#It’ll be good to occupy my mind with asks this week

[cutieclangen]

Asks are encouraged!

I’m open for all sorts of asks! Whether they are direct questions for a cat or general questions for me. I’d like to answer some this week!

These cats take up so much of my brain real estate and I love them so much. Drawing has been a bit of a struggle lately but I have so much information about these kitties that I want to share! I can’t promise I can do any art for asks right now, but I suppose I can always add art in later on :3

[leon4nyx]

Where My Affections Lie

CrownPrince!RE4R!Leon x AFAB!Maid!Reader

word count - 2.6k

tags - MDNI, not proofread, slight angst, p in v, oral sex (m! and f! receiving), fingering (f!receiving), soft dom/sub undertones, creampie, missionary, begging, aftercare, generally vanilla sex

the crown prince, Leon, grapples with his princely duty to marry the princess of the neighboring kingdom in order to secure a political alliance with both lands, even if his heart belongs to another− you.

Leon enters your quarters, shutting the door and sliding the lock in place behind him. He looks crestfallen and defeated, his dejected face worrying you. He takes your work-hardened hands in his smooth ones, pressing kisses and nuzzling his face into the warmth of your palm as he looks up at you with tear-glossed eyes. He sets aside the linens you were folding, recently picked from the clothesline first thing in the afternoon. Unlike your princely lover who could indulge in personal interests and other idle hobbies, nearly all your days in serving his family are spent busying yourself with chores and domestic duties; up until he had come inside to seek comfort in your presence, you were occupied with folding newly dried sheets before sending it upwards to their personal housekeepers.

“What’s the matter?” you gently ask him, cupping his teary face nearer to yours.

“The king and queen,” his voice nearly cracks. “My parents, they will marry me off to the princess of the neighbouring kingdom in a month. I am due to meet her at the end of this week and shall be gone for two nights.”

The breath never makes it past your lips, lodging itself in your throat to form an uncomfortable lump that accompanies the sunken feeling in your chest and the tears that begin to blur your vision.

“It is purely for the interest of politics, for the economic well-being of our kingdom,” Leon continues though he sounds far from pleased. “Father has cut ties with the trade of our previous ally, much to my contempt. No matter what I say and how much I beg, nothing will change their minds. A ship is on its way to deliver the message now.”

The king’s speak is the law and you know that there is no denying his wishes unless you wish to lose your head. If Leon, the crown prince, couldn’t get him to retract his statement, what more can a lowly maid do? You set aside the ache of your own heart, putting Leon’s emotions first in this gutting moment in both your lives.

“Leon, it’s all going to be fine. I’m sure she is rich and beautiful,” you point out with a feigned smile.

“That is nothing if I cannot have you,” he responds. “I care not for material riches when you are far more wealthy in the love you spoil me with. She is not you so I could care less about her. She will never be you.”

“The kingdom needs you, Leon. We are all relying on you for our prosperity,” you quietly say. “It’s best you follow the king, this is for the good of your people.”

Leon shakes his head, his blond fringe swaying along with the motion. He dips his head, eyes downcast to his bare ring finger.

“I don’t wish to stop loving you, my dove.” He confesses in a voice so broken.

“But you’ll hurt her,” you retort. “She is your wife, my future queen, and I am but an ignoble servant. She will bear your children so you must love her, as fiercely or more than you have loved me.”

He shakes and cries into the crook of your neck, saline tears leaving dark circles on the fabric of your garments as his arms hold you close to himself.

“It’ll be fine, Leon. I forgive you and I always will,” you whisper as you pat the soft hair at the back of his head. “It must be done.”

You had more words to say but it dies down at the base of your throat, the lump growing more uncomfortable as tears of your own descend as you both share your griefs in the tragedy of your circumstances.

After a delicate silence spent tearfully, Leon pulls back and stares into your eyes with fervour as if he is committing every blemish and groove of your face to memory.

“Fuck it,” he whipsers beneath his breath.

Light and careful hands cup your cheeks as if your face is made of glass, drawing your face near until your lips connect. The kiss is gentle and careful at first, no more than the tender smacking of lips and stifled noises accompanied by low smacks but the passion and desperation grows tenfold; his hands find themselves groping and grabbing, warm tongues coming to meet in the middle to engage in a passionate tango amidst hot puffs of breaths. Leon breaks away and plants damp kisses on the side of your lips, trailing it down your neck and making its way into your collarbones. His fingers fumble around behind you, fervidly undoing the laces of your clothing.

“Take these off,” he damn near growls. “Rip it, just rip it.”

You reach behind you to try and undo it swiftly but your lover has gone impatient, the sound of fabric ripping reaching your ears as your back is exposed to the air as he shoves the remainder of the torn clothing down, exposing your breasts.

“Leon!” You yelp in surprise.

“Need you,” he breathes in between clumsy pecks to your lips. “Need you now.”

He backs you into your bed, gently setting you down before climbing on top of your pinning you down with his enveloping weight. His kisses are bold and sloppy, desperate for more of you as teeth clack and grunts increase in volume. Your hands untangle themselves from his locks, gliding down the ripples of his muscled back and down to his trousers as you try to shove it down. Taking your hint, he rises up for a moment and undoes the button before shucking it down along with his underwear. His cock springs out, slapping into his abdomen right underneath his navel; his tip is flushed and glossy, covered in a thin layer of his arousal. Veins deliciously adorn the shaft like vines, the sight before you making you all the more hot and bothered. You sit up as Leon lies down, back resting against the headboard as you bend to eye-level with his erection.

“Please,” he begs. “Just…– ah, fuck.”

You interrupt his begging in the most heavenly way possible with your lips wrapped around his tip, gently giving cautious sucks before you take more of him into your mouth and start bobbing your head up and down. Spit dribbles from the corner of your mouth and glides down his girth, making Leon painfully harder if it was even possible.

“F-Faster,” he chokes out as his hips twitch. “Faster… yeah, jus’ like that.”

You pull away for a moment to catch your breath, a thin string of spit connecting you to his cock. You wrap your warm hands around him and form a tunnel, gliding it up and down his length at a pleasurable pace while you look at him through lidded eyes.

“F-Fuck,” he whimpers as his back bows from time to time. “Ah, ple–please, please. F-Fuck, faster!”

Shlicks resonate through the room, growing in speed as you pick up the pace with your hands. His face tightens and his balls flex, signaling that he’s right over the edge when you pull your hand away for a moment before replacing it with the wetness of your mouth again.

“Faster, faster–ngh–faster!” He chants in a whiny tone as his hands cup the back of your head as he urges you on. “Mine, y-you’re… hngh… mine! A-And I’m yours– all yours, p-please!”

He shoves your head down a little rougher, catching you off-guard as warm spurts of his cum shoots deep inside your mouth. Throaty whines and moans accompany his bliss, throat exposed as his head is thrown back in a white-hot ecstasy. He releases his hands from your head, letting you pull away as you take a breath. He’s still hard, angry cock pointing to the sky as it kicks in desire for more of you.

“Get on your back for me,” he pants in a low register. Sitting up, he crawls over you to lay down. “Let me return the favor, like a good lover does.”

You lift your hips up for him as he unbuttons your lower garments and slides it off of your legs before haphazardly tossing it to the floor as he focuses on his desire right between your legs. The sunlight filtering in through the window illuminates your soaked pussy, bathing it in a tantalizing glow.

“She’s crying for me and I haven’t even touched her yet,” he thickly chuckles to himself as he parts your soaked folds with his thumb, earning a weak mewl from you.

“Touch me, Leon. “ You admit in a hushed tone. “Please.”

“I’m going to need you to be a little louder for me, my queen,” he breathes against your inner thigh as he noses your sensitive clit.

“Leon,” you drawl. “Please! Please, just touch me.” Your cheeks burn with embarrassment at hearing yourself beg but you’re given no chance to bask in it before he dives in and plunges his tongue. “Leon!”

He positions your legs to rest against his shoulders, his arm encircled over your hips to gently rub soothing circles against your skin as he laps and licks like a mad hound. He looks up at you, the throb in his weeping cock aching even more powerful as your cries of his name reverbs throughout the room with no regard for who could hear.

“Good girl,” he purred as he plunged his right index into your eager hole and used his left thumb to stroke your pudgy clit. “Good fucking girl.”

“H-Harder,” you breathed as your velvety walls clamped around his finger. “L-Leon…”

“Gotta give my girl what she wants,” your lover breathes as he withdraws his finger to add another one and plunge it inside again. “You hear yourself, love? How she’s so needy for my cock?”

“Fuck!” You curse, writhing due to the overwhelming pleasure that runs through your body. “Ah! T-there, Leon– there, don’t s-stop!”

Your moans increase in volume and pitch, growing more feral and raw with the need to chase after that high as he relentlessly rubs that gummy spot you love.

“That’s it,” you hear him say. “Don’t be quiet, have to let everyone know who I love. Let the princess know, yeah?”

You feel empty again, only for his mouth to engulf your wet sex. Your mouth parted to make way for a primal groan, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you feel that knot in your abdomen tense up for an incoming release.

“Louder baby,” Leon says with a smug smirk. “Let them know how good I treat you– ugh!”

He groans as his eyes shut as you tug on his face forcefully, shoving your pussy into his face as your body shakes with the shockwave of pleasure that crashed over you.

“Leon!” you breathe as you keep his head in place between your legs. “Leon!”

You chant his name over and over again like a prayer, screaming in pleasure as you feel his tongue kitten lick your clit. Your body relaxes, your fingers releasing its vice grip on his hair as your legs fall apart and free his head.

“Are you still with me?” Leon asks as he presses gentle kisses to your cheeks.

“Yes,” you pant as you direct his lips to yours. You hum with the taste of your slick, still not satisfied with being devoured alive alone. “Wan’ more, dove.”

“Good,” he darkly chuckles. “You want me now?”

You nod feverishly, coating his erection in your slick and his spit as you grind despite your overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he hisses as he lines himself up. “Tell me you want me, please, love. Tell me you want me so bad.”

Your hands gently push his hips down to yourself, easing his hot cockhead into you. “I… want you so bad, Leon. So fucking bad.”

“T-That’s it,” he encourages you as he pushes himself in slowly. Despite having made love with him more than twice, his cock still stretched you out like you’ve never taken him before. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

He stills to let you adjust to being stuffed to the brim, occasionally huffing grunts when he feels your walls pulse and constrict around his sensitive cock. Once you give him the go-ahead to move, he moves his head to watch your face scrunch in pleasure as he begins to rock his cock in and out of your soaked pussy.

“I love your whines,” he chuckles. “Fuck, what a slut for me– only me. You’re mine,” he rasped.

“Yours!” You choke out as you drag your nails down his back, certain that it will leave red streaks that would certainly sting later on. “Yours, L-Leon!”

The grind of his recently-trimmed pelvis provided a delicious friction as he drove himself deeper into you, the bed creaking with each thrust.

“L-Love… you!” Leon keened, punctuating his words with harsh slaps. “So fucking much!”

Leon is temporarily taken aback by your hands moving to both sides of his sweat-soaked cheeks as you drew it nearer to yourself and captured his lips in a hungry exchange of passionate-fueled smacks as he delivered more thrusts of growing intensity. He felt his heart drop at the fact that he will need to consummate his marriage with the princess he will soon marry, a dark cloud coming back to trouble his mind, but the feeling of your teeth and tongue on his neck brought him back to the present so he pushed those negative feelings away for now, focusing on how snug your pussy envelopes his cock and how pretty the marks you’ve left on his neck and collar bones are. He does the same, moving your face to the side to paint your neck in reds, purples, and light indents of his teeth on the flesh.

“I’m g-going to cum,” Leon whines against your ear. “F-Fuck! This sweet pussy’s m-made just f’me.”

“Leon!” You exclaim as you cling onto him even more as if he’d be ripped away. “L-Leon, I-I’m going t’cum!”

He knocks the breath away from your lungs, back arched and chest pressed against him as your finger nails embed crescents into his shoulder blades. You weakly gush some more of your juices around his length, velvety pussy rippling around his cock.

With a throaty whine of your name, he holds you close against him as he delivers the last thrust before he shoots his warm spend inside you. He only puts a halt to his shallow thrusts when you tell him to stop as the pleasure is now bordering on discomfort. Ever the caring boyfriend he is, even in times of steaming passion, he looks after your wellbeing. He pushes hair away from your eyes, gently rubbing your cheeks as he adoringly whispers your name while he tends to you first.

“Does anything hurt?” He asks. “Did I cause you any pain?”

You laugh, tucking a long strand of sweat-dampened hair behind his ears. “No, my love. You made me feel happy today, like you always have. Stay with me for a little longer, Leon. I wish to rest with you,” you softly ask of him as you lift your covers to your chest.

“What about cleaning yourself up?” He asks.

“That can wait. I need you now,” you respond. “I meant it when I screamed that I needed you, Leon. I said it with my heart.”

His heart pinches in his chest, unfortunately brought back to the grim reality of his situation but that can wait so for now, he lifts the covers over both your bodies and stretches his arm to let you rest on it, stroking your hair until you fall asleep with no plans to leave despite what awaits him.

NOTE - hi guys!! i decided to try my hand at writing smut so if this isn't the best smut you've ever read, i'd like to apologize because this is my first time!! though it was certainly full of me giggling mid-writing coz i found my situation lowkey funny, i actually had fun but i don't think i'll be writing lots of smut :) i decided to post this to check out the flexibility of my writing skills so this is pretty experimental. i won't be super active in here because my main is @leonw4nter :) i also decided to start a ko-fi [still fixing some things up] in case anyone wants to drop a tip but please, please, please do not think that i'm forcing you to give me some money-- it's just there as a grander form of showing appreciation but likes and reblogs get me going already :) anyway, that's it and thank you for reading this <3 let me know what you guys think in the comments, i'd love to hear your thoughts <3

[pbaz7]

AN: Hi guys, this is my first time writing and posting on here but I felt inspired. Let me know what you think and if it’s any good. I have so many ideas so I want to know if I should keep writing!

It’ll Always Be Her

It’s 6:52 AM, and though her “girlfriend” lies next to her, Paige can’t stop thinking about Azzi. Usually it’s Azzi who occupies this spot next to her, and it’s a lot easier to relax. But last night, Paige hadn’t been feeling great, and she didn’t have the energy to push back against Jess. (It;s a familiar pattern, one that explains how Piage ended up in a relationship with Jess to begin with.) So when Jess insisted that Paige needed to be taken care of, all Paige could do was mutter something inaudible under her breath and collapse face-first into her pillow, forcing herself to sleep earlier than usual.

Now, here she is, wide awake an hour and a half before her alarm is set to go off. Not because she’s ready to face the day, but because she’s uncomfortable with Jess snuggled so close and because her mind won’t stop swirling with thoughts of Azzi, her curly headed best friend. Over the past few weeks, something has shifted between them. Their looks have become more intense, their fingers linger on each other for just a second too long, and there’s an undeniable tension that always leaves Paige wanting more.

She glances at her phone- 7:23. Great. She sighs and tosses and turns, hoping to wake Jess so she can escape the bed as soon as possible. But when Jess begins to stir, she presses her face deeper into Paige’s side and wraps her arm around her waist, holding her tighter. The gesture feels so innocent, so natural… and yet, any touch that isn’t Azzi’s these days feels wrong.

With a frustrated breath, Paige swings her legs off the bed, sitting up quickly. She’s already done with this, already done with the suffocating warmth of Jess beside her.

The movement is enough to wake Jess fully. She blinks up at the time, then at Paige. “Baby, come back to bed. Jess says, her voice thick with sleep, trying to coax Paige back under the covers. “It’s so early.”

Paige doesn’t meet her eyes. She’s focused on the dresser, pulling out a sweatshirt, but her tone is dry when she responds. “I can’t. I’ve got to get to the gym.”

“Come on,” Jess whines, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “You have plenty of time. Please. Just five more minutes.”

Paige pulls on her sweatshirt, the irritation creeping into her voice. “I can’t Jess. I’ve got a full day. Practice, classes, homework. Endorsements to deal with. I don’t have time for this.”

Jess’s face falls. She gets out of bed slowly and steps toward Paige, “You’re acting like I’m some kind of inconvenience. Is it a crime to want to be intimate and spend time with your girlfriend? You’ve barely glanced at me in weeks. What’s going on, Paige? I miss you. I miss us hanging out.”

Paige feels anger welling up inside her now even though she knows she’s being unreasonable. She spins around, facing Jess. “You don’t get it, Jess,” she snaps. “You forced your way into my room last night. You know you never sleep here. I wasn’t asking for your ‘help,” I wasn’t asking for you to be here. You just–” She stops herself, trying to breathe through the frustration because she knows Jess hasn’t done anything wrong, but the words keep spilling out. “I didn’t want this. You didn’t even give me a choice.”

Jess recoils, her face flushing with a mix of hurt and confusion. “What the hell are you talking about Paige? I just wanted to be there for you. I didn’t force myself on you.” Her voice shakes now, the hurt beginning to show. “You’ve been shutting me out, and now you’re blaming me?”

Paige runs a hand through her hair, exasperated trying not to hurt the girl anymore that she already has. “I’m not blaming you, Jess. I’m just saying you’re not giving me any space. “I’m not your project to fix.”

Jess steps back. Her expression hardening. “So, what? You’re just going to keep pushing me away? Because I’ve been nothing but patient with you, but you’re acting like I’ve done something wrong.”

Paige’s breath quickens, her heart racing, “I’m not shutting you out. I’m trying to figure things out. I can’t breathe with you constantly hovering.”

Jess stares at her for a long beat, clearly struggling to process everything. Then, her eyes narrow, and her voice lowers. “ I get it now, It’s her isn’t it?”

Paige’s entire body freezes. Her pulse spikes, and her stomach drops. “Don’t. Don’t bring her into this,” she says, her voice strained. It’s a warning, as everyone knows how protective the blonde is of Azzi. But it’s too late. Hess’s words hang in the air like a cold gust of wind.

“I see the way you look at her. I’m not blind, Paige. It’s so obvious–maybe you need to be more honest with yourself.”

“Don’t bring her up,” Paige snaps, her voice sharp and brittle. She’s seething now, every fiber of her being reacting to the mention of Azzi. “You don’t know what you’re talking about so maybe you should just leave.

Jess’s face pales, her lips trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. But she doesn’t say anything else. She just grabs her things, slinging her back over her shoulder with a sharp motion.

Paige doesn’t look at her as she heads toward the door. She can feel Jess’s gaze on her, but she can’t bring herself to meet it. She’s still shaking, her anger, guilt, and confusion all rising to the surface.

“Fine,” Jess mutters as she reaches the door. Her voice is small, but there’s a venom in it now. “I’ll give you the space you so desperately want. I’ll talk to you later Paige.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and for a long moment, Paige doesn’t move. The weight of everything crashes over her, and the room feels impossible quiet.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, fighting the wave of emotions, trying to push down the rage, the guilt, the ache in her chest. She runs a hand through her hair, trying to breathe, but all she can think about is Azzi, The way her heart races when she’s near her. The way their eyes meet and everything else seems to fade.

…

Paige slings her gym back over her shoulder, her steps brisk as she tries to shake off the lingering weight of her argument with Jess. She’s almost to the door when she nearly collides with Ice, who’s leaning casually against the wall, earbuds hanging from her neck.

“Whoa, slow down,” Ice says, raising an eyebrow. She’s in her usual attire, a tank top and sweatpants, her hair pulled into a messy bun.

Paige mumbles an apology and moves to step around her, but Ice doesn’t budge. Instead, she gives Paige a long, knowing look.

“Heard everything this morning,” Ice says, her voice low. “Thin walls, you know.”

Paige freezes, her face flushing.

Ice shrugs, a faint teasing smirk playing on her lips. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t take a genius to see that something is building with you and Azzi.”

Paige’s stomach flips at the mention of Azzi. “There’s nothing going on,” she says quickly, but the defensiveness in her tone betrays her.

Ice raises her hands in mock surrender. “Hey, whatever you say.”

With that, she saunters off toward the kitchen, leaving Paige standing in the doorway, her thoughts swirling.

…

Paige pushes herself harder than usual, the basketball's relentless rhythm doing very little to quiet her mind. The music connected to the gym’s speaker halts as her phone buzzes, and she goes to grab it during a water break. It’s a text from Azzi.

Azzi: Morning sunshine. You survive the apocalypse?

Paige smirks despite herself and quickly types back.

Paige: Barely. Already at the gym.

Azzi: Damn, overachiever. You running from something superstar?

Paige hesitates before replying.

Paige: Just needed to clear my head. You free?

Azzi’s response comes almost immediately.

Azzi: For you? Always. Come by whenever.

Paige feels a flicker of relief mixed with anticipation. She fires off a quick See you soon before tossing her phone into her gym back. For the first time that morning, a small part of her feels lighter.

…

Later, Paige finds herself standing outside Azzi’s door, heart pounding. Azzi opens it with that easy, infectious smile that makes Paige’s pulse quicken.

“Hey, gym rat,” Azzi teases, stepping aside to let her in. “ You didn’t even shower first? Bold choice.”

Paige rolls her eyes but smiles. “Don’t push your luck.”

They settle on the couch, the tension between them noticeable even in the mundane moments. Azzi sits close with her arm draped along the back of the couch, fingers brushing against Paige’s shoulder, trying to soothe the older blonde. It’s casual, but it sends a jolt through Paige.

“So,” Azzi begins, her voice soft but curious as she knows the only thing that can possibly cause her to be upset this early in the day is Jess. “What happened with Jess?”

Paige exhales, running a hand through her hair. “She’s upset. Think’s I’m shutting her out.”

Azzi titles her head, “Are you?”

Paige sighs, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweatshirt. “I don’t know. Maybe. Everything just feels…off with her lately.”

Azzi leans back, her fingers trailing casually over the seam of the couch. “You know, Jess never really liked me,” she says, her voice light, but her eyes sharp.

Paige shifts uncomfortably, already sensing where this is headed. “She’s just…territorial.”

Azzi snorts. “That’s one way to put it. From day one, she’s acted like I’m some homewrecker.”

Paige frowns, the memory of that first awkward meeting flashing in her mind. Jess had been cold, almost hostile, when Paige introduced her to Azzi at a team party months ago. Their tension was palpable from the moment they shook hands–Jess’s grip a little too firm, her smile a little too tight.

“She was threatened.” Paige says finally, her voice low. “And honestly? I didn’t know how to handle it. I wasn’t expecting her to call herself my girlfriend out of nowhere.”

