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captain-mj · 1 year ago

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Arranged Marriage

This is honestly just porn with a ton of plot, hope y'all like it

Ghost was a frightening concept. He knew that well enough. People shied away from him. His presence caused discomfort.

Maybe it was his status as Prince or that he had become more of an urban legend than a person. Or maybe it’s his appearance. Permanently wearing a facial mask and being so clearly not human at all times will do that. No one particularly wanted to be around him.

It was probably what made the idea of just… arranging a marriage so… disturbing. Forcing someone to have to hang around him when he unsettled everyone else. What a cruel thing to do to another person.

So he wasn’t exactly pleased to find out it was arranged already. He wasn’t entirely sure which of his advisors did it. Just that one of them did. And he now had a… fiance.

Soap. What a name. Apparently he hailed from a place further north that was… brighter. That was the exact term used. How funny. Bringing a bright thing like this… Soap to Ghost’s clutches.

However, the deal had already been made and he couldn’t exactly… do anything about it. To suddenly back out would show that he was… weak. Either he couldn’t control his people or he was inconsistent. Possible even unstable. His reputation couldn’t exactly take the hit and he needed a partner before he could technically be King and it was…

Ghost sighed. He supposed it was for the best. With his dad dead…

Images of his body, frail from disease as Simon watched him, let him wither away.

Digging his nails deep into his skin, he quickly came back to reality.

Soap. Soap. Soap.

He repeated the name a couple of dozen times. Trying to make it feel right.

Soap Riley.

It was a name.

If he researched the right culture, he was pretty sure Soap was a nickname. Apparently they did not give out their first name easily. Something to do with superstition.

A superstitious person was paired with Ghost, a person who was slightly to the left of being human, he hoped his new partner had a good sense of humor. Or at least a sense of irony.

Preferably a sense of humor. Ghost liked making jokes and it would be rather lame if they didn’t even laugh.

He didn’t expect love in any way. Not at all. At best, he was hoping for cordial. Maybe friendly. Realistically, he expected them to hate him.

Two nights. All they had to do was pretend for two nights. The day before the wedding and then the day of the wedding.

Would they have to… consummate?

Even when he was completely human, he never really slept around. Besides a short few times, he wasn’t the most experienced. He really hoped he didn’t disappoint. But as soon as it was over, they could just go about their lives. He’d give Soap his own room without hesitation.

Ghost looked at his hands. Dark nails. Sharp and pointed. Smoke drifted from them. Ancient magic. He wasn’t blind. His people assumed deals with demons. Something dark.

They weren’t completely wrong. They just assumed it was he who made the deal.

All of this… thinking was getting to him. He lit a cigarette and tried to drift off somewhere else. Maybe to sleep.

Tomorrow, he’d demand a picture of him. Something to put a face to the name.

Ghost didn’t have to demand it. They had a portrait of him readily available. And fucking hell was he gorgeous.

Soap had modeled himself for this. Clearly wrapped the robe around his body in a way that was supposed to both show that he was innocent but that exposed him just enough to be seductive. An angel in some ways. Flowers bloomed around him and Ghost wondered if it was a gift he had or an artful interpretation.

It made his mouth go dry for some reason. Judging by the look on some of the people in the room, he was also blushing.

His hair was cut oddly. Shaved on the sides.

The hairstyle was… attractive. Of course, even if his hair was horrid, his body and face more than made up for it. Soft tan skin and thick thighs. So gorgeous. Fucking hell.

One of his advisors said he might want to send a portrait back which he agreed with but then they pointed out that he should do something similar. Expose himself.

Ghost snarled and put his foot down about it. He absolutely would not do that. The idea of being stripped down was…

Soap could just wait to see him.

And then the day was there. It was jarring. He had some letter correspondence with Soap’s family, but never this mysterious Soap himself. For once, someone knew more about Ghost than he knew about them.

Ghost had the temptation to find something to distract Soap. Refuse to see him or just keep him so busy they had to talk.

Soap laid eyes on him and Ghost’s breath caught.

Even prettier in person.

His ears were slightly more pointed and he could now see the scar on his chin.

Before he could speak, Soap’s eyes left his, scanning all over his face eagerly. Something shockingly sweet in his expression.

“Hello.”

A punch to the gut. His accent, undeniably attractive.

“Nice to meet you, Soap.” He offered his hand, a bridge between them. His leather gloves kept them from actually touching.

Soap watched his hand, raising an eyebrow slightly. Little grin splashed across his face.

“Ghost? That the only name I get?” He tilted his head and leaned in, having to look up at him through his lashes.

Ghost’s heart started to skip around violently. Trying to escape his chest and the situation.

“Is Soap the only name I get?”

Soap smiled more. A geniune thing that only aggravated the thing trapped in his ribcage. “Until we’re married, yes, that’s all you get. On our wedding night, will you give me your name?”

Ghost thought about the fae and how you should never give them your name. He got a funny sensation that if he uttered his name to Soap, he’d be trapped in a more permanent way than marriage.

“No. It’s just Ghost now.”

“And Riley. I’ve heard you want me to take your name. Personally I think Ghost Mactavish has a better ring than Soap Riley.”

Ghost hated that he agreed just a little. “I’m the Prince here.”

“Yeah, but I still think my name is better.” Soap brushed past him and Ghost followed.

“Want a… tour?”

“This is going to be my house now. Makes sense for me to know the rooms.” It didn’t feel like he was making fun of him, even though he was clearly teasing.

Ghost wondered if it was just because he came from somewhere else. If his mannerisms were somehow different enough that it didn’t feel like an offense.

They were cordial. Just cordial. As expected. Better than expected.

Soap looked at him as they sat down and tried to ask him questions, but Ghost just deflected. He wasn’t going to answer any questions he could avoid. Soap seemed to realize this eventually and gave up, staring at him with the same intensity that Ghost stared at him.

“I like your hair.” Soap said eventually, still staring.

Ghost felt his cheek turn pink. His hair was a soft blond and down to his shoulders, pushed back so it didn’t fall in his face. It curled, especially around his neck. And there was something hungry about the way Soap looked at his throat. Or how he looked at his face. He didn’t quite understand it, but it disappeared every time he started to focus on it.

Ghost checked to be sure his mask was still covering the bottom of his face.

“Who is going to be the top?”

Ghost turned red, gripping the table hard. “What?”

“Maybe you guys don’t use those terms. Giver and receiver? I’m trying to use polite terms here.”

Ghost was shocked by how callously he asked that. “I’d like to be the giver. Or top. Please.”

Why the fuck did he say please?

Soap tilted his head and smiled. “Alright. Want us both to be comfortable on our wedding night.”

“Yeah.”

“Children.”

“I could see us adopting older kids.”

Soap brightened. “Perfect. I like that.”

Ghost stared at him for a moment before sighing. “You don’t have to worry about the future you know.”

Soap paused and a tiny pout appeared on his face. “Why is that?”

“After tomorrow night, you don’t have to worry about appearances. I would never expect anything of you.”

There was a challenge in Soap’s eyes.

The questions became more pointed. Things about the future that Ghost had to answer. How would they make appearances in public, how often, where did Ghost plan to take his kingdom.

Eventually, Soap sat up. “Alright. Where is my room? I know you’re probably eager to get me into your room, but I think it would be more proper for me to be in my own.”

Ghost waved his hand and a maid quickly took Soap to his room as Ghost tried to catch his breath. What the hell? He was… strange. Made his insides twist.

Was this how he made other people feel?

He avoided Soap for the evening. He didn’t want him to throw him off guard like that. Get him all flustered like that.

Until the wedding of course. He kinda had to do that part.

So Ghost got dressed in the suit and quietly went to ceremony. Soap looked nice. Also in a suit, though it was a blue to his green. They held hands during one part, but Ghost made sure he wore his gloves.

He didn’t utter a word so neither did Soap. When asked if they agreed, Ghost rather widely said yes. Big mistake. It felt too intimate just shared between the three of them instead of being transactional.

A cup of wine, supposed to savored. Soap took a sip first, the gloss on his lips smearing on to a part of the cup.

Ghost pulled his mask down just enough to put his mouth over it, tasting Soap with the wine.

Rather intoxicating honestly. He had drank this wine before and he knew exactly which notes didn’t belong to it.

The mask went straight back up.

Bright blue eyes didn’t let him escape. Watching him carefully. Cataloging him and his reactions.

Ghost expected to walk away. Eat cake and dinner before they could leave. He was torn between wanting to leave immediately so he could get away from the people and not wanting to mess up one of his first public appearances in a while. He also wasn’t sure if he was excited to bed with Soap or nervous. Either way it made his insides roll and twist.

Soap said hello to two guests, people Ghost only vaguely registered as his parents when he called them as such. It occurred to him that maybe he should’ve had a conversation with Soap’s family besides just letter correspondence. He went to speak to him and Soap grabbed his belt loops and tugged him along.

One of his advisors flinched and their hands moved immediately to separate Soap from doing that, but they paused, stuck between trying to warn the newly wed that Ghost was a feral animal not to be led around and touched and the trained thought to not ever touch the royals without asking first.

Ghost didn’t put a fight so their hands went back down, watching Soap lead him with confidence. Maybe Soap was trying to get this part over with so he could enjoy the party. They could consummate and kiss and…

Ghost could top him.

And then they’d come back and act normal.

Yeah, normal.

Ghost’s hands looked deadly against Soap’s skin. Harsh nail points and dark flesh against Soap’s soft wrists.

“Probably should be careful with those.”

Soap nodded and grabbed some fabric, tying his hands above his head. “There. Now you don’t need to worry.” He smiled.

Ghost’s heart fluttered. Yeah, he could easily snap the fabric, but Soap didn’t know that and something about the position was… intoxicating. Especially when Soap shoved him to be laying down.

If Soap did something he didn’t like, he could easily escape. It’s fine.

“Inhuman, right?” Soap undid Ghost’s shirt carefully. He gently ran his nails over his skin before pulling away to watch the lines appear and disappear. The lines felt weirdly good. It had been so long since someone touched his chest.

Ghsot closed his eyes tight. “Yes…”

Soap kissed his jaw, feeling Ghost flinch away from him. He smiled and slid down Ghost’s clothing. “You’re such a tense King, you know that.”

Ghost’s heart sped up and he let out an embarrassing noise. A rough sorta whine.

“There you go. Just relax.” He gently trailed his fingers down his body. “You’re so…” Soap sighed.

Ghost leaned his head back further and let his eyes fall back open. His cock twitched and he wanted to get swallowed by the Earth for enjoying this so much. It was just a simple touch and he felt like Soap was being unbearably teasing.

Soap ran the tip of his finger up and down his cock and Ghost bit his lip hard. “This looks pretty human. Underneath all of that fear and gruff, you’re just a man aren’t you?”

Ghost went to argue and Soap grabbed him more firmly, making him whimper.

The feared Ghost. Known for finishing all the wars started by his father. Killing plenty of people. Cursed by shadow.

Whimpering because his new husband just touching him. Not even touching him a lot. His sensitivity was sky high. Every brush was enough to send him hurtling towards the oblivion of pleasure.

“It’s okay. You’ll just be human around me, right?” Soap’s silky voice. Hard in the right places and so very inviting. “Still have all sorts of desires. Especially for this.” He twisted his hand and started to move.

Ghost tightened his hands around the bedframe and his bindings. “Yes.” He wasn’t sure what he agreed to but Soap’s hand started to move and that’s all it took for his thoughts to disappear. His thighs tensed and then he felt a warm tongue run up his cock. Another broken little sound fled his mouth.

“How long has it been?” Soap asked him seriously, settling on top of him.

Ghost shuddered as Soap ran his thumb over his head, sparking pleasure up his spine. It was running through his brain, wrecking any thought other than Soap and what he needed to do to have him keep doing this.

“A while. Couple of years.”

“No wonder you’re so pent up. Just having your hand.” Soap’s hand sped up and he reached over to grab something. He poured the oil over his hands. One of them continued to stroke Ghost as the other started to prep himself.

Ghost squirmed and his eyes rolled back. It felt so warm and slick. His hips jerking forward of their own accord.

“Please.” He whined. “Please, please, keep going.” He shuddered and forced his thighs to open a little more. It let Soap grip him better. Soap had bitten into his lip as he watched him.

“Ghost, you thought we would just do this for one night?”

Ghost nodded, feeling himself reach his peak. He couldn’t though. Not yet. More animalistic whines and whimpers broke out. He was normally so quiet, not just in bed but everywhere and Soap so easily just ruined that.

“When you sound so pretty?” Soap purred to him. Sinful and sultry and with that fucking accent.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Ghost’s hips shuddered. He kept his eyes closed tight as he came all over Soap’s hands. It smeared between their stomachs and he felt the heat from his blush going all over his skin.

Soap didn’t stop. His hand kept going and Ghost felt his back arch a little.

“Stop, stop, stop.” Pleasure and pain started to ricochet through his body but Soap just kept idly going. Ghost shuddered and started to groan. “Please, oh god, please.” The cheap fabric stayed wrapped around his wrists. He didn’t even try to snap.

Soap’s hand just kept going up and down, oil starting to drip from his fingertips. “Only if you tell me your real name.”

Ghost whined and his eyelashes fluttered. “Oh god, fuck. I…”

Soap’s hand sped up, clearly intent on dragging another orgasm from him. Ghost was pretty sure he didn’t even have time to get soft, still achingly hard despite coming. He started to try biting back the whines this was getting out of him. Pleasure was threatening to drag him down to the fucking abyss.

“Simon. My name is Simon. You can have it.” Ghost knew the way he phrased it. It was purposeful.

Soap stopped and smiled at him. Then he straddled him and sank down.

Ghost felt that tight heat and felt like he was going to break in to pieces. It was so good. Too good. He started panting as Soap slid his hands back up his body up to his masked face.

Ghost gave him a small nod and Soap took it off, admiring him as he bounced. His eyes never left Ghost’s face and it unsettled him. Those soft hands of Soap’s grabbed his throat lightly and Ghost immediately was back in heaven. As the lack of oxygen made him dizzy and he felt so good, he just melted into what Soap wanted.

“Keep going.” Ghost begged, tears filling his eyes. “Please.”

Soap kissed his cheek, staying consistent. He was looking affected now. Stupid, pretty face turning red. The man was wrecking Ghost and did it with a smile.

It wasn’t enough. The realization was getting to Ghost. Soap wasn’t moving quite fast enough. His cock was twitching and so hard, but he couldn’t get there.

Soap watched him, eyes getting heady, clearly close himself.

So Ghost snapped the fabric, watching the way Soap’s face lit up with a small bit of fear before he flipped them around. Ghost rutted into him, careful to keep hitting Soap’s prostate but he was lost in pleasure. Needing Soap much more than he needed to breath. Soap’s legs wrapped around him, letting him go even deeper, exactly where he wanted to be.

Their panting mixed together along with the grunts and soft begging from Soap for him to keep going.

Ghost was pretty sure his heart would give out if he dared to stop.

So close.

So goddamn close. The pleasure was driving him insane as he kept chasing the edge.

Soap groaned and threw his head back right as Ghost felt warmth between them. He tightened around him as he came, finally drawing Ghost to the end.

Ghost half sobbed and whimpered, continuing to slowly roll his hips, desperate and trying to drag it out.

Soap Pet his hair gently. “I got you, Simon.”

Ghost’s cock twitched inside Soap and he groaned. “Can’t do anymore.”

“Your body says otherwise, but alright. If you’re done. There’s always tomorrow night.”

Ghost was never letting this man out of his sight again.

#johnny soap mactavish #captain john price #ghostsoap #soapghost #simon ghost riley #soap cod #cod mw2 #ghost cod #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare ii

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lostcauses-noregrets · 1 year ago

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I think about Eruri 24/7 but can't check any Eruri tags because it's always sad canon stuff *cries in angst* Do you have any lighthearted Eruri headcanons that are canon to you :D

Sadly *cries in angst* is an occupational hazard when shipping Eruri Anon. Don't despair though! Here's some light hearted headcanons and ficlets to cheer you up.

Levi doesn't sleep much, but he can put himself to sleep anywhere. His squad joke that he can sleep on a clothes line.

Levi sneezes like a kitten. (Bless You).

Erwin loves the way Levi smells in the morning (The Same Warmer).

Erwin brings Levi tea in bed every day (Tea, Lee).

Erwin adores the slope of Levi's nose (Profile)

There is a little brown mouse that lives underneath Erwin's desk and, much to Levi's horror, Erwin feeds it crumbs from his plate (Of Mice and Men).

Levi learns to swim like an otter once he gets over his initial reluctance to get in the ocean (Every Second).

Sometimes when they are alone together, for no apparent reason, they laugh uncontrollably (Laughter).

Levi is a miserable invalid, but Erwin loves him anyway (Get Well).

Erwin goes out like a light after he cums (Again?)

Levi is horribly ticklish, but only Erwin knows (Achilles Heel).

Levi is a fabulous cook, but Erwin doesn't know how to load the dishwasher (Divorce Proceedings).

Erwin cooks eggs in the kettle. Levi does not appreciate it (A Clever Innovation).

Levi uses eucalyptus shaving soap (Eucalyptus).

How Erwin and Levi really met... (Intruder)

Levi ties his hair back with lil clips when he does his skin care routine 😂

#asks #eruri #headcanons #lostcauses fic #snk

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ana-chronista · 9 months ago

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How about Bojan and Jere at Linnanmäki (or any fare/amusement park)? There's different rides, maybe even a haunted house/glass labyrinth.

Can also be AU, with them being teens/young adults

Hey, thank you for the ask! ❤️ I may write glacially slowly (sorry!) but I do always get there eventually. I hope it was worth the wait! Full disclaimer, written with about the level of detail and accuracy you'd expect from someone who's never set foot in Linnanmäki, so thanks also @frikatilhi for helping me with a couple of references!

“This is... best photo. Ever.” “Oh, fuck off.” “No, I am serious. I will always – what is the word – ” “Laugh at it? Laugh at me for it?” “Well, yes, both those things. But what is it when... it is very special to me?” “You mean you’ll treasure it?” “Yes, exactly! It is like treasure to me.” “Again: fuck off.” “Bojan, what? I just tell you it is special to me! Very special memory in photo right here: me and my Bojan, enjoying Linnanmӓki together.” “...” “Besides, you not telling me to fuck off last night. In fact, you keep telling me – ” “Jere, shh! Quiet!” “You also not do much of that last night either.” “People could hear!” “And?” “We said – ” “Yes, I know. It’s okei, don’t worry. I will stop there – ”

“Thank y – ” “ – with that.” “Oh for fuck’s s – ” “This is what they teach you in Slovenia? I am shocked. Here, grandma would wash your mouth with soap.” “No, this is just how we deal with someone clearly overreacting to a normal photo.” “Bojan, you are photographed many times for job. I never see you look like this.” “Well, you’ve never seen me at a theme park. Or anyone else, apparently, if you think this is a weird photo.” “Not weird. Priceless.” “Jere, come on – ” “Look at your face, Bojan.” “Stop waving it at me! That’s completely – ” “Look at it!” “We were on a rollercoaster! People are meant to scream!” “But I see you scream before. At gig or on stage or when I – ” “Jere.” “Okei, okei. But this time you are like – ” “I swear to god – ” “No, no, look. You are like this – ” “...” “...” “...” “...” “... you do realise if you stay like that and the wind changes direction you’ll get stuck, right?” “Ah, so your grandma did tell you something!” “It’d serve you right as well.” “I not mind. Just look in mirror any time and be reminded of my Bojan. Like this – ” “I hate you.” “That is also not what you said last night.” “And what about you? You knew there’d be a camera and you couldn’t even keep your eyes open for it!” “Ah, no. This is on purpose.” “On – what?” “I mean to do this.” “I don’t believe you.” “Is all true! I tell you I come here before, yes? Many times when growing up?” “Yes, right around the time you mentioned Taiga and didn’t mention what it was actually like!” “Well, we come here so often we do things for camera. As joke.” “Isn’t that how you pitched your OnlyFans?” “Eh, maybe yes, but this is art.” “Jokes like what, then?” “We start off with things like pretend we sleep. Is easy, no need for preparing. Then later we pretend we make calls. Bring masks or hats. Jukka almost lose sombrero on Kingi. We glue together house of cards one time, pretend to build on Hurjakuru. Also one time me and Mikke take on razor and foam – ” “Sorry, what?” “Yes, yes, we think he will pretend to shave my face on camera. But staff find us and say no. Banned for four months.” “...” “Yes, I know. Too harsh.” “You know what? I’m actually kind of impressed.” “About our jokes?” “Well, mostly that someone as short as you managed to qualify for so many different rides.” “Fuck you, Bojan!” “Now who needs their mouth washed out with soap?” “If you are nice, while we wait for next ride, I will see if I have photos and show you. Maybe I must text the guys to see if they have. Last time is, eh...” “A while ago?” “About three phones ago.” “To be fair, for you, that’s like a month.” “That was only one month, but I will let you have this as you gave me photo. Maybe I text now so we have photos when we wait.” “...” “...” “...” “...” “... you’re taking a very long time to write that text.” “Is hard to text and walk, you know?” “Even with me steering you?” “Even then.” “But you do this all the time and you never usually – wait.” “...” “Jere, you’re not sending the photo are you?” “Are you?” “Jere!” “Relax, Bojan, I joke. I would not send photo to anyone – that is just for us.” “... why am I not reassured by that?” “No idea. You are too suspicious. I tell you I don’t send photo, I don’t send photo.” “...” “... so maybe I send video instead.” “What?” "Taiga takes video also. I buy both.” “You – ” “See, very popular already! My friends are glad you enjoy Linnanmӓki so much.” “Yeah, I bet that’s not what they actually said.” “Eh, is close enough. Joker boys answer in English though, so we can both read, but mostly is emojis.” “Wait, what do you mean – ” “Ah yes, I send to them also. Let them know we have fun here. Though I am not sure they will know from your face – ” “Jere!”

#ana answers #bojere #fanfic

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fanfoolishness · 4 months ago

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a rain that sounds like home (3/8)

After the destruction of Tantiss, the Bad Batch is safe at last. As Crosshair begins to recover from his injuries, it becomes apparent that not all of his scars are physical, and that guilt and grief are wounds that cut deeper than any blade. His family is determined to be there for him -- if only he can let them in.

Canon-compliant, focusing on PTSD, amputation recovery, and sibling grief, with plenty of whump, hurt/comfort, and emotional catharsis. Set shortly after the return from Tantiss and my fic Breaching the Wall. 43,000 words total.

Chapter 3: Tradition. The siblings are about to move into their new home when Omega suggests a Pabu tradition. Crosshair struggles with accepting help. ~5800 words, Crosshair & Omega POV. (This incorporates part of a previous ficlet, but adjusted to fit within this story, just in case you think some parts seemed familiar!)

---

The days kept coming. Omega seemed to be feeling better again, her regular sunny self once more, and she was buzzing with excitement about the new house. There were only a few more days of work on the electronics and finishing touches, and then it’d be ready. Good. None of them liked using the Imperial shuttle as their home, and even though it was bigger than the Marauder, they seemed to get on each other’s nerves more easily in here.

Crosshair yawned. He hadn’t slept well the night before, waking up several times and then sleeping long after the sun had risen. Wrecker, Hunter and Omega were apparently already up, leaving him alone. It was time to get up and get ready. He shambled out of his bunk and into the ‘fresher.

