#i did not proof read

[thatonebitheaterkid22]

Time for period Product education

Alright I now have some rage because I see people Shaming others for what they use

Also I need to mention Anyone can have a period If you Have a uterus You can Have a period Your gender does not matter

Time to explain shit

You should never shame somebody For the product they use Pads tampons cups Period underwear Hiding in the forest till it's done

Not Everybody can use tampons For some people it's trauma For some people, it's uncomfortable. Some people physically can't stick it up there

Not everybody can use cups , same reasons as tampons

Not everybody can use reusable Products I understand that reusable products are amazing But sometimes they can Cause sensory issues for people. Sometimes people can't get them

Okay on to the next section

There is a decent few brands that are fucking Horrible A test on animals They pollute Please Do Research Before getting a Product

I will not stand For people Shaming Others for what they use

Tampons

Pads

Cups

Period Underwear

And anything else That you use

Please just be nice

[iamawolfstarsimp]

Hi! I adore your superbat fic, it's so fluffy sweet. If you want, I have an idea for another one!

Imagine the JL in the Watchtower, waiting for Batman to set up a powerpoint presentation. He turns it on and it's a list of each member's strengths and weaknesses, now updated with more bullet points since it's first creation.

Batman starts discussing how this new information could effect future missions, but is interrupted when someone asks a peculiar question.

"Why does one of the bullets under your weaknesses say "ticklish"?"

(The idea being someone edited his list to add that as a prank)

okay but I love this idea

I don't have the energy to write a full length fic (blame school and soccer) but here's a little drabble thing

Bruce silently said a prayer in his head before walking into the conference room the Justice League had. Presentations always went badly somehow.

He walked into the room to see all of his friends (for now, at least) chatting and joking around. Everyone gradually quieted and let Bruce start.

He greeted them and explained the main purpose of the presentation, which was their strengths and weaknesses on the battle field and the training they needed to do to improve. Bruce had noticed they were getting sloppy while fight, making beginners mistakes and then arguing after fights about who did what.

He decided that since he didn't have the time to make a whole new power-point, he would just add onto the already existing one of their strengths and weaknesses that he created when he was first creating the Justice League.

The presentation was going oddly well, no one had yelled at each other over something petty and no objects had been thrown from their original place so he'd call that a success.

He got to the final slide, which was his own, and continued to recit what was on it from memory. Of course he knew what he needed to work on, he spent most of his time either working on himself or fighting crime.

"We'll start up training on Monday, any questions?" Bruce concluded, looking around the room.

Barry timidly raised his hand, glancing over at Arther who was sat next to him. He also noticed Diana smirking at the board and at himself.

Bruce nodded at Barry to hopefully encourage the poor kid.

"Uhm, why does one of your bullets under weaknesses say 'ticklish'?" Barry pointed to the television.

Bruce's heart dropped into his stomach and he turned to look at the screen to indeed see that 'ticklish' was at the end of his list.

He felt the blood rush to his face and a deep blsuh cover his neck as well as cheeks. He glanced around the room to see if he could uncover who was the culprit by their expression (though he already had a good idea of who did it).

He quickly dismissed the meeting and ran back to his room. After some hours had passed, he sought out Clark and found his relaxing in the empty kitchen.

"Why did you put that on the power-point?" Bruce asked and Clark didn't even turn around. "How did you even get access to the presentation?"

"I was looking for you and found your laptop open and unlocked in your room. No one was around so I decided to have some fun." Clark turned around, grin on his face and toast in his hands.

"You-" Bruce haphazardly dug his fingers into Clark's side and was rewarded with a yelp and a fresh plethora of bright giggles.

Bruce continued his actions, keeping his touches light. He danced his fingers across Clark's sides and stomach until he reached up and scribbled against Clark's neck and realized it was more effective.

Clark was content to sit the in the counter corner and giggle his heart away, not even moving away from Bruce's touches. And Bruce was happy to let him.

but yeah, hope you liked!!

[cabaallias]

Cant sleep, so in the meantime, have this Michael Afton drabble/character study that's mainly focused in a self-reflection/flashback to the Bite of '83. I did it a few years ago. It was just sitting in my ipad doing nothing and I'm actually pretty proud of it :]

------

“And to you, my brave volunteer, who somehow found this job listing not intended for you. Although, there was a way out planned for you, I have a feeling that's not what you want. I have a feeling that you are right where you want to be.”

Michael frowned as he sat in the cramped security office. The temperature is rising to sweltering heats. Metal started to soften and the beginnings of a crackle of electrical fire picked up from beyond the room. As Henry Emily spoke on, the decrepit man thought back on his life.

His childhood was less than good, and Michael had been less than bad. His father had been a resilient, apathetic man. He didn’t show any emotion to his late wife nor children if it was not for show or ridicule. He was prone to cruel words and physical punishments for his kids while Clara was drained from his manipulation and take, take, take, never give attitude. It consequently lead to their quiet divorce; Clara didn’t put up a fight to keep anything (Michael sometimes loathes that she didn’t, but he understands why).. It consequently led to their quiet divorce; Clara didn’t put up a fight to keep anything (Michael sometimes loathes that she didn’t, but he understands why).

After that, William seemed to turn his sights on his first son. The remarks were subtle, but just jarring enough to reverberate in Michael’s head. The cruelty turned from outright cold disgust to bittersweet; micro aggressions that couldn’t be picked up by anyone outside the Afton household, if it could even be called that. The physical punishments varied in occurrence and eventually was replaced by those poignant words. Sometimes he wished that his father would just beat him like he used to, because then he wouldn’t be forced to doubt his father’s hatred towards him.

It went on for years like that. William always favored his first daughter and youngest son. Elizabeth was a rather sassy and demanding girl. She could command a room like her father and she had the stubbornness to match in volume. That stubbornness eventually got her killed by an animatronic that was modeled to the likeliness of her. It was, ironically, made by the father.

Evan had caught a glimpse of what happened from behind a corner. He had told Michael after a full night of terrors. His dark brown eyes were clouded and glassy from the tears that streamed down his blotched face. His brother had always been a bit of a crybaby, but he was never this bad. He never sobbed so loudly to the point Michael had to cover his mouth to keep William from hearing, because then they both would be in trouble for waking him at 6 am. The boy cried about torn, rotting versions of the Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza animatronics. About metal claws that shone, but definitely had rust. About a finger-trap plush of Spring Bonnie from Fredbear’s Family Diner. About how his Fredbear plush would never comfort, only offer somber, semi-compressible advise. Michael had, of course, consoled Evan during the aftermath of his night-terrors, but had left him to his fearful devices.

Meanwhile, the subtle grip his father had on him began to tighten to the near point of suffocation. William whispered about Elizabeth’s death to him in passing. Like it was a regular conversation. About how he should have been watching her. How it was his fault she was gripped by Circus Baby’s claw and dragged into the stomach hatch to compress her bones and organs into a bloody mess. How he would pay for letting it happen, but not yet. It wasn’t time. I have something planned for you, dear son.

Michael could feel himself be put under the scrutiny of his father. It was like a chained collar made of electric barbed wire that would fire off if he swallowed, shallow or not. It made his anxiety and depression worsen and turn into an especially cruel form of bullying that targeted anything that made him feel like curling up into a ball and wasting away like some pitiful creature (That made him want to give in to his father’s ministrations). Sadly, his main subject turned into his younger brother. The way he cried and sobbed about Elizabeth and his nightmares made Michael feel sympathetic, but it was the way he garnered positive attention from their father was what made him want to (give up) pummel Evan. So, he began to play his cruel jokes on the boy. He tore the Foxy plush’s head off. He bought a Foxy mask to jumpscare him with because he remembered that Evan was the most afraid of the Foxy that appeared in his nightmares. Evan eventually stopped coming to him in the early mornings and William had begun to tell him how Michael was growing to be just like him (no, no, no, no, no, no).

Michael’s biggest regret was his final prank.

It was preceded by 5 days of torturing Evan in the cold, mechanical-like walls of their home. He remembers locking him in Parts and Service at Fredbear’s during that week and jumping out at him in various rooms. He vividly remembers surrounding the poor, tired, tortured boy at Fredbear’s Family Diner with his equally cruel friends. Each had on their own mask from Freddy Fazbear’s. They each had taken a limb into a strong grasp and dragged the shaking, sobbing boy towards the stage. Fredbear’s gold fur shone in the lights that had seemed just a bit too bright that day. The rabbit, Spring Bonnie, plucked at the strings of his banjo while his green eyes seemed to be staring into the soul of Michael. It made him think of his father, who had always favored the rabbit over the bear. It made him quiver with fear and he could feel the barbed collar around his neck again. The barbs pressed into his veins and all it did was squeeze - Michael doesn’t notice that they’re at the edge of the stage - and squeeze - Michael doesn’t notice that his friends (acquaintances) agree to lift Evan up to Fredbear (Evan had crawled into his bed that morning, crying silently that a creature resembling a twisted, shadowy Fredbear had nearly bitten his head off with the mouth on its stomach (stomach hatch) and almost torn him in half with its claws while laughing cruelly. It sounded like demented radio static, Mikey, it was terrible) - and squeeze - Michael doesn’t notice Evan pleading for his life while he is shoved head first into (Nightmare’s) Fredbear’s mouth - and squeeze (he promised Evan that he wouldn’t let anything bite or tear him apart that morning (you’re just like me, Mikey)) -

The deafening crunch of Evan’s skull made everyone in the diner fall silent. Michael notices the blood gushing from the animatronic’s mouth and pooling onto the floor. The gold dyed red as Spring Bonnie chuckled and stilled in his movements. Someone had puked, there’s multiple screaming, everyone is snatching their kids up and taking them outside, someone is calling the police.

Those green eyes settled on Michael. He didn’t see an animatronic, but rather, he saw his father. Cruel light hidden behind a facade of goodwill. Overpowering, commanding listen to me, listen to me, only to me or you’ll regret it.

He can feel his brother’s blood on him. It coated his arms, the damned Foxy mask, the front of his shirt. Some of it dripped into the mask and on his face. His eyes are trained on the limp body of Evan, who was slowly beginning to slid out of Fredbear’s mouth. The blood made the passage slick and quick once he reached the edge of Fredbear’s teeth. The innocent, tortured, tired, dead boy fell into Michael’s still outstretched arms. His… head… dear god it’s basically gone. The gray matter’s fluid and blood stained the messy chestnut brown hair and ran down his body like some morbid shower. Bits of cracked skull stuck out of the mush and tangled in the matting hair. Michael’s mask fell off; the flimsy string having snapped. And it was like he could see clearly now. He did this. He allowed this to happen. He killed Evan. He killed him. He killed him. It’s his fault. His throat is closed up and is choking him of air. The eyes of Spring Bonnie, William Afton, his father, gleamed down onto him. His eyes rolled back into his skull and he fainted, still holding the little brother he tortured in his bloody arms.

[elysians-adventures]

Yokai Hunters

Prologue, 3.7k

Yoshiwara District

11:13 PM

The streets of Yoshiwara were filled with a colourful cacophony of cheers by the drunk, whispers by the poor and laments from women all around. The bright red-light district was in full swing, a warm glow bathing the hardened dirt roads. Women stood at the side of buildings, beckoning potential customers in with a fragrant waft that permeated the air. In the darkened alleys, however, there was a deep set silence. The light from lamps scattered in the main road did not reach here, making the girl’s escape ever so harder.

Soft, frightened steps filled the scene, her bare feet barely making a noise to alert anyone nearby. Geta abandoned, she sprinted barefoot through the dense air, akin to wading through water. A sheen of sweat glittered off her pale forehead, turning a corner as her bruised kimono followed after her. Where could she run? Where could she go? It all seemed hopeless, eventually she knew her fate; exhaustion– or a misplaced object, could seal her fate. 

The only hope Hikari had left was to run into one of the many well-lit buildings and be kicked out, or relentlessly run until the first ray of dawn broke through the clouded sky. Neither were doable, she doubted they'd let up even in daylight.

Right, left, left. Each turn held no promise to her safety. The alleys were becoming narrower, and darker. Her speed was decreasing by each turn, and the two men behind her were catching up swiftly. Hikari could only grimace as she remembered the glint of the blade he had pressed against her neck as she was walking back home. Shivers went through her, but her attempts to speed up were in vain. The girl could only manage to stumble forward by now, her muscles sore and heels bleeding, looking at the scene by her.

