoping a light joke would cause a crack in the wall of his PTSD, since Marshall had always enjoyed your sense of humor.

But Walter didn't seem to react to any of it, though you didn't allow yourself to become discouraged.

“What can I do?” You cooed at him, wondering what was going through his mind. “Please, tell me how I can help you, Donut?”

Marshall abruptly stopped trembling against you and seemed to relax on top of you, but didn't move any farther. You took the win, patiently waiting to see if he made any further improvements. They took several more moments, with you still massaging his neck and just laying there with him, but Marshall finally seemed to regain some sense of himself.

“I'm sorry.” He mumbled, moving off of you at last.

You floundered for a moment, sitting up to rest your back against the side of your bed, unsure how to reply. “Mar-” You started, only to have him jump to his feet and storm into your en suite, slamming and locking the door behind him. “Okay.” You sighed, nodding curtly at the door. “You need space.” You said, to the air, then pulled yourself up and pulled on a pair of shorts shorts with a tank top.

Going out to the kitchen, you made yourself a cup of tea, pausing for a moment as you carried it out of the kitchen to fortify it with a small splash of Marshall's whiskey, before going to sit in the living room. You stared at the turn off tv, regarding your blurry reflection as you thought about what had happened in the bedroom with Marshall, then abruptly locked himself in the bathroom. The shower had turned on not long afterwards, making you suppose he was taking one to wake himself up and clear his head. You were still worried about him though, he had just turned into a statue after yanking you off the bed like that, forcing you to be still, like he was afraid something would happen, if either of you moved.

An hour and all your hot water later, Marshall emerged from your bedroom, his eyes pointed at the floor as he stood just passed the doorway. You set your empty cup on the coffee table and turned to look at him over the back of the couch, his wet curls were combed back off his forehead, making him look almost boyish.

“I'm sorry.” He mumbled again, folding his arms tightly over his chest, still refusing to look at you.

“I know you're sorry, Marshall.” You whispered back at him, your heart aching. “Please, sit down with me?” You begged, patting the cushion beside you.

Marshall lingered in place for a moment, before shuffling over to you and sitting down, arms still crossed. You stared at the circular and slightly puckered scar just below his collarbone, the purplish skin stood out in stark contrast to the pale skin of his chest, lightly hidden under the dark fur that covered his torso.

“I'm sorry, if I scared you.” Marshall elaborated more on his apology. “I also understand, if you don't want to see me anymore.” He added, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

“What?” You giggled, surprised. “Why would I break up with you, Marshall?”

He finally looked at you, brows creased like it was obvious. “Because of what just happened.” He growled, his jaw muscles flexing. “I could have hur-” His eyes searched you for any marks, an almost frantic look coming into them.

“You didn't hurt me, Walter.” You assured him. “You startled the hell out of me, with that wake up. You've caused me to be very concerned. But hurt me, you have not.”

“This time.” He mumbled, relaxing back into his broodiness.

“Tell me what happened, Donut.” You sighed, shaking your head at him. “I know you had a flashback. Why? Was it because of Simon?”

Marshall sighed, bouncing his leg. “It wasn't Simon.” He replied, licking his lips. “Before I was a homicide detective, I was in the British Army, I served three tours.” He paused and regarded you, deciding it was time to give you everything.

“I met Angela after I finished boot camp. She was in London for a holiday. We hit it off, and started a long distance relationship. I went on my first tour and everything was reasonably fine. I rose through the ranks quickly through my tours, I initially intended to be career Army. But between the second tour and my last one, Angie got pregnant with Fae. Which complicated things. Angie didn't want to raise her away from her parents in Manitoba, she also didn't want me being in the British Army, since it meant I'd be stationed overseas, away from them and being deployed constantly.”

“That is quite the situation.” You nodded, folding your legs on the cushion.

“It was.” Marshall nodded, his eyes distant. “My second tour had been rough, it was the first time I was given command of a squad of men. We got through it and all my men got home. But that's when some of my PTSD started. Loud noises would make me start or put me on edge. It was my last deployment, when I didn't renew my contract, so I could move to Canada with Angie and Fae, that it went through the roof. My men and I got pinned down by a group of rebels and I ended up losing two of them, despite the effort to keep them alive.” He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing on an imaginary spot on the rug.

