#hopefully not writing myself into a corner here

[leapdayowo]

Redstone and Skulk OC time :3

Thought I’d turn my persona into a rns oc and give them a helsmet :3 I basically looked at my play style in Minecraft and took a few things from my own life and combined them to create these two! Short version about them below and a little story of their origins under that:

short version:

-Leapday_art (short version Leapday, she/he/they, the player) is afraid of losing important things in their life. He is very cautious about doing anything that could result in him dying and loosing everything in his inventory (sleeps through the night everytime to avoid monsters, barely visits the nether, strip mines, etc) +the cats next to Leapday are two of my darling kitties who unfortunately passed away irl, their names are Toby (left) and Toes (right)

-Nightfall_collections (short version Nightfall, all pronouns, the helsmet) was created from Leapday’s extreme fear of losing valuables and her grief from having lost valuables too many times. Xyr driving goal is to collect and preserve everything that xe can and to make sure there is always at least one copy

-other things about Nightfall: she is a magma cube hybrid while Leapday is a ??? hybrid player (if you read the story below this may make more sense👀). Nightfall can split into smaller duplicates which allows them to be in more places at once and thus more productive in their goal. She uses her goop-like body to write reminders on her clothes, then re-absorbs the goop later

-I think Nightfall would find himself as an organizer between lots of different parties/people in Hels due to being so dedicated to his goal + only being dedicated to this goal (his alignment is probably chaotic good because he’s loyal to his own goals and not to other people or outside rules. He does not take bribes or backstab). Also, Nightfall does not need to have possession of everything, but xe is trying to keep tabs on where everything that exist is at(this makes xem the go-to person for trying to obtain something in particular)

-I think Nightfall would become a sponsor (if that’s the right word?) for the Order of Remembrance because she greatly admires the work they do to preserve Hels’ history. She would also love Zedaph’s hall of all and definitely tries to work with private collectors to protect (and document/track) what they have (and she will keep what she knows a secret if it means protecting valuable things)

-Nightfall does not care about thieves unless they steal one of a kind things

-the doodles below were my earlier concepts, so Nightfall has green eyes before I realized it’s much more fitting for xem to have orange eyes

okay, okay, story time (because I realized the ‘short’ version was getting very extensive):

Maybe it had started in the very first world she spawned in. A brilliant blue sky that stretched over jagged, looming cliffs with forests scattered underneath. Trickling waterfalls and bubbling lava pits here and there. The natural beauty of the world left Leapday in awe and eager to explore what other wonders lay beyond the horizon.

It must have started with the first tree she broke, a squat little oak, one of hundreds in the forest. When the leaves of that little oak had all fallen, saplings littered the grassy floor. She should’ve been excited, feel triumphant even by taking down the tree, after all it’s how the journey had to start. Except, all that Leapday could see was the awkward gap in the canopy from the absence of the little oak. It felt like an itch unscratched, nagging and uncomfortable. Well that wouldn’t do.

They scooped up all the saplings littering the floor and planted one in the same dirt plot the little oak was uprooted from. Then they planted a few more just for good measure. The unease lingered, but planting the saplings felt good. It felt right. Now their adventure could truly begin!

——

In this world, Leapday’s only companions were the pigs and sheep that he passed on his journey, though he would argue, if there were someone to argue with, that the world itself brought him company enough. That the days and nights passing was a conversation between the universe and Leapday, and thus a consistent companion. And what gifts did the universe provide for him to find! Rushing rivers that fed into powerful oceans, plenty of trees to sleep in and collect, and mountains to climb with the best views of the sunset. Never a dull moment for him as there was always something new to experience and see.

However, despite all its gifts, the universe was slow to explain the finer mechanics of the world, such as health to Leapday. A week of traversing through thick forests and steep cliffs left them battered and bruised. They learned how to gauge the distance of a drop and how to place blocks to minimize the pain in their ankles from falls. A similar pain gnawed from the inside of their stomach, which they discovered was briefly satiated by devouring the apples that fell from the trees.

During one climb up a particularly harrowing cliff, Leapday learned about the unforgiving weight of sand by placing it under her feet in order to reach the next ledge. The block had crumbled in a near instant, sending her plummeting towards the ground. Instead of hitting the hard rocks below, she splashed into a stream from a nearby waterfall. When she had dragged herself onto land and her heart had steadied to a more familiar pace, she let out a fit of bewildered laughter that overwhelmed the panic from moments ago. She knew falls much shorter than this one could take days to recover from, so what kind of pain would she be in if she hadn’t gotten lucky and fallen in the stream? Something cold ran through her and sank to the pit of her stomach. Dread of what could have been, what could still be if she wasn’t more careful. She resolved to never find out what would happen. How unfortunate that her next fall would be into a pit of lava, the very one she had been camping at throughout the nights.

He was being careful, more so than he had been for the first week in this world anyways. That didn’t seem to matter because he had still slipped when placing the block before him and fallen. It was his first respawn, and it introduced him to a few new things like a punch to the face. The first revelation was the agony of burning to death, and death itself. He curled into himself, crying at the phantom feeling of the lava eating at his flesh. The intense heat and how the lava had trapped him in place and burned. It was a twisted version of the warmth of the sun, which was shining down on him and in comparison felt as cool as the air in caves. The second realization came slowly as the memory of fire ebbed. Their knuckles no longer popped and their joints no longer ached. The tightness in their muscles had vanished, leaving softer tissue on the bone and the emptiness in their stomach no longer hurt. They felt new and full of energy, ready to begin their journey again. How strange they had forgotten what this felt like. White scars from their oldest injuries and freckles from sun touched skin still littered their body. They had died, but now were in perfect health again. Leapday took in her surroundings, her face lighting up with delight at the sight of a familiar oak tree. It had grown into quite the study tree since the start of her adventure. Soon after her reunion, Leapday discovered her now empty inventory when she reached for blocks to place in order to climb the canopy. The absence of stacks of logs, dirt, and sand had her racing towards the lava pit before her mind could catch up. Panic pushed her feet to run faster and dodge every obstacle. She ignored nicks from branches in her way and the sting of sharp rocks on her bare feet. The timer was ticking down. Her items would be gone- she just had to- if she wasn’t fast enough-

She burst through the tree line and was greeted by the familiar heavy heat of the lava pit. The sight of it made her recoil out of fear of falling back in even from many blocks away. On shaky legs, she circled the perimeter and searched for her items. The timer was still ticking, but they were nowhere to be seen! She crept as close as she dared to the lava and swept her eyes across the surface of the pool. Then she darted into the surrounding trees looking high and low.

Nothing.

No logs. No saplings or dirt or anything!

This was their third lesson. You lose items after death, and lava destroys those items.

Don’t die, especially not in lava, and don’t lose your items.

Now they had to start over, and this time not dying proved to be harder than expected. More falls and similar accidents happened. Zombies began appearing, persistent in their pursuit of Leapday’s flesh. Then skeletons, creepers, and spiders appeared and introduced many more ways one could die. The pain from the deaths hurt, but they became mundane as weeks turned to months. Loosing items became more painful and frightening when Leapday discovered crafting. More time and resources were needed to start over after dying with crafted items, so they took to the world underground. They followed their instinct to craft pickaxes and torches, to chip away at the stone in search of more sturdy materials. They crafted their first stone pickaxe and found it to be superior to the wooden one.

Maybe it truly started with that wooden pickaxe. When she crafted the stone tools, the wooden pickaxe sat in her hotbar, still good for half a day’s work but now obsolete. It had served her well to progress her journey, a necessary step, but it felt wrong to simply set it aside. It felt like the gap in the canopy all over again, but she very well couldn’t plant the pickaxe in the ground and solve her unease. Not sure what else to do, she attached it to her hip and went on with her day. She wouldn’t destroy it or toss it, she would simply carry it with her until she found what she needed to do with it next. It became her new companion (it was her first crafted tool. It was the first and therefore the only one that would ever exist).

Now equipped with wood and stone blocks, Leapday built their base over their mine. The wooden pickaxe found its place over the doorway leading outside, marking the build as their home. It felt right, so they continued their expansions. Farms were planted along a nearby river and fences placed to corral cows and sheep. Torches were the one item they were generous with. They were thrown across their property liberally since their light would deter creepers spawning too close for comfort.

During a thunderstorm that had picked up abruptly one morning, Leapday poked around at their communicator. It was a lightweight device that had been attached to their forearm since first spawning into the world and never disappeared after dying. After lots of fiddling with the different menus and buttons on the screen, they came across YouCraft. It was an archive of videos made by other players scattered across the universe, documenting their own worlds and progress! With the storm still crashing down around Leapday’s base, they curled up in bed and began watching the first video that caught their eye. It turned out that he had lots more to learn about the universe! After waiting out the storm, and then the night, by watching these videos, he learned about other biomes and blocks still left to discover as well as potions, enchanting, and other dimensions! A dragon was where this journey led for most players, though some took their time getting to it. Above all, he realized he needed diamonds. Diamonds were what every player sought due to their strength, but they were rare and dangerous to collect being so deep underground. They were needed to further Leapday’s journey however, so collecting them became his top goal. Quickly he learned how impossible achieving this goal would be. Well, it seemed impossible after spending days underground chipping at the cold stone and coming up empty. Strange echoes rang through the tunnels and more than a few times paranoia of something (or someone. He had heard the legends of Herobrine) sneaking up on him was enough to make him hole up for hours. Grey, grey stone that went on for miles. Grey cobblestone trailed behind him when his inventory filled. Leapday found other minerals, but the sparkling teal of diamonds still lay buried elsewhere. He mined for so long he began to doubt that the rare mineral even generated in this world. That only grey existed. That was until he broke away the next layer of stone before him and found himself staring uncomprehending at the bits of teal poking through stone. Uncontainable joy broke through his shock like sunlight through parting storm clouds. They were real! Diamonds were real and right in front of him! Invigorated with new energy, Leapday got to work extracting the diamonds just as they had seen others do. The amount paled in comparison to the stacks other players had, but in that moment he didn’t care. It was enough to have found them and confirm they even existed in this world. That weeks of sore arms digging at indifferent stone and unsteady gravel caches falling finally amounted to their new prized possession.

By the time he arrived back at his base, the novelty of finding diamonds began to wear off. He had to admit it was a measly amount. Just barely enough for a diamond pickaxe. What good would a stronger pickaxe be with no enchantments or replacements for when it broke? It had taken so long to find just a few diamonds what were the chances of finding more? No, they wouldn’t craft anything with the rare mineral until they had enough for spares and back ups. So back to the mines they went, and excruciatingly slow they found more, and continued to reason that crafting them was a poor decision. What if an accident happened and they couldn’t get back to their stuff? If they were swallowed by a pit of lava? So much time would be spent only to be wasted. Almost like their thoughts and fears had manifested it, a freak lava incident happened not long after. Leapday had been feeling good that day, so good because their most recent mining trip had yielded 13 diamonds and another cluster just across a lava lake. As they bridged across the lake, plans of finally crafting their collection of diamonds began to form making them giddy. It was the type of giddy that made any obstacle feel like child’s play and beyond consequence. That they finally could start progressing on their journey once more. It was enough to distract Leapday from the crunch of gravel under their feet and for their pickaxe to swing off its mark into the unsteady floor. The ground gave way and sent her tumbling into the lava.

She woke up screaming in her bed. Screaming from agony of ghostly flames that ate flesh, and then from loss and frustration. It wasn’t fair! Her luck had just turned up for the best and now all of it was gone! Every plan to use the diamonds tossed out the window and into a burning pit of despair. How stupid of her to not notice the gravel! All that time for nothing! She should have called it a day and come up 13 diamonds richer with plenty of levels for enchanting. All her gear and tools and items from mineshafts would still be intact, but no. Her head was too far in the clouds and now it was gone. She hadn’t even had the foresight to mark the cave to return to, so sure of her victory. There would be no hope navigating the twisting and sprawling tunnels below, and even if she tried to go back, the sight of lava would probably be enough to make her hurl. Fat tears began dripping down her face as she cursed and wallowed. They blurred his vision, so with a few steadying breaths and a final gross sniffle, he wiped at his eyes. Then he went to swing his legs over the bed to pick up the pieces of his day and froze. On his hand, both hands actually, were thick black smudges of… of something. What was that? He reached up to his face and traced the wet tear tracks with a clean finger. It too came away covered in the strange goop. An incredulous laugh burst from him, which evolved into hysterical crying. More tears fell from his eyes and he let them. The tangled web of grief in his chest unraveling as he did so, and he felt the last of his energy drain away until-

Sunlight trickled through the curtains and roused Leapday from their sleep. Birds were chirping and the familiar sounds of the animals grazing and leaves rustling cradled their mind while the events of the previous day trickled back to them. They felt heavy and gross. Their eyes crusty and mouth dry as a desert were a sure sign of their emotional distress. Disappointment felt like stones being dropped on them when they pulled up their empty inventory. It really was all gone. They let their head flop back onto their pillow and took a steadying breath, trying to recount the reasons they should get out of bed. Maybe they would stick to the joys of the world above ground for a month or two. Take up weaving or painting. They had plenty of resources to finally build a barn and an expansion to the house. Maybe they would go with a grassy roof.

Yeah. That could be alright. With one final sigh, Leapday pushed themself up off their bed and dragged themself over to their cauldron to clean up. They could see from their reflection that only a few faint smudges remained on their face, which they gently wiped away. Crying black goop was probably not normal now that their mind was more stable to think it over. Or maybe it was normal? It had never happened before, but the players on YouCraft all had their own quirks that Lepaday lacked, so maybe it was normal for them?

It turned out the inky tears were a new normal. From that incident onward, whenever they experienced a great sense of loss the strange tears formed and sank into the ground. They appeared when Leapday lost their first wolf companion and when they accidentally deleted a creative world full of builds of an ambitious project.

Meanwhile…

in another world…

In Hels, black goop bubbled to the surface of a sea of lava. From a distance, the surface seemed its usual hungry self, shifting and popping as it patiently waited for Hels and its inhabitants to finally crumble in. The goop was not consumed by its hunger however. It stretched towards the netherrack shore like a snake in water. Once it had gathered all of itself onto more solid ground, it sat and waited for more of itself to arrive, bouncing and bubbling over the terrain in the meantime. They could only wait so long however, after all, there was much to collect and preserve and too little time to do so.

And it’s finished! Whew, I don’t typically write, so this was a lot to work on amidst all my finals projects (totally worth it tho! It was great practice). I wasn’t planning on writing so much about leapday, but then I realized the interesting potential of writing about players when they’re new to the world. If they are akin to gods, they still enter the world with a lot to learn. The goop at the end is Nightfall, who then went on to travel Hels and collect as many blocks and items as xe could before xe came across the city Evil X established. At first they were incredibly overwhelmed by the amount of stuff to preserve in the city and mostly stuck to collecting free scraps and garbage. It probably did something to gain the attention of a member of the Order of Remembrance, who taught Nightfall about their goals and a few things about how society/Hels worked. From there, Nightfall set off to establish a massive collection and documentation of anything and everything, working with people in the process but also quite an eccentric personality that can be quite a hermit when buried in paperwork (not many people are willing to do paperwork as diligently as Nightfall)

Also, YouCraft is YouTube in the Minecraft world :P I felt I needed to separate it from our version of mcyt because in this universe the characters are real and making videos about their lives rather than people playing a video game (at least that’s how I’m headcanoning it)

thank you @silverskye13 for providing some more lore about Hels and the Order of Remembrance (as well as Redstone and Skulk as a whole <3) as well as inspiring me to keep trying to improve my writing and thank you to @/yayforocs for inspiring me to finally make my own rns OCs and this post :3

[ptsdpizzaparty]

oh, u kno, just trying to find new ways to force myself to write out the mf gd plot arc of this thing i have been writing

[speed-world]

Hello!! If it's not too much to ask, can you write a cookie run kingdom au where y/n is a traveler? I just think that's the most logical way to somehow get them involved into stories and meet different cookies altogether. Maybe a few scenarios in which involve their encounters with the ancients before the main plot of crk?

A cookie stood with his sheep, observing the lands before him in silence as the winds howled and blew beside him. He was making his last few preparations before his journey, but as he turned around, he saw an unfamiliar face that appeared to be in awe of the lands much like he was…

“Oh, pardon me, but I’ve never seen a cookie like you before. You look so incredibly well and unbothered, may I ask if you have a secret to keeping your dough so healthy?”

“Oh, me? Hehe, I don’t think I have any ‘secret’ to my healthy or anything like that. I’m simply a traveler wandering Earthbread.”

“Really? So am I! I’ll be taking a pilgrimage to the Sugar-Free Road, and complete its 12 trials. What about you, where are you headed?”

“Wherever the earth and winds take me, I suppose. I don’t have a destination in mind, per se, but I’m so interested in exploring the marvelous depths across every corner of Earthbread! But, if you don’t mind me asking, what makes you want to venture to the Sugar-Free Road alone? Surely those trials can’t be the only reason.”

“You sound like you’ve been there before, is there something I should be aware of before I go?”

“Yeah, maybe don’t go by yourself. It’s a treacherous path that’ll leave you wishing you never went. I myself turned back when I was there because of how worn out I was. I would want to go back sometime, especially since I feel more accustomed to traveling to do so, but doing so alone is not something I’m doing again.”

“I see…well to answer your question, I strive to find the truth as to why cookies - those crumbling, incomplete, and not-so-sweet - all must suffer so. I wish for all beings of dough to be happy, and that is I will accept those trials. Hopefully I’ll find the answers I’m looking for at the end of the path.”

“That’s…that’s actually really nice! I respect that a lot, and I kinda feel the same way; wanting everyone to not suffer. But you won’t do well by yourself, would you mind if I tag along?”

“Really? Are you sure my goals won’t get in the way of yours?”

“Nah, of course not! You get to complete the trials and, hopefully, find your answers, while I get to see everything of the Sugar-Free Road and document it! Plus, I get to make a new friend too!”

“New friend..? Ahaha, I’m honored to call you friend too! My name is Pure Vanilla Cookie, and you are?”

“Y/N Cookie, a pleasure to meet ya Pure Vanilla Cookie!”

“Likewise, Y/N Cookie. I’m glad we’ll take this journey together!”

————————————————————————

The screeching roar of a dragon fills the air as it gradually got more distant. The dragon’s pursuer was aggravated, but still determined…

“Huff…huff…darn that dragon getting away, again!! I think I’m starting to loose count, is this the 80th time? No, it can’t have been that much…..argghh—! No matter, I’ll keep hunting it down and—!”

The bushes ahead of Hollyberry Cookie rustle as an astonished cookie stepped out, and looked to the sky where the dragon flew off. They were completely in awe and wanted to get a better look at the majestic creature.

“Woah!! Was that a dragon just now? I’ve seen glimpses of them on my travels, but that one was so close!! This could be a chance to really meet a dragon, maybe even feel its scales!! Hahaha, I gotta go now and—“

“Hey, hold it right there!”

“Huh? Oh, hey there! Are you after the dragon too?”

“That’s one way to put it; I’m hunting that dragon. I need to defeat it for the trouble its caused the Hollyberry Kingdom!”

“Oh my, I had no idea. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s quite alright, that dragon won’t escape me so easily! But, what brings you out here? And why do you want to see that dragon?”

“Ah, well I’m a traveler, you see? I want to explore every neat corner of Earthbread and all the specialties in between!”

“Really now? Interesting, it’s been awhile since I’ve met such an adventurous cookie like myself! I’m Hollyberry Cookie, pleased to meet you friend!”

“Y/N Cookie, the pleasure is all mine Hollyberry Cookie!”

“Well Y/N Cookie, what do you say we go hunting this dragon together? It’s always more fun to travel with a partner, and I’ll promise you to see every bit of the dragon up close!”

“For real?! Awesome!! Ohohoho, this is gonna be fun, I can’t wait to go!”

“Why don’t you tell me about your travels on the way? I’ll, of course, share you many of my own! I’ll even treat you to the finest berry juice my kingdom has to offer when it’s over!”

“Why thank you! I’ve never had berry juice from the Hollyberry Kingdom before, I can’t wait!!”

“It will be the finest you’ve ever had, you wouldn’t want any other! This is already becoming a fine adventure, hahaha!!”

————————————————————————

Black lightning and dark clouds...What's next, a blizzard that freezes your very breath? The scale of the anomalies is growing. The Cookies in the Frozen Snowfield are perishing one by one. While it seems logical for any cookie to avoid venturing out to such an extreme treacherous environment, two cookies were individually hiking up anyways. Although for their own reasons, their ambitions may align with one another’s….

“Hmm? Oh hey there, I wasn’t expecting any company here!”

“Neither was I…are you a cookie from one of villages affected by the blizzards?”

“Me? Oh no, I’m just a traveler passing by to witness something spectacular!! Here, listen closely—“

“Grrrrrr…..”

“Hhrrrrrraaaaaahh…..”

“The growls of not one, but two dragons-in one place!! I wonder what it is here that could’ve brought them here; ooohh I’ve got to see them up close!”

“You’re here for…sightseeing dragons? How strange.”

“You sound disappointed, is everything alright bud?”

“No. I am here to know more of the weather anomalies occurring through this continent. This harsh weather has caused cookies to suffer and crumble, and I refuse to let it endure another minute.”

“Oh my, I had no idea that was happening. I’m so sorry…”

“Pick your head up, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Ah, r-right. *ahem*…let me help you.”

“What? No, I’m afraid I can’t. These cookies have suffered for too long, and I can’t risk another getting in the way and—“

“I promise I won’t get in your way. I’ll help aid those cookies with you; I have plenty of supplies to offer some kind of help, be it food or water or anything in between.”

“Hmm…very well then. I believe our interests might be more in common than I realize. Let’s not waste any more time and be on our way.”

“Of course! I’m Y/N Cookie, by the way, pleasure to meet you sir.”

“Dark Cacao Cookie, don’t mention it. Let us do our absolute best for the cookies!”

————————————————————————

Under the intense, near-intolerable heat of the desert sun, two cookies traverse the sands bearing wide smiles of determination. Both hold their own greedy ambitions, yet aren’t driven apart by each other’s desires.

“Hah, you know, I’m still amazed as to why you’re traveling with me to the old ruins. I was wandering the desert to find this marvelous treasure, but you just want to look at them, document them, and that’s it! Why go through such risks if all you want to do is go sight seeing?”

“Hehe, well I guess you could say that’s the treasure I’m hunting for. To see all the wonders of Earthbread, its beauties in its dangers, the uniqueness of every continent, I want to capture all of it and learn everything about it! Plus, it’s super fun to meet all kinds of desserts along the way, especially one as dynamic as you!”

“So interesting, you almost make me want to share the treasure I find with you; almost, of course.”

“I don’t blame you, heh. You wandered all this way for it, it’s only fair that it all belongs to you.”

“Right? I would’ve heard if someone on Earthbread had laid their hands on it first. But then again…I want to show my gratitude for your help. This journey would’ve been boring and perhaps fruitless if not for you; what is your name?”

“Y/N Cookie, a pleasure!”

“Y/N Cookie, I am Golden Cheese Cookie. I shall never forget all you’ve done for me! Your greed for the world is something to admire for eons; nearly as great as my greed for my treasure. You and I together shall be legendary!”

————————————————————————

Somewhere, in a secluded area relatively distant from the nearest cookie civilization, a lone cookie was weeping as she was suffering from a nightmare. A passerby cookie heard her cries, and wanted to know what troubled her so…

“E-Excuse me, hello? Are you okay ma’am?”

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I… Oh…it was that same dream again. I’m sorry, I didn’t know another cookie was here…”

“No no, it’s alright, you didn’t bother me. I was just traveling by, venturing out to find some incredible things about Earthbread!”

“You were…traveling? Just freely and…eagerly going about across Earthbread alone? …..why?”

“Ehehe, I suppose why not? There’s so many incredible marvels about this world that I wanna see and experience for myself! There’s just so many things and secrets that I want to know about, how could I not be eager to see it all, ahaha!”

“….s-so carefree and curious…they’re just—“

“Hmm, you say something?”

“N-no, I was just muttering to myself…”

“….Hey, you hungry?”

