#i feel like i need to use more exclamation marks to make it seem less boring but idk honestly

[callslips]

omg the pure joy that just brought me ahhhh i need more. can i request an angry first kiss in the wilderness?

Yes, you may.

Lottienat drabble time!!!

Rated 17+!

Features: Lottienat angst, Lottie POV, making out, light petting, choking??? tw for blood (visually and textually)

I think i played around with the timeline a bit? Time for a rewatch!

Word count: 1242

you bleed how I bleed (but don’t let that mislead you)

Nat’s mad at her, and not for the first time Lottie has little to no idea why. She tries to help, she tries to offer comfort, she tries and tries and tries, and yet nothing is ever enough. She tries to protect Nat, and even that is enough to upset her. Travis accepts her offerings with thanks - a welcome reprieve, but arguing with Nat is like arguing with a bull. She’s stubborn, headstrong and fierce and worst of all — Lottie admires all of these traits and more.

It’s why when Nat finds her, blood dripping from the self-inflicted wound within her palm, she’s not surprised at the ire that follows.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Nat yells - or, it’s less of a yell than it is an exhausted exclamation.

Lottie watches as if in a sort of trance as she clenches her hand and the blood drips from her palm onto the marking she’d carved into the cavern of a tree. “I just want it to be enough,” She tries to explain, “I don’t want anyone else to - to get hurt.” To die, is what she means, but it’s too raw — everything is too raw. It’s not at all what she wants to say, but she never seems to say the right thing when it comes to Nat.

In a moment her wounded arm is snatched away, the cut stinging with the removed pressure.

“Fucking - acting like this is not going to do anything, Lottie! Can’t you see it? We’re going to fucking die out here, and instead of doing shit you’re worshipping something that doesn’t even fucking exist. It’s just us, and we have to - I don’t know, we have to do something, and you think this is the answer? Hurting yourself?”

Lottie whimpers, blood crimson as it drips onto the snow. “I��m protecting us. It will see that I’m offering myself, and it won’t hurt anyone else, and everything will be okay-“

“Nothing about this is going to be fucking okay! Jackie’s dead - she’s in a fucking meat shed, Lottie. It’s just going to get worse, and you acting fucking crazy - pulling everyone into your bullshit, that’s not helping.”

“It’s not bullshit! It was in me, and It’s in you too. You just can’t see It yet.”

Lottie sees Nat shove her before she feels it, amazed at the aggression. It’s in her, she knows it. “It’s shit like that! You’re scaring people, Lottie! There is no ‘It’! There’s just you, and this shit you’ve made up to cope, and people actually believe you. Do you know how insane all of this is?”

Stumbling a little from the push, Lottie uses her uninjured hand to brace herself against the tree moments before impact. She can’t help the grin that spreads across her lips, the shudder that racks through her when she’s pushed again, back hitting the tree harshly.

Nat’s pissed, cheeks red with cold and something else - eyebrows furrowed and fangs bared like a wild animal. Lottie hadn’t intended to get her to this point but it was always an inevitable, their butting of heads. Still, it fills her with a giddy sensation, pulls a manic laugh out of her. “I told you,” Lottie couldn’t wipe the grin off her lips if she tried. “It’s in you. You just have to set It free, Nat, and you’ll understand. All of it.”

A hand wraps around her throat threateningly, though there’s no pressure behind it. Nat’s looking at her incredulously, using an iota of strength to pin Lottie to the tree - it’s not like Lottie would fight back anyway. “You’ve officially fucking lost it.”

It’s the closest Nat had chosen to be to her aside from the pre-hunt ritual. It only serves to make Lottie more giddy, to broaden her grin.

“What’s so funny?” Nat asks irritably, now beginning to apply pressure. Lottie’s limp arm proceeds to drip blood onto the snow as if emboldened, scarlet and beautiful.

Lottie licks her chapped lips and doesn’t miss the way Nat’s eyes flicker down. “You’re shaking.” Lottie laughs, though it’s a little choked through the grip on her neck. “You’re scared It’s in you. It’s too late.”

“That’s not why I’m shaking,” Nat says, malice behind every word.

“Then why?” Lottie asks, though she’s almost positive she knows the answer.

“I fucking hate you.”

Then lips are against Lottie’s, cold and chapped and bruising, dripping with unbridled rage. It’s not innocent, it’s not sweet, Lottie’s certain it’s not how Nat has kissed Travis.

It’s quick - Nat pulls away as if she’s been burned, hand leaving Lottie’s throat as if she’s finally come to. Lottie levels her with a sickly-sweet smile. “How much?” She ignores the heaving of Nat’s chest, the way she’s biting her lips as if in restraint. “How much do you hate me, Nat?” She takes a brave step into Nat’s space, uses their height difference in an almost demeaning way.

Maybe Lottie is a little unhinged. That doesn’t make It any less real.

The act spurs something in Nat, something raw and animalistic as she yanks Lottie down by the cuff of her winter coat and kisses her again this time - more assuredly but just as fueled by anger. This kiss burns, and Lottie can’t help but hiss as she realizes Nat has bitten her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. It smears against the both of their lips and quickly warms the kiss, the pain shooting through both Lottie’s hand and now her lip nothing compared to the euphoria of seeing Nat let go.

The kiss turns filthy, blood mixing with saliva as it turns open-mouthed, the taste of iron tinging both of their tongues.

Lottie feels Nat push her back up against the tree with her free hand, the bark rough even through the fabric of her clothes. Her bloodied hand dangles uselessly, though she doesn’t hesitate to tangle her free hand in Nat’s hair. Nat started it - she wasn’t backing out so easily.

It’s impossible for Lottie not to moan into the kiss, not when it’s this dirty, this angry. Nat’s lips are insistent, the pressure behind them making Lottie’s newly-attained wound sting even more. It doesn’t help when Nat bites again, when she dips her hand under the fabric of Lottie’s layered clothing to dig furious nails into her skin.

“Nat,” Lottie moans, sensations building until this isn’t enough, until she needs something more.

“Shut the fuck up.” Nat growls against her lips, nails pressing harder as their tongues resume their dance, Lottie’s dangling hand itching to paint Nat red with her blood.

Obediently, Lottie fights the whimper that threatens to bubble in her throat. There’s something about this Nat that isn’t like her usual self, that sends a little shock of fear down Lottie’s spine. It may be inside all of them, but within Nat It’s vicious, scathing and unrestrained.

Nat’s hand climbs Lottie’s side, scratching at the skin until she skims the underwire of Lottie’s bra. At this Lottie can’t help but murmur a “Please,” thighs clenched tight as Nat toys with her, Nat’s own sadistic grin pressed against Lottie’s lips.

When she pulls away their lips are connected by red-tinged spit, Lottie breathing heavily while Nat, aside from the flush in her cheeks, looks strangely collected - pleased for once, even.

“We should head back - get your hand wrapped up.” Nat says, like she cares.

Lottie, briefly, understands this ‘hate’ feeling.

Notes: first drabble on here ….i hope you enjoyed anon <3 if not you’re free to stone me

[warmbloodedzines]

Well, it's summer and we've been making zines, and then totally forgetting to post them here! Here's one of Xalli's called I WANT!

[Image Description: The cover page of this eight-page mini zine has a watercolor painting of an anatomical heart in the background, painted with a mix of different reds and lineart done in black, brown, and white. The letters I, W, A, N, T, and an exclamation mark are in front of the heart, spelling the title I WANT!

The first page has a black background, with the dissected nervous system of Harriet Cole centered in the middle. The following text in white wraps around it: ‘TO FEEL MORE ALIVE THAN THIS! LESS ALIVE? TO WAKE UP-- COOL, DRY DESERT AIR ON MY SKIN-- & BREATHE IN ITS BLESSING & KNOW ITS GOODNESS. FOR MY BODY TO BE FREE OF THE FEAR THAT CAGES IT-- KEEPS ITS COLLAR ON TIGHT & MAKES THE SKIN RAWER & REDDER EACH DAY. I NEED TO KNOW & LOVE MY BODY DEEPLY. MY GUT CANNOT JUST FALL APART, TEARING ITSELF ASUNDER WITH HUNGER WHEN MY STRESS EMPTIES IT. WHEN MY HEART IS SO WEARY MY BODY FEELS IT HAS NO CHOICE-- STOP OR BE STOPPED. WHEN I THINK IT MUST BE TAKING ITSELF APART, WITH ALL ITS PAIN. I NEED A MORE CONNECTED SELF. I MUST LIVE FULLY.’

The second page has a white background and is covered in photos of different colored pressed flowers– one pink, one purple, one light yellow and purple, one dark blue and white, one yellow, and two orange. laid over the flowers, mostly filling the space between them, is the text ‘TO BLOOM IN THIS BODY, OR MAYBE JUST FIND SOME SOLACE IN IT-- THE OLD ATLAS-- EVEN IF I FEEL PINNED DOWN-- ABSORBING WHAT IT OFFERS AND GIVING PART OF MYSELF IN RETURN.’

The third page has a white background and, in the top right corner, an odd drawing of a pomegranate that’s sort of blooming still on the tree– its tough skin peeled back to reveal seeds. In the bottom left corner, there’s a sort of abstract and wavy drawing of a sun in pink and orange. The text on the page is a dark red/pink and squeezes between the two images, saying ‘to return to a more passionate state of living-- to be in love with everything around me. to feel my love hit me like a landslide– filling and overflowing. for it to settle, shift, change until it’s a part of me. maybe, to see the sun and smile; feel its heat on my cheeks, and know that i am a cup full of so much.’

The fourth page has a white background and, in the bottom right corner, two images. One is of a little statue of a small bull that is metal and colored turquoise in many spots titled ‘Toro bebé’ by Heriberto Juarez. On the right of it is an image of a sword with the blade pointing toward the top of the page. Filling the rest of the page is text in a dark teal-green color that says ‘to feel strong-- heavyset and sturdy like an old bull, like a creature who knows itself stronger than the hunter. to feel the blade on my skin and be unafraid. to feel like a mother bear, protector, calm & loving fiercely, prepared. to be a man who takes a sword in my hand and never uses it. a woman who holds you close & lets you be weak. to be strong.’

The fifth and sixth page are a single spread, most of which is taken up by the piece ‘Knight at the Crossroads’ by Victor Vasnetsov. It depicts a knight with a shield on his back and a long spear sitting on the back of a white horse that has its head bowed, both looking at a grave. Around the grave, there is an animal and human skull, other graves with crows or ravens on them, and a crow or raven flying. Grass extends into the distance, with more graves here and there, and the sky seems like it’s likely dawn. On either side of the painting, there are images of pressed flowers– one looking somewhat like pink lavender, and the other with several bunches of small flowers on a stem. The top of the page has a dark brown background that blends into the border around the painting, and a light yellow text on it that says the following: ‘to feel strong like a man heavy with grief, knowing he can only move forward. to be strong-- so soft, loving, despite it all. to breathe in the fragrance of a flower and feel at peace. to not need to be cold to survive. to feel at home in my body, self, world-- know that this is strength.’

The last page starts with just a list of credits at the top, saying ‘Credit for non-open access sources: 1. Nervous system of Harriet Cole, dissected by Dr. Rufus B. Weaver 2. “Toro bebé” Heriberto Juárez 3. “Knight at the Crossroads” Victor Vasnetsov.’ Underneath that, there’s a dotted line, and below that, the text ‘thanks so much for reading!’, ‘by Xalli’, and ‘jun 29, 2024’, and next to those is pixel art of a yellow crescent moon. Near the bottom of the page, there’s more pixel art of two personified hearts, leaning against each other and snoring, with little hearts floating away from them. Wrapped around this image is text that says ‘insta: desertfirelight’, tumblr: canineical’, and ‘neocities: tehuan’. /End ID]

[meximango]

Day 3 - Tempest - Luvon - G

Summary: Luvon finds his future pet in an unexpected place.

It’s pouring outside. The perfect weather to stay inside, safe and snug and enjoying a nice drink while the orchestrion player belts out some favorite tunes. 

Alas, Luvon is not inside, nor is he anywhere near a structure that has an inside to get into. He doesn’t have decent vision even on the best of days, but the visibility is truly next to none right now with the sheets of water that are falling from the dark sky. The water pattering off the plant life surrounding him is so loud that he can scarcely hear, either. A veritable tempest, with him at the center of it.  

He’s in the middle of the forest, where he’d been foraging for some plants– things he could use for medicine or culinary endeavors. Should’ve checked in with the skywatcher ahead of time, this is what you get, Luvon… 

The weather was perfectly fine half a bell ago! There was little to no warning before everything turned into this hellscape, and the trees can only provide so much cover when the rain is slicing into him near horizontally and then diagonally with every sharp shift of the wind. Luvon doesn’t hear the creature so much as sense it. And only because his foot catches on a slippery root, face planting into a mess of water and mud, and feels that something has scurried away. He pats around the area to pull himself up and discovers a hollow at the base of the tree where the offending roots have lifted up. The perks of being a lalafell are that he can fit into small spaces, and this seems to be a perfect hiding spot to wait out the rain. The spot is not unoccupied, however, which he notices a moment too late. Must be where the presence scampered to. Before he can back out again, he feels a tiny set of claws swiping at his hand. Used to a lot worse, he pauses, wondering if it’s worth it to coexist with some rowdy and angry monster if it means getting slightly less pelted with rain. Only something quite small could leave such a mark, so he takes his chances. He settles slowly, no more sudden movements, and keeps his voice calm and warm. “I’m not going to hurt you; please rest easy. I just need to share space with you for a little while.” 

Luvon’s always had a way with wildlife, some preternatural gift that came with his echo (much like how Krile can empathize with people to the point of feeling their own pain, Luvon has a rudimentary communication with animals that allow them to share emotional feedback). It gives him a form of understanding that comes more easily to him than conversing with a Spoken, it seems sometimes. 

Whatever is hiding in here with him does not attack him again at least, though it curls up as far back into the hollow as possible. That’s fair.

Based on the wildlife in the area, the claws, and the low growling noise he can feel more than hear, Luvon has a few guesses as to what is in here with him. He starts rummaging in his bag. “This is not the kind of weather to be left on your own, little one. Are your parents late to return from a hunt? With this sudden weather, it may take them some time.” A few more seconds of shuffling about and he lets out a breath of exclamation. “Aha! Found it. A snack for you and me. Might as well, as we wait this out.” He breaks off a piece of meat from the sandwich he had packed and places it on the ground between him and the young one. It takes a few minutes, but soon enough Luvon can hear the meat being gobbled up. Concernedly quickly, honestly. “Make sure to chew! You don’t want to choke. Take it slow, there’s plenty more,” he jokes and takes the rest of the meat from his lunch to give to the creature. He overshoots where he believed an empty space to be and ends up colliding gently with a wet nose. There’s a startled hiss and a jump back, but he doesn’t receive any additional scratches. 

“Apologies! I can’t see much, and while I normally rely on my hearing to help out, it’s too loud out here for me to tell where you are very accurately.” The meat is still in his palm, which he turns over and holds out like an offering.

Again, it takes a few minutes, but Luvon has nowhere else to be, and he’s always been patient. He begins humming to pass the time. Once the creature is sure there is no threat, it begins to eat again, just as ravenously as before. Once the meat is all gone, it sniffs at and licks his palm, which he chuckles at. “That tickles! No more, sadly, but that should hold you over until your family returns.” He takes his hand back, wiping it on his robes and crosses his hands over his chest, continuing his humming. Since he can’t see anyway, he closes his eyes while he rests. He’s sure he’d sense if the parents were to get near, in which case he’d scuttle away posthaste. For now, though, he continues to cozy up here. He must have dozed off at some point, because he finds himself yawning and feels a slight crick in his neck from his head hanging down toward his chest. The rain is still going, but much more lightly. It would be no problem to travel in this. Time to get going. As he tries to wake up his heavy limbs, Luvon notices that his lap seems to be weighed down more than when he started sitting here. And is that the slightest rumbling vibration he can feel through his robes?

Carefully, he moves his fingers toward the source, and gently collides with soft and still slightly damp fur. The creature does not stir, so he explores more with his hand, petting gently along its back. He traces his fingers over its head, poking just the tiniest bit to feel out the ears and cheeks. As suspected, the creature seems to be a coeurl kitten. When he continues to pet the kitten, he frowns as he realizes he can easily feel each individual rib on its side. That would explain how ravenous it seemed with his sandwich. His heart aches at the thought of this little  baby starving for who knows how long.

“Poor little kitten. We’ll go looking for your parents in just a bit. It seems you could use the sleep, for now.” The coeurl still does not stir, but by the purring and twitching of its back legs, Luvon can tell it’s having a sweet dream, which he’s very glad for.

“Everything is going to be alright. I’ve got you.”

[gingertomcat]

Man this is such a hard question.

It legitimately has made me think about the way I talk to people.

A lot of people in the tags say things like "I don't initiate but I love talking to people!", Why is that? I'm the same, my job involves lots of talking to people but either they come up and chat or I have a sort of script that I follow, it takes a lot of effort to come up with an opening topic that's big enough to facilitate a conversation but small enough to not scare the other person. (I love talking about the weather for this very reason, god bless the UK (/s))

The question this raises is what are we all afraid of? And more importantly, why are we afraid of it? The answer to the first is, I think, the classic mental health response of rejection, embarrassment and social isolation. But why then, in a social structure where rejection and embarrassment is statistically inevitable, do we fear it so much? I remember the kurzegezagt video about loneliness mentioning the animal response in humans and that the pain you feel when you get lonely and rejected is your mind and body craving social interaction as a hangover from when humans needed to be sociable in order to survive but even then, I feel the sensitivity to rejection today is amplified.

Aside: oh god this is where capitalism comes into it isn't it?

Some might argue that the feeling comes from the sense of individualism that is par for the course in a capitalist society. That individualism also gave way to the Thatcher and Reagan era stranger danger campaigns which made talking to strangers seem unsafe. I think there could have been a concerted push from the right to make everyone scared of each other so that we were less likely to organise into communities and organise against the upper classes.

My instinctive answer to the question was "depends on if they're strangers or friends/family" because I wouldn't normally initiate a conversation with a stranger unless it was absolutely necessary.

That's another key point, "absolutely necessary". Perhaps my fear of interaction stems not from my own embarrassment but from the fear of inconveniencing someone else. How many conversations have I started with strangers that began with "sorry to bother you"? How many emails have I finished with "hope this is alright!", with the exclamation mark added for extra friendliness so that the other person doesn't think I'm making unreasonable demands of them.

I often joke that my nan is like the black Knight in monty python, she'd be missing an arm and when asked what happened and why she didn't inform us of it sooner she'd reply, "tis but a flesh wound!", or more likely "I didn't want to bother you with that, I'm fine!" Obviously I'm being hyperbolic but I feel if this goes on much longer I'll end up the same way.

I don't know how to end this tbh, this got to be far longer than I intended but it's relevant nonetheless. If anyone has any comments they'd like to make or questions please ask, there must be an answer to this and maybe one day we'll all overcome it together!

Question prompted by this tweet I just saw

[shin-so-sleepy]

Hiya if ur ask box is open can I ask for shoto Todoroki, midoriya and Hitoshi headcanons with an S/O that acts laid back all the time and makes puns but the moment that someone they care for is hurt they go ballistic

12:22 am - ahhhh first request! i hope you enjoy!

Todoroki Shōto

— honestly, this boy will act so indifferent to your puns and pretend like he couldn’t care less for the sole purpose of egging you on to make more puns

— you know what he’s doing, and he knows you know what he’s doing, so it’s a game between you two to see how long it takes for you to break him

— you see, he likes enjoys loves puns, quite a lot, actually

— “y/n.”

“yes shōto?”

“do you happen to know what my favorite song is?”

“not… particularly, why?”

“it’s ice ice baby”

“oh my god shōto, i’m breaking up with you”

— it’s never too long until he gives in and grins bc he finds your puns amusing, and he finds you absolutely adorable when you finally manage to blurt one out through your laughter

— probably takes lazy days with you, usually at your place though, unless his dad’s out, in which case he’ll (hesitantly) bring you over where you can chill with his siblings

— it’s because of your normally laid back personality that this boio is shooketh when you start to shout and threaten to harm the person who badmouthed your family

— he’s so taken aback that it takes him a second to register your 180 degree turn in attitudes before he comes to his senses and stops you from straight up pouncing on the person

— still a little confused on where he should draw the line between choosing to stop you or letting you defend your family, but ultimately decides to step in if things begin to get violent

— will 100% back you up if the other person starts getting violent though! though he’ll mainly try his best to scare them off with intimidating glares and threats of freezing them to death

— if you’re still upset after the confrontation, he’ll be there to comfort you. whether it’s through games, food, a walk in the park, a long hug and a soft kiss, etc. todoroki will stop at nothing to make sure to get that sweet smile back on your face!

Midoriya Izuku

— will playfully roll his eyes, wince, and groan at your puns, yet giggles nonetheless bc he thinks you’re cute

— fires back a few of his own when he can, but alas, his pun game is but a mere fraction of your quick-witted puntastic power

— “wait so if you look up to all might, and all might is practically your dad, would that-“

“y/n no…”

“-make you-“

“please don’t”

“SMOL MIGHT?!?!”

