#birthday week fic

[biillys]

did you see that? yeah, i saw that! that was at least seven feet! i don't know what it was, but it almost gave me a heart attack.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILLY!

[itischeese]

He's so small when you put him up against all he's lost.... Happy (late) birthday, Kakashi!

[reddamselette]

valgrace except leo schemes with everyone and their mother to throw jason a bonfire party with close friends and family. they sit snuggled close to each other, curled into one another’s side as everyone shares stories about and first impressions about the son of jupiter.

annabeth mentioned how she threatened him with her dagger at first, piper and their mist filled memories, thalia with baby jason antics that had her hair turn gray at a young age.

after the night ended and they all go their separate ways, leo and jason snuck out somewhere else to share a kiss under the stars.

leo's first impression of jason was how beautiful he really is and seeing him made him believe in love at first sight.

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: idia shroud celebrates your birthday!!

COMMENTS: a birthday present for @twstchatterbox the MOON to my SUN the DYNAMIC to my DUO the BLACK CAT to my GOLDEN RETRIEVER!!!! i love you lots and lots i am so glad we are friends i am squeezing you so tight from the other side of the world.

i wanted to keep this a surprise and i HOPE I SURPRISED YOU i hope you didnt see this coming sjdjdsjdj you have given me so many gifts from your doodles of me to your doodles of US to all the interests you've shared with me to looking out for me all this time AND EVEN STAYING UP LATE TO TALK TO ME?? I AM SO SORRY FOR YOUR SLEEP SCHEDULE

i hope you have the best birthday ever you deserve so much so take this awkward gamer boy. you know your lore. i know your lore. i tried to incorporate it and im sure only you will understand it but thats the point isnt it?

THIS IS GOING ON TOO LONG. I SHOULD HAVE MADE THIS A SEPARATE POST. ANYWAYS. GO READ IT I LOVE YOU

You cross your arms over your chest, amused as the blue package floats silently over to you. It stops right in front of you and a flickering screen loads from a small projector propped on the top of the box.

accept quest?

yes. no.

It’s ridiculous of him to put a no option. You press the yes option and a cheerful jingle rings from the speakers as the package drops at your feet. Bending over, you scoop it into your arms, a delicate smile on your face. You can feel quite a few gazes on your back but you opt to ignore them, walking out of your dorm and towards the source of your gift.

Ever since the events of winter break, you’d become far more accustomed to the halls of Ignihyde. The students seem to have grown more accustomed to you in turn, although some still scamper away from you.

There was only so much that could be done, you think. Besides, your presence here was not because of them. You were here for their Housewarden.

As you reached his door, you wasted no time reaching out to knock. Each tap of your knuckles against his door was crisp and loud, just in case he was wearing his headphones. The corners of your lips lift into a smile as you hear him shuffling around, no doubt checking up on his room to make sure it’s just the normal amount of messy but not too messy lest you get suspicious that he’s a slob or that he cleaned just for you.

You already know he did, though.

“Are you going to keep me waiting?” you call out teasingly, tapping your foot on the polished floors.

The door creaks open slowly, and the soft pink glow of Idia's hair lights up his face. Your heart takes a tumble in your chest.

“Hi.” you breathe, “I wanted to open your gift with you.”

Idia squeaks and opens the door to let you inside, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Um, okay. Thanks.” he says, mumbling each word as if he isn’t sure what he’s saying at all, “You, uh, didn’t have to do that.”

“But I want to.” you refute, and you both understand what would have come after that.

So let me do this.

“Okay.” he jams his hands into his pocket and shrugs, always so awkward around you but so obvious, “I hope you like it.”

“I’ll love it.” you reassure him.

After all, a heart as kind as Idia Shroud’s wouldn’t pick anything but the best.

[magicalrocketships]

It is my beloved @andwegogreen's birthday, and as such, here is a little birthday gift ♥️♥️

It is an unconnected story from this verse (Max/girl!Daniel), set after the 2025 FIA gala.

1.3k of Max eating Daniel out ->

When Daniel wakes up and checks her phone, she finds that–rather than the red carpet pictures of her and Max going into the FIA gala last night–the internet is full of another set of pictures instead. They're from later in the night, when they were trying to leave to come back to the hotel. She hadn't known they were being taken. Max hadn't either. He would have said. He would have shielded her from the camera if he'd known. He always does.

The pictures show her sitting on the carpeted stairs away from the ballroom, with Max a couple of steps below. He has her feet in his lap, and he's carefully focused on undoing the buckle on the thin, delicate ankle straps of her high heels. Then he's taking off her shoes, opening the little bag they'd left in the cloakroom at the start of the evening, helping her on with her checkerboard socks, and after that, her leopard print Vans trainers. He laces them up carefully. Slips her extremely expensive, boringly uncomfortable high heels into the bag her trainers came out of, and hooks the bag over his wrist. 

The last picture is of him kissing the inside of her wrist as he helps her to her feet. 

The comments section is a fire pit. Daniel thinks the pictures are lovely. 

She saves each of the pictures and closes the comments without reading any of them. It's better that way. 

She locks her phone, rolls over, and snuffles her face into the side of Max's chest. He's still almost entirely asleep, but his hand goes around her shoulders, holding her close. Neither of them had showered last night when they'd got back to the hotel, so he smells sleep-warm and a little stale. She does too, probably. Her dress– pink, with little capped sleeves, a flared waist, and absolutely no back, designed entirely to show off her tattooed back piece of cascading white flowers– is discarded on the floor next to the chair she'd attempted to throw it over when they got in last night. It's on top of Max's suit jacket, his trousers, crumpled up tie and discarded shirt. They'd eaten fried chicken and chips in their underwear on the hotel sofa before bed, Daniel's bush curling around the edges of her high waisted knickers, Max eating one-handed as he petted her cunt through her underwear. He'd promised to eat her out before they went to sleep, but Daniel remembers leaning her head on his shoulder as he finished eating, and nothing after that. 

Max had obviously carried her to bed. She's still in her knickers. She licks at his ribcage, little kisses until she can close her mouth over his nipple and kiss him there. He groans a little, starting to wake up. 

She kisses up his throat, under his jaw, over the patchy stubble until she can lick her way into his mouth. He's awake enough to kiss back. 

"Hello," Max says, as she kisses his cheek and shuffles down until she can rest her face against his shoulder. 

"Hello," Daniel says. "Did I fall asleep before you got to eat me out last night?"

Max isn't as quick to wake up as Daniel is. He rubs his eyes. Yawns. "Yes, Daniel," he says finally. "You were snoring very loudly. I couldn’t wake you up at all."

Daniel grins. She's a snorer when she's not curled up on her front. Max seems to find it relatively cute, which is a hundred percent an improvement on her last boyfriend, who'd called her an embarrassment. She doesn't think about him anymore. "So you put me to bed."

"I did," Max agrees. His hand slips down to cup her pussy. "Without getting to eat you out."

"Tragic," Daniel says solemnly. She rolls her hips up to grind against his hand. "If only there was something you could do to fix that."

"There is nothing," Max says, frowning. "It is very sad, Daniel. No more pussy licking."

God, she loves him. She kisses him on both cheeks. Lets him roll her over onto her back. She pulls her knickers up so that they're sitting higher on her hips and more curls escape around the edges of her underwear. She hasn't waxed in ages. She'd be happy if she never had to have a bare pussy again, and Max seems extremely supportive of her decision, given how hard he always gets and how often he likes to bury his face in her cunt. 

He strokes the tip of his finger up the centre line of her underwear. He kisses her big nipples, first one, then the other. She parts her legs and he presses the tip of his finger a little deeper in. 

"You're very wet, Daniel," he tells her, still touching. She always is. She gets hopelessly wet for him. Always has. "You've leaked all through your knickers."

God. She stifles a moan. He touches her again, over her knickers, stroking her until she can't wait any longer. She wants his mouth on her. Wants his face wet with her. Wants to come with his tongue pressed to her clit. 

He helps her off with the knickers, and then settles himself between her legs. She pulls her knees up, spreads her legs a little wider. He parts her with his thumbs, stroking her wet curls out of the way. 

