#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

[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

[catdadacd]

Fuck it Friday

I have been tagged a multitude of times in the last few weeks by @wildlife4life @monsterrae1 and various others and i've had nothing but since we're saying fuck it today, there was a conversation between @cryinginthebronco and I because of a student I dealt with a work today and this was the result - which may or may not get fleshed out, I really dont know.

"Henry - Darling -" Pez lets the word drip from his tongue, drawn out and slow, as he slips the book from Henrys hands and slots himself into the same space that it had occupied, propped on the edge of the table, his socked feet coming to rest on Henrys thighs. "Rude," Henry blinks, though he cant help the smile that appears across his face for his best friend. "Do you know what day it is today?" Pez asks "I believe it's a Wednesday." Henry nods, his hands wrapping around Pez's ankles, looking for somewhere to go in the absence of a book. Pez wrinkles his nose. "You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling, think - special occassion." Henry rolls his eyes at the reference. "If you're asking whether or not I have forgotten the date of my own birthday then I can assure yo-" "A very particular birthday," Pez cuts in, booping Henry on the nose with an index finger to emphasize the 'particular.' "Ah." It's solemn, an understanding nod. "You have come to make good on our arrangement." "Henry Augustus Edward Percival Bruce James whatever the hell your middle names are-" Henry scowls and somehow manages to hiccup a laugh at the same time, Pez knows full well what his names are. "-Will you marry me?" "Percy Okonjo," he pauses, letting it settle in, "I will. I think we've been spinsters long enough." Pez paddles his feet on Henrys knees and lets out a loud, gleeful yell. He takes Henrys face in his hands and kisses both his cheeks, wet, a little sloppy. "I'll rally the witnesses!"

Several years later.

“I’m gonna marry the shit out of you one day, sweetheart.” Alex drawls, lazy with a sated post-coital delirium.

Henry doesn’t mean to squeak.

Alex shuffles over onto his side, squinting at Henry suspiciously, “-what was that?”

“Um – Alex,” Henry sounds more panicked than he really wants to, he sits up, suddenly a lot less sated. “I haven’t – you mustn’t take this the wrong way – it’s a matter very easily rectified given the situation…” He’s chewing at an already worn-down fingernail, staring off at the wall, seeing nothing.

“Henry, spit it out, I’m getting nervous.” Alex sits up too, crossing his legs so he’s facing Henry, eyes roaming across the side profile of his face.

“Well – the thing is, Pez and I had an arrangement, you know, we were 23 and chronically, god, depressingly single and maybe a little bit drunk but we agreed that if neither of us were in a serious relationship by the time we were 30 we would – well, we got married.”

There’s a silence that spans the length of Henrys nerves.

“You’re married?” Alex deadpans, his face a straight line “to Pez?”

“It’ll be a very simple divorce – annulment even, we never-“

“Nope, you’re not gonna finish that sentence, I don’t want the metal image.”

“You’re not - I don’t know, mad?” Henry hesitates.

“Not a fan of the neurotic girlfriend stereotype, babe, i’m a feminist.”

Henry snorts.

“I’m sorry, it completely slipped my mind.”

“Oh, it’s easy for you to just forget you’re married? Shit, maybe we should-“

He point blank refuses to hear the last part of Alex’s comment, banter or not, so he talks over him.

“Forgive me if i’ve spent the last three years with my face buried so deeply between your arse cheeks, physically and metaphorically, that I forgot i’m in a platonic marriage of convenience with my best friend.”

[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.

[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.

[intofclklore]

erin’s never been to a harrington family christmas party, nor would she like to attend one, but she can assume that they’re unbearable without something to drink to get through it. this is more or less proven as fact for her when a very drunk steve harrington calls her at the end of the night. 

it’s around eleven, on christmas eve. she’d been in bed with a book, unable to sleep but knowing she should be trying. it’s weird being back in this bed, even though it’s only been a few months since she left for school. she’d just gotten used to her new room, her new mattress, and now she’s here again. steve’s voice is a welcomed distraction from that. she can hear the rustle of sheets in the background of steve’s slurred speech and knows she’s not the only one in bed.

“you could have woken my parents with the phone, steve,” she chastises him, but her tone’s not harsh. he didn’t, so it’s fine. 

they don’t have a landline in their room. it’s just in the kitchen, and in erin’s room. ‘so you can talk to all your friends,’ her mother had said when she insisted they put the second phone in her room a few years ago. it had felt like a waste at the time since she didn’t speak to anyone on the phone regularly, and it felt like an even bigger one now that the phone occupied the room and she didn’t. 

