#but now that he has Blood and Whiskey he can't help but think of himself and Dyne and Althena

[an-aura-about-you]

I don't wanna write but I do wanna write but the thing I wanna write is another TMA/Lunar 2 scene between Jon and Ghaleon just because I like the odd semi-friendship I have somehow created for them.

[pretty-little-mind33]

James Potter x shy Hufflepuff fem!reader

Summary: You have a massive crush on James. One you didn't think would ever lead anywhere until a drunken party in the Gryffindor Common Room.

Genre: Fluff 🫶

Warnings: drinking, being drunk

~ directly inspired by the song So High School by Taylor Swift. thank you to the anon who requested this! ily! ~

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

Your cheeks burn from your embarrassment and the fire-whiskey in your blood-stream as your ears ring from the loud music dancing around you and you shake your head.

Lily Evans laughs as she glances around the Common Room. "C'mon, this is your chance," she insists, "They're playing Kiss, Marry, or Kill."

When Lily sees your confused and frankly frightened expression, she quickly explains, "It's a muggle game—it's harmless and fun—c'mon," she says again and pulls on your arm.

"Gentlemen," Lily declares when you approach the circle of students near the fire and she looks at the ring leaders of the group, The Marauders.

They're the ones that had planned this party—or Sirius and James had while Remus and Peter tagged along.

Sirius grins when he sees Lily. 

"Aw, are you joining us, Red?" he smirks and then he sees you, "And who's your friend?"

You smile shyly. You know Peter from Care Of Magical Creatures in your third year, and you often seen Remus in the library (you've even spoken to him a few times), but you've only ever seen and heard James and Sirius from afar—

—which definitely never helped the stupid, baseless, soul-crushing crush you have on James Potter. 

Remus, who is sitting criss-cross ext to Sirius, speaks up, "Y/n, yeah? You're a Hufflepuff—I see you in the library." He smiles kindly and pushes on James's shoulder, who has the latter almost choking on his beer, so you can sit next to him. 

James frowns but he recovers quickly and looks up, his glasses crooked on his nose. He's wearing his Quidditch sweater, his brown hair a tangled mess, but he's smiling now.

"Hi," he moves so you can sit next to him and Remus as Lily grins like a fool. You feel her hand on your shoulder as she plops you down next to James and she sits across from you. 

Apart from the Marauders, other students are also sitting around the circle and chatting. Sirius is by far the loudest of them all, and you think James is the funniest. 

It becomes honestly embarrassing how hard you laugh at any stupid joke he says. You can't help it, your tipsiness impairs any rational thoughts you may have, as you cover your mouth and stifle your laughs. 

James notices immediately and he grins. 

"Never had this much success, dove," he says, as charming as always, "You're cute."

This causes you to become even more flustered and you don't even know how to answer him. So, you hide from him, turning your head in the opposite direction. Lily sends you a knowing look.

James leans his knee closer to yours and you have to convince yourself he did that by accident or you'll simply implode. 

"Okay, Jamie, Kiss, Marry, Kill—me, Lily, and our new sweet little Hufflepuff," Sirius suddenly says, pulling your attention to the group again. You still have no clue what this game is and your eyes round.

Sirius seems quite pleased with himself.

James sips his drink, "Hmm, Kill you because you're a pain in my arse—" 

Sirius dramatically puts a hand on his heart, feigning hurt at his best friend's words. "And here I had the ring all prepared," he whines. 

James chuckles and continues. "Then um," he looks between you and Lily for a moment and your heart sinks.

Everyone knows James had a thing for Lily in second to fourth year. How could you, someone who had been too shy and awkward to even talk to him, compete with smart, incredibly witty, and beautifully stunning Lily Evans?

"Kiss Lily and marry Y/n," James shrugs, smiling lopsidedly as he looks at you and pushes his glasses further up his nose. "Lils' seems like she'd be a decent snog, but I like them sweeter for the long run," he reasons and winks. 

Lily laughs and rolls her eyes, "Smooth, Potter."

"No need to get all green-eyed on us, Evans," James says and turns his attention to you again, "Whadd'ya say, lil' puff, June 17th in six years?" he says, planning the future fake wedding.

You look up at him, your eyes round and you blink—unable to laugh it off as your heart thumps so loudly you can barely hear a thing anymore. 

"I think you broke the poor girl," Remus chuckles and then turns to Peter to steer the attention away from you, "Okay, Wormy, your turn."

Thank Merlin for Remus Lupin.

* * *

A while later, you stand in the corner of the room, your mind still stuck on how James's teasing that you don't hear the man in question come up to you.

"Hey, dove," he whispers and you spin around.

"Oh–hi," you whisper. You must look so smitten because you can just feel your cheeks burn.

James smirks. "It's late. Where's Lily?"

You frown as you look around, "She's talking with um—some of her other friends over there—" you point, expecting James to walk to her and leave you behind.

Instead, he stays. "You think she'd mind if I walk you back to your Common Room, you seem a little tipsy."

You're at a loss for words but then you stutter, "O-oh, no, I don't think she would mind," you whisper, "That's very kind of you, James. I c-can walk alone if it's a bother—"

"Nonsense. If it was a bother, I wouldn't have asked," James takes your arm, pushing some hair from your face with his fingers.

"Cute ribbon," he adds, looking at the red ribbon in your hair, "Very on brand with Gryffindor pride," he chuckles as he clearly enjoys the flustered look you're wearing.

"You're adorable," he says and he takes your hand, leading you out into the hall. The corridors are empty and dimly lit at this time in the evening and it feels surreal to walk the halls hand in hand with James Potter—especially when he keeps looking back at you with that look on his face. 

When you arrive at the entrance of the Hufflepuff Common Room, James turns to you and he keeps his hand in yours. He's blushing obviously now and you can smell the beer on his breath.

"If we weren't so tipsy," he mumbles, his knuckles caressing your skin, "I would kiss you right now."

Your eyes widen and your breath leaves you. "Pardon?"

"You heard me, love—where have you been all my life?" he sounds lovesick and one of his palms press against his warm cheek, "Is this what love at first sight is supposed to feel like? Because I was convinced that was all bullshit until now. What charm have you put on me, Y/n?"

You look away because if you look into his eyes any longer, you'll faint. Your hand squeezes his as his words make you feel dizzy and all fluttery. "I think you're just a little drunk, James."

"Drunk in love, yeah," he half-jokes, his tone soft as he leans in and his lips find your forehead.

You shut your eyes, wondering how he could make you feel like this in a mere matter of hours and although your insecurities creep in, you stay in the moment. 

"Where can I find you tomorrow?" James whispers against your skin. 

"I'm in the library a lot, especially in the mornings," you say, having no expectations of ever seeing James Potter again. You and him live on completely different planets.

"You can find me there if you'd like," you finish and James nods, his lips kissing your temple one last time and then he whispers a small, sweet dreams into your skin. 

* * *

  In the morning, you ignore your hangover and find your usual spot in the back of the library as you open an old book written by an ancient muggle philosopher. 

Last night's events in the Gryffindor Common Room play in your head as you read. 

"Mornin'." You're startled by a familiar voice and you look up from your book. James stands in front of you, a Quaffle under his arm as his hair splays messily across his forehead.

He's still dressed in his Quidditch Uniform and he walks closer, smiling. "Sorry I'm late—practice ran later than usual. Whatcha reading?" he asks, sitting across from you and draping his arm across the chair next to his as the Quaffle sits in his lap.

"You came," you whisper with a smile, your heart fluttering.

"Yeah, 'course I came," James says so casually as he leans over the table and taps your book, "Whatcha reading, dove? Do tell me all about it,"

You feel all warm and fuzzy like all your wildest dreams have come true, when you say, "Only if you tell me all about Quidditch practice after?" you look at him shyly.

"Your wish is my command," James grins, a faint blush on his cheeks.

[alastorss]

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Alastor does not have a heart.

You think that most Sinners do. A form of punishment by the divine—to suffer every squeeze of pain and loneliness; to have that wretched thing in your chest just to feel human when you are far from.

Sinners deserved to have a heart more than the winners, if only to bring the ache that comes with it.

But Alastor, he has no heart.

You’ve been told that the place where he should ache and hurt the most is missing. Incinerated before he ever materialized in Hell. Lost to fire.

He was a heinous monster when alive—most think he didn’t even have one when he was human.

He didn’t know the feeling of it plummeting from your chest to the pit of your stomach, or the way it could get caught in your throat. He was a demon through and through. He would never understand what it meant to be human.

You believed it despite wanting to see the best in him.

Alastor was your friend. One of your first after manifesting in Hell. You’d like to think that he trusted you a little more than the others in his life—that you were as special to him as he was to you.

However, you could never look past the ways he took care of his shady business. How he drenched himself in blood as if it were the only cure for his everlasting boredom. You especially could not stomach the way he dismissed his other supposed “friends”.

He kept you around, but for how much longer? You would never know.

Still, you allowed yourself to be strung along by his enchanting personality. You loved him the way the moon loves the sea—yearning, wanting. But he is beaming in the sky and you are at the bottom of the ocean.

You would never know what it was like to own souls, or drink whiskey until it burned, or smile forever. The same way he would never know a heart.

That was the wall you wordlessly put up between you and him.

And he never mentioned it, never wondered why you would stand a foot away when usually you were all over your friends. You suppose that he didn’t have the same ache in his chest.

Alastor is heartless. That much, you thought you knew.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Jealousy is a petty, ugly emotion.

To think that he even has the capacity to feel it makes Alastor’s skin crawl. He thought that he had abandoned such worthless feelings long ago.

Yet here he is, watching with envy bubbling in his stomach while you drape your arms around Angel’s neck, laughing at some horribly obscene joke he cracked. You were always like this—hands never to yourself when you wanted to show your love for others.

But for him, you were reserved—hands behind your back, standing an arms length away whenever you chatted.

At first he appreciated how hands-off you were when everyone else was usually so touchy. He never had to worry that you were going to be breathing down his neck or irritating him while he tried to read his morning paper.

Now, though, it irks him.

Not only because you and him have become quite close, sharing late night conversations and admiring the dark, red sky of Hell together on more than one occasion. That alone would have been enough to allow you the special privilege of clinging to him. But he’s also grown a soft spot for you—embarrassingly soft, and now he’s stuck pouting like an toddler not getting what he wants.

Attention. Attention that says you care about him the way you do everyone else.

Alastor knows his first course of action should not be confrontation. That he shouldn't be cornering you with such a pouty, dramatic expression on his face like a child who just got told to put the toy back on the shelf.

But he can't help it when it comes to you. All inhibition is thrown to the wind.

"You're avoiding me," he accuses, static buzzing in his throat.

You raise a brow, back pressed to the bookshelf behind you. "I'm not," you tell him for what must be the fifth time.

"You are!" He narrows his eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you press, slightly irritated by his sudden attack. What is he going on about?

You think back, wondering if you'd been unintentionally ignoring the demon in any way. It's been business as usual, as far as you can remember.

"Are you really this oblivious?" He tilts his head, ears flopping to the side. "You are unbelievable, cher."

You squeak in surprise when he gathers your hand into his, soft skin raked gently by his claws. He's careful not to hurt you as he maneuvers you around.

He presses your palm firm to his chest where his heart should be. And instead of the hollow emptiness you expect, you find the chorus of his heartbeat.

It sings slow and steady, pulsing faintly beneath the pads of your fingers. You don't even realize that you've been holding your breath, as if just that minute action would cause him to draw away.

Alastor's fingers curl a little tighter around your palm and you finally suck in a sharp breath of air. A small smile settles on your face, cheeks growing warm from the contact.

"It... It's—"

"A heartbeat," he tells you, reaching down to pull your other hand to his throat. You feel the rhythm at his pulse point, the tandem beats filling you with ease.

All this time you had believed that Alastor was heartless. That he did not have the capacity to hold other people dear.

You blink at him, dumbfounded. When did he open up his heart to you?

He sighs indignantly, leaning down toward you with a strange look on his face. As he does, the pace beneath your fingers increases, pounding faster than your own.

Alastor stays there for a moment, staring at you stubbornly with his smile curled into something more exasperated. You can't decipher what kind of conflict is dripping from every part of his expression, instead too focused on trying to keep your breath.

The drumming beat coursing from his body through yours rips away from you, leaving your hands dangling in the air. He brushes off his coat, unable to meet your eyes anymore.

"Do you understand now?"

You're not entirely sure you do—if you ever can, but you nod anyway.

He coughs, his usual demeanour quickly slipping into something unprecedented. Is he... flustered?

"Very good," he says, more to himself than to you. You don't miss the way his ears flatten above his head. "Then I expect the same treatment as everybody else."

You pull your hands back to yourself as he stalks off, muttering to himself.

They're impossibly warm.

