#he is a messy drunk

[fanaticsnail]

She Was Mine

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,000+

Synopsis: A new transfer is tasked with guarding Doflamingo as he visits the world government headquarters. Doflamingo becomes intoxicated and reminisces about the love of his life to this new transfer, confessing he still loves her and wants to be with her.

Themes: Doflamingo x f!reader, drinking, intoxication, confessions of love, injury, talks of death, assassination, canon divergence, Lourdes Jordi is an OC (and an unfortunate venting target), Doflamingo is a sloppy drunk.

Notes: @feral-artistry said Doflamingo is a sloppy drunk who dials his exes and shows up on their doorstep. I needed to see it, so here is my little take on it. Image is a screen grab from one piece.

Tag list: @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @carrotsunshine @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training

The newest transfer in the world government center did not truly know what he was expecting while on the infamous ‘Warlord Watchdog' shift. Many marines shied away from signing up for such a feat, opting to remain fixed on their assigned tasks and not put forth their names for extra credit.

Jordi didn't know. He truly had no idea what exactly he had placed his name at the top of the sign up list. A pay rise? Certainly. The month off from night shift? Absolutely. Babysitting an inebriated violent blonde man in a pink, feathered coat as he cried into the twelfth wineglass in a row, babbling about a love once forgotten to all that heard him? Not exactly what he was hoping for.

Donquixote Doflamingo had been drinking all day, lazing about and perching on the round table in the center of the meeting space. He had flirted with both Sir Crocodile, and Vice-Admiral Tsuru in the same sentence, reaching for Mihawk’s red wine glass and taking a lengthy swig and winking at him once draining it dry.

All of the guards in the room were on edge, but Jordi remained steadfast and strong. He did not want to be placed on Donquixote duty, and instead had hardened his resolve to ask Tsuru to be assigned to Mihawk or Kuma. Instead, Tsuru took his competency and stoicism as a sign that he could handle Doflamingo for the remainder of his time at the world government headquarters.

As Doflamingo reached for lucky number thirteen for the afternoon, he halted his soft sob and sniffed back a solemn smile.

“She was mine,” he whispered, his fingers shaking as he finally made his eyes focus on the glass, “You know? She was all mine. I had her, if you catch my meaning.” Jordi gulped back his fear, darting his eyes over Doflamingo's face and attempting to understand where he was coming from.

“Name, officer,” the tall blonde barked at him, prompting the young man to jolt back in his stance.

“Jordi, sir,” the younger man stated, his nerves no longer born on his features. “Lourdes Jordi of the Fourth Flight, reporting to Vice-Admiral Tsuru, sir.” Doflamingo clicked his tongue, lulling lazily in a drunken stupor as he hung the wineglass off to the side.

“And you're, what? Eighteen? Nineteen, even?” Doflamingo slurred, his glasses falling askew on his features as he looked the young man over.

“I'm twenty-two, sir,” Jordi nodded to Doflamingo with a deep furrow in his brow. Doflamingo cackled, his eyes puffy from his earlier depletion of emotion.

“Ah, then join me, Mister Lourdes.” The king of Dressrosa gestured to the seat in front of him, “Share in one of these piss-poor excuses of a rosé with me. It's sweet, dry and absolutely disgusting. She would never approve.”

Jordi was at an impasse. On the one hand, he was on duty serving the world government in babysitting the messy, drunk warlord. On the other, he needed something to numb the pain of babysitting the aforementioned messy drunk warlord.

Glancing at the time, he noticed it finally ticked over to six in the evening, which meant his guard shift had ended for the day. Sighing out, he slowly retracted the empty bar stool from its position tucked beneath the table and took his seat. Doflamingo chuckled, topping up his wine glass and pouring one for the bronze-skinned younger man.

“Have you ever been in love, Mister Lourdes?” Doflamingo asked him, flailing the rose bottle as he spoke, spilling a small trickle from the top and dampening the mahogany table. Without waiting for an answer from the younger man, he continued.

“She was… everything to me. My whole world, my northern star shining in the night and bringing me hope in the dark. My angel, my darling,” the Donquixote king of Dressrosa trailed off a series of pet names in both Dressrosian and Marijoan, leaving Jordi feeling far more out of his depths as he initially felt embarking on such a feat.

“My sun bringing my warmth in the deepest winters, my moon rising the tides of passion in my soul,” Doflamingo again began to sniff back his glassy tears, prompting him to raise his hand to his face and remove his ruby glasses. Placing them on the table, he pinched his brow and began to sob against his fingertips.

