#in the mean time have shitty wallpapers

[after-witch]

How a Minute Spends Now [Yandere Platonic L Lawliet x Sibling Reader]

Title: How a Minute Spends Now [Yandere Platonic L x Sibling Reader]

Synopsis: Your brother is dead. What pieces are there left to pick up?

Word count: 3800ish

notes: yandere, abusive sibling dynamic, grief and death mentions

Your brother is dead.

And oh, it’s clear now: whoever said death was an inevitable cold hard fact was a liar. Or stupid. Or both. Because this fact is not cold or hard; it’s warm, oozing, feeling like so much black sludge running between your fingers. 

You’ll never get it off--the death, yes, and the awful, sinking realization--

Your brother is dead and their first priority was not to tell you. 

They don’t bring you into a quiet room and ask you to sit down, before explaining in sympathetic, gentle tones that something bad has happened. That the brother who carried you through hell as a child, who kept you safe (and locked away) well into your thoroughly stunted adulthood, will never be coming back again. That you’ll never hear his voice or see his face or feel his touch. 

No. They don’t bother with you, first.

Their first priority is to gather together two of those damned groomed successors--Near and Mello, of course--and take them into a quiet room and explain, softly but succinctly, that L was dead.

That’s how you hear the news. You’d followed along, hackles raised when they were gathered up, and padded silently into the next room with a sourness in your stomach. And that’s how you hear it. With your ear pressed against the wall of the room next door, gleaning snatches of the conversation afterward through a horrible ringing in your ears.

(And aren’t you an awful thing? That you didn’t know until that moment? That you weren’t struck numb the moment he died thousands of miles away, that some guttural psychic primal instinct inside you didn’t say: Something is wrong and my brother is dead. Aren’t you a shitty person, that you didn’t somehow know without the muffled words through the wall?)

Mello is loudest. He cuts through that awful, disbelieving buzz that courses through you. 

“Who did he pick--”  And you don’t have to hear the rest to know what he’s asking. Did L pick him--or Near--as a replacement? As if he could be replaced. As if someone could simply step into his shadow and wear his skin.

“He didn’t have time,” answers Roger, and you puke a little bit of breakfast back into your mouth. 

What a thought--that L had been snuffed out without warning. Without time to think about it. Without time to regret, to come to terms--to call you. 

What was he thinking about, as he died? Was he thinking at all? Was there even the quickest of thoughts about you or your parents (distant, foggy beings that they were) or something else, something you would never know because your brother always kept some parts of him out of reach?

The wallpaper scratches underneath your fingernails, and a dim part of you wonders if they can hear it beyond the wall. Maybe you want them to hear you, hear the way your fingers dig into the paper and drag down as you slide onto the floor.

Your brother is dead, and you’re alone, and what the fuck was any of it for, if he was just going to get himself killed?

--

They do get you, eventually. Or rather, they find you, quiet and curled up in the corner of the room next door, a room you ought never to have been in. 

You don’t respond to the quiet calls of your name. You don’t respond when they step inside and Roger crouches down beside you, asking if--and he doesn’t finish the question, because he knows that asking someone “Are you all right?” when they are in a tight fetal position after clearly hearing news of their brother’s death through an orphanage wall is a stupid fucking question.

So all Roger does is put a hand on your shoulder and squeeze. It means nothing, and you get no comfort from it. No one here could comfort you. No one alive. 

“L left a letter for you,” Roger says, and it’s only now that you turn your head to look up at him. “Before he left for the Kira case.”

Kira. If only everyone who uttered that name had their tongue turned to ashes. 

“Give it to me,” you whisper.

--

It is his handwriting. Not a typed letter, which could be a forgery. No, this was written by his hand, his distinct scrawl. But what sealed the authenticity was that it was written in invisible ink, revealed through a solution only you had access to; L made it himself. Because he was smart--and a pompous asshole. 

But that’s how you know in the end that it’s not a fake, but a real letter. The last letter you’ll ever get from him. 

You bring the paper to your nose and sniff; it doesn’t smell like him. Maybe it did, at first, before whatever filing cabinet they’d stowed it in leached away the scent. Or maybe it smelled like him before you poured the solution on, and your anticipation to read what he said destroyed your last chance at remembering what he smelled like. 

It doesn’t matter.

The letter is simple and your hand trembles and the first words on the page hurt--tears drip down stupidly and turn blue when they hit the chemical solution on the paper. 

He’d make fun of you for crying, before wiping your tears with his shirt, so you’d call him gross and smile and feel a bit better. He would do that, if he were alive. But he can’t, because, as the letter says--

If you are reading this, I am dead. Kira has killed me. 

I was aware that this was a possibility--

Oh, fuck him. Fuck. Him. 

There is the urge to crumple the paper now. To find a fireplace and make someone light it and watch the paper burn, chemicals sparking, with satisfaction. How dare he. How dare he chase after this case, knowing it was a possibility, knowing that you might end up staring at this letter. Knowing that you’d be so utterly fucking alone. 

Breath coming in shallow pants, you keep going. 

I was aware that this was a possibility and I’ve prepared for it, as such. You don’t need to worry about money. It’s taken care of. You don’t need to worry about a place to live. It’s taken care of. 

You realize, dimly, that one of your hands has begun to pound against the wall. Who-cares-who-cares-who-cares. You don’t want to know that there’s money and a place to stay. 

What you want is your brother. 

You want him here so you can grab his shirt and tug him close and tell him he’s a massive asshole and you love him. You want him to tentatively wrap his arm around you, to give you a pat, to murmur something about being too clingy. 

You want him to suddenly pull your hair so you can stomp on his foot. You want to curl up in bed, like you used to, and wait for him to stroke your back to sleep while you asked him questions about anything and everything. His voice would be soft and dull, walking that fine line between patience and annoyance. You’d fall asleep while he told you something especially important, and he’d debate flicking your head to wake you up, a 50/50 chance that he’d do it.

But he can’t do any of these things. Not now. Not ever again. He has no voice to speak with, no body to touch. He has no more life in him at all. 

You couldn’t even visit his grave, assuming he had one. 

The tears are hot against your eyes as they drip-drop and stain the page now. It’s not fair, none of this. The death and the letter and the gray future ahead of you.

But you have to keep reading. Every word is precious, the last ones you’ll read from his hand. And maybe--this is awful, isn’t it--maybe this letter is where he finally has to admit that he’s been selfish. To keep you locked away, to put his need for control over your need to live a real life, to stay away as much as he does--as much as he did.

Maybe this letter is where he admits his faults as a brother, so you can cry over something other than the feeling of a gutted cave inside your chest. 

Maybe this is when he admits he’s kept you wrapped in a useless bubble, and that was wrong, and now you’ll get to--

I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother.

The pounding on the wall stops. Thoughts come quick, snapping, punctuated by a red hot stings of electric hate. The bastard--how could he--why would he--the words don’t even seem to make sense, so you read them over and over and over, trying to understand. 

I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother.

But no matter how many times you read them, the words don’t register as anything but a jumble of phrases put together. He couldn’t have written that. But he did. Yet the very thought that someone else would care for you like a brother--

No. Your brother is dead, and no one can replace him. Not as the best detective in the world, not as your brother, not as anything. How could he, why would he, there’s no answer that comes so you let the questions singe the air instead. 

There’s a woozy, hazy fuzz that descends on your head like a net, and you lean against the wall. Red-hot anger simmers, bubbled with a hazy grief, as you force yourself to continue. 

I have left them detailed instructions on how to care for you. 

The words drop into your stomach hard, with no reprieve. He left instructions for your care, like you were a pet being looked after on a vacation. Fucker. You try to determine if it was a joke, or an intentional slight meant to irritate you, or not something he put any spite into at all. Was he being sincere? 

Because--well.

Is it entirely wrong? You and the figurative pampered dog both leapt to attention whenever your owners--whenever your brother--deigned to come home from vacation. From solving crimes. Both whined when he left. Both circled and moped, staring out the window, hoping for their return.

Not that there would be any return for L.

You will be safe and protected, as you were under me.

A hand goes to your mouth, covering a smile that no one else is here to see. Safe and protected, sure. Like a princess in a fairy tale, like some maiden kept under lock and key in a dragon-guarded keep. Only the dragon never breathed fire--only familiar platitudes and a comforting sameness that chained you down as well as the actual locks on the doors, the security cameras, the strict instructions for the security guard at the gate.

But you were safe, and you were protected. And here you are, now, wet tears on your cheeks, anger in your stomach and a smile on your face, because your brother apparently put you in his will like some sort of inheritance for whoever takes up his mantle. 

Please don’t do anything foolish now that I’m gone. Not that it stopped you, before.

A flash in your mind, the image of your brother’s smirk, curling up at the ends. A thumb in his mouth to soften it. 

It aches and it doesn’t, this image, the clear sense of L in these words. Why can’t he be here? Why this pain, this gouged sense of reality that makes you feel like screaming until there’s no more air in your lungs? 

Your hand finds the wall again, scratching at the paper with as much force as you can, rippled scratches following in their wake. 

Better the paper than your skin--your skin will heal. They’ll have to replace the wallpaper if they want to fix the jagged scratches. Let them replace it. Let them replace it like they want to replace your brother, and see where it gets them. You’ll be there in either case. 

There’s nothing more on the paper. You’re not sure if you expected there to be; you can’t imagine him writing soft, sweet words of comfort. He never said them, not exactly, so why write them now? No “I love you,” no “You’ll be fine without me.”

But, ah. There’s more to that, isn’t there? L would never write “You’ll be fine without me,” because he didn’t like to lie. 

And who is the successor that will receive these so-called instructions? He hasn’t chosen anyone. Roger, you’d heard, suggested Mello and Near work together. Fat chance. Like they would--like they could. 

They couldn’t, and they can’t, and they don’t. It isn’t long before Mello leaves and there’s one less orphan in the building, and Near steps in.

To be trained, to be raised, to study the Kira case--to take care of you, so says your dead brother in his last letter. 

But Near isn’t L. 

And you’re alone.

--

It is not terribly long after you become brotherless--and rudderless--that you walk into your room to find Near sitting on the floor, stacking rows of gray, pattern blocks that resemble a cityscape in the center of your private little space.

The sight of him is wrong. He looks--not like L, not in that way. But the posture. The outfit. If you squint--and you do--you can blur him into something like a younger version of your brother. Different hair, of course, but didn’t he sometimes sit like that when he played? When he refused to share his blocks, and made you watch him play, and occasionally deigned to let you place a piece or two as long as you put it exactly where he told you?

And you always did, little fingers trembling, because you wanted him to think you were good enough to listen. Good enough to do what he says, because he was older, and smarter, and you should listen to him. 

There’s a lump in your throat before you realize it.

”Why are you here?” Your own voice is a croak, rusted from ill-use. Crying. Shouting. Not talking for hours until you had to.

It’s not like you had too many people to talk to, anyway; but if you get him to talk, then this blurry vision will vanish. Near might look a bit like your brother, might have the same penchant for picking things apart, but he wasn’t L. Never would be, not really.

He doesn’t look up when you speak. Thank God for small mercies. Instead, he takes one finger and pushes it in the center of a block tower, creating a window. 

“Roger said you were upset.”

The temptation to blur vanishes with the sound of his young and decidedly not-L voice, and it’s easier to cross your arms, to put up the defenses. 

“Obviously.” A little less dry now. A little more sarcastic. And a little more alive than you’ve sounded in weeks, or months, or however long it’s been since your brother ceased existing and your life at Wammy’s became all the more bleak. “My brother died.” 

Near’s eyes finally flick up to you before they dart back down to the blocks. He carefully slips a block figure--a bland smiling thing--into the window. 

He speaks softly, with little intonation. You hate how familiar it is. 

“That is, upset about me.” 

The sound of your stupid little intake breath in the quiet room is a little too much to bear, and you try to focus on the sound of the blocks instead. The small shift of the pieces as he slides them here and there, the clacking sound as they stack together. 

Click. Clack. 

What does Roger know, anyway? 

“Not about you… in particular,” you admit. It’s the most you’ve admitted to Near in--well. Ever. It’s not like you were eager to talk to many of the children at Wammy’s, especially when you outgrew them. Yet unlike the orphaned faces that faded from memory in time, you weren’t adopted, weren’t eased into some other life outside these walls; instead, L kept you here, guarded, safe, and completely stuck. 

And you are stuck. You’re an adult. You could’ve stormed out the doors the minute L died, you’re sure, legally speaking (before that--even--before that you could’ve left); started walking and taken up a job at some shitty diner and rented a room in a seedy motel until you were on your feet. 

It’s something that you’d threatened in L’s face from time to time, and he didn’t even deign to take you seriously, and it’s only now that he’s dead that you understand why.

He knew you wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave? Maybe it’s the same thing. Because he was right. There’s no life for you out there; no life for you in here, except for what L left you, which includes--somehow--this boy in front of you, stacking blocks, who is supposed to take up the position of older brother. In capturing Kira and everything else.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he says, all matter-of-fact. “L left instructions.” 

Your chest squeezes. Those fucking instructions. You had asked--stormed up in a huff, demanded, in a tantrum--Roger to read them, and he refused. Said L indicated the letter was for his successor’s eyes only. 

So all you had was your imagination; did L write down a list of things you liked, things you didn’t like? Did he rattle off your favorite foods, what time you were supposed to go to bed, what to do if you had a meltdown and began to cry over your social isolation? Or did he--the thought was tempting, however improbable it was--write something more sentimental? 

Logic and bitterness win out, and you imagine Near reading the details of the letter meticulously, probably looking for the words-within-the-words, all while flying an airplane with his other hand. 

“I’m not a dog.” Your eyes dart over the blocks, over the memory of all the toys you’ve seen Near playing with; there’s something painful in that image, for too many reasons. “Or a toy.”

“Yes, I know.”

Near doesn’t look up again. Instead, he flicks his hand, and knocks over the tower with the window, with the smiling person inside, who topples to your carpeted floor. Something about it makes you want to laugh; makes you want to get on the floor and ask if you can push over the next one. Tears prick at the edge of your eyes. 

Instead of swooping onto the floor, you weave around the circular city he’s created in your room without permission, and climb onto your bed. The book you were reading this morning is still there, ragged bookmark jutting out of it. Your bed is unmade, otherwise. Sheets rumpled and unwashed. You haven’t bothered with the bed since L died. Haven’t bothered with a lot of things, besides. 

It was an older book. A philosophical treatise from the 1930s, when Europe was on the cusp of war; translated into English and shuffled around the hands of starving artists and avant garde thinkers until, decades later, it landed, battered, onto the shelves of the orphanage for gifted children. Gifted children and you, L’s leftover baggage.