“y/nnnnnnnnnn”

— likes to lay his head on your lap and snooze while you play with his hair after a long day, you both enjoy hanging out with the tv on quietly and just talking about how your days went

— you’re his emotional support beam bc this poor bab is quite the opposite of laid back, he needs a chill pill sometimes all the time, and you’re usually the one to supply it

— is genuinely shocked to see you so angry and threatening when someone insulted him in front of you

— like, homeboy was used to others taking jabs at him bc of being quirkless for most of his life, so when a certain someone from class b came up to mock him, he didn’t really get too hurt (it definitely did push a button though)

— tries to mediate, and by that i mean he’s trying his darn best to assure you that he’s fine and that it didn’t bother him that much through indecipherable stuttering and frantic hand movements

— is much clingier after the situation dies down tho, he’ll hold your hand and give it a reassuring squeeze as a way of thanks. once you guys get some privacy he’ll give you a big hug and stay that way until you’re both ready to go back

— is immensely flattered (highkey tomato-faced) that you care about him so much but is lowkey afraid for anyone that pisses you off in the future

Shinsō Hitoshi

— (not-so-) secretly a funny guy, his humor ranges from the dryest sarcasm to the stupidest memes

— meaning? he greatly appreciates and encourages your puns, you two regularly have pun battles

— flirts using puns!! it’ll end up with you both simultaneously snorting and cringing at the god-awful punny pick up lines

— “toshi?”

“hm?”

“are you a cat?”

“i wish”

“‘cause you’re purrfect ;) ;) ;)”

“… you’ve gotta be kitten me”

“seriously, where have you been all my lives?”

— you two are the most laid back couple in the ua that sometimes it’s hard for other students to tell that you guys are even a couple with the lack of excessive pda and such

— indoor dates, nap dates, cat cafe dates, you name it. shinsō just enjoys spending time with you whether it be catching lunch together or lying on one another in his bed while soft music plays in the background

— it happened so quickly, you were exiting the cat cafe and walking home when you both hear the whimpering of an animal down an alleyway

— when you walk off to investigate (despite shinsō’s warning to be careful) you see these kids harassing a frail cat, kicking and cursing at it

— you were quick to run in and give them a piece of your mind, getting ready to fight them for abusing the poor kitten. hitoshi, however, was not about to let you scar these children for life

— yelling at the boys to get their attention, he managed to get ahold of their ‘leader’ and make him start to grab loose trash and eat it. this was enough to weird out the others and scare them off, and shinsō had the leader run off as well

— would comfort you as needed and get the kitten to safety. he’d make sure to stick by your side afterwards with light touches, gentle kisses and words of comfort, and a few lighthearted jokes here and there to lift your mood again

[acapelladitty]

Mouth: Part Ten (nsfw)

Pairing: Heisenberg/Female Reader

Warnings: punishment, spanking, rough sex, dirty talk, cockwarming, come marking.

A bored mind makes stupid decisions and your decision to wind up the Lord of the factory as he worked on a fresh project within his main invention room fell into that category. Idle hands were most definitely the devil’s plaything and your devil of choice was pointedly ignoring you.

“Can I help with anything?” You ask, standing behind the metal chair which he preferred to work from as you whisper the question into his ear, ensuring that you are as close as possible without physically touching him. He’d been locked in this room for hours and it was about time for some distraction.

“No.”

“Would you like me to hold something for you?”

“No,” he repeated, twisting his head away from your lips as he focused on his task, “now fuck off, please.”

Unwilling to budge, you ignore his pointed tone.

“How about I make us something to eat?” You purr, moving forward so that you are kneeling to his side, keeping out of the direct path of his gaze, which was focused on the metal floating above his workbench, “A late night snack. Something,” you pause, “delicious.”

“Not right now.”

His voice was firm as his attention refused to leave the pieces of metal before his eyes as they bent into unnatural shapes at his whim. The metal looked red-hot in some areas as it was folded into various positions, slotting together before coming apart in rapid succession.

“Come on, my Lord,” the words are little more than a whine as you stand again and run a hand along the firm muscle of his thigh, “your subject requires your attention for a little while. It’s been so long since you’ve serviced her.”

As your finger moves to brush lightly against his crotch, a high-pitched squeal from the intricately woven floating cogs were the only indication that something had went wrong, even as a loud “Ah, fuck!” escaped his throat.

At his exclamation, the metal gears before him seemed to contract for a moment before exploding in place and, as you ducked away from the grating noise and bright light, a sharp pain registered against your hip as you recognised his open palm shoving at your body to remove you from the danger zone.

His impressive strength matched with his momentary panic proved too much for your body and you found yourself being thrown to the floor, your ass colliding against the hard stone making you release a loud grunt of pain as he stood up from his work seat.

Surveying the residual mess of his work, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth as he stomped his foot in open frustration. His coat flared behind him with the movement and you watch the fabric settle as his hands slam into his hips.

“A whole day of work, up in fucking smoke!”

Oops.

“All because of you and your goddamn hole!”

Ah, shit.

There was a genuine anger in his expression as he turned and approached your fallen body, the harshness of his gaze causing your heart to stutter for a moment as you froze like a rabbit caught in headlights. The smart thing would be to give him some space and scarper away but as his presence loomed over you, you knew that escaping was out of the question.

“Would it help if I said sorr-”

Your words were cut off in a sharp gasp as he moved quickly to scoop you up from the floor and hold you to his side with one arm as he moved back towards his work seat.

Dropping into his makeshift throne, he pins you to the floor between his thighs and your knees crash off the hard flooring uncomfortably as you gaze up at him. His eyes are covered by his glasses but you can sense the anger behind them and you attempt to look as apologetic as possible, hoping to avoid his wrath.

“I said I was sor-”

“No, shut the fuck up.” He cut you off once again, his hand coming to cover your mouth to prevent any further speech, “You’ve done it now, kitten. A whole day of wasted time and resources all because you wanted to play.” His tone was curt, irritation barely restrained, and it causes a fresh spark of anxiety within you, “Well, you have my attention now and I hope you’re happy with what you’ve earned.”

His fingers are warm against your mouth, and you slip your tongue out as much as possible to flick at them playfully. The damage was done but you knew how to appease him, and you shuffle your head forward and tilt your head towards his groin in a show of penance. He was not a man to deny himself a free blowjob and you were certain that would take the heat out of him for the moment.

“Nice try,” he growled, pulling at your hair to force your head back away from his crotch, “but that’s not going to work, buttercup. You have ruined my plans and no amount of head is going to get you out of this punishment.”

“Let’s see,” he hummed, one hand wrapped around your hair while the other traced soft lines across your exposed throat, “I’ve been in here since 6pm and it’s now midnight. That’s six hours. I will also need to source three new gears for this manipulation so let’s make that the multiplier.” His expression is thoughtful as he considers the math, “Brings us to eighteen so let’s round it to a solid twenty. Twenty strikes as a fair punishment”

Unable to speak, you allow your eyes to widen in recognition at his words.

“Think you can handle twenty strikes? Shall we find out?”

It has been a while since he’d reddened your skin in such a way and there were alternative punishments which you enjoyed much less so you nod your consent, the small movement making the burn in your scalp worse.

“Would the little slut like the switch or the palm?” He asked, releasing your mouth to allow you to answer. The switch, a thin metal bar he could fashion at a moment’s notice was much more painful than his hand and the fact that he was even giving you the option was a good sign, “Or should I choose for her?” He continued.

“The palm, my Lord.” You answer, eyes downcast in a show of penance as you throw in his title to sweeten the deal and play your role, “Your hand should be my punishment.”

“Good choice.” He grunted and you inhale in surprise as his hands grip your upper arms in a tight grasp so that he can lift you from your knees and place you over his knees.

Your stomach lay against his firm thighs as your feet plant themselves on the ground, giving yourself some purchase as he runs his hands up your bare legs. A shudder trails down your spine at the softness of his touch, knowing what it was a prelude to, and you press your thighs together as his commanding voice booms out from above you.

“Place your hands on the legs of the chair and if you let go I’ll double your punishment.”

You follow his command, wrapping your palms around the thick metal of the chair legs and you can feel the blood rushing to your ears as your head remains upside down. Your breasts hung free just past the edge of his thighs but they remain covered by the shirt which still clung to your upper half as you settled yourself as comfortably as you could against him.

The warm air of the room hit your exposed lower half as your skirt was pulled up over your ass. His hand felt huge against your skin as he immediately palmed your ass roughly through your panties, calloused fingers running along the globe of your ass to admire it before the real fun began. A soft whoosh of movement caught your attention and you tilt you head in time to see his hand grasp around the hilt of his knife and a thrill of nervous anticipation rockets through you.

Before you can question its use, you feel the dull edge of the blade against your hip as the sharp edge sliced through the thin fabric of your panties before moving to the other side to repeat the process. With a flourish, he drops the knife to the floor and rips your underwear from you, the aggressive pull leaving a warmth in its wake as it dragged across your trapped skin.

Now fully exposed, you can do little but keep your hands clasped around the legs of his metal throne as you await his next move.

“Count for me.” He demands, his voice rough with undeniable lust as he adjusts his knees to bear your weight comfortably, “And if you fuck up the count then I start over. Understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The slight whisper of air as his hand draws through the air is the only indication you have that he’s started as he targets the exposed curve of your ass.

SMACK.

A grunt escapes you at the impact; it was painful but not unbearable as he was obviously trying to gauge holding back his impressive strength since a full-power hit would probably do some irreparable damage. Regardless, you hold your position steadily as your fingers remain clasped around the metal chair.

“One.”

SMACK.

Stronger than the first, the blow takes the breath from you as you jerk in place. Positioned in the same spot as the first, you can already feel the growing heat from your ass as the second smack only adds a fresh sting to the underlying discomfort.

“Two.”

“Good girl.” He grunts, pausing in his blows to run the tips of his fingers along your slit and you’re ashamed at the slickness there after only two smacks but your soft sigh turns into a quick inhalation as he swats at your cunt roughly, encouraging you to spread your thighs, “Are you ready to scream for me, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t give you time to respond before his hand once again connects harshly with your ass, the heat there barely dulling before it was inflamed again and, even as the blow pulls a pained gasp from your lips, you push your ass out to meet him, encouraging him.

“Three.”

Building into a steady rhythm, he continues to decorate your ass with patches of red as his hand abuses the flesh there. Groans and sharp squeals are all you can manage between counted numbers as the pain grew more apparent with every hit; the flesh growing more irritated as it continued to be assaulted without pause.

Continuing your count as each new smack sent fresh waves of heat across your ass, you let out a high squeal of surprise as he angles his hand downwards for one hit, the tips of his fingers catching the edge of your cunt as you stiffen in place.

“Thirteen!”

The pain in your flesh, the sting and heat which only grew with every hit, was intense but with it came an undeniable pleasure which coated your thighs with your own juices and made your core ache for stimulation. Every harsh-sounding slap was intercut with your own sharp yelps and needy whines as he alternated random strikes by pausing to grope roughly at your stinging flesh, kneading it between savage fingers to test the sensitivity.

You can feel his hardness pressing against your side as you remain in your prone position. Soft grunts escaped his own throat with every blow and were occasionally punctuated by soft mutterings which were too low to be picked up.

One particularly harsh blow catches you across the globes of your ass and fresh tears spring into your eyes as you give a pained yelp. The pain overshadowed the pleasure as the unyielding sting of your flesh and infernal heat seemed to spread across your body, making your limbs tight and your fingers claw against the metal of the chair leg.

“Nineteen.”

“One more, kitten.” He informed you, his hand coming to rest atop the back of your head as he pulled your head back, surveying the pained look in your expression.

SMACK.

Squeezing your eyes closed as his hand once again struck the searing skin of your ass, which you could guess was a stunning shade of red given the heat you could feel, you cry out the final number.

“Twenty!”

Having served your punishment, his hands are quick to wrap around your waist and pluck you from his lap as he deposited you in your earlier position between his thighs. Your heels dug in painfully to the heated flesh of your ass and you whine at the rough contact as he takes your face within his hands; the heat from his left hand, the hand used to punish you, clear against your cheek.

“Well done,” he drawled, and you can see that most of his anger has dissipated, replaced with a strange mixture of pride and obvious lust, “but we’re not over just yet.”

His hands are quick to unzip his fly as he pulls free his cock, the length looking painfully hard as it juts free of his opened slacks, and he pauses to give it a leisurely stroke.

Releasing himself, he secures his hands around your upper arms and pulls you up into his lap so that the length of his cock is resting against the cleft of your core as he wraps an arm around your waist. The pressure of his groin against your abused ass is uncomfortable but bearable as you lean forward slightly to take the pressure off.

“I’m going to fuck you, kitten,” his voice is rough and low, “and I’m going to do it right here in my work chair. This is the second part of your punishment.”

Not quite seeing the negative here, you nod demurely just to play into his game.

“Of course, my Lord.”

His hand slips into the space between you as he cups your mound.

“Tell me what hole you want me to use,” he growls in your ear as two of his fingers glide across your slit before sinking knuckle-deep within you, “and I’m not going easy so make sure you choose wisely and tell me why. You need to earn your forgiveness and I want to make sure you feel it.”

“My cunt,” you gasp out your choice, pressing down on his fingers as they probe you roughly, your body delighted at finally receiving some stimulation, “your thick cock forces me to stretch around it and it hurts.”

Only partially true but you know it’s what he wants to hear.

He removes his fingers and uses his hand to brush his cock against your slit, wetting his tip with your juices as he prepares to enter you and a shiver runs down your spine with anticipation.

You don’t have long to wait as he impales himself within you with an animalistic grunt; the unexpected fullness and force of his insertion as he buries himself fully drawing a low scream of pained pleasure from your lips.

Making no effort to move just yet, his free hand comes to clutch at the fabric of your shirt, tearing the buttons there with one swift movement and exposing your chest to his leering gaze as he pushes the torn fabric to the side.

Capturing your nipple between his teeth, the worries the sensitive nub there for a moment and the sensation is so intense that your fingers snake through his grey hair and pull at it almost desperately. A move which earns you a low growl as he repeats the move with your other nipple, clearing enjoying the sensation of being sheathed within you as he torments your chest.

He begins to move within you, using his strength to pull you free of him until only the tip of his cock remains inside before plunging within you once again. It’s pleasure and pain rolled into one as the stretch mixes with the wonderful sensations of his cock brushing your most sensitive spots and you whine out your anguish.

Writhing against him, the pressure of his thrusts is almost too much as it feels like he is trying to split you in half with his cock. Every nerve within you is firing off and your legs hang limply to the sides of the chair, toes curling with every powerful stroke, as you allow yourself to be used. His hands on your hips prevent you from moving too much but you push back against him as much as possible, movements frantic as the burn in your ass only adds to the growing pleasure alighting across your body.

Rough growls are the only noises coming from him and they mingle with the whines and moans which you can’t prevent from escaping your own throat. Particularly when he resumes his assault on your chest, his stubble rubbing against your breasts as he nips savagely at the sensitive flesh there with sharp teeth, his cock never slowing in its brutal pace.

Your orgasm almost catches you off-guard as one of his fingers come to rest against your clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves there with an almost cruel pressure. Combined with the delightful stretch of your core plus the torment of your chest, it was too much and your vision seemed to white out for a moment as the band of arousal snapped; your hips snapping against his groin as your fingers clawed desperately at the leather of his coat which covered his back.

“I love it when you buck against me, kitten.” He snarled against your neck as he continued to thrust within you, chasing his own pleasure with little regard for how overstimulated it left you, “So wet and warm, and so fucking tight just for me.”

A garbled sequence of agreements is all you can manage as your body spasmed against his, his cock continuing to draw out your pleasure far beyond what it had to as the waves of ecstasy seemed unending. But even through your euphoria, you can feel the tell-tale jerking of his cock as it seemed to twitch within your walls and you knew he was close.

Just at the point of no return, he pulled his cock free of your core and the sudden emptiness drew a mournful wail from your lips as he instead drew his hand across his cock frantically. It took less than a moment before his orgasm hit, his release arcing high between you as it splattered across your exposed stomach and chest; one drop catching you just above your right nipple as he released a low, guttural groan at the sight.

Your legs were still twitching from the aftershocks and the burn in your ass seemed more intense than before, obviously disturbed by your writhing against his groin, as you fought to catch your breath.

A gasp stole your breath as you felt his fingers against your core once again but before you could question him, you felt him slip within you once again, his cock still hard but having wilted slightly due to his release.

At your questioning glance, he spoke.

“You’re going to wear those trophies until I say otherwise,” he growled as he indicated the mess of his release, spattered across your chest, “and if you touch them I’ll bind your hands to this chair until I am finished.”

“Finished?” You ask, not quite understanding his intent. His cock was welcome within you and you couldn’t help but clench around it as you once again enjoyed the fullness.

“I need to work,” his grunt was low and, with a flick of his hand, a handful of scrap rose from behind his chair and moved towards his workbench, “and since you can’t be trusted to not interrupt then you can stay here. Exactly where I can see and feel you.”

Thinking of your earlier boredom, you can see the appeal in his command and you nod your consent.

“Think of it as serving your Lord by keeping his cock nice and warm while he works.”

Leaning forward, you lay your head against the wide expanse of his shoulder as you settle against his body. Your body feels wonderfully used and abused and this position allows you to take the pressure off you ass while also providing a very comfortable resting place. His cock within you doesn’t move and you don’t imagine it’ll be too long before he gives in to the temptation of another round.

“Sounds good to me.”

He chuckles at the enthusiasm and settles into his task.

His attention is focused beyond you, on the metal which he manipulates with unmatched skill, but with every slight jostle of your bodies you can feel the fullness of his cock as it remains sheathed within you. His punishment had been fair and you knew that the sight of your reddened flesh would inspire him to lust for days until it healed up.

He loved leaving his little marks on you, be it with his hands, teeth, or even his cum. It was a sign of ownership that you allowed; just as he allowed you to claw your ownership into his back or bite it into the flesh of his chest and thighs. It was important that you gave as good as you got as neither of you could stand weakness.

Your thoughts were broken as a soft humming emitted from his chest, some unknown tune which you couldn’t place, and you sighed against him, settling in to the rare moment of pure intimacy.

Full fic available on AO3 @ DittyWrites

[madamewriterofwrongs]

Sending you all my hugs 🥰🥰🥰😍 How about...Buddie having the time of their lives being absolute shit at arcade games.

I remember I asked for fluffy prompts the night my boss passed away. That was months ago but I did not forget. Thank you everyone who sent me prompts while I was processing some tough emotions.

911/Buddie 

1v1 Co-op Matchmaking

Read on Ao3

“Are you sure this is the place?” Eddie tried to peer through one of the windows with the scratched off signage but the tinted glass made it impossible to see anything beyond vague shapes in evenly marked spaces.

“Absolutely.” Buck joined him in looking through the glass but seemed to be satisfied with what he saw there. “I found this place my first year in L.A.” He went on to explain as Eddie followed him to the blacked out double doors. “I promise you’re going to love it.”

As with most things in Eddie’s life, he had no choice but to follow his partner. He entered first, a blast of cool air hitting his face, bringing with it the scent of French fries and old pennies. Beyond the sound of whirs and buzzes was quiet chatter and the occasional exclamation of excitement or disappointment (usually accompanied by a string of barely recognizable curses – no doubt, due to the ‘No Swearing’ sign hanging on the cash register in the corner). All around him were a collection of game machines in nearly straight aisles reaching several rows down and across. Interspersed between the machines were tables and chairs with folded signs informing guests that food and drinks were not to be taken to the game machines.

“It’s an arcade.” Eddie dumbly informed his friend.

Buck stood beside him, chest puffed with pride as he examined the terrain. “One of the last in the city that hasn’t been overrun by hipsters.”

“So you’re saying you found this place before it was cool?” Eddie strolled towards the register knowing Buck would be glaring at him all the way. As predicted, Buck paid for both of them and converted twenty dollars into quarters for the two of them two split.

“Oh, this place is old school.” Eddie, once again, exclaimed the obvious while pocketing his share of the coins. “How did you find this place?” he asked as they wandered the aisles looking for their first game. “I didn’t think you would be old enough to remember ‘Ms. Pacman’.”

Buck bumped his shoulder with a playful gasp. “You are being so mean to me today.” He chided before falling more somber. “When I first moved here and started training, I needed a place to study. I had, like, six roommates so there was no way I could concentrate there. So, I wandered around looking for something a little less chaotic and I found this place.”

“And this place was quieter than your house?” Eddie hadn’t lived with roommates in a few years – not since his army days – but he couldn’t imagine one house being that overwhelming.

“No.” Buck rolled his eyes at Eddie’s internal monologue. “I ended up at the library a few blocks away. But I came here once or twice when I needed to get out of the house. Obviously, work keeps me pretty busy, but I like coming here from time to time.”

All of it made sense, but Eddie heard the softness in his friend’s tone, the way he spoke about this place as though it were something precious. He was being handed a gift and he would not turn it down.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.” When Buck looked up at his partner through long eyelashes (when did he start noticing Buck’s eyelashes?), Eddie felt goosebumps rise and wash down his body. Like awakening from a long nap, his limbs tingled and he felt every step as they continued their journey to find the perfect game.

It wasn’t the first time he felt that flash of lightning through his veins at the sight of his friend – he was a single man and his partner was very attractive – but it had been happening more often than he cared to admit. Noticing the little details of Buck’s appearance (his eyelashes, for example) was new. Feeling his heart beat faster and his skin burn with a desire he hadn’t felt in a long time��was less new. In fact, Eddie was nearly ready to put a label on the feelings stirring in his chest.

Last winter, when his sisters were visiting and the three siblings got to have a big family dinner with all the cousins and aunts and uncles, he’d spent a little too long talking about Buck. Or, maybe, Christopher had. Either way, Sophia managed to corner him in the kitchen after dessert had knocked out the majority of the children, and asked Eddie how long he’d been with Buck. Romantically. It was sometime after midnight (and a bottle of wine between the three of them) that Eddie finally admitted to both of his sisters that he had feelings for his best friend. Adriana had cooed and asked if Buck felt the same and, on some tipsy instinct, he’d answered “Yes.”

Of course, he didn’t know for certain – he’d never come out and said “Hey, Buck, I want to bend you over the railing and then grow old with you. What do you say?” – but he knew Buck. He knew Buck better than anyone (Maddie might give him a run for his money, but he’s fairly certain there’s a few stories Buck hasn’t told his sister about his time travelling the country). When that man loved, he loved with all his heart, and Eddie figured out a long time ago that Buck had given at least part of himself to the Diaz boys. Why not his heart?

