#Kill Cat Spray Smell

[songofsaraneth]

i am FUCKING pissed about the feral cat situation yet again

[ihavehisdvds]

Just 7 low-key basics for any beginning witch:

1) learn how to dress and light a candle without burning your house down. A little oil goes a long way. A lot of oil goes right into a bad situation.

2) learn how to light and position incense so you don’t set off the fire alarms. Fans are an amazing friend. They circulate the smell of the incense to your whole living space, but also diffuses the smoke.

3) do not store your planchette on your ouija board (it’s like leaving your house unlocked).

4) make sure you research oils before you diffuse them if you have animals. I.e citrus straight oils or citrus oil in oil blends make dogs sick and lily oil can kill cats.

And by the gods don’t diffuse banishing oil because you’ll end up with a pepper spray situation.

5) you don’t absolutely need a holder. You just need to soften the bottom of a candle enough (yes with fire) and it will stick to a surface. A flame resistant surface (see rule one about accidentally burning down things).

6) don’t poison the earth with a ring of salt on the grass. Ashes from incense or powdered egg shells works the same. And add nutrients to the soil.

Salt inside, not outside.

And 7) if you live in an apartment or house that will not be friendly to any burning, make your favorite herbs into infusions. You can use them on their own, or mix different ones easily, for any desirable effect. Unlike burning the herbs, smoke detectors shouldn’t go off unless you spray right at them. (Watch for mold in the bottle).

I’m being a touch humerus but I also mean every bit of it.

[starrystevie]

steve's desperate, okay?

he's officially running late for his first date with linda because he couldn't find his car keys and the shirt he wanted to wear just wasn't working so he had to grab something out of his hamper and throw it on blindly which then messed up his hair and he almost forgot to brush his teeth again but remembered as he opened the front door and-

he only realizes he forgot to put on cologne once he makes it halfway to her house and smells himself. the shirt from the hamper smells stale, not bad, just stale. and steve in his normal, non-rushed state wouldn't have noticed because his trusty calvin klein would have covered it up but today is apparently not a day for things to go right.

with a sigh of frustration, steve pulls into the hook's drugstore a little too quickly and it makes his stomach lurch the tiniest bit before sliding into an open parking sport at the front door. he rushes in, pushing the door open with too much force and books it to the fragrance aisle.

"this is so fucking stupid," he mutters to himself, unable to be heard by any surrounding shoppers over the annoyingly loud jingle playing through the speakers.

steve skids to halt in front of the cologne section, crouching down and scanning quickly over the tester bottles for obsession. once he spots the amber bottle, he yanks it towards himself, spraying as much as he can onto his chest given the awkward angle he's at. as he stands back up, steve pulls his shirt collar up towards his nose and the ball of nerves in his stomach loosens at the familiar smell. he may be late but he feels like he's back in the game.

checking his watch, he sees just how late he is and makes a beeline for the door, nearly running into an older lady with far too many rolls of toilet paper in her tiny arms. as he dodges around her and extends his arm to push open the door, he hears a loud voice over the intercom.

"you're not going to buy anything after stealing cologne?"

steve stops, freezes where he is and frantically turns his head around to spot the cashier grinning at him. he has long hair and a bright red hook's drugstore vest over a denim vest which doesn't look very comfortable. he has chains in his jeans and handcuffs holding his belt closed and a smirk that is trying to kill him and oh-

"wait, stealing cologne?" steve shakes himself back into existence as the old lady pushes by him without dropping a single roll on the way back to her car. "you're going to call me putting on a few sprays stealing?"

the cashier's smile just gets bigger, like a cat hunting down a canary. steve's never felt like a canary before but can't deny that it's an exciting feeling.

"well, on a good day i wouldn't. but i'm bored and you didn't buy a single thing so technically, yes. you're stealing, pretty boy."

steve fights the urge to roll his eyes and put his hands on his hips, so instead he crosses them over his chest, cologne wafting up from the movement and reminding him that he doesn't have time for this no matter how cute the cashier may be.

he makes his way over to the counter, grabs a pack of gum and slams it on the counter. without breaking eye contact with eddie, as his nametag suggests, he throws him a salty smile of his own and pulls his wallet out from his back pocket.

eddie's eyes are a deep brown with a glimmer of something behind them and his hands are covered in rings making his fingers look long and strong. the jeans he has on are ripped on one of the the thighs, showing a hint of a tattoo to match the ones crawling up his arms. steve's no stranger to thinking men are attractive but this guy? he's on a new level. his heart thumps painfully in his chest when eddie's grin grows larger as he watches steve give him a once over. it thumps even harder when eddie gives him a once over of his own.

the clock above the register shows that he's officially 20 minutes late to picking up... laura? lisa?

no, linda. damnit.

eddie looks down at the gum and then back up at steve, quirking up an eyebrow. "i hardly think this monetarily equates to a bottle of cologne but-"

"oh come on!" steve huffs. eddie laughs and it's clear and bright, ringing off the cinderblock walls louder than the annoying jingle that's still playing. whatever fight steve may have had left in him drains away at the sound and suddenly he isn't thinking about the clock anymore. he feels his shoulders fall down to a more relaxed state, feels himself shift his weight on his feet to look more natural than ready to run at a moments notice.

"just kidding, man." eddie rings up the gum quickly and hands it back to steve. "sorry, you looked like you were in a rush. i shouldn't have created a scene just because i'm bored."

steve chuckles. "i'm already supremely late for my date so what's another five minutes. especially if it gets me..." he looks at the gum packet to look at what he even picked up in the first place. "... spearmint freshen-up gum."

"well there you go," eddie says, grin smaller than before, "a perfect thing to get for a date. everyone likes their date to be minty fresh for that first kiss."

it strikes somewhere in steve that he isn't expecting. the beemer is still out in the parking lot running so he didn't have to waste time, his watch on his wrist feels heavy, the scent of obsession overpowering. but he can't make himself move. he wants to stay and talk to eddie, wants to learn about what makes him tick.

"can i borrow your phone?" steve asks. eddie's eyebrows furrow but he reaches for the store phone and places the console on top of the counter.

"for what?"

steve look through his wallet, finding the piece of paper with linda's number on it. holding the receiver between his shoulder and ear, he dials in her number and holds his pointer finger up at eddie, signaling that he'll need a second. steve then brings the finger to his lips and shushes with his cheek pulling up in a smirk. eddie's eyes zero in on the motion and it feels like steve's gone from being the canary back to the cat.

"linda? hey it's steve."

he watches as eddie mouths steve back at him and then nods to himself when he gets the confirmation that it is indeed his name. steve throws him a wink for good measure.

"i know i'm late and i'm really really sorry to cancel last minute but-. oh. yeah, sure. have a good time. okay bye li-."

on the other end of the line, linda slams down the phone without waiting for steve to finish talking and it makes him wince with how loud it is in his ear. he gives eddie a sheepish smile, all toothy and guilt-ridden, and gently puts the receiver back down.

"what was that?" eddie asks with a disbelieving look on his face. steve shrugs.

"she got tired of waiting so she already had another guy lined up to come pick her up."

eddie sucks in air through his teeth and mimes getting shot in the heart. it has steve laughing as he falls over on the counter, hair covering his face. he turns his head to peer up at steve through the curtain of curls, the one brown eye that's visible twinkling in the harsh overhead light.

"was it true love? are you just absolutely heartbroken?"

steve thinks about it for less than a second. watches how eddie curls back up one vertebrae at a time before placing his elbows on the counter and leaning over. watches how eddie's eyes flit between his own and his lips. watches how he focuses on the latter for a little while too long.

"why would i be heartbroken," steve starts. he's being too forward, too brash, but with eddie looking at him that way, he knows he can be. "when you'll probably be on break soon and can make it up to me? you know, for making me even more late and all."

eddie's grin grows wide again. "oh really?"

steve shrugs once more with a playful look of consideration on his face, resting on his elbows to match eddie on the counter. "yes, really. this is your payback for being bored and taking it out on me."

it's later when eddie's on break and steve hasn't left the drugstore in over an hour and they're sitting in his car with bowie playing through the speakers that eddie looks up at him with a look steve knows well.

"you do smell really good, y'know." his voice is softer than steve's heard it all day.

"so are you glad i came in to steal cologne?" steve leans closer over the center console to get into eddie's personal space. there's a hand curling over his bicep and pulling him even closer, their faces only centimeters apart.

"i guess i'll let it slide this time, thief."

and when they kiss for the first time, it tastes like the freshen-up gum they both had been nonstop chewing ever since steve paid for it.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

A Gentle Touch

Installment 1 of The Catlike Tendencies of Matthew Murdock

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: Matt doesn't know how to ask for physical affection.

warnings: none that I can think of!

a/n: long story short this is inspired by my wife’s orange cat. He loves her but only tolerates me most of the time, unless I’m the only one home when he wants attention. However, he doesn’t really know how to cuddle with me since we don’t do it often so he just awkwardly lurks wherever I am until I invite him closer. It happened earlier and I thought it was hilariously Matt-coded so I wrote this. (It’s set in the Of Oak and Ivy verse because I love them, but you don’t need to read that story for this)

w/c: 2.3k

You were absolutely enthralled in the story Foggy was telling when the noise caught you off guard. A small puff of air, sounding almost like a voiceless sigh. Glancing toward Matt who was the closest to you, one look at his stony expression told you it had come from him. He was clearly irritated, despite his face being blank. You’d known him for long enough that you could tell when something was on his mind. 

Maybe he’d heard this story too many times? You leaned more heavily into his arm, which was parallel to yours. 

Turning your attention back to Foggy, you flinched with a laugh as he gestured wildly when concluding his story, spraying beer at you from his mostly full bottle. 

“Geez, Fog. Reaching your limit already?” Matt smirked, his icy exterior fading away as you giggled beside him. 

“He is, he’s all flushed. This is just like that party at the Beta house sophomore year.” You shook your head, looking at Karen with an exasperated expression. “Have they told you the possum story?” 

Smiling gleefully, Karen shook her head. “The possum story?” 

Both Matt and Foggy groaned, protesting and blushing furiously, but Karen was adamant. And who were you to not indulge her?

“In the fall of our second year at Columbia, Matt and Foggy got absolutely plastered on some disgusting concoction of cheap alcohol and Hawaiian Punch,” You began, rolling your eyes as Foggy gagged across from you. 

“God, even the thought of it—“ The blond mime-retched. 

“Yah the smell of Hawaiian Punch still makes me nauseous.” Matt shuddered next to you. 

Karen stifled a giggle as you continued to illustrate just how inebriated you’d found them when you’d come to pick them up. “I was studying and had sat the party out, but offered to drive them home when Fog called me screaming at someone to chug alcohol. I figured they’d both be in no shape to get home.”

“You were correct.” Foggy nodded. 

“I don’t remember anything from that night, but I assume I was the one chugging.” Matt grimaced, laughing sheepishly. 

“So I drove over to the house, somehow got ahold of Matt and managed to convince him to herd Foggy and himself into my car. When they get there, they’re holding this bundle, right? I figured it was dirty clothes or something. But as we were driving home the clothes start hissing.”

“Oh, NO!” Karen cackled, propping herself up on her elbows as she listened to the story. 

“Oh yes. Naturally, I ask Fog what he’s holding and he says ‘my dog’.” 

“We didn’t have a dog,” Matt clarified, looking incredibly guilty. 

“No you did not.” You squeezed his arm, hoping he could hear in your voice that you had no resentment over the incident. “Foggy unwraps the thing a bit and introduces it as ‘Spot’. But instead of a dog,”

“It’s a possum.” Karen finishes for you, nearly in stitches over her coworkers’ mortified faces. 

“An angry one at that. I have no idea where it came from or how they managed to catch it, but there it was.” You shook your head, still amazed at their ability to wrangle the creature while piss-drunk. 

“What happened to it?” Karen asked, and the men erupted. 

“That’s classified.” Foggy stated firmly, lips pressed together. 

“A story for another time,” Matt rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. 

“Don’t tell me you killed it!” Karen gasped, whirling to look at the out of them sternly. 

“Of course not! No possums were harmed in the making of this story, just mildly inconvenienced.” You assured her. “They’re just clamming up because they can’t remember whose fault it was that it got loose in the science hall.”

Trailing off into a fit of laughter, Karen was quick to follow you as the two men started arguing, pointing fingers. Sitting back and enjoying the show, you shot Karen knowing glances as Matt and Foggy fought, no real heat behind their words. 

You’d had so much fun that night, reliving one of the funniest moments of your college years, that you’d completely forgotten about the aggravated sound. Until about one month after, when you were sitting next to Matt on a bench in the courthouse. 