Well. If Near is going to barge into your room without permission, you won’t let it impact your day. Roger said if you didn’t start eating again, you couldn’t borrow books; that’s where you’d been, before you came back. Grabbing something to eat under his watchful eye and eating it with deliberately pointed chewing motions, as if it bothered him.  

So you’ve eaten. Now you can read. 

“What are you reading?” He asks, like he didn’t already see the title of the book. He probably saw it on your bed whenever he first came into your room. Probably knows exactly where it rests in the Wammy library when it’s not checked out, and who else has read it besides you.

But he’s asking anyway and something empty in you clings to that question, as you curl up on your side--body and soul aching for the physical curled-up nest of your brother that doesn’t exist anymore.

You hold up the cover and shrug, hiding the need, pushing down the urge to bury your face in your pillow and have an imaginary conversation with your dead brother.  It wouldn’t be the first one you’ve had this week.

Near’s eyes flick to the book, before he works on creating another tower. 

“Do you like it?”

Your heart clenches. You’re reading into it, the way it reminds you of L. The way the question is open and you can’t tell if it’s asked because he thinks the book is pointless trash and will find you silly if you like it, or because he genuinely wants to know. 

It’s not a book you’d read again, that’s certain. Not because you think it’s awful, but because none of it really makes sense to you. You’d grabbed it because the thought of reading a novel you’d been eager to read while your brother’s corpse was buried thousands of miles away made you want to vomit. So a random philosophy book was the better option. 

You don’t want to tell Near all of this; because of his age, because he’s little more than someone you know, and because like your brother, you want to keep some things secret. 

“I don’t understand most of it,” you admit, finally, the words sticking to your mouth a little. A bit of truth would be okay, in the end. “I just wanted to occupy my time, I guess.” Reading words from someone who furiously pushed them out on his typewriter almost a hundred years ago was better than thinking about who wasn’t in the room. 

Near smiles, a little, not looking away from the blocks. 

“Do you want to help?”

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, picking up each piece carefully and stacking it just-so. He leaves the toppled tower, figure and all, where it is. 

You’re not sure how long you wait before deciding.  All you know is that in your isolated room at Wammy’s, with only a window to the outside world you’ve barely known to give you any inkling of the passing of days, you slide onto the floor and tentatively pick up one of the toppled blocks.

Near doesn’t tell you to leave those where they are, and that’s okay.

He doesn’t tell you where to put it, either, as L would have certainly done--and somehow, that’s okay, too. 

[nica-my-beloved]

Tropes In Ikemen Series Games That I Dislike

These are my opinion so no hate!

MC BEING SHY AND BLUSHING AT THE SLIGHTEST TEASING

Some times I find it cute, but other times I wish she would just tease the male leads back.

A lighthearted flirtatious teasing would be funny to watch.

TOO MUCH SEXUAL INTERACTIONS

I understand, it spices up the story but when the most random interaction suddenly turn into a hot making out session just turns me off.

Some times in some scenes, when the moment is right, the whole steamy scene does feel nice. But not all cases.

SUBMISSIVE MCs

I mean, it's fine. I just wish the MCs were more diverse. The Ikemen MCs are way too submissive for my good. They don't even TRY to resist the advances of male lead.

They are so much in love with the guy they met for 2 weeks that they are ready to let them sleep with her, which is awkward as hell.

VERY PURE HEARTED MCs

I don't mind again, but they are not relatable at all. And I've already mentioned in one of my posts that MCs are not meant to be relatable. They are just tools that the writers use for spoon-feeding the stories to the players (because they think we're too dumb to understand the character's personality or intentions). But that doesn't mean I don't want variety.

There are so many different personalities, yet why are the MCs always so kind, so hardworking, so pure, so timid. Some times I dream about an MC who is lazy, foodie, loves shopping, doesn't like studying, doesn't care about what people say about her, doesn't like talking to people, doesn't even try to get along with people who treats her like shit, likes anime and has wallpapers of shirtless Sylus on her laptop, never follows rules......am I describing myself? Yep!

MCs don't have to hold a gun or kill someone or be the Queen of the Underworld. She can still be cool wearing pajamas and sunglasses, dancing on top of her bed at Shinee's Ring Ding Dong (I still love that song!)

THE USUAL CLICHES

Including random people coming inside the room (without knocking ofc), sees MC and a male lead in bed (fully clothed, or not doesn't matter) and still thinking that they slept together. Also MC wasting time and energy to clear up their 'misunderstanding'.

MC's promising that she will never fall in love but breaks her promise. She had one job!

MCs......*holding back puke* teaching male leads turru love *cringe 101*

Similar personality male leads. For example: Kurama, Silvio, Jude. Arthur, Sueharu, Nokto, Nica. I need more variety.

One month time period bullshit! It doesn't matter when at the end MCs are leaving their world to join the male lead (who they know only for a month). Maybe give like a 6 months or an year. Then I'll believe you.

I don't like the killing trope, where the male leads openly saying 'I'll kill you someday'. It triggers me and I don't really find it romantic in any sense.

Always MCs falling in love first and not the male lead. I understand that we play from the MC's perspective, but I really want to know how it feels when the male lead fall in love with MC first. It could be interesting.

Male leads leaving/breaking-up with MCs for her own happiness is also bullshit. I'm tired of seeing this over and over again and it annoys me. The male leads would always be like 'MC, you're not suppose to be in this world. You deserve happiness blah blah blah...' I don't like this because at the end, they eventually change their minds and decides to accept her. If they wanted her then why let go of her? So annoying. I just want a male lead, who is like 'I don't care if my world is shitty, I love MC and I want to be with her! I'll always make her happy and protect her!'

[hanjisunglover]

𝐈'𝐌 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 - HJH

pairing: hwang Hyunjin x f!reader

genre: Drabble, fluff

summary: Hyunjin loves tease y/n, it's his favorite thing to do after a hard day at work, he likes to change her wallpaper with some shitty things, but not now. not now that y/n has a picture of them together.

In your opinion, Hwang Hyunjin is the most annoying person in the entire world.

With his manners of taking your stuff without asking, grabbing your hands when you know that he's not supposed too, kissing the top of your head before leaving the room even if he's going to just grab some water. Some of the things that you can imagine just in a relationship, you guys are just friends. Or that's what you try to convince yourself with.

You guys are eating at a restaurant, a cozy place that you found out when you just moved to Seoul a couple months before, you bumped into him the first day that you put foot in the city. His expression was so confused when he saw your blushy cheeks, you just bumped into someone! why you should be that shy? You always been someone like that, shy for most of the normal thing, you're such an introvert person and he's.. he's just Hyunjin.

"y/niie look here," he's high pitch means just that he wants to take a picture of you, eating quietly your food, your cheeks lightly puffy for the food. "god you look so much like my roommate."

"what's his name again?" you asks casually after chewing your sandwich, his eyebrows moves and his mouth shut, you glance at him confused as he's looking at your phone. "hey, I just talked to you. hey? hey.. hyun?"

His eyes moves to your after you called his name, he's blushing and that makes you feel weird inside, "you have our picture as your lock screen."

"oh? ah yes, I do, it's cute right? I like that photo." Hyunjin's smile caught you off of guard, but his hand moves lightly to cover his mouth as he nods, putting your phone back to the table. "Yes, yes it is cute."

He never changed your lock screen after that, he kept glancing at your phone, hoping that every time that he's gonna look at your screen, the picture will be the same one; of you two kissing.

author note! I felt the urge of writing this about hyun hope y'all likes it!

[corazondebeskar-reads]

you know you never stood a chance - chapter one

you know you never stood a chance series

one: you know you never stood a chance

series masterlist | next chapter

qz!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When QZ!Joel finds out you're planning to take up prostitution to earn enough rations for your sick sister, he makes sure he's the first one to pay you a visit.

Warnings: Prostitution, dub-con due to power imbalance, Joel Miller is bad at feelings, kind of mean!Joel, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), inexperienced reader, mention of cordyceps, brothel

Originally written for Kinktober 2023 - Day 9: Cumshot/Prostitution from this list by @absurdthirst

also on aO3

“Come in,” you called through the door, trying for your best laid-back, confident voice.

It wasn’t very successful. Joel rolled his eyes and opened the door. You were knelt on the bed, looking soft and demure—except for the way you were wringing your hands.

And the way the sweet look fell off your face when you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” You snatched up a pillow, hugging it over your torso like he hadn’t already got a good look at you through the sheer fabric.

“Gardening. What do you think I’m doin’ here?”

“This isn’t funny, Miller. Get out.” You grabbed another pillow and threw it at him.

He deflected it away from his face. “Jesus, woman.”

“You’ve had your laugh; you can go now.” You stared at the dingy Berber carpet of the shitty old motel room. It had probably been shitty before the whole world fell to pieces. The peeling wallpaper had sickly yellow stains to match the cigarette burns that pockmarked the single tufted armchair in the corner.

“Didn’t laugh,” Joel said gruffly, tossing something at you.

You had to drop the pillow to catch the bottle of water, nearly fumbling it, and looked up at him. “What’s this for?” you asked warily.

“It’s for drinkin’.”

“Ha ha. Look, can you not—don’t fuck with me right now. Why’re you here?”

It’s then, as you took a careful sip from the bottle, that Joel got a good look at your outfit.

Periwinkle tulle had been sewn roughly into an approximation of a dress, like something out of a Victoria’s Secret magazine had been poorly described to a seamstress who had never heard of lingerie. Actually, now that he thought about it, there was a good chance that was exactly what happened.

It had crooked, lacey ruffles on the top and bottom and did not suit you in the slightest. “What the hell are you wearin’? You raid a JoAnn’s?”

“Hey, I tried my best,” you said, bottom lip quivering.

“Ah shit, sweetheart, I didn’t—”

But you smirked. “Wow, you were really about to apologize, weren’t you? I shouldn’t have cut you off; go on, I want to hear Joel Miller say ‘sorry.’”

“Wasn’t gonna,” he scowled.

“Right, sure. Anyway, nah, they got a box of this shit in the office. I don’t know who makes it, but they want us to look extra dolled up or something.”

“Take that shit off. I can’t do this with you lookin’ like that.”

The smirk slid off your face. “Can’t do what?”

“Can’t fuck you, sweetheart. Isn’t that why you’re here? I paid for ya’, after all.”

Your stomach churned like the angry sea you had only read about in Moby Dick. You felt about as well as a sailor might have, too. It’s not like you had any misunderstandings about what would happen if you worked a shift at a whorehouse. But with your sister sick and unable to work, you’d been out of food for two days. So.

He looked at you with something too close to pity, so you pulled the dress over your head and threw it on the floor, staring right at him and daring him to say anything. And he did, but it wasn’t what you were expecting.

“You got pretty tits, sweetheart.”

“Thank you… ?”

“What was your plan here? What if it wasn’t me? You just going to let some old creep come in here and do whatever he wanted to ya?”

“And you’re not an old creep?”

He rolled his eyes and sat down on the chair, tugging at his boots. “This ain’t your first time, right?”

“Obviously not,” you snapped. It wasn’t. But he didn’t need to know there had only been the one time. You hadn’t found the experience worth repeating, but the guy seemed pretty happy so you figured you could just lie there and let them do whatever.

“You know how to suck cock?”

You flushed and shook your head. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands, rubbing at his forehead for a few seconds.

“Okay, alright. ‘Nother time, then.”

You were too nervous to clock what he said. He rose and walked over to the bed. You looked up at him with wide eyes, and he knew he had to wreck you. He couldn’t walk out of this room without ruining you for every other person who dared to lay hands on you.

He set his hands on your hips, and you flinched, so he rubbed soothing circles with his thumbs until you relaxed a little. When you had adjusted to the weight of his heavy palms, he slid them and cupped a breast in each.

“Damn, sweetheart. These are real nice.” He fondled them like that for a minute, enjoying the heft in his palms, before rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. He was rewarded for his efforts when a small moan slipped out of you.

He tore his eyes away from your chest to check your expression. Though your lips were parted and eyes glazed, you still looked afraid. “S’all right, honey, I’ll go slow.”

He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth while he rolled the other between his fingers. You moaned again, louder this time, and he took that as permission to give the other breast the same treatment. When you finally started to ease up, to lean into his touch, and he felt more assured that you weren’t about to cry, he stepped back.

“Turn around, hands and knees.”

The apprehension filled the lines of your face quickly, but you turned around, relieved he wouldn’t make you look at him.

He ran a hand across your bare back, pushing your shoulder blades down with one hand and your knees apart with the other until you were arranged how he liked. You tensed, holding your breath and waiting for him to push in.

Instead, you felt a gentle hand on your mound. He cupped it before parting your lips, sliding his fingers through. You were damp, but nowhere near wet enough to take him. Not without a whole lot of pain, at least.

“Got a real pretty pussy, too. You’ve been holdin' out on me.” He circled your clit with the pad of his middle finger for a few seconds, watching you squirm, before he pulled his hand away.

“Anyone ever tasted you? You ever taste yourself?”

You shook your head.

“Shame.” It was a puff of hot breath over your cunt, followed closely by the warm, firm pressure of his tongue.

You wailed. You might have been embarrassed if it hadn’t been the best thing you’d ever felt, beating the record he had set seconds ago with his finger.

He didn’t ease you into this. It took no time at all for his skilled tongue and thick fingers to pry an orgasm out of you. He had worked one finger in you by the time you fell apart, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

You wriggled when he didn’t let up, trying to lurch away, but he pulled you back with a hand on your hip. “Hang on, let me open you up good.”

It was intense, and you were loud, swearing up a storm. When he eased another finger inside, you pushed back against his hand, grinding your hips. He sucked on your clit, flicking it with his tongue, until you came again, this time with a low groan pulled from deep in your chest, sinking back onto his fingers. He slid another one in, pumping furiously until the second orgasm turned into a third, and you were shaking apart.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, stroking soothingly along your spine and drawing his fingers from you. He wanted to push them between your lips, to watch your eyes go wide as you sucked your juices from him, but decided he better not push you too far. Not today, at least.

“You ready for me?” he asked, unzipping his jeans and letting them fall around his ankles.

“Please, Joel.”

And goddamn, if that wasn’t the sweetest sound. “Yeah? You want my cock now?”

“Please, please fuck me, Joel.” You were pushing back against him, grinding your ass against his erection.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’ll take care of ya.” He held you in place with one hand and notched the fat head of his cock at your entrance.

