#coming to ao3 later

[littleacebee]

Day 2 + Day 3 of Podcast Girls Week: This too is yuri... + WIP Wednesday

(It was supposed to be for Day 2, then Day 3, but I finally finished it today, so let's pretend it's definitely not late)

Gwen anxiously waits for Dai’s and Perry return, then Morgan breaks the news to her and they face them together | Camlann (1,184 words) Read on AO3

Gwen fiddled with the yarn in her hands and looked up at the clock for the third time in the last five minutes.

They should come back by now, she thought, or at least call us. 

It’s been almost an hour since Dai and Perry left. Perry called once on walkie talkie to say they’re okay but have to get closer and they will call then. For the last forty five minutes it was complete radio silence and to say Gwen was starting to worry would be a slight understatement. 

At first she had Gwaine to look after. He would taunt and yell at knights left outside their cabin but after some time they stopped responding unless he went far outside the safe bubble and Gwen managed to convince him that he shouldn’t put himself in more danger. She took a look at his injuries but thankfully he had only few bruises and some scratches on his hand so taking care of them didn’t take long. Then she went to check on Morgan who was holding the walkie talkie in her hands like her life depended on it. Gwen checked her bandages and said that Dai and Perry can take care of themselves and are definitely okay. Morgan seemed calmed a little by her words but she didn’t loosen her grip on the walkie talkie.

Since then Gwen made everyone some tea and sandwiches, washed the dishes, added wood into the fire, took a walk along the shield barrier to check if it is still working and changed water in Galert’s bowl. Now she was sitting in the kitchen with half made sweater and ball of yarn on her lap. She managed to do whole three stitches before the nerves got to her and she started fiddling with the yarn instead of knitting. 

They are okay, she reminded herself. They are okay, Perry took their spear, Dai isn’t defenceless either, they are okay.

Of course, unless something happened to them, Arthur and knights captured them or the fire was actually a trap, said something in the back of her mind but she tried hard to ignore it.

Gwen straighten the yarn she tied around her finger. She wanted the most to go to Morgan, check all her bandages one more time and then sit next to her bed and calm herself down by looking at woman’s rising and falling chest. But she couldn’t do it. Her anxiety would only pass onto Morgan and she should be resting. So Gwen was left to fiddle with her yarn in the kitchen and to look up at the clock and then outside the window and back at the clock and so on.

And then she heard the scream. It wasn’t loud and sounded distorted but she definitely heard something. She immediately jumped on her feet and run upstairs. The door to Morgan’s room were left open and Gwen stopped at the entrance breathing heavily. 

“Everything’s all right?” she choked out looking at Morgan. She was sitting in her bed, holding the walkie talkie close to her. “Did they call?”

Morgan was looking at the device in her hands, her mouth hang slightly open. She looked up at her with shining eyes. She moved her lips as if she wanted to say something but there was no sound.

“Morgan?” Gwen walked up to her concerned. Morgan seemed fine, blood didn’t seeped through bandages, there was no fresh wounds she could see. The only reason she could think of that might have caused woman’s distress was call on the walkie talkie and her heart stopped in her chest at the mere thought of what could have happened. She kneeled next to the bed, gently reached out towards Morgan and held her hands. She looked straight into her eyes and from so close Gwen could see a smile forming on her lips. 

A smile.

“There are people, Gwen.” She whispered as if she was sharing secret of the universe. “There are people out there!”

Her smile grew, her eyes shone with joy. She threw her head back and laughed with relief Gwen never seen in her before. She would do anything to see Morgan like that everyday, to hear her laugh more often. It suited her so well. She deserved to laugh so freely.

“There are survivors! There are people! It’s not just us and them, there are other people!” Morgan voice raised and raised, laughter still audible in it. “It wasn’t one fire, there are hundreds of them!”

She started to repeat everything that Dai told her. Her smile didn’t get smaller even for a second. One of her hands let go of the walkie talkie, only to grab Gwen’s hand tightly. Gwen didn’t mind. Strong hold on her palm finally made Morgan’s words burst through fog of anxiety and shock and their meaning hit her with full force. They were not alone. There were people out there. 

She thought about all the people she lost. Her friends that died in front of her. People she met during Cataclysm that were also killed one by one leaving her alone in new wilderness. All her relatives an ocean away that she had no idea what happened to them and which she probably will never see again. Her dad that she mourned and hoped he was still alive. 

Despite all this loss and death there were still people out there. There was hope shining on the horizon. Her family might be alive somewhere. She haven’t killed everyone and maybe wasn’t doomed to kill Morgan, Dai, Perry and Gwaine. Maybe she will not be left alone again.

„There are people out there…” She murmured and locked her eyes with Morgan’s gaze. Woman smiled at her widely nodding frantically. „There are people alive.”

Broken laugh escaped her mouth. Then another and another and another until she was fully laughing alongside Morgan. Her laughter sounded a little wrong, like she needed to remember how to laugh with her full chest, without a worry some monster was waiting around the corner to snatch every bit of happiness she had. She laughed openly for all the people she lost, for ones that she might never see again but now there was actual chance they were alive. She laughed for herself - hiding in a forest or an abandoned building, with blood of yet another person she couldn’t save on her hands, alone, alone, so awfully alone.

They laughed together, uneven and broken, but together nevertheless. At some point Gwen moved forward and embraced Morgan with her free arm. Woman leaned on her putting her face in the crook of her neck, their laugh slowly ceasing. 

“We are not alone, Gwen.” She said quietly and hesitantly moved her hand still holding the walkie talkie around Gwen. 

“We are not.” She repeated feeling Morgan’s hand on her back. She hid her face in woman’s hair and closed her eyes. 

They were not alone. There were people out there, there were survivors. There was hope. They weren’t doomed from beginning. Despite everything there was hope for all of them. 

[umblrspectrum]

"smaller mass" you say

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part two

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: implied sexual content

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 2.5k

You weren’t sure what woke you at first but when you opened your eyes, you found the brilliant, early morning light that streamed through a crack in the curtains. Groaning, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, not missing the unmistakable rustling of clothes somewhere at the foot of the bed. 

Peeking over the sheets to the source of the sound, you found Ale working to put her pants back on, her bare back to you. You propped yourself against the headboard as you watched on, biting your lip at how Ale’s tattoos deliciously shifted over her rippling muscles. She picked something up from the floor before she turned towards the bed and you caught sight of the darkening marks on her neck and chest. When she saw you looking at her, she smiled, a little bashful, which you returned in kind.

“What time is it?” You cringed at how you croaked out the words.

“Early. You should go back to sleep.” Ale said, putting her bra on as she kept your gaze.

You hummed. “I could say the same for you.”

Ignoring what she said you sat up on the bed, allowing the sheets to slide down and settle by your waist as you stretched. Ale’s eyes wandered to your chest which, you supposed, bore the same marks you could see on hers, and you relished the attention. Once she found your eyes again, you sent her a knowing smirk before you left the bed, headed to the closet where you grabbed the nearest fresh shirt you had, and tossed it to Ale. 

Without even looking at the shirt, she caught it with ease. You raised your brow, both in question and in wonder. In response, Ale just smiled innocently at you. Ale pulled the shirt over her head, hiding the marks from view, then she moved towards you, her eyes dark and shining with intent.

Your body remembered last night’s endeavours before you did: every nerve in your skin lit up in anticipation for Ale’s touch, a fuse waiting for a spark. She laced an arm around your waist and pulled you flush to her front with a strength that left you breathless, her clothed body firm against your bare flesh. Without your heels she almost towered over you that you had to stand on your toes to wrap your arms around her neck. You closed your eyes when you felt the words she spoke against your temple.

“As much as I’d love to stay, I have to go.”

You sighed, unable to hide your disappointment. But what did you expect? You knew what you were getting into last night–you knew this was meant to only be a one-time thing. Besides, you were never one for relationships anyway; all your dalliances were brief and fleeting, ending before they ever got serious. Still, something about Ale pulled you to her, a force that compelled a desire to get to know her. The logical part of you already accepted the fact that you’d probably never see her again after this, but a small part of you wanted to rebel and resist that fate. 

Unsurprisingly, logic won out.

“I shouldn’t keep you, then,” you whispered against her collarbone. Ale shivered and that made you smile: it’s good to know you weren’t the only one still feeling the effects from the previous night.

“You’re not making this easy,” she whined and you laughed. 

“Alright, alright. I guess it’s time for me to let you go.”

There was a moment of silence but not an uncomfortable one. You looked at her, soaked in how her features caught the morning light, how her fair hazel eyes almost appeared like twin golden suns. You were tempted to kiss her lips then but you settled for a chaste one on her cheek instead. “Keep the shirt, to remember me by and… a thank you for last night. It was wonderful.”

“I had a good time, too,” she hummed, a small smile on her lips. 

You returned her smile, and then you gently pushed her away as you took a step back. “Go, Ale.”

Ale stood there for a moment more, took one last look at you, gave you one last smile and she was out of the bedroom. When you heard the front door shut, you sighed again as something akin to regret settled in your bones. Maybe you should’ve at least asked for her number…

“So… did you have fun?” A deep voice filtered through the speaker before you saw the familiar mop of blonde hair and blue eyes on your screen. You rolled your eyes at his dry tone but you smiled nonetheless.

“Oh hi, Derek, I’m doing fine! Thank you for asking!”

Derek gave you an unimpressed look. “Come on. I need details cause that club was exclusive for a reason. So, did you hook up with someone?”

“Dude, stop! That’s so–” you shook your head, a palm over your face. You swore if he wasn’t family you would’ve… you breathed through your nose. “Thank you for the pass and everything but I’m not obligated to tell you shit.”

“Fine, I see how it is. Just ‘cause I’m not there you’re keeping secrets from me now, huh?” He raised an exaggerated eyebrow. 

“Then maybe you should’ve come here with me,” you retorted with faux annoyance. “What’s the point of you owning a house in Barcelona if you’re not going to use it? It’s literally rotting here! The fact that you haven’t even put any personal things in here is criminal!”

“And let this agency burn down to the ground while both of us are away? Pfft, yeah, right!” Derek scoffed. “You know it’s either you or me who can keep watch around here. Besides, the house can wait and you’re using it now, right? So, a win-win in my book.”

He was right but you weren’t about to tell him that so you opted to change the topic. “How are things on your end anyway?”

“Chaotic, as usual. And it doesn’t help we’re now down two–actually, three including you–of our best in the Spot News department.”

At that, you sat up from the couch, alarm and dread filled your body and you brought the phone closer to you. “Oh my god, did something happen?” 

Derek sighed heavily, his demeanour clouded over as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was Jones and Gilda–they’re stable, don’t worry!–they got caught in a flash flood on the way to the base at their area. Sick with some minor injuries, Jones more so than Gilda, but thankfully they’re both okay.”