So, yes, Eddie had a pretty good idea of how he felt, and was nearly certain that Buck felt the same way. And now, they were standing in an arcade – the location of which Buck hadn’t shared with anyone else in his life – occasionally making extended eye contact through the aisles. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’. It was a matter of ‘when’.

So now, when not staring longingly into his friend’s eyes, Eddie scanned the names listed above each game. Some of the names were ones he recognized (‘Frogger’, ‘Pacman’, the aforementioned ‘Ms. Pacman’, ‘Centipede’). Others, were less familiar (‘Inferno’, ‘Dig Dug’, ‘1942’) and looked…confusing. His eye caught on a ‘Space Invaders’-looking game and he called his partner to his side.

“Want to be a member of the ‘Moon Patrol’?” He bumped Buck’s shoulder with the smile he reserved just for his friend, and dug for a quarter.

“Nope!” Buck declared as he retrieved his own quarter and inserted it into the appropriate slot, bumping Eddie out of the way so he could stand centered at the controls. “I call first game!”

Though he rolled his eyes in annoyance, Eddie took the loss as an opportunity to watch his partner work. He loved watching Buck work (nearly as much as he enjoyed working beside him). There were times when the man’s focus was hypnotizing. The firm set of his jaw, the piercing eyes that seemed unblinking, the way every part of his body tensed in concentration. He’d seen Buck excited, anxious, worried, panicked, even numb – when it came to the uncontrollable dangers of their job, they had been through a lot together. Every emotion showed Eddie how much his friend cared about his work.

This expression, however, was one he doubted many other members of the Los Angeles Fire Department had seen on the young firefighter. It was one Eddie had been privy to on more than one occasion when Christopher had brought over a particularly difficult puzzle or science question. He wasn’t sure he was ever meant to see it but he happened to be standing in the doorway after putting away leftovers from dinner and he’d seen it: the desire to win, the earnest focus, the eagerness and seriousness of his intent. The first time he saw, it was an accident.  Every other time he rushed to finish his chores whenever he thought that face might emerge… that was less of an accident.

He was pulled from his fond musings by a minor key jingle and light-hearted groan of disappointment.

“Only got to Point Q on the Champion Course.” Buck exclaimed, throwing his hands in defeat.

Eddie couldn’t help himself – or at least, that’s what he told himself. His partner was too genuine. But that was one of his favourite things about the man. Where Eddie could usually keep his outward appearance neutral in the face of adversity (a skill he’d used nearly every day since joining the LAFD), Buck never shied away from letting his face show just exactly what was on his mind – even if he never said anything.

And so, Eddie laughed. Only a small chuckle, but his heart never felt so light as when he was with Buck. It was easy to see, however, that his laugh could be misconstrued as mocking. Perhaps it was both.

“Think you can do better?” The newly-defeated champion bowed and offered the center position to his friend and Eddie stepped into place with another fond eyeroll (he made a mental note to ask his optometrist if too many eyerolls could cause nerve damage).

All right, Eddie thought as he tried to get a handle on the controls, so it wasn’t as easy as he thought. The joystick was rigid and the control pad was sticky and the graphics were definitely from an era long-passed. If he hadn’t been raised with an infinite amount of patience (according to his aunt), he might have given up. As it was, he died before reaching the first checkpoint.

Buck’s laughter could not be interpreted as anything other than mocking, and he didn’t bother to hide it. “You are truly terrible.” He informed Eddie with a slap on the shoulder.

Though he knew he didn’t need an excuse, it was too easy to play when Buck was around. “I’m used to the console at home. Unlike some people, I don’t spend my time playing with technology from the Reagan-era.”

“Well then let me show you.” Before Eddie could properly interpret Buck’s offer, the man had come to stand behind him, chin hovering over his shoulder, arms palming his elbows and guiding him back towards the console. “One more round.” Buck declared, enthusiastically. At his prompting, Eddie gripped the joystick and placed his hands just above the cluster of buttons on his left side. The now-familiar starting music began and Eddie focused all of his energy into game before him. Every few moments, he heard Buck mutter a command or offer advice and he took it without question. The joystick was still rigid and the buttons were still sticky but together, they made it to the second checkpoint. And then the third. By the fourth, Eddie had all but forgotten the world around them. The only things that existed were Eddie, the game, and Buck’s voice in his ear. It was soothing, almost, to fall into that rhythm. So long as he navigated the bumpy terrain and dodged the alien invasion, nothing else mattered.

Until he missed jumping over a landmine and was blown to smithereens.

“Damn!” Buck’s voice was suddenly too close. The air around him electrified on an exhale and the heat of his chest warmed Eddie to his core. As quickly as the world had fallen away in Buck’s arms, it came rushing back, more vibrant and alive than before. Every sound of electronics whirring, Buck’s steady breathing, and people shouting – even the rumble of the cars outside the arcade – was amplified. Every smell of old metal, sweat, and smoke hidden under Buck’s aftershave was overwhelming. Every touch of his scratchy jeans, the clammy plastic in his hand, and the warm presence at his back, made Eddie close his eyes to shut out one of his senses. The only one left was taste.

Buck and Eddie had held each other plenty of times over the years. They were partners and friends who worked in close contact with one another. At the end of a hard day, in the middle of a daring rescue, at the beginning of a heated glance as they stood in front of a game machine. They had shaken hands, hugged tightly, gripped for dear life at the edge of a cliff, even bumped shoulders often enough that he had a Buck-shaped indent near his heart. But standing in this loose hold – the other man’s arms barely brushing his, his back pressed against the other’s front – Eddie had never felt the overwhelming urge to taste more fervently than he did in that moment.

He knew that Buck was an attractive man – he was repressed, he wasn’t dead – and though he’d been contemplating thinking about maybe working up to taking some next step, he hadn’t counted on standing in Buck’s arms and feeling his heart flutter like a school girl with a crush.

Upon slowly dragging his eyes to meet his friend’s Eddie found himself breathlessly overtaken by the sensation of hope. Buck’s eyes were bright and round (earnest, just as he’d known them to be) His eyelashes closed and opened slowly, seemingly disbelieving of his circumstance. If Eddie knew Buck as well as he hoped he did, then there was a question in his friend’s eyes that was begging to be asked. A question Eddie was more than happy to answer.

“We make a pretty good team.” He felt his own breath reverberate off of Buck’s cheek and it stuttered in time with his heart.

“I’ve always thought so.” Buck’s lips twitched with suppressing a smile.

Then, came the moment of truth. Eddie felt a brief flicker of panic as he took one last breath before diving in.

“What should we do about it?”

In reality, Buck only contemplated his response for a few seconds but for Eddie, the silence stretched for years – three years, in fact. He felt the world move in slow motion and within it, he watched as Buck’s face flicked with a thousand emotions: fear, anxiety, excitement, contentment, desire, hope, doubt; finally, he settled on quiet happiness.

“I think we need to find a game we can play together. As partners. What do you say?”

As if there were any other response, Eddie smiled at Buck. “Partners.”

The rest of their time at the arcade was locked away, inaccessible to even Eddie, who recalled nothing more than laughter and flirtatious eye contact as they made their way through the aisles of games. At the end of the night, Eddie would get down the block before turning back to Buck’s door. He would run a nervous hand through his hair while he knocked with the other, and waited for the answer. And then, he would blush as he asked if Buck wanted to go on a date with him tomorrow. Buck would blush harder and assure Eddie that he would happily attend, but warn that he no longer kissed on the first date.

But maybe on their second date tomorrow, he’d get lucky.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Bedroom Blues | Luke Hemmings

A/N; I hope you like it, and that it’s angsty enough. I’m not too great at writing smut, but I took more time with this imagine, and I felt quite inspired with it. Feedback would be appreciated for any improvements, thankyou for the request and please enjoy (Sorry if the smut’s bad!)  - M x

Warnings; includes smut, angst, mentions and complications of miscarriage, cheating, mentions of drug use, drinking, swearing, choking, toxic relationship, spit

Uttering a single word was unsettling, there was an edge driven between you and Luke, a bump in the road that you feared that the pair of you were unable to cross. He had distanced himself, pouring his emotions into his music rather than expressing them to you.

It hurt, that he pushed you away, telling you to focus on yourself when all that you could mull your mind over was his state of self and all that you had lost. You needed him, it would never be a cure for the pain in your chest, but even so much as a word would have dimmed the heartbreak.

But he was ‘busy’ as he put it. He remained at the studio as you sat on the bottom of the cold bed, the sheets made and pillows perfectly shaped. No one had slept in it in days, you’d opt for the sofa and he anywhere far enough away.

Sometimes, he’d even crash at Cal’s, leaving you in the company of Petunia, who always tried to make you feel better, bless her little heart. But there was another suspicion arising in your welded brain.

It was not a puzzle to put the pieces together, the clues were straightforward. He was slowly losing himself, and by doing so, also you.

Whenever you had the chance to see him, there was a cheap stench of perfume that waded around him, giving you hints about his altered aura. The scent was new to you, nothing you owned smelt like chemicalised fuchsias and indigos.

It could only belong to another woman, the one who left red marks upon the collars of his white shirts that he ignored, allowing you to wash them when you extracted them from the laundry basket.

He sat at his desk, phone in hand as he spoke frustratedly to his manager. Feldy was unimpressed by the things that the musician that he bought with his money, it wasn’t legal and if it were to escape to the public’s eye, he’d be cancelled.

Drugs was not the only consumption that he tolerated to ease his childless suffering, he endeavoured out to puns, with new friends that the boys hadn’t even met.

They seemed sleazy, and were accountably not a good influence upon him. As you leant against the doorframe, you tentatively listened to Luke cuss at the man of his label, him oblivious to your presence.

“It doesn’t fucking matter, I have a reasonable excuse. My child died, before he was even born, I have to cope somehow! So before you let your criticisms slip through your barking lips, consider how you would feel if you were in my position!”

Luke gave the man no time to reply, he hung up, sliding his phone across the table, it hitting the stapler that was sat on the hardwood surface.

He was hurting, he was trying to tolerate the pain, but he was not going about it the right way. As he attempted to get through this tough time, he was hurting everyone that he claimed to love, including you.

“You can’t keep using our son’s passing as an excuse.” It was his answer to everything, the penance that he guarded himself with.

At the sound of your voice, he sighed, rubbing his face with his hand, sick and tired of it all. There was never a moment to waste, he had realised that. Life was about living, something that his child never got to experience. He was making up for the future that he didn’t reach.

“Don’t hassle me woman, you don’t understand.” It was as though he was oblivious to how you felt, focusing on yourself wouldn’t have made his words burn any less.

However painful the strike of the match was, it also made you angry. The way he had the audacity to speak to you like it, as though he were blaming its body for the error that it had gone through.

“Fuck you!” It leapt from your mouth far more aggressively than you intended, but you didn’t regret the exclamation. It was a blessing, that your voice box had the courage to speak the pickings of your mind. “I understand more than you could ever know, you think you’re in pain. Perhaps you should take some time to think, sit and remember the life that we were going to have. Because whilst your out partying, fucking other women and being blind to the fact that you’re pushing everyone that cares away, it makes me think that it’s a good job that our baby wasn’t brought into the world. You’re not exactly father material.”

Luke threw himself from his spinning chair, clasping his hands around (Y/N)’s neck, holding your furious body against the wall. He sneered at the sight of her, for the first time in two months, looking into her eyes. She had insulted him, he wasn’t in the right headspace for that.

“Take it back.” He sternly ordered her, squeezing tighter around her throat. Her silence infuriated him further, and so the tall blond man pried again, leaning in closer to her face. “Take it fucking back you - you... Please take it back (Y/N).”

He broke, but (Y/N) wasn’t ready to cave for him so easily, even as he kept a hold around her. Instead she pursed her lips, forming a ball of saliva in her mouth and spitting it straight in his face.

It landed upon his left eyebrow, wallowing further down as he frowned at her crudeness. Finally, he realised his girlfriend, stepping back, shaking his curls at the sight of her. She disgusted him, she had no right to treat him that way when he was in so much pain. You weren’t helping him cope, you were only making it harder.

“I can’t lie to you like that Luke.” Your voice was softer, however your cheeks hollowed at the crumbled sight of him. He had sunk to the ground, he was on his knees, his head hung low.

“I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?” He didn’t need an answer, not when he was already too aware of his own mistakes. There was no redemption, no do overs. No way to revive his son.

Although he had hurt you in ways in which you’d never forgive him for, it drummed an ache in your chest to see Luke like this. The worst part was that through all of his fuck ups and downs, you still loved him.

He was all you had left, you had lost everything else. It made you think that it hadn’t been the right time, or right at all for you and Luke to have a child together. The creation and its demise had split the two of you apart, there was no coming back from that.

But you were both here, on the floor of his studio, and so you got on your knees before him, cupping his downturned face and turning it up to look at your own. He appreciated the warmth that your hands provided, he had missed them, as well as the rest of you that accompanied them.

“That’s one way to put it.” Licking your lips at the dryness that had masked them, Luke watched the action. It was ordinary, as did your relationship to the media. But that things that they did not know was that the string between the pair of you was torn, it was getting old and would soon fall through.

There was still a single spark left, he felt it surpass the contact he had with your skin. Instinctively he rotated his head in your palm, pressing his lips against the smooth skin, placing delicate, harmless kisses upon the skin.

It surprised you, however you allowed him to continue his path, that trailed up the expanse of your arm, across your shoulder, up the hollow of your neck, until he arrived at your lips. They were so familiar, yet he was so estranged from them.

The appearance of them upheld that of an old friend, they had changed, grown away from their friendship and moved on. This was a chance to reconnect, even if it be for only a moment, and so Luke greeted them with the pressing of his own lips, feeling the remainder of passion left.

He would always love you, you’d been the mother of his child, his rock. And thinking of that had you reciprocating the action, opening your mouth and inclining him a taste inside.

His hands ran down the silhouette of your body, feeling every curve and inch for what felt like the last time. And it probably would be, and so he intended to make the most of it, leave with a regretless finale.

Your hands attacked his hair, tugging at the roots, making the man before you groan at the contact. “Bedroom.” You mumbled against his bittersweet lips.

The pair of you stood, and the tall guitarist hoisted you into his arms, walking through the halls that the pair of you shared.

There were so many ghosts wandering the house, it was eerie, nostalgic. He’d remembered when the pair of you had first scoped out this place through an estate agent. It had felt like home, but now it had the aura of a blue sea; polluted and slowly emptying of all life.

He took careful steps up to stairs, as insurance that he wouldn’t drop your body from his amorous grasp, or that he wouldn’t slip somewhere he couldn’t see.

The two of you were already emotionally fragile, it didn’t need to transfer to its physical cousin. And so he proceeded his route, pushing the bedroom door open with his shoulder, not bothering to close it in his wake.

Lightly he tossed you onto the neat and unused bed, causing a crease to form in the material, but it didn’t matter. Not as he stripped himself of his white silk shirt that had an opening at his chest, tossing it onto the floor.

His stomach was heaving as he got caught in the moment, watching you expectedly as he tugged on the end of your own shirt. It had been a maternity shirt, one that you had bought in consideration for later in the course of your pregnancy. At last, it was getting some use, but Luke would have preferred if it received less of that.

Removing the article washed away any link that your body showed of a prior pregnancy, momentarily it discarded the memories of the change your body had been due; stretchmarks, swollen feet, a craving for the strangest of digestible combinations.

One reminder remained though. It was Luke, who crawled upon the king sized bed, sliding atop of you and trailing his fingertips down the lines of your bra straps, carefully sliding them down your arms, so that the covering merely stayed on by the back portion.

“Is this okay? I don’t want you to regret it.” He had his own, he know how it ate away at his soul, piece by piece. There was no worse feeling, he didn’t want you to experience the same.

A loose lipped smile came across your face, he was being considerate. It was more than he had been since the miscarriage, then he had resembled a shadow whenever he chose to return home. He was hardly visible, and if you saw him, nothing was uttered, it was just a bleak darkness underneath the sun’s scoping rays that explored through the open blinds.

“I’m okay with it.” With your consent in hand, Luke shuffled atop of you, grinding his half hardness against the cotton shorts that protected the disabled birthing centre that you had been the entrance to this entire ordeal.

Shivering at the feeling, you released a small moan, which further spurred on the man. “Fuck, I can’t wait any longer.” He sat upon his knees, digging them into the mattress as he made easy work of his belt, sliding it through the loops and throwing it aside.

Next were his trousers, and as he removed them and his undergarments, you quickly mirrored his actions, leaving both of you naked, aside from the comfortable bra that you were cooped in.

It didn’t matter if a part of you was shielded, Luke was ready to get down to business and make the most of this last night. But before he could position his tip at your slit, one of your hands softly pushed him back, although he remained hovering above your ample body.

“Condom.” You told him, you not wanting to risk another pregnancy. At the word, Luke’s eyes widened, as though it was flashing him back to the night that the pair of you had forwent using one. It had ended in a miracle, that over time, transformed into the worse curse imaginable to mankind.

Luke reached over to the bedside draw, extracting a single packet and delicately ripping it open, taking out the form of protection. He held it in his hand, rolling it upon himself from tip to base. And then all was ready for him to proceed.

Hooking one of your legs around his waist, he pushed into you, which emitted a gasp from both the involved. It felt almost foreign, like a one night stand. It had been a while since such a natural presentation of affection had dawned in this room, or anywhere in this house.

The angle gave him a deeper point to hit you at, and he took full advantage of that. His pace had began slow, but it increased as your hands traced undecipherable shapes upon his nude back, knowing that in this minute, everything went away.

All the pain was gone. The distance was nowhere to be found, it had been crushed by the closeness that your bodies now emitted. It was all replaced by pleasure, the exotic feeling flowed in flushed lines through your skins, and out of the sinful sounds that emitted from your mouths.

Biting lightly into his shoulder, it made the singer groan, it sounded almost musical. It brought you back to the days when he would sing lightly whilst making breakfast together in the mornings, that was in the old apartment, before you had risked such a great commitment into buying somewhere as a couple.

He didn’t fault in his languid strokes, they weren’t fast or slow; they were the perfect in between. However he was going deep, reaching far into your cunt, which was clenching over and over again around his impressive girth.

“Do that again baby.” The name made the pair of you freeze, staring solely into each other’s eyes as the train stopped on the tracks once more. “Shit, fuck, sorry.”

It pained him too, but there was no other thing that didn’t mean stopping other than pushing through the sensitive clause. And so you dragged his face to your own, allowing him to entangle your lips, clenching around him with your inner walls as he had asked.

“Oh god.” You moaned as he had rammed further inside of your core, he sped up at the sound of your approval. He was driving you closer to the edge, and so were the noises of your bodies battling against each other. The entire ordeal was euphoric, you couldn’t help but let go.

Luke noticed that you had came, and from realising that alone, followed shortly after your bust. And then it was the prompt, the realisation that this was the end, there’d be no more love, no more sex, only ghosts trailing through your brain.

The fact was depressing, but it was healthier for everyone involved, Perhaps one day, you’d return for each other, but first you and Luke would both have to heal from the scarring, separately.

[rocorambles]

The Beginning

Pairing: Nekomata x Kuroo

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Yandere, Grooming, Extremely Dubious Consent, Manipulation, Slight Feminization, Virgin Kuroo, Slight Degradation, Undertones of a Corruption Kink, Bottom Kuroo

Summary: Nekomata has always been Kuroo’s favorite mentor and now that Kuroo’s officially entered adulthood, the older man has new lessons for his favorite protégé. 

Author’s Note: LMAO I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS IS A REAL THING, BUT HERE WE GO. The first installation of my Yandere Nekomata x Kuroo monthly series. I can’t even defend this other than to say I promise there will be a not as degenerate, perfectly normal (at least by Roco standards) Sakusa NSFW fic also coming out sometime this weekend to help you wash this cursed thing down. 

@terushimooo I BLAME YOU FOR THIS

Next Chapter

He hadn’t thought much about the quiet young boy who showed up to his training camp all those years ago and yet, maybe Kuroo had left more of a mark on him than he had thought because he instantly recognizes the tall lanky messy-haired high schooler who steps inside of Nekoma’s gym on the first day of the school year. He certainly left an impression on Kuroo and something flutters inside of him when Kuroo shyly asks to speak to him alone after practice one day, bowing deeply and thanking the older man for his wise words about “experiencing the joy of playing”. 

Looks aside, Kuroo isn’t anything like that scared little boy he had met so long ago and Nekomata watches in interest and maybe a little bit of pride at how confidently he carries himself, easily making friends and conversing with the rest of the team, a beautiful smile and glint in hazel eyes. Or so Nekomata had thought. But it seems like you can’t truly change your inherent nature all that much and he sees the little cracks in Kuroo’s act, and as much as he appreciates the man Kuroo is evolving into, he thinks he’s more fond of the introverted little boy he still sees hiding inside. 

For someone so mischievous and cunning, Kuroo is ridiculously easy to manipulate and something dark thrums inside of Nekomata as he sees how Kuroo instantly picks up on all his subtle cues, putting all his faith and hope in this father figure he’s never really had. Sure, he has an actual father, one who barely has time for his son, and two grandparents who’re too tired to care for the boy as they should, but it’s not enough, never enough and Nekomata takes full advantage of the empty hole that Kuroo craves to have filled, practically taking the boy under his own tail so to speak. 

He’s not thrilled when he sees hazel eyes begin to look at his female classmates in interest, but he’s prepared for the question he knows he’ll get soon and when, as expected, Kuroo quietly asks him why he’s still single, what love is like, what girls are like, Nekomata is harsh, but firm, planting the seeds of doubt in Kuroo’s head as he goes on and on about how girls are just distractions, problematic, how they’ll do nothing but cause pain and heartbreak. And just to drive it home, he cruelly reminds Kuroo of the heartache his own mother had caused him and his family and he hides his satisfied smile when teary hazel eyes bawl into his chest, lanky arms wrapping around his larger figure and rigorously nodding a messy head of hair as he takes all his wise words to heart. 

