#because apparently I’m a glutton for pain

[raeathnos]

.

[suzukiblu]

Another excerpt from the one where Tim is trans and Kon is not the father, plus a read-more for length.

“Bart’s really back too?” Tim asks, his voice not quite cracking. 

“Back and also . . . okay, not the right age, but the age he was the last time I saw him,” Kon says. “Which apparently he was not for you guys for a while, what the fuck.” 

“Long story,” Tim says, smiling helplessly. 

“Yeah, I know, it took Bart a whole thirty seconds to explain it to me,” Kon says wryly. 

“Have you seen . . . Cassie, yet?” Tim asks hesitantly, because he’s a fucking glutton for punishment, apparently. Because otherwise he’s just ignoring the elephant he coaxed into the room himself. 

“No,” Kon says, shaking his head. “Bart went to go drop in on the Titans, but Clark brought me straight here. He figured I’d wanna see you and Kyra first. We had a very confusing thirty-first century conversation while he was trying to ease me into the ‘everyone knows you’re gay for your best friend’ thing and gently break the news about me being a dad, and then Bart just started talking his ear off demanding baby updates. It was, uh, interesting. I guess he died before she was born, but Clark didn’t realize he’d known you were pregnant?” 

“Yeah,” Tim says, trying not to wince. “I mean–I didn’t know what to do at first, so I just took medical leave from the Titans for an ‘injury’, but I told Bart and Cassie, and then . . . well, then Bart died before I told the Kents. It was only a couple months or so–I didn’t want to make them feel worse, in case anything went wrong–but . . .” 

But that’s how it is, in their line of work. A couple months or so is more than enough time for another one of your best friends to die. 

“Please tell me you weren’t patrolling Gotham knocked up,” Kon says with a grimace. 

“. . . technically, yes, but not after I realized I was knocked up,” Tim says, smiling weakly. “Not for . . . more than a week or two, anyway.” 

Kon groans, dragging a hand back over his scalp. He looks pained. Tim pretends it’s because Kon thinks he’s an obsessed workaholic, and not because Kon knows him well enough to know how messed up he’d been to actually do that. 

“I was in the middle of a case,” he says like it’s any kind of a defense. “And it was investigative work, not . . . I called Dick in to handle the violent parts, okay?” 

“Small favors,” Kon says, then glances towards Kyra’s crib. “So you’re . . . retired? You hung up the cape?” 

“I’m not Robin anymore,” Tim says. “And I’m not patrolling or running missions. But I can’t–if he ever finds out, if he ever finds her, I can’t be retired. I need to be–ready.”

Kon’s jaw tightens. Tim wishes he’d never had to say that. Wishes the lie had been true. Wishes–

Wishes a lot of things, some for Kon’s sake but most for Kyra’s. 

And one or two for his own. 

“What’s the new codename, then?” Kon asks, still looking at the crib. Tim’s grateful that he’s not . . . Tim’s just grateful. Grateful that this is Kon, and he’s alive, and he’s here, and . . . and that he’s going to let him lie. 

He’s so fucking grateful for that. 

“I haven’t exactly bothered rebranding,” he says with forced levity. “I’m not going out with anyone else and I don’t need a rep. I’m not a vigilante anymore. I just need to be able to handle any problems that might come up.” 

“You know how Jimmy Olsen has a watch with a distress signal custom-tuned for Clark’s superhearing?” Kon says, glancing back at him with a slightly disgruntled expression on his face. “I’m getting you one. I’m getting you five. And think up a name, man. Get yourself a color scheme and a bunch of weirdly-themed gadgets going. There’s a lot of other birds in the world.” 

Kon does have opinions about names, Tim supposes. For obvious reasons. 

That was why naming Kyra after him was the only thing he could’ve done, but also a terrible thing for him to have done. 

He really couldn’t have done anything else, though. He’d had to name her what he would’ve named her, if Kon had really been . . . if she’d really been . . .

He’d had to. 

That’s the best way to lie, after all: use the truth. 

“Okay,” Tim says. He might’ve been annoyed by the watch idea when they were younger. Felt like Kon didn’t think he could handle himself or was overestimating himself. He’s not annoyed now. Now it’s just one more contingency plan. 

He’d do anything for Kyra. Wearing a panic button that Kon would recognize the frequency of is the least of what he’d do for her. 

“Clark’ll help me get something around,” Kon says. “If, uh–especially if he thinks we’re, you know . . . together.” 

“I could make it,” Tim points out. “You don’t need to bother him with it.” 

“Clark knows the best frequencies to use. Plus then we can make sure it’s not gonna sound too much like Jimmy’s too,” Kon says, then flashes him a grin. “Besides, it’s more romantic if I’m the one giving it to you, right?”

“Fuck you,” Tim snorts, rolling his eyes as he shoves him, and Kon laughs and goes with it. Tim doesn’t know how to tell him he’s the best friend he’s ever had; the best friend he ever could have. He doesn’t know how to apologize enough for this. He doesn’t . . . 

Kyra makes a squeaky crooning sound from her crib, and Kon blinks, and–

Oh, Tim thinks, watching Kon’s pupils visibly dilate into pinpricks. Right. He . . . forgot. 

“What the fuck?” Kon says. 

“Some of her vocalizations are . . . like that,” Tim says carefully as Kon stares fixatedly at Kyra’s crib. She squeaks again. “Um–Clark reacted a little weirdly to some of them too, he said they were–” 

Kyra starts her usual melodic babbling, and Kon makes a low rumbling noise in response. Tim–blinks. Kon looks startled too, putting a hand to his chest. 

“Uh,” he says. “That was . . .” 

Kyra starts babbling louder, squealing for attention, and Tim rolls to his feet and heads over to her. She’s already reaching up before he gets to her, and squeaking excitedly for attention. She sounds like a little baby dolphin or something. Clark said there were resonances and undertones to her voice that human ears couldn’t pick up on, too. 

But of course Kon’s not human, is he. 

“Can I . . . hold her?” Kon asks awkwardly, stepping up beside Tim as he plucks Kyra up and staring intently at her. She dolphin-squeaks again. He bites his lip, clearly holding back whatever sound he wants to make in response; clearly holding back from reaching out for her. 

“Let me change her first,” Tim says. Her diaper’s definitely wet, and he doesn’t want her to get uncomfortable. 

“Can you show me how?” Kon asks, still looking a little awkward. “I haven’t been around too many babies, and I kinda just had to, like . . . improvise, the last time I was taking care of one.” 

“Uh–sure?” Tim blinks at him in confusion. “Why do you care, though?” 

“Dude, I’m not gonna be the kind of asshole co-parent who makes the one who got pregnant do all the diaper changes,” Kon says, looking dubious. “You should show me how to feed her, too. She’s on formula, right? It smells kinda like formula in here. And the kitchen did too.” 

“. . . um, okay,” Tim says, and almost bursts into tears on him again. Of course Kon would be like this, the bastard. “She–is, yeah. Clark synthesizes a mix for her in the Fortress. The AI says it’s better for her system than the store-bought stuff, and I had trouble producing enough milk to keep up with her appetite. Plus I kind of needed to get back on my meds as soon as I could anyway, so . . . I mean, they’re supposed to be safe, but I didn’t want to risk it with her physiology.” 

“Good, then I can help feed her,” Kon says. Tim blinks at him again, then just . . . takes Kyra to the changing table. She squeaks louder, clearly offended, and tries to reach for Kon. He trails after them, looking fascinated by her. 

Well . . . Kon’s never seen a Kryptonian baby before, much less heard one, so . . . of course he would be, Tim thinks. Kyra’s only a quarter-Kryptonian, obviously, but genetically . . . genetically, she might as well be half-Kon, and . . . 

And he’s never seen a Kryptonian baby. 

So it makes sense that he’d react strongly, yes. It’d make sense that he’d be a little bit fascinated. Clark had reacted to her too. He’d looked just as startled as Kon had, the first time he’d heard her chirp and squeak for attention, and then just as fascinated. 

Tim still wonders if Kyra’s the first time Clark’s ever fully felt any of the kind of instincts people normally feel, seeing a baby. Like–genetically speaking, he means. Instinctually. She’s seen more of him than Kon ever did, so . . . well, that might just be because they’ve been staying with the Kents, but Martha had mentioned how nice it was to have Clark around so often a few weeks ago, so . . . 

Well. Tim has some suspicions, that’s all. 

He wonders, very briefly–he wonders if he would respond to her like Kon and Clark do, if he ever–if he found out about–

He crushes that thought down into gravel and grinds it into his mental pavement. He doesn’t think about it again. Not at all. 

(Would it be worse if he did or didn’t, though? If he saw her, and was FASCINATED–

Tim stops thinking about it.)

He changes Kyra’s diaper, taking his time a bit so Kon can better observe the process, and Kyra fusses and chirps and screeches through it. Kon stays in a little bit inconveniently close, but Tim doesn’t say anything about it. Kon can do a lot more than just be a little bit inconvenient, after telling him he’d let him lie about this. He’ll deal with having to work around him. 

Kyra screeches louder. Kon makes a thrumming noise low in his throat, and she stops mid-screech and stares up at him intently. Her eyes are a human shade of blue–she got Tim’s eyes and hair, thank fuck, considering there’s no way he ever could’ve sold the alternative as being inherited from Kon–but Clark said there were . . . fractals, he’d described them as. He’d tried to explain, and then tried to draw the pattern, but it’s nothing Tim can see in her eyes for himself. 

But it’s a Kryptonian trait, apparently, so he is very, very grateful he’d chosen the lie he had. Even if the squeaking and chirping hadn’t clued Clark in, if he’d ever met her . . . 

Tim is very, very grateful he chose the lie he had. 

And even more grateful that Kon is willing to help him keep it.

[leviatic]

finished this yesterday, It started out as a formless mass of tentacles, then someone mistook it for hair, then I foolishly was like "you know what this would look so cool animated" because I'm a glutton for pain apparently (I was right though, it looks so much cooler animated)

See more of my stuff here! (or watch me make it)

https://twitter.com/98_zelda

https://www.twitch.tv/leviatic_

https://www.artstation.com/leviatic

[thesleepingbinch]

My toxic trait is to not touch a pencil in about two years and still expect to have improved since last time -- and then get upset when it turns out I in fact haven’t and immediately want to give up because it’s shit... But you know what, this is the year we shift our mindset from asking “am I good enough at this?” to “do I like doing this enough to be bad at it?” ... so here it is, that annoying image you can’t get out of your head until you’ve literally drawn it out of there. ⠀ Told myself I wasn’t going to draw the hair. Started drawing the hair anyway because apparently I’m a glutton for pain. Had a mental breakdown for about a month and a half. Came back and cried my way through the rest of it...

[fandomxpreferences]

❛ everyone i’ve cared about has either died or left me. except for you. ❜ for rooster because this is gonna hurt

Why do we torture ourselves 😭 apparently I’m a glutton for pain because I love this

[whythewords]

You might as well do something Part II (or How I Ended Up Day Drinking at a Town-Wide Garage Sale 90 km Southwest of Home)

It’s a weird one. My last entry was March? I’m sure a lot of things have happened since then but I’m not going to recap all of them in excruciating detail…I only remember them in slightly painful, pins-and-needles-ey detail.

I think it took only about until the end of March for me to get back on the dating apps. My track record of being a glutton for punishment is holding strong. There’s something about the distraction of it that’s drawing me in these days. I’d like to think that rejection after rejection, false start after false start, I’m becoming more and more numb to the whole thing and finding it easier to withstand and recover from things that don’t work out. I wanna keep telling myself I’ve adopted a sort of caution-to-the-win, devil may care attitude, but nope…just numbness. Sounds totally healthy! Well, oddly in some ways I think it is. More and more I’m understanding that somewhere, in the wide chasm between overinvestment and complete dissociation, there lies an approach to this whole thing that is suitable and perfect for me. I think I’m almost there.

Hey, speaking of overinvestment, I checked in on my investment accounts and finally had a proper conversation with someone at the bank about mortgage approvals. The investments don’t seem to be netting as much as they should, and the mortgage guy told me exactly what I already knew from months of cursory research: “you can’t afford shit in the GTA!” (that’s not verbatim of course, just my interpretation).