"Your cunt is very beautiful," he tells her, like he hasn't spent literally hours of his life staring at it before today. He touches her with the pad of his thumb. "It is beautiful here, and it is beautiful here–" her clit, and she trembles, and makes a noise, "–and where you are so wet here, Daniel, and how I can just touch you inside here. So very lovely." He leans in and kisses the inside of her thighs, first one, then the other, and then proceeds to kiss her everywhere he's just touched. By the time he gets his mouth on her clit, she's making noises that would probably have had the people in the next room calling hotel reception, except this is a suite and in a suite this big, nobody can hear your boyfriend taking you to fucking pieces. 

He stops licking her to tilt his chin up and meet her gaze. He's wet from nose to chin. He's wet with her, god. God. 

"Very lovely, my Daniel." He beams. "Nobody's cunt is as good as yours."

God. She's barely going to last any time at all. It's okay, though, because Max likes eating her out so much he's imposed a two orgasms for her to every one for him ratio. They don't always stick to it but it's enough to make her feel like she's queen of the fucking world. 

He tucks the tips of two fingers inside of her, and crooks them a little so that she cries out. With his other hand he pets her bush. She wriggles under his touch, almost frantic. He kisses her tummy, her curls, her cunt. He takes her to pieces with gentle, fierce familiarity. 

When she comes, she does so noisily, desperately, happily. She trembles through the comedown and he touches her the whole time, mouth pressed to the inside of her thigh. 

Afterwards, he lays down beside her and lets his erection press against her thigh. She tucks herself around him, shivering until his arms wrap around her and hold her tight. 

"Do you want to fuck?" she asks. Max being hard doesn't always mean he wants to. Sometimes he likes to wait. Sometimes he likes to not fuck at all. Sometimes he likes to jerk off or have her touch him until he comes. She's happy either way. So long as he is. 

"Not yet. Later," he says. He kisses the inside of her wrist. "I love you."

She loves him back. When she tells him, his smile makes his eyes crinkle.

Later on, after they've dozed a bit, she wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and lets him carry her into the bathroom, into the shower, into the rest of their day.

She kisses him, and he smiles against her mouth. 

[corviiids]

   Joker shouldn’t make a habit of knifing without looking, but he can’t help it. Akechi’s dispassionate expression as he watches himself dissolve into sludge under Ren’s blade is much more interesting than said sludge. Joker wipes off his dagger, sheathes it, and says, “Is it weird watching me kill you?”

   “It’s a novelty,” says Akechi.

   Another novelty: Ren’s never seen Crow dressed as Akechi before. It’s incredibly odd to watch him hop and flicker between hiding spots looking for all intents and purposes like he’s about to head to school. It’s odder still because the polite smart-casualwear doesn’t at all match the antipathy Akechi’s wearing on his face. Whenever they’d spent time together, Akechi had always worn a pleasantly interested smile; but that pretty face, too, was not what Ren had been pining after.

--

chapter 9 of "as you like it" aka akechi palace au. 11.8k, the long trek to the treasure, the philosophy of taking a heart.

happy fourth birthday to this fic!!! 🥹

[inhuman-obey-me]

Belated collab piece for Solomon's Birthday 2023!

Art by Mod Cosmos

Writing by Mod Chaos

His Immortal Soul

Can also be read on AO3 here Word Count: 3.8k Description: "Madness, where is its soul? Madness, all alone." A series of reflections on Solomon, shining souls, and what it means to be human.

Iarabal

With an impressive 72 pacts at his command, the Witty Sorcerer Solomon is said to have a most delectable and enticing soul. Demons clamor for the chance at a piece of it; there are rumors that even Death herself longs to claim it. It shines with the wisdom he was once gifted, and it is finely aged with the polish of immortality. The soul of a man who controls so many demons without succumbing to their allurement is a delicacy indeed.

Humans with the power to resist demons have nicely polished souls, like jewels. The more noble a soul, the shinier, and the more demons both long to claim it and are repelled by it.

At least, that's how it should be. That’s how it usually works. It’s what Iarabal had expected, when he'd heard that the infamous sorcerer himself would be coming to RAD as an exchange student under the Demon Prince's bizarre plan. Of course, no one had dared actually touch him once he arrived -- his pacts are with some of the most powerful demons in the realm, and the idea of treason aside, none would want to additionally face the wrath of those such as Asmodeus or Barbatos. And that’s all before even getting to the sorcerer himself, a man so powerful and conniving that he’d managed to gain the power of those many demons while offering away little to nothing of himself in exchange.

So Solomon’s soul, by all rights, is quite beyond reach to any average demon such as himself.

But Iarabal had planned to look upon it, at least, and savor the fantasy of devouring it. Flames lick at the insides of his belly in anticipation, and he salivates at the thought, even if he knows he will never get a taste. A demon can dream, can’t he?

Yet, as he lays eyes upon the sorcerer, something feels not quite right. It sparkles, yes -- even more dazzlingly than the demon had imagined, it sparkles. But there is something wild and incomprehensible about it, like funhouse mirrors warping the refractions of a million diamonds. The longer he looks, the more it seems to expand and stretch, and he is trapped in it, as though a cavern of crystal is closing itself around him. His appetite is fading rapidly, and a growing sense of something almost like dread builds in his stomach in its place.

Is Solomon so noble, to be able to repel him this way? Is this the strength of how powerfully his soul shines?

The demon isn’t sure. This doesn’t feel the same as any other time a human’s soul has repelled him. He feels like he’s losing his mind entirely, and the longer he stares, the worse it seems to get. Then again, he’s never looked upon a human so powerful as this, so who can say?

Iarabal averts his gaze. He doesn’t want to look upon it anymore.

The sorcerer’s soul is, he thinks to himself, better left alone.

Lucifer

There is something very, very strange about that sorcerer, Lucifer thinks.

Solomon has, as always, asked him for a pact again today. “Come on, this is basically just how we greet each other, isn’t it?” the human explains away blithely when the demon rejects him, with a smile that doesn’t match the seriousness of what he asks.

Of course, it’s not the pact-seeking that makes Solomon so strange, even if he is singularly annoying in his persistence about it. Plenty of humans have sought similar with the infamous fallen angel. He’s not even the only among them to try to use trickery or magic to force the demon’s hand.

No, Solomon is strange because, of all those humans, he is the most alarmingly devious, wicked human ever to have such a beautiful soul.

“Someone pure, genuine, and worthy of respect. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but demons are most attracted to the souls of people like that,” Lucifer had once told you.

The sorcerer as he knows him is none of those things. Lucifer is very familiar with the immortal’s reputation and history, and none of it could be described as pure. Rather than genuine, the man is unforthcoming at best and outright deceptive at worst. Any respect he has earned usually comes mostly from raw power, and most of that comes from the sheer number of pacts he’s accumulated, along with the Ring of Wisdom that Michael gifted him so very long ago. And then there’s the matter of his many past transgressions against demonkind...

Yet, despite this, Solomon’s soul sparkles brilliantly every time Lucifer sees him. It’s shocking how radiant it is, in fact. He’s hardly ever seen anything like it. The way it shines speaks to a level of purity and nobility of spirit beyond almost any other. And he smiles that carefree, nonchalant smile, an expression that would almost seem like he’s exactly what his soul says he is, even as he tries to solicit a pact from the demon, day after day, year after year.

But Lucifer knows better. Solomon is not pure or genuine. He is not as innocent as he plays at being. He is a dangerous person, and he is not to be trifled with.

The dissonance is unsettling, and for that, Lucifer does not trust him.

Granted, if a demon were to choose any human to make a pact with, Solomon would certainly be at the top of most any demon’s list. It’s true that a pact with that most powerful human sorcerer ever to live can lend one a certain degree of status in the Devildom. He has a reputation for only bothering with demons whose power he deems interesting enough to be worthwhile. And those who do forge such agreements with him revel in the amount of raw magic that he channels through them, when they are called upon.

Any other demon might have given in and made that pact a long time ago already. Rather, many already had – Lucifer’s own younger brother among them, to his chagrin.