Azzi raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “So, you just went along with it? Classic Paige. Always trying not to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

Paige exhales sharply. “I didn’t want to embarrass her. And it wasn’t a big deal at first. We barely see each other with my schedule.”

Azzi leans in, her gaze intense. “But now?”

Paige doesn’t answer immediately. She’s too focused on the way Azzi’s eyes linger, the way her voice dips when she asks the question. The truth is, things are different now. Ever since Azzi started pushing boundaries–lingering touches, inside jokes that felt a little too intimate, the way she’d lean in close during quiet moments–Paige’s world has felt off-balance.

“It’s complicated,” Paige mutters, though even she knows it’s a cop-out.

Azzi titles her head, her tone both teasing and pointed. “Is it? Or are you just scared to admit what you really want?”

Paige’s heart skips a beat. “What are you getting at?”

Azzi shrugs, her smile softening. “I’m saying that maybe it’s time you stop worrying about everyone else and figure out what you need. You’ve been letting Jess call the shots, but what about you?”

Paige doesn’t respond immediately, her mind racing. She knows Azzi’s right. For months, she’s been coasting, letting Jess dictate the terms of their so-called relationship while keeping her own feelings bottled up, But now, with Azzi in the picture, those feelings are impossible to ignore.

“I don’t want to hurt Jess, she’s done nothing wrong” Paige says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi’s expression softens, but there’s still a spark of determination in her eyes. “I know. But you can’t keep living like this, Paige. You deserve more than just going along with something because it’s easier.”

Paige meets Azzi’s gaze, her heart pounding. The air between them feels electric, the unspoken tension crackling like a live wire.

“You’ve been different lately,” Paige says suddenly, her voice quiet but steady. “More confident. More…direct in a sense.”

Azzi smirks, leaning in slightly. “You noticed?”

Paige swallows hard. “Yeah. Hard not to.”

Azzi’s fingers brush against Paige’s, a deliberate, feather-light touch that sends a jolt of warmth through her. The tension between them is palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife, Paige can barely breathe her pulse thundering in her ears. “Maybe I got tired of waiting for you to see what’s been right in front of you this whole time.” Deciding to be a little bold in this moment Azzi continues her voice low and teasing. “You know, it’s kind of funny. Jess is always worried about me stealing you awake.” She leans in just slightly, her smirk deepening. “If she only knew how easy you make it.”

Paige’s eyes narrow, her lips twitching with a reluctant smile. “You’re such a pain.”

“Maybe,” Azzie murmurs, leaning in closer. “But you like it.”

Her voice drops into a playful whisper, and Paige can’t help but laugh, though it comes out a little breathless. Azzi’s confidence is intoxicating, her presence magnetic. Paige feels herself drawn in, like a moth to a flame, even as her mind screams at her to keep her distance.

“Azzi,” Paige warns, though her tone lacks conviction as she glances quickly at Azzi’s lips.

“Relax,” Azzi says softly, leaning back slightly but keeping her hand close to Paige’s. “Just messing with you, P.” Her eyes flicker with amusement, but there’s a softness behind them too, something deeper than Paige can’t ignore.

Paige shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “You really have no off switch, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you,” Azzi replies without missing a beat. She stretches her arms along the back of the couch, her fingers lightly grazing Paige’s shoulder again. “But hey, if you’re not ready to face the truth, I'll back off..for now.”

Paige smirks, leaning back into the couch. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still here,” Azzi counters, her grin widening.

Paige rolls her eyes, but she can’t deny the truth in Azzi’s words. She’s here because, despite everything, this is where she feels most at ease. Most herself.

“Alright, enough of your games,” Paige says, her voice more lighthearted now. “Pick a movie.”

Azzi grabs the remote, scrolling through the options. “Fine, but you’re not allowed to complain if I pick something you hate.”

“Just pick something, Azzi,” Paige teases.

With a mischievous glint in her eye, Azzi settles on Frozen. As the opening credits roll, she shifts slightly closer, her arm still resting along the back of the couch, fingers now absentmindedly playing with a strand of Paige’s hair.

Paige lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re not running away,” Azzi teases, her voice playful but with an edge of truth.

Paide doesn’t respond, her focus on the screen but her thoughts completely elsewhere. The warmth of Azzi’s touch, the sound of her laugh, the way her presence seemed to fill every corner of the room– it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

For now, they style into the movie, the tension simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to bubble over.

…

Later that evening, after leaving Azzi’s apartment, Paige stands in front of her dorm mirror, adjusting her sweatshirt. The number 35 emblazoned across the back–a familiar sight on game days, but tonight it feels different. It’s Azzi’s sweatshirt, one she had thrown on without thinking before heading over to Jess’s room. She swallows hard, already dreading the conversation ahead.

When Paige finally knocks, Jess opens the door with a tired expression. Her eyes immediately flick to the sweatshirt, and for a moment, her jaw tightens. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, her voice laced with sarcasm.

“Nice sweatshirt,” Jess says, her tone sharpy but quiet. “Azzi’s right? Gues you managed to check that off your long list of things you ‘needed’ to do today.”

Paige feels her stomach drop, guilt mingling with irritation. “Jess–” she says with a warning tone, not wanting the girl in front of her to bring up her best friend.

Jess raises her hand, shaking her head. “Don’t. I don’t have the energy for this right now.” Her voice is weary, the edge from before softening into something more fragile.

Paige’s brow furrows. “What’s going on?”

Jess steps back, motoning for Paige to come in. She sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand through her hair. “Something happened with my family,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I have to go back home for a few weeks.”

Paige blinks, the weight of Jess’s words settling over her. “What? Is everything okay?”

Jess shrugs, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Not really. My dad’s in the hospital. It’s serious, and my mom’s barely holding it together.”

“Jess, “I’m so sorry,” Paige says, her voice soft. She moves to sit beside Jess, hesitating before placing a stiff hand on her shoulder.

Jess offers a small, tight smile. “Thanks. I just..I need to be there for them, you know?”

Paige nods. “Of course. You should be with your family.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the tension between them shifting into something more somber. Finally, Jess exhales deeply and looks at Paige. “I hope we can figure things out when I get back. I hate feeling like this..like weren’t not on the same page.”

Paige’s chest tightens as she knows exactly how she feels. “Me too,” she says quietly, though the words feel hollow.

Jess gives her a lingering look, then stands. “I’ll be gone early tomorrow. Just..take care of yourself, so we can figure us out, okay?”

Paige nods again, standing. “You too, Let me know if you need anything.”

Jess offers a faint smile, but her eyes betray a mix of sadness and exhaustion. “I will.”

As Paige steps out of the room, the door closes softly behind her, leaving her alone in the hallway. She leans against the wall for a moment, taking a deep breath, before heading back to Azzi’s room. In her chest she feels a mixture of guilt and relief, but she pushes them both aside as she walks down the hall.

…

When Paige returns to Azzi’s apartment, Azzi greets her with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. She leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself.

“Well, well,’ Azzi drawls eyes flicking to the sweatshirt Paige is still wearing. “I see you decided to have the talk with Jess while rocking my number. Bold move.”

Paige sighs, stepping inside. “Don’t start.”

Azzi chuckles, closing the door behind her. “I’m just saying, P. You’ve got some interesting fashion choices for serious conversations.”

Paige rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the slight flush in her cheeks. “It wasn’t intentional. I just grabbed something before heading out.”

Azzi steps closer, her smirk softening into something more playful. “Well, intentional or not, you look good in it.” Her eyes sweep over Paige, and her voice drops slightly. “Really good.”

Paige’s breath catches for a moment, her heart pounding as she feels the tension between them crackle to life again. She tries to brush it off with a nervous laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

Azzi grins, taking another step closer until they’re just a breath apart.”And yet, you keep coming back.”

Paige doesn’t have a clever comeback this time. She’s too focused on the way Azzi’s gaze lingers on her, the way her fingers lightly brush against Paige’s wrist, sending a jolt of warmth through her.

“I can’t think straight around you.” Paige admits softly, almost to herself.

Azzi’s smile deepens, a mix of satisfaction and something softer. “Good,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing up to toy with the hem of the sweatshirt. “Because I like you exactly like this.”

Paige swallows hard, her pulse racing. She doesn’t resist when Azzi gently tugs her toward the couch, but instead of sitting down, Azzi stops, tilting her head toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” Azzi says, her voice low and inviting, “Let’s get some sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

As they step into the room, Paige pauses feeling a mix of anticipation and nervous energy, Azzi, catching the hesitation gives her usual reasoning smile but gentler.

“Relax,” Azzi murmurs, her voice low and soothing. “You know we’d never do anything while you’re with Jess. We’re better than that.”

Paige feels a mix of relief and guilt that swirl inside her. Azzi’s words aren’t just reassurance– they’re a reminder of the trust and respect that anchor their connection. She nods slowly, her heart steadying a little.

“I know,” Paige whispers, her voice almost breaking.

Azii offers her a small, understanding smile before gently tugging her toward the bed. “Now come on. Let’s get some sleep.”

Paige lets herself be led, but once they reach the bed, she takes the initiative. She slips under the covers and, before Azzi can settle, gently pulls her down beside her. Azzi raises an eyebrow, but before she can say anything, Paige wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her close, resting her chin on Azzi’s shoulder.

The room falls into a comfortable silence, their breaths syncing as the tension from earlier melts into a quiet intimacy. Paige tightens her hold slightly, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s stomach, grounding herself in the moment. A

Azzi tilts her head slightly, her voice soft. “You’re really something, P.”

Paige smiles, her heart full in a way she can’t quite describe. All thoughts of Jess are completely absent from her mind. “Goodnight, Az.”

“Night, superstar,” Azzi murmurs, her voice laced with contentment.

In the safety of each other’s arms, they drift off, the unspoken feelings between them lingering like a promise in the quiet night.

[theodoesitagain]

Hello to like the three people that follow me on here. I have been writing a fanfic since 2018 that is very near and dear to my heart and even though I don't think many people will see this, I wanted to post about it.

The Marauders and the first Order of the Phoenix occupy a lot of my headspace and I started daydreaming about them a lot, which is how the first installment of this story was conceived. I wanted a plausible prequel to the events of the HP series following the first wizarding war. (My ships, maybe not so much but 🤷‍♀️)

I'm currently in the midst of the sequel, which is retelling of the Harry Potter series from the perspective of (mostly) Remus Lupin. I try to post a new chapter every week.

Anyway, if anybody was interested, here's a snippet from the WIP:

Before he even opened his eyes, the smell that hit him as he stepped out of the green flames was enough to make his insides flutter. That musky, saccharine, and at times, sort of sweaty smell was not only instantly recognizable; it flooded him with nostalgia to the point of giddiness. Dumbledore had very kindly requested that he Floo to this fireplace, as opposed to the one in the Defense Professor’s office on the second floor. When he thought about it, it would’ve made more sense to meet there - but Remus suspected Dumbledore was granting him a bit of time to relive the good old days first. 

So he capitalized on it, and arrived a few minutes early to do just that. As soon as the crimson carpets and furnishings came into view, Remus felt an overwhelming sense of calm; he couldn’t describe what it was. Helping himself to a seat in a cushy armchair across from the hearth, he ran his hands down the upholstery and let out a chuckle. 

There were few places that held fonder memories than the Gryffindor common room. And if Remus concentrated very intently…

Merlin, I can still hear them.

“Saint Moony!”

“What’ve I missed?”

“Wormtail’s making grand plans to ask out Mary.”

“Godric- Prongs- Could you keep your voice down? I am not!”

“Well, you ought to be.”

“And are you offering your expertise?”

“What expertise? Evans must’ve turned him down a hundred times!”

“She’ll come ‘round one of these days, you’ll see. Now that this is all of us, we need to discuss the aging potion prank. As much as I’d love to target Snivellus, I think he might be too obvious. Thoughts, Padfoot?”

“Who cares if it’s obvious? It’ll be well worth it to see how huge his proboscis gets when he’s a geezer!” 

At the sound of the last voice, Remus shoved the memory back down to its depths. 

He stood and strolled by the empty notice board, brushing his fingertips against the cork and remembering positively nefarious messages they used to leave for him to remove as part of his prefect duties:

Dear Remus, 

I cannot deny my feelings for you any longer. I need you like a flower needs a bumblebee. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks this weekend so we can finally run away together. 

Sincerely, 

Madam Rosmerta 

To the particularly flatulent resident of the boys dormitory,

Please, for the love of Merlin, stop by the hospital wing and have Madam Pomfrey test you for a food allergy. You’re disturbing the peace.

Sincerely,  

We can smell you from the top floor

Ladies and Gentlemen of Gryffindor House,

We are pleased to inform you that Mr. Peter Pettigrew is single and accepting applications. Bribes welcome and encouraged, particularly if they are paid in homage to his roommates. Must be sixteen or older to apply. 

He couldn't help but laugh again. Gits. Only when James became head boy had they let up a little - and only a little. 

Passing the staircase, he had half a mind to go take a peek at the dormitories, but even with them empty, it felt improper. Instead, his path took him all the way up to the large window facing east. It was a lovely, sunny afternoon in the highlands, and the visible stretch of the lake sparkled. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day. 

Recollections seemed to hang in the air like that sweaty smell: Post-quidditch celebrations; Gobstones; card games; the collective huddle around the fire after a wintery weekend trip to Hogsmeade; Remus could’ve plucked them out of the air like lacewing flies and kept them in a jar. Even with the headlines circling about civil unrest and talks of war back in those days, it seemed things like that could never touch them in here. Not in the common room. This was their sanctuary. 

Hearing the portrait hole open, Remus turned. He expected Dumbledore, but was thrilled to see the conical black hat instead. 

“Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall,” he called out with a wide grin, suppressing the great urge to embrace her. 

McGonagall inspected him over her square glasses. “Back to cause more trouble, Mr. Lupin? Or should I be calling you Professor?”

He came away from the window. “Let’s not jump to conclusions until I’ve spoken with the Headmaster.” 

When he reached her, she surprised him with an uncharacteristic squeeze on the arm. “Welcome home.”

Ah. That’s what the feeling was. 

...

In no time at all, they rounded the corner and saw the gargoyle. Remus could recall, on several occasions, passing this corridor with his friends and blurting out guesses as to what the password was; none of which ever ended up being correct.

“Cauldron Cakes,” Dumbledore stated loud and clear.

The gargoyle stepped aside, allowing them to ascend the spiral staircase. Remus was fairly certain James had thrown that one out once or twice. God, if James could see him now. Professor Moony.

“And now for a nice celebratory tea, as promised,” Dumbledore fizzed, starting up the stairs.

Remus stared begrudgingly at the steps, but followed nonetheless. “I meant to bring some biscuits, but the ones I had were stale.”

“That’s alright. I keep some in my desk for emergencies.”

Remus had just made it up the spiral staircase when he saw that there were four or five people already in Dumbledore’s office, one of them being Cornelius Fudge. He also recognized Amelia Bones - the late Edgar’s sister - now the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Remus tensed up a bit, as he always had around personnel from the Ministry. 

“I thought we agreed on two thirty, Dumbledore,” Fudge quibbled disapprovingly. “I hope you won’t mind, we’ve helped ourselves to the tea that was set out.”

“My sincerest apologies Minister, I must have lost track of time. I was orienting our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” Albus stepped aside so that the wizards and witches present had a clear view of Remus. 

Across the office, a teacup shattered on the floor.

[peachy-posy]

Ride This Out - Vash x Reader (Chapter 1)

Summary: After putting yourself in a dangerous situation, you and Vash have one of your first major arguments.

A/N: Third Trigun fic, woohoo! This was my first time writing something with the 98 versions of characters specifically in mind, so I hope everything feels in character! I tried my best hehe Last chapter will have smut (my first time writing any hhhh), minors DNI!!! Cross-posted to my AO3 <3

Chapter Tags: Established relationship, canon-typical violence, minor violence/injuries, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3.1k

Traveling with only men is decidedly… not very fun, in your opinion. At least not the ones you're with. You lean your head in your hands, listening vaguely as Vash and Wolfwood argue between themselves in their good-natured, but annoying way. You tuned them out about half an hour ago when the conversation started heading in that argumentative direction. 

You miss Milly and Meryl. When the boys start debating and arguing, the three of you have your own conversation, laughing and joking with each other. The insurance girls had been sent to a neighboring town several days ago, promising to meet back up with you three in a week or so. That day could not come sooner. 

Your eyes, which have been glazed over for some time now, focus as Wolfwood huffs, leaning back in his chair. Vash does the same, but you don’t feel any real malice between them as usual. Seems like they are finally done. 

You glance over at the blonde, feeling his turquoise eyes on you.

“Everything okay, Mayfly?” He questions with a smile, reaching across the table to take your hand. 

You smile, even as Wolfwood groans something to the effect of ‘Oh, here we go.’

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just thinking about Meryl and Milly,” you answer, prompting a bright smile from Vash at the mention of the two girls. 

“Aw, what, we aren’t fun enough for ya, sweetheart?” Wolfwood asks, his tone teasing. 

You glance at him tiredly. “Unfortunately not. Sorry.” 

He feigns hurt, over-exaggerating his reaction. “You wound me!” Vash chuckles to your side, and you share an amused smile with him. This ramps up the theatrics from the preacher, and he looks at Vash. “How can you lie down and take this? You’re included in that statement, you know.” 

Vash shrugs, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles. Your heart flutters at the action. 

“Oh, please. Get a room,” Wolfwood remarks. You can’t help but snort, even as Vash puffs up. 

As he begins to reply, gunshots echo from somewhere outside: perhaps near the town square. You jump, slightly surprised, and Vash’s hold on your hand tightens as he hears shouting from outside. 

You know what comes next. 

Wolfwood grabs his Punisher, stretching casually as he stands. Vash stands as well, walking over to you briskly, kneeling at your side. He takes you by your shoulders, locking eyes with you, and calls your name.

“You’ll be okay on your own for a bit, right? Don’t come out unless one of us comes for you.” 

“I know the drill, Vash. Be careful,” you reassure, giving him a quick kiss for good luck. He smiles against your lips, able to get lost in the moment, but only for... well, a moment. More gunshots and screams ring out, and he stands up with renewed urgency, meeting Wolfwood at the entrance with long strides. 

Vash glances at you one last time before exiting. You blink and the two are gone, leaving you behind in the old tavern. The few patrons that were there as well had gone to investigate the commotion, leaving you alone. 

You sigh, unwanted frustration with your situation bubbling up in your chest. Unfortunately, it’s like this all the time. After all, you aren’t some incredible, talented gunslinger. You’re just a healer in love with one. 

You slowly stand up, leaving the table you three had been occupying, scrutinizing the room for a good place to hide. After a few minutes, you find yourself a nice little spot behind the bar. It’s not necessarily perfect, but it’ll do. 

You lower yourself to the floor, preparing yourself for the waiting game. You wonder how long it’ll take for them to come back today. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? An hour? 

You hear more gunfire and shouting in the distance, and you try your best to ignore it for now, despite the uneasiness settling in your chest. There’s nothing you can do for anyone until the danger is over. You know that this general course of action is what is safest for you. You hide yourself away, waiting for the ‘all clear,’ then tend to any and all wounded people who happen to get caught up in whatever happens, a reassuring smile plastered on your face all the while. This is how you do your part in the small group you’ve found yourself in. 

It also allows Vash to not be worried about your safety while actively dodging bullets. 

You’d worked in a small clinic before meeting the Humanoid Typhoon what feels like ages ago. Your role as a doctor’s assistant made you happy at the time; it made you feel fulfilled and helpful. And it still does! 

That said, you sometimes find yourself wishing that you could protect others the way Vash and Wolfwood can. Not that you want to throw yourself into the fray of battle, but you hate feeling so… useless at times like this when the fighting first breaks out. Weak. Like something that needs to be tucked away and protected. 

Vash adores that you are a healer. He’ll sometimes sit with you on quiet nights, his fingers rubbing affectionate circles into your hands while he holds them, saying that your hands were made for saving people. You tell him that his hands were too, but he denies it every single time. He says his hands were made for violence. For destruction. 

You couldn’t disagree more. 

Not when you see all of the good he does, protecting those around him with the very hands he swears will bring destruction to everything they touch. 

You are startled out of your thoughts by the sound of a bullet ricocheting particularly close by. You hold your breath, trying to gauge how far away the person who fired it is. You can hear voices in the distance that sound closer than wherever the main incident is. You bite your lip, considering if you are hidden well enough. Slowly, you begin to notice the sounds of… crying? 

You know Vash doesn’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way, but what exactly would looking through a window do? Besides, the crying sounds too much like a child for your comfort. 

You rise slowly from behind the bar, finding your resolve to investigate. Making your way over to a nearby window on light feet, you carefully peek outside. At first, there is nothing that you can see. Suddenly, though, a small child running down the street comes into view. He’s crying, dust coating his hands and knees. He’s bleeding from a few small cuts that you can see from your current view of him, but otherwise seems physically unharmed. 

You gasp as the boy trips, tumbling hard into the dusty ground. He sucks in a sharp breath, bottom lip wobbling. In the blink of an eye, four men concealing their faces with bandanas are upon the boy, one of them grabbing him roughly. 

The child shrieks, thrashing in the man’s hold. To your horror, another one of the men points a gun at him. He can’t be more than five years old. The sight of it makes you nauseated. 

“You’re gonna regret running, you damn brat,” one of the men rasps angrily at the sobbing child. 

“Bring him back to where the other townspeople are. Make sure you don’t lose any this time,” one of the other men orders. 

“G-got it,” one of them replies nervously. 

“If it happens again, it’s your head.” 

It seems like this gang took some hostages when they got here, and this boy escaped. You can’t let them take him back. They don’t seem to have any issue shooting him, as you heard that gunshot earlier as they chased him. Your hands are trembling and clammy, but you know you have to do something. 

But with what? You don’t have a weapon. You desperately look around the tavern, and your eyes land on a knife and empty bottles. Acting quickly, you grab one of each, a messy and dangerous plan forming as you go. 

All you have working for you is the element of surprise. You can’t fight, but you know where to hit someone to make it count due to your medical training. You just hope you’re fast enough. 

You look outside once more, and you notice that two of the men are gone. The other two that remain are talking to one another for the time being, distracted. One holds the child in a punishing grip, surely causing bruises to form on his small wrist. He's wailing in earnest, despite the captors' barking at him to quit. 

It’s now or never. You open the door as quietly as you can manage, gripping the bottle. You’ll have to hit one of the men as hard as you can in the head with the bottle, then use the knife you’d pocketed to strike the other. Your plan is to slash the ligaments behind the knee, immobilizing the person. The bottle isn’t very ideal, but you’re worried your lack of skill with a knife will cause you to accidentally lose the weapon in a body if you try to use it for both men. 