Amid all this there have been talks of other jobs. There’s a public sector job in Guelph that pays quite well that a friend is doing his damndest to get me an interview for. It’s still a hell of a longshot so I have to temper my expectations, but should it work out, it might open up a new door of possibility of potentially getting a place, my OWN place, out there somewhere. Again, an absolute longshot, gotta be practical, gotta be ready for any outcome. The other side of that coin is that jobs at my local municipality are apparently opening up again at some point and I may have a very good opportunity to slide in there. I did my co-op there. There’s a comfort. It’s abundantly clear that I would probably like a public sector job like that much more than my current gig, and likely learn more too without hitting a wall. That’s a safer bet than the other gig but also doesn’t get me that much closer to independence. In that case I have to consider other options: Stick around longer and save more to buy a place eventually. Buy a rental property that I can rent out for a couple years and eventually move into…after sticking around longer. The options are bleak (because they mostly involve me sticking around longer). But I’d jump on the opportunity to take the same or maybe slightly more pay at the city locally and work my way up while attempting to figure out a living situation. The current gig has run its course…despite the fact I’m doing a charity walk with those work folks this weekend and likely going to be on our annual work trip (this time out of province) in a couple of weeks. Something tells me these other jobs are set to crop up right around then. Timing sure can be a bitch. I suppose we’ll see.

Anyway, to keep my sanity amid all of this anxious spiralling about my future, I typically spend time with friends. There was supposed to be a family BBQ this long weekend but being that my brother was the one planning it, there was consistent uncertainty when and whether it would happen. Knowing this, I used it as an excuse to dodge an invite up to a little township called New Dundee with some friends, to stay with their uncles and take part in a Victoria Day festival and a town-wide garage sale. But then there I was on Saturday night thinking about it. I remembered being in a similar situation with these same friends, going similarly to an out-of-town event and me silently deciding that spending time alone over the weekend would somehow be a better use of time…and then another friend convinced me to just go and have some new experiences instead. In fact, I’m certain it was an entry on this very tumblr page a couple years back. I was already at my friend place locally for a hangout. I motored on home to grab change of clothes and some more stuff. On the way back, I realized that I forgot to bring any travel toiletries at all so I went by the local Shoppers Drug Mart and essentially made up a brand-new travel bag for myself (which I later realized I could also use for the upcoming work trip!). I crashed at his place in town and then drove with him to New Dundee bright and early the following morning.

His uncles’ place was absolutely gorgeous. Aspirational really. We sifted and sorted and organized and priced everything for the big sale the following day. His uncle’s husband put us to work gathering firewood from the backyard to stack in the garage for a bonfire later, but once that was done, we had a blast. Our hosts were incredibly hospitable. After a shower (in a tub that is so goddamn big it has ruined all other tubs for me) we ate some great food cooked and brought up by my friend’s mom. We drank and laughed and hung out. We walked the short walk up to the festival grounds to catch a great fireworks show. We came back and had a bonfire where I threw away my inhibitions and lead many a singalong on my handy little travel guitar (and the scotch offered up by my friends’ uncle and a few hits of the joint I had brought up with me certainly helped that cause). Back to work the next morning setting up for the sale. We enjoyed (but also melted in) the very warm weather we’ve been waiting for, continued drinking(and eating), made some sales, cracked some jokes. Packed everything up around mid-day, took a break, relaxed and chatted and then our hosts made us dinner and sent us on our way. I met some new people, had some new experiences…this is all that out-of-comfort-zone shit I keep telling myself to do and it applies everywhere, to music, to dating…

Oh yeah…dating. One more thing about that I guess: at some point before all this stuff happened and after my last entry, there was another non-starter. We matched, we chatted we went on one date, and despite the fact that we seemed to align on many things there was just…nothing there. I’m usually the one to just push through that and see if things just need more time to develop but it was simply not the case here. I didn’t want to continue. Maybe that’s a good sign? Maybe I’m getting better at determining what it is I want? I dunno, maybe not.

Since then and over the course of the last few weeks’ events, there have been a few other matches. I always tend to try to naturally float my situation into the conversation early so I can weed out any of my potentially perceived dealbreakers. Essentially, I try to let ‘em know the tricky stuff before we actually meetup so as not to waste anyone’s time. The tricky stuff I’m referring to is of course the whole “previously married, living with my folks” thing. A few people have carried on the conversation since (which is a surprise). One of them had a response that was particularly sweet. After explaining my whole backstory and multiple changes over the short span of time during peak COVID, she expressed sympathy and asked how I was doing with things now. I can’t explain it since this was all only through text but it was done in such a way that it seemed like a genuine sentiment of “oh man that sucks, I really hope you’re okay.” I could be completely delusional from all the time I’ve spent trying to figure this whole dating/apps thing out, who knows. Anyway, I asked her out, we’ll see what she says, and if she says yes, we’ll see where that goes.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? Who can tell, really. Hey, new experiences, right?

[forestials]

SEPARATION (REGRET)

Amrod and Amras for @feanorianweek, day 6.

[diavolosthots]

Felt like crying, so I came to you, my friend! Mc and Mammon went out shopping, specifically to buy gifts for his brothers, as an apology. When they get back home they are met with hostility. They berate Mammon until Mc screams at them to shut up, then rips into each of them for their treatment of Mammon. Then finishes with "Don't expect Mammon to stay here when he can live with me in the humanworld. I'm done with you. Mammon, lets go, you deserve better, love" and leaves w/ Mammon. Thank you!

You came to me because you felt like crying and that gives me two (2) things to think about. 1.) I'm apparently someone who people see as a tissue? 2.) My angst is just THAT good. Also! Apparently today is rain on Mammon day and I'm here for it not me avoiding my exam to write these things

Warning: uh.... Angst?

Soul-Searching (MAMMON X GN!READER ft. THE BROTHERS)

“You know, I’m proud of you for suggesting this.” Truly, you were. Mammon was your favorite and you felt for him, but you also completely understood where his brothers came from. At first, it honestly annoyed you as well; the constant stealing, the lying… You tried blaming it on his avatar, but even then it doesn’t explain the lying that comes with it. However, you do realize that it’s a habit and it’s a habit that is hard to fix, so instead of constantly getting onto him like the rest, you tried to understand him a bit more and give him some life advice. So far, you have managed to get Mammon to give back all the things he has recently taken from his brothers, and some of them even got an apology. You’ll be working on how to properly apologize, though, because oof, that was a mess. 

And now? Now you managed to take a small trip with him downtown to at least attempt to make things better. Mammon is now, or at least today, using his own money to buy some things that his brothers would be fond of: a new vinyl player for Lucifer (non-cursed), a new Ruri-chan t-shirt for Leviathan, a neck pillow for Satan because lord knows he has some cramps back there with the way he leans over and down to read his books. Then some perfume for Asmodeus that he had been swooning about, a gift card to Beel’s favorite restaurant for the glutton, and a heated blanket for Belphie. You were proud, truly, that Mammon wanted to do this. As a matter of fact, he was the one who suggested it. “Maybe… uh.. I could… ya know… buy somethin’ they like” is what he said. You were just excited and agreed to help. 

Now you were going back to the house with a few shopping bags and ice cream almost fully eaten. You paid for the ice cream, as a way to reward Mammon, and you’re sure he’s secretly thanking you for that because some of these items truly did burn a hole into his credit card, which is partially his fault. “Lucifer deserves more than some random vinyl player.” his words, not yours. Also “satan needs one of them neck pillows that massage it, too!” again, his words. So yeah, some money was definitely spent on these items, but… once again, you were proud. “I think they’ll love everything, Mam. They’d be fools if they didn’t.” Hearing you say that made Mammon feel a lot better, honestly, and a small rush of confidence came to the surface “Ya betcha they will! Nothin’ but the best from the Great Mammon!” You just laughed. 

However, upon arrival, it was a different sight. As a matter of fact, you barely made it through the door before Beel was grumbling something about Mammon eating his custard, which is true, but it’s just a custard? “MAAMMMOONNN!!” and then there was Lucifer who appeared so fast you wondered if he was even real. He went on a whole rant about how irresponsible Mammon is and how another bill came in the mail that talks about Mammon’s debt. Satan and Belphegor teamed up to show empty hands, which left both you and Mammon confused, but then “do you see anything here? No? That’s because you sold our belongings, Mammon!” Mammon can be lucky that Leviathan was still holed up in his room because he just remembered that he also, at some point in the past, sold one of Levi’s figures. Asmodeus came last and honestly he wasn’t mad, he was just annoyed. “I saw you go through my things, Mammon. Nothing was taken, but it was still so incredibly rude!” 

Next followed a screaming match which was basically just Mammon trying to defend himself, trying to show the bags and apologize, but none of them would have it. It irritated you. Yes, they had every right to be mad because personal belongings should stay with their owner(s), but at the same time, they didn’t even give Mammon a chance to explain, especially after he’s been holding the bags up and attempting to apologize. “You’re so stupid, Mammon” “StupidMammon” “so irresponsible. You know better than that. Do you need another time out session, Mammon?” “I can’t believe you’d go through my stuff again!” by now your eyes were twitching and the voices echoing off the walls surely didn’t help your case. One more word and you’d snap, surely, especially since Mammon’s hand is now shaking and you grabbing it did nothing at all. “We would be better off without you.”

Ah yes, there it is. The final straw. The amount of anger boiling inside you right now isn’t even manageable anymore and you’re surprised that Satan, as the Avatar of Wrath, has yet to notice it. “Shut up! Shut up, Shut up, Shut up! All of you!” You yanked Mammon behind you, almost protectively and Belphegor found the need to laugh at it. “Really? You’re going to protect him?” Oh, there. That’s your first victim. “Are you really that dense, Belphegor, or is sleep still clouding your brain cells? That is your brother you’re currently making fun of and I don’t know about you, but I was taught that family sticks together, blood related or by choice. So how about you get your head out of dreamland, take this stupid heated blanket that he bought for you, as an apology, and wake up for a second.” yes, you did throw the bag at him and then you pointed your finger at Beel. You’d regret later on that you’re tearing into him as well because Beel means well at the end of the day, but still, he was also part of this. 

“You’re my least worry, Beel. Honestly you’re too caught up in your burgers and brawns to care for a second that your brother tries very hard to be liked by all of you. Sad, really.” you threw the card at him too. As a matter of fact, you threw all of the bags right in front of them. “And then Asmo.. oh my God, first of all, the world doesn’t revolve around you. Shocker, I know. If you were half as empathetic toward your family as you are obsessed with yourself, maybe you wouldn’t feel the need to always go party and drink your life away. Oh, I’m sorry, did that hit just a little too hard? Can’t be harder than the hangovers you wake up with on a regular basis.” You glared at him before turning your attention to Satan. “Honestly, if you weren’t such a baby inside I may actually be scared of you. You always complain about how stupid he is, how he needs to just learn, but you? What do you do all day? You hole yourself up in your room and read about worlds that you wish you could enter. News flash: you’d die before you had the chance to say hello. People don’t like self-proclaimed assholes. Mammon IS smart. He’s very talented, too, but you’re too far up in Shakespeare’s ass that you fail to realize that everyone has knowledge in different fields of life. Give me a break.” 

Satan was about to retort but you already moved on to Levi. “and you! Let’s be honest, if it weren’t for you wallowing in self-pity and fake depression, you would have absolutely no personality traits. What are you again? The Avatar of Envy? How about instead of being envious of others’ accomplishments, you actually start working on yourself. It’s truly pathetic that a couple millenia old demon’s only purpose in life is ramen and self inflicted emotional pain. Seriously, what are you? A pitiful loner? I can’t even begin to empathize with you in any way, shape, or form.” Your blood was boiling right now and maybe if they hadn’t attacked Mammon like they did, you would’ve felt bad about Levi’s sad face right now, but there was still one person left to deal with.”

“And you… beautiful, responsible, way-too-good-for-you older brother, Lucifer.” He’s been glaring at you this whole time, arms crossed over his chest but you stood your ground. You’re not quite sure how you managed, but you did. “You call yourself the best, the most responsible. You constantly say this family would fall apart without you, but that’s not it, is it? I think you’re just lonely. You force these six to be by you, to respect you and borderline worship you. Not because you deserve it…” you chuckled, shaking your head, “no. You’re just so sad that Daddy and Michael left you, mocked you, that you turned your sadness into anger and took it out on these six, but especially Mammon. Why? Because you see yourself in him. You call him your favorite brother, but it’s not because he actually is… he just reminds you of everything you used to be: fun, reckless, and feeling. Now you’re just cold, mean, and bitter. Don’t bother calling yourself the mighty first because without him you would be neither. Maybe if you pulled that stick out of your arse and actually tried to get to know your brothers, maybe you wouldn’t be so lonely all the time. Family, right? That’s what you want. How about you start acting like one.” 

