#and it's going to be a pain in the fucking ass to try to get a 'script for it.

[yourlipstogodsears]

Injured on Duty (Robby x Resident reader)

Summary: she’s one of his residents and works part time as an EMT, she gets hit by an ambulance as it drives off. So she ends up in PTMC.

As soon as the ambulance brings her in, Robby rushes to the trauma bay, his eyes scanning the patient chart. He sees her name and his world stops. He takes charge, barking orders at the nursing staff, "what’s the mechanism of injury?" He rushes to her side when the paramedics tell him she got clipped by an ambulance on duty.

she tries to sit up, “I’m fine. It’s just my shoulder”

His hand immediately presses down on her uninjured shoulder, pushing her back against the gurney. "Like hell you're fine! You got hit by an ambulance! Now lay. The. Fuck. Down before I sedate you!"

she laughs, “okay okay”

He narrows his eyes but can't help cracking a small smile at her laughter. "Only you would find getting clipped by your own company hilarious." He shakes his head as he begins examining her shoulder. "This is going to hurt like a bitch," he warns, probing gently.

she grunts softly as he touches the area of shoulder feeling it distended from the socket and the skin stretching “feels dislocated.. my shoulders dropped.”

His expression turns serious as he confirms his suspicion. "Yep, it's dislocated. I'm going to need to pop it back in." He looks into her eyes, trying to gauge her pain tolerance. "On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain?"

“The strength of a thousand suns”

He chuckles softly, despite the tension. "Alright, drama queen. I'll take that as an eight or nine." He turns to the nurse standing by. "Get me a quick dose of morphine for pain management. We need to relax her before I reduce this dislocation."

she nods and smiles softly at Dr. Abbott who’s working with Robby today because they’re so short staffed, “does it have to be a small dose?”

Dr. Abbott raises an eyebrow at her question, smirking. Robby, however, fixes her with a stern glare. "if I give you a large dose, you'll be too relaxed and it'll make reducing the dislocation more difficult."

she sighs, “Robby, you are no fun”

He chuckles despite himself, adjusting the angle of her upper arm. "And you're a pain in the ass who can't handle pain like a normal person." Abbott hands him the morphine syringe "Stop complaining and let us do our damn jobs." He administers the morphine.

she relaxes, “you know what they say doctors make the worst patients. Med students are up there…”

He nods in agreement, his touch gentler now that the morphine is taking effect. "Too true. We know too much and expect too much." He positions her arm carefully, preparing to reduce the dislocation. "Alright, here we go. Try to stay still and breathe through it, okay?"

With a swift, practiced motion, he pops her shoulder back into place.

“FUCK- I HATE YOU!” she yells in pain, the entire ER could hear her.

Both he and Abbott burst out laughing despite themselves, with Robby gently pressing a cold pack against her shoulder. "I love you too, kid," he teases, trying to keep his tone light "Was that a nine on the pain scale? Or maybe a ten?"

she nods, “that wasn’t fun”

He smirks sympathetically, adjusting the cold pack. "No, I imagine it wasn't. But you're a trooper. Most people would've passed out or punched me." He smiles playfully, knowing she'll appreciate the dark humor.

“I thought about it”

Robby can't help but grin at her threat, shaking his head with amusement. "I'm terrified. Truly, you're a menace." He leans in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "For the record, if you had punched me, I wouldn't have blamed you one bit."

“I’m well aware”

He laughs softly, adjusting her blanket to cover her better. "Of course you are." He pauses, his expression turning more serious. "you okay? Really okay? I know that hurts."

“You’re gonna be down a resident for a while if I gotta rest this shoulder. I won’t be able to work Thursday..”

His face falls at the mention of her missing work, a rare display of genuine concern. "Thursday? you can't even lift your arm without wincing. You're not coming in Thursday, or Friday, or possibly even next week." He sets his jaw, his protective instincts kicking in.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You know what? Don't even think about coming in until you're cleared by me. I mean it." He points at her sternly, but his tone softens almost immediately. "And don't give me that look."

“Always the protective one” she mumbles.

He rolls his eyes, trying to maintain his stern facade, but failing miserably. "Shut up. It's my job to be protective. Especially with my favorite resident." He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're supposed to be resting, not arguing with me."

(First time writing for Robby, not sure how I’m doing but I have more to make this a second part.)

[ay0nha]

Please Forgive Me | Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

GIF by crushribbons

SUMMARY: You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

Where Robby says, "Please forgive me." The first step in Ho'oponopono.

PAIRING: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!attending!reader

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, mentions of rats, vaccines (anti-vaxxer fuck off), needles, pining, angst, Myrna, incorrect medical things, plot driven by movie magic, flashbacks, arguments, some fluff, me projecting my competency kink, smoking, scrub sharing, word vomit, etc.

Inspired by @skulandcrossbones's post, @xxdrixx's post and @sunkissedburns' post.

A/N: Not quite what I had in mind, but I'm not going to be too hard on myself. This first bit was entirely self-indulgent. Comments are HEAVILY encouraged, they truly keep my going and motivated to write. Many thanks to @hummusforthewin for helping me out again. Enjoy.

prologue

“I could fake a seizure.” 

“Too ‘boy who cried wolf’…” You shook your head. The strike of your lighter was motivated by agitation. On the first exhale of your newly-lit cigarette, you said, “It has to be a…casual—believable lie.”

“All this for what? Love?” Myrna gestured at the air with mocking disgust. “I know a thing or two about a crime of passion.”

Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it. 

“Robby’s allergic.” To love. You wouldn’t say the word out loud, afraid you’d catch fire by some divine fury.

“Oh, honey, I knew you were stupid, but not that stupid.” Myrna cracked with humor. Her insults made you feel electric. Normal. They humbled every egotistical vein in your body. “I’d bend him over my knee for what he did to you.” 

Your eyes sparkled with the image. You’d pay good money to see Robby’s face painted with discomfort. His self-control irked you, got under your skin without even trying. It used to drive a competitive friction between you both, one that was light, teasing, even. But it festered to the point it controlled you; you relied on proving a point. 

“Breach of duty, my ass.” She continued. “So you were a drug dealer, so what! God forbid you did something about healthcare in this country.”

“Myrna,” You warned. You wish you were just a ‘drug dealer.’ Instead, you became the judge, jury, and executioner.  “It’s just temporary.”

You said more to remind yourself. It hadn’t quite stuck as a mantra, but it was enough to get you through a shift. It took many years of vomiting up all the filth you’d been taught about yourself, and half believed, before you were able to walk on the earth as though you had a right to be there. You’d be damned to forget that because of him.

“You won’t even spit in his coffee!” Myrna snapped playfully, not letting your eyes glaze over for too long. “You asked me how to get him off your back: seizure.”

“That’ll just give him more reason to bother me.” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought caused your lips to tingle with indifference. Deep down, you knew nothing would change.

“Listen, girlie…” Myrna gave you the least offensive nickname in the ED. It was why you passed the dwindling cigarette to her; you always played favorites. “...whatever you do, don’t bet on a losing dog.”

—

The ED was slow. 

No one acknowledged it; everyone was too superstitious to acknowledge it. The weather consisted of sleet that kept everyone off the streets. All that could be done was to wait idly for those who were brave enough to come in and those who had no choice but to succumb to the danger of it all. Slow days brought the worst cases.

The quiet no longer felt like rest. It starts feeling like a missing tooth. You keep tonguing at the space, even when it hurts. 

The snow fueled your smoke break; it was a subconscious way to find warmth and stave off subconscious anxiety. Neither was remedied. Your fingers were stiff from the cold, and there was no relief from how the pit in your stomach grew. 

“You alright?” Dr. Robby perked from the desktop, cautious enough not the call too much attention but aware enough to know you weren’t. 

Robby imagined the way your fingers deftly played with the lighter. The way your side profile was traced as you exhaled the smoke. He resisted the urge to follow you out. But you didn’t smoke often, so he knew nerves formed the habit. 

 His attentiveness made you nauseous. 

“Peachy.” Your sigh was heavy. Your day was not ruined. Your world was not over. Take a deep breath. It’s just temporary. 

“Nicotine lowers the seizure threshold...” He hummed. You focused on Robby carefully, watching how his glasses reflected the screen in front of him. “...but there’s no way Myrna can smoke with those handcuffs, right?” 

Ignoring him no longer led to guilt. You viewed it as self-preservation. It was the only selfish act you could take in your condition. You’d be stupid not to exercise your only right. Robby continued to push lightly. His attempts at your vulnerability were in vain. It had been weeks, and you’d yet to budge. 

You don’t know why, but you were all heart today. Maybe it was what Myrna had said to you. Maybe it was the cold that weighed your limbs down. Maybe it was Robby’s question, an unorthodox olive branch, saying: everyone deserves a break. 

You waited for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he doesn’t. The meaning of his words was not lost on you. It allowed something warm to creep through your chest, so you gave him a nod. One that held forgotten gratitude. 

It shocked you, how gentle a tug it took to unravel everything that you built up. 

Had his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? 

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you picked up any task you could. When things were busier, the trivial things vanished behind the rush, but it was too slow a day to hide behind it all.

“You hear me?”

You hummed, unaware that the way your ears rang consumed your space. You focused back in on Robby, leaned back in his chair, arms tight across his chest. Although in a relaxed posture, Robby looked protective, as if it took a lot of courage to reach out to you again. 

“Your scrubs.” Robby’s eyes crinkled, toying with suppressed charm. It made you shy, like you’d done something wrong, gone too far, and lost your defensive bravado.  “If you’re going for the tie-dye look, you’ll fit in better with Peds.” 

There were splotches across your chest. It looked like dried blood, deep in color that led down to your pants. The droplets looked unprofessional, and you had meant to change, but the few patients that came in commanded your attention instead. 

 “Oh.” You said.  You mumbled as the memory came back to you.  “...had to snatch the povidone-iodine from a patient, they saw it had 70% isopropyl alcohol…tried drinking it…”

You’d volunteered for the busy work of stitches, as it was the only thing that you didn’t need to be monitored for. You were already counting down the days until the patient would return so you could remove them; another moment where you’d be able to come up for air. 

However, it was the ED, you couldn’t turn your back for a moment because even stitches became overly complicated. 

“Excuse me, doctor…” 

The voice behind you is so timid, you don’t hear it right away. 

“Uh, the scrubEx machine is, uh, broken—” Dr. Whitaker sheepishly interjected, catching the conversation in passing. You eyed him, seeing he wore morgue scrubs too big for him. “I mean–I-I didn’t break it…I think it’s old or it needs maintenance or something…”

You frowned. You were already in your spare. 

“Check my locker, I should have extra…” Robby threw the comment passively, not bothering to look away from what he was doing. “504-985.”

Everything stilled for a breath. Nurses who were casually eavesdropping were locked in. Dana’s eyebrows even raised hearing Robby’s code roll off like second nature. Dr. Whitaker blushed on your behalf. You knew his code by heart from years ago: the area codes of New Orleans. He couldn’t let go of the numbers; they followed him everywhere. 

The coldness in your limbs vanished. A prickly heat traveled through your fingertips, representing something close to mortification, but ultimately led to confusion. Then, quickly smothered with irritation. 

You wanted to be suspicious, to think this was just another test, but that wasn’t in Robby’s motive. He covered himself in sarcastic exasperation, but beneath all the stress and trauma, warmth and wit were his nature. This was genuine, this was not Dr. Robinavitch or Dr. Robby, Michael had offered the clothes off his back to you. 

You were like a rabbit frozen in tall grass. Ears perked, heart running, eyes blank and wide. But you didn’t move yet. 

“Go on,” Dana jerked her head in the direction of the locker room. “We’ve got a GSW coming in hot.” 

—

You didn't have it in you anymore to struggle and fight and suffer; you wanted to be quiet and happy.

The lockeroom wasn’t even a room. It was just lockers tucked away at the end of the hall. The so-called privacy was a small sign that said: staff only. It was between the hallway and the bathrooms, forgotten and small. 

Punching in Robby’s code, you were praying for it to be wrong. 

It was minimal. There was an unopened water bottle, neatly folded scrubs, and a pen that had been there since before Robby. Everything he needed was in his backpack. It was functional, tactical, his. It was all he ever needed and was there if he ever needed to run. 

You felt like you were intruding, like you were moments away from being caught. For what? You didn’t want to know. 

You tried to rip it off like a band-aid, grab the scrubs, and go. Something made you jerk. The fabric was scrunched into your fist like it would get away if you let up. The longer you held onto it, the more it tethered you. It was standard scrubs. Unisex and black.  You went through the details, trying to be clinical. Professional. They would be big on you, but they would be functional. 

You drew the fabric closer, holding the top as if it were going to vanish like a bad prank pulled. You ignored the fact that the action resembled something primal. Brushing it against your nose, you knew these were Robby’s by the faint smell of mint. It lingered from the pocket where he stored his nicotine gum.  

“Thought you got lost…”

You paused. 

Not out of interest. More like the way a dog pauses before crossing a fence line—aware. 

“Checking to see if they’re clean.” You don’t miss a beat with the latent insult. “I know better than to trust you these days.”

There it was, that festering anger that was built on resentment. Your heart had frozen over again. You forced the air colder. It was unrelentless with no room for kindness to settle, it was not the kind of cold that came from a breeze or shade, but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. 

You comment on trust was spat as if the idea itself was revolting. It created a hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Robby said your name. 

“Dr. Robinavitch, I appreciate the…” You couldn’t even thank Robby properly. You’ve stood your ground this long, there was no retreating.

You shrugged off your scrub top, your thermal the only layer left. You moved swiftly, the GSW would be here in moments and you already took enough time for yourself. Tugging Robby’s shirt over your head it fit as expected; baggy in areas that didn’t matter and stitched with reliability of the owner. 

The smell enveloped you fully. If you let your thoughts linger you’re sure you could figure out Robby’s detergent and what aftershave he used when it was time to trim his neck. You adjusted the collar like it was tight, a nervous tick to reprimand yourself for thinking about how Robby’s chain would hang just where you touched. 

Your fingertips tingled with buried emotion. You projected a longing for when things were in a different rhythm, for when Robby was there for you outside of stipulations. 

Communicate. Ask for help if you need it. Trust your attendings. We will get through this together. 

The words came to you so suddenly, it felt like you’d lost your breath. They wrapped around you like a boa. You heard them when you slept and they loitered until you rubbed the exhaustion from your eyes. It had never cracked down on you like this. 

Together was a false-bottomed hope. Together didn’t exist—couldn’t. Your eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

The office felt awfully small.

Robby stood far away from you, leaning against the opposing wall stiffly with hands in his pockets. His hair was a mess, a clear indication of the utter frustration he was in. 

Despite the distance, the tension between the two of you was palpable. He was absolutely livid.

Deservedly so. You should have listened to him and stayed out of it, but you didn’t—couldn’t. Now you had to simply stand and take whatever he was about to throw at you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat, preparing for a half-hearted apology. “I’m so—”

“You—” He straightened himself, finger pointed out in accusation, “—had one job. I asked you to stay out of it— no, I ordered you to stay out of it. And what the hell do you do? The absolute fucking opposite. The actual fuck were you doing?”

Robby’s eyes narrowed deeper, the sharpness of the glare hitting you right in the chest. You flinch. “What makes you think you can ignore the rules? Have you forgotten that I’m your attending? I—”

“Do not pull rank with me.” You snapped. So much for just standing there and taking it. “You know damn well I am just as competent as you are.”

“Competent doesn’t mean that you’re—” Robby paused taking in a tight breath. His voice stayed level, refusing to let his anger get the best of him. “You were reckless. Out of line. I have to pull rank if you choose to act like one of the students.  What is not clear here?”

 You can’t help the bitter laugh that burst from your lips. 

“You can pretend to be Adamson all you want, but this morning, you froze.” Low blow. But the ripple of emotion in Robby’s face was satisfying.“ So, sure, I’m fucking sorry for taking things into my own hands when you couldn’t.”

