#it just makes it more evident that the matter's severe enough to him to shake the stoicism

[mostly-imagines]

The Alchemy vol. II

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

part one

warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault

It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.

“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.

He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.

You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.

He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”

“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.

He frowns at you, confusion evident.

You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge. 

Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.

When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.

You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go. 

He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”

You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”

“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.

He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”

“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”

It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”

“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”

He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”

You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.

“Mhm.”

You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.

“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs. 

Your head tilts, “You live here?”

He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”

You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”

He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”

You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”

“I don’t always come to your apartment—”

You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”

You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”

“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.

That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”

“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”

“What?”

You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”

“Okay...”

“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”

He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”

You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.” 

He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”

“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.

He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”

“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”

He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”

You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”

You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens. 

“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.

He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before. 

His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”

What?

“What?”

“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.

You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”

He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”

You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”

“What?”

“We can’t do this again.”

He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.

You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”

“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.

He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.

Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.

And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long. 

But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.

He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.

He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.

Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.

Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.

So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.

You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.

“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?” 

There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”

His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this. 

He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”

You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”

He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”

“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”

“Explain.”

He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”

You blink. “Explain.”

“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion. 

You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.

You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”

He only gives a half-hearted shrug.

You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.

He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”

You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”

He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”

“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.

You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up. 

He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.

As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works. 

You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”

He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.

An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.

You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”

“But then where would you go?”

He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.

You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt. 

His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.

Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.

The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.

A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.

“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.” 

He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.

You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.

What the fuck?

Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits. 

You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.

There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.

Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.

You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily. 

The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.

“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.

You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey. 

Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”

You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least. 

You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”

She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”

You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”

“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”

“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.

You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.

“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”

You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.

A second man mutters something you can’t make out.

The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.” 

Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”

There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”

“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”

A sigh, “Dumbass…”

The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?” 

“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”

“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”

One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.

“What the fuck?”

You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.

Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”

She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”

The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.” 

“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”

He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”

Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.

“Get up.”

She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.

You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.

You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.

“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.

Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing. 

“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes. 

Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you. 

The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”

Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”

“I disagree.”

All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.

The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.

Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago. 

“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.

He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”

Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.

Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”

“Really?”

“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”

Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.

He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.

Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.

Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”

Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”

The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.

The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”

The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”

“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you. 

Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”

Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”

Boldly, Murray steps up to him.

But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”

The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.

It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it. 

Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him. 

Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”

“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.

Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.

His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.

After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”

He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”

You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”

His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”

You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?” 

Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this. 

He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”

This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking. 

You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”

“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter. 

His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”

You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”

You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…

He nods solemnly, “Okay.”

You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room. 

“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air. 

A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”

One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.

Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.

You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it. 

So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water. 

Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.

He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.

He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence. 

“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder. 

You stare at him incredulously. 

After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”

You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.

He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”

You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”

He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”

You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”

He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”

You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away  before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”

He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”

“Bullshit.”

He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.

You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”

“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”

You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”

He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”

He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”

Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.

“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”

That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”

He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.

And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.

The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer. 

He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.

He thinks about that for a moment. 

“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.

You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him. 

He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”

You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”

He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.

It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.

It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.

He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.

You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.

You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…

All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.

He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.

You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind. 

J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…

Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”

He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”

Autopsy scar. Fuck. 

“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”

He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”

He nods, likely relieved.

You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.

You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”

“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”

You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”

You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”

He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..

There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.

He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.

You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”

He pauses before telling you,  “A cemetery.”

You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”

He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.

You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.

He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it. 

He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”

You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.

You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.

Huh.

Must be official. 

🧨 reblog or die (this is a threat) 🧨

[boneblushed]

Glitch

synopsis Rafe has a bad fall on the ski slopes. A temporary amnesiac, he falls in love with you all over again.

a/n oh Euro Trip Rafe I have missed you so bad 🥹

The velcro of your left glove snags, the worn edge catching on the handle of your ski pole. You sigh. The gauntlet cuff on the right side isn’t looking much better, all scruffy and threadbare so the underlying skin’s exposed.

“Hold on,” you call out, skidding to a reluctant stop.

It’s high time you replaced them with a newer pair, especially considering you’ve been using the same gear your parents bought you post middle-school growth spurt. But you don’t come to Aspen nearly enough to justify doing so at the moment; not that money’s a particular issue, it’s more so the inconvenience an unnecessary shopping trip will bring you.

“Dude. Again?”

You abandon the broken strap to send Topper a helpless frown. He’s a little way ahead, partially obscured by the crowd, but the exasperation on his face is made evident by his tone.

He draws nearer and glances down at the shaggy velcro, shaking his head disapprovingly. “We’ve gotta buy you a new pair.”

Above him, the sky is a gauzy blue, juxtaposing the sugary white hue of fresh snow.

“Not worth it Top,” you argue. The strap hitches again, an objection. “They’ll barely get used.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he answers, turning again. “Come on. I’m going to buy you a new pair.”

He’ll buy you a new one, your heart sings. And then it stops. You know better than to read into this gesture — he isn’t being chivalrous on purpose; when is he ever? This is the fourth time you’ve had to stop to untangle or readjust, and you’re pretty sure he’s just getting sick of you holding him up. Logic prevails, but your traitorous cheeks warm anyway, demure about the offer.

“It’s fine,” you insist. The velcro barely sticks when you refasten it. Fine enough. “Let’s keep going.”

You continue to push through the horde ahead of you, making your slow way toward the chairlifts. As you near, the ant-like skiers and snowboarders on the mountain become clearer, and you pull down your goggles, blinded by the sun’s glare.

That’s when the accident happens.

All of a sudden, but crashing in dusky orange slow-motion. Some guy hits a rocky bit of the slopes, losing control of his snowboard and nosediving into the snow. It’s a gnarly looking collision, made worse by his concerning lack of helmet, and you share a worried look with Topper before making your way toward him.

“Dude, fucking move—hey, sorry, best friend coming through—”

You startle, halting abruptly. You’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“—sorry, ‘scuse me gorgeous, I’m just gonna squeeze past you real quick—”

“Noah!”

In the split second that follows, you endure several emotions at once. The first: concern heightened ten-fold. Because if Noah’s referring to himself as the best friend, the some guy in question is actually Rafe Cameron.

The same Rafe Cameron that you love to hate, almost as much as your poor heart avows it.

The second: a concerning ache. Right at the centre of your chest, within your ribcage, as if the tired ligaments that hold it together are as weak as your velcro straps. The feeling swells, and you feel your heart squeeze through the cracks.

And then there’s apprehension, some excitement, a sudden bashfulness that makes your cheeks burn.

All round pathetic. You force a smile that’s more a grimace, hoping that Noah doesn’t notice your disquiet.

He pauses en-route, a surprised expression on his face. “Y/N!” He exclaims, breathless. The surprise melts into a mixture of delight and amusement. “Tell me you witnessed him bailing just then.”

You sigh. “Unfortunately.”

“Good,” he replies soberly, linking his arms in yours and tugging you forward. Your ski poles cross in protest, your centre of balance askew. “You’re coming with me.”

“What?” You ask, evidently bewildered. “Noah…”

You twist around and find Topper in the crowd, who shrugs, equally perplexed. Help me, you mouth, though you’re moving ahead too fast for the poor boy to discern it.

“…uh,” you try again, turning back to the face him, “I don’t know if this is —”

“Y/N,” he interrupts matter-of-factly, zig-zagging through the crowd with ease. “If there’s one person that can talk some sense into him, it’s you. I mean, shit, did you see how fast he was going? He’s going to board himself into a fucking coma if he keeps doing stupid shit like that.”

This brings a pause. It’s sort of endearing, really, how fiercely he cares about Rafe.

Your gaze softens a smidge. “You’re a good friend, Noah,” you say. “He’s pretty lucky to have you.”

“Us,” Noah corrects.

Your pulse jolts. “He doesn’t have me,” you reply, frowning a little.

“Everyone else may believe that Y/N, but I don’t.”

And again, a terrifying emotion bounding forth in your chest. “I —”

You’re saved the trouble of sputtering through an excuse by Rafe’s languid groan, a thready-sounding, “Shit.”

The crowd parts at Noah’s command, and the pair of you squeeze through, now face to face with Rafe.

He’s splayed out on the snow with his limbs in disarray, only one of his boots still strapped onto his board. His cheeks are a chilly rouge, dirty-blonde hair sticking out at odd angles. You resist the sudden urge to reach forward and comb your fingers through it.

“Idiot,” Noah mutters, crouching down beside him. “Absolute fucking idiot.”

He unfastens the aforementioned boot and tosses his board to the side, the nose-end looking notably abraded.

“Huh?” Rafe mumbles, a little dazed. He gropes at his purple-hued goggles blindly, pulling them off to squint up at Noah. It takes a worrying number of seconds for recognition to dawn on his features, and when it does, finally, Noah turns around and beckons you forward.

You hesitate, your gaze flitting down to Rafe’s face. “Someone should call Ward.”

“No!” Rafe yells suddenly, attempting to push himself up before collapsing backward languidly. He clutches his left side and groans, his eyebrows pinching in pain.

His discomfort makes you wince. You spring into action without meaning to, that concerning ache in your chest pulling you forth until you’re crouching down beside him like Noah.

“No Ward,” you murmur, placing your hand on his shoulder. “Noted.”

Up close, you can see a cut on his bottom lip, the rough stubble on his jaw all dewy from the melted snow. Your brow furrows. As he tears his gaze away from Noah to face you instead, you brush back his dirty-blonde fringe, searching for any more injuries. He has a graze on his upper forehead and you thumb over it gently, the furrow in your brow deepening with concern.

You glance up at Noah and nod. “Absolute fucking idiot.”

Rafe tries to do the same, but a sharp ache sears through his head when he attempts to turn it again.

“Stop moving it,” you instruct sternly, exerting more pressure on his forehead to hold it in place. “Noah isn’t going anywhere.”

“Have to,” he groans, his voice all gravelly and rough, “make sure he’s still here.”

He’s almost certain that Noah won’t be, that he’ll turn to him and find that the two of you are the only people sitting on the slopes. He imagines it like that scene at the end of Deathly Hallows, everything in blinding white and playing inside of his head.

You know, because he’s almost definitely dreaming if you’re crouching down beside him right now. With a soft hand on his shoulder, another pressed over his forehead. Two points of contact, he marvels, dazed. He squints up at you again, his reverent gaze falling over you in paces, and it feels as though a fog is descending on his surroundings. Everything blurs. He blinks abruptly.

“Dude,” Noah chastises, leaning over Rafe’s torso so that he’s within his line of sight, “where the fuck would I go?”

Rafe’s eyes widen, and he looks between you and Noah, evidently bewildered. “Bro,” he groans after a pause, his head falling back defeatedly. “I’m fucked.”

Your heart lurches worriedly, and you frown, looking over his figure for more injuries. “R’you in any pain?”

“Not physical,” he mumbles, lifting his head tentatively to squint at you. He drops it again and groans, overwhelmed by your closeness. “You’re really fucking beautiful, by the way. It’s messing with my head.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a tell-tale warm creeping up your neck. “Alright, you guys can go,” you say, turning to address the crowd. “He’s totally fine.”

Noah grins down at him, looking equally parts proud and exasperated. “There he is.”

Rafe isn’t sure what that means. All he knows is that he doesn’t feel fine, his head’s all jumbled and there’s a dreadful ache in every one of his limbs. The sound of blood pounding through his ears is unrelenting, and the chill in the air is downright abrasive. Not to mention, there’s this angel reincarnate that’s leaning over him at present, a concerned expression on her face that’s somehow making her look prettier.

Two points of contact, Rafe thinks again, agonised. Your softened features come to him in slow motion, the light reflected in your wide eyes, the shine of gloss on your frowning lips. You look extremely familiar, but he’s having difficulty recalling your name. There’s this overwhelming pull in chest that tells him you’re a big deal to him—his girlfriend, he hopes, aghast and probably deluded. That’s the concussion talking.

Besides, he isn’t even entirely sure that you’re actually real, all things considered.

“We should probably get him checked out, huh?” You ask Noah.

Noah knits his brow thoughtfully, peering down at Rafe. “You good, Cameron?”

“I feel fucking hungover,” Rafe mutters, pushing himself into a sitting position. Your hand falters as he hangs his head forward, and he reaches up, pressing it back into his skin. The rough pressure makes your breath hitch, less languid and more sure than he’s been since he bailed.

“You’re concussed,” you correct meekly, frowning down at him.

Rafe tries to shake his head, wincing as another bolt of pain shoots through it in dissent. “No,” he says, quick to fix his features. He grins dazedly. “I’m Rafe Cameron. And you’re… well, I hope you’re my girlfriend or something, because otherwise this heart attack in my chest’d be pretty concerning.”

You breathe out a scoff, mildly exasperated. A little relieved. If he’s well enough to remember to be an incessant flirt, he’s well enough for the concussion to not have caused any permanent damage.

“Alright, nevermind, no medical attention necessary,” you mutter, sending him a glare. It’s hard to hide the fact that your palms are clammy when you pull them away.

Noah loops his bicep under Rafe’s and pulls him to his feet, steadying him in place. The throbbing in his forehead intensifies, and he groans, staggering forward and doubling over.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” Noah replies then, frowning. “Maybe I’ll give my mom a call, just to be safe.”

“Your mom?”

“Dr White,” Rafe supplies, forcing himself to straighten. He tries to control his breathing, ignore the way his surroundings seem to be spinning.

Everything except you. His focus acquiesces. He must look pale or something because your gaze is apprehensive, this pretty furrow in your brow that he wants to smooth his thumb over. God, he must look pathetic right now, weak and mildly concussed, the aforementioned bail notwithstanding.

So he lies, adding, “Don’t worry about it White, I’m good,” mostly for your benefit—so you don’t think he’s some fucking chump who can’t handle a bit of a tumble.

He wants to impress you, bad. He plasters on another grin, going for roguish and landing on dense. “Would be better if you let me take you out later.”

“No way you’re asking me out right now,” you reproach, sending him a glare. “You almost just died five minutes ago, and that’s the first thing on your priority list?”

“You are, yeah,” he agrees, still grinning. He tries to walk toward you, staggering a little. “Seriously though, this has gotta be fate — bailing real fucking hard and finding a beautiful stranger along the way.”

You blink. “Beautiful stranger?”

“Heavy on the beautiful,” Rafe agrees, lumbering forward clumsily.

“Stranger?” You repeat, and then you falter, glancing down at his feet. “Rafael —”

He loses balance far too quickly for you to intervene, and he falls against you heavily, causing you to topple into the snow. Biting cold on your back, delightful warmth on your chest. His instincts must be somewhat intact, because he manages to hold his weight up despite being right on top of you.

