#oh fuck i just dislocated my toe

[elliesmainhoe]

Ellie Williams Headcanons: Tattooist!Ellie Part2

Part 1 here

PUH-LEASE-

She's so babygirl 🤭

Imagine her tattooing you- and she keeps checking up on how your doing <3

It had been about ten minutes. Ten continuous minutes of the buzz of a tattoo pen- the continuous scratching on your thigh, ink imprinting itself permanently onto your skin and the soft hum of your favourite music filling the comfortable silence throughout the empty studio.

"How you doin' baby?" The gravely voice belonging to your girlfriend pulled you out of your zoned out state.

"You need a break?" Ellie asked, worry etched into her voice as her pen left your skin.

"nah- I'm good Els" you hummed softly in reply, tapping Ellie's nose lightly with a smile.

Her voice is so gentle- always making sure ur okay, and kissing your forehead every once in a while

Saying shit like 'Oh your doin' so well babygirl', 'm so proud doll' 🧎🏼‍♀️

So so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so fucking hot omg.

Her arms all inked up, her tongue, nose, nipples and lip pierced BrO-!?#

Loves when you colour in her patch work tattoos.

Like girl has some gory ass gothic tattoos and you colour them in with sparkly rainbow glitter pens 💕

Your relationship is the poster child for opposites attract.

She's smothered head to toe in chains, ink, black and eyeliner.

YOU on the other hand are always dressed up in pastels. A ray of fucking sunshine.

Ellie absolutely loves it.

Fun Fact!!!! Tattooist!Ellie can also pierce people.

So that's why when you ask Ellie to pierce your nipples- girlie is extatic.

"Hey Ells~"

"Sup baby?" She replies to your usual chirpy voice, not looking up from her appointment book, checking over tomorrows schedule.

"I have a question~" you sing, smiling mischievously at her.

Ellies eyes met yours "shoot."

"Could you pierce my nipples?"

Her jaw is dislocated from how far it dropped

She's shocked, not expecting you to ask that, especially in such an innocent tone

She of course said yes- pierced you with so much care, looked after all your aftercare until you were healed.

And let's just say those piercings were definitely.... Beneficial

----------

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[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Misattribution of Arousal Theory

me?? writing a fic based on something i learned in class????? never

jk its a tradition at this point. welcome to the circus

Pairing: geraskier

CW: dislocated ankles, inaccurate medical procedure/info (idk if this is how it works but i liked the vibes), Jaskier needing a rescue, the meet cute of my dreams, if i missed something hmu

_____________________________

The pop of Jaskier’s ankle dislocating almost echoed through his body. He knew that wasn’t how sound worked, and bones weren’t that kind of hollow, but the immediate signals of “oh fuck” that shot through his body seemed to amplify the sound in a way that made his stomach churn. 

He laid there on the forest floor for what felt like hours, metaphorically kicking himself for focusing more on where his phone was pointing than where his feet were going. At least that deeply ingrained need to be near his phone kept him from flinging it too far away from him as he fell. The rescue team the firefighters said they’d send in their place would be there soon at the very least. Not that he was thrilled for anyone to see him in that condition or prepared to look another adult in the eye and tell them how he’d done this to himself. 

Just as he was starting to think no one would ever show and he would have to drag himself back to his car and drive himself to the hospital on the busted ankle, he heard a distant rumbling shout. Propping himself up on his elbows, he could just barely see a bright reflective jacket through the underbrush surrounding the trail. The voice shouted again, this time close enough for Jaskier to understand his name.

Relief flooded his body and he let loose an unhinged cackle before summoning everything he had to yell, “Over here!”

Jaskier could only see the vague outline of a man through the massive ferns and maple saplings, so he wasn’t at all prepared for the Adonis that emerged from around the bend, looking down on him like a gift from a god with a sick sense of humor. He was probably Jaskier’s height, definitely wider and more muscular, something very obvious from how his black under-armor shirt clung to his pecks and biceps. The reflective jacket tied around his waist only emphasized how this man was superhero-shaped and momentarily distracted Jaskier from the most gorgeous stark white curly hair he’d ever seen. 

It was only after staring at the man’s ruggedly gorgeous face for a few seconds too long that Jaskier realized his mouth was hanging open and he had been slowly inhaling for about ten whole seconds. 

The man graciously pretended not to notice as he picked his way down the slightly washed-out and rocky path and introduced himself, “You’d better not go into shock now that someone’s here. I still need cooperation. I’m Geralt, by the way.”

Jaskier’s mouth immediately snapped shut, and he shoved himself into a seated position, wincing when his leg shifted with the movement, “No shock, still very much in pain.”

Geralt flashed him a disarming grin as he crouched down next to where he sat on the muddy ground, “Yeah? Good. Neither of us wants to wait for a stretcher. How are you with pain tolerance?”

Swallowing hard and attempting not to let the fear show on his face, Jaskier spoke as he watched Geralt slowly and gently unlaced the high-top boots he was wearing, “Uhm… depends on what it is? I got my elbow ditch tattooed, if that gives you a hint?” His voice creeping up at least an octave as Geralt removed his boot had him absolutely mortified.

Handing him the boot Geralt shifted to sit on the trail closer to Jaskier’s foot, “And how’d you deal with that? What made it easier?”

“Talking,” Jaskier blurted, starting to feel his adrenaline pick up as his eyes focused on his foot pointing in the very wrong direction for the first time since he fell. He hadn’t needed to see it to know something was severely wrong, but he didn’t know just how wrong until he registered his kneecap pointing skyward and his toes pointing toward Geralt, “I- uh. I think I just babled like stream- stream of consciousness- poor artists probably thought I was a lunatic. I got a little yelly too- Like now. Help- helped me breathe, though. And the whole vocal folds connecting to fascia and all that.”

Geralt nodded and smoothed his hand over his hair to push his flyaways out of his face, “What are you thinking about, then?”

After a moment of panicked realization he was in for yet more pain, Jaskier answered a little too honestly, “Misattribution of Arousal Theory.”

To his absolute horror, Geralt paused and raised an eyebrow before asking him what that was. 

“Its this idea- oh shit OW.” Jaskier let slip a bit of outrage on the ‘ow’, partially at himself and partially because he couldn’t believe this beautiful man had to meet him like this. 

“Its the idea…” Geralt prompted, waving Jaskier along as he picked up his heel. 

Searing pain shot up his leg, but Jaskier bared his teeth and pushed through it anyway, if only because the pretty man wanted to hear him talk, “The idea that people can mistake heightened levels of endorphins, aka arousal, for stronger EMOTIONS AND ATTRACTION- FUCK!!”

Almost before he’d screamed about it, his ankle was back in place and the pain dissipated. It was still definitely there, but he could unclench his ass and take a deep, if shaky, breath. 

“Stronger attraction, huh?” Geralt asked, sitting so he could rest his arm on his knee and giving Jaskier a smirk halfway between teasing and seductive. 

“I- I mean it works both ways,” Jaskier panted, leaning back hard on his hands and glancing back and forth between Geralt and his foot now pointing the correct direction, “Can increase disgust and rage too…”

Nodding with an expression that told Jaskier he wasn’t hiding his embarrassment nearly well enough, Geralt rifled through the pack Jaskier had failed to notice when he’d arrived and produced a water bottle, “Whatever you say, college boy.” 

Scoffing before he drained half the crinkly plastic bottle, Jaskier leaned into the joke, “I’m an expert, I promise.”

Geralt laughed as he stood up and Jaskier couldn’t help but be a little captivated when the afternoon sunlight gave him a golden halo. Offering his hand, Geralt seemed to be unable to keep the chuckle out of his voice, “When you write this into a paper, can I get a cool nickname? Maybe The Hero or Knight? Or does my name even need changing?”

Taking his hand and letting Geralt help haul him to his feet, Jaskier squeaked, “Oh, I'm far too embarrassed to write this into a paper. Your identity’s safe with me,” right before attempting to put weight on his ankle and collapsing into Geralt’s arms. Jaskier cursed his adrenaline for making his good leg weak as Geralt wrapped his arms around his torso, keeping him far closer than he needed to while supporting his weight. 

“I think I need to carry you out of here,” Geralt’s lowered, nearly whispered words held far more than professionalism would allow.

Jaskier made the mistake of looking up into his eyes and completely losing his breath. Misattribution errors or not, he didn’t really care; this man was gorgeous and cradling him oh so gently and looking at him with what he could only call a pleading bid for actual interest. 

“I think so, too,” Jaskier whispered. 

The piggy back ride to the trailhead wasn’t exactly glamorous, but Geralt made sure to make up for it later when he carried Jaskier back down the aisle at their wedding.

[zhounauts]

one hit is all it takes; k.gyuvin

☾₊ ⊹ when your high school's handball tournament gets a little bit (very) intense, and what would've been your team's winning shot, ends up in gyuvin's face (ouch). with the hit, gyuvin takes this opportunity to get closer to you, all while trying to act like he hates you.

CHAPTER 6 ! new feelings and soap are in the air

“you aren’t coming?” yunjin asks. you give her a look before both her a ni-ki burst out laughing.

“oh right! you got to scrub windows, boo hoo our poor ynnie,” ni-ki says.

“you ugly ass-” you exclaim, ready to pounce.

“i don’t think you want any more detention y/n, especially for attacking a student,”

“die, both of you,”

“so that was very hurtful,” yunjin says, “i would appreciate if you would apolog—”

“she’s violent! run!” ni-ki exclaims, as you grab another pencil from your pencil case, getting ready to throw it. you watch as your two friends disappear out of the classroom, giggling like goons and sigh. you gaze longingly (dramatically) outside your classroom window and watch as students make their way out of the school, ignoring your suffering. however your sad thoughts are cut off by your phone vibrating, and you groan knowing exacty who was texting you.

you groan, yet you stand up and make your way out of the classroom to carry Gyuvin’s bags.

“this is all your fault,” you grumble, mixing up soap and water.

“not this again,” gyuvin deadpans.

“if you didn’t come in and make a scene at the office we wouldn’t be here,”

“if you didn’t slam my face with a ball, that scene at theh office would not have happened, and we wouldn’t be here,”

“maybe you should’ve dodged it then,”

“maybe you shouldn’t have thrown the ball so hard,”

“well maybe i wanted to win— the fuck?!” you exclaim, mouth agape as soapy water drips down your cheek, “you didn’t just—”

“HEY!” gyuvin screeches, he goes to dip his good arm into the soapy mixture again before you yank it away just in time.

“i don’t think so!”

“well i think so!” gyuvin exclaims lunging towards you. you scream as his ungodly long arm almost grabs you and gyuvin laughs. quickly jumping away, (parkour skills) you hide behind a desk hoping that it can protect you from him.

“you just left the soap behind genius,” gyuvin taunts. you gape.

“fuck!” next thing you know, soaps flying through the air and you can’t stop laughing no matter how hard you try to stop it. not only that, you just can’t seem to stop the warmth that's rising up in your stomach.

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TAGLIST ! @yeolaegi @soobincantswim @zuzushoner @mposkyje @rosinbae @beomibeom @eumppattv @onlyhoons @xinxinyy

taglist is open, send an ask or comment to be added!

if your name is bolded, means i'm unable to tag you

a/n it has been 2,500,954 seconds since i posted a chapter for this story.

i apologize, my school's starting tomorrow and i might cry and sob and punch the wall kick a chair break a toe dislocate my shoulder choke on

[shywhumpauthor]

The Merry Whump of May—Day 16

“Take a break”

Branding Iron | Moonlight | Cemetery

Surveillance Masterlist || Merry Whump of May Masterlist

(I don’t know when this is. Noah’s timeline is all fucked up. Late captivity, but he still wanted to be defiant for a day ig? Let’s say it’s a couple weeks before “You’ve lost”)

Cw: torture, branding, beating, restraints, blood, noncon nudity (mostly partial, non sexual), threats

Noah rocked backwards, gritting his teeth against a cry of pain, the thick coppery taste of blood spilling through his mouth as a fist slammed against his jaw.

Red leaked from his nose, pouring down the front of his chin and dripping to his bare chest. The exposure left him cold, goosebumps pricking along his arms, wrenched above his head and tethered in place with a length of chain and tight cuffs that bit into his flesh, digging against the bruises already there. He had grown rather used to that, though, and while some days he was fortunate enough to be given a plain, thin shirt not all that dissimilar than to scrubs a nurse or somebody would wear, they usually ended up being cut from his torso with a knife, the guards lacking the patience to manhandle it off of him.

He’d learned quickly now that when he was told to strip, to fucking listen, because then at least he’d have a damn chance at getting his shirt back after the torture.

With how cold it got in the cells at night, and how often his blanket was confiscated by only the guards’ cruel humor as intention, unless he wanted to spend the whole night huddled in the corner trying not to freeze, he kind of had to comply.

Noah spat, a mouthful of blood falling to the floor by the guard’s feet in front of him, coughing as he swayed unsteadily. His shoulders ached, a deep strain pulling his muscles all up his arms numb. He could barely stand on his toes, calves cramping but it was that or dislocate his shoulders and slump forwards.

“I t- told y’h,” he grunted, taking a moment between blows to drag in a wheezing breath. “‘m not… not ss-sayin’ shit.”

Standing off to the side, Declan chuckled. There was little amusement behind his tone.

“Oh, my friend, I don’t doubt that. Your will is admirably strong, but so is your foolishness.”

The man pushed up from where he sat, leaning against the side of the interrogation table, waving the guards back so he could step in front of Noah. Declan’s hand raised, gripping tightly around Noah’s jaw, and though the strain of his position pulled him higher, Declan was still just taller, tilting Noah’s head to bring him to eye-level.

“I was just waiting for you to say that.” He murmured, dragging his thumb over the blossoming bruise across Noah’s jaw.

The man stepped back, letting Noah’s chin drop before he managed to righten himself a moment later, exhaustion weighing heavy on his bones as he forced his head to stay raised.

The guards had moved out of Noah’s line of sight, and even as he tried to strain and look back over his shoulder, he still couldn’t see where they had gone, but the low shuffling of footsteps and a quiet hiss told him that they hadn’t left the room.

“I’ve been waiting for this order to come in for months,” Declan began, his tone nonchalant as he watched the activity behind Noah. “You should feel very special, my friend, I had this custom made just for you.”