The case he and Foggy had been working on was tedious and full of metaphorical landmines that threatened to ruin any shot your client had at escaping her abusive husband. The entire firm had been on edge, struggling to keep everything in order. Given your lack of steady employment at the moment, you’d been helping out wherever you could, and had been working this case from day one, right alongside Matt. Which is how you’d ended up beside him rather than Foggy. 

The blond had flown out of town a few days before to attend an extended family reunion, leaving the rest of you to man the fort, so to speak. Usually, that wouldn’t be an issue, but Matt had been increasingly temperamental leading up to the ex parte hearing. His normal reserved demeanor had rapidly been replaced by a moody, antagonistic version of him–driving poor Karen to her wit’s end. 

After Matt had incited a screaming match over a spilled cup of coffee, you’d told her to take her lunch early, giving her a couple hours where she didn’t need to walk on eggshells. The plan seemed to be working so far, Matt responding with less hostility to your persistent support rather than Karen’s eager suggestions for an aggressive approach. Something about this case had rubbed Matt the wrong way. His invisible hackles were standing on end, posture almost bristling as he sat beside you, twisting a white-knuckled fist around his cane. And, though you understood why Karen was pushing for another solution, you agreed with Matt that this needed to be handled quickly and quietly. 

Scowling at the floor, Matt’s joints rolled beneath the delicate skin of his hands. His jaw was clenched, shoulders curled inward, as if he expected the judge to request a fist fight to grant the protection order. Christ, that could not be comfortable.

Carefully, slow enough to not spook him when he was in this state, you slid the pads of your fingers over the back of his hand. Prying his firm grip off the handle of his cane, you cradled his massive, calloused hand in your lap. He visibly relaxed at the touch, twisting to face you as you traced gentle patterns over his skin, careful to avoid the line of freshly healed cuts on his knuckles. Your curiosity would have to wait for now. There was no way he was in the mood to explain those.

A breathy rumble sounded in his throat, akin to a sigh but less obvious. The same noise he’d made all those days ago at Josie’s–the quiet indication that something wasn’t right. 

Bottom lip jutting out in sympathy, you squeezed his fingers with your own. “It’ll be ok, Matty.” 

He swallowed roughly, hazel eyes darting around behind his red lenses. You could practically see the thoughts forming in his mind before he buried them, the stress forcing him back into bad habits. Sweeping your fingers over his wrist, you studied him, satisfaction thrumming in your chest when his breath hitched. “Hey, talk to me, trouble. What are you thinking?”

“It’s not going to go well.” His voice was pitched low, angry, but there was a brief undercurrent of fear within it. 

“We don’t know that.” You chastised lightly, knowing this pessimistic streak was a coping mechanism and not confirmation he’d become a nihilist. 

“I can feel it. Can’t you feel it? It’s like every officer is laughing at us. We’ve already lost.” Watching Matt, the perpetual optimist, crumble at the thought of things not going the way you’d planned nearly broke your heart. 

“Oh trouble, don’t say that.” Threading your fingers with his, you knocked your knees together. “It’ll be ok. Even if the judge doesn’t grant the order today, we won’t stop trying, right?”

“No but she needs legal protection now. Truthfully, she needs an armed guard.” Matt spoke bitterly.

“We can get her temporary protection.” You suggested.

“They’d never grant that for a simple DV case. Besides, those are his coworkers. Do you really trust them to keep her safe from him?” Matt scoffed, raising a brow at you. 

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you jabbed your pinky into the flesh of his palm. “I wasn’t suggesting we go to the police, Matthew. You and I both know how little good that would do.”

Deflating as he realized you weren’t being as naive as he suspected, Matt frowned. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Not everyone knows the flaws in the system.” You reassured him. “But I do. To some extent, at least.”

He hummed in agreement, but said nothing. 

“What’s really bothering you?” At your insistent question, Matt’s face flashed with rage, his spine straightening as he tried to pull out of your grasp, but you held fast. “Don’t you dare, trouble. Please, talk to me. It’s eating you away, I can’t sit here and let that happen.” 

Sighing harshly, Matt ran a hand over his face. “I just..this case feels different. I don’t know why. But if we can’t help her…”

“All we can do is try our best.” You reminded him. 

He let out a single humorless laugh. “I suppose that’s true.” 

When you let his hand drop, he made that pitiful, choked noise again. 

“What?” You asked, slightly worried. 

“Nothing. Just tired.” He lied, wrapping his hand back around the handle of his cane.

It was only once you were truly together that you realized what that specific sound was meant to signify. 

Since you’d officially started dating, or rather labeling whatever you two had as a relationship instead of dancing around each other, that stupid noise had cemented itself in your life. It seemed like Matt was making it every damn day and it was driving you up a wall. 

Not because Matt wasn’t entitled to his feelings or to expressing said feelings. But because your brain registered that the sound had a specific meaning, and you could not for the life of you translate it from a mere Matt-ism into a language you actually understood. Every little quirk and charm about Matt inherently made sense to you, they always had. Yet this little growling exhale seemed out of your reach. Not to mention, anytime you tried to ask him what was up, he shut down faster than a computer chip dunked in pool water.

Sitting on his couch as he typed on his laptop, he snarled out that sound, eyes darting towards you and away before you could blink. Brows furrowing, you peered at him over the top edge of your book. A muscle in his cheek twitched, a blaring omen that he was holding himself back from saying something. 

“You ok?” You asked, nose scrunching as Matt brushed off your concern. 

“Yep. Hungry.” He grumbled. 

One word answers. Great start. Really breaking down his walls there, champ. 

“Oh, gotcha. I’ll order something. Have a taste for anything in particular?” Setting your book across your thighs, you opened up a delivery app on your phone. 

“No.” 

“Okay...” You drawled, stifling an eye roll at his grouchiness. “How about that Lebanese place we liked?” 

Receiving nothing but a thumbs up in response, you submit an order before Matt reached another stage of hangriness. 

Once Matt had eaten half of his shawarma, he was more agreeable. Smiling and chuckling sweetly as you read him cheesy snippets of your romance novel. Crawling across the couch until you were seated beside him, you stretched over his lap to snatch a piece of pita bread for your plate of hummus. Matt blew out a breath, tickling your ear as he grunted. Now that you were close, you could hear the shrill, whimpering undertone. Hidden, nearly silent, as if the growl was to compensate for the whine, to conceal it. 

Craning your neck towards him, you planted your free hand on your hip. 

“Alright. Out with it.” 

“Out with what?” Matt gave his best ‘befuddled’ impression, but you saw past his feigned innocence. 

Snorting, you prodded his firm chest. As your finger connected with his solid pec, he whimpered again, this time almost moaning. Something clicked. 

“Matthew Michael Murdock,” You gasped. “You are not making that sound instead of asking to cuddle.” 

Blushing furiously, Matt dipped his head, ashamed–though he made no attempt to deny the allegation.

Laughing incredulously, you tossed your plate aside and settled into Matt’s lap, threading a hand into his hair. “You are a ridiculous man.”

Matt rumbled happily, leaning into the touch until his head landed against your chest. Clutching his face between your palms, you trailed soft touches over his cheeks, around his ears–scratching tenderly down his neck when he practically melted beneath your fingertips.

“You could’ve told me that’s what you wanted, all this time…” Shaking your head, you planted a kiss atop his thick hair. “Why suffer in silence?”

“Didn’t want to force you. It’s been different. Since..everything.” 

Snuggling in close, you maneuvered his chin with two fingers, kissing him deeply. His stubble brushed over your skin roughly, making you smile. “You can always always ask, trouble. No need to be a martyr with me.”

“Sorry,” Matt murmured against your lips, chasing your mouth with a mournful noise as you pulled away. 

“Don’t be sorry. Now come here.” Tugging him on top of you, you laughed brightly as he squirmed over you, finally relaxed when his face was tucked against your neck. “That’s it. Better?” 

“Much better.” He whispered, going limp under your touch as your fingers stroked up his back.

Taglist: @marytheweefrenchie @cheshirecat484 @siampie @xxdrixx @gracethyomen @ignore-mp3 @silas-aeiou @screechingphantommaker @spiderstyles04 @paradox-brody-chase @blue-devil-of-the-lord @pigeonmama @shouldbestudying41

[ivorysfilms]

dating patrick hockstetter headcanons (MOVIE)

- this man is the LIGHTEST sleeper you will ever meet, like.. it’s kinda scary sometimes, you’ll accidentally knock something over and when you turn back around he’ll be sitting up and staring into your soul

- he def smells like some type of cologne that his mom bought for him and forces him to wear, burning stuff obvi and hairspray

- his mom is a christian(book reference) so expect to see him in church every sunday in his preppy dress shirt and tie

- he thought michael jackson was attractive when he was younger and whenever his mom brings it up he gets super pissed off

- he’s definitely not a mama’s boy or anything, he literally forgets her name sometimes but he favors her over his dad

- this mf has a hair pulling kink i CALL it, his hair is so pretty to not be pulled at

- his laugh is SO high pitched (as if his voice isn’t already but yk) i saw a behind the scenes and owen teague’s laugh is so silly in it

- okay so about his hair again it’s too pretty for him to not care about it so i fear he wraps it in a towel when he gets out of the shower and treats it like a baby(NOT like he would in the book guys..)

- he probably has gotten arrested like once or twice or at least told off by henry’s dad for setting things on fire around town with his “flamethrower”

- this mangy ass is weak as hell he can barely lift weights without falling like a damsel in distress to the ground

- ew he probably comes up behind you and goes ‘guess who!’ OR he wraps his arm around your neck like your a frat boy buddy

- he cannot dance so if he’s at a party or someplace with music he’ll just head-bang and jump

- he probably has insomnia so he gets up at like three in the morning and wanders around the house like this:

- he definitely enjoys graffiti and likes to spray paint random buildings in derry but he probably isn’t good at it so he’ll probably just write something like ‘penis’ or paints all over actual graffiti art

- i think he’s definitely more of a cat guy then dog because he has the personality and agility of one or if it came to any exotic animals he’d be a ferret

- will chase you around with dead bugs or mice if you’re afraid of either (HE DIDN’T KILL THEM) that’s book only guys

- he’s definitely more of a cigarette guy than a alcoholic but once in a while he’ll get shitfaced with the gang(you have to pick him up after)

- will give you any of his clothes, bracelets, rings, just ask. he loves seeing you in his stuff it’s like the equivalent of you in a collar that says his name

- he LOVES sushi, most likely because his mom cooked it a lot during his child years, but will beg to grab some while belch is driving, usually they do get it but they stop somewhere else because henry will shit his pants if he eats it(he hates it)

- MANSPREADS

- allows you to do his makeup or paint his nails if you’re on the girlier side, but if not he likes when you do his skincare

- i feel like the song that plays when the bowers gang is first introduced on screen (love removal machine by the cult) is the type of music he enjoys or that is his favorite song. he likes grungy/metal teenage boy music yk

FIRST POST EVER COMPLETED??? OH YAYAYAYA

who was gonna tell me trying to add your own gifs was such a struggle.. “gif to big!” THATS WHAT SHE SAID like stfu and let me add the dang gif

[eggyrocks]

rot: h. iwaizumi

chapter one -> a favor

word count: 6.1k

(masterlist ; written content ; taglist)

Her apartment is a piece of shit.

Rot has set in its bones, a permanent stench of musk and mold seeped into its walls. The bathroom is perpetually wet, and pieces of the ceiling frequently chip off and fall into her coffee. And it doesn’t help that there’s half smoked cigarette buds littered everywhere or greased soaked take out containers spilling out of the trash she’s too lazy to take out. But she doesn’t have it in her to blame herself. It was shit when she got here-there was hardly any motivation for her to take care of it.

Paint chips from the window as she struggles to jerk it open, muttering curses with a lit cigarette between her lips. The landlady has given her shit before about the smell of smoke that drifts out into the halls, and now she has to muscle open the painted-shut window in order to avoid her ire. She figures the old hag just wants something to complain about. There’s years of ash yellowing the walls; if she went at it long enough with some disinfectant spray and a roll of paper towels, she’d eventually reach the original, creamy white color of the walls.

She’s not the first smoker to rent the one-bedroom. She certainly won’t be the last.

Her teeth grind together, and her hands are starting to cramp, struggling against the wood. The apartment might be a piece of shit, but it’s the only piece of shit she’s got, and she’s not about to ruin it by pissing off some temperamental old lady. If she wants the smell of smoke gone, the smell of smoke is going to be gone (and what, is she supposed to climb down three flights of stairs to smoke on the steps outside every time she wants to light up? Please).

With one final grunt, she’s able to fling the window open, nearly losing a finger as she does so. There’s no screen, and the windowsill is decorated with years’ worth of grime, dust, and bug corpses. Distaste furls on her lip, and she holds the cigarette out the window, arm suspended in the air.