And so Kuroo never dates, never even bats an eye towards the females in his school, ignoring the curious whispers as everyone wonders why such an eligible bachelor is still single, only focusing on volleyball, his team, and his coach. 

Nekomata thought that it would be enough to know that he has the boy all to himself for three years, that his selfish greed would be sated, but as Kuroo’s 18th birthday approaches, as his third-year threatens to come to an end, as his departure from Nekoma draws ever nearer, he realizes it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough and wise cat-eyes scheme. 

Kuroo hates birthdays, hates the reminder that his family could care less about him and there’s an even bigger pang than normal as his 18th birthday approaches. He should be elated and excited about the prospect of finally being an official adult, a man, but all he feels is indifference and neglect as his grandparents completely forget that it’s his birthday in their old age, as his dad sends a cold two word text, not even an exclamation mark at the end to convey any feelings about the matter. He just wants this day to be over, to forget it ever happened, feeling no different than before even though he’s now an “adult”. 

But when Nekomata asks him to stay after practice long after everyone has left and the gym is clean, he can’t help the happy tears that trail down his face when the older man brings out a small cake from behind his back and urges the messy-haired captain to blow out the single lit candle illuminating the empty locker room, blissfully ignorant and naive of just how close Nekomata is to him, their thighs pressed against each other, wrinkled eyes attentively watching Kuroo’s lips as he happily eats a slice of the cake, tongue flicking out to lick the extra cream that hasn’t quite made it into his mouth. 

However, Kuroo is all too aware of a rough finger that brushes against his mouth, scooping up some extra cream that he had missed before gently nudging his fingertip past his lips and Nekomata groans at how the athlete instinctively sucks his finger clean even while staring wide-eyed and confused at him. 

“Coach?”

“Call me Yasufumi.”

He chuckles at how flustered and adorable the man beside him looks as he tentatively tests out the new name, and he can feel his cock begin to twitch with interest at the way it sounds in that ridiculously attractive drawl Kuroo has. 

“Tetsurou, you’re an adult now and when you’re an adult, you can start doing certain things.” 

“Coach! I don’t need a sex talk. Plus, weren’t you the one who said girls are a waste of time-”

Kuroo instantly hushes as a weathered hand grasps him by his chin and forces him to lock eyes. 

“I said to call me Yasufumi and yes, I did say that, but you don’t need to have sex with just girls. I think sex between men is better anyway. I could show you, teach you. Only if you want though.”

Sex between men? Of course Kuroo knows it’s possible, knows it’s a thing. But for him? Him and another man? How would that-

His rambling thoughts are cut off and he squeaks when lips press against his, too surprised to break away as a tongue slips into his mouth, playfully entangling with his own wet muscle and he moans as he’s pulled into straddling Nekomata’s thighs, his lean body pressed tight against a thicker chest and stomach. He tries to form thoughts, question what’s happening, but he gasps when hands grope his ass, a tiny moan escaping him as his hips and groin grind down on something hard protruding from Nekomata’s sweatpants. 

“Come on, Tetsurou. Don’t you trust me? Haven’t I always taught you well?” 

And Kuroo hesitates. 

It’s true. For as long as Kuroo can remember, Nekomata is the only person he’s considered family, who’s guided him, cared for him, shown him what love, even if it's just familial love, feels like. He’s never led him astray, always treated him like his own son, brought him to his full potential as a volleyball player and team captain. 

He cries out as Nekomata gently thrusts up, rubbing their erections against each other. 

It feels so good, so different, so much better than when he awkwardly wraps his own hand around his cock late at night. Surely it can’t be wrong if it feels so right, if it’s Nekomata who’s doing this. It’s just another life lesson, right? 

So he seals his fate with a shy kiss as he relaxes, helping the man underneath him rid him of all his clothes, bashfully looking away as eyes hungrily roam all over his body. But his eyes are snapping back to attention, wide in shock as a strange pleasure lances through him when a mouth greedily suckles on one of his nipples, his other nipple tweaked and pulled. 

“I-I’m not a girl! Stop it! Don’t play with my nipples like that!” 

But his complaints are lost between desperate moans and he loses himself in the strange overwhelming pleasure, flushing at the lewd slick sounds of Nekomata’s sucking. 

“But doesn’t it feel good, Tetsurou? You have such pretty tits.”

“They’re not tits- AH!” 

He whimpers as Nekomata punishes his outburst with a slight nip to his aroused buds. 

“Come on. Be a good boy and cum from having your tits played with.”

“I- I don’t think- I can’t-”

But all it takes is a few more rolls of his hips and a few more tugs and bites before Kuroo is wailing, thick white spurts coating both of their stomachs as the raven haired man exhaustedly collapses and curls up in Nekomata’s lap, humming contently as a hand strokes his messy tangled locks. 

“Good boy, but we’re not done yet. Don’t you think I deserve to feel good too? I think you need to give sensei a thank you gift for such a good lesson.” 

Bleary hazel eyes peer at him before slowly nodding and Nekomata laughs as Kuroo attempts to shimmy to his knees in between Nekomata’s legs, hands eagerly pawing at the hem of his sweatpants only to startle when he’s teasingly slapped away. 

“We’ll use your mouth another day. I have something else to show you.”

Kuroo’s an adult now, but there’s a childlike innocence in the way he curiously looks on as Nekomata pulls out a translucent bottle, craning his neck to see what the older man is doing even when he’s coaxed into laying on his back on one of the benches, his legs spread out on either side of the metal apparatus. And Nekomata coos at the confused nervous sound Kuroo makes as he generously coats Kuroo’s pretty puckered rim and his fingers with the clear liquid. 

“I need you to relax and take deep breaths, okay?” 

That’s all the warning he gets before a finger is pushing at his tight hole and he keens as one knuckle breaches his unused hole, taking in desperate panicked breaths as it becomes two knuckles, and borderline hyperventilating when he’s taken the digit all the way to its hilt. But he desperately listens to the familiar voice as it orders him to keep on relaxing, keep on breathing. 

Relax. Breathe. Relax. Breathe. Relax. Breathe. 

One finger becomes two. Two fingers become three. The stretch is uncomfortable, but not painful, yet Kuroo still just feels strangely full, can’t comprehend what the appeal of this is- 

He screams. Back arching and body twitching when Nekomata’s fingers move inside of him, brushing against a spot that has him seeing stars and his cock hardening once again. He scrambles to sit up, find purchase, register what’s happening, but then those fingers are bushing against that spot over and over again and all he can do is sob, cock pathetically splurting thick drops of pre-cum all over his stomach as his mind breaks under the new delirious pleasure he’s being drowned in. 

If he thought he had already been overwhelmed, it’s absolutely painful and agonizing when the stimulation abruptly stops and he’s howling, clawing like an animal to keep Nekomata’s fingers inside of him, sobbing even harder when Nekomata gently shakes him off and leaves him gaping open, cold, and alone like he’s always been his entire life. But he tries to stifle his sobs, gasping for breath when Nekomata is right there with him again, softly kissing his forehead and urging him to continue being his good patient boy and he sighs in relief when something larger begins to refill him, whimpering and moaning at the larger stretch, but ultimately finding peace in the connection, the fullness. 

And he relaxes back down on the bench, mewling as Nekomata’s cock drags against his insides, reaching further and further inside of him until the head is pressing against that same spot that has him writhing wantonly underneath the older body on top of him. Words are spilling past his lips, incoherent babbling he can’t even make out himself, but as if Nekomata understands the indecipherable pleas for more, he offers the younger man a weathered smile before beginning to rock back and forth and Kuroo’s head shakes back and forth, eyes rolling back in his head as his prostate is continuously brushed against. 

Kuroo has always been attractive, but like this? Vulnerable, lust and arousal clearly painted all over his face and body, pretty noises and tears, a shaky hand wrapping around his own leaking cock? He’s breathtaking and Nekomata feels like a young man all over again as he increases his pace, ignoring the irritating pang in his old hips as he desperately chases his own end, balls feeling full and ready to explode in a way they haven’t for decades. And he sputters and chokes as he empties himself inside of the lithe body underneath him, nearly crushing the younger man as he exhaustedly collapses on top of Kuroo and catches his breath. 

But he grumbles when he feels the body underneath him continue to wriggle, something uncomfortable digging into his stomach and he lifts up just enough to see how Kuroo desperately continues to stroke his cock, tears in his eyes from being so close to release and yet unable to find it by himself and he takes pity on him, nudging Kuroo’s hands away and wrapping his own hand around the cock, sloppily kissing the pretty captain. And he smiles when wiry arms wrap around him and hold him tight, swallowing Kuroo’s endearing moans as the raven haired athlete falls apart underneath him once again, coating his hand with his creamy essence. 

He holds his cum covered hand to Kuroo’s mouth, fondly smiling as he immediately begins lapping and licking him clean, only a slight wrinkle of his nose indicating his dislike of the salty bitter taste. That’s okay, he’ll let the birthday boy get away with it for now. After all, he has plenty of time to fully train him to be the perfect cum slut, his perfect cum slut.  

[blitzturtles]

Title: Nothing Else Matters

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): NaraFugo / FugoNara

Summary: [In a world where it takes Pannacotta a while to come home after the events of VA...]

Patience is not a concept, but a word that bounces around in Narancia’s mind. An echo of syllables rather than something that has meaning. He can repeat it to himself as many times as he would like, but he will find none of whatever it was that Bucciarati wished to impress upon him when he spoke the word in the first place.

Notes: Also, this was honestly an excuse to write Fugo with long hair and scars.

-

Patience is not a concept, but a word that bounces around in Narancia’s mind. An echo of syllables rather than something that has meaning. He can repeat it to himself as many times as he would like, but he will find none of whatever it was that Bucciarati wished to impress upon him when he spoke the word in the first place.

Narancia is not patient. He is not capable. His only lapses in action come when he sleeps or when it is absolutely necessary for survival. The only things he has ever waited for are food and medical care; the latter of which nearly killed him. For Narancia, there is no virtue in patience; only unending anxiety. Worry that gnaws at his already chapped lips and pulls the threads loose in the cuffs of his sleeves. It keeps him up at night with questions that never receive answers.

How is patience a form of high moral standard (what does that even mean?) when it could mean that Fugo is out there by himself? Possibly in danger. With no one to watch his back in a Passione that is rapidly changing around him in a way that he surely is not prepared for.

It’s been a year. One very long year, and that’s accounting for the fact that Narancia spent several miserable weeks in the hospital after a two week long coma. He remembers looking out the window, unable to see the street from so high up, yet hoping he might catch a glimpse of white-blonde hair off in the distance. He had never given up hope that Fugo would stop by one day, even if only to sneak in for a moment. That day had never come, and now countless more have passed.

Giorno does his best to reassure Narancia that Fugo is alive, but that only brings about more questions and concerns. Alive is a pretty low bar to set, but it’s better than some of the scenarios that have run through Narancia’s head. It’s better than dead at Diavolo’s hands-- indirectly or otherwise--, but it only does so much to soothe Narancia’s nerves.

He can’t bring himself to ask how Giorno knows that Fugo is alive. That he’s at least surviving out there in the world where the most powerful crime syndicate is undergoing significant restructuring. Has Giorno seen him? Spoken to him? Does Fugo visit him?

Giorno’s got eyes in more places than Narancia can wrap his head around, so it’s possible that Giorno’s monitoring Fugo from a distance. And Narancia tries to ignore how that thought makes his chest ache. As if Fugo is some kind of threat to them.

The problem is that Fugo could be a threat. If he had it in him. He has more information on those closest to the Don than anyone else in the entirety of Passione combined, but he’s not a traitor. Narancia knows that like he knows the sky is blue, an observable and undeniable truth.

What almost hurts more is the thought that Fugo is talking to Giorno directly. That he’s gone to see the Don on more than one occasion, or that he has some means of reporting to Giorno that none of them are privy to. That Narancia knows of, anyway. He wouldn’t be entirely surprised to hear that Bucciarati also knows of Fugo’s whereabouts, but that thought doesn’t hurt nearly as badly as the idea that Fugo is avoiding him.

Narancia does some avoidance of his own. Mostly, it’s calendars that he can’t stand to look at. He tries his best to steer clear of them, but it’s been hard ever since he started up school again. Everything operates on a damn schedule with school. Tests, homework, tutoring (remote and not through Fugo, and he hates it)... It’s never ending, and the moment he gets his hands on one, he’s counting back all the time that’s passed.

Today marks one year, two months, and three days, and patience has gotten him absolutely nowhere.

______

Giorno sends for Narancia while Narancia is busy studying in the mansion’s library. He gives Mista-- the one often sent to collect for the child Don, whether it be man or money-- a look of confusion, with one eyebrow cocked and eyes searching, but Mista only shrugs,

“Dunno, dude. You’re gonna have to go see for yourself, I guess.”

Narancia doesn’t know how Mista can sound so detached. These kinds of things drive him crazy. He wants to know, and he wants to know now. Patience is bullshit, and he’s tired of pretending otherwise.

______

The door to Giorno’s office is a large, heavy oak thing carved with expert hands. Narancia’s fingers sink into the grooves that make up the design of foliage and wildlife. He’s found himself tracing various parts of this door more times than he can count. The scene is beautiful. One of the artist’s whim, but she had clearly understood her client, given how perfectly it fits Giorno. It’s often the first impression people get of the Don when they’re called upon. The door comes across as unnecessarily ornate, but, truly, it’s a reminder. Besides, the whole thing had been a gift. Not a single penny had been spent (well, not in commission, anyhow.)

Narancia likes it because he can usually find something he hasn’t noticed, some groove he hasn’t touched. The surface is surprisingly smooth for wood, and it feels nice under his fingers. He’s used it as a distraction before; a way to pass the time while idling outside of Giorno’s office, either as a living radar or as an invited guest.

He’s almost never there for a mission briefing. It’s rare that he gets sent out on field work at all anymore. He’s technically an ex-mafioso now. School is supposed to be his priority (it’s not), which means mafia work is saved for everyone else. Most of the time. Which raises the question: what does Giorno want?

“Come in!” Giorno calls loud enough to be heard. It startles Narancia out of his thoughts, but he brushes it off quickly and reaches for the door, only stopping for a moment because he can hear a second voice. A quiet murmur that Giorno responds to in a gentle cadence of his own. One that’s meant to be reassuring, yet sends alarm bells off in Narancia’s head. He flips Aerosmith’s radar over his eye, checking the signatures in the room. There’s definitely only two, but that doesn’t give him a whole lot to work with.

Rather than keep his boss waiting any longer, Narancia pushes the door open and peers inside, half expecting the stranger to be holding a weapon of some sort. Instead, the man stands there, stiff as a board with his back facing Narancia. He has a ratty hoodie on with the hood being pulled up in such a way that Narancia can’t see any of the man’s features. It does nothing to settle his unease. Something is going on, and he feels wholly underprepared.

“It’s alright,” Giorno says, standing from his chair and moving around his desk. Narancia doesn’t know if he’s trying to reassure the stranger or him, but he has a feeling that neither of them feels any more at ease than before the Don spoke. And what Giorno says next makes even less sense, but is definitely aimed at the stranger, “He’s been waiting for this.”

Slowly, the unknown man reaches up to lower his hood. It seems to take an eternity, but the moment Narancia sees his face is the moment when he feels like someone has punched him in the gut hard enough to go through layers of skin and muscle and fat. There’s a horrible twist in his stomach before an odd, detached hollowness settles in, and all he can do is stare in disbelief.

Fugo’s fingers linger on the rim of his hood. He holds it tight around his neck, still partially obscuring his hair and part of his jaw. His fingers remain clenched in the fabric so tightly that his knuckles have gone white, and he stands there, seemingly frozen part way through his reveal. His mouth is too obscured to see the full extent of his expression, but his brows are drawn in a frown. Bright red eyes dart suddenly from Narancia to Giorno, searching. He looks ready to run, and that’s enough to kick Narancia’s brain back into gear.

“You bastard!” Narancia’s lunging at him in an instant without bothering for his knife. He grabs at Fugo’s hood, and his fingers clasp tightly in the bunched fabric before Fugo’s hands.

Giorno moves to get between them with a hand raised, prepared to force the two apart if need be. Gold Experience manifests behind him, no doubt prepared to create a literal barrier to prevent any bloodshed.

“Don’t,” Fugo breathes, eyes darting to Giorno. “Don’t,” he repeats, “It’s fine.”

“Fuck you!”

Fugo doesn’t flinch at the exclamation, though he does sink his gaze downward and refuses to look up at Narancia. No amount of time could have prepared him for this particular reunion. Getting into contact with Mista and Giorno again had been hard enough, and that hadn’t exactly been his choice. This is an entirely different matter. One more complex than he knows how to deal with, and that’s exactly why they’re in this situation now: because he hadn’t known how else to do this.

Rude as it is to stick Giorno in the middle of all of this, it’s the only way that Fugo could assure that he would follow through with his plan to finally reintroduce himself to the rest of the team. He’s already proven himself to the Don. To Giorno. And to Mista. Though he hardly feels as though he deserves their trust. No matter how often Giorno reassures him otherwise. Still, this is more complicated.

Narancia stares him down with a fire in his eyes. Aerosmith’s radar vanishes from existence, which at least means Fugo won’t be shot, but that’s little consolation given the rage rolling off of Narancia in waves. His fists press into Fugo’s jaw, causing him to wince, and just like that something… snaps. Either inside of Fugo or in the air. It’s like a crack of thunder that rings in his ears.

“I hate you,” Narancia nearly sobs into his ear the moment he gets his arms around Fugo. He pulls him into a crushing hug with no warning and repeats the phrase ad nauseum. They both know the words aren’t true, though Fugo deserves them to be.

“I’m sorry,” Fugo breathes his response, and not just because Narancia is trying to squeeze the life out of him. His own eyes are burning with tears. Months of pent up emotions spill forward in an unstoppable avalanche, and all either of them can do is hang on tightly to the other until the worst of it passes.

Fugo barely has a moment to catch his breath before Narancia is reaching, and he flinches. Narancia’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open a bit. Nothing needs to be said for Fugo to know that he’s added one more hurt to a very long list.

“Just,” Fugo tries and glances helplessly at Giorno, but the Don seems to have made his escape in the little outburst of chaotic emotions once he had realized the two weren’t a threat to one another. “I’m different.” It sounds ridiculous in his own ears, and it doesn’t cover the reality of what he’s hiding behind his hood and his clenched fists.

Narancia laughs. A startled sound that gets ripped from him before he really processes the words, or the look on Fugo’s face. He feels bad almost immediately and tries to recover the situation by saying, “You’re you.”

Fugo inhales deeply and holds his breath a moment before he drops his hands away finally. The hood falls down around his shoulders, and he has to steel himself to avoid turning away.

“Oh,” Narancia sucks in a breath. He reaches his hands to either side of Fugo’s mouth, only hesitating a moment when Fugo stiffens, but he forces his own hands steady enough to brush his thumb over the newly gnarled skin. Well, not that new, he supposes. The scars are healed enough; no longer the bright, angry red that they once were, but it’s clear they had been painful. They may still be. Narancia thinks it must hurt when they pull at the corners of Fugo’s mouth whenever he speaks.

“Purple Haze,” Fugo explains without really explaining. He gives a half shrug and stares down, but he’s startled when Narancia surges forward and kisses him. Of all the reactions he had been expecting, that has to have been the last on his list.

It’s not as if kissing is new to them. They’ve done it plenty of times before, when they were together. Before Fugo chose to stay behind and watched Narancia swim off after the boat without him. When his feet had been cemented to the ground underneath him and his heart had been hammering in his chest and his stomach had been doing its best to turn itself inside out because they were all going to die, and nothing he could do or say would change it.

He doesn’t deserve Narancia now. Doesn’t deserve his undying devotion and his freely offered affection. He can’t justify asking for forgiveness, much less another chance at what they had before, yet here they are.

Narancia draws back with a gasp of air. His eyes bore into Fugo’s, searching, and he must find whatever he’s looking for because he’s grinning wide. “You look badass, Panna,” he says and steals a second kiss while Fugo’s brain reels violently.

The next time they break apart for air, Narancia runs both hands and eyes over Fugo, undoubtedly searching for more marks. More changes, and he finds them in the form of Fugo’s hair, which has gotten absurdly long in his time away. He can’t bring himself to let anyone cut it, and it hardly bothers him.

There’s a moment he worries that Narancia might hate it, but Narancia has his hands in the soft, white locks with that same, goofy look on his face. “You look so pretty with your hair like this,” he tells Fugo with so much love in his voice that it almost burns.

“How can I look badass and pretty?” Fugo asks, though it isn’t important. It’s something to focus on. Something that means nothing at all. His hair is inconsequential. A safe topic for him to latch onto until his heart stops pounding painfully in his chest.

“You’re asking me!” Narancia says in a non-answer. He brushes his fingers through Fugo’s hair again and again, and all Fugo can do is lean into the touch that he’s missed for so long. He hasn’t been able to let anyone else get close since that day with the damned boat. It had been like being thirteen again. Where he felt alone and scared; every noise making him jump and check over his shoulder, prepared for something ugly and unspeakable, but the only real, irreparable damage that he’s taken is from his own Stand. A penance for all the hurt that he’s inflicted on those that he cares about most.

“Does Bucci know you’re back? He’s going to lose his mind, but oh! Too bad, because I call Panna time first, and I’m not giving it up for nothin’,” not even to Bucciarati, who Narancia has the utmost respect for. He doesn’t care; he’s waited so long for this, and Fugo came back with new scars and pretty hair. They’re both things he wants to commit to his memory via the longest cuddle session he can get away with.

