#my brain registers some of the sounds as bones cracking and skin moving against skin and i dont like it

[betweenblackberrybranches]

There are scary noises coming from the kitchen :'((

And i am home alone

[dreamerstreamer]

Burnout

Pairing: Dream / Clay x gn!reader

Summary: Working nonstop leaves Clay officially exhausted. Too bad he doesn’t know when to call it quits. Luckily for him, you do.

Warnings: depictions of anxiety + exhaustion + burnout

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: this was inspired by some of my own personal experiences. please get some rest if you need it. i hope you enjoy!

Clay awoke to the sound of meowing in his ear and a paw prodding at his cheek.

Letting out a small groan, he shifted, vaguely aware that his cheek was pressed against something cold. He reached up in front of his face, his fingertips meeting soft fur. He blinked an eye open, his hand rubbing at his bleary vision. Little by little, the fogginess slowly parted to reveal Patches’ olive green eyes peering back at him. The moment his gaze met hers, she meowed, swiping at his face again.

“Stop,” he croaked, surprising himself by how dry his mouth was. Almost immediately, Patches took a step back, meowing once more at him before hopping off the table and vanishing from his line of sight.

He raised a hand to his throat, swallowing uncomfortably. Slowly, he lifted his head from the desk, taking in the sight of his desk set-up. While his monitor was dark, it was his laptop that was lighting up the cluttered mess that had become his studio. Off to his right sat his green water bottle.

Right. His water bottle had been empty for—

His eyes darted to the clock, squinting. The numbers 1:47 AM flashed back at him.

—six hours.

When did I knock out? he wondered to himself, rubbing at his temples. Two hours ago? He shook his head. Well, doesn’t matter, now. Gotta finish the new plug-in.

He reached over, nudging his mouse with his elbow. The moment his cursor moved, his monitor came to life, light flooding the dimness of his room. He squinted, shielding his eyes from the glaring brightness of the screen with the back of his hand.

His code was still open, the line having cut off in the middle, the open bracket hanging wide, waiting to be completed and closed.

He grimaced, the gears already whirring in his head as he stared at the ticking clock on his screen. He needed to have the plug-in coded by tomorrow—or, well, today—so he could send it off to George for their scheduled test run. Not to mention the video he was only halfway finished editing he wanted to upload in two days’ time.

He dragged a hand over his face, a low groan rumbling in his chest. Just then, there was another low growl, this time coming from his stomach. He glanced downward at his hoodie pocket, something sharp digging at his insides.

Well, first, it seemed like he would need some food.

He pushed back his chair and pushed himself onto his feet, wincing at the way his muscles ached. They were definitely sore from not having been used in god knows how long, now. With another sigh, he turned, pushing the door open to his studio before climbing the stairs.

It only took a few moments for him to find the kitchen. He fumbled with the light switch for a second before the room was suddenly flooded with light. He winced, slapping a hand over his eyes. “Oh god,” he muttered, his throat feeling raw, “it’s so bright.”

A few seconds later, he peeked through his fingers and lowered his hand, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. As soon as he could see clearly once more, he dragged himself over to the cabinet, pulling the door open to peer inside. Empty space stared back at him, and he frowned. We forgot to go grocery shopping.

A snack-size bag of chips and two cups of instant ramen stared back at him, almost tauntingly. After staring for another moment, he found himself pulling out one of the two cups, eyeing it dubiously before shrugging. It’ll do. Flipping open the kettle, he quickly filled it with some water before setting it to boil. As he waited, he grabbed a pair of chopsticks and tore open the cup cover, fishing out the flavour packet and tearing it open with his teeth. Just as he was pouring the flavour powder in, he heard a voice behind him.

“Clay?”

He froze, then felt something in his chest soften. He turned, mustering what energy he had to send you a smile. “Hi, [Y/N].” At the sight of your bleary eyes, his smile drooped. “You’re still awake?”

You yawned, holding a hand over your mouth. “Mhm. Hungry. I’m just grabbing a snack, that’s all.”

Behind him, the kettle whistled. He quickly removed the top, then turned back to send you a knowing look. “Me too.”

You strolled over to the cabinet he had looked through earlier, frowning as you let out a sigh. “I’ll go grocery shopping this weekend,” you murmured, reaching for the chips. “Anything you want?”

He cast a glance at the chips in your hand. “More chips?” he offered softly. “I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it.”

You bobbed your head and pulled the bag open, immediately sticking a chip in your mouth. Clay let the sound of chips crunching fill the air as he poured the boiling water into his noodle cup, stirring absentmindedly as you quickly finished the bag. After a few moments, he eagerly raised his chopsticks to his lips, a whirlwind of flavour filling his mouth. The noodles didn’t particularly help with the dryness of his mouth or his tiredness, but at least he wasn’t hungry anymore.

The two of you ate in silence for a while. At one point, you finished the chips and threw out the bag, but he wasn’t quite paying attention. He felt his toes curl beneath him as he shifted in an effort to keep himself awake, but he could still feel the exhaustion pulling at his ankles. He wished he was asleep, he really did.

Just then, you spoke up. “Are you okay?”

He blinked, snapping out of his tired daze. “Yeah,” he mumbled in between chews. “I’m just a bit tired.”

You pursed your lips, leaning back against the counter as you eyed him up and down. “You look more than just ‘a bit tired’, Clay.”

He swallowed, averting his gaze from yours as he focused on shoveling more noodles in his mouth. His eyelids burned, weighed down by bricks made of exhaustion. “You think so?”

You didn’t answer, only staring at him for a few moments longer as he finished the cup of ramen. He didn’t even have the strength to think about the tension pervading the air. As soon as he was finished, he set the cup down, ignoring how heavy his arm felt. He felt your eyes on his as he rinsed out the empty container before tossing it in the recycling bin. He turned, your gaze locking onto his. Irritation prickled up his spine at your expression.

“What?” he said, his tone coming out harsher than he intended. A flicker of guilt ran through him, but it quickly dissolved into weariness once more. Whatever. He was tired. It didn’t matter. Right?

To his surprise, you didn’t flinch like he thought you would. Instead, you took a small step toward him, your hand reaching up and forward tentatively. Your fingers brushed against his cheekbone, and the moment your palm met his skin, he nearly melted into your touch. How long had it been since his shoulders felt so loose? He couldn’t recall.

“Clay,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his cheek, “will you come to bed with me?”

His breath hitched. Sleeping? Now? He couldn’t afford it—even a single lick of sleep would throw him off entirely. He needed to finish his code and finish editing that video for the day after. He couldn’t just sleep, now.

He sent you a smile, hoping it didn’t look as sad as it felt. “Sorry, love, but I have a bit more work I have left to do.”

You blinked, your lips curling downward. Your frown bit into him harder than he would have liked. Slowly, you pulled your hand back from his cheek, something disappointing flashing in your gaze. “Okay,” you said quietly, turning to walk out of the kitchen. “Please go to sleep soon, though, alright?”

He nodded, but the action didn’t fully register in his head as he watched you disappear from his line of sight. Already, he missed your warmth against his face, and he had half the mind to change his mind and go to bed with you right then and there.

But the deadline hanging over his head wrapped a fraction tighter around his throat, whispering into his ear like a menace. “You don’t have time.”

Indeed, he didn’t.

Shutting the kitchen lights off, he slipped back down the stairs once more, striding back into his studio. He collapsed into his chair with a grunt, shaking his mouse as his monitor came back to life. He cracked his knuckles once before settling his hands back on the keyboard, focusing his attention back on the open bracket once more.

He wasn’t sure how much time he spent typing, opening and closing Google as he ran into bug after bug. The longer he stared at the screen, the more his brain felt like it was slowly getting the life sucked out of it. He had only completed another dozen lines of code or two when something tore him out of his focus.

“Clay.”

His thoughts came to a jarring halt in his head. He turned, spotting you leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed over your chest. A concerned expression was plastered to your face, and he nearly fell out of his chair. “[Y/N]? Why are you still up?” His eyebrows knit together. “I thought you went to bed.”

“I sent George a text,” you said abruptly, your eyes scanning his face with a wary look, “and he said he doesn’t mind doing the test run another day.”

Clay’s mouth fell open, a wave of shock rolling over him. You... what? Swallowing, he closed it, shaking his head slightly. Just because he didn’t need to finish the code didn’t mean he still didn’t have any work to do. “I still have to finish the video—”

“You can finish that another day, too,” you suddenly said, your eyes not leaving his. He saw your fingers curl into your pyjamas. “You know your fans will love it no matter when it comes out.”

Something welled up inside of him, something hard and cold that dug straight through his bones. “B-But...”

You simply tilted your head at him, a weary look crossing your face. “But what, Clay? Is there anything else?”

He paused for a moment, a pebble of shame dropping into his stomach as he shook his head. “No,” he admitted quietly. His heart burned uncomfortably between his lungs. “But I could always get a head start on—“

“Clay,” you said sharply, not missing the way he jumped, “don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?” You lowered your arms and your voice grew quiet, something pained flitting across your features. “This is killing you.”

He stared at you, the light of his monitor making your face glow in the dimness of his studio. As much as he tried, he couldn’t think of another rational justification for staying up. He had no other immediate tasks, no other projects he needed to work on in this moment. He had no reason to stay awake any longer.

And yet, deep down, something anxious and angry thrashed in his gut. Sleeping now just felt wrong. It was almost as though it was a crime, as though he would somehow fail if he didn’t keep working. After all, if he didn’t keep working, then what kind of creator was he?

But the longer he stared at you, taking in the sight of your pleading eyes and worried frown, he felt something else overtake him entirely. A different kind of sinking feeling settled over his shoulders, and he swallowed.

“[Y/N],” he said honestly, suddenly feeling vulnerable and very, very sad, “I’m tired.”

Your gaze softened, and he almost wanted to cry. “I know,” you said, soft and sincere.

With quiet steps, you made your way over to him, stopping just in front of him. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against your stomach as he let out a shaky breath. You didn’t move, simply raising a hand to pat his head. For a few moments, he simply leaned against you, feeling his eyes sting and burn with a mixture of fatigue and sadness. Was he really that tired?

“You put too much responsibility on your own shoulders, Clay,” you murmured, your hand leaving his head. “You’re allowed to be your own person. You’re allowed to spend time to yourself. You’re allowed to take care of yourself—you need to.”

You pulled back slightly, and he raised his head. His lungs felt like they had tied themselves into a knot in his chest, but the moment his eyes met yours, he could suddenly breathe clearly again.

“Please,” you said, “come to bed with me.”

He blinked. Then, he nodded. “Okay.”

He didn’t miss the smile that stretched across your face as you reached over to save his code, turning off his monitor. As soon as the studio filled with darkness, you slipped your hand into his, tugging him out of his chair and up the stairs. He didn’t remember walking into the bathroom, but you were suddenly shoving his toothbrush in his hand.

“I’ll wait for you in our room,” you said, “okay?”

He nodded again, still too dazed to fully comprehend anything. He only half remembered brushing his teeth, spitting out the toothpaste as he rinsed out his mouth in the sink. Before he knew it, he was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, his eyelids already drooping. You were sitting on the bed, your legs curled beneath you and the blankets pulled back for him.

The moment he stepped inside, you lifted your chin, tilting your head at him. “You done?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but cut himself off with a yawn. Wiping at his blurring vision, he nodded. “Mhm.”

The pleased grin you sent him made his heart swell with affection. “Perfect.” You patted the space in front of you. “C’mere.”

Without an ounce of hesitation, he walked forward and climbed onto the bed, settling his head back against the pillow as you pulled the sheets up over him. After a few seconds of shifting, he finally settled down, his shoulders sagging as he let the tightness seep out of his body and into the bed.

“Comfy?” you asked softly, your voice washing over him like a soothing melody.

He shifted his head slightly, his legs curling further into the warm blankets. “Very.”

He could only imagine the soft smile on your face, a fond look filling your eyes. “When’s the last time you slept before four o’clock?”

He thought for a moment. If he had the energy, he would have shrugged. “Can’t remember. Must have been a month ago, or something.”

He could hear the frown in your voice. “That’s not healthy, Clay.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, feeling his lips curl slightly. “Probably.”

There was a slight pause, then he felt your hand in his hair. In an instant, he had melted into putty on the mattress, tilting his head slightly toward you. “You can only run on sheer passion for so long,” you murmured, dragging your fingers through his hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed. “People need rest. And good food. And warm hugs. And love.”

He blinked, slow and lazy. “Love?” he repeated.

You hummed. “Yeah.” Dipping your head, you pressed a kiss beside his ear, whispering, “Lots and lots of love.”

He nodded ever so subtly, his head sinking further and further into his pillow. “Love,” he whispered back, caught in a dreamlike haze.

Your fingers scratched against his scalp, and he let out a tiny sigh. “You still with me?”

“Mm,” he mumbled, “not really.”

Your hand stilled for a moment, then carried on. “Good. Go to sleep, Clay.” He could hear the soft smile in your voice. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He said something back, or at least he thought he did, but he had drifted too far to care at that point.

This was nice. He missed this.

That night, Clay fell asleep with your hands in his hair and a smile on his face—feeling warm, safe, and oh-so loved.

[aithorin]

An Exception to the Rule - All Smite x Reader (18+)

Summary: Now All Smite was by no means a hero. In fact, he was quite literally the opposite, but for you he might be willing to make an exception. 

Warnings: Mentions/threats of rape (nothing actually happens), Villain Au, Villain!All Might, Blood and violence, Threats of violence, Slight gore, hostage, Protective!All Might (i.e. he basically goes on a rampage cause someone tries to hurt you), Soft ending with hurt/comfort

Rated M for violence

Flying through the city, a smirk made its way onto All Might’s face as he heard a scream echo throughout the night. God, he reveled in the chaos. The chaos that he created. His very presence had allowed the chaos in Japan to fester and grow throughout, and thus every time he heard crimes being committed, his chest swelled with pride. It made his ego surge to watch the fruit of his efforts be harvested and taken advantage of. There was just something so immensely satisfying about it, knowing that every villain in Japan owed the success of their crimes to him. It provided a rush of gratifying adrenaline like no other.

Deciding he had a few minutes to spare, All Might quickly set course towards the sound of the disruption. At the very least, it would provide some entertainment. But, depending on what they were doing to the unfortunate soul, he might even decide to join in. It would be a nice way to unwind before going home to you. God knows how much fun he had seeing the way people cowered at the very sight of him.

Landing silently behind the group, he quietly observed the scene unfold, trying to decide if he wanted to step in.

“Eh this one’s a looker, isn’t she boys? Before the night’s over, I think I’ll use her for the whore that she is.” The one All Might assumed to be the leader taunted, stepping forward to tower over their victim.

Manic laughter floated throughout the air as the two lackeys accompanying him moved in to completely surround their target. “That sounds like a great idea boss! You always have the best ideas. Can we get a turn too? Please. Please. Please!” The one on the right begged.

“Maybe once she’s unconscious. You know it’s only fun for me when they’re awake so I can see the look of fear in their eyes. God, just the thought of it is giving me a hard on already.” The leader chuckled out.

”Pl-please,” A woman’s shaky, frightened voice whimpered out, “let me go. I-I have money. Just tell me what you want!”

At the sound of the woman’s voice, the blood in All Might’s veins turned ice cold. That-that was your voice. And just like that, the overwhelming pride he had been feeling moments ago withered away, consumed by something much more deadly-a feral rage. How dare they talk to you like that? How dare they even try to lay their hands on you? Fists clenched and shaking in anger, All Might stalked towards them, blue eyes blazing and filled with an unquenchable, seething bloodlust.

Unaware of their impending doom, a harsh slap echoed through the night as the leader thug slammed your head into the dumpster you were backed against. He looked down at you, sneering, “Shut up, bitch! You’ll be lucky if you make it out of here alive tonight. You should be grateful that I’m even considering it.”

“I’d leave the girl alone if you know what’s good for you.” A gravelly voice spoke from behind.

Turning around halfway, the leader scoffed, not even bothering to see who the person was. “Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do about it? This one’s ours, so why don’t you scram before I decide to kill you t-”

He was cut off as a hand shot out, quick as lightning, to wrap around his throat. Before he could even register what was happening, the thug’s eyes bulged as the hand began choking him. He felt himself being lifted 3 feet into the air, and soon came face to face with a set of flaming blue eyes. At the sight of them, his body went stiff in fear. The rest of the newcomer’s face was hidden by the shadows of the night, but just the sight of his eyes were enough to make the thug cower.

“Who….the….hell….are….you?” The leader gasped out, vision going spotty from his quickly draining air supply.

Letting out a sinister chuckle, the newcomer stepped into the light emitting from a nearby streetlamp. Seeing who it was, the leader’s mouth went dry as a sweat broke out on his forehead. His already tight throat closed up even more causing his breath to come out in wheezes as a chill of fear worked its way down his spine, causing his body to tremble in mid-air.

“Al-All...Might” He rasped out, hands pointlessly tugging on the one large hand curled around his throat.

A wicked smile crept onto All Might’s face. “Good,” He purred out, “You know who I am, so there’s no need for introductions. Maybe you aren’t a complete imbecile.”

Tilting his head to study his prey, All Might reconsidered, “Although it is hard to believe you actually possess a brain, considering you tried to steal something of mine.”

Nodding his head toward your shaking, huddled form a few feet away, All Might’s face hardened. “That girl over there belongs to me, and you just tried to touch her. Now if you remember anything about me, you should know that I don’t share. Do you want to know what happens to people who try to take things that belong to me?”

Eyes darting back and forth, the thug frantically shook his head as much as he could while being held in All Might’s grip. “Pl-please… I-I… didn’t know!”

Ignoring the man’s pleas completely, all the previous traces of being dangerously coy with the thug were wiped away as All Might murderously intoned, “They die.”

With that, All Might began to squeeze the hand wrapped around the man’s throat even tighter. Garbled chokes escaped the man’s lips as with each passing second All Might added more and more force. Reveling in the sound, a sadistic, twisted grin made its way onto All Might’s face. If he was feeling generous, he could have just snapped the man’s neck and been done with it, but that would have been too easy. The bastard had to pay for what he did, and so All Might made sure to drag it, delighting in the way the man’s neck slowly began to crack in his grasp as the life drained from his eyes. Sickening sounds floated into the air, mixtures of bone breaking and strangled gasps as the man gagged on his own saliva. His hands flailed, desperately clawing at the limb wrapped around his neck in a futile attempt to break free. Much too soon for All Might’s liking though, the thug’s efforts slowed before stopping altogether, his hands falling lifelessly back down to his side.

Letting out a sneer, All Might finally released him from his grasp letting his body carelessly crumple to the ground with a revolting thud. “How pathetic, he didn’t even last 2 minutes.”

Taking one last glance at the body, he kicked it to the side before turning his attention toward the two lackeys trembling in the corner. Blinded by bloodlust, he stalked toward them, licking his lips in anticipation and clenching his hands together, imagining their necks were in between them.

All Might was almost upon them when a flash of movement captured the corner of his eye. Momentarily ignoring his prey,  he shifted his body slightly and caught sight of you, shivering in a seated position with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs while slowly rocking back and forth. Gooseflesh had broken out along your skin from the chilly night air, only agitated by the cold sweat that had broken out upon your brow from the night’s events. Stray hairs stuck to your skin as wide, fearful (e/c) eyes looked up to lock with his own, and instantly All Might felt his bloodlust melt away, replaced by an overwhelming need to go to you.

Spinning back around, he addressed the two lackeys quivering in the corner. He pointed a disgusted, raging scowl at the thugs before thundering his ultimatum. “You have exactly 5 seconds to get out of my sight. Otherwise, you’re gonna end up like your boss over there.” He stated, throwing a finger back over his shoulder in the direction of the corpse.

Leaning down, he pulled both of them up by the collar of their necks. “And if I ever catch you even looking at this girl, trust me when I say you won’t live to tell anyone about it. But, feel free to tell your buddies about what happened here tonight. It’ll be a good reminder to everyone out there about what happens when you try to take something that belongs to me. Remember boys, I. Don’t. Share. So spread the word that this girl’s mine.”

Then, without another word, All Might threw them towards the opening of the alley. Not needing to be told twice, they scrambled back, hightailing it out of there. Watching them go, a small smirk passed over his face at their show of naivety. He’d let them go, for now. He had more important matters to take care of. But come tomorrow, they’d be dead. All Might was nothing if not a man of his word, and so they, too, would have to pay with their lives for trying to steal from him. He could see it now. The look of shock their faces would portray at his appearance tomorrow. The way it would morph into a look of fear as he approached them. And finally, the acceptance that would fill their eyes as he squeezed the life out of them, realizing, at last, that he had never intended to let them truly escape. Yes, tomorrow would be a very good day indeed.

Turning around, he started to approach you, making slow, small steps when your face darted up in fear, like a deer caught in headlights. Seeing that it was just him, All Might watched your tense body start to relax as you buried your head back into your legs. Reaching you, he squatted down to be eye level with you, hesitantly reaching an arm out to place it on your shoulder. Now that you were no longer in danger, All Might felt unsure of what to do. He didn’t know how to comfort someone in distress as he was much more used to being the one causing the distress. Finally, he decided to settle for asking basic yet somewhat obvious questions.

“Are you alright?” He gruffed out.

Hearing no reply, a worry that he tried to push away started to creep into his mind the longer you stayed silent. Were you hurt? Had he gotten there too late? Had they touched you? He started to become lost in thoughts until a sudden force jolted him out of it. Looking down, he saw that you had attached yourself to his body, clutching at him like your life depended on it. He debated with himself for a few moments before choosing to reciprocate the gesture, wrapping his large arms around you and encasing you within his body heat. At his touch, your body started to shake with silent sobs, tears from your eyes beginning to wet his shirt. You stayed that way for a long time, bodies holding onto each other as you tried to process the events from the night. All Might didn’t say anything, choosing to offer you support quietly for as long as you needed it. Eventually though, your cries subsided and your frame slumped against him, exhausted from everything that had happened.

Eyes heavy, you were vaguely aware of your body shifting as All Might stood up. Lifting you with ease, he placed you into both of his arms, saying “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Slowly being lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his footsteps, a feeling of warmth and safeness washed over you. Right before you drifted to sleep, an inkling of a smile crossed over your face as you thought of the irony that you felt completely protected in the arms of the number one villain. With him, you knew that he would always be there to keep you safe. Although he was a villain, if tonight had proven anything, it seemed that you were an exception to the rule.

[lydias--stiles]

“The simple act of being in love with you is enough for me.”

jiara | post-s2 | pining idiots | title: quote by Pacey from Dawson's Creek

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

“Kie.”

“Hm?” The girl’s mop of curls obscured her face as she mumbled out some vowels, clearly still buzzed from the night before. An amused smile ticked up his lips and slapped her calf again. She sighed. “What?”

“Leggo,” he pushed, “we gotta get to Pope’s place.”

“Why?”

Even if everyone else would deny it, JJ swore Kie was as bad as he was: slow and fucking lethargic before eleven in the morning. Sure, she had better grades in school, but he wasn’t gonna give her more credit than that. Speaking of, “Helping him with that new scholarship, remember?”

The girl groaned and rolled over to face him, droopy eyes cracking open to scowl at him. She slept where he used to crash whenever his dad’s place became too much, but since the old man fucked off to Yucatán, he found peace in the quiet walls and cracked windows. Regardless, it was weird seeing her sprawled on this mattress, the boy almost able to envision himself beside her. A dangerous fantasy to linger on, so he pushed it aside and kept on trucking.

“C’mon, Kie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered and sat upright. “How did you even get in the Château?”

JJ grinned and snagged a key chain from his shorts. “Spare key. Duh.”

She rolled her eyes, uttering, “John B’s stupid,” and then pushed him out the guest room, telling him she’d get ready. His mouth opened to make the joke if he couldn’t stay and watch, but the door slammed in his face and that was that.

Having a crush on Kiara was the freakiest thing ever. First of all, JJ and emotions didn’t mesh well — it only led to trouble, a perfect example being his dad and him with the most fucked up dynamic to boot. He preferred to not even think about the man, though one glance in the mirror often betrayed his mind and brought a rush of memories to the forefront, whether it was a shiner against his eye, or the fact that he resembled his father when he was young.

So yeah, he didn’t like anything ‘love’ related. It was stupid. It was more reckless than buying a jacuzzi or trying to steal a golden cross from a boat with dozens of armed men. Friendship, however, was easy. He told the Pogues just that: they were ‘it’ for him, he’d go through fire for them, through hell and fucking back.

But he didn’t think he’d actually die for them, which almost happened when he tried saving Kie on the Coastal Venture — to which she ended up saving him. (A vision illuminated by a golden sun, hovering over him. He’d never forget it.)

While he inspected the contents of the fridge, embarrassingly filled with only beer, eggs, milk and junk food, the door creaked open and revealed a dressed and less-wrecked Kiara. His gaze flicked up and down her frame, quick, and then averted it back to the fridge.

“You got no food, man.”

She chuckled. “I know. It’s not exactly The Wreck type of food…”

“You haven’t gone back?”

“Nope,” she replied, curt, and moved past him to shove a container of sausages aside to grab a bottle of almond milk. Even if she wasn’t with her parents, she still somehow kept up her ‘no dairy’ principles.

Also, Kiara was hella beautiful. He hadn’t let it register when she walked in, but it was true. Her soft-looking, shiny skin, sporting the prettiest smile in all of the OBX, and she was just hot. Especially when she propped herself on the kitchen counter, to which he settled beside her to not look at her legs.

“How many scholarships are there?” she asked. “Like, I’m obviously proud of him, but…”

“He told us last night,” JJ laughed. “You were that fucking high?”

She giggled, “Yeah! You were there, I was just on my ass.” And then, quieter, “And… I don’t know, I guess I’ve been kind of distracted.”

He perked up, surprised. Though the Pogues were family, openly talking about emotions when it wasn’t prompted by anything, remained rare. They were better at talking shit and smoking and napping on boats. Whatever, he took the bait.

“Why?”

She shook her head. “It’s stupid, JJ.”

“Kie, you’re talking to me,” he nudged her shoulder, “throw me a bone here. Is it Pope? You got the hots for our favourite nerd again?”

Taking a sip from the bottle, her brow quirked up as though that was the stupidest thing he ever said, and retorted with, “Why’re you always doing that?”

His hands raised instantly, defensive. “Doing what?”

“You’re always digging, like, when I was with Pope you got all weird.”

“I don’t dig.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. Kie, what’s up?” He kept it moving before she found the core of his problem, and bounced back to the original issue. “Before I start saying shit to Pope.”

She scoffed. “You're full of shit.”

“Oh, Kie,” he drawled with a smirk. “You can do better than that.”

Silence fell. He waited, fiddling with his fingers, and quietly hoped Pope wouldn't be too annoyed when they arrived late — then again, they were begrudgingly coined 'tortoise and tortoise' by the group anyway.

She placed the bottle back in the fridge and sent him a rueful smile, one he often saw her showing Sarah before they went aside and had a private talk. Their eyes locked and she finally spoke.

“Sometimes, I… I miss my parents. And it's like, I don't get how they don't just accept that I'm a Pogue, that I'm friends with you guys, you know? But I still miss them.” She looked down at her feet, crossing at the ankles like a little girl waiting to be reprimanded by the teacher. “I miss my dad's hugs.”

Instantly, his arm swung around her for a gentle side hug, a grateful smile pulling on her lips as she leaned into him. Both knew they should savour a moment like this, as hugging with a twitchy JJ and often irritated Kie happened once every blue moon.

Ignoring the guilty look in her eye — yeah, he didn't understand missing a paternal embrace, rather used to a blow in the stomach or a crude remark, but that didn't mean he lacked empathy — he resisted the urge to encourage her to reconnect with them. Knowing her, she'd just close up and glare at him for the rest of the day.

So no, he wasn't going to ask her. And no, she shouldn't feel guilty. P4L 'til the end, baby.

“Thanks, JJ,” she whispered.

He snickered and pushed her off. “You can't tell the guys I'm becoming soft, dude. Theyʼll give me so much shit for it.”

“They know you're soft,” she teased, “don't even try.”

“I'm tough,” he tried.

“Like Play-Doh.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled and motioned at the kitchen door. “Let's go, Carrera. Before John B and Sarah come back and act all married.”

Now that was fucking annoying. After John B and Sarah faked their death, they got married by a bandana strip and hadn't let that notion go after returning. Sure, there was that small blip when they were fighting the crazy religious chick, but that was old news.

John B made him swear he wouldn't tell a soul, but the guy waxed poetry about Sarah whenever they were drunk and alone. It was hilariously sad. Another man lost to a girl.

(“She wants a beach wedding,” JB sighed a couple nights ago. “Nice, right?”

“I– yeah, I really don't care about this, man.”)