At that, you breathed out in relief. You were well acquainted with the dangers that came with your job but you could never get used to how quickly a situation could get from bad to worse. The mere thought was enough to turn your hands cold. 

“When did this happen?”

“Early morning today in our timezone.”

“Oh, fuck. Derek, why didn’t you call me?!”

“Dude, you’re on leave. And it’s not that I didn’t want to let you know, I just wasn’t about to wake you up in the middle of the night to give you this headache. I’m just about done with the paperworks anyway.” A moment silence, then Derek sighed. “You really chose the worst time to go on leave. You know, I had to send Jersey to start covering Spot.”

“Not my fault you authorised it. I was happy to wait another month, remember? Wait, so if Jersey is doing Spot, who’s doing Sports?”

“I know, I know, don’t remind me ‘cause I’m already regretting it. And no one’s doing it. Spot coverage is more important but–”

“–we get a decent sum from Sports, too,” you finished for him. You did some quick estimation in your head: a month or two without Sports could prove costly, too great of a sum to let go. You hummed, rubbing your chin, but it didn’t take you long to realise that you could help out, your mind immediately fleeted to your conversation with Ale and her suggestion.

“I’ll cover it, Derek.”

“No. You’re supposed to be enjoying your leave–”

“Derek.” You fixed a stern gaze at him, the one you knew that he knew meant your mind was made up. Then you proceeded to reassure him that it was fine, and then you told him about your plan. “Alright, then, I’ll leave the press passes to you.”

“I’ll e-mail them to you once I get ‘em, most likely by tonight your time. I–” 

“Derek, you got to see–” Another voice filtered through the speaker while you watched as Derek turned his head to the side and held his hand up to whoever it was before returning his focus back to you.

“Okay, as much as I’d love to keep talking to you, Robert just brought me a huge stack of paper so I’m going to bail.” 

“Alright. Have fun, you. Talk to you later.”

“Ha ha, very funny. But seriously, thank you.”

“No worries. Kiss Mom for me when you see her.”

“I will. Love you, sis.”

“I love you, too.”

After calling Jones and Gilda to ask about their condition and to send them your well wishes, you decided to spend the rest of your day at the nearby square and the beach. A day as good as this wasn’t meant to be wasted by staying inside so you grabbed several rolls of film and your beloved Leica camera before heading out. 

It was already late afternoon when you found yourself trudging along the shoreline of one of Barcelona’s beaches, appreciating the orange-tinged skies and how the gulls called from above. When you looked to the horizon, you found a mother and her little daughter paddle-boarding just a hundred meters from the shore. You could see almost no details in the shadows of their silhouette but the large setting sun framed them in such a way that you felt to take a shot of the moment. So you adjusted your aperture accordingly, pressed the viewfinder against your brow, lined up your shot, and pressed the shutter.

“I thought you looked familiar… And I was right.”

Your thumb froze over the advance lever when you heard someone speak from somewhere behind you. That voice… could it be?

You whipped your head over your shoulder and found none other than Ale standing there. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts, a white opened blouse that put her toned abs and Nike sports bra on display, loose hair slightly damp, with a leash in one hand that lead to a small, fluffy dog. She also had on a pair of black wraparound sunglasses that she moved to the top of her head, revealing her hazel eyes that captivated your gaze immediately.

You could hardly believe your eyes and your luck; you already accepted her fleeting presence in your life but to meet her again in a city as big as Barcelona without any means of contact… that surely was nothing short of a miracle.

“Ale, hi! I–I never thought I’d see you again,” you said after you finally found your voice but as soon as the words left your mouth, your cheeks warmed. What were you supposed to say to a one night stand in this situation, especially when you clearly wanted it to happen again?

“Me neither. I should thank Nala for dragging me out here.” Ale grinned as she glanced down at her dog by her feet. You crooned as you bent down, then you offered your hand first and only after Nala licked your knuckles did you proceed to pet her.

“Thank you, Nala, for taking your owner for a walk.” At that, a hearty laugh came from Ale which caused Nala, who seemed to be overjoyed by the sound of her owner’s delight, to yip and wag her tail. And just as quickly as she had, she seemed to get bored and began to bound forward, urging Ale to move as well so you stood up, brushed the sand from your palms, and fell in step with her. 

For a moment, the space between you was filled by the sound of the waves, the sound of the shifting sand beneath your feet, and the ever-bustling noise from the city. Then you recalled your conversation with Derek this morning.

“I thought about what you said, about covering women’s football. I’m going to be given a press pass for a match, not sure which one they’ll give me, though. But do you know of any big matches coming up?”

“Really? That’s great! Do you have any particular team in mind or…?”

“Research is still on my to-do list so no, not really. I’m all ears for suggestions, though.”

“I see. Well, there is this match coming up: Real Madrid and Barcelona. Since you don’t know, there’s rivalry between the two teams so any match between them tends to get crowded. You should come watch.” 

“That sounds like a good one. I hope that’s what they’ll get me into. Will you be there?”

“I hope so, too. And yes, I’ll be there.” As she said this, her eyes shone with a glint not dissimilar to what you saw in them the night you met. Her lips tilted to the side, closed but quirked at the corners like she was holding in a laugh. If it weren’t already clear that night, it was now–you were definitely missing something here.

“What?” You asked, confused. What was she not telling you? But at the question, Ale only let out a small giggle, grinning as she did so.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said, shaking her head. You didn’t believe her but you let it slide one more time and the fact that she looked so distracting didn’t help either.

She had her head turned to you, her loose hair framed her face and strands fluttered in the cool, ocean breeze. You had to tilt your head up slightly to meet her eyes and, without any bidding, memories from that night and the morning after filtered through your mind: the way she held you against her, the way you wanted her to stay… maybe you should ask her if she was free tonight.

“–what do you have in mind?”

You blinked. “What?”

Ale threw her head back, letting out another hearty laugh before she looked at you and you saw amusement swimming in her eyes. Then, she continued with a smirk, “you asked if I was free tonight. I said yes. Or… was I not meant to hear that?”

Your ears and cheeks burnt while you internally cursed your slippery tongue.  That was smooth. Real smooth. “Ummm…”

You woke the next morning with a delicious soreness between your thighs, a pleasant reminder of the way Ale ravished you last night. Similar to the first morning after, you heard the rustling of clothes being put on. But before you could fully open your eyes, warmth from Ale’s lips branded the skin on your shoulder. 

“I have to go. See you next time?” Ale murmured softly. You shifted slightly to the side and you saw how the sunlight behind her gilded her hair with an amber halo and made her eyes appear like molten gold. 

Brushing a loose strand behind her ear, you hummed in confirmation and pressed your forehead sleepily against the sharp line of her jaw, closing your eyes as you did so and you whispered, “you know where to find me.”

[cfffrk]

[padawansuggest]

Obi-Wan: Cody. Oh sweet sweet, good man Cody. I just don’t think we could be together.

Cody: Oh. Um. Is it because I’m a clone?

Obi-Wan: *trying not to admit that he would literally go insane and either try and steal the whole army, or kill the chancellor if he admitted to his feelings* Well. It’s… a conflict of interests.

Cody: *well versed in Kenobi speak, which is why he knows that doesn’t add up* What?

Anakin: *taking out his headphones ten feet away* He said you guys have conflicting mental illnesses.

Cody: That’s not-

Obi-Wan: No no, that fits the situation pretty well, actually.

[mamawasatesttube]

ooooo timkon w “Can you just hold me?” or “You look like you need a hug." for the ficlet thing :3

Kon's hair is a frizzy mess.

That's the first red flag. Kon is ridiculously vain when he wants to be, with a whole hair care shower routine, silken pillowcases, and an array of curl creams and whatnot that he had to explain to Tim twice before any of it stuck in his head properly. Tim teases him for it now and then, but he knows it's because Kon doesn't like people seeing him at anything but his best. Kon got too used to being picked apart on camera for that.

So the fact that his hair is unkempt and mussed as he lets himself in from the balcony is... concerning.

Even more concerning is the way he barely even looks at Tim before he throws himself at the bed, flopping face-down with an oof. The balcony door closes itself behind him like an afterthought, and he heaves a huge, melancholy sigh.

"Kon?" Tim pushes away from his desk, trotting over to the bedside. Kon's legs are sticking off, and Tim shakes his head fondly as he reaches down to tug Kon's boots off. "Long day, huh?"

The first boot comes off in his hands; the second follows almost instantaneously. Kon lifts his head from the duvet to give him a slightly sheepish look over his shoulder, apologetic, before he drops his face back down with a thump.

"I'm tired," he mumbles. And he sounds like it. There isn't even a hint of a smile in his voice.

Tim crawls onto the bed next to him, rests his hand comfortingly at the small of his back. "What happened?"

Kon hisses out another sigh into the duvet. "Someone tried to—and don't get your knickers in a twist, I'm fine—but someone tried to dissect me today. Again."

Alarm jolts through Tim's whole body; his hands immediately start roaming Kon's torso, probing for wounds. "What?! Are you hurt—"

"I just said, I'm fine, Rob." Kon sounds a little wry as he rolls onto his back. "Jeez. What happened to your listening skills?"

He catches one of Tim's wrists and holds it to his chest, over his heart; Tim can see the sliver of an incision, cut right into the center of the S-shield emblazoned on his chest. He can't tell if it cut the skin beneath or not, but at least he doesn't see any blood.

The tiny smile on Kon's face fades, and Tim softens, studying him. Now that he can look properly, he can see the telltale signs that Kon cried, earlier; his cheeks are a little blotchy, his eyes slightly reddened. An eyelash is stuck to the delicate skin just below his eye.

"Some... ugh. They were some, like, Cadmus-wannabes. Total bozos, though. They had a red sun lamp, but no metagene suppressant, so." Kon shrugs, discontented. "They didn't even use the energy restraints like that time with Amanda Spence, like—c'mon, at least do your basic research if you're gonna try to vivisect a guy, right?" He snorts humorlessly. "I got out fine, took it down, called the S.C.U., it's whatever. I'm just... I'm so tired, Tim," and his voice cracks on Tim's name.

"Kon," he murmurs, leaning down. He presses their foreheads together, his chest aching. He'll have to check the news, find out from reports who exactly was behind this, because... it shouldn't matter, since it's already taken care of, but something inside him burns at the thought that anyone, anywhere, could put such a bone-deep sorrow into Kon's eyes.

"I'm so tired of people acting like I'm—like I'm not a person just 'cuz I hatched outta some stupid tube in a lab." Kon's eyes are too bright. He squeezes them shut and takes a shaky breath. "Like—what do I gotta do, y'know? How do you just—how do you even get through to people who're so convinced clones aren't people? I'm a person, too! I just... I..."