But the Avatar of Pride is decidedly not looking for a human with whom to form a pact. He has had little interest in forging a pact with any human, ever. He’s made one exception recently, for you, and it’s his only one since becoming a demon. He doesn’t intend to make another. And certainly not with that particular human.

So, time after time, Solomon asks him again. And, time after time, Lucifer remains ever firm in his refusal.

Thirteen

It’s a real shame, Thirteen thinks.

The sight of his soul, the first time, is still clear in her memories. The way it sparkled when the moonlight hit him -- she doesn’t think she’ll ever forget it. It was bright, and brilliant, like the rainbows refracted off of the most incredible diamond, but also so much more than even that. No image could ever capture it; no words would ever be enough to describe it. Candy had thought she was delusional when she’d tried to tell her about it afterwards. But it was no delusion. His soul really was just that incredible.

It was like nothing she’d ever seen before, and nothing she’d seen since – at least, not until very recently.

And, to Thirteen’s disappointment, it doesn’t sparkle that way anymore.

That isn’t to say she doesn’t want it anymore, of course. It’s still one of the most captivatingly stunning souls she’s ever come across, and she’s not going to give up on having it. She’s been this patient thus far; she’ll keep trying, however long it might take.

Still...it really is a shame.

She misses the way Solomon used to be. These days, he’s so serious, even as he hides it behind a demeanor so cheerful it borders on idiocy.

Back then, he was different. He’d been more innocent by far, for one thing. She remembers the sight of that child hidden away in the basement, staring up at her through the lattice of that half-underground window. His life hadn’t been exactly easy up to that point, but his world back then had been so much smaller. He hadn’t been caught up in all these otherworldly conflicts, concerned with balances of power and the fate of humanity caught between them. No, back at that time, his magic still felt like a miracle to him, and even if it hadn’t been nearly so impressive back then, he’d had a simple sense of wonder and pride at each little feat he managed to perform.

His soul had been so perfectly pure back then, unclouded, unshaded. There had been such honest terror in the shriek he’d let out, and it had been so cute from that little kid that she couldn’t help but tease him a little, even as she’d tried to reassure him that she wasn’t his enemy.

She’d meant it then, and she means it still. Even as she tries time after time to capture his soul, and for all the many ways he’s annoyed her century after century, she holds no actual ill will towards the sorcerer. In a way, frustrating as it is to have her traps constantly fail against him, it’s a fun game of sorts for her too. He’s more than worthy as a target. She’s been waiting for the day his name shows up in the reaper’s list, but at this point, would taking his soul without a challenge even be satisfying?

So he entertains her tricks, and she plays at capturing him, and in the times in between, he calls her a friend -- one of his only friends, perhaps. He trusts her, with a strength of heart that only someone with such a brilliantly polished soul could.

She is not his enemy.

Someday, though. Someday, she’ll claim that sparkling soul of his. Even if it takes until the end of eternity, she’ll never give up on it.

For that man’s soul, it’s worth it. That’s just how valuable it is.

Barbatos

It was a delicious expression on Solomon’s face, that first day the two of them met -- shock, fear, desperation, shame. A delectable mix of all humanity’s basest, heaviest emotions.

To his great disappointment, Barbatos has never seen it again.

The reaper, among their cohorts, blames him for how the sorcerer’s soul changed, so many lifetimes ago; he is well aware of that. And he does not deny it -- it's true that Solomon is no longer the same as he once was. That may well be because of his influence.

Perhaps he did spoil him, back then, this fascinating human that he’d decided to take in and save from the encroaching grip of mortality. It had come about by a simple curiosity, mixed with a knowledge that few others had the privilege of being able to see. This human, a mere mortal on the verge of death, had been powerful enough to summon a demon as fabled as him without yet having a pact or bond in any way, and Barbatos could already foretell that this reckless earthly soul would someday have a pact with him who freely manipulated time at will. He knew this sorcerer would have quite the sway on the fate of the three worlds someday, and he was terribly interested in knowing how such a frail being would accomplish such a thing.

So Barbatos had taken Solomon to the Fountain of Knowledge, assigned him its guardianship, cared for him until he’d regained his health, and then made the pact he knew they were meant to have. He did show Solomon a wide expanse of alternate worlds and times, of futures and histories that the human could not have even dreamed. All of it was still nothing compared to what Barbatos himself has seen of the infinite. But it was far, far more than any human should have any right to know.

If that’s why Solomon is the way he is now, so be it.

But Barbatos isn’t so certain that’s exactly the case.

He knows who Solomon is, more deeply than probably anyone else the sorcerer has ever known. Few things can be kept secret from a demon who can see across all of time and space. He has seen Solomon at his best, at his worst, and most times in between. He has held both deep affection for and deep grudges against the man.

At the end of all of it, Solomon is who he is. He is exactly who he has always been meant to be. Barbatos has never tried to turn him into anything else.

One of the reasons Solomon’s soul shines so brightly, in his opinion, is probably that insatiable curiosity that he has. The sorcerer does not settle for things as they are; he wants to see things as they could be -- good or bad.

Solomon was the one to ask Barbatos to show him those deepest of horrors, dredged out of the abyss of possibility. “I’ve read through the books in the Fountain of Knowledge,” he’d announced, “almost every one of them. But knowing those things from books isn’t the same as knowing them. I need to see it, experience it, for myself, so I can be prepared for anything. Will you do that for me, Barbatos?”

Barbatos had simply obliged. He is, after all, the one who had brought Solomon to that place, so very long ago. It had been no surprise that the sorcerer had gone on to research what was available there, especially considering how long it took to restore him to health. He wasn’t going to deny the human’s request after already giving him that much.

And as the man himself had said, he would need to be prepared. He did need it, if he was going to fulfill the futures Barbatos had foreseen for him -- futures where Solomon would work towards pursuing the goals he has been so dogged about for an eternity now.

But that is simply who Solomon is. He wouldn’t have been satisfied with Barbatos keeping him sheltered and uninvolved, powerless in that perpetual battle between the other realms. He knew what he was asking for, and he wanted it anyway. He’s never regretted that request to Barbatos, and the demon doesn’t regret granting it.

So maybe Thirteen is right. Maybe it is Barbatos’s fault that Solomon’s soul is the way it is now. Maybe he did show the man too much, maddened his soul, corrupted him somehow. He is a demon, after all.

But Solomon doesn’t seem to mind, so neither does he.

Solomon

The sorcerer, like any human, has never been able to see his own soul.

He has, however, heard plenty said about it, by the many unearthly beings he calls company. Fascinated lesser demons have noted to him over the centuries that it is quite impressive, greed dripping from their tongues in hopes of taking it for their own.

Asmodeus, on the other hand, has never been particularly interested, occasionally quipping that if souls are like gems, he’s “not interested in lab-grown,” before ribbing the sorcerer over whether it’s even actually a human soul anymore.

Thirteen has lamented many a time how his soul doesn’t sparkle the same way it used to, a remark he usually just shrugs off. After all, what can he say in response? He has no control over the exact way that it sparkles, nor any particular interest in doing so specially for his reaper friend’s appeal anyway.

Barbatos, for his part, is quite neutral about it. “Your soul is hardly the most interesting thing about you,” the butler tells him.

Solomon is inclined to agree. Even if he can’t see souls in the same way they can, what does it matter? He knows who he is. He knows who he has been, where he came from, and what he has become. It is inescapable, in fact, even as his reflection in the mirror shows none of that change.

A reflection that, unchangingly, shows him what he has always been -- human.

They say he doesn’t really count as a human, that he can hardly even be considered human anymore at this point. And it hurts a little, he has to admit. He is still just as human as he has ever been, in his opinion, and it is only the others’ own condescending pity of humans that makes them think otherwise. They think he is not human because he has power, and no human could be so powerful. Despite his best efforts to show the potential of humans, they simply discount his own humanity instead.

His soul is proof. It’s not right. For being such a shining soul, the nobility of his heart is warped. It’s tainted by some strange shade, maddened by some unnatural force.

