#i don't even smoke i just hope someone has done it for those who do

[respectthepetty]

Pride Petty Watch (SOTUS) 4/5

I'm watching the blacklisted shows I was supposed to watch during Pride: Love in the Air, The Untamed, and my (former?) sworn enemy, SOTUS. I've made it halfway through SOTUS (first, second, third), and barely remembered EVERYTHING about this show once I hit episode nine, so now I'm hauling ass through the remaining episodes because Arthit is wet, stressed, and sexually repressed (just how I like my men), and I know what's coming. The Obama 'Hope' poster can't save him now.

Barack, we're really in the angst era now, and I'm living for it!

Kong has been in his feelings all day that Arthit likes a girl, but the sex gods have thrown him a lifeline in the form of crappy plumbing. Before crappy plumbing was invented and pipes starting bursting, how were the gays forced to sleep together in the same bed? Plumbing was a huge plot porn in porn, so I don't think we give it enough credit for helping people get laid.

And, of course, the first thing Kong does once Arthit is in his apartment is he feeds him, so he can get lectured about his baby taste, and he gives him pink milk to signal that the BL part of this BL is about to explode!

We done been knowing that Kong wanted all of Arthit's attention which is why he is constantly pissing Arthit off (itty bitty masochist is a problem if he doesn't have someone controlling him), so I'm glad he confessed to that quickly and without shame.

Since I'm watching this show through a kinky lens rather than strictly a BL one, I truly don't think Kong realized he had feelings for Arthit until he was asked. I think that up until this point, he just craved the punishments and the attention that came with it, and now that'he is being ask if he likes Arthit, he is slowly understanding that he actually does like Arthit and not just what Arthit does for him (punishes and controls him). I am so fucking invested!

I'm not being ridiculous about this either because Arthit tells Kong to stop smoking, and Kong simply says that he'll stop. Kong needs this kind of attention. He needs to be told what to do and punished when he doesn't. The way King dresses tells us that he likes structure. He only has a few items in his fridge. He likes order. As messy as Arthit might be, he is great at providing Kong exactly what he needs.

Ten episodes in and I am losing my mind over this show! I know I did not have this much fun with it the first time around, and even though those first eight episodes were stale, these past two are checking off all of my favorite things: not-date date, forced proximity, sleeping confession, AND ARTHIT IS AWAKE! This show walked, so the bed scenes in The Time of Fever and The On1y One could run.

And now Arthit is avoiding Kong! I am being fed so damn well with this episode. This is peak cinema! And to make it all better, Arthit is in Kong's phone with a little sun next to his name because Arthit is warmth to Kong, yet giving him the cold shoulder now. The beautiful irony!

Perfect time for my ghost ship to pop back up! M looks so hurt that Kong won't tell him what is wrong! He is even more bothered that Kong wants to be alone and is snapping at him. Even if these boys couldn't be romantically together, they really are good friends.

As a fellow slut, my answer to this question has always been "more than 100, less than 1,000' regardless of the actual number (because who can remember?), so Tuta is answering exactly how all queer sluts answer, and I have never felt so represented in a BL in all my years of watching them.

TOPTAP! Now that I remember watching this show, I know I didn't see this interaction as queer the first time around, but now . . . I think Arthit had stronger feelings for Jay rather than Namtan. And this isn't a Kong x M ghost ship kind of thing either. There is tension in this scene, and it's radiating from Arthit.

Namtan is scary because she sat there for FOUR HOURS and now that Jay finally showed up yet completely forgot their three-year anniversary, she just keeps smiling through the entire exchange. Girl, stop that creepy ass behavior! Just grab a knife and stab him already.

I'm upset that Namtan basically called Arthit just to complain about her boyfriend, but I love that Arthit has turned this shit show of a conversation around and is now complaining swooning about Kong being an itty bitty masochist who keeps provoking him as a means to get his attention.

Arthit is sooooo close to the truth here. Kong does want to be a pain in Arthit's ass in more than one way. Arthit isn't imagining this. Kong actively wants it and has made that part clear.

I do not like Namtan. She needs to go worry about her failing relationship and leave this emerging bisexual alone because pink IS Arthit's color, and this pink milk business is the perfect metaphor for his (repressed) queerness since some people are chill about it and others like Namtan always got some dumb shit to say about how they don't expect it from him. Queerness comes in all shapes and sizes, Namtan!

Lord, now he is hiding behind the curtain while he basically tells Kong that he will continue to avoid him for the rest of their lives. This is so delicious! I cannot believe I had to make it through eight whole episodes before I got to the good and juicy center of this story!

Arthit opened this can of worms when he asked Kong if he had feelings for him. Before that, Kong was just going along with whatever because he simply liked the way it felt, but now he realizes what those feelings mean, and boy oh boy, I'm having the time of my life!

AND NOW KONG IS TAKING OFF THE STRING BRACELET! Tian from The On1y One and Kong are the same text but different fonts. Nerds and their fucking string bracelets are out to get me in my feelings. Alexa, play Ariana Grande's "One Last Time" so I can cry while I dance!

Okay, Ms. My Love Mix-Up, I know this is Kong's name in Thai but . . .

It now looks like a "W" since she has used it so much which means it's an upside down "M" and if that was intentionally, that is genius of the show. Props department earning its paycheck!

I believe 2016 was still during Off's "dark days" (when he was kind of a jerk), so having his character constantly being the one to scream "fag" is really doing something to me. I don't even understand Thai, but I just feel like he is saying this with too much enthusiasm for my liking. I know it's a character, but if I had tried to rewatch this show before Cooking Crush and The Trainee came out this year, I would've walked away with some grudges against Off, the actor. I'm going to sit in this feeling for a bit.

Kong threatened to make Arthit his wife and now Tuta responds to Bright's homophobic comments by stating he will make Bright his husband. I do not like the implications or that a product placement has been roped into this. This is not the vibe, and I would like to return to my angsty homphobe-turns-into-a-homo plot immediately.

Yes! This is exactly what I need! Kong sitting alone in the place he was punished by Arthit and thinking about those moments fondly while Arthit is experiencing a crisis as he is being questioned if he likes girls or boys. This is how you do flashbacks people!

I wrote briefly before during The Eclipse that the pink milk in this show was an entire character all on its, but rewatching this show has really made me appreciate just how well done all of this was. The conversation with Knot is about pink milk but the pink milk has been the perfect symbol of Arthit's queerness at every angle. He doesn't really hide drinking it because it's just part of him, but once his friends (the people he think accepts him) start commenting and teasing him for being a guy who likes it, he starts to hide it, and even when he tries other things, he doesn't like them as much as he likes the pink milk. I guess we needed the first eight episodes to lay a solid foundation, so I could be losing my mind in the last half.

The way these two best buddies are talking about THE friends-to-lovers issue while not naming names has me holding onto the last bit of my sanity. Once the feelings spill out, they can't be shoved back in. It changes things.

(which is why y'all should just get together!)

May getting hit by a ball had me crackling at three in the morning and was exactly what I needed in the midst of all this angst. God, how did this show win me over like this?!

M is giving May the same looks that Home gives Peach in Peaceful Property, which means New is showing the characters' love the same ways, so HOME IS IN LOVE WITH PEACH AND NEW IS PLAYING IT AS SUCH!

Arthit is now thinking about Kong giving him his heart on the beach and let me state it again - THIS is how you do a flashback people!

Kong walked away from the pink milk, so Arthit could have it, and I've never seen a boy look so miserable drinking his queer little drink.

EPISODE THIRTEEN, I NEED YOU RIGHT NOW!

[seawitchmimi]

I hope there's someone out there who made a strain of weed they named "Piccolo Dick"

[jolapeno]

meet me in the city where we won't sleep

javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist

summary: home: a place where we feel most comfortable, loved, and protected — where we most feel at home. except javi, who has returned from colombia and feels his home is living miles away.

childhood besties!javi x f!reader

wordcount: 9k (i'm so sorry)

warnings: childhood best friend!javi. flirting. 18+ - although just a little smutty with fingers. brief mention of drunkenness years ago. emotions (ugh) and feelings (yuk) and idiots who just don't wanna confess things but really should. javi calls you flor and you call him a pineapple. alternating times.

an: originally started for april showers, it's taken me an age to get this done because i wanted it to be perfect. i really hope it is. the biggest thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who read all of this and gave me a gold star. it would have stayed in my drafts if not for you. thank you to @rhoorl for checking my spanish.

It would have been cliche to say he fell for you in a field of bluebonnets—your dress white, face glum, hands ripping up blooms from the soil that you clutched in your hand.

Lost, aimless, both in the blue of the petals and in your thoughts as you continued to yank stems up and bring bunches to your nose, unaware of him watching from the tree. His legs swung, and a smile slid into one cheek as the leaves rustled above in the warm breeze.

It took a while before you noticed him, practically half a field’s worth in your hands, hands wound around them as your dress swished at your ankles.

“What do you want, Piña?”

He supposed, for kids, that was an insult.

“What you doing in my field, Flor?”

Javi didn’t know your name then. Now he struggled to go a minute without thinking it.

Sitting still hadn’t seemed a possibility in the days since he’d been back.

And then, that’s all he’d done for the last eight hours before he was greeted by rain.

It’s relentless, an onslaught that blurs the world into a watery haze. The kind that soaks through every layer of clothing like a challenge; the type that drips from everything, making pools in the streets and turning them into dark mirrors, reflecting the grey and full clouds from above.

Not that Javi cares.

If anything, he likes it. Finds it cleansing, like the world is being washed clean, even if he knows how untrue that actually is as his eyes follow a bead rushes across the glass of the cab.

The driver has been mumbling about the weather for the entire journey—a thing he’s barely listened to since he’d recommended waiting for a break in the weather. It was likely they just didn’t wish to drop him where he’d described, rather hoping Javi would opt for someplace warmer, most likely smokier, so that he could call it a day too.

Javi doesn't do that now—smoking, that is.

Hasn’t done since he left that apartment that never felt like his, in a city that he’d spent years in that never felt like home. Threw them in the trashcan before his Pop had picked him up, craved and wanted all the way through dinner. He’d done it once, he’d do it again.

When the cab screeches to a halt, he pays, steps out (bag in hand) and spots the phone booth all in one fluid motion. It’s barely lit, front weathered by time and neglect. Smirk curling into his cheek as he remembers you telling him about it—that on cloudless days you can see it, likes to make stories about it as you enjoy a meal-for-one or crunches down cereal.

It hadn’t been a thing he’d thought much about.

Then, it was all he had thought about.

Standing there, making a story that could become real. A gesture, kind and deserving of someone who had put up with his shit since they were children. You’d always liked those big moments in the movies—his eyes glancing over at you, finding yours big, wide and shimmering with tears that wish to glide down your cheek.

Although, that had been well over a decade ago—the two of you had remained in touch, close, or as much as he could allow. Your visit to Colombia had still felt like the sunniest day, a bright spot in a sea of dark; a day that coloured his world in shades he hadn’t known existed, that dulled the moment he’d had to bid farewell at the airport.

It hadn’t been safe for you to do another, pleading in fact to not risk it. A thing, he suspects, is not a thing he’s been easily forgiven for.

He supposes it’s why he hasn’t told you he was coming. The flight had been booked, bag packed—fingers tapping, soul hoping you wouldn’t turn him away once he’d gotten here. To the phone box over the bridge from your place—the one obscured from view by the downpour that seemed never-ending.

Because, as soon as two weeks had racked up at him being home, he found himself itching to move, to be somewhere other than surrounded by fields and the watchful stare of his Pop. Parental worry a hard thing to hide from in a home washed in memories.

Sliding open the door, cramming himself into the booth, Javi had no concern about remembering your number. It was burned into him, etched into him with a blunt tool—almost studied, committed to memory while he ticked over godfathers and the weight of right and wrong.

He remembers when you’d changed it, when your voice informed him of the move, the chance—all excited tone, a pitch closer to a squeak than your voice: no more roommates, just me, myself and I.

He also remembers the ember inside of him pleased that Tom joined the underserving list, slid under Mia and Rich as you informed him you were single again.

Sliding quarters in, finger punching the numbers—he hopes you’re home. A niggling feeling threatens to unwind inside of him as the tone drills into his skull—attempts to drown out the rain rapping against the glass booth he’s standing in.

“Hello?”

“Flor?”

It kisses his ear, your snort. Light. Sweet. “Javier Piña, what do you want?”

You sound like you did in Colombia. Having half-expected the crackle meeting his ear to be down to the distance, rather than your shoddy home phone.

Pressing the receiver to his head, a smile there—desperate to flow out across his lips and exhausted face, he moves it back. “Tal vez te extrañé.”

“Mierda. I don’t believe you.”

Even amidst the noise of passing cars and the relentless drumming of raindrops, he catches the melody of your laughter—a symphony of joy that unravels a part of his soul. It releases it, unlocks it, beckons it to be free—metaphorically makes him release his shoulders, and take a breath. The part of him hidden away, floods back through him—no longer fearful of being taken, clawed or wormed from him as he handed other parts of himself to the job, the task, the goal.

Not you, though. Javi would never surrender you.

A pocket of sunshine he’d kept close to him like your chicken-scratch letters and your tipsy phone calls when he’d caught you coming in after a night with friends.

“Where are you, Piña?”

Wiping his mouth with his thumb, he pauses. Traces his index along the hair growing above his lip, glancing out through the rain-smeared glass, the one cracked in places. Not sure if any of the lights on the other side are hers, but lingering on each just in case.

“In a phone booth on a bridge…”

He hears you swallow, loud, almost difficult.

“…right across from your place.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Smirking, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “Are you lying to me?”

Smirking, he stares out again. “No.”

Because he couldn’t, not if he tried. Not just because you see through it, but because it wounds him to do so. Picks at him, and makes him bleed in ways that don’t ruin him in scarlet.

“Give me five minutes.”

The call ends before he can get in a bye.

The receiver placed back, bag straps cutting into his palms again as he exits, the heavens lashing against him as he slowly walks. Taking his time. Nervousness bubbling like a broth inside of him with each step, coming up to the top curve of the bridge, trying to look up, spot you—

Then he does.

Running, coat billowing behind—flapping in the wind as it breaks out over your face: that smile. The one that lit fires inside of him, the one first doing so at the time his bedroom at home had its last lick of paint, it now peeling, cracked.

Dropping his bag, Javi isn’t sure whether to brace or not—taking three more steps forward before you collide with him. Arms around him, chest to chest, your wet cheek sliding past his as your soaked clothes marry to his.

It would be odd to say it felt like home hugging you, but it does. It feels right, safe—a piece completing him as he digs his chin into your head.

“You smell the same,” you muffle into his chest.

Javi smiles, knowing the bottle on his dresser is the one from his younger years. Sun-ruined and likely faded, yet managing to linger on his skin enough to cause recollection.

Pushing past lilies, excusing himself through swarms of bodies adorned in black fabric, Javi found you sitting cross-legged between two tall stands of flowers.

Your eyes were puffy—red, swollen—and your dress was as black as his suit; your fingers were balled around a single lily and a scrunched-up tissue, the skirt of your dress skated over your bent knees.

“What d-do you want, Piña?”

But it didn’t land with the tone he had come to know.

Instead, he extended a hand you thankfully took, pulling you up from the ground before he opened his arms—letting you move in, slot yourself between them as they enveloped you close.