In contrast to the main street’s glamour, the alley she now was navigating was squalid. Hikari could hear the rats squirming through the corners of dilapidated homes, a stench filling the air. A stench of alcohol. The girl gagged– the acrid aroma clawing at her throat. On the walls, there were posters of wanted criminals, their painted faces washed away by the rain. Robbery, arson, murder; heinous crimes. She couldn't help but skim over the names: Saionji, Yukimura, Kanamori… would these people pursue her as the two behind her were? She shook her head, dismissing the hopeful thought. Why wouldn’t they? After all, they were all criminals.

One of the assailants bellowed: “Get back here, girl!” urging her to pick up the pace again. Though, it was a shadow of her former speed. By now, she had to be leaning against the walls of buildings to support herself. Turning another corner…

Bang! She bumped against something hard– what seemed like hair entering her mouth. There was a slight sense of shock, moving back to stabilise herself. A strong hand grabbed her forearm, stopping her from moving away further and crashing into a lamp nearby. Though the sudden touch made her panic, assuming they had caught up to her. Instead, a man faced her with azure hair, adorned by a straw hat sitting on top of it. His cerulean eyes stared at her, with the haze of a drunkard. That was where the smell was coming from. His slow blinking, along with his half-lidded expression told her he wouldn’t be able to help. Not in this state, at least.

“Sorry– I have to go…” she tried to escape from his grasp, yet he held firm. The tugging made items on his waist clatter, casting a glance down to reveal two katanas. A samurai? It would be helpful, if only he were sober. 

“Whatcha runnin’ from… missy?�� There was a slur to his words, a few badly-placed pauses alongside his obliviousness to the two men nearing them. There was no time. She couldn’t explain. 

“Please, let me go!” 

By the second those words were spoken, the duo had arrived with brandished daggers. They only slowed at the arrival of the new person, waving the weapons around in a thinly-veiled threat.

“Hey, mister. We have business with the lady you’re hanging on to, mind leaving her?” The first man; wearing a dirty, brown kimono much like the samurai was wearing– got closer to the new arrival. He stared daggers through the man, threatening, with a foul breath when he smiled with wide teeth. 

The latter, much like the first, was equally squalid and ugly; his wide frame dominating in the tight alley. He held his teeth bare, staying behind his companion,�� blocking any chance of an escape.

Hikari persisted to pull and pry from the man’s tightening grip– she needed to run. No matter how hard she pulled, however, her strength faltered to the drunk’s. Tears began to well up in her eyes as her frustration boiled over. Would this be really how she was going to be butchered? Because this stupid samurai…  “-- Couldn’t pick a better time to get drunk!” Hikari screeched, stomping the ground. 

She could feel her arm beginning to swell and bruise, not that it’d matter if she’d be bleeding by her neck in a moment’s time. Startled, the offender loosened his grip, in an instant his hand went from her forearm to her chest. 

All she could do was let out a gasp before she was pushed behind the samurai, his hand now finding itself on his belt. Hikari’s feet screeched against the sandy floor before losing her balance, tumbling over. All she could see was the night sky, framed by the protruding roofs of the buildings surrounding them. She made no effort to get up, holding her breath in tense anticipation.

“Ah… you’re… who?” He squinted at them, still unable to discern the situation due to his clouded mind. His body, however, seemed to be acting separate from his words– his subconscious grounding his dominant foot. 

“I don’t see what you– what business you have with her,” he stammered, “upstanding men like you should be working! Don’t you know what time it is? I’ve been in that izakaya for less than–” he heaved. 

In response, the two attackers looked at each other: bursting into laughter. Their laughs were boisterous and heavy, cutting through the tension of the scene. The rats that had been crawling across the road had scattered, and the background noise of the main street drowned out. 

“Hahaha— ohh, you’re a funny guy. I know who you are, Yukimura. Your face is all over town,” the thinner of the duo commented, the other nodding along, his head resembling a bobbing boat in water.

“We meant to kill her for tricking us out of our money, but you’ll bring a nice bounty for your head. How about both?” He glanced at the fatter one, though not waiting for a response. His mind was set. 

Hikari sat up, a worried look painted her pale expression. Had she ran into another criminal? This night was splendid so far, she scowled. Though, she hoped that the samurai was lesser of two evils than the other two. Her dark eyes scanned over the trio, switching from the samurai (apparently called Yukimura, had she heard that name?) and the other two. Back and forth, she watched for any sudden movements, any subtle, anxious breaths. 

It was the lankier of the two that had acted first, his limbs moving like long branches in the wind. He looked so easy to topple. And he was, an outstretched leg from the drunken Yukimura sent the man scraping against the dirty ground. The thin man had tried to regain his balance for a few moments, but he was pushed once more by the samurai. His dagger was sent flying opposite of Hikari, landing next to the lamp.

He kneeled up with a groan, now coming face to face with the girl still on the ground. She had tried to shuffle away, but he had grabbed her ankle.

“You whore! Give me–” He was not given a moment to finish his sentence, long steel coming down on him as if it was a judgement from God. It cut through his neck easily, like a knife in lard. 

Hikari stared in horror as blood sprayed onto her ghostly face, staining everything around her. It was funny, in a way, she couldn't remember the last time seeing blood. And now the carmine liquid pooled at her feet, absorbed by the road and seeping through the cracks of her bruised soles. The air hung still, an uncomfortable silence that weighed heavy on her shoulders as she struggled to breathe. The girl raised her hand up to her face, swallowing a scream of terror. 

She glanced up at the samurai, willing herself not to make eye contact. His expression was unreadable as he removed the katana from the lifeless corpse, flicking the blade to remove the blood. It clung onto it, like a leech. The memory of his murder trailed down the steel, red drops accumulating on the corpse's neck. In a trice, he swivelled on the spot, coming face to face with the fat man. Hikari could only imagine the trepidation filling his veins, his plump face contorted into a glower and short eyebrows wrinkled.

“You– you!” It was the first time he had spoken, his voice shrill. 

Hikari assumed the samurai must have been a servant of some lord. His calculated movements, and swift footwork pointed to nothing else. Keenly observing him, she watched as the two engaged in a dance of steel. The blades of the two clashed for a moment, before the fat man was brought to his knees clutching his chest. The air crackled with tension, the silence broken by the wails of the defeated. 

Yukimura was too fast, leaving her slightly uneasy. His expression was concealed as he had his back to her, she swore she had caught the glint of a grin. A nibbling doubt came up, would the samurai in a drunken haze kill her next? Unbeknownst to even herself, she had begun to shuffle away, leaving a trail of red from where her feet touched the pooling blood. 

The alley was dark, the looming roofs enclosing her in like a coffin. It was tight, too narrow, too close to that man– to those cadavers. The seemingly starless night seemed tenebrous. Logically, she knew she had to have some sense of gratitude for the samurai, but her countenance whispered dissent. The unsettling stillness held them both captive, until Hikari scraped her foot to the ground as she was moving away. The sound roused him from his stupor, shaking the blade once to remove blood and sheathing it. 

“Are you okay?” He questioned, his tone now dripped with sobriety, as if realising the gravity of his actions. The theory was short lived, as he heaved once more and turned to the side. The vomit, even in the cold moonlight, seemed thick and reeked of unpleasantness. Hikari silently watched as the samurai spewed, noting how he delicately moved his own hair away from his mouth, and how he clutched his stomach like a child. She couldn't believe that this man had orchestrated the chaos in front of her.

 

A few coughs and spluttering interrupted her pondering, now reluctantly gazing as he closed his distance with her. She screwed her eyes shut, perhaps the fate with the two attackers was better than what awaited her now.

Upon reopening her eyes, she was greeted with an outstretched hand. He was offering her a helping hand, slouched over. She didn't notice how the corpse had been kicked out of the way with carelessness. Now she could properly make out Yukimura's face. He had equally azure eyes, a gentle smile marked his features. His bushy eyebrows were wrinkled in pity, a thin long scar on his right cheek. He was, objectively, handsome, if he didn't have a dribble of vomit down his chin, or his face wasn't framed by the blood of the deceased duo.

 She held her kimono sleeve higher to her nose, trying to shield her nose from the noxious odour emanating from his breath, as she accepted the hand. His hand was tough, and thick– the hand of a working man. Effortlessly, he hoisted her up, a strength that stifled her own, yet a newfound gentleness that spared her arm from further harm.

Yukimura was keenly aware of his current hygiene, patting down his clothes and taking a step back, perhaps in embarrassment. In a swift motion, he used his sleeve to clean his face, the clinking of a necklace accompanying the gesture.

Hikari continued to observe him, noting the eclectic objects placed on his brown belt, and the orange orbs that formed a necklace placed on his bandaged chest that seemed to be darkening with a reopened wound. An epiphany unfolded as she watched him, that was why he clutched his stomach. 

Her gaze traced the contours of the alley, avoiding the lifeless gaze of the two corpses that lay infront of them. Now standing on her own, she continued to observe Yukimura's expression, who was trying to seem strong even in the face of his old wound. He seemed to only acknowledge her presence a few moments after, his eyes filled with a weariness and melancholy lost on the girl. His rough hand, previously a lifeline, gently touched the darkening spot in his bandages. 

The air hung heavy, and Hikari felt compelled to pay the debt back.

“I can fix you up at my place,” she murmured, staring at him. Her voice was a delicate echo in the alley, still shaken up from the situation not even a few minutes ago. 

Yukimura managed a faint smile, “Thanks.” 

He had taken her up on her offer. The night, once tenebrous and oppressive, held a different tune. With a samurai at her side, she managed to feel more slightly more secure in traversing the streets of Yoshiwara. 

They emerged from the alley, the duo ignored by the bustling street, Yukimura's blood splattered appearance seemed oddly normal in te haze of the night. 

The moans and whispers buzzed throughout the air, marking the climax of the night at the red light district. Yukimura's straw sandals scraped along the street, his sapped legs unable to maintain proper gait.  Hikari, in contrast, walked with purpose, long strides making her ebony hair swing; she stopped frequently, waiting for the taller man to catch up. The building she resided in was a short way away, in the middle of the district. It was a grandiose building, with an ornate roof and tall panels. Lamps clung onto their latches, swinging in the soft breeze. The samurai expression remained unreadable as he watched the building, the comings and goings–  it was a brothel. 

Hikari had not dared to look behind her, lest she saw an expression of disgust. 

Instead, a low laugh escaped his lips before it was drowned by coughing. 

“Is this where you wish to take care of me? I didn't know you were so straight forward, girl,”  he jested, a grin playing on his face. A hiss of pain followed as she intentionally halted, allowing him to bump into her back. 

Hikari pushed open the heavy door, revealing a dimly lit interior adorned with rich tapestries and subtle aromas wafting through the air. The atmosphere was a stark contrast to the chaotic streets outside, men lounged on the wooden floor as women tended to their needs, some women playing music and others recited poems. A constant ebb and flow of people moved between private rooms.

She strode past them, ignoring every event that unfolded at the side of her. Yukimura couldn't help himself, however, his eyes scanning the women that gave him curious stares. He was different, armed with katanas and an unnerving stature, he stood out like a sore thumb in the unexpected haven. Swiftly, he pulled his gaze away, continuing to weave and bob through the tight corridors. Finally, they came upon a room, small in size, but homely. 

“Sit,” She murmured, strolling towards a set of humble drawers. Cloth and bandages emerged from the cabinet, placed onto the floor. 

“I'll go fill a bowl of water to clean you with, take off your coverings,” she didn't wait for a response, walking back out of the room leaving Yukimura standing. He soon took a seat onto the floor, watching the flickering candlelight cast shadows as he peeled his kimono off. The cloth pooled at his waist, veiling the bottom part of his body. Slowly, he began to unwrap the bandages, which had been neglected for weeks. They were tattered, and at some points ripped as he tried to pry them off. 

A creak of the sliding door sounded in the quiet room. Hikari was quick, arriving with a wide bowl brimming with water. Her presence was ignored by the samurai, who had his back to her. For a moment, she stood there, watching him discard the dirty bandages to the side. His back was well sculpted with bulging muscles, a testament to his athleticism, scars littering his tan skin.

She approached him, setting down the bowl and reaching for the cloth she had retrieved earlier. 

“Stay still,” she hummed as he slouched over in obedience. Submerging the cloth in the bowl, she began to clean his back, moving swiftly to his arms and then addressing his wound. 

Perhaps she had taken up the task as a way to alleviate his odour, she thought humorously. His entire torso was covered in scars and bruises, his chest containing the most prominent offenders. He winced as she tried to gently pat the wound clean, grabbing her hand. 

“I'll do it,” the samurai huffed, prying the cloth out of her hand. 

“Suits you,” she shrugged, turning to position the bowl in front of the samurai, “tell me when you're done.” 