But he would say that unnatural force comes from the very ones who deny him his humanity. For thousands upon thousands of years, has his mission not been noble? Defending humanity’s right to be an equal, independent existence against the heavenly and demonic realms which seek to exert their influence is certainly a noble goal which has given him quite the strength of soul to resist them. Is it his fault that it required him to become so cunning and guarded to achieve that goal?

Any human who could see and experience what he has would be the same, he thinks -- if only any other human could indeed. It is, perhaps, the very loneliness of it that twists him further. He wouldn’t wish those struggles upon anyone, not truly, but he has long felt the weight of carrying this burden alone.

Then, you came along.

Falling in love with you is a little like seeing his younger self for the first time.

You are you, of course. You are not him, not a past version of him, not a thing simply to project onto. He knows that, and he would never try to make you someone you are not. But you are familiar in ways that feel almost nostalgic.

You still have an innocence, like he used to have. Not that you’re naive -- you know well enough how to handle those brothers by now, and you have certainly gained that ability to resist demons as Lucifer once instructed you to. But unlike most, you had a unique chance to earn the respect of those around you; the brothers have a true affection and camaraderie with you that most humans never have the chance to get. The Celestial Realm, too, first came to know of your existence as powerful before they really knew you.

They recognize you as an equal. And that gives you a chance to seek the same mission he has had all this time, from a more even starting point -- at least, if you want to. Or to seek anything else you’d like.

You have that kind of spirit, that he believes in whatever path you choose. Even without the power to see souls as they sparkle, he can see there is something special in you. Something he wants to protect, something he wants to nurture and see grow.

Something that he needs to protect, if the forces who twisted him are now threatening to involve you too.

You

Of course Solomon is a little weird, you think. He’s a human who has existed in this world of demons, magic, angels, sorcerers, witches, and everything else, for longer than any human rightfully should have existed at all.

But at this point, aren’t you a little weird, too?

You laugh it off the first few times they say it -- that it’s debatable whether he even counts as human anymore. It’s true, you think. An immortal, powerful sorcerer who has seen everything you’ve ever learned about history and more, with a reputation of being more demonic than most demons themselves? Yeah, you’ve never met any human quite like him.

The longer it goes on, though, the more that opinion changes.

With the brothers affectionately surrounding you, chattering away amongst themselves, they make that remark again, and a small part of you starts to wonder what exactly they mean by it.

What’s so inhuman about him?

He may be deviously clever, but is it really so strange to think that humans might have their schemes sometimes? It’s rampant throughout the human world.

His age is beyond comprehension, but it turns out that plenty of human witches bargain with demons to extend their lives. You’ve started considering it too, if you’re being honest.

He is powerful, the most powerful human ever to live -- except, so are you now.

You start thinking, more and more, that the two of you aren’t actually quite so unalike.

If they think he’s not human anymore, how long until they think the same of you?

So you mention it to him one day, just as a passing comment, during your training together. You didn’t mean much by it, but he frowns, and he ends training for the day, and he takes you to a café, just so you can chat about it a little more. And you didn’t mean to complain, but you end up talking about it and all your other worries and stresses over this whole exchange student turned sorcerer deal for what turns into hours.

He's vague, and evasive about any follow-up questions, but he tells you a little about some of his worries too.

You realize you didn’t really know him all that well before. You start to get to know him better.

When you start talking to him after that, really talking and having real conversations, it’s refreshing in a way. You tell him mundane little stories about your life before all of this -- about your parents, your friends, old anecdotes of how you grew up. You tell him about the things you used to do and your worries about how you’ve become so disconnected from all of that now. And he understands. He listens with a knowing sort of care that none of the others quite have. They do listen to you, of course, but everyday human life is as abstract to them as this world used to be to you. Human life, compared to their own realms, seems so small and inconsequential.

Not to Solomon, though.

As you talk to him, you realize, without a shadow of a doubt, that he remembers. The human world has changed over time, and so has he, but he still remembers what it was like. He still sees things as a human does, no matter how long he’s been surrounded by all this. He asks you all about the human world nowadays, like a house he used to live in, where new owners have come in, and the walls have been repainted, and none of the furniture is arranged how it was before.

Even so, it still feels like home to him. And talking about it feels like home to you.

You don’t really know what they all mean, when the others talk about souls being sparkly or polishing yourself so yours becomes shiny.

Apparently, you sparkle. Apparently, so does he.

But does it matter? Does it matter how all these otherworldly beings judge the worth of a human soul?

What you know is this:

You are human. And so is he.

[kings-highway]

happy birthday to sawamura daichi

(happy early birthday to azumane asahi)

okay the question is, is it:

A) Daichi who follows Asahi around saying "back when I was your age" and describing what he did 4 and a half hours ago, or generally making a menace of himself being born "a whole year before you"

or is it B) Asahi that consistently over-formalizes his language towards Daichi because he "respects the elderly," or intentionally makes up slang and tells him he wouldn't "understand the youth,"

or is it C) Suga pretending he isn't annoyed that neither of them care that he's actually the oldest

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 119

Part 1 Part 118

“We’ve still got five days,” Eddie whines.

Steve looks up from where he’s sprawled in the little space between the coffee table and couch, lifting himself by the elbows to peer over its surface. Eddie’s got the front door swung wide. Steve can barely spot Barbara’s red hair past Eddie’s raised arm, the curve of her shoulder, the strap of her backpack.

“It’s Wednesday,” Barbara replies, ducking under Eddie’s arm. Carol follows her lead, finger-waving tauntingly as she comes in. She’s so short that she doesn’t even have to bend down to make it through.

Eddie stomps his foot, but closes the door, leaning his head against it to whine into the cheap wood.

“The sword of Damocles swings ever downward,” Eddie says, knocking his forehead into the wood three times.

Steve watches helplessly charmed by the dramatic display. Steve of a year ago would kick his ass for smiling at such a nerdy display, and the Carol of a year ago would be in the ass-kicking line right behind him.

The carol of now, though just laughs and drops her purse onto Steve’s stomach, knocking him back down under its weight.

“Okay, drama queen,” she says, not even looking over at Steve at his pained groan, far too busy rolling her eyes at Eddie.

“Good morning, Carol,” Steve grumbles, grabbing her purse to curl around it and placing his head on it. It’s a little lumpy but works serviceably as a pillow.

“Let’s get to work.”

Steve groans and buries his face into Carol’s bag, hoping something will slither out and strangle him. Nothing does, so he sits down and gets to work, a reluctant Eddie leaning into his side.

This, it turns out, is only the start.

Wednesday’s weekly study group becomes a bi-weekly, much to Eddie’s chagrin. He still shows up every Monday in the library, feet dragging, and homework undone. Steve’s fine settling in with some of his favorite people every week and having them hammer details into his head. He wants to pass, and he wants Eddie with him. Always.

Steve falls headfirst into normalcy. He grabs it with both fists and clings.

But, sometimes, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end and won’t settle no matter how hard he tries to pat it back down. He can feel something behind him, just out of view, watching, as it drifts ever closer.

There’s never anything there when he turns around.

So, he studies, and he works, and he lives.

Whatever it is will catch up to him eventually; they always do. But for now, he’s got a paper to revise, Nancy’s red pen bleeding through all the pages. He’s got math problems to stumble through, and finals looming just around the corner.

“You know, Will would totally teach us morse code,” Eddie says, as they pass a joint back and forth, cuddled together in bed.

Steve coughs, the high hitting his throat first, then ballooning into his head until it feels three sizes too big. “What the fuck?” Steve croaks out, passing the spliff back to Eddie for him to finish off and stub out. “You think he knows it?”

Steve rubs his cheek against the fabric of Eddie’s t-shirt. It’s worn down with numerous washes, buttery-soft against his skin. Steve wants to swaddle his whole body in it, wants to hug Eddie so tightly that their two bodies become one and they can both were the shirt at the same time.

Eddie runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, bringing his wash day ever closer as he spreads the oils from his palms into Steve’s scalp. It’s worth it for the way his nails scratch against his skin.