Letting his best friend fall apart at the back of the church, your sobs vibrated against his bones and his chin rested on your head as he whispered he had you, over and over again.

A thing you repaid when his mother passed a few years later.

Talking had always been a skill—unless he had to discuss feelings.

It wasn’t that it was easy to lie, or that he found the idea of feeling difficult—if anything, it was as though he felt too much. Guilt. Affection. Righteousness. Protection. Each one a little harder to carry, to wear.

More so around you. The walls had to be tighter, or they’d crumble into ruin, the dust spilling all his secrets before he’d confess whatever wasn’t already written over his face. But, you don’t needle him—instead, you make him a plate from leftovers, tell him about some gossip your mom had informed you of, until you offer him your shower, your sofa and bid him goodnight.

“You’ll be here in the morning?”

“Not going anywhere.”

Lingering in the doorway to your bedroom, fingers playing the piano on the wood. “You’ve said that before.”

He knows he has.

It rises up in him like a storm, whipping around his organs, making his chest tighten as he lies down in comfort but stares up at the unfamiliar. He can hear the rain, how it pitters and patters—how it likely streams down the windows behind your curtains.

He should find it odd that he'd rather fall asleep here, than in his bed back where he grew up. A strange solace in the unknown here, a quiet surrender to the whispers he usually has to hear when the night comes.

But, they're not here.

At some stage, he must sleep, before he wakes to the scent of coffee and soft sunshine. His ears catch the sound of you calling in sick—a cough, a put-on voice, one all removed when you throw a throw cushion at him and ask him what he wants for breakfast.

That’s how he finds his knee kissing yours under the small table as your spoon scoops cereal before letting it drop back into the bowl. Just like when you were kids. Just like when you were all excitable, too in a rush to sit for a moment, stomach likely fluttering with agitation.

“You keep staring.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Flor.”

The thing is, you’re not wrong.

Each time he has a second, he lingers—gazes. Metaphorically pinching himself as he forgoes digging a nail into his skin under the cuff of his shirt, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming. A thing he finds he’s doing now, after a night of laughing until you couldn’t keep your eyes open and a full day of exploring, you walk a little ahead before spinning on your heel to smile at him.

“I have to show you my favourite place—before you go.”

He hates that there’s an end date on this. Bought himself a few days of normal, before returning to something that feels anything but.

Scratching his jaw, brows raised and eyes wide. “You’ve replaced our spot?”

Rolling your eyes, you take his hand—fingers slotting, palm pressing against his. For a moment, a reflex, he thinks of pulling away. Thinking of what else sat as perfectly in his palm as you—a thing that took, but never gave. A thing that he held more than he had ever held a woman.

“My favourite place here.”

He expects a lot of things, maybe flowers, maybe a bar, but he finds himself inside a bookshop. One with floor-to-ceiling shelves, dark wood, the large window letting in light that barely reaches the back. He supposes it’s good they have a chandelier, one that sparkles, shines—like it’s as well maintained as the shelves.

“Books?”

“Books.”

Your finger prodding into him, facing him, body fully twisted. That smile there, the one which slides into one of your cheeks and makes his eyes flick from it to your eyes and then back.

It’s there when you turn on your heel down an aisle, it remaining when he follows—when he hovers close, so easily able to pin you, cage you in between his palms.

“Which do you recommend?”

Shooting him a look, you trail your finger over spines, over the shelf they sit on. “Didn't know you could read?”

“Funny.”

Grinning, you pull on one, handing it to him. His eyes take it in, the cover, the name, the author.

“I think you’ll like the characters,” you explain, eyes lighting up as you lean. “They're flawed but resilient.”

Chewing his cheek, he swallows. Listening, hearing you read the blurb after you lift the book in his hands so you can read it, word for word as he focuses on you. Noticing the way your eyes shine when talking about something you love, the way one of your hands begins to move as you describe the plot, and the characters. Realising, that he could listen to you talk about anything all day.

“You should read it,” you suggest, as he flips through the pages. Having never been much of a reader, time being a factor, his job has been the reason.

“Alright,” he nods, tucking the book under his arm. “I'll read it.”

Your smile brightens even more if that's possible.

“Chucho is gonna be so shocked when I tell him you bought a book.”

Frowning, he follows you, leading him down another aisle. “You talk to my pop?”

Shrugging, like it’s nothing. Like the words that are about to tumble out of your mouth don’t matter like they won’t stitch themselves to him and make him feel like pulling you to his chest.

“I check in—make sure he’s okay. Done it weekly since you left the first time.”

His face falls, descends slowly. He feels it—watches you take it in as yours slowly mirrors him. And, even if he’s been thinking it, it bubbling at the back of his throat, he finds himself unable to stuff it back down—to shove it between other regrets and unsaid words.

“I’ve really missed you.”

Each word lands, your eyes widening as your nose does a little twitch as they do, before you whisper, resting against the edge of a bookcase, “I’ve missed you too.”

Sat on the rock, the sound of a car door slamming disturbed the peace. Not needing to look, knowing that gait, that little kick of the ground as you stopped in front of him.

Hand shielding your eyes from the sun, flower tucked behind your ear.

“Hello, Flor.”

“Piña. Heard you were cursing Laredo.”

Smirking, you sat next to him, nudging him over. The two perched on a rock overlooking part of the city—as his head turned but his eyes stared at you from the corner of them.

“I give it a month and someone else will do something bad enough that people cross the street.”

Swallowing, he exhaled. “Thanks.”

“Did you love her?”

Turning his head, staring at you—eyes flicking from yours to a place on your face he shouldn’t look. “Not enough to marry her.”

“Then you did the right thing.”

A thing he only believed when your hand slid over his, hooking your little finger over his.

“It’s because you’re in love with me, isn’t it?”

Snorting, head shaking, your words washed back over him and he broke into a laugh. “Shut up, Flor.”

Nudging him, taking the flower from your hair and handing it to him. “It’s okay if you do, I know I’m a catch.”

He's embarrassed that it isn't until the second day that Javi finds the chance to really admire your place.

How it’s exactly what he imagined. So very you, all cosy, muted, with spots of colour. Plants and throw cushions, blankets and wicker baskets stuffed with things he suspects you have no recollection of.

What catches his eyes are the photographs, the memories frozen in time around your walls and on shelves. His eyes sweep over them, in a trance still from the scent of your perfume mixing with vanilla from a lit candle.

Each time he sweeps his sight over, he spots new things, remembering brief conversations, smirking to himself until his eyes land on a frame that makes his mouth part and his heart clench.

Him and you; you and him. Sunglasses far too big for your face, staring up at him as he beams at the camera. The backdrop of his ranch, his home, the one he so often left behind like it hadn’t mattered.

Done it weekly since you left the first time.

The words roll around his head now. All metal and round, bouncing against other thoughts, trying to dig his heels into the present and not wonder about what kind of calls you make—whether they’d be about him, whether you’d confess things you’d never admit to him.

Your clanging around is what pulls him to the present. The bangs of cupboards and pans clattering as he stares at it—as he notices how different his build is, how many years have passed. The occasional cursing from you is a rather nice anchor that keeps him in the present.

“Flor?” He waits until he hears you hum. “Order in again, I’ll pay.”

It’s here within the hour.

A favourite, you had told him. A quick apology that you’ll be messier than last night, that you’re dying of hunger. He reminds you he doesn’t care. Not as you slide the triangle slice out, the tip kissing your chin before it’s absorbed by your mouth, sauce lingering on your lips—dust from the crust resting on your nose.

He’s not sure what’s better, the taste of the pizza or the sight of watching you. Having the chance to watch you.

“So I have to ask.”

Grumbling, he pulls at the topping on his slice. “Here we fucking go.”

“Did you like the tie I sent you?”

Half-scowling, swallowing the mouthful of pizza—recalling the box on his desk, atop files and paperwork with a note attached: One down, three to go. Written in that same handwriting he could spot in a lineup—the one he had wished there and then would be etched into him, a mark left, a thing he could brush his thumb over when his heart ached and he felt lost.

“I was disappointed not to see you photographed in it.”

“You knew damn well I wasn’t going to wear a fucking pineapple tie to a press conference.”

Pouting, you smirk. Picking at another slice, staring up at him from the floor, all cross-legged. “Thought you might have for me.”

It’s there, ebbing—words that feel far more intimate than they should—crystallising, burning upon his tongue.

I’d do anything for you.

It’s there, unwritten, pulsating and breathing in the space between you and him, existing, never diminished. Memories where it’s been all but similar rising like lava, singeing him, threatening to burn away the walls he throws up for the sake of friendship.

Because he knows what people think. Saw it hung in his pop’s eyes at his Tia’s wedding when you came as a guest, an uninvited plus one that was welcomed like you were already part of the family. Heard it, in the wind between the grass before he’d left the first time, a farewell outdoor thing, your parents crestfallen, as though they’d assumed—like he imagined a lot of them—the two of you would have figured it out by now.

Watching you stand, hand outstretched for his plate, you take it with a smile. A shout of two options for drinks, an unsurprising one chosen by him—it bubbling in the glass when you hand it to him, settling in beside him.

“Not sure I told you, but you have a nice couch.”

“Most expensive thing in this place—probably better than my own bed,” you smirk, sipping your drink. Head rolling towards him, brows raised, eyes that bit wider. “So, are you okay?”

You’re the only one who could ask and get a reply, he supposes. Those same words were said to him a handful of times, down the phone from Murphy, over the table from Pop, even on aisles of the supermarket when he’d been staring between brands he hadn’t heard of.

“I gave you a day to tell me, and since you won’t, I’m gonna ask. Are you okay, Javier Peña?” you continue, body shifting, thigh pressing against his—heat radiating from between yours to his. “Because you’re methodical. You’re not… get on a plane and fly to a different city just because.”

“You not happy I’m here?”

Grinning, all teeth—it reaching and hanging in your eyes. “Los más felices. But, are you?”

Yes. It’s all he thinks.

Chewing his tongue, his eyes drop to his soda because he’s unsure how to say that. Not as he watches the bubbles float up and burst—the song that had been playing coming to a stop, allowing the rain to play an interval against your windows.

It doesn’t make sense, in some ways: how he’s kept you—been able to keep you close. Somehow not ruined you, twisted this thing between the two of you, made it rot, sullied it with disappointment and selfishness.

“I am now,” he replies.

Good, you breathe. Letting it sit, simmer. Paper over any cracks as your eyes sparkle and remain fixed on him, tracing him as though not completely sure he’s real.

That is, until you grab the remote, excitedly telling him about the night of television they have ahead of them. A blanket, at some stage, finds itself over him, you nestling into his side—like when they were teens before the world became a problem and narcos were all he hunted.

For a while, you catch him up, explain plots and characters. Then, you fall silent, brows crinkled in concentration. His eyes slide to the side to watch, to spot the little things you do as she settles in closer, brings your legs up, and rests almost all of yourself against him.

Between one show and another, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change, your body relaxing further against him. He glances down and finds your eyes closed, features soft and serene in sleep. Realisation dawns on him—you’ve fallen asleep. His heart does a slow tumble in his chest, a wave of warmth spreading through him. All of a sudden aware of the gentle weight of you against his side, the way your hand is loosely holding onto him. He watches, just for a moment, taking in the sight of you, so peaceful and trusting in your sleep. This moment is so intimate, so precious, he wants to freeze it in time.

What else is a guy like you gonna do…

This, he thinks. Looking at you, asleep, peaceful—curled into his side, fingers around his forearm.

Smiling, he takes the remote from your fingers, turning the volume down as he gets more comfortable—pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.

He carried a single red rose down the side of your house—nudging open the window the rest of the way, climbing in like he had done years ago.

He didn’t need eyes, didn’t fancy having to explain to his parents how he could do that to that nice girl and her family. Javi had faced enough judgement, enough stares.

The only eyes he wanted were staring at him, remaining so as he stepped close and handed you the flower with the thorns picked free. “Come with me.”

Sighing, eyes averting, you swallowed loudly in the thick quietness. “You don’t want that. Your best friend following you.”

Eyes flicking up to meet his, you took another deep breath. Fingers flexed at your side, weight shifting from one foot to the other before you exhaled—louder than before.

“I don’t want to follow you, best friend.”

Then don’t be just that, he thought, thumb swiping over the tips of his fingers as he hovered, waited. Then he took a step closer, and another. The gap closed, becoming shorter and shorter—

“What are you doing, Piña?”

“Kissing you.”

Lips pursing, trying not to smirk, you took the rose and put it on your dresser. “Don’t feel your lips on mine, Javier.”

And then he kissed you, his fingers clutching at your jaw—body pressed against yours, tasting your whine, your moan.

He felt your fingers clutch at his shirt as he told you to be quiet.

Laid you on your bed of flowers, knees digging into stitched roses and sunflowers, as you arched off the bed when his fingers slid between your thighs—like he wished he’d done a handful of times before now.

He’s not sure of the time when he wakes, but it’s dark.

A contentedness in his bones that doesn’t fade as he begins to blink, as he takes in his surroundings and remembers where he is. Feeling you, warm, pressed as close against him as humanly possible. Able to see the outline of you, before his eyes manage to paint the rest, how his knee has slotted between your legs—bodies a mess of limbs that takes him back to years ago.

Javi notices how the television is switched off as you try to move, to wiggle and escape. His shirt discarded, the cool air misting over him, pebbling his skin as he slides his arm around you, pinning you tighter to him.

Brain all addled with dreams and sleep, as his awakening state tries to remind him what he’s doing.

What door he’s trying to open all over again.

“Javi…”

Not Piña, Peña or Javier. Javi, all soft and whispery, like honey dripping into his ear as he turns his head to find your stare in the dark. Somehow finding it shimmering, fixed, more than awake.

Then you whisper his name again, and it’s heavenly, a piece of it anyway. A sound he realises he’s missed more than he cares to find words to describe as he hears you push out a breath—fingers finding his arm, stroking, sliding their warmth up and down the muscle of his arm as he swallows.

It’s slow, hand cupping your cheek as he shifts his body, and finds yours moves with him. The beginning of a partner dance, one it feels you’ve both practised in small spaces but never actually have as he slides his lips over yours. Moulds them to yours. Tasting faint mint on your tongue when you deepen it—when you pay attention, listen, taking each cue you give him from the movement of your mouth to the way your hands grasp at him to come closer.

A whimper tries to break through, to escape through messy kisses and tangled bodies, but it vibrates through him. Makes him shudder with how much he wants you, moving your knee, hooking it over his hip as he slots his waist between your thighs and you gasp at the feel of him flush against you.

Practically whine.

Nose brushing your cheek, palm flat, fingers spreading out over your hip as he feels you roll your body into him, he smiles—breathy, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. “Forgot how soft you are.”

You hum, head-turning, mouth latching itself back to his.

“Forgot how good of a kisser you are.”

Snorting, he lightly bites your lower lip. “Best remind you then.”

“Best do,” you whisper, pulling him by his hair back to your mouth.

You write a poem against his lips, signing it with your tongue against his as his fingers snake under the band of your sleep shorts, tasting your moan, your hiss and whimper when he touches you like he’s wanted to since he landed back in the States.