JJ knew that when he got a girlfriend (Kiara unintentionally but also very intentionally crossed his mind), he'd act normal. No mushy shit. No poetry. Definitely no creepy Romeo and Juliet references thrown in as if that shouldn't freak the Pogues out. Their behaviour better not be infectious.

Expectedly, Pope's scowl reached them all the way from the car, Kie and JJ sharing a sheepish look before stepping out.

“Gee, guys,” the boy deadpanned, “thanks for making haste. Really appreciate it.”

JJ's wide grin hoped to salvage it. Slapping his friend on the shoulder, he pushed past him and yelled, “Kie was dead, dude!”

Pope grimaced. “Don't joke about that.”

He watched as Kie stopped beside Pope with an apologetic expression, telling him she overslept and was sorry and that he knew how JJ was — “Always joking.”

His chapped lips pursed, a familiar punch hitting his chest with him then pretending it didn't hurt. She always did this. Even if she claimed she didn't, she always took Pope's side. Relationship or not. JJ knew she didn't owe him her 'side', but it'd be a nice change of pace either way.

Whatever. This wasn't the JJ Pining For Kiara Show. Pope needed their help.

A state-wide scholarship competition gave Pope another shot at winning a huge chunk of money (no gold type of rich though) and getting his ass out of OBX, hopefully launching himself into some fancy college when he revealed to be of Denmark Tanny's lineage. Those hibrow assholes loved a good sob story.

All Pope had to do was score hella high on some test — easy — and impress the panel — not so easy — and he'd be the luckiest Pogue of all.

But that did mean Kie and him had to sit on his creaky bed with a freaky amount of flashcards while a stressed out Pope paced around his room. He was pretty sure the floor was eroding.

Also, he had no fucking clue what any of the flashcards meant. Did Pope's smarts really attracted Kie that much? Was it the brain? Brain over brawl? But where was the fun in that? JJ loved Pope to death, but the guy had to be fully medicated or high before his brain shut off and he acted carefree.

“Pope, do you even know what this all means?” Kie bemoaned, flipping the cards around.

“You got a dictionary somewhere?” added JJ, squinting at the word aberration. It sounded like some weird disease. He showed him the word.

Pope dismissed it. “It means: different from the norm.”

“Dude, why not write that then?”

“Because they want aberration.”

He didn't get it. “No one uses it though.”

“JJ, that's just the way it is,” Pope pressed.

“Guys, stop,” Kiara interrupted. “But honestly Pope, it's so, like, elitist. None of these questions are important to the world, or the well-being of the people.”

“Sorry, Kiara, but unfortunately not everyone cares that much,” he sighed. JJ could tell they were starting to annoy their friend, their tortoise bullshit bleeding through.

Her nose scrunched up, peeved. “Right. Because there's a planet B just waiting to be used by us. Duh.”

“Ooh,” JJ drawled, nudging her arm. “Are there donkeys shitting money?”

Kie laughed. “Yes. All beaches, clean air, no Kooks, and money-shitting donkeys.”

“Nah, I want it to be hella Kooky,” he joked, gesturing wildly. “I want a yacht and tell people someone else does my laundry, or something.”

“You don't even do your laundry anyway,” she bounced back with a roll of the eye. “I know you force John B.”

“He's already playing House with Sarah, might as well wash my underwear, too.”

Oh, man. He could do this all day. Talking shit with Kiara went as smooth as fishing for him. Each time he thought he one-upped her, she threw more on top and kept it going 'til neither knew what the point even was anymore. Sarah dubbed it as 'banter' which he believed was a rich way of saying 'talking smack.'

“I don't believe you even know how to do it,” she challenged.

JJ huffed and crossed his arms. “I can do it.”

A smirk bloomed on her lips as she kept jabbing. “It's kinda cute, how you need John B to be your mom.”

“I don't.”

“You literally said it five seconds ago.”

“Guys,” Pope groaned, followed by an exhausted sigh eerily similar to Heyward. “Can we get back to the flashcards?”

Kie and JJ were too far into their discussion though, jabbing at each other at rapid speed. Then she threw her cards at him and all bets were off. He yelled she should make a goal with her hands, to which he folded up a flashcard and shot it straight between her fingers.

And that was when Pope kicked them out. JJ presumed it was a victory they lasted as long as they did. Kie kept apologising over her shoulder, prompting Pope to ask Cleo for help instead.

For a beat, they were silent stepping out of his place and back into the car. JJ felt a stab of guilt for fucking up Pope's study time, but it was hard to dial his brain to school when his friends surrounded him. Just when he wanted to ask if she felt bad too, she went off about the climate — as usual.

“It's so dumb how there were no questions about the environment or human rights or, or anything like that! It's all science and lit, like, there's more to life than fucking chemistry formulas!”

“I skipped those cards. Didn't get them.”

“It's so fucked,” she hummed. “And I'm obviously glad that you drove to the Château to wake me up and all—”

“Yeah?”

“—but I really wish those questions would matter. We almost died, JJ!”

“No, shit,” he grumbled, quickly starting to lose his patience with the ranting girl. She didn't even realise what the fuck she was saying anymore — what she did to his heart, skipping like some elemtary school girl on the playground, when she slipped some nice words in.

“Died!” she pressed. “Why even care about stuff like that?”

“Fucks sake, Kie—”

“And I didn't want to say it, but did you see how many flashcards there were? How many trees were cut for that? It's like, hello, Quizlet exists!”

“Kie, shut up!” he yelled.

Her mouth fell slack, gobsmacked, gawking at him like his interruption was a slap in the face.

Gesturing wildly with one hand, he exclaimed, “You know, you can just go on and on and I hear you talking and it's like, yeah, we get it, Mother Earth needs to be saved, we're fucked, you don't gotta repeat it twenty-four seven.”

“What the hell, JJ!”

“You have an opinion about everything! A man gets tired!”

“A man?” She scoffed. “You're not even eighteen.”

“Point is you don't gotta act all preachy all the time.” He turned the corner, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

Kie scowled. “Where is this coming from? I'm not preachy, I'm educating you.”

Now that was just fucking with his head. Incredulous, he exclaimed, “You think I don't listen? Kie, I'm the only one that does. JB is on Planet Sarah all the damn time and Pope only did shit 'cause—"

"That!” she yelled, throwing her hands up with frustration. “That's what I mean! You're doing it again! You dig!”

“What?!”

“Every time you mention Pope and I, you dig. You needle!” Twisting in her seat, his gaze flickered to catch her disgruntled expression. “Why do you do that? It's so… sus.”

JJ laughed. “Sus?”

“You don't ask John B about Sarah.”

“'Cause they're fucking obvious.”

“Still,” she pressed. “Did I do something to piss you off? Is that it? Is it me constantly asking you to recycle and yet — shocker! — you never do?!”

“Fucking God,” he grumbled under his breath.

With frazzled thoughts and shaking hands, adrenaline coursed through him as he swerved to the side of the road and stopped the car. If he fought with Kie any longer to this degree of fuckery, they were gonna crash.

She frowned. “What're you doing?”

“You, Carrera, are driving me insane,” he deadpanned, matter-of-fact. Then he slammed the door open and stepped out, desperate to catch his breath.

In the back of his mind, he had an inkling as to why he was so keyed up. Kiara would call him a Neandethal, but fuck it, here was the truth: Kiara was hot as hell when she argued with him.

Following his lead, she got out, her sneakers stomping against the asphalt. The sun steeped low on the horizon, the light hitting the hood and reflecting onto her face; her curls shifting from dark brown to gold. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was so fucked. He almost missed the start of her spiel, too enthralled.

“I'm driving you insane? I'm always getting you out of trouble, because you never think things through! You never see the bigger picture!”

He rolled his eyes. “Bigger picture? The only thing I see, Kie, is you going on about nature. That easy.” And then, before he could stop himself, he spewed out, “And you don't have to do that.”

“What?”

“Getting me out of trouble,” he said, pursing his lips. “That's not your responsibility.”

“Right. Duh. Because after everything we've been through, I can't care about you,” she exclaimed, face twisting up in pure fury. She got in his space, shoving his shoulder, but when he didn't budge, it only seemed to anger her more.

JJ didn't know what was going on anymore. Why was she so mad? Even if she didn't want to admit it, he was telling the truth. Of course all the Pogues had each other's back, but Kiara doted over him more than was necessary. The constant checking of injuries, limiting his day drinking, all that. Like he was some child!

He leaned in and mumbled, “I can take care of myself.”

Kie smirked. “Then do your own laundry.”

It happened naturally. One second he stared at her furious eyes and thought about how much he loved arguing with her despite the bullshit, the next his fingers curled into her hair and pulled her in a fierce kiss.

At first, her hands laid frozen on his shoulders, surprised, but the moment he realised his impulsive decision was a mistake, they slid around his neck and kept him close.

JJ sighed in relief and deepened the kiss he'd been craving ever since they were fourteen and Kie went from gangly to statuesque. Her lips were warm and soft and her hands were soft and she hadn't let go and holy shit — he was kissing Kiara Carrera.

The kiss lessened when her mouth quirked into a smile, their grins pressing flush together, and JJ shivered from delight. Oh, man. He was gone.

“You drive me damn crazy, Kie,” he murmured, voice dropped to an undeniably soft tone.

She bit back her silly grin and whispered, “Good.”

Taking a deep breath, he tried focusing up, but all he could do was stare at her face. A shy hand grabbed hers.

He had to get it out of the way now, or else he'd kick himself later. “I'm… really into you. I'm– oh, fuck, uh–”

“Maybe we can talk about it not on the side of the road?” she suggested, amused.

JJ grinned, elated (What was the word he saw on the flashcards? Exalted!), and kissed her again, because he could.

On the ride back to the Château, he confessed to seeing her in a different light for years, while she couldn't really pinpoint a time or moment, that it just happened. It didn't matter, though he was in utter disbelief that he and Kie were having this conversation. No jokes, no BS, all seriousness. Tomorrow, he'd wake up and it wouldn't be some sick dream. Kie liked him back.

JJ was sure he'd doubt himself or overthink it in the future, but today, he'd bask in the certainty and the major ego boost.

“Okay, but did you ever legit like Pope then?”

A sheepish smile crawled up her cheeks as her gaze averted to the window. “I thought I did. But we have, like, no chemistry, so…” She shook her head. “I was confused.”

“That's okay,” he uttered. He couldn't give her shit for it. Even if he did torture himself with their short-lived relationship, he understood.

How would he react though? John B and Sarah wouldn't care, or Cleo, but Pope? He didn't want one of his brothers hating him. Being iced out by the guy fucking sucked, as it meant he was truly hurt and therefore meant JJ truly fucked up. He couldn't handle disappointing him.

Kie read his mind. “He'll be fine with it.”

“I dunno, man…”

“He will,” she repeated. “We're Pogues. We've all narrowly survived death. And besides…” She turned back to him with a secretive grin. “I think he has a thing for Cleo.”

Whoa. He did not see that coming. His brows shot up to his hairline, mentally kicking himself for being so focused on Kie that he didn't even notice the shift of interest between Pope and Cleo. They made sense, too. Know-it-all's, but well-meaning, and only speaking when needed.

If the idea didn't relief him of worries, he'd be concerned as to why they were all seamlessly coupled up like in some 90s sitcom Big John had on VHS.

“What a player,” he joked.

“Tell me about it.”

They arrived at the house, the Twinkie and Sarah's bike sprawled on the overgrown front lawn. JJ frowned. He had hoped to have some alone time with Kie, not to jump her bones and fulfill a regular dream of his, but to talk. To figure it out. He wanted to do this right. Because after everything, they deserved to have good things, to start on a high note — he deserved it.

Kie noticed it, too. Puckering her lips on contemplation, her gaze trailed from him to the rest of the property, ending on the trusty ol' hammock. She jabbed her thumb at it.

“Let's sit there.”

Normally, they laid on opposite ends on the hammock, if they even shared one to begin with. But now, she pressed herself right beside him and he felt like heaven dropped down on them in the best way possible. He suddenly understood what John B was lamenting about — the company, intimacy, the ease. Nerves rippled through his body like a summer storm, but he figured that was what it cost to lose one's mind over a girl.

He didn't know what to say, so Kiara spoke instead.

“I don't want us, the way we are around each other, to change, you know?” she said. “Like, I don't want you to think you have to act like some mellow ass boyfriend all of a sudden.”

He smirked. “Who said anything about boyfriend?”

“Bye.”

“Hey, wait,” he grinned, latching onto her arm before she pushed herself out. “C'mon, Kie.”

Her nose scrunched up. “I don't do this usually, okay?”

“You think I do?” he asked. His hand softly slid down to wrap around hers, to which she hooked their fingers together. Okay. Wow. It felt so damn nice that it propelled him to say, “I wanna be your boyfriend, Kie.”

The girl smiled and then surprised him by leaning in herself, pressing a gentle kiss on his chapped lips. It was overwhelming having her instigate it, his gut twisting up in excitement like when he was about to backflip from a boat, or cliff dive, or something similar like that.

He let go of her hand to cup her cheeks, only to whisper, “That's a yes, yeah? Gotta get a yes.”

“Yes, JJ,” she uttered back. “Here's to not fucking this up.”

“Cheers, baby.”

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

[awkwards]

Kinktober Day 3. Deep Sea Desires : Oviposition | Bakugou

Day 3: Oviposition

Title: Deep Sea Desires

Pairing: Bakugou x F!Reader

Count: 3.6k

Summary: You save a guy on the beach. Little did you know that would open your eyes to a whole world you never knew existed.

Warnings: Noncon, kidnapping, manipulation, forced breeding, oviposition, drowning

Note: man, did I spend so long trying to make tumblr accept my gif for this one ^^; Well, here we are! Also, thanks for all of the support! My inboxes are open~

There was something so beautiful about the ocean.

For as long as you could remember, your family had always called you a child of the sea. If they couldn’t find you, it was likely you were down in the sea foam. From a young age you were more comfortable in the rolling waves than on land. Whether it was being one with the waves, traversing the sandy beaches, or bathing in the sunset, it didn’t matter.

Years have gone by and your fascination has never wavered. Even after your family passed on, this was still your home.

Even now, you found yourself returning to the sandy beaches. In your stress, it never failed to calm you down.

Making your way to the secret alcove always allowed you a peace of mind. No one knew where your little cave resided. From there, you had direct access to the ocean, and the solitude away from wandering eyes of the beaches behind your home.

Today was no different. One hard breakup led to you rushing back to the comfort of your ocean.

What you didn’t expect was the body residing inside your cave.

When you finally slipped into the hidden alcove, a startled gasp left you.

A rather large man with blonde hair looked as if he had washed up on the beach, unconscious. When the water pulled away from his body, you could see a large gash in his shoulder, as if he had been speared. Blood soaked the sand beneath him.

“Oh my god!”

You rush over, hauling your bag off your shoulders. You always kept a med kit and snacks with you just in case of something like this.

Kneeling next to the man, you immediately place your hand in front of his mouth to feel for breathing. A sigh of relief floods you. At least he was still alive.

You pull your jacket off of your shoulders and quickly drop it over his nude waste, respectfully not looking at his rather large package.

Inspecting the wound, you grimace. The skin was ripped in a way that only a spear could have done so. Cleaning the wound as best as you can, you begin prepping the line to stitch him up. Not without poking yourself first. Sucking off the blood from your finger, you start. Making quick work to not disturb the man, you work diligently to stitch up the gash. His skin is so cold...

By the time you finish, the afternoon sun has sunk to a beautiful sunset. You let out a sigh, sitting back to examine your thorough work when you notice his eyes are on you. You flinch.

Vermillion eyes appear to be examining your face. They suck your breath away.

How long had he been watching you? Why didn’t he say anything? He hadn’t even flinched.

“I just finished patching you up… how did you get here? What happened to you?”

A grunt from low in his chest has your skin crawling. He uses his arm that’s okay to push himself up into a sitting position, his face directly in front of yours now. His eyes narrow.

You can feel your heart rate pick up. He’s so close, you can feel the warmth of his breath as it washes over your face.

“I’m… y/n.” You say softly. “What’s your name?”

The scowl on his face loosens just barely, as if he recognized the name. His eyes roam around the cave.

“Whoa, sir? You don’t want to move too much! You might rip the stitches.” You touch his arm hesitantly.

In an instant he turns, his arm gripping the wrist of your hand that touched him. His eyes seem to glow as he glares hard at you.

“Oh.”

It takes a second too long to realize he’s hurting you. Fear crawls up your spine as you try to pull your wrist out of his hold. His hand is huge, you realize, and he’s strong too. He doesn’t even budge as you try to yank yourself away.

A small tch sound comes from him as he lets you go. Before you can blink, he’s standing up and walking towards the mouth of the cave. You avert your eyes as your jacket drops to the sand beneath his feet. What a great ass…

Then, he just vanishes into the water.

You scrub your eyes. You’re sure you watched him walk out of the cave. Then a large wave crashed over the sand and he was just… gone.

What the fuck?

~.~.~.~

Despite the scare in the cave, you find yourself returning daily. Maybe it was in hopes of seeing the blond stranger again, maybe it was to try and tell yourself that really happened.

Besides, everytime you return to the cave, a new and pretty shell and stones appear. It’s almost as if the sea was offering you gifts. Who were you to refuse such pretty things? Today was no different. There was a perfectly round and smooth piece of gold about the size of a quarter.

Still, part of you misses the stranger. You couldn’t say why, but it was as if you’ve met him before?

Shaking that thought from your mind, you lay down in the sand, eyes watching the light from the ocean reflect off the roof of the cave. You hold onto the piece of gold in your left hand, the same one with a bruise from the stranger. It was cool to the touch.

Your eyes begin to drift closed with the water caressing your legs.

When you rouse from your sleep, it’s easy to notice a few things before you open your eyes. Even with a foggy mind you can tell something’s off.

Firstly, your body is chilled to the bone. The sun has made its descent, leaving you to the chill of the ocean’s water at night.

Second, your legs feel like they’re being pinned in place by something heavy and slick, all the way up to your hips.

Lastly, warm air seems to be rushing over your face.

Forcing your eyes to open, it takes them a moment to adjust to the darkness. In the darkness you can see glowing vermillion eyes.

Gasping, you try to yank yourself away from the blond who is laying on top of you. He’s braced on his arms next to your head, looking down at you.

“Finally.” He growls softly. His voice is too gravely to sound human. It’s jarring, enchanting.

You can’t move, and your eyes look down to see why. Your breath hitches when you see what has your legs pinned in place. You freeze, and stop moving completely.

Where his waist should be is a tail. A tail. A giant, dark vermillion tail.

Wonderment fills you. “A mer.”

Something akin to a cocky smirk covers his face. His razor sharp shark-like teeth glimmer in the moonlight as he nods. For some reason your earlier panic subsides as you take a close look at his face.

Your eyes glance down to his shoulder, no longer having any stitches. That’s strange. The only remnants of the wound is a faint white scar. Your hand trails up and runs over the white line. “How?”

“Healed.” He grunts out. You drop your hand down by the side of your head, amazed. That’s when it hits you. All of the shells. “Wait. Have you been leaving all of the shells for me?”

One of his hands moves, laying over top yours which lays vacant near your head. His palm presses into yours, and you can feel the cold of the gold piece pressed between your hands.

“You accept?” His voice gravels.

“The coin? Um. Yes. It’s very pretty.”

Something changes in his face. His eyes dilate. His breathing changes. It’s almost like his whole body shudders in excitement.

The rational part of your brain is screaming at you. You should probably be afraid of this man with razor sharp teeth and extreme strength, who you probably shouldn’t accept anything from. The other part of you is so transfixed with him, though, as if this was the world you belonged to.

Chilled by the waves lapping at your legs, brushing up to your hips, it takes you a moment to realize his hand grips yours with the coin in it. Not only grips it, but begins to tug on it as he shuffles back into the water.

“Whoa, where are we going?” You stumble, being pulled into the frigid water.

Your limbs lock up as he pulls you towards the mouth of the cave where the water is to your chest when standing.

Instead of using words, he makes a sound akin to a seal bark before yanking you into the water under the moonlight.

Gasping, you force your head to stay above water, all while he begins to drag you farther from the land.

He comes to a stop, pulling you close enough to wrap his free hand around your waist, eyes analyzing your face. The cave is much too far for you to try and swim back to now, with your body seizing from the cold. Shivers wrack every inch of skin as you press into the mer.

“Where are you taking me?”

His grin comes back. Instead of answering, you feel him wrap your hands around his neck, his wrapping around your waist as he nudges your legs to wrap around him. “Take a deep breath.”

You barely have enough time to before he launches the two of you under water. The rapid change in pressure makes you press your head against the mer, eyes shut tightly, the salt water rushing around you. You’re rapidly losing your breath. Panic rears up in your chest, sharp and choking. Your chest is already aching from the lack of air, and you’re not able to thrash against the mer as you’re dragged farther down. You’re so disoriented that you’re honestly not even sure what direction you’re going anymore; the salt burns your eyes when you try to open them, and everything is so dark that you can’t see anyways.

For a moment everything goes dizzy. This is how you die, clutching a golden nugget as a mythical creature drags you to the depths of the ocean.

~.~.~.~

Consciousness returns to you slowly and painfully.

The first thing you register is the soreness in your chest and ribs. Every deep breath is an effort, and it feels as if your lungs are actually catching fire. You inhale sharply, which only leads to you sputtering in pain. When you finally crack your eyes open, you think you’ve gone blind, the darkness refusing to fade even with your eyes no longer closed.

When you push yourself up into a seated position, it’s easy to feel that you’ve been sprawled on the wet, rocky floor of a cave. You move your head slowly to try and take in your surroundings. That’s when the darkness gives way to a glimmering blue light all around you. Bioluminescent algae offers a slight glow, and your breath gets caught at the absolute beauty of it all.

You’re sprawled on a ledge of the cave, the other half of it submerged in the most beautiful clear water you’ve ever seen. Beneath the clear water is a depth of pure darkness; it makes you shudder as fear clouds your brain again.

Regardless, you’re still alive, and the relief at still being alive fights the growing sense of unease in your mind. You can’t see an entrance to the cave, which means you have to be in an oxygen pocket somewhere far under the surface of the ocean.

A splash to the left of you practically makes you leap. You whip your head to the side to see where that noise comes from, and part of you relaxes when you see those glowing vermillion eyes. They seem even brighter from down here. You can only barely make out the top of his blond hair, his nose and everything else submerged in the endless water.

“Y/N”.

You jump at your name, the voice echoing in the cave. It’s like the water carried his voice. Instead of gravel, it was smooth and silky, making you shiver at how pleasant it was. You go to run your hands over your arms and realize the gold piece is still wrapped firmly in your hands.

“You said my name…”

“Katsuki.”

“Katsuki?” As you say his name, the sound of water rippling catches your attention, and you watch him. His body smoothly cuts through the water until his body is perched against the front of the rock.

A pleasant rumble from him distracts you, making it feel like a nice, pleasant hum echoes in your mind.

His hand, with extra long talons that you did not notice before, wraps around your ankle and pulls you closer to him.

“Where are we?” You mumble, your words suddenly feeling heavy in your mouth.

His eyes, which were still dilated greatly, turn from your legs to your gaze. “My home. Our home.”

You blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

A soft growl escapes him as he pulls his upper half out of the water far too gracefully for someone with a body like his. He lays his torso across you, his hands gripping at your waist as his nose rubs across your stomach. “You accepted my mating advances. The gifts, our blood mixing, accepting my personal token.”

Your jaw drops. You inhale so sharly that you nearly choke all over again. “I- excuse me? No. I don’t. I don’t want this- get off me!”

His chest rumbles as he nips at your hip, making you gasp and instinctively roll your hips.

“You can’t even let go of the coin,” he chuckles, his vermillion eyes latching onto yours. “It’s already starting to take effect.”

You’re not sure what he means by that, but when you feel his chest rumble again, a pleasant haze fills your mind. The heat in your blood hurts.

“Let me show you.” Katsuki leans in.

The kiss is clumsy at first, your head far too hazy and distracted. That is until you feel the stark difference between the two of you. Your body is beginning to heat up like an inferno has entered your bloodstream, and he’s cool and soft.

He pulls away from the kiss, leaving you blinking stupidly after him. He pushes your shoulders till your back is pressed into the mossy ground underneath you, and it’s so soft.

“So fucking warm,” he coos, nuzzling your throat, and running his tongue along your pulsepoint. His hands skim your sides, the claws dragging just enough to make you shudder against his chest.

His clawed hands drag up to your wet tshirt. “Stop, please.” An amused chuckle leaves his lips. Even to your own ears you sound pathetic.

His fingers tug irritably at your clothes. In his frustration, he decides to forcefully remove them, his nails easily cut through the fabric, and the wet material is yanked away from you. Followed quickly after is your shorts.

Katsuki wastes no time in exploring your soft skin, his thumbs rolling your nipples. You gasp, and can’t help but grind your hips up into him where he’s pressed in between your legs. Katsuki laughs a breathless, snarling laugh before grinding back into you, the base of his tail just under where his human half ends. He’s gripping you by the hips, grinding against you. You can’t help but twitch your hips back against his scales when he hums against your pulse point.

He slides further down your body, easily prying your legs apart. Almost all resistance is gone from you now as the fire consumes you within. “You smell good.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, burying his face between your thighs and inhaling your scent. Your hands cover your face, but don’t make any effort to pull away. His tongue is a cool salve to the heat burning you up.

When his tongue starts to prod at your clit, your whole body jerks in surprise. His tongue is cool, and it ebbs some of the heat pulsing in your veins. He pins your hips in place, his noises vibrating against your dripping pussy.

He hums loudly, licking at your slit. His tongue finds your clit, and he sucks it so eagerly, your back arches completely off the ground. You gasp, writhing in place. Your noises only encourage him, and he’s obscene with how vigorously he eats you out.

“I wonder if you’re this hot inside, too.” He murmurs.

“Oh god.” You whimper as your head swims with pleasure. You need more.

Katsuki drags himself back up to your face, chuckling before he presses his mouth to yours again.

That’s when you feel it. There’s a bump in his tail where it presses against your cunt, about where a man’s penis should be. It moves slowly, grinding into you. Then, all at once, the tip of his penis pushes out from a slit you hadn’t seen, rubbing along your folds and your stomach.

Your breath hitches when his tail grinds between your legs. Your knees fall open wider, your head swimming with heat and pleasure. He hums again as he gives languid licks along the ridges of your neck. “I’m going to mate you now.”

A moment of clarity hits you then, just briefly. “No, wait! I don’t want this. Stop -”

You gasp as the tip of Katsuki’s dick presses into you. Your eyes glance down as the slide of his dick stretches you open.

He moans long and low as he clutches your hips. Any semblance of moving slow vanishes instantly as he snaps his hips into you, bottoming out completely. You’re full.

Your vision goes white from pain and pleasure. Katsuki’s dick is big, the textured scales of his tail pressed flush against you. He pants into your neck, flexing his hips.

He pulls his hips back only to slide back in, smooth and fast. Your toes curl as your breath escapes you. His eyes are half-lidded, locked onto your face. He holds your hand that is still clutching his gold coin, and sets a brutally fast and hard pace. His rhythm is smooth, hitting so deep inside of you that it renders you completely speechless.

Breathless moans roll from you as the sound of slapping and grunts fill the cave.

“You’re so fucking warm,” he grunts out. “Gonna fill you with pups.”

His cock rubs that perfect spot inside of you, it has you hurtling near the edge. The coil is twisting so fast, you’re barely holding on.

Katsuki pushes so hard forwards, all you can do is whimper as his cockhead kisses your cervix. He snarls, his teeth latching onto your pulsepoint just shy of ripping your skin. The pain tips you over the edge. Your body convulses as pain and pleasure make your eyes roll, gasping as you rut into him.

His body goes taut as he pins you beneath him. You whimper as his cock presses past your cervix, burying deep inside your womb. That’s when you feel something else pushing into your entrance, slipping into your stretched pussy.

Eggs. You choke on a moan as they grind past your g-spot. Crying out due to the overstimulation only makes Katsuki hold you tighter, allowing the eggs to travel all the way until they plop into your womb. You cry out, cumming again at the sudden pleasure that shakes you to your core.

He lets out a deep grunt as he rocks his hips against you, two more eggs pushing past your barrier.

“Oh fuck, oh. Katsuki-” you babble mindlessly. The burn in your veins finally disappears, leaving you shaking in the aftermath of your orgams.

Katsuki gently rubs your stomach, making you cum again. He hums softly, satisfied, as his hips roll against you again with too much force. Blackness dots your vision as you feel the dizziness return to your head.

Finally, his cock twitches inside of you as cold cum fills you up, shooting directly into your womb with the eggs. He pulls out slowly, causing your whole body to shudder at the feeling.

Your hand presses against the bulge of your stomach that he’s rubbing gently, fondly.