“Totally, Angel,” Eddie says, blowing the last of the smoke out of his lungs and depositing the remnants of the joint into the waiting ashtray at his bedside. “I bet all those nerds know it.”

Steve can’t help the little laugh that rumbles through him at Eddie of all people calling someone else a nerd. Eddie whacks the back of Steve’s head in retaliation and then keeps petting him.

“But why do we want it?” Steve asks, continuing when Eddie hums questioningly. “Morse code.”

Instead of answering, Eddie pulls on the ties that bind repeatedly. Quick, then long, then quick again. Eddie tugs at his hair until Steve’s neck is craned back enough to meet his eyes. His eyebrow’s raised, and his bangs are all fucked up. Steve stares into his eyes and tries to meld their minds because he's got no idea what this pointed silence is supposed to be telling him.

Seeming to catch onto this, Eddie rolls his eyes and pushes Steve’s head back into him to continue stroking him like a cat. “That was morse code, babe.” Steve closes his eyes, trying to think while Eddie begins repetitively tugging on Steve again. “It’s a call for help.”

Steve hums. “In case something goes wrong?”

Eddie’s fingers still momentarily before picking back up their gentle stroking. “I was thinking more like cheating on finals.” He doesn’t repeat the company line all the adults have been reiterating like they’re getting paid for it – the Upside-Down is gone. You’re all safe now. They know better. “Might get us out of a few of these study groups.” He says, ‘study groups’ like what he really means is ‘torture sessions.’

Steve rubs his face against the shirt again, wiping away a little of the drool that had gathered in the corner of his mouth. “You don’t think we’re smart enough to graduate high school, but we’re supposed to learn a whole language in a matter of months.”

Eddie groans, wrapping his arms around Steve and pulling him in tight. “We could learn simple things,” he whines. “Yes, no, better luck next time?” He rocks Steve back and forth until Steve braces his hands against the mattress, feeling seasick. “Then we can make homoerotic eye contact from across the classroom and cheat to our heart’s content!”

Steve snorts, rolling off of Eddie and onto his side of the bed. “We don’t share any classes.”

“Stop picking holes in my plan!” Eddie whines, shoving Steve hard enough that he tumbles off the side of the bed. Eddie’s worried face peers over the edge of the bed a few seconds later. “You okay, Stevie?” he asks, as if he wasn’t the one to shove him off.

Steve glares up at him, rubbing the back of his head. “I can see into the future,” he replies, looking deeply into Eddie’s excited, gullible eyes.

“Three seconds again?” Eddie asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Three months, this time, and do you know what I see?” he asks, not waiting long enough to receive a reply before continuing. “One of us having to repeat Senior Year for a third time because they were too lazy to study.”

Eddie’s dimples pop. Steve’s fingers itch to touch, so he does, unwieldy limbs stretching until he’s got both pointer finger stuck directly into both the little divots. It’s a perfect fit, like Eddie’s the glass slipper and Steve’s fingers are fucking Cinderella’s stupid feet.

“How many guesses do I get?” Eddie asks, smile only growing.

Steve, having lost the plot of the conversation three miles back, squeezes Eddie’s face until his cheeks balloon out enough to force his lips into a pucker. He looks so squashed and stupid that Steve has no choice but to use every one of us flagging abdominal muscles to hoist himself up and plant a wet kiss onto Eddie’s mouth.

“Just one,” he murmurs, lips still pressed together.

The high from the weed and the high from kissing Eddie Munson senseless meld together and last long into the night.

No one ever gets around to learning Morse code.

Part 120

[stimtfil]

HAPPY KYLE DAY GUYS

[bellaxgiornata]

Happy birthday to my favorite Devil! 🎉🎂 I'd make you a cake, but I know you've got plenty of that already, Matty.

[hella1975]

@booksandpaperss HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYY <3

[bookinit02]

in honor of my s5 announcement this week, here’s one of the scenes from the first episode! hope you all like it🫶🏻

[ticklygiggles]

Day 6 - Ginny's birthday Extravaganza

A/N: A volleyball coach and a literature sensei being cute together, I hope you enjoy precious babies my deeeear! @otomiya-tickles

Summary: Takeda-sensei refuses to give up on his volleyball practice, but his tenacity and stubbornness will be his downfall because his boyfriend, Ukai-kun, is really mean.

"You suck at this."

"I never- huff, huff- s-said I was, haaah, good at s-sports..."

How hilarious it was to see the always perfect Takeda-sensei so short of breath. His face was flushed, his glasses askew, and his forehead was covered in a layer of sweat. 

Ukai never thought that Takeda would actually agree to play volleyball with him after the boys quickly finished their practices, but stubborn and tenacious as always, Takeda had accepted without a second thought, and now he could barely form a coherent word between heavy breaths and gasps.

It was foolish of Ukai, though, to think his cute boyfriend would decline a challenge. That was just not his personality and Ukai couldn't help but fall a little deeper in love with him for that.

He chuckled to himself when Takeda failed to send the ball to the other side of the net where Ukai was ready to receive it. Maybe this little sensei had had enough.

"Okay, I think we should stop now, you're not doing this right," he teased him, smirking when Takeda glared at him, fixing his glasses. 

"If I give you," he gulped, taking a deep breath, "a literature- huff, test, you would fail it, but I won't fail this."

Ukai felt his heart flutter. He loved Takeda's determination, it was one of his favorite traits, but he also knew that Takeda wouldn't be a volleyball genius just because he wanted to, that is to say, he needed more practice than just Ukai throwing ball after ball at him. 

But he would amuse him just because he could, and Ukai would also amuse himself, of course.

"Okay, fine. Tell you what, if you manage to serve the ball properly this time…" Ukai had to fight the urge to laugh when Takeda frowned. "... Dinner's on me, but if you fail then I'll, hmm, oh! Then I'll tickle you for… five minutes."

Takeda's face, already red, flushed brightly, finally making Ukai finally laugh out loud. 

"That's stupid!" Takeda squeaked. "Why would you say that?! Now I'm too nervous!" 

"Are you going to try or are you not? Make it quick, I'm counting. One…"

"H-Hold on! I need to think- 

"Two!" 

"I'm telling you to wait, I-

"Three!

"Okay, fine! I'll do it, dammit!" Takeda grabbed the nearest ball and got himself ready. Ukai watched him amused, he could tell Takeda was trying to copy Kageyama's movements, but it was useless. "Here it goes, get ready! I'm gonna blow off your head!"

Ukai laughed again. "Why are you threatening me?!" 

Takeds took a deep breath and threw the ball up, he jumped and hit it and it… didn't even make it to the net. He watched with pure disbelief in his eyes as the ball was propelled just a few feet in front of him when he hit it. Ukai knew that Takeda had used all his strength to hit that ball, but he had already practiced a lot, there was not much energy inside his body now.

Ukai couldn't help but start laughing while Takeda's ears turned red.

"S-Stop! I- I was not ready, the ball was deflated so it didn't- no! D-Don't come any closer, I'll scream! Don't- ahahaha!" 

Ukai chuckled, his hands all over Takeda's body. "The ball was deflated you say? I see it pretty well inflated, though?" 

Ukai had wrestled Takeda to the floor, straddling him, as he tickled his sides, squeezing up and down and watching with a bright smile how Takeda broke into hysterical giggles. He was so adorably ticklish. 

"It's nahahat! Tihihickling is nohohot fahahair! Ahahahagh!"

"It is fair. You accepted the terms and conditions. I forgot to set the timer, though. I'll have to calculate the time myself," Ukai said, teasing his boyfriend with a wide smirk. 

Takeda shook his head. "Y-You ahahahare teheherrible ahahat mahahath, we wohohon't- AHAHAHA! I'm sohohohorry!" Takeda cackled, squirming and weakly pushing at Ukai's hands as they climbed up towards his ribs. 

"Now you're sorry after being a little shit, huh? I don't think so. I'm adding two more minutes to your punishment."

Takeda shrieked, kicking his legs behind Ukai. "Nahahaha! I sahahahaid I'm sohohohorry! Ahahaha, plehehease!" 