You shook your head after that, grabbing Mammon’s hand and kicking the bags in front of you before dragging Mammon back out the door. “Those are for you, by the way. Not that you deserve them, but they’re Mammon’s way of apologizing for all the things you accused him of the minute he set foot into the house. Have fun. We’re going to the castle and, if we’re lucky, to a real home.” 

[morgana-ren]

45 and 60 for the shiggy ask list?

Nice. Fuckin' nice. Warnings for, of course: Masturbation, spanking, noncon, dubcon, implied nastiness, him being a fuckin’ degenerate, slut-shaming, and general incel-ish behavior.

Wet dreams are an obnoxious, awkward sort of burden to carry no matter how many hands you have. 

He’s perfectly content with a dreamless sleep, and he’s since long come to terms with the nightmares that plague his subconscious on the off nights. Shiftless, empty voids mired by shrill screams from a voice he can’t recognize; Visceral, grainy-red misery he can’t wade through, slogging endlessly onward toward nothing. Eternal, burdensome fog that sits thick in the air of his unconscious until he wakes. It was bothersome as a child, but it brings a strange comfort now. Like a heavy, weighted blanket that keeps him anchored to his goal.

Wet dreams on the other hand? Those bring nothing but problems. 

It sits awkwardly on his mind as his eyes flicker open, greeted with a dark ceiling and an even darker room, only the light of his monitor casting shadows around the walls. There’s a cramped pain in his crotch that shakes his mind back into consciousness, head of his cock pressing painfully against the jagged teeth of his zipper. A quick, half-awake glance at the clock reads the early morning hours- Too early. He’d retired prematurely the night before, thanks to unforeseen circumstances.

Whatever it was he was dreaming about, it slips quickly through his fingers as his brain ignites once more, but he has an inkling as to the culprit. 

Most times, he’d welcome an unsuspecting girl leaning so far over the tap that he gets a nice, long, free peek at the goods, but not when it’s you. He works with you, and that’s a line he’s not eager to cross. That complicates things, and as he counts it, life is complicated enough as it stands. Start lusting after your underlings and you’re inviting a litany of problems, and he doesn’t need any more of those. 

But he’s a man; A man with neglected needs, and you’re foolish enough rest your chest against the counter of his bar with your elbows pushing your tits together into nice, thick, creamy globes- right in front of him, no less- only inches from his nose and it takes every ounce of discipline in his degenerate mind to keep him from burying his face right between them.

It was easy to ignore for one, two, maybe three minutes, but that’s when things got a little rough. 

After that point, he wasn’t responsible for where his mind went, and that’s the precise moment when he realized he might’ve had a little too much to drink to be in this position.

He’d kicked off the stool and stalked off without another word to anyone, resolving to confine himself to the murky solitude of his room until his mind opted to behave. Punishing himself like a naughty dog caught drooling over someone else’s fat, juicy steak.  By the time he’d shut his door, his erection was already painful, throbbing and straining against his thigh, but he refused to reward this kind of behavior from his brain. 

‘She’s a teammate, dammit. Knock it off.’

As if scolding his libido has ever worked. 

He goes to bed without satisfying himself, but can’t help humping into his mattress as his drifting mind wanders further and further from control and further still from alert consciousness. Without his iron will there to curb his impulses, he was lulled into his lustful dreamsphere, mind swimming with visions of you; Less dressed, infinitely more slutty versions of you with knees rubbed raw, kiss-swollen lips and wrists shackled to his bed- not that there’s anywhere you’d rather be, that sly little voice tells him.  He doesn’t recall the specifics, but apparently his cock does. Skin pulled taught over his aching prick, tip flushed a furious shade of red, leaking viscous, pearlescent fluid that wets through the fibers of his jeans. It thrums, pulsing with each beat of his heart behind his ribs, demanding his attention. 

“Fuck- quickly then.” He seethes, more annoyed than aroused, loathing the thought of being jerked around by his own body. Yet he knows himself well enough to understand that if he doesn’t quell the urge, it will linger on in his mind until he deals with it, so it’s better to bite the bullet and swallow his pride lest it gluttonously feed into itself like a lustful ouroboros and become a problem. 

Fingers shove beneath the waistband of his jeans, the others hastily unbuttoning the silver teardrop link just beneath his navel. Fishing his cock out is the easy part; it’s everything that comes afterward that’s troublesome. 

He thinks of his basics. Of lewd hentai and girlish squeals, of wide, plush thighs and coy smiles. Sensual fingers beckoning him, throaty voices begging him to do as he will with their pliant bodies. Open mouths and pretty, ivory teeth, tremoring bodies and sweat and- He fucks them. He fucks them- no, he fucks his fist. He fucks his fist and fucks their gooey insides, fucks his fist and- it’s just not enough. He imagines their drooling mouths taking his cock, cooing praises- The climax builds, tension building to a terrible, tensing peak and then falling back down again into frustration. Teeth gritting in anger, muscles prickling and tightening in his forearm. 

It’s not doing it. He can’t cum. He gets close and it peters out back down into nothing but a slight twitch and low drawls of pleasure. No matter how he strokes, how tightly his fingers grip his shaft, he can’t make himself cum.

Fingers furled around his cock, he tries for longer than he really cares to admit. Hips stuttering up to meet his hand, broken gasps rapidly twisting into drawn out grunts of irritation. Boredom rapidly replacing any sense of incentive to continue touching himself. Offhanded strokes and daydreaming lead him no where.

He can’t cum. 

Until he thinks of your tits bulging through your shirt against his counter, your pretty smile as you flaunt it all in front of him. What you might look like pushing your slutty little body against him, mewling and begging for him to touch you because only his fat cock can satisfy you and you’ll do anything to have it. 

A throb against his palm. Pleasure veining through his body as he rolls his hips against his moist grip. Enough to draw a groan. 

She’s a teammate. Control yourself... 

After this. 

He thinks of your bouncing tits, bare and glistening, puckering underneath his touch as he rolls and twists a nipple between his fingers. Wide, bleary eyes and deceptive little kitten licks on the tip of his cock until he shoves you down and your silken throat strangles him to completion- his copious cum splashing across your open mouth, your fluttering eyelashes, marking you with his seed across your eager face. Nails digging into your waist, maneuvering you over the counter and kicking your legs apart, burying himself in your clenched cunt as you drool like a fucked out whore, begging your boss to stretch you wide. Wiggling your bare ass against him, teeth and bruises imbedding into your skin, crying for him to fuck you open as his cum still tacks across your cheeks like the nasty little slut you are-

He’s so close, close enough he can feel the heat in the crevasses of his fingers, but the knock on his door jars him, sending him careening back into reality even as his dick pulses in his hand. Muscles tense, frozen like a deer in headlights. His mind still drowned in desire, the end so close he can taste it. 

No response. Another knock. This one harder. 

The bar wasn’t built for privacy in mind, and his room is held together with plywood and ill-fitting hinges. Most people are smart enough to leave him alone and not touch his door in general, but not you, huh? Your second hollow knock budges the latch and the door creaks open in one fatal moment. 

He’s met with your shocked face and widened eyes, both glowing eerily pallid in the light of his computer monitor. Your attention focuses, first on his face, shifting to his swollen cock clutched between his slender fingers, and after another moment, back to his face. 

“Shigaraki-” is all you can manage, weak and pathetic, hands raising in defense to shield your vision and hide the painful embarrassment written plainly across your face. “-Sorry- Sorry- Fuck, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean-” Red handed is one word for it, but so is opportunistic.

“Get in here and shut the door.”

You don’t think twice about your boss’s command, following his orders without question out of impulse despite the awkwardness. Word vomit spills from your lips, trying to justify and separate yourself from the situation in the same breath. 

“I’m sorry- sorry! You seemed mad when you left and I didn’t want to leave it- I thought you were mad at me- I didn’t want-” “To disappoint me?” 

“Y-yeah- I thought-” Your eyes drift toward the ceiling, trying to keep away from the proverbial elephant in the room- the pale cock cradled in his hand. “I’m sorry! I just thought-” 

“What did you think?” 

“I thought I said something that made you mad or something! You kept looking at me like-” Your voice cracks, perhaps in recognition, but you ignore that too. “Like you were disgusted-” 

His control shatters with the vulnerability on your face, lust tidalwaves over reason, burying any semblance of order he had beneath a landfill of repression. All he wants now is to see you the way he does in his head: Begging and crying and screaming his name. 

This will have consequences, but he doesn’t really fucking care right now. 

He lurches forward, four fingers swirling in the fabric of your shirt as he jerks you forward. “I was disgusted.” You fall across him with a startled shriek, awkwardly splayed across his legs and the upper portion of his bed. He’s quick to readjust you, dragging you back into his lap with his naked, palpitating cock pressed flush against your chest separated only by a thin layer of fabric. One hand threads through your hair, stroking your scalp with his nails before clutching down. “Flashing your slutty tits in my face all night.” Trying to scrounge away from him is fruitless, clawing at his bare mattress with your nails and trying to kick your way out of his grip, but he puts a quick stop to it. A few harsh tugs on your hair and you settle down like a good girl, whimpering and shaking in a way arouses him more than he thought possible at the moment.  “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-”  “I didn’t mean to-” He mocks, raising his voice in a cruel mimicry of yours. “Shut the hell up. You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re writing checks you can’t cash, and someone needs to teach you a lesson.”  His hand catches on the back of your thigh, slowly snaking upward until- to your utter mortification- he pushes the hem of your skirt up to your waist, jiggling at the fat of your ass with his palm. Your miserable bleating does little to deter him from fingering at the strap of your thong, admiring the lace before pulling the band back with the crook of his finger and letting the elastic snap against your skin.

“Tomura!-”  “Be quiet. You can speak when I tell you that you can speak. In fact-” He pulls your underwear down to your taut thighs with a harsh yank. “-you’re going to count it out for me, and when I’m done, you’re going to thank me, aren’t you?” 

The little fire of defiance dies in your belly is swiftly snuffed out when, through the corner of your eye, you catch him leering at your exposed ass, face dusted a ruddy pink and pupils dilated in a way that leaves him looking more monster than man. 

“You’re going to count it for me, yeah? Understand?”  “Count out what?” 

You stammer and trip over your words, wide eyes bleary, and God he loves it when you play dumb. You’re sharp as a tack and swift as a whip, and there’s not a doubt in his mind that you know exactly where this is going, but you’ll play the bimbo because you’re holding out hope that taking advantage of you is too far, that even villains have a sense of comradery and he’s your boss and has a sense of shame.  All incorrect assumptions. 

He brings his hand up, only to immediately plumb it back down again on the curve of your ass with the resounding smack of flesh on flesh. The skin ripples as he makes contact, and you yowl something fierce as the pain blooms through your bottom- half startled, half humiliated.  “One-” The fingers looped through your hair clench and remind you of what exactly that he expects, words hanging thick as he expects acquiescence and your full participation. He’s not known for his patience.  “O-one.” 

“Good girl.” 

His hand raises again and your eyes clench shut in anticipation of the blow. It doesn’t help.  “Two.” 

“Two-!“

Three- four- five- His hand lands firmly on your backside, each one forcing you to lurch forward. It’s degrading and sick, stomach twisting against his thighs as you desperately try to keep your breathing even despite your constricted belly. You don’t dare to attack him back- you’ve seen what he does to people who piss him off. You didn’t think he was capable of this kind of treatment- not to his friends and allies- but apparently he’s full of malevolent surprises and you’re learning that the hard way.

Six- Seven- Eight- Eyes begin tearing up around the seventh smack, trying to worm away from him only to be firmly held in place. It only stung at first, but repeated abuse to the same area has left it sore and tender because his spanks are far too rough to be playful. Strangled croaks of the numbers he expects from you turn into urgent cries, sobbing openly into his lap as he occasionally rolls his erection against your knee-squished tits.

“Nine.” 

“N-n-nine-” You are sniveling like a baby by this point. It hurts, it hurts, and you want- no- need him to stop. You’re not sure if it’s the utter humiliation or the localized and repeated pain, but nausea is curling something fierce in your gut, tickling at your esophagus with every thwack of his palm against you.