“Not yet, and I think he’ll understand,” Fugo replies with the barest of smiles.

“Good, let’s go!” Narancia moves his hands from Fugo’s hair to grasp at one of Fugo’s. He intertwines their fingers and tugs hard enough to nearly knock Fugo off balance, but Fugo recovers enough to allow himself to be dragged along.

He still feels like a raw nerve. Fight or flight are just on the edge of his conscious brain, and his ribs ache from the way his heart continues to beat too hard and too fast. There’s a lingering feeling that he doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t deserve any of this, but he pushes the self-hatred down for now. Somehow, Narancia doesn’t hate him, and nothing else matters.

[rose-blooms-red]

Significant Others/troopers under their command react to Edee's latest volley of obnoxious gifts :D

Did I start this 3 months ago? Yes. Did I also write over 2k of it Today? Also yes. Productivity is a Relative Term. 

[read on ao3]

Fox twitches as he reads the clearly handmade voucher. Says, pleasant as anything, “I’m going to fucking murder him.”

Ponds hums, looking over Fox’s shoulder, “It’s sweet. Probably.”

Fox makes a noise in the back of his throat that isn’t entirely describable by any known language. 

Does he still have that clock he found during that one shopping trip? The one with that awful fucking peach, mustard, and grey-blue combination that spat out an eeopie’s mating call every half hour? He’d been planning on saving it he remembers but—

“Telling you to take a break like that,” Ponds continues, like he can’t hear the way Fox’s higher reasoning is currently dying a slow painful death, “very considerate.”

Fox grits his teeth. Needs must, and Fox needs to crush the little fucker’s spirit thoroughly under heel. He’ll have to take it out of storage tomorrow.

“No.”

Ponds giggles, “I’m sure it’ll be entertaining at least.”

“Hondo,” Fox reiterates, digging his elbow back into Ponds’ stomach. 

Ponds drapes himself over Fox’s back, knocks the side of his head against Fox’s, “As I said,” he simpers, “entertaining.”

Fox makes a disgusted sound, sneers down at the offending…. Gift.

‘All expense-paid cruise on the Hondo Ohkana ‘Sights of The Galaxy’ tour!!!!!!’ It proclaims in neon colours and excessive exclamation marks, ‘Very Romantic and Exciting!’

“When’s it say it’s good for?” Ponds asks, like he’s actually contemplating it.

“No.”

Ponds snatches the voucher out of his hands anyway, “Oh good! We aren’t busy that ten-day.”

Fox’s hand twitches, “I am not getting on a fucking ship with fucking Hondo Ohkana, Ponds.”

“Mhm, ‘course not Fox.” Ponds responds absentmindedly, pats his arm lightly in the way that means they are definitely getting on the fucking ship with fucking Hondo Ohkana, “We’ve got a ten-day to pack and get everything in order, that should be enough.” He nods to himself, breezes out of the room with a vague sense of purpose as he flits around the house, presumably for things to take on a ‘very romantic and exciting’ trip.

Fox is going to murder somebody, preferably Hondo, or Neyo. 

He hears the sound of Ponds grabbing the DC-15A’s and he grimaces, ugh, time to find the fucking holdout blasters, those things haven’t been serviced in at least a ten-day, and he needs to check on the blaster packs for the DC-17’s. He can’t remember if he restocked the things after the last time he used them. 

If they’re going on the fucking trip, they’re gonna be well fucking stocked.

(Fox manages not to murder Hondo, but it’s a very near fucking thing.

He does come back from the trip in a much better mood though, other than the twitch he’s developed from listening to Hondo all day. Ponds is annoyingly amused and smug about it. Fox ignores it, like he does every other fucking annoyance in his life. 

He shuts down the talk of another trip like it happening any time in this fucking century before Ponds even opens his mouth to respond. Once was fucking enough thank you.)

__________

Colt closes his eyes, casts a net about his mind for a sliver of patience and finds his supply has dwindled something awful.

When he opens his eyes again both nuisance and potted plant are still there. Gree smiles winningly and Colt smells danger. 

Or maybe he just smells the plant, because that is the thing overwhelming everything else right now. He glares down at it, it looks harmless, mostly, in it’s large pot but already Colt can hear the sounds of flies swarming around.

“That is not a houseplant,” Colt says, relatively tamely in his opinion, given that the overwhelming smell it emits is decay, “that is the type of plant one shoots and hopes doesn't survive the encounter.”

“It’s a very rare and endangered plant,” Gree lies, grin earnest and eyes bright with humour.

“It’s a pile of banthashit dressed up in vegitive form.”

“It’s an Amorphophallus titanum,” Gree corrects, “and it’s very rare, it’s one of the largest unbranched inflorescence in the galaxy that isn’t also carnivorous in any shape or form.”

Colt gives the plant a dubious look, “I’ll believe that when it doesn’t smell like it just ate and digested something.”

Gree shrugs, “It’s possible it’s a type of carrion flower…. but in the name of protecting it from extinction there’s no one I’d trust more than you.”

Colt twitches, he has no clue what a carrion flower is or how that accounts for the way it smells like Colt has a pile of corpses rotting away on his front step, but he does not like it at all.

The worst part is that he can’t actually tell whether this is Gree being serious or him pulling a shithead move. Because this is exactly the type of thing Gree would genuinely do and also the type of thing Gree would do just to fuck with him.

Behind him someone gags and Colt twitches.

“Fine,” he grits out, and Gree’s smile tries for sunshine and comes up partly cloudy and fully shiteating.

“Wonderful, thanks Colt.”

“Please leave.” 

Gree laughs as he leaves and Colt closes the door with a sigh.

“It smells like someone died over there,” Blitz calls out and Colt groans.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Havoc sniggers, “It really does sir, we might have to keep the Little’s away for a few days, wouldn’t want one of ‘em puking.”

Colt winces, that image does enough to convince him of the necessity, the only thing that could be worse right now is over a dozen Little’s sicking up from the smell. “Might be for the best.”

Blitz hums, looking at the now closed door in interest, “How likely is it that he was pulling your leg?”

Colt slumps into his chair, “50/50” he admits and Blitz raises his eyebrows.

“That is almost more concerning. What the kriff did they put in your batch.”

“Mistakes,” Colt grumbles back. This is why he’s the oldest, he’s the only one in the entire batch who managed to wrangle any sense out of his tube and keep it all the way through.

Havoc laughs and Blitz snorts, then looks like he immediately regrets it, “Ugh, Colt your batch is full of sadists I’m not gonna get the smell out of my nose for weeks.”

“It’s probably seeped into the clothes at this point,” Havoc agrees and Colt groans.

(When Shaak comes home she takes one look at the plant and can’t seem to decide whether to grimace or smile.

“Apparently,” he drawls, “it’s a very endangered plant that’s been entrusted to my care.”

A burst of laughter ripples out into the room and Shaak smiles, hand covering her lips as her shoulders shake minutely, Colt forgets about the death plant for a second as he looks up at her, heart stopping for a moment in the split second it takes her to swallow her laughter back down and he wants nothing more than to pull that sound out from her again.

It takes him a minute to realize that at some point he’d started smiling. He can’t seem to stop it, but there are worse things to find himself unable to stop doing.

“It’s commonly known as a type of carrion flower,” she tells him finally, laughter lacing her tone, “otherwise known as a corpse flower for the smells they produce. It is not endangered, though there are those who agree that it might not be too much of a loss if it was.”

Colt groans. Shaak giggles and Colt finds himself forgetting for a second to plot his revenge.

Maybe Gree will get off a bit lighter this time, if only because Colt got to hear that bright laughter. 

He hums, “Plant it far, far, far away from the house?” Shaak smiles, presses a kiss to his forehead.

“That, my dear Colt, sounds like a brilliant plan.”)

__________

Gree gives the box a look of suspicious distrust that makes Barriss giggle and Decker snicker. 

It’s a big box, about the size of his torso and Gree has seen that bland, even smile too many times before to trust the contents of the box.

“Fox,” he warns and Fox’s grin goes sickeningly sweet.

“Gree, Baby Brother Dearest,” he drawls and Gree can hear the capital letters what the fuck, “I put my heart and soul into this you know, I’m hurt, really I am.”

That, Gree thinks sourly, is the worst load of banthashit he’s ever heard, and he’s had to listen to ‘scientific lectures’ given by people who read maybe one Edupad and then promptly forgot all of the information in the Edupad and decided whatever half-remembered thing left was Fact and Truth and refused to listen to Reason…. or sources and cited works.

Gree was very annoyed about that one, he’d put Effort into that paper thank you very much and he’d taken the class to learn things, not whatever that had been.

Fox wiggles the box in his hands around, expression pleasant and smile sharp.

Gree sighs. At least, he assures himself as he takes the box, it won’t be as bad as whatever happened after Fox and Ponds had come back from Neyo’s…… Gift.

Maybe.

The box is squishy. Boxes are not supposed to be squishy.

Gree has a Bad Feeling about this. He raises an eyebrow, Fox doesn’t even twitch.

Behind him Barriss is watching the exchange with wide, mirth filled eyes and a hand covering her mouth. Decker has long since lost the battle of keeping his snickering quiet and the rest of Gree’s so called loyal troopers of Green company watch with rapt attention.

He sighs again, loud and long-suffering, Fox’s smile never shrinks a shade less than serial killer pleased.

Gree unwraps the wrapping flimsi with ease, and then stares with distant horror at the plasti-cling underneath it. Not a box, no, plasti-cling.

It’s layered.

Gree twitches and reaches for one of his vibroblades.

“It’s very delicate,” Fox informs him, just as he gets the vibroblade out of it’s holder.

“Oh?” Gree asks, really quite pleasantly given the plasti-cling is so layered he can’t see a damn thing through it.

“Extremely,” Fox confirms, deadpan. Behind him Barriss giggles uncontrollably and Decker is flushed with laughter and gasping for air and the others aren’t much better. 

“Do they always do this?” one of them whispers incredibly poorly, Gree twitches, Fox eyes him with that malicious amusement that cements his place as youngest forever in Gree’s head.

“Always,” Barriss whispers back, giggling still and Gree’s heart warms for a second before his impending humiliation via gift settles in again.

“I knew the Commander wasn’t only, you know, learny, but I always thought he was sane.”

“Oh he’s sane,” Cooker reassures, “far as we can tell their entire batch is just, Like That.”

“But this is Torrent lev—” Fox’s face gives an unpleasant twitch that Gree sympathizes with.

Torrent, ugh.

“Shhhh,” the rest of Green hisses and Barriss hides her head in her hands as she laughs.

“We don’t compare them to Torrent, makes them touchy,” Draa mutters, as if he isn't half the reason Gree goes into interactions with Torrent prepared to have engineering go on another crazed building spree. He has a hunch that they feed on each other, the engineers, and it's their own special kind of crazy that Gree is half fascinated by and half resigned to.

“My point stands.” 

Gree grits his teeth, narrows his eyes at Green Company as a whole to no avail, turns a raised eyebrow to Barriss in a last attempt at gaining control of a situation he’d lost all hold over the moment Fox had walked up to him with a ‘gift from the bottom of my heart, Gree’.

His cold dead heart maybe. Gree is plotting his revenge already.

He puts the blade back with mechanical motions, feels around for the beginning of the despised plasti-cling, seriously who made it Gree has complaints for them, and begins the arduous task of unwrapping it all.

Who let Fox have this much plasti-cling.

(Over 10 hours of nonstop focus later the last of the plasti-cling has finally been ripped away and Gree stares at the new puzzle cube. Ugly and about the size of his palm. Much, much smaller than the wrapping he’d been given, nearly the size of his torso.

Gree makes a strangled sound that he will forever deny, Draa. 

The plasti-cling sits around him tauntingly, viciously victorious in all it’s piled glory.

It takes 3 days for Green Company to stop laughing about it. It does not take 3 days for them to stop sharing the holopics and vids they took, that takes much longer.

Barriss is Gree’s favourite now, everyone else is awful and everything they say is lies, and Fox has been demoted to all the way to being the baby.)

__________

Neyo tilts his head, grin bordering manic, “That, is the ugliest piece of garbage I’ve ever seen.”

Colt smiles, “It’s high class art.”

“It looks like someone took cans of paint and dumped them on the nearest patch of dirt they found.” 

“The texture adds value.”

“It’s chunks of dirt and grass.” Neyo hisses in delighted outrage. 

Colt waves a hand, voice disinterested and all ‘above all this nonsense’ like, “Very classy. Made with only the best of intentions.”

Neyo giggles, “It looks like actual manure, I hate it.”

“I got it just for you,” Colt simpers, like the little shit no one ever believes he is, “I saw it and just knew you’d connect to it.”

Neyo cackles, “This is awful, you’re awful, I’m hanging it on the wall and telling everyone you painted it.”

Colt raises an eyebrow, “No one will believe you.”

He’s right, it’s awful. Neyo pouts, “I could convince them.”

No he can’t, but that’s besides the point.

Colt hums, “mhm, I’m sure you could kih’vod.”

Neyo flicks at Colt’s wrist and wilts, “This is harassment.”

“Whatever you say Ney’ika.”

“You’re a bully.”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t believe anyone thinks you’re responsible.”

“That is because I am.” Colt says, putting Neyo in a headlock, they both ignore the way Neyo tenses up for a fraction of a second before he relaxes, sulks, digging his elbow into Colt’s side.

It’s the first time Colt has given him such a blatantly awful gift. Neyo cackles and something shakes loose in his chest. His throat feels grossly tight and the stupid shitty canvas covered in dirt and paint sits leaning against the wall innocently.

Colt makes the same even face he uses on the Little’s when they’re being hilarious and he can’t afford to tell them or when he’s about to say something completely karking stupid because no matter how much he likes to tell everyone he’s the oldest he totally isn’t. 

Neyo slips out of the headlock, giggles through the knot in his throat and rolls his eyes.

“You’re deluding yourself and everyone around you.” he tells Colt. Colt has only ever been responsible by necessity, and never once in all of Neyo’s memories of him, has he been anything less than an absolute shithead just like the rest of them when there was no necessity.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I’m not arguing with you like a first-cycle.”

“Are too.”

“Neyo.”

“You’re the one who gave me the shitty painting.”

“It’s high class art you bastard.”

Neyo preens, “Thank you, still the worst thing I’ve ever seen though. Might hang it up in the front room, just to really bring it all together.”

Colt sighs, aggrieved. Neyo has no sympathy for him, really if you’re gonna play the game you gotta be in it to win it. It’s not Neyo’s fault that the trashy, awful, horrible dirt, grass, paint mixture splattered onto canvas happens to be horrifyingly tasteless. Neyo loves it. It’s gonna make Fox so mad.

(“Neyo,” Vaughn asks, staring at the wall, “why is there a, what even is that, dirt? On canvas?”

Neyo straightens up, grins wide, “Colt painted it. Out of the love in his heart and the limited talents he was decanted with.”

Vaughn raises an eyebrow, “That’s lovely and everything, why is it hanging in our front room.”

“It is horrifically awful and I love it and Fox and Ponds are coming over tomorrow.”

Vaughn laughs.

The next day, Ponds takes one look at it and giggles, “Fox, Fox come here, you’re gonna hate it.”

Fox takes one look at it and walks right back out of the house, Neyo cackles the entire time.)

[criminalrambling]

Handy

Pairing: Spencer Reid /gn!reader

Fluffy with some sexual innuendo

__________________________________________

Spencer had been dreading this task for weeks. His old apartment building, while cozy and charming, had come with small closets. and he knew at some point it would need some new shelves and such… He’d been procrastinating on it, making excuses like his busy work schedule for the reason it had never gotten done. Really, how many PhD’s did it take to be able to use a drill, level and hammer?

Apparently none. Spencer had 3, and he couldn’t use any of the tools he needed to assemble the closet. He’d been talking about this issue with his colleague and close friend Y/N, and to his surprise they’d offer to come over to help over the weekend. He wasn’t sure how much better they’d be at it than himself, but he didn’t see any harm in letting them try to help. Worst case scenario, they would call Derek when they inevitably failed. Plus, Spencer harbored a crush on Y/N and was always eager to see them whenever he got the chance. Even if the task at hand would be unpleasant, he knew it would be better with Y/N there.

He was reading through the instructions for the closet system when he heard a knock at the door and hopped up to let Y/N in. His eyes widened as he took in their casual weekend look… they looked absolutely adorable. They carried a small tool box with them (something Spencer didn’t have at his own home), and a bright grin spread across their face as Spencer welcomed them inside.

“Okay, Spencer… Where are we starting?” they asked.

“I have the Elfa system for my bedroom closet. I’ve been reading the instructions this morning and it seems fairly simple if you have the right tools.”

Y/N took the instructions and gave them a quick skim, pulling out all of the tools that would be needed. They seemed to know exactly where to start, grabbing a measuring tape to ensure that the closet pieces would fit in as planned. Spencer helped them measure and mark where the metal bar would need to be attached, and then held it steady while Y/N ensured it was level and marked with a pencil where the drilled holes would need to be.

“Ok, so first we’ll drill the holes. I already checked and made sure we’re not going to hit any studs that will make that hard. Then we’ll hammer in this anchor, and then attach the metal bar to the wall using these screws.” Y/N walked through, showing Spencer the different tools. All of this made sense to Spencer, in a bookish ‘I’ve read this before’ kind of way, but he was impressed by Y/N’s ability to actually do all of it.

They hopped up on the step stool, evenly drilled the required number of holes in the wall and used their hand to brush away the dust that was left behind before setting the drill down on the step stool between their feet. As they bent over, Spencer tried not to gawk at how good their backside looked in their faded denim overalls. No, he definitely wasn’t interested in grabbing a handful of their ass once they got down from the step stool and pulling them close to him. His daydream was interrupted when Y/N started talking again.

“Awesome. Spence, can you hand me the hammer and one of the anchors? They’re the little plastic things in that small bag.” They asked, looking over their shoulder and extending a hand. Spencer’s fingers tingled as he dropped the plastic and metal pieces into Y/N’s hand, and he felt a jolt of desire as their fingers briefly intertwined while he handed over the hammer. He wondered if Y/N was feeling any of this attraction, or if it was all one-sided.

They took the anchors and deftly hammered them into place, and then asked Spencer to help hold the metal bar in place. He licked his lips anxiously, both because his body was now much closer to Y/N’s and in the hopes he was doing the task correctly. Y/N’s hand was gentle on top of his as they helped Spencer line up the material to the line they’d marked on the inside closet wall.

“Awesome, yes - right there, Spencer!” they smiled encouragingly at him. Spencer tried not to think about them saying that same sentence in a different context…. One with significantly less clothes involved. He held the bar in place while Y/N used the drill to secure the screws in place. Spencer wished he could think of a joke about screwing that would make Y/N laugh… but he was never that good at jokes and also couldn’t think about Y/N and screwing in the same moment without feeling overwhelmingly hot and bothered. Gazing up at the dusty, white ceiling only partially kept him from fantasizing.

Once Y/N was done, they double checked that everything was still level (it was), and got down to the more detailed assembly of shelves and drawers. While they sat on his floor and assembled the pieces, Y/N asked Spencer questions about himself, the books he was reading, and his favorite Doctor Who episode. He could tell they were trying to make him comfortable, but he was genuinely enjoying the conversation. He tried to reciprocate, asking them about their interests outside of work and being surprised to learn they’d recently picked up crochet. He wondered if they would be interested in continuing the conversation over dinner or a drink… but before he could gather the nerve to ask, it was back to the tedium of closet assembly.

Y/N helped him space out the vertical bars according to the specifications the Container Store staff had provided him and started sliding everything into place. Occasionally a piece would slip and a quiet swear would leave Y/N’s lips, their brow furrowed in concentration. It was extremely cute and endearing… while Spencer was excited by the progress on his new closet, he was also starting to figure out how the day would end in him asking Y/N out. After this day together, he felt absolutely certain that he wanted to be the one to please and delight Y/N. He wanted to be the reason for the little grins, the exclamations of joy… someday, maybe even moans of pleasure? He shook away the fantasy as he slid the last drawer into place.

Y/N dusted off their hands and grinned at him. “There we go! See, not that hard… I feel like you really got the hang of it there towards the end. Ok, now stand in front of it and look cool. I want to text Derek a picture of our handiwork.”

He stood in front of the closet and let Y/N pose him as she wished, soaking in the feeling of their hands on his shoulders as they turned him at a different angle. Chills cascaded down his back as their touch subsided. Did they know they made him feel this way? Y/N was smart, inviting, capable, damn good looking… and had spent most of the afternoon with him, tackling a project that most would despise. He didn’t know why he’d waited so long to ask them out.

Y/N snapped the photo, then showed it to him to make sure it was ok to send. He nodded, and after the message was sent they started cleaning up.

“Seriously Y/N this was amazing! I really appreciate you coming over to help. It was actually really fun.” He felt himself blushing and swallowed nervously before asking, “Maybe I could take you out to dinner sometime, as a thank you?”

They dropped the drill bits they were holding in surprise before looking back at him. Y/N blushed and grinned. “Absolutely. I’d love that.”

“Ok, great. How’s tomorrow?” He beamed as Y/N nodded in agreement. “Ok, great. Tomorrow! Thank you so much again for helping me, not that you need to always help me with this stuff, it was just really nice and…”

Y/N cut him off with a finger on his lips that felt like a branding iron. “Spencer, you are so sweet. I’ll be your handy helper any time you need something screwed… call me about dinner tomorrow, I can’t wait!” They kissed his cheek, collected their toolbox and left, Spencer standing there, stunned.

He couldn't wait for their date.

[theladyofdeath]

City of Starlight {1}

An A Court of Thorns and Roses & Throne of Glass Crossover, Modern AU fanfiction.