When two fingers slide slowly inside of you, curling, the sound of his name is like a fucking sin he wants to be draped in, wrapped in, even dressed in. Him seeking, searching, finding that spot that has your legs opening for him, nails scraping against his scalp.

“More, Javi. Please—”

“You’re so tight, Flor,” he croons, burying the words in your neck, the tip of his tongue swiping over your collarbone as you grab a handful of his hair. “Feel so good around my fingers.”

Your hips writhe, roll them against his hand, gasping. Making a mess, dripping, practically gushing over his hand, as he fights pulling his hand free and getting a taste.

“Be better—dios mio—around your cock—”

Smirking, teeth nipping at your neck, “I remember.”

Head lifting, thankful the night sky is clear, that the moon is draping you in a slither of milky light so he’s able to see your eyes flutter shut. Able to witness what his fingers do to you, the effects of their teasing and the languid movements as he finds that angle, the one which makes you grind against his palm, and has your chest heaving.

He moans your name against your tongue, drinking down a blend of pleases falling from your swollen lips as he plunges deeper, walls squeezing him.

There he thinks, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder, as you dig your nails further into his scalp, tensing, bearing down on him to the point he hopes you’ll leave a mark, leave a cut, a signature of this moment he can run his fingers over.

“Kiss me,” you gasp, all wrapped in desperation as you pull at his shoulder.

His mouth only just pressing to yours when your cry buries against his tongue, when you flutter and arch as he continues to work you through it. His name breaks through messy kisses, it escaping effortlessly like it doesn’t wish to be buried anymore.

You don’t let him pull away, hooking one leg around him. Watching, not able to take your eyes from him as he retracts his hand—as he licks your pleasure from his fingers and you stare with a twinkle in your eye.

“You best fuck me now.”

Smirking, a low laugh escaping. “Yeah? Want me that bad, Flor?”

Lifting onto your elbows, he waits for a taunt, a tease—something that’ll bring him down a peg or two. What he finds, instead, is your fingers slowly crawling up his bare chest, around his neck, your chin tilted up.

“I need you, Javi. Need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah?”

“And then I wanna get on top,” you whisper, dragging each syllable out, “and fuck you until the sun comes up.”

“Murphy is a nice guy.”

Eyes narrowing, he shot you a glare—watching as you shimmied your jacket from your shoulders. Bare arms, bare legs—except for the thin tank and shorts adorning your body—that had him thinking un-best friend things.

“You jealous, Piña?”

“Of a married guy? Fuck no.”

Grinning, you moved closer—boxing him in. Staring into his eyes, in a way that made him feel like he was being seen, read, and admired all at once. “Is that because you left a bite mark on my hip?”

Tracing his fingers along your neck, he felt himself smile. That flutter in his chest again, the one which had appeared one day when the two of you were teens and hadn’t gone away since.

“Ask me to stay,” you whispered, hands on either side of him—all boxed in. “Ask me, Javi.”

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he raised a hand, knuckles brushing over your cheek. Wanting nothing more. A week gone too quickly. Already feeling the pressure slip back over his muscles, seeping into his bones. But he knew. He pictured it, the things he had nightmares over—even when you were far away, never mind when you were asleep in the room next to his.

“Too dangerous.”

“That it? I can learn—”

“No.”

“No?”

He stared. Thought of the things he had done. The people he had already let down. The things he had let happen to people who deserved far better. It layering, and layering, and layering and—

Nodding, disappointment spread, before it was washed over in acceptance. “What’re we eating?”

When he wakes, he expects to find you dressed in corporate and apologising in a voice that’s accompanied by a pout at the foot of your bed. The place the two of you found yourself on at 4 am.

Instead, you fake another performance. Earn an Oscar over the phone before switching to the excitable one you present to him when you sit at the foot of the bed.

There’s something there. It hangs in your eyes. A secret, a thing shifted and dislodged now your mask has slipped from the few hours of sleep and the ruining of your sheets.

But he doesn’t ask, because if he does, he fears he’d tell you things in return. Alter the way you see him. Change it, taint it. Practically ruin the man you think he went to be and the one he's returned as.

It'll hurt him if you look at him with disgust. You’ve burnt him after all, left him winded, air knocked from his lungs each time he’s laughed. All but imprinted into his mind, a thing never filed but rather pinned up and forever there, like artwork on a fridge.

“Wanna get a coffee?”

Hands pulling on a pair of jeans, buttoning them as he sees the peaks of your nipples through your white tee. And he knows your face is bare and you're dressed in clothes you just pulled out without thought—yet, you are, as always, the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.

A thing he thinks when he showers.

When he smiles as he scrubs the shampoo into his hair, feels the soreness at parts from where your nails had dug in. He doesn't stop beaming when he smears his palm across the glass, takes in his appearance as you open the door, a towel hung low on his hips, eyes dropping down.

“Now who's staring, hermosa.”

“Don’t be a work of art to be admired then.”

He dresses in record time, your hand swinging beside his, so within reach, so easy to grab. But he doesn’t.

None of last night mentioned, even if he knows he’s left bruises on your inner thighs from keeping them apart; even if you've left scratch marks on his shoulders from when you sunk down on him, head thrown back, jaw elongated as he rolled your nipples between his fingers.

Javi doesn't even mention it when he hears you gasp at the taste of your coffee, a noise similar to when he'd licked a stripe up your pussy, when he tasted both you and him.

It was just like in Colombia.

A thing buried, hidden underneath other topics the two of you don’t discuss. Dead parents and a town you both ran from. A thing he almost wants to change, correct, but then you stop outside a flower shop.

The sign battered, peeling. Hidden between two nicer shops, yet the scent made his nose twitch.

“You should buy me flowers.”

“Should I?”

Smirking, teeth biting your lip. “Por lo de anoche.”

Head shaking, he finds himself following anyway. Unable to stop his eyes from falling to the back pocket you shove your phone in, hand reaching, palm pressing to the globe of your ass as he hears the muffled sound of a giggle—

“Piña.”

“Flor,” he whispers, practically breathes it against your neck.

The bubble expands, knowing at some point it’ll pop. Too happy, he thinks. Too settled for a man who has a solo flight back. It’s why he drops his hand, lets you move further in, watching as you scan over already-made bouquets for one he knows you won’t find.

Because they don’t know you. Not like him. There’s not years between you and this shop—this place.

His fingers lightly roll over a stem, staring at the flower, before he has pulled it free from the bucket, and then another, and then another. Not at all a florist—or someone artistic enough to make a bunch—but a person who at least knows you. Knows that in each of the pre-made bundles there’s a flower you dislike, one that’ll remind you of something, someone.

“Here.”

You blink, eyes widening as they move from the bunch in his hand to his face. “Javi…”

“There your—”

“Favourites,” you finish, eye narrowing, lips still parted. “You remembered all my favourites?”

Shrugging, aware of how close he is to real—to something that could shatter, break. A thing he’ll do, just give it time. Feeling it wrap its tendrils around his chest, around his heart, squeezing and squeezing until your hand slips in his. Palm to palm, fingers finding their way between his slowly, cautiously, your eyes not leaving his face as you do.

“Didn’t know my pussy was good enough for flowers, Piña,” you comment, voice low, a smirk there.

“You deserve more than flowers.”

“I’m that good?”

Shaking his head, hand still in yours, he presses a kiss to your forehead, swallowing. “Siempre has sido.”

“Hello?”

He heard the hiccup, the slur of his name as he smirked against the phone—finger and thumb massaging his forehead as he heard you hiccup again. “Flor?”

“Piña, did you know that I miss you?”

Adjusting the tie around his neck, staring down at the pineapples—the box open, atop a bunch of files, in the office he should have been thankful for. “You sound like you’ve had a good night.”

You howled, the laugh all high-pitched. “Maybe I have—maybe I haven’t. What I do know is that I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“No. I love you.”

Smirking, thumb tracing an outline of one of the pineapples. “You’re drunk.”

“Still love you.”

Swallowing, he let out a heavy exhale.

“You doing okay, mi Piña?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer, how to respond. Head tilting back in his office chair, the ice melted in his whiskey and the hour so late he wondered why you were still up as you extended his nickname out into as many syllables as you could.

“I am now—okay, I mean.”

It needs to be left alone.

He knows it. Reminds himself of it when it rears its head at every second he doesn't. Because, it doesn't need to be needled, or picked at until it bled.

But, Javi picks at it all the same when you avoid his question again.

His hand slides over his face, index finger tracing a line down his nose as he waits until your laugh fades. Your fork twists the spaghetti round and round, and when it falls, it simply lands on the table between the two of you—the air tinged with the scent of dinner and the flowers from the shop.

“When were you going to tell me you hate your job?”

Your smile shrinks, like the sunlight being muted by the night. Spine straightening, chin lifting. The walls coming down both literally and figuratively, seeing you prepare for war when he’s army-less and unafraid.

“Si significo algo para ti, no lo hagas.”

He snorts, resting on his arm, letting the sheets fall to his waist. Because of course, he cares, and of course, he wants to do this. Balling up the hand beside his hip, seeing the murkiness in your eyes, the joy snuffed out and hidden, as though the hatchets were coming down to protect against his storm.

Javi says your name, softly, honeyed—delicately drip-feeding the air each letter until it’s out there existing.

One by one, it happens. Your eyes avert, chin dipping down; your tongue drags across the front of your teeth and then your arms fold. “I hate my job. Happy? I wanted it so bad—and now I have it, I hate it. I hate going in, I hate doing it. I can’t tell anyone that because it’s all I wanted.”

“It’s okay.”

Snorting, fake smile sketching across your face as your eyes harden to the point they’re brittle. “It isn’t. I left. I turned my back and got as far out of there as I could, and now I’m stuck.”

It breaks him a little.

Seeing it then, the many shards inside of you that you’re trying to keep whole. The pieces that are so worn and tired from doing their best to fit, but struggling to do so.

It’s why he protests that you’re not. He tries to rationalise and says the same words he knows you’d say to him if he called—if he had told you the truth about everything when he was over there. He tries to add kindness to his words as you continue to stare at him like you wish your bed would swallow him whole.

“—You’re saying this like I didn’t say the same thing to you, and you went and did another five years.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” you spit, standing now, finger pointing and nose flared. “Because your job means more?—”

“No, because I’m a fucking idiot, Flor. You’re not.”

You mutter under your breath, curse him—a blend of poisonous Spanglish that has the heel of his palm pressing against his forehead.

Because it’s like last time.

The words surge up inside of him—except you’re both older now, both carrying more pain and hurt from a world that continues to pile on when bones are already struggling. Walls threw up, keeping him out in all the same ways—except now his mess is also between your thighs, and you aren’t half as good at hiding how his words hurt you.

“Come home with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Folding your arms, your head shaking. “I can stick it out—work my way up, it’ll get better—”

“You know it won’t. Know how well that went for me.”

Then you scoff. It blended with razors and sharpened to injure. “No, I don’t. Because you don’t talk about what happened.”

“You read about it.”

“But that’s not your story, Javi. That’s theirs.”

For a moment, he sees it. How hollow you look, how weak, sad and broken. So he repeats it, the request, the offer. Come home with me. But the door shuts, locks, a bolt thrown over.

And everything, all of it, splinters; it doing so before your mouth even opens and he sees what his request has done.

“I’m not coming home just because you’ve decided you want to play happy fucking families, Peña. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you’ve decided to run away, and it doesn’t begin turning again because you’ve come home and decided what you want.”

“That isn’t—”

“You left. You left me.”

“—Flor—”

“—and I asked you to let me stay—when I knew you were hurting. I asked and you said no—”

He whispers your name, broken—like it shatters the moment it greets the air.

“—I wasn’t good enough then. So why am I now?”

Shaking his head, legs flung from under your sheets, he stands—aware he’s half-naked, aware this isn’t the time as you step back.

You shake your head, tears dangling, resistant to fall. “I bet you’re not even staying.”

“I am—”

Head tilting, a crystal tear falling down your cheek, you scoff. Loud. Brutal. “Have you even unpacked? Or did you just get on a plane here?”

Swallowing, Javi rolls his jaw. Fingers flexing at his side, staring, urging himself to find words as his tongue thickens in his mouth. Because he’s staying, he’s staying, he’s staying—

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Flor—”

“Save it.”

The door of your bedroom slamming behind you is the final sound that echoes out between you both.

It was different.

Hearing you cry down the phone—than when the two of you were younger.

When your first love broke your heart and he lay beside you on sheets covered in stitched flowers. Your head turned to him, the bedroom door open, as you teased your lip between your teeth. The tears had dried, but the rest had still been there, written in markers across your face as you sighed, staring, waiting for him to answer. “What do you want, Piña?” you’d asked, and he’d swallowed that he wanted to punch them.

Now, though, there were miles between the two of you. Distance far more than there had ever been—cities, a whole country.

“I’ll be home soon—can visit you.”

He heard you laugh, it hanging, echoing. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it.”

“You mean a lot of things, Javi.”

“Flor—”

“I wish you'd never kissed me.”

It's a whisper, the way he said your name. It cracked, snapping as it left his tongue.

“I should go shower, early morning and all that.”

He asked you to stay and he heard you sigh.

“What do you want, Piña?”

Swallowing, Javi tapped his fist on the desk—tiredness having crept over him, the last ditch at doing right in Colombia suspended over him. Tell me I’m doing good, that it's worth losing you, Flor. “Have a good day, Flor.”

It’s weeks.

Eight weeks and four days to be exact.

At some point, it becomes less of a want to get in touch and more of a need not to. Your number is always there on his fingers, but his digits never dialling it when his Pop nips out to go to the store, and he’s left alone with his thoughts and memories in a house stuffed full of them.

Javi doesn’t expect anything else.

Having woke that next morning to find a note attached to the book he had bought: Had to go to work. Have a safe flight. Speak soon—a thing he both hoped and prayed for, even as he nursed a drink on the short flight and chain-smoked at the airport before he did the drive home.

Home.

A thing it felt even less of when he arrived this final time. Pulling his truck into its place, dust swirled and kicked up around him. Staring at the house that hasn’t changed much, just the paint thinning, the sun-dyeing it.

Each day that ticks by, he thinks of you. Each week that’s collected, he fights with himself when he’s sat alone at the dining table about flying back out and apologising.

Because he knows what he did.

Did the same thing back then—assumed and foolishly acted as though your wants never mattered. But they do matter. A thing he rehearses in his head when he’s feeding the animals; a thing he runs over when he’s repairing a door here or a fence there.

One week adds up, then another, and another.

If his Pop thinks things, he doesn’t share them. Just shakes his head occasionally, not asking what is wrong, likely knowing. Suspecting he wears it like the rest of his shame, brightly coloured and decorated in bright lights.

A fool’s outfit, he thinks. A thing he is, a thing he knows. It carved into him at this point. Scratched into the skin and muscle, yet everyone else sees the word hero.

It’s eight weeks and four days when the door of the party opens, the sun streaming in—illuminating the back of a person in a dress adorned with flowers. It takes a second, the condensation on his beer dripping down his wrist as he stares, trying to place the shape and the style of the hair. Not wanting to imagine, not wanting to jump ahead of himself until he hears your mom say your name, all excitable—practically a shriek.

He’s not prepared.

Yet, it’s out of habit he moves.

Like the two of you are magnets, that realised they were supposed to be a pair. The music doesn’t quiet, and the room doesn’t hold its breath, but Javi does—and he suspects you do too.