Tim very briefly debates the ethics of breaking into Stryker's just so he can hit someone with his staff. Or his car.

"I'm... really sorry you had to deal with that," he says instead, lamely. It's cold comfort, and awkward, and—

And it makes Kon laugh, watery but real. He blinks his teary-bright eyes up at Tim, brushes a gloved hand to his cheek. "You're mad as hell right now, aren't you?"

Tim smiles ruefully and presses his lips to Kon's jaw. "You caught me." Another kiss, to the corner of Kon's mouth. "I just—I hate that I can't do anything to fix this kinda thing for you. You don't deserve it."

"Mm." Kon takes a second to collect himself, swallows hard, and breathes out slowly. "You do more than you realize, I think. Can you just—can you just hold me? For a little while?"

Tim flops down on top of him immediately, wraps his arms around his head and neck, and smushes his face into Kon's hair. It would probably be more comfortable if they were side-by-side and facing each other, but the advantage of this position is that—

Kon laughs again, soft and fond. His voice is still a little thick, but he's smiling now. "Is that comfy for you...?"

"Kinda." Tim kisses his temple, too. "You smell like smoke."

"Mmf, sorry." Kon sighs again. "And I got it all over the bed now, too, huh..."

"S'okay. We can just grab a different blanket later." Tim scrunches his fingers through Kon's hair until they hit a tangle. "...Want me to wash your hair for you?"

Kon's arms tighten around him, and suddenly he seems like he needs a moment before he can respond. Tim doesn't rush him.

"Yeah," Kon croaks out after a moment, his voice suspiciously wet. "Yeah, Robbie. I'd like that a lot."

[remarcely]

Non-Human Tim Drake Prompt

The Drakes were unable to bear a child, so they made one.

They used clay from their dig sites, having come across grounds so imbued with magic that it was pouring out of the material in waves, and shaped a child- a little boy. He had Janet's smile, Jacks eyes, and a chunk of ruby, chipped off from an artifact the couple had found years ago, in place of a heart. They'd dried the clay child for thirty days and thirty nights, carefully checking him for cracks and crumbling patches. On the morning of the thirty-first day he opened his eyes and Timothy Drake was ‘born’.

He had once asked what power created him. Tim had heard of the tales of a puppet boy, so loved by his father that a fairy bestowed him with life, and asked his mother if the same fairy had blessed him. Janet had laughed, not taking him seriously, and patted his cheek.

“Oh, my darling, you weren’t made for no reason. You are the heir to the Drake name, a perfect little creation.” She stood from where she’d been crouched and began to leave the room, not bothering to look over her shoulder “Fairies are not real, Timothy, and neither is ‘true love’. There is only us and our requisites. You will placate our plans in a way flesh and blood never could.”

Tim understands the words his mother isn’t saying. That Love had nothing to do with it, only necessity for a child to keep something so arbitrary as a family name alive.

He wasn’t their son, he was a vessel, and if he wanted to remain a Drake then he’d need to serve his purpose;

Perfection.

[oceanwithouthermoon]

genuinely still shocked that merasai is so unpopular.. when i first watched saiki k years ago, i was immediately into that ship and i just assumed they would be one of the most popular because they have the most casual chemistry ever.. like they would be the most arospec dgaf go at their own pace couple ever and i love them...

[steddie-island]

A rush kinda like the old times (I still cross your mind)

Written for @stevieweek day 7 - Rarepair Rating: M | WC: 1,262 | Tags: Hurt/no comfort, Fem Steve Harrington, past Tommy Hagan/ Steve Harrington/ Carol Perkins (with the focus being on Tommy/Steve), Title and fic inspired by this song. ao3 | Divider credit

Stevie was almost asleep when the buzzing of her phone started. She didn't bother turning the light on before cracking an eye open to see who it was. Her stomach dropped, twisted in a way she hadn't felt in years.

Tommy.

Stevie hesitated for only a moment before answering the call. "Hello?"

The line crackled. There was a shaky breath, then a murmur of, "Stevie?"

God. How long had it been since she'd heard him say her name like that? Graduation, almost eight years ago? Or had it been longer than that, before the fight that had ended their friendship?

"Tommy." Stevie's voice was just as soft, like speaking too loud would break the connection. "Are you okay?"

"I'm getting married."

Stevie wasn't sure if he sounded happy about that or not. "I know," she murmured. "My mom sent me a picture of your invitation. Congratulations."

Tommy made a sound that might've been a laugh, but it just as easily could have been a sob.

"She's nice," he said. The line crackled again for a moment.

"She looks nice. Pretty, too." Stevie caught her lip between her teeth. "You look happy."

Another sound— Tommy was drinking something. "I miss you."

Ah. It was one of those calls.

Stevie should've told him goodnight, should have told him to call his fiancee instead.

But she didn't.

The truth was, she missed Tommy, too. They'd been tied together for so long. How was she supposed to untangle herself when they'd shared scraped knees and first kisses, whispered secrets and broken hearts?

"I miss you, too," she whispered. The phone crackled again, she heard the sound of Tommy putting the bottle back down.

"I wanted to invite you." Tommy cleared his throat quietly. "I know 's been a long time… we didn't end on good terms."

Stevie couldn't help but chuckle. "That's… putting it mildly."

"I know." There was a rasp to Tommy's voice that he couldn't clear away.

The silence stretched on between them. "Do you ever think about us? 'bout what we could've been, if we hadn't fucked it up?"

"Tommy…"

"If I hadn't been an asshole?" Tommy added. "We were good together."

"We brought out the mean in each other," Stevie whispered. It made her chest ache, but it was the truth.

There was a drunken giggle. "Yeah, but we didn't always mind that, you know. It was fun sometimes. When we weren't aiming it at each other the same way we aimed it at everyone else."

Stevie ignored the stab of heat that pulsed through her body. "You should go to sleep."

"Don't wanna sleep."

Stevie could hear the sound his lips made against the mouth of the bottle. If she closed her eyes she could picture him, sitting up in bed. He'd looked the same in the photo included with their invitation. His hair was shorter than he'd worn it in high school, but there was no doubt about it. It was still Tommy.

It was summer, so she knew his freckles would be darker now, too, that there would be a million of them. She could practically feel the warmth of his chest against her cheek as they held each other. She'd always tried to count the specks on his shoulders, but there were just too many and she always lost track.

"You didn't answer my question." Tommy's voice was a welcome distraction from her own thoughts.

"What was the question?"

"Do you ever think about us?"

Being honest wouldn't help either of them. Stevie sighed, her head dropping back against the pillow again.

"Of course I do. I loved you, Tommy. We were just… not good for each other. Toxic, you know?" she whispered.

"Not always. We were good for each other, too. You were good for me. You… tried to make me see past my bullshit, even after Wheeler... I just didn't listen." Tommy's sigh made him sound older, made Stevie feel older.

"I wish we could go back to that last summer. Before we stopped being friends. That was good, wasn't it?" Tommy asked. "We spent the whole summer at the pool, or throwing shit off of the quarry, or—"

"Or going joyriding in your dad's car," Stevie said, smiling despite herself.

"Then finding somewhere to park, so we could fuck in the backseat." There was a husky tone to Tommy's voice. Stevie did her best to ignore it, and to ignore the pulse between her thighs at the memory.

"God, we were so stupid. We almost got caught so many times."

"That was fucking Carol's fault!" Tommy said, laughing. "She was so loud, and every time she saw Hopper's car she just got louder, like she was begging him to walk over."

"You're disgusting!" Stevie said. She reached over to grab a pillow, like she could actually throw it at him. Like he was actually here in her bedroom with her again, hiding under the covers so her parents didn't find out he'd snuck through her window again.

Heat licked at Stevie's skin at the memories of the three of them, of summers spent wrapped up in one another, in the backseat, and in the pool, and in Stevie's bed.

"You liked that, too, Stevie." There was a teasing tone to it, but there was that rough edge again, too. The one that brought memories of long pink nails scratching at Stevie's hips and stubble against her neck. "I was so lucky. Got to share a bed with the prettiest girl in the world."

"Carol would scratch your eyes out if she heard you say that and it wasn't about her," Stevie murmured.

"Carol would've fucked us both stupid for saying that," Tommy said. "And we would've thanked her for it, wouldn't we?"

Stevie closed her eyes. She could feel long nails digging into her thighs, holding her open so Carol could suck and bite at all of Stevie she could get at while Tommy took her from behind. There would be pain, and tears, and by the time they were finished they would walk away hating and loving each other just a little more.

Tommy was right, it hadn't been all bad. She'd loved them both— they'd all loved each other— even when it hurt.

And god, it had hurt.

"Stevie?"

"Hmm?" Stevie blinked her eyes open. She wasn't sure when the tears had started, but they were spilling over now. "Yeah, Tommy?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for turning out to be a fucking loser, like our dads." Tommy sniffed softly. "I'm sorry I wasn't better."

More tears spilled over. This was stupid. Tommy was stupid. Talking about this wasn't going to change anything, to fix anything. It was just making them both miserable.

"We were stupid kids." Stevie shook her head. "Everyone fucks up when they're a stupid kid." She sniffed, too. "You should get some rest."

"Will you come? To the wedding?" Tommy asked again.

Stevie thought about it, really thought about it. Tommy had called her in the middle of the night.

If he'd really wanted her to come, he could've just sent her an invitation. This felt like more than that, felt like maybe he was drowning and sort of hoped Stevie was, too. And maybe they could drown together.

"Would your fiancee want me there?"

The line went silent for so long that Stevie had to look at her screen to make sure he hadn't ended the call. "Tommy?"

There was another tired sigh. "Goodnight, Stevie," he said.

It wasn't an answer exactly, but it was answer enough.

"Goodbye, Tommy."

[itzzaira]

Apparently ao3 is down again</3

Like- just when I finally found my will to write dammit</3

So have this small drable for a future one-shot

Anyone want some sick, asthmatic 2012 Mikey?✨️

[bunisher]

can y’all help me find a mundane activity that peter and matt can do together (out of their suits). i just need a general setting for this and my brain is soooo empty. please helpppp 😭😭

[000marie198]

Happy Wholesome Wednesday!

........

Safest Shelter , Part 1

Night had already fallen in Mystic Ruins when Sonic and Tails finally returned home, a cool summer breeze whirling through the trees nearby before moving offshore towards the sea, the scent of damp forest clashing with that of the salty mist, continuously switching with the wind's direction.

It always felt like a miracle how one place had two completely different natural environments depending on which side of the workshop one looked.

The workshop that was now their own home.

Though they already had it for almost a year now, Sonic didn't think he would ever get used to returning to an actual home after a long day of battles and heroics. Never thought he'd even make an effort to find a permanent one when he used to get by just fine before. Funny how having someone to look after and take care of changed so many things, how having a little brother made life just that much more easier and worthwhile.