"How long do you think it's been? I estimate about 10 seconds at most?" Ukai said, his fingers crawling up Takeda's ribs, looking for the ticklish spots under his arms. "You still have a long way to go."

"You ahahahare the wohohohorst!" Takeda laughed, throwing his head back as he desperately tried to protect his underarms from Ukai's fingers. "I hahahahate yohohou!" 

Ukai gasped, "you hate me? Sensei, you hurt my feelings. That'll add two more minutes of tickling." 

"PLEHEHEASE, Ukahahai-kuhuhuhun!" 

Ukai laughed softly. His darling was already crying of laughter, would he really stand being tickled for more than five minutes?

The answer was no. 

"Maybe I'll stop if you invite me to dinner?" Takeda nodded, too busy laughing his head off as Ukai's fingers wiggled under his arms, tickling him like crazy. "You also have to clean the gym up before we leave."

"I'll do ahahahanythihihing, plehehease!" 

Ukai stopped at once, and he watched with great pleasure that lingering smile on Takeda's face and heard his adorable residual giggles. He looked so adorably flustered, Ukai couldn't help but lean down to press a tender kiss to his lips. 

"Let's get going," Ukai said, standing up and helping Takeda on his shaky legs. Once he was up, Ukai lovingly fixed his glasses and put a sweater around Takeda's shoulders before placing a water bottle between his shaky hands. "Let's make the kids clean tomorrow, I'm starving."

Takeda gulped on the water and when he caught his breath again, he nodded with a warm smile. "Okay. I'm starving too, it's all because of you though." He rolled his eyes playfully and giggled when Ukai poked his tummy. 

"Yes, yes, yes. Let's get going, sensei. Unless you want me to tickle you again?" 

Ukai laughed when Takeda pushed him out of the gym, urging them both to leave. Ah, he felt like a high schooler in love, but maybe that wasn't so bad at all!

[jinko-hellhound]

“over and over, all born into great pain” — bungou stray dogs — chuuya, atsushi, dazai

“Atsushi appears on Chuuya’s doorstep covered in blood and full of drugs. Dazai, despite not being present, dutifully haunts the narrative. or: Strangers who’ve been shaped by the same person. or or: 4,000-ish words of musing and vibes and no plot.” — posted for @dazaibirthdayweek2024 !

words: 3,925

first published: 6/18/2024

characters: dazai osamu, nakahara chuuya, nakajima atsushi

relationships: nakahara chuuya & nakajima atsushi, dazai osamu & nakajima atsushi, nakahara chuuya/dazai osamu

tags: mild hurt/comfort, light angst, introspection, no plot/plotless, implied/reference drug use, non-consensual drug use (off-screen), mild gore, tiger nakajima atsushi, implied/referenced cannibalism (crazy), caring nakahara chuuya

crossposted on ao3

Dazai’s stupid kid is crumpled on Chuuya’s doorstep.

Chuuya had wanted to head down to the liquor store. Instead, his boots hit boy as soon as he stepped out the door. Fucking Dazai, Chuuya thinks, because it must be Dazai’s fault.

Chuuya sighs. He turns back to his empty penthouse, as though expecting Dazai to pop out from behind his couch and shout surprise! then announce to him some stupid plan that absolutely necessitates the weretiger bleeding out in the hall.

“Weretiger,” Chuuya says. The weretiger gives a noncommittal grunt. Copper is already filling the air and seeping into the carpet from a wound that must be in the kid’s torso, way he’s doubled over it. God, the stain in the carpet. Chuuya should just get the carpet ripped out, with how often he has to call the cleaners. Doesn’t the kid have superhuman healing? Chuuya squints. Shouldn’t he be healed already?

“Weretiger,” Chuuya says again. The kid’s shoulder shifts a centimeter and that’s about all the response he gets. Well, okay. Questions later. First things first — the weretiger rises into the air and floats into the middle of the living room. His eyes flutter, but he doesn’t seem to register the red glow around him.

“Bwuh,” the weretiger says. A conveniently stashed sheet of plastic (this is not Chuuya’s first rodeo) lifts up and settles over the couch cushions. The weretiger follows. “Bwuuuhhgggg,” he says smartly into the plastic. His left arm is a long pale line hanging off the couch, which Chuuya’s black Maine-coon is already clawing at. The weretiger seems unperturbed by this.

“Uh-huh.” The first aid kit deposits itself into his hands as he strides over to the couch. “Lemme see that wound.”

Except there’s nothing to see. Under the ripped up shirt and all the clotting blood and bits of loose flesh, it’s just smooth skin. So his ability has done its work, if belatedly. Some of this blood is only a few minutes old. It healed fast, but not as fast as it ought’ve. But the weretiger is still acting all loopy, whimpering like something hurts. Just blood loss? That doesn’t feel right.

Chuuya sits himself on his coffee table, knees bumping the couch. “What’s your name again?” It’s somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he ever hears is Akutugawa’s jinkos.

“Naka…” the weretiger starts, then seems to forget he was saying anything. He turns to the cat as though he only just realized she was drawing tracks down his arm, and coos, scratching at her chin. His pupils are huge. Ah, that’s one question answered at least. A hard drug hindered his healing — and it would have disoriented him enough to panic, go out searching for help. Now the question was what drug, why, and how the fuck did his mind, even drug-addled, end up at Chuuya?

“Naka…” Chuuya echoes, scratching his chin. He really should know this, considering the scuffles and the bounty and the general hot topic the boy was around the Port Mafia. The weretiger does not provide any more help. He is entirely caught up with the cat. Now fully turned onto his side, the weretiger has both hands around the cat’s face, scratching dutifully under both her ears. She purrs like a motorboat.

“Hello,” he says reverently. Big-eyed, he tilts forward until he and the cat can touch noses. When he smiles Chuuya catches braces and grimaces. “Hello, hello, meow.”

“Mrow,” the cat offers.

“Nakajima!” Chuuya finally settles on, triumphant. Nakajima looks up at him fully for the first time, grinning with a Dazai-like edge. Well — tree, apple, falling, etc. Chuuya supposes he’s not so much grinning like Dazai as he is grinning like someone high on nebulous hard drugs, which Dazai often is.

“What’s her name?” Nakajima asks, glossy eyes settling somewhere on Chuuya’s chin.

“Pingus,” Chuuya says, and Nakajima dissolves into giggle fits. He rolls over, pushing himself into the back of the couch, giggling so hard his feet kick out. Pingus, scandalized, climbs onto the couch and begins kneading at Atsushi’s side, trying to force her head under his hands. “What!” Chuuya says, even though he’s listened to a hundred people laugh at his cat’s name before. “It’s a fine Spanish wine, Nakajima, does your idiot mentor teach you anything—”

Nakajima’s laughter stops abruptly. Everything about him stops abruptly. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and Chuuya realizes he hates the sight of him — collapsed on Chuuya’s fine couch, which he’d bought with blood money; white hair and moonlight skin and tatters of a white shirt, all matted and sticky with his own blood, bits of flesh trailing down his stomach. He’s got, Chuuya realizes, red smears all over his chin, his neck, and if he opened his mouth a little wider it might be on his teeth, too. Chuuya had always thought the kid sweet, a bit naive, earnest and reckless. Akutugawa had called him a stupid dog. He wonders about the man-eating tiger stories; wonders what Dazai saw in him in the first place that he thought would make a good partner for Akutugawa. He wonders what Dazai’s taught the kid - what he’s nurtured in him.

“Dazai,” Nakajima says, just as reverential as when he’d been speaking to Pingus. “Dazai told me to come here.” Out of his front pocket, he pulls a crumpled, slightly damp piece of notebook paper and holds it out to Chuuya. He grins big, proud of himself.

A safe place in case of emergency! :D It reads, in Dazai’s stupid messy scrawl. Chuuya will be kind and keep Atsushi for a bit. Tell Chuuya Dazai sent you!

Below these instructions are Chuuya’s address, his phone number (Jesus, Dazai, Chuuya thinks — might as well start plastering Chuuya’s face all over Main Street), and, of course, nothing directed at Chuuya.

