#i actually have these tags muted not to get spoiled before i finish the game

[omnifatal]

p5r does such a good job building dread with its dramatic irony and if i don’t talk about it i’m gonna explode (p5r spoilers below)

we the player see from a third person omniscient perspective that someone kills Okumura’s shadow after we steal his treasure.

but even before than that Sae asks us in the flash forward what we did to him, implying that something went wrong. so the whole lead up to this palace is tense because we know something is going to go very wrong. the whole thing feels weird, the motivations for going after this guy feel somewhat flimsier than the other ones. the story is that we think Okumura is connected to the mental shutdowns, but Morgana repeatedly says throughout the palace that we haven’t seen any evidence of that, and then someone else will say “oh maybe it’s further in”.

his connection to all this ends up being tangential, he knows a guy who does the dirty work for him but he himself is a pawn in the greater game being played and he gets killed off by that puppet master. but then you have the whole 20 days of Haru being worried (this is her first time doing this so it’s natural) and everyone going “nah it’ll be fine!”

and you the player KNOW he’s going to die. the SIU director literally looks into the camera and goes “haha yes i will kill this guy at an opportune moment”. so you look at the countdown clock and it’s basically “countdown to everything going to shit”. it’s so fucking good. i didn’t actually enjoy the mechanics of Okumura’s palace all that much (it was probably my least favorite boss fight so far) but the sheer tension of it all carries it

and then right after that all goes down, Sae tells you she was the last target. and she asks you if you changed her heart. shit man i dunno the fact you’re listening to me kinda sounds like maybe we did! but it’s ambiguous, would she even know?

we KNOW that the team gets caught in this palace. it’s literally the intro, you’re in a casino trying to run from the cops. the question is, did you steal her treasure first? is she moments away (in the present) from getting killed by the people puppeteering you both? and who is that?

the way the Phantom Thieves go from plucky underdogs and victims of circumstance, to thinking they hold all the cards, back to being desperate kids with their back against the wall is so engaging. i need to know what happens next. it surely won’t be good

also shadow Sae is so hot for no reason

edit: how could i forget the fact we SEE AKECHI SEE US GO INTO THE PALACE and have to sit with that until the school festival when he reveals he knows everything. the way he says “everyone’s here” and futaba even says something about it. i’m gonna be sick.

[random-mha-thoughts]

Rose (Bakugou x Reader)

Pairing: Bakugou x Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst to slight fluff

Summary: Bakugou has a crush on you and uses Kirishima’s party as the perfect time to confess.  He’s practiced so many times, but things don’t go according to plan.

Inspo: “Forever Now” by Ne-yo and this TikTok

Word count: 2,241

Tags:  @yuki-osaki​ @liviitehe​ @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog​ 

a/n: I think y’all have been too spoiled with all the fluff I’m putting out, it’s time you start crying and screaming.

Also I tried something new with this.  I put it in Bakugou’s POV, so for the first time in all my posts, I’ve actually had to use (y/n).  It feels so weird!  In all my past writing I use OCs, but this fandom loves (y/n) so much.

I think it’s pretty canon that Explosion boy has a secret inferiority complex, so I tried to channel that here too (aka slight cursing warning? But it’s baku, it’s implied)  Enjoy!

Alright, dumbass, you're doing this tonight whether you're ready or not.

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror as I ruffle my hair for the who-knows-how-many time in the past hour.  I need to put in the extra effort to look particularly handsome tonight.  Instead of going in jeans and a shirt like I always do, I chose a white button down, black jeans, a black belt and all black sneakers.  I triple checked my breath and sprayed myself with deodorant twice for good measure.  Nothing can ruin this, nothing should ruin this.

I hope.

"No, idiot!" I point at my reflection.  "You gotta believe you got this!  She's gonna be blown away by how hot you look and how suave you are!"  I take deep breath and adjust the collar of my shirt.  "You're the man.  Why wouldn't she like you?  You're a catch."  I pause, realizing what I'm doing.  "Fucking moron!" I growl, convincing myself I'm not crazy for talking to myself.

I grab my bomber jacket hanging from my doorknob, a rose already tucked in the inside pocket.  I'm confessing my feelings for her today, it's now or never.

Ever since Kirishima dared us to kiss a few weeks ago at lunch as part of a game, I can't get her out of my head.  Her lips just mold so perfectly against mine.  I would've kept going if she hadn't pulled away and we had to play it cool afterwards.  Even before that, I guess I had feelings for her.  A girl that can be affectionate, can hold her own in a fight, and can put me in my place with a sharp tongue; that's the kind of girl she is.  With such a great personality, she could have anyone she wants, I just hope she chooses me too.

I shake my head, dispersing those thoughts.  I have to believe she's interested in me too.  We have good chemistry, even Kirishima agrees that we would be explosive together.  I can feel her sometimes get nervous around me, light up a little brighter when she sees me.

Soon enough, I find myself outside Kirishima's place, the faint sound of bass bumping leaking from behind the door.  I take a deep breath and let myself in, the background music hitting me first and the smell of sweat second.  Everyone's gathered into their separate groups at different corners of the room.  (Y/n)'s with Kirishima, Ashido, and Kaminari near the snack table, so I slip over.

"Woooow Bakugou!  You cleaned up nicely!" Ashido squeals as I approach them.

As all of their eyes turn to me, I tug at my shirt collar again.  "Yeah, yeah, shut up about it.  I just didn't wanna look like a bum."

"You look great, dude," Kirishima shoots me an 'ok' gesture.

"Brooo, if I were a chick, I'd bang you," Kaminari slurs, leaning into me.

"Hands off, dude," I push him away from me.  "What's up with him?  Did Jirou taze him again or something?"

"He's had a few too many drinks," Mina shakes her head at him.

(Y/n) snorts, taking a sip from her plastic cup, "I smell gay panic."

"I'm not gay!" I scream a little too defensively.

"There's no need to hide it, Bakugou, we'd still support you," she continues with her teasing, looking me dead in the eyes with her suave glance.

For a moment, I'm tongue-tied and my heart skips a beat.  I cough to cover it up.  "Good to know, but sadly for Kirishima, I'm not into guys."

"Hey!" the redhead pouts and Ashido pats his shoulder comfortingly.

We continue talking about whatever.  I don't miss the few times (y/n) sneaks a glance at me.  Maybe it inflates my ego, but I'm relieved she noticed, especially since I dressed up for her.  It's a good sign, maybe things will go well later.

The only annoyance is the way Kaminari's messy behavior, throwing himself all around and slurring.  It clearly puts off everyone, (y/n) included.  The good part is that he's making a fool of himself and (y/n) scoots over closer to me to avoid him.

"Is that dumbass getting on your nerves?  I'll destroy him for you," I whisper to her.

"No, it's fine, he's just having a good time," she responds, scooting a little closer to me until our arms touch.  She bites her lip before adding, "You look really handsome today.  Did you finally look through your closet for once?"

I shove her with my shoulder.  "I have someone I wanted to impress."

She quirks an eyebrow and smirks at me.  "So you are gay for Kirishima?"