Jordi thought on his feet, raising his wine glass outwards and upwards in a gesture of good will. He offered a small sentiment in his speech, his lips curling in a sympathetic smile.

“Shall we toast to her memory, king Donquixote?” the younger man suggested, prompting Doflamingo to look through his fingers up at him curiously. Jordi pressed on, “You are mourning her passing, yes? Should we not toast for her?”

“She's not dead,” Doflamingo snarled, releasing his eyes from his hands and reaching forward and brushing his wine glass against Jordi’s with a sarcastic grin, “She just tossed me aside, ruining me for any other potential partner because she destroyed my soul and shattered my heart like porcelain on concrete.”

“Oh,” was all Jordi offered in response, sheepishly biting back his empathetic grin and raising his glass to his lips. The liquid touched his tongue, the sweetness spreading over his palate and igniting the follicles on the back of his neck in response to the tart tang. He grimaced at the flavor, prompting Doflamingo to laugh in a low snicker.

“Tastes like piss, doesn't it?” Doflamingo teetered off his laughter and drained his glass in one fell swig, “Drink up, boy. You need to get on my level here.” Jordi groaned quietly, knocking back the sweet liquid and hissing as soon as it impacted his stomach.

Doflamingo poured himself another glass, pouring Jordi’s one second and placing the empty bottle on its side against the table before giving it a small spin. Watching the glass rotate, Jordi shook his head and formed a question in his mind about it.

“You seem awfully upset, sir. What exactly did she do?” Doflamingo sighed forlornly in response, his heart pooling in his eyes and glazing them over with glassy emotion.

He hastily drew his shirt open and pointed to a small mark in his chest. Jordi leaned forward, examining the divot and noticing the precision in the mark and how the raised welt healed in a soft silver.

“She stabbed me in the chest with her favorite blade,” Doflamingo smiled proudly before the tear that threatened to spill finally teetered over the edge, “Do you know what that means?”

Jordi sat back in his seat, his eyes widening as he took in the information that someone was close enough to Doflamingo to land a single blow. The divot in his chest was enough of an indication of the intimacy of such a heinous act on someone so dangerous.

“What does that mean, sir?” Jordi whispered, his eyes darting between the unadulterated gaze given to him from the warlord. Doflamingo sobbed, raising his glass to his lips and taking a lengthy gulp.

“It means,” he grunted back the bile rising in response to the hasty drainage of the alcohol, “She loved me. She truly loved me.” Jordi’s eyes widened at such a deranged conclusion, prompting him to raise his glass to his lips.

“What brings you to that end, sir?” Jordi tested him with his voice even and unwavering, “A blade to the chest would hardly mean such an expression, surely?” Doflamingo leaned forward, his motions slowed by the alcohol and slurred in each action.

“Because, Mister Lourdes,” Doflamingo snarled at him, leaning in closer before his lips curled into an unfamiliar and highly expressive pout, “If she wanted me maimed, she would've aimed for my face.” He leaned closer, gesturing to his cheeks before gesturing to his throat, “And if she wanted me dead, she would've aimed for my jugular.”

Doflamingo sat back in his seat and spread his knees wide, relaxing into his chair with a prideful smile.

“No, Mister Lourdes,” he continued, sniffing a lengthy inhale through his nose and smiling a true grin, “No, she loved me so much. She was mine, sh-she loves me.” Jordi nodded along politely, fearing the delusion that was expelling from the blonde warlord.

“Who was she, sir?” Jordi’s curiosity peaked, his eyes never leaving the lengthy blonde eyelashes or ruby tint of the warlords irises, “A pirate, a marine, a princess?”

Doflamingo slurred a name familiar in reputation enough to him that had Jordi's glass drop from his palm and shatter on the ground beside him. His lips parted in shock, his eyes widening and staring in shock and disbelief.

“There's-... There's no way-...” Jordi whispered, watching as Doflamingo's eyes glazed over as his consciousness slowly departed from him.

Doflamingo collapsed on the table, the weight of the potent fluids finally igniting his veins and causing him to buckle beneath his stupor. Jordi signaled the barkeep to call for backup to move the ten foot giant.

Lying in your bed, you are suddenly awoken by your Den-Den snail. Rolling immediately to your side, you sit completely upright in your bed and click the speaker to awaken the sentient technology.

