#this ones been stewing (hah) for a while

[writingfromruins]

Have you heard the story? The story goes:

Everything is hunger to you. Down to your bones, everything is hunger. Your husband starved you in every other way he could, but he left you in the kitchen to make dinner. You don’t know how to stop the rumbling in your soul but your body, at the least, is sated. Your husband likes lamb. He wants it for dinner tonight. You press the weight of your thumb into the most recent bruise and wait for it to stop hurting.

Once there was a man and there was a wife and there was a kitchen.

Lamb for dinner tonight, he says. So small and trusting. Fed well, sheltered. Stress is bad for the meat: when you taste it you can taste fear. So the lamb does not question when the butcher comes. Why would you raise something just to kill it so young? The butcher sells you a leg of lamb, frozen. It is heavy in your arms, so so heavy. You press your thumb into the most recent bruise and it still hurts. Why would you care for something just to kill it? You were devoted and you were devoured for it. Lamb to the slaughter. When your husband presses bruises to your skin they are too familiar to be fearful. When you raise your knife in the kitchen to make dinner, there is no love in the motion of it.

Once there was murderer and a murder weapon and a corpse.

Damn if you’re not hungry though. The only want you can satisfy in great and flavorful abundance. The kitchen is yours, and under your hands meat has fallen away from bone, bone boiled into stock, and years pass as your knife taps against the cutting boards impatiently. Nothing is alive under your knives. You are hungry, so, so hungry. A creature of stomach and teeth. Devout to the only thing that he wont take, devouring , empty and hollow except for your belly, hot with good food and fine wine and bile— he calls to you from the living room for a drink and you pull the lamb out from the freezer and go give him the cold shoulder.

This is how the story goes:

You kill him. You kill him and then you season the leg of lamb with salt, pepper, fresh rosemary cutting slits in the meat so that the garlic seeps in. You arrange the lamb on a tray in the middle of peeled potatoes, so they’ll benefit from the cooking meat, and put them in the oven, with plans to make gravy from the fat drippings. Your husband, cooling in the living room, says nothing. You leave to get the fresh veggies to pair with the meal. How silly to forget them. You take your time. When you bring the men to see the corpse the lamb is done, and you serve it out- it cannot go to waste. Such a good meal, they tell you, bellies full with a transgression, not for the first time. Recognizing something in it, even if they don’t quite place what. You eat too, and are not hungry. No part of you is hungry any more. Down to your bones, you are sated.

playground myths and other formative lies // PD

[amandacanwrite]

I would like to share a few head canons for Gale Dekarios being in love with tav/you. If you liked this one and have a request for another character let me know. These ones have just been percolating for a bit.

In Battle

He tries very hard to stay near you. He doesn’t like it when you go off on your own. He knows he doesn’t quite have the strength of Karlach or the sure footedness of Astarion, but he’s not just going to let you fight everyone on your own.

Sometimes he gets a little hurt that you always put yourself in harms way/take so much of the damage on the battlefield. Don’t you know that losing you would destroy him?

You have never witnessed it, but according to the other party members he goes feral if you’re knocked unconscious.

When you wake up it’s always with your head cradled in his lap as shadowheart works on the worst of the wounds.

He does this thing with his magic where he makes his hands really cold. It feels nice on your feverish skin as he gently smooths your hair away from your face, you don’t know why you feel so nauseous and sweaty after you black out but this little gesture helps you come back smoothly.

He has a hard time sleeping after a rough encounter. He keeps waking up and making sure you’re still breathing. In the end he gives up on sleeping and just reads by the fire, calming his nerves to the sound of your steady, stable breathing.

In Camp

He is hilariously fussy about what you eat.

“No, you ABSOLUTELY CANNOT subsist off of a loaf of bread, three olives and a bottle of wine. We are no longer young scholars barely SCRAPING by—“

Very resourceful when it comes to what you can scrape together out of barrels around camp. You were very skeptical when you watched him putting a variety of different bones into a cauldron as you left him back in camp one day. But you came back to a rich stew full of potatoes, some wild rice and even some cut up apple in the mix.

He likes it when you play with his hair. But he has to very pointedly avoid it if he’s in the middle of reading up on something.

“Darling, are you certain you’re not practiced in the arcane arts? I do think you’ve got some magic in those fingertips of yours, at the very least, with how quickly they can put me to sleep.”

When You’re Alone

It’s simple. He worships you. Perhaps it’s because his last lover was a goddess but it seems to come easy for him; the reverent words, the gentle touches, the utter devotion. Sometimes you catch him just… looking at you. His eyes softly hooded, a relaxed curve to his lips. It’s your favorite to ask what’s on his mind when he looks at you like that.

“Hm? Oh, nothing much. I’ve just been observing. Did you know you purse your lips when you’re reading something that you disagree with? Yes—hah—just like that.”

He loves to read WITH you. Especially loves to show you some of his favorite tomes. He’ll get you all nestled up against him and hold the book down in front of you. He reads much faster than you, so he busies himself kissing behind your ear or playing with your hair until you turn the page.

Gods does he love it when you ask him questions about something to do with magic. He loves watching the glint in your eye when he’s helped you understand something.

You love it when you get him rolling on a topic of theory that you know he doesn’t get to talk about much. Sometimes he loses you when he gets into the minutiae, but he’s so damn cute when he’s ranting about the wonder in the world.

In Intimate Moments

(Potential NSFW below.)

Of course it is not a surprise that he’s a generous lover. What is a surprise is how demanding he can be when he feels like it. He knows you are no stranger to a challenge and he loves to make things more exciting by presenting you with one.

“Of course I’m aware of our companions in camp. But it’s not as if we can afford ourselves more privacy. You’re just going to have to quiet those lovely little sounds you make while I touch you… let’s see… it was here wasn’t it? Ah, ah… shhhh, my love. Those pointy ears of Astarion’s might pick even that tiny sound.”

Gods does he know how to string words together to leave you completely undone.

Sometimes foreplay is mostly talk. He can get you going without even touching you.

“My love, I’ve not been able to stop thinking of the ways I want to touch you all day. Shall I tell you what’s been on my mind?”

His breath tickles against your ear as his hands smooth over your clothed body, telling you how he wants to take you. It’s all the more flustering when you know he always keeps his word.

Love making always starts with a kiss, deep and slow.

You feel him smile into the kiss when he slips his fingers into the front of your trousers and he feels just how aroused he’s made you.

“You are exquisite. A delicacy of the highest quality. Do you know that?”

He’s not one to bang it out for a quickie. He doesn’t like to feel like he’s stealing his time with you, or like he’s a young man again and hastily getting whatever he can before heading back to the dormitories. Every touch, every word, every thrust is slow and deliberate. He wants to relish the feeling of it all. He wants to soak you in.

Somehow, he always smells good. Like cinnamon and tea and… some earthen, herbaceous scent you cant place.

So many cuddles after you’re done.

[bucknastysbabe]

i'm like two years late but i finally binged the 1st and 2nd season this week! currently obsessing over the concept of cole w/ rhaenyra's valyrian-looking (but bastard nonetheless) daughter, returning after 5 years on dragonstone. thoughts?? anyway glad i found your blog it's actually making me more insane <33

Yessss I like this and decided to make an angsty lil songfic!!! Thank you for waiting! I’m so glad you love my stuff it’s so rewarding!!!! COLEWIVES RIDE AT DAWN TO PONDER LIFE ON A LOG AND BE HORNY

I hope you enjoy mwah mwah❤️

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Song fic, Velarystrong Princess, TW: very twisted thinking, homicidal ideation, hate sex, sadism/masochism themes, bastardphobia and dornish racism match made in heaven, obvious poison tree allegory and trying to work through both sides own mistakes screech, ye olde seroquel hours, Criston gets his head fucked with, angst, dark, rough sex, quickie, pnv!sex

Taglist: @aemonds-holy-milk @aemondfairy @elaratyrell @fairysluna @lovelykhaleesiii @peachysunrize @starogeorgina @towriteloveontheirarms @zaldritzosrose

You were ten years of age leaving the Red Keep. There was naught much but scorn and pain surrounding the place. As Rhaenyra’s first, you were a baby girl born with dark hair and dark eyes. Save the silvery streak in the thick curls— still, that wasn’t much to help.

You could cry and yell until you were blue in the face claiming your dark eyes shone like indigo in the right light. Aegon would laugh and laugh. Queen Alicent had remarked in passing that your features were too ‘strong’ to overlook. She didn’t mean the Valyrian traits.

Your family left for Dragonstone, anger in your heart, wishing them to choke on their words. The whole lot of the green-clad faction. The morning upon leaving was seared into your heart, tucked away to stew upon. You were straggling behind, trying to decide whether to desecrate something in the room or not.

A knock upon the door made your head whip up. You opened the heavy oak up, staring at one Ser Criston Cole. Your mother always instructed you to stay away from Alicent’s loyal kingsguard. His dark eyes scanned over you and the room. His head tilted toward the right as he gruffed, “It’s time to leave, Princess.”

He spat the last word out like bile. It made your skin prickle uncomfortably while grabbing your soft-knitted dragon dolly— black as night. You walked beside the knight, knowing he’d never much liked your mother or any of you, your ‘father’ Laenor, and Ser Harwin. You missed Ser Harwin as he was good and kind.

Ser Criston looked down at you, his lips twitching.

“Do you suppose you’ll enjoy your new home? A fine one for the future Princess of Dragonstone.”

You eyed the bigger man back, anger growing in your chest. Instead, you replied quietly, not wishing to incite his notorious rage, “I do not wish for it. My mother has enough issues. My brother Prince Jacaerys shall receive the inheritance.”

It’s people like him who made you decide that at such a young age. The anger, the scorn, the stares all the time from court and ‘family’.

Ser Criston let out a bitter little laugh, “Hah- you might be smarter than the whole lot. You’re sharp and strong.”

That was the end of talking with Ser Criston. The seed had been planted along the many others. Alicent, Aegon, Aemond, Otto, the list went on and grew.

You were back in King’s Landing once more. Now a woman grown of eight and ten. Everything felt different and the old burning in your chest began to rise once more. You hoped the deep anger would shield you from this cutting place— something to keep the pain from sinking in. You were here for another claim of bastardy, this time from the Sea Snake’s brother.

You weren’t a child anymore. Under your veil of anger and haughty face, there remained a well-developed princess. Lovely sweet fruit and honey, hiding the blackened insides. The stares of the staff and onlookers in the yard shifted to the now older children of Rhaenyra.

Jace and Luke watched the much taller form of Aemond sparring with the white knight. You had learned the truth about him after bothering your mother enough. He was still handsome, spry, and dangerous despite his age. Aemond made Criston yield, turning to face your brothers.

“Nephews, have you come to train?” He asked.

You stood behind them, frowning, sharing none of the shock and awe they displayed. Aemond likely suffered from the same as you— swallowed whole with righteous anger. Ser Criston peered at the boys, then you.

All three of you passed, the knight sipping from his wineskin. He was leering, thick brows down as dark orbs roved your face, down to your tits and hips. You spat, “Mind yourself, Ser.”

He almost choked on his water, Aemond’s brow raising and Jace grabbing your arm to speed along.

How dare he look at you like some slab of meat when he hated everything you were. Who you were born from. Jace murmured, “Come now, don’t let him rile you up, you know how it’s going to be here.” Luke was frowning, the princeling worried.

As the day passed, you felt your mind head in different directions. Your mother had even checked on you, asking why you were so distant. You shrugged, claiming to be unsettled by the events of earlier. Daemon sliced the man’s head in half in front of everyone.

As they dressed you in a room, you pondered Cole. How it would feel to slap him, make him admit he wanted another princess. He desired a bastard, a bastard born of the woman he lived to hate. You wanted him. The hate in your heart needed suffering for him— even if it reflected on your hypocrisy.

The conflicted feelings turned swiftly into conviction through the wretched dinner you sat through. Putrid comments from your uncles. Fighting and laughing, crying and dying, the premonition that this would be the only time all of the ‘family’ would sit in a room.

It was sad in a way. The fact that everything had been cleaved in half before anything good could come forth. Not that you could do anything. You’d reap what they had sown, the sins of the forefathers. You could wallow in feelings that always turned back to the same damn thoughts.

Let them all burn in agony. Feel the pain you’d dealt with for years, a firstborn bastard with a cunt. It was such easy pickings when your mother remained heir. As she was entitled to be. Sometimes it seemed easier if she just let Aegon’s idiotic self become king or hire some faceless man to kill them in their sleep.

There you were. The anger and fantasies took the pain of real life away. Blooming in a million separate ways, oh, but what if? Your lips curled up walking down the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, fingers trailing across the walls after being dismissed from dinner. You narrowed your eyes at the familiar form placed outside your door.

You stopped near Ser Criston, leaning against the frame of the door. He nodded, “Princess.” Criston had spat it at you like an insult again, likely ruffled from your behavior earlier. Why was he here of all places?

“Shouldn’t a warrior like you be outside of Luke’s door so Aemond doesn’t go carve his eye out?”

His eyes narrowed, yet Criston’s lips spread into a thin smile. The marcher replied, “No. It’s for protection. A pretty unmarried princess like you? Most men here would open their door. So in you go.” He opened the door, jerking his head with a grimace. You caught the implication swiftly, bristling.

“Oh? Because I’m on the wrong side of the blanket you think me to go out and fuck the men of the castle? My wretched uncles, who don’t give less of a shit about me?”

You shook with anger, trying to shove the pure hate back into the little pocket in your breast. Ser Criston gripped your arm, escorting you in with a growl, kicking the door shut behind him. He tossed off his helmet, hackles raised as his eyes studied you, his other hand coming up to hold the other arm as you tried to squirm away.

Criston’s voice was more shaky than you expected as he spoke. It was a bladed jab, “I’d almost say she birthed you on her own if it weren’t for that hair, you’re just as spoiled and miserable as your mother was at this age. You’re reckless, not to be trusted.”

Your lips pursed as he held you in place. The anger wanted to burst back out, fire and blood indeed. No, no, you needed to nurse it for when the time was right. Even if the little metaphorical pocket you’d sewn the seeds of resentments into had grown into a cavern. A void of straggling branches and vines only filled for a moment.

If the knight in front of you knew how fucked up you were, he would likely seal you off in the black cells. Father above, your mother would too. You’d be mad and alone— but the fantasies and resentments would keep you company.

Eyes gliding up to Cole you finally replied, “I suppose I am reckless. This place makes me mad. How you tolerate it is beyond me.” You’d rather not speak on your mother at the moment, but you sighed, “My mother has done good by me. She’s loved us all. Yet she doomed us with our nature, especially with my little silver brothers.”

Criston seemed to like your response, hands easing off you. He hummed, “You are sharp. Of tongue and mind. That’s never changed. Alas, you’d never know peace until you’re well married off and away.”

You crossed your arms, putting some paces between you two. There was a manic laugh bubbling from your chest, a harsh noise, “I’ll never know peace wherever I go. None of us will, alas certainly not you either. Not with what weighs on your soul.”

The Kingsguard’s long legs closed the space, hand darting out to grip the side of your head as he growled, “Don’t speak of things you know nothing of. Ill-begotten wretch.”

You grinned.

Criston didn’t have the luxury of nursing his anger. It appeared the more he tried to hold it in, the more it seeped out. His entire body was on the attack as he glared at you, eyes wide, teeth close to baring, thick brow twisted up. He didn’t sew a pocket and you wondered if it was worse or better for the soul.

You leaned up into his angered visage, lips close to his, your lips split into a mocking smile. Something was invigorating about this— watching his nostrils flare as the brunette sharply exhaled. He hadn’t released your head, breath choppy.

“You’re confusing me,” Criston gritted out.

“I want you of course.”

Spoken as if it was the most simple thing. Gods this felt fucking good.

He smashed his lips to yours, nose bumping together as he turned his head, lowering to your height. Your nails dug into his neck, inexperienced lips molding to his pace. It was rough, brutal really. Criston’s tongue ungracefully slipped into your mouth when his hand slapped your ass, prompting you to yelp.

You smacked him back on his cheek, pulling away. Criston growled, “You’re definitely on the wrong side of the coin and blanket, get over here.”

You surged back to smash your lips against his, gripping at a handful of dark hair, groaning as teeth and lips meshed. He turned you toward the bed, bigger frame crowding yours, shuffling steps until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You hissed as he pushed you back, your body bouncing once.

Criston immediately pinned you down, his cold plate digging into your soft skin. He breathed, “Sick goddamn spawn. I see the thorns underneath.” One of his knees propped against the bed, teeth subtly dragging down your throat. A hand kneaded and groped your breast, drawing a low moan from your throat— the edge of pain sent more throbbing below.

You wanted him to hurt. Moreso you to hurt and throb with pain, entering that state of bliss within. All of Criston’s physical soft spots were practically hidden, you reaching down to undo his sword belt clumsily. The knight smirked.

“You want my cock? Fitting for a natural born off a whore.”

You spat back, “Says the man who fucked the whore and now wants her filthy bastard. Is it my cunning, sly nature? My natural wanton lust that weakens you so?”

He gritted his jaw, hand slapping down next to your head with a curse. Criston swallowed heavily, both of his hands rucking up your dress, ripping anything in the way. He’d rip you too. A nice surprise you supposed, perhaps not for him.

You taunted with a grin. “You’re weak you know? Must be the Dornish blood. Ser Criston, you just need the feeling of a noble cunt to keep you going, hm?”

He was feverishly undoing his breeches and padded tunic. Shoulders shaking with anger, disappointment, something else. Criston cursed as his fingers slipped again, huffing, “Fuck you.”

You waited with a smug look, looking forward to this new, powerful experience.

His dusky cock was flush and hard, bigger than what you imagined. You weren’t sure what the imagination even was— your fantasies were feelings, not pictures. He felt at your bare cunt, thick calloused fingers unceremoniously delving into the slick heat.

You grunted, the pain giving way to more. So much more.

Criston pulled his fingers back, brows raising in alarm as the maiden’s blood covered his fingers. You watched him and quickly jerked his hand over, eyes flicked upwards. The man shook harder, gasping, “Gods fucking dammit— damn you, damn you!”

You suckled your essence and blood off his fingers, biting at the tips, just enough to leave the fingers throbbing. The anguish upon his shining eyes and his furrowed brow was gorgeous. More arousal filled your belly, moaning softly. He rumbled out a low noise, breath heavy, the knowledge he’d fucked something up due to instinct again eating the man alive.

“You broke it, now take me,” you demanded, licking blood off your lower lip.

Criston let out a harsh noise akin to a sob as he aligned himself with your soaking pussy. There was a long pause, likely a useless prayer in his head. He inhaled against your pulsing neck. You moaned again as the thick tip of his prick entered. The earlier stinging and pulling returning, the pain sending your lashes to fluttering.

“Mm- fuck- don’t stop, hard, I want it hard,” you rasped.

Criston moaned weakly, jerking his hips forward, breath hitching against as he had filled you to the hilt. Guilt and shame roiled off his frame. Meanwhile, you could breathe it in, feeling like a god. The power you held over this sick, pitiful man who happened to be a warrior. Your walls shifted and burned, something to relish.

“Come on now, take me Ser,” you cooed, a hand skating down his neck to squeeze. He thrust again, the pair of you gutturally groaning. You spread your legs wider, planting them on the bed, shuddering at the fullness and dull throb.

He began to shake the bed with the force of his fucking, grunting, and huffing into your neck. Criston would hold up sometimes to mutter pitifully, shivering from head to toe. His handsome face screwed up, thick brows knit as he groaned.