“What? How’d you…—“

“You have crumbs falling from your hands, how long have you been without something to eat?”

“I…I do not know. I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve eaten something. Maybe I’m getting too lost in my thoughts…”

You pulled out a lot of food from your bags and laid it out in front of the cookie.

“T-that’s so much food! Shouldn’t you keep some for yourself if you’re traveling?”

“I got plenty more, don’t you worry. But if you were here resting from traveling, then it looks like you weren’t fully prepared. Is there any reason why you’re traveling out here?”

“Yes…I want to know the truth.”

“….the truth about, what?”

“Why were we, the cookies, created? Why were we brought into this world? Why were we created so small and fragile? If only all cookies were born strong, unbreakable. If only then…I…”

“Shhh, calm down, alright? Take a break for now, eat up. You can tell me more when we’re back out on the road.”

“I-we?! What do you mean, ‘we?’ I’d get in your way with whatever it is you’re after.”

“I’m not after anything in particular, remember? I wanna traverse and see all of Earthbread, and from the sounds of what answers you’re after, it seems like we may be going down similar paths.”

“….Perhaps you’re right. Okay then, I’ll go with you, to find the answers I’m seeking. …Who are you, exactly…?”

“I’m Y/N Cookie!”

“I’m White Lily Cookie. I’m…thankful for you, Y/N Cookie. I never thought I’d have anyone to help me with this, I figured I’d just burden someone else with my struggles…”

“Don’t mention it, I’m perfectly fine with it! No one should really be alone for a long journey; especially for the one you want to take. I’m more than happy to go with you, White Lily Cookie.”

“Thank you, Y/N Cookie…I will never forget your kindness.”

[daughterwifed]

LOVEY-DOVEY

first comes love

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. established relationship, hurt to comfort, angst, fluff, leon’s mental problems, future smut, ddlg

note. the first of hopefully 3 chapters?!! i have lost the ability to write im ngl,,, i promised this fic over a year ago and never got it out but i forced myself thru it bc it’s been sitting around like unfinished for a year LMFAO so it’s clunky.. doesn’t make sense… and also i do want to make clear this isn’t supposed to be a baby and marriage = happy marriage sort of fic i just see that ending for this couple in particular.. anyway ignore typos,, ignore any mistakes and pretend it makes sense. feedback / rbs always appreciated!

i would also appreciate if you read this post about plagiarism by a user on both tumblr and ao3

lovey dovey

“I used to hear Hola! and jump—Oh, gosh, I’m not racist or anything, I voted—“ Ashley adjusts her monogrammed scarf, looking at him with her new face. It’s the same, but different. Tighter, brighter, when her eyes widen her brows don’t raise and when she pouts her chin doesn’t dimple. 

“Ashley.” Leon interrupts to get her back on track before it gets any worse. 

D.C. does its best to dampen his mood, torrential rain soaking him to the bone, but you’re wearing these tiny winter booties that make his day a little better. 

“I just bet, I mean I know Leon never tells you anything about Spain, or anything at all.” She waves her hands in a flourish, not a hair out of place. “I signed an NDA, I don’t know how long they last, but I’m sure it must be over by now, I don’t really believe in them to be honest–What is a piece of paper going to do? I mean, it’s not like the piece of paper knows who I’m telling.” 

“She’s too little to know,” Leon says out of instinct. He takes the role of Daddy very seriously these days. 

“Leon.“ You frown at him, it’s so cute he’ll think about it for hours. 

“Sorry.” Is all he can come up with. 

“Anyways, I wanted to ask about plans,” Ashley says, the exchange going unheard by her. 

(If she’s not talking she doesn’t really seem to care about the conversation at hand.)

“Plans?” Leon doesn’t follow, and neither do you.

“Oh, you know.” She dabs at the corner of her lip with a handkerchief that matches her scarf, her lipstick leaves a pink smear on the edge of her cup. It’s heart-shaped. Fucking Cupid over here. “Haven’t you ever thought about babies, Leon? You’re pretty old now.” 

That’s not her card to play. Shouldn’t he be asking her about babies? She’s only getting older, not many eggs left in her basket. But, y’know, that’s not very PC, and Leon really isn’t that bad. He’d like nothing more than for her to move at her own pace - it was hard enough seeing Sherry grow up, passing her off to a guy nearly ten years younger than her—And Leon is in no place to talk about age gaps, but guys are immature and stupid, he would know.

“Ashley,” he interrupts once more, though he has nothing to say at all. Marriage. Babies. Jesus Christ, you are the baby. He’s got jackets older than you. 

“We haven’t thought about it—I mean, I ask him about it sometimes, but nothing serious,” you tell her honestly, the corners of your mouth drooping downwards in a frown.

You are one unhappy little girl and he is in for one hell of a ride back home. 

“I never make plans that far ahead,” he says, rehearsed, before your soured mood runs off the edges of your face and into the rest of the room. Distemper in a dogfighting ring. 

“Hm.” You make a noise beside him, knee bumping his under the table. It’s a touchy subject. An untouchable subject, actually, because he refuses to sit down and talk about it, he shuts it down immediately. You can’t make babies with a baby, that’s just plain wrong. 

(But you can fuck said baby every which way. You can spit in the baby’s mouth and spank her raw. That’s perfectly normal.) 

“The next time I see you, Leon, it better be at your wedding,” Ashley warns him, a burnt orange blazer draped over her slender shoulders as she primps herself up enough to face a camera or two. “I’m happy to help with, well, with everything, I have a lot of time and money to waste so don’t think you’re bothering me. Oh and another thing—Leon?”

“Yeah?” He shifts from foot to foot, the arm circling your waist drops to his side limply. 

“You can call me anytime, you know that, right?” She stares at him, right through him with her big brown eyes. “And you know I can see when you’ve read my texts, right?” 

Leon nods stiffly, he stands there like a fucking scarecrow when she wraps her arms around his neck.

“I know,” he mumbles into perfumed hair. 

When you ask him, “Why didn’t you hug her back?”

He tells you, “I didn’t want to make you jealous.”

“I don’t get jealous.” That’s right. You’re a very self-assured little girl with your head screwed on right, he can’t go around telling such obvious lies. 

“Dunno, just felt weird,” Leon admits, plucking the fuzz off your sweater to keep his hands busy, “haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“That’s your fault.” You walk ahead and he knows you’re pissed. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

The air crackles with tension, heavy enough to shift the layout of Leon’s home a little to the left—Or maybe you really have gone and done that without telling him, taking over his world with parts of your own - it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary. That’s got to be some form of gaslighting. He can’t even see the TV from this angle. 

“Baby?” Leon calls out.

You poke your head out of the kitchen. 

“Did you move my chair to the left or am I losing it?” He shifts in his seat, moves from left to right, leans back to try and understand what has gone on. 

“You’re losing it, I moved it to the right.” You wipe your wet hands on your skirt, it borders on frumpy, makes your hips look even wider. He pretends that he hasn’t ever thought about knocking you up. 

“Why, baby?” You’re testing his patience, being short with him, huffing and puffing and sticking your nose in the air.

“Because it looks better, but I can’t do it when you’re home ‘cause you never get up.” Carefully, you edge towards him, skirting around the room until you find yourself in daddy’s lap. 

The weight is grounding, his hands find your hips in no time, fingers dimpling the fat as he squeezes down to ease whatever is going on inside of him. “You can’t stay mad at me, baby.”

“Yes I can.” 

“Who’s gonna take care of you then, hm?” Leon asks, sliding his cold hands under shirt to grope your heavy tits. He pretends that he hasn’t thought about running his fingers over your lace bra to find milky wet patches. That he hasn’t thought about you, glassy-eyed and in desperate need of daddy’s help, pushing your leaky tits against his chest and begging him, pleading with him to take on the role of dairy farmer for the day.  

“I can take care of myself.” You shrug. So cold, so cute. “But you, daddy.” You kiss his nose. “Without me, you can’t even remember to take your meds.” 

That’s right. You did well without him. You didn’t need a daddy until you found the right daddy. You wanted a daddy so dearly, but you can take care of yourself just fine. You can pour your own juice and you can tie your laces and fix your hair just fine, it’s just better when daddy does it for you. 

“True,” Leon mumbles, he kneads your breasts contemplatively,  “but it’s good to ask daddy for things, I don’t want you getting hurt doing it on your own.” 

“I have bandaids.” Comes your rebuttal. 

“Baby, you’re being mean.” Leon’s voice verges on a whine. 

“I’m not being mean, Leon.” You let yourself melt into him, fat tits spilling through the gaps in his fingers. His hands are small and there’s too much of you to contain. “Why don’t you want to marry me?” 

That’s a loaded question. One he can’t quite answer because there’s no real answer and he doesn’t really want to answer it.

“You’re too good for me.” 

“Oh my goood,” you groan, rolling your eyes so hard you age backwards, and it really makes you look like a teenager—A little girl—It makes him feel like your father. Not your daddy, but your father. And hell, he’s old enough to play the part. 

“What?” 

“It turns me off when you say shit like that, like ohhh I’m such a old loser, I can’t even get it up, baby, why are you even with me?” You do your best Leon impression, it almost makes him smile. “You literally want everyone to feel bad for you all the time, and you know what, Leon?”

“What?” Leon says again. He’s feeling parched. Lightheaded. Sick. Psychotic. Bad. Just fucking bad. Everything gets so bad when you’re not smiling at him.

“I can’t feel bad for you if you don’t tell me what’s going on—You don’t tell anyone what’s going on so nobody feels bad for you.” You stand up, his hands are left cold and empty. “Only you feel bad for yourself, you literally sit around all day drinking and feeling shitty about sitting around and drinking—You don’t even want to do anything anymore, you didn’t even want to see Ashley today! She loves you so much, she’s your friend and you can’t even text her back because, because… Well, I don’t even know!”

“Baby—“

“You don’t go to therapy and you forget to take your meds, and, and I have to remind you all the time and—“ You take a breath, your lips moving soundlessly as you count to ten. “I don’t mind doing that for you, I like taking care of you and I like when you take care of me—It makes me happy that you let me y’know do that…” You gesture to a stray pacifier on the coffee table. “And I love you, Leon, but it’s just like you never want to fix anything, you just want to stay like this and I don’t want that, Leon—“

“Babe–“

”I told you that I wanted to get married, I told you that it would be a problem for me if you didn’t want kids, Leon—I don’t want to be with you if you don’t want that with me, I told you that before we got serious and you said yes and now—“ You throw your hands in the air, cutting yourself off with a half-aborted sob and splitting his heart right down the middle.

“It’s not like that, baby,” Leon starts gently, pushing up out of his armchair so he can hold you like you need to be held, “I didn’t… It’s not you, you know that don’t you? You’re perfect, you’re a good girl, it’s just…”

“What?” You press your face into his chest, searching for comfort as you run your hands over his back. “It’s what?”

“It’s me.” 

“Oh my god, Leon.” Your voice breaks, and you look up at him. For a minute it’s like you’re in soft-focus, like you’re a love letter gone yellow with time, sepia-stained and unspeakably tender and—and the reel is burning away because you’re too beautiful to last forever. You’re the most fragile little package, stamped to handle with care and he’s tossed you onto someone's lawn and you’re going to be plucked away by a porch pirate and—God, he’s such a fuck-up. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

Might be cliche, but it’s true. It’s him, not you. It’s always him. It’s why he’s been alone for so long. It’s not work, it’s not what happened in Spain or Talk Oaks, not even Raccoon City—Not mom, not dad, not Ada or Jack or Ashley or the fucking President, it’s not some grand, tragic circumstance—It’s just him. 

“If I marry you…” Leon’s mouth dries up while he flicks through a mental Rolodex of excuses. 

I drink too much. I’m depressed and probably bipolar. I’m infertile. You’re a baby, I can’t have babies with a baby. You’re too young. I’m too old. Especially for kids. I look like I could be your dad. I’m suicidal and needy and if we have kids what if you like them more than me? I work a lot. What if I put our kids in danger? What if I put you in danger? What if I’m a shit dad? What if you stop liking me after we tie the knot? You’re so young, you have your whole life ahead of you and you want to marry an old man? You should leave me for someone younger. Please don’t leave me. 

All of it is true, although none of it is an honest answer to your question—The answer is quite simple really—Leon won’t marry you because he refuses to be happy. 

“If I marry you,” he says again, eyes flickering from your eyes to your pout, “what will Sherry think?” 

Your hands are in tight fists by your sides, bottom

lip trembling as you struggle to remain impassive—And he knows you like the back of his hand, like the veins in his dick—That wrinkled nose could only mean one thing. You’re not about to cry, you’re mad at him. 

“Leon.” Your jaw tightens, grinding your teeth into a fine powder. “You know Sherry isn’t thinking about you, right?”

“How could you say that?” He asks, somewhere between hurt and confused. 

“I’m just… Like, fuck, Leon!” You angle your face away from him, cycling through every stage of grief as you gather your thoughts. “It’s not about what Sherry wants or what she’s thinking or whatever, it’s about what I want and what you want.” 

“But—“

“She isn't a part of our relationship, Leon, nobody is.” You tilt your head back, looking up at the ceiling and squeezing your eyes shut. Praying or doing a breathing exercise. “Like… Like you don’t like Jake and she still married him because he makes her happy, Leon—Why don’t you want to be happy with me, Leon?”

“I am happy,” he lies. 

“Don’t lie to me, Leon—Do I not make you happy, is that what it is?” You look at him helplessly and he stands there with nothing to say. 

“You do make me happy,” Leon insists softly, you’re the only thing that makes him happy. Light of his life, apple of his eye, the centre of his whole entire world.

“I just don’t get it anymore, Leon.” 

Oh, god.

“I don’t… I made it clear that I wanted something serious, I want to marry you and I want to have kids with you—I don’t get why you would lead on me like that.” You cross your arms over your chest, bracing for his answer. “Has all of this been for nothing?”

To be entirely frank - Leon is being selfish. 

He’d rather keep you in limbo than let you move on with someone else. He doesn’t want to think about you in bed with someone else, calling someone else daddy, letting them touch you and take care of you—It makes him dizzy, he’s getting jealous of a guy he made up in his fucking head. You’re the only good thing in his piece of shit life and he has no intention of letting you go—He really should, and he probably would if you asked him a year ago, before the D word but now—

Leon feels out of place. 

If he’s not your daddy, then who is he? 

“You’re just… You’re just freaking out ‘cause Ashley put it in your head,” Leon retorts childishly, “we don’t need a baby to be happy.” You’re the only baby he needs to be happy. 

“Are you kidding, Leon?” Your nose is running and you wipe at your face with balled up fists. “Don’t make this about Ashley, you know that isn’t the problem—I really can’t believe you, if you're not serious about me then why are you still with me?”

Truthfully, he didn’t mean for all of this to go so far - then your toothbrush joined his, your Sylvanians found a nice spot on his mantle next to the potpourri, the whole daddy thing happened—

And all of that means that this is not a midlife crisis or a fling or a distraction. 

It means that you’re his girlfriend, the woman he loves.

“I am serious about you.” 

We just want different things, would be the right way to put it. It’s not entirely true, but Leon doesn’t know how to tell you that peace is unrecognisable to him. He doesn’t know what it feels like, it scares him, the finality of marriage and kids and all of these childish dreams he had so long ago—It’s scary, and it takes a lot and Leon could shoulder the whole fucking world if he had to and the whole fucking world is a lot. He’s done it before. Jesus Christ, he’s fought creatures that go beyond the scope of human understanding, but all of it comes to an end. Fights end. Missions get completed. Damsels are saved and monsters are slain and Leon gets home okay as he can be. 

But this… Marriage. There’s no way out—Like, there’s divorce, obviously, but something about marriage is permanent. He can’t shoot a gun and get out of a marital dispute, and he can’t outrun a missed birthday because ultimately he has to come home to you.

Coming home to you sounds good. It is good. It’s the reason he bothers coming home after work instead of bumming around in bars like he used to. But, but, but it’s about trust and working together and while nothing will really change you’ll legally own him and he’ll legally be yours and that’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young to take on and technically you’re already doing all of these responsible things for him and—Marriage is just different, okay?

“I don’t think you are, Leon.” You blink at him slowly, sadly. 

“I am,” Leon insists because he is serious about this. About you. He loves you and he knows that, but he’s fine with what you have now. Girlfriend-Boyfriend. Daddy and baby. “I am, baby, but don’t you think that we're moving into this too fast?”

“It’s been two years, Leon.” Another slow, sad blink, you look off to the side. “I told you I was dating to marry, Leon, I told you what I wanted, I want kids with you—And I’m sorry but you’re not getting any younger, if you’re just wasting my time—“

Something sharp and ugly takes hold of his chest. ”You just think I’m gonna blow my brains out before I give you a baby, that's all you want from me.” That isn’t what Leon wanted to say, but the room is getting too small and that struck a fucking nerve. 

“Excuse me?” 

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A rotten sole-crushed peach, that's all he is, it’s true. And he doesn’t deserve you, but he doubles down selfishly. “You think I’m gonna blow my brains out before I give you a kid,” he repeats, “that’s why you’re freaking out about this now.” Leon’s so very talented at fucking things up. Paperwork, his liver, his entire fucking life. 

“No… That’s not—Are you kidding me? Is that all you got from this, Leon?” You’re looking at him with these accusatory eyes and you’re not calling him daddy or tugging at the back of his shirt for attention. “How could you say that about me? Is that what you think of me?”

Leon would like to say no and he’d like to apologise, instead he fumes silently, teeth clenched so tightly they’ve started to ache. “C’mon, use your big girl words and tell me the truth.” He’s not very tall, but he’s taller than you - he looks down his nose at you. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, Leon.” The shift in his behaviour is new, you’re used to his self-loathing, his laziness and reluctance and his general unlikeability, but this—Leon has never been mad at you, and he doesn’t want to be mad at you and he’s more mad at himself than he is you—But still, like, he looks mad at you and he can see the way you’re trembling, puffing out your chest and standing your ground to appear so much bigger than you are. It breaks his heart, he’s the worst daddy ever. The most dick-headed jerk of a boyfriend and you’re still here. Fighting for him, well, with him, you’re here and you’re fighting with him, that’s still something. 

“Why not?” Leon tilts his head to the side, his face softening in faux confusion. “You like it so much, don’t you?”

God, maybe he’s not so normal after all, and you haven’t fixed him, and bad thoughts always come back, and if he was normal he wouldn’t be wanting to jump off every balcony and walk into every main road and disappear into bodies of water.

Leon isn’t normal. Big surprise.

He’s just starting to realise that it doesn’t matter how many people love him, it doesn’t matter how many medals he’s awarded, it doesn’t matter that he’s a treasure to some degree, an old gun worth keeping—None of it matters, Leon realises, none of it will ever fucking matter because he is who he is. 

Leon is going to lead a miserable dogshit life because he can and he will and it doesn’t matter how many good or bad things happen to him, it doesn’t matter who he falls asleep next to - he’ll still feel shitty in the morning. 

(At the end of the day, he’s a Kennedy, and no Kennedy has ever been particularly lucky.) 

“I’m trying to be serious, Leon, and you’re acting like a child!” Your bottom lip quivers, and you’re probably wondering where your daddy has gone. “I can’t… I can’t believe you’re talking to me like that right now.” 

Neither can Leon. 

Guilt coils in his gut like a snake, constricting and hissing in the back of his head that he should know better, he’s so much older, he’s your daddy, and he’s meant to take care of you. That’s what daddies are for.  

“I don’t want to… I don’t want to force you into this, Leon, I don’t want to make you marry me if you don’t want me—“ He does want you. He wants you so bad. “—I don’t want to force you to have kids with me if you’re not ready, I just wish you had told me before I moved in with you—“ The hurt that crosses your face strikes him right in the heart, teardrops beading your gossamer lashes. 

“No, no, no, I’m sorry, baby,” he says softly, quietly, earnestly, not daring to take a step closer because he doesn’t deserve to feel you or smell you or touch you, “I want to be with you, I love you.” 

“I don’t know anymore, Leon.” You look to him helplessly, blinking up at him with these big doleful eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, equally as helpless, “I don’t know.” 

He’s your daddy, he’s meant to know, but he doesn’t, so he just stands there like an idiot. 

“I’m sad,” you tell him honestly, “I’m going to go upstairs now.”

Leon goes to follow you.

“Don't follow me.”

Leon goes back to standing there like a fucking idiot. 

[viceroywrites]

the way i have this whole story for gravity falls (stan x reader x ford) and am so tempted to write it but i need to finish my other wips

so i'll just dump it out here (some of this is also somewhat inspired by the swooning over stans dating sim)

edit: i ended up making it! interested in reading? click here for the masterlist.

-

pretty much the premise is that you are dating ford during the time that he's deep into his research into gravity falls. you become uncomfortable seeing how bill takes over his body and the havoc bill causes when he's in ford's body and after seeing what happened to fiddleford when entering the portal, give him an ultimatum: cut ties with bill or you're done.

of course, ford chooses his research. ford chooses bill.

you can't get over him, and after countless nights of tears, you appeal to fiddleford to let you use his memory gun to erase the memory of ford from your mind.

and he does.

you move back home, confused on how you ended up in a small town in oregon but fiddleford makes up a story, saying you were an old friend, visiting him while he was doing research. you lead a normal life free of the paranormal for many years. you sometimes have dreams, visions of a face that should be familiar but you can't seem to make it out.

planning out a roadtrip through the pacific northwest, you find yourself in explicably drawn to the town of gravity falls and figure you might as well check it out since it's on the way through your drive up to washington, you figure why not.

your car ends up dying on you, the battery giving out almost five miles out of town. as you're on the phone trying to map to the nearest towing company, a gruff voice calls out, asking if you need a hand.

you look up to see stan, his window rolled down and his arm dangling out the side of the car.

why does he look familiar? you think to yourself as you put down your phone.

"yeah if you have jumper cables, i just need to get my car running to get to the next town and hopefully get a replacement battery." you say.

"of course, i have jumper cables, kid - look at my car, you think i haven't been stranded out here myself." stan chuckles, making a effortless u turn with one hand before pulling his car close to yours.

you pop the hood of your car, giving stan access to hook up the jumper cables. you both stand in silence while stan attaches the cables to your car before stan's voice cuts through, "so uh, what brings you out here? you just driving through?"

you almost chuckle at his awkwardness, "sort of. i'm doing a whole road trip through the pacific northwest. i was gonna check out this town ahead, gravity falls."

stan blinks, expecting you to just be passing through the town. his lips spread into a grin, pulling out a business card from his leather jacket. "well, if you're stopping by, you gotta check out the mystery shack! one stop shop for mysterious oddities!"

you take the business card with a giant question mark on the front. you look up at stan, almost feeling like this is a con but as your car starts up to life, you figure you might as well check out what sounds like a tourist trap to appease the man who just helped you.

after driving your car to the mystery shack, you get a tour from stan himself, who shares that he used to be the former owner. as you walk around the building, it almost feels like home, like you've been here before.

talk about deja vu.

little did you know that you would run into the man that you once loved as you rounded the corner, finishing the tour. ford was outside fiddling with a new device with his back turned to you and stan elbows you in the arm, "that's my poindexter brother, ford. he's always working on a some geeky invention."

"you know i can hear you, stanley?" ford sighs, turning around to face you two.

he freezes, seeing the woman that left him all those years ago. "y/n?" he calls out to you.

you blink, stan staring at the two of you in confusion and you tilt your head, confused yourself, "sorry... have we met before? how do you know my name?"

[annebaby]

hello all! its summer break, so hopefully i will stay motivated to write. one of my friends helped me come up with this idea, so i hope you like!!

warnings: fingering (r receiving), kissing, biting, public sex

divider from here!

coffee shop 

college english - absolutely horrific. i’ve gotten a new essay assignment every week, each one being over a topic that was far too complex to make sense of. however, i had aced all of them. 

so this week, i was fully prepared to ace another essay. my brain had been working overtime trying to predict the upcoming topic. 

i travelled to the college’s local coffee shop, looking forward to my headphones, an iced matcha, and a few hours of pure focus. 

i entered the shop, finding a seat tucked in the back corner. i set my stuff down and went up to order, feeling my phone vibrate while i was waiting for my drink. 

it was an email from my professor with this weeks essay assignment. 