You cried out as he pushed in slowly. “Oh my god. What the fuck. Why are you so fucking big?” You didn’t even mean to be complimenting him. The one dick you had before had certainly not felt like this, like you were being pried apart.

“You gotta relax, sweetheart, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“That’s easy for you to say; you’re not being — oh fuck,” you broke off as he pushed in further.

“Not being what, honey? I didn’t hear ya.”

“Not being fucking split in two by some fuckin—”

He knocked whatever insult you were gearing up for out of you in a strangled breath as his hands gripped tight to your hips and pulled you back on his cock.

“Almost there, don’t worry. I gotcha,” he murmured, reaching around to rub at your clit. It didn’t take much to get you off again, and when your body shook and convulsed, he slid his cock in all the way.

He had planned on giving you a moment to adjust, but you started gently rocking yourself back and forth on it like a fuckin’ handwritten invitation. He began pulling almost all the way out before slowly sinking in, letting you part around him. His groan had you arching your back.

You thought he’d fuck rough. It might have been easier if he had. When you realized he was serious about it, that he had paid real fucking ration cards for access to your body, you figured he’d use you, cum, and leave.

Instead, he took you apart with precision. You wondered if he was a musician before, the way his fingers seemed to know right where to go, just how to thrum your body to draw out sounds you didn’t even know were inside you.

The rhythm he set was fluid and deep. You felt like you might explode, each stroke leaving you with fewer coherent thoughts. He hefted you against his chest, thrusting up into you and reaching around to your breasts.

It was a little overwhelming. Your whole body electrified, just the brush of his arm against yours sent waves of too much too much coursing through. All the while, his hips rolled into you, and yours mindlessly sought him back.

He was getting close, his thrusts a little sloppy. He held you to him with one hand cupping a breast and slid the other down to press against your clit. “Cum on my cock,” he growled in your ear.

It didn’t take long with the steady pressure and the way his cock nudged something inside you that made you twitch with every thrust. When you came, he shoved you down into the mattress, pulling out to cum over your ass.

You must have dozed off for a minute, because the wet washcloth landing on your back brought you abruptly into the world.

“Clean up, drink that, and get outta here.”

You glowered at him, head spinning from the sudden shift. He made you off-kilter and vulnerable, which was not an option, so you snarled back, “What, you think you’re my only client? I’ve got other men to fuck today, Joel.”

He finished tying his boots and stalked over to you, bending down to get in your face. “No, you don’t. You’re gonna go home like a good girl. And next time, you come straight to me. Understood?”

“What?”

“You still cockdumb? Poor thing.”

“Fuck off, Joel.”

He pressed the water bottle into your hands. “Next time you need cards this bad, you don’t come here. You come to me.”

“I’m not taking your handouts, Miller.”

“I’m not offerin’em. But you keep comin’ here, doin’ this? You’re gonna catch something worse than fuckin’ cordyceps. Or get yourself knocked up. We can make this same little arrangement if you need to.” He tilted your head up to face him. “Understood?”

“Fine,” you spat.

He stood up. For a moment, you thought he might say something else, but he just shook his head and left.

next chapter

*title from "Stood a Chance" by Taking Back Sunday

[thissortofsorcery]

It’s just a green Hawkins Tigers sweatshirt, kind of old, color already faded after too many washes, lumpy on the armpits from being used too many times.

Billy makes it look brand new.

Even sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed, eyes fixed on the window, with the line of his spine hunched with the weight of what he ran from, of why he came to Steve tonight, he looks beautiful. His hair is damp from the shower, curling around his ears and his neck, and his bare toes are digging into the carpet. In the soft light of Steve’s bedroom, in Steve’s old sweatshirt, Billy looks almost delicate.

Steve loves him so much, he doesn’t know what to do with himself sometimes.

“Hey,” Steve says, from the bedroom door, and Billy turn to him. He doubts the thoughts Billy was lost in were good, so he doesn’t mind breaking him out of them. “Found you some cigarettes, if you want them.”

Billy arrived at Steve’s in workout clothes, just a tank top and shorts, shivering with dried sweat and with a bloody lip. It looked like he didn’t have time to grab anything but his keys.

Billy lights a cigarette as soon as Steve hands the pack over. It’s cute how he goes straight to the window and opens it, blowing the smoke out into the night air, like Steve minds. His hands are shaking a little, still, and he’s jiggling his foot where one leg is crossed over the other, leaning against the wall.

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve says, like he does every time. He sits on the bed where Billy was. “It’s fine.”

Billy’s eyes flick to Steve, from where he was staring out the window again. His face is set in a deep frown, with that awful crease between his eyebrows that means his head went somewhere shitty. He takes a deep drag from the cigarette, but his hand misses his mouth once before he gets it right. Billy doesn’t say anything, but he pushes away from the wall and starts to pace.

“Are you hungry?” Steve asks, and starts bouncing his own knee. He tries to think of what food he has in the fridge. “I can make you a grilled cheese. Or I have leftover pasta, if you want.”

“No,” Billy says quietly, even if his expression would demand him to shout. Smoke comes out of his mouth, of his nostrils, and Steve pictures it coming out of his ears, almost, like a pissed off cartoon character. Except he knows when Billy looks his angriest it’s because he’s the most sad. “No, I had dinner.”

Steve watches him pace. Thinks of what else he can offer, how else he can fix it even knowing he can’t actually fix it. He wants to hug Billy, to hold him, but being still isn’t what Billy needs right now.

He’s pacing the room like a caged animal, going from the dresser to the nightstand and pulling on the cigarette. For once, the wallpaper in Steve’s room seems fitting.

“Steve?” A crackle comes from the nightstand, and both of their heads snap toward it. “Steve, come in. It’s Max. Over.”

Both Steve and Billy lunge to grab the walkie, and Steve only takes it because he was closest. Billy hovers by his side, staring at the walkie anxiously.

“This is Steve. Max, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Is Billy with you?” The walkie crackles again, and Billy’s face goes slack, eyes closed. Relieved.

“Yeah, he’s right here. He’s alright,” Steve says, and Billy huffs, like they’re being dumb for worrying about him.

Billy grabs the walkie from Steve’s hand, “Max, you okay?”

Steve thinks any other thirteen year old would be annoyed to be asked that twice, but Max just says,

“Yeah, I’m in my room. I told them I was going to sleep,” They both go silent for a while, then Max says, “Are you really okay?”

Billy shoots a glance at Steve, moves only to tangle their fingers together briefly.

“I’m good, shitbird. I’m gonna spend the night at Steve’s,” Billy says. “Same as usual for school tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Max says, and she sounds calmer, but still subdued. “I’ll grab your bag and stuff.”

Billy lets out a long sigh, shoulders slumped, and presses the walkie hard on his forehead for a second.

“Thanks, Max. Night.”

“Bye, Billy.”

The walkie clatters on the desk, and Billy puts out the cigarette bud on the ashtray Steve got for him ages ago. Where he was almost vibrating before, now Billy is too still, almost dragged down, like he ran out of gas and rolled to a stop on the side of the road. Steve hates to see him like this. Billy should always be full of energy, full of life.

Steve approaches slowly, makes sure his steps make sound, and lays a hand on Billy’s back. He leans back into it right away, so Steve plasters himself against Billy, runs his hands down his arms, lets his hair tickle Billy’s ear.

“What do you need?” Steve says, laying a kiss on Billy’s shoulder. “How can I help?”

“I don’t know,” Billy says, almost a groan. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, hiding his face. “Can we just-”

He cuts himself off, like he doesn’t know what he means. Steve thinks he does, though, Steve knows Billy, has seen him rage and cry and laugh a hundred different ways since November. Has been by his side for a good portion of it.

So he takes Billy’s hand and leads him to the bed, gets in after him and pulls the covers over them both. Billy rolls into Steve immediately, tucks his face into Steve’s neck and breathes in, and Steve runs his fingers over Billy’s scalp to help him relax. To make him sigh.

“You look great in that sweatshirt,” Steve says, out of nowhere, out of a desire to make this moment theirs and talk about stupid stuff. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”

Billy’s breath hitches, and his fingers squeeze Steve’s waist, but he doesn’t say anything. Steve runs his fingers down Billy’s spine, shifts his head to lay a kiss on Billy’s hair, on his temple.

“I mean, you look good in anything,” Steve says, voice so quiet it’s almost a murmur. “But when I came in and I saw you… You’re so beautiful, Billy.”

“You trying to get in my pants, Harrington?” Billy’s voice comes from Steve’s neck, muffled. He doesn’t move.

“I’m serious,” Steve laughs, “Do you even know what a catch you are?”

“Of course I am,” Billy mumbles. “Sex on wheels.”

That’s not what Steve meant. He runs a hand down Billy’s arms until their hands meet, laces their fingers together. His lips kiss from Billy’s temple to his brow, and he speaks against his forehead:

“I meant more like how great you are,” Steve says. When Billy huffs, he continues, “You’re so, so smart.”

“Shut up,” Billy says.

“And you’re a smartass but you’re actually hilarious about it. You make me laugh so much,” Steve kisses the bridge of Billy’s nose, his eyelids, his cheekbone. “You’re honest. You’re dependable. When you want something, you give your whole self to it.”

Steve can hear Billy’s breath shake, and his eyes are closed. He rubs their noses together, says against his mouth, “I really feel like I can trust you, Billy.”

“Steve,” Billy breathes, and when he opens his eyes they’re wet, spilling over the bridge of his nose and onto his temple.

“And you’re good,” Steve says, “You’re a good person.”

Billy squeezes his eyes shut, and presses his forehead to Steve’s, breathing against him, fingers tangled together close to their chests.

“Smelled like you,” Billy says, “the sweatshirt.”

Oh.

Warmth spills in Steve’s chest like a fountain, like smoke from Billy’s lips, filling it with happiness until there’s no room for his lungs to expand. He rubs his nose along Billy’s cheek, presses a path of kisses until he finds the center of his lips. Kisses him gently, unhurried.

“I love you,” Steve says. “You know that. Right?”

“Yeah, pretty boy. I know,” Billy says, and his smile is small but it’s blinding. “Love you too.”

every time anti bullshit shows up on my dash, I write Steve loving on Billy | II

[keffirinne]

Please do post the rest of what you wrote for please not him!

I think you wrapped up the story in a really nice way, so you could even post these as a separate thick, like a companion piece or separate one shot. But please do post them! I want to read everything you’ve written for him.

Hi anon!

Sorry it took me so long to reply, wanted to wrap it up in a finished, short oneshot for you!

So happy you're still interested in my Roman's fics :3

It takes some pressure off me when I have the whole piece completed and can just post something whenever I feel like it, like this.

I mean, I can do it all the time, but my project management skills turn on, when I have unfinished stuff, waiting to be ended xD

Maybe not everything I have in my drafts I find suitable for posting, definitely not in the form I have it there right now, but your comment really motivetes me to go back to these ideas, rethink and rewrite them.

So here you have it!

Bad dream

Roman Sionis x Reader

#Reader's traumatic experiences from the past #Roman's shitty attempts to comfort the reader #he has no empathy so it is a golden star for him anyway #based on true story when I had a bad dream and started screaming in the middle of the night, waking up myself and my boyfriend (now fiancée). He reacted way better than Roman did

The musty smell of mold settled on your clothes, eating into the fabric. The walls of the cramped room with torn, faded wallpaper were like a prison, surrounding you on all sides, unabling the escape. 

In your throat you felt a bitter, iron-like taste of terror.

You were suffocating.

Your lungs constricted in burning pain from lack of oxygen and every desperate attempt to take a breath ended in nothing. You were opening your mouth wide open till your jaw hurt but it was as if there was no air at all.

And you needed air to scream. 

You needed to make a sound to cry out for help. This thought like a slithery, cold worm crawled up your back, making you realize that no one knew where you were. And no one would come here to help you.

And there he was, coming right at you. His face blur, yet you knew he had this filthy smirk on his face. His approaching figure, like a walking nightmare that you couldn't withstand.

Again, in a hopeless attempt to save yourself, you opened your mouth with all your strength, but no sound came in.

He was only a few steps away from you. Curled up on the floor, you hid in a corner of the room, dug your nails into the rotten wood leaving red marks on the floor.

If only you could scream, call for someone to stop this. To stop him.

You knew what was going to happen, you saw it too many times before, yet every time you wanted to believe that maybe, now, it would be different. And despite it, you were never prepared for the inevitable culmination. 

Every time it felt like the first time.

Your tormentor was towering over you, doing nothing about your vulnerability. You knew that on one hand he had this disgusting salamander tattoo. A design that will be forever remembered. As he was strangling you, the amphibian stared straight into your eyes without any act of mercy. Cold, rough hands were clamping down on your neck, and all you could feel was that burning pain and fear. The body that still wanted to fight was being forced to give up.

Suddenly you heard someone calling your name. The voice was quiet, like coming from afar. It was so indistinct that at first you weren't sure if it didn't just was in your head. But the longer you began to focus on it and listen into it, the image of your tormentor began to blur. The death grip on your neck eased and the room began to disappear. The voice was getting closer. It was calling you. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Stop screaming, woman!"

You woke up still screaming when someone strongly tugged on your shoulder. 

Your whole body was covered with sweat and the heart was pounding like it was about to pop out of your chest.

It was still dark, but you weren’t any longer in that room, your tormentor was gone. You bluntly looked around to recognise that it was Roman's bedroom. The memory from a few years ago was still alive in your subconscious, unlike the man who caused you so much harm. In the shapes in the darkness, you recognized the silhouette of Roman sitting next to you with an expression of angry concern on his face. He was clenching his fingers tightly on your shoulder, staring at your apparently confused face. 

It was just a dream.

The images, as real as the bed you were lying in and the window through which the moonlight was now casting, laying in long, white stripes on the floor. 

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry." you hid your face in your hands as the wave of embarrassment started to take over the overpowering feeling of terror from which your heart was still pounding. 

"Fucking finally." Roman grunted and let go of your arm.

He rubbed his face with his hand and leaned against the headboard. He was looking sleepy and tired, which was understandable when he had just woken up in such a violent way in the middle of the night. Crossing arms on his chest, waited for a good explanation why you decided to interrupt his eight hour beauty sleep. 

"You probably think I'm nut." you started, trying to calm down your heartbeat.

"What the hell happened? You just started screaming like a total kook."

"I had a bad dream. A memory actually. Sorry."

Your breathing slowly began to calm down, absorbing the reality that surrounded you. The traumatic experiences from the past began to retreat, hiding in that  corner of your mind where it was probably destined to stay forever.

"I thought someone was murdering you or something." he said reproachfully. 

He wasn't far from the truth. 

