#we have this roll of dusting sheets that are like sticky and have these loose fibers on/in them that will stick to your hand after you use

[mazegays]

Thomas’s Foolproof Bread (aka ‘Bread made under Frypan’s Supervision)

INGREDIENTS:

1 ¼ cups of sourdough starter

3-5 cups of flour

½ cup of warm water

½ cup of warm milk

1 ½ tsp of salt

Olive oil

PREP: 

Prepare a workspace (like a CLEAN cutting board, Thomas) with a light sprinkling of flour and set aside.

If you’re Thomas (or using a stand mixer), lightly oil a separate bowl and set aside. If not, don’t worry about it. 

DIRECTIONS (YES, THOMAS, IN THIS ORDER):

Mix 3 cups of flour and salt together in a large bowl. Make a well in the center and add the warm water, milk, and starter to it. 

Pull the flour into the center of the well to mix and create a loose dough.

(If using a stand mixer for some reason--we haven’t found or made one yet, but I miss them. They were easier.--mix with the paddle attachment until a loose dough is created. Depending on the mixer, you may have to scrap the bottom and sides to get everything in. Switch to the dough hook on medium-low speed for 3-5 minutes of kneading, or until it’s smooth, silky, and elastic. Add flour and/or oil as needed if too sticky or too dry. Thomas, you are never getting one of these.)

Tip the dough onto the prepared workspace, and knead until smooth, silky, and elastic. Reserve the bowl for later. Add flour if too sticky, oil if too dry. Kneading by hand will take 12-15 minutes.

Oil the reserved bowl and tip the dough back into it. Cover with a cloth or plastic wrap. 

Let rise somewhere cool for about six hours, or until it doubles. 

Tip onto a floured surface and gently hand-knead the dough for a few minutes. Roll into a ball and dust with flour. Place into a floured bowl or banneton and cover with a towel. Allow to rise slowly in a cool place for eight hours. 

When ready to bake, heat oven to 475℉ (246.1℃). Grease a sheet pan lightly with olive oil and gently move the dough to the pan.

Score the dough with as much flare as you desire. (Not funny, Frypan.)

Place in the middle of the oven and bake for 20-30 minutes, until the loaf is lightly golden-brown and sounds hollow when tapped on.

Move to a cooling rack. For a softer crust, brush with milk right out of the oven

Pictured: Thomas’s most recent attempt

It’s my best one yet!

[sambvcks]

crawl home to her, b.b. x reader

chapter four // three days on drunken sin

summary: bucky decides to rifle through those boxes and finds the will to make the first move.

warnings: food/eating, nothing too bad this time!

word count: 1.7k

author’s note: how are we feeling about this week’s episode?? we’re getting closer to the start of tfatws with this chapter!! hope i don’t break your heart too much with the boxes :)

[ read on ao3 | series masterlist | inbox | join my taglist! ]

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The boxes taunted him for three days.

Three stacks of two boxes each cluttered his entranceway, each with that familiar scrawl of Steve’s God-awful handwriting.

‘BUCKY’

All caps, in black Sharpie, underlined three times just for good measure. Steve was always good at getting his message across.

He didn’t want to know what was in them, he told himself. But Steve was gone, and this was all he had left. These, that stupid notebook he still hadn’t found the will to write in, and the shield that was kicking around Sam’s apartment somewhere.

He wanted to toss them in his building’s dumpster, to push these aside like he did with everything else in his life. Out of sight, out of mind. That week, he didn’t tell his therapist about the boxes, or Sam’s unexpected visit, or his neighbor that he was now avoiding like the plague. Thankfully, she chalked his silence up to Steve and tried to fill in the conversational lulls with suggestions of amends and lists and he just wanted to go back to sleep.

Like always, sleep never came.

He knew the single night in his bed was a fluke, but he kept trying at least. He’d untuck his flat sheet from under hit mattress, fluff his pillow, and tuck himself in. Within five minutes, he was back on the hardwood floor of his living room, the lamplights illuminating his window and casting a perfect shadow on those stupid boxes. Finally, on the third night, he huffed a sigh and sat up, his arm whirring at the sudden movement. He wasn’t accomplishing anything letting them sit and gather dust.

Bucky reached under the cushions of his couch, fishing for the knife he had stashed away and got to work slicing through the clear packing tape securing each one.

The first five boxes were files. Mission reports, everything Steve could get his hands on about The Winter Soldier. The translations were rough, the descriptions weren’t as vivid as he remembered them now, and it wasn’t even close to everything. Why Steve kept them when Bucky was working to erase every trace of this from the universe, he would never understand. Steve was sentimental, even with the bad stuff. Bucky glanced over the files scattered across his entranceway, which maybe amounted to a year of his missions. If Zemo had looked in some suburb in upstate New York, he would have found everything he needed.

The dumpster behind his building was starting to feel more and more enticing.

The last box felt different. Significantly lighter and smaller, the items rolling and clanking as he dragged it towards him. He braced himself for more files, more reminders of what he had done as though they didn’t exist in his mind every second of the day.

The first thing he recognized was his mother’s handwriting. ‘Recipes’, scrawled so perfectly on a yellowing label.

The tin box was tinted with age, dented after so many years. He laughed and could remember it tucked away on the top shelf of the cabinet by the fridge, just out of Rebecca’s reach, even when she’d stand on her tiptoes in search of it. His Ma rarely fished it out, other than to let his little sister read over the ingredients with sticky hands as she helped stir pots and peel potatoes. She had them memorized by the time she was a teenager, having transcribed her own mother’s recipes onto these little cards. He was sure Rebecca did, too.

Next was the worn fabric of his Ma’s favorite apron. Yellow embroidered flowers scattered the crimped edge, strings falling loose. He recognized some of the stains, from spaghetti night and cake batter that she let dry on the cloth for too long.

Finally, a worn silver chain was buried at the bottom of the box.

JAMES B BARNES 32557038 T42 A

Of course, Steve with all his connections and know-it-all attitude and ‘I can do this all day’ would find some way to find his dog tags, probably tucked away in some ancient Hydra file. His flesh fingers ran over the indentation of his name, pressed into metal like millions of other boys had, off to fight a war that had nothing to do with them. Everything to lose, nothing to gain.

When he was most alone, settled into muddy trenches with wet socks and a stiff military jacket, he would recite those numbers out into the night sky. He’d map constellations over his head, wondering if it would be his last night and all there would be left of him would be those stupid discs of metal clanking around his neck and the letter tucked away in his jacket breast pocket, addressed to his mother.

His mother was long gone, he knew that. But to a fully conscious James Buchanan Barnes – not the Winter Soldier - he had only seen her a few years ago when he shipped off.

After a moment, he pulled the chain of his dog tags over his head, settling them under his shirt. His ears rung with the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The sound of dragging feet and the jangle of your keychain signaled your return from class.

His family was gone, Steve included. The only people he has left are halfway across the world, or off on some death-defying mission wearing metal bird wings. Except you, who still leaves bags of cookies on his front door mat, despite the silent treatment from his end. His maybe too friendly neighbor who poured over lists of albums for him to find taped to his door in barely legible handwriting when you should have been studying.

His mother’s recipe box was calling his name.

-

The knock on your door startled you from your nap. Well, if you can call dozing off at your desk using a law book as a makeshift pillow a nap. You stalled in your desk chair, eyes bleary as you squinted at your front door, then at the top corner of your computer.

2:36 AM

You nuzzled back into your book, content to chalk it up to your sleep deprived brain making things up.

The second knock was much more insistent and was certainly coming from your door. You rushed out of your chair, sock-clad feet dragging the blanket draped across your shoulders as you shuffled over, the knocking never ceasing. You blinked the sleep from your eyes, peering out your peephole into the dark hallway.

Bucky, with slumped shoulders and a bowed head, trying with all of his might to make himself as small as possible still took up so much of the doorway with his broad shoulders.

You should be mad at him.

You should go to bed, ignore him like he’d been ignoring you for the past few weeks. Like you hadn’t shared late nights and he hadn’t sat in your kitchen, licking your spoons clean or tucked into your couch just to watch you study, a new record playing gently. Your forehead pressed to the door, vile building in your throat as seething words collected on your tongue.

“I know you’re there.” His voice was muffled through the wooden door, feeling so close but sounding so far away. “We should work on you dragging your feet, doll.”

If you had taken another peek, you would have seen him pressing his forehead to the other side.

“You ignored me, Bucky.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, even through the door. “Some family stuff came up. But it’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

It’s so stupid, letting yourself get so attached to the first guy to bat his eyelashes and read to you. It’s idiotic to want him to seep into your days and nights, to never leave like he had left you, after only knowing each other for a month.

It’s so foolish to open the door. But you do it anyways.

He swallows as he stands straight, and the widening of his eyes tells you that he wasn’t expecting you to give him a second chance.

“I, uh, here. Thought I’d finally return the favor.”” Bucky shoves forward a plate of cookies, misshapen and unevenly cooked. His eyes finally found yours. “My mom’s recipe.”

Family stuff, you remembered. The weight of the plate felt heavy in your hands, almost as heavy as his gaze on you as you lifted one of the lesser burnt cookies to your mouth and took a timid bite.

Bucky, you’ve come to learn, gives his love in silent acts of approval. He shines when you tell him his singing isn’t totally awful or that he makes a great sous chef, eyes crinkling when you approve of his music choice for the night or compliment the voices he picks when reading from his books. As he watched you, you felt that this cookie meant more to him then just flour and eggs.

He was reaching out, terrified of your rejection.

“You made these?”

“Alright, I’m not totally helpless.”

“They’re amazing, Bucky. Your mom should be proud.”

He returned your smile, knowing that she wouldn’t be. How could she, after all that his hands have done? Hands that should’ve been home, hoisting his sisters onto his shoulders. Hands that should have been helping set the table and at work so they had something to eat in the first place.

He looked so timid in your hallway, unsure of the next move. You rolled your eyes, moving to clear your doorway, despite his hesitation.

“Come on.” You spoke, like ushering in a stray cat with the promise of food and love.

He took the first step forward, shoulder to shoulder, head tilted down to catch your playful gaze with his serious one. Your mouth opened to make some sort of quip to ease the tension, but the words died in your throat as he pressed his forehead against yours for just a second.

His eyes closed as he drew in a single serene breath through his nose.

He was gone as quickly as he had come, moving further into your apartment and directly to your shelves of records, gloved fingers grazing over the sleeves in contemplation for his first choice of the night. As you finally collected yourself enough to close the door, you wondered how many people in the world had ever loved Bucky Barnes enough to give him a second chance.

taglist: @tisthedamninez @wcndamaxcmoff @freyagallileaevans @bibliophilewednesday @justtoreblogfics @teti-menchon0604 @l-adysansa @heart-eyes-horan @thiswasnevermylifefromtony @rexorangecouny @dilfvision @urafakebetch @comphersjost @am-tired-bois @spid3rgwen @beautyandthebleh @euphoricaaaa @inadquacy @mackycat11 @withyoutilltheendofthismess @motherofallthesmallthings @victoriabaker112213 @macrillez @stvalentiness @nova10711 @tailsoflightning @okiegirl24 @qhbr2013 @beachbabe925 @weenersoldierr @venusinart @marvel-mistress @orthellqs @phasma-trash @beni-angie @infinitely-yellow @riverlethe1

[dazaimency]

Shigaraki x F!Reader - Silk (NSFW)

Prompt: “Hi! Can I please have some soft(but not a lot) Shiggyxf!reader? I keep thinking of this idea where they can never really get intimate because he’s scared of turning them into dust and always end up upset because he feels like he can’t give them all a relationship ‘supposedly’ should. So like, maybe the reader just proposes tying his wrists so he can’t use his hands or something? All consensual and nice and yay. Maybe? Pretty, please?Thanks!”

Tags: Bondage (Shiggy receiving), riding, sex guru Dabi strikes again

Word length: 1 624

Ao3: HERE - crossposted, you can find other works there

You paid no attention to the movie, instead choosing to focus on your boyfriend sitting next to you. Tomura had put away all his hands but his face was still covered by his pale blue hair. Suppressing the urge to tuck the stray hair behind his ear, you opt to rest your head on his shoulder, shifting closer to him.

Shigaraki tensed for a moment, before his guard went down with a soft exhale. Looking down at you, snuggled to his side, a small smile appeared on his scarred lips. Reaching behind you to put an arm around your shoulders, his breath and movement stop. The tension had settled back, down to his bones, and his face had stained with a grimace. 

He was so close to feeling your skin, brushing circles on it. There were little things that he wanted more (besides his personal goals as the villain leader) and being denied it because of his own power left a bitter taste in his mouth. Clicking tongue, he settles his arm on the sofa backrest and turns his gaze to the screen, completely ignoring it.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, no. You both have already lost count how many times his fingers were close enough to almost caress your skin, and how many times Tomura’s hands reached back, wrapped in a fist, nails digging into his skin. You longed for the touch and even tried semi-cropped gloves at the beginning of your relationship, but it was making his skin uncomfortable, while also putting him on edge. He didn’t like anything restricting the usage of his quirk, even if at the moment, decay was the last thing on his mind.

You noticed the tension radiating from him and suggested a solution of your own: “How about I tie you up?”

Tomura’s breath hitched, yet he managed to stutter out a response, mind blank. “What?” 

After a while, you found yourselves in the bedroom, Shigaraki sitting on the bed, biting his lips, rubbing the silk between his fingers. He agreed during your short discussion, pros outweighing cons. Expecting that being tied up would feel different than wearing gloves, he went to Dabi for anything they could use, resulting in the silken rope in his hands. 

You hadn’t been planning this for long, the thought came to you when you talked to Dabi and your conversation once again stirred into lewd topics. Letting it sit in your head, you wondered if you were one to tie someone else down, but the simple image of touching Tomura without worry on his side convinced you. You were doing this more for him than for you. Trusting him completely, it was him, who truly feared hurting you. Then, getting the rope itself was not a problem, as you were on good grounds with Dabi, and he was not one to shy away from sex talk and toys.

Sitting on Tomura’s lap, moving his hands away, you kiss him, freeing him from his doubts. Instead of touching you, his palms grab the sheets, gripping them like he wanted to grip your hips to rub your body against his.

His mouth opens, letting your tongue in. One of your hands wander in his hair, the other holding his shoulder, feeling his muscles move under his touch. Moaning out when you feel his hips buck against you, you break the kiss. 

“Ready?” You ask, making sure. Shigaraki nods in affirmation and lays down, head between pillows, and arms joined at the headboard. He was anticipating your touch, beaming on the inside that you won’t crumble under his touch, instead, feeling only pleasure which he could not give you before fully due to the fog of worries that had permanently settled in his brain.

You lean over him, legs at his sides, and wrap the silk around his wrists, attaching it to the headboard. Tomura gives it a tug, trying out how firm they are, and indeed, his movement is limited, but the knot was just loose enough so it wouldn’t be uncomfortable. His breathing quickens, and you rub his cheek in affection, soothing his nerves.

“We can stop anytime,” you whisper against his lips, giving them a soft peck, before moving lower to cover his neck is soft kisses.

Shigaraki nods, anxiety already lowering because he cannot hurt you like this. He still felt slight remorse that he was unable to touch you, but he would prefer your safety anytime. Licking his chapped lips, he looks at you, spread out over his body.

A small moan escapes him when your teeth leave a mark on his collarbone. Your hands push his shirt higher, revealing his chest. You caress the pale skin, rubbing soft circles to make Shigaraki more comfortable. 

Your hips brush over his clothed member, and you connect your lips in a deep kiss, swallowing his soft moans. His tongue dances with yours while he pushes his crotch up, sending a small shock of pleasure up your spine. Tomura keeps bucking and you feel your panties getting wetter by his every move. 

Wanting to get closer to him, you sit up and take off your shirt and bra at the same time. Tomura licks his lips and tugs at the rope, hands gripping it tightly, but still careful not to decay the silk. In need of feeling your skin on his, he nudges you with his knee and pushes his hips up to bring you closer.

Smiling, you lean over him, noses almost touching. Your breath tickles on his lips and he shifts up to drag you into a kiss. With a smirk, you evade, and go tease his neck instead. Leaving licks and bites in your trail, you end up at his collarbone, marking it with a bruise. You detach with a pop, lips puffed from sucking and kissing. 

“Fuck, (Y/N),” Tomura whines, needing to be inside you soon. The jeans he was wearing did not help, his cock pushing on the fabric with every move. 

Your clit pulsates, your panties almost soaked by now. You hurry up to get rid of the rest of your clothes, and do the same for your boyfriend. His length on display, you sit on his lap, gripping it and guiding it to your soaked entrance. 

Teasing him, you put the tip inside, circling and sliding along it, watching Tomura bury his head into the pillows with a groan. Just this small sensation fogged his sight and mind. His hands pulling at the silk, he wanted nothing more than to decay the rope, grab you, and roam your skin freely as he pounds into you. 

“More, baby,” he manages to breathe out, red eyes glued to yours. His hips would be pushing up if it weren’t for your tight hold on them, keeping them down. 

Having enough of teasing and feeling empty, you slide down his cock. Moaning out as he slightly brushes against your sensitive spot, you start to move. He pushes inside you in a perfect rhythm, forcing a groan out of you with each stroke. 

“That’s it, Player Two… that’s it…” Tomura moans out, watching you impale yourself on his length, breasts bouncing. 

