#it could simply be acknowledgment and he'd aching for more

[nahoyasboyfriend]

James uses unconditional obedience as a love language.

[a-ikuoliver]

god is a bit of a freak, why's he watching me getting railed on the couch, staying pure for a wedding, he's got fucked up priorities — aka an ancient, obsolete god of fertility hears your prayer

pairing: fertility god!katsuki bakugou x fem!reader w/c: 2.8k warning/s: voyeurism, oral (f!receiving), references to sex rituals and safe sex lmao, i think that's everything, mostly lead up notes: sorry i wrote this fucked up from a cold lmao i hope u all enjoy either way! inspo/acknowledgements: god is a freak by peach prcty @kweenkatsuki-fics @aquadenks @peachsukii @rabbbitseason for ur interest teehee

crossposted to ao3 • masterlist • wip updates & voting • kofi • askbox

the ancient tongue was dead, dying a slow death as all languages did, evolving again and again with every civilisation that rose and fell, until it faded into obscurity. with the death of their language, their communication with their believers, the gods faded, too, their followers dwindling more and more as their names were buried along with the civilisations they led. once adored, worshipped, feared, now, their names only existed on scrolls, yellowed and deteriorated beneath layers of mortal history, unspoken in aeons.

katsuki kicked the door shut behind him, the bag of produce in his hand swinging back and forth with the movement. there was once a time where he was lavished with offerings of food he now had to purchase; countless altars he tended to piled with vegetables, wines, fire, soil, blood, accompanied with prayers to answer. he'd all but assimilated into living as a mortal; cooking (he was grateful, at least, for electric stoves, cooking lerthargically over a fire not quite how he wanted to spend eternity), showering, learning, exploring and working alongside the humans that once lived in his shadow.

he was one of the first to deflect from utopia, to abandon his temple, to give up on the belief that the gods, their language could return to how it was, and with it their followers. katsuki had simply grown bored of waiting alone in the stone temple, of wandering the perimeter hoping to find a lost mortal he could grant a miracle to, to find a mortal to bring meaning to godhood again. after all, what was a god without his believers?

he hadn't given up his blessings or miracles, albeit on a smaller scale than he once had, he still granted wishes as he had in utopia's heyday, the offerings he received now smiles across counters as people passed along paperwork, hoping to be one of the lucky ones, praying over pregnancy tests in bathrooms instead of in his altar. he gave up godhood, but he refused to give up his miracles, even if the mortals didn't know he was responsible.

the pot was finally at a rolling boil, his knife poised above the produce when he felt it, the sensation freezing his blood in his veins, the pull of a prayer in his veins, an echoing whisper of his name lighting his nerves alight. the god freezes, blond hair slipping into his eyes as his ears burnt, twitching at every noise, waiting to hear the sweet sound of the prayer once more.

"bakugou."

his face falls from shock to a scowl almost immediately, his pupils dilating, his skin itchy from adrenaline, his stomach twisting. it couldn't really be his name. this couldn't be a prayer. not after all this time.

the obsolete incantation runs off your tongue seamlessly; almost melodic, light as you cite the prayer carved into the stone at the base of his statue, your dialect nothing like what the prayer used to sound like, but the more you read, the harder he finds it to hate. your voice clouds his head, every word past your lips making the fog denser behind his eyes. there was a dull pain alongside it, an ache that pulsed with your every breath, the pain of a prayer.

the call of the prayer felt… foreign after so long (a millennium he thinks? maybe more, maybe less, years, decades, centuries and millenniums all blurred into one for immortals), katsuki was accustomed to the silence every god feared, the silence of being abandoned by your believers, of dwindling power and control. even with how it was feared, this almost felt worse; a single prayer cornering him in the kitchen after an aeon alone, a single spotlight in the darkness worse than the endless pitch black.

"told you it was bull." barefoot, he paces back and forth in the apartment, shifting uncomfortably as you traced a fingertip over the carved inscription, the touch feeling as if it was on the very nerves of his scalp, down the curve of his spine, catching on every bump of his vertebra. crimson eyes droop, a thick hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose, an attempt to soothe the pain of your voice bouncing around his head, the sensation of your touch on his effigy.

"hey, stop that," your giggle almost has his feet sliding against the tile, nearly tumbling backward as he stops in his tracks; his muscles straining to follow the magnetism of your voice, the melody of your intoxicating laugh while he rationalises your existence at all.

"is that why you brought me here, huh? you think being in some ancient sex temple means you'll get some?"

perks of being a god: immortality, immeasurable strength and influence, impenetrable skin (with maybe a couple flaws). downsides of godhood? the power of their followers over them.

it was… overwhelming, the itch beneath a gods skin when a devout believer called their name, the weight of a prayer, the unshakable desire to follow the call. thankfully, the perks also included the facilities to do so; something akin to teleportation, the voice like a blinding beacon in the night, guiding the god.

once upon a time, civilisations ago, it was a lot, too much, the night always lit like it was daylight with the light his followers cast out. his temple existed for this very reason, devout believers building the god a home, a sanctuary for the light of his followers, complete with the marble sculpture of the built god. then, it was at the centre of the village he ruled over, now, you and your lover had hiked up a mountain, and back down into the valley to find it, the stone weathered and covered in vegetation, it was a miracle you'd been able to work your way inside.

dragging his finger over cold stone, every ridge and bump as it once was, katsuki reminisced about a time before the silence, before the darkness, a time when people lined outside his temple with dreams of a child. years ago, women came alone to his temple, clad in robes they'd weaved specially for the fertility ritual (sometimes gifted at their weddings), kneeling in the altar to offer anything they had in exchange for their heir; piles of gold from queens who begged for a prince, beloved and wise to rule their kingdoms peacefully, warriors armed with iron to wish for a knight, strategic and strong enough to return home from battle again and again, farmers gripping their herbs with soil-stained hands, praying for a child born with kindness and thumbs so green the village would survive the winters once more, a marble statue of the god, towering at over 9 feet tall from a sculptor wishing for a child with as much passion for the arts as their parents.

visitors now were only accidental, stumbling upon the temple in the darkness of the valley, seeking shelter, safety, protection. never a prayer tumbling from their lips for an heir (he answered their prayers nonetheless, never allowing harm to befall anyone on his blessed grounds).

peeking from behind a pillar overtaken by the vegetation, he finally spotted you.

you sucked the breath from his lungs, walking further into the temple, a cute, mischievous grin tugging on the corners of your soft lips, chasing your lover with your eyes as he spoke, "you don't think it's romantic? fucking in an ancient sex gods temple?"

"he was the god of fertility, not sex." you step onto the age worn sigil by the base of the imposing statue, brushing layers of grey dust away.

you look so similar to the countless women before who laid on his mark, the way you studied the carved sigil carefully, curiosity and stars sparkling in your eyes, a heat burning beneath your skin, adrenaline spiking in your veins. eras ago, women were bare on the sigil, stone icy against their skin as they drew runes, marking their skin with blood, dirt or ink, in the language native to the gods.

"what's the difference?" their voice was low, lips brushing beneath your jaw, biting at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, nimble fingers sliding beneath your shirt to tug it higher, higher, on your torso, tugging the material over your head with a flick of his wrist.

the god was no stranger to topless women, probably seeing hundreds and thousands of them in his prime, but the way the man in front of you toyed with the fat on your chest nearly making his eyes meet the inside of his skull. your allure was impossible to resist when your boyfriend rolls your nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, tugging on the sensitive skin to pull a delicious whine from your throat.

the silence had made him soft.

"i've been waiting all day for this," katsuki's blood rushes in his ears when you both fall to the floor, limbs already beginning to tangle together, bodies becoming one at the mouth, at the hips, at the chest. your sweet sounds echo in the temple, increasingly breathless the longer you kissed and nipped and sucked and bit at your boyfriend.

the ancient tongue was dead, katsuki knew that, knew you had no way to know what you'd read, like some naive final girl in a cliche horror film, that the very god you were laid at the base of was real, that he could see and hear you, that his cock throbbed watching you. you had no way of knowing what you'd started. carmine eyes study the beat of your heart in your chest, the way your tits look when your breathing quickens, how irresistible you look when deft fingers trace the seam of your panties.

katsuki prays himself for the first time in his long life that he's the only god to see you right now, to watch your face change the lower your boyfriend travels, dragging his tongue over your skin as he goes (katsuki's thankful for every time the mortal man bites at your skin, for the yelp it elicits anytime his canines sink into your flesh). his fingertips twitch at his sides, itching to finalise the ritual you'd started with the single murmur of his name, the first syllable of a language foreign on your tongue but you'd recited it so naturally.

you exclaim your lovers name with another sweet giggle, his hands now gripping your ass, tugging your obstructive underwear down your pillowy thighs, tossing it as far as he can the moment the garment is free from your ankles.

the god's ears scald at the way you sound when the brunet's tongue flicks against your skin, sucking at your pussy just to draw increasingly needier sounds from your pretty mouth. he's not even watching you and he already knows your hips are jumping from the stone floor, grinding onto your lovers mouth and nose to work yourself closer to an orgasm. your moans echo in the stone temple, bouncing in every corner before travelling back to his ears, tempting his attention to you.

he stays steady, sharp carmine eyes narrowing on the altar.

more specifically, the lump of material atop the bench.

your underwear is draped across like an offering of its own to him, far more lewd than gold, iron and herbs, but it made his core ache when the moonlight caught in the centre of the fabric, a small damp spot glistening in the light.

fuck, it hurts, every nerve aching, screaming to finally put an end his celibacy, unbroken for far too long. he hadn't felt a need for a mortal like this since the beginning of his existence, the pure want filling his head with fog. this is a duty, this power he has, it is what he was made for, there was never this heavy, dense fog filling his head before, no follower making his blood burn like you were. and you didn't even know what you'd done.

bakugou's gaze is finally drawn back to you, your spine arching away from the stone, fingers tangling at the base of your boyfriends skull, tugging the hair harshly as you chanted his name, your hips stuttering, grinding messily back and forth on his face, until you stopped. you were still wound tight, your thighs clamped tight around his ears while you recovered, a dopey, lovesick smile planted firm on your cheeks.

your squeal makes his dick twitch, one last flick of his tongue over your overstimulated clit, blond eyebrows furrowing so hard at the centre it makes his head pound, you were making his head hurt. a desperation to finish the ritual filled his lungs, every breath a reminder of his name on your lips, of your panties across the altar, of your naked body atop his mark.

he needed this, needed to bury his cock in a pretty cunt, to fill you until you were a babbling mess, needed you.

sitting back on his knees, your lover wiped your creamy cum from his chin with the back of his hand, spreading it from his face to his fingers, hardly doing anything to clean the mess you'd made of his mouth.

your boyfriend finally moves out of the way, giving katsuki the front row seat he deserves, your thighs shining with slick the masterpiece he'd come to see. unblinking, he thinks he's squeezing his cock through his pants, he's not sure, too hypnotised by the way your hips still twitched, chasing your boyfriends warmth. onyx and ruby eyes alike study your face, glued to the way your eyes roll into your skull when his fingers, still wet with your cum, trace your clit once more, teasing the entrance of your pussy before circling your sensitive nerves once more.

katsuki knows he's stroking his cock now, frantically tugging at the zipper still preventing him from relief, his fist moving at the same pace you grind your hips down to your lovers hand, sucking his fingers into you, squeezing your cunt around them until your thighs shook. his hips rock into his hands when your tongue lolls from your mouth, your moans getting faster and faster once more.

he has to bite his lip to stifle a groan of his own, his fist pumping faster and faster again, squeezing the base of his cock when you press a kiss as soft as silk to his lips, looping your hips around his, tugging him closer when you came again.

"fuck, baby, next time you cum, it's with my cock inside you." dark hair shields your face from katsuki's vision momentarily, your boyfriend leaning over you, searching his discarded coat for something, tugging it closer and pulling each pocket inside out.

your thighs slip from his hips as he moves, wincing as your thighs made contact with the icy stone instead of his warm skin.

"shit, i think i left the condoms in the backpack," sliding the empty jacket over your chest, you tuck it beneath your arms, clutching it close to you with one hand, the other waving your boyfriend off as he ventured back toward the entrance of the temple, your gaze lingering on his ass until he was out of sight.

another perk of godhood: the blessed ground was subject to the chosen gods whims. some gods had their temples in the centre of labyrinthian mazes, others had their temples impossible to find, buried beneath the earth or deep in the ocean, hidden between mountains, camouflaged in vegetation, some invisible until the winter solstice, or until the new moon. katsuki never quite cared for that, leaving his temple as his followers built it for him, not implementing challenges for believers to prove their dedication like others had, only protecting his hallowed ground. until now.

stone scrapes against stone harshly, the coarse sound painfully invading your ears as the temple entrance seals. you drop the jacket into your lap, rushing to shield your ears from the sound with your palms pressed hard to your ears, searching around the room for your boyfriend, for his protection, katsuki supposes, like a mortal man could save you from the god you summoned, from what you started.

stepping out from the dark corner, his figure casts a sharp, long shadow as he stands to his full height in front of the statue. like this, you look identical to the women he used to bestow his miracles on; splayed on his sigil, staring up at him with dewy eyes (your blown pupils imperceptibly widening when your gaze rakes over his large form, taking everything in; blond mess of hair, darting crimson eyes, ruffled shirt as he rushed to hold it in his mouth watching you get your cunt eaten, his still-unzipped pants and finally the impressive bulge of his cock), your lips parting when he finally relaxes his shoulders, now standing easily at the shoulder of his statue.

"you-re—" your eyes dart between the imposing statue and his steely face, your voice airy, wobbling slightly as you continued, "you're real?"

© all works belong to @a-ikuoliver, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[kteezy997]

The Emperor's Wife// Paul Atreides

Warnings: angst, unrequited love, slow burn kinda

"That princess shall have no more of me than my name. No child of mine nor touch nor softness of glance, nor instant of desire." The promise of Paul Atreides as he ascended your father's throne was held true for some time. But his words began to falter in time, against his will.