"I know, it felt very real. I'm sorry."

"You said sorry already three times."

Not knowing what to answer, you lay down on the pillow. To reclaim the composure you started studying the furniture in front of the bed. It was a trick to focus on a few objects that you learned to calm yourself down. Roman wasn’t saying anything, you thought that he got offended, like he often did for no reason or just went back to sleep and you were embarrassed enough to not speak up first. So when you heard his voice again, not so angry as before, it surprised you. 

"What was the dream about?"

There was something extremely intimate about this question and somehow reassuring. Yet the last thing you wanted now is him to feel pity for you. 

“Old memory. The not-so-good ones.”

He muttered in response as if he understood what you meant by that, but he didn’t insist on more details.

“And FYI, I don't usually act like this.” you added in an attempt to deflect the topic.

“You don't usually scream in the middle of the night as if you were fighting for your life? Good to know.” his sarcasm was back.

Roman settled down on the pillow next to you.

“Next time you want to wake me up with your mouth, there is a better way.”

Not sure if this was his attempt to defuse the situation or was he actually asking for a blowjob, which was also highly likely, you appreciated the humor.

“Very funny.”

Covering yourself tighter with the sheets you lay yourself down to sleep. You closed your eyes, but after a while you opened them again. Staring at the ceiling you started to contemplate the situation. It's not like you expected any sort of compassion from Roman, it actually surprised you that he didn’t kick you off his bed. You turned on your side, so that you were now looking at his face in profile. His eyes were closed and his chest was rising steadily under the thin silk.

“Roman?” you asked quietly.

He grunted without opening his eyes.

“Good night.”

In response, he muttered something that sounded similar to "good night." 

You closed your eyes and tried to fall asleep.

@thegreatwicked @daenerys-skywalker @supernatural-lover @hereticpriest @creativelyquestioninglife

In case you want/don't want to be tagged, let me know! No pressure ☀️

[obsessedtomone]

Unravel Yourself Before Me ⛓️ Chapter 6 - The Exposé▸Shigaraki x femReader

Chapter Summary:

◤“Are you serious right now? Me being scared shitless means I’m into him? Did you hit your head on the way here?” you ask, starting to feel actually annoyed.

“But it’s not just that and you know it!” They smack your arm, beautiful eyes boring into yours and peering at your soul. 

Of course it isn���t just that, but you’d never admit you feel anything for this fucked-up asshole to anyone, let alone your own damn self. ◢ Setting: University AU - No quirks (unless degenerate personalities count) Tags: Slow burn, Eventual Smut, Unhealthy/Toxic Relationships, Humiliation, Mentally Ill Reader, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to ??? Warning: Dead Dove – Do Not Eat | Mind the tags TW: Implied Su/Self H, Dubcon, Reader has a super shitty past like actually, Shigaraki Tomura is his own warning.

AO3 Crosspost | Chain Divider by firefly-graphics

Chapters: One • Two • Three • Four • Five • Six • Seven

Chapter 6 - The Exposé

All the noise, the chatter, the people—they drown out the silence as you sit like a loser in the corner of the busy shop, waiting. 

With your leg bouncing—one of your many nervous tics—you cast an anxious look around you, unable to shake the feeling that everyone is watching you, even off campus. You’re hiding behind the safety of your hood, blankly seeing people going about their day, while you were waiting for Taylor to show.

“Girl, if we’re going to discuss fucked-up shit again, I really need something to sweeten it up” is what they told you over the phone, after your little mental breakdown in the hallway. 

So they picked their favorite—and unfortunately a really fucking popular—bubble tea store in the area, for the both of you to have a talk in. 

You’re torn between periodically checking your watch, your phone, or your surroundings, visibly on edge as you alternate doing so.

Conjuring whatever your therapist—or reddit post—told you to do when you’re having a huge panic attack and you’re not home, you begin taking deep breaths. You focus on the things around you first, the different smells, the people. The wallpaper that's slightly torn, in the corner where you’re sitting. 

You look around, try your goddamn best, and unsurprisingly—it doesn’t fucking work.

It doesn’t, because save for your three different types of anxiety medication you take every day, nothing fucking works. You stopped taking heavy meds after you figured the worst of everything had passed, after life finally became somewhat stable, somewhat bearable.

 So instead, you ride that nauseating wave of anxiety pulsating within you, and wait as patiently as you fucking can for it to just stop.

Shigaraki managed to do a number on you today, because you made sure you took off as soon as he’d left, not having the stomach to bump into more horny, borderline assailant creepy jocks anymore. 

It was more than enough that your phone was blowing up with an incredibly stupid amount of assholes, messaging you, harassing you at regular intervals, and sending you enough dick pics to last you a lifetime. All in the span of a single fucking day.

You wanted to turn your phone off, but unfortunately, it was also the only way to contact Taylor outside the comfort of your PC, so you ended up just muting it, turning the notifications off and sucking it the fuck up until you got home today.

Your friend still had classes that they were eager to skip, in order to hurry and meet with you, but you managed to convince them to stay by compromising—hence your sitting down in an overrated bubble tea store, right in the middle of a crisis.

With a sigh, you sip on your plain black coffee, scrolling through social media and passing as much time as you can before you even have to think about dealing with him. Luckily, it didn’t take more than an hour, and the movement you see from the corner of your eye is a familiar one. 

Taylor is dressed up in a slutty black mesh crop-top and a high-waisted pair of black leggings. A few flashy accessories and a pair of sunglasses sitting snug on top of their head, are complementing their skimpy club outfit nicely.

“You do realize winter starts in like a month, slut?” you ask, a knowing smile playing on your lips, pure relief coating your gaze at the sight of them before you. 

You’re not alone, you’re not alone, you’re not alone.

Not this time.

“Oh yeah? Well how about—you shut the fuck up? It’s fucking winter all year ‘round for you, bitch!” They smile back at you, but a thought seems to cross their mind and their expression slips back into one of concern. “Are you doing okay, babe?”

“I’ll manage. Do you wanna order now, or?”

“It’s fiiine, I can always steal from yours and order later.” They wink at you, yoinking your drink before your very eyes, and you watch in horror as a major crime is about to unfold, right in front of you.

“Hold! Dude, it’s—”

“Eeww! Gross! How can you even drink this shit?!” Your friend basically throws the drink back at you, splashing some on the table and immediately getting back up to order. 

You look at them through half-lidded eyes and speak in a bored tone, “If you would’ve asked first, I could have told you what it was.”

Taylor shows you the bird, mouths a ‘fuck yourself’ and makes their way to the counter to order. “Aaand we don’t know what he’s talking about? Like, at all?” they say, sipping on their milk caramel white tea diabetes and asks you.

“Nooo fucking clue. He kept talking like a goddamn psycho about this ‘pReSeNT’—” you reply, doing air quotes and mocking his stupid fucking voice, “—he’s got for me. I don’t know where, or what it is. Half expecting to find a dead body in front of my place today, tbh.”

“Hmm, guess we’ll have to wait and find out. Sucks, but there’s not much we can do, babe.”

Then, your friend starts eyeing you curiously, seemingly weighing something in their mind. You roll your eyes. 

“Shoot. You’re not done.”

As if possessed, Taylor instantly lights up and throws a series of incredibly inadequate questions at you.

“Okay, okay, so—what did he smell like? Everyone says he looks like he doesn’t shower, and wears the same clothes all the time! Is it true? I’ve only seen him from a distance. And, and, oh! Do you think he’s interested in you? There’s no way he’s not, right? I mean he was fucking with you, but I’ve never heard of him interacting with anyone like that—getting all close and personaaal, pinning them to the freaking wall! Two times?! C’mon!” They go off, giggling, as if Shigaraki was truly just a misunderstood guy, a hopeless romantic, and not a rich psychopath who gets off on breaking people's bones and making girls cry.

If your friend notices the blatant shock on your face, they don’t react to it.

“So, I have a theory, okaaay? I think… that he kind of likes you? I mean I heard he’s beaten the shit out of female students before, for literally less than the shit you pulled, so he’s definitely cutting you slack. Oh, right! How come you didn’t pepper spray his ass? You never hesitated before.” A snicker escapes them when they can’t help but imagine it. “Bet it would’ve been so fucking funny to blind Shigaraki Tomura! He’d literally fucking kill you. Gasp! Do you think he’d screech?!”

You sigh, shaking your head and looking out of the window. “I fucking can’t with you.”

“Well?” They cast an expectant glance in your direction, waiting for you to respond until a frustrated exhale escapes your lips.

“Fuck, okay. You’re lucky I’m short on friends,” you say, as if you had any friends at all, and your gaze turns into a playfully irritated one, making them wiggle their perfectly-shaped tattooed eyebrows at you. “First of all, you have to stop humanizing him. He’s literally just a psycho.”

“A psycho you’re into,” they shamelessly add, batting their fake eyelashes innocently. You blink at them, taken aback by their audacity. “C’moon, all these years I’ve known you and this guy is the first who’s doing a number on you? Just look at you! You’re not acting like yourself! Be fucking for real, girl.”

“Are you serious right now? Me being scared shitless means I’m into him? Did you hit your head on the way here?” you ask, starting to feel actually annoyed.

“But it’s not just that and you know it!” They smack your arm, beautiful eyes boring into yours and peering at your soul. 

Of course it isn’t just that, but you’d never admit you feel anything for this fucked-up asshole to anyone, let alone your own damn self.

“Listen, you can lie to yourself as much as you want, babe, but I’ve been around for way too fucking long for you to be able to hide that shit from me. Just sayin’.”

You roll your eyes and click your tongue.

“Whatever, you asshole.” 

Taking a sip of your bitter drink, you start mentally preparing yourself to entertain your crazy bitch of a friend. They nod excitedly, waiting for you to continue. 

It’s like they completely forgot the entire reason you’re here right now, but you brush it off because this is nothing new to you. You’ve known them long enough to know that, despite their perfect popular appearance, they still have flaws. Major flaws. And frankly it didn’t bother you. 

“Dunno. I don’t think he doesn’t shower—and who the fuck cares if he wears the same clothes everyday? I do too? Are people seriously that fucking shallow?” you ask, brow furrowing at the nasty shit that Taylor and their peers seem to talk behind his back. “He smells fine. No B.O, just cigs and uh… cologne, maybe.” 

You leave out the part where you don’t think you’ve smelled any sort of perfume on him before today, looking warily at your friend, who’s toying with the rim of their cup, using the tips of their forty dollar acrylic nails. 

“And how the fuck should I know if he’s into me? He’s fucking weird all the time. His eyes are—when he looks at me… I don’t know. It’s intense. Like that bastard already knows everything about you and still expects you to disappoint him in some way. It’s really fucking weird, I’ve never met anyone like that before, so he is special, alright,” you scoff before continuing, “Also, kind of fucked that you believe some rumors and parrot the same shit your friends say. You literally said you don’t know him personally, and I bet none of your fake ass friends know him either.”

You shouldn’t defend him. You know you shouldn’t defend him, but you can’t fucking help it when you’ve been through the same shit your whole life. People just like to say things, and maybe some of the things they’ve said are true, but—

“What? Bitch I literally know someone who just looked at him wrong, and came back the next day with a broken arm and his dad losing his job. Don’t give me that.”

“Oh? Looked at him wrong, huh? He for sure didn’t say he looked weird, called his outfit shit, or made fun of his scars and skin problems, right? No way he’d said something disrespectful to his face, like the fact that he maybe doesn’t shower. The fuck you on? I’ve seen the way people look at him at school.”

Taylor narrows their eyes at you, scoffs and looks away. 

A pang of anxiety replaces your irritation and you’re about to try to smooth things over, when they finally reply.

“Okay, fine. The guy thought it would be funny to steal his watch and prove he can get away with it. He lied to us too, by the way. But it’s not like he didn’t fuck with you too! He’s literally pushed you and invaded your privacy, threatened you and acted like a creep! And god knows what he was referring to earlier!” They fold their arms defensively.

Your friend is right, he does seem like an unpredictable individual, and you shouldn’t defend him over them. After all, you still haven’t told them about the ugly bruises. 

“Sorry,” they begin, a remorseful look on their face and your eyes widened. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I know people acted like shit around you too in highschool. Still think that you should be careful, though. He’s violent and scary and I know I was messing around earlier, saying he’s interested in you, but I said that because no one has seen him with anyone on campus. Not unless they got into a fight. He’s acting super weird around you.”

You glance at the (now cold) drink in your hands and your shoulders slump forward. “It’s fine. I’m… sensitive because he’s scared me, and it pisses me off how weak I am. I thought I got over most of my mommy and daddy issues, but it only took a bigger asshole to bring them out of me again.” 

Honestly, you wish you had the courage to beat his ass even if it meant he’d be beating yours in return. That way it would at least feel like you’ve tried.

“Honey, no. No, no, no. You’re not weak.” Taylor replies, your eyes becoming wet as they take your hands in theirs and their soft voice melts your heart. “You’re like, the strongest bitch that I know.”

“Shut up.” You look away, frowning with a blurry vision, as your tears threaten to spill over.

They squeeze your hands softly, expression full of understanding. “I’m serious. We’ll figure this whole thing out, okay? Sorry for being nosey, that was really fucked of me.”

“It’s fine, that’s not the issue. I’m just really tired, I think.”

It’s definitely not fine, but you know they mean well.

Your thoughts were running at a hundred miles per hour now, exhaustion catching up with your foggy brain.

─────────

Click —

You unlock the door to your apartment and look around to see if anything’s out of place. Maybe even for a dead body that wasn’t so out of the question anymore.

You double and triple check, going into every room two or three times. Everything’s where it’s supposed to be, and no one seems to have broken into your apartment yet.

If you somehow went back to the version you were this morning, you’d find the way you act right now to be kind of silly.

You were not, though, not anymore, and you know better now. After a well deserved warm shower, you sit down on your cheap thirty-dollar IKEA chair and boot your PC up. You decide that for the next few hours, gaming will be your best coping mechanism for all the stress you’ve gone through today, while you sit around, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

You only manage to get through a couple of hours though, watching the timer of your League queue go up when your phone goes off. After pushing one side of your headset off of your right ear, you pick up.

“Yeah? I thought I saw you like five minutes ago, did you really miss me that much?” you joke, but it falls super flat when you hear Taylor exhale your name shakily. 

Alarms were suddenly going off in your head.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?!”

Did he do something to them?!

“H-Hey, um. C-Can you check—S-Sorry, it’s really hard to speak right now,” they choke up.

Your own voice starts shaking and you frown at your white walls. “That’s okay, it’s okay. T-Take your time, I’m here. I’m listening. Should I come over?” 