It's so hard for me to be angry at her when she looks at me like that.  It doesn't help that she looks amazing too.  Her leather pants hug her curves and her velvet black crop top exposes just enough stomach.  "How can I be gay when you're standing right here?"

Her body shifts towards me.  "I guess I should take that as a compliment?"

"What do you think?"  I lean in closer to her.  The flowery scent of her perfume fills my nose and it takes everything I have to not kiss her right there.

She glances down at my lips for a moment, biting her own.  "I think I wanna dance."  Finishing whatever's left in her cup, she grabs my arm and brings me to the middle of the room where I hadn't even realized everyone else in our group was dancing.  Jirou had stolen Kaminari away to dance with his drunk ass and Kirishima's with Ashido.

I start stepping to the music with (y/n).  I'll admit I'm not the best at this, I don't even know what to do with my hands.  Can I put them on her waist?  On her hips?  Is she cool with me touching her at all?  She senses my hesitation and places me hands just above her hips where the exposed skin is.  Surprisingly, it's warm despite being out in the open.

"What's got you so tense?" she smirks at me as she sways her hips to the music.

I smirk back at her.  "Just wanted to make sure you can handle me touching you."

As we continue moving to the music, her arms wrap around my neck, bringing us closer together and my heart pounds.  "You look beautiful," I half-yell in her ear over the noise.

"Thanks."  She pauses before adding, "I was joking about the Kirishima thing."

I lower my hands to her hips, making sure not to touch anywhere else by accident.  "I know.  He's not the one I'm trying to impress."

I watch as she bites her lip and looks down at mine.  Her body almost instinctively leans into me, letting me feel her.  My head spins out of control.  Now, idiot!  Now's the time to do it.  My throat feels dry, the words I've rehearsed countless times failing to come out.

The thought of rejection enters my mind and I freeze up.  I'm not ready, I can't do this.  "I'll be back, I'm getting a drink."  I unwrap my arms from around her warmth.  She blinks, seemingly dazed, and I escape, trying not to reveal how nervous I am.

I lean over the table, suddenly nauseous and cold all over.  Idiot!  You just blew your chance!  That was the perfect time!  I stuff pretzels in my mouth, cursing myself as I try to relieve my anger by crunching something.

"Whoa, are you good, dude?"  Kirishima approaches me, an eyebrow quirked.  "I thought you and (y/n) were getting it on dancing well?"

I growl, "I chickened out, I couldn't do it."

My best friend crosses his arms.  "Come on, dude, grow a pair and just say it.  Like ripping a bandage off."  His face lights up.  "I know.  You just need some liquid courage."  He pours me a shot of whatever these idiots managed to smuggle in here into a smaller plastic cup.  "Down the hatch!  I'll link back up with you in a sec.  Good luck!"  He pats my head and flashes a shark-toothed grin before heading somewhere else.

I don't even bother looking inside it before gulping the whole thing down in one shot, the liquid leaving a burning trail as it slides down my throat.  Scrunching my eyes and shaking the pain away, I let out a whoop of confidence and take the rose from my jacket.  I take a deep to calm my nerves again.  "Let's do this," I chant, turning around.

And I wish I hadn't.

Kaminari's lips are against her's.  And she's not pushing him away.

My entire body grows cold, everything in slow motion and muted as I watch them.  I drop the stupid rose and run outside, slamming the door behind me.  My breaths heave in my chest as I try to control my emotions.  White hot fury, regret, and misery mix in my veins and my head becomes too heavy to bear.  I feel like punching something and crying at the same time.  I don't know who I'm more angry at.  Kaminari for being a drunken asshole?  Me for chickening out and ruining a perfect confession?  (Y/n) for kissing him and leading me on this entire time?

I lean against the wall, clutching for something to hold onto as the world spins under my emotions.  The thing that grounds me is the sound of the door opening.

"Bakugou?" her voice follows against the music.  "Kiri said you ran out-"

My instincts act before I can stop myself, fueled by rage.  I push her up against the wall with a thump.  "What the fuck was that?" I growl from low in my throat.  She freezes, knowing she was caught.  "Why were you kissing that idiot?  And why didn't you push him away?"

Her broken face betrays no words, she barely even wants to look at me, frustrating me eve more.

"Damnit!" I roar, slamming my hand into the wall next to her head, making her flinch.  "I know you like me.  Either that or you're leading me on for your own entertainment.  Tell me the truth or I'm walking away."

(Y/n) finally lifts her head and stares into my eyes.  She looks almost as emotional as I do.  "Denki and me... We were together before!"  She screws her eyes closed.  "Things we just not working out, and when we broke up, I thought we were fine.  We were both cool with it.  But he was a drunken mess and he was crying about how much he missed me out of nowhere and I was just overwhelmed, okay!"  She's shaking now, but manages to open her eyes and shoot me a malicious glare.  "And how can you be angry?!  I thought we were having a great time dancing and getting closer to each other and then you pull away!  What was I supposed to think?  I took that as a rejection!"

I groan out and scream, "I fucked up, I know!"  My hand collides with the wall again, lolling my head onto her shoulder, breathing in her scent again.  A mix of her and my anger makes me snap my head back up and grab her shoulders.  "I... (Y/n)."  My words won't come out, and I growl again.  "I fucking like you!  That's what I should've said and all this would've been avoided!  I should've fucking kissed you when I had the chance!"

With that, I angrily smash my lips to her's.  She tastes slightly of alcohol and the cherries I remember from our kiss a week ago.  "I wanted to be the only one kissing you tonight," I murmur, crushing her into the wall with my body and attacking her again.

My heart skips a beat when she pulls me by my collar, moving her hands up and grabbing my nape, nails slightly digging into my skin.  She kisses me just as angrily and passionately, each of us trying to dominate the other.  Our kisses become sloppy as the heat rises between us, trying to nip at each other, me ultimately winning and capturing her swollen bottom lip between my teeth.

I push her away, both of us panting for breath.  "Well?  Are you just gonna kiss me or are you gonna say something?"

Her face turns a deeper shade of red.  "I-I like you too.  Stupid."

The way she's so flustered almost melts the anger out of me, but her acceptance of my feelings is what completely erases it.  I clear my throat.  "Good.  So now you're mine.  And if I catch that electric idiot trying to kiss you again, I'm pounding his face in."

She shoots me a look.  "You don't have to act so tough.  I know you're just insecure."

My face heats up.  "Shut up, idiot.  I'm not sharing you with anyone, that's all."  I remember the rose and start frantically patting my jacket for it, until I look down and see it slightly worse for wear.  I pick it up and cough.  "God, I rehearsed this so well and look what happened."

(Y/n) plucks the flower out of my hand and pecks my cheek with a grin.  "I think it was a lot hotter this way."

I chuckle.  "You're right," I sneak my hands to her hips again, like it's become a new routine, "I'm not cut out for that vanilla bullshit anyway."

[utterlyhopeful-fics]

Somebody Else ~ Part 4

SOOO, I got inspired last night and ended up starting/finishing the next update. I hope you enjoy it and stay tuned for the next part! I have excellent plans for a few more chapters. Feedback is always welcomed! 