He married you, but remained loyal to his concubine, Chani. But he did acknowledge that you had a literary nature, and he entrusted you to sit in on his council meetings as Emperor. The more time you spent around each other, the more you became companions, and the more he relied on your mind to help him keep a balance of things.

You noticed as Paul started to become more relaxed around you. He'd even have a laugh with you now and then. It was clear that he valued your friendship as much as your ability to write and make sense of things.

One day Paul joked that Chani was his wife of passion and you were his intellectual wife. Your feelings had started to form into deep admiration for your husband, so his words were course against your ears. Though you knew that this was the way it had to be, it wasn't any easier to hear him say it.

But there was a look from him, a look where he scanned you, slowly, from head to toe. Your special training had kicked in. You could feel it; it was desire. He thought his momentary glance would go undetected, but that was nary the case.

All the late evenings in the council room, all the discussions you had about history and his interest in your writings, it all bubbled up to his vow being broken. You caught his gaze in a meeting later, and his green eyes could no longer lie to you. He was curious and desirous of you. But he could not do anything about it. He simply could not act on it.

But you, on the other hand, were tired of the intellectual relationship. This feeling was different for you, and you never expected to fall for him. Your body ached, your skin burned for your husband. Even if it was just once, you had to have him.

You hated to admit to yourself the jealousy you felt toward his Fremen woman. You wanted to feel what Chani felt. Just one full moment of Paul's desire. You needed his touch. To exchange passionate breaths with him. To have the weight of the handsome Emperor on top of you. To have his eyes on you, and only you.

..........

You ventured to Paul's sietch, into the private apartment he shared with Chani. The Fremen in the village knew you, so they did not try to stop you, or persuade you to leave. They welcomed you with respect, as you were indeed Muad’Dib’s wife.

The room was quite plain and modest for an Emperor and his woman. The bed, however, looked cozy with glow globes on either side. The scent of cinnamon and coffee hung in the air, laced with the spice melange.

You hoped he'd come soon. You hoped he would be the first one in, and not Chani. You didn't know what to say to her, if that would be the case. She had always been pleasant toward you when you were around her, but you didn’t know if her attitude would remain the same if she knew you wanted to bed her man.

You hoped that he wouldn't be harsh towards you; that he wouldn’t be angry about you invading the space he shared with his concubine. You liked to think that you had broken his walls and exposed the tender side of him. You sat on the bed, waiting.

Finally, you heard footsteps approaching, there was a tired huff from the person outside the door, and you knew the voice instantly. Paul came in, pulling off his still suit the second he entered. He didn't see you at first. You saw his shoulders and chest as he rid himself of the rubbery material. He was strong, with hard muscles and pale skin with minor scars here and there.

You could smell the dirt and sweat that he carried. It did not deter you in the slightest, but made you more eager.

He could sense you there. You knew he could.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, without even turning to face you.

You took a shaky breath, then answered, "I wanted to see you, Paul."

He finished freeing his arms from the constrictive suit, turning to look at you sitting on his bed. "And why?"

You were excited just seeing his shoulders, but now you saw his naked chest, his hard pectoral muscles and small nipples. You nearly shuddered with need. "I-uhm," I want you. "I wanted to make sure that you saw how bright and beautiful the two moons look this evening. And maybe you'd like to see my latest Muad'Dib chronicle?"

Paul nodded, "Hm." He stepped over to the window, looking up at the moons, "They are quite beautiful tonight."

You rose from the bed, joining him by the window. You could really feel his presence now, as you usually didn't get quite this close to him. His scent was stronger, too. "I brought my latest writings. If you want to read."

"Sure. You may leave them here."

He was so polite, but never overly kind. He couldn't disrespect Chani. But you so wanted things to change between you and your husband.

"Paul, I really came here to talk to you about something."

He took his eyes off the night sky outside his window and looked into your eyes. "Go on."

Your heart started thumping in your chest, you cleared your throat. "Well, I do not wish to overstep, but I think you and I have both come to enjoy our time together. I think it is safe to say that we are good friends now." You got stuck for second as you got a close look of the sweat glistening on his skin in the glowing light of the dark room.

Paul softly smiled, giving you a nod to keep going.

"But, I need you to know that no matter how amazing the moons might be on a starry night, it is no match for the way I feel when I look at you."

His expression fell, and he shook his head, "Y/n, please. I am very flattered. I appreciate you, and I care for you."

You butted in, "I can sense that you desire me, Paul. You've already broken your oath. I know that you feel distant towards your concubine, and I wonder if it has anything to do with how you feel about me."

He chuckled, walking away from you, "I thought you said you didn't wish to overstep?"

"I cannot help it. I'm sorry. But you know my training." You genuinely didn't want to disrupt anything between him and Chani.

He ran his hand over his face, pushing away the exhaustion of the day, trying to make sense of his own feelings as well. "Y/n, you aren't wrong. Chani knows that my sentiments for you have shifted."

So he admits it!

"You haven't bedded her for weeks now, have you?" you prodded, carefully.

"No," he stepped closer to you, towering over you by several inches, "not that it is any of your business."

"I don't want to make you angry, Paul. But I have seen the way you look at me, the way you brush passed me during council. You've preferred spending more and more time with me lately." You took a step forward this time, just a foot's length away from him.

Paul let his guard down, knowing that you were right about everything. His face softened, and he brought his hand up to caress your face. His hand had been roughed up by the wind and sand if the desert, but you could still see yourself melting against it as he touched you.

Paul went on to say, "You should know by now how I feel for you. But it cannot be. I made a promise. I don't ever want to be cruel to you, my y/n." he licked his dry lips, and you noticed just how blue his eyes were as a result of spice addiction. "I did not marry you for things such as love or children, you know that."

"Yes, I know." you sighed, having heard that piece of information a hundred times during your marriage. "My husband, you are a loyal man. I admired you for that, but I don't wish for anything more than the same love that you have for your concubine. You can share that tenderness with me."

He said nothing, but kept his hand on your cheek, gazing at you so fondly.

You could sense him breaking for you. "Paul," you leaned closer, placing your hand on his exposed chest, "I have seen the way your eyes narrow at me when I bow before you as my Emperor."

Then, his hand wound tightly into your hair, and his lips were being smashed against yours. He pulled you against him, he moaned into your kiss. His hands were on your body, sliding up the curves of your hips.

Your body was electrified, you ran your hands through his hair, not caring how sweaty he was. The hunger was equal on both sides.

Paul pulled away suddenly, sighing as he turned away from you.

He was still wrestling in his mind, you knew it. "I need you." you said, melancholy taking over your tone as you started to believe he was going to refuse you completely, "I need my husband. I want to made love to by Muad'Dib." You went over to him, looking at his back you noticed a scar, larger than the others on his body. You wondered if the mark was result of a fall on a sand dune or maybe the consequence of riding the great sandworm. You reached out, cautiously running your finger along the scar.

He shivered at your touch, but he didn't shy away.

You decided that maybe this plan was fruitless, that he wouldn't, and never could love you the proper way in which a man loved his wife. "Paul, if you do not love me, I will leave now. You'll never see me come back to this place. I will accept being wrong. Things will go back as they were."

"No, please, don't go." he faced you again. He relaxed more, his body language and the look in his eyes was more at ease.

"Then stop me, my dear husband."

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @bitchyunknownuser @lixzey @kpopgirlbtssvt @ducktapebar

[wheels-of-despair]

Best Seat in the House Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie needs a place to sit. Is Evil Woman's lap available? Contains: Eddie POV, a touch-starved metalhead, tooth-rotting fluff. Words: 700ish

There's nowhere to sit.

Eddie slows on his way back into the garage, contemplating his next move. He'd gone inside to pee the second Corroded Coffin's final song ended today's practice session, and returned to find everyone deep in conversation in the back of the garage.

Gareth has turned around to sit backwards on the stool by his drum kit. Grant sits on an upturned bucket. Jeff and Evil Woman are on the old loveseat. Should he wedge himself between them? Nah, too territorial. Should he sit on the floor? His ass aches at the thought of the cold concrete. The lawn chairs are behind a heap of junk in the corner. Too much effort. What about borrowing a chair from the kitchen?

She makes eye contact and smiles, and he forgets how to breathe for a second. Fuck, how does she do that? She pats the arm of the loveseat, and his feet start carrying him toward her while his brain tries to catch up. He perches on the edge; he's so close to her, he can almost feel the warmth radiating off of her skin in the cool garage.

She looks up at him with a smile, and he fights the urge to slide into her lap. She turns her attention back to the story Grant is telling about the vacation he just returned from, and he does too.

Briefly.

The padding on the ratty old loveseat's arm is virtually nonexistent. He can feel the edges of the frame digging into his ass. Damn his lack of padding. He shifts to face the group, sitting sideways and hoping that distributing his weight more evenly would help. The side of his leg touches the front of hers. He eyes the denim-covered thighs just a few inches below his own and wonders…

What would she do if he sat in her lap? He knows it's not a particularly manly thing to do. But it could be cute, right? She might be surprised by it, but he doesn't think she'd shove him to the floor. What would the guys do? Make fun of him?

They wouldn't dare.

A pain shoots up Eddie's spine, and his mind is made. He shifts his weight onto his hands and eases down, his ass landing gently on her lap. He holds his breath and watches her from the corner of his eye, waiting for a reaction.

She glances up with an amused expression. Not tossing him to the floor. Not asking him what the fuck he thinks he's doing. She simply acknowledges his arrival with a smile and turns her attention back to Grant.

Eddie tries to listen to his friend, and he does for a few minutes. Then, a hand snakes its way across his lower back. Oh, fuck, she's holding him. She's wrapped her arm around his waist and stuck her thumb inside his belt loop to hold it there. Eddie Munson, a grown-ass man, is squealing like a teenage girl on the inside.

Eddie's sure the story being told is a fascinating one, but he has much more important things to contemplate. Like how she laughs and says "oh my god" and "no way" like she's truly invested in the tale of Grant's family vacation while she's doing this to him.

And how her fingers drift north a little bit and find the bare skin beneath his shirt. He shudders, and she glances up at him and mouths "sorry." He's not sure if it was a ticklish spot, or his body reacting to so tender a touch. But she leaves his side alone and moves her hand to his lower back. Under his shirt. Rubbing gently.

Eddie tries his hardest not to melt into a puddle in her lap.

He's never had anybody want to touch him like this before. It just feels so natural. Like it's the most normal thing in the world, to be absent-mindedly stroking the bare flesh of the town pariah's back.

None of the guys had noticed. He was facing them. They didn't see her hand disappear under his shirt. It wasn't done to gross them out, or on a dare. It wasn't for show. She just wanted to touch him.

It was the sweetest, most intimate thing he'd ever experienced.

He hoped Grant's story would go on forever.

[fuxuannie]

❥﹒a special kind of love

✦. synopsis — a relationship with dan heng can be a little rocky, but for him? you'd be willing to go through a landslide.

✦. love mail — im alive (i say for the 4th time only to disappear without a trace.. again) but this is inspired by my experience w someone v special to me!! happy 1 month ♡

✦. tags — HSR SPOILERS. noot really? i mean spoilers for dh's identity, dan heng x gn reader, fluff, i havent written for hsr in 6 years (dramatic), not proofread, im sick

"YOU'RE KIDDING!?"

You nearly topple over the trinkets on your desk when you had slammed the table prior to your screaming.

Moments before such a reaction, you had called Dan Heng into your room to discuss a 'private matter', in which you had to talk to him personally with no distractions.

'Private matter' being your feelings, and how bottling them up was making you lose your mind - so to save yourself the slowburn suffering, you had to confess the aching sensation in your chest every time he passed by.

"I, uh.. I like you." Your voice is almost a murmur, staring down at your desk that you stood behind with Dan Heng infront of it.

There's silence, he tilts his head slightly. "Sorry?"

You're about to repeat yourself, already regretting your decisions until you hear him clear his throat.

Looking up, you notice a hue of red on his face as he looks almost as shy as you, a rare sight from the usually nonchalant Dan Heng. "You.. like me?" He repeats for clarity, watching you nod as silence once more fills the room.

"Well.. I like you too. I'm surprised you beat me to the confession."

"...YOU'RE KIDDING!?"

And that lead to the unexpected relationship between the trailblazers who almost never interacted within the publics gaze.

You'll admit the first few weeks were.. awkward. You two didn't have much dating experience, especially Dan Heng, but you see how he tried. He'd always text you if you guys were seperated, you notice how he's much more clingy when you're around, and how he's clearly more comfortable with you than anyone else.

But you'd often times get him 'just because' gifts and letters, told him he was the person you adored most, and constantly reminded him how perfect he is. However, most of the time - especially in public, it still felt like you guys were more or less friends than anything else.

And because of that, there was a bit of overthinking that clouded your mind for a while. You of course, acknowledged that Dan Heng was not at all required to immediately reciprocate affection in the way you do.. but you simply wanted to be reassured that he felt the same way about you.

So on a rainy night, with Dan Hengs arms wrapped around your own frame as the sound of raindrops hitting your window keep you up.. well, not to mention the racing thoughts of insecurities, that played a part too. You looked up at your boyfriend, who was fast asleep with his beautiful and peaceful expression, which made you feel bad for choosing tonight to communicate your feelings.

"Dan Heng?" You whisper, lightly rubbing his arm to wake him. His messy hair is everywhere, so you first wait as he moves it away from his eyes to get a good view of you even in the dark. "..Hm?" He replied sleepily.

"..Do you.." Hesitation was evident, clutching the back of his shirt. "..Ever think I'm not good enough for you?"

Silence.

"Cause-" You sniffled, unable to escape the lump in your throat as you began to share your feelings. "I know I'm not that amazing. I'm not energetic and bright as March, I'm not strong and independent like Stelle, and I'm certainly nothing like you.. I don't get it. Why me? Why me when you could have anyone else?"

You waited for a reply, but you weren't expecting much. You knew he wasn't a talker, and that is something you learned to accept, but you didn't know how to feel about the chances of him responding with "I'm not sure what to respond." or something along those lines.

"(name)," He chuckled, pulling you closer as your tears soaked his shirt. "You don't have to be them, not March, not Stelle, and certainly not me. I fell inlove with you because you're you, and you're more than I've ever wanted in someone."