Just as time comes to a slow stop—the hand in his watch takes an age to flick to the next second as his heart hammers into his ribs. Staring, fingers itching to reach out and ensure you’re not something he’s fabricated, not a mirage from wanting so badly and convincing himself he’d never have it.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Piña.”

It weighs heavy then—clots on his tongue. Almost shapes itself into bile and rests horridly against his tongue as he follows you around, hand close to reaching out to place on your lower back, but stops when he remembers where he is.

Home.

A thing it all of a sudden feels like when you turn your head, lift your chin and stare at him—eyes full of forgiveness, and understanding. “We should talk, right?”

Right, he thinks. Trying to stop the twist in his chest from tightening, trying to stop the dread from filling him and drowning from within. Conversations never go well. A thing he thinks over, and over as his hand strokes over his face, following, one foot after the other, until the warm sun kisses his skin and he finds himself leaning against the side of the building.

“I didn’t come for you.”

He says nothing, not sure if there are any to say.

“I quit. Moved back a week and a bit ago—” your hand comes up to halt him, half-pleading with a tilt and a raise of your eyes. “—and I needed to find things for me, first.”

Folding his arms, he stretches his legs, lets himself elongate, and tries to fill his lungs with air.

“Because I’d have resented you for being right.” Your chin dips, eyes following. “A thing I would do, because you, Javier Peña, know me. And sometimes I really hate that.”

Exhaling, he finds you do the same. Head tilting, lips rolling as you take him in, trace him with your eyes as though you can't quite believe he's real.

“Did you know that every person I’ve been with, it gets to a point where I think ‘Fuck, Javi wouldn’t do this to me’?” Meeting his gaze, you exhale. “And then, no matter how much I felt for them, it goes.”

“Flor…”

Swallowing, you offer the smallest smile. “It’s never gone for you, though. Not when you left. Not when you came back, and left again. Not eight weeks ago when I should have asked you to stay.”

Tongue sticking, flat against the roof his mouth, he grabs your hand—holds it. Runs his thumb over the knuckles as you avert your eyes.

“I live in Laredo now, further north. Did you know I’m so good at what I do, people seek me out?” you say, beaming, letting him pull you closer. “Think they’d have cloned me you if I’d asked for it.”

Dragging his knuckles down your cheek, he’s unable to stop the way it flares up in him—that joy, that ember of happiness—when you smile.

“Because I don’t think I find the idea of being yours that terrible—”

“That so?”

Shaking your head, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt, he watches your smile falter—just for a moment. “Don’t do this, if you’re going to up and leave again, Javi. Because I’d have died happily not telling you what I feel for you.”

“Not doing it again to you.”

“Okay. Then,” you sigh, sliding your arms around his neck, his hands finding a home on your waist. “Well, I guess I should tell you that I really like your moustache.”

“Just really like?” he teases, swaying you as you purse your lips together.

“Fine. I love it.”

Smiling, walking you back until your back meets the wooden railings. “I love that you love it.”

Rolling your eyes, forehead meeting his chest, he feels the laugh roll through you. Rumbling.

“You owe me flowers.”

Snorting, he rests his chin on your head. “I’ll buy you a field, Flor.”

“That’s a good start.”

Thought so, he thinks. Wrapping his arms around you, keeping your head against him, rocking you, like he's wished to do so many times before now.

Home now feeling right.

[nawoken]

   Yes, because I got bullied by both of the games I played so... I'm here to rambling some stuff that has been stuck inside my head since forever.

How about... Reader with cute aggression, especially for those small, fluffy creatures, like... cats! (Ơ w Ơ).

You can't help squeezing, kissing, and biting (lightly) those cuties. Yes, you have Grim, but he won't let you pet him since you're too much, his words.

And TWST boys that by some accident, maybe from alchemy class or their clumsiness. They, unfortunately, have turned into those mischievous creatures.

   You don't know that. You just walking around, minding your own business or headmage supposed to be business. Then, you saw it, a cat with the fluffiest fur and cutest eyes you've ever seen run by. And you know, you've fallen in love :)))

   TWST boys, now in cat body don't know that they're in danger, roaming around freely with the hope that someone they know will realize and help them.

   Oh, is that our calm and kind prefect? Surely, they can help our poor boy, right? No! They're deadly WRONG!!!

   The next thing our boy knows after approaching prefect is that he's trapped in your embrace, being kissed, squeezed, and petted while you compliment him on how smooth and healthy his fur looks.

   Damn it, prefect! He is not an actual cat, can’t you see it?! The answer is… No, you can’t. You’re busy admiring his cuteness.

   He is struggling, embarrassed by your doing. Some of them might feel ashamed since it feels like he is taking advantage of you… or the other way around, some just aren’t used to being pampered. But, the worst thing is… prefect, please don’t rub your face on his stomach! Mmraooo!!! :’)))))

   After a while, you finally stop, he sighs out of relief, … but why do you look at him like that? D..do you finally realize that he is not a cat?

   You stared at the poor creature in your hand, thinking. And, this made him concerned, what are you planning to do?

   Before he can do anything, you chomp on his face, more specifically, his muzzle … Yes, you do it without your teeth. But... YOU BITE HIM!!! ON HIS FACE!!! C...CAN THIS COUNT AS A KISS?!

He is panicked and stunned while you're in heaven. This might be the sweetest cat you've ever seen, he doesn't even bite or scratch you when you do all this to him.

Suddenly, pink smoke emitted from the cat, and with a "pop" sound, it turned into a human. Not to mention, you know him. Is it a good or bad thing? You don't know, the only thing you know is... you're DOOM!

You should know that this is a magical world, so you can't just hug any stray cat on the street, it can be anyone, not to say this is your crush. But you got tricked! By those sparkling eyes! And those fluffy ears! And now you can die from embarrassment.

Now, you're the one who panics while he just stands there, not knowing what to do or to say. The cure for this potion, it's a true love kiss. (Another version of the "The Princess and the Frog" potion but instead of a kiss from the princess, it's a true love kiss, why not? :))))

You two end up looking at each other for a whole minute before he decides to speak up but are cut off by you. "Please, just forget everything, this is so messed up of me, I promise I will try to make it up to you somehow, but please just erase that shameful thing I have done from your mind!" (QAQ)