“how do you challenge yourself to let go of things stopping you from being independent?” 

what the fuck?

normally, this would be an easy topic. an easy answer to a simple question. but right now - it wasn’t. 

i had just gotten over a fresh breakup with my now-ex girlfriend, kate martin. it was hard enough seeing her as the poster athlete all over campus, being reminded of her looming residence in my heart. 

however, i recently had begun to work on myself and forgetting all the memories we had once shared. our breakup was civil, but the constant gossip of every recent hookup she had was like a dagger to the heart. 

i prayed this assignment wouldn’t bring up all those feelings again. it was hard enough to get to where i was now. countless nights of crying to my roommates, eating junk food, drinking, etc. had gotten me to where i was now. i was happy. 

that was until i saw my english assignment. 

“iced matcha latte!” the barista called out. 

i walked up to the counter, thanking her before sitting back down in my corner and opening my laptop. i put on my headphones, taking a deep breath before locking in and starting to write. 

i wrote for what seemed like hours. i wrote about how i had gotten over my recent breakup by working out, giving myself time, and hanging out with friends (minus the excessive drinking). it was hard not to think about her blonde hair sprawled across my pillows when she would stay over. it was hard not to think about the way she would kiss me after she won a game. it was hard not to - wait, no. 

i wasn’t doing this again. i couldn’t do this again. 

i took my headphones off and paused my music, taking a break from the writing. i looked up and noticed how crowded the coffee shop had actually gotten. people had been piling in, and now it was almost full. 

the line was at least 7 people long, each one talking to another person with them. i smiled to myself, feeling happiness radiating throughout the cafe. 

until i saw that blonde hair. it wasn’t cascading over my pillows though. it was falling onto the shoulder of the girl she had brought with her. kate martin and the new mystery girl of the week, who would’ve guessed?

i scowled at the sight of them, anger filling my veins to distract me from my jealous, sad feelings. i wanted that to be me. that SHOULD be me. 

fuck, why am i like this? 

i pop my headphones back on my head, resuming the music with the volume all the way up. i try to ignore her presence, acting like i simply never saw her at all. its easier that way. i don’t want to see her doting on another new girl. 

i regain my focus on my essay, but this time the words aren’t coming out as easily. instead, i was re-typing all my sentences. each word was filled with hate and anger, reflecting my feelings in this situation. 

frustrated, i look up across the shop, immediately catching kate already staring at me. 

god. 

i quickly look away, pausing my music and heading to the restroom. i shut the door behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror. all i see is a women who is defeated. a woman who is tired, angry and upset. 

before i let the tears fall, i put my face in my hands. im squeezing my face, gently tugging on my own hair, and sighing out of anger. my leg starts subconsciously bouncing up and down, my anger starting to physically course through me.

the door opens. i turn my head to see the very person causing me to be this way. 

kate notices me completely disheveled, locking the door behind her. 

“hey, are you okay?” she asks. her hand reaches for my shoulder, but i stand back.

“im fine,” i say, trying to push my way past her back out to my laptop, my sanctuary. 

but, she won’t let me pass. instead, she picks me up and sets me onto the bathroom counter, standing between my legs. i look away, not being able to look her in the eyes with tears now generously streaming down my cheeks. 

“you’re not fine,” she says, cautiously wiping my tears. i swat her hand away.

“what makes you think you’re still allowed to touch me? talk to me like this?” i bawl.

i hop off the counter, now standing in front of her. 

“go back to this week’s fuck and leave me alone,” i head for the door, but i’m stopped as kate grabs my wrist and pulls me back around to face her, unbearably close. 

“please, just talk to me,” kate pleads. 

i squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the pain flooding throughout my head. 

i look up at her, tears still falling down my face. 

“you’re such an assho-

i’m cut off by kate’s hands on either side of my face, pulling me in for a sweet, hungry kiss. my hands hover over her, surprise engulfing me as i struggled to comprehend what was happening. 

she pulled back, looking at me between my eyes. she was desperately trying to assess my reaction. 

a moment of boldness was all it took for me to lose all control, and there was no need for her to assess when my hands reached her waist and pulled her into me. i smashed my lips to hers, her hands gripping my ass. 

i groaned into her and she uses her opportunity to invade my mouth. taken aback, i stumble backwards until my ass is against the sink of the restroom.

“jump,” she whispers.

i suddenly realize how unfortunate this situation is - making out with my ex girlfriend in a coffee shop while she’s out with another girl. 

its almost as if kate sees the realization cross my face when she says, ”its fine, its fine," against my neck. her voice gives me chill bumps, flashbacks to our previous encounters flashing through my mind.

her fingers are toying with the waistband of my shorts, dipping in and out teasingly. i feel her lips moving and nipping at my neck, no doubt leaving marks for me to discover later - kate’s signature move.

i whined her name, practically begging for her to slip her fingers in me. she smirked against my skin. i hated being so needy, but kate loved to tease. i could not handle that right now.

“please kate, please,” i whispered. 

“what do you want?” she breathed.

her stupid pride. her stupid ego. had i really forgotten the way she’d make me beg for her? i laughed. 

“you don’t deserve to hear me beg.”

i grab her wrist and move her fingers to my center, immediately feeling her fingers tense at my wetness. 

i grab her shoulder with my free arm, my forehead digging into her neck. her fingers started tracing circles on my most sensitive spot, causing me to bite her shoulder to keep myself from moaning. in response, i feel two of her fingers dive into me, curling and straightening as she fucks me with them. i lift my head up to look at her face, her eyes looking downward between us the whole time. 

“fuck,” i whisper. i feel myself coming undone, seeing her that focused on the connection between us was sending me over the edge.

she smiles and meets my eyes quickly. 

“c’mon, you can do it,” she breathes. she leans forward and takes my bottom lip in between her lip, tugging on it. i felt the tightness in my stomach loosen. 

kate breathed out as if she had been holding a breath this entire time. she helped me finish out my high, before sticking her fingers in her mouth, licking them clean of me. 

she stands in front of me, unphased. meanwhile, i’m heaving, my legs shaking and cramping. i look at her, my face puffy from my previous crying.

and we just start laughing. i hop off the counter, standing on my tip toes to give her a quick kiss. this felt like old times, our feelings felt like they had never left.

“tell your whore that i’m back,” i whisper. 

her eyes widen in amusement, her hands finding a resting spot on my waist. 

“i’ll be at your place later so we can talk about… this.” i motion back and forth between us.

i leave her grasp and walk back out in the coffee shop, returning to my laptop. smiling to myself, i read the essay that i had so effortlessly typed out. i delete the entire thing before closing my laptop. 

i couldn’t write about being independent after my ex girlfriend had ruthlessly fucked me in the coffee shop bathroom. 

[backtothefanfiction]

No One Like You | Manny Alvarez Imagine

Summary: He always just wanted to be a good soldier and survive… until he met you.

Warnings: 16+, show typical violence, angst, fluff, reader insert, complicated relationship, a little trauma, spoilers for Season 2 Episode 2 if you still haven’t watched it

Word Count: 3.3k+

A/N: I’m still not fully sure I’m happy with where I’ve ended this but I wanted to keep the ending ambiguous. Do they stay together? Don’t they? Maybe one day I’ll decide and write more but for now, that’s entirely up to you.

Be a good soldier. Follow orders. Be a part of the team- and you might just survive. Those were the only things that had been drilled into his head since this all started. And it was going well for him too. The only thing that ever made him contemplate straying from those three easy steps was you.

You were a great shot, easy on eyes (even in your 3 day old uniform all dirty and sweaty from hunting down infected) and you always had his back.

His heart rate would always pick up when he found you were out on rotation with each other. He should have reported it to his superiors. Told them he struggled to look out for the whole team evenly when you were around. That it made him a liability. But he didn’t.

It was just a crush, nothing serious. It’d pass within a month, he told himself. But it didn’t.

“Yo Manny?” You said getting his attention, “You okay there?” You asked. He had been staring off into space again.

You were both on break, taking a moment to chill out on the top floor of the training building.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said coldly, trying to get you off his back. You knew it was an act. The ‘I’m a tough guy, I don’t have feelings’ act. But you knew there was more to him than that. Seen the few times he’d hesitated on mission. Seen the way he stared at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?” you asked him.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he affirmed, but you knew from the way he shuffled in his seat there was something eating away at him.

“Okay then,” you sassed him lightly as you moved your attention back out to the view, but you could sense him bristling out the corner of your eye- he was clearly stewing about something.

“Do you ever question it?” he suddenly asked, his voice low so no one else would hear you, but the only other Fireflies that were up here were way on the other side of the room to you both.

“What?” You asked, turning to him intrigued.

“All this,” he said, faintly gesturing to your surroundings and the other people in the room. “What we do?”

“Having second thoughts about what side you chose?” You asked him.

“No!” he said adamantly. “I just…” his voice faltered as he struggled to put his thoughts into the world. “I know this is better than being in the QZ,” he said.

“But?” You asked him, dragging out the word as you encouraged him to continue.

“What if there’s another way of living? Away from all this,” he said as your eyes narrowed on him.

You never would have put him down as a thinker like this. He had always been so assured of himself as a soldier. A survivor.

“A way to actually live?” he questioned hopefully.

“Isn’t that what we’re fighting for?” you asked him.

He looked around at the fellow rebels that surrounded us. Fellow soldiers just following orders for self elected higher ups with a vision that was still fully unclear. “I think I’m just fighting for the sake of fighting,” he finally replied. “Because it’s all I’ve ever done. I was just a kid when all this started. My parents didn’t even survive day 1. I was all on my own. I was 8 years old. I learnt pretty quickly how to fight and fend for myself. I don’t think I’ve ever really stopped,” he confessed.

“Do you want to?” You asked, intrigued by this new vulnerable side he was showing you.

“I don’t know,” he replied before he hesitated, his eyes raking up and down the full length of your body, from your pulled back hair all the way down to your boots as he seemed to be making a decision. “But it would be nice to have the option to decide,” he finally said and you sighed.

“Y/N,” a rookie called out to you as you were both leaving the room to go back out on patrol. “Doc wants you downstairs for some tests,” she said.

“What sort of tests?” Manny asked for you, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

“I don’t know, just routine ones I guess. All the women are getting tests done,” she informed.

“You too?” he asked.

“I guess so,” she replied. “I mean I haven’t been asked yet but I’m new so my name’s probably near the bottom of the roster.”

“Okay,” you agreed steadily, but you couldn’t deny the small dose of fear that flooded your veins. Tests usually meant needles- and you fucking hated needles. “Tell them I’ll be down in a minute,” you said and the younger recruit nodded before beginning her descent back down to the labs.

“What do you think it’s for?” Manny asked as you both began to slowly follow the recruit down at your own pace.

“Who knows? Probably just some routine health check,” you said optimistically.

“Then why isn’t everyone getting called in?” Manny asked skeptically.

“Maybe they will. Maybe they’re doing it this way to spice it up. They’ll probably go through all the men next week or something,” you replied.

“You want me to wait for you?” he asked when you both landed on the floor that held the labs.

“Nah, who knows how long this is gonna take. You guys go without me,” you said, encouraging him to go back down to the barracks without you.

“I’ll see you later though, yeah?” he said, already two steps down the next flight of stairs.

“Dinner at 7?” you joked as if it wasn’t at the same time every day. “Wouldn’t miss it,” you said, shooting him a smile and he quickly shot you one back before he hit the bottom step and pivoted to move down the next ones.

Little did he know, he wouldn’t see you again at 7. He wouldn’t see you at all. After that afternoon you just disappeared like you hadn’t existed at all.

When he asked his superiors about you, they pretended like they didn’t know. Maybe they had found part of the cordyceps in your system and had to put you down. Maybe they transferred you out to another branch of the rebellion. Maybe you had heard his words and just run off. Who knew? He certainly didn’t. And he doubted he’d ever get an answer either.

Without you around he became jaded. You were the only person who made him feel hope for something more. So when that Joel guy came along a few days later and massacred the majority of the fireflies in the building, he had nothing left to lose when Abby asked him to go with her to track him down. After all, it’s what he did best right. Working as a team. Following orders. Killing things. That’s all this life could ever be if he wanted to survive. And he wanted to survive.

It was a long journey. For ages they felt like they were going in circles, looking for any sign or evidence of where this Joel guy went. It felt like the blind leading the blind. They searched and they hunted. They took down infected and did anything and everything to find this Joel guy.

It took years, but eventually they did.

Abby was mostly mad by the time they all found him. She was so lucky he just fell into her lap the way he did. There was something twisted knowing he had just saved her life for her to take his, but at the end of the day, that was the mission and Manny was a good soldier if nothing else.

They left before anyone else could find them, headed back west towards Seattle. They had found a new group of rebels that way, a new group to join. After all, there was strength in numbers.

It wasn’t too long a journey, but with the snow storm they needed to find a place to rest again until it all blew over. They thought the town was deserted. There was no one on the streets. That’s because they were all bunkered down together in the old school.

He wasn’t sure who had started to fire first, all he knew was that he’d already killed three people. It was just instinct at this point, shoot first and ask questions later. Protect your team, no matter the cost.

It was a fire fight through the halls, the group of them slowly pushing the civilians back- but one of them stood out amongst the rest. He couldn’t get a good look at her, but she was clearly a good shot and was taking point on their defence. He could just about make out her voice over the sounds of gun fire. It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

“I’m going after the leader,” he informed Nora who was taking cover in a doorway across from him. She gave him a brief nod, providing him a small amount of cover as he quickly began to move down the hall.

“STOP SHOOTING!” the familiar woman’s voice suddenly shouted. “STOP SHOOTING!” she cried again before she boldly stepped forward from her hiding place.

“DON’T SHOOT!” she called out as she walked out with her hands raised into the middle of the hall and Manny froze. He felt like he was seeing a ghost.

“Y/N?” he asked tentatively, his weapon still aimed at you defensively but you didn’t show fear.

You both heard the clicking sound of a bullet being moved into the chamber of a gun behind him.

“DON’T SHOOT!” he quickly turned and shouted as he spotted both Abby and Nora stood a few paces behind him with their weapons raised. “Don’t shoot,” he said again, his weapon lowering as he turned back to take you in.

It had been so long. He thought you were dead.

“Who is this man? Who are they?” A gruff older voice came from behind you as a man in a red flannel and braces stepped into the hallway behind you.

“They’re okay,” you quickly told him, “I know him. He’s an old friend,” you said, your eyes turning back to Manny fondly. “I mean, we are okay right? We can talk this out like adults,” you almost pleaded as you searched his eyes for just a hint of the man you knew he had been deep down.

He knew the rest of his team wouldn’t understand. Knew he would have to do all he could to keep them from doing any more damage, but you were here- standing right in front of him- alive and well and thriving and he had to know. Needed to know what had happened to you. How you had ended up here? Why you left him without even a word.

“Yes,” he said with a nod.

“Give us your weapons as assurance,” the older guy said and Manny willingly dropped his weapon for the first time in 20 years.

Reluctantly the others at his back did the same, sliding their weapons across the floor with their feet so the old guy could collects them.

“Can we take shelter from the the storm with you?” Manny asked you as you stepped closer to him.

You gave him a nod, “But your friends have to mind their manners,” you informed him.

He gave you a small nod before turning back to the rest of his team, ushering them forward to follow the other guys at your back towards the gymnasium where everyone else was hunkered down with food and blankets.

You could feel him hesitate in the doorway at your back before he reached out his hand for your arm.

“We need to talk,” he said lowly into your ear, his eyes scanning the full length and width of the room behind you. You quickly did the same before you gave him a silent nod and began to guide him back in the other direction towards one of the open science labs.

When you were both inside you closed the door, not wanting anyone else to be privy to this particular conversation.

“What happened to you?” he immediately asked racing forward to crowd your space. He was still as good looking as ever- even if his curls had grown out a bit more and were now getting into his eyes where they’d been on the road so long. “I tried to ask, I was so worried. They made me think that you were dead,” he said frantically.

You hesitated, unsure of how to tell him what had happened that day. What had happened to you in the days after. You had been relegated from loyal soldier to prime test subject in a matter of hours. They knew that girl was headed there. Knew there was a living human being who was immune.

“It wasn’t just a routine check up,” you told him, your eyes growing sad at the memory. “They were looking for prime candidates to test their little vaccine on when it came in,”

“What vaccine?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“There was a girl. She was found by one of the fireflies out in Boston. She was immune Manny. That guy who came and killed everyone. He did it because of her.”

Manny continued to frown as he processed that information. Usually when he thought like this he liked to pace a little, it helped him focus, but he didn’t want to stop looking at you for even a single second now he knew you were here and alive.

“Manny, they injected me with some of her blood,” you said earnestly, holding his gaze. He was the first person you had ever told this. It had been eating you alive for years keeping it a secret, but you knew you had to.

“They didn’t know what they were doing,” you said, your words coming quickly now, like breaking a hole in a damn and now everything was spilling out. But he was the only person who would understand. The only person who had known you before. “But it worked,” you whispered to him, so afraid that anyone would listen in and hear you.

“What?” he asked confused.

“It worked,” you said again, fighting to quickly lift your shirt and push down your trousers to show him the bite mark on your hip.

“Wait, you got bitten?” he urgently said in a hushed tone, his body quickly moving forward to crowd you further and hide you even though there was no one else around.

“But nothing happened,” you insisted, quickly trying to cover yourself up again, but you froze at the feeling of his thumb moving over your skin.

“When?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as he traced his thumb backwards and forwards over the raised scar.

“Nearly five years ago,” you said shakily, your breathing becoming shallow at the feeling of his touch and the closeness of his body. “I thought everybody was dead. I thought…” you hesitated as you tried to confess to him the thing that had broken you the most. “I thought you were dead,” you said to him bravely. “I just- ran.” you told him as his thumb came to a stop, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

“I remembered what you said over lunch that day. Figured there had to be something more. So I ran. Moved across the country and back again until I landed here.”

“Does anyone know about…?” His voice hesitated, not wanting to say the words out loud just in case.

“No.” You shook your head.

“Why are you telling me?” he asked curiously.

“Because you were my best friend,” you confided. “Despite everything we went through, there’s no one I trust more,” you said and he finally stepped back, his hands rubbing at his eyes in what you feared was frustration.

“And what do you expect me to do now?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but- Manny please,” you said stepping forward, your hands reaching out for him. He froze. “I thought you were dead. Had I known I would have come back for you.”

“What does that mean?” he frowned, irritated and defensive.

“This place, here. You don’t have to fight anymore. We could live- together,” you insisted.

“What?” He said confused, feeling like this whole conversation was spiralling off the rails, before he’d had a chance to grasp it.

“Manny, I’ve found a place here where I can truly live, not just fight and survive all the time. I can relax. Do other things. Be a part of an actual community. We- we could-“ You didn’t know how to say it. “We could have a life together!” You finally spat out. “Oh come on,” you said confidently when he looked at you perplexed. “I know you liked me. I saw the way you looked at me back then. I wasn’t an idiot. I just never said anything because I didn’t see the point. We were soldiers, not just people back then. But now- here- we could live. We could be something.”

“I can’t just abandon my friends!” He said enraged. “And after everything that just went on out there, I doubt we’d be very welcome here in the long run.”

“Okay, then let’s go to Jackson. I hear there’s a large colony of people there.”

“We’ve just come from Jackson,” he said dejectedly and suddenly he couldn’t seeem to meet your eyes.

“What were you guys doing in Jackson?” You tentatively asked him, unsure if you wanted to hear the answer.

“We were hunting down that Joel guy.”

“And did you… find him?” you asked. He nodded. “And?” you presssd.

“Abby killed him.”

There was something about that statement that didn’t sit well with you. You weren’t sure why. I mean, they had been well in their own right to get revenge for what happened to the Fireflies- to your friends- but there was a feeling in your gut, that stemmed from the look on Manny’s face, that told you there was something more.

“What is it?” You asked him. There was clearly something eating him up about the whole thing.

“There was this girl. She gave me this,” he said shifting his hair out the way to show off the cut on his head that had scabbed over. “She seemed to be very stressed about the fact that Abby tracked him down and killed him.”

“You think she’ll come after you all in revenge?” you asked.

“All the more reason for us to get back to the group we found in Seattle. Strength in numbers and all.”

“So that’s it then?” You said to him. “You’re just gonna live the rest of your life as a soldier?” You asked him as he settled himself back on the edge of the desk in front of you.

“It’s all I know.”

“But it doesn’t have to be,” you said to him earnestly, stepping forward and he hesitantly placed his hands on your hips. Slowly he lowered his head until his forehead was nearly resting against yours.

“I missed you,” he confided.

“I’ve thought about you everyday,” you said breathing slow. “I would imagine you were at my side, talking to me. Protecting me. Having my back like you always did. When I got bit, it was your voice in my head telling me to get up. To keep going. I thought you led me here. Because you wanted me to live,” you confessed with tears in your eyes. “You were all I ever wanted. There was no one else like you.”

Suddenly his lips were on yours. They were chapped from days trekking through the cold, but they still set you on fire. You had dreamt of this so many times, but nothing could have prepared you for the real thing.

“You were the only thing I have EVER wanted,” he stressed, your breaths mingling with your closeness. “You were the only person who made me want more in this life.”

“Then stay,” you insisted, your eyes searching his desperately now you finally had him in your arms once again. “Please... Stay.”

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

PLEASE, PLEASE, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; from the corner of a dim-lit host club, you catch the gaze of a handsome monk.

word count; 12k

contents; suguru geto/m!reader, cult leader!geto x host!reader (<- non-sorcerer), reader is described as considerably smaller than geto, the host club culture in this fic is kind of butchered / twisted to suit my own agenda i’m sorry :’3, friends with benefits, bittersweet hurt/comfort (emphasis on hurt), angst, open ended, very suggestive (constant sexual tension; vague dirty talk; very light nipple play; sex is alluded to and briefly shown both in passing and in present, though the descriptions are vague and no explicit terms are used. basically: sexuality and eroticism are present all throughout the fic, but actual smut is evaded.) reader has implied mental health + self-image issues, geto is in denial and repressed and kind of mean, you both refuse to admit what you really want and suffer more for it. heavy satosugu implications + switching povs. unrequited love (but not really.)

a/n; this is the closest any of u are getting to smut. from ari... this fic is not at all typical of me (both with the suggestive /borderline explicit tone, m!reader and a part of geto’s character i don’t often focus on) but still very much up my own alley of tastes and queer longing; i feel like i was born to write this fic …. in a way. and i’m proud of myself for finishing it!! hopefully it’ll make your heart ache in the most pleasant of ways <3 dedicating it to my lonely soulcrushed gays i hope you look at the sea tomorrow without wishing you could wade right in

spit it out, darling /

quietly exposing a double-layered facade /

so, that’s the kind of person you are.

everything you see before you — belongs to you alone.

golden lights, dim flickers of neon, an elysian field of artificial luminescense. music that thrums under your skin, beats along with your heart, crawls up your windpipe with erratic thump, thumps that have the hair on your nape standing on end. there's alcohol in your system, tobacco clouding your mind, a giddy smile on your face. bright lights, loud music, men's voices clouded in deceit. yes, all of this is yours.

every nerve in your skull dances along to the devil's waltz you're in. excitement, lust, pure adrenaline. sweet, so sweet, you could lap it up from the floor.

"why don't you sing us a song, sweetheart?"

you're tipsier than you should be, when you're still on the clock. you can barely recognize the voice, barely tell if it comes from the handsome bartender or your boss or one of the regulars — it doesn't matter, either. your lips grow into a grin.