You state your name in a monotonous drall, not allowing the fact you were in the midst of an REM cycle not seconds ago dissuade you from conversing precisely.

“State the target,” you utter darkly, not paying attention to what the snail was morphing into to match the distinction of the person on the other end of the call.

“Cara mia,” the voice on the other end slurred back at you, “Te amo, mi princesa.” You groan, lulling your head back and rolling your eyes at the all too familiar voice. You could almost taste the alcohol from within the mouthpiece, the snail missing the signature glasses and eyes looking red and swollen.

“Donquixote,” you utter in return, your malice dripping in venomous viscosity in every syllable, “I informed you the last time, lose this snail code. I refuse to-.”

“-Please, my love,” his hush whisper cut through the piece, his desperation pouring from his lips like warmed honey, “Please, I just want to hear your voice. My heart is with you, always. Let me hear your voice. Let me hear your melodies sing for me their sweet song.” You growl, rolling your eyes and prompting you to lie back against your pillows and pout.

“You’ve been drinking,” you note, feeling his tone shift and slur along with his uttered praises. “What have you been drinking?”

“I had tequila with breakfast, a mimosa or two to follow,” he slurred, prompting you to wince back at his confession, “Everything started getting blurry at the fourth shot, or maybe it was the absynth? I know that it got foggy for a minute there when I drank from the swordsman's wine.”

“Ah, you've mixed poisons then,” you nod before shaking your head at his confession, “You will likely not recall making this call, like all the others you've made in the past.”

“I remember them all, my love. My darling, the siren who sings my praises as she shepherds me into my doom,” he coos into the mouthpiece, “Mi princesa, mi reina, tell me you love me. Tell me, please.” You shake your head.

“It’s been a long, long time, Doflamingo,” you utter darkly, shaking your head and pinching the bridge of your nose.

“But a bat of an eyelash,” he whispered in return, “A beat of a butterfly’s wing.” You shake your head, closing your eyes and mourning your lack of slumber.

“You have had much to drink to spoil your mind and sour your words,” you sigh into the receiver. He returned your sentiment, sighing in a sarcastic breath back at you.

“My mind has never been clearer,” he slurred, “My thoughts are only of you and that pretty knife you pressed into my chest. Your lips close to mine, your thighs straddling my waist, my mind only thinks of you.”

“Doflamingo-,” you sigh, his voice cutting you off with a sorrowful sob.

“As is my heart. Always with you,” he sobbed, his breath hitching and his tobe coming out in soft sniffles, “Just-... Just tell me you love me. Tell me you feel something for me. My heart can't take it.”

You huff out your resolve, shaking your head and closing your eyes shut. Your heart panged with guilt, feeling your heart reignite with passion long since forgotten and lost to the ages that fell between you.

“Of course I did,” you whisper in a hushed hiss into the mouthpiece, “Or I would've carved out your eye, split your face with my blade, or simply killed you to prove my loyalty to the assassin's guild for the celestial dragons.” Your dark confession raises a hum from the other end of the call.

“You 'did'? Does that mean you no longer feel for me?” you shake your head and glance up at the ceiling. He sniffs, his heart pouring out to you over the transceiver with each passing moment.

“I-...” you began, reopening your eyes and sighing in exasperation, “...You know I do, Dof. That's why I've taken out each person who's presented me with a contract to kill you.” He swoons, his voice crying for you in a keening mewl.

“My guardian angel protects me as I still draw breath?” his tears spill with each hushed whisper, “Even though you're prevented from being with me, our love was never sanctioned, and our world's far distant from one another. You still love me even now, don't you?”

Emotion began to well in your chest, springing up like a forgotten fount being pumped at a rusty, iron piston. You bite back your sorrow, feeling it overcome you with grief.

“Of course I do, Dof,” you admit into the transponder. Your heart soars for him before you remember the state he decided to call you in. Shaking your head, you bite back your emotion and ask him, “Will you still love me in the morning?”

After taking a moment to collect himself, Doflamingo sniffed back his sorrow and confessed to you.

“I will love you all mornings until my eyes close in their eternal slumber,” he whispered his dark confession, “Each day the sun rises, I will love you. And for each day the light disappears on the horizon, I will mourn for you as I remain alone in my love without you beside me.”

Sighing and shaking your head, you close your eyes as your heart splits in two at his confession. Clapping your palm over your lips, you refuse to allow him the luxury of knowing he'd moved you so easily with such pretty words.