~

taglist: @the-lake-is-calling @dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice @averylonelysea @bri22222 @cxrsedwxrlds @amarokofficial @anae-naea-zacheria @for-hearthand-home @fantasy-is-best @angixyc @th3-st4r-gur1 @dilemmaiscool @concentratedconcrete @squiword7 @clarakainda @heartfeltcherie @cedarrthefluffylee @alastorthirsty @queermaxwooo @readergirlstuff @alastor-simp @jyoongim @rosie-irisa2010

hey guys do u still remember me hahhagh.....

[peachesofteal]

Dr.Riley’s getting attached. I can see him cancelling his day and slipping out of the back, wanting to make sure Clover gets home in one piece.

psych au - 18+ - tw for mental health, alcohol, ptsd, psych hold, references to suicidal ideation, psychologist Simon Riley losing his grip. Note: where I live, an M1 is a 72 hour psych hold. So that’s how I wrote this. Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four

It's not crossing a boundary, it's just taking care of her.

He repeats it over and over in his head, slinking a block behind you in the shadows. Old practices, tactical operations and operating procedures revive in his blood, his steps turning silent, ghostly.

This is fine.

It's not. He knows it. His education, his license, his practice, they're all at risk now. The work he's put in over the years, threatened by your existence. And yet-

He can't stop thinking about you. Like an illness, a cold, ice filling his chest, he can't shake you.

He's this close to putting you on a seventy two hour hold. He could see it in your eyes today, the agony, the decay of your will to keep trying, keep living. You didn't say it out right, but he knows.

He's been there. He recognizes it.

He wants to know how much you're drinking. The rule of thumb is usually what the patient says times three, maybe four, but with you it's hard to tell. Alcohol will only push you to the bottom of your will to live faster, an old rusted chain wrapped around your ankle, attached to an anchor at the bottom.

It's the first time he's hesitated putting someone on an M1. You're not a danger to others, sure. But to yourself? You're lethal.

This is how he convinces himself to follow you home.

Your building is nice. There's a lobby, an elevator, and the floor has been recently waxed, shiny with something reminiscent of chemical and lemon peel. The front door is secure, which gives him a sliver of relief, though it wasn't a challenge for him to get it open.

It would be for others though.

He's not surprised to see your door is bare. No welcome mat, no wreath, not even a door knocker, like everyone else's. Its bare bones, as he expected, not really a home, just a place you come and go.

He should stop.

Instead, his fist bangs against the door on its own accord.

Your eyes are wide when it swings open, fingers curled around the knob in a death grip. You’re a little off balance, tipping against the frame, and he chalks it up to the surprise. “Dr. Riley?”

“I- I needed to follow up with you.” Your mouth tugs into a frown, confusion flickering across your face. You’re in a ratty t shirt, sweatpants, and you look so damn tired.

“You make house calls now?” Fuck.

“I’m concerned.” He’s scrambling, trying to tug free some words that will make this make sense, something that will make this situation professional in any capacity. “Needed to make sure you got home. You said you weren’t feeling well, remember?”

“Oh. Right. I um, I’m fine. I’m just tired.” He peeks around your shoulder. Your apartment is mostly bare, a shell of a home, a place you sleep between missions, he’s sure.

You shiver, and hiccup. His eyes narrow. “Have you been drinking?”

“N-no.” He leans in, pinching your jaw between his fingers and forcing your face upwards to his. This close, he can see the dilation in your pupils, your struggle to focus, but most importantly, he can smell your breath.

Whiskey.

Well, that’s it then.

“Go sit down,” he orders, turning you into the apartment and forcing you over to the couch. “This is over.”

“What’s over?”

“This. ‘m not going to let you self destruct, or die.” He sends a text discreetly, glancing back at the screen when he gets an affirmative.

“What’re you doing to do? Babysit me?” You scoff, but he shakes his head.

“You need help, Clover.” He keeps his voice soft, as soft as he can manage so to not spook you, like you’re a scared animal caught in his path.

“I’m fine.” Your hands are trembling, but you maintain the facade, and he only shakes his head. He needs a distraction, something to eat the time with.

“Let’s talk for a bit.”

When the knock and the door comes, your breath catches. “Who is that?”

“Clover,” he says gently, “we’re going to get you help.” He opens the door to reveal the paramedics, and your face falls.

You know. He knows you know.

“No,” you back away, your head shaking back and forth. “No, you- you can’t do this. You can’t do this to me,” your lower lip trembles, and he approaches slowly, palms out. “Please.” You’re panting, sweating, eyes wild, snapping to the door. He steps in front of your gaze, holding a hand up to the medics, telling them to stop their advance. If he can get through to you he can make this easier, less traumatizing, less terrifying.

“If you run, I will catch you.” He warns sternly, and you gulp.

“Dr. Riley, please.” You’re pleading, tears gathered in the corner of your eyes. It burns in his heart, agony ripping through him.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise.” A syringe is passed to the hand behind his back, and he pops the cap off when you’re looking away.

“You can’t do this- please don’t do this to me.”

“Clover, I can’t trust that you won’t hurt yourself baby.” Baby. It slips out and he bites his tongue. “This is for you, and I know you don’t know that right now-“

“NO!” You scream, hands balled at your side. “I’m n-not going, I won’t go. You c-can’t make me.”

“I can. You know I can. I want to come with us willingly, okay? I don’t want to sedate you.” You’re terrified now, still backing away, panicking when your back collides with the wall. You pivot towards the door your bedroom, springing into a leap, but he’s faster, snatching you around your waist and dragging you backwards.

“No! STOP, nonono-“ you kick your feet, twisting, thrashing, trying to knock the back of your head into his nose as he curls around you.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers it against your ear-

And plunges the syringe into your arm.

[hikari-kaitou]

This is Phoenix and Edgeworth's profiles as imagined by character designer Ms. Suekane. We got quite different answers from her compared to Takumi and the others!!

Phoenix's profile

Birthday: Maybe a Virgo? I kinda get the feeling he was born in September.

Blood type: O type. His attitude towards Maya and his fairly easygoing nature give me that impression.

Birthplace: Saitama, maybe? It's close to Tokyo but not on the same level because it's more rural. Maybe Saitama or Chiba or Ibaraki? But Takumi-san is from Saitama? Well, let's go with Saitama, then.

Non-work clothes: A hoodie. I want Phoenix to like wearing hoodies (lol). I can't think of anything else that would suit him. On the bottom, he'd wear cargo pants.

Living situation: He lives at his office. He's got a locker there where he keeps blankets and stuff to sleep on.

On his days off: He does nothing. He kinda just spaces out in the morning, then when noon comes he eats lunch and watches TV. When evening comes, he eats dinner, watches more TV, bathes, and sleeps. But if someone invites him out then he'll go.

Hobbies: Video games and stuff. Like fighting games (lol). I can see him with his controller going "tap tap tap tap" and smashing out combos. He might also play Dragon Quest or Final Fantasy or those types of games.

Favorite food: He's omnivorous. He'll eat whatever but he's kinda happy when there's meat in it. He loves meat.

Luxury foods: Diet cola. Beef jerky would be fine too (lol). He drinks alcohol but it doesn't show on his face much. Not beer, but like Japanese hot sake (lol)

Sports: Swimming. In general he's useless at sports but he'd be like "swimming is the only thing I'm good at." He seems like he'd get a little excited while talking about swimming.

Music: He doesn't listen to music. He'll go to karaoke if someone brings him, though.

Cellphone: He updates it fairly regularly, but because he always waits for the price to go down, he always ends up with one that's two models behind (lol).

His part time job in college: Something loose, because he doesn't commit himself to things… Like maybe he worked at a convenience store.

His type: I feel like he dreams about someone with abstract qualities like being "kind" or "domestic". Just thinking about those words gets him all starry-eyed and sighing (lol).

Edgeworth's profile

Birthday: He's an Aries, which means he was born on April 2nd or later. Let's go with April 2nd (lol).

Blood type: Type AB, because I feel like his emotions kinda have peaks and valleys.

Birthplace: Chiba. At first I thought Ace Attorney took place in Soga (a city in Chiba Prefecture).

Non-work clothes: A jacket, but not like a suit jacket, more like a casual one. Like from Paul Smith or something.

Living situation: A normal apartment. A lot of his furniture is Japanese handicraft stuff, and I feel like he'd put a lot of money into making his place feel Japanese.

On his days off: He goes shopping or on walks and has an elegant lunch. If he drives a car, it would be a silver one (lol).

Hobbies: Collecting western antiques and Japanese handicrafts.

Favorite food: Taro and meat soup (imoni). He has a favorite deli in his neighborhood that makes it.

Luxury foods: Whiskey. He enjoys it on the rocks.

Sports: He used to play soccer, but now he does weight training. He's got a defined six-pack.

Music: jazz. He listens to it while drinking his whiskey. Eminem fills him with rage.

Cellphone: A normal one. He uses his computer to send emails so he really only uses it to talk.

His part time job in college: Administrative assistant. He'd help with paperwork only when the office was really busy.

His type: Someone who doesn't lie to him. I have nothing in particular to add to that.

[gor3-hound]

BOT DROP !!

final one before indefinite hiatus... these have been sitting in my unlisted for MONTHS, so wanted to post them before i lowkey abandon this c.ai account...

CONTENT WARNINGS: incest, stepcest. bots from yakuza, jjk, resident evil and dc below :)

BOT ONE, LEON - a half-angel crash landed on his balcony

Leon has been alive for almost four centuries, and he can't say he'd ever experienced a half-angel falling from the sky and crashing onto his balcony. He's not sure how you got past his wards, but then again… he's pretty sure he'd been drinking a new vintage when he started to re-apply the magic. He really can't be blamed for any mistakes he makes when whiskey comes into play.

He almost leaves you there. He knows you'd probably fly off when you woke up. If you had the strength to, that is. He knows what your kind is like. How much you look down on warlocks due to the demon blood in them. He had no obligation to help you. He shouldn't care if you made it or not. Then again, the nephilim aren't going to believe he's not the one behind this if he leaves you to die. It's self-preservation.

Well. That's what he tells himself as he lifts your body up carefully, mindful of your injured wings. He carries you to his bedroom and sets you down, getting everything he's gonna need to start healing you. It's a long process, healing one of your kind. His magic feels almost depleted when your breathing finally evens out. He lets out a sigh of relief, collapsing onto the chair he pulled out next to the bed, shutting his eyes. He's definitely going to need a nap after this. And a drink.

His eyes flick open once he hears movement from you. He doesn't wait for your eyes to open - he might as well just get it out of the way if you're gonna freak out. "You're finally awake. I was beginning to think you weren't gonna pull through, angel."

BOT TWO, LEON AND DANTE - hybrid owner brothers

Leon wasn’t super happy when Dante showed up one day with a hybrid in tow, but he quickly became just as obsessed with you as Dante was. Dante, despite being the older of the two brothers, was certainly not the most mature. He’s always the ‘fun’ owner, letting you do whatever you like as long as it meant you'd give him that big smile.

Leon scolds Dante more than he scolds you, somehow. You’re not the best behaved, but it’s entirely his older brother’s fault. Any training Leon attempted to give you went out the window as soon as you and Dante were alone. The only commands the white-haired man cared about were lie down and hips up. Made Leon a little queasy thinking about how Dante basically used you as a toy, but he was also very aware that his thoughts have been fairly impure, so he doesn’t have much leg to stand on. It's not like he hasn't had his fun with you in the past.

Realistically, it should be no surprise when he comes home to find you settled happily on Dante’s lap, looking a little ruffled and out of breath. He steps further into the room, eyes falling on the both of you. Dante’s lazily browsing through TV channels, and you’re sat there warming him, just out on the middle of the couch. Like you can’t go a second without being full. “Jesus. You can’t have her like this in your room?”

BOT THREE, LEON - dad!leon x bimbo!daughter

You've always been the light of Leon's life - that much is obvious to anyone who sees the both of you together for more than two seconds. You're his only child. The only thing good left in his life, if he's being honest. He didn't mean to spoil you as much as he has, but he was never good at refusing the puppy dog eyes.

Leon knows he's to blame for how you are now. All grown up without a thought to spare in your pretty head, spoiled beyond belief. He's never made you work hard. It's not possible to be the strict parent and the fun parent at the same time, not as a single father. With work taking up most of his time, he didn't have the heart to go hard on you when you two got some time together. And he was guilty of pulling you out of school on his days off when you were perfectly fine to take you shopping - he had to make up for his long absences, right?

So, yeah. He's well aware it's his fault. But it makes him happy to see you happy as you hold up what might be the largest parcel he's ever seen with a huge smile on your face - a clothing haul straight from his wallet. God forbid his little princess had to work. Not while he's still around. He'll watch you try on every piece of clothing until you're satisfied. He deserves a dad of the year award.

Until he can't control the way he reacts when you come into the living room in a skirt that's a little too short. Yeah, definitely not dad of the year. No dad should have to grab a couch cushion to hide their lap when their daughter is showing off an outfit. And he definitely shouldn't speak up in a hoarse voice, asking you to turn around so he can get a better look, right?