The night is cool and refreshing as it floats into her humid room. It’s always nicer outside than it is in her piece of shit apartment, and if she weren’t so convinced someone in this neighborhood wouldn’t hesitate to climb through any open window they could find (third floor or not), she’d leave it open all the time.

She flicks the end of her cigarette, and ash floats from the tip down to the sidewalk below. This isn’t really what she imagined when she imagined leaving. Her nose twitches, and she brings the cigarette to her lips. Chain-smoking and picking mold off bread and trying to lure in street cats to kill off rats that make their way up from the basement.

Leaving should look different. It shouldn’t have a sickly green tint to it. It shouldn’t be this distorted.

Her liberated life had played out so nicely in her head. Leaving would be the last hard part. She had figured, naively, that once the rot was cut from her, it would be the end to it. There’d be no more problems. It would be easy to be on her own. It would be easy to take care of herself. It would be easy to live in a shit apartment and work a shit job and make shit money and live off shit food and shit coffee and shit cigarettes. It was alone on the train platform, everything she owned stuffed into a single suitcase, that she realized she was dead fucking wrong.

She’s taken to keeping track of her problems with a numbered list.

If it weren’t for the dead bugs, she’d lean out the window, try to get the window to catch her hair. She’d get a good look at the street and the people who stumble through it. But instead, her arm goes sore, and she stares at the yellow wall in front of her.

Every day since she’s been here has been the same. An embarrassingly monotonous groundhog’s day.

In the morning, she wakes up to the sound of songbirds and the dogs in the apartment below her that continuously bark at them. At night, she falls asleep to the sound of whatever is going on in the apartment is going on above her: harsh footsteps, crashes, the occasional breaking of glass. In between, her mind numbs, and she mindlessly works the shift of whatever job she’s managed to get for the week.

She’s run through more jobs than she can count (she gets fired by anyone who makes the mistake of hiring her, problem #2). The grocery store fired her after she called a customer an ugly bitch at the end of a dispute over the price of plums (rage issues, problem #6). The restaurant she served tables at stopped putting her on the schedule after she called in sick one too many Fridays in a row (habitual liar, problem #11; chronic laziness, problem #5). The babysitting gigs she just stopped showing up to (she can’t stand to be around kids, and they can’t stand to be around her, at least she doesn’t have a problem with that).  

Her current employment is at a video store. That she seems to be able to manage. At least better than all the other ones she’s had. And it’s easy enough. Rent out DVDs. Collect late fees. Let your eyes gloss over whenever someone starts to run their mouth at you. Beg your managers for extra hours so you can pay all of your bills this month (problem #1, tied in pretty directly to problem #2).

A sigh escapes her. The cigarettes burns down closer to her fingers. A piece of shit apartment, and she can hardly afford it.

Her head turns, and she eyes the living room behind her, surveying the cramped kitchen and the rotting front door just beyond it. Her eyes are lingering on the dull, brass locks that keep her door in place. She thinks that she should install new ones, invest in something more secure. And it’s because she’s fixated on those locks that she sees the door rattle as someone slams their fist against it.

The noise makes her jump, and she hastily puts her cigarette out on the window, leaving it to blow away in the wind. She just a few long strides, her hand is around her doorknob, and she’s cursing the lack of a peephole and figures that’ll give her something to complain about with her landlady. She unlocks the deadbolt but lets the chain lock stay where it is. She opens the door just enough to get a look at whoever’s on the other side.

It's her neighbor. Upstairs. She blinks.

There are three things she knows about her neighbor:

His name. Iwaizumi Hajime. She’s heard his perpetual guests call it out enough to have it committed to memory, as well as the names: Mattsun, Makki, and Oikawa (see also: Shittykawa, Crappykawa, various-one-worded-insults-Kawa). But Iwaizumi is for certain the one she’s heard most, both though bouts of laughter and panic yelling.

He has a very careful routine. He’s religious about it. She can hear his footsteps as he follows the same 24-hours daily. In the morning he’s always gone by the time she wakes up. At night, he’s out smoking on the front step when she comes home. And in between-

Whatever it is that he’s doing in that upstairs apartment, it’s none of her business. She has her ideas. She has her clues that she chooses not to see.  But she won’t even let herself think about it, nevermind say it out loud. Whatever it is, she doesn’t need to know. It is not her business.

The first time she saw him, he was smoking a pack of blues on the front steps that led into their apartment building. His black jeans were worn in, and his sweatshirt had tears in the sleeves. A dark purple bruised blossomed along his jawline, fading into a lighter blue as it crept up his skin, and into a sickly yellow when it stopped under his cheekbone. The shape of it distorted when he dropped his jaw to let out smoke. She slowed in her approach at the sight of him and averted her gaze. It wasn’t any of her business.

The first time she saw him, he didn’t say anything. He just watched as she rummaged through her bag in search of her keys, careful not to brush against him as she passed him on the steps. She pretended she couldn’t feel him staring.

Her interactions with Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor, have always been uneventful. At most, he will give her a slight nod of his chin in greeting as she approaches, but usually he just watches as she fiddles with her keys or pretends to be furiously texting, thumbs aggressively slamming against the keys (the text with no set recipient usually reading: aaaajjdewppgaa).

But even with their nothing interactions, she still would find herself thinking of him. As she popped another plastic meal into her microwave, she would think of his hands: long and veiny and cut up fingers holding up a cigarette, knuckles red and raw and forever scabbed over. When she deleted voicemails, she thought of his eyes, sharp and observant and a shade of green she finds perplexing. She thought of where he might be as she took out the trash. She started to look for the outline of him as she got closer to home.

She chalked it up to the loneliness.

The more she thought of him, the more she noticed him. His new bruises. The way his footsteps sounded late at night. How his voice rose in agitation when he spoke into the receiver of his phone, words muffled by the thin floorboards and drywall between her apartment and his. She noticed the unusual hours he kept and the way his most frequent guests always looked over their shoulders on their way out. She noticed heavy looking boxes covered in thick blankets going in and out of his place.

And she’s not stupid. It didn’t take very long for her to piece it together and resolve to stop noticing him (she can’t, as hard as she tries, and feels she knows entirely too much about him, problem #4).

She notices, now, the way his mouth is pressed into a fine line, a fresh laceration that spreads across the bridge of his nose. His expression is composed but there’s a panicked movement in his eyes, flashing over the details of her face that he can see through the crack of the door. She raises an eyebrow at him. “I need a favor,” he says, speaking directly to her for the first time, slightly out of breath and words strung together in a rush.

She blinks again.

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Her thought process is convoluted. She’s still working on justifying it to herself as she stands on the tips of her toes, trying not to shrink under his stare as her fingers clean his open wounds, the tips of them now stained with his blood.

It’s the path of least resistance, she tells herself. Really, there was no good reason or excuse to deny him, and she couldn’t exactly give him the bare faced truth of, “no, I think you’re a gunrunner and I don’t want to be involved in that shit, thanks.” And even if she did, or could come up with any other excuse to slam her door in her neighbor’s face, she figured it would be better to be on the good side of Iwaizumi Hajime, neighbor and potential arm’s dealer.

So she opened her door for him, and told herself that it’s better to be owed a favor than it is to owe one.

Hands steady, she applies a skin-toned bandage to the deep cut over his nose, an extra pad of cotton underneath it. She thinks it might need stiches, but that’s not an opinion she’s about to voice out loud to him.

She steps back and moves to wash the blood off of her hands in her kitchen sink, lathering her hands up with extra soap and running them under water so hot it turns her skin red. The water hits the sink a rusty color. Iwaizumi lingers, standing in the same spot, watching attentively as she does so. “Want a tea?” she asks as she turns off the faucet, wiping her wet hands off on the front of her jeans.

Without looking back at him, she moves about her cabinets, opening one to find her (frankly, pathetic) collection of mugs. She pulls out one with a chipped-up, knock-off version of Pikachu (a yellow rat-looking thing called “Ponkadu” with the iconic catchphrase, “ponka, ponka,”) and another with unsettling, discolored cats, knocking around a ball of orange yarn that she's fairly certain used to be red. “Ginger, if you have it,” he responds, still standing unsurely in the middle of her kitchen.

She glances at him over her shoulder. “You can sit down, if you want.”

Mechanically and awkwardly, he does so. The floorboards complain under his shifting weight and the chair squeaks as he pulls it out from under her table. It’s only quiet again when he settles back against the chair, going still. “You’re not gonna ask me what happened?” he asks.

It takes a few twists of the knob for her to finally get the flame on her stove going. She places her kettle on top of it, and rips into her tea bags. “Nope,” she answers. He gets ginger. She gets green. He gets the cats. She gets Ponkadu.

She can feel the way he watches her as she moves about the kitchen, putting a dot of honey in the bottom of her mug. He hasn’t asked her name, yet, which she figures is fair. She hasn’t asked his. And he’s probably seen it on the envelopes that get haphazardly tossed on their front steps or slipped under their front door (and he probably knows just as much about her as she does him, considering that more than half of the envelopes with her name on them have a big red stamp of “payment overdue,” or “bill enclosed”).

The kettle on the stove hisses, and she’s quick to snatch it up and pour the boiling water into each of their respective mugs. “How long do you need to stay?” she asks, not meaning to be rude, but she’s pretty sure it comes across that way anyways. She sets a timer on the oven for four minutes and turns to face him.

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Just for a bit, while things cool down,” is his uncomplicated answer.

She nods, arms wrapping around her middle as she leans against the counter, waiting for the teas to brew. There are questions she could ask that she’s sure he’s anticipating, but she doesn’t bother, she knows the answer. (Q: Why can’t you just hide out in your own apartment? A: I need the alibi. Q: Why’d you come to my apartment? A: Location convenience and believability. Q: Could I get in trouble for being involved with this? A: Probably).

Her fingers tap against her side, and her eyes are anywhere but on him. And despite reaching into the deepest, dustiest parts of her brain, she cannot think of one thing to say to him. There aren’t really any standard conversational topics to whip out when your neighbor/local arms trafficker (alleged) knocks on your door and asks if he can stay there for just a few hours, he promises, and also maybe a Band-Aid, if you have one.

It doesn’t help that she feels unbearably vulnerable with him, sitting at her dining room table (okay, it’s a kitchen table; a wobbly little thing pushed off to the side of her kitchen, but calling it a dining room table makes her feel better), looking at her, looking at her living space. She wasn’t anticipating guests, not that she ever gets any.

Everything she owns is splayed out on display for him to see. Dirty socks on the couch that she kicked off while watching late-night reruns. A stack of CD’s piling up on the ground, unopened because she doesn’t actually own a CD player. Dishes with remnants of ketchup and soy sauce and chocolate ice cream on the bottom of her sink. Loose cigarettes. Dozens of dead lighters. Mismatched furniture, curtsey of sidewalk disposals and secondhand stores. It’s a flagrant display of poverty and laziness.

Iwaizumi nods his chin towards the least offense thing he can find: the pile of CDs. “Those all yours?”

She thinks it’s a stupid question. Of course they’re hers. This is her apartment. Everything is hers. But the most complex form of conversation she could come up with to break the silence was, ‘tea?’ so she can’t really hold it against him. “Yeah,” she answers, and then adds without thinking, “got most of them from my brother,” (problem #9, she just says anything without ever thinking about it).

He stands from his creaky chair and creeps closer to the display. She holds her breath as he approaches. One wrong exhale and the entire pile will go toppling. Iwaizumi kneels down next to the pile, and his looking at the spine of them. His brow his furrowed as his eyes skim over the album names, and she’s anticipating some sort of string of critiques about her collection, or lack of. “Anything you like there?” she asks.

Iwaizumi straightens up and looks back over at her. “Gotta be honest, I don’t know any of these,” he admits, moving to sit back at his designated spot.

This makes her scoff. Her brother had started a worldwide sort of collection. Japanese synth-pop. Ethiopian jazz. Russian new wave. British post-punk. American folk. The rarer and more obscure, the better. If he could hear now that her neighbor and possible weapons dealer was stumped by his collection, he’d be overjoyed. Even if she has added a fair few of Hikaru Utada albums since she’s taken it over.

“What do you listen to then?” she asks, arms still crossed around her center, as if she’s shielding herself from him.

“Just whatever’s on the radio when I drive, I guess,” Iwaizumi answers with a shrug. “Not really a big music person, typically.”

For a moment, she tries to imagine whatever could be happening outside her door while he sits at her kitchen table, nursing a potentially broken nose and casually discussing music preferences. She gives him a nod. “That’s fair.”