You, a hardened assassin made to prove your devotion by attempting to kill Donquixote Doflamingo for the Celestial Dragons as their prize jewel in their vast treasury. He survived your attack, the dragons understanding that his healers were some of the best available and not questioning his survival when you presented them with your soiled blade and somber expression. They found it entertaining to have someone like you in their armada.

Their forgiveness came as a double edged blade: you were their preferred contract killer and were to live a life of luxury, and you in turn were to never return to your old life as a bounty hunter for someone as lowly as a Vice-Admiral. You were welcomed into Marijoa with opened arms and granted a title amongst the menagerie.

Doflamingo was a hindrance, and your love for him was depicted as weakness. Stabbing him was the easiest way to part from both of those inhibitions. The heart was an easy choice, considering how it broke yours to make such a terrible decision.

“You still there, my love?” Doflamingo's voice echoed within the transponder, breaking you away from your reflection.

“Always,” you respond in kind, closing your eyes and focusing on his words. His breathing was labored, his soft groans and cries for you coming across in each breath.

“Come to me?” he whispered to you, his heart in every cracked syllable as he coaxed you to come closer with his beckoning cry. “I want to see you. Please come to me?”

“We both know I can't,” you utter in return, “My face is too recognisable these days, and my reputation as an assassin for the celestial dragons has the seas part for me as welcome.” He groaned for you, his heart in every gruff whine.

“But do you want to?” he whispered, “That's all I want to know. Do you want to see me? To be with me? To lay beside me and watch the clouds with me?” You press your head back into the pillow and stifle a soft sob for him.

“Of course I do,” you utter in return, “I love you, Doflamingo. Never doubt that.” He whimpered in the mouthpiece, prompting you to shake your head and utter, “As always, if you remember any of this conversation. I'll be waiting.”

At that final word, you hung up the receiver and ended the call between you. The calls were getting more frequent, his drunkenness prompting his sloppiness and desperation between every call. Slouching back into your bed, you wait for sleep to claim you back into its arms.

That slumber never comes, reflecting in turn the call that you never received from Donquixote Doflamingo. No matter how many times he calls you while drunk on whatever fluid of choice of the evening, his call once sober never arrives.

As you prepare your coffee in the morning, your sleeplessness provoking you to make a greater caffeine to liquid ratio, your Den-Den roars to life in its soft, frog-like, chirp. Expecting one of your superiors, you almost drop your earpiece as an all too familiar voice purrs at you.

“Are you still waiting, my love?” Doflamingo asks you, his breath halting in his chest as he anticipates your answer, “I-... I meant every word. Every syllable. Every breath,” his voice crackles in the snail distorts his voice briefly, “As promised, I still love you in the morning. All that remains is one question.”

You suck in a soft breath, waiting to hear his words as you grip the handle of your coffee cup further.

“Do you still love me in return?”

[ryukatters]

drunk in love — s. gojo ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊

⟡ summary: you walk gojo back to his dorm after a night of drinking

⟡ pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

⟡ content/warnings: major fluff, underage alcohol consumption, boyfailure gojo, gojo calls reader pretty, mutual pining, drunken confessions, kiss kiss fall in love

⟡ wc: 1.4k

Satoru’s never been great at holding his alcohol.

The first time he got drunk was in secret inside of Suguru’s dorm room, late at night to ensure that there weren’t any teachers (read: Yaga) lingering in the hallway past curfew. His teacher did always seem to have some sort of divine intuition whenever it came to Satoru’s antics.

He had taken one shot and subsequently spat it all out onto the floor.

Satoru’s gotten better at handling his liquor, but he’s still very much a lightweight. That isn’t enough to deter him from refusing any shots Shoko or Suguru throw his way though, which probably isn't a great idea seeing how wasted your friends were. Which is surprising, because they tend to be a little better at handling their alcohol than Satoru. Chalk it up to wanting to celebrate for making it to the end of the school year.

It’s you who’s left to play damage control, considering how you were the only one still standing as the rest of your friends were all passed out on the cold hardwood floor of Shoko’s dorm, aside from one other person who’s currently gripping your leg, staring up at you, pleading like a kicked puppy.

Satoru was just as annoying if not more so when intoxicated. He couldn’t possibly sleep on the cold, hard, wooden floors…

…which is how you end up walking Gojo back to his dorm room. Though walking would be a very generous term, seeing how he’s using you as a human crutch, leaning most of his weight onto you as you struggle to keep the two of you balanced.