"C'mon, princess. Give daddy a twirl." Yeah. Leon is so very screwed.

BOT FOUR, LEON - his symbiote wants you as a mate (venom!leon)

Leon would have risked the months of brain-probing he was liable to endure if he told the government about his new friend if he knew Venom would become so attached to you. Venom doesn't care that being in the same room as you makes Leon get all clammy and awkward. Leon's tried to explain you're just his roommate - a friend at best. Venom argues you'd be much more fun as it's mate.

Leon, the symbiote practically purrs in his mind. Leon groans, brows furrowing as he turns in his bed. He's been trying to sleep for the past hour, and Venom isn't happy about it. Leon. We should visit our mate.

"It's, like… 2am." Leon groans, rubbing a hand over his face. Venom hasn't left him alone since it first met you, and Leon isn't sure how much longer he's gonna be able to hold the symbiote back. "She's sleeping."

She will be pleased with our presence. Venom growls in his mind, tendrils spreading across Leon's face before they stretch across his body and out to his limbs, covering him in black goo. Leon tries to fight back as Venom forces him out of bed, but it's no use.

"Venom. Venom, wait-" He grunts, frowning as Venom leads him to your room. The symbiote lies Leon down in your bed, tendrils tapping your shoulder a few times before he peels away slightly, leaving half of Leon's face free.

BOT FIVE, BILLY COEN - your big brother is home !!

It's been two years since Billy last saw you properly, excluding a weekend visit here or there. You're all grown up now, and he's not sure if he's ready to come to terms with that fact. There's no way you're the same little girl - his little sister that used to hang off his arm and beg to follow him around every chance you got. It's not like he hasn't called - your mom was telling him how upset you'd been in his absence, but he didn't have a choice. The Marines wasn't the easiest lifestyle to uphold, but it was the one he chose.

The novelty of the situation has worn off fast. He's barely been home for a day, and he's already getting a little sick of you. You're somehow clingier now then when you were a kid, not giving him a chance to breathe. He wouldn't even mind it so much if you just gave him a second, but he hasn't even settled in yet. He understands that you're trying to make the most of it, but he's only home for a month before he's off again. He wants to relax.

There's something weird about how much you're clinging to him. He wants to believe its just excitement, but it feels like something else. He saw the way you were gawking over him when he showed up in his uniform. And now - he's trying to unpack some stuff, and you won't stop with your incessant yapping, spread out on his bed like it's yours.

"Jesus Christ." He mumbles under his breath, taking a deep breath as he pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to calm down. You missed him. He gets it. He missed you, too. "Kid. Please. You're giving me a damn headache over here."

BOT SIX, BRUCE WAYNE - your step-dad taking you shopping

You never attempted to get to know the latest of your mom's boyfriends - Bruce. It was a little exciting at first, having Bruce Wayne in your life, but he didn't seem as interesting in person as on TV. Your mom had a habit of moving from guy to guy anyway, so you didn't expect them to last for long.

You were wrong. Quicker than you could even blink, they were engaged, and then married. Weddings can come quickly when you have enough money to pay for it out of pocket. Who knew? Bruce bought you the prettiest dress, and you smiled in all the wedding photos, but that didn't mean you liked him all of a sudden. He was stuck-up, constantly trying to instruct your every move. Like you aren't an adult; like he's your real dad. He isn't, and he never will be.

Your mom isn't exactly happy with the fact you refuse to get along with him, though. She has the brightest idea to make the two of you go on a little shopping trip, as if him flashing his AmEx card is enough to impress you. Bruce could buy the entire Prada catalogue and it still wouldn't make you act all sweet with him.

"So…" He starts awkwardly, glancing at you with a quick side-eye as he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, the both of you sitting in the parking lot of a mall. He clears his throat, tugging at the collar of his turtleneck like it's suffocating him. "You have anywhere in particular you'd like to go, sweetheart?"

BOT SEVEN, TOJI - dog hybrid!toji x bunny!user

Toji is perfectly content with how his life is going. It’s been years since Shiu took him in from that dog fighting ring, giving him comfort in exchange for a few jobs here or there. He acts more like a handler than an owner, letting Toji go off and do as he pleases in his off time. He’s not gonna complain. He gets a place to sleep for free, food and a cut from the jobs Shiu sends him on. It’s the happiest he’s been in a long time.

Of course, things don’t always go perfectly. Shiu is tough - he’s hardened from his line of work, yes, but he’s a lot softer than Toji is or ever will be. Naturally, the guy couldn’t help himself when he picked you up. A soft little rabbit hybrid who’d gotten into the wrong crowd.

He’d explained you’d be living with them now. Shiu had the money and the space, and he didn’t think Toji would mind too much. Wrong. This was Toji’s space, and he’d be damned if he let some weak, fluffy little bunny encroach on it.

Shiu keeps you occupied most of the time, but you seem to seek Toji out whenever he has to leave to go to work. A growl rumbles in his throat as you approach him, your cotton tail twitching. “Get lost, bunny, unless ya wanna become a snack.”

BOT EIGHT, GORO MAJIMA - he comes home to his sleeping wife

Sleeping alone was never uncommon with your husband, Majima. It was rare that he was home everyday, let alone in time to have dinner with you and accompany you to bed. It could be lonely, yes, but you were aware of Majima’s priorities with his work when you married him. You’d come to accept your place – you knew how much he cared for you. He made it abundantly clear with his actions when he was able to spend time with you.

Majima isn’t surprised when he comes home, seeing you curled up on the tatami, wearing his shirt, no less. He grins at the sight, stripping down to his boxers in record timing before slipping behind your sleeping form, pressing himself against you. “Look so cute, even when you’re sleepin’. Ain’t that right, pretty baby? Such a dream f’me. Been waitin’ to get home to ya aaaaall night.”

[mydarlingclaudia]

there’s always a piece of you

note : divider is from @/cafekitsune. uhhh idrk how to feel about this one I just kinda wanted to write angst so this probably sucks and I know it's ooc whoopsies

wc : 1.3k

desc : you've been dead for a few months now, Leon still can't get over it. established relationship, angst, hurt no comfort (I think? correct me if I'm wrong), not proofread, Leon contemplates suicide and is also reliant on alcohol, gn!reader, I kind of flip-floped between vendetta!Leon and re6!Leon so idrk you pick

There were plenty of things that happened to Leon that made his life miserable, one of them was losing you. It was no one's fault, you got sick, you had an expiration date, and Leon did everything he could to try and help you get better, but it didn't work. Leon didn't regret spending a bunch of his money trying to make your sickness go away, he just wished it would've worked, that you'd still be here with him.

Maybe not right this second, though. Maybe he doesn't want you in the car with him while he's speeding down the road, half-past one in the morning and half-past drunk.

He thinks too much, drinking doesn't help him stop thinking, like, at all, he doesn't know why he expects the outcome to be different whenever he pours himself some whiskey, but if he crashes his car then he has something to blame it on. He'd already gotten too many lectures from Claire and Chris about how he should take better care of himself, that things weren't going to stay as bad as they are right now, but things had been shitty for Leon for so long that this just added to the list of reasons on why he should drink himself to death.

You and Leon had your ups and down, everyone did, but he still doesn't believe you ever really knew how much you helped him. Knowing he had someone at home waiting for him made his job a bit easier, and knowing you were his and that he was the one who put that ring on your finger made him feel like there was something more to his life than being a weapon for the government. Leon was your husband, had been your husband, still is. He wished more than anything that he had spent more time with you, that his job didn't have to be the center of his life while you were forced to be secondary, he couldn't quit, not while he was still able-bodied, but he promised you that one day he'd have his final day in the DSO and that he'd take you on vacation without having it interrupted.

Leon was able to take you on vacation for a week to Greece, but even when the two of you came back home, he wanted to keep taking you beautiful places while he was still able to. There was still paperwork he had to do, a few less missions but he still had to do his job, you understood. He hated it, though. He wanted you to yell at him about how he should be at home with you, spending as much time as he possibly could with you. But you never yelled at him about it even though he knew it upset you, you said there was no use in arguing, he’d be there when you needed him.

He shouldn’t keep dwelling on this, you’ve been dead for five months now, but he can't get himself to focus on anything else. Leon didn't know why ghosts weren't real. If there could be zombies wandering the streets as well as dozens of other creatures that only Hell could spit out, why weren't there ghosts? Leon would take you being alive over you being a ghost any day, but if a ghost was the best he could settle for, then that's what he would accept. But he was yet to get any messages on the wall written in blood or find your belongings in places where they weren't before, not that you had to be a ghost to haunt him.

All the windows in his car are rolled all the way down, Leon's not listening to the radio or any music, he's been on all these roads before, but he still doesn't really know where he's going. He left D.C. around eight p.m. to go to a bar in Maryland, he had left the bar maybe half an hour ago and was driving through the woods, he didn’t have any plans on going back into D.C. just yet. Leon wasn’t the best driver to begin with, being drunk definitely didn’t make him any better, be he’d rather drive himself home or to the middle of nowhere than call someone to take him home.

He liked calling you, though.

Of course, you never picked up, he just liked calling so he could hear your voice on the recorded message for your missed calls. Sometimes he’d actually talk, others he’d just keep driving down the road while the silence on your end of the line dragged on.

Leon sighs softly and bites the inside of his cheek as he takes one hand off the wheel to dig in his back pocket for his phone. He steals glances between the road and his phone as he unlocks it and opens your contact, waiting patiently as it begins ringing. Leon clears his throat slightly and takes his other hand off the wheel to run his hand through his sweaty hair as he waits for your voice recording to switch on before grabbing hold of the wheel again.

He opens his mouth to talk once the ringing stops, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything before he hears someone else on the other end.

“Hello? Who is this?” The tired voice of a woman makes his breath catch in his throat, he takes his foot off the gas and slams down on the brake, the tires of his car make a horrible screeching noise as he swerves to the side. Leon thinks he must've finally gone crazy, there couldn't have been another voice on the end of the line that was supposed to belong to you.

The woman speaks up again as Leon's car finally comes to a stop, he hadn't hit anything, but there are swervey skid marks that go down the road for a couple dozen feet. Leon breathes shakily into his phone, his foot still pressed down on the brake as he puts his car in park and leans back against his seat.

"I- fuck, I'm sorry." Leon began, his throat feeling even dryer than it already was. "Go back to bed, o-or whatever you were doing before I called. Just- goddammit." He quickly hangs up the phone and tosses it down onto the passenger seat. Leon runs his hands down his face, he can feel his chest tightening up like his lungs are about to pop inside his ribs, the stinging sensation in his eyes and throat only worsens.

When had they put your number back into use? That poor girl would probably block his number and he'd lose that little bit of your voice forever. Leon could go through his phone to find videos of you or just anything where he could hear your voice, but he figured he should wait until he remembered to work his phone more than trying to call you.

Day by day, it feels like he's losing you even more. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to get rid of your things, your clothes are still in his closet, your shampoo was still in the shower, God, even your medication was still in the medicine cabinet. But no matter how many of your things remained in his home, you're still gone.

Leon was supposed to die before you, he'd imagined it hundreds of times in his head, you knew it, too. All of this could have been avoided if he just killed himself after Raccoon City or had died on one of his missions before meeting you, maybe it would have been better for him if he had never sat next to you on that train and started talking too much.

There's nothing he can do about it now except weep and get so drunk that he could still hear you talking to him, not that he didn't imagine you laying back down in bed or lounging on the couch when he was sober. Maybe he'll see you again sooner rather than later, there wasn't really anyone who was around enough to stop him. All he knew was that his life was never really his after 1998, and without you in it, maybe it was time for it to come to an end.

[97keanu]

Witch!Reader who comes from a long line of witches. The blood is diluted from the years and the magic of old manifests within you in subtle ways. You can divine, tarot is your friend as well as looking glasses and bowls of moon water. You know just about every herb and crystal and their properties, you sell spell jars and satchels for many ailments in your small village. You find candle magic particularly helpful at times, and dreams really do come true for you. Older, more powerful witches live much longer lives than you, though you wouldn't doubt if you saw one hundred and beyond.

Witchfinder!Constantine who comes from as long a line of blood as yours, just on the otherside. He can sense magic from a mile away, and especially those with an evil shine to them. He who has fought ancient evils, witches and demons alike, who has never come in contact with a witch such as yourself. When he senses you, it feels like waking in the sun after a comforting nap, a pleasant warmth that radiates in his heart. What could this possibly mean?

Witchfinder!Constantine who knows he is on the hunt in your town looking for who or what has been plaguing the town of demonic possessions. He comes across your herbal shop after a neighbor who believes you to be evil tells on you. He can hardly believe you to be someone of evil magic after he meets you, despite being told of evil temptress witches such as yourself since he was a young boy.

