#flashbangs you with this and runs

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

I don't want to go to bed without trying to rip a Dr.Strangeglove model from the game first even if it seems like I will be running into some complications and possibly deadends but I fear I can feel some sleepiness creeping up on me, espeically after I had to get pulled away from intensely staring at my computer and lost some of my momentum. And I also worry that getting home tomorrow from workI won't have the same amount of energy for continuing this.I mean I still have some time left before I would like to go to bed but... i am getting closer to walking a fine line....

[numberonedukethomasapologist]

Yall what if when Duke cries it's just a flashbang

Or when he's angry it just gets pitch black

*Bruce and Duke trying to bake a pie (without Alfred supervision) that duke's mom used to make*

Bruce: .. OH SHIT THE PIE

Duke: ...it's burnt..

Bruce:😟

Duke: mamas pie.. *sniffles*

Bruce: du-

*💥BANG💥*

*Duke writing poems at the dinning table with cookies and milk from alfred*

Damian: DRAKE-

Time: AH FUCK- *RUNS PAST AND BUMPS INTO THE TABLE*

Duke: Wtf??- ..

*the paper he was drawing on is drenched in milk*

Tim & damian: 🧍🏻‍♂️🧍🏾‍♂️

Duke: *locks eyes with tim*

Tim: wha- THAT wasn't my fau-

*room goes pitch black and all you hear is a chair break and tim and damians screeching*

[miwsolovely]

—HOLLOWED PLACES

𝜗𝜚 — in which, jason almost loses you. you who built his world, you who is his world.

JASON TODD x READER mimi spitting out fics like crazy era , hint at reader being a vigilante but you’d have to squint, can also imagine reader as like a reporter / someone who searches + reports crime , . requested <3

The air reeked of smoke, gunpowder, and rotting metal. Rust dripped like blood from the beams overhead, and the shattered windows of the abandoned warehouse let in only slivered moonlight—pale and watchful. You ducked behind a rusted-out crate, heartbeat rattling like loose screws in your chest, breath caught somewhere between panic and instinct.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel-strewn floor. Not yours.

You’d come here on a hunch—stupid, reckless intuition. A whisper about a drop spot. A stolen phone pinging in this dead zone on the edge of Crime Alley. You hadn’t waited for backup. Hadn’t told Jason.

Because some part of you still believed you could handle it alone.

A flashbang cracked in the distance—followed by a scream, then silence.

You pressed a hand against your stomach, where the edge of a steel crate had kissed too hard. Bruised, but not broken. Not yet.

With a loud crash that reverberated in your bones, the back doors blew open like a bomb had gone off. Smoke spilled into the room in a crawling, living cloud, and through it walked a figure dressed in blood-red and black—shoulders squared, helmet glinting in the firelight like a demon had risen from the ashes.

Red Hood.

You didn’t even have time to say his name before he opened fire—precision sharp, brutal grace in motion. Two thugs dropped before they could turn their weapons. A third tried to run, and Jason threw a knife with an effortless flick of his wrist, pinning the guy by his jacket to the wall.

He didn’t speak as he approached.

Didn’t say a damn word as he took down the last straggler with a fist to the throat and a low, seething growl. Didn’t even flinch as a glint of a knife in his hand caught skin and pulled.

Only when the silence fell—thick, ringing, and absolute—did he finally turn to you.

His helmet came off with a jerk.

And Jason’s eyes burned like open flame.

“The hell are you doing here?” His voice was a snarl, barely leashed. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t answer right away. The adrenaline was still draining from your limbs like water through a cracked dam.

“I was following a lead,” You said, quieter than you meant to. “I thought—”

“You thought?” He cut in, voice slicing sharp and clean. “You thought this was a good idea? You didn’t even call me. You just waltzed into a goddamn death trap like it’s some kind of—what? Solo mission? Do you think you’re bulletproof?”

The hurt behind his fury made your chest tighten.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it if it turned out to be nothing,” You muttered. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Jason’s expression twisted—shock, heartbreak, and fury mingling in a storm behind his eyes.

“A burden?” He repeated, voice hoarse. “You think I care about being dragged into danger? That’s my job. My whole life is built around pulling people out of burning wrecks—especially you.”

The words punched the breath out of you.

“I thought I lost you,” He added, quieter now. It was raw and it scared you. “You didn’t answer your phone. I saw the ping on that burner you took and by the time I got here. . .” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was gonna find your body.”

Your heart cracked at the edges.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint tremble in his hands. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking in his cheek, but there was fear underneath all that anger—a bone-deep terror carved into every word.

You reached out, fingers brushing the hem of his jacket. “I’m sorry.”

Jason exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding it in for hours.

He didn’t raise his voice again. He just wrapped an arm around you, sudden and fierce, pulling you against his chest like he needed to feel you breathing just to believe it.

“Next time,” He said, voice low and ragged into your hair, “we go together. Or not at all. Got it?”

You nodded, face buried in his armor. His scent was smoke, leather, and something painfully familiar—home, even when everything around you burned.

“Got it,” You whispered.

He kissed your temple, lingering there like he could imprint safety into your skin.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself feel safe—tethered to the one person who would always come for you, even if it meant tearing down the city to do it.

Jason didn’t let go of you for a long moment. His arms were wrapped around you like he was anchoring you to the present, as though if he let go, you’d disappear into the rubble and smoke like a dream he’d wake from too late.

Then, finally, without a word, he slid his helmet on your head and gently guided you toward his bike.

The ride home was silent—save for the roar of the engine and the occasional sharp gust of wind that tugged at your clothes. Your arms were tight around his middle, face pressed to the worn leather of his jacket, and though the ache in your body hadn’t subsided, something inside you settled with every mile that carried you away from that godforsaken warehouse.

When you finally reached the apartment, Jason parked the bike with precision, killed the engine, and peeled his helmet off your head, smoothing down your hair with a worried look, the lines of tension still hardened on his face.

The lock clicked under his fingers. He ushered you inside with a hand on your back—gentle, but firm, like you were glass and he still hadn’t forgiven himself for watching you crack.

Inside, the low lights flickered on, casting everything in a gold-dusted hush. The apartment smelled like cedarwood and lingering gun oil, the kind of scent you’d once found intimidating and now found oddly comforting.

Jason crossed the room ahead of you, tossed his helmet onto the couch already shedding off his body armor, then turned back with eyes that scanned you top to bottom. “Sit,” He said. “Living room. Let me see.”

You didn’t argue.

The moment you sat, he was already kneeling between your legs, hands surprisingly gentle as they swept over your arms, your ribs, your thighs—checking for bruises, breaks, blood. His brows were furrowed, a storm still quietly raging behind his eyes, but his touch was reverent. Almost apologetic.

“I’m okay,” You murmured, but your voice came out thin. Unconvincing.

Jason didn’t answer right away. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and solemn. “Let me take care of you.”

There was no room for pride in that request. No sharp edges, no armor. Just the quiet plea of someone who needed to make sure you were still here, still whole.

You nodded.

He moved like a ghost then, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom with all the familiarity of ritual. When he returned, he cleaned the gash near your hip—nothing deep, but raw and angry-looking. The alcohol stung, but he didn’t flinch when you hissed. He murmured something low—an apology, or maybe a reassurance—as he worked.

His fingers were stained with your blood, but his hands were steady.

When he was done with you, you gestured for him to sit. “Your turn.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding, Jason.”

A breath escaped him—half a sigh, half surrender. He pulled off his shirt, revealing the mosaic of fresh bruises blooming along his ribs like stormclouds. A long scrape ran across his side, angry and red.

You worked in silence, the antiseptic sharp between you, the quiet hum of the city outside the only sound. As you pressed gauze to his wound, your hand trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from the sudden, sobering awareness of how close this had been.

“You could’ve gotten hurt worse,” You whispered.

Jason looked at you then—really looked—and something in his gaze softened. “So could you.”

You pressed the bandage into place, helped him put his shirt back on, then rested your palm over his chest, just above his heart. It beat strong beneath your fingers, steady and alive. And for a moment, that was all that mattered.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” You said. Gentle.

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing briefly like your hand was the only thing tethering him to solid ground. “You didn’t just scare me,” He said, voice low. “You wrecked me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so instead, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. The space between you buzzed with things left unsaid—fear, anger, relief, love—all wrapped in the same silence that hung heavy in the apartment like smoke that never cleared.

His hands found your waist, careful and grounding. Yours rested on his shoulders, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage you’d just placed.

And together, under dim lights and aching hearts, you held each other—not because either of you were broken, but because in the wreckage of that night, this was what survival looked like.

Quiet. Steady. Earned.

You stayed like that a while—knees brushing, foreheads touching, hearts slowly finding the same rhythm again. The world outside could fall apart, and maybe it had tonight, just a little. But here, in this pocket of warmth and gauze and unspoken promises, you both breathed a little easier.

Eventually, Jason eased back and stood, offering you a hand. His palm was calloused and nicked from years of holding guns and gripping rooftops, but when he held yours, it was soft—like even with all the danger in his bones, he remembered how to cradle something delicate.

“Come on,” He said, voice low and gravel-edged. “Let’s get some rest.”

You followed him into the bedroom, the floor creaking underfoot like it, too, exhaled after the night’s tension. The sheets were rumpled from earlier, but still warm. Jason tugged his shirt over his head again, a wince catching at his side, and you stopped him with a hand to his wrist.

“Don’t push it,” You said.

“’m fine.”

“You’re not made of titanium, Jay.”

He snorted faintly, then let you guide him to the bed. The two of you slipped beneath the covers without ceremony, just quiet, exhausted gravity. You settled into him like muscle memory, head tucked under his chin, his arm looping around your waist.

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the city bleeding in through the windows and the soft cadence of his breathing.

Then, quieter than before, Jason spoke.

“When I found you in that warehouse. . .” His voice cracked a little, like something raw split open beneath the words. “I saw you—on the ground, blood on your shirt, that look on your face. I—” He stopped, swallowed, started again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.”

Your chest ached.

You looked up, and even in the dark, you could see the guilt etched across his brow, in the way his jaw clenched like he was still trying to keep something buried.

“I’m here,” You whispered. “I made it. Because of you.”

Jason’s arm tightened around you. “You don’t get it,” He said hoarsely. “You’re the one thing I can’t lose. Not after everything. Not you.”

And just like that, the last of the night’s defenses cracked.

You leaned up and kissed his temple, slow and lingering, like a benediction. “You won’t,” You murmured into his hair. “You won’t lose me.”

Silence stretched again—but this time, it was full. Of trust. Of breath. Of healing.

Jason’s breathing slowed, and you felt the tension bleed out of his body bit by bit, until he finally melted into the bed, into you. And you followed soon after, both of you bruised but whole, fragile but stitched back together in the places that mattered.

Outside, the city kept its noise, its violence, its ghosts.

But with him, under the soft hush of shared blankets and battered hearts, there was peace.

It wasn’t perfect or clean; but it was real. And that was enough.

It was the kind of peace that didn’t sing or shine, but rather breathed—low and slow, like the final exhale after a storm’s last crash. It settled in the hollow places: in the cracks beneath your ribs, in the ache of bruised skin, in the place between Jason’s shoulder and your cheek where your breath fogged against his bare collarbone.

The room was dark, but not empty. The quiet wasn’t silence—it was safety. The distant drone of traffic and the occasional siren became nothing more than white noise, swallowed by the warmth radiating from Jason’s body and the slow, syncopated beat of his heart under your hand. You could feel it, solid and relentless beneath your palm, a pulse like a war drum that had finally quieted to a lullaby.

He had one hand curled at your waist, fingers twitching in his sleep like his body didn’t quite trust that you were still there, even now. His other arm was tucked beneath the pillow you shared, cradling your head. Every inch of him—this man built of muscle and scars and rage—was wrapped around you like he was made for it.

And maybe he was.

Jason Todd was not a soft man. He was fire and steel, vengeance with a loaded gun and a restless soul. But in this hour, in this bed, he’d folded down all his edges just to make room for you. Every breath he took was a vow spoken in silence: I’ve got you. I won’t let go.

The ceiling above you was cracked and dim, a canvas smeared by passing headlights, and the shadows that moved across it were slow and reverent—like even the night didn’t dare disturb the stillness that had grown between you.

You didn’t sleep right away. Your body ached too much, and your thoughts—though gentler now—still flickered like old film reels. But you stayed close. You listened. To him. To yourself. To the miracle of being here, alive, and held.

And when your eyes did finally close, it was not from exhaustion, but from surrender.

Not to weakness—but to rest. To the quiet kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations or perfect timing. The kind that waited through the worst of you and met you in the wreckage, hands steady, heart bruised but unwavering.

You drifted off with your fingers still tangled in his shirt and his breath warm against your forehead, knowing—deep in the marrow of you—that tomorrow would come, full of city noise and unspoken danger and all the chaos that living beside him brought.

But tonight? Tonight, you had this: blood and balm, thunder and tenderness, wrapped up in the arms of a man who would tear the world apart just to keep you breathing.

And that, you thought as sleep finally claimed you, was more than enough.

And as sleep finally threaded its fingers through your hair and pulled you under, you didn’t think of the warehouse, or the bruises, or the mistakes that had almost cost you everything.

You only thought of him—the quiet strength in his arms, the steady beat of his heart anchoring you home—and how, in this fragile sliver of night, wrapped in the aftermath of chaos and care, you were no longer afraid.

Not of tomorrow. Not of falling. Not with him beside you.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3

[just-aake]

Endearing Entanglements Part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 2 of Endearing Entanglements. Being on the run is tough. Natasha eventually has no choice but to call for some help.

Warnings: fluff, light angst, implied sexual themes

Words: 3430

The night air is cool against Natasha’s skin as she stands beneath the cover of shadows near the corner of the empty street. The dim glow of a distant streetlamp barely reaches her, leaving her concealed in the darkness. 

She adjusts the hood of her jacket, the recently cut strands of her dyed blonde hair swaying slightly as she turns her head, scanning her surroundings with caution.

Being on the run has been brutal—physically, mentally, and emotionally. 

Especially after the Raft prison break, forcing her into a constant state of movement with no real moment of rest. 

Supplies are limited, safe havens even more so. 

Every day is a delicate game of survival, narrowly avoiding authorities, slipping past Ross’ men, and making sure those with her remain out of harm’s way.

Keeping her teammates safe is one thing.

Keeping those who willingly choose to help her is another.

Mason has already paid the price for his involvement, detained for his so-called “assistance” to her. Though he had managed to get released, Ross’s watchful eye was now firmly planted on him. 

That alone is enough reason for Natasha to hesitate before reaching out to any of her remaining contacts. 

The risk was simply too high.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

The sudden, sharp sound of shattering glass cut through the quiet night, instantly snapping Natasha’s attention upward. 

Her muscles tense, her hand instinctively hovering near her concealed weapon as her eyes lock onto the source. 

From the fourth-story window of the old brick building across the street, a shadowed figure propels through the new opening and into the air, twisting mid-fall with practiced precision. 

In one fluid motion, they fire a grappling line, the cable anchoring into the adjacent wall, allowing them to swing effortlessly into a controlled descent. 

At just the right moment, they release the line, landing with a smooth roll before rising swiftly to their feet.

Flashbangs detonate inside the building behind them, the brief bursts of light flickering against the windows, followed by the frantic shouts of those left scrambling inside.

Natasha’s gaze drifts from the chaos back to the figure standing just a short distance ahead.

A low hum of satisfaction escapes you as you casually brush the dust from your clothes, barely fazed by the intensity of your escape. 

You take a quick glance around before your gaze finally meets hers.

A grin, wide and utterly unapologetic, spread across your lips.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Without hesitation, you close the space between you, hands gently cradling her face. 

The moment your fingers brush against her skin, warmth surges through her. 

Then, without another thought, you lean in, capturing her lips in a kiss.

Natasha stiffens for just a second, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy.

But then, the tension melts from her body, her lips parting in a quiet gasp—one you eagerly take advantage of, deepening the kiss with a hunger neither of you had the luxury to indulge in for far too long.

Her hands find their way to you, fingers gripping the fabric of your jacket, pulling you in closer as if afraid to let go. 

It was grounding—this moment of familiarity in a life that had become nothing but uncertainty.

But then, as her hand brushes against your side, you suddenly break the kiss with a sharp intake of breath.

Natasha pulls back just enough to see the flicker of pain flash across your face. Her brows furrow, concern instantly replacing the haze of the moment.

“Careful, love,” you murmur with a soft chuckle, exhaling through the lingering sting. “I think I may have reopened the stitches on my landing.”

A familiar mix of exasperation and affection flickers in her expression, her fingers tightening slightly on your jacket.

“Of course you did.”

Even as she sighs, there is no mistaking the way her hold on you remains steady, unwilling to let you go just yet.

But then, a sudden movement flickers in the corner of her vision. 

In an instant, Natasha’s instincts take over. She yanks you sharply to the side, the sudden motion forcing you off balance just as her hand flies up, launching a compact taser disk at the oncoming figure. 

The moment the disk connects, an electric surge crackles through the air, the assailant convulsing before collapsing to the ground with a dull thud. 

The whole exchange happened in mere seconds.

You barely had time to register it before glancing over your shoulder at the now-unconscious attacker. 

A slow smirk tugs at your lips as you turn back to her, eyes flickering with something both teasing and admiring.

“Still exceptional as always, love,” you muse, tilting your head slightly as your fingers twirl a lock of her blonde hair between them. “Even with the new look.” 

Natasha huffs, rolling her eyes, but there is no real annoyance behind it. If anything, the ghost of a smirk threatens to tug at the corners of her mouth.

“Yeah, well,” she exhales, shaking her head as she glances down at the unconscious attacker. “That was my last one, so we need to move.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before grabbing your hand, her grip firm as she leads you down the dimly lit street.

You follow without hesitation, but as you shift your grasp, threading your fingers more securely through hers, you half-expect her to pull away.

She doesn’t.

If anything, her hold only tightens slightly, bringing a small smile to your face.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha curses under her breath, jaw tightening as she wrestles with the lock on their current safe house door. The rusted key refuses to fit properly, scraping against the metal edges of the keyhole with stubborn resistance. 

