#i wish i cared more;;; it sucks to make it be a conscious choice every time

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

okay so we know that if reader tried to be creepy towards yves about sexual stuff he would cut them off (and/or traumatize them if they went even further).

but what would happen if yves set up their perfect meet-cute, they started dating, and after a while reader tried to initiate sex. and yves is like oh, no. explains his whole thing about only doing it like once a month, and on his terms. and reader is like oh, okay! i totally respect that!

and then the next day, they sit down for dinner, and reader essentially tries to break up with him? basically just saying i don’t think this will work out between us, i’d really like a partner who i have very regular sex with even if not every day, but you’re really cool and really nice and i’d love to stay friends :)

how would yves react? i feel like he wouldn’t traumatize them because they didn’t actually do anything wrong, but he’s also been super clear about being monogamous so he doesn’t seem like the type to allow reader to pursue a sort of fwb relationship on the side? that is, if reader even wanted to have a side relationship just for sex, they might only want one relationship and need it to be both romantic and regularly sexual.

another thought that’s sort of tied to this: what if yves was dating a reader who, because they couldn’t successfully initiate sex and were told not to try ever again the one time they tried, and because yves so rarely initiates sex, started feeling really self conscious and like they aren’t worth having sex with? like even with yves being such a sweetheart and loving on them all the time, the lack of sex really gets to them and makes them feel undesirable?

sincerely, a very shy anon (who is Constantly Horny and also gets insecure)

Tw: sexual stuff, drugging

The thing is, Yves would have already known that you're seeking for a more sexually fulfilling relationship with someone. It depends on your personality, is it a must that you have to touch him in ways he wished you wouldn't? Is it a must for Yves to touch you in ways he rather not? Even with his 'interventions'? Then, Yves has no choice but to let go of the idea of being your romantic partner. It doesn't mean he will abandon you, he will assume the role of a smothering monster-in-law.

However, if he already knows the ins and outs of your body, the limits of how much he could drug you without any adverse effects, Yves wouldn't mention about sex at all. He would take it slow, letting the relationship progress until you're comfortable to discuss such proclivities or attempt to make the first move. The longer you're with Yves, the more you feel loved and spoiled by his riches and acts of services.

But... By the time you would usually feel undesirable due to a lack of sexual initiation from Yves, you would find yourself saying "yuck" to anything related to genitalia. Perhaps even feeling glad that Yves didn't see you in that light yet, dreading the day where you have to say no to him.

Hell, maybe you wouldn't even care to initiate it either, you somehow lost interest in something you used to crave badly and you don't know why. The idea of it feels... Dull, boring and maybe overbearing, it's like eating the same meal repeatedly to the point it makes you nauseous thinking about it. The thought of being horny and getting off your bed to work for that orgasm makes you go "Ugh, do I have to?"

Assuming that you masturbate to alleviate your frustrations, you suddenly find that your stimulating toys would just not do it for you anymore. Neither would your fingers, nor pornography. You just feel... Nothing. No tingles, no drive and no desire to chase that high you were once addicted to. It feels tedious as if you're doing a soul sucking chore, you would rather cuddle with Yves instead, fully clothed too with each other's hands away from the major erogenous zones.

You wouldn't notice it. The change would be so gradual that you wouldn't realize your favorite sex toy is collecting a layer of dust under your bed. The idea of Yves going anywhere near your crotch never crossed your mind, why would it? You're not interested in doing the tango with him and neither is he, and you would like to keep it that way in order to avoid the awkwardness of rejection.

You never visited your favourite erotic sites anymore and you're not yearning for that excitement, you have lost a core part of yourself and you are none the wiser.

And that's how Yves likes it; to let yourself be pampered by him in every way except one. What you don't know will never hurt you.

[kat-is-laem-oa]

Chapter 1: PanDEMONium

(Next Chapter)

Mornings always proved challenging, and the comfort of his bed only made the negative feelings about his situation stronger. No amount of sunshine could brighten his mood in recent years, nor could the fluff of his blanket as the light disappeared and his room darkened once more. No extreme or mixture within gave him a sense of comfort.

His oldest friend, Raphael, made it a point to include him despite their opposing heritage. The far-too-old Shadowhunter befriending the vampiric member of Hotel DuMort would be humorous to their kin. The two species couldn’t get along despite their similar situations—being hunted for their blood.

Raphael was unique, just like his people. Eljah wished he could share the same sentiment with his own people, but he’d felt their wrath before and it was a losing game. Although, technically, he was one of a kind. He didn’t have people or true kin because he was an abomination. And abominations don’t get the luxury of friends and family.

“I’m supposed to be hiding in the shadows, not you,” Raphael sighed as he walked into the room. Candles illuminated the room and the blackout curtains prevented the deadly sunlight from getting in.

“I might as well be just as allergic as you, Rafa.”

“Hardly. Up.” Raphael lifted the plush white blanket before grasping onto Eljah’s arm. With multiple complaints and some unkind words, the small boy was upright. His hair was always messy, conscious or unconscious, to the point it became a style. Random silver strips contrasted the shadowy brown overtaking his head. Over the previous months, his hair grew longer, making him feel more feminine than he could have while growing up. If the downworld thought Shadowhunters were bad now, they could rest easy with the image of the Clave’s earlier days.

“What is the nest up to today?” The two had known each other for a long time; long enough to not shy away at the sight of skin and boxers. Eljah crossed to his dresser while Raphael spoke, jumping with the change in temperature upon contact.

“Nothing you have to worry about, even though I know you will.” Raphael laughed at the little hops Eljah made while dressing himself.

“I can’t help it. You guys are stuck with me now, so I have no choice but to care.”

Eljah slid a pair of shorts that rested low against his hips and a t-shirt that drowned him. August was his least favorite month because it was inevitably the hottest one. Manhattan sucked in the humid weather and bubbled it until a rush of cold would pop it. You either stayed in your home or flocked to an indoor business—Eljah’s goal tonight—to beat the heat.

“That is true, my mistake,” Raphael poked fun, receiving a stare from the male opposite him, “but seriously, just enjoy your night and I’ll find something for you to do this week, hm?”

“You said that last week, Santiago.”

“Damn, we are going by last names now, Winterscaar?”

“Oh, bruto gross, no. My mistake,” Eljah repeated. The two shared hushed giggles, but eventually it went silent. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but Raphael’s aura became serious; Eljah hated to watch the swirls switch from bright yellow to mushy turquoise when he went into big-brother mode.

“There’s something out there that will make you happy. I know it. Maybe it’s here in the nest or on the other side of New York. Hell, another continent. I’ll help you find it.”

“How are you gonna find it if it’s on another continent? TSA will have to mark you as combustible material before you step foot on a plane.”

“Not funny.”

“It’s a bit funny, mano…” Raphael choked back a sigh, already used to the flammability jokes.

Raphael seemed to have more to say, but a knock sounded at the door. Raphael went to check it and Eljah activated the LED lights built into all the rooms. Eljah heard basic mumbles and words of confirmation before Raphael exited, saluting to his best friend.

Eljah knew what time it was already. Every day had a clockwork aspect to them, and he’d long since adjusted to the schedule of vampires. As his day started, most ended. It made slipping into night life easier and letting himself deal with emotions in his own way: drunk and/or high.

“You don’t look 22,” the bodyguard argued. Eljah had taken the time to walk his way to the club (and pre-game smoke). He didn’t fully feel the effects, but the immediate boost in confidence after every hit had him ready to make a bold move if needed. He wanted to cave his own head in every time someone accused him of being underage.

“That seems racially motivated.” He enjoyed watching people’s faces when he threw out that card. It was a common misconception amongst those who have never met shadowhunters that they were all pale-skinned white dudes with insane amounts of tattoos. Eljah himself was technically white, but it was the minority of his genetics. His father was Puerto Rican, and he’d grown up in San Juan before integrating into the Mexico City Institute. He found New York bland compared to the colorful buildings, streets, and culture of his hometown.

The man guarding the door was not white either. “Go back home, kid.”

“Este imbécil,” rolling his amber eyes. He placed his hands upon his eyelids, allowing the energy in his bones to circulate. Within milliseconds, the silvery cover slithered over his vision and the energy connected to the bodyguard’s light and powdery one. Eljah focused on forcing a command into the other man’s consciousness.

A voice echoed, “ah, ah, ah, no need,” a veil laid itself over his magic, “it’s not nice to compel random people.”

“Do you gain anything from that?”

“Just slight amusement,” the acicalao with short, spiked hair responded, “I know every warlock in Brooklyn, but I don’t know you. Why’s that?”

“New in town.”

“Are you now? Well, then, why don’t I introduce you to a little New York nightlife, hm?”

“The only thing I need introduced to is something strong.”

“That can be arranged. Come on in.”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

Too many hyperfixations, so much to do! I'm so tired of seeing no malec x reader, they'd totally be poly in another universe.

[doodle-do-wop]

Stina and Keefe HC inspired by this post!

Buckle in this is gonna be a long one

Stina can't fucking stand his ass

Someone save her he's so annoying

Why in the name of the prime sources does Sophie even like this boy he's so obnoxious

He's not even that funny literally why is she laughing at all his dumb jokes

She's in the trenches

This is her personal Exile

Stina can't fucking draw

Like at all

She can't draw

She can draw a horse! A really good horse!

But nothing else it's indistinguishable unless it's a horse

They're literally the same person in a different font

They're both empaths with self esteem issues, the hair(tm), down bad beyond down bad, extremely corny, actually touch starved as all hell, would crack a hole through the earth to reach their partner, self sacrificial morons, unnecessary sarcastic while bleeding out, sassy, detention occupants so frequently in detention once they both attended when they didn't even have detention

They're two cats in a burlap sack(Keefe's the orange one, Stina is the grumpy black cat that will actually kill him if left alone in a room with him)

The simping, did I mention the simping?

Keefe and Stina DONT get along (mostly just Stina) for bloody ages and Sophie and Dex (yes this is also a CopperMares post) wish for them to just grow up and be able to tolerate each other for more than five minutes (Stina lasted SEVEN minutes thank you very much) and the cousins immediately regretted that wish because they forgot how annoying their partners can be

The empath duo will do anything and everything in their power to flirt with/look hot in front of/tease/taint/smirk/smile/wink etc etc etc at their respective partners and it drives them crazy

Sophie and Dex have not know peace (to be fair look at who they're dating, it's a conscious choice)

Keefe might technically be older but despite his white boy attitude and his looks you'd think Stina was his older sister the way she will fully strangle him within an inch of his life and then yank him out of his shoes to buy him lunch

Empaths by genetics, siblings by torture

She still can't stand his ass but at this point that's just Stina's weird way of saying she cares for you (just look at Marella, Stina literally tackles the shit out of her despite Marella being about as tall as your average stepping stool but Stina would still lay down her life for her)

They hang out in the silliest way possible and it's trashing Cassius' house and getting ice cream (not always in that order)

Once they found one of Gisela's wallet cubes and they went to town buying supplies, food, clothes, random furniture (some of which may or may not have been shipped to the neutral territories, what are you a narc?), got their usual ice cream (Stina makes a face at Keefe's order but he swears when there's just the melted stuff at the bottom of the cup it's flavors mix really well) then they leap off to Candleshade and use some of their supplies to trash the house (again)

Cassius' big ass statue of himself has never seen a good day since the two have gotten along

They haven't hit all the floors yet but they will some day

It's a shame the Sencen's suck because they have pretty great taste in furniture and silverware

Sometimes they spray paint a big ass target and have a contest to see who can throw at Cassius statue on the bullseye and get it to stay on the wall (Ro is winning by a lot but Stina's telekinesis is getting really great)

Not an AU goes by where Stina hasn't somehow been stuck with Keefe and at this point I don't think there is

Keefe pretends like he can translate Stina's Stinaness the way Maruca can (ex. Stina telling Maruca she hates her and hopes she falls on her face and Maruca responding with "I love you too Stina") and he's almost never right

Stina 'commit to the bit' Heks has fruitlessly vetoed every Keefe Idea that's ever been brought to the table but guess who's the first person to jump on the bandwagon the second the plan falls into action

Sophie and Dex swap scoldings with each other before they go yell at their idiots for whatever big stupid thing of the month they've done now because otherwise the said idiots might be able to flirt their way out of most of the scolding part

Top 5 people who would sing Agony the way it was meant to be sang, dramatically, competitively, and over a waterfall on the forest with very dramatic very swoonable action

Keefe is princess coded while Stina is reluctant but roguishly handsome prince coded you cannot change my mind

Both would be Flynn Rider though (Keefe can also be Rapunzel though, Stina on the other hand could not)

There's probably so much more I'm forgetting but this is long enough for now

Anyway thanks for reading this all if you have and have a good one

@myfairkatiecat

[hippolotamus]

I posted 2,590 times in 2022

That's 2,187 more posts than 2021!

370 posts created (14%)

2,220 posts reblogged (86%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@stereopticons

@farm-witches-fic-recs

@rmd-writes

@apothecarose

@stationoneeighteen

I tagged 2,439 of my posts in 2022

Only 6% of my posts had no tags

#💙🦛 - 430 posts

#eddie diaz - 157 posts

#^ - 144 posts

#hippo answers - 131 posts

#hippo writes - 91 posts

#evan buckley - 85 posts

#buddie - 71 posts

#david x patrick - 70 posts

#thanks for asking! - 54 posts

#stereopticons - 49 posts

Longest Tag: 125 characters

#they're both so excited to start this new thing regardless of whatever today's drama is and they both like each other so much

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Intimate romance prompt "scolding your soon-to-be lover for almost getting themselves killed, your lover asking you why care so much" please 😘💕

For you and @alysiswriting who also requested this prompt! 💙🦛

Wish on your lucky stars ('cause it's all you got) | Rated: T | 2929 words

No, no, no, no, no. Shit. Fuck. Goddammit.  

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Patrick was meant to do a simple recon. In, out, done. He nearly achieves that, leaving the Bennet compound in under an hour. For unknown reasons, he changes course at the last minute to go back inside. That decision cost him dearly when he seemingly sets off a sensor, triggering a blast that throws him across the property.

Christ, David’s not even supposed to fucking be here. He should be on another continent, deluding diamond smugglers into believing he’s trustworthy. But, it was a 19-hour difference between seeing Patrick or having to wait another two months. To David there was no other choice. Now that he’s here, watching a barely conscious Agent Brewer, he knows he made the correct decision. 

Blood is oozing, slow and syrupy, from Patrick’s thigh. David can see some surface level scratches on his face. Honestly he’s a lot more concerned with what isn’t visible. Patrick is on his side against the cobblestone pathway, wincing and attempting to curl forward so he can put pressure on his leg. David’s stomach turns with every wounded noise Patrick makes. He’s heard that mouth moan, hum and spew a litany of filthy words and phrases but always in moments of pleasure. David’s never heard him like this. 

David’s fully aware how much is at stake if he exposes himself to help, someone could show up for Agent Brewer any moment. Still, the pull is so, so overwhelming. He feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin if he has to stay like this much longer. They come together like two magnets any time they happen to be in the same area. It seems inevitable that one day it was going to happen this way. David recalls Patrick’s fall from the cliff, how fucking helpless he felt. It doesn’t have to be that way this time. 

He sucks in a deep breath, and runs.

“Patrick?" David kneels next to him, hoping he's not too late. "If I help, do you think you can walk at all?”

A long groan escapes in place of an answer. Patrick looks up, eyes barely open. David thinks he sees a flicker of recognition, but then Patrick’s eyelids flutter shut. 

“No. Fuck! Not today. Jesus Christ, not now.” David pleads, quickly arranging his arms under Patrick’s limp body, lifting him off the ground, and holding him as tightly as the injuries will allow. He doesn’t even care about the blood smearing his clothes right now; only about ignoring the wounded noises rumbling against his chest, and getting somewhere safe.

Finally, they make it to David’s car, waiting just over the hill where he left it. He arranges Patrick neatly in the passenger seat of the Aston Martin, making sure he’s secure. The moment David slams the driver’s side door shut, he’s got Ronnie on speed dial. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane or something?” The gravelly voice complains.

“No time to explain. I need you to get Ted and tell him to be ready. I’ll be there in ten.”

“David, what the hell is going on?”

“Shut up, and do the thing!” David spits, ending the call. 

“D’vid?” Wha-?” 

“Just hang on. I’ve got you. Just promise me you’ll hang on, Patrick.” 

🔍 🔍 🔍 🔍 🔍

Six minutes later David pulls into the lower garage, barely putting the car in park before scrambling to get out. Dr. Mullens dutifully rushes over to help retrieve Patrick while David recounts what information he has. Ted, ever the loyal confidant, doesn’t ask any questions about how Agent Brewer has come to be in his care. He, and one of his assistants, swiftly transport Patrick away to begin their work. 

“I probably don’t really wanna know, but what the hell is that man doing here?” Ronnie asks, far too calmly for David’s liking. 

“I’m going to need a stiff drink for this conversation.” David pinches the bridge of his nose as he walks inside, navigating his way to the bar. “Can I get you something?”

Ronnie ignores any attempts to smooth things over in favor of reaching past him for the Macallan Lalique 57 and pouring herself a generous serving. When she possessively slides the bottle closer to where she’s sitting, David opts for the Macallan 71, reveling in the smooth burn as it slides down his throat. 

“So, about Brewer. Spill it.” 

David positions himself on the leather topped barstool, resting one foot on the rungs and letting the other dangle carelessly. He’s been waiting for this day, when he would be found out, hoping in equal measure that it would never happen and for the opportunity to stop hiding. “He was on an assignment that went sideways. I happened to be there, saw he was hurt, and brought him here.”

With another gulp of her whiskey, Ronnie glares at him. “And why were you there instead of on a plane to Cameroon?”

He mirrors her, taking another swallow from his tumbler, steeling himself to answer. David rests the hand with his drink on the bar top, tapping one of his rings against the crystal. “Because I knew Agent Brewer would be there and wanted to make sure Patrick was safe.”

David thinks Ronnie might throttle him if she weren’t so occupied coughing and spluttering on her drink. 

“You what?!” she rasps. “How long–” Another cough cuts off her question. David sighs, reaching behind the bar for a bottle of water and pushing it her way. 

See the full post

33 notes - Posted July 12, 2022

#4

For the @schittscreekdrabbleblog prompt Echo

“You’re here with Seb?” the blonde asks.

“That’s what I’m told,” David replies gloomily, trying in vain to blink away the club haze. “Why?”

“Never understood how someone that in love with himself gets so many people to date him. No offense.”

He wants to argue that he’s different from all the other notches on Sebastien’s bedpost, but David knows he’s not.

“Guess that makes me Echo,” he mutters.

“Come, David.” Sebastien sneers, snapping his fingers like he’s calling a dog. A faithful pet he’s still somehow disappointed to find waiting for him. “Time to leave.”