Angel Reyes x Reader/ Ezekiel Reyes x Reader 

Word Count: 1.6k 

CATCH UP HERE

Warnings: language, general angst, brother jealousy 

Translations 

He estado mejor: I’ve been better.

Estás preciosa: You are beautiful.

Por que, mi amor: Why, my love?

Vigila tu espalda hermanito: Watch your back, little brother. 

-------------------------------------

She knew he was here before she ever heard the knock at the front door. It had been fourteen pathetic days since she asked him to leave her alone and he walked away. Her body tinged with anxiety mingling through her nerves, she wasn’t ready for this to see him. Y/N gaze shifted when she heard the inevitable sound of a motorcycle turning onto the street, Y/N reluctantly braced herself against the counter trying to find any courage still residing within her. The door rattled open as the cool air found residence on her skin, Angel Reyes was a goddamn Adonis. 

“Hey Ba-.. Y/N. ¿cómo estás?”  

Angel stepped closer to her immediately causing Y/N to recoil, her new-found courage evaporating into momentary fear. When he noticed her hesitation his right hand unknowingly found home atop his heart as he gently rubbed at the aching spot. Angel felt his heart break all over again. ‘This was all your fault’ constantly replayed on an infinite loop as a haunting reminder, ingraining itself into his daily thoughts. Why did Adelita get under his skin? How did he stray from the one girl who’s remained by his side since the very beginning?

“He estado mejor.” Apprehension lingered in the room; unhappiness etched its way into the bare concrete walls. The air maintained a stagnant, stale, and smothering ambiance. But if she knew one thing for sure it was her undeniable energy with Angel even when he the cause of her heartbreak.

“Estás preciosa. I miss y—” Suddenly, she stormed towards him firmly placing her soft hands over his smooth lips effectively cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Cut the bullshit, Angel. Have you talked to her since we broke up?” Her ocean blues were glazed with unshed tears as she impatiently awaited his response unsure if she was actually prepared for the answer. Even on Y/n’s deathbed she would never admit it aloud, but some deeply rooted and fucked up piece of her yearned to be by his side once again, and that terrified her more than raising their unborn child.

Seconds crawled by before a tear slid down Y/N’s blushed cheek. Angel’s muteness was more than enough of a response to her question. She was officially an idiot…again.

Y/N’s lip quivered with melancholy; her pulse raced against her skin; her once quick-witted tongue momentarily muzzled as defeat seeped into her very core.

“I need to stop imagining situations in my head that aren’t going to happen.”

Once more Angel attempted to close the gap between them slowly inching her way. She was so close he could almost graze his fingertips against her freckled skin. Too focused to comprehend his surroundings, Angel neglected to hear the tiny whimper leave Y/N. Her hand placed defiantly in front of her frame halting his movements. “Please, stop. Don’t come any closer.”

“¿Por que, mi amor? His breathe tickled along her jawline causing her spine to shiver. Angel was a man of many skills. He so desperately wanted to push the loose tendrils of her blue hair and look into her eyes. They always reflected nothing but the honest truth, it was her God-given power and imminent downfall. But Y/N refused him forgoing his selfish whims.

“When I think of our love, I think of pain, and that shouldn’t be so. But I love you so much. That’s what makes this next part so tricky.” Stay strong, Y/N.  

The fire blazing in her dark and injured heart seemed to glow around her like an unwavering flame. She loved him because Angel had seemingly brought her back to life. She had been like a lonely caterpillar in a cocoon, and he had drawn her out and shown her that she was a butterfly. Then he proceeded to rip off her delicate wings.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Y/N?” He was losing her. There was no absolutely doubt in his mind.

“Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell, Angel. I’d say this is pretty fucking close, wouldn’t you agree?... I’m pregnant.” Y/N shuddered as air rushed past her lips releasing itself from the confines of her lungs.

Shock radiated every neuron in his entire body suddenly feeling himself come alive. Suddenly Angel was hyper-acute of the stunning figure in front of him. The edges of his vision darkened as blood rushed throughout his ears. It reminded him of the first time he heard the ocean; distressingly peaceful.

“Angel, you, uh, look a little pale. I think you need to sit down.” Still lost in translation, Y/N reached for his forearm guiding him towards the kitchenette chair. Stagnant electricity remained claustrophobically between the duo. She kneeled against the cold tile finally at eye level since he walked in.

“I’m sorry for coming in and fucking up your life. I never meant for things to get so fucking twisted. You have to believe me, Y/N. You are genuinely the best gal I’ve ever had the pleasure to call mine. Never forget that.”

A sad smile graced her lips, her muscles pulsated with uneasy energy. “That doesn’t change the fact that you want her. It was my fault, I fooled myself into ever believing I was your end game.” Her gentle hands rested on his dark denim jeans rubbing small circles all while subconsciously soothing his anxiety, allowing him the luxury of simply inhaling some much-needed air. Even after he dumped her, abandoned her for his interest in another dangerous woman filled with her own deceitful secrets, Y/N still somehow grounded him.

“Every morning, I wake up and forget just for a second that it all happened. But once my eyes open, it buries me like a murderous landslide of sharp, sad rocks. Once my eyes pry themselves open, I’m heavy, like there’s too much gravity on my heart. I’ve been in love with you my whole life but I think it’s time for me to walk away. For good, this time. I’m ... letting you go. Consider yourself free.”

Y/N pivoted off his knees standing up straight while taking a few steps away from him.

His voice a mere murmur; “When did you find out?”

She internally chuckled recalling the shitty day in question. “The day we ended things.”

Unexpectedly, Angel became the question king in concerns with all matters of Y/N’s life.

“Does anybody else know?”

The words left her mouth before her brain had a moment to register. “Simple, Ez.”

“Why did my brother know before me??”

“Because he’s my best friend.”

Shaking his head in disagreement; “He might be your best friend but he’s in love with you. He’s been drooling over you since elementary school. You run into his arms literally any time something happens. You think I don’t see this shit?” His angered tone seemingly increased forcing the veins along his tanned neck to bulge out ferociously.

“He was always the better Reyes brother. Papa Reyes never could understand what made me glued to his eldest son.”

Before Y/N could blink, Angel rushed her, invading her personal space. Her breath quickened as she quietly huffed. Angel’s hand was clasped securely along her jawline forcing her to see him, to feel his all-consuming, unbridled rage before he leaned in even closer. The hair on her neck stood up sickeningly straight as he spoke into the shell of her ear.

“When I was balls deep in Adelita, there wasn’t a moment where I even considered how you’d feel. I was blinded and betrayed by lust. You think my baby bro would want my sloppy seconds?” His malicious tone oozed with venom scaring Y/N into suspended submission. Down the road Y/N heard the tall-tale rumble of a engine cruising towards her house.

“I just wanted you to know, Angel. No matter how much I hate you, this is our child and I won’t deny you your basic rights. Trust me, I don’t expect anything from you…not at this point. Hopefully one day soon you wake the fuck up and see that I’m not the goddamn enemy. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

The wood frame rumbled as a strong fist met Y/N’s yellow front door breaking the already shattered tension. The moment was spoiled as Angel walked towards the foyer. He fingers connected with the chilled knob, twisting until success. He was met with rich, hazel eyes gleaming back at him. Fucking Ezekiel.