“The ff’ck’re you t- talkin’ ab’t?” Noah wheezed, his voice scraping against his dry throat.

“Well, first my plan was to simply tattoo you, but I didn’t believe that was enough. I wanted to make a lesson out of this,“ Declan smirked, crossing his arms over his suit. Dressed impeccably, as usual, the outfit was clearly expensive. Against the dark wool, though, by the neatly folded cuffs of his sleeves, there were dark speckles of stain, made visible in the harsh lighting.

There was a small crackle behind Noah, but he didn’t bother to try and turn this time, a deep dread pooling cold in his stomach. An inkling of what was to follow crept in his mind, and he had no doubts that Declan would carry out something like that, but he shoved them from his mind before he could sink too deeply into the fear and hopelessness that began to creep up his throat.

“You will break on your own time, Noah. When you do, I will be here. You will pledge your loyalty and resume your job with restrictions. Until then, I am free to do as I wish.” Declan didn’t move from where he stood, but as he spoke his presence seemed to grow until it was stifling, choking Noah as much as a noose. “I will chip away at you until there is nothing left to break. For this, however, I’ll let you choose. Where do you want it?”

“W’nt.. what?” Noah grit out, but there was nothing but a shallow anger behind his voice, overshadowed by the shake in his tone.

“Oh, my friend, you know exactly what. You have three seconds to answer before I choose for you, and believe me, you will not appreciate where that goes.”

Noah faltered, stumbling to find the words through his pain clouded, throbbing mind.

“Back,” He spat the word like it was acid on his tongue, but the effect was dulled by the tears welling in his eyes, threatening to spill down his reddened cheeks.

“Wonderful decision. Just between the shoulder blades, I’m sure it will heal just stunningly.” Declan smirked, his attention turning to the shuffling movement behind Noah.

“Wh-wait no,” he tried to protest, rushing to get the words out, while they blended together to near incomprehensibly. “Low-lower-”

“Oh but you didn’t say that, Noah. Now, I suggest you hold still, if you mess this one up, the next will be to that pretty little face of yours.”

A sharp hiss could be heard just behind him, and Noah gasped, hearing the awful sizzling of skin scorching before he felt the pain.

——————————————————

@themerrywhumpofmay

Tag list: @pickleking8 @blood-enthusiast @t0rture-me @sparrowsage @enigmawritesstuff @whump-me

If any of you have ideas/suggestions for more mwm prompts you’d like me to use Noah in, let me know! (Seriously, please. Someone suggest something)

[crushofdoves]

ten lines, ten people

so many of y’all tagged me - @motswolo is the most recent so u get the tag lol. I don’t have 10 posted fics or WIPs so you’re getting a mix of both. and they’re not all first lines xx

After, it's dead silent in the room for a beat - and then Sirius is heaving huge, wracking breaths and saying, "What the fuck, oh my god," under his breath over and over again and Remus is still just staring like it's all caught up to him. His mouth has dropped open into a soft bow of shock and he looks down at his hand like he can’t believe it’s attached to him. - i’ve got diamonds in my eyes (for you)

Sirus had never been a particularly self-conscious person, not even when he started wearing skirts and dark eye makeup. He had simply shown up to class one day in a short, black velvet dress and all but snarled at anyone who looked at him. At almost anyone who looked at him. Remus had pressed a hand on the small of Sirius’s back, smiled and said, “Velvet really suits you. - dirty valentine (written for greenie <3)

The knife is gone for a moment, the fingers pulled out to the tip. And then Sirius feels the blade against the small of his back, lined up straight with his spine. Everything is still. Sirius knows that Remus isn’t hesitating, he’s just making Sirius wait, keeping him on his toes. (cw: blood, knives) - overflow

His eyes are silver and unassuming as moonlight, the kind of glow that pulls secrets from your throat. Silver-scaled trout on a tense, strong line. 

This too-big feeling, Remus knows, is a promise that the other boot will drop. Waiting for the pendulum to swing, suspended - the comfort of the inevitable. This is a game that Remus is very, very good at. - the dislocated room

 If this is what it is to let someone in, Sirius wonders, then he has no idea how people manage it on a day-to-day basis. It’s completely devouring, it’s eating Sirius up from the inside out and no, he doesn’t want it to stop. - boot theory

“You are absolutely killing it today, I bet Remus is shaking in his little sneakers at the sight of you,” James said, soothing, clearly holding back a laugh.

“Please just go to the till, James,” Sirius said, more embarrassed than he’d ever been, “And let me sweep up the scraps of my ego in peace. - untitled lil bookstore au

Maybe it would’ve been different if Sirius hadn’t grown up picturing himself inside the fairy tales he read in secret - if he hadn’t expected kindness from a world that didn’t understand him. Maybe then the inevitability of it all wouldn’t feel so much like one big cosmic joke, Sirius sparkling right in the center of it. - crush / i had a dream about you

Remus Lupin knew all about the city boys. He knew how they would kiss, how they would press against him in the dark and leave nothing in the morning but the mud from their still-shiny boots on his hardwood floors.   -untitled cowboy thoughts that might make it into a fic w/@greenvlvetcouch

“James I do not need you to be responsible right now, I need you to tell me that I’m normal and I can do this,” Sirius says, trying not to sound as small as he feels.

James turns around from the fridge with a bag of bagels in one hand and a jug of orange juice in the other and smiles at Sirius in the soft sad way that someone would typically direct at a distressed child. - you wouldn’t like me - wolfstar in 2005

[bloodsweatandpotato]

Day 8

Everything hurts and I’m dying

Fandom: Original work

Characters: Spy Whumpee, Whumper

Tw: Mention of torture, stab wounds

Summary: Sequel to day 3. Whumpee wakes up bound and in pain. Their day just goes downhill from there.

Whumpee blinked awake slowly, eyes stubbornly refusing to focus on their surroundings. They experimentally tried to move their hands, and stifled a groan as pain lanced through their shoulders.

Their head was throbbing, their nose and eyes burned, and their mouth tasted foul in a way that pointed to the less-than-pleasant aftereffects of chloroform. They grimaced, feeling the way a spot on their temple pulled with dried blood and puckered skin.

Whumpee swallowed convulsively, pushing down nausea. They had already humiliated themself enough by being caught unaware in an alleyway. They didn’t need to get sick all over themself to complete the pathetic look.

Whumpee turned their attention back to their surroundings, blinking harshly in an attempt to see clearer.

They were sitting on the floor (well, sitting is relative. They were actually slumped against the wall, but who cares about semantics?) with their hands bound behind them. The pain from when they first woke was enough to dissuade Whumpee from attempting to move their arms again, but they did flex their fingers experimentally.

Handcuffs.

Wrapped around a… metal pipe?

Keeping them shackled against the wall.

Whumpee sighed. They had already been cornered in an alleyway and subdued with chloroform and a tap on the head. Why couldn’t their captor have completed the stereotypical kidnapping by just tying Whumpee to a chair? At least then Whumpee would have had a chance at slipping the knots.

As it was, the only way they would get out of the cuffs would be by dislocating their thumb, and the pain in their arms and shoulders told Whumpee it would be agonizing to even get enough leverage to do so.

They took a deep breath, taking stock of their injuries.

They wiggled their toes (already having established they had feeling in their fingers) and were pleased to find all limbs seemed to be attached and in relatively working order. So, probable concussion (it couldn’t be too bad, Whumpee hadn’t lost consciousness, only been a bit dazed), side effects of chloroform, upper arms that felt as if they had been quite rudely smashed with a hammer, and whatever was wrong with their side.

Whumpee really didn’t want to look down at their side.

They really didn’t want to confirm that it was blood warming their skin.

They looked down anyway.

Fuck.

Just then, the door to the basement (Whumpee had figured out it was a basement by now) swung open, and Whumper stepped in.

Whumpee squinted against the light, watching as Whumper strolled down the stairs and towards them. Their kidnapper didn’t smile.

“You’re awake.” They stated plainly.

Whumpee found an angry smile curling their lips into a half-snarl, and they growled out a response in a voice too-raspy from the chloroform.

“Oh good, your eyes work. I was getting worried, y’know, with how bad the interior design of this place is. Ever heard of, I don’t know, color?”

Whumper didn’t respond to the jab, only scanning Whumpee’s form impassively.

“How are you feeling?”

“Well, everything hurts and I’m dying, but other than that I’m great.” Whumpee rolled their eyes.

“Dying?”

“Well the giant stab wound in my side certainly seems counter to my survival, don’t you think?”

Whumper grunted, eyebrows furrowing in the first display of emotion since they had entered. “I didn’t mean to go so deep.”

Whumpee said nothing.

“I’ll stitch it.” Whumper growled, advancing on Whumpee.

“I’ll bite you.” Whumpee promised.

The gag shoved in Whumpee’s mouth was unsurprising. They didn’t struggle, letting Whumper stitch them with clinical detachment. Well, it appears their kidnapper was keen on keeping them alive, at least for then. Whumpee wondered what information they would be tortured for this time.

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 days 12 + 13

“Mayday, mayday!” | Cave In | Rusty Nail

Fracture | Dislocation | “Are you here to break me out?”

Technically, we’re getting down to the duel at Zuara. But that manifests differently in the AU. With more...torture, basically.

CW for ummm where to start. Imprisonment, solitary confinement, darkness, torture, beatings, SA, psychological fuckery, drugging, restraint, psychiatric malpractice, personal data and privacy breaches, oh yes, limb dislocation, childbirth mention, allusions to rape and SA...😬 oh and cave ins! Flooding. Violent use of stationery. Blood. Homophobic slurs. Threats of the care system and the use of lobotomy. Can I just say CW Graham Reid Malett? It would save time.

It’s also about 7,500 words, I know tumblr isn’t the ideal platform for reading, it will go on ao3 at the end of the month with everything else.

So anyway, repeat after me: Whump Room! Whump Room! Whump Room!

I’m going to go and do penance for this now k bye. So much love to all my gremlins who want to read this! <3

---

Notes: Vadan is Jerott’s old sannyasin name, as Geetesh is GRM’s name. Baron Morgan is the Aga Morat. Khaireddin is Kailam/Cai. Kiaya Çalışkan is Kiaya Khatún. If anything else needs explaining do ask!

---

Francis wasn't certain how long he'd been in the tunnels below the ashram. His days began whenever he woke - or, more often, was woken - in darkness, and ended the same way. He had become Graham Reid Malett's latest living experiment, and as far as he knew, his life only mattered because it protected the lives of others.

Oonagh was alive, he had been told, though he hadn't seen her; her son - Francis' son - was alive. There was the boy Joleta had given birth to at an age it appalled Francis to even imagine; there was Philippa, supposing that her cover was safe as she worked with both children in the nursery; Archie and Salah, who would be looking for Francis, risking themselves the closer they came to discovering to the truth; Marthe, brought into all this against her will, seething at finding she couldn't just leave; and Onophrion, Gaultier, the boy Mikál who Philippa had formed a bond with...a whole community for Swami Geetesh to fuck with in the cause of keeping Francis compliant.

It had been made exquisitely clear to him that help was not coming. It would not be permitted to reach him, even if it were to be offered.

Since the first time he'd been brought rudely to consciousness, Swami Geetesh had let him believe that Jerott was already lost - an accident on the road as he had tried to escape and get help.

Francis couldn't say how many days ago it had been, but he recalled the sight of Geetesh's fascinated expression, lit in patterns of jagged contrast by the lone, caged bulb affixed to the wall. "He won't be bringing anyone back for you, my dear, do you understand that?"

It was impossible to process in the unreality of the world Francis had found himself in. It simply wasn't comprehensible that Jerott might not exist any longer - it seemed far more likely that Francis himself had ceased to be, and had found himself in some auto-purgatory, smothered by his own worst nightmares.

Before this, he had been helping Onophrion and another of the sannyasins clear brush in the woods; someone had offered him a sip of water from a flask and he'd grimaced at the bitter, metallic taste, supposing that the bottle was new and hadn't been cleaned well. He didn't remember losing consciousness, had merely woken to find himself pinned to a narrow bed with Geetesh sitting next to him. His hands had been cuffed to the steel frame and nausea had scoured his body from the tips of his toes to his scalp.

Geetesh had scowled at the sound of Francis retching. "Pull yourself together. The facilities in here are limited - if you ruin these clothes and this mattress I shan't be able to bring you replacements."

He'd had to force down another spasm of acidic rebellion as he contemplated spewing directly into that smug face, but logic clamped down on the temptation swiftly. He needed to know where he was, what was happening, what on earth Graham Reid Malett intended for him now.

That, of course, had all been information that Geetesh had delighted in spooling out over various indefinable moments of consciousness. When he visited, Francis always woke to find himself chained to the bed; when he left it was usually when Francis was on the brink of passing out for one reason or another, and in no fit state to fight Geetesh for the door key.

The room had a door at each end -  they were sold, metal constructions. The floor was poured concrete and the walls and ceiling were bare rock. As well as the bed there was a stool and a heavy desk affixed to the floor, and a bare metal toilet bowl, like one would find in a prison, plumbed securely into the concrete. The light only came on when Geetesh arrived.

It emerged that Francis was being kept in this empty, soulless space in order to contribute to Geetesh's musical ambitions. Once Geetesh had explained his vision, he brought sound equipment down with him and set it up on the desk. The power source was outside the room, and a red extension cable trailed across the the desk from one of the doors, taking mixing decks, recording devices and other gadgets in its sockets. Sometimes it took Geetesh some time to set up the paraphernalia; sometimes all he did was press play on a battery powered cassette player and watch Francis' response. Once or twice he did not press play, but rather record, and those were the visits Francis resented most.

It turned out that Geetesh had been keeping archives of every one-to-one therapy or meditation session run out of the ashram, as well as recordings of the ambient trauma of collective samarpan sessions. He had some theories about human empathy, about the need some people felt to respond to the suffering shown by another.

"Listen to that," he might breathe, pausing the cassette after a pupil made a sound that weighed more than words - a sigh, a whimper, a groan of revelation. "What is it that makes us respond to music, Francis?

"The way the professional singer can channel feelings it isn't possible or desirable for us to express in our day to day lives. The kinds of feelings we may express instead in a closed therapy session. But it's always an act for the singer, isn't it, my lyrebird?

"You withold yourself, even when you are on stage. You perform. But what if your music was real? What if you let the audience have your real, authentic self? How much more cathartic might it be for all?"