“Ten.”

There’s no sweet little precursor this time. His hand comes down with unprecedented force- too much- hitting the exact same spot for the tenth time but with enough cruelty behind it to break what little dignity you’d had left. You wail openly at the pain, blubbering and pleading for him to stop, please, you can’t take it anymore, you can’t-

He shushes you, deceptively tender as he rubs his fingers across the marred skin, early onset bruises blooming in the abstract shape of his hand. It pleases him to see it, knows it’ll please him even more every time he watches you struggle to sit because you’ve got your leader’s handprint practically engraved on the fat of your ass for the foreseeable future.

“You did well.” Untangling his fingers from your matted hair, he pats at your head in a condescending matter, soothing you in a way that isn’t entirely genuine. That becomes painfully obvious when he grabs your tear-soaked chin and arches your face to meet his in an unnatural angle, displeasure evident across his face.

“Except you forgot ten.”

You expect him to hit you again, but he doesn’t. The hand patting at your marred skin slinks down between your thighs, teasing between your folds and circling your entrance. The hiccups and bubbling sobs cease long enough for you to squeak at his invasive probing, wiggling your hips as he slips a finger inside your damp heat. He oscillates it, first to the knuckle, but then down as far as he can, pumping in and out of you a few times before adding a second finger to the mix. 

This shouldn’t feel good. The searing tingle and clenching between your thighs is entirely unwelcome as his wandering fingers curl upward towards you bellybutton and pad at the spongy, raised flesh nestled deep in your cunt. The juxtaposition of the hideous ache from where he’d spanked you ruthlessly and the pleasure that crests as he finger-fucks you is almost too much, bordering on maddening stimulation as he adds this thumb to the mix, drawing teasing circles around the little bud.

“A-ahha-Tom-Tomura!” 

“What is it, slut? Use your words-” He drums his fingers into you harder, pressing the tip of his thumb down harder on your clit as he swirls it counter-clockwise. “Are you getting wet for me? Starting to enjoy this now that your punishment is over?” 

After a few more moments, he drawls out his fingers, putting emphasis on the obscene squelching. He withdraws his hand eventually, inspecting the gossamer slick that webs his fingers, scissoring it back and forth before dropping them in front of your face. 

“That’s all you, you needy little whore. All your whinging and crying but your sloppy cunt is aching for me, isn’t it?” 

Wiping your wetness on the purpling bruises, he promptly pushes you off of his lap and lets your body roll onto the floor, standing to loom above you with his cock bobbing just above the waist of his bunched jeans. In one swift movement, he’s got you by the hair again, pulling you up onto your knees just in front of him.

Your whimpering garners no sympathy from him, thighs worming and quim still clenching even as you fear for what’s about to happen. He’s already pushed past the limit- what’s done is done. You were a good ally, but you’re a better whore. Who’s to say you can’t be both? 

He’s allowed to have his cake and feast on it too.

“I’ll give you what you want, but you’re going to earn it first.” Jerking your head back by your sore, throbbing scalp, he taps his leaking erection on the swell of your lower lip, smearing his pre-cum across your mouth. “After you’ve earned it, that is. Now show me that you’re thankful.” 

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Chapter 13

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

“Explain again why you’re doing this to yourself, Mulder?” Byers asks with a pained look of concern.

He’s sifting through his closet, deciding what would be appropriately friendly for his outing with Scully. What kind of outfit says “I have no intention of trying to seduce you,” but also doesn’t leave him looking unworthy of seduction?

“I wish I knew, Byers,” he says as he pulls out his Greys jersey. Sports attire is very casual, but Val had once told him that he was devastatingly sexy in this jersey, so he tugs it off the hanger and puts it on over his white T-shirt. “I guess the idea of never seeing her again is even worse than being around her and knowing we’ll never be more than friends.”

Byers shakes his head slowly. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Mulder. Are you sure you aren’t secretly holding out hope that you can steal her away?”

Mulder buttons up the jersey and considers the question, his mouth quirked to the side. “I mean, I’m not actively trying to do anything, she’s way too smart for that and she’d see right through it. But the hope is there, sure.”

Byers nods sadly. “Well, good luck. Here are the keys, by the way.” He pulls a small key ring from his pocket and hands it to Mulder, who deposits it into his jeans pocket.

“Thanks, Byers, I appreciate the favor. I owe you one,” he says, clapping the man on the back.

After Byers is gone he brushes his teeth, considers and then decides against pounding a beer to calm his nerves, then says goodbye to Priscilla and heads to the Hoover building.

Scully is early, leaning against the passenger side door of her car when he pulls into the lot. He lets out a pained moan when he sees her, clad in flared jeans and a peasant-style flowered top that is cinched under her breasts. While he knows that realistically no human is perfect, Scully is about as close as it gets. He tries not to imagine what she’s got on under there, lest he embarrass himself.

He pulls up beside her and she opens the door, smiling at him shyly as she lowers herself into the passenger seat.

“Hi,” she says, and just the greeting makes his heart ache.

“Hey,” he returns with what he hopes is a casual, friendly smile. Do not leer at her. Do not gaze. He’s been giving himself frequent reminders.

“So, what do you have planned?” she asks as she pulls the seatbelt across her lap.

Mulder smirks in reply, backing out of the lot. “All in good time,” he says, and she gives him an appraising look.

“I’m not even sure why I’m instilling so much trust in you here, Mulder. Don’t push it,” she says with a playful tone, though it’s clear there’s some truth to the statement.

“Okay, okay, I’ll give you the preliminary details,” He acquiesces. “First we’re going to The Queen Vic, which has the best fish and chips in DC, in my humble opinion. Have you been there?”

She shakes her head.

“Perfect. Then we’ll head down to the wharf and get some ice cream.” He suddenly wonders if he’s made incorrect assumptions about what she likes, and casts her a concerned glance at a stoplight. “Do you like ice cream?”

She looks at him like he has three heads. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”

He feels a little wave of relief. “I’m sure there’s someone out there who doesn’t like ice cream,” he replies, “but frankly, whoever they are, I have no interest in knowing them.”

She chuckles and there it is again, that ache in his chest. He wonders if it will fade over time.

The Queen Vic isn’t very busy just yet, given that they’re having an early dinner. They are seated at a small, dimly lit booth and each order a beer, fish and chips. Scully opts for an IPA and he feels a retroactive flush of embarrassment at the beer he served her, now knowing what her tastes are. She’s looking around, taking in the ambiance and British paraphernalia papering the walls, and he is looking at her. The cut of her top reveals the soft swell of her breasts, pale and inviting. Even her neck is beautiful, smooth and long and god, he wants to kiss it. Has he ever been taken with someone’s jawline before? Well he has now. Devastatingly beautiful, she is. Ache. Ache. Ache.

She’s looking at him now, and he smiles guiltily, having been caught. Fuck. He promised himself he wouldn’t do that. She bites her lip and fiddles with the salt shaker as though she’s not entirely sure what function it serves. What would a friend do? What would a friend ask? He needs to act like a friend, if he wants to be one.

“So, how’s wedding planning going?” he asks, the words feeling sour in his mouth.

She gives him a quizzical expression. “It’s okay. Fine, I guess.”

He nods. “And how’s Ethan?”

Her eyebrows furrow. “Um...fine. He’s fine. Mulder...why are you asking me about that? About the wedding, and Ethan?”

He dips his chin a bit, giving the pepper shaker a similar assessment. “I guess I just figured if we’re friends, a friend would ask about things like that?” He chances a glance at her and her expression is sympathetic, perhaps even pitying.

“You don’t need to do that, Mulder. We don’t have to talk about my relationship to be friends.” She’s running her finger over the condensation on the side of her glass, and he finds it disturbingly arousing.

“Fair enough, how’s work? Is that a better topic?” He is rewarded with a smile. My god that smile. She could melt permafrost with that smile.

“Work is great, no complaints,” she says coolly, an apparently genuine answer.

They drink, and eat, and talk. They talk about why she loves teaching, and how she got into pathology. He shares a bit about his methods for starting and then adjusting a criminal profile. They talk about med school, and his time at Oxford. He tells her about Phoebe and she admits a proclivity towards dating older men, with the exception of Ethan. It is so easy between them, and so right. He wants to scoop her up and steal her away in his car. Take her to a faraway place where there is no Ethan, where they can see this thing through. He notices how she often tries to hide her smiles, and the major role her eyebrows play in her facial expressions. She has a little mole above her lip that she’s attempted to cover with makeup, and her fingernails are perfectly manicured, like she has them professionally done. He wonders if she has tattoos, or piercings. If her bellybutton is an innie or an outie. If she prefers breakfast or dinner. If she likes morning sex. If she trims her pubic hair or takes it all off. He wants to know her, every bit. But he can’t. He never will. It hurts to think about it.

He drives them down to the wharf and they get ice cream cones from a stand near the water; she picks cookies and cream and he opts for rocky road. The evening is warm but not uncomfortable, the sun holding steady as it makes its descent towards the horizon. These are the dog days of summer, the daylight stretching well into the evening. No cover of darkness for a lover’s confession, not that he has any business making one. Friends meeting in daylight, above board. Never anything more.

They walk along the boardwalk, continuing their conversation between sweet licks, and he avoids watching her, but not entirely successfully. He must have been putting too much effort towards not staring and too little towards rotating his cone, because suddenly his ice cream flops over the side of its perch and lands on the ground with an audible smack.

He stops walking and stares at the now empty cone in his hand for a beat, and then he hears her giggling. When he looks over to her, she has her hand firmly planted over her mouth while she struggles to contain her laughter, the titters shaking her shoulders gently. The resulting swell of affection is overwhelming.

“You think that’s funny, huh?” he says dryly, and she works even harder to stop laughing, her face contorting into a grimace as tears pool in her eyes, shaking her head as though she could possibly deny her amusement.

He chucks his cone into a nearby trash can, then approaches her.

“Looks like you’ll have to share yours with me,” he says, moving his hand as though to take her ice cream, and she pulls it away with an open-mouthed expression of shock.

“Get out of here, it’s not my fault you licked yours right off the cone,” she says, wiping at her eyes with her free hand.

“Come on, Scully, friends share, don’t they?” he teases, maneuvering around to where she’s moved her arm, swiping at it playfully.

“Mulder, knock it off,” she replies, still smiling, and they are now moving in circles, him towards her ice cream while she artfully moves it out of his grasp.

Suddenly he swoops behind her, his long arms circling her waist and pulling her flush against him, pinning her stationary while he wraps his hand around her wrist and brings her ice cream cone to his own mouth. She shrieks in protest as he steals a big bite, and once he’s accomplished his goal, he becomes aware of their proximity. The feel of her pressed against him, the taper of her waist under his forearm, the smell of her shampoo in his nose. He grips her tighter, ever so briefly, but then releases her suddenly. He has no right. He crossed a line. She steps forward slowly, turning to look at him with pink cheeks.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, his arms dropping to his sides, woefully empty. Missing her already.

She shakes her head gently. “It’s okay,” she says, and they continue walking.

As they approach his car, the sun is just beginning to kiss the horizon. It’s nearly 8:30.

“This was really fun, Mulder, thank you,” she says with a shy smile, and he grins at the affirmation.

“There is one more thing I had planned, Scully, unless you have to get home right away,” he says cautiously, and she regards him with surprise, but not unpleasantly so.

“I don’t know, let me call my mother and see if I can stay out past curfew,” she jokes, but then adds “I suppose I’m curious to see what else you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“Great, let’s go,” he replies as he opens the car door for her.

———

She watches streetlights racing past as Mulder drives them to their final destination and feels a swell of guilt for how wonderful this night has been, then tries to talk herself out of it. She’s done nothing wrong, nothing inappropriate. She’s allowed to have dinner and ice cream with a man who is not her fiancé; he doesn’t own her. Given, the moment with the ice cream cone was a bit more flirtatious than might be ideal, but they were caught up in the moment. She tries not to remember the feel of his compact body pushed against her back, the strength of his arm around her waist. Tries not to imagine how it would feel to have him hold her like that without their clothes on. She closes her eyes and swallows.

They pull up in front of a darkened sports complex and she turns to look at him, questions communicated through her eyes.

“You don’t have something more worthwhile to do right now than slap a horsehide with a stick do ya, Scully?” he says with a smirk.

Her eyebrows lift. “Perhaps not, Mulder, but it looks like they’re closed.”