“Vigila tu espalda hermanito.”

Y/N appeared in Ez’s line of sight deciding to stay quiet in the background. Curiosity and awkwardness engulfed the threesome.

Ezekiel wasn’t going to back down. He finally had his chance and he would be damned to maintain his silence.

“The best man has already won.” With that, Ez clapped Angel’s rigid shoulder before moving to greet Y/N. He didn’t dare glance back no longer caring about what his brother thought and proceeded to close her front door.

“You sure do have perfect timing Mr. Reyes. I think you pissed him off.”

His chuckle aerated the room bringing a warmness to the peak of her slender neck. His muscular arms found her waist pulling her close into his chest for an embracive hug.

“Don’t shoot me. I just came for the hot meal…and enticing company.”

It was good to hear her laugh, and not just any plain laugh, but one buried within the borders of your chest that vibrated the room. His nerves soon calming as he dared a look in Y/N’s direction. She smiled sweetly, sincerely happy to be in his presence. All her life, she had learned that passion, like fire, was a dangerous force to reckon with. For it so easily spun out of control.

-----

Tags: @pupyluv247​ @feelingsonfiire @partypoison00

[copias-thrall]

Hulloooooo! Do you have any headcanons about how Copia and Papa 3 would be in bed with each other?

These idiots.

Thirst below

*m/m, really rough sex*

What you have to understand is these two are basically a walking Enemies to Lovers tag.

Copia shows up on the scene and Papa III is hella suspicious. Why is this man here at this Church. There are so many senior clergy members here, why add another? And to add insult to injury the guy isn’t even flaunting his favor. He’s just. Always in his office working or attending to the education of the Siblings. They guy’s just such a square. He’d been expecting to hear poor performance reviews of The Cardinal’s Sibling initiations, but on the contrary—he seems to have … groupies. It’s beyond maddening. He’s determined to show this man how unwelcome he is here at any opportunity. 

Copia himself is wondering how he ended up here. He’s not really the political type, and that’s maybe what landed him in this predicament—he’s pretty much a neutral party who is devoted to the Church and does excellent paperwork. He wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome from Papa III, but the level of disdain and vitriol the man directs at him is beyond unwarranted. That man is a spoiled brat, surrounded by yes men, and he wouldn’t know what a Form 38a § G was if it slapped him in the face. Which is what Copia would love to do every time he goes to III’s office to find him there with a Sibling under his desk.

And then the pranks start.

Stupid, little things. Surprising in how juvenile they are. A whoopee cushion placed under his seat pillow in Chapel. A tack on his office chair. Sugar in his salt shaker and salt in his sugar bowl (and ok: after finding the sugar in his salt shaker he really should have checked his sugar bowl, so that one’s on him).

Honestly, Copia had assumed it was the Ghouls or bored first-years. But then one day he has to double back to his office to retrieve a file he overlooked, and he catches III in the act of—well he’s not sure, but there were pulleys involved. Copia saw that his door was ajar—unusual, but not immediately suspicious. The sounds, though, were. Copia had slowly swung open the door—his palm flush on the wood—to reveal III, slightly bent over, fiddling with ropes, the clunk of the metal pulley loud in the relative silence. Perhaps sensing a shift in the air around him, or a change in light, III had turned to look at the doorway and froze. Copia looked at him. Papa III had looked back. They has stood like that—a cursed tableau—until III at least had the indecency to look ashamed. He’d quickly gathered up his … contraption … and scuttled down the hallway, Copia just standing there, motionless and mute throughout the whole.

And maybe that could have been that. The prank war could have ended with Papa III’s embarrassment and the two of them continuing to have a quiet, but markéd, distaste for each other. But Copia did not rise through the ranks on his studiousness alone. You have to be somewhat dangerous if you want to ascend and you’re not of the Emeritus line.

Copia lets III fall into a false sense of security. He barely shows any acknowledgement that he caught him red handed. And Papa III seems begrudgingly grateful that Copia didn’t report him to Sister Imperator; he thinks there’s an uneasy truce. 

But Copia is a patient man. 

The dark solstice is upon them. The shortest day of the year. The time where it is more night than day. It’s not one of their High Unholy Days, but it is a time for new sins and wanton revelry—so one could say it’s an important holiday to the Church. It’s a service III can perform by rote—a few updates to the Latin sermon every year, but basically it’s a boilerplate by now. So he doesn’t really practice it. Just sends it off with his few notes to have it rewritten cleanly.

The service is usually excruciating—the Ghouls and Siblings are counting down the minutes til they can fuck and drink all night; many of the permanent clergy members have heard this sermon for years; Papa III himself is bored with it. Only Nihil, Papa I, and Sister Imperator seem to actually be enjoying the pageantry of it.

This year though, as soon as Papa III gets a few lines in, there’s a hushed tittering in the crowd. III ignores it because: it’s probably just some tomfoolery. He’s more or less spaced out, his brain on autopilot as he sings out the words to the verse. It’s when the murmurings turn into stifled giggles, and he tunes in enough to see Imperator glaring at him, does what he’s actually saying dawn on him.

Oops, I did it again / I played with your heart, got lost in the game / Oh baby, baby / Oops, you think I’m in love / That I’m sent from above / I’m not that innocent /

He stutters and pauses; he picks up the sheaf in front of him, squinting.

Yes.

Oh yes.

His solstice sermon has been replaced with the lyrics to “Oops, I Did It Again.”

He chances a look over to the pew with the Higher Clergy—to gauge from his father and Sister how bad it is—but instead he catches the eyes of an expressionless Cardinal Copia looking deadass back at him. Papa III narrows his eyes and meets The Cardinal’s steady gaze, their white eyes at war. He proceeds to finish his altered sermon with as much pomp and severity that he can lend to an outdated pop song.

His eyes don’t once leave The Cardinal’s.

Afterwards, Papa III is on his way to having a full on hairy conniption. He manages to make it back to his office before he tears off his ceremonial robes in a rage. The Ghouls attending him are surprised and concerned at his uncharacteristic carelessness with his vestments. He hurriedly shoos them out, and then sits down at his desk, panting in ire. He’s not one that angers easily, so he’s unused to the pounding adrenaline. Taking out his aged Scotch—the bottle he really keeps in his desk just for show—he pours himself two fingers (if “two fingers” means the space between his index and pinky fingers) and swallows it down in two gulps, coughing and sputtering at the burn.

It’s enough to take him out of his snit a bit to consider why he’s so angry; it’s not like this particular holiday is of great importance to him, and it’s not like in general he doesn’t find the services tedious. Lucifer, it’s not like doing a dramatic reading of a pop song is out of character for him.

But he would never, never, be so ostensibly irreverent during an important occasion. The heavy eyes of the Church—of his father, of the Sister—are ever on him, watching, waiting. Cardinal Copia made him look like an asshole in front of the whole congregation—and because it’s so on brand, no one probably even thinks it was a joke on him.

And that’s what’s making him incensed: at a time when his tenure as Papa is so precarious, The Cardinal made him look like a buffoon. 