Said little brother was currently asleep, gently held by the older mobian as he clutched onto the one carrying him, his face buried in Sonic's shoulder as the young blue hedgehog carefully trudged through the grass, little yellow fireflies floating around the tall blades like twinkling blue stars in the dark sky above.

Tails mumbled in his sleep and snuggled closer as Sonic shifted him to open the door and step inside. He resisted an urge to squeeze back so not to wake him up, knowing the kid had tuckered himself out after a long day of adventuring. He was a resilient kit but he was still just five. He was still a child and he needed all the sleep he could get, especially with all the activity he had been up to when he was awake.

Sonic went with running his hand down the fox's back instead, his charge becoming more limp with drowsiness as he relaxed due to the gentle strokes, somehow feeling heavier than before even though it made zero sense for him to have become heavier all of a sudden.

Which was good, Sonic supposed, as it meant the fox wouldn't get disturbed awake too easily when he'd be carried up the stairs to his room. He pushed the door close with his foot before heading towards the steps leading to the upper floor, snagging Tails' blanket from the couch's back on the way there.

Shifting a sleeping Tails into a more secure hold, he cautiously climbed up the steps and made his way towards his little brother's bedroom, trying to slowly open the door so that its knob and hinges wouldn't squeak.

Mentally doing a little celebratory dance when he succeeded, he proceeded to slide off the shoes Tails was wearing and lowered Tails to the bed, shushing him and stroking his back when the kit tried to hold on tighter with a minute whimper as he subconscuiously sensed that he was being released from the protective hold.

Tucking the blanket around him when he finally managed to get the younger to release him, Sonic gently rubbed his head, running his fingers through the bangs and fur, letting out a soft smile as Tails' arms and face went lax. He held back a snicker as he heard the fox letting out soft snores, signalling that he had officially fallen into a much deeper slumber.

With one final pat on the head, the hedgehog made sure the blanket was secure and his little brother was tucked in properly before moving to leave the bedroom, closing the door shut behind him.

...........

@starrjoy

Part 2

[pippytmi]

wrote prompt # 9 from this prompt list for wildmoore: “There is actually no downside to acting like we would be dating.”/ “Yes, except the part where people would think I was dating you.”

_______

“Ryan, I need you to hear me out, and don’t say no until I explain.”

It is as enthusiastic a hello as any, and Ryan doesn’t question it; when it comes to her best friend and her antics (the chicken incident of last Christmas immediately comes to mind), Ryan has learned to pick her battles. “Hi, Mary,” she says, and patiently shuts her front door as Mary walks right in. “It’s nice to see you too.”

By the time Ryan has locked and bolted her door, Mary has already begun to mix white wine and orange juice into two mugs. This is not the first time Mary has tried to ply Ryan with alcohol to get her to do something really, really stupid (again, chicken thing), and Ryan wordlessly takes a seat at the island and doesn’t bother hiding her judgment.

“Okay, this must be serious,” Ryan says eventually, as Mary hands her a drink with one hand and then downs her own with the other. “I’m afraid to ask now.”

“First you have to promise you won’t interrupt me until I finish,” Mary says. “Deal?”

“Sure, fine,” Ryan agrees, and she even takes a sip out of her mug as a show of good faith. It’s absolutely abysmal given the fact that she’s just brushed her teeth, and she quickly sets it down.

Mary takes a deep breath and straightens. “I need a favor,” she says. “Or actually, Sophie needs—”

“Oh hell no.”

“Ryan!” Mary gives her a half-pout, half-frown. “You said you wouldn’t interrupt!”

“Well you didn’t mention it would involve Sophie Moore.” Taste be damned, Ryan does need alcohol for this conversation, so she says fuck it and grabs her poor man’s mimosa again. “Whatever she wants from me, tell her to forget about it.”

“Technically,” Mary says, raising a finger in the air, “she doesn’t know I’m asking you. So you can rest assured your little arch-nemesis-rivalry or whatever is still intact. And if you would let me finish, I could actually tell you the situation we’re in.”

“You mean the situation she’s in,” Ryan corrects, and Mary levels her with a stare that Ryan has come to recognize as a wordless bitch, please. “Mary, you know I love you, and I overlook your fraternization with the she-devil—”

“Oh my God, you two are so dramatic,” Mary says. “Can I speak now, or are you going to keep rehashing pointless lesbian drama? Because I’ve aged two years trying to explain that all Sophie needs is a date.”

Ryan just about chokes on her wine.

Mary ignores her spluttering and continues, “Look, Sophie called me because she was invited to her ex’s wedding, and she desperately needs a date. I mean, it’s common practice right? If you go to your ex’s wedding, you need to show up with a hot date on your arm. And normally I would’ve done it, but it just so happens that it’s my sister’s wedding…” 

“Your sister?” Ryan feels like this conversation is occurring underwater all of a sudden. “Alice, or Kate?”

“Kate, obviously,” Mary says. “Alice isn’t gay. Well, maybe a little bit, no one knows what to make of the Safiyah thing.” She visibly pauses, and then grimaces. “So not something I want to remember. The point is, Sophie already told Kate she was bringing a plus one before she found out that Kate was my sister.”

“So she lied. I don’t see why you’re over here asking me to—I don’t even know what you’re asking me to do.”

“I’m asking you to be Sophie’s wedding date,” Mary says. “But not for real, since you two are clearly too stubborn to talk to each other.”

“Hold on, what is there to talk about?” Really, at this point it’s the principle of the thing to hate Sophie Moore, who is stuck-up and standoffish and just a general stick-in-the-mud. Ryan can't be faulted for wanting nothing to do with her.

“Don't get all defensive.” But Mary laughs when she says it, and she holds out the wine bottle like it's a peace offering. “Just think about it, okay? Imagine if it was Angelique getting married and Sophie was your only option for a date. She'd do it for you.”

“No she wouldn't,” Ryan counters, but she needs no deliberation in order to accept a swig from the bottle. “And how do you know I'm her only option?”

“Because Sophie told me she's planning on skipping the wedding since she can't find another date!” Mary cries, and she’s clearly distraught at the very idea; she's worrying her bottom lip insistently, a habit Ryan knows she's trying to break. “Come on, Ryan, please? If not for Sophie, then for me. I really think Kate will be sad if Sophie doesn't go, they're in such a good place now.”

“You’re going to pull the do-it-for-me card now?”

“Yes,” says Mary without a lick of shame. “And as your best friend, you're contractually obligated to do anything for me.”

“Even if I said I'd do this,” Ryan starts, and when Mary squeals in excitement, Ryan stresses again, “Even then, Mary, Sophie won’t agree. She hates me as much as I hate her.”

“Just leave that part to me,” Mary says with all the cadence of an evil mastermind, which means it’s probably time to cut her off from the alcohol.

Thankfully they change the subject to whatever Mary is planning on wearing for said wedding, and Ryan is relieved; if this actually were a serious proposal, she is sure the world would have been ending.

.

.

.

The first time Ryan met Sophie Moore, it had been as ordinary a night as any other.

In a way it was reminiscent of the first time Ryan met Mary; Kate Kane would occasionally DJ at the bar, and Ryan met Mary on the first night she’d come in to support her sister.  Like Mary, Sophie had shown up to watch Kate DJ. Unlike Mary, Sophie had been a total asshole all night. She’d ignored all of Ryan’s attempts at small talk (which was a thing Ryan did with everyone in the interest of tips, it was not flirting, no matter how Mary described it). Then when Sophie’s sister Jordan told her to “flirt back with the cute bartender” (which Ryan still objects to every time she thinks about it), Sophie—who was in earshot of Ryan—replied that Ryan wasn’t her type.

And honestly, Ryan could’ve overlooked all of that. She could have! Sophie Moore had no obligation to find Ryan attractive, or even be polite when Ryan served her, so long as she paid her bill and didn’t cause trouble. But at the end of the night Sophie—still in earshot—had remarked to Jordan that the drinks were subpar, and Ryan was pissed. This went beyond poor consumerism; it was just plain rude! And clearly, Sophie had intended for Ryan to hear it, so it just went to show that Sophie Moore was a snob.

Which is why when Mary comes sweeping into the bar and announces, “Guess what, Ryan—you have a date Saturday night,” Ryan almost drops the glass she’s cleaning.

“Oh no no no,” Ryan hastily interjects, setting the glass aside before she uses it as a weapon. “Do not tell me you actually told Sophie I’d do it.”

“You’re doing your best friend a favor and I love you,” Mary says without a hint of remorse, and she completely ignores Ryan’s slack-jawed response, just happily takes a seat at the bar and lifts a menu as if she doesn’t already have it memorized. “Hey, can you bring me some mozzarella sticks?”

“We’re not open,” Ryan says, snatching said menu back. “Mary. Tell me you didn’t do it.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you?” Mary squints at her for a second. “I’m sorry, did you or did you not say you’d do it if Sophie agreed?”

“I said Sophie wouldn’t agree, even if I said I would.”

“Well she did agree, and I said you would, so…” Mary looks far too expectant for a dead woman walking. “I think it’s time you two buried the hatchet anyway. This isn’t Family Feud, you know. I feel like the child of a divorce sometimes.”

“You’ve never watched Family Feud in your life, have you?” Ryan shakes her head. “You know what, forget it. I just can’t believe you right now.”

Mary gasps. “You listened to me explain! Are you seriously acting like I’m springing this on you?”

“You made me listen to you!”

“Okay, I feel like you’re missing the point here, Ryan.” Mary says, “Which is why I am trying to promote healthy forgiveness.”

Ryan narrows her eyes. “Did you rehearse that?”

“Forgive me for caring about two of my friends finding mutual respect,” Mary says dramatically. “I guess I’ll just tell Sophie that you flaked, and that she’s going to have to return the dress she bought, and my dad will be devastated because he loves Sophie more than all of us combined…”

“You’re seriously trying to guilt-trip me now?” Ryan groans, and she stares longingly at the bottles on the shelf that she can’t consume. “Fine. Fine! If this really means so much to you, I’ll pretend to tolerate Sophie. But you’re going to have to lend me something to wear, because your family’s too rich to be around.”

“Thank you thank you thank you!” Mary beams, throwing her arms over the counter to drag Ryan into an uncomfortable half-hug. “And did I mention there’s an open bar?”

“Well damn, you could’ve led with that,” Ryan says, and Mary swats her with a newly-stolen menu.

“So does this mean you’ll get me mozzarella sticks now?”

“No, Mary, we are still closed.”

.

.

.

What does one wear to a date with the devil?