You didn't know how to respond, you wanted to talk more, but the rears were getting uncontrollable and Dan Hengs firm and comforting arms around you weren't helping your emotional state. So you cried, and cried, and through it all - he was awake till you'd stop crying. It was then you realized how much you really mattered to him, more than you could fathom.

He placed several small kisses onto your forehead,

"I love you, more than you know."

[bs2sjh]

My first @flashfictionfridayofficial! Thanks for the great prompt!

Fandom: Sherlock (Johnlock, Mystrade)

I'm also posting it on Ao3. It's over 1000 words, so feel free to go here to read it!

cw: implied drug use, implied suicide attempt, implied torture

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There had been a number of times where Mycroft Holmes had been made very aware that he did, in fact, have a heart beating in his chest after all.

The first was when a small, red-faced infant had been brought home. As Mycroft looked down at the crying, screaming thing, he didn't expect the sudden jolt in his chest. A stab of sudden overwhelming emotion. What was equally unexpected was that when he stroked his new baby brother's face and told him to quieten, that everything was going to be okay, that he would always be protected by his big brother, the infant had listened. William Sherlock Scott Holmes simply looked at his older brother, and Mycroft felt that deeply. 

The second time was sheer pain at finding his younger brother in a drug den, surrounded by needles, barely breathing. It wasn't the first time he'd found him in a place like this. But on this occasion, it felt different. Mycroft knew that this time, Sherlock had not meant to survive the encounter. Scooping up the younger man in his arms, his heart ached at how thin the boy was, at how little life remained in him. He took him straight to the nearest hospital, where they whisked him away, leaving Mycroft with his aching heart to sit and wait. It wasn't until many days later that Sherlock opened his eyes to see the concerned expressions of his family around him. In his heart, Mycroft knew that this wouldn't be the last time his brother would be in this situation. The pain was indescribable. 

The third time was seeing Sherlock chained up in a filthy cell in Serbia. His brother had spent two years moving around the globe, destroying pockets of Moriarty's empire single-handedly. That the criminal mastermind hadn't targeted Sherlock's family should have hurt, but strangely it didn't. Knowing that Sherlock had people he cared about enough to keep them safe meant that he valued at least some people in his life to prevent their suffering. It was a pity that John Watson didn't know the lengths to which Sherlock would go to protect him. It might have saved his heart some of the ache he was currently feeling. But seeing Sherlock beaten, tortured, at the edge of his sanity. Anger filled his heart this time. That someone could do this to his baby brother. Infiltration successful, Sherlock finally cut down from his bonds, too weak to stand, bleeding and barely conscious. Mycroft hardened his heart and made sure no one who had laid a hand on his brother was left to tell the tale. 

The fourth time was the hardest to bear. To know that Sherlock had once again sacrificed his life for a love that would never be acknowledged. By now, Mycroft was angry at John Watson. He had Sherlock's undying love but was so blindingly stupid not to realise that fact. So here they were, in a prison cell, Sherlock about to be sent away on a one-way mission to the place he had been rescued from not long before. All so that John Watson could be happy. And there was nothing Mycroft could do. His heart ached at how easily Sherlock would throw his life away for someone who merely considered him a friend. But nothing Mycroft could say would make Sherlock change his mind; he refused to tell John the truth, and that was that. The relief when Moriarty appeared on the screen, the phone call that followed, the pardon that he had hoped for arriving almost too late. His heart skipped with happiness only to sink again when he realised his brother had fallen back on old habits. No one who had seen that list could think otherwise. Sherlock had not meant to land in Serbia alive. Telling John Watson to look after his brother was the hardest thing he had ever done, but at that point, Mycroft knew he had to let go. His heart couldn't take any more. One day, Sherlock would succeed, and his heart would break. 

The fifth was a surprise. As Mycroft stood blinking at his brother, who was sitting at the kitchen table in Baker Street bouncing a three-year-old Rosie Watson on his knee, his heart gave the biggest lurch he'd ever felt. He felt for the chair he knew must be there and sank into it like his strings had been cut. 

"Best man?" His brother rolled his eyes and set Rosie on the floor, watching as she toddled off into the living room.

"Yes."

"But..."

"But what? You've been there every day, meddling, since I was born. For once, and once only, I'm asking you to be there. With me." Mycroft's heartfelt three sizes bigger; a lump appeared in his throat, and his eyes started to fill. Choking down the emotion, Mycroft coughed and turned away. 

"Don't tell me it broke him too. You two are ridiculous." John laughed as he walked into the kitchen. So a few weeks later, Mycroft stood next to his brother as he married his best friend, finally. 

If the fifth was a surprise, nothing shook Mycroft more than the sixth. He was standing on the edge of the dancefloor as he watched Sherlock waltz with his new husband, besotted expressions on their faces. It happened when the other best man approached. 

"So, normally, I guess I would be asking the maid of honour to dance. But seeing as that would either be you or me in this case, would you do me the honour of this dance?" Gregory Lestrade held out his hand for Mycroft, and at once, something like a bolt hit him straight in the heart. 

"I'd be delighted, Gregory." He accepted the proffered hand, and they waltzed onto the dancefloor. As they moved in time to the music, Mycroft felt his heart change. He continued to feel its presence long after the dance, the night, the week. Mycroft spent the rest of his life knowing full well he had a heart. It was a joyful feeling most of the time, and, on occasion, it ached. It got larger as their families grew and settled. And he never once said again that caring was not an advantage. Because he had learned that it most definitely was. 

@totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @dapetty @calaisreno

If you'd like to be tagged when I post a new story, let me know!

[nebbyy]

Random question. Do you think Baldwin would like puppies or kittens better

King Baldwin - Cats or dogs?

A/N: Mmmmh hard one, took me almost half a day to think about it😭😭 Loved the idea though, I think that this question and the reasoning behind its answer tell a lot about a person.

Couldn't find the name of the painting this time but the painter is by Henriette Ronner-Knip!!

Warning: puppies, but mostly kitties. Jokes aside I took the liberty of adding some historical inaccurate facts about cats' presence in medieval castles just to make the story more fit to my taste (not like historical accuracy is really the point of a fanfic but you get my point).

I'm still really torn but I'd say that it depends on which time of his life that question is asked

If it's during his childhood and first youth, he'd say dogs with no hesitation. They're great companions and so full of life, he'd love to bring a few with him during his hunting trips. He would see his own sprout of energy mirrored in his pawed companions! I see him as owning at least two of them, maybe even more (having almost a pack of dogs was pretty much the norm in noble families)

Dogs are also perceived better by Christian society, as there were quite a few theologists who believed that cats where somehow tied to unholiness or even the devil himself

But as time goes by and his condition worsens, he can't bring himself to stand for so long, let alone play with the dogs or take them out while he rides his horse

He feels bad, though, at the sound of their whines as his servants shoo them out of his bedroom, while he lays motionlessly on his huge bed (in which he usually let them lay while he rested, much to his servants' dismay)

And it is right as he's left laying there, alone and with an aching heart at the loss of his dear friends, that he for the first time notices the gentle meow of his physician's cat. He never really acknowledged his existence, for he always seemed to make it his mission to be as invisible to the people in the room as possible

The cat looked him with mil interest: of course, he knew him, but Baldwin couldn't say the same. He had been silently studying the young king, as his master tended to his everlasting wounds, or as he distracted himself form his duties with a game of chess. All while Baldwin didn't even know that the cat was in the room in the first place

Their exchanged stare didn't last long, because soon the cat jumped swiftly on the bed, waggling his tail like an enchanted snake as he made a few steps on top of the covers

He inspects the space, undisturbed by Baldwin who can't bring himself to make even the slightest movement because of how exhausted his sickness makes him

Finally, the cat seems to find a spot to his liking, right on the spot between Baldwin's side and arm, which is splayed on the side of the bed

The cat makes a few circles before snuggling close to his clothed side, resting his head on his own tail and quietly purring himself to sleep, soon followed by the king himself

That was their first official encounter, one that changed Baldwin's answer at the question "cats or dogs"

He also came to find that apparently there were far more cats in palace

In his late years, he found in those cats a silent and delicate company, it created a space in which he could let go of everything and just bask into the presence of those little balls of fur

And they are so agile and elegant in their movements, he enjoys watching them move around his room, jumping from a surface to the other like it's nothing; he feels like he can move and live through them

And he misses them oh so badly when they leave his chamber to go hunt for food or to simply explore the palace, but as they happily walk back in his room and curl up to rest all over his bed and desk, he almost feels like they're telling him all they've seen during the day simply through their eyes

And that is how Baldwin IV was born a dog person, only to die surrounding his death bed with cats

[paranoidginger]

Shot in the Dark // A one shot Swordvan Fic

Tw: Substance abuse, Eating disorders

"Yeah. Yeah mum, I'm doing okay..." Sniper stood by the phone outside of the base, nearby to where his van was parked, shifting on his feet as he suppressed a rasping cough. "Yes, I'm seein' the medic, mum. He's takin' good care of me." He paused, unable to hold it in any longer as he covered the phone's receiver, releasing a harsh cough into the inside of his arm before shakily bringing the receiver back to his ear, It hurt every single time, the reflex clawing at the inside of his airways as if he'd swallowed needles.

"N-no mum, it's not gettin' worse... I-I'll be alright." He lied, he hated lying to his mother, but he knew it would only hurt her more if she knew how poorly he was doing... "Yeah, I'll be home to visit for New Years. Tell dad I miss him... I gotta go. Love ya lots, mum, I'll talk to you soon." He hung up the phone, saying goodbye to his mother one last time.

He never should have let himself get talked into taking those pills. Those stupid pills that made him so, so sick, that made him piss his brains out... Even after months without taking them, his body still rotted away. Every day he would wake up, and his body would ache, and the same routine would happen. Wake up, make coffee, drink it black with as many painkillers as he could handle, and get on with the day. He couldn't often stomach much more than that... He knew it was unhealthy, that in the end it was hurting more than it was helping, but it made the pain stop, or ease at the very least.

None of the others seemed to notice as he became more withdrawn, pulling away from the people who used to be his close friends... All except one. That idiot genius, with his work-worn hands and scruffy face, and goofy, charming smile. He always seemed to know whenever something was wrong, and then he was there, offering a drink and words of encouragement... Whenever he wasn't drinking himself to the brink of blacking out, Tavish was a beacon of light, someone to pull him from the shadows that seemed to swallow him whole.

Quietly, Mick made his way back into his Van, grabbing a fresh cup of coffee, despite how late in the day it was growing. The caffeine didn't seem to have much of an effect on him anymore... It was simply habit. Coffee for breakfast, coffee with lunch, coffee with dinner... He didn't have much of an appetite for dinner today, even after a long day of working on the battlefield. Good lord, today had been terrible... Missed shots left and right, unable to properly steady himself as his arms tired from holding his rifle. It was getting worse, and it was affecting his performance on the team...

The inside of his camper van was messy and tight, but worked all the same. It was quieter than being inside, where the voices and sounds of the eight other mercenaries would often overwhelm and suffocate him. The inside of the base was always bustling, everyone busy with one thing or another.

Even among killers, he didn't quite seem to fit in. He had never fit in anywhere, and that was a burden that he would always carry with him. Always the outsider, never the focus. Not that he wanted to be in the spotlight, he didn't want to be the leading role, but at the very least he could take part in the play? Of course not, he was hardly even on stage, forced to work in the back, never acknowledged by the audience until the story ended. Was that how his life was doomed to play out?

He sighed quietly, popping a handful of painkillers into his mouth and washing them down with a swig of the bitter, caffeinated beverage he had prepared, hanging his hat up on its hook as he sat at the small dining table of his camper.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door, and Sniper released another short sigh, which was swiftly cut off by that painful, harsh cough. He stood up, moving much faster than he was planning, dark creeping around the edges of his vision as he wobbled and grasped at the edge of his little table, waiting for the dizzy, staring into the abyss feeling to end. He was still rather lightheaded as he reached the door, cracking it open to look outside.

"Hello lad, How're ye feelin'? Ye look... Rough..." The team's Demoman stood outside looking up at Sniper, a worried sort of look in his eye as he asked the question. He'd never seen Mick so pale, as if he was going to keel over any minute. "Ye mind if I come en?" He asked, stepping back so that the other man could open the door all the way.

"Feelin' rough, too..." He muttered, rubbing his eyes slightly, god, he was so tired... It wasn't even that late. "Yeah, c'mon in. Just made a pot o' coffee if you want some." He stepped out of the way, letting Tavish inside before shutting the door. "Sorry it's such a mess..." He muttered, hesitantly beginning to collect the small pill bottles that littered his camper.

"Anything I can do tah help?" Tavish asked, a soft, handsome smile on his face.

"N-nah, 's my mess... Should've cleaned up days ago..." He stifled another cough, not wanting to make the other man worry more than he already seemed to be worrying. All the same, he had to pause, lifting his arm to his face as he coughed, his thin frame wracked with the motion as he used his other hand to support himself, gripping onto the edge of his counter as spots formed in his vision, and the metallic flavor of blood filled his mouth.

The Demoman stood up, moving to Sniper's side as he shook, trembling with each cough. Demo placed a gentle hand on the other's back, trying to ease the pain that he could see etched into Mick's face.

Sniper's world spun as he continued to cough and hack, pressing his eyes shut as he felt his body give out, trying to correct his stance, only to find himself slipping. He should have fallen, should have found himself collapsed, alone on the floor of his van... But he didn't, Tavish had caught him... The warmth of another person holding him was something he had gone so long without, that he had forgotten that he craved it... He could hardly process the worry on the other man's face before everything melted away into darkness.

He woke up again in Demo's arms, held close to his chest. Running, Tavish was running, and shouting, calling for someone. Sniper's breathing was quick and shallow, and blood stained his chapped lips. Everything was a blur, but there was clear panic on the Demoman's face. They were inside, Tavish still running as fast as his legs could carry him, calling at the top of his lungs for the medic as Sniper faded in and out of consciousness.