“Pretty mate,” he coos, kissing your lips gently.

Exhaustion crashes over you instantly.

“Why did it hurt so much?” You croak softly.

His grin turns cheeky. “You can’t expect to raise a litter of sea pups on land, can you?”

Katsuki drags your limp body into the soothing cold water. You press yourself into his arms, seeking comfort. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the King of the Mer needs a Queen of the Mer.” He rolls his eyes, although his  amusement is clear as day as he holds you close. “Soon, you’ll be just like me. A mer who can walk on land.”

Is that why he didn’t have a tail when you first saw him?

“Stop thinking.” Katsuki rubs your stomach again, making your whole body shiver as his hum lulls you towards the darkness. “It’s time to sleep. The change is a long one.”

You hum, drifting off to sleep as he drags you under the surface of the water.

[capsironunderoos]

Fire

DINCEMBER - December 7 - Fire

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) X Reader

Summary: Din’s cyare has been captured and held at an Imperial base, and he stops at nothing to get her back.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Mentions of torture via Imps, a very angry Din, some fighting, and very brief mentions of death

Author’s Note: Ahhh this is so overdue! My student teaching started back up again after finals and I had some assignments to complete for it that kept me from writing. I had hoped to write more today, but that just didn’t happen. I hope to just post a bunch of the Dincember prompts at once in the next few days to get back on track! Anyways, I hope you enjoy this!

Here’s the previous prompt:

DINCEMBER - December 4 - Hoth Chocolate

And the link to my masterlist: capsironunderoos masterlist

This is the hardest that he has ever pushed his body. 

His arms are weak and his legs tremble, but he doesn’t stop. 

He can’t stop. 

If he does, he will suffer an unbearable loss, and there is only so much he can carry, so much that he can endure. 

His blaster never leaves his hand, becoming almost an extension of himself as he fires without so much as a glance. 

It makes no difference, the blaster bolt hits homes every time. 

He is focused, his skills as a bounty hunter and Mandalorian warrior continuing to serve him as he tears through the Imperial facility. 

Din thinks to himself that the Imps are beginning to multiply faster than womp rats, but he does not stop to dwell on the implications of that thought. 

If he stops for anything, to catch his breath, to check his surroundings, he will surely collapse. 

The stress of the past few days, of the constant searching and questioning have begun to take their toll. 

He shakes the thought of stopping from his mind, forcing himself to continue, regardless of the pain in his legs, and the ache that has already settled into his shoulders. 

He has never fought so hard before. 

His hands land punches that force the receivers into the nearest wall, and his feet connect to bones with such strength that the sound of their cracking rattles around his helmet like thunder. 

He spots an officer now, watches as he is hunched over a switchboard, punching at buttons as he glances from the control panel to the Mandalorian stalking towards him. 

Din will not admit it, but the fear in his eyes spurs him on. 

Good, he thinks, let them tremble before me, let them be afraid of the repercussions of what they have done. 

When he reaches the control panel, he grabs the officer by his throat, pushing him as he walks until they reach the wall. 

The officer’s head bounces off of the wall from the force of Din’s hand around his throat, cueing his hat to fall, and the echoing thud of his skull settles into a sick sense of satisfaction in Din’s stomach. 

“Where is she?” 

He growls out from behind his helmet, and the modulator amplifies the anger tenfold. 

The officer is visibly sweating now, thick bullets running down his forehead as he tries to look anywhere but at the enraged Mandalorian in front of him. 

This only stokes the fury growing in Din’s chest, and he picks his hand up off of the officer’s neck just long enough for him to gulp in a breath of air before his hand is settled around his throat again, and this time Din does not hold back. 

He cannot stop himself before a sickening crack fills the room around him, and the officer falls to the ground below him. 

Din huffs in annoyance, his adrenaline beginning to surge again. 

The pounding of his feet begins to subside as the chemical overtakes his body, and he feels a renewing sense of energy. 

He strides over to the control panel and is pleased to see different angles of a room displayed on it. 

The feed is live, and he stands stoically still as he sees you suddenly fall into frame. 

Your clothes are tattered and dirty, and your hair falls around your face as you collide with the floor. 

He can see your chest rising and falling, and a sense of relief begins to overtake the adrenaline. 

Din silently chants for you to get up, to show him that you never gave up hope that he would come for you. 

Maker how he hopes and wishes that you never gave up on him, that you always knew that he would travel to the farthest edges of the Outer Rim just to have you safe again. 

His heart rate speeds up when he sees two stormtroopers taking their time as they walk to where you still lay on the floor. It’s clear that they are speaking amongst themselves, but he doesn’t know how to work the control panel in order to hear what they are saying. 

He watches as one of them bends down to scoop you up and off of the floor, and as soon as he does, you leap up, swinging your leg to knock his out from under him. He lands on his back, and before either of them can react, you have grabbed his blaster, aimed, and expertly killed the both of them. 

Din watches with bated breath now, and he isn’t sure he remembers how to move. 

Seeing such a small glimpse of you, and in such a drastically different mental state than the last time he saw you, is enough for him to forget how to even breathe at all. 

His brain screams at him to move, to find you, but he does not listen until he sees you run out of the frame. 

He locates the identification numbers of your cell on the control panel and begins to run. 

Din is sure that the pounding of his feet against the floor would be enough to crack the tile, but he doesn’t care. 

He pushes himself, harder than he ever has before, to reach you as quickly as he can. 

You have been gone from his presence for far too long, and he cannot stand another second without you. 

As he rounds yet another corner, he knocks into something solid, and further extends his already drawn blaster in order for it to be in front of him, pointing at whatever he just knocked over. 

His actions quickly change as he registers that it’s you. 

You quickly jump to your feet, the trooper’s blaster you had stolen aimed at Din. 

He notices your hands shaking, and he can see bruises and cuts laced around your face. He notes how swollen your right eye is, and the blood resting against your split lip. 

“Din?” You whisper, almost in disbelief, and his heart plummets to his stomach. 

Had you given up hope that he would come for you? 

“They said you were here, but I didn’t believe them. I’m sorry, I didn’t believe them,” you begin to repeat your words, and Din notes that you are still aiming the blaster at him. 

He slowly holsters his own, before raising his hands in surrender in front of him. 

“Cyare, it’s me. It’s me. It’s Din.” 

He repeats, hoping that the words will register and that you will lower the blaster. 

Upon hearing his name, you do just that, and the blaster clatters to the ground before you fall into his raised arms. He is caught off-guard, but moves quickly to catch you before you meet the ground. 

You are crying now, soft whimpers as you clutch onto the chestplate of his beskar. 

He wraps you up into his chest, pulling you to him as he holds you. 

The alarms are blaring, and the lights are starting to flash, but he ignores all of it. 

When he hears the distant tone of talk through a stormtrooper helmet, he does not hesitate to scoop you into his arms. When you don’t protest, he looks down to see that you are either sleeping or have passed out, and he hopes that it’s the former. 

Despite the fact that he had to fight his way in, he manages to remember a way out, and by some miracle he doesn’t run into any trouble, except a mouse droid he has to shoo off. 

Once he emerges into daylight again, he begins running and he feels his body physically sigh in relief when he sees the Crest sitting just before him.

---

After jumping onto the Crest and immediately taking-off, Din quickly discovered that you had indeed passed out. He had let you be for the few moments it took him to launch the Razor Crest, but as soon as he was able to click on the auto-pilot he was back at your side, moving you to rest on the cot the both of you share. 

He sits beside you on said cot now, his hands moving to cup your face and turn it towards him. 

“Cyar’ika. Please wake up,” he begs, and oh, how he begs. 

He begins to make promises to the Maker, to the stars, hell, he thinks he even makes a promise to the force at one point. 

Din knows you require medical attention, but he wants you awake so that you can explain to him what has happened to you, even if he is unsure that he will be able to listen to you describe what you have endured. 

His hands move to your shoulders, and with a firm, but gentle, shake you gasp back into consciousness. 

You grab at his arms and he helps you sit up before realizing that you think he is one of them. 

“Cyare, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s me, it’s Din.” He whispers, and you look at him with wild, wide eyes. 

He can tell you are trying to figure out if you should trust him, but when you catch a glimpse of the signet on his right shoulder pauldron relief instantly floods your eyes and you look down at the similar symbol on your skin. 

His right hand finds it, his glove-clad fingers coming to rest against the mudhorn there on your wrist. 

You look back up at him then, and you can feel the emotion and exhaustion rolling off of him. 

“I need to get you cleaned up,” he deadpans, but his words are soft and laced with care. 

You nod and allow him to lead you into the cockpit of the Crest. 

He softly guides you into the pilot’s seat before he disappears for a minute to retrieve supplies, but you barely notice his missing presence. 

Your eyes have found the stars, and you drink them in as if they are cold Bantha milk. 

It had been days since you had seen them, and you missed how many there were, how easy it was to stare at them and have them calm every thought in your mind. 

When Din returns, he stands for a moment to watch you look at the stars in wonder. 

Their light shines into the Crest, illuminating the cockpit and painting a stark silver onto your features. He notices then just how bad your bruised eye is swelling, and how the bright light from the stars seems to deepen every cut he finds on your skin. 

Din can’t help but to let out a shaky sigh at the thought of what you’ve been through, and at the thought of what would have happened had he not gotten there when he did. 

Hearing his breath escape through the modulator cues you to snap your attention in his direction, and he wonders how long it will be before his presence no longer incites fear. 

“Cyar’ika, it’s me. It’s your Din. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Your eyes stay wide and wary, but a small smile works its way onto your lips before it falls again. The cut on them has begun to bleed at the motion, and Din slowly makes his way to you to tend to it. 

He squats down in front of you, and you sit rigidly still. 

He lifts a wet cloth in front of you, and watches as you look between it and him. 

“I need to clean that up, okay? Is it okay if I do that for you?” 

You slowly nod, and his left hand moves to cup your cheek and keep your head still as his right gently swipes at the blood sitting on your lip. When he is satisfied that he has stopped the blood flow, he exchanges the cloth for another. 

“Now, cyare, I need to clean up the cuts and bruises here okay?” 

At the word “here,” he taps his left thumb softly against your cheek as his hand still cups your face. 

You nod and he removes his hand to brush the hair out of your eyes and away from your face. 

You whimper at the loss of contact, and the sound and action is so unlike you that it catches Din off-guard. 

“Haar’chak, what did they do to you?” 

He whispers, and he takes note of the tears that begin to sit along your waterline in response. 

“I wouldn’t tell them,” you start, and your voice cracks at the use of it. 

Din is quick to hand you a glass of water, and you take it from him, greedily gulping it down. He wonders then if you have been fed or given water at all since your capture. 

“I wouldn’t tell them where you were, or where he was. That got me time with some angry troopers. I think they may have broken a rib or two. One of them could land a pretty solid right-hook, for an Imp.” 

You try to laugh off your words, to pass over them as if they are nothing, but the sound won't come. A sad smile rests on your lips as Din continues his ministrations. His touch is soft as he does his best to clean the cuts on your face.

“Then I wouldn’t tell them your name, or the name of the child, and that afforded me a visit from an angry officer. He asked for the cameras to be turned off, and then proceeded to beat me so bad that I couldn’t stay conscious for most of it.” 

Din can feel his hands beginning to tremble as he continues to clean you up. They shake in both anger and sadness, and he is glad that it is time to apply the bacta patches. This gives him a moment to gain control over his nerves.

“I need to apply bacta now, okay?” He asks, and you nod. 

When the medicine hits your open wounds, a sharp hiss escapes through your gritted teeth, and Din’s heart constricts at the sound.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and you shake your head before talking again, trying to mask the pain of the healing agent against your open cuts. 

“When I didn’t tell them if he was special, or gifted, or whatever they want to call him, they sent in the firing squad. That was when they told me you were there to rescue me. I didn’t fully believe them, but I knew if you were there that it would be my best chance to escape.” 

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get to you, cyare.”

You place your hand on his arm that rests in your lap, and he glances down at it.

“I never gave up that you would come for me, Din.”

He nods and returns to his work, his heart beating so fast he is sure that you can hear it hitting the beskar that sits on his chest.

As you sit in silence now, Din softly rubs at the cuts on your skin, his mind growing increasingly angry the more he thinks about what you endured, but his heart reaches out to you, aches for you. 

He was in pain too, upset that your capture had been because of him. That they had tortured you to get to him, to learn about the little one. 

As if you can read his mind, you ask him about Grogu.

“Where is he, Din? Please, please tell me he is okay,” you whisper, and it is the first time Din has been able to fully meet your eyes. 

“He is safe, cyare. I left him with Cara on Nevarro. We’re going to get him now.” 

You nod, satisfied with his response. Din hands you a cold compress and instructs you to press it onto your swollen eye. 

“I got this when I wouldn’t explain my relationship to you, or why I wear our clan symbol.” You mumble, and Din’s eyes flit to the mudhorn on your wrist once more. 

He thinks then about his clan of three, small and a little broken, but strong, and his all the same. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and you stare at him before he says it again, louder this time. 

“I’m sorry I turned my back for too long during that fight. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you sooner. I’m sorry that I’ve dragged you into this mess, this is no life for you, or the child.” 

He rushes out, and you are shaking your head in disagreement so hard that it has started to ache. 

“Do not sit there and apologize to me, Din Djarin. I know what I signed up for, and I willingly signed up for it. I would give my life to protect that child, and I would do the same for you. Have I not proven that? Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.” 

Din’s helmet jumps up at the quick movement he makes upon hearing those words escape your lips. 

His eyes search yours through the visor, and he finds nothing but sincerity staring back at him. 

“I’ll kill them for what they did to you, cyar’ika.” He states, and you smile at him. 

“I would set the world on fire to keep you warm.”

Here’s the next prompt for Dincember:

DINCEMBER - December 9 - “Let It Snow”

[animationnut]

Of Broken Spirits and Renewed Hope

Spoilers for True Colors.

Rating: K+ Summary: Three human girls arrived in Amphibia. Only one made it back home. Note: If Google has any degree of accuracy, นางฟ้า is Thai for angel.

“Home.”

Anne felt her vocal cords vibrate in her throat, felt her tongue curve around the syllable of the word, felt her lips as they moved to accommodate her vocal cords and her tongue. But she was speaking from instinct, not intent, as her brain swam in a haze of mixed colours—green, pink and blue, and the orange glow of a blazing sword—

Anne could feel herself wavering on the edge, practically see the black abyss threatening to swallow her whole, but three harsh coughs interrupted her dark spiral.

“What’s that smell?” rasped Polly, covering her nose as she wheezed. Her gags racked her small form and Hop Pop quickly whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, using it to cover Polly’s face.

The buzzing in Anne’s ears stopped and the world exploded with sound and sensation.

Dozens of horns blared from commuters who were impatient and annoyed with traffic that should have been as familiar to them as the back of their hands. Heat seared Anne’s exposed skin as the metal of the vehicle they were lying on burned from the exposure to the Californian sun. Exhaust rose in black clouds, sour and noxious, burning Anne’s nose and making her eyes water.

There was the click of the car door opening and Anne snapped her head around. The portly man gazed blankly at her as his mind struggled to comprehend what he was witnessing. With a boggled expression, he looked between the girl wearing an armoured chest plate and the three large, anthropomorphic frogs sitting next to her.

“Hi,” chirped Anne, managing to sound upbeat and cheerful. “Sorry, dude. We’ll just be on our way.”

“Where did you come from?” he asked. Anne couldn’t identify his dialect, but his accent coupled with the maple leaf-shaped air freshener and his outfit screamed ‘tourist’. “And what the heck are those?”

Sprig opened his mouth, no doubt to introduce himself, but Anne seized the Plantars in a one-arm hold, squeezing just tightly enough for speech to be difficult. “Sorry,” she repeated, using her free hand to snag the strap of her backpack.

She slid down the hood and if it weren’t for months of walking over sticks, stones and hard, uneven ground, the hot asphalt seeping through her worn-out sock might have crumpled her. But she ignored the pain as she swung her bag over her shoulder. The weight of Frobo’s deactivated head nearly sent her sprawling, but she regained her balance and took off running.

She weaved her way through the bumper-to-bumper traffic, climbing over vans and sports cars and SUVs, ignoring the shouts and curses aimed her way by the disgruntled owners. She reached the metal barrier that separated the embankment from the freeway and she hoisted herself over it.

They tumbled down the grassy slope and Anne sprinted through the trees. The sounds of human civilization eventually quieted and Anne halted her sprint when she registered Sprig smacking at her arm.

She quickly let them go and they dropped to the ground. Anne’s knees buckled as the adrenaline drained right out of her. Her mind was a mess of thoughts and her lungs felt like they were going to collapse.

The flaming blade piercing through Marcy’s chest. The stunned expression in Marcy’s eyes, the way all colour faded from her face. The tears that spilled down her cheeks, and the final words that tumbled from her mouth as her eyes rolled back into her head.

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

Anne’s agonized scream was promptly choked by the vomit that filled her mouth.

Hop Pop was by her side in an instant, hands gripping her shoulders as she hunched over and hacked into the grass. Her throat burned and her limbs trembled, the sight of Marcy falling lifeless and the sound of Sasha’s horrified howl haunting her.

The sobs that pealed out of her came from somewhere deep inside the girl. They were filled with pure loss and devastation and it echoed amongst the towering trees. Tears poured down Anne’s face, snot leaked from her nose as she cried and her fists pounded into the grass as emotion overcame her.

“Marcy!” she wailed. “Marcy, nooooo! Maaaaarcyyyy!”

Hop Pop wound his arms securely around her neck and pulled her close. Sprig and Polly clung to her, and all of his grandchildren were in a state of grief, tears glimmering on their skin and their small bodies shaking.

Hop Pop swallowed back his own sadness. As traumatizing as it had been to see a child slain in front of his eyes, he had to be strong for his family. He stroked Anne’s hair, patted Sprig and Polly’s heads, and gave comfort not with words but his presence.

Anne cried herself hoarse. When she found she had run out of tears to shed, she weakly sat up and wiped at her face. “It’s not fair,” she said croakily. “Hop Pop, it’s not fair.”

“I know, kiddo. I’m so sorry.” Hop Pop rubbed his thumb gently over Anne’s knuckles.

“She sacrificed herself to save us,” said Sprig, squeezing his eyes shut against the swell of despair. “Her and Sasha.”

Anne gave a distraught moan, her head bowing slightly as the weight of two worlds crushed against her shoulders.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” ordered Hop Pop, and Anne reluctantly lifted her chin. “We don’t know what happened to Sasha. She’s a tough one. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“We don’t know that!” shouted Anne, her voice cracking. “Marcy should have been fine, but she isn’t! She’s dead, and Sasha might be too! This isn’t how it was supposed to go! We were supposed to come home together!”

She began to dry heave, stress and panic and grief clenching tight around her heart and making her feel sick. Hop Pop grabbed her face with both hands and stared steadily into her wet eyes. “Breathe with me. In and out.”

Anne’s first attempts resulted in strangled gasps, but eventually she gained control of her breathing. “I don’t know what to do,” she whimpered.

“We worry about that later,” said Hop Pop firmly.

“But what about Andrias? And if Sasha is still alive—”

“Anne, right now, none of us are in a state to do much of anything,” said Hop Pop calmly. “To be honest, I don’t know if we can do anything.”

Anne blinked at him before realization hit. “The music box is still in Amphibia.”

Polly was crestfallen. “Does that mean we’ll never be able to go home?”

“What about Bessie and MicroAngelo?” asked Sprig desperately. “And Ivy! I didn’t get to say goodbye to Ivy!”

“Hush,” said Hop Pop soothingly, pulling Sprig and Polly into his arms. “The townspeople will take care of our snails, and I’m sure Ivy will understand, Sprig. As for going back home, I don’t know.” He let out a heavy sigh, feeling every year of his existence weigh down his bones. “Maybe we can figure something out. But if we can’t, we have each other. Home is where we are, even if we aren’t in Wartwood.”

He swept his eyes over his grandchildren, biological and adopted, and saw the words provided little peace in the moment of intense sorrow. But he knew they would come to appreciate how fortuitous it was that they returned to Anne’s world as a family, even when the losses they suffered hung darkly over their thoughts.

Anne was staring numbly at the ground and Hop Pop tugged lightly at her elbow. She fell easily into his embrace, as if she were made of nothing but feathers, and her forehead rested against the top of his head. For a moment they just stayed there, Anne’s body radiating warmth and causing Polly and Sprig to nestle closer to her, seeking her familiar heat.

Polly was the first one to hear the musical twinkling. She blinked over at Anne’s backpack. “Anne, your bag is singing.”

Anne slowly turned to follow Polly’s gaze, and it took her several seconds to register the noise. Suddenly it was as if a live wire had touched her and jolted to action, shrieking, “My phone!”

The Plantars were jostled as she dove for her bag. She ripped Frobo’s head out and Polly said furiously, “Hey! Don’t treat him like he’s junk!”

But Anne barely heard her. She plunged her hand into her bag, the bristles of her brush and points of her bobby pins sticking her flesh. Her fingers wrapped around her phone and she yanked it out.

Her text alert, which she hadn’t heard in months, was jarring to her ears. The notification center on her phone was being flooded by dozens and dozens of texts, missed calls and voicemail alerts. They poured in so fast Anne was only able to glimpse the names attached before they were replaced by another batch of notifications.

The majority of the texts were from Sasha, Marcy and Anne’s parents. There were a couple from the local police station, which caused Anne’s stomach to grow cold with fear. She hadn’t even considered the consequences of literally disappearing off the face of the Earth.

And then her phone froze, unable to keep up with the backlog of messages coming in all at once. Frustrated, Anne stabbed at her screen with her finger, but it was no use.

Her eyes fell upon the last text to make it to her notification center. It was from her mother.

Oh, นางฟ้า, your father and I miss you so much. We pray for a sign that you and the girls are alive, and that you will return home soon.

“Oh, Mommy,” whispered Anne, her fingers digging into the rubber material of her phone case.

Hop Pop approached and set a hand against her back. “Let’s go see your parents,” he said softly.

“But I don’t even know what to say to them,” she said helplessly. “I don’t know if they’ll understand. It’s…the things I’ve been through, the things we’ve been through, they don’t happen here. Not ever.”

“Well, we’re here to help you explain things,” said Sprig earnestly.

“Yeah, I’m…I think I might need some time to prepare them for you three,” muttered Anne. “They are so gonna freak out.” She glanced back at her frozen screen, and her heart plummeted as she read the most recent message from Marcy’s father. “Oh, how do I tell them?” she said in despair. “How do I tell Sasha’s parents that I had to leave her behind? How do I tell Marcy’s parents that their daughter is…is…”

Her voice wobbled and her eyes started to sting once more. Anne wanted to cry, but she didn’t have the energy nor the water for proper tears. Hop Pop gently set her phone back in her bag, which Anne allowed without protest. He laced his fingers with hers and said, “We’ll tell them the truth, Anne. That’s all we can do. We’ll tell ‘em how brave their daughters are.”

Anne gave a sniff. She tugged her hand free from Hop Pop’s grasp so she could rub at her eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, for sure.”

She took a few minutes to gather herself, to try and clumsily sort through the heavy emotions swirling in her chest. She wanted to mourn, but there wasn’t time. She had to see her parents, had to tell them what happened.

“So, how long have you been gone?” asked Polly in a small voice, embarrassed by her earlier outburst. “Does time work the same way here?”

“Um…I don’t know.” Anne gestured to her pink backpack, where her phone was once again nestled safely inside. “It froze on me, so I can’t check the calendar or anything. And I didn’t get to see the dates on the first few rounds of texts.” She looked over to see the pollywog nuzzling Frobo’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Polly. I shouldn’t have thrown him around like that.”

“S’okay,” mumbled Polly. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m just really sad and upset right now.”

“Me too.” Anne leaned over and brought Polly into her arms, pressing a gentle kiss against her head. “I’m sorry, Polly. Maybe we can fix him.”

“Yeah,” piped up Sprig. “He just needs a new body, right? When we get home, we can go back to that weird machine place and get him a fresh one.”

Polly perked up at that. “Yeah…yeah!” she said. “If we keep his head safe, we can rebuild him!”

There was hope in her eyes. It glimmered and shone and Anne found herself hypnotized by it.

Something flickered in her heart.

“Until then, we’ll do what we can here.”

Hop Pop, Polly and Sprig looked at her in surprise. The teen’s chin was set, her mouth settled in a determined line. “Anne?” ventured her best friend. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not just going to sit here and wait,” said Anne. Her own hope ignited, and the spark soon blazed throughout her whole being. “I’m not gonna just do nothing.” She set Polly down and stood, her fists clenched by her sides. “You’re right, Hop Pop. Sasha’s fine. Marcy…Marcy made the mistake of turning her back to Andrias, but that wasn’t her fault. Sasha won’t do that. She’ll find a way to take the box from that monster and open the portal again.

“But until she figures that out, I gotta do my part. That music box came to Earth somehow. The thrift store where Marcy found it, they had a wardrobe with the Amphibia symbol engraved into the wood. And Marcy knew what the box could do, which meant she found some information about it somewhere.”

She thought about Wartwood, her home away from home. She thought about Wally, Mrs. Croaker, Archie, Bessie, MicroAngelo, Toadstool, Toadie, Loggle, Ivy, Sylvia, Felicia, Stumpy, Maddie and the rest of her friends from the humble country town. She thought about Sasha, who despite her need for control and her habit of lying to get what she wanted, came through for her friends in the end.

She thought about Marcy.

She had tricked them into leaving their parents, their lives, and trapping them in a world so beyond imagination that Anne never in a million years would have dreamed it up. She had done it because she was so scared to lose the friends she loved most, so desperate to stay with Sasha and Anne forever.

She had been inconsiderate. She had been selfish.

So had Anne. So had Sasha. Marcy didn’t deserve to die for her mistakes—none of them did. They were just three teen girls who sometimes did stupid, stupid things.

But they cared about each other—Anne believed that. Even if it was misguided, even if it was manipulative, she knew Sasha and Marcy cared about her—they sometimes just went about it in all the wrong ways.

And even though Marcy was the reason they were in this mess in the first place, and even though Sasha’s trickery was the reason Anne didn’t initially believe her about Andrias, she cared about them, too.

Right now, it didn’t matter if she wasn’t sure if she still wanted to be friends with Sasha after all she had done. It didn’t matter that she still stung over Marcy’s own manipulative scheme to take her friends away from everything they ever knew.

However complicated her emotions currently were, it didn’t mean she couldn’t still care about the two girls she’d shared her most precious memories with.

She was going to find a way to get back to Amphibia. She was going to save her friends. She was going to bring her frog family back home. She was going to save Amphibia and countless other worlds from Andrias’ tyranny.

She wouldn’t let anyone else she loved die by his hands.

“We’re not helpless!” she said fiercely. “We won’t let him make us helpless! We’re gonna stop him!”

Her pupils and irises illuminated a bright blue.

“They did it again!” exclaimed Polly.

Anne blinked and the colour of her eyes returned to normal. “What?”

“Your eyes! They did the funny light-up thing! Are you gonna turn blue again?”

Anne flexed her fingers, but she didn’t feel numb or tingly, like she had when Andrias had thrown Sprig out the window. “No, I don’t think so.” She glanced down at her hands, brow furrowed. “To be honest, I have no idea how that happened. I don’t even really remember it? I mean, I know what I did, but it felt like I wasn’t in my body while I was doing it.”

Sprig looked between Polly and Anne in confusion. “I clearly missed something when I was falling to my death.”

“Oh, it was so cool, Sprig! Anne went all glowy, and she was using blue magic, and she was flying! She nearly beat the snot out of Andrias!” said Polly excitedly.

The words reverberated through Anne’s mind; She nearly beat the snot out of Andrias.

She could beat him. She was still connected to her stone, and that fact seemed to cause Andrias great unease.

“Do you think you’d be able to use those powers again, Anne?” asked Hop Pop, following her same train of thought.

“I’ll learn,” said Anne firmly. “I’ll figure it out. Once I get control of my powers, Andrias won’t stand a chance.”

There was no question of whether or not she’d be able to gain control of her newfound abilities—she had to. It was her best bet to defeat Amphibia’s king.

Sprig tilted his head to the side. “Do you know what activated them in the first place?”

Anne regarded him, intense warmth and adoration bubbling in her stomach, and she gave a soft smile. “You. When he threw you out the window, I thought you were dead, and I was so angry.”

At a momentary loss for words, Sprig’s eyes filled with touched tears and he jumped into her arms. “Oh, Anne.”

“I love you,” said Anne passionately. She lowered to her knees and brought Hop Pop and Polly into her steel embrace. “I love all of you. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you.”

“We love you too,” said Hop Pop tenderly, lightly running his fingers through her curly hair. “That’s what we’ve got over Andrias—love for one another. Pardon the sappiness of it, but that’s what we’ll use to beat him.”