"sure, sure."

it's a fever dream, a haze, stumbling up to the stage with blood pumping in your chest. your skin feels hot and cold at once, but it's a good feeling, fuzzy, your head stuffed full of cotton. bliss. your hair is tousled, your tie undone, adam's apple bobbing as you grab onto the mic — as your bleary eyes grow focused on the video screen up above. you feel like a beautiful mess, but your vocal cords remain intact.

the music stops, comes to a halt, changes tune. someone shuffled the playlist and now another song is playing. familiar, a heavy baseline, and —

you start to sing. it comes to you naturally, you scarcely need to look at the lyrics.

golden lights, grinning men, your own voice in your frazzled ears. it comes out with a rasp, quickly peeled away, stripped, silky vowels sifting from the base of your throat. you've yet to lose your touch, a sound so beautiful it stops belonging to you the moment it's left your lips. the world looks mesmerizing, when it's confined to a raunchy indoor sunset; your world. center stage, all eyes on you, greedy, lapping at your exposed skin, the smudges of lipstick on your neck. shining under dusty starlight.

everything feels so possible, from here.

this is — vaguely, partially, at the very least in spirit — why you do this. not for the back-alley rendezvous, rough hands pulling at your flesh, the blooming of hydrangeas on your injured skin. not for the alcohol, or the money. actually, you're lying to yourself, it's all of that combined — but this is where your heart lies.

this is where you spit it out for all to see.

their gazes feel good, on your neck, your chest, your waist and your hands. the attention is fuel. you feel like a spectacle, like someone else entirely, shedding skin, just for a couple minutes. you meet their stares, you're sure you're smiling, gleaming through the fog of it all. the chorus melts on your tongue, as your eyes glide through the lounge. all-seeing.

in the corner of the room, a lone shadow flickers.

(and the beating of your heart halts at a pitfall.)

you sing, despite the interruption. meeting the golden, shimmering gaze, catching his eye. the man is seated at a lone table, no host to entertain him. it's hard to see, from here, with the lights and the haze and the whiskey in your veins, but you can make out his figure — wide, clad in heavy garments — just the barest contours of his face. handsome, though, you can tell, can see it in his gaze and the way he's sitting, comfortable and poised. elegant. a beautiful, beautiful jawline.

lowlidded eyes staring deeply into yours.

the song continues, lyrics rolling off your breath, perfectly timed with your overlapping gazes. for just a moment, something sinks its jaws into you.

darling, vague complaints and fridays

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

you think you catch the hint of a smile, on that shadowed face. the lonesome man raises his glass, brings it to his lips. you hope he’s drinking you in just the same, gulping you down, devouring you.

the moment splits in half. another gaze, another man. you're content, to perform for as long as your lungs will allow — until you hear the first clap of hands after a job well done. when it comes, you can only pant into the mic, savour the strain on your throat. the room is spinning. you think you need to sit down, for a while. everything feels like a blur.

"aghh, my shoulder is killing me…"

slim, pretty hands pass you a glass of water, cool against your heated fingertips. you accept it, swirl it around for a moment, just to hear the satisfying clink of ice cubes colliding. slumped against the headrest of a leather sofa, blinking sluggishly as if to rouse your mind into a working state.

"shouldn't have tuckered yourself out so early. the night is still young."

"i know, i know," you hiss, digging the heel of your palm into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. it stings, like someone pressed the butt of a cigarette against your naked skin. when you tilt your head back, a thank you on your tongue, the host is already gone, off to entertain a guest. you're pretty sure someone just asked for a champagne bottle to pop. ah, the noise is bound to grate you…

a raspy sigh pushes past your lips, as you empty the glass with one big gulp.

"what a beautiful voice you have."

a different voice. not one of the hosts. when you look up, still keeping the rim of the glass against your lips — you see a sliver of gold.

for a moment, you wonder if it's…

— nope. it's a tooth.

a big, bulky man, clad in a sleazy red suit, lips curled into a similar grin. your eyes glide across his features, tallying the damage; blonde hair, fat biceps, chest hair exposed… a big nose, that's not bad. the gold tooth is certainly a choice. you wonder if he's going for dirty rich, or classy poor. you're half tempted to ask what bank he co-owns with his father.

instead, you smile.

"ah, you flatter me." the glass clinks when you put it down, scooting over to make space, not-so-subtly. you tilt your head, angle your body until you feel the fabric of your undone blouse start to slip down your shoulder. his eyes drink it in, a moth to a flame. "are you here to spend time with me, mister…?”

a part of you wants to laugh, at how successful the pure, youthful flower schtick is to men like him. it's how you make money, though — you lie successfully.

and he takes the bait. "i think i just might be, yes,” he plops down next to you, legs comfortably spread — his elbows finding purchase on the headrest.

"i'll have to make it worth your while, then, won't i?"

a rumbling chuckle. the man fishes a cigar from out of his pocket, hands you the lighter and waits. you need no instruction, leaning forward, flicking your fingers against it until the bottom catches ablaze. he puts it in his mouth, fat and thick, the scent almost overpowering. you've built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, withholding a cough. maybe that would appeal to him, though…

he keeps it between his lips, exhales through his nose before pulling away to speak. "well, i pay good money for your company. i'd say it's only fair."

a breathy chuckle. "that's true…"

there's a hunger to the way he looks at you. a kind of gaze you've learned to associate with filth, desire. he's still smiling, too wide, that golden tooth gleaming in between the yellowish-whites. smells of gin, underneath the tobacco, and something else. vodka? it's hard to tell. his size advantage is stark, when you're thigh to thigh like this — he looks like he could snap you like a twig. looks like he’d want to. one of his hands slithers around your hip, suddenly, squeezes the flesh and lingers just to feel you shudder. his grin widens when you can't withhold it.

(… ough, you lament. one of the brutes.)

with a muttered sigh, underneath your breath, your lips drag themselves up — it's voluntary, takes effort to push back the urge to run from his grip. a perfect smile, sweet and coy, still leaving much to the imagination. a hint of mystery, intrigue —

a glint in your eye.

no room for mistakes. your shoulder still aches, but it's bearable. you’re just about to part your lips, cozy up to him, say a pair of sultry, well-picked words, when —

”may i have him, for a moment?”

a smooth voice cuts in through the fog.

deep, velvety tones, rubbing against your ear drums. sweet and saccharine, honey dripping down your chin; it sends a shiver down your spine, heat to the back of your neck. he blooms in your mind before you even tilt your head to meet his dark gaze, sharp and low-lidded. you can picture him before you even see him. voices carry weight, they always do, but his is special. you haven't heard anything quite like it.

wine and tequila. oil and water.

two voices speaking, all at once.

a tall man is standing just before you, hands tucked into the long sleeves of his haori, gazing down at your touchy customer. it’s the strange, shadowy figure from before. up close, he looks more like a monk; a gojogesa wrapped around his abdomen.

you were right, of course.

he is handsome. 

with greed, you etch his features into your mind, lap it up. a sharp jaw, nose, well-defined cheekbones… obsidian eyes, with flecks of tinted gold, though you can hardly see them under these dim lights, with their narrow shape. pretty, pretty monolids, crescent moons. his hair is the real kicker, though, silky locks that flow down his back and shoulders, stop around his waist. looks like it’s been pampered, oiled and brushed, how lovely. one of his hands slip out, to dust off his sleeve, and fuuuck, they're —

— a grumble resounds to your left.  

”i have him for the next hour. you can piss off,” spits the wild boar next to you, abandoning your hip to curl possessively around your neck. and uh oh, that doesn’t feel too nice. would he get hissier if you pulled away? ”fuckin’ monk.”

catching tells is a skill that takes honing. observing, attention to detail, a reward for one’s attentiveness. you like to think you’re good, very good —

though you only barely catch the twitch of the monk’s left brow. the way his eyes coil into slits.

a hum buzzes in his throat. 

then he’s leaning forward, one big, beautiful hand coming to rest on your customer's shoulder, like he’s using him as a step stool. bending forward to look you in the eye. two abysses, gazing into you.

swirling gleefully.

his lips curl up into a sly smile. ”i’ll pay you double,” he whispers, for only you to hear. ”what do you say?”

for a moment, your breath stills in the back of your throat. that same halting of your heartbeat as before, enraptured by his gaze, hook line and sinker. because he’s close, you can nearly feel his body heat, almost pick up on his scent, warm and rich.

(and, well —)

”… sounds good.”

he rewards you with a smile. crescent-eyed.

”wonderful.”

(you’ve always been weak to a pretty face.)

the man on your left grows silent. stunned, you think, and — oops, he looks pissed. a booming voice spills out, the smoke from his cigar still fattening the air with toxins, making your eyes water. ”hah? that’s not how this works, you gold digging —”

”leave.”

a flick of his wrist. his robes sway, with the motion, like a curtain being drawn shut. the gesture itself is a command; elegant, there's no need for shouting. the way his voice drops says enough, exudes casual dominance, ripe as golden fruit on heavy branches.

a shiver, a phantom hand counting the vertebrae on your spine.

and, naturally — what you expect is a brawl. a very angry customer, one very injured customer, none of them a blessing upon your paycheck this month. casual dominance is sexy, sure, but not much else — it won't save you from a fist kissing your teeth. and, well, just going by the size of their arms alone —

… the man on your left stands up.

and leaves.

you watch, blinking owlishly as he heads for the exit, steps measured — controlled — as if guided by a puppet string. the thought makes your shoulder itch. the bell rings out, across the lounge, a pleasant chime. he's gone, he actually left. just like that.

one moment of silence, and then a breathy exhale.

"i hope you don't mind," comes a tender voice, softening, woven with silk. "but you seemed a little… uncomfortable."

the stranger takes the now empty seat, but keeps his distance, hands still tucked comfortably inside his sleeves. robes fluttering with the movement, spilling across the leather cushions and draping down to the floor. they look expensive, well made, not cheap cosplay or an elaborate joke — is he actually a monk? at a host club? sounds like the headline for a trashy porno. black hair frames his face, a single silky bang, and you can't even really call it odd because everything about him is already so out of place.

your mind spins with questions. but he's handsome, and he chased away what you're sure was the beginning of a really bad night —

a smile slips onto your lips, cheshire-esque. your eyes crinkled at the edges as you breathe out a chuckle. "no, not at all," you purr. "thank you, kind stranger."

smoothly, you cozy up to him, your thigh ghosting his own, hand about to curl around his bicep — just to feel his build, from under all those layers. he doesn't let you. doesn't say a word, but his brow twitches, a silent tell to back off.

so you do.

(maybe he's one of the look, don't touch types? some kind of power fantasy?)

you don't mind. smile still sweet, your expression doesn't falter. it's fine, this distance is tantalizing in its own right. like he's a painting on the wall, or a holy sculpture — something you'd get in trouble just for smudging with your fingerprint.

the handsome monk remains silent. watches as you fix your blouse, absently, it's in your nature to adjust to the whims of whoever you're servicing. a few buttons are undone, the fabric only covers one of your shoulders. exudes anything but elegance. your fingers curl around the fabric, ready to fish it back up.

that's when he speaks.

"do i not strike you as the promiscuous type?"

it's half a question, half a jest. there's a gleam in his eye when you meet it, something like a silverfish in a pool of dark water. an amused smile on his lips. his voice is light, and you can't help but mirror his expression — something slightly devilish.

"oh, are you?" you grin, tongue swiping against the back of your teeth, tasting the faded cocktails, a spark of syrupy flavours. "i'll leave it as is, then."

your fingers part with the soft linen, reaching instead for the empty glass on the table. putting it to your lips, sipping up what little has melted off the ice cubes, excess. then the clink, and you're turning towards him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

"what would you like to order, handsome?"

a quirk of his brow. "saké," comes his answer, flat.

"classy."

"is it, now?" he doesn't seem impressed. gazing at you with something familiar, but you can't pinpoint it. even though it's right at the tip of your tongue.

no matter, no matter. the sensations of this world have already tainted what remains of your common sense. "and can i get a name, with that order?" you ask, instead, raising yourself up into a standing position; ready to go grab his drink.

"geto," is all he says. smiling, but it's surface level; almost mocking. "just geto."

夏油. summer oil.

you think of autumn, bleeding sunsets. bottles of whiskey poured into a boy's waiting mouth.

(suddenly, you feel like weeping.)

"that'll do, that’ll do.” you give him a wink, before heading for the bar. before you know it, you're pouring the saké into his cup, the scent of fermented rice soothing the sting of tobacco still biting at the back of your throat. old and expensive, your nose picking up a roasted fragrance, fruity undertones.

geto didn't seem intimidated, by the price. you suppose he wasn't joking when he said he'd pay you double.

"how is it?" you ask, maintaining a distance while watching him drink. his eyes are closed, in what you hope is contentment, lips cupping the rim as he sips.

"… good," he hums, appreciatively, swirling the cup in a controlled motion, a gentle vortex. "no, not bad at all. i suppose money really does pay for service…"

another sip. your gaze drinks in his hands, practically dwarfing the cup, thick fingers keeping it safe and steady. would he hold your hips, like that? make sure you stay afloat? or would he drop you to the floor and watch you shatter…?

"are you really a monk, geto-kun?"

"san," he corrects, a cut of his tongue. he's smiling, though. it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bothered by the prefix. "and yes, i am. does that surprise you?"

"a little," you admit, pouring the beverage into your own cup. you watch it fill, swirl around and shimmer, letting out a humoured breath. "i mean, it's not often i get to service a holy man…"

a low noise, almost a snort. eyes of burning cedar flit to your face.

"mm, i see. your usual customers are more of the barbarish kind, are they?" he leans back, keeping eye contact, voice like the weights of a scale, judging. he tuts, quietly, a click of his tongue. "that's not good, you know. men like that don't know how to treat what's fragile."

"fragile?" you laugh, can't help it, teeth gleaming under dim lights.

"yes."

teasing words die on your tongue. something like, maybe i can take more than you think? but no, it's gone, sputtered out somewhere between your gums. because geto says it like he's talking about the weather.

like it's not a challenge; like there’s nothing to prove.

like it's fact.

(you're fragile. you'd break under pressure.)

"… if you say so. anyhow…" you lean forward, a pang of heat flashing against your nape when you catch his lips twitching upwards. "what temple?"

geto breathes out a chuckle, sweet saké on his tongue. "why?" he asks, raising a brow, hand coming to rest against your skin. you remain still, as he drags a thumb against the smudge of lipstick right below your throat. the sudden contact does something to you, makes you pliant, like a kitten being lifted by the scruff. "you don’t strike me as the devout kind. could it be you just want to see me hard at work?"

dark eyes crinkle with mirth — your heartbeat sputters like a firefly crushed under a boot. ah, his voice is like a balm to your ears. honeyed vowels, spinning a sticky web in your mind, just the slightest hint of a rasp underneath. it sneaks into his speech, makes him sound like a sexy dad, and you're screwed, you realize — totally and completely.

"maybe," you say, playing coy. "can't i?"

"i'm not sure how my congregation would feel," he hums, gazing down into his cup again. tapping his fingers against his knee, rhythmic, from forefinger to pinkie. "a little thing like you, hanging off my arm during a sermon…"

another hum, as if he's tasting the thought on his tongue, but you get the feeling he's mostly trying to tease you. a perfectly still smile on his lips.

"i suppose you'd make for good eye candy."

"oh, i’d be honoured to."

this time, his smile feels somewhat genuine, the golden glow of the bar lighting his eyes on fire, makes you think of his name and all its flavours. honey, whiskey, bramble berries eaten under summer shades. he grins, just barely, and your shoulder aches again. pangs of pain, sparks of pleasure. makes you want to lean right in.

makes you crave more.

you drink with him, or more like you watch his measured sips, because for once you don't want your mind completely sullied, want to remain at least slightly lucid, enough to hold a conversation without embarrassing yourself. it pays off. geto is intelligent, well-spoken, an intellectual. absolutely morbid. he stays for an hour, take it or leave it, but it feels like dusk has already bled into dawn by the time he’s gone, everything blurring together until he's all you can see. his pretty lips, the cupid's bow above it. silver tongue peeking out with every syrupy word.

when he stands up, you’re expecting him to ask you to accompany him. tempted to ask yourself. but he tells you of business he must attend to, with graceful poise, as if cutting a firm line between himself and this establishment. him and you. you know that tone, it's like a boyfriend telling you to not be clingy while he's working. a sense of overstepping.

another smile, and then he's leaving. you get the feeling that it falls as soon as his back is turned. call it a gut feeling, but liars know each other like the back of their own hand — and so-called perfect men are always wearing one mask or another.

it doesn't matter, either way. your heart still clenches pitifully, when the bell of the store sings its tune. you watch his back until it's no longer visible.

and then you exhale a sigh. left alone, with a half-full bottle of saké and a strange sensation in your bloodstream, something that pulls and tugs restlessly at the nerves of your brain. muddied, but somehow clear, the room not so blurry anymore.

you feel cold.

(the pain in your shoulder is gone, too.)

fingertips trail along plasticized polystyrene.

cup ramen, stacks of surimi sticks, and a can of beer. you eye the products in your arms, silently counting up the price. it's dark out, the lights of passing cars and the city illuminating the world beyond your local konbini; occasionally, the store's bell will ring, but otherwise it's silent. you're spent. you need this, an unhealthy midnight treat, you deserve it after all the drinks you poured last night.

this world, the real world, is different from the host club. less flashy.

depressing, really.

your feet carry you to the freezer, to eye a bundle of honeydew popsicles. you could eat one on the way back, but by then it'll have melted — you could eat it before slurping up the ramen, but that would make you feel even more like a mess. hair a mess, face a mess, bags under your eyes and a hoodie draped around you, sweatpants and sandals. you can't be bothered to perform on a day off. couldn't be bothered to put on makeup, give the cashier anything more than a vague nod on the way in.

there's no one here to see you like this. no one to see you at all. you're allowed a moment's respite.

"my, my."

…

a voice rings in your ears. you stiffen, standing by the freezer, staring at popsicles and tubs of ice cream; a shiver trailing down your spine. a familiar, familiar voice — honeyed, the slightest hint of a rasp.

and when you look up, you see them. eyes of rusted gold.

sharpened into crescents.

"what a pleasant surprise." he tilts his head, bangs gliding along his skin. "out shopping this late?"

fuck, it's him, it's actually him. of all the people —

"sure am," you exhale, smiling wearily. peering up at him through droopy eyes; fatigue clinging to your voicebank. "are you stalking me, geto-san?"

a chuckle bubbles past his lips. he's still wearing the same robes, eyes gleaming, lips curling up and exposing pure white teeth. "ah, you caught me."

you can't even tell if he's joking. but you breathe out a matching chuckle, as he steps to the side, walks towards another aisle, passing you by. your eyes follow his broad back, trailing after him — ice cream can wait for another day — until you're taking up the empty space at his side. his hand slips from out his sleeve and reaches for a wakaba brand pack of cigarettes, cream-coloured, his fingers flexing as they curl around it. a blink, your lashes fluttering, ravens taking flight from a lamppost outside.

"… you’re a smoker?"

an absent hum. "oh, yes. occasionally."

when geto walks up to the counter, you follow. still carrying your hastily chosen snacks, digging up your wallet from the pocket of your sweatpants, ripping it open with your teeth. you give him a glance while the cashier scans your items, one after the other. "isn't that, like… against buddhist values, or whatever?"

"i'm not buddhist."

beep, beep. you swipe your card, still staring at him out of the corner of your eye.

"… huh."

he clicks his tongue. "i dabble in… a religion of my own making," he adds, smiling. "one could say."

the cashier bows. you return it, gathering your products, turning on your heel to scope out the tables by the windows. not one seat occupied, that's good. you walk towards them, a hum on your tongue.

”sooo… you're a cultist?"

just a joke, to lighten the mood. geto only chuckles, doesn't answer — when you turn your head he's looking at you like you just said something funny.

it shouldn't put you ill at ease.

(you’re fascinated.)

the view from where you plop down to stretch your weary legs is soothing, familiar, twinkling stars dimmed by light pollution and cars whooshing by, blinking street lamps, a river running farther ahead; from the old train station to a faraway clearing of woods. the night sky is vast and wide, the moon hidden behind a cluster of blue clouds. a word sits on the back of your tongue and stays there, heavy like lead, you swallow it while tearing the plastic off your ramen — geto takes a seat besides you, rests his elbows on the table and watches you, chin poised against the heel of his palm. robes hanging off the small chair, meeting the floor. a puddle of ink.

a minute passes. you pour hot water into the cup, crack open the can of beer, exhale when your fingertips meet cool condensation. then you take a swig, throat bobbing gently. geto watches. waits.

"did your business go as expected?" you ask, finally, peeling back the lid of your meal as steam wafts into the air. smells of shrimp and tom yum, the noodles swimming in foam. just about done.

"it did, yes," geto responds, closing his eyes. "did i leave you wanting?"

the bell jingles. a glance in the direction of the entrance tells you it's a group of schoolgirls, out past their bedtime. anxiety swirls in your gut, gnaws at your fragile ribs, little fish nipping at strings of seaweed. they shouldn't be here this late, but what can you do? nothing but stifle it, chew at a surimi stick while breaking apart your chopsticks — the moon peeks out, briefly, paints the city blue.

and, well.

he did, but that doesn't mean he has to say it.

"you wish," you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

”hm… should i be flattered?"

you bring a mouthful of noodles to your lips, slurp them up with fervour. a series of beeps resound behind you, idle schoolgirl chatter having died down into hushed whispers. you can't see them, your back turned, but you could wager a guess as to what, or who, they're whispering about. it makes you chuckle through the bite, which makes geto stare at you.

a quirk of his brow, his upturned lips. he tilts his head, lazily, a wilting bud.

"it's just —" you swallow, failing to stifle a humoured breath. leaning forward, to sip at the beer can, just to feel the burn at the back of your throat. imagining yourself and him, from an outside perspective — a shady, hooded guy eating cheap ramen with a monk. "this probably looks like an intervention."

geto hums. doesn't laugh along.

"it could be."

a spark of body heat, hints of bergamot and incense. he's leaned closer, close enough that everything else feels like a shadow, you're encapsulated in his gaze, hidden by the curtains of his robes and silky hair. it sticks a pin inside your heartbeat. falls to the floor with a clatter. he's close, and he smells good, and you're sleepy.

and his voice ghosts the nape of your neck.

"do you need a cleansing, my dear?"

a deep, rumbling purr against your ear. there's the rasp, the baseline, the moment where your mind shatters on the konbini floor. it echoes, thrums under your skin, makes heat gather in your abdomen. for once, he's being serious, you know what people sound like when they want you to be theirs for the night. when you meet his eyes, it's even more clear.

deep pools of desire.

geto stands up. dusts off his robes with steady hands, gives you crescent eyes and a sly smile before turning on his heel. broth clings to your lips, the taste of beer, you've barely touched the surimi. your limbs feel tied up in knots, strung along by a puppeteer.

and you follow. 

he could be a murderer, for all you know. a serial killer. maybe he'll take you to some shady love hotel, wrap his hands around your neck, say something about sin before twisting with all his might — you think of all the threats you've heard over the years.

but he’s handsome. beautiful, like this, when you’re a little tired, a little too sloppy to act well. a mess, you must look pitiful, but he wants you. he wants you, he's fascinating, looks like an angel when the light hits just right. if it brings his hands upon you, would sinning be so bad? it's too late, you've already stood up, there's no need for a wager when the loss is just as sweet. you follow; follow him outside, to where the stars barely twinkle and crisp air cups your cheeks, follow him until your heartbeat is racing so fast you can scarcely hear his voice.

messy sheets, steady hands, golden eyes.

that’s the first time you sleep with him.

geto is… an odd guy.

a month has passed since your first meeting. a handful of nights spent under covers, or dim lights, at a host club he's become something of a regular at — though it never takes him long to bring you to a different, emptier bar. he waltzes in with his fancy robes, pays no mind to any of the other hosts — you know they're jealous, too bad for them — and calls you over. doesn't even need to speak, the moment your eyes meet his you're already walking his way. he pays well, buys expensive bottles of saké, brings you with him when he's gotten bored of sneering at the other guests. it’s always just a matter of time.

everything about him spells disaster — spells out something like poisonous berries, or rotten cadavers on an open fire when you’re on the verge of starving.

something a little too good to be true.

he's good in bed, for example. very good. if the monk shtick wasn't already so ridiculously out of place, you're sure it would have shocked you even more — how he knows exactly what to do, where to touch, how to explore the crevices of your body like a lock skillfully broken into, solved, elegant twitches of metal before the door knob loosens. geto is weird, probably a cult leader, but god, is he good at sex.

it's been a while since you felt so truly satiated. every part of your body tended to, filled, ruined and stitched back together again; your mind successfully turned off, painted blank, only blissful clouds and cotton left in your skull by the time he's done. when he steps into the dim-lit lounge, you know you'll be sleeping well into the morning. you know you'll get to see the way his biceps flex and twitch, the tattoos on his back and shoulder, paintings of ink, red flowers and white dragons — that you'll get to feel his weight and see into his brown eyes and paw at his chest, plush and fat, gape at the thick set of scars carving an x inbetween them. the body is a temple. you've never truly understood that, not until now.

not until him.

and it's silly. stupid, naive; it's never good to get a crush on someone who's made what he wants from you abundantly clear. your little arrangement is set in stone — no will he won’t he, no second guessing.

but no one has ever treated your messed up body with that kind of reverence.

so, forgive you for having a bit of a crush on the weird, perverted monk guy. forgive you for being deliriously predictable and easy. for being a little enamored by the way he keeps his distance, how your wants fit together so perfectly — bodies pressed together, minds lodged apart. no strings attached, only sweat and sex and chemicals making a mess of your muddled brain. he wants nothing more, you want nothing less. he pays no mind to the pills on your nightstand, you don't ask about the scar.

it's a silent give and take. he's handsome, takes only a little more than he's given every time. you've found you don't really mind. he's not insatiable, just greedy.

and, well. you've always been eager to excel.