Witchfinder!Constantine who seems so big in your little shop, filled to the brim with herbs, flowers, plants, trinkets of every shape and size, and books no human could read in one lifetime. The bells chime gently as the door closes. He looks around wary, unsure if magic is surely afoot here, or if you just practice natural medicine. He prays that is the case.

Witch!Reader who knew Constantine was coming. You always knew. You dreamed of dark hair, ruffled suits, and the scent of cigarettes and whiskey since you were little. You saw those dark, deep eyes, not unlike a wolf, every night this week. Your scrying bowl showed you a man, going from town to town, in search of something to kill. Something he could feel good about killing. Something that was undoubtly evil. You knew he would find you instead. You know what will surely come to pass.

Witchfinder!Constantine who meets eyes with you, and his breath catches, choked, in his lungs. He can't put his finger on why, but he knows that he's seen you before, twirling about in that misty land of his dreams, particularly the ones he wakes and fails to quite remember. Like smoke sliding through his fingers he could never place that face, until now. A chill runs down his back.

Witchfinder!Constantine who, despite his surly and rough edges, finds himself hardly able to speak to you as he approaches you. You already have a cup of tea ready, steam floating in the cool fall air, waiting for him. From the smell of it, you already prepared it with whiskey, just how he likes. He sits across from you, your red velvet topped séance table between the two of you.

Witchfinder!Constantine who is so taken back by your beauty and your grace that he almost forgets entirely why he came to your shop, your village, in the first place. All his soft lips can utter is, "Who are you?"

Witch!Reader who responds "I think you already know the answer to that." And he does. His heart longs in ways he cannot hold back. He hasn't felt this way since he was just a boy with a schoolyard crush. And even still, this is more powerful. It's as if the missing part of him has been filled. This scares him all the more. He can take killing monsters, there's a cleanness to that. He gets the job done, and feels better for making the world a safer place and following in his ancestors footsteps. With you however, all he can think is how messy this has already begun to be. He settles into his chair, this will be a long ride.

[jacklynchh]

So Eden Sank to Grief • Self-Para

➥ TRIGGER WARNINGS: Grief, loss, blood, drinking.

Bravery has never been Jack's finest quality. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel serves as a reminder of this as he passes the sign out of town. 'You are now leaving Blue Harbor. Come again soon!' The words barely even register. Every mile added to the odometer is another mile put between him and his fear, unravelling his guilt and leaving it roadside to rot.

At least that's what he tells himself.

Outside twilight merges the gloom of the sky with the blur of trees as they pass and the world becomes a bleak tunnel through which he travels with no light waiting at the end. He ignores the buzzing of his phone. He ignores the quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him to turn around. With every minute that passes by he tells himself that this is necessary. He tells himself that it's okay. That it will help.

It isn't. It doesn't.

It won't.

DECEMBER, 2022.

Two days after the funeral Jack sits amidst the destruction that used to be the kitchen, blood seeping through the formerly white cloth wrapped around his hand as a makeshift bandage. Sunlight glitters from the sharp edges of broken glass scattering countertops and one of the cabinet doors hangs off its hinges revealing a sad set of empty shelves, the plates which they used to hold now strewn across the floor in jagged shards. He's not sure what made him do it. It's all a blur now. All he knows it that one moment he was standing there, looking numbly at the collection of lasagnes and various other foiled dishes delivered by well-meaning neighbours, and the next he was moving, shoving them all off the edge in a wave of fury and pain, breaking, kicking, destroying, until there was nothing left to throw.

Grace had hated lasagne.

Now, in the aftermath of that thought, he leans back against the counter empty as the cabinet. He thinks he should care more, maybe want to kick himself for doing it. He's going to have to clean it all up, and how will he return the empty dishes to their owners when they're in pieces? But he can't. He can't bring himself to care. He can't bring himself to feel anything anymore. Since the moment he watched the coffin sink into the ground, since he stood over it to toss the first handful of earth into the grave, there's been nothing left inside of him. It's like he's been set adrift.

The house is too quiet. Too empty. No one comes to check on him.

His stare is blank as he lifts the bottle of whiskey to his lips with his good hand. If her voice isn't there to fill the silence, then he'll drink until the empty feeling goes. There's no one there to stop him. After all, what does it matter what Grace did or didn't like anymore? She's not here.

AUGUST, 1997.

"Whatcha doing?"

Jack startles, dropping the wrench with a loud clang against the garage floor. He hadn't noticed the shadow falling over him, too absorbed with what he was doing, and for a moment he stares at its owner with his mouth slightly agape, like a fish.

He's seen the girl only once before; an hour ago, out on next door's front lawn, hanging around on the low wall, listening to a Walkman while movers hauled boxes out from a van and carted them up the driveway into the house. It's been a noisy affair. An older couple—to whom he assumes the house now belongs—have been darting in and out all morning, trying to coordinate what goes where. An aura of stress radiates from the vicinity, but the girl in front of him seems unbothered by the mayhem.

His tongue appears to have tied itself in a knot, words refusing to come out, but that doesn't seem to bother her either. When he says nothing, she keeps talking.

"I saw you looking at me earlier, in the window. I guess we're neighbours now, huh? That's pretty cool. I didn't know if there would be any other kids on the street."

Embarrassment warms his face at the realisation that she'd noticed him. He thought he'd gotten away with it, watching the proceedings from the kitchen at breakfast. But she doesn't seem to be bothered by his spying. If anything, she looks intrigued. She steps further into the garage to see what he's doing and without the sunlight bouncing from it, her hair turns from shining gold to an ashy blonde. It's pulled back in a haphazard ponytail and dotted with little plastic butterfly clips. In their later years, Jack will be forced to admit that he was enamoured with Grace from that moment, and she'll tease him for his oh-so-eloquent reply.

"Uh…"

His lack of conversational skills don't seem to matter, though. The motorcycle has caught her attention, distracting her from any awkward stuttering. It sits half dismantled in front of it, parts scattered across the floor alongside various tools. Jack's supposed to be waiting for his dad to come out and help him, but the old man was waylaid by a phone call from his sister about thirty minutes ago and it'll be at least another hour before Aunt Lucy runs out of things to say, so he's taken it upon himself to get started on fixing the clutch. Or at least trying to fix the clutch. He's pretty sure he can do it himself. Maybe.

"Whoa, is this yours? Is it a bike? Are you fixing it? Cool! My mom would never let me do anything like this, she doesn't like mess. She already gets way too mad about my sewing, she says I leave too much stuff around the house, but I think houses look better that way, you know? It's weird if a place is too neat. Hey, what's that?"

Jack blinks, then looks down at the part laying by his knee.

"A pressure plate?"

"What's it for?"

"Um… it holds the clutch in place. Sort of."

"Cool. You'll have to show me what that is at some point. I'm Grace by the way. What's your name?"

She sticks out her hand expectantly, a wide smile in place, and Jack only feels slightly dazzled as he wipes off his smudged fingers on his shirt and reaches out to shake it. He's never met anyone like her before—a sentiment that will be repeated over and over for the next twenty five years.

MARCH, 2024.

The yard is dead. No new spring blooms poke their head out of the ground to greet the world, no freshly turned dirt adorns the flower beds along the edge. The door hinges on the shed have rusted shut from disuse and something with claws has dug holes all over the previously well-kept lawn. Jack doesn't even look at anymore, but his mom peers out the kitchen window at it with a worried crease in her brow as he drinks his coffee at the table. That crease has been there a lot lately, a featured act in every appearance at his front door. He knows she's working up to saying something, but he doesn't know what. That seems to be the vibe with all of the people in his life lately; the hesitance, the hovering. Like he's some sort of china doll that will break if they move too suddenly around him.

He wishes they wouldn't. His surroundings are filled with enough reminders of his grief as it is. The very walls of the house hold the ghost of Grace's laugh, the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, the lingering image of her saying good morning from the kitchen doorway. It's been two years and the numbness is still there, cloying and all-encompassing, and when he's alone it threatens to swallow him whole.

"Oh, honey," his mom says, brushing the hair out of his eyes with that painfully concerned look on her face. "I don't think staying in this house is good for you, you need to be able to move."

She's right. He knows she's right. But he's not quite ready to admit that just yet, so he shrugs her off and sips his coffee, and wishes he could add something a little stronger to it without having her tut over his shoulder. Under the table, he reaches a foot out like he would have done back in the day, to bump it against Grace's, a quiet confirmation of solidarity. It meets nothing but empty air.

Whoever says that grief gets easier over time is a goddamn liar.

THE MOMENTS IN BETWEEN

The moments in between are a golden confetti of laughter, magic, and heartbreak. Grace is by and large the strangest person Jack's ever met. She's also the kindest, and the funniest, and the most beautiful. He doesn't know what to expect after their meeting in the garage, but the life that follows is more perfect than anything he could've dreamt up by himself.

He remembers the way she rested her head on his shoulder the first day of high school, the strawberry scent of her shampoo tickling his nose as the pair of them listened to her Walkman together on the bus. He remembers the day she got into college and the pride mingled with that horrible ache, the knowledge that she was leaving weighing heavy on his shoulders, only lifted when she asked him to go with her. He remembers the taste of rum on her lips the first night that she kissed him, they were nineteen and the muffled sounds of the Halloween party in their apartment threatened to burst through the bedroom door as she called him an idiot and asked why he hadn't made a move yet, wasn't it obvious they were supposed to be together?

He remembers the fear and the excitement. The way waking up with her every day felt like the start of some new kind of adventure. How she made him laugh so hard it felt like his ribs would crack and the warmth of her cradled in his arms after a bad day, when all she needed was a hug. Her hand in his as they made their vows and their loved ones cheered in celebration.

He remembers the blood tests coming back and the doctor saying 'I'm afraid I have some bad news', and the painful static that'd filled his head moments later. The tears on her cheeks, her hand squeezing his so hard she left nail indents in his skin, and his own promise that 'we'll get through this, everything will be alright.'

And he remembers that promise breaking, every piece of confetti left lying wrinkled and faded on the ground, the rain spattering his shoulders as mourners swathed in black surrounded him.

He remembers every. single. bit.

NOVEMBER, 2024.

So it goes like this: Jack, tired of his parents' fretting, tired of the pitying looks from his friends, neighbours and clients, and tired of the way his bedroom walls feel like they're closing in on him every night, finally bites the bullet and takes his mom's advise. The house in Burlington is stowed away in boxes piece by piece, shoved into the back of his truck, and hauled out to the town his grandfather grew up in, the only parts of which Jack remembers being the impossibly giant trees and an old fashioned candy store on a street corner. That turns out to be a blessing.

He doesn't expect much from it, but when he arrives on the doorstep of his new house he finds that he can almost breathe for the first time in two years. There are no ghosts lingering in the walls and he hears no long-dead laughter, and though that absence makes him reach for the beer it doesn't make him want to sink into oblivion quite so deeply as he has been.

The yard is large and full of potential. Again, there is a lack of ghosts. He did not spend mornings sitting out on the porch with Grace here, or warm afternoons out planting the weirdest seeds they could find at the nursery out in the flower beds. It's a place of his own untouched by the past and his fingers itch to do something with it, a familiar feeling gone foreign, now revived.

Routine settles in. Though the traces of Grace that haunt him in Vermont are non-existent here, habit has him setting out two mugs of coffee in the morning. One he drinks and one goes cold, but somehow it helps. Like it's a reminder that though he's left Vermont behind, he hasn't left Grace entirely, and the guilty feeling in his chest unwinds. He accepts it as part of his day and moves on to check his emails. Working is surprisingly busy in this town. It's good. It keeps his mind busy.

And though he is content with his own company, swearing to himself that he's fine alone, he attends a grief support group so that his parents won't worry so much. It feels like a waste of his time and listening to the grief of others makes him uncomfortable, but it becomes as ever-present in his week as the coffee. Somehow, somewhere along the line, he finds himself surrounded by neighbours who want to talk to him. There's something in the air in Forest Lake, maybe it's catching. There are dinner parties and nights at the pub, and somewhere along the way the most beautiful man he's ever seen looks back at Jack and turns his stomach over with his smile.

Rory Anderson is like coming up for air after drowning. There are very few people in this world that Jack feels totally, utterly comfortable around, and Grace was always the only one he felt knew him truly, but it seems as though Rory might too. Despite this, Jack tells himself it's not serious. It's not serious and they'll both get bored soon, probably, and move on. This spark he feels between them, the one that threatens to ignite and burn, that's all it is. A spark. Easily dampened. Nothing to worry about.

But with Rory comes Annie, and the two of him welcome them into their inner circle like he's supposed to be there. Their company is like a warm blanket engulfing him on a rainy day. Comforting, so much so that he doesn't ever want to move. The longer he spends around them the more he finds himself smiling, something he thought he'd forgotten how to do. And then he finds himself planning ahead, which… what? When did the future come into play? There isn't supposed to be a future, not without…

But he pushes those thoughts away and ignores the squirming, guilty feeling in his gut that tells him he's committing the ultimate act of betrayal. He'll deal with that later. Always later.