“‘m sorry… wanted to talk to you… wanted to say merry christmas…” even drunk, he manages to make erin’s stomach do flips. 

she reminds herself she’s the one who had told him they needed to slow things down, she needed more time. a couple of good weeks weren’t going to fix everything between them. but she can’t deny… sometimes she really can’t remember why she’d ever make such a dumb decision. 

“merry christmas, steve,” she says back to him. she’s whispering, both for the sake of her sleeping parents, and because she feels the need to match steve’s own soft spoken, low voice. it sounds particularly deep over the phone, she can almost feel the rumble of it. it makes her palms sweat. 

she asks about his family’s party. he asks what her own plans are. he wants to know when he’ll see her, if he’ll see her, before she leaves again.

he has a gift for her.

more stomach flips.

“you don’t have to give me anything,” she insists. “i didn’t… i didn’t get you anything.” she tries not to remember the last time she gave him a gift, how things had fallen apart so quickly after that. no correlation, but she still connects the two things in her mind. it’s hard not to. 

“that’s okay,” he says, and she believes him, but she still hates receiving presents if she’s not giving something in return. it leaves her with a sick, guilty feeling that lingers into the new year. 

money’s been tight with the munson family. it always is, but the past year has been especially rough with everything happening in hawkins plus erin going off to school. her scholarship covers most things, but she’s still working a part time job in between classes and soccer, and her parents have been helping. her gift buying money wasn’t as much as she’d have liked. that meant homemade gifts for the girls on her team and her roommate at the dorms, thrifted things for her parents, and the one nice gift going to eddie. she thinks he deserves it the most after everything. 

“i’d feel bad,” she admits to him. then she pauses, curiosity getting the better of her. “what is it though?” 

his laughter makes her heart race. “you’ll see,” he tells her. 

and maybe it’s just because it’ll be an excuse to see him, but she doesn’t argue. she’ll steal something from the kitchen to take him in return. there’s nothing home baked, but the store bought christmas cookies are better than anything her or her family members could possibly make would be. 

instead of telling him this, or saying anything else sweet, she tells him, “i’ll bring you the coal you deserve.” 

it’s her version of flirting, but it’s not even true. steve deserves holiday cheer and gifts more than almost anyone in hawkins. in all of indiana, even. he doesn’t seem to take it to heart, laughing again. 

but then, his tone shifts as he asks, “yeah? have i been naughty this year?”

something warm turns in the pit of her stomach, and she almost coughs into the phone, choking on her own breath. steve’s voice is low, almost… no. 

she doesn’t want to say it’s suggestive. 

but it kind of is. 

erin absolutely does not know how to respond to this, not in the way to escalate something like this. he probably does, and thinking about him knowing how to do this makes her cheeks burn even more. 

“erin?” he prompts, when she’s silent for too long. 

her voice cracks when she speaks. “yeah?” she clears her throat. “yeah, sorry. uh, no. you’ve… you’ve been a really good guy this year.” 

if she’s trying to have a touching holiday moment, steve isn’t picking up on it. “yeah? have i been a good boy?” 

her eyes go wide. “steve!”

he cackles, sounding like he knows exactly what he’s doing to her. 

“you’re drunk, go to bed,” she tells him.

“i’m in bed,” he replies, petulant. 

“you know what i mean. go to sleep.”

he does, but not right away. neither of them hang up yet, erin managing to stumble through the goodnights and goodbyes while her face slowly cools. they make plans, for a day in between christmas and new years. and then for new years eve, too. steve knows someone throwing a party, and erin reluctantly agrees to go. it feels bizarre, thinking about showing up to a party where steve will actually not only be seen speaking to her, but be seen arriving with her. 

if she thought this past year was wild, the next one is already shaping up to be something else.

[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”.

[twilight-orchid]

How The Demon Brothers React After Fighting With Their SO

tw: some angst with resolution at the end, mentions of past arguments, insecurity.

Lucifer:

This man is petty as hell.

He doesn’t do the silent treatment, but he acts like you aren’t dating.

If you need to work on something together, you’re a co-worker.

At RAD you’re a classmate.

Around the house you’re just a housemate.

His poker face is immaculate and it will not crack when you’re around.

If someone didn’t know what was happening, they’d probably think you two barely knew each other.

However, you won’t notice, but as soon as you look the other way his eyes are on you.

He’s used to arguing with his brothers and is no stranger to explosive fights that end with he and the other person not being on speaking terms.

But you’re different.

He tries to go on with business as usual, but he can’t think about anything other than how much he misses you.