When Geetesh depressed the button marked record, Francis knew it was time to be as silent as possible. Geetesh's approach varied - but never his goal of stripping Francis back to his 'authentic self'.

Sometimes he spoke to Francis like a psychiatrist might, leading him to the worst occasions in his life that Geetesh could summon: the year of slavery spent working for the New York mob, the disappearance of his young sister, the disaster in East Berlin, the night of misguided, narcotic-fuelled sex he'd shared with Geetesh's own sister. But, by and large, all these occasions that Geetesh knew about were a matter of public record already - and Francis had heard everything the world could throw at him regarding these moments. He didn't need Geetesh to tell him to regret his actions.

"And wouldn't you say that you enjoyed feeling important? Knowing that your music was worth killing over? You liked the idea of being a figurehead for freedom fighters...But a figurehead was all you were. Absolved of responsibility, merely a trinket for the serious men to display - free to deny it all...

"Of course, you let Eloise down. She trusted you, didn't she? She thought you could save her, offer her the life of luxury that would take her away from Gavin Crawford. But you're selfish, Francis. You didn't want to share. What if the world had loved her even more than you? You couldn't bear to let her in, so you drove her away. It's your fault she's never coming back.

"Those poor young things in Berlin - what a merry dance you led them on. Hope is the most dangerous weapon in a musician's arsenal, wouldn't you agree? To bring them the hope of acceptance - offering them the chance to be themselves even as you appeared in disguise - knowing that it would likely just get them killed...Was it worth it, for your career? How many times will you try the same trick - dying in order to boost your record sales?

"What you did to that girl is unconscionable. Unimaginable. She was nothing to you, was she? Just another little groupie you could teach a lesson to. Just a way of hurting me. But I bet you enjoyed it, didn't you, Francis? Having power over one so young. Testing the feeling of a nubile body beneath yours, showing her all the ways of the world she couldn't yet have experienced. You wanted to ruin her, and you got a thrill out of doing it."

These sessions left Francis calmly impassive. Geetesh was opening no new wounds, and when such accusations were thrown out only with the intention of getting a response from him, Francis was well-practised in acting indifferent. He already knew that the insinuations behind all Geetesh said could hurt him - but the pain was worst when Francis was the one carving blame into himself. And he had already hurt himself more deeply with those thoughts than Geetesh could possibly hope to do, lacking, as he was, the precise reasons why Francis already held himself fully accountable for the lives ruined and lost in the wake of their association with him.

So just as Francis declined to show any great emotion regarding his sordid past, Geetesh resolved to hide his own frustration at Francis' self-control.

This he managed some days better than others. Sometimes, the record button was pressed to catch the sounds of a clinical, thoughtfully-plotted beating - nothing serious enough to impede Francis' creative abilities, merely, as Geetesh called it, "A purgative. To help me to centre myself again. To remind me of the greater things that will be possible when you submit."

He would leave Francis with hidden bruises, scrupulous about wrapping his preferred implement in soft padding before the act. Afterwards, he might mix the new recording into a session taken from a group meditation and invite Francis to pick out his own grunts and cries among the screams of devotees letting loose.

Francis didn't know how many sessions of this he had endured when Geetesh decided to forcibly remind him of his obligations to those he loved.

He had already played dozens of tapes to Francis, narrating over other people's private confessions as though, by his intervention, he had collected the essence of each individual and contained it in a tidy arc: beginning, middle, end - and Geetesh's concluding moral. But on one occasion he woke Francis without preamble, leaving him in the darkness with only one track playing.

On it: a woman's voice - she had a Donegal accent - and the murmurs of a solicitous helper, someone with the disingenuous, soothing tones of a medical professional. Geetesh's own instructions, spoken too quietly to be heard precisely, and a bustle of activity and beeping monitors.

"You couldn't be there for the birth," Geetesh murmured from the darkness at the foot of Francis' bed. "So I thought I would preserve it for posterity."

Of course, this most precious of moments was accompanied by the pointed reminder that Geetesh expected some return for his generosity in sharing Kailam's first breaths - and that if Francis did not oblige him, he would make sure the relevant parties suffered.

It got him writing, at last. It forced him to compose, and it was, undeniably, inspirational.

Geetesh let Francis sit at the desk, uncuffed, and he lay on the bed, smiling, waiting for Francis to share what he had created.

Bitter, hopeless, and exasperated by the task, Francis finally exclaimed: "Don't you think the work might be more natural if I wrote about fatherhood from the perspective of one who is allowed to be a parent to their child?"

Geetesh stared at him dumbly for a moment, his brows raised and eyes wide. Then he rolled his head on the pillow and laughed uproariously at the ceiling. "You? Parent? I don't think so, little lyrebird. Besides, it's your pain that I want. That's what will sell best. The market for those sappy peans to parenthood is...limited."

Stupidly, after all the disdain and abuse that had fallen from his lips already, Francis found this got under his skin more than anything else had done  His grip tightened on his pen, and he imagined driving it into Geetesh's eyeball.

No. Early on, Geetesh had told him that there was a pager hidden on site, rigged to sent an automatic message out if Geetesh did not override it within a number of hours. The message would ensure that Francis' family was scattered to the four winds: that Cai would vanish into the adoption system and Oonagh would be sectioned, and who knew what else would happen to the others. Any harm to Geetesh risked triggering this if Francis could not search thousands of acres of land and find the pager in time - or if he couldn't guarantee an escape for them all before then.

Francis had only one very dim hope regarding this. It hinged on circumstances that were, regrettably, beyond his control, but he had to believe that nature hated Graham Reid Malett as much as he did.

He had managed to escape the confines of his dingy cell just the once, when, having administered a beating, Geetesh had removed Francis' cuffs and wandered over to the desk to jot some things down in a soft-bound notepad. Francis' limbs had taken the brunt of it that day - his upper arms felt puffy and weak, his legs shook, and the soles of his feet were in agony. He lay curled on the concrete floor, his breath ragged and pained, and he noticed that one of the heavy metal doors hadn't been fully closed. There was a light seeping in that wasn't the same colour as the dim yellow of the bulb in the room - this light was cooler, perhaps more natural. Francis' hopes rose - maybe freedom was closer than he had thought.

He rolled over with a groan so that he was close to the door, and Geetesh turned to look at him.

"Good, lyrebird. That's material we can work with," he said smoothly.

Francis waited, prone against the cold, hard floor, until Geetesh had turned away again. Then, summoning the strength to stand - simply because he had to - Francis got up with the aid of the wall and the door jamb, grasped the edge of the heavy metal door with his fingertips and wrenched it open, and stumbled into fresher air.

He had found himself at the foot of a vertical shaft lined with metal rungs. It seemed to rise endlessly, to the source of the cool, white light he had detected. He grimaced at the distance, though he moved towards the rungs with the intention of climbing.

But the nerves in his fingers tingled from the blows that had been struck to his upper arms, and the pressure of one rung under the sole of his bare, whipped, foot was unbearable.

He had leaned his head against one of the cold metal bars and gasped back a sob of anguish, and then, even as Geetesh's steps casually approached from behind, he had noticed the water and minerals beading on the surface of the rock and he had recalled the maps he'd seen of the area.

Miles of unmapped tunnels and aquifers; cave systems that people disappeared into never to be seen again; unpredictable, changeable arroyos; old wells and sinkholes; a land that was as restless and vindictive under modern human occupation as an unbroken animal. When Francis had been removed to this cell, they had been approaching autumn and the rains. Was it too much to hope for, that this recently dug tunnel might not be able to withstand the forces of the seasons when they were unleashed?

Geetesh had wrapped his arms around Francis' biceps and torso and plucked him from the ladder like he was plucking a bug from a tree trunk. He had deposited Francis heavily on the bed, face first among sheets that already now smelled of Geetesh, and he had left immediately, taking his recording equipment and mixing deck with him, switching the light off and slamming the door.

But since then, Francis had thought often of the damp wall and what might be behind it. He didn't consider himself a man of faith, but he prayed to that wall and to the aquifer that lay behind it, and he willed it to break through and sweep both him and Geetesh away.

He tried not to let it work its way into the songs he wrote - this flood imagery and the potential of primordial power that lurked, always, in his subconscious. In this way, he found that he could write the miserable memoir Geetesh craved, while even so retaining his true feelings - his authentic self - from his tormentor.

It still wasn't easy to pluck what Geetesh desired from the knotted tangle of horrors that passed for emotions in that cell, and writing was a constantly draining task. Francis offered up his own self-loathing regarding the events Geetesh had questioned him about - he wrote confessions daily - or hourly - or at the very least every time consciousness arrived, wearing pink linens and a cruel smile on its face. But he did not preface them with forgive me, Father. He wrote for the impatient, seething morass that was the public court of opinion, knowing that no amount of sugar-coating with circumstance could absolve him.

The titles came and came, the confessions poured forth until there was almost an album's worth:

Galley Boy

The Sympathiser

Blood and Treason

The Tragic Moves

Strange Refuge

An Accident Happens

Distress is Not Released

The Lusty May

Flaming June

Pawn in Frankincense

Francis was at his lowest ebb. The tunnel he was in was deep enough below ground that he still had no inkling of the season. Wherever Geetesh arrived from, he never came direct from the outdoors, wet or bundled up against the cold. For all Francis knew they might have passed through winter and emerged again into spring.

But no - when Geetesh got close to him under the dim yellow bulb, Francis could see that his summer colour was absent. His skin was pale and his hair was a more muted gold. He smelled of wood smoke as much as patchouli, and the food he brought Francis was heartier, warming stuff.

He also seemed to sense that Francis' inspiration was beginning to wither, that his resources were running low, and that he could no longer push himself along only on the empty fumes of fear and stubbornness. He brought the tape player back in.

"I decided to share something special with you today, lyrebird," Geetesh told him. Settling at the foot of Francis' bed, cross-legged, his feet bare, he laid the tape player down between them like he was a teenager about to present a mixtape to their crush. "I'm sure you miss our foolhardy young friend almost as much as I do - and I thought you might like to hear his voice again."

Francis sat with his back to the headboard, frowning as he sought after Geetesh's meaning.

But then Geetesh pressed play, looked at Francis with mischief in his eyes and - to Francis' horror - pulled his linen top off. "It's one of my favourite sessions," he said by way of explanation. "I like to be comfortable when I listen to it. We made such a breakthrough! Ah, what might have been..."

He placed his large hands on his knees and drew an extravagantly deep breath that was designed to show off every muscle in his abdomen and chest - and the mastery which he had over them all. His wooden mala hung over his skin, and on it, the bearded face of Shree Rajneesh smirked at Francis on Geetesh's behalf.

Soon, two voices began to speak, and Francis closed his eyes when he recognised who Geetesh's patient - or pupil, or disciple, or whatever he called them - was in this session.

The accent was unmistakeable: Kelvingrove via Paris. Abrupt phrasing, heated and passionate one minute, stunned and defensive the next. A little younger, a little higher than it had been the last time Francis had spoken to him - cigarettes and booze had brought it down to something with rougher edges. But it was Jerott Blyth, and he was talking to Geetesh about a cassette he'd bought at a gas station.

The album he mentioned was Lymond's third, recorded with Will Scott, Christian Stewart and Turkey Mat. He seemed to have spent some time listening to it, to the point where Geetesh termed it an obsession and began to probe into how Jerott came to know the singer whose skill he praised so highly.

Francis, his eyes closed, remembered sleepless nights of innocent mischief in Carlisle. He remembered jamming at the youth hostel, swapping cassettes, raiding charity shop record bins, singing together, drinking together, singing together again and going back to the hostel to play guitar together again, and never wanting the month to end.

He still couldn't really fathom the thought that Jerott was truly gone - he had seemed indestructible, not least after surviving the fire and the cyanide and the delerium tremens. Not least in the wake of the betrayal he had felt when he'd discovered what Francis had done to keep them safe at Baron Morgan's Oasis, and the way he had pushed past that hurt in order to give the glorious, rousing, ecstatic performance he'd shared with Francis on their last night at the Oasis.

Francis had always supposed that Jerott, despite a propensity for finding trouble, would outlast him by a lifetime, would be the one to keep playing Francis' songs long after others forgot him. And now Francis found that the lack of him was an open wound that Geetesh had finally learned he could access.

On cue, Geetesh leaned forward and prodded Francis' leg. "Do you hear, my sweet? Did you know he thought that of you?"

The tape played, and Francis could not open his eyes as he heard the old conversation flow over him.

...

"Yet you say he's beautiful."

"Well, yes, but...so are...sunsets! I wouldn't have sex with a sunset."

"No. But a beautiful woman?"

"Yes. Obviously."

"Then why not a beautiful man?"

"Well it's. It's not right. It's perverted. Bhagwan says we need to be balanced. He says... that's unnatural, unbalanced. The people doing it have just got into bad habits."

Geetesh chuckles; indulgent.

"Is that what it was, when you came to me in Pune?"

"I... that was different." His throat sounds dry.

"Oh? You don't find me beautiful, Vadan?" Geetesh is smiling; it can be heard in his rich voice.

Jerott's laughter is nervous.

"No, I...that is...not...beautiful. Um. I just. I suppose I found myself thinking about it."

"It?"

"...Sex. I guess. With..."

"A man?"

"You."

Silence crackles on the tape before Jerott speaks again: "And I couldn't move beyond it, like Bhagwan instructs us to. So. I thought...um. Trying it would help me move beyond."

"Even though it's a perversion?"

"Well...I didn't think you would...judge me."

"I'm not judging you, Vadan. I would never, ever judge you - not least for such an...innocent curiosity."

"Yes - curiosity! That was all." He sounds so relieved.

"Yes. Now tell me, if this boy you knew came here, to the ashram. If you lived with him as you live with the others, and you felt that - curiosity - would you not act on it?"

"Um. I don't. I don't know..."

"Think about it, Vadan. How did he make you feel? What was it like being around him?"

"I don't...I only knew him for a few weeks, it's silly, really."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"You're minimising it. You're belittling your own feelings instead of acknowledging them, instead of seeing them clearly. They may make you uncomfortable, Vadan, but they are true, and real, and you. Did you love him?"

"Um. Maybe? I don't know. I never knew anyone like that before. Never...never felt like that before."

"You didn't have girlfriends?"