Papa III’s blood boils all over again and his fists tighten. Cardinal Copia crossed a line, may have even done it with malicious intent, and he needs to pay, that Rat.

He takes a generous swig from the bottle before making his way to The Cardinal’s quarters. Unlike III, Cardinal Copia’s office and personal chambers are in the same suite, so he knows there’s a good chance of catching him as he’s changing out of his cassock and into one of those ridiculously tight suits he owns.

Copia has to admit to himself that maybe he took his revenge too far. He was only trying to show Papa III that he’s not a pushover. Given the man’s reputation, Copia didn’t even consider how thrown that man would be at his little switcheroo prank. But there had been a—a what? A sudden slight paleness to the unpainted skin around his face; a moment of panic in his mismatched eyes. He’d continued on with gusto, but there was none of the humor in it that Copia had come to associate with the man. In all honesty, Copia hadn’t expected III to continue (or honestly get so far)—he’d had the correct sermon under his own seat ready to hand over.

This was a Papa he’d expected to linger and joke with his parishioners—instead, III had hustled out of the chapel in a flurry of swirling robes, hardly paying any heed to the Siblings that batted their eyelashes at him in hopes of being one of his chosen revelers. Copia is at war with himself between wanting to apologize and scoffing that the man had brought it on himself, even if Copia had miscalculated.

Everyone knows how pranks can escalate.  

Copia is halfway through the ties and clasps and buttons to get out of his dress cassock when his door bangs open (he hadn’t thought to lock it because he’d assumed everyone was already out on the grounds celebrating). Papa III stands there, panting, with murderous intent in his eyes.

As expected, Papa III finds The Cardinal in a state of half undress (his shapely legs bare and exposed) in his outer office. He’s stopped his ministrations, as if caught in a freeze frame, and staring wide-eyed at Papa. III had come here to really lay into the man, but something about seeing him so caught off guard—like he’s more concerned about changing into his party clothes than how he’s ruined this night for Papa—sets something off on him. Before his brain catches up to his impulses, Papa III is launching himself at The Cardinal, fist drawn back and ready to strike.

But III is a lover, not a fighter. He throws a punch like he’s launching a paper airplane, and The Cardinal easily deflects his attack and—in what can only be a practiced movement—uses his momentum to pin his arm behind his back. He struggles and The Cardinal instantly releases him, hands palm up in appeasement.

“Your Unholiness, please—” starts Copia, but III isn’t here to talk. He goes for Cardinal Copia again, and Copia—expecting another fist—is startled when the palm of III’s hand lands a slap across his cheek. He looks at III, incredulous.

“Did you? Did you just slap me?”

Papa III huffs and raises his chin at The Cardinal.

“Come at me. Bro,” he says in his accented English.

The Cardinal’s mouth drops open, and—before Papa III can relish what he thinks is his victory—Cardinal Copia slaps him hard, right on his cheekbone. Papa is momentarily startled, reflexive tears threatening to spill. When he catches his breath he sees that Cardinal Copia’s eyes are smoldering at him in obvious challenge, so he launches himself at The Cardinal once again.

They both raise their hands to each other, each strike being batted away by the other, until they are both embroiled in very involved, very mature slap fight.

“Stop that!”

“No, you stop that!”

Suddenly Papa III gains the upper, err, hand by gaining a hold on The Cardinal’s wrist; he wrenches it and uses his leverage to push Cardinal Copia on his back onto his desk. The Cardinal goes sprawling, his half undone cassock spreading and exposing his bare legs again. Is he wearing nothing on at all under his ceremonial dress!?

“I see you like to go nude. Let me help you further, dear Cardinal.”

Before The Cardinal has a chance to push him away, III grabs at each side and rips his robes down the middle, belts tearing and buttons popping to scatter every which way, the sound of them skittering across his desk and plinking of the floor now filling the room. The Cardinal grasps frantically at the material, in a vain attempt to keep himself somewhat covered.

Papa III is now panting over The Cardinal, between his legs, and suddenly very aware of the miles of naked skin. Copia is looking up at him with … an unreadable expression. III leans down, gets right into The Cardinal’s face, and says lowly:

“To think I thought of you so chaste. But look at you. Does it give you a thrill? The knowing you could be caught in a compromising position? Or is it the sensation you like, hmm?”

He runs a gloved finger down the sliver of bare chest to where Cardinal Copia is clenching the ends of fabric together with one fist over his crotch. He continues his trail over The Cardinal’s knuckles. His dick gives an interested twitch.

“Even here?”

Copia’s heart is beating fast from the adrenaline; it was foolish of him to forget that he was dealing with a dangerous predator. And now here he is, under him, literally showing his vulnerable belly. Papa III is well within his rights to do anything, take anything, from him. It sets off a tingle of butterflies in his chest.  

While III is distracted with his nethers, Copia uses his other hand to grasp Papa III by the hair. Copia yanks his head down, hard, til their lips meet in a painful smack. He opens his mouth to suck Papa’s plump bottom lip into his mouth, then bites down hard, drawing blood.

III makes an indignant noise, his hand suddenly coming up to grab at Copia’s jaw to hold it firmly in place from further injury. His eyes glare a warning.

“Is that how it is to be, Rat?”

Copia just snarls against the grip.

Papa’s hand slithers from Copia’s jaw to lightly clench around his neck. Copia gasps as much as he can with the restriction, his hands coming up to grab at Papa III’s arm. His ruined cassock falls open completely to reveal that the only thing beneath it is a black g-string. III looks down at it and chuckles.

“What a surprising Rat you are.”

His other hand snakes down between their bodies to yank and pull at the g-string until Copia’s half-hard cock bounces free, betraying his interest in the proceedings. Papa III’s eyes widen as he takes in the girth and size of Copia’s member. Looking back up at Copia with a smirk he says:

“It is no wonder then. Why you are so popular for Initiates.”

“Shall … I  …” wheezes Copia, “Initiate … you too?”

Papa III is studying his face intently.

“No. No, as leader of Church I feel I have been … remiss in my, ah, duties.”

He runs a light finger up the vein in Copia’s cock, which only plumps it into further hardness. With all the blood rushing into either his head or his throbbing dick, Copia is beginning to feel a bit light-headed.

“As high-ranking official, you must be seen to myself. Forgive my negligence, yes?”

Papa III finally lets go of Copia’s neck only to insinuate himself further into the V of his open legs. Copia is momentarily distracted as the air flows freely into his lungs again, and it’s enough for III to start manhandling him onto his stomach. Copia isn’t going to make it easy for the bastard, so he starts to struggle against Papa, who only makes a tetching noise before slapping him across the face.

“Learn your place, Cardinal,” he growls. “This is what is lacking with you, no? You must learn this anew. I am in charge still. You follow my command.”

“When you do any actual leading, I’ll be sure to follow,” hisses Copia.

Papa III snarls at his insolence, and is suddenly on Copia, turning him over in a burst of rage while also tugging his tattered garments free. He pulls the shreds of the cassock away just enough to not be a hindrance, but not enough that Copia has free use of his arms—they’re still caught in his sleeves and now firmly behind his back. Copia has no leverage, but he starts bucking and struggling anyway; Papa just lays a firm hand on the middle of his back and commands him to settle.