Unfortunately, you know your plan has little chance of success. Once you attack one, the other knows you’re there. Your best bet is to incapacitate the one holding the child first and to assess in the moment if you can deal with the other. There is a large chance you’ll just have to grab the kid and run as fast as you can, hoping you find Vash or Wolfwood if you make it to the town square. You look down at the threshold of the tavern, trying to will your legs to move forward. Your body is frozen, unable to walk outside. 

Suddenly, one of the men turns on his heels, striding back down the street where they originally came from. That gets you moving. 

You hide yourself behind the door hastily, praying you haven’t been spotted. Several terrifying moments pass where you wait for them to descend upon you. You can hear your heartbeat thrumming in your head, throbbing in anticipation of the worst. 

The attack never comes. They haven’t seen you.

You can’t believe your stroke of luck. You may actually be able to pull off incapacitating a single person, even with your limited capabilities in combat. 

You carefully set the bottle on the ground, reaching for the knife you grabbed. You peek around the door, eyes finding the man and boy immediately. The man is yanking the child, trying to get him to cooperate. His back is towards the tavern. 

You grip the kitchen knife firmly, trying to control your shaking hands as you emerge from behind the door. You approach as swiftly and quietly as you can, soon finding yourself within striking distance of your target. 

Just slash the back of his knee. He shouldn’t be able to chase you if you tear a ligament. 

Steeling yourself, you aim for the back of the man’s knee, slashing with as much force as you can muster. 

You know you succeeded when he howls in pain, immediately letting go of the child and grabbing his knee, falling to the sandy, dusty street. He is bleeding, gripping his knee tightly, and he turns to look at you with a shocked glare, his eyes filled with malice. 

You drop the knife in shock, your bloody hands making you nauseous. 

Time to go! 

The child is pale, shaking like a leaf as you scoop him into your arms. The man shouts from the ground, and you see him start fumbling around, looking for something. 

“Get back here! You bitch!” 

You turn on your heels, sprinting as fast as your legs can go. You hear a deafening gunshot, flinching as a bullet hits the dirt nearby. You realize that he had been trying to get his gun, and unfortunately for you, he found it.

He shoots again, but you have already begun weaving as you run, hoping to throw his aim off. The child is clutching onto you fiercely, burying his head into your shoulder. More bullets hit the ground around you, and your heart is hammering wildly in your chest. As you turn the nearest street corner, you find yourself shocked and relieved your plan is working. You just might actually be able to save this child. 

Your thoughts come to an abrupt, violent halt when you notice a dark blur in your periphery. A man slams his gun into your head with a snarl, and you are thrown towards the ground. On your way down, you attempt to shield the boy as best you can, wrapping your arms around him tightly and trying to absorb the shock of slamming into the ground. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you collide into the street with a groan of pain. Your head is swimming, but you unwrap your arms, trying to sit up as quickly as possible and get the boy to his feet. He seems relatively unharmed, but terribly shaken up. 

“Run! Now!” You scream, and he thankfully listens. 

He darts off, right as the man reaches you. You see him start to move after the boy, but you lunge for and grab one of his legs, causing him to stumble with curses spilling from his lips. He whips his head down to look at you, and you do your best to not recoil from his gaze. 

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” He scowls, kicking you off him. You gasp, hitting the ground once more with a painful thud. Your ears ring, and your vision is blurring. 

“Just who do you think you are?” He kneels in front of you, gripping your shirt’s collar and yanking you up. You whimper in pain, your head throbbing as he jostles you. 

“I hope it was worth it. You can take his place.” 

“I’m not scared of you,” you lie, managing to catch his eyes. Truth be told, you're terrified. But you’d never tell this scumbag that. 

He lets out a low, threatening laugh. Chills race down your spine. “Oh, you aren’t very smart, are you?” He laughs again, gripping your collar tightly. “You’re lucky I haven’t killed you yet. I’m still deciding. How about I rough you up a little till then?” 

You feel the burn of tears in your eyes, and blink quickly to dispel them before they can form. You refuse to cry in front of him. 

You desperately hope the boy is safe. You’re so close to the town square. Vash and Wolfwood should be right near here. 

Through your blurring vision and pounding head, you see the man rear his hand back. You shut your eyes tight, bracing yourself. 

Instead of feeling the collision of his hand, you hear a sharp intake of breath. You crack open your eyes hesitantly, vision blurring. 

Your breath is pulled from your lungs, tears of relief flowing immediately. Because even with blurring vision, you are able to recognize the long, red coat blowing in the wind. Standing behind the man who tackled you is Vash. He’s holding the man by the wrist, and he looks furious . 

“Vash,” you breathe out, voice trembling. 

The man drops you from his grip, and you fall into the ground, immediately using your heels to scoot away from him. After blinking several times to focus, you take a good look at Vash. You’ve never seen him so angry before. The hand he’s using to grip the wrist of your assailant is trembling with restraint.. 

“I-I know you! You’re Vash the Stampede!” The man realizes with wide eyes, his face pale. 

Vash says nothing, his eyes narrowing. The man continues his nervous rambling. 

“L-look, I didn’t… we didn’t know you were here. If you want this town, it’s all yours. We’ll leave.” 

You hold your breath, watching to see what Vash does next. Your heart aches for him, knowing that he is bothered by the rumors that precede him. That said, that infamous reputation is pretty convenient right now. 

Vash uses his gun to knock out the man without a word. He immediately goes limp, crumpling to the ground as Vash releases his wrist. You release the breath you’d been holding, noting the pain in your head and body, but mostly feel great relief. Vash’s gaze remains trained on the unconscious form before him, his expression complicated. Several beats of silence pass, and you feel yourself becoming slightly anxious. Why hasn’t he said anything this entire time?

“Vash?” You call hesitantly, voice quiet. 

Your voice snaps him out of his daze. His eyes flicker up to yours, relief washing over his features as he races forward, throwing himself on his knees in front of you. 

“Oh Mayfly, god, look what they did to you,” the words spill from his mouth as he holds you in a bone crushing hug to his chest. 

You let yourself be cradled in his arms, disappointed slightly when he pulls back after a moment. He looks pained. 

“Your head,” he murmurs, hand gently reaching for your temple. You hiss when his fingers graze the throbbing, painful area. He retracts his hand, the blood on his gloved fingertips making you realize you’re bleeding. 

“I am so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers, holding you close again. 

You furrow your brow and shake your head, trying to ignore the dizziness it causes. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It was my-” 

The words die on your tongue as you hear a familiar voice chattering animatedly around the corner. Both you and Vash turn to face the noise, seeing Wolfwood strolling around the corner of the building nearby, holding a child in his arms. You feel the tension drain from your body fully at the sight of the familiar little boy unharmed. 

You hastily stumble to your feet, trying to get over to him, doing your best to ignore the dizziness that overtakes you from the sudden movement. Vash scrambles after you, holding onto you as you sway. 

“Easy, easy! I think you have a concussion,” Vash implores, but you press forward stubbornly. 

The child sees you, squirming from Wolfwood’s grasp to reach you. With dried tears on his face, he looks up at you with big, worried eyes. You feel Vash’s hand at the small of your back, gently steadying you. 

“Well, looks like we found her! Good job, bud!” Wolfwood praises, ruffling the kid’s hair. 

A bright smile forms on his little face. He reaches out and snatches your hand. 

“Come help me find my mommy!”

[dingochef]

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x You (OFC)

Warnings: Swearing, Smut (MDNI 18+ Only), Angst with a Happy Ending, Stalking, P in V, oral (female and male receiving), Semi-public sex, light spanking,

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary:

Another day, another stupid man to deal with. You run into a familiar face when you go to meet up with the face and person that's been on your mind all day.

Masterlist

Chapter 4

Chapter 5: Nancy Drew and the Instagram Account

You start your Sunday early to beat the sun and the heat. Your cycling group is meeting up on the San Diego waterfront just as the sun rises. The day is clear and just a bit crisp. You revel in the chill now as it will heat up soon, especially with the hilly route on deck for today. The ride starts easily with the Bay Shore Bikeway up to La Jolla then it heats up with a trip to the top of Mount Soledad, the ride down is fast enough that you can feel the moisture in your eyes being wicked away by the arid dry air. The rest of the course skirts around the eastern edges and suburbs of San Diego. After a few stops for water and some snacks to keep you energized, the ride winds down at about 2 pm where you started. You start packing away some of your gear and sit to change your shoes to get on the ferry. As you're tying the laces on your shoes, a shadow looms over you.

“Elsa, how’s it going?”

Bill asks. Of course it’s Bill, he does this every time the group meets.

“I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner with me tonight, like a date?”

Bill is nice, but he’s also a good 20 years older than you and more like your father than is comfortable in the dating scene.

“Sorry Bill, answer’s still the same, no. Besides I have plans tonight,” the thought of Jake brings an unconscious smile to your lips.

“Come on, Elsa, you’ve got to give in sometime, I’m just trying to be a nice guy. It’s just one date, I’ll cook you dinner at my house, a little wine, it’ll be a nice night. You gotta say yes.”

You sigh, knowing that what is going to come out your mouth next is going to make the next meet up the group awkward as fuck, but you can deal with akward.

“Bill, how many times have you asked me out?”

He shrugs,

“A lot, I guess.”

“And I always say no. What makes you keep asking when you get the same answer? That’s the literal definition of insanity.”

“I figure persistence pays off and besides I’m a nice guy, give me a chance.”

“Bill, the answer today, tomorrow, and every time in the future is going to be no. N. O. I don’t want to date some overbearing guy who has no respect for what I say and what boundaries I draw. Being a “nice guy” doesn’t entitle you to a date.”

By this time others in the cycling group are starting to notice the exchange. Millie, who is a retired Navy Captain, steps over to see what’s going on.

“Jeez, Elsa, you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

“Bill, if you think this is me being a bitch, buckle up buttercup, you haven’t seen anything yet. I can’t help that your sense of language comprehension and pattern recognition is that of a four-year old, you sad old man. No means no. We’re done here.”

You start to walk your bike towards the ferry terminal and Millie runs over to catch up.

“You okay?” she asks, giving you a side hug.

“Yeah, just tired of dealing with Bill’s bullshit week after week. I just want to come ride and hang out with friends. Not ward off old dudes trying to get into my pants.”

“We’ll take care of it, Bill’s out of the group, easy peasy,”

Millie says. Millie is one of the founding members of the cycling group and part of a kick-ass group of older retired military women who deal with exactly zero shit from anyone.

“Thanks, Millie, I appreciate that. I gave him so many outs, but he kept coming back into the danger zone.”

She shrugs,

“Some people are just dumb. You did good back there. Do you need anyone to see you home in case he gets weird about it?”

“No, keep him occupied for about 15 minutes while I get on the ferry and I’ll be good.”

You give Millie a hug and wave goodbye as you get on your bike to ride the last little distance to the ferry. When you get home you jump into the shower to rinse all of the day’s gross parts off, real and metaphorical.

As you're getting out of the shower you hear your phone ding:

Lydia: So you and Hangman, becoming a thing? A baseball game (glad you found a dork that likes baseball) and dinner at what I know is your favorite restaurant (the tapas place in the Gaslamp Quarter.) It's like you’re putting your best moves on him.

You: I'm not putting my moves on him, you and I both know I have exactly zero moves. He offered up the baseball game as amends for being a jackass the other night at the bar. I was hungry after the game so I invited him along.

Lydia: Liar. Liar. Pants on fire! 🔥 You asked him on the dinner date. I pressed him for the deets when he mentioned going to the Padres game that I saw on your Instagram. And he crumbled like a lovesick fool. Between asking for your number and him coming back practically skipping and whistling I figured it out.

You: Alright, Nancy Drew, Girl Detective you got it right. It was Colonel Mustard in the library with a wrench.

Lydia: What are you even talking about?

You: How have you never played a game of Clue?

You: Nevermind.

Lydia: So…..how was he in the sack? These Navy guys are fucking built.

You: We only made it to my porch.

Lydia: Ooh, outdoor sex. Adventurous.

You: Not that! We just had some really nice kissing that ventured into a bit of heavy petting. And then I said good night.

Lydia: Right. And you have plans with him tonight. You like like him!

You: How did you know about that?

Lydia: The walls here are hilariously thin. You can hear everything that happens here.

You: So Jake mentioned. How was that mustache ride?

Lydia: De-fucking-lightful. 10/10 would highly recommend.

You: I'll remember that yelp review when I'm in search of a mustache ride which will be…..never. Seriously, what's up with the stache? Did he lose a bet?

Lydia: Didn't come (heh heh) up in conversation.

You: You are the worst. Talk to you later, remember to keep hydrated with all the sexing you’re doing.

Lydia: Smooches & Byeeee!

You shake your head at the conversation you just had with Lydia. Before you put your phone down you text Jake to set up the now infamous drink date tonight.

You: So, we still on for drinks tonight? How does 7 at the Hard Deck sound?

You don’t expect a reply right away and put your phone on the charger and head over to the couch with a giant jug of water and make plans to watch some TV and chill for the rest of the afternoon. Somewhere, around an hour later when you've already watched two documentaries on WWII aircraft your phone dings. In what can be described as an all out sprint you rush to your phone.

Jake: That sounds like a date. See you there. Maybe this time I'll get to buy you more than one drink, (my turn.)

You: See you then.

It's about 4 pm now, which gives you enough time to whip up a nice curry for dinner and still have time to gussy up for your date. This is actually date date.

Getting ready to go out has become more of a challenge than you anticipated. You've pulled out every dress you own and rejected each one twice. You're looking for that "Oh just drinks, you just threw on whatever to come here." Your goal is effortless grace, not "I totally overthinked every aspect of my appearance and maybe had a slight panic attack." In frustration you call Lydia, breathlessly shouting out as soon as she answers,

"You actually have fashion sense, what should I wear?"

The cackle comes out of the phone speaker first and then her reply,

"Just drinks, riiight. You’re actually trying to impress him aren't you? This is adorable, Elsa has found someone to melt her frozen heart or other parts."

She snorts at her own terrible joke and you can practically hear her eyebrows rising up and down on her forehead.

"Don't overthink it like you usually do. Wear the magenta dress with the nice flowy skirt. It'll be easy to get off later."

There's a muffled male voice in the background saying something like "Come back to bed, baby."

"Are you still at Rooster's? How are you not chafed or unable to walk?"

"No, we actually ventured out for some beach time and came back to mine, a whole lot more privacy. By the way, I might have heard a certain someone moaning another person's name last night when he presumably was taking care of his blue balls courtesy of you. Well, have fun, do something I would do, Byeeee!"

You, for some reason, follow Lydia's advice and wear the suggested dress. Wearing a bra with this dress is impossible due to the plunging back. Lydia knew exactly what she was doing when she suggested this particular dress. Scanning your underwear drawer you spot a pair of black lace boy shorts that you know make your ass look really good. After setting a light curl into your dark brown, almost black hair, you leave it down to cascade down your shoulders and back. Minimal make-up, you're always going for the natural look, but for some reason you pick a darker magenta shade of lipstick that complements the dress. You grab a light sweater and your purse and you're out the door. The walk over to the Hard Deck is nice and cool and calming. The butterflies in your stomach start to flutter as you approach the door and it hits you that you actually want to impress him tonight. It's an exhilarating and terrifying concept at the same time, what are you getting yourself into?

You don't really have time to delve into your brain after that idea as I've arrived at the Hard Deck. You push open the door and pull your sweater off. Despite it being a Sunday night the place is pleasantly buzzing with a steady hum of voices and glasses clinking together and onto tabletops around the bar. You scan the crowd and don't spot Jake anywhere so you make your way up to the bar. At the bar there's is a familiar bomber jacket and black head of hair.

"As I live and breathe, it's Maverick. And in one piece,"

You say as you sit on the open bar stool next to him. He's halfway through a swig of beer when he turns and makes the connection that it’s you sitting next to him.

"Elsa! What brings you to this place?"

"Meeting a friend for a drink."

Penny comes over and asks,

"The usual?"

You nod yes. Maverick says,

“Put that on my tab, I owe this gal a drink for stepping in as my temporary guardian angel."

Penny looks a bit confused at the statement but shrugs and goes to make your drink.

"I should be asking you the same thing, what brings you down to North Island? I thought you were just going to carry on at the Skunk Works."

He takes a swig of his beer and shrugs, "The usual pissed off an Admiral. They weren't overly impressed with me breaking "the project" apart." He uses air quotes to reference the Darkstar hypersonic stealth jet you were both working on and he was serving as the test pilot.

"I'm teaching at Top Gun for a few weeks. While the Navy decides your fate for me."

He leans over to whisper,

"Thank you for saving my life, there's no other reason I'm alive other than your life pod."

"How did it perform?" you ask quietly.

"Like riding a mattress down and landing on a marshmallow, so perfectly. Next time can you get it to drop me off near civilization rather in the middle of an orange grove near Fresno?"

You laugh,

"Jeez, so needy, not only do I save your life and give you a gentle ride back to earth, you want door to door service. I'll see what I can do."

You glance over to the door to see Jake coming through the door; he instantly scans the crowd and locks in on you. You catch his eyes and then turn back to Maverick and say,

"I'd love to get together to pick your brain on other impressions on "the project". Thanks for the drink. I’m glad you’re alive."

You lean in to hug Maverick.

Your drink has appeared on the bar and by the time Jake has jostled his way through the crowd to the bar you can see that the expression on his face has turned from that panty dropper smile to confusion and a bit of jealousy.

He swaggers up to the bar and gives you a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Both Maverick and Jake are looking at each other confused and startled.

"Hey, Captain, didn't think you'd be back here after the other night." Jake says with that patented smirk.

Maverick winks and says,

"I like the company and the scenery."

He nods his head towards Penny. You cock your head with a questioning look. Maverick sheepishly replies,

"We have a complicated…history.".

Jake asks, his signature smirk in full force,

"How do you know Elsa or are you hitting on women who are half your age and out of your league, now?"

Chapter 6

@mayhemmanaged

@callmemana

@dempy

@hangmanscoming

@lanie-k

@callsign-viper

@senjoritanana

[ladyeyrewrites]

Feelings Hurled Like Hand Grenades

Read from Chapter One

Rated M

4544 words

TW: homophobia

Chapter Twelve: A House Full of Cruelty

Gina wasn’t about to let her nephew sit in the car for seven hours immediately after getting out of the hospital. “You’re staying with me for the next few days,” she said. “I insist.”

Thomas and Evan held one of their wordless conversations before Thomas sighed and Evan grinned in triumph. It seemed Gina might have to have a conversation with her nephew about accepting help when it was offered. “We’d be delighted,” said Evan. “I’ll talk to Bobby and arrange for someone to cover my shifts, and Tommy’s already going to be out on medical leave for a while so we’re in no rush to head back down to LA.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’ll be nice to hang out for a bit, see where Tommy grew up.”

Thomas shook his head. “Pretty sure the gravel lot where I used to go to pretend to hook up with girls was turned into a development,” he said.

Evan chuckled and gave Thomas a look that made Gina feel like she was intruding. “Well,” she said to remind them she was still in the room. “How about I go and get Thomas’s discharge paperwork sorted?”

#

That night, after Thomas and Evan ensconced themselves in Gina’s guestroom, she sat on her lovely green velvet sofa and sipped her wine and allowed herself to feel every emotion she’d had to shove aside from the moment she’d gotten the call from the hospital.

Of course, she’d been worried for Thomas, but it had been more than worry. There’d been fear – not that Thomas wouldn’t survive. Rationally she’d known he wasn’t likely to die from a broken leg, this was the twenty-first century after all. But sitting in that hospital room had catapulted her back to that day with Siobhan.

The day she’d collapsed.

The day Gina had rushed her to the hospital.

The day she’d been dragged kicking and screaming away from her lover’s deathbed.

The day she’d been faced with true injustice, shown what society thought of her and people like her: not even spared the dignity of a chance to say goodbye.

Gina had grown up in a house full of cruelty. Between her father and her older brother, she’d thought herself hardened to how awful people could be, until she was faced with the cruelty of good people trying to do the right thing within the bounds of a system that viewed Gina and Siobhan and the love that they shared as aberrations. Good people who had to prioritise the bonds of blood over the bonds of love or else risk their jobs. Good people who took Siobhan’s care away from Gina and gave it to the last people on Earth Siobhan had wanted to see: her parents.

Read more on Ao3 or below the cut

“You know, my parents aren’t good with hospitals either.”

Gina almost spilled her wine all over the green velvet of her sofa and wouldn’t that be a misery to try to get clean? She turned and found Evan standing at the end of the hallway, watching her. “Come, sit,” she patted the spot next to her, the one that had almost been soaked through with wine startled from her glass. “Don’t just lurk there in the shadows.”

Evan smiled, but exhaustion squeezed through the lines of his face. He sat, long legs stretched out in front of him and sighed. What a day he must have had? What a week? One corner of his mind almost certainly occupied with the safety of the man he loved while Thomas fought a wildfire. And the rest of his mind forced to turn to the ordinary, everyday tasks of life. Gina wasn’t sure she understood how he could stand it. Just the thought of Thomas being out there, flying above the blaze seized her stomach with fear and she’d only found out about it after the fact. Evan had known where Thomas was and what he was doing the entire time.

“How is he?” Gina asked.

“Out like a light,” said Evan. “He is going to be a pain in the ass once he’s a little more with it though.” He laughed and shook his head fondly.

“And how are you?” she asked, fixing him with a sharp gaze. “You must have been scared for him.”

Evan sighed and shook his head as though shaking his thoughts into place. “Of course,” he said. “No matter how many times I go through this, it never gets easier. But this is the first time with Tommy.” He rubbed his hands along his thighs in a soothing gesture. “The whole flight up, I was worrying about something happening to him, some sort of complication, that I’d get off the plane and find a message from the hospital or you with bad news.” He took a shaky breath and Gina cast her eye about for the nearest box of tissues just in case the damn broke and ended up having to comfort a sobbing future nephew-in-law.

“The last time I was that scared was when Maddie’s ex kidnapped her, and I didn’t know if she was alive or dead.”

Gina blinked, trying to make sure she’d heard every word of that sentence correctly. “Your sister was kidnapped?” she asked.

Evan nodded and then launched into a longwinded retelling of his sister’s first marriage, her flight to LA, her ex-husband tacking her down, the kidnapping, his sister killing her ex in self-defence. It was a lot to take in.