He stared into the military shuttle’s poor excuse for a mirror, frowning at what he saw in the dimly reflective gray metal. The stubble on his face was slowly trying to turn into a beard, gray shot through with white, coarse hairs slightly curling. The hair on most of his head was much the same, scruffy and wavy. After their cadet years he had always kept his hair short, irritated by its curly texture and the maintenance needed to keep it from tangling. After Bracca he’d gone even further, keeping it nearly fully shaved, and even on Tantiss they’d allowed him to keep it shorn close.

But now --

His left hand curled into a fist. His stump hung uselessly at his side.

He knew Hunter or Wrecker would grab the clippers or razor they’d picked up from the market and cut his hair for him happily. All he had to do was say the word. It shouldn’t be so difficult, and yet…

Crosshair let out a long breath. To hell with it. He glanced around, looking for the clippers, but they weren’t in their usual spot. His eyes landed on the razor instead and he hesitated. Before he could think better of it, he splashed his face with water and lathered his patchy beard with soap, then picked up the razor with his left hand.

How hard could it be?

He set the razor down five minutes later, dropping it into the sink to let it wash clean. Bloody water swirled into the drain, and he grimaced, wiping his face. Multiple streaks of blood came away on the back of his hand. Close enough.

He turned on the hot water in the shower. He stripped off his nightclothes one-handed, fumbling with the shirt as usual, and stepped beneath the water, his face stinging, his eyes burning.

---

”Cross?”

“Hrm?” he muttered, toothpick wavering between his lips as he sat down on the gangway, where Wrecker was working on what remained of breakfast. It seemed Hunter and Omega were out with Batcher.

“You, uh, you shaved,” said Wrecker, giving him an odd look over his mug of caf.

Crosshair shrugged, looking at the bowl of fruit resting beside his brother. He should probably eat some of it, though he wasn’t particularly hungry.

“Time for a change.”

”But you’re bleeding.” Wrecker reached over, holding out a napkin, looking concerned.

Crosshair froze. “Kriff,” he hissed beneath his breath. He reluctantly accepted the napkin, dabbing it at his face and wincing.

”You know, if you ever need a hand—” Wrecker began.

He glared at his brother, suddenly needled. The breath felt trapped in his lungs. “Very funny.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that!” Wrecker sighed, looking abashed and shaking his head. “I didn’t mean -- You know what I was tryin’ to say. If there’s somethin’ you need, you can bug me any time.”

Crosshair nodded. He’d known Wrecker wouldn’t ever purposefully jab at him about something like this, but in the moment, it had surprised him how the casual phrase had stung. He looked down, balling up the napkin in his fist. “I… didn’t want to ask.”

”I get it. Must be hard.” He held out the bowl of fruit to Crosshair. “You want some?”

”Sure.” He tucked the napkin under his right arm, remembering to reach for the fruit with his left hand. He grabbed a meiloorun, its flesh pleasantly firm in his grip, and sniffed it. The aroma was sweet. He took a bite, though chewing took more effort than it should, and the fruit didn’t taste as good as it had smelled.

“So… you gonna grow your hair out like Hunter?” Wrecker asked slyly.

”Don’t. You. Dare.”

Wrecker broke into peals of laughter. “Just picture it! We could get you a bandanna with a crosshair on it! Red or black?”

“Wrecker, I will end you myself,” Crosshair growled, before a grin stole over his face. He chuckled, shaking his head. “All right. If my hair starts looking anything like Hunter’s, I’ll ask you to shave it immediately.”

“Deal!”

“Well, now that that’s settled,” said Crosshair. “Any caf around?”

“You work on the fruit, and I’ll get you some caf.” Wrecker got to his feet to head back inside, then paused. “You slept awful late today.”

Crosshair’s mouth quirked down at the edges. “Happens now and then.” It didn’t used to happen. He’d always been an early riser after a lifetime of military training. Now, though… “I can’t sleep in?”

“No, no, you can. Just doesn’t seem like you, that’s all,” said Wrecker. He gave Crosshair an appraising look, as if he could see right through him.

He slept through the night, Crosshair told himself. I would have noticed if I’d woken him up. He had an unsettling feeling he might have talked in his sleep, though. Flashes from the night seared his mind, an electric shock arcing through the calm summer morning --

His hand useless and shaking, losing its grip on the binoculars in the jungle -- the vibrosword’s blade lifting back up, his own screams in his ears, what did they do to him -- being dragged away in a trail of blood, staring helplessly at a small bundle limp and sodden in a lake of red, five half-curled fingers --

He shivered, then busied himself eating his fruit, turning away from Wrecker and gazing out on the colonnade with an effort. He barely noticed how it tasted, distracting himself with watching the marketplace. His eyes scanned the crowd carefully until half a klick away he spotted Hunter, Omega and Batcher, their silhouettes instantly recognizable. They looked to be doing the day’s shopping in the market. He tried to focus on small safe details, sunlight glinting off Omega’s hair, Batcher frisking around Hunter’s heels.

A lake of red --

He huffed a deep breath. No. Don’t think about it.

“Cross?”

Crosshair shook his head, giving Wrecker a faint smile. “I must really need that caf.”

”All right, then.” Wrecker headed back inside to the tiny galley.

Crosshair watched him go, then finished his fruit mechanically. He reached up to wipe his face, wincing when the acidic fruit juice stung half a dozen tiny cuts from his shave job. He’d have to figure something else out, or go for a beard after all.

He gazed out sullenly at the marketplace, his mind empty, feeling cold despite the sunny day.

---

Omega steadied her breath, trying to keep her hope tempered. Moving day could be as early as tomorrow.

Of course, the idea of “moving day” itself was silly. Between the four of them and Batcher, their possessions were meager -- what remained of her brothers’ armor (no backpacks, no helmets, Wrecker’s chestplate nearly unusable), the two blasters they’d managed to make it off Tantiss with, the few sets of clothing they’d cobbled together with the help of the villagers, and a few other odds and ends. Wrecker could easily carry it in a single load; even Omega could bring it all down from the ship with a cart.

But as they’d worked with the village to build their little house, Lyana had told her that moving days on Pabu were special. They weren’t common, most people tending to live in the same home for their life on the island, but sometimes when a family grew or changed there would be a move, and there had been many moves after the sea surge. It was a time for letting go and saying goodbye to the old, but also joyfully welcoming in the new.

That sounded like something they all needed, but now she had to figure out how to get her brothers on board. She found her opening at dinner.

It was Crosshair’s turn for dinner plans. At first they’d told Crosshair he didn’t need to worry about the dinner rotation, he was still healing and getting used to doing things one-handed, but he’d just glowered as fiercely as ever, the angle of his toothpick sharp and aggressive. “I’ve got it,” he’d said, eyes narrowing, and they’d backed off. If he had it, he had it.

Omega waited for dinner while playing with Batcher and Wrecker, Hunter sitting beneath the great weeping maya and watching them. Wrecker and Hunter still weren’t fully back to their regular selves either. Wrecker got tired more quickly, more easily out of breath than he used to, and Hunter was stiff in the back, with a slight limp. Like Crosshair, they were both slowly improving; but also like Crosshair, they tried to pretend that they’d come back from Tantiss with nothing more than a few scratches. She hated seeing them do it, but she understood, too.

After all, she hadn’t told any of them about the nightmares she kept having about the bridge.

She shook her head. They were here on Pabu. They were safe. She repeated it to herself. We’re safe, we’re safe, we’re safe.

Batcher snuffled, running up to her and nearly knocking her over. Omega laughed as her reverie broke, giving the hound a good scratch on the chin. “Wrecker, do you have her ball?” she asked.

“Oi! Batcher, over here!” Wrecker called, winding up and chucking the ball a good thirty feet past Omega. Batcher shot off, her claws scrabbling on the stone as she galloped for the ball. Omega turned back to Wrecker with a grin, but her smile faded when she saw him rubbing his chest, wincing.

“Maybe we’d better take a break, Wrecker,” she said. “Besides, Crosshair’s probably ready with dinner soon.” She wandered to where Hunter was sitting and took a seat beside him, and Wrecker followed a moment after.

“I hope it’s something good,” Wrecker said. “I’m starving!”

Hunter chuckled, patting Wrecker on the shoulder. “You’re always starving. Don’t worry, everything here’s good. Hard to go wrong with our basic plan of ‘trade for something from the market, put it together with something else from the market, eat.’”

“But the house should be ready tomorrow, right?” Omega asked. “We’ll have a real kitchen. We could learn how to really cook something!”

Hunter gave her a small smile. “You want to learn to cook? We can figure it out together. Maybe there’s someone in the village we can ask to give us some pointers. Your guess on how to cook anything is as good as mine. Which is to say, terrible.”

She giggled. A loud whistle came from the direction of the shuttle, and she looked up to see Batcher tearing off to meet Crosshair out front of the shuttle. He leaned down to pat her with both arms, but Omega saw him glance to his right as he did so.

“The forgetting must be so hard,” she said quietly to Hunter as they walked back to the shuttle. “With his hand.”

“I know,” said Hunter. “I see it too.” His face darkened with a hint of sadness. “It took Echo a good while before that got better.”

Omega reached out, taking Hunter’s hand for a moment and squeezing it. “I wonder when Echo will come back. I think it’d be good for Crosshair if he was here.”

“I do too, but we talked it over before Echo left. Crosshair insisted that if Echo was up to it, he should get back to the fight. Especially with his work helping the other clones from Tantiss,” said Hunter. “He didn’t want Echo to put that off for him.”

She sighed. “That sounds like him.”

They reached the shuttle and followed Crosshair and Batcher inside. Something smelled good, though the tiny galley was a mess, with tins piled on top of each other and splotches of sauce all over the slim counter. Crosshair was normally exceptionally neat -- nothing like the chaos of Wrecker or Tech -- but Omega figured it’d be hard to keep things clean as he went in such a small space, with only his left hand.

Besides, the mess mattered little. The narrow collapsible table was pulled out with a tray of seaweed wraps, cooked fish, a large dish of rice, and an assortment of thin-cut vegetables of varying sizes. There were so many tasty things there wasn’t room for their plates on the table, but eating with a plate on their knees had never stopped them before. Omega grinned. “Crosshair, this looks delicious!”

He shrugged. “Not like I did most of it. I just asked around at the market for what went well together. All I did was the rice and the vegetables. I think it’ll be edible.”

“Looks great to me!” Wrecker said. He doled out portions for each of them, then they sat down on the flight seats lining the walls, balancing their plates in their laps. Omega rolled up rice, fish and vegetables with the seaweed and stuffed the whole thing into her mouth, grinning and flashing Crosshair a thumbs up. He smiled slightly back at her.

“Well, the house is… done, I think,” said Hunter. “We can pack up everything and sleep there tonight.” He shook his head, taking a bite of a roll. “Hard to believe we’ll have a house. Us.”

Omega looked up at him with wide eyes. He looked so wistful, still half in disbelief even though they’d all been down in Lower Pabu working on the house all week. “Actually, Hunter, I had an idea.” She beamed at her brothers.

“Shoot,” said Crosshair. He balanced his plate on his knees, keeping it pinned in place with his right wrist, and worked at trying to roll up food with his left hand. Rice spilled out of the end of his wrap as he took a bite.

“What if we do moving day tomorrow?”

“Moving day? It’ll take about an hour to walk back down there tonight with everything, and then we’ll be done,” Wrecker said with a hint of confusion. “Why do you wanna wait?”

“Lyana told me about how people here make a big deal out of moving day. It’s a tradition. You say goodbye to your old home first, and thank it for what it did for you. Then, you make a fresh start in the morning in your new home. It’s a way to celebrate new beginnings! And… that’s what I want. A new beginning, with my brothers.” She smiled, looking around at each of them hopefully.

Hunter looked touched, a soft smile on his face. Wrecker wiped at his eyes, clearing his throat. Crosshair nodded thoughtfully, setting down his half-eaten roll.

“That sounds real nice, Omega,” Hunter said. “All right, we’ll do things your way.” He chuckled. “Though this shuttle isn’t much to say goodbye to. It’s… serviceable, and it got us where we needed to go. But that’s about all I can say about it.”

“I know,” Omega said, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t like it either. But…” She hesitated. “Maybe we should say goodbye to the Marauder instead. We lost her so suddenly.” She folded her arms over her chest, squeezing herself in a slight hug before returning back to her food.

“Villagers said they hauled up a few more pieces of her, a few days ago,” said Wrecker. “Nothin’ salvageable.” He hung his head. “It happened so fast. I saw the detonator flash one, two -- I grabbed Gonky -- and I jumped -- That’s all I remember, ‘til I woke up. And then you were gone.” He reached out, tousling her hair and letting out a long breath. “That was a rough night.”

Gonky, charging in the corner, let out a soft, mournful warble. “Yeah, we almost lost you, you pile of bolts,” Wrecker said. Gonky gonked back at him, sounding much more chirpy.

“I don’t think any of us like thinking about that night,” said Hunter. He glanced at Crosshair, and Omega followed his gaze. Crosshair had stopped messing with his food and sat there silently, his face somewhat paler than usual, his gaze lowered.

“We don’t have to talk about that part of it,” Omega said quickly. “But… what about happy memories of the Marauder? Like -- like the first time I ever saw hyperspace.” A warm glow filled her chest, remembering Tech’s sure hands on the controls, Hunter’s encouragement, the starfield opening wide before her. She’d never seen anything so beautiful, so thrilling, so alive with possibility. The memory sparkled in her mind’s eye. “The whole galaxy opened up for me the day we first left Kamino. All those stars. I’ll never forget that, not ever.”

Wrecker grinned at her. “Aw, kid. You shoulda seen your face. You just lit up. Never seen anyone so happy before.”

“That was special,” Hunter said fondly. “Even with everything else going on --- that was a good moment.”

Crosshair quietly rolled a clumsy wrap together, taking a bite and chewing slowly.

Omega frowned, trying to catch his eye and failing. Sometimes it was hard to remember that that memory was tied up with their fleeing Kamino… leaving Crosshair behind. She knew it hadn’t been his fault, it hadn’t really been him that day, and they’d had to leave. She knew they’d all been moving past that, but it still stung if she let herself think about it.

She tried a different tack. “Well, what was it like for all of you? The first time you saw space?”

Hunter gave her a quick look. He’d picked up on what she was doing, and approved of it. He pursed his lips together, deep in thought. “Our first spaceflight as Clone Force 99…” He laughed. “We were itching to get out there. Knew we were ready. We’d had the training and then some. The Kaminoans wanted to make sure we were… ah, worth the investment.”

“We couldn’t be as good as the regs. We had to be ten times better,” Crosshair said at last. “And we were.”

“Hell yeah we were!” Wrecker said. “But they wouldn’t let us go out without those flight tests. We each had to pass.” He shook his head. “Never liked flying. I passed, but uh, it’s not my thing.”

“What about you, Crosshair?” Omega asked. “You let me fly when we escaped.”

“I’m an adequate pilot,” he said, shrugging, his nose wrinkling. “But up in vacuum without atmo, the light can be a little much.”

Omega tilted her head, puzzled. All ships had treated viewfields to help protect their pilots’ eyes. Shouldn’t that be enough to block out the radiation?

“Crosshair’s enhancement,” Hunter explained. “He sees more of the spectrum than we do, but in space, it’s too much. Gives you headaches sometimes, right? Something about UV light and scatter? Tech could explain it better.”

“Something like that,” Crosshair said. “It’s better with a helmet. Keeps things manageable. But I prefer my stargazing from solid ground.”

“Well, Tech and I had fun with the test, at least,” Hunter said. He grinned at the memory. “The reg who was grading us did not approve of some of our maneuvers. Something about not being regulation. Tech just quoted back three pages of the flight manual to him and then pulled a Tech turn for good measure. The reg almost failed him out of spite, but Wrecker cracked his knuckles at him, and that was that.”

Omega laughed brightly, hearing Hunter use her name for Tech’s most outlandish maneuver. It made her miss Tech a little extra, but in a good way.

“Good thing they didn’t bother with inspections after we passed,” Hunter said. “They’d have had a heart attack with some of the modifications to the Marauder Tech made. Some mods weren’t just against regulation, but I think they were technically illegal in many, many star systems. Of course, that didn’t matter to Tech as long as he thought his ship flew better with them.” He snorted.

Crosshair abruptly set his plate down on the seat beside him. “Anyone want any more? I’ll put the leftovers away if you’re done.”

“Oh no you don’t, I got cleanup!” said Wrecker. His eyes fell on Crosshair’s plate, still mostly full of food. “Wait, you aren’t gonna finish that?”

Crosshair shrugged. His face looked pinched, his jaw set tighter than usual. “Wasn’t that hungry. You can take it.” He got to his feet. “Going to go take the hound for a walk. So it’s settled? We’ll ‘move’ tomorrow?”

“Uh -- yeah,” Wrecker said, giving Hunter and Omega an uncertain look. “Come on, Cross, stay. We can all take Batcher later.”

“She needs to go now,” said Crosshair, in a tense, strained voice. “Save any leftovers for her.” He hurried out of the shuttle and into the soft dark of the early evening, Batcher at his heels.

Omega, Hunter and Wrecker looked at each other. “Was it somethin’ we said?” Wrecker asked.

“I don’t know,” said Omega, her good mood fading to be replaced by worry. “I thought it was nice, talking about the Marauder. And Tech.” She glanced back at Crosshair’s mostly untouched plate, remembering how hard it had been for Crosshair to keep his plate steady and roll up his food. “Maybe his hand is bothering him.” She sighed. “Do you think we’ll be able to find him a new one soon?”

Hunter smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re always looking out for him, aren’t you?”

“All of you,” she said stubbornly. “My little brothers.” They chuckled, and Wrecker reached out to pat her on the back. She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.

“Echo talked to him about a prosthesis,” Hunter said. “It’s not as simple as just running out to the nearest marketplace. One, they’re not always easy to find. Two, the people who make and sell them might ask questions about clones looking for them. It’s a… sensitive thing to acquire.”

“They’re expensive, too,” said Wrecker, taking a bite of the leftovers from Crosshair’s plate. “Crosshair’s worth it! But might take some time.”

Omega leaned back against her seat, remembering the credits she’d won off that Imperial officer. Crosshair had almost been scandalized at how good she was, but she knew he’d been impressed, too. Despite how dire the situation had been, it was still a good memory -- the two of them against the world.

Her eyes narrowed. They’d stuck together in tough times before. She’d do everything she could to help him here, too.

---

His blood pounded in his ears, a dull roaring rush, his pulse jagged and skittery. Crosshair rounded a bend in the stairs, descending them aimlessly, no clear idea where he was going. Batcher followed him, looking up at him now and then with a soft whuff, but he kept onward.

Dinner should have been easy. He should have gotten something premade, something he could have doled out of a tin one-handed onto their plates. But the fresh fish had looked good, the villagers’ vegetables fresh and vibrant, and he’d wanted to show his family he could give them something decent. He’d figured he should try.

It hadn’t been too bad, except for the chopping. It had taken him the better part of an hour to cut up vegetables for four people. The vegetables had come out all different sizes, and more than a few big hunks had dropped on the ground for Batcher to eat, but he’d gotten there eventually. By the time he’d finished, he had thought he might have had this dinner thing down.

Except for failing to account for the fact that everyone else had two hands to roll their food up with, and he had one.

But those little things didn’t matter. He was starting to realize that there were just going to be obstacles now, things he couldn’t think of in the moment that would prove to be frustrating and difficult, and that truth was starting to settle into his bones, where he could expect it. He didn’t like it, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise.

He jogged down the steps, the stone ringing under his feet, his breath coming quickly.

Dinner would have been fine. But why they’d had to start talking about --

He stopped, catching his breath, leaning on the short stone wall overlooking the moonlit sea. He bent over the wall, breathing hard, his eyes screwed closed.

Batcher nudged his leg, whining. He reached down absently with his left hand, patting her half-heartedly.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “You can go back to the ship, if you like. Just needed -- to get out of there.”

They’d all sat around, trading stories, laughing, eating their dinner easily with both hands; and he’d sat there, getting quieter and quieter, tenser and tenser. He didn’t understand why panic had started clawing at the inside of his chest, why it had gotten harder and harder to breathe as they kept going.

His breath seared.

He shook his head, nostrils flaring, biting his lip. Focus. He went perfectly still. Then he balled up his left fist and smashed it into the wall.

Pain instantly radiated out from his knuckles, despite the fact he’d pulled back at the last second. He swore, shaking his hand out, then tucking it beneath his right arm and pressing it tightly to his chest.

Stupid. You only have one left, idiot.

He shook his head again with a growl, trembling slightly, breathing hard. Batcher whimpered, nudging his leg again.

“I said go!” he snarled.

Batcher sat down, looking up at him defiantly, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. She tilted her head and whined.

“Fine,” he relented. He crouched down beside her, reaching out with his throbbing hand to pat her. He scritched her on the chin, which she always loved, and he took a deep, shaky breath.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he muttered. The hound just leaned into his hand, closing her eyes as he scratched her. He scratched and scratched, until the throbbing in his hand went away, and the moon swung high above them.

---

Hunter was waiting for him. He sat on the gangplank, a cup of caf in hand, watching Crosshair and Batcher cross the moonlit colonnade.

Crosshair sighed. He’d hoped that being gone so long might have meant the others had gotten to sleep. He should have known better.

Batcher galloped to Hunter for a good scratch, then went on inside the ship to go find Omega. Crosshair closed the distance between him and Hunter much more slowly, at last stopping a few feet away.

“Evening,” he said awkwardly.

“It’s a nice night for one,” said Hunter, just as awkwardly. He tried to crack a grin, but took a sip of his caf instead. “That was some walk.”

Crosshair sighed. “You didn’t need to wait up. Don’t tell me I have a curfew.”

“No,” Hunter said. “But I thought you might want to talk. You left dinner in a hurry.” He reached behind him, pulling out a closed food tin. “Hungry now?”

Crosshair glared at him for a moment, then relented, sitting down and taking the proffered tin. “...yes.” He’d almost forgotten, he had been feeling so agitated, but his stomach gave a reminding rumble. He struggled for a moment with the lid, batting away Hunter’s hand before he could lift it for him, and popped the top off. Inside was a portion of dinner’s leftovers, except the food had already been assembled for him in easy-to-grab rolls.

His shoulders sank. Hunter must have noticed he’d been having a hard time at dinner. He closed his eyes for a moment, torn between accepting the small kindness and telling Hunter just where he could shove it.

He took a roll and crammed it in his mouth Wrecker-style, barely tasting it. “Thanks,” he said with his mouth half-full. He ate a few more pieces in silence, then glanced over at Hunter, who was watching him closely.

“So where’d you and Batcher head to?”

Crosshair shrugged. “Around. Took the stairs for a few laps. Needed to stretch my legs.”

Hunter nodded, apparently accepting the explanation. But his eyes flicked down, then back up. “Did you trip or something?”

“What?”

“Your knuckles.”

Crosshair swore to himself, picking up his left hand. Scrapes adorned the knuckles, clear as day, and they were faintly swollen. They didn’t really hurt anymore, but it had been careless of him. “It doesn’t matter.”

Hunter sighed. “You’re damn stubborn, Crosshair. But you’re not subtle. What happened at dinner?”

“I don’t know,” Crosshair said honestly. “But I had to leave.” He stared down into the tin of food. He’d been looking forward to sharing a meal with them. He’d wanted to stay. But there’d been an emptiness gnawing at him the longer they’d talked. “Felt like… the walls were closing in. Needed the air.”