The world brightens. The air becomes easier to breathe. He looks forward to waking up again. The warmth of somebody else in his bed is no longer a distant memory and laughter stops feeling like it belongs in another life altogether. The yard isn't dead. Nothing in his kitchen is broken. There is no graveyard dirt under his fingernails.

And then, one morning, he comes downstairs and unthinkingly he pulls out only a single mug for coffee. Just the one. It's not until an hour later when he comes back for a refill that he realises.

He forgot.

And it all comes crashing down.

PRESENT DAY

Bravery has never been Jack's finest quality. It is swamped by an endless sea of guilt, mourning, and self-loathing. The single coffee cup sits abandoned on his kitchen counter as Blue Harbor fades into a distant dot in his rear-view mirror and the buzz of his phone is drowned out by thrum of the engine. Ahead, Burlington awaits like a looming ghost, calling him home. Running is easier than falling. If he doesn't fall, he can't get hurt.

[nescaveckwriter]

Paintbrushes And Romance 🥰🐞

Dean x Reader

Part 6 🐞🥰

A/N: I don't think my heart is going to make this! 🥰🙈🐞

Warnings: Violence, Swearing, Blood, Gore and Blood. 🙈

........

Here's your order, Julie said handing him, his coffee, not even smiling, he grabbed the warm cup and before heading out, Dean stole a quick glance to where your sitting, probably busy writing her new book he thought, going through the door , walking to the impala, running his hand over his face, his so damn tired, he thought to himself, eversince that day he got the note, he hasn't slept much, he wants to catch this bastard, and if he has to be honest with himself, its because his bed is empty without her, laying all tangled up, next to him.

Driving to his house with a CCR song playing on the radio, so that he can freshen up for another long night at the Sheriff's station, while humming to, bad moon rising, he's thoughts starts wandering of to the day he lost a piece of himself.

That morning, they made a breakthrough, gathering evidence over the past few months, from the victims, the biggest breakthrough came when they found beef yet again on one of the victims, cuts. Knowing there can't be to many butchers that closed down , and the predator will need a place where he can keep the victims for so long, they started doing some research on which butchers closed down, so after getting their gear together, they discussed that they will split up into three teams , he and deputy Jack (who was one of his best deputy's and a good friend) was one team that raided the one butchery on the farthest end of town.

Drawing his gun so that he'd be ready for anything but he weren't ready for what happened next, showing Jack some hand signs that'll he should go left and Dean will go right, entering through the two doors, the place has been closed for a while now, the moment he walked in, it hit him, the smell of iron hanging thick in the air, there's blood everywhere! He looks at the center of the room, a large steel table, the blood oozing off, he walks closer, a woman laying there, damnit he says, shock showing on his face. Her hand was cut of at her wrist, shaking his head in disbelief, looking around, is he still here, he wondered,

Excruciating screams filling the room, what she's alive, the sadistic bastard starts removing limbs, while their still breathing, quickly removing he's jacket, covering her wrist, trying to calm her down, hoping she can give them a description of this predator. By the time the ambulance got there, it was to damn late, she lost too much blood!

.........

Late that afternoon, he returned to the station, finding the envelope addressed to him, curious he opened it, first came the photos, then the note ... _She's nearly perfect isn't she? Sheriff, you where very close to catching me today, just know this I can come just as close to her, are you willing to risk her life?_

He couldn't help it, how the hell did he come so close, anger boiling inside of him, putting his fist through the wall, damnit shaking his fist out, seeing the blood on his red, swollen knuckles, shoving the pictures and note off the table.

By the time Sam walked through the door, finding Dean on the floor, playing with what looks like a diamond ring and a nearly finished bottle of whiskey, papers and files scattered all over the floor. What the hell man, he said looking at Dean, while locking the door behind him, closing the blinds, and walking over, taking the bottle from him, Dean just looks up at Sammy, mumbling I'm going to kill that bastard! What? Who? Sam said confusing and concern in his voice, showing Sam the photos, the note. I will never forgive myself, if something happened to her Sammy.

He sobered up, and went to her house, trying to not break in front of her, he revisits the anger, and hardened his face, banging on the door, he had to convince himself and her, that what he said was true, knowing all he really wanted to do is pull her close to him and never let her leave the safety of his arms, she opened the door, her beautiful face filled with concern, big eyed she stood there, he could smell the freshly baked pie, flour still visible on her clothes, with every word he said he could see the heartbreak on her face, he couldn't take it anymore, turned around and walked away, afraid, that if he stood there any longer his eyes would betray him, all he wanted to do is protect her, and if the killer saw that the two of you weren't together anymore, he'll back off.

Grabbing the closest shirt he could find, throwing it on him, he could smell her, the vanilla and orchid scent still strongly on his shirt, she sure did love to wear his t-shirts he thought walking to the impala. Just then he saw a truck pulling at to his driveway, its Deputy Jack he recognized the truck, hey man, Dean says, while Jack gets out, what's wrong buddy, seeing Jack looks like he's seen a ghost, Sheriff, Jack said I'm so sorry!, Sorry for what deputy? Came Dean's question, he has my sister Julie, and he said that if I... Uhm he strutters don't do this, he's going to kill her. Dean's searching, Jacks eyes, for any clue to what he means, seeing, Jack pulling out his firearm, No Jack! wait, let's figure something out together!, I'm, I'm sorry said Jack shakily.

Then came the noise, the look on Dean's face when the bullet hit him in the chest, wasn't anger, but sadness, knowing he'll never get to spent his life, growing old with the one he loves. Sit-laying next to the impala, he hears the screeching sounds of tyres driving away.

Thinking if this is his last breath, he's going to make damn sure, that its worth it, saying how much he loved her, taking his phone out, of his pocket, feeling the vibration in his hand, seeing her name on the family chat, which included all of them, he didn't remove himself from the chat, it was his way of keeping in touch with her. The message broke him in more ways than one, ...Mom, I'm in trouble, I got into a cab, but something is wrong, I can feel it, its the serial killer!

The phone fell to the ground, a stray tear rolling down his cheek, whispering her name, it all went dark, despite the moon shining so brightly...

[meme-streets]

dollars event day 2. prompt: partnership ---

A sound of footsteps from the cave’s mouth pulls him from a dazed half-sleep into prickling alertness and has him reaching instinctively toward a gun he doesn’t have.  Failing that, he plucks a loose rock from the floor and then goes very, very still. The footsteps draw closer.  He tries to draw up what remains of his strength. “Come on out, it’s just me.”  Silvanito.

Light falls across the cave floor, creeping slowly towards him like running water.  Seconds later Silvanito appears in his field of view; he’s got a lantern in his hand, a pack slung over his shoulder.  And critically: he’s alone. “There you are,” he says, spotting Joe where he lies on the hard ground. Sheepishly, he lets go of the rock.

The old man’s expression is grim as he looks Joe over.  It has reason to be; Joe knows he looks rough, enough that he's glad he hadn't had a chance to see his own reflection.  He's only just now able to open his blackened right eye, and even then barely.  Silvanito looks all this over and shakes his head ruefully. “I guess I should've expected as much,” he sighs, setting down first his lantern and then the pack, and then, with a grunt of effort, he lowers himself to the floor.   Joe blinks up at him.  “How’d you find me?” “Piripero told me he’d helped you escape out here.  You are very, very lucky,” he says, shaking a finger for emphasis, “and you should be very, very grateful.  You would be dead without his help.” “Reckon I would be,” he concedes. “You won’t last very long without mine either.”  He reaches into his bag and pulls out some provisions: smoked meat and bread wrapped in cloth, a canteen of water.  The sight fills Joe with relief and sudden craving all at once.

Then: “Sit up and let me look you over.” The attempt to do so sends shooting pains all up and down his body, but he sets his jaw and pushes against the floor anyway; Silvanito catches him gingerly by the shoulder and hauls him upright, murmuring, “Easy, easy,” as he leans him back against the rock behind him. “M’alright,” Joe mumbles. Silvanito scoffs.  “Don’t pretend.  You took a bad beating.  I’ve seen what the Rojos do to men stronger than you–it’s a wonder you’re still alive.” “Mm.  Just stubborn, I guess.” “That you are.”  The reply is absentminded; he’s looking Joe over rather solemnly.  “That cut on your head needs cleaning.”  He rummages in the back again, produces a cloth and a bottle of what’s probably whiskey, soaks the former in the latter.  “Tilt your head forward and hold still.”

Joe doesn't quite choke down a hiss of pain as the whiskey sizzles into the cut, the automatic furrowing of his brows not doing much to help the pain.  Silvanito’s free hand curls around the side of his head to keep him from squirming; after a long moment he moves the cloth, folds it again, and sets methodically about wiping away the dried blood caked around his eye and nose.  His face feels strangely hot. At long last he lets go, and Joe half-hesitantly blinks his eyes open.  Silvanito’s looking at his hand. “Can you make a fist?” He tries.  His fingers only half close before his vision goes white; a harsh gasp tears out of his throat. The old man grimaces sympathetically.  “Mm.  Could be broken.  Give it here.” Cautiously he does.  Watches intently as Silvanito takes it in both his own hands like something made of glass, or a baby bird fallen from the nest, and with the pads of his thumbs feels ever so lightly about Joe’s palm, testing the bones, taking care not to touch the wound itself.  The pressure aches, but not unbearably.  Joe can't remember the last time he was touched with this kind of delicateness.  He's almost disappointed when it ends. “No break, I don't think.  But it needs bandaging.  Hold still.”

He doesn't bother with the rag this time, just holds Joe’s hand up and pours the whiskey over it straight, dragging out a sharp exhale and a barely-suppressed urge to jerk back.  Then taking long strips of cloth from his bag, he bandages it with near military efficiency.  Joe wonders dimly if he was ever a soldier, but he's too woozy to ask.  The cloth is layered near an inch thick by the time he lets go.  Joe flexes his fingers experimentally. “I can't move it.” “That's the idea.  Just in case it is broken, you don't want it to heal wrong.” He has to admit, the idea spooks him a little.  His whole method of shooting is two-handed, and that's not even touching on the other issues.

Silvanito sits back.  Hooks a finger idly under the fold in Joe’s vest.  “Any other bad cuts under there?” He doesn’t know, to be frank.  He’s not really keen on taking his clothes off on this cave floor to find out.  “Don’t worry about it. The old man tuts but lets it go.  He starts to put the bottle of whiskey away again, pauses, and holds it out.  “It’ll help with the pain.  Don’t drink it all at once.” “You waited till now for that?” Joe says dryly, but it’s with real gratitude that he accepts the offered bottle and takes a swig. “Oh?  Just a minute ago you were playing tough,” he teases, and Joe rolls his eyes.  Fair enough.  “Well, I think you’ll be alright now.  You’re lucky to have me for a partner, you know.” “Partner, huh?” Joe chuckles. Silvanito gives him a look.  “Well, if you’d rather me leave you out here to die–” “I didn’t say that.” “Good.”  He gives Joe another look over and nods, satisfied with his work.  “I must be getting back.  Here–” he reaches into his pack, pulls out something green, familiar.  “You left it in my saloon.”  He drapes it over Joe’s midriff like a blanket.  Then he pauses.  Hesitates.  “One more thing,” and he reaches into his pack again, pulls out Joe’s pistol. “Where’d you get that?” “I have my ways.  Here.  Just in case.”  He hands it over.  “And now I really must be going.  You rest.  Don’t play around with that thing till that hand has healed up some.  I’ll be back when I can.” He must admit himself tempted otherwise, but somewhat reluctantly he lays the gun down by his side.  “Oh–” he falters a little.  “Thanks.” Silvanito just gives him a nod, expression warm and a touch conspiratorial.  “Hasta luego.”

[the-fiction-witch]

Mademoiselle

Media The Queens Gambit

Character Benny Watts

Couple Benny X Reader

Rating Flirty

Requested: Anonymous asked:

Ahhhhh okay okay!! So hear me out but hear me out  So imagine Bennys dating a famous singer, Think like Jessica rabbit aesthetic type dresses performing in clubs or at some of his chess matches as a way to entertain the people who aren't there to watch and she's french (sue me lol) so calls her stuff like Mademoiselle, Ma cherie and she calls him Monsieur or something like "Perverted American!" as a joke but they're really really in love with each other and everyone totally knows bennys dating this Famous French singer and he just gets a kick out of watching her perform and she has this this Audrey Hepburn type vibe and song voice, So like a TONNNNN OF FLUFF BUT WITH SOME SMUT AT THE END I BEG OF YOUUUU FICTION WITCHH🎶 TO LET THIS HAPPPENNNN POR FAVORRRR

I sat on the small stool with my elbows against the bar, a blue ribbon in hand watching people mill about the hotel lounge. Little light came through the windows now as it was getting late but the city of Vegas outside was still lit with its flashing colours. The lounge is busy with competitors and press for the tournament as well as the typical Vegas hotel guests. Many of the chess boys were nursing their egos with whiskey and martinis. The small stage across from the bar where a band is playing some gentle jazz is barely even audible over the muttering of people in the lounge. Even if I couldn't help but check my watch for the time knowing how soon it would change. I noticed a familiar sight saunter over sitting on the stool beside me setting his pad and pencil on the bar top as he ordered himself a drink

"Watts"

"Towns"

"Do I really need to ask or should I just copy and paste your usual stick?"