Then you ran off, left him there with bewildered expression.

~~~~♡♡♡~~~

That's longer than I expected :'D

But, yeah, this has been stuck inside my head for too long, finally it can appear under the sunlight...

You know, I want to make a request for that idea. I've followed so many good TWST writers. But, well I'm shy and don't really sure how to, so I just keep it in.

The idea for this post is... I have a cat, she's been suffering from my cute aggression. Ehe, poor her, but she never bites me when I'm chomping on her muzzle. So sweet of her.

But yeah, I can't stop laughing when I think about TWST boy turning into a cat and being chomped on. That must be terrifying for him, but they still tried their best to not scratch you, their dear prefect. Except: Riddle, it's just his reflection, and he feels regret right after. And maybe Leona? Or, he just shows his claw to threaten you but doesn't actually do it.

Nom nom :3

MY ANGEL!!!

[kentopedia]

♰ sent to destroy — dazai osamu

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ KINKTOBER NO. 5 - fallen angel!dazai

he promises he's not the devil, but he steals your soul with just a kiss.

contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, takes place in 1920s for fun ig, actress!reader, alcohol, one mention of suicidal ideation and prostitution by reader, blasphemy, sacrilege, pls don't read this if ur religious & will get offended LMAO, angel fucking (& he has wings), bondage (thru powers), unprotected sex, cunnilingus, corruption kink, possessive sex, softish dazai, mm idk what else — 6.1k

note: i didn't edit this as thoroughly as i normally do so plss ignore any mistakes and i'll love you forever

the speakeasy fills with a thin veil of smoke, coating the room with an intoxicating mix of alcohol and nicotine. it’s a lewd place, full of degenerates and failed actresses like yourself, a crowd of people who don’t belong, but try their best to find a way to keep living. 

it’s a place where women pick up their clients, leading them to the hotel around the corner for a night they certainly won’t be paid enough for. it’s where people drown their miseries in alcohol and hope they won’t wake up in the morning. 

it is, regrettably, the only place you can afford. 

you sit alone at one of the tables, hands shaky from nerves as you smoke another cigarette, contributing just as much to the cloud that suffocates the small room. 

hoards of people make their way downtown for a sip of alcohol, the drink that has so ridiculously been banned, but you are no exception, no angel amongst the sinful devils. 

someone plays a saxophone at the front of the bar, spinning into a graceful melody of jazz that sings out to you, lulls you into an embrace that warms your core. it soothes the anxiety that has lingered with you throughout the day, the reminder that your life is tailspinning. 

you’d failed at landing yet another role, and the acting career you’d packed your bags and moved out for was plummeting. who would accept you now, now that your hopes and dreams had been for naught, now that you’d created a shameful woman of yourself and your family?

the answer was clear; but you were too stubborn too accept it, too desperate to believe that you could be up in the glimmering lights, the brightest silver star the world had ever seen. 

you lean back in your chair, stamping out the cigarette with a sigh as you stand to collect another drink. there’s not much left in your pockets, but you’ve made it work before, and you’ll keep making it work now, scrounging up coins for the relief that came with forgetting. 

the only consolation is the line of women that stand alongside you at the bar, as dejected and miserable as yourself. all of you have been labeled the failures of your families, the ones that bet on a shot in the dark. none of you expected that the road would be easy, certainly not with the way the industry is hasty to pick up only the most beautiful faces… but your ambitions had led you to believe that you, of all people, had had a chance. 

you know your beauty is endless, a sight to be admired, but even that had not been enough to secure your spot in the limelight. 

you thank the bartender as he hands you a drink, and slump back to your table, waiting for the effects of the alcohol to kick in. yet, when you stand at the edge of the table, peer at the chair you’d once been seated in, there is already a man there. 

he gazes at you with a crooked smile, eyes amused as he regards your beaten-down state.

you’ve seen him before—made every attempt not to see him again. you know what they say about him. he’s a wizard, he’s the devil, he’s a god that steals the body of a mortal, waiting to destroy the earth. all bad things, certainly, and with the way your life’s been going, you’d be a fool to get mixed up with someone like him.

still…you know of the things he’s done for people. that miracles have happened for those brave enough to ask for them. 

perhaps, you’re in need of a miracle. 

the dark-haired man leans forward, eyebrows raised as you gawk at him from the other side of the table. “no need to look so frightened,” he says, gesturing towards the other chair. “sit.” 

“i don’t want any company,” you say, straightening, pulling your drink closer to your chest. “i came here to be alone.”

his eyes flash, predatory, as if seeing down through the depths of your soul, to the very desire that lingers within. all of your dreams, your ambitions, and your loneliness are displayed to him, a flashing banner that alerts him easily of everything that’s ever been wrong with you. 

“is that so?” he asks, leaning forward, his voice deepening amongst the chaos of the speakeasy. “then, why have you been staring at me all evening?” 

you can’t help the flush that rushes to your cheek, the heat that covers your entire body. with the crowd of men and women alike that are constantly at his arm, you’d hardly thought he’d notice you.

and though you know what they say about him, he is undeniably beautiful; you’re drawn to him. there is a dark and heavenly beauty about him, something that you fear is too angelic to be of this world. his eyes glimmer almost like diamonds in the candlelit room, skin so flawless that it is nearly luminescent. 

it’s no wonder, really, that you haven’t been able to peel your eyes off of him.

you circle around his question, instead, and set your drink down on the table, lured in either by a false sense of safety, or the confidence of his grin. “i know what you are,” you say, swallowing back the fear that devils often prey on. 

he smiles, indulging you, a lifelong game he has surely played. “and what is that, my dear?” 

the mocking tone sends a cold wave down your spine, even though the sweet name seems to warm you. “i don’t believe i should say it out loud.” you’re not sure what kind of consequence that will bring you. perhaps you do not need to make a deal with him for your soul to be damned, straight to the fiery pits; maybe this conversation is enough, and already, you are on the long list of sinners that will be sent to burn.

“because you believe i am the devil? a demon sent to prey upon you and your soul, drag you down to hell once the contract you’ve made is over?” 

you say nothing, but your silence speaks loudly. 

he sighs, leans back in the chair and looks at you from under thick lashes. “i have no interest in the dealings of those fifty, lesser beings. i find that i can bargain for more enjoyable ventures.” two dark eyes trace over you, swallow you whole as he grazes your curves with his irises, the shape of your breasts under the tightness of your dress, the style shorter to match the current fashions. “so, i think we both may have something the other is interested in. please,” he gestures once more to the seat in front of him, addressing you by your first name—one you never even had to tell him. “sit.” 

nervous, you take the chair, wondering why you aren’t running away, screaming at everyone that there is a monster in your midst, a being that hunts the weak to lure them away from their misery. no wonder he has made himself a frequent customer at this place—there are people drowning in sorrows. one deal with him, and they will wake up in the morning, drowning in riches instead. 

“what do you want from me?” you ask, letting your hands fall to your sides. 

“so eager to get to the best part of my bargain, silly girl. have some patience.” he takes a sip of his own drink, pinning you with his gaze, even above the rim. you squirm under the intensity, but you, even now, can’t look away. “i know you’re struggling to find work. you’ve been here for years, and made pennies to live off of.” he reaches across the table, spins a lock of hair around his finger as he sighs dramatically. “such a shame, really. they must fear the power of your perfection if they refuse to let you shine brighter than the rest of the dull creatures that they call starlets.” 

your heart drops, stutters within the delicate bones of your skeleton before starting again, as you remember that this is how the devil would act, luring you in with sweetly poisoned words full of deceit. “they are talented—”

“they are nothing,” he snarls, banging his fist on the table so loudly that you jump, hands shaking against the beaded skirt of your dress. “you may claim to believe in your own talents, your appearance, but it is all a lie, a facade that you maintain to protect yourself. you are the one holding yourself back, and unless you let me help you, you’ll get nowhere.”

you feel tears burn. “you mean to lure me away from the path of god—”

his eyes narrow. “i mean to free the human race from the chains that religion has bound on them. there is nothing for you in the afterlife but an existence of slavery. one to a malicious devil who only wishes to torment, or one to a god who doesn’t love you.” 

it confuses you, the way he speaks of these beings as if he is not on the side of heaven or hell. as if there could be another option. it seems surreal, a secret that you should not have been told; since the day you were born, you have learned of the path of righteousness, the will of god. 

that is the only way you can obtain a life of peace… yet, there is a creature before you, claiming to offer you a third path, one that doesn’t have you bowing down for a god that won’t answer your prayers. 

it may be foolish, the work of the devil, but you are willing to listen. you are already lured in by this graceful creature with a charming smile and a quick tongue, and you don’t know if it will take much more for you to succumb to him completely. 

already, you have lost your way—you would do anything to escape your unhappiness.

“what is it you’re after, then?” you ask, your voice softer, weaker than you anticipated. 

he laughs, and lets his head tilt sideways, studies you before answering. “my father has cast me out of heaven; i plan to build my own religion of followers, tearing them away from that idiot of a being they call their god. because i am much stronger, much wiser, and the only way that they can find peace after their death is by trusting that i will give it to them.” 

you swallow, twining your fingers together, and think. “you’re… an angel?” 

he waves his hand. “a fallen one.”

there are things about the world that you do not understand, but you know that god has not once help you when you were drowning without a savior. he did not guide a helping a hand when you contemplated dragging a knife across your wrists, and yet, here is something, someone wanting to save you from just that. how is it that god can be more benevolent than those he casts out, when you have seen nothing but the opposite?

“you want me to join you, then?” you ask, drawing your eyebrows together. “if i join you, you’ll give me what i desire?”

“well… that is usually the bargain i offer. however,” he hums, eyes flashing as they scour your body. he looks at you hungrily, like he has never seen a being like yourself. “it has been a while since i’ve seen a human as beautiful as you.” 

you swallow, blinking at him with wide eyes as you grow hot all over. this would not be the first time you’ve sold your body for fame, but never has it been with a man as stunning as the angel before you. “you mean… if i fuck you, you’ll give me whatever i want?” 

he sniffs, repulsed by your suggestion. “always so lewd, you mortals.”

your eyebrows knit together. “but you said—”

“i don’t want you for one night. i want you forever. i want you to swear your body over to me for the rest of your life, let me use it as i wish, bear my children.” he traces your features, grazes a thumb over your jaw, your lip. his eyes are hard, and you swallow, wondering why your stomach flips. “you are meant to be mine.” he smiles, and though you can see the mischief within it, for some reason, there is also softness there as he crosses his arms over the counter. “but if you aren’t interested, then the deal is off the table. i have no need for someone who doesn’t want me in return.” 

you blink back at him, observing the seriousness of his expression, the softness lurking within the pools of his deep brown eyes. perhaps he is a vengeful angel… but he is offering you a life that is much more promising than the one you have now. would it really be so bad to give yourself to him, to spend the rest of your life in his arms, when he promises to give you everything you’ve ever wished for?

“i—” you hesitate, unsure how to even begin to answer the question, when you didn’t quite understand what it was that he needed from you.  

“i’ll give you some time to think about it. after all, it is a decision that will affect the rest of your life.” he stands to his feet, and it is then that you notice there are some eyes on you, the women he typically has hanging off of him watching your interaction with bated breath. “when you have an answer, just call for me. i’ll be there.” 

“wait,” you say, turning in your chair to face him. “i don’t even know your name.” 

“you can call me osamu.” he smiles and winks at you, tucking his jacket closer as he begins to walk away. “we’ll be in touch."

three weeks pass before you see him again. 

you’d decided quickly what you would say to him, and after two weeks worth of auditions that led to nothing, drinking without a friend in the world, alone to rot in your bedroom, you’d made up your mind.

osamu’s proposal, now, after everything you’d suffered, seemed too good to be true. how long had you wished for a companion, for money, for a steady job—and now, these were all things he promised to provide you, if only you’d stand by his side. 

you’d called to him at the start of the week, said a prayer to any angel named osamu that was out there—but no one came. 

night after night, you said the same prayer, wondering, if perhaps, you’d been made a fool of. that everything he had said was a lie, and you, truly, were doomed to live an unhappy life. maybe, he was mocking you for your misfortunes, for your weak heart. 

though, on the twenty-first day after your discussion, you awaken to a figure standing in the corner of your room, watching you with hawklike eyes, the shadow of a wingspan shaped out behind him. 

you gasp, nearly letting out a scream as you scramble to a seated position in your bed, bringing the sheets up to your chest. the man is nothing more than a silhouette, so dark in the moonlight, but you know, without seeing his face, that he is the one you’ve been searching for.

“osamu,” you say, trying to quell the fear that has made a home in your chest. you gawk at him as he uncrosses his arms, sauntering over like he owns the place, like he’s been here before, knows the shape of your body, even under the sheets you hide within. “you heard my prayers.” 

“i apologize for not coming faster,” he smiles in the darkness, teeth glimmering under beams of starlight. his face becomes visible then, and it steals your breath away—he is more stunning than you remember, skin nearly glowing, golden. “you were beginning to sound desperate.” osamu watches as your breathing evens out, your eyes flicking over his features. “is that still the case?” 

he is a sight to behold sitting before you, the very essence of power seeping off of him in waves. a creature crafted from the hands of god, shaped to be the very thing that would protect the weaker creations. 

osamu’s skin, his hair, every inch of him is without flaws, while you are but a sinful human girl who succumbs to each of her urges. 

“i want—” you stop, realizing that you’re not sure what you want. to be an actress, yes, a famous starlet that is cherished by the masses. but, when you look at osamu, the soft, plump shape of his lips, the lean limbs that hide under his tailored coat, you wonder if fame, security, comfort—perhaps, those aren’t the only things you desire from this exchange. “i accept—”

“you sound uncertain,” he interrupts, eyebrows drawing together in a scowl. “you called me here, begged me to come steal you away, and now, you change your mind?”

“no!” you say, scrambling to grab his wrist as he starts to stand from the bed, his eyes flashing as you reach for him on all fours. “i’m not changing my mind. i want to be famous, i want to be yours.” you swallow, choking out the word as it turns your cheeks warm, the heat making its way up from your toes. 

it hit you harder that you anticipated, the taste of belonging to another. you aren’t sure if its because you’ve craved the connection for so long that it’s twisting your insides, turning you into something desperate, or if, already, you feel an invisible string tying you and this stranger together. 

“but?” osamu asks, still seeming like he’s about to flee, his eyes hard, blinking back at you. there is something about you that he wants, but he won’t take it, not unless you crave him just as much. it muddles your mind, confuses you—he could have anyone, could take anything. yet— 

“but why do you want me?” you ask, releasing him to curl your fingers around the blanket. “i don’t understand.” 

osamu balks, then laughs, his eyes crinkling as he regards you with some sort of gentleness. “perhaps i have always loved humans a little too much, much more than i should, at least.” he curls a piece of your hair around his finger, hums to himself. “innocent creatures that my father cursed with misery, blaming their own sinfulness against them.” osamu licks his lips, hungry as dark eyes cover your face. “but it’s not entirely your fault that you must bear the torment of generations. just as it is not my fault that i was born with a lust for something much more delicate than the creatures of heaven.” 

he strokes your cheek, fingers grazing you like you are nothing more than a piece of glass, that you might shatter under the force of his power. perhaps you would—with too much, he might break you, turn you into a pile of ash with a snap of his finger.  

“but there are millions of us to choose from,” you say, sweating under the blanket as your heart pounds in your chest. the breadth of his power becomes more obvious with every passing second, and yet, you crave  a taste of it. “what makes me so special?”

he wraps a large palm around your jaw, thumb pulling at your lower lip. the tip of it dips into your mouth as you watch him with wide eyes, frozen, but not from fear. “i was meant to be your guardian angel, to be the guide that leads you away from the devil until your dying breath.” he moves closer, dipping his head towards your lips, brown irises never leaving your own. “and yet, the moment i laid eyes on you, i had already broken the first rule.” 

you stumble over your syllables, whispering them breathlessly. “and what’s that?” 

osamu smiles, muttering the words against your mouth, his voice ghosting over your skin. “angels are wired to protect those that we are assigned to,” he says, swiping his tongue against your lip, just barely kissing you, the sounds low and breathy. “we’re not supposed to want to fuck them.” a finger drags slowly, sensuously up your arm, and you can’t move, can’t do anything but watch as he pushes you, sinks you slowly into the bed. “i have never wanted anything as badly as i want you.”

you breath, in and out, slow, as the heat settles in your stomach, a burning pool of need churning there. it’s been so long—so long—since anyone has touched you in a way that is kind, has wanted to please you, instead of steal from you. “all that, just for me?” you ask cheekily, though you’re still not sure that he is telling the truth. 

maybe he is the devil, but you no longer care. his voice is so sweet with praise and affirmation, bleeding into the softness of your heart. 

he shrugs. “perhaps i was always meant to fall.” your head hits the pillow. you aren’t sure when he got you pinned on the bed. osamu looms over you with wide, burning eyes, licking his lips with an ache he doesn’t bother to hide. 

“osamu,” you shudder, grabbing his bicep to steady yourself. it is too much, suddenly, all at once. you are filled with need for him, clawing at his skin as he commands complete control over you with nothing but his words. “i—”