The simple admission took Hunter aback. “Oh. You’re actually telling me.”

Crosshair chuckled. “It’s my new softer side.”

Hunter nearly choked on a stifled burst of laughter. “You’re a shit sometimes, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

He finished his dinner, setting the tin down. It had been far easier to eat like this, with a little help. It galled him even as he appreciated it.

“Did the fresh air help?”

“I think so. Hard to describe it. I… wanted to stay. But I couldn’t.” He shook his head, frowning, breathing a little harder. He rubbed his head with his left hand, his palm brushing against the short crop of hair stubbornly growing back. “It’s nothing. Just… adjusting.”

Hunter nodded, mouth pulling to one side with a bit of tension. “If it stops being nothing, and starts being something… just remember, we’re here, Crosshair.”

“Since when did you get so warm and fuzzy?”

Hunter laughed, a sharp barking sound, and checked Crosshair with his shoulder. “It’s my new softer side.” Crosshair snorted, and for a moment they laughed together like they were cadets, their guard slipping.

“And how’s your hand?” Hunter asked.

“You mean the lack of it?”

“I -- yeah, I guess. Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Crosshair waved his wrist at him. “Don’t be. It’s awkward. I’m still getting used to it.” He gazed off into the strings of glow lamps adorning the colonnade and the surrounding buildings. Their bright orange and white and yellow colors swirled together, a soft blush against the dark.

“Is it still hurting?”

He thought of saying no. It was certainly less painful than it had been, by several orders of magnitude. But that didn’t mean it was fine. “Yes.”

“When’s the last time you saw AZI?”

“Yesterday. He still has me on pain pills. I don’t need them often now. But when I do, it’s --” He scowled. “And it’s random. Hard to predict.”

Hunter nodded. “You know, Echo pinged us while you were out. He’s between missions for another rotation, wanted me to let you know in case… you know, you wanted to talk. Left a message for you.”

He thought of Echo lightyears away, with Rex, Howzer, Gregor. Good men, after everything. He had no doubt Echo would continue to fight for a long while. But talking to him — there was nothing new to say, especially over long-range comms. Crosshair shrugged. “Hm. I’m good.” He wondered what Echo’s message had been. Maybe he’d check it out, after the others fell asleep.

Hunter cracked a half smile. “Yeah, he figured as much. He and Omega had a long chat, though.”

“Mhm. She misses him,” said Crosshair. He wondered if that had been part of the reason she had seemed so off a few days ago.

“I think she hoped he might stay with us with Tantiss gone. But Echo’s followed his own path for a while now,” Hunter said. He sat back, gazing up at the night sky. “You were right back there. On Tantiss.”

”About what?” Crosshair asked, giving Hunter a wary look.

”We’re not Clone Force 99 anymore,” Hunter said in a rough voice. He held out his hands, bare instead of gloved, no plates or gauntlets on his arms. They were the hands of a civilian, not a soldier. “We can let it go.” He let out a long sigh. “Ahh, look at me getting — well, whatever this is.”

Crosshair closed his eyes. Let it go. It sounded so simple. He was the one who’d thrown it out at his brothers like a grenade, a bomb to impress upon them the seriousness of what he was saying, something to jolt them into accepting his sacrifice. And then they’d stepped up. Told him they were in it together. He believed it — then on Tantiss, and here on Pabu.

So why was it so hard to lean on them?

He didn’t have an answer. He opened his eyes, meeting Hunter’s gaze. “Letting go is easier than it sounds,” he said at last.

“I think I know what you mean,” said Hunter. He gave Crosshair a nod. “Come on, it’s getting late. And we’ve got the move tomorrow. You left before Shep and Lyana came by with their announcement. Guess moving day comes with a party.”

”Oh?”

“They said the villagers will be stopping by with donations, food, drinks, little things to make the place feel like home. I tried to tell him we were fine, they’ve already been too generous, but Shep’s as stubborn as you are. And I could see Omega really wanted to do it. Wrecker, too. I mean, there’ll be food involved,” Hunter said.

”Goody,” said Crosshair. It sounded like a kind enough gesture. But a day of near-strangers in their new house, when all he felt like doing was being alone, sounded like… a lot.

His arm prickled with a sharp, arcing ache. He hissed, rubbing it hard with his left hand, biting back a curse.

”Want me to grab your meds?” Hunter asked.

”No. I got it,” said Crosshair. He got to his feet, picking up the empty tin of food in his left hand. He gave Hunter a long look. “Thanks. For this.”

”We’ll be more mindful of your hand,” said Hunter. “Should’ve helped you from the start.”

Crosshair shook his head. “I have to figure this out on my own. It’s the only way.” He hurried back inside to get his medication, his arm tingling in waves, and nearly missed Hunter’s retort.

”It doesn’t have to be on your own.”

#the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch fanfic #bad batch fanfiction #crosshair bad batch #crosshair the bad batch #hunter bad batch #hunter the bad batch #omega bad batch #omega the bad batch #a rain that sounds like home #my batcher fic #this is a long one! it surprised me #also this is up on AO3 under the same title #i just don't link it because outside links remove your work from tags I thought #so i leave the link out alas

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aneenasevla · 1 month ago

Text

Red Velvet - Chapter 9

MasterList / Akane’s profile / Last chapter here

Chapter 9 - New Year

And once again, they woke up together, but this time they weren't at her house.

Akane sat up, stretching a little, before going back to bed, her head heavy; apparently the hangover from the other day hadn't gone away yet.

All she remembered was that they spent Christmas at Kanami's house. Everyone got hungover too, but they all still drinked some more at the end of the day, chatting all the while. Kanami, who really came from a culture that valued Christmas a lot, even gave the girls small gifts: some delicate but cute earrings and necklaces, plated in gold. They were in her bag at the time, and Akane smiled when she remembered them. That Butch could be really cute, and she deserved that guy so much. She won the freaking lottery after so much bad luck in her love life during her teenage years and early adulthood, she supposed.

Not as much as she did, but Akane deserved it because of karma, Kanami didn't.

She sighed, hugging her current fuck-buddy a little, and found herself wondering when this momentary luck would end, and cursed herself internally for that thought. As she had decided before, she would make the most of it until he got tired of her. She had done what she could to help him, and she didn't need to teach him anything else that was really important; sex wasn't a difficult subject, and he already had experience.

She sighed, got up and went to the bathroom. She was already undressed, so she didn't mind, just grabbing a towel and going straight to take a shower.

The so-called shack of her current boyfriend was what one would expect from the home of a single, salaried man in his thirties. It was one of several residences in a lower-middle class apartment complex, in a suburb that was a little more presentable than the one where she lived. The apartment was small and quite messy, with clothes scattered around the living room and bedroom, a kitchen that had probably been tidy at some point, and a living room with a bookshelf, TV, coffee table, and a single sofa that urgently needed cleaning. It was pretty normal, except for the huge sandbag hanging from the ceiling in one corner, all worn out and showing clear signs of mistreatment, indicating that it had been used frequently by its owner.

He hadn't exaggerated when he said the place was a mess. Well, at least it didn't stink more than his natural smell, coming from his clothes. The small bathroom, which didn't even have a bathtub, was a little cleaner than the rest of the house, and there, his used clothes were at least kept in a basket. He didn't have much in the way of personal hygiene products: a toothbrush, a bar of soap, shaving cream with a razor and a bottle of aftershave... and a two-in-one shampoo. Holy shit. She grimaced, shaking her head. To a woman who cared a lot about her appearance, that was almost an insult, but hey, it was his body, not hers. And she didn't need to wash her hair yet, so she didn't need to wet her entire head; the soap bar was enough for now. She was going to teach him to buy cheap products that were worth more money, for sure...

She paused for a moment, catching herself thinking about it. Who was she to say anything about how a guy should live his life? Yeah, he asked her how to make a woman go crazy in bed, but nothing else. She had no right to interfere in every aspect of his life... it wasn't like he smelled or was a sloppy guy... well, maybe his hair needed to be better treated because bleaching it could damage the fibers and the skin and he liked to keep it that way, but nothing more than that. Her chest sank, and she sighed, leaning her head against the wall. She didn't feel like crying, it was just... a nasty emptiness. Nothing unusual...

"Akane?" She heard his voice suddenly call, a little weak, and she could only imagine how much worse his hangover must be, considering he had drunk much more than her at the party. "Are you in there? Damn, I feel like a fuckin' wreck- wow!" He opens the door and is startled a little when he sees her under the shower. "Sorry! I thought you were still waiting for the water to heat up…"

He half-hides behind the open door, wearing only the sweatpants she had given him as a gift weeks ago. He was pale, with slight dark circles under his eyes, his face covered in stubble. But his green eyes were alert and tried, out of pure respect, not to stare at her. At least not too much.

She looks at him and smiles a little. Was he still trying to be a gentleman? After everything they've done in the last few months?

"Hey, you've seen me naked lots of times," She says, still smiling, using her hangover as an excuse for the defeated look she must have on her face now. "Forget it and come here. The water is still too cold for my liking...," she raises her arms, sticking her breasts out. "Come warm me up..."

He blushes a little, which was a welcome change from that unpleasant paleness that made him look sick. He opens the door wide and enters the bathroom, smiling excitedly, now staring at her breasts greedily and without any shame. "Yes ma'am! It's just that I didn't think you were in the mood, we came back from auntie's house with a hell of a hangover... but if you're up for it, I'll come over and warm you up."

Up until two months ago, Rihito would have rushed to join her in the shower without even asking if he was welcome or not. But now, he felt he owed respect to the woman who had taught him how to be more pleasant and less inconvenient. He owed respect to everyone else in general. He really wanted to change, to improve, so waiting for an invitation didn't hurt. The way she made him wish to be better still left him very disconcerted, as he took off his pants and folded them on top of the basket. It was probably the item of clothing he took the most care of now.

She made room for him in the shower area so he could get wet, and she stared at him while his back was turned to her. In fact, she had seen many ups and downs in the beauty or sensuality department, and she concluded that he definetly was a handsome man. And yes, he was sexy, he had proven it to her in the best ways. But that buffoonish personality, his extremely happy and cheerful demeanor, and how affectionate he could be when they were together, was what really draw her to him. Even though he denied that, and even though they both threw barbs at each other, it was all affectionate teasing, in the end. Two beings with strong personalities…

"Hnnn…," He closes his eyes as he lets the water run down his body, a small smile forming on the corner of his lips, completely unaware of the line her thoughts were following. "Best thing in this cold weather, am I right?," He opens his eyes again, smiling at her, his eyelids drooping. "Do you want help washing up? I... uh... I just remembered that I only have one bar of soap, I don't know if you mind sharing..."

"I already used the soap…," She takes a step towards him. "And now I want your washing tank…," She runs her hand over his abdomen, to signal what she wanted to say.. "I feel a bit needy after all that cuteness, the hangover makes the envy quadruple…"

He shivers, his eyes getting narrower, his wet hair sticking to his forehead. "Hnn... what are you envious of, woman? Look how hot you are. And you can dance so well on top of that... I'm the lucky one...," He brings her closer with his hands on her hips, their wet bodies rubbing against each other; she felt him "waking up" really quickly where their groins touched. "Leave the cuteness to that bunch of sissies, while we have the best part all to ourselves..."

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey, but today I want something sweet to go with the spice," She hugs him by the shoulders, having to put on a little more effort because she's not wearing heels, but she manages to reach him for a kiss. "Everyone has a lazy day, right? Dancing in bed right next to you is good, even more so after a party like that one. We'll have an encore later...," She looks into his eyes. "Or have you already forgotten that you play fought those brutes twice, got drunk and danced your ass off?"

He blushes even more after that, gritting his teeth a little. "Ugh, I was hoping that all that was just a weird dream I had...! Those bastards must have recorded everything, I'll never have peace in my life again...," He bends down to kiss her again, more passionately. "Now I'm going to have to make you forget about that whole mess...," And he places his hands on her hips, pushing her against the tiled wall and bending down to lick and kiss her breasts, sucking the nipples with his eyes closed.

"Ooh.. only- only if you do all the work, I'm feeling lazy today..."

"As you wish."

She hugs his shoulders for support, and gasps when he lifts her up to a good angle, making her instinctively hug him with her legs too. She moaned more sweetly this time, as she herself had said, but the heat between her legs remained the same.

He makes her rub herself against his cock, her wet lips opening as if to invite him in. She moves her hips so she can feel the friction, the tip touching her clit from time to time, and he smiles with a very particular pride when he feels her trembling in his arms, when he hears her low and oh, so stimulating moans.

"Hnnn... no foreplay again today? Such an insatiable panther, hehe..."

"I'd love some if we weren't in the shower, actually, but being like this in your arms is enough," she whispers as she lightly bites his shoulder. "I think you look hot no matter what...," And her nails do their job, tickling his skin.

"Fuck...," He growls against her neck, licking and nibbling her skin in return, his voice echoing a little in the bathroom, the arousal making it sound even more hoarse. "I'm gonna fuck you so, so hard, woman, you won't even be able to walk after I-"

"Rihito! Are you home?"

Rihito almost drops Akane in fright, even yelping a little. He quickly holds her against the wall, his eyes wide with shock, the color draining from his face again when he recognizes the voice calling for him, sounding a little distant, but still clear enough for them to hear it even over the sound of the running water.

"What the- what is Ivan doing here?!"

"Huh?," Her eyes widen while she stands up, cringing a little with the sudden fright. "Who's Ivan?," She whispers reflexively, full of adrenaline from the fear of getting caught.

"He's one of my coworkers.Why the hell did he come here? Why didn't he call me or something?!," He grunts, looking at the door with gritted teeth. "He's such a cockblocker! I'm sorry, Akane, but… argh, how the fuck am I supposed to answer the door like this?!," He points to his own erection with a desperation that would have been hilarious, if it weren't for the situation.

"Calm down and go answer it," She pushes him towards the door. "Just try thinking about some gross stuff... and at least wrap yourself on a towel!," She hisses in a low tone, mortified when he was about to leave the bathroom naked, just like that.

He drops the towel a couple of times before he manages to tie it around his waist, opening the bathroom door and looking at her over his shoulder. “I'll keep him there at the door until you get dressed. Sorry, he's not one to show up like that, out of the blue... oh, shit, did something bad happen at the fridge?” He asks himself, now worried, before running into the hall. She was still a little scared, but calmed down a bit when she saw that it was someone he knew. Rihito opens the door and Ivan, a very thin guy with pale blond hair, is waiting on the other side.

"Rihito! Blyat, you're alive," he exclaimed, the russian accent evident due to his relief. "You never miss a day of work without giving us a heads up, we were worried! And... oh," He notices his boss' clothing... or the lack of it. "Sorry for coming out of the blue, but I wouldn't bother if it wasn't important."

"Damn, Ivan, you scared the crap outta me! And... me missing a day...?," Rihito blinks, confused. "Bro, the fridge closes on the 25th! What are you talking about? Did Komada and you spend Christmas’ Eve drinking or...?"

"Dude, today is the 26th," He raises an almost non-existent eyebrow. "You’re the one who apparently had too much to drink, urod."

Rihito blinks, his expression blank for a second. And even Akane, who was further away, hears him shout, loud and clear, "TODAY IS THE 26TH?!"

Apparently, important dates were also something that his hungover brain was prone to confuse. Akane hissed a little; jeez, her boss was going to chew her ass, but at least today was a non-binding day… but apparently it wasn't for him.

She put on her clothes in a bit of a hurry; he would be busy soon, and she didn't want to give him trouble.

"Yep, it's two in the afternoon on the 26th," Ivan looks at his wristwatch. "We thought you were going to be late, but noon went by and you missed a shit ton of calls. Komada stayed behind to keep an eye on everything while I came to pick you up. I'm glad you're at least alive, I don't want to fight the Deva King to see who will take over your spot," He laughs a little.

"Damn...! Sorry, man, I completely lost track of time," He puts his hand on his face, groaning tiredly. "I drank my ass off yesterday, I'm still recovering... but seriously, sorry for making you guys worry. It's just gonna take a while to get ready and go with you you because...," He scratches the back of his head, now uncertain. "As I thought it was still the 25th, I kind of planned to spend the day at home and... I'm not alone, so..."

Ivan seemed to understand. "Oooh... shit, man, my bad. I arrived at a bad time," he scratches the back of his head. "Well, should I wait here or will it take too long? I even brought some papers for you to read, you are the only one who knows how to deal with this business shit, and... well, I don't sign other people's papers, y'know."

Rihito was about to say something when he hears a yelp from behind him and a dull thump of someone stumbling.

Akane had fumbled with her shoes and was now face down on the couch; she was already dressed, however.

"Ouch," She moans, standing up. "Damn…"

"Akane!," He shouts for her, without thinking, turning his back on a very surprised Ivan and running to help her, the towel almost slipping from his waist. "Are you okay there?"

"Uh... is she okay?," Ivan raises an eyebrow."

"Oh, don't- don't worry about me," She massages her ribs. "I tripped over my heels when I was getting dressed, that's all...," She groans softly, her hair now a multicolored mess. Ivan seemed a little surprised by her appearance, but he didn't comment on it. He just watched, ready to help if needed.

"Careful there, you could twist your ankle with those half-meter platforms," Rihito jokes while helping her sit on the sofa. And then he remembers that they had a visitor, quickly turning to Ivan, very disconcerted. And Ivan had known Rihito long enough to know that sleeping with random women and other people knowing about it never left him disconcerted. This was strange.

"Uh... Ivan, this is Agata Akane, a friend of mine. Akane, this is Ivan Karaev, one of my friends and a co-worker from the fridge...," He scratches the back of his head again, looking to the side. What a bizarre situation to be in for introductions…

"Nice to meet you, miss," Ivan bows a little, cordially, finding the whole situation strange, but keeping it to himself. "I'll wait for you outside, I don't wanna bother. As I said, I wouldn't come if it wasn't something serious."

"Yeah, I know… I'll be right back, I'm just gonna… yeah," And he darts into the apartment, grabbing the towel around his waist, and Ivan had the brief impression of seeing the tips of his ears turning red before he disappeared from the living room. They then heard the bedroom door slamming.

He drops the towel immediately, running to get some underwear and his work uniform from the closet, swearing under his breath as he does so. At least the scare he had received had served to make him go limp, but still… holy shit, how did he lose track of the days like that?! Had he really drunk that much? Or maybe it was that demonic sake that Himuro had brought, which apparently he could handle, but when mixed with that man-whore's cocktails, it was capable of knocking over even behemoths with high metabolisms like him.

He definitely didn't have the mind or stomach to work, but he had no choice. He couldn't leave Ivan and Komada to handle everything on their own, it wasn't fair to them. Damn, just when he was planning to spend a lazy day with Akane, just eating, talking, watching some movies and having sex…

He then lifts his head, making a face. He couldn't let her go home alone like that, in that hellish cold, with just the clothes on her back... the thought of her getting sick or having an accident on the slippery streets made his stomach freeze and drop. Not to mention that he didn't want to say goodbye to her yet, damn it!

Akane, on the other hand, was already leaving. Was she embarrassed, looking like a roadside skank caught in the act? Yes, but if she stayed longer, she could get in the way…

"So he got busy with you," Ivan comments, his voice neutral, shaking his head. "I should've guessed. Sorry, but normally he never brings women to his place..."

Akane sighed, resigned, finally finishing adjusting her shoes and putting on her coat. "Yeah, I thought he was free today, but he's not, so... sorry for disturbing you," her voice was serious, as she walked through the door. "Good afternoon…"

"Akane!," They hear Rihito scream suddenly, coming back in a hurry, wearing the SF Cold Storage uniform and carrying his work boots in one hand. "Wait a minute! No- There’s no need to leave like that, we haven’t even eaten anything yet…"

"Oh," She smiles at him. "It’s okay, Rihito, I’ll get back to you when I get home. I'm gonna take a cab, and you have important things to do. Sorry again for disturbing your work day, Mr. Karaev.

"Uh… no problem," Ivan mutters, embarrassed.

"So... yeah, I'm going now," she smiles a little at Rihito and leaves, now walking normally, like a proper lady.

Ivan waited until she was far away to look at Rihito and comment:

"Was that… a Gyaru?," he crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Damn, I've never seen one who wasn't a highschooler before... where's the street corner where you found her?"

"Don't give me that 'street corner' shit, man!," He snorts, still looking at the point where she had disappeared, a strange expression on his face. "She's a friend. Okubo's girlfriend introduced me to her... but yeah, she's a Gyaru. She has a lifetime commitment to the style, I guess..."

"Hey, calm down. I only asked because that's usually where you find girls like that. Sorry for jumping to conclusions. Well, here's the paperwork," He hands over a clipboard. "This is a boss thing, so there was no way we could send it off without your signature..."

"Thanks... and sorry freaking out, Ivan," He sighs after picking up the clipboard, a little embarrassed by his outburst. "I'm still hungover," He shakes his head. "I'm going to sign this thing and then we'll go to the fridge. Send a message to Komada in the meantime, he must be thinking that you went to the morgue to identify my corpse or something," He jokes as he goes to look for a pen.

And Akane couldn't get out of his head, even as he quickly signed the paperwork. He had seen how embarrassed she was by Ivan's presence. And considering Ivan's misinterpretation of the kind of relationship they had, he couldn't exactly blame her. Even self-assured girls would be uncomfortable being mistaken for hookers, wouldn't they? A strange guilt settled in his stomach, and as soon as he finished signing all the papers, he took out his phone and went straight to her contact number.

Himbo_King🦍:

hey

sorry about that

I should've remembered that today was a work day

Boss_Bitch🍑:

it's fine

I mixed the dates too

not gonna be in your way when you have work

I have to sort myself out, anyway

today's a non-binding day, but I'll have to go back to work tomorrow

I'm gonna take the opportunity to do snd go grocery shopping

so don't worry about me 💋

Himbo_King🦍:

alright then

can we see each other on the weekend, if we're not busy?

I wanna make up for today

you left without even having breakfast

Boss_Bitch🍑:

fine by me

but maybe after the holydays?

mr himuro said he would drink with you guys on new years

and he didn't say for you to bring a date

so it will be a sausage party 🙈

we can go to that thrift store hunt afterwards

it's new years sale, so I'm gonna need an extra pair of hands

Himbo_King🦍:

oh right

our hunt for tacky stuff at a bargain price lol

ok we're all set

message me when you can so I know you got home safely 🙏

Boss_Bitch🍑:

I'm already on the cab

I'll be home in 10 min

Himbo_King🦍:

alright

kiss on ya tits 🍒

And he puts his phone in his pants pocket with another sigh. Only after New Year's... seemed like too long. Was she too busy or did she need some time away from him after the embarrassment? He felt his stomach turn unpleasantly again... but it could just be the hangover. He groans, rubbing his eyes.

"There you go, man. I'm gonna take some medicine and then we can be on our way... holy shit, I hope you spent Christmas being more responsible than I was..."

"Well, I did…," Ivan smiles. "Gina, my niece, came for a visit and gave me a Christmas present, it was really nice. I didn't do much, so being sober was easy. I'm not sure about Komada, but he also came to work in good health, apparently."

"Really? Cool! How's Gina? She's getting prettier by the day, from the last pic you sent on our group chat...," Rihito smiles, and a few minutes later, Ivan and he were already on their way to the fridge, talking about pleasantries, the events from earlier an elephant in the room which neither of them wanted to look at. Ivan only knew that Rihito, at least the Rihito he knew, generally wouldn't have had that reaction to questions about a woman he had been secretly fucking.