She stood up, walking to the other side of the room, facing a mirror to tend to her face. Hikari gazed in dispassion, looking at her pale face tired from this night's endeavour. Cleaning off her peach lipstick, and rubbing her face with her sleeve, she began to look more and more exhausted. Finally, the dark eyebags revealed themselves under the heavy powder. Her dark hair was sticking up, messy. 

Rhythmic splashes and subdued grunts filled the room as Yukimura tended to the task himself. The dim candlelight let her observe through the mirror, watching his battle-worn physique delicately clean blood off himself. She watched the stoic expression of his face, the expression of a man who was trying to resist falling from sobriety once more. He must have consumed a lot of sake, she mused.

Finally, he let out a relieved sigh, signalling to Hikari that he had finish his self care. She approached with a new set of bandages, kneeling next to him.

“I would've done better,” she smiled, trying to alleviate the man's mood. It seemed to work, a playful smile graced on his face. Though there was no response. She began to bandage him, momentarily setting aside the memory of the two deaths she had witnessed. 

He raised his arm, a silent permission for her to work interrupted. 

“How did you get it?”

“Hm?”

“That cut.”

He looked down at her, eyes crinkled in entertainment. 

“Inquisitive, aren't you? Well!” The samurai seemed to perk up instantly, his shoulders raised in pride, “if you must know, it was the outcome of a duel. Between an irrelevant samurai and I, what was his name… Kiyoshi Yamamoto?”

“Kiyoshi?” She exclaimed, familiar with his name, “there had been rumours he had been defeated, but I couldn't believe it!” 

“You know him?” He inquired, studying her expression.

“He used to frequent Yoshiwara, much to his family's disdain. I suppose this is retribution of some kind,” she giggled to herself, recalling the stories her colleagues had recounted about him.

Their exchange continued as bandaging proceeded methodically, Yukimura hissing at the pressure. 

“I heard stories of his escapades, he seemed to revel in the scandal,” she continued.

“Much like myself, in a way,” Yukimura nodded. “But our clash was inevitable.”

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze, “Why did you two fight?”

There was a pregnant pause, the samurai carefully considering the best way to word this. His expression flickered from pensive, to scowling, back to neutral. 

“Conflict of interest,” He hummed vaguely. 

Her fingers moved with precision, securing the bandages and letting go, proud of her work. The girl knew there was more to the story, but she didn't want to pry. 

Yukimura spoke again: “Before I forget, do you know who this man is?” He dug into his kimono, procuring a rolled piece of tattered paper. He unrolled it, revealing the painted hardened face of a young man. Short eyebrows, dark hair, and topknot hairstyle. She stared at it for a moment, every man in Edo resembled him, only when she saw the crest painted at the top right of the page did she realise.

“Tokugawa Renjin? The shogun's son? What business do you have with him?” Her questions (or rather answers) came in a quickfire, leaving Yukimura staring for a few moments before processing it. 

“Nothing, don't worry about it, missy.” He was satisfied with the answers, letting the topic drop as quickly as it was brought up. 

Sleep weighed her down, her eyelids heavy. Yukimura's demeanour matched hers, but he heaved himself to his feet, stumbling. 

“Well, then. I guess I'll be going now,” he evaded eye contact, neglecting to thank her. He stretched in his new bandaging, his kimono still hung onto his waist. He made no effort to wear it properly again. Hikari felt fear swell up in her chest, imagining if the two men's friends burst into her room. What if they knew she was there when it happened? The samurai began to slide the door open, turning his back to her…

“Stay,” she begged, Yukimura turning around. Her cracked lips had a hint of pink, mirroring her flushed cheeks. Dark hair fell into wisps, framing her face. Her kimono was ill fitted from the running, slipping off her shoulder– revealing her vulnerability as she subtly reached out to him whilst on the floor. Her black eyes sparkled in the undulating candlelight, glimmering like the stars in a summer night. The room held its breath. For the first time in the night, he had noted her appearance, and not only her sickly sweet voice. 

“Alright.”

A pause, before he continued: “What's your name?”

“Hikari.”

What a beautiful name, he thought. He'd have to apologise to Fumiko tomorrow.

.

.

.

.

[nappingmoon]

more domestic nanami kento because I love and adore him, but this time you’re in an argument and try to sleep on the couch (spoiler: nuh uh)

wc: idk i’m on my phone it’s not that long

you get into an argument w nanami and think he wants space so after dinner, when he heads into the room to go to bed, you stay out under the pretense of finishing some paper work and watching the news. you pull a blanket out and splay onto your couch, which, despite being a little small, is soft and comfortable— a testament to its use and the friends you've had over to break it in. the thought of those good times warms your heart a smidge, though it remains heavy with the current tension between you and your fiancé. you leave the tv on, let the night shift television shows fill the space and keep you company while you sleep, an alarm set so that tomorrow you can make breakfast and talk it out.

in the bedroom, nanami lays on his back, the small clock to his left almost mocking him with the way the red numbers change minute after minute with no sign of you coming to bed. the room is cold without your presence, dark in a way that has nothing to do with lamps or moonlight. he fidgets and turns but without your familiar dip in the bed, sleep is impossible. he never sleeps well without you; the lack of your steady breaths and soft snores means he starts to spiral with thoughts about your wellbeing. he knows you’re in an argument, but you always come to bed, right?

he sits on it for a moment more, eyeing the door to see if you’ll slip in and put his worries to rest like you always do. when the numbers blip again, he gets up, feet sliding into the silly slippers you got him for christmas (you have a matching pair) and finds his way to the living room.

when he finds you there curled up with your arm hung over the edge of the sofa and a little bit of drool spilling onto the cushion, his heart twists. the lights of the television flash over your face, certainly disrupting your sleep, though he doubts your reaching anywhere near a restful slumber. he walks over to you, slowly crouching in order to avoid scaring you awake. his right hand grabbing yours, and it’s freezing— left without the protection of your measly blanket. he warms it with one hand while the other comes up to graze your face, easing you awake.

“kento?” you ask, bleary eyed. “you’re even handsome in my dreams.” you smile and pat his face before letting your arm drop and closing your eyes once more.

a small chuckle escapes him, both in surprise and adoration at his soon to be wife. unwilling to try and wake you a second time, he quickly turns the tv off, then slides an arm around your back and another under your knees before rising. he elbows the light switch to the living room off and slowly makes his way back to your shared bedroom, carefully avoiding hitting you at any point. your head is safe regardless, tucked into his chest contentedly despite not being awake. he supposes your body recognizes him asleep or awake— a testament to the years you’ve spent side by side; once as teammates and now as lovers.

he slides you into bed on your side, fixing up the covers before making his way around to his side. he slips off his slippers and gets himself under the covers, body gravitating to you. as he brings you closer to him, you finally seem to shake off your sleep. you look at him sadly, and it’s enough to resolve him against letting any future arguments happen (an impossible sentiment, he knows, but the look on your face is makes him dead set on trying).

“never try to sleep on the couch again.” he whispers, quiet but stern. “I hate sleeping without you. I worry too much.” the honesty is almost suffocating and tears build at your waterline.

“m’ sorry kento. thought you were mad at me n’ I wanted to give you some space away from me.” you reply, the words thick with sleep and emotion.

“i’ll never need space from you baby,” he insists, “I know we were in an argument but you mean everything to me. I’ll always want you by my side. I’ll always need you by my side. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you were the reason I was upset.” he finishes off with a kiss to your forehead, his hand coming up to wipe the tears that have begun to drip down your cheeks.

he kisses down the bridge of your nose before leaving a peck at your lips. it’s the last thing you feel before giving in to the exhaustion once more.

in the morning, you’ll discuss the tensions of yesterday, but before that, you’ll wake in the arms of your lover, held tight against the rhythmic thumping of his heart.

it beats for you, anyway.

[scatterbrainedbot]

cass, a professional: order of badass donbot, extra dramatic entrance!

me, nodding, banned from most kitchens: leo drama and angst, heard chef!

(shoutout to @somerandomdudelmao for yet again making feel emotions i cannot fully explain)

[meowkn]

You were fast asleep on the bed when he returned home, the blanket barely covering your half naked body. Your hair tousled over the pillows and a small smile on your lips as you dreamt, probably of Jason.

“Sweetheart.” Jason whispered, kneeling down so that he was face to face with you. He brushed some of your curls out of your face, shaking his head at the sight.

“Sweetheart.” He said a little louder, shaking you slightly. Waking you up from your nap. You sat up slightly, rubbing your eyes as you tried to fully wake up and form coherent thoughts.

“Jay?” You murmured, turning to look at him, kneeling down beside the bed. He looks exhausted, his hair messy, and his eye bags darker than usual. Your eyes flitter over to the clock on the bedside table

1 A.M

Figures.

“Hey…” He murmurs, his hand finding his chin, guiding your face back to his. His hands are calloused and rough, but his touch was gentle, he’s always gentle with you.

“Hey, sleepy.” He says, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Rough day?” You mutter, still waking up as you gaze into his eyes. Even in the dark they’re bright.

“Mhm.” He brushes his fingers over my cheek, caressing you softly. “I had such a rough day.” He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his spare hand. “I’m so tired.”

“I missed you today.” You say softly, grabbing the hand that was caressing your face and holding it.

Jason stands up fully, stretching his arms before getting into the bed next to you, scooting you over with his body before burying his head into your shoulder, his arm snaking around your waist.

You stayed like that for a while before his free hand reached around your head, tilting it back, making your neck more accessible. He placed light kisses on your jaw, trailing down your neck. You could feel his fingers rubbing against your skin, trying to find the hem of your shirt.

“Jay, it’s late.” You murmured, a soft sigh escaping your lips at the sensation of him nibbling on your neck.

“Not too late, I missed you.” He hums against your skin, slipping your shirt up. You can feel his fingers sliding across your skin, almost desperately tracing the contours of your skin.

“I just don’t want you to be tired, yeah?” You say, pulling his face from your neck, taking note of the whine that escapes his lips after.

“I don’t want sleep, just you.” His words come out as a mumble as he presses his lips back against the skin of your neck, sending goosebumps through your body. He hummed contentedly, his fingers tracing your body, almost reverently.

“Just need a little bit of you…then I’ll let you sleep.” You could feel his fingers find the waistband of your underwear, playing with the material teasingly as he smirked against your neck.

“Jay…” Your protest fell on deaf ears as he bit down on your neck, then soothing the bite with his tongue.

“I’ve neglected you all day… Let me make it up to you.”

[sincerelybubbles]

it's a date || spencer reid x reader

part 2

warnings: cannon-typical violence/mentions of murder and kidnapping, slow burn, fluff!, early seasons spencer, not proof read

word count: 6.1k

You sigh and crack your knuckles, staring down at the pot simmering on the stove. You know that the sauce would be okay if you left it for a few minutes, did something else, but you remain standing, uselessly stirring it every few seconds. Truthfully, you’re bored. Your mind shifts from cooking to work tomorrow, itching to pull out your documents and scan through them one more time. But you know you shouldn’t, advise about work-life balance tugging at your attention. 

You’re debating if you should pick up a book and try to read, something light to take your mind off of the day, when a knock sounds from the front door. Your dog, Penny, a lovely golden retriever you rescued a few years ago, lets out a weak woof before slowly standing and trotting to the door. She’s old, more grey than golden, but she never fails to answer the door with you. 

You turn the stove off and move the pot off of the burner, wiping your hands as you walk, when another knock echoes through the hallway. It’s sharp, official, loud. The sound fills you with anxiety. You stand on your toes to look out of the peephole.

“Hello?” You ask through the door, not recognizing the men standing outside and seeing no package in sight. 

“Hello, Jason Gideon, FBI, could we have a word?” The older man says, voice stern but not unkind. 

You open the door without unlatching the chain, peering out through the crack. “FBI?”

Jason Gideon, the one who spoke, pulls out his badge first. The lankier man next to him follows in suit. Your eyes linger on him for a second longer than the other agent, taking in his toussled brown hair. You scan the badges for a second before shutting the door to undo the chain. 

“Sorry, you can’t be too careful, you know?”

“Oh, we know that all too well,” Gideon says good-naturedly, “it’s good to be cautious.”

He asks your name, you give it, and nods sharply, looking to his partner. “Well, like I said, I’m Jason Gideon with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, FBI, and this is my partner Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“Well, come on in, Agent Gideon and Dr. Reid,” you say, waving them both in and shutting the door. 

“Just Gideon is fine.”

Dr. Reid sends you a tight lipped smile as he walks in, adjusting his shirt and otherwise avoiding your gaze. He seems nervous. 

“Would you two like something to drink while you tell me why you’re here? Coffee, tea, water?” You ask, twisting the dishcloth between your hands as you lead them inside.