Time to leave, David.

34 notes - Posted December 5, 2022

#3

If you like Fashion & Baseball | Rating: M | a strangers to best friends to strangers to lovers journey

Patrick Brewer has spent every day since their high school graduation thinking about David Rose. How everything went wrong with confessing his feelings, and how he let David walk away. Through a surprise notification he is unexpectedly reconnected with David. Can Patrick persuade his former best friend to rekindle what they had and maybe become something more? ⚡️ ⚾️

Chapter 1 coming soon as part of @finish-it-fest

45 notes - Posted June 16, 2022

#2

For the intimacy prompt

tracing fingers down your partner's chest

Ok, ummm, all I can say is Thank You for this. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did 💙🖤

In all the years of artfully sneaking around for missions, Patrick Brewer never thought his expertise would lead him here. At least, not as many times as it has.

The hotel ballroom must have close to 800 people, but he’s already seen the one he’s after. Patrick knows he’s been spotted, too. They’ve been chasing each other around the globe - from Mexico to Monaco, South Africa to Saskatchewan, and everywhere between - for years now. This dance is familiar and they’re intimately acquainted with how the steps go. 

Patrick sips his sparkling champagne, peering over the rim, and meeting familiar dark eyes standing on the upper balcony. One delicate hand, with olive skin and silver rings, lifts a champagne flute from the railing in a silent toast across the sea of otherwise ignorant partygoers. Patrick’s target raises a single dark eyebrow, then tilts the glass to his lips, draining it in one go. He replaces the vessel and smirks in Patrick’s direction before turning to walk away. Patrick recognizes it for the signal it is, sitting his now empty glass on a passing server’s tray. 

As if by intuition alone, his feet carry him up the staircase, past eclectic older dealers arguing whether a Van Gogh or a Cézzane will fetch more, young heiresses flirting shamelessly, and the occasional solo chap watching them. The stream of people thins the further Patrick walks, the lights becoming more spread out, leaving shadowy patches between. The electric glow of an Exit sign catches his eye, and he’s just about to turn back when he finds himself tugged into a dark alcove, pinned to the wall. 

Patrick smirks, noting the warm, spicy scent now surrounding him. It should make him wary, but that sensation stopped long ago, replaced by want and lust. “Rose, we meet again.”

“So we do, Mr. Brewer,” a voice purrs in response. “I hope you’ve been well since Denmark.” 

Patrick traces a finger over the curves he’s become so accustomed to, feeling the sleek mother-of-pearl buttons under his skin until he hooks onto the V of the single-breasted tuxedo jacket. “Never better. Should we exchange the usual my country wants you dead pleasantries first or is foreplay off the menu tonight?” 

A singular growl precedes firm hands pinning Patrick’s wrists above his head, warm lips and tongue meeting his own. No matter how many times they’ve done this, it always makes him dizzy. It shouldn’t be this way, he should be capturing David Rose and hand delivering him to the Canadian government. Instead, he always finds himself in total disbelief at how right, and fucking life affirming, it feels to be under David’s control. 

Sometimes, dangerously, he thinks he wants it forever. It only took Patrick mentioning once that he doesn’t sleep with anyone else between their trysts. David went off the grid for over a year before they came crashing back together in a blissful rendezvous where the only sounds were gasps and skin on skin. Patrick fell asleep with David slung across his body, head on his chest, and he thought they turned a corner. But when he woke in the morning, David was nowhere to be found. They didn’t see each other for three months until their paths crossed in Moscow. 

“David,” Patrick pants, too close for comfort to losing his composure like a teenage boy as David grinds their hips together. And he’s not going to do that in a suit that had a comma on the price tag. He’s not. “Please.”

“Want me to stop?” David’s teeth drag over Patrick’s earlobe before scraping along the line of his jaw.

“No?”

David chuckles softly, the vibrations humming against Patrick’s neck. “Are you sure, Mr. Brewer?”

Patrick can only hiss in response when David’s hips thrust forward, holding him in place. 

“Well, I’m not getting on my knees for you in a hallway, in this suit,” David’s breath ghosts against the shell of Patrick’s ear. “I know you don’t always follow orders, but be good and meet me in the penthouse. I’ll make it worth your while.”

David presses a searing kiss against his mouth, pulling Patrick’s bottom lip between his teeth, before he retreats into the darkness. Patrick feels adrift without the weight of David to anchor him, even knowing they’ll be tangled together soon. He stands tall, straightening his jacket and adjusting his bowtie. He reaches into his pocket for his phone so he can at least check his hair in the camera. Patrick smiles to himself when his fingers brush over the keycard David slipped in next to it. He taps the card, deciding to abandon checking his reflection, hoping he won’t encounter anyone else important along the way. 

After all, there’s no time to waste when he has a foreign agent to catch.

send me a physical intimacy prompt!

59 notes - Posted June 30, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Fandom friendship is OMG this wrecked me… let me share it with all my besties so they can hurt too

1,278 notes - Posted July 25, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[kusaka6e]

PRIDE

boxer!natsu x gn!reader

modern au

sfw

———

“and down goes dragneel! the dragon king is really giving the salamander a run for his money, i’m surprised he’s still conscious!”

bastards

you wish the announcers could hear you from your position in natsu’s corner of the ring, choice words brewing in the back of your mind for them.

please just stay down

this is the longest ten seconds of my life

the referee gets to seven before natsu signals that he’s okay to continue, making your stomach lurch. it wasn’t that you didn’t believe in him or his skills. you knew he’d sooner die than lose the fight. it was how his physical state would hold up after that you were worried about.

you rub your palms on your pants as the round ends, your custom jacket with ��dragneel” plastered across the back suddenly feeling entirely too warm.

natsu’s left eye was swollen almost completely shut, and if you looked hard enough you were sure his jaw was out of place.

“are you okay to keep going?” makarov scowled, holding natsu’s water up to his face and trying to grease his ever-swelling eye.

“i’m good!” he nods, taking a swig.

“i can call it, you’ve done more than en-” natsu gives makarov a fiery glare, making the older man cut his sentence short. in any other setting, the size difference between them would be absolutely comical.

he spits the water into a bucket held up to his face by another member of his team, staring makarov down.

“i’m fine!” you let out a sigh, a sick feeling sinking in about how the next few rounds would go.

and somehow, miraculously, the announcers are holding up natsu’s fists and adorning him with a ridiculous sized championship belt, the arena roaring with praise for him. you had your camera-ready smile down to a science, but natsu knew you were upset.

you stayed in natsu’s locker room when a trainer came to see him, fighting the urge to scoff upon hearing he had another concussion, possible broken ribs, and probably needed a trip to the eye doctor to make sure he’d keep his sight in his left eye.

natsu had tenacity, nobody could deny that. that’s part of what made his name so popular in the boxing community so quickly. you’d been able to bear witness to him going from small matches in you two’s neighborhood boxing gym to selling out matches as the headlining fighter. you couldn’t be prouder. but you also couldn't be more worried. because for every ounce of tenacity natsu carried, he had just as much (if not more) recklessness to bring to the ring. his tunnel vision and hyperfocus on victory was his strength and very well could be his demise.

natsu’s father had been the one to teach him to fight. for unknown reasons, igneel never got into the big leagues, but he raised one hell of a prodigy.

so, you can see why natsu took igneel's sudden absence to heart. he wasn’t dead, or injured, or missing in action. just simply flew halfway across the world to start a new life with a woman half his age, completely abandoning his then-teenage son and training him. and no matter how well natsu did, how much he excelled or how many wins he had under his name, nothing ever made his father break his silence towards him.

makarov bringing natsu into his gym to continue his training was probably the best thing that ever happened to him. he saw natsu as one of his own, which is part of why he was so hard on him.

“you can’t keep doing this, natsu.”

“winning?”

“can you stop being a smartass for two minutes? you need to care for your body, not just train to swing hard. if you lose your sight in your left, then what?”

you suck in a breath, watching natsu’s non-injured eye narrow in annoyance.

“both of my fists will still work. i’ve fought plenty of times with a fucked up eye before.”

“you are insufferable.” makarov sighs, giving you a look that suggested you might have more luck than he did, closing the door behind him.

“love you too!” natsu shouts, grinning as he pulls a hoodie on his sweaty torso.

you two’s drive home is uncharacteristically quiet, natsu staring at you in anticipation. you’d snatched the keys out of his duffel before he could even think about insisting he could drive, knowing how casually he treated his concussions.

“why do you keep hurting yourself in your fights?” your voice is quiet and even-toned, staring at the brake lights ahead of you. traffic leaving the arena was nearly standstill, masses of cars surrounding you in every direction.

“it’s not like im punching myself in the face babe.”

you kiss your teeth in annoyance, refusing to look at him.

“you know that’s not what i mean.”

“why does everyone keep asking me that? this entire sport is based around beating the shit out of the other guy in the ring with you, i don’t see the problem.”

“the problem is you don’t know when to stop, natsu.”

“i stop when i win, that’s all that matters.” your grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles beginning to go white.

“what about you?”

he sighs heavily, cracking his knuckles.

“i’m fine, (y/n).”

“your fifth concussion in a year is fine, natsu? your broken ribs that are gonna make it hurt to breathe are fine? the possibility of you only being able to see out of one of your eyes, that’s fine to you?!” guilt washes over you when you watch him wince at your increase in volume, remembering that his concussion would make him sensitive to sound.

he opens his mouth, then closes it. he knows you’re right, and fighting with you is the last thing he wanted to do. soon enough, you pull into your driveway, thankful to get out of the car.

you park the car, yanking the keys from the ignition as he hastily follows you into you two’s home. you set the keys on a table by the front door, taking a breath.

“you can go to the eye doctor by yourself tomorrow.” his eyes widen, double taking to make sure he heard you right.

“what?!” it was an unspoken rule that you always came to his appointments with him. press conferences, interviews, photoshoots, his only request was that you were always right there.

“i’ll order the uber in the morning so you don’t have to dri-”

“why aren't you coming?”

“i’m not gonna listen to you try to fight the advice of another person who only wants the best for your health. justifying it with winning isn’t enough.”

“my eye is fine, i’m really not hurt that bad.”

“yes you are! i’m listening to you wheeze every time you inhale, don’t try to give me that bullshit. you’re either going to start taking care of yourself or i’m done. i’m not gonna sit around and watch you destroy yourself over a title.”

his eyes darken with anger, staring you down.

“yea? what happened to you being proud of me for fighting through all that shit? for being an underdog, for making a name for myself?”

“none of that is worth your well being, natsu! if you never winning a match again means you’re not going to get permanent brain damage from all these concussions, on top of partial blindness, so fucking be it! i care more about you than i do some stupid shiny belt.” you spit.

“that belt is worth everything to me, why don’t you get that?”

“why do you always act like you have something to prove?!”

“because i do!” him raising his voice rattles the entire house, regret rising in his chest at the sharp pain that shows up behind his temples and watching you jump in surprise.

“i do have something to prove.” his voice cracks when he repeats himself, much weaker than the first time.

you finally look at him, raising an eyebrow for him to continue.

“i have to prove that him leaving wasn’t my fault. eventually, he has to see how good i’m doing and say something about it.”

your chest pangs as you watch him wipe away a tear before it can fall, his usual massive stature suddenly looking so small and fragile in you two’s foyer, light from the moon illuminating behind him.

there’s tense silence for a few moments, but you know you can’t keep it up.

“baby…” you cautiously reach an arm around him, gasping when he throws himself into you, failing at trying to hide his crying.

“i-i’m sorry, i’ll be more careful. i just wanted to make everyone proud, to prove that i deserve to be here. i’ll go get my eye looked at, and i won’t fight when i get hurt like this anymore, just please don’t leave me too, i can’t-” the rest of his sentence is cut off with a choked sob, making you gently shush him as you move one hand to play with his hair.

“i’m right here, it’s okay.” you give him a few minutes to let everything out, cradling his tear-stained face in your hands and giving him a reassuring smile.

“i’m so proud of you. and so is anyone else who’s in your corner. anyone who’s not doesn’t deserve the honor in the first place.” he nods, sniffling quietly.

“i’m sorry.” he whispers, unable to meet your eyes.

it was easy to forget that natsu was sensitive under his goofy and nonchalant exterior, especially seeing him in action. you press a quick kiss to his lips, finally getting a small smile out of him.

“we should probably go shower and go to bed, yea? we’ve gotta be on time for that appointment tomorrow.”

his face lights up like a kid on christmas, taking your hand in his and tugging you upstairs to you two’s room.

“i’m sorry i’m a pain in the ass-” he kisses your nose, interrupting his statement “-i love you-” another on both your cheeks, “-so much.” he finishes with kissing your lips, lingering there for a few moments. you playfully roll your eyes, snuggling up to him so you can fall asleep.

“i love you and your stubborn ass more.”

[nellie-elizabeth]

Roswell, New Mexico: Follow You Down (4x11)

Y'all, I'm seeing shrimp colors, I'm experiencing shrimp emotions, I don't know what way is up right now. Holy moly. Let's discuss.

Cons:

Let's start with Clyde. He sucks. He's a boring villain and a waste of time! I'm sorry, but it's true! I kept thinking that all of the core emotional beats between our principal characters could have been accomplished without him even existing. Instead of Liz getting literally kidnapped, continue the narrative of her being stolen away by her addiction to the alien mist. She could be trapped in a prison of her own mind, instead of Clyde causing unnecessary extra obstacles with his fanaticism. It's all just such an anticlimax, to have this follower of Jones be our villain for season four, when we already dealt with the man himself last year!

I'm also underwhelmed by Vanessa's inclusion in this story. I think we're meant to see Liz has having gained a mentor and a mentee this year, Shivani and Vanessa respectively, but they didn't do nearly enough to establish Vanessa as a character before using her here as the means of Liz's capture and control. And I'm not advocating for more Vanessa screen time, quite the opposite! Do this story without her. Have Clyde use Kyle as the bait. It works better in every way: it's someone Liz cares about, that the audience has a vested interest in, and then Rosa gets to use her superpowers to save her brother's life, instead of some random woman she doesn't know.

And a quick detour into the realm of "things I wish would have happened"... these aren't exactly problems with what was presented, but more me wishing for more of certain elements. In the Liz-centric plot, we get just one mention of Alex and Michael, when the intervention gang says that Maria is staying to watch the portal entrance. I wish that we could have followed that up with Isobel and Max talking about Michael later in the episode, when Max is giving his sister a pep talk about Kyle. Something about how their brother is trapped and they don't know how to get him back... something about how Max is torn in two, worrying about Liz and Michael, two of the people he loves most in this world... I don't know. Could have used a bit more sibling feels. I hope we get to have a bit more of that in the final two episodes!

Obviously I will be doing considerable Malex-related gushing in a moment, but a quick detour into nitpick land first...

So, a part of me wanted their actual reunion moment to be more dramatic and intense, but ultimately I understand the choice to lean into the joy/relief aspect of it, as that makes the twist hit all the harder. So, fine, they can be all soft and sweet with each other, I can very much get on board with that. My problem is a small one, but pervasive over the course of this season, and even a bit in season three: I find all the shoulder grabbing and squeezing to be kind of... awkward. It's like... okay, Vlamis and Tyler have really good chemistry, obviously, but their scenes this season have I think pointed out to me the importance of good direction/guidance for actors. I love, love, love that Michael's instinct is to always want to be touching Alex, but the way he kind of claps him on the shoulder and squeezes feels like this really self-conscious and unnatural way of going about it? I told you this was a nitpick. I just want them to be more cuddly and affectionate and happy without the same physical gestures of the face touching and shoulder grabbing to get repeated over and over. Also just, generally speaking, it's a travesty that this show doesn't let itself be steamy at all any more. It hardly qualified as anything particularly raunchy even back in season one, but this season in particular has been soooo low on the romance/sexy quota for alll the characters. Think about how little Kybel smooching we actually got to see. And then Michael and Alex just get these little sweet pecks for all their kisses, and don't get me wrong, I love those kisses, but nothing deeper, a little more sustained? Sigh. Let the boys kiss each other! Where's the season one energy up in this joint?

Pros:

Let's start with Kybel, my beloveds! There's this sliver of me that's annoyed at the back and forth: the love declaration, Isobel deciding maybe she does want more, Kyle shutting it down, yadda yadda. But that's kind of par for the course on this show, and honestly I feel like it makes a lot of sense for Kyle and Isobel specifically. Isobel has such a take-charge personality; she's worked so hard to learn what she wants and how to articulate it. I love that with Kyle, the thing she wants is so overwhelming and scary for her that she kind of doesn't know how to deal with it. And Kyle, meanwhile, is doing his best to compartmentalize and preserve their friendship. It's so sweet and awkward and strained. I only hope that we have enough time to give them some sort of hopeful ending, even if we don't get to see the full development of this relationship.

Rosa and Kyle scenes for the win! I couldn't believe we actually got to see them interacting as brother and sister. I've wanted so much more of that, ever since the show started, honestly. I loved how reciprocal they seemed, the way Kyle encouraged Rosa to think about all the growing she's done, and how Rosa picked up on the weirdness with Isobel and encouraged Kyle to communicate. All of it was just so wonderful!

And Rosa and Liz's story had some wonderful beats as well. Liz says some awful things to everyone in the course of her addiction, but she's the worst to Rosa, using Rosa's own addiction and recovery in order to invalidate her attempts to help. As annoyed as I am that Clyde kidnaps Liz, I did really enjoy the way in which Liz is portrayed as still herself, still a loving sister, at the end of the day: she doesn't actually physically assault her sister to get a fix, and when she wakes up in Clyde's clutches, the first thing she does is ask about Rosa. So there's some good tension here, but also some excellent care and love that still shines through despite it all. When Liz is recovering in bed at the end of the episode, she asks Max if Rosa hates her, and I thought that was just such a lovely, sad moment. I hope we get a nice long hug between the sisters in the next episode, we could really use that.

This has been a season of some seriously annoying Liz and Max developments, like, honestly, the two of them have just been exhausting all year in the worst possible ways... but this episode on its own? I kind of liked it! Liz being so single-minded and in this bad place, and Max keeping his shit together, maintaining his cool and focusing on getting Liz the help she needs, it really made him seem like a good man who actually wants what's best for the woman he loves. You've got the wonderfully dramatic moment where he catches Liz as she faints into his arms, and I'm just kind of like... yes, give me alll the cheesy romance, Roswell, that's literally why we're here.

I really liked the time we spent with Dallas and Bonnie this episode, too. It didn't pull focus away from Malex, but it added some important character beats to these two. Bonnie ruminates on the family she always wanted, and Dallas tells her the pod squad is her family now. And Dallas talks about chasing his father's clues, and how that's made him lose sight of other things in his life. I really dig their soft sibling vibes, and Bonnie is such an adorable Malex shipper, she's all on board for Michael and Alex to reunite and then get some quality alone time together... same, girl, same.