But Ivan didn't feel the need to ask. He had no reason to worry about his boss' personal life, especially who he was sleeping with, and if he wanted to keep it a secret, well... he wouldn't be the first to tell either.

…

"It's nice that you managed to convince your family to let you spend New Year's here, man. I hope they didn't give you too much trouble..."

"No, no, it was our agreement. I agreed to exchange the New Year's visit for the Christmas visit because it was going to be the only family gathering my brother would be able to show up to. But now I'm free. And about those videos...," Kaneda opens a huge smile. "If I had known that Rihito was so good at ballroom dancing, I would've suggested adding it to his fighting style, to improve his dodging..."

"Holy shit. You're barely back in town and you're already gonna start roasting me? You fuckin' clown," Rihito grumbles as he pours a glass of sake into his mouth, ignoring how the others laughed at him.

"I told him the same during that snowball fight," Ohma adds, with his cocktail. He was in possession of his own plates of cold cuts and appetizers; the others knew him well, so they tried to get that sorted out before he devoured everyone else's. "Hnnn... this thing here is really spicy," He says without even changing his expression. "It's tasty. But this sand-like thing here is very dry," He points to a little bow, full of cassava flour. "It needs to be served with something with sauce, otherwise it's horrible..."

"That 'sand' was made to accompany the appetizers, man, not to be eaten separately. You're supposed to spread it on top of the food, like this...," Himuro demonstrates by picking up some cassava flour with a plastic spoon and sprinkling it on top of the meat appetizers on Ohma's plate. "Try it. Much better now, right?"

He makes a face and tries it, and then his expression lights up. "Oh, indeed... so it's like a dry sauce," He nods. "Tastes good now."

"No, seriously, your idea of spending New Year's Eve in this Brazilian bar was great," Kaneda comments, smiling, while choosing some pieces from the cold cuts. "The food is really good, very spicy. Do they serve Brazilian alcohol here too, Himuro?"

"Yep! I recommend the 51. It's a kind of schnapps and it's realy good, but it's also some strong stuff. Be careful," Himuro warns, to which Rihito says, "I'm in, but let's try not go crazy like during Christmas. My liver was kicking my ass for a couple of days afterwards."

"It was your fault. I warned you that that sake was strong enough to knock over an bull," Himuro snorts. "And anyway, the booze I mentioned is expensive…"

"I heard it's very popular there," Okubo nods. "And so isthe cocktail they make with it, the Kay-pi-ri-nya..."

"This one?," Ohma points to the said cocktail. "It's sweet, kinda like a lemonade. Pretty strong too."

"You really don’t waste time when it comes to food, huh," Okubo laughs.

"There's nothing else to do here. At least the food is good," Ohma shrugs. "But for those who like dancing I guess it's good. There's plenty of space."

"Caipirinha, Okubo. And yes, it's good, but again, go easy. It seems like weak stuff at first, but before you realize it, you'll see everything spinning like you're inside a washing machine," Himuro warns. "And yes, Ohma, there will be dancing. Later, a few minutes before midnight, they will call everyone to the middle of the dance floor, for the Silver Rain."

"Silver Rain?"

"Yeah. See that crack in the ceiling, right above the dance floor? The one that looks like the opening of a trapdoor," Himuro points to the ceiling. "When it hits midnight, it will open and a shower of silver shredded paper and confetti will fall from above, in celebration of the arrival of the New Year. And that's when the party will really take off. Loud music and dancing until dawn."!

"Holy crap... Brazilians really like these late-night parties, don't they?," Rihito asks, to which Kaneda laughs softly.

"It must be a Latin thing, haha. But we as a group are not that far behind."

"Definitely not, our Christmas was just like that, ahaha," Okubo smiles. "We spent the night playing horror games until the sun came up and a bit more after a few hours of sleep. Rihito and Akane left after ten o'clock at night, singing, holding onto each other's shoulders like two bros after a night out. Not gonna lie, I was proud of her," And there was a fit of laughter. "This fucker here found a demon chick on par with him."

"It’s a shame they didn’t stay to help clean up the mess…"

"We know, Ohma, but just us was enough, and we could rest and sober up enough to go home," Okubo eats some of the appetizers on his plate. "And yes, we're going to go easy today. I’m just gonna drink my passion fruit juice and enjoy the vibes…"

"Man, I was about to barf all over your girl’s carpet! If she was already mad that we almost broke a wall in the hallway during our fight, imagine if I covered her carpet with everything I ate during the party," Rihito makes a face, which Himuro and Kaneda imitate. "You guys would never let me forget."

"Wow, you really went overboard this Christmas, huh," Kaneda raises an eyebrow. "Good thing there was someone there to keep you under control, at least as far as possible…"

"Leave me be, bro! But yes, she helped me a lot...," He scratches the back of his head, smiling. "It was a great night, we even managed to tie with Himuro and his date on Just Dance! We drank like two sailors, and holy shit, she can drink like a man! And after that we went to my apartment... I don't even remember the way there, to be honest..."

"Wait. Did you take Miss Agata to your apartment?," Himuro blinks. Rihito stops smiling, looking away in embarrassment.

"Uh... it- it was closer to Miss Kanami's house than hers! And she wasn't sober either, I wasn't going to let her go home alone like that..."

"They were really drunk. He was even singing romantic songs at the top of his lungs as he walked down the street...," Ohma starts to sing, more in tune. "I’ll go wherever you will gooo..."

"She started singing first, I just followed her lead!," Rihito defends himself, a little indignant. "And why are you two looking at me like that? Did you lose something on my face?," He asks Himuro and Kaneda, annoyed, and they just look at each other.

"It's nothing. It's just... you've never brought a woman to your place before, as far as we know," Kaneda shrugs, and Himuro nods.

"Yeah. You said it was a matter of principle, that your place is a sacred temple to virility and that bringing a woman there would give her the completely wrong idea..."

"Fuck, can't I be a gentleman for once in my life? Should I have let her go home alone, drunk out of her ass, then?," Rihito gestures, somewhere between angry and embarrassed.

"You could've walked her to her place and then taken the train, I don’t know…"

"I barely saw where I was going, I don’t even know how we got home! If I were to take a train straight from that hood, I would probably end up somewhere near Yokohama, Kawasaki or some other random place in the district...," He mumbles, concentrating on his sake, his face slightly red.

"I think he just didn't want to take chicks to his apartment because the place it's a mess. But then Miss Agata comes from a similar area, so I guess it'd be fine," Okubo laughs, and when Rihito shoots daggers at him, he blinks. "What? Did I say something wrong? Or is that hood super safe, full of cute, retired old ladies like yours?"

"Hunf... There are some old ladies there, but they are as cute as a racoon with hydrophobia," Rihito rolls his eyes. "And she didn't complain about my place! At least I can't remember her doing so..."

"If she was drunk too, she probably wouldn’t have noticed. Lucky for you," Kaneda raises his cup as if pointing at him.

"Or maybe she had frequented many like yours," Ohma repeats the gesture that Kaneda made. "Or worse ones, like us."

"Likely. But anyway, after sobriety hit... did you have anything in that fridge besides beer and a few ramen cups? The poor woman must not have found anything to eat after waking up...," Himuro comments, and the way Rihito looked away in embarrassment was enough of an answer. "Yeah, that's what I tought. It must've been quite an adventure having to go to a convenience store to buy something even minimally edible…"

"That’s the thing," Rihito sighs. "There wasn’t even time for us to eat anything. We were in the shower, making out, and then, out of nowhere, Ivan showed up at the door."

"Ivan? Your employee from the fridge?," Kaneda asks, confused. "Did he wanted to give you a Christmas present or something?"

"Well…," Rihito makes a face. "When he showed up, it was the 26th…"

"The 26th? But don't you work on the 26th? ... Holy shit, Rihito," Himuro puts a hand on his face when Rihito blushes again.

"See? Dude was completely hammered," Okubo shakes his head. "Seriously, guys, let's go easy next time. Yeah, it's was fun as hell, and I've never laughed so much during a Just Dance battle, especially when I saw Himuro and Rihito lose to Ohma...

"By only two points, don’t exaggerate," Ohma rolls her eyes. "It was difficult to get that pie."

"And all over some stupid pie!," Okubo laughs.

"By only two points!," Rihito and Himuro exclaim at the same time, slamming their fists on the table indignantly, to which Kaneda covers his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Who would've thought that Himuro would be detroned like that... I wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't sent me those videos."

"Shut up, Kaneda! He only won because he had food as a motivator! If the situation had been different, I would've kept my crown…"

"Like hell you would! Akane and I would have won in a tiebreaker!," Rihito states, lifting his chin.

"In your dreams! The synchronization between my partner and I was perfect!"

"Ours was much better!"

"Look at what you've done, Okubo...," Kaneda laughs more openly.

"Discord and chaos, I love it," Okubo takes another sip of his drink. "And what if the prize were a piece of meat, Ohma?"

"It depends…," Ohma nods, smiling mischievously.

"A juicy barbecue, last batch of the day."

"You wanted me to kill them or something?," Ohma asks with his signature poker face. "Then it wouldn't have happened, they would've known what they're getting into."

"No more bets involving food, damn it! Otherwise this spawn of Cthullu will become an unbeatable freak!," Rihito points to Ohma with a gesture of his hand, and Himuro nods.

"I agree. Next time we'll bet on something else," he grumbles, until Rihito opens his mouth to ask, "No, no money, no one here besides Egghead earns that well to take that risk."

"That's what you get for betting my pie. You can bet booze, if you want," Ohma suggests. "I won't give a shit in that case, and neither will Kanami. She doesn't drink anyway. "

"Hnn, maybe. We can all chip in and buy another Kotozakura," Okubo nods.

"How about competing just for the sake of competing, without betting anything?"

"Says the guy emptied a shit ton of wallets while betting at shogi!," Rihito snorts, to which Kaneda shakes his head.

"It wasn't a bet, I charged a fee. They could pay to play if they wanted, and if they beat me they could get the money back," He shrugs calmly. "But anyway... damn, now I'm a little upset about having exchanged the New Year's visit for the Christmas one. I missed a lot of things..."

"You also missed a Homeric snowball fight, man! We took off our sweaters in the middle of the street and showed off for the girls," Rihito smiles from ear to ear.

"You ruined my sweater," Ohma complains. "Tore the whole thing apart."

"Mine got stuck to the lamp post, so there was nothing to do but get out of it," Himuro shrugs.

"I thought you guys took it off to show off," Okubo was confused. "Was it just me and Rihito who did it for that reason?"

"Obviously. I don't need to be naked from the waist up to be able to impress a girl, get a grip," Himuro rolls his eyes, to which Rihito gives a mischievous laugh.

"But that did help, didn't it? You fucked after the party, didn't you?"

"Rihito!"

"What? I'm just asking!"

"Humph. As if you needed to...," Himuro raises an eyebrow, and Rihito laughs loudly while exchanging a high five with him. Kaneda just sighs, giving up.

"Atta boy! You too, right, Egghead? I'm aware that you don't like to go into details because it's your girl, but that stupid smile isn't fooling anyone..."

"Is there someone here who didn't?," Okubo looks at Ohma, an eyebrow raised.

"It's none of your business," Ohma makes a face. Everyone looks at him and he grunts, annoyed. "Argh, fine. Yes, after you guys left and we tidied everything up. We got in the mood. Happy now, you fuckers?"

There's a chorus of laughter, and Rihito playfully claps Ohma's shoulder, even shaking him a little before letting go. Kaneda shakes his head, a little disapprovingly, a little amused, to which Rihito jokes, "There's no need to get all sulky because you were the only one at the table who didn't get laid, man..."

"I was with my mom, my siblings and a grandfather who has gout problems. I didn't have time to think about these things, and I also didn't want to. But the videos you sent me were entertaining enough. Seriously, Ohma, that was amazing!," He turns his gaze to Ohma. "Was it some kind of technique? Your movements were too precise."

Ohma nods. "Yep. Kure. Copy Technique."

"Damn, dude takes these things way too seriously," Okubo makes a face, holding back a laugh.

"Kure? Holy shit, we should've guessed...," Himuro snorts, while Lihito grunts, "Damn, of course it was a technique from that fucking psycho's clan! Reminde me to never play Just Dance against any of them…"

"It's a nightmare, trust me," Ohma shakes his head. "They're all sore losers, and the prizes are always shitty. What the fuck would I need a SMG for?"

"Uh... I mean, we wouldn't use that shit for anything either, but it's a hell of a manly prize...," Rihito comments, thoughtfully, to which Kaneda says with a grimace, "I prefer the prizes from my grandfather's bingo, honestly... at least they're funny. But anyway, it's still impressive, Ohma! But tell me... was it that technique you used against Rólon, back in Purgatory?"

"Bullseye…"

"I knew it!"

"Damn... we didn't have the slightest chance then. So fucking unfair...," Himuro turns his sake cup into his mouth, and Rihito nods while pouting.

"I think this calls for the booze you mentioned, Himuro. For us to drown our sorrows and whatnot…"

"Wasn’t it you who were saying up until now that we should take it easy, because your liver rebelled against you? Get a grip, you drunkard..."

"You can drink, he can't," Okubo laughs. "We have someone to come home to," and he starts laughing at his friend's face.

"Stop talking nonsense, Chrome Dome Head! I have no one to go back to!," Rihito exclaims "I'm a single, free man, ya hear me?"

"I have it, Okubo. high five," Ohma claps Okubo's hand whit his on. "And I'm happy with that, unlike that 'invincible soldier' there."

"Now that I'm thinking about it, you're always beating our asses. To be able to take you down with a leg lock, it had to be a real Amazon, huh," - Okubo smiles. Ohma smiles even more. "She beat Karla fair and square. Do you think she's some kind of weakling? Hell no," He inflates his chest with pride. "I won't accept anything less than that."

"We told you, your girl could be a champion if the Kengan Association had a female division," Himuro says with a nod, to which Kaneda comments, "It seems that you all have a certain fascination with girls who are part of our world in some way, right? Miss Kanami is a fighter, Tomori is a martial arts fan…"

"Miss Agata is neither… except… does she know?," Okubo looks at Rihito.

"I didn't think about Miss Agata, actually. After all, she’s not Rihito’s 'girl', right?," Kaneda arches an eyebrow at Rihito, to which he frowns, putting another snack in his mouth, looking at Okubo in warning.

"And Kana is a fighter, but that's the thing, she doesn't fight to be stronger or to win," Ohma finishes with his snacks. "She fights to protect others. I thought it was nonsense at first, until she showed me what she was capable of," He nods. "If someone she cares about is threatened, she shows no mercy. Okubo had a taste of it himself."

"Ooh yeah...," Rihito, Himuro and Kaneda make almost identical faces, looking at their friend. "We didn't see the punch, but we saw the bruise afterwards. Looked ugly as fuck…"

"Yeah, I had a taste and deserved it, and if I weighed a few pounds less it would have knocked me down easily. Tokita's the one who's enough of a powerhouse to handle one of these."

"I told you, I won’t accept anything less than that…"

"Such a masochist freak…"

"Would you prefer a crazy woman who only sees you as breeding stalion?"

"Okay, when you put it like that...," Okubo nods, crossing his arms. "At least you had guaranteed sex- OKAY, FINE, I'LL STOP!," he flinches when Ohma punches his ribs. "I got it, I was just joking!"

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Ohma walks away, returning to his cocktail, his face very serious.

The other three laugh loudly, Rihito throwing his head back, before taking another sip of sake in his mouth. Kaneda then asks, "But back to that subject... Is Miss Agata really interested in watching one of your matches, Rihito?"

"She says she was curious. And that she would find it hot as fuck too," He smiles mischievously. "I'm seriously considering it. It will encourage me even more to win, because victory sex is the best kind of sex!"

"... You remember that she is a civilian, right?," Himuro asks, unimpressed. "A normal woman, or as normal as a Gyaru like her can be. She knows nothing about this underworld of illegal fights."

"Eh, Kanami-san now knows, and so does Tomori…

"But they are Ohma and Okubo’s girls. They need to know if they want these relationships to have a future. Your case is different."

"Or is it?," Kaneda asks, sounding innocent. Rihito almost chokes on a slice of salami, which he had put in his mouth with a toothpick.

"Of course it’s different, dammit!," He quickly explains himself, shrugging with an irritated expression. "But if a friend wants to know my world in depth, what's the harm in introducing it to her?"

"The problem is when neither of them really wants to get involved with each other," Okubo crosses his arms, still grimacing from Ohma's punch. "I'm still a public league guy and Tomori can watch me there as much as she wants, but she discovered about the Kengan matches prematurely by putting me against the wall. In Ohma's case...," he looks at Ohma, who looks back at him with daggers in his eyes, and the bigger man gets cautious about what he was going to say. "They even share a house, and besides her having been dragged into this, she is discreet even with public displays of affection," He looks at Ohma again, who nods, remaining quiet again as Okubo continues, "But you..."

"What about me?," Rihito instigates, still a little annoyed. Himuro immediately responds, "Didn't you hear what he said? If you want nothing with her other than a friendship with benefits, there's no point in exposing her to something like that. It's safer for her if she continues without knowing. She's the type that attracts attention, and in a place full of underworld trash, many of them criminals with some nasty records..."

"What? You think I wouldn't be able to protect her?!"

"While you are in the middle of a fighting ring, focusing on your match? No."

This makes Rihito fall silent, the anger being replaced by a worried understanding.

"Kana accompanies Tomori whenever she goes to watch Okubo fighting without one of us," Ohma comments. "So maybe..."

"Yes, but she's going because Tomoh is one of her employees," Okubo shakes his head. "She doesn't want to risk it. And they won’t always watch me fight, precisely for that reason…"

"Anyway, we vote against it," Ohma agrees.

"Not to mention that this could end up having the opposite effect on you, Rihito," Kaneda puts his hands together on the table. "Now that you know the danger she could be in, you may become very unfocused in the middle of your matches, because you will be worried about her."

Rihito's eyes widened a little. "Holy shit, I hadn't thought of that…"

"Yeah. More than any of us, you can't afford to be distracted like this. You're a fighter-businessman, remember? You're risking the prosperity of your business when you fight. You have to consider these factors."

"And she's seen you fight," Okubo smiles a little. "Even if it was just play-fighting between us. She saw your strength when you lifted that huge block of ice..."

"I know... it's just that she seemed really curious. I thought it would be a cool idea for a date, I don't know...," He shrugs, a little sullenly, and takes a sip of sake again. "And it wasn't really a fight, anyway. It barely had any technique in it."

"On your part, because Okubo and I put on a show that left our dates all horny for us," Himuro laughs, and Okubo gives him a high-five.

"Mine got horny for me too, damn it, and I didn’t need to put that much of a show!"

"Mine was just really worried…," Ohma rolls his eyes, but with an affectionate smile.

"Anyway. It's better this way, Rihito, for her safety," Kaneda touches his shoulder. "She's your friend, isn't she? Friends are just as worth protecting as girlfriends."

"Yeah... I know...," He sighs a little. "But now I'm gonna have to say that I changed my mind and I think it's better she doesn't go watch one of my matches. It will seem like I'm breaking my promise..."

"Just say that your employer didn't allow it," Okubo shrugs. "You're the employer yourself, so it's not a lie."

"Or that Yamashitakazuo scolded you, he does that to me all the time," Ohma shrugs too. "I'll order another one of those... is this one good, Okubo?"

"Yes, and you're gonna like it 'cause it's kinda sweet. I'm going to drive all of you around today, so this one is non-alcoholic, but there is a spiked version."

"I’ll order both," he calls the waiter.

"And I want that 51 booze...," Rihito says, still sulking.

"You sure? It's not exactly cheap, y'know."

"Fuck, bro, it’s New Year’s Eve. If you have to choose an appropriate time to get shitfaced, then let it be this one," He sinks into the chair.

"Welp. It's your call," Himuro shrugs and calls the waiter too, when he approaches their table. "A bottle of 51 and two 'caipirinhas', please. Would you like to try it, Kaneda?"

"Of course! But just one, you know that I can't handle too much alcohol, haha."

"Also two passion fruit juices, one spiked and the other not," Okubo points to Ohma. "For this guy here. And maybe another two servings of cold cuts?"

Ohma nods. The waiter writes their orders down and leaves.

"Are you really going to stand there looking like you got something up your ass?," Himuro turns to Rihito with some impatience. "Were you that eager to show off to her?"

"Leave me alone! It's easy for you to give up something like that. You guys had girls cheering you on during your matches…"

"I never had something like this, at least not as far as I know," Kaneda shrugs. "Come on, Rihito, if it's women's attention you want, that dance floor will soon be full of them. Just the way you like it."

"In about ten minutes, actually," Okubo looks at his phone. "It’s a good thing we placed our orders beforehand, otherwise it would take forever…"

Rihito turns his gaze to the dance floor, his brow furrowed a little. The space was still empty, but there were several people standing around, talking to each other excitedly, looking forward to the moment when the countdown to midnight would begin. Many of them were women; all beautiful, as on the first night he came there.

The night he met Akane…

"Do we have to go to the dance floor to stay under this Silver Rain?," Kaneda asks from somewhere far away.

"I don’t know about you, but I will! It's really fun, everyone hugs each other and celebrate together, even if they don't know each other...," Himuro responded. "There are some patrons here who are actually Brazilian, I met a few who-"

"Here it is, gentlemen," The waiter arrives. "And this passion fruit juice here has already been paid for, sir."

"Huh?," Ohma blinks. "By who?"

"Those ladies over there," He points over his shoulder. There were two woman at the counter, who waved at him. Ohma blinks again.

"I don't know them…," He looks at the others. "Do you?"

"Wow, you're still a chick magnet, even with a girlfriend, huh," Okubo laughs, no longer bothered by it.

"This tactic is very common in bars, Ohma," Himuro says in a warning tone. "Buying a drink for someone you are interested in is a kind of flirt. If you accept it, it means their interest is mutual."

"Then give it back," He says immediately. "I'll pay for my own drink."

"I'll let them know that'll pay for ti, sir," He smiles.

"So you don’t need to return it?," Ohma looked at Himuro, an eyebrow raised.

"If you’re going to pay for it, no," He shakes his head in a negative gesture. "They will understand your refusal. Generally, girls accept a 'no' much better than guys, but I can't speak for every single one, so..."

"Then give it back!," He says even more seriously. "And bring me another one. I don't want to give them any ideas. Tell them I already have a girlfriend."

The waiter blinks dazedly and nods afterwards. "Oh... as you wish, sir," he sighs and takes both glasses.

Okubo laughs out loud. "That's our Ohma for ya, completely unreachable. And now even more so."

"Leave me alone, I don't want that anymore," He seemed to have almost fallen into a trap and scraped his way out. If he were a cat, he would have his fur all standing up. "Thanks, Himuro."

Himuro laughs. "You’re welcome. If the girls had come with us, they wouldn't even try their luck..."

"Yes, but it's tradition to spend New Year's Eve with family," Kaneda comments. "I changed the dates and spent Christmas with mine. And you guys…"

"We’re each other’s family, man!," Rihito says suddenly, smiling a little. And then frowns when the others look at him in surprise. "What?"

"Dude... aren't you pissed?," Himuro asks, and Rihito becomes even more confused.

"Pissed about what? About not being able to take Akane to watch me fight? A little, but you guys have a point-"

"No, not with that. Two girls tried to flirt with Ohma. They bought him juice and everything," Kaneda points out, and Rihito blinks.