“Your sister’s a strong woman to come back from that and still be willing to open herself up to love again,” said Gina. And maybe it was the stress of the last twenty-four hours, or maybe in was the wine, but she couldn’t help but feel like she was somehow lesser. She’d built so many walls up around herself and her heart, spent twenty years keeping the possibility of finding someone new at bay. And the only thing the person she’d loved had done was die. If Maddie Buckley could move forward, what was Gina’s excuse?

“She’s the strongest person I know,” said Evan. He fell silent, staring into a memory Gina couldn’t begin to guess at.

“I don’t know about you,” she said. “but I could use a distraction from thinking about injuries and hospitals. Tell me, how are the wedding plans going?”

And that was exactly the right question to ask.

Gina went to bed that night with her ears ringing with talk of centre pieces and wedding favours and colour schemes.

#

The next day, they propped Thomas on the sofa to recuperate and Gina called in a personal day, much to Tabitha’s shock and delight. “That nephew of yours is going to have to break his leg at least once a year if it means you’ll take time off,” she said before hanging up.

Not that Gina actually took much time off to rest. While Thomas marathoned 90s rom coms, Evan emerged from the guest bedroom with his wedding binder. Gina sat with him at her dining table, going over the guest list, occasionally requesting input from Thomas.

“Should we invite Veronica and Simone?” Evan asked. “We’ve already decided to invite Noah.”

Thomas paused Runaway Bride on a particularly unflattering frame of Julia Roberts and frowned. “I don’t want to cause trouble for them,” he said.

Gina sighed. “Don’t let your father dictate the guest list at your wedding,” she said. “That man has taken enough of your happiness. Don’t let him take this as well.”

“But what if he finds the invitation?” Thomas asked. “What if he asks why they’re going to LA for a weekend? What if he won’t let them go or insists on going with them?”

“All justifiable concerns,” Gina admitted. “You probably understand your father’s controlling nature better than I do, but he’s not as sharp as he used to be,” she said. “He spends most of his time drinking. He’s barely home, at least that’s what Anthony tells me. Believe me, Simone and Noah have been able to get away with a lot more than you ever did.”

A series of complicated emotions traipsed across Thomas’s face before circling back to worry. “But what if Dad finds out after?” he asked. “I don’t want to put them in danger.”

Gina sighed. “Maybe speak to Veronica about it,” she said. “Let her make the decision. It’s her safety and that of her children after all.”

Thomas nodded. “I don’t have her phone number.”

Gina smiled softly. “Luckily, I do.”

#

Gina called Veronica at work – day shift at one of the local nursing homes. “Thomas and Evan have a question for you,” she said.

“What kind of question?” Veronica asked.

“I’ll tell you once you get off shift,” said Gina. “You’re coming to dinner. Just you. I’m sure Simone can see to it that she’s invited to that boyfriend’s house for dinner, if you’re worried about leaving her alone with Jonathan.”

“Jonathan wouldn’t hurt her,” said Veronica, a bit too sharply for Gina’s liking. It sounded too forced, too like denial, like maybe Jonathan would hurt Simone or at least Veronica was afraid that that was a line he’d eventually cross if given the proper motivation. “He’s still volunteering to support the evacuation efforts with the wildfire. He won’t even know we’re gone.” And yet, her voice was still tinged with fear. And God, Gina wished there was something she could do, but Jonathan had too many friends on the force and in the courts, men who knew him only as an affable drunk, who’d listened to him rant about his wives and his kids, who would side with him if any accusations of abuse came up.

Which is why Thomas’s mother, Angela had never told anyone about what was going on.

Why Thomas had chosen to leave the first chance he got.

Why Michael had followed Jonathan’s footsteps into Alcoholism.

Why Anthony had lashed out.

Why Noah had taken to spending as much time at work or friends’ houses or Athony’s apartment as possible.

All of them finding their own means of escape.

Just as Gina had done all those years ago when she’d fled her hometown for San Fransisco. When she’d shed the façade of a catholic schoolgirl and finally embraced her true self.

A true self she’d slowly shoved back into the box of her upbringing by coming home at her mother’s insistence, confining her truth and her love to the four walls of the house she shared with Siobhan.

And she’d hidden that self from everyone besides Tabitha and her mother for years, until she’d let her secret slip that first dinner with Thomas and Evan. She hadn’t even let herself mourn properly. She’d been so scared of her secret getting out, of people questioning the depth of her grief over the death of her “roommate” that she’d let herself turn frigid.

Becoming cold, that’s how she’d survived the grief.

But had she survived it?

Or had she let grief deaden her?

She hadn’t let herself think about it until Thomas’s return and Evan’s arrival in her life. Until she’d started feeling little pin prickles of joy spreading through her soul, hinting at everything she’d been denying herself.

Gina wasn’t sure she could cope with that thought right now, so she put on her broad brimmed hat and her gardening gloves and went outside to pretend to pull weeds until Veronica arrived.

Which is what she’d done that day after getting kicked out of the hospital, before she knew that Siobhan hadn’t survived.

2006

This wasn’t happening.

It wasn’t fair.

Over the course of a day, she’d woken up to Siobhan making pancakes for breakfast, spent the rest of the morning lazing in bed. And then Siobhan had collapsed in the shower and Gina had called for an ambulance. The paramedics had been kind enough to let her ride with Siobhan to the hospital.

But the kindness ended the moment Siobhan was wheeled through those glass doors into the ER.

They made Gina sit in the hard plastic waiting room chairs while they ran tests.

And then when they found out she wasn’t a blood relative, they kept her outside, in the dark, too busy with the work of saving lives to spare a moment for compassion. A tricky equation Gina would try to balance again and again in the days and weeks and months and years to come.

Gina clung to hope that Siobhan would wake up, make the nurses let her visit. But hours passed, and someone called Siobhan’s family – the one she’d run to San Fransisco to get away from. And Gina found herself being shouted at by a red-headed woman she’d never met, calling her all sorts of slurs that Gina was too shocked to absorb. Blaming her influence for the state Siobhan was in.

And then rough hands grabbed hold of her and dragged her out the doors, dumping her onto the sidewalk.

Gina hadn’t brought her purse with her on the ambulance so she couldn’t pay for a cab.

She walked home.

The sun didn’t even have the courtesy to hide behind the clouds.

Rain would’ve suited her mood better. Would’ve hidden the tears that streaked down her cheeks. Would’ve given her a logical explanation for the chill that rooted itself in her bones.

When she got home, the kitchen was still a mess from Siobhan’s pancake efforts, so Gina started cleaning. And once the dishes were washed and dried and put away and the counters scrubbed down and the floors swept and mopped, Gina couldn’t stand the idea of sitting still and so she kept cleaning.

Room by room.

She chased every cobweb and dust bunny away.

The house would be spotless for when Siobhan came home from the hospital. Clean sheets, soft fluffy pillows, fresh soap in the powder room.

And when the house was worthy of a spread in a glossy magazine, Gina stumbled outside and pulled weeds until her hands bled.

2025

Gina hissed as a thorn scraped her wrist below the protection of her thick canvas gardening gloves.

She examined the scratch: not deep enough to draw blood, but she should probably go inside and rinse it off. There were all sorts of nasties lurking on rose thorns that she didn’t want to risk introducing to her blood stream.

“Gina? Is everything okay?”

Gina had been so focused on burying her feelings that she hadn’t even heard Veronica’s car pull up or the car door slam when Veronica exited. She looked up at her sister-in-law with surprise. “I—” Gina began, searching for some way to brush things off and failing. She shook her head. “Seeing Thomas in the hospital brought up memories of when Siobhan died,” she said.

“Siobhan was your roommate, right?” said Veronica, who hadn’t joined the family until a year after Siobhan’s death. “Your best friend?”

Gina nodded, too tired and emotionally wrung out to even think about coming out to Veronica right now. “That day was the worst day of my life,” she said, which was reasonable enough. Anyone would be scarred by finding their best friend and roommate collapsed in the shower only to have them die shortly after. That was scarring even without romance tangling the situation. But Veronica wasn’t here to listen to Gina unload her past traumas, she was here to conduct a risk assessment on a wedding invitation.

Gina invited Veronica inside, and Evan and Thomas (mostly Evan, given that Thomas was only partially coherent due to the painkillers) laid out the dilemma. “We’d really like to have you and Noah and Simone at the wedding,” said Evan. “But we wanted to know if it’d be safe to invite you.”

Gina half expected Veronica to protest and say that of course it would be safe, but instead her sister-in-law heaved a sigh. “I can’t guarantee that Jonny won’t lose his temper if he finds out we’re invited,” she said. “He might try to crash the wedding, too. I wouldn’t want you to risk that for me.”

Thomas sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide as though picturing his father showing up to his wedding uninvited and making a scene.

Gina could picture it as well and it would probably seem tame compared to what her brother had done at their mother’s wake. Vindictive as Jonathan was, he’d probably pull out all the stops to derail his most reviled son’s wedding. Gina recalled a story they’d run in the paper about the trend of swatting, and she could picture her brother doing something like that to Thomas, if he knew what swatting was. She wouldn’t put it past her brother.

“I mean, I could probably ask Athena about having a patrol car stationed outside the wedding to keep an eye out for him,” said Evan. “We’re saving enough of the wedding budget by not needing to pay for the venue, cake, or catering that we could probably afford to bring in security if we need to.

“You don’t have to go through all that trouble,” said Veronica.

“You’re family,” said Thomas, definitively. And it amazed Gina how the closed off teen she’d known all those years ago had reached a point in his life where he was able to open his heart and his home to a virtual stranger, like his stepmother. Maybe it was Evan’s influence. “You and Noah and Simone are family even if I haven’t been there for you.” For all Thomas had changed, it seemed like he hadn’t gotten over his habit of trying to shoulder responsibilities that weren’t his to begin with.

Veronica’s expression slipped from somewhat fearful to fond. “Tommy, you don’t need to feel guilty about that,” she said. “I’d heard the rumours about how your dad treated your mom, and I chose not to believe them.” She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know if you remember, but my family situation was…not great. And then your dad started paying me all this positive attention and I’d never been treated that way before and I just wanted to feel special. By the time I realised the kind of person he really was, it was too late. I was pregnant and I was scared of what he’d do if I tried to leave, and I couldn’t afford to raise a baby on my own. And he’s not all bad all the time. Sometimes, he’s really sweet.” Veronica shrugged, spreading her hands wide. “And maybe that’s got to be good enough. I don’t have anywhere else to go. My parents would just tell me to suck it up and stay with him. He knows all my friends. All the cops in this town are on his side.” She shook her head.

Gina reached out and took Veronica’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze that only slightly twinged her knuckles. “If you ever need my help, I’m here for you,” she said.

“We could help,” said Evan. “You work in aged care, right?”

Veronica nodded.

“I have a friend who’s a home health care worker, she could probably help you find a job in LA,” said Evan. “My boss’s wife is a police sergeant; she could help you file a restraining order. And my sister’s ex was abusive. If you need someone to talk to, I’m sure Maddie would be up for it.” He was so unflinchingly earnest in each offer that Gina felt her already considerable fondness for the young man increase exponentially.

Veronica smiled. “That’s really sweet of you to offer,” she said. “But I can’t just pull Simone out of school and move her away from her dad and her friends.”

“What if he does something to her?” Thomas asked. “I know you think she’s safe for now but what if something happens and he turns on her?”

Veronica flinched. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“He’s done it before,” said Thomas. He sighed. “Just think about it. We’re here for you if you need anything.”

Veronica nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll think about the wedding. How about you send our invitation to Gina, and I’ll see if I can come up with a plan to get us down to LA for a weekend.” She left not long after.

“I hope she reaches out if she needs help,” said Evan. “I know Maddie thought she could take care of everything herself when she was with Doug.”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” said Gina. “But we can’t push her, or else we’ll risk her pushing us away and then she’ll be truly alone.”

#

The next morning, Gina was debating whether she wanted to take another day off from work (she still felt raw from all the emotions seeing Thomas in the hospital had stirred up like silt from a disturbed lake bed), when she got a call.

“Gina, it’s Athena Grant is this a good time?” the police sergeant asked in that no nonsense way that had so appealed to Gina.

“Did you find out what happened to Siobhan?” Gina asked, figuring there was only one reason why the other woman would call her.

“I did,” said Athena. “I found her death certificate and I figured out where she’s buried.”

Gina’s heart caught in her throat, audibly enough that Evan looked up from where he was preparing coffee to take to Thomas in bed. He raised a questioning eyebrow and Gina put the phone on the counter and switched it to speaker. “Where is Siobhan buried?” she asked, voice shaking.

“I’ll send through the details if you give me your email,” said Athena. “It’s not far from where you are.”

“Thank you,” Gina managed to say, fighting against the emotion clogging her throat. “You can’t know what this means.”

“I know what it’s like to have someone you love taken from you too soon,” said Athena. “I’m only glad I was able to help you find her, even if it is twenty years too late.”

Gina managed to tell Athena her email address and hang up the phone before bursting into tears. She’d always been the kind of person to isolate herself in times of grief, but having Evan there to scoop her up into his sturdy arms before her knees gave out was a comfort she hadn’t known she craved.

He let her weep as he rubbed soothing circles over her back and maybe it was easier to show him her weaknesses because she’d never had to be strong for him. She’d never had to take care of him or blow his snotty noses or help him hide from the world. She could just let herself grieve without fear of damaging his perception of her.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Evan asked once she’d finished crying and had pulled the location of Siobhan’s grave up on her phone.

Gina’s first instinct was to say no, but she stopped herself. Would it be so very wrong to not be alone? She’d spent twenty years alone in her grief, maybe it was time to let someone help her carry it. She nodded.

#

It was a struggle to convince Thomas to stay behind and rest, but between Gina and Evan they managed to get him to stay on the sofa and promise not to leave until they got back from the cemetery.

It was about a half hour drive during which Evan did all the talking, recounting the history of body snatching that he’d learned from a podcast he’d listened to recently. Gina barely paid any attention, but it didn’t seem like Evan minded all that much. He was just talking to fill the silence and Gina was glad of that, because she wasn’t sure she’d know what to do with silence just now.

After half an hour, Evan pulled into the cemetery parking lot. Gina waited by the car with a bouquet of sunflowers Evan had thought to pick up on the way (which had been so sweet and thoughtful that Gina had found herself crying yet again) while Evan went to check the map so they could find Siobhan’s grave.

Gina leaned on Evan as they walked through the rows of headstones and past ornate mausoleums and angel statues until they came to a simple granite headstone that read:

Siobhan O’Rielly 1973 – 2006 Beloved Daughter and Sister

Gina hadn’t expected to be featured on Siobhan’s headstone given how very religious and homophobic her parents had been, but to be faced with it in literal stone drove home just how completely Siobhan’s parents had ripped them apart.

“Are you okay?” Evan asked.

Gina shook her head as she laid the sunflowers on Siobhan’s grave. “She wanted to be cremated,” she said. “And she hated her parents. They couldn’t even respect her wishes in death.”

Gina sighed. At least she wasn’t crying anymore. “They didn’t even have the decency to tell me that she’d died,” she said. “I found out from a friend who worked at the hospital morgue. She called to give me her condolences.”

“That’s awful,” said Evan. “I can’t imagine that happening with me and Tommy.”

“It still happens sometimes,” said Gina. “That’s why I was so insistent upon you and Thomas binding yourselves to each other legally, so that what happened to me will never happen to either of you.”

“Tommy was really scared that his dad would show up to the hospital,” said Evan.

“Thank goodness for my brother insisting on maintaining a landline, I suppose,” said Gina.

“Yeah,” said Evan.

They stayed quiet for a long while, Gina staring at Siobhan’s carved name, trying to conjure some sense of closeness to the woman she’d loved from the headstone, but all she felt was a hollow in her breast and a chill. There was nothing of Siobhan’s presence here. None of her warmth, her exuberance, her spontaneity. “She’s not here,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Evan asked.

“I thought I’d come here and feel some sort of closeness, get a sense of closure but this,” she gestured to the sterile tombstone, “is so far from what she would’ve wanted. It’s not her.” Gina sighed, a realisation coming over her. “I’ve spent so long focused on the things that were taken from me that forgot to cherish what I have left.”

“What’s that?” Evan asked.

“My memories of her,” she said. “And the knowledge that no matter what happened, I got to love her, I got to truly know her, and no one can ever take those things away from me.”

“Here.” Evan reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small flag with orange, pink, and white stripes. “It was a queer friendly florist. I thought this might come in handy.”

Gina grinned at the lesbian flag in Evan’s hand and took it. Kneeling, she stuck it in the ground next to Siobhan’s headstone. Evan helped her to stand, and Gina took in the grave again. “Better,” she said. And then she turned to Evan. “Do you know anything about online dating?” she asked.

Evan actually blushed. “Um, yeah,” he said. “Why?”

“My friend Tabitha’s been bugging me for years about putting myself back out there,” she said. “I think maybe it’s time.”

[shachaai]

WIP Wednesday with a twist!

Tell me your 5 favorite lines that you have written

I. Couldn't pick lines. So chunks? And more than five... orz

The Lindworm's Lullaby

“Tell me about your little one,” says Lecter anyway, and Will sighs. If the good doctor is so determined… “Lenore,” says Will. She whom the angels call - as she fusses back. “Lenore Graham. She’s six months old, and looks like the cross between a princess, a pixie, and a dumpling. I had her in March.”

Commencer par La Faim

Beverly falls in step with him, leaving the rest of the food in her bag. “I know, right? Good thing too - the morgue’s all corpses and fungi at the moment, which has pretty much put us all off everything Italian until at least next week, so we’re all temporarily embracing anti-mushroom pescetarianism.” Swallowing, Will squints at his burrito. Black beans. Seasoned rice. Cheese. Onions. Shredded lettuce. Sauce. “This doesn’t contain any fish though?” “Yeah, Jimmy’s been squeamish about the cafeteria seafood ever since a tuna sandwich from there gave him the runs.” Fair enough: Will usually doesn’t touch the fish options in the cafeteria either, although his avoidance is based on the fact he has plenty of - fresher - fish at home that he had caught himself. But if the cafeteria food made Jimmy ill… “You’re really not convincing me I shouldn’t’ve bought my own lunch.” “Too late, you started eating the bribe,” Beverly says ruthlessly, and snorts when Will only sighs pointedly down at his burrito. It’s ruined now. Sort of. Food is food, but now it’s food associated with Jimmy Price’s diarrhoea. “Oh, shut up and eat your fibre.”

---

“There are more species of fungi, bacteria and protozoa in a single scoop of soil than there are species of plants and vertebrate animals in the whole of North America. And yet, animals are more closely related to fungi than any other kingdom - more than 600 million years ago we shared a common ancestry. The branch of fungi that eventually led to animals evolved to capture nutrients by surrounding their food with cellular sacs: essentially primitive stomachs.” “We had stomachs before we had souls.” Abigail’s gentians have been shifted to the windowsill, the older bouquet moved to give way to the new. Will reaches out thoughtlessly, brushing light fingertips over bruised, tired petals. “Says something.” “Hunger is and always has been a primary drive throughout nature.” “And maybe fungi developed a more... efficient means of dealing with it than we have as a species.” Will catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and glances over - Lecter, coming over to join Will at the window, step by openly curious step. “You said it yourself: fungi predates us, and it’ll probably survive us as well, devouring that which kills us and feeding that which forgets us.” “Rising from the rot,” Lecter muses, “consumed by that which will also one day rot.” “An ancient cycle of growth and decay,” Will says, and drops his eyes to the other man’s collar when Lecter looks at him directly. [...] “Fungi are the grand recyclers of our planet,” Lecter says, hands tucked almost casually into his trouser pockets like he’d pry open Will’s skull with his nails if his hands aren’t otherwise occupied, “the interface organisms between life and death.” Transgressive in Will’s mind’s eye, three bodies intertwined in the greater body of the woods, neither fully flesh nor fungi. He frowns, and Lecter takes it as prompt to go on. “Mushrooms, as you asked about them, are merely the visible above-ground protrusions of sometimes vast underground networks of mycelium. They’re quite remarkable: mycelial nets have been shown to share the same architecture as that of astrocytic brain cells, both networks creating neurological pathways for distributing information as efficiently as possible.” Will parses that. And then drops his hand from the gentians. “...Mushrooms are sentient.” “Mycelial networks are arguably sentient. Of which mushrooms are a minuscule but visible part.” Lecter’s voice turns thoughtful. “An intricate web of connections.”

---

Lecter manages to condense so much judgemental distaste for the peanut butter cup melting onto Will’s lips in one look, he might as well package up the solid product and sell it as a flavour of its own. Will very pointedly shoves the rest of the candy into the hollow of his cheek before acknowledging the other man. “Dr. Lecter.” “Is that your lunch?” asks Lecter, continuing to radiate the disapproval of genteel schoolmarms everywhere: don't talk with your mouth full. “I have three more in my bag,” says Will, who had been planning to supplement the peanut butter cups with a hot sandwich from the cafeteria but now feels almost committed to seeing if he can survive the rest of the working day fuelled only with coffee, filched Halloween candy, and spite. “Along with two giant sour gummy worms and a packet of candy corn.” “Truly,” Lecter says dryly, “a balanced meal.”

---

Price sets down his fork to carefully unwrap the poor thing. The doughnut isn’t terrible appetising after the many hands it has passed through to arrive in Price’s; it’s been battered and half-flattened by careless fingers and thumbs, and a great deal of the neon orange frosting that had been decorating the top of it has now stuck to the purple tissue that should have protected it. “You don’t want it?” Price asks - somehow without the slightest trace of sarcasm. Will grimaces. “Alpha-gift,” he explains. “Ahhh,” says Price with all the sympathetic understanding of a fellow omega, and then immediately tears off a chunk of the doughnut to pop into his mouth. Guilt-free. “Who’s the unlucky suitor?” “Professor Ericson -” “And you’ve given it away?” Beverly announces herself by slamming her lunch tray down beside Will’s mostly-forgotten baked potato, looking down at Will semi-reproachfully. Of course she knows Will’s feelings about Ericson, but she can’t help the little instinctive flash of hurt she must feel as an alpha watching an omega discard their gift. “He’ll’ve put his feelings in that.” “I wasn’t encouraging him by eating it,” Will tells her, and Beverly huffs at him as she sits down. “You hear that?” Zeller asks Price, hot on Beverly’s heels. (Will idly wonders what must’ve held them up in the lunch queue.) “You’re eating a man’s feelings.” Price, already halfway through the doughnut, doesn’t look at all bothered. “You want some?” Zeller puts his tray down beside Price’s and tears off a piece of the doughnut to chew himself. “...His feelings taste like artificial colours and preservatives.”