Based on a prompt sent in for the 5k follower contest {winner}, from Anonymous: “Competitive arts school tog x acotar crossover”

Summary:  Velaris School of the Arts is the most prestigious school of talent on the continent. Whoever wants to be someone wants to get in. As her senior year of high school is coming to an end, all Aelin Galathynius wants is to go to the city of starlight and play music. Feyre Archeron, however, longs to paint for the rich and famous. Painters, singers, dancers, actors, and filmmakers come together in friendship, love, and lust, and find that they have a lot more in common than they thought.

A/N: Shoutout to @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty​ for writing chapter one with me! Ugh, I’m so excited to write this story, y’all don’t even know. Read, enjoy, & let me know what you think!

Warnings: language

Links:

Fanfic Masterlist

Ask me ANYTHING!

City of Starlight {ACOTAR/TOG crossover}

> Characters Detail Sheet <

Aelin and Aedion stepped out into the late afternoon sun. The drive had taken a little bit longer than intended, but that was only because they stopped to sight-see anything that sounded interesting, including the world’s largest pumpkin. Although ginormous, it was rotted and horrible, but there had been a sign just before the exit and they couldn’t resist. It was also at that exit that they stopped by a little hole-in-the-wall bakery and Aelin got two dozen chocolate donuts.

She’d eaten nearly half of them between there and the entrance of the city.

Velaris was beautiful, just as Aelin suspected it would be, but she really couldn’t wait until nightfall to see the famous starlight. They had a few hours before that, though, which meant that they had to find their apartments. Instead of traditional dorms, since Velaris was a smaller school, they had a huddle of apartments and townhouses. They were all cluttered close together, though, and it was a bit overwhelming trying to decipher which building was which.

“Fuck,” Aedion muttered, looking around the square. They were standing in the middle of four different apartment buildings, all of which looked exactly the same. “What’s your building?”

Aelin dug through her bag to find the envelope with all of her information in it, which took a solid two minutes, and once she opened it up, it took another two to find the right piece of paper.

Aedion just watched her, shaking his head. “How have you made it this far in life being so disorganized?”

She gave him a vulgar gesture as she read, “I’m in building B.” She blinked. “They’re alphabetized?” 

Aedion looked around to find the nearest sign, then groaned. “Well, this is building Q, so if that’s the case, we’re pretty far off. I’m in B, too.”

With a dramatic sigh, Aelin said, “And here I was hoping to finally get some distance from you.”

Aedion nudged her in the ribs before climbing back up behind the wheel of his truck. They rode around for nearly forty-five minutes, slowly, reading every sign they passed with frustration. At one point, they thought they were close, because they came upon building C, only to be met at the next building with a sign that said “Apartment Building L”. Aelin swore it was a test of will - one she definitely didn’t care for.

But, alas, when they finally found Apartment Building B, it was a glorious feeling, and once Aedion pulled into a parking spot, Aelin jumped out of the car and yelled, “Finally!”

She expected Aedion to make a profound exclamation, too, but when she looked over the hood of the car at him, he was looking elsewhere.

On the other side of the courtyard was a girl with long, brown hair, a black tank top, and a pair of ripped skinny jeans. Aedion was staring at her, his lips parted. 

“Aed,” Aelin snapped, voice loud, and he jerked around to meet her gaze. 

After clearing his throat, he muttered an apology and went around back to open the truck bed. He kept glancing across the courtyard every few seconds, though. Aelin wanted to pick on him, but he seemed to be quite smitten and she actually thought it was sweet.

“You should go talk to her,” Aelin said, at last, helping him carry their bags and shit to the sidewalk. 

Aedion shook his head. “I’m too busy helping my cousin move in.”

Aelin rolled her eyes at the excuse as she grabbed a box of pillows and began walking backwards toward the sidewalk, keeping her eyes on Aedion, who was looking over his shoulder, once again. “I’m just saying. I’ve seen that look before, and I- shit!”

Aelin nearly dropped the box as her back ran into a tall, hard body. She quickly turned around to meet the narrowed, green eyes of her acquaintance. 

“Watch where you’re going, freshman,” he warned, his voice low.

Aelin opened her mouth to tell him off, but Aedion must have seen her shift in body language because he was instantly at her back, saying, “It was an accident, calm down.” 

“I’m just saying,” he began, repeating what Aelin had just said, still looking down at her, “that she needs to watch where she’s going. There’s a lot of people around here, and if she’s walking backwards, I won’t be the only person she runs into. The next one may not be so pleasant.” 

Aelin snorted. “This is you being pleasant? Gods.” 

The newcomer’s lips tightened into a straight line as he went to take a step around Aelin, at last. She let him go, but Aedion wasn’t as forgiving. He blocked the silvery-haired stranger’s path and met his hard gaze with one of his own. Aedion was maybe half an inch shorter than he was, a little less broad, but other than that, they were close in stature. In a fight, they would be fairly evenly matched. 

“You owe my cousin an apology,” Aedion said, head cocked slightly to the left.

A light danced in the stranger’s green eyes as he met Aedion with a cocky grin. “You’ve only been here for five minutes and you’re already trying to get your ass kicked?”

“This is ridiculous,” Aelin muttered, stepping in between the two, even though they both stood a head taller than she. “We have shit to get done, knock it off. Unless you want to help us move our shit into 21 and 32, move on with your day.”

The newcomer tensed as he breathed a curse. Then, he looked to Aedion. “You’re in 21? Ashryver?”

Aedion’s hard eyes slid from his cousin’s to the man. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Rowan Whitethorn.” His arms were crossed, clearly not offering a handshake. “I won’t be helping you move, but looks like we’ll be spending a lot of quality time together.”

“Shit,” Aedion breathed.

Rowan turned, his pine green eyes pinning her in place. “And you are?”

Big brother mode kicked in and Aedion grabbed her arm. “None of your concern. Come on, Ace.”

The two began to walk towards the lobby, but Aelin glanced back over her shoulder at Aedion’s surly new roommate. Rowan’s eyes narrowed, as if he were studying her.

With her back straight and her chin held high, Aelin met his stare with one of her own. His shoulders tensed before turning his back to her and walking away. 

“Considering you have way more shit than me,” Aedion began, snapping Aelin back to the present, “why don’t you go see where your room is? I’ll come find you after I find my room and bring my bags in, and I’ll start bringing your stuff up.”

Aelin held a hand over her heart. “What would I ever do without you?”

Aedion blinked. “Everything? Stuff for yourself, for once?” He suggested.

With pursed lips, Aelin shoved him in the shoulder, then he laughed as they took to the stairs. She left him on the second floor before trailing up to the third.

Students were hurrying in and out of every room, the excitement of move in day as strong for the older students as it was for the freshman. As she passed each room, it was like a glimpse into a different world. She could hear instruments being tuned and found people sharing designs on tablets and laptops. She heard clear voices and bass driven beats. She felt like she was home.

She finally found the door marked 32 and took a deep breath. She had been an only child her entire life, Aedion the closest thing to a sibling she’d had, so the idea of having roommates was completely foreign to her. She took a deep breath and sighed, twisting the door knob.

To find that it was...locked.

Aelin glanced down the hall again, on both sides. There wasn’t a single door shut on her floor, save for hers. She assumed she must have been the first of her roommates to arrive.

She dug through her bag until she found the key they’d given her, on a VSOTA lanyard and slid the key into the lock.

She had assumed wrong.

Sprawled out on the couch, tangled in each other’s arms, were two women lost in an intimate embrace, and Aelin was most definitely interrupting.

“Shit, sorry!” She yelled, quickly turning away, attempting to give them privacy while also feeling horribly embarrassed. “I should’ve knocked!”

There was a shuffling on the leather couch then soft laughter flooded into the room.

“Knock?” A light voice said. “It’s your house, if you’re Aelin, which I hope you are, because if you’re not this is a very strange situation.”

Aelin hesitated before slowly turning back around, where she was met with a grin from the young woman with long, blonde hair. She was brushing through it with her fingers when Aelin said, “I suppose that’s one way to break the ice in front of your new roommates, right?”

The blonde’s grin widened. “I’m Mor. This is my girlfriend, Nehemia. I live here, she doesn’t. Our other roommate should be here soon, but I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow!”

Nehemia gave Aelin a gentle smile before pulling her hoodie on over her tank top. Her long braids were pulled back into a low ponytail. “I’m glad you came, actually, brought me back to reality. Elide was expecting me ten minutes ago to help put up flyers for the block party tomorrow night.”

Mor clicked her tongue. “How dare you let me distract you? Elide will have my ass.”

Nehemia chuckled as she kissed Mor on the cheek, then smiled once again at Aelin. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” she smiled.

The door clicked shut behind her and Mor said, “And how is Velaris treating you so far?”

Aelin chuckled and said, “Velaris is kicking my ass. It took us over forty-five minutes to find our building.”

Mor laughed. “Yeah, it can be a bit of a maze sometimes. But you said us? You brought someone?”

Aelin caught the glint in Mor’s rich, brown eyes. “No, no, not like that. I mean, I didn’t bring him. He's studying film, but he’s my cousin. Practically my older brother.”

Mor nodded. “My cousin is here, too, right beneath us.” She stomped a few times for good measure. “Over-protective prick.”

Aelin laughed. “Is it your first year?

“Technically, yes, but I’m from Velaris.” Mor made her way into the kitchen and grabbed a bottled water out of the fridge. “Rhys and Az have been here for two years, so I basically have, too.”

Aelin hesitated.

“Oh, right,” Mor said, after taking a sip from her bottle. “You have no idea who they are. Rhys is the prick, my cousin, and Azriel is the only good one in our group.” She winked as Aelin chuckled. “It’ll all be a lot to take in, but you’ll get used to it. Starting with the party tomorrow night, and the party that follows the party.”

Aelin just nodded, but she wasn’t following at all. Instead of asking more questions, Mor showed Aelin to the two unoccupied bedrooms and Aelin chose the one that looked out at a massive oak tree, the branches within arms reach out the window. Her and Mor made “get-to-know-you” small talk as she waited for Aedion to bring up her belongings.

Aelin wasn’t sure what she was expecting from her roommates, but Mor seemed nice and funny and Aelin assumed they wouldn’t have any problems.

She couldn’t say the same for Aedion, though.

Rowan Whitethorn seemed like a serious piece of work.

~~

Feyre sat in Rhysand’s lap with her arms around his neck in the middle of the quad, Cassian and Azriel sprawled out on the grass beside them. 

“This is it, then?” Cassian asked. “And here I thought we’d actually have to work our asses off at this beautiful institution.”

Azriel opened his eyes just to roll them. “Classes haven’t started yet, idiot.”

“Call me idiot one more time,” Cassian muttered, but he was grinning.

Feyre just shook her head before turning her face back to Rhysand’s, planting her mouth on his. 

Cassian said, “Must you? Get a fucking room, gods.” Rhys lifted his foot where it laid near Cassian’s head and kicked him. He mumbled, “Prick”.

Feyre laughed. “Speaking of rooms, I do have one of my own now.”

“Should we go test out the bed, darling?” Rhysand’s violet eyes were brilliant  in the August sun as he smirked.

“That’s not what I was suggesting, but maybe, later,” she said, with a wink.

Cassian and Azriel groaned. Az had never been so happier than the day that Feyre received her acceptance letter to VSOTA. It meant she’d have her own place, and he wouldn't have to hear she and Rhys until all hours of the night. No wonder their roommate hated them.

“I should go check on my sisters though,” she sighed. “Nesta is all the way across campus now.”

Cassian muttered, “Good.”

Feyre shot him a look, but she didn’t blame him. He and Nesta had a drunken one night stand at a party in high school, when he was a sophomore and she was a senior, and after that every time the two ran into one another it was...tense, to say the least. 

“It’s been years,” Azriel said, his eyes still closed. “You two should get the fuck over it.”

Cassian's brow lifted as he looked sideways at Azriel. “Damn. What's up your ass?”

“He’s just pissed because Whitethorn drank one of his beers this morning,” Rhysand chimed.

Feyre scrunched her nose. “I never understood how people can drink beer when they’re not already drunk. The taste is awful.”

But Azriel was throwing his hands in the air. “They’re hard to find and I specifically told everyone to keep their hands off!”

“If you’d drink regular beer like the rest of us, you wouldn’t have this problem,” Cassian said. “And if you two would have requested me as your roommate like you were supposed to, you’d have one less person tell not to drink your Cafe Coco Coffee stout or whatever the fuck.”

“You didn’t turn in your registration until after the semester ended! It’s hard to request someone who isn’t a student.” Azriel laid back down and closed his eyes again. “And it's an IPA called Coffee Del. If you’re gonna make fun of me, at least do it right.”

“Sounds gross either way,” Cassian mumbled.

Feyre was laughing uncontrollably. “My gods, I never knew you were so boujee, Az.”

The side of Azriel’s lips quirked upward. “I’m heading to Elain’s in a little bit to help put together her bookshelf, if you wanna go with me.”

“I can do that,” Feyre said, “as long as Nesta’s not there, we haven’t spoken in a year and I don’t plan to start today. To do that, I will need beer in me, and not Azriel’s fancy shit, but the crap kind that tastes like junk but gets you real drunk, real fast.”

Rhysand just shook his head, slowly. “You’re so sexy.”

Feyre’s grin widened as she took his face into her hands and pulled his mouth back against hers. Cassian groaned as Azriel took off his beanie and threw it at them.

“Fuck off,” Rhysand muttered, against Feyre’s lips. “And I’m keeping your hat, so thank you.” 

Azriel chuckled quietly as he closed his eyes, once again. Cassian stood up and announced his departure. “I have to go meet my roommates.”

He was in the building across from the others, which he had made sure they all knew he was pissed about. After pulling the sheet of wadded up paper out of his pocket, he read, “Fenrys, Lorcan, and Dorian.” He stared at the paper for another minute before sighing, dramatically. “You two assholes have fun with your new roommates while I go make new friends.”

“Your dramatic ass should have gone into acting, Cass,” Rhysand said, his arm around Feyre’s waist tightening. 

Cassian just grinned as he shoved his hands into his pockets and began walking backwards, away from the center of the quad. “I would have, but I was gifted with the voice of an angel.”

“You’re no angel,” Feyre muttered, and he held his middle finger up high as he turned his back to them and walked away.

“Fuck,” Azriel breathed. “Now I have to watch you two suck each other’s faces alone.”

And that’s exactly what they did.

———

Nesta Archeron fell onto the couch, having finally carried her last bag up from the car. She deserved the chilled glass of wine she was going to pour herself, just as soon as she could breathe again.

The door opened and Amren groaned as she carried a tub towards her bedroom. “Why exactly do we have to move during the hottest season of the year?”

“I say you and I just buy a little house in the city so that we can stay there year round,” Nesta said, slowly making her way toward the fridge. “And then we wouldn’t have to have any other roommates, either.”

Their previous roommate had graduated the year before, so a new one had been appointed to them, one that Nesta was dreading to be in the same room as, much less living alongside her. She didn’t know Manon Blackbeak all that well, but the dancer certainly had a reputation. 

Amren knew her a little bit. They’d had a few classes together, both being dancers at the same school for a few years now, but the two had never really talked.

When Nesta and Amren found out that Manon would be their new roommate, they debated on leaving VSOTA altogether and moving to the other side of the country, but no, they had worked too hard to get where they were, and they wouldn’t let Manon ruin their ongoing success. 

“You know, you could help me,” Amren scowled.

Nesta shrugged as she popped the cork from her wine bottle and filled a glass. “That’s your last tub, you’ve got it.”

Leaving the door open, Amren rolled her eyes as she pushed the tote into her room before going back to the living room and falling down on the couch. “Just pour me a glass and we’ll call it even.”

“Deal.” Nesta poured a second glass before re-corking the bottle, returning it to the fridge and carrying the glasses to the other room. She handed Amren a glass and sat in the oversized chair in the corner.

“It’s the least you could do after you took the good room, you bitch,” Amren muttered, the glass to her lips.

Nesta scoffed and threw her a vulgar gesture. “I wasn’t up all night at Varian’s.”

“I’d hope not,” Amren smirked. “Since we were up all night fucking.”

A throat was cleared from the open doorway and Nesta and Amren turned to find Manon standing there with a leather messenger back over her shoulder. “Hey.”

Nesta’s oncoming good mood was instantly fading. “Blackbeak.”

Neither Nesta or Amren moved to welcome their new roommate, but Manon didn’t seem to mind. She walked through the open door, her chin held high. “Which room is mine? I assume you’ve already chosen, given how comfortable and smug you look.”

Amren nodded to the door in the corner. 

“Thanks,” Manon muttered, and began to walk that direction.

“Wait,” Nesta said, taking a long sip from her glass before setting it on the side table and rising to her feet. “Since you’re being forced to live with us, there’s a few ground rules.” 

Manon snorted, but faced Nesta, nonetheless. “Fine.”

“First of all,” Nesta began, slowly walking to where Manon stood in the middle of the room. “If you decide to have a late night booty call, let us know. We have no interest in sharing the breakfast table with whatever fuckboy warms your bed that night.”

Manon lifted a perfectly sculpted brow. “Fair. And second?”

“Keep your space clean,” Nesta went on, stopping a good foot away from where Manon stood. “I don’t do well with messes.”

Manon sighed, looking at her long, black-painted nails, seemingly bored. “I’m not a fucking slob, shouldn’t be an issue. Anything else?”

Nesta looked over her shoulder at Amren, who was watching them both with a deadly, feline smile.

“We hear you got kicked out of your last apartment for being a bitch,” Nesta went on, at last. “So, keep to yourself as much as possible and realize that the school assigned you to live here, we didn’t ask for it.”

Nesta wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she was going to get, but it certainly wasn’t the grin that spread across Manon’s lips. She surely wasn’t expecting Manon to close the distance between them and get up in her face. Her voice was low, amused, when she said, “I don’t mind keeping to myself, because I came here to dance, not to make friends with bitches like you.” 

———

Setting her phone down on top of the stack of flyers, Elide flipped her head upside down and gathered her hair into a messy bun. Being a member of the student council, she’d been on campus for over a week. While everyone else was moving in, she’d been mingling, giving tours, helping new students and, currently, putting up and handing out flyers for the block party she’d been planning for two months.

And, gods, it was so hot.

She picked her flyers up, tucking them against her chest. She’d already hit the East and South sides of campus. Nehemia, though she was late and Elide had given her a look which she blushed at, was heading to the North side. She decided to get to West campus through the Quad, where most students today were gathering.

As she crossed campus, many people she knew called out to Elide. She was waving to one of the girls she’d taken Geology with the year before when she ran into a wall.

Which turned out to be a rock solid chest of muscles.

Her flyers flew from her arms and Elide swore under her breath.

She was  immediately down on her hands and knees, trying to gather the flyers before the breeze took them away. When it was clear the wall she’d run into wasn’t going to help, her eyes snapped up to meet the one and only Lorcan Salvaterre’s.

She didn’t know Lorcan, at least not well, only by reputation. He was a loner, kept mostly to himself. Some say he did jail time before he began at VSOTA, in high school, and looking at him now, Elide didn’t doubt it.

He was just staring at her when she scoffed, “Mind giving me a hand?” 

“Here, I’ll help.” Elide looked over her shoulder to find Cassian, a freshman who she had met a few days before and had instantly clicked with, hurrying to where she knelt in the grass. Cassian leaned down to help, but not before giving Lorcan a distasteful look. “Fuck, you knock her down and don’t help her out? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t knock her down, she ran into me.” Elide could have sworn a snarl left Lorcan’s lips, but he did squat down and begin helping the two of them scoop the papers up. Once they had gathered what hadn’t blown away, he stood and held the stack out. “Maybe she should look where she’s going.”

Elide snatched the stack back and narrowed her eyes at him.

Lorcan’s expression didn’t change as he reached and took the flyer from the top to read it. “The block party? As if that’s the party people will be at that night.”

She took it back from him. “It’s before the other party even starts. It’s a way for new students to make friends, not get trashed.”

“Fuck that,” Lorcan mumbled. “It’s a waste of time.”

“How about you keep your negativity to yourself, huh?” Cassian asked, taking a step forward in Lorcan’s direction.

Lorcan blinked, as if just remembering that Cassian was there, too. “Who the hell are you? Is this your little boyfriend?”

The question was directed at Elide, but she didn’t answer. Instead, Cassian said, “I’m the only guy here that knows how to act in front of a woman, apparently.”

Lorcan laughed, loudly and humorlessly. “You may want to watch how you speak in front of me. Haven’t you heard? I’m a criminal.”

Cassian snorted. “Is that your idea of a threat? Pretty weak ass threat to me. I don’t know who the fuck you are, and I don’t care, but Elide doesn’t need your shit, so go do whatever it is criminals do, and leave her alone.”

Lorcan’s shoulders tensed as he asked, “Excuse me?”

Elide was suddenly there, in between the two men. “Let it go, Lorcan. Cassian,” she turned and handed him a flyer. “I’ll see you there?”

He grinned. “I’ll be there.”

Lorcan scoffed, but Elide ignored him. “Anything I can help you with? You’re good?”

“Nope, just headed to D.” He picked up the duffle he’d dropped when he rushed over to help Elide gather her flyers. “Time to meet my roommates.”

Lorcan snorted and said, “Good luck to them.”

Cassian stilled, and looked over to where Lorcan was standing. “Sorry?”

“I’m just saying,” Lorcan mumbled. “I’d hate to be stuck living in an apartment with your ego.”

“You’re a dick,” Cassian said, voice low. 

“Do you really think that’s the worst insult I’ve ever gotten?” Lorcan asked, then took a look at Elide. “You going to let your little boyfriend insult me like that?”

Cassian was anything but little. In fact, he and Lorcan were pretty evenly matched. 

“Leave Elide alone,” Cassian warned. “Seriously, stop talking to her like that-.”

“Or what?” Lorcan interrupted, humored. “I’m sure her little interaction with me has been the most excitement she’s had this week in her perfect little world.”