Her fingers clench around it, frustration mounting with each failed attempt.

You lean casually against the wall beside her, arms crossed, watching her struggle with a barely concealed smirk.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she mutters without looking at you, catching the amusement in your expression from the corner of her eye.

“I wouldn’t dare,” you reply smoothly, but the teasing lilt in your voice betrays you.

Natasha sighs, shaking her head. She knows you too well to believe that. 

Then, just as you part your lips, no doubt ready to make some remark about the questionable state of the safe house, she cuts you off.

“Don’t.”

The single word carries enough warning to make you chuckle lightly, though it does little to deter the glint of amusement in your eyes.

“You really should’ve contacted me sooner, love,” you say, tilting your head as you watch her struggle with the lock a moment longer. “None of my safe houses are like this.”

As if in defiance of your words, Natasha gives the door one final, forceful shove with her shoulder. The force is enough to finally unstick the warped frame, sending the door flying open—along with Natasha, who stumbles forward with a sharp inhale of surprise. 

Before she can steady herself, a firm arm wraps around her waist, catching her mid-fall. 

You pull her back upright and against you effortlessly, holding her steady from behind before letting the movement shift into something softer—a lingering embrace as you rest your chin on her shoulder.

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed your calls,” you murmur, your breath warm against the side of her head.

Your lips brush just under her ear, pressing a fleeting kiss there, light but deliberate.

Natasha exhales softly, the tension in her shoulders gradually loosening as she settles into the familiar comfort of your arms. 

For a brief moment, she allows herself to relax, to sink into the warmth of someone who knows her beyond the mission, beyond the fight.

But then, an awkward clearing of a throat shatters the moment.

Natasha stiffens instantly, instinct kicking in as she steps forward, pulling away from your embrace and pivoting toward the open doorway. 

Steve stands there, shifting slightly on his feet, a plastic bag of supplies in one hand while the other runs across the back of his neck, an awkward expression settling across his features.

“Uh…we can come back later, Nat,” he offers, tone uncertain.

Beside him, Wanda stands with her arms wrapped around herself, making no move to step forward. She isn’t as outwardly uncomfortable as Steve, but the curiosity in her eyes is evident as she glances between you and Natasha.

Before Natasha can respond, you speak first, stepping forward with your usual ease, a charming smile effortlessly finding its way onto your lips.

“That won’t be necessary,” you say smoothly, voice carrying an air of lighthearted confidence. “I’m here to help all of you, after all.”

Steve’s brows lift slightly, skepticism flickering behind his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you can practically hear the unsaid questions forming in his mind. Wanda’s lips twitch ever so slightly as if amused by the boldness of your declaration, though she keeps whatever she’s thinking to herself.

Still, their silence tells you what you already know: they aren’t entirely convinced.

But that’s never stopped you before.

Your smile doesn’t falter as you turn to Natasha, giving her a quick wink before adding, “We can start with moving you all someplace a little more…comfortable.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before Natasha sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose briefly before giving you a look that’s equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement.

“Alright, let’s go to one of yours.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You gesture towards different parts of the new safe house, your voice calm and efficient as you lead them through the space.

“Bedrooms are over here, each with their own bathrooms,” you say, motioning toward the respective areas before stopping at the center of the modest yet well-kept living space. 

Three neatly packed duffel bags sit on the coffee table, their contents carefully prepared. 

“And these,” you continue, patting the bags lightly, “are some fresh clothes for each of you. Your new IDs are inside.”

Natasha scans the safe house, her sharp gaze taking in every detail. She isn’t surprised at the level of quality—it’s exactly what she expects from you.

Secure, quick, and discreet. 

You never do anything halfway.

A sharp vibration cuts through the air, the muffled sound of a phone ringing.

Casually, you pull it from your pocket, giving the screen a brief glance before pressing a button to silence it.

Without another thought, you slip it back into your pocket as if the call never happened.

Natasha’s brows knit slightly, her attention lingering on you. 

You don’t leave clients waiting. Efficiency is what you pride yourself on. Quick responses and seamless transactions. 

Ignoring a call? That’s unlike you.

Before she can question it, Wanda speaks up, drawing your attention.

“Is there hot water?” she asks, curiosity evident in her tone at the severely missed luxury since being on the run.

You turn to her with an easy smile. 

“Sure is, love.”

Natasha’s brow twitches almost imperceptibly. The term of endearment directed at Wanda doesn’t go unnoticed, and though she keeps her expression neutral, her eyes flick toward you, subtly watching your interaction with the other Avenger.

You hand Wanda her duffel, and as if sensing Natasha’s gaze, you turn and meet her eyes. 

A knowing glint flickers in your expression as you offer her a small smile.

Wanda, oblivious to the silent exchange, nods in thanks before disappearing into one of the bedrooms.

Meanwhile, you step over to the far side of the room, pull out a black case, and place it on the table.

“Now for my favorite part,” you say with a smirk, unlocking the case and turning it toward Natasha. “Your equipment.”

Seeing her usual, neatly arranged weapons draws a faint smirk to Natasha’s lips. She steps forward, fingers brushing over the familiar weight of her batons, trusty firearms, and multiple taser disks.

“You always know what I like,” she murmurs, amusement lacing her tone.

“Of course,” you reply with a wink before shifting your attention to Steve, who has been sifting through his duffel with quiet curiosity.

“I’m afraid a Vibranium shield might be a little harder to come by,” you muse, watching as he inspects the items inside. “But I’m sure I can get a new protective suit for you—something more subtle for fights while on the run, Captain.”

Steve glances up, nodding slightly. “Appreciate it.”

You clap your hands together, pulling a measuring tape from your pocket with a flourish. 

“I’ll just need your measurements, love.”

Natasha’s lips twitch downward slightly, the term now directed at Steve. As you approach Steve, she catches you throwing a quick glance her way as if watching for a reaction.

Attempting to hide her expression, Natasha averts her gaze, making herself look busy as she checks over the equipment in the case.

Steve shifts awkwardly as you begin taking his measurements, lifting his arms and adjusting his stance as you direct him.

After a beat, he clears his throat. 

“So, how long have you and Nat known each other?”

You hum in thought, not looking up from your work.

“Going on three years now, I believe.”

Steve’s brows lift slightly before his gaze flickers toward Natasha, as if piecing things together. 

“And are you two…?” He trails off, the implication hanging between you.

A low chuckle slips from your lips as you shake your head lightly. 

“No, nothing like that, at least, not exclusively,” you say, your tone lighthearted, though something unreadable flickers in your gaze as you glance at Natasha. 

“Right, love?”

Natasha stills, her fingers pausing against the equipment. She hadn’t expected to be pulled into the conversation. Lifting her gaze, she holds your eyes for a moment before looking away.

“Yeah,” she mutters softly, carefully placing the weapons back in their slots. With a quiet click, she shuts the case.

Silence settles between the group, the only sound in the room coming from the rustling of fabric and the light tapping of your fingers against the tablet as you take notes.

Then, the sharp buzz of your phone vibrating against your pocket breaks the quiet.

This time, Natasha doesn’t miss the way you glance at the screen, the briefest flicker of something unreadable crossing your face before you shut the device off again.

Her arms cross over her chest as she levels you with a pointed look. 

“How much is all this costing you?”

You pause briefly before looking up at her with a smirk.

“That’s nothing you’ll need to concern yourself about.”

As you finish up and straighten, a flicker of a wince crosses your face—so brief most wouldn’t catch it.

But Natasha does.

Her sharp eyes hone in immediately. Without hesitation, she strides forward, grabbing your wrist before you realize it.

“Wha–”

She doesn’t give you the chance to protest, pulling you swiftly toward one of the rooms and shutting the door behind you.

The moment it clicks shut, she turns, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt.

“Hold on, lo—”

Natasha ignores you, lifting the fabric and confirming what she already suspected.

“You did open your stitches,” she accuses, her voice edged with irritation and concern. Her fingers hover over the square bandage at your side, red seeping through the gauze.

Before she can say anything else, your hands cup her face, tilting her chin upward so her eyes meet yours. 

A playful smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of her nose.

“You’re cute when you care,” you murmur, brushing your thumb against her cheek. Then, with a teasing grin, you add, “But it’s not as bad as it looks, love, honest.”

At your dismissive tone, Natasha holds your gaze, searching for something—an explanation, a reason—until she can’t help but voice her thoughts.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispers.

The unspoken words pass between you, heavy with meaning. Why are you risking yourself? Why go to such lengths? Why help her?

Your expression softens. Instead of answering with logic or reason, you simply pull her closer, resting your forehead against hers.

“Because it’s something I can do for you,” you say simply.

The sincerity in your voice makes her breath hitch.

Before she can respond, you close the distance, capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s a kiss that speaks of familiarity, of understanding, of a connection beyond words.

Natasha’s hands tighten around the fabric of your jacket as she deepens the kiss, pulling you closer. A soft sound of approval rumbles from your chest, your hands sliding to rest at her waist.

Then, breathless but smirking, you pull back just enough to murmur against her lips, “Do you want to try out the hot water together?”

A faint smirk forms on Natasha’s lips.

Without a word, she grabs your wrist and tugs you toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you two.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha’s fingers move idly, tracing faint, absentminded patterns across your bare skin where your top has ridden up slightly.

The slow rise and fall of your chest against her keeps her grounded, your warmth settling into her like an anchor.

She watches you, curled into her arms, the soft glow of the dim light casting gentle shadows across your face.

There’s something about this moment—quiet, unguarded—that makes her reluctant to break it.

But she does. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breathing shifts slightly, and your eyes flutter open, hazy with drowsiness as you turn your head toward her. A flicker of curiosity crosses your expression.

“For coming when I called,” Natasha continues, her voice steady but quiet. “I know it wasn’t the safest move for you.”

Her hand drifts lower, brushing lightly over the fresh bandage at your side, her fingertips ghosting over the wound with a delicate trace.

A soft chuckle rumbles in your chest. You close your eyes again, nuzzling closer, tucking your head into the crook of her neck as if you belong there.

“Anything for my favorite client,” you murmur, your breath warm against her skin.

Natasha doesn’t reply, but the way her arms tighten around you speaks enough. She presses her cheek against the top of your head, her fingers still tracing along your side, committing this rare moment of peace to memory.

A comfortable silence settles between you. The kind that feels full rather than empty, where neither of you feels the need to fill the space with words.

Then, the stillness is broken.

The muffled buzz of a phone vibrating from the pile of clothes strewn across the floor cuts through the quiet.

You exhale a deep sigh, your breath brushing against her collarbone before you reluctantly pull away.

“I should get going,” you say, sitting up and stretching your arms lightly. Your tone is casual, but Natasha doesn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in your movements. “I think I’ve left my other clients waiting long enough.”

She watches as you gather your things, a strange tightness settling in her chest. There’s something she wants to say—something that lingers on the tip of her tongue.

Don’t go. Stay a little longer.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, she hesitates, her hands clenching briefly at her sides before she exhales softly.

“I…” she starts, but then she pauses, her gaze flickering away as she struggles with what exactly she wants to say to you.

You glance up from your phone, head tilting slightly as you wait for her to finish. There’s patience in your expression but also a quiet knowing—like you already understand what she’s trying to say, even if she doesn’t say it aloud.

Finally, she settles on something simpler.

Something safer.

“It was good seeing you again.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, but there’s something else in your eyes—something unreadable. You step closer, closing the distance between you effortlessly.

Lifting her chin with a gentle touch, you lean in, pressing a slow, delicate kiss to her lips. It lingers, warm and unhurried, before you pull away just enough for your lips to barely ghost over hers.

Your usual teasing smirk makes its return as you murmur against her mouth, “Don’t leave me waiting too long for your next call…”

Another feather-light press of your lips follows—a touch so fleeting yet so certain. And then, in a quiet whisper.

“…my love.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

The room feels quieter without you in it, as if something vital has been pulled away. Natasha stays where she is for a moment before exhaling, pressing a hand against her chest.

Her heartbeat is steady.

But she can still feel the ghost of your lips, the weight of your presence lingering in the space you left behind.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 3

a/n: Thank you for reading! Hope you all have a Happy Valentine’s Day!

Taglist : @caspianalexander007

[teaboot]

Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence?

My earliest memory of what I would call self-awareness occurred spontaneously in the middle of my fourth birthday party, where I suddenly became alert to my existence as a separate entity surrounded by other conscious beings.

This presented to me as not dissimilar to simply being brushed along the flow of a river- experiencing life as a serious of flashbang moments and instants and sensations, like meditating to music until the individual notes break into sounds that follow no rhythm and are only noise- no past or future, only now- and then suddenly finding yourself holding a paddle in the belly of a boat with no idea what to do next.

I remember running to the body that felt safest, who I did not recognize as anything else, and asking it who all the strangers around us were. The person that I learned was my mother told me they were my aunties and uncles, and I was being silly because I KNEW them, and why was I so shy all of a sudden?

Learning to articulate myself after that instant, I remember, was immensely frustrating. Learning your first language, as I remember it, is wuite a bit like how Ive been told recovering from brain damage feels like.

YOU know what you mean. YOU know what you're saying. But there are holes where you reach for something you know MUST be there and find nothing, and must find a way to communicate using only what you have at hand. Except there are always faces looking at you, talking down to you, asking you to do tricks for them to prove you really are a real human person.

I loved art, and I'm very good at it, but GETTING good at it was the worst. I'm told I started with scribbles at six months or so, before I could walk, and at three and four I remember being immensely frustrated that I could see in my head exactly what I wanted to produce, and I didn't know how to PRODUCE it.

And simple shit, like drawing shapes and circles, developing fine motor skills. You FULLY UNDERSTAND THE ASSIGNMENT, but your hands are soft and wobbly and don't cooperate. Getting your mouth and body to obey your directions is hellish, especially when all the appliances and furniture and installations around you are built for someone easily triple your size.

Chairs are hard to sit in when you're small and cant touch the ground. Your legs dangle and you cant scoot closer to the table, and the backrest is so far back you cant use it for support, and the table comes up past your chest so your chin is amost in your plate and your dumb clumsy hands cant hold a big spoon or fork in a way that feels natural or elegant so you end up smearing shit EVERYWHERE and getting yapped at for having your elbows on the counter.

Reading people was interesting. Most people are condescending and plastic when you're small, and you can tell when they're being saccharine and fake, but you're told the polite thing is to believe what they say and be polite back. I used to try using big sentences on purpose just to het them to leave me alone. "What a pretty girl! Can you say Hello?" was the most common ask I can recall. Id answer with the floweriest thing I could think of, usually, "I'm very well, thank you for asking, how are you?", because people only ask you interesting questions after you do well enough on their tests to prove you're people.

Being small was very tiring, and very frustrating, and becoming aware of myself in my own head probably made everything a lot worse overall.

No regrets, though. From what I can recall, life is far more enjoyable when you're aware of it occurring. Time can't slow down until you know it's there, I think

Being a baby full of instincts felt like living as a live grenade. Being a child was far harder, but more Full. More Human. A LOT more like adulthood than infancy, and I was very determined to remember that.

If any of that makes sense

[eatuniverse]

fame dr . motivation . 70s / 80s/ 90s

꒰ঌ ‧ first class pre-9/11 air travel

꒰ঌ ‧ smoking anywhere && everywhere ; the smell of stale tobacco lingering on everything

꒰ঌ ‧ the flash of old cameras, the sound of the shutter clicking then hissing

꒰ঌ ‧ seeing your face on weird tabloid magazines at the grocery store

꒰ঌ ‧ access to quaaludes

꒰ঌ ‧ the viper room

꒰ঌ ‧ opening the car door out onto the red carpet && being flashbanged ; the musk of the wet street (after fresh rain), of cigarettes, and of sweaty bodies and expensive perfume

꒰ঌ ‧ being recognised in public by name

꒰ঌ ‧ getting to talk to random actors / directors / musicians / comedians because you run in the same circles as them ; bumming a cigarette off of tarantino

꒰ঌ ‧ hitchhiking culture

꒰ঌ ‧ the intimacy of a loud social event ; thank you jordan baker

꒰ঌ ‧ going to the movies being a capital-o Occasion

꒰ঌ ‧ potpourri ; dried flowers and spices stinking it up in every bathroom

꒰ঌ ‧ shopping malls

꒰ঌ ‧ coke scandals rather than ozempic allegations

꒰ঌ ‧ seeing the milky way in the night sky ; stargazing && seeing actual stars

꒰ঌ ‧ being genuinely able to drop off the face of the earth, and go anywhere, with no way for the media to constantly watch or keep tabs on where you are ; out into the desert on a whim

꒰ঌ ‧ a notably lacking amount of creepy veneers

꒰ঌ ‧ toys r us

꒰ঌ ‧ everyone smelling like their houses ; celebrities, your friends, smelling like the places they live ; their cars and their bedrooms and their bags and their things all smelling like them ; etc

꒰ঌ ‧ only physical media ; records and cds

꒰ঌ ‧ a live studio audience churning with laughter, your view of them blacked out by blinding stage lights

꒰ঌ ‧ no one on their phones!!

[mitchipedia]

Stand up for your neighbors in San Diego

In light of recent ICE raids at the Federal Courthouse and Buona Forchetta Restaurant in San Diego and in Los Angeles, and the outrageous and dangerous Republican overreaction to Los Angeles protests, it’s important for all of us to find ways to turn our grief and outrage into action for our immigrant neighbors.

ICE raids are violent and excessive, but the community stepped up to fight back and block ICE’s departure. Here in San Diego, ICE responded with military tactics, including flashbangs and smoke grenades. As we write this (Sunday afternoon, June 8), it’s unclear how the situation in Los Angeles will play out. But it’s clear that Republicans want a mass, violent confrontation with protesters, and if they can’t find the occasion, they’ll manufacture it. And Republicans want to break blue states, starting with California.

Here are some things you can do to help preserve freedom and help your neighbors, compiled from local community organizations:

The No Kings March is Sunday, June 14, at Waterfront Park in San Diego. It’s part of a national day of action. See the link, preceding for information on that event and other No Kings events elsewhere in the county and online.