“This was not your patient, and you are too stubborn to understand that. Now he’s dead.” Robby kept going, cementing your fate. “Gloria is expecting you this afternoon. You will listen to her if you want to stay here. Don’t fuck up again.”

You tried opening your mouth, but nothing came out; your face was too hot, too hurt, too full of rage. 

“What the fuck is that?” 

You hadn’t realized your wrist had been caught until you were met with resistance.

You pulled back instinctively. “What are you—

A dull pain scratched at your wrist, and Robby was afraid he’d caused it. But he knew what he saw, identifying it immediately. 

Robby held onto you steadily.  “Did something bite you?”  

“What?” Getting your wrist back, you finally looked at it. The bandage was haphazardly put on, now snagging on your sleeve, exposing two pinpricks.  “You heard Whitaker, the patient tested positive for rats...” 

You cringed, trailing off. It was a cheap joke that landed flatly. A few bubonic plague jokes came to mind, but you swallowed them. 

“I’m fine.” You went to push past Robby, but his arm landed against the wall blocking you. His frame didn’t intimidate you, but it made you hesitate with your response. “...I’ll be fine.” 

“You need antibiotics, a tetanus shot…” Robby rubbed his hands over his face, rougher than he should have, but it helped restrain his agitation. “Streptobacillosis can happen, rabies—

“Seriously, rat bite fever? I have a better chance of winning the lottery than getting that.” You actually laughed, but it wasn’t appreciated. “We have a GSW incoming.” 

“The students need non-cadaver experience.” Robby attempted to be lighthearted, but there was an edge of authority to his voice. “They’ve got plenty of good hands to learn from out there.”

“Don’t be—

“You understand that’s my polite way of saying you will not touch a patient until I clear you, right?”

The words landed like a stone in still water. 

They silenced you, but you didn’t shrink. They cut deeper than it was meant to. It seemed to always happen that way, where once the pleasantries passed, what weighed heavily between you only grew in pressure. The guilt was mocking you again. 

Robby moved, knowing you’d follow. As he traced the hallway, you recognized what he grabbed: needles, medication, gauze, gloves, and confidence. You could have administered it all yourself, but this was a test of faith, one you were too curious about to challenge. 

 —

Anytime you went to the doctor, you felt like a child. Like you’d still get a lollipop and a sticker for being brave. It was why you avoided them if you could. You felt pathetic with your eyes wide and naive as Robby pulled the curtain around the two of you.

The irony didn’t go over your head. 

His gloves were pulled on with dexterity. Robby mumbled what he would have to a patient, it was a reflex you were familiar with. You just stood there, anxious that you were in too vulnerable a position. 

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles.”  Prepping the syringe, Robby looked you dead in the eyes, working without the need to look. You wanted to indulge in the charm, but you stayed quiet. “Ready?”

You nodded. There was nothing but everything to be afraid of. Doctors never got used to being a patient. It felt like going against the natural order of things. Especially when Robby looked at you so expectantly. 

“Don’t think I can get through to your arm…” Robby was waiting for you to catch on. Out of habit you pulled at your long sleeve, as if covering the bite itself would disappear. 

Eyeing the needle, you knew it would be intramuscular. It needed to be deep enough to be effective. It was calming to go through the facts you knew, waiting for it all to be over. The muscles had good vascularity. The injected drug would quickly reach the systemic circulation, bypassing the first-pass metabolism.

Robby repeated your name, prompting you to understand so he wouldn’t have to say it. He’d been through the worst imaginable, the grossest, the strangest things. That was life in the ED.  But this was new territory. 

“If you could…” He instructed you in a low tone, clearing his throat. “Turn around.”

Oh. 

You had become so warm, you forgot you intentionally layered for the weather. Your arms were covered. Your legs were covered. The easiest muscle to access caused you to lean against the examination table. The paper crinkled from the slight force as turned your back to Robby. 

He couldn’t seem to clear his throat enough. “If you could…” 

“Right.” You snapped out of your slight stupor. If you had any conviction left, you’d have scolded him. Instead, you hooked your thumb in your waistband. Pulling the fabric down, you barely gave Robby enough surface to administer the shot. 

You could almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down than it had to—how he was tentative to pull at your pliant skin to find the muscle. It didn’t matter how hesitant he was because even through the gloves, his hands were unbelievably warm on your bottom. 

“First one…slight pinch…” Robby’s voice was muffled by the needle cap in his mouth. “Alright, one more. Deep breath.” 

The cold was catching up to you. So was the exhaustion. It weakened your senses and put your emotions at the forefront. You wanted to be held, to be cared for in ways you couldn’t provide alone. Robby was familiar with the feeling, but was better at hiding the ache. 

Instead, Robby, in his own way, cared so deeply for others. His care was written in small things, never said, but done. He’d say he didn’t have any friends, but the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb—always. Yet, he never carved out space for himself to be minded. 

“Not too bad, right?” His smile was awkward, but soft. Genuine. Concerned. 

“Ouch.” You mumbled, a playful frown pulled at your lips. “I’ll live.”

“Good.” The snap of removing his gloves invited reality back. “This can’t be done without you.”

You were both stalling, not used to being so close for so long. The curtain’s fabric was a safety net in the chaos. He was slow to rub the hand sanitizer on. You both desired one last deep breath, but the air was running out. You both didn’t know how to exist so softly. 

“Thanks for—

—I’ve been thinking…” Robby cut you off before you could slip away, hands pulling at the ends of his stethoscope to stop fidgeting. 

You paused, letting it sit for a minute.  “Dangerous thing.” 

You’d been thinking too, but now wasn’t the time to crush the hope in his eyes. The risks outweighed the benefits.

You knew he’d been trying to catch you for days. Weeks. But his irritability got in the way. Impatience for Gloria got in the way. He had trouble sleeping, and when he was awake, he was vigilant. Then, when you didn’t see him, you knew he carried his sadness to the roof.  

Even now wasn’t how he’d wanted to approach you.

“Look—I don’t know.” Robby chewed on his cheek. “I just—fuck.” He looked at you with a childlike regret. As if he’d gotten too excited and played too hard. “We can’t keep going like this...I don’t blame you… and I don’t know…”

You knew what he meant: I’m sorry—please forgive me. 

You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

“I know.” That smile that you wore—it didn’t shine. Soft and a little sorry. It settled over your guilt for now.

[hyunniesamericano]

Ride my face

Pairing: Bang Chan × fem! Reader

Warning: Smut (Drabble)

Chan’s voice is low, wrecked, and there’s nothing sweet in his eyes now—just hunger. Pure, feral hunger.

He’s flat on his back, shirtless, sweat clinging to his chest, curls messy like he’s already been in a fight with pleasure. And he’s ready to lose.

“You heard me,” he growls when you hesitate—not out of shyness, but because his words just hit. “Sit that pretty pussy on my face and don’t fucking hold back.”

You straddle him, knees trembling from the sheer intensity in his gaze. His hands grip your thighs, dragging you down like he’s claiming you—like his mouth belongs there.

And fuck, it does.The second you settle over him, he groans like he’s finally home.

Tongue everywhere. Nose brushing your clit. Slurping, sucking, moaning into you like a man possessed.

“God, you taste like sin,” he gasps between licks, “Gonna make you cum so hard, baby. Rub that cunt on my tongue—use me.”

He keeps going like he needs it to breathe. Like he wants to drown.Like you’re his favorite fucking flavor and he’ll die happily between your thighs.

Your thighs clench around his head, tighter this time, but Chan just groans, desperate and greedy, digging his fingers into your hips to keep you there, grinding your pussy harder against his mouth.

He’s fucking starving for you—tongue dragging sloppily over your clit, sucking it between his lips like he’s trying to milk every last drop of your pleasure.

You feel it—the way his breathing turns shallow beneath you, the way his nose presses deep against your heat.

It’s almost too much for him.Almost.But the low, broken moan that rips from his throat tells you exactly how much he loves it.

You grind your hips a little harder against his mouth, just to test him, and his fingers tighten—desperate, needy.

"What's wrong, baby?" you pant out between gasps, looking down at him with a wicked smirk. "You want me to break you?"

That’s all it takes.Chan growls, a feral, low sound vibrating against your soaked cunt, his eyes blazing as he looks up at you like a man possessed."Fuck yeah," he grits out between frantic licks. "Break me, baby. Fucking ruin me."

You moan in response And then he loses it.Grabs your ass with both hands, forcing you down harder against his mouth, smothering himself in your pussy like he doesn’t care if he can breathe or not.

You swear you hear him whimper, his entire body trembling with the effort to keep you where he wants you—like he needs you to suffocate him with your pleasure.

And it’s working.God, it’s working too well.

Your stomach tightens, muscles locking up as your orgasm slams into you, blinding and brutal, a choked cry ripping from your throat.

You squirm, instinctively trying to pull away, but Chan just growls, low and wrecked, locking you down tighter.

"Uh-uh," he pants against you, tongue never slowing. "Not done. Gimme another. Wanna feel you break on my tongue."

You can barely breathe—legs trembling, vision blurring—as he devours you through it, the overstimulation turning your brain into static.

Every flick of his tongue is too much, too good, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through your entire body until you’re gasping his name, hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

"That's it, baby," Chan murmurs, voice dark and wrecked between licks. "Cum for me again. Fucking soak me. I can take it."

You don't even realize you're crying until he tilts his head just right, sucking your clit into his mouth hard—and your body just breaks again, harder, helpless, writhing against his face while he groans like he’s getting off on drowning in you.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

[27spoons]

okay so someone said "nat backshots" and i said "say less" now you get a blurb of nat taking readers strap

nsfw blurb / smut / gn!afab!reader / porn no plot / strap-on used, referred to as cock / some ass smacking / nat cries at some point / size-kink nat agenda / blame the horny asses in the server / it's me I'm the horny ass / not proofread we die like coach ben at nat's hand/ wc: 1569 (nice)

she's already on her hands and knees by the time you pull the harness tight around your hips, her breath hot and uneven where her forehead presses into the mattress. a flush creeps down her spine, bright red that sharply contrasts the pale skin—it makes your mouth water. makes you wanna leave your fingerprints along the bony protrusions, so that she remembers who made her like this.

"last chance, nat," you murmur, voice low as your knees press into the bed behind her, letting the head of the strap brush against the inside of her thigh.

nat can only grunt in response—although it sounds more like a desperate whine than anything else—and her hips tilt back in a silent invitation. you know her well enough to know she isn't going to beg. no, natalie scatorccio doesn't beg. at least, not until she's fucked stupid and barely holding onto reality.

you let her stew in it a while longer. let her squirm. let her feel the size of it, how much you're giving her. when you finally take the translucent blue cock into your hands, you can't help but grin. nat can't fight the whole body shiver that rakes her as you start to run the tip through her folds. she's wet, but you knew that already, didn't you? she's always wet for you.

"oh, nat. look at you. you don't even know what you've gotten yourself into, huh?" you let your spit fall from your mouth onto the toy, lathering it across the ridged surface. "you think you can take all of it?"

"oh my god," nat groans, trying to shift her hips to get you in, "asshole, i've been with dudes before. just... c'mon..."

you chuckle and nudge your knee between her thighs, forcing them wider. she's dripping already, clear slick painting her inner thighs, but you don't let yourself get distracted. not yet. you've got a point to prove.

"yeah? how many of them made you shake like this?"

you let the tip of your cock catch on her entrance—just the tip—and push barely inside, enough to make her walls flutter around nothing, enough to make her hips jerk back instinctively, desperate to pull you deeper.

you hold her still with a firm hand on her hip, fingers digging into the soft skin. "feel that, baby?" your voice drops into a cruel taunt as you roll your hips in slow, maddening circles, just enough to tease the first inch past her entrance. "not even halfway in yet."

nat groans—long, low, and frustrated—and tries to rock back again, only to be met with your grip tightening, a silent order to behave.

she looks good like this. helpless. squirming. needy.

"squeezing me so fucking tight already," you murmur, dragging the words out as you pull back a fraction, letting the ridged head catch on her entrance on the way out. "gonna split you open real nice, huh?"

nat makes a sound of helplessness, and you can feel her walls fluttering, trying to pull you in deeper. 

greedy.

you deliver a sharp slap to her ass for that, clicking your tongue. "i thought i made it clear that you're not to move? when did you decide you could?"

nat whimpers, fingers fisting in the comforter to keep from swatting at you, but she stays put. she doesn't push back again. she knows better. you both know that.

"thought you were supposed to be tough?" another inch. slow enough to be cruel. the stretch forces another broken noise out of her, muffled by the thick blanket. "c'mon, nat. take it. take it for me."

when she doesn't respond, you draw your hips back again, just enough to make her feel empty, then immediately push forward and bury yourself to the hilt.

the sound the leaves her is sinful.

it's one of those times where pleasure blurs with pain, a fire burning in her veins as her body attempts to accommodate the sudden, harsh intrusion. the stretch feels like something out of a horror film and like taking a shot of pure ecstasy, and she can't help the moan that rips itself from her throat when your hips start to wiggle.

"fuck," nat gasps, voice cracking as her face presses harder into the mattress. she's practically trembling under you, arms straining to keep her up, muscles in her thighs twitching from the effort.

you let her sit there for a moment. trembling. split wide open around you. letting her feel just how deep you are. letting it burn.

"mm, you feel that, baby?" you whisper against the shell of her ear, your chest pressing flush to her back. "you feel so fucking full, don't you? can't even move, can you?"

nat whines low in her throat. you smile harder.

you hook an arm around her waist and pull her up onto her knees properly, forcing her to arch for you, forcing her to feel every goddamn inch. she scrambles for purchase, a shaky hand reaching back to grip at your thigh, your hip, anything.

"'s too much…" she mumbles pathetically, but she doesn't make the effort to pull away. she doesn't tell you to stop. in fact, her cunt only flutters around you, greedy and overwhelmed and aching.

"nah," you murmur, brushing her hair to the side so you can kiss the back of her neck. "you're taking it. and you're doing so fucking good, nat. so good for me." 

and then you rock your hips, just once, just enough for her whole body to jolt forward on the bed, a broken moan punching out of her lungs. she can feel every ridge on the surface—the saliva you spit on, her own juices, everything. it's all too much and not enough at once. 

"jesus christ," nat hisses, squeezing her eyes shut like it would help. like it would make it easier to take you.

the grin that splits your face borders on feral as you start a slow, brutal rhythm. shallow thrusts that barely pull out before sinking right back to the hilt, giving her no time to think or even breathe.

no, she can't think when all she can feel is you. inside of her, stretching her out, wrecking her tight, fluttering cunt with each snap of your hips into hers. 

nat collapses down onto her forearms with a strangled whimper, thighs shaking violently from the effort of staying upright. her hair sticks to the sweat-slicked skin of her back, panting so hard you can hear every wet breath she fights to take.

good.

you want her fucking ruined.

you fish a hand in her hair, tugging her head back enough to make her arch even deeper. making her take you even deeper.

nat sobs at the angle, but once again makes no effort to pull away.

she doesn't want to.

"shhhh, i know, baby," you mock, low and cooing in her ear, digging your hips back slow and snapping forward hard enough to make the bedframe creak. "doing so good for me. so good."

she nods frantically, barely even aware she's doing it, like her brain's short-circuited into pure instinct. like all she's ever wanted to was to be good for you, to take your praise down her throat and choke on it.

you slam your hips forward again, and nat actually yelps, the sound immediately breaking into a desperate moan as she lets you take.

"such a good girl," you whisper, breath hot against her ear. "taking my cock like this. fucking hell, nat. you're perfect. my perfect girl." you emphasize every word with a snap of your hips, never stopping to cease your relentless pace.

you can practically feeling her tightening, spasming around the strap like she's right on the edge of something, and the thought of her coming just from this? just from the fullness, the stretch, the weight of you inside her? well. it makes you slam your hips harder into her.