"Yeah, yeah of course. But I didn't love them. It was just...that was just fun, you know?"

"I understand, yes."

"But I wouldn't want to spoil it. We were friends. Maybe it couldn't have lasted if...if anything else had happened."

"At least, I think, you understand why I rejected you in Pune, then?"

Jerott sighs.

"It's the same?"

"Only you can say, naujavaa."

"I mean...maybe, when I left, maybe he could have persuaded me to stay."

"He didn't try?"

"No. Yes. But...not hard enough."

"You wanted to stay, then? Deep down, you wanted to be with him, to be in his band, to give up your fiancée and your father and follow this musician?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. It was different, when my dad was alive. When I thought I had a plan."

"I think, Vadan..." Geetesh's voice turns ever so soft, like a hand extended to a frightened animal. "I think you have been waiting for instructions ever since that time. You have been following the orders of those around you. The first decision you truly made for yourself was to come with me. Before then, you were shackled to this moment, to the hope that this boy would persuade you, would tell you what to do. You put that decision in his hands, and he didn't help you make the choice you wanted. So you absolved yourself of all choosing. Is that not so?"

Jerott draws a breath: sharp and sudden."Yes?"

"You were letting him rule you, letting the time he didn't try hard enough to persuade you to stay be the root from which all your problems stemmed."

"Yeah..."

"Good, Vadan, good! We have really made some progress today. Now your journey will involve moving past this boy, this love. He has hampered you for too long. We will go beyond him, you and I, and you will find that new loves appear."

...

Francis felt water on his cheeks. He'd cried at the sounds of Oonagh giving birth to Cai, but at nothing else that Geetesh had played. He hadn't expected to be confronted with anything that might make him feel in a way to rival that moment.

This, though, was a fist inside his chest all over again, a hand squeezing on his heart every time it tried to pump. It wasn't that he longed to be with the person he heard - not like he had needed, physically felt the compulsion to be at Oonagh's side when he had heard her animal roar and heard Cai cry out - but he found that a regret had been articulated by this recording that he hadn't been allowing himself to feel. He hadn't formed a callus over this injury, because he hadn't had the chance to build one up with preparatory, introspective self-flagellation.

He hadn't even thought that Jerott had wanted to be persuaded by him that night in Carlisle after the Solway Battle of the Bands. He had thought that arguing with Jerott about that would have been to show disrespect to his family and their priorities and customs. And he had never been at all certain of Jerott's feelings in those days - maybe Jerott hadn't been sure himself until he had gone to the ashram in Pune and discovered new depths to his being.

But really, Francis thought he was crying for what he knew Geetesh had done to the boy in the recording. For the knowledge that the replacement love offered by Geetesh had been poison from the start, and all his psychiatric language and half-truths only concealed the fact that he had been Jerott's new master and manipulator, the real chooser of his destiny. Francis was only swallowing down bile and tasting salt on his lips because of the knowledge of what Jerott had offered to Geetesh in Pune before Geetesh took it forcibly in the basement studio at St Mary's. Right under the bones of Francis' home, and he hadn't done a thing to stop it.

Jerott's words at the Oasis rang in Francis' memory: You fucking faggot!

Francis let out a sigh.

"Exquisite," Geetesh gloated. "I knew you would appreciate it."

"Fuck you..." Francis said wearily.

Geetesh's lips curled in a sneer. "How coarse. I expect more eloquence from you, pet. But I suppose, as you evidently care so much about our mutual second, you would like to hear about how I helped him to go beyond the base desires that were limiting him?"

Francis let his expression suffice as an answer. His body ached in ways that he could no longer enumerate or define; he couldn't say whether the sleep he was getting was too much or too little, but it wasn't at all restorative. Meal times were sporadic, and he couldn't remember the intervals between them because he was sure it changed each time. Sometimes he would wake to find Geetesh above him, his body pinning Francis to the mattress, his grip tight on Francis' jaw, and a razor in his free hand. Time couldn't even be measured by beard growth, although Francis found that he was getting confused about that process anyway - didn't it need light to grow? In short, he was in no position to stop Geetesh from monologuing about his achievements, but he doubted that this approach could wring much more material from him. He could only write with his 'authentic self' if he remembered what that was, after all.

Geetesh wasn't to be put off, though. He fingered the beads of his mala and gave a self-satisfied chuckle. "He thought I just needed to see your genius, little lyrebird."

Francis said nothing.

Geetesh took the cassette from the deck and put a blank in. He depressed the record button.

"That's why he invited me back. He thought he needed to save me, that if I could just see what he saw - how wonderful you are - we could all be one happy family."

Francis leaned his head against the stone above his headboard and closed his eyes again, envisaging a cleansing wave sweeping them both away, slamming their bodies against the uneven, jagged walls.

"As if I couldn't already see your genius. As if I wasn't already better equipped to understand you than he could ever be. As if we were his to share. He grew arrogant around you. You let him think he had more to offer than he did, and it was up to me to remind him of his place."

His breathing grew louder - Francis heard the excitement build in his voice as he recounted, blow by blow, what he had done.

He was recording himself - Francis didn't make a sound, just sat there with his eyes closed and his fists clenched in his lap, trying not to flinch at the picturesque account Geetesh delivered.

All too well, Francis remembered the state Jerott had been in afterwards. He had never needed to hear any of this to know enough about what had happened.

"So you see," Geetesh said lovingly. "It was what he had asked me for. How could he overcome his obsession if he never experienced what he desired? Unfortunately, our dear Vadan was never as receptive as he ought to have been. I don't think he understood the gift I gave him."

Despite the outward appearance of calm, Francis' pulse had spiked. He was trying not to think of anything at all, trying to empty his mind like he'd done whenever Baron Morgan had taken him back to his cabin and demanded payment for their stay. He'd endured that, he reminded himself. He could endure this. And Jerott wasn't alive anymore - Geetesh couldn't hurt him anymore. These were just words, aimed at lighting the fuse on Francis' imagination, and so Francis could fight them by keeping his mind blank.

"He showed me that he had never understood Bhagwan's teachings. He was supposed to take that experience, learn something about himself, and move on - but he only grew more obsessed with you, didn't he?"

Francis' thoughts of collapsing cave walls were coming into conflict with the maintenance of his own defenses. Too much was clamouring at the edges of his mind, too many recent traumas that he hadn't been able to deal with - displaced onto the hurt that had been done to another instead of the hurt done to him, these memories grew more powerful. He saw again and again that he should have tried harder, done more, stopped things from reaching this point.

He thought of Baron Morgan leering: "I seen how he looks at you."

Marthe, with a cynical curl of her lip, implying that Morgan's attentions might, in fact, have been just what Jerott needed. And later, thinking she was alone with Jerott in the pool: "It's because you can't have Francis Crawford that you want me."

Again, Jerott swinging a blow at Francis' face - one that had real, savage intent behind it: "You fucking faggot!"

Jerott later that night, after the triumph of the gig, after the escape, after the wild motorbike ride through the desert, his arms clasped round Francis' body as they rode into Salina, his cheek resting against Francis' back, his thighs behind Francis' thighs. Murmuring Arabic from a poem he'd recited to Francis back in Carlisle - lines he didn't realise Francis had looked up and memorised, as he memorised all poems he encountered.

«My drink and my ride are sweet

and my beloved takes care of me.»

Geetesh shifted his weight and Francis' eyes snapped open - a response born purely of self-preservation.

He had moved the tape recorder aside and leaned forwards to peer at Francis' expression. One of his hands was down the front of his trousers, moving slowly, thoughtfully over the erection that showed beneath the fine fabric.

Francis drew a sharp breath and wedged his body back against the headboard, his fingers knotting with disgust in the sheets to either side of his hips.

"Were you never tempted by him yourself, Francis? Or was he supposed to follow you forever, receiving nothing in return?"

Francis just shook his head and tried to keep his eyes on Geetesh's face. There was a furious trembling inside his chest, fighting to radiate out through his body - but he wouldn't give Geetesh the satisfaction of seeing him shudder. He wouldn't.

Geetesh smiled. "I did at least spoil him for you, then, didn't I? I am pleased. At least the experiment wasn't a total failure."

He moved forwards again, one hand on himself, the other dropping to Francis' knee. His expression was terrible, unblinking, full of a wondering fascination with Francis' own repulsion. "But I think you're subtle enough to understand me better, Francis. And I understand you."

Francis went to remove Geetesh's touch from his knee, but Geetesh was quick as a snake striking. He pinned Francis' wrist down, and the hand that had been busy inside his own trousers emerged and gripped Francis' jaw with bruising, searing strength. Francis smelled the hidden parts of Geetesh's body on his fingers, savoury and musky. He gagged even as Geetesh tilted his head back against the top of the headboard and shifted to straddle him.

"Don't fight it, sweeting. I will have you. Not like that farmer in the desert had you - oh yes, I know all about Mr Morgan and how you debased yourself for him - not like that Cypriot courtesan who thinks her influence extends further than it does. Not like Margaret Douglas and her...plain, old-fashioned wants. I will have the real Francis Crawford, however I find him."

Francis' mind scrabbled for purchase on the information concealed in Geetesh's words. Some of this...some of this he shouldn't have known about. Who could have told him about Baron Morgan and about Kiaya Çalışkan? It was hard to think, though, when he felt the hardness of Geetesh's groin jammed up against his stomach, when the skin on his wrist felt raw and burnt from Geetesh's twisting, tight hold.

"It's ok if you're afraid, gentle bird," Geetesh murmured above his lips. "Let yourself be afraid. I want to see it all."

Francis' body juddered involuntarily. His eyes were screwed up and his jaw was clenched as he felt his cheeks squeezed against his teeth by Geetesh's thumb and forefinger. It took him a moment to realise that the tremor hadn't just occurred within his own limbs. The wall had rumbled, hadn't it?

Geetesh looked around the room with a scowl and then leaned over Francis' face again. "You and I will make the earth move another time, lyrebird. For now, I hope you find that you have enough material to finish your magnum opus."

He got off, picked up the tape player and stopped the recording, gathered the other cassette, his notebook and his shirt, and left.

The light went out and Francis remained in darkness, gasping, gulping, begging for air to reach his lungs as the panic he hadn't shown earlier flooded into his nervous system. If the tunnels and the room had caved in then and there he wasn't sure he'd have known the difference. Only when it ended, and the fear was gone at last, would he know he was free. He wished it would happen, and then pulled himself up short - he needed Geetesh to die with him. He needed to stop that man from doing any more to anyone else.

His hands were shaking, and Francis splayed them against the sheets, steadying himself, trying to find stillness.

Beneath one finger, he felt something unexpected: hard and plastic. A pen? A pen.

His heart thundered hard enough that it seemed to bruise itself with the effort. Geetesh had left him a weapon. And next time, pager or not, Francis was going to use it. He didn't care what he had to do to rescue Oonagh and Cai and the others. He'd run himself straight to jail if he had to, but he realised now that no amount of waiting would present him with an opportunity to defeat Geetesh without ending him.

Francis grasped the weapon in his fist, breathing hard. In the darkness of the cell he prepared himself to become a killer.

---

It was impossible, as ever, to know how long the interval between Geetesh's visits was. During this stretch of darkness Francis felt the ground shiver on a number of occasions, and the air emerging from the vent in the door seemed cooler and fresher.

He supposed this was connected to Geetesh's manner: when he next appeared his mood was sour. He switched the light on and slammed the door. His hands were already shaking with fury as he struggled to insert the key in the lock.

Francis had formed his plan, but he wasn't certain how it would go over with Geetesh in this temper. He waited, standing between the bed and the desk, the pen concealed in one hand.

Geetesh visibly imposed calm on himself before turning to the room, arranging a grim smile onto his features. He looked Francis up and down and raised a brow.

"You may sit," he said impatiently.

Francis glanced between the stool and the bed, and Geetesh snorted.

"What? Would you like me to just get it over with, my sorry, hungering slut?" He crossed the room with his long stride and grabbed Francis' wrists.

He didn't seem to have noticed what Francis held in one hand, but Francis couldn't do anything with the pen anyway, not when he was held in this furious, agonising grip.

Geetesh gazed down at him, and Francis realised he hadn't come with a schedule, as he usually did. He was deciding what to do only now, and Francis' anticipation that he would pick up where he'd left off had been what prompted his current inclination.

"You think you can make yourself into whatever anyone wants, don't you? A Protean whore, always aiming to please. You've remodelled yourself so often you don't even know who you are or what you want anymore. Would you like me to remind you, Francis?"

Francis bit the inside of his lip to distract from the pain in his wrists. He stared up into the mad periwinkle blue of Graham Reid Malett's eyes and begged his terrified animal body to have patience with him.

"You don't need to pretend for me," Geetesh hissed. He flung Francis down onto the mattress, and Francis landed messily, his head colliding with the back wall. He felt the pen lying concealed beneath his palm still, but his ears rang from the blow and he felt a cool spot on his scalp, as though blood was beginning to seep from a wound. Geetesh pulled his top off once more and reached a hand into his trousers, jerking quick and rough to get himself hard. He stepped forwards, leaned one knee on the mattress, and reached for Francis' waistband.

He was within striking distance, and Francis raised the pen and brought it down as hard as he could on that sturdy, muscled thigh. Geetesh's flesh was hard, the pen was blunt, but fear gave Francis strength beyond hope, and the nib pierced skin and burrowed into Geetesh's leg.

He roared, his breath hot on Francis' face, and he plunged a fist into Francis' solar plexus.

Francis just gripped the pen tighter, tried to force it deeper into the thigh, tried to tear the wound wider, seeking the deep artery however he could.

Geetesh didn't seem concerned with removing the weapon from his body though: just with getting his revenge, just with having Francis how he'd resolved to have him. He grappled with Francis, their bloodied hands tussling until Geetesh held both of Francis' wrists again. He hauled Francis towards him, slipping back off the bed's edge to bring them both to their feet - another bellow of rage was the only sign he gave that the item of stationary embedded in his thigh was causing him any discomfort.

He spun Francis round like a ballerina pirouetting with her hands above her head and then jerked and twisted one of Francis' arms as he pulled it down.

