#but unfortunately his tag must have broken off

[beansnpeets]

Dude picked up his dog this morning. He was visibly pissed at me lmao

[drabblesandimagines]

Hi there, I would like to request Cloud, if thats okay. A sparring session that leads into an unexpected kiss?

Just read you are feeling under the weather, hope you feel better soon!

Sweet anon, I'm sorry this took me literally months! Please lemme know what you think x

It’s late as you leave your room at Stargazer Heights, pulling the door closed behind you with a gentle click. The weight of your new sword still feels unnervingly foreign on your back as you head down the stairs carefully, not wanting to disturb any of your neighbours’ sleep with your heavy footfalls.

Just because you couldn’t sleep didn’t mean theirs should suffer in return.

Your beloved, trusty sword, after many years of faithful service in the Watch, had snapped clean in two after a particularly good thwack against a hard-shelled creature whilst on a job in the scrapyard earlier that day. If that wasn’t enough, it just had to happen in front of Cloud Strife, the blonde ex-Soldier who had joined the Avalanche ranks - temporarily, at least – and who you were somewhat hoping to impress with your mastery of the blade as common ground over the past few weeks.

“You’d be good for him, you know?” Tifa had teased over the bar one night, catching you staring a little too long as he sat down the opposite end, nursing a drink. You’d have told her to hush if Barret’s voice wasn’t booming around the establishment, meaning you were lucky to have even heard her comment in the first place.

Instead, you answer flustered. “What? I… He’s your… No!”

“I don’t like him like that, sweetie.” She’d reassured, patting your hand with a smile. “Plus, I’m pretty sure he likes you.”

“Me?” You scoff, shaking your head. “I don’t think he’s aware I exist, not with how Jessie has been all over him.”

“Mm.” Tifa purses her lips in thought before they pulled back into a knowing smile – she’d caught the merc’s gaze flickering in your direction before it settled back on the drink before him. “No, I think Cloud’s warming up to you. Let me see what I can do.”

“Tifa-“

Biggs’ warm hand wrapped around your arm and tugged you up from the bar and away from your protest in an instant. “Come on, you owe me a rematch and I’ve finally convinced Wedge to let us have a round.”

You concede, destroying Biggs at darts once again would be a good distraction from the blonde at the bar. Besides, what could Tifa do anyway?

--

What Tifa could do, apparently, was make it so whenever Cloud took on a job, Biggs or Wedge would insist you tag along to help him navigate the area – sometimes with Tifa, sometimes without – and that’s what had led you to today, stuck deep within the scrapyard with a broken blade.

You’d never been any good with your fists, nor could aim a gun straight – despite tips from Tifa and Biggs over the years – so, reluctantly, you’d been relegated to the back line for the rest of the outing. At the most, you could fling a spell or two from the materia still equipped in the broken hilt when you could.

Unfortunately, it meant you didn’t have anything really to defend yourself with whilst the materia recharged. A nasty hit from a retreating drake had sent you tumbling backwards, head literally over heels. It dived back down at you, realizing you were now easy prey, ready to go for a nasty bite when a certain blonde merc’s sword dug into its side, sending it flying over in Tifa’s direction who finished it off with a perfectly executed roundhouse kick – all before your life could flash before your eyes.

“Are you okay?” Cloud crouches in front of you, his sword already sheathed, and places a hand on your arm as he awaits your answer. His expression, usually stoic and unreadable, is marred by a slight furrow in his brow as he looks you over with concerned Mako-blue eyes.

He must find you at least tolerable, you’d decided, as he didn’t seem to protest as much when you joined them on jobs like this around the slums.

Though maybe not ever again after today’s pathetic display.

“Yeah,” you nod, feeling foolish. “Still in one piece. Thanks for that.”

“Don’t mention it.” He shrugs and gets to his feet, offering you his hand in assistance.

You take it, relishing the feeling as his gloved fingers wrap around your palm. He pulls you up with a little too much gusto – or maybe underestimates his own strength - sending you stumbling forward. You try and catch your balance, only to find your hand placed firmly against his chest, his other hand now on the small of your back in alarm.

“Uh…”

“S-sorry,” you stutter out and retreat back, bowing your head as your face feels horrendously warm. Somewhere behind you, Tifa poorly attempts to hide a giggle.

“It’s fine.” His tone is back to his usual curt manner. “Come on - we should head back.” And without another word, Cloud spins on his heels and storms off ahead.

“Cloud, wait up!” Tifa calls, threading her arm through yours to pull you along with her. “He’ll get there – don’t worry.”

--

You’d taken the blade in to the weapons store below the Watch’s HQ after reporting in, Cloud and Tifa following behind. The proprietor dutifully inspected it for a few moments before deeming it beyond reasonable repair - said he could re-forge it, but it would only last a hit or two before it snapped in two again and he didn’t want the bad advertisement. He’d offered some gil for the scrap metal value and waved to the selection of his ready-made wares. Even with the gil he’d proposed and from your own pocket, the prices made your eyes water.

“Can I pay in instalments?”

He scoffs.

“You know I’m good for it.”

“This ain’t a charity, kid.”

“Here.” Cloud had stepped forward then, placing a pouch of gil on the counter. “That should cover it.”

“What?” Your eyes widened in disbelief. Cloud had been hounding Tifa and Barret for his pay for days and you knew he still hadn’t received all of it yet. “No, I couldn’t – that’s yours.”

“You need a weapon.” He shrugs, Tifa bouncing on her heels behind him at his act of generosity, a told you so smile plastered across her face. “Pay me back in instalments, if you want. I don’t care.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods, crossing his arms. “You’re good with a blade, it would be a waste for you not to have one.”

Your scalp tingles at the compliment.

The blades all felt lighter - maybe you’d grown stronger over time? - though they were thinner in width in comparison to your old blade. You’d performed a cautionary test swing of each towards the back of the shop but they all felt off, unbalanced. Begrudgingly, one felt a little less odd to wield so you’d settled with that, thankful it was a mid-range price of the selection so you hadn’t needed the entirety of Cloud’s gil pouch.

“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can – I promise.”

Cloud shrugs, as usual.

--

You swing at the tower of boxes you’d assembled in the middle of the wasteland, trying to be precise and knock out the one in the middle, but as soon as you release the momentum you nearly lose your balance, missing entirely. If you were in combat, it would’ve been a pathetic sight to behold. Thankfully, you were the only one to wit-

“Hi.”

You jump, spinning on your heels to face the blonde mercenary, holding your blade aloft in a defensive stance to an unimpressed face.

“Cloud! Hi.” Your heart is pounding at his sudden arrival – how could you not have heard him approaching? You lower your blade to rest on the floor. “Sorry, did I wake you when I left?”

“No, I couldn’t sleep so I heard you leave.” He folds his arms, looking a little displeased. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own, you know? It’s not safe.”

“I wanted to get some practice in, that’s all.” You look down at the sword in your hand in demonstration. “There’s been no more wererats here since you cleaned out the nest either, so it’s safe enough.”

“It’s not just fiends I’m talking about.”

That’s true – unfortunately, you weren’t a complete stranger to the troopers that often patrolled the slums. All it took was one to recognize your face and you’d be dragged to Shinra HQ faster than you could blink.

“I really need to get used to the weight, though. Barret wants to strike any day and-“

“Fine. I’ll spar with you.”

You weren’t expecting that. “Really?”

“Why not?” He reaches back for his sword, before swinging it out in front of him playfully. “Unless you’re scared.”

You bite your lip in a smile. “Bring it on, Strife.”

Cloud holds back at first, acting more as a training dummy for you to swing at. He doesn’t even need to deflect any of your blows at the beginning, but as you become familiar with the weight and how the new blade swings, finally he starts to raise his sword in return, the sound of metal clashing echoing through the air before one firm blow sends you toppling back, the Buster Sword now inches above your neck.

“Better.” He pulls back his sword and offers you his hand, which you gratefully accept, bracing yourself for his strength this time to avoid what had happened that afternoon. “Try again.”

You’re not sure how much time passes like that, but steadily your confidence in your weapon grows and it turns into a proper sparring bout, both giving it your absolute all. As your blades clash, crossed in front of each other’s faces, you risk a smile at the blonde merc. Suddenly, Cloud’s forearms lose their tension, meaning you get an upperhand you were not expecting. You swing your sword out to the right and fall forward, Cloud toppling backwards, his sword to his right, and his head smacking into the ground as you fall on top of him.

“Oh… Shiva,” you gasp, heart pounding, your thighs somehow straddling around his. “Are you hurt?”

Cloud doesn’t reply, staring up at you in bemusement as he tries to catch his breath.

“Cloud?” You lean down, planting your hands either side of his head for balance.

He lifts his head, suddenly, and presses a kiss to your lips.

Your arms go limp and you drop into his embrace, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close as you return the kiss, lifting a hand to cup his cheek, fingers curling into his blonde hair, blissfully lost in the moment until there is an odd, inhuman sound from behind you.

Cloud sits bolt upright, twisting you as he does so you’re sat in his lap, one arm still wrapped tightly around your waist and, somehow, the Buster Sword back in his other hand as he holds it out in defense.

A cat sits a few meters in front of the two of you, flicking its tail back and forth curiously. You feel his muscles relax beneath your touch at the realization. You get to your feet then, grabbing your blade as you do so and securing it against your back. Though you feel flustered, you can’t turn down the opportunity to offer Cloud an assisting hand this time.

To your delight, he accepts, somehow twisting it as he stands in order to intertwine your fingers within his.

“We… We, er, should get back.” He mumbles.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

He leads you back through the tunnel, silently, fingers still laced, and back towards Stargazer Heights. You climb the stairs together before he brings you to a stop outside your door, hesitating. Your stomach twists – does he regret what happened? Are you just to wake up tomorrow morning and it will feel like nothing but a dream?

A firm squeeze of your hand brings you back to the present, as if he could read your thoughts. “I’ve been thinking about that for a while.” Cloud whispers, cautious of his voice carrying through the neighbours’ door. “It’s… unfortunate that we were interrupted.”

You place a hand on your door handle and smile, coyly. “Would you like to come in?”

Cloud smirks. “Do you have any pets?”

--

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

Comments, follows, likes and reblogs make my day!

[flightfoot]

Hi, since you're the ML fanfic authority around these parts, can you rec any fics based on the paris special? Even if its not finished or is abandoned it doesn't matter, i'm in desperate need of more paris special content. thank you!

Oooh, yes I can! Of course there aren't a ton of them as of yet, but there's still enough to scratch your itch, I hope! Luckily most of these I already have recs written out for, for the large rec lists I'm gonna publish at the end of the year (or well, the beginning of next year, actually). I'll tag everyone whose tumblr handles I know, but feel free to tag anyone I didn't get!

First, I'll start off with the complete fics.

If We Run, We Run Together by @heartfulselkie

The mockery of his laugh had always made her want to punch Griffe in the face, but now the thought wasn't even crossing her mind. The teasing tone in his voice and smugness of his grin had faded, his cocky attitude dissolving into something more genuine. Was that what his real laugh sounded like? Was that what his real smile looked like?

I loved seeing Toxinelle and Griffe Noir awkwardly start relearning how to be around each other, without hiding behind uncaring facades. They've got a long way to go, but they're getting there!

---

Back to Life (Back to Reality) by @2manyfandoms2count

Toxinelle and Griffe Noire return to their world after their night in the canon timeline.

I loved seeing these two talking a bit more amiably, especially with Toxinelle commenting on how silent Adrien is as a civilian. That doesn’t appear to be something he really wants to dwell on.

---

Here’s Hopes For Moving Forward... by allthingsasian

Gabriel finds out his son is Claw Noir.

Set just after the Paris Special...

I loved seeing Gabriel’s perspective here, finding Claw Noir broken down, crying on his son’s bedroom floor, and realizing what that means. How badly Adrien must have been hurting, how he’d been lashing out and hurting everyone he could reach, including himself, with the self-cataclysm. 

But now, Adrien and Gabriel are ready to talk, with Adrien getting the hug he’s sorely needed for a long time.

---

The Supreme Movers by PearlO_O

Continuation of Tales of Shadybug and Claw Noir.

Adrien and Marinette battle with the emotional aftermath of meeting their alternate selves.

This was an excellent follow-up to the Paris Special! To be clear, the Adrien and Marinette here are Claw Noir and Shady Bug, not the ones from the show we’ve been following all this time. I really liked Adrien and Marinette reflecting and recontextualizing how their parents have been acting in more positive ways, and getting more positive responses in turn, along with them reassessing how they’ve been acting and reaching out to Alya and Nino. There’s this theme of “it doesn’t matter who we were or what mistakes we made, but who we want to be and that we keep moving forward”.

---

Keep Me Safe Inside by RoFair

Adrien Agreste, formally known as Claw Noir attempts to get to know the girl he admires behind the mask of the reformed Shadybug. He has a plan, but it is derailed by a blonde bully.

I love how smitten Adrien is with Marinette! He might have a lot of bravado as Claw Noir, but he’s kinda shy as a civilian. Of course, that all goes out the window when Marinette needs help - like when she’s being bullied and is nearing a breakdown.

---

Eat, Pray, Duck by @trishacollins

Gabriel Agreste split his twin sons apart when his wife died, keeping one with him and sending one to London with his sister. Unfortunately, the Supreme was not willing to let this be.

He wanted a matched set.

Felix is a weapon, a servant of the Supreme. On a mission to retrieve the stolen Miraculous.

In a world that has outlawed kindness, sometimes the most dangerous person is the one who chooses it anyway.

I love this glimpse at what might have been going on with Felix back in Shadybug and Claw Noir’s world, I did wonder what might have been going on with him. Poor kid, he managed to have it even worse than he did in canon. I really loved seeing his interactions with Luka, the Couffaines rebel through kindness it seems!

---

Friends who kiss by @kuromori4

It’s been about a week since Shadybug and Claw Noir’s goody-two shoes alternate universe counterparts convinced them to betray the Supreme and join the Resistance. And while they are determined to be better… It hasn’t been easy. While both Shadybug and Claw Noir have a lifetime of problems to untangle if they want to be good people, they realize a new look doesn’t magically make you a nice person. As if that weren’t hard enough to deal with, the two ex-Villains struggle with defining what their new relationship might be.

I love the two of them talking things out, and struggling. Shadybug in particular is still very prickly and prone to making snide comments about Adrien, even though she doesn’t really know him, and she still hasn’t totally come to terms with her own true feelings about Claw Noir. Though by the end they um. Figure that out, I guess you could say XD.

---

These next two are WIPS, I've really been enjoying them so far!

Cracked White Porcelain by between

The basement is a wreck by the time they return and it takes her a moment to remember where their last fight in their world had really led them. "Remind me, please," Noir says, voice still but a fragile tingle against her ear. "To think about it, later." "You'll have to," she agrees with a nod. His hand is shaking in hers. "I know." They both pretend they aren't holding onto each other as they blindly, foolishly, follow their enemy, their ally, through the shadows of their city. (An act of treason against the Supreme doesn't leave you with a lot of places to go. Giving up on your goals is a lot easier when the consequences of your actions haven't caught up to you yet.)

This fic mostly covers what happens immediately after they return to Hesperia's HQ, with Marinette and Adrien freeing their kwamis of their gags, for starters. Marinette and Adrien apparently figured out that Hesperia is Gabriel before the events of the Paris Special here (since well, his HQ is beneath the Agreste Mansion, so that makes it pretty obvious) while Gabriel still has no clue, which leads to an interesting dynamic, especially since Gabriel's worried about his son while having no clue that he's right in front of him.

---

One step forward, no steps back by @theerurishipper

Wanting to move on, wanting to choose to be part of the world, meant looking at it. And it also meant he had to look at all the fear, the heartache, the terror and rage and anger that he had caused. And he’s not sure how to come back from it all. It all feels so hopeless, like there’s nothing he can do anymore. But he can’t go back either. Not to that life. Not after everything, not knowing that something better is possible. For better or worse, that optimistic, hopeful part of him that he’d thought long lost has awakened once more, and holding onto it feels much better than the consuming despair that had plagued him for months. But it all feels like it could fall apart any second. And he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to bear losing himself a second time.

This fic's from Adrien's perspective, dealing with the new changes in his life. You get a good look into the mindset that led him to becoming Claw Noir to begin with, how he was breaking down and lashing out at everyone around him, and had little concern for even his own survival.

Things are getting better though, slowly. Nino's willing to hear him out, and he and Marinette are really talking, in ways they didn't before, when they were villains. Even his relationship with Plagg's on the mend, and Hesperia's acting like a father to him (which well, considering what we readers know of their relationship... XD).

But the Supreme isn't willing to just let Adrien skip off to a happier future...

[archie-sunshine]

Survey Says-! (18+ Rodimus/EVERYONE)

Chapter 5: Software Update (Rodimus/Brainstorm/Perceptor)

Rodimus is NOT bitter about the results of the crew satisfaction survey, in fact, he’s fully prepared to change! He’s determined to change his crew’s minds, and what better way to do so than to get to know them- in the carnal sense that is. 

There are no problems with this plan in Rodimus’s mind. There are many in Ultra Magnus’s. Magnus engages in some unfortunate(for Rodimus) damage control as head of Cybertronian Resources. Rodimus is not easily deterred. 

Other Chapters Here! Read On AO3 Here!

____________________________

FIC TAGS: Rodimus/Everyone(But y’know, not like. EVERYONE. Just a lot of various background characters and also more specifically with some others), Takes place post dark cybertron, but pre the whole ship disappearing thing and the mutiny, smut, Chastity, denial, Rodimus is a slut, Ongoing humiliation, HR Violations as comedy, Ultra Magnus is clueless, sticky sexual interfacing, comedy, sexual comedy, dubious consent (if you squint and tilt your head), contains illustrations

____________________________

Authors notes: Okay you guys simply MUST hear me out on this one okay? this one was the fun chapter for archie to have fun writing. okay? okay. btw this chapter is extra long bc it kinda got away from me

CHAPTER TAGS: Plug n play, brain fuckery, submission, bondage, brief loss of bodily control, threesome, throatfucking, thigh fucking, rodimus is ignored in favour of whatever the fuck percey and brainstorm have going on

The broken dataslug felt like it was a thousand tons bouncing around in Rodimus’s subspace. He could keep kicking himself about his fuck up, and probably would be for the forseeable future, but he was on the way to fix things. He could faintly hear the sounds of work down the hallway from the lab, the fizzle of sparks and the whirr of machinery. Rodimus prayed that he’d catch Perceptor alone again.

He tried not to feel too upset when he heard the sounds of conversation floating from the laboratory.

“-mit its impressive, certainly, but the scale is a bit much for our current facilities, wouldn’t you think?” Perceptor’s voice reached Rodimus first, even and calm even slightly shouted over the sound of the power tools working.

“You lack vision, dear Percey, I think we could absolutely handle it!!” Brainstorm called back. 

Rodimus paused, waiting for something from Nautica before approaching the door. He started as the door swung open on its own, the aforementioned femme jolting at the sight of him. “Oh! Hello captain.” She greeted, offering a cheery little smile. 

“Nautica.” Rodimus smiled back politely. His finials twitched a bit as he felt her field tense back against her just a bit too late to hide the knowingness in it. He attempted to retain a cool demeanor. “Where are you off to?”