Elide wanted to tell them both to just walk away, but Cassian was pissed now, could see it in the way he clenched his fists at his side, could see it in the way the vein in his neck popped. 

“How the hell did you get into this school?” Cassian asked, his voice low. “You fuck your way to the top?”

“I don’t think you want to do this,” Lorcan breathed. “My face doesn’t have to be pretty. I’m sure yours does.”

Cassian’s jaw ticked and he tilted his head to the side. “That’s sweet. You think I’m pretty.”

Elide froze and she swallowed. Everyone had heard stories about Lorcan. Everyone but Cassian, it seemed.

“What’s your name?” He breathed.

Cassian very casually tied his hair back in a short knot at the back of his head. “Why? You wanna follow my instagram? It’s pretty impressive, I’ve got about nine-hundred followers.”

“I won’t beat the ass of someone who’s name I don’t know.”

Cassian’s lips pursed. Elide watched the wheels in Cassian's head turning. Lorcan’s pride may not have let him kick the ass of someone who’s name he didn’t know, but apparently Cassian held no such reservations.

Elide wanted to scream at him, to call Cassian Nazari the world's biggest idiot, because he crossed the space between he and Lorcan, swinging his fist and knocking Lorcan Salvaterre square in the jaw.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[kinomiakai]

do you have any tips on writing sasuke and naruto? specifically things like inner thoughts and dialogue?

Oh!!! This is such a cool question, thank you so much anon. This...actually got really, really long, but I hope it’s actually helpful!! This is just the way I write them, so take everything I say with a grain of salt!!

I’ll put it under a read more because it got so long haha :)

General advice:

For dialogue, generally, I feel like what actually helped me a ton was when I had to transcribe a bunch of interviews for school. You have to include everything, the body language, the ums, the stutters - so I’d actually really recommend trying that? Ideally finding something that isn’t edited, like a livestream or something, and trying to write down a few minutes of what the person says perfectly. It’s actually really, really hard!! Your brain automatically deletes the repetitions and stutters and spare words, so forcing yourself to identify them really helps with figuring out how people talk and writing more realistic dialogue. An example would be something like:

“I went to the—like the—the, um, ba—the store in the back alley, you know?”

(Things in there: (1) repetitions of “the”, (2) people say “like” a lot and your brain tends to delete that, (3) same with ums/uhs/other noises of thought, and (4) the way your brain can skip ahead to the next out-of-order word and you back up and go back to finish the thought. That happens a lot!)

You do have to balance it with readability, I find, because some people stutter a lot (especially if they’re in thought), but writing it all out like that really helped me learn how people talk, so I really recommend it!! I think if you can hear their voice saying it in your head, you’re on the right track.

For things like inner thoughts, it’s…sort of like dialogue, but less restrained. Inner thoughts are really fun because you not only get to play with being an unreliable narrator, but you also get to have people’s thoughts betray themselves. You can control your thoughts, but only to some extent, so something I really like to play with is cutting off a thought that’s about too admit something the character isn’t ready to admit (but something that they know, deep down). Like:

“Of course, his shirt did…smell nice. Like him. And there was something warm and settling about being here. Not that—not that this felt like home, or anything, it was just nice, and comfortable, and he just wasn’t used to these sorts of things so of course he—

He shook his head.

Never mind. He ought to get out of here anyway.”

Inner thoughts also are fun to tell a bit of a story with. You can contradict yourself or correct yourself, and a metaphor can sort of change the more the character things about it. Your writing doesn’t have to be perfect because thoughts really aren’t—but they will probably be real run-on sentences hahaha. Dashes and commas everywhere!!! The thoughts never end!!

Character-specific advice:

A big part of how I write Sasuke and Naruto depends on the AU it is set in. I’ll write generally about canon here, but obviously things change if Sasuke grew up with a family, if Naruto got some therapy - they might be more in tune with their emotions, they might be more explicit about the way they feel or more honest. A good example of this is in Something Good, where Sasuke is much more honest about himself and emotions and all that than he would be in canon—this is really only because he had Itachi and actually got help for his trauma. This effects Naruto a lot in AUs too because he doesn’t always have the same tendency to really repress himself, the way he does in canon. So you actually have a lot of wiggle room, as long as you’re focusing on the way your characters have lived until they got to this point.

Another bit to think about: my ability to really delve into character’s heads comes from the fact that I write Third Person Limited, which is third person but in specific perspectives as opposed Third Person Omniscient, which has the sort of free-floating narrator where you can be in everyone’s heads all at once, so it will definitely read differently.

For Naruto:

Naruto speaks more casually:

 He swears more, but not as much as Kiba

 He tends to slur some words together, saying things like kinda and gotcha and sorta where Sasuke wouldn’t

Where Sasuke might say something like “this was certainly…powerful” Naruto would say something like “this was real fucking strong!!!’

More exclamation marks, more straightforward, more sort of loud?? Types of thought and dialogue???

Naruto is grammatically incorrect! Spell check is often angry with me about this

Naruto will be the first to notice something is wrong with someone else and spend loads of time thinking and assessing it

Naruto will be the last person to acknowledge and assess something that is wrong with himself

His head is pretty straight forward, he’s less likely to use metaphors and flowery comparisons to describe things

E.g. Sasuke’s eyes were just—weird. Like the could see right through you, right into you—Naruto felt like some part of him needed to hide, because if he kept looking for a second longer Sasuke would know everything—

He looked away.

He tends to repeat himself and not really describe the way he feels, because he doesn’t really understand it. This also goes for positive emotions!! There is a lot of “huh I felt something. Anyway,” with Naruto dfsfs

Naruto expresses a lot of affection by doing stuff for people - this expands past Sasuke, but can come back to bite him. He’s eager to say yes to favours but this links back to him putting others before himself/wanting everyone to love him

For Sasuke:

Sasuke speaks more formally, but not as formal as Itachi

 Also mostly grammatically correct, uses mostly full punctuation in text messages (Itachi uses full punctuation, Naruto is probably all chatspeak but I write it as partial chatspeak to make it easier to read)

Sasuke’s head will run away with itself all the time

He’s quite poetic and romantic, he’ll speak in much more metaphors

E.g. “Naruto’s eyes were like the sky. Like breathing in the air after it rained—when it was cool and crisp and alive, when the world awoke again after it had all been grey. Something in Sasuke certainly felt…alive.”

Sasuke’s more of an asshole

 He’s sarcastic and sort of eyeroll-y at lots of stuff, including himself and his own thoughts. He tends to be more pessimistic and negative, too!

Exception: Naruto. Naruto is amazing and Sasuke secretly believes he can do literally anything. He will NEVER say it out loud unless Naruto forces him out of it (read: in moments where Naruto is being negative/down on himself/being out character in a way that Sasuke feels like he’s a bit scared and needs to shake him with something honest and true) but he will say it in his own head because he can’t control that. Take that, Sasuke

 He can be real judgy—e.g. in Enter Naruto where he calls Itachi’s coat pretentious.

He can be even more judgy about himself. He’s pretty hard on himself and will frequently put himself down in his thoughts, which he thinks about as factual statements

E.g. “nothing compared to his brother, of course, but Itachi was perfect and Sasuke was still...just himself.

 Now if only his father could realize that, too.”

E.g. “And Naruto looked at him as if it was true, but Sasuke knew it wasn’t. Sasuke had chosen this path, and he’d walked down it. Naruto seemed to think he could simply turn around, but Sasuke…knew better.”

He speaks less, which is helped by the fact that you can totally call him out if you’re writing his POV, or you can use Naruto to call him out because Naruto knows him like the back of his hand

His affection is more quiet?? More nonverbal, in general, than Naruto’s. Not that Naruto is like super good at expressing himself either but he will get closer than Sasuke will out loud

That said, Sasuke is really fun to write as not being able to control the way he seeks Naruto out, through small intimate actions like folding his clothes or wanting to spar or sitting just a little too close to Naruto on the couch. Sort of partially unconscious expressions of love - Sasuke is all over those. (He doesn’t have to be, but it’s really fun to write him that way; you all know how I love writing deeply-in-love Sasuke)

Their fatal flaws when it comes to writing Third Person Limited: both of these assholes are really unlikely to comment on specific details, so you’re gonna have to write from somebody else’s POV if you really want to hit home about how cute Sakura’s new outfit looks. You’re only gonna get to describe it if she’s like...asking Naruto about it in some way, or if Sasuke is being a judgy dick about it or something shfsdkhfd

BUT, they will notice those things about each other, especially if they are in love or are starting to fall, and it’s one of those quiet little ways you can play with to make their emotions evident.

I feel like I could actually keep going about all this but this is SO LONG and I might start repeating myself, so I’ll stop here. Thank you for the ask, anon, I hope it was helpful!!! It was fun to answer :)

[anika-ann]

Attached: Hurtful Words Pt.1

Type: (mini)-series,  Modern-college-professor AU… aka the wrong attachment AU ;)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 5600

Summary:  Stick and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

You knew for a fact that it was a load of BS. The truth is that words can break your heart. And that realization hits you full force the day you have your last exam to earn your bachelor degree.

If you pass, it will be a cause for great celebration. Spoiler alert: it’s not.

A/N: Attached: Hurtful Words is an addition that loosely followes the series. Will be in two (or three) parts. You don’t necessarily need to read the mini-series as a whole, but you will understand much better.

Warnings: I did something in here which I’m usually trying to avoid at any cost; in this story, I used Y/N Y/L/N. Does that count as a warning? 

Warnings II: name calling, humiliation, panic attack!, bad poetry, mentions of vomiting and  alcohol, the briefest mention of self-harm, angst, swearing, threats of violence

Story masterlist

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You released the breath you had been holding, all your willpower put into not sinking into the chair in relief as Professor Phillips announced your grade – one that meant that you hadn’t failed.

In fact, you had just passed your last exam of your bachelor program so you were entirely in the right. In your head, an overexcited monkey started playing cymbals and you didn’t mind the noise despite how sleep-deprived you were from the past few days. A barely contained mad smile fought its way to your lips instead.

Mind you, as you thanked Professor Phillips and rose to your feet – your knees almost giving out, because HOLY SHIT YOU JUST GOT YOUR BACHELOR’S – you would swear you saw a brief smile on the professor’s face too as if he was amused at your antics.

But who cared if he was having fun at your expense?! You PASSED! You had been losing sleep, terrified of this exam, because everyone knew Phillips was a hard-ass – a fair one, but still a hard-ass – and you just passed his examination!

Time to pop the fucking champagne! The one Penny had been saving at the dorm from yesterday when she had finished her own degree; she insisted that she would wait for you, because you were in this together.

You couldn’t leave her waiting any longer and you didn’t have any intention to do so.

Leaving the room and walking into the empty hallway – because of course you came the last as if to prolong your torture – you breathed in and out and deliberately let the grin finally spread on your face fully.

You were free, you were ready to take on the world despite not being ready at all and you had Steve, who you suspected would be proud as hell and would celebrate with you tomorrow, graciously letting you and your roomie do it first-- and gosh, life was beautiful.

Making your way down the corridor, with a grin ever-present, a leaflet that hadn’t been there before caught your attention. It appeared a handwritten note, styled in a regular column – a poem perhaps.

Still smiling, the curiosity took the best of you and you walked to it, peripherally noticing that along the walls, there was even more.

You froze in your step when your gaze fell on the first line; your very own name was staring back at you and it confused you at first, a brief surge of excitement lighting up your body, a naïve belief that perhaps Steve somehow decided to surprise you.

But Steve’s last name came next, which you found strange.

And then came the word ‘whore’ and your heart stopped, your gaze automatically flickering all over the page.

Your stomach made a painful somersault, your mind turning blank.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of that nightmare materializing in front of you, reading and re-reading the poem that almost resembled a twisted nursery rhyme over and over.

Y/N Y/L/N Rogers’ whore Bet she’ll get The highest score For sucking dick Having fucked her ass Let’s hope she’ll soon Be eating grass

Darkness battled to cut off your vision, the world swaying off of its place. Involuntarily, your trembling hand reached out and touched the paper, smooth under your fingertips, your frantically beating heart and the vertigo threating to overpower your sense of balance tying you to the reality, screaming at you that this wasn’t just a really fucked-up dream.

You tore the paper down, lump growing in your throat as you looked around for watchful eyes in sudden paranoia of being followed, only to find the hallway deserted aside from you.

Just you and many papers hanging on the walls.

As if you were just a puppet to a spiteful master, your feet carried you to the next leaflet, tears filling your eyes as you found the very same words written on it; a precise copy.

Your breathing picked up a furious pace, your chest crushed under a weight of an invisible elephant stomping on it. The corridor swam in the dampness of your eyes, your mind too quiet and yet screaming with millions of question marks and exclamation points, panic squeezing your lungs, nausea attacking your stomach.

What the hell was happening? Who would do that? Why? What was the goal? Was it just to ruin your triumph?

Because if that was the goal, it was a roaring success; the thousands of questions swirling in your head and the unexpected sting in your heart turned the fact that you had passed an exam into a faint memory.

All you saw was the words.

Rogers’s whore

Was that what you were? Was that how people who knew about the relationship saw you? Was that how Steve saw you?

The highest score for sucking dick

Was that what you were doing? Using Steve’s position to your advantage? Was that how you got through every exam including the one today, even if unwittingly? Was that what Phillips’ little smile had been about?

Hope she’ll soon be eating grass.

Was that a threat? Was someone wishing that happened to you or were they actually about to hurt you? Why?!

Hearing your own wheezing and feeling your fingertips prickling, your foggy mind did the only reasonable thing it could come up with; it led your steps into the nearest bathroom at lightning speed with no regard for how shaky were your feet.

You stumbled into the open stall, smashing the door shut and leaning onto them with your suddenly damp forehead, feeling the cold beads of sweat gather in your hairline, your cheeks drenching in tears.

When did you start crying so hard?

When did the trembling in your limbs begin?

What the fuck was happening?

What-how--why-but-

Your palms rested on the door as you desperately tried and failed to ground yourself and take control of your breathing. Your temples were pounding irritatingly, your gut painfully clenching--- and exactly in that moment that could have lasted a second or an hour, your fingers brushed over a piece of paper stuck on the door.

Darkness curled around your brain like a treacherous friend, another wave of nausea twisting your stomach.

It took you one blurry glance at the paper and you knew precisely what it was, choking on your sob, ripping the offensive poem off and tearing it to pieces which you blindly threw to the toilet, the flushing sound deafening to your ears.

Your shaky legs finally gave out, knees buckling, your body sliding down the stall wall, fingers pulling at your hair as you felt the dizziness engulfing your head, a bitter taste in your mouth.

You gripped tighter, hoping that the pain on the surface would overpower the pain and gaping hole inside, as another violent sob erupted from your throat.

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An eternity later, you felt your whole being float.

Your breathing was still frantic and interrupted with sobs, but a sensation resembling serenity spread in your very core—or perhaps it was just numbness?

You couldn’t seem to be able to tell the difference anymore.

The creak of a door made you cover your mouth to muffle the noises still escaping your lips for the fear of being caught – either being found in this state in general or found as in found by the person who wrote---that – being stronger than the subdued power of your previous breakdown.

It was probably too late for the newcomer to miss your presence, but over the slowly fading ringing in your ears, you could hear a few steps that came to a halt and then they sounded a bit quicker as the woman left.

Thank FUCK. You couldn’t do human interaction of any kind right now.

You removed your hand and breathed out shakily, blinking away the tears.

Shaking your head wildly, you gritted your teeth in a feeble attempt at bolster yourself. You had to get up off your ass and leave before there would be no longer way of avoiding a confrontation – god forbid a confrontation with Steve, who was probably still in a class, testing his own students.

You climbed to your feet, wiping the remains of your tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand and went to fix your ruined make-up, hopefully enough to look little less suspicious when walking through the campus.

It was probably a vain effort, because you were a walking epitome of a mess.

Rogers’s whore, sounded in your ears and you shook your head again, inhaling sharply through your mouth.

It was time to run and then break down again at the dorms. With Penny preferably--or did she think you were a whore too? You were fucking a professor after all-

Stop that!

Penny wasn’t like that. She understood. She’d be willing to listen all about this outrageous act of terror and would sympathize. Right?

Yeah, you’d talk about it with Penny, your amazing friend, who needed a celebration and a very generous amount of alcohol, which happened to be exactly what you needed too.

Yep, that sounded pretty good.

With one last determined glance on your horrible reflection in the mirror, you headed out.

The door nearly hit you in the face on its way back as you threw it open and froze in the doorway.

You did not expect to see someone so soon after leaving your improvised safe space… let alone him.

“Prof-professor Wilson,” you choked out, clearing your scratchy throat as he stood there, unmistakably waiting for you.

Because that was what you needed at the moment. The university counsellor and professor of psychology in one person.

Fuck.

He said you name in a mild tone, almost as if trying to tame a wild animal, but not quite – all his voice made you feel was shame at getting caught. And a bit of anger at the whole fucking world, because why couldn’t you have a tiny piece of peace after seeing that? Just a little shred of luck, huh?!

Oh, right, you were a whore who were only using Professor Rogers, paying for it in sexual favours.

“Mind if we talk in my office for a bit?”

“Not like I really have a choice…” you mumbled automatically, the realization of how rude it sounded dawning to you oh too slowly, your brain too tangled up in a web of self-pity and self-loathing. “Sorry. Of course. Lead the way.”

“Good. Thank you,” he replied, appearing unoffended. “And for the record, you do have a choice.”

Hadn’t you been a wreck with burning tear-stained cheeks, your face might have felt hotter at the kind remark.

At the slowest pace possible, you followed Professor Wilson to his office, dread and exhaustion filling every fibre of your being.

You noticed however that the walls that had been lined with odes about you, put up for everyone to see, had disappeared; possibly Wilson’s own work.

Somehow, it didn’t make you feel much better, the image of the previous addition to the corridors’ decor stuck in your brain. But hey, it was supposed to be the thought that counted, right?

And Professor Wilson was a nice guy. He offered you a drink – sadly a non-alcoholic one – attempted a joke saying that no, it was no trouble getting you one, which was the reason he offered.

Generally, he treated you as if he wanted to provide you with a safe space.

And then he kindly told you that he knew about the poem, because his cousin who’s in her first year here at the uni, texted him what the heck was the e-mail she received on her uni account about.

In other word, he gently broke to you that whoever had done this possibly sent it to every student in the database too.

You nearly threw up hearing that; the pit you had climbed up from and of which edge you were balancing, deepened. But you didn’t fall back there.

Yet.

It was probably because you were still too shocked at the information.

“I hate asking that question, but do you have any idea who did this?” Wilson asked quietly and you had nothing but a helpless shake of a head for a reply. You felt your vision blurring, dizziness fogging your brain again. “Can you think of anyone who holds a grudge against you for some reason?”

A scoff escaped your lips, cynical as you found the answer obvious from the verses.

“Besides dating Steve, you mean?” you noted sarcastically. Wilson waited for more, his eyebrows twitching in surprise and expectation before he got it under control. “Sorry, I meant Professor Rog-“

“Hey, you can call him Steve,” he assured you, so damn sweet and diligent. “I met him, you know, I’d go as far as calling him a friend. And right here, right now, he is not your professor, but your boyfriend. I’m talking to you as a counsellor so feel free to call me Sam if you’re comfortable. And to answer your question, I assume that it is as good motive as any, but the fact that the two of you are dating is practically a public knowledge at this point, so it doesn’t really narrow our field of suspects.”

Despite his openness and kind approach, you once again could only shrug, growing desperate by the minute. The urge to leave – because suddenly it made even more sense, him taking you here, he was friends with Steve, he was stalling – became unbearable.

You didn’t have the strength to see Steve now. You couldn’t. You would question every gesture, analyse everything and perhaps came to the conclusion that he agreed with the author of the poem and you desperately didn’t want that. You needed to forget about this, preferably with an unhealthy amount of alcohol, you needed to cry some more, you needed ice-cream and a hug and to bitch about everything and you needed a fucking nap that would last at least a week.

“I don’t know who hates me that much, I swear. Can I please go now?”

Sam cocked his head to side, a minute frown creasing his brows. “Is that what you want?”

Do you really want to leave before Steve gets a chance to get here?

You should probably feel guilty. You wanted to feel guilty, because that was you being a coward and it was downright mean to Steve, who would no doubt learn about this very soon and from someone else, but you didn’t have the capacity to think about anything at all besides feeling like you were going to explode any second.

“Yes. Thanks for being nice and all, but I—I’d rather go.”

“You have a roommate? A friend you live with and who’s in?” he fussed, voice gravely, amiable chocolate eyes observing you with worry. Did he think you were about to hurt yourself? Did you look like the type? Were you? You mentally shook your head. Jesus.

“Yeah,” you creaked, already rising to your feet, endlessly grateful that he was letting you go. “Penny. We— uhm, we were supposed to go celebrating.”

You nearly choked on the last word, feeling like everything but going out tonight. The idea of going out and facing all the stares cause by the widely-spread e-mail made your stomach clench.

You kinda lost the appetite to celebrate anything to begin with; all the relief and joy, which had filled every last bit of your being post-learning your grade, vanished and was replaced by a dark sticky substance filling your lungs, your gut, your veins, muffling the outside world.

Perhaps Penny would agree to a loud night in?

“You can still do that, that’s up to you. But please, get some sleep and don’t be alone. Here,” he stood up as well, handing you a card. “My number, even if you just need to talk to a sort-of outsider and word-vomit all over someone, okay?”

You couldn’t argue with his offer – you had a feeling you’d vomit soon, either verbally or literally. Still, you charmed a shaky smile that probably turned out a grimace.

“K. Thanks… Sam.”

“Any time.”

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Of course, Wilson’s unspoken question about moving quick to avoid an encounter with certain professor was painfully on point.

You bailed on Steve whom you were supposed to wait for even if just for a hug and congratulations, practically running to the dorm, your unsteady feet and tears still clouding your vision be damned.