Like, okay, the Malex stuff in this episode could be an essay all on its own, but I'll try to keep my gushing to a minimum. Overall, I'm thrilled. As I was watching through their scenes, I was of course enjoying all the gushy romance quite a lot... but personally, my favorite Malex stuff is always going to be the earlier sharper scenes, where things are still so bad between them and their love is obvious even through all the obstacles and anger. Narratively, it feels super earned to me that they're all soft and sweet and gushy with each other now, but as I was watching, this small sliver of my brain was missing the angst... only for Alex to come out of nowhere with "hey by the way I'm DYING." It's like Christmas come early, tbh. I'm prepared to eat my words if the show does something really stupid in the final two episodes and gives us a tragic or even a bittersweet/undefined ending for Malex, but I really don't think that's where they're going. I think we're going to see Michael fight to save Alex, I think they're gonna get a wedding, I think we're going to get the full overwhelmingly sweet conclusion I almost didn't dare to hope for. So ultimately? This was the best of both words for me. All the happy kisses and the call-backs to iconic Malex moments, and then the angst plot twist, where now we get to see Michael fall apart at the thought of Alex's imminent demise... yum. This is some good food.

Despite my somewhat irritated wish that they were allowed to kiss each other a little bit more... deeply... I still adored most of the physicality and intimacy between Michael and Alex in this episode. Michael is just overwhelmingly joyful, his eyes shining, and Alex can't stop touching Michael, putting his hand on his thigh, grabbing his hand, tangling their fingers together, resting his head on Michael's shoulder. I love how relieved they both were, how clear it was that Michael had been holding his breath waiting for this moment. They've only been apart a little over a week or so, but the stress and drama of those days is apparent as we see them finally relax with one another again.

Just to compliment the acting choices that most delighted me and also broke my heart... I love how Michael's voice cracks when he confesses to Alex that he was distracted by the thought of getting to go to Oasis. He just feels so bad and yet the wanting for answers is still such a big part of who he is... and then on the flip side of this, there's this one reaction that Alex gives, when he finishes Michael's sentence, realizing that there's a way for him to go back to his planet. He gets this sad little smile on his face and nods his head, as if trying in that first initial moment of reaction to reassure, to hide any hint of pain Michael might be causing him. It really reminded me of a lot of Malex moments in season two, where Alex had this resigned "it's okay if I'm not happy, as long as you are" energy. And given that Alex believes himself to be dying, it makes sense to me that he'd not be too alarmed at the thought of Michael leaving. It might even comfort him, the thought that Michael will have something new to fight for, once he's gone. Yikes, this is making me so emotional...

Other moments I've got to shout out include: Michael teasing Alex about their supposed first date at the drive-in, the lead-in to the proposal being Alex listing science fiction tropes... and then Michael immediately laughing at the thought of Sanders in a tux, the way he's got a single tear escaping him as he and Alex kiss after he says yes, the way he asks about how far away the trees are, so he knows if they have time for sex, the teasing, joyful way he says "I gotta wait for the honeymoon?" And the line about how he was thinking about wedding vows and now suddenly Alex wants him to write a eulogy... OUCH, that got me good.

I also loved where we left them in this episode. Michael is still in the midst of an initial reaction; he's kind of cold and disbelieving, trying to reconcile his overwhelming happiness at getting engaged, with the horrifying revelation that Alex is dying. And Alex is meanwhile singularly focused on getting to marry Michael before he dies. I can just imagine him, stuck alone in this alternate dimension, realizing that his time is dwindling away. His priorities have sharpened to only what's absolutely essential, and to him, what's essential is spending his life with Michael. It's a lot, y'all. I'm having trouble processing everything I love about this and synthesizing how I really feel.

I'm scared, because god knows I've been hurt in the past (pour one out for my dude Quentin Coldwater; if you know you know), but I honestly do think we'll be okay and we'll get our sappy cheesy happily ever after. Come on, Roswell, don't fuck this up!

Just two more episodes until it's time to say goodbye. It's gonna be a looooongggg couple of weeks.

8.5/10

[salt-warrior]

I really liked your fic for Kai's birthday. Can you do Cinder's? Thanks!

The Happiest of Memories

Summary: Kai helps Cinder celebrate her twentieth birthday. (WC: 1.8k)

“Cinder,” Kai whispered, his lips brushing gently against his wife’s ear. His voice was soft in his attempt not to startle her, but she jolted awake nonetheless, as if he’d quite literally shocked her.

“What?” Cinder asked, eyes darting around the room as if to assess a threat. “What’s wrong, Kai?”

Kai let out a sigh, then wrapped an arm around Cinder’s waist, pulling her up against him, and Cinder sucked in a breath, unsure what to make of this. Almost every morning she woke first, dragging him from the realm of sleep and into the conscious world. She looked at him, eyebrows raised quizzically. But rather than answering her unspoken question, Kai pressed his forehead against hers, copper eyes meeting brown, and whispered: “Happy birthday, Cinder.”

Cinder pulled back just enough to look at him—her brain interface immediately pulling up the date, which told her that indeed, Kai was correct. It was her birthday. Her real birthday.

When she’d been gifted the name Linh Cinder, along with her child-sized cybernetic limbs, she’d also been given a false birthday, so as not to arouse suspicion. Even now, celebrating her actual day of birth for the fourth time in her living memory, she still had a hard time with the date.

“Don’t tell me you actually forgot,” Kai said, mouth open in a dramatic display of his disbelief. When she didn’t respond, he clucked his tongue. “Cinder, Cinder, Cinder. It’s the most important day of the year—”

“Kai, we literally got married this year.”

“Well, if you hadn’t been born, our marriage couldn’t have even been a possibility,” Kai explained.

“But your birthday—”

“Is not as miraculous because we Earthens have come and gone for thousands of years while you Lunars are such a recent species. I’m really rather impressed that you guys have made it the couple hundred years that you have, what with everything that’s been going on.”

“You’re a pest,” Cinder hissed, though the corner of her mouth twitched up.

“Spoken like a true Lunar.” Kai grinned wickedly, and Cinder—using the only foolproof method she knew of to put an end to his antics—leaned forward and kissed him.

Kai let out a small gasp, as if her kissing him were a shocking, once-in-a-lifetime experience—something to go breathless over. But he kissed her back all the same, just as he had done every time for the past four years, breathing her in as if he were dying and she was the last thing he wanted to taste, to feel, to know, before he perished into the unknown. The arm wrapped around her waist pulled her in tighter, despite their already close proximity, and his hand brushed at the strands of her hair, twisting them against his fingers as if they were a part of him, always meant to be there.

A sigh escaped Cinder as they broke apart, Kai’s face hovering above her own as they panted in unison, unable to obtain oxygen, and hardly caring as they stared into one another’s eyes.

“I adore you,” Kai whispered. With careful fingers, he brushed a strand of hair from Cinder’s eyes. “And I love you.” He pressed his lips to her cheek, then the other. He watched her as if she were the last star in the galaxy, the concluding bit of light in a dark world, his final wish before the universe collapsed in on itself. Then his smile returned, more mischievous than ever. “And as much as I’d love to stay here in this moment forever, I have a whole day of birthday festivities planned.”

***

They dressed for the day, Cinder in elegant black pants and a long-sleeved, fluttery, ice-blue blouse that reminded her of snow. Kai dressed in a similar fashion, as if he’d meant to match—which perhaps he had—in a black suit and tie in a similar shade to Cinder’s top. She eyed him quizzically, but said nothing as to their analogous wardrobe choices.

Hand in hand, the pair walked through the palace halls. But when Cinder tried to turn left down one passageway, Kai tugged her right.

“But our meeting with Prime Minister Ka—”

“Has been postponed until next week,” Kai cut in, twirling Cinder around as if they were dancing. When she spun back to face him, he pulled her in close, tucking her hair behind her ears, placing both hands on either side of her face. “In fact, all of today’s meetings have been postponed to a later date.”

Cinder scowled. “And why, may I ask, have they been postponed?”

“Oh, you know,” Kai grinned, “the usual. Winter illnesses, holidays, an Empress’s birthday. You take your pick. Everything has been canceled.”

“Kai—”

“Cinder.”

Cinder crossed her arms over her chest, doing her best to give Kai a withering stare, but failing rather ridiculously—for how could she glare at those soft brown eyes that sparkled as if they contained magic within them? After a brief moment, she let out a sigh.

“It’s my wife’s birthday,” Kai said, emphasizing her title, as if it were of more importance to him than any other she held. “And it just so happens that people are rather agreeable at this time of year, and don’t much mind temporarily avoiding responsibilities.”

“You haven’t locked Torin up somewhere, have you?” Cinder asked, tilting her head to the side. “He’s not gagged and bound in the palace prison somewhere?”

“I told him to take the day off—spend some time with his family.”

“And he agreed to that?” Cinder asked, incredulous.

“No.” Kai shook his head, laughing. “He claimed that someone needs to hold down the fort while we enjoy ourselves. Iko offered her assistance in that area as well, so we needn’t worry about a thing today.”

Cinder hummed, taking in all this information. Ever since the day she’d been crowned as Queen of Luna, she’d hardly had a moment to herself, let alone time with Kai. Save for their honeymoon and the occasional day here or there—often orchestrated by Iko—they had little time to themselves.

“The world will stay standing for one day without you there to hold it up,” Kai promised, his thumb brushing against her cheek. “Now come on.” He grinned. “Don’t you want to see what I have planned?”

She couldn’t help it. Not with him looking at her like that—not with all that he had done for her to make this day special. Cinder threw her arms around Kai’s neck and kissed him. He laughed against her lips, but as ever, kissed her back more fervently than ever.

When they pulled apart, Cinder took Kai’s hand, and with that, he led her off to a day of what would be looked back upon as the happiest of memories.

***

They explored areas of the palace that Cinder had never seen before. When she’d first entered this grand place that was Kai’s home, she’d spent the majority of her time down in the medical labs due to her legal guardian selling her body for plague research. It was miraculous, really, all that she didn’t know about the palace despite having lived within its great walls for over a year.

Very quickly, Kai shed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. They strolled through any number of hallways, sometimes ducking into secret passageways that Kai seamlessly pulled her into. They collected their lunch when noon rolled around, taking it from a smiling woman in the kitchens, then rushed to eat it in the ballroom.

They ate on the floor, legs crossed as they huddled close together, eating and talking and laughing. When they’d finished their soup and dumplings, Kai turned his port on, and out poured a soft, slow melody, accompanied by a gently crooning voice. He offered his hand to her, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Cinder took it.

Slowly, with her head resting on his shoulder and his face tickling her neck, they danced. It was unlike the sort of dancing they did every year at the Annual Peace Ball—this was only for them, and them alone. It was not in the name of putting on a show, or looking pretty and perfect for the public. This was all about hands clutching one another and hearts pressed together, beating in time with the other, and lips searching and finding and knowing one another.

As the afternoon progressed into evening, they made their way to the library, where they collected an armful of books—some that Cinder had never heard of before, which Kai proclaimed to be a great sin—and hauled them up to an observatory with sparkling marble floors and a telescope that projected the contents of the sky upon the ceiling and paintings of galaxies that Cinder was certain weren’t her own. They sprawled out on the floor, blankets beneath them, Cinder’s head in Kai’s lap as he read her books he’d loved in his teenage years. And when the sun vanished, they ate cake laid on their backs to stare up at the stars, marveling that they were underneath them together, even after all they had been through.

“I wanted to take you to the gardens,” Kai murmured. “Lay in the grass, look up at the stars. But seeing as it’s December, it’s far too cold for that.”

“I didn’t even know we had an observatory.” Cinder scrunched her nose. “It’s extraordinary.”

“Trying to convince the astronomers who haunt this tower to vacate for the day was probably the most extraordinary thing I did.”

“Even with all that charm?”

“I had to remind them a number of times that I am the Emperor of the Eastern Commonwealth.”

“Oh yeah?” Cinder swallowed. They had stopped staring at the projected sky, and were instead facing one another, Cinder’s arm draped over Kai’s waist and Kai’s hand brushing the soft skin of her neck, playing with the escaping tendrils of her hair.

“Yeah,” Kai breathed. He brought his hand up and traced the curve of her cheek and the line of her nose. And when she felt as if she couldn’t bear it any longer, she leaned in and kissed him, slower than the passing of time and with more love than either of their worlds had ever known.

“Thank you,” Cinder sighed against his lips.

Kai looked at her. “What for?”

“Today. Getting me away from work and stress. Being with me. Being you. Everything.”

“Everything?” Kai asked, crinkling his nose in a teasing manner. “I surely can’t take credit for everything.”

Cinder pinched his arm and he laughed.

“I like to see you happy,” Kai said, sobering up. “More than anything else in the world.”

Cinder smiled at him, then tucked her head beneath his chin. He wrapped his arms about her and held her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She listened to the beating of his heart, and wondered if anything had ever been so perfect in this world.

“Well I am,” Cinder whispered. “Happy. More than I ever thought I could be.” And she meant it.

Dedicated to @bakergirl13, because I laughed at your for thinking Tiger Woods had no legs for three minutes<3

Tags: @healing-winston-pratt @gingerale2017 @wassupnye @zephyr-thedragon @shellyseashell @cinderswrench @cindersassasin @just2bubbly @ladybugpowermakeup @readingonpluto @o1oo1o1o-0 @fangirlforever0704 @akaashis-notebook @kaiderforever @kaixiety @idkchatie @bookpapaya

[ragnarachael]

kinktober — day ten; praise kink, gagging, hickies with jonathan pine

paring: jonathan pine x reader

warnings: daddy kink, gagging, praise, all the fun things that come with pine baby

notes: it’s the way i get this done an hour after day nine omg. day ten!!! and i’m about to plow through day 11, then work on 12 for tomorrow! happy catching up!

kinktober tag list: @theaudacitytowrite @thinkingth0ts @minssmutblog @abasiclokiwhore @user8292 @itsz-justea @lanablakee @marvelsmysterywoman @geeky-politics-46 @stardust-galaxies @milly-louise @agustdowney @aenother @dtrl2003 @writewithmarites @pennywiseass​ @ssstilesreid​ @thehuntresswolf​

kinktober masterlist | feedback | kinktober taglist is here! fill this out to be apart of it! | ALSO! day 31 i’ve deemed as FOLLOWER’S CHOICE! click here to be taken to the follower’s choice poll and cast your vote!!

“That’s it, darling,” Jonathan coos as his cock splits you open. “You’re taking daddy’s cock so well, baby girl.”

You make some intelligible noise around the cock gag Jonathan shoved in your mouth who knows just how long ago at this point, pressing your upper half into the mattress so you can be as open as possible for Jonathan to properly ruin you.

All you know is you’re singing with all the praise this man is spitting out as he takes his time thrusting his cock deeper and deeper into you.

You didn’t expect to end up on Pine’s radar, but now more than ever, you’re glad you did. 

You moan loud around the gag, feeling the way Jonathan’s hips snap against your own, his hands large and warm on your sides as he delivers consistent and deep thrusts, a loud squelch coming with it every few thrusts.

“So good, baby,” he huffs, one of his hands suddenly sliding down the length of your spine to grab at the base of your neck, “can you stand on your knees for me, actually?”

You comply nearly instantly, cunt flexing as you slowly find the will to peel from the bed, feeling Jonathan’s hand move from the back of your neck to the front to gently hold you in his grasp until your back is flush with his and his thick cock is settled comfortably inside.

“Good girl,” Jonathan praises and you kneen, trying to swallow around the gag and hoping that he understands just how thankful you are to be in this moment. “Do you care if I mark you?”

You’re shaking your head as fast as you can manage in his hand, trying to buck your hips back into his to feel his cock do more than pulse and stretch your pussy open. You feel his breath over the skin of your shoulder where the skin meets your neck before his lips are almost attacking the side of your neck in heated kisses.

The drool that’s dripping from your mouth is starting to land on your chest at this point, and you’re not at all self-conscious as you’d normally be with other men. Jonathan made you feel..

Well, what didn’t he make you feel tonight?

“You’re so cute when you’re gagging on that plastic cock, baby,” Jonathan growls into your skin before sinking his teeth gently into it, working on sucking a mark into you.

A cross between a groan and a whimper leaves your mouth from behind the gag, and you’re sure Jonathan can feel just how hot you’re becoming by his words.

“I bet you wish that was my cock, don’t you?”

You assume he’s rambling now, continuing to dot bites up and down the slopes of your neck and leading onto your shoulders. His hips are shifting against you when you nod.

“You’ll get the privilege of cleaning daddy’s cock soon, sweetheart, don’t worry,” he reassures. You swear you feel a smile on your skin as he trails wet kisses to your soon to be decorated shoulder. “I wanna give my good girl all the cum she deserves, just keep being a patient, good girl for me, alright?”

And, well. You have no choice but to happily comply.

[youryanderedaddy]

Best Friends Forever

 Summary: Your best friend finally has you back after all these years, tied up on his bed and ready to learn your lesson.

Tw: nsfw, non-con, slight mention of blood, threats, choking, slight degradation, dirty talk, cursing, infantilization, possessive behavior, patronizing behavior, overuse of petnames, slight dom vibezz 

You knew your boyfriend was a lost cause, an addict so gone he would have done anything for a fix, but you never expected him to stoop so fucking low. 

 You had woken up in a suspiciously familiar place, laying on sheets oh so soft, puffy and white you simply couldn’t mistake the bed you were on. The walls were painted in black and blue, a combination so deeply engraved in your mind you couldn’t shake off the feeling you weren’t trully conscious, but dreaming of a happy yet distant memory of the past. It took you less than a second to realize you were in his room - the one where you had spent so many joyfull sleepless nights back in your youth. The relief was short - lived, though, because the moment you tried to move around, you became aware of the tight rope keeping your sore limbs tied to the wooden bed frame. After a while of twisting and thrashing around while screaming at the top of your lungs for help you finally heard the door open. You hoped you would at last be able to go home now, still desperate to believe this was merely a prank, a way for your junkie of a boyfriend to scare you into giving him money.

 “There is no use trying to escape the bonds, my little love.” His voice emited through the small room, low, smooth as butter and softer than ever. You tried to lift your head and catch a glipse of the person talking, just to make sure you weren’t imagining things or going insane. And there he was in all his glory, the boy, no, the man you knew well looking so different from how you remembered him, but still it felt impossible not to see the many similarities - from the unruly dark curls to the warm gray eyes that used to be your only guide during times of misery and pain. This was none other than your childhood best friend and you had absolutely no idea why you were tied to his bed. “Oliver, why on earth am I here?” You asked as soon as the initial shock had worn off, completely forgetting to address the weird petname the student had called you.