Iwaizumi taps his thumb against the top of her table. She can’t read his expression. Every time she’s seen him it’s always been the same, like he’s permanently plagued by some minor annoyance that downturns his brow and pulls his lips into a slight frown. It’d be intimidating if she wasn’t so used to that kind of thing. “Wanna play something?” he asks.

Involuntarily, she scoffs. “Get me something to play ‘em with and I’ll play you whatever you want,” she snarks, and then stops. The smart smirk she had on her lips falls, and she shakes her head. “Sorry, that was rude. I don’t,” she starts, and then stops, “nothing to play ‘em on.”

The oven clock, gracious with its timing, beeps three times. She spins around on her heel, turning it off and using a spoon to fish out the tea bags. Her cheeks are red as she grabs his cat mug by the handle and walks it over to him. “Ginger,” she says, placing it down on the table in front of him. “”S hot,” she says, and then thinks, obviously.

She returns to the safe space of her kitchen counter, and grips her own hot mug around the middle, leaning against the counter and holding it up to her lips. She’s blowing away the steam that rises from it. Iwaizumi has a hand around the handle of the mug, and he’s staring down harshly at it. “So, listen, if someone asks you-“

“You were here with me all night,” she replies, and Iwaizumi looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “You met up with me after my shift ended at around nine, and then you crashed on my couch by midnight, if I remember right. You were still sleeping in that same spot when I woke up.”

Iwaizumi’s quiet for a while. His thumbs are fiddling against the mug. She slowly sips at her tea, and when it’s too hot still, she blows at the top of it. There’s a rhythm to the way he taps his foot against her floor, deep in thought, probably trying to decide whether or not he could trust her.

He can trust her. Even if he doesn’t know it. He looks over at her with a slight scowl. “And you’ll tell that to anyone who asks?”

She can read between the lines. The anyone he’s so worried about is, undoubtedly, the cops that might come to her to verify whatever version of events he presents to them. “Yeah,” she confirms, “anyone.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

In the following weeks, she gets three visits. Which is three more visits than she got in her first six months of living here.

When she was a kid, her dad bought her a knife, and stuffed it in the bottom of her schoolbag. “You don’t ever leave the house without a way to defend yourself, bug,” he had told her, and made sure it was properly hidden by books and crumbled homework assignments. And it’s the only thing her father has ever taught her that has the slightest bit of validity to it. She’s rummaging through her purse on her way out, double checking for her pink cannister of pepper-spray and that same little knife, when there’s another knock on the door.

Her head snaps up, and she sighs. At this rate, she’s already gonna be late for work and her sixteen-year-old manager is going to write her up if she’s more than twenty minutes late one more time and she cannot think of a single more embarrassing scenario. One hand grips onto her pepper spray, the other undoes the deadbolt. She barely opens the door, and on the other side is a grinning man.

This one she recognizes. It’s one of the men who’s always in and out of Iwaizumi’s place. Sometimes occupying the front step with him and sometimes laughing so loudly she can hear it clearly from her living room. She closes the door, undoes the chain lock, and then opens it once more. Her fingers are still tight around the pepper spray, which she thinks is fair, considering he’s got both hands behind his back. “Can I help you?” she asks, trying not to sound agitated.

He grins down at her, brightly. He’s the pretty one. “Hey, I’m Oikawa Tooru,” he greets, a natural sort of flirtation in the tone of his voice. She can’t tell if he does it on purpose or not, but she can tell form the glint in his eye that, either way, he doesn’t mean it. “Iwa’s friend.”

She nods. “Yeah, I recognize you. Listen, I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but I’m late for work, so-“

“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses. “Just wanted to give you this gift, from Iwa, since you helped him out the other night.”

He reveals his hands to show off a box, neat and fresh from the store. It’s unwrapped, so she can see right away that it’s a silver little CD player. Portable. Battery-powered. Batteries included. She blinks. “He’s real grateful,” he says, pushes the box into her arms and giving her a wink. And he doesn’t say anything else as he turns on his heel, headed straight for the staircase that leads up to Iwaizumi’s apartment.

She places the box on the kitchen table where Iwaizumi sat, and makes sure her door is locked three times before she finally leaves for work.

The entirety of her ten-hour shift is spent thinking about it. She processes returns, and she thinks about it. She stocks shelves, and she thinks about it. She gets yelled at, and she thinks about it. What she’s going to play first. Where she’s going to keep it. How she’s going to thank him.

It makes her nervous to think about, that he got it for her. That she sarcastically suggested it, and then he did it. It makes nervous to think that he was thinking of her after he left her apartment. It makes her nervous to think that he went out of his way to buy something for her. Even if he left it up to an errand boy.

And listen, it’s not like she’s never had the money to spare to buy one of her own. At least, she could’ve bought a really cheap one, if she wanted. But in her liberated life, she’s always found that there were more pressing, demanding things that needed to be bought. Food. Phone bills. Credits at the laundromat. Cleaning supplies. Train fare. Cigarettes. Every time she passed by an electronics store and considered it, guilt gnawed at her stomach. She never needed it as bad as she needed everything else.

She clocks out a few minutes later than she was supposed to. Maybe it’s a bit much for a thank you. All she really did, at this point, was let him sit in her piece of shit apartment for a few hours and make him a mediocre cup of tea. She thinks about giving it back. She’s not going to, but she thinks about it.

Iwaizumi is where he always is when she gets off of work, smoking the same cigarettes. And instead of ignoring him via fake text or difficult-to-find keys, she stops in front of him, painfully aware of the intensity of the stare. “Thank you,” she says, and it’s all she manages to say.

Iwaizumi brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales. There’s no bruises on him today. She looks at him and doesn’t feel the need to turn her gaze. “It was a gift to thank you with,” he says through clouds of smoke, “you don’t have to thank me.”

She shrugs. “I wanted to.”

He lets out a small chuckle. “Okay, well, you’re welcome then, I guess.”

She gives him a small nod, and then takes careful steps passed up the stairs and passed Iwaizumi. It’s only once she’s twisted her key and is pushing the door open with her shoulder that he says, “Remember though, this means you’ve gotta play me whatever I want, now.”

Inexplicably, her face gets hot.

The second one comes thirteen days after that.

She’s got a layer of sweat on the back of her neck and her hair’s pushed out of her face with a bandana. The CD player sits on top of her kitchen table, playing an old scratched up copy of London Calling: her brother’s favorite. The mess got to her. She had started in the kitchen, scrubbing the burnt food off of her oven and trashing her food-poisoning level of expired leftovers.

Somehow, in the thick of it, she’s made more of a mess than she started out with. Full trash bags falling over in her living room, useless knick-knacks she’s managed to collect that would be better off in the trash, piles of clothes she plans on getting rid of (divided into two groups: ‘maybe I can sell these,’ and ‘these would be best to donate,’).

Her hand is down the drain of her bathroom sink, cleaning out the gunk and collection of her own strands of hair, protected only by a thin, yellow, rubber glove, when the knock on her door echoes around her apartment. “Fucking hell,” she grumbles, yanking her arm out of the sink, along with a clump of her hair, and carefully slides off the glove. She leaves it on the surface of the sink to be a later problem.

When she opens the door, she’s tired and out of breath, her body sore and aching. The door cracks open, halted by the chain lock, and she goes cold and rigid at the sight a police officer, standing outside of her door. “Can I help you with something?” she asks, tone not necessarily impolite, but it’s hard not to hear just how much she does not want to help. The door can stay locked.

There’s a fair few things she’s learned about cops (and lying to them) in her twenty-something years of living. Keep your distance. Don’t give them more than they need. They’re not your friend. They don’t wanna be your friend. She’s careful to keep her expression level and unbothered.

The cop starts up with his spiel. He’s sorry to bother her, ma’am, but he just has a couple questions, if you don’t mind. It shouldn’t take up too much of your time. You don’t wanna open up the door, do you?

She opts to answer any questions he might have through the thin space allowed by her chain lock. And the cop asks the questions she would expect him to ask. Where was she fifteen nights ago? Was she alone? Who was she was? For how long? Does she remember what time, exactly? Was he here the whole time? Are you sure? Are you positive?

Answers flow out of her easily, naturally. Fifteen nights ago, she was here. Like most nights. No, she wasn’t alone. Her neighbor was here. Iwaizumi. He hangs out here with her, sometimes. For how long? All night, why are you asking? What time? Exactly, she doesn’t really remember. She got off work around nine, and he fell asleep on her couch, maybe a bit after midnight? If she had say. Yeah, he was here the whole time. Yeah, she’s sure. Yeah, she’s positive. Why are you asking?

The officer thanks her, disappointed, and leaves with his head hung, disappointed. And she figures that, whatever Iwaizumi did, they were sure that he did it. And the only thing that stands between them and him, is her. She closes the door behind her and makes sure that it’s locked.

That kind of thing, it doesn’t really bother her. Her sense of morality is not dictated by written law, and she’s not going to be the one getting in the way of another person’s living, whether it’s honest or not. There are hard lines she wouldn’t cross, or help others get over. Of course. There are for everyone. But those lines aren’t in sight, so she’ll keep her mouth shut.

A shudder goes down her spine, and once the door is closed, nerves prickle at her skin. She hates talking to cops. Every time’s worse than the last. She shakes her head, trying to shrug it off, and returns to her pile of hair in the sink.

Her third visit comes three nights later, when she’s fresh from the shower, water dripping from her hair down her neck. She’s got a pint of ice cream in her hand, legs crossed on her couch as she watches reruns of Inuyasha. She presses the spoon against her tongue. They’re airing season two, but she’s only caught up halfway through season one.

She got off work a few hours ago. She’ll sleep for a few hours. And then she’ll wake up and go back to work. Then it’ll happen again. Standing on her feet for hours. Getting talked to like she’s scum by people who take video rentals too seriously. Being belittled by her boss. Making barely enough money to pay rent for her shitty apartment. It’s depressing. It’s boring. She shoves another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth to try and distract herself from it.

“Whatever you think life’s gonna be like away from here, it’s gonna be worse than you think. And I bet, when you realize that, you’re really gonna start to miss me.”

On her television, human-faced fruit falls from a demon tree. She puts her ice cream down. At least she hasn’t got to that point yet.

From above, she can hear footsteps moving. She can hear his door open, and swing shut. She can hear him stomp down the stairs. Her head is already turned in his direction when his fist raises to knock on her door.

She shifts off the couch and steps towards her door. She undoes the deadbolt. She undoes the chain lock.

Iwaizumi greets her with a smile once she opens the door. He’s wearing a t-shirt that reveals the clear definition in his arms. Her eyes linger there for a second too long before they flick up to meet his. “I owe you a favor now.”

★⋆. ࿐࿔

Iwaizumi’s not stupid. He never has been. He’s careful and deliberate and sure, in everything he does. And that’s the reason his record’s clean. It’s the reason he’s never been caught and the reason he’s been able to keep this whole thing going. He doesn’t second guess himself. He doesn’t make mistakes. He doesn’t get desperate.

With one, recent exception.

His internal reasoning: his gut tells him she’s trustworthy. He just looks at her, and he knows it. She acts like a private person, keeping to herself and minding her own business. She never has guests. She’s never given him any trouble. Never looked at him like she was scared of him. And, no, it’s not just because she’s pretty. It’s not just because he likes the smell of her fresh lemon perfume blended with the smell of her menthol cigarettes. It’s not just he wants a reason to talk to her, to knock on her door.

Iwaizumi would never do something so stupid.

She sits across from him, cross-legged on the (recently mopped, from the looks of it) floor of her living room. She is carefully studying the layout of CDs in front of her, and he is carefully studying her. The sort of messy way she lets her hair fall. The boxers she wears as shorts and the way they hug the bottoms of her thighs. The boxy shirt that hangs off her shoulders, loose and wrinkled, sporting the name of some band or movie or whatever that he’s never heard of.

Iwaizumi likes looking at her. He doesn’t act caught when she lifts her gaze to see him staring. She doesn’t blush. He wants to see her blush.

She leans forward and picks a CD. Iwaizumi tilts his head to read it. New Order. “Can I ask you a question?” he says, because, at this point, he figures that she won’t.

“Go for it,” she answers with a shrug, extracting the CD from its case with care and precision, movements delicate.

“How’d you end up here?” he asks, watching her face as she bites down on her tongue, placing the CD face down into the gift he got her. “I mean, girl like you, figure you should be enrolled in university or something.”

Her finger is firm against the play button, and the CD whizzes to life. “Girl like me,” she repeats back, though it sounds like it’s mostly mumbled to herself, a touch of bitterness to her tone. She shakes her head and looks up at Iwaizumi. “Is that the kinda question you’d answer? Honestly.”

He smirks. “Nah, I guess not.”

Music is slow to start up. It skips a bit, at first, but then it smooths out as the song progresses, evening out. Iwaizumi doesn’t look away from her. “I didn’t like it at home, so I left. This is where I ended up.”