“N-No, hold on. Okay.” They take a deep breath before going on, “Do you remember t-that social media platform for college kids in our city? The popular one. T-The one where I hooked up with that douchebag who asked me to peg him, five minutes into our date?” Taylor took a pause and sniffled. “You didn’t wanna make an account because it was ‘normie shit’ and ‘a waste of time’, r-remember?”

“Yes? Taylor, what the fuck’s happening? Get to the point, please.”

“W-Well, I’ll send you my login info now, and you can c-check it yourself, hold on.”

You hear plastic nails tapping in quick succession on what you assumed was the screen of their phone.

“Can you tell me alread—”

“Hold on! Y-You have to see this, I—I really can’t,” they say, sniffling again and your brows pinching even more.

While waiting, your leg once again starts bouncing anxiously and your phone finally gets pinged. You put your friend on speaker, quickly typing in the address and login on your PC.

“So? What am I supposed to see?”

“J-Just keep scrolling, you’ll find it. I’m so fucking sorry, honey. We’ll go to the dean’s office, or the police… w-we’ll—fuck—we’ll get this sorted out, okay?” your friend attempts to reassure you, but they sounded like they needed it more right now.

You scroll for a while, still having no clue about what you’re supposed to find, listening to Taylor mumble some more and scrolling through random post after random post of annoying frat guys your friend follows, exes, friends, etcetera.

“I still don’t know what I’m supposed to—”

Until your eyes zone in on it, your first and last name displayed at the top of the post. [ Hiiii everyone!!! I’m the hot emo chick in your computer science class at Weston NexTech! ]

* Click Image Attachment

You swallow emptily, clicking on the first attachment.

Dread fills your lungs and suddenly—you’re unable to breathe.

What greets you is your barely legal self. Staring back at you. 

It’s a selfie—your selfie—arm hooked under one of your legs, and pulling it upwards, while you use your other to raise the strap of your thong, teasing the viewer… your ‘boyfriend’ at the time. 

It all clicks at once and you immediately understand what this is—

Revenge porn.

[ So, I bet that got your attention, right? Hehe! You better read closely now! 

I’m making a post here because I’m suuuuper fucking bored, 

and I was hoping you guys could cheer me up! :3 ]

* Click Image Attachment

“Babe? Y-You okay?”

“Hold on,” you reply snappily, feeling the tips of your digits turning painfully cold.

Your bare ass is on display in the second image, bent over the bed and looking back at the camera. Your stomach twists with heavy nausea.

You remember these pictures.

[ I’ve never done this before, but I looove attention <3 and 

since you guys have got nothing to lose, we should all play

a game, okay?! Yaay! 

I’ve always been shy and I thought it 

would be fun to get to know everyone before

I graduate, so this little honor student 

is going to cut you a deal, yeah? ]

* Click Image Attachment

You thought that maybe Taylor hung up on you, but in reality you just stopped being able to hear anything.

With your heart pounding wildly, you glance at the engagement and notice there are about two thousand people who’d liked the fucking thread. 

Two whole thousands, and the thread doesn’t even fucking end there.

[ At the bottom of the thread you can find my email

and phone number! :D

And who knows, if it’s going really well, maybe I’ll even invite you over to my place!!!

Or depending on how this goes, I could share my 

address with everyone! Wouldn’t that be fun? ]

* Click Image Attachment

Suddenly, a lot of today’s events start making sense to you. 

The random phone calls, the spam emails, the people looking at you funny and jocks almost sexually assaulting you on the way to class.

[ You better hurry now, before it’s too late

and I change my mind! Hehe! 

I’ll be posting new clips every Tuesday, at 11 PM, 

make sure to watch them all!

So please, please, please! Text me, call me, or

hit me up IRL! I’d like to get to know as many of you hotties as I can <3

Keep in mind that I’m shy and I like assertive guys, 

so don’t worry if I say no! I really, really like rough roleplay 

as you can see below!

Till next Tuesday and thank you for the likes!!! <3 ] 

* Play video

You must’ve shifted realities, because your body stopped feeling like your own. 

Why were you here again?

Ah, because you decided to cut Shigaraki out of your project.

Or maybe because he’d asked to play with you and you were too stunned to respond to him.

Would you have played with him if the stun wore off that time, if he’d asked again? Probably not.

So then, you’re here because the two of you met at the convenience store, way back.

What had you said to him that day? Couldn’t you have just gotten out of the way like a normal human being? But he wasn’t mad the next day when he’d met you in class.

That means you must have fucked up badly, multiple times, right?

This is your fault. It’s always your fault.

But there’s no time for that, because you partially tune into reality again, and now you can hear Taylor crying softly on the speaker of your phone.

With a shaky grip on your mouse, you press play on the clip and the first noise you hear is your dealer fumbling with the camera, trying to set it up.

It’s been years. 

This was a different time of your life, one that you’d like so desperately to erase from your brain, from your history.

You were high, and not on life, no.

You’re high on something crazy, like heroin. It was one of the first videos too, you remember. You can tell by the amount of scars and bruises you can see on yourself. And you’d let your dealer… your sort-of-ex, take pictures of your body as another form of payment, after sexual favors became too boring for him. 

But it didn’t stop at that. 

No, that was only the start. He’d started recording videos of the two of you fucking—really low quality amateur pornos—and then, as the months passed, he’d realized he could talk you into trying pretty much anything if he dangled the right prizes in front of your eyes. 

You were way younger, really fucking stupid, always under the influence, with no safety-net and constantly daring life over and over to really mess you up. It meant you didn’t give a fuck about your situation, of some insignificant videos or pictures… at least at first.

If anything you used to like the attention from him. 

From anyone.

But that all had changed, once you started cleaning up your act, once you were able to become confident again. You made him delete all of them, you really did, but the bastard must have had backups, something that did cross your mind at the time, but you thought—hoped—that he at least wouldn’t share them with anyone. He was a coward and a criminal after all. One that you had a lot of dirt on, in case he decided to fuck you over. 

It should’ve been fine, you should’ve been safe.

Unless someone like Shigaraki managed to get a hold of him, threatening or paying him off to get what he wanted. Yeah, that must’ve been it.

But you haven’t gotten the slightest clue as to how he put two and two together to find your ex. You’d almost completely changed your identity since. 

However, that must not matter for someone of Shigaraki’s caliber, because you’re now staring at the evidence that more than half of your university has had access to.

“Taylor,” you say in a monotone voice, a quiet tear escaping you.

“Y-Yes? Hun, I’m s-sorry. I’m r-really so-rry.”

Pain thrums through your cells and your chest hurts. You don’t know how to comfort them.

You don’t know how to comfort your fucking self.

“It’s… not the full video. He’s—he’s splitting it into parts. He’s planning to fuck with me by posting them week by week before class, so that he’ll be able to gauge my reaction. Like an actual psychopath.”

Your eyes glide over the thread quickly once more. Then, again. Reading it over and over.

Ah, he’s insane. Completely, utterly, off-his-fucking-medication insane. 

You thought maybe your stupid fucking brain was playing tricks on you but no.

He’d left you a message. In the thread.

He’d actually left you a message.

You open notepad on your PC and write it down, side by side.

[ I bet that got your attention, right?—You better read closely now—I have got nothing to lose—We should play a game—I’m going to cut you a deal—It’s over—Depending on how this goes—I’ll share your address with everyone—You better hurry now, before it’s too late and I change my mind ]

You lose. Game over

Taylor is calling your name. You blink. Twice.

“W-We can go to the dean, right? T-They should understand. W-We’ll go together and—”

“No,” you interrupt, a feeling of numbness washing over you. “I’m not sure they’ll believe me. Plus his dad’s a big shot.”

“Please, we can—we can go to the police! He—He can’t get away with this!”

“It’s fine. I’m hanging up, okay? I’ll try calling him and if that doesn’t work then… I don’t know. I’ll just try calling him.”

“What? No! Don’t! We need the police—please, please, let’s go to the police!”

“You know I can’t do that, Tay. I’ll talk to you later. It’ll be fine,” you lie, cutting them off and hanging up.

Your hands are shaking, as you stare at his name in your contacts list.

‘You lose’ he’d said. ‘Game over’

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay, you chant in your head. You’ll be okay, you’ve been through worse, you’ll be okay.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring—

“Yeah?” a hoarse voice replies with a curse under his breath, seemingly distracted, as sounds of a mechanical keyboard bleed through the phone speakers and up against your ear.

“It’s… It’s me.”

Then there was silence.

Until you hear a strange sound. It takes you a good second to realize that he’s fucking giggling.

“Uh-huuuh. What did you want? I’m busy,” he says while your hearing attunes to him mashing his keyboard louder. 

You take a deep breath. “Take it down.”

“Hmmm? Take what down? You should be more specific, I’m not really following.” Shigaraki smiles and you could fucking hear it in his voice.

Your eyes screw shut, anger already bubbling within yourself. “You know what I mean, stop playing dumb. Take. It. Down.”

“Aaah, I don’t have time to play games with you, so either get to the point or—”

“What do you want, Shigaraki? Hm?” you growl, quickly losing your patience. “Do you want me to blow you? Sleep with you? What do you want from me?”

“Whoaaaa, what the hell? Chill! Do I look like some desperate fucking loser to you?” he says it, like he doesn't know. “Only idiots would think to fuck ugly bimbos like you, and it seems like you’re pretty much used goods at this point anyways, haha. Honestly, who’d fuck you at all ever again? I’ve seen all the shit your ex did—” He inhales sharply, key taps becoming frantic on the other side of the line. “Fuck! They’re on B, planting! Spinner, fucking TP there, stop wasting time, FUCK! HEY! Do you want to win, or what? Oh, you do? Then fucking LISTEN to me.”

After a long second of him huffing and puffing in your ear, it finally clicks in your brain. 

Shigaraki is gaming, playing with his buddies, relaxing while you feel like your life is falling apart for the 1000th time this month.

“Okay,” you finally say.

“Okay? Okay, what?” he scoffs. “You know, you should try a little harder, moron. I told you what to do before, if you want me to help you.” Shigaraki pauses, focusing on his game for another moment. You watch your animated wallpaper turn into a dark screen due to your inactivity—until he snorts. “Yeah, maybe you do enjoy this kind of thing, after all. I wouldn’t really put it past you. After seeing those vids, boy, gotta admit.” He whistles and his mic peaks. “Didn’t think you were the type! Ahh, does the faculty even know? I wonder how they’d react, knowing their adorable little honors student was spending her free time fucking low-level druglords, getting high and recording shitty rape-porn!”

“What I do with my life, in private, is none of your fucking business!” you yell into your phone. “Do you even know how old I was in those? What I fucking went through? Did you not fucking see? Yet you still decide you wanna go ahead and dox me?” you ask desperately, voice cracking multiple times. “What kind of monster are you? How low can you fucking stoop, like actually?”

What were you trying to do? Appeal to his humanity? Does a guy like this even feel empathy? The last few ones in your life didn’t, and they were all really fucked up too. What’s the chance he’d listen? Probably none, but what’s the point in holding back anyways?

“Damn, don’t get emotional, man. Not my fuckin’ problem you let your shitty ass boyfriends fuck you up like that—Fuck, shut up! Wasn’t talking to you, idiot. Yeah, I’m in a call, focus on the fucking game!” he yells at his friends before continuing, “Listen, got anything else to say besides bitching and whining at me? Last I recall, I gave you two fucking options, and so far you’ve chosen to ignore both. So explain to me why I should do anything for you, hm? Make it count, too, ‘cos I’m really tired of hearing you cry in my fuckin’ ears.”

Wow—he was just… wow.

“I’m sorry,” you say honestly, breaking that apology record after all.

“Mm? Come again? Couldn’t hear ya.” 

Tomura smiles expectantly.

At last, the breaking point. He’d hoped that ideally, it would’ve happened in class, with you kneeling before him in front of all NPCs to see, but this was okay too. He’s going to cut you a little more slack, you didn’t know who you were dealing with, after all. 

See? He can be merciful as well.

Your jaw tightens, eyes becoming glassy with wet sadness for the nth time today.

“I’m fucking sorry, o-okay?”

The weight comes crashing on you all at once, and you finally break down crying in front of the devil himself. 

You hear him saying ‘BRB’ and after some shuffling, the line becomes completely silent, save for your pathetic sobs. 

Is he just listening to you suffer? Was he that fucking cruel?

“I-I’m sorry for being such a—such a bitch to you in the store—f-for talking to you in class and g-getting you in trouble with the professor. I-I’m really fucking sorry. I didn’t know better,” you sob. “I shouldn’t have—shouldn't have talked out of turn, shouldn’t have upset you—” Your voice cracks and you choke, “I-I wish I’d never talked to you. I was stupid. R-Really, really stupid to cross you. Will you please, please take the thread down? I’ll make sure I’ve learned m-my place. I won't bother you again.”

You sound so pathetic even to your own ears, as you descend into the beginnings of a panic attack. It’s over. It’s all over. Your life is going to be destroyed after this. You’ll lose your scholarship, Taylor will leave you and you’ll finally buy that rope and fucking hang—

He should be feeling thrilled, ecstatic even, now that he’s finally gotten to crush you.

You, with your filthy fucking mouth, always cursing at him, always talking shit and trying to piss him off. You, who are like everyone else in this world, who’ll sneer and think you’re better than him. He’s put you in your place where you belong, like everyone else who tries to fuck with him. 

Held back, even.

That’s right, he’s holding back right now. He’s given you a choice and you finally used that stupid brain of yours to take it.

He should be feeling on top of the world, but instead he feels something twisting within him, hearing the broken desperation in your voice.

Ahhh. Anger. He’s feeling anger.

You wished you’d never talked to him? To never bother him again?

Shouldn’t you wish to be nicer? For him to forgive you? For him to like you?

The fuck kind of apology was this? Why were you so fucking clueless?

“That all?” he replies to your sobs, bored and indifferent.

“What?” you whisper.

“Is that fucking all, I asked. Are you fuckin’ deaf now or something?” He raises his voice at you and you flinch.

“I-I don’t u-understand, I’m being genuinely—”

“I DoN’t unDerStaAanD! Fucking—cry more, bitch,” Shigaraki mocks you. “You’re wasting my fucking time, so if that’s all you have to say, I’m hanging up.” 

Fuck, he’s let himself become defensive. He’s being irrationally angry right now, losing his cool.

This hurt feels new to him, and he’s only ever felt it around you. That’s right, it’s your fault.