There was a wet, snapping pop. White hot agony exploded in Francis' shoulder and he yelled as loud as Geetesh had done. He thought he might have blacked out for a moment, because suddenly he found himself face first on the bed, his arm still held behind him at an improbable angle - dislocated, for sure - and Geetesh's hand was fumbling inexactly at the fastenings of Francis' trousers. His breathing was ragged and he seemed to be struggling with his coordination.

The room juddered and rumbled, and Francis knew that finally he had done enough, and they were both going to be buried there by the flood that had to come.

"Do you...do you think you've won, lyrebird?" Geetesh's voice rasped in his ear. "Your recordings are safe. They'll be released, one day. Your brood mare won't last long once she's separated from the child for good. Maybe they'll lobotomise her, maybe it will be the only way to pacify her. That boy won't last a month with any foster family. He'll be driven from pillar to post, cast out wherever he goes, never able to understand why no one loved him enough to want him, to keep him."

Francis screwed his eyes shut and a gasping sob escaped his clenched teeth. He'd had no choice. In the end, he'd had no choice. Graham Reid Malett had to be stopped.

It sounded like there was a thunderstorm behind the door and the room went dark - the bulb had put up no resistance. The bed rattled and its legs thrummed against the floor, and the door creaked and juddered. Pressure built, and then a vast body of water slammed into the room, throwing the door off its hinges and blasting it into the desk.

Their bodies were gathered up in the maelstrom, and Francis was lost in the black swirling current, battered against ceiling and wall.

He wasn't conscious and couldn't know that the water had had enough force to drive through the door at the other end of the room as well. After a few seconds in which a raging torrent scoured the cell, the water levels dropped, releasing two bodies as they did: Geetesh landed face-first on the soaked bed again, his bodyweight pressing the pen deeper into his thigh as he bled out; and Francis' sprawled messily on the floor, filthied by mud and soil and stones that had been dragged along by the water.

When he came to, he was in a tunnel, lit by the light of an electric torch. There was a brown-skinned, bearded man leaning over him, a wild look in his eyes. Fucking hell, thought Francis. That can't be right.

He remembered Geetesh's final words, the threat to his family, and he screwed his eyes shut against the realisation that, dead or alive, he had given them up in order to stop Graham Reid Malett.

"O mill, o mill...what hast thou ground..." he murmured lyrics from the compositions Geetesh had wrung from him, and the man leaning over him touched his face tentatively.

"Francis?"

Francis blinked his eyes open. That definitely couldn't be right. He must have been dead after all. It seemed unfair to be dead and still hurt so much, though.

"Francis...I think...I think he's...gone," Jerott Blyth was staring at something beyond Francis' head and his voice was quiet and fearful, but it was his voice behind the scruffy black beard, and it was the voice of someone who seemed, despite all previous information, to be very much alive.

[werspinna]

the bakers heads pop up from the counter, offer a small wave to Wolf. What surprise! Who would have thought she’d have a mission where he held this months inter dimensional pop up. Though his smile slowly dropped when he saw the familiar red substance pooling around her feet. “That’s … a lot of blood, is that - oh, fuck“

The womans dislocated arm hung from her shoulder like a dead piece of meat when Wolf walked into Chris bakery, blood covering her from head to toe and leaned on her daneaxe like on a crutch as her left ankle felt more like a ball of glasssplinters than an actual joint. The street behind the bakerys frontwindow was empty besid the rests of the flesh-construct that twitched and wriggled like massive worms over the asphalt and demolished cars. The second she saw Chris behind the counter Wolfs face glowed up in a bright smile and she chirped sweetly- the bakery had been standing at the end of the street as familair as the front of her own home and Wolf had been happy to see that Chris and her had ended up in the same dimension again: “Why this grimace on your oh so nicely, beautiful face? No worries, I had had worse and give me an hour to sit here and serve me one of your oh so amazingly nice strawberry-muffin, and I will be as good as new."H umming the young woman casually placed her hand on the nearest table and with a hectic movment and a loud cracking noise moved her shoulder down to pop her arm back into her shoulder. She hissed in pain, but the hiss turned into a relieved laughter that made a few small tears run down her cheek before she caught herself. The light falling inside the bakery was warm,almost autumnal: "Unless of course there will come another not so nice fleshconstruct to rip apart this nice neighborhood, than of course I will need longer than an hour because in that scenario I would first need to get rid of the new flesh construct and then can take my time to heal the old and new acquired injuries, though, even in that case I will heal, so there is no reason to put that grimace on your oh so nice and beautiful face and make you so nicely warm eyes turn so-” A limb that Wolf had just a second ago ripped out smacked against the glass of the frontwindow, leaving a red bloody mark on it. The young womans head snapped around back to the Flesh-construct that was definitive not as dead as Wolf had wanted it to be: “-ah.”  Grimacing as if she had bitten on a sour fruit Wolf huffed, openly irritated just for the blink of an eye: “My bad, its the Kölner Towns Luck hunting me, you see. Old curse, I was told, always there for anyone from Köln, really not nice. Not nice at all.Or its just me specifically who always has no good luck, and yes,that would be fair, I desere it, even if its not nice, not nice at all.  I shouldn´t have said that out loud, that was not so nice, not nice at all.” Te second ended as soon as it had started and the smile returned to Spinnas face as she looke dover her shoulder, winking friendly at the man: “Alright, excuse me for a moment, Muuske. And if you want to keep your meal in, I might advice you to hide your oh so sweet and nice face behind the counter very nicely, for this is going to look not especially nice and I would prefer or you to not see watch me doing not so nice things, yes?” [ @bewitchingbaker ]

[trixree]

Hi there! For the ko-fi requests, can I get a hurt/comfort Codywan with prompt: illness? Your writing is lovely! 💛

- Sunny

When the blow catches him at the base of the helmet, the seal breaks. Just his fucking luck.

He manages to forget that it is broken as the skirmish carries on. There are clankers to shoot, seppies to repel, Vode and an idiot Jedi to look out for. Marshal Commander Cody is a busy person.

So, he forgets. And a well-aimed seismic charge blasts him off his feet and over the river-bank, straight into the rapids.

Cody knows how to hit a body of water. On Kamino, they’re trained for all sorts of situations—especially Commanders. By the time Cody was five standard, he could dislocate his thumb to break out of bindings, unjam a blaster while suspended upside-down by his toes, and run ten klicks in full kit during a brutal Kamino storm. And afterwards, he was still expected to hit the gym or hit the sims for more. So yes, he knows how to hit the water.

But the seal on his bucket is broken.

...

It’s like hitting freezing cold concrete; his body screams as water rushes into his helmet, so brutally cold that his face immediately goes numb. Cody gasps—he can’t help it, not with how painful the impact is, not with how piercingly frigid the water is, not with the surprise of remembering oh, yeah; that fucker busted my enviroseal.

He aspirates a lung-full of dirty river water.

Boil snorts when Cody comes trudging up the riverbank, each soggy step a muddy squelch that his socks echo inside his boots. The fighting has long since stopped—Cody was carried a good half a mile down the river before he stopped choking like a fucking shiny and got his ass out of the water—and it isn’t doing him any favors anymore, not with the HUD shorted out and the comms dead, so he has his helmet clipped to his belt.

“Enjoy your swim, Commander?” Boil drawls, unbearably smug even though vocoder.

“Very refreshing,” Cody rasps. His throat is wrecked from coughing up a lung of frothy water. “I recommend a dip.”

Boil grimaces, either at the suggestion or the look on Cody’s face. “Nah, I think I’m good.”

Yeah. That’s what Cody thought.

...

Steady tells him to watch for any symptoms of illness in the coming days.

“That water was freezing and filled with god-knows-what bacteria,” he says. “There’s only so much superior Kaminoan engineering can do for a vod. So, if you feel feverish, nauseous, anything… come back here, alright? Don’t be an idiot about it.” Steady snaps his gloves off in punctuation and throws them, balled up tight, into the recycler.

“When have I ever been an idiot? I’m not Kenobi,” Cody complains. He’d taken a long, scalding-hot shower before reporting to the medbay, but he’s still cold to his bones. It’s making him bitchy.

Steady stares at him, unflinching. He makes a tsk sound against his teeth and says, sharp, “You are an idiot every day of your life, Commander. It’s alright, I know you can’t help it. Now get the fuck out of my medbay.”

...

War does not allow time for illness. And since Cody and Kenobi are a good chunk of the war, Cody does not have time for illness. Ergo, he will simply not get sick. He is the master of his body and he refuses to catch even the slightest hint of fever.

The fever evidently did not get the fucking memo.

Four standard cycles later, he wakes up drenched in sweat, teeth clattering, body aching like he’s just gone four rounds with 17 and had his ass handed to him on a silver platter repeatedly. With flourish, even.

He manages to get a few sips of water down past his aching, stinging throat. Cody knows intellectually that he’ll need to drink more than that to avoid dehydration, so he grits his teeth and bears it, chugging a full canteen and then forcing down one of the softer ration bars. It typically has the texture and consistency of soggy bread. Now, he might as well be swallowing gravel.

Cody kits up, swallows a standard painkiller, and heads to the bridge.

He carries out his duties with his usual ruthless competence and vigor. Kenobi even complements his proposed strategy for the next campaign.

Take that, Steady, Cody thinks uncharitably. I am not an idiot.

(He is blearily aware, come the end of the cycle as he lays on the floor of the fresher stall and lets the shower water beat down soothingly on his aching shoulders, that this might in fact qualify as idiot-behavior.)

But what is Steady going to do? Give him the same painkiller he’s already been taking? Give him an IV? Take over command of the fucking battalion?

Cody has already been drinking his fluids, thank-you-very-much. And it is his battalion—emphasis on the “his”; his as in not Steady’s.

(Okay, maybe it can be Kenobi’s, too. But only just.)

With considerable effort, Cody scrapes himself off the fresher floor and into his quarters, where he collapses heavily into his desk chair and queues up his feed. He is too uncomfortable to sleep, and yet slightly too feverish to be entirely productive. That doesn’t mean that Cody isn’t productive—his slightly-less-than full capacity is still high-capacity.

Or, at least he’s still productive up until he develops a deep, chesty cough in the early hours of the day-cycle.

“Fucking bitch,” Cody hisses at the yellow-ish phlegm he’s hacked up into a wad of fresher paper. “I’m the Marshal Commander.”

His traitorous body has no comment.

...

Another day, another harrowing shift on the bridge spent sweating dark, rancid spots into his blacks. Cody muffles terrible barking coughs behind his vocoder, cutting his mic in and out whenever he needs to gasp throatily for breath that rattles in his chest. He locks his knees and presses on. Oya, vod.

Then, he passes out.

He wakes some indeterminate time later in the medbay. The lights are bright. His head aches fiercely. There is a fat IV line jammed into his wrist. His thoughts feel clearer than they have in days. Well, oops.

Cody might have miscalculated.

“You’re awake,” a soft, lilting core-accent murmurs. A cool hand touches his forehead and Cody, helpless against the base comfort of it, makes a humming sound and leans into the touch. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

Kenobi is using his Handling Shinies voice. Cody fights the ridiculous urge to bite him. Biting him would mean the soothing hand-touching-his-face leaves. Biting him would be counterproductive to Cody’s desires, which begin and end at “do not remove your blessedly cool hand from my person.”

“The idiot is awake?” Steady calls, too chipper. “Good morning, idiot! You have karking pneumonia!”

Cody cracks his eyes open and glares at his smiling vod. He coughs forcefully in Steady’s direction and attempts to push himself upright, his uncooperative limbs heavy and clumsy.

“The men—”

“Are just fine, Commander,” Kenobi pushes him—gently—down back onto the pillow. His smile is warmth itself, warmth sinking into Cody’s feverish skin and finally, finally coaxing heat back into his bones. “Everything is in good hands.”

Yes, Cody thinks. I am in your hands. Remove them and suffer.

[itsapeterthing]

Falling for You || Bucky Barnes

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

summary: when you slip in the shower and dislocate your shoulder, the only person in the compound left to help you is your least favorite teammate, bucky barnes

word count: 1.4k

warnings: none, fluff

masterlist || request || taglist

It had been a long day.

Everything just seemed to be working against you from stubbing your toe on the dresser when you first got out of bed to getting your ass kicked by your least favorite person during training. So when you were finally able to take a nice, hot shower at the end of the day- you were relieved. 

What could go wrong?

You were regretting asking yourself that question as soon as you went to pull the shower curtain closed only to discover that the rings of the curtain were looped together. Tugging on the curtain to no avail, you groaned, climbing onto the edge of the tub to separate the rings.

“Stupid fucking thing.” You grumbled to yourself, stretching the curtain across after unlacing the rings. “Why can nothing in this stupid-”

Just as you went to step down from the tub’s edge, you miss your footing, slipping on a bar of soap that had been sitting on the bathtub floor below you. Grasping the shower curtain to no avail, you slipped and fell backwards onto your side, a shooting pain spreading throughout your shoulder.

“Shit!” You shouted, glancing at your shoulder.

It hurt like hell.

“Is everything alright, ma’am?” You heard F.R.I.D.A.Y ask.

Gripping your shoulder, you shook your head, speaking up over the rushing water. “No, F.R.I.D.A.Y I think I dislocated my shoulder. Shit. Can you call Nat in here?”

“Agent Romanoff isn’t in at the moment.” 

Of course she wasn’t.

“What about Wanda?” You asked.

“Wanda Maximoff is also out at the moment.”

You closed your eyes and took a deep, long breath.

“Who is in at the moment, F.R.I.D.A.Y?”

“Sergeant Barnes is the only one in at the moment, ma'am.” F.R.I.D.A.Y stated. “Would you like me to call him for you?”

“No!” You shouted as fast as you could.

You would rather crawl to the hospital yourself than have Bucky Barnes find you naked in the shower with a dislocated shoulder.

You didn’t hate each other, but you didn’t particularly get along either. It was always a competition between the two of you and when you weren’t physically fighting each other in the training room, one of you would tease the other throughout the day. The last thing you wanted was more fuel for Barnes to use against you... and for him to find you in this position.

Attempting to push yourself off of the floor of the tub, a sharp pain shot through your arm and you couldn’t help the scream that escaped your mouth. Not a moment later you heard a knock at the door.

“Y/n?” Bucky asked from the other side of the door. “You alright?”

Of course he heard.

“I’m...” You said, through huffs and puffs trying to subdue your pain. “fine... Barnes.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, what’s wrong?” You heard him ask.