---

“You look put-out, doctor,” Will teases him, touching his fingers to the crease of Hannibal’s elbow for a moment to guide Hannibal around a fallen log as they turn back towards the house. “Did you get something nasty on your shiny boots?” “Strangely enough, I do not recall a warning about there being something nasty out here to step in,” Hannibal sallies back, taking the opportunity to step closer to Will and push Winston out just in front of the two of them. The dog gives him a dirty look, but Hannibal ignores him and turns his next question to a murmur close by the shell of Will’s ear. “Was I led out here under false pretences?” Will, delightfully, shivers, and tries to mask it by lifting his hand to that same ear, leaning away from Hannibal to tuck his hair back behind it. “I would think someone who is at least reasonably intelligent should already know that woods, in general, tend to contain many nasty things, and so, when planning to go for a trek in them, should be prepared accordingly.” “Putting aside the implicit remark about my reasonable intelligence -” Hannibal says, smiling when Will begins to laugh beside him, “I would remind you that physical, mental, and emotional preparedness are all separate considerations. An individual may be fully prepared in advance for anything the elements may physically throw at him, but only understand the full mental and emotional ramifications after the fact.” The white fangs of Will’s grin flash in the dark. “You need to be prepared emotionally to get coyote shit on your boots?” “If I were actually attached to this pair, I might never recover.”

---

Cold, creamy blue sludge slides against Hannibal’s tongue, heavy with cheap syrup, processed sprinkles and cream. Lemon-raspberry-marshmallow sweet and tart. “...It tastes like the Lucky Charms leprechaun just died in my mouth.” Abigail chokes whilst swallowing her milkshake.

---

“No rest for the wicked,” Price sighs as yet another grim-faced technician trundles down the Pagoda stairs and past them to convene outside, and God, if that isn’t the motto of the day. “But better this weekend than next, I suppose. I’ve got a two-day meet-up with the family.” Zeller eyes him dubiously. “You think the Chesapeake Ripper wants to keep his schedule free for the Black Friday sales?” “If it’s the Ripper,” says Will. [...] “It’s the Ripper,” Zeller insists, just as Price chimes in with: “What, you don’t think serial killers like discounts? Who doesn’t like a bargain?”

---

“Speechless as well as breathless,” Will says with a frown. His mouth still tastes sour from vomit, even after sipping some water and grabbing some mints from the nearest vending machine. “But the heart is unaffected?” “Wholly intact and in place,” says Zeller. “Seems like the Ripper doesn’t go for love.” “Struck, but not in the heart. Huh.” Price ponders for a moment. “Maybe it’s just a puppy crush?” Will’s frown deepens. “If the Ripper wanted to show us he had a crush, he’d’ve literally filled this man’s stomach with butterflies. No, this is a more ardent declaration than that.” “You’re a picky date, Graham,” Beverly says with a sigh. “Psychopaths aren’t renowned for their emotional intelligence. Maybe this is a case of delayed realisation.” “Maybe the Ripper’s aromantic,” Price says, and shrugs when the rest of them turn to look at him. “I’m just putting it out there.” [...] Beverly tilts her head. “Really don’t think the general ace community would appreciate adding the Chesapeake Ripper to their ranks, but I’m not sure if that idea is better or worse than picturing the Ripper as a lovelorn dumbass with issues of romantic self-understanding.” “I, for one, am deeply comforted by the thought that the Chesapeake Ripper’s love-life sucks more than mine,” says Zeller. “Not trying to woo people with corpses probably helps,” Price chips in. Will moves away from the body. “In some cultures and during some periods of history, it was a perfectly valid - and encouraged - courting technique. What’s a better trophy than the body of your vanquished opponent?” “Can’t say a corpse would win my approval,” Price sniffs. “What’s wrong with a bottle of tequila and a few tubs of Ben & Jerrys?” “Half Baked?” Zeller asks. “Phish Food, please.”

---

Hannibal - surprisingly - helps, sitting in a chair at Will’s side and folding Will’s hand closest to him between both of his own. His thumb running soothingly back and forth over the slight swell of Will’s scent gland. “You’d be surprised at the sheer range of items I was called upon to remove from the rectal passages of patients in my days as a surgeon.” Will’s head thumps back hard onto the bed behind him, and he turns his incredulous eyes on Hannibal. “Cucumbers were quite a popular choice,” Hannibal blithely continues, completely ignoring Will’s nails digging pointedly into the back of his hand, “but the top 10 list of rectal foreign bodies I was called upon to remove, outside of broken sexual aids, also included shampoo bottles, bottles of alcohol, carved root vegetables, beaded necklaces and barbie dolls.” “We had a gentleman in here not too long back who’d shoved three baseballs up there,” Dominic says, casual as he pleases. (This is what Will gets for actually introducing Hannibal as ‘the father’ for this ultrasound rather than just ‘the support’.) “It was worse than the one time my eldest shoved his favourite Batman lego figure up his nose. I don’t envy his surgeon.” “The worst I had of the kind on my table was a young artist who had poured Plaster of Paris up her rectum,” Hannibal says, simply squeezing back on Will’s grip on his hand at Will’s muttered oh my God. “She wanted a mould of her colon, but only succeeded in glueing her sphincter - and the rest of her lower passage - shut.” “This is supposed to be a touching moment,” Will says - perhaps a little bit louder than necessary - when it looks like Dominic is about to continue the disturbingly focused surgical conversation. The technologist clicking away on the computer beside them barely manages to mask his laugh with a cough, smile hid against his raised arm. Hannibal lowers his face to Will’s shoulder - where Will can feel the nuisance grinning against his arm. “My apologies, Will. It seemed as though you would appreciate a distraction.”

---

“In my defence,” Beverly says, looking up from where she is blatantly googling encephalitis on her phone so she can frown melodramatically at, first, the dog plushie with a bandaged head that she had brought Will as a get well soon gift and, second, Will’s own head - which is very much bandage-free -, “you just said ‘head injury’ on the phone.” “Pretty sure I said that I had a problem in my brain,” says Will, absently rubbing one of the plushie’s (extremely) soft floppy ears between forefinger and thumb as he watches Beverly tap through to wikipedia, her chair pulled up beside his hospital bed. God, Will misses his dogs. “Yeah, but you’re known for being self-deprecating and shitheads are always saying you have a problem in the brain due to Lounds and her readers,” Beverly points out - reasonably, annoyingly enough. “When have I ever taken that seriously?” “I’m touched by your support,” Will says - mostly - without sarcasm. It feels good to have someone in his corner. It feels good to see a familiar friendly face when he’s stuck in hospital, the long hours stretching out before him otherwise fairly bleak. “And the dog.” “He has your eyes,” Beverly says, cheerfully ignoring the burst capillaries in Will’s own whites from excess vomiting to nod at the machine-embroidered big blue eyes get well soon puppy is sporting. “Definitely no chance of your skull getting sawn open for a matching bandage?” “Don’t think that’s in the official autoimmune encephalitis treatment plan, sorry.” Beverly just snorts, still shamelessly browsing wikipedia for information on Will’s condition. In front of him. “...Only you could develop encephalitis just to wriggle out of a social invite. Good ol’ migraines too plebeian for you, Graham? Even your encephalopathies are rarefied. They only described your version of the disease in 2007.” “As you can see,” Will says dryly, with a gesture down the length of himself, cannula, hospital bed and machines around him all, “I am deeply committed to being on-trend.”

---

“Basics first then,” says Abigail, resigning herself to her fate. “Got it. Slicing, dicing…” “Washing up,” adds Hannibal - solely to see the expression that immediately slides across his companion’s face: disgusted teenager. “You will, I’m sure, be glad to know that I have a dishwasher to assist with most of that task.” “‘Most of that task’?” Abigail inquires - and then answers herself before Hannibal can. “Of course you’ve got a bunch of stuff that’s super old or delicate or isn’t dishwasher-safe. Who needs fancy flourishes when you can plate dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets on Count Dracula’s own dishware?” About to pick up a potato of his own to join Abigail in peeling, Hannibal pauses. “...I’m sorry to disappoint you, but none of my china is Translyvanian.” “He probably imported.” “...A valid supposition,” Hannibal concedes, bending his head to his own task with a knife. “I shall be sure to examine my dishware for any vampiric provenance. The dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, however, are still out of the question.”

[REDACTED - if you recognise the fic, shhh]

"Do you take your coffee with arsenic or without?"

[Vampire/Werewolf Universe]

"You just... slept through the British Empire? Two World Wars? The atomic bomb?" "You seem to believe these are things a person would wish to be awake for?"

---

"Please put the clothes on that I brought you." "I see no reason." "Common courtesy?" When the plea seemed to fall on deaf ears - "I will sit here and make unflattering comments about your mummified dick until you oblige me."

---

"I have loved others, I think. But, for so long, did not allow myself to be in love. Love brings pain." --- "Love always means loss eventually, and I had had too much of that already."

"And Arthur changed your mind?""

"My mind. My heart. --- "You think I was happy about it either? I told you I love him, but, ai… you have met him."

"Now I believe you."

[angelmichelangelo]

idk i'm really in the mood for some mikey fics this week, so i have a few prompts! No pressure if none peak your interest. (i'd prefer 2k3, 2012 or IDW if that's okay!) 1. A follow up to chapter 2 going deeper into mikey's healing hands. How far does it work? Are there consequences? 2. Bodyswap with mikey and a character of your choice! 3. I'm SUCH a sucker for time loops. Maybe mikey's stuck until he prevents/resolves a canon event, maybe it's something you come up with, i don't mind! :)

saving all these prompts for a rainy day but here’s one that really stuck out to me! hope you enjoy!

x

It’s only been an hour — sixty measly minutes and Donatello is sure that his head is on fire, starting somewhere at the back of his skull like glowing embers, spreading to the space between his eyes like a wildfire, he has to quickly remind himself as he pinches his eyes shut that this isn’t his head. This isn’t his migraine creeping up on him.

“Ugh,” he scoffs, pushing himself away from his desk blindly, his office chair skates across the length of the train cab with a small squeak. “Raphie. This sucks.”

When Donnie finally pries his eyes open to glance up at the turtle that’s standing before him he has some mental gymnastics to perform until he’s remembering which brother it is that’s actually here with him right now.

Because staring back down at him with a somewhat familiar scowl is his own face. But that’s not him. That’s Raph.

“Yeah well. This gut ache ain’t nothing to sing about either.” He says, rubbing a hand delicately across his abdomen. “Seriously, Don. Your immune system made of paper or what? I feel like I got the stomach flu, bird flu, turtle flu, rat flu all rolled into one.”

Donnie hums. Too much noise making his head rattle.

But he needs to find a cure. Whatever Bishop had blasted them with had sent each of them flying across the abandoned warehouse and once they’d pulled themselves up off the floor, they weren’t themselves anymore. And Bishop was nowhere to be found to fix it.”

“It’s just hard to work when it feels like my head is about to explode,” he whines, palming at his temples with the heel of his hand. “I get headaches from too much screen time but… yeesh, Raph. One too many knocks on the head for you I think.”

It’s then that Leo appears at the open doorway, all pouty and slumped over, it doesn’t take long for Don to remember that it’s not actually Leo occupying that body, but instead their youngest sibling.

Mike rolls out their shoulder with a hiss. They look towards Raph-Donnie momentarily forgetting himself when they ask,

“Got the good stuff?” Their face pulls into a frown. “My shoulder is killing me.”

Raph scoffs. “Wrong turtle, kid. Doctor Don is over there.”

Mikey huffs out a surprised laugh, like the situation was still catching them off guard, they round themselves around to the real Donnie, still rolling their shoulder in place.

“Here,” Donnie says as he rifles around in the bottom drawer of his desk for a collection of loose pills. His head swims and his vision whites out for a moment before he straightens himself out. Both Raph and Mike blink at him curiously.

“That bad?” Raph says in a low voice.

Donnie nods, carefully.

“Where’s Leo?” Raph then asks.

Mikey dry swallows the pills. “Laying down,” they respond once they’re gone, voice tight. “His—my knees are acting up again. Told him to lay down but prop them up with a pillow like you told me.” They roll their neck out to relieve some of their own pain.

“Man,” they hiss. “Are we pathetic or what?”

Raph shivers. He’s gone a shade of green paler and Donnie winces at how sickly he looks.

“I feel it,” he says gruffly. He’s pitching himself forward a little and Donnie knows the feeling all too well. “Feels like I’m about to puke my guts up.”

Mikey makes a disgruntled noise, beak wrinkling.

“Well don’t do it in my lab,” he chastises him lightly. “Go lie down yourself. And drink some water. It’ll make the nausea pass, don’t worry.”

Raph goes to leave immediately but then hesitates. The shadows of a smile pass over his face.

“Heh. Look at us. Actually looking after ourselves for once only because we’ve swapped bodies.”

Mikey snorts. “It’s kinda nice to play doctor on yourself,” he says. Then, his face darkens. “Though I hope you’re onto a cure, Donboy. I hate being in a guy body as much as I hate having Leo’s stabby shoulder. My shell hurts like, well, shell.”

Donnie reaches over and gives his sibling a sympathetic pat on the arm. “I’m working on it, Mike,” he tells him. “Trust me. Raph’s chronic headaches are making me miss my own sticky tummy.” He pulls a face. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

Raph whines. “Well wake me up when it’s over,” he says. He really looks like he’s about to blow chunks now and Donnie hopes that he’s able to make it to the bathroom instead. “Don. There’s pills in the back of the meds unit in the kitchen for that migraine. Take three cos two don’t touch it. Eat something as well. Chips usually do the trick.”

Mikey’s eyes light up at that. “Chips? I could go for chips. I dunno when Leo last ate but I’m starved.”

Raph makes a face. “You’re always starved, idiot.”

And four hours later (with the help of Leatherhead of course) they’re all back in their actual bodies. Donnie’s head is clear of any crushing headache and there’s the familiar burn and bubble of his bad stomach flaring up inside him that makes him realize that he’d actually rather have no chronic pain at all.

Still. Next time they have their own flare ups, they’re all a little more cautious to take care of themselves better. So not a totally bad thing after all.

[noelxbe]

beyuji

the return of alcohol

yuji hums at the recommendation, tracing a fingernail on her cup before she brings it up to her mouth to take a sip. it does seem hard– tiring, gruesome and mentally draining at times. but it’s…kind of a taste of the future, isn’t it? always on camera. always being criticized. asked for more even though you’re trying your best. yuji’s already a trainee, thankfully; she just hopes she doesn’t end up in one of those scenarios. “i’ll take your recommendation then.” she lifts her drink up in a cheers motion. “doesn’t sound like my scene either.”  “sounds like a plan.” yuji muses. it’ll be a nice little memory; a break from everything around them. a change from meeting up and drinking away their week– even if she doesn’t mind doing it at all. “no rush though. i know things are hectic now.” as is life. maybe things will lighten up a bit, so they both can make some free time. “is there anything you’d like to do if you weren’t doing...well,” she gestures idly around with a hand. “this stuff. is there another path you’d want to take?” yuji asks curiously.

something in wook was both scared, nervous and excited about what he’d signed himself up for. there was a lot of doubt in noel, whether joining next gen was good or not. wook had a growing passion for dancing, and next gen let him find out just how much he liked dancing, but he hadn’t been dancing long, he wasn’t a good dancer, no matter how much he enjoyed dancing, he wasn’t sure if it was okay to chase the dream. he already had a plan laid out for him, which he could follow with security and calm, but the path of going the idol route seemed far more interesting.

it’d occupied his mind so much lately, whether he was making the right choice or not, was there even a right choice? after next gen, next gen was a topic that seemed to come up no matter who he spoke with. he hadn’t even been prepared for making it through auditions, and now, even after the show had ended, somehow it managed to continue being a big part of his life. he taps on his glass “i am studying to become a veterinarian, just got one year left of school” … “which makes me wonder if it’s okay to focus on trainee life so much” he takes a sip “i’ve worked long and hard for one dream, is it okay to give it all up for a newly found dream?” … “ah i apologize, i’m talking too much”.

beyuji

the return of alcohol

yuji hums at the recommendation, tracing a fingernail on her cup before she brings it up to her mouth to take a sip. it does seem hard– tiring, gruesome and mentally draining at times. but it’s…kind of a taste of the future, isn’t it? always on camera. always being criticized. asked for more even though you’re trying your best. yuji’s already a trainee, thankfully; she just hopes she doesn’t end up in one of those scenarios. “i’ll take your recommendation then.” she lifts her drink up in a cheers motion. “doesn’t sound like my scene either.”  “sounds like a plan.” yuji muses. it’ll be a nice little memory; a break from everything around them. a change from meeting up and drinking away their week– even if she doesn’t mind doing it at all. “no rush though. i know things are hectic now.” as is life. maybe things will lighten up a bit, so they both can make some free time. “is there anything you’d like to do if you weren’t doing...well,” she gestures idly around with a hand. “this stuff. is there another path you’d want to take?” yuji asks curiously.

something in wook was both scared, nervous and excited about what he’d signed himself up for. there was a lot of doubt in noel, whether joining next gen was good or not. wook had a growing passion for dancing, and next gen let him find out just how much he liked dancing, but he hadn’t been dancing long, he wasn’t a good dancer, no matter how much he enjoyed dancing, he wasn’t sure if it was okay to chase the dream. he already had a plan laid out for him, which he could follow with security and calm, but the path of going the idol route seemed far more interesting.

it’d occupied his mind so much lately, whether he was making the right choice or not, was there even a right choice? after next gen, next gen was a topic that seemed to come up no matter who he spoke with. he hadn’t even been prepared for making it through auditions, and now, even after the show had ended, somehow it managed to continue being a big part of his life. he taps on his glass “i am studying to become a veterinarian, just got one year left of school” … “which makes me wonder if it’s okay to focus on trainee life so much” he takes a sip “i’ve worked long and hard for one dream, is it okay to give it all up for a newly found dream?” … “ah i apologize, i’m talking too much”.

[hot-soop]

winter: you’re the one who bloomed me

pairing & genre: roommate!yoongi x reader, college au fluff

tags: soft min yoongi, fluff, sharing a bed, a splash of angst, falling in love, the sharing a bed trope has been dragged out and abused for nearly 6k words, everyone has poor communication skills but especially the landlord, yoongi thinks reader is the prettiest :(, unspecified reader gender/appearance, friends to lovers, and they were ROOMMATES, Andrew Garfield is not the love of your life actually, quiet romance

wc: 5.6k (complete)

rating: teen & up - frequent swearing, briefest mention of intent to waterboard someone, blink and you’ll miss it

The heating breaks in the middle of winter. Your landlord is a total shit. Yoongi lets you sleep in his bed.

———

“Hey, can I sleep in here?”

The mass under the duvet rolls, a corner flips down to reveal a bleary eye.

“Huh?”

“It’s just- there’s ice on my window. On the inside.”

You’d both been away for several days to spend Christmas with your families, and returned within a few hours of each other to find that the heating had broken. And at the start of the harshest winter in a decade, no amount of layers or hot chocolate will keep you warm throughout the night. And your room, with its single glazed windows, is far colder than Yoongi’s.

The lounge isn’t an option, you’d already tried for the best part of an hour, but the pleather sofa is colder still.

Yoongi, probably too tired to care, just grunts and moves a fraction to make more space, so you climb in. Double-socked toes seek out warmth next to his but you’re still careful to leave a polite gap. Polite enough for new-ish roommates sharing a bed for the first time, at least.

Yoongi said when you moved in back in September that the landlord was shitty, said that it’ll be weeks or months before he’ll do anything that requires spending his time or money, so Yoongi himself had taken to making the repairs. You didn’t mind at the time. The rent was cheap and it was close to the city. Close to campus. Yoongi was quiet, kept to himself, cleaned up, and paid his bills. The ideal roommate. But it was still warm then, and you weren’t aware that Yoongi’s skillset didn’t extend to fixing boilers.

“Thanks, Yoongi,” you whisper to the mound under the duvet.

The duvet grunts.

—-

The apartment is empty when you wake. The clock says nine-thirty, but it’s the weekend, and your roommate doesn’t usually leave his room before eleven at the earliest.

You curl up on the sofa, blanket around your shoulders, legs tucked against your chest, a bowl of hot porridge balanced upon your knees. If you wanted, you could message him. Say something like sorry for invading your space or i hope i didn’t snore! Anything that could un-knot the worry lacing in the pit of your stomach that you crossed a line by asking to share his bed.

It’s not necessary as it turns out, because Yoongi is home just a few minutes later, one bag and two to-go coffees in his hands. He’s especially lovely just out of the snow, with his cheeks turned pink, eyes bright, and a dusting of snowflakes. There’s a lot on his hair. Pretty.

“Sleep okay?” He doesn’t look at you as he hands over your coffee, marked oat milk capp on the side in barista cursive. You weren’t aware he knew your order.

You nod and smile gratefully, mouth still occupied by a spoon of porridge. He sits at the other end of the sofa.

“Good.” He doesn’t smile back, but his few gruff words are enough to set your mind at ease. It doesn’t seem like he’s bothered. Bothered people don’t buy coffee for their botherers.

“Why’d you get up so early?” you ask, after a minute.

“Can’t sleep- when it’s cold,” he says between sips of his americano. “Got some hot water bottles for us, and a bunch of those handwarmer things that you crack.”

Oh. You dig out your phone from your pocket and open PayPal. “How much do I owe? For the coffee too.”

You’re broke as hell, but you hate the guilt that comes with not paying your way. You can walk to the restaurant you work part time at for the week instead of catching the bus, for the sake of keeping warm at night.

Yoongi huffs a laugh, an awkward noise, something someone makes when they’re caught. “Don’t worry about it.” He catches your narrowing eyes. Shifts in his seat. Sighs. “I should’ve explained better before you moved in. Should’ve said that the bastard will let us suffer and not lift a finger,” Yoongi explains, keeping his eyes trained on his cup as his tone grows more bitter. “Should’ve said this happened last winter too, and I ended up paying for the engineer to fix it. I’m sorry I didn’t say.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you?”

“Do you know how hard it is these days to find a student with a job, a non-smoker, and obviously has decent personal hygiene? One guy tried to shake my hand after scratching his asshole right in front of me.” Yoongi shudders. Whether it’s the cold or that unnecessarily vivid imagery, you don’t know. “And I can’t afford this shithole on my own.”

“Wow,” you say, wryly. “I feel so used.”

Yoongi scratches at the nape of his neck. Doesn’t reply, even though that was obviously meant to be a joke.

“That was obviously a joke.”

Yoongi laughs. Sounds fake. “Hah- yeah, no it was funny.”