(always the type to get caught up in a backdraft.)

"goddd, that fucking shift…"

a wince twists your throat, spills out when you crane your neck and stretch your limbs above your head — waiting for a crack that never comes. try as you may to get the knots out of your joints, the ache remains — your nerves frazzled, wrists bruised from one too many rough grips, fatigue sticking to your bones. geto sits on a couch in the corner, watches as you slump onto the bed, limbs like dead weights.

"… i need a raise."

a breathy chuckle. "do you, now?" he asks, a glint in his eyes like the cityscape outside. this view isn't bad, your hotel room a few stories high, overlooking the empty streets. ”and here i thought my tips would be more than enough to keep you afloat…"

"well, afloat…" you murmur, shutting your eyes for a moment — voice carried by a sleepy rasp. "i'm afloat. but don't i deserve more than that?"

"do you?"

you can practically hear his smile. he loves that, answering a question with another question. you think it's insufferable, and somehow still enough to have heat twisting in your gut. "i do," you groan. "believe me, i do."

geto hums, absentminded. you can hear the turning of paper-thin pages, a newspaper left for guests to flip through. with a sigh, you raise yourself up on your elbows. "and god, that dick… i swear he tried to throw me under the bus today.”

flip, flip. "who?"

"you've seen him… you know, the tacky guy?" weary limbs move across silken sheets, help you into a sitting position, so you can gaze at him properly. black hair, firm facial lines, big, beautiful hands. that's your geto. "cheap dye, piercings? looks like he's got a rich daddy?"

"what kind?"

his wry response pulls a chuckle out your lips. "both, probably." you mutter. "ungrateful little shit…"

finally, geto lifts his gaze. pools of amber, sloshing summer oil, burns on your hands and neck. he meets your eyes with a calm glint in his own, setting the newspaper back on the table in front of him.

"i don't know who you mean," he smiles, and you think he must be lying, trying to avoid work talk — either that, or he really does only pay attention to you. the thought is sweet, intoxicating, too good to be true. ”but i take it he's giving you a hard time?"

a scoff.

"understatement of the century…"

slowly, he uncrosses his legs; lets his sandals meet the carpented floor, and stands up to his full height, before walking over to your place of rest. you watch him, lazily, eyes never parting from the swooshing of his heavy robes, the way that he moves, like he's following a path carved just for him. you've met men who take up space, who do it like it's easy, like it’s their birth right — this is different. his steps are not heavy, loud, nor flashy. he moves quietly, like a serpent, a mesmerizing slithering across the floor. geto stops in front of you, and tilts his head; slips a smile onto his lips. crescented, a half-moon.

”would you like me to take care of him for you?”

(it lights up his expression.)

”… take care?” you echo, blinking sluggishly. ”what, you gonna kill him?”

”would you like me to?”

…

a hum. you stare off into space, for a moment; feeling his gaze weigh you down and split you apart, he doesn't need his hands for that. it's a tantalizing proposition — you can't tell if he's joking, but you know he likes it best that way. you also know your job would be a whole lot easier without a little brat messing up your monthly quota. ”kind of.” it slips from out your lips, a deadpan reply.

and a chuckle rumbles in his throat.

"he really is bothering you." his smile splits itself further, white teeth showing for a second before he laps over them with his tongue. "i suppose i'd be doing you a favour."

you snort, raising a practiced brow, meeting his gaze head on. "what, did you think i was exaggerating? lying? i'd never."

”of course you wouldn’t.” he exhales, a husk to his breath — amusement buzzing behind closed lips. "there'd be no need. you're easy to read, after all."

(ouch.)

the comment makes you want to laugh, or call him a dick — roll your eyes in a show of discontentment. what a callous thing to say to such a dedicated actor.

… then again, you haven't been doing a very good job of it, recently.

to geto, you must be nothing more than a fruit wanting to be peeled. he undoes your layers with ease, and it's humiliating — irritating — has warmth blooming under your bones. grime doesn't dissuade his appetite, after all. there's no real need for acting. not when he looks at you just the same regardless. not when you're fairly sure he wouldn't so much as stir, even if you killed someone in front of him; he'd listen to your reasons, your motives, not saying a thing. he'd look into your eyes without flinching.

geto probably knows how empty you are. you don't think he minds; think he might even prefer it. you think you could tell him anything, but you won't.

(you have some pride, after all.)

”i think you’re the only one who can see through me at all," you admit, words coming out softer than you meant them to. a slip of the tongue.

for a moment, you regret your words. avoiding his gaze, though you feel it searing into your skin, the tip of a cigarette burning tender flesh. the hotel room is quiet, the cityscape glitters and gleams, sways softly in a dark night, a shattered mirror world. geto hums.

”keep it that way.”

his voice drops, an edge to it — a jolt down your heartbeat. there it is, the edge of a kitchen knife making itself known. the words make your throat run dry, a few seconds where you can only feel the air leave your lungs, enter, leave again. but you plaster a smile onto your lips and meet his eyes. perhaps a little too cheery to be convincing. ”… yes, sir."

you're being studied. your flesh is being cut into. soon, he'll dig into it with hands and limbs, more than just his eyes — soon, your ribs will split apart to make room for him. and his gaze carries all of this, it's like he's telling you himself. eye to eye communication. his cornea tells you there's nothing you could hide from its all-seeing gaze. you're inclined to believe that; doesn't make any it less terrifying. exhilarating.

geto seems pleased.

when he leans in, you aren’t ready. a stutter building in your throat. close, close, now you can smell the green tea off his breath, dried leaves and boiling water, like the pools in his eyes, rising steam, his breath ghosting your lips. he's going to kiss you.

how rare.

”easy to read," he repeats, voice a quiet whisper, gravelly against your ear. "and easy to trick."

a gasp. a sharp jolt, a spark of pain burning down your spine, your chest — your mind works overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmth — he just pinched your fucking nipple. the burn blows your eyes open, parts your lips, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure through your thin shirt. it hurts, not letting up.

and geto smiles. light and easy.

”… and sensitive.”

it's a dull remark, like he's still reading from the newspaper, listing off this weekend's weather patterns. heat blooms in your gut. you feel like something small, molded just to fit his hands, waiting to be exposed and split into halves. it's humiliating, to be seen, you're not sure if you want to flee or stay right here — if just the weight of his palms make up for the sting accompanying them.

”… just for you,” you hear yourself speak. a hitch of your breath, yet you force the words out, mustering a smile — sleazy, flimsy, as long as it looks convincing it’s fine. you won't make it easy for him. not today.

but geto smiles. the corners of his eyes crinkle like ginkgo leaves, melted gold, like he knows something you don't. a slow, delighted exhale. "idle flattery won’t save you, this time.” he tuts, and twists, waiting for a jolt. ”not when it’s so obvious.”

a strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it down — inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his cruel grip — geto watches your silent endeavors, your attempts at staying afloat. you expect him to laugh.

instead, he cups your chin. tilts it up, up, up, until you're looking into his abyssal eyes, baring your bobbing adam's apple, your vulnerable throat.

he looks admonishing.

"tsk, tsk. whatever shall i do with you?" he clicks his tongue, a chastising purr to his voice. "so careless with your body, but dishonest about what it wants. are you ashamed just to live, darling?”

an involuntary gulp. the question makes your heart constrict, a guilty twist. sends a pang of pain into your veins, a downward tug at your lips, has you falling silent.

a moment where you cannot fully hide the pain in your expression.

(shah mat.)

geto tilts his head, then, silky bangs across soft skin, a flicker of satisfaction in eyes like golden fruit. ripe for plucking. he graces you with a smile, the branches of his lips curling up, up, blooming like a grotesque flower — like he knows exactly what you're thinking. like he knows you, in and out, like he's already seen every ghost in your skull, tasted them on his tongue and taken them down his throat.

there's no scaring him off.

at last, he lets you go — takes a moment to get seated on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap. a heavy hand, a silent cue. you lick at the back of your teeth, savouring the burn his fingers leave behind.

"come here," he croons, as if taking pity on you. ”let me give you some relief.”

he doesn't have to ask you twice.

so you end up beneath him — you always do — his weight bearing down on you, big hands dwarfing your hips, heated pants and the creaks of a worn out mattress echoing in the empty hotel room. a cacophony of filthy noise, skin on skin, bone on bone, you've done it all too many times before. he's so close you wonder if you've morphed together. so close you don't know where he ends and you begin.

geto inhales, heavy, a dark look in his eyes.

"maybe i should just buy you off," he rasps, breath hot against you, sweat dripping down his brow, "keep you at my temple… always within reach."

any ability to speak has left you, at this point, any coherent method of speech. you can't say anything — not, hey, that’s a pretty fucking strange thing to say, or — you would have me entertain a bunch of monks? seriously? not even yes, yes, please, i don’t want anyone else to ever see me like this again. i don’t want to be ruined by anyone but you.

only a breathy whimper makes it past your lips. it makes him chuckle, into the hollow room.

(and he’s gone again, the morning after.)

geto would not consider himself a fickle man.

every action has a consequence. every choice must be weighed, considered, carefully plucked apart.

there is value in the act alone. weight is synonymous with heart, and geto, despite himself, cannot help but cling to his; worn out as it may be, soiled with fingerprints. there is weight behind his every action, care. choice means being human. choice means weight, which means heart, which is all he needs.

all this to say — geto suguru does not bet on losing dogs.

how he ended up in the corner of a dim-lit, shady host club is honestly beyond him. a grotesque sort of happenstance. the air smells of champagne and cologne, handsome hosts and guests chattering at every table in sight. all of them vermin.

what would his family say, if they knew what he was doing? ask if he's come down with a fever, no doubt. he can practically hear their voices — geto-sama, with a bunch of monkeys? willingly? no way. he could barely take the train to osaka last week! they'd be right, that's what grates him — that he's sitting there, and people-watching, still entirely uninterested in choosing his host for the evening. uninterested in drinking. cheery voices, sultry whispers, the popping of bottles and buzz of a karaoke machine. everything is loud, everything sparkling with the mere illusion of glamour.

disgusting. but he stays, only crinkles his nose and soothes his senses with the scent of his own robes, mellow incense. tries not to picture the walls red.

that's when he sees you.

a stumbling, giggling figure, clad in flimsy clothing, reaching for the mic. you're pretty, he can tell even at this distance. but stained, with lipstick and alcohol, a rotten smile on your face — rotten in the sense that it's so obviously hollow. it's only when you part your lips and sing that he is pulled out of his stupor, that his eyes narrow in an attempt to focus on anything else. your voice rings out, like the chime of a bell, clear and bright — the song doesn't match your vocals, doesn't do it justice. you stand on stage, a spectacle, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

(that's how it starts. the beginning of his fixation.)

geto finds himself thinking that he likes the way you look like this. sparkling, glowing, golden rays surrounding you — it creates a crescendo of light, from where he’s sitting, something like a halo, makes you look almost holy. makes him want to laugh, because that couldn't be further from the truth. you're a bug. a bug that gets paid to be of service.

pitiful, he thinks. you're pitiful. you're swaying like a drunk angel.

but your voice carries a longing he finds impossible not to indulge. to gaze at, silently, until your eyes happen to fall across his own, splatter on his brow — a flicker of light, in the middle of a too-small stage. he captures them. keeps them there.

and he swears your smile grows brighter.

(jaws snap against his ribcage. a spider weaves a web of silk.)

darling, vague complaints and fridays. he tastes the lyrics off your tongue, white noise. has already sicked the curse on you, almost on autopilot, call it morbid curiosity. it curls around your shoulder, and yet you do not falter. do not flinch. can you not feel the sting?

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

a smile splits his lips bloody.

everyone else has their eyes on you, follows your swaying, your shimmering skin. he wants to kill them, itches to. leering leeches. but that would surely make you stop singing, so he allows his fingers to twitch without purpose, makes no move to call on another wretched little puppet. listens to you until the song is over, until he can see the pain in your expression. does it hurt, little one? do you finally feel it?

he wonders. but he doesn't ask, even when he has you seated beside him, tipsy, shirt nearly slipping off your shoulder — he pictures your skin smudged, soiled, bite marks and bruises. it does nothing but add to his growing revulsion. his first night with you is over in the blink of an eye; a failure, on his part.

before he leaves the bar, he swipes his thumb across the back of your neck. watches the curse unclench its jaw, unlatch its decaying gums, a sickly purple against your ruined skin. leaves behind sticky saliva, droplets dribbling down your collarbone. filthy. he can scarcely remember why he came, why he stayed. to satisfy his curiosity, his mind supplies, only part-lie. to fill the gap. to see what it's like — men with men, dim-lit glamour, icecubes swirling in glasses half-empty — a useless endeavor. it's cheap, he feels nothing. no real desire. not the burning kind he used to fantasize about, tangled limbs and spit.

… not until you say that.

"you wish," he watches you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

he wonders why that's what makes his patience snap. bug on bug, the thought of something rotten catching you between its teeth. the knowledge that you don't mind — that you want it. filthy, pitiful, he feels sorry for your bones and your skin, at the mercy of your heart, swaying to and fro without a thought. feels sickly at the thought that it exists, that it beats.

that the same bundle of flesh slumbers beneath your ribs as his. heavy, weighty; a bleeding lump of flesh.

so he takes you to bed. out of practice, it’s been a while, but if you notice you're a better actor than he gave you credit for. he feels your heart beat against his own — yes, it's there, right there, squirming around. disgust. exhiliration. a way to pass the time.

that's what you are. what this is. he tells himself, in a soothing voice, that it means nothing; that it's not a betrayal, not if he's just using you.

not if you're just a source of warmth on nights his hands feel cold and need something to tend to.

he’s gentle, the first time you sleep together. not as much the other times, but you need it, don’t you? he can tell. you get this look in your eye. like you enjoy being along for the ride, having all thoughts pushed out of your body. it would not do, for him to leave you unsatisfied — sorcerer or not. would not do for his pride, the satisfaction he feels when you bloom in front of him, shatter and curl into yourself like a rhododendron in the precipice of summer.

what you are is a distraction.

(but you're beautiful, when he unmasks you.)

no, geto certainly is not a fickle man. he weighs his options with care; he calculates; he does not bet on losing dogs. your whines are sweet, though, your mind a lid he wants to uncap. it feels good, to be above you. to see you in your entirety, knowing the other men you sleep with don't get the opportunity, don't care to in the first place. wouldn’t want to.

you haven't been loved properly. he can tell.

"please don't go…"

words aren't necessary. your limbs, wrapped around his waist, say enough. the dew at your lashline says enough. you aren't lucid; it's the most primal part of you, clawing its way out. that says enough.

he soothes you before leaving. makes sure you're sound asleep.

you're his, he thinks, watching your poor body seek solace in silky sheets. feels it seek out his touch when he runs a hand over your hip. you're beautiful, and you're his. those other men don't know how to treat you, but he does. he knows what you need. little things like you should be treated like glass, spoiled —

then broken into splinters.

they don't understand. how could they? horny, mindless apes. he should kill them. slaughter them, for having laid a hand on what he owns. what he bought. he should wrangle their corpses for every set of handprints they've left on your delicate wrists.

he should. he will. their time will come.

one last glance, before he leaves for the compound. when you're bathed in moonlight, sick thoughts cloud his mind; when he wraps his gojogesa around heavy robes, and watches you slumber in the king-sized hotel bed. a dangerous indulgence.

it's something in the way you move. maybe he's always sensed it, maybe that's why he wanted you, the thought often eats him alive after you've slept together. something in the way you move, yes — your disposition, the way you carry yourself — like nothing could hurt you, even though it already has, the world has left its mark on you, he can see it in your eyes. try as you may to conceal it. rot knows rot.

even now, he sees it. something in the way you glow under dim lights. when all that surrounds you is gold, blinding white — he can almost delude himself into thinking that your hair is the same. strands of white, like a summer sky — pink lips and a clear voice —

it reminds him of someone.

honestly, suguru… i think you're the only one who understands me at all.

(he crushes the thought before it can shatter him.)

what you are is a distraction. he repeats it, chews it between his teeth until it tastes like nothing at all. a way to spend the time. wish-fulfillment, maybe, at best — there is no room for anything more. no room to think thoughts like if only you weren't what you are, if only you were like him — no room for second guessing or digging himself deeper into the ground.

he's already slipped deeper than he would have liked.

a shake of his head, and the thought is vapour. he scrubs the image of your sleeping body from his mind; reminds himself, dully, of what you are.

he thinks he can go on, like this. just like this.

there is no danger in the web he's weaved you.

”i wanted to be a singer.”

a gentle breeze, clouds covering the sky. you say it so casually, he’d think you were mentioning the weather if it wasn’t for the sadness in your voice.

you fail to keep it out.

bathed in salty air, clouds of smoke, facing the sea with a forlorn gaze — your elbows rest on the railing overlooking it. a cup of bitter coffee stands on the cafe table behind you, abandoned, left to cool. espresso steam blends with roasted nicotine. tobacco stings your eyes, he’s sure; would you blame your glassy eyes on that, were he to point it out? 

(oh, how he wonders.)

”is that so.”

geto lights his own cigarette. one, two flicks of his thumb before orange sparks at his fingertips — he delights in the jolt of his nervous system, the way it burns. delights in the rush of dopamine that follows, when he inhales, feels it flood his lungs and sting his windpipe on the way out. a heavy exhale, his trail of smoke mingling with your own, in the crisp and solemn morning air. he can't tell which is which.

the world is quiet, here. like you’re the only ones awake. hidden under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray. he likes it better when it bursts with colour, but this is just fine. you look pretty when your eyes lack light.

geto flicks the butt of his cigarette, ash crumbling on his thumb. his voice comes out with a rasp, laced with thick smoke, but it doesn’t waver, deep and silky even still. the air smells a little like disease, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. finds he likes the contrast. polluting an air that smells too much of summer. ”well, you certainly have the vocals for it.”

you let out something like a scoff. it lingers, in your throat, drags against the walls of flesh. 

amused. 

when you turn your head to meet his gaze, eyes just slightly red, smile dipped in sardonicism — he thinks you’ve never looked more lovely. not even beneath him, satin sheets spread out like an altar of worship. 

or an altar of sacrifice. 

sweet as the bite of a ripened peach. 

”do i?” you ask, irony tinged on your tongue. wearing a flimsy smile, that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. he watches your cupid’s bow sway, the drag of an arrow. ”you’ve worn them out, you know.”

a breathy exhale. he hides it with his cigarette, takes another drag just to feel the burn at the back of his throat. he smiles, though, can’t help it. 

”… you’ll live.” and he exhales, air rushing to flood his lungs, greedy. the salt burns more than the tobacco. ”you still have time. it’s not too late to try again.”

a sudden, eerie silence.

”… i don’t know about that.”

he thinks he could love you, just like this.

"i think i might be out of time."

there's a sad, sad look in your eyes. it makes you look older than you are, more weary, like a pillar of salt left to face the sea. hair swaying in the air, gently, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for him. you look tired. you look exhausted, broken down.

something about it makes him soften.

"do you feel hopeless?" he chuckles, a breathy noise, it scatters into the open air and then disappears. "you haven't seen the world. in that sense, you might as well be a child."

smoke slithers from the butt of his cigarette. everything is silent. no scoff, no click of tongues or scraping of nails against ceramic cups. nothing fake, about this moment. time is all you have, he wants to add. there's no escaping it. but he hesitates, for a moment too long, taken by the suffering in your gaze — geto wonders what you're thinking about, with such a blank expression. wonders what kind of pain you must be feeling. you look like you could shatter where you stand, just a sheet of broken glass, or a fish out of water — a lost soul, flecked with seafoam and cigarette smoke — a pretty little thing, watching the sea like you’d like to wade right in. like there is nowhere you belong, nowhere on this earth.

nowhere to seek solace.

he could love you, when you look this fragile. could allow himself a moment to taste it on his tongue, dip his toes into the first syllable. just to feel the chill.

(even just for a little while.)

you don’t bite back. neither of you speak. only the dull scraping of ocean waves fills the empty air.

”i love you.”

you are the first to step over that boundary.

it’s whispered into his neck. broken, quiet, more of a shallow breath than a sentence. so small, so quiet he thinks he must have heard you wrong. words get lost on both of you, when blood is pumping in your ears, through your veins, when skin meets skin. you’re too tired to speak properly, speak at all. he’s being hard on you tonight — couldn’t think clearly, only saw one of your other regulars try to cop a feel, and, well —

that doesn’t matter, now.

”i love you…”

— there it is, again. 

the breathiest, most silent little whimper he’s ever heard. 

(geto inhales. curses himself.

a lump forms in his throat.)

you aren’t coherent, you don’t know what you’re saying. he knows that. of course, he knows that. you’re just trying to stay afloat in whatever way you can. just babbling nonsense into his ears like it'll make him go a little easier on you, like you just want his affection —

he thinks he might throw up. 

moonlight flits in through the window blinds, illuminates his back, lotus flowers blooming where ink meets skin on his left shoulder. the dragon curls around his back, coils up in anger, disgust. curses crawling in his stomach, hot with irritation.

this was supposed to be a distraction. he was never planning to keep you, you're no human — certainly no partner. the tremors of his heart mean nothing, it's all chemical, all a masquerade. you are nothing.

once the fun has run its course, he'll kill you.

that's what he's been telling himself. he'll slaughter you, etch the sight of red blood against satin sheets into his memory, taste the excess dripping down your waist — he’ll drink it in and throw it up.

but you love him.

(you love him.)

geto wants to hate you. 

what he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. peel his skin away, leave only the flesh. he can’t help it, though he tries — a futile endeavor —

”you’re okay.”

a tender, tender, whisper, spilling from his parted lips. when did they part? when did making room for you become as natural as breathing?

”you’ll be okay.”

a weak whimper, nestled against his throat. arms go slack around him, your body peeling itself of guarded skin, allowing him to do as he pleases. so good, so pliant.

(his poor, poor boy.)

geto tastes iron, bursting hot and heavy on his tongue. sinks his teeth into his lower lip, as far as they can go, until the sting itself fades away. keeps going until you pass out, softly, silently, tenderly. kisses your neck, shushes your cries. keeps a big palm on the back of your neck the entire time. rocks you to sleep, as if it's muscle memory.

tender, he reminds himself. when someone tells you they love you, you treat them tenderly, suguru. 