“I wouldn’t say no to some coffee,” Gideon says. You nod and turn to Dr. Reid, who is staring at you with his mouth slightly agape. 

“Oh, yeah, coffee for me too, please.”

“Of course, have a seat,” you say, waving them to the small table in your kitchen and moving to prepare their drinks. Neither of them sit.

“How well do you know your neighbors?” Gideon asks as you start the coffee. 

You shrug. “As well as anyone does these days, I guess. I wave when I drive past them, smile when they’re out front at the same time. Why, has something happened? I saw the police cars earlier, on my way home from work, but I haven’t heard anything else.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dr. Reid says, even though he looks your age, maybe even a few years older. “Your neighbor across the street was murdered last night, Mrs. Furgison, and her eight-year-old son is missing. Did you hear anything?”

You fall still, facing away from the two officers. Numb, you shake your head, “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t home last night. I was watching my niece for my sister.” You turn around to face them, leaning back against the counter. “But there are cameras outside, I’m assuming that’s why you’re here?” “Yes,” Gideon confirms with a nod. “Would you be okay if we took a look at the last few weeks of footage if you have it?”

“You want to see if he’s been visiting before last night,” you mumble, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

“Do you work in law enforcement?” Dr. Reid asks, the question erupting from him like he couldn’t hold it back. “You’re shockingly calm and seem to know what we’re going to ask before we get to it.”

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckle, waving a hand in the air and turning to pull the pot of coffee out. “BAU, of course, you’d see right through me. I’m a victim liaison. I read through this process hundreds of times a week. Sugar?”

“No, thanks,” Gideon answers as Dr. Reid blurts out, “Yes, please.”

You set the mugs on the kitchen counter along with a container of sugar.

“Help yourself, I’ll grab my laptop to get those files for you.”

When you come back, laptop in tow, Gideon and Dr. Reid are having a hushed conversation, both holding their mugs of coffee. You round the corner slowly but loudly, aware that sometimes agents can be jumpy. Gideon smiles at you while Dr. Reid looks over sharply. 

It fits, given their ages and presumably how long each have been in the field. You try to send him a reassuring smile. He reciprocates but still looks obviously awkward, fixing his hair and taking a sip of coffee.

“Would you like me to put the files on a USB? Email them somewhere? Or just,” you motion with the computer, offering it over. 

“I can take it,” Dr. Reid offers, “send the files to Garcia.”

You let him, passing him the computer easily. With your job, the government is already elbows deep in that laptop, anyway; you have nothing to hide. 

You watch as Dr. Reid begins typing away on your computer, leaning over the table and resting his forearms on the edge. 

Both of the agents are dressed professionally: button-down shirts, slacks, dress shoes. Guns ready at the hip.

“You like to cook?” Gideon asks, nodding toward your forgotten pasta on the stove. 

“Yes and no,” you admit, chuckling and turning your attention to him. “It always tastes better than takeout but it’s hard to get the motivation. Are you hungry? Can I offer you anything else?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

“Of course. I know how overworked you lot can be.” You cross your arms and lean back against your counter. “What about you? Do you cook?”

“Not as often as I should,” he admits, smiling sadly. “Victim liaison, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You seem a little young.” “Could say the same about him.” You nod at Dr. Reid who doesn’t hear you, too focused on his work. “But I guess drive and pretty much no social life can get you anywhere,” you admit with a laugh. 

“Garcia should have the files in a minute,” Dr. Reid interrupts, looking up from your laptop.

“I’ll give her a call.”

He steps out with a nod to you, walking back into the front hallway of your small home and leaving you alone with the doctor. 

He opens his mouth to say something before his eyes focus over your shoulder and his attention is stolen. “Sorry,” he says, moving past you and into your living room, toward your bookshelf. “Is that a Russian copy of Crime and Punishment?” He asks, brushing his finger over the spine of the book. 

“Oh, yeah, it is.” You follow him, staring up at your own bookshelf like you’ve never seen it before. It’s crammed full of books. There are more filling your bedroom down the hall as well. “It’s a slow read, I have to use a lexicon a lot of the time, but I sort of like the work. Translating’s a hobby of mine, I guess. When I have time. Sorry, that might be weird.”

“No, it’s not weird at all! Not to me, at least. Are you using a Dictionary-based lexicon? Can I see it? I have one that I love. I haven’t read much Russian but I have one for Greek. They’re rarely used anymore, falling out of popularity with the creation of the internet where everything is readily available to just search up, but I find them fascinating and I’ve never seen one for Russian before.”

He talks enthusiastically with his hands. His eyes shine, the interest lighting up his face. You think, before you remember the reason why he’s there, that he’s actually quite handsome. You become slightly breathless at the realization. You don’t really notice people like this often. But, towering above you, buttoned shirt pushed up to show his forearms and a self-concious smile stretching across his face, you’re a little flustered.

You take a breath, remembering that your neighbor is dead and a little boy is missing, sending Dr. Reid a small smile and motioning behind you.

“It’s in my office if you want to go look at it. I prefer it to just typing out the stuff I don’t know — mostly because I don’t have a Russian keyboard — and it’s easier to learn when you have to research it.”

“I would actually love –”

“Reid,” Gideon interrupts, ending his call, “Garcia got the files, we have to go.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” Gideon says, walking toward you and offering his hand. “And for the coffee. So sorry to have interrupted your cooking.”

“Anytime detective,” you say, shaking his hand and smiling up at him, “always happy to help. I can give you my card if you need anything else?”

“That would be great, thank you.”

You rush to your bag to pull out one of your cards and hand it to Gideon before turning to offer Dr. Reid your hand. 

“It was nice to meet you, too, Dr. Reid.”

He takes your hand firmly. “Spencer’s fine,” he says, stumbling over his words slightly but still smiling. “Thank you for your help.”

“Anytime,” you repeat, letting them out and returning to your sad pasta. 

Your mind wonders, not to the murder or kidnapping, but to Spencer Reid. Wide brown eyes, tousled hair pushed out of his face, a sweet smile. Smart, too. Way too smart. 

You’re not exactly experienced when it comes to dating, you hadn’t lied to Gideon when you said you don’t make time for a social life, dating included, but you do know that an interest in a too-smart profiler might spell bad news. 

Still, as you portion out your meal, you can’t help but think that you’re feeling awfully motivated to return to working on Crime and Punishment. You don’t lie to yourself about the origins of this sudden spark of motivation, but you do rationalize it. What’s the harm in a fleeting crush, then? Especially if it gives you the push to finally finish one of the many projects hanging on your ever-growing list?

You suppose you might see them arround the office if they’re working in this jurisdiction, but then he’ll be gone and it’ll fade away. In the meantime, you make yourself a plate of food and settle down in your living room with the book and lexicon.

||||

“Well, that certainly poses an interesting problem,” you hear Cheif Saunders say as you walk into the police department the next morning, arms full of files ready for sorting. 

You round the corner to escape this attention but aren’t fast enough and he calls you over by name. Cringing, you turn on your heel and are faced, once again, with Gideon and Spencer. With them are two more men and two girls, all intimidating and confident. 

All FBI, if you had to wager a bet. 

“Morning,” you say, nodding to Gideon and Spencer respectively. “Nice to see you two again.”

“You’ve met?” The tall man next to Gideon asks, pointing the question to Spencer. He grins, white teeth overtaking his dark, handsome face. He reaches his hand out to shake yours, “Morgan, nice to meet you.”

You introduce yourself, explain your position, and receive introductions from JJ, Elle, and Hotchner as well. 

“Where did you meet our friends?” Chief Saunders asks, folding his hands in front of him and setting an accusatory glare on you. “Still preening for a new job?”

“No sir,” you say, uncomfortable. The chief is often cold with you, refusing to acknowledge your knowledge or work. When he found that you were looking to transfer stations to the one a district over, he’d still thrown a fit, though. You guess he can’t ignore how well your numbers reflect on him as easily as he deflects your accomplishments to your face. 

“We stopped by to get access to her cameras, she lives across the street from the Furgison’s,” Gideon explains, watchful eyes glancing between you and the chief. 

“They proved to be surprisingly useful,” Spencer interrupts. “We now know the make, model, and color of the unsubs car as well as his general height. Garcia is still trying to make out plates, but we are able to confirm at least pieces of our profile with the information.”

“You live across the street?” The chief asks, still staring at you. You shift your weight, holding the files closer to your chest. 

“Yes, sir. In a duplex.”

“Then, fellas, I’ve found the solution to our problem. You’ll set up with our little liaison, then.”

“Sorry?” You ask, startled. 

“We have reason to believe that the unsub is returning to the crime scenes after the police have left the area and allowed the family to return. But, if we know our guy, and we think we do,” Elle says, begrudingly, “he’s smart. He’s going to notice if we’re camped out in a car. And, in a residential street, it’s much harder to hide in a building.”

“So, you’ll have the opportunity to make yourself useful,” Chief Saunders chuckles, laying a heavy hand on your shoulder and shaking you.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” Gideon adds, glancing at you with a patient expression. 

“Yes, it would be a complete invasion of your privacy, agents would be there twenty-four-seven monitoring. We would only stay in the front areas of the house, of course, but you needn’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. There are always other ways.” Agent Hotchner fixes you with a level look, voice sincere. 

“Oh, she’s comfortable, aren’t ya?” The chief says, shaking you again with a wide smile. 

“Yes, of course,” you say, nodding at the others. You mean it, you’ll do whatever you can to help out, you just wish you could’ve made the choice yourself.

“This way, you don’t have to worry about confidentiality, either. Little Miss has full access to ongoing investigations, she’ll be there for all of the briefings and such.”

You nod, discretely moving a step back so his hand falls from your shoulder. 

“Yes, I’m meant to be kept up to date with all ongoing, violent investigations where and if possible to act as a bridge between law enforcement and victims and families of victims. Especially those with children involved — I should have mentioned we would cross paths again last night, I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Yes, we’ve worked with our fair share of liaisons,” Gideon chuckles, looking over his shoulder at JJ who gives him a small smile. 

“Then it’s all set. You boys let me know when you have your profile ready.” Elle watches him walk off with a hard stare, obviously just as rubbed wrong by him as you are. 

“Lovely man, isn’t he?” You joke, trying to make the situation lighthearted. 

“We’ve interacted before. Our headquarters isn’t actually far from here, just a twenty-minute drive, we’re up in Quantico. He doesn’t get any better with time, though.” Agent Hotchner shakes his head, turning to grab a file off of the desk behind him. 

“Well, he always forgets to offer his office space to visitors so I usually keep mine available. It’s quieter and there’s a whiteboard, follow me.”

||||

Since you started renting the small duplex by yourself, you’ve never felt awkward in your own home. Now, though, you feel odd taking up your own space. 

The majority of the Quantico team is set up in your front room with laptops, cameras, and microphones. 

“We don’t know exactly how long he usually takes to come back to scenes, only that it typically happens within the week,” Elle explains to you apologetically. 

“No problem — comes with the job, no?” You say, smiling and trying to brush it off. Elle laughs gently, nose wrinkling as she shakes her head. 

“No, not really. I wouldn’t be thrilled if these boys set up shop in my house, you’re taking this with much more grace than I would.”

You shrug, crossing your arms and tilting your head from side to side. “I won’t act like it’s normal, it is pretty weird having you guys here, but if it helps you catch this guy, why would I say no? Better me than some random civilian.” You hesitate, scrunching up your nose, “Better now than waiting for him to kill someone else.”

“Much more compassionate than I am,” Elle jokes, shaking her head and walking away as Gideon calls her name. 

The main problem, you think, is that the duplex isn’t very big. The part of the team that’ll be staying with you — Spencer, Gideon, Elle, and Morgan — have all settled in. They won’t come and go, their car is firmly parked in your garage, and they’ll keep a low profile to prevent the unsub from noticing their presence. You’re meant to come and go as normal to keep suspicion low in case he’s cased the entire neighborhood. But, with only two bedrooms, a baths, and a small office, you’re feeling slightly cramped. Whenever you turn, you feel like you’re coming toe-to-toe with someone. It’s awkward, considering you’re very used to living alone. 

Still, you’re determined to be a good host, so you set to preparing lunch for everyone. They’d insisted that you didn’t need to, but you really don’t know what else to do. You’d been given the day to help them all settle in and provide assistance wherever possible, but there isn’t much to do other than wait. 

You’re pulling out the things for sandwiches when Spencer walks in. 

“Hey, do you have an extra ethernet cable? Garcia thinks that a direct line would be better,” he asks. 

“Maybe, you’re free to check in the office if you want. If you need, you can always pull the one from my desktop,” you say, shutting the fridge and trying to balance everything in your arms in one trip.