You hum and increase the speed, adjusting the angle slightly so he hits deeper now. You yelp when he strokes your spot perfectly and move to feel the spark of sensation again. Your thighs start to feel the strain and begin to ache. 

Shifting to be chest on chest with Shigaraki, you grab him by his nape, fingers digging into the soft hair and bring your lips to his. He instantly gives you sloppy, open mouthed kisses, moaning and breathing into your mouth, mirroring your own state. 

This new angle enables him to push further into you, his heels dug into the sheets, knees bent, and hips hovering over the bed, he rams into you with an almost animalistic need. You can’t do anything but take it, each thrust making you groan, and you whimper his name into his lips. 

“T-Touch yourself for me, won’t you?” Tomura mumbles, voice deeper, stained with pleasure. Your hand moves down on command, circling your clit swiftly, pressuring it to send you over the edge. 

Shigaraki takes in the sight of you, red faced with darkened eyes. His view ends soon when you place your head in the crook of his shoulder, biting down at the skin. The pain urges him to slam harder, teeth clenched in pleasure. His thighs start to strain, only making him to keep the momentum, thrusting into your pussy, revelling in the way you clenched around him. The heat embracing him with every push only dazzled him and he came with a loud groan, spilling into you. 

His orgasm ended with a long, deep thrust, sending you over the edge. You collapse on top him, eyes rolled back, breathing heavily. Tomura is in the same state, mind clouded and sweat making him feel sticky.

You lie there for a while, catching air, and you caress his arms. Remembering that he is tied up, you hurry up to get rid of the silk. 

“Was it okay?” you ask, biting your lip as you lie down next to one another, your head resting on his shoulder. He rubs his wrists, stained with small red bruises that would disappear within a day. 

“Yeah… I didn’t mind it at all,” Shigaraki smiles at you and you sigh in relief. A spark resides in his eyes, one that you don’t get to see often. He kept on grinning, happy that he could now make love to you without worrying. The cost of restrained arms was but a little bump. One that he could live with easily. 

[moved-justabakusimp]

Shigaraki x F!Reader - Silk

(request for boku-no-iron (you_stole_my_crush) (ao3)

Prompt: “Hi! Can I please have some soft(but not a lot) Shiggyxf!reader? I keep thinking of this idea where they can never really get intimate because he’s scared of turning them into dust and always end up upset because he feels like he can’t give them all a relationship ‘supposedly’ should. So like, maybe the reader just proposes tying his wrists so he can’t use his hands or something? All consensual and nice and yay. Maybe? Pretty, please?Thanks!”

Tags: Bondage (Shiggy receiving), riding, sex guru Dabi strikes again

Word length: 1 624

Ao3: HERE - crossposted, you can find other works there

You paid no attention to the movie, instead choosing to focus on your boyfriend sitting next to you. Tomura had put away all his hands but his face was still covered by his pale blue hair. Suppressing the urge to tuck the stray hair behind his ear, you opt to rest your head on his shoulder, shifting closer to him.

Shigaraki tensed for a moment, before his guard went down with a soft exhale. Looking down at you, snuggled to his side, a small smile appeared on his scarred lips. Reaching behind you to put an arm around your shoulders, his breath and movement stop. The tension had settled back, down to his bones, and his face had stained with a grimace.

He was so close to feeling your skin, brushing circles on it. There were little things that he wanted more (besides his personal goals as the villain leader) and being denied it because of his own power left a bitter taste in his mouth. Clicking tongue, he settles his arm on the sofa backrest and turns his gaze to the screen, completely ignoring it.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, no. You both have already lost count how many times his fingers were close enough to almost caress your skin, and how many times Tomura’s hands reached back, wrapped in a fist, nails digging into his skin. You longed for the touch and even tried semi-cropped gloves at the beginning of your relationship, but it was making his skin uncomfortable, while also putting him on edge. He didn’t like anything restricting the usage of his quirk, even if at the moment, decay was the last thing on his mind.

You noticed the tension radiating from him and suggested a solution of your own: “How about I tie you up?”

Tomura’s breath hitched, yet he managed to stutter out a response, mind blank. “What?”

After a while, you found yourselves in the bedroom, Shigaraki sitting on the bed, biting his lips, rubbing the silk between his fingers. He agreed during your short discussion, pros outweighing cons. Expecting that being tied up would feel different than wearing gloves, he went to Dabi for anything they could use, resulting in the silken rope in his hands.

You hadn’t been planning this for long, the thought came to you when you talked to Dabi and your conversation once again stirred into lewd topics. Letting it sit in your head, you wondered if you were one to tie someone else down, but the simple image of touching Tomura without worry on his side convinced you. You were doing this more for him than for you. Trusting him completely, it was him, who truly feared hurting you. Then, getting the rope itself was not a problem, as you were on good grounds with Dabi, and he was not one to shy away from sex talk and toys.

Sitting on Tomura’s lap, moving his hands away, you kiss him, freeing him from his doubts. Instead of touching you, his palms grab the sheets, gripping them like he wanted to grip your hips to rub your body against his.

His mouth opens, letting your tongue in. One of your hands wander in his hair, the other holding his shoulder, feeling his muscles move under his touch. Moaning out when you feel his hips buck against you, you break the kiss.

“Ready?” You ask, making sure. Shigaraki nods in affirmation and lays down, head between pillows, and arms joined at the headboard. He was anticipating your touch, beaming on the inside that you won’t crumble under his touch, instead, feeling only pleasure which he could not give you before fully due to the fog of worries that had permanently settled in his brain.

You lean over him, legs at his sides, and wrap the silk around his wrists, attaching it to the headboard. Tomura gives it a tug, trying out how firm they are, and indeed, his movement is limited, but the knot was just loose enough so it wouldn’t be uncomfortable. His breathing quickens, and you rub his cheek in affection, soothing his nerves.

“We can stop anytime,” you whisper against his lips, giving them a soft peck, before moving lower to cover his neck is soft kisses.

Shigaraki nods, anxiety already lowering because he cannot hurt you like this. He still felt slight remorse that he was unable to touch you, but he would prefer your safety anytime. Licking his chapped lips, he looks at you, spread out over his body.

A small moan escapes him when your teeth leave a mark on his collarbone. Your hands push his shirt higher, revealing his chest. You caress the pale skin, rubbing soft circles to make Shigaraki more comfortable.

Your hips brush over his clothed member, and you connect your lips in a deep kiss, swallowing his soft moans. His tongue dances with yours while he pushes his crotch up, sending a small shock of pleasure up your spine. Tomura keeps bucking and you feel your panties getting wetter by his every move.

Wanting to get closer to him, you sit up and take off your shirt and bra at the same time. Tomura licks his lips and tugs at the rope, hands gripping it tightly, but still careful not to decay the silk. In need of feeling your skin on his, he nudges you with his knee and pushes his hips up to bring you closer.

Smiling, you lean over him, noses almost touching. Your breath tickles on his lips and he shifts up to drag you into a kiss. With a smirk, you evade, and go tease his neck instead. Leaving licks and bites in your trail, you end up at his collarbone, marking it with a bruise. You detach with a pop, lips puffed from sucking and kissing.

“Fuck, (Y/N),” Tomura whines, needing to be inside you soon. The jeans he was wearing did not help, his cock pushing on the fabric with every move.

Your clit pulsates, your panties almost soaked by now. You hurry up to get rid of the rest of your clothes, and do the same for your boyfriend. His length on display, you sit on his lap, gripping it and guiding it to your soaked entrance.

Teasing him, you put the tip inside, circling and sliding along it, watching Tomura bury his head into the pillows with a groan. Just this small sensation fogged his sight and mind. His hands pulling at the silk, he wanted nothing more than to decay the rope, grab you, and roam your skin freely as he pounds into you.

“More, baby,” he manages to breathe out, red eyes glued to yours. His hips would be pushing up if it weren’t for your tight hold on them, keeping them down.

Having enough of teasing and feeling empty, you slide down his cock. Moaning out as he slightly brushes against your sensitive spot, you start to move. He pushes inside you in a perfect rhythm, forcing a groan out of you with each stroke.

“That’s it, Player Two… that’s it…” Tomura moans out, watching you impale yourself on his length, breasts bouncing.

You hum and increase the speed, adjusting the angle slightly so he hits deeper now. You yelp when he strokes your spot perfectly and move to feel the spark of sensation again. Your thighs start to feel the strain and begin to ache.

Shifting to be chest on chest with Shigaraki, you grab him by his nape, fingers digging into the soft hair and bring your lips to his. He instantly gives you sloppy, open mouthed kisses, moaning and breathing into your mouth, mirroring your own state.

This new angle enables him to push further into you, his heels dug into the sheets, knees bent, and hips hovering over the bed, he rams into you with an almost animalistic need. You can’t do anything but take it, each thrust making you groan, and you whimper his name into his lips.

“T-Touch yourself for me, won’t you?” Tomura mumbles, voice deeper, stained with pleasure. Your hand moves down on command, circling your clit swiftly, pressuring it to send you over the edge.

Shigaraki takes in the sight of you, red faced with darkened eyes. His view ends soon when you place your head in the crook of his shoulder, biting down at the skin. The pain urges him to slam harder, teeth clenched in pleasure. His thighs start to strain, only making him to keep the momentum, thrusting into your pussy, revelling in the way you clenched around him. The heat embracing him with every push only dazzled him and he came with a loud groan, spilling into you.

His orgasm ended with a long, deep thrust, sending you over the edge. You collapse on top him, eyes rolled back, breathing heavily. Tomura is in the same state, mind clouded and sweat making him feel sticky.

You lie there for a while, catching air, and you caress his arms. Remembering that he is tied up, you hurry up to get rid of the silk.

“Was it okay?” you ask, biting your lip as you lie down next to one another, your head resting on his shoulder. He rubs his wrists, stained with small red bruises that would disappear within a day.

“Yeah… I didn’t mind it at all,” Shigaraki smiles at you and you sigh in relief. A spark resides in his eyes, one that you don’t get to see often. He kept on grinning, happy that he could now make love to you without worrying. The cost of restrained arms was but a little bump. One that he could live with easily.

[aquaticstyles]

from the dining table

I know I said I was posting at 7, but I finished earlier than expected :) 5k inspired by the song we all know and love, From the Dining Table. Hope you all enjoy reading! I really liked how this one turned out. As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated!!!

“Whatcha doin' out here by yourself?"

You nearly jump out of your skin and send the wine sloshing in your glass splashing onto the freshly cut grass at the sound of his voice.

You hoped—you prayed that you could get through the night without running into him. You were here to celebrate your good friend and her new husband, not re-open old scars. Yet here he is, right in front of you, dressed to the nines in all black, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders and slim waist, chestnut locks styled haphazardly and intentionally all at once, new, foreign stubble on his upper lip and jaw making him that much more ruggedly handsome, chest hair peeking through the opened buttons of his shirt, and a white rose clipped to the lapel of his jacket.

He looks good. He looks really good, and you would like to die.

You would very much like to bury yourself in a hole.

He seems so familiar, traces of an old lover lost in the gold flecks of his eyes, but you don't know him, at least not anymore. He's a stranger now, an array of old photographs and journal clippings scattered throughout your memory. He went from being your person, to a person--from being the one person you could talk to for hours upon hours tangled in the sheets, the moonlight from the open curtains dancing upon miles and miles of bare skin, without ever growing tired, to the one person that sucks every word out of you, leaving you speechless, an awkward shell of the confident woman you used to be around him.

You would have followed him anywhere, blind, heart thumping beneath your chest, relying solely on his palm in yours to guide you through the dark—to the ends of the earth, tiptoes over the edge, ready and willing to plummet thousands of feet downward.

The breeze that floats through the air and brushes against your arm adds more goosebumps to the ones already present due to the man next to you. Everything around you is calm—the ocean to your right, waves slowly reeling in and releasing back against the shoreline, the sun setting in the horizon, creating warm hues of tangerine and pomegranate in the sky and sparkling on the endless canvas of blue below, the palm trees rustling gently, the soft chatter of guests behind you in the distance. Outside, there's a whirlwind of serenity, but inside, there's a hurricane crashing against your rib cage.

"Oh, I, um, had a phone call," you confess. You barely got the day off to come to the wedding, and your phone has been buzzing nonstop with work emails, texts, and voicemails.

Yes, you had to take a phone call, but you also needed a minute. A minute for yourself. A minute to reflect, on both past and future.

A minute to inhale--his palm in yours, your cheek pressed against his chest, his temple resting on top of your head, swaying slowly in the kitchen, Frank Sinatra's 'One For My Baby' echoing softly, pulling you closer to him if possible, hushed whispers of "I love you" from two hearts beating in unison.

A minute to exhale--love letters, broken promises, his (your) favorite t-shirt, borrowed books, his handwriting still in the margins, tokens of his thoughts, postcards, one for each new city he inhabited while he way away from you for months on end, pearls, a Frank Sinatra vinyl, your ring stretched and bent from his pinky, anything and everything that was part of him, tucked away in a cardboard box in your attic, collecting dust.

Weddings are supposed to be joyous; they're supposed to remind you of just how amazing life can be, particularly when it's spent with someone you love, but you can't help but feel lonelier than ever.

This is what you wanted.

This is what you wanted with him.

"Still always working," sparkles dance in those eyes of his, morphing every coherent thought in your head to mush. It's criminal how relaxed he is. It's almost as if you're old friends catching up, as if all of the history between the two of you simply no longer exists. He's smirking at you, making your insides turn to jelly and your brain slosh around in your skull. He seems entirely unfazed as he strolls closer to you, the whiskey in his glass barely moving from how slow he progresses. He's honey, the golden sugar dripping lazily from a swarming hive.

You look good. You look really good. And he notices.

His eyes trail from the very tip top of your head, to your cherry red toenails, and you immediately shrink in on yourself. He studies your appearance, long locks of hair he used to comb his fingers through flowing in the slight breeze and cascading down your back, thin straps holding up the loose, silky fabric of your sundress, heart-shaped lips glistening, coated in your favorite lip gloss (He thinks the longer he stares, the more he can taste them again—the more he can feel the sticky substance transferred on his own lips, remnants of your sparkles imprinted on him), freckled cheeks paired with a rosy nose, results from a sunburn (You're tanner than he last saw you. Has your skin always been this golden?), a new tattoo on your inner right forearm, a compass, so minute that one would have to be staring to notice (Which he was, and he did).

Then he sees it.

That all-too-familiar gold band wrapped around your right middle finger, catching the light reflecting from the white wine in your glass.

The ring he gave you.

The one he saw in Japan and had to buy because it had you written all over it. The one he left on his pillow in your shared bed, waiting for you once you had successfully stretched and rubbed the sleep from your eyes while he was off to an early studio session. The one he had engraved, "H.S." on the inside of, a little piece of him always with you. The last token of him you couldn't bring yourself to rid of, a time capsule from a past love.

As soon as you realize he's spotted it, your grip on the glass in your hand tightens. Harry's eyes immediately snap back to yours—after all this time, you still wore the ring. Why were you still wearing the ring?

In a desperate attempt to distract Harry from asking that question you knew was swimming around in his mind, you clear your throat, "Still always working," you force a tight-lipped smile and rock on your heels, "that and you know I'm no good at dancing." You nod your head to the crowded dance floor alive with couples drunk off the mini bar behind the two of you.

Harry's hard expression softens, accompanied by a dimple as memories of your horrible dancing come flooding back. He releases a warm chuckle, one you haven't heard in ages that echoes in your eardrums longer than you would have liked, "Can't argue with that, 'member you almost broke m'big toe a couple times." His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip from his glass, the amber liquid gliding down his throat with a faint burn.

The space between the two of you progressively decreases as he moves closer and closer, until suddenly his shoulder is only a couple inches away, daring to brush against yours. You're both facing the ocean now, backs towards the roaring crowd. You close your eyes, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore easing the anxiety coasting through your veins. You inhale slowly, enjoying the feeling of the wind brushing against your cheekbones, cooling off the nervous heat Harry has caused. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Harry turns his head and watches you with your eyes fluttered closed, admiring your side profile up close with no shame, because how could he not? He hasn't seen you in person for over a year—it's like he's seeing you for the first time again. He fights the urge to tuck a stay piece of hair behind your hair, something he would have done without thinking if things hadn't gone completely downhill. He wants to memorize how you look in this moment, the exact position of every eyelash, the exact angle of the slope of your nose, just in case he has to go another 12 months without seeing you again. But boy, he wants to see you again. And again.

You keep your eyes closed, your lips turning upwards in a faint smirk, "I saw you at Target the other day," you open your eyes and turn to look at Harry, only to find him already fully fixated on you. Has he been staring at you this whole time? "Rolling stone? That's big."

He grins at your flustered look of shock; he was caught, but he's not embarrassed at all, not trying in the slightest to hide how much you have captivated his attention, "Uh yeah," Jesus, your eyes are beautiful. Your eyes didn't look this beautiful when you were together. Did you do something to your eyes? No, that's impossible. Is that a new piercing in your ear? You hate needles. Did you pierce it yourself? What else has changed about you? Harry, focus. What did you say again? Oh, yeah, Rolling Stone. "Doesn't do well for my narcissism though."

"Hmm... I can imagine," you take a sip of wine, returning your eyes back to the horizon, this time focusing on a pack of seagulls gliding through orange creamsicle skies. You can't stare into his eyes for too long without thinking of everything, the good, the bad, the ugly. Each time you look into his eyes, it's like reliving every conversation you ever had. His words, a gallon of feathers poured on top of you, soft tufts brushing against your skin. His words, a gallon of daggers poured on top of you, sharp metal piercing your skin.