“Marshall?” You whispered, reaching out to rest your hand on his knee, feeling the muscle there jump slightly.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, shaking his head, his gaze clearing. “That's when I started having reactive flashbacks, like tonight. At first, Angie took them in stride. I thought they'd be better if I was back in 'that environment', so I joined the Manitoba SWAT team, and it worked for a short time. But Angie worried that was just as dangerous as being in the Army and didn't want Fae losing me.” He sighed, rubbing his face. “She had a point. SWAT could be just as dangerous at times. Get a person in the corner, when they're desperate, it doesn't matter if you're in a war-zone. They'll do anything to get out of that spot. Including killing you.”

“So, what happened?” You asked, biting your lip.

“I transferred to homicide.” He chuckled, smirking like he couldn't believe it himself. “Anyway, over time, Angie couldn't take my flashbacks anymore and we slept in separate bedrooms for the last four years of our marriage. They were a catalyst for our divorce.” He admitted, pressing his lips together, pained. “She even used them to gain full custody of Fae. Like, I was some sort of danger to my own daughter.”

“I don't think you're dangerous, Marshall.” You confessed, moving closer to him.

Marshall huffed at you. “Yeah, that's because I won't allow myself to fall asleep around you.”

“This is why you ghost me after we've made love?” You asked, looking at him wide eyed.

“Yes.” He nodded, staring back at you. “I'm terrified of something like that happening and losing you because of it.” He barked, jerking a hand towards the bedroom. “That I'll have an episode and I'll hurt you or it's just too much baggage for you to take.”

“Oh, you sweet Donut.” You giggled at him, grinning. “When was the last time you even had a flashback, before tonight?”

“I don't know!” He barked, raking a hand through his damp hair. “Two or three years.”

“That's not bad!” You said, wrapping your arms around his. “And we made it through this one.”

“I don't want you to make it through them.” He whined at you, looking like a hurt puppy.

“Walter Donut Marshall, I helped you get through being shot.” You grinned at him, stubbornly. “I'm pretty darn sure, I can help you through more flashbacks. You're not going to scare me away. I'm not going to break up with you. I love you, you silly Detective.” You cupped his bearded face in your palms.

“Stop running away from me, let me love you, shadows and all.”

“I have some dark shadows.” He whispered, turning his head to kiss your hand.

“Don't we all, Donut? Don't we all!” You giggled, kissing him soundly on the mouth.

[wearfinethingsalltoowell]

Quick TealOranges drabble that I’m dashing off before tomorrow renders it moot!

“I kissed someone.”

Olu couldn’t say he was expecting anything different. They’d been seperated for months after having sex once, it was natural to move on. But he had his best friend back, and that was what mattered.

And Archie was pretty cool. He was looking forward to meeting her properly.

He was appointed to go to the Pirate Queen to beg for the crew’s lives. Captain Bonnet was in no state.

And he wasn’t going to deny that poor man anything, circumstances being what they were. His problems seemed small compared to saving the people who killed the love of your life.

He liked Zheng—they had been fast friends when she masqueraded as a soup seller, and she had taken them in when they were in need. An pirate legend who had a soft spot for those…less skilled (looking at you, Stede). She reminded him of the Blackbeard they had met months ago, before…

He really only intended to talk to her, but when she admitted she was trying to seduce him, he wasn’t opposed. If it crossed his mind that he was evening the score with Jim, he only had to look at Blackbeard and Stede to reassure himself it was hardly the worst thing to do after a breakup.

And she was really, really pretty. He tried to keep his head on, to advocate for the crew, but no one could blame him for getting a bit distracted.

“Get your pants on, they’re escaping!!” Auntie burst in, startling Olu out of his thoughts.

Stood there in shock, all he could say was “I have my pants on.”

Zheng looked at him with fury, and he understood completely. This looked horrible. No one would ever believe he didn’t know.

He wondered if he should go after her, or if it would be pointless, when Jim dropped down from the ceiling.

“We have to go, now!!”

“Are you escaping?” Olu was a bit offended that the crew hadn’t waited to see if he could save them before running. Were they going to leave him?

“We’ll talk about it later!” Jim was frantic, motioning Olu over, but he stayed put. He cast a glance to the door, feeling a rush of guilt for what happened with Zheng.

“Olu!!” Jim called, and at the look in their eye, he followed them out. They were family, and he wasn’t about to let Jim lose any more family.