You panted, “Feels so good, fuck.”

The friction was nice, but his broken mumbling made you grow dizzy with arousal. Guilt lurked beneath, you shoving it away with a grip at his hair or bite to his jaw.

You were crying out in ecstasy now as he had both knees on the bed, holding your hips up as his throbbing cock pushed and pushed into your soft core, the heat growing overwhelming. Sweat shone on your brow and breast, Criston faring no better. You felt like a ragdoll, the white knight doing all the work, yet you pulled the strings.

You smiled in delirium, imagining him guiltily stripping his cock for days after this. Unable to look you in the eye ever again. Gods, gods, you needed this more. Criston moaned your name, his shaking hand peeling off your hip to swirl at the sensitive little nub at the apex of your thighs.

You cried out again, arousal surging into your veins, squirming and milking his cock. Criston’s hips stuttered as he whined something about forgiveness. Your chest felt full and fuzzy, content, idly wondering if he was always so emotional.

Soon, the stuffed feeling of your cunt, the nerves singing from his insistent rubbing of thumb had you on the edge, mewling in bliss. You whined, “Yes, so good Ser Criston, ’m gonna come, my white knight.”

He broke down again, falling forward and sobbing into your neck, the sound of his pain like a bolt of ecstasy. You clenched up around him, head thrown back as you moaned and huffed, lips curled up as the burn spread across your frame— cunt weeping and pulsing around him.

“Fuck yes! Yes!”

It wasn’t much long after you writhed and clawed at his throat, Criston pulled out, sniffling and sulky as he came with little whines, face dark with embarrassment and self-hatred. His cock spit onto your thigh and the bedding as he heaved. He sat on the bed, big mournful eyes on you, the evidence of his lust.

You easily rolled away, panting. With a stretch and final savor of the ache, you padded to the washroom to ring the bell for servants to draw a bath. Leaning against the frame, you watched the broken man, lost in his thoughts, silent tears down his flushed cheeks. You scoffed, “Fall to your needs again? Perhaps you’d be a better guard dog if they gelded you.”

You turned without a word more.

He was crying softly in the other room, once again broken down. You had nothing to say. Ser Criston deserved to remember what he was, a whore.

Cherishing your newfound feelings, your chest had begun to ache for more. You sighed, internally nursing those seeds, some had sprouted, you couldn’t let them grow much more. Only allowed for when the time came. Now was a tease, a glimpse of something much more powerful that would emerge when the realm erupted.

He left eventually, you sitting in a tub, eyes closed, humming softly as the servant brushed your bastard hair. Dripping with honey, filled with thorns and poison. Mayhaps you’d be too gone a day, but now? There was much more to life yet again.

[iztarshi]

Fandom: tmnt 1987

-

Raphael wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday and starts by listing to himself the reasons why that’s nonsense.

1) If he was sold at the legal size of six inches then he was likely anywhere from two to seven years old at the time, it’s been six or seven years since then, he’s been alive for fourteen years at most. But Splinter decided they were adults this year and Leonardo decided that meant these should be their eighteenth birthdays, and Michelangelo was excited to throw eighteenth birthday parties and here they all are.

2) It’s not his birthday, it’s an arbitrary day Splinter picked for him.

3) What does being eighteen even mean for a turtle? If it was twenty-one maybe it would mean Leonardo would let them have some champagne, but eighteen? He could vote, if turtles had the vote. He could enlist, which, hah, nope, he’s been fighting for years already he’s not upgrading to an actual war. Anyway, he doesn’t think the new Don’t Ask Don’t Tell laws would cover someone not asking if you’re a turtle.

At this point in the list, Michelangelo comes to wake him up and he puts his head under the covers.

“Wake up, dude, it’s your birthday!” Michelangelo announces.

“I don’t want a birthday, I want more sleep,” Raphael says.

“But I made breakfast…”

The blanket provides excellent defense from Michelangelo’s puppy dog eyes, so Raphael is able to say, “I don’t care,” and listen to Michelangelo walk away no matter how dragging and sad he makes his footsteps.

4) Why is Raphael’s birthday about making Michelangelo happy? Raphael would be much happier if everyone just forgot it.

Stewing on this keeps him busy until Leonardo comes to wake him up with a pat on the shoulder. “It’s nearly lunchtime,” he says. “You missed training.”

“Thanks for the birthday present,” Raphael answers. But he can’t lie in bed all day, and he’s getting hungry, so he does get up.

Technically the party is this evening, but clearly Michelangelo can’t contain his excitement. There are banners and balloons, there are party foods mostly consisting of a variety of mini-pizzas. There’s music. Great, this is going to last all afternoon. At least the food looks good.

“Happy Birthday!” Michelangelo tells him.

Raphael rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you said.”

“Have some pizza,” Donatello suggests, handing him a plate of his favourites. At least the food is good.

The food that evening is good too, the cake is tasty enough Raphael’s glad he didn’t find a way to ruin it. The others let him pick the channel when they watch TV and shrug off how obviously he’s sulking his way through his birthday. So, that’s nice, at least, even if the whole thing is just grating like sandpaper on his shell.

It’s still a huge relief to fall into bed and forget about birthdays for another year.

-

Raphael wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday and doesn’t realise this until Michelangelo says, “Wake up, dude, it’s your birthday!”

He opens his eyes and blinks at the other turtle. “No, it’s not. That was yesterday.”

Michelangelo rolls his eyes. “Come on, I made breakfast.”

“No seriously,” Raphael says. “You had better not be trying to make me celebrate my birthday twice in a row because I’m not doing it, Michelangelo.”

He follows Michelangelo into the kitchen where there are pancakes because Michelangelo has been branching out a bit from pizza recently. Leonardo is eating one with maple syrup and chopped olives.

“Happy Birthday!” he and Donatello chorus.

“Not you too,” Raphael moans. “Come on, wasn’t yesterday enough?”

Donatello frowns. “What happened yesterday?”

“My birthday, unfortunately.”

“Quite joking, dude, it’s not funny,” Michelangelo says.

“Who’s joking?” Raphael answers. “You guys are the ones screwing around.”

“It could be a minor time anomaly,” Donatello says, thoughtfully. “With all the time travel we’ve had in the last few years the time-space continuum might take a while to stabilise.”

“Seriously?” Raphael demands. “It’s seriously my birthday.”

“It seriously is,” Leonardo says, so earnestly that Raphael gives up on it being a joke.

“Great,” Raphael says. “So what do we do about it?”

Donatello shrugs. “Just carry on as normal. Having to relive one day isn’t so bad.”

“I’m not celebrating my birthday twice in a row.”

Michelangelo’s face crumples. “I was up all night preparing…”

Raphael caves like he pretty much knew he would. “Fine, fine.” He supposes he can endure one more birthday.

-

Raphael wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday and he’s not even that surprised. As soon as Michelangelo cheerfully announces, “Wake up, dude, it’s your birthday!” he stomps into the living area to find Donatello.

“You said this time anomaly would be over by today,” he accuses Donatello, who is biting into a pancake.

“I. What?” Donatello says.

“I’m stuck in a time loop, this is the third time I’ve had my birthday, and I’m not putting up with it. You said it was a time anomaly caused by all our time travelling visitors, so fix it.”

Donatello stands up, looking at Raphael as if he’s suddenly much more interesting than the pancakes. “Come into my lab and I’ll see what I can do.”

After some prodding with various technological devices, Donatello hmms thoughtfully and goes to rummage around in the back of his lab.

“Aha!” he says. “My time stopping device.”

“That can break the time loop?”

“Techinically, no. It can only freeze one person or object in time. But if the entire world is resetting every time you reach midnight - or an arbitrary time somewhere between 11 pm and 9 am - then having you frozen ought to prevent it. The world will be able to carry on as normal.”

“Uh. Th-that does not sound great for me.” Raphael starts backing away nervously. He was not expecting to be sacrificed to save the world from a time anomaly when he asked for Donatello’s help!

“Oh, I’d unfreeze you the next day. Once time has moved on it should be fine to bring you back into the timestream.”

Raphael sighs in relief. “You have an inimitable bedside manner, Donatello. Let’s do that, then.”

“You don’t want to wait until after the party?” Donatello asks. There’s a teasing gleam in his eye so Raphael doesn’t bother answering that one.

“Haha,” Raphael says. “Get on with it.”

-

Raphael wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday already knowing exactly what day it is.

This time Donatello tries sending him to a different dimension which would have led to a really nice visit with the Neutrinos if Michelangelo didn’t insist on coming along and telling everyone it’s Raphael’s birthday. The Neutrinos do know how to party and if Michelangelo is the one who’s really having a good time, well. At least someone is.

This time they’re all still up at midnight and Raphael is sits in a flying car with a tremendous view over the biggest city in dimension X nervously watching the clock on the dashboard tick its way up.

-

Raphael wakes up in bed on his eighteenth birthday.

-

By the twelfth loop Donatello is out of ideas and increasingly upset when Raphael answers, “We tried that already,” to everything he suggests. He spends the afternoon and evening crashing furiously around his lab while Michelangelo tries to throw a party for Raphael anyway and Leonardo and Splinter both fret.

-

On the thirteenth loop Raphael doesn’t tell Donatello.

When Michelangelo greets him with, “Wake up, dude, it’s your birthday!” he gets out of bed mechanically.

Nothing feels real at this point. The pancakes look like the ones in adverts where the too perfect syrup is really motor oil. Raphael stares at them and wonders whether he’s doomed to an eternity of seeing these pancakes.

No one notices how out of it he is. They try to cheer him up the same way they did on the first loop, letting him pick the movies — he picks different ones — and not mentioning that he’s quiet and irritable.

-

Raphael wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday for the fourteenth time and runs away from home. He has to move fast to be out of the way before Michelangelo comes to wake him up but he does leave a note.

I’m not celebrating my birthday this year. Please leave me alone and I’ll be back tomorrow.

Raphael

Michelangelo’s going to be really upset and they’re all going to worry, especially since he left his turtle comm behind, but it will all be the same tomorrow. Like it never happened at all. So how mean can it be, really?

He watches art house movies, sneaks into a live comedy show, and eats pizza on the roof at just the right distance from a loud concert. For today he can almost forget he’s in a time loop, after all he’s doing something different from yesterday.

-

It would probably take weeks to run out of things to do in New York, even once Raphael’s done the ones that really appeal to him. Even limited to things happening on a single day. It takes four days for him to no longer enjoy doing them alone. Even looping his birthday would be better than never seeing his family.

So he tries bringing them along.

It’s not even hard to convince them. “Hey, there’s a baseball game we can see from some roofs. I want to go.” There’s no argument, it’s his birthday, and they all enjoy a baseball game now and then.

But they bring the birthday with them. Not the banners, or the cake, or the food, but something less tangible. Everyone wants to talk about his birthday more than they want to talk about the game. Chatting about the past year, about the upcoming year, teasing him about past birthdays. Michelangelo sneaks cotton candy and crackerjack from the concessions stand and leaves money for it. Raphael is offered first pick and the others watch to see if he enjoys the snacks. Why does he hate that so much?

By the time they get home for the party dinner Raphael is snippy and sulking. He refuses to eat any cake.

Why did he miss these guys so badly, again?

-

Raphael wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday for the nineteenth time and refuses to get out of bed. Michelangelo’s cheery wake up call is ignored and when Leonardo comes to shake him awake for lunch he just moans and vanishes into his shell.

Leonardo sits down and rubs his shell through the covers. “Are you not feeling well?”

“No,” Raphael mutters. Ill isn’t exactly what he’s feeling, but he thinks he deserves the sympathy.

“Try to get a bit more sleep then,” Leonardo says.

Michelangelo brings him soup for lunch instead of pizza and everyone sits around him while he eats. It’s somehow very different from the way they kept making him the centre of attention yesterday and even kind of nice.

Afterwards he curls up under the blanket again and it’s not long before he hears the soft, halting patter of rat feet mixed with the soft thud of a staff.

Splinter sits down on the bed and puts one hand against Raphael’s head to check for a fever. “Can you tell me what hurts, my turtle?” he asks.

Raphael sits up and then wishes he hadn’t when it makes him taller than Splinter. He’s always been taller than Splinter — at least since he stopped being palm-sized — but he would have liked to pretend otherwise. Maybe what he needs right now is a pair of big hands prepared to stop him walking his little flippers off the table.

“Uh, it’s not really…” he starts.

Splinter nods. “You are upset about your birthday?”

“No. I mean, yeah, but also I’m in a time loop.” It sounds abrupt and stupid said like that, Raphael groans. “Don’t tell Donatello, he already did his best. I don’t want to burst his bubble by telling him science is not always the answer.”

Splinter is quiet for a long moment and when he speaks it is slowly and thoughtfully. “I assume we were all aware of this at first?”

“Yeah.”

“And in previous loops I left it to Donatello to deal with?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s his thing, right? He said it was a time anomaly caused by all the time travelling lately, but —” Raphael takes a deep breath against the sting of tears. “But why is it just me? I mean, if Donatello’s right and the whole world’s repeating this day again and again without knowing, then maybe I’m the lucky one? But it doesn’t feel like that.”

“Hmm.” Splinter squeezes Raphael’s hands. “Science was never my field, but the mind can affect reality. Remember how I have taught you to reach for one another when meditating?”

“You think that would help?”

“Ah, probably not. But when you do that your feelings of connection to one another allow you to make an impression on the universe.”

“Are you saying I’m doing this to myself.” Raphael jerks away, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I doubt you would have the power to do anything so drastic. But whatever time anomaly is in play, your attitude towards this day may have entangled it with you. Let it go, if you can.”

Splinter pats his head gently and walks out, which, okay. Giving cryptic advice and walking off is sort of Splinter’s thing. It usually does help, in the end, but is this really the time for cryptic advice? Raphael sucks at interpreting it.

Still. He might not understand that whole thing about the universe, but a time loop that’s about you, personally, is the plot of Groundhog Day, right? The key to getting out of the loop is getting it right, living the day the way… he guesses, the way the universe wants you to. Great, he’s being bossed around by the cosmos.

Thinking about it the guy in Groundhog Day spent years in the loop and became a whole different person by the end of it. Raphael doesn’t want that. Sure, he’s a jerk, but he’s… he’s him. If he’s going to grow and change he wants to do it with the other turtles, not alone so he can become worthy of them. He just wants to get this day right quickly so he can go home.

Michelangelo brings him dinner on a tray with a bunch of balloons tied to it. There’s a slice of cake. Raphael nearly bursts into tears.

-

Raphael does everything right. Michelangelo is greeted that morning with equal cheer and compliemented on the pancakes. Leonardo is delighted when Raphael makes no objection to training on his birthday and gives it his all. Reminiscences, teasing, and even questions about the future are greeted without sarcasm. Raphael blows out the candles and wishes for this to be over before eating his piece of cake with a smile.

-

Raphael wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday and wonders what he did wrong. Why it wasn’t enough. But that was only one try! He’s got to keep going!

So he does it again. And again.

-

Raphael wakes up on the morning of his eighteenth birthday after five tries at being good and decides that’s clearly not enough. He’s got to be perfect.

So maybe he’s more manic than cheerful when he answers Michelangelo’s wake up call with, “Good morning, my sweet Michelangelo. Breakfast smells absolutely amazing.”

When he greets the others with, “Good morning on this fabulous day!” Donatello gives him a Look. But he can’t let that discourage him! Embarrassment is a small price to pay for tomorrow.

He tells Leonardo that he couldn ’t possibly mind training with such a dedicated teacher. He insists on helping Michelangelo with lunch.

“He didn’t accidentally get hit with that personality changing ray again, did he?” he overhears Donatello asking Leonardo.

“I don’t know. Did you leave it lying around again?” Leonardo asks.

This is what they notice? Raphael thinks. Not him drifting through the day barely speaking. The time he refused to get out of bed they just thought he was ill. But if he’s nice something must really be wrong. Maybe he should use the personality altering ray. Maybe that’s the only shortcut to what the stupid universe seems to want.

Or maybe it doesn’t want anything and he’s only imagining there’s a way out.

-

Raphael wakes up on his eighteenth birthday and takes the day off from being nice. He can try again tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever. The only one it will make any difference to is him.

It’s not like he sets out to be nasty, it’s just a day where he’s not trying to be anything. He says good morning to Michelangelo, but curls back up to sleep until Leonardo wakes him for lunch.

He eats mini-pizzas and picks the movies, but complains that they’re all ones he’s seen.

“I don’t remember seeing the Snail that Slimed Tokyo?” Leonardo says.

“Yeah, me neither,” Michelangelo says.

“I must have watched it without you guys,” Raphael answers. “Definitely seen it, though. It eats the girl in this next scene.”

Michelangelo smacks him with a pillow and it’s worth it.

Everyone disappears shortly before dinner only to reappear and herd him over to the dinner table, set out with all the food Michelangelo cooked and a picture perfect birthday cake in the centre.

“Now it’s time to really get the party started,” Michelangelo enthuses.

“Can we not?” Raphael says, hopelessly. “Just this once, can we pretend it’s not my birthday?”

“Dude, come on, you only turn eighteen once.”

Raphael laughs and it catches in his throat like sandpaper. “Even if that was true,” he says. “Even if that was true. Even if this wasn’t an arbitrary day decided by Splinter and an arbitrary age decided by Leonardo, because our glorious leader is the boss of how old I am now. Even if turning eighteen meant anything to a turtle, if I could buy property, or vote, or, or smoke.”

“You definitely can’t smoke,” Leonardo interjects, alarmed.

“Right, see, there’s something else our fearless leader gets to decide. Even if I could smoke. Or gamble. Or, or, anything else, I still wouldn’t want to celebrate that. I am sick of you guys throwing a party for something I hate! All you want is an excuse for a day you, for some reason, enjoy! It’s selfish and stupid and I don’t even know why I want to be around friends like you. I hate my birthday and I hate all of you. If this party matters so much to you, you can have it without me.”

Raphael remembers his turtle comm can be tracked and throws it into the cake for emphasis before running out.

Stupid, he thinks, curling up against a random chimney pot. That was way overdoing not being nice today. He’s probably made Michelangelo cry.

Not that it’s going to matter. Tomorrow will wipe the slate clean.

Raphael decides to find a clock he can watch, see how long he’s got to wait before he gets the next do over.

It’s about four hours before Raphael is finally watching the clock tick down. He sighs and braces himself for waking up.

The hands meet at the top. The bell chimes. The minute hand moves on.

It is no longer Raphael’s eighteenth birthday and he’s got some apologising to do.

-

Raphael comes back at around half past midnight on the day following his eighteenth birthday to find Michelangelo pacing the floor in tears. He rushes over to grab Raphael’s shoulders and then immediately backs off.

“Sorry,” they both say.

Raphael blinks. “Why are you apologising?”

“For makin’ you celebrate. I didn’t know you hated it that much.”

“I’ve always hated my birthday.” It’s practically a family joke.

“Yeah, but, I shoulda known you really meant it. I just thought you were being grumpy about it, I didn’t know I was makin’ you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” Raphael grabs Michelangelo around the shoulders, pulling him into a hug. “I really don’t. Ugh. I wouldn’t have said that if I’d known it was going to count. It wasn’t meant to matter.”

“Why would it not matter?” Michelangelo sounds horrified.

“Not like that. Would you believe I’ve been in a time loop? It’s been a couple of weeks. Nearly four? I’ve been trying to figure out how to break it but of course it breaks when I’ve just upset everyone and worried you all sick. Splinter said my thoughts were connected to the universe, he didn’t say the universe had it in for me. Although I really should have guessed.”