Silence overwhelms the two of you—filling the void of words needed and wanted to be said.

Harry clears his throat and finally looks in front of him to the breathtaking sunset melting into the skyline, almost as breathtaking as you. Taking a big gulp of his whiskey, he prepares himself for the words about to spill from his mouth. He has to ask, because you're here, in person, live in stereo, and when will he have an opportunity like this again? This question has been swimming in his brain for months; it's been eating him alive, the unknown mystery of the situation. He's dying to know if you've heard that one song.

"Have yeh listened to the album?"

He chose the absolute worst time to ask this question, right when you were taking a sip from your glass. You nearly choke on the liquid sliding down your throat, erupting into a coughing fit as soon as you get a breath of air. Harry's eyes widen, immediately angling his body towards yours, a look of alarm flashing across his features. You hunch over, sending cough after cough into your free hand. A warm palm rests on your back between your shoulder blades, causing goosebumps to rise, and as soon as he's about to ask if you're okay, you wave your hand, brushing off your near-death experience. You cough one last time, your raspy voice hesitantly admitting, "Um yes, I have."

Harry furrows his eyebrows, analyzing your face to make sure you're actually okay and before he can stop it from happening, he's rubbing small circles into your back. He hovers his body slightly over yours as you cough one last time into your elbow. You mouth "I'm good" inaudibly and send him a thumbs up. You finally straighten back up, brushing your hair out of your face and blinking slowly a couple times, God, that was embarrassing, way to keep it cool.

When your posture returns to its natural state, and his palm on your back is no longer appropriate, Harry removes his hand and pushes it into his pocket. He silently curses himself for not grabbing intertwining your fingers together and squeezing your palm once—that was something he would always do when you were together. It was his thing. When you would be out shopping and the paps would show up inconveniently out of nowhere, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he's sorry, before dropping it. When you would be eating dinner at your parents, laughing about who knows what, his knee brushing yours underneath the table, he would grab your hand and squeeze it once, letting you know that he's here and he loves you, before dropping it.

Silence returns again and you're both back to your original positions overlooking the sea. Bass thumping, "cheers!", clinking, birds chirping, leaves rustling, waves crashing, heavy breathing, congratulations, "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!", his rings tapping against his glass, the soles of your shoes crunching the grass, heart pounding.

The loudest silence breaks, "Figured one day you'd at least g'me a call back."

If you weren't sure if that last track was really about you, you were completely certain now. Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me you're sorry too. For the first time since he's been in your presence this evening, you regain a sense of confidence, your nervous jitters diminishing with your next statement.

"I didn't have anything to apologize for."

And you didn't. Not when he was the one that left, when he was the one that decided he didn't want to love you anymore, when he was the one that chose his life over the both of yours. It hurt. It still does. So why would you call him and tell him that you're sorry too? Sorry for what? Loving him too much? Because you loved him too much. He was the love of your life, the man you wanted to marry, the man you wanted to be the father of your children, the man that completely and utterly captured your heart and sewed it together with his own. But he left. And you had to figure out how to live without him, how to do the dishes when he wasn't drying, how to dance when it wasn't his records playing in the background, how to kiss when it wasn't his lips that were folded over yours, how to love again when it wasn't him that you were loving. You had to do it all. Alone. Pick up the pieces he scattered, put them back together, and super glue them.

Then he put out his debut album. And suddenly he was everywhere, from magazines, to billboards, to tv shows, to recommended YouTube videos, to Instagram, to twitter, to even Facebook, there he was again, closer to you than he had been in months, yet still light years away. And all of those pieces you super glued? Yeah, they became completely undone again, and it didn't help that you decided to actually listen to his album. It was one thing to see him everywhere, but to hear him again, hear that voice that once felt like home, it ruined you.

That song ruined you.

You remember the day that song was inspired from, every single detail.

-

You had a particularly busy day at work, and you decided to have a spa night. A bubble bath, a bottle of rosé, a face mask, a couple bath bombs, and a pizza was exactly what the doctor prescribed. You had just stepped out of your steamy wonderland, your body covered in your favorite, fluffy robe, soapy suds still clinging to damp skin, completely content in your cotton bubble and slightly buzzed from the glasses of wine you consumed. It was nearly 3 in the morning, and you just sat down at your vanity to apply your various lotions and serums when the phone rang.

Who on earth is calling you this late at night?

You shuffled your slippered-feet to your bedside table, glancing over to see something you never thought you'd see again.

His name.

Harry Styles

Flashing on your screen.

Nearly giving you a heart attack.

You froze in your tracks, eyes widening, mouth hanging open, breathing halting, heart beat slowing and thumping louder than ever in your ears. It felt like the entire world was put on pause, every car on the busy street outside your apartment stopped, traffic lights stuck on red, clouds frozen in place in the sky, every form of life on hold. You miss the call, not that you could have answered anyways; you were completely and utterly paralyzed.

Another notification: Harry Styles Voicemail.

Then you're breathing again, quick, sharp puffs of air in and out. Are you dreaming? You squint your eyes shut tightly and pinch your wrist. This has to be a dream. You open your eyes, the same notification illuminating your screen. You're not dreaming.

God presses play on the world, your surroundings slowly returning back to their normal pace around you, your bubble bursting as you frantically pull your phone from its charger, typing in in your passcode at the speed of light and going straight to the neon green cube on your dock. A shaky thumb taps on the voicemail, hitting the speaker button. There are a couple seconds of static, and for a moment you think maybe it was an accident, a butt-dial, a complete misunderstanding. Please let this be an accident.

Key word: moment.

Because as soon as you think you can forget about this, go back to your nightly routine, and have a peaceful sleep, his voice is booming through the speakers, and you're paralyzed again.

"Um... Hi, it's Harry," the ghost of the man you used to know lets out a nervous laugh, "But you knew that didn't yeh? Probably why you didn't answer..." there's silence, two seconds, five seconds, eight. "I'm in Japan. It's noon here, and m'drunk, alone in my hotel room," his voice is deep, raspy, tired. "'Member that ring I gave you? I'm stayin' a couple blocks away from that shop. Y'loved that ring. Think tha' was the last good thing I did."

Your eyes shift to your right hand, the one that's not death-gripping your phone, the one that holds the piece of metal he's referring to. A lump grows in the back of your throat, and suddenly it's becoming harder to stand. You collapse on the edge of your bed and gulp. Tears pool uncontrollably in your eyes, falling onto the robe that now feels like pinecones suffocating you.

"I saw Mark befo' I left. Ran into him at the grocery store," Mark, your co-worker, your friend. Mark didn't tell you he saw Harry. Why didn't he tell you he saw Harry? Why is Harry talking about Mark? Why did Harry call you? Why did Harry leave you a voicemail? "I asked him how you were, and he said you were fine. Are you fine?" No. "Cause I'm not. M'not fine at all."

You shut your eyes in pain, wincing at his words. Waterfalls flood from your eyes, and you hate it. You hate that this is affecting you so much. You hate that he still has a hold on you. You wished you could not care; you wished you could simply say "fuck you forever" and forget him. It's been 6 months since the breakup, and you want more than anything to move on and forget him.

"Love I-" You bite your tongue at the pet name, almost drawing blood. When was the last time he called you that? 'Love'—the equivalent of a knife plunging into your chest again and again. "I fucked up... and I miss you." And again. "God, I miss you so much." And again. "And m'sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." And again. "Th'worst thing I ever did was what I did to you."

You're fully sobbing at this point, your phone thrown across the other end of your bed, his voice slightly muffled by your duvet. Your hands are tangled in your hair, elbows resting on your knee caps, shoulders shaking as you hiccup, wave after wave of his words hitting you. Little do you know, Harry is on the other end of the world doing the exact same thing—hands pulling his hair, hunched over on the edge of his grand suite's expensive mattress, an almost empty bottle of whiskey to his right, tears staining the carpet beneath him.

"And I know this is late. M'a fuckin' idiot for not saying it until now. I just..." He breathes out a sigh, and you pinch your eyes shut even tighter. No, he's drunk. He doesn't mean it. He's drunk. He doesn't mean it. Don't fall for it; you've been doing fine. You're fine... right? "I needed yeh to hear that. Need you to know I'm so sorry for hurting you. I did th'one thing I swore I'd never do."

Relaxing your grip on the roots of your hair, you sit up at his words, the words you have waited to hear him say for six months. Why don't they sweep you off your feet like you imagined? Why don't you feel different? You had thought about this moment over and over, the moment he would finally own up to his mistakes, finally apologize for all the shit he put you through. You imagined him showing up to your doorstep with a dozen sunflowers, your favorite, a speech prepared on how much he still loves you and how much he is sorry for everything. After, you would launch into his open arms, sinking back into his quicksand, enveloped in his love all over again. Everything would fall back into place; you would be whole again. What you didn't expect was a drunken voicemail, making you want to crumble inside yourself until all that is left is a pile of bones, useless. It felt as if there was a surprise epilogue to your joint ending—you were experiencing the break up all over again. What was supposed to give you life, hope was slowly taking it away each second the voicemail continued.

"I'm dying, love." Me too. "Can I still call you that?" No. "M'dying without you. Just... Please call me. Please let me show you how sorry I am. Need to hear y'voice. I'm so sorry. Call me."

-

His voicemail remains in your phone. You never called him back. You've lost count of the times your finger hovered over his contact name, nearly jumping into the deep end, just for you to take one step backwards on the diving board. One particular night, after taking another step back, you decided to write down everything you wanted to say, everything you wished you knock on his door and scream at him until you lost your voice—all of the heartache, the sorrow, the stress, the hope, the anxiety, every single emotion you felt since it ended. You wrote twenty-two pages. They're now hidden in your bedside table, addressed and stamped, never sent. Harry didn't call you again; that was the last time you heard from him, over a year ago now.

Silence welcomes itself again. Comfortable silence is so overrated.

Shoulder brushing against yours, Harry stands still, digesting your last words. I didn't have anything to apologize for. There was a time when he would have completely disagreed with that statement, clearly, given the lyrics to his last track on his debut album. Then, he would have argued that both of you had dipped your toe in your downfall, each equally responsible for how things crumbled apart. Now, however, he sees how it was him that was in the wrong. He was the one afraid of the commitment you wanted from him—part of him could never fully love you like he wanted to. A couple hundred therapy sessions later, he's sorted his shit out, and he sees just how much shit he put you through, as if someone had sat him down in a theatre, showing him your love story from your perspective. You don't owe him an apology; you were perfect, always giving him your all, every single drop, every single ounce of your love from an endless fountain. He was the one that left. Hewas the one that broke you into small, jagged pieces.

But he's selfish. He still misses you so much. He misses your hand encased in his, your laugh at his terrible jokes, your lips on his cheek, your faint snores that only erupt on Friday nights after a hard week at work, your face buried in his neck, chest on top of his and legs entangled in his on the couch, your finger poking his dimple, your face scrunched in concentration as you painted his nails, your records playing in his house (the ones you said he had to borrow, but if he scratched them, he was a dead man), your hugs (the way you would make him feel itty bitty in your embrace, enveloping him into your open arms after he was away for too long), your mind, always alive and itching for those deep conversations that always arise at midnight in his bed.

That's why he came to the wedding in the first place. He was originally booked to shoot a music video, but he quickly cancelled at the possibility of seeing you here. And that's why when he finally spotted you, off in the distance, speaking into your phone away from the buzzing reception, he knew he had to talk to you. He didn't care if it re-opened closed wounds; he was selfish and he had to talk to you. He missed you.

"Listen-"

"I-" Harry speaks up at the same time you do, beginnings of sentences clashing together. Your eyes meet again, shoulders turned towards each other now. He grins, bunny teeth making an appearance at the mishap regardless of the obvious tension that has invaded the air between the two of you. You envy that trait, his ability to make any situation comfortable and relaxed despite its origin. "You first."

"No, um you go," you mumble out awkwardly, finishing off the remnants of wine in your glass in a rather large gulp to ease the nerves. You know Harry, sometimes better than he knows himself, and you know that he would have never approached you if he didn't have some motive on his own. You had to shut this down—there was no way you could go down this road with him again, not when just this conversation was enough to ruffle your feathers, making you feel like a traitor in your own body, someone you don't even know.

"How 'bout we both go?" There's a cheeky look in his eye, and if you look hard enough you could see a tinge of excitement, hopefulness, "On th'count of three?"

Not daring to quirk upwards, your lips remain straight, and you nod.

"One," You can do it. Just tell him you want to basically forget he exists. "Two," You can do it. Just tell her you still love her. "Three."

Two similar heartbeats.

"I still love you-" Sweet sugar crystals, an honest confession from candy land.

"I think it's best if we don't see each other again." An exploding cannon, sinking his battle ship.

Two entirely different headspaces.

-

The next morning, you wake up with a massive headache, one that was undoubtedly brewing as you cried yourself to sleep the night prior (it might also have to do with the entire bottle of wine you consumed as soon as you slipped off your heels in your apartment).

You notice it's technically no longer morning when you check your phone, squinting in pain at the sudden brightness, the numbers 1:25 yelling back at you. Thank god it's Saturday; you haven't had a hangover of this intensity since college and there is no way you could possibly go to work like this.

Slowly slipping out of the warmth of your numerous weighted blankets, your socked feet hit the plush carpet, and you bend down and open the bottom drawer of your bedside table. Tied up in a pink bow are four envelopes, addressed and stamped, waiting to be delivered to the man whose hopes you crushed. You reached for the stack, running your fingers along the edges, reading over his name, tracing the letters with your fingertips.

With the letters firm in your grasp, you rush to your front door, making sure to slip on your robe; you don't want anyone to drive by you putting these letters in your mailbox in nothing but a t-shirt and undies, after all.

You're finally doing it, diving into the crystal-clear water that was once forever still. You're going to mail all twenty-two pages, every emotion. This is it, the last period to the epilogue, the ending of this book, the closure the both of you so desperately need.

As you reach for the handle, you pause, noticing the one thing you nearly forgot about—that gold band. You slip the piece of metal off your finger, observing his initials engraved on the inside for the last time. Untying the bow holding the envelopes together, you slide the ring onto one end of the cotton-candy colored ribbon and retie the knot, the ring now attached. Inhale, one moment to reflect. Exhale, one moment to say your final goodbye. You swing open the door, and right before you can make another move, something stops you. Looking down at your doorstep, a bittersweet smile breaks out across your face. He was saying goodbye too.

A dozen sunflowers.

[yandere-daydreams]

A spicier Yandere!Villain!Izuku/Reader for an absolutely lovely anonymous commissioner, featuring just a little Katsuki /Reader on the side. It’s always nice to get to experiment with a scenario I don’t get to use very often, but honestly, making Katsuki absolutely miserable might just a hobby, at this point.

Title: Lasting Rivalries.

Word Count: 2.0k

TW: Noncon, AFAB!Reader, Kidnapping, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, and Slight Exhibitionism.

The air tasted like mold.  

You could’ve sworn you’d fallen asleep in the cold, brisk atmosphere of Katsuki’s apartment, where every draft carried the vaguest traces of bleach and even the dust was neatly polished. Wherever you were now couldn’t be the same place, hell, you doubted it was the same building. The mattress underneath you was warm, uncomfortably so, the kind of damp, sticky heat that only radiated off of objects with a decade’s worth of grime. It was dark, the walls a bare, desolate grey and the few functioning lights only seeming to highlight how obscured everything felt, out in the open yet hidden by some thick curtain hanging just in front of your eyes. Your head felt… bad. You weren’t in pain, and you didn’t have a headache, but you almost wished you did. It would’ve been real, and that must’ve been better than whatever cotton had been stuffed where your skull was supposed to be.

You tried to roll over, intent on coughing away the blockage, but to your dulled shock, you weren’t able to do anything more than shift before falling back into place. Your wrists had been tied to something cold and metallic - part of the bed frame, you guessed, a post - but the rope was soft, seamless and smooth. A harsh distinction from the scratchy, cheap sheet that’d been spread out under your exposed back.

Oh, wait. Where were your clothes?

It was a startling realization, but you didn’t have much time to linger on it. As soon as you had time to properly feel the chill running over your skin, something replaced it. Two palms pressed into your sides, just above your hips, gloved but undeniably there, squeezing as they went, exploring. You kicked, reflexively, relieved to find your legs free enough to do so, but the mass was unmovable, catching your knee and pushing it flat against the bed with a light chuckle. You manage to focus, although your gaze was still blurry and your head still clogged, a shape forming in front of you. A silhouette, at first, then a form. A man. By the time you put a name to those hints of a face, you might as well not’ve bothered.

You would’ve recognized the voice of that monster anywhere. Even with the added smugness.

“When did they get so soft, Kacchan?” Izuku asked, a self-righteous smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. His tone was mocking, too patronizing to be genuine, but that didn’t stop his hands from falling to your waist, rubbing slow, measured circles into your midriff before moving towards your thighs and groping curiously. He continued, unprompted, not seeming to care that he’d never gotten a response. “You did that on purpose, yeah? I know you like your targets too weak to fight back.”