“Just on my way out!” she chirped, averting optic contact. “Going to Swerve’s, maybe I’ll see you there later, bye!” The bot scooted around him, ducking under his spoiler and trotting off down the hallway.

“Rodimus?” Perceptor called from within. 

Slag. He could already hear the sound of work halting as his presence became fully known. The speedster stepped into the lab, the door closing behind him with a pneumatic hiss. “Yes, hi, sorry for dropping by unexpectedly.” 

“...Again?” Perceptor added, biting back a smirk. He was sitting at one of his work stations, in the process of putting something together that Rodimus had no hope of understanding. Brainstorm was similarly engaged, though as Rodimus had entered he’d taken the time to spin lazily around in his seat, resting his cheek knowingly in his palm with a suggestive look in his eyes. 

“... Yes. Again.” Rodimus muttered. 

“And how could us two geniuses be of help, Rodimus?” Brainstorm prompted, amusement clear in his tone. A flare of heat churned in Rodimus’ tanks, his optics flicking back and forth between the other two mech’s faceplates. “... What’s with these looks, what’s going on here?” Rodimus snapped out, crossing his arms. 

Brainstorm snorted involuntarily, quickly resetting his vocalizer. “WELL, Perceptor was just recently telling us about a very interesting project he worked on-” 

“YOU TOLD??” Rodimus blurted out incredulously, mortification washing over his frame. It wasn’t as if he was mad at Perceptor for kissing and telling, in fact he hoped most of his partners were inclined to do so. It was more… the whole vulnerability of the matter, that someone else knew he’d been desperate enough to ask for help.

Perceptor shrugged a bit. “I talk about my projects with Brainstorm most of the time we work in the lab.” Projects. Rodimus fought off a shiver. That was what he was in his eyes, then, a project… that should have been insulting, probably.

“Good for morale.” Brainstorm agreed, beaming at his lab partner. He then turned back to Rodimus, all affection in his expression melting out in favour of a mocking smile. “You’d know all about morale, wouldn’t you, captain?”

If he weren’t already in enough trouble with cybertronian resources, Rodimus might have throttled him. “Yep.” He gritted out instead. “Look- I just need a new copy of the… project you gave me.” 

Perceptor cocked his head in confusion. “A new copy? Is there something wrong with the last one I gave you, Rodimus?” 

Rodimus shriveled. It was embarrassing enough to come crawling back, it was embarrassing enough to ask for a new one, but now with someone else- someone else not sworn to secrecy(with some apparent caveats)- in the lab? This was torture. 

He sheepishly reached into his subspace, pawing around for a moment as he approached Perceptor’s desk. He daintily set the crushed dataslug on the table there, offlining his optics in preparation for the reaction. 

Rodimus was right to do so, clearly, as Brainstorm burst into laughter. Perceptor cleared his vocalizer, clearly covering up a snicker of his own as he prodded at the shattered circuitry with a stylus. “... You broke it already?”

Rodimus looked away, fidgeting uncomfortably under the two scientists' gazes. “... I actually broke it the same night you gave it to me-”

“THE SAME NIGHT??!” Brainstorm gawked, now peering over Rodimus’ shoulder. “Oh you poor thing.” He crooned mockingly, patting him on his back plating gently. 

Perceptor reached into a drawer of his desk, absently picking out a new dataslug and placing it on the table. “Alright, you have a seat Rodimus, I’ll get you a new one.” 

Rodimus blinked. “Oh- You don’t need me back on the-” He gestured at the table he’d been on during his last visit. 

Perceptor finally glanced up from his work, raising a brow ridge at him. “... No? I have all my work backed up here.” He said, wiggling a datapad in his hand. 

“Oh. Okay.” Rodimus blushed a bit, feeling stupid for assuming. It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to spend another half hour getting toyed with and experimented on like some sort of science project… He’d just come to get a new copy of his magic overload stick, that was all. 

This was a good thing. 

Rodimus wasn’t disappointed even a bit. 

Brainstorm brushed past him, now leaning over Perceptor’s shoulder to read the datapad. He mouthed the glyphs on the screen, brows knitting together as he squinted at the lines of code. 

“Feh.” Brainstorm sniffed finally, rolling his optics. 

Perceptor paused, turning to face the other with a pointed look. “What?”

“... I don’t know, I just feel like you played it a bit safe, Percey.” Brainstorm said. He had that tone to his voice that he only seemed to get when he was trying to play it cool while also silently begging you to ask him what he meant by that. 

“What do you mean by that?” Perceptor scoffed. 

“I don’t know, I just…” He leaned back, arranging his frame into a haughtier, annoyingly smug pose. He examined his digits nonchalantly. “... Expected it to be a little bit more interesting.” 

Rodimus swallowed, optics bouncing between the two of them. “Interesting…?” He mumbled out.

“Well, the client in question didn’t ASK for interesting, he asked for some help, and I gave it to him, and he was happy with it!” Perceptor huffed, spinning in his chair to further face Brainstorm. 

“And I’m sure he was! I’m only saying that there are a lot more interesting ways one could have solved the problem, and your methods of efficiency are always very admirable, Percey.” Brainstorm put his servos up placatively, his tone infuriatingly condescending. 

Perceptor scoffed again, standing up from his seat. “Well, if you’re so certain you could have done a better job, why don’t you prove it, Brainstorm?” He sneered, jabbing an accusatory digit into Brainstorm’s chest. How Perceptor managed to remain oblivious to the giddiness in Brainstorm’s field was a mystery to Rodimus, it was nearly bowling him over. 

“I’d be happy to!” Brainstorm grinned, swinging his helm around to face Rodimus. “What do you say, Captain?”

Rodimus thought for a long few klikks. Brainstorm was just as smart as Perceptor, he could likely play Rodimus’s processor like an instrument just like him too, but his disposition was generally more… unpredictable… in a way that might not have been conducive to his goals. 

“... Fine, but I don’t want to hear about anyone else hearing about this, okay?” Rodimus conceded. It was only when he saw the look in Brainstorm’s optics go from excited to elated that Rodimus considered he might have made the wrong choice.

*

Rodimus was beginning to feel like a bit of a third wheel. Which was odd, because it was him who was currently laying on an examination slab, tilted just a bit upright, while the two scientists bickered over him. He could see his own diagnostics and files brought up on a myriad of screens and datapads that Brainstorm had hooked up around him. Rodimus wriggled uncomfortably on the slab, itching a bit at Brainstorm’s plug in his diagnostic port. He felt less like a mech and more like a missile the scientist was working on. The thought made Rodimus’ plating feel hot and uncomfortable.

“Well see, there’s the problem-” Brainstorm tsked, snapping Rodimus from his thoughts as his servo came down to grip the crest of his helm and tip it to show Perceptor the interfacing port on it’s back. “Who puts an interfacing port at the back of someone’s head?” 

“H-hey!” Rodimus started, giving Brainstorm a pointed glare. 

“Ahh… I see, that definitely could pose an issue then.” Perceptor nodded a bit. 

“Not if you use a topical patch instead of a plug.” Brainstorm waved his servo dismissively, releasing Rodimus’s helm to return to his work. 

“But then that makes it harder to take off if you want to stop.” Perceptor said, as if it were an obvious problem. 

Brainstorm just laughed, “I have many doubts that Rodimus would worry about stopping.” 

“I can- I’m still here you know!” Rodimus snapped. 

“Well then you can answer our query then, would you feel more comfortable with a datastick or a topical patch?” Perceptor asked, holding up either one in his servos. Rodimus turned his helm to consider them. 

“Uhh-” He began, cut off quickly when he felt the shiver of a command being typed into his processor. 

[Action input- Test- Tactile sensors]

Rodimus felt a shudder ripple over his body, each of his sensory inputs warming up briefly before turning off, showing each one was in proper working order. The mech rolled his digits into fists, letting out a shaky vent. “E-either one is fine- I don’t- I don’t care.” He offered helpfully. 

Perceptor frowned and sighed. “Fine then.” He broke his attention off from Rodimus when he heard another chuckle from Brainstorm, his frown sharpening. 

“Ahh, Perceptor… Really, this code is just adorable, it’s like you didn’t even think of all the ways one can manipulate a sexual code.” Brainstorm mused, mostly to himself. 

[Action input- Stimulus reaction- Anterior node- 50%]

Going from zero sensory input to fifty directly on his node was not what Rodimus would describe as ‘cool’ or ‘fun’. A sudden shout punched itself from Rodimus’ chest, his hips jumping off the table as if his valve were attempting to escape the pressure. His pedes came down with a clang, his body arched up in a quivering bridge. “A-AH- FRAG- Brainstorm-!” Rodimus gritted out, waiting for the stimulation to go as he squirmed. 

“See, you probably noticed a big amount of his pleasure based coding centers around his valve, right, but-” Brainstorm started to explain, gesturing with his stylus at one of the screens for Perceptor’s benefit. Rodimus blearily noted the diagram was some quick three dimensional mockup of his array. “You know even if a majority of the frame’s favoured stimulant nodes are in one place, it doesn’t mean you-”

“BRAINSTORM!!” Rodimus wailed out, still writhing. The pleasure was burning, his body alight with charge demanding a place to go. 

[Cease action input]

Brainstorm sighed and rolled his optics as Rodimus went limp on the table. The whole situation would be sexy if Rodimus were more into the blatant negligence the two of them were clearly treating him to. He tried to focus on steadying his fans as they kicked on. 

“As I was saying, I think there are more interesting nodes you could stimulate, in addition to those in the array, to give a more interesting experience.” Brainstorm finished. “At least for a project as boring as ‘data stick that makes you overload’ anyway.” 

“B-boring? Primus, Brainstorm, I should’ve considered how scientifically stimulating my own problems were for you before coming here, that’s on me.” Rodimus huffed out indignantly, pinning the jet with a glare. 

“Oh, your problems are incredibly scientifically stimulating Rodimus, I can think of a dozen ways to solve your whole panels plight off the top of my head, but Perceptor chose the most boring solution-” Brainstorm rambled exasperatedly, going through a few more codes before hitting the enter button on his datapad. 

[Action input- test- oral tactile sensitivity]

[Action input- test- audial sensitivity]

[Action input- test- tactile sensitivity- thigh and hip plating]

Rodimus squirmed. His optics flickered a bit as his processor fought to follow all commands at once. A fuzzy, tingly wash came over his glossa and dentas, then the same over his thigh and hip plating, as if someone were stroking over each bit of plating very lightly. Finally, his audials became suddenly more sensitive, taking in each minute whirr and buzz of the room around him. The sensations came to a slow, easing stop after only a few seconds, leaving Rodimus with an odd feeling in his tanks. 

“Boring?” Rodimus finally breathed out, glancing at Brainstorm. 

Brainstorm didn’t make optic contact with him, he was too busy inputting commands. “Yes, boring.” 

“Would you mind enlightening us then, Brainstorm, on what the dozen other ideas you had are?” Perceptor prompted, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat. 

[Action input- Sensory stimulus reaction- valve calipers(1-10) 15%]

[Action input- Sensory stimulus reaction- valve nodes(1-6, 10-18) 10%]

Rodimus moaned lowly, offlining his optics and gritting his dentas. That felt more familiar, his valve squeezing around a phantom sensation, more akin to digits than a full sized spike. 

“Well if we wanted to go closer to brute force, there’s technically nothing in the statement ‘crew members are not allowed to remove the magnetizer until the period of punishment is over’ doesn’t extend to one… applying a local anesthetic and removing the lower modesty panels entirely.” Brainstorm started. 

“N-no- thats- I don’t want that thanks-” Rodimus’s tanks squeezed uncomfortably. His legs instinctively came together around his panels, earning him a tap from Brainstorm’s stylus.

“Keep those open please, I need to keep an eye on your panels. In fact you could do with squirming a lot less- Ah, don’t worry.” Brainstorm was speaking a thousand miles a minute, leaving Rodimus’s already foggy head spinning. 

[Action input- disengage automotive directives from user: Rodimus- neck down]

Rodimus’s entire body went slack with a thud as his legs hit the slab. He let out a choked off cry, willing his frame to move and finding himself limp as a ragdoll.

“W-wait!” Rodimus squeaked out. 

“Don’t panic, your body is in good servos, Roddy.” Brainstorm cooed, patting his leg briefly before going back to his work. “Now, I know you’re still keeping up those one on ones, right, Captain?” 

“Y-yeah- Hey, listen, I know I move a lot but this is-” Rodimus began to protest, trying his hardest to ignore the ongoing sensation in his valve. 

“Relax. I’ve got a way to make those more fun for you if you’re going to be using your intake…~” Brainstorm sing songed, his optics scrunching in an impish little smile. “Here, hold on, I’ll give you your body back in a second, just-” He began, rolling his seat away out of Rodimus’s view and returning with a few yellow painted metal loops. He handed two of them to Perceptor, who seemed to understand the idea just fine as the two of them arranged Rodimus’s limp form into a wide, spread out X shape. 

Rodimus dimly felt the familiar sensation of four magnetizer cuffs activating and latching to the metal of the table. “W-why the frag do you even have those in your lab-?” Rodimus asked. 

“Don’t ask.” Brainstorm answered, “They’ll just keep you in place for me while I work alright? Do I have your consent to mess with your mouth?” He made a show of asking, clearly more for Perceptor’s benefit than Rodimus’

[Action input- previous input disengaged]

Rodimus was quiet for a moment, the ongoing feelings in his array making him feel like he was about to start leaking. He gave his restraints a testing wiggle, finding himself stuck, but still able to squirm, to a more controlled degree. He cleared his vocalizer, his intake feeling dry as he spoke. “... Yeah okay.” 

Brainstorm’s optics flashed just long enough for Rodimus to feel regret before the data inputs came through.

[Action input- cease all inputs- area:Valve]

[Action input- reduce gag reflex- 100%]

[Action input- increase tactile sensitivity- Glossa-60%]

[Action input- increase tactile sensitivity- Dermas-60%]

[Action input- increase tactile sensitivity- Intake- 40%]

[Action input- increase oral lubricant production- 50%]

[Action input- sensory link- tactile oral sensation = pleasure center activation]

Rodimus was overwhelmed for a moment, letting out a glitchy, confused grunt as his intake tingled with sudden sensation. He ran his glossa over his dentas experimentally, turning more pink at the shudder of pleasure that ran down his spinal strut at the feeling. “Oh- Brainst- ah-” Rodimus wheezed. Even just moving his mouth to speak felt oddly good, every brush of his tongue over the expanse of his palate suddenly feeling charged with arousal. 

“A brief look at your more recent updated data in your pleasure centers shows general intake sensitivity has already had some spikes on its own, I’ve just..” Brainstorm trailed off, reaching out to playfully tap Rodimus’ lip with his stylus. The feeling sent tingles down Rodimus’ frame directly to his panels. “Heightened the effect. You can call me a genius now.” 

Rodimus groaned weakly, too busy squirming in his bindings to pay the scientist much mind. The feeling was weird, good, but weird. He appreciated the thought but it wasn’t like he wanted to go around getting a reputation for finishing just from oral. He had some semblance of dignity to uphold.

A semblance of dignity he was apparently giving up for the time being as he greedily ran his glossa against the roof of his intake, sending sparks skittering across his plating. Rodimus keened, optics flickering and going dim with want. 

“Really, this is just gratuitous.” Perceptor scoffed, his faceplate bright pink from Rodimus’ lascivious display. He turned his vision away from him to Brainstorm. “When do you have the time to think of this kind of… thing?” 

“Unimportant,” Brainstorm dismissed, standing up and setting his datapad aside. “I have more tests I’d like to run! Rodimus, be a dear and open wide for me?” The scientist patted Rodimus’ cheek, holding his stylus up and wiggling it between two fingers. 

The captain complied, letting his jaw drop open and his tongue hang out. 

“Very good, Rodimus.” Brainstorm cooed, running the edge of his stylus slowly down the flat of the other mech’s glossa. Rodimus’s valve cycled and squeezed around nothing, his spike twitching and stirring in its housing. 

“Nnghhuhuuuhh…” Rodimus answered intelligently. He dimly heard Perceptor clear his vocalizer, but chose not to care, instead opting to curl his glossa around the edge of the stylus and stroke against it. 

Brainstorm chuckled, freeing his stylus and running it along Rodimus’s top derma. “It’s very easy to remap pleasure centers to elsewhere in someone’s frame, I could do this to anywhere you liked, but I figured this would be the most advantageous, yes?” 

“Y-yeahh…” Rodimus mumbled breathlessly, trying to keep himself as under control as possible. He shook his helm to try and clear the fogginess in it, only to let out a wanton moan when Brainstorm’s free servo came down on his helm crest to hold him still. 

“Try not to thrash so much, or I’ll have to take your bodily control away again, and we don’t want that, do we?” Brainstorm hissed, before letting go of his stylus in favour of gripping Rodimus’ tongue between his middle and index digit. Rodimus’ squirmed, trying to hold his helm still as his back arched up off the table. He felt like his whole frame was on fire in the strangest way. He fought to keep from making a further fool of himself, but it was a losing battle. Brainstorm released his glossa, instead shifting his servo to pet his digits over the surface of it. 

Rodimus moaned dumbly and began to suck at them on reflex, letting his optics fully go offline as Brainstorm worked his digits gently in his mouth. 

Brainstorm leaned down, chuckling as he murmured hotly in Rodimus’ audial. “And  I could go further than this, too, I could increase some more of your priorities, make every bit of these  ‘apologies’ make you-” 

“Alright, I think that’s- that’s quite enough, Brainstorm.” Perceptor interjected. Brainstorm drew his digits from the captain’s mouth with a wet pop, standing back up straight. Rodimus definitely didn’t crane his neck after his servo, and absolutely did not let out an embarrassing noise at having his mouth empty.

“Oh not at all!! We haven’t even tested his throat’s responses!” Brainstorm feigned ignorance at the lewdness of it all, putting his still wet servo on his hip as he gestured across Rodimus’ coolant slick frame. “I’m going to put my spike in his mouth and see-”

Perceptor sputtered for a moment. “This is hardly scientific-” 

“Well sure, but it’s more fun if you pretend it is, isn’t it?” Brainstorm chirped, stepping around the side of the table to stand by Rodimus’ head. He hit a button on a nearby console and the slab tilted back until Rodimus’ helm was level with Brainstorm’s modesty panel, at which point Brainstorm carefully rearranged the other bot so that his head was hanging languidly over the edge of the table. “How are you doing down there, Roddy?”

“F-feels weird… good…” Rodimus panted. Had he been more eloquent at the time he might have said something like ‘it feels like my panels are going to fall off’ or ‘please put something in me’, but Rodimus’ foggy mind somehow spared him that added embarrassment. He simply stared at Brainstorm’s panels hopefully, letting out a relieved whine as he saw them transform away. 

“Yeah… thats good, I’m glad. Percey, if you wouldn’t mind monitoring the datascreens while I test?” Brainstorm asked, absently petting over Rodimus’ jaw and neck as he coaxed his spike from it’s housing.

“Er- Of course, thats just fine.” Perceptor agreed, turning to watch the readouts with his faceplate almost entirely pink. 