“A mere technicality,” he replies as he parks right in front of the main entrance, not even in a parking spot.

They approach the doors and he produces a set of keys from his pocket, holding the door open for her before he locks it behind them. There are security lights faintly illuminating the shuttered games and concessions, and she startles a little when she feels him slip his hand into hers, pulling her towards a hallway. His hand is broad and slightly callused, and she unconsciously threads her fingers through his. He glances at her, a slight cast of surprise in his features, but doesn’t say anything.

When they reach a large room, he flips on the lights and she sees rows of batting cages, five or six lined up on either side of a walkway down the middle.

“Are we supposed to be in here?” she asks him suspiciously, and he shrugs.

“The cops aren’t going to roll up or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says as he gathers a bucket of balls and two bats. “Even if they did, a couple FBI badges should send them off right quick.” He winks at her and she feels a flutter in her belly.

He motions for her to follow him to one of the cages, and she waits nervously while he loads the pitching machine and turns it on. When he turns around, he sees her trepidation and smiles warmly at her.

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you everything you need to know,” he says reassuringly, and she forces her mouth into a tight smile.

He directs her to stand just outside the cage and demonstrates for her how the pitching machine works, talking her through his stance and movements for seven or eight pitches. He hits every single one, sending the ball crashing into the back wall with a padded smack, and she has the unsettling feeling that she’s about to embarrass herself.

“Alright, batter up!” he says, handing her the bat and sending her in.

She gives him a doubtful look.

“It’s easy, you’ll get the hang of it,” he encourages her, then shows her where to stand before he steps out and starts the pitching machine.

When the first pitch sails by, she winces and lets out a little squeak, but doesn’t swing. She can hear Mulder chuckle a little, but waits for the next one. When it comes, she swings way too early, and it flies past her head and bounces off the back wall. Three or four complete misses later, she looks at him woefully.

“I’m terrible at this, Mulder,” she whines.

He shakes his head and smiles at her.

“You just need some minor adjustments,” he offers, then comes inside the cage. He steps up close behind her and she startles a little at the contact.

“Sorry, is this okay? It’s the best way to show you,” he offers, and she nods, the back of her head brushing against his shoulder with the movement. He’s just showing her how to hit a stupid baseball. It’s the least romantic thing on earth, as far as she’s concerned.

He steps close again, wrapping his arms around hers as the length of his torso presses firmly against hers from her shoulder blades right down to her ass. She can feel his breath hot on her ear as he speaks.

“Now don’t strangle the bat, Scully, just shake hands with it,” he says as their palms brush over one another, vying for real estate. “We want to go hips before hands,” he continues, “stride forward, and then turn.” He motions with a hand in front of her towards the pitching machine, and she nods in confirmation. “It’s hips,” he places an open palm against her hip bone and physically turns her torso. She feels a rush between her thighs. “Before hands,” he replaces his hand on the bat and guides them through a mock swing.

“Okay,” she says, taking a steadying breath.

“Again, that’s hips,” there his palm is again, hot and firm and pressing into her flesh as he tilts her pelvis forcibly, “before hands. What is it?”

“Um, hips before hands,” she says breathily, resisting an overwhelming urge to press her ass back harder into his lap, to slip that hand beneath the waistband of her jeans so she can feel it on her bare skin. She has a vision of her riding him on the floor as the pitching machine flings balls aimlessly against the back wall, no one caring enough to hit them. She shivers.

“We’re gonna wait on the pitch, keep our eye on the ball, and then we’re just gonna make contact. We’re not gonna think, we’re just gonna let it fly, Scully, okay?”

“Okay,” she says shakily, her heart thrumming in her chest.

They take several swings, the bat making contact with the ball with a sharp crack. Mulder is murmuring in her ear about letting your mind go blank and forgetting about all your worries, but she’s too distracted by the heat of his body and the smell of his aftershave to hear him. If not for the risk of getting pelted by a ball, she just might turn in his arms, push him up against the wire-fence walls of this batting cage, and show him how she prefers to handle bats and balls.

The grip of his hands over hers on the bat pinches the skin around her engagement ring and she jerks. Mulder steps away from her a bit.

“You okay?” he asks, and she nods.

“Um, maybe I should try by myself now. Thanks for showing me,” she says without looking at him, and he steps back into the walkway to watch her. She hits the next three balls, then turns to smile at him victoriously. The pain and longing in his expression makes her heart sink.

After shutting the place down, they drive back to the Hoover building in relative silence, tension hanging thick between them like a curtain. He puts the car in park and gets out, walking her to the door of her own car, which strikes her as unnecessary. She stands by the open door, sensing that there’s something he wants to say.

“Scully….” he stops and shakes his head gently, talking himself out of it.

“What?” she asks, desperately wanting to know what he was going to say.

He clenches his jaw, fighting an inner battle.

“Scully, I know I shouldn’t say this to you. I know that you’re...with someone. I just-” he purses his lips, then closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, his eyes are so full of emotion it makes her breath catch in her chest. “I think about you all the time. Every second of every day.”

“Oh,” she responds lamely. There’s that urge again, the one she has to resist. “You seem like the kind of guy that believes in reincarnation, Mulder,” she says softly.

He gives her a quizzical look. “I don’t NOT believe in it,” he offers.

She smiles sadly at him, reaching out to grasp his hand and give it a brief squeeze. “Maybe in another life,” she says, then climbs into her car and shuts the door.

As she drives home, tears run down her cheeks freely. If she had to identify a reason for them, grief would be the closest one.

[achubbydumpling]

Consider this: slightly chubby office worker bucky and lean, muscular steve who has a huge crush on him.

They work in the same department so Steve is always sneaking him food and rubbing his belly for him. Poor bucky keeps outgrowing his shirts and his pants barely go over his ass anymore but he doesn't wanna stop.

Bucky finally has to work from home when he gets too big for his office chair and his belly is almost constantly hanging out. All thanks to steve, of course.

Hello! I'm sorry for only answering this now, buuuuut this ask made me think of a very specific scenario for some reason? So, I hope you'll enjoy reading this... imagine? ficlet? this is neither edited nor proofread, so I apologize for any mistakes

Alright, I immediately jumped to Bucky working from home because he's outgrown his office chair. Maybe he hit the weight limit, maybe he's just gotten too wide to comfortably fit between the arm rests. Maybe he’s a gainer in this? In any case, he applies to work from home, and they grant him the request (anything to facilitate the kink, right? :D)

Rating: Mature Words: 1638 Relationship: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Additional Tags: Stuffing, Belly Kink, nicknames (pig), allusions to masturbation, mutual pining, maybe slight dub-con (Bucky doesn't know he's unmuted and Steve doesn't tell him right away)

The only requirement is that he has to be "on call" the entire workday. So, the next week on Monday Bucky sits down at his desk at home and logs in to the program his company makes him use for those calls.

And of course Steve picks up. The guy Bucky has had a not so subtle crush on since basically his first day. The blue eyed, blond haired subject of all of Bucky’s dreams, who is also the guy that Bucky has been eating his weight in junk over, because Steve keeps bringing in baked goods and Bucky can never say no to Steve.

On the other end of the call Steve is nervously chewing on his pencil until he finally hears Bucky’s warm voice say “Good morning.” A huge grin appears on his face without him wanting it to, but this is Bucky. So, of course he’s grinning like a maniac.

Bucky is just… Steve had tried to explain it to Nat once, but all he’d gotten out was a stupid “wow”, while grinning the same way he was right now. So, maybe he had a bit of an office crush, it’s normal when you spend 8h a day together, right? Bucky’s video feed is off and Steve is glad he didn’t stupidly turn his own camera on. He was debating it while he waited for Bucky’s call.

“So, do I just do my work, while I stay on this call or…?” Bucky asks when Steve didn’t respond. Steve scrambles out of his daydreams and nods. Then he remembers to actually say “Yes.”

“Alright,” was all that Bucky said and then the little red mute symbol pops up. Steve groans and rubs his hands over his face to get rid of that stupid smile.

“What’s up?” Bucky chimes back in, when Steve yelps in surprise, he adds, “you didn’t mute yourself. I could hear you… being annoyed, I think.”

“Sorry, Mondays.”

“Yeah,” Steve hears something crunching, “though my day has actually been pretty good so far.”

“Are you eating breakfast right now?” Steve looks at the clock—9:03 am.

“Nah, post-breakfast snack. I was craving something crunchy like those pig's ears you brought in on Friday.”

“That just sounds disgusting. Just call it a palm heart or a palmier.” Steve said the name of the pastry in a French accent in an effort to make Bucky laugh and when he did, his heart fluttered with a burst of warmth.

“Well, I’m having some cereal to make up for not having any pastries around.”

“Some?” Steve asked. He sobered quickly at the mention of what Bucky was actually eating, he hated how badly he was hiding his excitement at hearing what Bucky was eating. He’d been “subtly” pushing food on him since Bucky had first started working at the office. Steve doesn’t know a lot about flirting, but providing food seemed like a natural place to start.

Except he’s been stuck there for close to a year now. Every day he’d promise himself to finally ask Bucky out when he brings him one of the pastries, he brought in from that bakery on his way to the office, but when he’s actually looking at Bucky’s face, that lights up when he sees the sugary treat, Steve can never work up the courage and just slinks back to his own desk. And now Bucky wasn’t even in the office anymore.

Because you’ve fattened him up too much, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of Steve’s mind. It not like Steve was forcing Bucky to eat what he brought in, but all those treats right there in the break room surely weren’t helping with Bucky’s expanding waistline. Or those lunches they started taking together, where Steve always suggested they go out to eat instead of sharing a packed lunch in the break room. So, yeah, Steve wasn’t really at fault. Then why did he feel so goddamned proud whenever he saw Bucky’s shirts getting too small and the armrests on his chair digging into his plush sides?

Steve snaps back to reality when Bucky starts talking again.

“Just a bowl-full. Well, this is my second bowl, but cereal is pretty much mostly air, right?” They talk (argue) about what’s the best cereal after that, then what Bucky had for breakfast and then they somehow spend the entire morning talking like Bucky was still in the office and not all the way across town. Bucky refills his bowl twice before lunch rolls around at noon.

“Well, I’ll see you after lunch.” Steve reluctantly leaves his desk.

“I’ll be here!” Bucky calls before Steve takes of his headphones and heads into the breakroom to scarf down his lunch. He knows Bucky will probably only get back on the call once he has to work, but some small part of Steve hopes that if he eats fast enough he’ll get to spend at least part of his break chatting with Bucky.

When he makes his way back to his desk, Steve pops his headphones back on, plops down on his chair and immediately freezes at what he’s hearing. Bucky isn’t muted. Steve is listening to Bucky eat some kind of pasta dish, a very saucy pasta dish from the noises he can hear every time Bucky takes a bite and sucks the spaghettis he missed into his mouth. This is Steve’s personal hell, he thinks, it can’t get any worse than this.

Steve is just about to tell Bucky he’s unmuted when he hears him say, unmistakably, “Fucking pig.” It can get worse.

“Such a fat fucking pig.” Bucky muffles his moan with another mouthful of food. He must be close to finishing his food Steve thinks, then he blushes at realising he knows what Bucky sounds like when he’s getting full.

Bucky’s headphones must be lying on the desk, because they pick up the slide of skin on skin perfectly and Steve leans closer to his monitor even though there isn’t an image. He presses his hands over his headphones to make sure he hears all the little sounds Bucky is making and then he jolts back when Bucky burps loudly.

Steve’s eyes scan the office to make sure no one saw him jumping around on his chair like a scaredy cat, but no one is around. No one is around to see Steve listen very intently to his co-worker eating lunch. Stuffing himself.— Brain.Steve scolds himself, but then Bucky moans again and Steve can’t help but scoot his chair closer. One, to hide his growing erection and two, because logic has left his brain and he needs to get closer to hear better apparently. Steve turns up the volume and then takes his headphones off to make sure it’s no so loud that anyone walking by could hear the sound.

“Fuck, so good,” Bucky groans and Steve can hear his cutlery cluttering onto the desk. He can hear clothes rustling and suddenly the sound of Bucky rubbing his hands over the taut skin of his belly is back. It overtakes the connection for a long moment, that and Bucky’s shallow breathing.

“Best penne and pizza? Yeah, I can believe that.” Steve can hear Bucky’s chair groaning under him. Three suffering clicks from the chair and another pained belch from Bucky.