“Fuck off.” You didn’t have to think, your attention locking onto the interruption’s source, onto your boyfriend. Your restraints were child’s play compared to Katsuki’s, his hands encased in metal cylinders and leather belts laid across every extremity that could’ve possibly broken free. He was pinned against a cement column, immobilized, a loose muzzle strapped over the lower half of his face for Izuku’s personal enjoyment. He hadn’t been taken peacefully, either, a splatter of dried blood matting blonde hair to his scalp and his Hero get-up ripped to tatters, stripped of anything that could’ve been made into a weapon. You might’ve been jealous of how much effort had gone into capturing him, if concern hadn’t been shoved to the forefront of your mind, refusing to budge once it took its place. “Touch (Y/n) one more time and I swear I’ll--”

“Maybe we should gag him,” Izuku mused, cutting Katsuki off gracelessly. It took you longer than you’d like to admit to realize he was talking to you, but you didn’t dare indulge him with an answer, averting your eyes to the wall with a pointed glare. Izuku just pouted, crouching and nuzzling affectionately into the crook of your knee. You shuddered at the contact, but he didn’t seem to share your aversion, something lovesick weighing down his tone. “I don’t know how you put up with him for so long, angel. All those dirty words, and that rotten attitude…” He let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “It had to be terrible. You need someone to love you, really love you, right?”

“I… I don’t need anything from you,” You spat, attempting to clench your thighs together. Izuku pushed them back open with a strength you couldn’t hope to counter. “Get off of me!”

“You don’t think you need me,” He corrected, prompting a groan and a series of volatile insults from Katsuki. If Izuku heard him, he didn’t feel the need to give a response, kissing the inside of your thigh, instead, his lips lingering a second too long. “You’ve been...  influenced by Kacchan. He didn’t love you like I would’ve, he didn’t take care of you. I wouldn’t have made you go out into the big, bad world every single day. I wouldn’t have been so ungrateful.” Another kiss, this one higher up. “You deserve better. I’ll give you better.”  

You opened your mouth, but anything you could’ve said was caught in your throat and choked on as Izuku took hold of your hips, pinning you down despite his attempts to buck him off. You weren’t sure what you’d expected, but when a hot, eager tongue dragged along the length of your slit, the severity of your situation finally dawned on you, sparks of something callous and distant accompanying overwhelming, overpowering terror. Your mind went blank, but you flailed, attempting to kick and writhe and struggle until he let go, but your resistance only seemed to make Izuku more determined, pulling away to suck at your sensitive clit, flicking at it almost playfully with his tongue.

The pleasure was invasive, aggressive. Izuku was relentless, drinking you down like a man starved, his inexperience covered by his will to find whatever spot made your body contort and abuse it, whether that meant fucking your entrance with his tongue or drawing baseless, abstract patterns in your cunt or lapping at forcibly provoked wetness and daring you not to make a sound. You bit your bottom lip in an effort not to give him what he wanted, but his pursuit was a brutal one, the whimpers that found their way through your defenses meek and pitiful. Katsuki had been stunned into silence, but your involuntary submission seemed to snap him out of his stupor, an assumption only further backed-up by the garbled mix of ‘get away from them’s and ‘I’ll fucking kill you’s that soon filled the cramped space. Izuku delighted in that, nearly moaning against you, the reverberation sending an unpleasant tremor up your spine. You couldn’t tell what was getting him off more - your suffering or Katsuki’s.

Regardless of his intentions, your body was reacting to his ministrations, something in your core pooling and spiraling, delving into a dark, aching fire you wish had stayed untouched. Your hips nearly followed Izuku when he pulled away, straightening his back and making a half-hearted attempt to wipe away the spit and slick staining his chin with his sleeve before his shoulders slumped, a wide, malicious grin forming across his features as he looked over you. Wordlessly, he pulled off a glove with his teeth, swiping his newly freed fingers over your cunt, letting translucent fluids gather on fingertips. He held them to your lips, only hesitating for a moment before giving a command. “Lick it off,” He demanded, his smile never faltering. “Or I’ll have someone come in and slit his fucking throat.”

You weren’t proud to taste yourself on his skin, gagging when he shoved his digits down your throat and spitting when he refused to dislodge them, coughing until something in your throat tore and fell away. He only kissed your cheek, something you hoped was meant to be a reward.

You were still recovering when he started to undress, lazily unbuttoning his white dress-shirt and pulling it off, only bothering to shrug his pants down enough to free his cock. Of all things, that was what got you, how casual he acted, as if he was only admiring something he already owned. Tears sprung up in the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision despite your attempts to blink them away. Izuku took care of that, though, cooing as he dragged his thumb over your cheek. It could’ve made you sick. It did make you sick. But, the sudden wave nausea did little to stop something painfully hard from rutting against your thigh as Izuku leaned down, the sensation a constant, perverted reminder of your growing misery.

“Please…” You mumbled, the words falling from your tongue reluctantly. You tugged at your restraints, trying to pull yourself into a more dignified position, but all you accomplished was irritating your already-sore wrists. “Please don’t, Midoriya, please. I’m… I haven’t done this before.”

His eyes widened, the hint of a scowl shadowing over his expression. “Poor thing, poor baby,” He crooned, the words dripping with manufactured sympathy. With one hand, he steadied himself, positioning his length at your entrance with the other, making it clear that no amount of sobbing or innocence would get you out of being defiled. “No wonder you’re scared, he must’ve neglected you for so long. But, you don’t have to worry, love. Your Izuku’s gonna take care of you, from now on.”

That was all the warning you got before he pushed into you, snapping his hips against yours and only stopping when he bottomed out inside of you. Something between a moan and a croak found its way from your throat, but you were quickly distracted from the discomfort as Izuku took up your thighs, digging his nails into your flesh and forcing your knees against your chest, something between confusion and distress flooding into your system. By the time he began thrusting in earnest, finding a steady rhythm to match the tempo of his fleeting, breathy panting, you were sobbing, trying fruitlessly to keep your breakdown at bay as a terrible, unknown pressure built inside of you, a knot forming somewhere in the bottom of your gut. You were snug around him, hot and tight and drooling, making each movement all the more tortuous, toe-curling, world-shattering. It felt like there was never a moment he wasn’t hitting something new, something foreign, something you couldn’t quite make up your mind about. Unwillingly, you clenched around him, and Izuku faltered, groaning shamelessly. You were almost glad you’d fallen so far, when you felt him twitch.

Anything that managed to numb the filth slowly spreading through your body was a mercy.

“You feel so good,” He drawled, hunching forward, pressing his forehead into your shoulder. His breath was warm on your skin, damp, your disgust unaided by the teeth soon embedded in your neck, biting into anything they could reach. He acted without care, without discretion, his only goal being to make his mark and ensure that it lasted, regardless of how much blood he had to draw to do so. “Gonna make you mine, he won’t be able to touch you when I’m done. No one’ll be able to look at you without thinking of me.” He paused, letting out the fractured bastardization of a laugh, relief heavy in the cracked sound. “I’ll knock you up. Kacchan could never give you that.”

Oh, god, Katsuki. Your head fell to the side, in search of something stable to latch onto, but he was far from a source of comfort. He was despondent, limp and motionless, his bindings slack, unneeded. Still, every muscle in his body was tense, on edge, but if he could do anything but sit and stare, you couldn’t tell. His eyes were peeled open, lips parted but no noise coming out, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to make the words. He was as much of a prisoner as you were, now. As helpless as you were, now.

Weakly, he opened his mouth, what was left of his will escaping in a miserable, wounded whisper. “I’ll fucking kill you, Deku.”

That was all it took for Izuku to finish, staining you so thoroughly, you doubted you would ever feel clean again.

[a-singleboat]

Green-Eyed Valentine

Word Count: 1.7k

Request: Hey! I really liked what you did with my last request, so I was wondering if you could do one where Damien (or Shayne) get jealous because reader gets a valentine's day gift from someone else, please? - @lula132

A/N: We’re getting into all those Shayne requests!

Warning(s): Mentions of alcohol, mentions of cheating, swearing

Valentine’s Day. Objectively the worst holiday in your eyes. On top of still having to go to work, it’s only really socially acceptable to give another person a box of chocolates as a gift. Where was the variety? The flavor? 

Additionally, you and your long-term boyfriend, Shayne, had decided to forego gifts that year in favor of saving up for a house together. That meant birthdays, Christmas, and yes, Valentine’s Day gifts, were off the table because you both spend an outrageous amount of money on each other each year. So imagine your surprise upon seeing a gift neatly wrapped in the same red gift wrap the two of you had in your apartment sitting on your desk early Valentine’s Day morning. 

“I thought we agreed on no gifts, Shayne.” You picked up the wrapped item, turning it over in search of a tag. When you found there was none, it only made you more suspicious of your boyfriend. 

“That wasn’t me,” he said, eyebrows furrowed as he watched you fiddle with a loose piece of wrapping paper on the side. While he recognized the wrapping paper, he was one-hundred percent sure that he hadn’t bought you anything. You could check his bank statement if you didn’t believe him. 

“Yeah, I’m sure thousands of people have that exact same wrapping paper,” Courtney chimed in. You had no idea where she had come from but judging by the still-steaming coffee in her hands, you were willing to bet from the office kitchen. “I’m pretty sure Ian has that wrapping paper, too.” 

You blinked, unsure on how to process that information. “So you think Ian got me a Valentine’s Day gift?” 

“Why would Ian--?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Courtney cut Shayne off with a laugh, settling her coffee on your desk. She took the gift from your hands, smoothing back the bit of wrapping paper you had been playing with. “I’m just making a point. This could have been literally anyone in the office.”

You gave her a smirk. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Uh, a who-dunnit in which we figure out who put this present there?”

Shayne looked a little more than peeved at that. “And when you find out who left the gift there, you can tell them that you’re in a loving relationship and have been for the past eight years.” 

You pinched his cheeks, making kissy faces at your boyfriend. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to tell them that my incredibly handsome, loving, and amazing boyfriend didn’t appreciate their gift, bubba.”

Shayne’s cheeks reddened at the nickname, eyes rolling as you leaned in to pepper his face in butterfly kisses. He could be as jealous or as grumpy as he wanted but as long as he knew you were his, all was well. You trusted him and you were sure as hell that he trusted you as well. 

“Go find out who sent you the gift.” He moved his face out of range of your constant kisses, taking one of your hands in his and pressing a soft kiss of his own to your knuckles to let you know he wasn’t mad. “And don’t call me bubba at work, that’s reserved for home and home only.” 

With a laugh, you agreed. The nickname ‘bubba’ would stay home from thereon out. You turned to Courtney, who had taken to shaking the box in an attempt to figure out what was inside. The item rattled slightly, most likely having been swaddled tightly by tissue paper within the cardboard casing. 

“It sounds like pottery,” Courtney deduced, giving it another firm shake. The rattling, similar to the sound of a metal spoon hitting the side of a ceramic bowl, made you wary of the way your friend was manhandling the gift. 

“Maybe someone left it here on accident and it’s not actually for me,” you suggested. “After all, there’s no note or anything. I think even if it was from a secret admirer--which it’s not--” you gave Shayne a pointed look-- “I still think there’d be a note of some kind.” 

“But we still can’t strike one out,” Courtney pointed out, setting the box down. The shiny red paper sparkled under the shitty office lights, the glitter already wearing off on, well, everything. “Okay, maybe if we start by eliminating people in the office we’ll find who the gift came from faster.”

“Good idea,” you said, pulling out a spare sheet of paper from your desk. Your fingers sought out a pen, yanking the cap off with your teeth. Quickly, you scribbled down the names of all the coworkers you can into regular contact with“So we already know it’s not from Shayne or you--that’s two people down already. And despite the fact that Ian also has this same wrapping paper, I really don’t think he would have left this for you.” 

“Okay that’s three people down,” you crossed the names out, marking a heart next to Shayne’s name. You flipped the paper over, showing him the little heart you’d drawn. He frowned but caught the kiss you blew his way anyhow. 

“Here’s an idea,” Shayne said, rolling his chair closer to you. Courtney took a noisy sip of her iced coffee, looking between the two of you like a tennis match. “Maybe, someone accidentally left it on your desk. Like any second now, someone’s gonna come by looking for that thing.”

You glanced at the neatly wrapped box, a little battered from Courtney’s thorough examination. It was possible that it wasn’t supposed to be meant for you. It was half-on-half-off your desk originally, the original cart it had shared had been pushed away by now, moved to the other side of the room. 

You pulled the box toward you, running your finger along the middle and feeling for the sticky residue that would be a tell-tale sign of the tape that had once been there. Once you found it, you tapped the pad of your finger a few times watching as the paper clung to your skin before separating. 

“The label’s fallen off,” you voiced your observation, looking around the floor for it. “If we find that, we’ll find who this was addressed to and who sent this in the first place.”

Courtney immediately set her drink down, getting on her hands and knees in search of the label. You set the box back down on your desk and got on your hands and knees as well, tying your hair out of your line of sight. You pushed Shayne away, laughing as he rolled back a bit further than you thought he would. 

“Do you see it?” you asked, using your phone’s flashlight to look in the dark shadows under your desk. You squinted as the flashlight caught on something shiny, frowning when you saw that it was only a scrap piece of laminate. You picked it up anyways, disposing of it correctly and sitting back on your heels. 

Courtney’s arm was halfway under your desk on the other end, reaching for something. You watched as she extracted a thin piece of cardstock. She waved the paper around, blowing off the bit of dust clinging to the corner. 

“To, Jessica… who’s Jessica?” 

You crowded over her shoulder to read the label. “I have no clue who Jessica is, but if we know the sender we can get it back to them.”

She unfolded the paper a bit more. “From… Ian? Is Ian dating?”

“This is way more exciting than me having a secret admirer, oh my God!” You took the label from Courtney, taping the label back down onto the box. “We should really get this back to Ian though.” 

Courtney took the box from you, subtly glancing over your shoulder at your still-pouting boyfriend. He was trying to be sneaky, looking over at the two of you when he thought you weren’t looking. You rolled your eyes, laughing as you realized what was happening. 

“He’ll get over it,” you said. “He’s just a little embarrassed. I’ll talk to him.”

Courtney nodded, wishing you luck. 

You turned on your heel, looking at your ridiculous boyfriend and giving him a smile. You chuckled, sitting in your seat and sliding over to him and forcing his seat to spin so that you could slot your knees between his. You took his hands in yours, pressing soft kisses to his knuckles. Instantly, he relaxed, unclenching his fists and lowering his shoulders. 

“You know that you have nothing to be afraid of, right? I love you and only you,” you reassured him. “Ten years and counting, remember?” 

You pressed another kiss to his knuckles. This was nothing new, the extremely light PDA at work. Everyone had gotten used to the two of you by now, not caring as long as you weren’t fucking on the desks. 

“Yeah,” he said, distracted. His thumb traced over where your ring finger met your palm. It wasn’t difficult for you to guess what he was thinking about. You waited for him to say the words, which you would inevitably reject. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to marry him because you did. It was just that growing up around parents that fought all the time made you wary of the idea of marriage. At the beginning, your parents had been the most in-love people you’d ever known but as the years drug on, you watched as their “love” disappeared into booze for your mom and other women for your dad. 

But sitting here in the office setting, as mundane and most likely cliches as it sounded, you wouldn’t hate the idea of marrying him. He reminded you of everything your parents weren’t and he managed to remind you every day that the two of you were not your parents and never would be, though the fear lingered. 

“You’ve got work to do, lover boy,” you teased, pressing one last kiss to his knuckles. “And I have a video of your dorky ass to edit.” 

Shayne sighed so lightly that if the printer had been running copies you would have missed it. But he let you get back to work, this wasn’t the time or place for that kind of conversation. 

“I love you,” you reminded him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“I love you, too.”

TAGLISTS

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@andreasworlsboring101 

[mnthpprt]

Chapter 50: Raspberry Crowns

[Surprise, bitches, bet you thought you’d seen the last of me! I was never able to repair my old laptop but I have a new (aka cheap) one. I’ve had it for a while, but life is life and a slump is a slump and a writing block is a writing block. Alas, I’m finally out of my funk and ready for some time travelling shenanigans. Stick around if you want to find out what those are about :)]

“Where hast thou been?”

William’s distressed voice reaches me from the doorstep as I step out of the carriage. He looks... worried? No, he looks angry. 

“As I said, running errands,” I plainly state. “I needed to grab some things from the mansion.”

He stares at me coldly, the red in his left eye bright under the afternoon sun. I hold his gaze in my defiant search for a reaction. Instead he scrutinizes my expression with a special brand of ever growing fury that I have learned to shrug off by now.

“Well?” I gesture behind me, toward the chest and the book filled fruit crate that await. “Are you going to help a lady out?”

Without bothering to wait for an answer, I make my way past him and up the steps that lead to the front door, nonchalantly twirling the key between my fingers. William stands immobile for a moment, still drilling his eyes into the back of my skull, but soon gives up in favor of moving my belongings onto the unpaved street.

I place my worn down backpack on the floor to hold the door open and proceed to trace back my steps to aid him with the chest. Though there is no doubt in my mind that he is strong enough, its shape is rather awkward to hold, so I take my place across from him to lift it on one end.

Eventually, and rather clumsily, we finish carrying everything up the stairs and into my bedroom for the time being. Under William’s watchful gaze, I proceed to pull my newly brought clothes out of the travel chest and hang them neatly in the closet.

“Thou took thine time returning to me.”

The bard’s pristine voice projects effortlessly across the room, much sterner and more cutting than I would have, once upon a time, thought possible for its soft tone.