"gonna make you fucking come like this," you pant, voice ragged with exertion. "gonna make you fucking break—!"

if you could see nat's face, you would see the tears spilling from her eyes as ragged moans rip from her throat with every thrust you greet her with. what you see is how her body tenses under yours, all her muscles locking up like she's trying to fight it, trying to be 'strong' and not give in.

"don't fight it," you breathe, sweat running down your face in small rivets, "c'mon, nat. be a good girl. be a good girl and come for me. come all over my cock. show me you want it."

the permission was all she needed, and the moan that leaves her sounds like a sigh of relief. she falls apart for you with a raw, broken cry, walls clamping down so hard around your pistoning shaft that it makes your head spin. her whole body trembles and spasms through it, wrecked and ruined and perfect.

you don't stop moving. no, you fuck her through it. slow and deep, grinding your hips into her until her sobs turn into wails from the overstimulation, until she's clawing at the sheets and practically begging you to move faster—but never stop. no, she doesn't want that.

"good girl," you whisper again, brushing her sweaty hair back from her face as she gasps for air. "so fucking good for me, nat. always so good."

[amazing-new-body]

The harness

(Part 1 here)

"I’m gonna drill your hole, bitch!" I said in a dominant and seductive tone.

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" Josh yelled, completely caught off guard. This clearly wasn't how I had planned for our little encounter to go.

I tried to calm him down. "Relax. It's me, honey, your Bruce."

That only earned me a knee to the crotch. The pain of my new pair of balls getting crushed sent me straight to the floor. I doubled over in agony, unable to even speak.

Josh rushed into the bathroom. "Ha ha, Bruce. Very funny," he said sarcastically. "Now show yourself. I know you're hiding here." He approached the shower curtain and yanked it open. "GOTCHA!"

His expression changed when he realized I wasn’t there.

He dashed back to me. I was still lying on the ground, clutching my balls in intense pain.

"HEY YOU! WHERE IS MY HUSBAND?!" he shouted, kicking my ribs. I hadn’t known he was this strong.

"Josh, hon, I am your husband," I managed to say, shifting back to my original body.

Josh’s expression turned guilty. He quickly offered me a hand to help me up. He sat me on the bed and hugged me tight. "I’m so sorry, Bruce. I never meant to hurt you."

"I get it. You don't find out your husband's a shapeshifter every day," I said with a smile. "I just wanted to help you relax before work."

I saw the concern in Josh's face and figured we weren’t going to have sex after all, so I decided to take the harness off.

"So you noticed how stressed I’ve been, huh? Today’s a big deal — we're closing a major sale with one of our potential clients," Josh said, ignoring everything that had happened just moments ago. "Anyway, I’m sorry I ruined your surprise."

"Nah, it’s fine. I picked a really hot one for you. Totally your type, right?" I teased.

"Now that you mention it, I do need to relax ASAP," he said, finally giving in.

"So, want me to help you unwind then?" I said, shifting back into the body of the go-go dancer. Thank God I had jerked off yesterday while wearing the harness; otherwise, my 'body memory' wouldn’t have saved the dancer's replica. This time, I shifted into a different set of clothes.

It was showtime.

"That’s so hot, Bru—" I shushed him.

"Call me Lucius, babe."

Josh chuckled. "Alright... that’s so hot, Lucius."

I strutted towards him, hips swaying like I owned the room. The tiny underwear I wore left little to the imagination — exactly as planned.

Josh stared at me with hungry eyes. He was completely under my spell, with no trace of concern or hesitation left.

I pushed him down onto the bed — a little rougher than intended. Whatever. He just laughed and pulled me closer.

We crashed into each other, kissing like there was no tomorrow. It got messy and sweaty within seconds. After all, Josh hadn’t been able to get hard for weeks due to stress.

His hands were everywhere, tracing every single muscle on my borrowed body. He worshiped my big biceps, asking me to flex now and then. At one point, he even went in for a deep sniff of my sweaty armpits. The scent was addictive to him.

Then his mouth joined the game.

Josh traced the Pitbull tattoo on my left pec with his tongue, while squeezing my right one with his hand. His other hand was busy taking care of my cock.

Before Josh even realized what was happening, I lifted his legs and grabbed my hard dick. I wasn’t sure if it was because my new tool was bigger, or if Josh’s ass had gotten tighter, but it felt like the first time all over again. I kept pounding him, each of his moans driving me to go harder and deeper.

"Choke me," Josh requested, his voice dripping with lust in a tone I'd never heard before.

I was startled by the request, but the moment it sank in, it made perfect sense. I was almost entranced by everything happening.

I wrapped my hand around his neck and began to squeeze.

Josh gasped, his hands reaching up to my arms — maybe trying to tell me something? I thought he was just getting into it, so I pressed harder, grinding against him.

I felt so powerful in this body. It was intoxicating. I forgot. I forgot just how strong this body really was.

Suddenly he jerked weirdly — once, twice — and then went completely limp.

I froze.

"Josh?"

No answer.

"Josh?!"

Panicking, I let go of his neck and shifted back to my real body without even thinking. He was just lying there, eyes closed.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

I scrambled to him, shaking his body.

"Babe?! Come on! Wake the fuck up!"

Nothing.

I checked his pulse. It was there. Thank God.

"Way to go, Bruce," I muttered bitterly. "Choke your husband out because you can't control your strength."

I sat there like an idiot, waiting for Josh to wake up. Then I noticed the clock: it was time for him to leave for work.

That's when I decided I had to fix this.

I spotted Josh's suit hanging in the changing room and rushed over to put it on.

Like many times before, my body transformed into an exact replica of the clothes' owner. This time, Josh’s face looked back at me in the mirror.

"Time to go to work," I said, mimicking his mannerisms.

(to be continued)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Be free to send suggestions on future bodies, series name, etc.

Next part is coming up soon!

[luviisabella]

healing with luviisabella ۶ৎBNHA UNI.AU

(short series, fluff) part two

-> katsuki bakugou 🩵

best friends

———————————————————————

You turned off your phone the minute you sent the texts. You figured it’s best to not occupy your mind with “what if..” and instead got up and walked to the kitchen for a snack.

It was 1am almost 2 so it wasn’t a surprise to see the dorms so quiet, however you were also aware some of your classmates were on patrol or heading out. The good thing about being a university student is you get a little more freedom but you’re still subjected to the “rules of a hero”, that being, late night patrols. Lucky for you Mina had taken your place because she needed the hours and you technically were well over.

You opened the fridge and were happy o be faced with the batch of cookies you and Denki made earlier that day. Warm chocolate chip cookies, well, now they were cold.. you quietly took out a plate and placed a couple before tossing them in the microwave to melt them.

That little bit of freedom I mentioned before came with a beautiful moonlit view from the kitchen that was connected to a patio deck.. it was nice on summer day when everyone would team up for water gun fights. For now, it just offered a peaceful view. You rested your elbows on the counter and just admired the moon and stars.

You smile slowly dropped as the thoughts you were pushing away slowly crept in.

“Dracula ?”

You hear a gruff voice stepping in closer only to notice it was Bakugou (given the stupid nickname which you earned from doing things like this).

“I’m sorry am i bothering you grumpy ?”

He sucked his teeth before opening the microwave and taking a cookie.

“Wow so generous of you to ask, of course you can have one” you can’t help but roll your eyes at his irritating smug face.

If it weren’t for the fact that your eyes looked a little different, he would’ve went back to his room but something urged him to ask.

“What’s wrong with you ?”

“Excuse me ??”

“You were crying yeah ? I’m asking what’s wrong.”

How the hell did he-

“I’m okay, just tired and my eyes were dry”

“Bullshit. You’re gonna try and lie to my face ?”

While he seemed like an ass, you two were actually pretty close friends, met in pre-school all the way through middle and high school and now.

You hesitated before answering him..

“I texted him..”

And you didn’t even have to say his name for him to know.

“I needed to get something off my chest and it helped. My heart feels lighter, but i still feel a little off.”

Silence…

“He hasn’t responded and probably won’t, whether he does or not i don’t care. I said what i needed to say-“

“Which was ?”

“That i forgave him. I forgave him for what he did and said. For how he hurt me. I told him he didn’t deserve to occupy my space or heart anymore. That i was releasing him from my mind.”

“I deserve better kats’” now you look up at him, met with what looks like a soft gaze.

He nods his head before relaxing against the counter opposite from you.

“That’s it ? A nod..”

“What ? You’ve got it figured out don’t you ?”

He has a point.. you did this for a reason.

“He wasn’t worth your time. I knew that and your bsf did too. You just needed to realize it for yourself and thank fucking goodness you did.”

You’re surprised by his words, Bakugou has his sweet moments but they always seem to catch you off guard.

“You deserve more than you think. Now that you’ve finally let go of someone limiting you of that, you’re gonna get back on your feet.” He reaches over to rest his hand on the top of your head.

“You’ve gotta get your head outta your ass tho.”

Great he ruined the mood.

But now he’s leaned in face to face..

“That love you give everyone else.. you should be giving to yourself. Be selfish.” He stands up and takes a step back.

“Look at how i turned out” as he reaches for another cookie.

Once more you can’t help roll your eyes, he’s such a pain in the ass, but he’s your pain int the ass and you know he always means well.

He loves you in his own way and you’re glad to have him as you learn to grow.

->

he ate all the cookies and you demanded he make a new batch.

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 6

Source for pic

Imperfect 6

Word Count: 4684

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I was going to post this yesterday, but then the blackout happened (Spain and Portugal left in the dark for over 12+ hours!) and I couldn't do it. So here it is. I had a wonderful time writing this chapter and I do hope you enjoy it. Let's see if Kid opens up a little bit or not... On another note, I thought I had the next chapter already written, but then another idea popped up, and now I'm writing another scene to pack in between these chapters! It's a nice scene, you'll all love it!

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

Killer lets a rare smile curve his lips, though his bandana keeps them hidden. He’s happy. You promised him you wouldn’t hold Kid’s actions against him and would try to prove him wrong. You were determined to show that stubborn ass he deserves some goodness in his life. 

And if Killer had any doubt about you being the one for Kid, he doesn’t anymore. You’re it. Even if neither you nor Kid can quite see the big picture yet, Killer is already thinking way down the line. 

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to pounce some wise words into that knucklehead. Knowing Kid, he probably spent last night drinking himself into a stupor, so it’s about time to call him a dickhead and get him to clean up his act. Killer doesn’t want his best friend to look like shit when you decide to come knocking. 

Killer’s eyebrow raises once he parks his bike and spies the ‘closed’ sign still hanging by the garage door. It’s after lunch, Kid should’ve opened up shop by now, since it’s Killer’s day off. 

He unlocks the door, and as soon as he opens it, he’s hit with a dizzying waft of stale booze. “Jesus fuck. It smells like a fucking back alley here. Kid?” Killer calls as he opens the gate to let in some fresh air, because the stench is already churning his stomach.

He hears a grunt in the back of the garage, followed by curses directed at him and at the blinding sun and warmth that Killer let inside the space. Killer sighs and makes his way towards the back, avoiding broken glass scattered on the floor as well as empty beer cans and bottles. 

“I fucking knew it,” he adds, a small migraine already creeping its way into his head and settling behind his eyes. 

Killer was ready to find Kid still pissed drunk or with a dreadful hangover. He wasn’t ready for the sight that greeted him.

Slumped against the worn-out couch stands his best friend: shirtless, covered in dried blood and blackish bruises, his prosthetic arm forgotten on top of the couch. Kid’s hair is a mess and also matted with dry blood. He has a split lip and a nasty cut on the eyebrow above the left eye - one that’s hooded and closed because of swelling. 

“You fucking went to Hellpit, didn’t you?” Killer’s voice is cold as fuck, his earlier smile now completely forgotten and replaced by a frosty frown. “You asshole.”

“Stop screamin’ for fuck’s sake,” Kid growls, his good eye scrunching and his jaw clenching in barely concealed pain. 

“I ain’t screaming, dickhead. I’m stating facts.” Killer kicks Kid’s blood-covered boot. “You need a fucking shower.”

Just earlier, when Killer was talking to you, he was begging you not to give up on Kid. And now it’s him who has half a mind to do it. Killer’s pretty fucking tired of this self-loathing shit.

The fleeting thought quickly evaporates his mind. He would never abandon his brother.

“You promised you wouldn’t go there anymore. That place is fucking lawless. One of these days, you’re gonna end up dead. Use your fucking head to think, dumbass!” Killer kicks his boot again before turning and grabbing the first aid kit from the shelf.

“Booze wasn’t helpin’. Needed something stronger.” Kid straightens up as he presses his hand against his nose. “Fuck. Think I might’ve broken my fuckin’ nose. Again.”

“Well, thank fuck a few punches helped. You look so much better, Kid.” Killer’s sarcasm flies straight over Kid’s head when the redhead sighs. 

“Aren’t ya listenin’? I just said it didn’t help.”

Killer inhales deeply as he crouches next to Kid and lowers his bandana. “Kid. You have people who care about you. Stop being reckless with your life,” Killer says softly, shaking his head. He has this speech on repeat. Kid has been going to underground fight clubs for years. He always comes back with a little bit less soul in him. 

And a lot more anger. 

“Aye, cut yer sanctimonious speech,” he says, waving his hand in dismissal. “I don’t need that shite today.”

“Well, tough shit. I didn’t need to see you in this sorry state either. We don’t always get what we want.”

“Preach, broth–motherfucker!” Kid hisses when Killer presses the gauze to his eyebrow, disinfecting the wound before patching it up. “Warn a man first, aye?”

“Oops,” Killer deadpans. He then works in silence, patching up Kid’s open wounds as best as he knows how, like he has done a thousand times over the years. Unsaid words linger between both of them, and the silence feels heavy and thick. 

Until Killer decides he’s had enough. “So you pushed her away again?” 

Kid grunts and avoids eye contact. 

“Self-destructing idiot,” Killer sighs, slowly collecting the bloodied gauzes to throw them in the trash.

“She’s too–”

“Save it! She’s what you deserve! We don’t always get what we want, no. But we do get what we deserve in life, Kid, even if it doesn’t feel like it.” He gets up to put the first aid kit away. “Stop wallowing in self-pity and just accept it. You’ve done your penance. Now start living for fuck’s sake.”

He glances over his shoulder and finds Kid gazing at the spot where the picture of their army squad stands. His best friend scrubs his hand hard against his mouth, his whole body locking, repressing words of deprecation and loathing. 

“She’s gonna come back to you. So get your shit together and stop being a fucking baby.”

Kid doesn’t answer him, but he gets up, goes to the bathroom, and when Killer hears the shower running, he sighs in relief. Maybe he got through to him. 

Maybe he’s decided that it’s finally time to allow himself to be happy. 

-*-

You’re a woman on a mission.

You spent the rest of the day and the whole night plotting instead of sleeping and decided you’re about to turn the tables on Kid. He doesn’t want to take a big step into your relationship? It’s fine. You’re both grown adults. How hard can it be to keep it in your pants?

Killer’s plea kept replaying in your head like a broken record: ‘Don’t give up on him’; ‘Prove him wrong.’ 

Oh, Eustass Kid is going to be proven wrong so hard, he won’t even know what hit him. 

Your plan is to leave the romantic tension behind and just have fun. Try to peel the layers of the complicated, brooding onion that he is and get to the core. Make him realize he deserves goodness in his life if only he allows it. 

And that’s why, as soon as the afternoon dwindles to its end, you arrive unannounced at the ‘Damned Punk Garage’.

You kick the door open, sunglasses perched on the tip of your nose, Kid’s leather jacket hooked on your index finger and draped over your shoulder. Killer takes one look at you and visibly relaxes, leaning back on the car he’s working on, ready for a show. 

You can see Kid’s boots sticking out from under Victoria, so you go near him and kick him on the heel. 