You try to usher Gojo onto his bed gently, but the boy seems to be too out of his wits to even do that properly. He unceremoniously flops onto his bed with a thud, banging his head against the wall in the process.

“Owww,” he clutches his head, pouting.

“That’s what you get,” you laugh.

“You’re mean.”

“Mean? I brought you all the way back here when I could have just let you sleep on the floor. That sounds pretty nice to me.”

His bottom lip juts out even further, much to your amusement. His sunglasses are hanging off the bridge of his nose, lopsided. You reach out to place them on his nightstand. His warm hand envelops your wrist before you can draw back, and brings your hand to cup his cheek. Maybe it’s alcohol and your decreased inhibition, or maybe its your own volition, but you can’t find it in you to pull away. You stroke your thumb against his pale, plush cheek, admiring the dimple that likes to make itself known when he smiles, just like he is right now.

Satoru runs warm. You’d think for someone with such an icy appearance and a reputation for being a cold-blooded sorcerer, his body temperature would follow suit. Maybe it’s because that frigidness is Gojo, the strongest, the honored one, and all the epithets that have burdened his shoulders from the minute he was born. But here, with you, he’s just Satoru— a boy with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, who can’t shoot whiskey, and loves his friends endlessly.

“My head hurts,” he whines.

“Oh, you poor baby,” you faux coo, rubbing your hand against the sore spot that will definitely have a lump tomorrow. Satoru eats it up though, melting into your touch. He’s even clingier when he’s drunk, you realize. Cute, you might even add. But the thought leaves just as soon as it comes. You’re a lot less sober than you thought you were.

Gojo’s voice pulls you out of your drunken daze. “Can you kiss it better f’me?”

“What?”

“Can you kiss…kiss me instead? So it doesn’t hurt anymore?” He slurs.

“Satoru, you’re too drunk.”

“‘m not!” Whatever defense he has for himself fails as a hiccup escapes past his lips. For a second, you think he might fall asleep like this, leaning into you. But then his eyes snap back open with a determined glint.

“Wan’…wanna kiss youuu,” he closes his eyes and puckers his lips, waiting for you to close the gap.

“Satoru…”

Where do you even start? You thought you’d be okay ignoring the budding feeling in your chest that consumes you most days you’re with the white-haired sorcerer. Deflection is the only way you know how to avoid acknowledging whatever this was. And it’s been working, sort of. “You can’t kiss someone you don’t like.”

He pouts even harder at that. “I like someone! I like you,” he says adamantly. “Like, like-like you.”

“Like-like? What are we, in kindergarten?”

You try your best to redirect the conversation, you don’t think you’re ready to face the implications of the fact that one of your best friends has feelings for you. Mutual feelings, you might add— the same feelings that have been eating away at you for months now, and the same feelings you’ve elected to ignore.

He pouts for the umpteenth time tonight before he lets out a huff, falling back onto the mattress. He props himself up on a pillow, peering at you curiously. It’s almost like you can see the gears turn in his head when he smiles deviously, both of his freakishly long arms reaching out to wrap around your waist and bring you flush against him.

You can feel the hot puffs of his breath, and you will yourself to look at him. Satoru’s eyes have always been so easy to get lost in.

He breathes out your name, sickeningly sweet. “I really do like you. You’re so pretty and strong and smart— it drives me a little crazy.” Your head is spinning, and the innate urge to run like you’ve been doing all this time sparks through you, but the grip that Satoru has on you is too strong. “Want you to like me back, I’ll do anything,” he says honestly.

Gojo’s good at the chase, and you’re something he’s in for the long run. You can run and run until there’s nowhere else to go, until your legs refuse to carry you a step further. He’ll always be there to catch you.

His hand traces delicate patterns along the side of your neck, still a bit too far gone to notice how your breath hitches. “I’ll buy you whatever you want, I’ll get you a big house and we can live together forever. I’ll take care of you, do whatever you want. I’ll be so good to you. For you.”

You’re stunned into silence. Your heart is threatening to leap out of your chest. It melts when you look at Satoru, who’s looking at you with all the hope in the world. The moonlight seeping through the blinds of his window casts the most intricate waves of light, illuminating Satoru’s features perfectly.

Satoru thinks he’s holding the world in his arms right now. He’s preparing himself for rejection, but it’s alright, he thinks— because he’s good at everything he tries and he’s willing to try and try again and again for you, just for the chance to be yours.