Volunteer to help elect Democrat Paloma Aguirre as County Supervisor in the July 1 special election. If Aguirre loses, the County Board of Supervisors flips Republican. The Aguirre campaign is asking people to canvass and phone-bank. While the district is overwhelmingly Democratic, Republican turnout is high, making this an at-risk election for us, as Democratic Party community leader Cynara Kidwell Velazquez noted at the recent June meeting of the La Mesa-Foothills Democratic Club.

What can you do if you see harassment? Sign up for bystander intervention training by Right To Be. That organization has classes to help protect against harassment of immigrants, women, disabled people, Jews, Muslims, LGBTQIA+ people, in public spaces, online, in the workplace, and so on.

Submit a public comment to your San Diego County Supervisor by June 12 to urge them to increase funding for immigration legal services. You can also email your county supervisor directly.

Also, tell the San Diego City Council that they should be funding community services, not surveillance tech. While our neighborhoods in San Diego are in desperate need of essential services such as libraries, parks and public restrooms, the city is cutting funding for those essential services, instead spending millions of dollars on a mass surveillance system: the Flock Automatic License Plate Reader (ALPR) and “smart” streetlight cameras—wasting money and threatening our privacy and civil liberties.

According to a petition on Change.org: “Flock ALPR tries to track the public movements of every individual in San Diego, 24/7, aligning with authoritarian agendas and the concerning trend of increasing surveillance. Instead of fostering community safety through positive and supportive measures, we are being forced into a society that values monitoring over meaningful safety solutions.” Sign the petition to oppose mass surveillance now.

Further resources:

Showing Up for Racial Justice is an organization for white people working for justice. The San Diego chapter is active and will next meet June 22, at a location to be determined. Sign up for email updates. SURJ’s Linktree lists calls to action.

The Episcopal Church Office of Government Relations' Migration, Refugees and Immigration webpage is a great resource, including an immigrant action toolkit. The Episcopal Diocese of San Diego’s Migration Ministry webpage provides useful definitions, Know Your Rights info, and links to partner organizations that offer a variety of ways to help immigrants.

Mobilize US and CBFDIndivisible list events, petitions and volunteer opportunities.

Take Action for San Diego Democrats is a web page run by the county Democratic Party with information on upcoming events, supporting the Aguirre campaign, learning more about running for local office, Planned Parenthood, how to make effective protest signs and more.

I wrote this for an upcoming issue of the newsletter of the La Mesa-Foothills Democratic Club.

[duck-a-doodle]

COD Headcanons: Soft Intimacy

SFW thoughts on what would unravel the COD boys. This is my first post for this fandom, and my entry point to it was the MWII campaign and a few comics, so it might be slightly OOC. In the meantime, I will keep doing research and I hope this brings you joy! :-) -CH

Masterlist 7/14/2024

Simon "Ghost" Riley silently relishes light scratches. The kind that runs slowly, gently down the scalp or round the ears, feathering across his scapula over the thin fabric of his shirt and the underside of his arms. He shudders at getting his spine or ribs traced, head spinning at the idea of fingers so tender taking long, tantalising hours to outline all of himself, the electrifying comfort flickering his heavy eyelids. Heavy as he is, the man is quick to persuade that you rest your weight upon him during such domestic ministrations; he curses, however, at your much more compelling affections, falling prey to the charms of your worship. Slowly, but surely, he leans forth — first dropping his head to your shoulder while languid nails crawl down his cheek, then falling to his hands and soon, his elbows — gliding his head down your collarbone and onto your beating chest, where he recognises that you are most ardently obsessed of him as he is of you. “Obsessed” is much too simple a word  and “reverent”, too large an understatement. His skin is yours, his mind is yours, his breath, his tongue, and every crevice of himself he can count; a gift and homage to your hands, his temple. As he finally sinks all of himself into you with a groan and a sigh, he gingerly lifts his heavy hands, resting them warmly by your sides and over your ribs, in hopes to return all your love with the altogether humble gesture. On days which he stubbornly wishes to do the same for you, he mimics the way you touch him, in every precise manner and every exact order, seeking nooks and crannies that warm your skin or hitch your breath. He will weakly protest, however, moments which your hands reach too close to him outside of these intimate instances, causing light, inadvertent whimpers from the back of his throat.

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Captain John Price likes using his hands for carrying. “Brutish” is an adjective familiar and frequent to his bear paws, trained to caress cold, carbons steel and paint itself in red, smelling only of matches and rust.  The warmest things his hands have known are the arms and backs of his fallen men and the barrel of his heartless iron, the touch of it comparable to a Londoner’s December. You, in place of the metal, you, strong yet brittle and you, lighter to him than a C4, grenade or flashbang, are his respite, reprising over the smoke of his numerous deployments, where his hands took more than they gave. He cannot help the pliant hips and waist that fit his palms seamlessly, more harmless than the many miry grounds he trekked before — a kind, relenting texture which spoil his weathered, calloused digits with the knowledge that they are utterly malleable to you, benign to you, void of all menace. Coarse fingers drag and curl your silhouette as your mass rests weightlessly on his arms and shoulders, yielding to his calculated strength. That he can evoke a laugh or an exclamation of surprise is a source of endless pride; a gentle nudge that the Captain John Price can tickle fancy by exercising a fraction of his brawn on something worldly. He could lift your groceries, the couch, your books — but  he likes to sweep off your feet the most. Trailing your thighs, calves, the small of your back are the hands that seek reminder of his humanity, tendons and phalanges flexing with every curve it meets, venerating eyes never leaving yours which watch his display of muscle with great wonder. For you, he would carry the world. Thus, in his words, “my back is strong enough to carry both our weights for a lifetime, if you’d let me.”

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John "Soap" McTavish has developed a habit of pawing. The abundance (if not exclusive presence) of tough military equipment, smoking alloys and dogged combat routines necessitated his use of hard, impenetrable gloves. Its rugged, protective textile has unwittingly sensitised his hands to various surfaces, including bare skin. He hesitated to touch you, timorous from his own want, curiosity and the unknown. Gone are his inhibitions when graced with your guiding hands, easing the earth-riddled cowhide off his palms. Aimless hands follow your lead, pressing into you over his Henley you borrowed. Finding purchase upon your stomach, he gradually grows accustomed to the fondness of your abdomen, shortly braving his way to your chest with sturdy yet clumsy paws. A current crackles down his body as he toys with the ripples of fabric adorned by your skin, indulgence rapidly surging from his fingers to his giddy head — he is soon to be all over you, his newfound contentment switching into overdrive. Respiration turning laboured, those once shy hands grow ravenous and wayward, roaming under the influence of his enthusiasm; every sharp inhale and strained noise he extorts from you only serves to encourage him further, inciting cheeky gropes at your sides, inner thighs and behind. What would eventually drive his mind over the edge, when you finally decide he is too much, is your folding a very surprised McTavish down onto the couch over you, keeping his head to your tummy and his hands tucked to your sides, imploring him to behave himself. Chiding him to act proper was an error on your behalf; his demeanour shifts, mischief clear in his eyes as he unabashedly explores all of you, pawing at you with every naughty intent fathomable.

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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is crazy about being sat on. By no means a foolhardy nor gormless soldier, he holds himself to high decorum with immense discipline, ever an air of diplomacy about his person. None would have imagined that a simple act as sitting on his lap would send him reeling, rendered silent for fear of speaking with neither form nor cohesion. He turns light-headed watching your thighs pool like molten lava, quads sweltering from mere contact, let alone the pleasurable tension of your weight balancing precariously off his trembling knees. Worried that his legs would tire, you made to rise, wanting to relieve him of your own gravity but you were firmly held in place; two large, veined hands anchor you resolutely onto unmoving thighs, and any attempts of persuasion, made in the interest of his own comfort, faced flat rebuffal. Gratitude towards Lady Luck nearly spills from his lips, numb with inadvertence, as you nestle your heft upon him, for want of better comfort. You mistaking his lap for an empty stool was akin to setting his legs on fire, but to make yourself comfortable against him? For a man who prided himself for his class and propriety, he quickly found himself immensely burdened with sin, and subtlety became a language long forgotten. Had he any sense left in him that was not knocked out of the ballpark by your charming self, he would not be finding himself gently playing with the hem of your shirt, folding funny shapes with the fabric between his clammy fingers. Savoury dreams of you enticed him, swimming behind his glossy eyes that are unresponsive to the lights that danced across his features. Oh, you were so much trouble to him, colouring him brazen and so very warm. He loves it, however, and you will soon find what a fiend and a devil you can be when you later use this against the soldier's poor heart.

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Alejandro Vargas will die for your scent. Tantamount to a hound, no vaquero could catch the winds of change for miles around the way he could. The smell of burning tyres against the asphalt of the streets, the oils and perfumes of the same shop houses, the settling dust of his own base, and the routine spritz of air freshener that now smelled of lemon instead of mint ever since the new hire came on duty. Where Alejandro worked, the bittersweetness of gunpowder that sweeps his olfactory is his peace, and the constant heatwave that boils a Proust phenomenon out of the hanger persists in the back of his senses, subtle yet certain. No delicate change challenged his sharpness. He has a full bible to list it all, memorised from the front to back — and though he may not be religious, he is a madly devoted man. A hypervigilance that cannot be removed must find a reprieve, and only a single odour, long seared into his mind, pulls at him not first from the mind but from the heart. You, who smelled of his blankets, you, whose shampoo and T-shirt he recognised not from the brand but from its lingering aroma, and you, who could never surprise him with your presence because the scent of you would enter the room before his name falls from your lips, and before his eyes could reach yours. You remain the only person who turned his head with such impassioned and obsessed vigour, and he knew he was done for ever since. He would press his nose deep into your cheek, your neck, or the back of your nape and find himself at home as he stood in a room full of coldhearted artillery. No proper explanation was ever given when you find a shirt or two missing over the months of his deployment, but secretly, you had always known. And like the cheek you are to his mischief, you bask in the darker colour of his cheeks when you find that mysterious missing shirt hidden in the pile of laundry from his deployment.

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Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra likes soft whispers. Such light, airy and vertiginous words that kiss the shell of his ears — they would rob the man of his joints. Everyday exchanges of each other’s day ground him and ruin him, discernible only by both your ears. While he lends his body to the field, bloody and savage, in his heart there stands a single white flag signed in your name, by his hand; in a head overrun with sounds of distorted infrared voices, caterpillar tracks crushing against gravel and of heartless iron shells dropping at two hundred rounds per minute, your quiet words remain. A man of few words must have so much thought that weighs on his tongue, until it becomes too heavy to express. Surely, you must be a godsend. The way you effortlessly loosen the words from his hardened teeth, clenched too tightly still lest a bullet comes to bite, pulls shivers from his lips and down his watery lashes. Something about your bottom lip renders him helpless, and he finds that he must rest his thumb on your lower lip to lessen the giddiness that threatens to beat his heart out of his flaming chest. Permanently latched onto the rich timber of your voice was a man desperate to preserve you, so much that he keeps all your voicemails to him and labels them by the topic, just so he can find exactly when he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it. Moments of quietude in his bunk led one thought to the next, and he often ended the day with your voice embracing the deepest parts of his soul through an old, wired earpiece, wondering if you knew what gravity you had upon him. Perhaps you do know, he believed decidedly — because when he played a new recording you sent him during his deployment, his fingers violently mashed the volume-down button of his device at your rather unique choice of words, spoken at a careless whisper. You knew he had listened to it, as the first thing he did when he returned was to hold you in your place, and return all the salacious whispers he received right back to the bane of his heart. Ten-fold.

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König has an obsession with trapping. Hugs come rare to a man of his nature; imposing, wild and unacclimated to the civilised world. When arms do find their way around him, his own snakes around them, encircling the sensation, holding it close and praying that it seeps into his skin, permeating his senses to remain seared in his remembrance. Yet, more than once, he finds the same arms, over and over, routine the way the birds must sing and the poets must write. Always your arms, by his initiative. Greed will be his downfall and he knows, and he gladly embraces his defeat, relenting to your winsome self without remorse. Never would he deem himself a small man, albeit despite the notion, he shrinks; younger and younger he becomes with you, compressed to his front as much as your skins would let, as much as his strength allows without colouring your flesh a bluish-purple, until he is but a boy cradling his most dear Bärchen, unwilling to let go. He watches with blooming gratification, the exhale that falls from your lips as you press together, eyes drooping from the pleasant pressure that grounds you to earth, all because it is he who holds you. He drinks the sight and lets the view inebriate his already intoxicated mind. On the occasion when he becomes the bear-trapped, he will amuse himself with your too-small arms that fail to close around him, and will quickly turn the tables, subjecting you to his drunken coos with an onslaught of “mein Schatz”es, “Schnuckiputzi”s and “liebling”s. Greed will be his downfall, but you must be his renaissance.

P.S.: Can you tell that I read Pride & Prejudice before writing the TF141's and König's parts? I can. :'-)

[howi99]

A Knight second chance 12

Jaune: (Tsk, it's taking too long! At this rhythm, Pyrrha's gonna get killed!) Hey, Pyr?

Pyrrha: Hm?

Jaune: *point to Mercury* Just letting you know, that the guy over there got 2 prosthetic legs.

Pyrrha: *perplexed* How-

Jaune: *point to the disguised Neo* I spoke with her. So anyway, he plans to fight you. Now, you remember what i said about using every advantage in a fight, right?

Pyrrha: B-but that wouldn't be fairplay and-

Jaune: *sigh* Pyrrha, do you really wish to be a huntress?

Pyrrha: *shocked* Wha- Yes! Of course i want!

Jaune: *taking her hands in his, looking at her straight in the eyes* Then... Why are you still holding back? Do you think the criminals will? Or the grimms?

Pyrrha: *Blushing madly* whu-..

Jaune: *sigh* Guess i'll have to teach you more. *Getting up* Miss Goodwitch, may i take the first fight?

Glynda: *surprised* I don't mind... This is the first time you volunteered yourself. *Frown* Is everything ok?

Jaune: *chuckle* Yes professor. I just want to show my partner how a huntsman should fight.

Everyone: *whispering between themselves*

Nora: *nodding to Yang with a smirk* Hey, you shouldn't be rude!

Jaune: *blinking* ... What?

Yang: *grinning* You know, she's right! How dare you say she doesn't fight like a huntress, uh?!

Jaune: ...! *Panicking* W-wait, no! That's not what i meant! Pyrrha's amazing, b-but she still holds back and-

Ren: Jaune.

Jaune: *looking at Ren* Uh?

Ren: *smirk* They are joking.

Jaune: ... O-oh, yeah, right. *Cough with a slight blush* I-in any case, i wish to fight you *point to Glynda* Professor!

Everyone: *silence... Then everyone starts talking at the same time*

Glynda: *annoyed* Silence! *Everyone shut up* Good. *Turn to Jaune* Now, why would you want to fight me instead of anyone else?

Jaune: *smiling* In the face of a stronger opponent, one needs to create their own advantage. I'm not expecting to win against you, but i want to show everyone how even the most powerful semblances can be overcome.

Glynda: *small smirk* Oh? Am i to assume you will use any trick necessary to that goal?

Jaune: *smirking* Of course. If it's to help my partner, i don't mind getting a bit rough.

*sound of something falling to the ground*

Nora: Uh... Jaune?

Jaune: ... That was Pyrrha, wasn't it?

Nora: Yep.

Jaune: *sigh* Anyway, maybe we should spar outside? And uh... Can someone help? I think i'd make it worse if i tried helping her.

Yang: *smiling* I'll go get some water! *whispering to Nora* because that girl is thiiiirsty~.

_ Outside _

Ruby: *vibrating with excitement* Oh gosh, we are going to see Professor Glynda fight! This is so awesome!

Pyrrha: *still a blushing mess* We held hands...

Nora: *nudging Pyrrha with her elbow* Hey Pyrrha, eyes on the ring!

Yang: *squinting her eyes* Wait... Weiss, did you give Jaune some of your dust?

Weiss: Yes, why?

Yang: How come you never share with us!?

Weiss: *deadpan* I did, once. And you used it all on your stupid bike.

Yang: Hey, her name is Bumblebee and-

Blake: Shhhh!

On the ring

Glynda: *looking at her students* Tsk. Maybe i should be stricter with them.

Jaune: *wearing his armor and a bunch of vial of dust* Well, can't blame kids for being kids, right?

Glynda: *looking at him* You are one of them you know?

Jaune: *flinch for a instant then smile* I guess i am. *Stretch* Well, for today i'll be your assistant teacher.

Glynda: *keeping note of that flinch* Hm...*taking position* Ready when- *gets blinded by Jaune's using thunder dust as a flashbang* !

Jaune: *already running to her, quickly mixing dust together* A huntsman should never lower their guards in a fight! *Dodge the disciplinarian, then slash at her twice* We rely on our senses to use our semblance, so the best way to win- *gets pushed back by Glynda's semblance* -is to have the element of surprise! *Throw an ice and fire dust vial near Glynda, a thick mist instantly forming to obstruct her vision further*

Glynda: *smiling* (He's good. Using my politeness to get the advantage.) You didn't follow the rules, Jaune. *Hearing him approaching from the right* Maybe you should be punished? *Use her semblance to condense the water in the air into needles, throwing them at Jaune, which blocks part of them with his shield*

Jaune: *apologetic smile* Sorry, just wanted to show them that real fights don't have rules. *Unsheathing his sword, starting to run at her* And i'm not done yet! *Using ice dust on the ground, making it slippery* Bad day for heels, don't you think?

Glynda: *trying to maintain her balance* What the-

Jaune: *slide, making her fall on the ground* The second thing you can use is your environment! *Gets on one knee then stab the ground with an earth crystal covered in plant dust, making the ground under them burst with roots, covering Glynda* Change it, mold it, make it yours!

Glynda: *chuckle while using her power to unroot everything around her* Not bad, not bad at all. *Aim at Jaune with a smirk* My turns now.

Jaune: *using gravity dust on himself to make himself heavier* The last part is aura management. *Taking position, placing his shield to protect his vitals* Everyone has limits, a point where they can't realistically fight at 100% even if they still have Aura.