It’s your fault you disrespected him when he’d asked to play with you. It’s your fault you thought you could get away with getting him in trouble, it’s your fault he’s feeling this way right now.

It’s your fucking fault, and he’s angry, so very angry that someone like you is able to get to him, to hurt—

You feel your knuckles turning white from the pressure of your fingertips against the plastic case of your phone.

“Can you stop being a fucking child f-for one f-fucking second, and talk to me so I can understand?!”

“There’s nothing for you to understand. You’re fucking retarded, and I’m gonna make sure you can’t set a single fucking foot outside your house, without feeling scared that rapists and stalkers are camping next to your door. Stupid bitch, maybe I’ll post the entire fucking thing today, give ‘em your address and get it over with,” he grunts, voice low and cold. “I lost the game too, ‘cos of your sorry ass.”

“—really fucking hate you, Shigaraki! But you’re used to people feeling like that about you, aren’t you? Fucking with my life—with people’s lives like you’re some—what? Some god?” you spit, abandoning all your reasoning. 

If he’s going to destroy your life too, might as well go down with a fight, right?

“You’re not, though,” you laugh bitterly, million thoughts racing through your head and you feel like your brain is gonna split. “You’re really not. You’re just a… you’re just a pathetic unoriginal asshole, and I can’t fucking believe how stupid I was to let myself—to ever think—to stoop so low and fucking feel like you’re—to fucking like someone like y—” 

There’s silence.

And then you hear Shigaraki inhale softly.

Blood drains from your face. 

Were you just about to… were you confessing to him?

Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid.

Your thumb hovers over the ‘end call’ button. Fuck this.

“What? What did you—what were you saying?”

“Fuck off,” you whisper, shoulders slumping.

“HEY! Repeat? What did you say? You can’t believe you what?” His voice is eager as he presses you, but you’re already checked out of the conversation.

“I said, go fuck yourself asshole. Pray I kill myself before I have to see you again.”

“If you fucking dare to hang up now, I swear to fucking GOD,” he yells, volume peaking again and you just end the call, turning your phone off and slumping in your chair.

Then, you giggle deliriously at the memory of you defending him a few hours ago. 

What were you even saying? Ahh, right! ‘Don’t pick on him because of silly rumors. Don’t say stupid shit if you don’t know him!’ 

You’re so fucking stupid. Why the fuck did you friendly fire at your best friend of all people? They were right. He’s just a piece of shit. You’d even cried in front of him, begging him to stop. You’d fucking apologized.

Pathetic. That’s all you are. Fucking pathetic.

“Fuck this whole world, honestly,” you whisper to yourself. 

Getting up, you grab your phone and use all your force to throw it across the room, hearing it smash against the wall and then fall to the floor. You hope it splintered and broke, the way you feel like your life has.

[grayintogreen]

WIP WEDNESDAY

As promised, this week is a Roseverse snippet, so here's a little scene from Chapter Two of our wolves don't live in fear, featuring everyone's favorite Imp Daddy.

-

He slammed the glass down on the counter. “I need a black coffee and I want you to put this in it, on the double.”

The barista was an imp about a head or two taller than Millie with her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. “I think you did this in the wrong order. Shouldn’t you get the coffee and then have the bartender actually mix it?”

“Maybe if I want it to taste good,” he shot back. “Honestly, this is gonna taste like ass no matter what I do to it. I don’t need your judgment…” He squinted at the nametag dangling from the strap of her black fringed flapper dress. “…Trisha.”

She rolled her eyes and accepted the whiskey and her task with all the grace you associate with food service in Hell- none at all. He leaned over the counter to address her back. “If you spit it in, joke’s on you. That’s a turn-on and I’m not paying extra for it, bitch.”

“Wow. You’re charming.”

Blitzø’s eyes darted to the imp leaning against the counter, a to-go cup pressed to his beaky mouth. He was average, caught somewhere between really hot accountant and really average actor. The kind of imp you saw in stock photos- in fact, Blitzø was certain he’d passed the fucking picture frame section of the hobby store he bought his horse toys at and had this guy’s face staring back at him down the whole aisle.

He jerked his thumb at him, addressing the barista. “So who’s the walking AI generated image of what a hot imp looks like? Doesn’t he have a job to do or something.”

“Jody doesn’t work here,” Trisha muttered pouring black coffee straight into the whiskey glass and giving it a little stir. That was not going to settle well, but if it gave him the shits, at least it would spare him any longer at this stupid party.

“I can’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult,” ‘Jody’- well at least he wasn’t a goddamn Dean or a Paul or something, that would be too much- blinked.

“Yeah, it’s safer if you assume nothing out of my mouth is a compliment.” He finally decided to give Jody at least half his attention. “Gatecrasher, huh? Maybe you’re not as shit as your lame-ass haircut makes you look. What’s your thing? You wanna rub elbows with the rich and famous? You lookin’ to case the joint? You’re not gonna tell me anything I haven’t done before with three times as much bloodshed.” He clapped the guy hard on the back, nearly sending him sprawling.

“He’s just here for the coffee,” Trisha-the-Barista said, dropping his glass next to his elbow. “He used to come into my shop every day until six months ago when it blew up after a missile destroyed the whole block. The princess felt bad since I guess it was kind of indirectly her fault and she’s like that, and offered me a job making coffee here, so…” She spread her hands, indicating her little coffee bar.

“And I just missed her coffee so much that I come here and get it.” Jody sipped his and, at least, had the sense to look sheepishly about something that Blitzø was already clocking and clocking hard. “I didn’t know there’d be a party. I’m usually in and out before anyone notices.”

Blitzø pivoted with his horrible coffee-whiskey nightmare of bullshit mixology to fully regard his target. In lieu of Moxxie, he had found someone new to fuck with. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a shitty night, after all. “So what? You walk the sixteen miles from any Satan-forsaken part of the Pentagram to get coffee? At seven at night? You fucking slick dick, no you didn’t.” He barked a laugh and then leaned on the bar again to look at Trisha. “Hey, honey, blink twice if you feel threatened by this wholesome serial killer-looking motherfucker.”

She stared at him without blinking for an impressive twenty seconds. “He’s fine. Nobody notices him.”

“I mean, yeah, he’s about as bland as wallpaper. Like… Hot wallpaper, but generic-hot. You get me?”

“You have been saying it in so many different ways,” Jody exclaimed. “How can I not get it?”

[12romy]

Hi I know this I cheeky…but I failed my driving test and have had food poisoning this week. Is there anyway I could ask for a little Chewis prompt to be written? ANYTHING you like? It would cheer me up so much!

Hi darling!!! It's no problem at all, don't hesitate to ask! It always makes me happy to write prompts, and never hesitate to ask for specific stuff, too, if you want to!

I'm sorry you had such a back week, I hope you're feeling better... And I'm sure you'll pass your driving test next time!

I didn't really know what to write so, this is in the change of habits verse, end of season 2023! No real plot, just a fluffy slice of life ahah

Charles steps inside the silent house, dropping his bag and suitcase in the hall, and goes to faceplant on the couch as soon as he's out of his shoes and coat.

The season is finally over, thank god. Of course, he'll have to go back to Maranello, soon. Back to work, back to a shitty car and a shitty team. He'd rather not think about it right now.

He's tired. He hates himself for wishing he were in another team next year.

He doesn't know how long he stays on the couch, brooding, but soon enough the door opens. He perks up immediately, like an eager puppy when his owner gets back.

He rushes to the door, and literally throws himself in Lewis' arms. His boyfriend catches him, dropping bag and suitcase to do so, and makes them spin as Charles wraps his legs around his waist.

"I missed you!" Charles exclaims. He tries to kiss Lewis, but aims wrong because of the motion, and only catches the corner of his lips. Lewis stops spinning them around, and allows Charles to kiss him properly.

"It's been three days, darling," he chuckles.

"We've seen each other from afar in the paddock, it doesn't count," Charles pouts. "We didn't have any time for ourselves since Vegas!"

"I did miss this," Lewis nods, kissing him again before putting him down - or rather, tries to. Charles doesn't want to let go, and Lewis giggles at the way he's gripping onto him. "Fine, fine, I get the message, we're gonna cuddle. Can I just take my shoes off, first?"

"Fine," Charles agrees, sulking a little as he lets go of Lewis.

"How about we take a shower before cuddling? I smell like sweat and the inside of the airplane, not the best combo," Lewis suggest, and Charles has to admit he has a point.

"We can take a bath, instead," he offers. "That way we can get clean and cuddle at the same time."

Lewis has always been a pro at self-care, and so he draws them a warm bath, adding all sorts of products in it - all 100% plant based and organic - that smell amazing. He also lights up candles and incense sticks, and even adds actual rose petals to the water. Charles has no idea where they come from.

In the meantime, Charles prepares them some snack. Nothing too grand, just some fresh fruits and an assortment of dry nuts. He then puts on some jazz, a kind of music neither of them listens to much except when taking baths, and they settle in the tub. Lewis is resting his back against him and his head is on his shoulder, which allows Charles to wrap his arms around him.

The next couple of hours, after the bath, are used to undo each of Lewis' braids while distractingly watching a movie.

Charles realises Lewis fell asleep once he's finished, and smiles to himself. He manages to take a selfie with Lewis sleeping against him, and make it his new wallpaper.

He wonders what to do, then. Whether he should get up to make dinner, or maybe wake Lewis up.

He decides to do neither. He stays right there, half-sitting-half-laying on the bed, with Lewis pressed against him. They both could use the rest. They'll figure out dinner later.

He thinks distantly that going back to the factory will be even more painful, since it means leaving all this behind.

Better not to think about it, he still has a few of weeks in front of him. They're going to celebrate Christmas with their families, first in Monaco then in England. After that, they're going to America for the new year, before coming back home for Lewis' birthday.

He should look forward to it. So why can't he stop the anxiety rising in him at the thought of going back to Maranello?

Lewis makes a small noise in his sleep, and Charles is pulled out of his own mind immediately. Right. Lewis is here, with him. As long as they'll be together, he will be fine.

He can face anything.

[bihansthot]

First of all, just know we are all here for you. It will take time to heal, so I won’t bother asking if you’re doing ok, when clearly you are hurting.

We love you and we want you to take care of yourself. Give Denny lots of hugs!

And secondly, I honestly can’t think of any other nickname/pet name Reiko would call his female s/o other than Pretty. I feel like it was so spot on after reading your smut with him.

Would you allow me to use it for my little drabble of him? Cause I’m shooting blanks on what else he would use.

Thank you for all the kind word lovely you and so many others are helping me through this. Denny has been so sweet today, he’s just been laying on me or bringing me his stuffed animals and like tucking them under my arms like he’s saying “it’s ok Mom, I share! You cuddles! We cuddles!” He’s a very sweet boy. He’s so dramatic when I cry, he literally crawls on top of me and tries to suffocate me with kisses lol He doesn’t have a clue he’s 85 pounds.

Also, absolutely use it! Please! Nothing would make me happier than sharing the use of Reiko’s pet name for the reader and I absolutely love that idea. I can’t wait to read it! I feel like I’ve seen so much Reiko content today and it has been awesome! I love seeing people finally take notice of him! I’ve also seen more people slowly writing for my number one and I’ve spent most of my afternoon crying over my dumb ex and feasting on Reiko and Bi-Han content and honestly I can’t think of a better way to get over a shitty break up than by reading about my true love (Bi-Han) plowing the reader and calling them a little slut. 💙 That’s true love right there!

I will probably take a few days to get my head right again but I don’t want to stay out of the game too long because we’re all eating good right now and I wanna feed the masses too! Though if anyone wants to add to the eating and write some soft Bi-Han hours I wouldn’t complain.

While I’m rambling about MK related things I think I am going to go back to just self shipping with Bi-Han, it’s not that I don’t adore Syzoth it’s just I’m crazy in love with Bi-Han. He’s all I can think of and he and I are who I see all the time since my wallpaper and lock screen are both self ship art of us. I’m still absolutely down to write for Syzoth and will absolutely keep writing my OT3 with him, Bi-Han and the reader because I love that trio and dynamic but for my self ship I think I’m going to just stay hopelessly devoted to Bi-Han. 💙

Sorry I kind of hijacked your ask love but in conclusion Denny is doing a very good job looking after me and you are absolutely allowed to use “Pretty” for Reiko. 💕 That goes for anyone too but if you do use it please tag me because I would LOVE to read it, that’s also open for Bi-Han using “qīn” and Syzoth using “sunshine”. I would be beyond honored.

Thanks for checking in on me love, it means a lot ❤️ I’m going to spend the rest of the night thinking about soft Bi-Han hours because he’ll never do me wrong 💙

[sisterspooky1013]

What Desire Will Make Foolish People Do, 2/3

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

He parks in the space right in front of her door and waits for her to storm off. She doesn’t get out of the car right away, just sits there with her hands folded in her lap.

“He’s gone, if you were wondering,” she says quietly, and the pain in her voice makes him wish she’d get angry again.

“I wasn’t,” he lies.

She pulls in a deep breath and sighs, and his brain scrambles for the right thing to say.

“Scully, I don’t think—”

“You made it perfectly clear what you think, Mulder,” she says without affect. “I’m sure you regret saying it, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. I’ll be ready by 8:45 tomorrow. Goodnight.”

She gets out of the car and enters her room without looking back, and the pit that’s been sitting in his belly all evening twists painfully. He sits there for upwards of twenty minutes, waiting for her to come back or turn out the lights in her room. Waiting for her to open the door and shoot him. Anything but silence. Anything but losing her entirely. Finally, he goes into his own room.

He’s seen Scully flirt before, both the pandering kind of flirting that can help grease the wheels with uncooperative law enforcement and the genuine kind he bore witness to with Sheriff Hartwell. He’s even known Scully to flirt with him now and then, but always just for fun. Even on occasions when her friendly flirtations elicited a response in him, he long ago trained himself to ignore it. There are some lines you just don’t cross, and Scully is and always has been one of them.

Now, as he slumps onto his shitty motel mattress, he has to ask himself if he missed the point at which friendly flirtation became something else. Even wracking his brain, he just can’t see it. He does remember her coming to his room in Florida with wine and cheese, cracking a joke about agents consorting in the same motel room. To his recollection, he made a fart joke in response. And much later, when he facetiously suggested that they get into a sleeping bag naked together to warm up, she made a joke back about him getting lucky. She said she threw herself at him. Is she exceptionally subtle, or is he exceptionally dense? Perhaps it’s a fatal combination of both.

For him to read anything Scully says or does as flirtatious or indicating sexual interest, he would first have to believe that there is a snowball’s chance in hell that she would ever see him as a potential romantic partner. While he does believe she cares for him, and maybe even finds him attractive, she’s too smart to stoop that low. At least he thought so.