Michelangelo takes a moment to process that and then he says, “Oh yeah! Everyone is worried sick. I gotta call them,” and takes out his turtle comm. “Guys, you can stop looking, he’s here. Yeah, he’s okay, um, I think.”

Raphael leans over Michelangelo’s shoulder. “I’m fine. And I’m sorry.”

Leonardo says, “We’ll talk when we get home,” and shuts off the communicator.

“Think I’m in for a scolding?” Raphael asks lightly.

“Not if you tell them what you told me,” Michelangelo says. “Being in a time loop would drive anyone nuts.”

Raphael laughs because Michelangelo is so straightforward sometimes. Sure, they’ve all been through a lot of crazy stuff, but he’s still accepted Raphael’s explanation really fast.

“It was really scary, though, you runnin’ off like that,” Michelangelo adds. “Especially when you haven’t seemed like you wanna be part of the team sometimes.”

“You took that seriously?”

“Pretty hard not to when you and Donatello actually left.”

Leonardo and Donatello arrive soon after that, they must have been close by when they got the call, and Raphael explains about the time loop with a rundown of the less embarrassing moments. When he lays it out it doesn’t seem like he’s been through anything that bad. A month of birthdays, hanging out with his family.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it,” Donatello says when he’s finished.

“Uh, hey, don’t do that. Not your fault,” Raphael says. He knows there’s nothing that can really make it okay when Donatello can’t help one of them, but he really wishes something could. “I’m sorry I snapped like that.”

“Do you really not want to be eighteen?” Leonardo asks. “You’re right, I’m the one who decided. It’s not like you have to be.”

“Eh. May as well be one year closer to tasting champagne.”

“Be honest,” Leonardo says. “I know you did tell us you don’t like celebrating your birthday and we brushed it off, but we’re listening now.”

“I. Ugh.” His leader is looking at him with big, sincere eyes that are less round now than they were a couple of years ago, but no less effective. “I don’t want to think about ages. We were never kids, we’re never really going to be adults. We’re never going to be allowed to be adults. Not unless turtle suffrage becomes a thing. So.” A deep breath. “And what does no longer being Master Splinter’s students mean? ‘Cause if it means we have to get jobs now I’d better not wind up doing birthday party gig work again.”

“We’re not going to split up,” Leonardo says, like there’s no irony in him being the one to reassure Raphael of that after the whole HAVOC thing. “That time when Splinter left us and we had to get jobs on our own was part of Splinter’s plan. It wasn’t practice for it happening for real. And I… I wouldn’t make that choice again.”

Raphael mutters, “Okay,” and blinks hard.

“Guess the universe was waiting for you to be honest about your feelings,” Michelangelo says, resting his chin on Raphael’s shoulder.

“If so that’s really unfair,” Raphael says. “I was being honest in the first place and I didn’t mean everything I shouted either. The universe has an anti-turtle bias. Then again, I’ve always suspected as much.”

“Cheer up, dude,” Michelangelo says. “It’s not your birthday.”

[voxmyriad]

Cal Kestis Week 2024 Day Two: Greez Dritus's Guide to Foraging

Prompt: Food | “That doesn’t look good.” | A Rigged Game | Bogling

I got three out of four, proud of myself!

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Characters: Cal Kestis, Merrin, Greez Dritus, Cere Junda, BD-1

Additional Tags: Family Dinners, Good old home cooking, With unconventional ingredients, Look maybe they'd be delicious, you never know, Descriptions of Unappetizing Food, Could be a merrical if you squint and would like it to be

"That doesn't look good."

It doesn't exactly smell good either. It doesn't even sound good as Greez pours the...the stuff into bowls, but Cal still knocks Merrin's knee under the table. It's nice that Greez wants to cook for them at all, and sweet that he's comfortable enough to share Latero recipes that obviously mean a lot to him. They're going to be nice back.

The determination to be nice wavers a little when Greez sets out bowls of...well...sludge. It just looks like brown sludge. But hey, maybe it tastes amazing. Appearances aren't everything. Cal flashes Greez a smile and tries a spoonful, and his smile freezes. Beside him, Merrin swirls her spoon through the shades of brown, turning up something that might be a seed pod, a mysterious seasoning, or just some sort of tube.

"Interesting combination of flavors," Cere says, sounding thoughtful, possibly trying to figure out how exactly it's cloyingly sweet and weirdly bitter at the same time.

It buys Cal time to swallow, at least, and the second spoonful is better. He's never exactly been picky, though. Even in the Temple, he'd eaten pretty much anything, and on Bracca he hadn't had much choice. Prauf had always been careful to get foods safe for humans to eat, but they hadn't always been winners in the flavor department. "Yeah, I definitely haven't had anything like this before."

"What...is it?" Merrin asks, nudging the tube to one side and trying a spoonful of the broth.

"That's not always a question you want the answer to, when you've been in space a while," Cere murmurs to her, but too late.

"Bogling stew," Greez says with satisfaction. Merrin's spoon clatters into the bowl, and Cal's fourth spoonful hovers in the air as all three of them stare at him in horror. "What?" he asks, and a few silent seconds pass before he finally starts chuckling and then bursts out laughing. "Oh, your faces. You shoulda seen 'em. I shoulda taken a holo—hey, droid, did you get that?" he asks BD, who beeps an affirmative. "Oh, nice, good, that's great. Good job."

He hops down, still chuckling, to remove something baked from the little oven. "Hah! Bogling stew! Who would do that?" He sets a tray of little savory pastries stuffed with green leaves on the counter to cool. "I can't catch those guys anyway. Nah, it's bog rat." His back is to the table, so he continues, blissfully unaware of the shared looks of horror, largely unchanged from the moment when they'd thought they were eating bogling. "Yeah, they're a lot like something we got on Lateron. Had a recipe for that, and since we've been here there are plenty of 'em lying around, so I figured, why not give it a shot?"

"Very...industrious of you," Cere ventures, poking at a chunk of meat with her spoon, newly suspicious. "Are you sure we should be eating those?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, I thought of that. I got a great parasites-and-pathogens scanner." Greez waves one of his hands dismissively. "All the bits that ended up in the stew came up clean. I'm not trying to get anyone sick, after all."

Forced to be satisfied with that, Cere nods serenely and asks with interest, "How does it measure up to the original?"

"Eh, it's not as good, but it cooked down nice once I got it all out of the skin. Not to mention there's plenty more where that came from!" Greez nudges his way between Merrin and Cal to set the spinach puffs on the table, and doesn't really notice everyone immediately reaching for them as he returns to his seat.

"They taste better than I thought they would," Cal says, with complete honesty. The meat has a spongey texture—he's not actually sure it is meat—and the thick sauce, while delicious, can't really disguise the oddly fishy flavor. Still, Cal hadn't imagined they'd be edible at all. "And they're not splox."

"Splox, oh, I got plans for those splox. They look like crustaceans to me, so we steam 'em, crack 'em open, get at the meat inside. They'll be good, I know how to handle stuff like that." Greez takes a bite of his own bowl with clear enjoyment.

So they have steamed splox to look forward to? Better and better. Next, Greez is going to send Cal out to kill an oggdo and bring it back to the Mantis so they can have the biggest frog legs ever. Why not jotaz roast while they're at it, or sauteed slyyyg, or crispy-fried wyyyschokk—

"That reminds me of something Trilla and I had once," Cere says, and Cal glances across at her, distracted from the buffet of aggressive creatures parading through his imagination. She doesn't mention Trilla often, but she's examining a spoonful with a nostalgic smile. "We were exploring some ruins near the ocean. We'd seen birds lining the edge of the beach at sunset, and we went down at the same time to see what they were hunting. We ended up catching a whole bucketful of tiny shell-less crabs for ourselves. Boiled or steamed, they were delicious, but we didn't cook all of the crabs we'd caught. We left some in a bucket of salt water for the next day, and when they came looking, we discovered the parents were quite a lot bigger." She laughs wryly as she encircles her fingers, half a meter between them. "We tried cooking them too, just like you're talking about, Greez, but apparently the process of maturing makes them really dreadful."

"Think that's what happens to splox?" Cal asks, accidentally sounding a little hopeful.

"It's possible. The young of many species are often more flavorful than the adults."

"Eh...maybe I'll just try it on one, see what happens," Greez muses, tucking into his stew once more. "I guess there's no point in making a bunch of 'em if they're not gonna be any good."

Too bad he didn't think about that before cooking up bog rats, Cal thinks, catching Merrin's eye and seeing the same thought there. He grins at her and knocks her knee again, and she knocks his back, and the stew isn't so bad after all.

[rykno-j]

Thinking of you (j/jk)

(after writing the whole thing out, it actually got pretty long, arghsgd.)

I wrote this with s/atos/ugu in mind but I ended up not establishing it explicitly, so I'll leave that up to interpretation.. but obviously they are in love.

Anywayy, my first full fic for j/jk? And it's for them? I mean of course it is. Who else would it be for?

2.9k words

--------------------------------------------------

They were currently in another city, on a mission, having been specially requested.

The exorcism was done quickly (of course) and Gojo suggested they shop for souvenirs to bring back for their friends, to which Geto agreed with a rather reluctant sigh.

Unbeknownst to Gojo, Geto had been struggling through a suppressed cold for the past few days, and it was making him become easily exhausted.

However, in an attempt to avoid the stew of questions that would follow if he turned Gojo down, Geto opted to go to the nearby mall instead of returning to the hotel for much needed rest.

He followed Gojo around for an hour before he felt his body begging him to stop, to let up. At the moment, Gojo seemed to be absorbed in the wide array of sweet snacks on display. Geto considered this to be his first little glimmer of luck for the day.

"Satoru- I'll just be over there alright? There's something I want to look at."

"Mm, yeah, okay-" Occupied with his basket full of goods, Gojo didn't spare Geto a second glance nor did he notice anything, much to Geto's relief.

Making quick escape from the store, Geto looked around desperately for a bench, a stool, anything for him to sit down and rest.

And he found one, an empty seat by the side of a big fountain right in the middle of the mall.

As Geto sat down, he resisted the urge to curl his knees against his chest. Isn't is supposed to be summer right now? Why is he freezing?

Water from the fountain splashed around him. He had noticed the slight temperature drop due to the flowing water. Normally, it would have been a good relief from the heat. But right now, it only served to make him shiver harder.

He should really move to a warmer spot.

Geto considered getting up from his seat, but his eyelids felt heavy, and his legs were begging him not to stand up for the next few minutes.

It wasn't as if he could find another place anyway. Everything suddenly felt really blurry, and Geto was sure he could fall asleep right there and then, if not for the dull tickle that formed at the back of his nose, courtesy of the cold temperature.

"..h'-hngxtt!! hh-tch'gxt!!"

They came out louder then normal, due to Geto having no energy left to stifle them into complete silence. He crossed his arms around himself, pulling the jacket he was wearing tighter around his body.

He shivered. Not warm enough.

"..hhH'-!!"

And to make matters worse, the urge to sneeze creeps back up on him. Preparing a fist in anticipation..

It never comes.

"hh'H-!! a-ah'.. m'n.. snff-"

A quick glance around the mall gave Geto the comfort that he was indeed alone. If need be, he could always give his nose a mildly rough rub to send him back into a building hitch. But doing that has only ever led to sneezes that came out harsher, and that would be hell on his throat. He'd rather avoid that at all costs.

As if fate was playing with him, some of the water from the fountain splashed onto the bit of exposed skin on his neck, causing rapid shivers to run down his spine.

Raising an arm to wipe the droplet away, it was quickly re-directed away from his back and in front of his face-

"..haH'-ngXxt'chh!! hH'..hNgxt! "

The first one manages to escape due to how unexpectedly it came. However, the second that followed was quickly pinched into submission.

Geto sighs inwardly, rubbing his nose softly. He could feel a dull ache starting to pool between his eyes. Tomorrow was going to be a lot worse. He could already hear Gojo reprimanding him for not taking care of himself, all while begrudgingly making a cup of warm tea for him.

(of course i meant 'begrudgingly' here not in a literal way but more of an endearing 'take care of yourself, dammit! or i'll do it for you.' way)

It may not seem like it most of the time, but Gojo cares about people in his own way. Geto had been on the receiving end of several of such telling acts before.

As an example, Geto was half sure that Gojo had put a little more effort into the exorcism this morning than he normally would have, allowing Geto to take is easy.

Or it could have been sheer pure coincidence. Whatever it was, he was grateful.

Speaking of which, where was he? Geto was fairly sure a good chunk of time had passed since he made his timely escape. A quick check of his phone showed no missed calls or messages.

All he wanted to do at the moment was to burry himself under the covers of the hotel bed. Why did he even agree to follow Satoru here in the first place? Oh, right. It was the fear of being alone in this state.

Gojo was as much of his weakness as Geto was sure he was to the other.

Geto leaned forward to hold his head in his hands. He must be having a mild fever, if these thoughts running through his mind was any indication of the fact.

"..hH'tchh'w!! hah'dtchh!!"

With his hands still covering his face, Geto decided against stifling those. His head hurt, and the sneezes were soft enough that the noise from the fountain behind him muffled the sound. Besides, nobody was watching.

Geto remembers the first time he sneezed in front of Gojo. it was an accident, one that he normally didn't make in front of people. He remembers Gojo reaching for his wrist and pulling it away from his face as he geared up to stifle another.

"..Suguru, don't do that."

Nothing else was said, but Geto distinctively remembers the way Gojo was looking at him. No disgust in his eyes at all. Just pure tenderness.

"..haH'dZzch!!"

"See? That's a lot better, isn't it?"

There was just something about that interaction that melted Geto's heart.

Back to the present, Geto had shut his eyes, and was starting to drift off into a light sleep when a gentle hand on his back made him jolt up in surprise.

"Bless you."

"..Satoru? are you done shopping?"

"Suguru- are you feeling alright?" He had completely ignored the question about shopping.

"Yeah, I'm fine, what makes you think otherwise?"

Behind the sunglasses, Geto could make out an unamused look coming from the other. Then, he notices the cool palm resting against his forehead. How long had Satoru's hand been there for? Had he really not felt the touch until now? Maybe he was more out of it than he gave credit to.

"Well I don't know. Maybe the fact you've left my side for a good half hour? I thought you were going to come back once you were done looking at whatever you left for. I was waiting, only to find you crouched over here! Not to mention the fever you're running right now."

Geto winced at the scolding tone of Gojo's voice. Moments of silence passed before he heard a soft sigh.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to shout. Want to head back? Can you walk?"

Geto nodded in response to the question. Using Gojo as a crutch, he rose to his feet, making sure the world stopped spinning before he opened his eyes.

The comforting hand that was on his back never left its place throughout the whole trip back to the hotel. Halfway through, the coat that Gojo was wearing even found its way onto Geto's shivering frame.

"Suguru, go lie down. I'll make you some tea."

There it was. The tea, just like he had expected.

"I was wondering if this morning was a fluke. Guess it wasn't after all. I have quite the foresight, don't I? Putting in a little more effort so you didn't have to," Gojo remarked rather smugly, though there was a tone of softness behind it.

"You're lucky exhaustion only caught up to you at the mall, what was I supposed to report if you collapsed while the exorcism was still happening? You need to take better care of yourself, Suguru."

And there was the scolding, just like he had expected. But he wasn't going to take that sitting down, fever or not.

"You're one to talk."

"HaH?? I take perfectly good care of myself."

"Says the one who passed out through lessons last week."

Gojo grumbled something that Geto couldn't quite catch in response to that statement. When he finally turned around, mug in hand, Geto could have sworn he saw a look of concern flash past Gojo's features.

Either that, or it was the fever making him see things. No matter what it was, Geto reached out a shaky hand to clasp at the steaming mug Gojo held out for him. He hopes the shivers had went unnoticed.

"You know, a few more sugar cubes would never hurt."

Geto couldn't help but smile.

"Well, I'm not you. Thank god I'm not you, a-actually. hH'..having two of y-you running around would cause our teachers a b'hH!! ..bigger headache, I'm sure."

Gojo watched, unamused as Geto turned to the side to stifle three itchy sounding sneezes into silence.

"A bigger headache than you're giving yourself by doing that?"

"..Yes."

Gojo let out a small sigh of defeat before making his way to where their luggage was. Carefully, he pried Geto's open, before realising that he should actually ask where the thing he was looking for was.

"..So where's the medicine?"

"..Medicine?"

"Yeah, for your cold. You packed some, right? There's no way you just caught that today."

Geto felt his legs curl up under the blanket. He considered lying, saying a quick "I didn't" or a quick "it started today". But then Gojo would probably leave the hotel to go buy him some, and he didn't want the other to leave his side, not yet.

"..Top half, middle pouch, shoved all the way to the bottom."

After a bit of digging, Gojo pulls out a small packet.

"When's the last time you took this?"

"..In the morning."

Gojo hummed in reply, moving to push one of the pills out before returning to Geto's side.

"It's a new pack too. Recently bought from the store? Is that why you randomly left school alone the other day?"

"..Maybe."

"How long did you intend to hide this for?"

"..Until i got better.

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"No."

"Why? You don't trust me?"

"..I didn't want you to worry."

"Suguru- you know I only worry because I care."

Geto had to laugh at that, softly. "You're saying weird things, Satoru."

"It's weird that I care about you?"

"No. It's weird that you're expressing it so openly."

Gojo let out a small sound of exasperation, holding out his hand as he looked away. "Take it, you need to get that fever down."

"Mm, thanks."

Once the mug was empty, Gojo made a quick trip to the sink to clear out the teabag, before he returned to the bed, this time crawling onto it from his end instead of standing by the side.

He flops onto the pillows, fluffy white hair spanning out. A hand makes its way onto Geto's chest, tapping it lightly, an unspoken invitation.

Beside him, Geto sighs. "It's still early, Satoru. You sure you don't want to go walk around a little by yourself? We're heading back tomorrow anyway."

"M.. yeah. I already bought everything I need. And besides, there's no way I'm leaving you here alone."

"Because of your 'worry' again?"

That same little sound of frustration left Gojo's lips as he threw the blanket over himself rather haphazardly.

Right. The only person he'd get this worried about was Suguru. It always has been this way, and probably would stay this way. He was the only one Gojo would show this side of himself to.

Instead of a response, Gojo slipped his arm under Geto's chest, pulling himself closer to the other.

"..Enough about that, you should rest now."

Geto allowed himself to get pulled under the covers, allowed Gojo to press his head softly against his chest.

He could feel Gojo's heartbeat, steady but fast. The rhythm slowly lulled him into a state of drowsiness, and Geto would have fallen asleep right there, if not for yet another tickle that buzzed at the back of his nose.

"S-Satoru.. hH'-!! I- I have t'hh-!!"

Gojo made no signs to move despite Geto's light tapping against his back. Just his luck that his arms were trapped under Gojo's sleeping body.

The light tapping turned frantic, before Geto squeezed his eyes shut, bracing his forehead against Gojo's chest, trying his best to keep the outburst as quiet as possible.

"hiH'tchh-w!! hah'zchh!! ..snff- hh'ngxt!!"

The last one, painfully stifled without his fingers, sent a shiver down Geto's spine from the effort it took.

"..Suguru, you should just let them out."

So he was awake after all. The bastard just wanted to watch him suffer.

Geto sniffled, pulling his arm from under Gojo's body.

"I.."

"If you're worried about it getting everywhere, you can just use my shirt, you know?"