“Okay, what the fuck?” he asked, when they were safely back on the ship.

“Captain said we were retaking the Revenge, we did a little chloroform, made a makeshift rope, and..ta-da!” Jim punctuated their statement with a thumbs up.

“Did he not know I was negotiating? Was he gonna leave me there?”

“The whole plan was pretty spur of the moment. I feel for the guy, but I could’ve killed him when I asked where you were and he said he didn’t know. You would’ve been killed if you had stayed there!”

“It would probably have been fine,” Olu muttered, not sure how much of the story he should share.

“You’re too optimistic,” Jim sighed, “I wasn’t leaving without you!”

“Thank you,” Olu smiled at them, and Jim dove into his arms for a hug.

“Missed you.”

“I missed you too, you know that.” He wondered again if he should tell Jim about Zheng. This seemed like the perfect opening, and, as Jim had said, they were best friends who told each other things. But he couldn’t make himself do it. What happened would come out, probably in an embarrassing way, and he wanted to keep it to himself for a bit.

They went above deck to join the rest of the crew, sans Stede who had gone to say his goodbyes to Edward. Olu’s heart hurt for them—they were in love, it was plain as day to everyone who knew them. He didn’t understand Jim’s newfound sympathy for Izzy, the man so vile and hateable they were ready to kill him after one day as captain. He couldn’t help but eye him with continued suspicion—that day on deck, before everything had gone to shit, Edward had seemed, if not happy, then content. The marooning only happened after Izzy emerged from his cabin later that day—they might never know what happened, but Olu had known people like Izzy. He would never trust him.

Blackbeard’s half of the crew were settling back in nicely, Frenchie and Fang already having changed out of their Kraken-era garb. Jim kept theirs on—said they liked the style.

Olu took a seat next to the newly-returned Lucius, who had struck up a fast friendship with Archie.

Relief flashed over Lucius’ face when he saw Olu.

“Oh thank God, Olu! Though I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d chosen to camp out on the Red Flag. Competent captain, you know?”

Seemed like he and Stede were still on the outs.

“Wait, you’re Olu?” Archie broke in, sticking out her hand for an introductory fist bump, “sorry, you’re just kind of a figure of legend on the ship. Jim told me all about you! You’re the smart one!”

“Hey!” Lucius scoffed.

“You’re smart too, bud. I just didn’t hear your name 20 times a day. If I had to hear the cake story one more time, I was going to kill them.”

A smile graced Olu’s face. It was better than her reaction to meeting Stede, from what he’d heard.

Frenchie walked over to him later that night, offering him the room back. Something about bad juju, again.

He didn’t argue, he could use a warm bed.

He curled up into his pillow, trying not to think about the day ahead. Their troubles were far from over, having made an enemy of the queen of Pirates.

When he was half asleep, he heard his door open, which wasn’t necessarily odd, but annoying. He didn’t want to get out of bed in the middle of the night for whatever trouble the crew got themselves in.

He waited for whoever had come in to announce themself, but it didn’t come. He heard near-silent footsteps and began to wonder if they were being invaded.

Instead, he felt the covers pulled back and the cold hit his bare skin, before another body jumped into the bed with him.

He relaxed a bit when he realized it was Jim, who was climbing on top of him and nuzzling their head in his neck.

“Made Frenchie give us the room back.” they announced.

As confused as he was, Olu laughed. Only Jim would bully poor Frenchie for a room that wasn’t even that big.

He could ask Jim what was going on in the morning. Right now, they were sleeping soundly for what was likely the first time in ages, and he didn’t plan to wake them.

[incalamity]

For the fluffy prompts, krmy or miyunabe and 60? Only if you want!

60. In Sync/Wordless Conversations

kuramiyu + in sync

The sun is hot, almost unbearable, and Kazuya looks around the batting field. Everyone is slowing down, their exhaustion evident by their heavy arms and dragging legs. He keeps searching, his eyes bouncing from teammate to teammate, but Youichi is nowhere to be found. He curses under his breath, but decides to excuse himself for a quick break.

He heads to the vending machines, relieved for the shade that the buildings bring, as minimal as it is in the raging summer heat. He grabs two water bottles and heads back out to the field, but in his rush, he bumps into someone, stumbling backwards and nearly losing his footing in the process. He holds back an annoyed sigh, but the other party doesn’t return the favor.