The revelation that she’s interested in him should be a happy one, but it came on the tails of him essentially calling her a slut. He said things to her that no man should ever say to a woman, even if they were true—which they aren’t. She may have hurt him by accident, but he hurt her on purpose. He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he’d fucked up, but with each passing moment the weight of his mistake sinks in further, and he can hardly breathe.

He knocks on her door for the second time tonight, but this time it’s a gentle rap with his knuckles instead of an insistent pounding. He can see that the lights are on, and he has the keys to the rental—which is still parked a few feet away—so she can’t have gone anywhere, but when she still hasn’t answered after three rounds of knocking he goes back to his room.

He picks up the phone on the bedside table and dials her room number. He hears her phone ringing through the wall, and when the line clicks open his heart leaps.

“Scully—”

He hears her slam it back down on the receiver, both from the other side of the wall and loudly against his ear. At least he knows she’s in there. He walks to an undecorated expanse of wall, the same place he’d stood earlier with his ear pressed against the peeling wallpaper so he could eavesdrop on her, and thunks his forehead against it in frustration. He’s not frustrated with her; he knows this is his fault from inception to disastrous conclusion. He holds his lips close to the wall and raises his voice.

“I know you can hear me, Scully,” he says. She offers no response. “You have every right to be mad, and if you never forgive me I’ll understand.” More silence. “I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean any of it, I was just…I was jealous, and hurt, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He waits, and waits, and waits. Nothing. “Scully…” He lays his palm flat against the wall by his head, hoping that he can somehow transmit his sincerity through it. “I realize I’ve probably blown any chance I had at it being something more, but I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t at least have you as a friend. Please, talk to me.”

There’s some shuffling on the other side of the wall. The scuff of shoes on carpet, the tink of metal on metal. Her door opens and closes, and he wheels around to face his own, so much hope in his heart it makes him nauseous. Her knock is clipped, somehow impersonal, and when he flings the door open her eyes are already pinned to the floor at his feet. She’s still wearing the same clothes from earlier, and while she’s diligently avoiding looking at him, he can see that her eyes are red-rimmed and peppered with flaked mascara.

“May I have the car keys, please?” she asks, emotionless.

“Where are you going?” he asks after a beat.

She sighs.

“I need a drink, Mulder,” she says curtly. “I’m sure you can appreciate why.”

“I’ll go with you,” he says, and she snaps her head up to give level him with an incredulous glare.

“No thank you,” she says, her voice dripping with derision.

Mulder’s shoulders slump and he huffs in frustration like a petulant teen.

“Come on, Scully, you have to talk to me eventually—”

She holds up her hand to silence him.

“Eventually, yes,” she says sternly. “Not now. Maybe not even tomorrow. Please, give me the car keys.”

He walks away from the door and grabs the keys off one of the bedside tables, holding them tightly in his balled fist. When he returns, Scully already has her hand held out ready to receive them.

“Scully, I’m sorry—”

“The keys, Mulder.”

“Jesus, can you at least let me finish apologizing?” he asks, too angrily.

Scully purses her lips and takes a breath. She’s actively trying to contain her anger—something he could stand to do more often. She retracts her outstretched hand and crosses both arms over her chest, then waits. Given the opportunity to speak without interruption, his mind goes completely blank.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she stares at him with a disturbingly vacant expression. “I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t think those things about you. And I know you don’t owe me anything.”

She waits a beat.

“Are you finished?” she asks blankly.

He gives her a half-shrug, half-nod, and she holds her hand out. After a moment of hesitation, he drops the keys into her open palm, then watches her get into the rental and drive away. He sinks down into a nearby chair, devastated and so angry with himself he could cry.

He feels fairly confident that he’ll see her in the morning; even at her angriest, Scully is a consummate professional and wouldn’t walk out in the middle of a case. That doesn’t mean, however, that she’ll speak to him beyond what is absolutely necessary to complete their investigation.

He tries to imagine a dynamic in which the friendship that underlies their partnership no longer exists. Where he’s no longer listed as her emergency contact, and she won’t engage in frivolous conversations about the worst dates they’ve ever been on or rank her top ten favorite breakfast cereals to pass the time on long drives. Will she no longer feel comfortable telling him when her cramps are beyond the point of manageable and she needs to go back to the motel, or ask for his help carrying in her Christmas tree? The more he thinks about it, the more depressed he becomes. He knows he should give her time, but he’s never been a particularly patient man.

It’s at the fourth bar the cabbie takes him to that he finally spots the rental in the parking lot. He stuffs a twenty through the slot in the plexiglass barrier and hurries inside. The place is a total dive, hazy with cigarette smoke and stinking like piss. It’s only when he sees her sitting alone at the rail that he realizes he half expected to find her with her tongue down some guy’s throat, and a deep feeling of shame washes over him. Did he come here to talk to her, or to make sure she wasn’t talking to someone else?

He finds a table tucked away in the corner, partially obscured by a pinball machine but with a direct line of sight to Scully’s seat, and orders a beer. He just watches her, the defeated curve of her shoulders and her downturned mouth as she takes frequent sips from a cocktail glass. He watches her finish it and order another, and when she briefly leaves her seat to use the restroom he keeps his eyes trained on her glass to be sure no one slips anything into it. He’s about to order a third beer when he sees her flag down the bartender and hand him her credit card, at which point he quickly settles his own bill. Scully slowly slips off her barstool, teetering ever so slightly, and his heart starts to pound.

He trails half a dozen paces behind her, but she seems completely oblivious to her surroundings. She’s clearly intoxicated, and he’s having a hard time believing his own eyes because it looks like she intends to drive back to the motel. Halfway across the gravel parking lot she starts patting her pockets, and then abruptly turns around. Mulder freezes, watching as a flash of fear crosses her face, and then recognition, quickly followed by anger.

“Oh my god,” she spits at him. “Seriously, Mulder?!”

He swallows, but says nothing. Scully glowers at him, and then stalks back toward the bar, clipping his arm with her shoulder as she passes by. The force of it knocks him off-kilter and he takes a few awkward steps to avoid losing his balance. She returns less than a minute later, forgotten keys in hand, and wordlessly marches past him en route to the rental.

“Scully, let me drive,” he says, quickly passing her in a few long strides and beating her to the driver’s side door.

“Go away,” she grumbles, clumsily fitting the key into the lock.

“You’re drunk,” he tells her, leaning his full weight against the door to prevent her from opening it.

“Jesus Christ,” Scully whispers harshly under her breath, resting one hand over her forehead. She turns to face him, her chin lifted defiantly. “Am I drunk, Mulder? Or am I just exhausted? You tell me, you seem to know best.”

“I don’t think you should drive,” he says gently, trying not to make it sound like a directive.

Scully nods, her mouth twisted up into a tight little knot, and he can see her chest heaving.

“I shouldn’t drive. And definitely not convertibles, right? Shouldn’t get back to work so soon after my cancer. Shouldn’t adopt my own damn child.” Her eyes are welling with tears and her voice is tight, but there is no doubt that anger is the dominant emotion. Mulder doesn’t move from his spot against the car door, and he doesn’t speak. “Definitely shouldn’t date, and god forbid I have sex, right, Mulder? Unless it’s with you?”

She punctuates her final word with a firm jab of her index finger into his solar plexus, and he grimaces.

“I said I was sorry,” he tells her, doing his best not to match her anger, which is his default response. “You can date and sleep with whomever you want, obviously.”

“You’re sorry I’m mad at you, Mulder,” she keens, and a fat tear slides down her cheek. “You’re sorry that I might not want to listen to you go on and on about…mothmen and mutants.” She gestures wildly with her hands to highlight the absurdity of these things. “You’re sorry for yourself, not for me.”

Mulder drops his head. He doesn’t think any of that is true, but he can see why she’d think it is. And he has no one to blame for that but himself.

“Are you okay, miss? Is this man bothering you?”

He looks up to see a heavy set man in a ten-gallon hat watching them, his hand resting on the pistol that’s hanging from his belt. Mulder looks at Scully, begging her with his eyes not to fight him on this any further. Her chin pebbles and her shoulders slump, and she looks away.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she says, offering the man a thin smile before she walks around the car and waits by the passenger side door until Mulder unlocks it.

On the drive back to the motel Scully looks out the window, intermittently sniffing and wiping at her eyes. Mulder keeps his hands on the wheel at ten and two, gripping it so fiercely his knuckles blanch.

Tagging @today-in-fic

[mushiewrites]

can I just be sappy for a moment about 2022? It was so shitty for a multitude of reasons but you guys made it better ):

firstly everyone that interacts with my posts, i love u and appreciate u so much ): if i didn’t have people interacting, i wouldn’t really have a reason to want to keep writing.

but there are some very cool and lovely people I want to fawn over and just say a few things about 🫠

thank u to:

@an-inkling-of for hyping up my writing and always encouraging me to be mean (hehehe 😈)

@elliot-tword for being one of the first people i remember being so kind and supportive when i first started out writing

@fluffy-fics for making LITERAL BEAUTIFUL ART FROM MY FICS / DRABBLES???????? still so honored tbh 🥺💕

@sleepy--anon + @azuregiggles + @starshinenova for providing the best hc’s i’ve ever seen and allowing me to run wild with them 👀

@amitlee for being my enemy, one of my favorite people to bully/be bullied by, and also one of the best people i’ve gotten to meet on this hell site 🔥

I have a million more people I could thank, so if you weren’t mentioned, just know I love u and appreciate you. I want to tag you all 🥺

I hope every has an incredible 2023, it’s gonna be great I can feel it ✨

(okay i’m putting the longer ones under here…..this is going to be SAPPY sappy - this is your warning)

@cayjno - my baby jworm ): i don’t even know what to write for you. i went from freaking out in the best way over your fics to getting to be so close with you and i am still confused as to how????? i have no idea why but i was so nervy to speak with you bc u were just so COOL to me and i was scawwed. i remember the night we had our first real conversation, i was just so hype that you were as cool as i thought, probably even more so. you are one of the most kindest and sweetest humans i’ve ever met. i am so so thankful to know you and get to be in your life. you make me feel so safe, you never ever throw judgement on me and i am so grateful for that. i don’t ever feel scared telling you things because i know you’re not going to look at me differently for it. you also don’t let me brain run with bad things - you normally tell me straight up how something is if i seem to be going a different direction than what actually is happening in situations where that might normally happen. you are just such a lovely support person. we are so comfortable with each other and i love doing stupid things with you. you are so extremely talented in so many ways (i will never have another wallpaper that isn’t a juno drawing ever again btw). u are absolutely adorable and i adore you and your art and your writing and just skdndjdndjsj i love you ): i can’t wait until we invent teleporting so i can hug you for a million years ): i love u so much mouse 💕

@covenofwives - I literally stayed hyperfixated on The Blame Game for m o n t h s. you are SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL. the first few times we spoke i was so hype because you were so kind! we’ve gotten to be such nice little fwens and i love that for us ): we have our own little bobbi duo! i love when we exchange art and wips, it makes me feel so nice that you allow me to see your creations before they’re finished. you are so insanely talented as well, i’m still so hype that you drew Big Challenges on the beach just enjoying his day. you and your feathers are the cutest things EVER, i can’t wait to keep our cute lil friendship growing! i love and appreciate u and ur kindness always 🥺💕

and last but definitely not least

@awkwardtickleetoo - my lil baby puppy knight. the other half of puppyduo. mr bones. i could list everything we’ve ever called each other here but it would need to be a whole new post tbh. i adore you. you already know this. i remember being nervy to speak to you too, but god am i glad we started bc here we are now, months later and clingy as heck. we are the cutest little besties and i wouldn’t trade our weird little freaky conversations for anything. thank you for always bouncing ideas around with me or reading things if i need to know if things sound okay. i love that we don’t gatekeep, and i love that we bully each other about the embarrassing things we share. i love that we’ve resorted to using mostly pet-names for each other, and i love the ones you give me (all of them are good but you know my favorites 🥺) i love that we don’t EVER judge each other and i don’t ever second guess it when i tell you things that fluster me. you’re always so kind (and mean) in the best way and you are just such a lovely person. you, just like everyone else on this list are so extremely talented. you know i binge your fics and fawn over the shit you say all the time. i am very clearly cal stan #1. i actually could keep going but this would end up being very long and repetitive, but it’s all true. love you, idiot. 💕

[nanabrainrot]

After reading the story with Lalo’s death, I’m curious about MC in Breaking Bad taking care of Hector. I’d love to see that ! Maybe she’d meet Walt and Jesse, who knows ?

I was j thinking of this; she ran into jesse a few times and has yet to meet walt because she stays at home with hector unless she goes out to get a necessity or her weird little home improvement efforts but I wrote a drabble on it </3 hmmc is so sweet despite her circumstances like she rly is j trying her best

Home Improvement

Summary: you like to refresh the house and practice your English. WC: 1528

It is hot out, admittedly thanks to the heat in New Mexico. The weather conditions were less than ideal for someone not accustomed to dry and hot climates but it was a reminder of Chihuahua. A slice of nostalgia packed in a carry away box and left to rot in the back of the fridge. It only consoled you that the same sun beamed down on you at a different time in different coordinates.

It feels like starting over, a rebirth, but with complications like a baby born with the cord around its neck wriggling and blue in the face.

But it’s not, it’s just a passing moment. Hector stays inside, given by his circumstances, but he will occasionally indulge in a walk if coaxed enough. Tuco stopped by often, Marco and Leonel less often, with their faces stiff and hands tense as they tentatively hand you a hard candy, then a soft one for Hector of course.

The place is a piece of shit compared to the house in Chihuahua, the hacienda where you could bathe in the sun but differently it feels more relaxed in the shitty house in the desert of Albuquerque, but some knick knacks serve little reminders; men really have no eye for decor, you think. Tuco is no handyman after getting out, that hot-head, relaying just the bare bones of meals and the scummy television. 

Internally, you wish Lalo would have let you have your own savings account. Nacho did deliver some money to you before he vanished and you saved it, sparsely trying to budget after twenty some years of knowing nothing about finances. Tuco was sweet enough to give an allowance and Marco and Leonel always secretively left a thick wad of cash every few months when they popped in. But thankfully, it’s enough for some paint this week.

The paint you can’t reach.

An accent wall with wallpaper would surely lighten the ambience of the shitshow house, still sorting out how to live without Lalo was a mess. It was a mix of good days and bad days, the days missing someone loving you and then the days where you recall he was not the best husband, that what you had was not healthy and not right. It’s liberating, freeing, so you choose a wallpaper too. If you could reach that one too.