“The fuck?” He rolls from under the car, a scowl painting his grease-stained face. When he sees you, his eyes widen, and something shadows them. “Sparkles…”

“What the hell happened to you?” Momentarily forgetting your no-nonsense plan, you lean down, examining his wounds. There’s nasty swelling on his eye, the underside blackened and bruised. Not to mention the cut on his lip and eyebrow. He looks like shit.

Kid grins, chasing away the shadows in a heartbeat. “Worried, sweetheart?” You scoff, and he gets up, dusting his hands against his jeans. “Ran into a door.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“That’s the best lie you can come up with?”

“Fine. Ran into a fist.” You cock your head and frown, ready to pry him further, but then he sees his jacket hanging on your shoulder and his grin disappears. “Givin’ that back already?” 

Does he sound slightly hurt about it? There’s clearly still tension from what happened between the two of you, but you’re about to pull a Eustass Kid on him and completely ignore and disregard the matter. While you’re at it, you decide not to pry any further about his face. 

One step at a time. 

“This?” You look at the jacket and shake your head. “Not a chance, handsome.” Kid raises a brow, and you tilt your head so you can stare at him over the rim of your sunglasses. You point at his Harley and grin. “I want to go for a ride.”

You hear Killer chuckle slightly, but when Kid pierces him with his gaze, he gets back to what he was doing, pretending he’s not listening in on your conversation. 

“A ride?” Kid crosses his arms and assesses you, seemingly looking for something he’s missing as to why you’re acting like this. He’s probably thinking that you should still be pissed at him, since he pushed you away again. 

“Why not? Are you busy?”

“He’s not,” Killer chimes in.

“Shut the fuck up!” Kid growls, and Killer snickers softly. Then he reaches into his pocket and fishes out the keys to his bike, which he tosses at you. “Warm her up. I’ll go wash up.”

You grin as he turns and disappears inside the bathroom. Killer passes by you and squeezes your shoulder gently. “Thank you,” he says, before you put on Kid’s jacket and start his bike. 

You can do this!

-*-

Kid cruises the freeway like he freaking owns the road, leaning into the curves, the engine roaring beneath you as he picks up speed. The wind whooshes in your ears, tangling any hair that dared get free from the helmet, and you laugh. A loud, carefree laugh shakes your chest as you press it against Kid’s broad back and he seems to melt into the touch. 

A briny waft of fresh air hits you and you smell the sea before you see it. Another laugh escapes your lips as you realize Kid brought you to the ocean. 

The tires crunch over loose gravel as Kid cuts the engine and parks the bike. You both hop off, and you don’t miss how his eyes linger on the way his jacket hugs your smaller frame, something unreadable shadowing them.  

“The beach?” You practically stand on the heels of your boots, itching to take them off and bury your feet into the sand. 

“Aye.” Kid scratches the back of his neck as he puts the helmets away, and you both lean on the railing, watching as the waves lap gently against the soft sand. “When yer car broke down and ye called me, ye were here alone. I don’t need half a brain to know ye like it here.”

Kid avoids your gaze as he states this, and you can’t stop your silly little heart from taking a tumble and skipping an entire beat. 

“You’re right. I do like it here. Thank you.” You smile at him and then turn towards the ocean, before the lingering heat between you turns this into something you want, but can’t indulge right now. That’s not the plan. “Let’s go.”

You take off his jacket and kick off your shoes, dropping them near the bike, then sprint towards the shore, letting out a shriek when your feet enter the cold water. You twirl and kick up the surf with your arms raised in the air. Behind you, the sky’s bleeding red and orange as the sun starts to dip on the horizon. 

“Come on, grumpy pants!” you shout at Kid, waving your arms and beckoning him to the sea as if you were a siren and he a wandering pirate. 

“Ain’t gonna happen, Sparkles.” He grins but doesn’t move from the spot he stopped at once you entered the water. He didn’t even remove his boots.

“I’ll drag your ass inside!” you threaten, but that just makes him snort. 

“That would require a lot of muscle, which ye don’t have.”

“Are you challenging me?” you press your hands to your hips and glare him down.

“Is it really a challenge, though?”

You let out a barking, obnoxious laugh before pretending to crack your neck and roll your shoulders. Then you march towards him. “Challenge accepted!” Kid’s grin curves his lips upwards as he crosses his arms and spreads his legs far apart, like he’s daring you to try. 

Determination empowers your gait, and you stomp your way towards his massive frame, only getting slowed down by the unevenness of the sandy terrain. 

“Yer gonna hurt yerself,” he sounds perfectly amused. 

“Ah! We’ll see about that.” You don’t even think, with overconfidence in your stride, you rush towards him using the momentum of your little jog to wrap your arms around his torso and, if every movie, TV show, or wrestling match taught you anything, he should fall. 

He doesn’t even budge. 

“Wow.” Kid’s gaze drops and he stares at you, clinging to him as if your life depended on it, huffing and puffing as your feet get buried in the sand with the effort. “Do ye have an actual plan?”

“This is it…” you mumble between gritted teeth. Then you plant the soles of your feet on the sand and try to lift him up by sheer willpower. 

Kid actually lets out a barking laugh. An unfiltered, joyful laugh. You’re almost thrown out of balance by how unburdened he sounds, but quickly remind yourself that that is exactly the plan. 

“Look at ye tryin’ so hard!” he pats your head condescendingly, but does. not. move.

“You’re going down, Eustass!” Hooking a leg behind his, you try to throw him off balance, but once again, nothing you ever saw on TV is real because he doesn’t fall down! He doesn’t even tilt!

He laughs again. A very raw, clear, rumbling laugh that sets all the butterflies in your stomach aflutter, and you try to drown them out by sheer will as you continue your efforts to topple him. 

“Yer cute, Sparkles,” Kid deadpans. Then, without warning - and still laughing - he bends and scoops you up like you weigh nothing, hauling you as if you were a sack of potatoes. “Yer runnin’ so hot there that ye need to cool off.”   

When he carries you straight to shore, his plans become clear, and you start to squirm in his hold. “No! NO! Kid! Put me down! I was kidding!” Kicking your feet and thrashing in his hold doesn’t seem to help as he only continues to laugh.

“Any last words?” Kid asks with a hint of amusement as he approaches the water. 

“I’m sorry?” you try weakly, a laugh already bubbling up on the back of your throat.

“Wrong answer,” he makes a buzzing sound like you lost a contest and launches you into the water with a glorious splash. 

You sit up with a shriek, your clothes soaked, hair dripping, and a shocked look upon your face. “You didn’t!”

The image of Kid actually doubled over as he laughs his ass off is going to be imprinted into your brain for eternity. It feels like this stupid, silly adventure helped ease some weight off his shoulders. 

Which was exactly what you were aiming to do. 

You take advantage of the fact that he’s so distracted with his own mirth to jump forward and tackle his legs. He goes down with a splash larger than the one you produced and a loud curse, and now you’re the one laughing. 

“Ye menace!” Kid roars as he comes up, a piece of seaweed clinging to his face, and you nearly cry with how much you’re laughing. 

Soon enough, he’s holding you underwater, and then you’re both chasing each other around the shallow surf. 

Nothing else matters in this moment but having fun. There are no raised walls, no fears, no confessions… just fun.

-*-

The sky is laced with dark purple, and the sun can no longer be seen dipping on the horizon. You’re enjoying the last bit of twilight before heading back. Your arms are on the railing overlooking the beach, and you’re facing the horizon, hair blowing slightly in the wind as you close your eyes and let the remaining warmth of the day wash over you. 

Kid is trying very hard to squeeze the water from his favorite boots, and he’s about to direct his mild anger at you when he sees the expression on your face. 

Stopping his actions, he senses his chest constrict. His heart does a little somersault motion he doesn’t care to acknowledge and his eyes soften slightly. 

He was a dick to you. Scratch that. He’s been a dick to you since you two started hanging out. He pulls and pulls and pulls until you give in, and when you’re in his arms, his insecurities pummel him and knock him around like the useless piece of shit he is. And then he pushes and pushes and pushes until he wounds you. 

Yet, you’re always here. 

He can’t remember a single day in his life after the army where he felt so free, so at peace… unburdened. And you gave him that without him asking for it and without asking for anything in return. 

This just proves to him that he’s right in keeping his distance. You’re too good, too fucking perfect. He can’t ruin you. He won’t wreck you!

There’s no way he’s going to drag you down into the pile of shit he’s under. There’s enough misery in here to last him a lifetime, he doesn’t need you to share that with him. 

But when he looks at you and his stupid heart behaves like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest, he wants to be enough. God, he wishes he were enough. And that scares the shit out of him. Because however righteous he’s trying to be, he knows he’s a selfish prick who wants you all to himself. Even if that will destroy you. 

You shiver slightly, your clothes still wet from your silly taunts in the water, so Kid grabs his jacket, the one you were wearing and left on his bike, and makes his way towards you. Absently, he inhales its scent, cracking a smile when he realizes that it does smell like you.

And a little bit like him, too.

He drapes the jacket over your shoulders and breaks the spell you were under when you open your eyes and smile softly at him, thanking him. He leans on the railing next to you, trying to prolong the moment, but it inevitably has to come to an end. 

“Laughter becomes you,” you tease him, bumping his shoulder with yours and drawing a gruff chortle from his lips. “You should do it more often. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the grumpy, brooding type also works, but then again, I’d say you’re more the angry, in-your-face type.”

You’re rambling, and he finds himself laughing again. He grips the railing tightly until his knuckles turn white because he knows that if he doesn’t do that, he’s going to have to cup your face and silence you with an earth-shattering kiss. 

And as much as he would like to do that, he can’t.

You turn around on the railing, pressing your elbows against the upper part and letting your back lean into it. Then you tilt your head so you can look at him, and he tries to avoid your gaze. 

He can’t.

So he grips the railing tighter. 

“You don’t have to carry all of that alone, Kid. Whatever it is, and you don’t have to tell me what it is. I just want you to know I’m here for you. You can stop pushing me away.”

And now he forces his gaze to the ground, stupidly realizing he’s still only wearing one boot, and the other one is lying next to his bike. His brows furrow, and he’s about to answer when you start talking again. 

“Picture this,” your voice lilts again, into that bright and light, careless tone. “Zombie apocalypse. Best three spots to build a shelter and why. Go!”

The smile returns to his lips, and though he knows you’re deflecting his attention away from the serious subject you breached, it’s working. You delivered your message. He got it. 

Time to have fun again.

-*-

When Kid’s bike comes to a halt in front of your porch, the sky is already black, but your clothes are still slightly damp and stiff from the saltwater. You both hop off the bike, and you hand Kid his helmet. You’re about to unzip his jacket when he stops you, his hand over yours, stilling your motions. 

“Keep it for a little longer.”

Warmth spreads from his hand and tingles all over your body. Today was so simple, peaceful, and nice. And, God, you were so right. You knew that once you started to spend more time with Kid, you’d be drawn even more to him. The agonizing knot in your stomach attests to it. 

The more his walls crumble and the more his layers peel back, the more you want to dig. 

You don’t move to go inside, and Kid doesn’t make a move to leave. You’re not pressed together, but you’re close enough to him that you can feel his warm breath brush against your eyelids. 

It feels like the perfect time to kiss. 

You lock eyes with his, and what you see there makes your breath hitch. Desire and restraint. Want and caution. You know your gaze mirrors his, a craving barely held back by flimsy self-control. The only thing lending you enough discipline to withstand the will to jump him is the fear of him shutting you out again.

One step at a time. 

Kid takes one step closer, and his broad frame towers over you. Yet, this time, he’s not demanding. His fire is not burning hot, it’s a low ember burning steadily but bright. He raises his hand, and you trap a breath between your teeth, not quite knowing what to expect. 

Then, with much less bravado than the last time he touched you, Kid runs his thumb over your lower lip. His touch is almost reverent, barely there, and yet it scorches. His eyes don’t leave yours, as if he’s searching for something.

There are an insurmountable amount of words left unspoken between you two, and you know deep in your bones that this moment feels too precious, too fragile to shake it so harshly. 

So, neither of you speaks. 

And still, the unspoken words linger in the air like a soft morning haze. A promise, a vow, as if to say: ‘I won’t kiss you tonight. Not tonight. We’ll take things slow.’

The moment drags and lingers, and so does his touch. When Kid drags his thumb away from your lips, it feels like forever has passed and, at the same time, like not enough time was spent in this moment. 

He gives you one last burning look before turning and climbing onto his bike. “G’night, Sparkles.”

-*-

Kid is not surprised to find the garage lights still turned on when he arrives. He had an inkling that Killer would be waiting for him to return - the nosy bastard. 

He slides the gate open and rolls his bike inside. His boot still squelches obnoxiously every time he takes a step, but he doesn’t even find the strength to frown. 

He’s too goddamned happy.

“Look who’s back! And just in time for curfew. I was already planning how I was going to ground you.” Killer lowers his bandana and grins at Kid. Then he has to stifle a snort when he sees the state his best friend rolled in. “What the fuck happened? Were you rolling in the sand? Lose a bet or something?”

Kid can’t help the way the corner of his mouth quirks up. At this point, it’s like an involuntary spasm every time he thinks about you. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Shit, dude, you’re actually happy, aren’t you?” Killer drops the remote control for the small TV of the back office and strides closer to Kid, tilting his head so he can have a better look at his face. “She shoved you into the water?”

Kid grins, scratching the back of his head and trying to avoid eye contact. “Aye. But she cheated,” he grunts half-heartedly. 

“Cheated? What do you mean? She batted her eyelashes, and you melted and forfeited?” Kid doesn’t say anything, and Killer whistles. “You’ve got it bad, man.”

For the first time in what feels like an entire lifetime, Kid doesn’t feel the urge to drown his thoughts in alcohol after a workday. Instead, he sits on the couch, places his arms behind his head, and grins.

An absent thought reminds him that he should clean his prosthetic because of the saltwater, but that practicality is easily replaced by your smiling face. 

So he smiles too.

“Fuck. You’re smiling.” Killer is baffled, and Kid doesn’t even have the strength to tell him to shut the fuck up. 

His best friend slumps into the seat next to him and stares into nothingness. They both do, letting the weight of everything settle between them. 

After a while, Killer speaks, breaking the silence. “She’s good for you, man. I know I said it before, and I’ll say it again.”

Don’t fuck it up. Killer’s unsaid words ring in his ears, despite not having uttered them. He knows Kill like the back of his hand, knows what he’s thinking but is too polite to say. 

“Don’t mean I’m good for her, though.” Kid didn’t want to go there. Not today, not like this. But he can’t escape the truth. It’s better to just deal with it. 

“Don’t do that, brother.” Killer shifts so he’s facing Kid. “Don’t act like you’re a ticking time bomb waiting to blow up in her face.”

Kid closes his eyes, and some of the lightness you brought him today dissipates, taking away all sense of warmth. 

“That’s what I am, Kill. That’s what I do.”

“We’ve talked about this before. You’re not a fucking monster, Kid. She sees that, she sees you. Sees past your bullshit and the crappy walls you hide behind. She wants that, she’s here.” Kid clenches his jaw and swallows past the lump in his throat. “You pushed her away, but she’s still here.”

Kid’s lip twitches up into a small smile again.

“You really fucking like her, don’t you?”

Kid punches Killer’s shoulder with a growl. “Stop makin’ it weird, asshole.”

“I ain’t making it weird, man! It’s already weird enough to see you smiling like a teenager in love, smelling like a wet dog, and having hearts for eyes.” Killer grins and gets up with a jump, escaping Kid’s reach just as he’s about to pounce again. “Fucking lover boy!”

“Oi!” Kid barks, enraged but not truly angry. “Do ye want a new set of teeth?”

“You’re offering dental now? The perks of the job have just been raised!” 

Kid guffaws loudly and settles back on the couch, draping one arm over his eyes, the stupid grin never leaving his face. He can still smell the salt and the sand on his skin. He can even smell you. That characteristic scent of your perfume that now haunts his dreams. 