Glynda: *begin her assault, throwing stones and roots at her student*

Jaune: *gritting his teeth, slowly but surely sliding out of the ring* Semblance uses Aura, you can bring them down with time! You don't need to rush! *His foot pass the borders limit* Ring out!

Glynda: *sweating, stopping her assault* That was.... That was good, very good even!

Jaune: *not moving*

Glynda: *worried* Mr Arc? Jaune?

Jaune: ... I used too much gravity dust, I'm stuck!

Back with the spectators

Ruby: *frotting at the mouth from the awesomeness*

Weiss: *looking at their aura reserve* 87% for Jaune and 68% for Glynda.

Yang: Damn, VB is good, right Pyr?

Pyrrha: ...

Nora: Pyrrha?

Pyrrha: ... *Looking at her hands* So he was holding back during our spar too...

Nora: *worried* A-are you ok?

Pyrrha: *having a... Weird smile and eyes* Eh, eh eh eh~

Yang: ... *Slowly pulling out another bottle of water and slowly giving it to Pyrrha* P-money, your thirst is showing.

Pyrrha: *snapping back to reality* O-oh! I'm Sorry!

Blake: ... By the way, did anyone see Ren?

Ren: *coming back with his pockets full of Liens* I'm here.

Weiss: *frowning* Where did you get that?

Ren: *shrug* Everyone was betting on low aura while i took the "risk" of taking the ring out.

Yang: Wait, there were bets?!

Ren: Yeah, team CRDL was making them when you were gone getting some water for Pyrrha. *Looking at Ruby* By the way, you won too, Ruby.

Ruby: *hearing the news, getting back to reality too* Woohoo! More part for Crescent Rose!

_ meanwhile _

Cinder: That kid...

Emerald: Should we be worried? He was the one who stopped Roman from stealing the cargo at the docks.

Cinder: ... I need to ask that old fool for more information on him. He could be... Useful, since our plans have changed...

[midnight-hotel]

Missing (Alastor x Reader)

My first fic in 4+ years, please go easy on me. This story occurs during and after the final episode of season one. Enjoy and feel free to give feedback!

Coughs racked your body as you struggled to take in a breath of dust polluted air. Pain shot through your undoubtedly broken ribs and back with every cough, blood splattering across your bottom lip and tongue, amplifying the smell of iron in the air. Wrapping an arm around yourself, you stared up at the executioner who was quickly approaching with their broken spear. 

‘Shit- I might actually die here…’ 

They lunged, ready to plunge their holy weapon through your skull. You tried, with all your might, to push off the wall and away from death’s path, failing to notice that it wouldn’t have come to begin with. The next time you looked back at the angel, they were on the ground, covered in their alarmingly golden blood, several holes littering their body. 

Looking around, alarmed, you realised that you had been saved, but by who? Your eyes briefly met with Angel Dust’s, and in that moment, you knew your saviour. With no time to show your gratitude, you spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground and stood, grabbing the angel’s broken weapon to take as your own. If Alastor’s shield could fail, then there was no way you could take a moment to stop and breathe, everyone needed you to keep fighting, as much as you needed them to as well. You could only hope they were all okay. 

It seemed like there was no end to the onslaught of angels. They just kept coming out of that damned doorway into heaven. You were growing tired, injuries burning and only getting worse, but stopping now would only lead to your death and possibly the death of others. Stabbing another Angel through the chest, you kicked their body away, stealing their intact spear to replace the broken one you had left in the corpse. That’s when you heard more commotion from behind and then an irritatingly familiar voice. Turning, you understood why everything had kicked up a gear.

Adam was still alive? But that could only mean…

“Alastor!” His name tore up your throat as you quickly looked up towards the roof of the hotel. Shit- he couldn’t be… but would he have really allowed Adam to get away and rejoin the fight? 

Dropping the spear in your hands, you ran for the hotel, barging in through the doors and rushing up the stairs. You needed to get to him. He couldn’t be dead. 

Third floor.

The whole building began to shake as you reached the third floor. Looking down the stairwell, just barely able to see through the dust, you could make out Dazzle and… was that Vaggie? You contemplated jumping down to help- Dazzle was clearly not about to get up but… you needed to get to Alastor. Vaggie would be fine. So, you continued running up the stairs- cursing yourself for not being in better shape.

Sixth Floor.

The building shook again. ‘Shit- I don’t know if I’m going to make it up there.’ It sounded like the fight had made it to the top of the hotel already. Based on the rubble constantly falling overhead and how the place was quickly falling apart.

Seventh Floor. 

There was a bright light- a flash really- and you think you heard screaming? Fuck it, there had been non stop screaming for the past hour, what was one more? Your vision had hardly cleared from the flashbang when the whole building started to come down. Dropping to the ground, you tucked yourself into a corner, hoping that there was enough structural strength in that section of the building to prevent you from being crushed. The last thing you could recall was the feeling of something falling on top.

Who knows how much time had passed before you were being pulled from the rubble. There was too much going on- too many people talking at once, too many people hovering… you reached out, swatting away the faces that were too close. 

“Alastor… where’s Alastor?” you croaked, trying to push yourself up into a seated position. Your beaten body screamed at you- begging for you to just lay there and rest, but you needed to know if he was okay- needed to know where he was. 

Multiple hands helped you up, but you took no notice of who it was. From who you could see, the makeshift army hadn’t lost too many numbers but everyone was about as fucked up as you were. 

“We… don’t know…” You turned your head to Charlie who looked as if she had been crying. Of course she had… out of everyone, losing anyone would have hit her the hardest. Your heart sank. No one had seen him? Looking around at the others- even Husk shook his head, almost looking worried, before he spoke up. 

“He’s not dead. Not yet anyway. That asshole’s probably hiding away somewhere, butt hurt that he lost to an angel,” he grunted out, subconsciously bringing a hand to his throat. Of course Husk would know if Alastor was gone… he’s bound to him after all. 

“He could be buried under there though- we need to search. He could be dying in there,” You tried to argue, standing only to stumble back into what used to be the hotel. 

Angel Dust grabbed you by the wrist to stop you, pulling you back. “Easy there Doll Face. We’ll find him or he’ll show up. You’re in no state to go digging through what’s left right now.”

It wasn’t fair. How could everyone walk away from the disaster that was once their home while there were still people missing?

That was three weeks ago. As you laid in bed, in a room provided by Lucifer himself to those who had nowhere else to go, you stared up at the ceiling, thinking the last few weeks over. Everyone’s injuries had been healing pretty well, though yours were a tad worse since you had the building come down on top of you. There was a lot of talk about rebuilding the hotel. Plans had been drawn up and Charlie and Lucifer had teamed up to clear the rubble from the original hotel so that everyone could start building fresh when the time was right. 

There was also a lot of talk on what to do about the lost lives. Memorials were being planned out, names of the fallen cannibals taken down in order to properly remember those who sacrificed themselves for the cause, a painting for Pentious and even a statue of some kind. You hadn’t really been listening to that part. You hadn’t listened to much at all really, either constantly lost in thought or bed bound by your injuries. You were getting pretty sick of not being present, physically and mentally.

As you closed your eyes to sleep, something inside the room moved. Eyes snapping back open, you quickly looked to where you saw the movement, just barely catching the tail end of a shadow disappearing from outside your door. Climbing out of bed, you pulled a robe over your bandaged body and quickly exited the room, looking around for whatever it was that you had just seen. There was no one in sight. All the other occupied rooms in the hallway had their doors closed and lights off, so you doubted it was one of them. Right as you were about to head back into the room, you saw it again, rushing around a corner.

Quickly you ran after it, hoping that by the time you reached the corner, it wouldn’t have disappeared. Injuries, mostly healed but still tender, began to ache from the sudden strain as you tried to keep up with the shadow that passed through another door. 

Before you could open it and continue your pursuit, you had to stop and catch your breath. Healing ribs ached and your once punctured lung protested with every deep breath taken. Sucking in one more deep breath, you pushed yourself to open the door, leading out into the courtyard. Pretty big place for just one person to be living in most of the time, but this is the home of the king of hell himself, so you supposed it was fitting.

Subconsciously holding your ribs, you looked around for the shadowy figure again, but in the dark, there was no way you would be able to see it so easily. Without really realising it, you had walked further into the courtyard, admiring the garden in the small amount of light that was available. ‘Lots of roses… surprised there isn’t an apple tree or something.’

“They are quite beautiful aren’t they?” A voice suddenly spoke up, making you jump. Whipping around, wincing as your bruises and stitches stretched, you eyed off the culprit.

“Of course, I much prefer Nerium over roses.”

“Alastor…” Standing before you was the man who had made this last week a living hell. Did he not realise how much sleep you had lost, not knowing if he was okay? How worried you had been? 

“Only because they’re toxic you freak…” you retorted softly, not even sure if he had heard it as you slowly approached him.

“I had a feeling it was your shadow I had seen… You’re the only sonofabitch I know who can do that.”

Stopping just short of the man, you stared up at him with tired eyes. He looked down at you, that stupid grin on his face, like it always was. 

“Now Darling, must you use such language during our happy reunion? Aren’t you happy to see me?” He mocked, before you weakly punched him in the chest.

You hadn’t even realised it but you had started crying sometime after seeing him standing there. “You asshole… Don’t you know how fucking worried I was about you? Where have you been?” You hit him again, hardly bothering him by the looks of it, as he hardly flinched with every hit. He was a lot stronger than you were… but you supposed you didn’t really want to hurt him.

“Why couldn’t you have at least told us you were okay? Why didn’t you show yourself? I was scared you were dying under the hotel or something- after losing Pentious- I don’t know what we would have done if we found you dead as well.”

A hand dropped onto the top of your head, silencing you and you stopped hitting him, dropping your arms and instead, falling forward to rest your head on his chest.

“I apologise for causing you such grief my dear. I must be honest, I had some loose ends I needed to tie off before I could return. If I had been able to inform you of my whereabouts, I would have,” Alastor remarked, a familiar, almost comforting radio static coating every word. 

“Everything is okay now though isn’t it? We’re all alive and we can start rebuilding the hotel much faster now that I’m back! Though I must say, I am honoured that you care so much!”

You shut your eyes, concentrating on the hand that was gently petting your head before pulling back. “You’re a liar. You got hurt. You can fool everyone else as much as you want Al… but you can’t fool me that easily. I’ve known you far too long for that. You got hurt and you should have come to me. Hell, I was coming after you- to help you and I got crushed because of it!” You didn’t mean to raise your voice, or blame him for the building falling on top of you, it just happened. You wiped your tears away with the back of your hand and watched as his gaze softened a little while his smile remained. 

“You said it yourself (Y/N), you’ve known me too long, to think I didn’t get away. But, if it’s all the same, I apologise. I truly never meant to frighten you.” Alastor cupped your cheek, gently guiding you to meet his red gaze. “I promise, from now on, I will assure you I am okay before running anymore of my long term errands. Okay?”

Anyone could tell he was still hiding things from you, but what more could you do? You knew him well, but you didn’t think anyone truly knew what was going on inside of Alastors mind other than Alastor himself. 

“Okay…”

“Wonderful Darling. Come now, I do believe we should be getting you back to bed. Those wounds aren’t going to finish healing if you keep running around like a headless chicken.” Spinning you around, he set a hand onto your lower back and started heading you back to your room so that you could get some rest. Typical Alastor… always quick to disturb and dismiss… but at least he was okay. You felt like, as long as he was okay, maybe you could be okay as well.

[sunsetsover]

i went back and watched first ep of thk again this time without being psychologically flashbanged every 2 seconds (which was only semi-successful tbh) and my biggest take away out of everything was that bison really gets off on power.

you can see it clear as day in that very first scene with the guy that they're targeting. this is clearly someone who has money and power - he's picking men out of line up like they're nothing more than clothes on a rack. but the reality is that bison is the one who's really in charge. bison is the one who has all the control. bison literally has this big, powerful man's life in his hands, and he really, really likes that.

you can see it in the look on his face when he shoves the guys face into his chest - he's disgusted, clearly, but he's also smiling. he looks so deeply satisfied, and why would he in a situation like that if not for the fact that he knows he has all the power in the world in that moment and is almost a little turned on by it. it doesn't matter that the other guy thinks bison's some weak little guy to be bought and given commands. it doesn't matter he's sitting there all smug thinking he's in control. bison knows the truth. that's enough. it's probably why he can so easily play along - that knowledge. that power. because really, what does it matter how rich or powerful someone is now that bison has him in his clutches? and what is that if not complete and total power?

you can see this desire for power and control bleed into other dynamics too. i think it's why he's so 'difficult' with fadel. fadel clearly loves and cares about him, and his concern is well meaning, but he does treat bison like a child. and to a certain degree it's probably warranted (i mean look at what happened at the karaoke bar). but at the same time between him and the little bit we know so far about their mother, bison's completely smothered. and sheltered (the guy doesn't even know how to cook a burger. they literally run a diner). and i think that has less to do with bison being inherently untrustworthy or reckless, and more to do with the fact that he just doesn't want to do what he's told. and i imagine in turn that made his mum - and by extension fadel - tighten the reins on him.

because bison, at least so far, seems to have really no control or even any say over his own life. he just does what he's told, either his mother or by fadel. he has no other choice really - it seems he has nothing and no one else. he's effectively trapped (which i think will be the catalyst in his and kant's relationship, bc kant is also trapped in a situation he can't get out of, but i digress) so he's rallying against their control over him in whatever little ways he can - causing problems, being difficult, being purposefully obtuse. i think bison is someone who knows he doesn't have any real power, and so uses what he does have to his advantage. he plays dumb and weak and naive and sweet to manipulate people and situations so he can get what he wants for a change. that's his power. and it seems effective enough, and he probably likes the little things that it can get him, but i think what bison really likes is the fact that he can make people bend to his will. sure he has to work for it, but the fact that he can have people dancing to his tune while being completely unaware of what he's doing is what he really likes. i think that's where bison's true power lies. and i think that that power goes straight to his head.

which brings us to kant. kant, who - at least in my opinion - bison thought was just another guy with a big ego who just expected bison to lay down and take it. like idk i just got the impression that bison was not super impressed w kant at first. and bison does try briefly to wrestle kant for the dominance/power that kant obviously thought was his to take (like the tapping to see who was going to go to who, and getting in each others face to see who was going to break and kiss the other first) but soon enough bison just lets him have it bc ultimately it's not that important. they weren't supposed to ever see each other again. he was gonna get off either way. but even so bison gave as good as he's got, making sure kant knew he wasn't just gonna lie down and take it. and i think that at some point bison kinda realises hey this guy is actually listening. hey he's kinda malleable actually. hey he's kinda putting on a lil show for me, taking his shirt off nice and slow. hey this is a lot more fun than i thought it would be. but at the end of the day he doesn't get his shit rocked by kant the way kant clearly gets his shit rocked by bison. bison literally put that man to sleep. kant's lying on his sofa all but twirling his hair afterwards. in comparison bison doesn't even seem particularly bothered about the whole thing until kant shows up at the diner.

but anyway my point is we pretty much know bison's desire for power is going play out in his dynamic with kant bc of the whole bdsm thing. imo this is going to be even more important if it does turn out that he knows/suspects kant's motives - which, after a second watch, i am a lot more likely to believe. it was just so obvious. of all the things bison could've been doing right then, he just so happened to be cleaning the windows? with a big mirror right next to him? yeah ok sure. but don't expect me to act surprised if we find out down the line that bison was behind the scenes puppeteering this whole thing with kant - and with his family too.

because really the question is if he suspects kant's intentions - which he clearly did, no matter how briefly - why would he not tell fadel? why would he not seek help? and i think the answer to that lies - again - in the fact that bison wants power. any thread of it he can grab onto he does with both hands, whether that be that killing or domming or pissing people (fadel) off. playing games with people's minds and lives in that way - even those of the people closest to him, even his own - really doesn't seem like that much of a stretch judging by his behaviour so far. i think he'd probably be rubbing his hands together like an evil little fly at the thought of everyone thinking he was dumb or naive or a liability when the whole time he's the one pulling all the strings. he's the one who has everyone's lives in his hands. he's the one keeping all of their asses out of prison while at the same time he's got the guy who's supposed to be his downfall tied up in knots (both literally and metaphorically)

and even if that isn't the case and bison really does have no clue what kant's up to, i still think he's loving the fact that kant is so desperate and eager to win him over. bc ulterior motives or not kant really was sooooo dickmatised by bison. even before chris got on his ass he was telling his bestie abt it like 'i didn't even get his name 🥺️ it's like i slept w a ghost 🥺️ he only exists in my memory 🥺️' like he was down horrendous for bison the moment he got him in that hotel room, and bison KNOWS it. he knows the power he holds over kant, and he loves that shit. he loves that kant ate that shitty burger just to stay on his good side and he loves that kant is so doggedly persistent in trying to be his boyfriend and he loves that when his big brother tried to scare him off kant didn't run or give up but instead asked him 'well how can i get him off our backs?'

and sure we know why. but does it really matter? bison just loves the fact that he can tease kant and not give him what he wants and still kant will just grin and continue to chase him, drooling like a cartoon dog who's just caught scent of a freshly cooked steak. it doesn't really matter why: bison loves power and he loves how eager kant is to give it to him. that's why it's really not that shocking their relationship veers into bdsm territory. kant already seems more than willing to give bison whatever he wants, and what bison really wants is power (and freedom, but we haven't really seen the depth of that particular want just yet). of course kant's going to give him that power, no matter what that looks like.