your sentence is stolen away by a kiss, one that burns from your mouth all the way down to your toes. it twists something within you, turns you into a monstrous being that you had not realized you were, longing so recklessly to be touched. 

his hands roam over your body, touch featherlight as he removes your dress, drags it slowly off your body, eyes grazing over every inch of your skin like he wants to devour your whole.

he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, fingers lightly dipping down your chest, between the swell of your breast to your ribcage. “how cruel of our father to keep us from such divine creatures,” he says, leaning down to kiss up your stomach, lick the skin around your breasts. “perhaps we are the ones that are truly being punished.”

you writhe under him, hands curling in his hair as his own dips between your thighs. grabbing his scalp hard, you yank him back up to your lips, and your eyes meet, both dark and dangerous as you brush your nose against his own. “you are punishing me right now.” 

“is that so?” he laughs, eyes flashing with humor. “such a greedy, impatient little thing.” osamu slips out of his coat, his shirt, revealing the tent that has already grown in his slacks. they are the next to go, and his golden skin is revealed, the perfection of every line and angle of his body heavenly and refined. he leans down to whisper in your ear, breath ghosting the shell of it. “act like such a princess, but i know you want to be fucked until you can’t form a single thought, don’t you?” he says, and the coolness of his voice has you squeezing his shoulders, gasping out his name.

your skin burns, your chest burns, an ache gathering and settling deep in your stomach. your cunt throbs as you look at the angel before you, and he kisses down your neck, bites a hard bruise into your collarbone. 

you whimper, wondering why you ever questioned going with him, when he could make you feel this good from nothing more than his hands on your skin. 

“such pretty fucking tits.” he swirls his tongue around your hardened nipple, teasing the bud as you cry out loudly in the silent room. far too loudly for the thin walls, the cheap apartment. yet, you wonder if you care that your neighbors can hear the noises that come with your pleasure. 

“that’s it,” he purrs, kissing down your stomach before his lips reach your hipbone, smiling into the sensitive skin there. “so quiet before… thought i was doing something wrong.” 

“n-no,” you say, chest rising quickly as you watch him hover above your soaked cunt with anticipation. “feels good.” 

osamu smiles, spreads your legs farther, so your dripping, aching hole is on display, embarrassingly, every inch of you vulnerable to him. “look at you,” he says, eyes hazy as he holds you tight, digs his fingers in your skin. “so fucking perfect. bet you taste as good as you look.” 

there isn’t a moment for you to say a word—his head is already between your thighs, kissing your clit before sweeping his tongue through your folds, gathering up the wetness. a moan leaves his lips, and the vibration sends a wave of need through you as you squeeze his hair, force him back down on your cunt, nose dragging against your clit. “osamu, please.”

“ah, ah, ah,” he stops, licking his lips that are moist from your juices as his head lifts from between your thighs. a dark smile stretches across his features, calculating and cruel. “where are your manners, sweetheart? i don’t want you to cum too quickly.” 

you’re not sure what he means until you feel your hands pinned to the bed by an invisible force, the power of the angelic creature before you, finally obvious. you can’t move, can’t even writhe against him, even as you try to thrust your hips forward, gain any sort of relief from the position. 

he laughs at you, so pitiful at your desperation to be touched. “much better,” he says, and returns to lap at your cunt, tongue already stretching you as his fingers graze your thigh. 

“s-samu,” you say, feeling the heavy pressure build down in your stomach. “want,” your cheeks grow hot, and you’re tingling with a need to touch him, but you can’t move. his pace is too steady, too slow. you’ve never wanted to scream more. “want your fingers. please, please.” 

“please? such a good girl.” osamu grins against your pussy. the sound of his tongue slurping at your arousal is loud in the darkened space, and you clench around him, burning with need and shame. “you taste so good, too. better than any of the fucking shit in heaven. fuck.” he slips a finger in then, working at your clenching hole as his tongue curls around your clit, rubbing at the sensitive bud. 

your words leave you in a cry, every muscle in your body aching. “please, i want to move. let me touch you, i want to, i—”

“i’m not letting you go that easy,” osamu says, and he pulls his mouth away, his face glistening, soaked. his fingers curl into you and you squeeze your eyes tight as he reaches deeper, to the second knuckle. “you’re so fucking worked up. bet you could cum at the sound of my voice alone.” 

“i wanna, please, i’m so close—"

he laughs, looking up at you from under dark lashes. “already?” the sound is mocking, nothing about it soft as he kisses your inner thigh. he sees the desperation in your irises as you can do nothing but stare, unable to twitch a single muscle. “gonna cum all over my face?” he asks, and he’s back between your legs, tongue diving into you. “make a mess on me, sweetheart, wanna see that pretty face of yours when you cum.” 

you don’t think you’ve every felt like this before, basked in the moonlight as the angelic man soaks his face with your desire, smiling at the sight of you so sinful. your heart hammers in your chest as you remember what you’ve promised him—that you would be his forever and, perhaps, this is what forever entails. 

breathy moans leave you, and with each thrust of his tongue, you’re left with less words on your lips, less thoughts in your mind. “feels so good, you’re so good, osamu,” you babble, over and over. 

osamu reaches the deep spot inside of you, and you squeeze him, clenching as you come on his fingers, cry out in the space of black room, nothing but the stars to guide you. you’re not sure you’ve ever come this fast before, not without the help of your own hands, but osamu just continues to lap at your cunt, drinking the juices and making lewd noises of pleasure at the taste of you. “mm,” he hums, “so fucking perfect.”

he fists his cock, already hard as his tongue swirls inside of you, and you lose any train of thought, too focused on the way he’s making you feel. 

osamu is hard, leaking before he shifts onto his knees, rubbing his cock between your folds, gathering slick at the tip. “want my cock, baby? such a pretty thing deserves it, don’t you think?”

you nod, muttering syllables you don’t even understand. osamu teases you, drags his cock against your hole as he kisses your lips. 

“use your words, sweetheart,” he smiles. his soaked fingers leave patterns of your own slick on your stomach. 

you groan, eyelashes wet. “want your cock, ‘samu, please, wanna be stuffed so full,” you babble, and you can’t do anything but lay there, even though you want to touch him, want so badly to shift your hips into him. “please, osamu, please,” 

he makes a noise in the back of his throat, grinning as he plays with your nipple, lining himself against your dripping hole. “so fucking sweet for me, anyone would think you were the angel, wouldn’t they?” osamu asks, and then he sinks into you, slow, eyes careful as he searches for any pain in your features. 

you blink up at him, making a soft noise as you writhe under your skin. “b-big,” you say, feeling him stretch your walls as he sinks further. 

though his eyes are careful, he doesn’t bother to stop, each second dragging as he inches further into you. he laces his fingers with yours on the bed, grinning as dark hair falls into his eyes. “i think you can take it, can’t you? you’ve been sogood for me already.” 

sucked into the coolness of his gaze, you don’t realize that he’s released you from whatever spell you’ve been trapped under, kept helpless on the bed. you gasp as he sinks into you completely, aching from a mix of discomfort and the deep need with you. 

“too much,” you say, but he sinks further, deeper, and your walls clench around him, bringing a heavy groan out of both of you. “fuck, please, let me move, i—” 

“i’m not stopping you,” he kisses you hard, sloppy as his saliva drags across your lips. there’s a possessiveness in the way he fucks you, dragging his mouth across your own, claiming you as his. “you take it so fucking well, angel, slipping right into this soaked pussy.”

his words take a moment to reach your disoriented mind, and when you try to move, you can, your hands flying to his shoulders to bring him closer. your whimpers are loud in the hollow room, and osamu loves the sound of you, drinking each little whisper in like a heavenly elixir. 

“you’re so pretty,” he says, kissing across your forehead as you arch into him. “making you feel good, hm? so fucking innocent, and i’m ruining you.” 

“mmm,” you force the sound out as osamu thrusts into you, hard against the mattress, his hips moving in a steady, fast rhythm. hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat, his brown eyes even darker in the midnight hour. 

your fingers graze across his back, between his shoulder blades, and though your touch is featherlight, he freezes, stops immediately with a loud groan as he clamps his teeth down on your shoulder. 

you breath in sync, your chests rising and falling together. “osamu?” you ask, staring up at him, his eyes pinched together tightly as he grits his teeth. 

“sensitive,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “fuck, i’ll cum on the spot if you touch me there.” 

you blink, your haziness clearing as you let your hands fall to your sides. it takes you a moment to realize why he would curl away from your touch there, why he would—

“your wings?” you ask, and he drags his gaze back up to your’s, nodding, before dropping his head onto your collarbone. he exhales into your neck, resuming a slow, steady pace inside you. though, you place a hand on his chest, feel his erratic heartbeat. “can i see?” 

“you don’t want to.” 

you pinch your eyebrows together, but he shifts his hips, forces a cry out of you as you collapse back down against the mattress. “i do,” you argue, but he’s fucking you mercilessly, sensuous sounds echoing in the room as he attempts to distract you. “i want to.” 

he’s about to deny your request, but you let out another soft please, batting your eyelashes so sweetly. your cheeks are flushed from the heat in the room, and, for some reason, he relents, bowing his head in some sort of remorse. slowly, his wings span out across the room. 

you lose your breath for a moment as you stare at them, muddled from the feeling of him inside and the beautiful sight before you. the wings are thick, black and feathery, spanning the length of the room, casting a dark shadow over you. they’re strong and unwavering, with a sheen that could be seen only on a raven, the light turning the shades from a deep purple to green. 

“oh,” you can’t mutter anything else as he drags his tip against the sensitive spot inside you. “oh, they’re so beautiful. fuck, osamu, i can’t—”

you can’t stop yourself from touching them, dragging a gentle touch against one of the feathers. osamu cries out, groans into your mouth as your walls clench around him, sweat dripping between you as your chest presses against his own.

“shit,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “oh, i’m so close. gonna make me come, aren’t you, baby? squeezing me so fucking tight, touching me like that.” 

his eyes are hazy, and, somehow, for some reason, he’s let you have control of the situation. he kisses your face, treats you with a gentleness you didn’t think he was capable of, his lips so warm against your skin. 

the dark, heavy wings cage you in, falling over the two of you, and you run your fingers against them once more as you feel another orgasm creep upon you. your clit rubs against him, and your slick drips between the two of you, down your thighs as your breath catches in your throat. 

for a moment, you revel in the feeling of him deep inside you, and you close your eyes, his feathered wings so soft under your palm, letting your pleasure overtake you.

though that is short-lived as osamu pinches your jaw.

“hey,” he says gruffly, “look at me. want to see those pretty eyes of yours when you cum.” and though his eyes are soft, delicate from the way you’re stroking his wings, he sounds so mean, so possessive. “gonna fuck all my cum inside you, cause you’re mine now.”

your fingers curl around the feathers, hard as you tug him down towards you. osamu moans deep into your mouth when you clench around him, your orgasm rolling over you again as you scream his name into the blackness of the room. 

“such a good girl f’me, fuck, i—” he doesn’t finish his sentence, already filling your soaked pussy with his cum. it seeps deep inside of you, coating your walls white until he pulls out, lets his seed drip between the two of you. 

osamu presses his fingers across your face, dragging the delicate touch around your jaw, your chin as you breath heavily, still awestruck by the creature before you. you’re exhausted, sleepy, eyes hazy as you regard him with stuttered breath. 

but he doesn’t let you go, kissing you over and over again with flushed lips. “i know you can give me one more,” he says in a low voice, humming against your throat. “my perfect mortal girl. just one more, and i’ll give you whatever you want, got it, pretty?” 

your body aches, sensitive and spent, but you don’t object when he slips another finger into, kissing you hard as he lets you touch his raven wingspan. 

you’d always wanted to be an actress, anyways. 

tags: @hannzai @cha0thicpisces @kissesmellow21 @sukiischaotic @hinata7346

OCTOBER MASTERLIST

[johnkahner]

hello! You could make headcanons of the brothers Lin Kuei and sub zero and Scorpion from mk11 (separated) who go to her partner's family reunion and her family starts insulting her for things she didn't do and even that she doesn't deserve to be with the character, but the because the reader is shy and nervous, she does not say anything and feels hurt by her family's words, the character decides to defend her honor.

Another request I would like to ask you is with sub zero and Scorpion from mk11 (separated) when the reader is kidnapped and found half beaten and bleeding. They get angry when they see their partner in that state and all hell breaks loose

Greetings from Argentina!🥰

AN: Hello! I don't think I have interacted with someone from Argentina. I'm from one of the southern states in the United States. I will write and post your other request separate from this one. I kinda struggled writing this one ngl. I hope you enjoy it. Not proof read.

Notes: Female! Reader, Mean Family

The two of you arrive at the reunion, and he offers to get you some refreshments so you have time to reconnect with your family by yourself. Once he walked away the insults and complaints started rushing at you like they were bullets to your self-confidence. You stood there with your head down and body trembling. You don’t say anything to them, but their words are hurting you. When he returns with your favorite drink, he hears someone say words that pissed him off. 

“I don’t see how anyone could love anyone like you, scum.” 

Bi-Han / Sub-Zero

When Bi-Han hears someone say that, he is pissed. How dare someone say that to his girlfriend! The surrounding area is now cold, and ice is starting to form near him. He rushes over to the person who said that he starts to beat them up till their face is all bloodied up. He didn’t care if they were your relatives, no one has the right to talk to you like that. When he’s done with that he walks over to you and kisses the top of your head. You two begin to leave and what he says to everyone there has them scared for their lives. 

“That was a warning. If this ever happens again there will never be a next time.”

Kuai Liang / Scorpion

When Kuai Liang hears someone say that, he is worried. Why is your family treating you this way? He didn’t think that they would be this blatantly rude about you with him here, even if he was just away from you for a few moments. He would walk over to the person that said that place a hand on their shoulder, and say, “What gives you the right to say that about her? I think you are the scum here.” Not only does the person freak out, he would slowly begin to add heat to their shoulder till flames slowly begin to appear. They rush off. He walks over to you, puts his arm around you, and kisses your forehead. 

“Let’s leave, these people don’t deserve to have you in their presence.”

Tomas Vrbada / Smoke

When Tomas hears someone say that, he is panicked. He is reminded of how Bi-Han treats him. The words may not be the exact same, but he doesn’t want you to be treated in this manner. He would march over to the person who said that, and punch them in the face. Just hard enough to break their nose. He would then make his way over to you. He pulls you into a hug. His embrace is full of warmth and security. 

“If you want, we don’t have to interact with them again. If that is what you want.”

Kuai Liang / Sub-Zero

When Kuai Liang hears someone say that, he is distraught. He understands that not all families are harmonious, but he feels uneasy when it involves you. You’re the only person that is there for him, so it’s only natural for him to do the same for you. He would only need to stand menacingly and glare at the person that said those words to you. That would be the one and only warning to your family. As you two leave the reunion, he has an arm wrapped around you. 

“Please do not take their false words to heart. You are the one and only for me. I love you.”

Hanzo Hasashi / Scorpion

When Hanzo hears someone say that, he is fuming. Why on earth would your own family, your flesh and blood, talk to you like this. It took him a long time to try, and find love again after what happened to Harumi. After everything he has been through you were his anchor after the two of you met. He knows he needs to be your anchor at this moment. He would approach the person, grab them by the throat, and throw them to the ground. Scaring everyone around, but you were not scared. You had a feeling if he heard any of their words it would piss him off. He would grab you by the hand, holding it securely, and the two of you would leave. 

“I love you so much. Let me be the one to protect you in times like this.” 

[ambermotta]

Cleansing Basics – Crash Course

What is cleansing? When should I do it? How do I do it?

These are some of the questions I'll be tackling today. I hope this post will be useful to those who are not quite familiar with how to cleanse and why it's important for any witch or pagan practice!

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

Long post based on my experience and research. Meant to be informative. I don't claim to know the absolute truth.

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

What is cleansing?

Cleansing is clearing away energy from someone, something or somewhere.

When should I cleanse?

Whenever you need to clear away energy.

Personal opinion: you should cleanse yourself and your house at least weekly.

It is generally recommended that you periodically cleanse magical items and cleanse before and after any type of magical/ spiritual work. Cleansing before contacting deities (even if it's just prayer) is also considered "standard protocol" in some cultures, like in Hellenic paganism and Shintoism.

From my personal experience I do feel I can connect better with spiritual beings when I cleanse beforehand, but I believe my emotional state has a bigger influence on the matter. Cleansing generally calms me down too so –

Why should I cleanse?

The number one reason you'll see cleansing everywhere is because it is a way to help get rid of excess negative energy.

I'm not going to say you can clear away all of it because as living humans, we are constantly emanating energy and a lot of times it is "negative" energy. Which is okay, it's part of being alive. Plus, there are other factors that come into play.

However, cleansing often can help you stay in touch with spirituality and ease your mind since you'll be getting rid of excess (and oftentimes unwated) energy.

Cleansing also comes into play when you want to clear away any other kind of energy, for example, when you get a new magical tool (such as a tarot deck) or finish a magical working. You don't necessarily want the energy that was on that object or that spell sticking to you all day, you know?

How to prepare for cleansing?

First of all, gather your stuff. Gather everything you need and try to avoid interruptions.

I personally recommend you always do a physical cleaning up of whatever you are going to cleanse. Tidy up your house, take a shower, and clean your magical items (if possible).

Dirt and clutter feel bad, and it can distract the mind. Starting your cleansing in the physical plane can definitely make it more powerful in the astral too.

How do I cleanse?