 He smirked slightly before crossing the distance keeping him away from you, and carefully sat down by your left side. He reached out to stroke your cheek in an affectionate way, his fingers lingering for a moment too long for it to be considered a mere platonic gesture. You tried to turn your head away from the warm touch since it made you feel uncomfortable and left you with so many new questions. “I missed you so much, precious.” Oliver took a deep breath and smiled at you, gently moving your jawline so you had no choice but to face him once again. “I was so happy when that disgusting piece of shit you call a boyfriend offered you to me.” The man bent to your shoulder-level and whispered in your ear, his tone so full of sick satisfaction you could swear there was honey dripping from his mouth. “I paid a lot of money to have you back, sweetheart.” He licked his lips in an obscene, suggestive way and you had to supress the sudden urge to vomit as you finally remembered exaclty why you had stopped contacting your best friend once you had started college. The boy used to be clingy, obsessive even, but you could have never guessed it was that bad.

 “Oliver, please untie me, you are scaring me.” You pleaded in a tiny voice, hoping to summon what was left of the goodness he had tucked away deep in his heart. In response the male only chuckled and shook his head as he placed a small kiss against your neck, causing you to shiver in discomfort and disgust while you were mentally debating whether you wanted to kill him or your ex boyfriend first. Soon your spiteful thoughts were replaced by panic when your captor brought his hand to your t-shirt and started unclasping the small buttons one by one. You couldn’t help but turn red from embarassment the moment you felt your nipples harden under his palm and you became painfully aware you weren’t wearing a bra underneath. Your former friend had your tender breasts exposed to the cold air in a matter of seconds, his terrible fingers already pinching and pulling at the erect tips. “You have such pretty tits, darling.” He said huskily while squeezing your boobs, licking and biting the stretched skin. You hissed in pain and squirmed in a desperate attempt to move away but the rope was holding you in place, tightening around your sore injured wrists even more. 

 “I have wanted you for so long, angel.” The student admitted quietly, his stormy eyes fixed on yours, his stare so intense it could burn a hole through you. “Tonight I will make you mine.” Oliver declared with a clear sense of confidence and claimed your lips in a quick rough manner, muffling your pitiful whimpers like a man starved and hungry for flesh. The forced kiss and his deranged words made your stomach turn but something in his longing gaze told you there was a lot more in store. The guess, much to your horror, was soon confirmed when the dark - haired male reached down between your parted legs and easily slipped your panties down to your ankles. With your last bit of protection gone you felt awfully vulnerable, literally naked in front of the beast too keen on the past to see how much he was hurting you right now, in the present. You wanted to scream the second his fat grabby fingers pried your folds open, but choking on your desperate sobs proved easier at that moment.

 “Aww, don’t cry, angel.” Oliver growled playfully and slid his index into your tight entrance, quickly adding a second one before you had the time to adjust properly. “I have to prepare you, baby, otherwise my cock may just tear you apart.” He remarked in low sickening voice, the excuse too crude and vulgar to be an act of caring. You whined as your walls clenched down tight now that there were three fingers stretching your hole, and you berely managed to utter “too full” before your friend pulled you for a deep kiss again, his tongue devouring your mouth, leaving you breathless and queit while sucking in the sweet pained moans. “You can take it, babygirl.” The man groaned against your swollen red lips and grabbed your hips in a strong hold - you were sure there would be purple bruises there tomorrow.

  Eventually, after half an hour of pushing his fingers in and out of your channel, lapping at your neck and leaving wet love marks all over your collarbone, the student was satisfied with his work. He had turned you into a whimpering mess and was ready to thoroughly enjoy the fruits of his labor, whether you liked it or not. “I am going to put it in now, precious.” Oliver pecked you on the cheek just to lick the salty trace of tears off your puffy skin. “I will force my whole length in your perfect little pussy.” Your captor bit your sensitive earlobe and you broke down in tears like a kid, the threat ringing in your ears like the gospel. “This might hurt a bit so I advise you to stay still and relax, baby.” The way the man continued casually, almost cheerfully, as if he wasn’t about to brutally rape you, made your skin crawl, but there was nothing you could do. You were all tied up, powerless to stop him. Suddenly, without any warning, his hard thick member entered you, piercing pain spreading through your whole body. The student panted in pleasure as soon as he thrust his manhood into your heat, the way it sucked him in leaving him high and blissful. You let a few miserable whimpers, the ache too much to bear, his moves too harsh, sudden and deep. 

  “Don’t give me such a-agh tormented expression, my love.” Oliver quickly shushed you by putting his hand over your mouth and pressing down to prevent any noise that might have escaped. His gaze was lustful, insane, but also loving in a twisted, perverse way. “Fuck, I love you so much.” He muttered, his voice gentle for a split second before going back to being taunting and mocking. “I used to be so angry each and every time you dated another guy, another asshole who was only after your body.” The man was rambling now, his face turning red at his own vicious thoughts, his growing anger reflecting in his cloudy pupils and his painful thrusts. “You always chose them over me like a stupid little bitch ...” He whispered dangerously and lifted your body towards his own so you could take his hits even deeper, so deep that you could feel the tip of his member kissing your cervix. “Well, now you don’t have a choice, angel. I have claimed you and I will keep you here forever.” You were crying out in agony, your pussy clamping down around the enormous length slapping again and again against your core. It burned so bad you wished you could dissapear somewhere far away just so you could have a moment of relief. “Oh, sweetheart, I know it hurts, but it’s almost over, you can take it for me, right?” The male cooed at you, switching back to that disgusting, infantilizing baby voice you had already grown to despise. When you failed to respond he gripped your throat, squeezing so tightly blood rushed to your cheeks and you inhaled sharply though your mouth only to feel the suffocation cut your breath short. “Answer me.” He barked through gritted teeth and you nodded frantically, desperate to gasp for air and cling onto dear life. 

 “Good girl.” Your former friend purred, pleased with your obedience, and let go of your neck, grabbing your hips instead. You coughed and drooled pathetically until you managed to resume your breathing, but the man, still buried deep inside you, seemed too caught up in chasing his own pleasure to notice how badly he had hurt you. Fortunately for you Oliver was really close, that much was obvious by his furious shoves at your abused cervix and his low growls each time he lowered his head to kiss you. Soon he came with a loud moan, painting your walls white, your ruined hole dripping with his seed and your blood. 

 Your captor seemed satisfied afterwards, peaceful in a way - there was a small smile adorining his cold lips as he wiped the tears off your face and squished your bruised body against his strong frame in a tight hug. You bit your tongue to stop the tears from overflowing once again, but to no avail. He let you sob in his arms until there wasn’t liquid left in your red, puffy eyes. 

 “You did very well, my love. I am really proud of you.” Oliver kissed your temple gently, resisting the temptation to graze you all over again with his lips, tongue and fingers. “I will help you clean up, then I will fix you some nice dinner.” He murmured in your ear, tickling the heirs on the back of your neck with his warm breath. “Doesn’t this sound good, baby?”

 You closed your eyes and nodded slowly.

[wri0thesley]

Heyo! Could I please get a scenario of phone sex with Gojo please? Thank you so much, I found you through AO3 and love your writing!

a good night’s rest - gojo x fem!reader (2.7k)

gojo sends you a picture of himself in a hotel bed whilst he’s away on a mission. it preys on your mind. thankfully, gojo’s got a bit of a predicament on his end too. 

warnings: nsfw/minors dni! established relationship. phone sex, masturbation, use of toys. reader is afab and uses fem pronouns. 

[reblogs/comments appreciated! // my jjk masterlist]

You’ve long since learned to deal with being on your own.

It’s not that your boyfriend doesn’t want to be with you – when he is here, he wraps his arms around you and covers your face with kisses and squeezes you, holding you so tightly that you feel like he’ll never let go – but more that he has no choice but to have to go away. Satoru Gojo is the strongest jujutsu sorcerer in the whole goddamn world, and with that comes a world of responsibility. So even though his constant missions all around Japan and abroad make you pout and tug at his clothes and sigh, you accept that it’s a fact of life.

And when he is there with you, you make the most of him to the tune of his mouth on yours and you sinking down onto his cock until neither of you can think about anything but one another’s body, sweat-slicked and needy and pressed against each other as you climb to your peaks together, over and over and over.

But that doesn’t mean you don’t get needy when he’s away.

Tonight had been one of those nights. He’d sent you a picture of himself in his hotel bed, blindfold pushed up to reveal crystalline blue eyes with galaxies swirling in them, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth and two fingers held up to his cheek in a peace sign. It’s a silly photograph, more than anything else – but it had been hard for you to concentrate on anything when he’d been shirtless beneath the blankets. When you’d seen the lean lines of his broad shoulders and muscled chest, the bare, unmarked collarbones that were begging to be kissed and bitten.

After you’d noticed the bare top half, it had been impossible to not let your gaze linger on all of the other things. The pink tip of his tongue (that you wish was buried between your legs), the two fingers (that you wish were inside of you), the blankets bunched up around his hips hiding his cock (you’d wondered if he was naked in his fancy hotel bed and squeezed your legs together, a soft breath escaping you at the thought).

You’d sent him a picture back of you blowing a kiss to the camera, but you hadn’t been able to shake the thoughts about him.

So you’d let your fingers wander. Cupped your breast in your hand, tugged at your nipples – stroked over your stomach with the barest hint of your fingertips, brushing your soaked slit through the thin material of your underwear. You’d imagined they were Gojo’s fingers as well as you could, but it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been enough to bite into your lip and circle your clit imagining Gojo’s voice teasing you about how wet you were for him; and it hadn’t been enough when you’d slipped one finger inside of yourself to the knuckle and it hadn’t hit you in all the same places that Gojo’s fingers do.

You’d been laid on your bed, teeth clenched and sweat beading on your hairline with tears of frustration welling in the corners of your eyes, when your phone had begun to ring and you’d seen Gojo’s name flash up.

“Hello?” You’d breathed into the receiver, fumbling with the hand not inside of you to answer. You hear an answering sigh, Gojo’s voice pitching into a whine as he says;

“Doll? I miss you.”

Your eyes close.

“I miss you too,” you breathe. You wonder if he can hear the light hitch in your breath – if he’s wondering what you’re doing right now. You hope not. It would be embarrassing, you think, to be caught in this particular act. “It’s nice to hear your voice.”

“It’s nice to hear yours!” He chirps, too bright considering that it’s what – two in the morning? “I’ve been trying to go back to sleep ever since you sent me that picture, but . . .” His voice drops, low. “Cupcake--”

“Did you like it?” You ask, the change in his tone sending shivers down your spine. He chuckles down the line and you feel yourself clench around the finger still buried inside of you, a little bolt of electric heat shooting down your spine.

“Like it? Oh . . .” He takes a soft little breath. “You knew exactly what you were doin’, huh?”

“Says you,” you whisper, your voice dropping to something low and throaty. “Were you wearing underwear in the one you sent?”

He chuckles down the line.

“We-e-ell,” he says, drawing out the syllable into a sing-song, “I’m sure not wearing it now.”

“Me neither,” you admit. Your face is burning hot, but you move the phone a little – you pull your finger half out of you before driving it back in, the wet sound obvious even (you hope) through the line. Gojo makes a groan, a whistle through his teeth – but he manages to keep his tone teasing as he says;

“Ahh, now – is that what I think it is? Tch!” He clicks his tongue at you in mock disappointment. “You’re so naughty, dollface--”

“What are you doing right now?” You ask him, and he laughs. You hear the noise of something slick and wet and you think of him pumping his shaft (how thick, how long it always looks in his hand) and have to swallow back the lump in your throat.

“That’d be telling!” He says, brightly, but he ends with a light laugh. “I think you can guess, can’t you?”

“D’you miss me that much?” You slide a second finger inside of yourself, relishing the stretch of your slick, tight walls around you.

“More than words can say,” he breathes. “I’d fuckin’ kill to have you with me right now, doll-- my hands don’t feel half as good as yours--”

“My fingers don’t reach as far as yours,” you admit, breathlessly. You know he must be able to hear that those fingers are sliding in and out of you faster and harder with every moment that passes. “I--”

“Get a toy,” Gojo says. His voice has dropped a semitone; low, and commanding. He’s usually carefree with his words, but when he gets an idea into his head he clings to it. He loves being in control. “The blue one, you know the one I like--”

You fumble, pulling your fingers out of yourself with a slick pop. The bottom drawer has a little collection of sex toys in, most of which you’d owned before you’d met Gojo – some of which he’d bought you, though, because he liked the idea of spicing up your sex life.

“It’s not that I don’t think I can satisfy you,” he’d said, with a crooked, cheeky grin. “But . . . it’s nice to introduce some tools every so often, right?” He’d winked at you and pressed the blue dildo into your hand. “This one’s almost as long as me and only a little bit thinner--”

“I’ve got it,” you breathe, once you’re back on the bed, and Gojo makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat.

“Get it nice and wet for me like a good girl,” he says. Even though he can’t see you, you open your mouth and gently begin to kiss and lick the toy as if it were Gojo’s cock. You give kitten licks to the swollen head, soft kisses along where the slit would be (those always make Gojo groan, tilt his head back so you can see the column of his throat and you throb with need at how gorgeous he looks when you’re on your knees for him). Gently suckling just the head into the cavern of your mouth, before sliding further down on it--

You make a conscious effort to not quieten your noises. It’s a sloppier blowjob than you’d give Gojo, but all he has to go on right now is the audio of the phone call and you imagine the wet noises of you drooling around the toy are much sexier than you silently giving it a careful suck to wet it before you put it inside you.

Judging from Gojo’s reaction – the groaning you can hear coming from the other end, the ragged sighs – your efforts are not in vain.

“Good girl,” he says, as if he can see you, when you manage to deep-throat almost the whole thing. “I think that’s plenty wet enough now, right? T-tell me how you’re feeling--”

The light stutter is endearing – you imagine him stroking his thumb over the slit of his cock, swirling his pre-come over the reddened tip.

“I’m so wet,” you whimper, through the phone. “If I don’t get something inside of me soon I think I’ll die--”

“Fuck,” he says. “I wish it was me you were putting inside, doll.”

“Me too,” you say, with a sigh. “But this’ll have to do--”

“I’ll fuck you until I can’t walk when I’m home, I promise.” There’s a steely undercurrent to Gojo’s words that do not leave you doubting he means them sincerely. “But for now . . . bring the toy down your body, princess.” You follow his instructions, shivering at the sensation of the wet tip of it leaving a trail of your own saliva. “Touch your tits for me, come on-- if I were there, I’d kiss and bite your nipples until they were sore and aching, but . . . I’m not, so you’re gonna have to do it for me. Give ‘em a pinch--”

The hand not holding the toy puts the phone on speaker and places it beside you on the bed so you can heed his instructions. The sound of his low voice giving you orders and commands seems to intensify the ache inside of you threefold – as you pinch your nipples almost hard enough to hurt, as you squeeze the heavy weight of your breast and wish your fingertips were as big and as rough as Gojo’s. His hands always feel so good on you. You whimper aloud as you skim the sensitive skin, your nipples sore points as Gojo finally says;

“The toy, doll. I want you to rub it through your pussy for me, I wanna hear how wet you are--”

It does, indeed, make an indecent noise as the head of the dildo parts your slick folds. You’re drenched.

“Fuck,” Gojo groans. “You sound like you’re dripping--”

“I am,” you say, choked as you rub the smooth head over your poor, swollen clit. He hasn’t told you to put it inside of you yet, so you hold back; but fuck, you want to. You need to. “Wish you were here, Satoru--”

“I wish I was too,” he reassures you. “I need your hands on me, princess. Need your pretty cunt. Need to feel you squeeze around me and fuck you until you can’t walk--” As he speaks, you hear a growl in the back of his throat and imagine his hand getting faster on his cock. Your thighs are trembling.

“Satoru—” You whine, again, his words not helping the ache in your lower belly that feels like a physical pain. “N-need something inside of me, need it--”

“Shhh,” he breathes, “put it in, c’mon. Slowly. Let me imagine it filling you up.”

You’re so grateful for him telling you to put it in that you almost get greedy and press it in you in one fell swoop – but you want to be good for Gojo, so you manage to control yourself. You feel the wider flare of the head open you up as you ease it inside you inch by inch, your greedy channel swallowing it up and clinging to it tight and hot. It feels much better than your fingers do – it hits you deeper, fuller, wider. The muscles in your thighs clench as you put your feet on the bed, keeping your legs parted as wide as you can.

“Is it in?” He asks, and you make a soft whimper of assent. “How’s it feel?”

“N-not as good as you--”

You win a chuckle from him that has a strained chord in.

“Yeah, I know. But it’s the next best thing, right? You full? It good? I haven’t got anything to imagine is you except my own hand, dollface, so you’re winning the battle--”

“I’ll make it up to you,” the words tumble out of you, your breath heaving.

“Oh, I know you will . . . You wanna move the toy for me now? You wanna fuck yourself on it? I wanna hear you come,  doll, so I can come with you--”

You don’t need to be told twice. You pull the toy out of you and immediately thrust it back in, establishing a rhythm as quickly as you can. Gojo would take his time – he loves having you at his mercy, shivering and shaking and begging him to go faster and faster and harder and harder, but you do not have the patience for that tonight without his body on top of yours. So you let the fast noises of you fucking yourself on the dildo echo around the too-empty bedroom, the curved spot of it hitting you just right with every desperate flex and thrust of your wrists. You want to be fucked out of your mind. You’re moaning, gasping, sighing his name aloud – and in return, you can hear the sound of Gojo’s hands on his shaft. He’s whispering your name in turn, along with filthy things about how tight you always are for him and how you’re his favourite, his good girl, he’s gonna fuck you into next week when he sees you, he needs your cunt around his cock right fucking now--

The hand not controlling the movement of the toy skims your stomach to part the plump lips of your sex, to play with your clit as you fuck yourself on the dildo. You circle the sensitive bundle of nerves a few times before beginning to rub in earnest, needing the direct stimulation. The pad of your finger is not large and calloused like Gojo’s is (his finger always feels so good on your clit, too – he always seems to know exactly how to swirl it, how much pressure to put on it, to build you up), but in tandem with the shaft currently plunging in and out of your walls--

“Satoru,” you pant, turning your head so your cheek is pressed against the pillow. “I’m-- I’m close--”

“Fuck,” you hear the slick sounds get faster, almost impossibly so. “Fuck, fuck, I want you to come for me, dollface, angel, cupcake, baby girl, princess-- lemme hear your pretty voice--”

Your eyes flutter closed and a vision of Gojo swims to the forefront of your mind – his pale hair slicked back with sweat, his shoulders so broad, his eyes glittering so dangerously as his teeth dig into his unfairly plump bottom lip. You recall the sound of his voice telling you to come.

The swirling tornado of heat inside of you seems to all converge on a single point between your thighs, and the ache in both of your wrists seems, too, to dissipate entirely as that point explodes into a thousand pieces and rains pleasurable sparks all over you, a tsunami crashing onto a peaceful shore.