Like, right on top of you. A terrifying emotion sears through your chest. The smatter of freckles on his nose are almost faded, his cheeks a brilliant rouge, snow-burned lips parted slightly. His overgrown locks brush against your forehead, just.

“Sorry,” he breathes out, and then he pauses, his gaze flitting to your lips. In the beat that passes, he agonises over the soft planes of your face, how pretty your eyes are up close. His heart’s just about pounding through his skin. How kissable your lips look, your cheeks, your neck, how right your figure feels pressed into his. His palms feel clammy; that hasn’t happened in a long while. He thinks, oh shit. And then, I’m absolutely fucking fucked.

You swallow, watching his pupils dilate. “Cameron. I need you to focus for a second.”

“Listen,” he murmurs, ignoring you, “D’you believe in love at first sight?”

“Rafael —”

“Because I know we’ve only just met,” he continues, drawing closer still, his heady gaze deepening, “and that — shit, I don’t even know your name, but I’m pretty sure that if I don’t kiss you right now I’m going to go fucking insane. That’s crazy, huh? I think you make me crazy. Have I mentioned that you’re really fucking beautiful yet? It’s messing with my head. Wait — I think I might’ve said that already —”

“Rafe Cameron,” you interrupt again, your eyes widening slightly. “If this is some stupid prank —”

“Prank?” He echoes, frowning slightly. He leans forward a little, brushing his nose against yours. Your pulse jolts. “You’re a prank.” He groans then, dropping his head to your shoulder. Your closeness may quell the pounding a smidge, but not completely. “You’re not real are you? I’m dreaming all of this?”

Your lock eyes with Noah over his head, sending him a worried look.

“Rafael,” you try again, pushing him off you and sitting up carefully. “This isn’t funny. I’m so beyond serious.”

Rafe, still splayed out on the snow, angles toward you with a furrow in his brow. “I’m confused.”

“Noah,” you say then, your voice louder, a little panicked. “I think you will need to call your mom after all.”

Noah frowns, crouching down beside the pair of you. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong,” Rafe answers, groaning in pain as he sits up. “Is that I’ve made a fool out of myself in front of this gorgeous stranger.”

“Ask her,” you continue, your heart feeling a little odd, “how long post-concussion memory loss takes to wear off.”

Noah eyes widen, searching Rafe’s face for any signs of mirth. “No way,” he says. “He’s gotta be fucking with us.”

“There’s an us?” Rafe echoes, raising his eyebrows at Noah. “Dude. Did you know your girlfriend’s a fucking smokeshow?”

“If this is some new pick up line you’re trying,” he replies, eyeing him warily. “It sucks ass Cameron.”

“Oooh, territorial,” Rafe answers, grinning dopily. He props himself up further, leaning closer to you and lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “You’re totally out of his league, by the way. Pretty sure you’re like, out of the Earth’s league.” He frowns. “That doesn’t make sense,” then groans, “fuck. Having a concussion is like drinking on an empty stomach.”

The pillow of his bicep presses into yours, full well engulfing it. You turn to face him, chewing on your bottom lip worriedly. If this was his idea of a prank, you want to believe that he wouldn’t let it go on this long. Especially not when you and Noah look so concerned, the latter retrieving his phone to give his mother a call.

“Hey mom,” he says, sandwiching his phone between his shoulder and ear and getting to his feet. You do so too. Rafe staggers to a standing position far more clumsily. “Yeah — no — the snow’s been sick, but I’m calling because something’s happened with Rafe. No, no, nothing too serious, he’s just a little concussed and may have some temporary amnesia. I was wondering if…”

“Maybe we can go on a double date,” Rafe tries again, grinning hopefully. There’s a bit of snow that’s melted on your bottom lip from the fall, and he aches to thumb over it, tuck his fingers under your jaw. “You, Noah, me.”

“No, no, he remembers me,” Noah continues, sending you a significant look. “But he doesn’t remember — yeah, it’s pretty selective — uh, maybe a few meters? Uh… no, what the hell’s a trigger? I’ll…”

“What d’you reckon?” Rafe prompts.

Noah turns away and you move your gaze to Rafe, half amused, half exasperated. “You, me, and Noah? Who’re you going to bring?”

“You,” he replies, like it’s obvious.

“And Noah?”

“Me.”

You breathe out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. Rafe thinks it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. His already muddled brain short-circuits for the billionth time.

“…half an hour?” You hear Noah affirm, the frown on his features audible. “Yeah — no — it’s been just over that — a trigger like what, though? What d’you mean you don’t know him as well as I do, he’s been coming to our house since he was like six years old…”

You don’t realise your brow’s furrowing until your feel Rafe’s rough thumb brush over it. You startle, feeling your skin warm as you look up at him.

“I’m lucky,” he murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

You swallow. “Why?”

“You’re worried about me.” His hand drops to your jaw, thumb swiping over your cheek. You swallow instinctively. “And you’re way too beautiful to be worrying about someone like me.”

“You’ve lost your memory,” you answer weakly. “Anyone’d be worried.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He draws closer.

“Which part, exactly?”

“That people would worry,” he answers quietly, his voice gruff. Closer still. “That I’d forget about someone like you so easy.”

“But you have,” you prompt.

“Then remind me, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart, Rafael,” you murmur, trying for a frown.

“Not my — wait.”

The thumb that’s swiping over your cheek freezes suddenly. “Wait,” he repeats, blinking several times. He scrunches his eyes shut, retrieving his hand to clutch it against his forehead. “Wait — fuck.”

You lean forward instinctively, tugging his arm away to look over his features, his concerning graze. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I knew…” he answers, shaking his head and groaning, “…but…shit, it’s so fucking obvious now —”

You furrow your brow in confusion, locking eyes with an equally bewildered Noah.

He holds his phone away from his ear, walking over and surveying Rafe’s features. “You good, brother?”

“Fine, shit,” Rafe curses again, scrubbing his hand over his face before meeting your gaze, chagrined. He grins hopefully. “That might’ve been quicker with true love’s kiss, though.”

You aren’t about to believe that he’s back without concrete evidence. “And my name is…?”

“Mrs Cameron,” he replies seriously.

You let out a scoff, more relief than indignation, catching the twinkle of mirth in his eyes. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

“Maybe,” he answers, raising his eyebrows, “if you let me take you out I’ll be too busy to bail.”

You roll your eyes. “Nice try.”

“But I’m maimed, sweetheart,” he adds, brushing back his dirty-blonde locks to show off the forehead graze. He pouts for good measure. “C’mon. Not even a pity date?”

You shake your head exasperatedly, catching Noah’s eye over his shoulder. “You’ll take it from here?”

“What? You aren’t gonna hang out with us?” Noah asks, pressing the phone against his chest. “I thought you were my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“Off limits, bro,” Rafe says matter-of-factly.

You’re about to protest when he draws closer and ducks his head, his warm breath on your earlobe cutting you off. “I won’t ever do that again,” he murmurs, the smile on his face audible, “I promise.”

“Good,” you answer, frowning sternly.

“Oh, and Y/N?”

You turn toward him, startling at his closeness. “Hm?”

He grins wider, brushing his nose against your fleetingly. “Missed remembering you bad, dream girl.”

[astolfofo]

Notes: Slight lapse in judgement moment. (Please comment or reblog with something because I actually dedicated time for this one. I am humbly begging.)

Tw: non-con, gunplay, slight blood play, abusive behaviour, mentions of murder, yandere.

Tagging @yandere-romanticaa on this one, thank you for being the enabler to this (jokingly)

Also on a side note, if you want to listen to something when listening to this, it was inspired by sex with a ghost by teddy hyde, and bo en- pale machine (entire album)

Word count: 4.4K

Dazai had never quite sunken this low before.

He lays down onto the bed, with the gun clattering to the ground. He disregards it as he throws it to the floor, watching it slide across the room. It was useless now, anyways. There were no bullets inside, and it was quite the outdated model, that would be useless against anyone with even the slightest of strength.

All that’s left now is an overwhelming shame. An overwhelming shame that he touched himself, using that weapon for several previous hours, as a means to relieve himself. He feels so disgusted in himself again, as he looks at the rifle, which was now covered in a mixture of his own sweat and cum. It was so disgusting to look at, almost as evidence as to how much he had become a slave to his own desires. Almost as if he was succumbing to some kind of poision that plagued his mind on the daily.

And it didn’t even feel good, he thought to himself. I merely relieved myself enough to clear my mind, if even that.

Dazai looks around the room again. There’s nothing to see, and nothing to feel other than a sick sense of shame. A sense of shame that he decided to touch himself with a gun, while thinking of you. He wasn’t really thinking when he did that, he kind of just did it on impulse, without previous judgement. Yet as Dazai’s eyes dart back to the gun, and his mind drifts to other places. He pictures you cum, and sweat, with a mixture of yours and his cum dripping out of your hole. Your neck is covered with hickeys and bite marks and bruises running down your body. You’re panting, and slightly whimpering from pain, yet you also know he’s the only one who is able to fuck you this good.

He looks down at his cock, which is yet again, hard. He ignores it this time, not wanting to deal with his own arousal, instead choosing to lament over the fact that you were long gone from his life.

But still, he longs for your presence. A person long gone from his life. He longs for you to come back, but you never will.

Dazai shakes his head out of those thoughts, hoping to temporarily think about something else, anything at all that will make prison even slightly more bearable. He looks at the ceiling observing the fluorescent lights, and the solid white ceiling, which reminds him of the situation he’s currently in. Once again, he’s painfully reminded of why he was here. A detainment for ability users, built so they could stay here until they would eventually rot and die. There wasn’t any more to it than that.

He turns on the side again. He doesn’t want to think about that right now, either.

As he lays there, he’s painfully reminded how it’s been two years since you had broken up with him. Not that he was able to keep track of time in prision, but if he were to logically deduce the amount of times he had waken up and fallen asleep, it was about two years since you had broken up with him.

Yet the ghost of your presence haunts him constantly. Even after two years, Dazai had still not gotten over the breakup. No matter how badly he wanted to, he would always come back thinking of you. That you were still there, with him, and not somewhere else. That you still lived with him, that you never ran away from Yokohama, and that he never kidnapped and held you captive. He wanted to imagine that you’d be sitting at home, waiting, wondering where he was, instead of hopping on the nearest train, running away from him.

That you were the same person as who he met you first as, that somewhere at the back of your mind, you still thought of him, at least just a little.

However, he knew all of that was false. You were probably living a normal life again, back in your hometown, maybe with someone else you thought was better for you. Maybe by now, you had recovered from all the injuries he had gaven you over the years, maybe had gone back to the initial person you were, an individual he found so intriguing and rare, that he unwillingly fell for.

He was happy for you, if you were. As happy as he could be, if not exceptionally bitter.

He closes his eyes and imagines you again, how you would look right now, smiling and with some… other guy. It’s not a pleasant feeling imagining you with someone else. Jealousy, envy, and a eerie sort of anger arise in him. No… it’s not anger, he’s not sure what it was. It was closer to an urge to take you away from him, for whatever unknown reason.

Still, you had long ago let go of him, but he’d never let go of you. You had never loved him, but he’d needed you more than man needs air to live. He pictures the scene again, and that possessive feeling comes back again. It felt almost as if the air was being knocked out of his lungs the longer he looked at you and the man together.

You plagued his mind constantly, to the point where Dazai was willing to relieve the pain by almost killing himself with the rifle earlier. Still however, Dazai recognized he needed you as man needs air to live.

Yet he felt rooted in the ground, as his mind went blank again. He felt as if he was fighting a primal urge. He felt as if he was struggling in a room devoid of air, as the helplessness begins to settle down. But he won’t give up, he’ll fight until the very last second to stay alive. All he needs is for that man to be gone. Witnessing so… happy with another man made it feel like every breath he took was poision, and every step he took feel like stabbing his foot. He doesn’t want to see this again.

His vision goes blurry, and then black.

-

Dazai’s now walking down a dark alleyway. He’s not sure where it is, or how he got there, but he feels as if he’s stuck here now. There’s no sense of urgency, rather, a small, creeping sense of paranoia of why or how he’s here. The alleyway feels endless as if he was trying to escape a large maze. He can’t see to the other end of the alleyway, instead, constantly running into dead ends.

He wonders where he is. Was this another dream of some type? He can’t say for sure, it feels too surreal to be reality. But whatever it was, he felt like he was supposed to find something. There was something else in the maze… that was more important than a way out.

You.

At that exact moment, he hears footsteps. He turns around to see you walking in a different direction, at the entrance of the dead end he currently stands in. You’re calm, you look the same as you always did. And he’ll chase after you this time.

Dazai walks as quietly as he could, following you, to wherever you plan on going. You make several turns; one right and three lefts, before you stop at a door. A door that would likely lead you elsewhere, away from him. To somewhere you wanted to go, or needed to go. But that wasn’t the concern. If he let you go through the door, you’d be gone again. Gone forever.

And he’d lose you again. He can’t lose you again.

“Leaving so soon (Y/N)?”

You look at him. You finally turn around and look at him. He can’t tell the exact emotion of your facial expression, but he takes it with relish either way. Your eyes are wide, contorted with fear, yet anger, with some kind of underlying urgency. A urgency to run. Escape the situation.

But Dazai’s faster than you are. As you try to push open the door, Dazai manages to grab onto your arm and push you back first. You gasp for a quick second, and then regain your composure again, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“Let… Let me go you fucking bastard.”

Dazai smirks, “No.”

As on instinct, your breathing becomes shallow and rapid, as your face fills with dread and anxiety. You’re fighting against his grip, trying to break free from the position Dazai has you in, with your arms pinned against the wall, and his knee in between your thighs, keeping you in place. Dazai, on instinct, grips you by the arms tighter, until you feel like there’s no blood going into your hands.

“You were going to leave, weren’t you?” He mutters. “You were going to leave me alone here, and escape. You know I was going to find you either way, right?”

You open your mouth to protest at him, to tell him to fuck off, but nothing comes out of your mouth. Your jaw feels glued shut, it feels paralyzed.

“You can never truly escape from me, no matter how hard you try to forget the days I held you captive. No matter what, you’ll meet me again in some way, some shape, or some form,” he continues. “You should just accept that.”

Your heart is racing. You want to speak, you want to scream, but your brain doesn’t seem to be able to command your body to do these things. You’re struggling. Your hands are still shaking, trying to break free of his grip. You’re doing everything you can just to not give out on the spot, because you know, that Dazai will take you away if you do that. But you can’t win against him either. Not like this.

Your jaw trembles, as you attempt to call for help, scream, see if anyone is there. But Dazai is faster than you. He covers your mouth and you make out a muffled sound instead. “Shh.. don’t scream. There’s no one here to help you anyways.”

His voice sounds so gentle, so soft, it sounds loving, and genuine, if only you didn’t know what he had done to you at all. Dazai was always good at this, you could never say no to him, he always knew how to make your irrational heart win against your logical brain. Even though you could deny it to yourself all you wanted… if Dazai wasn’t so… cruel to you, you would have fallen for him several times over. But he wasn’t.