Ryan ponders this once, then twice, and ultimately goes with the black dress stashed in the very back of her closet that she bought for a funeral she never attended. It’s not fancy—modest enough to wear in a church if that was her thing—which suits her just fine. The last thing she wants is Sophie getting the impression she’s trying to dress up for her, or anything.

She is pairing her casual outfit with some silver hoops when her phone rings. It’s Mary, for the hundredth time today. For as desperate as Mary made Sophie sound, Sophie hasn’t made an actual effort to make sure Ryan was coming; no, that honor is apparently all Mary’s.

“Hi, Mary,” Ryan says, putting her on speaker so she can toss her phone to the side. “What’s up?”

“Hey! I just wanted to call and make sure you’re not escaping out a window right now.”

Ryan has to bite back a scoff. “I'm not a fucking runaway bride,” she says. “Wait. Unless this is all some sick, twisted way to get me married to Sophie Moore and you're lying about your sister's wedding.”

“God, you're the most dramatic person I know.” There is rustling on the other end, like Mary is shuffling through paper. “This is why I did not rule out jumping five stories to get out of this.”

“That’s a very tempting offer now that you mention it.”

“Ugh, you’re going to be insufferable all night, aren’t you?” More rustling. “Okay I did actually have a reason to call you this time. I sent a car over to your house—the driver said he’d get there in fifteen minutes. You guys will stop to pick up Sophie on the way.”

“How romantic,” Ryan quips. “Just me, Sophie, and our Uber driver.”

“Come on, I had to make sure you didn’t kill each other before the wedding even started,” Mary says. “Just be nice to the chauffeur. There’s no amount of money in the world that I could pay him which would compensate him for sitting through your drama.”

“Of course, I’ll be a saint to the chauffeur.” Ryan rolls her eyes. “This might be some pretentious rich people shit but I do have manners, you know.”

Mary exhales. “If I hang up,” she says, “will you promise to behave?”

“Really? That is a serious question you're asking me?”

“I need a yes or no answer,” Mary remains stubbornly steadfast.

A beat. “...yes, I’ll behave.”

“Then I will see you at the party. Love you bye!”

Ryan shakes her head to herself. “Bye,” she says to absolutely no one in particular. Well, disastrous situation aside, she makes the most of her fifteen minutes of freedom: she finishes her makeup, takes a quick shot of vodka for liquid courage, and makes her way downstairs to wait for the car so the driver doesn’t have to deal with the conundrum that is her apartment gate.

The chauffeur is a nice, older guy who holds open Ryan’s door and doesn’t try to make her talk. Instead, he plays jazz music and remarks ever so often about traffic and the weather. The vodka is doing just enough to make Ryan relaxed until, well…they reach Sophie’s door. 

As much as Ryan will fight tooth and nail to admit it, Sophie Moore is unfairly attractive. She emerges in a fitted orange dress, hair swept over her shoulder, and with a grim expression that Ryan can’t even take pleasure in when she knows her own face is practically a mirror.

“Hi, Ryan,” Sophie says stiffly.

“Sophie,” Ryan acknowledges just as formally. And then, they sit in complete silence.

Their chauffeur undoubtedly picks up on the tension; he checks on them from his mirror once or twice, but doesn’t ask if they’re okay, he just plays his music louder. When they arrive at the venue, Ryan pops open the door before he can even walk around to get it, already itching to escape.

Sophie lets him open her door, though, and she tips him even though Ryan knows Mary has already done the same ahead of time. Begrudgingly, Ryan can respect that. 

“I…wanted to thank you,” Sophie says once they’re alone. “For doing this.”

Ryan shrugs. “Well, Mary asked me to,” she says. “So.”

Sophie purses her lips. “Either way,” she says, in a manner that is clearly quite annoyed, “I appreciate it.”

“Mm-hm.” Ryan watches as other guests steadily trickle past them, and she sighs, ready to accept her fate. “Should we go in?”

“Yes, but…” Sophie stops Ryan with a hand to her shoulder before she can actually walk inside. “Can you at least try to look like you want to be here?”

Ryan blinks. “What? Am I not believable enough for you?”

“Not if you walk in there like I’m leading you to a guillotine, no,” Sophie replies, brow crinkling. “You know, there is actually no downside to acting like we would be dating.”

“Yes, except the part where people would think I was dating you,” Ryan huffs, and Sophie’s expression twists into an offended glare.

“Why did you agree, then?”

“Because there was a whole thing with Mary, and—” Ryan stops before she’s ahead. “It doesn’t matter. I showed up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Sophie mutters without any sincerity, and Ryan follows her inside dreaming of that open bar.

.

.

.

Ryan meets the bride just as she’s two drinks in, a third flute of champagne raised to her lips as Sophie not-so-subtly elbows her to pay attention.

“Hi,” Kate Kane says, holding out her hand which Ryan belatedly realizes is for her. “Nice to finally meet the elusive girlfriend.”

“Yes, we were starting to think you didn't exist,” Alice, the other Kane sister, chimes in; she's staring Ryan down with an eerily searching gaze, and Ryan subtly shifts closer to Sophie.

“Well, here I am,” Ryan says, unsurely resting a hand on Sophie's waist. Sophie clearly isn't expecting it, because she starts, throwing Ryan a sharp glance over her shoulder.

“How fun,” Alice says gleefully. “What a nice big, happy family we’ll become. When are you two getting married? I can officiate now that I’m ordained.”

“Alice,” Mary hisses. “You can’t just ask people when they’re getting married.”

“Why not? This wedding is basically a parade of Sophie’s exes. If Ryan doesn’t marry her after all this, it’s a waste of a date.” 

Ryan twists to look at Sophie at the words “parade of Sophie’s exes.” Sophie, at least, looks adequately mortified. 

“She’s kidding,” Mary laughs, high-pitched and nervous as Alice just shrugs. “Hey, we should go take a picture with Dad. Just the Kane sisters! Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Okay, but if I have to hear another passive-aggressive rant about the ceremony, I’m going to kill myself and everyone in the room with me,” Alice’s voice fades away as Mary frantically shoves her (and Kate) along.

Sophie clears her throat. “So that was my ex,” she says. “Kate, I mean.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Ryan should be taking delight in the way Sophie is clearly uncomfortable, but in a strange turn of events, she can’t. In fact, she feels kind of bad.

“I need a drink,” Sophie sighs, and Ryan wordlessly holds out her glass. Surprised, Sophie eyes it up and down, but accepts it all the same. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ryan cranes her neck to peer at Mary, who is indeed wrangling her sisters towards Jacob Kane. “Hey. Question: Mary said that Jacob Kane pretty much loves you?”

Sophie half-coughs, half-sputters her next sip. “That’s…not entirely accurate.”

“But not untrue?” Ryan quirks an eyebrow, and Sophie’s shoulders slump like she’s lost a battle she hadn’t begun.

“I used to work with him,” Sophie confesses. “That’s how I met Kate. I guess I was kind of his favorite employee or whatever, but—that was a long time ago. It’s embarrassing.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who gets embarrassed easily,” Ryan notes, and Sophie tilts her head, pursuing her lips like she has to think about it.

“Maybe,” Sophie finally admits, “but showing up today dateless would’ve for sure hit the limit.”

Ryan nods thoughtfully. “So that’s why you were so desperate to bring me,” she says. “Even though you don’t think I’m your type.”

This time, Sophie fully chokes on her champagne. “W-what?”

“You don’t have to pretend.” Ryan rolls her eyes. “I heard you tell your sister that. I’m not, like, offended. It was still rude, but—”

“I didn’t know you could hear us,” Sophie says, and in a perplexing turn of events, she looks quite apologetic about the idea. “I didn’t mean it. I just…said it to get my sister off my back.”

“Oh.” Even as the words sink in, Ryan’s brain can’t seem to form a rational response to this information. Or stop the fact that when Sophie bites her lip in anticipation, Ryan’s eyes are automatically drawn to Sophie’s mouth. “I thought you kind of meant for me to hear it.”

“Is that why you think I’m an asshole?” Sophie blinks. “Seriously?”

“Well why did you think I was so mad at you?”

“I thought you just had a problem with police!”

Ryan sucks in a breath. “Oh, no, I definitely do. I guess my reaction was warranted.”

“Real mature,” Sophie says, narrowing her eyes ever-so-slightly, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips so Ryan knows she isn’t taking it personally.

“No, for real, do you still work with the police? Because this is so not going to work if you do. My acting skills can only go so far,” Ryan says.

Sophie scoffs. “You’ll survive,” she says, and twists to peek back at the busy bar. “Should we join the line for another drink?”

Ryan follows her line of sight and resolutely shakes her head. “I have a better idea.”

.

.

.

“You seriously brought a flask to a wedding with an open bar?”

“If you’re going to keep complaining, I’m going to take my whiskey elsewhere,” Ryan threatens half heartedly, but she gets a heady rush when Sophie tilts her head back to take another drink, and knows then and there she’s going nowhere else besides this coat check closet.

“I feel like I’m in high school,” Sophie says, passing the flask back; her fingertips brush against Ryan’s for longer than necessary. “Was the hiding necessary?”

“Duh,” Ryan says, taking another sip. “Mary would never let me live it down if she saw. She’s already given me so much shit about—” She pauses, not sure if she should continue, and Sophie gives a disbelieving laugh.

“You really didn’t want to be my date, did you? God, you’re so petty.”

“Fake date,” Ryan corrects her hastily. “And you seriously can’t blame me when you were the one being rude as hell in the first place.”

“But it wasn’t really what I thought!”

“Oh so I am your type,” Ryan challenges, and Sophie looks away, blushing.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to bruise your ego.”

“That is the worst apology I’ve ever heard.” Ryan feels the whiskey like liquid warmth, settling right in her chest, and she grins when Sophie groans. “Come on, Sophie. I’m going to make you work for it.”

“Fine, I’m sorry for…being rude. Even if it was a little white lie and you weren’t supposed to hear it.” Sophie holds out her hand for the flask again, and Ryan is feeling magnanimous enough to let her have it. 

“Still not the best, but I’ll take it.” Ryan leans her head against the wall and sighs, a little sleepy and a little tipsy but otherwise quite content. “You know, you’re not that bad. Even though you don’t have an actual chance with me since you work for the Gotham PD, I think we can be friends.”

“Oh my God, I don’t even work for them anymore,” Sophie says. “I’m—between jobs.” Ryan watches her wince, like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud, and Ryan closes her eyes and just hums.

“Been there,” she muses. “Mary saved my ass by getting me a job. If you want some pointers, I’m sure I can make a bartender out of you.”

Sophie gives a huff of a laugh. “My mom would actually die if I told her I was training to be a bartender.”

“Hey, it takes a lot to do what we do,” Ryan says. “Not many people can perfect the art of a Long Island Iced Tea, let me tell you.”