Most cultures/religions/spiritual practices have their own way of doing things (ex: hellenic pagans have khernips), so first of all, do your research! And respect the fact that some things are out of your reach.

There are A LOT of techniques you can use to cleanse that are not particularly tied to a single culture and that can be done in many different ways. I'll quickly go through some of them, but it is by no means an extensive list.

Cleansing with the 4 elements:

Earth: I've mainly seen this in two ways, which are sending energy to the earth (something like grounding) and burrying objects.

Fire: commonly used together with air in smoke cleansing. There's also energy work that pulls energy and sends it towards the fire for cleansing (either a candle, a bonfire, or a visualization flame)

Water: mostly used for cleansing yourself or objects. It can be through herb baths and showers, rain/sea/river water, salt water, or sacred waters. For cleansing spaces, there are things such as water spray bottles and floor washes (though I've only seen this one being used in hoodoo). Careful with objects, some may not be resistant to water.

Air: generally the most common for cleansing spaces or people. Usually achieved by lighting up incense or herbs with cleansing properties and using the smoke to cleanse.

Sidenote: burning a herbs ≠ from smudging. Smudging is a native american practice that is closed to their people. Don't smudge, don't call some herb-burning smudging. It's not the same thing. Stick with what's appropriate for your culture.

Sun and moon: using sunlight or moonlight to cleanse (and often charge) yourself or objects. Always make sure what you are cleansing can actually be left in the sun and handle weather.

Crystals: Some crystals have cleansing properties, usually back ones (onyx, obsidian, black tourmaline), smoky quartz, and selenite, to name a few. Keep in mind that they usually need to be cleansed periodically, too.

Sound: Praying, chanting, singing, music, and using bells or drums are some ways you can use sound to cleanse.

Visualization: There are many techniques used for cleansing this way. While it can be effective, it is definitely not for everyone as a lot of people will find that using tools is easier and more consistent. Visualization requires some practice and a lot of focus.

What to do after cleansing?

That depends on your objective.

If you are cleansing a space, such as your home, and you want to keep it "clean" for longer, you can cast a protection spell.

If you are cleansing yourself or an object, you may want to do a Charging of some sort. When you cleanse, you are getting something out, which opens up space for the new, so you can use this as an opportunity to "fill in" with another type of energy.

Conclusion

Cleansing is very versatile and unique to each practice. There are a lot of things you can do that are fairly neutral, but in general, cleansing always has the same purpose and is done in a similar fashion.

Knowing what your tradition (if you have one) usually does to cleanse objects, people, and places can be very enriching, so do your research!

Thank you for reading!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

You Say Bark, I Say Bite

Prompt Day 1: Open Mic Night | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Smoking | Tags: Pre-S4, Pre-Steddie, Platonic Stobin, Corroded Coffin

"No, no, no," Steve says, waving his hand in front of him. He's not doing this. 

"Steve, please," Robin begs, "it's just one night. For me. You love me." 

There are so many other ways they could spend a Saturday night that don't involve listening to shitty musicians. They'll all suck. He knows that. They've done this before, and he's never heard anything he's liked. 

"Steve. For me," she pleads, giving him the eyes. 

He sighs. He was always going, but he's not happy about it. And he wants Robin to know that. 

"Tammy Thompson sounds like a Muppet," Steve says.

"You've said," Robin mumbles, annoyed. 

That's the whole reason they're here in Indianapolis tonight, at some under twenty-one club, listening to teens and college kids play shitty music. To hear Tammy Thompson nasal her way through a song or two.

Someone brought a goddamn flute. To an open mic night. A flute. These people are all weirdos. No talent to be found.

Then the little stage is suddenly bustling with movement, bringing in actual instruments and equipment. Okay, maybe they're getting somewhere. This has to be better than another douchebag with a guitar.

Oh, no. 

That's definitely a douchebag with a guitar.

"Is that…Eddie Munson?" Steve asks, cutting Robin a look. 

"Well, duh," Robin says, totally unbothered by this very weird turn of events, "he has a band, you know that."

He knows that? He doesn't know that. He knows Eddie Munson is a dealer. He knows Eddie Munson is a freak. But he didn't know Eddie Munson played the guitar.

"I didn't fucking know that," Steve says, confused, wrinkling his forehead.

"They play at The Hideout every week. Eddie, Jeff, Gareth and Goodie. Corroded Coffin. You know that. Everybody knows that. Eddie is always hanging up flyers everywhere."

News to him. He doesn't know any of these guys. Who the fuck is Goodie? That's not even a name.

"I think you're making shit up. I don't recognize any of those guys. Like, not at all. Did they go to Hawkins? While I was there?"

Robin looks at him like he's an asshole. Okay, they must have. 

"They gotta be way younger," Steve finally says, indignant. "I know Eddie. Because he's been a senior for the last five years."

She gives him a withering look, "Three years. Last three years."

Like that's better. 

Eddie is quietly helping the drummer get his shit set up as fast as they can, and Steve watches. This should be good. This will be way more entertaining than Tammy Thompson. Because he can't fathom what Eddie Munson might think is good music. God, Steve hopes he tries to sing. 

He's positive this will be worth the cover charge, for sure. A trainwreck.

It's not a trainwreck. Eddie Munson falls back, and the black kid takes the mic. Okay, he didn't expect that. He expected Munson to be front and center.

"Who's the singer?" 

"Jeff Williams. His sister was in your class," Robin hisses. 

Oh, okay. Molly Williams was fun. She wouldn't give him the time of day when he tried to get her to go on a date with him, but fun. He didn't even know she had a little brother.

They start playing a song, and Steve doesn't recognize it.

Jeff shouts, "All aboard!" and laughs as the drummer starts clicking his sticks together, then playing, and it's okay. Fine. 

Then, Eddie starts playing the guitar. 

Goddammit. 

Steve hates to be wrong, and hates that this is really working for him. Eddie Munson looks at ease, happy, and kinda hot. Steve's never seen him look like that at school. Not once. Munson is snarky, snappy. Always quick to bite back. Funny, for sure, but Steve would avoid him, because Munson never shied away from trying to make Steve look stupid at every fucking turn. 

But he can play the guitar, apparently.

Robin nudges his shoulder, "They're good, right?"

He nods, not looking away. They're good.

They play another heavy song, but it's Queen. They're doing a metal cover of Bicycle Race, and that amuses Steve, he likes Queen.

After they're done playing, Steve makes excuses, and slips outside into the alley. He's pretty sure Eddie Munson isn't going to stay to watch this other shit.

Eventually, there he is, guitar case in hand. Steve thinks he'd like to ride him like a bicycle, and that's a new thought.

About Eddie. Not about men. 

"Oh, hey," Steve says, leaning against the wall of the alley, smoking a cigarette he bummed. Robin will kill him, but he needs an excuse to be out here. Like he wasn't waiting. Even if he totally was.

"Harrington," Eddie says with contempt, "what brings you out here with us freaks?"

"Robin," Steve says, and Eddie gives him a look.

"Buckley's really friends with you? I thought that was a terrible rumor."

Steve pretends that doesn't hurt, and just nods.

"Too bad, I like her," Eddie says, and this was a mistake. What the fuck was he thinking? Eddie Munson will just give him a tongue-lashing, and not in a fun way. He's an idiot for thinking otherwise. Steve isn't this hard up. 

"Okay, well, you guys looked good," Steve says, pushing himself off the wall. 

Eddie laughs, incredulous, "You thought we looked good?" 

"Sounded," Steve corrects. 

"You, King Steve, thought we sounded good? I've been to your house parties. You don't listen to metal. Do you even know who Ozzy is?"

Steve doesn't, and shakes his head. And Eddie's been to his house? Since when? Nevermind. Doesn't matter.

"You guys were good compared to all that other shit I had to sit through tonight. You sounded like, you know, actual music. I guess." 

Eddie raises an eyebrow, like he can see right through Steve. 

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit.

Steve suddenly feels like he's in big trouble. Trapped. Backed into a corner.

Eddie smiles and takes a step towards him, and it's predatory.

Steve swallows.

Oh, he's definitely in trouble.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, head on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🎤

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my tag, right here!

[erisweekofficial]

Tonight we're SO excited to celebrate @littlest-w01f! 👀

🔥 Are you a fan of OCs? Want to read about multiple OCs? Anna's got you covered! Her Eris masterlist has several fics you can check out, but we recommend checking out Flames and Darkness, a mulit-chapter story that has us sitting at the edge of our seats.

We dare you to read her Eris Omegaverse week fic ft. Eris getting pegged 🤭

Read more to learn about @littlest-w01f 's thoughts on Eris and what she's getting him for secret santa!

What inspired you to start writing for Eris? And especially for Eris x OC instead of any other ship? I feel like there is so much to Eris that we don't know yet, we've barely begun to scratch the surface of his character. And honestly, from everything we do know about him, he has the makings of an amazing character if he's done justice (And I really hope I do). I feel like Eris is the kind of a character that if you try hard enough, you can ship him with anyone, and it will always make perfect sense. While I was reading Acowar I already was in love with what he could be so I built onto that and started getting fic ideas, some might think that he's lightly OOC in my fics, but he's perfect to me. I ship him with multiple of my OCs, I look at his character and decide what type of person would suit him best and build my character off of that till they are their own person whose sole purpose isn't being shipped with Eris, and sometimes the original reason I shipped them changes and I can see for myself that these OCs I have created always end up being more intimately attached to the character I pair them with as time goes by. I love my pairings cause they are special to me. I put him with many different types of characters and I love writing how he reacts differently to them, he's more cold to some he's a puddle of fluff with some.

What are some of Eris's most misunderstood qualities?

 I feel like we don't really know the real canon Eris at all, because we're seeing things from the pov of the Night Court so there is no reason for him to be his true self with them and it's easy for him to be lumped with "people who don't like/care for the IC" and some people hate him for that while the others love it when there is so much more to him. Obviously many people have pointed out the similarities between Eris and Rhys, but the main difference between them is that we see Rhys from the eyes of someone he loves and cares for that's why we see him giving reasons to his actions, while with Eris we haven't got that yet. Even still, it is clear to see that Eris has a close relationship with his guards and was genuinely worried for them when they were taken. Just because he doesn't care enough for one set of characters, doesn't mean he doesn't care at all. I doubt anyone knows the complete true Eris as of now but I hope we get to.

Can you give me a name for one of Eris's brothers? And also for one of his dogs?

Omg thank you for asking me this, I love names and their meanings, Eris is the damn lady of strife and I think it's all pretty cool. I named the second Vanserra son "Arlin" in one of my fics and will carry it forward for the rest of the fics which means "Warrior", which makes sense to me as after the Heir comes the Warrior. For the puppies, well smoke hounds, the youngest is "Ivy" in my eyes cause she always loves getting tangled up in vines and Eris has to free her every two seconds before she rushes off again to tackle vegetation, and that image in my head is too cute.

You have to get Eris a gift for secret santa - What are you getting him?

A. New. Father! With a ribbon and everything. Talking seriously, I feel like he's never had something cute before so a soft little fox stuffie or something along those lines I HC that Beron threw away any toys Eris had when he deemed Eris too old to play/have fun... That b*tch 😒

[snaillock]

your relationship with bllk men as mitski songs

(kaiser, sae, oliver)

my posting has been very slow recently so to celebrate mitskis new album (and to feed into my eternal obsession for her music and lyricism by combining it with another thing im way too obsessed with), i dug up this old ass draft and finished it instead of giving y’all an actual fic

tags: gn!reader, angst(it’s mitski duh), yeah basically no fluff/comfort in here, suggestive-ish in the oliver one, me being a dork and combining two big interests of mine

michael kaiser - i don’t smoke

So if you need to be mean Be mean to me I can take it and put it inside of me If your hands need to break More than trinkets in your room You can lean on my arm As you break my heart

his career can be a lot on his shoulders at times even with the cocky and arrogant facade he puts on for the performance of each match he plays. he has a tendency to keep it all in to bask in the glory of his luxurious life.

you understand. you know he’s currently too prideful to deal with his true feelings, especially all on his own. you just want to be there to know he isn’t alone and that he can be open with you. so you sit there, giving him a listening ear as he lashes out and releases every awful word in the book towards you when everything finally becomes too much for him to bear. you wouldn’t want him to have a very public meltdown when it happens so it’s better this way. you have remind yourself to take none of it to heart because he doesn’t mean those all harsh words. he just needed an outlet for those frustrations.

you also don’t want the weight and significance of his career to separate you two. you’re already so damn lucky to be with someone like him. you want to prove that you can handle it. you know you can. you’re sure you can help him figure this all out somehow. love just takes compassion and patience, that’s all it is. just taking it one step at a time.

it’s just compassion and patience. right?

Just don't leave me alone Wondering where you are I am stronger than you give me credit for

sae itoshi - i want you

You're coming back And it's the end of the world We're starting over and I love you darlin' And I am done, dear

he swears he will make time for you someday. sure those words have been promised over and over again like a broken record but he truly does love you. however you’re starting to wonder if mutual love is truly enough to keep you two going.

the truth is his life is currently too big and important for him to take any focus away from it. the last thing he needs is a distraction. all of which he has very clear multiple times, even along with his contrastingly hopeful promises. though his tone is quite neutral, never letting his emotions seep through as if he’s programmed to do so. meanwhile you have to desperately hold yours back to not seem like an idiot.

it’s never been easy to express how you feel in front of him. you desperately wish you could but the inconsistency of your relationship that’s barely holding up renders it pointless. this over and over/back and forth thing that’s going on between you two is exhausting. it only leaves you lost and confused. you begin to wonder if staying is even worth it at all. even with the speck of hope that it could eventually work out. even if you love him.

You're in the house And I am here in the car I just need a quiet place Where I can scream how I love you

oliver aiku - eric

You like control, well, I do too Take off my clothes and watch me move You can come closer, I'll let you hurt me how you choose

you deeply crave a loving and fulfilling connection with another but unfortunately the other you desire is him. a guy who’s born to be a player and only wants to fool around with multiple people.

you know getting attached would only cause you so much unnecessary pain but your naive heart couldn’t resist him. you know that he doesn’t see you for more than what you give him at night but you were still a fool to fall for him.

enough of a fool to fall for him knowing he’s not ready to settle for one person. you could see it from how you would lovingly gaze at him while he leers at someone else behind you. you would still give yourself up to him if you could, offering anything he wanted out of you.

despite better judgment, you stay with a pained and aching heart. constantly yearning for more.

But how long, how long can we play this way? I'm tired, I'm tired of not loving you My heart, my heart wants to hold you But I know, I know, I know the rules

taglist(lemme know if you wanna be added): @userwithlotsoftime @lucas2060

[madlori]

The Claw is our master.

I've had a few folks in DMs ask me how/why/when my shipping did such a completey 180. It's a fair question. I am, after all, someone who spent the last 2 years fervently Buddie shipping, writing fic for them, doing the same hoping/analyzing/searching etc that everyone else (well...not exactly the same, I've always been skeptical of most of the theories and such because I don't believe in a production's ability to be that sneaky, covert or mischievous).

And yet, here I am. I can't really even pretend I'm still a Buddie shipper anymore. Initially I said sure, I still hope for it. I...can't in all honesty say that now. I've firmly decamped for BuckTommy Land. Is this a recipe for heartbreak if they eventually breakup? Sure, but that's always a risk. No more than shipping a non-canon pairing, anyway.

And there's nothing wrong with shipping a non-canon pairing. People do it every day. Hell, it's practically the backbone of fandom. Obsessing about ships being canon is a one-way ticket to dissatisfaction and sometimes total unraveling. I've seen it happen more times than I can count over 30 years in online fandoms.

But if that's the case, why didn't I stay on Team Buddie? Why did I defect so thoroughly that I'm at the point now where not only do I not think Buddie will ever happen, I don't want it to, because I now want to see something different from those two characters, something I believe we will actually get from the writers.

The answer to that question is: I have no idea.

People ask this like I'm somehow in control of it. I'm not. The Fandom Brain is like The Claw in Toy Story. The Claw is our Master. The Claw decided who will go and who will stay.

Fandom Brain is my master. It decides what I'm going to ship, what I'm going to be fannish about and what I'm not, and when I'm going to stop feeling fannish about something. I have zero say in the matter, I'm just along for the ride. At some point in every fandom I have ever been in, my Fandom Brain has, usually with no provocation, decided "Ok we're done with this fandom now." And nothing I can do will make that not true. I can't force it. I can't cajole it. It just is.

Similarly, Fandom Brain has decided "Welp, we're done with this pairing now. We like THIS pairing now. Proceed." Are there reasons? I'm sure there are.

Is it just that it's a canon pairing? Possibly. There is something very seductive about a canon pairing after so long of looking for crumbs and tiny hints where there (mostly) none to find. But I've shipped plenty of non-canon pairings before.

Is it that I prefer Tommy/Lou to Eddie/Ryan? Absolutely not. I love Eddie, always have. I admit to being slightly more of a Buck girlie, but that doesn't mean Eddie means nothing to me.

Is it the immediate gratification? Maybe. Is it just how the relationship's being written? Possibly. Is it just a mental adjustment for my belief that Buddie will never happen, and Eddie will always be straight? Likely. But that doesn't change the outcome.

So here I sit, just...yep. Sometimes it just be like that. I didn't choose this, it's just what my brain decided was going to work for me going forward. If this goes up in smoke, my brain will choose something else, whether it's to run back to Buddie, or be done with 9-1-1 entirely, or who knows what else?