“Good job, dumb ass.”

Kazuya scowls, though it’s undercut by the grin fighting hard to take over. Even through the blinding sun, he knows Youichi is standing in front of him, most likely more than annoyed with the heat and definitely fed up with him.

“It’s not like it was only my fault,” he says, just because he knows it’ll earn him an eye roll.

“At least now I know you still have enough energy to be an ass,” Youichi grumbles, “and to think I was gonna give you this.”

Kazuya holds a hand over his eyes, shielding him enough from the sun to see two water bottles in Youchi’s hands. “Oh,” he murmurs, suddenly feeling the weight of his own water bottles.

Youichi seems to notice at the same time. “Oh,” he returns, then grins from ear to ear. “Were you gonna bring me one of those?” 

Youichi is teasing him, like he always does, but it doesn’t stop Kazuya’s cheeks from reddening.

“Shut up,” he says, but he only sounds petulant and it only makes Youichi laugh. “You did the same.”

“Yeah, but I’m not all embarrassed about it like you.” Youichi throws a water bottle in Kazuya’s direction and snatches one from Kazuya’s hand. He rests his arm over Kazuya’s shoulder, and Kazuya doesn’t bother to tell him it’s too hot to be so close. “Let’s go back before Coach yells at us.”

It’s hot, hot enough for the flush in his cheeks to be attributed to the weather. Youichi looks at him, though, eyes gleaming, and Kazuya knows he isn’t fooling anyone. 

“Yeah, let’s go,” he agrees, attempting a frown but failing when Youichi continues to laugh as he holds him the entire way back to the field.

miyunabe + wordless conversations

The cafeteria slowly empties, one by one his teammates retire to their rooms. Each hour that passes, Hisashi pretends to yawn and stretch, promising that he will go to bed in just a few more minutes. He promises, again and again, until the only people left in the room are himself and Miyuki. 

Miyuki says nothing, which is probably the worst part about it all. It’s already past midnight, and he knows Miyuki prefers to get a good night’s sleep, especially with how grueling their practice will be the next morning, but instead, Miyuki is here, sitting across from him with his arms on the table and his head in his hands.

He reaches over, his fingers grazing the skin of Miyuki’s wrist, and it’s enough to startle him from his half-asleep state. He’s ready to tell Miyuki to go to bed and that he’ll be out right afterwards, but Miyuki gives him a near-withering stare that has him rendered silent. 

Miyuki stands up abruptly, the palms of his hands flattened against the table. He looks delirious, close to falling asleep on the spot, but he manages to walk around the table and sits right beside Hisashi. He stares, his eyes a little glassy, at the paused television in front of him, then down at Hisashi’s notebook. He grunts, maybe in permission, maybe in annoyance, before resting his forehead against Hisashi’s shoulder.

Hisashi almost laughs, but he takes it all in stride. He’s glad Miyuki isn’t scolding him for staying up so late, but he’s mostly happy that Miyuki decided to stay with him, pressing his body weight into his shoulder like the nuisance he is. He pushes back, keeping his shoulder as steady as possible as Miyuki falls asleep. 

He figures he should finish for the night sooner rather than later. He’d hate for Miyuki to blame him for the crick in his neck tomorrow morning.

[fistsoflightning]

message with a bottle

ffxivwrite2023 01: ENVOY a messenger or representative.

how’d i end up with a letter fic?? erenville & alle. 748 wc.

His payment for services rendered found him not long after he’d checked the last requisition off his list and stored it in his pack at the hands of an adventurer.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I believe I’ve a delivery for you!” The adventurer—looking rather ruffled, perhaps from the long trek between here and the closest town—pulled out a letter with no envelope sealed by unstamped wax and a small bottle no larger than his palm from her pack. Though he didn’t recognize the bottle, other than it being a common piece of glassware sold back in Sharlayan, he caught sight of the ink stamp on the letter’s back and smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, taking both the letter and the bottle from their hands. “I’m afraid I’ve little to reward you with, at the moment.”

“Oh, no need, sir,” she said, waving her hands. “I was paid by the lady beforehand—quite generously! I was almost afraid I’d have to find you knee-deep in monsters.”

With that, the adventurer left, ready to trek back out into the humid jungle haphazardly before he could warn her about the bugs being more active and irritable at this hour thanks to the floral bloom. Usual adventurer bravado, hopefully with the skill to back it up.