Iwaizumi shifts, his hand reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and he fishes out a pack of cigarettes. He’s already got one in his mouth when he asks, “Mind if I smoke?”

Her response is a shake of her head, and she pushes up to stand on her feet. Iwaizumi watches her legs as she walks towards the window and, with a bit of a struggle, jerks it open. The early spring air drifts into her living room and cools it considerably. Iwaizumi lights the end of his cigarette. She grabs her own pack and an old cap to a pint of ice cream she’s been using as an ash tray before she sits back down, across from him.

She puts the cigarette to her lips, and before she can reach for her own, Iwaizumi lifts his lighter up, and the flame catches on the end of hers. She inhales, and Iwaizumi watches as her pupils dilate. “Thanks,” she says when she turns her head to let out a cloud of smoke.

“No problem,” he says, and leans back, resting his weight on the hand he places behind him. Iwaizumi jerks his chin and asks, “You gonna cash in that favor any time soon?”

“Hmm,” she muses, flicking the tip of her cigarette against the already ashy cardboard. “Think I’ll save it, for now.”

an: PHEW this was certianly a lot. flexing my writing muscles so this might not be great. right now im planning three total chapters but idk i might end up writing more and dividing the story up differently. if you've made it this far pls let me know what u think im so extremely nervous/anxious lmafo

if you enjoy please leave a like, rb, comment or ask <3

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[hazbinshusk]

Can I get a uhh…a Husk? With a side of..uhh…kiss prompt 19? For no other reason than that I think it’ll be a silly goofy time-

I won't lie - this one has been stumping me for a while because why would husk ever consent to being underwater? but I think I came up with a work around. so, here's...

prompt #19: a kiss underwater.

The growl that rips itself from Husk’s throat goes beyond his usual irritation, and your amused smile turns to a sympathetic pout as you set a stack of fresh, fluffy towels on the toilet seat. You turn to see him glowering down at himself, and you hurry forward when he makes move to grab at the fur of his chest.

“Hey, stop!” you urge him gently, catching hold of his wrist before his claws can tangle in the mess of sticky fur at the base of his throat. “Stop. You’re just going to end up ripping it out.”

Husk almost hisses under his breath, but he takes your point when you release his arm and a few tufts of fur come with it, glued to your palm. “Gonna fuckin’ kill Pentious.”

The corner of your lips twitches upward, and you reach up to take the hat from his head, his ears flicking briefly before returning to where he presses them back against his skull apprehensively. You don’t often see him without his hat, and you push back the desire to run your fingers through the hair he hides beneath it and set his hat on the edge of the sink.

“I don’t think anyone would blame you,” you say idly, moving past him and leaning into the shower stall to turn the shower on. It groans for a second before a steaming spray fills the stall. “But Charlie might have a few issues with it.”

“She can kiss my ass, too.” he grumbles, and you smile sympathetically. Pentious’ latest invention had an… explosive side effect, coating those of you who had been patronising the bar in a sticky, foul-smelling goop that was apparently the closest thing Hell had to rubber cement when it came in contact with fur. Angel had been so pissed that his hair was ruined that he’d actually forgone any suggestions of soaping up Husk, storming upstairs and shouting to the ceiling about a bath.

Husk had looked ready to commit murder, but you’d managed to haul him upstairs while Sir Pentious slithered around barking at his eggs about mismeasuring whatever chemicals he’d tossed in that damned thing.

Now, the cat stands fuming in your bathroom – with the reasoning that you have far more in the way of soaps and shampoos at your disposal – and despite his fury, he still manages to blush when you pull your shirt off over your head.

“Doll,” he coughs, casting his eyes to the floor. “I can—”

“Look, this stuff really stinks,” you say, grimacing apologetically. Still, you force yourself to keep your voice casual and matter-of-fact as you unzip your jeans. “And I’m just going to say it – it’s going to take both of us to get all that crap out of your fur. So… keep your pants on, I’ll keep these on—” you gesture down at your bra and underwear, sparing a second to silently thank whoever is listening that you at least wore a nice set today – “And we’ll get… get you out of the shower a hell of a lot quicker. Okay?”

Husk swallows heavily before nodding. “Fine. Jus’… let’s get this shit off’a me.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Between the heat of the water and the flush you can feel burning through your body at being soaking wet and near naked next so close to Husk… it’s a miracle you haven’t passed out. You swear, the only thing keeping your mind on the task at hand is just how miserable the bartender looks.

His fur is soaked and weighed down by the water, leaving him utterly bedraggled. He stands frozen under the spray, soft groans occasionally escaping him as you scrub soap gently over his chest. In an attempt to keep his wings as dry as possible, Husk is standing by the open door of the shower stall, caging you in against the wall. The stench of the goop is receding, replaced by the fragrance of bergamot and rose from your shampoo. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, and you jump, startled, as you feel his claws brush over your hips.

Husk takes hold of them tentatively, and despite the heat, you realize he’s trembling.

“Husk?” you ask gently, stilling your hands. His stomach twitches under your touch, but you feel his hands tighten on your hips when you move to draw away. “You okay?”

He nods, swallowing. “Yeah, baby, I jus’… I hate this.”

“I’m sorry,” you frown, fingers curling against his stomach despite yourself. “But I’m… I’ve almost got it all out, and then I promise, I’ll keep my hands to myself. I- I know you don’t like—”

“’s not it,” Husk shakes his head, water dripping from his muzzle. “Shit, I—that’s not what I meant. It’s the fuckin’… the water. An’ everythin’ smells like you in here and it’s drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy.”

Biting your lip as you take in his words, you slowly flatten your palm against his stomach again experimentally, and Husk exhales a curse under his breath as your fingers card through his fur to graze the skin beneath. His claws squeeze reflexively on your hips, thumbs catching in the waistband of your underwear. It’s brief, but the gesture makes your heart thrum heavily against your ribs.

Still, you try for humour in an attempt to ease the sudden tension you’re feeling. “I know it’s not your… usual scent, but…”

“’s fuckin’ intoxicatin’.” Husk tells you, his voice rough, barely audible over the pounding water. Still, it’s all you find yourself able to hear. “You’re intox… fuck…”

He basically moans, and the sound goes straight between your legs.

“And… and now you’re half-naked and you’re touchin’ me and it feels so…” he groans, letting his head fall back. “And I’m standin’ in front of ya, tryin’ not to fuck it up, an’ all I can think about is that I look like a goddamn drowned rat.”

You smile even while your stomach flips at his words, a soft laugh slipping out between your lips. You reach up to tilt his face back down towards yours, taking the time to carefully push and brush fur away from his face so you can see him properly. He watches you with wide pupils as you do, a kind of guarded surprise burning behind them.

His ear twitches as you tuck his fur away from his eyes, and you dare to let your fingertips ghost along the edge of it. It flicks automatically and your smile widens. Husk lets out a sound something like a quiet ‘mew’ in response, his muzzle stained with pink.

“Not so much a wet rat,” you tell him, smoothing your fingers along his muzzle carefully to cup his cheeks. “But maybe I could take your mind off it?”

Husk swallows, and you can feel the tips of his claws against the small of your back. “How’re –”

You lean up on your toes and bring his mouth down to yours. Husk’s breath catches against your lips as you kiss him, a gasp of surprise that melts into a soft, soft moan that sends a shiver along your spine that has nothing to do with the water cooling on your skin. His hands tighten on your hips, slide up to your waist, his touch tickling against your ribs as you lean into him. His fur sticks uncomfortably to your palms but you don’t care, you don’t care about anything other than that you’re kissing him.

When you pull away, Husk blinks back at you slowly, that surprise still etched on his features. But there’s a soft, warm smile there, too.

You clear your throat, smiling back at him bashfully. “Did it… did it work?”

Husk exhales, the breath both disbelieving and amused.

“Good.” you reach back to tilt the shower head to wash away the bubbles still clinging to some of his fur. “So… what do you say we finish washing up, spend some quality time with my hairdryer and… every towel in this wing of the hotel, and, uh…” you bite your lip, smile widening. “We see just how soft that fur of yours gets now that it’s had some quality time with my conditioner.”

Husk chuckles, his wings fluttering behind him as the last of the soap flows down into the drain. “I think I’d like that.”

send me a prompt and either husk or blitzø

[guillotine-drop]

Rating POSTAL Dudes by how good they smell:

POSTAL - 9/10: I think his habitual reclusion and distrust of the world would probably mean he’s showering constantly, moreso than any other Dude, especially if he thinks there’s a ‘Hate Plague’ going on. I think he smells basic; very simple routine, just enough to make sure he feels clean, so at most he’ll smell like some generic 3-in-1 body wash and shampoo/conditioner, maybe something slightly nicer just for himself (some decent $15 aftershave for that menthol scent and cooling relief).

POSTAL Redux - 3/10: Exact opposite of his original incarnation, this greasy son of a bitch isn’t scared of shit he just wants to throw explosives at ostriches and parades. Barely showers, constantly stinks of stale sweat, old blood, cheap leather and cheaper cologne, punctuated with the scent of burnt gunpowder. Borderline noxious.

POSTAL 2 - 4/10: Smells just as bad as Redux Dude but gets the edge here because every now and then he goes outside and uses the neighbor’s hose to blast himself. Shockingly uses deodorant, still not enough to be perpetually leather and denim clad in the great state of Arizona. Almost constantly reeks of sweat and has the recognizable yet faint scent of stale piss wafting off of him, accompanied by the scent of even staler crack and pungent fast food. Almost pungent enough to drown the rest out. Almost.

POSTAL 3 - 2/10: If you were to raid the wash cart after a double overtime football game, steal every jockstrap in the place, wring the sweat into a bucket, and then bring it all to a boil, you’d have somewhere in the realm of what a clean P3 Dude smells like. On average, however, this man has managed to combine the overwhelming sensory nightmares of cat piss and cheap spray deodorant into an almost lethal concoction, ONLY made breathable by the strange and overpowering smell of gasoline that seems to seep from his pores. Approach with caution and for the love of god: do not bring bleach or matches near this freak.

POSTAL 4: No Regerts - 5/10: Despite looking like he crawled out of a dumpster after a bad divorce or a fantastic honeymoon, P4 Dude is shockingly passable in terms of being able to stand next to him for a prolonged period without gagging or killing him. Having learned the efficacy of not being encased in leather in the desert, he’s managed to bring his pungency down several notches. Still reeks of sweat most of the time, and the smell of burger grease and pepperoni follows him like a specter of death, but the piss scent stopped clinging on as hard. He’s also upgraded from hose showers with no supplies to sink baths with tiny gas station travel soaps. It’s an improvement, trust me.

Brain Damaged - 2/10: Take a look at his living space in the title screen, then watch the game’s cutscenes. Just soak it all in. Now that you’ve done that, you can understand that his rank ass smells exactly as bad as you might think it does. If it can come out of his body, it’s probably soaking some part of him. If you think any of the clothes on him have been washed, you’re wrong. This man smells like if someone firebombed an outhouse and pissed on it to put it out. The best thing for him would be getting blasted with a firehouse and a box of laundry detergent. Please.

The Other Dude - 1-10/10: Entirely depends on how the BD Dude would imagine he smells depending on the situation.

POOSTALL Dude - 6/10: Despite the name, this one actually smells pretty decent. The clearly larger coat with the rolled sleeves implies some level of understanding about how not to smell like swamp ass and sweat soaked leather, and truthfully, he looks like he bathes semi-regularly, a rarity amongst these guys.

POSTAL Doe - 9/10: I admit fully and entirely to my lack of impartiality to this one, but I’m willing to stand by it even if I lose my Stink Judge License: first of all, sleeveless leather trench coat AND a crop top mean less overheat which means less sweat. Second of all, visually cleaner than pretty much any of the dudes which implies some kind of self care regimen. Third, and most importantly, girlstink counts positive. I will not be turning in my badge or my gun.

Movie Dude - 8/10: This may be controversial, but despite the squalor he lives in and the fact that hems a cuckold and that his life sucks and that he can’t get a job and that he’s a loser- I digress. I think Movie Dude is in the top echelons of Dude Stink solely because I think he’d have a breakdown if he smelled bad. This man uses Dr. Teals. He stinks like a mix of eucalyptus and peppermint. If ever there was a Dude who had a skin routine, he still wouldn’t, but he’d definitely think about it one day. I think by the end he gets an extra point just because he gets a little hotter the more deranged he is. Overall very pleasant but I still wouldn’t give him $4.

John Murray - 2/10: Hasselridge seems to have a very… interesting relationship with what is and isn’t normal, so unsurprisingly, Johnny Boy would probably smell pretty rough. Considering how dingy, run down and shitty everything in that town appears to be, I can’t imagine anyone else is smelling like roses either. Just avoid the entire place, not least of all because of the zombie thing.