"Damn, really? I swear I didn't see it, I got distracted," He comments, and then looks at Ohma with a somewhat exasperated expression. "Seems like there's still lots of chicks wanting to play with that joystick, even if it has an owner, eh, Tokita. I swear to God..."

And he goes back to focusing on the cold cuts. Himuro and Kaneda exchange an astonished look, first with each other, and then with Okubo and Ohma.

"Well, thank fuck," Ohma says, smiling. "He doesn't care anymore!"

"I knew it! That she-devil has him grabbed by the balls! One more for the Fallen Soldiers Team!"

"I hate that term," Ohma complains. "It's worse than 'back-stabber.'

"Okay then… How about Soldiers of One Nation?"

"Much better," Ohma nods.

"It's nothing like that, damn it!," Rihito almost drops the cold cuts board, furiously red. "I wasn't pissed because now I can attract girls on my own, so I have no reason too!"

"So far you haven’t attracted any…"

"I'm here to have fun with you, aren't I? For fuck's sake, you guys complain when I chase skirts, and you also complain when I don't! You bastards just want me to fuck you but don't know how to ask for it!," He barks, even more irritated to see that he had only managed to get laughs from them. "And bite your tongue, Baldilocks! I won't join the Eunuch Team even if hell freezes over!"

Himuro and Kaneda just laugh when they see him fumbling with the cheese and salami, very disconcerted.

"Eunuch? Who?," Ohma looks around. "You?"

"Me? Hell no!," Okubo raises an eyebrow.

"He called us eunuchs."

"Don't mind him, he's just being a dick."

"And he still complains when we kick his ass during sparring sessions..."

"Uh… gentlemen?," The waiter comes back, looking embarrassed. "Here's yours drinks, including yours, sir..., He hands a glass to Ohma. "The ladies apologized for the inconvenience."

"Oh," Ohma blinks. "This is new. They never apologize to me," he smiles. He looks at the girls and gives them a thumbs up. "Thanks."

The girls seemed about to faint. Okubo laughs more, and even more so because the Rihito just snorted and rolled his eyes, now slightly annoyed.

"Oh, look, guys," Himuro looks at his phone while the others pick up their drinks. "There are just a few minutes left. Drink quickly or take your drink with you to the dance floor, so you can chug it in your mouth at midnight."

"I don't know if I want to be in the middle of a commotion, but if we all go together, I think it will be fun," Kaneda smiles, trying a sip of his drink, and then shaking with a grimace. "Ugh... wow, It's really strong, but it's not bad!"

"Told you so. In terms of booze, Brazilians are not far behind us," Himuro laughs a little, also taking a sip. He contains his reaction much better, as he was more used to it. Rihito, on the other hand, picks up and opens the bottle of 51 that the waiter handed him, grumbling as he pours some of the contents into the empty glass, his face still flushed.

Those dumbasses had become hopeless romantics after finding girlfriends and that made him sick! He didn't want to be like that, trapped, suffocated, feeling like he owed someone satisfaction for everything he did. He was not born to live trapped in a cage, but to fly freely, light as a bird, one who could crawl into any nest...

Preferably into tacky and cozy nests, full of prints and fuzzy furniture, a monster pink sofa at the center of it all-

He almost chokes in a brief burst of panic, drinking all the drops in the glass at once, the liquid going down as if tearing his throat.

"And there he goes once again," Okubo rolls his eyes.

"I don't feel like going to the dance floor," Ohma crosses his arms. "You can go without me, I'll stay here guarding the table," He takes another cube of cheese from the board.

"Okay then," Okubo gets up. "I'm just gonna go a lil' crazy and I'll be right back, I don't need to waste time there."

"Let’s go together, Okubo! Are you coming, Kaneda?," Himuro asks. Kaneda twists his mouth a little, and then takes another sip of the caipirinha. He shudders again, takes a deep breath and stands up, saying, "Okay, I've mustered some courage! But only until the confetti stops falling!"

Laughing, Himuro follows Okubo, and Kaneda follows close behind. Rihito hesitates, still recovering from the first violent tipping of his glass.

"Are you going to stay here, Tokita? We'll be all together, no one will touch you or anything like that..."

"I don't enjoy this kind of stuff," Ohma takes his phone out of his pocket. "Food is more interesting. Unless you want to stay here and keep me company," He raises an eyebrow. “Besides, don't you want to be touched?"

Rihito opens his mouth, prepared to say yes, if it were by female hands... but then he hesitates. He and Ohma look at each other for about two seconds, a heavy silence hanging over them, until the lights in the establishment dim and the music suddenly stops. Ohma jumped out of his chair, startled, but when he heard people rejoicing, he calmed down.

"Shit, I thought I would have to start running," Ohma breathes, going back to looking at his phone. "I'm going to ask Kanami if I can go to her parents' house... after this, I don't feel like waiting for her at home."

Rihito allows himself a small laugh. Soon they could hear a voice echoing throughout the establishment, from the same announcer he had heard on his first trip to Brazuca’s.

"Ladies and gentlemen!," The announcer’s powerful voice echoes through the open space. "It’s time for the most anticipated moment of the night! Get up and come to the dance floor, because in three minutes our countdown will begin! The Silver Rain is coming!"

And the entire bar vibrates with excited screams, while Rihito and Ohma watched Okubo, Himuro and Kaneda almost getting swallowed by the crowd.

"Aah! Oh, my goodness!," Kaneda clings to Himuro’s arm, who laughs loudly.

"Hahaha! Aren't you coming, Rihito?

"Come on, man!," Okubo calls for him, hugging the other two.

"It's your chance," Ohma says, glancing at him before returning to his phone.

"... Oooh, alright, them!," He leaves the bottle on the table, getting up and running to the dance floor. Himuro and Kaneda scream as he practically jumps on them, grabbing them and pulling them into his famous bear hug, laughing heartily. "Hell yeah! That’s what I call 'seeing the new year' in style! Who wants to be thrown into the air at midnight?"

"Fuck no!"

"Do that and I’ll break your nose!"

Rihito only laughs more, also pulling Okubo so that the four of them are glued together. This was the perfect opportunity for him to just focus on the present moment, on his friends, on the joy of being together like this... and to not think about leopard prints, fluffy fur, pink couches and blue/light brown eyes.

The countdown is on. "Threee, twooo, oooone!," And the trapdoor high above opens, a shower of confetti and colored paper falling on the passers-by, and everyone jumps with joy.

Okubo hugs the other three and shakes them too "YEAAAAH!!! Happy New Year, you bastards! I love you all!"

"FUCK YEAH!,"! Rihito roars, jumping up and down too, almost strangling Kaneda as he lifts him off the ground. "I love you guys too, damn it! For another year of us being awesome!"

"Rihito, you're strangling me...! But yes, Happy New Year, everyone!," Kaneda manages to gasp, and Himuro laughs loudly again, raising his arms up.

"Happy New Year! And I told you guys, didn't I? This feeling is so fucking awesome, hahaha!"

"Man, I love the energy in this place," hOkubo looks at Ohma, still at their table. "Are you thinking the same thing as me?"

"Of course, damn it! TOKITAAAA!," And Rihito and Okubo dart back to the table, arms open, Himuro and Kaneda hot on their heels, laughing when they realize what was coming.

Ohma's eyes widen when he sees the two gorillas running towards him and he tenses up, running away and tripping over the chair during the pursuit.

"AAARGH!," He practically jumped over the tables to run away from both of them. "Damn, what did I do?! Get off me, you freaks!"

"Come here, we want to give you a hug, dammit!," Okubo calls for him.

"Hell no! I’m sick of crazy freaks running after me all the time!"

"We want to wish you a Happy New Year, dumbass! Come more!," Rihito shouts, laughing loudly, the chase seeming to excite him even more.

At one point the crowd stops Ohma from moving forward and he is cornered. He prepares to fight until the two go after him and grab him, giving him a tight hug. Ohma looked like a strangled cat, kicking his legs, his eyes wide.

"Calm down, it’s just a hug," Okubo laughs at the his reaction.

"Yes! Happy New Year, Seaweed Head! And may a bunch more come!," Rihito almost lifts Ohma off the ground in his happiness. Himuro and Kaneda approached them, laughing at the scene.

"Hahaha, we’re going to say Happy New Year from here, Ohma," Himuro waves, and Kaneda nods.

"Yes, Happy New Year! And good luck getting out of there, hahaha!"

"Ugh…," He looked more resigned, but as soon as he calmed down, he sighed. "Happy New Year to you too, you idiots."

"Man, I've been wanting to do this ever since we celebrated your return," Okubo slowly lets them both go. "You never spend the end of the year with us, so this time I was able to do it."

"Heh, okay...," Ohma then looks at Rihito. "Hey... are you enjoying this, you weirdo?," He imitates Kanami's tone..

"Don't get the wrong idea! You never let us hug you, so let me enjoy the moment a little longer," Rihito snorts, squeezing him tighter, again lifting him off the ground... and then letting him go,smiling widely. "Oookay, now I'm satisfied, hahaha!"

"You guys are such idiots, hahaha... and okay, now there are other people who deserve to hear a Happy New Year from me," Himuro picks up his phone, and Kaneda nods, picking up his as well.

"Yes! I have a whole family to contact... oh man, my mom's calling! Excuse me, everyone...," And he leaves for a less noisy area of the establishment.

"Yeah, I have to call Tomori," Okubo smiles stupidly. "My parents must be expecting a call too, so excuse me," and He leaves the scene.

"I was already halfway to sending a message to Kanami and Yamashitakazuo, but two gorillas got in my way,” Ohma takes out his phone and continued typing.

Rihito looks at his friends who are walking away, each one immersed in their phones, calling or sending messages to their friends and loved ones... and he just stays there, the adrenaline of the chase draining away, leaving only a strange feeling of loneliness.

He could send messages to Ivan and Komada, but they wouldn't see it until much later. And he could even send a message to his master if he had a phone, that old fucking hermit... who else was there besides that?

... And then he lifts his head, his stomach heating up, as if he had consumed all the booze the bar had available.

"Excuse me too...," He says quickly as he walks away, going to the table and picking up his coat and his bottle of 51. Then he enters that sea of bodies that jumped, laughed, hugged and kissed, going towards the door.

The cold night welcomes him like the bite of a huge animal on his face, a stark contrast to the heat of Brazuca’s interior. He goes to the curb, leaning sideways against a lamppost, trying to ignore the friend groups and drunk couples who had the same idea as him and left the warmth of the bar to face the snow. He picks up his phone, at the same time he takes a sip from his bottle, the liquid warming him up inside. And then he presses the call button for a specific number, putting it close to his ear, waiting, his stomach doing little somersaults...

"Hello?," It was her voice, sounding a bit slurred.

He smiles, the sound of her voice calming the turmoil in his stomach immediately, like the most potent antacid in the world.

"Happy New Year, Akane!"

"Huh?," She sighs, seeming to wake up. "Ooh... yeah... Happy New Year, Ichiro... I- I mean, Rihito," she sounded a little flustered. He hears a yawn on the other end of the line. "Sorry, I know you don't like people calling you by your real name..."

He shakes his head, leaning in a little and bringing the phone closer to his mouth. "No, it's okay, I don't mind when it's you."

... Fuck. Where the hell did that come from?! That Brazilian booze was a mixture made by Satan's master brewers!

"I- I mean...!," He stammers, his face burning, this time with no relation whatsoever to the cold. "I- I kind of got used to you calling me by my name and... anyway! Did I wake you up? Sorry…"

"No, it's okay...," he can hear a smile in her voice. "It was very welcome. I was already thinking that New Year's Even would pass me by... eh...," She also sounded uncertain. "I mean, nobody called me or anything, and I don't know if I would be in the mood to go out or something..."

"Wow... if I had known I would've called you!," He exclaims, once again feeling guilt hammering him hard in his chest. "I thought you were going to be at a friend's house, or with the crazy old ladies from the salon... but anyway, I- I'm here! I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year…"

“And I wanted to hear your voice too.”

He told his stupid brain to shut up, his heart missing a beat for a second.

"... and I also wanted to know if everything was ok. With you, I mean."

"I'm okay, don't worry… I was just going to sleep through the night. Thanks for calling me… Ichiro," Her voice was strangely tender, almost emotional.

"... You're welcome, Akane," He responds almost in a whisper, the tone of her voice sending funny sensations to his stomach... as if there was something, or several small things, flapping their wings in there. "You're one of the people to whom I couldn't help but say this, and there aren't many of them, hahaha."

"Wow… thanks…," He can hear her smiling a lot again. "I would also like to see you. Let's meet up in a few days, how about that? Well, good night. Take care..."

"Yeah, sounds good! Just send me a message and I'll be there in a beat," He promises. "The booze will serve as fuel, haha... good night."

And he lets her hang up, because he didn't know if he would be able to end the call on his own. He hears chuckling lowly.

"I… yeah… good night, Ichiro…," she hangs up. Did her voice sound a bit sad at the end or was it just him? But he noticed that she had appreciated his call.

That caused him a mixture of excitement and concern. He starts to dial her number again, wanting to know what was wrong... and then forces himself to stop, leaving her contact and putting his phone back in his pocket. Damn, he had promised himself he would stop being inconvenient and invasive! He needed to keep his promises like the man he was!

And... oh, come on, he had heard happiness in her tone. She was happy he'd called her... and he then wonders if she felt as lonely as he had felt seeing his friends rushing to make their own personal calls while he was left behind.

Sympathy took over him again, making him turn the bottle into his mouth once again to appease the sudden outbreak of faggotism. He wasn't there to feel sorry for her or himself. None of them needed it. She wasn't alone, anyway. She had friends in Tomori, Kanami and Hiro, she had those crazy old ladies from the salon... and she had him. The thought once again disconcerted him, and he quickly returned to the heat inside Brazuca’s. It must have been the cold mixed with the booze that was messing with his head like that.

He found the others already leaving the bar, waving at him.

"Hey man, let's get going?," Okubo dangles the car key on his finger.

"We decided to leave sooner. Okubo is going to give us a ride," Ohma points to the bald man.

"Huh... fuck, you took one confetti rain to the faces and decided that was enough excitement for the night? Bunch of weaklings!", Rihito snorts, wanting to sound annoyed, but not being able to. Himuro rolls his eyes.

"Things were about to get good on the dance floor, but this isn't Ohma and Kaneda's thing, and Okubo is now a committed man... it wouldn't be fun to party alone."

"I would keep you company!"

"No, you wouldn't. If you wanted to, you'd be inside, not out here, calling Miss Agata," He shakes his head, and Rihito almost drops the bottle.

"How did you...! Uugh, I'm surrounded by nosy-ass gangsters, I swear!," He complains, to which the others laugh. "Okay, let’s scram then, I’m not in the mood to party alone either."

"Told you so," Ohma shrugs, looking at the other three. "He was going to stay with me at the table."

"I wasn't! I was going to check the perimeter, see if there weren't any single babes seeking company..."

"And you were going to give up the moment you saw one, because you would still be thinking about the phone call with Miss Agata," Kaneda concludes, and bends down when an angry Rihito threatens to throw the half-filled bottle in his direction.

"The fuck I would! In just wished a friend a happty new year, no big deal, I would do it for any of you-"

"Did you send a message to Ivan and Komada too?"

"... I haven't had the chance yet."

"Forget it, Rihito. Any argument you could have had, the booze has already stolen it from you," Himuro smiles. "Come on, it's freezing cold and I need the heater in Egghead's car."

"Well, I'm crazy about my personal heater too," Okubo laughs, opening the car for everyone.

"Well said," Ohma gets in the back seat. Being part of the middleweight troupe, it was better for Rihito to hop on the front seat, anyway.

Rihito still wanted to argue, but gave up when he saw that the others would just ignore him. Fucking bastards... when would they understand that he wasn't like them in that way? He would never be, never!

... He couldn't do it anyway. He couldn't imagine how good-for-nothing womanizers like him could be redeemed. And how could they be worthy of something like that.

He opens the passenger door, sitting down with a grunt, the neck of the 51 bottle ending up in his mouth again. The others also sit down as Okubo locks the doors and turns on the heater, the welcoming warmth envelops them like a hug. Kaneda rubs his hands and blows on them while Himuro comments, smiling, "I don't know about you, but I'd do it again next year!"

"Heh... yeah, I think I agree too," Rihito says, his voice a little slurred. Despite some inconveniences, the night with friends was a lot of fun. The coming New Year certainly deserves to be spent like this…

And at the next one, if everything went well until then, he hoped to have Akane's company, sitting right next to him. Because neither she nor he deserved a lonely New Year.

Next chapter here

#kengan omega #kengan ashura #kenganverse #heavybakery #redvelvet #fanfiction #kengan oc #rihito #lihito

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cherrypickedgirl · 1 month ago

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so beauty tips from me to you.

Animal fat = GOOD!!!

Healthy and beneficial for your body, skin, mind and overall health and wellbeing. Healthy animal fats will nourish you inside and out. Examples of incorporating these healthy animal fats into your diet would be swapping semi skimmed milk/ plant based milks for whole milk (lactose free if that is an issue), processed cheese swapped with real cheese and red meat/ poultry as protein in whatever meal of your choice etc. i know a lot of diets and health plans/ restrictions will prevent alot of people from eating or using animal products, i don’t blame you for this, what i will say is definitely do research on supplements and real substitutes that will provide your body with the same/ very similar nutrients. cutting these kinds of healthy and important fats from your diet can cause deficiencies etc.

Exfoliating in the shower/ bath:

There is nothing better than feeling, smelling and above all BEING clean, the best and safest way to do this is to exfoliate the dead skins and germs from your skin on a regular basis- by this i mean 1-2 times a week but not every day- to ensure healthy, bright, smooth and squeaky clean skin. You can exfoliate using gloves, scented sugar scrubs and or brushes or stones. i will admit my own faults with this, i have been known to over-exfoliate my skin, using harsh gloves, scrubs and brushes on an everyday basis which eventually caught up to me in sensitive, harsh and very easily ripped and cut skin, so don’t be like me.

on days where you do not want to exfoliate i recommend you start by washing your hair and then doing your body afterward to make sure no residue is left on your skin, potentially causing breakouts like bacne. you can use a soft and light wash cloth with a bar soap, then a liquid cleanser of any scent you prefer (i love coconut and milk!!!) and then finish off with an unscented cleansing body wash around your more sensitive areas, ensuring all soaps and washes clean your body EXTERNALLY!!!

Body butter, oils and moisturisers:

After showers while your skin is still damp, apply a body oil to your skin. i like using Bio-oil as it has skin healing properties like reducing scarring and *apparently* reducing the visibility of stretch marks. the reason is that oil will lock in that moisture in your skin, leaving you with a beautiful glow and silky smooth- and maybe you’ve just shaved too- this will also lock in that sweet sweet post shave softness all day long.

Once your oil is applied, you should go in with a scented moisturiser. if your skin is too sensitive for scented moisturisers or body butters i recommend using baby lotions, they’re a lot softer on the skin and there is a faint baby powder smell that will leave you smelling fresh without that added irritation. i recommend using a scented moisturiser that matches the scent of your body wash, for me that is coconut/ vanilla. this is to really enhance that smell on your skin and really make it your signature and ‘natural’ scent. lotion/body butter will also lock in moisture while adding in some beneficial elements of its own, i recommend applying some to your armpits and then spraying some deodorant on right after, to me this allows it to last longer.

Hair and skin

Get to know your skin and your hair, spend some time playing around with a mirror and analyse your hair texture, how oily or dry your skin is, what shape your eyes are, the length of your hair etc. All of these beautiful jigsaw pieces that make you uniquely beautiful, get to know them and understand them, this way you can correctly enhance their individual powers and create looks based on what YOU need. i don’t have much experience with curly hair as i have very straight hair, there are many blogs and websites available to tell you what hair type you have and how to care for it correctly. what i will say is using hair oils in the bottoms of your hair and a heat protector before applying head to dry/ style seems to work wonders for the shine of my hair.

as for skin, knowing your shade, how oily or dry it is, what colour of blush compliments your skin tone, what colour of eyeshadow compliments your eye shade etc will enhance your beauty by stars and stars!!! all of these unique qualities on your face are yours to learn and love, to build upon and allow to shine, these are all things that take time, experience, trial and error and above all, confidence to try. no one knows exactly who they are, what they like, what suits them and what doesn’t first try, it’s up to you to take the leap and also take feedback and constructive criticism- without letting people insult you- ask a friend what they think about your lipstick shade, or about your eyeshadow that day. sometimes it really does take a village to built confidence and understanding, even about your own self.

the last thing i will mention about hair and skin health and hygiene is making sure they are clean and free of harsh chemicals, dirt and grime for long periods of time. bathing and washing up frequently are important, double cleansing your face and removing all makeup before bed, and finally changing your sheets every 1-2 weeks- i know it is a task that is boring and time consuming but i promise it is absolutely worth it and so good for you. i recommend buying beautiful sheets and quilts that speak to you and motivate you to change them frequently- your hair, skin and overall hygiene will thank you for this.

That’s all for now sweethearts, let me know if you would like more of this from me or any beauty tips you have in the comments!!! i absolutely love hearing other peoples personal beauty secrets and advice!!! lots of love 🫧

#coquette #angelcore #dollcore #beauty #beauty tips #cleancore #bathtub #exfoliation #healthylifestyle #healthyliving #self love #personal hygiene #smell good #how to feel beautiful

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whispermask · 2 years ago

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gasoline in your heart ch.8/10 | soap/ghost/könig

read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 5.4k, total 34k | completed

tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost

dead dove time: this fic as a whole features a brief mention of a past suicide attempt, briefly graphic past child abuse (not CSA), past abuse of alcohol and present alcohol use, and at times dubious consent (consuming alcohol and engaging in sexual activities; dubcon voyeurism; dubcon sexting)

summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule)

preview: It’s the bizarre reality of seeing a coworker outside of the office, stripped of their usual pomp and ferocity. König’s comfortable in his skin, something Simon can’t say is true of himself off the field. He has an awkwardness that Simon supposes one could call charming, says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ too much to the server as she deposits steaming plates of food on their table. He even catches a wayward condiment bottle before it can hit the ground after he knocks it from the server’s tray.

The morning of New Year’s Eve, Simon rises early. He’s up long before the sun, with Soap still snoring softly in bed curled around where Simon had been sleeping. He finds his cigarettes and lighter, dons a pair of sweats, and descends the staircase.

A crittall window behind Soap’s studio cracks open enough for him to smoke out of. As he stands there, shoulder leaned against the cold metal frame and gooseflesh rising in the morning chill, he studies the covered easels. He wouldn’t dare look without Soap’s permission, but the temptation is there.

“Simon?” Soap mutters. Simon sees him taking the last stair on to the first level in one of the shirts he packed and soft sleep shorts.

They had crawled right back into bed after Soap had shaved his beard, taking turns bringing each other off, a new way each time. Once with two of Soap’s fingers buried in Simon’s ass, crooking just so while he sucked his cock, swallowing around the length of him and looking up at Simon through his lashes. Another time with Soap rubbing off against his chest, gripping his left pec while he worked his cock against the right, coming all over both in long stripes.

Simon’s favorite time; Soap had asked if he could take pictures while he was bollocks-deep in Simon’s ass, Simon had consented on the condition his face be left out, felt a thrill of possessiveness when he heard the camera shutter behind him. On his hands and knees, the soiled sheets gripped tight in his fists, he had arched into Soap’s thrusts, trying to catalog the feeling of Soap inside of him, just as eager to hoard these moments.