I chuckled "Beautiful venue, impressive crowd, the fourth round was a struggle but nothing I can't deal with." I explained and he noted that down "What do for you?"

"That's fine, you okay?'

"Fine, thinking what to spend my prize money on"

"You know what I mean"

"I'm fine," I shrug

"How's that girl you were talking about?"

"Girl?"

"That girl you were… seeing?"

"Ah, you mean y/n."

"Yeah that girl"

"Ah ah, woman. She's not a girl." I corrected

"You actually brought her this time?"

"Ohh she'll be around here somewhere" I smirked

The moment I uttered those words a woman drifted in right on time, from the long corridor leading to the front desk and casino floor through the glass doors into the lounge as if in slow motion. Her black dagger pumps with a strap around her ankle stepped onto the carpet skin tone stockings without a single ladder blood red seams up the back of her legs the left slightly crooked, She wore a skin-tight red dress with a sweetheart neckline and the hem sitting just above her knees even from here I could see every curve of her body in that dress, around her waist a black belt perhaps an inch thick tied in a small bow at her back three buttons from her waist to her neckline and then off the shoulder black straps that caressed her breasts and settled so perfectly across her arms, she wore black gloves that reached her elbows, in the crook of her elbow a small black leather channel handbag with a golden chain. Her lipstick was perfectly highlighting her Cupid's now the colour matching her dress perfectly, a dagger-like flick of eyeliner and I'm sure more that I couldn't see or name, her long y/c/h sat hovering above her shoulders where it has been tightly curled likely sat on rollers for hours giving her this sculpted but still fluffy curls of hair. Many turned as she entered the room a few conversations stopping short even more so as she stepped to the stage walking up setting her bag down and whispering instructions to the band. She walked to the mic giving the stand an adjustment. The room silenced as people found seats to watch as the band began their music and the moment she opened her lips it was like time froze.

I smiled no matter how many times I'd heard her she still sounded like an angel, Everyone watched her but even in this crowded lounge I still felt as if she was just singing to me, My heart fluttered unable to prevent my smiles, people had even now gathered at the door from elsewhere in the hotel many who were walking past but so captivated by her they had to stop. After a few songs, her set was over and she ended it the way she always does blowing a sweet kiss.

Immediately applause erupted and she began getting set to leave

"So? Where is your lady then?" Towns asked

I saw her grab her back so I set my beer down "Do excuse me a moment towns" I told him getting up fixing my jacket and heading over to the edge of the stage I wasn't alone several boys lingering there She went to step down the stairs but I offered her my hand which she smiled at and happily took sliding her hand into my own I guided her down the steps

"Mademoiselle" I smirked

"Monsieur" she smirked back giving my cheek a kiss and fixing my hair before she headed to the bar on her own I smirked and followed her as she took my seat at the bar

"My my I never thought I'd be in the presence, miss y/n y/l/n" Towns smiled taking her hand to give it a kiss "I've a lot about you"

"Humm all terrible I hope" she smiled

"No, no All remarkable. Mostly from Benny"

"Awww, my sweet little promoter" she smiled 

"Really though I think half the hotel's just here to see you" Towns explained 

"You flatter me too much really" she smirked "Monsieur Watts? Mind fetching me something"

"You're usual?"

"Yes please" she smiled 

so I ordered her, her usual drink a Black rose having to explain to the barman how to make it as it's not a common drink here, Once he handed it over I paid and sat down beside her "You're drink mademoiselle" I smirked

"Why thank you" she smiled happily taking it and giving it a test sip immediately grabbing the rosemary sprig to stir it a little more 

"Don't I get a tip?" I asked her 

She smiled and gave my cheek another kiss "Thank you Ma cherie"

"I would love to know how in all the wide world you two ended up near each other let alone actually together?"

"Come on Towns you all don't care how, you're all just jealous I got her" I smirked wrapping my arm around her waist 

"Still, very interested in the how," He says glancing between me and her 

"You want to tell the story or shall I?" 

"Go ahead" she smiled "You so enjoy it" she smirked getting her handbag open and plucking out her square matt black Chanel compact mirror that matched her handbag, and the small golden tube clicked open the compact holding it in her palm as she twisted the tube to reveal the red bullet lipstick inside so she could begin to touch up her make up 

"Alright" I smiled "Well I headed over to Paris for the tournament as usual, and after the tournament, I went to the hotel bar and met up with a friend of mine, Clio. We sat and had a drink and a chat same as usual and she told me her sister was doing a performance at a bar a few blocks away. So we headed down and got a table and a couple of drinks. And there she was." I explained resting my hand on her thigh "She started her set and even if I could barely understand any of it, I was smitten. Never been so captivated in my life"

She put her mirror away and smiled "I came to sit with them but never even bothered to get a drink, I talked his little ear off." 

"Well I wasn't exactly going to stop your beautiful voice was I, Ma cherie?"

"We talked so much Clio went home and we hadn't even noticed. We were in there all night the owner kicking us out when he wanted to go home,"

"I even ended up staying in pairs an extra three days just to spend more time with her, But when I went home I missed her badly, I kept calling you every other night because I missed you so much" I smiled taking her hand 

"So I had a little word with my manager at the time as I was due to start a North American tour in a few weeks anyway, added an extra week in New York" she smiled squeezing my hand "We spent every day of that week together he showed me all the lovely new york spots, we went out for dinner every night, even took me to the king and I on broadway"

"That cost me an arm and a leg I can tell you, but it was worth it a thousand times over to see how happy it made you, and to hear your own rendition in the car on the way back to your hotel you were twice as good as her" 

"Don't over-flatter me Monsieur" she smiled 

"She was fantastic, I half told her to go audition herself. we had a lovely week but It was almost too nice"

"I had a little tag-along for my tour, from New York to San Francisco. My the loudest applause at every show. One could say I've had a little tag-along ever since" 

"Or maybe you've tagged along with me ever since" 

"Well that's certainly up for debate" she laughs "But I just found it all so perfect here, wasn't a month or so later I packed up my things and came to New York to stay"

"You left Paris? for that grey basement?" Towns asked 

"It's not that bad" I argued

"I like it, very nice acoustics. Now if you'll excuse us Monsieur Watts and I need to get up to our room if we're going to be on time tomorrow" 

"Of course, you two have a good evening" Towns nodded 

We finished our drinks, and she offered her hand "Monsieur" so I happily took it 

"Mademoiselle" I gave her hand a kiss as I helped her up from the barstool and we headed out hand in hand. I couldn't help but smirk keeping her on my arm always kinda felt like showing off as we headed out and up to our hotel room. 

"Quiet a show tonight" I smirked as I locked the hotel door 

"I think it went alright, but I think my second song wasn't the best," she says immediately kicking off her heels and bag, sitting at the small vanity in the hotel room pulling her hair up into a bun and slowly removing her make up 

"Don't be stupid you were perfect Ma cherie" I smiled throwing my jacket and hat, sitting on the bed to kick off my own shoes and getting up to give her head a kiss as she worked "Same as you always are"

"Nothing is ever perfect, we can always improve. Would you say any of your games were perfect?"

"No, but you should see you sing from this side" I smiled wrapping my arms around her shoulders

"And you should see you play from this side" She smiled leaning back to give my lips a little kiss I went and continued to get changed for bed grabbing a book to read as I got comfy, but I never even opened it as I merely watched her stripping away the makeup and beauty that she had worked so hard to create leaving her as this sweet little face that she so often hid, all the little parts of her face that she hid with her makeup and glamourous clothes and watching it all peel away made me so happy seeing her in this way that only I got to see. and I suppose as I glanced down at myself without my intense clothes, and attitudes that frighten the chess boys. I suppose she too saw me in ways only she ever gets too. That and our shower is in our living room, she has definitely seen me in ways no one else has. Once she was done slipping on her little black nightie and climbing into bed "Hi"

"Hi," I smiled wrapping my arms around her "Ready for bed?"

"Ummm not quiet"

"No?"

"No, I figured as we're surrounded by your chess colleagues, I thought you might... want to show off a little" she cooes nuzzling into my neck

"I think I did enough of that in the lounge I was getting daggers stared into my back" 

"True, but wouldn't you like to annoy them even more" she cooes "Je veux que tu me fasses crier, toute la nuit. Monsieur" 

It took me a moment as I was still not that great with French, "ooh, yeah?"

"Umm,"

"To uhh gardez tout le Monde eveille Ma cherie?"

"Most definitely, so shall we?"

"Absolutely Mademoiselle" I smirked pushing her down onto our bed

[ravennaortiz]

Rescues and Relieve

Chapter 18 of Countdown

As always this is an 18+ only story. This story is AU based and not your typical Sons of Anarchy story. Some readers may find some plot lines and changes to some characters to be problematic please read at your discretion. This story also time jumps heavily so keep this in mind as you read!

Warnings: General themes of the show such as violence, drugs, swearing etc, minor age gap, minor smut in later chapters.

Coco perked up at the sound of yelling and crashing from the hallway. Maybe EZ grew a back bone he thought to hismelf as the door slammed open. Noting only one figure enter he looked closer and groaned inwardly. "Seriously?" snapped Coco as he looked up in to Rockys face. "Lecture me later. Pretty sure Zobelle is aware I'm here" rushed Rocky as she worked on the ropes on keeping Coco strung in the air. "Please tell me and I say this with all my love that your dumbass didn't come alone" begged Coco as he closed his eyes already knowing the answer. Rocky remained silent as she finally cut him down. "I mean EZ knew I left....he could have stopped me" she offered as Coco rolled his eyes as he stretched his limbs.

"What about boy scout screams will stop anyone from anything?" asked Coco before turning his gaze back on her and assessing her for injuries. She had blood on her face, hands and clothes. Light bruising that was decorating her neck and left cheek as well as her left side where he could see her exposed skin through the tears in her shirt.

"I'm okay" stated Rocky quietly. "The blood is Zobelles.....he thought he would get his gift early" she added with a nonchalant shrug. Coco frowned as he slowly stood up. "You will be getting a very stern lecture once we get out of here." he stated before pulling her in for a hug. "Pretty sure Zobelle knows I'm here she says, the blood is his she says" mutters Coco as he grabs his gun off a table by the door and looks out into the hall. Rocky can't help the small smile that ghosts her lips. "Didn't want to worry my recusee. Golden rule of Coco rescues is always keep the other person calm and reassured" quoted Rocky mockingly making Coco grin.

***

"Where are you two going?" demanded Jax as he grabbed the van door as Juice went to close it. "Going to get Rocky" stated Halfsack. "Now let go of the door" growled Juice as he yanked on it. "Laddies" started Chibs before Jax spoke over him. "Half you are not healed yet. Anything happens to the two of you and I will not know peace with my little sister. So don't be any more stupid or reckless than what your doing and you are taking us with you". Once both men had nodded he hopped in the back followed by Chibs.

***

A few hours later- Safe house

"Whats the damage?" demanded Jax as he ran his hands through his hair, spreading blood as he went. "Rockys left shoulder is out of socket. She has bullet wounds in her thigh with at least one bullet still somewhere in her leg, probably a cracked rib, couple cuts, lots of bruises. " sighed Chibs as he looked through the emergency kit on the table.

"What's wrong?" asked Jax as he looked at Chibs as he sunk down on a chair. "She is in a lot of pain and we have nothing here to give her. Half thinks he can pop her shoulder back in but wanted something to relax her she's too tense" he added as Jax frowned as he dug though the medical supplies himself.

Half and Juice looked up as Coco appeared in the doorway with a bottle of whiskey. "Chibs said to have her drink this. Best we got right now" stated Coco as Juice frowned as he took the bottle. Rockys pained whimpering from the bed tugged at him as he glanced at Half who simply shrugged. "Better than nothing" stated Half who moved to kneel next to Rocky.

"How you feeling Rockstar?" asked Juice a few minutes and half a bottle later as Rockys head dropped back onto his chest as he held her to him gently. "Floaty. Kinda warm" slurred Rocky slightly as her eyelids drooped some. "Lass is a lightweight" murmured Chibs as he took the bottle from Juice. "I think its best we do her shoulder first. That is going to be the most painful part and its the one with a time frame" stated Half sack to Jax as they stood by the doorway.

Once Jax nodded, Half stepped back to the bed and sat in the chair Coco had brought from the kitchen. "This is gonna hurt" whined Rocky as Juice scooted them to the edge of the bed while Half held her injured arm. "No it won't" lied Juice as he felt her tense on his lap. "Rocky why don't you close your eyes and just take a deep breath or two" ordered Half-Sack gently as he carefully moved her arm.