Hmm. Still awkward. Before you get the chance to open your mouth, Yoongi stands abruptly, announces he has something to do for a group project, says he’ll be at the library all day, probably. You nod again. It must look dumb, how often you nod at him, like one of those bobblehead dogs people keep on the dash of their cars. He doesn’t even notice, already walking into his room.

Within a few minutes he‘s in the lounge again, backpack slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t look at you when he asks if you have plans tonight. His ears are red. Taps at his phone.

“Nope. No plans.”

“Okay. Well- see ya.” And he’s gone, the door catching on a draft and slamming behind him.

You get his text an hour later while you’re writing an essay from your spot on the sofa, your new hot water bottle saving your toes from the chill.

yoongi [10:36]: bring your duvet if you’re gonna sleep in my bed tonight

yoongi [10:36]: you kept stealing mine

me [10:37]: sorry yoongi

me [10:37]: were you too cold?

yoongi [10:39]: only a bit

yoongi [10:39]: bring your duvet? : )

me [10:40]: okay : )

yoongi [10:40]: okay : )

It keeps you warm for the rest of the day.

———

It feels weird, the notion of following Yoongi to bed when he announces he’s going to sleep. So you don’t. You don’t, even though you’d been yawning for thirty minutes before the movie ended. Even though you’d already all but said you’d sleep with him tonight. Not with h- just… just in his bed.

But when you get to your room and notice the ice on the windows thicker still, and your own breath fogging the air, the decision is basically made for you. Fuck it.

Yoongi is cocooned in his duvet, only his eyes and forehead visible from the light of his phone, when you tap on his open door. Your own duvet is draped around your body like a cloak.

“Offer still on the table?”

“Mhm. Close the door, yeah? It’ll keep the heat in.”

He shuffles back while you shuffle over and all you can hear are short huffed breaths and the rustle of cheap polyester. It’d be a little funny if the winter didn’t bite at your nose so.

“Is this weird?” you ask after a few too-long minutes of laying side by side, facing each other and scrolling on your phones in total silence.

Yoongi looks up from his phone. “I don’t know. Yeah- I guess- I guess a bit.”

You don’t reply, you just chew on your bottom lip, and Yoongi must take that as some kind of worry about him and his intentions because he says, “I’m not going to- like..” and you interrupt him by saying “No- No! I know-“ and then he interrupts you by saying “you wanna build a pillow wall?” and then it definitely is weird because you keep talking over each other, trying to make each other comfortable but your voices keep getting louder and more insistent and more rapid and neither of you are actually listening or even saying anything until you just - stop. And then you smile awkwardly at Yoongi from your cocoon. And Yoongi smiles back at you from his, but his eyes are kind, and crinkly, and it doesn’t feel so awkward when he’s doing it. And then you’re both laughing over nothing. His breath is warm even with the gap between you. Smells minty. It’s nice.

“You wanna just go to sleep?” he asks softly.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He smiles.

“Okay.” You smile back.

——

On the fifth night, you’re woken by Yoongi screaming your name.

“Get up! Fuck! Help me!”

You don’t even notice the water until your socks are wet. The cold, the wet, it stings, but you’re running - slipping - until you get to the bathroom, the source of both the water and the screaming.

He’s drenched. Completely. From head to toe. It takes a few seconds to register why.

“Why are you just fucking standing there?!” Yoongi screeches, gripping the pipe under the sink with a soaked towel. Despite his efforts, it’s spraying everywhere, catching him in the eye even though he’s craning his neck away. “Oh my god! The pipes froze! Help!”

“Fuck,” is the only stupid sound you can get out of your stupid mouth. “Fuck, Yoongi! What do I do?!”

Your hair is getting wet now too. The spray is coming from two directions, you realise - the sink and the shower. Shit.

“Turn off- ugh-turn off the water.” He tries to angle his face away from the spray, but it keeps hitting him in the eye, in his open mouth. “At the stoptap.”

“The- the what?”

Yoongi’s eyes grow wide, groans incredulously. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding?” Any other time you’d be offended, but your pyjamas are wet and it’s fucking freezing and right now you couldn’t give a shit about anything else so you just glare right back at him through the spray.

“Here,” he says with urgency, grabbing you by the wrist and manoeuvring your hands over the towel he’s wrapped around the pipe - for what little good it’s doing. “Hold this.”

He dashes off, faster than you’ve ever seen the man move leaving you to be hit in the face by the spray instead. A minute that feels like an hour later, the water slows to a fast drip.

“Did it work?!” Yoongi calls from what you think is the kitchen.

“Yeah!” You shout back.

You meet in the hallway, water trickling down your noses. You both stand there just looking at each other, panting, hair sticking to your foreheads. Cheeks red and hands redder.

Yoongi looks bothered. “Sorry,” he says. “For swearing at you. For shouting.”

“No- no it’s okay. I get it.”

He pushes his hair back from his eyes. Now isn’t the time to think about how pretty he is, but you do it anyway. And then he takes you by surprise, by stepping closer, reaching out, and tucking a lock of wet hair behind your ear. It’s such a small thing, insignificant really but it feels like something is happening and it’s too much. He’s looking at you. Looking. He’s so close, and his fingers are brushing your cheek and it’s too much. It’s intense. You look away. Down at the floor. Down at the floor that has quite literally turned into a paddling pool.

“It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Huh?”

“It’s like- three a.m on New Years Eve.”

“Oh.”

You don’t know why you said that. But Yoongi’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking at the floor too.

“Now what?” you ask, though the answer is obvious to anyone with an ounce of sensibility.

“Ugh.”

——

In the morning, you call in sick to the restaurant from Yoongi’s bed. There’s no way you could manage a twelve hour shift after a night of mopping and barely two hours sleep. Yoongi’s in the kitchen, you can hear him calling the bar. Your managers probably think you’re both faking, but that’s the last thing on your mind.

You’re replaying the moment. The moment it seemed like he was going to kiss you, and you made a terribly un-smooth attempt to break the tension. It’s not even like you’d never thought about kissing him. Maybe once or twice. Maybe more, if you’re honest. So why did you dodge?

Yoongi comes in with two steaming mugs. It’s basically all milk, he explains with a frown, seeing as the pipes are still burst and you can’t have the water on. He calls his friend Namjoon, who lives with his boyfriend just one block away, to explain what happened. Namjoon offers up the use of his shower to the both of you without Yoongi even having to ask. Everyone likes Yoongi. You like Yoongi. So why did you dodge?

——

Namjoon and Seokjin are disgustingly in love. That much is obvious as soon as you see them both together. You’d met them individually, briefly, in the months gone by - but seeing them together, it’s blindingly obvious why Yoongi had refused to move in with his best friends, instead choosing to stay in his shitty apartment with the shitty landlord.

Yoongi encourages you to shower first, Seokjin points the way for you. And God, it’s hard not to take your sweet time. You haven’t been this warm in nearly a week, and your skin is damp and hot by the time you emerge from the bathroom twenty minutes later.

The three men go quiet when the bathroom door clicks shut behind you. Too quiet. Namjoon’s smile is bright and friendly but he clearly plastered it on to disguise something else. Seokjin looks like he’s trying to stop himself from smiling at all, the corners of his lips twitching as his eyes dart from Yoongi to you, and back again. Yoongi just gathers up his things and heads past you into the bathroom.

Namjoon offers you a chair at the table, and Seokjin sets a bowl of porridge in front of you a moment later. While you eat, you try not to notice the way Seokjin keeps opening his mouth, and the way Namjoon keeps elbowing him, or poking his thigh or shaking his head. They are really, horribly, obvious, and they’re making it incredibly difficult not to laugh into the breakfast they’d so kindly made for you.

“I just want to say-“

“ Seokjin…”

“-that Yoongi is really happy with you-“

“your company as a roommate-”

“Namjoon…”

“Uh-“ you start.

“You like living with him, right? He’s a good cook, and he’s good at fixing stuff-“

“Except the boiler,” says Namjoon with a laugh, which is silenced instantly with a sharp look from his boyfriend.

“-cause he’d be really sorry to lose you-“

“-as a roommate.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “-yes, yes, as a roommate,” he agrees but with air quotes. “Especially before he can tell you he’s in l-“

“Kim Seokjin!”

Seokjin ignores Namjoon’s admonishment. Just reaches out to lay his hand over yours. “You’re not going to move out, right?”

“Uhm,” you mumble around your porridge. You swallow to stall for time. Jesus Christ.

——

It’s New Year’s Eve, and you’re eating pizza in bed and watching TV. You should be working, and if not working then at some club with your friends. But here you are, with Min Yoongi, sharing a bed in a fancy hotel, apparently “a late Christmas present!” from his best friends.

Both of you had tried to refuse, but Seokjin, who you now understand to be sweetly manipulative with all the best intentions, insisted that the room would only go to waste if you didn’t take it. Taehyung knows a plumbing apprentice who’ll fix the pipes for cheap, but not for another few days. Namjoon and Seokjin have offered up their shower for use, and you’ll get by with bottled water for the dishes. For one blissful night though, you have a warm hotel room and a jacuzzi bath.

“They could’ve gotten us a twin.”

You look over at him. His ears are red again.

“Is this not okay? you say, voice tentative and small. “I can go, if you’re uncomfortable.”

Yoongi’s eyes catch yours at that, shakes his head. “I’m not. I thought you might be.”

You try to make your smile reassuring, and when Yoongi doesn’t look reassured in the slightest, you scoot closer and rest your head upon his shoulder.

“I’m comfortable. Okay?”

“Okay.” You glance at the mirror, catch his eyes trained on the top of your head and he’s smiling. He’s smiling so fond.

Outside, there’s fireworks.

“Happy New Year,” he whispers against your hair.

“Happy New Year, Yoongi.”

If you were braver, you’d kiss him.

——

It’s night seven, and Yoongi hasn’t stopped complaining. Maybe it’s because he’s nursing a cold. Maybe it’s because you’d had a taste of warmth and comfort at his friend’s home, and then the hotel, and then you had to come back here to this frozen place with no running water for the next three days.

His voice is thick with cold, and his throat must feel like razor blades like yours - but he’s still talking shit about the landlord and it’s driving you fucking mad. You just want to sleep. But Yoongi, for once, is far too chatty. At first you’d tried to reason with him.

“When he gets here I’m gonna turn the hose on him.”

“No you’re not.”

“I fucking am-“

“He’s not even gonna come.”

“Shit... Yeah, you’re right.”

——

“I’m gonna get a lawyer-“

“No. You’re not.”

“Yeah- and then we’ll sue-“

“Yoongi, we’re students. We don’t have the money for a lawyer.”

“Fuck. Fine. Okay.”

——

“I’m gonna find that cunts house and waterboard him in the middle of the night.”

“Yoongi!”

“What?”

“That’s too dark.”

“Yeah… Sorry, baby.”

“…What?”

“Nothing.” Yoongi coughs twice. “I’m very sick.”

——

“I’m gonna-“

That’s enough. That’s fucking enough.

“I swear to God, Min Yoongi,” you hiss from your cocoon. “If the next words out of your mouth aren’t I’m gonna go to sleep then I will drown you in that fucking bucket under the sink.”

“I thought you said waterboarding was too dark?”

It sounds like he’s teasing, but it’s pitch black and you can’t see if he’s smiling. You punch the burrito of a man lying next to you anyway.

“Oof,” he chuckles. “That might’ve actually hurt if I didn’t have all this padding.”

“I hate you tonight, Yoongi.”

“Will you like me tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” It’s hard to stay mad at him. “If you let me sleep.”

“Okay. I will. I’m sorry.” Sounds like he’s smiling. And then he does what he hasn’t done before, not even once this past week of sleeping in his bed. You feel the weight of his arm across the middle of your burrito cocoon duvet, wraps around, tugs you a little closer. Tugs you so close that you’re tucked under his chin. So close you’re sure he can feel your breath on his neck. And his voice soft, ever so gentle, “this okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “S’okay.”

“Okay.” Sounds like he’s smiling. You let yourself smile too.

——

Jimin and Yoongi finally met tonight, at Hoseok’s birthday party. You’re just so pleased they’re getting along.

“What about you? What’re you doing after graduation?” The question is directed at Yoongi, you won’t finish your degree for another year. You turn to look at him with interest, because you hadn’t discussed that before. Why didn't you?

Yoongi gets a little faraway look in his eye at the question. “Norway.”

“Huh?” That doesn’t make sense.

“I wanna go to Norway. Study the architecture. Just for six months. A year at most.”

This doesn’t make any sense. “But you hate the cold.”

He’s only looking at you now. He could lean in, but he doesn’t. So polite. Maybe he doesn’t want to- in front of all these people. Maybe he doesn’t want to at all. The chatter carries on in the background. No one’s even paying attention.

“You look… really pretty.” It’s a poor attempt at a whisper.

“Yoongi,” you laugh, the Norway talk suddenly (almost) forgotten with the unexpected compliment. “You’re drunk.”

“Am not. If I’m drunk, you’re drunkerer,” he huffs, but he’s looping his arm around your waist, pulling you into his lap. “Smell pretty too. I like this top on you.” He runs a gentle hand up your arm, traces a finger across your necklace. You’re holding your breath. “Beautiful.”

He rests his chin upon your shoulder, and you lean back against his. Anyone at Hoseok’s party would be inclined to think you’re together, the way you’ve spent the whole time together on the sofa, laughing at jokes that no one else gets. It’s not cold here, in fact it’s awfully warm compared to what you’re used to now, but you’re huddled close all the same. So yes, everyone here thinks you and Yoongi are together. You’re inclined to let them think it.

You press a kiss to his cheek while the alcohol makes you brave.

“You’re pretty too, Yoongi.”

And he smiles so wide that it could split your heart right open. Lay it bare for everyone to see. God. You wish it would stay winter forever.

——

You wake up on that same sofa the next day, your head pounding in Yoongi’s lap. In Yoongi’s lap. One of his hands is in your hair, the other on your hip. He’s sleeping still, you think, and you twist to look up at him and that’s a mistake, because the movement makes him stir.

“Morning.”

“Good morning.” His voice is nice when he wakes up, so deep and a little strained. You wanna keep this moment, where his hand moves to cup your cheek and you remember kissing his last night. Can’t remember now if he was calling you beautiful or your necklace. He definitely called you pretty, and that was… yeah. You want to hear him say it again. Sober.

“You wanna get breakfast before we go home?”

“Dressed like this?”

He laughs under his breath. “We’ll get take out, yeah? Movie day in bed?”

“Yeah.” You smile bright, he lights up. “Yeah okay!”

“Okay, lemme go say bye to Hobi.”

——

“What did you choose?” Yoongi asks when he climbs in next to you, his hair still a little damp from the shower. Smells like he stole your shampoo again. All citrusy, mixed with something deeper. You like it. Suits him.

“Hacksaw Ridge.”

“You wanna watch a war film at ten a.m on a Saturday. With a hangover?”

You grin. “Andrew Garfield is the actual love of my life. I’ll suffer for him.”

“Really?” Yoongi says, the tease evident in his tone. He’s trying not to smile. “The love of your life?”

“Celebrities are the easiest people to love,” you explain, taking a bite of your bagel.

Yoongi tips his head, amused. “How so?”

You weren’t expecting this conversation. Not hungover on a Saturday with the love of your life (Andrew Garfield) present. You swallow. “No pressure with celebrities. Nothing to ruin. Unless they turn out to be- like… a sex predator or something.” You point at Andrew Garfield who is holding a gun. “I think I’m safe with him.”

Everything goes really quiet for a second. Yoongi looks from you, to the TV, and down at the bagel on his lap. You can’t work him out when he goes quiet like this.

“What about-“ he starts, looking back at the TV and the love of your life, Andrew Garfield. “What about… people?”

“People?”

“People you actually know. Are you safe with them?”

If he’s talking about Tae, or Jimin, or Siwoo, then yes. Yes because there’s no heartbreak there. You’re not too close. You can love them without expectation. If he’s talking about himself (more likely, you guess) then a few months ago, you would’ve said yes too, because he was just the sweet guy you lived with who helped you put up shelves. Now- it’s just… you can’t - you don’t know.

“I don’t know.”

Yoongi just looks at you blankly. A few seconds or a minute or ten pass and he’s just looking, eyes searching yours and you think you can hear your heart beating in your chest. Maybe it’s his. Maybe it belongs to both of you.

It gets louder, louder still and then you both seem to realise with a jolt that someone is at the door. Yoongi is faster, somehow, and he jumps out to answer it. You stay where you are, wondering if you should’ve just said yes, I’m safe with you because then he might’ve kissed you, and you can forget all about the love of your life, Andrew Garfield.

There’s raised voices down the hall, and you recognise the other as the landlord, showing up out of the blue but two months too late.

As it turns out, he’s scheduled to have the boiler replaced in ten days.

Yoongi is livid. Angry that he’s let you both suffer in the cold over the hardest winter in years.

“You know we had to share?! It was so fucking cold we had to the sleep in the same bed to keep warm.” There’s venom in his voice. The landlord deserves it but you hate it all the same. Had to.

The landlord says something indecipherable and Yoongi’s rage is palpable even from down the hall. “Don’t you get how inappropriate that is? That’s disgusting.”

Oh.

On the TV Andrew Garfield tells Teresa Palmer I love you. You scowl.

“Shut up, Andrew.”

——

yoongi [19:22]: joon gave me a copy of the new spider-man movie, you wanna watch it tonight? : )

me [19:57]:       uh actually i think i’m gonna stay at sungho’s place. it’s his birthday party tonight

yoongi [20:03]: oh okay

yoongi [20:03]: wait sungho your ex boyfriend?

me [22:49]:        yeah

You don’t know why you came really. You could say it was because Tae begged, because he’s your best friend and he’s been complaining about missing you for months. But now Taehyung is gone, as he usually is at parties,  somewhere in this house, he’ll be in the arms of Jungkook. You’ve seen Sungho maybe twice, kissing his girlfriend of eight months on the cheek. You’d smiled at them, waved, and they waved back. They’re cute together. And you’re not having fun. You’d much rather be at home, tucked under Yoongi’s arm watching a movie from bed that neither of you really watch, as you had for the past several weeks.

Perhaps it’s because there’s less than a week of cold left, before the replacement, but last night… Last night was the hardest.

Yoongi was holding your hand, brushing your knuckles with a calloused thumb over, and over. And when you were both falling asleep, with the movie still playing, you’d curled around each other, limbs intertwined, finding warmth against the body of the other rather than within your respective duvets.

And when you woke up in his arms - your hands under his shirt, against his back and holding his body against yours, with his fingers curling under the hem of your top, brushing against the soft skin of your stomach - it was everything.

So you found yourself wishing you could wake up like that forever. But that hurt all the more, because how could it be forever when winter will give way to spring so soon? When the boiler will be replaced and your room will be habitable again. How could it be forever when Yoongi graduates in a few short months, and does what he said he would - move to fucking Norway or Sweden or some horrendously far away place, swapping one frozen home for another. And you’re left here another year, in this shitty apartment with the shitty landlord, and without the one person who keeps you warm at night with just his smile. How could it be forever when you’re letting him think you’re with your ex tonight? Who fucking does that?

Maybe you’re just scared.

——

me [17:12]:           i’m home! i’ll cook if you wanna watch spider-man tonight?

me [17:59]:           yoongi?

yoongi [21:22]:    pulling an all-nighter at the library with namjoon, feel free to watch it without me

That’s a lie. You know because Namjoon added you on Instagram, and he and Seokjin are teaching Jungkook how to ice-skate right now. But you lied too. Because a lie of omission is still a lie, right? So who are you to call Yoongi out?

——

Yoongi stays out the next night too. Blames his dissertation, says you’ll understand next year.

It’s bitterly cold without him. You say so and he doesn’t reply.

me [00:43]:       yoongi i miss you. please come home

He doesn’t read that one.

You really fucked up.

——

Today, he comes in the door just as you’re leaving for class. The lie clearly wasn’t about being up all night, the circles around his eyes say as much.

He brought two electric heaters with him. Explains in passing that one of them is for your room.

Oh.

——

You’ve had the bed to yourself since Sungho’s party. Yoongi says he’s working on his dissertation. Which you know to be bullshit because he never works on anything for his degree until the week before it’s due. On the fourth night his side is left cold and empty, it’s too much of the wrong thing. So at two a.m, maybe three - you get back up, walk into the lounge where Yoongi sits on his laptop, with two empty cans of Red Bull at his feet.

“Why are you avoiding me?” You try to sound assertive, but the sound comes out small and pathetic. Because the truth is you know why he’s avoiding you, and you know it’s your fault.

“I’m not?” See, he makes it sound like a ridiculous question but he didn’t even look up. Avoiding even looking at you.

“Yoongi,” you start and he sighs, exasperated. “It’s been ages. Come to bed, stop pretending you’re working.”

“I am-“ you cut him off with a bark of incredulous laughter and he looks up at you, wide-eyed when you push his laptop firmly closed.

“No, you’re not.” Hot tears threaten to spill over if you don’t break the dam with your words first, so here goes. “You think you’re so fucking subtle sitting there typing away when you know I’m looking but I can see in the mirror that you’re on fucking discord with your friends.”

Yoongi, the idiot, turns to look at the mirror he seemingly forgot existed, despite him being the one to hang it.

“I know this thing we do only started because I was cold,” you reason, more to make sense of it all for yourself rather than for his benefit. “But it’s more than that for me, Yoongi. You’re more than just a warm body to sleep next to.”

He’s too quiet.

“You want me to sleep in my room again? You brought the heater, right? So I should? I don’t want to but I will.” An embarrassing noise threatens to make itself heard when Yoongi turns back to you, eyes huge and sad. “If you don’t want me around should I move out-”

“No.” Yoongi gapes. Opens and closes his mouth like a fish, a big dumb fish out of water. “I’m not angry. Don’t go- I’m really not.” And then he takes your hand, tugs you down into his lap. His hands are in your hair now, holding you against the crook of his neck but his T-shirt is wet against your face and it takes a few beats to realise the wet is coming from you, and then you’re sobbing and fuck, it’s so stupid. It’s embarrassing.

He’s stroking your hair now, peppering soft kisses against your temple, down your cheek, whispering in your ear, “don’t go, baby. Don’t cry. God, I’m sorry- I’m really sorry.” He waits for you to calm, for the tears to stop, and then he’s guiding you to stand, leading you back into his room.

He climbs in next to you, pulling one of your duvets over the both of you, and it’s hard to put into words how much that one small thing means. He wraps you up in his arms again, like the night he held you last. You press a kiss to his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be sorry,” you say, when you find your voice again. “I let you think I was with someone else.”