When they had been able to tear themselves apart, Soap suggested a shower that devolved into wet grinding half-way through. Simon had hurried Soap back up the stairs, had laid him out on the bed and slid inside him so slowly, had Soap begging around the head of his cock alone. By the time Simon was pressed inside him as deep as he could go, Soap’s eyes were brimming with tears. Simon had kissed them away, and fucked Soap like they had all the time in the world. Held Soap’s jaw in place with one hand to force him to hold eye contact while he used his other hand to stroke him off between their stomachs. His own orgasm had been more of an afterthought, so transfixed at how easily Soap came apart under him. He’d kissed Soap when he felt him begin to come, gentled him through his fifth orgasm in the last twenty-four hours, which was barely more than a splatter of jizz across his navel while he clenched down on Simon.

The hours blurred into a litany of more and more and more because it would never be enough. Azerbaijan loomed before them, Simon would take what he could get, already devastated by the thought of never touching Soap again, for one reason or another. He’d fallen asleep with Soap spooned up behind him, had no sense of around what time he slipped off, so lost in the hazy cloud of endorphins and a smug sense of satisfaction he could feel down to his toes.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Simon says. He ashes the cigarette on the outside of the window, pinches out the tobacco and tosses it into a nearby rubbish bin.

“I want one,” Soap says with a pout as he reaches for the pack.

“Not on your life,” Simon says, holding them just out of reach to grab Soap’s wrist and pull him in for a kiss instead.

A low moan starts in Soap’s chest, but cuts off when he tries to mumble something against Simon’s lips.

“We’ve gotta,” Soap says and points a thumb over his shoulder. “The airport.’

“Right,” Simon says.

“Happy birthday,” König says as he opens the passenger door. He’s scruffy and bespectacled, so unlike the clean shaven, family-friendly version Simon had met him as in London.

“No,” Simon says, and reaches to pull the door shut. König blocks him with ease, slides his backpack off his shoulder and slips into the seat, closing the door before Simon can dump him and drive off.

“What? It’s your birthday?” Soap asks, leaning forward between the front seats to look between Simon and König.

Simon pulls away from the curb into the line of traffic under the breezeway. Soap had rented a car–a little black jag–as it became a necessity to accommodate the three of them. Simon had pilfered the keys off of Soap as soon as they had left the rental office on their way to the airport.

“A resounding no,” Simon says as he drives, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Lt.,” Soap whines, sounding anguished. “You need to tell me if it’s your birthday or not right now.”

“It’s tomorrow, actually,” König says as he pushes his clear-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s pulled his hair back into a short ponytail, the tuft of it jutting from the crown of his head and revealing shaved sides, emphasizing the angle of his cheekbones and sharp jaw.

“I’m not doing this,” Simon says as he turns the wheel to merge onto the motorway, heading in the direction of Soap’s flat.

“You’re a Neerday babe?” Soap’s voice has gone high and excited.

“If that means I was born on New Year’s fucking Day, then yes. Unfortunately.”

“Why didn’t you tell me!” Soap says.

“Could barely stand to keep the secret in,” Simon deadpans.

“How’d you even know?” Soap asks König, placing his hands on König’s shoulders as he hooks his chin over the seat, so that their cheeks are almost touching.

“I have my ways,” König says, side-eying Simon.

“He knows because we were both in Argentina during my birthday three years ago.”

“Was that–?” Soap starts.

“The time with the Nazis? One of them, ja,” König says.

“Laswell let slip that I was turning ‘the big four-oh.’ König thought it would be a right fucking laugh to throw an over the hill party.”

“And I was right,” König says. He sways into Soap’s touch with a small smile, knocking their heads together.

“You don’t have to be a smug bastard about it,” Simon says. “I wasn’t laughing. It was you and–”

“Anderson,” König says, expression darkening. “Au weia.”

“Indeed.” Simon clenches the wheel, knuckles white at the memory of Argentina, and Anderson.

“Why indeed?” Soap asks.

“Anderson was a snake,” Simon says, an edge in his voice. “Working for the enemy.”

“Tried to kill me,” König says, and pulls his jumper out from the waistband of his pants, lifting it to reveal two three-inch scars below his navel. “Geist,” König says with a shrug towards Simon, “was the one to shoot him off me.”

“That’s what these are from?” Soap asks, and moves so that he’s resting an elbow on the center console to run his fingertips over the raised lines.

Simon sees them out of the corner of his eye, can’t help but to glance at where Soap is touching König. Of course Soap has seen the scars before. He looks up to see König watching him from behind his glasses with an unreadable expression, always so observant. Simon jerks his gaze back to the road.

“What’s the plan for New Year’s?” König asks after a beat as Soap withdraws his hand.

“Well,” Soap says. “We could go to my local pub, get pissed, have ourselves a classic Hogmanay ceilidh with the good folk of Leith.”

“Or?” König asks, because he knows Soap well, Simon realizes. He’s beginning to see their years together the longer he’s around them.

“Or, my mate is throwing a party at his place.”

“A big crowd?” König asks, his tone hesitant.

“A little more intimate, maybe fifteen-twenty guests at most. Plus, I promise not to leave you alone if I can help it.”

“I could do that. In Edinburgh?”

“Aye, and it’ll be Gatsby themed.”

“Gatz-bee,” König says, unfamiliar. “Is that–?”

“Like the book The Great Gatsby. Means the roaring twenties,” Simon says.

“Bootlegging gangsters, flapper girls, art deco, hedonistic jazz, the full monty,” Soap adds.

“A very idealized version of the nineteen-twenties,” Simon amends

“I rest my case: Gatsby themed,” Soap says.

“Krass!” König says.

“It’s very American,” Simon comments.

“To be clear, we don’t have to go,” Soap says, and places a placating hand on Simon’s shoulder.

“I think it could be fun,” König says.

“But if not all of us want to go, then none of us goes.”

“You two could–” Simon starts.

“Bist du deppert? ” König interrupts. “Johnny’s right, we should do something together.”

Simon glances over to see Soap’s imploring eyes and König’s cool regard. Conspirators, Simon thinks.

“Fine,” he concedes, eyes back on the road. “We can go to the party.”

Soap whoops and claps him on the shoulder.

“Easy, Johnny. ‘M driving,” Simon grumbles, though he can feel a smile tug at his lips, happy to make Soap happy.

König says, “But what will we wear?”

Simon drives them back to the studio so König can drop off his backpack and take a shower to wash off the airport. Simon tries not to think too hard about how he and Soap had defiled the bathroom not even forty-eight hours ago. As he sits at the kitchen island, he realizes that König and Soap have probably fucked in that shower before, maybe many times. It doesn’t hold a candle to his one-point-five.

The thought brings back a memory of Soap’s hands on König’s shoulder in the car, how he had touched the scars on König’s stomach, König’s steady gaze watching Simon’s reaction. Had König been gloating? The niggling feeling in his chest drops to sit heavy in his stomach, making bile rise in his throat.

“You okay?” Soap asks, glancing over at him from where he’s seated on the sofa sketching idly in a notebook Simon’s never seen before.

“Hm,” Simon replies, neither here nor there. He craves his balaclava, feeling suddenly naked without his beard. He settles for a black beanie and cloth mask he finds in his duffel, pulls both on before checking the pocket of his jeans for his smokes and a lighter.

“I’m going to make a call,” he says, already grabbing his jacket and phone from the entryway.

“Okay, but–” Soap starts, but Simon cuts him off when the front door closes behind him. He takes the stairs to the ground floor two at a time, rounds the building façade and finds a concrete wall to sit on. The temperature while bone-chilling is not nearly cold enough for snow yet. The wind cuts through his clothes all the same as he pulls his mask down and fishes his cigarette carton out of his pocket.

Bam picks up on the third ring.

“Hello Simon, dear,” she says, singsong.

“Bam, what am I doing?” he asks by way of greeting, pulling on his cigarette.

“I ‘unno you big lounce, i’ve been waiting for you to ring so you could tell me!” Bam answers.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Simon says.

“With Soap? Of course you should be, love, he invited you.”

“But he has…someone else. A boyfriend.”

“Surely Soap’s not cheating?”

“No, no. He, we, know about each other. He’s here for New Year’s.” And at Simon’s behest no less. His efforts had been earnest, a desire to please Soap. He’s still figuring out what Soap wants from him, if he’s even capable of giving it.

“Oh, Si,” Bam says, voice gone soft.

Simon sighs a plume of acrid smoke. “It’s a monumentally bad idea, I am aware.”

“Not necessarily,” Bam offers. “If you’re happy–”

“I don’t know what I am,” he says.

“Let me finish,” Bam chastises. “If you’re happy, then the rest is just noise.”

“I can’t ignore the noise, though,” he says, meaning König.

“What’s this boyfriend like? Real possessive type?”

“Not at all,” Simon admits. “If anything, that’s been my M.O.” He longs to rewind the clock, go back to when he first touched down in Scotland, wants to cash in on those hours alone with Soap in his bed all over again.

“Is he fit?”

“Barbara,” Simon says, not quite a warning.

“Since I’ve known you, you’ve rarely let yourself be happy,” she says, unexpectedly serious. “You’re like a clenched fist. What if I told you, you don’t have to be?”

“I’d say you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies.

“That was redundant, you arse,” Bam replies. “There’s so many ways to love and be loved in this life. We’d be fools to go without because we only ever expect to get hurt by all of it.”

Simon is quiet, considering. Then, “I want to try. I am trying.”

“That’s the best any of us can do,” she says. “Now, tell me about your New Year’s Eve plans.”

After he ends the call with Bam, Simon returns to the studio, mask up, to find König and Soap whispering at the kitchen island. They stop when they hear the front door, but Simon knows they were talking about him.

“Hey,” Soap says, casual. “I was thinking after we grab breakfast, we should do some sightseeing. When’s the last time you were in Edinburgh?”

“It’s been ages,” Simon says, entering the kitchen to stand at the head of the island, Soap and König on either side of him. “Not since I was a much younger man.”

“Alright,” Soap says. “Let’s head out.”

Simon drives as Soap directs him to a nearby cafe. Once seated, he makes himself as small as possible, and observes Soap and König together.

They’ve chosen to sit shoulder to shoulder across from him, heads bent together to watch a video on Soap’s phone. Simon studies the slouch of König’s shoulders, and can feel where his knees are pressed against the underside of the table. At this height, he’s easier to pick apart.

Simone finds fault in the length of his neck, the width of his nose, the severity of his angular face, the shake of his left hand as he brings the mug of tea to his lips, the sardonic pout of his lips, even the subtle gap between his front teeth.

But at this distance, he starts to understand how Soap could be interested in someone like König, an aesthetic appeal he hadn’t previously acknowledged to himself in as many words. König laughs without self-consciousness, smiles like it’s an unlimited currency. His hands are elegant, long-fingered and strong, piano player’s hands. His gaze is steady and sure when he does meet your eyes, and the intensity there is difficult to look at for too long, even behind the glasses. Gone is the towering yet somehow still unassuming operative behind the dark veil, and what’s left is disarmingly pretty but no less deadly.

It’s the bizarre reality of seeing a coworker outside of the office, stripped of their usual pomp and ferocity. König’s comfortable in his skin, something Simon can’t say is true of himself off the field. He has an awkwardness that Simon supposes one could call charming, says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ too much to the server as she deposits steaming plates of food on their table. He even catches a wayward condiment bottle before it can hit the ground after he knocks it from the server’s tray.

As König is placing the bottle upright on the table, he catches Simon watching him and winks. Simon looks away, pulls his mask off so he can have something to do with his hands while he feigns ignorance at being caught.

They eat quickly, Soap and Simon both ravenous from the previous day’s activities, the last meal they’d shared being some stale crackers Soap had scavenged from the kitchen cupboard. As the server is coming to clear the table, Simon pulls the mask back on. Across from him, Soap’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to check the notification.

“Maisie says our costumes are ready,” Soap says, and turns his phone so Simon and König can read a text that says “Come and get ‘em, boyo.”

“Who’s Maisie?” König asks, and Simon feels a small victory at König being as out of the loop as he is for once.

“Childhood friend from Glasgow first, costume designer at Edinburgh Playhouse second. They just wrapped on The Wild Party and I’m cashing in on a favor,” Soap says, pocketing his phone.

“This all seems very, what’s the word,” König says. “Auspicious.”

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, you’re wrong,” Soap replies.

“I’m only implying that it seems very convenient, schatz,” König says, and puts a hand on the nape of Soap’s neck, right over a bruise that Simon had sucked into Soap’s skin, now an angry shade of purple. Simon’s hackles rise.

Soap senses the tension, glancing between König and Simon. But König doesn’t move his hand. Instead he adjusts his grip to hold Soap’s neck more firmly as he moves in closer, not taking his eyes off of Simon. Under the table, Simon feels a foot slide against his, the angle all wrong for it to be Soap’s.

The server returns with the cheque, unaware of the scene she’s just disturbed. Simon reaches for his wallet at the same time König does. The foot against his pulls away, returns a moment later, this time resting on top of Simon’s boot.

“Bitte, allow me,” König says, and presses down on Simon’s toes.

Simon’s hand stills, returns to rest palm-down on the table. He can feel Soap’s eyes on him, assessing the threat level. König finds his wallet, flips it open on the table to recover his credit card which he drops on the table next to the cheque.

He hasn’t spoken a single word to either of them since they arrived at the cafe.

On the drive to the Playhouse, Soap sits in the passenger seat, placing his hand above Simon’s knee like penance as he provides directions, voice low. König is sprawled in the backseat with his feet up to accommodate his height.

Simon grunts his replies if he can, keeps it curt if not. He’s afraid the tight lid he’s keeping on his temper might come unscrewed if he says too much. He can tell Soap knows he’s not in his element, and is trying to give him some attention to pacify his discomfort, but the coddling feels too much like pity which sets his teeth even more on edge.

Soap directs him behind the Playhouse when they reach the parking lot, and has him pull up in front of a nondescript door.

“I’ll be right back,” Soap says, holding eye contact with Simon, a silent plea not to shed any blood in his absence. He exits the car and pulls the door to the building open, disappearing inside.

Without missing a beat, König says, “Du gehst mir auf den Keks.”

“English, König,” Simon snaps.

“I said, “you’re getting on my nerves’,” König responds, looking up from his phone to stare at Simon in the rearview mirror, his glasses flashing and eyes obscured.

“Why’s that?”

“If you don’t mind me saying Lieutenant, you’re behaving like a gschissana.”

“What did I just say?” Simon asks. He’s being petulant on purpose.

“You invited me,” König replies. “I don’t understand why you act like I’ve intruded on your weekend.”

“I haven’t said a damn word.” Simon keeps his tone even, betraying nothing.

“Exactly,” König retorts.

Simon looks away first. König doesn’t press him.

Soap emerges from the Playhouse, carrying three opaque garment bags. He indicates for Simon to pop the boot with his free hand, walks around to the back of the car presumably to store said garment bags before slamming the trunk closed and joining them in the car.

“Maisie says hi,” Soap says as he does up his seatbelt.

“Hi Maise,” König replies, looking back at his phone, the picture of indifference. Simon says nothing.

“Alright lads, let’s go see some sights,” Soap says, recovering quickly. Simon puts the car in drive.

His bad mood persists.

Soap takes them to the Royal Mile, where they wander the shops and museums without purpose for a handful of hours. Soap suggests they stop for coffee at the cafe outside of the National Gallery, and Simon’s glad for the change, feeling out of place among the art with König and Soap walking ahead of him, their fingertips brushing. Simon thinks they look nice together, that Soap deserves to be with someone beautiful like König, that König could find a marble podium to stand on and be mistaken for Michelangelo’s David.

Soap keeps glancing over his shoulder at Simon, seeming to be unsure of whether or not to give him his space. He’s tried to bring Simon into the conversation, but Simon has rebuffed him each time. As they’re passing in front of a Rembrandt on their way towards the exit, Soap pulls Simon aside without warning and asks him, “What am I doing wrong?”

“It’s not you,” Simon reassures him. From where they’re standing, he can see König chatting with a young woman in excited German, but is sure König is aware of them. Knowing they’re being surveilled makes him want to touch Soap, cup his face and pull down his mask to lean in for a kiss. He’s never been overly performative with his affections, especially in public, but being around König brings out a side of him that rarely sees the light of day anymore, and it’s stretching its legs for the first time in years.

Soap rests his head on Simon’s chest, falling into him. “What can I do to make it better?” he asks, sounding exhausted.

Simon grabs his shoulders to move him back a step, finding Soap’s eyes. “Johnny, it’s not you,” he promises.

“Is it him?” Soap asks.

“Negative. I asked him here, I’m dealing with it,” Simon answers.

“I want you to have a nice time, too,” Soap says, voice soft on a whine.

“Then stop acting like you’re not with him in front of me. It’s making me uncomfortable,” he says, vitriolic.

“That’s what’s making you uncomfortable?” Soap exclaims.

“I’ve seen you two shag, if you want to hold his hand you should. I won’t be scandalized.”

Soap’s lips press into a thin line and a frown creases his brow. Simon knows he’s being harsh, but it’s annoying how Soap is trying to pretend like they’re just three normal blokes, friends even. He wants Soap to stop dancing around it, thinks maybe if he sees them together on his terms he can get over it faster.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest, putting even more space between himself and Soap, resolute in his assertion. Soap’s jaw clenches at that, the expression on his face unreadable, eyes gone stormy. He turns on his heel and marches up to König who stands alone on his phone facing away from them, the young woman having returned to her own group. Soap grabs the wrist not holding his phone and spins König to face him. He reaches up to hook both arms around König’s neck and drag him down into a searing kiss, rising up on his toes to close the gap while König catches up.

König recovers quickly. His arms come up to hold Soap’s waist as he deepens the kiss, angling his chin and turning it into something filthy and performative, closing his eyes as he gives himself over to it. Simon even sees a flash of tongue.

Soap pulls away first and whirls around to glare at Simon, as if to say ‘is this what you wanted?’ before storming off into the next gallery room. Simon expects König to follow, but König surprises him again when he ambles over to Simon, sardonic smile like a knife in Simon’s chest.

“That was weird,” König says.

“I upset him,” Simon says, half-deflated at Soap’s reaction.

“What did you say to him?” König asks. Simon’s getting tired of having to look up to meet his eyes.

“I told him to stop pretending you two aren’t together,” Simon answers. “Bit odd, no?”

“I think Johnny is trying to protect your feelings,” König says. He crosses his arms, mirroring Simon.

“He doesn’t ‘ave to,” Simon snaps. “I’m fine.”

“Red‘ keinen Topfen,” König says, scoffing. “You know what you’re doing.”

“And what exactly am I doing?”

“Scheiße, can we call a truce or something? For Johnny’s sake?” König asks. “I actually like you, when you’re not being a dickhead.”

‘You do?’ Simon wants to ask. Instead says, “I s’pose you’re alright.”

“I think we want the same thing,” König says. “And I know you’re a decent man. I’ve seen it when we worked together, and I see it when you’re with Johnny.”

Simon doesn’t know what to say to that, but he feels something in his chest loosen. Knows he could say the same thing about König.

“Should we–?” Simon asks, and gestures to where Soap had disappeared.

“Ja, gemma,” König replies, already turning.

They walk side by side in search of Soap, whom they find sitting by himself on a brightly colored bench clearly intended to accommodate small children in front of the Stegosaurus fossil. König approaches him first, puts his hand on Soap’s bent head and ruffles his hair. He joins him on the bench, folding his long legs into a near squat. König catches Simon’s eyes and jerks his chin to the empty space on Soap’s other side. Simon obeys the silent order, sitting hip to hip with Soap, half hanging off the bench.

Simon moves first. He takes Soap’s hand and threads their fingers together. Soap looks up at him, swings his head around to look at König, who takes his other hand following Simon’s suit. They sit like that in silence until Soap says, “Bet we look ridiculous on this tiny bench.”

König laughs, breaking the tension. He waves down a staff member and pulls his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. “Would you please take a picture of us?” König asks, unlocking his phone before holding it out to the staff member who takes it and steps back to comply.

Simon freezes. He’s not averse to being photographed, and half his face is obscured by the mask anyway, but something about documenting this moment, the three of them like this, makes it real. Simon releases Soap’s hand as the camera flashes. One step forward, two steps back.

“Danke,” König says when the staff member hands his phone back. He holds it out for Soap and Simon to see, but Simon doesn’t spare it a glance.

“Send that to me, please,” Soap says, still holding König’s hand.

“Ohne zweifel,” König says, tapping at his phone with one hand. “Sent.” Soap’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

“Come on,” Soap says, dropping König’s hand as he stands. “I need coffee.”

The day gets easier. Simon relaxes enough to joke with König while they sit outside of the cafe. König even let him pay for their drinks without protest. To Simon, it’s the least either of them can do for Soap while he’s hosting them, and he realizes it doesn’t matter who pays between he and König as long as Soap feels appreciated.

Soap drags them onto a tour bus next and Simon’s good mood continues, coming easier the more he allows for König and Soap’s familiar, innocent touches, the idiosyncrasies of their relationship on display for Simon’s viewing pleasure. By the time they’ve finished with the tour, visited the Christmas Market, a castle Simon’s already forgotten the name of, and the Brittania, it’s nearing oh sixteen hundred.

He lets Soap drive them home, knackered and feeling his age, with the knowledge that the day is not yet through.

Simon’s struggling to do up the buttons of his dress shirt when Soap finds him. He’s hiding out in the loo upstairs, mask off, half-dressed in a dark suit with more straps than even his tactical gear. He’s even wearing sock garters. Over the white shirt, a pinstripe vest lays unbuttoned against his chest, the hint of maroon suspenders visible beneath it. A matching suit jacket and red tie hang from the hook on the open door behind him. Soap’s provided a pair of shiny black wingtips, just a half size too small but still wearable.

“Oh,” Soap says as he rounds the corner to see Simon standing in front of the vanity mirror. Soap’s wearing what Simon can only think to describe as antique workwear, brown ankle boots and a white cotton shirt under black suspenders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the hem tucked into his heather gray slacks, tight at his waist to accentuate his trim stature. On his head, he wears a dark tweed cap.

In the next second, Simon’s being crowded up against the sink by Soap, whose hands have found Simon’s suspenders, gripping them tight as he holds him in place to rake his eyes down Simon’s body.

“How are you real? Who the fuck made you?” Soap asks, gaze dark as they stare at Simon’s lips, trace his cupid’s bow and find his eyes.

“I made me,” Simon says. His hands come up to grip Soap’s waist between his palms. He closes the space between them with an urgent kiss, knocking the hat from Soap’s head in his haste. Thinks, finally.

Their lips slide together, greedy after being denied all day, already familiar with what the other likes but still reveling in the newness. Soap bites Simon’s bottom lip and uses Simon’s resulting gasp to lick into his mouth. Simon lets himself be kissed, content to let Soap take what he wants.

Simon’s eyes are closed, he’s so lost in Soap’s touch that he doesn’t hear König coming up the stairs. Doesn’t even hear the approaching footsteps until he’s leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a near identical suit to Simon’s but in lighter gray and blue tones, sans jacket.

König smirks at him over Soap’s shoulder when Simon opens his eyes to see him watching them. He takes a step forward and reaches a hand up to thread his finger’s through Soap’s hair, holding him by the nape of his neck like how he had at breakfast that morning. Simon watches him, watches his eyes go heavy-lidded at the scene they make before him. He doesn’t feel threatened, just observed, and it’s getting him hot.