“It’s not sappy at all,” said Anne. “It’s the truth.” She gave them one more tight squeeze before setting them back down. She grabbed her backpack, swinging it over her shoulders, and she picked up Frobo’s head. “Come on. I’ve kept Mom and Dad waiting long enough. I can’t wait for you guys to meet each other.”

They headed back to the freeway, where Anne hoped one of the stuck commuters would be willing to lend her their cell phone so she could call her parents to pick them up. As they made their way up the littered slope, Anne closed her eyes briefly.

Hang on, Wartwood. I’m coming back for you. Do what you can until I get there, Sasha. I know you can do it—you never give up.

A lump swelled in her throat, and she swallowed back a sob.

We won’t let him win, Marcy. I promise we won’t. You saved us, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t return the favour.

A breeze kicked up, ruffling her thick, curly hair, and in the caress of the wind she swore she could hear a carefree giggle and a sweet summons of Anna-Banana. She let out a slow breath, and a lone tear spilled from the corner of her eye and trailed down her cheek.

I forgive you, Mar-Mar. I forgive you.

[lustbile-archive]

Dog Will Hunt

JohnnyxReader

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary/Warnings: Watching slashers with your boyfriend never goes as planned. Nothing crazy just some oral, but spoilers for Texas Chainsaw Masacre I guess? and vaguely described gore.

(also the title is a quote from the second movie, but they watch the first one. I know this don’t @ me)

You flinch at the wet cracking sound of Leatherface hitting the boy with a hammer, your body tensing under Johnny’s as he lays on top of you as you both watch as he inhumanly twitches before the murderer drags the lifeless body away.

You had begged Johnny for days to stay in one night and have a slasher movie night with you, and once you were pouting and telling him you could get pizza from his favorite restaurant down the street, he had easily agreed.

So this is where you found yourself now, you lying on your back in your living room floor on top of piles of blankets and pillows, Johnny sleepily lying on top of you with his head resting on your rib cage, a pizza box that, instead of holding the pizza, had now become home to your growing collection of empty candy wrappers, a few wine coolers by your sides, and the flashing images of teenagers being slowly picked off by a giant murderer wearing a human skin mask dancing on the tv in front of you.

Johnny shifts on top of you as you tense, your heartbeat speeding up slightly as you now watch the pretty girl walk slowly up to the house, the low shot and the way she calls out for her now dead boyfriend instilling you with the anxious knowledge of what her demise would be.

“Nooo don’t go in there,” you murmur to yourself without thinking, Johnny quietly laughing into the skin of your stomach that he rests his face on from him shoving your shirt up below your chest before he would lay down. He’d always had a thing with skin on skin contact when you two cuddled, but that didn’t stop your teasing when you pointed out him wanting to press his face against your bare skin may be a little weird considering the things the murderer in the movie you were about to watch liked to do with skin.

You’re so distracted and nervous from watching the girl trip throughout the house, kicking at discarded bones in fear and disgust, you don’t notice what Johnny is up to at first. You don’t register his lips pressing against the skin below your ribs, and you only assume his shifting down is him trying to get more comfortable.

It’s when you feel his tongue that you’re ripped away from watching Leatherface start to chase the girl. You try to keep your attention on the screen as he lays warm open mouthed kisses down your stomach, his hands trailing your side as he moves slowly down your body. You groan out in what you hope reads as disappointment to the eager boy that rests between your legs, but you know better than anyone that once he’s got himself on a mission it’s almost impossible to pull him out of it.

“This is one of the most iconic horror scenes ever you know?” you ask rhetorically as you weakly swat at the retreating top of his head, only getting a muffled laugh and lowering kisses in response. There’s a wash of shame that fills your chest when you can feel yourself getting wet at the feeling of his touch while such a gorey movie plays, but you can only grumble in response, “is this really what gets you going John? Teenagers getting murdered?”

You turn your head to see at that moment is when the girl is caught by Leatherface, her legs kicking and thrashing in the air for only a moment before he’s shoving her onto one of the meat hooks as she screams in pain.

“Yeah all that screaming and stuff reminds me of how you get,” he taunts as he sits up long enough to start tugging at your pajama shorts, the way you lift your hips to aid in the fabric being pulled down is enough to tell him you want this more than you’re letting on, “and the chainsaw noise kinda reminds me of the vibrator you like so much.”

“I’m gonna go Leatherface on your ass I swear to god,” you kick at his stomach as he laughs, not hard enough to hurt him but enough to please him with your dramatics. He’s also a big fan of how your squirming gives him a better opportunity to catch the bends of your knees in his hands and spread you open for his greedy eyes.

“You can kill me and have my skin after I make you come Ed Gein,” he digs one last time before he lays back onto his stomach, an evil grin filling his face as you scoff.

“Gross don’t call me that,” you protest, your physical response contradicting your words and attitude as you relax back into the blankets beneath you. He may be a weirdo at times, especially when he decides to refer to you by the name of an actual murderer, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s skilled with his tongue and you’d be a fool to deny yourself from experiencing it.

You hear him repeat your words quietly in a mocking tone, but before you can retort, his mouth is on you. His hands still hold onto your legs, shoving them up and to the side, almost enough to strain the muscle, and he shows no hesitation when he lays his tongue flat against you, dragging it slowly from the bottom of your opening and up until the top of his tongue is digging into your clit.

You feel yourself clench around nothing at the feeling, the muscles in your shoulders and back melting further into the fabric as he repeats the motion again. The pleasure and the way you drip on his tongue is almost enough to drown out the sounds of Pam screaming while her boyfriend is chopped to pieces.

“You’re a freak,” you groan as he sucks on your skin. He groans against you in response to words and the way your hands move to weave your fingers into his hair. He picks up lapping against you again when your nails scrape at his scalp, and you feel your eyes rolling at the feeling.

He loses himself easily when he goes down on you, this time, even with the creaking sounds of the film surrounding you, is no different. You feel him relax against you and his hands let go of your legs as he sucks your clit between his full lips. With them free, your legs fall to rest against his back and his hands trail up your torso until they’re pushing under your shirt and grasping at your bare chest.

Your hips rock up into his face all but using his tongue as a sex toy he drools onto your skin. His nails scratch at the sensitive skin of your chest before he starts tugging at your nipples making you whine and pant.

In your squirming, your head falls to the side and you’re greeted with the sight of him gently rocking his hips into the blankets below him. Seeing him so lost in pleasing you that he’s started to seek his own pleasure has you reeling, and you both let out matching moans when his simultaneously hits a certain spot both on you and himself.

“Make me come Johnny,” you say sweetly, your bubbly tone coated in arousal sends shocks of electricity directly to where he grinds against the floor. His tongue gets more eager at your simple request, and his hands leave your chest to lock tightly against your legs, pushing you tightly against his unrelenting mouth.

You can feel your body shifting up, desperately trying to escape the pleasure that bleeds from his mouth. He only moves with you, using the shifting to help pleasure himself. He only lays a few more licks against your sensitive clit before you feel your skin warm and you’re teetering on the edge.

He lets out an animalistic groan against you, pushing you over. You feel your stomach tighten and your eyes roll back hard enough for them to ache, and you’re coming harshly on his tongue. Your mouth hangs open letting you quiet moans slip out and your back arches off the floor.

He licks you through your orgasm, his own rocking through him as he thrusts roughly against the floor, the taste of you combined with the way your fingers tug at his hair being his own personal demise. You two lay there jerking and moaning against the other, while the movie continues to blare in front of you. His tongue becomes more desperate as he comes and it feels like every movement he lays on you sends shocks of pleasure up your spine.

He finally lets go, after turning your brain to liquid with aftershocks, and as he sits up you see the way the evidence of your orgasm coats his mouth and chin and the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

There’s a moment where you stare at each other dumbly, trying to pull yourselves back to reality and out of the torturous bubble of pleasure you had been trapped in moments ago.

He recovers quicker than you, flopping ungraciously down onto your still shiver form to press his mouth harshly against yours. The taste of you is so prominent on his tongue you can’t help but groan at the taste.

Your hands fly up to the side of his face, holding him against you as you lick into each other's mouths, and you can feel the grins forming on your lips as you kiss.

He breaks away, only for a moment, his eyes squinting and staring into yours before he speaks, “you might want to restart the movie.”

[willadisastercry]

When the dust clears and you almost wish it hadn’t...

tw: emetophobia warning (brief but there), depictions of being trapped/pinned, broken bone, head injury, blood, threat of being crushed, threat of drowning.

The paladins respond to a distress signal on a foreign planet and make quick work of getting its civilians to safety, but on their last sweep surface side, shit hits the fan. Pidge and Lance are hurt but Shiro is trapped and can’t help them. On top of that, the conditions they’re stuck in are only getting worse. With no access to the coms and no tools to help them, the trio is forced to get creative and make some sacrifices.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Dust rained down in a continuous sheet, the tiny particles lit up in beams where the brightness of the day outside peaked through the mottled roof of debris now sheltering them. It seeped through their shattered visors and cacked their lungs making whatever ragged breaths they took after they realized they’d finally stopped falling harsh and desperate.

Shiro was the only one who hadn’t been knocked out after the initial collapse, more just dazed in momentary shock from the suddenness of it all, his visor most in tact and his com emitting static output that would catch a few garbled words every now and then.

The planet they were on had sent out a distress signal when the galra outpost stationed in their solar system had somehow managed to pull their moons out of alignment, and like on earth, their moons had significant influence over their tides.

Before they arrived, the land had only been hit by minor floods but as soon as voltron and the castleship entered their atmosphere, the unruly currents ramped up tenfold and small tremors could be felt from somewhere deep underground.

The abnormal weather phenomena hadn’t yet delved into anything seismic, just tidal, but they’d only been planet-side for ten minutes before alarms started blaring and the locals emerged from their homes frantic and scared.

Evacuation via lion had actually gone relatively smoothly, the paladins able to relocate the citizens before the trembles of the shifting plates became truly dangerous.

It had started off pretty tame, the rumblings far between and only enough to shake the windows and trees. But they steadily amplified the longer the evacuation went on until shaking became shuddering and soon trees were swaying and buildings were groaning.

After everyone was loaded onto the castle outside of the planets orbit Pidge flew the green lion flew back down to the surface stowing Lance and a lionless Shiro. They were in charge of carrying out the final sweep to check for stragglers, though the only thing they’d actually found was themselves caught in the height of a particularly large quake.

They were in the city center attempting to make it back to Green who was stationed at the beginning of the tree line on the outskirts of the city, antsy and waiting. But they would never get there because the intense trembling brought them to the knees before they’d even caught sight of the lion.

It would’ve been alright if the solid ground they thought they were on was truly as solid as it appeared, but it wasn’t, because the cracks splitting the pavilion open splintered towards them before they could even cry out and then the last thing they could hear was a roar almost as deafening as the sound of the planet ripping apart beneath their feet.

The fall wasn’t long or else they wouldn’t be alive to choke on the sheer amount of crap in the air, their helmets not surviving the broken bits of sediment that accosted them on the decent, cracking their visors and damaging their com systems.

Though cumbersome and clunky, their paladin armor was also sturdy and could withstand the weight of the rubble they were more or less sandwiched in. Their suits were ultimately what saved their lives in the initial collapse but it beat their human bodies to hell in the process.

Their senses returned with the panic of not being able to breathe, the moment they realized the ground beneath them was rough with rubble and uneven uprooted earth that wasn’t quite earth audible, marked by disoriented cries of surprise at the debris still falling while the quake that brought them down tapered out.

Pidge and Shiro came back to themselves first, raucous coughs pulling each other to reality over their ringing ears as they worked to clear the soot from their mouths and lungs. It was hard work. The air was dense with all kinds of minuscule specks of ruin that silenced them for a good minute while they struggled against the dryness in their throats.

It was Pidge who tried to move first. She was slumped over a chunk of what used to be a stone pillar from the building that was sucked into the chasm of non-earth along with them, her legs tucked awkwardly beneath her. She stopped abruptly to let out a strangled wail when she went to push herself up.

She hadn’t felt much of anything when she first woke up, just incredibly dazed as she fought to open her eyes under the layer of dust encrusting them. But when she put pressure on her arms she discovered that something was seriously wrong with one of them, collapsing back onto the jagged piece of stone to writhe as pain shot through to her shoulder and seized her back.

“Pidge?”

She barely registered the crackle of a low voice from somewhere nearby, her mind entirely consumed by panicking over the pain she was in as well as the unknown regarding the extent of the injury.

“Pidge is that you? Are you okay?”

It clicked then that it was Shiro speaking but she didn’t have air in her lungs to produce any answer other than a panicked whimper, too afraid to lift herself off of the injured limb to see the damage and incite another wave of agony. She didn’t have enough air to handle that again, sucking down what she could in too large of quantities for such a limited supply.

Shiro was going through a similar mental battle, though the first thing dawning on him as he registered his new surroundings was that Pidge needed help, not his own physical wellbeing. So naturally, he’d tried to get up as soon as he heard her call out only to discover he couldn’t move much because he was sprawled on his back amongst an ever growing pile of debris, his prosthetic arm likely crushed to shit under a sizable slab of stone with smaller chunks pressing against his chest and legs.

He was sufficiently stuck, pinned in place and unable to get to her but forced to listen as her anguished sounds continued.

“Pidge I’m trapped, I can’t—shit, I can’t get to you. And I don’t have visual confirmation from Lance yet so you’re gonna have to work with me here... talk to me, where are you hurt? How bad does it look?”

The sound she contrived then was like the ones before, except not for her own misery, not entirely at least. Because that meant there was still no sign of life from Lance which meant there was a very real concern that there wouldn’t be which left Pidge having to pull herself together and search for him since Shiro was otherwise incapacitated.

This would be sucky and not ideal at all, but necessary.

”Pidge?!”

Logic told her that bones mend and that pain was fleeting. That agony would be temporary, fear too, and once she found Lance it would be better, bearable at least.

And so with that resolve she willed her breathing to slow enough to form a coherent statement.

“It’s my arm,” she huffed quickly, the shrillness in her voice evidence of the severity of the injury.

“Okay, can you move? Is there something on top of you?” Shiro asked calmly, his voice level and sympathetic.

“No, I’m on top of it... if-if I move again—“

“Take a breath, it’s probably broken.”

Clearly, but Pidge was already ten steps ahead, her brain grappling with the notion of whether stabbing pain meant safe compounded fracture or gruesome and bloody and open fracture that would make her sick if she even caught sight of her own arm like that.

She shuddered violently at the thought and bit back a gasp when it jostled whatever lay beneath her.

“You’re okay, just breathe... are you sitting or laying down?”

Still so calm, somehow. So incredibly practical and disarming. It was almost unnerving how well he could do that, compartmentalize everything.

“S-sitting, sort of.”

“How?”

Awkwardly, Shiro. The man might be terrifyingly apt at rationalizing the impossible but seemed utterly incompetent in predicting the obvious.

“Folded over a rock and using it as my pillow... all my weight is on it—on my arm,” she ammended with a gulp.

Shiro took his precious time turning this information over in his head and the radio silence almost had Pidge worrying he’d passed out until his voice came back somehow even more blunt and pragmatic than before.

“That’s better actually. What I need you to do is hold your arm in place with your good hand, press it to your chest and use your shoulder to lean on as you sit back again. It should be less agitating that way—“

Shiro’s gentle instruction was cut off by Pidge’s cry as she sat up and away from the slab of stone like he recommended, her vision whiting as she cradled her arm against herself.

When she could see properly again she found her curiousity too overwhelming and spared a look at the mangled limb.

It was both better and worse than she had imagined. The forearm component of her armor was hanging on in pieces and clearly displayed the horrifying mess that lay under what remained. No skin was broken, but the tip of her bone was very visibly poking the already swelling flesh where the middle of her forearm sported a new joint.

The sight was overwhelming and her breaths soon came in short pants, the threat of passing out suddenly very real.

“Good Pidge, that was great. Take a couple deep breaths for me while you adjust,” he asked gently, his voice taking on a more solemn tone now.

She already knew what was coming next and began rearranging her legs beneath her, several deep breaths required to clear the black dotting her vision before she was confident she could stand testing their strength without them turning jelly.

“I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, but you need to find Lance... I’m not mobile and I haven’t heard him yet.”

“Already... on it,” she panted as she leaned on her knees before coming to a shakey stance.

The lighting was sparse in the pocket of nothing that the pavilion collapsed into after the fissure opened, barely enough to make out the terrain in front of her and then some. So she made her way slowly, toeing rocks and larger slabs before proceeding, checking for stability with every step as she slinked across the unnatural landscape.

“Follow my voice... I can hear you now... watch out for the crap still falling...”

Finding Shiro wasn’t difficult when his voice carried so well through the wreckage, even despite the shifting fauna and bits still crashing down and settling.

There hadn’t been another quake in the time that they’d woken up, but that only made finding Lance that much more important. If he hadn’t responded yet then it was more than likely he was pretty hurt, which would be even more dangerous for him to be alone if the rubble decided to rearrange itself.

“Hey...” Shiro laughed pitifully as she ducked under a slanted piece of stone to get to him.

Pidge saw his predicament immediately, he was looking at her from where he was propped up one elbow, his metal arm wedged underneath a piece of stone bigger than he was.

“Well, that’s not good,” she stated before coming down hard on one knee, clutching her arm extra close as she lowered herself to the floor for a better look.

“Let me see your arm,” he ordered in his leader voice, a futile attempt to deflect from his own issues.

“My arm is snapped, let me see if you still have one,” she countered expertly, pushing away his searching hand after once he’d laid back down try and examine the disfigured appendage now securely in her lap.

He sighed in defeat. Pidge had too many years of experience dodging brotherly coddling with Matt to concede to Shiro’s fretting and let him distract from her own triage efforts.

“How bad? Can’t really tell from this angle...”

“I’m not seeing much but there is quite a bit of space between the floor and the rock still so that’s kind of promising for the integrity of the prosthetic... let me get this crap off though—“

“No, you’re hurt don’t push yourself, it’s fine.”

But Pidge acted as if she hadn’t heard him and began to remove the rocks, turning over the more meager pieces of broken stone from his chest with her good hand.

“Pidge, it’s okay. I’m not hurt and you need to save your energy to look for—“

“Wait! Shut up...”

“Excuse me?!”

“Shhhh!”

Pidge held her hand up to Shiro’s face as she closed her eyes and listened for something. Shiro only heard a faint whooshing and a steady trickle until it happened again. A very guttural but human moan.

“Lance! Shit.”

“Go, he’s gotta be close, he was just beside me when we fell...”

Pidge moved swiftly, more nimble than she could’ve thought possible as she maneuvered around the rubble with only one arm to steady her.

“Lance, call out!”

Every time she moved her arm throbbed horribly, but slowing down was not an option, not when another quake was due and could occur at any moment.

“If you can hear me I need you to make a sound, throw something, anything!”

Her repeated shouts are what in the end got him to groan again, the sound of her pointed words coming closer making the pressure in his skull swell exponentially.

“That’s it, keep making noise...!”

As he tried to wake up and open his eyes he only succeeded in making himself more disoriented, the world seeming to spin even with his eyes squeezed shut.

It dawned on him then that closing his eyes when he had absolutely no idea what sort of life threatening situation he may or may not be in was a sort of really bad idea. He had no clue how he was oriented, no grasp of what was up or down, how his body was positioned, if he was hurt or not. He wasn’t even entirely sure he was alive but the second heart beat on the side of his head seemed to eventually convince him he was.

“Lance?!”

But then again the agony swirling around in his brain didn’t seem to care if it was stupid to close his eyes, nor did the intensity of the light above him that burned his retinas when he attempted to open them.

“Call out!”

Uh, no I will not, thank you very much.

Whoever was screaming in his face needed to learn some manners and stop. The sound pierced his ears like a thousand needles and traveled to the center of the heartbeat in his skull, another pathetic moan escaping his lips as he tried to reach for the spot.

“Oh, no—no, don’t do that.”

He was sprawled on his side, limbs askew and otherwise undamaged aside from his armor appearing nearly shredded in some places with how roughly he’d been tossed around in the fray. His helmet was missing and it took Pidge a few moments to locate it, almost wishing she hadn’t once she did.

The left side was dented, the visor cracked so severely that there was nothing but a few jagged shards left of it.

“You’re okay, I’m here Lance, it’s Pidge.”

Lance didn’t care that it was Pidge, she was screaming at him and it was making him nauseous. He couldn’t understand why she insisted on being so loud when he had such a bad headache or why she held his wrist so tightly.

“You’ve got a pretty nice gash there—” she muttered, her restricting hand releasing him to turn his head to the side “—a nice few gashes, actually.”

He must have made a protesting sound at the movement because she stopped and cupped his cheek instead, using the top of her thumb to wipe the tears making their way to his chin.

“Hey, you’re gonna be alright. Can you open you’re eyes at all?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Can you try? Only for a second, I just need to see something. C’monnnn, don’t you want to see my pretty face?”

He made a softer sound then and his eyelids began to flutter as he tried to pry them open, wincing at how painful even the dim lighting was once he did.

“Good, that’s good. Okay, I’m just gonna help you out here, don’t be scared...” she said as she moved her thumb and pointer finger to prop open one eyelid at a time and keep them still so she could get a good look.

His pupils were blown which was probably why opening them hurt so bad, more light was coming in than should be which couldn’t feel nice for his clearly rattled brain.

“Kay, all done... I think you have a concussion, but nothing else seems to be wrong aside from the still gushing head and facial wounds. Can you keep your hand there do you think? ” she asked as she brought it to where the bleeding was worst and pressed down, illiciting a hiss but no other resistance as he held it place.

“Great, you’re doing so great. I know you probably feel really out of it but we need to get you over to where Shiro is... and my arms kinda busted so I can only give you one hand...”

His groaning halted for a moment to let loose a low whine as he tried to open his eyes long enough to look at what she meant, his face scrunching up with concern when he finally managed to.

“You-your arm... s’hurt...” he choked out, more a restatement than a question, his tongue unwilling and his energy spent as he tried to form something coherent.

“Yeah, as I said, busted. But don’t worry about that now, just give me your hand.”

Lance seemed a bit confused at her command so she took up the hand that was limp at his side and moved it to his lap where she could reposition her own at his elbow.

“This is gonna be a tad tricky so just work with me, okay?”

He grunted a sort of ‘uh huh’ and returned with his own grip on her upper arm.

“I’m gonna stand up and lean back, when I do you’re gonna lean forward and stand with me...” Pidge detailed as she moved his legs so that they were bent towards his chest and in front of him.

It wasn’t that he was immobile. The rest of his body was free of visible injuries but his brain and his limbs seemed to be on different frequencies for the time being, the channels of communication disconnected and not taking signals from one another making his movements sluggish and sloppy.

“Okay, ready? Alright, up we go...”

What happened next was anything other than graceful. As soon as Lance was upright he lilted into Pidge who fixed her stance as he stumbled to keep standing, his grip tight on her arm and his weight almost entirely on her hip as he held his throbbing head.

“You good? Here, arm around my neck, just don’t touch my arm... there ya go. We’ll go slow, it’s not far,” she assured as she began to walk forward, Lance following in his own sort of zigzag next to her.

They made their way excruciatingly slow. Pidge moved with care, constantly analyzing the most doable path to lead Lance into, stepping on top of and over boulder sized bits of stone as he continued on whatever even ground she could find.

It was only when she was tapping her toe behind his knee to get it to buckle that he was aware they’d made it. He hadn’t heard Pidge asking him to sit, didn’t even register her hand on his face as he fought with the terrible heat on the side of his head that threatened to make his stomach act on how unsettled it was.

He let out a breathless ‘oh’ as his butt connected with the ground, a layer of recently upturned dust rising after him. Once he was safely seated Shiro removed his hand from his back from where he’d been assisting the transition.

“Shiroo...!?!” he gushed, the word sloshing in his mouth.

“Hey, Lance.”

Though he knew his friend’s demeanor was the result of a pretty gnarly head injury, Shiro couldn’t help but let a fond smile appear at his almost childlike vocalization.

“How ya feeling?”

“Oh, not good I think, right Pidge?—yeah, really not good...”

“Concussion, I checked,” Pidge provided after Shiro took Lance’s bloody hand away from the source of the bleeding to check the damage out for himself.

“That looks painful,” Shiro sympathized before returning his hand to the spot as gently as he could.

Lance processed that his hand had made contact again about ten seconds after which seemed to send his head realing because the next moment he was choking back a gag.

“Crap, it’s alright if you need to throw up. Just get it out, don’t hold it in,” Shiro ushered, his hand moving to Lance’s arm as he doubled over himself, his throat clenching against the bile rising and he sputtered.

He was sufficiently out of sorts and could hardly hold on to a coherent thought but he knew that he did not want to throw up. Not here in front of his friends, especially Shiro.

But the wave of nausea that was making his stomach cramp and his head throb was overshadowed by the sound of something crashing, like a stack of precariously placed objects falling over abruptly except much louder and followed by a sustained gush.

“Shiro..?”

The trepidation in Pidge’s voice made her sound so much younger, like how she did before Shiro left for Kerberos.

At the same time that fear erupted in his friend’s chests, saliva welled up in Lance’s mouth and he let out a pitiful sound, the new commotion having him seeing stars with how angrily his head pulsed from it.

“It’s probably just rubble settling, can you see anything?”

Pidge moved towards the biggest source of light from where the surface above them split apart, the scene hazy through clouds of dust and substantially obscured by larger breakages of sediment. She lifted herself onto her toes to try and makes sense of the destruction around them.

“No...”

Pidge couldn’t see much through the chalky blackness, just hints of structures here and there.

“There’s nothing there—oh.”

The gushing sound seemed to pull to the forefront of the concerning noises then, like a geyser of something had erupted and was emptying itself out into the chasm that had opened up beneath them and swallowed them down. This was concerning for a lot of reasons.

“Yeah, never mind we are so fucked.”

Lance wasn’t even trying to follow the progression of events going on around him, listening intently enough to make sense of a single sentence worsening the pressure behind his eyes while he stomach continued to flip.

The acid taste coming up his throat was putrid, but mixed with a grating layer of dust irritating the back of his throat, the presence of it while already massively disoriented was overwhelming.

“What is it?-crap Lance. It’s okay. You’re okay,” Shiro soothed, his hand secure on the other boy’s back while his frame shook from retching so hard.

“Pipe must’ve burst, well I guess not a pipe, more like a main...”

“A main? As in a water main?”

“Yes,” Pidge deadpanned, using her good hand to steady herself against a taller shred of stone as she continued evaluating just how fucked they were.

Shiro gulped, convinced he could actually feel the tons of weight on top of his foreign prosthetic growing heavier the longer he remained wedged under it.

“How much is coming in?”

He could hear it clearer now, like the rumble in your ears when wind rushed past them.

“Too much...”

With a hiccoughing whine, Lance pitched forward, nearly collapsing into the puddle of his own sick as he continued to gag.

“Woah, okay! You’re alright, I’ve got you... just do what you have to do bud.”

Shiro’s free hand on the center of Lance’s chest was the only thing keeping him upright as he worked through the rolling waves of dizzying nausea.

Pidge spared a cursory glance towards her friend, watching how his shoulders worked as he heaved for a moment before returning back to her internal spiral.

“Coms are wrecked but they’re out of range so it’s not like that really matters anyway... the air is pretty thin already, but the longer we’re down here the less viable o2 there’s going to be... and the crater we’re in is flooding so the more pressing issue is—”

“Pidge,” Shiro drawled slowly, his tone placating as he watched her pace back and forth, images of Matt doing the same thing surfacing in his mind as she did.

She might resemble her brother in appearance but their personalities for the most part could not be more opposite. Though during his time in the castle of lions Shiro had found that they actually share a lot of the same nervous mannerisms.

He knew Pidge probably had no idea how similar their actions are and he’s sort of glad only he does, suspecting the knowledge would only make her sad.

The only issue with this discovery is the fact that even though her reaction isn’t new to Shiro, dealing with it was, and once Pidge’s mind started working it was hard to get it to stop.

Lance was winding down then. His breaths still heavy and uneven, the stream of blood down his neck and front steady as ever, but he wasn’t gagging anymore.

“You’re arm is... fucked, my arm is fucked, and Lance’s head! Oh god, this is—“

“Calm down, we can figure this out.”

She spun on him abruptly enough that Shiro was scared for a second she might’ve given herself whiplash.

“Calm down?! How do you expect me to do that when we’re going to be underwater in an hour, hell maybe even a couple of minutes?!”

Lance’s shoulders seemed to slump somehow further from the volume of her voice and Shiro took a second before launching into his response to help him sit back on his heels and away from the vomit.