Yoongi shakes his head as soon as you start talking. “Shh. Don’t explain. We’re not even toge- wait… let me think?”

You cringe. “Nothing happened. I just went to the party with Tae, we crashed in the lounge with a bunch of people. I was- I dunno. It- nothing happened, okay, Yoongi? I didn’t even want anything to happen. I wanted to be here.”

“Why weren’t you here?”

“Scared.”

“Oh.” You hold your breath as your eyes rake over his blank expression. And then his face crumples and he holds you tighter, burying his nose in your hair. “I th- thought I made it clear, how much- and then you… baby I was so jealous. Shit .” He laughs then, bitterly, more at himself it seems, because his hand strokes down your hair, and tips up your chin. His dark eyes are intense on yours. “Are you scared now? I thought I misread everything. Or missed my chance. Did I?”

You shake your head.

“Hey,” Yoongi says, his voice deep, running a thumb over the apple of your cheek. “Use your words, yeah? Let’s not get this wrong again.”

“No, Yoongi, you didn’t misread anything,” you say, and he smiles, leans in, his breath ghosting your lips. “You didn’t miss your chance. I’d give you a thousand.”

“Still scared?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you admit. “But I want us anyway.”

His smile is wide and beautiful. You love it. Love him. Dark eyes dart to your lips.

“Can I-”

“Y-“

And you’re kissing.

Outside, there should be fireworks. But there isn’t and it doesn’t matter because you’re kissing, and kissing has never felt this good.

➪ part 2: 400 words (that same night (morning?) cute fluffy nice stuff)

[meowdarame]

the fool | haruchiyo sanzu

pairing: haruchiyo sanzu x f!reader (she/her pronouns used)

warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, ANGST ANGST ANGST, non-explicit sex, drug and alcohol usage, cursing, heavy themes of addiction

notes: i’m so fucking sad so i wrote this LMAO. but hey at least i’m channeling negative feelings into a healthy outlet, right? as always, likes and reblogs are super appreciated!

beta-reader: @christeningsakusa

the one thing that haruchiyo hates the most about himself is how he doesn’t allow the things that should hurt to cause him pain.

every tear that rolls down his wet cheeks has to be covered up with a fake smile, the two scars that frame the corners of his mouth curling upwards and pointing to the night sky. every pang that his heart feels or negative thought that passes through his mind is masked by a joke— always one that makes light of the situation that’s troubling him.

it’s an awful way to live, and it’s definitely caused a lot of strife within himself and his relationships. his friends don’t take his problems seriously, but honestly, how could they? he won’t even let himself process his emotions fully, much less tell the people he loves how he really feels.

and so, haruchiyo falls back on the only things he knows— using drugs and humor to cope with the ache that he feels deep within his chest.

“so, i was driving down the street today, right? nearby her house,” sanzu says after snorting white powder off of a tiny metal spoon. he flicks the tips of his nose with his thumb before adding on, “and i swear to god there was a lady walking down the street that looked exactly like her. had the same cute lil walk and everything— with her knees pointing outwards, making it look like she’s waddling like a little penguin.” he chuckles softly to himself when he remembers the first time he pointed it out to you, which resulted in you punching his chest and dodging his kisses for the next hour.

“you’re probably just seeing things,” rindou says nonchalantly, grabbing the lighter from sanzu’s other hand to light a cigarette. “you guys just broke up and you miss her, so it makes sense that you see her everywhere.”

“i agree with rin,” ran butts in. taking a swig from the aged scotch he’d been sipping on all night, he adds on, “when my ex-girl and i broke up, i couldn’t step foot into one of our night clubs in roppongi— it was her favorite place to go. too many bad memories associated with that place, so i had rindou collect the financial reports from that place by himself for a few months. you remember that, lil bro?” he nudges his younger brother, some of the dark liquor spilling onto the couch in the process, and it makes rindou hiss.

“how could i forget? you still owe me half of your salary for that month, remember?” the purple-haired man takes one final pull from his cigarette before smothering it in the ashtray. “breakups suck, haru, but you’ll get over it eventually. just takes time,” he emphasizes his last sentence by kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, leaning back and resting his hands behind his head.

of course the “resident pretty boy bachelor” who’s never experienced true heartbreak gives such nonchalant advice, sanzu thinks to himself, dismayed. figures.

“you know,” ran adds on, clapping his heavy palm on sanzu’s shoulder. “they say the quickest way to get over someone is to get under someone else. why don’t you try it?”

“you don’t think it’s too soon? it’s only been a few weeks…” haruchiyo asks, but ran immediately waves the thought away. “nah, i think it’ll be good for you! you’ll get to see what’s out there, maybe even find a new person to occupy your time.”

sanzu nods his head a few times, registering the words of supposed wisdom that his friend imparted onto him.

ran haitani is a lot of things— prideful, extravagant, and (at times) idiotic— but sanzu would have never taken him for a liar.

well, ran did lie, because it is way too early for haruchiyo to be sleeping with a new person. and now, he feels like utter shit.

as he ties up and disposes the used condom, haruchiyo scolds himself for his lapse in judgement. occupy my time? more like waste my time.

his coping mechanism for the night is a sweet, pretty college-aged girl whose company he would have enjoyed otherwise in any other circumstance. but right now, the only thought plaguing his mind is how she’s not you. how nobody can ever compare to you.

she tries to plant one last kiss on his lips which he swiftly dodges, outstretching his arm behind her and grabbing his car keys. he leaves without uttering another word to her, instead choosing to solemnly bow his head out of respect. as he exits the front door of the lavish hotel room, he notices the way that her eyes narrow slightly at him, studying him as if he were a specimen underneath a microscope— the same way that yours did whenever you knew something was wrong but haruchiyo wouldn’t fess up.

is he really that easy to read? he asks himself as he places his key into the ignition.

knock. knock. knock.

the dark oak doors that once signified warmth now feel cold against his knuckles. he waits a minute, reflecting on tonight’s decisions that led him to your front porch. just as he’s about to give up and walk away, he hears shuffling on the other side of the doorway.

“haruchiyo?” your sleepy form asks, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hand.

haruchiyo, huh? he laments. no longer “haru,” or “babe,” or “my love.” hell, he would’ve even preferred “sanzu” instead of his full first name. but “haruchiyo”— it exists in a liminal space, a plane between familiarity and distance, a hallmark of lovers that once were but are no longer.

“what are you doing here?” you add on, this time with more alertness in your voice upon realizing that your ex-boyfriend is at your front door. “are you in trouble?”

“no, no,” he assures you, taking his hands out of his pockets and raising them up, a sign of his sincerity. “just missed you, that’s all.”

you groan and throw your head back. “you know, phones exist, right? you could just call me instead of waking me up at 3 in the fucking morning.”

“i wanted to see your face.”

“facetime exists.”

sanzu sighs internally. you’ve always been so hardheaded, borderline bratty. he loved it throughout the duration of your relationship, but now it poses a formidable barrier. he knows that there’s no way to get through to you, so he decides to do something that he rarely ever does— he’s honest with you, and in turn, honest with himself.

“i thought i saw you today,” haruchiyo begins, and you lean against your door frame, amused by the abrupt subject change.

“couldn’t be me,” you assert, crossing your arms. “didn’t leave my house once today.”

“i know it wasn’t you,” he interrupts, slightly frustrated by your combatant remark. “i just thought it was you. but anyways, can i at least tell you my thoughts?”

you motion your hand out, signaling for him to continue on. sanzu takes a deep breath, letting the frosty winter air fill his lungs.

“i’m sorry,” he exhales. “i’m sorry for hurting you. i’m sorry for putting myself above you and fucking everything up. i’m sorry for not being more of a man for you.”

a weak “haru” slips past your lips but sanzu forges on. “i promise i’ll change— i’ll get the help i need, i’ll go to therapy, i’ll get clean. please, just give me the fucking chance and i’ll prove to you that i’m not a lost cause.”

“haru.”

ah, there it is again, sanzu thinks to himself. the nickname that he’s grown to love— mainly because you were the one who gave it a new meaning for him so many years ago. he’s hopeful as he waits for your response.

but hope has proven to be such a fickle thing in haruchiyo’s life. a double-edged sword— the rosy picture of a future with you is what keeps him pushing forward, but it’s also what’s holding him back.

“are you high again?”

his jaw goes slack at your question. “n-no,” he stutters, heat creeping up in his face and static dizzying his mind. “i mean, i did do a bump at the club but that was hours ago. i’m sober now baby, i-i promise.” he reaches out to grab your hand, but you retract and pull it back, stepping further back into your home.

“i don’t believe you. the haru i know would never be able to say these things to me sober,” you choke out; it’s clear that you’re on the brink of tears, but mustering up every ounce of strength in you, your hand wraps around your door, bony knuckles peeking out through your skin.

“i promise you that i’m trying to change!” haruchiyo pleads, but to no avail. you’ve already made up your mind.

“yea? then prove it to me,” you say, almost shutting the door completely. but before you close it fully, your somber face peeks out through a little slit in the doorway, voice now significantly meeker than before.

“i miss you too, and i want to see you get better. i just don’t know if i could put myself through the pain of watching the man i love endanger his life every fucking night.” you sniffle and hic, hot tears now streaming down your face. “text me when you get home so that i know you’re safe.”

the door slams in haruchiyo’s face, and that’s when a realization hits him— you still love him, and you always have. it’s just that he doesn’t deserve your love.

sanzu’s ride home is unusually quiet— no loud music blaring in the background, no lit cigarette between his fingers. just his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, nails digging into his palms and threatening to draw blood.

he texts you a quick ‘home’ before shutting off his phone and tossing it onto his couch. legs giving out, sanzu falls onto his hardwood floors on all fours, hands and knees planted firmly on the ground as he feels like his heart is collapsing into itself.

he wants to break down, to sob and throw things, to punch holes in the wall. he wants to have an outburst— to channel all the anger, pain, and frustration he feels. but he can’t bring himself to do it.

and so, just to keep himself from crying, he does the only other thing he knows how to do.

he laughs.

tagging: @bxnten @sunat2508 @petalsrdead @crystal-lilac @devilgirlcrybabiey @ohtobiors @frenchtoastmafia @miya-dynasty @sabyss @rinsie @chaotic-fangirl-blog @semisgroupie @portfolio-of-dreams @withlovetengen @momoewn + @shibuyawardnetwork

[aethes-bookshelf]

a bouquet of wilting roses || cloud strife/reader

I’ve returned! A lot of you have been asking for a part 2 to ‘a bouquet just for you’, so I’ve come to deliver :) I hope you’ll enjoy!

part 1

Pairing: Cloud Strife/Reader

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, character death, hanahaki

Word count: 1.7k

ao3 link

In Cloud’s hand was a small, black journal. There was nothing on its cover; no stickers, no notes, no drawings. Nothing. A blank, black space.

He found it under his late friend's pillow. Or, well, Tifa did while going through their things after their funeral. Heavens above, the funeral. Cloud had never seen any of his friends cry so much; truth be told, he, too, left the grave puffy-eyed and red in the face. But how could he not? They’ve all been through so much together and now one of them was gone. Like they were never there in the first place. None of them would say it out loud, but each time they hung out these days, there was this deep, dark hole next to them, in a spot that was once occupied but now sat vacant.

If you don’t talk about it, it’ll be like it’s not there, right?

Cloud’s been building up to actually reading the journal for weeks now. Tifa didn’t even want to touch it; she said that if she read about their late friend’s thoughts and feelings it’d just open up the wound again. ‘Maybe in the future’, she said, ‘but now I wouldn’t be able to take it.’ Cloud understood, he really did. But some part of him must’ve thought that reading the journal would be the right thing to do. A way of honoring his friend’s memory one last time.

So he finally opened it.

1 Hey, journal! Is this a stupid thing to say? I don’t really know, to be honest.

I’m starting this journal to document my illness. Kind of like a dumping ground for my emotions. It’s not like I can share them anywhere else anyway.

I got my diagnosis yesterday. I mean, I knew what it was since the very beginning, but it’s always good to have a professional’s opinion, I suppose. I don’t really know how much time I have left, but I know I’m dying, so there’s that. I’ll have to burn that journal before I go, though. Don’t want anybody reading it.

That might’ve been the moment when Cloud should’ve stopped reading, put the journal away or burned it, just like they wanted to. He should’ve. But he didn’t.

* * *

2 I saw them together today. Tifa and Cloud, I mean. It’s a given, really, the entire gang was hanging out together, so of course they’d be there too. It gave me a really bad cough attack though. Had to spend a good ten minutes in the bathroom to cough up all the petals. I hope none of them swam back up the toilet. That’d be bad.

3 Why me, though? People fall in unrequited love all the time and most of them don’t get sick! So why me? Is it genetic? Or maybe just some bitch-ass god looked down upon all of creation and said, ‘Fuck you in particular’?

Honestly, this would be funny if I wasn’t actively dying. But oh well.

5 I saw the doctor today. He kept talking about the different surgeries the entire time I was in his office. I thought I’ve told him already that I don’t want the surgery. I don’t want to forget him. No matter what.

Must be the love in me talking. If I was in a sane state of mind, I’d probably take the offer in a heartbeat. Life for a bunch of memories? Sounds like a fair deal, sign me up! But I’m not in a sane state of mind, so it’s a no, I’m afraid.

8 I’m pretty sure I felt the flowers move inside my lungs today. It feels really fucking weird; and it hurts like hell! That’s to be expected though. My fault for not taking the chance on the surgery.

Did I mention that the longer you wait to get the treatment, the higher the chance of complications and death? I wonder if I’ve passed that mark already.

11 My chest really hurts today. And I haven’t even seen Cloud at all. Is it the roots or the thorns? I mean, the flowers are roses, so who knows, really.

I seem awfully calm about all this when I’m writing. I suppose I should be more emotional about this whole ordeal, but I’ve nearly died quite a few times already, so no wonder something has come to finally do me in. Flowers, though? I still think that’s a lame way to go. I’d prefer an explosion or a crazy duel with some jacked up dude with a big sword. But no, I get flowers. Ridiculous, really.

15 I couldn’t really get out of bed today. I’ve been hacking up petal after petal; I’m pretty sure that my entire bedroom is filled with them at this point.

It’s getting harder to breathe. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night ‘cause of the flowers. And I can’t really get comfortable at all, because no matter how or where I lay down, I’m either pressing down on a thorn or squeezing a rooted-up part of my chest. (I can tell them apart now — the thorns are more like getting stabbed with a thick needle and the roots are kind of like pinching.)

19 I can’t really move anymore. Aerith visited today and said I looked like death. Probably an accurate description. I wouldn’t know though; I make sure not to look in the mirror anymore. I’m scared of what I’ll see. If I really do look that bad, it’ll be hard to deny the truth anymore. That I really am dying.

21 I caught my reflection in a spoon today. Aerith brought me some soup (bless her, really).

The whole reflection thing was an accident, but it still scared me half to death. I’ve never seen my face so hollow. It’s a good thing my parents are gone now; I wouldn’t want them to see me like this.

25 I’ve been wondering lately — do the roots break through your lungs and grow into other parts of your body, too? ‘Cause I’ve been having a hard time stomaching food lately. No matter what I eat, I can’t keep it down. Even water is a challenge.

27 Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen Cloud in a while. Probably since one of the first entries, really. I wonder why he won’t come see me. Does he find me disgusting now that I’m this sick? Or is he scared to see me waste away? I’d prefer the latter, to be honest. The thought that he finds me repulsive hurts — maybe even literally.

Should I stop thinking about him altogether? Would that make me at least a little bit healthier? I’m not sure I want to stop. Not really, anyway.

I wish I could see him again before I go. Or meet up with the whole gang one last time. That’d be fun.

Ah, I’m crying. I should probably stop, I don't want to smear the ink.

31 I’ll probably burn this journal soon. Tomorrow, or the day after. I don’t think I have long.

I wonder what happens after death. Do we go somewhere or do we just disappear? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

32 I always wanted to get a pet. A puppy or a cute cat. I could take them on walks and cuddle them when I’m sad. It’s nice to dream, isn’t it?

* * *

Cloud closed the journal. He wished he could say he finished it all in one sitting, but some parts were harder to go through then others. Still, the sight of blank pages following the last entry made something inside him twist and squeeze in that particularly painful way.

So it was all his fault, huh? He should’ve realized, should’ve done something to help. If they told him, he’d have made them get the surgery done. Even if they forgot him, they could just start all over. Become friends again.

But they didn’t tell them, did they?

The entries made him realize that he really had been avoiding them — always making excuses. A job there, an errand here and before he knew it, he stopped seeing them at all. But the fact that they started to think he found them disgusting hurt. He wished he could tell them they were so very wrong. He’d always been the avoidant type, an expert at running away when things started to hurt. And seeing one of your best friends slowly waste away and die hurt more than anything. He’d already lost one friend a long time ago. Now, another left too soon.

It always was too soon, no matter when they went.

As he moved to put away the journal, a small piece of paper fell out from between the empty pages.

‘If any of you find this — which means I probably didn’t have enough time to burn it properly — don’t read it. And if you don’t listen, or don’t know better before you do read it — don’t blame yourselves. It was my decision and my consequences. I didn’t want to forget any of the wonderful memories we shared together.

But if you do find this, I have just one last request to make of you. Burn it. Don’t let anyone else read what I’ve written. I know it’s probably a lot to ask, because you’ll have to carry the secret on your own, but I trust you.

And to whoever finds this — thank you, my friend.’

Cloud stared at the piece of paper. One by one, tears started falling, dripping all over the writing, smearing the ink. He was glad Tifa was at the bar on this particular evening. She’d ask questions and he’d have to answer them all. He couldn’t lie to her, not really.

Besides — right now, he had a promise to fulfill.

He’d really honor his late friend for the last time.

He took the journal and a box of matches and got on his bike. He drove for quite some time, looking for the perfect spot. When he finally found it, he set the journal on the ground and covered it in dry branches.

The flames burned bright, taking the truth with them. But the truth that remained inside Cloud would burn him with the flames of guilt for a long, long time.

[kenzumekodma]

18+, minors & ageless blogs dni

pairing: hajime iwaizumi x fem!reader

wc: 2207

warnings: a/b/o dynamics, predator/prey kink, knotting, idiots to lovers, author has no idea what she’s doing but had fun doing it

find the rest of my kinktober masterlist here!

Watching your friends play fight, you think you have everything under control. You must have, after all, if you’d made it through three years of high school and then some with these four goofballs. Oikawa only has a week before he has to go back to Argentina, and at his insistence, you’ve all gathered for a camping trip like you’d always talked about having in school.

As Makki and Iwaizumi gang up on their former captain, Matsukawa helps you set up the tent, driving stakes into the earth. A shrill breeze sends a shiver down your spine. Almost instantly, the scent of the three men invades your senses, and you gulp, reality setting in that you’re alone in the forest with four alphas, and…

“You know the full moon’s tonight, right?” Mattsun murmurs to you. He must have picked up their heavy scent as well. “You brought them, right?” he checks with you. You nod, but grab your backpack and rifle through it, just to be sure. Shuffling your clothes and toiletries around, you search and search but come up empty handed. Not a single heat suppressant pill to be found. Mattsun raises an eyebrow. Noticing his concern, you rummage for a moment before forcing a look of relief across your features.

“Yup, got them!” you say brightly. Internally, however, the only thing on your mind is fuck fuck fuck what the fuck am I going to do I’m so fucking fucked. Mattsun shakes his head. You can’t quite tell if he doesn’t believe you, or doesn’t believe you didn’t triple check before leaving. Honestly, you can’t believe you didn’t check the calendar, the forecast, anything. You’ve got a few hours until sundown, though, and that’s more than enough time to formulate a plan, right? Right?

The sinking sun shines golden behind the trees, and the rising moon begins to cast silver down from above. Warmth flees with the sun and you find yourself getting chills. From his spot next to you, Iwaizumi bites the inside of his cheek. When he opens his mouth to speak, he tastes the metallic droplets dissipate along his tongue.

“Cold?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, a little. I should grab my jacket,” you say.

“Don’t bother. Here,” he lifts his sweater off with an easy movement and tosses it into your lap. Gratefulness and burning want cut into you in equal measures. It was your own secret that you’d been hopelessly pining after Hajime Iwaizumi since you were both 15 years old. You’d planned on confessing right after graduation, until he broke the news that he’d be moving halfway across the globe for university right before you could will the words to come out of your mouth.

“Thanks,” you mumble. Maybe it’s a good thing? At least if I’m covered in his scent, it’ll cover up my own a bit, right? Iwaizumi watches the gears turn in your head from the corner of his eye, and for a short moment, he’s not an alpha and you’re not an omega. He’s not a trainer for Olympic athletes and you’re not the independent woman doing your best and struggling your way through life one day at a time. He’s just Hajime, and you’re just you. Oikawa nudges Makki, discreetly pointing at Iwaizumi. Of fucking course those idiots had figured it out years ago. It’s been over a decade and they’re still acting like teenagers, smirking and waggling their eyebrows at him whenever he gets close to you.

After a while, though, things fade back to normal. The four men trading spooky stories at Mattsun’s insistence, roasting marshmallows, and… arguing? You missed the comment that started it, but the smell of their testosterone rising is unmistakable.

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna go and get another bag of marshmallows,” you say hurriedly and stalk off towards the tent. You look behind you, making sure they’re still all occupied, and take a couple of snacks with you to get through the night before making off for a safe distance away in the woods.

Half an hour of following what you could’ve sworn was the north star and you’re sure of it, you’re definitely lost. But you consider the bright side. You’re far enough away that the only thing you can smell around you is fresh air, the falling leaves -- really, Tooru, who plans a camping trip in October of all months? -- and Iwaizumi’s sweater. Allowing yourself one indulgence, you take a deep breath of the fabric, your scent and his entwining in your nostrils and addling your brain.

“--Hey, hey, stop! That’s the last fucking marshmallow, Makki! You’re wasting it!” Oikawa pouts, back at the campsite.

“‘S not a big deal, y/n said she was going to get another bag. Right, y/n?” Makki counters. “Y/n?”

“That was half an hour ago, dumbass,” Iwaizumi says.

“Well? Should we look for her?” Makki asks.

“Of course we should,” Iwaizumi answers.

“I’ll go!” Oikawa pipes up.

“Like hell. You can’t control yourself around an omega well enough in the daytime. I’m not letting you go on a full fuckin’ moon, Shittykawa. You’re not any better, Makki. She’s got those suppressants, right? I can get her back no problem.”

“What about me?” Mattsun interjects, borderline offended at not even being considered.

“What way is north, Issei?” Iwaizumi deadpans.