Geto blinked once, twice. Did he hear that right?

"Why do you think I'm wearing this one? It's the softest I've got." Gojo pulled up the edge of his shirt in demonstration, bringing it to Geto's cheek and wiping is softly. "See? You can just use it, it won't irritate your nose further."

Geto opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by a hitch in his breath.

"hH'-!!"

Taking advantage of the other's sudden vulnerability, Gojo grabbed both of Geto's wrists, pinning it against his own chest.

"Trust me, Suguru."

"Let.. m'hH-!! ..me g-ghh'!! ..go-"

"Not until you-"

"..hH'!! ..haH'dzZchh!! ..hiH'zzch-w!! ..hH' haH'DshH!!"

"There we g-"

"..heH'DzZtchh!!" hah-hH'dtch-iww!! I'm s..shH' haH'tzcHH!!"

Geto refused to lift his head, instead choosing to ram his forehead into Gojo's chest. Underneath his fingertips, Geto could feel Gojo's heart racing.

"See? That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

When he was met with no response, Gojo reached under his shirt with the hand currency not occupied with securing Geto's wrists to his chest. He lifted the soft fabric with careful fingers, bundling it before gently pressing it to the base of Geto's nose.

Gojo felt the other stiffen against him as his shirt made contact with the sensitive skin. Geto could feel Gojo's slender fingers through the cloth. If he didn't know better, he would've sworn that they were quivering.

After a moment of silence, Gojo was the first to speak.

"See? It's okay. Don't worry."

"..You don't think I'm- ..it's ..disgusting or anything?"

"Of course not. Why would I?"

If there was any point in time that Geto felt like crawling into a hole, it would have been this moment. He was sure inside his ribcage, his own heart was beating as fast as the one under his palms.

He sniffled uselessly, the thought of pulling away completely leaving his mind. Satoru was right, the shirt felt really soft against his nose.

"Suguru, You're shivering."

Was he?

Gojo sighed, letting go of his wrists to reach over, pulling the blanket over to cover up to Geto's neck.

"Get some rest, okay? We have an early flight tomorrow."

"..snff- That goes for you as well."

"I'll sleep, after you."

Soon after, Geto drifts off into peaceful sleep, his head pressed against Gojo's warm chest, arms wrapped around the other as if Gojo was the only thing grounding him to reality.

Gojo on the other hand, watched with endearment as Geto shifted in his sleep, letting out muted stuffy snores every now and then. The hand on Geto's back remained through the night, all whilst rubbing comforting circles into it.

He remembers the words that Geto once told him a while back when he was in a similar situation, knocked out from a bad cold.

"Satoru, you've been too strong for too long. Let me take over, even if just for a little while."

And now it was his turn. Gojo lowered his head to Geto's, his voice a soft whisper, afraid that he would disturb this much needed sleep.

"Suguru, I'll take over from here. Get some rest, okay? I'll be here when you wake up in the morning."

With that, Gojo let his chin rest softly atop Geto's head, palm finally slowing to a stop. And if they shifted in their sleep such that they woke up with their limbs all entangled with each other? That would be a memory for another time.

And the shirt? Gojo had folded it gently into his bag in the morning, only to take it out on their flight back home to be used as a pillow for Geto as he dozed off against his shoulder. And if they held hands under the armrest, fingers intertwined? That never happened.

Gojo's lips curled into a contented smile as he tilted his head to rest against Geto's. Truly, he did not even remember the grade of the curses that they had exorcised last morning.

Not that it's important, Gojo thought. Nothing is. At least compared to you.

-end-

------------------------------------------------

My first full fic for j/jk, and my first fic in a long while too ahhhhh

oh god i hope i did the characters justice. it was rly fun to write this one, i won't lie about that.

Maybe gojo was a little ooc in this, but i genuinely think that when he's alone with geto, especially with the state that geto is in, his soft side would shine a little more.

This started out as a 100-200ish word scenario, but i have NO IDEA what happened, but i kept typing, and this was the outcome

▪︎•▪︎

but anyway, i hope it was a nice read either way

Edit: theres a sequel now shsjhs

[noah-moth-cursed-chaos]

"... How long have you been out here?" Ji'Ren looked up hearing a familiar voice, and as he'd expected Veezara was walking towards him.

"Not long, is Zane in the sanctuary?" He asked.

"No, but it has been a while so he should return soon... I hope." Veezara sighed, "It's hard to know with him, isn't it?" He sounded a tad worried.

Ji'Ren knew all too well. He'd known Zane since the Argonian first came to Skyrim, and he was near impossible to track. Ji'Ren was just thankful Zane's reckless streak gained after the sanctuary fire was temporary. He didn't have to worry about if he would find his friend or word of his death first anymore.

"Ji'Ren is sure he will return soon." He assured his friend.

"..." Veezara seemed to be contemplating something, "... It is awfully cold out here."

"That is true."

"Do you want to come inside?"

Ji'Ren stared at him for a moment, "Would your coworkers be okay with that?" Last time he was inside the sanctuary, most of its inhabitants did not seem too keen on the idea.

"You are a friend, I cannot stand to see you sitting out here in the snow. Come inside and warm up."

Ji'Ren considered for a moment, "Is Nazir there?"

"Yes, he's cooking, I believe."

At that he got up, "Ji'Ren is going to annoy the shit out of him." He got up and followed Veezara towards the door.

"Maybe, don't?"

"He spent three hours in Winterhold when Ji'Ren hid him from the guards telling the worst jokes imaginable. Ji'Ren is going to be so annoying."

"Ji'Ren." Veezara sighed.

"If it truly bothered you you wouldn't let this one inside the sanctuary." They both knew Ji'Ren was right.

When he got inside he saw Nazir, as mentioned by the cooking pot, and walked right over like a man on a mission. A very quiet man on a mission.

This was either going to be so funny or a very efficient way to die.

He waited until he was right behind Nazir to speak.

"What are you making?"

Several things happened very quickly.

Nazir reached for his dagger.

Ji'Ren barely dropped in time to dodge it.

And in the process he knocked Nazir's legs out from under him.

A swift yank of the redguard's clothes barely stopped him from landing on the cooking pot he'd been using, instead changing his trajectory to falling onto the Khajiit who'd startled him.

Instead of getting up he held Ji'Ren, who was laughing hysterically, down by the shoulders, clearly only one of them found this amusing.

"What is wrong with you?! How are you even in here?!"

"Your face was priceless!"

"I could have killed you, you utter moron!"

"Hah! You wish!" Ji'Ren grinned, Nazir's anger only making this funnier to him.

"Who let you in this time, anyway?" Finally he got up, still glaring at Ji'Ren.

"Ji'Ren is sure you would like to know." He taunted as he rose and brushed himself off.

"Yes, I would. Outsiders aren't permitted into the sanctuary... Is there snow in your fur?"

"It is snowing outside." Ji'Ren replied nonchalantly. Nazir stared at him for a moment, before sighing.

"Sit." He pointed next to the fire, "I should chase you right back out, don't make me regret this."

"Only as much as Ji'Ren regretted sheltering you when you needed it." He taunted, that grin still present. Nazir glared at him.

"First of all, unlike you I'm hilarious, second, I didn't need your help."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Nazir apparently decided not to grace that with a response, instead turning back to his cooking.

"What are you cooking?" Ji'Ren asked again, it smelled amazing.

"Stew."

"How descriptive."

"Not much more to it, some meats, some veggies, some broth." Nazir shrugged, "It's stew."

"Fair." Ji'Ren paused before, "... Zane mentioned that you were from Hammerfell, are there foods from your home you miss?" He glanced up at him in idle curiosity. His grip on the spoon tightened a bit.

"Do you miss the food of Elseweyr, Khajiit?" There was more venom in the response than Ji'Ren had expected. To him it had seemed a simple question.

"... Ji'Ren does." He said, "This one's mother used to make sweet gnocchi for guests, when Ji'Ren was young he would sneak into the kitchen to take some when nobody was looking." He smiled at the memories, bittersweet as they were.

"... Did she teach you how to make it for yourself?" Nazir asked, the earlier annoyance lessened at the information Ji'Ren had volunteered.

"Yes but... Ji'Ren could never quite make it like she could." He sighed, "She was a wonderful cook."

"Is she dead?"

"No, but it is for the best if this one never sees her again."

"... That must be difficult." Nazir's voice had gone quiet.

"... Did you learn to cook from your mother?"

"... No. My father." He paused, before, "... He is dead... By my own hand." Ji'Ren noticed the pause, the emotion in his voice.

Regret? Or guilt?

"... You must have had your reasons."

"That's what you think? I'm a cold hearted assassin, how do you know I didn't strike him down just to do it?" Because suggesting the concept made him sound as if he may cry.

"It is not an easy life that turns one's blade towards their own blood." Ji'Ren knew that far better than most. "Whatever the circumstance, Ji'Ren is sure it is not as open and shut as that."

Nazir's eyes shone with emotions for a moment. He looked as if he was struggling to find words.

The door to the sanctuary opened. Ji'Ren heard the skeever before its owner, but sure enough-

"Scritch what do you have in your mouth-that skull is decor, give it back." Zane was here.

Ji'Ren got up, and turned to Nazir, "Ji'Ren does have business to attend to." He paused before, "It was wonderful learning how easy it is to sneak up on a dark brotherhood assassin, however!"

"You little-"

"Fairwell!"

[ratsoh-writes]

(I will wait for Dove to answer the last ask, so we are on the same page)

Llycan claps his paws excitedly.

Lycan: Niiiice. Been a while since I had one of those.

Beck: Didn't you just have one before commin-

Lycan: Killer stew is NOT the same boy.

Beck flinched when his grandfather put an arm around his shoulder.

Grandma: Oh, and we brought the mandrake ribs as promised, and the drinks.

Kenneth: That I suggested!

He said it with just as much excitement as his dad. Truly, they were related.

Issa and Beck helped with the table as Kenneth kept talking with Kevin.

Kenneth: -and she had to go to the hospital because she got lost while looking into my eyes.

Kevin: mandrake ribs?

Temmie: *in ancient* the animal, not plant

Kevin: *in ancient* wait they have them here???

Gothel: *in ancient* oh no dear, you have to “cross over” for them~

Kevin looks impressed that Kenneth either got to go get the mandrake with lycan, or got lycan to go. Temmie hates long distance travel

———

Kevin: hah! She should have known better. Abilities like that are only for small doses.

Yarrow had joined the conversation about Kenneth’s special ability, clearly interested

Yarrow: ok ok, is it just people, or can you like.. make carrots look tasty?

Morticia: oh, the day my son willingly eats a carrot will be the day I retire~

[mataglap]

I forgot how it feels to get inspired to write. to actually have the words spill out of your brain instead of wringing them painfully out.

maybe I should start writing down those little random scenes that pop up in my head before they fade away?

anyway, I’ve been playing Diablo IV, and I like Lorath Nahr, and considering the tone and the general direction of the game I’m absolutely sure he’s going to get killed or worse, so I’m going to write down this scene before he dies and it makes me too sad to write.

and yes, I’m playing a sorcerer.

---

It does not take arcane powers to know that he's being watched. He can almost feel it on his skin, sliding over the back of his neck and his shoulders, down his spine, like a warm, curious touch.

"You're not being subtle," he says without turning around.

"It was not my intention to be."

"Fair enough." Lorath can appreciate honesty. Not that it's going to change much. "I can't offer you anything, though. Sorry."

"There's no need. You've already given me enough."

And that's that; he could drop the subject now and he's reasonably sure it would never come up again. That is, if his blasted curiosity didn't get the best of him.

He gives the stew another stir. Needs more time: the spoon doesn't quite stand up on its own yet. "How come?" he asks, turning around. Wipes his hands with a rag, just to have something to do with them.

The mage regards him though half-lidded eyes. "Given recent events," he says slowly, "I've learned to treasure every feeling that isn't rage, or pain, or fear."

That's… fair. And way too wise for someone who looks this young. Lorath hasn't asked his age yet, and at this point it doesn't matter: the shit he's seen would turn anyone old. Not that it shows on the outside. To all appearances, his new friend seems unshaken by the string of horrors Lilith's been leaving in her wake.

It could be a good thing. It could also be very bad.

"I wonder," he says, making eye contact. "How are you this calm? The things you witnessed leave a mark on the soul. You’ve met Donan, you know what I mean. I expected you to be a wreck, and here you are, boots on my bloody table and not a care in the world."

The mage smiles faintly, and for a second Lorath thinks he's going to actually take the boots off the table – but no, the bastard just deliberately recrosses his legs. It's hard not to smirk at that. He's always had a weakness for people who didn't take any of his shit.

"If I share the secret with you, you will owe me a secret in return."

The curiosity is going to be the end of him, one day. "As long as it's a secret of my choosing."

"Deal." The mage's gaze slides off him and unfocuses. "You're right. I don't know if I'd be myself anymore if I didn't learn to… It's hard to explain."

Lorath turns to the stew. "Take your time. Food's going to be a while."

The pause is long enough to stir the stew thoroughly. He keeps stirring.

"When I find myself surrounded by horror," the mage says finally, "the kind that threatens to shatter the soul… I cast a part of my mind elsewhere, to some good memory, or perhaps a dream. And a part of me pretends I'm not there at all. And I cling to that with all the strength I can muster."

"Hah. You're lucky to have good memories."

"Nonsense. Everyone has good memories. Take this moment, for example: you're warm, dry and safe, and you have a pot of stew that is going to be delightful, if the smell is any indication. You have a friend to talk to and to eat with. This is a happy memory in the making."

That's way too earnest for Lorath's taste. "Assuming I don't burn the stew or set the place on fire," he mutters, uncomfortable. "So what you're saying is, the next time you're knee-deep in guts, a part of you is going to think of the time you stared at my arse while I cooked you dinner?"

"That is exactly what I'm saying."

It's the first time he's heard the wanderer laugh. Sucks that there's a good chance it's also going to be the last.

[adventures-written]

;; Ok, so now that I’m awake again and slightly coherent, here’s my thoughts on episode 10:

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Some of it I expected because, being on tumblr, ya just see spoilers. So I knew some stuff that would happen. LIKE THE FRICKEN SNEEZE! That was great.

I have to do another rewatch cause I might have missed some stuff, but like...Zazie’s little “But they were mine :(” as Conrad takes their things was adorable. Pouty pile of bugs, poor thing. 

And Vash’s scars! Heck, they make me so sad because all he wants is to protect people. It doesn’t matter what happens to him. Scar him up in his entirety and he’ll still keep fighting. The guy that shot him? Vash does not hold a single grudge, he understands. That scene broke my heart...

And let’s talk about one of the elephant’s in the room...Roberto.

So, I had a feeling for a while something bad was gunna happen to him. His whole character was about protecting Meryl. Sure, he claimed it was for his own health, like on the Steamer where he found a life boat and wanted to get the hell off because they were gunna presumably die. But when Meryl gives her big speech, he doesn’t leave. Why? Because she doesn’t leave. He’s got this dad mode on him where he has a need to protect. Journalistic integrity? Nah, he’s there to protect the newbie. 

When that demon child started to attack, I had an immediate gutteral feeling that this would be it. The way he protected Meryl, the way he put himself in front of her every chance he had, it just screamed this was going to be his end.

As much as I want every character to live, I understand why Roberto dies. It’s for Meryl, it’s for her character and motivation. Not everything is sunshine and rainbows. As Roberto says in episode one “It’s a dog eat dog world out there” and this just shows Meryl not everything works out and even those she’s closest to get hurt or die.

I cried like a baby.

As an aside, I do like Ele’s and Nico’s dynamic. It was kinda cute the way they argued, almost like siblings.

Now, I’m sure everyone knew this was a trap for Vash. if you know anything about the manga or the OG Anime, you know July got destroyed, so clearly, if they’re going to July, only bad things can come. That was unsurprising when they realized they wanted to trap Vash.

But Vash knows. At least, somewhat. He knows, and he is well aware that Nico is working for them. He’s not an idiot. Vash might act naïve and dumb, but he really does pick up on a lot of things. And he knows Nico is doing it to protect something. He’s got other people in mind and this is not self-motivated. So Nico being with him, basically bringing him to his brother, is not a surprise either.

Can we talk about that contract? I saw a screenshot but I’m going to have to get a better look to see what it said at the bottom. As much as I wanna hope Nico feels accomplished, like he did the right thing, we all know that he probably feels he didn’t. That he could have done more, better, etc. I dunno, I gotta sit and stew on those thoughts in particular for a while.

Let’s talk about the drama llama that is Knives. That man...of course he’s playing their song, of course he’s sitting at a piano. But I do want to say...I’m kinda glad the way he’s shown is not far off from how I’ve been trying to play him? I am still terrified of episode 11 and 12 shattering how I’ve been portraying Knives, but this was a good insight and relief to my fears...

His fricken piano room though, the motif on the floor. And those statues. Knives can’t let it go. He has to put up reminders as to why he’s doing what he is. He has to remind himself of the suffering the human’s have caused for so many of the plants. And his little jab at Vash about the crash... (hah I called it). A reminder to Vash that he helped him, even unknowingly. And that the human’s would forever hate Vash for it. Which we know isn’t true, but in Knives mind it is because he’s a wanted man. Vash is getting the blame for everything Knives is doing, he’s the face and he’s the one people hate. So Knives can’t understand why Vash continues to defend the people who seem to, in his eyes, despise Vash for everything that he is.

And of course the dramatic bitch uses the piano to open the floor under Vash. I now understand why everyone was saying Vash soup. As a side note, I love Vash’s little wire from his arm. That’s great.

But of course, Knives is dramatic, and he cuts the wire. A wish to reset his brother and make him perfect, like he is.

And now I’m terrified for 11 and even more so for 12.

So I just get to sit here and try to piece together these fragments I have while I wait again. This is gunna be another long week...

[jinjeriffic]

More accidental marriage AU!

Tim and Danny are both 19ish in this story. After they explain the situation to the Batfam, Batman contacts every occult expert he can think of to try and figure out a way to break the contract, while Danny does the same thing on the ghost front (with no luck). Zatanna does cast a glamour to hide the amulet from view so no one figures out that Tim and Red Robin are wearing the same gaudy, ancient and valuable-looking bling that was reported stolen from Gotham Museum.

Danny gets invited to the Manor for family dinner so the Bats can meet him and try to get a read on him. Most of them are super concerned about who Tim has found himself magically shackled to! After meeting Danny, Steph immediately gets a betting pool going on how long it will take the two of them to actually get together (Cass wins, obviously). Jason thinks the whole situation is hilarious until he meets his new brother-in-law who immediately clocks him as being infected with corrupted ectoplasm (more on that later).

Damian is miffed because while Danny has commoner roots he is a King by Conquest, which means he probably outranks Damian. Hell, as consort Drake might now outrank Damian which is unacceptable. Dick is worried at first but after making sure that Danny is being a perfect gentleman towards Tim he turns towards gentle ribbing. Who would have thought Tim would be the first of the Batkids to get hitched! Probably because there was no wedding ceremony for villains to blow up! Duke is mostly excited to not be the only meta in the family anymore and wants to swap teenage superhero stories with Danny.

Bruce and Alfred quiz Danny on ghosts and what being Consort will mean for Tim. Danny tries to reassure them (hah, as if anyone could) that Tim is under Danny's protection and basically has a magical giant neon sign on him saying Do Not Touch, Or Else! They worry even more.