Copia huffs; his cheek is squashed into the desk, all his papers are scattered—some crinkling under him—and the edge of the wood is digging into the pudge of his belly. His cock dangles heavy between legs. Copia wishes he had something to rut against—he’s half turned on and III is being a goddamned tease, as usual.

There’s a rustling and movement behind him before he feels the poke of Papa’s hardness against his ass cheek. He tenses.

Papa III isn’t really sure when his anger turned into lust. Or was it always lust—or is it still anger? All he knows is that he has to have this man beneath him. Has to subdue him and assert his authority in some meaningful way. And he’s not immune to the miles of freckles stark on pale skin or the prominent flesh of which he can take handfuls.

He’s been hard ever since he saw The Cardinal’s cock on its way to full mast. So The Rat likes a little dominance, eh? He’s more than happy to show him who’s boss here. He works his cock and balls free through the slit in his pants. He’s going to fuck The Cardinal with his clothes on. He rubs his cockhead into the meat of The Cardinal’s ass, delighting in the jolts of pleasure from the pressure and the visible trail of precum he’s leaving. The Cardinal is trembling and breathing hard beneath him as his takes his pleasure, and it gives him sudden pause, causing him to stop. He’s about to ask Cardinal Copia if he should cease, when The Cardinal looks over his shoulder at him and huffs impatiently,

“Are you waiting for an invitation?!”

Papa III slowly drags his cock from the meat of Copia’s ass to the cleft.

“I was, actually.”

The Cardinal snorts, “Get the fuck on with it, you brat. Is this how you lead, Your Unholiness?”

III growls in frustration at this infuriating man.

“Shall I take you dry, then?”

He spreads The Cardinal’s cheeks and presses the tip of his cock against his hole. Cardinal Copia hisses.

“Ai! If you can’t use spit then there is lube in the top drawer.”

Papa III scoffs. Spit is so … uncouth. Only to be used when absolutely necessary—he is not an animal. He flounders for the drawer and fumbles for the bottle.

“Lonely nights, eh Cardi?”

The Cardinal leers back over his shoulder. “As you say—I am not unpopular with our Siblings.”

“I see. You are like that trike you ride around, except everybody has a go, no?”

“Just what the pot would say to the kettle.”

After removing his gloves, Papa III haphazardly dribbles some lube on his cock and down Copia’s crack—making sure to rub it into his hole. The Cardinal jolts forward—either at the sensation of Papa’s fingers or the coolness of the lube.

“I would not be so mouthy If I be you, Cardinal. I will show you your place and then things between us will be settled, yes?”

“Shall I say yes and appease you?” quips The Cardinal. 

How a man nude and about to be fucked stupid can be so flippant is past Papa. Unceremoniously, he pushes into Copia’s snug ring, exhaling forcefully at his tightness. The Cardinal lets out a punched breath.

“I should very much like your attempts to appease me, Rat,” Papa III says through clenched teeth.

He slides in to the hilt, leans over The Cardinal’s back, and hisses in his ear:

“Will you be a good Rat and appease your Papa?”

The Cardinal lets out a rumbling moan.

Copia is so very full and stretched. He’s no stranger to bottoming, but the Siblings tend to prefer him on top, so it’s been a while. Papa III’s cock feels amazing—just enough to fill him without being obtrusive. Now if only the man will get to it and pound into him hard enough to stimulate his prostate.

“So much … talk. Very little action—just like your leadership,” he says hoping to goad his superior.

Papa III growls and begins to snap his hips into him roughly

“Let’s see if you can handle my big game, hmm?”

Fucking finally.

III drapes himself over Copia’s back, crushing his arms uncomfortably, and boxing him on either side with his arms. Copia hears the man’s panting in his ear and feels the drag of his waistcoat on his uncovered skin. The fill and drag of his cock inside Copia has him shuddering and wishing for some attention on his own dick. Papa is pumping into him fast and hard, but is only really hitting his prostate every several thrusts, which is only a teasing pleasure. With his motion restricted by his own cassock and Papa’s weight, he can’t do much more than grunt out a tempo to each greedy thrust.

“Is this how it is then?” wheezes Copia. “A supple body to masturbate into? No wonder the Siblings come to me.”

Admittedly Papa III is initially enjoying the tight feel of The Cardinal’s body around his dick too much to think of the man underneath him. He’s not one to be rough with his lovers unless they ask him to be, and even then that’s just a game. But The Cardinal is not his lover, this is not a game, and he feels a thrill at the freedom to take out his frustrations on Copia’s body. 

Still. He prides himself on being attentive in the sack, so he slows his thrusts, making sure to pull almost all the way out before sliding back in, though his dick is throbbing with need. He positions his mouth at The Cardinal’s ear to ask:

“Do you think you’ve earned my attentions? Have you learned who here is in charge?”

“If I say ‘yes’ will you touch my cock?”

Papa III is thoughtful for a second.

“No. For that you are to beg. Repent and I will bring you to such lustful heights that you will pray to our Master.”

Despite the lip of the man, The Cardinal is quivering under him. Papa III leans up so he can adjust the angle of Copia’s hips and his thrusts. He does this until he hits the angle that makes the man below him moan wantonly. Now that he knows where the sweet spot is, III starts punching into The Cardinal again, his hands on his hips to drag him back forcefully.

“Is. This. What. You. Want?” asks Papa, making sure to punctuate each word with a hard thrust. The Cardinal lets out a gasping Uhn at each hard jolt. “Shall. I. Make. You. Cum. Just. Like. This? On. My. Cock? Or. Will. You. Beg?”

Papa lets himself luxuriate in the tight feel of the slow drag up and down his cock. He could cum very easily just like this if he wanted—but he’s had years of practice on holding off until his sexual partners cum. The Cardinal is in for a long night if he thinks he can wait him out.

Fuck

If Copia thought the tease of his prostate was bad, this concentrated assault is worse. He can climax readily from a good prostate massage, but this is not that. It’s enough to have his desire flowing and his blood pooling south, but the hill of his orgasm remains frustratingly out of reach. He’s truly at Papa III’s mercy. He can occasionally feel his dick throb inside him, but other than that III shows no signs of getting close. 

Copia squeezes his eyes tighter as he’s jolted against his desk, papers crumpling further. How much longer can he go on like this? He tries for as long as he can, his world narrowing down to the drag of Papa’s cockhead on his prostate and the grip of his hands on his hips. He’s so lost, floating in a haze of near pleasure, that he doesn’t realize his grunts have turned into whimpers of distress. Not until III stops to pet a hand down his head.

“Dear Cardinal. Pride is not the correct sin to indulge here. Will you not let me absolve you?”

His dick is hard and pulsing, and his need to cum is excruciating. And that’s before Papa III begins pounding into him once more. Copia lets out a moaning whine as the white-hot bursts start up again. Before he realizes what it’ll mean, he’s gasping out a pained Please. There’s a slight pause in the man above him—as if he too is surprised at Copia’s entreaty—then a hand snakes under him to give his flushed dick a hard squeeze. Copia gasps at both the pleasure and the pain in the action.

Papa III leans over him again to snarl in his ear, “Now you will pray.”