He was a monster. A monster with a luring personality, and a luring face, waiting for you to fall. Waiting for you to fall so he can posses you wholly. And you would have never known otherwise, until truly understood who and what he was.

“Just let me have my way with you, just this once, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. It wasn’t like he was going to listen whether you said yes or no, anyways. No matter what your answer was, he was going to continue with his actions.

And so, he kissed you. As always, they start off so gentle, so tender, that you could believe it was true. That he wasn’t going to be rough with you later on. His sweet demeanor could only last so long before he lost control of himself.

So you were right. Within moments of your lips touching, his kissing instantly became more desprate, as if his life depended on it. Soon, you begin trying to pull back to breathe, but Dazai won’t let you. He’s waited two years, he’s not going to wait any longer.

So you try to breathe through your nose with as much oxygen as you can get. Dazai doesn’t stop, he’s trying to engrain the taste of your mouth inside his brain, he’s trying to make this last forever. It’s what he truly wants.

And so the gentleness that masks him as human is gone now. He’s doesn’t care if you’re struggling to breathe, or if this is all wrong, that he should let you have your own free will. He’s acting as a man who has not seen oxygen in years. A man that has been rejuvenated back into life by your presence.

And so his actions, initially kissing, have now turned into an action so rough, that it was making your mouth bleed slightly. And he doesn’t stop. The blood gets smeared over both your mouths, the taste of the iron stinging your tongue, and the back of your throat. It gets into his mouth too, and smears over both your lips, almost like a lipstick.

And only when it’s like that, does he stop. But you know this is far from done. You know what happens next and you don’t want it to happen. You inhale through your mouth, trying the best to ignore that your mouth is bleeding. You chest heaves up and down, while Dazai watches, wiping the blood off your blood off his mouth, and tasting it.

It’s addictive. It tastes so sweet to him.

Dazai then grips your chin with his index finger and thumb, while running his thumb over your lips. It’s supposed to be an intimate gesture, maybe a slightly romantic one, but you flinched either way.

You had always reacted this way to Dazai’s touch. No matter how many times he touched you, it always felt foreign to you. None of his actions felt they were done purely as of itself. They always led onto to something, often meant to confuse you. You hated it. You couldn’t what he wanted to do when he did certain actions and you always got the feeling he was playing with you for the fun of it, and that was most likely the case, most of the time.

Dazai smears the blood on your face and admires you.

Your face is visibily red, from the aggressive makeout session,, and your hair is discheveled, covering fractions of your face. Dazai brushes those strands away, as he looks at you. In return, you glare at him, feeling slightly grossed out, but in no position to protest. He then lets go of your arms, letting you fall slack against the wall for a second, and the realization hits again. Your heartbeat quickens at that, and you feel the urge to run, again.

Before you can make a move, you’re held in place again, by Dazai’s knee, which held you securely to the wall. You watch in terror as he takes off his coat and tosses it aside, discarded on the floor. No words are exchanged between the two of you, as you stare at him. Dazai moves his hands towards your chest, and starts unbuttoning your shirt as well.

“D-dazai… please stop…” you mutter.

Dazai puts a finger over your lips. “Just relax, and try to enjoy it, okay? I’ll make sure you feel good, and that you’ll never forget this time.”

“N-no that’s not what I mean. I don’t… I don’t want to do this…please…”

“It’s okay, darling. You know you want this, either way.”

The very air around you and Dazai seemed to be suffocating in a way you couldn’t quite say. It was tense, almost like an elastic band pulled to the very limit of what it could do, awaiting to snap at any moment.

And you were angry. Angry at Dazai that he wanted to do this. Angry at yourself for being caught by him. You felt an indescribable rage inside of you for what he had done to you over the years. Yet everytime, he still says he loves you.

Dazai would never let you go.

No matter where you went, he’d always find a way to get you back. You’re the only thing that he has left. The only thing that he truly wants to live for.

But you didn’t want to accept that for yourself. In fact, you couldn’t care less why the stupid bastard was so obsessed with you, to the point where you got sucked into this dream. You use the free hand, and slap Dazai in the face. It catches him off-guard enough for you to run back towards the door and open it. It creaks open, only for his hand to cover your mouth again, pushing you back against the wall, and keeping you in place.

“You’re not leaving.” Dazai snarls into your ear. “Try all you want, but I’m not letting you go.”

You claw at his hand, trying to pry it off.

“Maybe I should fuck you stupid enough, so you never think of doing that again, hm?”

You gaze at him in horror this time, while his hands travel back to your shirt and unbutton it completely this time, letting it fall to the floor. You wince slightly, due to how cold it is in the alleyway. Dazai then moves to your pants and begins unzipping them, and pulling them down to your ankles.

You once again, slightly recoil in disgust of his actions, but in no position to protest or escape. Now, you’re almost naked, left to the mercy of Dazai to do what he likes with you.

Tears sting your eyes. The, what felt like, slow torture of this entire situation felt painful.

Finally, Dazai takes off his pants. He’s painfully hard, and you cringe in disgust about how your fighting, struggling, and even crying aroused him so much.

Dazai moves his hands behind your back, unhooking your bra, and then he moves to your underwear. The last barrier separating you and him. He takes it off, noticing how wet it really is, and then tossing it aside too.

“My, my, (Y/N). You were that wet from just kissing? I thought you didn’t want this at all.”

“I-I don’t.”

“But your body does. You may deny it all you want, but your body yearns for me. You’ve been leaning into my touch ever since we met. Sure, you’re disgusted in what I’m doing, but do you want to know what your body thinks?”

A pure look of anger which slowly changes into fear fills your face. Dazai leans into the crook of your neck.

“It’s nice to be held be Dazai, isn’t it? You can’t change biological desire. And I think… you know I understand that better than anyone.”

And so, Dazai turns you onto your back, and pushes his entire cock inside of you. You hiss from the sudden intrusion that felt all to familiar and foreign at the same time.

And it reminds you of how painfully well he knows you, yet how little you know him.

And you feel his hands grab onto your hips, and he begins bouncing you up and down on his length, never failing to hit that place inside of you that sent sparks of pleasure up your body.

And he wasn’t being gentle this time, too. If he had been going any faster than he already was, you were sure it would have hurt more than brought pleasure to you.

And he repeats these actions, over, and over. It’s always been that way. Yet your mind felt like it was still melting from the actions. You can’t help it. You can’t help yourself. It feels so good, and you know only Dazai can do this to you.

You almost have to bite back on moaning as he constantly hits that spot. You refused to give him that satisfaction.

Dazai seems to notice this as well. “Don’t hold back. You know I’ll get what I want in the end, anyways.”

Your breath hitches. You knew that. But you didn’t want to give Dazai the satisfaction of having all power over you. But that was all slowly becoming impossible as you came to the realization that physically, you had always wanted Dazai carnally, your mind just believed otherwise.

And as Dazai pushes you down particularly hard that time on his cock, you can’t help but loudly squeal at how good it really felt. It felt mind-numbing lay good. You enjoyed the pain, all too well.

Dazai smirks against your neck again, knowing that he had gotten you in a state where he has all the power. He leans into your neck. He bites down on the flesh, hard enough to draw blood. He licks at the blood enjoying the taste.

And at this exact moment, your hole clench around him too, signalling that you were close to your high.

Dazai groans slightly, taking in the pleasure of the feeling. But he was never kind enough to let you reach your high on the first round.

And he wasn’t going to be kind this time, either.

He bounces you on his cock at a more rapid pace, as your moans get higher and higher, until your cunt is clenching around him tight enough that he almost felt like you could snap his cock off.

And to think you didn’t like it? It made him scoff.

Dazai feels himself chasing his high too. It had been so long… since he had last done this. He felt fulfilled. He felt like he, himself, were on cloud nine, all his previous emotions relieved, instead a dark sort of pleasure replacing any previous emotions.

You’re no different yourself. Despite your anger and hatred towards him, even from one look at your eyes, he could tell you were craves this in a carnal way as well. And for miles around, only the slapping of skin, combined with wet noises, and moaning could be heard. There was no need for anymore than that.

But then it all stops. You look at him in confusion, whining slightly, as he pulls out. Dazai never let you come the first time. He would reduce you to a whining, brainless, mess before allowing you to cum. Only to let you cum so many times, that you wouldn’t even be able to walk the next day.

Yet as for himself, he would cum countless times, until your holes were filled with him, and until your body was covered in it. His cum.

You wince at the gross sticky sensation between your legs again. You feel Dazai’s cum running down your thigh, and it feels disgusting. Normally, you’d yell at him for him to pull out, but right now, your mind was too hazed with other things to care.

“You think you get to cum on the first round after acting like that?”

You don’t respond, trying to get rid of the feeling of being so empty.

“You’re really that desperate, aren’t you?”

You still don’t respond, breathing heavily. Your mind is numbed again, still trying to recover from the myriad of sensations hitting you. Your mind is still hazy with lustful desire.

Dazai sighs, “I suppose I’ll just have to make you cum over, and over, and over, until you can’t anymore.

Your eyes slowly widen again, as you stare at him. “No…. No… please anything but tha-“

“Shh… shh… it’s okay belladonna. You’ll feel so good at the end of it. Promise.”

“No please… Dazai, I didn’t mean it like that. Please, please… it’ll hurt….”

Dazai caresses your face. It’s a gentle, tender action that you want to lean into. But you know it feels more like a nurse preparing you for a needle. A very painful needle that would scar you your arm, that would make you look in shame for the rest of your life.

He kisses you, again, and you have no choice to accept what he gives you.

-

Dazai looks at you. You’ve came more times than he could actually count, to the point where you weren’t even conscious anymore. You’re covered in cum, sweat, and scratch and bruise marks. A mixture of yours and his cum drips out of your hole, and he takes the sight in with a sick sort of satisfaction.

He’ll a,ways love you. In his own sick, twisted way. Every step he takes, every breath he takes. He’ll do it all for you. You don’t belong to anyone else. You’re his, only his.

No matter how far you go, you’ll always be pulled back to him.

He picks you up, and kisses you on the forehead. You look so peaceful.. sleeping. He drapes his jacket over you, and puts his clothes back on.

“Let’s go home now, shall we Belladonna?”

He walks out of the alleyway, his footsteps echoing throughout the walls.

—-

One light flickers.

Static fills Dazai’s ears. He opens his eyes. He sits up disoriented, looking around at his surroundings.

That’s right.

He’s still in prison, he’s still detained in this room, and he forever will be. Until he tries to escape. Until there’s a way out of this, he‘ll just have to stay here, and hope for the best. At this moment, he remembers why he was here in the first place.

He turns on his on his back again. The desolate ceiling mocks him.

But his mind doesn’t want to think about that now. That dream he just had…. It felt so surreal yet real at the same time. He wonders if you were actually there, or if it was just a figment of his imagination.

There’s an obvious answer to that question, though. It’s not even worth asking.

You’re gone. Forever. He doesn’t even know where you are. You don’t know where he is either.

He thought of that dream just to relive his own desires. There’s nothing more to it. Everything is still the same. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel some delusional hope that something was different today.

But he should crush that hope before disappointment gets to him again.

Just then, there is a knock in the door. He wonders who it is. As he walks towards the door, he wonders why the prison guards are bothering him. Yet again. It wasn’t like he had done anything over the previous days.

He twists the doorknob, thinking about what he’s going to say this time. Maybe he’ll even punch them in the face.

However, as he pulls the door back, it’s not what he expected at all.

No… maybe being hopeful worked, for once. Maybe the dream was to tell him something.

It’s you.

You’re here.

And if looks could kill, he would just be about dead now.

[elithe31st]

SO WORTH IT

duncan tdi x male reader

'' but i prefer the ease, of rolling up my sleeves ''

The floor tasted like dirt.

You don't know how it happened.

You got up, swiping the dirt off your clothes. You looked at him angrily, getting into another fight stance.

“What’s the matter? Recharging your energy or something, princess?” Duncan teased, that famous smirk of his coming back on his face to haunt you. He used that god-awful nickname, the one you hate. You wiped the blood from your nose. You breathed heavily. People were watching, recording, chanting. You couldn't pussy out now. You charged, dodging a swing before kicking him in the back onto the ground.

"Had enough, princess?" You teased back, looking down at him. The blood from your nose was dripping onto his clothes.

He turned around and spat in your face.

The crowd gasped. You got down and straddled him before clocking him in the face. Over and over. Until someone got a teacher. And then you got dragged off of him. Dragged into the principal's office, sat next to a beat up Duncan, with your parents on the line. It would be pinned on him. It had to be. There was evidence.

You both got in trouble. Now here you are, Duncan pissing you off more in detention.

"Come on, sweetheart. Not even a 'sorry'? An apology? You have to write one of those, you know." He whispered on, that smirk still on his face.

"Zip it, softie. I'll punch your lights out again." You whispered back, scribbling down notes you were supposed to write for the last class. Duncan rolled his eyes, scooting closer to you. He watched you work. He was bored out of his mind.

"What are you doing?" You whispered to him.

"Watching you work, beautiful." He winked and you just mumbled something, continuing to work. Just like he said, he watched. His arm slid around your waist and he whispered in your ear.

"When this is over," He started. "wanna make out?"

You gasped, alerting the teacher. Duncan moved away as fast as possible.

"Everything alright, Mr. (Last Name)?" The teacher said. You responded with a quick nod.

2 long hours passed before you could leave. And when you did, Duncan caught up with you.

"Wanna take me on the offer? I'm a great kisser, y'know." He said, crossing his arms.

"Right. I'm better than you at kissing, I'm sure of it." You responded, looking over at Duncan. He loved that competitiveness in your eyes.

...

"You so wanna fuck me." He tsked, shaking his head.

And then you pushed him against a wall, kissing him. Hard. He kissed back over the seconds of shock, gripping at your backpack straps eagerly. His eyes were closed when you pulled away, your hands gripping the collar of his shirt.

"Get- get in the fucking bathrooms. Right. Now."

You got home late. And then had to sit through several parent lectures. And screaming.

But it was worth it.

So worth it.