Shtopor - 0/10: Bad.

Nottem Portant - 5/10: Despite the misanthropy, dollar store Nathan Explosion thing and the absolutely abysmal gameplay, Mr. Hatred is actually extremely middle of the road on stink. Sure, he doesn’t smell great, but shockingly he washes his ass despite the whole ‘death to humanity’ thing. He does get point deduction for not washing his hair though, grease mop motherfucker.

[quinloki]

My apolocheese in advance for this, but all 50??? 😀 (Excluding any you may have answered already and/or don't feel up to answer)

Feel free to discard this ask entirely, or answer it in portions whenever you have energy. Whatever works for you. ^^ Just don't overwork yourself (ironic ik, coming from the guy who's asking for all 50, but I can't help it <3)

You know what - sure. XD

I'm going to put this below a cut though, cause whew!

who is/are your comfort character(s)? Marco definitely, but I find comfort in a lot of characters, so I should include Kid, Sabo, Crocodile, Doflamingo, Thatch, Penguin and Law in there too.

lighter or matches? Man I love a good zippo, but nothing beats the smell of a match, so I'll have to go with matches

do you leave the window open at night? Not unless I absolutely have to.

which cryptyd being do you believe in? Are ghosts as a general classification close enough? I've seen like three, but I haven't seen any other cryptids.

what color are your eyes? Brown ^_^

why did you do that? Sometimes I do not even know. I let go of a pot the other day for no good damned reason and was just glad it was empty.

hair-ties or scrunchies? Hair-ties. There's no scrunchie in this 'Verse that can contain my hair.

how many water bottles are in your room right now? In my room like my bedroom? Or as in the room I'm in right now? In either case it's zero. I have this spiffy mason jar monstrosity for water and it's down in the kitchen atm.

which do you prefer, hot coffee or cold coffee? Caffeine, honestly, is what I prefer XD Coffee's crap unless I make it myself so I don't even really register the flavor of it most of time.

would you slaughter the rich? Hm... ... no. I can't say I'd protect or defend them, but my sinful ass isn't going to go around casting judgements on others, no matter if I think they deserve it or not.

favorite extracurricular activity? >.> <.< I mean... I can't really say anything other than sex at this point.

what kind of day is it? A middling Sunday. The sun is pleasant, my cats are napping and look egregiously adorable, but there's still the weight of unemployment on the house, so it's middling.

when was the last time you ate? About 5 minutes or so ago. Rice and veggies.

do you love the smell of earth after it rains? Most certainly ^_^

are you a parent? (all answers qualify) lol not even a little.

can you drive? Better than most. My grandfather taught me with a bag of apples, but I don't really enjoy driving so I don't do it much.

are you farsighted or nearsighted? Whichever it is that needs glasses to see.

what hair products do you use? Cheap ones >.>

imagine we’re at a sleepover, would you paint my nails? If you wanted, certainly, but I have bit my nails since I was 8 so my skill at nail painting does not exist ^_^;

do you say soda or pop? Previously answered, but the short answer is soda.

something you’ve kept since childhood? My friend John. We became friends when we were 5 and 6 and I still play D&D with him on the weekends.

what type of person are you? A lucky one.

how do you feel about chilly weather? Previously answered, but I love winter and autumn

if we were together on a rooftop, what would we be doing? Probably stargazing. Which I stand by because you're not getting me on a roof when the sun's up.

perfume/body spray or lotion? I... uh... none?

a scenario that you’ve replayed multiple times? Like, in my mind? Ah, I licked a guy's nipples for so long he asked me if I was enjoying myself, and instead of saying yes like a boss, I got flustered and it killed the mood. Alas.

about how many hours of sleep did you get? ... 6? I think.

do you wear a mask? When I leave the house, yeah.

how do you like your shower water? Flesh-meltingly hot.

is there dishes in your room? Yes, but only because I just finished eating veggies and rice before I started answering this.

what type of music keeps you grounded? Previously answered, but I really do listen to all of it.

do you have a favorite towel? Nah. I have a favorite spatula though.

the last adventure you’ve been on? My spouse and I went on a 14 day road trip before the pandemic hit and I think between the states and Canada we traveled something like 5,490 miles or so.

is there a song you know every word to by heart? Don't Let It Bring You Down by Annie Lennox

what’s your timezone? East Coast

how many times have you changed your url? 0 - and I don't foresee it happening either.

someone in your life, other than a relative, you’ve known for 10+ years? My aforementioned bestie, but also my lil' "brother" who is not really technically my brother, but who has known me since he was 14 and I was 17, and my D&D group has been together for over 10 years now, so that's like 11 or so more people.

a soap bar that smells good? I use cheap liquid soap, sorry ^^;

do you use lip balm? Nope.

did you have any snacks today? Yes, a pear.

how do you take your coffee? Any way I can get it. Black is preferred though.

an app you frequently use besides this godforsaken site? Discord, maybe I imagine.

what’s your take on spicy foods? I am weak, my family is weak, my ancestors were weak, but I will sniffle and cry and sob the entire time because it's fucking delicious

you get a free pass to kill anyone, who is it? Sadly, they suffer more alive than dead, so >.>

can you remember what happened yesterday? Well enough I'm not worried about early on set dementia.

favorite holiday film? I was gonna say Die Hard, but then it made me think of The Last Unicorn and so I'mma go with that.

what was the last message you sent? Cheering on family who did early voting.

when did you first try an alcohol beverage? Supervised - 12 Because no one was there to stop me, 15.

can you skip rocks? I can trip over rocks, but that's about as skillful as I get. ^_^

can i tag you in random stuff? Certainly - I cannot promise I'll always know how to reply, but I actually really appreciate being tagged because I miss stuff easily.

[copperbadge]

[ID: Three images; top left, a spray bottle of clear liquid, labeled PRO SPRAY, sits on a gleaming cutting board; top right, Dearborn the tortie glares at the camera from the work desk's copilot basket. Bottom, a white rug with blue patterning in my hallway, surrounded at the edges by dark dustbunny-looking lumps.]

NaClYoHo Day Two! Pardon my grossness.

Yesterday afternoon I did the first of what is usually several trips to the hardware store; I bought spackle, gnat traps, and a PROFESSIONAL spray bottle. PRO SPRAY. It has an adjustable nozzle and measurement marks on the side, so I can dilute the vinegar pretty accurately. Last night I filled it up with vinegar water and laminated the kitchen, and this morning found and killed several weevils it drove out of hiding. It's sitting on the wooden cutting board because I had taken ALL the cleaning supplies out from under the sink and was reminded I should oil my cutting board with some Walrus Oil.

Dearborn is very skeptical about this morning's activity: carpet cleaning.

I threw on an episode of A Date With Dateline, popped in my earbuds, took down my Tineco One X vac and vacuumed for the first time in Slightly Too Long. I didn't get all the way through the house because I was running it on high which drains the battery, but usually vacuuming is a multi-day process. For what I paid for the Tineco I could have a high-end corded vac that does a better job, but I know that I won't use corded vacs because I hate the cord, so I'm okay vacuuming more often with the cordless. In any case, I hit the rugs because the next step was to break out the Hoover Powerdash Pet carpet cleaner and figure out how to use it.

I know I'm dropping a lot of brand names but just because I usually get asked; I don't make money from affiliate links or anything.

Anyway, the Powerdash came to me secondhand from friends who were moving, and for a long time it sat in my hallway in its plastic wrapping because I was intimidated by it. We never had one growing up and I've never really seen one in use. But it turned out that it was super easy to use, you just add water and cleaner to the tank and go; you go over the rug once with the trigger down, to spread water/cleaner, then a second time without the trigger to rinse/dry. I only hit about half of the rugs in my home, just to see how it went, and then stopped because they all seemed to remain very wet after cleaning. (They've since pretty much dried and I'm assured by the internet that's normal.)

The white patterned carpet above is the cats' favorite place to roll around and shed on, and as you can see, those dark dustbunny looking things around the carpet? That's cat hair and other dirt the cleaner pulled up. Gross but visibly effective.

I got a slightly late start so I had myself on a hard time limit; I started at 7, finished up at 8, and still had half an hour left on A Date With Dateline (they sometimes run a bit long). The cleaning solution definitely adds a certain chemical smell to the air, so I'm running the HVAC's fan and I've added "scented candle or incense" to the shopping list. Which I wanted to do anyway; some people always have such nice smelling houses and scent never seems to stick around in mine, but I've never gone hardcore on Making This Place Smell Nice. (Yes, I promise to be careful about what scents I use, I know diffused scents can harm cats.)

Disposable nitrile glove count: Still just 1!

Hardware store trips: 1.....so far.

[mtgc858]

Wekiddy Headcanons cause yes

Also my take on the characters personality and such.

Part 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Going in order from the wiki lol

Boom 9

Boom 9 is the quiet one of the group and often doesn't talk, he does but only to ones he likes lol.

He isn't human(obviously) but a lot don't know WHAT he is especially trying to figure out by his eyes, KC Glow does however but wants to keep it a secret to troll the others.(everyone's dying to know what he is).

He besties is KC Glow.

Kevin

Kevin is a quiet tired type but still has his bright loud moments.

Kevin is Swingy and KC Glows brother (Swingy by blood and KC Glow by Adoption).

He has social anxiety hard core, Especially when he first joined the band, He actually only joined cause of his brothers but after the first show, he felt confident with his brothers by his side.

Still has anxiety but not as bad as before thankfully

Likes that he doesn't have to sing or rap on camera lol.

Double K

He is chill and probably the most mature one of the group despite not being the oldest.

He is soft spoken and sometimes doesn't say much besides "Yep" or "No" (Big Mac ref lol).

He loves being a great help to the rest of the group even if he doesn't say much.

Blue GT

Blue GT is the type of guy to party all night and in the morning he just sleeps until he can do it all over again(he hasn't but will if given the chance lmao).

He's rich but doesn't flex about it that much, he only likes to party mostly then anything else.

Despite loving to go to a rave club he would be let down if people started smoking and would leave cause he can't stand the smell(sensitive to certain smells).

MJ 182

He is the chaotic one lol, definitely has bitten a few people before and will do it again.

Has told others that he isn't human before which isn't much of a surprise cause of his sharp fangs and eyes.

Legit shows off what he is with pride on his shirt(Alien lol).

He's a alien 100% (I blame @zankydraws lmao).

Loves cats so much lol.

Boom Fuzz

Definitely the tired angry gremlin that will eat your shirt sleeves when angry which is always.

Will play by his own rules with beatboxing and will make his own beat that doesn't really follow the rest of the band but somehow works anyway.

Has gotten in trouble for spray painting in famous places lol

Hates everyone....well besides KC Glow, no one knows how he got into the band to begin with or even became friends with them to begin with lol

ASAP Bee

Cool chill man that won't secretly kill you in your sleep if you insult him or his friends.....Or in general.

Had bees in his small bag lol or well bee theme stuff.

Oddly smells like honey,Blue GT loves the smell lol which would explain why they are friends lol.

Likes rolling his tongue randomly when he touches to troll others from rolling his R's.

M.O.G

The kind sweet gentle creature that loves making others happy.

Loves pie,apple,lime,cheese,berry, Pumpkin, etc.

Just a sillay emoji.

Arashi

I actually don't know much for him lol but um I guess he's the mascot of the group with a personality I guess lmao

Big Duke

The most chill one of the group complete and rare to anger or upset.

Had a calm deep voice but can change the pitch to a lighter one sometimes.

Is friends with everyone even if some (*cough cough* "Boom Fuzz" *cough*) don't like him.

He likes braiding his and others hair

Okay finally finished with part one lol so yippie

[gyokujyn]

WIPs word search

Tumblr phantom tagged me in a post from @bromcommie prompting to find certain words in your WIPs and I am desperately avoiding responsibility, so let's fucking go!

My words were space, sharp, sweet and home.

Believe it or not, I found one relatively small snippet that ticks 3 of those four boxes. This is another part of that LEO!Steve/Felon!Bucky thing I shared some of a few weeks ago.