König reaches a hand over Soap’s shoulder to grip Soap’s chin, brushing his forefinger against Simon’s jaw in the process, He’s directing Soap’s movements against him, and it’s like König’s kissing him through Soap. His eyes close at the thought, and he feels arousal pool in his belly, in his groin, shocked at his own responsiveness. He feels himself begin to harden in his slacks, the barest touch of König’s skin against his . Unbidden, he moans into Soap’s mouth.

Soap groans in response, and pulls his mouth away from Simon’s to turn his head towards König, straining to reach his mouth. König acquiesces, lowers his head until they’re kissing, filthy and wet. Simon watches Soap’s jaw flex, mouth parted on ragged breaths. The hand that was on Soap’s chin reaches for the back of Simon’s head, drags him in until he’s pressed all along Soap’s front, and brings his mouth to Soap’s neck.

He licks the skin revealed by the collar of his shirt at the base of his neck, up to the hinge of his jaw, bites down on it, breaths coming hard. With Soap pressed between them, Simon can feel the minute shivers wracking his body, starting in his chest and making his hands clench where they’re clutched in Simon’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric no doubt but pulling him impossibly closer.

König backs away first, the weight of him pinning Soap to Simon lifting as he steps back, hands falling away from both Simon and Soap.

“I’ll be downstairs,” König says, breathless, already backing out of the loo and edging towards the stairs.

Soap doesn’t speak, but when his eyes find Simon's chest heaving, his pupils are blown so wide his irises are just a thin blue ring. He unleashes his hold on Simon, pulls himself away like he forgot he was still clinging to him. He bends to retrieve his hat and turns to leave. Simon stands alone, last button still undone at his throat, trying to process what the fuck just happened.

*******

(i do not speak German so suggestions are always welcome from readers who are familiar with the language) Krass: cool Bist du deppert?: are you stupid? schatz: darling Bitte: please gschissana: shithead Red‘ keinen Topfen: stop talking rubbish Scheiße: fuck (in this context) gemma: let's go Danke: thanks Ohne zweifel: of course

#soapghost #soapböx #soapghostkönig #mw2 ghost #mw2 soap #könig cod #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #ghostsoap #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #soap x ghost x könig #mw2 fic #cod fic #gasoline in your heart #my fic

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to-younger-me-from-future-me · 1 year ago

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Stuff I've learnt from life experience

Non-disposable razors exist, good for the environment and for your wallet in the long-run. But i have not used them but I want to so just putting it out there.

Using a razor. You can either lather soap and then shave as rough as you want. You still risk cutting yourself on areas where the soap slides away though.

You can use a razor without soap too, but you have to be gentle. Maybe your area needs to be wet or under running water first.

Threading is a thing and special threading thread exists. I've never tried it properly but everyone around me does it. I've been told it hurts at first but your area becomes numb to the pain soon.

Laser hair removal isn’t permanent. They might thin your hair but only as long as you keep lasering. The doctor in charge may start you off saying it’s permanent after a certain number of sessions – but that’s a lie. They’ll say that when you ask them again how many sessions, then you ask again after a year and they’ll say soon, and then eventually they’ll admit it’s never gonna happen and laser hair removal is only to thin your hair but only as long as you keep coming back and lasering.

But if you want thinner hair and only have to do it once a month where someone else does it for you AND it’s cheap where you are, then by all means, it might be the preferable thing for you.

Split ends. I have no idea why they're an issue. I've only had split ends once where a single hair actual splits in two like velcro. But then I forgot about it and got a haircut and never had them again. They're really not that big of an issue as media put them out to be. Or maybe they are when you have your hair untied and loose most of the time everyday? I think I was going through that phase when I noticed my first split end.

Better swimming costumes exist. These are loose, breathable and cover as much as you want so you don’t need to go through body shaming and not reveal your body to strangers if you don’t want to. They are also used to by skin cancer survivors and people to avoid skin damage.

Menstrual cups are better for your wallet. But they might be scary to start so you’ll need to try it before your period starts (or you can on your period too in the shower, maybe it’ll be easier). Can’t give more details because I tried once and didn’t work out. Will try again when I'm in the mood and less depressed. But the person I gifted a set to really loves it, and so does a person she gave to. And also a person she knows who's been using it for years and hasn't looked back.

Menstrual pain sucks. I’ve heard of people using painkillers which is brilliant and why didn't I ever think of that?

For me it pauses when I eat apple slices (or if I just eat and the pain was just so bad coz of hunger and I didn't realize I was hungry lol). But apple slices didn’t work for someone I recommended it to. So everyone is different. I’ve heard of cold milk and cranberry juice (not together, but who knows). Try and see what works, what your body is craving.

Doctors can be helpful. But not many doctors in the US apparently.

Natural remedies can be great. Someone I know tried this and it helped her a bit and she suffers A LOT of pain all over during her period.

A hot water bag on your tummy during cramps is helpful. Another thing that I never thought of before. It doesn't stop the cramps but it does help.

Your period should NOT be heavy or painful or both for long. if it's too painful, doesn't matter if it's only 1 day, if it's affecting your life significantly in that one day, you need a doctor or painkillers or a tried-and-true natural remedy or just help.

if it lasts longer than 10 days then that's also not normal. but i don't think it's serious coz it happens to me regularly.

Your period should last 3-10 days, any longer then that’s a no-no and you need to see your doctor. In my case, I think this keeps happening because while I do eat healthy, I don't eat 3 meals a day sometimes and maybe don’t exercise enough.

Now, whenever my period goes over 10 days i eat Primolut which is Norethisterone acetate which stops my period. My dose is a 5mg tablet after or before every meal (but be consistent) for 10 days. Or 10mg tablets but i don’t remember if it was once a day or twice.

Drinking milk will make your nails grow faster. Probably hair too but that’s harder to gauge on my own.

Dates, the fruit, help get your blood out, and its like almost instantaneous? I don't remember why I started eating them or how exactly dates helped, but if your period is being annoying and you're not bleeding when you should (I don't know what past me meant by this), then eat dates.

#life tips #hair removal #periods #menstruation #menstrual cramps #menstrual cup #swimming costume

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triflesandparsnips · 2 years ago

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coccinelf said: This was absolutely fascinating! But as someone who has been using Marseilles soap and Alleppo soap for a decade, I'm still stuck as how in the world soap made with virgin olive oil can be that white!?!?

I'm pulling this reply out from the lavender soap shenanigan post because INFORMATION IS FUN.

As you may know, there are several different kinds of olive oil -- the Romans sorted them into five categories based on how ripe the olives were and where/how they were gathered, while these days we seem to differentiate them based on the amount of refining and the acid levels found within the finished oils. For soapmaking in particular, this site leaves out the "Extra Light/Light" olive oil given by the International Olive Council, but lists the remaining four as:

Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Virgin Olive Oil

Pure Olive Oil

Pomace Olive Oil

Apparently it doesn't matter a whole lot which olive oil you use when you're making soap, aside from some fun properties related to arcane words like "trace" and "unsaponifiables", but one thing it can do is affect the color -- the "lower" the oil grade, the more green the soap, pomace olive oil soap being the greenest. Which, idk, may be a valuable thing for marketing purposes -- olives are (often) green, so it makes sense to have a green soap, right? Similarly, in America at least, white eggs are often cheaper than brown eggs (except for Easter time), because brown eggs look more "natural".

Marketing is made up by brain wizards, I am pretty sure.

ANYWAY. On the matter of white soap.

When I was originally researching the lavender soap, I kept running into recipes referencing "Venetian" soap, and trying to figure out whatever the fuck it was supposed to be is what led me toward researching the whole history of European soap-- and from there coming up with some Theories as to how maybe all the different major soap producers in Europe could've backwards-engineered the Aleppo soap they were getting via trade routes.

(Important History Note: Everyone is super fucking weird when it comes to Who Is the Originator of Really Nice Soap. Everyone. I have no idea why. Nobody is fucking reliable. I'm not reliable. Trust no one.)

Figure 1. Local soap truther.

... I should also say, now, that I have tried to write the following section thrice, and tumblr has eaten it every time. Therefore, let me instead give The Short Version:

Aleppo Soap (Syria)

Four ingredients:

olive oil

laurel berry oil

water

caustic soda (sodium hydroxide lye, made from ash of... some salt-tolerant plant, probably)

Hot process, as all these ye olde soap beauties are going to be -- cures for six months to a year -- does start green, but gets turns gold as it ages. The older the soap, the thicker the gold "rind" if you cut into the soap -- but the interior, where it hasn't dried/oxidized, is still green. (This, I suspect, is where the idea of shaving down your soaps and letting them dry for ages like that came from -- to get a uniform light color.)

Nablus Soap (Palestine)

Three ingredients:

olive oil

water

caustic soda (sodium hydroxide lye, made from barilla [a salt-tolerant marine plant] ash and lime)

Mentioned in this list because it's what I've been using in my soap experiments, as the soap closest to what would likely have been carried by Renaissance-era apothecaries. Hot process -- cures for 2 to 3 months, though I also saw up to 8 months -- starts gold and then, as it dries, turns a really bright white (and seems to turn whiter the older it ages).

Venetian Soap (Italy)

No fucking clue. It gets mentioned consistently in tons of early recipes, and I've come to the conclusion that it was an umbrella term for olive-oil soaps much the way we use Castile now, but there was also a thriving soapmaking guild system in Venice for a long time, and I don't speak enough Italian to track down and read their trade bills to try and figure out the ingredients list. Additionally, they were a major trading hub between the Middle East and the rest of Europe, so like, this bring it right back around to the idea of Venetian Soap just being an umbrella term for "the really good shit."

Castile Soap (Spain)

Three ingredients:

olive oil

water

caustic soda (sodium hydroxide lye, possibly? made from another salt-loving plant?)

I would say that aside from whatever the fuck was going on in Venice (if anything), this is the closest backwards-engineered European soap. Hot process -- 6 to 9 months to cure -- and while I didn't see anybody talking about color change in particular, you can see that in most how-tos and such, gold-to-cream-to-white is a pretty standard color range.

Marseilles Soap (France)

Here we finally start seeing some weird changes, which is why I put Marseilles Soap last (even though if you ask the French, they think they're the Original Deal). According to the 1688 Edict of Colbert, which naturally I cannot find a copy of and also, did I mention that I don't speak French, the ingredients are:

olive oil

water

salt

caustic soda (sodium hydroxide lye, possibly made from glasswort [a salt-tolerant marsh plant] ash)

The water and salt are separate here, but I've also seen local seawater being mentioned again, which would mix both. They also seem to use the saltwater to rinse the cooked soap goo, rather than have it part of the manufacture? No one else mentions doing something like that, thus making it a funky outlier. It is, once again, hot process -- it can take up to 12 months to cure -- and a color change from dark green to light beige is expected as they age (and also become longer lasting and gentler on the skin).

In conclusion:

Olive-oil soap often turns white, sometimes stays green, and either way, wow chemistry is neat.

#history #SOAP #lotta ridiculous research #trifles the amateur history enthusiast strikes again

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captain-mj · 2 years ago

Note

Also I feel terrible asking for part 5 when you just posted part 4, but the heart is greedy and I read part four immediately, because I just can’t get enough and I want to thank you for everything you have already created in this AU ⚔️

Don't feel bad at all! I really appreciate all the asks I've been getting for this series :)

Soap couldn't help it. Ghost pressed him against the bed, his body so impossibly warm. His mouth was sinful against him, biting and teasing. There was an ache down his spine as he ran his hands over Ghost’s taut back.

His hands on his waist, grounding him and making him feel so small.

“Please… Please…” Soap begged. Ghost was so close. His hands moving to his hips, touch so gentle it made him weak.

Ghost’s voice was right in his ears. “Just relax and I’ll have you.” It was Soap’s mother tongue. Gaelic instead of the English they had been using.

Soap frowned and pulled away, staring into where Ghost’s face should be. Or at least his mask. There was nothing.

Soap woke up, extremely hard and alone. The air around him had gotten warmer but the bed next to him was cold. He got up slowly, checking across his body.

Nothing. No marks. No bruises. Just a dream.

He had a dream about fucking the guy holding him hostage.

Soap scrambled up, pulling his clothes on. He had vague memories of last night. Of Ghost being so close.

“You’re drunk.” Ghost had been disappointed, but he hadn’t touched him. Nothing that would cause him to have these kind of dreams. He had been so goddamn chivalrous, putting the blanket over him and being nice.

Soap tried to remember what he said, but the words were murky. He wondered where Ghost was if he wasn’t in bed.

The answer was on the couch. Also dealing with being drunk from the looks of it. The empty bottle sat on the floor and Ghost was curled up, face pressed against the pillow. He looked peaceful.

Soap had the good luck to not get hangovers very often but from the way Ghost groaned as soon as he woke up, he guessed Ghost wasn’t that lucky.

“Want me to make you breakfast?”

“Please…” Ghost groaned. “Head’s fucking killing me.” He buried his face in his hands, flexing his shoulders a little. Soap felt his mouth go dry.

Ghost wasn’t that hot. He was just a soldier so he was a little more muscled than the average person.

Said soldier sat up and stretched, his shirt pulled up, exposing a fair bit of his tummy before Ghost pulled it down.

Soap had to look away and get cooking. He was surprised when Ghost lifted his mask slightly to eat, apparently too hung over to bother finding a place to hide.

Nevermind. He was just hot.

Strong jawline but almost no stubble despite Soap not seeing him shave, pretty mouth. He had some scars that Soap could just barely see. A Glasgow smile but also a cut across his throat like someone had tried to slit it.

“How old are you?” Soap asked, suddenly wanting to know. Ghost glanced over and his head tilted slightly.

“28. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“You?”

“24.” Soap sat on the other side of the couch, eating.

“Little young to be a captain.”

“I was impressive.” Soap responded softly. “Didn’t matter much. Failed, right?”

Ghost was quiet for a minute before shaking his head. “Your strategy was fantastic. You were outnumbered and had no way of getting back up or resources. Nothing you could’ve done.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to comfort me.”

Ghost looked at his plate, hands flexing again. His eyes were sad again.

“I thought most of you guys got married by 20. You a late bloomer?” Soap decided to tease him. He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew exactly why. Though, even if Ghost was into men, it was odd he didn’t have a companion yet.

Ghost paused. His hangover hadn’t loosened his lips that much. He glanced at Soap for a moment before looking away. “I was… betrothed once. Wasn’t for me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Ghost laughed. Fully. Soap didn’t understand what was funny.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve moved on. Don’t ask about it again.”

“Understood…” Soap felt like this was one of the topics that might get him killed if he pressed a little too hard.

“You aren’t married.”

“Normal for us. Usually do it in our twenties instead of when we’re wee babs like you guys do.” Soap smiled. “Also never met anyone I’d settle down with.”

“And now you’re stuck with me. Probably best you don’t have someone waiting at home for you.” Ghost relaxed the smallest bit.

“Worried for my hypothetical spouse that much huh?”

“Didn’t want to have them coming for my head in vengeance.” Ghost joked with him, tilting his head and exposing more of his throat.

Soap bit his tongue. “Don’t worry. You guys captured anyone that might try. If any of them are in a similar situation to me…” He glanced at him.

Ghost had leaned in at some point. Neither noticed until now.

“Johnny.” Soap was surprised he even knew that name. “I’d let you go if i could.”

“Liar.”

Ghost stared at him before someone knocked. “Fucking hell…” He fixed his mask. “Hide somewhere. I don’t care where, just stay out of sight.”

“Why?”

“They’re under the impression I’ve been torturing you. Obviously.”

“Why the fuck do they think that?” Soap jumped up, having the foresight to clean away the plates.

Ghost shrugged. “They assumed I was and I just didn’t correct them.”

Soap didn’t understand this man. “You willingly let them believe you’re a monster?”

“Johnny.” Ghost snapped and Soap snapped to action again, stepping out of the room. He lingered by the door though so he could eavesdrop.

Ghost clearly tried to keep the person at the door, but it didn’t work. Their footsteps followed a path around the couch and Soap frowned.

“So.” There was a thick accent to the voice. “Where is MacTavish?”

“He’s down right now.” Ghost spoke differently with this person. His voice gruffer and there was no emotion to it.

“Uh huh.” The man clearly didn’t believe him.

“Ale…”

“Ghost.” ‘Ale’ did not sound very believing of him. “Stab him or something?”

“Or something.”

There was light shuffling and Soap listened closer, trying to make it out.

“You wear the mask during…” There was a loud smack. Gloved hand against the back of someone’s head. The man laughed. “Honest question, hermano.”

“Get fucked.”

Silence for a moment.

“I can’t stand you.” Ghost groaned, though he didn’t seem that angry.

More laughter. “Anyway. I came to talk business with you, but if you’re busy…”

“I’ll see you later.” Ghost clearly tried to push him to the door.

“Well if you can take a break from cutting him up or whatever you’re doing long enough for me to meet him that would be great.”

“No.”

Their voices faded out of earshot. Soap listened closer before sighing as he sank down the wall.

#johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #simon riley #soap cod #ghost cod #GhostSoap #SoapGhost #Ghost x Soap #Soap x Ghost #MacRiley #Call of duty #Cod #call of duty mwii #spoils of war

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lilac-5ky · 1 year ago

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Roommates from Hell, pt.5 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 5: Off to the Races/A can of worms

Chapter 4 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests

A/N: reposting cause tumblr is being a bitch with the tags Worm's debut, aye! Also, let us all who thought it was horse races and not boat races lament in silence.

Warning: Curse attack counts as a warning I suppose. Mentions of blood, strangling, etc.

The furniture carrier service arrived with your stuff two days later, on a rainy Monday morning. The two middle-aged men congratulated you in broken Japanese for your wedding, whose ceremony apparently took place at Okazaki Jinja (also known as Rabbit’s Shrine) on Christmas Eve, and according to Toji, you looked most stunning in your shiromuku kimono.

His descriptions were so vivid that whenever he called you honey and wrapped an arm around your waist, you questioned whether your own wedding invitation was lost in the mail.

The charades continued even after the men departed, reaching their climax when Toji tossed you a slotted screwdriver and willed you into work, because what is a wife if not a slave?

That’s not to say Toji was a lousy fake husband. Not only did he offer to christen his new bed together, but to also perform “the shit” out of his marital duties. Neither happened, and every mention of you as his pretty little wife faded with the melting of the ice and the blooming of the plum trees.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and before you knew it, the two of you had fully adjusted to each other’s presence. For the most part. You still found it excruciatingly hard to get over the recurrent mess he left in the bathroom as if he were digging for Atlantis, his habit of discarding bloodied clothes in the corridor rather than the hamper, the Easter egg hunt you regularly embarked on in search of his stashed dirty plates, and of course, his turning the living room into a gym, not minding that his roommate just so happened to be a single female with urges of her own.

And for the record, his offers to join him in the shower only multiplied after he got his hands on the first water bill and insisted bathing together would help cut down on unnecessary expenses.

Toji was a handful, and living with him felt as if you were a contestant at Takeshi’s Castle, minus the guards whooping you with sticks and the exorbitant cash prize to justify your endurance. But even with the constant temptation that he was, you’d grown appreciative of your shared routine.

A typical weekday involved you getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast and side dishes ahead of lunch. The sounds of tinkering pots reached his ears before the whiff of freshly brewed coffee got to his nostrils—a bedhead Toji sheepishly stumbling his way into the kitchen with sweatpants low around his hips and a fist jabbing the sand off his eyes as he greeted you with the groggiest of Mornin’s.

You shared breakfast until duty called, and on days he found sitting at home as a trophy wife too tedious for his tastes, he popped by the diner for a “free” meal paid straight out of your pocket.

By the time you got home late in the afternoon, Toji had already half-assed his assigned chores and would either be zapping through the channels or going through another one of your belongings. Last week featured your junior high diary, whose existence and table of contents remained blurry until he cracked a joke about your short-lived crush on the hot substitute history teacher and you snorted a noodle out of your nose.

The nights were spent evaluating teenagers in idol shows, betting pizza slices on MMA fighters, dissing soap opera protagonists for their terrible life choices, and attempting to solve the cases in crime dramas ahead of the detectives. Cheap thrills for cheap entertainment, with the one to get the most correct answers during “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” entitled to minor rewards ranging from red bean soup in the cold months and shaved ice in the Summer, as well as foot rubs for you and shoulder rubs for him.

Time in your apartment moved at the languid pace of snow globe snowflakes and at the hurried tempo of hourglass sand. Five months later—in June, specifically—you barely remembered how to replace light bulbs or the bus routes from and to your job because you couldn’t recall a day-to-day life without Toji. Your hand naturally set a second plate on the table; your voice naturally placed an extra wonton order at the Chinese joint; your eyes naturally crinkled at each of his antics; and your lips naturally arched upon his welcoming you home; you naturally weren’t alone anymore.

And in a way, this was everything you’d ever wanted, but in plenty of others, you were terrified of losing it all to his former lifestyle when Toji came to his senses and realized this kind of life wasn’t for him—that you weren’t for him.

To reward him for being somewhat frugal and to exercise impulse control, you gathered some of your savings and surprised him with a trip to one of his favorite places. However, what ended up stealing the limelight was the big floppy hat on your head, which had last been in fashion before the Titanic sank.

In your defense, whatever impression you had of horse racing came from Hollywood movies where the rich and mighty spectated from their VIP seats with their fancy binoculars and fancier parasols. A near-empty venue with takoyaki stalls and an audience of men spread as sparsely as the hairs on their scalps was not what you expected.

“She’s a foreigner,” Toji explained to the bookie, whose eyes narrowed at the odd combination of your yellow umbrella-shaped hat paired with a white formal sundress and matching barrette heels.

“You should’ve told me,” you huffed as Toji led you to a corner next to the booths.

“Tell ya what?”

“That I’d stick like a sore thumb! Feels like everyone’s staring at me.”

He licked his fingers and hastily flipped through the racing cards. “That’s because you are the prettiest in ‘ere.”

You tugged your hat lower over your reddened face, mumbling, “They’re all pensioners anyway.”

He didn’t pay you any more attention until he was done sorting the papers. He went over the general rules of betting, recommending you put your cash on the odds-on Narita Brian, a Thoroughbred stallion that already counted seventeen victories in his seven-month career. And you would have trusted his intuition if you hadn’t suddenly remembered about his one-sided affair with Lady Luck.

While Toji was off to grab seats, you wagered half of the money on his choice and the other half on the newest entry at the very bottom of the list—an Arabian horse named Doraemon. You collected the slips and spotted him in the middle rows of your section, his feet arched against the empty front seat and his arms spread over the ones beside him. You sat down on his left and handed him his slip, glancing down at the tracks.

Men in identical caps that merely differed in color were tending to their mounts, fixing their halters in place. The race wouldn’t start for another thirty minutes, during which Toji ran on about jockeys, breeds, and records, letting you in on how the majority of the contesting horses were between the ages of two and three and how they collectively shared their birthdays on January 1. It was unlike him to gush about his interests, but there was no mistaking it; he loved it there.

You did your best to keep track of the complex terminology and Doraemon’s blue flair as the herd of horses made it to the starting gates. The bell rang without any further delay, and Toji’s voice fell into an abrupt hush as he watched Narita Brian fall second to Golden Wind and third to the newcomer Doraemon. He tore his slip into bits while you struggled to come up with the right words to say—though the cash spoke plenty of its own.