Yet, he lets it continue because he just can’t put his pride aside and apologize.

If you decide to sleep in your old room it’ll both hurt his feelings and royally piss him off.

He thinks you’re being childish and will be pretty rude about it, but that’s because internally his blood just ran cold.

It adds a degree of seriousness to the argument that he’s uncomfortable with.

Yes he’s mad, but he can’t lose you.

If you still sleep in his bed, he makes sure to scoot over to the very edge so he doesn’t cuddle you in his sleep.

In fact, the first night after the argument he’d probably put a pillow between you just to really punctuate the fact that he’s still upset.

I’d say it could go 4 days to a week tops without you making up.

After a point though, he just can’t function until the issue is resolved. He can’t sleep, he’s falling behind on his work, and he’s just generally not doing well.

You get called to his office one night and find him at his desk surrounded by piles of paper, disheveled and exhausted.

“MC, come sit down. I’d like to talk this through. Please.”

Mammon:

He’s so dramatic.

You dare defy him? The Great Mammon can’t believe this tiny fragile human would have the audacity.

The theatrics are just a front though.

His ‘The Great Mammon’ act is a mask for his insecurity, one he hasn’t had to use with you in awhile.

Even as the words leave his mouth he regrets them.

He’s going to be very uncomfortable with everything until the argument is resolved, but most of all himself.

He’s learned not to take his brothers too seriously when they toss insults his way, but words have a way of morphing to belief over time.

Internally he is going to be super hard on himself. 

Regardless of if the fight was his fault or not, he’s going to kick himself constantly for making yet another mistake.

He’s over the argument pretty fast. The anger quickly melts into anxiety.

Are you going to leave him? Do you hate him? Did he hurt your feelings? 

That being said, he doesn’t know if you’re still mad and he doesn’t know how to ask. 

As a defense mechanism, he defaults to how he treated you when you first arrived in the devildom.

Calls you human, disregards you, stuff like that.

If you decide to sleep in another room, before midnight expect him to be knocking on the door.

“Oi, MC. You awake? I just - I can’t - *sigh* Can we talk about this?”

If you sleep in his bed, he makes a point of sleeping with his back to you.

Less because he’s actually mad and more because he doesn’t want his image of you as he drifts to sleep to be a look of anger.

Though as soon as he passes out he’ll roll over and tuck you into his arms on instinct.

I’d say any after effects of an argument with Mammon would be resolved in a day, maybe two tops.

Leviathan:

Arguing activates his trolling the forums mode.

Goes back to calling you a normie and contradicts everything you say.

He’s less mad about the argument and more using the bitterness to cope with how upset he is.

He feels like a break up is less of an if and more of a when.

Why would someone as amazing as you settle for weird otaku like him?

Honestly doesn’t understand why you’re with him in the first place, so when there’s a serious argument he assumes its over.

Tbh don’t know how you and Levi would sleep together being that I doubt two could fit in a tub, but any deviation to your routine sends him into a panic.

It’s his reality check that the situation is serious and he needs to fix it NOW.

He’d have trouble apologizing in person. He can’t think of what to say, he stumbles over his words, and he feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack.

Instead, expect a long ass text message.

He says how sorry he is, how much he misses and loves you, and legit begs you to forgive him.

If you sleep with him like normal, he’ll probably try to make up after laying there for awhile. His mind is going a million miles an hour and there’s no way he can sleep.

Still really has trouble verbalizing how he feels, so give the poor boy a break and take over the conversation.

He hasn’t had a serious relationship before and he doesn’t know what he should do to make it better.

So the after effects will last however long it takes him to read several mangas, watch some anime, and play a few games to see how the characters get over arguments in the story.

Satan:

Satan makes sure not to fight with you over minor issues.

He’s worked tirelessly to tame his wrath and he refuses to feed into it over a minor issue.

Thus, if you fight with Satan it’s a major argument and it’s explosive.

The aftermath isn’t much better.

He doesn’t want to risk blowing up again, so he’s frighteningly calm.

He’s an absolute master of the silent treatment.

He won’t say a word to you until he’s certain he’s calmed down enough.

For the first few days he’ll straight up leave a room if you enter.

For a good while the only way you can expect to communicate with him is through his body language and the expression in his eyes.

Satan’s biggest fear is losing control and lashing out at you. 

He couldn’t live with himself if he hurt you and he can’t stand the thought of you being afraid of him. 

He’s a whirlwind of emotions, so he isolates himself until he can figure out how to deal with it.

Not just from you, but from everyone else too. 

Satan will not share a bed with you for at least the first night.