Steve licks his lips as another peal of laughter rings out and he shouldn’t let himself be goaded, but Bucky knows him, knows every button to push, and he’s suddenly back in Bucky’s space, fingers laced in his hair, tight against his scalp as he towers over the man.  He’s got Bucky held at a sharp angle against his thigh, his head pitched back as far as his neck can bend, his hands still chained to the table and stretching the bounds of the chains as far as they’ll reach.  He can barely swallow with how far back his head is wrenched, but he’s grinning with his bloody teeth like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.  And, maybe there’s not. “Aw, Stevie,” he chokes out sweetly, straining to brush his cheek against Steve’s thigh, “all you had to do was ask nicely.” He moves his face like a cat brushing up against Steve, his stubble catching rough against the inside of Steve’s pant leg, and the coarse drag of it goes straight to Steve’s dick.  Bucky’s holding his gaze, still sharp and steady, but playful and if it were another time and another place, Steve would have done it.  Steve wouldn’t even have had to ask.  He thinks back 20 years to warm bourbon and cold beer and passing out on a shitty futon in the dark with every inch of this man’s skin pressed up against him, peeling their bodies apart in the small hours just so they could crash back together one more time, one more, just once more before the morning. “You never had any idea what was good for you, huh?  Never knew when to quit while you were ahead.” Steve knows the taste and smell of this man by memory, has counted every freckle with his tongue, can draw the soft lines of his resting face in his sleep. The betrayal would have been easier if that hadn’t been the case. “Testing my patience isn’t going to get you anything you want.” “Then go do your job, you fuckin’ boy scout,” he laughs, but there's no humor in it, drawing out the ‘f’ so bloody saliva sprays across Steve’s crotch, “cause we both know you need me.”

And for the last word, a Stucky Wakanda breakup fic that I only have dialogue for so far. The whole document uses this word 7 times. Here's 4 of them.

“And, you, you dumbass, I left you home and safe and what did you do?  Volunteered to let some Kraut experiment on you like the damn Nazis you had such a hard-on for that you came to the front lines on purpose!  And, you lived, you lucky bastard, got this cushy Captain America gig and you almost get yourself killed, for what?” “For you, Bucky, I couldn’t just leave you there.” “For me?  Yeah, okay, but, be honest–it was for you, too. They tried to send me home, Steve, but I–I couldn’t–how was I supposed to go home? You were gonna die out there without me and I was going home to nothing. And, so I stayed. I stayed and I fought and I died and I spent a lifetime meting out the kind of violence I never wanted any part of and you’re here standing in my doorway asking me to come with you?”

Lemme tag some people I know are working on things rn.. @blackwood4stucky @katie-delaney @thepiper0fhameln (who isn't gonna play, but we love him anyway) and @amaraangelicus

Your prompt words are: press, choke, dark, and memory.

If you see this post and you've got WIPs you wanna procrastinate on, lol, tag me and join us!

[ambyandony]

hang on look out monster au la squadra concept post

ft. iltas oc zatta

//spoilers for vento aureo

formaggio: naphil / nephilim

(some sort of biblical sort of being but what they are isn't entirely clear from my research; some suggest theyre giants, some say half-angels, some say they're fallen angels, I went with both fallen angel and giant)

he uses little feet to adjust his size as desired but his actual height is 10' so assuming zatta does exist in monster au she hates him even more for having the audacity to be that tall

cats fucking hate him, and he keeps trying to pet ghiaccio who also hates him

he loves cats though

he has a broken, inverted halo

fucked up weird eyes that scare people

lots of naps and sometimes when he wakes up his eyes are fucked up and scary

started the laser pointer thing which was then perpetuated by melone so eberyone always blames him when furniture gets broken

weve all thought about killing you formaggio

annoying

doesnt use magic for anything useful

magic by nature but due to his 'fallen angel' type indivinity status he has less innate control so on the full moon he gets particularly moonsick and 'drinks it off' (does not work, does not help, makes everything worse)

illuso: mirror ghost

zatta is paranoid about mirrors in the la squadra hideout because of one accidental incident in the bathroom which was frankly a mortifying ordeal for the both of them and neither has mentioned it to the others

used to be human, hes pretty traumatised about being dead but hasnt explained how he died and doesn't like thinking about it

he cant read text when its written left to right anymore

mirrors in every room of the hideout except bedrooms where mirrors are kept covered and only uncovered in case of emergencies so sorbet is always seen standing out of view of mirrors because of the Incident

they actually have a really really awkward TV setup specifically devised so illuso can also watch TV

scared of gelato

one time zatta accidentally shattered all the mirrors in the hideout with depeche mode. this was inconvenient for illuso who said he himself actually shattered for a bit until there was a new mirror.

GO DIE PROSCIUTTO

zatta also hates the mirror cracking noise that happens around him

on full moons he actually becomes visible outside of the mirror but its fucked up and scary

prosciutto: lich

his anchor is probably his pendant

his jaw is partially exposed, since he's undead, his body isn't in the best shape.

hes not a real necromancer he doesn't know how to actually properly raise the dead and wont try (unless..?)

the rivalry with illuso is preeeettty one sided

wears perfume because he doesn't smell like rot, but he smells like, 'death'. it makes people subconsciously afraid of him, so he masks it.

his room also smells like perfume/air freshener. he has one of those automatic wall spray things.

his pillowcase is basically doused in cologne and is black because he either drools or bleeds all over it in his sleep because body preservation is a part of his morning routine.

his eyes dont really... see? not in the same way as bruno where hes blind, because he can still 'see', but his eyes dont follow movement anymore, and are very dull and blank.

on bad days he coughs up blood.

he dies every full moon and then reanimates in the morning and has to basically dose himself up with necromancy to regain a normal looking form

he's partially immune to his own stand due to either having no body heat or just due to the necromancy. his body doesn't function like it used to, but he still has blood flow.

pesci: human

i also had the idea that pesci was undead brought back by prosciutto but i didn't wanna directly state that

i basically relate him to my cousin who has a scooby doo special interest i think

instead of hooking / detecting just hearts, i actually changed beach boy a little - it hooks / detects auras, and can detect a lot from just that.

basically, instead of nearly killing himself buccellati doesn't evade the detection, he overwhelms it because of his super powerful divine eldritch angel aura and pesci is like WHAT THE FUCK????????? WHAT THE FUCK GET ME OUT OF HERE

either nothing happens to him on the full moon or he dies if exposed to moonlight and reanimates in the morning like prosciutto

he also detects as a normal human by aura and doesn't have corpse traits

what the fuck is going on

fishing :)

melone: cambion

( half-human, half-demon. most ppl automatically assume that it's always human x concubus but it's not but unfortunately in melones case his father was an concubus/incubus )

i already made a lorepost about this idiot and his impractical wings and tail

he gets really moody when people bring up his inhumanity but openly (when its safe) uses his abilities

never met his father, he thinks, anyway

never used sugent absorption because he doesn't want to turn out like his father (also why he treats baby face kinda like a son)

so hes actually a bit manastarved since concubi are more built for sugent absorption than they are for the environmental absorption he actually uses

circumstances of his conception were horrific. he was pretty much blamed for his own existence by everyone around him which may or may not have affected his mentality and traumatised him and shaped his worldview and motivated his actions. yknow. mightve had some bearing on the reflection of his soul.

doesn't excuse it but yknow. his mother didn't love him and he doesnt know if he even understands love

not as creepy about his stand and Women as he is in the anime, actually pretty clinical about the process and just a weirdo with innate vibes that make people uncomfortable because he's a Specific Kind Of Demon

concubi aren't actually inherently sexual, it's just that the ones that are heard about happen to have Done Things that give the whole subset a bad name.

It's true they feed off the energy of other Beings, and that can be done Sexually, but that doesn't make them inherently Averse To Consent. Concubi are physiologically built for sugent absorption and thats about it.

concubi are unfortunately very much magically wired and manaflow is as crucial as blood and airflow to someone like melone. passive environmental absorption and reactive / interactive absorption (absorbing energy from the interactions of people) provide enough to survive.

melone isnt his real name but he prefers it.

lets be clear im still hitting him over the head with a rolled up newspaper

ghiaccio: ailuranthrope

(ailura type, incomplete formshift subsect, pathomorphic variety, selkirk rex breed; blue and grey coat)

transgender?

his transformations are tied to his emotions which are very volatile, the partial formshifts mostly affecting his face, head, arms and tail

due to his hyperfrequent shift triggers, ghiaccio is essentially in constant or near constant pain as he keeps shifting and never enough to lose awareness.

his anger issues stem from his autistic ways and general mental illness but are made worse by his unending hell of a physiological state.

in a vicious cycle, thusly, his shifting is made worse when he shifts because he gets angrier.

basically has chronic pain. due to the most common formshifting locations, this typically manifests as mouth pain, unbearable migraines, back pain, and ear pain.

he always seems pretty bruised. he has incredibly frequent nosebleeds and tinnitus.

zatta empathises. still gets mad

habit of sitting in chairs very Wrong and usually kneel-sitting instead of normal sitting because of too many incidents sitting on his own tail

might have once been a normal human, and got Turned

he sheds

bad bad habit of biting and scratching himself so hes very very scarred up

often relies on melone's illusory magic to blend in

has tried to kill himself and it did not work

he only falls for the red dot at first but doesn't actually chase it, just throws himself at it and then his sense kicks in.

generally doesn't have any complete transformations, except for on the full moon. because it's the only time he fully shifts, he kinda goes fucking insane and goes into Beast Mode and it's up to others to keep him from doing that.

the spray bottle does not work

one of the rare few who can use his stand in full ailuromorph

i like to think he spends most of the white album ep in cat beast form

would kin izutsumi

autistic about linguistics (we know this)

still struggles with metaphor and idiomatic expression

hate

risotto: sanguisuge

tall

autistic

flat affect

quiet

drinks blood

eats blood in form of metal

doesnt understand a lot of things

does understand how to be quiet and scare people

fatherly air about him similar to buccellati but much scarier

keeps hitting head on door frames

me and the bad bitch i pulled by being magnetic

actually able to drink not only from people's bodies but also their auras

how do i preheat the oven

has basically no idea whats going on in normal contexts

sleeps completely prone face down stiff as a plank and with his eyes open

[iamthecomet]

Hiiiii comet I'm back to lay across your inbox like an attention starved cat but also cause problems

I think Dew is the type to hesitate, and of course yes he hesitates about a bunch of things but I think he's reluctant to use what he's given.

The candle that Zephyr got him during their first tour together, the one that smells like fresh cotton and winter? Never been lit, at least he takes the cover off it to smell it occasionally when he starts to miss them too much.

The cologne Aether got him for one of many anniversaries? He'd sprayed it exactly one time, in front of Aether after unwrapping it. It's much to nice for him to wear, expensive and rich, there's never the occasion. He never felt worthy of wearing it or Aether's love so flippantly.

The hand bound leather journal Mist gifted him after being summoned? He tried to write in it once, to get his thoughts and feelings and jumbled up frustrations out but his heart seized up when the ink bled from the point his pen rested too long. Everything he wanted to write felt foolish and unimportant.

I'm sure he still has every guitar pick Ifrit slipped down the back of his shirt during practice, and he'd never dream of taking them to the steel again. Unwilling to scratch them, scrape any of Ifrit away. It kills him every time he touches that fucking guitar, like he's stripping it of association each time he plays.

And that's just to name a few...Dew's got shelves of gifts and trinkets and what have you but they sit to collect dust and carry the weight of his guilt. He's aware of how quickly things run out, can be taken away. He never wants to let them go because the day the bottle runs empty or he reaches the last page that's it. That's just it. It's over and the memory is gone. He can't stomach losing what little there is to cling to anymore.

I just think Dew dreads the end of things, whatever things those might be.

This got sadder than I intended....My baaaaaad

- Void

Giving you HEAD PATS AND SCRATCHES. First of all, Dew is just like me for REAL. Second, you're so right. I'm just imagining the bookshelves in his room, filled with books he's read but can't get rid of. Books he hasn't read because it isn't the right time yet. And trinkets. Gifts. On full display, but never used. Sure he touches them, picks them up and turns them in his hands. He opens that cologne and smells the nozzle but never sprays it. And if Aether notices that Dew never uses it (he does) he doesn't say anything. Though, Dew hasn't really thought much past his own hesitation--not to the other side of this. Where people who have given him things see them sit on shelves, never to be touched. Where Aether wonders if Dew doesn't like that scent, and Rain wonders if Dew doesn't like those candies he picked out special for him when they were on tour in Japan. There are foods never eaten, and teas never drank, and puzzles never opened, and books never read because Dew aches with the idea of ruining it. Of an ending. But Dew doesn't think about his own ending. About the eventual, inevitable, end of his time topside, however that will happen. He doesn't think about this room, empty of him and still filled with a life time of gifts, memories, and love that he never took full advantage of--because he was too afraid of losing it.

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 26

The dog came back and Downstar once again bravely fought it off, breaking her back leg.

[Image ID: Downstar faces a large red dog. Under Downstar, it reads + CONDITION: BROKEN LEG.]