Rodimus craned his neck out to Brainstorm’s slowly extending spike, hungry for it in a way he’d never felt before. The first brush of the tip against his dermas sent shivers down his back strut, his engines revving involuntarily as he rolled his tongue against the slit. All this teasing and excess charge couldn’t be good for him, but by this point, Rodimus hardly cared. 

He let out a grateful moan as Brainstorm slid his spike carefully into Rodimus’ intake. The captain was vaguely aware at this point that he was salivating more than usual as a ribbon of oral solvent slid headily down his cheeks. Rodimus was startled at the ease with which Brainstorm managed to press his spike into his throat, but any untoward feelings about the matter melted away, replaced with arousal and desperation as his body blazed with charge. He sucked greedily at the intrusion in his mouth, laving his tongue over the topside of Brainstorm’s spike. 

“Aaahh, that’s just wonderful-” Brainstorm sighed out, leaning over Rodimus’ body to stroke his servos over the speedster’s overcharged chassis. “I’m so good it scares me sometimes.” 

Perceptor chuckled dryly. “All vitals look to be reacting normally. Though, the lack of gag reflex could pose some worries couldn’t it?” 

“Oh, you’re too cautious.” Brainstorm dismissed him, beginning to pump his hips into Rodimus’ throat. He disregarded the muffled groans Rodimus was making in favour of teasing his digits along the sensitive edges of the other mech’s spoiler. 

“Hardly! I just think things through longer than you do.” Perceptor chuckled again, but there was a note of breathlessness to his voice. 

Again, that was probably lost on Rodimus, who was too busy straining his wrists against his restraints in an attempt to grab Brainstorm and press his spike even further into his mouth. He needed it, needed it in a way the other mech couldn’t hope to understand. He swallowed his own drool uselessly, mewling at the feeling of his throat tightening and rippling against the scientist’s spike. He thought he might die if he didn’t keep using him. Every intrusion was getting to him, the feeling of his digits groping at his prone form, the weight of the spike in his mouth, the burning connection of the plug in his diagnostic port. He was helpless. The feeling was so alien, so wrong, so frightening, and yet all Rodimus could do was moan for more. 

“Mm-muh-!” He moaned out, gurgling in mindless ecstasy as Brainstorm redoubled his efforts of pounding into his mouth. 

“You seem a little bothered, Percey~...” Brainstorm cooed to his partner mockingly. “Is something wrong?”

Perceptor reset his vocalizer with a meaningful click. “No- Nothing, its uhm… only a very… unprofessional display…” 

“Well… I’m sure he wouldn’t mind helping you out as well, if all this… unprofessionalism is making it hard for you to focus…!” Brainstorm’s words were heavy with implication and lust, each snap of his hips rocking Rodimus’ frame. The meaning behind his retort finally dawned on Rodimus’ groggy mind, and the bound mech writhed and squirmed, drool bubbling from his lips as he whimpered in need. “See?” Brainstorm chuckled darkly, thumbing lightly at the bulge his spike left in Rodimus’ throat. 

It was hard for Rodimus to focus on much other than the weight in his mouth, so he continued to worship, rolling his glossa over each node and biolight and ridge, drinking in each involuntary twitch and gasp Brainstorm let out. He hardly noticed when the magnets on his ankles came away, barely gave any mind as the table below his lower half bowed out, only really giving the movement any mind when he felt Perceptors delicate servos grasping his thighs. His digits seared against Rodimus’ leaking, overcharged panels, making the captain buck and squirm and squeal around Brainstorm’s spike. 

“R-Rodimus, is this alright with you?” Perceptor asked, voice heavy with need. Rodimus nearly cried out when Brainstorm pulled his hips back to allow him to respond.

He coughed and swallowed, his mouth drowned in oral solvent and prefluid. “G-hhahh- Go f-for it, please- f-frag- anything-” Rodimus babbled, leaning out to try and get the spike back into his mouth. He whined low in his vocalizer as Brainstorm slipped his spike back home, soothingly petting over Rodimus’ chassis and neck. Rodimus went slack under the two mechs’ ministrations, luxuriating in the rolling sensation crashing over his frame. He felt Perceptor’s spike pressurize between his slick thighs, drinking in the gasp he let out as it slid against the charged heat of his modesty panel. 

Rodimus could hardly tell the magnetizer was there anymore, the ache of his array was negligible when compared to the heat of the spikes in and against him and the servos gripping at his dewy plating. His mind went blank, arcs of charge rippling over his body with each thrust, both of the other mecha grounding their own lust through him. Rodimus was lost in it, swallowing intakefuls of solvent and fluid, face growing sticky and messy as his mouth hummed with perverse delight. 

He could feel every bit of his plating vibrating, every inch of metal and protoform alight with need. Pleasure gathered heavy in his tanks, drawing him closer and closer to the edge. He couldn’t get enough, squirming between the two scientists, puffs of hot air filling the room with steam. He swallowed around Brainstorm’s spike and felt his valve clench under his panels. Perceptor’s spike between his thighs sped up with a punched out moan from the microscope, his digits digging into Rodimus’ plating and threatening to leave scratches there. 

Rodimus felt Brainstorm’s rhythm begin to stutter, his servos coming down to grip the table as he chased after his overload desperately. “O-Oh- Perceptor-” Brainstorm huffed out, steam billowing from the slits in his mask. 

Rodimus might have been offended. He should have been offended. The blatant way with which the scientist ignored him, even as he spent his overload down Rodimus’ throat should have made the captain bitter. But instead that heat just gripped him deeper, his engines roaring with lust as Rodimus himself tumbled over into his own climax. His body was strung out taught, writhing and groaning in ecstasy. Transfluid spilled from his dermas and over his face, spurting in equal measure around the seams of his modesty panels and magnetizer. He dimly heard Perceptor gasp and moan at the display, and keened as he felt jets of fluid paint lewdly up his abdomen and across his chassis.

Rodimus laid bare, steaming, panting as Brainstorm slowly dragged his spike out of his intake. Rodimus’ head swirled. He barely recognized the feeling of Brainstorm unplugging his diagnostic cable, hardly noted the stickiness coating the better part of his faceplate and crotch. He allowed himself to bask, savouring the afterglow of his much needed overload as it hung cloyingly to his frame. 

*

Rodimus couldn’t help but feel like he was being rushed out. By the time he was being ushered to the door, he was still a bit out of sorts, a topical patch containing the affectionately named ‘intake interface initiative’ code in his servo. 

“Let me know if there are any bugs even though I know there won’t be! And happy trails, take care, buh-bye!” Brainstorm said hurriedly, offering a slightly breathless grin as he shoved Rodimus through the door of the laboratory. 

“Uh- Yeah, thanks for-” Rodimus was only able to get the sentence halfway out before the door slid closed behind him. He let out a long, tired sigh, massaging his vocalizer lightly. It was a little bit raw, for good reason. “... Cool.” He muttered, beginning his trek back to his office. 

Rodimus eyed the topical patch in its casing, flipping it between his fingers casually. He wouldn’t admit this to Brainstorm or Perceptor(or probably anyone else), but the thing kind of scared him. He was certain there had to be some other bug in there that made his processor work wrong, otherwise he wouldn’t have… well he wouldn’t have gotten so into whatever that was.  

He reminded himself frequently what these meetings were: a means to an end. He was getting to know his crew better, he was making a connection, he was showing them he was dependable and generous. What was more generous than sucking spike? Not much, from Rodimus’ point of view. 

It was weird to let himself get so lost in the whole matter, like that code had made him do. Yeah, made him. That was it. It wasn’t so bad to let himself enjoy the attention now and then, especially when he’d actually been able to use his array during, but if he got that carried away… just from sucking someone off? That was a bit embarrassing. 

Some part of him considered the situation- prone, experimented upon, disregarded but praised, teased… used. It couldn’t have been any of those feelings that had made him act that way.

It was the code! 

It must have been. 

Rodimus shook his helm, tucking the patch into his subspace delicately. Some parts of his plating still felt sticky, his jaw ached, his vocalizer was raw, there were black paint transfers around his thighs and hips from Perceptor’s groping. He looked like a cheap shareware whore. 

…

Rodimus closed out the prompt in his processor to open his panels for what felt like the thousandth time. He let the door to his office close behind him and sat uncomfortably at his desk.

He eyed the fresh stack of datapads and the order his workspace had been brought to and frowned. Ultra Magnus had been there while he was away. Again. 

Rodimus took a long, deep vent in. 

Just 5 more cycles until his midway meeting with Ultra Magnus. He’d lie his aft off about how much he’d changed, he’d get that magnetizer off, and then things would go back to normal. He’d get through the list once and for all, and everyone would finally recognize how much he did for his crew. 

Rodimus briefly considered what it would look like having to endure another 16 cycles if he was unable to convince him. 

He swallowed thickly and did the unthinkable to keep his mind off that grim idea.

Rodimus started working on his datapads.

[hwaightme]

Love was spring

(masterlist) (join taglist)

💮 pairing: seonghwa x gn!reader 💮 genre: comfort, fluff, tid-bits of angst, strangers to lovers 💮 summary: following a serendipitous meeting with you, seonghwa blooms in love after heartbreak, and learns that "if you intend to love a single flower, you must love its generation and extinction, presence and absence." - Do Jonghwan 💮 wordcount: 2.6k 💮 warnings/tags: allusion to idol!hwa, heartbreak, recovering from heartbreak, flora, cherry blossom season, implied ideation of death, time, healing, overcoming hardships, rainy days, discussion of life and its meaning, reassurance, meaning of forever 💮 a/n: the sentimental mood, bittersweet reminiscence have not left me after listening to Seonghwa's cover of Angel Baby, so I hope you enjoy my expression of this <3 Thank you so much to Sky (@/legohwas) for reading and for helping with the name, forever grateful<33 Much love and any reblogs, comments, thoughts and notes welcome!

💮 perma-taglist (open): @legohwas @acciocriativity @doom-fics @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @hoshischeekss @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @mystar1024 @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey

Love was pernicious when the soul was a snow-covered, sleeping tree - a notion that Seonghwa had been unfortunate enough to explore, and a terror to experience. In the flickering embers of what used to be a blazing passion, Seonghwa had remained intentionally oblivious to himself, and to the troubles that constructed a suffocating enclosure around him until catastrophe was imminent. When he had been at his lowest and needed precious love and unconditional support the most, he had been left to perish in the lonely silence, accompanied solely by the drumming of a biting cold winter rain. That day, his heart had joined the millions of droplets by shattering into a myriad of miniscule white flowers, only for their pure luminescence to be extinguished in the blink of an eye and blend with the wet concrete as sickly grey sludge.

As he watched the sun leave his life, the back of the one who had all his adoration and had promised him a forever turning into that of a total stranger, he ceased to believe in the feeling. If it was something so easily disposed of, equivalent to the passivity one experienced when discarding a plastic wrapper or an old, useless and broken toy, then he did not want any part in this farce. Evidently, he had been mistaken in his romanticisms, in his dreams and in his vision of soulmates, and thus, in his future.

Nights blended into days, remaining colourless as Seonghwa drifted in a melancholic somnolence. A hollow shell of a human being, he did what he had to do to be deemed functional enough, competent enough, acceptable enough for the rotating cogs of the societal machine. Seonghwa smiled, because his muscles were trained to do so. He refined his movements in a complex dance routine, because he could dissociate from his inner turbulence. But, in the darkness of his room where he had long ceased to turn on the light out of fear that he would see the ghosts of his history, he let himself collapse onto his bed and study the vapid monotony of his ceiling, so intently that he saw a reflection of his own heartache and misery in the off-white paint.

Amidst his endless search for some form of relief, the dark-haired man had taken to visiting the same bridge every rainy evening. The very bridge on which he had parted with the one who he had called the love of his life, physically metamorphosing into nothing but a black dot with every confident step away from him, but still having the ability to transform into a festering wound in his cranium. Seonghwa had nothing left to give, and yet he kept on hoping that one day everything could turn around, and the sun would shine once more. Alas, the rain had only gotten stronger, until the unforgiving element was a loyal spirit hovering above his lowered head.

Pulling the heavy weight of fate behind him, Seonghwa trudged to the bridge once more, turning in the direction of the flowing river and regarding the way in which large droplets collided with the surface, disturbing an otherwise innocent, serene mirror of the sky. Collapsing onto the stone guardrail, he peered at the waters below absent-mindedly and toyed with the idea of becoming a leaf, be it an oak or a maple; exist to gather energy, give, give and give some more only to break away from familiar territories and succumb to eternal rest on the current’s bubbling surface. A long, tranquil holiday. Away from all of this. Away from judgement, misinterpretation, anxiety that gnawed at his insides like a voracious dog. If only Seonghwa had known that it would turn out like this; then he would have never given into the silly risk that was now poisoning his thoughts, his feelings, and was rapidly approaching his actions. 

And it was at that moment, in the desperate solitude, amidst a battle with himself that he met you, and the unforgiving downpour cowered in your radiance.

“Hey, you come here often?” The cheesy phrase pulled him out of his ruminations, and he spun his head around to register the source of sound, finally stumbling upon a figure wrapped up in a raincoat, face partially hidden by an umbrella. Out of politeness, he chose to respond to the mysterious passer-by, flabbergasted when the umbrella moved to reveal a megawatt grin and an adorable face. While you looked to be about his age, you possessed a fascinating contrast of wise eyes that gave the impression of having seen many lives, wonders and displeasures of the world, and the refreshed, youthful face with the faintest natural blush coating your cheeks. In his mind, you were the promise of spring after a detestable, incorrigibly brutal winter.

Love was assuaged grief when the soul was the bare branches of a cherry blossom tree, early buds only just beginning to peek out from their bundled cots, and revealing their youthful colours against the warm grey bark that was decorated with memories of past trials and tribulations; an ode to time itself. This was a notion which you had proposed to Seonghwa amidst your improvised performances - an attempt to elicit at least the ghost of a priceless smile. After the initial meeting, you had come to cross paths more and more often, until serendipitous grew into coincidental, grew into intentional. And for the first time, Seonghwa found his footsteps and his heart getting lighter, and the rain no longer provoked despondent rumination, leaving the cyclical, habitual aches that only time could heal.

The routine was simple. Every evening when the sleepless sky caressed the earth with millions of diamonds that connected to form thousands of threads, embellishing the heavens and tying the mortal and the timeless, you would meet. Same bridge. Same time. Same umbrella, decorated with ornate flowers. You had not asked Seonghwa for much, except to show up, and to bring you a story that brought him warmth. Even if the side effect of the otherwise happy and reassuring memory was a stray tear or two. Raindrops, condensation of the soul, you called them. Trickling reminders that he was able to feel and was capable of knowing when he was on cloud nine prior to entering his period of monsoons and thunderstorms.

Each rainy night, of which there were many, come early signs of the spring season, he recounted what love had meant for him before being subdued by a ruthless frost. How he had traversed each city believing that he finally understood the meaning of utopia and paradise, only for the rose glasses that he had unknowingly been given to be shattered, leaving him experientially blind. Suspended in his retrospections, Seonghwa ambled through his mind’s labyrinth as he divulged the stories of the many shops, cafes and quiet cobbled streets he had visited, with the memories now having transformed into bitter anguish.

The more he shared, the more despicable the prior fondness became. How dare this terror haunt him so? How dare the scenes appear before him in a warm sepia tone, when Seonghwa wanted nothing more but to let them go? He wanted to shed the dead leaves. Anything to submit to an unfeeling winter for a while, for the remnants of the prologue to his solitude to be frozen solid.

“You may wish to forget and say it never happened, it is only natural. But sooner or later, the ice and snow will melt and all that you had buried will be streaming down memory lane and back into your heart.”

“I suppose, but either way I will be thinking about it. So what does it matter if I think about it now, or later?”

“Acceptance, Seonghwa. Acceptance. With steady reflection and time dedicated to yourself rather than your demons comes acceptance. As you’re healing, the sun shines brighter, the days get longer, and the world awakens. It would be a shame to miss the spring, don’t you think?”

He lowered his head in silent musing, letting your words echo in his head before turning to survey the landscape. This was his first venture in the park near the bridge, despite him passing by it countless times. It had been a setting, a backdrop for his chilling thoughts, so deeply entrenched in periphery that he had never even considered stopping and admiring it. And now, with you, he felt that it was right that he did - without you walking by his side, finally having let him take a hold of your umbrella and hold it above your heads, he doubted he would find this collection of bare trees, murky ponds and meandering cement paths as miraculous as he did now. You pointed out the buds, so young they were a pale turquoise, and the fresh grass, thin lines of green among the wilted greys and browns. 

Perhaps this was what you envisioned when you talked of love. The nightfall turning into sunset as the clocks chimed the same hour. The same tree, adorned with the promise of a stunning canopy. The same memories, but with each passing day, growing brighter and lighter, until they turned into white clouds floating across the skies of sweet daydreams, serving as nothing more than a signifier of a past that had paved the way towards a marvellous present. If this was what you envisioned, then, certainly, this was what Seonghwa wanted to learn to feel.

Love was harmonious when the soul was the flurry of cherry blossom petals dancing in the wind, enveloping the beholder in the spring embrace and decorating the world in a snowlike carpet and in baby pink. While the tree did not bloom for long, reaching its most beautiful peak and burning out at times in a matter of days, the fleeting, divine glory that it achieved was what you and Seonghwa would consider an eternity. If anything, the growth, the blossoming, the fall were reflections of every living organism in the expanse of space and time; a slow inhale, and a level, measured out exhale all in the hopes of a next cycle. 

“You know, Seonghwa, I think that every single person is like a cherry blossom tree. Grand, ever-expanding, unique… bare. However, our identity, our interests, our friends and family… fans, they are all blossoms, leaves, the curvature in the bark that decorates the magnificent branches.”

Your musings were Seonghwa’s favourite pastime and focus, the words forming philosophical symphonies as he let himself be guided from one piece to the next. He had found comfort in sharing his troubles with you, and as soon as the weather had gotten warm enough for you to be able to do so, sitting side by side under the awakening flora to ponder their meaning into a fuzzy abstraction. The conversation had stemmed from your observation of the falling flowers, appearing to be shed as soon as they blossomed. Taking note of the lack of regal white robes on some of the branches, Seonghwa had pointed out that they might have been stolen away by the heavy rain last night, thus falling into a moment of melancholy as he recollected the circumstances of your first meeting.

Gently, you placed a hand over his in an expression of reassurance and a reminder that you, indeed, were here with him, and were not striving for impermanence. Turning his own hand so the palm was facing upwards, he intertwined your fingers together, comfortable with the sweet affection, since the throngs of observers hungry for photographs of the blossoms at their most splendid had long whittled down to lazy stragglers. They still retained a sliver of a chance to capture the grandeur of the remaining veterans before they too would join the fallen white raindrop, preferred to amble past, enraptured by their own routines, their own growth, their own blossoms.

“Flora has its life cycles. The same goes for everything in life. Some things and people appear and disappear in a single season, with only pictures or a passing thought to retain them in your psyche, whilst others, either on their own accord or by joining forces with like minded souls become a continuous presence. You see, even those who you had to say goodbye to were precious. Because they are irreversibly a part of you. Anything you do, anyone you meet is an addition to that beautiful blossoming tree, just like you are to theirs.”