(but while we're on the topic, i'm really interested to see the dynamics kant and bison adopt the next time they have sex. we know they venture into bdsm territory eventually, but if bison introduces that into their sexual relationship right away (excluding their first time obv) i'm gonna be really side eyeing that little guy bc it's like oh? why are so desperate to be in charge? is it bc you know that guy thinks he's playing you and you wanna see how far he'll go to get what he wants? is it bc the idea of you having this man - this man who thinks he's playing you for a fool - blindfolded and tied to your headboard makes you feel drunk with power? is it bc the idea of hurting this man who's trying to hurt you and him wholeheartedly LETTING you gets you off like nothing else? bc if that really is the case we're reaching unprecedented levels of horny i fear)

anyway this post was just supposed to be a little thing about bison getting off on power i didn't meant for it to turn into a character study/ted talk on his relationship dynamics but here we are lmfao anyway i love bison already i wanna dissect him in a lab <3

[juliettejwnewinesa]

PART 5- running bullets

Word Count: ~1.6k

Genre: Action, Angst, Romance, Thriller

Tone: Tense, emotional, fast-paced with sharp intimacy and looming danger

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

The door blew open before he could reach for it.

Splinters flew. You ducked instinctively, rolling behind the sink just as bullets tore through the front of the safehouse. Si-eun didn’t drop—he dove, sleek and sure, like the room had been mapped into his bones. His pistol barked twice. Someone screamed.

Another flashbang cracked the air. White burst behind your eyes. You tasted static.

“Y/N,” he called, voice barely cutting through the ringing. “Can you move?”

You blinked through the haze. Nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then run.”

You didn’t ask where. You didn’t need to. The back exit. The hatch beneath the stove. You scrambled for it as Si-eun covered you, short bursts of fire punching back at shadows moving through the smoke.

They were Union. No doubt now.

Not subtle. Not clean. This wasn’t a warning—it was an execution.

You dropped through the hatch and hit the gravel below hard, hands scraping open. The train tracks loomed above, steel cold and silent. You turned back up—heart punching at your ribs—waiting for him.

Seconds passed.

Then Si-eun dropped down beside you, jaw tight, chest heaving. His shoulder was bleeding.

“No,” you gasped, reaching for him.

He brushed you off. “Later.”

Sirens in the distance. No way to know if they were Union, police, or someone worse. Didn’t matter.

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the tunnel mouth, both of you sprinting into the dark. No time for stealth. Only speed. Only survival.

The tunnel was endless, wet and echoing. Rats skittered. Your breath thundered.

“We need to split,” he panted beside you.

“What?”

“They’re tracking your phone. Maybe mine. If we split, we halve the risk.”

You grabbed his arm. “We halve the chance either of us survives.”

He stared down at you. And this time, he didn’t argue.

The tunnel spat you out near an abandoned yard. Old crates, metal drums, graffiti sprayed like wounds across every surface. He pulled you behind a stack of pallets, breathing hard.

“We’ve got maybe five minutes before they catch our trail again,” he said.

You pressed your hand to his shoulder. The blood was bad. You couldn’t tell if the bullet had gone through. “We need to get you patched up.”

“There’s no time.”

“There has to be.”

He turned to you slowly, eyes dark. “Y/N. Listen. I don’t care if I bleed out later. But if I slow us down now—we don’t make it to later.”

You hated how calm he was. Like death was already pacing the room.

“Don’t talk like that.”

He looked at you for a long time. Then: “Don’t look at me like you’re going to lose me.”

“I might,” you whispered.

A beat passed. His hand came up, cupped your cheek like he had the right to touch you soft even now.

“You already chose your side.”

“And I’ll choose it again,” you breathed. “Every time.”

Then he kissed you again—brief, sharp, like punctuation.

You both froze at the sound of footsteps.

Too many. Too close.

“They’re here,” he murmured.

You pulled your second blade free, thumb tapping the guard.

Si-eun raised his pistol.

“They don’t get you,” he said.

“And you?”

He didn’t answer.

The first figure appeared between crates—masked, armored, silent.

Si-eun didn’t hesitate. One shot. One kill.

Then chaos.

Gunfire ripped through the yard. You moved without thinking, darting behind barrels, slashing through the air as another came too close. Si-eun flanked left, low and lethal, blood soaking through his shirt like it didn’t matter.

Bodies dropped. Yours didn’t.

Until—

A sharp pain in your thigh. You fell, hissing, dragging yourself behind cover.

“Y/N!” His voice was panicked now.

You pressed your hand to the wound. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He was beside you a second later, dragging you up, ignoring your protests.

“We have to move—”

“No. We have to end this.” His jaw clenched. “They won’t stop. Not unless we make them.”

“They’re Union. We can’t win.”

His eyes found yours. “Then we take as many of them down with us as we can.”

A sick part of you agreed.

He pushed his gun into your hands. “Last mag. Make it count.”

You tightened your grip. “With you?”

“Always.”

Together, you stood.

The final wave came fast. Not enough of them to call a squad—but enough to make sure the job got finished.

Unless you didn’t let them.

You moved like a unit, blood and vengeance. Si-eun took two before they even realized he was still standing. You shot a third through the throat. But it wasn’t enough. Another flanked. Another grabbed your arm—

A single knife slid into his neck before he could even speak.

Si-eun didn’t wait for the body to fall. He pulled you behind him again.

And when the last enemy staggered forward, pistol raised—

Click.

Empty.

Yours was too.

You braced for impact.

Then: a sound behind him.

Not a gunshot.

A crack.

The Union soldier dropped.

A third figure stood behind him—unmarked gear, face hidden, rifle still smoking.

Si-eun froze. “Who—”

The figure raised a hand. “No time. More coming.”

You stared. “Who are you?”

The stranger tilted their head. “Someone who used to owe your boyfriend here a favor.”

And just like that—they turned and disappeared into the yard’s shadows.

Si-eun helped you to your feet. “We’re not dead.”

“Yet,” you said.

He gave you a look that was too tender for everything you’d just survived.

And whispered, “Then let’s stay that way.”

taglist~@kkarisdrafts @alwaysgenerousvoid @kingsoowolves @kixxxm16@kkarisdrafts @mirwors@shadowmoonlight0604

[fluentmoviequoter]

Every Day After

Requested Here!

Pairing: David "Deacon" Kay x fem!shy!SWAT!reader

Summary: You are Deacon's best friend, and when you're poisoned and nearly killed, his protective tendencies make an appearance as he stays by your side to help you heal.

Warnings: angst to fluff, depictions of benzene poisoning, references to drug use and distribution, mention of character death, poisoning scene loosely based on 1x19 "Source"

Word Count: 6.6k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Being shy and being a member of 20-David don’t always mix well. Some days, you can talk with them without any problems; other days, they push you a touch too far, and you’re more comfortable being quiet. But no matter what kind of day it is, your team is your family, and they have your back.

One member of the team, however, you consider to be your best friend. David “Deacon” Kay is one of the best friends you have ever had, and when he jumps in to defend you and protect you, it’s easy for the rest of your team to see why you’re so attached to him.

“Where’s Deac?” Hondo asks as he enters the locker room.

“Not here yet,” you answer after closing your locker.

“You mean you didn’t carpool? Deacon was okay letting you out of his sight for that long?”

“He’s my friend, not my probation officer,” you reply softly.

Hondo smiles at your comment before explaining, “I just mean you’re usually together. Don’t see you separated much these days. Is there a reason for that?”

“Not whatever you’re thinking,” you answer, your voice weaker than it was a moment ago. “He’s my friend.”

“Who’s your friend?” Deacon asks, using the other door to come in.

“You,” Hondo answers, winking at you. He chuckles when you turn your chin away from him and steps toward the door as he calls, “We’re rolling in twenty to serve a warrant, so do your thing.”

“You alright?” Deacon asks, placing his backpack in his locker.

You nod, reaching down to tie your laces and take a moment to breathe. Your job is stressful, so finding quiet moments whenever you can helps you be a better S.W.A.T. officer.

“Here,” Deacon says, gently knocking your hand out of the way as he ties your laces.

Standing up straight, you watch Deacon double knot your laces and ensure your safety before tapping the side of your boot. He stands and meets your eyes.

“You good?” he asks, looking into your eyes as he rolls his shoulders.

“I am. Are you?”

“Always,” Deacon answers with a smile. “When you’re around, at least.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, gesturing toward your boots.

“That was adorable,” Street says.

You look over quickly, surprised to see him standing in the doorway. His smile grows when you lock eyes with him; you immediately drop your eyes to avoid his pleased look.

“A little Cinderella-esque, but cute. We just got a tip that our guy’s gonna try to run, so we’re rolling now. Unless you two need a minute?”

“We’re good,” you reply, while Deacon says, “Let’s do it.”

Deacon spreads his hand across your upper back, sweeping his thumb over the base of your neck in a comforting motion. You know he has your back, and the rest of your team is there for you, too, but physically feeling Deacon at your side makes you feel prepared to take on anything.

Climbing into Black Betty, you sit in your usual seat beside Deacon and listen to Hondo explain the warrant and the layout of the house you’re breaching.

“This guy will be armed, but we don’t know what else he may have goin’ on in there, so stay liquid,” Hondo concludes.

Deacon nods once as Black Betty stops. You follow Deacon to the west side of the house, waiting for Hondo’s signal to shoot a flashbang through a window before using the new opening to enter the residence. Deacon moves in first, clearing the room before you cover the hallway so you can move deeper into the house.

Tapping Deacon’s shoulder, you let him know you’ve got his back before he enters a bedroom.

“Closet only,” Deacon alerts, stepping back into the hallway before you.

Something hits the floor in the closet, but before you can turn back to check, the door slings open, and someone steps out. The suspect appears to be male, but you can’t tell much about his physical composure as he slams you into the wall behind you. You raise your arms to his neck, attempting to push him off of you. He grunts as he pushes harder, raising you so your feet are off the floor. Deacon moves in your peripheral, but you use the suspect’s momentum to kick him in the torso, falling onto him as he tips back.

“You’re under arrest,” you pant, flipping him onto his stomach and removing handcuffs from your belt.

“Get down!” Deacon yells.

You don’t hesitate to obey his demand, dropping to the floor beside the suspect as someone opens fire.

“30-David, we’re taking fire in the west hallway,” Deacon radios.

Looking over, you don’t see Deacon and assume he has taken cover in one of the bedrooms.

“One suspect in custody, one armed but not visible. Likely barricaded in the back room at the northwest corner,” Deacon continues.

You feel a hand on your ankle but immediately recognize the touch. Twisting, you confirm your suspicion when you see Deacon gesture for you to stay quiet. He raises to his knees in a doorway, and you move your weapon to your back just before he pulls you into the bedroom.

“Thank you,” you whisper as he closes the door.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replies, matching your volume. “Nobody else even got in, we’re trapped in here.”

“We need our cuffed guy. At the least, maybe we can trade him to get out.”

“I’ll get him, but if he makes noise, I’m pushing him back out.”

You nod and help Deacon pull the man you just fought with into the room. He pants as the door closes but doesn’t fight against you or Deacon.

“Yo, this dude is crazy,” he says, though you suspect he’s talking to himself. “I’m just try’na buy some dope fo’ ma cousins and he tell me to get in the attic and get the 5-0 off his trail.”

You furrow your eyebrows as you listen. The story may not make sense to everyone, but being a cop in Los Angeles quickly teaches you just what people are willing to do to score drugs.

“Did he offer to trade you drugs for getting the police away from him?” you ask.

“Sure did. ‘N’ then he dipped.”

“That’s not him in the back room, the one that was shooting at my partner?”

“Nah, that the guy who stay here. He bad, too, though. Ain’t nobody on this street mess with him.”

“Hondo,” Deacon radios.

“Are there more people coming?” you ask quickly.

“Is you a cop?” the man asks sarcastically.

You turn toward Deacon, and he nods to answer your unasked question about getting out of here. He will get you out of this, and you trust him, but you don’t want to imagine what he’d do to save you. He may be protective of you, but you care about him too and don’t want him to risk his safety, or worse, his life, to keep you out of harm’s way.

“Deac,” you whisper.

He looks at you, and you point to a loose piece of flooring beside the wall.

“This house may have a crawl space,” you explain, moving toward the corner.

You begin pulling pieces of the floor up quietly, smiling when you reach a spot without a subfloor. Deacon sees the opening above the small crawl space and drags your apprehended suspect toward it.

“I’m going to uncuff you,” Deacon says. “But there are dozens of officers waiting out there, so if you try to run you will fail and rack up more charges than you’re already facing.”

“Man, just get me outta this psycho’s house!” the man responds.

Deacon lets him go out first, not trusting him to be behind you. Helping you into the hole, Deacon waits until you’re moving toward the access panel on the south wall to slide into the opening. He pulls a few pieces of flooring back into place, hoping that if the “psycho” owner of the house manages to get in the room faster than expected, he won’t realize how you escaped.

When Deacon stands after army crawling the entire length of the house, you immediately hug him. His arms wrap around you without hesitation, glad to see you safe and out of the house. When a shot sounds from the other side of the house, Deacon wraps an arm around the back of your head and rushes across the yard, ushering you to Black Betty.

“Thanks for keeping me informed,” Hondo chides when he sees you.

“Radios don’t work when they get crushed,” Deacon argues, pointing to your destroyed radio. “You can thank this guy for that.”

“Man, my name’s Randy. Please take me to jail and don’ let these fools fin’ me,” your radio destroyer and previous enemy interjects.

“New warrant just came through,” Luca alerts. “We can hit his stash house, try to draw him out.”

“Fantastic,” you grumble.

Deacon pats your back, a reminder that you’re not alone, and the team now has an idea of what you’re up against. While Luca drives to the stash house, you take a mental note of your new injuries. For the most part, you feel fine, but you know there will be bumps and bruises tomorrow, and you’ll feel them when the adrenaline wears off.

“You need to get everything checked when we’re done. He hit you hard,” Deacon says quietly, ensuring no one else can hear.

Nodding, you agree to whatever he says. Deacon saved your life and though you don’t think you need a doctor, you’ll do anything he wants right now.

“We’ve got intel that this place is empty but stick together anyway. The call was right before we left, so it could be full now,” Hondo alerts. “We’re not here for the drugs, narcotics’ll deal with all that later, we’re just trying to catch a rat.”

“By becoming the cheese,” Street complains.

“We’ll be fine, playboy,” Luca promises.

“As long as you stick to the plan and listen,” Hondo amends. “Let’s get to it.”

You lead Deacon inside this time, using a small lock bypassing device. As you clear the first floor, you don’t see any sign of anyone using the building, and there isn’t as much as residue from drug use.

“Looks like he moved,” Deacon muses.

“Maybe our tipster made more than one call,” you agree.

“We don’t know that,” Deacon reminds you. “Stay vigilant.”

You nod, letting Deacon take the lead as you climb the stairs.

“This level looks just as empty,” Deacon says into his comm. “Second floor appears to be a code 4.”

“Something ain’t right,” Hondo replies.

“Deacon,” you call.

You don’t attempt to conceal your worry, and he turns quickly.

“Don’t move,” you add. “This place is rigged.”

“Rigged how?” he inquires.

“Hondo, you need to get everyone out,” you radio. “Watch the floor and don’t step on anything that isn’t flooring.”

“Copy that,” Hondo responds before commanding the team to exit cautiously.

“Why?” Deacon asks.

“You too,” you demand. “You need to go but be careful.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, biting it harshly as you look down. There’s a small button under your boot, and you’ve already depressed it. The moment you move off of it, something will happen. It doesn’t appear to be a landmine or any other kind of explosive, but that makes you more concerned because you don't know what it is.

“Deacon, please,” you beg, your voice a whisper as you look at him. “Just give me a minute to try to figure this out.”

“No,” he answers. “I’m going to take a few steps back, and you decide what you want to do, or we can wait for a bomb squad.”

“It’s not a bomb.”

“Then do what do you need to do. I trust you.”

You want him to leave but don’t want to be alone if this is the end. You tap the wall beside you and quickly realize that whatever this detonator is connected to is probably directly to your side, hidden between the studs.

“Can you- can you back up, like a lot?” you request. “I want to try something, but if I’m wrong, you can’t be this close.”

Deacon nods, taking about ten steps backward. He stops, his complete focus on you as he keeps a hand on his gun. Whatever happens, he’s prepared to rush toward you. Feeling helpless is something Deacon hasn’t felt in a very long time. He realizes you wouldn’t be in this position if he had done a better job protecting you and tries to find a way to take your place. He steps forward, but you raise a hand to stop him before speaking.

“I’m going to move backward, really fast,” you explain. “Last chance to leave, Deac.”

“Wait-“

You move your foot up, stepping back, your movements fast but not fast enough. Something sprays from the wall beside you and into your face. As you gasp for air, Deacon runs toward you, pulling you over his shoulders as he watches the floor. Rushing through the stash house, Deacon radios for Hondo to get an ambulance.

Bursting through the door, Deacon lowers you to the concrete and watches you. Your breaths are short gasps, and a bright red rash spreads across your chest and face. Deacon pulls your Kevlar vest over your head and tugs your shirt down, giving you more room to breathe and removing any pressure from your chest.

“What’d she get hit with?” Hondo asks, kneeling beside your head.

“I don’t know!” Deacon answers, not meaning to take out his fear on Hondo but failing to hide it. “Whatever it was came from the wall and she immediately started having trouble breathing.”

“This isn’t good,” Hondo adds. “Her airways are closing; we only have a few minutes to figure out what this is and counteract it.”

“We don’t have time for an ambulance,” Luca says. “Get in, Betty and I will get you there.”

Deacon nods and pulls you into his arms again before laying you on the floor of Black Betty and pulling your head into his lap.

“St. Stephen’s is the closest hospital,” Luca tells Street. “I need you to call ahead and give them as much information as you can. They’ll need to be ready.”

“I’m on it,” Street replies, moving into the backseat beside you and Deacon. He talks quickly and quietly to the doctors on the other end of the line, but when your gasps turn to strangled wheezes, he yells, “Just be ready!”

Luca pulls into the emergency room ambulance entrance a moment later, rushing to the back to open the doors. Several nurses take you from Deacon, put you on a gurney, and run into the hospital. Deacon runs behind them, leaving the rest of the team outside.

“How long has it been?” Hondo asks. “She only had eight minutes, tops.”

“Six since they came out,” Street answers, looking up from his watch. “If it’s too late, Deacon…”

“Will never forgive himself,” Luca finishes. “And we won’t either.”