“Miss Y/l/n fell and believes she has dislocated her shoulder, sir.” F.R.I.D.A.Y informed him.

“Traitor.” You mumbled under your breath.

Hearing the fiddling of the doorknob, Bucky called to you through the door once again.

“Really, Y/n?” He asked. “F.R.I.D.A.Y unlock the door.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y do not unlock that door!” You shouted again, gripping your shoulder.

“Why do you always have to be such a pain in the ass?” He asked from the other side of the door. “Just let me drive you to the hospital, Y/n.”

You knew he was right. You turning him away wouldn’t help anyone- least of all yourself. As much as you hated the situation, you knew there weren’t any other options.

Sighing, you asked F.R.I.D.A.Y to unlock the door.

When she did, you heard the lock click and the door open, Bucky making his way into the bathroom. As soon as you heard his first step in the room, you shouted.

“Hey!” You called. “Close your eyes and hand me the towel!”

As much as he loved to tease you, he was a man born in 1917 and he wasn’t about to cross that line. 

Squeezing his eyes shut he reached out for the towel, tossing it on top of you. Wrapping it around yourself, you reached your free hand up.

“You can open your eyes now, Barnes.”

Opening his eyes, he stood there and gazed at you, not a single word coming out of his mouth.

“Quit staring.” You said.

Snapping himself out of the moment, he shook his head, leaning over the tub and reached his arms out for you.

“You wish.” He scoffed.

Rolling your eyes, you wrapped your free arm around his neck, pushing yourself to your feet. When you did, however, you felt another burst of pain shoot out from your ankle. Falling into Bucky’s arms you swore.

“Shit!”

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, holding you up.

“I- I think I messed up my ankle too.”

“How many missions have you been on that the shower’s the one thing to take you out?” He chuckled.

“Shut up!” You groaned, nudging him with your good shoulder. “This really hurts. I don’t think I can walk.”

Without another word you felt as one of Bucky’s hands wrapped around your back, the other beneath your knees. Before you could protest what he was doing, you gasped as he picked you up into his arms, your arm wrapped tightly around the back of his neck.

“Oh!” You exclaimed, looking up at him. “You uh... you didn’t have to do that, Buck-”

“It’s fine, Y/n.” He said cooly. “Relax.”

Taking his command to heart, you bit down your complaints, allowing yourself to relax in the man’s arms. Grabbing your fresh clothes off of the countertop, he carried you out of the bathroom. Resting your head against his collar, you watched as he effortlessly carried you out of the Compound.

You had been close to Bucky plenty of times- more times than you could count actually- but as he carried you out of the building you couldn’t help but admire him. Did the scruff on his jawline always look so good? Were his eyes always that blue?

Squeezing your eyes shut, you shook your head focusing your attention instead of the car in front of you. Stopping in front of the vehicle, he pulled on the handle, kicking open the passenger door with his foot. Lowering you inside the vehicle, you situated yourself in the seat, wrapping the towel tighter around you.

“I gotta go get my keys.” He said, tossing you your clothes. “Try your best to get dressed while I’m gone.”

As soon as he left you tried your best to get dressed, groaning as you pulled your bottoms on. Grabbing your sweatshirt, you pulled it over your head with your free hand, but as the bottom hem reached your midsection, you struggled to get your head through the opening at the top. Just as you were beginning to feel frustrated with not only the sweatshirt, but the weight of the day you just had, you felt Bucky’s fingertips brush your skin, pulling the article of clothing down over your torso.

When you pulled your head through the hole and your eyes met his, a small smile played on his face.

“You all set?” Bucky asked, his face inches from yours.

Glancing from his lips to his eyes, you suddenly felt as though the air was growing warmer by the second around you.

“T- Thank you.” You whispered. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s no problem, Y/n.” He said. “I uh... I like seeing your face.”

Trying to process the words that had just came out of his mouth, you didn’t know what to say.

“Oh.”

As soon as the word slipped out of your mouth, you regretted it.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, rushed, a blush rising to his cheeks as he backed away. “I don’t know why I said that. I just made everything weird-”

Before he left your reach, you quickly grabbed his hand, pulling him back towards you. When he turned around, his eyes met yours.

“No, Buck, I’m sorry.” You apologized. “I just didn’t know what to say. I... I like seeing your face too.”

A silence hung between the two of you for a moment, both of you staring at the other, figuring out what to do next before Bucky leaned in closer, his face so close to yours that you could feel his breath against your lips as a smile crept across his face.

“If you wanted to see me in the shower so bad,” He said. “You could’ve just asked.”

“Oh shut up.”

And as his lips met yours, your free hand grabbing his collar to pull him closer- he did.

[wine-dark-seashells]

Sharing my favourite LotR trivia off the top of my head just cause I can and it makes me feel happy

1. gandalf hitting his head on the beam in bag end was not scripted. ouch. poor ian mckellen

2. viggo mortensen got arrested once bc he was walking home after filming and was swinging a sword around still dressed as aragorn. this was not a smart decision on his part.

3. because he was afraid of flying in a helicopter, sean bean climbed a MOUNTAIN every single day they were filming caradhas to get to the set. it took him about two hours each way iirc.

4. to help make galadriel look more mysical and elf-like, they put fairy lights in front of cate blanchett so they reflected in her eyes. this was supposed to show that she'd seen the light of the two trees in valinor. i love it.

5. the scene in FotR where aragorn deflects a knife in from an uruk-hai was not supposed to happen. the stunt double was not supposed to let go of that knife. viggo almost died y'all.

6. i'm fairly sure viggo also broke a tooth at some point. not sure when tho

7. when the three hunters (legolas, aragorn, and gimli) were filming those panoramic shots running through rohan, every single one of them was injured. orlando bloom had like two broken ribs, viggo had broken his toes, and brett beattie (the size double for gimli) had two dislocated knees. they were given a bag of candy and told to run whenever they saw the helicopter coming. how is everyone involved with these movies not dead yet.

8. obligatory VIGGO BROKE HIS TOE IN THAT SCENE WHERE HE KICKED THE HELMET

9. a good percentage of the rohirrim on horses (the "men" of rohan) were actually women with beards bc they couldn't get enough men and there were many women with horses available

10. possibly the most cursed one on this list. andy serkis drank what he liked to call his "gollum juice" while on set. it was actually a mixture of lemon, honey, and ginger and was supposed to soothe his throat after talking himself hoarse while acting. gollum juice.

11. for that scene where the witchking of angmar is lifting his mace threateningly, peter jackson kept insisting it be bigger to look more threatening. the final product was so insanely heavy that there was someone helping lawrence makoare lift it bc he just,, couldn't. this person was lying on their back to do this. yes the outtakes are fucking hilarious.

12. i've seen this one making the round on social media but here it is anyways. when peter jackson was telling christopher lee how to act after he'd been stabbed, lee stopped him and just, oh so casually, informed the director that no, that's not what someone getting stabbed sounds like. christopher lee knew this because he'd been an intelligence officer in the RAF in world war 2. this is also your daily reminder that christopher lee was a fucking badass.

13. this is the last bc thirteen is a lot and i'm tired lol. the land where they filmed a bunch of the battle of pelennor fields was actually a testing ground for the new zealand army and just slightly filled with unexploded ordinance. they had to get special permission to film there. why there specifically? because it was the only place in new zealand that looked enough like a desert. again, how is everyone involved with these movies not dead yet???

anyways lmk if u want me to do a part two or whatever or even one for the hobbit. even tho i have my issues with the hobbit movies themselves, the behind the scenes trivia is funny lol.

[lesbiansoncaffiene]

AFTG characters as shit me and my friends have said: (pt 1?)

-Neil: sex?? In this economy??

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

-Renee: Sorry we can’t hold hands, I’m Christian and can’t touch til marriage

Allison:

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

*the The Monsters group chat*

12:28am

-Aaron: I hope you all die horrible and excruciating deaths

Andrew: you too

Nicky: love you Aaron

Neil: I hope so too

Kevin: go the fuck to sleep we can argue about how we get to die in the morning

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

-Renee: I need some quotes for the bookmarks I’m making :)

Kevin, petty about how Dan cancelled practice because it’s ‘Christmas’: how about “Dans ugly”

Neil, slapping him on the head: don’t talking about the only stabilizing force in our lives like that

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

-Andrew: Fuck you

Neil: No YOU fuck ME

Andrew: FINE!

Nicky, tired: for the love of god just don’t fuck on the table

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

-Matt: what did you do??

Seth: I didn’t do anything!!

Allison: oh so burning a building to get out of class now counts as ‘not doing anything?’

Dan, Matt, and Renee: you did WHAT

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

-Neil *randomly at 10:30 on a school day*, texting: Andrew get out of the fucking ceiling

Andrew, literally about to do just that: I hate this fucking family

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

-Aaron: we could just... kill him

Neil, agreeing for once: yeah, or arson if we don’t wanna hide the body

Aaron: dislocate his kneecaps

Neil: melt his joints

Aaron: cut off his toes

Wymack: every time you two talk I lose 5 years of my life

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

-Neil: what if I just changed my name and fled the country

Nicky: that’s gay

Neil: and what about it

Nicky: did you just come out to me

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

-Aaron: *kisses Kevin on the cheek*

Kevin, drunk off his ass: heh Aaron that’s gay

Aaron: we’re literally two men in a relationship asshole

Kevin: we’re what now-

Nicky, also drunk off his ass: you two are MEN??

Dan, very glad she stayed sober for this:

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

-Allison: why exist when I can literally just be sexy

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

-Renee: when i reincarnate I wanna be a plant

Andrew: I wanna be reincarnated as a knife

Kevin: knives are inanimate objects

Andrew, pulling out a knife: you’re about to be an inanimate object :/

Neil: don’t kill him yet people can see us, wait until the middle of the night

Matt: or you could?? Not??

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

-Neil: how do you expect me to deal with emotions properly if I can’t commit arson??

Aaron: arson is ALWAYS the answer

Nicky: not always

Aaron: you’re right, sometimes arson is the question and the answer is yes

Kevin: can we please get back to practice

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

-Andrew: I’m surrounded by idiots

Andrew: absolute buffons

Matt, who somehow got his leg stuck in a bucket: I’m sure you’re right but why

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

-Nicky: my brain just went “yankee doodle went to town and his name was B I N G O”

Allison: it’s the remix

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-Neil: I haven’t had fitted sheets on my bed in a year and a half so now it’s just me, my mattress, and my duvet against the world

Dan, nodding: I feel that

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

-Nicky: ...so, as a power move of course, I would pull the chocolate flavored candle out of my bag and just take a whole bite out of it

Nicky: imagine the power I would hold

Kevin: or we could not eat candles at random

Nicky: but it wouldn’t be random! It would be strategic!

Wymack, having unfortunately walked in on this conversation: I’ll bench you for a WEEK, Hemmick

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

-Allison: I literally have so much anxiety my body is aching

Matt, passing her the vodka: mood

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

-Andrew: weekly Membean?? In MY mental state? You must be joking

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

-Seth: PLOT TWIST, you’re gay

Wymack, looking at the rest of the team: I don’t think that’s a plot twist

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

-Andrew *holding a bottle of Kool-Aid*: sometimes Exy gets you to the point where you have to kill your enemies and drink their blood. No big deal

Renee: that’s understandable

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

-Nicky *sends picture of iguana*: what IS this

Neil: it’s Andrew

Andrew: I agree

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

-Kevin: English is cancelled, lets just all grunt at each other

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

-*during practice* Matt: oh you want to know about my hyperfixation for the last 6 months? Well, *infodumps about obscure topic*

Aaron, who doesn’t want to be here:

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

BONUS (ft our faves from USC):

-Laila *at Mount Rushmore with Alvarez*: the amount of white supremacy radiating off these hunks of rock-

Alvarez, without missing a beat: it’s never too late to start a career in arson by setting a national landmark on fire

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

-Jean: my life is bread but in French

Jeremy: ??

Jean: pain (™️)

Jeremy: nO-

—-

Post dedicated to the AFTG groupchat on Instagram (currently titled ‘im not a coporate stooge’)

—-

More to come (if y’all like it and I get a will to be productive rip)

—-

EDIT TO THE POST: Here’s part 2!

[ragingbookdragon]

The Four Corpsmen And Their Cheerleader PT. 3

Lanternfamily x Lanternsis

Word Count: 900 Warnings: Explicit Language

Author's Note: First meetings! Are always! Fun! Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

“Hal, you’re one crazy sonovabitch,” Guy muttered as he steadied the bloody and bruised pilot. “Only your crazy ass would barrel headfirst into something that dangerous.”

“Look who’s talking Mister I-Talk-By-Punching.” Hal’s chuckle dissolved into a groan as he held his side. “Christ, I think I broke a few ribs.”

“You deserve to have broken a few ribs,” John chastised, taking the pilot underneath the other arm; Guy and he walked Hal to the ship where Kyle was waiting. “You almost got yourself killed just now.”

Hal rolled his eyes. “I had it under control.”

“No.” the two Corpsmen blurted in unison, tugging him onto the ship and to the med bay.

***

“Leave me in the med bay while you guys come and gossip.” A voice complained. “What’d I miss?”

They all turned to the entryway of the bridge, scowling as Hal hobbled in, an arm slung across his chest; Kyle frowned. “Hal, you shouldn’t be up, man.”

Hal waved it off with his free hand. “I’m fine. Had worse.”

Guy blinked then looked at John. “Does it ever annoy you how pigheaded he is?”

“He’s a jet jockey,” John retorted, turning back to the expanse of space outside the glass observation window. “They’re historically stubborn.”

“Oh, and warthogs aren’t? There’s like seven wars begging to differ.” Hal griped, nudging himself between Kyle and John. “Guys, seriously. I’m fine.”

Kyle shook his head. “You got swallowed by a giant space monster and then blew yourself out of it.” He observed the pilot. “You’re lucky to have only escaped with a few broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder.”

Hal rolled his eyes. “Okay, moms, I’m fine. Really. I feel great.”

“That’s the hydrocodone talking,” Guy ribbed, nudging John in the side and the two of them broke into chuckles when the pilot frowned.

A fond smile came across Kyle’s face, and he happened to look out the glass window, smile dropping as a bright blue light appeared in the distance and only getting closer and closer. “Uh…guys?” they turned their attention to them and he nodded at the anomaly. “What’s that?”