[yestrnight]

slime brainrot anon, back again with another, shorter rot for ya. bc the first one got too long

shrinking yourself to tag along with alhaitham to work! cw for: dubcon, exhibitionism, kink discovery, i do not know how his job works so i just guessed lol

at first, you simply chill in his belt-pouch thing (it's a fanny pack but mihoyo won't admit it), sit on his shoulder or head, or roll around on his desk until you eventually get bored and slide down into his pants.

he tries his best to get you out, but sticky and slippery as you are, you persist, so he eventually resigns himself to his fate. it's going to be a long day when each step of his makes you shift around his cock. at least his belts and sashes cover up the evidence.

in an unfortunate turn of events, alhaitham is forced to walk much more than usual that shift. while he usually sits at his desk, he now has to pace laps around the archives sorting and organizing tomes.

and to make matters worse, you've escalated from simply wrapping yourself around him, to actually moving and teasing him.

the poor scribe is trying his best to keep the shaking of his legs, and the noises that threaten to slip out to a minimum. but after some time, he's stumbling as he walks, using the walls and shelves for support.

eventually, he gets oh so close, having to stop and lean up against a bookshelf, gripping the shelves while he tries in vain not to buck his hips into nothing. and alhaitham bites his lip, breathes in, and out, tries to keep level, but he can't help the quiet, low, breathy moans that slip out, and the way his head tips back and his eyes roll up into his skull.

luckily, the archives are usually quiet. unluckily, one of his superiors has ambled in, looking for a specific file.

and alhaitham can't decide if it's luck or unlucky that you've slowed your pace, but not stopped.

his self control is almost, almost strong enough to keep from breaking. hey, he made it pretty far into the ordeal, you have to give him that.

alhaitham's not exactly the religious type- far from it, but he thanks all of celestia that the unknowing sage is turned away, absorbed in the sound of their own one sided conversation. and that he's able to keep quiet enough when he cums in his pants, only letting out one, hitching intake of breath as he grips the shelves so hard he almost dents them, mouth open in a silent moan, convulsing, nearly collapsing.

for a sage, his superior is pretty stupid. chalking up the scribe's somewhat debauched appearance- his flushed face, labored breath, and slight tremble to fatigue, recommending him a cup of tea and a break before sauntering out.

he does end up taking a break, watching you gurgle happily in slime form while you bounce around his office, and he just doesn't have it in him at the moment to discipline you.

because he's too busy thinking about why in the hell being secretly fucked in front of one of his bosses felt so good.

extras!! cw for: implied dom character (but it's vague enough,) mild objectification, slime cum, aphrodisiac

letting one (or several) of your masters actually be in control for once, by using you as a fleshlight

it's obvious that fucking them brought you some level of enjoyment, but were slimes actually capable of bona fide sexual pleasure?

apparently, they are. and your masters are drinking up your adorable reactions to having your slime gspot? prostate? erogenous zone??? massaged by their cocks.

and apparently, slimes can also cum. if this sweet smelling, viscous material you're gushing counts.

in a moment of poor impulse control (some might claim scientific curiosity), they find out that it tastes as sweet as it smells. and- ah, they'd be regretting that decision if their minds weren't clouded by an almost unbearable desire for more.

their judgement may be a bit skewed right now, but perhaps a few more rounds wouldn't hurt... actually, fuck it. they need more.

it's bound to be a long day, and night, for the both of you.

isn't it always though? hey, at least this time, they might actually be able to keep up with you.

super excited for part two of the series :)

actually feeling really horny for slime reader so i'm gonna satiate myself with this masterpoece in my inbox <3

ahhh haitham being fucked wide open in front of his boss <33 and subby slime reader being used as a pocket pussy for their masters :(( they're so cute fr

[thousand-winters]

Can you imagine Hunter trying to make himself as unburden as possible?

He sleeps as little as he can, eats just a little under the bare minimum, and does way to many chores in hopes that he Can makes Darius like him.

It probably doesn’t take long for Darius to catch on.

Oh, yeah, unfortunately he would so do that.

As I always mention, I think what really shakes him up between those months living at the Nocedas and when he first moves with Darius and Eber is that he doesn't have the other kids as a sort of "debuffer", nor a clear goal he can tell himself he's working toward that could justify that he's just kinda just having a good time here instead of earning his place like he had to do before, so a lot of anxieties he could ignore before just resurface and there's nothing to distract himself from it, no "well, my friends are doing this and it seems okay, so I suppose it applies to me too?"

Now he can't justify being "lazy" and sleeping more than, say, 5 hours, because there's no one else around doing the same, right? And it hardly matters in his mind that Darius and Eber obviously don't sleep that little because well, duh, why would they? This is where they live, they don't have to earn it unlike him. And the same goes for food and for asking for any necessities. He doesn't even want to mention when his scars itch or any lingering pain he might have from all those years at the castle.

First things first he has to earn something as basic as the right to stay here.

At first Darius thinks that it's reasonable that Hunter seems tired and that he always finds him awake already in the morning; he has gone through so much, having been dead and his best friend giving his life for him very much included, so for him to have trouble sleeping isn't odd. Concerning, yes, but Hunter is still a bit cagey when asked if he wants to talk about whatever's troubling him, so not too strange.

Similarly, it's normal for him not to have much of an appetite given all the traumatic experience he went through in such a short period of time, not to mention all the others he's barely processing now. And him seemingly not wanting to do much of anything? That's also normal, of course he wouldn't launch himself into trying to watch movies or read or do fun activities right away, everyone copes with trauma in different ways and if Hunter needs some quiet time for himself, that is alright.

But then Darius notices Hunter does seem like he's on the verge of falling asleep several times before waking up in a panic, and while he atributes that to nightmares first, Hunter acts as if he was caught committing a crime when he spots Darius watching him. At some other point he hears his stomach growling after he said he wasn't hungry anymore at lunch, and he certainly doesn't seem like he's planning to grab a snack or ask for one, so the suspicions start there. Darius knows Hunter and his unhealthy habits better than most after all, he witnesses quite a lot of them while they were both still in the coven.

The moment Hunter insists he would love to do the laundry when he looks a second away from passing out and he sounds more desperate than actually thrilled for a new life experience is when Darius decides enough is enough and he doesn't really need more evidence to know something is truly wrong here.

By this point, Hunter is probably at the end of his rope, so when Darius presses him gently, but firmly, he's just gonna break and spill. It's gonna be a bit ugly, but at least the problem will finally be out there, and while one single conversation with Darius clarifying that he doesn't need Hunter to try and mute his own presence for him to accept him won't fix everything, it'll be a start.

Now every time Hunter starts falling back into those habits, he can get some nudges and reminders that he can sleep a bit more, even sleep in late if he wants to (which definitely does NOT mean until 6am only), that he can actually eat his whole meal and ask for more (he's a growing teenager after all), and while it's good for him to do chores, he doesn't have to do everything, they can come to a household arrangement to see what everyone does, and that's more like basic house maintenance anyway, not something he's doing to earn his place. He can forget from time to time and he won't be kicked out for that.

It's going to be hard because it's going to be different but he'll get there.

[allen-kunekune]

I am late X') But but I have two stories to make amends for this first day of Serennedy Pride Week !

Serennedy Pride Week Day 1 :First words - First kiss - First date

There was so much blood. Leon had seen severe injuries before, many fatal wounds in Raccoon City or during his missions for the president. It was one of the first things he had been taught, but his hands were shaking as Luis collapsed in his arms, and Leon could feel the panic rising as he pulled off his jacket, almost tearing it, to try and stop the bleeding.

The blood kept flowing between his fingers. Leon forgot about Krauser for the moment, even Ashley. Nothing mattered more than the man dying in his arms. Leon didn’t want to go through this again. He couldn’t let someone die again. It wasn’t fair that he had to relive this feeling of helplessness.

Luis was far too silent, his breathing the only sign he was still alive as Leon pressed his hands against the wound. Leon needed to stay calm even though everything was working against him. All his medications and herbs didn’t seem enough to completely stop the bleeding. Leon had to stay composed, use his spray and herbs, not notice how the blood loss was turning Luis’s normally warm and colorful skin pale and dull, and be reassured by Luis’s groans of pain as Leon tightened the bandages to move him. Pain meant life. A dead man couldn’t feel pain. That was the mantra Claire and he had used to survive. But pain alone wasn’t enough to keep someone alive.

He needed help. He had to get back to the merchant. Leon was ready to sell everything he could to save Luis.

With great difficulty, Luis managed to stand, letting Leon pass his arm over his shoulder and start walking toward the elevator they had just left before Krauser’s attack. The way back to the strange man felt too long as Leon supported most of his weight, Luis barely conscious as Leon laid him on one of the merchant’s couches. It wasn’t such a bad thing when the merchant handed him a needle and thread. "A friend’s offer," the merchant said as Leon took them with gratitude, waiting for clean bandages and more medical supplies.

The result wasn’t perfect, but Luis opened his eyes again, and that was all Leon needed. If Luis’s lips tasted like blood, it didn’t matter. Hearing Luis laugh again was enough for now. Seeing him smile despite the evident fatigue was all Leon needed to know that Luis was alive. That there wasn’t another death Leon couldn’t prevent. Later, if asked, Leon would deny being desperate enough to rush to Luis and ensure he wasn’t a mirage. Nor that he had initiated the second kiss.

For now, however, he savored the warm, living breath against his lips.

[mirthlxss]

Off to the races

Chapter 11: Swimmin' pool glimmerin', darling

“Hallelujah, finally, that must be my hanging shoelaces!”

master list

price x oc, series.

a03: pricescigar, Off to the races is posted in full.

taglist:  @deadbranch , @jxvipike, @smoggyfogbottom, and very very big thank you to @bubuslutty for beta reading this!!! She has lots of amazing writing on her page so make sure to check that out too!

warnings: alcohol.

a/n: "Is that all you want to be? Liked? Wouldn't you rather be passionately and voraciously desired?" - Margaret Atwood.

“Let them try.”

“They already have, Simon, and succeeded.” Price bites out, barely keeping himself from chewing out the end of his cigar. “Need I remind you of the mess we’re in now?  Little miss smart ass is down the hall and I sure as hell don’t remember taking on new recruits.” 

“Sure.” Ghost leans back in his usual chair, pupils void of any discernible emotion, palm flat against the round meeting table they all sat around. “Did say I’d take care of it, you said no.” Pointed, the thrum of Ghost’s matter-of-fact tone only made the Captain twitch more.

“Can’t just kill a civilian.” 

A beat passed between them, the air felt stale. Both knew what hung over them, the resounding answer that welled in Simon’s throat, he’d keep quiet but his general distaste was evident. What makes this different to all of Price’s sacrifices? 

The Captain had made split-second choices before, left a man to demolition to save the greater group. To save Garrick. The one real mistake Simon had made in years and it nearly cost him his life, seeing Lily flit about the hallways of their base and hearing her cackle echo around only served as a living reminder of what he’d done. A living, breathing reminder that he had fucked up. She berated him with her presence. 

What was worse, he could still hear her panic. The shrill stutter of a feminine voice, the shaking grasp on his soon-to-be corpse, the pressure on his wound. Simon wasn’t fully conscious after the attack but he was sentient enough to feel her there, the fearful attempts of ushering his sopping blood back into his body did not go unnoticed. He loathed her for it. Why not finish the job? Why follow him here? He was the spectre and yet, she haunted him. 

“Makarov has clearly found his way into the system, someone amongst us has supplied the ultra-nationalists with information, otherwise the races incident would not have happened. This we know.” Price leered over the ancient laptop in front of him, several photos and reports splayed across its screen, a never-ending scroll of nuisances, fires he’d have to put out. 

“Captain?” Soap piqued, tired of trying to get Ghost’s attention, most of the meeting he’d spent nudging the other beneath the table, only now piping up as the Lieutenant clearly wasn’t in the mood to entertain him. Price rose a brow, wordlessly answering the sergeant. 

“Had a funny feeling about the intelligence lads we disposed of.” Gut instinct, it had saved each one of them more than enough times, the general churn of dread that grasped at the sides of one's stomach often spelt out the answers long before any real evidence did. 

“One was Russian.” Kyle pointed out, walking round the table to hover beside the Captain, waiting for permission to take over the computer, pulling up the profiles of the past intelligence team, signalling out one man in particular. 

“Pavel.” Venomous, drastic rumble. 

John looked upon the screen with distaste, the same slimy boy that had taken so much pleasure in unearthing Lilith’s photos, the same child that felt so sure in sharing them. “You think he’s capable?” 

“Cannae’ see why not, squealed like pig when we smashed him in, wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been sniffing around the ultras” Soap shrugged, distinctly remembering the high-pitched yells and bloodied snorts. 

“Just cos’ he sounds like a pig, don’ make him one.” Ghost grumbles, distinctly uninterested in chasing up a stale lead. Not when Makarov had gotten so close already. 

“I don’t mind playing butcher.” Gaz offered himself up, looking down at Price ardently. He’d tried his best to conceal the pang of urgency in his proposal, quietly wanting to bestow another heavy-handed gravel of justice atop of Pavel’s stunted head. Ultras or not. 

“Steady Kyle, this is delicate now, if they got the better of Ghost you can’t just expect to waltz in alone.” 

Garrick rocked back on the heels of his boots, hands now firmly planted on either side of his hips, clutching at his belt with a tight-lipped frown. “Doesn’t it make you suspicious how fast they got all that data? I mean, the sheer amount of it as well, we’ve had targets before and it’s taken ages for a data mine.” 

“It’s not like she’s taken any care in protecting herself.” Simon scorned. 

“Even so, if the Russians wanted to know if Shepard had any soldiers out, they’d be pushing for intel quick.” Kyle kept to his point, not fully ready to look Ghost in the eye but still addressing the room. 

Worn, crinkled, distinctly unorganised.

It had presided in her dreams, her nightmares, in every waking moment since she’d come across this wretched thing, the ledger from hell had loomed over her like the end of days. Much to the Captain’s glee, Lilith had naturally fallen into the mess of numbers like it was her duty, only truly taking time away to awkwardly run after the team in early morning P.T., suitably embarrassing herself with each exercise. 

The unruly accounting itched at her more than anything else, felt like mites burrowing down into her psyche, gnawing at the only parts of her brain she really knew how to use. The hours of the day spent buried in the financing felt a lot like university, harked back to her usual days spent holed up in the library, buzzing off of numerous coffees and whatever freebie pastries the societies would try and entice naive students in with. 

Weighted clunks and taps resonated from her steady typing, eyes scanning from screen to paper as she straightened out another accounting statement, the first couple took a lot longer. Lily had a tendency to fixate on the detail, and this book contained many. More and more insight into their world, handhelds and airstrikes, who knew you could pay for such things? Who knew Captain Price even had the connections to do so? 

Obviously, everyone but her. 

The ledger felt like her bible, deciphering the scriptures would lead her through, tell her how to navigate the scathing desert of the 141. She’d repent, sooner or later, to whom she did not know. That felt irrelevant when she was knee-deep in holy water, wading toward the north star. A mirage no doubt, she’d wake soon, find herself stuck in sand. 

The symphony of work halted as another joined the choir, Lily craned her head back, swivelling quickly in her seat as she took in Ghost’s figure filling up her doorway. 

“Got no survival instincts.” Statement dry, Price’s apostles weren’t known for embellishment. He’d been lingering behind her for minutes. 