Seonghwa shifted his gaze towards you, taking in your serenity as you basked in the April sun. Leaving behind the flowery umbrella and with it the rainy days, he was caught in a silent bliss, eagerly waiting for each tomorrow, all while living vicariously through every today. He found himself reconnecting with passion, with art. No longer was he functioning for the sake of appearances, but was well and truly living. After having assumed he had to love only beauty and solely seek perfection - the exact notion which had resulted in his near demise, it was a breath of fresh, resurrecting air to discover that to truly love, meant to love the silence, the obsoletion and the absence. Now, as one season changed into another, and as gorgeous blossoms fell to turn into colourful water streams he was able to sit back and quietly observe the metamorphosis instead of mourning it. Because he knew that this meant there would be a future, with new colours, new leaves, new blossoms.

“Life does not stand still…” he murmured, squeezing your hand ever so slightly, a warmth spreading in his chest as your eyes met his and your lips curled into a soft, adorable gleam. 

“And what do you think about that?” you held your breath, your heart swelling with pride as you urged Seonghwa to go on.

“I find it to be… like love itself. Even in the quietude of the branches left bare, the fondness and awareness of knowing they had once been home to thousands of petals makes it worth it. And, as such, they never leave, turning into a transformative forever.”

The heavens sighed, a strong breeze washing over the park, your two forms settled on the wooden bench, the shedding canopies of white. Blossoms erupted in a visual catharsis, and scattered across the earth as far as the eye could see. The final flickers of this beautiful season’s embers. And yet, it did not feel like a dismal, all-encompassing finale, but rather the end of the beginning. While Seonghwa did not know what this renaissance would bring, and what florescence shall be his future guide, he was confident that in his newfound tranquillity, you were the reason why loving was easy. Why love was like being brought back to life.

“It is easy to believe in ‘the end’. And takes an infinite, intrinsic love, transcending time and seasons to believe in ‘forever’.” you agreed, and gazed at the scene before you. The glimmering waters of a pond - the sky’s mirror, dotted with brilliant ethereal cotton, soothed by the wind’s caresses. You and Seonghwa watched on as the floral dancers cascaded down in their closing act, elegantly waving their farewells before settling on lapping foam. 

Slowly, he was learning the intricacies, the little things that formed a delicate equilibrium that was adoration, devotion, enamourment. Equanimous, Seonghwa wanted nothing more than to live in this ever-changing present, and, with you, love the beauty and the silence after it had fallen.

[lord-shitbox]

starts babbling ardent nonsense about ais and bowling at incredibly fast speeds. without even saying anuthing of substance. just noises. anyways so

i want to see Ais kick a bowling ball like hes playing football. american or Not american. both are hilarious.

Ais vs Leander bowling match. Mhin is only there for the sunday sundae special. Vere complains loudly because hes gonna fuck up his nails. Kuras insists hes busy & Leander insists they must do ""business"" at the bowling alley to get him to come

[i still Passionately believe Leander and Kuras are trading drugs]

Kuras is not very good at bowling. his sleeves get in the way. during the last 3 frames he FINALLY takes his coat off (cue audience drooling over his bare arms) and rolls 9 pins/ strike / spare / bonus 7 pins [better streak than Vere, who's averaging 5 pins a frame] [their scores end up tied and Vere is Livid]

Mhin is doing Slightly better than Vere. Fortunately for him, he can and will bicker with Mhin so that's what he does. their insult competition is as fierce as Ais vs Leander bowling (maybe even more so to the unfortunate patrons nearby)

Vere breaks out the "I only play with one type of balls bro" line ~6 minutes in

His fun comes from bowling in increasingly fucked up ways. the bowling alley employees hate him so much because they have to ask him to quit fucking around every 7 minutes. he's broken a LOT of stuff. insert "woah 3 pointer wait where the hoop"

Ais vs Leander bowling: Leander is losing and he is Cheating Hard. after the fifth frame he gives up on bowling and starts a separate secret crusade (sabotage Ais)

his attempts include but are not limited to: poisoning his drink, again; trying to use magic to blast his ball off-course; trying to use magic to keep his pins from falling over; slipperizing the bowling alley floor in hopes Ais will fall down midroll; using magic to boost his OWN bowling abilities; making Ais's bowling ball Extremely Sticky; collapsing a ceiling tile on his head; and summoning some grandma with an unruly tiny dog that doesn't speak common Eridian language in hopes Ais will be distracted (he is)

Ais is fully aware of this and is making a point of not calling him out on it. He will win DESPITE Leander's antics, god damnit.

they tie on the last frame and Leander is overjoyed

too overjoyed. oops

Ais is like "GG buddy" and gives him a clap on the shoulder that's a Bit Too Hard and offers him a handshake that squeezes a Bit Too Hard and gives him his signature sardonic grin that communicates "i fucking knew what you were up to, cocksucker"

Leander is like "(nervously strained laugh)...yeah great game!"

Mhin, who finished their sundae and stuck around only to see that they beat Vere [and Kuras] by 2 points, hovers awkwardly until they get their chance to say goodbye to Kuras and Leander so they can Leave

Kuras wants to get back to work asap. unfortunately he let himself have a pretty good time so now hes gotta make up for it by atoning (suffering through work ) extra hard

Vere comes from out back licking blood off the back of his hand. the bowling alley manager is also permanently missing, unrelatedly

Ais and Leander are going to go drink each other under the table at some establishment "with better liquor than the wet wick." as if they weren't already drinking all the beer the bowling alley has. Vere tags along because it's an establishment he actually likes— he's Almost had too much Leander for the day but not enough to keep him from decent food and music

[pippytmi]

If you're still accepting prompts #5 for supercorp?? Please.. no pressure.. have a good day!!!

When Kara gets an invitation to Andrea’s latest art gala, her friends all reach an unanimous decision to RSVP “no fucking chance” via every available avenue.

It would have been creative, really, and impressive—that is, if Nia hadn’t gotten banned from the post office as a result. So in the end it was just a nice thought, if a misguided one; really, Kara is used to Andrea’s antics by now. They had broken up two months ago, but Andrea seemed intent on showing off every chance she could that she had moved on. Kara has never accused her of doing it to be cruel, but she has to admit, sometimes she fantasizes about showing up to one of Andrea’s events with someone else to show she has moved on as well. Just, you know, to even the score. (If they were keeping score).

But she shows up dateless all the same, and everyone is still aghast she showed up at all, but Kara has always been a firm believer of taking the high road even if Andrea won’t. And Alex tags along, if only to glower at Andrea any chance she gets, until she gets distracted by a pretty girl at the bar and Kara ends up alone just as she anticipated.

Well, she consoles herself, at least the buffet is always here to keep her company.

“Excuse me,” a sudden voice to her right suddenly interrupts the slow-motion movie in Kara’s head that has focused mostly on cream puffs. “Are you Kara Danvers?”

“Yeah?” Kara adjusts her glasses and squares her shoulders, already prepared to face the person Andrea has sent to be her “greeter”—she has a habit of sending someone to escort Kara to personally come say hi to her and her new girlfriend, as if she’s too busy to come across the room herself.

“I thought I recognized you,” says the stranger before her. “I’m Lena, I’m—”

“Andrea’s friend,” Kara fills in the blanks, slightly stunned. “Hi.” She’d heard about Lena Luthor, the mysterious boarding schoolmate turned actress, but had never met her before.

“I always meant to come introduce myself, but…” Lena trails off, and the unspoken but then Andrea broke up with you remains unsaid. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came over here, I was…” 

“Curious?” Kara offers, and she feels the corner of her mouth twitch with the effort to withhold a self-pitying laugh. “I know, it’s weird. Here I am, at my ex’s party, just trying to stock up on as much free food as I can. I understand if you want to call security.”

Lena Luthor has a very stoic demeanor which must be a product of practiced professionalism, but when Kara says that, a laugh kind of erupts from her mouth; it’s simultaneously undignified and endearing all at once. “Oh, God, I’m sorry—I just, I have no doubt you don’t want to be here. I know Andrea makes it her mission to flaunt her success to everyone.”

“I guess,” Kara shrugs, “but I could have said no.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Lena disagrees, and her eyes are undoubtedly searching as they meet Kara’s, her gaze heavy but warm. “I’ve been there, I know what she’s like.”

Kara tugs at the knot of her tie, suddenly wishes it were a bit looser, and then sighs. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Sometimes I wish I could give her a taste of her own medicine, you know? To—” And then it dawns on her. It’s something Alex would thump her over the head for, and it’s the kind of idea that Nia would wholeheartedly agree on. “Hey. Are you single?”

Lena gives her an odd look. “What?”

“Wait, that’s not what it sounds like,” Kara is quick to assure her. “I meant—if you’re single, and willing, would you maybe want to pretend you’re my girlfriend?”

“Me?” Lena has very green eyes, mesmerizingly green really, and it’s hard for Kara to even form words when they’re trained on her. “That feels kind of…petty.”

Kara deflates. “You’re right,” she mumbles. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Kara, there you are.” Winn, who must be the unfortunate courier of bad news this evening, arrives short of breath. “Andrea wanted me to tell you hi for her. Or, er, she wants me to invite you to…say hi to her? I don’t even know what she’s asking.”

“We do,” Lena cuts in, and before Kara can even blink, there is a hand holding hers, intertwined fingers and all; Lena smiles sideways at her, just about level in her heels, and her smile is so stunningly pretty that Kara can only blink back in response. “Shall we, darling?”

“Um,” Kara says very ineloquently in response, and Winn’s eyes just about pop out of his head. “Okay.”

It is very strange to hold someone’s hand, Kara decides, when you don’t know the person. Lena’s hand is soft and just edging on cold, as if she’d been outside too long before arriving, and all Kara can do is agonize over whether her hand is sweaty.

Andrea is waiting by the orchestra, quite predictably, with her new girlfriend and acting as if she hadn’t expected Kara to walk up to her at all. “Kara, hi,” she says, and normally this is the time she would schmooze and smile without teeth, batting her eyes and stressing how nice it is that Kara could make it. But when she spots Lena—namely, Lena holding Kara’s hand—her smile freezes on her face. “Lena, I didn’t know you were coming. We didn’t see your RSVP.”

Lena tilts her head just so, smiling just bright enough to be polite. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, and lets go of Kara’s hand as if practiced to rest against the lapel of her suit jacket. “Kara’s invite had a plus one, so I assumed I could just come with.”

“Of course,” Andrea says tightly. “Though I must say, I didn’t even know you two knew each other.”

“Well, we have you to thank,” Kara says without even thinking, without even forming a story, and judging by the way Lena’s eyebrows raise she is thinking the same thing. “I was, um, working a shoot and Lena was there and she recognized me, from pictures you showed her? So we started talking. And here we are.” Then, because she’s sure she needs to play up the romance, she slides her own hand against Lena’s waist—a mistake for her own sanity, because Lena is in a quite form-fitting red dress and Kara gets a little too distracted when she looks at it.

“You make us sound so dull,” Lena tuts, and her eyes sparkle with a challenge when Kara looks at her. “She won’t admit it, but she was so tongue-tied when we met. Completely head over heels.”

“Okay but who wouldn’t be?” Kara dares her right back, feeling more brazen, and Lena quirks an eyebrow as if intrigued.

“I thought you were cute too, I suppose,” Lena says, and she sways into Kara’s embrace, which causes Kara’s heart to beat embarrassingly quick. “Even if you almost dropped a backdrop on my head.”

“I apologized for that,” Kara plays along, relieved that Lena’s far better at crafting a story; she has never seen Lena act in anything, but knows she has to be Oscar-worthy for this performance alone.

Andrea pointedly clears her throat. “How nice,” she says flatly, looking annoyed, and Kara had nearly forgotten that she’s here.

“Well great party, Andrea,” Kara says. “And thank you for having us, but we have to run—I promised Lena a dance.”

“Lena doesn’t dance,” Andrea says sharply, but Lena is already nodding along with Kara’s excuse.

“What can I say,” Lena says cheerfully, “she brings out the dancer in me.”

Kara has to pretend to cough, then, because that is such an awful line, and Lena pinches her wrist when no one is looking, and really it’s a miracle they manage to get away before Andrea realizes this is all a ruse. In fact, the instant they’re back at the buffet, they exchange a single look and immediately burst into laughter.

“Thank you, for that,” Kara says afterwards, shyly taking a step back when she notices she’s still lingering too close.

“It was your idea, I just brought it to life,” Lena says. “Though you really had me digging for my improv notes, because your storytelling leaves a lot to be desired.”

“I tend to think before I speak sometimes,” Kara admits sheepishly. “Which, uh, I’m sorry about. You know, because the dancing thing…” She pauses. “You don’t have to dance with me though. I’ll just pretend I got an urgent call or something, and Winn can pass on the message that I left.”

“You forget that I’m your date for the evening, now,” Lena warns. “If you leave I’m practically obligated to leave with you.”

“Right, I didn’t think of that.” And with Lena staring back at her, her expression soft and curious, Kara feels brave again. “Well…do you drink coffee?”

“I do,” Lena says, angling just a bit closer, and Kara smiles.

“I know a great coffee shop in the area,” she says. “And they don’t care if we show up looking like this.”

“Are you asking me on an actual date?” Lena bites her bottom lip just coyly enough that Kara knows she’s not opposed to the suggestion, which is what prompts her to respond,

“Yes,” without so much as a pause. “And I can promise I won’t almost-drop anything on your head in this scenario.”

“Well I’d hope so,” Lena says, and Kara laughs, and really it’s the strangest outcome that Kara could have never anticipated. And yeah, it’s as awkward as any first date already, Kara blushing too much and Lena fiddling with her hands as they walk, but—it’s also just about the best night of Kara’s life.

“So why didn’t you RSVP?” Kara thinks to ask, just as they reach the front door, and Lena scrunches her nose in confusion.

“I told my assistant to RSVP for me, I’m not sure what happened,” she says. “I saw her leave to the post office myself.”

“Oh,” Kara says, grimacing. “That wouldn’t have been the one off of 37th street, would it?”

“Yes, actually. How’d you know?”

Kara thinks of Nia’s ban, and the fact that letters are oh-so-flammable, and just shakes her head. “Let’s just say it’s never arriving,” she says, and Lena gives her a confused look, but Kara reaches for her hand again and then everything else kind of fades away.

(Even Alex—who they pass on the way outside—and her shout of, “Kara, what the fuck,” melts into the symphony of car honks and police sirens and shouts of passerby as Kara and Lena disappear into the cool night air).

[nikolai-alexi]

For @jegulus-microfic Prompt: Savour WC: 890

Tags: bipolar James, manic episode, very unreliable narrator, bipolar Barty Crouch Jr, psychosis hallucination, mild violence, James is extremely touch adverse during a mania episode like this, Regulus is Going Through It, James gets the wrong impression eavesdropping on Reg/Barty/Evan’s conversation while they think he’s asleep, Reg is overwhelmed and guilty, James is Unwell, Evan is over everyone’s shit and really doesn’t like James’ friends, Barty is a good friend, Sirius/Remus/Pete don’t just abandon James in this they’re there and they probably went to go get help but James has no clue what’s going on around him really so they just aren’t featured, Evan still holds a grudge against Sirius specifically and (though he won’t admit it) he feels angry on James’ behalf because none of them realised he was struggling so he’s an ass to them, apparently manic episodes are a lot harder to write when you can’t remember what your own are like when you have them

James is aware he shouldn’t be laughing. He’s aware of the stares branding their way under his skin. He feels acutely every disgusted look thrown his way and he hears every scoff. He’s aware he shouldn’t be laughing. But he can’t stop.

Someone has turned off the party’s music. Unfortunate, that. If they kept it going maybe he could pass it off that he’d just drank too much. It’s worked for him before. He still can’t stop laughing. His lungs burn for oxygen and his stomach is cramping and his vision is blurry and his skin is crawling and he can’t stop fucking laughing.

He can’t tell how long it takes until his hysterical laughter subsides into maniacal giggles, “Savour it,” he chokes out, still giggling, “Perfect fucking Potter isn’t so perfect!”

He throws his arms wide and spins a circle in the middle of the common room, still giggling, “Someone ought to call the Prophet! Let them know that the only thing James Potter actually is, is fucking crazy!”

He thinks he’s lost his glasses, because whoever is standing in front of him is unrecognisable with how blurry everything is.

“C’mon, J,” they say. Oh! It’s Barty! Barty knows alllll about being batshit fucking crazy, doesn’t he?

His glasses are set back on his face with very careful movements. Barty knows what James can be like like this. He probably doesn’t want another broken nose. James isn’t sure he’d feel it if someone broke his nose. Would he feel it if he broke his own nose? Or would he only think he felt it because he knew it was coming?

“No one is going to break anyone’s nose, James,” Barty says, sternly, in a voice that sounds eerily similar to Regulus’ ‘shut up and quit being stupid’ voice. He must have spoken aloud. Oopsies.

A shadow appears behind Barty, and before James knows it, his body is flying through the air. Is he trying to run from it? Fight it? Who knows. He doesn’t. But he can’t stand that stupid fucking shadow starring at him. There’s a sharp pressure on the side of his head and everything goes black.

Next thing he knows, he’s hearing hushed voices to the side of him. He doesn’t have the energy to open his eyes, so he just stays still and listens.

“Why the fuck would you knock him out, Barty?!” Regulus’s voice is high, despite being quiet. He must be really upset about something.

“Reg,” Barty sighs, it sounds like he’s been repeating the words for a while, “He went to attack, what I assume was, one of his hallucinations and came after me as a result. You know we can’t restrain him. He just panics and hurts himself. The only thing I could do to get him out of there and keep him safe was knock him out.”

The breath seems to exit Regulus’ chest in one swift ‘whoosh’, “Yeah,” he sighs, “I know,”

A chair slides roughly across the floor, “It’s not your fault, Reg,” Barty murmurs quietly.

Regulus scoffs, “I should have seen the signs. I should have known he was going to have an episode,”

“Bullshit, Regulus. You’re in the middle of your OWLS prep. You’ve been holed in the library for the last two weeks. How many times have you even gotten to see him in the last month?”

Someone stands up and begins pacing, James reckons it must be Regulus. He always paces when he’s agitated, “That’s just the thing, Barty! I haven’t seen him more than once or twice since the Quidditch match with Gryffindor and Slytherin. I’ve been too damn busy to notice anything was wrong!”

A new voice chimes in, “Sit the fuck down, Regulus,” Ah, Evan’s joined the fray.

James can nearly see the death glare mixed with a pout that Regulus sends Evan as he plops ungracefully into his chair.

“Potter is not your responsibility. No, shut the fuck up and listen to me, Regulus,” James wants to chuckle, because only a Rosier can talk to Regulus like that and get away with it, “Potter is not your responsibility. You both discussed how stressful these next two months were going to be for you. He understood and respected your need for space, and other than making sure you’re taking care of yourself, he hasn’t pushed. You haven’t seen him more than a couple of times, how would you have noticed anything was wrong?”

Regulus makes a distressed noise, but doesn’t interrupt.

“Potter is not your responsibility. If anyone should have noticed something was wrong, it should have been your brother, or Lupin, or Pettigrew, or hell, even McGonagall. But they didn’t. And that’s not your fucking problem. That’s on them.”