“No, I’m going to be underwater. You and Lance are going to start walking, climbing, whatever it is you have to do to get to higher ground—“

“Yeah okay, fuck that. We’re not leaving you—uh buh bah, save whatever case you were gonna make because I’ll promptly stop listening.”

The visage of Matt retreated entirely with Pidge’s indiscretion, her words seeding with irritation as she shut Shiro down.

“Pidge!”

“I’m so very sorry for my attitude but you really did just pitch us leaving you to drown, are you really that surprised?”

Shiro took a practiced breath, the kind he uses to ground himself because the pit in his chest was expanding and the last thing they needed was him devolving into panic.

He eyed the way Lance swayed as he sat with his legs splayed on either side of him, his hands limp in his lap and coated in blood from the gash on his head.

“You can’t stay here, not when Lance is hurt like this.”

“Okay.”

“Huh? Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. If you want to waste your energy trying to convince me to let you die, then that’s whatever because the reality is that you’re the one stuck under a rock and I’m the only one whose mobile. This is very much my call. Sorry big guy, but we’re sticking around.”

Shiro actually laughed.

He couldn’t ignore the way that his heart filled with admiration at Pidge’s defiance but it was overwhelmed by the burden of the fact that no matter how much pride he had in her for stepping up, he was still trapped and they were still going to watch him die.

He shuddered and Lance hummed at the movement, wondering vaguely if Shiro was hurt at all before the thought disappeared and the only thing he could remember was how insanely painful the knot on the side of his head was and how heavy his aching body felt.

“M’tired... think I’m gonna... mmmh, gonna lay down,” he managed with some concentration and put his hands on the ground to brace himself but didn’t make any further moves, his face scrunching up in confusion as he struggled to figure out how to maneuver himself down when his arms were so difficult to control and his head pulsed blindingly any time he moved.

“You can’t go to sleep yet, dude. Just sit with Shiro for now, I need you to keep an eye on him for me anyway,” Pidge instructed with a grin.

Shiro huffed and narrowed his eyes but it only made her smirk widen.

“W-why? Is Shiro hurt?” Lance asked worriedly, forgetting himself entirely and attempting to twist around to see.

The gravity of the action caught up with him a beat later, the groan that bubbled in his chest ungodly.

“Easy there, hot shot, I’m okay. Just a little stuck,” Shiro assured, stilling him with a firm hand on his shoulder when the surge of pain had him tipping nearly over.

“Kay... s’good,” he noted through clenched teeth before his eyes fluttered shut and his head began to lower to his chest.

A sharp pain from where Shiro flicked the side of his cheek that wasn’t cut up and coated in blood roused Lance from his attempt to rest.

“Ow. Rude.”

“Not rude, necessary. There’s no napping on the job.”

“I’m so tired though... just wanna sleep... you guys are so mean... why can’t I just—“

“Nope. You’ve gotta keep your eyes open for me bud,” Shiro chided, shaking his shoulder gruffly enough to have his bloodshot eyes shooting open.

“But why?” he slurred, the exasperation in his whine sort of heartbreaking, “I could just nap through... the worst of this, it’d be... it’d be so nice... wouldn’t hurt so much...”

“Since when are you all about what’s easy, you’re like the most stubborn human I know?”Shiro asked, his voice full of fondness.

“And you get enough beauty rest as it is, lover boy, you’ll live if you miss a few hours.”

The rushing water filled the ambient silence while Pidge made her way back to her friends from her watch post amongst the rubble.

“Are... we?”

Lance’s voice was a broken whisper, the gravel in it a painful attribution to the stress his throat had been put under between the abuse of the acid in the bile and coarse texture of the dust.

“Are we what, Lance?”

“Live... are we gonna live?”

The gush of moving water rose up in Shiro’s ears like roaring wind again but stronger this time, effectively tunneling his attention on those words, the innocence of them.

“Of course we are—“

“I want it on the record that I, Pidge Gunderson, am making no such promises.”

“PIDGE!”

“So loud... please... shhh...” Lance cried desperately, his hands almost comically slow to rise and cover his ears.

“WHAT?! I’m being honest!”

“You’re being negative!”

“Coming from the guy who just told me to leave him for dead!”

The fire in both paladins eyes was burning so brightly Lance could’ve sworn there was an actual glow with how horribly his head was beginning to hurt from listening to them.

“Alright, I might’ve had a moment of doubt, but we can’t—“

“Stop shaking me Shiro...” Lance whimpered as he drew his knees up to his chest carefully “—it hurts... please quit it...”

This broke the two out of their heated argument.

“I’m not touching you, Lance...”

“Then t-tell whoever is... to fucking stop!”

His chest hitched pitifully when punctuating the last bit with a pleading whine had his head swimming in vengeance. If it weren’t for the stability of hugging his propped up legs so tightly he would’ve fallen over with how dizzy he was.

Pidge looked at Shiro as if he’d know any better than her what the hell he was talking about.

Unfortunately for the both of them, he did not.

“Deep breaths, Lance. You’re probably just disoriented, it’s normal for head injuries to mess with your sense of balance and equilibrium—“

“Shiro...?”

He was beginning to hate hearing his name being called when it was almost always followed by something he really wouldn’t enjoy hearing.

“Yeah, Pidge?”

But she didn’t have to continue because he felt it then.

A steady thrumming from somewhere below.

A rumble.

“Quiznak...”

[thosewickedlovelies]

When Missions Go Right

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x afab!Reader

Rating: E for Explicit

Summary: After Frankie makes everyone believe he was killed during a mission, hours later you're still shaken from the reveal that it had been a ruse. You can't stand the idea that he might have never known how you felt about him, so later that evening, you go and check on him.

Tags: SMUT; minimal angst despite the summary lol; unprotected PinV sex (pls wrap it up irl); oral (f receiving); they briefly drink alcohol but are not drunk; swearing

Word count: 6,794 lmfao

A/N: Reader’s nickname is Mosquito- I wanted a nickname and my brain got stuck on this one once I thought of it sorry. It’s explained :)

---

You sit in your hut at your team's temporary camp in the jungle, fidgeting. You don't know why you’re so torn- there’s nothing weird about checking on a teammate after a stressful mission, and you and your boys had done it for each other countless times before. This time is different, though. This time had shaken you more than any other incident, after you thought Frankie had- No. You exhale.

Just thinking of him emerging after the mission that day, appearing when you thought he was lost, causes another swell of emotion to rise in you, hot tears filling your eyes. You clap your hands over your mouth, force yourself to take deep, steadying breaths. Frankie had looked so surprised at everyone's reaction to his reappearance: stunned, relieved tears and a five-person hug that had pulled everyone to the ground in a tangle, with himself at the center. You don't know what he had expected. His impromptu plan hadn't been ideal, sure, but it had made their mission a success, and he was alive.

You smile a little at the memory. The quiet relief on Frankie's face, how soft and vulnerable he looked surrounded by affection, dust and sweat in his hair. Your smile fades at the remembrance of what had happened next. After everyone had untangled and straightened up, Santiago held out Frankie's hat to him, retrieved from where it had fallen during their dogpile. Frankie had secured it on his head, smiling cautiously at his friend. Then Santiago had punched him in the face.

“Don't you ever do that again!” Santi's voice had cracked. In the split second before he turned and strode away, you caught a glimpse of his eyes, turbulent and red-rimmed with emotion. Frankie, holding his jaw, had stared after him in shock. The Miller boys offered reassurance: “He'll be okay, Catfish. You guys are close. He was just upset.”

“We all were,” you added, stepping closer. Frankie's attention had focused on you for the first time since his return. Apprehension in his eyes, guilt and worry clearly visible on his face. You didn't let yourself think about what those dark eyes did to you as you flung yourself at him, hugging him fiercely. It was only partly to hide your face that you buried it in his neck. Santiago’s outburst echoed your own anger at Frankie’s deception, at him making you believe he was dead- but now was not the time to deal with it.

You had made no effort to stop the tears as you breathed in Frankie's scent, muddled with sweat and gunmetal. His arms wrapped around you carefully, one hand cradling the back of your head. Holding each other the way you were, his voice seemed to rumble through you, low and warm. “Hey, Mos. Thought you were gonna punch me too there for a sec.”

Memories flooded through you at the sensation- all the other times the two of you had been this close. Dancing to sultry music in some club, both of you too tired to pretend to mind lying pressed together in a cramped tent-

You exhaled, shoving the memories aside. Now was also not the time for that particular train of thought or its familiar destination.

Pulling back, you gave him a watery smile. “Nah, I think Pope did enough damage.”

You kissed him lightly on the cheek Santiago had just punched. Frankie's eyes were wide when you looked up at him, but you ignored the fluttering in your chest and turned your soft look into a glare. “But you'll get what's coming to you after that stunt.” His bulletproof vest was hard under your finger as you jabbed it into his chest.

You hardly held up the glare for a minute before it cracked, and Frankie chuckled in relief. “Whatever you say, Mosquito. Let's just get out of here.”

Skirting the edge of your team's small camp, you pause to scan for anyone else moving around in the dark. Briefly you find yourself distracted by the brightness of the full moon above, the beauty of the starry sky this far from any major towns. The remote location of this mission was why you were all still in camp tonight, instead of blowing off steam at some local watering hole. Usually some booze was brought along anyway, so you could unwind around the campfire, but you suppose things are a bit tense for that after today. Secretly, you're glad. You don't want to have to compete with everyone else for Frankie's attention tonight.

Now, you blink rapidly to clear the tears from your eyes. Taking a final deep breath, you stand. You had done enough crying since then; it was time for a different kind of release.

Mosquito. Sneaking around in the night like this, you're reminded of your nickname's origins. After a particularly successful mission, Santiago had been raving over your skills of infiltration. “...hitting 'em before they even knew they were there! Bam!” Crowing with laughter, their victory relaxing him as much as the booze.

“Like a mosquito,” Frankie had murmured, just barely peeking out from under the brim of his cap. The bugs had been particularly bad in that region, but the look in Frankie's eyes was anything but. Gleaming with admiration in the dim bar light, a knowing amusement quirking his mouth into a smile-  because Santiago's jaw had dropped. “Mosquito! Yes! ‘Fish, you're a genius!” Before Frankie could stop him, his friend had stolen his hat, ruffled his hair, and planted a kiss on his head with a smack.

You laughed as Frankie snatched his cap back. Santiago lifted his beer and spoke ceremoniously. “From this moment on, you will be known as: Mosquito.”

“Here, here,” Benny and Will had enthused, holding up their own bottles.

You shook your head, but there was no arguing with it. You clinked the neck of your beer with Pope's. “Mosquito it is.” The conversation drifted then, but you had looked at Frankie meaningfully. You lifted your bottle almost imperceptibly in acknowledgment. You're still not sure if the blush on his cheeks was from your appreciation, or Santi's smooch.

A buzzing near your ear reminds you that there are also bugs in your current environment, and that you've been standing here long enough. Certain there is no one around to see, you slip around the side of Frankie's hut to where a camo-patterned blanket hangs as a door. You knock lightly on the wood beside it. “Catfish? It's me,” you call softly. “Can I come in?”

There's a rustle and the sound of a throat clearing. “Yeah.”

You push aside the blanket just enough to step beyond it. It falls back into place behind you with a swish, and you blink as your eyes adjust. Contrary to the cool moonlight falling outside, the hut is lit only by a lantern sitting on the nightstand. In the dim, warm orangish glow, the figure perched on the edge of the bed is a study of shadows. You catch your breath as Frankie lifts his head.

Frankie “Catfish” Morales epitomizes the phrase “it's always the quiet ones”. But what he doesn't say out loud, you can always read in his eyes. Endlessly expressive, occasionally accompanied by an eyebrow raised to varying heights, they never fail to draw you in.

“Hey, ‘Squito. Come to take your shot?”

Your brow furrows. That wasn't what you expected. The guys only called you ‘squito' or ‘skeeter’ when they wanted to needle you. Buying time, you cast your eyes around the small space. A few square feet at the foot of the bed where Frankie had dumped some gear; the single bed that Frankie sits on, three feet in front of you; and the nightstand at the head of the bed, a surprisingly homey feature. On it sits the lantern, Frankie's dog tags, and- ah- a tall bottle filled with golden liquid.

“Only if that's tequila I see,” you reply.

Frankie looks caught off-guard for a beat. Then a huff of laughter escapes him. “Make yourself at home.”

So saying, he pushes himself backwards on the bed, loosely crossing his legs in front him and resting his head against the wall. His eyes drift shut.

You snatch the bottle up with one hand and use the other to maneuver onto the bed next to him, mirroring his position. Consciously, you make sure your knees touch. Despite your earlier anger and whatever Frankie seemed to be thinking now, you want him to know you're here for him. His leg hair prickles against your skin, pleasant and familiar and warm.

"How many have you had?"

"Just two."

“Easy catch-up, then.” You remove the shot glass resting upside down on top of the bottle, fill it up, and knock it back. You can't help but shudder as it goes down, warmth settling in your belly.

You turn your head to find Frankie's eyes open and fixed on you. You swallow reflexively at how close your faces suddenly are, how depthless his eyes look in the lamplight.

“How's the tequila?”

You blink, barely registering his words.

He nods down to the bottle resting on your knee. “It's a new kind.” His low, raspy voice, normally comforting, now feels like it's sliding along your bones, setting them alight and turning them to liquid all at once.

You blink several more times and resist the urge to clear your throat. You glance down at the bottle. The label looks vaguely familiar, but not as much as it would if it were a brand he or Santi normally bought. And you would know; you've drank with them both countless times, enough to know their preferences.

“It's good,” you say. You offer it back to him.

He takes it, moving at a leisurely pace as he unscrews the cap. You watch the deftness of his hands, your gaze traveling up his arms- perhaps not as defined as Santiago's or Benny's, but just as capable of holding you tight. The lantern's glow gleams on his brown skin, the line of his throat as he tips his head back.

Your gaze catches on the strands of hair that drift along his brow. Usually they're tucked beneath his cap, even after-hours- an easy target for teasing amongst the guys. But tonight they're free, and you wonder at how soft they look. If Frankie would let you touch them, the tiny curls at his temple.

One eyebrow raises into your line of sight, interrupting your train of thought, and you realize he's caught you staring. Flushing, you wordlessly take the bottle back from him and sling another shot, before setting it down on the bed next to you.

After a beat of hesitation, you lean your head on his shoulder. “What's wrong, Catfish?”

You can feel him struggling to decide what to say. “Benny and Will caught me by the campfire. Scolded me for pulling such an idiotic stunt. You know the drill.”

“But then they slapped you on the back for it working out so well, right?” That's how their “scoldings” usually went.

“Yeah. Just not until after a solid helping of guilt. And I still haven't spoken to Santiago.”

You sigh. How could he not understand? You reach out and take his right hand in your left, entwining your fingers and pulling them toward you. Both of you happen to be wearing old, standard-issue PT shorts as pajamas; short enough for Frankie's hand to be resting on bare skin where you hold it against your leg.

“Frankie.” He seems reluctant to look you in the eye. “Hey,” you say, softer this time. He lifts his gaze. “It was an idiotic stunt. Brilliant, and it worked, but…” Frankie looks like he's bracing for a blow. “We thought we lost you, Frankie. How could we not be messed up by that?”

For that had been part of what made his plan so risky. Frankie hadn't counted on his team being so upset and distracted by his apparent loss that they could have been caught for real.

Seeming agitated, Frankie runs a hand through his hair. “I know, I know. I heard it all earlier.”

You wonder if Benny and Will had mentioned, if they had noticed, just how uprooted you had felt. You and Santiago both; their unflappable teammates, nearly unhinged.

You wait until he looks at you again. All traces of moisture seem to have evaporated from your mouth. “I thought I lost you, Frankie,” you whisper.

He remains still as this realization unfolds, unfurling like a flower in the sun. Revealing in crystal clarity what you had both been carefully stepping around for months. Longer. His eyes rove over your face as if searching for any possibility of a joke, a catch; his breathing quickens as his gaze flickers over the rest of you, taking in your knees pressed together and your hands entwined above them.

He reaches out with his free hand and slowly, delicately cradles your face. His skin is callused where his thumb strokes your cheek. Slowly, as if this was a dream he didn't want to wake from, he dips his head toward you until he is only a breath away.

“That's never gonna happen, Mos.” The words hang in the space between you for a heartbeat, an eternity. Frankie's gaze drops to your mouth for an instant; you feel the glance zip through you with a physical certainty. One of you must lean forward, or both of you- but in the next moment, without any movement you're aware of, your lips meet.

If either of you had been unsure earlier, you weren't now. Frankie kisses you like you're the air he needs to breathe; your free hand clutches a fistful of his t-shirt in an effort to pull him even closer.

His lips are improbably soft compared to his pilots' hands. You lightly run your tongue along them and his mouth opens for you, warm and welcoming. Frankie lets out a muffled groan as he tastes you, his hand shifting back to grip the nape of your neck. A needy sound scrapes the back of your throat at the feeling, the discovery of how much you trust his hands there, and fuck, you realize- you’re in even deeper than you thought.

But as suddenly as it had started, it stops. Frankie pulls back just far enough for the two of you to look at each other. Your ragged breathing mingles in the space between you. A breeze outside ripples the bottom of the blanket-door, the cool air a welcome contrast to your heated skin.

Through the overwhelming desire hazing your thoughts, you realize you're still holding hands. You glance down your lap and laugh a little, easing some of the tension. Squeezing his hand, you look back up at him. He's smiling too, despite the fact that his torso is still twisted toward you, straining to be close to you.

“Are you...okay?” you venture.

“Never better,” he answers, almost absently. He disentangles your hands to rest his flat on your bare thigh, his thumb stroking the skin, and you close your eyes at the touch. That such a small motion could wash through your whole body, make you hollow with want...when you open your eyes again, Frankie is looking at you with such intensity it steals your breath. “I just want to be sure that you're okay. With this. Us.”

Gently holding his hand in place against your thigh, you shift your bottom half so it aligns with the top half of you, facing him. Tentatively, you rest your hands on Frankie's leg so as to still be touching him. “This isn't just about today, you know? What happened today may have...triggered it, but this isn't a new feeling. I want you, Frankie. I care about you.” You look him in the eye at the last sentence, praying you've said the right thing.

But oh, have you- because Frankie looks like he wants to devour you whole. “Fuck,” he growls, and surges into you, his mouth crashing into yours. He wraps an arm around your waist, bending you backward while hauling you against his body, which now kneels over yours.

Instinctively you throw your arms around him, clinging to his shoulders as he holds you above the mattress. Heat surges through you at such a blatant demonstration of Frankie's strength, especially as his lips continue to move along your jaw and his teeth tug on your earlobe. “No more words,” he rasps, and that's all the warning you get before he's crawling the rest of the way up the bed, one arm holding you to him the entire time. Your feet scramble to help propel yourself along with him.

You've felt tantalizing brushes of Frankie’s muscles before, and now his every motion introduces the same tortuously brief sensations. When he finally lowers you to the bed his body chases yours, pressing himself into you, and you both groan aloud, finally able to give into the desire to sink into each other.

There's a dull thud and the sound of liquid sloshing as the tequila bottle is knocked off the bed, but Frankie seems to have only one thing on his mind. He is everywhere at once while you writhe beneath him; his teeth sink into your shoulder as he sucks possessive marks there, his hands span your hips and slide up your skin in a way that has you seeing stars.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you gasp, and he hums, dark and approving, from where his nose is tracing patterns down your belly.

“I like you saying my name, querida.” His breath is hot on your skin as he presses kisses up your ribs, steadily rucking up your shirt. He's probably already guessed that you aren't wearing a bra: you never do when the team is officially off-duty, a question that was once asked and quickly settled the first time it came up, in a camp much like this one.

You spare a thought as to if you should feel self-conscious that you're also not wearing underwear. After spending so much time sweating in jungles, you like to let things breathe when you can. You didn't plan for this to be happening tonight.

But then you imagine Frankie's reaction when he discovers your single bottom layer, and you decide not to worry.

You're lured out of your thoughts by Frankie's voice, coaxing, asking: “Take this off for me, dulzura?”

Barely a glance down at his beseeching eyes has you moving with impossible eagerness. You half sit up to oblige him, thinking that you would do just about anything with him sounding like that. His voice as rough as his hands and just as tangible against your skin, just as capable of inciting the slickness between your thighs.

You pull your shirt over your head, arching your back a little more than strictly necessary for him. Your nipples harden as they're exposed to the air, exposed to him- because Frankie is staring, his lips parting like he's already imagining them being on you.

You give in to the urge to plunge your hands into his hair, running the soft strands between your fingers and then tugging, reminding him that he can do more than imagine. His eyes snap to your face and you have half a second to register their wicked gleam before he's on you. His hands grace your breasts first, callused fingers as capable directing your body as they are his machines. You wonder if it's the tequila or his touch that has your head spinning so- his mouth warms you better than any liquor, and the slide of his tongue on your nipples makes you cry out.

Your hands scrabble at him during his ministrations, determined to wreck him as thoroughly as he’s wrecking you. You roll your hips into his thigh, wedged between your own, but any thoughts beyond repeating that single motion fly out of your head when you feel the hard length of his arousal. You rake your nails down his back- gently at first- but the guttural noise he makes when you do convinces you to do it again, harder. He shudders above you, and when you continue downward to squeeze his ass, he exhales shakily.

“Fuck me, querida.” Frankie sits up, his weight pinning your legs, rendering you unable to  continue tormenting him.

“That’s the idea,” you say cheekily, before your jaw falls slack at the sight of him yanking his shirt over his head by the neck. He chuckles at the look on your face.

“You were saying something, Mosquito?” he quips, bending down to kiss you again. You both gasp at the sensation of your bare skin meeting. His kiss is searing, claiming, and you can’t get enough. How had you not given in to this before now? Every inch of him, every sound he makes, is familiar- you’ve gotten used to catching glimpses of him out in the field; you’ve heard him spill endearments and sweet sounds in your ear on the dance floor after one too many rounds (no matter that neither of you ever brought it up the next morning). But now, with the world tilted sideways and all your senses tuned to him at once- every sensation is utterly new, and you want them all.

You want Frankie to feel them too; you wrap your arms around him, caressing newly exposed skin as he sighs into your mouth. Your hands slip beneath his shorts to stroke the divots of his hip bones, but before you can reach for the maddening hardness between them he stops you, tearing his mouth from yours with a snarl.

“Not yet, dulzura,” he says. You've never seen his eyes so hooded with lust, the meaningful smirk playing on his lips. “Ladies first.”

Fuck, you’ve never been so turned on in your life. You whimper helplessly as his hands and mouth descend to the waistband of your shorts. Just barely coherent, you lift your hips so he can slide them off- and watch the smugness vanish from his expression.

“You’re not wearing- were you?” Frankie looks dumbfounded, his voice hoarse.

You almost laugh. As if you’d had a chance to slip off your panties without him seeing since you arrived? “I wasn’t, no. It’s an occasional habit.” It’s your turn smirk at him, broadly, as his expression immediately goes hazy, imagining the implications of that.

You squirm a little where you lie, your shorts pulled down just enough to reveal your sex. Laying there mostly naked, your bottom half restrained, you can already feel tension coiling in your core. Frankie’s attention focuses again at your movement. Everything feels hypersensitive against your skin: the thin sheets beneath you, Frankie’s knuckles on your thighs where he still grips your shorts. Even his gaze as he drags it down your body, coming to rest on where he’s just exposed.

He tugs your shorts down and over your feet. Sliding his hands back up you slowly, he eases your legs apart, pressing kisses as he goes. Each one warm and deliberate, soft and slightly ticklish from his facial hair. As he reaches the apex of your thighs his tongue traces hot lines toward where you want him- teasing, warning. He breathes your name, and your eyes meet.

You’ve been watching him make his way up your body, enthralled by the sight. You never imagined that sex with Frankie would be like this (to the point that you let yourself imagine sex with Frankie at all)- equal parts silly and smoldering, with an aura of reverence around the whole thing, like neither of you ever dreamed this would really happen. Now he refocuses on what’s closer to him: you, soaked by the evidence of just how much you want him. He circles your entrance with one thumb, testing, and spreads the wetness up to your clit. You gasp and buck your hips as he continues this circuit, back and forth, for several seconds.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan in a higher pitch, an unspoken plea for more.

In the time it takes you to register the satisfied smile and promising glint in his eyes, he’s lowered his head and licked a long, hot line directly up your center. Then he hooks his thumbs into you, spreading you open, and does it again.

“Fuck!” you swear and pant and grip the mattress as Frankie’s tongue works you, like nobody you’ve ever been with. You feel pinned down with the way he holds you open and you love it, like you’re for his pleasure and not the other way around. Like he could do this all night but oh, you’d never last that long. You have to remind yourself not to moan so loud as he sucks on your clit; the thin wooden walls of this hut feel too small for the feeling overtaking you as Frankie licks into you, fucking you with his tongue.

Thin walls, thin walls- “Frankie!” you cry desperately, all the muscles in your body contracting as his mouth brings you to the edge-

“Yes, querida please, let go for me,” he urges, and his rough, low voice combined with his mouth latching back onto you is all it takes for you to come, hips rearing, your body shuddering under him as pleasure pulses through you. With eager, steady strokes of his tongue, Frankie draws out your orgasm like he’s the one who never wants it to end.

As the high gradually passes, you move one hand to rest in his hair. “Stop,” you say weakly. You tug gently, but otherwise don’t move from where you lie with your eyes closed, still catching your breath.

You hear him chuckle; you don’t even want to think about how smug he probably looks. Frankie presses a last kiss to your inner thigh and then crawls up your body, pressing his still-clothed hips into yours.

“Is that all you can take, Mosquito?” he teases.

Instinctively you lift your hips to meet him- and your eyes fly open as his cock lines up with your center. Frankie lets out possibly the most erotic sound you’ve ever heard, a cut-off, huffing groan, and his eyes flutter shut as his face contorts.

Your teeth sink into your lower lip at the sight, and the feel of his length (because it is a length, you think dizzily) pressing at your entrance, even encased in shorts, jolts you right back to life, thrumming with want. Your lips curve into a smile. “If that’s your reaction while you still have pants on, Catfish, I’m not sure you can take much more,” you drawl.

He grumbles something unintelligible in Spanish, lowering his head to nip at your neck. His hardness slides against you deliberately as you giggle and then gasp. When one large hand grips your hip you whimper, and Frankie’s husky voice sounds in your ear. “Those are the sounds I want to be hearing right now, dulzura.”

His commanding tone makes you flush with need, and you whimper again, wondering how this man could possibly give you so much bliss and still have you aching for more. You tug at his shorts. “Take these off.”

“Oh, you’re giving the orders now, huh?” Frankie raises an eyebrow, but slides off the bed to oblige. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband, and you suddenly find it hard to focus on anything else.

“Well, I can’t let you have all the fun,” you say, your mouth forming the words while all your attention is on his hips, the incremental amounts of skin being revealed as he slowly draws down his shorts.

Your mouth goes dry as the proud length of him springs free, his shorts finally falling to the floor. His cock looks just as long as it felt pressed against you, the tip gleaming with moisture, and you feel yourself clench at the thought of taking him inside you. You run your eyes back up him, following the trail of hair to the dusting over his chest, the span of his shoulders. Lost in your admiration of his beautiful, soft, strong body, you’re almost startled when you hear him speak.

“Like what you see?” Frankie’s gruff voice draws your attention back to his face. You feel a pang of surprise at the trepidation there, and you wonder what that eyebrow means this time. Is he...shy?

A smile fights to bloom on your face, but you hold it back, just for a moment. “Oh, do I,” you purr, shifting smoothly to stand in front of him. The wooden floor beneath your bare feet is rough but not splintery. He watches you move, lust darkening his gaze as he rakes it over you again.

“Francisco Morales,” you say. Your grin flowers fully across your face then, and you try to channel every ounce of suppressed affection you ever felt as you aim it at him.

A shy smile flickers across his face as he absorbs your affection; he has the gall to look almost surprised by it. Your exasperating, wonderful man. Thinking about everything that led you here makes your eyes feel hot again; the idea that he might have been gone without you ever telling him, showing him, what he really means to you.

You step forward and wrap your arms around him, burrowing your face into his chest. Frankie stifles a gasp as your hips press into him, but returns the gesture, understanding. He strokes your hair with one hand.

“It’s okay, querida. I’m here. I’ll always be here,” he vows softly.

You tilt your head up at his declaration, blinking watery eyes. He gently catches your chin and lowers his lips to yours. You sigh-moan into his kiss, letting it melt your worries away, stretching up on your toes to meet it equally. Frankie’s tongue is hot in your mouth as it intensifies; your knees feel weak. Finally you tear away from him with a gasp, breathing heavily.

“You okay, Mos?” Frankie’s hand rests on the back of your neck again. After that kiss, it makes it even more difficult to think clearly, but you’re more okay than you’ve ever been.