“If I’d planned on not coming back, you would know,” I lazily moan, my eyes mirroring the rounded motion of my hand hooking a hanger on the rail. The sound of William’s footsteps over the bare wood inches closer like a tank, slow and imminent. A long, pale hand slams the wardrobe door shut before me. “Unlike you,” I chuckle nervously, “I like to make my intentions clear.”

“So tell me, my nightshade...” His breath on my ear sends a shiver down my spine. “What intentions dost thou have tonight?”

A low whisper. That’s all it takes for my hand to go limp, allowing the fine silk blouse to slide onto the floor. Shakespeare’s chest tenses when I lean my head back.

Electricity is such a curious, fickle thing. It runs static through my burnt umber hair, coaxing the loose tendrils to reach for William’s jacket and meeting the woolen fabric with the crackling sound of a distant fire. It runs through his hand as he grips my waist from behind, turning knuckles white with the strength with which they dig into my corset hard enough for me to feel through the boning. It runs through my body in waves, its muted pulses dampening the seemingly eternal pangs of hunger and giving life to the angry wasps in my belly instead.

I do not know how to describe this buzz that biting his lower lip gives me. My neck is craned upwards and twisted enough to reach William’s mouth as his arms snake around me to take care of the inconvenient barrier that is my clothing. Do I want it off? Is this question even worth asking?

For the third time in my life, I feel powerful.

The first time it happened, my honey was replaced by something bitingly sour, just toxic enough to give me the strength to walk away from the life I knew. Its sweet venom awoke me from a slumber I had been wasting away in since the God forsaken day I was born.

The second time, this nectar became tinged with blood. The lives of two men who had wronged me were sacrificed, but not wasted. Sticky like jam, they became the sickly magenta that now fills my heart. “Too much” became a descriptor I was tired of hearing. I realized there was nothing wrong with some sweet indulgence. The regrets that would come later were not yet of my concern.

This time, I do not have to fear hurting anyone with my sting. Perhaps William was always meant to trap me in his net. Perhaps it was just meant to be, us crossing paths. I seem to wreck everything in mine... An unstoppable force meets an unmoveable object, and thus he becomes my punching bag, my target practice bullseye. He is older, wiser, stronger, and certainly persuasive enough to wriggle himself free of the trap we unknowingly rigged together. I somehow know he will not be surprised when he bites into a sweet pastry only to find it became a wasp’s nest in his mouth. His red eye will see me coming from a mile away, and that ensures that I am safe with him. Safe from my own self hatred after the tide inevitably changes and we both tumble into mutually assured destruction. He knew what he was getting into when he let me into his home.

The back of my head hits the pillow as I gasp for air, covered in sweat. Apparently vampires sweat, huh. A glimpse to the side reveals William’s messy hair over his face. He brushes it away with his free hand, propped up on the other sideways.

I barely have time to playfully roll my eyes at his stare before I am rudely interrupted by my own body. An angry growl of hunger makes him chuckle. I throw my hands over my face, annoyed.

“Ugh, come on,” I groan. I peak between my fingers at William, who is still watching me with an amused smile.

I half expect him to poke fun at me, but all I hear is the rustling of bed sheets as the mattress shifts, free of his weight. When I finally move my hands away from my face, unmistakeingly dusted in pink, I am alone.

And then I remember. The reason I came back to him. The reason I chose to stay here to begin with. I shake my resignation with a sigh, trying to focus, before I reach for my bag, my entire body precariously hanging with nothing but a weak grasp on the headboard to keep me from falling over. Slim fingers clumsily pull at the pocket’s zipper and retrieve a folded piece of paper.

By the time William returns, I remain seated on the edge of the bed, covered only by the wrinkled chemise I discarded on the floor earlier. I am so lost in thought I barely process his footsteps, but a bottle of rouge breaks my line of vision, snapping me out of it. I half ass a smile and take it without saying anything.

“What is this?”

His voice is calm, but I sense the well masked tension behind his query. I simply hand him the note and let him read it for himself.

“I need you to give it to Vlad as soon as you can,” I explain, putting the empty bottle down. Sensing his dissatisfaction with my answer, I wave his doubts away. “I figured I could help with his grand plan and we have some details to discuss, that’s all.”

A silent nod is all I get in response before he leaves again, shutting the door behind him. William may not know anything about this grand plan, but he knows better than to question the pureblood.

That night, I sleep alone. After doing some chores, I tried to look for him, but he was nowhere to be found in the house. I never heard him leave, but I know better too. He’ll be back eventually.

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

“We all agree that this is ridiculous,” said Damian. “Correct?”

Bruce nodded. “We do.” He surveyed his environment again, letting all the details sink in: the assorted hydraulics and bulldozers parked on a lot covered in dust, his children gathered around him, and of course the green-clad man in the purple mask. 

Riddler was hard to miss. 

“This isn’t clever,” Bruce told him. “This is a joke.”

“And so are you,” Damian piped up, pointing in Nygma’s direction. That particular comment got a mixed reaction. Bruce saw Dick smile, heard Jason groan, and spiritually felt Tim roll his eyes from behind his domino mask. Cassandra reached over and swatted Damian lightly on the shoulder. 

“They’re all jokes,” Bruce continued. “It wasn’t hard to put together the pieces when my operatives came in one by one with clues.”

“I found your note,” said Tim, holding up a sheet of paper with a question written in green ink. “What’s brown and sticky? A stick… stick up. I took care of it. And then I reported back to base. It was obvious you were planning something.”

“And I got this,” said Jason. He displayed a small snow globe. Inside, a plastic penguin stood in front of a gingerbread house, surrounded by falling glitter. “It reminded me of an old joke. How does a penguin build his house?”

Jason sighed. “Igloos it together. I took care of Cobblepot’s weapons deal, by the way, so thanks for the tip off.”

Cassandra held up a clay coffee cup with a green question mark painted on the side. “Mugging,” she said. “Easy.”

“And I found myself fighting your minions in the cemetery.” Dick shook his head. “‘People are dying to get in?’ You reused that one. I remember from when I was twelve.”

Nygma grinned at the lot of them. “And you, Batman? Robin?”

Bruce grimaced in return. “We found Scarecrow with a shovel at the soccer match. We prevented him from testing another round of fear toxin on the spectators, and we found two clues, both leading us here.”

“Well?”

“The scarecrow gets an award for being ‘outstanding in his field.’ His name is ‘crane,’ and he had a shovel because his work was—”

“Groundbreaking,” said the Riddler, gesturing to the dust and the heavy equipment. “So you joined me here, for this groundbreaking. Excellent. I’m afraid you’re a bit early. You solved my clues too fast.”

“They were easy,” said Bruce. “Easier because they all come from an article called— and let me quote this— ‘40 Best Dad Jokes Which Are Embarrassingly Awful,’ from pun-dot-me-dot-com.”

“Indeed!” said Nygma, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Happy Father’s Day.”

“Who says I’m a father?”

The Riddler inclined his head towards the people surrounding Bruce: his daughter and four sons. 

“Operatives?” Nygma asked. “You’re not subtle.”

“Says you?” Bruce gestured towards the green and purple outfit. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Your attention of course.”

“You have it. Now what?”

Riddler turned in a slow circle, apparently looking around for something. “Well,” he said. “Hm.”

Stalling, Bruce thought. Definitely stalling.

Riddler turned back to face them. “Would you like to hear a joke, Batman?”

“No.”

“I’m still working on the punchline.”

“It’s under construction,” Bruce snapped. “Everybody move.”

The machines surrounding them roared to life as green-suited henchmen slammed on the controls. Bruce moved one way, pulling Damian with him. The rest of his children scattered in every direction. A half-second later, the entire lot was concealed behind clouds of billowing dust. 

Perfect.

Bruce pointed Damian towards the sound of the nearest machine; Damian nodded and jumped off to handle it. Bruce himself strode forward to find Riddler, confident that his children would handle the rest. He caught glimpses of them running through the dust clouds. He heard impacts and yelling as they fought Nygma’s men. 

Bruce found him in a wheel loader. As soon as Batman emerged, the Riddler floored the gas petal, sending the machine lumbering quickly towards Bruce. It wasn’t nearly enough to scare him. Bruce flipped over the jagged scoop and on top of the cockpit. Riddler screamed in rage as he did. 

Bruce used a batarang to smash the glass window. He pulled Nygma out of the control panel and tossed him to the ground— far away from the path of any machine, but also far enough to hurt on impact. Riddler groaned as he tried to peel himself away from the dirt. 

The dust began to die out as the various machines stopped moving and Bruce’s children began to rematerialize. They gathered in a loose circle around Nygma still on the ground. He looked up, found himself surrounded, and spat out a mouthful of dirt. 

“Don’t touch me,” he muttered. “I’m warning you—”

“Say it,” said Tim, looking over at Bruce. “I’m begging you to say it.”

“Hi, ‘Warning You,’” Bruce tried. “I’m Dad.”

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

@ellievate @doc-squash @neeblu I hate y’all (love y’all)

[mynightingalecomplex]

Don’t Get Too Comfortable

Ok, so here’s a (not so little) fic I’ve been toying with. It’s long, so I’m going to break it into parts. I default to Pre-Disney+ Mandalorians, so the helmets are not an issue.

Synopsis: Just off a successful hunt, Jesse Libarra finds herself traveling in company with another Mandalorian, Aden Nasreyc. The two Mandalorians are looking forward to a few days of rest on a backwater planet but, unknown to them, the Black Sun have followed Aden and are intent on exacting their revenge on the man who killed their leader.

Tags: previous injury, broken ribs, exhaustion, field medicine

Link to glossary

Link to illustrations:

Part One

Part Two

Aden floated up from dreamless sleep into a fuzzy, pink semi-wakefulness. Dreams still niggled about the edges of his mind and his eyelids were stuck shut, but he could feel the pillow under his head and the blankets twisted through naked legs. It had been so long since he had awakened in a bed --an actual bed!-- that he allowed himself to simply lie there without wondering where he was, how he’d gotten there, or who was trying to kill him. He couldn’t remember any reason to get up, so maybe he’d just lay there for five more minutes….

He surfaced again some time later. Judging by the light, it had been more than five minutes. Again he lay still, luxuriating in the feel of sheets and a foam pillow against a cheek that had slept for three months on the inside of a helmet. Golden light played through his eyelids. The enviro-unit grumbled and whined, insulating the room in a cocoon of noise. He drew up his knee and burrowed into his pillow, searching for the fragments of his dream, but it was fruitless. He was awake now and would find no more sleep for a time. 

Aden opened his eyes. Light like liquid gold streamed through the curtains as they danced in the enviro-unit’s breeze. Dust motes floated in a ballet up and down the shafts of sunlight. Somewhere outside he heard a door slam, a voice, but then all was silence. He squinted at the chrono on the table. Fifteen hundred. He yawned. He knew he shouldn’t have slept so long. It was wasteful. It was foolish. It was dangerous. But it had been necessary. 

The hunt on Vurus had been long and dangerous. Three months without a single full night’s sleep, of constant watchfulness and wakefulness, living always with the shadow of death, had left him at the edge of his very considerable limits. He had taken privation, discomfort, and mental and physical punishment, and if he hoped to take it again he had to have rest. It had been a risk to spend so long asleep, particularly after the mess at the space port, but in a blaster-proof room with another Mando’ad on his six the risk had been worth taking. 

Memory jarred him further into alertness. He rolled up on his elbow to look around the room. There on a pallet between the bed and the window, slept the girl from his half-remembered dream. Feet bare, dressed only in red fatigues, long brown hair pooling loose about her face and shoulders, she lay in the sunlight like a porcelain doll except for the blaster clutched in her tapered fingers.  

          Suddenly conscious that he was dressed only in his boxers, he sat up to pull the sheets over his naked legs. The pain that had long been his companion, dulled just enough by sleep and medication to pass out of his mind, flashed through his body and left him gasping. Modesty forgotten, he hugged his legs to his chest and buried his face in his knees, all his efforts concentrated on silencing the string of curses that had lined up on his tongue. 

           When the spots finally cleared from his vision, he found Jesse at his knee, regarding him from the floor with grave green eyes. “Hiya.” She said, her voice low and rusty with sleep. “Do I need to ask you how you're feeling?” 

          He tried to smile. “Bout as bad as I look.” 

          “Sheesh. You belong in a hospital, then.” 

          “You up for breakfast?” His stomach had woken up and was reminding him that the last thing he had eaten was a protein cube on the train to the Vurus spaceport. 

          She turned to look at the chrono. The golden light caught in her loose chestnut hair, glistening like syrup in a crystal decanter. A rogue corner of his mind ran an imaginary hand through that long brown mane before he could stop it. He shoved the thought back into the depths of his subconscious and pulled the sheets up over his legs, trying to ignore the blush that was creeping up his neck. 

          “We might could find breakfast around here.” Jesse said. “I know a little place that caters to late risers.” 

         “Sounds good to me.” 

         She tossed his flightsuit at him and headed for the fresher. Gingerly, Aden eased himself into his clothes. Socks, suit, gloves, tak-vest and ammo belt went on with his usual care. Pushing himself to his feet, he stomped into his flat-soled boots and opened the curtains. He stood at the edge of the window -- no point making himself a target-- and looked out, enjoying the peaceful removal from the afternoon bustle and the warmth of the sun on his face. 

          His stomach growled. He couldn't remember his last meal. There had been a cup of burnt caf at the Vurus police station and a ration cube on the train to the spaceport, but after all the trouble had started an empty stomach had been the least of his problems. He rubbed his ribs absently and winced. Jesse was right; he was slow and getting slower. 

          “Fresher's open.” Jesse padded out in sock feet, tying off the end of her long brown braid. 

          “Vore.” He stepped away from the window. He looked reluctantly at his armor stacked neatly on the chest-of-drawers. “What do you think? Is this a blaster and beskar kind of place, or maybe a little more casual?”

        Jesse shrugged. “Depends on how threatening you find greasy eggs and soggy waffles.”

         Aden considered this. Battle-ready was all well and good, but three months in full kit left a man feeling more like a sardine than a member of society. It was just a diner, after all, not a drug den. Not even a cantina. And they hadn't been on Dantooine long enough to make any enemies. He bounced once or twice on the balls of his feet, enjoying the unaccustomed lightness. “Maybe just the body plates.” He said. “Just so they know we're Mandos.”

          The diner was everything Jesse had promised. Basically a long chrome tube with big glass windows, the diner was alive with beings crowded into red vinyl booths. Waiters, humans and Twi'leks instead of the droids popular on city worlds, bustled about with pots of steaming caf and plates of greasy food, laughing, shouting, and bantering with the customers. Aden felt himself relaxing. This was a small town on a peaceful world, and the sense of community amongst the patrons was almost palpable. It felt like home. 

         They were seated in a booth along the big front window, working through their second pot of caf. The waitress had looked askance at them at first, but in only chest and knee plates, helmets off and sleeves rolled up, they looked less than threatening. Even in Verad, mercenaries were not unheard of and their money was as good as anyone else's, so here they were in a sticky vinyl booth waiting for their pancakes without drawing any more than an occasional curious glance. 

        Aden sipped his caf and looked out the window at the dusty street. “Nice place.” He commented. “Better than Vurus, but I'm a country boy at heart.” 

          Jesse nodded. “Beats durasteel streets and monorails, that's for sure. I grew up in the vhetin'e. Long rolling hills and grass as far as you can see so this always feels like home.” 

Aden watched her as she looked out the window. He knew he shouldn’t ask. It was rude and it wasn’t remotely his business, but her sharp, sad, porcelain face and those deft fingers belonged to something more than an itinerant bounty-hunter on a third-class world. “What are you doing trapped out here, Jesse?” Even he could hear the despair in his voice. ”Don’t you have family waiting for you?”

“No.” She answered first, then looked away from the window. “No family.” He didn’t think she was going to elaborate. There was no reason she should and he was kicking himself for being a di’kut when she went on. “I was with the GAR before the… before the Empire took over. When Kal Skirata and his boys bugged out they went with hundreds, thousands of others, commandos and regular troopers too. The Empire lost almost a third of their fighting force, but they kept it quiet. Whole regiments disappeared at a time, and most of them headed for Mandalore. It was chaos.” She looked down at the cup in her hands but he knew she wasn't seeing it. “One of my boys got out. One didn't. Two didn't even try.”

          Aden tried to think of a way to ask the obvious question without further insult, gave up, and asked anyway. “What about you? You bugged out with the rest?” 

She shook her head. “Not a chance. I’d have stayed. I wasn’t there to serve the Republic. I was there cause my boys were there and it was a steady paycheck. What did I care what symbol the boys had painted on their armor?

“No, when the dust settled, the Imps repainted the troops that were left, brought in the last battalions of Kamino-trained soldiers, and all us irregular non-coms showed up the next morning to find our clearance revoked, our quarters occupied, our possessions confiscated, and our boys renumbered and reassigned.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, Jesse lost in thought, Aden shocked at this first-hand account of what had been only rumors through the Mando’a community. Finally Jesse shook herself and the gloom that clouded her face vanished as if it had never been. “So, here I am, foot-loose and fancy-free, back doing what’s best for the one who's most important.” She tapped her chest plates. “Me.”