“God forbid I’m not looking over my shoulder every second.” Caustic comment flew from her as she swiftly returned to the screen, her rapid typing ranking up in hostility with each pointed jab of a key.  

He hovered, glowering down at her hunched position, suspicious of the resolution shown toward some stupid ledger. “Why’d you try stop the bleeding.” 

A question, it was unnatural for him, and so it was barked out as a statement. Rough and demanding, if he was a stray he’d have been put down long ago. Her fingers twitched over the keyboard, hesitant now, shoulders scrunched toward her neck, instinctively covering her jugular. 

“I don’t know.” She breathed out steadily “It just happened.” 

Her back twinged, his unyielding glare boring into her from behind, unwavering pools of darkness consuming each crumb of information she’d unwittingly give to him, every twitch and shift of her body analysed. His lack of response dragged the strain out for much longer than she cared to bear, tiptoes slowly angling her to move around in the chair to face him once more.  

His jaw ticks at her subtle mocking, molars grinding slowly as he chewed through what he’d say. She stares through him like the lieutenant before her was nothing more than numbers, columns on another page she’d itch to organise, decipher and file under ‘completed’. Ghost looks at her much the same, though his dentition of ‘completed’ varied vastly. 

“There’s a delivery for you out front.” 

“Hallelujah, finally, that must be my hanging shoelaces!” 

Clink!

Ruby red swirled around the glasses, liberal pours nearly spilling over as they toasted for the fourth time. Squinty-eyed and wine-flushed, Lily pooled over the carpet whilst Johnny and Kyle lolled haphazardly on her bed, all airy giggles and smiles. 

“Can’t believe Cap’in actually got you everything you asked for.” Another choked laugh leaves Johnny as he rolls onto his front, eyeing up the mess they’d all made unpacking her boxes and packages. Plastic wrapping covered every inch of the floor, kids on Christmas day, it was carnage. Amplified cries carried down the hallway despite her door being closed, over-excited cheers and shouts shaking from the room with each rip of cardboard. 

“I was half joking about most of what I wrote down!” She cackled, unabashed delight clear as the woman gripped her wine in one hand and a pile of new products in the other, practically vibrating as she couldn’t even hold it all, most of the items had been spread around the room, small heaps surrounding the boys as they continued to ogle. 

“What’s this one for?” Kyle held out a black tube, he’d let himself lean into the fever that Soap and Lilith seemed to share whilst unpacking everything. The Brit had to soothe himself at first, loudly proclaiming that he’d stick to watching, that he’d grab a beer soon and leave them to it. 

“That’s mascara, it makes your lashes longer and just, ten times nicer-“ She shuffled toward the bed and took it from him, twisting the wand out and showing him. 

“It’s no fair you didn’t even really want all this.” Soap whined, picking up the package the tube had come from and emptying the rest out onto the bed. “Share?” His pitched query came with a hopeful yet cheeky grin, obviously enamoured with the plethora of shiny new things. 

“I did really want this stuff, just never actually believed he’d get it, was just tryna’ piss John off.” Lily took a heavy swig from her glass, letting the chalky liquid coat her tongue before she swallowed harshly. “I actually feel sort of guilty…” 

Kyle surged forward, shaking his head adamantly, the hard swinging motion making him dizzy for a moment. “Think he’s the one feeling guilty.” 

He suppressed the urge to hiccup, the yen to protect his masculinity faded pretty soon after he’d been roped into the first glass of wine. Soon after that, it felt strangely uplifting to play along, sit cross-legged and paw over products. It helped that Soap was here, though the other seemed so natural, Kyle had always been slightly jealous of Johnny. He fit in everywhere and got on with everyone. Even now, laid across the bed with one of Lily’s new bras clasped over his pyjama shirt, beckoning her over so he could see the mascara. 

It seemed like some abstract rocky-horror slumber party. He was partially thankful just to be involved, used to watching Soap and Ghost saunter off to do whatever they do together, he’d often find himself trailing along after Price like a lost dog. 

Admittedly, despite how deeply selfish he knew it was, the soldier enjoyed visiting Lily in the hospital. A twisted sense of appreciation sprouted from her captivity, enclosed and wanting people on her side. He was happy to oblige, enjoyed the reciprocated companionship even if it was shrouded in exceptional circumstance.   

“Don’t gotta be guilty if you share huh hen, then it’s good for team morale.” Soap balanced his glass precariously on his chest once he flipped onto his back, scooting so his head hung off the bed as Lilith instructed him to close his eyes, both broke into another round of hilarity without a beat, barely able to keep still or serious for a second as she hovered over him with the mascara brandished like a weapon. They had all gotten through quite a bit of wine. Kyle knew better, knew better than to glare at his teammate for getting on with someone. 

But he was drunk, and determined to keep just this one friend. Just this once, he’d be first.

“Do me, do me-“ Kyle almost threw himself down onto the floor, fumbling down with a loud thud before he positioned himself, eyes screwed shut with determination. The flurry only spurred the two on further, howling with laughter as Kyle kept his eyes shut, inching closer and closer to Lilith, drunkenly shimming around. 

“Come here you silly sod.” She guided his head onto her lap, softly coaxing the man to relax his eyes enough so his lashes wouldn’t fold up, delicately drawing the wand through them. “Keep still.” Her voice dropped to a whisper in concentration, he lay smug, happy for the attention. 

“There, now open!” 

It felt slightly heavy on his waterline, almost akin to when their tactical paint clung to his eyes despite several face washes. Eyes flickered from Lily’s face peering down at him then at Soap’s. 

“I think it’s very pretty.” Johnny hummed, nodding down at him.

“You have lovely long lashes, boys always get the nicest lashes, it's unfair.” Lilith peered closer, admiring the way his seemed to curl with the product. Kyle felt strangely timid, the alcohol diluting his usual reactions, quick to open the capillaries in his cheeks to make way for a deep dusting of rouge. It forced him to shrink into her lap, frowning slightly at how vulnerable he felt, the emotion bubbling over so quickly it flustered him. Wanting for some kind of reprieve, the soldier jumped topics, drunken alarms of his disposition drowning out the sound of sense. 

“You’re gonna have a hard time packing all this up by tomorrow.” He drawled, sitting up from her lap and pointedly ignoring the wide-eyed look from Soap. Lily tensed, her body crookedly bent in the shape of a question mark as she cemented into position, eyes drawing forth the same query in which her body folded. The soft lull of music carried on in the background, cushioning the steely silence between the three. 

You and me, always forever. 

Clawing digits centred themselves around the milky column of her wrist, brown eyes doughy with a needy sense of amicable obligation, Kyle preened over the implications of him being so advantageous as to warn Lily of the change. A clear way to solidify his position. 

We can stay alone together.

“By tomorrow?” She lingered, his fingers pulsed around her in anticipation. Johnny faded into the background, his disgruntled whispers to quieten his comrade falling upon death ears. 

“Going away, all of us, chasing a pig back to its pen.” 

[theworldinclines]

Title: this is easy (the signs are simple prequel, wave’s pov)

Pairing: Pre-Pang/Wave

Read on Ao3 or below the cut -

     Wave expected his counselor to congratulate him on another week’s work, as impressive and leagues above the other students as Wave always is. What he receives is Kru Pom shuffling through papers with his patented mix of concern and cheerfulness.

     “Have you given any more thought to joining — ”

     “I don’t need a sport on my transcript.”

     “Wave, it will diversify — ”

     “I don’t need to diversify my transcript. I’m going to university for computer science; nowhere on any of their brochures does it say I’ll only be accepted if I’ve kicked a ball at some other kids.”

     Pom brings his hands together atop the desk, his strained patience evident. Wave’s been waiting for this guy to snap since the afternoon they’d met three years ago, but it’s yet to happen. Maybe today will be the day.

     “Wave,” Pom says, “you remember what I told you last month?”

     “The ultimatum?”

     “It wasn’t — ” Pom takes a small breath. “Is this you making your decision?”

     Wave doesn’t date. A small glitch in junior high had put him off the notion. It isn’t so bad that he’s actively, like, repulsed by seeing couples in public or in the media; they can do whatever they want. It doesn’t matter to him. An endless barrage of assignments and his extra credit IT position give him plenty enough to focus on without getting himself worked up by hands held in the street. When he’s got so much to deal with, Wave just can’t let little stuff get to him.

     Except for, of course, one not so small annoyance named Pawaret. Wave isn’t sure what it is about the other boy that makes him so — maybe the word he’s looking for is homicidal. A more stable person might just say uncomfortable.

     Either way, Wave considers himself fortunate that he and Pang don’t normally study in the same classroom, Pang in VIII, Wave in I. The only time during a day that finds the two boys together is a required World History class, something Wave considers a foolish waste of his energy and a total bore as well. If he wanted to hear about a 200-year-old spat between two countries, the Internet could provide far more accuracy than a textbook written in the mid-90s could.

     On his end, Pang excels in History. He’s not a numbers man, a fact Wave has unwillingly learned in his time hearing Pang whinge to his buddy Nac about maths homework. He does much better in the liberal arts, things Wave generally has no use for and finds tedious. Numbers and figures don’t lie. There’s a consistent answer, always, with no room for opinions and feelings. It’s ideal for someone like Wave, who’s none too gifted when it comes to such things.

     His ears catch Nac insisting that Pang ask some poor sap for help with the maths assignment. Wave doesn’t like Nac. Wave bets that one tap would crack like plastic against Nac’s perfectly gelled hair, and he’s got a smile that would fit the face of a bully in a lame made-for-TV movie. He hasn’t yet provoked Wave, so he really hasn’t any reason to dislike him this severely, but that doesn’t stop Wave’s eyes from rolling to the sky whenever Nac is in the vicinity.

     Right now he has an arm around Pang’s chair as he brushes their shoulders together to whisper. Wave shakes his head at the display. They don’t ever shut up, even when class is set to begin in mere minutes. You’d think they would want to check over their work for today, or for once in their life do anything that might prove useful, but of course they just babble to each other until the very last second. Idiots.

     “Uh, Wave?”

     Startled, Wave looks up to find that Pang has all but teleported to Wave’s desk sporting a sheepish grin. That look probably gets Pang whatever he wants — from anyone who isn’t Wave. Unlike those of a weaker will, Wave just stares at him, then pointedly returns to his work.

     “I was wondering if you could help with my algebra,” Pang perseveres. “I’m one tanked quiz away from flunking and if I don’t get at least a B-plus on this assignment, I’m — ”

     “Why should I help you?”

     “Because… you’re a computer genius?” Pang counters. “The best with numbers and stuff I couldn’t do in a million years?” The raised eyebrows beneath his (unfortunate) fringe suggest that anyone with half a brain would know this about Wave Wasuthorn. Which isn’t exactly incorrect.

     Pang’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, continuing, “How many more compliments will you accept as payment for helping me?”

     “None.”

     “Really?” Pang says happily, his features alight with a grin.

     Wave forces his eyes back down to his History textbook. “None — because I’m not helping you,” he clarifies. “I have enough to do without having to teach you basic math.”

     “I mean, algebra-two isn’t basic — ” When it’s clear that Wave isn’t going to look at him again, Pang’s lips zip into a frown over words that he can’t say in a classroom and he simply returns to his seat.

     “Worth a shot,” he mutters to Nac.

     “He’s such a jackass; as if he couldn’t spare an afternoon,” Nac says, voice barely lowered. Wave’s jaw clenches, but he isn’t one to be goaded by infantile troglodytes so he doesn’t look their way. Pang isn’t his responsibility. If Nac is really that bothered by Pang’s failings, he can tutor the guy on his own and see if that gets him anywhere.

     To his surprise, Pang replies quietly to Nac, “Maybe he’s actually busy. He’s in classes we’ve never even heard of.”

     Nac snorts, but doesn’t say anything else. Soon after, class is called to order and for the duration Wave manages to not think about Pang defending him to his best friend, even despite Wave’s prior refusal to offer aid.

     Pang is actually in the library when Wave gets there, which he has to add as a point in the guy’s favour. It’s just enough to lend confidence to Wave in his change of heart. He announces his arrival by dropping his bag onto the table with a clunk.

     “I hope you’re excited to work your ass off,” Wave says, a cheerful tone going against his flat frown.

     Pang looks at him in confusion. “You’re going to tutor me? But you said th — ”

     “Do you want me or not?” Wave demands, overriding his own inept phrasing with a glare.

     Pang looks like he wants to be annoyed, probably is super annoyed, but his voice is nothing but earnest when he says, “I need to pass this class. Help me.”

     Pang looks pathetic and desperate, which is entertaining as hell, and it so happens that this came at the perfect time.

     “Then listen up.”

     The following morning, Wave drops into his counselor’s office with an unceremonious, “I’m not doing a sport.”

     Kru Pom sighs. He sighs a lot where Wave is concerned. “Then it’s the tutoring,” he says. “I’ll reach out to a couple students I’ve spoken with.”

     “I already know someone who needs the help.”

     “It isn’t a good idea to tutor a friend, Wave; you’ll both need to focus.”

     Wave very nearly laughs out loud. “Trust me, he isn’t a friend,” he assures the counselor. “But he’s basically failing and bringing up his marks will make me out to be a miracle worker. I’ve already considered every angle.”

     Pom stares at Wave, but nods slowly. “I can see you’ve made up your mind. Who is it?”

     “Class Eight kid. Parawet Sermrittirong.”

     “Ah, Pang. He’s a good student with a lot of ideas. Bit of trouble focusing.”

     Well aware of Pang’s inability to do anything but chatter, Wave scoffs at what he thinks is an understatement. He hitches up his bag on his way out but pauses at Kru Pom’s, “Do try to be — patient with this kid, alright, Wave? You might find you even get along.”

     “I don’t plan on needing to stick around him long enough for that.”

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

Ale passing out on the floor for an unknown reason

Part 2 to the previous oneshot

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

“Merde!” France exclaimed as Mexico collapsed at his feet. Mexico had gone from looking slightly pale, and then he had passed out without warning. France was not sure what had even happened to cause him to collapse.

Mexico had said something about a wound, and that was the only thing he could assume. He crouched next to Mexico and put a hand on him to gently turn him over. As soon as he started to turn him over, he saw the red spot where Mexico was rapidly bleeding through his jacket.

France knew what he needed to do. He raised his voice and yelled, “Get the doctor!”

He could tell that the soldier outside heard him because he heard running footsteps. While he was waiting for the doctor, he turned Mexico carefully onto his back. The young man was clearly out cold.

France couldn’t help but spare a glance at Mexico’s face, which reminded him just how handsome the man was when he was not being a brat. He didn’t have time to linger, especially not when Mexico was still bleeding.

He turned his attention to the young man’s torso. The first matter was untying his hands; the knots fell away easily. He then started by removing the jacket, his panicked hands shaking on the buttons.