And pray Copia does as Papa pounds into him and as his clever fingers stroke and manipulate weeping cock.

“Oh sweet, Unholy Lucifer below!”

Papa III had really thought he’d have to torture The Cardinal until the man couldn’t help but cum on his cock, so he was startled when the man gasped out his supplication. He really was appeased.

He’s entranced with show beneath him: The Cardinal is twitching and thrashing and clenching—and it’s making his own cock throb with need. He wonders how hard he can make Copia cum and a sudden burst of desire from his own gut has him purring out a moan. He strokes the man’s cock, making sure to switch it up enough—a slow stroke, then a thumb across his slit, now a squeeze before speeding up—that each change makes The Cardinal jerk in a new crest of pleasure.

III hopes The Cardinal will cum very soon because he would very much like to let himself climax already. As if in answer, Papa feels the dick in his hand get rock hard a second before he feels Copia’s hole tighten vice-like around his own dick (and he subsequently has to breathe out hard so he’s not cumming before he rides out The Cardinal’s climax).

Then The Cardinal is jittering and spasming while yelling, “Ah ah ah—oh fuck! OH FUCK!” The cock in his fist kicks and Papa III can feel the pulsing waves as his cum shoots out and onto the rug; he tries to keep a steady pace through it, but he’s only a man. The Cardinal spends his whole orgasm jerking and twitching, only coming to rest once he’s good and truly milked empty.

Papa releases The Cardinal’s cock quickly so he can grip back onto his hips for the leverage to finally take his own pleasure. He closes his eyes and fucks hard into The Cardinal’s body as he allows his checked desire to wash over him.

“Ah—yes, Unholy Father.”

He lets the pulse and spasm of his orgasm guide his movements as he empties himself in the warmth of The Cardinal’s hole. He allows himself to stay like that for a moment—hands on Copia’s love handles, slightly bent over him, and panting—while he catches his breath and comes back to himself. Beneath him The Cardinal is a mess: he’s covered in sweat that’s dripping down his sides; the black makeup around his eyes is streaked down his face; there’s some torn paper, now moist, sticking to his cheek.

“Good talk, eh?” he pants as he pats Copia’s sweaty flank.

The Cardinal’s head lolls to the side as he attempts to look him in the eyes.

“Fuck you.”

Papa III chuckles. “Maybe next time.”

Copia doesn’t know if Papa III was kidding, or if he was expecting Their Thing to happen again, but it takes Copia by surprise when it does.

Repeatedly.

If III was thinking that he’d cowed Copia, he was wildly mistaken. Their rivalry only intensifies and if you saw them glaring at each other during sermons or Church rituals, you enter their offices at your own risk lest you get an eyefull. (Some impetuous Siblings and Ghouls will try their hand at joining in, but a dual glare from both their mismatched eyes is enough to send anyone straight to Hell preemptively.)

Not even the confessionals are safe. You don’t even have to get far into the Chapel before you can hear their grunts and barbed words.

The Clergy isn’t really surprised by this turn of events. The two men have been eye fucking since day one. Papa Nihil is resigned that even the promising Cardinal has fallen under his youngest’s spell. Sister Imperator just rolls her eyes and hopes they’ll eventually grow tired of each other and work can get back to being done. She’s only one woman.

It’s one day months into their—ok yes—tryst, that Copia realizes that they haven’t been hate fucking in weeks.

He’s lying in Papa III’s bed as the man himself draws nonsense patterns in the sweat on his chest. Copia had come to him after a frustrating day of first-years who seemed to only have two brain cells amongst them all. He’d vehemently expressed his vexation at their almost willful refusal to retain Latin, knowing Papa would take him in hand and fuck the annoyance out of him. What had started as his attempt to berate Papa III for allowing the new Siblings to be so lazy and a good hate fuck to shut him up, had turned into a genuine arrangement.

Copia’s come to appreciate the care Papa III takes with him, even if it is with mock irritation as he calls him “Rat.” He’s realized that III cares about the Church as much as he does, his verbal sparring with the man enough to prove that he knows his stuff. It’s not that the lackadaisical playboy is an act—it’s not—it’s just hiding deeper waters. He’s shocked to find that he cares for this intemperate man.

He turns his head to look at him.

Papa III stills his hand to return his gaze.

“What is it, my Rat?”

“I think I like you, Papa.”

III’s whole face brightens and he sits up, puffing out his chest.

“Of course you do! Everyone likes Papa. I am the bomb dot com.”

Copia scoffs and pushes at his chest.

“I hate it when you purposefully use slang half your age.”

But III just clucks and wags a finger at him. 

“No you don’t! You like me, remember? You said it not 2 minutes past!”

Copia huffs, turning his back on him and crossing his arms across his chest.

“I was perhaps hasty.”

“Aww, dear Cardinal,” Papa coos as he drapes himself over Copia’s back to rest his chin on Copia’s shoulder, arms encircling his middle, “don’t be fussy. I like you too.”

Then, because he’s a little shit, Papa III presses a loud smacking kiss into Copia’s ear.

That night Papa III will go to Copia’s chambers. Copia will be surprised, but pleased to see him. He’ll tell Copia he wants to bottom for him, making the man tremble with nerves and anticipation. The Cardinal will be overly solicitous with his kisses and soft caresses until III has to yell at him to get a move on. 

Papa will have already prepped himself with a plug Copia will enjoy teasing out of him. Copia is a reverent, gentle top—no shocker there—and he will fuck Papa firmly and slowly, taking special care that his dick is not neglected. Also not surprising is that Papa III is a pretty bossy bottom—he’ll direct Copia on when to speed up or slow down, until he’ll take matters into his own hands by manhandling Copia onto his back so he can ride his cock. Copia will cum first—Papa is good with his muscles—but III will follow soon after, thrilled as always at the way his lover twitches and thrashes in the throes of orgasm.

Afterward Papa III will ask if he can stay the night—they don’t spend the night together often, but when they do The Cardinal always spends it in Papa’s sumptuous bed chambers—and Copia will reply that he is always welcome.

Papa will joke that it’s only because no one will be able to find him and he can sleep in, but when the Ghouls see that III is not in his bed chambers, the next place they look is in The Cardinal’s.

Bonus: Post-Coitus That First Time

“Papa, what are you doing?”

“Is it not obvious? I am cuddling.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Is it not customary to cuddle after a good fuck?”

“Stop calling it cuddling!”

“Why? What would you have me call it? A good snuggle, then?”

“Ai, that is worse.”

“… is it because I am the big spoon?”

“It is not—whatever! Why are you doing it?”

“I meant it, Cardinal. This unholy parish is mine. I take care of all my black sheep. Especially when they are good rats.”

*nose boop*

“You are mine now. Stop being so grumpy. Enjoy the serotonin.”

[goodlucktai]

this mess was yours

@natsumeweek​ 2017  Day 2; Celebrations/Get-togethers

pairing: nishinatsu

title borrowed from mess is mine by vance joy.

x

Satoru's doing homework downstairs with his brother when his cellphone goes off. Kiyoshi gives him a dirty look and Satoru masterfully ignores it, abandoning his workbook in favor of the call without missing a beat.