If he got worked up enough to actually fight, it’s gonna take him time to simmer down.

And he’d rather not risk doing or saying something he regrets in the meantime.

Once he’s ready, he’ll approach you when he’s completely calmed down and has thoroughly analyzed the situation.

He’s considered both of your sides, tried to pinpoint what caused the disagreement to turn into a fight, and made a plan of action to prevent it from happening again.

“MC? I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what happened. Would you please talk it through with me?”

He won’t apologize for the argument if he feels like he was right, but he will apologize for letting the disagreement escalate into a fight.

Satan could go weeks without making up if necessary, but he tries to resolve it within a couple of days.

Asmodeus:

Wants to give you the silent treatment, but is physically incapable.

He can’t stand to have you ignore him.

He’s the type to go back to normal then suddenly remembers you guys had a fight.

“Wait, no! I’m not talking to you! I’m mad at you!”

His biggest downfall is that he’s so stubborn.

If he thinks he was right, he will die on that hill.

There are arguments with his brothers that happened a thousand years ago and he could still tell you exactly why he was right.

But with you, he realizes that doesn’t matter too him nearly as much as it usually does.

If it means going back to normal, he’ll forget who’s right or wrong.

If you sleep in another room, he’s beyond offended.

“What?! Well fine! I don’t want you in my bed anyway!”

Laying in bed alone is a different story though.

He can’t sleep. All he can think about is you. Your face when you sleep next to him, your smell, the feeling of his arms around you.

He 100% cries.

Finally goes and knocks on your door with wet, glossy eyes.

“MC? Can we talk about this? I can’t get my beauty sleep and my tears are wiping off all of my skin care lotion!”

Will throw himself into your arms before you can answer.

If you sleep next to him still, he rolls over and watches you sleep.

It puts him at peace and he decides seeing your sweet, resting face every morning is worth more to him than the argument.

He’ll initiate the conversation the next morning.

I think Asmo could make it a few days if it was a really serious argument, but he will not function well until you make up.

Beelzebub:

Wants to make up immediately.

He doesn’t like to argue, even less so with you.

Whether he was right or wrong, he blames himself. He’ll take all the blame in the world if it makes you happy.

He’ll go make you your favorite food and bring it to you.

If he thinks you don’t want to talk to him, he’ll leave it outside your door and text you to let you know it’s there.

He’s honestly devastated if you decide to sleep in another room.

You guys migrate to your old room when you want privacy from Belphie, but you almost never sleep separately.

Seeing you grab your pillows and march out of the room nearly stops his heart.

He goes completely numb and silent as he just stares at the space you had just occupied.

Like Levi, he thinks this means the relationship is over and he genuinely does not know what to do with himself.

He can’t even bring himself to eat, he just wants to lie there, lost and trying to grapple with his emotions. 

He’s another one who will absolutely cry, but unlike Asmo he will make sure no one knows it.

If you still sleep in his bed, he’s very nervous about it.

He doesn’t know if it’s okay to touch you, what he can or can’t say, stuff like that.

He just lays there stiff as a board not even able to close his eyes.

Honestly the fight would probably have to be resolved before bed. His anxiety just can’t take it.

I don’t think he’d initiate the apology. Not because he doesn’t want to make up but because his confidence is rock bottom in these situations.

He catastophizes and honestly thinks you hate him.

If you don’t initiate the apology soon, Belphie will. He can feel what his twin won’t say, and he knows Beel won’t approach you about it for fear of making it worse.

Belphie will lock you two in a room if that’s what it takes for you to make up.

Belphegor:

The embodiment of if looks could kill.

He won’t talk to you, won’t look at you, basically pretends you aren’t there.

If he must interact with you he’ll roll his eyes and sigh the whole time.

Tries to sleep through any interaction so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

He feels almost betrayed by the fight.

He thought the relationship was stronger than to have such a huge divide, so he’s really insecure about it.

After the first day, the anger has melted away to guilt.

He ‘s not guilty that you fought, but he is guilty about how he treated you after.

Guilt and self-blame have become unwelcome friends at this point. Guilt over Lilith, over his plans to destroy the human world, everything.

But more than anything else, the guilt for the fact that he attacked you weighs on him every day.

He moved past it quickly after, essentially pretending he hadn’t killed you, but that’s because he just couldn’t confront what he’d done. 

He feels like the luckiest demon alive that you forgave him, let alone  opened you heart enough to love him, and now it’s all in tatters.

Another thing to regret.

If you decide to sleep separately, it’ll hit him like a bag of bricks.

“You - what? Where are you going?” 