Once he was done, he tossed the jacket aside. It was saturated with blood and would be unsalvageable. It would be easy enough, he thought, to give Mexico one of his jackets to replace it. They were about the same height and build.

France then ripped open the shirt, which revealed a jagged bullet wound across Mexico’s side. There was a piece of torn fabric that Mexico had evidently stuffed against it in the heat of battle. For battlefield medicine, it was at least clever. It had imperfectly stopped the blood, but their little tussle had knocked it free.

He would need something much more professional to allow the wound to actually heal. France glanced at his face again and said, “You are a clever boy. You’d think you’d know when to save your energy. I don’t intend to hurt you.”

The military surgeon came through the door. He took one look at Mexico’s condition and said, “That need to be sutured.”

He glanced around the room like he was looking for something, and his eyes lighted on the table. He added, “If we can get him on that table, I will be able to see better.”

France guessed as much. He scooped Mexico into his arms easily. Mexico was surprisingly light, like he had been living on very little during the war. France placed him gently on the table before turning to the surgeon. He said, “Did you bring morphine?”

The man was already producing needle and thread from his bag. He answered the question by asking, “Why? He’s unconscious.”

France had asked because he had a feeling that Mexico was not going to stay unconscious, not with a country’s abnormal vitality. And Mexico waking in the middle of stitches could tear open the wound more severely. He chose his words carefully as he said, “I want to make sure that he doesn’t wake up while you are doing it. Believe me when I say he will wake full of hellfire.”

The surgeon looked remarkably skeptical, and tried again to explain, “With how much blood he’s lost-“ France cut him off, far too impatient to explain the nature of a country’s existence, “Do it. That’s an order.”

The man did as he was ordered, though France noted how small the dose was that he pulled into the syringe. Mexico flinched as the needle entered his arm, even in his unconscious state.

As the surgeon went to work on the sutures, France walked around to Mexico’s head. He stroked his hair comfortingly and spoke to him, “Pretty boy, all of this strain does not suit you. You don’t know it yet, but I have a plan that will take so much stress off of your shoulders.”

He could feel the grime clinging to Mexico’s hair, which reminded him again that the young man really did need to wash off the battlefield stench. As the surgeon finished the sutures, France contemplated the idea of washing his face while he was unconscious. It would certainly be easier than fighting him.

Before he could act on the thought, Mexico groaned and stirred. His eyes slowly opened, and he looked up at France with a mix of confusion and rising hostility. France said, “Welcome back to the world, handsome. Now, I’ll give you the choice again: Are you going to take a bath or am I going to have to throw you in the river.”

Mexico barely looked awake, but he still had the determination to say, “I dare you to throw me in the river, asshole.”

[casspurrjoybell-17]

HEART'S FATE - CHAPTER 47

*Warning: Adult Content*     

 As the guards take aim, Skylar West shoves Martin Hunter behind him and steps forward, adopting what his mother would call 'the royal posture' and a matching haughtiness of tone.

"What is the meaning of this?" Skylar demands. "Do you not know your own prince?"

Met with blank stares and confused glances, he realizes he recognizes none of the people currently threatening him. 

Mer-children mature at about the same rate as their human counterparts, only aging more slowly once they reach adulthood. 

In the time he has been gone, several generations might have been born and come of age and thus it is entirely possible that, like Odysseus returned in disguise, Skylar is unrecognized by his own people.

Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, Skylar prepares to employ his Voice, if need be.

He may be unarmed but he was not without defense.

"I am..."

"Scyllian."

The guards part as Skylar’s father, dressed in the gold-scaled armor of a general, pushes his way through the door.

"Father," Skylar gasps, half in surprise and half in distress, as his father catches him in an aggressive embrace.

General Vargas holds Skylar a moment, his arms like a boa's constricting coils, before letting go and pushing his son away but keeping hold of his shoulders. 

"By the Gods, the wards rang like the devil's own bell when you breached them. We thought we were under attack. We were not expecting you so soon, my son," Vargas says and grins.

"Expecting?" Skylar shakes his head, confused. "I thought you and Natalis were to await me at the coast."

"We did wait, for a time," Vargas says, shaking his son none-too-gently. "But I was eager to see if, free of the amulet, I might return home. I have missed this place and my children, dearly."

Skylar frowns. 

"We thought you were dead but the fact you survived does not negate the charge of treason that blackens your name. Whether I believe you or not, it's the court that must be convinced."

"Natalis has had time to prepare their minds," the General says. "My return is not such a surprise as you imagine. In fact, not a few are convinced your mother acted too quickly when she condemned me. After all, she had only your word as evidence."

“Father.”

Seeing something in Skylar’s expression, his father laughs. 

"But never mind that now. Once you've claimed the throne and taken your place as king beneath the sea, none of that will matter. You will be the court and yours the last and final word."

Blinking in surprise at this idea, Skylar takes a step back. 

"I haven't come here to claim the throne. I've come to free mother and lift the curse. Once she's recovered and in command once more, I'll have time to find a way out of this damned blood-bound inheritance mess."

General Vargas’ expression flickers but with what underlying emotion of surprise, annoyance or even anger. 

Skylar can't tell and as his father’s grin returns so quickly he might have imagined it.

"Well, there will be plenty of time to speak of this later. For now, we must celebrate your return. We shall have a feast and dancing... a proper royal ball. But you have not come alone, I see," Vagas says, glancing past Skylar’s shoulder at his fated mate, Martin. "What is this you have brought with you?"

Frowning at his choice of 'what' rather than 'who,' Skylar steps back a pace and loops his arm around Martin's waist, drawing his partner against his side.  

"Father, this is Martin Hunter, the love of my life and my heart's true fated mate. Martin, please meet my father, General Vargas of Thassos."

Martin moves to extend his hand and Skylar barely catches the breach in time. 

Snagging his sleeve in a pinch, he hisses ‘bow’ under his breath, hopefully just loud enough for only him to hear. 

Fortunately, the Mer-people do not share the enhanced hearing of Wolves.

A little awkwardly, Martin bends at the waist. 

"It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Sir."

Skylar’s father inclines his head. 

Barely. 

"Likewise. We cannot doubt the amulet, however... unexpected it’s choice."

Skylar manages not to scowl. 

Winning his father's approval of his mate had never been a consideration before, mainly because Skylar had thought he was dead and it was too late to let it become one now.

"We are bound by love and fate," Skylar say firmly and joins his hand with his. "Martin is my equal in every way and is to be afforded all honors and respect befitting his position."

"Noted," General Vargas nods, though he has stopped pretending to smile and regards Skylar with a more familiar expression, that of a General calculating his next move. 

Then his face breaks into a grin once again and he claps his hands, startling everyone in the room. 

"Well. Enough chit-chat. Let us bring the happy news to your sisters and the rest of the court. And in the meantime, we shall prepare a feast befitting a prodigal son's return."

                                              ****

As General Vargas leads the way from his son’s chambers and back along the corridor to the main hall, Skylar sneaks a glance at Martin, hoping to catch his eye but his mate keeps his eyes fixed forward, focused on the General's back. 

Behind them, the synchronized footsteps of the guards, walking in two ordered lines, thump like the beat of a drum.

Sweat dampens Martin's brow and trickles down his temple, over the swell of his cheekbone, to the twitching muscle in his jaw. 

Skylar wants to reach over and brush it away, along with all of his mate’s worries but he keep his hands to himself.

At the end of the hall, General Vargas throws open the enormous doors and marches straight out into the sea. 

At least, that's how it appears at first and Martin falls back with a gasp of alarm, causing a guard to collide with his back. 

Skylar steadies him and fails to contain a laugh, though he only laughs in anticipation of his mate’s delight.

"It's alright. Look, the courtyard is dry," Skylar points out, leading him forward.

Martin pauses on the threshold, his up-tilted face blank with shock.

They're inside an enormous bubble. 

A concave stretch of surface tension at odds with earthly physics separating water from air. 

A pod of whales passes overhead, so high above them they look as small as geese in the sky, on some migratory journey across the sea.

Their nearer environs are no less astonishing, with a long walkway elevated among mock tidal pools, which glow with the same soft illumination as the inner palace. 

The source of this light is a long-lasting enzyme produced by a bioluminescent coral but it might as well be magic.

As they walk through this oceanic garden, Skylar keeps one hand on Martin's lower back, as much for support as to keep him from wandering off the edge of the path in his enraptured state. 

By the time they reach the other side of the circular courtyard and mount the steps to the palace's more public wing, which houses the throne room, ballroom and court chambers, Martin has recovered enough to give voice to his impressions.

"This is incredible," he says, still awestruck but less liable to topple at the brush of a fin. "It's like a dream. I understand why you'd never want to leave."

"And why he'd want to return, no doubt," General Vargas interjects offhandedly.

Skylar scowls at his father’s back. 

Though nearly as awe-struck as Martin by sights Skylar has not laid eyes upon in decades, his thoughts have not been idle. 

Since the moment his father showed himself, they've been racing at full tilt.

Skylar concedes that his sister, Natalis was right.

As a young man, Skylar was spoilt, arrogant and easily bored. 

He was schooled in gentle arts, like dance and etiquette and while politics and strategy had also been among his lessons, he had put most of his attention towards whatever entertained him most at any given moment. 

His mother indulged him and his tutors dared not reprimand him harshly. 

Now Skylar bitterly regrets his laissez-fair upbringing.

Princess Natalis, as next in line for the throne after Prince Scyllian, had received much the same tutelage but had applied herself with far more rigor.

She was close with Skylar’s father and joined his elite ranks as soon as she was able and unlike their Mother, General Vargas had not gone easy on her. 

She passed every test, not because she was his daughter but because she genuinely excelled. 

When Natalis earned her place as her father’s second-in-command, no one resented her for it, as she was not given the post but had earnt it.

By the time of General Vargas' attempted coup, if it was an attempt indeed and not the mere misunderstanding he claims it to be, Natalis was respected and beloved as widely as their mother and notably more than Skylar himself.

Had she known of her father’s plans? 

Had she been in league with him all along? 

Did she covet the throne even now and hope to succeed in her brother’s place?

It had occurred to Skylar that his father's plot had been doomed from the start, for without an heir of the bloodline to lead it, there would be no Thassos to lead. 

It had not occurred to the Prince that his father might have recruited one of his sister’s to his cause because if what the General had said about the succession was true, then for one of them to take his place, Skylar would have to die.

In which case, Skylar’s mother was not the only one General Vargas meant to kill. 

These thoughts and many more dash through Skylar’s mind, like racing dolphins as they enter the great hall, his hold on Martin’s hand tightening a little as much for his own reassurance as for his mate’s.

For the first time ‘and once again he curses his own stupidity’ he perceives that coming home might not be so much a triumph as a terrible mistake. 

[marionarnold]

I want to write an alternate path from part the way through Episode 1, Season 6 of Seal Team and I just can't get enough oxygen around work and life and spending free time dazed on the lounge. This though I got written, probably definitely more for me than you.

"Okay so...." she squeaked as Sabre One interupted her thought, speech and progress with a harsh grasp of her biceps, propelling her backwards until she hit the side of the shack, her backside landing on some upturned drums, feet dangling in the air.

He took another step between her legs, crowding her, and caged her in with his hands, his face inches away from hers.

"What the *fucking* hell Samira?!" he yelled. "Are you goddam fucking insane?"

She had paled but she lifted her chin defiantly. "Of course I'm not! It was the logical thing to do."

"Logical" he sneered. "You put your head in front of a fucking loaded weapon!"

"He wasn't going to shoot me," she replied dismissively.

"*He* wasn't holding the gun dammit," Daniel slammed his palms against the shack, the thump making her jump a little. Clay saw Jason lift his chin in a gesture to Wally but the latter gave a little shake of his head.

"A trigger happy zealot who wants to make a name for himself by killing one of the infadel and impress his boss was holding the gun," Daniel was continuing relentlessly.

"Ibden would have killed him instantly," she snapped.

"Such a great fucking comfort that would be to him and all of us while I was clearing your brain matter off my goddam fucking *body armour*" he roared.

She had closed her eyes part the way though and she flinched at his crescendo, his rage almost a physical blow.

"D" Wally said mildly, taking a step forward.

Daniel blinked, looking over at him and the rest of them, then turning back to her, looking eye to somewhat watery eye.

"Fuck," he swore and peeled off, striding down the alley. Clay saw Pete take a couple of steps backwards and then turn to go along a parallel trajectory. Interestingly, Jason also turned to follow his contemporary.

Samira took a deep breath and then hopped off the barrels, "Soldier!"

Wally moved quickly, catching her around the waist and swinging her back next to the drums.

"What the hell Wally?" She demanded, glaring as he stepped into her path when she would have otherwise restarted her attempt to follow Daniel into the camp.

"What say you leave the furious highly trained special forces soldier alone to cool down a little bit?"

"He's not going to hurt me Wally," she said firmly, although Clay suspected that there would be physical evidence to the contrary on her arms shortly.

"I know," Wally agreed. "But he really *really* wants to hurt something, so hows about you give him some time to kick a dog, a cat, punch up several small children and a stone wall or eight just as a little treat before you ding the bell for Round 2 huh?"

She smiled despite herself and Wally let his arm drop from its defensive stance. "You scared the bejesus outta him ya know?"

"I wasn't in any danger Wally," she responded with just a hint of defensiveness

"I know, I know," he soothed. "I believe you," he paused and then added, "thousands wouldn't but I do," and her slightly gratified expression soured in his direction.

It didn't even make a scratch.

"You got stop doing that shit Sammie," he continued. "We're the ones trained to play with the lead and gunpowder, you're here to talk."

"He might have shot him Wally," she replied in a smaller voice.

"That he might have," nodded Wally. "And unless he changed his aim substantially, D would have a really nasty bruise and trouble breathing for a good minute or so."

"And Rupe would have killed Ibden," she added, "and you would have opened fire and we would have started a shitstorm in a medical compound with our only ally in the region who has previously helped save my life!"

"Not saying it wouldn't have gone sideways pretty drastically" acknowledged Wally. "Just maybe that you could stuck your hand in front of the barrel instead of your head and pretty much got the same result?"

She blinked, opened her mouth, and then closed it. "Shit," she rubbed the heel of her hand into her eyes. "Bloody hell."

"Yeah," he inspected his fingernails for a moment of two. "So why don't you go and work your schmoozing magic with B2 there," his tone was lifted in a question and Ray nodded once in acquiescence, "on those hard nosed doctors and nurses and we'll go dig out the vehicles Ibden mentioned and go get those kids back."

She took a breath, centring herself and nodded, turning to him with a slight smile and placing a hand briefly on his forearm. "Thanks Wally."

He gave her a wink and she walked away, within ten paces she and Ray were deep into what they were going to need and how they were going to get the inevitably high price delivered.