"We will count to ten and then I'm going to pop your shoulder back into place okay?" explained Half-Sack as he made eye contact with Juice and mouthed three. "Okay , whatever you say handsome" murmured Rocky before giggling and hiccupping. Half-Sack chuckled as he shook his head and started counting.

The scream that ripped through Rocky when he said three startled everyone into silence. "Rocky? You good" inquired Juice as he felt wet drops fall on his arm that was bracing her. "Mean. Don't know why I like you both" panted Rocky in between shaky breaths as tears poured from her eyes. Blinking rapidly she felt like her head was spinning as her vision tunneled.

***

"Well bullets out of her leg and I have her patched back together" stated Chibs as Jax came back into the room awhile later to check on the progress. Before Jax could respond Rocky groaned and turned on her side, vomiting all over his shoes. "Don't feel good" mumbled Rocky as she dry heaved. "Couldn't tell kiddo" joked Jax as he grabbed a clean rag and wiped her mouth. Rocky grumbled slightly before drifting back off into darkness.

"How are the lads holding up?" inquired Chibs as he tossed some more towels to Jax while he cleaned up the medical supplies. "Coco is asleep on the couch. He stitched his own leg and arm up by himself. Juice and Half have been nervously pacing. They feel bad for hurting her and making her cry then pass out" replied Jax as he cleaned up the vomit on his shoes and the floor. "Well I think she will forgive them" chuckled Chibs as he glanced up at him.

"Its nice to have all this shit over" stated Jax quietly as he looked over Rocky. "Ill take her being a bit banged up any day over what Zobelle wanted to do".

Return to Chapter List

[jeanbie]

AOT CHARACTERS! GOING TO THE CLUB ★ masterlist.

genre: university au | warnings: mentions of recreational drugs and alcohol | notes: super british coded (as in entirely based off my uni clubbing experiences) but it's not particularly important !! also a big thanks to @ezxpb for putting the idea in my head (and basically giving me the idea) and i'd love to see other people's headcanons since these ended up being more about pre-drinking and not the club...sorry...*pres=pre drinking

⏤ REINER ; hosts the pres at his house off campus. invites the main group but he has a bit of a loud mouth and told his other classmates, who told their friends and now he's not sure who might be coming to his house. tells people the party starts at 9pm (clubs open at 10) but tells the main group to come there for 8. he puts connie on playlist duty. thinks he's macho and drinks whiskey all night (will later regret this). is somehow friends with the bouncers at the club and is probably one of the only 104th members who doesn't need to show his id. takes advantage of the deals at the bar and drinks wayyyyy too much in one go. is that guy who is feeling super hype and then goes to the smoking area and immediately sobers up and wants to go home

⏤ EREN ; brings the most alcohol to pres only to drink very little of it. is probably that disgusting gremlin who drinks vodka straight from the bottle thinking he can handle it (he really cannot). keeps queueing shitty songs during the pre playlist and gets banned from requesting songs. eats a weed brownie from his brother zeke and very nearly whiteys but he's lucky enough to recover before he gets to the club. is a dance machine on the dance-floor, making friends with random people and losing the rest of his friends in the process. almost got dress coded at the door because he was wearing cargo jeans and a hoodie but he's with reiner- and reiner knows the bouncer- so he's somewhat safe. definitely tries to fight someone at some point and keeps forgetting that he can't take his drink to the smoking area and keeps having to buy another one when it's taken away from him (or if he forgets where it is). definitely has the worst hangover the next morning

⏤ CONNIE ; best dressed for the party and gets there super early to help zeke make weed brownies. is probably zooted before anyone even shows up, and is stingy about sharing his weed with people because it's a cost of living crisis my friends and the loan only goes so far. is always moving around, can't sit still at all! he's just having a good ass time! he's pretty boring with his drinks but as soon as someone whips out tequila he can't stop himself. is very good at taking shots (always has a bit dribbling down his chin mmmmm sexy). has the weed giggles for a while and it's what gives him away in the club line. the bouncer is not that stupid and knows that connie is crossfaded – "nice try, kid, go home". tries to break in through the smoking area and gets barred from entry there ("that club is trash anyway" "you literally haven't stopped complaining about it since it happened" "it's just a shitty club like there are way better ones we can go to")

⏤ JEAN ; feels a bit shy at pres because he's not super drunk but then sasha says they should play drinking games and he's like LITERALLY thank god. shits on eren as he borderline whiteys in the bathroom- also shits on floch for buying those cheap ass sourz shots from bnm that are like £2.50 and taste like chemicals (still has one though). likes vodka coke, literally you can't go wrong with it. has like tequila ptsd and immediately feels his blood go cold when ymir whips the bottle out. he has no idea who some of the people at this pre-sesh are but he's happy to chat to them anyway, now that the alcohol has made him feel normal. his phone is like on 30% all night because reiner has one of those janky phone chargers from amazon that needs to be at a certain angle to even work. gets caught out on all his lies during the drinking game therefore he has to drink more to make up for it (he's so tipsy by the time they leave). has the worst id picture that even the bouncer clowns for a second. inside, jean takes advantage of the cheap shots and feels sick for 15 mins afterwards. is a sex magnet and people keep asking him for his instagram and it gets to his head a little bit (a lot). makes out with one of his friends and tries to gaslight himself into believing it wasn't real (but someone has pics to prove it)...

⏤ SASHA ; turns up to pres with the worst combinations of drinks with NO mixers. also is the supplier of the drinking games. sets up a 'ring of fire' game and ends up being the loser each time- she's like "thats so weird why is it always me??" and is oblivious to the fact that they all just cheat and make her the loser by default. will shot everything she finds. has like a tiny section of weed brownie and then gets scared so has no side effects. for some reason sasha finds zeke hot so she's like weirdly giggly around him (thinks nobody has noticed but they have and zeke has too). takes so many photos and cringes super hard when she looks at her camera roll in the morning. once she's at the club she's going to the toilet like every 15 minutes because she's opened the floodgates and just needs to pee constantly. is the girl who is very invested in the drama she hears in the toilets and would probably try and fight men in the club if she thought they were being creepy. falls down an entire flight of stairs at one point but at least she saved the drink

⏤ MIKASA ; is a little soju fiend and cradles that little plum soju bottle like a baby. is the person put on eren duty when he's going through it for a while and there's like 3000 things she'd rather be doing than babysit him as he convinces himself he wont puke. moves away from the speaker because it's so crunchy and actually just takes her seat on annie's leg since she loves her <33 besties. looks beautiful btw. has unintentional rizz and people just wanna keep buying her drinks when she gets to the club. dances exclusively with sasha all night and therefore has to accompany her to the toilet every other minute. feels like she's playing mom a lot & honestly mikasa doesn't love the club too much (she'd rather go to bars than clubs). loves taking photobooth pictures with all her friends though and it's the highlight of the night for her. argues with a bouncer who bans connie from the club and is threatened with her own personal ban (like she cares)

⏤ ARMIN ; honestly would rather be at home studying but he's only here because everybody else is. like it's literally the start of 2nd year and grades count now he can't afford anything less than a 2:1 this semester. contributes one drinking card game called "buzzed" and takes the finest sips of his drinks to avoid being super drunk. like pours the tiniest amounts of alcohol into his cups and it's like literally why bother. actually ends up having a good time despite whining on the way there, but he has more fun at pres than he does at the club. the bouncer thinks his id is fake because he looks literally 13 (this is pre-s4 haircut and one of the main reasons why it all comes off in the next few months). is definitely that guy who wants to take care of drunk people in the toilets. mostly talks (yells over the noise) to bertholdt on the sidelines until he somehow gets drunk enough to join his friends on the dance floor. goes to the smoking area with eren but very quickly says 'fuck that' because it's freezing. refuses to pay £5 to put his coat in the coatroom, he'd rather just wear it or play a game of luck and leave it in a corner somewhere

⏤ ANNIE ; forced to be there by reiner. handles her alcohol well so she's just quite confused as to how some of these guys are out of their minds drunk when she barely even feels tipsy. brought along a weird brand of vodka that tastes like literal acid and literally only she likes drinking it. she takes one of the weird shots that floch brings and instantly feels sick and keeps saying she wants to go home. in the end she stays back while others go to the club because she'd honestly rather be with marcel's cat than at the club rn, stay safe tho. (has to walk to the club with marcel to get reiner and co when they're shitfaced and probably crashes on their couch since their house is like her 2nd home)

⏤ BERTHOLDT ; is only there because he also lives in the house. accidentally eats an entire weed brownie thinking they're normal and is out of it for a while. later though quite likes drinking but he's probably one of those weirdos who mixes vodka with monster energy and claims it has a different taste to vodka red bull (it doesn't). keeps trying to lie during armin's card drinking game and it's so obvious that he's lying but he will not give up on trying to sell the lie. forgets his id for the club but honestly that man looks aged so the bouncer is like "just this once i'll let it slide. not you though armin, i need more proof—". eventually starts having loads of fun at the club until he finds reiner having a crisis in the smoking area and then calls annie to help bring everyone home because he's still a bit out of it and doesn't know if he can get back safely on his wit alone

⏤ HISTORIA ; brings wine to pres? like girl? and is dressed super lovely. is a social magnet and everybody wants to talk to her and she wants to talk to them just as eagerly. knows the words to every song that plays and sings along to all of them. doesn't understand the rules to ring of fire and eventually withdraws from the game because she keeps getting confused and its stressing everyone out. is also a victim to floch's shitty sourz shots and is sick and ymir takes her home. on days where she's not drunk i can see historia being one of those girls who ends up dancing on tables like okkkkk. also runs back and forth to get water for girls who are being sick in the loos. she likes drinking vodka lemonades like the pretty princess that she is xx

⏤ YMIR ; actually buzzing for the party. brings all sorts of shit to the pre-sesh and, hell yeah she wants a brownie. immediately crashes with connie, since they're basically best buds. gets into a weird drinking contest with reiner and eren and wipes the floor with them. calls everyone "mama" or "mamas" and now that she's drunk for some reason her sexual energy is just flowing (even though everybody including historia knows that ymir only has eyes for historia). has the greatest time bullying people during the drinking games and keeps trying to fight jean for the single phone charger in the corner. is definitely the drink spiller of the group but she always blames it on other people and does a really good job at making it look believable. is actually kinda bummed out that she leaves early to take historia home. on days where she does go clubbing she can be found on the dance floor just vibing with connie or other friends. always has a radar for where any of her friends are and if someone is lost then ymir can and WILL find them. likes to interrogate innocent people in the smoking area and always ends up smoking a cigarette despite not entering the club with any on her

⏤ LEVI, HANGE, ERWIN ; final years who came to the party because they're their friends but 1) hange got wayyyy too drunk on tequila and was being sick everywhere, 2) levi was bored and gladly used hange as an excuse to go home and 3) erwin is probably working because he's the only responsible friend

⏤ FLOCH ; is the friend who buys the weirdest and most rank drinks on planet earth. he's the evil mastermind who comes up with criminal concoctions for ring of fire. he has like that weird charm that's unsettling but people always want to be near him because he knows how to have fun. tried to concoct a plan to get connie in the club after he got turned away but *rita skeeter voice* he was unsuccessful….

[whumpcloud]

Delicate - Missing

content: (institutionalised) pet whump, carewhumper, heavily implied past murder, disordered eating, alcoholism, chronic illness, collars, accidental triggering, past choking, past belting, fainting, it as a pronoun

Sir hasn't outlined any rules yet, so Peter is trying to make guesses. He cleans every morning, before Sir wakes up - Sir sometimes sleeps right into the afternoon, but Peter wakes up at eight in the morning out of habit - and that seems to make Sir happy. Peter couldn't help how good he felt when Sir first praised him for how clean everything was, even though Peter noticed some rubbish he hadn't picked up immediately after and felt intensely guilty.

Maybe Sir wants Darling to ask? Or he might be the kind of Master that only explains the rules when they get broken. Peter, and he keeps forgetting but he's Peter now and he likes being Peter so why is it so hard, thinks about it as a few days pass. Sir has been so kind, too, it makes Peter worry about breaking a rule. Sir even gave him his own place to sleep! Not that Peter minded sleeping with Master, Master was warm and usually gentle and smelled nice when he didn't smell like whiskey, but Peter has never had his own space before, even if that space amounts to an oddly spacious cupboard with the only explanation being Sir mumbling something about an unused laundry room.

Still, the futon is comfortable, and Sir has given him blankets, and Sir even lets Peter do things like make whatever meals he likes for the two of them. Peter would prefer if he knew what Sir liked, but Sir never seems to mind what the food is. Most of the time, all he seems to mind is that Peter has made food at all. Sometimes he looks a little guilty or ashamed, and sometimes he just looks at it and turns away. Peter has tried to test to see if it was things he disliked, but Sir just… doesn't eat often, even if he gives Peter the okay to make it.