“Beginner’s luck,” Toji scoffed, maintaining a five-step distance as the two of you walked toward his rental of the month, a German silver sedan with ivory leather coating.

You triumphantly fanned your face with the envelope. “Is that what losers call it?”

“Beginner’s luck,” he repeated.

“This has nothing to do with luck. Simply me trusting in my childhood hero to save the day.”

He slurred something under his breath and hopped in the driver’s seat, banging the door with a thud that bounced across the parking lot, filled with the cars of people from the family restaurant next door.

“I’ve saved your ass a lot more than that stupid robo-cat, but I don’t see ya trustin’ me.”

You rolled your eyes and fastened your seat belt. You shuffled the banknotes and split them into twos, gesturing for Toji to open his palm.

“I trust you. Just not your luck.”

For once, he was hesitant to accept. “Save your pity cash. You earned it.”

“No, we earned it.” You grabbed his hand and slotted the bills right in. “I bet our savings. Even if your prediction fell out, you are still entitled to half of the prize.”

His fingers closed around yours, his thin obsidian brows relaxing as you held the weight of his persistent stare. “Wouldn’t do the same if our roles reversed.”

“I know.”

“And you’re wrong to gimme half. I pay less rent and snatch the spare change when you’re not lookin’.”

“That’s why I trust you,” you smiled. “If anything, you are consistent.”

His bottom lip twitched as if there was something else to say. There wasn’t. He let your palm fall empty onto your lap and put the key in the ignition, slinging his arm over your headrest to back into the road. You didn’t budge. Not in the slightest.

Not even when his mouth was inches away from yours, hooded jade eyes teasing his intentions.

“You are hopeless,” he said.

“Already know that,” you answered.

Not long after you hit the road, you found yourselves parked outside a grocery store in Minato City, the horizon melting into saturated ripples of copper gold and dusty pink. Toji motioned for you to hurry and reclined against his pushed-back seat in an attempt to escape the invasive sun glare.

You stepped out of the vehicle, momentarily popping in to drop your hat over his face. He groaned before acknowledging your gesture with a soft Thanks and an even softer smile, both hidden under the hat’s wide brim.

“I’ll cook you something real tasty for dinner. Your favorite!” The words scattered behind you as you broke into a jog, hair flowing freely against the wind and heart thumping lightly to the monotone chirp of the cicadas.

A beep declared your entrance to the three conversing part-timers who rushed back to their registers—two of them experienced enough to greet you with a bow of their heads, and the other too preoccupied with her phone. Teenagers. Around the same age you were when you got your first gig at that convenience store in Sendagaya.

You grabbed a basket and surveyed the aisles for ingredients. It was too hot for motsunabe but just right for yakitori. You could get some liver (since he was particular about offal) and toss it in the pan, or broil it in the oven. Or, you could go all out and opt for the priciest cut on the shelf: ribeye steak. Granted, Toji wouldn’t tell the difference between Kobe and Sirloin even if it was pointed out to him, but you wanted to savor such a delicacy at least once.

The closer you got to filling the basket, the emptier your wallet got. At checkout, the employee rang up your groceries and stuffed them all in one bag. She thanked you for your purchase, and you trudged outside.

A tinge of violet contoured the pale moonlight, the starry curtain yet to drop. It was the kind of night that made you wish you had a rooftop to yourself. Just you, the stars, and the man whose arm dangled lazily from the driver’s window.

“Hey, what time is it?”

It was safe to assume Toji didn’t share your sentimentalism.

You fished your phone out of your handbag, balancing the groceries against the trunk. “Like, uh… 7:32. Why?”

His fingers drummed at the door, while his lips kept his contemplation private. “Mind goin’ home on your own?”

“On my own?” you blinked. “Why, what happened?”

“Something came up,” Toji said, revving up the engine. “Won’t take long.”

Without getting to ask about the gender of that so-called something, you were deserted in the empty parking lot, witnessing all color in the skies be swallowed by absolute black tar.

You made it home an hour and three buses later, your first initiative being to check on the thawed ice cream pint. Chunks of Belgian chocolate floated on the surface like skerries amidst a vanilla-bourbon ocean. You slammed the lid shut and tossed it in the trash. No dessert for him—assuming he made it in time for dinner, that is.

You threw yourself into work, marinating your suspicions in soy sauce, glazing your apprehension with sherry vinegar, chopping your anger into fine bits, and lastly, searing your frustrations over the stove’s fire.

Whether he was clinking virgin margaritas with some non-virgin Mary at a rooftop garden party in Hibiya was none of your business. You had no right to ask. No right to phone him. No right to worry. No right to blow a fuse either. He had his life and you had yours, and for every point they intersected, a million others existed to divide them.

Still, you had every right to feel like a world-class idiot for thinking these past months ought to take the wild out of the wolf.

The first text came at a quarter past ten. Be there soon. You set the table and messed with the cutlery, arranging and rearranging it over and over again. Steak’s best eaten warm, but it’d be fine. He’d be there soon.

Around eleven, you got a second message. Start without me. You’d already eaten half the salad and gotten a head start on the main course. The meat was worth every penny. It was simply delicious.

By midnight, only his side of the table remained untouched. The ice in his water had melted, the glazed carrots had turned soggy, and the main course was as stale as damp dog hair. What a waste.

You processed the vacancy in his spot, sticking Toji’s image on the chair like a cut-out from a magazine. Inanimate, but there. So close that you could almost tell him off about the overgrown fringes he’d consistently refused to let you snip, when your thoughts were cut short by another buzz—this time, a single word.

Sorry.

Your fingers rehearsed different replies. It’s fine, paired with a smiley face that’d surely cost you a few hundred yen. What are you sorry for? Another fine, albeit more aggressive, alternative. A direct approach with a Who is she, and the most pathetic choice of all: Why can’t it be me?

You dropped the phone and piled up your dishes, emptying the rest of the salad into his. You’d barely reached the sink when the device began to vibrate again, each ring driving the phone closer to the edge of the furniture. The caller hung up before you had the chance to press Decline. Or so you thought until an agitated Toji yelled at the other end of the line. You disposed of the plates and rushed to the table, bringing the speaker to your ear.

“What are you on ab— Hello?” A series of acute beeps terminated the dial.

Please don’t tell me it’s broken, you pleaded while you examined the screen, tapping it on the back as if it were one of those stubborn old TVs— your eyes widening at the final text in your SMS window. You swore you’d deleted everything, but faced with such compelling evidence, your conviction seemed worthless.

You tried to punch in an excuse when a second round of buzzes launched the phone to the floor, where it typed away on its own, twisting your words into incoherent slurs that exceeded the character limit, the last of which repeated the same three-letter word in uppercase letters.

DIE

Startled, you tripped against your chair and knocked it down, the flickering lights drawing your attention to the ceiling. You stole a glance at the intact switch and dashed to the far-end table corner, piecing a steak knife between trembling fists. You’d watched enough horror movies to know those who acted last died first.

“Hey, asshole! That scared to show your ugly mug, you’ve gone into hiding?” You swung the knife forth. “Come out; promise I won’t judge.”

The electricity in the room settled only for the air to turn abnormally cold, your puny strikes facing resistance against the invisible body of your opponent. You gulped, wrapping your fingers tighter around the handle.

“Okay, maybe you aren’t a wuss, but you’re still rude! Attacking me in the middle of the night, implying, what, that I’m single? Since when is that a crime? Breaking and entering, on the other hand, now that’s a felony!

The lack of reaction prompted you to further your display of wits. “Wake up. This is the 21st century, and women can do just fine without man-whores in their lives. Gotta be a real stuck-up to think otherwise.”

Your spiteful insults tackled you to the ground, as your attacker seized the opportunity to entangle themselves around your ankles and decisively shimmied up your throat. A snake? No, this thing definitely had claws. A centipede maybe?

“Who the fuck you think you are deciding if I live or die? Y-you think,” you coughed, blindly stabbing anywhere you felt its presence, “dating is that easy? Why not do it yourself, then? W-what are you here f-for?”

Flight wasn’t in the cards anymore. The spirit’s clutches sank deeper into your flesh as it feasted on your emotions, steadily growing stronger. You combed through Toji’s stories for something to help you get rid of this thing before it got rid of you—a weak spot, a way of striking, a non-sorcerer technique—anything. But staying focused when the oxygen tank that fueled your brain begged to be depleted was plain impossible.

Choosing fight over fright, you ripped through the air with your knife once more. The limitations between your body and the curse’s were unclear. Warm blood trickled from where the sharp edge nicked your unpracticed knuckles, the grip loosening until all there was left for you to do was flap the air, falling victim to the overwhelming pressure in your head.

You were really going to die. Alone and helpless on the unmopped kitchen floor to a foe imperceptible to the naked eye.

What would Toji do?

He’d probably be the one to find your body shaping one of those funny chalk outlines from Law and Order. You didn’t want to admit it, but he was the better detective. Even if the cops wrote you off as another serial case victim, he’d know a curse did it.

You pictured his reaction, hoping he’d at least shed a tear at your loss, that your absence would at least strike a chord in his heart, that you’d at least be included as a highlight in his collection of scars; that you at least wouldn’t be forgotten.

It was fine to be selfish this once, right? After all, you didn’t ask to be missed or honored like a lover or a wife would. Just to be remembered with a smile, as fondly as you recalled him during these final breaths of your pitiful life—a life he alone made worth living.

There were so many things you wished you’d told him, though what you regretted the most was not thanking him for that day at the bridge, knowing fully well you’d never get the chance to.

In the throes of death, two brown antennae sprouting from a gruesome creature you lacked the courage to describe overtook your vision. Thank God you weren’t able to see this earlier. You would have shat your pants and died in a pool of shit.

“There you are… ugly bastard as expected.”

Just when you thought you’d set sail for the other side of the river, a sound akin to that of a bug being stomped pulled you back into what you prayed was reality.

“Been called a bastard before, but ugly?” A viler crunch followed, the centipede crumbling into a pile of dust to reveal the smug grin on your savior’s scarred lips. “Now that’s a first.”

Relief washed over your self-inflicted wounds and abused trachea as you somehow found it in you to stumble rather than leap to the heaven of your choice, an ugly sob muffling all which you tried to say. The sword—judging by the volume of the collision—dropped to the floor as Toji welcomed you in his arms, a large palm rushing to rub the small of your back while his other hand combed through your hair reassuringly.

“It’s okay,” Toji cooed. “I got you now.”

You wept even harder, the gentle tone as he repeated those four words bringing about the opposite of the desired effect. How could you’ve given up so easily when it meant not hearing his voice or seeing his face ever again? How could you doubt your death would shake him when he was frantically kissing apologies on the crown of your head, cradling you as if he was the one who needed to be saved? How could you feel so idiotically ecstatic when you’d nearly turned into curse food?

Still sniffling in his shirt, you wiped your eyes against the fabric and peered at him, taking in his knitted eyebrows and downturned mouth—the worry in his features—and eventually the extra body between you.

“Hey, Toji. What’s that around your waist?”

The potent smell of antiseptics took your kitchen by storm as Toji laid out the first aid kit’s contents over the congested dining table, fitting sterile gauze dressings and iodine bottles in the gaps created by the plates. His chair was dragged closer to yours while he constantly hunched forward, holding both your hands in his own and operating with a little less care than you were willing to tolerate.

“Ouch!” You flinched when his knuckles grazed another of the myriad open wounds that spanned from the apex of your elbow to the chipped tips of your fingernails—none too deep to demand serious medical expertise.

Ignoring your whiny tone, he looped the bandage around your thumb again, this time pressing even harder against your bone. “What a crybaby.”

“Anyone would cry if they were being mummified!”

“Not mummies, they wouldn’t.”

Your next protest lost its turn to the shrill squeak emitted by the elephant, or rather, the worm in the room, whose presence you’d temporarily forsaken. Despite it being of the tubular crawling kind, it didn’t look half as appalling as the monstrosity you witnessed. If anything, its plump lips and rounded cheekbones resembled a human baby more than they did an actual worm.

The creature continued bobbing its head up and down on Toji’s shoulder, its eyes perfectly shut, while it shuddered at its master’s quip. Not only was it sentient, but it was also openly laughing in your face. You hated it.

“What is that thing anyway?” you asked.

“How many times you gonn’ ask? Worm.”

“I can see it’s a worm, Toji, I’m not blind,” you sighed. “I’m asking what’s this worm doing wrapped around your neck like a travel pillow.”

He kept silent while binding the remainder of your fingers—four of them together and the fifth left apart—though “encasing” seemed more appropriate given his dedication to providing you with a proper pair of mittens. He taped the loose end and grabbed the second roll, letting go of your treated hand.

“A’right, quiz time.” Twin shimmers sparkled playfully in his jade eyes. “How do chefs carry their equipment around?”

“You mean their knives?” He nodded. “They stuff them in a roll so they don’t knock each other.”

Toji snapped a quick thumbs-up. “Next question, what’s the name of that movie we watched last week?”

You processed his question while kissing your teeth. “Can I get a hint?”

“A hint, huh?” He scratched his jaw, eventually grinning. “The one with the pervy lawyer and the hot chick who pissed herself.”

“You mean ‘The Secretary’?”

“Rephrase it.”

“The assistant?”

He crooned in approval. “And now for the million-dollar question,” he leaned closer. “Why do people keep mutts?”

“For company? For uh… protection?” He shook his head at both.“Really? Can I phone a friend?”

“Nope. Go simpler and you’ll find it, ain’t that hard. Well, not as if you have anyone to call either.”

You kicked at his chair’s front leg and faked a slap on his giddy face. “You are lucky I have these on, or else!”

“Or else what?” Toji caught your wrist. “You’d hit me?”

You dabbed his cheek lightly enough for him to return to his seat with a complacent smile as he resumed dressing your hand.

“You are the lucky one. A real centipede would have bitten its venom into you. Must have annoyed the livin’ shit out of that curse to have it choke the words outta your potty mouth.”

“You call that luck?”

He hummed, flipping your palm on his knee to pour iodine over a scratch. You hissed as he brought it to his mouth and blew on the wound. “Don’t wanna know about Worm anymore?”

“I… do.”

“Then answer,” Toji said.

“Fine, fine.” You groaned. “You said simpler, so… pet?”

“Bingo. Put ‘em together, and you get your answer.”

“So you are telling me that this worm is your knife carrier, slash hot assistant, slash pet? Is that it?”

He carefully folded the bandage on the inside of your palm and crossed it between your fingers. Again, he didn’t speak until the work was done and you’d retracted your hand.

“In other words, the inventory curse, yes. Reason why you couldn’t off that curse is because ya hit it with a regular knife. You need something imbued with cursed energy; everything else just tickles.”

“That explains a lot,” you mumbled bitterly.

“Can’t cut bread with a cheese knife, can ya?” Toji continued. “Worm over here carries my cursed tools for me. He doesn’t cap, doesn’t bark, and doesn’t drop his pencils either.” He sneered as he cued the worm to open its mouth. “Watch.”

Without receiving a single order, the curse parted its lips to reveal the fur-embedded hilt of a broadsword twice the size of your table, which Toji easily unsheathed and set on the ground.

“That’s 500 million for ya. Cuts through pretty much everything.”

Your eyes widened while he proceeded to showcase his collection, bringing out daggers and claymores that ranged from hundreds of thousands to even a billion yen. He went into some detail when it came to the fancier ones, but the majority were dismissed as either “sword” or “gun”.

Finally, he pulled out the hat you’d lent him and placed it on your head—not a single blotch of saliva, despite it coming straight from the worm’s intestines.

“Don’t you dare tell me you can’t afford rent next time!” You scoffed, watching as the worm crawled down his torso and gobbled up the weapons one by one. It was amazing. Kind of disgusting, but amazing all the same.

“So, Mister Zen’in.” You curled your fingers however best you could and shoved them in his face like a makeshift microphone. “What’s it like being a single dad at the tender age of 28?”

Toji smacked your hand away. “Keep callin’ me that, and I’ll give ya a taste.”

You would have given yourself another injury if it weren’t for his quick reflexes stabilizing your chair in time. You were blushing mad, and it wasn’t from the shock. He was smirking, and it certainly was from the way your thighs instinctively buckled around his hand—something you became aware of only after your feet had landed on the floor.

“Done with the interrogation?”

He plopped down on his chair and motioned for the worm to come over. It obeyed, wrapping itself first around his leg and then around his torso before nuzzling his neck. They both seemed so content in each other’s presence that your joke felt more like an expression of reality. Toji with a pet—now that’s new.

Putting his question on hold, you stabbed a carrot with a fork and offered it to the creature. “Here, wormie, wormie! Have a treat.”

“Wormie?” Toji quirked a brow.

“Cuter than you calling him Worm,” you imitated his raspy tone.

Wormie glanced at its master for confirmation before opening its mouth and swallowing the carrot along with the fork. You wondered if you’d ever get that back, but were stunned to see Wormie slide from Toji’s shoulder and devour two of the plates like that masked spirit in Spirited Away.

He—taking Toji’s word that Wormie was a male—slithered across the table and stood in front of you with an amicable expression, his lips rounding to emit three little toots that you gladly interpreted as Thank you for the food; it was delicious. My owner is an idiot for missing out.

Begrudgingly, you lifted your hand to pet him, managing a small head pat before Wormie returned to Toji. At least his pet had superior tastes to his—both in women and in food.

“Done now?” You nodded with a faint smile. “Good, ‘cause I’m beat.”

“Wait!” You blurted as soon as he stood up. “I mean, what if that thing has friends?”

“Friends?” Toji echoed with a chuckle. “Scared a curse more popular than you?”

Really lucky, you growled.

“What if… What if they team up against me to exact revenge while I’m asleep?”

“Oh? That’s what scares ya?” He laughed again, and you should’ve known he was up to no good when he answered, “I can fix that.”

“Is this really necessary?”

Your question felt out of place when the two of you were crammed in the sleeper sofa like canned sardines—Toji’s left arm comfortably stretched beneath your head as a pillow, while his other willed your body into a snug, albeit humid, embrace. Summer was hot enough without being subjected to his breath fanning steam onto your neck or having the press of his bare chest against your clothed back, and you were already sold on this being your new sleeping norm.

“You’re the one who didn’t wanna sleep alone,” he gruffed in a tired voice.

In a way, he was right. You were the one who dug her heels in the couch and refused to budge even after he checked every house corner for signs of a demonic presence. Incidentally, you’d also been the one who acted as if you wanted to watch a late-night rerun on TV, promising not to disturb him.

One thing led to another. He put Wormie to sleep by quite literally ingesting him, cracked a soda open, and joined you. Your show ended; a movie began. He stole the remote; you threw a fit. He tossed you his shirt and made room; you slid off your dress and put it on. It smelled of gardenia; it smelled of you.

You stayed.

Any other day of the year, you would have raced to your room and hidden your head under your covers like an ostrich in the sand, yet no place in the world felt safer than his arms, knowing they hadn’t hosted another.

Of course, you weren’t keen to admit that. “I never said that!”

“You didn’t?’ Toji yawned. “Sure sounded like you did. Now zip it and sleep tight.”

Can’t get any tighter than this, you meant to argue, but your will to protest had died out. The first harbingers of dawn started gathering outside as chirping birds at your window ledge, drowning the mournful song of the cicadas. Bless Sakurai and that new part-timer for taking on your early Monday shifts.

You closed your eyes and let yourself be lulled into sleep when a realization shook you to the core. How could he possibly protect you while asleep?

“Would you suit up for my funeral?”

“Woman, one more word, and I’ll feed your ass to Wormie myself.”

You gasped, craning your neck to catch a glimpse of his chiseled yet visibly frustrated profile. “Wormie eats humans?”

“If he doesn’t, I will.” He fastened his arm around your stomach as if to get his threat across.“Shut up while I’m asking nicely, won’t ya?”

Some time passed since you’d last disturbed him, and his breathing evened out into a light snore, a hint of raspiness tingling the shell of your ear. He wasn’t lying about being exhausted, and although you’d spent countless nights sleeping in the same house, not once did you sleep close enough to hear all those little sounds he let out when he was at his most vulnerable.

You wished you had something to record him with, but mostly, you wished your view was that of his face as opposed to the ghost nightlight on the table.

A different version of today’s events replayed in your head, excluding all the harrowing details that haunted you in the night’s darkest hours. The races were fun; you should save money from now on to do that more often. The compliment wouldn’t hurt to accept. The food was amazing, the episode was alright, and his coming to your rescue was something straight out of a movie.

“Toji?” Making sure he was still asleep, you rolled to his side.

You had to brace yourself not to sigh in splendor as your eyes trailed over the unmapped expanse of his body, skimming over every valley and every peak leading down to the defined V-line that seemingly finished miles below the elastic of his sweatpants. You wondered how many kisses it would take to traverse that distance if the starting point was that of his agape lips, the outline of his scar dim between the greenish shadows in the room.

He had no right to look this beautiful. You returned to your old habit of counting rights and wrongs—and at the time, you couldn’t find a single fault to him, but a dozen in you, as you tilted your head and printed a gentle kiss on his lips.

“Thank you.”

As soon as the words were out of your mouth, you were locked in a kiss independent of your own wretched volition, as Toji’s lips branded yours with one of equal gratitude.

“You’re welcome.”

That should’ve been the end of it, but before you had the chance to pass judgment, you followed his lead in closing your eyes and were recaptured by his indelible warmth, lips moving together in sync as if there was something to be gained from each other’s mouth, bit by bit chipping in more than you’d bargained for, so desperate in your game of chance that your hands greedily seized the smallest of earnings.

His long fingers sank deep within your hair while he hiked up your (his) shirt, palm fondling the swell of your breasts without an inch of reservation, and it felt good—it felt bliss; so much better than it did at that hotel and all the other times your mind invented since. He was certain about where and how he wanted to touch you; every other woman he’d ever been with just practice for this moment, and even though he’d never said it out loud, you must’ve known that to be true.

It was always you.

Your hips bucked against his own as Toji squeezed your bodies together, his teeth joining in the action of his tongue as he bit down on your lip, feeling your leg coil tight around his torso and the tap of your heel on his toned back. That was the only way for you to feel him, considering the bandages greatly restricted the movements of your hands, which were awkwardly thrown over his back.

“You’re such a stubborn brat, know that?” He panted, pressing your ass firmly enough for the tent in his pants to poke at your clothed entrance. You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Tell ya one thing, you do the other. Ask to kiss you, and you gimme your cheek. And now this?” He couldn’t resist slotting his tongue between your lips, pouring all his resentment into one sloppy and heady exchange of spit. “Gonna give ya a reason to thank me all week long.”

You shuddered at his words, attempting to steal his next sentence from his mouth before you were forcibly unlatched and turned the other way, your waist caged by both his arms so that you couldn’t budge.

“Week doesn’t start until tomorrow.” Toji seared a kiss on your nape, prodding the hair out of the way with his nose. “Now let me fucking sleep.”

A/N: so apparently tumblr fucks up posts when the tag list is featured inside the fic, which sucks and that might be the reason why I had to make three posts for this fic to be seen in its respective tags. I’ve tagged those who had to be tagged in the first one of these three posts, but since this chapter is hard ruined, I’ll do the tags on a reblogged version from now on.

this website seriously sucks. here are the two other versions of the exact same thing ._. first and second

you can still comment here if you wanna be tagged on future updates, and sorry for this entire mess ._.

#toji x reader #fushiguro toji #Toji Fushiguro #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #toji x y/n #toji x you

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