"Ya know," drawled Sonny into the quiet, having shown an unknown capacity for silence during the whole display. "I do upon occassion remark how low our remuneration is for the amount of shit we have to put up with but my man, the entire clan of pharaohs of Egypt didn't bury enough gold in them pyramids of theirs for me trade places with you for one day."

Wally turned an outraged face to him, "you guys get paid?!"

[todayisafridaynight]

i love rewatching mine cutscenes cause even if he tries to be about as emotional as a boulder there’s always at least one single frame of him where a thousand words couldn’t really encapsulate everything he’s feeling in that moment

[fluffyprettykitty]

The Get Together

Pairing: Bruce Banner x female reader (no other specifications!)

Word Count: 3550 words

Outline: It was known to everyone working on the Avengers tower that Bruce had a crush on you but it takes one party and a severely drunk Bruce to finally confess his love to you.

Warnings: swearing, bad grammar, drug mention, alcohol consumption, use of condoms, nipple play, love bites, pet names, dirty talk, vaginal sex, finger sucking, slightly dom! bruce, creampie, finger fucking, cum eating, un beta-ed, if I missed anything pls let me know!

Author’s Note: Requested by a lovely anon right here. Tons of fun to make and it's to date my longest fic! :D

dividers by @firefly-graphics ​//​ banners by @maysdigitalarts

Main Masterlist ・❥・Bruce Banner Masterlist

NSFW UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DNI.

“He’s staring at you again,” Natasha comments while sipping her drink sitting on top of the counter. 

“He’s always looking at you.” You raise your eyebrow at her but then you turn your attention to Bruce from across the room and wink at him directly. Bruce quickly fumbles with the stack of papers in his hands of which half are falling onto the ground and you giggle returning to typing on your laptop. 

“I’m waiting for the moment he does more than staring.” You continue focusing on your work. 

“Well, that’s really up to you.” The red-haired comments. “You could have him in the palm of your hand if you wanted to.” 

“Don’t I, already?” You retort, glancing at her. 

“I just would prefer it if he made the first move. All these starings and giggling and awkward bumping into each other.” You sigh deeply shaking your head. “He is not going to last for long I know it.” 

“Well, Tony’s having a charity party next Saturday. Maybe…” Natasha says before jumping off the counter and moving across the floor. “Just…maybe…” 

It has been two months since you started working at the avengers' tower under the command of agents Maria Hill and Steve Rogers. Your job was to be a close secretary and first assistant to all matters on hand so you were close by to the Avengers all the time. 

Yet it hasn’t been that long since Bruce has been back in the USA and living in the tower. But the spark and the chemistry were there from the very start. You saw him as he messily gulped on his coffee in the mornings when you walked by and how he always seem to get blushy and frustrated around you. The truth is you loved that type, the awkward smart guy thingy and you couldn’t wait till the moment he asked you out. 

Until then…

The next several days passed relatively easily with no world threats happening and the occasional familiar friendly conversations between you and Bruce. He was smart and charming, in a completely old-fashioned way, sweet and well-spoken, and with the warmest laugh, you had ever heard. Each time you felt your heart vibrate along with it. 

There wasn’t anyone working in the tower left who didn’t know that Bruce had developed a romantic crush on you. It was obvious by the way he coughed every time you offered him tea in the afternoon. It was way too evident and the teasings and pushings from both Tony and Clint hadn’t seemed to bring anything to fruition yet. But tonight they shared a plan. They would make sure that Bruce gets drunk enough to ease himself and finally let loose. 

Once the party started assembling, their goal was to keep Bruce by the bar until they were sure enough he was loose enough. Natasha was in the plan, of course, she was to make sure you would show up. And you would. You had already purchased a new pink shiny dress worn along with matching medium-heeled booties. Parties in your opinion were always fun as long there was good food and good accommodations. Since starting the new job you had already attended 3 of those and each time was better than the last. 

Taking a long last look in the mirror before leaving your room at the tower, you click on your heels and take the elevator down. There you find Steve and Sam, talking to each other about what seems to be sports, and continue on your merry way to the main event. You looked beautiful, shining through each glass window and the image made you smile to yourself. A woman’s confidence in herself is one of the most important things. 

That’s when Bruce noticed as he was coming down the stairs, he saw you laugh at yourself and it flattered his heart and more than that. Stuck in a daydream looking at you walking across the room till you reached Natasha, he accidentally misses the last step of the stairs and almost loses his balance. Thankfully there is Clint to save him and encourage him to go to the bar with him. 

About an hour passes before he sees you again, this time Clint had made sure that at least three shots of tequila had gone through him followed by two long island cocktails. Clint was anything if not completely efficient in his plan. And his plan had only gotten started…

“Y/N!” You hear the frantic voice of Clint with his arm around Bruce’s shoulders holding him up. 

“Poor fella got too drunk…need help to get him to his room.” You jump to your feet from your position on the couch next to Maria. Momentarily you can hear Maria giggle and scoff at the same time. Frantic you wrap your arm around Bruce’s back and begin to walk him with Clint back to his room. When you reach the elevator Clint leaves you alone shrugging his shoulders and announcing his work is done. You roll your eyes as a mumbling Bruce seems to become chatty repeating your name. 

“Y/N…Is...this you?” Momentarily you begin to wonder if Clint momentarily drugged him.

“Yes, I got you, you drank too much and I’m moving you to your room, we are right outside.” Carrying Bruce wasn’t difficult, he held easily on to you and followed your steps, the only thing missing was his glasses which were in his pocket. Looks like Clint had thought of everything. You push the door handle open with your free hand and he quickly moves to fall on top of the bed taking you with him. 

“Oh, shit, sorry.” You apologize as your whole side lands on him but he only wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer. For a moment you could feel a familiar kind of heat building up inside. You stare deeply inside his brown eyes, feeling his breath on you as he is observing closely. 

As if he is searching for the right words to say. 

“I like you.” He whispers in his deep clear voice. 

“I like you a lot.” He nods his head and shallows a dry lump in his throat. The alcohol smelled heavy on him yet it only made him more appealing. 

Heartwarmingly, you grin widely at him and let out a soft chuckle. “I know.” You nod your head slowly. “I have noticed.” His grip on you gets tighter as he begins to softly runs his fingers on your back. 

“I like you too.” You match his level of whispering in his voice, an overwhelming emotion taking over your mind. 

“I want to kiss you so bad right now.” He blurts out, exhaling through his nose, and you could swear his eyes grew darker. For once you feel frozen, you want him so bad to take control and do whatever he wants to you, the way he is looking at you, the way his body feels against yours, and the pure lust you can hear in his voice are driving you crazy. 

 "I really really like you…" Bruce continues to muse. As if he is lost in a trance as if his deepest fantasy has come to life. 

"I want to kiss you, I want to hold you, I want to feel you" His nose brushes yours, and in a voice lowers than a grown he whispers once more. "I want you so bad…"

“Then have me.” You blurt out finally, and less than a second later his lips are crushing yours so needily and passionately that leaves your legs wobbly. His hands are holding your waist frim against his touch as he is devouring your lips like he has tasted the sweetest nectar. His lips feel velvety and soft and you are moving your hands to wrap around the back of his head pulling him closer to you. Any distance feels too much right now. 

Hands begin to roam touching and feeling anything they can grope on and Bruce never leaves your lips for more than a second. He climbs on top of you, ready to take control, rolling you and pinning you against the mattress. He begins to leave wet needy kisses on your neck and your collarbones, and your hands get lost inside his fluffy curly hair while he is sucking and biting on your naked skin, drunk and in lust. 

“Fuck!” You moan out as he begins to explore your breasts, his hands going to push your dress down setting them free for him to use. He is leaving kisses anywhere he can find, the way you grip his hair is driving him feral and he needs to feel you, feel every part of you right now. His hands move to fumble with your dress and you help him get it off you, leaving in you just a small pair of lacy underwear. The pure image of this could get him wild. He is shaking his head slowly looking at your body frame and you can see a little bit of drool forming at the curls of his lips. 

Then like a predator right above to devour his prey he dives inside your chest once more and that’s when he starts to absolute feast on your breasts. Using the palms of his hands to squeeze them and touch them darting his tongue out to feel your nipples with the flat of his tongue and always looking up at you. The pleasure is getting too much for you, you are getting wetter and wetter and you feel yourself squirm underneath him. 

It drove you insane how he was still so dressed and you were as good as naked, and you begin to tug at his waistband trying to find the buttons of his shirt. But with just one loud pop he lets off your breast and quickly rips off your shirt throwing it on the floor before going right back at what he was doing before. That was enough to drive you wild and you begin to moan loudly, wrapping your legs against his back. 

“Look who’s all needy now…” He chuckles after leaving a soft suckle on the side of your breast. 

“You wanna feel me, sweetheart?” You nod frantically drawing your eyebrows together. You needed him to have his way with you desperately. Fuck you, stretch you open, anything at all. You were all his. Bruce only chuckles as he positions himself to unbuckle his pants and push them down. Your eyes fixated on his boxers and you wondered just how big he was. 

“Already greedy?” He cocks his eyebrow so authoritative that it makes you squirm and whine, squirming your body underneath him. He chuckles as he takes your hand and places it on top of his clothed crotch, moving your hand slowly up and down his length. He feels big and girthy under your touch and you can’t wait to have him. 

“Please! Please, Bruce.” You plead at him and Bruce only coos at you before moving your hand to push his boxers down and free himself. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, it was everything you could have ever dreamed of and you licked your lips together looking at him. Bruce uses his hand to stroke himself a couple of times and you can only shake your head looking at him mesmerized. 

“Are you sure?” He asks once more for your consent and you frantically nod your head. “I’m gonna need your words, baby.” 

“Yes.” You breathe out. “Please give it to me.” 

Bruce is biting his bottom lip as he hovers above you to reach for the bedside table and fumble with the drawers till he pulled out a pack of condoms. So he was prepared. You stare at him taking on his muscular masculine form and the way his bicep was shining in the night light. He rips the packet open and goes to put on the condom with a grunt. His own erection seemed to be getting too much for him. You both knew that the first time wouldn’t last long anyway but thankfully he had a large pack right there. 

He positions himself back above you spreading your legs and he carefully pushes your soaked panties to the side taking in the sight of your pussy. 

“Prettiest I have even seen.” He praises you watching as your pussy clenched and unclenched around nothing for him. 

“Gotta treat her well, she has been so patient..” He chuckles before placing his dexter finger above your pussy lips stroking it gently up and down, causing you to moan out his name. The next moment Bruce is offering you his finger. 

“Taste how good you are.” He commands and you obediently do so locking his finger between your lips. Bruce realizes immediately as he watches you suck on his finger greedily. With a curse he lines himself to your entrance with his free hand and then pushes the tip of his cock inside you slowly, making your mouth fall open, and setting his finger free. He gives you time to adjust as the warmth of your pussy engulfs him and he stays like this until you begin to beg him to continue. 

“So eager…” he scoffs and pushes his thumb back inside your mouth. You obediently look at him with doe eyes while you try to move your hips against his. Slowly he begins to slip more inside you, pushing what feels inch by inch until he is fully inside you and then he softly begins to move his hips a little bit faster than before. 

The sheer sensation of the way his cock is stretching your pussy leaves you a moaning mess and Bruce seems to really know how to work his hips. He begins to thrust deep inside you, moving his cock inside while his hands are wrapped around your face staring right into your eyes, his fingers inside your mouth while saliva is falling off the sides of your face, each of his thrusts moving you both along with him. 

It feels amazing, better than you could ever have imagined. There is nothing you wouldn’t do for this man, there is no position you didn’t want him to take you in. 

“I’m not gonna last long.” He warns you shaking his head slightly. You knew that you didn’t mind that, you knew more will be coming, so you just nod your head as best as your can, unable to speak. And then is as if all hell breaks loose and Bruce begins to move his hips wildly against your frame drilling your body into the mattress feeling himself spill inside his condom. Feeling that warmth triggers your own orgasm and it hits you in waves of pleasure, groaning and arching your back until you were trying hard to escape from his tight grip but Bruce only held you tighter. 

“You are not going anywhere.” He shakes his head. “I got more plans for you.” His voice causes shivers down your spine and you only sit obediently relaxing your well-pleasured body just for him. 

“You’ve been so patient, I just wanna treat you well…” He muses, and you note how relaxed the alcohol was made him. Who would have thought? Bruce slips out of you making you whine at the sudden loss. You watch him carefully as he discards the condom and not wasting one moment picks a new one. Your pussy is clenching while watching him place it on his cock. 

Then he is coming back to you and resumes his position entering you once again. “Be good for me, alright?” he coos while he slowly moves his hips, his lips beginning to explore your neck once again. Yes, you would be good for him, you wanted him, you have been craving him, fantasizing about him. For a moment you get lost in your thoughts wondering if Bruce wanked in this bed thinking about your pussy.

The daydream is broken by his hand holding up your chin as he begins to thrust in you deeply. “You’re so tight.” He scrunches up his face. “Been waiting to get fucked properly, huh?” He chuckles setting another fast brutal round of constant thrusts. The room is filled with the sound of skin on wet skin, thankfully the rooms are soundproof and no one would come looking for either of you.

It feels good, it feels right to have him there, inside you holding you up, looking at your face the way he is looking at you right now. You feel yourself getting weaker for him, your pussy clenching his cock. Then you watch him as he grins widely, eyelids heavy letting go of your chin and tracing his finger down your stern to your pussy, pushing it inside, he easily finds your clit and begins to rub it with his thumb. 

“I wanna see you.” He nods his head. “Give it to me, pretty girl.” His softness and the way he is talking to you have you falling into a magical trance. You need to do exactly as he is, wouldn’t want anything else. You let go, feeling the coil inside you tighten and then you feel like you can explode. Your orgasm comes hard and strong vibrating your whole body, shaking your body underneath him. You try to push him out but Bruce stays firm, watching your juices fall.

And all he does is look at you, admiring you. Like you were his favorite masterpiece. 

“Thank you.” He smiles at you and you shake your head. “You..” you begin to whisper but is still hard for you to breathe and speak. 

Bruce doesn’t talk, instead, he only slips out from you, positioning himself on the bed. He once again discards the condom, throwing it on the floor, and spits on his hand, spreading it on his length and stroking himself a couple of times. You place your hands under your breasts and hold them up for him darting out your tongue for him and wiggling your body. 

Bruce curses then, the first time you’d ever hear him do so, and then thick white cum is spreading on your breasts forming a line up to your chin. He grunts watching his cock getting softer. With the tip of your tongue and your fingers, you are gathering his cum and letting yourself have a taste moaning. Bruce falls on the bed next to you and he grabs your chin kissing you with extreme passion. You know he can taste himself like this, you love the fact that he doesn’t seem to care. 

Exhausted you wrap your body close to his and shut your eyes. You had been fed and loved and cherished, you were ready to rest. 