“You’ve said it yourself, Reg,” Barty says, quietly, “James is really good at hiding this from people. He kept it from his best friends, his teachers, and classmates for six years. Hell, I deal with the same shit he does and I didn’t even connect the dots until the beginning of this year.”

There’s a resigned sigh from Regulus. James thinks he might be scrubbing a hand down his face like he does when he’s stressed. The thought makes guilt pool in his gut.

“I know you’re right,” Regulus says quietly, “It’s just…a lot. Right now. It’s all just a lot to deal with right now,”

And James can’t stop the sound that’s something between a crushing sob and hysterical laughter bubble out of his throat. Here I go again, he thinks, destroying everything good in my life because I’m too fucking much. He blacks out again.

[candlelight27]

Will you be my valentine?

[tags] DABI X READER, SFW, zombie or apocalypse AU, fluff, gender neutral reader but afab reader in mind, a little something suggestive in the end but otherwise just kissing, mentions of weapons. Oh and Dabi calls reader Sunshine as a nickname. 1632 words.

[note] happy st valentines day!! So glad to write a little something again :') enjoy the dabi brainrot!!! I had this idea in mind all weekend and had to write it

AO3 link

It’s been a couple of hours since Dabi left the base and you are growing anxious by the minute. How could you not? The trip to gather supplies should have taken him an hour at most.

You entertain yourself with the improvised stew you’re cooking. Rather than hunger, it was the hope of a headpat from your partner and a compliment what drove you to start making dinner, since he usually was the one to use the fire. It smells pretty good despite the limitations you face and the poor ingredients. Still, the sky is getting darker, and you fear the worse in the bottom of your heart.

As you see the diced potatoes float, you wonder what it is that you really fear in the event that Dabi doesn't come back.

Were you scared of being alone in a collapsing world? Doomed to roam around without someone else to rely on? The answer is no. You grew used to that way before meeting your latter partner.

So the unfortunate conclusion is that you’re just attached to him.

You and the once stranger tried everything to avoid this. You know that any feelings might compromise your survival rate, so you followed a set of rules: no names, no personal information, no sleeping next to each other and no physical contact.

The problem was that you had already broken two of them.

At first, you were determined to stay at least two feet away from Dabi at all times. You read somewhere that physical touched released some kind of hormones or whatever substance that increased the levels of trust and affection between two people. So it was easy: avoid touching him at all costs. It was easy… until it wasn’t that easy.

It was the dead of winter and you were trembling. Even though you were covered with several blankets and inside a building, you had never been that cold before. Dabi noticed this as he was awake, keeping an eye on the fire. He muttered a few words offering his help, you agreed, because Dabi seemed to practically radiate heat, and from then on, you slept together under the same blankets. Cuddling, to add insult to injury. And, little by little, that led to Dabi to break the other rule. He accustomed to leave small, fether-like touches on your shoulder, then poking your cheek and patting your head. And you liked it, way much more than you should.

The potatoes keep floating on the soup and Dabi hasn’t arrived yet. The sky is orange and dark blue at equal parts. You relive his touch and make up your mind. It’s something you’re going to regret, but you can’t help it.

As you take your bag and a rifle, you hear footsteps. Right after, his voice resonates in the silence of your shelter.

“Where the fuck are you going, Sunshine? It’s almost nighttime.”

Your eyes are wide open. Your hands clutch the rifle. You try to say something, anything really, but only stammering leaves your mouth.

“Well?” Dabi rises an eyebrow, ready to tease you. “Don’t tell me you were going to go out there to look for me?”

“You were gone for hours”, you justify yourself.

You can see in his face that he wants to tell you off. That you shouldn’t leave the base with all the equipment alone, that it could’ve been dangerous, that if he disappears you must keep going on. Better one person dead than two. But he says nothing about that. Dabi just sighs.

“C’mon. Let’s eat. You made dinner, right?”

After leaving on the side his heavy backpack and a couple of bags, right next to the rest of supplies, Dabi turns around and sits on the piled rugs next to the fire, over which the pot is hovering. You leave the weapon and your things where they were before, then take the bowls that are lying around and hand them to him.

“It smells so good. But why didn’t you wait for me?”, asks the man as he’s pouring you and himself a ration of stew.

“I… I thought you’d be tired, so I wanted to have it ready beforehand,” you admit. So much for not forming a bond with the man.

“If you keep doing it this well, you’ll end up in charge of cooking,” he says with a mouthful. “Are these the potatoes you grew?”

“Yes.”

You keep eating quietly until there’s nothing left. Usually, you chatter with Dabi about the latest expedition, or the state of the garden, or anything at all. However, right now, something feels off. You’re scared of the nature of your feelings for Dabi and you’re still upset about his prolongued absence. So you remain quiet. Which isn’t the smartest move, because Dabi is quite observant.

His bright blue eyes are fixed on your face.

“What’s wrong, Sunshine?” Dabi leaves the dining utensils aside and sits next to you. You prefer his warmth to that of the bonfire. He’s not shy, so he sits right next to you, his shoulder and leg bumping yours. “Usually, you don’t even greet me and proceed to rummage the bags. And usually you don’t stop talking, either, while doing so. Or while eating. So, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing”, you say, avoiding his eyes. He frowns.

“Are you mad because I took longer than what was planned? Look, I didn’t mean-”

“No”, you interrupt him. This time, you turn your face around as you shake your hands. You think of all the problems you have, the lack of food, the dangers of desperate people, anything but how close his face is. “I’m not mad, okay? Just… worried.” You don’t elaborate more.

You’re surprised when you see his smile grow. Of course he know what's going on. He can read you like a book.

“Worried?”, he chuckles. “Aw, don’t tell me you were worried that I was dead?”

“Well, what do you think? It’s way more convenient having you around than being alone”, you concede. It’s not entirely a lie.

“Sure…”

Dabi stands up. You’re going to do the same, but he sits you back with a pat on your shoulder. He fishes a couple of things from the interior of his backpack, and hides them behind his back. You are curious, moving your head around to peek, but he’s adamant on not showing anything.

“Don’t you want to know what took so long?”, the man asks.

You nod. Suddenly, two items are dropped on your lap.

One of them is a box of your favourite chocolates. To your delight, it’s not expired. The other is a gingerbread heart that reads ‘Merry Christmas’. It’s not expired either. You’re happy, for you haven’t tried anything like this in ages, yet you’re confused all the same.

“Dabi?”

“Yes?”

“Why?”

“Don’t you like it?”, your partner questions. He’s not disappointed, but calm.

“I do. But you risked your life and you don’t even like sweets.”

“Hm.” He takes the box in his hands and examines it. After a couple of seconds, he sets it aside. “Okay, to be fair, I don’t dislike them, but I prefer watching you enjoying them rather than enjoying them myself.”

“Oh”, that’s all you can say.

For a moment, you let yourself think that maybe you're not the only one affected by your situation with Dabi.

“Do you know what day is it?”

“Tuesday?”

“Didn’t you check the calendar?” He chuckles again. It might be your new favourite sound.

“Not today,” you admit.

“It’s February 14th.” Dabi smiles and scratches his neck. “The heart wasn’t supposed to say ‘Merry Christmas’, but when you raid a destroyed supermarket you can’t be too picky, you know?”

You hug the gingerbread to your heart and look into his eyes.

“Do you mean this? All of this?”

“What? What are you talking about?” Now it’s his turn to be confused.

“I was worried of not seeing you again”, you declare with a weak voice. “Not of being alone, but being witout you. I don’t really want to go back to a life without Dabi.”

His pupils go down to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“Can you be clearer? Because I don’t want to do anything that will get me a punch in the face.”

You breath deeply. Dabi’s actions were basically a declaration of love, right? You had nothing to lose.

“I want to break out partnership. I’m afraid I have feelings for you.”

When did he get closer? You’re practically on Dabi’s arms, one of them surrounding your back and caging you against him, the other playing with your hair. His smell, of gunpowder, sweat and detergent, saturates your nose.

“What feelings?”, he teases. “Hate? Love? Interest?”

“Dabi, shut up, you know perfectly-”

Then, the overdue kiss comes along. His lips press against yours. It’s rather chaste, probing your willingness.  

“Do you really like my mug? Haven’t you seen the scars? Do I need to look for prescription glasses next time? That may take even longer. Days of search.”

“Dabi, you’re an idiot, but you’re hot,” you say, then you kiss him again.

You don’t waste your chance and hug him back, something you’ve wanted to do for a long time. This time, the kiss is fumbling, and more intense. You feel his scarred skin, and the way he smiles into your lips. Dabi bites your lips lightly.

“This might complicate everything,” he points out.

“I don’t care”, you answer. His big hand rests on your cheek.

“In that case, if you want to complicate things further…”, he adds with the smirk of a scoundrel, “I found condoms that are good to use.”

“Dabi!” you scold as you bury your face on his chest.

He’s going to be the end of you.

[ceo-of-sloppy-men]

Head Bowed In Attonment

Ship: Tav/Zevlor Rating: Explicit Tags: love confessions, rough sex, slightly submissive Zevlor, oral sex, references to tiefling mating cycles & tail headcanons Summary:

Misphi finds themself at the grove, following a familiar voice shouting across the Sword Coast. It awards them a chance to finally talk with Zevlor… and maybe a little more.

Much to Misphi’s utter frustration, it seems as if their life has been a series of unfortunate kidnappings. One after the other. Elturel dragged to the Hells, their wrists chained as they’re carted off to Baldurs Gate, and then finally, a mindflayer ship snatching them off the road. At least they’d managed to escape them all - even if it left them stranded on a beach with a notably absurd band of similarly inflicted acquaintances.

It helped them accept their fate; knowing others were in the same boat made the impending ceremorphosis seem less horrifying. Although, why they’ve yet to transform was beyond anyone’s explanation. Even Gales (apparently). So, they were left to wander their way across the sword coast in hopes of finding a cure.

Until they heard a name they hadn’t dared hope to hear again since leaving Elturel.

“Open the bloody gates, Zevlor!” Someone cried from up ahead and a tsunami of emotions slammed into them all at once.

Their face must have looked positively emotive, as Astarion leaned over and whispered:

“Someone you know? Or someone we should avoid?”

Without answering, they break into a dead sprint toward the voice - although they suppose that is an answer in and of itself. The sound of a curse in a whining tone at their heels lets them know they at least aren’t being abandoned in this endeavour. Rushing up a small hill in front of them, they make it just in time to see a band of goblins rush towards a small group of humans, arrows soaring through the air, piercing and killing a tiefling atop the parallel wall. A pained yelp of his name echoes through their ears. The voice starkly familiar, sending fear trickling into their bones.

The goblins fall in a blur. They might not have all the powers they’d gained in Avernus (damned tadpoles) but, they still knew how to tactfully place spells. And their companions were competent – as well as this so-called Blade of Frontiers. Somehow, the group of humans manage to hold their ground despite their atrocious formation, and the handful of them rush into the gate the moment it’s raised high enough for them to duck under. Astarion wastes some time picking up trinkets from the fallen enemies, Shadowheart picking up the weapons to sell later, while Misphi rushes past the gate.

Their heart thunders in their chest as they search the group of tieflings with wild, wide eyes. Instantly, as if time itself freezes for them, they see him standing there, exchanging harsh words with the man from the gate. They can see his balled fist and the way he tenses, straightening his posture to try and make himself seem imposing. They’re certain he didn’t see them on the battlefield – or perhaps this was all a mistake. Perhaps all of it had been merely situational. Surely if he had seen them he’d be trying to find them in the aftermath. Right?

Hesitation gathers in their chest, weighing them down. They approach slowly, as to not interrupt or seem too… forward? Intentional? Hopeful? They’re not quite sure which word suits this situation better.

“SHUT IT HORNS! I’d be lying dead next to the goblins if you stalled any longer!” Aradin hisses, scrunching his nose in anger.

“My duty is to this camp,” Zevlor insists, making an attempt to at least keep his head.

“Oh, God forbid you risk your precious tail. But I shouldn’t be surprised, foulbloods ain’t known for –“

WHAM.

It’s a blur, one moment Misphi feels it all boil over inside them, the next, Aradin is lying in the dirt, clutching a broken nose and whining. They shake their fist, knuckles aching from the force of the strike. Out of the corner of their eye they see Zevlor gawking at them, mouth hanging open.

“Get up, and I’ll make sure you’ll never have children,” Misphi hisses, glaring down at him. “I’ve had quite <i>enough</i> of men like you.”

Aradin groans, but at least he’s smart enough to know what’s good for him. He remains sprawled out on the dirt, clutching his nose until Misphi is satisfied and turns their attention from him. They’re fairly certain he scampers off the moment their back is turned. Their hand still aches – they’re not used to the physical aspects of violence, even after Elturel. But they weren’t about to waste a spell on him.

“<i>Misphi</i>?” Zevlor asks incredulously, his voice barely above a whisper.

He’s a sight for sore eyes. Worn down and ragged, clearly exhausted from whatever journey had led to him being here. They can see the way his shoulders slump forward, his head dipping towards the ground. They press their lips together, wanting desperately to wrap him in their arms and tuck both of them away from the world.

“Zevlor,” they whisper softly, tail inching forward to test the waters.

When it gingerly brushes against his and he responds quickly by wrapping his around theirs, they echo him, stepping forward and tucking their arms under his. He folds into them, head resting on their shoulder as he clutches them to him, arms wrapped around their back, hands gripping their sides. He can feel their purring rumble against his armour and he’s certain they can hear his as he tucks himself against them.

“Not that I’m one to reject a blessing, but I thought you would be in Baldur’s Gate by now. What happened? How are you – why are you here?” Zevlor questions them quickly.

Their heart flutters when he calls them a blessing, curling closer to him and allowing themself a moment to breathe in the familiar scent of sweat and smoke on his skin.

“I escaped. Sort of… there was an, er – we were attacked by a Nautaloid. It plucked me from the caravan, along with a few others. It crashed shortly afterwards, not far from here, which is how I escaped,” they admit sheepishly, going slowly as not to startle him. To his credit, he makes no move to pull back from them.

“So that’s how you escaped,” Zevlor muses quietly.

“Yes… I need a healer, Zev’. Is there one here? You were shouting about a druid before, are there more here? If not, do you know where to find the druid you were speaking about?” Misphi asks tentatively, relaxing their arms to let him pull back if he wants.

He does, but rather than stepping away, he scans over them, trying to assess them for any injuries. When he finds none, he arches an eyebrow at them as if expecting them to elaborate.

“They put a tadpole in me,” Misphi admits, pulling their hands away and expecting him to do the same.

Instead, he pulls them closer, curling around them protectively as if he could shield them from this horror as they did for each other an innumerable number of times back in Elturel.

“There are a few druids left, yes. This is one of their Groves. But I fear we’re not on the best of terms… they’re attempting to kick us out now that Halsin is gone, and I suspect that if he doesn’t return, they’ll do just that. They don’t care that we won’t make it on the road – not with the army of goblins in our way. Er, sorry, you don’t need my problems on your plate as well… He has an apprentice, Nettie; she might be able to help you. If not, well, you might need to go find him,” he adds the last part hesitantly, tail tensing in their hold.

“Your problems are my problems,” Misphi insists, playing with the little hairs not gathered in his ponytail. “I should seek out Nettie and figure out if she can help. If not… well, I suppose I’ll have to find this Halsin. Then maybe see about our goblin problem.”

“I’m afraid the goblin problem and Halsin are one in the same – he’s not a goblin, but he is captured by them. Or perhaps killed if Aradin is to be believed,” Zevlor admits sheepishly, and Misphi makes a small ‘o’ with their mouth.

“Well, then this just got more complicated,” they giggle awkwardly. “I feel like we’re back in Elturel, pressed up against a wall, without really a choice in the matter.”

“I… I suppose you’re right,” Zevlor sighs, shaking his head to hide the smile. Elturel is by no measure a fond memory for them. But being by their side? That makes him smile like a fool. As if they gently pull the weight of the world from his shoulders like he’s come in from a blizzard, and they’re at the door, helping remove his snow-crusted jacket.

They lean back and offer him a soft smile.

“I need to talk to Nettie, but afterwards, we should talk. You have a lot of explaining to do. Starting with why you’re out here, in the middle of nowhere, with a group of tieflings, instead of back in Elturel –“ Zevlor stammers, attempting to answer them before they swiftly cut them off – “But, that can wait. I’ll give you the time to gather your answers first.”

“Right, I – take all the time you need. I will be in my office; it’s down in the lower section of our camp, past a round stone door. If you can’t find it, ask around. I’m sure someone is willing to help you,” Zevlor says, stealing a glance at their lips. He desperately wants to lean forward and leave a parting kiss on their lips, yet he hesitates. He has no right to them. He’s not even certain they would welcome it. So, instead, he butts his head gently against theirs, and they return the gesture.

“I’ll come find you; I promise,” Misphi says as their parting words before heading down lower into the grove.

He stands there, watching them go as a strange group trails after them, already bickering about their decisions. More crash survivors, he assumes, seeing the way they shake their head at the elven man, chastising him. He huffs and relents, clearly not as adamant on his point as he wants them to believe. As he watches them, the ghost of their touch lingers on his skin until they’re well out of view, and he’s tucking himself back into the grove. Back into the safety of his office to wait for them to seek him out. He tries to pretend like he doesn’t tidy up the space, but there’s only so much he can get past Tilses.<hr />

Zevlor waits quietly in his makeshift office. A candle burns next to him as he examines his maps. Tilses up at the top of the room, guarding the door. There’s a quiet guilt that has snuck up on him, rearing its ugly head the moment he casts a glance at the trunk sitting by his bedroll. Their belongings, and the afternoon, he gathered them. He can still remember his hand wrapped around his erection, rutting his hips into it desperately, and the shame of it consumes him faster than any Avernus-born fire. How can he think to face them now? How could he think to hold them after everything he’s done? Let alone beg of them to soothe his problems. He’s a selfish creature, dirtying his hands in their private space to lecherous pictures of them. There are so many times one can wash clothes before it begins to tatter the material. There are only so many times one can wash their hands before the skin is rubbed raw.

His hands ache as they rub against his gauntlets. He’s long since passed, flinching at the pain.

Despite his spiralling train of thought, it doesn’t surprise him when the door rolls open, Tilses calling down to him that she’s going on patrol. She probably can’t bear to stand there and watch him, this stark reminder of their infernal heritage. A failed commander. An oathbroken paladin. He offers her a word of acknowledgement, refocusing his attention on trying to find a way around the Goblins. Maybe if he can discover something – like a secret passage – he could help Misphi get to Halsin quicker or find a way for them to all slip past unnoticed and get to Baldur’s Gate and find a healer there. Surely, there are healers in the city who can help. There has to be. Maybe if he can help them, it might burn a little of the shame off the edges of him. Even if he knows it won’t fix the blue roses curling in his chest, twisting every time they walk by.

A hand trails down his tail, and he’s violently yanked from his mind, thankful he has the self-control to bite back the needy noise that builds in his throat at a stranger's touch. His hand flies to the pommel of his sword until a blue, calloused hand wraps around his torso, the visitor resting their weight on his back with a sigh. Tentatively, he places a hand over theirs, and they hum in approval, a fracture of a purr in their chest. He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks dismally to himself. This is some cruel joke of the universe, and any moment now, they’ll pull away and take with them the vivid daydream he’s spun for himself. Yet, their hand remains on his tail, carefully clipped claws toying with the ridges, forcing him to keep an iron grip on the pommel of his sword for an entirely <i>different</i> reason. It rumbles through his mind, this tide of desire drowning him as he vividly recalls himself sprawled across a chair in their bedroom. The memory ties his tongue into knots as he’s trapped between the table and their warm body, unable to pull away out of shame and wanting desperately to melt into their touch.