He was cold, wrapped in soft linen sheets with a mattress beneath him. His mouth was dry, and everything was bright. Bright and loud, every beep of the heart monitor piercing his brain like ice picks... But there was another sound, too, quiet, tearful ramblings... And he could feel warm, callused hands wrapped gently around one of his own. Slowly he turned his head, squinting slightly as Tavish came into view, tear tracks staining his face as he gently rubbed the Sniper's hand.

The Demoman's face seemed to light up as he saw Sniper open his eyes and look over at him, a terrified, joyous look crossing his face as he gently squeezed the other man's hand.

"I thought we were goin' tah lose yeh!" He cried softly, moving a hand to gently cup the other man's cheek. "I've never been so scair'd en me life..." Tavish swallowed hard, a tearful smile on his face... Good lord, he was an ugly crier, but Mick wouldn't change it for the world...

Slowly, the Sniper managed to sit up, wincing slightly, being met with gentle assistance from the man who sat beside him. He couldn't quite help himself as he reached out, combing his fingers gently through the scruffy beard that covered the sides of Tavish's face.

A moment of realization washed over the Demo, his face darkening with a slight blush. Had he been drinking, he would have blamed his thoughts on the alcohol, but here, now... He cupped the Sniper's hand against his face, gently grabbing hold of him and pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist.

"I don' want tae lose yeh..." He whispered softly, tears still rolling gently down his face. Mick sat in silence, his eyes slightly wider than before as he processed the small, delicate action. his heart fluttered, and he felt his face warm slightly. He had never felt this way towards anyone before... He trusted Tavish, but maybe... Maybe it was more than that.

"I don't plan on leavin' any time soon." He responded quietly, hesitating for a moment before gently tugging Demo closer, wrapping his arms around him and shutting his eyes, his face hidden against the other man's chest. Tavish had such a unique smell to him, the sharp spice of gunpowder mixed with a faint alcoholic scent. To some, off-putting, but to Mick... He couldn't help but savor it.

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

If you made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed!

I know this isn't Lab-Rat, but I had an idea and I needed to write it!

I am still working on the next part of Lab-Rat of course.

[shinjisdone]

(Kicks the blog door)

I was excited when I saw that the Yandere type orders were open, since the orders are open, I don't want to miss my shot >:D

Type: Headcanons (Yandere)

Reader: Female

Yandere Alphabet

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?💔

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?💔

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?💔

Character: (TWST) Silver

I hope that my request is not too long, in case it has complications you can discard it if you wish. But if not, take your time and no pressure 🌠🌌✍️ Bye 👍💐

@justm3di0cr3 , @a-small-tyrant , @twistedcece , @savanaclaw1996

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling? - Silver

Silver - when everything is considered "fine" in his eyes - can be his usual self around you. Disciplined, honest, and a gentleman. There is, however, an obvious infatuation and admiration in his eyes whenever he gazes at you. Whether or not you see it. In moments such as these, he's quiet and calm and has only eyes for you. He barely acknowledges anything or anyone else when you are here.

He listens mostly but likes to do so while he is close to you. He'd try his very hardest to not fall asleep by...staring at you intently. Seeing you, especially this close (to him!) gives him the urge to never look away and to focus on only you. Sitting close together, knee next to knee, hands brushing, goodness if only he could even ask if he could lay on your lap! How could he ever escape to his dreams when his one dream is right here?

Unfortunately, due to being so quiet and staring at you, he unwittingly seems creepy, even with that gentle smile of his. He prefers to listen so he can soak up every little detail about you and what you say, what you like, dislike, have noted or wanted. Silver can act accordingly then by either avoiding certain things you do not like or surprising you with something you had your eye on for quite some time.

It might seem like he is zoning out...but he is very much in the moment. Taking in every little small thing you do, from your choice of words to the way your eyes flicker and your weight shifts as you stand. Silver is quite observant and it is a pleasure for him to just indulge in your presence and is even quite proud of being able to know every detail about you by just watching.

If only you could know what he is thinking as he listens to you talk. His smile would not seem so soft anymore.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Silver is patient. He's a bit of a daydreamer as well, finding contentment in being your close friend - as long as that also means that he can admire you from afar, be the only one who listens to and solves your problems, who offers protection for you that you gladly accept, as long as he can be your prince. It is a bit cliché but he very much enjoys the role of a knight...however, he sees you in a more romanticised light as his 'loving liege' that he can rather pledge his love and loyalty to than his allegiance.

Pining can go on for a long time but the longer it goes on in the school years, the more his heart aches. And the more it aches, the more emotional cool-headed Silver gets and that increases the chances of him acting upon them. Suddenly proclaiming shocking things to you, asking you very personal questions while wanting to hear only one answer; "Yes, I love you too, Silver."

He does not grow angry nor saddened. Upset at most but he simply wants to know one thing while letting you know thousands more; Of his thoughts, of his feelings, of him pledging his love to you. Please, please accept it!

However, when someone approaches that threatens his position as your self-proclaimed knight or when you reject and not indulge in his fantasies, Silver might get a bit upset - however, his patience is abundant. It will take time and a lot of troubling situations for his patience to grow thinner.

Silver will encourage himself if you and the actions of others do not. How this will be short-lived and that he cannot be...replaced as harsh as it sounds - because it is not possible. Someone like him who has worked so hard to be by your side, to be seen in that light by you cannot just be cast aside. It's not possible.

He is your knight. Even when you do not acknowledge it.

The moment he'd snap is when his fantasies and dream are completely shattered. Either by thorough rejection or you finding love in someone else. Silver does not get violent but emotional. Heartbroken. He might finally spill everything out very emotionally and dismayingly. You do not recognize him.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Jealousy is seldom but possible.

Silver is not neccessarily jealous of people he knows he is above of in skill, in knowledge, and strength. But no matter how "weak" someone might appear to be, he might get jealous if they still manage to be close to you.

Especially when you act different around them. Much more positively than you ever have with Silver. As mentioned he is observant and will notice the slightest shift in your mood and feelings and when they appear to be displeasing to him, Silver gets jealous.

He tries to brush the green monster off. There is no need to feel upset. Just because you might feel a certain way about someone else does not mean your knight will be replaced or deterred. He'd rather wait and see instead of making assumptions. Who knows, this little thing you've got going on with this other student might be short-lived (He hoped so dearly).

So Silver somewhat blocks it all out because he knows if he watched and listens, he will notice you liking this person quite a bit, or the student being way too comfortable around you. He will notice it, he knows it, so in the beginning he will try to ignore it and instead strenghten the bond he has with you. But enough will be enough and Silver will have no choice but to acknowledge this gnawing jealousy.

Still, he tries his best not to lash out. Especially when he is with you but if he does happen to be alone with that person that makes you laugh while Silver can only make you giggle, he might...challenge them to a duel. A friendly match to test each other's skills and wits.

However, he might end up beating them much harsher than originally intended but Silver will not notice. The only thing in his mind is to prove to himself, to you and especially to the other student, that they are no match.

They might stop hanging out with you...and just like the princely knight that he is, Silver will be by your side as your support. He did not outright plan to scare the other party away with his brute strength but he does not complain of his things ended up.

With you back in his arms.

[mncxbe]

Hihi!! I'm not sure if my request already went it, I sent it without wifi but incase it didn't id like to request a fic where reader comforts aku after a rough day and he starts crying and about not being good enough for her!! love your work 💗

thank you so so much nonnie and this is so hhhh I loved writing this😳😳 I hope you like it too♡♡

°☆○

Kiss my tears away♡

𝑨𝒌𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒘𝒂 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎! 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: light angst/ comfort♡.

It was around 12:30 when the thud of the front door closing woke you up from your slumber. You turned your head to the side and watched as your boyfriend quietly stepped into the bedroom and started undressing; a foggy, shadowy figure observed by your sleepy eyes.

"Hey Ryuu. How was today?" you inquired, voice dripping with langour but he gave no answer. He simply lay in bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist to bring you closer to him.

"Ryuu dear can you~" you began again but were immediately cut off by the sound of heavy sobs. Akutagawa's hot breath dripped down your neck as he buried his face in your hair, chest heaving against your back.

"Ryuu baby what's wrong?" you asked again in a concerned voice, reaching a hand to turn on the lamp on your nightstand but he quickly seized your arm.

"Don't, please". His voice was weak, a mere shaky mumble "I don't want you to see me like this."

Sighing softly, you turned to face him; you couldn't clearly make out his features in the darkness but you noticed the faint quiver of his lower lip, the light furrow of his brows.

Without a word, Akutagawa shifted closer to you and leaned his head on your chest, pearly tears tracing their way onto your heated skin. On cue, you slid your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to you. His muffled sobs echoed through the gloom of the bedroom, your heart twisting in a helpless knot.

"Hey..." you began, gently threading your fingers through his dark tufts "What's wrong? Did something bad happened at work?"

Without raising his head from your chest, Akutagawa started rambling on about how burnt out he felt, about the mission Dazai assigned him today. You knew how desperate your boyfriend was to gain his former mentor's respect and appreciation, the lengths he'd go to just for a simple "good job, Akuatagwa" and a pat on your shoulder.

"I just don't understand what I'm doing wrong. I gave it all I got and it's still not enough, never enough." His nails dug painfully into your hips, as if he were trying to crawl under your skin, to find a safe space far away from all the doubt and pain. "I feel like a fucking joke. How can you even love someone like me? How can I be good enough for you when I can't even-" Akutagawa's breath became erratic, words getting stuck in his aching throat.

You gently traced your nails along his scalp, fumbling for words. Truth was, you'd never seen him like this before, so torn by his own emotions, so vulnerable and you were afraid to say the wrong thing.

"Ryuu, my dear, you're not a joke. You work really hard and I'm so, so proud of you for what you've accomplished. If Dazai doesn't want to acknowledge you that's his problem, not yours." A choked sob left his throat at the sound of your words and you softly shushed him, scooting lower under the crunchy covers so that you were face to face with him.

Lovingly cupping his face with your hands, you traced your thumb over his cheekbone, wiping away his tears. "You're so amazing Ryuu, even if you don't always believe that. I love you so much" Your lips pressed feathery kisses all over his face as you held him closely; his fierce grip on your hips slowly growing weaker.

Your saccharine affections lulled him into a hazy state, as if his brain had shut down completely. there were no more thoughts, no more doubts and worries, only you- his loving partner, soothing him the best way you could. The tip of your nose brushed against his and you finally kissed his lips, a sweet, tender kiss that conveyed all the love you had for him.

"You're very dear to me, baby. I hate seeing you like this" you whisper against his mouth, words spilling from your lips to his as he weakly returned the kiss.

By this point a warm, mellow weariness took over his body and he felt his eyes slowly closing. His arm grew limp, draping over your hipbone and he leaned his forehead against yours; his breath steadying by the minute. He truly couldn't recall the last time someone has made him feel so worthy and taken care of.

Loving, sugar sweet words and praises kept rolling past your lips, completely replacing his dark thoughts with bliss. In that moment, Akutagawa knew all his worries about you were pointless. He uttered a low "thank you dear" before losing consciousness, forcefully put to sleep by sheer exhaustion; but even after he fell asleep you refused to let go of him. You continued your ministrations, tucking a strand of wild hair behind his ear and kissing his cheek.

"Anytime dear, anytime."

[scoundrels-in-love]

I remember when your head caught flame, it kissed your scalp and caressed your brain

Migraine catches Wolfwood by surprise and Meryl is there to make sure he doesn't dissolve in the pain. Somehow, that hurts in a whole different way. | Stryfewood | Hurt & Comfort | Mentions of past abuse | Also on AO3 | Commission me! |

Wolfwood has no one but himself to blame for missing the signs of too-bright-loud-too-too-too world amping up in the last two days; a frustration that is well worn and familiar and does nothing to ease the pain of steel restraint three sizes too small wrapped around his brain, just beneath his skull which feels thin and tender, pulsating in rhythm of blood and pain pumping through him.

He wonders if he could rip his own head off, as simply he has torn other bodies apart. Like Legato had crunched Wolfwood’s form as if it was a discarded paper bag.

“Wolfwood?” Meryl's voice pierces through his fantasy, and he feels his jaw clench - a bad move.

He grunts an acknowledgement.

“Can you sit up? I booked the room, but I can't carry you inside.”

This makes him open eyes. Shortstack is hovering above him, leaning through the gap between front seats and the concern on her face is something he doesn't have capacity to process right now. Probably never.

Wolfwood had been vaguely aware they'd stopped, because the inclination to give up every bit of bile in his stomach had lessened a fraction. But he'd not thought much as to why, fleetingly assuming it was for a charging station.

“Whuh,” he says, eloquently. They're low on funds and the omnipresent, bright heat pressing into the van indicates it's not even close to nighttime yet. He's been trying to hide from it by laying down in the back seat, arm thrown over his face until the weight of it got too much. Plus, the smell of tobacco clinging to his sleeve had suddenly become an aggressor in the last day which, again, should've pointed him towards the signs.

“I can't get you inside on my own, can you walk?” Her voice is softer now, as if she'd caught him wincing at her volume before.

“Sure thing,” Wolfwood replies as he moves to sit up. If you can't walk, you're dead. He isn't yet, not yet not yet not yet.

Despite his insistence that he's fine, just peachy even, she's really making fuss for no reason, it takes more effort than he expects to get out of the car with his stiff, aching joints into the bright midday sun. The light hits like physical force and he hunches beneath it, staggers towards the sling on the back of the van where Punisher waits for him.

The familiar feeling of cloth and belts scorching his hands grounds Wolfwood and he manages to walk in the inn upright and brushing off Meryl who is fluttering around him like newly hatched wormling, restless and useless.

Even indoors, there are sparks in his vision, a blur on the edges, and the way his head spins do no favors to his stomach which has come to rest in his throat ever since he began moving. Meryl guides him to the room with urgency and if he had the capacity to be annoyed, he'd be telling her off. But now he just follows.