“Shut the fuck up, why don’t you, Hajime,” he snarks.

“If I’m not back with her in an hour, start looking for us,” Iwaizumi says with finality, and he’s off.

It’s not long before he catches his own scent creating a path, meandering between trees. He breaks into a jog, his heart sprinting as his scent fades into yours. It’s stronger than usual, heady and intoxicating, and he lets out a growl as he realizes what’s happening.

“Fuckin’ really? Heat? You’re in heat? You’re fuckin’ kidding me,” he groans. “So much for the damned suppressants.” He picks up a surge of your scent and he realizes you must be near enough to hear him, to sense him, to smell him. He raises a hand to his neck, thumb grazing over his scent glands, going into overdrive as he feels the rush of adrenaline course through his body.

“Not far away, are ya? C’mon, don’t be shy. I don’t bite… hard,” he takes a shaky breath in, becoming still and calm in his concentration. This, this hunt, this is what he was born for, what he’s been longing for with you since the day you cheered for him louder than anyone else in the stands at the first volleyball game he invited you to more than a decade ago. Leaves rustle about thirty feet away from Iwaizumi and he picks up the surge again. He moves quickly and quietly towards where he’s sure you are.

“You’re getting off on this, huh? Don’t deny it, I can smell it on you from here, y/n. You wanna be my prey, huh? Want me to hunt you down and make you mine?” His lips curl, twisting into smirk and baring his teeth. He knows this isn’t the way he should be confessing to you, not when the only indication of your attraction is the fact you’re in heat. Would you react like this to Mattsun? Oikawa? Makki? Does it even matter, since he’s the only one here? His head whips around as a hitched breath comes from behind a tree another twenty feet away.

“You can run and you can hide, little girl. But the big, bad wolf is coming to get you,” he growls.

Taking his sweet time, he walks over to where he’s confident now that you haven’t moved from, if the little whimpers and moans are anything to go on. The sight that greets him sends a wave of warmth through his body. You’re flushed, whether from the chase, your heat, or some combination thereof, he doesn’t know. But you’re curled up in his sweater, and that stirs something in him deep in his core. The way you’re helplessly rubbing your thighs together, trying to keep from touching yourself because he knows you know that if you try to relieve the white hot need you’ll only make it worse.

“I-Iwa, go…” you mumble against your own will, but he only shakes his head. You sigh, conceding to him. “H-Haji, please, h-hurts, n-need it. Haji, please,” you whimper. “Help me.” Iwaizumi is on you in seconds, hands flying to your chest and your waist, lips a sloppy flurry against your own. He kisses down your neck and you keen, pushing your flesh against his bared teeth insistently.

“You know if I do that right now, you’re mine. You understand that, right? I don’t have to if you don’t want it. I can pull out, too…” The insecurity tugging at him is quickly quelled at your protests.

“No, no, do it, please,” you whine. “Wanted you for so long. P-please, wanna be yours, lemme be yours.”

Iwaizumi groans, feeling his hardening cock strain against his pants, and bite, marking you as his own, his mate. There’s no going back now.

You scramble to remove your jeans, but Hajime’s hands come down over yours, easing them off of you himself. You paw at the buckle of his belt and he chuckles at your eagerness. His heavy cock springs free a short moment later and you feel the warmth rise a degree in your body. He peels your panties off, sticky and wet with your slick, and takes a deep breath, moaning out loud at the thought that this beautiful mess is all for him, you’re all for him.

“Fuck me, Hajime,” you breathe.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, easing into you with as much restraint as he can muster. You suck him in so greedily, he swears he never wants to leave the warm home of your walls. Your whimpers and cries of desperation quickly melt into soft curses, begs for more, choked moans when he hits that spot just right inside you. You push your hips up to meet his, burying him to the hilt yourself.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he mumbles against your lips.

He rolls his hips, angling them up to catch you where you need it most. Reaching your hand between your bodies, you roll your puffy, needy bud between your fingers. A growl catches in Hajime’s throat and he bites down, sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder. He makes sure he leaves his mark on you. It’s not enough for you to clench and milk him for all he’s worth, it’s not enough for you to be swathed in his scent, he needs every alpha within a mile to know you belong to him.

“H-Haji-” you moan, kneading your own chest through the fabric of his sweater. He drags the cotton up your body, hungrily latching his lips onto one of your nipples. Your breath hitches, mewling out his name as if it’s the sweetest candy money can buy. You feel the base of his cock swelling and nudging against your folds as you draw closer and closer to your climax.

“P-please, w-want it, want your knot. Haji please,” you wail. He’s never been able to deny you anything and he’s not about to start now, not when he has you right where he’s always wanted you. He pushes his swollen knot past your tight entrance. The absolute blissful feeling of being so full, like you never knew you were incomplete until now, drives you hurtling head first into your orgasm. You moan and cry and cling to Hajime like he’s the only solid thing in this world. Quickly following you into your haze, he spills his seed inside you, locking your bodies together whether he means to or not.

“I, uh, suppose I should tell you,” you start, looking away from him as you come down from your high, waiting for his swelling to subside. “I’ve, I’ve kind of been in love with you since we were kids,” you mumble out quickly. He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look at him.

“Hey. I’ve wanted to kiss you since we were fifteen. You’ve been the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thing I think of at night for nearly half my life. I’m not apologizing for this if you’re not,” he says. You shake your head.

“‘M not apologizing, not at all.”

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. He eases himself out of you and helps you dress yourself quietly. “Legs are sore, huh?” he chuckles as you try to stand up. You swat at him lightly, unable to keep the smile off your face.

“Shut up and carry me, will you?”

And he does just that. He can when he walks back into the perimeter of your campsite he’s just barely made it within his hour time frame. The worried expressions on your friends’ faces quickly turn to teasing, waggling their eyebrows at the two of you, when they catch sight of the bites littered over your scent glands. With a smirk, Mattsun speaks.

“Took you fuckin’ long enough.”

[calliecwrites]

All I Want for Christmas

‘Deer Satan, all I wunt fr Crismas is a poaniee…’

Children are really bad at spelling. Have you ever noticed that? They aren’t born with the skills they need for life, but have to learn. That doesn’t seem fair. Their lives are so short anyway, and they have to waste years learning that the order of the letters matters, that ‘Santa’ and ‘Satan’ are not the same thing, even though they have the same letters in them. Not like us demons; we’re the personification of abstract concepts, we’re born with all the skills we need; and we’re immortal, so it wouldn’t matter even if we did have to spend a few years learning.

So I know just fine that when we get a letter addressed ‘Satan Claws’, that’s not what the child had in mind. But the address on an envelope is a sacred contract, and even when you know it’s wrong, you have to act as if it isn’t.

I’m one of the sorters in the mailroom in Hell. We don’t get much mail here – most people don’t know you can write to Hell. But it’s a comfortable life. It’s a bit smoky, and sometimes the brimstone smell gets a bit overwhelming, but give me that any day over the freezing North Pole. Then Christmas comes, and we’re overrun. I read the letters, and forward them on to the best department. The easiest ones go on to Curses & Jinxes. The demons over there love concocting cruel twists on what the children asked for. Want a pony? You’ll get one, but it’ll die within a week. Or maybe it’ll be a literal nightmare that haunts your dreams for the rest of your days. As for the juiciest letters, the soppiest ones, they get passed on up to the old Boss himself. No one thinks up a twist like him.

And me? The closest thing I have to a soul is the love of order, efficiency, and a job well done. The others say I’m barely demonic at all. They say I’m nowhere near nasty enough. Maybe they’re right. So I keep my head down, do a good job, and hope they don’t look too closely.

Because there’s a special letter, you see. One I wait for every year. This kid knows what she’s doing. She was eight the first time it happened – I have no idea how she learned what she knew, so young. But she was good. Not ‘good’ as in ‘who’s been a good girl this year’, but ‘good’ as in, I’m impressed. More than that, I’m caught.

Every year her letter’s the same. ‘Dear Satan’, it starts, and that’s no spelling mistake, ‘all I want for Christmas is you’. Except – that’s no ordinary writing. The ink is made from the blood of a dozen pitiful creatures – mice, usually. The paper is stitched together from the confessions of a dozen broken hearts. And the writing is surrounded by eldritch sigils so powerful that it hurts just to think about them. Like I said, the kid’s good.

What demon could possibly resist?

Being eight, I don’t think she quite understood that Satan wouldn’t be opening all his mail personally. Instead, her spell of binding fell on the first demon to read it.

That would be me.

I had to do what she asked. I couldn’t not. Fortunately, we get time off at Christmas. We’re supposed to go attack Santa and his elves, to stop them delivering presents, or at least swap the real ones for our cruel tricks. I was never much of one for that, myself – it was too inefficient, too disorderly. So I slipped away when the others were occupied, and went down to the ramshackle old house where the girl lived. I slipped down the chimney, and hid myself in a present under her Christmas tree, just as she had asked.

In the morning, she unwrapped me, and she was delighted. This terrifyingly-powerful eight year old, who’d be able to twist the world to her whim once she had a mind to, just wanted a friend. She was lonely. She’s never had much luck with other humans, so instead she turned to the one thing she was good at: the dark magic she’d been learning from all the books her parents left lying around, ever since she’d been old enough to walk. Her parents weren’t even there, poor thing. They’d gone off on their own, like they did every Christmas, leaving her all alone. Except this time, she had me.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t actually Satan, that I was just a lowly mail-sorter. I didn’t have a heart at all. But I could see that she was sad, and that I could make her happy, that I could do it efficiently, and call it a job well done.

At the end of the day, she cried, and hugged me, and said it was the best Christmas ever. I’d made her a cake, and told her stories (hellish ones, though that seemed to delight her even more), and played games. She asked me to stay, but I couldn’t. I had a job to do, and the others would notice if I was gone too long. So she said I’d hear from her again next year, and she’d miss me until then.

She kept her word. The next year, the same letter arrived again. I opened it, and I was bound. We spent Christmas together, and I made her happy however I could.

Each year, she sent the same letter. I waited for it to arrive, and made sure I was the one to open it. Each year, her writing was steadier, and the spell was more elegant, and more powerful. She was growing up. Such a human thing to do.

But when she was fourteen, her letter was different. The paper and the ink were ordinary. There were no sigils, and no magic in it at all. Just the words, the same as always: ‘Dear Satan…’. The other letters had been commands; this one was a request. I wasn’t bound by it. But why the change? Was something wrong? I didn’t have to go, but I went anyway.

On Christmas morning, she unwrapped me, and hugged me even tighter than usual. She was crying. “You came,” she said. “I had to know.” She had grown a lot this year – she was almost as tall as me, now. “You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not a person,” I said.

“Technicality.”

She pulled back and studied me.

“I’m not actually Satan, you know,” I said, and she giggled.

“I know. I figured that out years ago.”

“But the letters—”

“That’s just a game. It isn’t Satan I want, it’s you. The last few years I tweaked the spell so it wouldn’t work on anyone else.”

“And this year?” I said.

Her smile dropped.

“Things are bad. My parents are fighting. They’ll take it out on me. I’m worried I might have to hurt them.” With all the magic she had, that would be easy. “I can’t stay here – I’ve got to go, somewhere.” Then she looked me in the eye: “Will you come with me?”

She had woven magic into everything she wore. But there was no magic in her words, no compulsion. Like the letter, this was a request. I could say no.

I didn’t.

What did I feel towards her? Love? Demons can’t experience love. I could list off all the typical human behaviours that go with it, but I don’t understand why they do those things. Friendship, then? I’m not too sure on that one, either. But I could make her happy, and it was satisfying when I did. Any demon could do my job in the mailroom, but only I could do this one, so of course I’d go with her. I’d stay with her the whole of her life, if that’s what it took, and never mind the punishments the other demons would line up for abandoning my post. And when she’d eventually die, as all humans must, happy with the life I’d given her, I’d go back to Hell knowing I’d been orderly, and efficient, and with the satisfaction of a job well done.

Also on Reddit.

[hopelesshawks]

Can I request a Compress x Reader? Babytrapping + Breeding?

Ohhh interesting, of course you can! I rarely write for the villains so this will be fun. You didn’t specify but because baby trapping I did fem!reader. I also just realized you might’ve meant reader baby trapping Compress but I wrote Compress baby trapping reader so I hope that’s what you wanted 😅

The following request contains dark content. Check the warnings before reading

Warnings for vomiting, pregnancy, manipulation, non-violent sexual assault (baby trapping), breeding kink, unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), minor dumbification? (reader is very no thoughts, head empty during the smut), minor size kink, minor pain kink

Three years.

Three years together and yet you never would’ve guessed that your boyfriend is the notorious Mr. Compress of League of Villains infamy.

You first met Atsuhiro while working at a hole in the wall theater company. He came up to you after performing one night and had been so effortlessly charming that you’d instantly been put under his spell. He was more intelligent than all of your exes combined and could make you laugh like no one else could. It hadn’t taken long for you to fall totally and completely for the charming man you met that night.

But all of that came crashing down around you when he came home from a “business trip” with a prosthetic arm and no amount of half-assed excuses about an accident on stage could assuage your suspicions. He managed to dodge a confrontation with you for almost a week before you’d finally put the final pieces together and went to him to demand an explanation.

“You’re a terrorist Atsu!”

“That’s just what the heroes want you to think my love, don’t fall for their propaganda.”

“It’s not propaganda it’s just a fact! People have died because of your actions!”

“And how many more have suffered or died because of heroes and the society they created.”

“You’re deflecting. I have always indulged your rants about hero society but this is too far! The man I fell in love with would never stoop to this level!”

Atsuhiro crosses the room to you in two quick strides, cradling your face gently with his hand while you feel the cool metal of his other find your hip, fingers slipping under your shirt.

“I’m still the man you fell in love with (y/n), I can assure you of that,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“How could that possibly be?”

“Let me show you.”

He pulls you into a gentle kiss, reassuring in its care. As his lips move against yours, gently coaxing them to open so he can deepen the kiss and slip his tongue inside, you struggle to maintain your earlier anger. It’s a distraction and you know it is but it’s hard to resist as he starts to move you both back towards your bedroom. He makes quick work of your clothes and by the time your back hits the plush of your mattress you’re both already naked. His mouth finally releases yours to travel down your body, leaving bruises in his wake as he marks you as his.

“Atsu, wait we should, ah-” you start but he quickly shushes you before licking a long stripe up your waiting sex.

“Just relax Angel, let me take care of you. Let your thoughts drift away,” he all but purrs.

You try to focus on the conversation you know the two of you need to have but it slips from your fingers like grains of sand as he brings one hand to your swollen clit and starts rubbing slow circles. Your hands tighten in the sheets as he draws a low, keening whine out of you. His hazel eyes dance with smug satisfaction as he watches you try and fail to form a coherent thought. He doesn’t let up the pressure on your clit for even a moment as he drops his mouth to your waiting cunt and plunges his tongue inside. Your hand flies down to his curly hair on impulse, tangling in the brown locks and gripping tight. Your nails scratch along his scalp and your tight grip tugs at the roots of his hair but he loves the pain of it, knows it’s a sign he’s doing well as he brings up his free hand to add two fingers inside you as well. After so long together he knows your body just as well as you do and it takes no time at all for him to find that one spot inside you that has you seeing stars. Your climax builds and builds until you finally crash through the peaks of your pleasure, walls fluttering around your lover’s tongue and fingers as he coaxes you through your orgasm.

You’ve barely had time to recover from your orgasm before you can feel his erection pressing at your entrance. “W-wait, Atsu, condom,” you pant, shifting in the bed to reach for the bedside drawer but Atsuhiro stops you. “We don’t need it baby, wanna feel closer to you,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along your face as he eases you back down to laying flat on the bed. “But what if-” “You’re on birth control right?” he cuts you off. “I mean yea but-” “Then it’ll be fine, you worry too much.”

Any further protests you might’ve had are immediately silenced as a snap of your boyfriend’s hips has the tip of his cock brushing your cervix. You gasp as your body attempts to adjust to his girth. “You’re taking me so well baby, isn’t this so much better? Feel how close we are. Nothing between us, just as it should be,” he coos and it does feel good, good enough that despite the voice in your head telling you you should be cautious, you only nod and beg for more. The grin Atsuhiro gives you is almost blinding right before he presses his lips to yours, kissing you greedily as he slowly withdraws his hard cock before pushing back inside you again. You whimper and whine into his mouth as he starts to pick up the pace, each thrust more brutal than the last. Eventually he leans back and away from you, shifting your hips so he can plunge himself in deeper, but with his lips no longer occupied with yours he’s free to let his thoughts spill out and into the room:

“Gonna fill you up so well, fuck, my beautiful Angel.”

“You and me forever baby, gonna look so good round with my kids.”

“Taking my cock so well, can’t wait until you’re full of my seed.”

The words wash over you but barely register. There’s no room in your brain left for anything else as Atsuhiro takes over every corner of it. Language becomes a foreign concept to you, barely able to articulate your own pleasure in more than the sinful sounds dripping from your lips, let alone trying to process your boyfriend’s ramblings. His thrusts start getting sloppier as he brings one hand between you both to stroke your clit and push you over the edge with him. “I’m so close angel, I’m so close. Cum with me. Want you to finish with me while I stuff you full of my cum,” he pants and all you can do is nod as the coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter. As you clench harder around him he goes toppling over the edge first, crying out your name as he spills his load inside you. You never would’ve anticipated enjoying it so much but it’s that feeling that sends you over the edge, falling apart around his cock as he finishes filling you with his cum.

He helps you come down from your high with sweet kisses and whispered words of encouragement, but as the haze of lust fades, you start to remember the fight you both were having before. As much as you would like for this to be the kind of thing you can just kiss and make up over, it’s not and you know it’s a conversation that needs to be finished. Looking at your boyfriend as he settles more comfortably on top of you though, you can’t bring yourself to ruin the moment. Sleep is weighing heavy on your eyelids anyway so you resolve yourself to bring it up the next day.

Except the next day ends the same way.

And the day after that.

And the day after that…

Every time you try to bring back up Atsuhiro’s secret double life as Mr. Compress he manages to distract you just long enough to get you back into bed. At first you tell yourself it’s not a big deal that the conversation’s been delayed a couple days, but then it turns into a week. A week of very hot sex, mind you, but if the existence of Atsuhiro’s double life was a red flag then certainly his insistence on avoiding discussing it is an even larger one. After two weeks you finally resolve yourself to talking to him the next morning over breakfast, no distractions and no avoiding the issue with sex. Cooking helps with your nerves, giving you something to do with your hands and a task to focus on to help you ignore your roiling stomach. You end up making almost an entire breakfast buffet by the time Atsuhiro emerges from your shared bedroom to join you in the kitchen.

He barely has time to tell you good morning before you’re rushing him to the table and setting plates full of food down. You know you have to tread carefully so you use the time you both spend eating to organize your thoughts. This time for sure you’ll talk to him. You finally open your mouth to confront Atsuhiro once and for all but as you feel bile start to crawl up your throat what comes out instead is “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

No sooner have you said the words are you shoving away from the table and rushing into the nearest bathroom. You get to the toilet just in time, fingers clutching the rim of the bowl as you violently eject the contents of your stomach into the water below. It burns your throat coming up and your eyes sting, but a warm, comforting presence is by your side in an instant, one hand coming up to rub your back gently as the other pulls your hair away from your face. Only once your stomach is thoroughly emptied does the heaving finally stop and you’re able to sit back and catch your breath. “Are you ok my love? What’s wrong?” Atsuhiro asks with gentle care as he pulls you close. You shake your head, unsure yourself of what had turned your stomach. Sure, you were nervous to talk to Atsuhiro but not that nervous. It can’t have been something you ate since all you’d had was the breakfast you made and you know everything was cooked properly. You rack your brain for an answer only to go rigid when you start to settle on one.

“Atsu what’s the date?”

“The 22nd baby, why?”

Your blood runs cold.

You’d been so preoccupied with figuring out things with Atsuhiro that you hadn’t even noticed how much time was slipping past but there’s no doubt about it. Your period is two weeks late.

“I think I need to go to the doctor,” you whisper. No way in hell you’ll leave this up to a drugstore test. There must be another explanation for your sudden nausea. Sure, you and Atsuhiro had pretty much abandoned condoms. Every time you started to reach for one, he’d remind you how good it felt not to use one the first time and convince you to forgo it again. But you’re on birth control! This isn’t supposed to be possible.

God bless him, Atsuhiro doesn’t press you any further on why exactly you want to go to the doctor instead of trying to find something at home to settle your stomach. He simply helps you off the floor and then grabs the keys to your car so he can drive you to the doctor himself. You’re incredibly grateful that he doesn’t seem to share your nerves. He’s a calming presence next to you as your anxiety kicks into overdrive.

You’d asked Atsuhiro to take a seat without you while you checked into the urgent care. You didn’t want him to hear you describe your symptoms to the nurse waiting there. The kind woman immediately suspects the same thing you do and leads you to the bathroom so you can pee in a cup. She’s sympathetic and reassuring as she tells you to return to the waiting room while the doctor runs the pregnancy test but it does little to soothe your frayed nerves. The air in the waiting room feels oppressive and when your name is finally called to go back and see the doctor, Atsuhiro’s hand in yours is probably the only thing that keeps you grounded. You take a seat on the examination table and instead of moving to sit down in one of the chairs in the room, Atsu stays by your side, whispering reassurances into your ear. “Whatever’s going on I’m here for you my love.”

The doctor strides into the room shortly afterwards, greeting you warmly even if somewhat absentmindedly as she moves to the computer to check for your details. She confirms your date of birth and then after scrolling for a bit her eyes finally land on the results of your test. She smiles and your heart sinks. “Well it looks like congratulations are in order, you’re pregnant!” she exclaims, beaming at you. A lump forms in your throat as tears threaten to fall, anxiety making your hands shake as the weight of the situation starts to crash down on you. The doctor misinterprets your reaction and as she leaves the room to get you pamphlets on what to expect and how best to take care of yourself during your pregnancy, her reassuring words that promise you’ll make a great mother are anything but.

As soon as the doctor leaves the room you break, tears cascading down your cheeks as your chest heaves. Atsuhiro pulls you into his embrace, letting you fall apart in his arms as you come to terms with the news. “I’m not ready to be a mom, I can’t do it on my own,” you cry, hands clenching onto his shirt. “I know my love, I know, but you’ll never be alone as long as you have me. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you,” he assures you, pulling you in even closer.

As you continue to cry into his chest, murmuring hiccuping thank you’s between heaving sobs, Atsuhiro can’t help but smile to himself.

He’ll have to remember to thank Dr. Garaki for the fake birth control pills later.

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