The good news for any of you who follow my writing is that I'm still working on the next Husbros installment. That universe is removed enough from the canon that it almost feels separate to me now, and I'm still feeling connected to it. Yes, I've written a few short BT fics, but so far I've not had any lengthy or involved plot bunnies for it.

So there you have it. I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me. I don't know if I'd have chosen this if I could, but tbh I'm having a pretty good time with it so far, so. That's probably a big part of the reason.

[tubby1230]

Lil bit of making out below, be careful (very minor NSFW (does kissing count??? I am so confused, help)).

(Transcripts Below)

Heyyyyy, disappeared for a bit and came back with an 8-page comic. This goes with the reverse AU I made a bit ago. This is the first slightly NSFW thing I've ever drawn (where are my Ace babes, wassup) and was cringing the whole but it's done. One of my personal headcannons for the canon characters is Stone smokes but stopped when he worked for the doctor because he has asthma or some shit. In my AU, he tries to wean off it but gets annoyed. Robotnik helps him keep him mouth busy with lollipops (and other things 👀). Hope you enjoy it (spent way longer on it than I should've) and have a good day!

Transcripts:

Page 1

Stone: "---Goddamn idiots-----"

Stone: "'It's not necessary' they say---like they're the doctor---"

Stone: "---I swear, if I have to deal with them for one more moment, I'm gonna kill someone."

Page 2

Stone: "Now I can take a quick break. One can't hurt. Fu- stupid lighter."

Robotnik: "Apologies, sir but smoking is not permitted inside."

Page 3

Stone: "Hey! Do you know who I- Oh. It's you."

Stone: "Stand down, Agent. Give me back my cigarette and leave."

Robotnik: "Afraid I can't do that, sir."

Stone: "I said...GIMMIE!"

Page 4

Stone: *strained* "Just...give it-ugh-to me! I am your...superior! (stupid tall...)"

Robotnik: "Nope. Can't. I am here to keep you safe & healthy, even from yourself."

Stone: "AHA! Well, forget those orders for now. I don't need a baby--sitter..."

Page 5

Robotnik: "Something wrong, Doctor?"

Robotnik: "I heard lollipops were healthier."

Page 6

Robotnik: "HCK-"

Robotnik: I...can't...breathe...

Page 7

Stone: "Never think you can outsmart me, Agent. Got it? Dismissed."

[agust-june]

Let's talk about KIM DOYOUNG...

I just came here to say if I CATCH yall defending Doyoung out here it's blocked on fucking site. I need yall Ncitzens and Kpop stans to STAND THE FUCK UP.

Out here posting pictures of ugly ass snowmen with MCDONALDS BS. GFTOFH. I saw this yesterday but Koreaboo pissed me off and these tweets of these fucking weirdos made me mad. So imma talk about it here.

Imma post screen shots of tweets and for those of you that are clearly not assholes or not delusional, let's point and laugh.

Fuck the first tweet bc though he is not supposed to be making political statement. That's what he's doing. And I will drop that man like a trash bag into the dumpster. The SECOND TWEET FUCK KIM DOYOUNG'S FEELINGS. Fuck him what about the feelings of the Palestinian fans that he has? What about the people you are actively dying from bombs? starvation? Dehydration? What about them? Out here actively making SNOW MEN using McDonald's shit FUCK HIM. AND FUCK YOU TOO WEIRD ASS BITCH.

The first tweet here. It's not about his family or friends. Doyoung is in the public posting pictures of McDonald's snowmen. He's fucking weird. And if we find out about his family and Friends they can get the smoke too. They ain't special. The last tweet on the bottom...yall spend too much online into kpop. I need people to be educated and up-to-date in the world bc what do you mean does that country exists??? I need people to WAKE UP GO TO FUCKING SCHOOL OR GET HOBBIES OUTSIDE OF KPOP PLEASE AND THANK YOU.

We knew SM wasn't shit. We knew. Doyoung, I am not shocked he's in SM. I like to give people chances but once you fuck up you fuck up. And THIS??? Oh baby you lucky SM needs you for they check which is why I will not be supporting Doyoung and I will give you the Wendy treatment bye bitch.

Hell isn't hot enough. That's all imma say.

On that note, I want to add that as a K-pop fan and Ncitizen, I am greatly disappointed, but I am not surprised. I had a FEELING someone in NCT was gonna do this bs. For once, I was hoping to be proven wrong. But that hoes to show you... we don't know these groups. He isn't the only one supporting these companies. Other idols are, too.

Here's some links to other idols

I also want to note that I will be taking my Doyoung post down even though it had Johnny in it. I'm clutching my pearls like a southern white woman and leaving. I can't get rid of the merch I bought, especially my DoJaeJung albums, but I won't be buying anymore. I understand some of these idols are under contract. For example, New Jeans they have a contract with Coca-Cola, and they just had a meal with McDonald's. That I completely understand. But ACTIVELY spending money to McDonald's and Starbucks and posting it!?!? Nah, you gotta go. Idc who you are. I don't care you have godly teir vocals you're done. It's not that hard to TRY to do something good. I am actively avoiding Starbucks, McDonald's, actively staying up to date on what's going on in the world. It's not just Palestine. It's Congo. Sudan. Yemen. If I can do all of that work a job. Go to school. Watch One Piece (an anime that actively talks about corrupt governments, genocide, war, propaganda, etc). Kim fucking Doyoung and other kpop idols can do it too. They just don't care and want to keep rolling their checks (he probably need to with that pocket change he probably getting). I AM BEGGING yall K-pop stans who still don't get it to STAND UP. Get a life. Read a fucking book. Because yall look dumb as hell, and I'm sorry, but my EGO MY PRIDE will not allow me to be dumb and continue to turn a blind eye when I know people are dying in a genocide. And for those of you saying "well just educate the idol." Baby, there's a reason why college is for adults, and it's not a mandatory if grown adults want to make the choice to learn they'll do it. These idols are GROWN it's not my job to educate adults who are older than me, and it shouldn't be your job either, especially FOR FREE.

I hope yall have a good day today, and I hope yall stay safe out there!

[cherryc1nnam0n]

Coffee for your head | Eddie Munson x FEM!Reader

Summary: Eddie is in his death bed... He has so much to say...

Cw: Major angst warning!! Major character death, sad topics, illness, death bed, agonizing, little smut

Writer's note: This is based off Death Bed by Powfu. I was listening to it when coming home from work, and I wanted to write it as Eddie and you

Don't stay away for too long, don't go to bed

I'll make a cup of coffee for your head

It'll get you up and going out of bed

"I'm sorry, you don't have long enough... Maybe, 4 months"

That was the moment their lives changed

Only at age 25 Eddie Munson has been diagnosed with lung cancer, terminal, there was nothing the doctors could do to safe him

"Eddie... No..." You had whispered grabbing his hand

A lonely tear had left his eye without him noticing, he just let out an anguished breath

Yeah, I don't wanna fall asleep, I don't wanna pass away

I been thinking of our future, 'cause I'll never see those days

I don't know why this has happened, but I probably deserve it

I tried to do my best, but you know that I'm not perfect

"I would recommend enjoying the last moments you have together, do the things you love, eat what you like, just, make good memories in the mean time"

The couple had gone home in silence, quiet sobs being heard from her as she held his hand during the ride home

They had moved together 3 years ago, making a small apartment their safe home, but now it had became all moody and sad

It was no lie that Eddie smoked a lot, since he was a teen, but his cancer had been too aggressive and it was taking him out really fast

"What am I gonna do without you Eddie?" You said sobbing into his chest as he held you close to him

"Live..." You cried even harder

"I can't live without you Eddie, you're my whole life"

I been praying for forgiveness, you've been praying for my health

When I leave this Earth, hoping you'll find someone else

'Cause, yeah, we still young, there's so much we haven't done

Getting married, start a family, watch your husband with his son

That night he tried to calm you down my making love to you, slow and tender, with lots of love in each move he made, his kisses filled with sorrow and pain, he knew he didn't have long to do this so he had to enjoy the moments he had you

During the days his health went downhill, he couldn't move a lot, his breathing would be different during the night, you prayed every night to whoever was out there to save him but they never seemed to answer back

Soon he had to use oxygen to breath properly, moving out of the bed was too much work as time went on

"It's almost time for me to go baby..." He had said to you one day

You had cried onto his chest, begging him not to leave you

I wish it could be me, but I won't make it out this bed

I hope I go to Heaven, so I see you once again

My life was kinda short, but I got so many blessings

Happy you were mine, it sucks that it's all ending

"I love you so much Y/n..."

"I love you too Eddie"

"You'll find someone else baby, someone who will love you so much" you shook your head

"I only want you, you're my only love"

He caressed your cheek

I'm happy that you here with me, I'm sorry if I tear up

When me and you were younger, you would always make me cheer up

Taking goofy videos and walking through the park

You would jump into my arms every time you heard a bark

"Remember that day at the fair? When you got lost and I found you near the fountain?" You nodded "I'll find you again in another life baby"

Cuddle in your sheets, sing me sound asleep

And sneak out through your kitchen at exactly 1:03

Sundays, went to church, on Mondays, watched a movie

Soon you'll be alone, sorry that you have to lose me

"You can go Eddie... Rest my love" you had finally accepted what was to come

"I love you..."

"I love you too..."

With one final smile he closed his eyes and finally left this world...

Don't stay away for too long, don't go to bed

I'll make a cup of coffee for your head

It'll get you up and going out of bed

[scullysflannel]

Howdy, hope this finds you well :)

Just dropping in to ask, as someone who’s only up to season 5 of txf, what exactly is it about season 9 that makes it as irredeemable as it is? I plan to go up to season 8 as this show has consumed my life and I’ve done nothing but think about it since I started, but unlike every other season including the revival and second movie, I’m yet to find so much as a good word about season 9 and am morbidly curious as to how they managed to screw the pouch so completely?

Feel free to ignore this one though I appreciate it’s not always fun to talk about the worst of something you adore.

So the thing about season 9 is just that it's not supposed to exist and you can tell. I think there was some pressure from Fox to keep the show going (I tried finding primary sources on this, but googling anything involving "Fox" and "X-Files" and expecting to get info on the studio is a lost cause), even though the season 8 finale was written to work as a series finale, and even though David Duchovny had already made it clear he was not coming back for season 9. The writers' hands were tied in some ways, because they had to work around not having Duchovny after they'd already used up the best excuse for his absence in the books.

But (a) I don't think that's an excuse for the way Mulder's absence in season 9 is handled, which is vague at best and out of character for him and Scully at worst. It's very "out of sight, out of mind" in a way that especially stands out considering how present he feels in season 8. If it's possible to make a version of The X-Files that isn't driven by Mulder (either in his presence or his absence), they didn't find it in season 9.

And (b) the writers also seemed to be writing like their hands were tied when they weren't. The vibe of some of the choices made in season 9, especially when it comes to Scully's story, is very Eric André holding a smoking gun saying "why would Fox do this." It's like, "well we weren't planning on this, but now we have to do it to keep the story going." And the thing is that they actually did not have to do it. There's a bizarre desperation to the way Scully's story is written in season 9. Almost everything they throw at her is traumatic, but also inconsistent and confusing, which makes it all come across as kind of soulless. And it all builds to the most egregious example of "Chris Carter tries to erase the consequences of a story he wrote, thereby creating even more devastating consequences, which he will also ignore" in the history of the show. He didn't have to do that! Scully could have spent a lot of season 9 just being Doggett and Reyes' deadpan pal who does autopsies and it would have been fine.

The thing that "works" "best" about season 9 is that it's theoretically a fresh start, with Doggett and Reyes running the X-Files office: two characters who weren't totally new faces but whose dynamic was mostly unexplored. And to be clear, I think John Doggett rules. The concept of assigning the X-Files to Just a Guy Who's a Very Good Person but Would Rather Be Watching NASCAR is hilarious. I don't think the writers had the same handle on Reyes, but the two of them are interesting together. I will also say I think some of the monster-of-the-week episodes in season 9 (the ones that focus on Doggett and Reyes) are cooler in theory than the motw episodes in season 8.

But it's so rare for those episodes to actually spark. Maybe part of the problem is that, again, the writers made the totally unforced error to focus so much of the mythology on Stressing Scully Out when they could have been deepening Doggett and Reyes' investment in the X-Files outside Scully, which would also liven up their characterization and their dynamic. Season 8 (which has a lot going for it) can skate by on uninteresting motw episodes because Scully's arc in that season is so all-consuming it drives the story forward and makes it meaningful. Season 9 doesn't have that same emotional clarity, so even the motw episodes that have promise feel lacking. (There's also the fact that even if the writers had given Doggett and Reyes better material, they wouldn't be Mulder and Scully. But better material would have helped.)

There's also literally 9/11. I'm this far down on the list of problems with season 9 and I'm just now getting to 9/11. The X-Files gets its edge from its mistrust of the government, but they sanded that down in season 9 because it was so out of step with the mainstream American audience. Until they finally recommitted to critiquing the government in the (original) series finale, the show didn't feel like itself.

It's not even like the problem is the way season 9 ends. The finale is a mixed bag (it's part clip show lol), but I love the final scene, and in most ways it's a more fitting send-off for the show than the final scene of season 8 is. It's just that getting there feels cursed at every step. No one made it out unscathed. There's an episode directed by Michelle MacLaren (her tv directorial debut!) and written by Vince Gilligan, a Breaking Bad partnership for the ages, and even that's bad. Better Call Saul's own Tom Schnauz wrote an episode featuring Aaron Paul and I will never ever watch it again. There's something in the water in season 9. It's just not supposed to be there.

[moosekateer13]

My Regin Ends

Part 3 of You're Losing Me mini series

Warnings:  Angst, Mention of Breakup, Cyberbullying, Harassment,  Self Loathing, Medical Issues, Alcoholism, Death

Summary: After visiting her daughter who shut down her attempts to reconnect with her. Now Y/N's only has a bottle as her company. As her time runs out. She reflects on all her mistakes that led to her being alone.

Inspired by Taylor Swift's Castle's Crumbling Down

My foes and friends watch my reign end. I don't know how it could've ended this way. Smoke billows from my ships in the harbor. People look at me like I'm a monster. Now they're screaming at the palace front gates, used to chant my name.

Now they're screaming that they hate me. Never wanted you to hate me.

Oh how far I've fallen from royalty in the media industry to someone when people don't give a damn about. I'm here sitting in my mansion wearing a worn blue dress. It's the dress I wore when I pushed away the love of my life. I didn't see what was right in front of me. It's something I've been regretting recently. I stare at the coal-black walls reflecting on my life. It feels like I’m drawing in a pit of self-loathing. This place hasn't felt like home in a long time; it's just somewhere to lie down.  

The limelight wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

I started off as a young child star. I got caught up in the glamour of the limelight. I couldn't see the damage it was doing to those around me.

My boyfriend Jared broke up with me. I don't blame him. I was never home and never really looked after our daughter. Delia she hates me and she considers someone else mom. Well, I don't blame her Genevive raised her with Jared. Like an idiot, I signed my rights away and chose fame instead. I've got a grandchild on the way but they'll never call me grandma even if I was still around to see them grow. Jared's wife earned that title. I know I don't deserve it. It's good to see Delia is thriving though. She is a successful artist in both music and painting.  I'm proud of her. Thanks to her upbringing she is the complete opposite of me. I'm just washed up.

After getting trapped in the stereotypical role of heiress. I started to internalize that they were rich, entitled and spoiled. Unlike them, I didn't have any money to fall back on. So I sought comfort in the bottle and have remained in a drunken haze since. If I'm not drinking I'm caught up in an endless amount of flings.

All the stuff I've done to myself caught up with me. I have heart ischemia and don't have long left. Hence why I tried to make amends with all the people that I'd done wrong.  But as usual, I was pushed aside and locked out. What goes around comes around as the old saying goes. 

When I was diagnosed with heart issues. I also found out I had a rare condition called Alice in Wonderland Syndrome. According to the doctor I have had it since I was in my 20s. Since it was left untreated my perception of the world got worse.  The syndrome itself impairs my brain's processing of sensory input. The disruption alters my perception of the size of objects and my own body's feel or appearance. It can also warp my perception of reality. Ding, Ding yup that sure sounds like me I thought to myself when I was first diagnosed. 

I think back to when I was forced into fame by my father as a child. He never cared about my well-being, just saw the dollar signs.

I remember one particular day when I had a fever and he still forced me to work when I was a teenager.

“Come on Y/N you aren't sick. You just don't want to work. Now get your lazy ass into wardrobe.” Dad said

I tried to get more words out but I knew he wouldn't listen so I headed back to wardrobe.  My mom died during childbirth so he's been punishing me for just living. Well, it feels like it anyway. I hope one day I can be a good parent.”

The apple didn't fall from the tree and I ended up not being a good parent.

My head is pounding. I can't think anymore. All I keep hearing is the mob outside my mansion screaming that they hate me. It's been constant for years now and the police stopped coming.  Also, no security company wants to work for me. My reputation for treating people like shit caught up with me. I was never nice to my coworkers and just pushed them away when they tried to talk to me after work. Well, when I had a job anyway. I haven't worked in years.

Who would want to hire me anyway? I'm a mess. I get up to get some pain relief for my headache but I don't make it. I feel the world go black.

My castle's crumbling down And I watch all my bridges burn to the ground And you don't want to know me I will just let you down (just let you down) My castle's crumbling down You don't wanna know me now

Narrator P.O.V

I turn up the TV to hear the latest breaking news. 

Local Texas news reporter Genevive Padalecki was there to report the death of former Y/N Y/L /N. It looks like her medical issues or the bottle caught up to her. Maybe it's sad how far she's fallen. No one was there in her final moments. Well maybe if she treated people better she wouldn't have been all alone. We will bring you more information as it becomes available.

As an online news reporter. I want to check on the latest scoop. So I  decided to look online. There are no kind messages about her. I notice no RIP on social media. They just said she got what's coming to her. It's sad really but she stirred up all the hatred with the way she treated people. I close the tab on the page not wanting to read anymore.