He’d give it a good half a bell before trying to leave, himself—with little else to do or plan, he pried open the wax seal on the letter and sat down to read.

TO E;

Here’s your proof of life.

I found her. The “ears” made it rather easy, thankfully. ^-^

At first she didn’t seem to trust me, but I suppose Archon marks can serve more than one purpose—never expected to get interrogated about my thesis so far from home. It was refreshing to be allowed to thoroughly explain myself, for once.

She left in a rush to respond to a call from the Scions—turns out the rumors of their downfall were exaggerated—and the Warriors of Light. Plural, as in possibly more than a dozen. A very curious bunch. They were quick to accept me into the fold upon seeing me at her side, and seem to be searching for a number of their members, as if there weren’t enough of them. Soon enough I suspect I’ll find myself in extreme excess of company where before I was lacking.

The prospect is… frightening? Perhaps that’s not the word for it. But—not to sound like some sap—even though I’m glad to be away, I miss our table overlooking the harbor, often.

At least the food here is comparable. Some of my fellow scholars at the Studium had nearly convinced me that food was meant to taste offensive, and that the Last Stand was the anomaly.

Very intriguing to see the once-New-Sharlayan for myself now that I’m old enough to remember. Lots of goblins and adventurers here now, if you haven’t been. They’ve certainly renovated the place—though they’ve kept a nice plaza free from “gobbie brainthoughts, pshkohh”. (Does the Studium offer lessons on gobbiespeak? You’d think I’d know, but I don’t. If not, they should think about it.)

I hate that it’s true that exercise and fresh air make you feel better. Utterly awful. Why can’t my body simply adapt to a more sedentary lifestyle? Stop laughing, that’s rude.

It’s likely unsafe for me to keep in touch—did you know that the Bibliothecs have no qualms about sending assassins overseas should it best suit their interests—but if you ever want for an ear (or pair of eyes, I suppose) to receive another scathing critique of the gleaner’s life, direct your letters to a Tataru Taru in Aldenard through a postmoogle. She is the Scions’ secretary, if I’ve understood correctly.

Don’t let that oversized plant you’re after get you with its sap—if it’s the seedkin I believe it to be, it’ll do something awful to your aetheric balance should even a few droplets get on your skin and you’ll be ill for weeks. Better not to question how I know, just that I do from a look at your current list of assignments. I’ve sent along some medicine should the worst come to fruition, if my warning is a touch too late.

Travel safe. By Thaliak’s grace may the waters you sail over be smooth.

Oh, and—thank you. Truly. The world would sooner end ere I forget the good you’ve done me.

ALLE.

[sweet-lost-husbands]

Break Us (If Only You Could Help It)

Jack Kline x Dean Winchester x Castiel x Sam Winchester | Whump | Injured Jack Kline | Gunshot Wound | Jack kline has three Dads | Leg Wound | 3rd Hurt/Comfort Word count: 2.8k Summary: They are on a hunt and Dean accidently shoots Jack. He is determined to make up for his mistake and patch Jack up no matter the cost. Warnings: Serious injury, blood, gore, gunshot wounds, taking out the bullet, field surgery, accidental torture. Italics are the character's thoughts REQUESTS ARE OPEN Tags: @marchtothefuckingsea

This was the first hunt back after Cas had been tortured by some angels. He was strong so not many things in this world made him break and he was ready to get back out there.

Team free will 2.0 carefully made their trek deeper into the forest, they had been walking for hours already and exhaustion pinched at their muscles. They were supposed to take down an ancient god who lived out here and sent minions out to every corner of the world to sacrifice on her behalf.

Then things started lunging at them from the bushes. Sam and Dean quickly began shooting while Cas and Jack launched into battle with their angel blades.

One grabbed Dean, sending them into a struggle for his gun. The monster managed to secure the nozzle of the weapon and Dean made to shoot but at the last moment it pulled away. In the midst of the chaos, a choked scream rang out piercing that thick layer of silence. They all knew who it belonged to; it was impossible not to recognise. Castiel quickly rushed to Jack’s aid. A single bullet wound etched into his leg. Normally it wouldn’t have been an issue but the warding’s carved into every tree for miles rendered him as vulnerable as a human.

Sam took a glance at Dean who was frozen with fear at what he had just done, and then overturned with rage as something jumped him.