“Lady, you need some help?”  

Frozen. Oh, Lalo’s not here. He can’t beat the shit out of some worker trying to help you, but at the turn of your neck it isn’t a worker but just… some kid. He didn’t look young enough to be in high school, but he likely graduated a year or two back. The scruff on his face is brown and the hue of his eyes look cold and harsh, but probably just the lighting of the harsh fluorescent lights looming above head.

“I just can’t reach the mint green up there or the dark blue floral paper of the wall. Can you just grab them for me?” you stutter, still acclimating to speaking English more than Spanish. You spoke in Spanish to Hector, but Tuco almost always spoke to you in English. It caused a headache; Lalo never spoke in anything but Spanish to you. Ah, it feels like a bad day and the thought of your accent feels heavy in your throat.

Did you say that right? It was mint, right? How do you phrase it?

“You mean wallpaper?”

“Yes! Wallpaper! I’m still learning English,” you murmur embarrassed as the kid in baggy clothes moves to get the items for you before clunking them into your wobbly little cart. It’s so odd, speaking with strangers without anyone looming over you. It's still hard to go outside without a dress code, no dress constricting the ankles, but you can’t help but try to look good still. 

Maybe he was looking at you from Heaven? He seemed to prefer the kitten wedges with a sundress, but this outside is outside of your realm. The cheap cotton of the clothes in New Mexico compared to the spoils of Chihuahua felt reminiscent of when you had no money in your teens. Ah, it still feels like a bad day.

“Your English is really good, ma’am,” he reassures.

“Really? You understand me?”

There’s the cross look of worry in his face at your mannerisms, the unnerving anxiety of the way your hands twitched and how you looked not at him but past him. “Yeah, perfectly,” the kid chuckles, “you’re a natural, lady.”

A grin, at him, not past him. “You are very nice, young man.”

“Young man? What are you, barely thirty?” he scoffed as you both went to roll your carts to checkout; his was full of thick tubs and strange chemicals. A science project for college, you thought innocently, glancing at his weird collection of items.

“So nice! I’m turning 46 this year - I think?” you murmur the last part, scooting ahead of the boy in the line since you only had the wallpaper and paint; you had been painstakingly washing the brushes over and over to use again. Money suddenly was so important in the past four years you had spent trying to fix up Hector’s house. It was coming along; some knick knacks recycled from Abuelita’s house to try to lift Hector’s spirits and antiques that had been restored to try and make it less scummy. The trials of getting paperwork and steady income was difficult after so many years without any work experience. It was foolish to forget Lalo was mortal.

“You think?” he laughs a little at your skittish self, placing the paint and wallpaper on the conveyor belt for the employee, who smiles half-heartedly. 

“Yeah, my husband never celebrated my real birthday. It got lost over the years but if my birth certificate is right I should be 46 in about two months?”

“Sounds like a shitty husband.”

It sounds like a backhanded compliment, one that you have brewed on, as you count the twenties that Tuco gave you. You miss the feel of pesos a bit, but going back over the border seemed to be a fruitless effort. It would feel like taking two steps back.

“Only sometimes,” you reply softly, taking the receipt from her and scooting forward so he could pay for his numerous tubs and chemicals.

“This is my car!” you cheer, showing him the otherwise unimpressive buggy with little scratches and bumps on it from your errors trying to learn how to drive; poles are always so much closer than they seem…

“You seem really excited for a little buggy, lady,” the kid chuckles, loading his tubs in his trunk of a bright red car. It’s all flashy, like Nacho’s was. “I am! It is hard to learn how to drive after you hit 40,” you grin,”I didn’t touch a wheel until 5 years ago!”

“Damn, you had a chauffeur?” he jokes, strolling next to you to the cart return with his own cart.

“Chaffeur?” you scrunch your brows, pushing the cart in.

“Oh uh, it’s a guy who drives you everywhere.”

“Oh? My husband was my chauffeur?”

“Your shitty husband was your chauffeur, yeah,” he laughs like a silly belly laugh and it makes you giggle. He was a shitty husband, you think sometimes, but not too often. If you reflect too hard you might miss the two decades you spent with him.

“Mister, I’m going home now - I’m my own chauffeur!” you cry out, trying to pronounce the new word like he did - like a real Albuquerque native. “What’s your name, mister?” 

He rolls down his window, a smile playing at his pink lips, “Jesse! You?”

You give him your name, not even a thought that the first thing that left your mouth for once wasn’t “Mrs. Salamanca” at the question. It starts to feel like a good day.

“Tuco, buenos tar - I mean good afternoon! I bought - not buyed! - the wallpaper and paint for our sanctuary,” you holler, happy at the conversation. Usually, you were too iffy to allow for help but the only other option was to scale a ladder yourself or talk to the ginormous lumberjack of a man that worked in the store rather than the nice boy.

“Tio, mira, este es un hermoso mint! Mint green para nos muras!” you smile, pecking Hector’s head like Lalo did every time he saw him. His lip twitches.

The past four years without Lalo were not easy, but it’s living. The walls are mint and it smells like paint in the kitchen, something Hector rang his bell about jokingly as you poked your tongue at him. The one wall has wallpaper, but you think you could use more. The sweet floral against the navy looks like Lalo’s shirts. You hope you run into Jesse twice at the store. Internally, you wish him luck with whatever science project he has going.

But for now, the print of Lalo’s shirt is reflected in the wall, seen by Hector’s little glance and your tight throat. And you wonder, a small voice in your head, how do you get back twenty-four years?

-

AUTHOR'S NOTE: the mc from Homemaker will be divided into three routes for people looking for the true ending that works with canon, the Homemaker verse where Lalo wins, and my work "Companion Dog" will be focused on the weird moments in their marriage where ur like "that's not healthy!" ty for the askkkkkkkk i love interactions and interest in my work <3

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Can Trans!Peter and Lucian have a sleepy morning ? Any AU you’d like is fine! <3

Urban explorer au it is! (cause I think that's the one where I've confirmed that Peter is trans in it)

Also, because I haven't written for it in a while.

Warning: mentioned lack of clothing, mentions of activities

On with the fic!

--

Peter found himself waking up to a mouthful of long hair in need of a wash cause he tasted dust too. He sleepily spat it out a few times, groaning for a moment as he tried to stretch... and then promptly buried his face into the source of the hair problem.

It was barely dawn, still too dark with only the tiniest bit of sun breaking over the horizon. They must have forgotten to close the curtains of this cheap ass, roadside motel they found late last night. He had to wonder if anyone saw anything, probably not, the outdoor lights were in some serious need of replacing, it was a miracle they even saw the dying neon sign off the highway.

Peter squirmed as he looked around the room, it was tiny, cramped, smelled like mothballs and some sort of pine cleaner, and had the ugliest wallpaper he had ever seen outside of his great-aunt's own, and that was hideous at best.

He shifted a bit, curling around the very arm body he was sharing a bed with, and Peter was much more awake than he was seconds ago. He felt a familiar ache in him that he knew meant that he and his new hunting/exploring friend had taken advantage of the furthest room at the end of the building.

He sat up and squawked when Lucian's head slipped from his chest to his lap. He looked at the sleeping man, who didn't seem to stir, and he let out a breath.

Them sleeping together had been unexpected. They had finished exploring an abandoned location for Peter's youtube channel, but it was so late in the night that neither wanted to make the three hour drive back to Vegas, so they stopped here. They had gotten a room together with two beds, but somehow they ended up sharing one bed while talking.

And talking became...

Well.

Peter licked his lips, remembering the kiss, those gentle hands, the tender touches. The questions that didn't make Peter feel upset when Lucian had seen him shirtless.

He told him straight up what those scars under his pecs were from, and what to expect when his pants were off. Lucian smiled, telling him that it was fine, he didn't mind, this was just Peter's body and he couldn't wait to explore it to find out what made Peter see stars.

And see stars he did.

The performer felt warmth pool in his stomach and he carefully slipped from the bed to go see if the tiny, old looking coffee maker would work.

After a few minutes of fiddling with the thing (and realizing the bastard wasn't plugged in), he got it started just as Lucian seemed to be waking up.

Peter turned to look at him, leaning back against the desk, bare as anything because he didn't care. Lucian blinked away sleep a few times before his eyes landed on Peter, and oh, shit, that smile he was giving him.

It made Peter's chest feel funny.

He smiled back. "Hope you're okay with shitty coffee until we can get to a place."

"That sounds fine, I'm sure it'll taste better than whatever this place considers to be... what was it, a 'continental breakfast'?" Lucian chuckled and got himself up from the bed, and Peter admired him in the low light outside the still open window as he approached.

They looked at each other before Lucian put a hand on Peter's chest, his thumb rubbing at one of the surgical scars. He looked at Peter in the eyes, that smile still on his face, there was no malice, no mean humor behind it, just a kindness that Peter felt he didn't deserve.

Fuck, this guy was gonna ruin him, he just knew it.

And he didn't care.

--

Peter's in love and he knows it. Lucian cares, it's not love yet, but he cares a lot.

Please don't leave the curtains open if you're gonna walk around naked in a motel room, even if it's dark outside.

[vermanaward]

pll 76

werlyt for tataru's endeavour. not surprised but not looking forward to the uptick in g**** thirst either

new dungeon is obviously connected to sharlayan somehow but other than that

twitch chat was full of LOL HYDATOS and im just. pls hydatos didn't have any snow

tickles me more than it should that the background music changed to endcaller when they announced (!!) the trial will be golbez. zodiark (savage), pls. even if that does mean more rotating arena mechs

zurvan unreal, i can feel my soul trying to exit out my body. the worst triad fight AND a reminder that they did all three triad unreals but no triad ult. smadge

savage delay again, not big surprise. gives me some time to craft shit and practice my offjob when they don't buff rdm while buffing smn again

variant dungeon being in othard rather than an arr setting is both surprising and not

prayer circle for like actual rewards this time so it isn't dead content in five minutes flat

my only want for sb duty support is they leave bardam's boss 2 intact. it's a good encounter yall just hate being forced to do mechanics

they're removing reworking (secure), god fucking bless. see you in hell you shitty shitty map

i'm going to be sad when that fish earring in the blu promo shot can't be used on fsh. not that lizards can really wear earrings anyway, but

ocean fishing fuck yes. blues still intimidate me but im happy its getting new stuff

ziggy stardust on island aw yea

outdoor furnishings on islands is pretty pog too. unsurprised at no gardens, onion empire remains in shambles

comedy tomes is. a decision. i guess

the chat log stuff is cool ig but i hope you can turn it off entirely

gear set increase unironically extremely nice (if long overdue). now do the same for glam plates

fairy glam for sch hype. the idea of sch running around with carby is so funny. now let me glam lily with feo ul and an lad

all of the merch is expensive, as expected. but im so tempted by the serpent keyring 🥺

i want the mom tshirt art as a wallpaper/print....

[nihils-trolls]

Something About Collected Moss

Reader’s warning: May contain upsetting content.

“Duvess Carrio! You sick fuck! We need to have a talk,” shouted a voice from down the hall- echoing, and practically boiling with rage.

Jurrim had stormed his way down to Duvess’s office, slamming the door open and letting it bounce off of the wall. He would find no one to try and stop him, and she had been expecting him- not all that surprised at his apparent temper. Her expression was stoic and calm as she shuffled the papers on her desk to the side.

“Easy there, you’re going to damage the wallpaper. This isn’t really a talk if you’re shouting at me, is it? What’s wrong, dear?” That’s strange, she thinks. Had he broken through again? She’s having to do the altering more and more frequently. It has to be taking its toll at this point.

“Don’t. Call me that.” He spits his words through gritted teeth, annoyed by her very existence. Jurrim paced the floor in front of her, circling like a voracious predator.  “You swore you wouldn’t pull that manipulative bullshit again. Messiahs above, I should’ve known better.”

He stops- directing his piercing gaze to Duvess, probing for answers. “How long have I been out? Nights? Weeks?” 

Oh. So he had broken out of it, and it was taking its toll. I mean, just look at him- walking like that and raving like a lunatic. 

“Hm. A few perigees. I don’t really see what all the fuss is about. You seemed to be doing just fine, anyway.” It was longer than that, but he doesn't have to know the truth. She replied in such a lackadaisical manner, as if it were normal to shut someone out of their entire mental processes for a few perigees on end.

This only infuriated the violet. Something had snapped inside that thinkpan of his- he just couldn’t believe what she was saying. “You’re telling me, I was doing that shitty excuse for entertainment- actual torture- for perigees?! You realize the amount of trolls you had me be judge, jury and executioner for?”

He remembers everything. Each face, each cry for mercy. Each death at his own hands. It's a lot for one person to receive suddenly, all at once.

“Of course. I do have to keep track of that sort of thing, you know.” With a huff, she props her head up with her hand. “I don’t really think you have room to talk about this sort of thing. You had blood on your hands well before you met me, right?”

That vile grin she held on her face. What the hell was she so giddy about? He wants to lunge for her throat, to wring that head clear from her shoulders. But something tells him that he can’t- no, that he’s not allowed. 

“Maybe, but that? That is not the same as what you’re forcing me to do here- now. This isn’t entertainment, this is a sick, twisted joke. And it’s not funny-”

“God, I miss the other you. I worked hard to get you to that state, don’t you know?”  Duvess interrupts him, rolling her eyes. Her tone had shifted- now cold and demanding. “Be a doll, would you? Shut your trap and drop to your knees.”

Something overcame Jurrim- that familiar, dreaded itch inside his head that only grew more intense the more he tried to resist the command. It’s almost painful. Too much. He falls to the ground, silent- yet still dealing her a baleful glare.

“Oof, well that sure is a sight to behold.” Duvess cackles, standing up from her seat and stepping over to her ‘ward.’ “We both know that we’re too far into this to stop now. I can’t just let you leave, either. Not only are you keeping our sponsors in good spirits, you’re also letting me have the time of my life.”

Jurrim manages to spit out a few words despite the compulsion working against him. “One of these nights, I’m going t-to rend you limb f-from fucking limb- slowly, and as painfully as possible.”

“Ooohhh, I’d love to see you try, dear.” She giggles again, sinking down to his eye-level. “I’m rather curious, though. How do you keep managing to come to your senses, hm?”

She pauses for a moment, focusing on her target. “I suppose it doesn’t matter that much, does it... You might as well just sit back, and enjoy the show.”

For Jurrim, that’s the last thing he hears before being sent back to the recesses of his mind. That grating laughter, and sharp, trill voice. God, how he loathed that voice.