“Never better.” With a smile, you echo his words from earlier. Your hands wander down the muscles of his back, coming to settle on his now bare ass. You look at him from under your lashes and bite your lip.

He answers your look with an equally sensual smile, his hands caressing down your spine to mirror your position. Thick fingers massage your rear before gripping firmly, fitting your hips to his. Your eyes flutter shut. Frankie’s body slots against your own perfectly, all its curves and contours molding to yours like pieces of a puzzle box sliding smoothly into place, holding something secret and wonderful within.

All the nerves in your body zero in on the hard length pressed between you. Frankie’s cock burns with heat, and you can feel every ridge and vein where it rasps against your skin.

“Dulzura,” Frankie says, his mustache tickling your ear. “How do you feel about taking this back to the bed?”

You giggle and nod your consent, eyes shining. Frankie groans in relief and bundles you backward. Your back hits the mattress and he climbs atop you, your limbs tangling, kissing and caressing with mounting fervor. Your back arches and a breathy cry scrapes free as his cock drags through your sensitive folds. Frankie lets out a guttural moan at the feeling, clutching at you like he can’t get close enough.

“Frankie...’Fish,” you gasp, through the chaos of your thoughts. You have just enough willpower to pull back and meet his gaze. “Flip us over?”

Desire flares in his eyes. In a blurringly quick move, he spins you, and then you’re atop him, the base of his cock nestled against your sex. Frankie groans again at the sensation, seeming beyond words. He palms your thighs, your breasts. You feel short of breath, consumed by the need sweeping through you.

You wrap your hand around Frankie’s cock, stroking firmly. He makes a choked sound and his hips buck up from the bed.

“Mos,” he grits out. “Please.”

All you can do is nod. Rising up on your knees slightly, you position yourself over him, grasping his cock and running the tip of him through your wetness. Thighs trembling, you line him up at your entrance.

Frankie reaches for your free hand and entwines your fingers, prompting you to look up and meet his gaze. His hand squeezes yours in a wordless question.

Your heart swells, and you feel impossibly fond as you smile at him. Your Frankie. Even as far gone as you both are, he’s checking on you. Making you feel safe. In answer, you lower yourself down onto him.

The effect is swift and immediate. Your moans are loud enough to wake the stars; you forget everything but each other’s pleasure, the absolute euphoric rightness of this feeling.

Then you clap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Shhh!” you remind him giddily.

Frankie looks utterly gone, his lips parted, awe and adoration on his face. The hair on his forehead is damp with sweat. “Move for me, querida,” he says, and the strained, pleading rasp in his voice shoots heat straight to your core.

You set a steady rhythm on him, your eyes fluttering shut as Frankie’s cock fills you, stretches you so deliciously you can already feel a familiar pressure building. The sinful ease with which he slides in and out of you is a testament to just how wet you are. His fingers stroke and squeeze your flesh in time with his vocal gasps, and when they brush your cheek, you open your eyes.

“Fuck,” you mumble. You’ve always thought Frankie was beautiful, but this…the muscles in his arms flex and pull through your movements. The intensity in his dark eyes as they drink in every inch of you, like he still can’t believe this happening. The restraint he’s showing, letting you set the pace, is evident in the tension you can feel in his body beneath you. It makes you grind your hips down, squeeze him, wanting to push past his cautiousness.

Frankie chokes back a shout at your change in rhythm, throwing his head back and exposing the length of his neck. Immediately you lean down to trace it with your tongue, relishing the taste of salt on his skin. He swears.

He grasps the back of your neck for the third time that night, and you whimper, ecstasy thrilling down your spine. “Please, Frankie,” you breathe, not even knowing what you’re asking for.

“Yes,” he answers roughly. He kisses you and then tugs you back upright. This time he thrusts up into you, hard, and the sound of skin slapping on skin fills the air. You cry out, needy and desperate, and Frankie growls in approval.

“Fuck, yes, Mos. Want to hear you, want you to feel good…” his praise stutters, some of it in Spanish now as his pace quickens.

Only Frankie could make you feel this good, and you make sure he knows it. He grips your hips firmly enough to bruise, but you don’t care; you want it, want him to mark you. Claim you, so there will never be any question about it again. You are his, completely.

“Frankie, my Frankie..” Pleas and praise tumble from your lips.

“Fuck, yeah.” Maybe he likes the idea of being yours, too, because he moans loudly in response. His palm splays against your side, slides across your skin until his thumb presses down on your clit.

Your nerves jolt. Fuck, you’re gonna come. Frankie’s thrusts speed up- had you said that out loud? Your breathing quickens; you can feel the tension rising in you as surely as a cresting wave.

“Mos,” Frankie gasps. “Can I..?” His eyes flicker to where your bodies connect.

You understand his meaning and your eyes widen. “Yes!” And the idea of him spilling himself inside you, the sudden force of his thrusts, the pressure of his thumb- the wave breaks.

Blinding pleasure crashes through you, a roaring in your ears muffling everything else. Distantly you feel yourself shake and keen; your walls pulse around Frankie’s cock, and then a new heat fills you as his hips slam into yours and stay there, buried deep. He groans, long and low in his throat.

There’s a moment of stillness as you both recover, the only sound your heaving breaths. Feeling wobbly, you topple forward, catching yourself with your palms on Frankie’s chest. You let out a soft groan as aftershocks ebb though you, every nerve singing.

“...Mos,” Frankie murmurs, his eyes still closed.

“Mm,” you manage, words still beyond your abilities.

“That was fucking amazing,” he breathes out the words on a sigh. He releases your hips to cover your hands with his. His eyes open. “You’re fucking amazing,” he says with more strength.

You can feel yourself blush. “Frankie...” You duck your head.

“Uh-uh, dulzura,” he scolds. He tips your chin back up. “You know I’ve always thought that about you.” He holds your gaze, his clear-eyed certainty so unlike the careful distance he kept before.

You lean down and press a kiss to his heart before snuggling into him, nose against his neck. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, and you savor the intimacy and connectedness of it. “I know,” you respond. “I’m just sorry I never did anything about it.”

Frankie strokes a soothing hand along your back. The air is close and humid after your exertions, and your skin is faintly damp with sweat. “Nothing to be sorry for. I never did anything either,” he points out.

You chuckle, a bit nervously. “Well, we’ve done something now.”

You can feel his laugh rumble through his chest, comforting, like the reverse of a cat purring on your lap. “No kidding.”

You wait, sensing he has more to say.

“Querida,” he prompts softly. You lift your head to look at him. His hair is a mess, all sweat-damp curls, and though his face is serious, his eyes are as soft as you’ve ever seen them. Your heart squeezes.

“I care about you too. You know our lives are crazy, and dangerous, so I was scared to say anything. Scared you didn’t feel the same. But...I can’t go back to you not knowing. I’m all in, Mos. If you want this, so do I.”

Frankie’s face is open, vulnerable. How could he possibly imagine that you’d want to go back? You shake your head at him. “Well, there’s no way I can top that speech, ‘Fish.” It feels like he’s holding his breath. You level an exasperated, affectionate look at him. “Of course I want this. Don’t you ever think otherwise.”

Before you’re even done speaking he’s kissing you, his lips and tongue saying what words cannot. As it deepens you shift forward, and Frankie’s cock slips out of you, causing you both to flinch and then laugh. His face crinkles adorably, and the moment makes you indescribably happy- the kind of contentment that comes from realizing you know exactly what you want. And right now, it’s this perfect, effortless bond you have with Frankie.

He gives you a shy smile. You lay your head down on his chest, overcome by a wave of satisfied tiredness. Idly you trace shapes across his abdomen with a finger while you speak. “You know, Catfish, your chest is much comfier than my bed. Mind if just I sleep here?”

He chuckles, and you think hearing Frankie’s laugh through his chest might be your new favorite sound. His arms, still wrapped around you, squeeze you lightly. “Please; stay.” He reaches out and clicks off the lantern. Despite the darkness, you get the feeling that both of you are still thinking, absorbing everything that just happened, but gradually your thoughts lull towards sleep.

Until Frankie’s voice slides through the dark: “I can’t believe you weren’t wearing underwear.”

---

A/N: Thank you for reading!! This is the first fic I’ve ever written, pls be nice. Fun fact, I originally intended for this to be a Frankie x Reader x Santi fic, but then decided I was getting too into the Frankie x Reader feels to do that. HOWEVER, if anyone is interested and even if no one asks lol, I might still write a threesome AU of this scenario

[lifblogs]

Whumpay 2021: Day 14 - Slammed Into Wall / Forced To Their Feet

Anything for Revenge

read on ao3 2354 words graphic depictions of violence, star wars, the clone wars, whump, hurt!ahsoka tano, torture, interrogation, force inhibitor, fighting, collars, biting, force mind probe, broken bones, rescue

“Where is Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Ahsoka struggled against the grip on her throat. When she managed to get some air in, she spat at Darth Maul, “Like I’d ever tell you.”

He snarled at her, and slammed her into the wall.

“Tell me!” he screeched.

When she looked into his bloodshot eyes with their yellow irises, she didn’t see something entirely sane there. She’d heard about what had happened with Darth Maul. In fact, Obi-Wan had specifically given her training sessions to avoid Darth Maul’s fate. He’d taught her the very move he’d done to slice him in half and what she could do to avoid it.

Yet he was still alive, driven by anger and hate, feeding off of the dark side of the Force. It was no wonder that he wasn’t all there. Part of him was now purely darkness and a brimming need for revenge.

Ahsoka tried to kick at him, but his reach was too long, and she was too short. He dropped her, and then he was the one who kicked her. With the metal of his foot, it was all too easy for two of her ribs to give in and crack. The air slammed out of her in a strangled scream. Before she could barely register the pain, tears blurring her vision, he grabbed her and forced her to her feet.

“Where is he!”

“You… need… to learn… some manners!” she snarked.

“You don’t understand. You don’t understand!” he raved. “I need him. Kenobi, yes. Kenobi. I need Kenobi.”

“So you can… kill him?”

Darth Maul’s madness seemed to go from heated to cool, and his breaths and erratic movements slowed as he met her gaze. She didn’t dare turn her head away, not even as the darkness she saw in those eyes made her shudder.

“Torture him. Torture him. Make him understand!”

“Oh, I think…” Ahsoka coughed, and her chest screamed. “I think he understands enough.”

That was when he threw her, and she landed on her broken ribs. It felt like they jabbed into something inside her, but they didn’t move again, and she supposed it was only the pressure that kept her stable, that didn’t let her start bleeding to death.

“No one understands! No one! Do you know what it was like, living for years amongst rubbish and filth, knowing that you were one and the same? Knowing that the pain you felt would never go away, and it was the fault of one being in the whole universe?”

Ahsoka tried crawling away, and he stepped on her back. She screamed.

“I will make Kenobi understand. Yes, before the end, he will know my pain. But first, I have to find him.”

He rolled her over with a fierce kick and shove of his foot, her side throbbing.

“Where is he!” he screamed, standing over Ahsoka.

She just bared her teeth in a snarl, letting him see her fangs.

“Fine,” he cried. “Fine. I’ll use you as bait. Let him come to you.”

“He’ll… He’ll never fall for it,” she gasped out.

“So you’re saying he and your master would sooner abandon you than offer help?”

“If they were smart.”

~~~

“Anakin, why do you always have to do something stupid?” Obi-Wan asked as Anakin locked onto the tracking beacon attached to Ahsoka’s comms. “If she truly is captured by Maul, he’s going to know we’re coming. She’s bait. And you plan on just landing, and walking right in there?”

Anakin eyed his screen, seeing that his fighter was getting closer to Dathomir, where Ahsoka was being held.

“Yep,” he said.

“In all the Sith hells, why do I listen to you?”

Anakin joked, even while he didn’t feel it, worry for Ahsoka clouding all else, “You care about me too much.”

“Yes, and I’m afraid that’s going to get me killed.”

A sensor popped up on Anakin’s screen, and R2 beeped at him.

“We’re within the planet’s gravitational pull.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Obi-Wan muttered.

“Nonsense, Master. This is where things get exciting.”

Their ships began to descend, Anakin picking up speed with R2’s help, and Obi-Wan following suit. He heard a mutter of “kriff, I hate flying,” and then he was saying, “Your definition of exciting is problematic.”

Anakin ignored him. He had to save Ahsoka. He knew Darth Maul wasn’t all there. And he could scarcely imagine what he would do to her, what he might already be doing to her.

~~~

“You know,” Ahsoka forced out, struggling, “I’m not a fan… of necklaces.”

Darth Maul just grinned at her, and still approached with the collar. “Too bad,” he sighed, seeming genuinely sad for a few moments. “I do like this one. If you try using the Force while this is on you, it’ll simply redirect the energy on the negative plane, cancelling it out.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes, even as she backed up against the rock wall.

“Oh, so you do have a brain,” she muttered.

Then she couldn’t breathe, and her throat was being crushed. Eyes watering, vision spotting, she managed to make out the image of Darth Maul in front of her, hand reaching out to her, fingers curved with violent intent. She tried to claw at the feeling, at that force choking her, but it was no use. Her next thought was to combat him through the Force, to try and pry him away from her. But his will strengthened, and all her air was cut off entirely.

He approached her, metal collar in hand. Ahsoka tried to struggle, but his grip held her fast, and in no time at all, it was around her neck. Once it was locked, he released her, and she collapsed to the cave floor.

“Let me go,” Ahsoka croaked, ashamed that such words had even left her.

“Not. Just. Yet.”

Despite knowing it was no use, some innate survival instinct gnawed at Ahsoka for her to try and pry the collar off. It was cold against her skin, and heavy. She was only glad it wasn’t a shock collar, but it was still no use trying to get it off. It was impenetrable, it would seem. And with it on, she could reach out for the Force, but it was as if it wasn’t actually there. She tried to use it again, to push and pull the collar off of her.

Her head started to pound and her vision blurred with the effort. Or maybe that was just from the broken ribs.

She let out a weak cry, and collapsed, breathless.

“You’re lucky I didn’t go with the chemical collar,” he told her, back to her now, so he could look out at the dark red sky.

His hands were clasped behind his back, but still within easy reach of his vicious lightsaber.

“That one would’ve done some damage, and would have made you feel cut off from the Force entirely.” He sighed. “I heard it’s quite a... lonely feeling.”

Ahsoka just glared. There was no point in talking to him.

“Do you think they’re coming for you?” he asked her.

She still said nothing.

Another sigh left him, and he turned back to her. “Fine, since you’re being so helpful, let’s try another tactic, just in case they don’t show up.”

“Torture me all you want,” Ahsoka panted out, trying to push herself up and away from him. Pain stabbed her and she bit her bottom lip, wincing. “You’ll… You’ll never get anything out of me.”

“I’m so happy to know that you think that.”

Suddenly, he was kneeling by her. Too close, too close! Her instincts were screaming that she was in danger, that everything was wrong. The adrenaline already running through her system to combat the pain of her injuries increased tenfold. His hand was before her face now. And she felt him. Oh Force!

Her head slammed back against the rock wall, and he started prying into her, looking, looking…

Ahsoka tried to fight him off, both physically, and with the Force. He took a few seconds to grab her wrists and pin them above her head. He straddled her, holding her down. And then he was going after her mind again.

Ahsoka screamed, and she couldn’t stop.

~~~

Anakin nearly crashed his fighter in his rush to get to the planet’s surface. Before it stopped sliding against the rocks and nearly crashed into a bare tree, he was leaping up out of the cockpit, lightsaber in hand.

There was suffering, darkness. Ahsoka needed his help.

“Anakin, what in the galaxy are you doing?” Obi-Wan cried as he rushed to get out of his fighter and join Anakin, who was already taking off at a sprint.

“She’s in trouble, master!”

Obi-Wan caught up to him, but didn’t stop him. They ran towards that writhing, screaming darkness. And it wasn’t long before they heard Ahsoka’s voice rent the air.

The sound, and the adrenaline that it sent rushing through Anakin, stopped him in his tracks. He lost all focus and discipline. Oh Force, he couldn’t breathe. What was that monster doing to her? Could he save her? Ahsoka, Ahsoka!

Obi-Wan grabbed his bicep.

“Come on, she needs us.”

They set off again, drawing closer to a cave within the walls of a mountain.

“That’s what I was… trying to tell you,” Anakin got out.

They neared the cave, the sky darkening around them like red poison, and there they saw him. Darth Maul was getting up off of a beaten and collared Ahsoka, looking absolutely delighted.

He went out to meet them. Obi-Wan and Anakin paused, drawing their lightsabers and igniting them.

“What did you do to her!” Anakin demanded.

“She was being very… hmm… obstinate,” Maul said, casually walking back and forth before her like she was some piece of prey he’d caught. He waved his hilt around nonchalantly. But even as he did that, Anakin could practically sense him vibrating, and his crazed eyes kept darting towards Obi-Wan. “But I got what I needed in the end.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan asked, stepping forward, dropping into one of his forms. “And what’s that?”

“You!”

Darth Maul’s red lightsaber ignited, and he charged at them.

~~~

Ahsoka was barely aware of the fight happening just outside the cave, barely aware of the flashes of dueling light, and the violent hum of energy. She could barely lift her head up, or even keep her eyes open.

But she stayed conscious, her head hurting and feeling all wrong.

The blue lightsabers worked in tandem against the red, and she saw that Darth Maul was being pushed back. And back.

And back.

Force, he was right there!

Quick as lightning, he whirled, and grabbed her. She cried out, injuries jarring, stabbing pressure rending her body. He held her close, and had the lightsaber against her neck.

“Kenobi,” he hissed, “surrender yourself, or she dies.”

Ahsoka half expected Obi-Wan’s characteristic snark, but it didn’t come. He lowered his weapon, stepping into a relaxed stance. He switched off his lightsaber.

“No, no!” Ahsoka cried.

“Obi-Wan, what are you doing?” Anakin demanded.

Obi-Wan handed his lightsaber to Anakin, and said, “The right thing. Alright, Maul. You can have me, do what you wish with me. Just keep your promise. Let. Her. Go.”

Tension thickened the humid air, and Ahsoka could barely breathe. Or maybe that was the broken ribs.

She felt vibrations alight in Darth Maul’s chest, vibrations that rose up into his throat, and left his mouth as fierce, deranged laughter.

“Oh, I never said I’d let her go.”

Sensing what was about to happen, not even thinking about it, Ahsoka leaned forward and bit his arm as hard as she could. Blood was drawn, and he dropped his lightsaber that he had been about to use to slice into her, torture her in front of her family.

He screamed, and Ahsoka grimaced against his bitter blood.

He threw her off, and the landed in a heap at Anakin’s feet, blood dribbling from her mouth.

Darth Maul lunged for her, for Obi-Wan, and Anakin tossed Obi-Wan his lightsaber.

The fighting renewed. Ahsoka managed to drag herself away, not wanting to be used in such a way again. Obi-Wan had been about to give himself up for her?

She wasn’t worth it. Not in the sense that her life didn’t have meaning, but in the sense that she was a Padawan, and Obi-Wan was a master. He had far more experience, and training, and wisdom. The lives he could save surely far surpassed hers. Attachment was wrong, yet, despite knowing that, Ahsoka just wanted to be back home on Coruscant, and have Anakin hold her hand.

The fight escalated, Anakin receiving a burn on his thigh, and Obi-Wan across his back. But they kept fighting, despite the blood, and the sweat. They were determined.

Darth Maul fell back, and it wasn’t long before he was retreating.

Anakin was about to clip his lightsaber to his belt, but Obi-Wan said, “No, after him! We need his ship to get Ahsoka out of here.”

The chase began.