The room's curtains are drawn shut meticulously to not let even a strand of sunlight peek through, it looks safe and quiet as much as anything does on this cursed planet. He props Punisher against the wall next to the single bed and crumbles on the edge of the lumpy mattress, beyond drained and frustrated about it. His sunglasses clatter on the side table too loudly, their arms having felt like a pinch for the past hour.

“Take your jacket off,” Meryl tells him, suddenly kneeling in front of him. He must make some kind of noise, because she meets his gaze with a tight smile. 

“When I have a migraine, bending over is like a death sentence,” she explains, tugging off one of his shoes. He lifts his other foot to aid her efforts, wordlessly, because what is there to say? Thank you, you don't have to, you shouldn't , I don't deserve it, I must handle these things on my own or I might get used to idea that– 

“C'mon, off with that jacket, you never sleep in it unless it’s freezing,” Meryl tears apart his thought tangle, having set his shoes aside and standing in front of him with an expectant, outstretched hand. Wolfwood manages to shrug it off with minimal waves of nausea and lays down, closing eyes and listening to the gentle rustle of cloth as she must be placing it neatly on the chair. 

Next, she disappears into the bathroom and all he has left to focus on is each squeeze of metal around his brain, that tender blob of guilt and bad decisions that makes him him or some shit. 

He can't even lay still, with the aches in his hands and knees and hell, every other joint, too. But even a shift, even if he stretches his fingers to curl them slightly in a minute, feels like it resonates up his body, into his skull. It's absurd, but he supposes so is his existence.

The bathroom door creaks open and then is gently shut behind Meryl before her weight dips the very edge of the mattress. It's not a bed for two people which, actually - did they even have money for two rooms? 

“Can you lift your head slightly?” she whispers and Wolfwood cracks his eyes open to see her holding two wet towels. 

“I don't need-”

“That's not what I asked.”

He must preserve energy in case something happens, something where he needs to wield the Punisher and keep her from becoming another ghost haunting him (like Vash, like Livio -), so he capitulates this battle and gingerly lifts head so she can arrange the damp cloths around his head. It's an unpleasant, soggy sensation when he lays back down, but the coolness is almost instantly soothing.

She doesn't leave the bed immediately like Wolfwood expects as he tries to find words that aren't thank you, but would convey sentiment frighteningly similar to that. Instead, she scoots a little lower and gently takes his right hand in hers, smoothing fingers over his painful knuckles like trying to suffocate the ache with her tenderness.

“The vials wouldn't help?” Meryl asks as she repeats the motions and his whole body tenses up as a powerful wave of nausea roils through him at the memory of one time he'd tried. The wounds he'd left on himself trying to rend himself apart to end it had healed immediately without so much as a scar, but he will never forget the excruciating ways every blood vessel in his brain had pulsated with agony.

“Oh. I am sorry,” her voice cuts through the memory and  Wolfwood forces himself to relax again. Her hand feels so small in his - when had he clutched it so tightly, did he leave bruises?

“It's nothin’,” Wolfwood lies as he shakes her hold off, “stop coddling me and go to your room, I got this.”

“Well, tough luck then. I don't have anywhere to go, this was the last room they had.” 

He isn’t entirely surprised and it won’t be the first time they share a room or have pressed close to endure the cold of desert night. But it’s worse because all her attention is on him, his comfort and he feels flayed open by it just as much as the pain.

“We coulda kept moving,” Wolfwood grumbles, trying to regain some control over his thoughts.

“But we didn't. Money is already paid so we aren't moving until tomorrow morning.” There is finality to her voice and the last fight leaves his body. With a heaved sigh he allows his consciousness to loosen its grip.

His sleep is shallow, pain threading through it and pulling him close to wakefulness several times before he sinks back down. Wolfwood feels the cool cloth on his head being changed several times and Meryl smoothing his hair back from his damp forehead, but pretends to sleep through it. It's simpler that way. It's all for practicality, anyway. She needs him in good form and…

When Wolfwood wakes up, the pain has receded to a nuisance at the back of his skull and clamps on his temples. He pulls off the towel covering his forehead and eyes, blinks in the dim light, before setting it to the side and looking around to find Meryl.

She isn't far - curled in on herself and awkwardly propped against the wall and the headboard, one leg stretched out while the other is curled beneath her. Asleep, by the sound of her breath. He thinks about how she used to complain about sleeping in the car, shifting endlessly back and forth before settling down, but after Julai she's learned to sleep wherever and for what little time disasters might afford them. 

Reminiscing does him little good, but it's hard not to, looking at her face, brow scrunched a little even in sleep. It isn't the first time she has kept vigil over him and every time Wolfwood swears it will be the last one. But he and promises have never gotten on very well; several absences in his life are a clear proof of that.

Meryl shifts slightly and her head slides forward. Without thinking, he reaches out and stops her head slipping further, crashing into the headboard's edge. Her cheek is warm in his palm, the skin soft against his calluses so much that it makes him want to rub his thumb over it, but she's awake now, staring at him wide eyed and slightly disoriented.

“Couldn't let that big brain of yours get knocked around,” Wolfwood scoffs as explanation, withdrawing his hand. Something flashes across her face, eerily alike hurt, before she settles for mild annoyance.

“You must feel better if you're back to being an asshole,” she mutters, straightening up and then stretching. 

“Never stopped, sweetheart,” he waves at her, dismissive of her words and aches in his joints both, then sits up a little too carefully.

“That's true, the moment you genuinely do, I will be calling an ambulance.”

He points out that this is such a big city girl thing to say and they bicker back and forth some as he stands up and gets his cigarettes, meanders over to the window. Still barefoot because she'd been right – bending to put on shoes does feel like an execution even now and he's lived through a few.

The late evening sunlight still hits Wolfwood like daggers through his eyes, despite the sunglasses he had fetched from nightstand, but he grits his teeth and leans against windowsill, almost challenging the angled sun rays to chase him back into the shadows. He knows he belongs there. He knows.

“I'll be right back,” Meryl says over her shoulder, already halfway through the door and he mock-salutes her.

When she returns he's through with two cigarettes and her hands are full with a tray of food, pitcher of water with a couple glasses.

“Eat, you can empty your pack after,” Meryl gestures to the plate of empanadas as she places it on the rickety table near the window. He knows she remembers his throwaway comments, notices the things he enjoys, but every reminder still strikes a cracked bell in his heart, its sound too overwhelming.

Wolfwood speaks over it, as he always does: “Gonna spoon feed me while yer at it? I could've gotten something if I was hungry.”

“If I must,” she says, hands on her hips and mutters that sounds a lot like you prickly bastard .

He could argue, but he knows the food will do him good, even if he is still mildly nauseous. And in this year spent together, he's learned that the determination with which she'd broken Vash out of the tank prison is generously applied in many other aspects of her life. 

So, to not delay the inevitable, Wolfwood joins her for the meal. They talk about doing a few jobs around the town tomorrow to replenish the funds, bicker over the last fry which he eats on principle and also enjoy a spell of silence. 

It is good while it lasts and he has no one to blame but himself when it doesn't.

His head still feels tender, tendrils of worse pain slithering on the edge, and his body feels heavy. It's almost as if sleeping through a migraine is not very restful, he snaps at Meryl who comments he looks tired. 

“Then go to bed, Undertaker,” she scoffs, gathering things for a wash up. 

“Stop herding me, woman,” Wolfwood snaps and watches the corners of her mouth drop into an upset scowl.

“Suit yourself, I'm using up all the hot water for that.”

He watches her leave and wishes he had something stronger to wash down the bitterness in his mouth. It's better that way, better to be a nuisance that she won't care for, but sometimes it feels like it's too late, that all he can do is hurt her heart that is already attached. Again and again, from the day he’d led Vash to Julai and countless times after.

But even if that's true, there's no trust and no misplaced affection that he can't break. If not today, then soon she will see him for who he is and the disappointment will curdle into loathing.

They don't talk after that, she hardly looks at him once she comes out of the bathroom and by the time he's clean and ready for bed, Meryl has already made herself comfortable in the bed, facing away from him, arms drawn close to her chest. 

Wolfwood doesn't know if he's committing to being an asshole or just avoiding another argument when he settles on the other side of the bed. Probably the latter because he doesn't wrestle more of the blanket away from her. He is tired , far beyond the physical drain today has taken. Tired of being him, tired of the ghosts in his ribcage, tired of longing for a world where he could be the person Meryl and Vash thought he could be.

All that immaterial exhaustion and still he can't fall asleep.

Their backs are almost touching as he listens to her breath level out while his sleepless minutes twine into an hour. An excellent sense of time is yet another skill Chapel instilled in him by any means necessary. 

But he is losing this sharpness he's been given, his edges are growing dull, Wolfwood knows, can read it in the way he wants to say sorry and thank you, to fix the crack in their fragile peace he himself has carved. 

He can't afford to, not truly, but he can turn around without Chapel beating him for giving into his bodily urge to shift in the bunk beneath his teacher's. He can look at the gentle shape of Meryl's face in the darkness, his eyesight adjusted and changed for thriving in night, and -

Well, he shouldn't let the tender yearning take a breath and expand in his chest until his heart is engulfed in it, but he does anyway.

He will sharpen himself soon, with blood and death and hatred, with anything but her and the gilded memory of Vash, but tonight, tonight Wolfwood shifts to loosely wrap himself around her small form. Listens to her even breathing and presses his lips carefully to the crown of her head, mouths thank you there, inhaling the gentle floral and citrus scent of her shampoo, and lets it lull him into sleep.

[skeleton-mischief]

-totally non evil chuckle-

I’ve been thinking a lot about pirates lately. Maybe…. pirate underfell sans?

An evil, menacing captain of the seas comes to your kingdom, with intentions of showing your king whose really in charge. You work as a doctor in the castle, and are bandaging up a butler when all of a sudden horns blow, signaling a pirate attack. As you help everyone out, you end up locking eyes with their fearsome captain. And well, when pirates see pretty things, they just cant help themselves from taking them for their own. 😋😋

argh fr😍🤞🏽

Hey, it's meeeee. I'm gonna jump into it:

Please enjoy‼️‼️

Wow...wow. There's little that could capture the description he'd use. So, it's a bit damning when he gets to see you at what he'd consider your worst. He'll make it up to you, he swears on his soul. You didn't need to be in the middle of the crossfire, and he feels rather bad to know that the Devil himself had used you to escape.

_______________________________________________

"Shi-!" "Language." Your hands didn't stop from plucking the shard of glass and dabbling the alcohol into the butler's wound as you cut him off. This butler, which you couldn't remember the name of, had messed up his hand by dropping a glass vase and then attempting to clean up with just his hands. Or,,,,paws? Yeah, that's a better word. He wasn't very tall, in fact he was only a bit taller than you were. He was a Cat Monster, one with desaturated brown fur and drooping eyes. He was rough around the edges, especially his...vocabulary.

Nonetheless, he was always attempting to be polite with you. He would be caught sometimes by guards for drinking booze in the royal kitchen past hours, in which he'd complain and weakly attempt to excuse himself before getting water thrown on him. He was pathetic really, but you didn't mind. You suspected that he hasn't properly learned about the ways of the Palace since he's new, so you were more tolerant. So you preferred him like this, where he held still and was kind enough to listen to you. "....sorry,"

Speaking of which, your eyes darted to look at his face, which was bandaged at the moment. His ears were flattened, and you almost wanted to tell the pathetic thing how stupid it was for him to look so sad, but your naturally stern expression simply softened. "It's fine, I know that it hurts. Just hold still, okay?" He nodded, his uneven smile growing as his whiskers twitched. "Thank you doc," You huffed lightly in acknowledgement before turning your head to focus on grabbing the linen.

Being a doctor was rough, especially the royal doctor. You had a few others working with you, like assistants, but you were naturally more comfortable working on your own. You weren't like the nurses who had to help the soldiers, especially since you only focused on the servants or the royal family. Which, now that your mind drifted, you cringed at the thought.

The Dreemers.

Or, more specifically, King Asgore.

He's...in simple terms, strict. Or more precisely, he's a cruel King who isn't afraid to use violence and fear to get his point across. Some rugged barbarian dress in reds and gold, for certain. When the sun catches on the tar black glimmering from his horns, he's towering and imposing. His nose slightly crooked just like his sneer, he didn't bellow but rather spoke with a rasp. Foolish Human, foolish to work for the King whose horns are sharp enough to gore.

He has higher standards than any bull, which wouldn't be a problem if it wasn't for the fact that he was willing to slaughter anything or anyone that got in his way. Your mistake, you learned, was to even work for him. You're lucky to even be alive under his critical eye, but you suspect it's because you can identify the ache within the Goat Monster's soul. Patches of purple and swelling are much easier to spot than guilt and other turmoil, but your eyes could see beneath the curves of bone and fur. In your experience, silence and blissful ignorance were a powerful duo, and King Asgore knew that you understood this.

He at least respected your work, even if that meant he didn't really see you as well....you. His nostrils would flare at the sight of you, practiced courtesy forcing him to not spit an insult your way. You were indebted to the King, and he was indebted to you. You just finished wrapping the hand in linen when you looked up to not see a bull but rather a wet puddle of a Monster. He twisted his hand from front to back, analyzing your handy work.

"Thank you, doc," The young cat straightened up as his tail flicked, a very soft purr escaping him. You placed your hands on your hips as you scanned over the fur for any other indication of injury, humming when you saw none. "You should be more careful, butler." "Burgerpants." "Hm?" His eyes, which seemed to carry two bags of purple bruising, stared directly at your own. His toothy grin turned to a more sincere one as he offered his paw to you. "That's my name. I don't expect you to remember that, but you can call me B.P. instead."

You reluctantly shook his hand, your lips quirking up. "Well, B.P., you have quite the name. I'll try to remember," You declared with a confidence he understood and had hoped for, purring involuntarily at this, pleased with your answer. "Thank you, it's a nickname, but I think it's grown on me overtime."

You were about to speak when you were interrupted by a loud sound. A blaring, blurring sound that pierced your ears. Now what was once so quiet has changed, horns echoing around the walls of the emergency room and throughout the hallways of the palace. There's a clamoring in the palace below your window, shouts of fear that stirred both confusion and trepidation within your belly.