“Tell me that again in the morning when you’re sober,” you whisper, as if you’re afraid someone else could hear you within the confines of Satoru’s room. Like the weight of your words were a secret you couldn’t bear to let anyone else in on, except for one person— your one and only.

You take a leap of faith. You plant your hands on his chest to steady yourself, placing a chaste kiss on Satoru’s forehead— a symbol of assurance of your love for him— something that’s been a part of you from the very moment you met him.

Satoru’s heart squeezes in anticipation. He hugs you even tighter, laughing at the yelp of surprise you let out. He has never felt as more of a winner than he does right now. “I’ll tell you everything sober or drunk,” he promises, unable to contain his giddiness as you (finally!) let him pepper kisses all over your face.

“Everything, as long as it’s with you.”

a/n: gojo can not handle hard liquor so he’s drunk off of some (shots of) smirnoff ice 😎

[zu-is-here]

<– • –>

[morthyew]

sometimes i think about how garak is the kind of old gay to wear a black turtleneck and wire rimmed glasses to read a book at a bar and who tries so hard to seem mysterious because that’s the only way he can even tangentially flirt, but everyone can tell it’s a sad old man ploy except this one guy, who has the reputation for being the shiniest naïvest kid on the block but the two of them start dating and everyone’s like oh no garak’s taken advantage of this hot young thing and conned him into hooking up with him but then they find out the kid actually has a fucked up intense cold machiavellian streak and that garak is using the fake mysteriousness to cover up the fact that he did war crimes for the CIA and is emotionally destroyed by his dishonorable discharge and somehow their initial guesses were kind of also correct but it’s bashir who has garak in a chokehold actually??

and everyone goes jesus christ thank god you two found each other you should never involve anyone else in whats going on with you.

[virsancte]

as the clock strikes twelve 👀

look at how gorgeous angel looks with this hair!!!!! I LOVE THEM SO MUCH RAHH when i grabbed them into cas i legit teared up over how pretty they are. they're everything to me;-;

[boarloved-art]

trust and believe the chaser gang's unofficial coworker christmas parties went crazy. qiren goes home after an hour, xichen immediately decides this is the perfect time to get hammered, guangyao is babysitting, wen qing is losing her mind a little bit, yu ziyuan is fighting between Wanting To Leave and Wanting To Outdrink Wuxian, huaisang and mingjue show up at some point and wuxian is too drunk to remember it - which he DOES weep about when wen qing tells him the next day. they have the worlds most british karaoke session. the buffet features mini sausage rolls, cocktail sausages, and a beautiful array of picky bits. mr brightside is playing for 50% of the event.

[koqen]

⠀⠀EAST 2 WEST⠀⠀…⠀⠀Mic Check!

[dogujulian]

Stan doodle.

[kissingarthurclaus]

Do you think it weighs on him? Despite always keeping a happy, cheerful demeanor do you think being constantly mocked, shoved aside, ignored gets to him?

Do you think anyone's ever cradled him and accepted him and loved him for himself?

[thejudeduarte]

Cardan is so sexy and for what??

[wtrclrsndrunknpstls]

Rugged gay man ft. cigar

Yes he has both of his arms, I didn’t wanna do a lot of finer details, plus arm chopping isn’t a love language

[chilpilled]

sighs. anyways i think chil is a sloppy drunk who gets very affectionate and talkative and laios likes to go out drinking with him but drinks a lot less so he can keep him out of trouble and make sure he gets home safe. u already know where this is going. chil struggles with being emotionally open but thats fine because hes already told laios how much he cares about him dozens of times before, he just doesnt remember <3

[hanzajesthanza]

i think it would be really funny if regis had a kind of fucked-up haircut

“he could save everyone except himself” but like with regard to the barbery, and not the surgery. kind of like when chefs don’t cook very well for themselves. or when fashion designers wear sweatpants all day.

but moreover. i think the aesthetic effects of a bad haircut would help to dampen his natural lugosian allure and good looks. to reduce any potential suspicions

[quietwingsinthesky]

actually wait i do have a fucked up millie fact to share for the night. her s4-5 timeline in my head have her becoming best friends with chuck (read: Millie keeps breaking into his house despite his constant protests for her to Stop Doing That. in her defense, the roadhouse burned down and if she goes to bobby’s, her brothers will know within the hour. she has decided this means they’re best friends, and chuck is kind of pathetic and weak and can’t stop her in any meaningful way.)