Immediately their heads swiveled to the window and Hal’s face blanched. “Oh no.”

Before Kyle could ask the blue light phased through the glass and barreled into the pilot. They collapsed to the floor and when the light disappeared, Kyle saw a young woman atop Hal, his free arm pinned behind his back, as she shouted, “Are you some kind of idiot! I get a call from John, and he tells me you’ve played kamikaze again!” she yanked his arm up his back.

Hal cried out in pain. “Uncle!”

Kyle had never seen the man give up a fight so fast. In fact, he’d never seen Hal give up in a fight at all—that was the whole deal about Hal; he didn’t know howto give up.

The woman scowled and let him up, and when Hal climbed to his feet, she suddenly kicked a leg up between his legs and every man’s hands went to their crotch as Hal dropped to his knees and into the fetal position.

“You stupid moron,” she griped. “How many times have I told you to stop acting like you’re immortal.”

Hal’s only reply was a groan and he rolled over. “I had it under control.”

“Do I need to crotch-shot you again?”

“Alright! I’m sorry!” he cried. “Uncle! I bend the knee! I give! I raise the white flag!”

She cocked a brow and glared at him for a moment, then she glanced at John. “Thanks for calling me.” Turning her attention back to Hal, she warned, “Let me get another call from Johnnie like that again, and I’ll plant my blue foot so far up your green ass, the next time you go to the dentist, they’ll pick my toes from between your teeth. You hear me, big brother?”

Hal nodded. “Affirmative Princess.”

Seemingly satisfied, she turned to John and Guy, the angered expression giving way to a joyful one as she pulled them into tight hugs and pressed kisses to their cheeks. She pulled away and looked at Kyle, then pulled him in for a hug and planted a kiss on his cheekbone.

“Good to finally meet you, Kyle. Wish it had been under better circumstances.” The blue power ring on her finger beeped and she looked down at it. “That’s Saint Walker. Gotta fly.” Winking at the others, she rose in a blue glow and phased out of the ship’s window, disappearing in a streak of turquoise.

Kyle was so lost. “What just happened?”

Guy barked a laugh and slung his arm around the younger man’s neck. “That, Kyle, was (Y/N) Jordan, Hal’s younger sister and apparently, the only woman who has his balls in her purse.”

John snorted and Hal griped from the floor, “I’m not afraid of her.”

“Uh huh, sure you’re not, Jordan,” Guy countered. “You only gave in faster this time.” He looked at Kyle, face splitting into a grin as he said, “Oh…what’s this? Are you blushing Rayner? Are you enamored by (Y/N)’s beautiful blueness? Blue Lanterns have that effect on us Green Lanterns.”

Hal’s head cocked up and he pointed at Kyle. “Stay the fuck away from my sister.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Kyle blurted out. “And I’m not blushing!”

John and Guy looked at one another and agreed, “He’s in love.”

[marsofaries]

The Itsy Bitsy Spider {Katsuki Bakugou x Reader}

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Cursing, Blood, Assault

Summary: Your grumpy (and ridiculously attractive) neighbor helps you rid of the spider in your new apartment. Things grow from there.

Notes: fem!Reader, ProHero!Bakugou, Bakugou hates feelings

That’s it. You were moving out.

So what, that you just managed to unpack the last box in your new apartment? One look at that eight-legged... creature, and it was their apartment now. You weren’t trying to be dramatic, but spiders were the absolute bane of your existence.

This led to you shakily standing over the said arachnid, a large All Might mug trembling faintly in your hands. 

“Oh shit, oh fuck-- FUCK!” You shrieked as the spider took a quick dart to its left. Nope. No way.

It had taken about an hour before the spider was successfully captive. Another hour to finally figure out what to do next. 

And now there you were, pacing back and forth in front of your neighbor’s front door, mumbling failed greetings to yourself like a desperate prayer.

“Hi, I’m-- that’s not right. How about ‘I just moved in and--.’ God, I sound like an idiot.” Gathering all of your courage, you rapped three quick knocks on the front of the wood. The urge to bolt was suddenly very powerful.

“I swear to God, Shitty Hair, if you-- Oh.” The door was suddenly swung open to reveal the most gorgeous person you had ever seen in your whole life. With biceps the size of your head, the man completely dwarfed you in size. He almost took up the entire space of the door, his spikey blond locks brushing the top the frame. Vermillion eyes stared at you cautiously as you forgot everything you were about to say. “The fuck you want?”

As you made no move to answer, the Greek god of a man pulled his lips into a scowl. 

“What are you, a fucking stalker or somethin’?”

That definitely brought you out of your reverence.

“W-What? No!”

A scoff left the man’s lips, and you suddenly wanted nothing more that to kick him straight in the jewels. However, you were on a mission. A mission to rid a tiny eight-eyed demon from your living room.

“There was a, uh...spider.” You slowly trailed off, waving weakly in the direction of your apartment across the hall.

 “A spider? Really?” The blond questioned condescendingly, rolling his stupidly-perfect crimson eyes.

A light flush brushed your cheeks in embarrassment as you stared down at your shoes. You were sure he was going to slam the door right in your face. But he didn’t.

The man brushed right past you, marching right though your open door-- making sure to loudly mumble as many complaints as he could. You stumbled after the tall blond, failing to keep up with his abnormally long strides.

You watched in silence as he crouched by the downturned mug, raising a single perfectly-sculpted brow. However, your silence was quickly turned into a squeak of horror when your neighbor dumped the spider into his bare-hand. 

For a moment of absolute terror, you thought the stranger was going to throw it at you.

Wide-eyed, you watched as he pushed open the nearest window and placed the spider on the railing of your fire-escape. Having pushed the window back down, the man turned back to leave your apartment. As he walked past, he shoved the now (thankfully) empty mug to your chest.

“W-wait!”

He paused, sliding his crimson gaze to yours.

“M-My name is (Y/L/N)… (Y/L/N) (Y/N).”

You weren’t quite sure why you felt the need to give him your name. Maybe it was because he helped you when you were absolutely sure he wouldn’t. Or maybe how he decided to let the bug free instead of kill it. Maybe it was the amused huff he let out when he heard your terrified squeak. Perhaps it was all three. You didn’t know.

His striking red eyes suddenly raked your frame before a smirk settled confidently on his all-too-attractive lips.

“Bakugou Katsuki.”

~~~

“HOLD THE FUCKING DOOR!” 

You let out a squeak at the sudden yell, sticking the toe of your nude-colored pumps between the sliding elevator doors. A muscled arm wedged itself between the doors, pulling them back open.

“You.” You breathed as none other than your extremely hot neighbor was revealed. The blond was clad in a loose black V-neck and sweatpants-- a large duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. His hair was slightly damp, as small beads of water dropped off the edge of his spikes every couple of seconds.

“Stalker.” He acknowledged with a grunt. The corner of Bakugou’s lips shot up at your protests.

The ride down to the lobby was relatively silent and slightly awkward. You kept switching your weight on both legs as you struggled to find something to say.

“The fuck you dressed so fancy for?” The explosive blond finally said. You couldn’t help but let out a breath of relief at the break in silence.

“I got a new job at All Might Bank!” You were pretty excited, as it was your first day. The bank itself was pretty fancy, and you were cheery that it was named after the old symbol of peace. All Might had been your favorite hero growing up but you grew out of your hero phase as you had gotten older. Nowadays you couldn’t tell one hero from the other.

You turned to Bakugou with a smile, content that he even cared about your life. It was quite a surprise when compared with the vibes he gave off.

“What about you?” You asked cheerily. 

“... Agency.” He grunted.

“Oh! Are you a model or something?” You knew it! There was no way that a man as attractive as Bakugou Katsuki was not the cover of every magazine. He was, just not for the reasons you thought. You watched in confusion as the explosive blond emitted a loud snort.

“Or something...”

DING!

You were almost sad as the elevator dinged, signaling the end of the ride. Although it was short, and mostly awkward, you found yourself enjoying his company. You walked side by side until you reached the doors to outside, pausing slightly when he went to part.

“Thank you.”

Bakugou froze at your expressed gratitude, studying your figure with renewed interest.

“You know... for the spider?” You seemed to lose all cognitive brain function when he looked at you with those frustratingly gorgeous vermillion eyes. Bakugou scoffed and turned away, muttering a quiet response. Little did you know that he was trying to hide a light blush.

“Whatever...”

~~~

You were happy to say that these shared elevator rides became a daily ritual, to the point where Bakugou started to bring you his delicious leftovers for your lunch (he made the meals especially for you, but would die before he ever admitted that). Before you knew it, you were quite smitten with the blond.

You couldn’t help but replay this morning’s occurrence in your head as you filed checking account after checking account.

 “Good morning, Bakugou-kun!” You called as you exited your apartment. You didn’t even have to look anymore. Bakugou had a habit of waiting for you outside your door to give you his most current dish. 

“Morning.” He grunted in response, hating the way his heart skipped a beat.

His eyes scanned over your form, (longer than considered friendly) as he checked your outfit. Bakugou always seemed to have some sort of fashion-ready advice on the tip of his tongue, and with you still thinking he was a model-- you were more that happy to comply. And also for the fact that he really did have a good eye for it.

“Undo the top two buttons… you look like a nerd.”

Your eyes quickly flashed to your white button-up, pulling at the two buttons with one hand.

“Better?”