Before you could speak, B.P had stood up sharply, coaxing himself to take a peek. His ears were flat as his tail lashed aggressively, his fur prickling as he let out a low growl. "What in the-..." "Pirates." The Monster answered your question as his expression morphed. He seemed to be thinking about something as his brow furrowed, his lips curling back as he gritted his teeth and glared at the running figures holding sword and gun.

"I swear...they-...." He was muttering to himself as he must've had thoughts cracking into his dome just as you. You frowned, the distant sounds of running being heard. Pirates, huh? You felt a huff escape you as you rolled your sleeves up, buttoning them together as you heard the slurred sounds blending together.

You've encountered a few stories of them from around the palace. Apparently, before your presence became part of King Asgore's reign, you had heard of the Monsters of Porcelain. Two of them were leaders of a giant ship, one so large and the other so terrible. They had caused a mess, leaving a pain that was stinging and vile, leaving King Asgore to immediately demand higher security at the Palace. He had to provide hope, display strength to make it easier to strike when the day comes of their return.

It was apparent that the day had finally arrived. Everything that was painted honey and gold over the chalked stone of the palace was now fluttering with spurts of red and dust. Burgerpants wasted no time, turning heel and running as he slid among the tile and turned sharply down the hallway. You couldn't chase after the fool as he had done it before you could think, only sighing now as your frown deepened.

Today was going to be rough. You grabbed your medical bag, hand gripping around the handle as you took a deep breath and huffed. Great. Just great. Any plans you had today were now slammed to a halt, leaving you here to deal with the mess of foolish Men and Monsters. You don't get paid enough for this.

"....fucking great."

_______________________________________________

"DAMN IT!" The tall skeleton shouted, ramming his body against two guards with full force as they slammed against the wall. Damn it! Damn it damn it damn it! A large monster grabbed at the guards, wrestling them to the ground before smashing their skulls a rattling mess together. She turned to the tall skeleton, his brow scrunched up as she panted. "Captain?" "GO. WE'RE NOT SURRENDERING JUST YET."

The monster looked reluctant before speaking, gesturing to the wound that was on the skeleton's ribcage. "But Captain..." "DON'T." He sharply ordered, cutting her off. She bit back a response, only nodding her head before turning down the hall with a pause to her step. Pitch watched, his ribcage shuddering as he felt his phalanges grab at the edge of a small table.

He winced as he leaned against it, his jaws curled down into a frown. Where was his damn brother? Eugh, he just HAD to run off towards the center of the palace. So idiotic. He swore to the Stars above that he was going to smash that blasted numbskull's head so hard against the ships outer rim that he would be seeing double for a whole fortnight!

The sudden sounds of running footsteps snatched his attention, his head snapping to the side before he straightened up. His shoulders rolled back, tension bleeding through him. It coursed through him like a steady river under clothes and curves around bone. He felt his bones rattle slightly as his glare turned to steel, his expression intense as he was ready to fight once more despite his injury. He wasn't a coward, and enemies be damned if he wouldn't fight until dusting.

Though, what he didn't expect was to see a Human in white. He could see the way your chest heaved as you caught yourself by pressing your weight against the door frame by your hand catching yourself. You looked around the room and saw the two fallen guards, a mess that resulted in torn curtains, broken decor, and a skeleton. You locked eyes with him, and he faltered if not only a little.

A doctor, huh?

He stared, still as stone as he watched you look at him critically. His hand tightened on the handle of his sword, but he did not dare raise it at you. He wasn't sure what you intended to do, but he wasn't foolish enough to notice how your sights pinned down on his chest. You expression scrunched up and looked back at the guards before looking at him once more. "Are they alive?" You asked, gesturing towards the guards in metal.

He felt his eyelight shrink, staring intently as he gruffed out what sounded to be a yes. You seemed to be debating something, your eyes dragging themselves away from the guards. "....You're injured." You said a little dumbly. Yes, clearly. He huffed in response with indignation, not answering. Your eyes narrowed as you seemed to bite your tongue, debating if you should snap back a smart retort.

It didn't take you more than a second of logic however to retract that idea from your mind before you spoke once more with a more cool tone. "If you let me, I can patch that up for you." There are hisses of confusion and anger all feathered and sprinkled in the air from the distance, but they sounded faint compared to the screams and the ringing. The ringing felt suddenly louder, echoing around the skeleton's skull as he felt his soul thrumming in sync.

.....What?

His steely gaze flickered to one of disbelief, before it turned to suspicion. "ELABORATE." He gruffed, authority clear in his tone. You raised a brow, how audacious. He liked that. "I'm a doctor, not a soldier. It's my job to help, sir." You firmly stated, as if it was quite obvious. He liked that too, especially as you looked at him without flinching. He said nothing, momentarily debating if he should let you. Clearly he was a pirate, you shouldn't trust him. He couldn't trust you either, not blindly anyways.

And yet, the intent in your voice was crystalline clear. Still suspicious, he stared at you with a glare that lacked much emotion as he critically judged you. He then promptly nodded his head only once, one of his leather gloves tilting his black cavalier hat in respect. "I'LL ALLOW IT." You nodded your head in return, walking towards him cautiously. Smart. Your eyes narrowed upon seeing his sheathed sword, but you didn't comment on it as you pointed at the ground.

He let out a HMPH, but didn't argue as he let his body sit on the tile floor. He winced as he clutched his wound, his legs buckling slightly as he did so. He had been slashed by a guard in the middle of a fight, staining his once white button up a blooming red as dust was chipped near the edges. You worked without saying much, setting your kit down as you went to grab a disinfectant and linen. He watched you like a leopard seal whose eyes caught prey, unmoving and almost unnaturally focused.

You were careful to help remove his black, lavish coat, unclipping the thin necklace of gold that kept it on his shoulders before letting it fall down his back. You unbuttoned his white and silken dress shirt just enough to inspect his wound, a cloth pressing straight into it. He hissed back a silent curse, trying ever so hard to hold still without showing how badly it stung. He's been through worse, has felt worse, but stars above if it didn't burn.

He took the time to keep your features imprinted into his memory, letting his head rest against the wall as he closed his eyes momentarily. This wasn't the events he had in mind, but it felt nice to have someone tend to his wounds while they were till fresh. Oftentimes he had to threaten a doctor among the townsfolk with his crew after raids such as these.

And as a bonus, he kept in mind that your bravery and honor to your job just made you twice as attractive as he found you beforehand. At the realization of his attraction, though, he instinctively clenched his fist and felt like slapping himself. What in the blasted devil??? Attraction? He must've suffered from a head injury. He didn't slap his skull backwards, however, and instead flickered his only useful eyelight away from you.

Your hands were a stark contrast to what he was used to, especially when you wrapped the linen around his chest and sliced through the material with skilled precision from your scissors. He hisses when you fasten it tight, shooting you a harsher glare that both made a stampede rush to your heart and made you murmur gently to soothe his heated glare. "I know, I know..." You went to straighten yourself out as you assess him, your voice still stern but less guarded. "Better?"

It hardly registers that he had moved, something you didn't pick up on, not until a massive hand curls tightly around your wrist. The touch is not at all gentle, it's probing, the tip of each digit leaving small curved indentations in your flesh, intent on keeping you thoroughly in place. "WHY AREN'T YOU AFRAID?" His voice comes out as an odd grumbling, strained from excessive usage.

It isn't deep, either, which comes to be one of the more jarring things in this situation. At least that's what he gathered, based on the way your hand twitched when he spoke a bit more quietly. "Should I be? You bleed crimson just the same, do you not?" You ask, your tone probably the most gentle he's heard so far. Hmph, you should be more cautious when dealing with Pirates, let alone with ordinary men or monsters like him who were not yet known, but it was too late.

He dared not respond, but the way his magic had his cheekbones flush indicated that he liked what you said. He released his iron grip on you and grunted after some reluctance. "Stupid Human," His voice canters off to silence when you stare at him, making him feel uncomfortably vulnerable under your gaze. Before he could find something to say, anything really to cut the silence, you stood up abruptly.

"Now, I'm off to go help the other injured souls you ended up making a mess of, okay, skeleton?" There was a sting to your words, an irritation that he could understand despite never being a doctor. It takes an overworked soul to know another. When you had skill, it was irritating sometimes since that left you with much more garbage to take care of.

Did you not even know who he was? Of course you knew he was a skeleton, but he almost felt offended that you were so bold and assertive in the face of a monster who could gut you. He didn't, however, because it was clear that you've earned it after patching him up. And even if you did know who he was, your bravery was more commendable.

He turns to you with a forced stoicism, and he speaks with a sort of keening voice, one reserved for wolves or other sorts of predators. He doesn't know why, but he felt the impulsive desire to share his name. "It's Pitch. Pitch Serrif."

You repeat it, once, twice. You repeat your own when he doesn't ask for your name, repeat it just the same to him to remember. It rolls off his tongue when he follows after you, smooth and sweet. He wanted to pry further, he figured, have every secret expelled upon your tongue like the juiciest of pomegranate. Instead, he stirs, rumbles someplace in the expanse of chest, and lets you go.

What a strange doctor you are. What a strange Human you are. He likes that.

_______________________________________________

"Your brother is going to have your head, Captain Red!" "Hah! As if!" The swing of his hand, a flick of the thumb, and the trigger is finally done being teased as he aims and shoots. One, two, both fallen as their bodies are nothing but useless, armored shells now. Beside him, the familiar face of B.P. scowls. "You shouldn't have come, not today."

Red scowls at this, rolling his eyes the same time he rolls his shoulders back. "'s that so?" He lets the words hang heavy in the air for a stretch of time, before scoffing out a barked laugh. It mimicked his usual, boisterousness, but the sharp tinge of aggression was apparent. "Now why's that, B.P.? You tellin your Captain what to do now?" He asked the fool dangerously, but he's surprised to see the scaredy cat glare challengingly with a lash of his tail and the low growl that escaped his chest.

Now now now, what is this?

"If that's how you see it, then yes," He spat, flinging a chair into a servant's stomach. It felt good, especially since that bastard had made him work double a few times since he'd slink away. Good riddance. Plus, it wasn't life threatening, just hard enough to disarm and ahed enough to get his anger out. "I didn't want the doctor to be here for this,"

Red's eyes gleamed like ruby as he grinned, a bonebrow raised as the two rushed down the hallways of white stone and intricate architecture. His gaze drags up from his throat to his eyes, his soul humming with an electric excitement. He had a temper past his eccentric personality, and Burgerpants was testing the waters.

"Doctor?" "Yes, that's right. They're a-" B.P.'s voice catches within his throat, like a hook had caught and dug into sensitive flesh as he chokes. He seems to be hesitant to speak, as if he needed to claw the hook out of his flesh and remove the barbed metal

"A good soul, one who I consider a friend."

Red can't seem to find any indication of exasperated detail, and so instead he pauses his ruthlessly draining running as he leans against a marble wall with a heaving ribcage. His golden tooth gleams against the honeyed glow of the setting sun, dull due to the towering pillars and building of the castle. He missed the smell of the sea, of being able to see the sun in all her glory.

Instead, he cocks his head to the side as B.P. joins him, placing his paws on his knees as he's bent forward and lurched down to catch his breath. "Are they cute?" He asks, teasingly and without bite, only to earn a slight hiss from his companion. "Don't even think about it." Red has found that B.P. has grown a spine, or at least one that solidified enough when it came to you.

You really must've meant something to him, and so Red respected that. Anyone can be considered valuable, after all. He rubbed his lower jaw with his phalanges, mockingly debating something. “We do need a doctor, B.P. If they're a friend…well…. 'm sure they wouldn't mind helpin a couple of misfits, yeah?” He chuckled, seeing B.P. biting back his tongue. Heh. Adjusting his cloak, the fur around the rim grazing against his neck, he cracked his knuckles.

“Ah, ‘m just messin with ya. Come on, we got a King to slaughter!” He roughly patted the scrawny idiot on the back, knocking the wind out of him temporarily. He didn't wait to try and see if he listened, knowing that he would anyways, and he instantly ran down the hallway with heavy steps, his boots clinking along the way.

The idea sounded appealing, but he didn't think you were worth the time of day if he couldn't even know who you were. And besides, even if you were a pretty thing, he wouldn't take you without reason.

.

.

.

From the bottom of his crooked soul, he didn't think he was actually going to meet you. Wow...wow. There's little that could capture the description he'd use. So, it's a bit damning when he gets to see you at what he'd consider your worst. He'll make it up to you, he swears on his soul. You didn't need to be in the middle of the crossfire, and he feels rather bad to know that the Devil himself had used you to escape.

_______________________________________________

To lock eyes with a predator indicated the urgency to escape, or at least you thought so. So may Asgore be damned and sent straight to wherever he belonged. Right now, the predator you locked eyes with seemed actually more concerned with your life than his own.

When the smoke thins out from the burning hot muzzle, the red mist that seemed to develop skulls and screaming faces, only now could you see the obscure figure in better detail. You see a glimmer of gold and aren't so shocked to see the absence of a normal face. A skull head is what meets your eyes with teeth set in a strained, Cheshire grin. You see rings adorning his bony fingers gleaming under the light, and how gold practically danced around his chest and body.

His stature was shorter than the previous skeleton, and only now did it click that the two could be related. Both had one working eyelight, both had an anger within their souls, and they both clearly held the same cocky air to them that was unmistakable. Something sticky is running down your face, nails digging into your head as the tall, imposing King is holding your body in place. It should be expected. You are not as hard as bone or as tough as the skin of a fruit when you're finally clawed into.

You are stripped of all your defenses right now, laid bare as if the clothes on your back did not matter. Your fate now rested in the palm of a Pirate with a deadly glint to his eye and a King whose heart, if he even had one, was as black as charcoal. You're starting to feel beads of sweat prick at your skin, down your nape as the two coerced but spoke in what felt like a tongue you couldn't decipher. This does not prompt a response from you, knowing better than to thrash about despite the urge to twist and kick and scream and tear.