(in the endverse, millie and dean aren’t on speaking terms. they’ll fight together, millie will follow him most places, but whatever was there is broken beyond repair. that’s probably because she blames him for what happened to sam, and he blames her for blaming him, and it’s a whole cycle. but in the wake of that, she’s latched onto chuck to fill the void left by sam and dean, something that’s not working. but is also the reason that when future!dean says they’re striking out to kill samifer, intent on feeding everyone into the meat grinder to do so, past!dean catches millie and chuck preparing to run in the opposite direction and not look back. i don’t think he tries to stop them.)

the point of all that being that the s5 finale happens, and millie doesn’t see any of chuck’s half of the story. doesn’t get to know what happens to him.

she just finds an empty house. she assumes it got to be too much for him. she looks for a body, and she doesn’t get to have one. she leaves.

years later, his face is staring at her across the rooms of this place that’s supposed to be her home. and millie has spent these years running in the leagues of angels and demons and leviathans, and if she knows only one thing, it’s that that’s chuck’s face. but that’s not him. not anymore. what’s inside it was not her friend. no matter what it says.

[where-is-vivian]

Greatest Mistake Ever

from @jegulus-microfic's prompt, mistake (1487 words)

I had. So much fun writing this. :)) I'm literally giggling right now.

cw: french language

“Oh, shit— My bad!” James laughs. He’s absolutely wasted. “Oops.”

The guy he bumped into doesn’t seem to laugh, though. He’s staring down at himself, where his dark top is now stained with whatever cocktail was in James’ glass. His top is damp, and the guy shakes his head, hands slightly lifted in impuissance. James looks at him, and when that guy lifts his head, James’ heart misses a beat. He’s about to throw up, he drank too much.

He puts his hand in front of his mouth; the room is swaying around him. Why is the room swaying, already? James doesn’t remember. But he’s kind of sure a room isn’t supposed to move. So why is this one moving so much? Is the floor made of sand or—

“What did you spill on me?”

James is physically unable to answer this question. And he already forgot what the question was. However he lifts his free hand with as much confidence as he’s capable of, and he says:

“Sorry.”

He really needs to throw up.

He tries to look to his side, but Sirius, to whom he was talking literally seconds ago, isn’t here anymore, and James doesn’t know why. He’s pouting. Where did Sirius go? He’s sure it’s Remus’ fault. Or maybe Marlene’s. Marlene and Mary always pull jokes on Sirius when he’s drunk. They could have included him. It makes James pout more.

Despite the music pounding in his ears and the chatting that’s too loud to be true, James manages to perceive what the guy in front of him says:

“Oh god. Sirius, I hate you.”

But maybe it’s just the materialisation of James’ drunk thoughts; how could this guy know Sirius? Sirius is his best friend, and James is the one mad at him right now. Not this random dude. How does he even knows his nam—

James’ arm is pulled on, and James just complies. Oh no! Maybe this guy is trying to kidnap him. James chuckles at the idea. It’s so ridiculous. Who would want to kidnap him? That’d be funny if someone actually kidnapped him. James lets out another giggle, and sooner than he thought, they’re outside, on the terrace.

The guy makes James sit on a chair, and James falls on it meekly. Now that there are just the two of them, James just looks up at him. There isn’t any other parasite information to disturb his eyes. And then suddenly, the other guy lifts his top over his head, and he takes it off. James’ mouth falls a bit agape. Oh, god, he’s pretty, very, very pretty, but he’s not sure…

He points down at James. “You, stay here,” he orders. James closes his mouth and just nods, fascinated by the view to have any coherent thoughts.

“Yes, pretty,” He says. It gets out of his mouth without him thinking about it twice.

The guy stops, grins a bit, eyes up and down James, before walking away to the back of the garden; it’s too dark to see where he goes. James doesn’t move. He’s too stunned to speak or to do anything anyway. At some point a girl gets out of the bushes, standing up; James didn’t see she was her before. Their gazes meet. She waves, and then she groggily walks away, still perched up on her heels. James is a bit scared she’s going to twist one of her ankles or something, but he doesn’t say anything and she disappears, in the opposite direction the guy did. She goes back to the party, to the living room.

Quickly after that, the pretty guy comes back. James thinks he sobered up a bit with the fresh air. He sees him better, even though the boy doesn’t give him a look. He’s focused on some other t-shirt he grabbed somewhere, and that he’s holding in his hands.