“I didn’t think I’d see you until I got back to Elturel,” Misphi sighs, resting their head on his shoulder.

“We were heading to Baldur’s Gate, for you,” he says, adding the last part without thinking.

“For me?” Misphi questions instantly, their ear quirking up against his shoulder.

He coughs, attempting to regain his composure. Helm, he’s not even looking at them, and he’s already losing himself in them.

“What I mean is you wouldn’t have known tieflings were banished from Elturel until after you were released. We wanted to make sure we were there to support you or at least give you a place to stay while you decided what to do.”

“We? What about you?” Misphi asks in a calm, measured tone as their ear lowers back to a resting position.

“What I want is irrelevant –“

“Yes, but I asked, didn’t I?” Misphi hums, rubbing the pad of their finger against the tip of one of his spines. Had they not been a tiefling, he could almost mistake it for absent-mindedness. But, surely they had to know what they were doing to him? Surely, they had to see the way he dug his claws into his pommel, trying to force himself to reason that its all in his head.

“I was –“ he pauses, voice trembling and takes a deep breathe – “I was looking forward to a garden. And retirement. I have seen enough death for one lifetime. I’d like these old hands to be covered in something other than blood,” he admits, deciding that openness and honesty would serve him better.

Misphi’s hand stills on his tail, and he almost sighs in relief, mourning their touch at the same time. They pull back a hairs breathe, and he cannot stop himself from chasing after them, relieved when their head doesn’t leave his shoulder.

“I hadn’t expected that. A garden, eh? I can see it. A little cottage to match too, a quaint little path up to the front door, a warm bed to welcome you home each night, and some buns in the oven.”

He has no right to reach for their tail, yet he finds it nonetheless. They offer it willingly, intertwining them as they lean against his back, a smile pressed into his neck. His mind buzzes, replaying their words as he tries to find the appropriate response. Surely, that last part had to be literal; just fresh bread baking because it smells nice. Not because they’re picturing a tiny, purple hellion running underfoot. Just because he is does not give him the right to assume they are as well.

“It sounds like a dream,” he mumbles pathetically, unable to find better words in the fog of his brain. They hum in agreement, nonetheless. “I took the liberty of gathering your belongings for you – they’re in a chest over there if you wanted clean clothes.”

“Thank you,” they sigh in relief, pulling away, this time fully, until they stand behind him. He chokes down the grief of the cool, stagnant air where they used to stand. “I’ll take a look later; there’s something else I’d much rather do. If you’d do me the honour of turning around to face me…?”

He turns around in an instant, pressing himself up against the desk, tails still wound together and heart hammering in his chest.

“You need not call it an honour to ask anything of me. Simply hearing your voice is a far greater honour than I shall ever deserve. Your presence outweighs the honour of any request you should ever make of me.”

Misphi chuckles softly, such a sinful noise that rings through Zevlor’s ears like a symphony. There’s a small smile on their lips as they reach up and gently cup his jaw. He cannot stop himself from leaning into the touch, closing his eyes as he draws a slow, languid breath into his weary lungs. They brush their thumb gently against his skin, tracing over the infernal ridges on his cheekbones.

“It is an honour merely to gaze upon you. Therefore, I shall always ask for the pleasure of your company,” they whisper, and Zevlor draws in a stuttering, befuddled breath. Before he can protest, they continue, the sea of their pitch-black eyes rendering him a statue:

“Though, I suppose honour does impose something heavy upon this, does it not? I don’t want to place more weight upon your shoulders. If anything, I wish to share it, if only to see you stand a little straighter. A little more confident and assured, without all of the responsibility the world has placed – and continues to place – upon you… No, honour has nothing to do with any of this. It never has. There is no honour in surviving Avernus. No duty or divinity either. We did what we had to, and maybe, hopefully, a little more than necessary where it counted… I know I did.”

Zevlor’s jaw works, trying to find his words without letting forth the pathetic, weary plea for their company hiding in his chest. He desperately wants to lean forward, to kiss them, to hold them, to find it in himself to admit to any of it. In the end, he comes up short, left staring at them, letting them cradle his weary bones.

“You may touch me,” Misphi whispers as if reading his mind.

Suddenly, he reclaims himself, and everything happens all at once. He’s pulling them into his arms, stumbling over his own feet as he forgets about his armour and tries to pull them flush with his body. Only to pull back a moment later, taking their face in his hands. His fingers hide the freckles scattered across their skin like tiny stars, and he almost loses himself in counting each and everyone until he blinks himself back into focus.

“Tell me to stop. Tell me now, please. I don’t deserve this – I don’t deserve you. None of this kindness should ever be mine. You are a perfection I should never be able to obtain. Not after everything I’ve done,” he begs, searching their eyes for any trace of doubt. His heart hammers in his chest, nearly having come up with the words. He feels as if it has, cradled gently in his hands as their eyes flicker across his face.

He feels the callouses of their staff-worn hands brush against his skin as they lift his gaze to meet theirs. Despite their black eyes, he has always been able to discern even the subtlest emotions within them. Now, he finds himself utterly lost in a reverent gaze, pinning him in place, torn between waiting for their response and acting without it. Thankfully, they speak first:

“If this scares you, I won’t rush you. I will wait until silence blankets Avernus at the end of the Blood War if that is what you need. I have waited and will continue to wait for as long as you need… But if you want this, if you want me, I am yours. Forever and always.”

“I’m an awful thing to wait for,” he scoffs before he can catch himself.

“Not to me,” they state stubbornly. He finds himself wanting to break their gaze, unable to imagine anyone would actually want to gaze upon him with reverence. They plant a delicate kiss on his cheek, and he nearly crumples, hands trembling against their face. “You have never been an awful thing to me, Zevlor. You are the first breath of clean air after we dragged Elturel out of Avernus. I care for you more than the moon cares for the sun it chases each night and far more than a dragon cares for its gold. If you’ll have me, I am yours.”

He can think of nothing more than to kiss them. Words abandoned on his tongue, devoured by permission, he leans forward and presses his lips against theirs. They respond instantly, wrapping their arms around his neck, pulling him closer and freeing his hair from its constraints. He threads his fingers in their short locks, the double-edged memory of cutting their hair bubbling to the surface. Unlike him, they seem indifferent to the memory, humming against his lips as they wind their tails closer together. He feels the desk hit the back of his thighs and lets them guide him to sit atop it. They break away from the kiss only to breathe, hands flying to the ties that pin his armour to his body. An hour ago, he might’ve brushed their hands away and insisted that he doesn’t need to go this far. He might not have even kissed them to begin with.

Instead, he helps them undo the ties, expecting it to fall to the floor, surprised when they set it carefully to the side. A hungry kiss is laid upon his lips each time they remove a new piece until he’s left in his undershirt and pants, reaching for the clasps of their robe. Yet, they step back and fear leaps in his chest. Are they going to leave him here? Like this?

A clawed finger reaches out and tilts his chin up, bringing his gaze back to theirs. His heart thrums in his chest, the fire of arousal sparking in the pit of his stomach as he finds heady passion in their gaze. Their hands lift to the clasps of their robe, deftly undoing them as they hold his gaze. He swallows thickly as it drops to the floor, leaving them clad in a pair of orange and white boxers. His cock leaps in his pants, coming to life at the sight of their freckled-covered hips and soft breasts. Remembering their words from earlier, he finds it in himself to reach forward and pull them back between his legs. They do so easily, humming in approval as he cups their breasts, rolling his thumbs over their nipples.

However, he has other plans than to leave them on their feet. Recalling days spent sparring with other Hellriders, he hooks his legs around their waist and flips them until they’re suddenly on the table, and he stands between their legs. Their leg rests on his shoulder, tail wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. He watches their chest rise and fall under his hands, back arched into his touch and a pleasantly surprised smile on their lips. Suddenly, guilt drips down his spine like ice, and he nearly bows his head.

“Before we… continue, I should probably tell you that I – well – you’re allowed to leave after this if you want. I would understand. Frankly, I’m disgusted by it myself and wish I could go back and –“

“Zevlor,” they say, yanking him back to reality. They’ve sat up, hand cupping his jaw, with worry painted clearly across their face. “What is it?”

“Back when I was packing up your… belongings, I might have found the bottle of wine you kept in your room. I cannot blame my actions on those of a drunken fool, but I… Oh, Helm above,” this is tortuous to admit! Must they watch him with such a patient, concerned expression? “I found myself relieving myself of an unfortunate side effect of – no because that sounds like an excuse,” he huffs in frustration as they tilt their head to the side.

“Zevlor…?” Misphi presses softly, maintaining a neutral expression.

“I jerked off with your briefs against my face!” he blurts out finally, slapping his hand over his mouth the moment the words leave his lip.

Misphi’s eyebrows raise, and he waits for them to push him away, to say something – anything. To call him disgusting or perverted or –

“Which ones?”

He balks at them, trying to register their question in his mind to no avail.

“The yellow ones?” he squeaks out, hand absently falling to the pocket they’re still stuffed in.

They catch it instantly, reaching their hand into his pocket, fingers brushing against his half-hard dick, making his hips jump forward as they pull out the yellow lace briefs he’d stuffed there. They appraise them with an arched eyebrow, feeling the lace under their fingers as they regard him in the background of their gaze.

“I washed them,” he says for the lack of something better to say.

He’s not prepared when they reach forward and stuff the briefs down the front of his pants, fingers brushing against his erection and straining against the fabric. He yelps; their hands are cold, and his breath catches in his throat. All he can hear is the pounding of his heart until they hold his chin between their thumb and forefinger. Despite the shame thrumming through his body, his blood still manages to run hot, arousal heavy in the pit of his stomach, as if trying to burn him from the inside out.

“What else did you find?” they ask with a lazy curiosity of a predator watching its prey.

“It’s in the trunk,” he nods his head toward it, letting them force his head back where they want it.

“What was your favourite?” they continue to press, leaning forward and pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck.

He shudders at the sensation, weakly managing to squeak out:

“The harness!”

Their eyebrows shoot up in surprise before a devilish grin curls their lips.

“So obedient, too. Maybe some other day I’ll show you, but not tonight. Tonight, I want just want you, and as much as you’re willing to give,” they promise, pressing a fluttering kiss to his lips, and his heart sings at the idea of another day spent like this. “Thank you for being honest with me, but you can untuck your tail. I’m not mad; it’s actually rather hot. In a perverse sort of way.”

Zevlor swallows the knot in his throat and nods his head. His mouth is abruptly dry as if he’d wandered a desert for days before coming upon an oasis. He drops to his knees, face inches away from their open legs. He can feel the briefs shift against his weeping dick, scratchy lace sending sparks up his spine. He steals a glance up at them, heart quickening as they watch him with that same lazy, predatory gaze.

“If you’ll allow me to, I’d like to atone,” he rasps, gingerly placing their legs on his shoulder.

“I’ll allow it,” Misphi hums, dragging him forward with a hand wrapped around his horn. Their nails drag through his hair once he’s in place, lazily toying with his locks.

He revels in the burn against his scalp as he presses his face against their cunt, taking a deep breath and shuddering at the scent. Familiar and addictive, he runs his tongue across the length of them, yanking a moan from their lips. Suddenly, he’s rather glad he has to file down his nails to wear his gauntlets, as it lets him push a finger against their sopping wet core as he mouths at their clit. For once, he’s glad to have a forked tongue, dragging the twin ends on either side of their clit and feeling them writhe under him, gasping his name into the stagnant air. He feels them arch against the table, pulling him closer with one hand clutching his horn and their tail wrapped around his back. He can’t bring himself to care, rutting his hips into the air as he works them open with his fingers. Each pleased moan he pulls from their lips only spurs him further, lapping at them and unable to take more than a moment to breathe before returning to them.

He has three fingers in them, down to the knuckles, stretching them open when he feels them clench and spasm around them. They gasp and writhe on the table, horns hitting against the stone as they groan his name like a feverish prayer. It has never sounded better, even as he continues to suck on their clit, listening to them repeat his name until they’re pushing him away, rendering a twitching mess in front of him.

“Helm, you taste better than any wine gold could buy,” he moans, sucking on his fingers to clean them off.

“Do we have to leave this room tomorrow? Can’t we stay here all week and let our cycles ravage our bodies?” Misphi sighs, pulling him forward by the horns.

Zevlor stumbles a little, planting his hands on either side of their head as he leans over them.

“As much as I wish we could, there is still the matter of the goblins and your… condition. But once we are safe? I am yours. I’d gladly spend all of my ruts with you so that you’d never need to wear bells on your tail again,” Zevlor promises, wrapping his lips around one of their nipples and fondling the other with his hand.

“Then we’ll have to make the most of tonight,” Misphi moans, arching their back to push against his mouth. Their tail scrambles against his pants, trying to shove them down as their legs lock around his hips. He takes the hint and forces them down until they pool around his ankles.

Zevlor doesn’t even bother to step out of them as he takes himself in his hand and ruts the weeping head against their core. He aligns himself, thrusting forward once and missing deliberately. They sigh in frustration, rutting their hips against his until he finally sinks into them, yanking a debauched moan of his name from their lips. He groans against their skin, releasing their nipple with a wet pop to mouth his way over to the other one, giving little, shallow thrusts into them.

Misphi grabs his horns and yanks him back, looking him dead in the eyes:

“Fuck me.”

“What?” he squeaks.

“I’m not going to break, despite what everyone thinks of wizards. I survived Avernus. I’ve earned this. You say you want me? Fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like I’m helping you with your rut, and you’re desperate to please me,” they demand of him. He gawks at them, blinking a few times as their words sink into his mind. They bite their lip, watching as he turns the request over in his head, with half a mind to take it back and assure him he was doing fine as he was, even if they wanted more.

Then his hips snap forward, and he leans over them, pressing a growl against their neck. With one leg bent up on the table, he angles them so he can thrust deeper and sets a brutal pace. As if months of being trapped in Avernus, of wasted ruts and tense survival, has finally boiled over into messy, brutal sex. His tail twists around theirs, intertwining until they can’t get any closer. His free hand wraps around the base of their tail, stroking it roughly and pulling a keening whine from them. He mouths hot, wet kisses against their neck, biting their cursed skin as he clutches them closer. They wrap their arms around his back; one holds his horns, and the other digs into his shoulder blade, pulling him closer still.

The wet sound of their hips meeting echoes off the walls of the fortified office tucked into the corner of the grove. Neither care who might walk in and see them or if it’s even soundproofed. They can deal with that later. Right now, all that matters is sinking their claws and teeth into the other, desperate for something they’ve held at arm’s length for far too long.

He does his best to hold himself together for as long as they need. He can feel them rut against him, bucking their hips into his hand as he rolls their clit between his fingers. They pulse around him, moaning his name, dragging their claws down his back, biting at his neck. All of it is utterly overwhelming. And all his. Somehow, by some divine misjudgement, they’ve chosen him. He’s determined to last as long as they need, even if he desperately needs to finish. He fucks into them roughly, keeping an uneven pace in hopes that it’ll stave off his climax.

It's only when they dig their claws into his back and press their lips to his that he loses control. His hips stutter forward, pressing against theirs roughly, trying to force himself as deep as he can as he pants for air through his nose. They wrap their legs tighter around his waist, using it as leverage to rut against his hand until they arch their back and break away from the kiss with a breathless moan of his name. He nearly thanks the gods for freeing him from guilt as he presses his head into the crook of their neck, panting harder. He fucks into them until they start to mewl, even if it’s too much for his oversensitive body.

“We should have done that <i>ages</i> ago,” Misphi sighs, nuzzling the top of his head, their horns knocking together.

“We’ll just have to make up for it later if you’ll have me,” Zevlor hums, gently squeezing their tail with his own.

“Of course, I’ll have you,” they whisper softly, kissing his temple. “I meant what I said earlier, Zev’. I care about you.”

“I care about you too,” he mumbles back, lazily kissing their shoulder before straightening up. They’re a sight to behold, dishevelled and boneless on the desk, surrounded by battleplans he’ll have to set up again tomorrow. “Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?”

“We’re sleeping in the grove for the night. The rest of my party have already found somewhere to settle in for the night. I can go back to them if you need me to,” Misphi offers, ghosting their hands down his sides.

“Stay here with me. Please. I haven’t been able to sleep properly on my own anymore; I keep seeing Avernus in my dreams,” Zevlor admits sheepishly, placing a kiss in the centre of their chest rather than meeting their gaze.

“So, have I,” Misphi replies, cupping his face in their hands. “I’ll stay.”

Zevlor feels his heart flutter at the soft look in their eyes. The urge to kiss them overwhelms him, so he leans forward, carefully pressing his lips against theirs with a contented hum. They card their fingers through his hair, feeling his spend trickle down their backside as they revel in the waves of heat his body gives off. When they finally find it in themselves to pull apart, it’s only long enough to clean up and curl up together on his bedroll. As they move about the room, they never stray further than arm’s length from each other.

[xxsycamore]

—𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳(𝘴)

► SYNOPSIS:

Aside from a holiday to spend with loved ones, Christmas is an opportunity for Yves. An opportunity to put his brilliant mind and his refined sense of beauty to use. Now that he has a Belle to impress, he must be exceptional.

...And when his height gets in the way of achieving that, his tall girlfriend comes to the rescue. Not that he asked for it.

▍yves x tall!MC (belle) ▍rating: G ▍tags: Tall!MC (Belle); Height Differences; Fluff; Christmas Decorations; Humor; Humor and Fluff ▍wordcount:  1,032

▍masterlist

▍a/n:  This one is for all the tall belles out there!! I'm quite tiny myself but I always wanted to write something like this! Hope you enjoy!!

Written for mine and @voltage-vixen's 'Tis The Season For Love challenge!

PROMPT: "Okay, maybe I DO need help putting the star on top of the tree."

Aside from a holiday to spend with loved ones, Christmas is an opportunity for Yves. An opportunity to put his brilliant mind and his refined sense of beauty to use. Now that he has a Belle to impress, he must be exceptional. The halls have to be decked and they have to be decked well. The tree must stand tall and glamorous; adorned with ribbons and glass ornaments and to be impossible not to be admired by whoever happens to walk by. No, no, Belle's eyes on the tree is all that matters! The additional praise wouldn't be unwanted, especially if it's from his dear Licht, but then Yves' mind trails off in the list of brothers until he remembers a certain hellcat. Everybody knows how cats and Christmas trees are - they should not be allowed in the same room. Which just adds to the list of rooms Clavis is unwelcomed in.

And tall and glamorous the tree stands.

Tall.

Now, it's not like Yves has to do everything with his own two elegant hands - there are people for that. That's why he was content enough with giving directions as he oversaw the process of decorating many walls and surfaces around the castle, but this here is different. He specifically ordered for noone to enter here as he takes care of beautifying the tree, sending a note for Belle to come in half an hour to be the first seeing the result.