The existence of the Lazarus Pits and what they do are a bombshell to Danny. Glowing green waters with strange properties? Reviving the dead? Driving people crazy? Aw nuts, this is gonna end up being Danny's problem, isn't it? It is. He does some research and discovers that the Pits are basically Ghost Zone sewage runoff that has been leaking into the mortal realm through cracks in reality. Since, you know, there hasn't been a reigning monarch to organize things there have been a lot of GZ problems that no one has been dealing with. Danny bangs his head on a wall for a bit and resigns himself to having to work out a GZ Infrastructure Reform Plan.

Jason gets to spend a nice week in the Far Frozen, getting all the Pit Rage cleaned out him in what amounts to a relaxing spa treatment.

Over the following months, as Danny gets to know the Batfam better he gradually figures out just how much shit Ra's and his brood have put his new family and especially Tim through. Including that time Ra's daughter (or sister?) tried to force Tim into being her baby daddy before killing him (hurk!). Danny goes to the GZ to scream for a while, then amends his plan to include thoroughly screwing Ra's.

To get back to the comedy, imagine Danny rolling up to each Lazarus pit in turn with a group of ghostly workmen in hard hats in tow. Nocturne puts the assassin guards to sleep, then the workman lower a giant hose into the pit and drain that sucker through a ghost portal in full view of the cameras. As a final touch, they put up sign in the empty pit.

Under New Management

On the Authority of HRH King Phantom

This site has been deemed a Ghost Ecological Hazard and underwent Maintenance in accordance with the Ghost-Material Plane Infrastructure Law on xx.xx.20xx

For any complaints, please contact the Office of Material Plane Affairs at Royal Phantom Court, Ghost Zone

Long May He Reign!

Ra's is of course furious and terrified at having his immortality threatened. Danny leaves him alone for juuuuust enough to let him really stew in it, but has to make sure he doesn't try any alternatives he has lined up (like trying to body-snatch Damian). King Phantom shows up in Nanda Parbat in maximum Eldritch Horror mode: "Greetings Ra's Al-Ghul. I am the King of the Dead, and you have evaded me for long enough!". Then he unleashes Spectra on Ra's to drain him down to a husk, incinerates the remains until there's nothing left and makes sure any ghost he might have left behind is sealed in a can for all eternity. And then he goes home.

Tim: Hey Danny! What have you been up to

Danny: Eh, I had to make sure some GZ sewage work got fixed. Man, I hate bureaucracy!

DC x DP prompt/ficlet

Throwing my hat in the ring with this idea that has been doing the zoomies in my brain for days. The Tim/Danny Accidental Ghost Marriage to Fake Dating to Friends to Lovers AU:

Pariah Dark was a piece of shit. Before his imprisonment, mortals would sometimes manage to bargain with the Ghost King for scraps of power. One of the "standard" deals was to send PD a "Bride" to play with and feed on (because I HC he feeds on fear and pain) and what better way than a little mortal battery that couldn't get away from him? The deal was sealed with a cursed amulet. Now in one instance, the contract was never fulfilled (maybe the petitioner died before he could complete his half) and the amulet was lost. After Pariah was imprisoned and couldn't make deals anymore the knowledge of the rituals needed was gradually forgotten since they didn't work anymore...

Eventually the amulet gets dug up by archeologists (maybe in Egypt or Mesopotamia?) and ends up in a traveling exhibit in Gotham. A Rogue robs the place (Riddler? Two-Face? doesn't really matter). When the Bats show up to foil the robbery, during the fight with the goons a drop of Red Robin's blood gets on the amulet, there's a blinding flash of green light and the amulet is suddenly glued to him.

While everyone is dazed by the ghostly magic flashbang, Fright Knight pops out of a portal, yoinks Red Robin across his saddle and jumps back through the portal before anyone can stop him. Cue the Bats trying to frantically figure out what in the multi-dimensional occult hell happened and where RR went?!

Meanwhile, Danny is disturbed to receive a ghostly missive in his college dorm to tell him that his Mail Order Bride has been delivered to his Ghost Zone Palace and is awaiting him so they can consummate their Unholy Matrimony.

----------------

Danny: Wtf I have to study I don't have time to get MARRIED

Fright Knight: I'm sorry my liege, but according to the laws of ghosts, gods and magic you already ARE

Danny: Wtf. How did this happen?

RR: I would like to know that too

Danny: Oh shit, you're a superhero. Frighty, you can't just kidnap people! Especially not SUPERHEROES!

RR: While that's good to hear, I would really like to know about this supposed marriage..?

FK: I am not aware of the exact details, I was merely summoned to retrieve the Bride of the Ghost King. There used to be standard magical contracts for this, which went into effect when the Bride bled on the King's Token...

RR: Shit

Danny: Hold on, PARIAH got married? Multiple times??

FK: ...but we can always consult the Royal Archivist, if we can dig him out from under the several thousand years worth of paperwork that piled up while there was no King actively ruling...

Danny: Oh ancients, am I gonna have to deal with that?? I have exams to prepare for, dude!

RR: ...the dead still have to do exams? And paperwork?? *horror*

-------------

Some time and explanations later...

Royal Archivist: It took some digging, but I believe I have found the contract in question. You are one Timothy Drake-Wayne, correct?

Tim: Fml

RA: Ahem. The contract was sealed with your mortal blood, as is standard procedure. Congratulations, you are officially King-Consort of the Infinite Realms! Until death do you part, and all that

Danny: Can I see that contract? ...This isn't in English

RA: Oh dear, looks like we will have to schedule your Royal Highness classes in reading cuneiform/hieroglyphics

Tim: Okay, does it say anywhere in that contract how to dissolve it? What's the procedure for a ghost divorce? Fright Knight mentioned the previous king being married multiple times

RA: Well usually, when Pariah tired of a consort he would simply devour their soul...

Danny: Ewwwww I am so not doing that

Tim: I concur. I can't imagine my soul would taste good anyway

Danny: That's what you took from that??

RA: ...but when you die and your soul passes into the Afterlife proper, the contract will be fulfilled. As long as you're not resurrected again.

Tim: Nuts, there goes that loophole

RA: Until then you are the Consort and duty-bound to fulfill his Royal Highness' every whim; ghostly, spiritual, carnal...

Danny: *sinks through the floor in embarrassment*

Tim: Can't he just... release me from the contract? Take the amulet off me or something?

RA: Not without obliterating your soul, no

Danny and Tim: Fuck

--------------

Some time later, while Danny is away consulting other ghosts on possible ways of dissolving the contract, they discover the nasty little clause that if Tim isn't in regular physical contact with Danny the amulet starts draining his life force. To prevent victims from escaping you see... Danny really really hates Pariah right now.

They eventually return to the mortal plane to explain to the Batfam what the hell is going on and that they're still trying to fix it. In the meantime, Danny can't miss any more classes (studying areospace engineering at MIT or sth) and Tim has to stick close to him because of the curse...

Alfred: Oh dear, looks like Master Timothy will have to go to college after all *unflappable British Smugness*

Bruce pulls a lot of strings to fast track Tim getting his high school diploma and let him attend classes with Danny (he's not officially enrolled yet, but Money, Dear Boy). They never know when Danny has to respond to a ghost emergency or Red Robin to a Bat emergency, so they stay pretty much joined at the hip in their civilian lives. Of course there's gonna be rumors. Why did the Wayne CEO suddenly drop everything to go to college? So they make up a story about Danny and Tim having been secret boyfriends for a while and Tim becoming so smitten that he moves with him to Boston...

Cue the fake dates, interviews with magazines, couple photoshoots to really sell the bit... and the two young men gradually becoming friends... and then "Feelings?? But what do I do?? He was forced into this?" etc.

[amandacanwrite]

More Headcanons for the Gale Babes: Pining Edition

Tagging At Their Request: @eclecticqueennerd @jeneralmischief @thewizardhole

Tagging Because I Thought You May Want To Know I posted It: @lewdisescariot @ollypopwrites @rissi-chan @foreskinfinder87

Here are some headcanons about Gale behind the scenes as he pines for you/Tav (Goodnatured, Gender Neutral) Bear with some things that are just regular ole canon for a moment and then I will get into the headcanony stuff near the middle.

Upon Your First Meeting

"I'm Usually better at this." "At Introductions?" "Hah...At magic."

Safe to say that he was well aware of just HOW much trouble he was in very shortly after beginning to travel with you.

The words "Do NOT do this to yourself, you ridiculous, touch-starved man," may or may not have been said to the mirror...or to a mirror double of himself.

But godsdamnit, you just had to continue being...kind and courageous and well spoken and your eyes...and your lips and Focus--FOCUS GALE DEKARIOS

And hells, what a world it would be if he could stop putting his foot so squarely into his mouth.

"Gods, Gale. Really did a number with that thing you said, didn't you? They probably thing you're pompous--which you are--perhaps rightfully so, you are a very gifted wizard..."

He uh...talks to himself a lot. Old habit from the tower, you see. You only catch him doing it a couple of times though, and rarely hear what he said.

"Oh, just thinking out loud, you know!"

Once He's Gotten To Know You A Bit

"Go on, Gale. You're among Friends." "I may just be about to remedy that."

It's hard to pin point the exact moment he fell in love with you. But the realization was nothing short of devastating for him.

As a younger man, he may have been brought to tears reading a tragedy like his. Abandoned by a former lover, forsaken in a plight brought on by wishing to do her a grand gesture, falling for a simpler love...one he may never have because of the orb threatening to level a city in his chest.

Sometimes at night, he watches you asleep in your bedroll, wondering if he had met you as a young man...if he'd perchance seen you on the streets of Waterdeep or sitting at the bar in The Yawning Portal perhaps he'd never wound up in this position in the first place.

Perhaps he would have simply been chosen by Mystra, and not have fallen in love with her.

It feels wrong...even to think it. He wonders if Mystra can sense the betrayal in those thoughts--in the wish that he'd never fallen in love with her.

But it's hard not to feel that way when he has to spend every waking moment next to you.

And when he watches everyone else in camp seemingly falling over themselves to get to you as well.

He makes his peace with the fact that there is simply no way that he can compete with the pale elf who is constantly making eyes at you...calling you darling.

He remembers meeting people like that in school. He remembers burying himself in his studies to distract himself from the fact that he'd never felt particularly charming or even efficacious in matters of the heart.

Of course that all changed when Mystra chose him. Before he'd wooed her, he'd managed to have a few dalliances as a teen, even going into his early adulthood.

But you're the first he's ever wanted to have something with since Mystra had forsaken him.

He still carries the charm he'd cultivated. It's hard not to get at least a little full of yourself when the goddess of magic herself chooses you. Harder still to drop the habit after he'd committed to it, even while sequestered to his tower.

He'd been deep in thought on these matters when you checked in on him one night.

"Nothing to worry about. Just a wizard stewing on matters of the arcane and curious, I assure you."

When he finally has to reveal the truth of his affliction to you and the others in the party, he's devastated all over again. He's ready to once again be banished for his crimes, to be newly punished for his folly, however well intentioned he was in acquiring it.

But...you simply don't... It seems you never do what he expects because you hardly bat an eye. Even when Astarion tells you to kick him to the proverbial curb, you let him stay.

It's that night he conjures the image of Mystra in his hand, turning it this way and that to see if it still hurts to look upon her as it used to.

When you wander over to inquire about her visage, he is relieved to find it doesn't bother him to speak of her, and daunted by the ache in his chest that you seem to inspire in him.

He keeps trying to find a way to tell you how he feels, but he simply can't form the words without choking on them.

Until that night with the teiflings...and well...let's just be honest, the generously flowing alcohol.

He just wants to share a moment with you--a foolish idea to help you experience the weave using him as a conduit. A bit cheeky he realizes--knowing perhaps better than you might the sort of sensual, intimate nature that being connected through the weave can be. But he can't help it, it is the only relief he can find for this torturous pining. To be allowed to be of one mind with you for just a fleeting second is too tempting to refuse.

When You Imagine Sharing A Kiss With Him

"I'm sorry...I wasn't expecting...but it is a pleasant image to be sure. Most pleasant, in fact. Most welcome."

How can he convince himself that he won't immediately ruin this? Does he even remember how to kiss? God's it's been so long.

He lies in his tent, banging the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"You should have just kissed them, you damned fool. How long have you wanted this? And apparently they want it, too. And you were linked with the weave! What could have been more perfect? Why didn't you just kiss them, you blithering idiot."

When he doesn't kiss you for a while, you worry you may have made him uncomfortable with the thought. Really, he simply can't find the perfect time between all of the bloodshed and bandages.

He gets sloppy in battle, too worried that someone will take you way before he has a chance to make good on that dream you shared with him. Not the best course of action for a man who can literally implode in the event that he dies.

And then he had to go and say that stupid thing about danger and...other forms of stimulation.

"Perhaps," he tells himself one night. "Perhaps, Gale of Waterdeep, you will actually make a gesture more than a silly joke and a stammering admission of liking to kiss. Your actions so far have not hinted that you will, but perhaps there is hope for you yet."

In the end it's a night where you're near out of provisions that gives him the opportunity to close this blasted distance betwixt you.

He's having a melt down of sorts. About the lack of decent food in camp. How is he to feed all of you with nothing but a few half-eaten apples and a fish head?

You suggest a walk, not far from camp. You're sure you can scrounge up some berries, or some tubers--maybe even a squirrel or a rabbit. In truth, you're not sure you'll find anything, but you can sense that Gale needs time away. Needs privacy. Needs space to simply feel things without an audience.

After walking in silence for a while you ask him if he's alright.

"No. No I am categorically not alright. Not at all. I am filthy. I am covered in goblin blood. The orb refuses to be sated. I cannot find a way to properly feed you so that you'll have the strength to fight another day. And on top of it all--rounding out the depths of my misery--you so bravely showed me the intimacy you wanted to share, yet I cannot for the life of me figure out how to adequately stage that moment so that it is worthy of the splendor that you are."

It's hard not to be touched by his admission, but you don't want him to be miserable. So you make it easy for him. You simply stride up to him and plant a kiss on his lips.

"Is that better?" you ask him. "Now you needn't fret about the last thing."

His simply...gawks at you. Stares in utter befuddlement, his mouth slightly agape. For a moment, you're certain you've broken the poor wizard. You almost have the urge to wave your hand in front of his face to see if his soul has left his body. Then he smears his hand down his face and groans

"NO," he says. "No it is not better. That is not a proper first kiss worthy of how I feel about you. I can do much better than a first kiss like that."

You remind him that that was technically your first kiss with him. He is welcome to show you how it is properly done.

You expect the slow burn with him--expect him to have to ponder that for a few days, perhaps even a few weeks, before he makes good on it.

But he has had enough of waiting. He drops his bag off to the side and unstraps his bow from his back in a quick flurry of movement. He reaches for you, gently grasping the soft curves of your face and pulling you toward him, claiming your mouth with his own.

It is a frantic, desperate thing, this kiss. Simultaneously overwhelming and buoyant. You find yourself lifting up onto your toes and leaning against him as he tilts his head, seeking some opening to taste you, to feel you on his lips.

Your knees buckle, and his hands move from your face to catch you, crushing you against him as if he wishes to match every curve of you to every corresponding curve of his own body.

His lips are soft, though they are posessive. When you finally allow him across the threshold of your lips, he tastes like that fragment of weave you shared with him. He tastes of pure connection.

And then, just like that moment, it is over. You're left panting and weak as he holds you against his chest, his face flush, his brow gently curved with worry.

You blink dreamily up at him. "Oh." you say.

"'Oh?'" he asks incredulously. "Please tell me you have more to say than 'Oh.' Or at least specify the quality of that 'Oh.' Hells, if I'm to get any sleep at all--"

You simply lift your fingers to his lips, pressing the tips to quiet him. "Consider me properly schooled in how it's meant to be done," you say. "You're an excellent teacher."

He heaves a sigh. "Oh," he says. "I know."

I hope you enjoyed this! I'm sorry if it's not as satisfying since it's a lot of like...subtext for canon things. I have more Ideas but this is already quite long. Do let me know if you would still like to see more or if you have anything you'd like to see or expand on with an actual small fic. I have been having so much fun with these.

[dawl-and-dapple]

rating: general warning: No Warnings Apply relationship: Caleb Widogast / Essek Thelyss word count: 746

summary: elves can see shrimp colours

***

Essek picked up two small jars from Caleb’s desk. Neither were labelled, through the fault of whichever student had last been tasked with restocking the material component cupboard (there was a lottery contraption run by marbles sitting at the back of the classroom which was brought out at the end of every week to assign chores, but Caleb didn’t always stick around to monitor the process). Both were filled with a fine bronze powder.

“Can’t you tell them apart?” asked Essek. “They’re entirely different colours.”

Caleb rubbed his chin and gave the jars another look-over. “No, they are identical. Which is the powdered salamander bone-marrow?”

But now Essek’s curiosity was piqued. “Can you truly not see the difference?”

“No. Which is the bone-marrow?”

Essek stared at the jars for a moment longer. A smirk crawled across his mouth. “Humans,” he mused. “Half-blind as you bumble your way across the surface of this world. You really have no legs to stand on, pitying me for my poor vision in direct sunlight, when you cannot even tell salamander powder from mosaic gold.”

“Hah hah,” said Caleb flatly. “Please give me the correct component.”

Essek placed the second jar back on the desk. “Really, though,” he said, “I had heard that humans were colour-blind, but I had no idea how extreme this affliction was until now.”

Caleb began measuring the correct amount of salamander powder into a beaker, ready for the practical lesson he’d use to open the following week’s classes. Meanwhile, Essek was stuck on the matter.

“This would explain how you confused liver of sulphur with wyrmling blood last month, hm.”

“Well, how would you explain to me the difference between these colours?” asked Caleb without looking up from his work. “Because I am at a loss.”

Essek went quiet. He frowned at the stained surface of the workbench and tapped a fingernail against his cheek, stewing in thought. Eventually he got up and returned to the material components cupboard.

Caleb watched with interest, though remained seated at the other end of the empty classroom while Essek picked through the shelves of jars and bottles and tiny paper boxes with a muffled symphony of clinks and bumps. After a moment of searching, Essek floated up an additional foot from the wooden floor to reach for two more jars of powder, this time labelled, but again undistinguishable without those labels if it weren’t for their textures.

Essek returned to the workbench and held the two jars out to Caleb. “This one is the same colour as your hair, Caleb. But this one—” He made a sour face. “It is not even close.”

“They are both orange powders, liebling.”

Essek stared at Caleb. “Orange,” he repeated, blinking slowly. “Orange does it no justice. There are three different words in Undercommon to describe the colours you simply call orange. Five in Elvish! If only you spoke either of those languages, Caleb.”

“I do not believe those languages would help me much,” said Caleb, struggling to supress his grin, “given that I am half-blind, ja? There is little I can do to remedy this problem, short of an Alter Self spell.”

Essek scowled at the first jar in his hand. “It is very unpleasant to talk of your hair as just orange.” He said the word like it tasted foul on his tongue. “It is a deeper colour than that, richer than the colour of clay, and brighter still than those sweet citrus fruits which grow in the south. Common is such a lifeless language. You must understand how this is vexing me, Caleb.”

There was something very charming about watching Essek work himself into a fury over a word lost in translation, and Caleb had now utterly forgotten about his homework.

He folded his hands under his chin and smiled up at Essek.

“To the best of my ability, I assure you. There are many words from my mother tongue which fall flat in Common, although I have never struggled with, ah, colours.” He chuckled. “This may be one of those frustrations you will learn to live with, Essek.”