Aden didn’t know what to say, but he was rescued from shoving his foot further into his mouth by the arrival of the waitress with their order. After months of hard work on nothing but field rations and will power, Aden felt he could eat an entire nerf by himself, horns, hooves and all, but he had settled on ordering basically the entire menu, because his momma had raised him with some manners. Werris eggs, fried nerf bacon, sausage, crispy potato patties, and stacks of waffles with cream and slices of shefna fruit on top all appeared from the kitchen together, still sizzling in pools of grease or dripping with sticky Alderaanian molasses. It took two waitresses to bring it all to the table. 

          After that, there was no more conversation for a while. Talking was a waste of time with food going cold on the table. Jesse was polishing off the leftover half of his third waffle - - he considered it more a gift to a good friend than an admission of defeat-- when she spoke suddenly, pointing an accusatory fork at him. “All right, pretty boy. Now it's your turn. What's a handsome fellow like you doing on Dantooine without enough money to buy a bed for the night?”

         He winced, but it was only fair. “Oh, you know how far money goes in this economy. Gotta work where you can.” He tried a nonchalant shrug, knowing it wouldn't work. 

         “Vurus to Dantooine's a long jump with no money in your pocket.” She rejoined. ”And this isn't the place to come to turn a quick credit.”

         No, he thought, but it might be a good place to stage a tactical withdrawal. But of course he wasn't going to tell Jesse that. No sense in getting her mixed up in whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into. “It's as close as I could get to Qilura on a passenger ship.” That at least was true. 

           “Family out there?” 

          “A sister. Brother's wife.” He answered immediately, glad to have something he could talk openly about. “She's not Mando, but she did right by him and she's trying to do right by his boy, so I do what I can.” ‘What he could’ meant going hungry and traveling forth-class on passenger ships so Miran and her son could live a step above the poverty line, but he could see Jesse understood that and wasn't going to ask him to elaborate. “It's not the kind of help I'd like to give her, but it's help she needs and it's the least I can do.”

          Jesse nodded and scraped the last of the whipped cream off his plate with her fork. “Good for you. It's hard when they're not Mando'ade. How do you get from here to Qilura? That's another two jumps from here.”

          He shrugged. “There's usually some freighter or other going that way. I'm not above hauling cargo and swabbing decks if it means a free hyperspace jump.”

          “Makes sense.” Jesse said. “Tell you what. I've got a little extra on me this time, so how about I stake you a day's rations and a hyperspace jump and drinks'll be on you next time we run into each other.”

          “Jesse, I…” Aden was at a loss. What could he say? How could he accept? But, on the other hand, how could he refuse? “That would be… “ 

          Then the world exploded.

[jarienn972]

Weathering the Storm - Part One

I dreamed up the crazy idea for this story a couple of weeks ago (yes, this was actually a dream) and I finally found some motivation to start writing it.  The basic premise is that it’s a pretty lousy day in Storybrooke.  A severe thunderstorm is looming, vandals are on the loose and Killian makes a ill-fated error while trying to be a Good Samaritan that leaves him relying on an unlikely ally for his very survival.

I haven’t written a multi-chapter whump story in a while so @hookaroo, this one is right up your alley.  Lots of whumpy fun (and a little comedy thrown in too).  And I’m sorry @killian-whump if I’m overloading your to read lists this month.

You can also find this on AO3 and FF.net

Peering through the windshield at the darkening horizon, Killian's brow furrowed. He was still getting accustomed to driving the Sheriff's vehicle himself and while it wasn't entirely unlike manning the helm of the Jolly Roger, he'd learned that the automobile responded much faster to course adjustments. He was becoming increasingly comfortable driving on dry roads, but he didn't yet have much experience driving on rain-slickened asphalt so he was hoping that the forecast storm would hold off for a tad longer.

With Emma occupied assisting Henry locate the proper attire for some sort of ball called homecoming, Killian had volunteered to take this morning's call on his own. It was a case that seemed innocuous enough on the surface - the now magic-less former Wicked Witch had phoned in a complaint to the station after someone threw a brick through her living room window. Neither she nor her child had been harmed but she was livid and wanted the vandal caught. She was quite vocal that she preferred Emma be the one to respond but after being advised that Emma wasn't available - and several minutes of unsuccessful argument, she resigned to the fact that it would be Killian coming to investigate. There had been two similar attacks in town and he had a pretty good idea who was responsible already but more evidence was always welcome.

So now he found himself driving to the outskirts of town, on his way to Zelena's farmhouse with a thunderstorm looming. At least the weather was keeping the traffic light as most in town chose to stay off of the highway with a severe storm threatening. But it was the very lack of cars on the road that made the vehicle pulled off to the berm stand out so starkly. It wasn't a vehicle he recognized, much newer and sleeker than the majority of the cars in Storybrooke, although he had seen similar ones when Emma had taken him on visits to nearby cities.

He could tell that there was a driver still seated behind the steering wheel and at quick glance, nothing appeared to be amiss. It was possible that the vehicle had broken down, as he'd learned they were prone to do. So, as Deputy Sheriff of this town, the neighborly thing to do was to see if the motorist was in need of assistance. He slowed down after passing the parked car which was facing opposite of his direction, flipped on the lights and made a slightly awkward three point turn in the middle of the road. (There were still a few maneuvers that weren't particularly easy for a man with a hook for a hand.)

He eased his vehicle to the side of the road, stopping a few feet behind the dusty black sedan that displayed New Hampshire license plates. Before exiting the vehicle, he made sure that his badge was properly displayed, clipped to the chest pocket of his hip length leather coat. He also double checked that the little camera mounted on the vehicle's dashboard was recording just as Emma had insisted. She'd had the device installed so that they would have video of every traffic stop, saying that it was for everyone's protection although Killian had scoffed at it. Wasn't like it would be hard to manipulate it with a little magic, but if Emma wanted the camera used, he'd use the bloody camera.

He turned off the cruiser's engine and stepped out into the road, approaching the vehicle cautiously, but trying not to project a threatening air. He was merely offering aid if needed and noted that the driver was already rolling down the window as he neared.

"'Afternoon, mate," Killian greeted the motorist with a welcoming smile. "I'm Deputy Jones with the Storybrooke Sheriff's Department. I noticed you pulled over here and I was wondering if I could be of any assistance?"

The dark haired driver raised his chin to glance up at Killian, or at least Killian thought the man was looking at him. It was impossible to be certain as he couldn't see the driver's eyes behind his mirrored sunglasses, a strange accessory to be wearing in such overcast weather.

"All's good, Deputy," the man replied. "Just had to pull over to try to make a call but it seems cell phone service kinda sucks around here."

"So I've been told," Killian chuckled. "You'll likely get a better signal about three miles or so ahead, on the other side of the county line."

"That's good to know. Thanks." It was a valid reason to be parked here and the driver seemed courteous enough but Killian's keen intuition sensed something was off. His gaze drifted unconsciously past the driver where he caught a glimpse of a map of Maine with a meandering route plotted in yellow highlights, one that avoided all major highways and towns. Something was telling him that this person wasn't the scenic backroads type.

"Well, I'll not waste any more of your time. Enjoy your drive, mate." Killian gave a little nod to the driver as he made a mental note to run the license plate number with the state police as soon as he returned to the cruiser, chastising himself for not doing that in the first place. He barely had time to take a single step back from the sedan before he found himself staring at the muzzle of a pistol trained on him through the car window. The driver had brandished it so rapidly that Killian had no time to draw his own weapon.

He heard the gun go off and time seemed to slow. The bullet struck his right side, entering somewhere around the bottom of his rib cage. The pain didn't hit him immediately as he staggered back a few steps before his legs gave out beneath him and he dropped to the asphalt. He watched the driver lean out of the window and fire a second shot at the cruiser, hitting the front tire and flattening it. By now, a searing heat was spreading through his torso but as he lay there in the middle of the empty highway, Killian noticed that there was a pair of feet visible beneath the car and his ears picked up a second voice shouting.

"What the hell did you do that for?" the second, deeper voice demanded. "We weren't supposed to draw attention!"

"You were the one who had to take a piss," the driver's voice responded defensively as a car door squeaked open and then slammed closed seconds later. "I told you we shouldn't have stopped."

"You didn't have to shoot a cop!"

"He saw the map...What if he ran the plate?"

That was the last of the conversation that Killian could make out as the sedan's engine roared to life and the vehicle sped away, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel in its wake.

Clutching his wounded flank, Killian lay unmoving in the road for a few minutes but to him, it felt like hours had passed. Get moving, Jones his head urged but his body was less willing to comply. He practically dragged himself back to the cruiser, using the front bumper to support himself as he managed to raise up to his knees. Beneath his layers of leather, he could already feel the sticky dampness of blood, warm against his skin. He knew he should get to the radio. He should call for help, but who would answer? There was no one at the station to hear his plea and he didn't know if any other law enforcement would get the transmission as Storybrooke wasn't exactly on any regular patrol route.

Maybe he could call Emma? If he could get a signal on that infernal device, maybe she could get to him? She could teleport. He couldn't.

Trying to ignore the increasing pain, he pulled his hand away from the wound, patting his coat pocket for his phone, hoping it was still inside. As he'd become more adept with the technology, Emma had upgraded his phone to a fancier version she'd felt would be simpler to operate one-handed. The new device had proven easier to access features other than what he still referred to as the Emma button, but he was about to rue the change. The new device was covered in a shiny sheet of glass that he'd initially questioned the durability of but he was assured this was typical of newer devices. As he slipped his bloodstained hand into the pocket, his fingertips came in contact with his phone - and the razor sharp edges of the shattered glass screen.

He drew it from his pocket carefully and confirmed the damage. He must have landed on it when he'd fallen. He tried in vain to press the power button, hoping the device would light up but it barely flickered in his hand, leading Killian to quickly realize the dire predicament he was in. He was on his own out here in the middle of nowhere and he needed to think of a plan right now or he'd bleed to death before anyone was likely to find him. His closest option to get assistance was to head to Zelena's farmhouse which was approximately another half a mile up the road. With a flat tire, he couldn't easily drive there and he doubted that he had the strength or the dexterity to change it. Could he feasibly make his way to the witch's home on foot?

Clenching his jaw tightly, he swung his hook up onto the hood of the cruiser, anchoring it into the narrow gap above the headlight. He grimaced and cried out in agony as he pulled himself upright. He rested against the vehicle for a few moments, willing himself to move. He could make it a half a mile. He had to make it, he kept telling himself as he pushed away from the car, leaving behind a sizable smear of crimson on the vehicle's white paint.

**********

Thankful that she'd located the bright blue tarp in the decrepit barn behind the house, Zelena was trying hard to work while ignoring the pleas of her cranky toddler. She currently stood atop a sturdy chair attempting to nail that plastic sheet over the shattered living room window. It was a hasty fix that wouldn't last long, and it had her once again lamenting her lack of magical powers. She had hoped to convince Jones to assist with the temporary repairs by covering the window with a few boards salvaged from the barn - after he finished up with whatever he needed to do to locate the little cretin who'd vandalized her home. It would have been a stronger repair until she could get someone who still possessed magic out here to take care of the glass, but since he hadn't shown up yet and unfortunately, the rain had, she had to wing it.

The plastic wasn't keeping all of the weather out but it was holding up better than she'd anticipated as the wind whipped up out of the west. She'd already tried calling Emma to see where her ne'er do well husband might be but found phone lines down even before the power went out. Cell phones rarely worked out here so she wasn't surprised to see No Service on the device screen. Maybe she should start thinking about moving closer to town…

Before it got too dark inside the house, she tossed a few logs into the fireplace and got a nice, warm fire going. From the kitchen, Robin continued to wail in her play yard but Zelena needed to find more candles and flashlights first. This storm was forecast to be a severe one. The arrival of the thunderclaps and lightning flashes ahead of the rain had the child screeching but the weather was only partially responsible for the child's tantrum. She was also vocally protesting that mum had put her into this restrictive baby prison when she wanted to explore and see why mummy was making so much noise in the other room. She didn't like the play yard and she was going to make sure that everyone within earshot knew it.

"I know you don't like it in there, my little pistachio," an exasperated Zelena called out to her daughter. "Mummy just has to finish up some work and then I promise, we'll go snuggle and I'll read you a story. Does that sound good?" She didn't wait for the child's response as she placed the four candles and two flashlights she'd located onto the kitchen counter then stepped over to the stove and turned on the front burner, thankful that the gas was still working. With one hand, she placed the tea kettle atop the blue flames while her other hand opened the cupboard to her left and retrieved a bright pink sippy cup. "How about I get you some juice while I finish up?"

The mention of juice tempered the toddler's mood momentarily as she intently watched her mother pour a few ounces of white grape juice into the cup and twist the lid onto it. Robin greedily snatched it from her mother's hand, the thunderstorm momentarily forgotten as she swallowed her sweet treat, plopping herself down next to a fluffy stuffed rabbit. Exhaling a sigh of relief, Zelena was about to return to the tea kettle when she heard a thud against her front door. Had something blown into the door or was that a knock? Had that miserable pirate turned deputy finally shown up?

"Is that you, Jones?" she asked loudly as she crossed the room to answer the door. "It's about bloody time you showed up… What's your…" She was going to say excuse but stopped herself mid-utterance as she swung open the door to find her door frame smeared with a mixture of blood and mud and a barely conscious Killian Jones collapsed on her front porch. He was laying face down, head resting on her woven straw welcome mat and clothes dripping wet as though he'd been out in the elements for a while. "What the devil happened to you? Where's your car?" Her eyes quickly scanned the gravel drive that led up to her house but saw no sign of a vehicle and realized she'd not heard a car approaching either.

She lowered herself to one knee in the doorway and took hold of his arm, wanting to help him get up and out of the storm. Her gaze caught sight of the series of puddles on the steps leading up to her door noticing that they were all tinged with reddish swirls.

"Are you injured?" she queried. He groaned what must have been an affirmative as he made a feeble attempt to raise his head, managing to force open one dull blue eye that pleaded for help. "Okay - we've got to get you inside. I have no idea what's happened but even I can't leave you out here in this awful weather. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and Zelena grasped his shoulders, feeling him shaking as if his strength would give out at any moment. "Think you can get to your feet with a little help?"

Killian nodded in response as she stood up, extending her arms towards him. His hand was slick with rainwater and blood as he clasped onto hers, hindering him from getting a secure grasp.

"Let's try something different…," she said as she shifted her position, stooping over and sliding her hands beneath his arms then wrapping her own arms around his upper torso. "I can't believe I'm doing this…" she muttered but at least he understood her actions. He scrambled to get his wobbly legs beneath him and pushed himself upward while she steadied his upper body. He caught his hook on the doorframe, using it to help balance himself once he was standing until she could move next to him, placing an arm around his back to guide him through the opening and over to her solid wood kitchen table. She let him brace against it while she kicked the door closed, the slam drawing a shriek from the startled Robin.

"Hang in there, little one. Mummy's got a bit of an emergency here…" As the tea kettle whistle drowned out the toddler, Zelena turned off the flame beneath it before turning her attention back to the ailing pirate dripping blood and water all over her floor and table. "I'm going to get you over to the sofa where you can lay down but first, we need to get you out of that sopping wet coat. It must weigh a ton with all the water it soaked up." Killian offered little resistance as she slid the heavy, rainwater laden leather off of his right arm and then repeated the process on his left, easing the sleeve over his brace and hook before allowing the coat to drop to the floor. She'd worry about it later.

With the burden of the leather coat now off of his shoulders, he huffed out a little sigh followed by a pained moan while nearly toppling over. Zelena caught him and wrapped his arm around her shoulders as she let him fall against her. "Okay, Jones - just a few more steps, okay?" She led him slowly, nearly dragging him at times, into the living room to her floral print sofa and let him flop onto it. "Lie down and I'll be right back. I'll get some blankets out of the closet and I have some first aid supplies in the cabinet in the loo…"

"Thank...you…" he stuttered through chattering teeth as she pulled the colorful crocheted afghan off the back of the sofa and draped it over his shivering form. She hadn't expected an answer since he could scarcely keep his eyes open so his response caught her off guard.

"You're welcome. Now, just rest a minute." What the devil am I doing? She had this and so many other questions swirling about in her overwhelmed head. Was she actually trying to save the life of the very same man she'd nearly killed just a few short years ago? And he was really trusting her to do this? Had becoming a mother changed her that much? Had sacrificing her magic helped her earn back her humanity? Okay - maybe not that since she'd kill to get her magic back. Well, that probably wasn't the best choice of words…

She shook off the barrage of unanswerable questions as she yanked open the linen closet door to collect some necessary items. She gathered up a pillow from the top shelf, two more blankets and a stack of towels and threw them all into an empty laundry basket. Before closing the door, she reached back in and grabbed a handful of washcloths too, then headed into the bathroom to see what first aid supplies she could locate. With Robin now walking, she'd stocked up on bandages and antiseptic but most of what she had on hand was sized for a child so she might have to improvise a bit. She tossed anything that might be useful into the basket with the linens and then hurried back to the living room.

"Alright, Jones - are you still with me?" He mumbled something unintelligible in his semi-conscious state that she took as a yes. "Okay, first thing we've got to do is get you out of some of these wet clothes and see where all of this blood is coming from…" He seemed to understand what she meant. His jeans were thoroughly soaked, covered in mud from when he'd fallen while trudging up her driveway and they were plastered to his chilled skin. He'd be able to warm up faster without the dampened clothing in the way. There was nothing gratuitous about it, but it didn't mean that Zelena was going to enjoy this part.