You wail out Gojo’s name as you come, and whilst you’re still cresting the great wave of pleasure Gojo grunts out your own and you know that he’s come too.

You lie there with the toy still buried inside of you as you ride out the final waves, the trembling aftershocks. Your legs seize up and you lose your footing on the sheets so you’re simply laid there, a boneless, useless mess whose breath will not seem to stay in their lungs.

Gojo’s breathing is stuttered, and you cannot help the thrill that goes through you at the knowledge that you always get to be the one to break Satoru Gojo’s cool composure. Your fingers ache, but the sheets beneath them as you relax into the bed is blessedly cool.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” Gojo’s voice comes, after the two of you have spent a few minutes simply breathing deep and satisfied down the line at one another. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“I can’t wait to see you either,” you murmur, a smile on your face that leaks through into your tone. Gojo’s own smile is obvious when he speaks, too;

“Thanks, dollface. I think I’ll get a good night’s rest now.”

[princessofmerchants]

~25 ACOSF Days of Solstice~

“I am your mate, for fuck’s sake!” Cassian shouted, loud enough for people across the river to hear. “You are my mate! Why are you still fighting it?” She let the truth, voiced at last, wash over her. “You promised me forever on Solstice,” he said, voice breaking. “Why is one word somehow throwing you off that?” “Because with that one word, the last scrap of my humanity goes away!” She didn’t care who saw them, who heard. “With that one stupid word, I am no longer human in any way. I’m one of you!” He blinked. “I thought you wanted to be one of us.” “I don’t know what I want. I didn’t have a choice.” “Well, I didn’t have a choice in being shackled to you, either.” The declaration slammed into her. Shackled. He sucked in a breath. “That was an incredibly poor choice of words.” “But the truth, right?” “No. I was angry—it’s not true.” “Why? Your friends saw me for what I was. What I am. The mating bond made you stupidly blind to it. How many times did they warn you away from me, Cassian?” She barked a cold laugh. Shackled. Words beckoned, sharp as knives, begging for her to grab one and plunge it into his chest. Make him hurt as much as that one word hurt her. Make him bleed. But if she did that, if she ripped into him … She couldn’t. Wouldn’t let herself do it. He pleaded, “I didn’t mean it like—” “I’m calling in my favor,” she said. He went still, brows bunching. And then his eyes widened. “Whatever you’re—” “I want you to leave. Go up to the House of Wind for the night. Do not speak to me until I come talk to you, or until a week has passed. Whichever comes first. I don’t care.” Until she’d mastered herself enough to not hurt him, to stop feeling the old urge to strike and maim before she could be wounded. Cassian lurched toward her, but winced, back arching. Like the bargain tattoo on his back had burned him. “Go away,” she ordered. His throat worked, eyes bulging. Fighting the power of the bargain with his every breath. But then he whirled, wingbeats booming as he leaped into the skies above the river. Nesta remained on the quay as her spine tingled, and she knew her tattoo had vanished.

—ACOSF Ch. 62

So! This is a Nessian fight. It has the potential to be quite a painful one. Those of us who remember Solstice the year prior (two Solstices ago) in ACOFAS can attest to that.

But I'm sharing this as my passage from Chapter 62 because I am so proud of Nesta for 1) speaking her deepest thoughts and feelings about the violation and trauma of being thrown into the Cauldron, and 2) for making the conscious choice not to hurt Cassian with her words when every defense mechanism inside her is driving her to.

She knows on a higher level that she loves him, and she's aware of that enough to know that the very hurtful things she could say to him here would actually hurt her through hurting him for its own sake, which is part of what love is.

Do you know the mental health work involved in being able to catch oneself from going on automatic and into old, former toxic patterns when triggered? Nesta deserves every 👏🏻 single 👏🏻 medal 👏🏻 for her restraint here.

Now let's talk about Cassian. Holy hell what he says here, about being "shackled" to Nesta, makes me so angry.

But I can also see how right his immediate correction of himself is. He does the exact right thing a second after making an explosive, harmful mistake. This doesn't make up for it, but it does take an immediate step toward fixing what his harmful word choice broke between them.

And I think Nesta does believe he didn't mean it, or she knows eventually she will once she has distance from him enough to calm down. So she gifts them with that distance.

Granted, he fights the bargain to try to stay and make it right, which is very characteristic of how his modus operandi is to care more about the person he loves than he does himself. But it's also against her express wishes in this moment, and soon after he does comply and follow the order she's given in calling in the favor he owes, and leaves.

As we know, they are about to be separated by external forces, and the timing there is super dramatic given this fight they end on.

But this Nessian fight shows so much growth for them as a couple, even while they are still very much their brash, impulsive selves (whether externally or internally).

It's a hard fight to witness but I think it's so typically them that I love its placement here in the story.

25 ACOSF Days of Solstice Masterlist

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Aaron Hotchner / Worth Your While

Prompts: The Beard Hotch Fic™ - inspired by that one episode where hotch has a beard and all of us collectively lost our minds 

Word count: 3.728

Warnings: E, phone sex, mutual masturbation, beard kink (i guess that’s a thing??), oral (f receiving), i don’t know just smut

Image Credit: @agenthotchner​

“Still don’t know when you’re coming back?” 

A sigh floated through the phone, “Not yet,” you hum, climbing into bed on top of your covers, your legs folded underneath you. You hear his cot creak underneath him. You hummed, as you placed your pillow beside you, if you closed your eyes, you could almost imagine that he was lying there beside you. 

“Enjoying the hot Pakistani desert a bit too much, Hotch?” a small chuckle leaves his throat, voice gruff over the line. 

“I would enjoy it a lot more if you and Jack were with me,” your chest aches at the sound of the weariness in his voice. He was so tired — and now you couldn’t even take care of him. Another sigh leaves his lips, before he adds, a ghost of a laugh in his voice,  “although he’s not a fan of the beard.” 

You raise your eyebrows, “Really?” 

“His exact words were, ‘do they not sell razors there, Dad?’” you snort, turning onto your side, “I think I’m going to shave it off before I get back.” 

“Ah let’s not rush it,” you bit your lip, running your fingers over your bare neck, “why don’t we ask for some other opinions before we jump to conclusions?” 

You could practically hear his eyebrow raise over the phone, “And what’s your opinion, sweetheart?” his voice is low and scratchy, and you can almost imagine his fingers tucking your hair behind your ear as he murmured the question against your neck. 

You feel a heat begin to climb up your neck, and down your body, “I don’t think you should shave,” 

“You don’t think?” he presses, and you hear the cot groan again as he shifts, “or I shouldn’t?”

“You shouldn’t,” you swallowed, fingers drifting down to the waistband of your shorts, “not until you see me again.” 

“And what are you going to do when you see me again?” you whimper, fingers past the elastic of your shorts, your fingers drift against your soaked panties, “answer me.” You gasp his name as your fingers circle your clit, “are you touching yourself?” 

“Yes,” you say, breath uneven as he shifts in his cot again, more this time, “I need you, Aaron, I—” 

“Call me on video call,” he hisses, and you know his fingers are around his length, the video call feed only confirming it, “see what you do to me,” his pants are gruff and short, “show me what you’re doing.” You flip the camera from your face to the middle of your thighs, your hand hidden beneath the fabric of your obviously drenched underwear, “Pull those off, I want to see you. I want to see exactly what I’m doing to you.” 

Your underwear slides down your thighs, slowly, as you lift your hips for the camera. And his breath hitches when he sees you — soaking wet and two fingers deep in your pussy, “Aaron, fuck, I miss you—” 

“What do you miss?” there’s an edge to his voice, an urgency, but still, his voice is hushed and quiet, tension thrumming in the air, “tell me what you want me to do to you.” 

“Is that an order, sir?” and you hear him groan quietly over the phone that hangs in the silence of the desert. 

“Fuck, yes, it is,” he growls, and he hears a quiet hum leave your throat, and he knows you’re enjoying this — all too much, but not as much as if he were actually there. If he had two thick fingers pressed inside of you. His mouth swallowing all the little noises leaving your throat, until his lips sucked dark bruises against the hollow of your throat. 

“I would want you to pin me down, your fingers parting my thighs,” quick gasps part your lips, filling the silence of his tent, and you wonder — could someone hear you if you were just a little too loud? Could a colleague hear your desperate cries of his name, you begging him for his cock, his mouth, his fingers — anything, “feel your beard against my thighs as you wrap your tongue around my clit, fingers inside me, like mine are now—” Your fingers sink deeper, adding another with a loud gasp, your hips rolling against your hand, “and I’d cum all over your face.” His beard slick with your cum, as he kisses you again, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue. 

“Then, you want me to fuck you hard, don’t you?” a helpless whine parts your throat at his words, low and sharp, “But still, I’d sink into you, slowly, let you feel every inch of myself part you — wet and tight — for me.” 

You arch your back against your bed, Only for him. 

“Aaron, please, I need to see you — see your face—” You’re close — he doesn’t need to see your face to know that. And you know he hears it — hears you preen against you, and in the quiet silence of your bedroom, and his hand squeezes his cock. Fuck, and he abides by your request — shows you his face contorted in quietly controlled pleasure, his teeth against his bottom lip, until he hears you. 

“Aaron, I’m—” he groans, far too loud for the quiet desert and conscious colleagues that surrounded him. But it only further pushes you over the edge, thinking about that groan in your ear, pressing kisses against your neck, fucking you hard and fast until your walls tighten around your fingers, phone falling from your hand. But not before you hear him say your name, reverent and breathy.

Your fingers begin to still, the feeling of your fingers carrying you through your orgasm, chest rising and falling in quick pants. Your body slumps against your mattress, boneless, eyes squeezed shut. That is, until you hear a voice on the phone. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, reaching for the phone, “sorry, did you say something?” 

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice deep and blissed out — and you can almost feel the words of love vibrate against your skin, “I miss you, so much.” 

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder?” you offer, flipping the camera so he could see your face, “but phone sex definitely helps.” 

A smile pulls at his lips, “It does, but it’s not enough.” 

“No, nothing compares to the real thing,” you sigh, rolling over on your bed, “but luckily, the real thing is waiting for you when you get back,” and then you add, “Just don’t shave the beard.” 

He runs a hand through his beard, “Yes ma’am. You’ll make it worth my while?” 

You grin, tilting your head, “Don’t I always?” 

~~~

Hotch leaned against the headrest of the airplane seat, stuffed between two sleeping passengers — this was certainly different than using the jet. Not that he was complaining — he needed to get back. He resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the arm rests. 

Ian Doyle. That was a name he had spent several months trying to forget. The events of what happened still haunted him, but even more than that, the lies he had to tell the team wore away at him. Guilt gnawed at his insides, a pit in his stomach that he was sure would give way. 

He had to do it. He had no choice. He was the team’s leader. He had to make the hard decisions. He had to bear the burden. But he only wished he didn’t have to do it at the team’s expense. 

He rubbed at his eyes. Watching them cry and mourn, listening to them grieve right in front of him, as he evaluated each of them for field work — it had killed him. And now it would all come out. Prentiss was alive. And they had kept it from them. He had kept it from them. 

But there was no use thinking about the fallout. Not when he was on a plane miles away from its destination still. No, he needed to think about something else. 

He glanced at his phone, smiling at the picture of you and Jack smiling back at him. He remembered the day they had taken that photo. It was your first time spending time with Jack. He never met someone who clicked so easily with Jack — after everything that had happened with Haley, Jack was a little quieter, a little more reserved (not so dissimilar to himself, you had pointed out to him). But with you, it was different. He would smile. He would laugh. He understood. He knew you and you knew him. And he was so grateful for that. 

And he was so grateful for you. 

His fingers rubbed at his chin, still prickly with his beard. He had kept his promise — he had kept it for you. Even though Jack would be less than pleased. He would be staying with Jessica either way while he dealt with the situation at hand. He wouldn’t be getting much sleep the next few days — he knew that for sure. But even so, the prospect of seeing you soon made his chest feel a little lighter. No longer would date night consist of a hurried dinner and possible phone sex. Now, he could hold you, he could touch you, and he could fall asleep to your quiet breaths, instead of to a far too hot desert and a lonely cot. 

And the best part? He hadn’t told you that he was coming back yet. And he didn’t think he was going to, until he was at your doorstep. 

~~~

“How was work today?” Hotch gave a heavy sigh over the phone, and you put down the bowl of dough you had been stirring, “Aaron?” 

“It was a hard day,” he cleared his throat, “we saved a kid, but he saw his father die in front of him.” 

“Aaron,” you wished you could touch him, could comfort him, no words were enough for times like this, “you couldn’t have done anything more. You saved his life.” 

“I know, I just—” he clicked his tongue, “I just wish it didn’t turn out that way.” 

“And that’s why you’re one of the good guys,” you smile at your phone, “and that’s why you can’t let it eat away at you — you still have your own little boy to come home too. Not to mention, your very patient girlfriend.” 

He laughed, a soft noise that made your heart stutter in its chest, “You have been very patient, haven’t you?” 

“I have,” you hummed, perking up at the tone of his voice — appreciative and teasing — “got something to reward me with?” 

“I actually might,” and you bit your lip, “but you’ll have to do me a favor.” 

“This is my reward, and I have to do you a favor?” you clicked your tongue, “doesn’t seem very fair, Agent Hotchner.” 

“I know all about fairness, sweetheart. After all, I did study it in law school,” you could almost see him shaking his head, a smile dancing across his lips, “I just need you to open your door.” 

“Open my door?” you wiped your hands clean, before grabbing the phone off the counter, making your way to your door. You spotted the back of someone’s head through the peephole. Locks clicking as you undid the lock and the deadbolt, you held the phone between your shoulder and your cheek,  “Aaron Hotchner, did you order me dinner again? Because I told you I already—” 

You gasped, your phone clattering against your hardwood floors. Aaron stood, hands in his pockets, a smile on his lips, as he tilted his head, “No, but I did bring dessert.” 

“Aaron!” you ran into his arms, hands on his shoulders, face buried in his chest, “I can’t believe this. You’re back. You’re here.” 

“I am,” he whispers, running his fingers through your hair, “and I’m not going anywhere now.” 

You pulled away, “You’re back for good?” and he nods, as your fingers cup his face, thumbs running over his cheeks, and you note the bristle underneath your fingertips, “and I see you kept your promise.” 

“Of course, I’m a man of my word,” he breaths, leaning closer as your breath hitches, his lips pressing against yours. It had been months, and you had nearly forgotten how he tasted, lips moving firmly against your own. His teeth grazed your lip, as he eagerly swallowed your moan, as your hands tangled themselves in his hair, walking backwards, as he shut the door with his foot, “I missed you so much,” he says in between kisses that stole the air from your lungs. 

Your hands pushed the jacket from his shoulders, “I missed you too,” his hands squeezed your hips, before his hands slipped your thighs, lifting you against him, as he carried you to your bedroom. No longer could you tell where you began and he ended, but you didn’t care — not when his teeth grazed against your pulse point like that. He had you pressed flush against your bedroom door, lips burning a trail of kisses down your neck, fingers toying with the straps of your camisole. 

“Take me to bed,” you whispered, and he did — placing you on your bed, and in a second, he was on top of you. 

Your fingers busied themselves with undoing the buttons on his button down, while his slid the hem of your camisole higher and higher. You undid the last button and the shirt slid off his shoulders, and he lifted his arms as you did away with the undershirt immediately. Your fingers traced over the broad expanse of his chest reverently, enjoying how his muscles reacted to your touch and how his breath stuttered his chest when your fingers grazed him. The same man who stayed calm under pressure crumbled under your touch. 

You raised your arms and he slipped the camisole from your body, groaning when he realized you had no bra on underneath. His fingers teased your nipples, mouth wrapped around one of them, “Aaron,” you arched your back into his touch, your fingers slipping between your bodies, trying to undo the button on his pants. His teeth grazed your nipple, soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue, “please,” 

You undo the button of his pants, and pull them down, helping him kick them off. He whispers your name, pressing a kiss to the skin between your breasts, before tucking fallen strands of hair behind your ear, “What do you want, baby?” 

Your eyes fall to the prominent bulge in his boxers, “Fuck me,” you look up at him, thumb brushing his lips, and he smiles, pressing another heated kiss to your lips. 

“Not before I taste you,” he says, voice husky, as he burns a trail of openmouthed kisses down your body, re-familiarizing himself with every curve and dip of your body, until the fire in the pit of your stomach all but engulfs you. He tugs your sleep shorts down, as you lift your hips to help him, kicking them off. His calloused hands part your thighs, as he settles between them. You watch him with lidded eyes, breath stuck somewhere in the back of your throat. A low groan rumbles in his chest at the sight of your obviously soaked panties. You hiss as his beard scratches beautifully against your thighs, friction making you squirm, until his large palms steadied you. Fingers splayed over the soft skin of your inner thighs, his nose brushing far too close to your soaked center, as he kisses right below the waistband. 

“I had forgotten how good you smell,” he murmurs, another kiss, this time right on top of the wet spot on your panties. 

He spreads you wider, hips jumping as your heart does in your chest, when his fingers brush your slit through the thin fabric. He doesn’t remove them, no, instead, he slides the crotch aside placing you on full display for him, half wrapped in that silk fabric. You hiss when you feel his warm breath mingling with the cool air of the room. His tongue darts out across his lips, looking at you with half-lidded eyes, before leaning down to press a kiss to your warmth. 

His moan vibrates against you, a reverent noise of unrestrained passion and you know that this is just as much for him as it is for you, sending shivers down your spine of what’s to come.  A single finger begins to part your folds, as his mouth presses butterfly kisses all around your clit, his beard deliciously grazing against your thighs. And finally, he takes a single broad swipe up his tongue up the length of your weeping cunt. A gasp blooms into a moan, as your fingers grasp at him, traveling the length of his shoulders, until you are able to card your fingers through his dark strands. 

His tongue moves in tight circles, your muscles squeezing his thick finger, as keen against him, eager for more, more. As you always were for him, and only him. Desperate for his touch, even when he couldn’t provide it. His beard only stokes the fire coiling in your stomach, now burning against your cunt. 

The phone sex seemed like a distant memory, a cheap imitation of the real thing. Nothing, nothing could compare to his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his touch. Nothing could compare your fingers threaded through his hair, his moans quietly reverberating against your slick folds. Nothing could compare to him — the sweet man who had just come back after spending weeks away from his home, his family, his friends, his life — but he chose to spend this night with you. 

Another finger parts your folds, and a broken whine leaves your throat, as your head falls against your plush bed, “You take me so well, sweetheart,” he mutters, tongue flicking against your clit, as you lift your eyes to meet his gaze, “so good to me. So patient. So sweet.” 