“Except for you?” Sophie is already sitting close to share the whiskey, but when she turns to whisper this teasingly, Ryan is struck by how close their faces are. Like if they shifted even two inches, their noses would be brushing.

It takes Ryan a beat to recover, but she manages: “Obviously. It keeps all the customers coming back.”

Sophie’s mouth twitches like she wants to laugh again, but she settles for a smile, amused and plainly unconvinced. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” she says, and she turns away, their closeness vanishing in an instant. “Do you think anyone is missing us?”

“Mary probably assumes I’ve killed you by now,” Ryan says. “But everyone else probably thinks we snuck off for a hookup.”

“At someone’s wedding?” Sophie sounds positively scandalized at the idea. “That’s…crazy. And us? Do we give off that vibe?”

Ryan watches Sophie squirm and finds it, strangely, very cute. Fuck. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but, couples generally hook up. And weddings are pretty much the #1 place where they do it. I’ve seen it happen.”

“Because you go to so many weddings, or is this just a statistic all bartenders know?”

“Don’t hate the player,” Ryan says, waving the flask to make her point, and Sophie finally breaks down into real laughter.

“Oh, God,” she exhales afterward, “what time is it? I think you’ve somehow managed to keep me at this wedding longer than I wanted to. I had a plan to stick around for like an hour or two just to be nice, but…”

“But I’m just that great of a date, I know,” Ryan says, if only to make Sophie blush again.

“Fake date,” Sophie says pointedly. “Remember?”

Ryan bites her lip. “Right,” she says, and just as Sophie is shifting like she’s about to stand up and ruin the moment, Ryan blurts out: “But what if it wasn’t fake?”

Sophie freezes. “What?”

“We could make this a real date,” Ryan says, heart working so hard it feels like it’s about to race out of her body. “If you wanted it to be.”

“Seriously?” Sophie’s mouth falls open slightly, and she says nothing else, just looks at Ryan with those big brown eyes and heart-shaped mouth agape.

“Unless I’m really not your type and you’re just trying to save my feelings,” Ryan tries to quip, but as Sophie seems to struggle through every conflicted expression known to man, Ryan’s hopes fall into the pit of her stomach. “You know what? Never mind. Obviously that’s not what this is and I’m—” She blindly shoves her flask back into her jacket so she can stand.

But before she can even get away (and fall into the beckoning embrace of the open bar), there’s a hand tugging her back down, and then Sophie Moore is kissing her. It’s a rushed, chaste kiss during which Ryan is definitely too stiff, but it does the trick; Ryan stumbles right back down, and Sophie jerks away, fingertips curled into the collar of Ryan’s jacket without letting go.

“You were talking too much,” Sophie breathes, and Ryan nods at her dumbly.

The only thing her brain can possibly formulate a thought for is: “Wait, so this whole time I really was your type?”

“Shut up,” Sophie says, and when she yanks Ryan back in for another kiss, Ryan is already leaning in at the same time, kissing Sophie as well as her smile allows.

(She’ll have to thank Mary for this later. Much, much later).

[eternal-dragon-of-time]

Sweet Talk

Dragonfable fic this time!!!!! DF!Magius kind of drives me insane I love them.

Enemies to lovers, Herokath, Violence, and the realization that this fight is foreplay about halfway through.

Before he could even register that they were still armed, Magius threw the knife in their left hand. It was a blur in the air for a split second, just long enough for him to mark this fight down as a loss and prepare for the sharp pain that spiked up his leg as the blade lodged itself into his thigh. Falling backwards Drakath could see the smug glint in Magius’ eyes as their gambit paid off.

He landed square on his back, the impact forcing the air out of his lungs. He wasn’t able to move for a moment, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the shock or from some weak paralysis agent that Magius may have gotten their hands on. Either option was equally likely, and the end result was the same, he remained stunned as Magius scrambled back up to their feet. They fumbled to grab the dagger he had worked so hard to disarm and hurried over to him to take advantage of his paralysis. Straddling him to keep him pinned down they yanked the little throwing knife out and threw it to the side, all with the eery silence Drakath had grown accustomed to them using when they were ‘working’.

“Finally.” They hissed, leaning in to keep the edge of their blade close to his neck. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this.”

He did actually, given that if the two swapped places he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands from trembling from the sheer excitement of the situation. Even underneath them it was overwhelming, a shudder fluttering up his spine as Magius’ thighs tensed against him, adrenaline making his heart pound out of his chest from how quickly they had flipped the situation. Being this close was electrifying, as if all the energy that invigorated him when they struck at each other in combat had nowhere to go. The physical contact, where their legs, their hands, touched him was almost too much sensation to handle. As they shifted on top of him to position themself closer he found himself focusing on their face to avoid thinking of what was happening elsewhere.

At least Magius didn’t seem unaffected either, what he had assumed was an impenetrable ‘working’ air was wavering. Their eyes, normally slits set in gold against black sclera, were blown wide as they continued to lean further forward. They could barely keep eye contact with Drakath, continuously breaking off to either stare at their weapon or where their free hand clutched at his shoulder to keep him pushed to the ground. A light dusting of pink flush was visible just around the edges of where their cloth mask covered their cheeks and nose. It would be a satisfying view if it weren’t for the knife still pressed against his throat, now shaking in their hands.

“It’ll be easy, a clean cut.” He didn’t doubt that they were capable, every aspect of Magius was honed and sharp. They hadn’t yet though, had never been in a position to finish him off before, and it didn’t seem as though they were in a hurry now. It had been almost four months of dancing, battering his pride, brawling in the dirt for this, he couldn’t tell if the hesitation was nerves or from the… intimacy of the moment. Drakath clenched his fist, if they were stalling, he needed to stop getting distracted and take advantage of this. He couldn’t move until the knife was away from his throat, but he just needed to say something, anything to throw them off.

“You’re not awful looking. From this angle.”

Magius startled, sitting up with a strangled noise and causing Drakath to wince as the knife bobbed closer to his windpipe. Maybe that should’ve been a last last resort, it was definitely more humiliating if Magius killed him by accident then by choice. Although in fairness, he currently had a lot of reasons for it to be at the forefront of his mind. Reasons that had just suddenly dragged against his hips, the sensation almost drawing an indecent sound out of him that he barely choked down.

With the knife still wavering at his throat he couldn’t afford to give them time to recover, swallowing his mixed feelings he forged on. “Cute even. From a certain perspective.” A messed up one, he reminded himself. Sane, stable minds could see that even as the pink on Magius’ cheeks rose higher above their mask and they leaned back harder against him, knife dropping just slightly away from his throat.

“What?” Magius asked.

Drakath blinked, he was expecting a little bit more of a response than that. “I’m not going to repeat it, you have ears.”

“No I heard just- what?” Magius shook their head. “You aren’t supposed to say that when I’m about to kill you. People usually start begging by now they don’t… imply something about my face.” Finally progress, the blade moving a safe distance away from him as Magius reached up to tap their mask. “You can’t even see it.”

Drakath was too distracted by the rebuke to remember why he was complimenting them in the first place “Well- I don’t need to see it to make a guess, and it’s not like your eyes are covered. The way you look at me is… nice.” The knife was away, Magius’ grip on his shoulder was weakening, why did he say that?! Magius seemed equally bewildered.

“That’s what I look like when I win, dumbass, when I kill people. You think that looks nice?” Drakath thought about mentioning that if Magius jittered and looked aside every time they went for a killing blow they should probably work on that, then considered the position he was still in and realized that for once in his life he should save it. Instead he slowly began to put his arms back and prop himself up into more of a sitting position as Magius began to ramble. “I mean, I can take ‘not awful’- terrible line by the way, but I’m not cute. Especially in this position, and why were you thinking about it at all? I wasn’t! Not even when I felt how warm you were or how comfortable this feels-” If they noticed that he wasn’t really pinned anymore they weren’t showing it, instead easily transitioning to straddling his lap as they continued to lecture and oh, this angle was worse for him actually. Nice.

“And maybe I did want to touch you really badly but I’m not going to! Just winning felt amazing enough!” Drakath froze, could feel how his face flushed with heat as Magius realized what they said and shut their eyes in embarrassment. “Avatar’s above. Just- Just forget everything I just said, this whole day actually!” They couldn’t be serious, not that he didn’t preen and pride himself on his appearance, but there was no world where Magius would think about it. How did this wind up happening? He was just saying nonsense to distract Magius long enough to get out alive. Why was he still here? He needed to push them off of him and flee, then he could come back and kill this idiot the next time they fought. That’s all he had to do, so why wasn’t he?!

“You can. Touch me I mean, if you still want to.” The speed at which Magius’ eyes snapped open to meet his instantly killed the voice in his head telling him this was a terrible idea. It was, he knew it, but as much as Magius remained a thorn in his pride, as much as he wanted to, hopefully, eventually, someday actually beat them, well. Since that fight by the wind orb he couldn’t exactly say he hadn’t thought about it.

“I’m not going to fall for that.” Magius’ harsh words were betrayed by the way one of their hands was already moving to his side, the other still clutching their dagger like a lifeline. “This isn’t how any of this is supposed to work, we can’t just stop.” Even as they said that they were tracing a circle on his side with a finger, Drakath let out a shuddering sigh as their light touch left more of that almost painful feeling along his flesh.

“We aren’t stopping.” He said, only half thinking, bracing himself back on one arm as the other drifted towards Magius’ hip. He felt them stiffen as he thumbed at where the top of their rogue's leathers met the belt around their waist, causing him to pause for a moment. Magius stared at him for a long moment before nodding ever so slightly “It’s just uh, preparing for another day.” Preparing for the next time they fought was definitely all Drakath was thinking about as he pushed his hand underneath their shirt to feel the firm flesh of their abs.

Drakath had to shut his eyes as Magius writhed for a second, adjusting to the sensation, he could just about figure the overstimulation they were experiencing so long as it was comparable to the way it felt as they pressed against him. The dagger dropped out of their hand, forgotten for the moment on the ground.

“It’s a lot more than I thought it would feel.” They said quietly, Drakath wondered for a moment, at what kind of weird pathetic life they were living that this was surprising for them, that made them start this whole situation from being caught up by how close they were while about to kill him. Then Magius’ thighs clenched tighter around him again and his vision got fuzzy from the sensation before he could say anything about it.

The two paused for a moment, and Drakath pretended he was at the precipice of a decision instead of knee deep into it with Magius. Despite Magius being the instigator he had, naturally, taken the lead here. The only problem with that being…

“I thought you were going to touch me.” He mumbled, looking to the side as he found himself feeling Magius’ chest. His pride twinged as he heard Magius let out a strange sort of breathy yet smug huff.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.” Their response was enough to make him regret mentioning it, but as much as they were going to lord this over him at least it was undercut when he traced a shape along their skin to make them pause. Gritting his teeth he raised his voice a little louder.