Chuuya sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Fucking Dazai — what was he thinking, sending Nakajima his way? Did he tell his whole gaggle of do-gooders Chuuya’s place was a safehouse? And why the hell would he send Nakajima straight into the Mafia’s hands?

(Unless, of course, he believed Chuuya would decline to tell the Mafia about this at all. It was a big risk, believing that.)

“So.” Chuuya leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He studies Nakajima, whose chest is heaving, every breath coming with a hint of a wheeze. Did he overdose? Chuuya taps his foot, considering — he has aspirin in his first-aid kit. Narcan too. “What happened, huh? Too much catnip?”

Nakajima grins lazily (yes, he was right — blood and braces), head lolling against the couch. His arm is limp when Chuuya picks it up, presses two fingers to the pulse point at the inside of his elbow. Nakajima’s offering way too much trust, either because of the drugs or Dazai — Chuuya could stop his blood from flowing at all, if he wanted to. But Dazai would shoot him in the temple, probably.

“I dunno,” Nakajima slurs. His mental condition is definitely unnerving, but at least his pulse feels fine, and his skin isn’t clammy.

Chuuya pinches his inner arm and Nakajima yelps, jolting — his arm becomes monstrous and heavy. Chuuya stares at it, considering the length of its claws. Man-eater, he thinks.

“Huh,” Chuuya says. Then: “Wake up, kid. Tell me what happened.”

“Um.” Pingus is rubbing her face all over Nakajima’s jaw. A deep purr rumbles in Nakajima’s chest to match Pingus’s, which Chuuya is only mildly surprised by. There’s some semblance of awareness in Nakajima’s eyes that Chuuya thinks is due to Pingus’s bothering. She’ll get extra fish with her dinner, as a reward. “Dazai and I were undercover…” Nakajima’s eyes roam the ceiling, running his (both now human, thank God) bony hands up and down Pingus’s back. “Undercover, and… Dazai told me to leave — really fast.”

“Why?”

Nakajima looks frustrated, and Chuuya understands. With a mind addled like his is, it can be hard to put words to things even if you know exactly what you’re trying to explain. But if there’s trouble, there’s no time to wait for Nakajima to sober up.

“Because…” Nakajima says, “He said we were drugged… we were at this fancy party, and I started feeling funny, and Dazai said, go to the Agency, but the Agency was far away… I left him there…” Nakajima jumps up, suddenly, throwing a yowling Pingus off his chest. White knuckling the back of the couch, Nakajima shouts, “Dazai’s in trouble!”

“Calm down.” Chuuya considers reaching out, pushing Nakajima back down onto the couch. That probably wouldn’t go well. “You know Dazai’s fine.” Fine was maybe a strong word, but alive was a fact that seemed to stay true no matter what. “I need more from you. How’d you get injured?”

Nakajima blinks at him. “Injured?”

“Injured,” Chuuya reiterates, pointing at the chunk of yellow fat smeared across Nakijma’s stomach. What a fucking sight. All the hallmarks of a corpse on his couch, except the actual injury.

“Oh,” Nakajima says, squinting down at his own blood. He sort-of snarls as he runs his tongue over his upper teeth, like he just realized the blood on it. “I don’t — remember? I think someone tried to stop me leaving…”

Chuuya puts the images together. Thinks it through — Nakajima and Dazai, both of them completely out of place in some party full of cocktail dresses and tiny sausages. The drugging had to be well hidden for Dazai not to notice, but he would have known the second it slid down his throat. He imagines Dazai’s panicked face — the one no one else ever notices except Chuuya, who is very well attuned to the tiniest twitches of Dazai’s eyebrows — imagines him calculating exactly how many minutes him and Nakajima had, making an estimated guess based on Nakajima’s size and ability and how much he’d unknowingly chugged, and then deciding the kid had enough time to get the hell out of dodge.

Nakajima would have had to leave as discreetly as possible, as though he didn’t know anything was wrong. But if someone had drugged them both, then they were watching them, too. Nakajima had been intercepted, gotten hurt, and — hm. The man-eating thing had only ever been rumors. But if he had claws like that, Chuuya could only imagine the teeth, and what one does when there’s an unknown drug and panic and blood loss all settling in at once. With his efforts to get all the blood off his teeth and out of the crannies of his braces, Nakajima is making a lot of funny faces.

So someone was probably dead. And Dazai was God knows where. And — okay.

Chuuya tilts his head up to the ceiling, ignoring Nakajima, who has once again become preoccupied with Pingus. Question time:

1. Where’s Dazai? Did he get himself out too? Or is he drugged up in someone’s basement?

2. Why Nakajima and not him? If it were one or the other, Dazai would have had a much easier time getting himself out than Nakajima. His tolerance is higher, he probably had less, and, frankly, he’d probably be much more useful in terms of knowledge.

3. For that matter: why not both? Why couldn’t both of them leave? Scratch question 2, then — the only reason Dazai would let himself get caught is if he had a reason to.

4. Fine then, last question, besides why come to Chuuya: how long should Chuuya wait for the stupid mackerel to show his face before he sucks it up and calls the Agency?

Hopefully, he won’t have to deal with the last question. Either Nakajima sobers up soon or Dazai escapes. It’s been a few years and Dazai’s gone weird and soft, but at the very least he should still be totally capable of escaping some stupid fucking kidnappers.

Chuuya should probably add who drugged them to his list of questions, but that’s not really his problem. With the story straight-enough in his head, he just needs to focus on getting Nakajima sober. By the state of the kid’s giant pupils and still-heaving breaths and incessant giggles every time he whispers Pingus to himself, it’ll be a while.

Babysitting duty. Ah, well — Chuuya’s used to babysitting duty, ever since Dazai fucked off and left the Akutugawa kids reeling and helpless. (Not that either of the kids would admit that’s what happened.) Dazai was always leaving him on babysitting duty.

Chuuya sighs, stands, retrieves a blanket. By this point Nakajima’s sunk back down onto the couch, holding a loaf of Pingus against his chest. “Rest up, weretiger,” Chuuya says, throwing the blanket over the both of them. He’ll wash all the viscera and shit off the blanket later.

Nakajima, covered up to his nose, blinks with those big, dual-colored eyes. With a little mrow, Pingus’s head pops out of the blanket and she starts nuzzling Nakajima’s cheek with his nose.

“Are you gonna tell Akutugawa I’m here?” Nakajima asks softly. It should be a question asked with fear, but it’s awfully bland — unafraid. Chuuya’s lips twitch.

“No,” Chuuya says, and heads into the kitchen.

Dazai used to do a lot of cocaine.

He probably doesn’t anymore. Or he’s really good at hiding it. Chuuya doesn’t imagine a cocaine habit would go over well with the detectives, and he doesn’t imagine Dazai could even hide something like that from the smart one. (From the others, he could definitely hide it. But not the super smart one.)

Chuuya’s done it a few times himself, but it’s never been his preference. The dignity of alcohol, the richness of it, and most of all the beauty of it — all those fine, expensive, aged bottles sitting on his shelves — has always appealed to him. But Dazai liked the way things like cocaine got him excited, amplified his mania. He liked uppers, from cigarettes to ritalin to coke, because they made him feel human.

Not that it’s cocaine, Nakajima’s got in him. It’s definitely not cocaine. It was probably ketamine or benzos, an attempt to make Nakajima all loopy and relaxed and weak. That’s not what happened, clearly. At least it’s not what happened immediately, because Nakajima had enough strength in him to escape an attacker. Must’ve been his ability slowing the drug.

It doesn’t matter. This is all to say that Chuuya has more than enough experience sobering himself and others up. He sets to work frying some eggs.

Nakajima’s not asleep; from the other room, Nakajima’s quiet voice wafts in, indistinguishable murmurs interspersed with giggles and Pingus’s mrows. At some point he starts humming a song which Chuuya has to strain his ears to hear. It’s a sweet, lilting melody — his brain fills in the lyrics instantly and his heart twists at the realization that it’s Dazai’s stupid song, can’t do a double suicide alone.