“If you keep eating like this you’re gonna get fat, Barnes.” Bucky chuckles to himself, “well, fatter.” Bucky exhales heavily, Steve can hear him shift again and his breathing gets heavier.

“Only thing missing is dessert. That’d make a real glutton outta me, not just overeating at lunch, but eating more sugar after,” Steve hears the familiar sound of Bucky popping his button to get comfortable, but Bucky doesn’t stop there, Steve hears the zipper being pulled down too. Steve’s heart skips a beat. Is he gonna—

“Get some feeder to bring it to me, some rich chocolate cake. No, ah, those little cake pops, that— that Steve brought in.” Steve holds his breath when he hears his own name in Bucky’s voice, the emphasis Bucky puts on his name.

“Steve—” He hears a bottle cap being snapped open. Ok, nope, this is too far, Steve decides and reaches for the mouse.

“Oh, my God, Bucky. You’re unmuted!” Steve just about shouts into the microphone. He immediately hears something clatter to the floor and then Bucky swearing.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry. I was just— This isn’t what it looks like. I’m— I was— How long were you listening?” The tips of Steve’s ears are burning and the blush is working it’s way down over Steve’s face.

“A few— just a bit. You said my name.” Steve adds, hopeful, even though Bucky was probably more worried about his co-worker almost catching him jerking off. Listening to him jerk off.

“Great, are we going straight to HR or is tomorrow fine?” Bucky asked resigned.

“How about dinner?” Steve didn’t know where he plucked the courage from, but when Bucky didn’t answer right away whatever ounce of courage had possessed him left just as quickly.

“I’m sorry—"

“No. No, yeah, that’s fine. Great! That sounds good.” Bucky floundered a bit but Steve couldn’t wipe that grin of his face again.

“Tonight?” Bucky added.

“It’s a date.”

[vidalinav]

I started re-reading ACOSF because I’m a glutton for punishment and apparently I like unending pain??? But omg I cannot read a lot of this. I have to skip because it makes me embarrassed on behalf of Nesta. Whenever it’s like the IC are holding their breath to see what she’ll do and they audibly sigh in relief when she just answers one question without snark.... I have to close the book.

As someone who has anxiety particularly social anxiety and being very self conscious, it gives me such an awful feeling. Damn. It’s so funny because my real reaction to feeling like this is to be never in that situation and you know what Nesta does most of the time? Stay away.

I wonder why...

[robininthelabyrinth]

MDZS Prompt: In Chinese mythology, the Dragon's Gate is located at the top of a waterfall cascading from a legendary mountain. If a carp successfully makes the jump, it becomes a dragon.

sequel to dragon NHS (also on ao3)

--

There were places where humans were not, and have never been, welcome.

It was more than just a feeling – the rocks reached out to trip your feet, hoping to break your neck; the trees lashed out with branches and refused to burn when cut, hoping to see you freeze; the clear water abruptly turned polluted if it even suspected you wanted to drink.

And then there was the weather.

Nie Mingjue staggered when the heavenly lightning arced down towards him for the countless time. It was almost as if it realized that simply giving warning blows wasn’t enough, escalated to strikes with murderous intentions, and then to its frustration realized that it wasn’t as easy to kill him.

At least, not by hitting him with lightning.

Nie Mingjue rubbed his neck, where the scars of Jin Guangyao’s treatment of him still remained – it was uncomfortable, having a weak point like that, especially one that was so obvious, but he supposed it was better than the alternative of still being dead.

In fact, this entire trip was only possible courtesy of the toughness of his resurrected body, courtesy of Wei Wuxian’s only somewhat voluntary assistance. He’d tried to apologize later, but Wei Wuxian had only cried from laughter until he nearly choked himself to death – apparently, hearing Nie Mingjue refer to his little brother turning into a gigantic dragon in order to threaten people into doing as he wanted as being “in a snit” was all the payment he required.

The Yiling Patriarch was a very strange man, Nie Mingjue decided, and side-stepped the next bout of lightning.

The only problem with being a fierce corpse was that it depended on resentment – and for all that Nie Mingjue’s temper was notorious, it was more like fireworks, burning bright but swift, than it was long-lasting; unless he was continuously stimulated, he would be more inclined to forgive than hold a grudge.

(He shouldn’t have forgiven Jin Guangyao.)

But his enemies were dead now, the author of his demise thoroughly destroyed in his name; there was very little to be resentful about. Nie Mingjue was not Wen Ning, who kept his grievances hidden so deeply inside his heart that even he himself did not know them; he was too straightforward for that. His resentments in life were slowly being relieved, one by one, and when they were gone there would be nothing to keep him from entering the cycle of reincarnation.

Nothing to keep him here, by Nie Huaisang’s side.

And that was intolerable.

Nie Huaisang might be a dragon, his life longer than most cultivators; he might have access to that secret place where the Nie dragons retreated; he might be perfectly capable of executing a decade-long revenge plan – in the end, he was still Nie Mingjue’s little brother.

No one would be allowed to cause him pain, least of all Nie Mingjue himself.

And so he’d come here, to this forbidden place, and braced himself for the agony of the journey.

He’d been travelling for days already, maybe weeks – it was getting hard to tell. Fierce corpses, conscious or not, did not feel pain in the same way, but pain was still quite possible; he’d been burned and stabbed and bludgeoned, he’d been attacked by purification in the same way he’d once attacked corpses himself, and it all hurt exactly as much as he’d thought it would.

He wished he could have brought Baxia with him. She wouldn’t have put up with this nonsense.

But this was something he had to do alone.

He had nothing with him but the clothing on his back, the familiar clothing of the Nie Sect Leader he no longer was, and even that was being slowly ripped apart and peeled away from him as he climbed.

His fingers were in agony as he gripped rocks that turned cutting edges against him, his teeth were gritted as the water sprayed down at him in full force, and he did not let anything deter him.

He would get to the top of this fucking waterfall.

He’d say that he’d do it or die trying, but he was already dead. Failure was therefore not an option.

“There is a type of immortality in reincarnation, you know,” the woman’s voice said in his ear again. “You are already existing beyond the fated span of your life – why not enjoy the time you have left, and then move on to try again? Why force yourself to stay in a body that cannot eat, cannot drink, cannot live?”

“I was never much of a glutton,” Nie Mingjue said back, ignoring the way the water tried to drown him. He was a fierce corpse, he didn’t actually need oxygen; the way his lungs strained and his mind panicked was only the memory of a prior life. “Or much of a lecher. A half-life is fine, if I can accompany my brother to live a full one.”

“You’re very stubborn,” she sighed.

Nie Mingjue bared his teeth. “My sworn brother once said that he tried everything he could to tempt me – women, liquor, riches, art, calligraphy, antiques, fine tea – and failed. You’re going to need to try harder.”

“What if your next reincarnation could be guaranteed as auspicious? Your conduct was upright and righteous throughout your life, and even after death – you would be born into a family that loved you, with divine talent for cultivation and all the resources you could think of. You would have the opportunity to break your way into the heavens.”

“And if I accepted that, I would be worthy only of being reborn as a pig fit for slaughter,” Nie Mingjue said. “I already had that life: my family loved me, my talent was not bad, my resources extensive. And in the end the only part of it that ever mattered was my father, who I avenged, and my brother, who avenged me. I am already decided – go away, Baoshan Sanren. Don’t you have your own chicks to worry about?”

She was silent for a moment, as if surprised that he’d identified her.

He’d suspected it from the first moment he saw her, the beautiful and arrogant Zhuque – the vermillion bird of heaven, come down to watch him as he climbed this mountain, this waterfall. He didn’t know why, but it suddenly all seemed to make sense: who else would rescue children only to release them? What else could explain the inconsistencies of time, where little Xiao Xingchen could remember Wei Wuxian’s mother as his shijie even though she’d died long before the time he should have been born?

Why else would all of her children be tagged with such terrible luck?

“What if this hurts your brother?” she suddenly said, abrupt in her question. “You know the doom that has befallen each of my disciples once they leave my nest – what if this is more of the same? What if having you by his side is enough to doom him?”

“Have to hope for the best,” Nie Mingjue said briefly. He’d considered it, of course, and the idea worried him – he was going against the heavens here, and it wouldn’t be too much to think that they’d seek revenge beyond merely inconveniencing him with some lightning. It was a risk. But he’d never stopped from taking the course of action he thought was right simply because of risk. “If fate turns against us, we can cross that bridge when we reach it – why worry now?”

He’d always been called a straightforward man, and it had irritated Jin Guangyao beyond words whenever it turned out to be true – it seemed Baoshan Sanren had some of the same instincts, because she huffed and tossed her head, the beautiful fiery plumage streaming in the wind.

“Stop making me like you,” she said, her voice querulous. “I’m supposed to be stopping you.”

Nie Mingjue grinned. “It’s not going to happen. No matter what you offer or threaten – as I told you, I decided long ago that I would do this. Aren’t I a cultivator? To cultivate is to fight against the heavens, to seek your own fate. This is the fate I’ve chosen. I will not be dissuaded.”

His hand, which had been steadily reaching above him, finding a rock, and pulling his body up after, reached up again and abruptly hit nothing but air.

Nie Mingjue squinted up but could not see anything; the haze from the waterfall was too much. He reached again, stubborn, and this time he found that there wasn’t any rock above him – but there was further out.

He’d reached the top. There was no more to climb.

The only way forward was to leap.

“Good luck,” Baoshan Sanren said. “I hope you make it.”

Nie Mingjue didn’t hesitate.

(Far away in Gusu, Wei Wuxian looked up at the sky and said, “Oh shit now there’s two of them,” but when Lan Wangji asked what he’d meant, he realized that he had no idea.)

[trickstercaptain]

Lottie write a scars post challenge

re: this post / @lighthouseborn because hannah is a glutton for punishment apparently sdfksdfs ily

so i’ve written a lot about Jack’s scars over the nearly seven years i’ve been here, but not so much on the new blog ( i say new as if it’s not already a year old lmao ), so i’m gonna try and consolidate as much info as possible from old posts and my own notes into this post and make this my go-to scars meta, particularly as my headcanons on how he got a few of them have changed as my portrayal has grown and developed on this blog. i’m also only going to focus on Jack’s major scars ( so effectively the ones that appear in that gifset along with a couple of others ), because he has a lot and some of the ones he got as a younger man ( i’m thinking of the ones he sustains during TPOF ) would have mostly faded by the time we get to movie-era Jack ( plus i would be here all day if i was to talk about all of them lmao and not all of them have thematic significance to his character anyway )

the eyebrow scar

so starting at the beginning, Jack has a mark extending through his right eyebrow. it’s quite difficult to see at times because of his bandana ( it really kinda depends on the scene as to whether Jack’s bandana is high enough above his eyebrow for it to be visible, and when he has his hat on it’s even more difficult to spot ). while there are all sorts of ways in which he could have sustained that, i tie this specifically to the abuse Jack suffered as a child -- most notably from his grandmother, who he was forced to live with for a couple of years following his mother’s death. they’re kids books, believe it or not, but there is mention in the young Jack Sparrow series as well as the Legends of the Brethren Court series of Jack having lot of difficult memories associated with his grandmother, from her locking him in a brig because another family member had a premonition that Jack would set fire to her ship ( he was eight years old at the time ), to having nightmares about her red tooth, to casually mentioning how she would attack and throw things at him. 

with mine and @thecodekeeper’s headcanons trying to stitch all of this together into an upbringing that makes sense for Jack, i find it difficult to believe that he would have gotten out of that situation without any marks to speak of, so he sustained it from her throwing something at him. the sad part is that Jack has blocked out a lot of those memories because of how unhappy he was, so he can’t recall precisely what she threw, only that she threw something and was inches away from blinding him in one eye.

burns on his left arm

the lightning burns that twist around his left arm actually have a canon explanation, and that’s from when he was trapped inside of his cabin on the Wicked Wench after it was set alight by Beckett ( he did climb on board while it was burning, so it is partially his fault but y’know lmao ). in Jack’s desperate attempts to save all his worldly goods, which he kept in a chest in his cabin, he was jolted up against the door and the flames from the weatherdeck leapt through and set his shirt sleeve on fire. Jack uses his right hand to try and stamp the flames out, which also happens to be not just his dominant hand, but the palm he covers up with a leather guard throughout all the movies, so therefore i imagine he has burns there too. the guard likely started as a way to stop him from aggravating the burns as they healed, and then after years passed it just stuck as an accessory and he continued wearing it. even though Jack is somewhat ambidextrous in that he can wield a sword in both hands and aim a pistol effectively in his left despite his right being his dominant, his left arm is his significantly weaker one and he does have lingering numbness in it from time to time.