He knows it's Natsume. He set a different ringer for him.

“Hey, dude,” he says cheerfully, tapping his pencil against the table obnoxiously. “What's up, I thought I was seeing you later.”

“Hi,” Natsume says quietly, followed by, “Sorry, that's why I'm calling. I can't make it.”

It's hard to hear him. He always mumbles on the phone, and it's only worse when he's upset. Tucking his phone between his head and shoulder, and flapping a hand at Kiyoshi to shut him up, Satoru scoops up his homework and heads for the stairs.

Once he's in his room, and his things are dumped unceremoniously on top of his bed, Satoru says, “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Everything's fine. Um, it's—Shigeru-san's cousin, Katsuya-san, is having a retirement party tonight. He invited the whole family, it sounds like. That means me, too.”

Satoru scowls at the wall. “Can't you just tell your parents you'd rather stay home?”

There's a pregnant pause on the other end of the line, and then Natsume says softly, “Shigeru-san wants me to go. I don't want to disappoint him.”

“Yeah, but—”

“He said it would be okay. I don't think he would bring me along if he thought it wouldn't be.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I was just calling because we had plans, and—I'm really sorry for canceling last minute—”

He's not even there yet and he sounds miserable, Satoru thinks, mind racing. He glances at the clock on his desk, then paces a tight circle around his room, then speaks without thinking.

“Think they'd mind if I tagged along?”

Natsume doesn't answer for a long moment. Satoru pictures him standing by the house phone with that doe-eyed look of surprise on his face—the one he adopts when he's confronted by any small, just-because kindness—and feels a surge of something simultaneously toothed and tender lay claim to most of the gooey insides of his chest.  

“Um,” his friend says, in a very small voice. “I could ask.”

And that, right there—the fact that he doesn't turn him down right away—the absence of those endless frustrating layers of “oh, don't worry about it, I'm fine”s that Satoru normally has to dig through to get to the heart of how he's actually feeling—sits between them as stark proof that Natsume would really really love not to have to go to this get-together alone.

“Ask,” Satoru replies firmly, and takes the stairs back down two at a time to beg a similar permission from his mom.

The Fujiwaras are too good for this earth, really, Satoru thinks, straightening the collar of the dressy-casual double-layer shirt he borrowed from Kiyoshi without asking. Touko-san all but plucked the phone out of Natsume's hand before he could finish the question and insisted that of course Satoru was welcome to come along, it was a party after all, and the more the merrier! And did he need them to come pick him up?

“Okay, so what's the gameplan,” he mutters, as they follow Shigeru and Touko through the gate and up the path to the front door. “Do we tag along and make small talk, or find somewhere to hide as soon as we can?”

“Oh, god,” Natsume replies, just as low, “hide, as soon as we can, please.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Satoru doesn't blame him for a second. He doesn't know any of these people, in their fancy house with its spotless, polished surfaces that make him afraid to touch anything for fear of leaving dirty smudges, but he doesn't like them. He doesn't have to know them to know they're no good, not with the way they've treated his friend.

Natsume was miserable before the Fujiwaras found him. He moved around constantly and didn't have a home and because of all that he carries this big heavy weight around on his shoulders, in the back of his eyes, in the sad way he takes up as little space in a room as he can.

Because of all these people.

Ugh, Satoru thinks with feeling. It's like walking into a snake pit. It's like walking into a snake pit with a present and a pleasant smile for the snake guest of honor. Ugh.

“What's that face for?” Natsume asks, glancing at him sidelong. “You don't even—do you know someone here?”

“What? No way. Don't worry about it, just follow the leader.” He pokes Natsume in the small of the back, propelling him forward to follow Touko when she moves ahead with Shigeru into the kitchen. “We have to make it look natural when we fall away and hide out in the yard for the rest of the night. It's all about timing. Trust me, I know my way around family gatherings.”

A woman in the hall with a glass of wine gives them a dirty look as they pass by. It takes an amount of willpower Satoru didn't even know he had to refrain from shooting her the same look right back.

It's not all dirty looks, though. A few people greet Natsume warmly, and the majority of the crowd seems happy just to stay away from him, and Katsuya and his wife Hiromi are actually pretty cool. They look pleasantly surprised to see him, and beckon him closer, and ask about his school and his classmates and how he's doing.

“This is my friend Nishimura Satoru,” Natsume says after a moment, looking like he has no idea where to put all this kind attention he's getting and passing it off to someone else the first chance he gets. “I hope it's okay that he came along.”

“Of course it is,” Hiromi says brightly. “Thank you for coming, Satoru-kun. You boys don't have to hang around here and listen to us talk, either, go help yourselves to some food and have a good time.”

It's the break they've been waiting for. They make their plates quickly and then head for the porch, and if Satoru cuts rudely in front of a guest or two he's meanly pleased with himself for it.

The night air is warm, and the sound of the party inside is muted as soon as Natsume slides the door shut behind him. Satoru sits, dangling his legs over the yard, and pats the spot beside him with a flourish.

“Pull up some floor,” he says primly, and Natsume huffs out a laugh. There are a few fireflies out already, and one drifts past Natsume's head like its thinking about landing on his nose. Satoru kind of wishes it would. “So it's weird you didn't bring your ugly cat along. Where is he?”

“Sulking at home,” is the dry reply. “I'll have to bring him back some food to make up for leaving him behind.”

“You spoil that thing,” Satoru tells him, and that makes Natsume laugh again, a little longer this time.

“Speaking of which,” Natsume says, with the footprint of that warm humor fading out of his voice, “you didn't have to come along with me tonight. I know this isn't what we had planned.”

“It's pretty much the same thing we would have done otherwise.” Satoru shrugs gamely. “The most important parts are the same, anyway.” He holds up his plate in something like a salute and grins. “You. Me. Food.”

Natsume brightens, and his small smile turns into one of those rare blinding ones. “All the important parts, huh?” he says, a little knowing, a whole lot pleased.

And Satoru—wow, Satoru is in so much trouble. He takes a bite of tempura that's about three sizes too big to fit comfortably in his mouth, so he won't say something stupid, and munches obnoxiously around a chipmunk smile. 

Natsume rolls his eyes and that oddly tender moment is gone to a more comfortable, far-far-away place.

Almost half an hour later, when they're halfway through a Youtube playlist and the battery on Satoru's phone is in the red, the door behind them rattles open again and a girl their age says, “There you are! Come inside, Natsume and Natsume’s plus one. Katsuya won't let anyone have cake until we find you.”

That doe-eyed surprise is back home on his face. That fierce surge of relentless care is back home in Satoru's heart. He shoves his phone in his pocket, and stacks their plates into a neat pile, and climbs to his feet.

“Back into the fray,” he says, and offers Natsume a hand.

For a second, Natsume's expression is a lot of complicated things it hurts to look at, all at once. But he puts his hand in Satoru's, and lets himself be hauled to his feet and led back inside.

Satoru is prepared for Natsume to drop his hand as they come around the corner into the kitchen and the majority of the packed room greets their arrival enthusiastically. 

Surprised when he squeezes Satoru's hand instead, warmly, and keeps it right where it is.