And that’s when his mouth closes over your clit. Your hips rock against the flat palms of his hands, as his tongue flicks against it. And the coil in you snaps, his name a ghost upon your lips, a soundless scream on your lips. You feel him hum against you, far too pleased, but you barely notice, lost in your own high. But he does not relent, pulling your orgasm from you as his fingers scrape against your shuddering walls, tongue eagerly tasting all that you offer him. 

He drags himself back up to you, his hardness brushing the inside of your thigh. His fingers trace your jawline, as your eyelids flutter, watching his tongue dart across his chin, still glistening with your release. His lips quickly follow the paths scorched by his fingertips. His lips find yours again when your breaths are even, and even now you can’t get enough of him. 

You arch towards him, fingers sliding down his chest to the waistband of his boxers, “Sweetheart,” a strangled groan of your name on lips still sticky with your cum, and he stares at you, eyes black as the darkness that surrounds you, as you slide his boxers down finally. 

You both groan in tandem, as your fingers close around his length, flushed and weeping. His hips lean into your touch, the head of his cock brushing your folds. 

“Aaron,” you shake your head, “I need you.” 

“Where do you need me?” his voice barely above a rasp. He rips your hand from him, pinning both your wrists to either side of your head. He presses another kiss to your skittering heartbeat. 

“I need you to fuck me—” you gasp, as his teeth scrape against your neck, pressing soft kisses against its length, before sucking a pretty bruise against the hollow of your throat, “please.” 

He sinks into you then, sliding into your warmth, murmuring in your ear. Your mouth falls open, “Even after all this time, you take me so well,” his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thigh as he lifts your leg over his shoulder, “I love you.” 

His name is a prayer, his touch is your salvation, as his nails dig crescents into the curve of your hips, “Missed you so much—” his own snap against you harder, deeper,  “needed you so bad. I love you. I love you.” 

“I want to feel you cum for me, sweetheart,” his fingers skim your clit, and that’s it. You come apart underneath him, veins no longer filled with blood, but with pleasure. His hips stutter as your muscles flutter around his cock, still fucking you through your orgasm, as his fingers make you jump against him, “Say my name,” he growls, as your arms wind around his shoulder, tugging him closer, closer, closer, “say it.” 

 And you do, just as he cums inside of you with a groan of your name in your ear, nearly collapsing on you. He presses into you, and it’s much too warm, the sticky heat and smell of sex pervades, but you don’t care. Still you tug him closer, chest to chest, as your eyes shut. You feel him come down from his high, his breath slowing. He pulls himself out, and your body mourns his absence. He curls up beside you for a moment, his finger drawing absentminded circles on your thigh. You look at him, a smile pulling at your lips as you find him staring at you. And you press kisses to him — to his shoulder and neck, your fingers sweeping his hair out of his eyes. 

But his gaze still persists, “What?” you ask softly, your fingers tracing his jaw, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your fingertips. 

“Should I keep the beard?” and you laugh, shaking your head, as you lay back on the pillow. 

“I think you should do whatever you want to do,” and he kisses you again, full and warm and happy, “and I think you should definitely take Jack’s opinion into mind.” 

He raises a brow, a smile on his lips, “Will you still make it worth my while?” 

You roll your eyes, fingers cupping his cheek, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips, “I will always make it worth your while.” 

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[insomniasymphony]

Obsessive Hisoka Morow x Female Reader [He cannot hate you]

Constellation: Obsessive Hisoka Morow x Female Reader Words I got: → Protective → Duality → Affection Rating: Teen up and Audience

                            ►► He is the devil with a sweet tooth,                               And you are the candy on his tongue.                       Get on your knees and ask him to choose                                     Nothing sweeter than you.                              For sweetness doesn't last long. ◄◄

Hectically, you jerk your head from left to right, look around for other cars and take a breath when there are no others blocking the road. In the cold evening air, your legs carry you in hurried steps across the asphalt, to the other side of the pavement that should lead you through the houses of Yorknew. Further and further, until the hotel room is forever gone.

The breath on your lips rises in white clouds, bringing something wistful with it that you don't want to pay attention to. Still, you can't rid yourself of the thought in the back of your mind.

It's not too late to give up on your plan.

You could drag yourself back to the room you've been sharing with Hisoka for four days, put on something pretty and wait for the magician to return from his meeting. He'd tell you about his new plan, kiss you, and fuck your senses into no-man's land for half the night because you're his favourite toy.

That's the problem: you're just a doll that can be replaced.

He's never said that he loves you, even though you've been spending every spare minute together for six months. Hisoka took you on his journey and he hasn't let you out of his sight since.

You shower together, eat together, he kills anyone you exchange too many kind words with. It's as if he wants to shut you off from the world so that you belong to him alone.

But this obsessive nature of his is nothing but terror for you. Sometimes you long for freedom, which you know Hisoka will never give you. He would rather strangle to death with his own hands than see you go. His subliminal threats make that clear time and time again.

And tonight you are ready to die for your freedom.

A little more hastily, you hurry ahead, turn into a narrow alley and hear the echo of your footsteps rising up the stone walls. Each reverberation makes your skin seem colder under your soft woolen coat. The goosebumps don't subside, the shiver persists, and you can't help but believe that behind every shadow is a part of Hisoka. His intense gaze has made you paranoid.

Briefly, you shake your head. This time his eyes won't be able to pierce you. When Hisoka returns, the hotel room will be empty and you will be long gone – so far away from him, with a new name and a new life, that he won't find you. For three weeks you have been looking for someone who would save you and Hisoka from this relationship and you have indeed found someone who wants to fulfil all your wishes for a lot of money in exchange.

Your gaze wanders once briefly over your shoulder. Through the echo of your own flight, you can no longer perceive anything but your own movements. Hisoka could be walking right behind you and you wouldn't notice. The racing of your heart makes the blood rush in your ears and everything else inside you is so erratically tense that you don't know if your nerves can hold it all together.

Only when the alley ends and sends you between other streets to find safety, a tiny part of the fear falls away, still simmering underneath.

Across the street, at least fourteen cars have parked. This area of the city seems like a residential neighbourhood where men return to their loving wives. The husband old-fashioned in a suit while she wears an apron because dinner is boiling on the cooker. Docile women in the kitchen who have no time to look for other men. Probably that's exactly what Hisoka is longing for too. A woman who only has eyes for him. All day long. Without exception. Locked up like a bird in a cage.

Even though you never intended to replace him. Hisoka is the man who won your heart. A guy who goes through life strong and ruthless, but always takes great care to make sure you're okay.

Your steps slow down as you stop at the edge of the pavement. One of the vehicles is started, flashing its headlights three times. The sign that this is your getaway car. The man who will take you away. Away from Hisoka, whose arms have wrapped protectively around you more than once in the last six months. His warmth on your skin has always been comforting and even though you know he hates it when you talk to other men and he has left marks on your body as a safety for himself as a result, his company has always been loving. He has never hurt you unless you found sexual pleasure in it. He never raised his voice at you. Never did he try to lock you up. His only crimes are the threats that still jump through your senses and also the fact that he likes to corner and intimidate you.

On top of that, he messes with people for your sake who are more dangerous than one might think at first. Yes, you love him. But if you don't leave, he will either throw you away or he will be killed because of you. You are poison to each other, you can't explain it any other way.

Yet, you don't want to go. The fear in your heart has made room for sorrow and the desire to run back into his strong, protective arms is strong.

Swallowing dryly, you give yourself a push. You have no choice but to make the best decision for both of you. Your feet start moving again and you drag yourself along, reaching the car you're getting into. You find room in the back seat, the fabric of which clings to you strangely and uncomfortably as you take a shaky breath and look in the rearview mirror for a half-glimpse of your helper's round face.

“Are you ready, good lady?” His smoky voice scrapes through the atmosphere, merely making you nod before he finally starts the engine and drives off. Your heart sinks four floors deeper, smothered in grief and fear, both of which settle on too many things in your chest. Maybe you're making a mistake, but this relationship has no future.

You feel the car smoothly take the turns, hear the engine accelerate, sense every bump in your bones. You claw your sweaty hands into the upholstery as you reprimand yourself to rest with conscious inhales and exhales. It's over, you've escaped, given you both the freedom you deserve.

Yorknew's houses diminish for a moment, bringing trees and the parkland to the fore where you would have loved to have a romantic walk. But Hisoka doesn't think much of boring strolls. He likes sex. Togetherness where you are close to each other – all to yourselves, so that you can snuggle up to him and you just sit there. Amusement parks. Bungee gum. You.

The thought draws a sigh from you before the car makes a strange rattling sound, forcing the driver to stop. You halt at the side of the road, so you can't help but hold your breath.

“What was that?” you press out.

“If I saw right, I just accidentally drove over a marten,” the stranger returns to you, making you exhale because it's not a horror movie you're in after all. Then he gets out.

The open door, which he doesn't close, brightens up the inside of the vehicle, makes the outside world a little more unfriendly than it really is and forces you to get out too, because you can't find a quiet minute alone on this upholstery.

Slowly you push your way back into the cold of the darkness, glancing at the streetlights flickering conspiratorially before circling the car to check on your driver. But all you see in front of the bonnet is a trail of blood. Not a marten. No one. Probably he's just taking the dead animal away, burying it so the kids won't get spooked in the park the next day.

The cool air seems to bite down to your bones, numbing your skin as you count off two minutes. The restlessness keeps you looking around and for a moment you are willing to jump in the car and eagerly drive on. But your driver also has your new identity and all the other things that have been so painstakingly prepared. You can't leave without him. So you stroll a few steps towards the park. Just until the blackness seems to swallow everything, because the flickering streetlamps don't give enough light for more.

Tense, you cross your arms in front of your chest, bobbing up and down before gnawing fear begs for action. “Hello?”

Only silence returns to your question and you can't help but take a step over the dark threshold and venture further ahead to find your driver. Three, four feet ahead to the first tree closest to you. “What's wrong?”

Again you meet only silence, staggering a few more steps ahead and giving up in the same breath. A glance over your shoulder moves the car, which is already a few metres away from you, into a ghostly, almost lonely picture, apart from the other vehicles that pass by every now and then. No one seems to care about the abandoned automobile.

A little more annoyed, you take a breath, shake your head as something wet hits your cheek and you instantly look up because the sky didn't look like rain at all when you started running.

And it still doesn't.

Nevertheless, your heart stops for a beat.

Cold seems to consume you from within, makes you pull your coat tighter.

Up there, above you, fixed between branches, the lifeless eyes of the man who was supposed to help you escape stare back at you. His arms hang twisted above him and his legs are missing entirely. In the darkness, suffused with moonlight, you can only make out the bitter facts. And one of them is death.

“Do you like it?”

Instantly you suck in the air sharply, turning around in an instant only to catch sight of Hisoka. Leaning relaxed against a tree, he shuffles his cards as if nothing has happened. “I thought we had decided that you would wait in the hotel room. Where were you going with that man at such a late hour?”

His gaze lifts so that his amber eyes can look at you, while his features wait in a lack of enthusiasm for answers. You don't know if he's angry, but his expression seems to threaten you.

“I-I... I wanted to...” What do you want to say anyway? You don't know yourself what exactly you wanted other than to just get away from him for too many things that seem wrong. “Away.”

“Where to?”, Hisoka inquires, pushing himself off the trunk and coming closer. The cards disappear into the pockets of his white trousers in the same blink.

“Just... away,” you counter, unable to look at him any further because his eyes seem to look right down into your core.

“From me?” He pauses in front of you. “Why?”

Again your attention jerks to him and you hate the fact that he is wearing heels because it only makes him taller than he already is.

“You... are... constricting me.”

“Is that so?” The almost biting undertone in his voice is frightening. But you don't have time to think of what his next move might be as he grabs you by the chin and forces you to look at him very closely. His grip is so tight around your jawbone as he does so that you panic he might break it.

Then he leans towards you, breathes such a gentle kiss on your lips that, along with fear, terrible warmth rises up inside you. Your heart races wildly, but you don't know if it's the fear or the longing. Seeing him like this, knowing he is so close to you, is cruel because you love him, don't want to leave him, but don't want to see either of you die either.

The mere thought of losing him, or not being good enough anymore, knots your stomach as your vision blurs and the sobs in your throat quietly spill out.

Hisoka watches this rection, loosening his grip around your chin and running his thumb over your lips. A little like he wants more words from you. And you can't help but give them to him in a gush.

“I love you, Hisoka. I really do. But this can't work.” You have to swallow to keep from breaking into a raspy cough. “You lock me up like I'm your pet and you're messing with people who might kill you one day.” The first tear rolls down your cheeks unintentionally, making you wipe it away in frustration because you don't want to seem like an effeminate damsel in distress. “You're going to kill yourself because of me. And if not for that, then one day you'll just throw me away because you're not a man for life. And I'm afraid that by then I'll love you so much that I won't be able to stand it. So I was gonna let you go. And I can understand if you hate the decision, but isn't that the duality you love to talk about? Love and hate, both sides of the same coin? I-” Hisoka interrupts you as he takes your face in his hands and forcibly pulls you to him, far enough to force you onto your toes to press a kiss to your lips. A warm touch full of affection so gentle it takes your breath away.

Then he lets go of you, remains close in front, but his features are adorned with a friendly smile that makes him a little suspicious, while his hand caresses your cheek. As he does so, he brushes your lower eyelid, collecting another tear that was about to escape.

The tenderness he has for you irritates you so much that every one of your brain cells shuts down for a breath before Hisoka focuses on you again, piercing you with a blank stare. The atmosphere between you grows heavier.

“You think too much about nothingness, love.” His voice is so soft that it seems almost deadly at the same time. “And because you're like that, I'm going to let you get away with it for today.” He leans down to your ear, licks once over the shell with the tip of his tongue. “But if you run away again, I will kill you.”

“H-Hisoka...” You don't know what you can say to appease him. Nothing seems good enough. But Hisoka understands, straightening up to look at you again, putting on that playful smile he goes through life with. “Or I can put you in chains so I can have you with me for the rest of my life. Whichever option you like better.”

He tilts his head, looking at you with mockery and at the same time with a barely perceptible commitment so that you can feel the blush on your cheeks. On one hand, he's making a fool of you, on the other, he's conveying in his own unique way that he's sure he wants you for himself – forever.

He can't stay mad at you for long, can't even punish you for your terrible action, just takes you as you are, as if he has a weakness for all your stupid words and your troubled feelings.

And in those seconds you know that he loves you no less than you love him.

[Picture from a card collecting game]

[Want to give me kudos or a request? Check here!]

[coldsandfluff]

Friday Night Fever (F/M, Original, Illness Care-Taking Fluff)

Wrote this little original F/M care-taking fluff fic inspired by something that happened to me when I was in college (basically, caught a cold, three friends came over unannounced and insisted on me coming with them to the bar until one of them noticed the thermometer on my nightstand and realized I really was too sick to go). I've changed all the characters personality/appearance (including myself) so that we are completely unrecognizable, and added more to the story of course 😚

So if you like group of friends, platonic to maybe romantic care-taking fluff and F/M illness, read on!

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

Annabel left the sandwich shop at the end of her evening shift, feeling the cold autumn air seep through her jacket. Darkness had blanketed the town hours ago, and college students were already filling the streets on their way to the bars to celebrate the end of the week. Not that they’d really needed a reason to drink, of course.

As she launched the trash bags in the large dumpster in the back alley, Annabel felt an uncomfortable shiver running down her back. She’d been feeling under the weather for a couple of days, downing vitamin C fizzy drinks to stave it off. What she’d hoped would end up being a little annoying cold was turning out to be more than she’d bargained for. She could feel the icy tendrils of a fever crawling on her skin, and all she wanted to do was slip under the covers of her warm bed and sleep all weekend.

Her phone pinged as she started making her way back to her apartment.

Finn: We’ll be there in 40 minutes. Zack wants to pick up some pregame vodka from the store first.

Annabel sighed. She’d met Zack, Finn and Alex at her second job—a fancy new restaurant in the heart of town where she’d been waitressing part-time for the past two months. They’d hit it off on opening day, when Zack had accidentally broken a whole stack of plates. No one had seen what had happened but the four of them. Zack had gotten his dishwasher’s apron stuck on the door handle, and his hands had slipped at the sudden pull.

The crash had been deafening.

Right before the owner had rushed in to ask what had happened, Zack’s best friend, Finn, had kicked the wheel of the cart where the plates had been sitting a few moments ago, giving Alexander and Annabel a knowing look.

They’d all told the owner that the cart was broken and had tipped over without anyone touching it. Somehow, the owner had bought the lie. That night, Zack insisted on paying them a round of shots at the bar, and a tradition was born: The four of them. Every Friday. With lots of alcohol.

It was the only time Annabel let loose. With her two jobs and college, she was struggling to find free time, but Friday nights had become sacred. There was nothing like downing drinks and letting the buzz take over, following her three new friends wherever they wanted to go. It was always an adventure. Especially with Zack at the helm.

But tonight, there was no way she could make it.

Annabel: Actually, I can’t come tonight. Sorry.

She walked past a group of friends laughing and hollering, wishing she’d felt as good as they did. But the headache growing behind her eyes wasn’t going to let up, and adding alcohol to the mix would only make it worse. Not only that, but her nose had started running in the past two hours. She’d had to go blow it in the restroom every half hour, getting herself banished from the front of the store by the manager. She’d washed her hands so often that her skin was almost raw.

Just like her nose.

Finn: Nah, you’re coming. Nobody cancels Friday night. Come on.

Annabel couldn’t hold a smile. She typed back, sniffling. Her sinuses were prickling like crazy, as if she’d accidentally inhaled a cloud of tiny fireworks. She stifled a sneeze in the crook of her elbow, mid-word. “Ehh—Ehh’KSHHeeww!” Her eyes watered from the force of it. She wiped the tears away and resumed typing.

Annabel: I’ll make it up to you guys next weekend. Drinks on me.

She grabbed a crumpled tissue from her jacket pocket and dabbed at her nose. Her apartment was only a few blocks away, beckoning her. As she crossed the last stretch of sidewalk to the entrance, she kept checking her phone.

No reply.

Shrugging, she unlocked the front door and took the stairs.

***

Back in her apartment, she made a beeline for the bathroom to the right and used toilet paper to blow her nose, finally free to make as much noise as she wanted. She winced from the roughness of it on her chapped nostrils, but it was all she had. She wasn’t exactly the planning type. Her idea of a grocery list was memorizing the first three items and hoping the rest would come to her as she walked through the aisles. Most often than not, she’d have to make a quick run at the convenience store down the street to get what she’d forgotten.

She gathered her thick curly hair into a bun and looked at herself in the mirror. It was enough to confirm that she’d made the right decision. Her eyes were glazed over, her skin was so pale that her freckles popped like they did in the summer. Except for that slight flush high on her cheeks, of course. She popped a thermometer under her tongue and removed her work clothes, leaving them in a pile in front of the bathtub.