You ignored the ringing of your phone, assuming it was Steve himself; bile rose to your throat at the idea of hearing his voice at that moment. He tried twice before you smashed the power button and threw the phone back to your purse, breathing out in relief and wanting to puke at the same time.

You truly couldn’t find the capacity to deal with him momentarily – you needed to be alone and safe from any prying eyes, preferably in the comfort of your shared dorm with Penny. You cried harder when you finally reached it, your feet hurting from attempting to run in heels.

It wasn’t hard to figure out that Penny somehow already knew, probably from the e-mail – it was written all over her face. And hadn’t her expression been enough, instead of a celebratory champagne she handed you a shot of a transparent liquid the moment you opened the door.

You turned it bottoms up without questioning it and asked for another. Penny grabbed the bottle of vodka waiting on the shoe rack and poured one for you and one for herself. You didn’t bother clinking the glasses.

Though the burn in your throat felt pleasant, it did nothing to sooth the burn in your eyes and heart. Penny’s embrace made it a bit better.

So did the third shot of vodka.

You didn’t switch on your phone that day again – and when it was nearing midnight, after a four-hour nap, you convinced Penny to go celebrate to the Freddy’s as you had originally planned to do. You pretended that no one stared at you and instead you danced and drank until your mind was swimming enough for the sorrow and anger to drown.

You were one lucky bitch to have Penny walk you home.

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Steve was sitting at his desk at the faculty office he shared with Bucky and was working hard at what he excelled at for these past days despite his genuine efforts at not doing so; getting absolutely nothing done at all.

His hands had grown somewhat unsteady, a reflection of how he was feeling, how torn and absurdly broken he had become. He was spilling drinks on a regular basis, items kept falling from his flimsy hold. His brain felt foggy these days as well, most likely a consequence of the shitty sleep he was getting.

His bed felt too big despite his rather large frame and too cold despite his body temperature usually running almost too high; the sheets smelled strange and foreign despite being his own and the bed screamed with emptiness on a volume that kept interrupting his already deficient sleep.

Four days.

Four days since one stupid poem knocked his world out of its orbit and everything that mattered crashed down. Well, perhaps not everything, Steve happened to like his job too and he still had it, but such detail seemed insignificant; it certainly did in comparison to the fact that he had been attempting and had failed to reach you.

Calls.

Texts.

Few e-mails when he felt particularly helpless and frustrated.

His messed up sleeping and eating schedule and the irregularity that came with the exam period would make a perfect case of him losing any notion of time – yet Steve knew about every second without you, practically counting them.

He could still see Sam Wilson standing outside the classroom he had been testing students’ knowledge in as if it happened yesterday. He could recall with painfully stark clarity the unreadable expression on his face and the ominous “Steve, man… we need to talk.”

Steve still remembered Tony Stark waltzing in the next day with a baby in some sort of a front backpack, agitated that someone had gotten into the database, let alone to send all the hate-emails, and how he announced he found the culprit and their accomplices in an hour, which apparently happened to be too long to his liking.

Steve would smile at the memory of the technical genius’ antics, but the gaping hole in his chest caused by the deafening silence from you prevented it. Hell, not even the vivid picture of Carol Danvers from the faculty of law, moonlighting like a member of the legal department of the university, made the corners of his lips rise.

And hadn’t it been quite a show, a downright uplifting experience.

Steve was watching the screen with a frown, a stone-solid clench to his jaw and a firm clench to his fists.

It was almost amusing really; Bucky kept going about Fury being a creep and not a spy, but despite the lack of a one-way glass, the space Carol and the girl was in – just like two other rooms, each with one man – resembled an interrogation room. Steve never had been more grateful for audio and video feed in his life, but he sure as hell wasn’t laughing in delight at being proved right.

In fact, it had been taking all of his willpower not to burst into those rooms and give a piece of his mind to every single person guilty of being involved in hurting you. In causing his life to collapse on itself.

Steve couldn’t quite recall the brunet Carol was roasting, but he suspected he had seen her in one of the classes he was teaching. She didn’t stand out from the crowd of students and he didn’t see anything special about her worth remembering; then again, he tended to forget to take notice of other pretty faces ever since he had laid his eyes on yours.

And right now, all he saw was a face of a vicious bitch who forced you into pushing him away and a single look at her had his blood boiling.

Steve truly wanted to punch the living daylights of her and that said something, because he prided himself in having moral objection to hitting women, especially from sheer anger.

However, the desire was growing with each piece of information he learned. Because Yvonne Whatever-Is-Her-Name was a piece of work for fucking certain.

She talked a guy number one, whom she was attending Introduction to Social Studies 101 and who had a very apparent teenage-like crush on her, into reaching out to his friend, guy number two, whom he often played some online video game with, into hacking the database, sending the e-mails and finding out when and where exactly your exam was, just so Yvonne herself could redecorate the corridors and bathroom and make sure you wouldn’t miss her work of art.

Carol was alternating between visiting each of the ‘suspects’ and man, did they sing like birds.

Steve wanted to strangle them all, but fuck, the hatred for Yvonne Burton specifically was already consuming him and gnawing at his very soul; yes, he found out her last name just so he knew his mortal enemy. He was going to burn her to the ground, one way or the other… not that Carol hadn’t been doing a fine job so far.

That damn brunet had tears running down her face, sobbing occasionally, but still rarely sassing back. Somehow, seeing her like that wasn’t half as satisfying as Steve hoped, because his mind kept wandering to you and wondering if you looked about the same and every time such picture formed in his head, he hated Ms.Burton a fraction more.

She had used a guy who liked her, which Carol blatantly pointed out. The lawyer didn’t seem to hold back her own snark if the question about how the culprits met – via some forum for bruised ego, was it? – was anything to go by.

“I might be a lawyer, but I’m begging for every art professor and author I know – stay away from poetry. What you wrote is a child’s rhyme really, but like every writing, it says a lot about who you are. And it gives me a plenty of ammunition. We have two names, one full, one last name pointing out a specific person from the context. If I play my cards right, we have defamation on our hands, libel to be precise. Congratulation,” Carol remarked in a surprisingly calm voice. The other woman visibly paled. Good. “And what about the last line? Is that… is that a threat of violence? I can make it harassment, but if I try hard enough, perhaps we can consider it something more serious…?”

“You don’t get to threaten me! You’re lying! I’ve done nothing wrong and so serious!” the girl – and really, in Steve’s eyes, she was nothing but a stupid girl who somehow managed to kick his life in its balls – exploded, jumping to her feet.

Carol levelled her with a glare and an irritated hiss. “Sit down.” Burton did, clammy hands curled up in trembling fists. “And you’ve done more than enough.”

“You don’t understand!”

“Oh don’t I? Be my guest then. Explain it. Your motivation, the legal side, anything. I’m all ears.”

“I love him!” the girl exclaimed and Steve grinded his teeth as a surge of rage shooting through his veins.

Like fucking hell she did. He didn’t remember even talking to her if he ever had to start with and she loved him?!

Was that really what this was about? This girl somewhat liked him and got obsessed? Decided to wreck his girlfriend? To what end? To drive the two of you apart? To make you hate him so he would run to her? To simply ruin your future? What the fuck was wrong with her?! She was a damn kid with hurt pride and zero efforts put in so far, because he couldn’t even remember her-

“Oh you really don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have done this,” Carol responded with a cold edge to her voice, apparently agreeing with Steve’s thoughts and being equally unimpressed with Ms.Burton dramatic confession.

“I’m fighting for him! Ain’t nothing wrong-”

Oh Steve would argue with that so hard. He could feel Sam watching him from the corner of his eye, but neither of them said anything as Steve gripped the edge of the table the monitors were on.

He was sure he was going to be sick, the edge of his vision doing something he only read about; as if truly turning red, crimson with hunger for blood. He never ever craved tearing someone in half, not a single one of the guys who bullied him in school, not the girls that laughed at him when he said he liked them; and make no mistake, he had always felt mad enough.

But right now, he tasted undiluted rage and it tasted like acid with a bitter aftertaste of iron and copper, searing hot on his tongue and spreading through his body, turning it heavy and nauseatingly light at the same time.

“No, you’re ruining his life,” Carol emphasized, leaning onto the table and glaring murder at the girl. “If this is your idea of fighting for someone, it’s pretty twisted. You could have done literally anything to make him notice you, hell, pick you, but leave if he still said no, because that’s a sensible thing to do. But instead, you hurt someone he cared about. And that means you hurt him too – not to mention that his name is in there, possibly putting a scrap on his reputation. If you did love him, you’d want him to be happy.”

Steve gulped and looked away, unable to bear the weight of Carol’s words, feeling the jab on his own person. Because he was familiar with being accused of ruining someone’s life and future despite seemingly loving them. God knew that on a rainy day, he wondered about his own ‘love’ and its purity too – and now, it was fucking pouring and Steve had been forced to question everything he knew.

Was this little brunet Satan a godsend in fact? Was she supposed to tell him to stop lying to himself about not being your doom? Just what kind of a mess this stunt would have made had you been working a steady job and this got to your employer?

A gentle hand reached for his shoulder, a silent support, and Steve found himself torn between irritated, grateful and deeply ashamed.

No matter how much he hated it, he should be on the list to get punched for hurting you too.

“So, sorry to break it to you, but you don’t love him,” Carol continued and with Sam’s palm on his shoulder, Steve forced himself to watch the scene, the grand finale. “You’re just a little girl with attitude issues, a crush that got out of hand, and a ton of luck for knowing a guy willing to help you. Guess what – you just ran out of that luck.”

Heavy silence fell on the interrogation room and Steve’s eyes slid shut, hearing Carol and Yvonne’s parting words.

“And just so you know, she didn’t get the highest score. She got a B.”

Steve didn’t even know that and despite all the shit they were in, he felt a surge of pride for his g- hopefully still his girl.

At the same time, the fact that he learned it from Carol and not from you as he still couldn’t reach you, felt like a punch to his solar plexus.

Carol entered the monitoring room with a discontent expression on her face, wordlessly telling Steve and Sam that the conversation, no matter how harsh, wasn’t satisfying enough.

Still, Steve glanced at her and nodded with severity.

“Thank you, Carol,” he rasped, surprised by how hoarse his own voice sounded; for the burn of rage in his stomach and the tension in his muscles, he almost forgot about the lump gradually growing in his throat with each hour of silence from you.

“My damn pleasure,” Carol huffed with slight irritation, one clearly not aimed at Steve. She subtly raised her eyebrows. “I kinda want to punch her, but I guess I’m not the only one, huh?”

Steve sighed and closed his eyes, his hands almost shaking with the said need. Still, it was surprisingly relieving to be called out on that and to learn that he wasn’t the only one. And when he opened his eyes again, the look on Carol’s face told him that she wasn’t blaming him one bit.

“You have no fucking idea, I- Jesus, I never wanted to—to-- so much in my life.“

The rise of one corner of her lips was sympathetic. “We’ll handle this, Steve. I know it’s hard to hear, but you can’t really help us here. Go home. Rest.”

The lump in Steve’s throat grew nearly suffocating at the idea of going to the empty apartment, where his uselessness became even more evident. Steve eyed Sam, searching with hope for any sign of a better advice, but the counsellor only nodded to second Carol’s thought.

“Go home and try to call your girl. She’ll pick up eventually.”

At that time Steve had done exactly that – however, the result had remained identical to those with his previous attempts. You hadn’t picked up and he had left a voicemail and a pathetic text that somehow seemed to be reflecting all of his insecurities and doubts about your relationship and it hadn’t turned out at all as he had planned – and then it had been too late to take it back.

He had sent another and another, almost hour after hour and he was gradually realizing that he was forgoing all hope and his faith in what you two had and what it could become in the future; and god, did he want the future so badly.

But he couldn’t always get what he wanted, could he? He thought that a miracle had happened when he had first met you and later heard your yes to the date. But here you were.

Four days from that terrible incident.

Did Steve even believe that you two were supposed to be together? He didn’t even know anymore. Perhaps it was an intervention from some higher power and you two breaking apart was meant to be, saving you a heartbreak and disillusions which were about to come later.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought and the sensation that felt like a punch to his gut, his insides cramping.

That was not true. You two loved each other. You had found something truly amazing in each other and you were about to reach out to him any minute so you could continue to your brighter future together.

…right?

Except a minute passed by and nothing happened, the phone Steve was toying with remaining silent.

No received text or e-mail.

No incoming call.

Another minute and then another ten, the phone still spinning in his hand in almost a reflex at that point and still not lighting up.

The knot in Steve’s gut turned tighter and tighter, the tension in his shoulders and jaw growing, his mantra of you surely contacting him gradually falling silent.

Finally, he came to the decision that only fools kept doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.

He was supposed to do that a long long time ago, the moment he had convinced himself that coming knocking on your dorm could be considered harassment… and would break his heart in case you’d shut the door to his face telling him you were done with him.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Steve swept through his contacts and dialled your best friend and roommate in one person.

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Part 2

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-�� ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Thank you for reading!

Let me know what you thought! I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ doing something with randomly timed shots to a series, so… you know. I’m a bit nervous. And I guess that this is very different from what this series was so far too, so I hope it’s okay. Thank you :-*

[frogtanii]

Wind anon has a test tomorrow so she is gonna be studying for a bit—but it should be okay! (Actually, seeing and reading not only the PF updates but also all the comments from fans give me energy and motivation. It’s really good at cheering me up, so I greatly appreciate how I was able to stumble upon such a community.) Anyway, might as well get to the reaction!

First, starting off with Iwaizumi... every time I see an Iwaizumi start I get a bit anxious like “oh no, it’s him again” type of feeling. Makes me all twisty. But I was like “hm? Why’s he asking where they all are? He drove them to the venue?” So I was like “aaaaa” but softly

And YN with Suga and Akaashi! Soft boys. Very very nice. Suga mentioned reading books as a suggestion to Bokuto before didn’t he? Book crew~ also, I like that there’s a bench by the restrooms of the place. Very conveniently placed, isn’t it? Though the mention that it’s secluded is very fitting with YN needing to recharge the social battery. Some days I need to recharge my battery myself, and I just completely lose the desire to talk once it’s low. I hope YN gets lots and lots of self care days where she doesn’t have to do anything but love being herself. She deserves it.

Kuroo being with Bokuto :D! I like how he’s still sticking by even when he has no clue what they are talking about. It’s wonderful.

And Kenma :0. Same restroom as the one where YN, Akaashi, and Suga are? Because then they all went together. Cute cute cute. A group of introverts.

Sakusa and Atsumu by the snack table. That’s good, that’s good, hope that they had some good food.

Osamu talking to a kid about how he cooks his ramen! Very nice very nice, I feel like there hasn’t been enough chances to show Osamu’s desire and love for food. I mean, there was that one time Meiko got him to cook food for her even when he was tired and I’m still a bit grumpy about that, but it’s nice that he’s getting a chance to socialize to people like this.

Daichi, starting off with saying he was indisposed—my immediate reaction was to zone in and be like “Meiko” but no. It wasn’t her this time. By this point I was like “but...where is she...?” But also, Daichi is being real polite with the way he’s talking. Curious, but not bad. Just interesting to me.

And here we see Iwaizumi doing the classic “I hold the power. I demand answers” I know that he’ll have his redemption arc but I am just very...at odds with him right now and wind anon disapproves. It’s upsetting to see him actually. I can only imagine how YN feels... (oh, I’ve been thinking of what’d it be like to take the place of Meiko. Not right now because that’s asking for wind anon to wake up to animosity and chaos—scary. But like, if wind anon was from the start... platonic cuddling with YN and no drama...)

But Daichi taking care of the wardrobe malfunction. That’s a cool choice. Though I suppose it makes sense. He’s the steady type. Less impulsive and emotion driven compared to Iwaizumi, but still able to get there. Though, considering the amount of stress Iwaizumi has been under, was it really not a thing to ask for help from one of the members, or to request another person from management? There’s...13 members altogether, so 12 people he’s trying to manage right now. I don’t think there would be much loss having 2 managers to care for 6 main members at a time. Might be more efficient, and they could always try a rotational schedule and collaborate if they want more full house content.

I like how Iwaizumi asked “who and where” and when Daichi replied with only The Who, everyone still moved on. Just shows how frazzled and frantic Iwaizumi is under that calm facade.

Iwaizumi commanding them to leave :0! I was really puzzled at this point. Like the rest of the members, I didn’t understand why he was so adamant considering he had made them go to the event to network. And him forgetting Oikawa...

But moving down to the part where Iwaizumi blows up and tells them to get in the limo (because wind anon doesn’t want her reaction to drag too long), it’s very much like Iwaizumi. First there is the message about “there will be another event where you get to pretend you’re relevant for a couple of hours” oh, wind anon is focusing on that line. Obviously, the fact that they are all preoccupied right now is not a concern to him—but this was very emotionally charged and blunt—he didn’t have the patience to frame his thoughts to something prettier and more logical—this is truly what he thinks. “There will be another event” shows that he believes that there definitely will be one—he’s not trying to cover his words so the fact he mentioned there’s another event means it’s not trying to placate them in a sense. I mean, if he’s trying to placate them, rage is not the way to go about it anyway so it would have been a fail even without this, but he specified the event when he could’ve not said a thing about a future event so, yeah. “Where you get to pretend to be relevant for a few hours” oh my gosh. How to go about analyzing this portion? The content, the emotion, the execution, it’s all so...vivid. (10/10 job as always fr0ggy) the fact that he says pretend to be relevant shows how he views the house. Obviously they like the content they create. They care about the content they create. And sure they may not all be big, but relevant? They’re definitely relevant in your career choice Iwaizumi. They got nominated for an award and it’s not as if they were around for a super long time. It’s impressive. You’ll get attention and more of a fan base. Their relevance will definitely grow. The words by themselves are an attack of sorts to the members, showing his belief that they are shallow and fake and trying to get famous and seem big. Makes him seem like he has an inferiority complex of sorts, the way he’s acting. Take everything I say with a grain of salt though. I’m not a doctor.

Okay, next. We have Daichi, who is more reliable and asks for logic! Thank the lords of the PF universe, I literally wouldn’t be able to take too much emotional charge. And then Meiko’s name pops up. The last time I was writing an ask, I was redesigning Meiko’s entire look, and purely the look. I wasn’t doing a character analysis and I didn’t put anything besides my opinions on a better dress but I saw this and the complete blankness my mind went was astonishing.

“She’s a grown woman Tsumu. I left her alone for a few hours, she can handle that.” Y’know, for a cook, he really didn’t realize that was a recipe for disaster. (B-dum tsss. I do like puns) but she’s been shown to not be able to take care of herself and also have a bad personality on top of that so it really was an explosion in the making. I’m the spectrum of not taking care of myself (skipping meals to do schoolwork...skipping meals to sleep...yeah, no) but I think my personality is decent. But Meiko? I actually thought she might be decent with networking. I mean, she picks up guys quite easily doesn’t she? So I was fascinated with what she could’ve possibly done.

Liquor :0 !! I was never interested in drinking liquor that much (though they are pretty a lot of the times...the colors and bottles and glasses are really nice art subjects). Seeing Meiko makes me want to avoid alcohol even more. She started drinking...gosh, she is...a hot mess. Not even kids would be as bad...

Her being “plastered”? Considering that one time where she started drinking a ton before going to a club and...forcing herself on Suga, and how she managed to leave the bathroom completely composed and such, I was mesmerized at the fact she actually managed to drink enough to get completely wasted. And champagne? She must’ve just stuck around and made a whole group of glasses where she was. Also, she didn’t try to get any guys? Wow. Wind anon is staring at her like she’s a particularly weird specimen. She is so...baffling. Confusing.

She insulted and slapped someone :0!!!!!! The amount of exclamation marks show how intense my reaction is. Violent, violent, and such an idiot Meiko is. I hope management steps in. I can’t stand looking at her. But I mean...once she wakes up, like the morning after, would anyone be willing to look and care for her? Such a mess...

I pity the people in management who would have to smooth this over. Gosh, they need a raise and a fruit basket. Like those fancy ones with the fruit cut into shapes on skewers and such. As well as a box of chocolates.

But yeah, I’ll end it here. Been a while since I have a long reaction. I’m pretty sure I got a bit of the analysis wrong and also rambled a bit too much at times, hmmm.

Okay, headcanon time... imagine YN making make up by breaking all of Meiko’s and she just names the mix “Meiko” because it’s a streaky mess. She packages it and gives it to fans for free. It would be fun :D. Only the eyeshadows and stuff though. I do not trust any thing that would directly touch Meiko...like her lipsticks. Bleh.

Sakusa, Akaashi, Suga, Tooru, and YN being eyeliner group. Just imagine Akaashi tilting your head up with the lightest fingers under your chin, while Sakusa braids your hair and folds in some dark silk flowers with pearl centers into it. YN smiling at them after she comes out, with pomegranate lip tint and a leather jacket. Be dangerous YN. Kill us all. YN supremacy <3.

YN and Atsumu would be the two to have the popsicles that you break apart.

Kenma wears red eyeliner once for a dare or a gift to fans or something and all of his fans decide to pass out.

Osamu and Bokuto doing stuff together to promote healthy living.

Okay, gonna end here. I very much appreciate all the support here. Much love towards those who favorite my asks and such too. I’m super glad you all like hearing from me. I mean, we’re all fans of PF and fr0ggy so I hope that everyone is enjoying all of this as much as I am. You all make me very very happy. Much appreciation to all the anons and ask senders and submissions because everyone is super cool.

Take care fr0ggy! Much hearts to you!

oh geez i hope ur test goes well!!!!!!! i don’t have much to say cs ur incredibly eloquent (as usual) but i rlly like the idea of bokuto n osamu promoting healthy living!!!! that rlly hits cs my family is VERY much into healthy living so that just made me happy hehe ILY I HOPE U HAVE A LOVELY DAY KITH KITH <3333