He was so close to claiming your lips again, hell, he wanted to. But this time he didn’t. He wants to do things properly now. He doesn’t want to kiss you just out of desire, only to regret it the next minute. 

Maybe Killer is right. Maybe he does deserve happiness now. Yet he knows he can’t fuck it up. So one step at a time it is. 

Killer keeps taunting him good-naturedly, and Kid lets him, only telling him to fuck off once or twice. 

Sleep comes easier today. And that’s a fucking first. 

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen

Check out @igiulss sketch of roughed up Kid! Bonus, he's wearing a leather jacket!

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[loveyislost]

INTRO: KYŌTANI

the seven of hearts: romance, passion, desire for connection, but a warning as to what will happen if you don't keep your word

masterlist

he’s not there, not really. his mind anywhere else as mai drones on.

he should probably be paying attention to his girlfriend, but honestly, it’s not like he cares.

“…and i tried to tell hana that that shade of fuchsia was so last year, but she fucking wore it to my dinner anyways. it was so fucking humiliating.” 

he can hear the whine in her voice, the one that makes him wanna slam his head through the plaster wall of his shitty apartment. “yeah, yeah. what a bitch.”

she starts up again, and he just sighs.

if he’d had his way, she wouldn’t even be here right now. she would’ve texted, asking if he was busy, and he would’ve been. but she’d just shown up at his goddamn door, his car out front meaning he couldn’t pretend to be out.

his palm, rough from life and blistered from hours in the gym, runs down his chest. there’s a dull pain from the hickeys and scratches his girl had left there last night. no, not his girlfriend, his girl. 

maybe he should try to be more conspicuous, what with the whole ‘being in a relationship’ thing, but she’s not gonna see it. it’s not like they don’t have sex, unfortunately, but mai doesn’t get to see him. face down, ass up, shrill whines muffled in the pillow. the lights stay off, his mind stays elsewhere. he always pulls out, finishes on her ass, then leaves, scrubbing her off of him in the shower and kicking her out with some half assed excuse.

a soft ding sounds in his pocket, the specific one he’s chosen for her.

he pulls it out, lips lifting in the smallest ghost of a smirk, the closest he really ever gets to a smile. mai says something about him not paying attention, her voice doing that thing where every sentence ends sounding like a question.

waving her off, he slides up on his screen, leaning back against the wall while he slips his shoes on, grabbing the worn, leather jacket left on the back of the couch. his voice is gruff, not even caring enough to play sweet, “gotta go. big delivery.”

she hasn’t even answered before he’s slipped out, door clicking behind him. it’s almost silent as it clicks against the frame, not out of politeness, but rather habit.

it’s warm out, a soft breeze blowing past him, the kind that whips in his eyes and makes him squint, his permanent glare becoming even more pronounced.

there’s a hand in his pocket, fidgeting with the bone handle of his pocket knife, the other typing back a response.

he passes by the dreary, grey buildings, and it’s almost fitting, not dark, in the broken down ways of the worst neighborhoods, but not bright either, like those pictures he always sees on the internet of japan. it’s just boring , nothing, empty. but he can’t focus on that, because, oh god, oh, she’s pissed. and in the best fucking way.

extras!

kyōtani and alisa dated for three years

he honestly was just never super into the relationship, so when their careers and lives got busy, he ended things and didn't really feel anything about it

he's best friends with yahaba because he's the only one who actually calls him on his shit and doesn't get offended when kyo is being an ass

lives in an old apartment with yahaba, tsukishima, and iwaizumi

he's currently working at a skate store downtown for minimum wage

he and y/n started hooking up within a week of him breaking up with alisa, and days after she and yahaba ended things

they're idiots, but have enough sense to realize that telling people would not have ended well

kept trying to end things, but something about the toxicity of the cycle kept them coming back

within a few months, they were both in relationships to try and just move on

kyo started seeing mai because she showed interest and seemed like someone one would be expected to date

it took all of three days for him to be sick of her shit, but at this point a breakup while y/n is still in her relationship feels like he's losing some kind of competition

he refuses to do any of the sappy boyfriend shit for mai (he isn't the the other do that stuff anyways, but certainly not for her) so she posts and says things to make it seem like he does

bonus round!

correctly guess who y/n's boyfriend is for your username to be used in an smau as an npc's username

taglist! taglist is open, complete this form to be added

@kawoala @dumdogs @xemowaffle @sexylexy12

[freak-accident419]

playing cards

Derek Danforth x GN!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | More parts coming soon

Summary: As Derek gets drunk, he spots a rather attractive person he feels desperate to spend the night with. Consequently, you were tasked with helping him sober up so he wouldn't be so foolish when approaching her.

Word Count: 4.4k

Content: gender-neutral reader, angst, Mickey angst, fluff, drinking, throwing up (brief mention of the texture), Derek's mommy issues continues, reader and Derek get closer

Ao3 Link

-

"Huh?" You nearly scoff at Derek's abrupt proposal.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," he reasons, beginning to sit up on the bed with an eager smirk.

"Uh, yeah, actually, it is," you huff, looking down at your wristwatch, "it's literally five here."

"Okay, great, even better," he says, immediately getting up from the mattress, "let's go."

"Wait, hold on," you interject, stopping in front of him. "There's no way you're getting blackout drunk at a time where you're supposed to be keeping up a good reputation! And, what, especially in front of those investors, who, conveniently, are also on this boat! Derek, you're going to blow your own cover!"

Derek gave your words the smallest amount of thought until he shook his head dismissively. "That's why... You can keep an eye on me."

What the hell.

"Seriously? You drinking your ass off is one thing, but leaving me out of it? That is so unfair!" You exclaim angrily. "This was your plan, and the only person being tortured in this deal so far is me! I always get the short end of the stick! Jesus Christ, Derek, have some, what, consideration? I'm bending over backwards for this bullshit, and you don't have any decency to advocate for me!"

Derek was always frustrating. Hell, you never really knew how you were still friends with him because somehow, you two just made it work. He was a shameless product of nepotism; he went from eating baby carrots to caviar off of the same silver platter ever since he was born. He was arrogant, selfish, inconsiderate, and an overall pain in the ass. He would boss everyone around him, regardless of age or role, unless, of course, they were his mother.

But he was barely his mother's son. As respectable and graceful as Jessica Danforth was, he was the complete opposite. Unlike her, he couldn't last a meeting without rudely interrupting somebody, so who's to say he could lead an entire nation? Derek was difficult, and that was that. It was like walking on eggshells trying to deal or negotiate with him, even if it was the most mundane, simple thing. Yet you were still best friends with him, yet you agreed to this overcomplicated deal to help him. Really, it was tricky to pinpoint why exactly you still dealt with his bullshit. Hell, the only thing you could seem to truthfully admit was that he wasn't so much of a bad person.

Sure, he had his whole phishing scam business. That wasn't excusable. But Derek always had his ways of showing his care for others, even if a few are unethical. He wasn't 100% malicious, nor a sociopath. The point is, even after all this, he cares about you and the people he loves. It's not an amazing quality, as it should be an inherent trait in a human being. But for Derek, it's a start.

Still, you were pissed as hell.

"Fine, fine!" He huffs, taking in your words. He should've felt bad for you, he should've felt guilty, but when it came to situations like that, he couldn't exactly read the severity or the implications of his own actions. "You can drink with me."

You sigh as Derek was still not understanding it, mostly because he had always been very dense. "No, I don't w—"

"Then what the fuck do you want?" He interjects, eyebrows furrowing. "You want to drink, you don't want to drink—"

"I want you to be responsible," you say harshly, watching his lips form quickly into a frown. "The whole reason, the whole fucking reason why we're here, why I'm here, in the first place, is because you wanted to prove to your mom that you're 'good now' and that you deserve every penny she gives you. And if you can't even follow your own plan, then this is all pointless. It's bullshit."

Finally, Derek consciously absorbs your reasoning. He was still stubborn about it, but he, for once, wasn't going to be a big asshole while knowing he was in the wrong. He hated how you were always right, and he especially hated whenever it felt impossible to argue with your logic.

"I won't drink too hard," he says in defeat, his volume lowering, "you can drink with me, no babysitting. We're on vacation, we can play it off that way. No hard drinking, no hard drugs in front of anyone, and I won't seem like that guy who took a belly shot off a stripper from weeks ago. Does that sound good?"

You didn't exactly want to scold him either. You weren't his parent, but he could be so childish at times that it's impossible to treat him like an adult. So now, with him making that compromise to accommodate to your wishes, it felt so artificial; unsatisfying when he gave in. Because all you felt like at this moment was, well... his parent.

"I'm just advising you," you exhale, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, I'm not your mother. I'm just... I'm just saying, it's probably not good to go crazy tonight if you don't want to get caught by Wallace or your mother. But you know what?... Do whatever you want. I'm kind of exhausted, so I'll probably just shower and hit the sack."

Derek pursed his lips, observing your current beaten state before shrugging slightly with a sigh. "Alright. Uhh, I'll be at one of the bars, probably meet up with the rest of the guys." You simply just nodded at his words. "And Y/n... You know you're always welcome to join us. I'll pay for your tab, it's whatever."

You nod again, watching him get ready to leave the room.

Of course, there's been a lot of tension that the two of you never got to release on each other. Just always brushing it off with humor and playing it off as "playful banter." It was frustrating, though; you having to deal with Derek's recklessness, him having to deal with your responsible rationality. You were each other's anchors, which was what made your friendship worked—or at least you thought.

The problem was having to be in this role where you had to pretend to be his romantic partner. You hated the lack of authenticity. Even knowing you had to fake it, even knowing it was fake, you hated how this was a lie. But you didn't know what made you feel worse; having the public think you were dating your best friend or the fact that this kind of relationship would always be impossible that it can only ever exist as a lie.

No, that's ridiculous. You didn't see him that way, of course, you would never date him. It was just insulting to you, that's all. Dating you shouldn't be so painful to lie about. Dating you shouldn't feel so condescending. You would be a great partner, you thought. And that was definitely your problem with this entire plan. Nothing else.

***

As Derek left the cabin, leaving you to take a shower, you decided to explore the ship afterwards, just for the time being. As your footsteps would gently meet the lavish planks of the deck, you spotted a familiar figure looking out at the ocean in a reflective fashion.

"Mickey?" You ask, standing beside him after realizing who it was.

"Oh. Hey, Y/n," he smiled weakly at you, looking back at the faint horizon line where the sky met the sea.

"How are you feeling?" You inquire, considering what happened in the past between him and Derek.

"I'm fine," he shrugs, shaking his head dismissively. "Seriously, it's not a big deal."

"I know," you remark, placing your hands on the railing as you stood on the edge of the ship with him, "but... I don't know, you've been so quiet. It's just... The friend group's never been the same ever since."

Mickey ponders at your words, feeling a wave of guilt, and then exhaustion. "It's not like I, um, like him anymore," he mutters, barely looking at you. "It's just, uh... I guess I'm just... offended? Like... Would it have been that embarrassing to be seen with me, y'know? I mean, I know I'm not perfect and, hell, invest too much in crypto, but... it's not like he's any better than me. But he constantly acts like it, which is fucking frustrating."

You frown as you listen to his perspective, sighing to yourself. You couldn't disagree, he was a hundred percent right. "Derek's a dick," you huff, "honestly, it's surprising how all of us, at one point, are able to stand it. But... You know him. He's afraid of intimacy. Real intimacy. He's too afraid of getting too close to someone, too afraid of disappointing anyone. He thinks it's better to leave first so that he doesn't get hurt."

"So then I should get hurt?" Mickey scoffs, looking at you now.

"No, it's just... I'm not excusing his actions. What he did was completely idiotic. All I'm saying is... he's a moron. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Derek's just... not exactly the standard for dating or the arbiter of who's a good partner, so... you're not as unworthy as he might've made you feel."

He pursed his lips, face contorting in contemplation. "It's just... I feel so used. I know, I knew it was a fling and there was nothing else to it, but... One of the things he told me was that we couldn't... be anything more because he didn't want to be seen dating a friend of his, or someone who doesn't come from a rich family, and..."

That was your exact concern.

"He's only doing this because his money's at risk. That's all," you reply softly, "there is no other motivation bigger than losing his money for him to fake date one of his friends, let alone me. It has nothing to do with you. I promise you that."

Mickey shrugs, disregarding your words. Not maliciously, just... unconsciously. Then you realized it was much more of an internal struggle. He needed direct closure from Derek himself. "I'm gonna go get a drink," he nods at you kindly before walking away, "thanks for this..."

As you watched him leave, you frowned to yourself, feeling the exhaustion of today's events finally catch up with you. Hell, you needed a drink too.

Motivated to search for one, you turned your body around, facing away from the view of the ocean. Suddenly, your eyes trailed to the empty lounge chairs on the deck with their corresponding tables. A box of Capri-Sun was just sitting there, unattended.

Huh. Change of plans.

***

The alcohol burned his throat as Derek took a swift, smooth swig, hearing the laughter and shouts of his friends around him. This was probably his fifth damn shot ever since the group occupied a colorful bar in the cruise ship. Soft music played in the background as they all sat in a cushioned booth.

"I can't believe Y/n isn't here," Rachel huffed in disappointment, looking around the space as if you would pop out of thin air.

"Yeah, well they're a fuckin' lame-o," Derek slurs, swishing his empty shot glass around, "why are they so serious? They've never been so uptight before. It's so annoying."

"Maybe because you put them in a position where they have to be your partner?" Trevor raises an eyebrow, sneering playfully. "No offense, dude, but I feel like anyone would feel humiliated if they had to date you. Again, no offense."

Derek shot him a menacing glare while everyone else laughed at him.

"I stand by that," Connor cackles, elbowing his friend, "being romantically involved with the country's nepo-brat himself? Says a lot about your self-respect."

"Shut the fuck up." The said nepo-brat retorts as he feels his head throbbing. He wasn't actually upset, however, despite his enormous ego. Even as his friends weren't so far from the truth, he could easily handle their targeted jokes. Unlike a large sum of people, they surprisingly didn't befriend him for his money. After all, they had several things in common: being rich, being educated, and being grade-A assholes.

"Hey, Danforth," Trevor pipes, shoving him obnoxiously, "hot chick, three o'clock."

Derek looks in the direction he was told, only to see a tall, gorgeous woman around his age, sitting on a barstool while mingling with her friends. Of course he was never new to her level of beauty, as he's hooked up with all types of people in the past. So no, her looks weren't the reason why he felt so desperate now. Truthfully, it's been a long time since he's gotten some. Ever since this whole fake dating arrangement, Derek had never gotten the time or chance to get into bed with someone enticing, or just anyone at all. He was always a fan of pleasure, a big fan of one-night stands. And right now, he was craving one.

"Fuck," he groans, strongly motivated to push through the drunken migraine he was experiencing. "I gotta... go talk to her..."

"No, dude," Trevor huffs in amusement, trying not to burst out into laughter, "you're way too drunk, you'll scare her away."

Derek frowns, unappreciative of his friend's deliberation. "I swear to fuckin' god, Trev, if I don't bang at least one goddamn person on this boat—"

"Relax," he chuckles, massaging Derek's left shoulder, "I'm just saying, you should sober up first. Not too sober, obviously, but you need to be well aware enough to make smart choices. Like, I know you'd fuck up the whole you and Y/n thing and someone's gonna find out." Derek nods as he listens to half of the things he heard, eyelids growing heavy. "Go back to your room, Y/n can sober you up, and when you're ready, you can come back and screw this girl."

Derek's thoughts were hazy and ran slowly in his brain like traffic. He couldn't focus on any of the steps instructed to him, nor did he feel inclined to comply.

"Hey, you know something?" Rachel chimes in, "there's this one thing you always do whenever you're way too drunk to function. It's almost, like, a signal for when you should stop drinking for the night."