(a burning, rotten memory. his mother’s voice.

he feels like dying.)

once all is said and done, he watches you slumber under blue light. dim, it casts a shadow over your features, but he can still see it clear as day; the creases on your face, the lines of your jaw and cheekbones and the way your chest rises and falls.

for once, he doesn't leave.

instead, geto tucks himself behind you, drags forgotten covers over his frame, pulls you against his warm chest, a mother to her newborn — your sniffle-like breaths safe in the boundary between his throat and sternum. he holds you, and closes his eyes. your heartbeats soften, gradually, in tune with his own, clammy skin sticking together. he wants to clean you. wants to give you a bath, scrub the stains away.

you look so very fragile.

he swallows the bile, and keeps his eyes shut. he can allow himself a moment of pretending.

(but this farce will have to end, soon.)

some days, geto doesn’t miss him at all.

some days, hues of cherry pink and bright-sky blue remind him of nothing more than fruit and summer. on even better days, fruit and summer don’t remind him of boys biting into ripe peaches, or napping in the sun, or tickling his ribs while on the back of his bike until they both tumble to the ground.

some days, geto doesn’t linger in the past. 

(most days, it’s all he does.)

you’re lying in bed, on your side, curled up with your knees against your chest. naked and unguarded, a newborn fawn. he thinks of how your legs shake after a particularly rough session. almost cracks a smile, but he's too tired, mind too tangled up in knots; he didn't sleep a wink last night. can only watch you from across the room, in silent contemplation, map your features into his mind. he feels fondness for you, like this, only like this. (especially like this.) when you’re entirely bare. a freshly plowed field, a peeled fruit, ready to be carved into halves, willing to be split. breathing very softly into sheets left dirtied.

the world has yet to wake, outside the window.

in moments like this, he indulges in the thought. not enough to suffocate, just sting. he pretends that your hair is white, like marble flooring, like specks of dust collecting light. pretends you're in another country, another life, with no weight on your shoulders. the thought tastes sweet — tastes like bramberries and sunlight and whiskey, tastes like a breakfast well-served. a life where meaning frames the world.

but that sunlight makes its way through your shut blinds, one way or another. no matter how tightly he closes them. and, in turn, your lashes flutter apart.

geto closes his eyes, and pretends he cannot see their colour. pretends that they’re blue, blue, blue, a blue so staggering it makes the sky look white.

a blue that dyes the whole world monochrome. 

(if it was him — would he be like this? sleeping soundly, satiated, nuzzled into his chest instead of a pillow? would he be as good as you? as willing to be ruined?

would he want to ruin anyone but you?)

”… geto…?”

you sound surprised. voice a broken tune, raspy and high, like splintered glass. he's bewildered that he finds it charming. that it makes him feel anything at all. you raise your hand to rub at your eyes, groaning softly, twitching like you're having trouble just to move your limbs. geto stands by the door, rests his back against the wall, and watches you. isn't sure how long he's stood there and contemplated leaving.

"… you're still here?"

hope. he can practically taste it, off your breath.

a low click of his tongue. he takes a step forward, towards your bedside, sunshine gliding across his skin, his robes. he's fully clad, no sight of scarring or tattoos, the barest of marks you left when you nipped his neck in your sleep. he won't let you see it.

and he towers above you like a scarecrow on a hayfield.

doesn't say a word. only reaches out to grasp your jaw, palm flat against your chin, trails his hand down your neck. two fingers, dragged between your fragile ribs. neither rough nor gentle. you're pliant, there's no fight in you, a lamb making itself soft for the blade of a dagger. you let him explore you, while a frown threatens to break through his pursed lips — thick brows furrowed together. you don't jolt, or yelp. you trust your body with him. silly, stupid, naive.

can't you see what he's made you into?

"... maybe i should cut your heart out," he breathes, surprised by how sincere he sounds, the shadows that covet his voice. "save us both the trouble. hm?"

that makes you scrunch your nose. eyelids too droopy, too weighty to keep themselves up, they just flutter shut again. oh, whatever shall he do with you?

"… my heart…?" a soft sigh, a noise in the back of your throat, like a cat awoken from its nap. you're mumbling, he has trouble hearing you, isn't sure if you're fully lucid or if you think this is a dream. a yawn spills past your lips. "y'can have it…"

… bare. unguarded. heart ripe for plucking.

any man could steal it. rob it from its branches. you don't seem to understand your own appeal, your true appeal; it's aggravating. your ribs are so easy to peel apart. when someone speaks softly to the confines of your heart, they just fall open, all on their own.

so very guarded, yet trusting even still. so, so eager to let the right one in.

”… you remind me of a friend.”

the words have already left his lips. it's too late, now.

sundrops splatter against your nose, the corners of your bottom lip. he could picture them crimson, camellia and spider lily, grows sick at the thought, a macabre twist of his guts, like he just swallowed something terrible. sunshine frames your expression, the way it shifts in the light, shadows passing by and painting your teeth when you speak. pink gums, pink tongue, swollen from abuse. a flicker of knowing, of remembering, when your pupils dilate; coil into slits.

"… friend?" you echo, a breathless mutter. "or boyfriend?"

geto twitches, from the tips of his fingers. still resting just where your ribcage ends.

they leave your skin, his thumb brushing gently against your navel before parting, a tender feather-like flick. you're sensitive, there; he knows your body like the back of his own hand, sees the shudder that slithers through you before he feels it.

sometimes, he wonders if you know him just as well.

silence. only quiet, quiet breaths. any answer geto could give stays clogged at the base of his throat, full peaches blocking his windpipe, keeping the words from bubbling up and erupting. fuzzy fruitskin against red flesh. he wants to taste the nectar. wants a lot of things he can never have, not in this life.

hey, suguru. peel it for me.

… huh? what's with the attitude?

"it’s complicated, huh."

geto swallows.

"… i suppose it is," he breathes, eyes straying from your own. deep cedar, bright honey, enclosed in globes of amber, finding solace in your sullied bedsheets. will you clean them? would you keep them as is, if you knew you'd never see him again?

what was he hoping for, all this time?

an exhale. you're smiling, you're sleepy, he wonders if your body is still blissed out enough to save you from the heartache. "am i the rebound?" you ask, a hint of humour, stretching your limbs out like a sleepy feline.

a sigh.

"… essentially."

the soft rustling of sheets. your skin is dyed golden, by the silent sun, illuminated against pure white. an altar, marble flooring, specks of dust and sodium light. you let out a little noise, something like a hum. as if struck over the head. a moment passes, and you still, eyelids falling shut. a chuckle breaks your silent death.

"it hurts that you’re so straightforward." sincerity always brings nothing but pain, he wants to tell you. if you'd never opened your heart to me, you wouldn't be feeling this way. if i had never held it in my palms, perhaps i wouldn't be feeling so empty. this is the price humans pay for loving so callously. "you're a pretty cruel guy. has anyone told you that?"

geto smiles. he closes his eyes, and steps away from you; voice a quiet breath of air.

"just once."

there is nothing to be done about a heart of stone.

geto turns on his heel, and does not look behind him.

he will leave. leave, and leave no trace, leave your home untouched, only purple marks smudged across your nape to prove his greed, to prove he ever sunk his claws into your tender flesh. imprints of teeth on your chest. fingerprints on your hips. marks will remain, and fade with time. soon enough, you'll forget about them. he will make his way past the second street, and think of neither you nor satoru.

he will not think of blue eyes, or summer. he will not think of your eyes, bleary with forgotten dreams, lost potential, speckled with what he knows to be love — a word so heavy he wishes he could spit on it.

a word he wishes he did not revere.

he will not think of you, even as he crosses the main street with the fountain you like, glittering under a sun just about to break the world into halves. even as he watches a man play the violin by the train station, listens to the thin strings bend and bow just like your vocal chords under the dim lights of a trashy bar he’d never have gone to if it weren’t for you. he will not think of the way you glow.

he will think of nothing, and no one.

"… see you, geto."

(he thinks he’ll be okay.)

[hynzsn]

★ BUTT BOUND ★

☆ changbin + bangchan x male reader 18+ MDNI

-> bully!changbin + bully!bangchan x victim!reader

꩜ .ᐟ smut

contents: dubcon, bottom!changbin + bottom!bangchan x top!reader, big dick!reader, brainwashed!reader, teasing, oral, anal sex, anal fingering, cock riding, talk about their fat jiggly butts, cumpie, degradation, facial, cumshot, moaning, whimpering, grunting, ass slapping

wc: 2.3k

summary: college bullies chan and changbin turn you into their submissive, brainwashed slut. they take turns fucking your mouth and bouncing on your cock with their fat jiggly asses, making you go crazy and melt underneath them until you’re nothing but a complete mess.

a/n - i do not like this at all 😭 but i made a promise to myself that i would post everything i write no matter how bad it is so here it is… hopefully you guys like it better than i do >.<

♡︎♡︎♡︎ likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ♡︎♡︎♡︎

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

the clock ticked towards midnight as you sprawled out on the corner table of the college library, immersed in textbooks. aside from the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the infrequent rustle of pages, the entire room was silent. in an effort to escape the constant harassment you were experiencing on campus, you became utterly engrossed in your studies. however, tonight, destiny had different intentions.

chan and changbin entered the library as the doors swung wide, their presence commanding attention. anxiety gripped you. in an effort to go unnoticed, you shrank as much as you could. however, by that point, your efforts were futile. they fixed their intense gazes on you like lions spotting a wounded gazelle. "lookie here, bin," chan said with a sneer, his voice loud enough to break the silence. "our favorite little geek."

changbin’s mouth curled into a mischievous grin. "why are you here by yourself?"

"i’m just studying, that's all,” you mumbled. "i have a test tomorrow."

both changbin and chan looked at each other, their faces turning even darker. "you’re always studying," changbin remarked as he moved closer to the table. "it’s pathetic.” chan swiftly lifted you up by the collar and had you standing before you could respond. forgotten, the textbooks scrambled to the floor. "you’re coming with us," he demanded, his hold strong and unwavering. "we have something more beneficial for you to do.”

fear was the factor that stifled your protestations. you were aware that resisting was pointless. you were not only outnumbered, but you were also, without a doubt, outmatched. you let them drag you out of the library with a groan of resignation, your feet faltering as you tried to keep up with their determined pace. the journey to the dormitory was a haze, and your mind was racing with anxiousness the entire time. though you didn't know what they might do, you assumed it was bad. you could feel your heart racing as soon as you reached the door to their room.

after forcing the door open with his foot, chan shoved you inside. the room had a low level of light, and the air was thick with a smell that was foreign to you. your eyes darted around, taking in the sight of the cluttered desks and the unmade beds. you were in a confined space. to show his eagerness, changbin closed and locked the door behind you. his eyes sparkled with excitement. "sit down," he ordered while pointing to his bed with his finger.

despite your first hesitation, chan gave you a forceful push that caused you to fall onto the mattress. you sat there, your heart pounding, as chan and changbin both removed their shirts, exposing their cut abs and showcasing their strong bodies. the sight was enough to make your breath catch in your throat. they were so terrifyingly perfect that you felt even smaller. under their gaze, you felt helpless; they looked like predators ready to attack you.

the first to walk forward was changbin, who exuded an air of self-assurance. he growled at you, his tone dripping with scorn, and said, "look at you. i’m willing to bet that you're already hard and desperate.” he leaned down, grasping your crotch, and fondled your cock through your pants. his fingers traced the outline of your cock. simultaneously with your soft whimper, he erupted into a small belly laugh. "you are such a fucking loser,” he mocked. you were hard. rock hard, in fact. as his fingers began tugging at the waistband of your jeans, he pulled them down your thighs, along with your boxers. The entire length of your enormous cock escaped its confines and sprung free, as changbin and chan observed. it was thick, with a drop of precum glistening at the tip, and stood tall and proud, throbbing with need.

chan exhaled a chuckle. “i knew his dick was big, but fuck, he's huge… i guess we‘ve got the perfect toy in our possession, bin.

"definitely. we’re going to milk this big boy dry.” changbin drew his thumb across the tip of your cock as he collected the bead of precum. he then placed his thumb on his lips and pulled away from you. "mmm, he tastes delicious, too."

all you could do was sit there, your mouth dry and your mind reeling. yeah, you had fantasized about this moment countless times before, but the reality was overwhelming, to say the least.

changbin wasted no time. he turned around and undid his pants, revealing his fat, jiggly ass. he backed up toward you with a teasing sway of his hips, his ass cheeks tantalizingly close to your throbbing cock. “you like this, huh? i bet you can't wait to have my fat ass bounce on your useless dick.”

your breath hitched as changbin turned around and lowered himself onto his knees, one of his hands holding your cock with a tight grip. “don’t get too excited; i’m not about to suck your dick,” he spat, grabbing a condom from his nightstand and tore it open with his teeth. "i don’t want you making a mess inside my ass.” with practiced ease, he rolled the condom down over your cock. the latex felt cool against your heated skin, and you couldn't help but shiver at the sensation.

once the condom was securely in place, changbin reached for the bottle of lube that was also sitting on his nightstand, squirting a generous amount onto his fingers. he stood up and turned back around, spreading his cheeks with one hand while the other one slicked up his hole. the sight of changbin’s fingers slipping in and out of his hole caused your cock to twitch in anticipation. changbin moaned softly as he worked the lube on himself, his fingers glistening. looking over his shoulder at you, he teased, "fuck, i bet you've been dreaming about this. too bad you’re just a fucking loser. you’re not even good enough to fuck me without a condom.”

you whimpered in response; your mind was already starting to fog over with desire. you watched as changbin positioned himself over your cock, slowly lowering himself. changbin’s tight heat enveloped you inch by inch, and your eyes rolled back at the overwhelming sensation. “fuck, you’re big,” he groaned, starting to ride you slowly, his ass cheeks jiggling with every bounce. “you like that, you little slut? do you enjoy exploiting your tormentors?"

in response, you could only moan, your hands gripping tightly onto the bed sheets. everything felt like a blur—the sight and sensation of changbin’s ass taking over your every thought. you were becoming mindless, just as they wanted.

chan watched with a smirk as he also pulled down his pants, his own cock rock hard and leaking. "you’re not even prepared for me to get on that cock," he mocked, his voice dripping with malice, despite the promise behind his words. he moved beside you, his hand grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. “for now, i’ll make use of your mouth.” chan guided your head toward his cock without uttering a word, the thick length of his cock slipping past your lips. you moaned around his cock, and the vibrations made chan shudder. “good boy,’ chan murmured, his hand tangling in your hair to control the pace.

meanwhile, changbin picked up the pace, his ass slapping down with increasing speed. each bounce, along with the thrusts of chan’s cock inside your mouth, caused your eyes to roll back for what felt like the hundredth time, causing your brain to melt. in contrast to how you were earlier, you accepted everything they were doing to you without hesitation.

chan found the sounds of you moaning, gagging, and slobbering all over his cock to be delightful. he even went so far as to remove his cock from your mouth, allowing your saliva to connect a string from his cock to your lips as he slapped his cock against your cheek, resulting in a wet and sloppy patch on your skin. “fuck, look at him. he’s such a pathetic, drooling slut. he can’t get enough of my cock, bin,” chan grunted, shoving his cock back into your mouth.

your muffled moans around chan’s cock were all the answers they needed. you absolutely loved this. you were completely lost in pleasure. you were their submissive and slut, and you loved every second of it.

chan withdrew from your mouth, his cock sparkling with your saliva. “move, bin. it’s my turn," he declared as he advanced behind changbin, who was still bouncing on your cock. chan pushed changbin forward, making him come off your dick as he now lined himself up with your cock. bangchan’s ass was slightly more compact than changbin’s, but no less impressive. "let’s get this thing off," he purred, effortlessly removing the condom and tossing it aside. "i don't mind you making a mess in my ass. good pathetic sluts like yourself should be rewarded a little, and what better than to take my ass raw?” with a teasing wiggle, chan lowered himself onto your cock, his ass jiggling as he took changbin’s place.

your mind couldn’t handle the shift; the sensation of chan’s even tighter heat replacing changbin’s driving you insane. chan bounced on your cock with practiced ease, his ass jiggling beautifully. “yeah,” he taunted, “you like this, don't you?” he rolled his hips around on your cock, making you moan out, unable to use coherent words to give him a response. your cock was twitching inside of him. you moved your hands to grab at chan’s hips, desperate for more, and you got exactly what you wanted. chan began to bounce on your cock again, this time making sure to come down and take you as deep as possible.

changbin, subtly gaining his composure, moved behind chan, his hand coming down to spank chan’s jiggling ass, causing chan to moan. “fuck, this is hot,” changbin groaned, his free hand reaching down to pump his own cock. his hand continued to slap chan’s ass, each slap sending ripples through chan’s plump cheeks. the sound of skin on skin echoed through the room, mixing with the panting and moaning. you were barely holding on, your senses overloaded by the sight and sensation of chan riding you expertly.

chan’s head lolled back, a blissful expression on his face as he bounced faster, driving you deeper into madness. “fucking loser,” chan taunted with a breathless voice. on the receiving end, you were beyond words; your mind was fixated on the consuming pleasure of having your cock milked dry. every bounce, every jiggle, imprinted itself into your brain, turning you into a mindless and needy mess.

changbin smirked as he observed you, his own cock hard and in need of some attention. he moved to your side, grabbing the back of your head and forcing you to face him. “you’re not done yet, loser. you’ve got two of us to satisfy.” with that, changbin presented his small but thick cock to you. without hesitation, you opened your mouth, welcoming changbin’s cock with eager enthusiasm. the taste and scent of changbin’s cock filled your senses, adding to your brainwashed state.

changbin thrust into your mouth at a brutal pace. “yeah, that’s it,” he snarled, his voice filled with dominance. “take it all, you slut. show us how much you love being our fucktoy.”

chan continued to ride your cock; his pace was relentless. he was a vision of sinful pleasure, his ass bouncing up and down, each movement driving you deeper into submission. “you’re doing so well, slut,” chan cooed, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "takin’ us both like a good little slut."

as changbin fucked your mouth, you found yourself drowning in sensation. you were completely at their mercy; your mind was reduced to a single thought: serve and please your bullies. your hands gripped chan’s hips even tighter as you tried to ground yourself.

changbin’s thrusts became more erratic, his breaths coming in sharp pants. “fuck, you’re good at this,” he groaned. “such a perfect little slut. you’re going to make me cum.” your eyes fluttered closed, and your mind was hazy with pleasure. you could feel your own orgasm building, the tight heat of chan’s ass, and the taste of changbin’s cock pushing you to the edge.

“don’t you dare cum yet,” chan warned, his voice filled with authority. “not until we say so.” you whimpered around changbin’s cock, trying to hold back your impending release. the command only heightened your pleasure, making you even more desperate. you were their toy, their slut, and you would do anything to please them.

changbin’s moans grew louder, and his thrusts became more frantic. “fuck, i’m going to cum,” he panted, pulling out of your mouth just in time. he stroked himself a few times before unleashing his hot release all over your face. “take it, you slut. wear my cum proudly.” your eyes fluttered open, and the warmth of changbin’s cum on your face added to your dazed state. you were completely at their mercy, covered in sweat, and cum. your cock throbbed inside of chan, desperate for release.

chan’s movements became more erratic as he approached his own orgasm. “fuck, you feel good,” he moaned, his pace quickening. “i’m going to cum, and you’re going to take it all. you hear me?”

you could only nod; your mind was too foggy to form words. you were on the brink, your entire body trembling with need. with a final, powerful bounce, chan came, shooting his massive load all over your thighs, your legs, and the bed sheets, his body shuddering with pleasure. the tight grip of chan’s hole around your cock finally sent you over the edge, your own orgasm crashing through you. you cried out, your release filling him as your mind went completely blank.

chan slowly lifted himself off your cock, your cum leaking out of his hole, both of you panting and spent. with a satisfied smirk on his lips, he looked down at you. “good job, loser. you’re good at something besides absolutely sucking in life, being our slut.”

changbin chuckled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “yeah, you did great. can’t wait to use you again.”

[robo-writing]

Hi! I love your writing and have had a shit day. Basically car troubles and a flat tire. All I could think about was Logan ‘yelling’ at me for not asking for his help and being upset I tried to do everything myself. Could you write something like this with an established relationship? Just super soft and fluffy with Logan just being scared you could’ve gotten hurt. Thanks! ♥️

Oh no, I’m so sorry you had a bad day today! Hopefully tomorrow’s better!

Today’s just proof that Murphy’s law is still alive and true. You’ve tried every single troubleshooting method you can think of and still your car refuses to just fucking work.

It gets to a point, it really fucking does.

Your head hits the steering wheel, too tired to care about the loud blaring that follows. “For the love of god, please move,” you beg, and you hear the best noise you’ve ever heard in your life—the sound of your engine whirring to life.

“Yes, yes!” You cry, hands immediately moving to the steering wheel. You start thanking every deity you know and then some, slowly

Unfortunately for you, luck is not on your side. You get maybe half a mile before you feel the car jump, followed by the worst sound of your life—the air escaping from your tire.

You feel the tears welling in your eyes, defeat sinking down into your very core. You don’t even have the strength to curse, staring ahead into the empty road as your view gets lower and lower. The thought of swapping your tire crosses your mind, but you’re so mentally drained that even getting out of your car seems impossible.

So, you sit in the drivers seat and cry while the sun goes down. By the time you compose yourself the sky bleeds orange, your phone ringing with an all too familiar contact number.

Begrudgingly you pick up, the sound of your husband’s voice clear through the receiver. “Hey honey, haven’t heard from you all day.”

Silence.

“Sweetheart, you there?”

“Y-Yeah,” you answer. “I’m here.”

You can almost hear his expression through the phone—you imagine he’s suddenly on alert from the sound of his footsteps, worry in his voice. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

The words bring a flood of emotion through you—rage, sadness, mostly defeat. You feel yourself shaking again as a fresh wave of tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

“My engine broke Lo,” you sniffle. “It broke, and I tried to fix it but it wouldn’t—it wouldn’t turn on and I tried—“

You’re hyperventilating now, and somewhere far away you can hear Logan telling you to calm down, but it only makes you panic even further. “It wouldn’t work, and I did everything right and then it did! And I was so happy Lo, thought I did everything right and right when I started moving I got a flat fucking tire and everything’s going wrong and—“

“Honey, breathe, please,” he pleads through the phone, but you’re still crying. “Stay where you are, I’ve got you on gps, I’ll be there in ten.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper, wiping at your wet face with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault—“

“No, no, we are not doing that,” he interrupts. “Stay where you are, I’m coming to you, don’t panic, okay?”

You sniffle, nodding your head. “Y-Yeah, okay.”

“Say it back to baby, say you won’t panic.”

You nod again. “I won’t—I won’t panic.”

“Good,” he replies, the telltale jingle of car keys loud through the phone. “Want me to stay with you on the phone while I drive?”

“Please,” you say, still trying to steady yourself. From the corner of your eye you see yourself, and you look like a wreck. Red in the face, fingers and clothes stained from working on the engine, ugly black smudges that only serve to remind you of your failure.

“Hey, focus on my voice, alright?” He says. “I’m almost there, just keep calm.”

What was only a few minutes felt like hours, the sight of his car coming over the horizon enough to bring you to tears for the third time today.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” he coos, pulling you out from the car with a hand against your back. “You’re good, everything’s fine.”

You’re trembling in his arms, guilt flowing through him at the sight of you in pain. You’re holding onto him so tightly, as if he’d disappear if you didn’t. Your first words to him are a mess, and all he can do is rub your head as you get it all out. “I’m sorry for making you come here.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, placing a kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t be sorry, I’m happy to be here. Next time you’re in trouble, just call me, okay honey?”

[swordsandholly]

Steel Magnolia

Part 1 - paused

Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!plus size!reader

No use of y/n

Rating: Mature/MDNI

Word Count: 2.1k

Author’s Note: I just recently got back into fandom spaces and reading fanfic again and looooove the uptick in fat Y/N characters. Ofc as a big girl myself I wanted to try my hand at writing one too.

Hopefully I’ll post this on AO3 soon. Whenever I get my invite so I can make an acc.

“Oh! Darlin’, did ya see those boys next door?” Mrs. Duprey gasps as you swipe the last of her Bubble Bath OPI polish across her fingers.

“Next door?” You cock an eyebrow. “No one’s been next door since Adam and Eve.”