“What’re you doing?” Spencer asks, reaching forward to grab the ham and mayo from the top of your stack. 

“Making sandwiches!”

“You really don’t have to. We can have food ordered, it’s okay.”

“I wanna make myself useful, I feel weird just standing around watching you guys work,” you say, dumping the materials on the counter. “I hope you guys like ham or turkey, it’s all I have.”

“You are being useful, though. You’ve let us set up in your home, how much more useful can you be?”

“I could provide food as well,” you say, sending him a smile. “Ham or turkey?”

Spencer looks exasperated, setting the ham and mayo down and shaking his head. Nervously, he uses both of his hands to push his hair back. “Either. Either is fine, thank you.”

You start to prepare the sandwiches, Spencer watching and still looking like he wants to say something. 

“Hey, Reid, I found one, we’re all set,” Morgan says, rounding the corner and waving the white chord in the air. “Oh, what’re you making?” He asks, stepping closer and leaning over your shoulder. 

“Sandwiches. I was asking Spence if you guys like ham and turkey but he wasn’t being helpful.”

“Well, Spence can be like that,” Morgan says, throwing Spencer a smirk over his shoulder. “But we’d appreciate anything.” “I was trying to tell her,” Spencer interrupts, “that it’s entirely unnecessary for her to make us lunch. She’s already done enough for us letting us set up here. The effort is appreciated, of course, obviously, you just shouldn’t have to. Because we’re already intruding.” He trails off as Morgan sends him a look, raising his eyebrow. 

“Well, I, for one, appreciate the offer,” Morgan says, leaning on the counter and smiling down at you. You laugh at him. 

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it! I do,” he says, turning to you and holding one of his hands up in a placating way, “I just don’t think, it’s very kind of course, I just –”

You cut him off, taking pity, “He’s fucking with you. Relax.”

||||

“I just can’t believe that you’re actually processing any of what you’re reading at that speed!” You say, throwing your arms up. 

“I actually am. Speed reading, when done right, doesn’t take away from comprehension at all. Plus, with my eidetic memory, I can always think back and process later if I need to,” Spencer explains. 

“Fine, you’re understanding what you’re reading in a general sense, but where’s the enjoyment in it? How can you possibly understand all the intricacies of the writing, what the author is doing, and appreciate the characters and their growth if you don’t take your time with it?” “I tend to focus my reading moreso on informational writing, so that’s not often a problem. And when I do read something fictional or with more nuance, I’m never lacking in any way when it comes to my understanding of the content, even when speed reading.”

“So you’re not actually taking the time to have fun reading is what I’m hearing.”

“Reading is inherently fun when you’re learning something, though,” he says, lips quirked in a slight smirk and a line forming between his eyebrows as he looks down at you. The look is so disarming that you find yourself deflating a little. 

You’re in your living room, a few books scattered on the coffee table between you two, debating the merits of each one. 

“I dunno,” you say, argument leaving you as you become distracted. 

“Just say I’m right! You know I am,” Spencer says with a chuckle, shaking his head and leaning toward you slightly, hands spread. 

You thought he was cute when he was shy, bumbling in your house yesterday, but after a few hours to warm up to each other, you can’t deny you really like him. 

The only thing that completely blocks the disappointment that they’ll all soon be leaving is that their UnSub will be caught when they have to leave. Your community and neighborhood will be better off for it. 

“No, I still think you’re wrong. Sure, you understand what you’re reading but I just don’t buy that you could possibly enjoy it in the same way that I am!” You’re trying your damndest to regain your confidence, shaking your head side-to-side with a wide smile to erase the vision of his own smirk, his hands, his rolled up sleeves from your mind. “I mean, nothing beats curling up with a book and taking your time with it.” “Well,” Spencer interrupts, lifting a finger, “how can you say if you’ve never tried my way?”

“Speed reading? I’ve done it, actually.” You shrug at his hesitating look, suddenly feeling vulnerable under the weight of his eyes. 

“Really? What method? What was your fastest time? What —” Morgan cuts off his questioning by walking in and calling for him. 

“Gideon wants you to take a look at something.” “Ah. Breaks over.” Spencer stands from where he was sitting on your armchair, brushing his hands off on his pants. He points at you while he walks away, “We’re not finished, though!”

“Oh?” Morgan asks when he’s gone, raising his eyebrows at you. “Unfinished business?” You scoff, moving to pick up the books you pulled out to talk to Spencer about. 

You like Morgan. He’s an easy one to like and he feels like the bigger brother you don’t have with his easy smiles. The chaos in your house hasn’t been easy, you appreciate his consistent presence to lighten the atmosphere. 

You’ve actually come to like all of them. Elle with her stories, Gideon with his dry smiles, and Spencer. Really, you just like Spencer. You’re an adult, you’re not ashamed to admit it. Just, only to yourself, lest you mess something up and make him uncomfortable. 

“You know, I can’t really say I haven’t seen him this excited before because the kid gets excited about everything but,” Morgan shrugs, pushing himself off of the wall he’s been leaning on and coming to sit next to you, “you do seem to get along well.”

“Oh, yeah, Spencer’s nice,” you say, standing to put the books away. 

“Nice,” Morgan muses, leaning back on the couch and crossing his arms. 

“He is! You all are.” You laugh when Morgan raises his eyebrows again. “I’m being serious, I would kill to work on a team like yours. You all actually work together.”

“We have to.”

“It certainly works out better when you do.”

“Yeah, your boss is a real dick. He usually walk all over you like that?” You wrinkle your nose at him as you sit down, pulling your legs under you. “More or less I guess. My personal opinion is that he’d like more men on the team and … no women,” you joke, giving him a what can you do? look, smiling sadly. 

“And you tried to transfer?”

“Stop profiling me,” you say, eyes narrowing. Morgan smiles, all teeth.

“Not profiling, just remembering him saying something like that when we talked at the station.”

“Oh,” you say, slouching back. “That’s considerably less impressive.” “Ouch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I wound you. But I did look into transferring a while back. I’ve been trying to move up for a while and keep getting blocked. But, no surprise, I got blocked again.” You raise an imaginary glass, cheers-ing with the air, “Go government!”

“That’s fucked,” Morgan says, letting out a low whistle. “So you don’t want to stay a victims liasion?”

“No, I do. But it’s not my only job right now. It’s a little complicated, but our office is too small to have a head liaison. So I really just run around filling gaps wherever I can until I’m needed to do my actual job. I’d love to do just liaison work, I really like working with the public. Feels like I’m actually helping people, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” “Hey,” you say suddenly, not wanting to keep the mood somber (or ignore the FBI agent in your house with your silly woes while a murder investigation is underway), “you want some tea? Coffee?”

“Sure doll, I’ll take some coffee,” Morgan says, a confused smile taking over his face, “if you’re offering.”

||||

“It’s actually pretty interesting,” Spencer is saying, flipping through files and leaning over to show Elle something. 

“Oh, I bet. Nothing better than vicious murder,” you say, dry, rolling a pen between your fingers. 

“I mean the process behind deciphering their reasoning,” Spencer says, shrugging. 

“I just don’t know how you look past it to see anything other than the violence,” you say, shuddering. 

He and Elle have taken the night shift and are giving you a rundown on profiling. You’ve worked with profilers before, but they’re small-town cops, more interested in closing cases than being scientific, or, at times, even correct. 

“How do you look past a crying mother after her daughter has been murdered to get the information you need?” Elle asks. “I’ve worked with hundreds of victims, I think I’m pretty good at it, but your records show that you’re one of the best.”

You heat at the praise, shrugging your shoulders. “I wouldn’t say I look past them. I actually try to get into their shoes to figure out what I can say to get through to them.”

“Often the victims families know more than they think. Every bit of information they can give us or the police about the victim only lead us closer to the unsub. We often rely on your job to get important information out of victims and families that we wouldn’t otherwise have. It requires tact, empathy, and extreme emotional control,” Spencer explains, setting the file down and brushing his hair back. 

“Well, thank you?”

“I think he’s trying to say what we do is similar,” Elle explains, “it’s just the opposite side of it.”

“I’m still not following — but I’m definitely not built to be a profiler, that’s for sure.”

“But you could be. You profile in your own way. We look at the bad guys, the killing patterns, stuff like that,” Spencer leans forward, enthusiastic. “You just profile less intense people. Gather information from them, figure out what they need. Get in their shoes, to use your words. You use their actions, small phrases, and what you can gather from their homes to approach them the best way, no?”

“Looking at their clothes and body language and stuff, sure.”

“We do exactly that with crime scenes. Recognize patterns. Just like you can’t imagine seeing past the violence, some of us can’t imaigne having to see past the emotion of someone dealing with fresh loss.” Elle smiles. “You’d probably make a really good profiler. You’re just a better victims advocate.”

You consider that, weighing their words. “Sure, maybe,” you admit. “I still think it’s kinda like magic, though. Your knowledge, your intuition, your teamwork. It’s cool.”

“Thank you,” Elle says kindly. 

Spencer jumps back into his explanation of the types of murder-kidnappers, musing with Elle again about their profile. Their ability to constantly return to the same evidence over and over without any hesitation is still amazing to you. Despite what Elle said, you’re sure you’d get bored. 

You’re even more sure that it would stick to you in a way that working with the victims never did. You visit crime scenes, sure, but you never do everything in your power to commit every bit of them to memory. 

As they talk, you move toward the window and move the curtains over slightly. It’s the middle of the night, the second the team has spent in your home, and you’re curious how much longer this unsub will take to be caught. 

You’ve done your best to keep to your usual schedule and luckily it’s not unusual for you to be up late. The movement behind the curtains won’t be suspicious, so you stand and peek out curiously at the home across the street. 

Penny sighs from her bed in the living room, snoring softly. She’s taken a liking to your guests who are always willing to give her attention and scraps of food. 

The Furgison house bigger than yours, a family home with a large backyard. It’s a faded blue, lightened by the sun, with a white door. Theres a dim porch light that’s been left on, throwing yellow shaddows across the street. 

You swear you see a curtain move in the window and your entire body freezes, breath stolen from your lungs. 

“Hey guys?” You say, dead quiet, as you see the curtains flutter again. Small, nearly inperceptable movement. Greys and blacks angainst more greys and blacks. 

“Yeah?” Elle asks, still reading over the file with Spencer. 

“You’re sure that nobodys gone in tonight?”

“Certain,” Elle says, moving quickly to stand next to you. “Why?”

“Curtains moved,” you say, nodding toward the house. 

“Maybe the AC was left on?” Elle suggests and you shake your head. 

“No, we would’ve noticed it before now. They have no animals, the house should be empty.”

Your heart is racing as Spencer joins you at the window. 

“You sure you saw it move?” He asks, moving to stand behind you, just out of sight at the window, a hand pressed to your back. Gentle pressure, just his fingertips, that makes you siffen even more. He moves his hand, whispering an apology. 

You wish he hadn’t. 

Your mind spins, distracted for a moment, shaking your head again. 

“Yes, I’m certain.”

“Go get Morgan and Gideon,” Spencer tells you, sharing a look with Elle. 

||||

You follow the team out, despite their insistence that you don’t have to, holding your own handgun out and following the light Morgan casts. 

You live in a relatively sleepy neighborhood. Shared duplexes and little houses line the streets, most with little flowerbeds out front. The Furgison house is no exception: it’s a little blue house with rose bushes out front. It backs the small patch of wood that runs along the length of the highway. 

Heart racing and head light from adrenaline, you stay out front to watch for any movement inside while Morgan and Hotch creep around one side of the house, Spencer and Elle take the other side. 

“Back here,” you faintly hear Morgan say through your earpiece. “The cellar door is open. It was deadlocked last time.”

You sitffen, readjusting your grip on your gun. 

“Wasn’t it cleared, though, when we were here last?” Elle asks. 

“Yeah, but he could’ve snuck in through the woods — there’s no telling.”

“Didn’t we position police cars on the highway?” Elle again. You can imagine them all standing behind the house, guns drawn. It’s intersting to hear them communicate so efficiently, voices low. 

“We’ll worry about it later. Morgan, you take the lead, I’ll take the rear, Elle stay out here.”

For a long few seconds, you hear Morgan, Spencer, and Hotch begin to clear the basement, until you’re jolted out of the repetitive “clear!”s by Hotch yelling, “FBI, put your hands up!”

The next few minutes turn into a whirlwind as police cars arrive and Morgan drags the UnSub out of the house by his handcuffed arms. 

The Furgison boy comes out next, disheveled and passed to the paramedics in the back of an ambulance. Once you see Hotch, Spencer, and Elle are okay as well, you jump into action, going to sit with the boy and comfort him. Morgan is there, too, crouched down to talk to the kid. 