"Oh, yeah!" The rest of the group exclaimed in a discordant manner, all laughing at the inside joke Derek wasn't yet aware of.

"What?" He furrowed his eyebrows curiously. "What do you mean, what do I do?"

"Basically," Connor chuckles, "we always know you're far too gone whenever you propose doing a flip. You say that every fucking time you're too drunk. Not when you're buzzed, not when you're tipsy, but every single time you're absolutely hammered. I swear, every time you're, like, 'watch me do a flip' or some stupid shit like that."

"No way," Derek grumbles in refusal, not recalling any memory of him saying those things, "I don't do that." To be fair, however, he wouldn't even remember anything from the times he was too drunk. Therefore, he couldn't even be a credible source for his own experiences.

"Uh, yeah, you do! Every time!" Rachel cackles with a wide grin. "One time, we didn't stop you because you wanted to do a skateboard trick, and you absolutely ate cement, man. We even got that on video!"

Derek groans in embarrassment, feeling his migraine grow. "Whatever. One more drink," he grumbles before a knowing smirk appears on his lips. Everyone around him scowled, watching him down more liquor, even if he was far too deep in intoxication.

"Hold on, one more," he giggles shamelessly, as he quickly finished the previous drink.

***

"Derek?" You huff in surprise as you hear the door swing open, seeing your friend stumble back into the suite.

"H—" before he could even say one word, he rushed to the bathroom to throw up in the toilet. As he fell on his knees, his hands gripped the poor, porcelain seat of the toilet. You followed him immediately, placing your hand on his back in deep concern.

"What the hell?" You gasp, "dude, how much did you drink?"

Derek coughed out the last bits of vomit, staring straight at the toilet bowl and the floating chunks that left his stomach, furrowing his eyebrows. "Where does flushed shit go on a boat?" He mumbles distractedly, failing to answer you. "Does this go straight into the ocean? That's so messed up..."

You roll your eyes anyway, having been accustomed to his drunken mannerisms. This actually wasn't the first time you dealt with him like this, which probably made you harsher than anyone would've been in this scenario. "Why would you care about what's messed up or not? You literally run one of the most immoral businesses in the world."

"Yeah, well, doesn't look like you're doing anything to stop me," he scoffs bitterly, looking up at you in the eyes, "having said that, you're just as bad as me."

You hated whenever he brought this up to refute you. How you never bothered turning him in, never bothered telling anybody. But was that not your moral obligation as his best friend? Were you supposed to get him caught or keep his criminal life private? Why did you seem to prioritize him over the thousands of vulnerable people in this world?

"I'm fucking with you," he smirks humorously, while you knew damn well he wasn't kidding. "I need to... sober up. There's this... chick at the bar I wanna hook up with and I can't risk anything, so... just need to be more conscious or whatever bullshit Trevor said. Can you help me?"

Immediately, you disapproved of it. "That's a terrible idea," you retort. "If anyone finds out about this, you'd be deemed a cheater. I don't care who you sleep with, but the purpose of this trip—"

"I'll make sure she keeps it a secret. Pay her, even," he says, his squinted eyes pathetically trying to meet yours, "Come on. Help me."

Why did you even bother?

"Fine," you sigh, standing up from your knees to flush the toilet.

The two of you sat quietly on the edge of the bed as you handed Derek some water. He gulped a substantial amount after muttering a thank you.

"You know you can't truly 'sober up' that fast, right?" You scoff. "You'd have better luck sleeping it off."

"But I have her right where I want her. It's a filthy one-night stand, not a perfect meet cute," he grumbles before taking a second glance at you. A foil juice pouch was in your hands as you ripped off the attached straw. "What is that? Holy shit, is that a Capri-Sun?"

You nod, poking the pouch's hole with the thin yellow straw. "Yeah."

"Where did you get it?" He asked with a sudden deep interest.

"I just... found some lying on a table on the decks, it probably belonged to some kid," you shrug casually.

"You stole it?" He huffs in shock, not expecting you, of all people, to do such a thing.

"Derek, think about the kinds of people who can afford this cruise, okay? Upper class families. I'm sure whoever it is, they'd be okay with a few missing Capri-Suns," you scoff. "I can promise you this, dude, it's not as bad as stealing money from old people." Clearly, you couldn't help but constantly bring it up. You had always felt bitter about it the moment he told you of it.

Derek pouts before groaning, sinking down towards you to lay his head on your lap. You were only slightly taken aback, as this was a common habit of a drunk Derek. But it was always surprising to you nonetheless, since you never really knew when he was going to do that. "It's not like... I'm evil, you know?" He mumbles bashfully.

You raise an eyebrow at his quiet words, letting him continue.

"Of course it's fucking unconventional and immoral and whatever. But the thing is... I'll never make the amount of money my dad did when he was still alive. And you're telling me I have to follow in his footsteps? That's ridiculous, for me, at least," he huffs. "Especially for me, actually."

You didn't know what compelled you to do so, but your hand landed on his head, feeling his soft curls between your fingers until you could feel his scalp. You were nearly petting him. And you hated it because ultimately, it confirmed your sympathy for him. You genuinely almost felt sorry for him. So what else were you supposed to do anyways?

Derek felt his heart tighten at your touch. It was all too familiar. Too much like his mother's. But he didn't want to think about it like that, not when it was you. "Everyone used to expect so much of me, even before Dad died. Until they learned that all I could do is disappoint. Now everyone expects the very least of me, which, fair enough.

"Danforth Enterprises has been slow, especially ever since I took the position. And I'm supposed... I owe something to my mother. I owe everything to her. And if all that money could... get her to be president, get her to think I'm a successful CEO, then... that's just... That's why I do it. I just... was far too gone. I'm in too deep now."

Derek felt a sting every time you stroked his head. It was horrible, it was as if he was back in his mother's grasp, when everything was much simpler, when he wasn't seen as such a failure. When a damn drawing of the private helicopter in crayon was the best thing he ever did in her eyes. When did he become such a disappointment now?

"It's shitty," you sigh, your own voice grounding him. It was you. This was your hands, your touch, not his mother's. The same voice that belonged to the smile that greeted him in his freshman year at MIT. You. "That doesn't excuse it, and I'm sure you know that. But... You're being too hard on yourself, Derek. I'm sure your mom would've appreciated it if you genuinely worked hard and show that you earned that position. The extra flashy money obviously never worked."

He hated being scolded. Being told what to do. But somehow, your words were a comfort to him instead. Maybe he was this vulnerable because he was intoxicated, but that was rarely ever the case.

The one thing he knew right now, though, was that it was your hands, your fingers, your touch, your voice that embraced. Not his mother's. And for that reason, he loved it.

"Can I have some of your Capri-Sun?" He asks coyly.

"You shouldn't have any sugary drinks when you just threw up," you advise.

"You're just gatekeeping it," he grumbles, shutting his eyes.

A soft chuckle leaves your lips as you continue to scratch his scalp. Derek felt his heart rush at the sound.

"You have a nice laugh," he mutters.

You paused your hand movements on his head, stunned by his words. "What?"

"I like your laugh," he confesses quietly, opening his eyes and fidgeting with his fingers. "It's nice." Then, he nudged your body with his head as a plea to resume your touches.

You continued playing with his hair curiously. He's never acted like this around you. Ever. What changed?

"Th—"

"And I mean it," he adds, closing his eyes once again in contentment, "you're great. I'm sorry for getting you caught up in all of this. It was never fair to you."

You sigh softly at Derek's admission, feeling the curly strands of hair beneath your fingertips. "Thank you," you mutter appreciatively.

"I know I said I'd make it up to you with Fiji and money, but... that's probably not enough. Maybe I'll be a 'yes-man' for a week. I dunno. Something like that," he reckons.

You felt so warm right now. You weren't sure what it was. Either a metaphorical would-be-disaster of a feeling or the fact that Derek's head was resting on your lap, giving off heat. And while you could admit that you enjoyed the feeling, you realized you might've distracted him from his initial goal.

"Come on, buddy," you sigh, trying to prop him back up, removing his head from your lap, "I think by the time you walk back to the bar, you'd be all ready for her."

"Oh, right. Oh yeah," Derek huffs as he also remembers the whole point of coming back to the room so early, "yeah. She's, uh, she's so not ready for this." He chuckles weakly, gesturing towards himself.

You pat his shoulder in a friendly manner, establishing the extent of your relationship. Friendship, rather. "Give 'em hell," you smile softly, helping him get up before he walked by himself towards the door.

Once the door closed behind him, Derek stood in the hallway, feeling unsure of himself. He felt lost, and it wasn't just because of the alcohol. He began to retrace his steps, vaguely remembering the face of the woman at the bar. Yes, she was pretty, but... for some reason, he just didn't want to go through with it. Which was insanity, because Derek never passed the chance to screw an attractive person. It all just felt so different, all of a sudden. Like there was a consequence and that it mattered. Like it just wasn't right to do.

He wanted to go back into the room with you.

He didn't care about the woman at the bar.

He really didn't want to admit it, really, but all he wanted was to be held by you once more. Just for a little longer.

And there was only one excuse that could help him get away with it.

Your eyes shot up as you hear the door burst open once again, seeing Derek stumble more messily than before.

"Hey, wait. Before I go... watch me do a flip!" He smiles widely, purposefully slurring his words.

In your perspective, Derek definitely wasn't sobered up enough to meet with that girl he was talking about. Surely, the flip nonsense would signify he was way too drunk to function. It was something he's always done that you and your friends noticed. Finally, you concluded that he could barely sober up in time before the night ended, having to stay with him like this, which was exactly what he wanted you to think.

Rolling your eyes with a slight grin, you scoff. "Come here," you groan, watching him come back to you. You handed him a Capri-Sun, finally, as you two sipped the juice in contented silence. And soon enough, his head was back in your lap as your hands were back in his hair.

[sitkowski]

watching heaven burn (jolly karlsson x nicholas ruffilo)

pairing: jolly karlsson x nicholas ruffilo cw: 18+ MDNI ⚠️ angst, discussions of mental health, post tour burnout, mentions of therapy sessions, a little bit of a slow burn fix, making up, blowjobs, finger sucking, unprotected anal sex w/ minimal prep, happy ending. word count: 3.5k author's note: the fix it continuation of the white light of the morning. this one kicked my ass, but happy endings all around. title comes from a trashboat song, divider by @strangergraphics

⇉ masterpost || taglist signups || read on ao3

The slam of the door echoes through Jolly’s head for days.

He somehow manages to avoid Nicholas when he comes back to get some of his stuff, and to get the cats. Maybe it’s weird to feel hopeful to see the majority of his things still in the apartment; he doesn’t think that he deserves the hope right now. But even if it’s small, it is still there. For all he knows, He’ll come home and find everything gone one day.

He’s managed to avoid Nicholas, but there’s no avoiding Noah, who shows up after just a few days. He lets himself into the apartment like he’s always been known to do, and gives Jolly a mock disapproving look.

“You know, only one of us is allowed to have a mental breakdown at a time,” he says as he looks around the living room.

Jolly hasn’t been the best at taking care of things right now. He’s not really taking care of himself if he’s being honest. There’s a pile of takeout containers on the coffee table, one of his guitars on the sofa. The place is a mess, and he wishes he cared more about it.

He scoffs, “Right, I forgot.”

“Hey,” Noah frowns. “I was joking. What’s going on?”

“You mean Nicholas didn’t tell you?” he doesn’t really believe it given how close the two of them are, but Noah’s confusion seems genuine. “I broke up with him.”

He’s only said the words out loud to Nicholas, and to the therapist he started seeing. It doesn’t make it any less painful. He wasn’t expecting the break to be like this, he wasn’t expecting to feel like this. The air in the apartment feels thin as Noah just stares at him as if he told him he was quitting the band.

“You broke up—he didn’t say anything. What happened, why—what did you do? Jolly, what the hell did you do?”

Noah’s not yelling at him, but Jolly wants to stand up and shout at him. He doesn’t though, he just wraps his hands around the back of his neck and slumps forward, closing his eyes. “I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t be okay for myself and for him. I fucked up, Noah.”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting now that he’s told him, but it’s not for Noah to kneel down in front of him and make him look at him. He looks so disappointed, it makes Jolly want to cry. But he’s also not punching him or walking out the door, so he considers that some sort of win.

“Are you talking to someone?” he asks, and Jolly blinks at him. “Therapy? Talking out your shit, working through the burnout?”

Jolly realizes that Noah probably knows exactly what he’s going through. They took a break from touring because of it. But Noah didn’t set fire to the best thing in his life just because he felt so mentally drained he couldn’t be what Nicholas needed. He just nods and Noah nods along with him.

“I’ll track Nick down and talk to him, I’m not going to try to convince him to come back to you or anything, that’s your job,” Noah pats his knee and gets up. He gestures for Jolly to stand up. Swallowing hard, he does and immediately accepts the hug that Noah pulls him into. “It’s going to be okay.”

Jolly doesn’t believe him.

When he’s gone, the apartment is too quiet and it feels cold. Jolly’s used to Nicholas being in his space constantly, being able to walk in a room and find him there with that smile of his that only gets brighter when he looks Jolly’s way. Laying on the couch with him watching television, the cats keeping them company. Hours lost tangled up in bed. Jolly walks into their bedroom and opens the closet door, double checking to see that the majority of Nicholas’ stuff is still there.

He pulls the first shirt he sees off of a hanger and holds it against his chest. It mostly smells like their laundry detergent but if he tries hard enough, he can still smell Nicholas on it. 

The next week is nothing but a blur; going to therapy, cleaning the apartment, staring at his phone and trying to decide if he should text Nicholas. He hears from Noah, who tells him that Nicholas and the cats were at his sister’s place. He won’t give Jolly anything more than that because at the end of the day while they’re all friends, Nicholas was his first and Jolly hurt him. He gets it. And as one week rolls into another, he starts to feel more like his old self again, despite the gaping wound in his chest that keeps bleeding everywhere he goes.

Nicholas had told him not to reach out to him until he felt like he was ready to talk, and Jolly’s been respecting his wishes. He knows Nicholas has been in the apartment again when he comes home and can smell hints of Nicholas’ cologne and cigarettes faintly lingering in the air. He thinks he’s imagining it; maybe because he’s wearing one of his boyfriend’s t-shirts right now beneath his hoodie. Dread fills his stomach at the thought of more of Nicholas’ things being gone from the apartment, of everything being gone altogether.

Instead of finding things missing from their bedroom, he finds Nicholas. He’s sitting on the end of their bed. Jolly sags against the doorframe with relief at seeing him. This is the longest the two of them have been apart in years, and he missed him so much it physically hurts him. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting and he doesn’t know why he’s here right now. He won’t get his hopes up. 

“I got tired of getting updates from Noah,” Nicholas says finally. “I got tired of waiting.”

Jolly walks further into the room. Instead of sitting beside him on the bed, he kneels down next to him. He doesn’t touch Nicholas yet, he doesn’t even know if he wants him to. He just waits. He won’t look at Jolly right away, and it stings. But he deserves this, and he knows he’s got a long way to go until he’s forgiven, if he’s going to be forgiven at all.

“Well? How are you?” Nicholas asks.

“Better…in my head at least. Miserable without you. I fucked up, Nicky. You were right, it wasn’t healthy to do this without you.”

Nicholas finally looks at him. “You don’t love me anymore.”

“You know that isn’t true—”

“Do I? You are the one who broke up with me because you didn’t love me anymore.”

Jolly shakes his head, grabbing onto Nicholas’ hands urgently. “I didn’t know how to love you when I didn’t even love myself. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you away again like I did.”

Nicholas isn’t trying to get away from him, but Jolly sees the tears in his eyes. He reaches up to brush one away as it slides down his face. He thinks Nicholas is going to turn away from him but he doesn’t. He leans into the touch almost desperately. “Say it then.”

“That I’m sorry? I’ll say it as many times as you want—”

“Say that you love me.”