Hondo’s phone chimes, and he looks at it before shaking his head, his jaw clenched as he makes a half-sigh, half-laugh sound. “Our guy just turned himself in. And Deac’s buddy Randy lied to them about who was in the house. They knew where we were the whole time.”

“We have to leave her?” Street asks.

“For a bit. We’ll get updates and come back later,” Luca answers. “She’ll be fine.”

As Street, Luca, and Hondo leave to return to HQ and question Randy and the original suspect, Simon, you’re surrounded by nurses and doctors. As you near the eight-minute mark, the doctors decide to run down a list of possible treatments.

“Symptoms align with benzene poisoning by inhalation,” someone comments.

“Intentional overdose?” a young woman in bright pink scrubs asks.

“Get her out of here!” a doctor snaps, glancing toward Deacon with an apologetic look.

“That explains the skin irritation, irregular heartbeats, and lung irritation may be the cause of the shortness of breath,” the first person continues. “That would have been an incredibly high, concentrated dose.”

“Whatever she got hit with was thick enough that I could see it standing five yards away,” Deacon offers.

“I’m calling it,” the chief doctor says, “benzene poisoning by inhalation. Get her on oxygen, clean her eyes and skin, and get these clothes off. We need to remove the outside traces and get her breathing regulated before we move on.”

The nurses jump to action, and Deacon steps back as you’re wheeled into a room. The doctor who sent the Barbie lookalike away opens the door to your room a few minutes later, gesturing for Deacon to step inside.

“Her breathing is regular, heart rate has returned to a stable, though slightly elevated, number, and we’re running some tests right now to check for long-term damage,” he explains.

Deacon keeps his eyes on you as he listens to the doctor, letting the steady rise and fall of your chest prove that you are okay, that you are alive. No thanks to Deacon. Immediately upon hearing that you may have long-term damage, Deacon lets himself remember that it is his fault you are in this hospital bed, on oxygen, and possibly in danger of losing your career. He should have been more careful, he thinks, done more to protect you.

“Sergeant, I’m unsure if it’s my place to say this, but you saved her life, so don’t allow yourself to think otherwise. I’ll be back in a bit to check in on her, but if you need anything, press that call button.”

“Thanks, doctor,” Deacon replies, his eyes still on you.

Deacon takes a seat in the chair beside your bed, forcefully tearing his eyes away from you to text Hondo and Luca that you’re stable but unconscious. They reply quickly, saying they’ll be back soon and asking for more updates as Deacon gets them. He hopes he won’t have to tell them about any permanent damage.

“Deac?” you mumble, your voice quiet and distorted by the oxygen mask covering your face.

“Hey,” he answers, dropping his phone into his lap as he leans toward you. “Let me tell someone you’re up.”

“Deac, wait,” you request. When he sits back down, you say, “Thank you. You saved my life.”

“I should’ve noticed that it was a trap,” Deacon argues.

“The doctors said it was benzene. That doesn’t kill you unless you have prolonged exposure or inhale an incredibly large dose. I would’ve died if you hadn’t been with me.”

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me at once,” Deacon replies, hoping to lighten the mood.

“I- I’m really dizzy, Deac.”

“I’ll get the doctor,” Deacon replies, pushing the call button before he walks to the door and stops a nurse.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Grayson,” the doctor says as he enters your room, looking at your chart on a tablet. “You seem to be one lucky officer.”

“I’ve got a good team,” you answer, looking at Deacon’s hands rather than any of the faces in the room.

“Well, I understand you’re feeling dizzy and have a bit of a headache, so I’ll make this quick. Those symptoms should go away, but it may take up to a few weeks to see improvement there. Other common symptoms of benzene overdose include nausea, and the breathing difficulties you experienced was caused by lung irritation which may cause shortness of breath. Weakness is the only other symptom I’d expect to see. Since your exposure was so concentrated and delivered so quickly, I don’t think you’ll experience any of the more intense effects, but I’d like to keep you for observation for, let’s say 36 hours just to be sure we found everything.”

“Will I get completely better? Where I can go back to work at S.W.A.T.?” you whisper, even though you are terrified to learn the answer.

“Oh, I have no doubt you will be back in uniform within a month. Again, there’s only a few symptoms that may last, and at the most they should pass within a month.”

“Thank you.”

The doctor nods and hands Deacon a piece of paper before he leaves. Deacon returns to his spot beside you and looks at the paper before passing it to you.

“When you’re up for it, you’ve got some bed-bound exercises you can do to stay in fighting shape,” Deacon explains.

“Where are Hondo, Street, and Luca?” you inquire.

“They got our guy, so they went to interview him and Randy.”

“Randy lied, didn’t he?”

Deacon nods, and his jaw clenches as he realizes that Randy probably knew about the benzene trap and may have even been the one to set it up, yet let you go, knowing you were headed for a death trap.

“What happens when I get discharged?” you ask, looking at the blanket as you keep your head down.

“They’ll probably want you to take it easy for a few days, be around someone in case something happens, and then you can ease back into fieldwork. With your record and how much Hicks and Hondo trust you, you probably won’t have to wait long after you get medical clearance,” Deacon explains, smiling as he thinks about you getting back to work as soon as you can.

“I don’t have anyone,” you whisper.

Deacon doesn’t catch it, leaning closer to look at your list of exercises. When it’s time to go home, they may not let you because you live alone and don’t have any family nearby. You grow sad at the idea of going to a rehab facility or staying in the hospital longer just because you don’t have any family nearby to take care of you. Suddenly, your head begins pounding, and the room seems to spin. You raise your hands to your head, putting pressure on your eye sockets to ease the pain. Deacon’s hand jumps to your back, pressing against the top of your spine as you ride it out.

“I don’t like that,” you murmur, moving a hand to your stomach as it churns. “It’s going to be a long few weeks.”

“We’re going to make Randy and Simon pay for it, though,” Deacon whispers. “And we’re all here for you.”

You nod, and when Deacon leaves to answer a call from Hondo, your nausea worsens.

“Tell me they’re talking,” Deacon answers.

“Oh, they’re talking, just not giving us enough to put it on either one of ‘em,” Hondo answers. “I need you to do me a favor though.”

 “Anything.”

“You and Randy had some kind of connection, however brief it was. We’re thinking if you come in and tell him she didn’t make it, he’ll give something up.”

Deacon looks back into your room, but you’re turned away, curled into the fetal position, and, unknown to Deacon, fighting to keep your bearings as the dizziness causes nausea and worsens your headache.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Deacon replies.

“Sergeant, I’ve got her test results here,” Doctor Grayson says as he walks down the hall. “Everything looks good in the long-term, so we’re just going to have to wait out the side effects. I’m going to discuss continued care with her now, would you like to join?”

“I’ve got to get down to the station, but if you’ve got a-“

“Complete list of recommendations and necessary actions,” Doctor Grayson finishes, passing Deacon a paper. “Along with a few more low impact exercises, since she is clearly ready to get back to work.”

“Thank you, doc. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Doctor Grayson watches Deacon leave before knocking and entering your room.

“Sergeant Kay had to return to the station for a moment, but I have good news for you,” he begins.

You sit up against your pillows, giving him your full attention. Your mind wants to think about Deacon, curious about what he’s doing.

“I could use some good news,” you reply.

“Your test results look good, and I see no indications of long-term damage or complications. So, once these initial symptoms pass, you should be as good as before. What symptoms are you experiencing now?”

“Headache, dizziness, and nausea. Every once in a while it feels like my chest gets tight, but the dizziness is the worst.”

Doctor Grayson nods, pressing a button on his tablet. “I think you’re going to be ready for discharge tomorrow evening, as I said originally, I’d just like to observe you a bit longer and make sure nothing changes. You will need to have whoever you will be staying with complete the discharge paperwork; having someone nearby will be crucial to your recovery and ensuring those symptoms don’t get out of hand.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I don’t have any family nearby and there’s no one I can ask to take me in for who knows how long while I recover,” you explain softly.

“We’ll discuss this further in the morning, but my team and I will make sure you have somewhere safe and comfortable to stay, I promise that. I’ll be back once more before the end of my shift, but you know where the call button is.”

While you try to fall asleep, hoping it will help you heal faster and move on from the intense dizziness and nausea, Deacon is lying to criminals and hoping it will help you heal by getting some answers.

“Randy, remember my partner? The woman you helped me get out of the house this morning after you tried to kill her?” Deacon asks.

“Yeah, nice lady, but she can kick,” Randy replies.

“She died fifteen minutes ago. From an involuntary benzene poisoning. You know what that means, Randy? That someone poisoned her, murdered her, and is going to prison for a very long time.”

“Ooh,” Hondo adds, tilting his head in disbelief. “Cop killers never do well in prison, but when it’s one of our own? A S.W.A.T. officer? You’re dealing with a whole ‘nother set of problems in this room alone.”

“Benzene ain’t kill people after the first time,” Randy argues.

Deacon slaps the table as he leans over it. “You put enough benzene in that wall to kill me, Hondo here, and yourself, and you’re the only routine drug user in here.”

“Man, she really dead?”

“She is,” Hondo answers. “And now we have to tell her family, even though we’re grieving too.”

“I only did that ‘cause Simon told me to. He said it wouldn’t hurt nobody, just confuse ‘em or some’in. I ain’t mean’a kill nobody, specially not no cop!”

Deacon nods at Hondo before they walk out of the interview room, and Randy is left to wonder why they seemed so happy after learning that he set the trap that killed you. Across town at St. Stephen’s, you do feel like you’re dying just because you’re refusing to take more than anti-inflammatory pain relievers, unwilling to use anything stronger after years as a cop.

“Sergeant Kay will be back soon,” your nurse says. “He called and asked about you a few minutes ago. You must be very close.”

“We are. My team is the only family I have, but they’re also my best friends.”

“I didn’t mean your team. How are you feeling? Is the dizziness any better or worse?”

“It’s about the same,” you answer, forgetting her first point.

“Well, that’s good, at least it’s not worsening. We weren’t expecting a miraculous recovery this quickly, but Doctor Grayson wants us to give you as much time to sleep as we can, so you won’t have many, if any, middle of the night pokes and prods from us.”

“That sounds nice,” you answer with a small smile.

“I’ll leave you to rest until your friend gets back.”

You fall asleep before Deacon returns, and when he sees you resting, he texts Hondo an update and makes himself comfortable for a night at your side. There is a folder with Deacon's name on it on the small countertop in the corner of the room. Deacon opens it and finds a list of rehabilitation centers and a note that you can’t go home alone tomorrow before he decides to do something while you sleep. Deacon has been restless since the moment you alerted him to the traps set in the storehouse, but he finally has something to do that will help you.

“Excuse me,” he says, approaching the nurses’ station with a kind smile. “I’m Deacon Kay, I came in with-“

“My favorite patient,” the nurse finishes. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

“Doctor Grayson left this list of rehab clinics for me, but I’d like to take her home with me tomorrow. I don’t feel right sending her somewhere when I’ve got plenty of room.”

“And I have no doubt you will attend to her no matter what. If you fill out the discharge forms, she’s free to go with you when the doctor signs off. Doctor Grayson comes in at four, so he’ll be the one signing off.”

Deacon accepts the clipboard holding the discharge paperwork and takes it back to your room to complete it. The nurses watch him with smiles, able to tell that he’s more than a friend and protective as more than a teammate, even if he’s unwilling to admit it.

You whimper in your sleep, pressing your face into the cushion to relieve your headache. Deacon moves a hand onto your bed, only pulling it away from your side to flip to the next page of paperwork.

“When did you get back?” you ask into the pillow with your eyes closed.

“Not long ago. How are you feeling?” Deacon replies, smiling when you take his hand.

“The headache is getting worse.”

Deacon brushes his thumb over his knuckles as you curl tighter around the pillow.

“I’m sorry,” Deacon whispers.

“It’s not your fault, Deac. You saved my life,” you reply.

“Shouldn’t have endangered it.”

“Deacon-“

You get dizzy before you can say anything else, gently squeezing Deacon’s hand as you clamp your eyes shut. Deacon stands, laying his other hand on your shoulder as you wait for the dizziness to pass. You know now to expect the nausea that follows, but each time it happens, the nausea is less intense.

“Do you think it’ll really take weeks to feel better?”

“No,” Deacon answers. “You’re strong – and stubborn – so you’ll fight to get back in fighting shape.”

“It hurts.”

Deacon frowns but doesn’t apologize again, though he’s blaming himself for everything. Maybe having a soft spot for you, as the team so lovingly puts it, made him blind to certain dangers of working together. He trusts you and would do anything to protect you from the risks of being a S.W.A.T. officer; now, he wonders if being distracted by you made him stop thinking about what he could do for you.

“You should go home,” you say. “It’s getting late.”

“I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right here when you wake up, or if you want to stay awake.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Deacon doesn’t add that despite how much he wants to, he needs to stay by your side and do what he couldn’t do earlier today: protect you and be there for you through all this pain and recovery.

When you wake again, the sun is up, and Deacon is no longer in your room. You can hear him talking, though, and when the door opens, he steps inside with Doctor Grayson.

“Good morning,” Doctor Grayson greets. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

Shrugging, you don’t want to bring up how sad you are to go spend the next few weeks alone in a rehab facility, which is arguably no better than a hospital.

“You did well last night, so I’m comfortable sending you home now, given that your discharge situation has changed.”

“It has?” you ask, looking at Deacon rather than the doctor.

“I’m taking you to my house,” Deacon explains. “Not for you, for Hondo. He needs hourly updates and none of the rehab places do that.”

You duck your chin, hiding from Deacon’s teasing as you smile. Part of you wants to insist Deacon doesn’t have to do this, but the other part desperately wants it.

“Are you sure?” you whisper.

“Positive.”

Deacon sets a backpack on your bed, gently taps your leg, and walks out to complete the discharge. You open the bag and smile when you see some of your clothes and a blanket. Standing carefully, you change into the clothes and wait at the edge of the bed for Deacon to return.

“Let’s go,” Deacon murmurs as he takes your hands.

Pulling your backpack over his shoulder, Deacon keeps a hand in yours as he walks beside your wheelchair. When you reach the hospital entrance, Deacon’s car is waiting, and he helps you into the passenger seat before setting your bag in the back and getting inside.

You close your eyes, your stomach churning and your head spinning as the car moves. Deacon offers a hand over the console, and you hold it as he drives through Los Angeles and to his house. Releasing a shaky breath as he parks, you squeeze his hand in thanks.

“It’s going to be a long few weeks for you,” you mumble.

“You’re wrong, but we’re not worrying about me. Our top priority is you and getting you healthy again. That means that you need to talk to me, even if you don’t want to, okay?”

You nod, and Deacon smiles as he argues, “That’s not talking.”

He gives you a break from his teasing and helps you inside before carrying a few bags in from the car. You recognize them and realize he must have gone to your place last night to get everything you’ll need over the next few weeks.

“Deac, why’d you go back to the station yesterday?” you ask, reclining on his guest bed while he unpacks your bags.

He points to the water bottle beside the bed, waiting until you start drinking to say, “Hondo had an idea to flip Randy, and it worked. He gave up his boss, and they found enough evidence to charge both of them with a long list of felony charges.”

“What was his plan?” Deacon doesn’t answer, so you ask, “You told him I died?”

“Yeah,” Deacon says softly.

You nod before you move to the edge of the bed. Deacon rushes to your side as you stand and wobble slightly. As he grips your arms, you lean your head against his shoulder, taking deep breaths as your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

“Do you still get nauseous after this happens?” Deacon whispers, rubbing his hands over your shoulders.

“No,” you reply. “That passed after the first few hours. Now I just have a headache that won’t go away and get really dizzy. It’s random, so I don’t know when to expect it.”

Deacon nods and makes a mental note to keep a very close eye on you, especially when you’re up and moving around. Deacon's heart breaks as he watches you be affected by something he should have never let happen. Watching you be poisoned, being helpless in the hospital, and feeling like he can’t do enough to help you is weighing on Deacon, but he can’t worry about himself when you’re struggling because of him.

“Stop,” you demand, so softly that Deacon barely hears it.

“Stop what?” he asks.

“You’re blaming yourself. I could tell from the moment you turned around in that house. There’s nothing you could have done, Deacon, to keep this from happening, but you saved my life. So, please stop blaming yourself and thinking about what you could’ve done differently.”

Deacon thinks about everything you said, and his mind lingers on how your shyness was nowhere to be seen as you asked him to stop blaming himself. You read him with no effort, and the realization makes him smile.

“I’ll try. But only if you promise to talk to me, really talk to me, and let me know what’s going on,” Deacon offers.

“Deal. Right now, the floor is kind of spinning, but I need to walk around because everything is stiff.”

“I got you,” Deacon murmurs, letting you hold onto him as you walk around his house. You know he means it in more than the obvious way; he’s always had you and always will.

“Why’d you stay?” you ask. “In the hospital, I mean. And then you brought me here. If you did it just because you blame yourself-“

“Not at all. I was blaming myself, you’re right about that, but I did this because I care about you. That soft spot that the guys tease me about… that’s you. So, when I get overbearing and protective and everything else you’re going to see over the next few weeks, just know that it’s because I care about you.”

“I’m your soft spot? Because we’re friends?”

Deacon smiles, letting you lead him toward the patio door. “Something like that.”

Your breathing catches, and you stop to take a few shaky breaths before returning to your normal breathing patterns. Deacon rubs his hand up and down your spine as he waits, hovering nervously beside you.

“The headache is a little better,” you tell him. “Either walking around or your touch is curing me.”

“Why not both?”

You smile before looking away from Deacon. He walks you back to the bedroom and digs through one of your bags before handing you a piece of paper. While you look at the exercises depicted on the therapy list, you lean back against the pillows, tired and experiencing the worst headache of your life.

“Don’t rush anything,” Deacon says. “You’re already getting better, but don’t risk that trying to heal on your schedule.”

“What does ‘something like that’ mean?” you murmur. “About why we’re friends and I’m your soft spot.”

“It means that you’re my soft spot because we’re friends for now.”

“You don’t want to be friends forever?”

Deacon chuckles and sits on the edge of the bed as he answers, “Not really. I’ve always wanted more.”

You sit up quickly and wince in pain. You don’t hesitate before asking, “You do?”