the brand

we all know how Jack got the brand. i go into a lot more detail about the emotional and psychological effects of being branded in this meta here, but physically-speaking it’s something that causes him discomfort for years afterwards --- in DMC all it takes is for Elizabeth and Gibbs to mention Beckett for Jack to reach for his brand, so while it eventually stops causing him constant pain, the memory of having it inflicted on him and of those involved persists, and it’s probably the scar that bothers him most for the psychological reasons i detail in the other meta above. he has the most complicated relationship with his brand as opposed to the others, and i imagine that is because it is the only one that was deliberately inflicted on him with the intent to leave a mark

scar on his left palm

i don’t have much to say about this one except that, since Jack has to use his blood to help break the Aztec curse ( because he stole a piece of the treasure while fighting Barbossa ), he slices his left palm right before throwing his piece to Will. this is a matching scar that he has with Will and Elizabeth and idk i just like the symbolic significance of the trio having gained the same scar through a shared experience.

powder burns on the right-hand side of his chest

one day i’ll actually be able to tell you precisely what happened here, step by step, and how Jack got shot and who by and the circumstances around it, but it’s the one scar I’ve always kept vague -- i think because it’s the one i want to best demonstrate the point of that deleted scene with Elizabeth: that the truth of Jack’s life as a pirate does not live up to the stories. Jack will tell the story of how he got shot and make it sound daring and dramatic, but i don’t think the truth of it is nearly as exciting or worthy of the legend that surrounds him. i’ve debated the idea that he was shot by an angry husband ( based on a snippet of dialogue that was cut from AWE between Jack and Gibbs ), and i think that’s the closest to the truth that Jack will let me get to exactly what happened

but i can tell you a few other things i know about it for sure. he was shot twice in quick succession, given that both powder burns appear similar to one another and, while it’s his right-hand side of his chest which gives a decent enough distance from his heart ( so it wouldn’t have been fatal by 18th century standards ), it is still in a dangerous enough place that he would have needed medical attention immediately considering the limitations of the era. that’s where Jack’s ship surgeon comes in ( @valorsworn ), because John Watson is a canon part of this franchise idk what you mean when you say he isn’t. anyway it’s my canon that John’s actions saved Jack’s life, but it would have also led to a lengthy recovery period ( you don’t just recover from two gunshot wounds to your chest overnight, particularly not in a century where the risk of infection is arguably even more dangerous than the actual wounds themselves ). so we’re talking weeks of recovery and then probably weeks of rehabilitation as Jack gets his strength back to where it was before he’d gotten shot, and I’d say that this is easily the worst injury he’s probably ever suffered.

[kurowrites]

Inuyasha au with wangxian? YP dies thinking LWJ betrayed him when coming to give him the stygian iron. Reincarnates in the future with cangse saren as his mum. And then falls into the past and investigates and solves the mystery like canon... only with no kikiyo arc because too sad.

Seriously guys, are you all gluttons for punishment?

Anyway, I’m not sure if this is entirely as hoped for, but:

Wei Ying grows up as a relatively normal, happy child. Only sometimes, he has strange nightmares that wake him up in the middle of the night and that make no sense to him at all. Zombies, blood, death, and endlessly barking dogs. He’s had them ever since he can remember, and though his mother makes a worried face whenever it happens, there’s really nothing that can be done about it.

One day after university classes, a dog barks at WWX on the street, and he ends up running away in a panic. WWX finds himself in a strange, unknown place, an old house slowly falling to pieces. Curious, he wanders around on the premises. In one of the courtyards, he comes across an old, dried out well. And as he peeks into it... something comes out of the well and attacks him. Scared for his life, he tries to fight off whatever this strange creature is, and ends up falling down the well.

Once he finally manages to climb out of it, he finds himself in a world that looks very different from the place he’s just been in before. The dilapitated house is suddenly a beautiful mansion full of people, and everyone is in an uproar. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he hears people saying something about cultivators and supernatural creatures.

He carefully tries to sneak out of the mansion, but the next thing he knows, he is standing face to face with a man all dressed in flowing white robes who looks at him as if he’s the freak here, somehow. He tries to slow-mo out of there, but the man grabs his arm. “Wei Ying,” he says. And WY is like... how the fuck do you know my name???

The man in white looks at him with a strange expression on his face and is like, “You were dead.” And WY is getting really confused here, because he’s definitely been alive for ~25 years now. He doesn’t remember dying.

Wait.

He does remember pain, and screaming, and being very afraid. He remembers blood and death. He remembers feeling anger, and betrayal, and - He wrenches his hand out of the man’s hold. Could it be this man is somehow connected to his recurring nightmares?

Because of the uproar in the mansion, LWJ gets distracted by someone else for a moment, and WY uses the chancce to slip out. He sneaks away, determined to find the quickest way back to where came from.

He doesn’t get very far, though. Shortly after he’s left the mansion, he’s attacked by people who call him a demon and try to kill him with no mercy whatsoever.

The man in white arrives just at the nick of time, and saves him from the attack. And well. WY still doesn’t know if he can trust this man, but he’s also not actively trying to kill him. He guesses he might be safer with him than without.

“How do you know me?” he asks the man who goes by the name Lan Wangji. And LWJ looks at him and says, “We know each other. [strong intimacy implied here]” There’s absolutely no hesitation in his voice. WY’s hair stands up; he’s not sure if this man is the most extreme romantic he’s ever met, or a complete lunatic. Or maybe both.

LWJ brings him back to a place called Cloud Recesses. But no matter where they go, people keep staring at WY as if he’s a two-headed monster. At first, he thinks it’s because he’s dressed very differently from anyone else. But he realises quickly that’s not the case when LWJ dresses him in suitable red-and black robes. It’s his face that makes people stare at him. Which is just plain rude.

The first time someone calls him Wei Wuxian, he’s like... that’s not my name, though. But, he realises quickly, there apparently used to be a person called WWX that wore his very face, and that everybody was terrified of. Extremely terrified, judging from the reaction. The only person that doesn’t seem to be terrified is LWJ. But the way he sometimes looks at WY makes him come to the uncomfortable conclusion that LWJ must have been in love with this WWX, enough to defy his own sect. That makes WY feel... he’s not sure what it makes him feel, or how he’s supposed to think about that. It’s terryifing, somehow.

Before long, other powerful and influential cultivators arrive at Cloud Recesses and demand the extradition of WWX because he’s apparently also a war criminal? But LWJ only frowns severely and beats any opponent into submission simply by sheer stubborn silence.

That’s until Jin Guangyao shows up. He somehow manages to sneak around and corner WY in a desterd corner of Cloud Recesses, far away from LWJ, and before WY knows what’s happening to him, JGY pulls... something out of his chest. JGY’s eyes shine with both madness and desire, and WY immediately knows that whatever this things is that just came out of his body, it can’t get into JGY’s hands. So he fights him for it, as well as he can. In the struggle, he breaks the things into pieces, and the pieces of the broken amulet scatter all over China.

This starts operation “Finding all the pieces of the amulet before JGY can get a hold of them, and also restore WWX’s reputation in the process.” LWJ & WY travel around, while WY learns to use the cultivation powers that have been dormant in him all along apparently, and tries very hard not to fall in love with LWJ, who is still in love with a man that just happens to have the same face as him. It can’t be. And WY will have to return to his own time at some point. Sooner rather than later, really.

Maybe the timelines is also shifted, and the entire thing happens only ~3 years after WWX’s death. LWJ’s wounds are barely healed, and A-Yuan is still small, a child only beginning his own study of cultivation. He still remembers Wei-gege, and gets very attached to WY VERY quickly. WY is faced with the quiet trauma of a still-grieving father and son, and the shadow of a man that’s so much like him and yet so different that he can never hope to stand in the same place that he did. He knows he should stay away from the two. But the way A-Yuan smiles at him, and calls him Wei-gege breaks his heart. And the way LWJ sometimes looks at him, and quietly seeks his physical presence... it would need a stronger man than him to resist that.

[leo-gold-hotchner]

The Sinner -2

Any criticism on spelling/grammar mistakes, character description (trying my best to describe them in characters), facts (especially region, I’ve never been to America before), etc. are all welcome! Though, be lenient on me :) 

I had to change ‘mate’ to ‘pal’ lol...

Criminal Minds BAU x Reader

Warning: Explicit description of blood, death, mutilation, swearing etc.

Word Count: 3.1k

Previous parts: 1

“A glutton lives to eat instead of eating to live.” – African Proverb 

 Tik tok. Tik tok. 

The large man cried as the silent room filled with the clock ticking. He wanted to stop the clock, wanted to smash it. But it will never happen, that's what the abductor said to him. He’ll never see the daylight while alive, and it scared him. Regretting ever joining the club. 

 The figure appeared without light, its face covered in a black mask, and a hood. He begged for the mercy, but the figure held out a red bloodied pliers without hesitation. Soon, painful screams filled the dark room along a sound of something being forcefully torn. Both predator and prey knew the pitiful scream can’t be heard from the outside.

2nd Day 

Detective Lee was already at the scene, covering his mouth while yawning. It was a freezing morning of November. The detective greeted the BAU kindly, explaining they were waiting for the CSI to be arrived. The team decided to wait for the CSI too, trying to wake fully from drowsiness. They were at the National Park, where everything looked peaceful except for the bloody body found on the large rock near the small waterfall. The Sun was rising slowly over the dawn sky while Lee explained the situation after scribbling something on his note. 

“The forest ranger found the body while patrolling the area,” the detective nodded towards a young ranger who looked very ill. “He stated there was no one except him when he found the body. The driver’s license says the victim’s name is Benedict Lewis, 46-year-old. Whoever did this, drove a long way to dump a body,” he cringed, “’gula’ is written on the body.” 

“Which is gluttony, just like lust, it’s the Seven Deadly Sins.” Rossi informed the detective. 

“So, the killer is really on an extreme religious mission or something?” Lee asked incredulously. During his 5 years of detective life, he’s never seen such murders before. 

“Maybe,” Reid replied. “Does the victim have any unusual thing other than the word?” His pocketed hand playing with the sobriety coin. The young genius was actually glad he was called in the early morning as he was having a nightmare. The nightmare where Tobias Hankel drugged him. 

“If you mean by a large rat, frog, snake shoved in his mouth, yeah. Is this also the Seven Deadly Sins thing?” the detective asked when Reid’s eyes sparked in realisation, pushing his nightmare to the back of his mind. 

“Yes, actually gluttony is punished by eating rats, snakes, toads eternally.” 

“Gross,” Prentiss frowned along with JJ and Morgan. 

“Prentiss and Morgan, check out the area, if there’s anything call me. Reid and JJ, talk to the ranger. Rossi and I’ll wait for the CSI here with Detective Lee.” After Hotch ordered his team, he called Garcia -who was asleep- to look up the victim. 

                                                         ---BAU---

Just after the agents were dispatched, an SUV parked near the scene. A person with several protections including a face covering mask walked towards them with large rectangular containers in hands. 

“Don’t they at least have courtesy to kill in the daylight?” The person said in an irritated tone with a yawning. 

“F/N?” The detective’s jaw hung up in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be on leave?” 

“I’ve been resting for two months, Leon. Fucking two months!” F/N held two fingers to the detective with frustration. “And it drove me crazy!” 

“What happened to Harrison?” 

“Apparently, our newbie is sick since he saw the ‘luxuria’ bodies.” The forensic scientist sighed deeply, shaking head. “Anyways, I’ll need your time of arrival and names. Did you touch anything?” 

“Yeah, I already wrote that, you drilled me too much it became a habit.” Detective shrugged as he showed his friend his note. “Had to touch to find his identity, but other than that I was really careful not to touch anything.” 

The scientist just walked into the scene, placing the containers far from the body and the scene. With gloves on, F/N looked through the scene, quickly theorising what to gather first. The scientist quickly but efficiently started to prepare by photographing the scene and the body, scribbling on the note. 

“That’s F/N L/N, one of the best forensic scientists we have. Sorry about the manner, F/N is usually polite.” Lee gave the two agents a sheepish smile. 