“There has never been a time where I haven’t been in love with you, Nicholas Ryan. No matter what I said to you before, I never fell out of love with you. I was just…afraid I was going to drag you down to the bottom with me and then neither of us would get back up. I love you too much for that.”

“Hey,” Nicholas grabs onto the hand still on the side of his face, squeezing Jolly’s fingers. “I’ll always be here to pull you back up, okay? But you have to let me.”

His free hand comes down to pet through Jolly’s hair and all he can do is nod again and slump forward, pressing his forehead against Nicholas’ knee. His tears seep into the denim of his jeans, and he feels Nicholas’ hand move to the back of his neck gently.

This isn’t exactly forgiveness yet, but it’s something.

Nicholas doesn’t stay that night. Jolly wants him to, but he honestly would have been surprised if he had. He doesn’t see Nicholas again for three more days, when he comes home and finds his bags tossed in the foyer and the cats wandering around getting reacquainted with the apartment. It loosens something in Jolly’s chest. It’s impossible not to immediately go and look for him. Just like the other day, he’s in the bedroom again. Except this time, he smiles a little when he sees Jolly come into the room.

“Hi,” Jolly says.

Nicholas’ smile widens. “Hey.”

It’s silly how shy Jolly suddenly feels around him. But he can’t help it, not after anything. When Nicholas pats the mattress beside him, he moves and sits down next to him.

“I saw your stuff, and the kids. You’re back for good?”

The amount of hopefulness he feels right now is a little overwhelming. Nicholas reaches over and threads his fingers between his, and he nods. “Are you okay with that?”

“I’m very okay with that. I just wasn’t sure at first if you wanted things to go back to the way they were. Or if you needed me to apologize more. Whatever you want—”

Nicholas cups Jolly's face and kisses him. At first, Jolly doesn't react, he can't. It's been weeks since he's felt Nicholas' lips on his and he thinks he might be dreaming or something.

"Kiss me back," Nicholas breathes out, kissing the corner of Jolly's mouth softly. "I want you to kiss me back, Joll."

Jolly does. He brings a hand around to the back of Nicholas’ neck, pressing light kisses along his cheek and the bridge of his nose, up across his eyelids and down to his lips again finally. And he keeps kissing him until they both pull away breathlessly. Jolly leans his forehead into Nicholas’, closing his eyes. 

“I need you to do something for me though, okay?” Nicholas’ asks, and Jolly would do anything he wanted. He nods, feeling overwhelmed. “I need you to talk to me and keep talking to me. I’m not going to let you push me out like that again.”

“I shouldn’t have and I won’t again, I promise,” it’s a promise he knows he has to keep because he knows if he were to do something like this again, Nicholas wouldn’t come back. And he’s not willing to risk this a second time.

Nicholas reaches up to run this thumb along the edge of his brow and Jolly melts into the touch. He starts to say something, but he cuts him off with another kiss. The audible sound of a stomach growling between them has them pulling away from each other, laughing.

“Clearly you need me to feed you,” Jolly says, and presses a kiss to the corner of Nicholas’ mouth before tangling his fingers with his to pull him up from the bed. “C’mon, you can help me cook.”

“Helping is just me sitting there on the counter watching and giving commentary, Jolly.”

“And you look pretty doing it, so come on.”

He’s missed this, having Nicholas in the kitchen with him. Even doing just what he said he’d do, sitting on the counter and slouching back against the cabinets, eyes tracking every move Jolly makes. Nicholas has always been distracting, but for some reason right now, he’s making Jolly nervous. Not in a bad way, but in a way that he hasn’t felt since before they got together. When he realizes that he needs something from the cabinet behind Nicholas, he clears his throat and presses his hands on his knees, watching as the corner of Nicholas’ mouth turns up.

“You need something?”

Jolly does what he would have done before, he doesn’t want to act like anything has been different between them. He slides his hand up Nicholas’ thighs, almost feeling relief when Nicholas opens his legs for him to step between.

“I need the colander out of the cabinet.” Jolly says, and Nicholas sits up so that he can get it. He pecks Jolly on the lips before leaning back in the same position. “Do you want to put together the salad?”

Nicholas nods, “Sure.”

They prepare the rest of the meal in a comfortable silence, and maybe it’s dramatic, but Jolly can feel that hole closing up in his chest the longer he and Nicholas are in that kitchen. It’s not as if he never left, that would be impossible, but it does feel like they’re going to be able to move past this. After dinner, they stand side by side at the sink, washing and drying the dishes together like they have a million times before. For some reason, that’s what makes Jolly a little emotional. He leans against the counter for a minute, closing his eyes and trying to breathe.

He feels Nicholas press a hand between his shoulders, rubbing back and forth. “Hey, we’re okay. You’re okay.”

Jolly nods, head hanging down for a moment. Nicholas cups his face and turns him so that he’s looking into his eyes. It’s impossible not to kiss him, and he doesn’t even care that his hands are soapy and wet, he wraps them in Nicholas’ hair and pulls him close. Nicholas pushes at him until he’s backed up against the opposite counter and he licks his way into Jolly’s mouth, tongue teasing over his before pulling back to nip at his lower lip. Reaching back, he manages to fumble with the faucet, turning the water off.

“Would it be wrong of me to say I want to take you to bed?”

Jolly shakes his head, “Nothing wrong about that at all. I’m yours, Nicky.”

He sees the way those words affect Nicholas, and when he holds out his hand to him, Jolly doesn’t hesitate to take it, sliding his fingers through his. Nicholas starts walking backwards, leading him towards the bedroom. They only get as far as the hallway before he gets impatient, pushing Jolly up against the wall and kissing him, more insistent than before. Before Jolly can return the kiss, Nicholas is sinking to his knees in front of him, tugging his pants and boxers down Jolly’s thighs in one go. The surprised noise he lets out makes Nicholas laugh, a sound that Jolly had probably missed more than anything.

He feels the sharp bite of Nicholas digging his nails into his hips, pinning him against the wall, minutes before he shifts his head and sinks down on Jolly's cock, taking him into his throat in one smooth movement. Jolly lets out a loud moan, banging his head back against the wall. If this had been before, he might have grabbed onto Nicholas by the back of his neck, held him there the way that he knew he liked, but instead he just curls his hands into fists as Nicholas pulls off and does it again, over and over, cheeks hollowed as he sets a fast rhythm.

“Wait, fuck, wait wait!” Jolly finally manages to pull him off and the disappointed pout on Nicholas’ face is cute. “I don’t want to come like this. Not after all this time.”

He almost expects Nicholas to argue, but instead he starts tugging at Jolly’s clothes again and he gets the message. They leave their clothes scattered in a path to the bedroom, where he pushes Jolly down on the bed, crawling over him and kissing him.

"Missed you," Nicholas mumbles, stroking Jolly's cheek with his thumb, and Jolly can't breathe. "I missed you so much."

“Nicky…” Jolly chokes on the emotions he’s feeling, breath stuttering out of him when Nicholas drags his free hand down his chest and wraps it around his cock. “Whatever you want, just please do something.”

Nicholas’ raises his eyebrows teasingly, “Whatever I want, huh? That’s something.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are, Joll,” he kisses him again before taking his hand away and bringing it to Jolly’s mouth. He presses his index and middle fingers to Jolly's bottom lip, pushing inside gently. "Suck."

Jolly blushes hotly at the idea that he can taste himself on Nicholas’ fingers, but he sees the approval in Nicholas’ eyes as he watches, and he slides his tongue around those fingers, getting them as wet as he can. Finally, he pulls them away, drips of saliva hanging off of the digits and without being asked, Jolly opens his legs for Nicholas. He knows how this is going to go, and he yearns for it.

Nicholas works those fingers into him slowly, and Jolly’s hands fly up to grab at the pillows above his head. Nothing will ever feel as good to him as this; Nicholas’ fingers inside of him, his eyes watching filled with love and a little bit of awe. Those fingers skim across the right spot, almost but not quite. Enough to make Jolly writhe under Nicholas’ touch.

Jolly lets out a soft moan when he pulls his fingers out, but then Nicholas is kneeling between his thighs, spreading them further. Jolly watches as he reaches over him towards the nightstand to grab the bottle of lube from the drawer. Nicholas slicks his cock, and then his eyes meet Jolly’s.

“You want it like this?” he asks.

Jolly nods, “Yeah Nicky, I want it like this.”

Bracing one hand on Jolly’s hip, Nicholas uses the other to slowly guide his cock into him. It’s always been something Jolly’s been into, something that Nicholas is always willing to give. It burns a little, the initial slide in, but Jolly feels everything and all he can really do is lie there until there’s no space left between the two of them. His fingers trace where Jolly’s stretched open around him and Jolly chokes on a breath.

“You feel so good around me,” Nicholas murmurs, leaning over so their lips are just barely touching. Jolly clenches around him instinctively. “Just stay still for me for a minute.”

It seems like an eternity before Nicholas pulls back and thrusts in deep, and Jolly's breath catches in his throat. He reaches for Nicholas' hand and he obliges him immediately, tangling their fingers together as he leans over him to press wet, open mouthed kisses along his chest and neck. Jolly's heart pulses in his throat and he wonders if he can feel it.

When he kisses him, Jolly kisses him back, urgent and messy. He wraps his free arm around Nicholas, crushing him close and hoping that he says everything he can with the kiss that he hasn't said out loud yet. Nicholas gets it, he always does, the way he angles his head to kiss him back. He thrusts into him harder, faster, a sound that Jolly has never heard from him before being wrenched out of him.

Nicholas slides a hand between them to wrap around Jolly's cock, working him hard and matching the pace that he's driving into him. "Missed you, never stopped missing you."

It doesn't matter that it was only weeks, it felt like forever to them and Jolly nods, tears welling up in his eyes as he keeps him as close as possible.

"Missed you too, Nicky, please, I need you," he presses his face into the curve of Nicholas' throat, whimpering against the sweat-slicked skin as he comes over Nicholas' hand and his own stomach.

It's enough to push Nicholas over the edge, no sound coming out of his open mouth as he moves unsteadily inside of him until he gives one last hard thrust. Jolly doesn't let him go, feeling him go slack against him and they're practically fused together. A few moments of unsteady breathing pass and Jolly's carding his fingers through Nicholas' hair, eyes closed in contentment.

"Are you okay?" Nicholas asks.

Jolly laughs, knowing it probably has an edge of emotional hysteria to it. "Yeah Nicky, I'm okay."

He only moves enough to pull out before immediately making himself comfortable on Jolly’s chest, tracing his fingers over his tattoos. Jolly keeps his arms wrapped around him, unwilling to let go.

“I don’t like makeup sex,” Nicholas says, and Jolly winces. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s great, but everything before it? We can’t do that again.”

“I can’t say things won’t get hard again, but I’m not going to push you away. I promise.”

Nicholas looks up at him, propping his chin up on his hand. There’s a small smile on his face, still a bit of sadness in it. “No, because I’ll chase your ass down if it happens again. I’m always here, okay?”

Jolly nods and rolls them suddenly, and the surprised laugh that Nicholas lets out is music to his ears. He’ll be hearing it in his head for days.

⇉ taglist

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if you ’d like to be added to the taglist, you can find the form at the top of this fic! thanks for reading/reblogging 🩷

[goldenboywrites]

Sometimes, he imagined leading a different kind of life than the one he led. In another life, he would own a fruit stand in the market—one with the reddest apples and the juiciest oranges. He would give free samples to hungry kids, then go home to a modest cabin near the woods, where the love of his life would be out in the garden tending to their crops. Before heading to bed, they’d go inside and enjoy dinner by the fire. 

But he didn’t live that kind of life, or any life for that matter. How could he when he didn’t know who he truly was? 

The details of his arrival at the tavern are fuzzy at best; his life before the tavern was even fuzzier. According to Rufus, he had been unconscious when he was dropped off. There had been an exchange of gold for him, but the man wasn’t a local or anyone Rufus knew or recognized. It had been months since that happened. Now, the only life he knew was one he despised. He worked the backrooms of the tavern, filled goblets, picked pockets, and, worst of all, gave his body over for others to enjoy. 

The man he was currently entertaining pulled up his pants. Asa stayed on the bed, as was customary. When the man finished dressing, he threw coins on the bed, washed his face, and left without a word. Asa sighed and rolled over, wincing at the sting of pain in his lower back. He pulled himself out of bed and over to the water basin, taking the cloth to clean the sweat and other matter off his body. He was slow to pull on his clothes, each movement causing him some ache or jolt of pain. Then he brushed his fingers through his hair. It had gotten so long, but he couldn’t cut it without permission. He tied up the sides with a leather strap to keep it out of his face. 

He slipped out of the room and down the hall towards the tavern. He could hear the crowd and live music before he entered. It was busy tonight, which means he would have to work longer. Hopefully, Rufus was in a good mood and would give him food to help tide him over until his next customer. Asa walked straight to the bar, leaning over it as he waited patiently for Rufus to notice him. It didn’t take long. “That’s a new record, kid,” The man said, grinning down at him. He passed Asa a water goblet, but his hand was outstretched expectantly. Like a good little worker, he turned over the gold in his possession. 

A man walked behind Asa, sliding his hand up his tunic, tracing along his skin. “How much?” 

Rufus cleared his throat, eyes narrowed at the man. People were allowed to touch, but none ever did it so brazenly in front of Rufus without any offer. “He’s on break.” 

Asa turned towards the man, the rest of the tavern unconcerned and unbothered by the tense situation building. “And too expensive. Move on.” 

“Well, well, well,” The man said loudly, slapping Asa’ ass before squeezing his cheek tightly. “The expensive ones are always mouthy. Spoiled too and usually just a waste of time.” 

“Yet here you are trying to fuck me.” Asa snapped back, reaching towards the man and grabbing his hand. He twisted, with strength he didn’t realize he even had, until the man cried out and yanked out of his grasp. “My boss said move on.” And then the man did, red in the face, and furious, but without much of a fight. Asa turned back to Rufus, smiling sweetly at him. “Can I get some fruit along with this water or what?” 

Everett placed his hand over Colter’s, lacing their fingers. “I don’t know if I would say there is anything specific about this place I like. The food and drinks are decent, and Rufus is willing to look the other way.” Everett shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “It’s fun, entertaining, and he employs the best of the best. That’s enough for me.” A raised voice filled the tavern, and Everett looked over to the bar, seeing one of Rufus’s face off with a drunk customer. He was too far away to see which worker it was, but Everett didn’t recognize him just by his body. Maybe it’s the new one. The man walked away, shaking mad and muttering angrily to himself. “I mean, see that! Where would you ever see a tavern whore tell off a customer for wanting his dick sucked? You only can see that shit at Rufus’ place.” 

He focused back on his drink, taking the wine slowly and relishing its taste. “I suppose it’s also the freedom from court. I love being at court, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t like the rules. We’re figures for the Kingdom, yes, but we’re also humans with human desires. I hate that the council wants to pretend we’re not. Why can’t we make bad decisions sometimes? How else are we supposed to learn? Plus, it’s good to get some of our energy out. Don’t you agree?”

Every thing about this place made Colter's very essence itch. For Everett having such expensive tastes, he could never understand how a place like this would tickle his fancy in the slightest. But he thought back to the first time they entered in here and how he seemed to command this place as if he ruled it. It was then that Colter glanced back towards the bar to get a look at his partner. He'd fallen victim to underestimating this one before and he couldn't afford for that to happen now. Be like August. Control. Calm. August.

His ass hit the chair and his eyes were open. Colter took in every thing about this place. Everything he thought might be relevant later on or now. It was much more difficult to do than he'd anticipated but clinging to his love was starting to work. The woman by the door had dirty blonde hair and at least three pence in her bosom pocket and another two in her actual coin purse. Clever woman. But all his attention turned the moment Everett came to join him again.