“Me and Dean got this! Get him out of here!” Sam yelled over his shoulder.

Blood spewed onto the damp ground a lot faster than Cas would like to admit while the wound itself drew cries of agony from the young boy. Despite Jack’s pleas, Castiel tugged him up and heavied an arm over his shoulder, guiding him away as fast as possible.

“Jack, you have to work with me here, I know it hurts but we need to get you to safety.” Cas said urgently but gentle.

Jack obeyed and did what little he could to help, to take even just some of his weight off his dad.

“Very good.” Castiel praised but it soon became unsustainable, and Jack slumped against him. Castiel knew that having him in a standing position made him bleed out faster, but they weren’t a safe enough distance away yet.

Jack’s head dropped and for only a moment, his eyes fluttered shut. Cas could hear how his breathing became a struggle and how his body trembled like it needed to get away from itself.

“Jack, can you hear me.” Cas’s tone was growing further worried by the second.

This shouldn’t have happened.

“Yes.” Jack mumbled weakly.

“I know you don’t want to, but you have to put pressure on your leg.”

They kept hobbling away from the ongoing fight, trying to create as much distance as they could.

“No….. ‘t’s gonna hurt. I can’t. Pleaseee.”

When he made no attempt to apply pressure, Castiel slowly eased his weight onto a tree and took off his trench coat, tying it tightly.

“Aghhhh. Please don’t, not any tighter.” He whimpered, resisting, but Cas shoved his hands to the side and continued. Jack cried out as the pressure slowly increased with each movement of Cas’s hands. He felt like he was suffocating, the pressure of the wound combined with the pressure of the trench coat. He flailed around the tree trunk, trying to give himself enough leverage to push away but he couldn’t, the grip Cas had on him was unyielding.

Eventually Cas was satisfied, and he returned to underneath his arm and they went off.

“I’m sorry but that had to be done.”

Jack didn’t respond, it was taking all of his energy just to keep himself up right. To his dismay, Cas kept making sure he didn’t fiddle with the makeshift bandage. It didn’t matter so much though, because the more it soaked with blood, the looser it felt and that brought him some solace to the pain.

They came to a clearing and Cas slowly eased Jack down onto the thick grass. Seeing his son like this, hurt Castiel in ways angels weren’t meant to feel.

“I’m so sorry Jack, this shouldn’t have happened. I promised your mother that-.” He cut himself off, not wanting to continue and peered at the damage.

He didn’t like how the trench coat was almost completely soaked through with blood. He carefully pulled it off, ignoring Jacks quiet sobs and the way he tried to shield himself from probing hands.

It was deep but not through and through, the bullet was still somewhere in there. A sudden wave of nausea hit Cas when he realised that someone was going to have to take it out- and soon. And he didn’t know if he’d have the heart to do that to him.

“Hey listen to me, okay? Dean and Sam will come for us when they are done, but for now I have to do everything I can to stop the bleeding. You’re going to be just fine.” The uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. Sam and Dean mostly patched each other up, he was at a loss with how to help Jack; even though he wanted to more than anything, and that killed him from the inside.

Not missing a beat, he pressed his hand firmly against the wound and shifted so that most of his weight was on it. Jack immediately started to scream and thrash, the sudden pain rising above manageable levels. It was hard to control him since he only had one hand, but he did his best.

“It’s going to be okay; it’s all going to be okay.” He soothed, though he doubted it brought much comfort considering what he was doing. Jack squirmed relentlessly beneath him and it broke Cas’s heart even more.

Cas just hoped that Sam and Dean would come and that they’d know what to do. Surely, he didn’t have to be the one to abandon all of his morals and take bullet out or even worse, try and treat him with his butchered first aid knowledge.

~

"HEY!" Dean screamed as they finally caught sight of the duo. He and Sam urged into a sprint until they reach them. It had only been about 15 minutes since the accident, but it felt like a lifetime.

Jack was down, begging and whimpering, curled into the foetal position as much as Cas would allow while being on top of him and pressing down on his leg. “Sam, Dean, thank god you’re here.” He lowered his voice for the next bit. “I don’t know what to do.” Cas’s cheeks where red and puffy and still held the faintest dampness.

Sam knelt down, Dean hovering over him. “Jack, let us take a look.” Jack didn’t answer so he made the decision for him, then turned to Cas. “Try and hold him down the best you can, the more he moves the quicker he will bleed out.”