Shivering from the sudden change in temperature, she covered her arms with her hands and ran to her dresser. Her warmest, softest sweater was the first thing she grabbed and put on, before throwing on a pair of comfy leggings and wool socks. The thermometer beeped.

100.8 °F. Figured.

She rolled her eyes and shuffled over to the “kitchen” of her studio apartment, which was the size of a matchbox and only contained a mini fridge, a microwave and an old sink. She poured herself some water and walked over to the bed, placing her glass and the thermometer on her nightstand. She would have brought over medicine as well, but she’d run out last semester after catching the flu going around campus, and had forgotten to replenish her stash. No matter. She could sleep this off. It was just a cold.

She suddenly sneezed twice in a row, as if her body wanted to protest her minimizing her illness, then got under the cover. Just as she was getting a little warmer, propping up her laptop to watch a movie, there was a knock at the door.

Annabel sat up, startled.

“Anna, open up!” a voice said behind the door.

Zack.

Annabel chuckled. Of course they wouldn’t give up that easily. She groaned, getting out of the warmth of her bed. She considered rushing to the dresser and putting on cuter clothes—they were her friends, but they were still boys, and she didn’t want to look like shit in front of them—but the thought of it was enough to drain her energy. Screw it. She walked over to the door and opened it.

“Finn told us you don’t want to come,” said Zack as he walked in. It was her friends’ first time coming up to her apartment. They’d usually wait for her downstairs. “So we’re here to change your mind.” He didn’t look at her, too busy checking out her place. He was dressed for the night—a buttoned-up shirt, navy blazer, jeans and dress shoes. His casual chic style always stood out in the local bars filled with broke college students, but he liked it that way.

Finn walked in after him, a crooked grin on his lips. “See, I told you you can’t cancel Friday night.” His shaggy blond hair half-covered his eyes, as always. Finn and Zack had been best friends since high school, and couldn’t have been more different from each other. At least physically. Finn was tall and lanky, Zack was smaller and worked out a lot. But they were both party guys, always ready for a crazy night—even though Finn was a bit more mellow than Zack.

Finally, Alex came in, and Annabel closed the door behind him. He had a sheepish look on his face, as if apologizing for the other two. He was a lot more like Annabel. Quiet, chill, along for the ride—whatever it may be. His deep brown eyes held her gaze for a second too long, and Annabel noticed one of his eyebrow raise ever so slightly. She bit her lip, feeling self-conscious about her appearance. They’d never seen her in such a state before. Thank god she hadn’t had the energy to remove her makeup yet.

“So this is where you live, uh?” Zack said, sitting on her desk chair and spinning it around and around. “I like it. Dorms suck.”

Before she could reply, Finn tsked. “Wow. So no love for your roommate, uh?”

“Dude, I love you,” Zack said, “but between you and an apartment all to myself, the choice is obvious.” He stopped spinning and turned to Annabel, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s so important that you can’t come with us? Do you have a date?”

All three boys turned to her. Annabel almost laughed. Could they not see the condition she was in? She cleared her throat. “No, I’m just not feeling well.”

Finn sat on the edge of her bed and examined her from afar. “Like what? Stomach thing? Flu?”

“Probably a cold, I guess.” Annabel could feel Alex’s gaze on her at her side. She glanced at him, then looked down, feeling silly. Now that she was saying it out loud, it sounded like a poor excuse. But she did have a fever, after all. She just didn’t want to start listing her symptoms.

Zack clasped his hands together. “You know what will make you feel better? Alcohol!” He grinned, as if proud of his solution. “Didn’t they used to give brandy to people when they were sick? We’ll make a special mix for your throat. Something with lemon and orange juice. You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know, I already have a headache…” Annabel said.

“Just take a couple of Tylenol. It’s like a hangover in advance,” Finn said with an encouraging smile. “One time, I went out clubbing with an ear infection and everything was fine. Actually felt better the next day, weirdly enough.”

“I don’t know guys, I won’t be much fun if—” Annabel was interrupted by a fierce tickle deep in her nose, spreading like wildfire. She ducked to her side, away from Alex. “Ehh’KSSHeeew! ‘KSSSHeeew!”

“Bless you,” the three boys said almost in unison.

“See?” Annabel said, pointing at her nose and sniffling. “You want me to sneeze all over you guys all night?”

Finn shrugged. “We’ll bring tissues. Whatever.”

Alex walked over to the bathroom and grabbed the toilet paper roll from the counter, then handed it to her. “Here.”

Annabel ripped a piece off and wiped her nose. “Thanks,” she said, sheepish.

Alex’s gaze paused on her for a few seconds before he turned to the other two. “Guys, she’s obviously sick. Let’s just go and let her sleep.”

“It’s just a cold,” Zack said. “She’s young and healthy. It’s nothing.” He got up and put his arm around her shoulders. “Come on. Give it an hour, and if you’re not feeling better after a few shots, we’ll walk you home.”

Annabel considered it for a second, trying to fight the shivers. Maybe if she wore something warm and took a few shots, she wouldfeel better. Numb the pain a little, at least. While she pondered it, Finn laid down on top of her bed spread and locked eyes with the thermometer on her nightstand. He frowned and sat up, picking it up.

He looked at her, thermometer in hand. His voice softened. “It’s that bad, uh?”

Annabel blushed. Why did admitting that she had a fever feel so vulnerable? She looked down and nodded. “Kinda.”

Zack looked at the thermometer, then back at Annabel. He narrowed his eyes and put a hand on her forehead. “Ooof,” he said, a hint of concern slipping in his tone.

Finn got up. “Let me see,” he said, walking up to her and placing his own hand on her forehead. His eyebrows shot up. “Yikes.”

“Yeah, you need to be in bed,” Zack finally said, guiding her back to bed. “Why didn’t you say you had a fever? Jesus, Anna.”

She shrugged, sitting on her mattress. “I don’t know. I just get fevers with colds. I guess it’s normal for me.”

“Fevers suck,” Finn said. “Last time I had one, I stayed in bed for two days and everything hurt.” He walked over to the front door. “We’ll miss you tonight, though.”

Zack followed. “Hope you feel better. We’ll text you all the crazy shit that’s going to happen so you don’t miss anything.” He followed Finn out of the apartment, leaving the door open for Alex.

Alex watched them walk by, then grabbed the roll of toilet paper on the counter where Annabel had left it. He brought it over to her nightstand and gave her a sad smile. “Do you need anything?”

Annabel shook her head, relieved that she was going to be able to stay in bed. “I’ll be okay.”

He seemed to hesitate for a second, then nodded. “Let us know if you want us to get you food later. I know I can never sleep when I have a fever.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. Her nose scrunched up, overtaken by another annoying prickle. “Ehh… Iihh’KSSSHHeeww!”

“Bless you.”

Zack’s voice sounded from the hallway. “Alex, you coming?”

Alex snickered. “I guess I should go.” He walked to the door, then turned back. “Feel better, okay?”

“I will. Thanks.”

***

Annabel tried to sleep, but her fever and runny nose kept waking her up, leaving her floating halfway between dreams and reality. It was clear that she wasn’t going to get any rest in her state. She needed cold medicine.

It took her a long time to finally convince herself to get out of bed and go to the convenience store, but she managed to push the covers away and get up. She shivered, causing another tickle in her sensitive nose—it had only gotten worse in the hour since the boys had left. She ducked at the waist in an exhausting triple. “Ehh… Hehh’KSSSHeeeew! ‘KSSHHeeew! Hiihh’KSSHeeew!”

Just then, another knock sounded at the door. Annabel frowned and made her way to the door, cracking it open.

It was Alex. Alone.

“Bless you,” he said with a shy grin.

Annabel let him in. “Aren’t you supposed to be out with the guys?”

He shrugged, closing the door behind him. “I thought you might need this.” He showed her a plastic bag filled with tea, tissue boxes, ramen, cough drops and—she gasped—cold medicine.

Alex chuckled. “So I was right. You don’t have any medicine, do you?”

Annabel laughed. “How did you know?”

“Your nightstand. You only had a thermometer on there. When I’m sick, I take Nyquil everywhere I go.” He handed her the bag. “And I wanted to make sure you had tissues instead of toilet paper. Your nose will thank me.”

Annabel touched her chapped nose, smiling. “That’s so sweet of you. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” He stood there for a second, as if not knowing what to say. “I’ll uh—I’ll let you rest.”

Before he could go, Annabel put her hand on his elbow. “Wait. Do you want to—” She stopped halfway through her sentence, her nose scrunching up yet again, her eyes fluttering. She spun around and sneezed, covering her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. “Hehh’KSSHH! Ht’Ksshht!” She turned back around, blinking away the tears and laughing. “Sorry!”

Alex laughed, too. “Bless you.” He held her gaze, then looked down. “What were you going to say?”

“Oh—I was just wondering if—maybe if you’d like to watch a movie with me. I don’t think I can sleep until the medicine kicks in.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted saying them. Of course he didn’t want to watch a movie with her. This was Friday night. What kind of college guy wanted to hang out with a sick, sneezy, nose-drippy girl on a Friday night instead of getting drunk with his friends. “Sorry,” she added quickly, “I forgot that the guys are probably waiting for you. I guess I’m kind of loopy from the fever.”

Alex took a step forward and placed his hand on her forehead. The gesture was so gentle, so soft, that Annabel closed her eyes, appreciating the coldness of his palm on her hot skin.

“You are definitely burning up,” he half-whispered, frowning. “I was wondering if the guys were exaggerating. Guess not.”

Annabel bit her lip. “I’ll be okay after I take the medicine. You don’t have to stay.”

Alex removed his hand. “I do,” he blurted. “I mean, I do want to watch a movie with you. And stay.”

“Are you sure?” Annabel asked through her blossoming smile. “Aren’t you worried you’ll catch my cold?”

“Actually, I have a confession to make.” Alex led her to the bed and placed the content of his bag on her nightstand. “Last Friday, I kind of had a cold. It wasn’t as bad as yours, pretty minor, but… Zack convinced me to come out anyway and I—I think I might have given it to you. You drank out of my glass and I didn’t have time to stop you.” He looked at her, his eyes wide with guilt. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Annabel laughed. “I can’t believe Zack didn’t rat you out earlier. It would have been the perfect example of someone going clubbing with a cold and ‘being fine’ anyway.”

“He probably knew it was partly his fault that you’re sick and didn’t want to admit it.”

Annabel shook her head. “Well, you owe me a Friday night.” She got into bed and patted the spot next to her. “That means I get to pick the movies.”

Alex grabbed the throw blanket at her feet and draped it over her. “That sounds fair.” He walked over to the other side of the bed and settled next to her. “But when you fall asleep, I can’t guarantee I won’t change it.”

“Deal.”

After taking a dose of Nyquil, Annabel started the movie, snuggling under the blanket. She wondered what kind of crazy adventures Zack and Finn were getting themselves into. She expected to feel FOMO, but instead, she shot a glance at Alex next to her, and realized she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Maybe it was the fever, or maybe it was Alex’s shoulder touching hers, but it felt like this was the start of a different kind of adventure. Maybe not alcohol-fueled, but Nyquil was pretty close.

All because they’d shared a not-so-secret cold.

And Annabel had a feeling it would be worth the fever. And the countless sneezes to come.

THE END

[hippolotamus]

Intimate romance prompt "scolding your soon-to-be lover for almost getting themselves killed, your lover asking you why care so much" please 😘💕

For you and @alysiswriting who also requested this prompt! 💙🦛

Wish on your lucky stars ('cause it's all you got) | Rated: T | 2929 words

No, no, no, no, no. Shit. Fuck. Goddammit.  

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Patrick was meant to do a simple recon. In, out, done. He nearly achieves that, leaving the Bennet compound in under an hour. For unknown reasons, he changes course at the last minute to go back inside. That decision cost him dearly when he seemingly sets off a sensor, triggering a blast that throws him across the property.

Christ, David’s not even supposed to fucking be here. He should be on another continent, deluding diamond smugglers into believing he’s trustworthy. But, it was a 19-hour difference between seeing Patrick or having to wait another two months. To David there was no other choice. Now that he’s here, watching a barely conscious Agent Brewer, he knows he made the correct decision. 

Blood is oozing, slow and syrupy, from Patrick’s thigh. David can see some surface level scratches on his face. Honestly he’s a lot more concerned with what isn’t visible. Patrick is on his side against the cobblestone pathway, wincing and attempting to curl forward so he can put pressure on his leg. David’s stomach turns with every wounded noise Patrick makes. He’s heard that mouth moan, hum and spew a litany of filthy words and phrases but always in moments of pleasure. David’s never heard him like this. 

David’s fully aware how much is at stake if he exposes himself to help, someone could show up for Agent Brewer any moment. Still, the pull is so, so overwhelming. He feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin if he has to stay like this much longer. They come together like two magnets any time they happen to be in the same area. It seems inevitable that one day it was going to happen this way. David recalls Patrick’s fall from the cliff, how fucking helpless he felt. It doesn’t have to be that way this time. 

He sucks in a deep breath, and runs.

“Patrick?" David kneels next to him, hoping he's not too late. "If I help, do you think you can walk at all?”

A long groan escapes in place of an answer. Patrick looks up, eyes barely open. David thinks he sees a flicker of recognition, but then Patrick’s eyelids flutter shut. 

“No. Fuck! Not today. Jesus Christ, not now.” David pleads, quickly arranging his arms under Patrick’s limp body, lifting him off the ground, and holding him as tightly as the injuries will allow. He doesn’t even care about the blood smearing his clothes right now; only about ignoring the wounded noises rumbling against his chest, and getting somewhere safe.

Finally, they make it to David’s car, waiting just over the hill where he left it. He arranges Patrick neatly in the passenger seat of the Aston Martin, making sure he’s secure. The moment David slams the driver’s side door shut, he’s got Ronnie on speed dial. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane or something?” The gravelly voice complains.

“No time to explain. I need you to get Ted and tell him to be ready. I’ll be there in ten.”

“David, what the hell is going on?”

“Shut up, and do the thing!” David spits, ending the call. 

“D’vid?” Wha-?” 

“Just hang on. I’ve got you. Just promise me you’ll hang on, Patrick.” 

🔍 🔍 🔍 🔍 🔍

Six minutes later David pulls into the lower garage, barely putting the car in park before scrambling to get out. Dr. Mullens dutifully rushes over to help retrieve Patrick while David recounts what information he has. Ted, ever the loyal confidant, doesn’t ask any questions about how Agent Brewer has come to be in his care. He, and one of his assistants, swiftly transport Patrick away to begin their work. 

“I probably don’t really wanna know, but what the hell is that man doing here?” Ronnie asks, far too calmly for David’s liking. 

“I’m going to need a stiff drink for this conversation.” David pinches the bridge of his nose as he walks inside, navigating his way to the bar. “Can I get you something?”

Ronnie ignores any attempts to smooth things over in favor of reaching past him for the Macallan Lalique 57 and pouring herself a generous serving. When she possessively slides the bottle closer to where she’s sitting, David opts for the Macallan 71, reveling in the smooth burn as it slides down his throat. 

“So, about Brewer. Spill it.” 

David positions himself on the leather topped barstool, resting one foot on the rungs and letting the other dangle carelessly. He’s been waiting for this day, when he would be found out, hoping in equal measure that it would never happen and for the opportunity to stop hiding. “He was on an assignment that went sideways. I happened to be there, saw he was hurt, and brought him here.”

With another gulp of her whiskey, Ronnie glares at him. “And why were you there instead of on a plane to Cameroon?”

He mirrors her, taking another swallow from his tumbler, steeling himself to answer. David rests the hand with his drink on the bar top, tapping one of his rings against the crystal. “Because I knew Agent Brewer would be there and wanted to make sure Patrick was safe.”

David thinks Ronnie might throttle him if she weren’t so occupied coughing and spluttering on her drink. 

“You what?!” she rasps. “How long–” Another cough cuts off her question. David sighs, reaching behind the bar for a bottle of water and pushing it her way. 

“Nine years,” he informs her, ignoring the way her eyes widen. “Nine years ago we were running parallel missions in Portugal, crossed paths in Monsanto. I didn’t think much of him at the time” –one of the boldest lies David thinks he’s ever uttered in his life–, “until I saw him a few months later in Athens, and again in Vienna. Things… happened.” 

"Things happened. That’s your excuse for delaying your own business and letting that thumb come here?” Ronnie chuckles, a dark sound painted with amusement at the edges. 

“Yeah, that about covers it,” David shrugs and refills his glass. “Then things kept happening. It wasn’t supposed to be anything, but–” He bites his lip, hoping it’ll keep his confession inside. 

“Oh, shit. You fell in love with him.” It’s not a question. 

“Mr. Rose?” Ted’s voice interrupts the awkward silence.

“We've been over this. Just David, please.”

“Right. David, Mr. Brewer is in recovery. A few cracked ribs, a broken collarbone, and that gash in his left leg. Nothing we couldn’t handle, but he is going to be out of commission for a while. He’s resting in one of the guest rooms now. If you would like to see him.”

“Of course. Thank you, Ted.”

Ted politely bows his head and leaves the room. David is already rushing toward the door when he feels Ronnie grip his arm.

“Hey,” she says when he spins around to face her. “Be careful, okay?” 

He pulls her into a hug, even though it’s the complete opposite of their typical dynamic. He knows she doesn’t mean it in the physical danger don’t hurt yourself sort of way. “Thank you. I will.” 

🔎 🔎 🔎 🔎 🔎

When David reaches the North Wing, he tentatively rests his hand on the doorknob, unsure what he’ll find. Ted said Patrick was resting so, logically, there’s no reason for grave concern. He shimmies his shoulders, as if it will shake away any fear, and turns the handle. The room is dim, but not dark, a bedside lamp casting warm light next to where Patrick is sleeping. David notes the stitches on his forehead, close to the hairline, and a sling around his left arm. He’s still the most beautiful thing David’s ever seen. 

David pushes one of the room’s armchairs next to the bed, situated so he can look at Patrick. If he didn’t think it would be more of a disturbance he would crawl in bed next to him. Patrick’s hand is warm and solid when David reaches to hold it, rubbing his thumb over lightly scraped knuckles. So many words crowd at the tip of his tongue, competing to be the first ones out, even if he’s the only one to hear them. I thought I lost you. What were you thinking? Thank god you’re okay. That I found you in time. Sometimes I really fucking hate you. Christ, Patrick, I love you.

Before he can say any of them tears sting the corners of his eyes, eventually spilling over onto his cheeks. He covers his mouth with his free hand to muffle the sobs. Despite his best efforts to remain upright, David slumps forward with his head nearly between his knees, gasping for something deeper than the shallow, stuttering breaths he’s managing.

“Dav’d, issatyou?” Patrick slurs. 