There was no pretense of modesty as she unbuckled his belt and unfastened the buttons on his trousers, keeping her eyes squeezed shut the whole time. She tugged the heavy, uncooperative fabric over his hips, praying that the pirate wasn't going commando. It wasn't that she hadn't seen male anatomy before; she just had no desire to see a former enemy's private parts.

Once she'd managed to get the denim pulled down to his knees, she quickly threw the afghan back over his hips before daring to open her eyes. Seeing Captain Hook's bare knees and shins was something she could handle as long as the rest of his lower extremities were covered. She did immediately come to the realization that she'd forgotten a step - she'd neglected to remove his boots. Thankfully for her, even though the black leather boots were as waterlogged as his matching coat, they were only ankle height with elastic sides to make them easier to slip on and off. She barely managed to stifle a giggle as she yanked them off of his feet and uncovered his navy blue socks that had tiny white sailboats printed on them. Novelty socks were not something she would have thought him to sport, but she kept any commentary to herself as she finished removing his jeans and set them aside on the hardwood floor.

Now came the hard part. She had to get a look at the wound.

He flinched and writhed in pain as she began to undo the buttons on his leather waistcoat and the midnight blue shirt beneath. She picked up one of the towels and held it at the ready while she peeled the layers of leather and fabric away. He hissed and then howled in agony as she raised the shirt and pressed the towel to the deep crimson puddle pooling on his abdomen, allowing the cotton to soak up some of the blood before taking a second glance at the hole in his side. She raised the towel slightly so she could see it better - small, but bleeding profusely. Keep pressure on it, her brain reminded her as she held the towel firmly in place and Killian cried out in protest.

"I'm so sorry. I know this has to hurt but we need to slow the bleeding," she insisted. "Is this a bullet wound?" She had limited experience with pistols, preferring fireballs to firearms, but she couldn't think of any other weapon that would have inflicted this sort of wound.

Killian gave a slight nod of his head as his body trembled through another resurgent wave of pain. "Call...Emma…" he begged, words coming out in staccato through tightly clenched teeth.

"I would if I could," she informed him. "The storm knocked out the power and the phone lines. Wouldn't be a problem if I still had magic, but you've got a pathetic waste of a witch here… Anyway, I had already tried calling her earlier when you hadn't shown up. I thought you'd blown me off…"

"Would...be...bad...form...Got...shot…" he explained what had already been obvious.

"I know that now. I have a tendency to think the worst of people, you know?"

He tried to crack a smile but found it hurt too much. "The…bullet…? Did…it… go...through?"

"I hadn't checked that just yet. Think you can roll onto your left side a bit?" He nodded and did his best to shift his weight to his left hip and turn his body towards the rear of the sofa, giving her a clearer view of his back to search for an exit wound. She raised the hem of his shirt higher and located the slightly wider hole where the bullet had passed through his flesh. "I see where it came out," she told him as she picked up another towel to cover the exit point. She sensed a little relief from him at this revelation. "Is that a good thing?" she couldn't help but ask.

"Better than... a chunk of lead… bouncing around… inside my chest," he grimaced, bracing himself for what he had to ask of her next. "Do you… have anything… to disinfect…?"

He didn't need to finish the sentence as she answered right away. "I do have antiseptic, but you should know, this is going to sting." He didn't really need the warning. He knew and his breath was already hitching in his throat in anticipation as she picked up the bottle that presumably contained the antiseptic she spoke of. It conveniently had an aerosol sprayer for easier application but there was no amount of preparation that could halt the primal, guttural scream that escaped his lungs the moment the substance came in contact with tender skin. The tidal wave of sensations proved to be more than his weakened body could bear as he allowed himself to succumb to the blissful peace of unconsciousness.

Zelena watched him go limp as the dueling howling of the wind and wailing of her daughter echoed through the farmhouse. She could still hear his labored breathing indicating he was alive but there wasn't much else she could do for him. She did her best to patch up the wounds by covering them with clean folded washcloths that she'd sprayed with the antiseptic solution before securing them in place with strips of cloth tape from her medicine cabinet. She tucked the pillow under his head and layered the two additional blankets over top of him to protect him from the drafts making their way around the blue tarp. She could only keep her fingers crossed that her improvised window covering would hold.

It wasn't perfect but it would have to do until the storm passed, she reminded herself as she gathered up the bloody towels and his dripping wet jeans, placing everything into the laundry basket for now. She kicked the basket off to the side as she stood up and headed to the kitchen to wash up, tossing another log onto the flickering fire as she passed by. Once she'd scrubbed away the blood and dried off, she scooped up her teary-eyed daughter who vocalized her displeasure once more as a flash of lighting and an instant rumble of thunder shook the house. Bouncing the toddler on her hip to ease her sobbing, Zelena stared out of her kitchen window watching the rain pelting against the glass.

This was turning into one very long day.

[dreamlanddoll]

Your headcanons on the part of Cedric's life between the time he graduated Hexley Hall to the time he first met Sofia?

Cedric’s Life Between Graduation and Meeting Sofia 

Upon graduating, Cedric was immediately pulled into training by his father to become Enchancia’s next Royal Sorcerer

There was a lot of pressure on him, more than he could handle. Cedric wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to live up to his father’s standards, or that of the future King’s 

Cedric was already somewhat accustomed to his fathers workshop, but since it would soon become his own, Goodwyn was obligated to show him how to operate everything in it (without letting him touching anything)

“And that is the crank you use to bring down the ladder- NO DON’T TOUCH IT!”

He knows how accident prone his son is and would rather not risk the mess (or injury)

One day, while doing regular apprentice chores in the workshop with his raven Wormwood at his side, and as his father was brewing potions, a small, unsupervised potion bottle on a stool nearby caught the young adults eye, and seeing that his father wasn’t paying attention to him, Cedric figured it couldn’t hurt to inspect it, right?

As he approached the stool, broom still in hand, all whilst his familiar was shouting at him to not do it inside his head, he heard his father ask, “Cedric, could you hand me my-?” causing him to startle and trip, knocking into the stool and spilling the potion all over the floor- as well as himself.

Lucky for him, Goodwyn turned his head just in time when he heard the crash to see what had happened- and before his very eyes was his son- now a small green lizard- helplessly freaking out on the ground.

Goodwyn rolls his eyes and mutters the spell to reverse it. In a whirl of magical dust and some, 18 year old Cedric re-appeared, knees tucked into his chest and hands on the floor to support his tense shoulders. He looks up at his father sheepishly. “Ehhh.. sorry father.” he chuckles. 

Goodwyn loudly sighs and runs a hand down his face. “What did I say about touching anything?”

Cedric looks at the floor, embarrassed. “Not to do it…”

“That’s right, son. Go take a break while I clean this up… then maybe I can finally get some work done in peace.” 

Cedric sadly retires as his father points him out the door, slouching all the way out 

“And straighten your posture, Cedric!” 

And so, the green-vested lad is sent to slink around and roam the castle halls aimless and bored 

Cedric grumbles to himself in a mimicky tone, hands shoved in his pockets while he glares at the marble floor. “Straighten your posture Cedric, don’t touch anything Cedric, cut your stupid bangs so they aren’t as curly, Cedric! G’ah! ” He grips his head, stopping at a large decorative mirror placed on the wall, examining himself sadly while playing with one of his wavy eye-length silver bangs. Recalling all the horrible memories of mummy attempting to dye them back to their original colour, and Goodwyn attempting to cast a cutting spell on them any chance he got. Cedric liked them long, thank you very much.

He sighs and looks at the ground. “Perhaps I’m just not cut out for this…. maybe I should’ve allowed Cordellia to be the Royal Sorceress instead. She’s older than me after all, I don’t see why she didn’t get it.”

He turns to his faithful raven. “What do you think, Wormy?”

Wormwood squawks in response, but to himself he was saying “I think we’d be better off as starving bards.”

As the years go by, and as Cedric grows and matures (kind of), at age 25, Goodwyn is finally ready (well, more like legally obligated) to pass the job onto his son 

Goodwyn gives him about a thousand reminders and responsibilities re call before handing him the key to the workshop.

“Make sure you hide this in the RIGHT Gargoyle claw, not the left one.”

“I know, father.”

“And don’t forget to dust the bookshelves weekly!”

“Yes yes I will.” (he doesn’t)

“And you mustn’t EVER open the window while casting a wind spell.”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME!”

Of course during his first week on the job, Winifried was constantly checking up on him to see how her Ceddy-kins was doing, to which he always replied “Just fine, thank you mummy.” But his first day … Cedric’s first day as Royal Sorcerer is… tricky, to say the least 

not only that, but it was Roland’s coronation as well, and Cedric was expected to perform spells immaculately under the training he’d gained 

it doesn’t go all too well  

he ended up accidentally causing the curtains in the throne room to collapse, which caught onto the candelabra which caught the carpets and the curtains on fire as well as the thrones while everyone retreated away from the scene, panicking and putting attention into making sure the the future king was protected while servants attempted to douse the growing fire 

Cedric though, in his typical Cedric-y manner, wanted to fix it. He nervously scrambled in his words for a water spell, or an anti-flame spell, or something that would help! 

But before he could, the servants had taken care of it while he remained speechless, embarrassed and body inverting with cringe as his put a hand to his mouth, it was like Cordellia’s ball all over again! 

“Some Royal Sorcerer.” he heard come from a lady in a mocking tone.

“Doesn’t he have a sister that could’ve done this? I’m sure she would’ve handled it better.” Another voice, one of the male servants, uttered to his buddy. Who seemed to nod in agreement.

“Oh…” Cedric muttered, looking at the floor. “Merlin’s Mushrooms.” 

Later in his workshop, as he sulks over his desk with Wormwood attempting to console him, he sniffles. “That’s it, I’m quitting. Pack your bags Wormy, I’ll write to Cordy and tell her a position is open if she’s willing.” Cedric reaches for a loose sheet of paper he finds tucked between two of his books on the shelf, but one falls out and opens up on his desk to a very peculiar page. 

“What’s this?” he mumbles, leaning over to get a better look at the drawing of the large purple tear-drop shaped jewel that was on the page. There was small handwriting around it as well.

Wormwood squawks in curiosity, prompting Cedric to read aloud.  

“The Amulet of Avalor?” he read slowly. His eyes continue down the page. “The Amulet of Avalor is an ancient jewel with unlimited magical powers, carefully hand wielded by Maruvien sorcerer’s of the time, said to hold the power of all magical being and spirits of the Mystic Isles themselves…” Cedric said in a breathy, awe-strucken tone. He didn’t think such a thing could exist! But here it was he supposed, right inside a master spell book that his father almost nearly relied on in his day. 

Cedric internally scoffed, where could he possibly find something like that? And what on earth would he want with it? It’s power? …. Well… perhaps, it would be a big help with his spell casting he reckoned. 

Wormwood squawked once more, nudging the page over with his beak and turning Cedric’s attention to it.

“It says here that the Amulet of Avalor is powerful enough to create tornadoes, move mountains, and… concur entire empires?” It was then that he remembered something, an idea forgotten long ago after his younger days. Back when… the incident, first happened, little Cedric thought if he could become King, he’d be able to prove how great he could be! He grew out of that over time- obviously, but now, knowing that this jewel was out there somewhere… it didn’t sound like all too ridiculous of an idea anymore.

“Wormy… do you realize what I could do with a magical object like this?!” He turned to his raven excitedly, to which the bird tilted his head. 

“It means I could finally prove what a great sorcerer I really am!” 

Wormwood squawked happily, liking where this was going as he saw a mischievous grin creep onto his master’s face for the first time ever.

“We are going to find that amulet someday, and in the meantime, start thinking of ways that I can finally take over the Kingdom!” Following his deceleration was a long over-due, good old fashioned evil laugh, with his menacingly dark raven cawing along. 

From then on, they were scheming buddies. Cedric and Wormwood, an unbreakable pair of evil geniuses- well, at least Cedric thought so. 

The more he planned, schemed, and connived however, the later he decided to stay up, and the later he schemed into the night, the deeper his eye bags grew. Same with the creases at the sides of his mouth (though genetic), it was getting concerning..

Even Roland, now a proud King with two children on the way was growing concerned for his old friend- even though he didn’t act like it 

Upon the Queen’s death, it was hard on everyone- Roland more than anyone of course. But even Cedric became a tad depressed, out of everyone in the castle, the Queen was always the nicest one to him..

He stopped scheming for a while, feeling kind of bad. How could he plan on doing something so terrible to a ruler so kind- one that, now that he thought about it, took for granted?

Eventually Cedric gets back into the groove of his evil ways, but still carries a bit of guilt with him 

Refuses to interact with the children from age 1-5- not for any emotional or depressing reason- he just detests young children. Well, especially James and Amber- the spoiled little things. With their sticky-grabby hands, loud voices, no sense of personal space or boundaries, or caution for other peoples things- G’OH he just can’t STAND them! He actually doesn’t permit Roland bringing the children into his workshop, he either leaves them with Baileywick, or stays a step or two outside the door. It becomes a rule

 Once they get a little older and more self aware, they’re allowed inside- just no touching anything 

If they do though he doesn’t get angry- or even frustrated- something in him just goes “no, you mustn’t yell at them or they’ll cry and when they cry then you’ve got a bigger mess on your hands.” 

Cedric does not know how to deal with crying children- he still doesn’t to this day. He’d probably just start panicking and screaming 

He lets them kinda waddle around the place if Roland runs out of ways to keep them occupied. But he needs to keep a close eye on them- it’s very boring for him. 

However he gets the occasional inquiry about certain magical items- which he is most fond of answering for them. 

Amber and James actually liked Cedric a lot as kids though- with all his cool spells, different hair and funny clothes. Once Amber complimented him on his ‘dress.’ He would’ve corrected her- but she had no mal intent, so stopping himself he pats her head and says ‘thank you.’ 

He just hoped she’d learn it was actually a robe when she was older

Little James was always down for a mini magic show- and the wonder in his eyes and smile on his face whenever Cedric casted his spells was sometimes almost enough to make him turn good again.. but it was simple, trivial ones that he did easily in front of the children because they were.. well.. children. Kids are entertained if you flash a red dot on the wall. Or wait, perhaps that’s cats. 

Eventually Amber grew brattier and more superficial- interested in all the finer things royalty had to offer, and James grew more independent and rambunctious. Cedric had that coming, they were both 11 now after all. 

He greeted loneliness with open arms once more for a good year or two… until one faithful day. He was informed that King Roland was getting re-married, and along with his new wife was coming her 8 year old daughter- Sofia. 

Cedric groaned in annoyance. Delightful- he thought sarcastically. More small children. 

[daddyfuckinlonglegs]

A Promise

I know that kiss meme has passed through our little corner and disappeared again, but an idea is an idea and I’m still grinding away at them. AO3 here, leave me some nice comments if you read things I write. “Hey, uh, Nate? You awake? Can I… talk to you, for a minute?” Nate rolled to his back, spinning quickly at the sound of MacCready’s voice. Piper slept soundly beside him, wrapped up in the sheet and Nate’s arm caught beneath her shoulder. Nate shuffled carefully up the bed and slid his hand gently out from under her, careful not to disturb her sleep. He sat up, brushing his hair from his face, smoothing it with his palms, and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, letting his feet drop to the cold floor. “Sure,” He cleared his throat groggily, “what is it?” MacCready’s mouth twitched nervously, and he gestured down the hall. “Can we…” Nate nodded and wiped his eyes. “Sure. Go on ahead, I’ll fix us some coffee. And, uh, put on some pants.” He smiled, and Mac nodded gratefully, heading through to the parlour. Nate stood up and picked his pants from the end of the bed, rolling them on and stretching his arms wide,yawning. It was dark outside, Nate guessed it must be about one, one-thirty, without looking at his pip-boy; though he hadn’t really slept yet, he’d dozed off briefly, and a strange sense of timelessness settled over the house. The small hours sure stretched out, even now, with the power running and working lights in most places, and his sleep cycle was way out of whack. He took a deep breath and stooped over the bed, pressing his lips gently to Piper’s bare shoulder, then wandered to the kitchen, shirtless in the hot summer night. MacCready had set some water boiling on the stove, and Nate shook some coffee grounds into the pan, stirring it with his finger, then setting two tin cups on the counter while the coffee brewed. “You want a sugar in this?” Nate asked, flipping the lid of a small box beside him. MacCready nodded, and leaned back against the counter, hoisting himself onto it ass first. Nate tutted. “Mac, there’s a perfectly good-” “I know, man. I know. I just wanna sit here okay?” He looked at Nate, his eyes small and tired in the artificial light, and Nate shrugged. “Suit yourself, son, but don’t blame me when you get a sore ass.” MacCready’s mouth curled into a little lopsided smile. “Yeah, you’ve never had anything to do with that, have you?” Nate smiled and lifted the pan off the heat, pouring the thin steaming brew into cups, crushing a little chunk of sugar into one cup with his fingers, and sliding it to MacCready. He leaned back against the counter himself, ankles crossed lazily. “So what’s up?” Mac sipped his coffee and pulled a face. “This coffee, jeez. I know it’s old but… it tastes like the back end of a brahmin.” Nate laughed. “You’re awfully discerning for a man who grew up in a cave. How easy d'you think it is to come by coffee around here?” He took a mouthful and swilled it around his teeth. “You’re right though. It does taste like ass.” He sighed and cradled the mug to his chest. “C'mon, you woke me up for something, and it wasn’t stale coffee. What is it?”