Those words sounded like a glimmer of hope in Cas’s eyes, and he slowly released and made his way to Jack’s head before applying light force to his shoulders, easing him onto his back. The way he visually relaxed when the pressure left, made them all share a concerned glance.

Cas shifted so his face was in Jack’s line of sight. “I’m right here okay, just focus on my face.” He whispered, locking eyes with him. Dean knelt down on his other side and squeezed his hand, letting him know that he was surrounded by family and that they sure as hell weren’t going to let anything happen to him.

Sam began to poke around the wound, ignoring all sharp sounds and half cut cries that escaped Jack’s mouth. Dean intensively held on harder and started to rub soothing circles up his arm. He couldn’t just do nothing, especially since he had caused all this. He had caused Jack so much suffering.

He wasn’t sure that Jack would ever forgive him for this but why would he? He didn’t even forgive himself.

“Dean, I’m scared.” Jack spoke softly, blood bubbling up in the corner of his mouth. His eyes as big as they always were; but now they made Dean desperately want to look away, because he was afraid, he would cry.

Cas quickly found the words Dean hadn’t. “We are not going to let anything happen to you.” He comforted giving him a small kiss on the forehead.

Dean’s head was down, probably in shame, trying to hide the water welling up in his eyes. Though at this point they all had some wetness threatening to break through.

“Cas.” Sam broke the moment and forced them to be strong once again. “Cover his ears.”

“What-.” Cas choked, his fear once again rising.

“Just do it.”

Cas covered Jack’s ears with the palms of his hands.

“Good.” Sam met eyes with Dean and Cas, they both wore the same shattered look on their faces. He wasn’t going to make that go away either. “His injuries.” He took a breath peering below at the blood covering his fingers. “He is losing to much blood. We need to get the bullet out and cauterise the wound.”

Those words made all of their hearts drop, including Sam’s; who had found out that saying it aloud, hurt a lot more than thinking it.

“But we can’t-” Dean started.

Cas cut him off, wanting to get his point across. “I won’t do that do him!”

The conflict in Sam’s face was evident. “I don’t see another way….. unless you guys would rather lose him.”

Cas thanked heaven and hell and everything in between that Jack couldn’t hear their conversation right now. The truth was he really didn’t want to do this to Jack but he agreed with Sam, and no, he couldn’t lose Jack. He’d do anything not to lose him.

Something seemed to change in Dean immediately. “I’ll do it, Cas pass me your angel blade.”

Sam flashed Dean a look that was very nearly stunned. “Dean, are you sure you want to-”

“Yes, Sammy. I did this to him so I gotta be the one to fix it, if he dies and I don’t do everything I possibly can to save him…… I don’t think I’ll survive that.” There was a pause. “Look the kid has been through a lot, comfort him, hold him still, tell him that everything is going to be okay, let me be the bad guy.”

A long silence fell upon the group, but it didn’t last long. Jack was losing time and since Dean offered, they weren’t going to repute that.

“Alright.” Sam said finally, and moved to Jack’s arm, allowing Dean to take the position of his injured thigh.

“We really going through with this?” Cas asked, they all nodded their heads. Cas shifted so that he was holding down one of Jack’s arms and his shoulder while Sam had the other.

“Am I okay?” Jack asked faintly now his ears were released, almost missed in the commotion.

“You will be.” Sam flashed him a small sad smile.

Dean straddled the lower part of Jack’s legs, sterilizing Cas’s angel blade with his lighter. God had he really signed up for this.

Jack must have sensed the atmosphere change because he started to wriggle slightly, and his breathing had gone through the roof.

“What’s happening?”

Nobody wanted to answer that question.

“Dean is going to help you, make you as good as new.” Sam said, the underling trust still woven in his eyes made him want to cry. He didn’t think his heart could break more than it had that day, but he was wrong. The way Jack still trusted Dean even after what happened.

Sweat beaded his forehead, he was sickly cold and pale. He could feel something being pushed into his mouth.

“Bite.” Cas ordered.

Mixed with the warm metallic tinge of his own blood, the thick leather tasted odd in his mouth.

“Kiddo, I’m so sorry.” Dean said before deftly plunging the blade into the wound. Jack suddenly bucked up, but Sam and Cas kept him down, muttering faint apologies. He gasped choking out a strangled scream.