“You’re all good now,” he’s saying, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. “And my friend here is going to make sure that you see your dad as soon as possible.” Morgan gestures to you and you nod at the little boy. 

The sight of him makes your chest ache: he’s scrawny with wide brown eyes and a mop of curls on the top of his head. 

“Agent Morgan is right, your dad is going to meet us at the hospital.”

The boy doesn’t say anything, shaking under his emergency blanket. 

“I’ll ride with you in the ambulance, too, and that’ll be fun, right?” You ask, jumping up to sit next to him. Slowly and sluggish the boy rests his head on your shoulder, still shivering. You wrap an arm around him before mouthing ‘I’ve got him’ to Morgan. He gives you a small sile, waves at the boy, and goes to join his team. 

After being checked over again by the paramedics, the boy falls asleep quickly in the hospital, holding his dads hand. You’re leaving the room, shutting the door with a soft click, when you see Spencer sitting in the hallway. 

“How is he?” Spencer asks, standing up at the sight of you. 

“He’s okay, some minor bruises and scrapes, dehydrated but on an IV. They’re just happy to be back together.”

“That’s good,” Spencer says, falling quiet and looking away. 

“And, hey, you guys caught the bad guy — now you all get to go home!”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, turning to look at you again, chuckling slightly without any heart behind it. 

“Are you not excited?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. 

“It’s always nice coming back home after a trip, even one as close to home as this one is. But it’s a little bittersweet.”

“How so?”

You practically see Spencer gathering his courage, straightening his shoulders and sending you a small but genuine smile. 

“Well, we have some unfinished business, remember? And you never showed me your lexicon.”

“Well,” you say, smiling, “you’ll just have to keep in touch, then. Maybe we can get dinner?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course. Dinner.” Spencer is fully grinning now, eyes squinting with the force of it. You can’t help but mirror him, laughing a little. “Well, I do have a car to catch. I just wanted to check on him and say goodbye.”

“Well, goodbye for now Dr. Reid.”

“Goodbye,” he says, smiling at you for a second longer before turning to walk to the exit. He makes it to the doors before he hesitates, one hand on the handle. He stands there, still, for a moment before turning around and asking, “Dinner, like a date, right?”

Giddy, your smile only widens as you nod. “I would really like that, if you’re asking, yeah.”

“I’m asking.”

“Okay, then it’s a date.”

i wanted more to happen here but then i got this far and still had so much more i could write about these two aahhh

lmk if u want a pt 2 bc i kind of have ideas :) tysm for reading!!

[technically-human]

Hi i'm absolutely in love with the reverse au!!

I want to know, in this verse does edwin still confesses to charles? if so how is it different? i feel if he did he would end it by apologizing, you know, religious guilt and all

There’s a train that goes through Hell.

Its journey starts in Wrath, and it departs already full of souls. It took Charles far too many years to realize that there were separate, more spacious wagons that demons could board. Not that he could understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t.

Actually, Charles couldn’t recall ever boarding the train. As far as he could tell, he just appeared there one day, and had spent the next tortuous decades trying to get out. It was part of the torture. Getting out was entirely possible. More than that, it was necessary.

The train had no regular schedule that he could discern (not at first, though he had always been good at finding patterns, and was eventually able to crack it) but it would make quite a few stops before finally returning to the Wrath ring. Souls inside the train were already angry and far too close to each other (close, so close not even air could squeeze in) but when they got really violent was when the train made a stop.

Getting out didn’t mean you were free, no matter where you managed it, be it Sloth or Gluttony, Pride or Lust. No, as soon as the train finished its journey, you would appear back inside, in Wrath where you belonged, suffocating once again, getting ready to claw your way out for the millionth time.

Because if you didn’t get out, The Conductor would get you.

If he thought about it calmly, Charles could probably say that he got out of the train more times than not. Still, being caught by The Conductor once was bad enough, as there was no coal in Hell, and something had to serve as combustible. Souls could not burn to death, and the whole journey always felt longer than eternity when he was caught. Once it was over, he would be inside again, and fight with more desperation than before, not caring who stayed inside so long as it wasn’t him.

He couldn’t understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t. But as the souls pushed and bit and clawed and punched their way out, Edwin boarded the train. And that wasn’t even the most groundbreaking revelation Charles had that day.

ko-fi

[merverelli]

"you just feel yourself let go."

still thinking about this episode. man. 💪💥

[spydoclovr69420]

Personally, I do because it's fun to look into a relationship that happened over the span of thousands of years. I'm a big enemies to lovers, so giving them a childhood friend to enemies to lovers is really fun for me.

I like SpyMaster and 13 a lot because they're both pretty unhinged and violent. For me, those two are mostly headcanon because they are super questionable.

I'm not a huuuuge fan of Saxon Master, but the series 4 finale with him and 10 really solidified those two for me.

I also don't only ship Thoschei, I like Rose/Doctor and Clara/12.

Basically I like them because of the great angst they provide with ye old childhood friends that went different directions but still care about each other angle. This is super apparent in Missy/12 but I love it in all of them.

Also yes! it's fairly questionable, violent, and flat up evil sometimes. But it's fiction and I can pretend things did or didn't happen if I want to. Also they've both done pretty terrible things to each other and by 13's time they're thousands of years old so yk what, who knows what they think.

also because they talk about it kind of a lot? Missy and Saxon call the Doctor their boyfriend, and the kissing in death in heaven.

TLDR: I like thoschei because pretty people, angsty backstory, and idk because I do.

Can someone please explain why The Doctor and The Master is shipped together so much? Specifically Simm!Master and Dhawan!Master?

I don’t understand it at all. Like…that relationship is so abusive, why do people ship it so much?

[stormsthatrage]

Have a Bleach extended-winter-war time-travel-fix-it idea. In this AU Kaien's death happened before the whole turn-back-the-pendulum arc. (Yes, another Bleach time-travel AU, I know, shut up.)

As Ichigo and Kisuke are planning to go back to the past, Kisuke makes sure to emphasize to Ichigo that they have to protect Shiba Kaien. Apparently, it's of the utmost importance.

Ichigo doesn't know exactly how Kaien's continued well-being plays into saving the future. Kisuke never really explains it, or gives him a straight answer when he asks. But Ichigo knows that the Shiba Clan-Head carried a great deal of political power, and Ichigo also knows that Kaien -- according to Kukaku and Rukia -- was highly competent, incredibly noble, and fundamentally kind. It's not exactly unintuitive that a person like that could be important to bringing down Aizen.

So Ichigo listens, when Kisuke tells him to protect Shiba Kaien. He memorizes how Kaien died in the original timeline. He's attentive as Kisuke reiterates for the thousandth time that Aizen will keep trying to assassinate Kaien until he succeeds. He takes notes when Kisuke hypothesizes about what Aizen's various assassination attempts might look like -- poison during a meal, hired assassins at night, an ambush during a mission.

Ichigo ingrains the assignment into his core: protect Shiba Kaien, because if Kaien falls, the mission fails.

So when Kisuke slips a paralytic into Ichigo's tea and places Ichigo in the middle of the time-travel kido array and drains the entirety of his own spiritual energy to activate the array, a sacrifice that Ichigo never would have agreed to--

Well. The first thing Ichigo does when he arrives back in the past, numb and alone and only able to function by focusing on the duty that is his purpose -- is track down Shiba Kaien.

After all, if Ichigo is going to kill Aizen -- and he is, no matter what it takes -- he needs to keep Kaien alive.

Ichigo goes straight to the Shiba family grounds. In true Shiba fashion, they accept him immediately as family. They tend to his wounds and give him a meal and welcome him home. They let him get away with his weak excuses and explanations, and they defend his presence to the rest of Soul Society.

Kaien, in accordance with everything Ichigo has heard about the man, personally takes the newest addition to the family under his wing.

Ichigo's plans to deal with Aizen take shape around his need to keep an eye on Kaien.

Ichigo, instead of running as far and fast as he can from the Shiba clan, accepts the offer to live in the Shiba compound. He gets to know every clan member and retainer, subtly vetting for traitors. He sleeps in a room near Kaien's, allowing him to both guard against assassins at night and place warding runes around Kaien's door without having to worry about being caught somewhere he has no business being.

He joins the Court Guard in the 13th division instead of the 5th, because the only real way to protect Kaien on a mission is to be there with him. Ichigo knows that if there's an ambush, or if the mission details have been tampered with, he'll be more than enough fire power to get Kaien out of it. And it's easy to always get paired with Kaien; Kaien -- reliably taking every opportunity to hover around Ichigo that he's offered -- does most of the work, leveraging his status as lieutenant and Ichigo's combat ability to keep them together.

Ichigo finds himself frequently taking meals with Kaien and Kaien's friends. Kaien always invites Ichigo, and Ichigo accepts so he can subtly check the food for poison.

(Ichigo does not tell Kaien about Aizen. Ichigo is still unsure what Kaien's role is in the whole fight, and in the meantime, telling him about Aizen is a sure way to get him killed.)

Things heat up. Ichigo prevents both Miyako and Kaien's death, killing Metastacia before it can hurt anyone. Ichigo's shadow war against Aizen gets more intense. Ichigo sneaks out regularly to dismantle Aizen's illusions, destroy his labs, and attack his network of power, slowly weakening him.

Ichigo waits for the assassination attempts against Kaien, but they don't come, even several weeks after Metastacia fails. Ichigo takes it as a sign that he's got Aizen distracted.

Things continue for a while. Ichigo falls into a strange routine.

(And Ichigo tries not to break, seeing so many of his loved ones alive and unknowing of him. It is agony, to be around Shunsui, who is not his mentor, and the Visored, who are neither visored nor pack.

But the worst is when Captains Urahara and Shihouin catch on to his war against Aizen. He finds himself working with them as allies.

Allies. Mere allies, instead of --

Well. Not that it matters anymore.

All that matters is his duty.)

Time passes. Aizen weakens. There are no attempts on Kaien's life yet.

And then Aizen's web has unraveled enough for Ichigo to attack.

It's a long battle. It's a bloody battle. It's a very public battle.

Ichigo wins.

And it's only after it's all over -- after Aizen's crimes are revealed and Soul Society is at peace and the future is saved; after Ichigo finds himself still alive and adrift, with nothing left obligating him to keep going and everything telling him to give up; as Kaien refuses to leave Ichigo alone and escorts him to regular appointments with Unohana and forces him to talk about the truth of his past --

It's only then that it clicks.

Ichigo is whispering secrets about the future into Kaien's chest, Kaien's arms wrapped tight around him, when Ichigo confesses that he messed up, that he put the Shiba clan in unnecessary danger. Ichigo tells Kaien about his death in the original timeline. He talks about how Kisuke told him that in this timeline, Aizen would try and kill Kaien again if the first attempt failed. Ichigo promises desperately that he never would have sought out the family -- would have kept the danger far, far away from them -- if he hadn't thought he had to watch Kaien's movements so closely.

And Ichigo admits that Aizen never actually tried again. Ichigo admits that he and Kisuke miscalculated, that Ichigo brought danger to the Shiba's doorstep for nothing.

It happens like this:

First, the words leave his lips, "Kisuke" and "miscalculated" in the same sentence. Hearing himself say it lays bare the absurdity of its premise.

Then, Kaien draws away slightly, to look Ichigo in the eyes. Ichigo sees, plain on Kaien's face, a terrible, damning gratefulness.

Then, Kaien says -- fierce and defiant in the face of what could have been -- "I am so glad you came home."

And it clicks. At last, Kisuke's final manipulation reveals itself to Ichigo's eyes.

The emotions flash through him: the sting of betrayal; a flavor of love that bursts across his tastebuds as hurt; a familiar brand of exasperation that, a split second later, has his knees giving out under the weight of old pain made fresh.

Kaien catches Ichigo before he hits the ground and holds him as he shatters. And Ichigo can barely breathe through the knowledge that Kisuke would have been so smug to see them.

A sob rips itself from Ichigo's chest, and it's followed by another, and another.

Ichigo's older cousin holds him, in the home of their family, through it all.

_________

THE END except not really.

This must immediately be followed by a whole arc where Kaien, much to his own dismay, finds himself trying to hook Urahara up with his little cousin.

After all, Future-Urahara sent Ichigo to the Shiba clan. Future-Urahara tricked his little cousin into bypassing his own self-destructive tendencies to seek out family and love and support. Clearly, Urahara would actually be good for Ichigo.

And, you know, Ichigo clearly loves Younger-Urahara, judging by Ichigo's whole... well, everything, whenever the two interact.