He had to admit as he took in a deep inhale of the draft he was a little more excited about all of this. He wouldn't lose his head. Couldn't do it. Too much was riding on it. So he opted for a small but deep drink from his glass and he in turned returned the smile that seemed to be dancing on Everett's lips. "I always forget how it feels." He admitted. Because the truth of it was, he hadn't gone out all that often. So nearly every time felt like the first time and it made it all the more dangerous. His lips pulled into a deeper smile and he sighed, leaning in to his companion all the more. "Sort of like those song birds father keeps in the west gardens." His fingers mindlessly began to stroke the length of his goblet as he spoke. "Always just out for viewing and never allowed to nest or freely go calling."

Colter shifted in his seat, making sure to press their thighs together and move his hand along his thigh just ever so. The sensation sent a chill up his spine and the prince bit his lip before bringing the goblet up to mask it. Try as he might, Colter did still enjoy Everett. That would never change. As a friend and lover. Their ease in which they moved between the two always had been a wonder to him. But now that Colter was beginning to see Everett as he was. As August had always tried to get him to do, it was still impressive. I might be able to learn a thing or two yet. There was no telling what he'd truly gotten up to in his time away but it was clearly well spent.

"What is it about this place that you enjoy so much?" He figured if there was any shot at getting Everett to open up, he might want to show him that he'd been paying attention to him. That was something he'd always been bad at, been working on and now that he had the opportunity, the difference it could make? Well, he only hoped as selfish as it was, it worked and put him that much closer to his goal. The prince pulled his goblet in and took a deep drink, humming softly in delight at the sweetness of it. "Or is it just the freedom from court?" Colter knew why he liked being out but Everett wasn't confined to the extent the crowned prince had been and even more so when August had say so in it.

Could he somehow balance both though?

[atomsforthewin]

Couldn't leave that alone.

(This is a first draft. I will polish it properly and post it to ao3 later, but I thought I would honour the request here first.)

@guy-gardners-shapely-ass there you go

—

It starts on the Qlipoth. Or rather, at the bottom of it. Or maybe in that disgusting throne room half way up. Who is to say, really.

It starts because Dante can't do it. He can't. Not again.

The thing left of his brother, a cruel visage sneering about weakness and the might of unending power, sneers down on him and the hollow pit in his belly lames his arms. Locks the muscles of his legs and freezes the breath in his lungs. There is barely any humanity left in that gaze, only the faintest glimmer of sanity flickering in its depts. Still, Dante finds himself desperately searching, hoping for any tiny hint of what once was.

But there is nothing to find, isn't there. Vergil has finally succeeded what he has always desired. Finally shed himself of the last vestiges of humanity holding him back.

Only a monster to be vanquished is left behind. Only a little brother to vanquish it.

But, how could he possibly do it again?

He can't. He can't he can't he can't and it costs him far too much.

So weak. Always so weak. Foolish little brother never measuring up, always tossed aside for more important things.

He tries. Tries even more when the fucking kid shows up and Dante looses his breath to terror. He tries so hard, even though there is no space for him to succeed. How can he pick up his sword against Vergil again, when his twin's death lies so heavily on his consciousness already. But still, for Nero he tries. For Nero he has to try, because if nothing else he has to spare him this. If Dante can't do anything else right, then let him do this. Let him at least protect Nero from this cruel fate.

So he gets back up, again and again, as many times as Vergil knocks him down. Fights, for Nero, for Lady and Trish, for Morrison and all the people depending on him to stop the newest monster. And in the middle of it all, between a guard too flimsy and a swing to wide, his heart misses a beat. The shock of the miss is painful, but ultimately negligible. Dante has other things to concentrate on. Like the fact that the kid is only barely out of the room, still in danger. Like the fact that his friends are getting swallowed by ugly disgusting vines and that there is screaming from outside and that it feels like the world is burning to the ground while Urizen laughs a cruel mockery and tosses him around like a toy.

He tries. He fails. And somewhere in there, maybe, there are a few other missed beats. He can't say, too distracted.

—

No wait, that's wrong, it starts much earlier. Far, far earlier, on another towering height with only them at the top. A sharp, icy glide right through his chest, pinning him to the ground like a bug.

But that's not the important bit.

—

It continues as he lies in the crater his body made upon impact, a sea of destruction around him in another city destroyed for power. Try as he might, he cannot muster a single bit of will to get up. Utterly insensate to anything but the burning knowledge that he failed and that there is no way for him to succeed, even if he tries again.

The simply truth is that he can't do it. He can't and it will doom everyone else. The blood of hundreds, thousands stains his hands, Nero's and Lady's and Trish's and everyone falling to the bloodthristy vines that feed his brother's obsession. Drowning him until he chokes on it all. The truth is so stark and brutally devastating that it steals his breath from his lungs, the feelings from his limbs. Here he is, lying in a crator of his own failure, alone and weak and wishing so desperately for everything to end, physically and mentally too exhausted to care.

He failed. Utterly and completely.

And doomed anyone counting on him to stop Vergil once again.

His heart skips a beat. Then another and a third. Each miss is painful, chest spasming in agonising hitches.

He is so exhausted.

Just a moment, the insidious voice in his mind that has been his dearest companion for so long had whispers. Let's just rest for a moment.

Let's be weak for this one moment.

—

"If only you never existed..."

Wouldn't that be nice.

"then I..."

Please.

The Sparda stabs into the ground right beside his cheek, so close Dante can feel the sharp edge of it burning across his skin in a whispered caress. Just a hairs breath to the left and it would have cleaved into his skin. For a moment he is crushingly disappointed that it didn't. That it didn't hit him head on and ended his sorry existence for good. He lays there, looks up into rage filled eyes and wonders why he continues to be alive. It really would be better if he just… stopped. Everyone would be better off.

Then the parrot screeches and the world reasserts itself. He gets up. Grabs the Sparda. Gets a move on, because he has to. No rest for the wicked and Dante is the most wicked of them all. And if his heart aches and trembles the whole way, well. It's been doing that his whole life long, that's really nothing to write home about, isn't it.

A fast pace leaves the man and his cursed pets behind, barely even acknowledging their presence. He does not think about the words. About all the little hints and mannerisms and familiarities. Certainly doesn't follow the trail of breadcrumbs to the inevitable conclusions. Can't. Instead he simply tracks on, up to the house crumbling atop the hill, hands shaking enough to rattle the Sparda on his shoulders until he grits his teeth and forces the tornado in his heart back into its little box to be locked away once again.

There is a pressure in his chest, pain sparking in his limbs and his left hand cramps at his side until he shakes it out.

—

Certainly, stabbing himself straight through the sternum does not help. Not after all the other times.

But he gains the power he needs. The power to protect the little sanity and goodness that is left of Eva's blood. That's gotta be worth it, surely.

—

His heart thumps too fast in his chest, each beat a painful staccato flashing across his senses. He grits his teeth against it, forces down the dizzying exhaustion dragging at his bones and the soul-crushing grief that lames him even more. Dante knows that he won't survive this confrontation with his brother, even as he calls for the end. Of course he won't. He couldn't even fight Urizen properly, how is he supposed to actually do so against Vergil himself?

But he also can't not. Not if the kid is on the line. Really, the kid is the only thing keeping him standing right now. Fucking hilarious, considering how much Dante tried to keep him at arms lengths. And now here he is, the only thought in his head the determination to spare Nero the fate of having to kill his father. And maybe, to spare Vergil the fate of killing his son. Really, it's enough if Dante has the blood of family on his hands. This whole thing needs to die with him.

He charges, at the exact same time as Vergil. Between one beat of the heart and the next they cross the distance between them, blades ready to rend each other apart. Or at leat Vergil's. Dante himself isn't really sure what he intends to do.

The second beat never comes. There is no second beat, even as the Yamato closes in. The absence is like a gong in his head, echoing in his mind as he watches the Katana cut through he air lightning fast, a deadly elegant line straight for him. Intent to once again spear him through.

It's so perversely familiar, but his heart has stopped beating.

By the next missing beat Nero is there, right in the middle of them, and before Dante can react he gets socked and he falls back because his limbs are going numb, trigger shattering around him because he is too busy trying to breath to keep it up and his heart is still not beating.

For a split second he blacks out, vision going white and ears filled with static. Then reality reasserts itself and his heart is beating again, thumping along too fast and irregular but at least it's doing something.

Nero is glowering at Vergil. Shouting at him, at them both, Dante is pretty sure, but he is too preoccupied to pay attention.

What was that?

—

Dante jumps first.

There were a few more skipped beats, most notably when Vergil got too aggressive with Nero or when his twin barely hinted at returning to hell, or when Nero got that look in his eyes when Dante told him they would both go to hell instead of staying up here with him. He feels shame for that, for leaving the kid behind. But he can't let Vergil go alone, is utterly incapable of it. His heart beats far too weakly in his chest and his fingers go numb with terror when he even thinks about it.

So he thinks an apology to him, and jumps before his brother, because he knows he wouldn't survive the sight of Vergil going first.

—

Once, when he was young and bored and trying to swindle the good drugs out of a doctor's pocket, Dante read a pamphlet in a waiting room. He remembers them. All the sign of a heart attack it listed.

Painful, tight chest. Dizziness. Irregular heartbeat. Loss of feeling. Exhaustion and short breath. Excess sweating.

Hah. Check, check, check.

He doesn't think about it.

—

Surprisingly, only a few skipped beats happen while they are down in hell. Probably because he and Vergil never actually talk about their issues while there. Just beat the snot out of each other a few times and kill even more demons and try their hand at some demonic gardening, which they are surprisingly good at.

It's a kind of limbo, neither acknowledging what stands between them. Content to let combat ebb and flow around them and through them until they are both too exhausted to stand straight and decide to go home.

—

It comes back, when they leave hell. Figures.

After what feels like months they drag their sorry carcasses out of hell, by some miracle tumbling out near the shop. Hurrah for the Yamato. And working together to amass enough energy to actually cut a portal out of hell. Dante more or less collapses into the shower, barely able to hold himself up. Exhaustion lines his every limb and he nearly nods off under the spray until Vergil bangs on the door and demands his own turn. He barely sorts out some place for his brother to sleep, someone cleaned and made up all the rooms and he is ethernally thankful not to come home to a mess, and then faceplants into his bed, out like a light.

Hilariously enough, it's Patty that finds them the next morning. Or maybe the morning after that, Dante has no clue how long they have slept, just knows it's not enough and he doesn't appreciate the rude and slightly shrill wake up call. Despite his rest he still feels like shit. Nausea swirls in his belly and his chest burns in a way he can't shake. His jaw feels too tight. When he blearily lifts his head out of the pillow, he grimaces at the way the cotton sticks to his skin, his skin damp with sweat. Ugh, disgusting.

"Dante!" Patty screams, throwing his door open with enough force to have it clash into the wall beside it. Another dent, then.

Dante barely has enough time to sit up before she is on him, arms wrapping around his neck like she is trying to strangle him.

"Hey," he says, and ignores the way his heart skips another beat when she starts crying on him.

Oh shit, no. He is so bad with crying.

—

It somehow gets worse with every new face to greet him. He ignores it as best he can. His demon will take care of it.

Hopefully.

—

Life goes on, even if his heart sometimes dances to an uncomfortable rhythm now.

He and Vergil tiptoe around each other, never quite sure how to reconnect and always missing the right connection when they try.

Nero is rightfully angry at them both.

Dante has more family than he ever had since he was eight, and still feels alone.

His heart burns to the thought.

—

It ends, when they visit Nero. Fitting, in a way.

The feeling doesn't go away, no matter how much he hopes for it. Aches and pains and exhaustion a steady companion to him now. It's vaguely familiar for the way it feels like the dreaded apathy of before that always stole all his energy, but this is completely physical. It's wrong, weird. He shouldn't have physical problems, his demon should take care of them. But here he is, feeling like a deprecit old man. Barely over fourty and his body is a wreck, held together with duck tape, alcohol, and a grim sort of determination to see it through to the end. And isn't it the end? A little bit? Well, not really, but kind of.

The ladies have mostly taken over the shop in his absence, handling it just fine without him. Patty excitedly tells him about college. Morrison has retired, determined not to go through "this shit again". Nero and Kyrie, and Nico, successfully manage the mobile branch and a bunch of foster kids on top.

Vergil has shown no interest in any other excursions of mass murder. Has been surprisingly docile even, seemingly content to map out a life in the human world once again and building a relationship with his son. In the beginning they dragged him along along, to play mediator and buffer until they get to know each other. He doesn't mind, owes it to them both, really. But the longer that goes on, the more he feels like a third wheel intruding in their family. It's not his place to be here, he thinks. Not after what he did.

It leaves Dante feeling stranded, and a little bit in the way of everyone. Too much is changing, has changed, and he can't keep up.

Maybe there is no need for him to keep up. His chest aches with the thought, attention wandering down well trodded dark paths he can't ever really shake. His fingers go numb again. It's stupid. His life has never been better. All the changes are for the better. For once no one is trying to kill anyone, everyone is mostly getting along. He should be happy. But try as he might, he can't.

He doesn't really know what happens, in the end. One second he is standing awkwardly to the side, feeling like an intruder while his brother and nephew try to make some kind of small talk even though they both are so utterly shit at it. The next he is on his back, blinking up at the sky. He can't feel his left arm. Somehow, that's the most disturbing thing about this whole thing. His heart skips and skitters in his chest, like a bird trying to get out, and he can't quite breath anymore, pain radiating through his chest, up to his jaw to lock it shut, sweat trickles at his neck.

Vaguely he sees Kyrie hover over him, a concerned look in her eyes, but he can't seem to focus on her. His vision goes in and out of focus, in rhythm with his heart that goes ever slower.

He thinks he sees Vergil join her, but by that time he is already too far gone to be sure.

—

They actually call a doctor on him. Well, Kyrie does. Putting her foot over them all.

A weak heart, said doctor says. Too much abuse not healed properly, even with a demon's magic.

Hah. Now that's funny as hell. Too soft hearted indeed. Turns out his twin was right all along.

Vergil doesn't appreciate it when Dante points it out to him, just scowls and shoves him back down into the bed.

So turns out getting stabbed in the heart again and again and never taking proper care to heal and recover is not good for the health. Devil Arms doing far more harm than anything else ever could, especially ones of Sparda make. A lifetime of alcohol abuse and punishing use of a body only half made up of demonic resilience doesn't help either. Seems the glaring rip in his chest when he triggers isn't normal, or a good sign of demonic health either.

His heart, always far too human, has given out on him.

Dante would laugh himself silly about it, but when he does his chest goes tight and he ends up with excruciating coughing fits that never seem to end and have everyone panicking around him like headless chickens.

Mmm, let me offer something diabolical. Dante with actual chest or heart problems after being stabbed so many times in chest/heart. You can’t tell me there couldn’t be some kinda actual lasting damages or side effects.

Also take into account the chest of his Sin Devil trigger, could be a more telling sign of the issues. Most don’t know probably but I feel like some days his chest feels like it’s collapsing and he can’t move.

[cerbreus]

baking never feels more like science to me than when i'm trying to cobble together an intricate multi step recipe together from several different recipes and tutorials online because the recipe I'm imagining doesn't exist....

[chronicillnesscaneffoffplease]

Everything sucks and is awful. In so much pain from nothing. I’m so overwhelmed.

[racke7]

Oh yeah. Update on my back.

Rib-pain is mostly receded, side-pain pops up in sparks. Still can't sleep at all during the night (2h blocks), but I can get back out of bed with minimal pain (improvement).

Started noticing my spine complaining a lot more (probably because it's not being shouted down by my ribs).

Talked to the physiotherapist and he basically went "oh, you adjusted your chair and the rib-problem mostly went away? interesting. let's see if we can ignore that and let it heal. and let's instead focus on your spine."

So now I have a single stretching-exercise that I should be doing morning and evening (until I'm comfortable enough with it that I can do it a few times per day), and some possible-adjustments to my sleeping-position.