“I saw them on the way in!” She grins, the corners of her eyes wrinkling pleasantly. “Strappin’ young men - y’should talk t’ ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure I will sooner or later, ma’am.”

“You’ve been single too long.” The nosey old bat contributes. As much as you love her she truly cannot leave well enough alone.

“And I’m perfectly content as such.” You give her your warmest smile.

The trailer home across from you has remained empty for as long as you can remember. It’s well kept - sometimes you see random gardeners mowing or going in an out with tool bags - but no one lives there permanently. You’d think in a beach town it would at least belong to some snowbirds. A timeshare, maybe. It’s none of those things, though. Just a well-maintained, perfectly empty husk.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, probably.

Sure enough, as you walk Mrs. Duprey out of your little single wide trailer, you spot a black SUV parked out front of the neighboring double wide. One that is definitely *not* a repair man or worker’s vehicle. She coos at you to make sure to talk to them before waddling off to her own car. She really shouldn’t be driving at her age. You wonder briefly - futilly- if she’d sell you her car in exchange for rides.

You suppose she’s right - even if it is for the wrong reasons. You’re not particularly interested in flirting with the new neighbors. After all, don’t fuck where you eat is a saying for a reason, but it wouldn’t exactly be neighborly to not introduce yourself. Especially with all the people coming and going from your home for your nail tech services. The old Yankee’s catty-cornered from you still believe that you're a drug dealer. At least they only come down for a couple months of the year.

Despite your staunch decision not to flirt, you still find yourself adjusting your clothes. Maybe the sports bra as a top is a bit much…

Fuck it. If they live here now they’ll see you in worse.

You fix your lipstick and throw on your platform sandals. The ones that clip-clop as you walk. Maybe it will help announce your presence.

The screen door wraps quietly as you knock. You take two steps back on the front, wooden porch so as not to come off too aggressively. As the seconds tick by you debate on knocking again. Maybe they’re out. Or busy. They did just move in today, most likely. Maybe you should-

The door creaks slightly as it opens. A very, painfully handsome man pushes the screen door until it clicks in place. “Afternoon, lassie.”

You blink stupidly as he crosses his strong arms and leans on the doorframe. His eyes are a striking shade of blue - somehow both sharp and soft. His dark hair is shaped into a slightly grown-out, un-styled mohawk. It fits him oddly enough.

“I, uh,” you take a deep breath. Christ you need to get laid if just *looking* at a hot guy has you this off kilter. “I live across the way. Just wanted t’ say welcome t’ tha neighborhood.”

That lopsided smile on his face grows into a grin. You don’t miss the way his eyes catch on your chest. “Aye? Nice tae meet ye. Names John MacTavish. M’friends call me Johnny.”

He gives your hand an extra little squeeze after shaking it. That accent might as well have you on the floor. You continue to blink dumbly, watching the at the scar on his chin stretches as he speaks.

Christ almighty, you’re pathetic.

“Nice to meet’ya.” You give him a warm smile, tilting your head to the side slightly. “Ya’ll here for vacation? We don’t get many Europeans ‘round here.”

He chuckles. It’s low and rumbling and would probably feel wonderful with your ear pressed to his chest. “Little bit o’ business, little bit o’ pleasure. This an’ tha’.”

“Hello, there.” Another man pops up from behind Johnny suddenly. Fucking hell, he’s gorgeous too. Older, for sure, with a uniquely cut beard that would probably look rather silly on anyone less handsome. At it stands, he manages to make it appear dignified.

“Ah, jus’ about tae call fer ye, Cap. This is our neighbor.” Johnny gestures toward you.

“John Price.” The man steps forward to shake your hand. It’s firm and professional and thank god your grandad made you practice a good handshake as a kid or you’d be painfully embarrassed.

“Are all UK men named John or is this just some sorta cult?” You blurt, unable to stop yourself from snickering at them.

Older John chuckles at you fondly, his facial hair giving him a pleasant U-shaped smile. “Be easier to remember that way, wouldn’t it? No, we’re with two others. Kyle and Simon. They’re out at the moment.”

“Kyle and Simon.” You repeat, nodding. Johnny, John, Kyle, Simon. “Are y’all in town long?”

“Indefinitely.” Is all Price gives you. It’s a tone that even someone as dense as you can recognize as ‘don’t ask more.’

You clap your hands together and smile a little wider, ready to make your exit. “Well, I’m not here t’be a bother, just wanted t’ welcome ya and, uh, let y’know that I have a lot of people over throughout the day - I’m a nail tech. They shouldn’t bother ya but y’know.”

“Ye can come bother us anytime, bonnie.” The Scot hits you with that grin again and your face suddenly feels far too hot.

A loud, whining screech sounds off from down the road. You check your watch. Holy shit, three-thirty already. You begin to back off the porch. “Ah, nice t’ meet ya again! See ya ’round!”

As you jog down the little dirt road of the trailer park another black car passes you. It’s smaller, a sedan. You make very brief eye contact with a blonde wearing a surgical mask and another man with the sharpest golden eyes you’ve ever seen - even through the tint of the window.

*Kyle and Simon,* you think.

You make a mental note to greet them at some point and continue down the street. The school bus slowly stops at the entrance and you take up your spot in the small crowd of parents. IT’s a shabby old bus - chipping paint and break pads that sounds like they’re about ready to snap. It’s all they’re willing to send out to your little section of the city, though.

Shelby meanders over in your direction, her usual Camel Crush lit up in one hand and the other teasing her already well-lifted hair. “Afternoon. Saw there was some new folks across from ya.”

“Hm?” You keep your eyes on the bus. “Ah, yeah. Just vacationers, I think.”

“Lookers, though.” She chuckles.

“They’re from the UK.” You offer.

“No shit!” Shelby stamps out her cigarette as the bus doors open. “Accent and all?”

“Yep.” You grin.

Shelby tsks and fiddles with her hair again. “I best go over an’ make myself known, then.”

“There’s an older fella with a neat beard. Think you’d like ‘em.” You snicker.

She hums. “I’ll bring a pie.”

The children practically burst out of the bus doors, as always. Ready to be home and shuck off their backpacks to their respective adult. Shelby’s son almost knocks her over, offering a little “Good afternoon, ma’am!” to you before heading off with his mother.

You nod to him, shoving a hand in your pocket as you wait for yours. She’s always the last. Always caught up in a book or something and doesn’t realize it’s time to get off of the bus. Sure enough, the driver has to call back to her before the little girl comes dashing out. She jumps off of the bus steps, despite being told time and time again not to, and kicks a rock on her way toward you.

You bow low for her. “Welcome home, Lady Sophie.”

She giggles, dark curls bouncing as she skips over. “Ni-ni!”

You take her bag from her. The thing really does dwarf the poor six year old. Her hand slips into yours easily. Soft and round and somehow always so much warmer than yours.

“My nail color chipped!” She announces, holding up her ring finger on the opposite hand.

“Oh! Now we can’t have that. I’ll fix it tonight.” You smile, waving at old Mr.Chester as the two of you pass.

“Well now!” He calls. “How blessed am I to see two such lovely ladies!”

You both giggle, continuing on your way. He’s a good landlord - spotted you more than a few times when Sophie was a baby and you couldn’t work consistently. Honestly, as you look around, the little community that he’s managed to build in this shitty corner of the world should be praised. Housing just enough snowbirds to cover his property costs while keeping rent low for the full time locals. Maybe you could convince Natalie at the paper to run a little story on it or something.

As you pull up to your own home, the blonde man is outside leaning on the front of their double wide. Seeing him standing at full height makes your blood run cold. The man is built like a damn barn - tall and wide. Beyond solid. *Brick shithouse*. It’s a bit weird that he’s covered in clothing head to toe but whatever. Weirder things have happened before. The mask still covers his face, you wonder if he had taken it off before you came up or just flipped it up to smoke.

“Sophie, head on in. I’ll catch up.” You push her toward the door. She scampers in, the screen door slamming behind her as you march up to the brick shithouse of a man in front of you.

“Which are ya? Kyle or Simon?” You smile, holding out your hand to shake.

Dark eyes rake over you, stopping briefly on your hand, before moving back to meet yours. He stomps out the half smoked cigarette. “Simon.”

You let your hand drop. Bit rude, this one. “Nice t meetcha.”

The other man pops his head out of the trailer. Kyle, you assume. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hi.” You smile as warmly as you can, giving your name. “I’m assumin’ yer Kyle.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I’m guessing you’re the neighbor Price mentioned.”

You nod, about to speak again but Simon shoves past you, marching his way up the steps. “Let’s go.” He grunts, pushing the other man back into the trailer despite his protests.

You wrinkle your nose at him. What an asshole.

“Who’s tha’?” Sophie asks over the back of the old, worn couch as you let the trailer door slam behind you.

“New neighbors.” You say simply, glancing out the window. “Don’t go over there without me, yeah?”

“Okay!” She agrees, sitting back on the couch and bouncing, beginning her usual post school chant. “Bluey! Bluey! Bluey!”

You drop her backpack down beside the small coffee table. “After yer homework.”

“Nooo!” She pouts.

“Then no Bluey.”

Sophie pouts harder but crawls down in front of the coffee table and pulls out her little work sheets. At least the school doesn’t over run them too terribly with homework toward the end of the year. You glance at the calendar. Wednesday, May 22nd. Damn, she really only has about a week left. Though, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to this summer break with her. She’s old enough now that you can take her places like the arcade without having to wait on her so much. You’ll actually be able to play some of the two-player games.

Plus, this year, you actually have a little more pocket change to make it fun.

You turn to look out the window once more at the new neighbors. Their curtains remain closed, cars neatly parked out front. The door opens slowly, the hot Scot and rude blonde wander to the Sedan. Simon’s shoulders shake at something Johnny said - you think he’s laughing but its hard to tell with that mask. Johnny’s head turns, blue eyes meeting yours through the shitty glass windows of your trailer. You squeak and duck to sit next to Sophie, praying that he didn’t catch you staring.

[pandapetals]

hello! i hope you’re doing okay i missed your professor logan/logan works in general and wanted to request something if that’s okay, it was about reader being yknow the eldest daughter and how she does everything herself and listens to others before herself too and logan recognises this too

Hi! I know it has been a while. I took a break from writing, and then the whole drama made me feel icky. Anyway, hopefully this meets your request (eldest daughter here myself). I haven't written for Logan in a bit. I feel out of practice, though Joel and Logan are very similar. Miss Independent

summary: logan makes you take a break.

pairing: professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader

content warnings: established relationship (y'all married), cute, fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics.

Logan rolled his eyes, crossing the room with a look that was equal parts exasperation and worry. “Darlin’, you look like hell,” he grumbled, though his voice was soft as his hand came up to rest against your clammy forehead. “And don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ crap. You’ve been runnin’ yourself into the ground for days.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but your throat felt like sandpaper and your body ached in that bone-deep, weary way that no amount of stubbornness could ignore. Still, old habits die hard.

“I just need to finish grading these papers and—”

“No,” Logan cut in firmly, plucking the red pen from your hand and setting it on the desk. “You need to get your ass in bed.”

He could see it in your eyes—the fight, the refusal, that ingrained eldest daughter instinct that said if you stopped moving, everything would fall apart. You’d been carrying the weight of a hundred tiny responsibilities: students’ essays, Laura’s bottles, folding laundry at midnight, making lists for Logan’s grocery runs, quietly worrying about everyone but yourself.

Logan sighed, his expression softening as he crouched down in front of you, resting his rough hands on your knees. “Sweetheart… you take care of everybody else. Let someone take care of you for once.”

You blinked down at him, tears stinging the corners of your tired eyes, because the truth was…you didn’t know how. Not really.

“Who’s gonna—” you started, but your voice cracked, and Logan cut you off with a gentle shush.

“I’ll handle it,” he promised. “The kids’ll survive, the mansion won’t burn down, and I’ll call Jean to keep an eye on things if I have to. Laura’s nappin’ right now, and when she wakes up, I’ll rock her. You are gonna sleep. End of discussion.”

You gave a weak laugh, your body sagging a little in the chair. “Bossy.”

“Damn right.” Logan scooped you up before you could protest, carrying you bridal-style toward the bed. “Could’ve told ya years ago, darlin’—I ain’t lettin’ you wear yourself down.”

As he settled you into the covers, he brushed a strand of hair from your face and kissed your temple. Laura’s soft cries sounded from the other room, but Logan just gave you a look. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned playfully. “I’ve got her. You get some rest.”

And as he padded out of the room to tend to your daughter, you let yourself sink into the pillows for the first time in what felt like forever. And for the first time in longer than you could remember, you let Logan carry the world for a while.

You knew he could handle it — he always did. But lately, things hadn’t been easy, not for either of you.

Adjusting to life with a baby had been beautiful and brutal in equal measure. The kind of love that cracked you open and made you raw. The type of exhaustion you felt in your bones. And somewhere along the way, the easy rhythm you and Logan once moved in had gotten out of sync. Conversations cut short by cries. Date nights replaced with midnight feedings. Your bed was too full of baby bottles and stuffed animals, too empty of whispered jokes and soft touches in the dark.

If you were honest, part of that was your fault.

You’d spent your whole life as the eldest daughter. The one who made sure the house didn’t fall apart, the one who filled the fridge, calmed the younger kids, and patched up scraped knees while your parents fought in the other room. It taught you how to be capable. It also taught you that asking for help was a weakness. And that carried into your marriage, even when you promised yourself it wouldn’t.

You felt it lately — the stretch, the strain. The way you brushed off Logan’s hand when he tried to take over a chore. How you snapped at him when he gently told you to rest. The way your chest tightened every time you saw him sitting with Laura, feeling like you were missing it all, like you weren’t enough.

Logan… he noticed. Of course he did. But neither of you had quite figured out how to talk about it.

Now, sitting on the edge of the bed, achy and feverish, watching him disappear into the next room with Laura, you felt it again — that weight in your chest. Not from being sick, but from knowing you kept trying to carry too much. That old, gnawing guilt for not doing it all, for not being everything, for not being the glue.

When Logan came back, his hair mussed and his shirt streaked with formula, he looked at you with that same damn look he always gave you when he knew you were about to bottle it up again.

“I’m not mad, you know,” he said, leaning against the doorway. “That you’re tired. Or that it’s hard. Or that we ain’t got this whole thing figured out yet.”

You didn’t answer, your eyes stinging.

“I married you knowin’ you’re stubborn. That you take on too much, that you don’t know when to quit,” he went on, a rough sort of fondness in his voice. “But you don’t have to prove nothin’ to me, darlin’. Not now. Not ever.”

A tear slipped free, and you managed a shaky laugh. “I don’t know how to let you help.”

“I know,” he said, crossing the room and sitting beside you. “But you’re gonna learn. 'Cause we ain’t gonna make it through this if you don’t.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, his scent — leather, smoke, and baby powder now — wrapping around you. And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself lean a little heavier.

“I miss you,” you whispered.

Logan pressed a kiss to your hair. “Miss you, too, sweetheart. We’ll figure it out.”

You sniffled, nuzzling your face into the curve of his neck, the warmth of his skin and steady thrum of his pulse grounding you. Logan’s hand traced slow, soothing circles along your back, his calloused palm rough and familiar in a way that made your heart ache.

“You always know how to get me to stop acting like I’ve got it all under control,” you murmured, your voice thick and a little watery.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a low, fond chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you don’t fool me for a second.”

You let out a tired laugh, one that felt like it loosened something tight in your chest.

Logan pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing a tear off your cheek. “Now, how about I grab Laura, bring her in here, and the three of us call it a night? No dishes. No papers. No guilt. Just us.”

You sniffled again, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Logan grinned, giving you one last squeeze before standing up. “Be right back, Mrs. Howlett.”

When he returned a minute later, cradling a sleepy, blinking Laura against his chest — her tiny hand clutching the fabric of his worn t-shirt — your heart swelled so painfully full you thought it might burst.

He settled beside you, tucking Laura into your arms, then pulled the blanket over all three of you. The world could wait. The worries, the exhaustion, the endless to-do lists — they could wait, too.

For now, it was just this. Warm skin. Baby-soft breaths. A gruff man with a heart too big for his good. And you, finally letting yourself rest, surrounded by the family you never quite believed you’d have.

Logan pressed one more kiss to your hair and whispered, “Love you, darlin’. Always.”

You smiled into the quiet, replying softly, “Love you too, tough guy.”

[lucy90712]

hello so I don't know if you're still taking kenan yildiz requests or requests at all but could you write something like enemies to lovers.

So kenan and reader are in the same friend group but they're complete opposites, kenan is extroverted and reader is introverted. So she kinda keeps her distance and she's away from him, this makes kenan think she doesn't like him so he just randomly starts being mean to her whenever they're together, to the point where she gets teary-eyed and tries to get away from him. And then he starts feeling guilty and tries to comfort here and they confess to one another. Anyways they actually like each other after the ice breaker and start dating.

"Girl you look so good come on we've got to go" my best friend Alice said 

"I feel like I look too different they're all going to mock me" I said 

"No one's going to mock you we're all friends plus you look amazing so even if they say something it's just because they're jealous of how stunning you look" she said dragging me out the apartment 

If I was worried about what the other girls thought her saying that would've been helpful but that's not what's on my mind. In fact I'm not worried about the group as a whole I'm worried about what Kenan will say. I've known Kenan for years as we have mutual friends which have now formed into one big friend group. He's the popular extrovert of the friend group the famous footballer he's the complete opposite of me I've never been one that likes to have loads of friends and talk to strangers on a whim. To begin with we got on just fine and by that I mean we didn't really talk but that was fine with me as we just wouldn't have anything in common but recently Kenan has started talking to me and by talking I mean mocking me. I don't know what I've done to him to make him act like that but it's made me not want to hang out with the whole group as I don't want to see him. 

Some of the things Kenan says really hurt he makes fun of the way I dress, the way I struggle to talk in front of everyone, the way I act and pretty much everything else about me. Everyone else seems to find it funny as they always laugh at what he says but they hurt to hear. I try and make it seem like it doesn't bother me but every time I come home after seeing everyone I always just sit in my bed and cry. It's pathetic really I should just find a new group of friends who don't enjoy listening to someone make fun of me but I don't know how to make friends and I don't want to be all alone I'm not one to have loads of friends but I need to have a few or else I’ll go crazy.  

Tonight might be different though it's supposed to be a birthday party for one of the other girls Sofia so none of the focus should be on me. There should also be some other people there too like Sofia's friends from class so I should be able to just hide out in a corner and go unnoticed most of the night. As long as I avoid Kenan I'll be fine and Alice has promised to help keep me away from him so I can enjoy my night too but sometimes he just pops up out of nowhere but hopefully that won't happen tonight. 

There are times that I can't believe I used to like Kenan. When I first met him after one of the guys brought him along to a hang out I thought he was so hot. I'd never been so attracted to a guy before mainly because I'd never talked to many different guys but Kenan instantly caught my eye. For months I admired him without really talking to him until my birthday when he wished me happy birthday even though I didn't think he even knew my birthday. After that I only liked him more but I knew that he'd never fall for someone like me he's very much an extrovert loves talking to people and I'm the complete opposite not to mention that he could literally have any girl he wanted. As I knew I'd never be able to be with Kenan I decided to keep my distance from him as then I couldn't embarrass myself that way and I could try and get over my feelings. My feelings lasted for a long time in fact they only really went away when Kenan started being so awful to me as it showed me he wasn't the person I thought he was. 

As I don't really drink I volunteered to drive to Kenan's house where the party is taking place as he has the biggest place in fact he's the only one who has a house the rest of us live at home or in small little apartments. There was nowhere to park so I let Alice get out while I drove around again and eventually I found a spot so I could make my own way inside. I had every opportunity to just leave right then but I forced myself to go in as I have to be there for my other friends. When I opened the door a few people looked over then I caught Kenan's eye which I was hoping he would just let slide but no I can't ever be that lucky. 

"Ooh look someone's got dressed up for tonight can’t be trying to impress a guy because that'll never happen" Kenan said loud enough for everyone to hear 

"Thats a good one man" one of the other guys said while laughing 

"I bet she's never even been on a date with a guy" Kenan added knowing I was still in earshot 

It hurt because he's right I've never been on a date because I can never get myself to talk to a guy let alone find one that likes me enough to want to go on a date with me. I tried not to let the pain show I just found a quiet corner to spend the rest of the party sat in. A quiet corner is exactly where I want to be all on my own to just sit and not talk to another soul it's not like any of them really care about me anyway. On my own no one can laugh at me and no one can call me a loner if no one notices me and I don't acknowledge them it makes life easier it makes nights like tonight easier. 

I found my quiet corner and stayed there on my own for ages until Alice found me and dragged me into the group of people so I could socialise but the extent of my socialising was wishing Sofia a happy birthday. Then I just looked at the floor as Kenan was stood across the room from me and I could feel his eyes on me and I didn't want to accidentally make eye contact with him I just can't take anymore mocking tonight. 

"Why do we still invite her to these things all she does is stand alone and say nothing a ghost would be better company" Kenan laughed 

"She balances the rest of us out we all talk a lot and she doesn't creates a balance" one of the others said 

That was it it was too much a person can only take so much and this was my limit. The tears started to fall and I just ran off probably making me look more crazy than they already thought I was. I didn't know where I was going I just had to get out of there but as I tried to open the gate someone put their hand on their arm to stop me. I looked at the hand and it definitely wasn't Alice which told me that it wasn't someone I wanted to talk to. 

"Let me go I need to go" I said 

"No I need to apologise" the voice I quickly recognised as Kenan's said 

"Sorry but you're the last person I want to talk to" I said 

"Please give me a chance to say sorry I really never meant to hurt you" he said 

"But you did and you have been for months every time I see you you say something hurtful and you don't think it bothers me but it does it hurts I know I don't fit in with the rest of you I don't need someone telling me every time I see you" I said turning around to face him 

"I do know that" he said 

"That makes it worse you knew you were hurting me and still did it" I said 

"I had a reason its stupid but I had a reason" Kenan said 

"Then tell me the reason you've made my life hell for months" I shouted for probably the first time ever 

"I like you and I have done for months I know it sounds stupid but I have feelings for you but you've always been so distant that I knew I could never have you so I thought if I said those things to hurt you then I would stop liking you or maybe you'd leave and I wouldn't have to see you across the room and admire you from a distance" Kenan admitted 

"You know I had feelings for you too until you started this little game of yours I kept my distance because I don't know how to talk to guys I've never flirted with a guy let alone been on a date and your a famous footballer in my head we'd never have worked you need someone who is more outgoing and someone who looks like a model or is a model I'm not who you want Kenan" I said 

"But that's the thing you are I've been with the outgoing model type and sure they're fun but they're really superficial there's nothing more under the surface whereas with you I know you actually have a personality I know everyone in there would tell me I'm crazy but I can just see that under the surface you're a really interesting person a person I want to get to know" he said 

"Wait you actually want to be with me?" I asked 

"Of course and I know I've messed up but if you can forgive me for making your life awful than I'd love to take you on a date" he said 

"As long as you promise not to mock me in front of everyone anymore I think I'd like to go on a date with you" I said 

"I will make it the best date ever I promise you" he said 

He put his hands on my face and wiped my tears before leaning down and pressing his lips to mine. The kiss was magical I felt like electricity was flowing through my body and the whole world around me felt empty. It was just me and Kenan in that moment and that made it perfect. I never wanted the kiss to end but of course it had to so we both pulled away and Kenan walked me back to my car so I could go home but before I left he put my number in his phone and promised to text me with details of our date which I'm very much looking forward to.

[floralmusings]

Hi hello, and welcome to my little writing corner!

You can call me Flora (she/her), and I’m hoping to carve out a place for myself in the writing community here on tumblr and follow along with new writing projects, as well as hopefully garner some interest in my own!

I hate the idea of creating this thing and asking for interaction without doing so myself; I am a huge believer of the idea of community, of bettering and bolstering other content creators, and participating in something bigger than myself. So, tag games, asks, challenges, and so on and so forth, are all welcomed and encouraged - additionally, I LOVE hearing about other people’s works, with a particular weak spot for high/dark fantasy, as well as urban fantasy.