“You said you wanted to touch me, I want you-” This sucked, he didn’t even have to look at them to know that their eyes had that stupid shine to them. “I want to know what you meant by that.” It can’t just have been the light touches they had been doing so far, for as long as he fought them he had never known Magius to want something in halves.

To his surprise Magius didn’t make some pithy remark about him being desperate, in fact they were eerily quiet as they shifted their weight in his lap. Curiosity overrode his need to avoid their judgement and he looked back at them. Magius, dirty underhanded assassin who had the least shame he had ever known a person to have was wringing their hands as they shuffled uncomfortably. His look of shock must’ve spooked them as Magius' next words were so soft he had to strain to hear them.

“I’m not very good at not hurting people.” They looked… so afraid like that. Was that all? Drakath was almost offended that Magius thought they could do significant damage without trying. Before he could stop himself, what he was thinking slipped out.

“You can do your worst, I don’t mind.”

Ignoring how monumentally stupid that statement was to admit he slipped his hand out from Magius’ shirt and began fiddling with his armour straps. Magius just sat there, stunned while he furiously removed his various equipment while thinking of how convenient Magius’ was to maneuver around. He wasn’t, couldn’t admit to what was happening, not when Magius and him would have to go back to killing each other the next time they met, not when everything that Magius was fighting for was so antithetical to his very being, but he also couldn’t stop. Magius’ eyes shimmered with something unknowable as he met their gaze, the last of his common sense begging for something to stop them.

“So are you uh, game?” He hated how nervous he was, like this was a monumental decision that could change everything. It wasn’t. There was only one way their ‘relationship’ was going to end, he knew it as much as they did.

“Winning was really good, but being here? That was almost better.” Magius said, reaching to undo the belts of their gear. “Let's play this out.”

[jinko-hellhound]

“cancer eater” ch 1 — bungou stray dogs — atsushi, dazai, akutagawa, ensemble

True to name, Atsushi is the Man-Eating Tiger. All at once he develops fangs, a love of raw meat, and a horrible craving for his friends.

“Very dry air can make the tiny capillaries in your nose burst randomly, including in your sleep. One late, dry night in the dying days of fall, the sharp scent of copper drew Atsushi out of his closet. Barefoot and sleep-addled, he stood on the cold tatami and watched Kyouka sleep. Blood dripped down her nose, her cheek, the gentle bow of her lip. In the dark, the blood looked black.”

words: 3,559

first published: 9/3/24

characters: nakajima atsushi, dazai osamu, akutagawa ryuunosuke, edogawa ranpo, ada ensemble

relationships: nakajima atsushi/akutagawa ryuunosuke, nakajima atsushi & dazai osamu, nakajima atsushi & the armed detective agency

tags: dead dove do not eat, cannibal nakajima atsushi, graphic gore, hurt/comfort, hurt/some comfort, angst, self harm, eating disorder themes, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, armed detective agency as family

crossposted on ao3

* THIS IS NOT A DAZATSU FIC, Dazai and Atsushi’s dynamic is central and weird and toxic like in canon but firmly platonic. **NOBODY dies or is attacked by Atsushi in this fic.

warnings for this chapter: self harm, references to suicide/attempts, eating disorders/eating disorder-like behaviors, off-screen vomiting, gore, a cat dies

asks, replies, reblogs appreciated and encouraged! ask to be put on tag list!! 💕💞

It started with a dull pang in Atsushi’s stomach, a heaviness to his tongue, and an incessant craving for lentils and beef and spinach. He couldn’t stop eating, taking down two helpings for every meal, jerky sticks in between cases, protein bars while he worked. None of it satisfied him; even as his stomach bloated until he thought he’d burst, he put on no weight and his appetite only grew, and grew, and grew.

It started with his teeth becoming, somehow, too big for his mouth, forcing his lips to always hang ever so slightly open. Dazai loved this development. He liked to lean over their desks and pry Atsushi’s mouth open with his fingers and declare Look at those chompers! Hot embarrassment and overwhelming love would flood Atsushi’s cheeks when Dazai broke the monotony of work to bring the rest of the office into his jokes, or when Kunikida asked him how his gums were feeling in the mornings, or Kenji offered him a chewable necklace to ease the pain. Belonging had him floating as he walked. Belonging settled the growing pit in his stomach, or rather, belonging distracted him from how the pit was expanding exponentially each day.

The day Dazai discovered Atsushi’s growing-in teeth, Atsushi was forced to pose for a polaroid with his mouth wide and a ruler held up to his new canines. Then Yosano, with a gleeful spark in her eyes that had Atsushi shuddering, ushered him into the infirmary. She measured his canines, his nails, used some strange machine to examine his pupils. (Was she an eye doctor? Was she trained in optometry at all?) She had concerns about his braces, although it seemed like they wouldn’t pose an issue. (As always, he was embarrassed to even address his braces.) She asked after his diet and his height and his sleep patterns until she had reams and reams of notes on him. Feeling like an awful liar, he decided to keep his recent constant hunger to himself, for a reason he couldn’t quite place.

At the end of it all, she said, Be right back here when you come in next Monday. Then, taking his hand in hers, she smiled and continued, We’ve all got you, Atsushi. His fingers laid over her wrist, where her pulse was steady and hot. Its rhythm echoed through him, from his hands to his heart to his stomach to his teeth.

It started with a gaze that lingered on soft thighs, on meaty arms, on the long curves of necks and the fine details of ears. Kunikida’s broad shoulders when he stretched at his desk. Fukuzawa’s strong hands when they flexed over the hilt of his sword. Atsushi could not stop staring at everyone around him, in a way he never did before.

On the third day of Atsushi’s teeth adventure, he went on a date with Akutugawa. Which was — a recent thing. Less recent than the cravings and the teeth. But recent enough that Atsushi’s heart still fluttered when he and Akutugawa’s knees knocked underneath the cafe table.

After — well. They’d barely kissed and they’d hardly held hands. Everything between them was all new and precious, previous forced amputations and vampirisms and clawing attempts notwithstanding. Akutugawa was only just managing to choke out genuine compliments, and Atsushi was still learning how to reign Byakko’s temper in. They were still getting to know each other casually despite understanding each other intimately; they were figuring out how to be kind and couldn’t help but explode on each other still, every once in a while, until Chuuya or Dazai or Kunikida intervened in their own strange ways.

Today, everything was nice. Atsushi could not believe his luck to be sitting on this quiet cafe patio downtown, the gentle sun on his face, Akutugawa focusing on him with something like softness.

Akutugawa was in a tight turtleneck and sleek pants and designer sunglasses, his long, slender fingers resting on his mug, and Atsushi could not look away from him. Byakko caught Akutugawa’s regular heartbeat, the slight wheeze of all his breaths, the jingling of his keys whenever he shifted in his seat.

“So you’re growing fangs.” Akutugawa was stirring cream into his coffee but not looking at it. His gaze was always so intent as to discomfort. Atsushi could never handle holding Akutugawa’s eye contact too long, his eyes dark and focused; Atsushi always broke first.

Atsushi laved his tongue over his fangs, which were now always pressing into his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he sighed, spilling more sugar into his mug. “Dazai’s excited about it, at least. Yosano thinks I’m becoming more tiger-like because I’m finally eating enough, and safe, and not about to die all the time.”

Akutugawa hummed. He took a long drink of his coffee; Atsushi tracked the bobbing of his throat, mouth suddenly very dry. The white of Akutugawa’s thyroid cartilage peeked over his dark turtleneck, skin tight over delicate muscle. His shirt hugged his clavicle so that the bone stuck out like a handle. “Just don’t start eating people, jinko.”

“Right,” Atsushi said, laughing. Sticky sweat gathered at the small of his back. “How’s Gin?”

It started with canines that casually grazed his friends’ skin, playing with the idea of puncturing, a touch so light as to raise no one’s suspicion but his own. He couldn’t help it. It was instinctual that when another’s flesh neared Atsushi’s face, he’d twist his head, open his mouth, and let his teeth rest. Junichiro’s forearm, when he slung his arm over Atsushi’s shoulders. Kyouka’s jugular, when she fell asleep on his chest. He was transfixed, frozen, his teeth always hovering.

Atsushi discovered himself doing this for the first time while joking around with Dazai and Kunikida. Well, mostly with Dazai — Kunikida didn’t seem to think it was very funny, the way Dazai and Atsushi were bantering back and forth, tossing paper airplanes and erasers and crumpled reports, cursing dramatically every time they were hit. Kunikida berated Dazai, who pinned it on Atsushi, who started shooting back how he knew how many stacks of paperwork Dazai had hidden in his locker. Dazai scrambled across the desk, slapped his hand over Atsushi’s mouth, and started rambling out his explanations.

Atsushi did not fight. The heat of Dazai’s palm shocked him. He only needed to open his mouth a millimeter to rest the points of his canines on the full, calloused pade of fat there, his breath shaking with the threat of sinking down. Atsushi swore he could feel Dazai’s soul marching under his rough armor of skin, could feel it in his tongue and in his gums.

Dazai was still going back-and-forth with an increasingly irate Kunikida, but his eyes slid over to Atsushi. His fingers twitched, his index pressing purposefully into Atsushi’s cheek, and Atsushi realized he should have been sputtering and stammering and swatting Dazai away that whole time. So he did — with all the drama and indignance he could — but Dazai was still watching him, in that way he did when he wanted Atsushi to know he was being studied.

It started with his cuticles.

With him curled up in his closet, his canines digging into the tough skin around his nails, his pupils blowing wide at the copper taste of his own hot blood. It was Lucy’s wrists — the sight of them twisting as she poured his tea, the sudden, horrific, desperate thought of those fragile veins bursting on his tongue — which sent him here.

It was dark and dusty in the closet in which he slept. But his pupils were as blown as they could be, and Byakko had no problem watching the trickle of blood catch in the grooves of his knuckles. She chased it with her rough tongue, bit into his fingerbones, punctured the web between pointer and middle like paper.

Everything was quiet but for soft whimpers and the gentle sound of suckling on one’s own blood. Atsushi’s mouth trailed down, down, until he hit the meat of his forearm. His jaw opened wider, the points of his teeth settled on his flesh. A breath in, a breath out. Heady anticipation. He sank in. Bliss.

Tough meat, tender fat. Move up towards his wrist, find veins — hook his teeth into them, pull them out like licorice. Dizzy with it. Blurry vision, a pounding in his temples. Byakko’s regeneration made quick work of it, and he went again, until he no longer wished it was Lucy’s cephalic vein which he worked into the gap between his two front teeth.

At some point Byakko grew tired. He stood and found that she did not regenerate blood nearly as quickly as she regenerated flesh; gasping for air, he collapsed back down and laid there, yellow fat and drying blood smeared across his cheeks.