It’ll take him a second to process what you were doing, but then he’ll roll over and let you leave.

“Fine. Don’t let the door hit you.”

No one will see him for awhile. 

Belphie sleeps all the time anyway, but he just can’t make himself get out of bed.

If you don’t approach him to apologize, Beel will tell you that he’s been nauseous and randomly emotional which must mean his twin is coping very badly. 

Will beg you to go make Belphie happy again. 

If you sleep in his bed still, the argument will be resolved by morning.

He can’t keep himself from embracing you in his sleep, and it’s hard to say you’re mad at someone when you wake up in their loving arms.

It’s hard to pinpoint how long it could last with Belphie. If you don’t apologize first, he won’t let himself be conscious long enough to approach you.

This is both my first hc post as well as my first obey me post so I’m sorry if le boys are ooc. I just got this idea and couldn’t stop thinking about it so here we are.  Especially Belphie, he was hard to me for some reason. Let me know if you guys agree or disagree and if you want to send a request or ask, my box is open! 

[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.

[scorchedhearth]

3. “How is this my fault?” 👀👀👀 maybe some Todd feels 👀👀👀

taken from this prompt list

3. “How is this my fault?”

~

“You died, Jason!” The batman finally loses his composure, let emotions filter through.

“And how is this my fault?” He roars back and Bruce’s silence speaks for itself. That one, that effectively stops him in his tracks. “You think it’s my fault I died?” The city noises fade around him, only a low hum fill his ears. Bruce thinks its his fault he died. Worse, that he deserved death as punishment for a supposed mistake? He stumbles back two steps and bites his tongue, hard. Focus on the sharp pain shooting through his nerves.

“I never said that.” He placidly offers and Jason’s blood turns hot.

“Then say what you think, goddammit! For once, use your words and don’t look away.”

“I think you were overwhelmed and rushed your decision.” Bruce tentatively says, weighing each word like they’re bombs waiting to explode in his face. “I think your mind was clouded by difficult weeks, and that you were only a boy.”

“That what you think, uh.” God, he needs a drink, anything to occupy his hands, calm down his mind. Bruce says nothing, stares at him through that cowl of his. He’s lucky, most of his face’s still hidden while Jason lost the helmet earlier, only his mask protects his eyes, the rest of his face painfully laid bare.

And then it dawns on him. “She never told you.” It’s all he can think to say. That even in her death, she couldn’t do the honorable thing and tell the truth.

“Who never told me what?” Jason wants to laugh. He wants to cry, scream, hit something, hit someone. Instead, he clenches his fists and looks up to the sky, the thick clouds fogging it. Waits until he can reign in his anger enough to speak clearly, enunciating each word with cold intention.

“Mommy dearest sold me to the Joker.” He looks back just in time to see Batman’s figure flinching, almost imperceptible unless you know what to look for. “I met her outside the warehouse. She told me that he left, that it was safe. She sold me out to save her own skin. Turned out great for the both of us.”

“Jason, I had no idea-” He cuts himself, teeth clicking together.

“Yeah, right,” he huffs a joyless laugh. “Did you even ask her? Or seeing my dead body was enough to convince you I deserved it?”

“This isn’t what I said.”

“Oh come on. We’ve all heard it. I’m the bad robin right, the reckless one, the one who died because he was too careless. You’ve said it, everyone said it.”

“You were a good robin.” But it sounds hollow. How easily memory tarnishes. “If I knew-”

“If you knew then what? You would have been sadder? Killed that piece of shit off the street of Gotham? You wouldn’t have changed a single about what you did Bruce, you would just have felt less embarrassed admitting you trained me.”

“You know that’s not what I think, Jason. I’ve lost you, I grieved you! We all did. We lost family, no matter how."

“Fuck you! For thinking so little of me!” He spits out, fists clenched once again. “And fuck me too, I guess, for thinking you would still love your son and trust him. Trust his skills and training. Trust that he’s good. I deserve better, my memory deserves better than that.” He doesn’t wait for an answer to that, knows it’ll disappoint anyway, like every action the man he used to think of as dad has shown him over the last months.

“Jason-” Bruce makes move to stop him, extend his hand but he has better things to do.

“Get your hands off of me.” He glares above his shoulders. “Don’t you have a new bird to play with? Here’s a tip for him: do not let a kid trust anyone, not even his own family, that’ll get him killed. I learned it the hard way, maybe you’d like to keep that one alive.” He leaves the roof before he can think of doing anything else, running across the cityscape with a tight, burning knot in his throat and a scream stuck right there.

[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.”