Thank you for your time in reading this, if you are a writeblr, interact with this post and I’ll check out your blog! In the meantime, if you’re interested in learning about my wips, they’re below the cut - I am a predominantly adventure fantasy writer, taking inspiration from D&D and real world mythos.

UNDECIDED : Unbound By The Light

Dark Fantasy - Found Family - Hurt/Comfort

Ashaveth, a once devout woman, finds themselves dragged back into the throes of their old beliefs when they stumble upon a creature spoken of only in aeon old hymns and textbooks lost to dust; a creature that bears the symbol of a Goddess they had abandoned so long ago.

Donning a mask that burns with a holy light, all consuming, all radiating - this, was a Faceless One.

If legend was to be believed, they were servants of Vigil, molded and shaped by Her to be the perfect protectors of peace and divine will - they had no name for they had no identity, they had no tongue for they had no voice, they had no blood for they did not bleed.

Had the Goddess she fled finally tracked her down?

UNDECIDED : Parcels & Papercuts

High Fantasy - Cosy - Found Family

The Couriers are a ragtag group who are the proud owners of the delivery service Parcels & Papercuts - a wandering delivery service who will deliver anything to anyone.

This is going to be an anthology series following the characters of this group and their various escapades - from delivering baked goods to a homesick grandaughter, to handing over a love letter to a scorned god. No job is too big and certainly never too small.

This is the type of series that you can jump in whenever, and you won't miss any major plot beats or anything like that.

[yoomiwrites]

Can you write a thatch or marco with a small female reader? I dont mind the personality but maybe she is a bit witty and cheeky or a bit like ace.

Too small

Summary: Being the smallest member of the Whitebeard Pirates meant constantly fighting to be taken seriously—not that you’d ever admit it bothered you, if Thatch wouldn't add to it.

Note: When I saw that request, I was all hyped up to write for Thatch. In the end, I also didn't know how I wanted to write him...so you had to wait a bit longer, sorry. It's kinda GN-reader? Well, I had fun writing it, so hopefully you have fun reading it!

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The sun hung lazily over the deck of the Moby Dick, its warm rays casting a golden glow over the ocean. It was the perfect time for a nap—or, in your case, a bold display of relaxation. Stretched out on a towel, arms behind your head, you had your tiny frame sprawled in a way that screamed: I belong here, deal with it!

And yet, despite your best efforts, you knew exactly why the others had left you alone. You weren’t oblivious. The teasing, the well-meaning but infuriatingly patronizing head pats, the constant remarks— Oh, Y/N, you’re so tiny! Are you sure you can handle that?—all of it made your blood boil. You weren’t weak. You weren’t some kid. You were a Whitebeard pirate, dammit!

So, when a shadow loomed over you, you cracked one eye open, fully prepared to snap at whoever dared disturb your peaceful sulking. Instead, you were met with the smug grin of Thatch, a plate of pastries in one hand.

“Enjoying some alone time, short stuff?” he teased, kneeling beside you.

Your eye twitched, but before you could protest, he plopped a pastry into your hand.

“Before you bite my head off, at least eat. I made these myself,” he added, waving the plate at you as if it were a peace offering.

You huffed but took a bite anyway, stubbornly ignoring the way the sugary taste melted on your tongue like pure heaven.

Thatch chuckled, watching you with a knowing glint in his eyes. “So… wanna tell me why you’re out here all by yourself?”

“I like being alone,” you shot back immediately, puffing up your chest. “Unlike certain people, I don’t need to be surrounded by a crowd every second of the day.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled, clearly unconvinced. “Totally not because the others have been getting on your nerves, huh?”

You nearly choked on your pastry. “What? No! I—”

He raised an eyebrow.

You crossed your arms. “I just needed some fresh air.”

Another eyebrow raise.

Your scowl deepened. “And some peace.”

The way he just smiled at you—like he had already figured you out—was infuriating.

“Y’know,” Thatch mused, setting the plate aside, “I get it.”

You blinked. “Get what?”

“The whole ‘proving yourself’ thing.” He leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. “People assume stuff about you, and no matter how strong or capable you are, they still treat you like something delicate.”

Your fingers curled slightly around the pastry. That was… painfully accurate.

“But here’s the thing, Y/N.” He turned to you, his expression softer now. “Size doesn’t matter. Not to me, not to Pops, and not to the crew. You’ve already proven yourself just by being here.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. It was stupid how much those words made your chest feel warm. Thatch grinned and—before you could react—ruffled your hair.

Your entire body froze.

“You’re still a pain in the ass, though,” he added with a laugh. “Tiny, but mighty.”

You swatted his hand away, face burning. “Oi! I’m not a kid, stop doing that!”

“But it’s just so easy,” he teased, holding his hands up defensively. “You’re fun-sized.”

“I swear to god, Thatch, I will end you.”

He only laughed harder. “Relax, relax! No matter how small you are, I’ll always take you seriously.”

The words softened the edge of your frustration. Just a little. Not that you’d admit it. Still grumbling, you finished your pastry in a huff, but the corners of your lips twitched despite yourself.

Thatch smirked. “Feeling better?”

You huffed. “…Maybe.”

“Good,” he said, standing up and stretching. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back before Marco eats all my food.”

As he turned to leave, he reached out—and gave you one last pat on the head.

“Thatch!”

He darted away before you could throw the plate at him, laughing the entire time. And though you scowled, your heart felt just a little lighter.

The usual lively buzz of the ship had settled into a more comfortable hum after lunch, laughter and clinking mugs filling the air as the crew enjoyed their evening. You, however, had other plans.

Standing at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed and trying very hard to look nonchalant, you found yourself watching Thatch move effortlessly between counters, humming to himself as he cleaned up after dinner. It took a moment to shake yourself out of it. With a huff, you marched inside. “Need some help?”

Thatch barely glanced up as he wiped down a plate, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Oh? You? Volunteering for kitchen duty? Who are you and what have you done with Y/N?”

You scowled, snatching a dish off the counter. “Don’t get used to it. I just don’t like owing people anything. Consider this a thank-you for earlier.”

His eyes flickered with amusement, but to his credit, he didn’t outright call you on your flimsy excuse. “Mm-hm. Sure.”

You ignored the teasing lilt in his voice and got to work, scrubbing dishes with more force than necessary. The quiet between you was… nice, actually. Comfortable. Thatch worked beside you, chatting here and there about whatever crossed his mind, while you mostly grumbled responses—though your lips twitched once or twice at his more ridiculous comments. Eventually, you found yourself tasked with putting away the now-dry dishes. Reaching for a bowl, you turned toward one of the overhead shelves, stretching onto your toes to place it where it belonged.

The problem? The shelf was too damn high.

Not that you’d ever admit that.

Jaw tightening, you stretched just a little further—fingers barely brushing the edge—when suddenly, the plates stacked on the shelf wobbled.

Oh.

Shit.

Before you could react, a warm presence appeared behind you, and in one swift motion, two strong arms reached around you, hands catching the unstable dishes before they could come crashing down. For a second, you just stood there, wide-eyed.

Because holy hell, Thatch was right behind you.

As in, close enough that you could feel the heat of his chest pressing against the top of your head, the solid weight of him warm against your back. And he smelled… good. Like fresh-baked bread, a hint of spice, and honey.

Your grip on the bowl tightened slightly as your heart did an embarrassing little doki-doki against your ribs.

“Well, that could’ve been a disaster,” Thatch mused, his voice right near your ear, far too casual for someone who had you effectively caged between him and the counter. “Y’know, I appreciate the effort, short stack, but maybe leave the high shelves to the professionals, yeah?”

Your brain took a full two seconds to reboot before you sputtered, “I-I could’ve handled it.”

“Oh, no doubt,” he chuckled, still holding the plates steady as he leaned just a little closer. “You were doing great—really had that whole ‘about to be buried under ceramic’ thing going for you.”

You could hear the grin in his voice, the absolute smugness radiating off him, and it only made the warmth in your face worse.

“Shut up,” you grumbled, shoving the bowl onto the counter and stepping very quickly out of his space. To your horror, he ruffled your hair. Again.

“You’re cute when you get flustered.”

Your entire body locked up. Then—purely out of self-defense—you grabbed a dish towel and whipped it at him. “OUT!”

But instead of making a run for it like any sane person would, he simply caught the towel, slinging it over his shoulder with a smirk. “But this is my kitchen,” he reminded you, completely unfazed. “Shouldn’t you be the one leaving?”

You opened your mouth—ready to argue, to tell him to just shut up and let you suffer in peace—but then his smirk softened, just a little.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I pushed it a bit.”

That threw you off. “Huh?”

His grin turned lopsided. “Didn’t mean to actually upset you.” He leaned against the counter, watching you with something gentler in his gaze now. “I just… I like the way your nose scrunches up when you get mad. The way your cheeks go all pink, and your eyes—” He tilted his head, studying you like you were something rare. “They shine when you’re fired up.”

Your breath caught.

Oh.

That was—that was not fair.

Suddenly, standing still was impossible. You fidgeted, shifting your weight as you fought to keep your expression neutral. “Dumbass,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You can’t just—say things like that.”

“Why not?” His voice was way too amused, and the warmth in his eyes was making your stomach do something stupid.

You swallowed.

Screw it.

Before you could think better of it, you pushed up onto your toes, gripping the counter for balance as you tried to press a kiss against his smug face—

—only to realize, to your absolute horror, that you were still too damn short.

Thatch blinked. And then, the bastard wheezed.

“Oh my god—” He had to brace himself against the counter, laughter shaking his entire body. “You—you really just—”

Your eye twitched. “Don’t—”

But it was too late. He wiped at his eyes, gasping for breath between chuckles. “That was adorable.”

“I hate you.”

You spun on your heel, fully prepared to stomp out of the kitchen and never look back—

But before you could, a warm hand caught your wrist.

The laughter softened. “Hey,” he murmured, tugging you back. And then, in one smooth motion, he tilted his head down, closing the distance himself. His lips met yours—warm, teasing at first, just the barest brush, like he was still playing around. But then he lingered, pressing a little more firmly, letting you feel the weight of it. It was soft but deliberate, steady in a way that made the breath catch in your throat. His free hand settled at your waist—not holding, just there—while his other fingers traced slow, absentminded circles against your wrist.

It was infuriatingly gentle. Like he had all the time in the world to savor this, to savor you. By the time he pulled away, your heart was practically racing.

He grinned, his breath still warm against your lips. “There. Better?”

You were going to die. Right here. In his damn kitchen.

Scowling, you smacked his chest, ignoring the way your hand lingered just a little too long. “Next time, just bend down in the first place, dumbass.”

His laughter rumbled through you. “Where’s the fun in that?”

[so-much-for-the-seashells]

This River is Wild (pt. 1)

Tim Bradford x fem!reader

==================================

Summary: Set in an alternate timeline of the Pilot and inspired by ‘This River is Wild’ by The Killers, Tim Bradford has been shot in the line of duty. Almost fatally so. He’s been feeling pretty shitty for a while now, but this is the cherry on top. Forced to take a leave of absence for a month, Bradford doesn’t really know what to do with himself. Luckily for him, his chatterbox neighbor who he doesn’t know all too well is about to take matters into her own hands…

Warnings: 18+ for mature themes including mental health, injury, and potential sexual themes down the line. Please do not interact if you are under 18– you are responsible for the content you consume.

A/N: Hi Rookie fandom!!! I’ve taken a long leave of absence from writing in general, but I just started the Rookie and am finally feeling inspired again! I’m barely halfway into the first season, but I’m obsessed. I hope my perception of Tim is decent, I’m really trying to get this right. ‘This River is Wild,’ if you haven’t heard it, is a The Killers deep cut that really resonates with me. Its lyrics also happen to really match Tim, so hopefully this’ll inspire you to give it a listen!

Anyways, if you do end up enjoying part one of this indefinite series, let me know! I’m excited to put this out into the world, and I would really appreciate some commentary/reviews to keep me into it!

Without further ado, welcome to ‘This River is Wild’!

==================================

You better run for the hills before they burn

Tim Bradford was used to running for the hills before they burned. It’s what he was trained to do, both in the army and as a cop. It was a simple concept— if things were going to shit, you got out. Immediately. No questions asked.

Listen to the sound of the world, don't watch it turn

Even now, though he could be considerably more comfortable as an established cop in LA than he could be in Afghanistan or Iraq, he can’t just stop and smell the roses. Not that he would anyway, he’d probably find something better to do, but the point still stands.

I just want to show you what I know

So he remains hopelessly devoted to the job, showing boot after boot what he knows, and then they leave him. On to the next one.

And catch you when the current lets you go

The only place that lets him just be is his home. But he’s not there nearly as frequently as he should be.

Or should I just get along with myself?

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t really get along with himself. It’s hard to be in a silent house when it’s one resident—you— is someone you don’t even like.

I never did get along with everybody else

He used to get along with everybody else better too. He won’t admit it, but Isabel fucked him over more than he’d ever account for.

I've been trying hard to do what's right

He’s been trying so hard to do what’s right, but it’s almost impossible when he doesn’t even know what’s right and wrong anymore. Was he right for trying to take matters with his wife into his own hands? For still calling her his wife even though she ran?

But you know I could stay here all night

He won’t admit this either, but he just needs somewhere to stay all night. Somewhere where his mind doesn’t have to be in all for corners of the world, constantly on and relentlessly so. Somewhere where he can let his constantly clenched jaw relax. Spend some time with the dog. Go for a swim. Eat some food that hasn’t been premade.

And watch the clouds fall from the sky

Somewhere where he can watch the clouds fall from the sky.

==================================

Now especially has been difficult for him. He’d been injured in the line of duty before, but this time was different. The first shot almost hit his heart, and the second almost rendered his left arm immobile.

“We might’ve lost you if you weren’t such a stubborn ass,” Grey had told him while he was lying in that dingy hospital bed.

“Your bedside manner could use some work,” was all Tim said in return.

A small part of him was heartened by the frequent visitation from the other cops. He was too closed off to show it, but honestly, it really made him feel loved. Which, yes, was sappy, but it did.

Now that he’s discharged from the hospital, all he wants is to be around the other cops. Be on the job. Even that ancient rookie would be better company than his thoughts.

But Grey all but threatened to fire him if he didn’t take a leave of absence.

So here he is, at home for the third day out of thirty.

Nolan, the boot who’s older than him, came by and brought him a puzzle yesterday. Tim didn’t even answer the door, but now he has a large Mediterranean Ocean motif on his living room coffee table. He supposed it made the granite look more interesting, and hadn’t yet had the heart to take it apart. It took him five hours, after all.

He watched the Dodgers game a the way through the first night, which he hadn’t been able to sit down and do in a long time. He even threw popcorn in the microwave. A part of him was hoping that the phone would ring with another officer requesting back up. Or maybe they needed someone on midnight patrol. The phone never rang.

He doesn’t really want to do anything on day three, and stays in bed until his stomach grumbling pisses him off enough to make him get up. He would work out or something, but his arm is useless at the moment and he didn’t want to go back to the LAPD looking like Roger Federer.

Of course, he forgot that he didn’t have any food at the house aside from a few sorry bags of popcorn in his pantry and a bag of expired carrots at the back of his fridge. He curses himself for not going to the store sooner, already storming back into his bedroom to find his keys. He hits his bad arm on the doorway as he walks, and swears loudly. The pain is a hot white flash, and he can’t believe he’d been clumsy enough to wreck into the wall like that.

“Get it together, Bradford,” he says to himself aloud.

He grabs his keys, still flinching from the throbbing in his damned left shoulder. He never realized how much he took it for granted until he’d been shot— he used to be able to do twenty pull ups, and now he can’t raise his arm over his head. It is infuriating to him.

He walks into his bathroom that adjoins with his room, and looks in the mirror to make sure he doesn’t look like a caveman. The man who looks back at him is a shell of the Tim Bradford he knows himself to be. He is looking a little too slim, and despite all of the rest he is getting, his blue eyes look more tired than ever. His hair is a little shaggy, and he has the beginnings of a beard— that has to go. Immediately. He makes a mental note to shave when he got back.

Then he sees his shirt— it is evidently backwards and inside out. Nice one, Bradford. Real nice. He simply rolls his eyes and decides he can’t be bothered— it was already hard enough to get it over his head last night.

Finally making his way out of the house, he glances at the time on the stove in his kitchen. 10:30. He should’ve gone out sooner, but he hasn’t emotionally prepared himself for the looks he’ll get from the neighbors.

He almost died. Whether he wants to acknowledge the fact or not, it’s true. He’s lucky to be alive, and by all means shouldn’t be. He was on the news— Angela had showed him a picture of the headline. “LAPD Cop in Critical Condition following Drug Bust.” Yes, it was severe.

Tim doesn’t want the pity though. He just wants to go back to being ‘Tim Bradford,’ and doing his thing.

He’s still stuck in reverie as he walks out of the house, and almost topples over an unnoticed figure in the driveway.

***

Y/N’s POV

You don’t know Tim Bradford, your next door neighbor, very well. Or at all, really. You’ve just seen him in passing. Shared small talk a few times, but that was the extent of it. You know next to nothing about him.

What you did know about Tim, however, is that he’s a cop. You’d seen him running in and out of the house in that pristine LAPD uniform, and just recently you’d seen his name and picture on your TV screen with the caption “LAPD Cop in Critical Condition following Drug Bust.” Your heart had fallen quickly- for one, while you didn’t know Tim all that well, you liked him well enough. And for two, your father had been a cop in one of the many precincts in New York. He’d been shot in the line of duty just as well, and you knew exactly what that meant to cops. You knew what the spiral looked like, you’d seen it firsthand. It took him a long time to get back on his feet as a cop, and longer as a dad.

Maybe it was because you saw the news on the night of your dad’s “shot-versary,” but that night you vowed to yourself that if Tim ended up being alright, you would look out for him. It didn’t seem like he had anyone else at home, and you knew damn well that your dad wouldn’t’ve pulled through without the help of his family.

Thankfully, Tim did end up coming home. You saw his car pull into his driveway three days ago, two weeks after you saw the headline. Your heart skipped a beat upon seeing him walk out of the car into his house, his left arm in a sling. Of course, the bakery kept you busy that day, and you needed to go on a grocery run, but you remembered your promise to yourself.

Two days later you are in a position where you have the time to cook, and figure that Tim has had enough time to himself by now. So, you make something basic— a big vat of chicken noodle soup. Your mom’s recipe, in fact. You can’t help but admire your work, because now your house smells heavenly, like sautéed garlic and vegetables and bright lemons. You put as much soup as you can fit in the largest container you own, and set off to your next door neighbor’s house.

Evidently he is coming out of the house for the first time since he’d been back, because he all but barrels into you as you approached the steps leading up to his porch. You manage to keep a tight grip on the container, refusing to let your hard work unceremoniously fall to the ground.

“What the— oh, y/n,” he looks at you quizzically, saying your name by way of greeting instead of a “hey.” He looks a little bent out of shape, to say the least. His blue eyes have dark circles beneath them, and he’s squinting like he hasn’t seen the sun in ages. He has a light beard, and his hair is more grown out than you’ve ever seen it, which isn’t saying too much, but that’s beside the point. And… is his shirt inside out? Normally this man is spick and span, not a single hair out of place.

Come to think of it, he’s reminding you of how your dad looked after about a week of being home. This can’t be good.

“Hi, Tim! I made you some soup,” you say cheerily. He does not seem like the kind of guy who wants to hear the words “I’msorryyoualmostdiedfromgettingshotwowbeingacopiscrazy,” so you don’t even bother. Just keep it right to the point.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, eyeing the container.

“And?” you say, a bit of a sassy bite to your words.

He shakes his head a little. “Uh, okay. Thanks.”

Yeah, that was about right for Tim. Man of few words. “Anytime,” you promise him, holding the container out to him, before remembering that one of his arms is out of commission.

“That’s really okay, y/n. You don’t need to do that,” he says.

“Do you want to take it inside before you leave?” you don’t even bother dignifying that last statement with a response.

“Sure,” he walks back towards the house, and you follow him. He unlocks the door and steps inside, not holding it or waiting on you. Okay.

You briefly glance around the house as you follow him into the kitchen. It doesn’t look very lived in.

Sparse furniture, grey walls, no pictures. The only thing you see that isn’t a necessity (ie chairs, a couch) is a blue, glass vase with water lingering at the bottom of it. Maybe it is for flowers?

He opens the fridge, which is somehow more depressing than the rest of the house. There’s virtually nothing in it.

As if he can sense your judgement, he grumbles.“Was just about to go on a grocery run.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, unable to hide the bit of disbelief in your voice. You set the large container of soup on one of the racks. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“It’s really okay, y/n. But thanks for the food, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” you say again. Anytime indeed.

You stand there awkwardly under blue eyed gaze. As if finally deciding something, his gaze softens slightly. “I should really get going-.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, just matter of factly.

“Yeah, Same. Long day at work ahead of me,” you say. It’s a little hard not to be hurt by his bluntness, but maybe that’s just how he is.

You both walk out of the house, and go in your separate ways.

Maybe you can bring him some baked goods from the bakery tomorrow?

You doubt yourself, a little. He probably only sees you as a random neighbor who’s taken pity on him. That’s not a good feeling for anyone.

Maybe you’ll try one more time, and if he really doesn’t seem to want your attempt at help, you’ll keep out of his life.

***

Tim’s POV

Tim knows his cart must’ve looked depressing to anyone who spared it a glance at Target, but he just doesn’t care. The most he could get was spinach, apples, and protein power before he just gave up. His injury has been causing him some form of fatigue, so his robotic cart would just have to do for today.

He pulls into his driveway, still feeling robotic. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, and he doesn’t like that feeling. Not one bit.

He doesn’t feel like himself. He couldn’t make a joke if he wanted to, and not even the Dodger’s are giving him much joy, even with their current winning streak. He can’t bring himself to call Angela or Talia, but he figures they’ll barge into hiss house at some point regardless.

Maybe it’s the LA heat that has him a little crazy. He feels numb to everything aside from his damn arm, which hasn’t stopped throbbing since he hit it in the morning. He hates complaining about anything, but it’s just really getting to him. Even when it’s a dull pain, it’s a noticeable pain. Just makes him think about those damn druggies who he should’ve been able to subdue without getting shot.

Definitely a great look for his new boot too. He’d done his Tim Tests and his typical intimidation tracks to whip her into shape, but now it seems like it was useless. By the time he gets back she’ll surely be comfortable with whomever Grey reassigns her too.

Tim grumpily gets out of his car, almost forgetting to grab his grocery bag as he does so. He unlocks the door to his house, the first thing he glances at being the puzzle on the coffee table. He wishes he could just make some great escape, take himself to the Mediterranean. He had never taken a personal day in his history of being a cop, it’s not like he couldn’t take a vacation…

He shakes his head. His stomach growls for the seventieth time today, reminding him that it is 12:15 and he’s had yet to feed himself. Setting his groceries on his table, he gives them the once over. It’s either a protein shake or… a protein shake. Awesome.

He opens the fridge and throws the spinach in, not really wanting it. He then sees the soup. The soup that you had so graciously brought to him.

It certainly looks better than the shit he brought home. He awkwardly maneuvers the large container out of the fridge. It’s difficult with only one arm in commission, but he manages. He grabs a bowl from the cabinet next to the sink, and hastily warms up a bowl full of the vibrant yellow soup. The smell of it heating up in the microwave is making him even more hungry.

Checking to see if it was hot enough after the first go around, he gingerly dips his spoon into the bowl to try it. And it’s… really good. Maybe one of the best things he’s ever put into his mouth. It’s been a while since he’s had a home cooked meal. It’s… nice.

Needless to say, he ends up eating two bowls full.

He thinks about you as he eats it. You coming over was… not necessarily an unwelcome surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. He really doesn’t want the neighbors taking pity on him, but he also doesn’t mind the food. He probably shouldn’t have been so curt with him, you seemed like you genuinely just wanted to help.

But it’s always been hard for Tim Bradford to accept help. If the people in his life are onshore, he’s in the deepest part of the ocean.

Maybe it’s time to change that.

==================================

Part Two out now!!