Eventually he realized his own flesh wasn’t enough.

Well, he says eventually. But the moment he first sank his teeth into his arm, he knew it wouldn’t work. It did its job — at first — but it left him numb, and desperate, a pit still in his stomach.

He was eating a lot of raw meat, these days. He tried sushi and sashimi to satisfy that urge, but it wasn’t bloody enough, wild enough, to replace — well. It didn’t satiate Byakko. Grocery store beef and chicken worked for a while, so long as he gnawed on his own arms every few days.

When Kyouka wasn’t home Atsushi would crouch over his counter, shovel the meat into his mouth, relish in the endless chewing of the tougher bits, the fat melting on his tongue, the cartilage crunching. There was lots of cartilage, lots of bone, lots of tough bits. He always bought the cheapest stuff. And he never got sick from it.

Afterwards Byakko would rumble approval and rest. She’d curl into the back of his mind, happy as a cat with cream, and Atsushi would find himself a beast, breathing ragged in the middle of his kitchen, blood and juices dribbling down his chin, the sun sinking low in the window.

But she would always be hungry again within the hour. So he dug into himself more, and more, and more. His thighs suffered too. He was drawing more and more blood, circling it back through himself, catching his own flesh and bits of bone.

Byakko worked hard but Atsushi knew he was starting to look a little anemic — always ghastly pale like he was when Dazai first found him, stumbling wherever he went. The others noticed. Ranpo was always squinting at him these days. Where’s your lunch, Atsushi? He was Atsushi’s worst nightmare right now — asking him about blood loss, iron deficiencies, diet. Always whispering to Yosano.

Atsushi tried local farmers and hunters, buying straight from the source. Then he’d had to haltingly explain to Kyouka why there was half a deer in their freezer, and anyway, it didn’t help much. And it drained his wallet.

So all of this was just… stopgaps. Preventative measures that became more and more desperate as that persistent ache made a home in his stomach.

He began to develop a horrible craving for his friends.

Not that strangers didn’t catch his eye. He’d go on jobs and stop and stare at murder victims, mouth flooding with saliva. He’d claw down a suspect and stop himself with his teeth scant inches from their jugulars. It was becoming harder and harder to be in public for the way his gaze couldn’t help but stick. Kyouka told him he was becoming a hermit.

But murder victims and murder suspects and waitresses and bus drivers… they just didn’t appeal to him nearly as much as his coworkers. Lucy’s cheeks were wonderfully full when she smiled, he noticed over a cup of tea. Kyouka’s shoulder was birdbone frail, but if he shifted his head the right way when he leaned on her he could feel the sweet rhythm of her pulse at the base of her neck. Yosano’s calves were beautifully accentuated by her heels, and Atsushi couldn’t help but track her graceful steps. When Ranpo offered candies to Atsushi, hands outstretched, Atsushi took special note of the soft plumpness of his wrists.

And Dazai, who was always touching Atsushi — arm around his shoulders, cheek leaning into the top of his head, sides flush together when Dazai was curious about Atsushi’s work — was just so very warm.

One day, Dazai came to work smelling of blood. Dazai said nothing of it. He was walking fine; the blood smelled not like it was old, but like it was clotting, and there wasn’t much of it. This was far from abnormal from Dazai. Atsushi had long since given up on expressing any concern, because Dazai always dismissed him, and all it ever served to do was shutter Dazai’s expression and make him all closed off and fake for the rest of the day. All Atsushi could do was watch, and try to prevent.

No one else noticed the blood, except Byakko was yowling.

When they worked, Dazai was usually only a few feet away from Atsushi. Their desks were corner-caddy; this was usually wonderful. Usually, Atsushi used their position to his advantage to always spy. He liked to watch Dazai and his unpredictability out of the corner of his eye, attempt to force Dazai into something understandable.

Today, their proximity was torture. Every man’s blood, Atsushi found, had a slightly different scent to it. Atsushi had smelled Dazai’s a million times and until recently it had never smelled so sweet that he needed to chug it.

The smell was clogging his throat. Atsushi kept forgetting his work, hunched over his desk like a freak, outright staring at Dazai for tens of seconds at a time. Dazai had to have noticed, but Dazai was good at acting like he had not noticed things in a way that told you he had absolutely noticed.

Desperately, Atsushi brought one of his hands up to his face to stifle the scent. He was able to work for ten, fifteen minutes. That smell of blood — of liquor and something heavy, of wet dog and cigarette smoke — crept in, but it was slow about it, sneaky; Atsushi didn’t realize his hand had stopped being effective until his teeth were already sinking into the hill of his palm. And then helplessly he bit, and bit, unable to stop himself, to even think about stopping himself.

And Kunikida shouted, his sharp voice ripping Atsushi’s teeth out of his own flesh. Not without carnage: bits of his own flesh caught on his canines and plopped onto the desk.

This was the first time Atsushi really had to lie. With his own blood pooling in the cracks in his lips, he stammered out something about zoning out, didn’t realize my teeth had gotten so sharp! Then he stumbled off to his lunch break.

The President had a gaggle of stray cats which gathered on the windowsills and in the halls and on the front stoop. Atsushi loved them from his first day at the Office. Helped Fukuzawa name all the new ones, volunteered to feed them, spent his breaks with them.

There was a convenient alleyway behind the Agency to which Atsushi often disappeared. When work and socialization got too much, the cheap metal chair and table someone had put out here were his lifeboat. The cats were a lovely bonus.

Lady, the fat black Maine-coon Atsushi had once nursed back from starvation, was the only cat around today. As soon as Atsushi sat down Lady jumped up onto the table, shoving her head under Atsushi’s trembling hands for pets; Atsushi admired her utter lack of shame.

“Hi, love,” Atsushi said, his head ducking low so Lady could hear the tremoring softness of his voice. Lady’s face tilted up to meet him. The top of her skull met Atsushi’s nose and lips. Byakko had healed Atsushi’s palm, but when he pushed his fingers into Lady’s fur, flecks of his drying blood caught.

That morning, Atsushi had eaten three steaks. His stomach did not seem to know this. Dazai, Dazai, Dazai, Byakko was thinking. Lady purred as though attempting to distract Atsushi so he shoved his face into her neck. He took deep breaths that smelled of dirt and fish and wet cat, trying to chase out Dazai.

Atsushi’s phone chirped — it was Akutugawa texting. Ryuunosuke, Atsushi thought to himself. They were trying first names, now. It was nice. New. And kind. But this text was an awful development, not for its content but for the way Atsushi’s blood ran hotter when he saw the name.

Despite all he’d eaten, he was still so hungry. Byakko heard him think Ryuunosuke and all her crooning of Dazai became screaming, wailing for Ryuunosuke, Ryuunosuke, Ryuunosuke, for that pale throat, that handle-bar clavicle. For his adam’s apple. Byakko wanted — Atsushi wanted — to roll it around his mouth like a ball.

It was entirely unconscious, sinking his fangs into Lady’s neck. Atsushi did not realize he had done it until he was already tearing out a chunk of flesh and fur and Lady was yowling, then whimpering, then nothing. And then Lady was still warm when Atsushi found her trachea and esophagus, and then her tiny heart and lungs.

Atsushi cried with it, shook with it; Byakko trembled in pleasure. The tender meat of Lady’s thigh was Yosano’s. The dying thrum of her heart was Kyouka’s. The warmth of her was Dazai’s. And the blood was Ryuunosuke’s, all Ryuunosuke’s.

He laid Lady’s bones to rest in a dumpster, then washed off in the cafe restroom, keeping his head ducked and eyes far away from Lucy’s. He was thirty minutes late back from his break. In the office he was silent, and heavy, and kept his back to Ranpo always.

Of course, Atsushi knew Ranpo knew. Ranpo held the fatal stopwatch — he could decide, at any millisecond, that Atsushi’s secret was up. This was only a matter of time.

It was late the night after Lady’s death that Ranpo appeared at Atsushi’s front door, a cage full of rats in his hands. Pale and hovering in the soft light, Ranpo looked, as he always did, a little otherworldly. His face was carefully calm. The rats squeaked a symphony that struck cold fear up Atsushi’s spine.

“Ranpo,” Atsushi laughed unconvincingly, “what’s this?”

Ranpo set the cage on the counter with a strong degree of solemnity. The lights weren’t on in the dorm, except for the nauseous yellow glow emanating from the bathroom, where Atsushi had just been hunched over the toilet, fingers down his throat, forcing himself to throw up his own blood. He thought his knuckles might be glaringly raw. And despite his regeneration, he was sure there was still blood on his thighs and forearms and the soft white cotton of his pajamas. But he was too scared to look down and check.

“You need to eat living things,” Ranpo said in lieu of how are you. His mouth was tight, eyes sharp.

Atsushi swallowed. Ranpo was — he was always very — wonderful. Amazing. At the start of things — the very start, when Atsushi was brand new and always swinging wildly between a ravenous appetite and complete self-starvation, it was Ranpo who left candies and chips and chocolate in his desk drawers. Ranpo who always knew when Atsushi was going home feeling off, who called Kunikida to make sure someone checked on Atsushi’s dorm late at night. Ranpo who knew when Atsushi was — when he would need Yosano to come and clean him up from his own messes even Byakko couldn’t fix.

And it was Ranpo who set the cage of rats on his living room table.

Haltingly, Atsushi said: “I need to eat people.”

“…But you won’t, will you, Atsushi?” Ranpo said it softly, with the intonation of a question; But it was Ranpo, and he was absolutely assured in his own correctness. Confidence was there in the set of his jaw.

Atsushi thought this wildly hopeful, even for Ranpo. It was rare that he doubted the Agency’s greatest detective, but — Atsushi had already started to eat himself.

Gesturing to the rats, Ranpo said, “You can be like a vegetarian.”

If it was anyone else but Ranpo, and if it were any other situation, this would come off as a lighthearted joke. But it was Ranpo, and he said it with complete earnestness and self-esteem. And while Atsushi thought Ranpo was, for once, wildly off base, he realized his heart was warm with love, for the kindness of this gesture — even though really Ranpo was probably only doing it to keep Atsushi from having Kenji for lunch.

His heart was absolutely white-hot with it, and all that love swirled in him until he found that he wanted to take his claws to Ranpo’s shoulders and lap up the blood.

“Let,” Ranpo started haltingly, a hand hovering over Atsushi’s upper arm, the pads of his fingers grazing copper-stained skin, “Let Dazai or the President — or myself — know, if you need anything.”

And then because Ranpo was no more a paragon of emotional intelligence than the rest of them, he left. And Atsushi went back to his bile-yellow bathroom, where his own blood in his own toilet seat. Over the cracking porcelain bowl, he bit into a squealing rat.