Essek glowered for a second or two longer before deflating and setting the two orange powders onto the workbench. He drifted around to Caleb’s side. “I will remain frustrated,” he said, sighing, and resting a hand on Caleb’s shoulder and dropping a kiss to the crown of his head, “because it has become one of my favourite colours in recent years.”

[a-wild-things-rambles]

love is stored in the food

food is a love language, and its an important one for jason and dick

"of course, dick knew how to make pastry, of course he knew the ratios, but Jason’s sigh of disappointment, his laughs at dick doing it wrong... well it made Jason laugh, and he needed some cheering up. it also had the added bonus of getting the shy kid to talk to him, telling him stories of neighbours and his mums’ friends. and well, dick had been told the brotherly teasing was important."

"he would sit and read it until the timer beeped, then he'd cut the pie, gently taking the take half of the pie without the initials or the smaller robin. he would add the clotted cream ice cream Jason loved and eat it from a bowl with his mother’s silver spoon as he continued reading. the planned casework forgotten. eventually he would nod off, his dreams filled with sugar, pastry and brothers and mothers."

dick is haunted by jasons ghost, and said ghost bullys him into making rhubarb pie

the next time, Jason was swinging his legs on dicks counter

"Well, if I can’t eat it, I want you to enjoy it" the argument was an old one, urging dick to cook something for himself. Jason huffed off, mind made up.

"Why is the only thing you have in your fridge a stick of butter and some frozen stewed rhubarb?"

dick opened his mouth to defend himself, but Jason bulldozed over his words "never mind. I can work with this." Jason’s hands on hips were adorable. and the furrow of concentration was... so him. he felt the cold of the countertop before he registered that he had to hold himself up.

Jason’s head whipped around "are you ok?"

"I’m fine jay." it was only half a lie. he was bad. but also, the best he'd been in a while

as he steadied himself, Jason moved to bug him "we need-"

in one smooth movement he swung open the cupboard, grabbing the flour and scales before lowering them to the counter "flour and the scales, yea I know jay."

"Well yea, but we need to heat up the frozen rhubarb first"

unfortunately, the small pan was too far away for the fancy movement he’s use last time, so he went over to the shelves next to the oven and grabbed both the saucepan and the pie dish.

he ran the rhubarb in its Tupperware under the hot tap, melting the edges so it would slide out, and it worked slightly to well, dick had to fumble to stop the block of rhubarb from landing in the sink.

he put the block in the pan, then put it over the smallest ring, he grabbed his lighter from above the oven, and with one hand on the dial, and another next to the hob, he managed to turn on the gas and light it quickly. the landlord refused to fix the lighter on the over, so drugstore lighter it was.

before turning away to the counter, he moved the dial to seven, and set a timer for twenty minutes.

he moved to measure out the flour "so its 2 oz flour and two oz butter?"

"No no no. its double the fat for the flour, not the other way around."

he corrected "So four oz of flour and two of butter?" the light the emanated from Jason’s face made his heart ache, but the warmth in his chest made it worth it

he measured out the flour first on the scale, the flour sticking to the shallow bowl was always a pain, then dumped the flour into the mixing bowl, white flour is pre-sieved and doesn’t need to be sieved like it used to be or other flour, another bit of cooking advice that stuck, not from Jason, who preferred to do it anyway, but his mother, who explained that any time spared was good on performing days, pointing at the white flour bought from the American supermarket.

he then got the butter, putting it on the scale, "roughly 6 oz, so I just need to take a third off" he sliced a rough third, waited for the scale to rebalance, "hah just right! I’ve still got it"

"it’s not dead on the line" Jason interjected

"Spoil sport, let me revel in this victory" he laughed

he removed the packet and wrapped it around the extra two-thirds, after putting it to the side he took the knife again and sliced up the butter. he put the shallow bowl upside down over the mixing bowl, watching the butter plop into the flour and cause craters. with a huff of annoyance, he had to pick off the stubborn pieces of butter

"Now you crumble it."

dick rolled up his sleeves and started mashing it together with his hands, lumps of flour covered butter merging together

a long-suffering sigh and an eyeroll from Jason "okay so you get the larger lumps between your palms and your rub them together, with your fingers interlocking"

Jason clapped his hands in joy as dick did just that, slowly wearing down the boulders of butter. "Yea! like that! that’s perfect"

of course, dick knew how to make pastry, of course he knew the ratios, but Jason’s sigh of disappointment, his laughs at dick doing it wrong... well it made Jason laugh, and he needed some cheering up. it also had the added bonus of getting the shy kid to talk to him, telling him stories of neighbours and his mums’ friends. and well, dick had been told the brotherly teasing was important.

normally Jason would have told him to stop thinking too hard, but that was the joy of pastry, rote motions he could do in his sleep, leaving his mind able to wander, and just enjoy cooking with his brother

he shook the bowl every so often, and when the disapproving hum was heard, got back to crumbling the butter and flour.

once he got the approving hum, he held the bowl and walked over to the sink, letting the bowl balance on the sink, he rotated the tap to be over the bowl and prepared to-

"Not directly from the tap!! a teaspoon of water at a time!! you don’t want it to sticky"

damn. dick was slipping, he forgot about that. he was reminded of him age 5, his mama supervising him put the water in, well. let’s just say the pastry hadn’t been sticky, rather more drowned. they had made a new batch, and his ma had gently held his hand, guiding him and helping his small fingers grip the large silver spoon used for such occasions.

Jason had never needed guidance like that, and dick wondered if he ever had? had Catherine guided jays hand how Mary had guided his? or had Jason had to do it all on his own, like so many other things.

as dick used the silver spoon, now much smaller to his eyes than the giant size it was in his memory’s, he was reminded of a dream, of a world where Mary would help guide Jason’s hands, would help him cook. dick would be relegated to fetching and reaching, he’s good at cooking, but his skills have wastes away, still there, but old and missing pieces. but maybe he'd have never let the skills atrophy and would be cooking beside his brother and mother.

in between the spoons of water splashing into the bowl, he would run his hand round through the flour, watching the crumbs lumping together, slowly forming into one whole lump.

he put the spoon down, that was enough water, and held the lump of pastry, rotating it around the sides of the bow, to pick up any smaller bits that had not yet become part of the whole. it was slightly sticky to the touch, so he reached over into the open flour bag, grabbing a small handful, scattering it over the lump, then the extra over the counter.

he'd let the pastry sit while he dried the spoon, gently taping it with the cloth, before opening the cutlery draw, and carefully setting it into its cushioned box.

he takes the wooden rolling pin out of the draw, then closes it

he turned back to the pastry,

reaching into the flour, he sprinkles more onto the counter, enough that the pastry wouldn’t stick

then he coats the rolling pin in flour, again so it won’t stick

he rolls out the pastry, gentle but firm pushes of the rolling pin, trying to keep it even

flips the pastry, a moment of worry, a sigh of relief when it does not rip

sprinkle more flour

he repeated the motions, occasionally adding more flour to the counter and rolling pin

once it was the right thickness he took the pie dish, placed it in the roundest corner of the rolled-out pastry, traced a few centimetres from the edge with the knife around it, then went back and cut it. he put this to the side for the lid.

he then repeated this with the bottom of the dish, leaving more room this time

he lifted the bottom gently, careful to support it, and placed it into the pie dich, he smoothed it down, pressing the folds flat.

dick cut the remaining two rough squares in half, and lightly placed them around the sides from the walls, cutting off the pastry that went over the top of the dish, the using those scraps to reinforce weaker areas of the walls, the used his knuckles and the back of his hand to press the walls and the base together. when that was done, he looked over to the lid, and cut an x into the lid, for the robin.

the robin was a ceramic bird, beak open to the sky with a hole in, it used to be a blackbird, his father had picked it out for his mother on a stop in England, and after his birth, it was re-painted, a crude glaze of red on the chest, and brown over the rest of the bird. the original bird was too tall to pass well as a robin, but the love made up for it. it was important to him, his family. when he brought it out for use in a pie Jason cooked. well. Jason was his brother the day he gave him the robin suit. but that was the day Jason became family.

he placed the robin in the centre of the pie dish.

then, spurred by inspiration, he cut out two robins out of the leftover pastry, one bigger than the other, and a JT.

he cut carefully, using the tip to scratch lines for feathers, a poke for the eyes.

the beep of the timer went off, shaking him from his work, but luckily the scratch to the smaller robin was superficial, and wouldn’t break it apart.

he took the pan, carefully holding the handle, memories of Jason and his mother intertwining to remind him it was hot and would hurt if it spilled on him. he poured it around the robin, and into the pie. once it was full, he lifted the lid, watching it wrinkle like cloth, and gently placed it over the robins head, one it lay on the filings top, he took a  fork and folded over the edges and scored them so they sealed, he then used the fork to stab sets of homes in the lid, so it could breath.

he gently placed the pastry robins on the pie, and the J and T.

a pastry memorial to his brother.

shooing the thought away he placed the pie in the oven, set the heat, and the timer.

he leaned back against the counter, letting it bite into his lower back. he rested there, breathing.

flour covered his hoodie, he left it, it would brush off, and it was an old hoodie, already discoloured.

if Jason was here, he'd chid dick for that.

but Jason wasn’t here

but the pie was. and it would be reading in less than an hour, enough time for him to relax. maybe he would read that book Jason had been bugging him to. what was it called? my side of the mountain. that’s it.

dick turned away, walking towards the shelves, looking for the battered slim volume.

he would sit and read it until the timer beeped, then he'd cut the pie, gently taking the take half of the pie without the initials or the smaller robin. he would add the clotted cream ice cream Jason loved and eat it from a bowl with his mother’s silver spoon as he continued reading. the planned casework forgotten. eventually he would nod off, his dreams filled with sugar, pastry and brothers and mothers.

the next day half a rhubarb pie with the initials JT and a small robin on would be given to the kid that lived in the ally close by

but before all this would happen, dick would feel surprised that for the first time he was okay with his brother not being there.

[makoodlesarchive]

bad dragon

here i am delivering content that NO ONE ASKED FOR !! this is nasty and i got super embarrassed just writing it but i hope you enjoy it anyway

honestly no one look at me, just let me indulge in this in peace

pairing: kirishima eijirou x fem!reader

word count: 10k

warnings: blowjobs, penetrative sex, virgin kirishima, lots of cum (like, a ridiculous amount), breeding (kinda), size kink?. it’s not exactly anthro bc everyone is human here but uhh non-standard genitals, i guess? kirishima has an unusual dick: pls see here for reference      OR     check out the amazing fanart for kiri’s dick !!

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Kirishima Eijirou was a perfect gentleman. He bought you flowers, he opened doors for you, he gave the sweetest goodnight kisses, he ate you out so good he had you seeing stars. You had the biggest, fattest crush on him, and you would be embarrassed about it if it weren’t for the fact that it seemed, at least for the most part, to be reciprocated.

The problem was Kirishima never let you touch him.

Whenever the two of you ended up in bed together, with the door firmly locked behind you, Kirishima insisted on sliding under the blankets and eating you out so enthusiastically he had your legs shaking in no time. It’s not like you would ever complain about that, but it definitely bothered you that he was never up for doing anything else. You would see the blanket shifting around as he jerked himself off furiously under the sheets as he tongue-fucked you, but whenever you tried to coax him out from beneath the sheets you were turned down with a soft, apologetic little smile.

You figured it must have something to do with his apparent commitment issues. Everytime you brought up the possibility of being a couple, or anything more than what you currently were (which, tragically, was nothing; just two friends occasionally getting hot and heavy) he brushed you off or changed the subject with a beautifully sunny smile and a laugh, so bright and cheery that you were successfully diverted every single time.

And it was fine, really. You liked Kirishima a lot, so you were totally willing to put up with a few odd idiosyncrasies. And okay, sure, if you were being totally honest with yourself, of course you wanted to be more than friends that flirt and kiss and mess around a bit. You couldn’t even technically call each other fuck buddies because he wouldn’t fuck you. But he was so sweet, and so handsome and kind and his tongue was so so good, that you would take whatever you could get from him. 

At least, that was until one afternoon.

April had brought with it blue skies and sun showers and warm breezes, and as the weather begins to improve your friends take to lounging out the front of the apartment complex. After graduating, renting places in the same neighbourhood just seemed like the next logical step. On days like this, where you all come together just to chill out in front of the complex, it seems like the best idea in the world. As you watch Kirishima chase Kaminari around the lawn, the two of them howling with laughter, something a little wistful twists in your stomach. It’s a familiar feeling, easy enough to shove away normally, but today for some reason you just feel… melancholy.

Maybe that’s why you do something you would never normally do. You turn to Bakugou, who’s aggressively chewing on candy as though it insulted his mother, and say, “Hey, um. Does Kirishima… does Kirishima ever talk about me?”

Bakugou’s jaw stills, and he turns his head very slowly to look at you. He looks mildly disbelieving, which is understandable. The two of you get along just fine, but you’ve never asked him anything personal before. “Why the fuck are you asking me that?” he demands through a mouthful of half-chewed toffee.

You shrug jerkily, suddenly mortified. Why are you asking something like that of Bakugou, of all people? “Never mind.” you say quickly, praying that he’ll just let it go and you can both move on and forget that you had ever asked such an embarrassing question.

A silence stretches between the two of you, long and taut, broken only by Mina giggling as she shows Sero something on her phone a few metres away. You could curse yourself for making things awkward between the two of you when you had been on relatively good terms, but then Bakugou turns to look at you so abruptly that you startle a little. “Look,” he says, jaw working absently as he chews his candy. “He likes you just fine, okay. Why aren’t you having this conversation with him, huh?”

You can’t quite meet Bakugou’s eyes. You don’t know how he can be so forthright all the time. “Um. I’ve tried, but he always changes the subject.”

Bakugou swears softly, glaring out across the lawn at Kirishima as he chases Kaminari, throwing grapes at his back. “I ain’t a relationship counsellor, okay? I get that it must be hard that he doesn’t cum when he’s with you or whatever, but you seriously need to work that out with him. What am I meant to do about it?”

“Right,” you wince, your body hot with embarrassment. Your mind sticks on something he just said though, and you turn back slowly to frown at him. “He… he doesn’t cum?”

“Hah?” Bakugou scowls at you, clearly annoyed that you’re still having this conversation. You’re not about to let up though, because you hadn’t known that.

“I-I didn’t realise that he didn’t-?” you trail off, mortified and horrified in equal measures. You had assumed all those times that he was jerking off under the sheets that he was getting himself off but just didn’t want you to see. You had never questioned the lack of mess because as soon as you were done he always left for the bathroom, returning a few minutes later with damp towels to clean you up with -- you had assumed he cleaned himself up in those moments of absence. How the fuck had you never noticed?  Why did Bakugou know when you didn’t? Oh god, had he and Kirishima talked about this?

Bakugou’s expression shifts as he apparently realises that he had just revealed something you hadn’t been aware of. “Oh.” he says, and his annoyance seems to have evaporated, only to be replaced by an intense discomfort. “Well. It’s not that big a deal, or whatever. I’m sure he still, uh, enjoys himself- fucking hell, can we stop talking about this?”

“Yeah.” you say a little numbly. You feel so stupid. Why had he never said anything to you? You had been under the assumption that he liked you back, but maybe you were totally mistaken. Maybe seeing your naked body turned him off to the point that he couldn’t actually cum even if hidden under the sheets and not looking at you. Maybe he never actually wanted to do any of that with you in the first place. There’s a stinging pressure building in the back of your eyes, and you have to look down at your lap and blink hard to stop yourself from doing something stupid like bursting into tears in front of Bakgou -- you don’t think either of you would live that down. “Uh. I think I’m gonna head up to my room, I’m really tired.”

Bakugou’s eyes widened a little, “Wait, are you-”

“I’ll see you later,” you smile and try to keep your voice as normal as possible, but even you can hear how forced you sound. You stand quickly and brush yourself off before heading back inside; you have to consciously slow your pace so that it doesn’t look like you’re running away, because you really don’t put it past Bakugou not to chase you down for cutting him off like that.

You bump into Jirou on the stairs and babble out an apology, escaping back upstairs to your apartment before she can ask you if you’re okay. The last thing you need is an audience for your imminent breakdown, but thankfully you don’t see a single other person on the way to your place. You shut the door to your room tight and lean your forehead against it to take a deep breath. It doesn’t do much to calm you down, so you turn and make a beeline straight for the bed. Throwing yourself dramatically on top of your bed covers feels a little cathartic, so you allow yourself the luxury of being dramatic as you bury your face into your arms and sigh. 

God, you wish Kirishima would have just talked to you instead of grinning that stupidly bright smile of his and changing the subject anytime you tried to talk or ask about the thing the two of you had together. At least then you would have been able to deal with any upset that may have been caused by that conversation by yourself, and you wouldn’t have had to get all upset in front of one of Kirishima’s best friends. God, how were you ever gonna look at Bakugou again?

You know that stewing by yourself like this isn’t going to help sort this situation out, but you just can’t find the energy to start thinking about what you’re going to do next. You don’t want to start thinking about that at all. You just need some time to yourself, just a little while to relax and breathe and just not think because if you start thinking you’re pretty sure you’re going to cry. You feel impossibly stupid.

When you hear a knock coming from the door, you want to bang your head off the wall. You can’t imagine anything worse than having to talk to someone and pretend that everything is fine right now.

“Y/N? Hey, is everything alright? Bakugou said you ran off.”

Aw, shit. Maybe you can imagine something worse.

You sit up sharply, staring at the door. This was so typical. Of all the people in the building, Kirishima is the last person you want to talk to right now. So of course it stands to reason that he would be the one to follow you straight to your apartment. “Everything’s fine,” you call back quickly, trying hard to sound like you meant it, “Hey, I’m just tired right now. Can we talk later?”

“Bakugou said you were upset.”

That traitor. You clench your jaw and scowl at the wall. “I’m-”

“I’m coming in, okay?”

“Wha-?” you stand up quickly, but Kirishima is already coming in and closing the door behind him. “Kirishima, I don’t-”

“Okay look, Bakugou said you were upset with me and I’m really, really sorry,” Kirishima blurts quickly, hands up in the air as if he’s being held at gunpoint, “He’s actually pretty annoyed at me right now, but he’s right, and-”

“I’m not-” you start, then pause to gather your thoughts. Bakugou was right, especially when he said you had to talk. And it was important this time that you didn’t let Kirishima divert you like he had been doing. “It’s not that I’m upset with you. Not really. I just- what are we even doing?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, so softly that it’s almost a whisper.

“I-” you swallow hard, brace yourself, “I really like you. I like spending time with you, and I’ve told you, or at least tried to, that I’d really like to, well, be- um, be more than whatever this is. And obviously I would totally get if you don’t want that, a relationship and stuff, but I want you to just tell me! Just say it, instead of changing the subject.”

“Wait, baby, please.” Kirishima steps forward quickly and stops just short of touching you, a bare few inches between you. “I like you so much, I never wanted you to feel this way. I just- it’s difficult to explain-”

“Do you...” you start to say, then sigh. You can’t believe you’re actually going to ask this, because it makes you sound so desperate, but you really need to hear him say it, “Do you not find me attractive?”

Kirishima makes a startled choking sound, “Wha-? Are you kidding? I find you so attractive! You’re so pretty, and your body is- is really nice, why would you think-”

“You never look at me when we’re in bed and-” you start fidgeting, horribly awkward. “I just want to be able to touch you.”

Kirishima steps forward, closing the distance between you and dropping to one knee. “Baby, I’ll do whatever you want,” he says, his hands coming to rest on your hips as his thumbs stroke circles into your skin. “You want me to touch you?”