(This whole matchmaking endeavor is made easier by the fact that 1) Kisuke is already infatuated, fascinated, and not a tiny-bit madly in love, and 2) Yoruichi is also, from the other end, trying to set Kisuke up with Ichigo.

This whole endeavor is made more difficult by the fact that 1) Ichigo is in denial that he loves this younger Kisuke since he never thought this younger Kisuke could also fall in love with him, 2) Kisuke is in denial that he loves Ichigo because that is a Shiba and he himself is a creepy low-born ex-assassin mad-scientist, and 3) neither Ichigo nor Kisuke know what it looks like when someone is interested in them.)

Poor Kaien. He succeeds eventually, but not before witnessing truly legendary social ineptitude.

[dollyonm0lly]

Hi, I love your things to much💕💕

So I was thinking maybe Lucius has also an niece, the daughter of commodus

No one knows of your existence, you are a concubine for the emperors. They have more but your their favorite. Then one day Lucius wanted to help you escape, you did not and told the emperors of it. Normally they are never soft doms, but this time they are and you are praised for what a good girl you are to them

Soo, soft stuff for you guys!! Or I tried at least, lolol, im still very sick, so this did wonders to me. <3 The reader in this one is kinda pathetic tho, not sorry.

“Love you, my Emperor… Love you so much…” – Both Emperors hear you say in your meek voice, like a song to their ears, you can feel Geta's warm hand on your cheek, caressing the soft skin of your face, which subconsciously seeks more of his affection, rubbing itself against his palm like an abandoned kitten would, your tongue obediently sticking out of your mouth, which he wastes no time in placing his thumb on top of, letting you explore it with your lips passionately. You close your eyes, feeling the pleasurable sensation of fingers running through your hair, combing your strands, untangling them, massaging your scalp. You try to sharpen your senses, focusing on their sweet aroma, Caracalla's hand massaging your head, urging you to lean even more towards Geta's hand, making you lose yourself more in their caresses, it's delicate. It's special, you feel special in this moment. You were good today, very good indeed.

“Nooo…” – You meow in disappointment when you feel Geta's hand start to move away from your face, instantly following it with your head so as not to lose its warmth, surprisingly Geta allows you to do so, on normal days, he would have brushed you away and slapped you across the face for your incessant neediness. You smile at today's change in attitude, just as you feel like purring when Caracalla starts spreading kisses in your uncovered cheek. You feel so loved by both of them, you wish that every day would be like this from now on, even if as an unattainable dream, you know why they are acting like this, you're not getting all of this good treatment on a silver platter, you earned it, deserved it, even though you had to sacrifice some things for others, you are content with your choice.

This feels good, you did good, you think to yourself, you don't feel guilty. You swallow hard, an audible gulp, you try to push that look of hurt and betrayal to the back of your mind. His look of hurt and betrayal. He seems like a ghost in your life now, you can feel the weight of guilt on your back, making you have to shake your head from side to side to shake off the negative feelings. It was worth it, it was worth it, it was worth it, it was worth it… You repeat in your head, until everything becomes clear again, until you can again feel the comforting caresses on your body, welcoming you. Finally, you are welcomed.

“We plan to make love to you today, my dear” – Geta says, taking your mind off other matters and focusing on both Emperors again, you open your eyes to admire him, he has what you would say is the closest to a sweet smile on his features than you will ever see from him. You can feel your heart skip a beat, turning to jelly in Caracalla's arms, who now holds you a little more firmly against his body, almost placing you on his lap.

“Make love?” – You question curiously, your voice dreamy with false expectations, never in the many years you have served them have you ever heard of this lovemaking thing.

“Don't you love us?” – You hear Caracalla questioning in your ear, pretending to be hurt by your question, his head rubbing against your neck, his hair tickling your face, like a puppy.

“I do…!” – You respond instantly, surprised that they would even ask you that, oblivious to the manipulative tone behind it. You did everything you did out of love for them, and out of love for the attention and affection they can provide you, in times like these, they are the only ones who could provide the minimum of security for you and your well-being, they make sure you know that, the certainty that nothing would happen to you as long as you are in their favor.

Silence falls, you can feel the words you want to say on the tip of your tongue, but uncertainty makes you hold them back for minutes longer.

“Do you love me…?” – You ask both Geta and Caracalla, you can't contain the anticipation in your voice, even if it's weak and hesitant. You are met with laughter from the twins, they laugh at your question, they think you're such a box of surprises, you really were born to be an entertainer just for them!

“You are so cute” – Caracalla says, it sounds mocking, just like their laugh, and it wasn't the answer you were hoping to receive, but even so, it makes your heart warm inside your chest. They think you're cute. They think something of you, you are something. Your happy little smile earns you a pat on the head from Geta.

“Cute indeed…” – Geta responds in agreement, both twins exchange glances, Geta licks his lips before smiling at you – "Why don't you get more comfortable for us, dear?” – He gestures to the bed, encouraging you sneak further back.

Caracalla helps you with that, taking the initiative to crawl to the headboard of the bed himself, resting his back against it, his pale legs spread wide to create the perfect space for you. He calls you over, patting his thigh twice, and you are drawn to him like a moth to light. You shyly walk over to him, turning to lay your back against his chest, with the two of you sitting in this position, he wraps his arms around your body, hugging you close, the easy access allowing him to bury his nose in your neck, laying his forehead on your shoulder. – "Help me get these off” – He says in a controlled tone, trying to be loving, you appreciate that, normally he would have impatiently instructed you, as if you were the fool for not knowing what he wanted before he even asked, or he would have pushed you and taken them off himself. You lift your hips off the bed a little, making it easier for him to remove your panties, doing so delicately with the tips of his fingers on the elastic, letting you feel the fabric slide over your skin until it is completely removed, earning you a little kiss of thanks on your exposed shoulder.

You miss the way the twins look at each other or how Caracalla hands your panties to Geta, who puts them in a place on the bed that he can remember later on. But one thing you don't miss is how Geta now also approaches your body, trapping you, his hands resting on the headboard that Caracalla leans on, trapping both your head and his between his arms. On Caracalla's lap, you open your legs, inviting Geta to settle between them, something that he gladly accepts.

“Let's get you all prepped and ready, dear” – Geta says as he admires your face, his hands going down to the bottom of your robe, lifting it to give him a better view of your body and intimacy, meanwhile, Caracalla does the same, letting your robe slide down over your shoulders, leaving kisses on the new free skin, your bust now exposed to the cold air of the room, your robe becoming a mess that only covers your torso and nothing more. You watch the way Geta takes his two fingers, the index and the middle one, between his lips, sucking them with intent, his eyes never straying from yours, Caracalla's own fingers already at work, moving down your body until they reach your lower lips, opening you for his brother, the cold air hitting your pussy.

Geta and Caracalla prepare you carefully, both watching attentively as your entrance slowly gets used to the intrusion of Geta's fingers, Caracalla stimulating your clitoris with his, every now and then you watch as he spits on his own hand before stimulating you again, they love the way you are always so tight, you crush their cock in the most perfect way possible. – "Must take good care of this cunt, it's my favorite one" – Caracalla growls, licking a drop of sweat that previously ran down your face, you giggle happily in the midst of pleasure, yours is the favorite, no other.

“She liked what she heard, she almost cut off the blood circulation in my fingers” – Geta jokes, referencing to the way you clenched and squeezed his fingers when you heard the compliments, you love it when they compliment you, you wish they would do it more often. – "How would you like to be taken today, dear?” – He questions, letting you make some of the choices, tonight will be about you and what you want, that's what they agreed between themselves.

“Want to be hugged…” – Embarrassed, you confess, you didn't expect such a needy response from yourself, however, this is a unique chance, unfortunately, you recognize that, you can't let the shyness of being so emotionally dependent on them take over. You need their embrace like you need air, you hate to be truthful to yourself.

“Awfully romantic, huh” – Caracalla chuckles, Geta arches his eyebrows in agreement, neither daring to question or stand against your decision. Geta helps you sit more precisely on his brother's lap, Caracalla's cock now rubbing at your entrance, you hold him by the base of his penis, slowly introducing him inside you, earning a moan from both of you when he reaches the end, you can feel it almost hitting your cervix, reaching all the perfect places in your pussy. You rest your head on Geta's chest, getting used to the feeling of his brother inside of you, as does Caracalla, who tries to control himself by resting his head on your back, it is a difficult task for both of them, being so patient with your body, normally they wouldn't prepare you or at least wait for you to get used to the feeling of intrusion.

A few minutes pass, your breathing gradually regulates, your pussy starts to want more instead of trying to repudiate what's in it, you look at Geta, and that's all he needs for confirmation, getting closer to you, you do the same to him that you did to his twin, holding him at his base, your delicate fingers feeling his pubic hair rise in goosebumps with the touch, and you bring him to your entrance, he lets you do everything in your own time, watching as you slowly insert him too in your pussy. It's a tight fit, you feel like you're being torn in half, and as tears stream down your face, a groan is heard from Geta and Caracalla, oh, how they love the feeling of being milked alive by you and your fucking perfect cunt, you can feel Caracalla's nails digging into your arm unconsciously, something he tries to alleviate by distributing kisses on your back. They hurt you so lovingly that you can almost pretend it never hurt.

As agreed, they embrace you, Geta wraps his arms around your waist, while Caracalla's make your hips their home, both pressing you against their own bodies, making you become inseparable from each other. You let one of your arms fall over Geta's shoulder, resting there, while the other wraps itself around Caracalla's head, playing with the strands of hair on the back of his neck, pulling him into a fervent kiss, his tongue tasting your mouth as if there was nothing more delicious, his moans being straight sinful on your lips. You rub your lower body against Geta's, seeking to stimulate your clit against his pubic mound, his hair there becoming sticky with your fluids, he mercifully helps you, letting a globule of saliva come out of his lips into the middle of your bodies, lubricating your movements more, earning him an animalistic moan from you and the separation of your kiss with Caracalla, starting one with Geta as naked and raw as the past, the carnal desire speaking for itself. Your minimal movements still do a lot to stimulate the cocks inside you, earning a unanimous moan with every rub you make or every adjustment, soon, you find yourself seeking more of that exciting feeling with the taste of heaven, moving your waist so that you start to ride them gradually.

It's almost too much, the way they let you make your own rhythm, your own dance, just helping you stand on shaky knees ready to give up, but you can't, you can't stop, you need that release that's so far away but so close that you can take it in your hands. You can barely see them anymore, your eyes close, you let yourself drown in the sound of skin slapping against skin, the sticky feeling of sweat, the profanities and compliments, the kisses, caresses and wounds, if you try hard, you can almost focus on the various I love yous that come out of Caracalla's mouth, who barely realizes who he really is when the pleasure is too much, and they would accuse you of being the romantic one, you laugh in your head.

You hear Geta's moan of pleasure mixed with pain as the hand on his shoulder begin to scratch and tear at it, drops of blood running down his bare, pale back. But he barely protests, being a good girl really does have its perks, huh. If being a good girl is always going to result in you having the affection of your Emperors and a free pass to do things without being punished, maybe you should rat people out more often, you let your mind wander as you reach your climax, writhing between their bodies, both of them letting their cocks impale you inside to your heart's content, you would have them forever in you if you could, their cocks are just made for you, a gift from God just for you.

“I love your smell.”

“I love your eyes.”

“I love your body.”

“I love your voice.”

"I love your breasts.”

“I love your curves.”

“I love this fucking pussy.”

You hear them say, one after the other cumming inside you, painting your walls white, and your body red with each touch. You feel disgusting. You feel loved.

“Do you love me?” – You ask again, between gasps, just like them, you feel your vision start to darken, you feel so safe that you could fall asleep right now, a groan of discontent as they disconnect from inside you. Everything is almost like a pitch black, you feel them cleaning you, you being gently laid on the bed, something clothing fabric like cleaning your pussy and everything that runs out of it.

They open your lips, shoving the fabric into your mouth. Oh, it must be your panties, you assume even with your clouded mind. It tastes like your fluids mixed with their divine cum. You suck on it like a pacifier, bodies intertwining with yours on the bed.

“Yes.”

“Very much so.”

[anachronismstellar]

I got something stuck in my head and idk man have this scene I guess

What if SQH were the one finding Liu Qingge in the caves?

Feat Sleep Token - The Summoning

As always no beta we die like Liu Qingge man hidhidf

----

He had no idea when everything had gone wrong, all he could feel was the burning of his meridians and the taste of copper on his lips. Like a fog, screams reached his ears, and in a blink of sanity he understood that it was him, his throat completely ruined as blood dripped down his chin and neck.

It had been days, it had been weeks, it had been-

He didn't know.