Ahsoka, despite all her training, whimpered, and reached out for them as they left.

~~~

Long minutes passed before a ship was landing next to her. Obi-Wan was helping her up.

“You’ll be alright, little one.”

Usually she hated anyone talking to her like she was still a child, but she allowed it just this once.

“Artoo? Come in, Artoo!” Anakin said into his commlink. “I need you to pilot a ship back to Coruscant. Ahsoka’s too hurt to fly it herself.”

Beeps sounded from the other end.

Anakin lowered his wrist, saying to them, “He’s on his way.”

Then, he was rushing to Ahsoka, and his hands shook as he held them out, unsure where to touch her.

She let herself fall into his arms, and she began to cry.

“It’s okay, Ahsoka,” he said, voice tight with pain and relief. “Everything’s going to be alright. You’re with us now.”

Ahsoka nodded, and felt Obi-Wan start to disengage the collar on her neck as Anakin held her.

Safe. She was safe.

[shy-violet-soul]

Puppy Love

Summary: When Uncle Dean takes his first solo niece-sitting gig, what could possibly go wrong? Characters: Dean Winchester, Castile, Sam Winchester x reader, & OC Erica from a story written by @kittenofdoomage titled “Rainbows in the Sun” Word Count: 2,600 Warnings: none! Tooth rotting fluff

A/N: I had the privilege and delight of reading @kittenofdoomage Supernatural series, “Rainbows in the Storm”, on Patreon. If you’re not a patron of hers, you are missing out! I quickly fell in love with this amazing story - her characterization and nail-biting cliffhangers kept me hooked the whole way through. But one little sentence in the Epilogue had me laughing, and my imagination ran away with me. This is for you, @kittenofdoomage !

Image found on https://wallpapersafari.com/w/kn7fwH

Dean Winchester didn’t brag about his assets often. But he had zero problem with his pride at the oft given praises his mouth had earned from the ladies. His lips had brought delight to many a babe. The current babe in his arms was no different.

The fact that she was four months old, and his niece, didn’t detract from his pride one iota.

Crossing his eyes, Dean happily blew raspberries continuously as he leaned down before smacking noisy kisses under her chin. Erica’s baby giggles burst forth as she waved her hands, and Dean had to do it again.

“Thhhhbbbffft,” he wagged his face side to side as he leaned down, letting his nose rub against her tiny chest tickingly before diving back under one round cheek and smacking more kisses. Dimples winked up at Uncle Dee, Erica’s still-baby-blue eyes gazing up at him with delight, and he fell a little more in love yet again.

“You’re adorable,” came his matter of fact observation. Erica grinned her agreement. “Good genes, darlin’. You got your mama’s nose, and I’m pretty sure your killer Winchester smile from your uncle, not your daddy.” With the ease of long practice, Dean swiped the burp cloth from his shoulder and dabbed at the drool on her tiny chin. “Do me a favor and smile a lot. Like me, not like Mr. Grumpy Pants Daddy.”

Delicate eyebrows knitted together as Erica cooed seriously. Dean nodded proudly. “That’s my girl. Now, your mama said not to worry about your bath. I think it’s because she doesn’t think I can handle it. You and I both know that’s crap, right?” Erica chewed intently on her fists in answer. “Right. So gimme one more giggle and then it’s ‘Rubber Ducky, You’re the One’. Here we go!”

One more time, Dean raspberried down, down to Erica’s sweet smiling face. Just as he started growling under her chin, her squeal changed into something weird. Several things crammed into Dean’s brain in about a millisecond.

One - Erica sounded like she yipped. Like, puppy yipped. But that couldn’t be. He was wrong.

Two - her soft, slightly drool-slimy chin was suddenly different soft. Like fluffy furry soft. Which also couldn't be. He had to be wrong.

Three - the chubby little fists she loved to chew on suddenly swiped claws against his face. Like, claws. Puppy claws. Which also so very much please couldn’t be.

Please, oh please, Dean wanted to be wrong.

Post millisecond, Dean yanked himself upright and felt his stomach drop straight to Rowena’s throne room.

A chubby, fluffy wolf pup - adorable, yes, but a freakin’ wolf pup - lay wriggling in his lap, snout wreathed in puppy smiles as it waved its paws up at him.

Dumbfounded, Dean sat frozen for a moment. He slowly stood up, holding the pup at arms length before gently setting it on the couch. Then, he frantically searched under the throw pillows at each end, under your blanket tossed over the back, even under the couch itself for his suddenly missing niece. No human baby surfaced.

His frantic gaze fell on the wolf pup. It lounged right where he’d laid it, studying him curiously. Erica’s cute lady-bug onesie and leggings stretched and gapped in equal measures around fluffy legs and paws, and the red barrette he’d painstakingly affixed into his human niece’s hair earlier sat holding a hank of creamy-brown fur straight up between its ears.

“Oh, crap”

At his whisper, the wolf pup smiled happily and launched itself at him. His reflexes kicked in and his arms scooped the little bundle against his chest, falling backwards to the floor. The pup wiggled its way up his chest and slopped a lick against his chin before gazing into his eyes lovingly.

Gazed with Erica’s still-baby-blue eyes.

“Son of a bitch!” Tucking pup-Erica under one arm, Dean dove for his cell phone. “Cas!” Pup-Erica playful clawed and nipped at his phone as he frantically tried to call Sam. No answer, straight to voicemail. Same thing for your phone. This was bad.

“CAS!”

“Hello, Dean.”

The hunter didn’t even hesitate, just thrust the pup at the angel.

“Fix this!” he bellowed, pup-Erica wiggling happily in his grasp at the sight of her other uncle. Castiel tilted his head as he stared at the pup.

“Hello, Erica. Are you enjoying your first shift?” She yipped as Castiel took her in his arms, slopping kiss after kiss on his face. “I’m happy to see you, too.”

Dean had braced his hands on his legs as he leaned down, head between his knees as he wheezed in air. Cas stared at him quizzically.

“Dean, are you alright?”

He raised a hand, wordlessly asking for a moment. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Or a stroke. Maybe an explosive ulcer,” he croaked out.

Nonplussed, Cas pressed two fingers against Dean’s forehead. “I detect none of these events occurring, Dean. Although your blood pressure is highly elevated, and you appear to be generating a migraine. I can’t heal that until your heart rate slows down. You should try to relax.”

Dean’s hands fisted onto Cas’s trench coat collars, pulling himself up to standing to glare maniacally into his friend’s placid gaze.

“My niece is a dog, Cas! I’m not going to relax! I’m going to be murdered when they get back! Sam’s gonna...” His grip loosened as his thoughts zoomed to your reaction. “She’s going to chew me to kibble.” Horror trembled in his whisper as he dragged his hands over his face.

Sad, tiny whining begged for attention as a tentative paw patted at his arm. Still dazed beyond comprehension, Dean blinked down at the blue eyes staring woefully up at him. By sheer habit, Dean tucked the little one into his arms, warmth filling his chest when she snuggled into his shoulder - just like human-Erica did. The high-pitched whine echoed from her chest into a full-fledged howl that Dean would later recall as ridiculously cute. But now, his niece was sad and needed her uncle.

“It’s alright, ladybug, it’s alright. Look, Uncle Dee’s ok. Uncle Cas and me are gonna take care of you, don’t you worry.” Instinctively, Dean moved to pat her back before switching gears to gently scritching her ears. “Cas, can you talk to her?”

“While I can speak to lycans in their wolf form, as a juvenile, she still has not learned words. She’s upset right now, but calming. However, she has forgotten in the urgency of the moment that she’s hungry.”

Dean’s eyes closed as this new challenge presented itself. When Erica whined again, cuddling closer, he snapped to attention.

“Alright. We’ve got a highly experienced hunter and an angel. We got this. We can take care of one baby wolfed-out lycan.”

Two destroyed bottle nipples and a spilled canister of powdered formula later, Dean wasn’t sure they had this at all. Cas currently sat at the kitchen table with Erica, dipping his fingers into a bowl of formula and letting her lick and suck to her heart’s content. However, the going was slow, so Dean was improvising plan B. He’d dug up one of his softest old tshirts and some of your hair ties. In moments, he had fashioned a teat that he hoped to kingdom come would work.

“Alight, Cas, give her here.” Frustrated and hungry, Erica growled as she tried to climb into the formula bowl, her nose and face liberally coated with the white liquid. Working in tandem, Cas started soaking the cloth teat in the formula while Dean wrapped his flannel shirt around the wriggling pup, using the sleeves to swaddle her still. Then, he cradled her in his elbow and mentally crossed his fingers. Erica nosed the soaked fabric curiously before giving a tentative lick, then a bit of a chomp. Two seconds later, she was sucking with gusto, tiny grunts of approval rumbling from her. When Dean pulled it away to resoak it, the pup was not impressed; demanding, squeaky barks let her uncles know to hurry it up! Both men chuckled as the feeding went on until Erica stopped sucking and just chewed.

“Good job, ladybug,” Dean praised as he unwound the flannel from about her. “Look at that fat little belly!” With a gentle touch, he tickled the soft pink skin, laughing again when she squirmed, panting happily. Dean handed her off to Cas while he snagged the bowl, carefully stepping over the drifts of powdered formula. “Gotta say, Cas, didn’t know you were so experienced with wolf baby care.”

“I once cared for a baby elephant who had been separated from his mother in the sub-Saharan plains. It’s pretty much the same thing.”

Water running as he washed the bowl, Dean sent a scoff over his shoulder at the angel.

“No, Cas. It really isn’t.” A pause as Dean fully turned to look at his friend. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

Dean’s eyes rolled so hard, they saw it from space. “The Duchess of Cambridge. Erica, you dumb ass!”

The angel looked down and glanced around him, his arms glaringly empty. “She’s not here.”

Dean’s left eyelid started twitching. Wasn’t that a symptom of a stroke? “I can see that. Why are you not holding her?”

“She wanted down.”

A faint cracking sound in his skull only faintly registered with Dean; probably a molar, but that was an issue for later. “She wanted down? That’s all you got? She wanted down?!” That migraine from earlier suddenly flared to life, and Dean nearly broke a bone in his scramble into the library.

“ERICA!!! Come to Uncle Dee, honey!” A cheerful yip and rhythmic claw clicking caught his ear, and Dean turned his head so quickly he gave himself a crick. Luck was on their side - Erica’s human baby clothes had hobbled wolf pup Erica, and her limping, lopping progress in their direction was pure cuteness. Dean hit his knees and swept her into his arms. “Ladybug, you can’t do that to your uncle! He’s an old man!” He pressed kiss after kiss to her wet nose, gratefully accepting her boisterous and slightly drooly puppy kisses. Even the one that went in his eyeball.

Sending Cas a glare of pure exasperation, he began wrestling the baby clothes off the wiggly bundle of fluff.

“Alright. We’ve survived two crises, I think the worst is behind us.”

All seriousness and brevity, Cas nodded as he straightened, scooping a small, leather-bound copy of A Hystori of Caledonian Monsters from the floor. The aged tome bore a surprising amount of chewing and puppy drool from the short amount of time of his niece’s unsupervised freedom.

“Agreed.”

- - - 2 hours later - - -

Sam grinned down at you dopily as you both trudged down the long hall from the garage. The long-overdue date hadn’t been what he’d originally planned. But when the waxing moon and wildflower-scented breeze had hit them both, candlelight and overpriced pasta didn’t seem near as appealing as sizzling sexy times in the back seat, burgers and fries and milkshakes from the drive through, and shifting to frolic in the tall, windswept grass of an open field.

The quiet of the bunker wasn’t terribly unsurprising; Uncle Dee was a veritable decibel defender when it came to his niece’s nap time. No baby girl of mine is growing up used to only four hours and calling that rest! he had scorned. The fact that the newborn was only sleeping four hours at a time anyway, and wasn’t his actual daughter, was resolutely ignored.

What was surprising was the carnage that greeted them. Library chairs laid on their sides in some type of corral. Erica’s baby toys rested in varying stages of repose or destruction. Burp clothes, towels, and receiving blankets were scattered, some whole, some slightly torn. An open bottle of baby shampoo slowly glugged its contents onto the table. Someone had attempted to hide some damaged lore books behind a lamp. And pillows - so many pillows - were everywhere, their feathery guts flung to every corner of the room.

Instantly on alert, Sam waved you to stay back as he drew his gun and began easing forward. Senses honed by years of battle didn’t pick up on any immediate threat, but the proof before him clearly spoke otherwise. When your hands fisted into his shirt, fingers trembling in sudden fear, he reached back to touch your back reassuringly.

“Dean?” he shouted questioningly. His voice echoed against the cavernous ceiling, but still no foe came at them. With a tentative touch, he nudged a tired pillow over, finding another damaged lore book beneath it. Sam gingerly grabbed it, lifting it up to squint at the mangled leather and paper.

“Are those…” you started haltingly, peering over his shoulder.

“They look like...tiny teeth marks.” You stared at Sam wordlessly before you both sprinted for the bedrooms. The nursery door banged against the wall loudly, and the occupants of the room flinched but didn’t stir beyond that.

One side of the crib was hanging haphazardly from its left-side screws, a blanket strangled in the slats. A stuffed tiger toy that you secretly hated lay with its head missing and cotton stuffing innards hanging out. No less than 11 diapers scattered across the floor with the tapes missing. Sleeper legs and flannel blankets dangled from open dresser drawers. Clouds of baby powder, liberally dusted into higgledee piggledee piles, still hazed the light glowing from the lamp near the upholstered rocking recliner in the corner. In the middle of the madness lay the hapless heroes.

They had somehow managed to winch Dean’s fancy memory foam mattress into the room, one corner of it caught and peeling up against the toy chest. Cas lay on one side, his trench coat hanging off one arm and his tie out from under his collar and wrinkled beyond belief. Dean looked no better; his grey tshirt showed dark swathes of damp that smelled like baby shampoo. His hair stood up in weird handfuls, as if he’d been gripping it in his fists in desperation. Shoeless, he only wore one sock. A handful of raggedy baby wipes poked out of his back pocket.

And between them both, tenderly snuggled into a nest of nearly every blanket in the bunker lay a precious creamy-brown wolf pup, sleeping contentedly without a care in the world.

Sam knew his jaw had hit the floor, and figured you were in the same boat.

“Is that...her?”

You took a couple of careful steps forward into the wreckage. Closing your eyes, you let your stronger lycan senses take over. The soft, sugary scent of honeysuckle comforted your mama heart as you smiled in disbelief.

“Yep, that’s her.”

“You mean she had her first shift and we missed it?!”

Chuckling softly, you picked your way through the baby item minefield. Only a Winchester would be more upset about missing a baby’s first shift than the absolute destruction of their home.

“It looks like.”

“What do we do? Does she know how to shift back?”

You pursed your lips thoughtfully, stilling them Erica twitched and squeaked in her sleep. “I don’t know. I’ll call my mom, maybe she can help us.”

Warm, long fingers curled around your hips to tug you back against him. You could sense his delight at the picture before them. Whatever had happened, his brother and friend had adapted and overcome. His daughter was so loved.

“I guess we should wake them up.”

You grinned as you dug out your phone. “Not until I get a picture.”

[wakaoujisenhime]

Heyyyo lovely💓💓 I'm so proud of u girly💖 Could you possibly write a Fatgum X Femreader scenario? Preferably a steamy NSFW with a breeding kink and going down on his s/o kink? Thank you so much for considering this💘💘!!! Fyi I'm 21

A/N: Thank you so much for your kind words!❤ This was my first time writing something steamier for Fatgum which also included breeding a kink I’m still not quite familiar with, so I hope that I managed to capture his character as well as your wishes as well as I could! Hope you’ll like it and please enjoy! (ᵔ.ᵔ)  

Tags: Taishiro/Fatgum x reader ✅  smut ✅  breeding kink ✅  belly bulge ✅  bloated belly ✅  overstimulation ✅

image/art source: Twitter (art by Muccho)

━━━━☆ ━━━━☆ ━━━━☆

Lesson learned - Fatgum x reader

“Taishiro, w-wait...”

“Sorry, pumpkin, but I can’t hold back anymore.”

And with that, your boyfriend pressed his mouth against your own, his tongue eagerly tracing the ever so small cracks on your soft lips. You were so overwhelmed that it took you some time to realize that this gesture was indirectly asking for his tongue to enter your delicate mouth. He grew impatient and began nibbling and softly biting on your lower lip, figuring that if you weren’t going to open that mouth of yours on your own, then he’d just take it upon himself to pry it open. 

With that thought in mind, Taishiro moved one of his big hands down to your hips, caressing every delicious curve, no matter how flat or voluptuous it was, and let out a satisfied groan in the process.

His big hands had gradually reached your behind, and he made sure not to pass up on the opportunity to take a tight hold of your asscheeks and spread them apart as much as your jeans let him. But the hero knew that this motion alone was not enough to force a moan out of you, so he pulled you closer to his muscular chest and slowly crouched down, taking you down with him. His big hands now held up your back, your legs hooked around his waist, and your in comparison tinier hands on top of his broad shoulders. Meanwhile, Taishiro’s legs were positioned on each of your sides; his left fingertips gently caressed your jaw, still trying to get you to open your mouth for him. With his right hand, he continued holding onto your hips, gently massaging your hip bones and playing with the hem of your shirt. You knew what he was about to do, so you simply wrapped your arms around his neck. Taishiro always made sure to show you how precious he found every inch of your body, so every time you guys were making out with each other, he didn’t leave a spot of it untouched. 

Scarred fingers dove underneath your shirt, the featherlight yet cold sensation made you twitch and arch your body toward his own. He used that opportunity to roll up your shirt, exposing your entire upper body to his lust-filled gaze, which clouded further the moment he saw your choice in lingerie for today.

“God babe, you just know how to push my buttons, don’t you?”

In one sweeping motion, he unhooked your bra and lifted it just enough that your breasts bounced out and the moment they did, his mouth and fingers were already on both of your nipples, twisting, pinching, licking, sucking, and gently biting them. The sudden mix of pain and pleasure coursed through your entire body, making your breath hitch and a low whimper escape your lips. A pair of yellow eyes look up at you and squint ever so slightly. Taishiro was visibly irritated that you finally opened your mouth, and he had to miss the opportunity of exploring it due to him being busy with your breasts. But instead of mulling over that small miss any further, he decided to make up for it by exploring a different sort of insides. 

He let go of the nipple he pleasured with his hand and let his fingertips run down your entire torso until they reached your jeans’ buttons and slowly began undoing them. Your hands instinctively moved to hold onto his sleeve, but your boyfriend only smiled and continued with his plan. 

“Come now, pumpkin, I need you to lift that cute ass of yours, or else I won’t be able to pleasure you like always.”

His eyes once again fixated on your flushed face, admiring just how lewd your expression looked like from that low amount of teasing. 

You shouldn’t be as embarrassed as you were, considering that this was a procedure he always went through when preparing you for him and his impressive size. Still, he always managed to surprise you with something new, whether it was a pet name or simply the way he cooed instructions, orders, and pleas that close to your ear. Disobeying him was never on your mind. You always made sure to do whatever he asked of you because the reward you’d get for it was worth giving yourself over to him.

“That’s my good girl...now let me see how it looks down there.”

He gave your neck a few featherlight kisses before letting go of your abused breasts and shifting his attention to your nether regions, which were still covered by a thin layer of fabric. With a small smile, his big fingers traced your folds alongside the already damp spot on your panties. His touch was teasing and left you wanting more, and he knew that. Still, before he gave you what you desired so desperately, Taishiro kissed your thighs and took hold of your underwear’s waistband with his teeth, slowly pulling them down your lower body, exposing your already wet core. He took a deep breath, inhaling your lewd and intoxicating smell, licked his lips, visibly enjoying your anticipating expression.

“Come now, sweetheart, tell me what you want me to do….and you better hurry up cause I can’t hold back any longer.”

“I-I want you to pleasure me with that tongue of yours like-...like you always do.”

“Trust me, baby, you don’t have to ask me twice.“ he answered as he licked his lips, and just some seconds later, your lover directed his tongue’s attention to your already dripping entrance, lapping up your juices as if it was the last sort of liquid he’d get to taste any time soon. 

The way he skillfully moved his tongue’s tip always left you a breathless and twitching mess, but today was different. 

Taishiro would always follow some kind of strategy when he pleasured your nether regions. He’d usually start in a lazy and teasing manner. The moment you began to move your hips in the hope of more contact between his mouth and your pussy, your boyfriend would immediately pull back and enjoy how your folds twitched in desperate need of any sort of contact. After repeating this process a few times, you’d usually be the first one to give in and beg him to take it seriously, and that’s when Taishiro showed his true colors. And let’s just say that food wasn’t the only thing he enjoyed devouring as if his life depended on it.

But right now? For some reason, his mouth went down on you without any restraints, no gentle licks alongside your folds, no teasing sucks on your sensitive bud, nothing of that sort...just pure lust and hunger. It took your brain a couple of seconds to register the sudden amount of pleasure that hit your body, and when it did, you couldn’t help but arch your back in a very evident curve and moan out loud. His hand immediately covered your ajar mouth, muffling that whiny voice he loved to hear so much.

“Now now, pumpkin, please don’t forget that we are still at the entrance. Wouldn’t want to have our neighbors interrupting us again now, would you?”

You slightly shook your head in denial, there was no way you’d let anyone interrupt this blissful moment, and your boyfriend seemingly had no intention of doing that either, since his tongue was on you quicker than you would’ve expected. 

With the way he moved that wet muscle of his, it was quite difficult for you to keep silent, and his hand wasn’t of much help at all, so you had no other choice but to bite on his long fingers as softly as you could, careful not to leave any visible marks on his skin. 

Even if that gesture of yours was meant well, it had the opposite effect on your pro hero boyfriend. Instead of seeing it as a sign that you had already reached your limit, he saw it as an invitation to keep his pace up and even quicken it if he so desired.

His other free hand spread your engorged outer labia apart, exposing your dripping core to the cold air and his hungry gaze as he licked his lips one last time and starting sucking on your sensitive clit. Your legs began shaking uncontrollably at his ministrations, and his loud sucking sounds only quickened your heartbeat, but what ultimately pushed you over the edge was the way Fatgum looked up at you. His eyes were squinted ever so slightly, pupils almost wholly covering his yellow irises, and even though his expression seemed relaxed overall, the way you perceived it was as if he was silently ordering you to cum right here and right now...and who were you to disobey?

Your orgasm hit you like none other had done before that. Just as that familiar warm feeling spread around your body and made your lower muscles tense up, Taishiro stopped sucking and returned to flicking his tongue against your swollen clit, this motion was just so much for your already sensitive body that you tried to escape his loose grip and create some distance between your nether regions and his mouth. His lips had barely even left your twitching pussy and Taishiro immediately noticed what your intention was, so he held onto your hips and began licking up your love juices from your folds. 

While you were still catching your breath, your boyfriend used that small window of opportunity to take a good look at your already spent body and admire it silently. 

It’s now or never…

“Hey, sweetheart...you still with me?” he silently asked as his big hand gently caressed your flushed cheek. Even though your body was still twitching from the aftershocks you still managed to nod and more or less reassure him of your wellbeing. He sighed in relief and directed his hands’ attention to your legs, massaging them in an attempt to relieve the tension in your muscles, palms slowly moving up and down your thighs, applying just the right amount of pressure. 

After a short while, you finally gave him your ok to continue with his plans, and he wasted no time in getting in between your legs again, but this time he positioned his large and pre-cum covered tip right at your entrance. He slapped your clit a few times with his shaft and mixed both of your juices, wetting your small and throbbing hole in the process. 

“Hope you’re ready pumpkin, cause I ain’t holding anything back today.”

Just before you can urge him to enter you, he slams his entire length inside and knocks the air out of your lungs. Your trembling hands tried to take a hold of something to cushion his deep and precise thrusts, but whatever you tried to do it didn’t help the immense amount of pleasure that spread around your body, and judging by the silent grunts coming from Taishiro, he also felt good. His big arms wrapped around your body, hoisting it up towards his sweaty but muscular chest. That action caused your hips to drop down his shaft even further and the moment his tip touched the entrance to your womb your back arched and you finally screamed out in pleasure. You really wanted to avoid making noise, but how could you when the man you loved made it so hard for you? 

Funny enough, your little slip-up didn’t surprise Taishiro at all, if anything it turned him on even more, just knowing that he and his body were the reason you couldn’t hold your voice back made him get harder than he already was. He looked at your breasts bounce and your lips quiver while his cock entered and left your seemingly small hole. Thinking back on how much effort he put into prepping you and how tight you were during the first few times, seemed like such a faraway memory now, since your insides had perfectly adapted to his girth and length. 

The imagination alone drove him over the edge and even if he didn’t want to end this too quickly he just couldn’t hold himself back any longer and after a few deep thrusts, he released his seeds deep inside of you. 

While he savored the aftershocks of his orgasm you softly rocked your hips back and forth, refusing to stop, wanting more of the warmth his cum provided.

“T-Taishiro...please give me more.”

Even though your statement took him by surprise his hands took a hold of your hips once again and just when you thought that he’d start moving your pelvis up and down he suddenly started getting up. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck as you felt his palms take a strong grip on your asscheeks.

While your boyfriend slowly walked towards your shared bedroom, he was completely oblivious to how much his movements affected you. Each step he took caused his shaft to bump against your wet insides and your most sensitive spots. 

Just as Taishiro opened the door to your bedroom he felt how your walls suddenly tightened up around his shaft, causing him to stumble, his back hitting the doorframe. He once again sunk to the floor, but his grip on you remained tight.

“Cupcake...d-did you just cum?”

You hid your face in the crack of his neck and refused to look up at him, but your blush was evident nonetheless, and your plan to hide it failed. He tilted your chin with his finger and had to bite his lip as soon as he saw your facial expression. The moment he caught a glimpse of those flushed cheeks of yours, your reddened lips which now had small bite marks on them from all those attempts to hold your voice back and that petite droplet of saliva slowly running down your chin, the small string of restraint he held on for so long finally snapped.         

With an animalistic growl, he picked your body up as if it weighed nothing and threw you on the bed. Before you could even comprehend what was happening, Taishiro took a hold of your thighs, pushed them down toward your chest, and to stop you from struggling underneath him, he squeezed his muscular thighs against your hips. Without a single warning he slammed his throbbing cock inside of you once again, but this time thanks to the mating press he put you in, his shaft hit all of your favorite spots, not only that but this position also made you involuntarily tense up and that also applied to your mushy insides which were now holding onto him, refusing to let go of his dick. His thrusts’ speed decreased ever so slightly but this alone wasn’t enough to make him stop completely. Those shifted and deep movements which knocked against every sensitive spot, made your body tremble and your hips buckle against his pelvis. That movement caused his gland’s tip to precisely brush against the soft ring of flesh which was your womb’s entrance. Your body twitched and you yelped out at the sudden electrifying feeling that made goosebumps appear on your entire body, Taishiro noticed what kind of effect his thrust had on you and with a mischievous grin, he took a firm hold of his shaft’s root and began moving it in a circular motion, which caused the rest of his fat cock to do the same inside of you.

“O-Oh my gh-od Taishiro…!”

Said man chuckled as he let his big hand slide alongside your belly.

“Did you like that? Want me to do that again, hmm?”

His hand had reached your breasts by now and gave your nipples a quick squeeze, after he heard your trembling breath your lover hooked his arm underneath your neck and he gently tilted your head forward so that your eyes were fixated on where the two of you were connected. Your eyes widened as you took a better look at what he wanted you to see. There was a small bulge exactly where you felt Taishiro’s tip point inside of you. The moment he began moving his shaft again, the bulge copied his movement and all you could do was gently press your hand on top of it and feel the ever so slight movements.

“Do you know what I’m about to do sweetheart? I’ll make sure to cum right there, in your deepest spot...and when I’m done with you, you’ll be so full of my cum that this minuscule bulge will become as big as that of a pregnant lady.”

Your insides clenched at his announcement and took a tight hold of the bedsheets beneath you. Your boyfriend resumed his quick pace from before and not soon after he released his second load inside of you, he halted for a few seconds, savoring his orgasm’s aftershocks, and began thrusting once again. With each fresh load of his semen, his thrusts got sloppier than the rounds before, and the slapping sounds gradually changed into wetter ones. You had already lost count of how many times you had orgasmed, your body just felt numb and sweaty. Taishiro even made sure to tell you that you had even lost consciousness a few times, but despite that, he never stopped pumping you full of his cum. When he had announced to make that small bulge of your bigger, you seriously thought that he was just joking, but look at where that got you. 

You once again felt another orgasm build up inside of you, but at the same time, you felt so tired that you simply didn’t care anymore. Unfortunately, your boyfriend had no intention of letting you blackout this soon and he gently slapped your cheek a few times in order to catch your attention, which he successfully did and show you your belly’s state. With a tired expression, you looked down and bit your lips as soon as you saw how bloated you actually were. The sight mixed with the imagination of your white-coated insides pushed you over the edge one last time before you once again lost consciousness, and the last thing you saw as your eyelids slowly grew heavy was the grin of your boyfriend who whispered something you failed to understand. One thing was for certain though...you had learned your lesson on doubting his plans because whatever Taishiro said or wanted, he always made sure to get it, no matter the cost.

[littlelovelyspiderling]

Unmasked

Spider-Man is forced to fight the Sinister Six while he’s sick, which leads to his enemies making unexpected discoveries about their arch nemesis.

Chapter 3

Ow. 

That was the first coherent thought that registered in Peter’s brain. 

Pain. He was in pain. A lot of it.

It started with the sunlight shining directly in his eyes through the ceiling-high windows. Then there was the sharp ache in his left leg. Then a sting in his shoulder. A cramp in his stomach. A throb in his skull.

And then, everywhere.

Peter was hurting all over. And yet, it was dull, distant, hazy hurt, like he was a ghost floating above his body after it had been run over by a dump truck.

Ugh…

His eyes scrunched into angry lines before fluttering open. His vision was fuzzy, unfocused, and no amount of blinking seemed to fix it. His brain felt like it had been replaced by three tons of bricks.

What…where…

He was…inside someplace. It was bright—way too bright. The ceiling overhead was tall and white. He was lying on a couch that felt like it had never been sat on before.

Am I…dead…?

His muscles were stiff as stone. He feared for a moment he was paralyzed, until he felt his fingers twitch, followed by his toes. It hurt—a lot—but hurt was better than numbness.

Okay. Not paralyzed. Hopefully not dead.

“Mmmgh,” he moaned. Slowly, he slid his hands back and pushed off the couch, lifting himself into a sitting position. “Oh, god…”

His skin was hot and sticky. Every bone, organ, and cell ached. He still felt sick, but now with about seventy extra ailments piled on top of that, which meant he was probably still alive. 

Probably.

But how?

The last he remembered, he was getting his ass handed to him by the Sinister Six. For as long as he’d operated as the masked vigilante Spider-Man, he’d never gotten thrashed that badly. How did he get away? Did someone rescue him? Had the Avengers swooped in and saved his dumb, in-over-his-head ass right after he’d blacked out? But how could they have gotten there in time?

And where the hell was he?

Now that he was no longer lying down, the room had started listing a little. Peter reached up to rub his temple and felt something crinkly stuck to his head. He grabbed hold of it and started peeling it off his skin, wincing from the pain. Once he’d torn it free, Peter held the unknown object in front of his eyes. It was a large, bloody bandage. 

Huh.

Peter’s eyes dropped to his lap. A thin blanket was draped over his body. When he lifted it away, he cringed.

His torso was a gruesome patchwork of Frankenstein-style stitches and bandages. He counted three sets of sutures on his upper body alone, plus four other cuts and scrapes held together with butterfly tape. His entire chest looked like one gigantic bruise. Plus, the burns—some from scraping across coarse concrete, others from actual fire. Every small movement sent waves of pain rippling across his body.

Yeesh, he thought, poking gingerly at the bandages on his shoulder. Well, someone friendly had to patch me up. But who?

Peter let the blanket slip from his fingers. Grimacing, he swung his legs off the couch and carefully placed his feet on the floor. Sweat slipped off his brow and dripped onto his knee.

“Okay,” he breathed. Peter inhaled sharply, then threw his weight forward, standing upright for an instant. Then he collapsed, gasping. Dizzying agony blossomed in his left leg and thumped like a second heartbeat.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. He glanced back and saw his shin had been fashioned with a makeshift splint: two metal rods and ass-load of packing tape.

Right. Broken leg. The sound of the bone cracking in half reignited in his memories, sending a shudder down his spine.

Peter used the sofa to pull himself off the ground. This time, he placed all his weight on his right foot, using his left only for balance. His body ached and trembled with the effort it took to stand, but he managed to stay on his feet.

Ouch. Ugh. Okay. Yeah. That’s a start. The fuzz in his vision was starting to dissipate, but the fog in his brain clung like fungus. It felt like he’d been inhaling a bunch of that laughing gas stuff his dentist had given him back in the 6th grade when he had to get a tooth pulled. His head was heavy and light at the same time.

The room was a lounge area with stiff furniture and minimal decor. A wilted fern sat in the corner alongside a weird, tall block with a piece of metal sticking out of the top that Peter assumed was some form of modern art. The walls were entirely bare except for a small landscape painting that looked like it belonged in a motel bathroom. There were two other chairs across from the couch, a coffee table, a gray rug, and that was basically it. 