He's soaring on the wings of love, driven to enfold his talents in order to impress her…alas, the wings don't bring him high enough.

The tips of his deft fingers, clad in snow-white glove, are barely holding onto the star ornament meant to be placed at the highest point of the tree. A little more and he risks it falling to the tiled floor with a horrifying sound of broken glass. He doesn't want that to happen, no, so he summons more concentration. The bottom of the star barely grazes the branch it's meant to stand on, yet, the realization is knocking on the door. He simply cannot reach with that height of his.

Knock knock.

No, this is not his realization knocking at a metaphorical door this time, it's all quite real, so it must be-

"Belle!"

Blue eyes widening, Yves takes a step back, lowering himself from the tips of his toes but not fast enough to hide what he's been up to. This is a nightmare; he managed to get distracted enough so the time has passed without his knowledge, Belle is here, he's not ready, and she most likely saw his futile attempt to reach higher…

"Wow…woooow! Yves! It looks amazing! You did this all by yourself?"

Ah. Maybe he's saved by his own creation, albeit unfinished.

"Why, yes. Are you doubting it?"

Belle laughs and her laugher is the sound of dozen delicate little golden bells that unfortunately Yves cannot adorn the tree with. Though, that's fine, she always wears those best.

She comes in closer, sweeping her hand over each of his shoulders as their little inside joke with which she teases him for his occasionally proud nature. Then, she would normally go for a kiss over his cupid's bow, puckered by a frown she summoned with her teasing - yet, this time his lips are the ones welcoming hers. To the disadvantage of his height, Yves loves to grasp the back of her neck and pull her down, gently. It's a simple greeting kiss, a little more than a pressing of lips against lips, but with the perfect amount of decency that only aims to say I missed you.

But his beloved has sharp eyes.

"What about the star?"

Yves' eyes trail down to where hers are curiously staring, the object in his hands, wits are hurriedly coming up on his mind.

"Ah, uh, I actually… I wanted you to place it." He thrusts the ornament into her hands, with a suddenly highlighted reaction to their briefly touching hands. The rise of intensity of the moment doesn't translate to Belle, who only appears more smug about the whole exchange.

"Hooh? Are you sure it's that, and not that you couldn't reach…?"

Yves is at the brink of producing a choking sound in his throat that is anything but suiting his elegant persona. He's so held aback by being found out, he can just grit his teeth and face away from his beloved.

"Okay, maybe I DO need help putting the star on top of the tree."

"Huh?" Blinking with invisible question marks floating above her, Belle makes Yves turn towards her but keeps her hands on his shoulders even after he does. "I was just teasing you… why didn't you ask anyone? Or take a stepladder?"

Yves wants to go outside, find a nice pile of snow and bury himself there. It would even help cool his burning cheeks aside from releasing him from living in embarrassment.

"I told you, I wanted you to-"

"Wait, I've got you!"

And suddenly Yves feels weightless, breather dying in his throat. The scent of Belle overwhelms him as the tight hug from behind sends him soaring in the air, this time it's real unlike before, but Yves can't allow himself to bask in the feeling. He wants to be unhanded immediately, and he remembers the star he's still holding, and he knows he has to place it in order to touch the ground again. And place it he does.

"Yaaay!" Belle exclaims, clapping her hands quietly as much as she can while still hugging Yves from behind.

"Why did you do that?? What if you strained your arms? I can't be that light, you could have-"

"But Yveees, you were so cute…"

Belle pouts, glad that at least her boyfriend is not facing her because she wouldn't be able to handle his scolding while face to face. Thankfully he's not struggling to get out of her grasp just yet.

Up this close, she can see the tips of his ears burning red. A goofy smile spreads on her lips.

Smooch smooch smooch

"B-Belle, that's enough! Let me go! I have other decorations to show you…!"

--------

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[thecoffeelorian]

Kiss Me, Captain (2)

Title: Kiss Me, Captain

Chapter Title: Interrupted

Word Count: 1,431 words

Brief Description: Captain Howzer x Female Reader, Captain Howzer x Chandrilan Reader (Singular Love Interest)

Tags: @angrypaperearthquake-tbbb-main @afuckinnerfpuncher @anxiouspineapple99 @burningfieldof-clover @freesia-writes

Extra Notes: Yeah, I kinda borrowed a trace of '10 Things I Hate About You' in my introductory chapter...however, my next several installments will hopefully be a lot more original as far as fanworks can go. Also, I've been tending to an injured family member since this past spring, so that should explain my summer-long absence.

"Whoa!"

You catch yourself in time before you walk straight into the man, and automatically start thinking of the best apology to give him. Though there are undoubtedly many people out and about in the streets this time of day, nevertheless, it wouldn't be good of you to forget your basic manners. Not when you're so close to making your escape, and more or less doing your best not to attract too much attention.

However...

Once you've looked up into those dark eyes properly, it's only then that you notice him. That same focused, wary look that you must have seen at least half a hundred times within the last few years. The face of one Mandalorian warrior reflected in the faces and lives of thousands, only this time, it's not just one more Trooper passing you in the street.

"Apologies, ma'am. Afraid I didn't see you zere."

No, this time, that Trooper's focused on nobody else but you...and despite your own stubbornness and bad temper, you feel yourself start to get just the slightest bit warm.

"No, no, the fault is all mine. I'm the one who got distracted."

Warm, and under his scrutiny, and curiously not ready to throw the nearest chair at this Trooper's sudden appearance. Not like you would have done in the presence of a less interesting, more infuriating fellow. How strange it seems that things can change so quickly.

"Well...I guess the both of us should be careful, huh?"

"Most likely!"

Nevertheless, now that you've gone and broken the ice between yourselves, it almost seems wrong for you not to get a full sighting of him before you part ways. To try, if you're able, to figure out what sort of soldier he was on the various battlefields around the galaxy.

Whatever color armor he might have worn before, though, you can't exactly tell.

He seems to have abandoned his usual gear in favor of civilian clothing, for he's got on a set of gray pants and shirt, a simple black belt, and a pair of matching black boots. Hardly the sort of getup that promises, 'Look out, I'm a literal human weapon'...but then again, the war with the Separatists has recently been decided, so maybe all the soldiers involved can move on from this.

Or so you hope.

"Whereabouts are you headed, soldier?"

"The same place everyone else is going, ma'am. Out into the galaxy to seek my fortune."

You and me both, you think to yourself, taking a quick mental note of the telltale scarring upon the right side of his otherwise unmarred face. Though this one seems friendly enough, other people, or droids, or perhaps even wild beasts seemed to have disagreed with his existence entirely, for any one of them could have been responsible in taking their aggression out upon him.

In spite of what he's gone through, however, he seems to be keeping his spirits up. Yes, this appears to be the face of a Trooper who could easily be off to his first real job off the battlefield, if not also a variety of other things, that war itself wouldn't have allowed him otherwise.

A shame you don't have the option of sticking around, though, because unfortunately, along comes the first of three notifications over your commlink to remind you that the early boarding process has begun.

Still...at this same time, it's got to be all for the best.

"So, I...should be going now, I'm afraid. I don't want to miss my shuttle."

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you since you first began to speak. He's making it just a little bit harder for you to pull yourself away, because as soon as you do, there's a very strong chance you'll begin to understand that you're well, and truly, alone.

Or could it be that you haven't been able to take your eyes off of him...?

"Of...of course, Ma'am. You be safe out zere."

He finishes his sentence with a quick salute, after which you feel yourself snap back to reality. It's time for you to go. He might be staying on this planet for some time yet, but you're not, and it's time for you to go. Right now.

"And you as well. Soldier."

Hefting your own bag a bit higher on your arm, you're turning yourself away and very nearly marching the rest of the distance to the space port. You need to leave this planet before you begin to think too much about staying behind, about abandoning the few friends who have already gone ahead of you and are waiting for you, and about giving Briana something to mock you with if she ever found out you might be as weak as she is around members of the opposing gender.

Not that you will, of course.

No, secret meetings are more of her thing, so naturally, she can have them. Whatever it takes for her to keep on being "the good girl" of Chandrilan society, keeping all of its traditions from the cradle to the grave, and more or less feeling safe in that curse of a Binding she seems to love so much.

You, on the other hand, are making your own way in the galaxy.

A way that begins just as soon as you're away from this stifling rock, on course to Naboo, and well out of the atmosphere before Father knows you're gone. It's this way that guides you through various patches of other fellow travelers, a seemingly random mix of humans, Rodians, Trandoshans, and Twi'leks, with a handful of Jawas and Mon Calamari hovering around the edges. There's even two or three Clone Troopers talking heatedly amongst themselves somewhere around the center, though you can't exactly make out their words. Probably debating the politics of the day, or current events, or asking themselves just how that Chancellor Palpatine fell down the stairs, for all that you know.

As for you, you're careful to get into the line for your flight out, all the while keeping your head down. Just in case.

Right on time, you think, patting the side of your bag just to reassure yourself that nothing's been lost or stolen. So far, everything's still there, which is a blessing in itself. Nothing's holding you back in that regard, all right.

The sooner I'm away from this stuffy planet, the better...

Then again...it's not until you just happen to glance to your right that you begin to notice the other travelers around you a bit more. This blue Twi'lek, for one, waves wistfully at a group of her friends before slowly turning and walking to her waiting ship.

That green Rodian, for another, chats away over a commlink to family members, their smaller faces reflecting a bit of his own features even through the blue light.

And third, there just happens to be a Human woman hugging her parents goodbye not twenty feet away from where you stand, their tearful farewells evident solely by their expressions alone.

In other words, they’ve all had someone to see them off on their respective journeys…but because of your own escape, that’s the one thing you’ve had to go without. Nobody’s around to give you a goodbye hug, or wave to you one more time before boarding, or even to ask if you packed an extra poncho for Naboo’s wetter rotations.

Is this a sign, then, that no one will miss you if an accident should befall your ship, or someone steals your holo-pass, or Force forbid, you’re stolen away to an Outer Rim planet to do the bidding of some petty warlord…? Just how angry, or bitter, or apathetic would your family be if the worst happened to you, but they learned about your abandonment of them well in advance and thought your fate a deserving punishment?

There’s no way for you to tell, unfortunately. You never really had so much of an inkling of Force sensitivity, so any hopes of predicting your own future are well out of your reach.

Instead, it seems to be just you, your bag, the line of other passengers ahead of you, and—

“—You there. Traveler.”

…And the sound and sight of a second Clone Trooper standing not six inches away from you, one hand motioning you forward.

Clearly, whatever brought you and that first Trooper to the same spot at the exact same time—the Force, mere chance, or sheer dumb luck—well, it just might not be done with you yet.

“Please step out of the line, ma’am. There’s something we need to discuss.”

[blazeismyname]

OK OK!!! NEED NOTES ON MY DESCRIPTION FOR BRIAN FOR THE MASTER DOC!!! TELL ME IF I MISSED ANYTHING OR GOT ANYTHING WRONG... (gonna shy autistic tag @rocksanddeadflowers and @unsat-and-strange since you two know equally as much as me!!!). BTW, THIS IS NOT GOING INTO MUCH OF THE PLOT!!! THE PLOT IS GONNA BE A WHOLE SEPARATE SECTION!

Brian

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Brian was originally a man living in a village who was very talented with herbs and weeds, helping them to make medicine. Unfortunately, the villagers of his home were critical of everything and saw his work as “witchcraft”. He was publicly accused of witchcraft, hung from a tree (Hanged Man style) and left to die due to whatever cause. Fortunately, Brian was able to escape (possibly with a hidden knife? I don’t believe it was decided yet) and he ran deeper into the woods. Deeper he went, until he was attacked by angry wolves/octokitten (I don’t believe that was decided either). He lay there, mangled, his heart still faintly beating though. Thankfully, Carmilla had heard the whispers and had gone to save him. Carmilla, seeing the broken body, took him into her home and gave him a new body of metal with his beating heart still, now steadily, in the centre. Carmilla had used some magic and engineering skills to create Brian’s body, but it did come with some unfortunate consequences. Brian’s body is very stiff and he has chronic pain, which leads him to usually wear skirts and dresses since they're easy to move around in as well as take off. He’s also very sensitive to sound and touch. Specifically rope feelings trigger his sensitivity and he will shut down at the feeling. When Brian woke up in his new form, the first thing he saw was Carmilla hugging him and holding him close. This would start the beautiful mama and son duo of Doc Carmilla and Brian.

Brian had to develop his name after being reborn into his metal body. He also had to essentially reinvent himself since his memories of the past are like looking through a window of frosted glass. He developed an interest and passion for music, especially story-based songs. He created instruments with the help of his mama and wrote music as well as picking up music from travelling artists and the local library. His favourite song in particular was a song called Tale as Old as Time because he loves the story and thought behind it. He also enjoys dancing!

Brian doesn’t quite fit in well with the townsfolk. Some quite fear him and others just find him strange. Despite this, he is tolerated by the folks. Carmilla is defensive and threatening to those who see Brian being odd in a bad way since they are very close. There are also a few people who do not fear him or find him weird. Two of these are the local fuck boy, Baron Marius Von Raum, and his best friend, The Toy Soldier. Marius believes this is love and that he is in love with Brian, but he’s just obsessed with the only interesting character in town. The other one who isn’t afraid of Brian is the local bookkeeper. He’s blind and can not see Brian’s true form, so accepts Brian immediately. Brian will talk to the bookkeeper constantly about music and check out music from the library. The bookkeeper is the one who lets him keep the Tale as Old as Time song!

Brian is known to be a sweet and curious soul. He has so much love to give and so much to learn again. But his mama didn’t raise a doormat and he can stand up for himself. He pushes Marius off him firmly when he must and can say no. He does have weaknesses when it comes to being called strange and different or when it comes to people hurting his mama.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

Damage Gets Done - SAS: Rogue Heroes x OC - Chapter 4

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |-| Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Summary: Diana's first mission with L Detachment begins with a loss that shakes her to her core, as Eoin McGonigal's jump takes a tragic turn

Relationships: L Detachment x Platonic!OC, eventual Reg Seekings x OC

Warnings: Graphic injury descriptions, death, sooo much angst jesus christ

Word Count: 4.2k

Tags: @20th-centu-fairy-girl

A/N: listening to Abstract (Psychopomp) by Hozier whilst writing this chapter was the most painful decision I've ever made. Do with that what you will

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Pain rippled through Diana's knees as she hit the ground, falling sideways as her ankle rolled over a rock embedded in the sand, landing with her face against the ground as her parachute caught the wind. For a moment she was flailing, dragged blindly through the night across the sand as stones grazed the side of her cheek until it began to ooze blood. Seizing the knife from her belt, she severed the parachute chords just in time before the buckle on her helmet broke with a loud crack, the force sending it spinning off her head, vanishing over a nearby sand dune as the chute was carried away into the darkness, disappearing from view.

She winced as she pushed herself up onto her feet, the damage in her ankle sending painful twangs up her leg with every step as the grazed skin of her face burned, strands of hair that had fallen loose upon losing her helmet sticking to the warm blood. But still, it could be worse. Diana had seen men encounter worse injuries jumping off the back of the jeep during training, and it suddenly hit her that she was likely to see far nastier before sunrise.

Gritting her teeth through the sting of each stride, she began to move in the direction of the cries she had heard upon descent. The sandstorm was clearing now, but the moon and stars were nowhere to be seen, and she was only half certain she was heading in the right direction at all. Diana had been lucky to keep most of her belongings close, her precious rifle surviving the fall, but the weight of the pack now only served to worsen her discomfort as she clambered up and down the sand dunes, hands clapped around her mouth to project her voice as she shouted against the wind. "Hello? Anyone?" Somewhere over the next slope, she swore she heard a groan, an agonised grunt rising out of the desert brush. Quickening her pace, Diana ignored the way every muscle in her body begged for rest as she scrambled up the sand, skidding down the other side as she reached the unfortunate soldier.

But nothing could have prepared her for what she found.

Eoin was half devoured by the rough, dying plants, his body propped up against a ragged bush, blood covering half of his face. She let out a gasp, dropping to her knees in the sand at his side. The thorns had torn half the flesh off his cheek, hanging in ragged strips as he let out one slow, wheezing breath after another. But the real damage did not begin until she tore her gaze from his agony-stricken eyes, allowing herself to look at the rest of his body.

His parachute must have dragged him over the rocks for quite some way, for his clothes had been torn to shreds and the flesh beneath was a deep, ugly purple from bruising, littered with deep gouges where chunks of skin had been lost. Although the external damage did not appear too severe, there was a rattling sound as Eoin struggled to breathe, and from looking at his chest it soon became clear that at least half of his ribs had been shattered in the fall.

"Oh, Eoin," Diana spoke, attempting to stifle the quiver in her voice as she raised a hand to his forehead, stroking his hair to offer some kind of comfort. Although he could not find the strength to speak, he offered her a slight smile, his teeth stained with blood, one of them broken and half-missing. It was an agonising sight, and she held his hand close to her chest, a finger pressed against the inside of his wrist to feel for the moment his pulse ceased.

Something left Eoin's eyes the moment his heart stopped, some glimmer draining out of his deep brown pupils, and suddenly he looked like a thing, not a man - an object, no more alive than a piece of roadkill. His head lolled to the side, the bush he had been dropped on top of obscuring the injured half of his face, and for a moment he almost appeared unharmed. But Diana could feel the way his fingers turned limp in her grip, and over the whistling of the desert wind, she could tell the rattling breathing had stopped. Hot tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked fiercely to drive them out, letting them slip down her cheeks so they could no longer obscure her vision as she placed Eoin's hands gently back on his chest.

She had never seen a man die before.

Diana would not leave him here - she could not abandon him to this heartless wasteland, the very place that had torn him apart and killed him. Rising to stand, a single sob ripped through her chest as she looked around desperately for something that could help her carry him.

His parachute lay strewn across the bushes nearby, ragged and torn but serviceable for her purpose. Tugging it over the thorns, careful not to ruin it any further, she freed the fabric, laying it out flat as best she could in the wind, pinning the edges down using nearby rocks. Looking down at it now, the fraying white carpet below her, she felt her heart stop. It had been her who had checked Eoin's straps before they jumped - it had been her responsibility to ensure he would be safe, to ensure everything worked as it should. Was it her fault now that he was here? That he had died in the dark, in pain and afraid? He had been frightened up in that plane - she could see it, even if he hadn't wanted her to. He had been right.

Sliding her arms under his and wrapping them around Eoin's torso, Diana lifted the man as best she could, his heels dragging lines in the sand as she hauled him over to where the parachute was laid out, lowering him gently onto his back. His eyes were still open, watching the dark sky above. As she followed his gaze, she realised the stars had begun to appear, bright lights peering through the clearing haze as if coming to guide him away - to lift him up and take him home. Diana couldn't help but smile, wiping tears away with the back of her hand as she closed his eyes, wrapping him up in the remnants of the very chute that had killed him.

She tied the surviving parachute straps to her pack, knotting them around and around until they were tight enough, until she was sure she would not lose him again. Using the parachute as some kind of sledge, she hauled his body back up the sand dune, eyes trained on the stars above in some hope they could help guide her way even as her body felt as if it were tearing itself apart with the weight and the strain she forced upon it.