It felt like Dean was butchering him and he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t. Despite his dad’s attempts to distract him, nothing could take away from every movement of the hot knife in his leg. He could feel the burn as it dug deeper into tissue and he struggled against them, he needed to get away.

“Shhh, Jack I know.” Sam soothed. Followed by, “Dean, faster man.”

“I’m trying.” Dean shouted, abruptly pressing it in far further, hitting a nerve that caused Jack to shriek and spasm, leaving him breathless. “The buggers in there deep.” Oh god, please no more, was the only thought that ran through Jack’s mind.

He squeezed Cas’s and Sam’s hands harder, turning them all white. He started playing a dance, pushing against them one moment and into the floor the next, nothing gave any leverage or means for escape. He was trapped and Dean was hurting him. The pain never dimmed, only intensified every time Dean shifted and pushed. He was getting sliced open from the inside.

The belt fell from his mouth and a hoarse sound expelled from his throat. “Pleaseeee.” He was left gasping for air. “Stop, no more.”

Cas and Sam were saying things in empathetic voices, but it didn’t matter because it didn’t stop.

“I can’t. I can’t.” He pleaded.

“You can Jack, your so brave just a little longer.” Cas whispered.

He wanted to respond, to beg them to stop until they finally gave in, but Dean kept forcing it further, drawing out nothing but grunts and cries. He prayed as a final attempt for Cas to hear it.

Cas stop please, no more, stop. Agghhhhh.

It didn’t work. Although maybe it had, maybe Cas could hear it all.

He finally felt as Dean hit something other than tissue, something hard, metal. White exploded in his vision and screams tore there way out. He screamed till his throat felt like someone had torn it out with tongs, till his screams barely resembled screams anymore.

He fought.

Sam and Cas held him down.

Dean worked.

He was sure the whole forest knew he was in pain by now. His whole body tensed and jerked as Dean began to manoeuvre it apart from the flesh it had burned into.

"It hurts," Jack whimpered, his voice shaking with pain.

"I know, Jack," Sam said gently, his touch tender despite the necessary force. "But we have to do this to make you better."

Jack's pain became unbearable. Fear took hold, and he began to further resist their efforts. He tried to pull away, to escape the pain that seemed unending. But his father’s knew that they had to see this through, that it was the only way to save his life.

"Jack, you need to stay still," Castiel said firmly, his voice laced with sorrow. “This is going to take longer the more you move.”

"I can't," Jack cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Please, make it stop."

The same phrase he had been praying to Cas on repeat for the last five minutes.

In that moment, their roles shifted from caretakers to protectors. They held Jack gently but firmly, determined to do what was necessary to save his life. Dean held him close, his heart breaking at the pain his son endured.

"I'm so sorry," Sam said softly.

Dean started to pull it out, he thrashed and struggled, but his father’s held him in place, their love and determination the only thing keeping him grounded. He kept praying to Cas and at some stages he felt the resistance on Cas’s side ease up a little, but never enough.

Then finally Dean hit another nerve and darkness, blissful darkness.

~

His eyes blurred, he was aware of people faintly talking around him; but it wasn’t until he tried to move and felt someone pat him down that he realised he wasn’t alone.

“Shhh, Hey buddie, I’m right here.” It was Cas’s voice. “You’re in the impala, we are just driving back to the bunker now, your safe okay.”

He was lying delicately in Cas’s strong arms.

“How’s he doing.” Sam twisted his head around from shotgun.

“He’s still slightly cold but the angel healing as started to kick in.” Cas answered, giving Jack a light and comforting squeeze, his warmth was radiating.

“Jack, you gave us a big scare, for a moment there.” Sam finished.

Even from the back seat, he could see Dean’s white knuckles on the steering wheel.

“I’m so sorry, I should never have-”

Jack stopped him, “It’s okay Dean.”

“No, its not. You were hurt, I hurt you-”

“DEAN STOP.” His voice was louder than intended. “I’m okay now, thanks to you.”

There was a silence from him, he hoped it was Dean forgiving himself but that wasn’t likely.

Cas peered down at him, warm and loving blue eyes glinting in the reflection from the window. “I heard you, you know….. Everything you said- begged- pleaded. I’ve been tortured before but that was worse than anything I’ve ever experienced and yet somehow, I managed not to give in. I love you so much Jack, I could never lose you.”