David bolts up, keenly aware of how messy he must look. “Oh my god, Patrick! You’re awake.”

“Mmhmm. Mornin’ sunsh’ne.”

“Well, it’s,” David peers at his watch, “3 am. Close enough. How are you feeling?”

“L’ke a bombwentoff,” Patrick smiles, his eyes half-lidded and glazed over. Then his brows pinch together and he looks at David, like he’s studying him. “What- why wereyou there?”

“My choices were make sure you were safe or get on a plane to Africa. Kinda liked the idea of seeing you more.” David tries to play it off so he doesn’t stain the room with his bleeding emotions. “Seems like it worked in your favor.”

“Mmmmm,” Patrick whines softly, screwing his eyes shut. 

“Get some sleep. We’ll talk more when you wake up.”

“You’ll still… be here?”

“I’ll still be here. Rest now.”

In a matter of minutes Patrick is making snuffling noises, his jaw slack and slightly open. David figures he has a lot to answer for when Patrick wakes up and should try to get some rest, too. He shifts against the corner of the chair, never letting their hands separate. David squeezes gently, whispering I love you before he drifts to sleep.

🔍 🔍 🔍 🔍 🔍

“Looks like everything is healing great so far. I’ll be in to check on you soon. Do you need anything?”

“Maybe some water and, hmmmm, better make it two waters and coffee for him.”

“Sure, I’ll have someone bring that up for you.”

David slowly blinks his eyes open, adjusting to the daylight now illuminating the room. Patrick is already looking his direction, supported by at least a dozen pillows, threading their fingers back together. 

“Now I can say good morning,” he teases with a smirk.

“Mmhmm, morning. Was that Ted just now?”

“Unless you’ve got another Dr. Mullens around here. It sounds like things are going the way I need them to. Not sure how long I’ll be bedridden… or what I’m supposed to tell anyone about how I got here.”

“You’re a half-decent agent, you’ll figure it out.” David smiles watching Patrick’s cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink. 

“Two waters and a coffee!” Alys chirps, swooping between them to rest a tray on the nightstand. “Anything else?”

“Not right now. Thanks, Alys.”

“Of course, Mr- David.” She beams with pride before scurrying out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

“So,” Patrick says, looking more serious now. “How did I get here? I remember trying to go back in the building, everything after that is just bits and pieces. Fragments, really.”

“Well…” David picks his coffee from the tray and tells Patrick everything from the night before. 

“You should have left me there,” he protests. Of all the things David expected him to say, that was not one of them. 

David jerks his hand back from where they’re still laced together. “What do you mean I should have left you there? I saved you. You were hurt, badly I might add. You couldn’t even move. Patrick, you could have died there.”

Patrick runs his fingers through his loose, messy curls. “David, that’s always a possibility. I could die, you could die. I don’t like it but that’s what this is. It’s dangerous and, as careful as we try to be, shit goes wrong.”

“What the actual fuck, Patrick? Are you really pissed off I saved your life right now? That I didn’t let you bleed out next to a tastefully decorated garden?”

“Oh, so you took time to notice the fucking landscaping. Great.” 

“It’s a nice garden!” David retorts. “Why, of all things, is that important right now?”

“Because,” Patrick grits out, his jaw tightening. “What if you had gotten hurt, too? Someone could have found you and then we’d probably both be dead. Or being tortured somewhere. Is that what you would have wanted?”

“Of course not! I just didn’t want you dead.” Why this is such a difficult concept to grasp for someone as intelligent as Patrick is truly baffling. 

“Well, I guess that does make a little sense–”

“Finally!”

“If I’m dead then you would have to find someone else to fuck. Someone else to screw with.” Patrick meets David’s gaze with an accusatory one of his own. “Do I have that right?”

“Unbelievable! How dare you?” David stands, barely noticing that his coffee goes tumbling to the carpeted floor. “If you’re just a good fuck, w- why would I stay here all goddamn night? You think I just get off on watching you suffer?”

“I don’t know, David. You tell me. I’ve never gotten the impression before that you were all that invested in… whatever the hell this is. So, yeah, enlighten me. Please.” 

“Because, you stubborn pain in the ass, I love you!” David holds his breath, crossing his arms across his chest protectively. Time feels suspended as he watches Patrick process what he’s just said. 

“You… you what?”

“You heard me.”

Patrick gapes at him a beat longer. “But, I always thought- you never- you love me?”

David shrugs, feigning nonchalance, nodding his confirmation. “At least since Zürich. Probably longer.”

“You ran away after Zürich. I couldn’t find you, no one knew where you were. I didn’t see you again until Marseille.” 

“Unghhhh,” David sighs, scrubbing his fingers over his face, over the bristly stubble growing in. “When you said what you did, about never sleeping with anyone else, I didn’t know what to do with that. Sure, we weren’t doing anything formal but nobody stays. David Rose is always the quick stop on the way to someone else. I figured one day you would figure it out, find someone permanent you could see spending the rest of your life with.”

“For nine years?” Patrick deadpans, raising an eyebrow. “In all that time, it never occurred to you I already found that someone?”

“Patrick, don’t.” He finds it impossible to conceal the waver in his voice. 

“David, I’m not. I would never. If you had stayed, or shown any kind of sign back then… I would have given up anything I had to for the chance to love you.”

His breath catches, and he can’t speak, awestruck by Patrick’s admission. David wonders if there was something in his coffee, or if he had more whiskey than he thought last night. 

“Come here. Please?” Patrick gestures to the empty space beside him. 

David toes off his shoes and gingerly climbs in the bed, propping himself up against the mountain of pillows and snuggling under the covers. “You’re sure this isn’t hurting anything?”

“No, not at all. In fact this is a lot better than before.”

“Agreed.”

“Although, there is one thing that could make it better.”

“I don’t think, ethically speaking, we can do that with you in this state.”

Patrick laughs before immediately wincing, and clutching his side. “I have to remember I can’t do that yet.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can’t get you anything, or move?”

“David, I’m fine. I promise, just– one thing. That’s all I need.”

He peers up at Patrick, who is looking at him with such fondness he can’t believe it took them this long. “What do you need?”

“Marry me.”

David’s brain goes offline, this is… he doesn’t even know what level of fever dream this must be. “Marry you,” he repeats.

“I know it’s probably insane, and not even half an hour ago I accused you of using me, but David,” Patrick shifts as much as he can, cupping his hand over David’s cheek and absentmindedly sweeping his thumb back and forth. “David, I almost died . I thought that was it and I was never going to see you again or get to tell you how I felt. But now, here you are, love of my life. And I can’t imagine spending any more time not being your husband. I can’t get on one knee, I don’t have a ring, but I will. Whatever you want. Please say yes.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Easiest decision of my life.” 

He searches Patrick’s face for any hint of insincerity, coming up empty except the anticipation of David’s answer. When he finally speaks, it’s trembling and barely above a whisper. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Patrick.”

They meet halfway, and David nudges Patrick upright when he tries to lean forward. Over nine years he’s shared countless kisses with this man: urgent, lazy, sloppy, impatient, biting. But this one is new. Perhaps they’ve shared it before and never realized what covert communication they were passing between each other. Even if that’s true, this kiss feels different now they’ve divulged their long held secret out loud. It declares I love you. It asserts I want you and vows I need you. It professes I choose you.

[demonslayedher]

Dream Analysis of Mugen Ressha

Spoilers for the movie, while it does not depart from the plot of the manga, they made adaptational choices which I may refer to within.

While Enmu has control over what kind of dream his victims see, ultimately, he would have no way of knowing all of the details of his victims' lives, so we can assume that he is prompting his victims to fill in a lot of the details themselves. These are the worlds they surround themselves with consciously, but their untouchable unconscious spaces say just as much.

I've said some of this before, but these dream sequences give us so much to say about Inosuke, Zenitsu, Kyojuro, and Tanjiro.

Into the dream: Did that "Rengoku-aniki" thing really happen???? It's animated like a fever dream (or drawn like a typical Gotouge-being-Gotouge panel), but both the movie and the manga leave this inconclusive. It can be interpreted two ways: 1. The two other demons were there all along as decoys, set to appear only when Enmu's blood technique slowly started to take effect so that they'd let their guard down. In this way, we'd know that the boys had a true way of witnessing Kyojuro's prowess and a true bonding moment, thereby making his death hit all the harder later. This would also mean that one of the cars was totally unusable for passengers, and many of the passengers were already thoroughly spooked before falling into sleep. It would also imply that they were all super excited, thoroughly relieved, returned to their seats, and then just passed out.

2. The moment the tickets were clipped, Enmu's very, very, very realistic dreams took immediate effect, but he still needed time before it took effect enough that their guards would go down. If this is the case, then it implies the following: 1. Enmu's illusions can be shared 2. Everyone syncs extremely well together to have all been sucked in by the same illusion (it's possible it was only Tanjiro's, but since we get in everyone's heads a little in this part, I believe they all experienced the same thing). Reacting in ways so true to how they would in waking like, they learned as much about each other as truthfully as they would have if they were fighting while awake. 3. The "Rengoku-aniki" thing is the moment they're falling into a deeper stage of sleep, when any bizarre thing will make sense. They've lost any sense of holding back and are embracing the emotions as they hit them. Even if that was all a dream, the bond formed was very real. But then, as they fall deep, they fall into their own headspaces. Inosuke: I love how bombastic this dream is. It moves at a very fast pace, and everything revolves around Inosuke. He is physically much larger than Ponjiro, Chuuitsu, and Pyonko, who clearly follow him as their leader, the most powerful person in this cave exploring world full of wonder and excitement. True to life, these underlings can at times be frustrating or stupid, but there is no one else Inosuke would rather have at his side to take on a hugely impressive foe. It's a relatively simplistic world, what Inosuke really cares about is his place in it, and who is there.

Taking it a step deeper, he should not be able to manifest in his self-conscious space, but Gotouge attributes his and Zenitsu's ability to do this and protect their cores from intruders to their strong senses of self. What's telling is that his subconscious space is practically identical to his conscious dream space; like there is no breakage between one stage of reality and the next. In its Zen-like simplicity Inosuke's mind is never at odds with itself, its interpretation of reality is fluid and seamless. However, being at this deeper state brings us to a deeper state of self actualization, with Inosuke manifesting closer to the ideal beast he views himself as.

Now, with Inosuke being so fully invested in what he sees as reality, he's still got a carry-over effect from dream after waking up, which one could interpret as not having fully shaken the effects of Enmu's blood technique. After all, Zenitsu simply never broke out of it, Tanjiro had to kill himself in his dreams each time to fully snap out of it, and Kyojuro was the only one powerful enough to have broken through its effects through his own willpower. When Tanjiro says the train is a demon, he buzzes with "I was right!" (a conviction that only got stronger in his dream), and Inosuke's declarations of being the boss and Tanjiro being his underling are indignantly plentiful and he fully believes what he is saying every time he brings it up, even if he's aware that he's no longer in the cave exploring dream. But, given that Inosuke is so at peace with his own version of reality, it's also just as likely that his conviction of being The Boss was also only compounded by the dream, and all that dream did was give him a more fun setting in which to play around in. But, what was so fun about the dream, what made him sleep-giggle with pleasure, was that everyone else was finally getting with the program and recognizing him as the boss, as they should. Finally. It's so frustrating in real life that he has to keep reminding them to get it right. Get it, Santaro?? GOOD. Zenitsu: What I love here is the contrast between subconscious and conscious space. Both of them have the same theme melody, but played in very, very different ways. They also both play with the same core desire in very different ways as well. Is it so much to ask that he can just spend some time alone with the girl he loves?? If we jump straight to the pitch black unconscious space, he specifies to the intruder that only Nezuko is allowed there. Not just girls in general, not a close friend like Tanjiro, only the one girl he loves, and even then, you'd have to love someone a lot to invite them into the deepest, darkest corners of your soul. And it is a very, very, very, very dark corner. Zenitsu's spent most of his life building that dark, pessimistic personality, compounded by the treatment he's always received throughout his life and what he believes about himself at his core. He's ugly and depraved there, and very defensive. Because he holds himself in such darkness, that makes him desire the bright, happy, completely idealistic world of his conscious dream world. It's rich with detail and warm and he knows it well, that places is the first place he ever felt someone have hope for him; it's Jiichan's home, that sunny place with delicious peaches and full of clovers and lush greenery and a charming stream. Of course he'd want to show it all to Nezuko, she deserves to see such a happy, pretty place! And, while the world is idealized and happy, Nezuko is e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y cute and actually wants to hang out with him too. She's willing no hold his hand, none of the girls who dated (read: used) Zenitsu in the past were ever willing to hold his hand. He even gets to show her that he can be cool, and she likes it!! She looks him in the eyes and is totally honest about enjoying his company!!

He just wants someone to want him back. He wants to belong in the sunshine too. So, even if he had it in him to wake up from Enmu's blood technique, who can blame him for staying there? (You know, besides Tanjiro, who has been desperately screaming for them all to wake up and help him protect the passengers. Zzzzz, five more minutes, Tanjiro, zzzzzzz----) Kyojuro: This... isn't really a happy dream. Kyojuro has accepted a lot of sad parts of his reality so wholeheartedly that he doesn't seek the comfort of a dream in which his mother is still alive, or a dream in which his father is proud of him. Instead, what Kyojuro was looking for was the chance to go back and say more to Senjuro. This implies that on the real day he knelt in that room, while his father faced away and read the book* while Kyojuro told him all about how he defeated Lower Moon Two and became a Pillar, and was met with his father's heartbreakingly unenthusiastic reply, he later went outside and...

...didn't say any words of comfort to Senjuro.

This regret, that he didn't do more for his brother whom he knew was hurting in his own silent ways this whole time, was what sat most bothersomely in Kyojuro's otherwise peacefully self-assured psyche (or fired-up psyche, if you go by his subconscious space) . It makes sense that in his dying wishes, the first thing he requests is that Tanjiro do this in his stead. *Speaking of that book, Kyojuro had forgotten about it until his memories pulled together to create the details of the dream, which was why he thought to mention it to Tanjiro later. This shows that Enmu is not an architect of people's dreams, he only sets them in motion. How believable they are depends on each victim. (Totally unrelated, I love the design of the Rengoku estate's garden??? It's primarily evergreen and unflowering trees, meaning it stays relatively steadfast throughout the year, a garden designed in samurai villa taste. Plus the details of the house also fit really well, I think??? Would need to review research of buke-yashiki architecture to say more.) Tanjiro: ...*deep breath* This boy really, really wants to go home. Like, the climax of the movie is amazing and all, but it's the scenes with Tanjiro's family that make me cry. Ugh, where do I start. Enmu probably just grabs on to whatever thread of a desire a person has, and then he just tugs on it and says "this way, let's go really far in this direction, show me where it goes, hmm, okay, nice, lovely. Have fun here, I've now seen enough to write my own angsty version for later." So... so I'm just going to work backwards a moment. Enmu screwed up here, thinking he could really read the depth of Tanjiro's family and his feelings for them. He thought he could make a convincing version of these "characters" cry and shove Tanjiro around and speak meanly to him and make him feel shame. And the cut to that dream, OH MY GOSH, truly horrific sound and color change. But Tanjiro's sees through it so fast that he wakes up immediately and uses that anger at how Enmu wrote them to cut off his "head." You screwed up, Enmu, you blew it, maybe other people would very so blown down by the shock that they wouldn't question how unreal that dream sequence is, but Tanjiro has honed his fighting spirit so much that it's been nagging him even throughout his happy dream. And he really, really, really wants to stay in that happy dream. Like, even though he's on guard at the beginning, so much so that he only focuses on the familiar feeling of a demon being around and does not notice the familiar landscape AT ALL. But the moment Hanako and Shigeru step in, convincingly made from Tanjiro's memories and unedited by Enmu, Tanjiro throws that all away in an instant. As he says when he's trying, after trying and trying and trying to rip himself away from the dream, he was never even supposed to had left this world. He was never supposed to had touched anything like a sword, they were all supposed to stay there together, living their simple life. If things hadn't gone wrong that one night. Tanjiro cares deeply about his mission, he's adopted his training deeply, he has serious desire to improve, which is why his subconsciously keeps trying to call himself back to reality, but it's so hard, because this is where he wants to be, and it's even harder because it feels so real. It's a little peeve of mine when families with lots of little siblings are written to be too angelic and idealistic, and there is some of that with the "let's make sembei, yaaaay" scene, but... but that's actually pretty true. I'm giving myself away with how close this hits to home, but it's a dynamic in a lot of large families, especially large families pretty happy to stay to themselves and people who live the same sort of conservative, traditional lifestyle, to foster in the older siblings some pride in taking care of the little ones and helping create that happy world for them, even if taking care of little kids can be rough. It's not to say that things are always happy and fluffy, they're not, and that's not to say even

happy kids don't resent being in a large family sometimes. But there's plenty of moments in daily life, especially in the presence of small children, that you get swept up into a sillier, happy, caretaker side of yourself, and since you all grow up with these silly moments together, you're going to naturally fall into into some silly, scripted-feeling moments of "then I'll be in charge of eating the sembei!" "no faaaaair!". So, I'll give the sembei scene a pass because that IS a moment that happens in years of moments with the same posse of kiddos around you all the time. But it's also so striking to me how each of Tanjiro's siblings, however idealized, has their own personality. The traits are so subtle but consistent and Tanjiro knows all of them. They pick up on things about each other, they grow realistically annoyed and surprised and concerned and scared like they would if they were real instead of only Tanjiro's memories of them. Those kids feel so real to me, even if they are annoyingly overidealized in some parts as Tanjiro is letting himself get swept away. And just when he's managing to part from it to go face reality, Enmu makes more attack: he brings in Nezuko, trying to make it feel like there's no point in Tanjiro running at all. She's fine. There's nothing left for him to fight for. Everything's fine. And all over again, Tanjiro just stops. He KNOWS it's not real, but he's hurting so much to hear her voice again that he just sto-o-o-o-ps. And his desire to stay with the others catches up to him all over again, and he's tempted all over again to stay, EVEN KNOWING IT'S NOT REAL and there are very, very, very pressing matters to attend to. Even if it was all a little happy and idealized, more than anything, it felt like life always did. It's telling that when Tanjiro finally, FINALLY pulls away from that that time, he doesn't look back, and the family stops chasing him. This is Tanjiro accepting reality, however much it hurts. He's already had a couple years to accept this, but it was all overwhelming to get such a vivid taste of it again.

Tanjiro wants to do well to his organization and honor Urokodaki's training and avenge the fallen and prevent anyone else from being hurt and see an end to Kibutsuji Muzan and make Nezuko human again, but more than anything, he wants that simple life. And it's so, so heartwarming that at the end of the manga, he gets it.

It's not the same. It'll never be the same.

He never wanted a life with a sword, but he's been working so hard at it anyway.