“Something happened?” Hotch asked, watching the scientist working, barking orders not to step closer to a young officer. Rossi raised his brows at the younger man, but Hotch ignored Rossi. The BAU leader could sense something from the scientist, but he wasn’t sure what was making him stare at the person. But his gut told him he had to know about what happened to this scientist. 

“Well,” the detective shoved his hands in his suit jacket, sighing deeply. “My partner, he was F/N’s husband. Has been on leave since Nick’s been shot, I’ve never thought F/N would suddenly appear here.” He checked on his watch. “Do you want coffee? I think we have time till F/N finishes the job.” Lee glanced at the scientist who was taking tweezers out from the equipment box. 

“Perhaps later,” Rossi replied pleasantly as he saw JJ and Reid returning from interviewing the forest ranger. 

“The ranger found the body around 5:40, he remembers clearly because he was texting his friend.” JJ informed them. 

“He didn’t see any vehicles while patrolling before he found the body. The UnSub probably visited the park before,” Reid said. “But he said he hasn’t seen anyone at night.” 

“Did you get when and where he patrols the park?” Rossi asked, looking at the pale ranger who was talking to an officer. 

“I asked him to draw on the map, and estimated time.” Reid showed the checked park map. Rossi noticed the trembled writings of the ranger and wondered if anyone can read that. 

Hotch’s phone suddenly rang, and he could hear the scientist curse along with the detective’s. Rossi coughed drily to hide his laugh, but Hotch could see the veteran profiler was amused that the phone call startled them. 

“Garcia, you’re on the speaker,” Hotch replied quickly before the technical analyst say something to embarrass herself from the detective. 

“Hotch, sir,” Garcia said, her voice still covered in sleep, “Lewis was a newspaper reporter before he changed his career to a food blog writer. He was a single, and there are no known connections between the first victim.” 

“Did he write criticisms on food?” JJ asked. 

“Yes, apparently,” Garcia paused for a moment, “a few restaurants closed due to his harsh reviews.” 

“Are the owners still live here?” 

“No, they all moved to other states and never returned to Philly.” 

“Thank you, Garcia.” Hotch ended the call, knowing Garcia will fall asleep as soon as he ends the call. “The UnSub associated the victims’ careers and the Sins, but we don’t know why the UnSub chose these people.” He frowned deeply. “What does UnSub want to tell us?” He saw Prentiss and Morgan returning, briefly informed what Garcia told them. 

“The area is just perfect for family picnics,” Prentiss shrugged, “there’s a wedding mansion, nothing much.” 

“This area is open space; the UnSub knew the body would be found easily.” Morgan said. “The mansion was locked tight, so I don’t think the UnSub used the facility, no hint of forced entry too.” 

“The UnSub could’ve been using some kind of transport. The victim has a large physique, moving the body here would’ve been difficult even for a muscular man,” Rossi hummed. 

“About that, Prentiss and I found tyre marks over there.” The muscular agent pointed over the crime scene. 

The detective went to the forensic scientist and told about the tyre mark and the scientist lazily walked to the scene to take several photos. 

                                                        ---BAU---

“Hey, can we enter now?” Lee yelled impatiently, checking an hour has passed. He shouldn’t urge his friend, but the scientist looked finished from his view, if not he’d just apologise to his friend and will be gladly yelled by the scientist for urging the work. But, without a word, the scientist only gestured to okay to come. 

“Not many insects and the body didn’t even reach bloating stage yet. So, you can say it’s rather fresh. But, you never know in this bitchy winter. I’ll send the traces and the animals to the lab as soon as I arrive.” 

“You finished real quick today, not much?” 

“I’m wondering this guy maybe learned from Dexter or something and thinks himself Dante or what.” L/N rolled eyes, shivering from the cold winter. “I hate winter,” the scientist muttered, “I’ll be in the lab if you need me.” 

“That’s it,” Reid exclaimed as he stared at the scientist’s back. “It’s Dante’s Inferno. In Inferno, after the first circle of Limbo, Dante visits the second circle where Lust is punished by devils. Then, Gluttony, Greed, Wrath, Heresy, Violence, Fraud, Treachery. It’s rather fitting because this victim’s name is Benedict and in Inferno, Pope Boniface VIII is punished due to gluttony and his name was Benedetto which is equivalent to the English name, Benedict.” The young doctor talked fast which the detective watched the agent with his mouth ajar. 

“If the UnSub is killing according to Inferno, then it’s not about the seven sins?” Lee asked with a confused frown, he heard about the classic but never read. “I, I’m not sure about that.” Reid stuttered. “The Seven Deadly Sins are consisting of Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, Pride. So we can’t be sure what the UnSub is imitating until the killings reach to either Wrath or Sloth.”

“Let’s hope we catch the UnSub before that stage,” Hotch mused rubbing his chin. “Rossi and Morgan, could you go and check Lewis’ home?”

“You drive,” Rossi threw the car key to the muscular man who caught it easily.

“I’m going to read Dante again,” Reid shrugged. “There might be hints.”

“I’ll be visiting the M.E., JJ and Prentiss are you going to the station?” Hotch asked.

“I thought about calling the victims’ family and friends,” JJ informed the unit chief. “Emily and I can split the job if that’s okay?” Prentiss nodded next to the blond agent.

“Alright, let’s get going.” Hotch nodded towards his team and everyone was ready for another long day.

                                                        ---BAU---

“Our victim knew how to clean,” Rossi looked around the small apartment. Lewis’ apartment was very clean, everything in order. 

“Hey, Rossi, look at this,” Morgan called the older man from the bedroom. Rossi saw the expensive watches in the drawer. “I wonder where he’d got money.” 

“They’re authentic,” Rossi examined one of the watches. “With salary of reporter or food writer he could’ve afford one or two, but not all of these.” 

“Maybe he was part of something?” 

“It’s possibility. We need to know if the first victims had anything like this, maybe that might be a connection between the victims.” 

“That might be, but the first two earned more than Lewis,” Morgan reminded the veteran agent. “They could’ve afforded as much as this if they wanted to.” 

“Perhaps that’s why they could get clients who’d pay them handsomely. If Lewis was payed for being a part of organisation, Smith and Olson may have introduced to their clients.”

“Urg, if that’s right, maybe that’s why both of them didn’t have any information on their clients.” Morgan huffed, thinking there was no information to gather the first two victims’ clients at all. No memo, no digital logs, none.

“But, let’s focus on Lewis’ life style shall we?” Rossi clasped his hands.

                                                       ---BAU---

Hotch saw the forensic scientist talking with Doctor Bear when he entered the pathologist lab. Surprisingly, the scientist was sitting on the metal table for corpses, and the M.E. was leaning back to another table where a white sheet covered a body on it. The place seemed to be grotesquely peaceful. 

“Agent Hotchner,” the doctor greeted the stoic agent. The forensic scientist just nodded to Hotch, but said nothing. “I sent the toxicology and autopsy report to Detective Lee.” The doctor shrugged before Hotch could reply, “but, I’m sure you’re here to see the body for yourself.” 

“Yes, I wanted examine the body before reading the report.” The doctor hummed. 

“Where’s that young man? He was rather interesting to talk to,” the doctor good-heartedly laughed uncovering the white sheet from the body. 

“I’m going, have fun,” the scientist said sarcastically before exiting the lab. 

“Ah well, F/N is still angry.” Bear said like he was talking to himself. 

Hotch stopped observing the Lewis’ body, and asked why the scientist was angry. 

“We still didn’t catch Nick’s shooter.” Bear frowned deeply. “Nick’s F/N’s husband, and he was a good man and friend.” 

Hotch nodded, but he took a mental note of that. He didn’t know why, but it felt important to know both Hotch and L/N lost their spouse to criminals. But for now, it was time to focus on the doctor’s explanation. 

                                                       ---BAU---

JJ was staring at the board with crossed arms over her chest and Reid was reading Dante’s Inferno with his usual reading pace. Prentiss was pressing her chin on the brown desk, wrapping her head with her arms as she stared at a black phone blankly. It’s only been second day, and everyone could feel this case will take a long time to solve. The BAU knew they will catch the UnSub eventually as they usually did, but nonetheless it was a hard process to find any lead on this UnSub. 

“The family couldn’t find anything strange, or found anything from their homes,” the brunette groaned as she muttered about the first victims’ possessions. 

‘Expensive possession’ was circled and a red question mark was drawn next to it where the white board was filled with words and photos by the agents. 

“Only connection we currently have is, MO.” JJ tilted her head as if she was about to burn the word ‘torture’ on the board with her eyes. “So much anger, but on what?” 

“Smith and Olson’s families say they didn’t have any enemies, and Lewis was a loner, no family, no close friends.” Prentiss tapped her finger on her the desk. The young man closed his book and looked up. “Finished?” 

“Yes,” the genius replied dully. “I don’t think there’s any hint in the literature yet.” 

“We need a break, coffee?” JJ whirled around and asked. 

                                                       ---BAU---

Detective Lee sighed as he threw his jacket off. The BAU was here, but the case wasn’t really cracking as he thought. But it’s only been second day no need to rush. The killer left literally nothing other than the body. Whoever it was, the guy knew how to hide evidence. But still, not even one single hair or fibre? It was so frustrating, killer among people, looking for next victim. It made his skin crawl and wanted to catch this bastard as soon as possible. 

“Tired day?” Morgan asked from behind where he and Rossi returned from Lewis’ place. 

Rossi entered the BAU room, throwing his empty coffee cup into the bin where the younger three agents whined about not having coffee yet to the older man. Morgan quickly smirked at the scene but turned his attention to the detective. 

“Yeah,” the detective replied casually. “I still have other cases to solve. You guys are just like rain during drought for me to help catch this guy.” 

“Hey, we’ll catch this guy,” Morgan encouraged the younger man. “That’s why we’re here, to help you catch this guy.” 

“Thanks, pal.” Lee quickly grabbed several files from this desk and handed to the FBI agent. “Here’s the copies of reports for the autopsy and toxicology of Lewis.” 

“Thanks.” Morgan thanked. “By the way,” he then stopped and asked, “Any recommendation for coffees?” 

“Two blocks right when you exit the station, you see one small café.” Lee used his thumb to point the direction. “If you need a hand, I’ll probably be here till late.” 

Morgan thanked the polite detective and joined his team. “Hey, Lee told me there’s a good café here. Let’s grab some coffee.” 

“I’m in,” Prentiss replied quickly as she grabbed her coat. “You two wanna stay here?” She asked JJ and Reid. 

“I need some air,” JJ followed the brunette and turned to Reid expectantly. 

“Could you grab me a coffee, I still want to see if there’s anything I missed.” Reid asked. 

“If Hotch comes, tell him we’ll get his coffee too,” JJ told Rossi and Reid who nodded. 

                                                       ---BAU---

The BAU unit chief’s eyes swiftly turned to the captain’s office where Detective Lee was having a conversation with the Captain. His eyes met with the Captain’s eyes, the Captain stiffly nodded towards Hotch, but soon he blinded his office. It was none of his business whether the boss and his subordinate to have a talk, but Hotch felt the talk was about this case. This case was something big. He didn’t know why but he was having this strange feeling about this case. It was as if in deep down, he knew why the UnSub was killing these people. But he didn’t know. It was irking him, frustrating him to no end. His sense was telling him most of important pieces of the puzzle were already gathered. 

The team greeted him as he entered the room, Prentiss handed his coffee that was still warm enough to drink. 

“Have you found something?” Reid asked the leader. 

“No,” Hotch leaned back on the wall. “But, Lewis was less tortured than Smith and Olson. Unlike the other two, Lewis’ death was due to blunt force trauma on the back of his head.” 

“Maybe the UnSub is looking for information about potential victims. Torture is the method the UnSub is using to extract information, and Lewis maybe gave the UnSub that information easily without retaliating further.” JJ suggested, thinking back when she was deployed in a secret mission in Afghanistan. 

“That’d be plausible after Rossi and Morgan found expensive watches Lewis couldn’t afford,” Reid nodded. 

“So the UnSub may be annihilating members of this secret group.” Prentiss quickly scribbled ‘group’ on the white board, arrows pointing from the victims’ photos. 

“For now that’s the best theory,” Rossi leaned front, “but we have to be careful not to focus on this theory. We have to be flexible.” Rossi reminded the team. 

Hotch checked his watch that was already pointing 6pm. 

“Let’s grab dinner, and you can work or rest at your room for today.”