“No.” you squeeze your eyes shut in frustration, realising that he had misunderstood. “I mean. Bakugou told me that you never cum when we’re together.”

When you open your eyes again, you see that Kirishima has gone stock still. His mouth is a little open, and you can see his throat working as he seems to fight for something to say. Very slowly, he gets back to his feet. “He shouldn’t have said that.”

You stare at him, at a loss. “Is it because-” you start, then trail off as you realise that you don’t even know what you’re trying to ask. You just want him to start talking so that you can stop asking all these stupid questions. “If you don’t want to have sex with me, you only have to say so, I would never pressure you into-”

“No!” Kirishima blurts, jolting forward. The suddenness of the movement seems to startle the both of you, but Kirishima recovers faster. “God, no, that’s not what this is!”

“Then, why?” you whisper, thoroughly confused. You had hoped that talking it out would help get some answers, but if anything you’re even more confused and insecure than you had been before he came to your room. “Did I- I mean, if I’m doing something that’s-”

“It’s not you.” Kirishima interrupts, covering his eyes with one of his large palms and leaning away from you. His hand is trembling a little, almost imperceptibly. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

The statement hangs in the air between the two of you like it’s a tangible presence. You stare hard at Kirishima, but he doesn’t remove his hand from his face. He looks a bit like he’s going to be sick. “What do you mean?” you ask quietly.

You’re guessing that this is where you get the ‘You’re great and all but I’m just not ready for a relationship. It’s got nothing to do with you though, I need to work through my own stuff’ sort of speech, and you have to brace yourself for it. Instead, Kirishima says something that you had not prepared yourself to hear in the slightest.

“I’m sorry.” you say, a little bewildered. You’re certain that you heard that wrong. “Could you- could you say that again?”

A flush has begun to crawl steadily across Kirishima’s face, made all the more prominent by the contrast of his hand pressed to his eyes. His ears are so red that they blend right into his hair. “I said,” he says, then takes an inhale, “That you’ll break up with me if you see my dick.”

You don’t actually know how to begin replying to that. For one, breaking up would require you to be in a relationship, which is something that he has been avoiding for a while now. You decide to address the bigger problem first. “Why would I want to break up because of your dick? Why would you even think that? Do you think I’m that shallow?”

“It’s got nothing to do with you being shallow,” Kirishima says slowly. You get the impression that he’s measuring his words, and his uncharacteristic reticence has you on edge. “It’s just that- I’m not, well, normal.”

You stare at him, a little taken aback. Kirishima had always had some issues with self-confidence, ever since middle school, but you’d always thought he’d worked through that in UA. You had never heard him talk about himself like this. “What’s that supposed to mean? Eijirou, lots of people are self-conscious about what they have going on downstairs. It doesn’t mean-”

“No, you don’t get it,” he interrupts. His hands have started twisting up the hem of his shirt, wringing it out and wrinkling the material. He’s frowning, and clearly starting to get agitated. “It’s not that I’m self-conscious about it- well, I am self-conscious about it, I guess, but it’s for a reason! I mean it, it’s not exactly… standard.”

Your face scrunches up in a frown before you can stop it. Not standard? “You’re worried it’s too small?” You guess. Your gaze drops to the crotch of his pants, where he’s subconsciously folded his hands. “Too big?”

“Um.” Kirishima lets out a nervous little laugh, several octaves higher than normal. “Yeah, I guess. It’s… it looks weird.”

“Eijirou,” your voice is soft now, most of your frustration melted away by the sight of Kirishima’s anxious fidgeting, “We live in a world where physical mutations are the norm; you really don’t have anything to worry about.” You pause for a moment, but Kirishima doesn’t respond immediately. The silence builds, until you try to break it with a light-hearted, “How weird can it be, really?”

Kirishima’s throat works as he swallows hard, but he’s nodding so you at least know that he’s listening. When he does speak, his voice is so low that you have to lean closer to him to catch what he’s saying. “I just don’t want to ruin this.”

Your heart twists, and the last of your frustration straight up disappears. You take a breath to steady yourself, then step forward and place your hands gently on his chest. A tremor works its way up his spine at your touch, but you don’t remark on it. “Kirishima.” you say firmly, and when he looks up and makes eye contact you try to keep your gaze as strict as possible. “You really have no idea how much I like you, do you? God, I like you so much, it’s stupid. I’ve wanted to be with you for so long. I mean, even if you never wanted to have sex I would understand, so long as you talked to me about it. Your dick is not gonna stop me from liking you, idiot.”

The fear of rejection is still plain to see on Kirishima’s face, but there’s something lurking just underneath that looks like hope. “I’ve never… I’ve never been with anyone like that.”

“You haven’t?” you ask, genuinely surprised. Not only is Kirishima perfectly sweet, he’s also extremely attractive. As an up-and-coming sidekick in Fatgum’s hero agency, you knew that he had no shortage of admirers. Even before that, in UA, you knew there were always people who had their eyes on him. He was so bright, he was hard to miss. 

He laughs, scrubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. “Uh, no. I mean, I’m not totally inexperienced. I mean, I’ve done oral and stuff, and I think I’m actually pretty good at it-”

“You are definitely pretty good at it,” you chime in, nodding and trying not to laugh at the flush crawling up his neck.

“I enjoy it, too!” he says quickly, as though trying to reassure you, “I enjoy it a lot. But I’ve never- I mean, no one’s ever touched me like that.” You feel your mouth drop open in honest shock. A little part of you couldn’t help but feel reassured that it wasn’t you he had a problem with, but that was mostly drowned out by surprise. Kirishima rushes on before you can speak, as though trying to say his piece before he runs out of steam, “It’s not that I didn’t want to, it’s just that it’s never seemed worth the fallout. Especially with you. I’m happy with being with you in whatever way I can, and I don’t want my stupid dick to scare you off or-”

“Oh my god, Kirishima, stop,” you say, and this time you really can’t hold back your laugh. “Your stupid dick isn’t going to scare me off. God, I can’t believe this is why you never let me touch you.” you step closer and press a soft, close-mouthed kiss to his lips. You hadn’t realised just how tense Kirishima was until he relaxed a little into your touch, the stiffness in his shoulders easing out as he sighed into the kiss. You pull back just a little, just enough that you can give him a cheeky smile. “Want me to give you your first blowjob?”

Kirishima’s whole body tenses right back up as his eyes shoot wide in surprise. “What?” he squeaks out, his ears turning scarlet.

You take his hand in yours and tangle your fingers together, before tugging him gently towards the bed. “I want to,” you assure him quietly, “No matter what your dick looks like, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Kirishima says as he sits at the edge of the bed. He’s breathing a little faster now, either from excitement or nerves. You’re guessing it’s a bit of both, because he’s clinging on tight to your hand even though he looks like he’s about to bolt. When you hook your fingers around the waistband of his shorts, he catches one of your wrists with his free hand. “If you- you know, if you change your mind after seeing it, just know that I won’t be mad or anything.”

He’s so quiet and earnest that you feel your heart melt a little looking at his nervously hopeful eyes. You take your hand back and climb onto his lap, pushing your fingers into his wild mop of hair. It’s the first time you’ve ever been close with him like this -- usually he would give you a sweet, gentle kiss and then dive between your legs, always keeping a frustrating amount of distance between your lower halves. This time though, he doesn’t try to divert you away. His hands grip your hips tight, and he leans his head into your touch. “I wish you would stop expecting me to push you away.” you murmur into the side of his neck, peppering little kisses into his skin. Kirishima lets out the smallest, choked off sounding whine at that, and tilts his head so that the long line of his throat is exposed. You take the hint, and start trailing kisses all along the soft skin at the base of his neck. “I told you, and I meant it; I want to be with you.”

Strong arms wind their way around your back and pull you close until you’re sat right over Kirishima’s crotch. You don’t even think it was intentional on Kirishima’s part, but you won’t pass up the opportunity when it presents itself to you. His shorts are bulging a little right in the centre where he’s starting to get hard, and you lower yourself down so that you’re grinding over him. He gasps at the contact, and his hips jerk up into you. “Oh, shit. I want you, so badly.” he gasps, his forehead dropping down to rest on your shoulder.

You have to admit, what you can feel through his shorts is… intimidating. ‘Yeah, I guess,’ he had said when you asked him if he was worried about his dick being too big. Judging by what you could feel pressing against you, that was a massive understatement, and he was only half-hard. You ghost your hands down over his sides, feeling his ribs expand with his breaths, sliding down until your hands reach the waistband of his shorts again. You push them down over his hips, and he lifts himself up to help you, and then he’s just in his impressively tented jockstrap. You smile reassuringly at him as you tug down the jockstrap, and then his cock springs free of the waistband and you pause.

“Oh.” you breathe.

“I know that it’s-” Kirishima begins to visibly panic, his hand reflexively shooting down to try and cover himself as he tries to sit up.

“It’s okay.” you say quickly, recovering from your surprise as quickly as possible. You still feel a little off-kilter as you slide off his lap to your knees in front of him. You know that you’re staring at his cock wide-eyed, but you can’t quite help yourself. It’s… well. It’s definitely not standard.

You reach out, your hand hovering uncertainly over his cock because you barely know how to begin. It’s thicker than a soda can, and long. Delicate ridges and swirls decorate the underside, with a series of bumps along the top. When you finally do grasp him in your hand, you’re rewarded with a barely stifled gasp and a hot spurt of precum that dribbles down his cockhead to your fingers. You use both your hands to explore his length, fingers trailing over all those strange ridges. The bumps along the top are apparently sensitive, because when you rub your thumbs over them Kirishima gasps and his hips thrust gracelessly into the air.

“Sorry!” he blurts as his cock dribbles even more precum. There’s so much of it that it looks like you actually used lube or something to slick up his cock, but you guess that this must be normal for him because he just looks embarrassed. “I- it’s sensitive, I guess, um- I usually put down a towel, because I tend to get, uh, messy.”

The way he says that and the connotations of it has your thighs squeezing together, and you take a deep inhale through your nose. It’s unexpectedly hot. “Gotcha.” you smile at him, trying to put him at ease as you return your attention back to his dick. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind if you make a mess.”

“Oh, shit. Uh, okay.” Kirishima says, and his breathing has gotten noticeably heavier now. He’s almost panting as he leans back on his elbows, craning his neck so he can get a look at what you’re doing. There’s a curious swell around the base of his cock that just seems to be growing. One of your hands travels down to it curiously, splaying over it and then rubbing it at it experimentally. His hips rock forward sharply, a huff of breath leaving him as he grunts a muted, “Fuck!”

The precum is oozing almost continuously now, spilling over with nearly every stroke, and your rubbing at the swollen base seems to be pushing even more out. It’s obscene, the copious amount of it and the way it’s stringing down onto your hands. If this is the amount of precum he produces, you can hardly imagine the amount of cum he’s going to produce. You wonder if ‘messy’ is another understatement.

You finally lean forward and lick an experimental stripe up the underside of his cock, lapping at the ridges and swirls. The moan that’s ripped out of him is needy and so desperate -- his stomach muscles are tensed with the effort he’s putting in to keep from rocking into your mouth, but his cheeks are flushed and his own mouth is lolling open, his eyes squeezed shut. You take that as your cue to take all of him in your mouth as best as you can, suckling at the tip before swallowing him down. You get about halfway before you have to pull back and try again. Your mouth is stretched obscenely wide around the girth of him, and you swear you can feel the weight of his dick pulsing on your tongue.

“Oh god, oh baby, oh Y/N,” Kirishima is babbling nonsensically, his head thrown as his hips make the sweetest little aborted rocking motions, like he wants nothing more than to let go but is trying his best to restrain himself for your sake. “Feels so good.”

You suck him as best as you can, but your jaw is starting to ache from being hinged so wide. You alternate between stroking his length and suckling on the head of his dick, tracing the swirls and squeezing the bottom. The swell at the base of his cock has engorged even further, and you prod at it curiously with one hand as you work his length with the other. It’s firm but oddly spongey, and everytime you poke at it Kirishima’s whole cock twitches.

When he gasps out your name you pull back and look up at him. He’s trembling, his shirt rucked up past his bellybutton and his gaze fixed unwaveringly on you. “You okay?” you ask softly, rubbing your thumb along one of the ridges under the head of his dick.

“Yeah,” he breathes, reaching down to cup your face. His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, and you realise that a string of saliva and precum is dripping down your chin. “But if you keep going I’m gonna cum.”

“Isn’t that kind of the point?” you laugh, and press a kiss right on his slit. His hips twitch and you dodge backwards just in time to avoid him taking your eye out with his hard on. 

“Sorry!” he looks mortified, and you can’t help but find his nervous fumbling absolutely adorable.

“Don’t worry about it.” you smile as you kiss your way down his shaft, prepared now for the intermittent jerking of his hips. You get to that swollen part at the base and place your mouth right at the bottom of his cock, before wrapping your lips around it to the best of your ability and sucking.

You had guessed that this swollen area was sensitive thanks to his reactions earlier, but you’re not quite prepared for the shout he lets out or the way his hand grabs onto the side of your head as he damn near rides your mouth. You’re totally startled by the reaction, but given the amount of times that you’ve done the same to his mouth you’re only too happy to indulge him. Plus, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen Kirishima fall apart like this. His cock is dribbling precum at a rapid rate the more excited he gets, and thick strings of it are pouring onto your cheeks. You think you should probably feel a little grossed out, but seeing Kirishima open-mouthed and panting as he rides your face like he’s hasn’t got a single other thought in his mind has you so turned on that your panties are getting sticky and uncomfortable between your legs. You stick your own hand between your legs to try and relieve yourself of some of the heat coiling up in your stomach, but the way that Kirishima’s rutting into your face throws off your coordination.

“Oh god, please, baby, please, put it back in your mouth, I’m gonna- fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna cum, please-” He begs, his head thrown back as he gasps.

How could you ever deny him when he pleads like that? You pull your head out of his grasp and sink your mouth back down on his cock, and then you just hold there and breathe as steadily as you can as Kirishima’s cock throbs in your mouth. His hips spasm, pushing his cock further into your throat. It almost feels like he’s getting bigger, as if he’s growing down your throat.

Kirishima is still babbling, a steady stream of senselessness about how good you’re making him feel, how beautiful you are, how lucky he is, until he cuts himself off with a gasp of “Baby, I’m- I’m-” and then he’s silent, his mouth hanging open as his whole body strains.

You try to suck him through his orgasm, but you are utterly unprepared for the sheer quantity of cum that erupts from his dick. Despite your intentions, you have no choice but to pull off his cock, choking a little on the cum that actually managed to get up your nose. You stroke him through it, feeling dazed as you watch him cum. You know it’s dripping from your chin, running in rivulets down your face. You wonder if it’s coming out your nose.

Kirishima seems to come forever, humping into your fist and whining and moaning the whole time. When his cock finally gives its last, exhausted spurt, his body falls limp against the bed. He’s gasping for breath and staring at the ceiling, looking like his soul had been ejected from his body along with the insane amount of cum. You notice the swollen part at the base of his cock has deflated almost entirely, to the point that it’s hardly noticeable anymore.

You climb up on the bed beside him and nudge him with your knee, a little concerned. “Eijirou? You good?”

When he looks at you, there’s a goofy smile splitting his face. “I have never been so good in my whole life.” His smile freezes as he catches a proper look at your face, caught between surprise, embarrassment, and something else. He reaches out to your face and swipes his fingers through the mess on your face. “Oh god, I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be!” you hasten to assure him, squeezing his wrists. “It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Kirishima stares at you as though he almost doesn’t believe you, but his cum is painted across your face and dripping down your chest, so he’s not in the best position to argue. “I told you I tend to get messy.” he breathes out a laugh, and then leans forward to kiss you, apparently not caring about the taste of his own ejaculate.

You hum into his mouth, your thighs clenching in excitement. “Eijirou,” you whisper into the kiss. When he pulls back, you bite your lip and smile at him, “Next time, will you fuck me?”

Kirishima inhales sharply, and his grip on your hips tightens to the point that the pressure is near bruising. “You really want that?”

“God, yes.” you blurt, shifting so that you’re straddling his stomach. You lower yourself down so that you’re grinding against his bare skin, and you can see the exact moment that he realises you’ve soaked through your panties.

He groans, and pulls at your hips to encourage you to grind against his stomach harder. “Shit, sweetheart. You don’t think it’s… kind of gross?”

“I didn’t expect the amount of cum,” you confess, wiping at your face with a helpless laugh, “But no, I don’t think it’s gross. I like it.” You whimper as Kirishima’s thumb slides over your swollen clit, the glide made smooth thanks to the slickness of your own arousal.

Kirishima is looking up at you as though you had hung the moon, and it’s hard not to get a little embarrassed under the intensity of his gaze. “Okay,” he whispers, “If you’re sure.” He glances down with a small frown, his lips twisted thoughtfully, “I don’t want to hurt you, though.”

“You won’t.” you kiss his nose, grinning as it wrinkles up under your lips. “We’ll make sure I’m stretched.” you glance over your shoulder at his still wet, softening cock. Even now, the size of it is intimidating. “And lube,” you conclude, “We’ll use lots and lots of lube.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, a smile starting to light up his face. He presses a sloppy kiss to the base of your throat, and you can feel the smile against your skin, “Yeah, okay. I’d really like that.” There’s still cum everywhere, all over your hands and chest and face and splashed across Kirishima’s legs and stomach, but he doesn’t seem to care about the mess in the slightest as he rolls the two of you over so that he’s hovering over you. The kiss he presses to one of your breasts is impossibly soft, and you tilt your head back and sigh as you feel his fingers trace over the lips of your pussy. “I’m so lucky to have you.” he whispers, then pushes himself down your body.

As his tongue flicks over your clit, you smile. It’s definitely you that’s the lucky one here.

_________________________

Kirishima’s complicated relationship with his genitalia had started in middle school. Up until that point, he had managed to remain blissfully unaware that there was any kind of abnormality in his nether regions. That changed one day in the locker rooms.

Having never paid any particular attention to what he had in his pants, Kirishima hadn’t thought anything of changing out with the rest of the boys in his class, as unabashed as any middle-schooler that hadn’t developed a sense of self-consciousness yet. He didn’t notice the whispers or stares until one of his friends nudged him hard. “Dude,” he said, glancing between Kirishima’s legs and then away, curiosity and mild revulsion mingled on his face, “What’s wrong with your thingy?”

“Wrong?” Kirishima had echoed, discomfort beginning to prickle beneath his skin. He hadn’t realised there was anything wrong with his genitals. He covered up quickly and finished getting changed, but the stares lingered.

No one said anything more about it to him, but by the end of the day rumour had spread that Kirishima was weird down there.

He had, like so many boys his age, taken to the internet to do his own research. It felt like a punch to the gut when he realised that his classmates were right -- his dick looked nothing like the dicks that all the guys in the videos he found had. There were exceptions, where the person’s genitals were affected by their quirk, but they were always full-body quirks that made it pretty obvious that what you were gonna find down below would be non-standard. His genitals didn’t match his body or his quirk, so his classmates must be right when they say that he’s weird with those grossed-out little laughs.

He learned pretty quickly to keep that part of him to himself, to change out quickly and efficiently in such a way that no one would ever see the parts of him that he’d rather keep hidden. He welcomes physical contact because he’s still an affectionate guy, but he’s always careful about the distance he allows between himself and others just in case they brush up against him accidentally and somehow feel that he’s different. When the boys in his class start excitedly talking about girls and other boys, and how nice it’d be to have a girlfriend or boyfriend, Kirishima tries to stay out of it. He doesn’t want to wonder about something like that when he knows that if someone were to find out his secret they’d be totally grossed out.