MacCready bit the inside of his lip and looked at the floor, shuffling his feet against the counter. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and sniffed, rubbing his fingers through the short hairs beside his mouth. Nate looked at him, patiently sipping his drink. MacCready pulled a crushed cigarette from his pocket and lit it, inhaling hard and letting the smoke hiss through his teeth in a thin stream. “I’m gonna head back to DC.” Nate’s stomach sank. He swirled his coffee in the mug, trying to keep his face blank. “Uh-huh?” MacCready nodded. “Heard from the caravan Daisy sent the meds with. They got it to Duncan, he’s…” MacCready’s voice welled and choked up. “He’s gonna be okay if he stays where he is. But… but he might not make the journey. Not for a long while. Doctor there reckons six months before he’s on his feet again.”Nate put his coffee down. “Shit. That’s… that tough news.” MacCready looked at Nate. “I can’t leave him on his own, man, I can’t. I been a sh- a crappy enough dad right from the start, and when Lucy…” He paused, swallowing tears, his lips pressed tight to stop them trembling. “I’m all he’s got. I gotta be there. But I’m so fuckin’ scared, Nate. What we’ve got, here, it’s… Sanctuary, and the Minutemen, it’s… it’s a whole other world now. It’s a life. DC is different. There’s nothin’ there for me now.” Nate reached out and rested his hand on MacCready’s knee. “Six months goes faster than you think, Bobby. ” “Yeah. And a lotta things change too.” He stared deep into his coffee cup, silent and tight, taking a drag on the cigarette, then spoke quietly. “What if he doesn’t remember me?” Nate shook his head and slid his arm around MacCready’s shoulders, pulling him close. He held his breath in his chest, crushing down a sudden swell of memory – Shaun, ten years old and inside a sterile, glass walled room, panicked and fearful. He held MacCready tight to him, rubbing softly at the merc’s neck, and MacCready sank easily into his arms, small, sharp tears running from his face and down Nate’s shoulder, cigarette smouldering between his fingers. Nate stared at the dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and let MacCready sob against his skin. His fingers combed through the hair at MacCready’s temple, softly, slowly, and another picture struggled to the surface of his mind. Nate’s father, coming into his room early in the morning on Christmas day, when Nate was about four years old; the visceral, animal fear he felt – those footsteps so unfamiliar on the landing, the strong smell of tobacco and paint and brandy when he leaned over Nate’s bed to place a gift at his feet. He shifted his weight, pulling Mac’s chin up to look at him. “Hey. You can’t let that thought take hold. You just can’t. Gotta work with what you know, Mac, you know that.” MacCready nodded, apologising softly and wiping his eyes. Nate squeezed his shoulder. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. Just… don’t start being your own worst enemy before you’ve got an idea of where you stand. Look,” He paused, fumbling for words like loose change, “I’m… not gonna pretend it won’t be tough. It’s… look, I never said this before, but when I… when I found… Shaun, in the Institute…” He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “He didn’t know who the hell I was. He looked at me, and I said his name, and… and he screamed. Screamed for his “father”. Mac, I thought I was dying. It was… like losing him, all over again.” MacCready looked at him solemnly. Nate sucked his teeth and shook his head, slowly. “But he’s not… that’s not how it turned out, y'know? It’s more different than I could’ve imagined, but… what I’m saying is you just can’t lose hope. And we both… you and me, well, we turned out okay, didn’t we?” MacCready wiped his mouth and ashed his cigarette, fat chunks of grey dust falling on the counter-top between his knees. He took a drag and looked at the floor. “I don’t want it to be like that for him. I don’t want him to grow up without me, I just… I don’t think I can do it alone. I’m no good on my own, man. Lucy was everything, kind and honest and not a fu… fricking coward. And you, what the hell are you? Out of the ice and throwing yourself at the commonwealth like a fricking atom bomb. Nothing stops you, man. Nothing stops you.” Nate raised his eyebrows. “So, what, crossing the states and risking your life for a “maybe” cure isn’t worth a damn? Duncan is alive because of you, Bobby.” “And what happens after I get there? We stick around DC, dodging mutants every other block and flipping the bird to the Brotherhood, until they tell me Duncan won’t ever walk again? Or until I leave everything behind again? How many fresh starts does it take to catch a break? I’m sick of moving around. Sick of playing like it doesn’t bother me. I’m sick of being alone.” Nate’s chest tightened, a pang of sadness stabbing at his ribs. “You won’t be alone, Bobby.” MacCready’s eyes swelled red with tears, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, trying to hold his composure. “Don’t talk to me like a kid, Nate. I’ve done this before.” Nate shook his head. “Not like this.” Nate pulled him close again, putting his cup down gently and sliding into the space between Mac’s knees. Pressed tight to his chest, MacCready leaned into him, wrapping his arms over Nate’s shoulders, hands resting between his shoulder blades. Nate kissed his neck, breathing the scent of him, pressing his face into Mac’s pulse; kissed the corner of MacCready’s jaw, felt the tightness of muscle, his teeth clenched and throat tight; kissed his cheekbone, at his temple, cold salt tears drying sticky against his lips. MacCready’s breath hitched, he swallowed. “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry. I don’t wanna leave you, you know that, right?” Nate nodded silently against his cheek. “I don’t wanna leave you, you’re so caught up in this shit-” “I know.” Nate sighed “I know.” MacCready pulled back, his eyes searching Nate’s face. “Everything I do, man, people just see the worst. They hate me, they think I’m just running away all the time, like I’m not terrified of leaving you to deal with it all. Like I ain’t scared I’m gonna lose you.” “You’re not gonna lose me.” Nate assured, quietly. “I’m… it’ll be harder, without you, but we’ll make it. And this?” He gestured around him, “will all be right here, when you get back.” Mac shook his head. “You don’t know that, man, you can’t- Nate shifted his weight, leaning forward and catching MacCready’s mouth in a small, desperate kiss, holding him tight, until his breath was ragged and short. Their mouths parted, and Nate ran his hand up across the merc’s chest, cupped MacCready’s face gently. “I promise.”

One more time, link to my AO3 in case you wanna read my other things

[ssportlive4]

Three Homemade Fresh Farfalle or 🎀 Bow Tie 🎀 Pasta.

Hey everyone, it is me again, Dan, welcome to my recipe page. Today, I will show you a way to prepare a distinctive dish, three homemade fresh farfalle or 🎀 bow tie 🎀 pasta. One of my favorites food recipes. For mine, I am going to make it a little bit tasty. This is gonna smell and look delicious.

Three Homemade Fresh Farfalle or 🎀 Bow Tie 🎀 Pasta is one of the most popular of current trending foods in the world. It is simple, it is fast, it tastes delicious. It's enjoyed by millions daily. Three Homemade Fresh Farfalle or 🎀 Bow Tie 🎀 Pasta is something which I've loved my entire life. They are nice and they look fantastic.

To get started with this particular recipe, we have to first prepare a few ingredients. You can have three homemade fresh farfalle or 🎀 bow tie 🎀 pasta using 4 ingredients and 7 steps. Here is how you cook that.

The ingredients needed to make Three Homemade Fresh Farfalle or 🎀 Bow Tie 🎀 Pasta:

{Make ready of Basic pasta Dough.

{Get 140 g of plain flour.

{Take 2 of medium eggs,1 whole and 1 yolk.

{Prepare 1/4 tsp of salt.

Steps to make Three Homemade Fresh Farfalle or 🎀 Bow Tie 🎀 Pasta:

1- #Mathod for Basic pasta Dough Mix the all-purpose flour and salt together, then make a volcano-like mound of flour on your work surface. Crack the eggs into the hollow and Then, using a fork, gently stir the eggs, incorporating the flour from the walls of the volcano little by little. Once the dough has become workable by hand -- a fair amount of flour will have been worked in -- use your hands to incorporate the rest of the loose flour..

When the dough has come together smoothly, knead the ball for about 5 minutes. If it's feeling moist, incorporate some more flour into the dough.If it's feeling to dry add one egg yolk into the dough.You want to end up with a ball that's not sticky, but still soft. Cover the ball of dough and let it relax for about 30 minutes..

Cut the dough into four pieces. Keeping the unworked dough covered, take a piece and begin rolling it out with a rolling pin, keeping its shape roughly rectangular. You want it to end up thin, about 1 millimeter in width. Using a sharp knife, slice the pasta into pieces that are about 1 1/2 x 1 inch. Along the long side, pinch each rectangle in the middle very hard.you just made pasta!😊.

Place the farfalle on a baking sheet liberally dusted with flour and keep it covered. Continue in the same fashion with the rest of the dough. If you want to dry out the pasta, simply leave it out overnight covered with a dish towel..

2- Fresh #Carrot Pasta Dough: Follow the Basic Pasta Dough recipe.1fresh carrot Peeld and wash chopped roughly and boiled until softened,about 6-8 minute. Let cool. and puree in a food processor. Add 2 tablespoons cooked carrott puree to the well in the flour. Continue as per the Basic Pasta Dough recipe desired any shape..

3- Fresh #Spinch Pasta Dough: Follow the Basic Pasta Dough recipe.half bag of fresh spinch wash and drained chopped roughly and boiled until softened,about 6-8 minute. Let cool.make a puree in a food processor. Add 2 tablespoons cooked spinch puree to the well in the flour. Continue as per the Basic Pasta Dough recipe desired any shape..

#Cooking #Method: Boil the water (with salt and a teaspoon of olive oil) in a large pan. Once boiling a water add the pasta and cook for 8-10 mins,or untill fully cooked enjoy with your favourite toppings. #Tip You also make lasagne sheets as well with basic pasta dough rolling out and cut into your desired shape..

So that's going to wrap it up with this special food three homemade fresh farfalle or 🎀 bow tie 🎀 pasta recipe. Thank you very much for your time. I'm sure that you will make this at home. There's gonna be more interesting food at home recipes coming up. Don't forget to save this page in your browser, and share it to your family, friends and colleague. Thanks again for reading. Go on get cooking!

[selinmatthews]

Tips For Using Your Pallet Wrapping Machine — Gateway Packaging

Did you know that you could be wasting both money and resources when it comes to your pallet wrapping machine?

In this blog, we have listed our top 7 tips for using your pallet wrapping machine more effectively!

We are all for helping our customers save time, money and work more efficiently!

So let’s dive into how exactly you can do that with your stretch wrap film.

1. Ensure the stretch film is the right type for your requirements.

Without trying to confuse the issue, there are many types of stretch wrap film for different applications. Making sure you are using the right type is critical to ensuring the maximum efficiency and effectiveness of the wrap.

Cast Stretch Film

Cast stretch films are generally clear and glossy, they have high tear resistance, and unwind quietly with consistent cling and consistent film thickness.

Blown Stretch Film

Blown stretch film is not as transparent as cast film. It has excellent puncture resistance, is noisier to apply and unwind and has a higher retention force on the load.

Hand Stretch Film

Hand Stretch Film is designed to be applied manually and is typically used in lower volume packaging operations. When you need to wrap something on the spot, or you do not have a wrapping machine then hand stretch film is the answer. In order for you to dispense hand film easily, special plastic dispensers can also be supplied when you purchase.

Machine Stretch Film

Machine stretch film has good stretchability and high cling characteristics.  This is a perfect combination for wrapping pallets ensuring superior load retention.  It has high puncture resistance and toughness enabling faster application. The product’s superior stretch capability allows you to achieve an increase in the number of pallets you can wrap, thus saving you money.

Perforated Films

Perforated or ventilated film, as it is also known as, is perfect for transporting loads that need fast cooling or freezing, or products threatened by humidity, rust, mold or condensation. It allows for airflow between the product being wrapped and the outside environment.

Pallet Wrapping Machine

2. Ensure you are using a high-quality stretch wrap film.

A cheaper product can often be more alluring due to that exact fact, it’s cheaper.

However, cheaper is often not the better option. Generally, a cheaper stretch wrap is of much lesser quality which means it is more likely to tear, not have sufficient strength, require more volume to complete the job and leave more residue on machine wrappers. This all adds up to a poor user experience, and you will most likely be ‘out of pocket’ over time.

Paying a little more for a higher quality product will achieve a more efficient result thus creating savings in product protection.

3. Manage the amount of overlap the machine is applying.

Between 25 – 50% overlap is what you should be aiming for.

Less than this and the wrap will be weak and unstable. More than 50% overlap is excess and a waste of wrap.

Having your operations department keep a close eye on these measurements is pivotal in maximising the efficiency of your stretch film and minimising wastage.

4. Check the tension levels

Ensure that the tension levels are calibrated to ensure that you applying the wrap that the most efficient rate.

A lack of tension will mean that your wrap is applied too loose and this lack of tension will result in load instability and insecurity. Too much tension means that the stretch will be weak and potentially break or shift the load on the pallet.

5. Check the rollers are clean and stretch wrap is threaded correctly

It is always wise to ensure that preventative and scheduled maintenance is conducted on your equipment to keep it in top working condition.

The rollers on machine wrappers can become dirty and sticky due to a residue left over from large amounts of wrap being used.

Keeping the rollers clean will ensure that the wrap is passing through the rollers in the most efficient way.

Also make sure that the stretch wrap film is correctly threaded through the rollers.

Generally, there will be a diagram to follow on the individual machine or in the user manual.

Pallet Wrapper Rollers

6. Use a top sheet to effectively protect the pallet and increase the ease of wrapping.

Top Sheets are placed over the top of pallets that are being wrapped so as to enclose the pallet. They are designed to protect the top of the pallet from dust or water during transit or storage.

Top Sheets come on a perforated roll for easy tear-off application and are available in clear or black. Using a top sheet also prevents time-consuming, awkward attempts at wrapping over the top edge of a pallet.

7. Check-in with the machine operator/s to ensure everything is in good working order.

Making sure that you are communicating with those operating the machine and handling the wrap is an important step. They are the ones that will be able to alert you to any issues that need addressing or maintenance that is due.

We hope that these 7 tips will enable you to maximise your stretch wrap efficiencies within your business!

You can find out more about our extensive range of high-quality Paxum stretch wrap film here.

To find out more about our range of pallet wrapping machines, click here.

What are your tips when it comes to pallet wrapping?

Do you do it by hand or using a pallet wrapping machine?

We would love to get your feedback in the comments below!

[thehungryindianbaker]

WholeWheat sourdough

Yup, you heard it right, It is a 100% whole wheat sourdough! This is my second attempt at baking one, and I was really proud of it. I could have shaped it better, but then I like it rustic (besides the fact that I have zero patience).

All you need:

Ingredients

For the levain(the first mix of the starter to a little dough in order to feed the natural yeast from the homemade starter for it to activate):

30g starter(mine was a pancake like consistency)

50g whole wheat flour

35g warm water (85ºF)

For the dough:

500g whole wheat flour

325g + 50g warm water (85ºF)

10g sea salt

Method

Mix in all the ingredients for the levain and keep aside. Be sure to make a semi solid paste and not a dough, as it might not rise. Cover and place in a warm area for 4 hours.

Two hours in the levain, in another bowl, mix in the flour and water for the dough, except for the 50g warm water, make sure it is a loose dough not sticky, and keep covered for the next two hours along with the levain bowl in the same area.

After 4-5 hours when you see levain has been bubbling away, mix in the levain to the flour dough mix, along with salt, and knead it till it is a smooth yet loose dough. It should be little sticky if it is a little too tight for a sticky dough, add in little water from the remaining 50g, and poke the dough with your wet hands. Cover and keep aside for 15 minutes

After 15 minutes, take the remaining water, and mix in as much as you think is enough to make it sticky enough to rise, as it is whole wheat dough, it will not rise as easily as your plain flour does. Cover and keep aside for an hour till it doubles in size.

Once it has doubled, roll out the dough on lightly floured surface. With a scraping tool, fold over the dough from left to right, top to bottom, repeat till you feel all flour is incorporated.

Dust some flour on your hands, and gently place your fingers below the dough and lifting the dough you drop it from about a foot height onto the kneading surface, and fold in flour from left to right, right to left, top to bottom and bottom to top. Lift, drop and fold. Repeat this for next five minutes till you feel the dough is stretchy enough to form a sheet of dough when you stretch it sideways.

If it feels too sticky in the beginning, do not add flour to the mix, instead dust your hands with the flour. With time, the stickiness will reduce. Adding more flour to the dough causes a risk in the rise, as whole wheat flour does not rise well enough.

Preheat your oven to 220ºF for an hour, place an empty mould in the oven. We place it in order to make it super hot, so that when we add water in it, it creates steam.

Shape it into a smooth round ball, by cupping your hands around the dough, slide it towards your tummy, rolling it into a small bowl with its base on the surface. Dust enough flour onto the baking tray/mould to create a non stick base for the dough. Place the dough using a scraping tool into the bowl. Keep aside for an hour or two till it rises well.

After it has risen completely, you can score the dough using a blade, and keep on your counter table for fifteen minutes. Place it in the oven, and pour in a jug of water into the already placed mould to create steam. Immediately close the oven door and allow it to bake for 15minutes at 220ºF, reduce the temperature to 200ºF and bake it for another 40minutes.

I keep it in the convection grill mode of my Borosil OTG, it bakes it evenly from top and bottom, and I keep it not on the side of the hotspot, or else it could easily burn.

Once it is baked, take it out of the oven immediately, do not allow to cool in oven, remove it and place it on a cooling rack. Slice only after an hour it is out of the oven. I had one slice of it with cream cheese and one with peanut butter and it was amazing! :)