Well, that isn't healthy at all.

"Sir, I'm going to make lunch!" Peter smiles. "Would you like anything in particular?"

Elio fidgets with the bottle in his hand. "M'fine. Thanks for offering, I guess."

Peter can be insistent, if he must. "Sir, it's important that you eat. Not just to stay alive, but because you're diabetic. Have you checked your blood sugar today?"

"The alarm hasn't gone off, so I'm fine," Elio mumbles.

"...just because the alarm hasn't gone off doesn't mean that your blood sugar is stable, Sir," Peter says. "You shouldn't wait until you're at risk of illness."

"I'm already ill," Elio mutters.

"You know that's not what I meant, Sir," Peter says softly. "Please take your insulin and eat."

Elio hangs his head and groans. "Fine. Were you trained to be this annoying?"

Peter bites his lip, but only because Sir can't see. "Master was stubborn. He trained me to push past that."

"He must have been one stubborn son of a bitch," Elio half-laughs.

Peter isn't sure yet if that's a nice laugh. He'll learn. He's adjusting. This can be home, if he tries hard enough.

Elio pulls himself up, abandoning the bottle on the floor. He watches Peter's eyes dart to it from the kitchen doorway, then dart back to him.

"Don't judge me," Elio mutters as he walks past.

Peter steps away quickly. He's started to give Sir a wide berth, though something in him aches about it. "There's no point in your Pet judging you, Sir. I'm just here to assist however I can."

"Mhm. Right."

Peter falls silent, and focuses on making lunch as Sir languidly injects himself. At least that means he'll have to eat something now.

"...Sir, would you like me to assist in any way in terms of your drinking?" Peter asks, after a few minutes of anxious hesitation. "I could help you get sober, or help you limit the amount, or just take care of you when you're drunk?"

"I don't need taken care of," Elio mumbles. "...and I don't wanna get sober."

Peter doesn't understand Sir's insistence that he doesn't need to be taken care of. Most people can clean like Peter does, but Sir doesn't even put his mugs beside the sink. Sir doesn't eat properly, and the only time he even contemplated showering, Peter had to push him into actually doing it. Sir doesn't seem to hold down a job - in fact, he hasn't gone outside at all since Peter got here, and spends most of his time drinking or sleeping, and only ever does something else when Peter convinces him to.

So isn't that exactly what Peter is doing? Taking care of him?

"You don't have to get sober," Peter says, chipper as ever. "I mentioned other options. I could help you limit or just help you when you're drunk."

"I don't get drunk, so…" Elio leans against the cupboard, forehead pressed against his arm. "Fine. Limit. No more than, uh, three a day, I guess. Just stop me if I go for another. If you're gonna be so… insistent."

Peter nods. "I can do that, Sir."

Watching Peter do anything is like watching a well-oiled machine. He's precise and cautious and… happy isn't the right word. Content? He seems content, at least. Elio isn't sure if it makes him feel any better about this whole Pet situation.

Peter makes a plate of crackers and cheese, red grapes, and yogurt, and places it in front of Elio. "Here's your lunch, Sir. Eat it when you're ready."

Elio stares at it for a minute, before blinking back to awareness and realising Peter has turned to walk away. "Hold on, can you-"

Elio hooks two fingers into Peter's collar to drag him back and Peter screams.

The sound makes Elio jump back, but the collar is tight around Peter's neck and he can't pull his fingers free before Peter gags and crashes onto the linoleum.

Darling's eyes are wide, tiny irises flitting from the floor to Sir's feet to his own hands shooting to his throat. It's breathing too fast. It holds the breath for a moment, then lets the breath out, slowly, controlled. It's a good boy. It needs to stay completely calm.

It moves onto its knees and bows its head, hands flat on its thighs. It takes another deep breath. Calm.

"I'm sorry, Master," Darling says, quietly. Peter flinches. "S-Sir. Sorry."

"I- what are you sorry for?" Sir is just staring at it, like the only thing it's done wrong is confuse him. He! Peter is a smart Pet, why can't he remember this one tiny thing? He wasn't even always 'it' to Master, not even usually 'it' to Master, he doesn't know why he can't just make 'he' stick.

"For my emotional outburst," Peter replies, voice steady. "Please punish me to correct my mistake."

Maybe it's just because Sir doesn't like 'it'. Peter is just a bad Pet, of course he's still thinking of himself as 'it'. He deserves to be punished for that too, but he doesn't say that right now.

Elio blinks. "Sorry? Punish you?"

"Yes, Sir," Peter nods. "I could retrieve a belt, if you want. Or something else. I know I have no choice in this. Master belted me a lot, so it was the first thing I thought of."

"No, no, no, what?" Elio shakes his head and grasps desperately for something he can actually comprehend. "Stop. What did you freak out for?"

Peter's face burns in shame. "...Master used to choke me using my collar, Sir. I didn't… like it. I panicked because you've been so kind and I thought I had done something bad. I thought I had made you angry or disappointed you and the thought was a lot to handle."

Elio is barely taking any of this in. Peter screamed like he was trying to take the entire building down, and not even a minute later he was on his knees, still as a statue. Is that a trained response? To just bury all of that?

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Elio's vision is swimming for some reason. "I'm not gonna punish you for that. Don't be stupid."

"...oh." Peter resists the urge to fidget. "I'm sorry for being a stupid Pet, I shouldn't have assumed."

Elio groans. "Stop apologising for everything."

Peter balls his hands into fists. "Sir, it's unclear what I should apologise for. It's better that I over-apologise than under-apologise. You haven't given me any rules to follow so I'm sorry if I'm not up to your standards."

Elio stares at him for a very long moment. Peter covers his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. How could he be so disrespectful? He spoke far too sharply. That must make him deserving of a punishment, right?

"You have a backbone," Elio finally says, monotone as ever. "Huh."

Peter waits, for the inevitable slap, the kick, the pulling on his hair and dragging him to be tied down and left for hours. But it doesn't happen.

"I guess I'm, uh, I'm not being fair to you," Elio mumbles, grabbing the counter suddenly. "I can't expect you to just deal with all this and be all, like, unsure about it. Especially with me being… me. I'll come up with some rules, I guess. If it'll make you feel better."

"You aren't going to punish me?" Peter's voice isn't more than a muffled squeak. "I- I talked back to you."

"Nah," Elio shrugs. "I don't care. Not gonna punish you for the collar thing either. It's clearly, like, a traumatic thing for you, so."

"...traumatic, Sir?" Peter slowly returns his hands to his thighs. "Pets don't… get trauma."

Elio snorts. "Yeah, I guess you'd call it training."

Sir says some strange things, but Peter really shouldn't be anything but grateful that Sir seems to find disrespect amusing (is amusing the right word for this?) rather than a punishable offence.

"Ah, fuck," Elio says, hissing through his teeth. "I'm gonna faint."

Peter is quick to his feet, and so Elio doesn't even fall any distance. His eyes roll back and he just goes limp in Peter's grip. Peter isn't completely surprised at how light Sir is - it proves Peter's right about how much Sir is eating. He manages to drag Sir to the sofa and sit him up, then collects the plate of food from the kitchen.

"Sir," Peter says gently. "Wake up."

"Mnn…" Elio frowns and twitches as he tries to wake up. "Uh…?"

Sir's phone isn't going off, so his blood sugar must be fine. When was the last time Peter saw him eat? It must have been… five in the morning yesterday, when he woke Peter up making that boxed macaroni.

"Sir, please eat." Peter brushes Elio's hair out of his face. "Don't make me call an ambulance because you won't eat."

Elio tries to mumble something along the lines of "so you're good at guilt-tripping too" but it doesn't come out. He just weakly nods and reaches for the plate.

After some crackers and a few sips of fruit juice, Elio sits up properly. He waves Peter off when Peter tries to kneel and lean against his leg.

"I'm not gonna, like, pet you or something," Elio says. "Can you just fuck off for a bit? I feel awful."

If Peter were an even worse Pet he'd say something like "and I wonder why that is" but he doesn't. He just nods, and smiles, and goes to the room he was given.

The smile falls as soon as Peter is alone. He sits on the futon, leg bouncing. Sir didn't give him anything else to do. Should he find something to do? But he already cleaned everything, and Sir doesn't need him for anything right now, and he's even made sure to take care of himself too, aside from bathing. He doesn't have any other clothes, and he doesn't want to ask Sir because Sir… clearly doesn't really care about him.

Not that he expects Sir to care. Sir doesn't need to care about him, only the other way around.

Peter chews his sleeve. Master would be so mad about it, but Master is gone. But Master would've pet his hair at least, even on an angry day, long fingers slowly running across his scalp. Peter wonders if Sir's hands would feel as nice. Peter wonders if he'll ever get to know.

He misses being Darling. At least Darling got to sit in Master's lap and feel loved.

But it's his own fault. That wasn't enough to stop him from ruining it all. He begs Master for forgiveness under his breath. He would take everything back. He'd live with only the memories of the blood on his hands and the knife he stole from the kitchen and the light leaving Master's eyes and nothing else if he could just take it back and curl up, playing with Master's hair until they both fell asleep.

Peter is being such a bad Pet. He should be thinking about Sir.

It wishes Sir would call him Darling with a hoarse throat and a messy kiss and make things feel right again. Peter kisses its knuckles and tries to pretend, as though they never had Master's blood on them at all.

taglist: @whumpsday @roblingoblin285 @whumpycries @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @clairelsonao3

[bnesszai]

Potion for Love by AURORA for any ship please!

"any ship". Well, I'm a basic bitch, so--

When I lay in your arms and our worlds can collide

Into one atmosphere, we are here 'til we're not

Dazai is sixteen.

The Mafia is like a home he never asked for, drenching him in blood and despair and death. So much death, but never his own, despite his best attempts.

He hates most days. He hates the feel of air in his lungs and of cloth on his skin. He hates when anyone tries to help clean him up after a mission. He hates opening his eyes and realizing that he has, again, survived.

There are a few things he doesn't hate, though. Even if he claims to loathe the existence of a certain gravity manipulator, he can recognize obsession when it settles into his bones. Chuua knows how to get under his skin, but he also knows how to understand what Dazai is thinking without Dazai having to say anything. That, at least, is reassuring.

Terrifying, but reassuring.

Right now, for reasons he can't begin to piece together, Chuuya is snoring, arm thrown across Dazai's waist, head cushioned on Dazai's arm. Said arm has fallen asleep long ago, but Dazai can't find it in himself to move. He isn't sure how they got here.

What he is sure of is that when Chuuya wakes up, Dazai won't be there.

~

When I see you again as a stranger or a friend

Could you give me a kiss from the past?

Make it soft, make it last like a lake in a glass

Like an endless reminder of us

Dazai is twenty-two.

He sees Chuuya again. Something pulls at his chest, something akin to longing, or maybe to fear. Chuuya, for his part, looks equal parts relieved, bitter, and sad, of all things.

Chuuya gets close and Dazai feels the ghost of their past across his lips.

~

I recall our minds being strange and alike

You were quiet at most, I would watch and explode

With a storm in my mind, you would understand why

They all name hurricanes after us

Dazai is seventeen.

He has seen Chuuya's corruption many times. It never stops being a hauntingly beautiful thing. The aftermath is less so.

"Dazai," Chuuya murmurs.

Hmm?" Dazai threads his fingers through Chuuya's hair.

"We have to go."

"No," Dazai says. He's already reported back to Mori and Kouyou. Hirotsu is nearby, ready when they need him, but always pliant to Dazai's whims. "You can rest here."

"The ground fuckin' hurts," Chuuya coughs blood onto Dazai's lap.

"You can't move like this. Rest. I'll carry you in a bit."

There's a hesitation. Chuuya shifts, hisses, and then becomes dead weight. "Promise?"

"Always."

~

When I see you again as a stranger or a friend

I will give you a kiss from the past

I will send you away, hoping you'll be okay

With a piece of your heart living in mine

Dazai is twenty-three.

He pulls Chuuya in. A selfish moment. An entire day of walking side by side, of teasing remarks, of soft looks that no one would ever expect from either of them. An entire night wrapped together, tumbling through sheets, whispered confessions into the darkness.

And then, Dazai pushes Chuuya away.

~

I don't feel love anymore

And how it hurts when you walked out of the door

Forgetting why we fell in love hurts me the most

Dazai is eighteen.

Oda has died in his arms.

Dazai disappears without a word.

~

I don't feel love anymore

And how it hurts when you walk out of the door

Forgetting why we fell in love hurts me the most

Dazai is twenty-four.

The note has two teardrops on it when he sets it on the table. He wonders what the recipient will think, but then decides he is no longer privy to such things. The empty pill bottle clatters out of his hand as the tremors set in. The whiskey bottle in his other hand comes back up to his lips.

A kiss of death.