An anger within the skeleton resembled your own, united in unsaid words and not quelled as the King of Monsters offered a horrid, demanding choice. The ugly, ivory prongs atop his head was like a crown of authority, but you felt that the cavalier hat atop the porcelain skull held the same degree of power. Something smelt to be burning mixed in with gunpowder, something wooden and electric.

Your eyes crawled to glare at the King, seeing his misplaced wrath as his other hand gripped the golden and handcrafted spear that stood tall like a pillar. He had grabbed you to avoid getting shot, but he was clearly interested in making sure that it was only him he was concerned about . He seemed to hold the same morals as street rats, willing to throw anything away in the name of survival. A coward disguised as a beast, a Monster of deceiving embers.

King Asgore seemed exasperated by this entire ordeal rather than eager, even if he could leave you gored out instead of fulfilling his oath to you. Your side of the oath, however, was that you'd dedicate your life to him. You didn't particularly have to be alive to have him do his duties, and it was clear that he was debating whether or not to toss you away.

You released the breath that was caged inside your lungs unbeknownst to yourself, but a heavy hand clasped over your mouth to shut you up. "Quiet, Human." He spat. Oh you did not like that. You didn't even seem to think about the repercussions, head cloudy with disgust at his audacity.

So, you sank your dulled teeth straight into the side of his fat fingers, digging into flesh as you bit down hard. There's a blinding white as though the sun has seared its way into your skull as you hear a loud, rumbling shout, rays of warmth sprouting from your skull as a blow strikes down and you're flung forward towards the marble floors at the feet of the undead. It's a shock that you didn't just crack your head, if not for the way your head was angled and instead collided within the arms of a Monster who seemed less cruel.

He stumbled back, clearly having intentions to catch you when he lurched forward. The sudden shift in gravity made his knees buckle, but he head steady. Ah, is this what the smell was beyond gunpowder? Your eyes locked with his, only for your vision to grow blurry from exhaustion and blood loss that was blooming from your head. Foolish Human. You felt heavier suddenly, before you completely blacked out.

_______________________________________________

"this the Human you spoke of?"

"Yes, Captain. Stars above, they look terrible..."

"WE'RE TAKING THEM."

"What??"

"what choice is there? I told ya already-"

"DON'T DISOBEY YOUR CAPTAINS, GOT THAT? YOU'RE BACK HOME, DON'T FORGET THAT."

Burgerpants was silent at this, his ears flat. Thankfully, you were sloppily patched up, so you weren't on the verge of death anymore. He grimaced, but a part of him was silently grateful. Both Red and Pitch seemed to have met you before this, even if Pitch had tried to act like he was indifferent to seeing you bleeding and passed out. Burgerpants was less levelheaded, practically a walking porcupine as he assessed you and fretted.

He had wanted to leave you there, at the palace, especially since the Pirate life was rough. You were too, though, and brave. Foolish more like it, but brave at least a little since you had dared enough to bite King Asgore hard enough to tear his flesh based on what Captain Red said. You wouldn't be alive right now though if they didn't take you, left to bleed out or be speared down by Asgore as punishment.

He stroked the back of his hand against your cheek, frowning down before he turned to the two Skeleton Brothers. They were quite decisive, more so than he expected them to be, but hey. You are safe now, and surely he can explain everything when you wake? He's so sorry that you were caught within this mess.

The two Captains nodded his way, and so begrudgingly he walked towards the door of your temporary room. Stars, he really needed a beer.

_______________________________________________

Closing Notes: heourgh. I wanted to put a bit more effort into this writing because I love pirates and wanted some good world building set up. I'm sorry it took so long, especially to you @vamppiko

Forgive me, testing was beating my ass

[sapphic-woes]

When You Met Her pt. 4

A/N: Angsty with the usual warnings. Thank you guys sm for the wonderful encouragement it motivates me sm! MINORS DNI

Word Count: 1.6k. AO3 Link

__________

It's an omega. He smells of a crisp summer breeze. You haven't smelled an omega short of terror and dread in a while. You even forgot your own scent. Fresh, sweet, tastefully calming. You remember it’s what an omega should smell like. You feel shame bubble up in your chest.

It takes you a moment to realize he hasn't come in yet, but more importantly, Sevika isn't saying he can.

Instead she's looking at you. Eyes patient and steady. A sharp contrast to your wavering ones. While still in her lap there's nowhere for you to scamper off to, so you opt to dip your head down and avoid her gaze. It's no matter to the alpha, and she simply works around it.

"He can come back later. Whenever you're ready." Her voice is dangerous when it whispers so close. You want to follow it no matter where it takes you. However, the problem is that she doesn’t make you do anything. 

A choice? Yours? You who had no say over where you slept or whether you ate? An omega with a choice?  You aren't stupid. Alphas always did these little tests to see what you would do, and when you tried to have any authority?

They punished you for it. Hard.

"...Whatever pleases you, Sevika." Her plush, dark lips press together with a frown, and her reaction makes you squirm. Suddenly, you're acutely aware of each shift of her body. You flinch when her arms stiffen and flex, as though the entirety of her being is wordlessly answering you. If Sevika notices your growing tension, she doesn't comment, craning her neck back to call out.

"Come on in, Viktor." You can’t help but stare when she does.

The curve of her neck as she leans back is nice. The way it stretches and contracts when she speaks is mesmerizing too. Power comes from the girth of her chest, and with this proximity, you can feel it as much as you hear it–a relaxing rumble nothing like the snarls you've gotten used to.

The doorknob turns, and at the sight of a white coat and the distinct smell of alcohol, your awe all but disappears.

He's tall and slender, bright eyes a sharp contrast to his deep, sullen dark circles. He trudges in with a cane in hand, brown hair still messy as if he'd just gotten out of bed. Despite the dreary look, he smiles at you once he spots you both on the floor.

"Hello there. Y/N correct? I'm Viktor." You don't answer at first. You think the words are meant for Sevika to answer. At this point, you thought it was safe to assume the alpha had some kind of ownership over you. There's a long silence in the room before you realize the omega is talking to you.

Not about you, or over you as if you were a pet that couldn't understand his words. No–he looks directly at you and repeats his words slowly. Carefully as if he knows you didn't think he'd acknowledge you at all. Firmly as if he wants to make sure you know that he does. 

Hastily, you mumble out a yes you doubt he can hear. Already your heart pounds, nervously avoiding his gaze. This is odd. This is weird. You're not supposed to be seen like this. You can feel Sevika watching you, and you know you can't disappoint her. She'd already be angry by the end of the examination, so what was the point in pissing her off now?

"Y-yes…sir." You stutter a bit louder. You aren't sure what to call him. You haven't spoken to an omega that wasn't high off shimmer or chained to a bed in years. Thankfully, Viktor only continues.

"I'm sure you've been informed already, but I'm a doctor, and I'm here to ask you a few questions. I treated you the best I could already, but I'd like to get your own account about some things I found. Would you mind sitting on the bed for me?"

That stumps you. "Me?"

Viktor's face doesn't waver. "You."

You swallow. You feel dizzy at just the thought. Furniture isn't for omegas. You’re always on the floor, usually kneeling till your legs are numb and your back aches. You aren’t on a bed unless it’s to fuck. Haven't been in a chair other than to display yourself like a doll to a client.

"Holes like you kneel on the floor. Furniture is for humans, but you? You're merchandise, got it? My. Fucking. Property."

You shut your eyes. You had to get a grip. Disobeying would be even worse. Sevika wouldn't want an omega that couldn't do the basics and follow orders.

"...Yes sir." Sevika's arms relax, and you slowly stand. You sway, tittering with fragile balance. Sevika stands up as well, arms rigid and slightly extended. Clearly you aren’t moving fast enough. Her pressuring, looming shadow makes you thickly gulp, climbing onto the bed with great effort.

You feel nauseous. You almost wait for a slap, or a punch to land you back on the ground for actually doing this. You aren't supposed to be here. This isn't your place. Your hands scratch at your arms, and your shoulders bunch up as Viktor takes a step closer. You don't like this. You want to be on the floor. Under the bed. Safe–

"Thank you y/n, you're doing great." The praise is so sudden you think you're hearing things. However, when you look up it's to meet warm eyes. Viktor smiles, and you duck back down–not used to such pleasant words.

"We'll go slowly. If there's anything you feel uncomfortable with, you don't have to answer." Suddenly, Viktor turns to Sevika like he just noticed her presence.

"I take patient doctor confidentiality seriously, so usually I would kick you out…" Viktor's nose wrinkles, "but based on what I walked into, your presence might actually help." Viktor's eyes shift back to you, and you stiffen.

"But ultimately it's your choice. Would you like Sevika to leave or stay?" Huh? 

He was going to get you both killed. Acting like you, a piece of property, had any say on an alpha's actions was batshit. Maybe this omega was just contracted with a famous company, or rich enough that he could work in this kind of place without being in danger. Either way, you think it’s pretty messed up of him to try and fuck you over just because he wouldn't be the one to face the consequences.

"I desire…w-what, um, what my master desires…" You concentrate on getting it right and in doing so you don't notice your slip up. However, silence follows for a beat before Viktor speaks…

…and surprisingly, it's aimed at Sevika.

"Master? You let her think you fucking owned her?" You jump at the venom in his voice. You've never seen anger in an omega. Anger came with defiance, and defiance was met with training–but Viktor meets Sevika dead in the eyes. Wasn't he afraid? 

His sweet scent was sour, suffocating the room. You shrink up on the bed, grabbing your legs tight. Sevika's face is grim, hands curling up into rigid fists. You expect them to swing and see Viktor knocked to the floor, but instead she answers him.

"…I told her to call me Sevika."

"But did you tell her anything else? Perhaps, I don't know...why she's here? What this place is? What you are to her?" Viktor harshly spits back. Again, Sevika only stares back at the omega before her. Her silence is like static poisoning the room. You feel sick with anticipation. She's furious. She has to be. Even looking at an alpha wrong was reason enough to be punished, but this?

It was the type of shit that got you killed.

"No." It takes some time to recognize her voice. It's different from before. It's tired, and you wonder what could make an alpha sound that way.

"...I didn't even mean to come in, let alone explain anything. But she was panicking, and I just…" Sevika's jaw locks, and she looks away from Viktor. The air is still sour, but slowly it’s overwhelmed by another scent. Like the damp earth and faint flowers, a whispering scent of regret, regret, regret.

"...I just wanted her to feel safe." Her gruff words receive a gentle stare from the omega interrogating her. Viktor leans on his cane as he shakes his head.

"Waking up in an unfamiliar space with easily accessible clothing on will do that to you, hospital or not." Sevika's eyebrows furrow, but still she doesn't raise her voice back, let alone lash out at Viktor. In return, the omega softens–offering a tender smile as his scent becomes pleasant once again.

"But you know that. I’ve seen you calm down an omega before. This time you acted on instinct, right?” A spike of orange springs into the air, and you blink. His embarrassment is awfully thick despite his smirk, and you wonder if the omega Sevika calmed down was himself. Viktor’s eyes mischievously shine as he continues.

“You smelled her fear and it was like everything kicked into gear. Your chest was tight, and you felt sick knowing she was hurting. Am I hitting the mark?" Sevika lets out a deep sigh. Her glare makes it seem like Viktor finally crossed the line, but she merely nods. You don’t understand what Viktor is going on about before he turns back to look at you.

"I suppose this is where we'll start. Y/N…what do you know about bonding?

[ineffablecolors]

hey just wondering why you think Roy reuniting w Keeley post s3 would’ve been bad for him? I sort of agree but also don’t want to bash keeley in anyway so I haven’t talked about it

Heya! Thanks for the ask and sorry you feel like you can't discuss something though I do understand why. I'll preface this by repeating something I've said before - canon did such a horrible job of holding Keeley accountable for anything and wrote her as if she could do no wrong and fandom seems to have picked that up and totally ran with it.

I do love that when reading RoyJamie fanfic, I never see Keeley bashing, as you call it, because vilifying female chatacters is such common practice in fandoms. But Ted Lasso fandom seems to swing to the other extreme where I've never even read a fic where Keeley apologises for something? And you can't even quite blame the fans, they just picked what canon put down - Keeley can do no wrong.

So, first of all, I think simply judging Keeley's actions is not bashing at all, it's just treating her the way every character BUT her is treated in both fandom and show. I think Keeley, like almost every other character, has made plenty of bad decisions and mistakes and, personally, how I react to them is a mix of how well I can relate to her and something else. Jack, for example, was a very professionally questionable decision but I completely sympathise with Keeley for it because 1) she faced consequences for her mistake even if it's never acknowledged that she made one and 2) I can relate to it! Hiring Shandy on the other hand was such a monumentally stupid decision that I could never relate to, so it just makes me annoyed with Keeley and the fact that the show treated it as her just being too sweet and wanting to give another horribly unqualified woman a chance rather than as a point towards her lack of professional skills.

Anyway!! The something else is important for my answer. As much as I love discussing my favourite shows and try to be objective, I very rarely am. Once I pick a favourite character, my opinion of almost every other character is informed by how they treat my favouriteTM. Is that fair? No. Do I do it without fail? Yes. Do I feel bad for it? Umm, no, that's my baby, nobody is allowed to be mean to them xD

And this is how we get to the Roy Kent of it all (finally! christ, this is gonna be long, sorry but also thanks!). Roy's my favourite, my baby, my grumpy, old, emotionally constipated and physically aching romantic. Roy can and has done wrong, I'd never claim otherwise. But I'd still claim he's the best chatacter and one of the best people on the show. And he's always gonna put himself last on his list of priorities.

Which is why I fully admit that I judge Keeley extra harshly when it comes to her and Roy. For brief context - I totally shipped Roy and Keeley and think they were good for each other, for the most part, in s1, I was ecstatic they were together in s2 and still shipped them like hell on my first watch (which was binged with s1!) and less and less on every consequent rewatch, part of me still wanted them to be together and then to get back together in s3 until I actually watched it all and completely changed my mind.

Shall I finally answer your question? I don't think Roy should reunite with Keeley because he gives too much of himself and she gives too little. I don't believe they are well balanced and I dont believe he'd feel loved with her again.

That WAS brief! But if you'd like more detail...