Several hours pass and the morning finds you both wrapped in one another, naked and with no blankets in sight. You feel cold but Bruce seems to run hot, you roll your body closer to him, feeling more and more alert. 

“Good morning.” You whisper as you watch him blink slowly, facing the front of him, your legs and body wrapped around his torso. You watch him as his eyes widen, panic kicking in. He has no recollection of what had happened. 

“Y/N?” He draws his eyebrows together looking at you confused, and then he glances down looking at your naked wrapped bodies and begins to move fast, trying to find some kind of clothes with his hands but all he can pick is your dress from last night. 

“What happened? Did I?” You nod your head and place your hands on his face trying to calm him down. 

“We did.” You whisper slowly. “We made love, confessed our love.” Bruce’s eyes widen again and his mouth hangs open, relief written on his face. 

“We did?”

You nod your head again and smile.  “And it was perfect.” 

“It was?”

“Hmm.” 

“Are you sure it wasn’t?”

“Bad? No, it was perfect, Bruce trust me, you are quite good at it.”

Bruce’s face blushes all the way up, glowing bright red. The thought of this man being embarrassed about his sex makes you laugh and you shook your head. “I can still feel you inside me. Actually.”

Bruce takes a moment to stare at you completely bewildered at your statement and then wraps his hands on your face pulling you in for a hasty kiss. He needed to make sure all of this was real and actually happening. He needed to make sure, no more daydreams. 

“I love you.” He blurts out. And his breath is short, still drunk on your love. 

“I love you too.” You confess and smile softly rubbing the thumbs of your hands on his beard.

“We should go out on a date.”

“Yes, we should.”

“Central Park, 1 pm?”

“I’m available.” You chuckle and let out a small laugh.

“What can we do till then?”

“I got an idea.”

“Really? I got several to match.”

You giggle once again and let him roll you on the bed, arms on each side of your face kissing you and kissing you again. 

Amazing what can happen when a whole group of people works together…

for updates please follow @fluffyprettykittylibrary and turn on post notifications!

[obeythedemons]

When his heart first skipped a beat [Obey Me! Headcanons]

Obey Me! Masterlist

--

Lucifer

"No," MC stood their ground in front of him. He narrowed his eyes and told them to move once more. "I'm not moving, you need your rest." They spread their arms out as if their body would be enough to stop him. "I'm going to take care of your brothers, you go to bed."

"Who do you think you are ordering me around? You don't have a pact with me," he lowered his voice in an attempt to intimidate them.

"Your friend," MC replied, not at all scared of him. Instead, they looked up at him with a look that made him want to take a step back.

He felt his heart squeeze and his eyes widened at the sensation. He shook his head. Perhaps the exhaustion was giving him heart palpitations.

"Fine," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "But once I wake up, things had better be in order."

Mammon

"I don't want to make a pact with him like this, Levi," he heard MC talking in the kitchen. He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest as he continued to eavesdrop.

"I want my money back, MC," Levi whined. "If you make a pact with him you can force him to give it back to me."

"But forcing someone to do something isn't right," MC protested.

"If he forms the pact with you, then that's his fault!"

"But holding Goldie hostage?" Mammon's eyes widened at the thought of his credit card being found. He peeked around the corner, seeing MC chipping away at the ice block surrounding his precious card.

"Just do it, MC," Levi said with a roll of his eyes.

"I don't want to use Mammon like that," MC murmured, sadness evident on their face. He felt his heart squeeze at the sight of someone not wanting to treat him like the scumbag he is. Taking a deep breath, he sauntered into the kitchen. Maybe he'd let them think they'd form a pact with him just for Goldie.

Leviathan

"Hey Levi!" he heard MC's voice from behind his door. He rolled his eyes and shared a look with Henry 2.0.

"Password?" Levi called back, going back to gaming.

"I-I don't know it," he heard MC mutter. "I-sorry, I just wanted to see if you wanted to watch some anime from the human world with me?"

His fingers froze as they were keying out commands to his character. With a sigh, he paused the game and dragged himself to the door. He looked at them, expecting them to laugh at his face.

"Human world anime?" he questioned.

"Uhuh," MC grinned and held up a disc set. "It's my favorite one."

"W-wait!" Leviathan took a step back. "You like anime?"

MC tilted their head to the side. "Well, yeah?"

He gulped. His heart skipped a beat before pounding away heavily.

Satan

"Just put it on, MC," Asmo cooed. "I promise he'll love it."

"I don't know," MC sounded reluctant.

With a sigh, Satan looked up from his book to Asmo's closet where the other two were. "What are you trying to make MC do, Asmo?"

"Oh hush!" Asmo stuck his head out of the closet. "You'll see in just a second!" Asmo winked at Satan before heading back in. "Just wear it, MC! Please!"

He heard MC let out an exasperated breath of air followed by Asmo's cheering. Asmo sauntered out of the closet with a wide grin on his face, but when he looked at Satan that grin turned mischievous.

Satan narrowed his eyes at him. "What did you do?" Before Asmo could answer, Satan's attention was diverted to the soft footsteps of MC leaving the closet. His eyes widened, his heart skipped several beats to where he was wondering if he was dying, he felt a rush of heat spread across his face.

"Do they look stupid?" MC questioned, adjusting the cat ears they were wearing.

"They look fine," Satan answered quickly, burying his face in his book, but unable to read with the image of MC stuck in his face.

Asmodeus

He smiled seductively at the camera before hitting a snack. After the photo was taken, he hummed with content as he looked it over. Perfect angle. Perfect lighting. Perfect model. It was a perfect photo, but for some reason, he had no desire to post it on Devilgram. Not, his desire was to share it with one person.

"And send," he spoke, sending his selfie to MC.

It only took a few seconds before they responded.

MC: !!!!!

MC: It's not fair how beautiful you are!

Asmo chuckled before typing away.

Asmo: Let me see how cute you are <3

It took a couple of seconds before a photo popped up. Asmo let a snort come out. He hid his face with his hands from the rather unattractive noise that just came out.

He peaked at the photo of MC making the most unattractive face possible. He burst out laughing, his heart dancing about happily.

Beelzebub

He had just gotten back from practice and starving was an understatement. He was sweating, his hands were shaking, he felt nauseated, he felt like he was going to die from his hypoglycemic episode. He stumbled into the kitchen, searching desperately for food.

"Beel! Perfect timing," he faintly heard MC's voice call, but he couldn't see them. His vision was getting blurry. "Beel?" Their voice sounded concerned. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus, but the hunger was becoming too much.

"Food," he managed to get out as he put most of his body weight on the kitchen counter. He was getting dizzy.

A couple of seconds later, he felt something press up against his lips. He opened his mouth and swallowed whatever it was. There was more. This time, he noticed it was sweet and he chewed it. It was crunchy.

His vision started to focus back. He looked down seeing MC frown up at him. They held a batch of cookies in their hands.

"Are you okay?" they asked quietly. Beel nodded his head, eyeing the other cookie. MC let out a breath of relief before they handed him another. He happily ate it, savoring the sweet taste. "Do they taste okay? I baked them just for you?"

Beel's heart thumped heavily. "Just for me?" he questioned with his mouth fool. He swallowed the cookies and smiled happily. "They taste amazing!"

Belphegor

"Belphie," he heard a distant voice call to him. Although, this voice didn't seem to be too distant, just in the realm of the waking. "Belphie, if you sleep here you'll catch get cold."

Belphie reached his arms out and tightly gripped the person shaking his shoulder. They yelped as he brought them close to him. His arms wrapped around them.

"Then keep me warm," he retorted. He buried his face in their chest. He froze when he inhaled. It wasn't the sent of his brothers, but someone else.

He peaked his eyes opened, seeing MC close to him. His heart thumped heavily at MC's bewildered expression. With a yawn, he sat up, acting like he wasn't affected by MC's scent. It was comforting, warm.

Diavolo

MC was sitting at his desk while he finished up some paperwork. He had expected to be finished with them by the time MC got there, but alas, here he was.

"Lord Diavolo?" MC questioned, drawing the demon prince of Hell from his work.

"Yes, MC?"

"Do you like being called Lord Diavolo?" He looked up at them, seeing them look off to the side, refusing to make eye contact with him.

"I suppose if I had friends, I wouldn't want them to call me Lord Diavolo."

MC pouted, their lips sticking out. "You don't consider us friends?"

Diavolo's eyes widened. A painful sensation burst from his heart, though he wouldn't call it unpleasant. In fact, he wanted to feel it again.

"I would very much like to consider us friends."

"Good, Dia," MC grinned widely at him, making his heart flutter once more.

Barbatos

He was looking everywhere for the human. Somehow, they had gotten separated at the market. Something had caught his eye and he wandered off, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the same thing also happened with MC.

"Help!" he heard the human screech. His eyes widened as he sprinted to where the scream came from. A demon was towering over their form, salivating at the sight of the human's soul.

With a flick of his wrist, the demon was sent flying through a wall. Barbatos grabbed MC's hand and dragged them away from the alleyway they were trapped in.

"Are you hurt?" Barbatos asked once they were a distance away. His eyes trailed over MC's form, looking for any scratches or bruises.

"No," MC mumbled, looking down shamefully.

Barbatos frowned. "What's wrong?"

"I..." MC sighed. "I ruined our trip to the market together, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Barbatos shook his head. "All that matters is that you're not injured."

MC gave him a weak smile. "Thank you, Barbatos." They paused for a moment. "Oh! That's right." They dug through their bag. "I bought this for you. It's not much, but I wanted to thank you for bringing me here today." Barbatos's eyes landed on a bouquet of lilacs. "They're flowers from the human realm! I was surprised to see them here."

Barbatos felt his cheeks heat up and his heart dance about. Lilacs, the flowers indicating the first sign of love.

Simeon

"And how have you been adjusting here?" Simeon questioned as he took a sip of his tea. He smiled kindly at MC. "I know it's been a couple of months now, but a lot has happened since then."

"It has," MC nodded. "To be honest, I was surprised to actually meet some demons and a couple of angels, I didn't know what to think. Humans have some pre-conceived notions on angels and demons, but seeing as I've never met one, I didn't want to let that cloud my judgment."

Simeon chuckled. "That's a very diplomatic way of seeing things."

MC shook their head. "I didn't do it to try and protect myself or get anything from any of you, I wanted to get to know all of you for who you are, not what you are. And after I got to know you, I wanted to be your friend!"

Simeon smiled brightly at MC, loving the feeling of his heart skipping a beat at their kindness.

Solomon

"Just hold still for a moment," Solomon warned as he glanced at his book. "Alright, let me just...." He trailed off into muttering the encantation. His eyes flickered off from the book to where MC was standing in the circle. "How are you feeling?"

MC blinked at him. Their eyes drooping shut. "Tired." Their knees buckled and they started to fall forward. Cursing, Solmon rushed forward and caught them in his arms before they could hit the wooden blanks below.

"Are you okay?" he questioned, manipulating their body so he could look at their face.

They gave him a lopsided grin. "Just need...some sleep. But the encantation should help with insomnia," MC yawned. Their eyes drifting shut. "But maybe not with relaxing, this is a bit...too much." MC turned and buried their face in his chest. "Protect me while I sleep?"

Solomon's face turned a bright red. He adjusted MC a bit so that he was able to hold them tightly against him. "Of course, I'll always protect you." He ignored the wild hammering in his chest, opting to look after his fellow human.

[lynn-writes-things]

I’ve Got You (Levi x Reader)

rating: fluff?? comfort fic cause Levi needs a fucking hug

you catch Levi crying in his office after the expedition with the female titan

Being out on medical leave during the latest expedition had you pretty well out of the loop about what happened, though now that you were free, you’d noticed a significant lack of your good friend and fellow captain, Levi. When you asked one of his cadets about him after running into Connie and Sasha in the hall, they told you that he’s been in his office since they returned. Not long after being told his whereabouts, you were knocking at his office door with a tray of food and tea, ready to help him with whatever paperwork he surely was busy with.

“Who is it?” He answers your knocking after several seconds of silence, and you wonder what he’s doing.

“Y/N.” You reply.

“Go away.”

“Not a chance.” You say, opening the door against his wishes. Before you can make it more than a couple steps into the room, Levi stands up and goes over to the bookshelf, facing away from you. Thinking nothing of it, assuming he just needed to grab a book or something, you continue. “I’ve come with food, tea, and I’m here to help you with paperwork.”

“No.” His voice sounded strained, and you swear you heard him sniffle quietly. Placing the tray down on his desk, you see it. The paperwork he’s been dealing with is a pile of death certificates. Then you see the names, the names of his squad members.. Your heart drops, and before you can think twice, you’ve walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, nudging him to turn around. When he does, he avoids looking at you, but you can see the tears in his eyes, and the redness surrounding them.

“Come here..” You say softly, and pull him into a hug without giving him time to object, one hand in his hair as he buries his face against your shoulder and returns your embrace with a shuddering breath, doing his damndest not to break down in front of you.

“You can let it out, Levi. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” You say softly, carding your fingers through his hair, feeling how his body shakes with sobs that are muffled against your shoulder. Words fail you, so you opt for just holding him through it instead, which Levi actually prefers - nothing you could say would make this hurt any less. You both stay like that for awhile, with you just comforting him until he settles down, but even then he makes no moves to pull away from your embrace.

“I hope you know, you’re gonna have to be the one to pull away, but there’s no rush. Because I’m perfectly happy to hold you like this for as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” You promise him, turning your head to leave a kiss in his hair. Levi takes a moment to process, to think if he does want to let go, before deciding ultimately that no, he really does not want to pull away from you; and so he holds you even tighter instead.

Minutes go by, though neither of you are counting just how many. Eventually you start to feel him growing heavier against you, only for him to startle back to consciousness when his arms start to slip off of you. A little giggle leaves your lips when you realize he’d nearly fallen asleep standing, and you pull away enough to look at him.

“I think you need some rest, Lev.” Your soft smile and caring eyes do wonders to convince him, though the thought of sleeping alone has become his greatest fear since returning- even more so than it already had been. His anxiety must’ve been evident on his face, because you seem to have read his mind. “I’m happy to stay, if you’d like? I promise I wouldn’t mind.”

“..I’d like that..” He answers after a moment of consideration. Somewhere deep inside, he’s cursing himself for being this vulnerable with you - but you’re you, and Levi knows that you’d never use these moments against him, no matter what.

The two of you head for his adjoined bedroom, and after removing your shoes, you both lay down under the covers of his neatly made, barely-ever-used, bed.

“C’mere.” You order, and Levi doesn’t put up any sort of fight, resting his head on your chest, so that he can hear your heart beating steadily. To ground himself. To remind himself that at least you’re still alive. And he is so, so fucking grateful that you are. Because here, now, with your arms around him and your fingers idly playing with his hair, Levi finds a comfort that he’s never really known, and he finds himself slipping into sleep easier than he ever has before.

“I’ve got you.”