Bakugou only grunted in approval. He was trying to act like he wasn’t on the verge of kissing the ever-lasting life out of you.

~~~

“Hey, Newbie! Get me a coffee, will ya?” You were quickly pulled out of your daydream by one of your (slightly arrogant) bosses.

“Of course, sir.” You answered as you hurried to the other side of the bank. You’ve been at your new job (and apartment) for about a month, and they still won’t let up on the whole “newbie” stuff. 

You sighed as you waited by the coffee maker, situated right to the left of the big glass entrance. Oh, how you would have loved to pour that coffee right over your boss’ head. Too lost in your own head, you failed to notice the suspicious group of men heading straight for the vault until one of them grabbed your arm.

“What the fu--”

“EVERYBODY DOWN OR SHE DIES!” 

Oh shit! Oh fuck! Your mind was reeling at a million miles per hour. The man had pulled you to where your back was to his front, and had a blade pressed against your throat. It seemed to come out of the inside of his wrist, being a relatively deadly quirk if handled correctly.

Everyone within the pristine building froze but quickly dropped to the floor after some warning shots from one of the robbers. Another suddenly morphed into some sort of beast and marched to the steel vault door.

You suddenly wished that you had a more physical quirk, cursing it for being so useless in this situation. Yeah, you knew basic self-defense, but it would be futile with three other villains in your midst.

Minutes felt like hours, and you could only hope that someone had alerted the police and nearby heroes. You winced as the blade dug into the delicate skin of your throat.

A sudden explosion burst through the skylight of the building, raining glass shards on the hostages. All at once, people were screaming, running, and blast after blast started ringing in your ears. You let out a sigh of relief.

The heroes were here.

Using the distraction, you quickly gripped the man’s arm tight below the base of the blade. You pulled it away from your neck ever so slightly, ducking your head to pull yourself through the gateway you had created. Keeping your hands locked at the base of the robber’s wrist, you twisted his arm and shoved up-- forcing it to pop from its socket.

A sudden bump to your shoulder from a running hostage caused you to slip up on your little self-defense sequence, allowing the man to break from your grip. He whipped around to face you, holding his dislocated arm. You panicked, so... you socked him in the face.

He let out an enraged cry, thick blood gushing from his nose. You were a bit surprised with how easy it was to land a hit on him. You thought that villains would have been more prepared before robbing a bank named after All Might.

Oh, well.

You punched him again in the nose for good measure, and he was out like a light. His hot red blood coated your knuckles, and you gagged in disgust. Ew. You wiped the back of your dominant hand on you button-up absentmindedly, before being shoved to the floor by your panicking boss. Wow. Your limbs felt like mush now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and you suddenly couldn’t find the strength to pick yourself off of the floor.

A final explosion went off, followed by the most desperate and wretched call you had ever heard in your entire life. And the call... sounded suspiciously like your name.

Your eyes shot up at the scream, searching frantically for the owner of that voice. You knew that voice, you only ever heard it in grunts and light-hearted mocking sentences, but you knew that voice.

“Katsuki.” You breathed, eyes suddenly locked on familiar crimson irises. 

Relief flooded his features as he saw you, and was at your side in seconds-- dropping quickly to his knees. 

“Oh my god.” Bakugou breathed, grabbing your head and cradling it tight to his chest and-- what the fuck was he wearing? Wait, there was no way... he was the explosion hero you saw on the news! Holy fuck!

“You scared the shit out of me! Do you know how terrified I was when I heard there was trouble at your work?! And you didn’t answer your goddamn phone? Jesus Christ, (Y/N).” Worried rambles fell rapidly out of Bakugou’s lips, seemingly void of any filter. You would have been ecstatic by his cute little worrying if your mind wasn’t reeling by the fact that your crush neighbor was one of the top ten heroes in Japan.

He suddenly grasped both sides of your face and pulled back so you were eye to eye.

“Are you hurt? I swear to God, if someone hurt you-- I’ll fucking kill them.” Bakugou’s eyes were frantically scanning your face, looking for any sign of injury.

“...Katsuki?” You mumbled softly, and he immediately froze. He felt his heart lurch in his throat as his name tumbled from your lips. You, on the other hand, were completely, and utterly lost. “You’re a pro-hero?”

“....What?” Bakugou questioned dumbly. “You could have been seriously hurt and that’s the first thing you think about?”

“What? I thought you were a model.” You whined, lightly smacking his chest.

At this, Bakugou let out a loud laugh, and you just watched in awe. You had never seen him laugh before. Even though half his face was smeared in black makeup and little injuries littered his skin-- it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen in your life. He pulled back to look at you, but suddenly froze.

“You’re hurt! Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?!” Bakugou shouted, spotting bright red stains on the front of your blouse. You quickly grabbed his hand, hoping to soothe his panicking.

“Hey, hey!” You yelped, gaining his attention. “It’s not mine.” 

You gestured over to the villain knocked out next to you.

“Holy shit.” Katsuki breathed, before turning his vermillion gaze back to yours. A quiet, amused huff escaped his lips. “So you’re afraid of a spider, but can knock out a villain?” He questioned teasingly.

A light blush covered your cheeks, causing you to force your eyes down. You suddenly noticed just how close you two were. You were situated about half way onto Bakugou’s lap, as one of his large hands softly held your waist. The other was still trapped between your own. This caused your blush to only darken.

“Hey, eyes up here.” Bakugou muttered, lifting his hand from your waist and to the base of your chin. You force your eyes back up to his, but couldn’t help but sneak a quick glance to his lips. However, Bakugou saw it, and that was all it took.

Bakugou crashed his lips onto yours, and you were quick to respond. You tangled your hands within his soft blond locks, allowing him to completely dominate the kiss. His hands held you tightly to his body, refusing to give even an inch of space between you two. He didn’t let go even as you pulled back for air, his lips chasing after yours.

Time seemed to stop while he was kissing you, and every one was distressed with the thought of losing you. It was soft and sweet, and then rough and desperate-- the sweet smell of caramel, of Bakugou, invading all of your senses. 

You finally broke for air, breaths mingling shamelessly. Bakugou rested his forehead on yours, wanting nothing more than to never let you go.

“I’m so glad I found you, Stalker.”

Bonus:

A low whistle dragged out across bank, turning the couples’ gazes over to a certain hardening hero.

“SHITTY HAIR, I SWEAR TO--”

The End.

Notes:  This was my first imagine! I hope you guys liked it!

The police watching the final scene like: 👁👄👁 can we go home?

[seancekitsch]

Dislocated

A/N Warnings: description of injury, references to violence, oral sex, penetrative sex, diego being a soft little angel but also very sexy hot sex man, cursing, diego has long hair but other than that no spoilers, mild product placement because me and u and everyone else are slaves to capitalism, references to diegos comics powers

“Fuck. Where do you keep your bactine?”

“My what?”

“Bactine! You know the spray stuff I use. It would really help that split knuckle of yours,” Diego sounds exhausted, but there's a hint of teasing, or maybe pride in his voice as he rummages on his hands and knees in your bathroom cabinet. The knuckle on your middle finger of your left hand is split open, oozing blood and angry looking. Your bathroom, and the two of you, look like a scene out of a horror film tonight. There is his shirt, which was white earlier tonight, now a red and pink and brown tie dye with blood, some of it yours. You have your hand, and a bruise blooming under your eye. 

“My knuckle wouldn’t need anything if those people hadn’t come after us,” you snap, “Who were they anyway?”

“Oh you know, someone with something against someone in my family,” Diego offers as he digs, as if it's commonplace to fight off attackers on date night. As if this was something normal people from normal families dealt with. Of fucking course, you think.

“Someone? Or you specifically, babe?”

He sits back at this, and a hard look crosses his features, not at you, contemplating, then breaks into the slightest grin as he looks down at the gauze and neosporin in his hands and nods. Thats fair. From where you're sitting on the rim of the tub, he looks like some kind of action hero in the night. Some real die hard shit in your dimly lit bathroom. Normally, it's you in his position, but you doubt you look like this. He's got his vigilante bullshit, which frequently has him showing up during booty call hours needing to be bandaged up before thanking you with a little action of your own. You wonder if he's going to be as good a nurse to you as you are to him, or if he's genuinely a little angry at your role in what transpired tonight. You didn't even make it to your dinner reservation, opting to walk because the weather was nice, before two men dressed exactly the way unnamed baddies in a die hard film grabbed at you from behind and the two of you had to defend yourselves. Only some of the blood on his shirt was yours. This is probably why he always wears black. He looks damn good in black. 

“Anyone ever taught you how to fight? Throw a punch?”

You tilt your head, which is a bad move because it feels a little heavy, giving him a look that says of course no one did. 

“Right,” he nods and you figure that once you heal he will probably be changing that. Diego never wanted to rope you into anything having to do with the academy or what he does at night, unless it was seeing his siblings in almost real people circumstances like dinners. But seeing you get hurt tonight means he obviously has to make some changes to that mindset, you have to be able to defend yourself if for ever some reason he can't. You're going to have to get sweaty, and not in the way you like to. But anything for your safety, Diego thinks. He cannot risk losing you after having lost so much. 

He resigns to this as he helps you up, puts you on the bathroom counter with the vanity, you now sitting on the edge of the sink so he can sink down and sit while he cleans your hand. You were lucky that it was just the left hand. Your right hand had been spared from your left’s bloody fate because of the way your right hand tried to seek out Diego while your left threw a clumsy punch, but the hardest one you'd ever thrown. Your whole arm aches and your bracelet had been broken, but you have to say you're lucky for this being your only injury. Diego clutches your hand, a bit harder, but that's because he knows you're not going to like the feel of the neosporin as it makes contact with your skin. He has a substantial amount on his fingers of the hand that's not holding yours, and looks you in the eye as he makes the ointment meet your skin. No matter how gentle he can be when he wants to, it stings. It's supposed to be that way so it doesn't get infected and kill you, but you can't help the hiss that leaves your mouth and the wince across your features. As he rubs it in, you can feel yourself getting used to the pain. It doesn't subside but it becomes more manageable as it becomes something more familiar. Is this what Diego feels each time? 

It feels worse again when Diego stops rubbing it in, and reaches for the bandages. Maybe because you don't want him to stop touching you, but maybe it is because of more exposure to the air. He uses the hand holding yours to hold it in place as he wraps, gently again, but so the wrap is pulled tight. You have some movement, but you won't be making a fist again for a while. He ties it off, tapes it to make extra sure, and then kisses the knuckles over their bandage as you smile down at him and laugh. Hes a perfect romantic gentleman when he wants to be.

He stands and reaches behind you, arms going around you on either side. You reach to hug him back tightly, only you hear him chuckle as the water of the sink turns on behind you. He's washing the chemicals from his hands. After he scrubs real well, dries his hands, he returns the hug, burying his face in your neck and squeezing tightly as if he's trying to make sure you're still there. His relief fans out as an exhale along your neck and you can physically feel his entire body relax against you now because you're safe. You're going to be okay. 

“How'd I do, baby?” he asks, still burying his face in your neck, “Good enough that your nurse gets a tip?”

“Nurses don't get tips.”

“You usually do.”

“I didn't say you wouldn't be rewarded for your efforts, did I?”

He pulls back to look you in the eye.

“So what do I get?”

“Anything you want, baby.”

Diego’s hands are gentle as they trail from your shoulders down your sides, gripping fistfuls of the flowy shirt you wear and pulls you to the edge of the counter. Still gentle. Still full of fear for you. Maybe mixed and speckled with relief. 

The way his hands continue south, to unzipper your pants, pulling them off slowly, gently, an act of love and service more than an act of lust. He inches the fabric over your ankles, your feet, discards them somewhere outside the doorway into the hall with a small toss. Rises back to his knees for a moment, takes a pause to wrap his arms around you in a hesitant hug, like he could break you, his arms warm. Your arms instinctually settle on his shoulders to cradle the back of his head in your bandaged and loved hands before he snaps out of the moment and moves on to your shirt. He pays special attention to the buttons, one after the other slow and meticulous. If this were another night and a shirt you didn't care much about, there's a good chance he would have just cut the shirt from your frame. But tonight he's doing things like a holy man with an intricate ritual. When the last button is unfastened and free, his palms flatten, slowly slide up your torso over your stomach, over your breasts, and to your shoulders where he moves the fabric from them with the feather light touch taking extra time to feel your left shoulder, the one that swung the momentum of the punch that split your knuckle. He’s checking to see if its dislocated, you realize. 

“D? Baby, I’m okay. You're good at playin’ nurse,” you reassure him. 

He seems to understand, as he next pulls the straps from your bra down your shoulders, slides his hands behind your back, and makes sure you feel the heat from his hands as he makes work of the clasp. Your underwear is next, and a hint of Diego on a normal night shines through, with one hand splayed across your back he uses the other to pull the underwear down from one hip, then switches sides and tugs on the other side. He makes quick work of them, unlike the tempo he had going. They end up somewhere in the doorway near your pants, but you don't really care about their location because he's pressing his lips against your chest just around your sternum and his facial hair tickles. You still weren't completely sure where he came back from or what he went through a few months ago, but the way that he loves you and treats you like the most precious thing is definitely welcome. As was the new lack of haircut and the less groomed facial hair. He kisses lower and lower, making you shiver with anticipation of what's to come, before he settles where he's needed now.

Diego moves slowly, glacial. The way he licks you open has no purpose, merely exploratory and drawn out. Mapping you on his tongue. But it doesn’t fail to have you mewling above him, one hand gripping the counter and the other buried in his hair as his strong calloused hands hold you open for him to drink full. He dips lower, where you need him, then travels north again as if oblivious to your reactions. He could do this all night. He stays there, meandering; savoring the taste lazily as you grow more impatient at the non-committal non-specific way he licks and kisses and moves. You feel like you are hors d'oeuvres and not a meal for a starving man. And then Diego does what Diego does best. He surprises you. A hard suck to your clit has you inhaling sharply, gasping through your nose as your toes curl and your eyes flutter shut. You lean back over the sink, back of your head resting on the mirror as you try to present yourself at an easier angle for him. He dives into licking you in full-heartedness now, fucking you with his tongue, kissing and sucking at your clit, absolutely killing any coherent thought coming through your mind right now. The benefits of dating a man that can hold his breath indefinitely was definitely what he did with his mouth to you when you were alone. 

He adds a finger and you automatically think you've died. He knows exactly what he's doing when he fucks you like this, his mouth adding to the wetness dripping from you as he works you over, putting just enough pressure behind each thrust of his hand to have you seeing stars. Your eyes roll back as a wanton moan tears from your throat and it sounds like someone elses voice desperately chanting his name as he has you coming, coming, and coming on his face and hand. He stays down there, the one hand still on your thigh to hold you in place, to give you a light squeeze, release some of the muscle tension built up while he licks his other hand clean sucking the digit into his mouth obscenely while he smiles up at you like an angel. He rises up from his knees and kisses your cheek with his wet mustache and beard and wraps loose arms around you, a sweet and lazy gesture. 

Diego incites a passion in you that's rare. You can't recall ever wanting a person this much. So despite being sensitive from the absolute divinity of what he'd just done to you, you can't help but to jump off the counter. You reach for his pants, taking the time to feel his hard length under the fabric before you pop the button and unleash the teeth of the zipper. You pull them down just enough to free him from his boxers, and then turn yourself around to bend down against the damp counter you'd just been sitting on, looking at him through playful eyes in the mirror as he stares back, dick out and hesitant. He puts a cautious hand on your hip.

“No, not like this. I wanna see you.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror and tap on the glass with your good hand. He reaches for that arm and slowly turns you to face him.

“No baby,” he refutes, cradling your face in his strong hands, “I n-need to see you.”

So you nod, understanding that he needs this, and reposition yourself to lay on the small woven rug you kept on the floor. The bathroom floor is not the most comfortable place to lay, but this is for Diego and his peace of mind. You yield to his touch and his control over the situation as he finishes undressing and sinks down onto the floor to take his place above you. To indulge in the relief that you are okay, to bask in your gratefulness at how well he patched you up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your neck as he kisses you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Because you got hurt? Because he needed more tenderness than you originally wanted to give him? Because earlier tonight he was so fucking afraid he’d never get to look into your face again that he has to look you in the eye when you make him come tonight? 

Your bandaged hand finds its way into his hair and holds him there, close, as your fingers go to work to massaging words of comfort into his scalp. He kisses your neck once, twice, three times before lining himself up with your entrance and pushing into your cunt. You're wet, so excruciatingly and devastatingly wet and god it almost hurts him to bottom out inside you the same way something so hot can almost feel cold when it touches your skin and puts your nerves into overdrive. You're so sensitive from his mouth that you have to bite into the skin of his broad shoulder to muffle the scream that rebels against you to break into the air. Your teeth in his skin is his only relief from the soft tight burning taking over him from where your bodies join. He only moves when your teeth recede, his thrusts slow and short and deep, savoring the feeling of being connected, of being inside, of being home. His arms hold you in place while he thrusts just as much as they hold you just to feel you against him at any point of connection he can find. A vow to keep you close, to keep you where you both need each other to be. He moans deeply into your neck, the side of your face, kissing the moan into your jaw like a promise. It's more real than any declaration of love and more spontaneous than any act of romance. It's Diego. 

You can feel yourself getting lost in this, in him. He's pushing you to the edge again. For you, one is too many, and a thousand is never enough with Diego. Its you selfishly moving your hips against the rhythm of his, making you both a little shocked but not embarrassed (never embarrassed) at how close you both are already. There's a desperation in both of your actions, and he pulls back just enough to see you, to let himself be seen by you. Only you. Is this what you look like when you make love after setting stitches in wounds that will definitely scar? You hope so, because he looks like heaven itself. He fucks you through your high (with a scream of his name and tears on your cheeks), fucks you through his own(with a stuttering chant of your name and deadly eye contact), then gives you one more with his mouth on the bathroom rug (with quiet whimpering and praise from both of your lips). Diego lifts you up on unsteady legs and you both tumble into bed. You sleep in late the next morning. You miss calls from his siblings that all go to voicemail. You're home safe.

[becauseanders]

as i have said before, i firmly headcanon that ty lee has ehlers-danlos syndrome, so i wanted to do something with her for ehlers-danlos awareness month!

so here are some super sketchy explicitly-eds ty lees, with bonus comfort mailee!

(and ironically, i dislocated my wrist drawing this… good times, good times…)

💖

[IMAGE ID: five messy drawings on one page of ty lee from avatar: the last airbender. in the first she is standing facing forward, on her toes as though she is about to pose. her left hand is seen and its fingers are hyperextended. in the second she is seen from the side, in a backbend. her left hand is seen hyperextended again, and her right knee is also hyperextended. in the third she looks as though she is about to fall, with her arms extended as though trying to maintain balance. the fingers of her right hand are severely hyperextended and her knees are unnaturally bent, with squiggly lines drawn around them to depict pain. to her left is a thought bubble reading “oh no.” the fourth is done as silhouettes; ty lee is the ground shoutinng “FUCK!” and mai is running after her calling “TY LEE?!” in the final image, ty lee is crying and mai beside her, with her arms around ty lee’s shoulders. ty lee has a speech bubble that says “I can’t do anything anymore… I miss the old me…” and mai has a speech bubble responding with “I love you just the way you are. END ID.]