He felt his arm swing against monsters that weren't there, whispers crawling up his spine, their biting voices making it impossible for him to identify friend or foe. His vision swam again, darkness dancing at the corner of his eyes as if he were stuck in a forever shadow puppet theater, grasping smokes as he fought to get back to reality, to the caves.

Then the light came.

He wasn't conscious enough to recognize that he had been hallucinating for quite sometime now, but if the past month had taught anything is that he had no allies, he couldn't trust no one. So when glittering white and yellow dashed past him, he did the only thing he could have possible do, rushing with his sword at ready, the light prickling his eyes after spending so long in the dark.

At the back of his mind he heard something that sounded like his name. Didn't feel right, however, as if it were coming from underwater, the burning in his chest unbearable as he did his best to slice his opponent, his strikes being met one by one. Another voice, one that sounded too much like what he would say if he were sane, kept screaming at him, reckless, useless, pitiful, disgraceful-

A hand slapped him with full force against his chest, the searing heat of his core freezing too fast for him to understand what had happened. He gasped, chocking blood as he tried to breathe, his wet heaving sending a wave of despair to his bones.

Another slap and this time his lungs filled with more air than blood, snapping him from his overwhelming fear, tears trickling down his cheeks as he finally saw the person in front of him for the first time.

Liu Qingge wasn't a pious man.

He believed in the Heavens as one believes that the moon and starts could influence destiny and fate, to say not at all.

Still, the first thing his mind could think of was that a High Spirit or a Godly creature was in front of him, their hair disheveled a halo, hands gentle as the morning dew helping him to lay down as his legs failed to hold him up.

But the most striking thing were his eyes, glowing gold like embers in the dark, guiding him as he slowly came back to his surroundings.

Liu Qingge squinted his eyes at the man, his foggy brain struggling to process who was in front of him. It was as if trying to put two images over each other and having them mismatch- the man in front of him shouldn't, couldn't be there, and most of it all the man in front of him wouldn't be capable to go toe to toe with him, qi deviation or not.

"-with me?" Shang Qinghua's voice sounded like rocks gritting against each other, as if the man had been screaming for a long time.

Liu Qingge blinked a couple of times, head tilting to the side as he tried to nod. Shang Qinghua hand went to the back of his neck, holding it in place as he pressed something against Liu Qingge's lips, the liquid so cold it felt as if he were drinking snow. He thought it was water, but the more it washed away the taste of blood, the more he could feel the sweetness of it, the coldness soothing his throat.

"There you go, Shidi, just a bit more," Shang Qinghua tilted the leather canteen slowly, giving time for him to swallow before pouring a bit more on his mouth until he turned his face away.

Heaviness took over his limbs, a different type of fogginess started to cling to his senses, sleep making everything soft around the edges, including his sore bones and muscles. He tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but Shang Qinghua just scratched his scalp with a soft "Shh", not helping him at all to keep him awake.

"Let go, Liu Qingge," and he wanted to stand up, to pay attention because Shang Qinghua had never called him by name like this before, so it must be important, right? He needed to be alert, he- "Shh, I won't let your story to be untold this time."

And that made no sense, no sense at all. What did he mean by this time? Was this man even the real Shang Qinghua? Was he surrendering himself to an impostor? But why save him, why?

"Why..." he mumbled right before sleep dragging him to a kinder darkness, the molten gold eyes guiding him to sleep.

---------

Don't ask, I have no idea either, but I have been listening to Sleep Token non stop since Wednesday and I was feeling a darker vibe than the 12/12 fics.

Look at me, building the Warplane ship one insane fic at a time husdihfuisdf

Anyway, hope you enjoyed the fic! See you around!

[kettlefire]

Age is but a Number (DPxDC)

Daniel Fenton was only thirteen months old when he took his first steps. Only fifteen months old when he said his first words. He was two years old when he uttered his first sentence.

Danny could walk back his whole timeline from the moment he opened his eyes into this world. Except, none of those moments counted. They held no true weight for Danny's life.

No, there were certain moments that mattered. That had a clear shift to his life. Not every moment, not every milestone mattered.

Danny was five years old when he first felt the sting of disappointment at his parents missing a school event. He was six years old when the lab door was closed in his face for the first time, but not the last time.

He was eight when his young mind realized who was the one raising him. The one feeding him, waking him up, getting him dressed, and dealing with his tantrums.

Danny was ten when he learned to love and hate his parents for the true first time. Seeing both the good and the bad in them, and still loving them despite it.

He was eleven when he watched his sister crack under the pressure. Stood teary-eyed in the doorframe of her bedroom as he watched her cry and sob. He was twelve when he got into his first real fight with his mother, hiding away at Tucker's place for a few nights.

Danny was fourteen years old when he stepped into his parents' portal. When he accidentally hit the on switch. When a combination of ectoplasm and electricity ruined his life.

He was only fourteen when he experienced death for himself. Felt his life force leave him, and flood him at the same time.

Danny was still only fourteen when his world changed. New powers and abilities appear out of thin air. When a crazed billionaire latched on to him. When Danny had taken the mantel of a hero without meaning to.

He was still just fourteen when his life was filled with constant fighting. Both ghostly and human. Things got more tense between Danny and his mother. School was a weight that Danny wasn't sure he could handle.

Danny was fifteen when he had an existential crisis. The weight of a looming crown he was meant to take on the moment he turned eighteen or died fully. Having witnessed timelines where his family was gone. Having recognized a pattern of repetition in a life that Danny didn't want.

He was still fifteen when he made an impulsive decision. It was stupid and rash. Something expected from an angsty teenage boy, and not from an heir to a throne and a town to protect.

There had been no big fight. No big showdown. His parents still didn't know his secret. Danny hadn't bothered telling Tucker, Sam, or Jazz about his great plan. One moment, Daniel Fenton was in Amity Park. The next moment, he was gone without a trace.

Danny is just a fifteen year old boy, perched on a hill miles away from home. He didn't know what he was doing or what he was going to do. He didn't even know what state he was in.

He had just flown through the sky, a bag of emergency supplies slung over his shoulder. Danny had no intentions of stopping. That was until he stumbled cross a state line, and felt it.

A strong sense of caring and love. A feeling that Danny could only compare to the love he felt from Jazz. There was a strangeness in the air, but also a feeling of home. It drew Danny in like a moth to a flame.

Danny was just fifteen, curled up on a damp hill. Staring up into the night sky, and wishing for things to be different.

Not completely different. He didn't want to get rid of Phantom. Didn't want his life to go back to how it had been. Danny wanted things to get better. He wanted to feel like a kid again, something he realized he hadn't felt in a long time. Despite Jazz's best efforts to shield him.

The first tear had left Danny before he even realized it. A shaking hand wiped the tear away, silently cursing at himself for being such a baby.

Except that wasn't the only tear. It was like a dam, he never knew was there, had broken. Tears streaked down Danny's cheeks faster than he could wipe them away. Choked muffled sounds quickly turned to harsh gasping sobs.

Danny was only fifteen when he finally broke. Curled up on a random hill in a random state in the middle of nowhere. A glowing young teenager whose glow only seemed to dull with each gut-wrenching sob. Yet the stars seemed to twinkle even brighter than ever on this countryside.

So lost in the whirlwind of emotions that Danny was too young to fully decipher, he never noticed the approaching vehicle. Didn't so much as flinch when it came to a stop near him.

Danny's pain radiated with each sound he made. With each tear that left his toxic eyes. There was seemingly no end to it all. Until a single voice managed to pierce through Danny's bubble.

"Oh, dear... It's just a boy. Quick, grab a blanket!"

A small, frail voice was all it took. A voice weathered with age, and a tremble to it. Danny's whole body froze, head lifting to look at the speaker.

Except his vision had been quickly covered for a brief moment as an old flannel blanket was suddenly wrapped around Danny's shoulders. It smelt of dirt, hay, and warmth.

A kind old woman quickly followed to take a seat beside the glowing teenager. A warm, loving smile on her lips as she brought a thermos to Danny. An equally old and warm man seemed to follow behind her.

Danny's sobbing had quieted as quickly as it had started. The teen was completely bewildered, stunned to silence. This old couple, the embodiment of the American dream, didn't so much as blink at the sight a glowing boy crying on their land.

She had called him a boy. She had called him a boy. Danny was just a boy to her. His hands trembled as he accepted the thermos, taking a drink from the still hot coco inside.

Danny's stunned silence must have spoken volumes. The old man had given out a chuckle, moving to stand beside his wife.

"Don't worry, bud. Our son is just as strange as you."

Danny was just fifteen years old when he stumbled onto the Kent farm. When John and Martha Kent stumbled upon a crying glowing boy. When a sweet old couple hadn't cowered in fear but instead embraced Danny. Offering kindness and comfort with no strings attached.

He was only fifteen when he found himself a new home. A new life. One where he didn't have to be anything more than a teenage trying his best. When his powers weren't needed, only appreciated. Never expected.

A life where a warm home-cooked meal and a mother's kiss seemed to greet him every morning and night. Where a father's touch seemed to linger in every tractor lesson, every game of catch, and every time Danny learned more about the farmer lifestyle.

Danny was fifteen when he found his family. When he met the equally kind son of an amazing couple. When he had someone willing to teach him how to handle his powers, but never expected him to.

But Danny was seventeen when his past came back. When a town and people he cared about, all came flooding back in. When the guilt and shame of abandoning them came flooding back in.

When his new picture, perfect life started to crumble around the edges. When he realized life never went well for a Fenton and Fenton-adjacent. The perfect safe bubble had to burst eventual.

And well, that's a story for another day.

[robiinurheart33]

Ghost is starting to realise something.

It started off slow at first- pinpointing where soap was first in a room before the others, coincidentally spacing off in the same direction as soap, starting to follow soap wherever he went.

It’s nothing, really.

It’s nothing.

Nothing at all.

But it was really starting to bother him, the way Johnny started to get under his skin.

It pissed him off. Ghost always needs to be in his top condition during missions because one mistake could cost everything. How could he do that when before taking off soap would pat his shoulder and it felt like his ribs were caving in on him? How could anyone blame him when their thighs are pressed together, touching from ankle to shoulder and his heart would claw at his skin, begging to get out?

Or when soap would squeeze the nape of his neck as a friendly gesture and suddenly he was flushed and hot under the collar? Why was this happening to him? What is happening? Because all of a sudden Johnny’s summer, and he sinks into ghost’s bones and his skin, renders his muscles useless and his brain fuzzy and-

There’s something horribly wrong with him.

Johnny’s laughter makes his breathing pick up, it makes his fingers tremble and he wants to take that laughter and keep it in a locket to hang around his neck. Johnny makes ghost want to throw him against a wall and also cradle his face like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Johnny’s summer because he makes Ghost’s cold heart feel warmth again, makes him think of flip flops, missing teeth, shiny skin and a non stop itchiness. That’s what it is. It burrows under his skin, it makes his fingertips tingle and his heart ache and his ribs melt and his throat close up. This is soap’s fault. Ghost needs to kill soap.

That’s not quite right.

Because something in Ghost, in Simon wants to keep him away too, that terrorises his mind whenever he sees Johnny hurt. That he should steal him away and live in domestic paradise on the other side of the galaxy, because Simon knows better than to think that he can chase his past away that easily.

But then Ghost gets hurt, and it’s not that bad, really, he’s had worse. But now Soap’s tearing apart the place, face flushed and panicked. Panicked over Ghost. It might just be the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. So when he grabs Soap by the shoulders and orders him to calm the fuck down, his brain suddenly surges forward for things to say.

I love it when you get concerned for me.

I love it when you touch me.

I love it when you remember things about me

I love it that you let me double check your gear because I can’t lose you.

I love the stretch marks on your hips that I accidentally saw when you came out of the shower.

I love your fucked up accent.

I love the way you say “canny” it’s so dumb

I love your face

I love you,

I love you,

I love you.

And it comes to a point where Ghost has to actively hold himself back because he accidentally held soap’s face in his hands and he cherished all 0.7 seconds of it before he violently ripped his hands away and walked off without a word.

It felt like all his ribs had broken in half and punctured his lungs and heart, and he was slowly bleeding out and suffocating. Johnny makes him feel like summer. Ghost starts to look forward to tomorrow, he starts to get excited at the new promise of physical touch, at the chance to casual love. He’s warm and gooey and Johnny’s melted his skeleton down and what’s left is Simon.

It was like nothing to Soap, and it drives Ghost crazy how it happened so fast. Johnny’s cradled Simon’s corpse in his warm hands and decided that he would love again, simple as that. And if he could do it like it was as simple as breathing, then maybe Ghost could love him the same way.