I think as sweet and good-hearted as she's portraited, Keeley is inherently a selfish person. Now, we circle back to bashing and judging. I'm doing neither. I'm myself a selfish person in many ways, that's not the worst thing to be in some regards. But I think Keeley is especially selfish in her romantic relationships and that simply does not suit someone like Roy. When paired with a selfish partner, Roy would just give and give and blame himself for not getting as much back.

I'm not saying there haven't been some great moments between Roy and Keeley, full of affection and care from Keeley, such as the scene at the end of s1. That's probably my favourite moment of theirs. But there have been some pretty shit ones too that for me outweigh the good and, more importantly, came once they settle into the relationship.

As early as their first kiss, Keeley got so annoyed and impatient, she immediately slept with Jamie. I know the show took it as an opportunity to have a kinda feminist moment but can you picture that turned around? Roy and Keeley kiss after tons of flirting and build up, and the day after Roy sleeps with a girl Keeley has a proper (however childish) feud with just cuz she told him she was busy that night. That would've never been fine. Again, I'm not saying it's wrong, I'm saying it's the response of a person who only cares about what they want and doesn't plan for the future.

Then, we have the infamous "Roy is a fridge magnet" episode which I still can't wrap my mind around so gimme a sec here. Your boyfriend is too into you, is perfect (by Keeley's own words) but not giving you the space you haven't asked for. So, instead of talking to him - don't even get me started on people writing Keeley as a character who's good as communicating - girl, where?? - you talk about it to his boss, a bunch of his coworkers and your ex who has an antagonistic relationship with him, and eventually as you're spending time together and he's trying to share one of his interests with you, you start screaming bloody murder at him about how clingy he is. Do I have that all correct? All of this would have been forgivable ofc, miscommunication happens, people aren't perfect, etc, etc, expect... forgiveness was asked by the wrong person. What on earth did Roy have to apologise for? This is the #1 example for me of that show trying so hard to make Keeley a perfect sunshine girl boss that they made 0 narrative or even logical sense. Honestly I hate that whole episode with a fiery passion.

Then we have the funeral shenanigans, which I won't even get into because I think Roy was 100% hilarious in that and Keeley was 100% overreacting (and yes, that's a heavy term to use towards a woman but here's the thing... she was). I guess this would be a good place to talk about their ILYs as well. Roy's ILYs always come with an acknowledgement of Keeley's feelings and his own fault for hurting them in anyway. Keeley's first ILY though has absolutely nothing to do with Roy. She's happy about her own success and he's celebrating her. That's it. That's the first time we see her say I love you. Don't get me wrong, I don't think Roy's aren't better but I think that just proves why he couldn't be happy with Keeley. Every time he's said ILY, it's been tinged with sadness and guilt and self-incrimination. Why would I want him to be with someone who constantly inspires those feelings in him?

This is now definitely too long so I'll try to wrap up with s3 very quickly and mainly the fact that the episode Keeley is drinking alone in the pub is one of the only ones where Keeley faces consequence for her actions (in this case, sleeping with her boss - again, not something I blame or begrudge her for but also something she should've probably considered can get her funding pulled when it ends, see: never thinking about the future (and why I don't see Keeley being successful without people like Barbara or Rebecca but thats a different topic)). Keeley responds to being made to face the music by using Roy to make herself feel better. I'm sorry but there's no other interpretation of their hook up for me. He's just read her a very heartfelt apology, ending with another guilt ridden ILY and then he was leaving. Except she chased him down, not to say it back ofc, but to use him for sex.

Thanks, I hate it.

At the end of the day, it all comes down to the fact that I think Roy was right to break up with Keeley. Not because she's not a great catch and not because there was anything wrong with her being successful or needing time for herself but because they're not right for each other. Roy is too selfless and ready to blame himself for everything and Keeley is too focused on herself and ready to take advantage of that.

Roy is the kind of romantic that would tell his cabbie to date his wife and compose a playlist for the girlfriend who treated him horribly yesterday. He's the kind of guy that's had to bottle up all his emotions forever and never talks about himself with people and has had his fucking watch stolen by his fucking hook ups. He deserves someone *cough*Jamie*cough* who is absolutely obsessed with him! Who will appreciate the things he does for them and the time he spends with them rather than take them for granted at best and be annoyed at worst. Who will make him feel like he's been struck by lightning! He deserve someone who cares about his feeling and frankly, in season 3 at least, I don't think that's Keeley or should be again.

[lords-of-mayhem]

A short soulmate AU thing for eurodead <3

TW: angst, (nongraphic) descriptions of Pelle's death

Words: 1,086

Øystein hadn't ever particularly cared that he couldn't see the world in color. He knew some people laid in bed every night, worrying they might never meet their soulmates and he knew plenty that raved about how perfect the world was once color seeped into it. He didn't lose any sleep over seeing in black and white, though. Instead, he was content with never seeing anything beyond that and most the time, he could put it out of his head entirely.

He had much more important things to think about anyway. Finding a new vocalist took most of his attention, especially after he'd connected with Pelle. Figuring out how to get Pelle to Norway and where to set him up once he was there took most of Øystein's attention.

As he stood on the platform awaiting Pelle's train to arrive, his mind was stuck on wondering if things would work out. It would be hell if it didn't and he already dreading having to fix things if Pelle wasn't a good fit for them. He wasn't even sure which person Pelle was, having only a vague description of him, but a flash of something caught his eyes.

A smooth and quiet color was in his peripheral vision and when he turned his head, he saw a head of long hair that wasn't quite the gray he was used to it. It was much darker, a warm color that he struggled to describe. He frowned to himself, blinking his eyes roughly. As black and white faded quickly from his vision, it made his eyes and head hurt. It felt similar to the way it did when he woke up and light was already pouring through the windows, making him ache until his eyes adjusted to the change.

He looked at the tall man the hair was attached to, his black and white vision melting into different colors now. A color akin to black on his jacket, but noticeably less dark and something that reminded Øystein more of the ocean than of the night sky. There was also black on the man's long sleeves, but it was different from what he was used to. He'd been so distracted by the colors that he hadn't paid much attention to the man himself. When he did, he realized this must be Pelle.

Tall, check. Gangly, check. His outfit and long hair also was notably one of the scene. If this man wasn't who he was looking for, he was eerily similar. Øystein pushed the thought of soulmates away from his mind, he couldn't deal with that right now.

"Pelle?" He called across the platform and the man's head perked up, smiling when he saw Øystein. His face faltered for just a second into an unreadable expression and Øystein wondered if he perhaps was experiencing the same vision change Øystein had. He didn't ask him, simply returning home that day with new vision and a new vocalist.

The days went on and on, and Øystein thought it was just his luck that his soulmate was so irritating. Pelle was prone to walking out into the forest and disappearing for hours on end. Øystein pretended to not care about his safety, but he never stopped worrying if Pelle had gotten killed out there until the man walked back through the doors. The hours spent catatonic in bed didn't please him either.

He had wasted plenty of time trying to coax Pelle out of bed to work, doing everything from bribing him to threatening him. On good days, Pelle would eventually be coerced into rehearsing. On the bad ones, Øystein may as well have not even been there. Pelle didn't respond, he didn't acknowledge Øystein, he didn't even flinch when the bedframe was kicked harsh enough that Øystein's toes stung.

Admittedly, there were moments when it made sense for Pelle to be his soulmate as well. He felt it most intensely when they were rehearsing alone together. Pelle's voice and Øystein's guitar mixed together in a chaotic, beautiful cacophony of sounds. His fingers moved quickly as he watched Pelle, his body twisting in a way that was inhuman and grotesque.

Or the days when they would sit on the floor of Øystein's room, listening to their own music. Their bodies pressed so closely together that each of Pelle's inhales rolled through Øystein's body like it was his own. That is the closest they ever got physically.

In these moments, Øystein understood entirely why the universe thought they should be together. At times, it felt they were the only people in the world. Still, nothing ever happened between them, the focus on their music and the awkwardness of youth spurring that decision on.

The system worked well enough for them. Øystein would spend most of his time with Pelle and that was enough. That was why he found himself making the drive out to the house one day, sun beating down on the road ahead of him and his fingers tapping the steering wheel to a beat in his head. Something caught his eye out of his peripheral vision, eyebrows furrowing at it.

He worried for a moment that he might be close to passing out as dark spots flooded his vision, but the reality of it set in a moment later and was even more horrifying. It had been a long time since he had experienced it, though his brain connected the dots. This was exactly how he had seen everything before Pelle came into his life. His mind tried to make sense of it as color slowly drained away from his sight.

Pelle was dead. His brain tried to dismiss that thought in every way he could, but it was the only one that made sense. No other explanation worked without him suspending his disbelief and going against the obvious answer. His heart felt ready to pound out of his chest and as he finally pulled into the driveway, he stepped out of the car before he even fully stopped it.

He worried for a moment he was going to expel everything in his stomach, so nervous that he was nauseous, but he held it together. It felt like hours before he was finally pushing open Pelle's bedroom door. As Øystein stepped into the room, he was thankful that color had been stripped away from him. The room, particularly the wall behind Pelle's bed, was a mess. And he decided it was better he could not see it all in full color.

[cavinginhisfvce]

''MAMA'S BROWN BABY BEAR"

pairing: eventual harringrove. part 1

TW: Implied child abuse. Racism. Slurs implied but not used.

When Mama was around, Billy was allowed to embrace his identity. He was allowed to acknowledge his differences, and was able to find pride in his darker toned skin. He was his Mama's Brown Baby Bear.

She would scoop him into her arms, whispering into his ear as she tickled his sides, "repeat after me, Little Bear; I am strong. I am loved. I am an amazing young black man who will thrive." 

Billy always struggled to repeat after his mother, he was only four, so he more often than not botched the words, but she beamed brightly and kissed his nose every time. 

By age ten, the affirmations didn't stop, but they became less and less helpful. His father would make it a point to remind Billy he wasn't light enough, wasn't white enough to be his son.

It wasn't the worst his dad could dish out, Billy knew as much, but it still hurt. The punches hurt more than the words did technically, but the words left behind deeper scars.

What did hurt him was when his mother left him at twelve. It hurt when she stopped accepting his calls from the number she'd given him with the promise to always answer. 

It hurt when his father would call him out of his name, would call him the same slur he called black people he'd see simply existing outside. 

The word never sat right with Billy, not when it was directed at himself, or his mother, nor when it was aimed at a random person who happened to look like him.

When Susan came around, bringing her brat of a daughter with her, the boy was less than thrilled. After they moved in, things became more strained between Billy and his father.

Susan was nice enough, she smiled at Billy when he came home from classes with Max, she always gave him the corner piece when she'd make brownies. He doesn't remember telling her it was his favorite, but she seemed to know. 

She wasn't his mother, she could never be, but she wasn't the worst. She wasn't as terrible as the other women his father dated before they'd met. She even sometimes patched Billy up when Neil lost his shit, going as far as to kiss the crown of his head before leaving him to stew in his feelings and aches.

Max was annoying, to put it lightly, she never stopped asking where his real mother was, why he was never with her. She bragged about how often she saw her father, while Billy couldn't even get his mother to answer the phone. Not that she knew that for a fact. 

Neil now had his perfect white family. To him, Billy was just the darkness that invaded their light, casting them in a world of shame and general ugliness. 

With his mom gone, Billy scrapped the daily words of encouragement, he largely stopped identifying with anything that could've tied him to the woman who swore to never leave his side. He wished he could rid himself of the skin that would give away his inability to ever truly fit in, but even with lightening creams and avoiding the sun, despite the beach once being his safe haven, he remained darker than his family members. He remained darker than society would ever grow to accept.

The boy was darker than his father, and by default, Susan and Max, but he was lighter than his mother, much lighter. If he didn't tan, he was light enough to pass as majority white. 

Not enough for people to necessarily forget he was black, but enough that kids his age easily ignored that knowledge. 

California was a mixed pot of races, so it wasn't a big deal that Billy looked different from the rest of his family. Everyone knew him, and his dad, so there was hardly ever an issue on that front. When you saw Billy Hargrove, you knew who his father was.

Hawkins was different. Everyone gawked at him, gossiping about the new black boy in town. They didn't realize his father was Neil, they didn't understand how Max was his sister or how Susan was his mom.

She wasn't his mom, but to the small town who knew nothing of their newest occupants, she was.

By month two, Billy had taken his place at the top of the social pyramid. Girls and guys alike were enthralled by the new kid.

He remembers in his first two weeks when a scrawny looking kid came up to him and asked him if he'd been adopted by a white family, and if that's why he was so dark compared to the little red-head they've seen him with.

What Billy doesn't remember is punching the boy in the face, doesn't remember shoving him to the ground with a snarl and some empty thing of a threat.

After that spread, nobody bothered to ask Billy any personal questions about his family and whether he belonged with them.

When Steve met Billy, the older boy instantly took to him, and vice versa. They became inseparable, always being seen together or with the other lingering nearby.

Steve's parents loved Billy, they remembered everything Steve told them about the younger boy and then some. They knew he was allergic to apples and pears, but would eat them anyway if he saw them, because he lacked self control or preservation, so they stopped buying the fruits altogether. They knew he startled easily from loud voices and stomping. They knew Billy apparently had a mean streak, a side to him that they've never been privy to. They've seen the aftermath of it all, the busted lips, black eyes, fractured ribs and admittedly much worse. 

What they didn't see, what nobody saw, not even Steve, was the set of hands and work boots that brought one those wounds, some of which turned into scars. No one heard the repeated use of slurs aimed at the boy whose true smile could light the entire town alone. 

One day, Billy had blond dreads, the same ones he rolled into Hawkins sporting, the next he had a buzz cut and bruised ribs to match. He tried to sell Steve a story about some asshole outside of town, but when the brunet asked Billy to explain the haircut, the boy had fallen silent. 

Brown skin quickly shaded red, and before Steve knew what was happening, Billy was dissolving into a pool of tears, his breathing unsteady as he fought a round of hiccups. The taller of the two was unsure how to approach his best friend who sat in his living room crying, especially when he could hear the sound of his mother's car pulling into the driveway.