Their pace was slow, laboured, as Diana dragged Eoin McGonigals' body through the desert, pausing at the top of every slope to turn and haul him upwards, her arms growing just as fatigued as the rest of her with time. Her teeth chattered in the cold of desert nights, arms bare to the wind, as she had used her jacket to cover his wounds in a final act of respect. How many of the others would she never see again after this night? How many others had been lost to the fall and the wind and the rocks?

As the morning sun skirted the horizon in the distance, the temperature began to rise instantly, and in moments there was sweat beading where she had just been wracked with shivers. The muscles in her shoulders were raw and dead, each step agonising under the weight of Eoin's corpse, dragging limply behind her all the way.

The next dune they came to was the largest she had yet faced, but with a sigh and gritted teeth, she began the climb, sand giving way under her feet whenever she put her weight down, their progress seeming infinitely slower than it had before. Halfway to the top, Diana let her knees give way, collapsing to the floor, sand filling her shoes as she began to weep, filthy palms pressed over her eyes, skimming the painful grazes on her cheek as she sobbed. Where were they going? What the hell was she doing? Surely she'd never find the others in this wasteland, and for the last few hours she had become consumed by the idea that perhaps the others had not survived either - perhaps she was alone out here, fated to drag Eoin's body behind her as she grew more and more lost. She would never see her father again, never fulfil the mission she had spent her whole life training for, and all because she had failed the man at her back, because she had missed something in her own nerves, condemning him to die in her carelessness.

The feeling of hands pressing onto her shoulders didn't even stir her for a moment until she heard someone's "Shhh," and she peeled her hands from her eyes, squinting in the blinding sun. There was Kershaw, and for a moment Diana was convinced this was all a hallucination as he crouched down beside her, offering up what little water he had left in his canteen. But when she glanced further down the slope, there was Reg, unfurling Eoin from his bundle, the other boys helping him to lift the man and carry him to the bottom of the hill where they could offer him some semblance of a burial.

"How-?" Her voice trailed off, savouring the feeling of water sliding down her coarse throat.

"We were lucky," Dave explained, a grim frown creasing his expression. "Landed close to each other, we were waiting over the hill for the rest of you. After a while, we started to think you hadn't made it."

Diana let her head fall to the side, resting against Kershaw's shoulder. The simple relief of not having to hold up her own head felt like a ten-tonne weight lifted from her back, and she sniffed loudly, blinking away the last of her tears.

"... How far did you carry him?" He asked quietly.

"No idea. We've been going for hours, I found him as soon as I landed," She explained, never daring to let slip the suspicion that Eoin's death may have been her fault.

"Jesus."

Against her better judgement, Diana rose to her feet, yelping slightly at the pain in her legs as she skidded down the slope, Kershaw following at a cautious distance. She would not allow them to bury him without her. The graze on her cheek had already begun to scab over, but it was large and burned an angry red, and the moment Reg's gaze found her his mouth opened slightly in horror, unable to quite find the words. He held out his hand to help her in her last few steps, and she accepted, gripping him tightly as she limped towards the place they had begun to dig McGonigal's grave, the edges of the pit caving inwards with each breeze, the sand too loose the even hold itself up.

Seekings had felt the instinctual urge to offer up a "You alright?", but it was clear the question would have been redundant. She was not alright, hovering briefly on one leg to relieve the pressure on her injured ankle before lowering herself to sit again, his hand still firmly in her grip.

"You alright?" It was Diana's turn to ask, looking up at Reg as she raised her other hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

"... Yeah," He nodded stiffly, barely injured save for a few scrapes that littered his face.

She looked around at the rest of them, Dave aiding the others as they lowered Eoin into the ever-collapsing pit they had dug, shovelling sand over his body as the grains rolled down his cheeks, covering him until, bit by bit, he disappeared from view, nothing but a bulge in the ground to identify him. There were so few of them - not even ten survivors amongst them. How many of them had died the way Eoin had - dragged over the rocks until their insides were reduced to mush and their skin was torn from their bones. How many corpses were they leaving to rot under the sun, how many would go without a burial even as primitive as this, how many mothers would spend the rest of their lives not knowing where their sons' bodies were?

In the bright morning light, Diana began to realise she had not done as good of a job freeing Eoin's parachute from the bushes as she had thought, for poking through the ragged holes in the fabric were half a dozen sticks, which must have poked and scratched at him the whole way here as she dragged him across the desert. The thought had originally pricked at her chest with guilt, but then she had an idea.

Reg's brow furrowed as he felt the sudden release of pressure, Diana's grip on his hand relenting as she reached out for the tatters of fabric, frowning in concentration as she tugged the sticks free, careful not to ruin the parachute even further. Then, producing her knife, she cut the chute straps away, releasing them from where they remained tied to her backpack, and used them to wrap and tie the sticks tightly together into the shape of a crucifix, stabbing it into the sand above where Eoin's head now lay buried beneath the dirt. It was a gentle gesture, a kind determination that McGonigal would not be forgotten, a physical testament to all of the unspoken feelings the men dared not voice - not here, when hope already seemed so lost to them.

They stared at the grave marker in silence, its beams battered and uneven, far too fragile to ever last. But the men assembled there would always know this was where Eoin McGonigal was, even if they could never pinpoint it on a map, even if they'd never find it again. For now, it was enough.

"He was Christian, right?" Diana asked quietly. "Only, I don't know how to make any other shapes."

Varied huffs of laughter tittered through the group, and Kershaw sniffed loudly before speaking. "I think he was, aye."

She nodded, but before anyone could say another word, the sound of a gunshot echoing somewhere close by pulled their attention, Reg's hand instinctively finding her shoulder as they turned in its direction. It was suddenly silent, neither the wind nor the sounds of breathing were heard as they waited for another shot, another sound of life. The thought briefly occurred to Diana that it might not have been one of their own at all, that there was still a war going on in this desert, and it was foolish to assume they were alone. Even more startling was the realisation that they didn't have enough serviceable guns to cover even half of them, and their pathetic supply of hand grenades had little use out here.

And then it came again - a single bang echoing across the dunes, closer this time. The shots were too sporadic to be returning fire, and whoever was releasing them was moving, slowly but steadily towards them. There was only one person she knew ridiculous enough to waste bullets on such an endeavour.

"Paddy?!" Diana called, silently praying her voice would not be lost in the ever-swirling desert wind.

And then he was there - windswept and filthy but unharmed, clambering down from the crest of the dune ahead, squinting irritably in the sunlight. Paddy Wayne was only a few paces away from the others before he hesitated, finally noticing the makeshift grave they were standing around, his frown depending further.

There was something stuck in her throat, something painful and hard and a figment of her own imagination, but just real enough that Diana could not speak a word, could not tell him the news herself. She realised Reg was staring at her, wordlessly waiting for her to talk, but he accepted the slight shake of her head without delay, his expression contorted in a sorrowful scowl as he approached the Irishman himself.

"McGonigal, sir," Seekings stated, his body squared before Mayne but their eyes never quite able to meet.

"... Oh."

Diana had never heard Paddy have less to say than now, the stifled agony that twisted his frown into a silent grimace making up for all that was left unsaid, his gaze unable to pull itself away from the mound of sand that concealed Eoin's body from them. She hadn't known either of them long enough to see the true depth of their companionship, but she knew it was there - knew that Eoin was the only member of the detachment that he'd actually given a shit about from the start, knew that they came firmly as a pair even if Mayne would never truly admit to it. Losing Eoin was like tearing a limb from Paddy's own body, incurring a lifetime of phantom pains that would never truly fade. There would always come times when he would forget McGonigal was even dead - Diana knew this. She felt it herself sometimes - her mother's life ever-present within her even when the memory of her face was gone.

He tried to brush past the grief that had suddenly crippled him, attempting to surmise the state of their supplies and plan their next move as if any of that meant anything to him right now - as if he could do anything but rattle half-hearted orders when his mind was somewhere else entirely.

"We will head North, that fucking way, and we will reach the coast and find out airfields."

"Paddy, we won't destroy a single fucking thing with what we've got," Dave protested. He was right - they all knew he was right, even Mayne - but she knew he was looking for an opportunity to destroy, to displace all the anger and guilt bubbling within him.

"We need to head South, it's going to rain," Diana informed him, Reg beside her, nodding in agreement. "There's dark clouds forming, and we need to get to high ground or it'll wash everything away, believe me."

Mayne didn't want to leave, that much was clear. To him, it was the same as giving up - to him, it was a waste of Eoin's sacrifice. But the storm was rolling in fast, heavy, deep grey clouds approaching from over the horizon. She'd known people who had been stuck in such storms - who had seen the sand eroded away before their eyes, who had waded through mud so thick and deep that it rose to their waists - and Diana knew there was not enough energy left in her very bones for that, not now. They had to get out of here, or everything would get much worse, very quickly.

"We're not waiting around out here to fucking die," Diana declared, Paddy's indecipherable expression finding her, the look in his eyes somewhere between agony and rage. "Unless you know some way of keeping the grenades dry and getting us through a flooded desert, we have to move, Paddy."

Her tone had been severe, unrelenting, a mask to cover her own guilt. But as she watched the way he stared down at McGonigal's makeshift grave, she felt the pain again, tugging at her heart. He was ready to die out here, that much was clear now.

"Paddy, I'm sorry," Diana offered gently. "But if we even make it to the airfields now, it'll be the only thing we ever do. We need to go so we can come back again - we will come back armed to the teeth, and make this worth it."

Still, he did not move.

"Paddy, we can't leave without you." Seekings spoke emphatically.

"It's fine. Go."

The others did not seem to wish to continue arguing, Mayne's dismissal all the prompting they required to gather their belongings and begin the hike back up the sand dunes to higher ground. Reluctantly, Diana followed, the weight of the decision seemingly worsening the strain she still felt consuming her body. There seemed no certainty now that they would see him again - no surety that he would not lay down beside Eoin and wait to die, wait for the rain to flood that dip in the sand and drown him in the mud. In that moment, it seemed all was lost - their leader, their mission, their entire fucking reason for being stranded out in this wasteland.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The rain came quick and heavy, and without her helmet, there was nothing to protect Diana from it, her overalls soaked three shades darker, her hair clinging tightly to her neck and face. It became immediately obvious that their choice had been the right one, as torrents of water washed the sand away from the crests of the dunes into the basins below, creating murky ponds that would have been impossible to wade, their group reduced to walking single-file along the muddy ridges.

She wondered where the others were - how many of them were stuck in this storm. She wondered if Eoin's grave still stood, though she suspected it long washed away.

"Hey," She heard Reg call over the constant pittering of rain behind her, his hand reaching out to touch her arm, the soaked fabric sticking to her skin where his palm had skimmed against her.

"Yeah?" Diana asked, blinking away a raindrop that had landed on her eyelash as she turned back to look at him.

"Lemme carry that for a while, yeah?" He offered, gesturing to her pack. She was the only one of them who still had all of her belongings intact, and as the rain poured down upon the canvas, the bag's weight only multiplied, wreaking havoc on her already exhausted shoulders.

Wordlessly, she shrugged the thing off, grunting slightly at the feel of release before handing it over. "Thank you," She said, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

Seekings nodded. "Yeah, well... you've done enough today."

Diana accepted this, about to speak when she noticed a silhouette clambering along the sand ridges some hundred metres behind them, his rain-soaked uniform clinging tightly to his frame as he gradually caught up to them. She let out a surprised chuckle, and Reg turned to look, offering a similar grin as he clapped a hand on her shoulder, the pair in silent acknowledgement that things would be alright. They weren't going to die here, they were going to live. They were going to live, and they were going to avenge the death of Eoin McGonigal a hundred times over until the loss didn't sit so heavy on their hearts anymore, until the ache became bearable.

They had no words to offer Paddy, letting him silently trail behind him as they crossed the desert, heading South towards what they hoped would be their comrades. As the hours passed and the storm's gloom turned to true night, the clouds continued to roll further onward, lifting the downpour, and by the time they spotted the funnel of smoke rising from a speck of orange fire in the distance, they had almost dried off, the wet sand caking onto their boots, their clothes releasing their tight grip on their skin.

"Bloody hell, that's Stirling," Kershaw uttered, though none of them had the energy left to rejoice. And as they approached the small camp, one by one the ground remembered the code, the song they had to sing to save them from a bullet's worth of misunderstanding.

'Hail, hail, the gang's all here.

What the heck do we care,

What the heck do we care?

Hail, hail, the gang's all here.

What the heck do we care now?'

The words rolled bitterly off of Diana's tongue as they sang, the lyrics entirely too jovial for their current state. They weren't all here, and they would perhaps never know the true cost of this failed mission, for they would certainly never find the men they'd left out in the desert, not now that the rain had covered their bodies in sand and mud. Even as Stirling and his men sang to welcome them, their nakedness becoming visible the closer they got, she did not stir. She could not even find the energy to laugh at the mixture of horror and embarrassment that struck many of the men's faces as they realised they had exposed themselves to her, Jim hurriedly dashing for a blanket, profuse apologies rolling off his tongue as he covered his front.

There was no relief in this reunion. Diana did not want to sing, and she did not want to laugh. She wanted to lay down and sleep until she could feel her limbs again - until she could go five minutes without remembering the look in Eoin's eyes the moment his heart stopped. She wanted to go home.

[cheshiresandhearts]

The Monster Within

What have I become?

It hasn't been that long since Junko started assisting the militants. With the third and final rule of their utopia being "Death To All Traitors" the militants have been hard at work maintaining that rule, and on occasion before the traitors can revive death, they must give the militants answers. That's when aguni asked Junko to step in, asking the oldest chishiya to interrogate the prisoners seeing as niragi and his crew preferred to just beat the shit out of them without getting information. She was making her way down the hall to the room she had been asked to visit, apparently a traitor was caught trying to leave the beach and it's assumed he had others helping him. Niragi stopped her right as she went to open the door, giving her a look over before scoffing and opening the door for her. Junko made a mental note of the gesture, he normally would just ignore her, or try to taunt her the same as he does with her little brother. She shook her head to focus before the threats that were made against him can shuffle in, she wouldn't be doing this job unless she had to. She stood in front of the traitor, clipboard in hand as she began the interrogation.

After about three hours end and Junko still had nothing to show for it, niragi's constant teasing about her failure was not helping with her frustration. She can feel the anxiety and anger starting to itch at the back of her brain, threatening to creep out and consume her. She stepped out of the room, hoping some fresh air will help repel the feeling. She was just about to breath a sigh of relief when she heard the door opening and closing behind her, there was only one person it could be. He chuckled and she didn't have to turn around to see the smirk on his face,"you really are all bark and no bite aren't you 'princess'." He clicked his tongue, extenuating the horrid nickname he refuses to stop calling her. She let it show it getting under her skin once and now he won't fucking shut up with it. She took a deep breath, the crimson anger refusing to ebb away from the edges of her brain. She was about to turn around and just hand in a blank report to aguni when an arm dropped across her shoulders. Junko stiffened, not accustomed to casual touch let alone from someone not Shuntaro. She would have pushed him off and left like she originally intended, she would have. But then niragi whispered something in her ear. Something that let her walls crumble and the frustration of the interrogation infect her mind and senses 'Stop Holding Back'. She let niragi lead her back into the room, fingers gently gracing the rusted barbed wire that was being kept locked in here before it's current use. She pulled out her pair of leather gloves, securing them on her hands before picking up the barbed wire, continuing the interrogation.

Only thirty minutes later, Junko handed in the information report, the unfortunate death of the traitor tagged at the bottom as the after thought, she was silent the entire time even as she made her way back to her room. She turned the shower on setting the water to nearly scalding, she sat herself on the shower floor, right under the spray and began to cry. It didn't take long for her sobs to shift into laughter as well, it was a horrid broken sound. She felt disgusted with herself. Not for what she just did to that man, not for snapping at niragi for ending his life with mercy, she was disgusted with how she felt when that man's life was in her hands, she was disgusted as how free and relieved she felt. She's terrified to feel that way again.

[veryace-ficrecs]

Titans Tower Attack AU Fic recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :) 

I Have Come Back To You Broken (take me home) by LylaRivers - Rated T

His Replacement stares at him with glassy, unfocused eyes, his begging for mercy long since silenced. Jason doesn’t dare let himself think about how the Replacement had pleaded for Robin to save him.

aka the obligatory Titans Tower au because I love these two reluctant siblings and everyone needs a hug.

dry your smoke-stung eyes by destiny919 - Rated M

"If you knew I was coming, you must know it ain't for a tea party," Jason growls through his helmet, scrambling to get his plans back together. "What, B so eager to get rid of you that he sent you here without any armor?"

The kid quirks a smile that makes something churn in Jason's gut. "Something like that."

A Recipe for Disaster by Calypso_Rambles, JUBE514 - Rated T

“You’re crying.”

That’s the Red Hood, standing in the doorway into the hall, a hulking figure filling the frame, head tilted in question and hands on a gun that’s pointed to the floor. He looks uncertain, head tilted to the side like a goddamn bird.

“What?” Tim asks, because Tim is confused– he knows this is Jason Todd, kinda hard to miss with the red helmet and when the dude tried to blow up Dick and Bruce about a week earlier in the same outfit, but what the actual fuck is he doing in San Francisco–

“You’re crying.” Red Hood repeats, forgoing a one handed grip on his weapon to gesture to his– well– his everything.

Tim moves his hand up to his cheeks because he is definitely not crying over something as stupid as his dinn–

Huh.

Okay.

Maybe he is.

✦✦✦

Tim and Jason make food, drink and talk about parents. Jason was meant to kill this kid, but plans have a way of being derailed.

red chrome by envysparkler - Rated T

Tim had a ringing headache, squeaked past hour forty of no sleep, and was now hallucinating vaguely menacing shadows with red helmets.

(Jason’s attack on Titans Tower ends up going very differently.)

sick day by envysparkler - Rated T

Tim isn’t sick.  He isn’t.  He just isn’t sure when a floating red bucket joined the Teen Titans.

whiplash by envysparkler - Rated T

Tim just wanted a quiet night in the Tower to lick his wounds.  Unfortunately, the Red Hood has other plans.

carry you home in my teeth by windupclock - Rated G

Jason takes his helmet off before he goes to deal with his replacement. He’s not expecting a hug. He gets one.

Last Request by destiny919 - Rated T

"Any last words, Replacement?" Red Hood casually crouches down in front of him. "Or how about a last request? I'm feeling generous. I'll do you one last favor before I clip those little wings. Whatever you want. Sky's the limit."

There's only one thing he's ever really wanted from Jason Todd.

Little bird by Ididloveyou_once - Rated T

Tim knew he was fucked if only for the way that his brain was chanting Jason, like a litany. So he definitely didn’t need to hear the cold, mechanical chuckle or the chillingly delighted 'lucky me' to know that this was not good.

He took a second to look down at his coffee mournfully.

Then, he threw it at Hood’s helmet and bolted down the Tower corridor.

Or: Tim is supposed to be at Gotham Academy for a parent-teacher conference. Hood has other plans (Titans Tower AU).

Problem Children by eggmacguffin - Rated T

After his dad finds out about Robin and reacts...badly, Tim flees to Titans Tower to lick his wounds and figure out what hell he was supposed to do next. The tower was empty for the weekend, and he had until the end of it to come up with a plan, any plan.

The tower does not stay empty.