Chuuya slides the eggs off the pan with his spatula and sets them gently on the plate. Then he stops there, stares at the eggs, the shaking yolks. Thinks about being fifteen in Mori’s office, glaring at Dazai, the feeling in his gut that something horrible had changed in his life. Thinks about the stark red marks of Dazai’s hand on Akutugawa’s cheek. Thinks about childrens’ feet pattering softly down the halls of the Port Mafia’s safe houses and headquarters’ halls. Thinks about Nakajima, smiling at Dazai’s name, singing silly tunes Dazai taught him.

Toast pops out of the toaster. It’s a little burnt. Chuuya blinks and takes a breath that does not shake. He flicks on the radio — some public station playing soft jazz — and he can’t hear Nakajima anymore.

When Chuuya returns to the living room with two ham egg and cheese sandwiches, Nakajima pops fully up, although this time he holds Pingus to his chest so she doesn’t fall. The blanket falls, though, and it’s the same as it was before: the remains of a nice shirt falling over thin shoulders, drying brown blood splattering his stomach and chest and arms, his own fucking skin and flesh and fat stuck to him. Chuuya’s seen gore before — seen it a thousand times worse than this — but something about the sight has him keeping his eyes dutifully on Nakajima’s forehead.

Nakajima devours the sandwich in practically one bite, his jaw wider than it ought to be. Chuuya pretends not to be unnerved by this.

Once Nakajima has fully chewed his sandwich and patted his stomach and hummed his thanks, Chuuya asks, “Feel any better?”

The penthouse is cold. Chuuya likes it that way. But Nakajima shivers, pulling the blanket back up, tucking himself back down onto the couch. “A little,” he says, suddenly very childlike. As though he’s only just realized he’s cold (likely, considering what some drugs can do to one’s awareness of things like temperature), Nakajima curls more and more into himself on his side, pulling the blanket up his face. Ridiculous, that he’s on Chuuya’s couch right now. Ridiculous, that Chuuya doesn’t call Akutagawa. Fucking Dazai.

Chuuya stands abruptly. Nakajima blinks in response.

“Rest,” Chuuya says again, then promptly retreats to his bedroom.

Dazai is sprawled out on Chuuya’s bed, twisting the soft black covers beneath him, hair fanned out over the pillow. He’s got a few bruises on his cheek but there’s no blood, Chuuya recognizes first, then recognizes second that Dazai is on his fucking bed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chuuya says. Throws his hands up in the air, lets out a noise like a yell without any air — makes a scandalized face that Dazai only blinks at, throws his arms back down, then towards Dazai, into the air, then out, gesturing widely at the room around him. Every loose object in the room raises about a centimeter, drops, raises. “When the fuck did you get here!” He crosses the room in two long strides, pulls the lounging Dazai off the bed by his shoulders, and shakes him. “Your stupid kid is high out of his mind in the living room!”

Dazai groans, fake, squeezing his eyes shut. “Chuuya, Chuuya,” he whines, putting on a strange voice like a telenovela housewife, “Chuuya, my head is killing me!”

“You’ve done worse drugs,” Chuuya says, but he brings up a hand to start prying Dazai’s eyelids open and check his pupils. Yelping, Dazai bats him away, wiggles out of his grip, then rolls floppily onto the other side of the bed. He pats the space next to him in invitation.

“Fuck you,” Chuuya says.

Dazai just frowns.

The window is open, Chuuya realizes, a breeze fluttering the blackout curtains. This is somehow an even worse realization than finding Dazai on his bed, and Chuuya has to fully turn on his heel so he’s facing away from Dazai. He grabs his face in his hands, bounces on his heels once, twice, thrice. The idiot had either broken into the apartment below and climbed up to the penthouse or started from the roof and climbed down — either way, it’s so ridiculous and unnecessary that the thought of it gives Chuuya heart palpitations.

“You have a key to this apartment!” Chuuya hisses, although something about it feels like he shouldn’t say it out loud, like it’s an admittance. “Why would you-!”

Dazai hums in a way that tells Chuuya he won’t get an explanation. Either he’d done it for fun or done it because it was all part of some stupid plan or mind game or manipulation. Chuuya decided he didn’t care, because the more pressing question was—

“Why would you give that kid my address?” He steps forward so his knees are bumping the mattress.

Doe-eyed and innocent, Dazai stares up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?” He asks, “Chuuya is a good babysitter…”

“I’m going to kill you,” Chuuya says, but he doesn’t add his usual violence to it because he’s squinting at Dazai’s pupils. Blown pupils, but his cheeks are a normal warmth, he seems perfectly able to move himself around. No need for the damn narcan, which is a blessing, because Chuuya’s had to give Dazai narcan more times than he’d like in this lifetime.

Dazai pats the spot next to him again. Rolling his eyes, Chuuya acquiesces. Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee; fifteen, twenty-two. They sit in quiet a moment, Dazai taking deep breaths Chuuya recognizes as an attempt to sober up. The summer breeze through the window adds a bit of warmth to the cold room. Nakajima is humming that tune again, loud enough to hear through a closed door. Chuuya closes his eyes.

“I escaped a little faster than I meant, but I got good information,” Dazai muses. When Chuuya glances over, an eyebrow raised, he waves his hand in dismissal. “Agency business.”

“Agency business,” Chuuya repeats flatly, “but you can send Nakajima here in the middle of it.” He’s indignant, even though an hour ago he said whoever drugged the two of them wasn’t his problem. It’s the principle of the matter — he can decide he doesn’t care. Dazai can’t decide that for him.

Yawning, Dazai scratches at his jaw. “I didn’t specifically send him here. I gave him your information a long time ago. You were closer than the Agency.” The drugs are making him a bit less playful, more direct than usual. His gaze is sort of lizard-like, unfocused on the wall opposite him. “Chuuya’s a good babysitter,” he repeats. Chuuya could vomit. He leans a bit away from Dazai, but Dazai just lifts one leg and settles it over Chuuya’s, holding him in contact.

They’re silent for a long moment, in which Nakajima begins to giggle, repeating Pingus to himself several times.

“What’re you doing with this kid?” Chuuya finally asks, glancing sidelong at Dazai.

There’s that Dazai smile. The actor one, the robot one, that reaches his eyes as though it’s clawing for them. “Does Chuuya have a soft spot?” he asks, leaning back into Chuuya’s space, chin hitting Chuuya’s shoulder. He whines when Chuuya plants a hand on his face and pushes him off. With the momentum he falls over himself so that he’s become a ball on Chuuya’s bed, moaning about how mean and awful and cruel Chuuya is.

“No,” Chuuya bites, “I just wanna know what you’re planning in your stupid mackerel brain.”

Said mackerel doesn’t respond for a while. Chuuya is reaching out to jostle him when he realizes the rise and fall of his back is real, actual sleep, and his hand stops in the air.

“Damn it,” he says, but it’s a quiet mutter. Out in the living room, Nakajima’s quieted, too.

He stands. Goes into the living room. Stares at the now-sleeping kid for a long moment. In sleep he’s serene, cheeks thin but still childlike, face still all smooth like an artist had just gone over the clay of him with her thumbs. Pingus curls under his chin. All sweet, except for the brown-red on Nakajima’s jaw, resting against Pingus’s dark fur.

Chuuya crosses into the kitchen, sits heavy in a chair, and considers. Considers — all of the safe houses Dazai could have sent Nakajima off to. Considers that stupid tune Nakajima and Dazai seem to love, and the edge to both their smiles, and the vigor with which Akutugawa and Nakajima hate each other. Considers how a man was dead, and how he probably deserved to die, but it had been a desperate, drugged eighteen year-old on a job who’d done it. Considers Chuuya’s a good babysitter, and tea with the Akutugawas, and Nakajima’s braces. He comes to no satisfactory conclusions.

[wild-flowerhoney]

taste divinity on your lips - cabin13

It's not really something he ever thinks about, demigods being turned into Gods.

Nico trembles in his arms, crowned by divinity and mortality both.

A foot in each world – dancing over the line like something out of a fairytale, forever graceful, forever caught in a single, eternal moment.

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Day 5: Undersea Prince Percy and/or Underworld Prince Nico

@percico-nicercy-events