“Are you okay?” You shrug, and Deacon answers, “Yeah. You’re my friend, but, c’mon, you couldn’t tell?”

“I thought you were just being nice, protecting me because we’re teammates.”

“That’s part of it. But even if you left S.W.A.T. today, I’d still be right here.”

“If I didn’t know you, I’d think that’s why you’re so upset,” you muse. “But you’re just a great man.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

You shake your head and look away from Deacon.

“Could we- could we try to be more? After I’m back in fighting shape?”

Deacon smiles, leaning closer to you as he promises, “Yes. Just tell me when.”

You lean back, huffing when your headache worsens suddenly.

“I thought the Hondo-induced headaches were bad, but this makes them seem easy.”

“I’m telling Hondo you said that.”

“No, you aren’t. You know I’m shy and injured.”

“You haven’t been acting very shy.”

“Because I’m disoriented and have a crush on you,” you mumble as you drift to sleep.

“I’ll be right here when you wake,” Deacon whispers.

“And every day after?”

“And every day after,” he promises, smiling as you fall into a restful sleep.

Deacon has no doubt you’ll be back to yourself in a few days, meaning his advances will make you shy, but, for now, he’s happy waiting on you hand and foot, doing everything he can to help and keep you comfortable.

[ms0milk]

pitch in a teapot

sanemi x inn keeper

reader has a business to run and sanemi can't help but watch you do it well, barking orders, teaching firmly, smiling and scurrying around like a fancy little bell. There's something he's been trying to get out of you all afternoon but chores keep stealing you away. cw MDNI, frustrated thunderstorm quickie, reader w vagina + penetration, slight manhandling, desperation and a little bit of sass. 4.1k

thank you so much my darling @neiptune for requesting a little sanemi this @ficsforgaza season! you were so generous and patient waiting for this to come out, I hope you enjoy angel

Six bowls of soup upstairs and an old man somewhere in the bowels of the inn with a limp and half a shoe. Right, okay, send two girls to the garden– no. One to the garden and one to the kitchen. That’s dinner taken care of as long as the scholar with the fat pony– donkey, maybe– doesn’t regurgitate an encore of the rakugo performance that couldn’t have been funny in the first place.

You roll the sleeves of your apron slightly tighter in their tasuki. The cyprus walls of your inn bleed fragrance before summer thunderstorms so you make a mental note too, to order storm doors for the second floor before the clouds go black and blue. Incensed breeze, juniper, wisteria, paper windows, one foot, the next, again, each step down the wooden hallway is a quiet knock. Each summer at home is heavier, heavier, and this year is the flood.

“Oi.”

“Not my name,” you blow from the corner of your mouth without changing pace. That breath was ready to jump off your lip before the demon slayer even called out to you; he hates doing nothing and hates even more what great pains your staff take to avoid his room.

“It reeks.”

“Excuse me?” You huff and this time do turn enough to interrogate him via glare. Sanemi, ridiculous, folds his arms in the doorway of a very nice room, a too nice room, without any of the appropriate embarrassment of someone who has been lying in wait. The stippled blue pattern of his robes doesn’t suit him. They clash with his ugly scars and uglier attitude but don't keep him from wearing the chest wide open like a well paid rent boy.

“Stinks.”

“Whatever of, princess?”

He growls and drops his arms as you brace for the lecture, “Demons.”

His heart is incapable of peace and yours with it, and every summer he’s assigned a post in your mountains by a master you’ve never met and who couldn’t possibly be sane themself. Four years of this. Four years of twelve weeks of sixteen-hour-days of the world’s most neurotic demon slayer.

“The whole property is wide open for any fuck to attack.”

You adjust your grip on a slender bucket handle and the cloth in your other arm and continue back downhall, “You always say that.”

“I’m always right,” he nags and pushes free of his bedroom.

You met Sanemi when you were sixteen and still working under your parents. He was a brand new hashira then and prone to fist fights, spitfire, bloodshed. Nothing special. Nothing new. Hashira come and die and new hashira come again. They arrive in flashbangs and ego and leave like everyone else, in pieces.

Your parents were calm, they had peace and practice, they ran this inn, they welcomed Sanemi with his summer floods. They loved him, took his counsel and died by it, and they probably wouldn’t have lost an old man inside the house. But this is your inn now. They aren’t here anymore and at your inn sometimes old men get misplaced.

“And what would you like me to do about all that, sir?”

The hashira keeps an easy military pace behind you, “The gardens need to be reinforced and–”

“Nine acres of wisteria arbor need reinforcement? Yeah I’ll get right on that.”

“The storm will take out ha–!”

“And the other half will hold until autumn. Go berate the kitchen staff for their unpreparedness– they’re all unarmed you know? Totally unprofessional.”

“Y/n–”

“Shinazugawa,” you spin and it all comes out as a threat, a hiss, instead of just a whisper so much so that the water in your bucket nips up your sleeve. “I am the lady of this establishment and you will not address me so familiarly.”

Dark cyprus, cool hallways, the undeniable scent of thunder. Sanemi rests his hand on his sword to glare like he does when his hands don’t quite know what to do with themselves. His eyes roam, quiet under long lilly lashes until they have traced the shapes your tasuki makes with your waist and rise again to your gaze. “We’re not fucking finished.”

“Go eat,” you snap and turn back down the hallway, red at the ears. Lady of the establishment, great job.

Feet aren’t complicated, bone to tendon, tendon to muscle, muscle to skin, one step and another. You tilt your head back and an eager girl rises to wipe sweat from your temple.

“Like this,” you hum and tilt the old man’s heel in your palm. He winces but lets you continue while the girl stares on. “When the skin is split like this it can’t receive moisture– sorry sir, better?” You set his foot on the hammock of cloth between your thighs, “So you need to soak it first before applying salve. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the girl parrots, still unable to look away.

“Yes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile through an eye roll but gesture for her to come sit beside you. You’ve been like this since he’s met you, too old for your body.

You’ll train anyone who asks, hire any runaway girl, absorb the cost of thieves when runaways are exactly that, and you will wash old men’s feet before eating dinner with the self preservation of a samurai. Famously long-lived, those. Sanemi has to look away when you take scissors to the gnarled yellow nails and almost covers his ears when your pupil starts asking you questions about it.

“Feels good right?” You chuckle at the man’s response to your ministrations, and then a little louder, when you realize just how seriously the girl beside you is trying to focus. Birdsong. “Do you have companions on your pilgrimage, sir?” He shakes his head.

You lean away again so the girl can dab your brow and push back stray hairs and turn back to explain overdetailed care instructions to this man who is obviously so embarrassed he can’t hear a word you’re saying. Something about tallow and socks, Sanemi tries to read the syllables off your lips and loses focus the second time your teeth catch damp and pillowed pink.

The man seated in front of you grumbles some and flexes a few fingers around his cane like old men do, but doesn’t protest your instructions. He nods instead of thanking you like a real tough guy.

“Fetch a new pair of sandals from the garden shed,” you instruct your girl who bolts up and out the door past Sanemi without so much as a breath. “And you,” you turn back to your patient, “keep the nails short, you hear?”

He nods again, increasingly avoidant of eye contact. Sanemi tenses in the dark outside the guest’s complimentary room and hates ungrateful fucks enough for both of you.

“And don’t skip any more meals.” 

The man’s wrinkled skin unfolds at his eyes and he pulls his legs back underneath him. You dry your hands after scrubbing clean in a soapy pot and stand to collect your tools. “I couldn’t find you this evening and I hate to lose track of my guests at mealtime.”

You are going to feed every stray you find until the economy collapses. Peasant monks, pickpockets– you’d put up a demon if its stomach growled. After too many unnoticed minutes watching you, following the white x between your patterned shoulders, eating your voice, warming the hallway, you finally pick out Sanemi’s eyes in the dark behind the sliding door. He’s waiting for you. You clear your throat for the broke old pilgrim one last time, “You don’t owe any money. Do not skip meals.” And bid him a wordless good night. The door cracks shut behind you. It isn’t late enough for sunset. Thunderstorms make it so dark so quickly and they mask the scent of blood with all their rain and iron. “What is it?” You deadpan and shuffle towards the stairs with all the confidence in the world a tenured hashira will work to keep up with you.

“Not fucking finishied with you,” Sanemi grunts, working to keep up with you. The apron over your service kimono forces your hips to sway in tight little circles and Sanemi sucks his teeth. He doesn’t look away.

Through the hallway and down the servant stairs, socks on polished wood, you tap, tap, tap nimbly to your next assignment. The room below radiates heat and life. “What do you want?” you whisper.

“I–” he slips barefoot on the slick last step into the kitchen and you stumble in your newly damp right sock. “Euh, I–”

“Mimiko!”

“Lady?”

“Wet.” You point behind you, palming Sanemi out of the way, and a free washerwoman dives for the spot with the rag tucked into her belt. The kitchen rages silently in the easternmost corner of the mansion; men and women sweat over donabe, rinse their body weights in rice, and beat little fires with littler fans. Two women and a boy linger just outside the paper door in clothes that match yours for formality and Sanemi assumes as he weaves through the bustle, that they are responsible for bringing food to customers and for doing everything they can not to sweat through their pretty borrowed uniforms. Your own kimono is purple tonight, a cool little shape bobbing nimbly between flames.

Sanemi opens his mouth to shout after you and shuts it again just as quickly to grind his teeth instead as you lift your apron over your head. You let a girl feed you a spoonful of something on your way out of the room and she wiggles when you nod several times before ducking through the door.

Laundry next, then a double check of the firewood cache and the whole while Sanemi occupies your shadow. A few times you hiss over your shoulder at him for looking so gruff, for looking like a bodyguard, for making your customers imagine your distrust of them, always you bite back before he can get more than a few words out but mostly you just scurry in preparation for the storm picking up warm wind outside.

You avoid the entrance with him so close in tow, armed and obstinate, but make a show of circling both tatami halls where guests come after dinner on rainy nights to stretch and smoke by the brazier with strangers. A female musician trills her koto. The sky hasn’t let loose a single drop of rain yet but wet hangs like a fog and thunder scents the air ahead of its arrival. As Sanemi trails the outer walkway of the mansion behind you, the sky bleeds with the last of day’s light in the cracks between bruised and racing storm clouds.

“Second floor secure?” You confirm with the men slotting thick panels into grooves where paper doors usually go. They nod in their white uniforms. Beyond the porches, beyond the east garden and its fat green vegetables, beyond dogwood trees and sarusuberi and maples that have begun to tremble violently in winds buffeted by humidity and nightfall, the wisteria arbor glows. You radiate a cool purple pull beside him just like your flowers.

The arbor surrounds the property on all sides for half a mile and all three paths away from the house are barred by gates of twisting wisteria vine. The inn belongs to your family, but does not serve Ubuyashiki. Theirs is not the only house that discovered a use for these flowers. Yours is not the only wisteria business in the country. 

“Do you see that?” You murmur at so much the same tone as the wind that Sanemi almost cannot hear you.

Three years ago he left before the end of summer, called away to investigate a massacre nearby. A tree fell that season. It crushed a straight path through the edge of the mountain forest and onto your property where, lured by so much blood and wine, a pair of sister demons descended through the broken orchard and devoured everyone who wasn’t fast enough to hide in the flowers like the slayer suggested they should in an emergency. Your parents evacuated the house and died in it with the guests who couldn’t walk on their own. Nestled under three braided vines at the far edge of the property, you listened to them die.

The winds kick up sand from your vegetable garden and you step off the porch into the start of the storm. Tiny and purple. “Y/n!” Sanemi lunges for you. His sword whips the meat of his thigh and you step out of his way before he can grab any part he intended to. The men on the porch watch you both scramble through the backyard. You snap at the strange guest and duck when he swings a hand towards you, hop in your sandals when he tries to trip you into his arms and dart away like a dragonfly.

“Get back here!”

“Go inside!”

“Y/n!”

“How dare you!”

“Motherfucking, Y/n!” 

“That’s enough!” You bark and twist back towards the garden shed. Your pupil left the door wide open and all its shining tools caught your eye across the yard. Sanemi was staring when you stepped outside. His eyes feel like beads of sweat on the few bare parts of you. His gaze is all teeth on the back of your neck.

With all but one storm door up, not a single guest can hear the ruckus you two kick up outside in the prologue of the storm. “It’s about to pour!”

“Then go join the other guests!” You shout through a particularly violent breeze and you have to grip to the break in your kimono closed. He does not. By the time you lay a winded hand on the wall of the shed, it has started to rain.

A silencing wall of water falls from the back of the property straight towards you. It kills dust clouds in its path and paints every surface soaked in a perfectly straight line. Sanemi rushes from behind and nearly lifts you off your feet to get inside the shed as you watch the supernatural army advance on your home.

“Shit,” he grumbles and winces when the rain overcomes the little shed and splashes off the pavement into his face. He pulls you deeper inside and you jolt. The first crack of thunder is a scream that shakes the ground, “Scared of thunder now?”

“Scared of my profit margins, you oaf.”

Under his shoulder you are glaring at the storm between this shitty stuffy shed and your business. You are so small and wrapped so tightly in layer after layer of fabric. It must be hot. The damp drips down his open chest and thighs, it frizzes his hair at his ears. You must be sweating somewhere in that formal getup. Wet glistens at the curled little hairs on the back of your neck where the skin is just barely visible and it sparkles under your high collar.

“I can’t walk back inside soaked,” you groan, “there’s not enough time to change before final rounds.”

Sanemi takes his hand off his sword. There must be damp parts of you hiding from him. He brushes his knuckle up the bare skin of your neck, across your throat, and you falter slightly.

“Sanemi–”

“Nuh uh, don’t address me so familiarly,” he smirks and cups your cheek in his big hand when you jerk around.

“That’s not–!”

“Not what?” He smiles now, and drops his hand back to his sword so that you might find your own weapon and finish the fight. Four years of this.

You shove a finger into his chest, “You’re such a clingy fuck Shinazugawa,” and shout a little because you know the thunder will hide it. A sudden gust blows the sheet of rain sideways and straight inside the open door of the garden shed, up your dress and down his robes and through your prettily pinned hair. “Y/n this, y/n that, I’m busy Sanemi, I’m stuck in a shed! You’re the only one who calls me and people think we’re fucking! You want my attention you have it so please tell me all about the demons that’re gonna slurp up my customers and fuck my taxes to shit and–”

The door creaks in Sanemi’s hands even through the oceanic sounds of storm when he begins to close it. He nods as you get louder, nods as he slides the door closed and flicks the latch.

“Do not,” you growl, “there’s five thousand–”

“Five thousand little bitches in there lost without direction? They’re fine, Y/n.”

“Don’t call me that here.”

“They’ll survive, little lady.”

You spit, “not better.” And the new humidity of the closed shed begins to swallow you whole. It fills your throat. “What about all the demons you’ve been crying about?”

“You’re such a cocky cuss.”

“And you’re needy,” you taunt. It’s Sanemi’s turn to wince and his frustration starts to drip from all those places he shoves it away from you. He's been gentle with you since that summer. He lets you interrupt him, he follows where you go. “I watched you check perimeters this morning, you don’t need to talk to me about demons.”

“Eyes everywhere huh?” His throat is pink, “Lady of the house.”

You grin and pull him by the loops of his robe into your tiny purple kiss, “Shut up.”

“M’lady,” he growls against your lips and succumbs.

Four years of stolen touches, lips on damp summer skin, coming out of empty rooms too ruffled and pulling the hashira between your legs without disturbing the folds of your work kimono. “Don’t call me that either,” your breath hisses against his throat like an iron and he drops his sword quickly to gather you in his arms.

Too much fabric. Shovels and shears clatter against the floor and one another when the thunder shakes their little house again, and they tremble at every thump and roll of your body against Sanemi’s. He pulls your hips against his and guides your legs around his waist so he can sink into those soft parts of you. So he can tilt his head back to look up at you, so you can pour your kisses down his throat like wine.

You drag your nails up the back of his head when he offers his tongue to your lips, biting, suckling, drawing out gentle sounds and eating them before they compete with the rain outside. Where his hips dig into your own the folds of your skirt fall apart. Legs that glisten with sweat and rain part nicely for him and his own robes grow clingy with exertion where he grinds hard against you. Every subtle roll breaks your concentration in kisses, in lips sliding, begging with salvia and rainwater. His hands cup your cheeks, thighs, the collar of your kimono shudders open for him when he dips to suck bruises under your jaw and the swordsman’s hand loses control as he grips your belt to free you from all this formality. He’ll press crescents into your breasts, he’ll lower his tongue through your peach sweet folds and drink until you cry– but you pull his head back with a sharp yank of your wrist.

Your breath comes in clouds. The inn glows with candlelight across the yard but the light through the shed’s window is too weak. Welts of lighting illuminate the flush of your chest and cheeks. Two seconds of bright and twelve of dark warmth, shaking swirling thunder and then only rain. Sweat rolls from your temples and into the depths of your kimono. It’s been days since he’s had you like this and longer since you’ve had true privacy, others a whole yard away.

You can’t be gone long, he knows. Staff watched you race in here together, watched him shut the door, he knows he knows, he just can’t put you down yet. He leans in for another kiss and you let him fall close enough for his chest to crush yours before pulling back on his hair again.

“Y/n,” he’s suddenly not above begging but you hold his gaze tight. You watch him as your hand slips between the place your bodies meet. Pretty fingers reach for the heat between his legs. Pretty knuckles ghost over the swell of his robes and draw the fabric aside instead of ordering he bring you back inside. Sanemi’s cock perks up in free air as high as this position will let it and rests heavy under the swell of your ass.

He kisses you again, toothy and smiling and when you kiss him back your sharpest teeth clink together. He ruts into your desperation against the wall, harder than the rain, harder than the wind that threatens to blow your shed away and you with it. Obviously he wouldn’t let it but the thought that nature might be jealous of the rumple you made of each other drives him harder against you. Slipping, cock hard and suddenly shifted up against the hair under your belly. Peach fuzz yields to warm slick and Sanemi drops his head to your chest when he shudders to avoid whimpering into your mouth. He slips through your folds with a tight hold still under your thighs and drags himself up, down, up, hypnotized always by the faces you make when you’re trying to keep quiet.