He’s lean, has a skin so pale it almost shines in the dark — is he a vampire? Maybe James hasn’t sobered enough — and he has dark curls framing his face. He has freckles everywhere. And the way his jeans are falling on his hips is drool-worthy. James wants to do something, but quickly, the view disappears; the guy puts on his other shirt, and then he catches him looking.

“Sirius s’était bien gardé de me dire qu’il avait des potes comme toi.” (Sirius omitted to mention he had friends like you.)

James swallows, closing his opened mouth — he didn’t even realise he was staring with his mouth open. He grips tightly at the garden chair’s armrests.

“Do you feel like walking to the kitchen and getting a glass of water by yourself, or do you prefer staying here, and I get you one?”

James only nods like an idiot. It makes the other chuckle. 

“Noted,” He says, grinning down at him, apparently amused by James’ behaviour.

It’s like James’ life paused there, because next thing he knows, he’s waking up with heavy eyelids, and heavy limbs, and a heavy head. Feeling too hot, and nauseous. He feels so warm it’s sickening. The room spins a bit when he blinks, and then it gets better. But not his stomach ache; he shouldn’t have mixed so much alcohol together last night. He drank too much; he can’t even remember why— Oh, yes he knows. Sirius’ birthday. He was at Sirius’ for his birthday. That’s all he remembers though. It’s the first time that James got to see Sirius’ house after he moved away from his parents — Sirius is so rich he bought a house as his first place to live. James partied a bit too much, he recalls.

His eyes still uncomfortably glued together, James props himself on his elbows. He rubs his eyes. He’s topless. He doesn’t remember taking off his shirt the day before.

Now being a bit more awake, James looks around him, and he doesn’t really recognise the room. And there is a weight next to him on the bed. James sees the bare freckled arms peeking from the messy sheets, and a little mass of jet black curls. For a second he thinks, is that Sirius? It doesn’t look like his room, and why on hell would I b—

The door bangs open, and James jolts, so much that he almost jumps off the bed, bouncing on the mattress. It’s Sirius, who is staring at him with wide eyes. So if Sirius is just in front of him, then who is the one guy next to him…?

“REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK!”

James jumps a second time. The body next to him moves slowly, humming with annoyance, emerging from sleep.

“REGULUS ARCTURUS BL—”

James frowns. Black? Regulus Arcturus Black? Black, like in Sirius Black?

The guy next to him sits up, and snaps back. “WHAT, SIRIUS.”

And James is flabbergasted. The guy looks like Sirius. A lot. How could he not have realised sooner?

“With James? Seriously?!”

Sirius eyes James with incredulousness, and maybe a bit of disdain too. Regulus quickly stands up, and pushes Sirius out of the room. He shuts the door on his face. Then he turns around, sighing, annoyed.

“Huh.” James eloquently says. “What happened.”

“Sirius, my brother,” Regulus shrugs, moving to grab his jeans on the floor.

“Yeah, he’s my best friend. I know him. But you…” Regulus eyes him curiously as he’s buttoning his jeans. James has too much saliva in his mouth. He stutters. “We… Something happened yesterday? I don’t remember anything.”

Regulus chuckles. “No, James. You were deadass drunk,” James is simply surprised Regulus knows his name, but he simply listens. “And you spilled your drink on me,” Regulus grabs a black t-shirt. “Then I gave you water. Then you threw up,” Regulus puts on the shirt, and James thinks it’s regrettable. What is also regrettable is the realisation that he was very lame the night before, and that if he hadn’t been so lame, he could have had a very different kind of night. “I don’t make out with drunk people who throw up,” And with that Regulus gives him a wry grin.

James feels his body heat up. “Alright.” He wants to ask if he eventually does make out with sober people, in case he still has a chance.

“Then you begged for sleep, and I took you there. My… bedroom,” Regulus briefly shows around him with his hand.

James blinks. He doesn’t look around, to pretend he cares about the bedroom; all he wants to look at right now is the guy in front of him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” James leans back on his elbows.

Regulus smirks. He grabs socks on his desk, and he goes for the door. Before exiting his room he says. “For your information, I totally make out with guys like you usually. Just not when they throw up,” And he gets out of the room, his smirk still on his lips, leaving James there.

[chrrywvea]

i just watched white palace (1990) and uuuh-oooh the spader brainrot is getting real deep

(gosh he's so mesmerising in that movie i can't even)