Beside the fern, a pair of double doors stood wide and closed. When Peter strained his sensitive ears, muffled voices could be heard conversing in the other room. Curiosity plucked at his chest.

“Um…hello?” he called, voice raspy. He approached the doors, hopping more than walking, gritting his teeth as his injuries burned and throbbed, heat radiating feverishly off his skin. By the time he transversed the room, he was out of breath, lightheaded. He leaned against the wall for a minute and cycled slow gulps of oxygen through his lungs.

Once he’d somewhat recovered, Peter limped in front of the large doors. The voices were louder now, but not loud enough to be recognizable. They sounded mostly male. Peter took a deep breath, reached out his arm, and cracked the door open just a hair to peek inside.

It was a kitchen—that was the first thing he saw. A man stood at the island with his back to the doors. Across from him was a round dining table with a bowl of fruit in the middle.

“How is he?” the man asked, biting into an apple. His voice was definitely familiar.

“Still hasn’t woken up, right?” another responded.

Maybe this is another one of Clint’s safe houses, Peter thought. Or an Avengers’ base I’ve never been to before. Or a secret sitting room in some tragically decorated S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Or—

Seconds before Peter opened his mouth to say hello again, the man eating the apple turned around. When Peter saw his face, his heart jumped out of his chest and splattered at his feet.

“I don’t know,” Herman Shultz said over a mouthful of fruit. “Has he?”

The oxygen around Peter vanished in an instant. It’s Shocker! The guy who broke my leg! W-what the hell? What is he doing here?

“Not from what I’ve heard,” the second voice continued. Another man entered his narrow line of vision, this one lit up like a neon sign, and Peter’s throat seized.

“You’re not being very helpful, Maxwell.”

“I told you not to call me that! I’m Electro!”

Shocker held up his hands. “Right, right, sorry. Electro, then. You’re not being helpful.”

What the shit, what the shit, what the actual, living shi—

“Don’t ask me about these things. Ask the doc.” He lifted his head and grinned. “Look—here he comes now.”

Clank, clank, clank. Heavy, metallic footsteps rang in Peter’s ears and shook the floor beneath him. Horror and disbelief flooded his veins as the eight-limbed scientist stepped in front of him, hardly three feet away, pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Ask me about what?” Doctor Octopus said.

Peter leapt back from the door, clamping both hands over his mouth. 

Oh…my god. It’s them.

“I just wanted to know how he was doing.”

They’re here. They found me. They came to finish the job.

Half of the super villains that had just wrecked his shit were standing in the neighboring room. Hell, maybe all of them were. They’d probably taken whoever had helped him hostage, or perhaps the poor soul was already dead. He wouldn’t stand a chance like this. He didn’t have his suit, his webs, nothing. He’d tried his best to fight them when he was just sick with the stomach bug, and look how well that had turned out for him. If they attacked him now, one solid hit was all it would take to knock him out. Or, if he was being fully honest, kill him.

Peter’s eyes darted frantically around the room. I have to get out of here! He hobbled toward the wall of windows and placed his hands against the glass. It was at least four inches thick; probably bulletproof. But it was his only option. With a shivery grunt, Peter hoisted himself off the floor and crawled toward the ceiling, every step piercing him with flashes of pain.

Okay. Launch off the ceiling, kick through the glass, make a run for it. In his loopy, concussed mind, the plan sounded foolproof. The voices of his enemies were growing louder; Doc Oc’s footsteps were approaching rapidly. It was now or never.

Hanging off the upside-down surface, balancing on his good foot, heart racing, head dizzy and faint, Peter threw himself at the window. He hit the glass with a loud thunk, bouncing off like a bug on a windshield, then crashed on top of the weird modern art piece, shattering the mahogany box into wood chips.

Peter lay sprawled in a heap in the wake of his failure, groaning and dazed. As he forced himself upright, gripping his head in his hand, the doors behind him burst open.

“What the hell?” Doc Oc exclaimed, alarm caked across his expression. When his gaze landed on the young superhero floundering in the splintered remains of his college art project, stunned and disheveled but now awake and wide-eyed, his muscles relaxed slightly. “Spider-Man?”

“Holy shit, he’s awake,” Electro said.

“And he destroyed your favorite sculpture,” Shocker added.

Peter’s eyes dashed between the three men, wild and afraid. He’d been unmasked by his absolute worst enemies—but that seemed the least of his troubles. I’m toast, he thought. Tiny pieces of wood clung to his hair, face, and back. Seeing him conscious for the first time sent a spark of relief through Doc Oc, though he hadn’t expected him to wake up for at least another day; the combination of pain meds he’d given him was pretty strong. When Octavius moved an inch closer to him, Peter scrambled to his feet and backed away, tripping over himself in the process and heavily favoring his right leg.

“Spider-Man—” he began, trying to keep his voice level. Spider-Man picked up a chunk of the destroyed box and chucked it at him.

“S-stay back!” he shouted. His voice was shrill and cracked at the end of the demand. Damn, Otto thought. The evidence of Spider-Man’s youthfulness was clear as day to him now—how had none of them noticed it before? Perhaps they had simply chosen not to notice.

Doc Oc dodged the projectile with ease. “Spider-Man, listen to me—”

Peter made a break for it, gunning for the opposite side of the room. He’d hardly made it two uncoordinated strides before three more figures emerged from a door behind the couch, blocking his escape path: Scorpion, Sandman, and Rhino. He skidded to a stop with a gasp.

“Whoa,” Rhino exclaimed, towering over the half-naked hero. “Would you look at that. Tiny spider is alive.”

Shit! Peter screamed internally. He whipped his gaze in every direction and realized he was surrounded.

“He needs to stop moving,” Otto said, knowing there was no way to accomplish that with words. He raised his tentacles above his head, the pincers snapping hungrily. “Grab him.”

Rhino made the first move, reaching out with his meaty hands to snag the kid by the arm. But Spider-Man ducked and rolled out of the way, moving surprisingly fast despite all of his injuries, though it was obvious the exertion was hurting him. Scorpion and Sandman tried next, lunging for his legs, but Peter hopped right over them and flipped backwards, wincing and staggering once his feet hit the floor and banging into the window.

“You’re going to reopen your wounds,” Octavius warned him. He thrust two tentacles at his torso, but Spider-Man flinched out of their grasp. Otto launched the other two arms at him, and Peter skirted between them, springing on to the wall. The exhaustion and terror in his face were evident. Otto felt bad for scaring him so much, but this was for his own good.

“Spider-Man—please,” he groused. His mechanical arms grabbed and snapped at the air, barely missing the slippery little hero every time. “Just—stay—still!”

Peter wasn’t listening to a word he said. All he knew was that he couldn’t let himself be caught. Every inch of him was screaming in agony. When the tentacles pounced on him all at once, Spider-Man shrunk small and dove underneath them, somersaulting past Doc Oc’s legs and popping up behind him. Peter bolted blindly for the double doors, only to ram straight into Rhino’s giant leg and fall flat on his ass. Three metal prongs clamped around his midsection before he could regather himself, pinning him to the floor.

“Agh!” Peter yelped, tugging uselessly at the claw’s strong teeth. “Let me go!”

Otto lifted Spider-Man off the ground. He continued to strain and squirm, kicking his legs and grappling with the mechanical pincers gripping his waist. The rest of the Sinister Six gathered around the frightened hero, forming a circle with him in the middle. He looked so small against the looming backdrop of super villains. His young face beamed with all the emotions his mask typically concealed—most prominently, fear.

“Spider-Man,” Octavius repeated, holding his hands out tentatively. “Calm down.”

“I’ll pass, thanks!” Peter quipped, betrayed by the tremble in his voice.

“Okay, it’s definitely him,” Electro groaned amusedly.

“I know you’re scared,” Doc Oc continued. “And you have every right to be. But if you don’t stop moving, you’re going to injure yourself further.”

“And if I don’t keep moving, you’re going to injure me further!” He thrashed and twisted valiantly, but it was evident he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His movements were slowing down, his attempts to escape growing more and more pathetic. Otto waited for him to burn himself out, crossing his arms against his chest. It didn’t take long.

“Are you quite done now?”

Peter hung his head, breathless and shivery, gripping the prongs around his torso less to try to escape and more to hold himself upright. Perhaps his impromptu acrobatics display hadn’t been his smartest idea. All that leaping and flipping and bouncing around had sapped the last whispers of energy from his bones.

“Ugh…room’s…s-spinning,” he murmured. Otto took that as a “yes.” He held Spider-Man closer and frowned at a red spot on his ribs. 

“And now look what you’ve done, you idiot. You’ve torn your stitches. I tried to warn you. Half an hour’s worth of sewing, down the drain because of your recklessness.”

“What are you…what…what’s…?” Spider-Man slurred. He was suddenly seeing double of everything. He dropped his gaze to his midriff and watched two blurry lines of blood slip down his side.

“I sutured you up, and you ruined it,” Octavius explained. Peter slowly lifted his head and wrinkled his brow.

“You…” he said, blinking repeatedly. “What?”

“Told you we gave him brain damage,” Rhino whispered. Peter looked at him over his shoulder, then swept his gaze around the circle, making eye contact with every member of the Sinister Six. They saw him. After all this time, his face was finally exposed to his enemies. No disguise, no secret identity, no mask. He felt so naked without it. Not having a shirt or pants on didn’t help either. Strangely, their expressions lacked their typical thirst for spider blood. It dawned on him that over a minute had passed, and none of them had tried to kill him. And so far, they still weren’t trying.

“I’m…confusion,” he stammered. “What—what’s happening right now?”

It was somewhat amusing to see Spider-Man so delirious and out of his element. Doctor Octopus lowered him to the ground but didn’t let go of his torso. Peter was almost glad he didn’t; he doubted he could stand on his own right now.

“I tended to your wounds while you were unconscious,” Octavius said. “It’s not a perfect patch job, but I did the best I could.”

Peter shook his head slowly, his big, brown Bambi eyes wide and puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“I also gave you some pain killers, which might be making your head a bit fuzzy.”

“But…why?” he scoffed. “You did this to me. You’re the ones who…beat me up. You love beating me up. You��you hate me. You want me dead. You’ve tried to make me dead a million times.” Peter jolted suddenly, a cramp shooting through his broken leg. If he was on painkillers, they were doing a pretty piss-poor job. Everything hurt and was too confusing to comprehend. He closed his eyes and dropped his face into his hands, moaning. “Oh god…I’ve gotta be trapped in some crazy fever dream right now. Or maybe…I’m dead. Am I dead? None of this makes any sense…”

“You’re not dead, Peter,” Otto said, stifling a chuckle.

A shudder rippled through the teenager. He lowered his hands, revealing the colorless face behind them.

“How…how do you know my…?”

Shit, Doc Oc thought. It was a careless slip of the tongue. He had meant to keep his knowledge of Spider-Man’s alter ego a secret so as to not frighten him further, but it looked like the cat was out of the bag.

Peter’s gaze shifted anxiously between the six super villains again. Fresh fear clouded over his glassy eyes, and he went back to squirming against Octavius’ hold.

“Now what are you trying to do?” Otto asked, exasperated.

“G-get the hell out of here,” Peter answered. He yanked at the claw around his torso, grunting with effort. “I know what this is. This is—one of those—hrgg—P-Princess Bride situations, isn’t it?”

The team of villains exchanged bemused glances with each other. “What are you talking about?”

“You know—mmneh—when the bad guys—c-catch Wesley, then heal him—just so the life-sucky torture machine thing is—m-more torturous? That’s what this is, right?” His face was flushing red, and more of his sutures were starting to leach blood.

Scorpion threw up his hands. “What’s the brat trying to say?”

“I think he’s saying we only doctored his wounds so that when we kill him, it’ll be all the more slow and painful,” Electro clarified with a shrug. “Which honestly sounds pretty in character for most of us.”

“See? This guy gets it.” Peter pushed at the prongs with all his might. Even as a half-dead, half-conscious mess, the kid couldn’t stop himself from being a smartass.

“I’m just impressed he made a reference to a movie that came out before he was a concept,” Rhino said. “You know, instead of, like, Finding Nemo?”

Otto could see the strain Spider-Man was putting himself through in his pitiful attempts to escape, so he decided to see what would happen if he succeeded. When Spider-Man shoved at his metal pincers again, he let them snap open. Surprise flashed across Peter’s face as he dropped to the ground and wobbled on his feet, followed by weary triumph.

“Ha! See? T-told you I would…I could…”

He faltered and swayed, staggering backwards. Sandman enlarged his hand and caught him before he could hit the floor. Peter sat limply in his palm, breathing heavy, frail and febrile and injured and exhausted. He looked down at the sand-hand that had stopped him from falling, then back up at the surrounding circle of villains, fear and confusion stinging in the corners of his eyes.

“W-why aren’t you...trying to kill me?”

The room dipped into nervous silence. Spider-Man’s gaze continued to jump between them, searching for answers.

“Why did you treat the wounds you gave me?” he continued weakly. With every word that passed his lips, the shake in his voice increased. “W-what do you want from me? Are you trying to…turn me to the dark side or something?”

Shocker stroked his chin. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea…”

“No,” Sandman answered pointedly, shooting Shocker a sideways glare.

“Then what?” Peter snapped. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Why aren’t I dead yet?” Spider-Man dragged himself back to his feet, grimacing harshly. “T-tell me what you’re planning to do with me, or I’ll—I’ll…”

His scowl dropped suddenly, replaced by a look of panic. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched.

“Or you’ll what?” Scorpion asked in a mocking tone.

When Peter didn’t answer him, Octavius took a step closer. “Spider-Man? What’s wrong?”

Gradually, the terror in his face gave way to dread. Peter sucked in a gasp and cupped his hand over his mouth.

 “I think…I’m gonna puke.”

Otto blinked. “Oh,” he said. That was not the response he was expecting, but it didn’t look like the kid was joking. He lurched forward, stifling a gag, making everyone exclaim and leap back. His pale face hinted a sickly shade of green.

“Oh,” Octavius repeated, animated by a new sense of urgency. He glanced around frantically until he spotted the fern in the corner of the room. He seized it with one of his tentacles, dumped the plant and the soil onto the floor, then slid the empty pot in front of Spider-Man. “Uh, here.”

Peter moaned in defeat before doubling over the pot and retching violently. The Sinister Six turned away in disgust, fighting to keep their own lunches down. There was hardly anything inside him to upchuck in the first place, but his body continued to dry heave for another half-minute. Once the bout passed, Peter was left wheezing and trembling with his head held low. His throat burned and tears were slipping from his eyes faster than he could wipe them away.

“Forgot about the stomach flu,” Electro said, sticking out his tongue. “Blech.”

Peter wanted to ask how the hell they knew he had a stomach bug, among many other things, but he was too fatigued to form words.

Octavius turned back to him squeamishly. The poor kid looked so small, hurt, and sick. It amazed him how quickly his hate for Spider-Man had transformed into a tentative fondness. He felt the need to comfort him somehow, the way adults were supposed to comfort young ones when they weren’t feeling well. But he had no idea how.

Instead, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and a cup of water from the kitchen and placed them both by his side. “Here,” he said awkwardly.

Peter eyed the items and whimpered softly. With miserable, lethargic movements, Peter washed out his mouth and wiped his face, every breath aching in his chest. Shame and fever radiated off him in waves. When he was finished, he just sat there, panting and shivery. Too weak to move.

“I think you ought to lay back down, Spidey,” Sandman said, plucking the hero off the floor between two massive fingers. He returned him to the couch with delicate care, guiding his head to the pillow and draping the blanket over his body.

“No…” Peter mumbled languidly, trying to sit up. When he closed his eyes, he couldn’t get them to open again. “Just…tell me…why…”

Something cold and wet pressed against his forehead, gently pushing him back down. Octavius had grabbed a hand towel from the kitchen and soaked it in ice water. The cool touch against his skin was soothing and unexpectedly soporific. Slowly, his muscles went lax. His tumultuous thoughts faded into sleepy nothingness.

“We will,” Otto lied. “But for now, rest.”

It was almost endearing how quickly Spider-Man drifted back to sleep. Octavius left the towel on his forehead and watched as his breathing eased to a steady rhythm.

“Damn,” Shocker sighed. “Poor kid.”

“We really beat him senseless,” Rhino said.

Electro stood over the slumbering hero with his hands on his hips, tilting his head to the side. “Is it just me, or is Spider-Man, like…kind of adorable?”

Scorpion snorted. “Adorable?”

“You know! In that, like, puppy-dog, dumb little kid kind of way. I mean, look at him! Does no one else think so?”

Sandman shrugged, fighting back a smile. “I mean, maybe. Sorta.” His expression gradually hardened, and he looked at Doc Oc. “So…is what you said before true? Is he really, like, an orphan?”

Otto lowered his gaze. “Not exactly. His parents died when he was a toddler, and he was adopted by his aunt and uncle, who became like parents to him. But then his uncle was killed last year, so now it’s just him and his aunt. He hasn’t had a particularly easy life.”

“And we certainly haven’t helped on that front,” Rhino added.

“It’s insane to me that at his age, this is what he chose to do with his powers. If I’d gotten his abilities when I was fifteen and gone through all that loss, I’d have been robbing every store on 5th Avenue.”

Shocker smirked. “I hate to say it, but...he’s kind of a good kid. Even if he is an obnoxious little dumbass.”

Amidst the conversation, Octavius’ face remained stoic, unreadable. He waited a while before clearing his throat. “I…wanted to let you all know. I, um, spoke to Tombstone this morning.”

All eyes turned to him, alarmed.

“He saw footage of us capturing Spider-Man on the news,” he explained. “He’s offering us two million each in exchange for the kid.”

Rhino’s jaw dropped. “Two million dollars? For each of us?”

“Holy shit,” Sandman breathed.

“What the hell?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“And he just wants the kid?” Shocker exclaimed. "That’s it?”

Otto nodded slowly. “Alive, but yes. That’s all he wants.” He swallowed and looked at the floor. “He’s given us until the end of the week to accept his offer.”

Excitement and dismay swept across everyone’s expressions. Each person waited for someone to speak up, for someone else to say no, we can’t. But it was just too tempting a proposition to dismiss out of hand. They could finally be free to do what they wanted. Free to live as they pleased, villainous or otherwise. Free to punish this city the way it had punished them, if they so choose. Turning over the kid was all it would take. One quick transaction. Hand over their nemesis, their sworn enemy, and it was done. They’d be rich.

“What the hell does he plan to do with him?” Sandman whispered uneasily.

“We don’t have to decide right now,” Doc Oc clarified. “I just wanted to make you aware of the opportunity. We can discuss it more later.”

An air of tentative relief settled over the room. Electro puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms against his chest.

“In that case, what are we going to tell him when he wakes up again? That we want to sell him to some psychopath so we can all be millionaires? That we think he’s cute and want to keep him as a pet?”

Doctor Octopus shook his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. He turned back to his team. “I’ll keep monitoring him and re-treat the wounds he opened. I think it’s best we always have a pair of eyes on him to prevent another incident involving the destruction of my art pieces.”

The rest of the Sinister Six agreed, scattering throughout the complex, the proposition weighing heavily on all of their minds. Otto put on some classical music and began mopping the fresh blood off Peter’s torso.

[whatawriterwields]

It still happens sometimes. Even after a year, after twelve months of love and laughter, a cottage in the South Downs picked out and a hundred nights spent together within it, there come days when the past catches up with Crowley. When the fire comes to consume him again in terror and confusion and pain. 

It happens like this: he’s dozing outside, sprawled on the soft grass, and it’s peace. And the sun warms his skin and it’s joy. And then the sun beats down and makes sweat trickle down his face, and suddenly something connects to something else in his brain. 

The feel of that trickling sweat sends too many images bolting through his brain. And when he jolts upright, panic has already clouded out his rational thinking, and all he can see is flames - flames everywhere - Aziraphale gone, dead, his shop in ruins - the world ending and my best friend killed, killed, killed -

“Angel!” Crowley chokes, his voice hoarse and inaudible, and staggers to his feet.

Aziraphale isn’t around him. That’s all he can register, and it sets the panic in deeper - they took him, Heaven, they killed him for his betrayal, for loving me - or Hell, it was Hell, they killed him to strike some meaningless blow at the end of time - it’s my fault, it must be my fault, I should have protected him!

He sees the cottage and he doesn’t see it. It’s the bookshop belching flames. He flings himself at the back door and opens it, and inside is something that was peace and quiet and happiness half an hour before and now it’s soot and smoke and screaming.

“Aziraphale!” he cries louder. “Aziraphale!”

It’s not real, and he doesn’t need to breathe, and yet the smoke in his lungs overwhelms him. He collapses to his knees on the carpet. Angel, my angel, come back - I need you - I never told you everything -

A broken sob rips from his throat. 

Shouldn’t have left you - never should have left, I love you, I’d have done anything for you, I’d have saved you from this if I’d been here -

And it feels, for that one moment, like the fire is going to swallow him whole. Like it’s going to rise up around him and consume him and leave nothing but brittle bones and ash. For a moment the grief is so great it beats Crowley into helplessness, and he’s certain everything is over. 

That’s how it happens. He’s hunched over himself, on his knees, hands wrapped around his head and sobbing when he feels a gentle pressure on his chest.

It should be frightening. This unexpected touch, here as he kneels vulnerable on the floor, should spark some survival instinct and make him flinch away. And yet, before he’s aware of anything else, before he comes to any more realizations, he finds the pressure soothing. He knows it’s the touch of a friend.

“Oh,” he whispers, breath hitching. It’s an involuntary sound. The pressure is a hand; a warm, soft hand resting over his frantically beating heart. 

He’s still in the bookshop, but -

But this didn’t happen in the bookshop.

“Crowley,” says a familiar voice, hushed and tender. 

That voice - he didn’t hear it in the bookshop either. 

“Crowley, my treasure, are you here with me?” 

He blinks. The hand is clearer than the smoke and flames around it. He breathes in with a shudder, and the smoke seems to dissipate, while the hand stays solid and in place. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again, and the fire has receded to the edges of his vision. That gentle hand is still touching him, its thumb slowly stroking over his shirt as though to ground him, to ease him into the present moment. 

Crowley looks up, his eyes still filled with tears. Aziraphale kneels before him in a large knit sweater, his hair unblackened, a quiet, loving look written across his features. 

“Darling,” he whispers, “are you seeing the bookshop again?”

Another sob rises up and Crowley shuts his eyes again. That look can’t be real. He can’t believe in it, not like this - not when he still can’t remember why the world isn’t burning and Aziraphale isn’t gone. Surely his chances for that sort of look are far behind him? After he abandoned Aziraphale to this inferno, surely -

“Beloved. I’m alive.” 

Alive. Alive. He hears it but he doesn’t understand. And yet, the hand doesn’t move, doesn’t leave him empty; it anchors him amid his reeling thoughts. The thumb keeps gently stroking his chest. And after a moment, Crowley realizes he can’t smell the smoke at all anymore. 

Alive.

“The fire was over a year ago, Crowley. I’m safe.” 

Safe. 

The hand draws him closer. Crowley is pulled in helplessly; he still doesn’t look up, but that doesn’t stop Aziraphale from wrapping wide arms around him, holding him so gently, cradling him like something precious. It doesn’t stop Aziraphale from smoothing back his hair with sweet, tender fingers and then kissing the place where it meets his forehead with soft, soft lips. And Crowley finds himself curling tighter into the embrace instead of resisting it. When he’s held like this, other memories begin to come back to him; the universe begins to resolve itself again.

“My Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs again. “Are you here with me?” 

Crowley nods incrementally. “I… I think so.” 

“We’re in our cottage. In the South Downs.” 

Yes. He remembers that. A new home for both of us, for our own side, a peaceful place far away from the bustle of the city, from the pull to bless and to tempt, a world we can build for ourselves - together, together -

“You were just outside napping.”

Lying on the grass, staring at the sky, feeling safe - safe - not afraid to be defenseless out there, not on my guard - I have an angel to protect me, an angel who never sleeps and who always -

“I love you, darling.” 

Loves me. 

That’s when Crowley opens his eyes.

Aziraphale is gazing down at him with a tenderness that makes Crowley’s heart crack. He remembers now, everything, he knows it’s all over and the world is right, but the wound has just been scraped raw again - he’s exposed again, vulnerable, and the light of Aziraphale’s love burns so much brighter against that. He gasps at the sweetness of Aziraphale’s smile. The tears keep flowing down his cheeks, silent, overwhelmed, as Aziraphale rocks him back and forth. 

“Angel,” Crowley says, and then sighs deeply. 

“What do you need, my love?” 

Crowley shakes his head. The panic is gone. All he wants is to keep being held, just like this, for the rest of time. “You, angel.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t object. He hums in affirmation, in fact, and leans down to kiss Crowley again. On his forehead, on his cheeks, on the side of his head. On his lips with a quiet, unfathomable sort of love. 

That’s how it happens. It’s growing more infrequent, these days, but Crowley’s not sure it’ll ever be behind him completely. He may always have times when he wakes up this way - the heat reminding him of the terror he’s seen, the despair, the day he came inches from giving up everything. Those old wounds may never heal up so the scars aren’t visible.

Maybe that’s all right, though. Aziraphale pulls him from his memories every time. He brings Crowley back into his willing arms, and in those arms nothing can really hurt him. Of that he’s absolutely certain. 

It’s been a year. They’re mending.

Read on Ao3

[lochrannn]

AU_gust: Guards! Guards!

Read on AO3

CW: Canon-typical violence

prompt no 23: Historical Fantasy

Relationship: Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

Characters: Lila Pitts, Diego Hargreeves

-

Lila is unceremoniously shoved into a cell and as she whirls around to throw insults and maybe her fists at her captors - she’s been unfortunately relieved of her weapons - the cast iron bars are slammed in her face and the dungeon master sneers at her with blackened teeth, now that he’s no longer in danger of getting kneed in the balls. Again.

She slaps her hands against the bars anyway, making sure to hit them with the heels of her palms so the door rattles on its hinges as she shouts a string of threats about how she’ll carve every single one of them up and that they’d better let her out right the fuck now if they want to live.

In all honesty, she hasn’t the slightest idea why she is in this jail, for once.

She’d been making her way along a road through the forest, not on a mission, not even with any particular destination in mind, when she was jumped - completely taken by surprise - by five burly men, who knocked her half unconscious, took her weapons, bundled her up, and then dragged her to a fort and straight down into the dungeons.

And right now she’s far too furious at her captors, and a bit her own lack of wariness, to let the uncertainty of her fate get in the way of her anger.

“D’you mind keeping it down a little?” a voice behind her grumbles and Lila nearly jumps out of her skin as she whips around to see a figure sitting on a low bench in the far corner, half shrouded in the shadows.

She’d completely missed him when she was brought in.

Her fellow inmate seems to be a ranger like herself, she realises as her eyes adjust to the low lighting inside the cell proper. Long legs kicked out in front of him clad in practical leather trousers. A short leather tunic covers broad shoulders and an equally broad chest that he has his arms crossed over, only a bit of a linen shirt peeking out between leather gauntlets and empty knife straps, and Lila doesn’t think it’s a trick of the light that his skin seems darker than most people’s around here, but matching her own.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, at least doing a decent job of keeping the startled wobble that she feels out of her voice.

“Gods, you’re a charming one, aren’t you?” he asks sarcastically, pushing off from the bench and getting stiffly to his feet and Lila realises that he’s even bigger than she’d assumed he was sitting down.

She doesn’t let it show, but she is immediately on high alert as he moves. If she were armed she could probably take him, but if the scar she spots in his brow as he steps into the light is any indication, he knows how to fight just as much as her and Lila tries to push away the sudden fear of all number of terrible things he could do to her while none of the guards would bother to come to her aid.

Then she’s momentarily distracted when she sees his pointy ears stick out just a bit through the shaggy brown hair that frames his face, and she can’t hold in a surprised snort.

That is by far the bulkiest fucking elf she’s ever come across.

Indignation makes its way onto his face as he seems to realise that she’s laughing at him and he protests with a whine that really contrasts his earlier growly tones, “Hey, what the fuck are you laughing at me for?”

There’s an insecure vulnerability she might be able to exploit for her own safety if she plays her cards right, so Lila says, putting a brittle edge into her voice that comes a bit more easily than she cares to admit, “Not laughing at you, sorry! I’m just a tad stressed out about being locked up with someone who could be a brutal murderer for all I know!”

She’s surprised at how well her ploy works when there’s an instant shift in the elf’s energy and he actually takes a step back, giving her a lot more space, and his expression softens from irate to pensive.

“Uh, yeah… sorry,” he mumbles, fingers twitching at his sides as if he feels more uncomfortable than she does right now, “not gonna murder you. Promise…”

Oddly reassured by that, Lila stifles another laugh at his discomfort and instead asks conversationally, “What are you in her for, then?”

“Fuck if I know,” he replies exasperatedly, his frustration clearly not directed at her, though, “I was following a band of thieves through the forest hoping they’d lead me to their den and next thing I know, I wake up in this place with a headache and, I’m pretty certain, a crack in my skull. You?”

“More or less the same,” she answers with a shrug, then she goes on, hoping he’ll get what she’s offering, “Show me?”

It seems he does because he - tentatively, she notes - makes his way over to her and leans down a bit so that she can examine the right side of his head.

She hadn’t noticed it earlier, probably focussed a lot more on her own concerns, but now she sees the long gash that starts on his cheek and when she gently pushes strands of his hair out of the way, she sees that it’s matted with blood, originating from split skin that reaches all the way to above and behind his pointy ear, which is also a bit bloodied and swollen, clearly having been injured by the same blow.

The wound looks painful and like it will scar, but she doesn’t think it’s life-threatening as long as it doesn’t get infected.

“You’ll live,” she informs him tersely, but for some reason she can’t resist carding her fingers through his hair reassuringly before letting her hand drop. He grunts at her touch and blinks slowly and there’s suddenly an odd warm feeling in Lila’s chest.

She tries to dispel the tension developing in the cell, takes a step back, crosses her arms, and asks, “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Diego,” he says neutrally. She hopes he hasn’t picked up on her sudden embarrassment.

“Well, Diego, I’m Lila,” she offers with a bit of a sigh and then brightens, “You wanna get out of here?”

Diego looks at her sceptially, “You got a plan?”

Lila grins at him, giving him a quizzical once over, “As a matter of fact, I do!”

-

“Uh, guard?” Diego calls out not loud enough, and entirely unconvincingly, seeing as he’s supposed to be distressed and Lila can’t help but press her face between his shoulder blades in fond exasperation.

She’s known him for all of ten minutes, how is she already fond of this hopeless fucking idiot? Gods, he can thank his lucky stars that he ended up being locked up with her or he’d never get out.

Lila is standing right behind Diego, hands fisted into the material of his leather tunic at his back, pressing as closely against his ridiculously solid body as she can, making herself practically invisible to anyone who might happen to be looking into the cell even if they came up close.

“Fuck, you’re a terrible actor,” she wispers and feels the muscles in his back tense.

“Shit, woman, stop nagging! You do your job, I do mine, if you don’t mind!” he grumbles out of the corner of his mouth and then takes a deep breath.

The next time he shouts, Lila has to stop herself from startling, because his voice echoes off the walls and there’s a decidedly dangerous edge to it. It’s a voice that will not be ignored.

“Guards! Guards! The fucking ranger’s escaped! She just disappeared from the cell!” He slams presumably his fists into the bars and makes them rattle loudly and the commotion has its desired effect, because Lila can hear hurried footsteps thundering down the hall towards them.

Good, it sounds like two of them, that’s what she was hoping. She was expecting at least two, but three would have already made her plan a bit more difficult to pull off.

She focuses intently on the task at hand, dragging her subconscious away from the warmth she feels radiating off Diego’s body and the not overpowering but decidedly distracting smell of his skin,

“What the fuck?!” she hears one of the guards shout as he arrives at the cell and can apparently indeed only find one occupant.

There’s a rattling of keys and the hinges of the cell door squeal as it is opened.

Diego’s muscles shift against her, it feels like he’s lifting his arms. “Careful where you point that thing,” he says evenly.

Right, so she assumes he’s being kept in check by one of the guards, but that’s ok, that’s part of the plan.

One set of footsteps tentatively enters and Lila readjusts ever so slightly, face still firmly pressed against Diego’s back but she can now see the guard as he passes them, gaze fixed on the far side of the cell, sword raised defensively, and he completely misses her as he edges past.

Lila spots the hilt of a knife sticking out of his belt and in a flash she slips away from Diego and up behind the guard, pulls the knife out of his belt, and slits his throat with it.

Confident enough in her skills that she doesn’t have to bother checking she’s done the job thoroughly enough, though she does register the thud as the guard’s body hits the stone floor, she twists around to assist Diego.

But there’s no need as she just catches him grabing the short spear, the tip of which is still resting against his chest, pulls it out of the other guard’s hands and slams the handle hard enough into the man’s face that Lila can hear the sickening crunch of multiple bones breaking.

She doubts he’s dead, but this guard will also not cause them any issues in the foreseeable future.

“Holy shit,” Diego breaths out in surprise, “I didn’t think that would work!”

“Oh thanks for the confidence!” she says, more exhilarated than miffed, really, and grabs his hand.

On some absolutely batshit impulse she interlaces her fingers with his, but then decides against just dropping his hand like it's a hot piece of coal, lest she make things even more awkward.

She ignores the wide eyed stare he gives her, though a part of her brain registers how he clasps her hand right back, and starts pulling him out of the cell, urgently saying, “Come on Diego, we need to go!”