The scars across his body are forever numb, but when your clammy hands paw is his chest he swears he can smell color. He can touch light when you pull his face back to yours frantically, when your hips with all their fabric flowing off of them buck sloppily against his, when he thrusts once deeply inside of you and forces a broken gasp from the back of your throat.

Before you can catch your breath your lips have crashed against his and his hips against yours. Sanemi keeps the relentless, restless, starving pace you like and knows he’ll last only the next few minutes before the worst of the storm blows over. Again and again he carves a palace for himself inside of you. You guide him with the falter of your kisses when he finds that perfect spot and with the slick that coats both of your thighs. Your voice escapes you in choked whimpers, his name comes out in hiccups. You’re a little bell in his arms folded in half and singing for him.

Again and again, out and so deep back inside, Sanemi’s feet grip the floor as he plunges his hips into yours and both of your bodies into the swelling wood walls. His rhythm staggers as you flutter around him and with his head against your shoulder he watches the circles you draw on your clit with the tips of four clumsy fingers as your other hand muffles your voice. He grabs that quieting wrist without thinking and without taking his eyes off the place your bodies connect with lewd squelches and sticky white threads. His threatening grip, his thick cock and your fingers push you right over the lip of your pleasure and fluttering becomes milking spasms quicker than Sanemi can think to treat you gently. That half-sobbing voice he loves so much cheers him towards his own climax and the more sensitive you grow the easier it is to coax those sounds out of you that you try to keep hidden, “Don’t– don’t be so quiet.”

“Inside,” you whisper in reply and draw his face into your hands as his pounding stutters in pace and loses all flow completely under your dreamy gazes. Sanemi can’t keep his eyes open when he cums. His pretty lilly lashes flutter with lost concentration. He shudders, ruts you deeper into the wall and groans with release as he fills those swollen wet parts of you. Warmth pools in your belly and trickles off his cock still buried. Sweat falls like the rain outside.

“Wanna taste,” Sanemi rumbles without setting you down or stilling his thrusts fully. He nuzzles somehow farther into the dip of your collarbones. Soft snow white hair, a heartbeat in the fingers that grip you. Every twitch of his hips is a starving ache.

“C'mon,” you grin, “dinner’ll get cold.”

“Let me taste you.”

“Sanemi, what will I eat if you eat me?”

“Have a few ideas,” he smiles back through the trembling of the shed in encores of thunder and gale. A leak tip tap tip taps nearby. Four years of this, maybe more.

[dodger432101]

If it’s alright, may I request part 2 of you Demi-god fic? Specifically, The Reader and Lux having to handle when their demigod definitely is a Pantheon demigod and Lux’s at that. Such as the nanny thinking she’s going insane cause, for some reason, her charge keeps trying to stick their fingers in electrical sockets, climbing high places for lightbulbs, and she SWEARS to God, she saw that kid bring the cartoons on the TV to life!

[Got me feeling maternal for a baby that doesn't exist grr /lh I'll also do a part 3 for the other request you put in about the child. That might take a bit to come out, got quite a few other requests until I get to that one but I promise it's on its way!]

Little Celeste is over a year old now. You and Lux had fallen into a routine of caring for her; you fed her milk, he got up in the night if she woke up, and you took turns with everything else. Having a God in cartoon flesh was a big help, he could be in the kitchen making you something to eat and have an arm comically stretched to also entertain as she sat in her little high chair. Any of his cartoon antics got a laugh out of her, which was a cute bonus.

Though with her getting older, meant that she was starting to learn more. She's got some words down, mostly “Momma” “Dadda” “Yes” “No” “Please” and one of her favourites, “Light”. She was definitely the daughter of the God of Light. And most definitely the daughter of a God in the pantheon of Discord.

Celeste learned early on that she could control the light from bulbs. At first they'd just break- she had no idea of her power. Lux had to step in and help her control her abilities to avoid you spending all your money on lightbulbs. Now she likes to dim and brighten their lights if she's bored, especially if you're not paying attention to her as the increasing brightness bordering on another exploded lightbulb has your attention straight away.

Another thing she loved to do was play with the TV. Her nanny has said multiple times about the cartoon characters interacting with her on increasingly personal levels, at times even saying your daughter's name. It got harder and harder to act oblivious and naive until it finally came to a breaking point. You and Lux come home from Palazzo (he likes to see Mr Pye, he can act apathetic all he wants you know he cares about the old man) one day to find Mr Ring-A-Ding playing with your daughter and a terrified nanny who comes running to leave the house without even taking her payment. You couldn't be angry, not while Celeste was laughing away and pointing to Ring while saying “Dadda, Dadda!”.

“Ay, I'm your Dadda not him! Beat it!” Of course, jealous little Lux isn't as glad to see that happy go lucky toon, quickly chasing him back into the TV. By the way she's still laughing, you'd think she'd done it on purpose to get a rise out of her dad. Yeah, that smile tells you she did. After that you had just about every cartoon character in the house. Your God was starting to get tired of having to send back each one that his darling daughter summoned.

Lux had not been prepared for a child. When he'd first come back to Earth, he quickly read through every book on child care that you gave him, sometimes while actively doing what he was reading about. Obviously there were no books about caring for a Demigod, so the both of you have had to adapt as things appeared. He even sent for the Toymaker for advice at one point. The God of Games turned up to the door, bowing quite respectfully to you (not Lux, he wouldn't go that far) before he laid his eyes on Celeste and went: “Ah. Maestro was a little more.. grown when they were brought into this world.” While he wasn't much help with telling you how to raise her, he did bring along plenty of toys for the new addition to the pantheon’s numbers. He made the mistake of giving her a light up toy, immediately being flashbanged as Celeste decided to show off her abilities. “Definitely your child, my good Lux.” When he could see again he bows to you once more, waves to your daughter, folds down into a paper plane and flies out the letterbox. Of course, Celeste giggled away through the whole ordeal. Lux was quite proud of her for that stunt, cuddling her up to his chest and giving her plenty of kisses on the top of her head.

Even though it was tough work at times, you both dearly loved your little girl. Especially at times like now. Lux has her resting on his chest as he watches TV on the couch, the both of them soaking in the light. She's chewing on his fingers, seeing as he didn't mind the little teeth that were growing in. Thankfully for you she only did it to her dad. You sit down next to your lover, Celeste’s face instantly breaking into a big smile as her hands grab the air towards you. Lux hands her over before stretching his limbs, cuddling up to your side while your daughter settles down for a nap. “I can't believe she's a year old already.” You gently brush through the hair growing on her head, smiling at her tired little grumbles.

“I know. She can already do so much, I'm starting to worry she might surpass me.” That gets quiet chuckles from the both of you.

“You think she'll steal your title as God of Light?”

“Oh I know she will. Already pranking the God of Games, she'll be a force to be reckoned with once she learns more of her power.”

You settle further back into the couch. Having a sleeping baby on you made you feel tired. “Mm, just make sure she doesn't start anything with the other Gods. I don't want her getting into fights.”

The God of Light closes his eyes, his head against your arm. “I'll keep an eye on her, angel, don't you worry. I'll protect her with my life if it comes down to it.” Your eyes begin to slip closed as sleep takes over. “I promise you, my love, she will always have her dad watching over her. I love the both of you so much.”

“I love the both of you too.” With that your little family takes a nap together, safe and sound.

[justfreakynothingelse]

Wrote this over a few hours last night, on discord, and was asked to put it here. Made a whole new blog so I don't flashbang my friends with this shit XD

Mortarion's a man of few words in the best of times, even with his beloved. He knows this. So as his beloved lifts their eyes to his, they see a burning desire for them to have him. And he wants, if he knew what exactly he was feeling, to scream for them to touch him; to take him inside them and use him as a toy, but he's never gotten this far with someone, before. His relationships with others have mostly been professional, and even those have often been reluctant, for the other members. As such, when they meet his eyes and see the raw desperation within them, he does not scream out. He does not vocalize his desires, no. He simply pushes his pants down just enough for his aching, throbbing, leaking, painful cock to spring out. After eyeing his cock for a few (painful, nerve-wracking, to Mortarion) moments, they reach a hand up and tentatively rub the weeping slit at the head, and Mortarion moans. He swiftly clamps down on the noise; a hand rising to cover his scarlet face, embarrassed by his own weakness, but mere moments later, his lover touches him that way, again and again and again, dragging out, even against the resolute will of the Primarch, whimpers and whines and bucking hips that simply send Mortarion down into a further well of mortification.

" 'Tari, are you okay? We can stop if you need..."

"No!-" large lavender eyes clench shut, at his outburst "Do not."

Their tiny hands resume their ministrations, drawing gasps from the giant as his precum steadily drips onto his skeletal form. Mortarion's eyes slide shut; taking in the raw ecstasy of the moment and attempting to regain composure. He might even have succeeded, if not for the raw heat that ran over the head of his cock at that moment. His hips thrust into the air as he moans and startles up, finding his beloved staring in surprise at his reaction.

"I'm sorry, 'Tari! I've heard that a lot of people like um... being licked there... so I wanted to try..."

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. This is actually happening. Disgusting. Worthless. Coward. I could've hurt them, why are they doing this?

Mind still reeling from what just happened, Mortarion pants as he runs a hand over his face, attempting to compose himself as he sees nothing but their deft little hands on his cock, and their wet little doe eyes—they look like they might cry—looking up at him.

(Inhale) "It's okay," (exhale) "you can, uh, keep going" (inhale)

His lover leans down, and Mortarion shuts his eyes, mind torn between desperation—hoping they don't leave in disgust, at his weakness—and the side of him he has always repressed; the side that even now, as the flames of his desire are mere embers compared to what they will become, are still burning within his core, and screams to sheath himself within their throat.

Tiny lips on the head of his- (exhale) Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, how is this better than before? (inhale) A soft tongue catches the slit of his cock, able to just barely dip down into it a tiny bit, his eyes rolling back as his lover does so (exhale)

A groan, driven by three ruined lungs and the bliss of a broken man, shakes the room.

(inhale) as they trace the vein on the underside, pulsing with need (exhale) Mortarion's hips twitch, as his lover slides his pants a bit lower.

Mortarion cracks his eyes open; tired and scarred from overwork and the acidic gasses of his homeworld. And oh, in that moment everything, his entire torturous life, has been worth it; his beloved trails their lips down to mouth at the base of his cock, and he's no good with people, pathetic, good for nothing waste but he thinks in that moment that he understands exactly how they're feeling. As they drag their tongue back up, swiping it around to cover as much of his shaft as possible, he watches one of their hands drift between their legs. Mortarion ventures to breathe through his nose (usually difficult or impossible, due to the gasses he breathes), and in that moment, a riot of primal hormonal scents swirl into being within his brain, all of them calling him to take-claim-pin-breed-protect.

A small growl leaves his throat, unusual even for the usually surly primarch, catching his lover off guard.

"Everything okay, love?"

And with a voice deeper than any they've ever heard before, all Mortarion can do in that moment (and his brain drags itself to forming words) is grind out a terse "yes."

"That doesn't sound like a yes, 'Tari-" rising in a flash—speed no baseline can muster, and even he usually doesn't use—Mortarion is over them; cracked lips poised by their ear as he snarls- "I said yes. I'm simply... unused to this sort of situation."

"Oh!- Okay, 'Tari." And oh, their little hands trail their way up and across his chest, and Mortarion, despite his hatred of his body, wants to rip his clothes to shreds so he can feel them better. As it is, he groans low in his throat, almost wanton, as his lover gently pushes his shoulders away, guiding him to lie down once more.

His cock, neglected for much longer than Mortarion would like (he needs to be inside them, please please please-), made a small mess on the sheets, when he pinned his beloved.

With a gentle smile and a shy kiss to his lips (he can taste himself on them, and the mix of essences almost ends him, then and there), his lover blushes and looks away, clearly contemplating.

I need them, I need them, I need them, by the mountains of Barbarus, please, I need them

In the few seconds where they look away, his mind flutters, finally willing to think of the things so long derided. Of soft hands on his stomach, as his beloved takes him to the hilt. Of little hands running through lank white hair, after the fact Of weak legs throwing themselves around his hips, as he drives himself deeper, harder, within his lover. Of the way they'd cry out for him; his ruined voice hissing in Barbarusan as he tells them of worlds burned in their name and cities gassed and poisoned, for the crime of an official mentioning their very existence. Of coming home to open arms and good food Of having himself be the sole star in their sky.

When they look back, his face is flushed as if he were a supergiant star about to burst; all but glowing from the redness of his face.

"Um, 'Tari... I hope this is okay, but can I... try to take you? It's okay if you don't want that I just..." His mind goes foggy as they continue talking; worries and need and apology dripping from their lips as they continue, blissfully unaware of the war raging in his mind. To take or be taken? He's torn between the ingrained drive, of his upbringing, of decades of torture, to submit. To beg and make himself small. Yet that clashes with the born and bred drive to conquer; to pin them and make them his, wholly and completely. To be entirely in control

A rattling breath leaves him, and he sits up. "...Fine," he grumbles, looking away, lest they see the nervousness swallowing his eyes.

"Wait, really?" And with a bounce they knock him over, practically mauling him with kisses, which, as reflex, he grumbles and hisses about. Their hands lace themselves into his hair, and oh, what bliss, but then their lips leave his face and their hands leave his hair, and the moment is over.

In a heartbeat (when did their clothes come off?), they're poised over his cock; red and hot and throbbing from need and neglect. Mortarion is about to protest, because Oh stars, how much did I miss? and I don't know what to do, help help help help-, but his protest dies in his throat as he watches their little body opening up to accommodate him. He's not the largest of his brothers, but next to damn near any baseline, he's apparently enormous. The willingness of his beloved to take him is almost disconcerting, on that count alone... Let alone that despite how long he's been with this little mortal, he still refuses to show them practically anything of his body, out of disgust at himself. Their pristine skin, so supple and soft, makes his look like a mockery of nature next to it. But nonetheless, despite such qualms, they fade to nothingness as inch after overwhelming inch of him slides into his lover.

"Mor--tarion, is-is-is this okay?" They stutter and gasp out, less than halfway down on him. His brain itself feels like it's backfiring; falling over itself and curving back onto previous topics, trying to find words for how he feels in this moment. After a few moments (his lover still slowly sliding further onto him), he decides on what he wants to say.

"Don't stop, please, I can't- don't stop-" Cut off with a moan, as his partner wiggles and manages to find, somehow, more space for him within, and oh, when did they get that far down? Their ass meets his hips with a tiny plap that'd be barely audible to any mortal, but to him it echos like a shot in a dark hallway. They took him. They actually, really took him. He didn't know they could do that; they're so much smaller than him.

A shuddering gasp leaves his beloved as they feel him hilt within them, and it's all Mortarion can do, hearing that gasp, to not pull them further down; to not arch his spine as he pulls so that he's as deep as possible. As they breathe, Mortarion manages to move; cupping their hips with his hands and letting his fingers interlace on their back as his thumbs run over their pelvic bone - just palpable under their beautiful shining healthy skin.

As his lover braces themself, hands on his gaunt stomach, Mortarion lets his head roll back. It's hard enough for them to straddle him (despite his malnourishment, he's still so big) that they're only able to raise themself a few inches before letting themself fall back down. A steady, subtle beat of skin-on-skin begins, as the scent of sex floods Mortarion's existence. He can't help but toss one of his arms up, to cover his flushed face.

It's so good, but it's not enough. He wants to grab them with a hand and take control; move them on his cock as if he was back rubbing himself, furtively, in the shower after they bring him food and smile at him so warmly. His beloved's panting increases—they're angling themself oddly; does it hurt?—to almost a fever pitch. Quirking a brow, Mortarion struggles to find the words; unused to this sort of situation.

"Do you—nghh—need help, little one?" For indeed, all mortals are little, next to Mortarion. And despite how much Mortarion would love hate for that answer to be yes, they surprise him.

"I- ngh- just... feels so good, like this... can't stop, please don't do anything, 'Tari-" and in that moment, Mortarion might have stayed still for a year, if it meant enabling them to feel good.

So as their eyes roll back, reaching their peak with a licentious moan, Mortarion... wasn't entirely sure what to do next. He wanted, desperately, to continue; to grind into them until his beloved's body is pulverized from the depths his only his; only ever his cock can reach. But he didn't want to hurt them, either; mortals are so fragile, and he is rather fond of his lover, despite how he acts in public.

(exhale) "Can I keep going?" (Inhale) "Please, 'Tari- don't stop, please- I came but it's not enough," (exhale) Mortarion braces his hands behind his lover's back; providing them support as he switches to kneeling, joints popping all the way. One hand and forearm grasp his lover's hips, and the other spreads up between their shoulder blades, like a tree, almost, gently grasping their neck to keep them in place.

With a rattling gasp, Mortarion pulls back his hips from theirs, before slowly moving back in. And oh, he understands, in this moment, why mortals do this so much. Why they risk their jobs and families for such things like the tight little body around him; whimpering as the pace of his hips increases. The slapping of skin on skin is now the only readily audible sound in the room; overwhelming his lover's panting and whines, and his own growls are getting so low and predatory that his lover simply keeps their eyes locked on him; fascinated by the animal urges that are almost palpably roiling off the large man, like solar flares from a star.

Pressing his lover into the bed now, Mortarion just takes them by the hips; arching himself awkwardly over them in order to reach as deeply as possible. His lover splays their hands across his scarred chest, tracing each scar with the reverence of a devotee, and for all his inexperience, Mortarion does know what an orgasm, rising like a rogue wave, feels like as it builds. So with a final few thrusts, he does something he's heard Calas speak about, before, while they do their post-battle poison ritual together: he forces his lover's legs against his chest, bending them in half as he presses them into the mattress. As his aching joints threaten to collapse under him, his white hair curtains them away from the world, and his orgasm eases, Mortarion tunes in to the feeling of tiny lips on his chest. Pulling away from his beloved a bit, still hilted within them, they secure their legs around his hips to keep him close, and oh... he could do this forever...