Fennelspot saw it in a dream, apparently; a massive dog with pointed ears and cat blood on its fangs, racing between the shadows, searching for prey. There were two clear facts in his mind; the beast was a darkhound, and it was the same one that attacked Downstar just two moons prior. Fennelspot must have taught Oilstripe about the Spirits of Shadow, as she launched into a speech on their weaknesses as soon as Downstar made the announcement at the Clan meeting. Downstar bit her tongue and let her speak. The Clan needed to know, so she could handle listening to Oilstripe’s strange knowledge for a while.

Downstar had a plan as soon as Oilstripe finished speaking. There was no killing this hunter of the Dark Forest, but it could be chased away with a few brave souls at Downstar’s side. Burdockcreek, Rustshade, and Scrubmask each rose to the challenge. Oilstripe claimed the spirits of the Dark Forest, those who spent their haunted afterlives in whatever sense of peace they could find, would lead darkhounds to churning, powerful rivers so they would be swept away. It was as good a plan as any. 

Fennelspot invoked two spirits of StarClan to protect the patrol. First, he called for Ternpath, Celestial of Dogs and Hounds, to shield the group from the darkhound’s fangs. Then he asked Beaversneeze, the unfortunate Celestial of the Great Northern River, to take the darkhound far away and leave the Clan cats where they are. As he recited his prayers, he kept glancing at Oilstripe like she could help him. Downstar tried to block the ginger molly from her mind and focus entirely on the task ahead.

Rustshade’s job was to find the darkhound. A few patrols had scented the beast in the north, not too far from where it attacked Downstar during the anniversary celebration. As a codekeeper, Rustshade knew how to track something down. Downstar trusted. Once Rustshade found the darkhound, the other three cats would spread out, heading toward the thickest waters of the Great Northern River. 

Downstar would be the one to make sure the river took the beast. She had the lives to spend, after all. She waited in the spray of the cool river under the glare of the hot midday sun. Her tail caught on the water’s edge and drifted toward the ocean. Oddly enough, she thought of little as she waited. The world simply existed around her. Her mind mixed with the churning of the water. If the darkhound took her life again, so be it. That was her duty. It was hard to feel scared when she knew what death felt like.

She heard the darkhound before she saw it. Its vicious bark spooked birds from the trees. Downstar tensed and stood, water dripping off her tail. The smell hit her just as Scrubmask burst through the trees. The pale warrior scrambled up a thick sugar maple and crouched in the leaves, just as planned. A moment later, the darkhound sprinted into the sunlight. 

It looked exactly as Downstar remembered from the sporadic flashes of her second death. It looked more like a wolf than a dog. Its stocky frame could crush Downstar underfoot. Its wild brown eyes bounced about, searching for its missing prey. Its heavy black fur was only broken by sporadic gray markings like light trying to break through thick shadow. The darkhound ran toward the sugar maple and jumped on the trunk. It barked and howled at Scrubmask, scratching up the bark.

“Over here!” Downstar yowled. The darkhound’s head snapped toward her. Its piercing bark stung Downstar’s ears. The darkhound jumped off the trunk and sprinted at Downstar like a bat through the sky. Downstar turned and jumped onto a half-submerged rock in the river. Water flowed over her paws and tried to drag her under. Deep water stretched out before her. Downstar breathed deep and dove into the deadliest portion of the Great Northern River.

Her ears hummed along to the heavy flow of the water. Her fur reached eastward with the flow of the river. Downstar’s legs burned as she swam hard and deep. Her paws touched the smooth mud and stones of the river’s bottom. She could barely see through the stinging water. The dog splashed into the river, its bark drowned by the sudden rush of water. The impact shoved Downstar aside and sent her spinning. Wild paws paddled toward her. Her chest tightened as she frantically tried to right herself.

Long fangs dug into Downstar’s back leg. She yowled, water bubbling around her muzzle as blood stained the river. But this was the darkhound’s mistake. If it wanted to hold onto her so badly, it could join her in a frantic rush to the ocean, far away from the Clan she worked so hard to build. 

The pair spun through the darkening water. Downstar wasn’t sure which way was up. Her leg and the darkhound’s muzzle smashed into a large stone that jutted from the bottom of the deep river and peeked out over the surface. The darkhound let go and tumbled further toward the ocean. Downstar’s vision blurred. She needed air. But where should she go to get it? She tried to swim, but she couldn’t move her limbs. She was so heavy…

Something grabbed Downstar’s scruff. Splashes of brown and white dragged her toward a distant light. Her senses burned as her head breached the water. She choked on the air, water rushing out of her lungs. What was happening? Had she reemerged in StarClan’s ocean? No, she wouldn’t feel so miserable if she had died. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear, it was all she could do to force air down her water-logged throat.

The first thing Downstar heard when her ears cleared was “I’ve got you, Downstar. I’ve got you.” The brown and white blobs began to take shape. Carnationspeckle stood at Downstar’s side, soaked and panting.

“Where did you come from?” Scrubmask hopped out of the sugar maple and ran toward Carnationspeckle and Downstar.

“I couldn’t let you drown yourselves,” Carnationspeckle huffed. “I followed the darkhound’s scent.”

“It could have killed you,” Scrubmask growled. “You’re nowhere near fast enough to outrun a beast like that.”

“Yes, but I can outswim anyone in this Clan,” Carnationspeckle said, wrapping her tail around Downstar. “I couldn’t let her drown.” Rustshade and Burdockcreek appeared, following the long-gone beast’s scent. 

“Scrubmask, hurry back to camp and fetch Fennelspot,” Rustshade barked, slipping beside Downstar. “Her leg is severely mangled.” Scrubmask was gone before Rustshade finished speaking, following the river toward the ocean and the shipwreck. Rustshade sighed, shaking his head, and continued studying Downstar’s leg. It was hard for the tortoiseshell leader to process everything around her, as her Clanmates were still blurry and her ears were still clogged. But she could think, and her thoughts were not pleasant.

“Carnation,” Downstar coughed, watery eyes glaring at the young caretaker, “I have nine lives. You have one. You should have let me drown.”

“Having nine lives doesn’t mean we should waste them if you don’t need to,” Carnationspeckle sighed. She licked the water dripping into Downstar’s eyes, but Downstar batted her away.

“I don’t need you to risk your life for me,” Downstar growled. Carnationspeckle stepped back, nodding softly as her ears fell back. Downstar coughed up more water as the pain of her bitten leg swam through her muscles.

If the darkhound was going to kill anyone, if anything would get one of her Clanmates killed, Downstar would be the one to die.

(Fennelspot: 83, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Oilstripe: 30, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Downstar: 85, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Burdockcreek: 20, male, historian, competitive, lore keeper)

(Rustshade: 70, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Scrubmask: 43, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Carnationspeckle: 28, female, caretaker, compassionate, talented swimmer)

James and Weedfoot go hunting together.

[Image ID: James and Weedfoot follow a rabbit.]

---

James was shockingly quick for a large (and Weedfoot had to be honest, lazy) former kittypet. He chased after a brown speckled rabbit, matching its pace leap for leap. There were a lot of places the rabbit could escape to in RippleClan’s more open southern territory, but James looped back and forth, scaring the rabbit away from any escape routes. In a few moments, the rabbit dangled from James’ jaws.

“Wonderful!” Weedfoot chirped, jogging down a steep slope to join her hunting partner. “I really thought it was gone when the wind shifted.”

“My humans used to hunt rabbits,” James said, resting the rabbit at his paws and licking his lips. “I am well acquainted with the need for speed when stealth fails in a rabbit hunt.”

“Once we cook this, this rabbit should feed most of the Clan,” Weedfoot purred. She glanced at the darkening sky and added, “A meal for tomorrow, however. Let’s return to camp.”

“Finally,” James purred, stretching his back. “I can sleep.”

“You’re in camp all day,” Weedfoot chuckled with a twitch of her whiskers. “I would be begging to leave camp if I were you, but you’re always itching to get back.”

“Because I like staying in camp,” James groaned. “If I could spend all my time in camp and never leave, I would be content.”

“You have to be one of the laziest cats I have ever met,” Weedfoot laughed. 

“Not lazy,” James purred, adjusting his tattered black ribbon. “I am simply not a fan of moving.” 

“Not moving sounds like a dream at the moment,” Weedfoot admitted, sheepishly ducking her head. “With Downstar resting in the medicine den, I’ve been doing both her job and mine. All I can think about is when to send out the next patrol and what we’ve already done for the day.”

“You’ve been a radiant deputy,” James said softly. He patted her on the back with his long, soft tail. “Just as I have been a wonderful caretaker since I found your humble Clan.” James puffed out his fluffy chest.

“Let’s go home before you start taking yourself seriously,” Weedfoot chuckled, headbutting James’ shoulder. The former kittypet picked up his rabbit and followed Weedfoot back to camp.

When the pair returned, RippleClan was winding down for the night. Clammask stomped out the remnants of a smoker while Oilstripe groomed herself. James rubbed against Weedfoot as he made his way to the fresh-kill pile. Oilstripe stopped grooming and trotted up to Weedfoot.

“Yum, rabbit,” Oilstripe cooed. “That will taste amazing tomorrow.”

“James is quite the hunter,” Weedfoot sighed. She watched James as he said goodnight to Scrubmask with a gentle purr and a shake of his pelt. When Weedfoot looked back at Oilstripe, however, her former apprentice had a curiously mischievous look on her face. “What are you thinking, Oilstripe?”

“You like James, don’t you,” Oilstripe said, flicking her tail at the pale ginger tom.

“He’s stepped up when he’s been needed,” Weedfoot said as her stomach suddenly tightened.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Oilstripe purred. She sat next to Weedfoot and said, “You’re in love.” 

Oh StarClan. Oilstripe was right. She did like James. She didn’t have time to pursue a mate! She had to step up for Downstar while she recovered. She was the deputy. She couldn’t be distracted! No, no, that wasn’t the worst of it. Weedfoot already had a mate. Paleshade had been the greatest companion she could have asked for. They were together every step of the way. How could she enter StarClan one day and face Paleshade if she fell in love with someone else?

“She wants you to be happy,” Oilstripe said quietly, dragging Weedfoot out of her thoughts. Oilstripe had a hazy, unnerving look in her eyes and kept glancing away from Weedfoot. What was she even looking at? A fearful itch climbed up Weedfoot’s spine.

“How did you know what I was thinking?” Weedfoot gulped.

“Uh,” Oilstripe gulped, staring at the ground, “I just know you well, is all. And I’ve heard so much about Paleshade, I feel like I know her too. And from what you’ve told me, I think she would want you to find someone who makes you happy in RippleClan.”

“Maybe,” Weedfoot muttered. An odd warmth filled her chest. “Maybe.”

(James: 102, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Weedfoot: 75, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Oilstripe: 30, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

[daistea]

um I started writing a Mithrun x oc twilight au because I thought it was funny but it actually turned out pretty entertaining in the end

The canaries are all vamps except for Lycion. They’ve just got this random werewolf hanging around. Fleki found him in the woods and thought this huge monster with claws standing on two legs was a perfectly normal dog. She brought him home and he only turned back into his human form when she tried to feed him shitty dog food

There’s no sparkling in the sun because I think it’s more badass if the sunlight genuinely kills them. And they don’t go to school like why would they do that??? Theyre adults. Except Pattadol desperately wants to be normal, so she gets a job at a coffee shop even though they don’t need the money. Everybody makes fun of her for it course. But Mithrun brings her smth she forgot at home one day, and oc walks in and the smell hits him (smells like barbecue chicken wings) and he’s like ‘alright well I guess im killing literally everybody in here now’ but Pattadol sprays him with water like a bad cat

Mithrun does the car thing and saves oc and he’s like shit what am I gonna tell her now? Cithis is like ‘lol gaslight her’ and he’s like ya that’s a great idea :)

Oc tells Mithrun she’s gonna figure out what he is and he’s like ‘how?’ and she’s like im gonna google it ofc. Being an old man born and raised in the Victorian era, Mithrun is like uh yeah whatever, that won’t work. you kids and your technology… but she literally just googles it and clicks on the first link to pop up and there’s her answer

There’s no like vampire battle or whatever in this au. It’s more like a slice of life. ‘This is my weird ass freak vampire boyfriend that watches me sleep even though I’ve told him a million times to stop breaking into my house at night’

They do play baseball and supermassive black hole does play in the background. But none of them are actually good at it. Fleki is high and Otta pitches the ball right into her face. Cithis can’t be bothered to run from base to base. Pattadol is the umpire but she flinches away from the ball every time it comes near. Lycion is the only one doing a good job. Mithrun runs after the ball and disappears in the woods for three days because he got lost

Oc goes to Mithrun’s room and she sees his stereo and she’s like ‘what are u listening to’ and she turns it on and it’s fucking Nickelback

Yeah idk, I just wanted to share in the hopes that fellow oc x mithrun people would see my vision