High school comes hand in hand with experimentation though, and Kirishima is lonely and touch-starved. He doesn’t want to avoid touch for the rest of his life out of fear that someone’s going to know. So he allows himself to indulge a little; he’s popular with girls in UA, a fact that surprises him. Unlike the girls in middle school, they haven’t heard the rumours that there’s something wrong with him, so they smile and chat to him and even flirt. It’s exciting and new and he allows himself to have just this -- he kisses them and he makes them feel good, and then he retreats when they look for more because he just can’t give it to them. 

When he tells you all this, you could swear that you feel your heart crack right down the middle. You hadn’t realised how lonely Kirishima was, wrapped up in a self-constructed blanket of self-loathing and disgust. You knew it had taken a lot of trust for him to open up to you like he had, but you hadn’t realised just how much. It makes your chest fill with some undefinable emotion, and you just want to hold him and never let go. 

You’re more determined than ever now to show him exactly how much you care about him, and exactly how much any physical anomaly doesn’t affect the way you feel in the slightest. You’ve been stretching yourself methodically and carefully every night of the week that has passed since you gave him his first blowjob in preparation to finally have sex with him. You just want him to feel good, and you don’t want him to worry about hurting you. And now, tonight, you’ve decided that you’re ready for it.

Bakugou’s the one that answers the door when you knock at their shared apartment, and his face does something funny when he sees you. He lets you in without a greeting, and yells for Kirishima as you shut the door behind you. It’s definitely a little awkward, because your last proper conversation was that day when he told you that your now boyfriend didn’t get off when you were together, but you smile and ask him how he’s doing all the same.

He just grunts at you and sprawls out on the couch, his attention fixed on his phone. You don’t try to make any further conversation, because you figure he probably won’t respond and you can hear Kirishima crashing around further down the hall anyway. You’re about to slip down the hall towards Kirishima’s room when Bakugou speaks again, surprising you. “You talked.”

You pause, confused for half a moment before the memories of your last conversation come flooding back. “Oh. Uh, yeah, we did.” 

Bakugou nods, still staring at his phone. You hover uncertainly, unsure of whether you should continue to Kirishima’s room or if Bakugou had something else he wanted to say. You don’t have to wait long; Bakugou puts his phone down and turns to survey you closely. “If you’re still here, then I guess you didn’t freak out.”

“There’s nothing to freak out over.” you say defensively, thinking of how sensitive Kirishima is about his body.

“I never said there was!” Bakugou snaps back instantly. You both glare at each other, but you don’t respond further. You came here for one reason, and that reason was not to start a fight with Bakugou when your boyfriend was waiting for you in the bedroom. When Bakugou speaks again, it’s with an awkward edge to his voice. “Whatever. Just don’t be an asshole to him.”

You realise that Bakugou is just trying to look out for his friend, and the revelation that you’re receiving Bakugou’s awkward attempt at a shovel talk is enough to have you reeling. “As if I would be,” you say, “I really like him.”

“Good. Fine.” Bakugou picks his phone back up and you take that as a dismissal. You’re just about to leave when he says, “By the way, keep it the fuck down. I don’t care if you’re taking dragon dick or if it’s Shitty Hair’s first time getting his dick wet, I don’t need to hear that nasty shit.”

His crudeness has you flushing hot with embarrassment, but you don’t dignify him with a response. You slip down the hall and up to Kirishima’s bedroom, knocking softly on the door before letting yourself in.

Kirishima is in the process of trying to stuff a pile of clothes into the bottom of his wardrobe, and he slams the door shut and whirls around when he hears you come in. “Hey!” he beams at you, trying to kick aside the pair of underwear that’s stuck in the edge of the wardrobe door.

“Hey, you.” you greet him. You’re still a bit flustered from Bakugou’s comment, but you hide it as best as you can as Kirishima sweeps you up in his arms and pulls you into a sweet, close-mouthed kiss.

In the week since you blew him the first time, the two of you have alternated between your apartments and spent almost every single day together. Some days you just touched each other with your hands, other days you used your mouths on each other. You still hadn’t gotten fully used to his enormous loads of cum, but he seems at least to be getting more and more comfortable with your touch. Even now, his hands trail up your sides as he presses eagerly into you; this boldness would have been unheard of coming from him only a week ago, but neither of you are under any illusions about what the two of you are going to get up to this evening.

You wind your arms around his neck and melt into the kiss, relishing the contact and the wet slide of his lips against yours. As his hands trail from your hips to your lower back to your ass, you feel the hard press of his lower abdomen nudge against you. You pull back and grin at him, “Someone’s impatient.”

Kirishima flushes, but he doesn’t pull away or deny it. Progress. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” he confesses quietly, reaching up to nudge a flyaway tuft of hair out of your eyes.

“Yeah?” you grin, delighting in his openness. You take a small step back and look down at where his bulge is tenting the front of his sweatpants. “How long have you been like this, baby?”

“Pretty much since you texted me telling me you were thinking of coming over.” he says with a cheeky little smile, nudging his face into your neck and nipping at the skin there. “So, an hour and a half? Give or take.”

You hum as you cup his hardness through the cotton of his joggers. He groans and his hips jerk into your palm, as sensitive as ever. “Hey,” you murmur, “Wanna fuck me?”

Kirishima’s whole body twitches at that, and you swear you can feel his cock jump in his hand. “Now?” he asks, his voice gone a little hoarse from surprise and arousal.

“Unless you’d like to wait?”

“No! Now is good!” Kirishima says hastily, reaching out to hold your hips as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “God, now is so good.”

It’s really hard to hold back your laugh as you watch him scramble towards the bed, tugging you along with him. He’s excited, that much is obvious, and you really can’t blame him -- he’s gone so long thinking that he would never get to have this, that he would never be accepted like this. You want to give him everything.

His hands start fidgeting with the sheets as soon as he sits back on the bed. You straddle his lap and take his hands in yours before leaning in for a kiss, hoping to distract him from any nerves or self-doubts before they can take a hold of him. He hums happily into your mouth, squeezing one of your hands in his and using the other one to wrap around your waist and pull you closer.

“I’ve thought about sex with you so many times,” you admit when you pull away from the kiss. You reach up and stroke a line down the bridge of his nose, then push back a lock of his hair; it’s freshly washed and ungelled, lying fluffy and loose around his face. He’s looking up at you like you just hung the moon, open-mouthed and soft-eyed. It’s such a sweet look on him, and you love watching it contort into pleasure as you sink down to rub yourself against his hard on. “I want you to feel good.”

Kirishima makes a choked off whining sound in his throat as he grinds up into you. “You always make me feel good.” he says. You can feel his cock thickening and filling out against you, and judging by how clearly you can feel him, he’s foregone the usual jockstrap or protective cup he uses to try and hide his shape in his pants. 

You reach down and pull at his sweatpants -- you manage to get one leg off entirely, but the other gets stuck halfway down his left thigh and you’re too impatient to keep pulling at it so you just abandon it in favour of reaching for Kirishima’s now exposed cock. You’ve gotten familiar with the thick ridges and bumps of it over the past week, familiar enough for your fingers to seek out his sensitive spots without even looking.

He moans as you touch him, and dips his hands into your pants so that he can squeeze at your ass. His grip is a little too hard, bordering on painful as he bites at your neck. He pops open the button on your pants and shoves one of his hands into your panties, rubbing at your clit with his thumb and trailing his other fingers along your slit. 

You rub at the bumps along the tip of his cock, and you’re rewarded with a little squirt of precum. It dribbles down your hand and onto the sheets, and you wonder if maybe you should put down some towels to try and keep the mess contained. But Kirishima is letting out the softest little moans as he tries to rut into your hand and rub at your clit at the same time, and you decide that ruining the moment to lay down towels just isn’t worth it. A little mess is a small sacrifice to make.

When his fingers finally dip inside you, you feel his whole body tense up and still. “Baby,” he says, his voice soft and a little stunned, “You..”

“I stretched myself out before I came over,” you finish for him, pushing your hips back so that his fingers sink all the way inside of you. The lube still inside of you makes the slide effortless, and the look on Kirishima’s face is absolutely priceless. “I’m ready when you are.”

Those words elicit another little spurt of precum as Kirishima’s cock twitches in your hand. When you glance down, you see that the base of his dick is engorged and painful looking, and it only seems to be swelling. You only get to look for a moment though, because then you’re being flipped on your back and Kirishima is looming over you. “Oh, baby, oh shit,” he grits out through clenched teeth as his cock rubs up against the back of your thighs. “Are you sure you want to?”

“I want to, I want to so bad,” you promise him, kissing where you can reach on his face. You reach down and grip his cock, guiding it to your entrance, “Go slow, baby.” You’re so excited when you first feel the tip of his cock press into you that you’re not sure if the gush of wetness is from your pussy or his precum. You’re so turned on that you wonder if the amount of lube you had used was overkill, but then the length of him starts to stretch you out and you decide that yes, you absolutely did need that lube.

As soon as the tip is in, Kirishima stills over you. His head drops down, forehead making contact with your shoulder as he groans. You rock your hips experimentally, your breathing gone a little ragged as you realise that you can feel all those fleshy bumps and ridges, but Kirishima snatches at your hips instantly to still you. When he speaks, his voice is strained, “I’m not gonna last.”

Affection bubbles up in your chest as you look at his flushed face, his misty eyes. He’s practically trembling from the effort of holding back. “It’s okay,” you assure him, looping your arms over his shoulders and tracing little patterns into the skin of his back, “You don’t have to, it’s your first time. We have all the time in the world to go again and again, as many times as you want.”

Kirishima makes a garbled little noise in the back of his throat, and then he’s kissing you so sloppily and enthusiastically that drool begins to slip down your chins. It’s a little gross, but considering how much cum you’re going to be covered in soon enough you can’t be too fussy. When he pulls back, it’s so that he can look down and watch where his cock is entering you in increments.

The slow, inexorable stretch of it has your breath catching in your throat. You throw your head back on the bed and focus on keeping your breathing as steady as possible as he presses into you so, so slowly. After exploring the length of him with your mouth and hands, you knew he was big, but apparently knowing and feeling are two completely separate things. You feel like you’re being stretched impossibly wide, and when you glance down you see that he’s not even halfway in. 

Kirishima pauses suddenly, his breathing coming in short pants. You think that he’s just taking a moment to collect himself, to pace himself, but he’s frowning down at where the two of you are connected. “I dont- I don’t think I’ll fit.”

“Oh, you’ll fit.” you declare, jaw set stubbornly. His dick was already partly in you, and like hell were you giving up now. “Don’t worry. Keep going, Eiji.”

“You’re so…” he groans as he edges his hips forward, rocking his cock another inch inside of you, “So tight, you feel so wet and warm inside, oh god, so good, so good.”

The stretch is starting to sting, but you’ve prepared yourself well for this and it’s not so bad that you can’t breathe through it. When he bottoms out inside you, the tip of his cock hits your cervix and your whole body jerks hard at the dull ache it sends up your spine. “Fuck!” you cry out, your hips humping back into Kirishima’s of their own accord. You can feel every damn ridge and swirl grinding against your insides, and you clamp down hard around him, gasping. “Oh, shit.”

You’ve never felt so full in your life, and Kirishima’s cock doesn’t even fit all the way inside you. You wonder if you’re about to split in two. Your thighs are splayed obscenely wide, and you can feel your own body trying to suck him in further but there’s nowhere else to go because he’s filling you up so completely. Your chest is heaving as you pant for breath -- your thoughts have turned a little muddy, but even now you can see that Kirishima has frozen, his face tucked into your neck as he shudders with deep, panting breaths. Your shoulder feels wet, and you realise that he’s drooling on you.

“Eijirou,” you groan, “Move.”

His first thrust is hesitant, exploratory. He apparently likes what he feels, because he lifts his head up so that he can look at you properly. He looks totally blissed out, his eyes a little unfocused, and his expression alone shoots a bolt of heat straight between your legs. You breathe out a curse and move your hips down and into him, trying to encourage him to fuck you properly. When he thrusts forward again, the movement is accompanied by a vulgar squelching sound, and you realise that you’re probably being filled up with his precum. The thought makes you moan quietly, tightening up around him. 

Kirishima grunts and dives down so that your chests are pressed together, his arms pushing your legs up and to the side, and then suddenly he’s fucking into you for real. His moans sound like they’ve come straight out of a porn video as he shoves his cock as deep inside you as possible before pulling out and doing it again. All you can do is gasp against him as the breath is driven straight out of your lungs by his desperate humping.

His movements are nearly feral, jackhammering into you at a pace that probably should feel punishing but instead has you hiccuping out moans on every stroke. The size of him and the speed at which he’s fucking at you is overwhelming in the best possible way. He keeps gasping your name in between moans, his jaw lolling open as he pants for breath. “Oh, baby girl, you feel so good, so good for me. You like this?”

“Yes!” you wheeze, clinging to his shoulders as he rails you into the mattress. It’s better than you ever could have hoped for, and you’re nearly sobbing from the sheer sensation of it all. “Oh god, don’t stop!” You feel your abdomen drawing tight, heat beginning to build rapidly in the bottom of your belly, and you practically throw yourself down to meet his thrusts. “Please, I’m gonna cum, make me cum, Eiji!”

Kirishima practically snarls at that, his hand snaking down to your pussy even as he keeps rutting into you. His hand finds your clit and starts stroking at it hard and fast at a pace that matches his fucking. “Fuck yes, I wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

You know you’re starting to shake apart, his cock and his fingers too much for you. Your body is strung taut, your orgasm so close you can virtually taste it. As he feels you clamp down around him Kirishima lets out a whimpering moan, and with that you’re totally gone, head slamming back on the bed as you let out mindless, breathless little choking moans. It feels like your vision totally wipes out as you convulse in Kirishima’s arms, hips twitching wildly. 

When the euphoria of your orgasm finally subsides, you feel so totally fucked out that you hardly know which way is up. It takes you a moment to become aware of the way Kirishima is humping into you desperately now, hunkering over you and groaning. Feeling his cock slide in and out of your over-sensitive and still twitching pussy is almost too much, and you know you won’t be able to take much more of his relentless pounding. You clench around him as tight as you can and cup his sweaty face in your hands, smiling at the open-mouthed look of pure need he’s giving you. “Are you gonna cum inside me, Eiji?”

Apparently that was the correct thing to say, because you can see the moment that he hurtles completely over the edge. He shoves his cock as deep as he can get inside you and then he’s crying out as he begins to empty himself inside you. He keeps rocking, even though his cock is crammed as far into you as it’s possible to get, and you tremble and gasp as you feel his cum spraying inside you. It feels totally filthy, and there’s so much of it that you can feel it leaking out and down your ass even though Kirishima’s cock is still plugging you up. There’s so much cum that you actually start to wonder if your birth control is going to still be effective. You almost expect it to start coming out of your ears.

It seems like he’s cumming forever, and eventually he has to pull out because you’re just too full. As soon as his gradually softening cock is pulled free, it seems like a veritable bucketload of cum streams out of you and makes a mess of the bedcovers. It’s simultaneously really gross and really, really hot, and you don’t have the energy to unpack that so you just lay back and watch as Kirishima’s cock continues to dribble cum all over his legs and your abdomen. The swollen base of his cock is deflated now, and his dick eventually gives one last twitch and then he’s finished. 

He collapses on top of you, sweaty and soiled with his cum, but you don’t complain as he wraps you up in his arms and kisses your temples, murmuring soft, mindless praise into your hairline. “Are you okay?” he whispers, “Did I hurt you?”

You laugh a little, still winded. Your pussy is feeling achey from being stretched so wide, and you’re definitely going to have trouble walking tomorrow, but it’s the best kind of hurt imaginable. “You did everything just right.” you say, giving him a tired smile. “How was it?”

“If I could stay in your pussy forever, I would.” he says solemnly, the barest hint of a smile pulling at his lips.

You laugh properly at that, and roll over so that you’re lying across his chest. “Yeah? Well, I think you’ve just ruined me for all other cocks in the world. No one's ever gonna compare to how good yours feels.”

With your chin on his chest, you have a clear view of the way he flushes at your words, and the vulnerability that creeps into his expression as he looks at you. “Really?”

“I just came so hard it felt like the world was ending.” you grin at him, then press a teasing kiss to one of his pecs. “Yes, really.”

A smile breaks out on his face, toothy and dorky, as if he can’t believe his luck. “So… Would you want to do it again, maybe? Sometime?”

The smile you return is so wide it feels like it’s about to split your face. “Yeah, Eiji. Without question.”

It’s hard to kiss when you’re both grinning like total idiots, but the two of you make a valiant effort all the same. The ridiculous amount of cum painting the two of you is beginning to dry and flake off your skin, and it's definitely kind of gross but you’re so happy and sated and tired in that moment that you’re pretty sure nothing on earth could ruin the moment for you. Not even Bakugou when he comes pounding at the door and yelling obscenities in the form of noise complaints.

[moss-flesh]

9, 10, and 32 for the second ask thing you reblogged and then ❣️ and 🥰 for the other. For Adahlen or any other OCs you’d like to answer for! :D

yayy!! ill do them for Adahlen and then Aila!! thanku hunbun!

9. can they cook?

Adahlen can cook, she never really ate with her clan she preferred to make her own meals and make enough for keeper and Nerien if they wanted to try it.

Aila never really cooked while living in the circle. She tried to apply for assisting in the kitchen, she wanted to make the food better but was denied and moved to the library so she would focus more on studying. she liked reading about recipes from everywhere and dreaming about better food. she got pretty good at it while adventuring and was almost always on meal duty at camp.

10. whats their favorite food or drink?

Adahlen really loves tea and loves to make her own blends. when she learns solas hates tea shes determined to make a blend that he loves. one day she just goes up to him and is like “here try this.” He tries it and is delighted “is this some sort of hot cider?” shes all “HAH i got you! you like my tea!” n gives him a big ol smooch running away. He asks for it every morning. For food, shes actually a huge fan of fermented peppers and berries.

Aila loves wine, like obsessed with it. She prefers sweet wines but anything will do. Her favorite food is a dish she taught to Alistair which she read was served to King Calenhad forever ago. Its a ram stew with apples and veggies.

32. Whats the most valuable thing in their possession?

For Adahlen its Solas’ necklace, she would wear it a lot before they split. she had been stalling on giving it back to him and then he just left so she wears it under her clothes

For Aila its a necklace too haha! Its her Wardens oath that her wedding ring and other charms that Alistair gave to her is on. She never ever takes it off.

❣️ - What are their love languages?

Adahlen loves giving gifts, quality time, and words of assurance.

Aila loves physical touch, acts of service, and quality time as well.

🥰 - What pet names do their partner(s) use for them? How flustered do they get by them?

AGH so solas calls Adahlen vhenan duh! and it makes her red everytime, the word is so intimate and her brain short circuits. He also calls her Da’lath’in, meaning “little heart” when she is being particularly emotional, or ‘Ma’lath meaning “my love” just casually.

Alistair calls Aila Dear, Darling, and Love mostly which makes her happy everytime. Occasionally when shes acting all ornary and pissed off he calls her “his little bari” coz shes acts like an angry puppy with big wet eyeballs. When hes being cheesy and trying to annoy her he says “my rose” in a stupid posh accent. She acts annoyed so he keeps doing it but rlly she kinda likes it.