Michael had never felt this particular form of exhaustion before. He had literally just went to hell and back. When he reappeared in the middle of the room, Y/N rushed to his side. She tried not to cry. She didn’t want him to think she doubted him but a small part of her had feared he would not make his way back.
As the warlocks helped him off the floor, Y/N helped him stand as he leaned on a desk for support. Hunched over, he fought to regain his breath and held up a hand when the warlocks got too close. She, however, ignored this movement. She rubbed his back and watched him in concern. She wasn’t sure exactly what this particular feat could do a person and she prayed it didn’t have lasting damage.
When Cordelia had finally conceded to Michael, naming him the next Supreme, Y/N put her arm around his waist, allowing him to lean on her as they retreated to his bedroom. Throwing himself on the bed, Y/N helped peel the excess clothing from him. He now lay on his side, shirtless and in boxers.
“Are you okay, Michael?” She scanned his face for any sign of distress.
He nodded, looking up through hooded eyes, completely drained, “I’m fine. Don’t worry,”
“Turn over,” She said, gently tapping on his back. When he did so, she straddled him and began to knead her fingers into his shoulders and back. She could feel the tension he carried there and pressed harder when he let out a moan of contentment. Leaning over to whisper, she kissed the shell of his ear before saying, “I’m very proud of you”
He smiled, only half visible as his face was smushed against the pillow, “Thank you. I’m sorry if I scared you,”
“You know I believe in you always. I was just afraid you might not come back. You never know with these things. But you’re strong. Stronger than anyone I know,” she continued kneading into the knots in his back, stopping occasionally to place her lips against whatever birthmarks she could find.
“When I’m Supreme, we could get out of this hole. We can live in the sun and move into that house of theirs,” he closed his eyes, enjoying the fantasy.
“That would be nice,” she smiled at the thought of them two playing house, “it’s a big house isn’t it?”
He chuckled, “What are you getting at, woman?”
She gently raked her fingers down his spine and he shivered at the sensation, “I’m saying we’ll have to find a way to fill it,”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing calmed, taking in the feeling of her hands on him.
“I know you have a lot of work to do but I’d like to have that conversation eventually,” she said, moving to lay beside him as she wrapped her finger around a curl.
He looked up at her, wide eyes and full grin, “I’ll give you whatever you want but first let’s enjoy ourselves. I’m the new Supreme. We can do whatever we want,” he gripped the wrist of her hand that was intwined with his curls and kissed it.
“I should be going,” she kisses his forehead, “Can I get you anything before I go?”
He shook his head, pulling her into his arms and holding her tight, “Stay. Just stay,”
She smiled up at him, kissing his jaw, “I don’t think they’ll like me in here,”
“Who’s going to say something? The Supreme?” He laughed.
“Oh no. It’s gone straight to your head already,” she chuckled.
“If it keeps you here, I have made it coven law. You cannot leave,” he smiled, shimmying down until his head lay on her chest.
“I’ll be here,” she assured him as she ran her hands through his hair. She could feel his breathing evening out and knew he was on his way to sleep if he wasn’t there already. She whispered, “Rest, my love. I’ll be here”
date a selkie, but don’t hide her cloak. let her go home and visit her family now and then, knowing that she’ll come back and hang her seal cloak in the closet like she always does. trust is important.
The first time she lets the redhead take her home, she’s diligent about hiding her cloak. She folds it carefully against tears and rips and abrasions, and hides it in a sea cave whose entrance is concealed by the tide.
She does the same, the second and third and fourth times, careful, wary, mindful of her mother’s lessons. Remembers the way her mother’s hands had chafed on her soft cheeks, rough with cooking and cleaning for her fisherman husband, the way her mother’s peat-dark eyes had been tense and harsh with the lesson.
“Mind me, Niahm. Never let them find your cloak.”
The way her mother’s mouth had curved, a sickle of dissatisfaction and relief and envy, as she had escaped into the waves.
So she minds her mother’s lesson, and she takes care with her cloak.
Would that she had taken as much care with her heart.
The fifth time, she wears the cloak to the girl’s door, clutched about her throat, dripping along the darkened lanes.
She enters the home, welcomed with soft kisses and gentle touches and kindling passion. She drapes the cloak, artful in her carelessness, across an old wooden chair, the one that creaks and tilts slightly if you don’t sit just right.
When she wakes, in the wee hours of the morning, even before her lover, the cloak still rests, supple and dappled by the sea, on the back of the chair.
She frowns into the softening dawn, dons the cloak, and returns to the sea.
And again, the sixth time. And the seventh.
The eighth time, she finally breaks, prickling and hurt with longing, gripping a handful of russet hair in her hand, firm with emphasis.
“Surely you know what I am,” she says to her lover, the cool froth of sea foam and the call of gulls curling around her voice.
“Of course,” her lover responds, soft and tender in the dawnlight, throat arched willingly, pale as the inner whorls of a shell. “You taste of the sea,” the girl whispers, reverently.
She shakes her lover’s head gently, fingers tangled still in russet locks. “Why?” she demands. “Why won’t you keep me?”
A long silence that waits and fills, like a tidepool, stretches between them. Cool as a current. Deep as the Channel.
Her lover’s eyes are dark and tender. “Must I trap you to keep you, my heart? Is that the shape of love that you desire?”
She sinks into the thought, struck and stymied, remembering her mother’s harsh hands, her cold eyes. Her hand eases into russet waves, caresses where her grip had punished. Her lips press cool and damp as the sea against the arching curve of her lover’s shoulder. “What shape of love will you give to me?”
The answer is easy, quick, certain. “Myself. Only myself, whenever you should wish it. Your cloak by the door, your body in my bed, and the freedom to go, whenever you must. As long as you wish.”
It’s not an answer a fisherman could ever give, nor would think to.
The ninth time, she hangs her cloak by the door, draped in careful dappled folds next to a drying oilskin jacket.
Aizawa was on super high alert mode after the USJ attack. One time Mic tried to get his attention by walking up behind him and tugging on his elbow sleeve and Aizawa just reflexively roundhouse kicked him through a wall. For the next two weeks Mic decided to get his attention by screaming at him from a two meter distance just to be safe. Alternatively he’d also give him a heads up about approaching him. Like Aizawa would get a text saying “i’m gonna pat you on the back at 2:31pm tomorrow after English class so plz don’t break my jaw”.
I’ve actually had a horse rider au bobbling around in my head for a while now but never actually drew anything for it. Also I haven’t drawn the ons boys in a while. But Mika is a horse trainer and teaches people to ride horses. Yuu sees him riding his favorite horse and even though he’s never even touched a horse before he signs up for lessons so he can be taught by Mika. He’s garbage at it but with some hard work and elbow grease Yuu gets good and jumping and what was once a ploy to impress Mika and look Badass is now a passion of his.
Also Mika doesn’t have a ponytail that’s just the horse’s mane behind his head ok I messed up
Toad's Cave 