#it was supposed to be a fucking drabble

[homosexualgirlandbags]

Anyways cross fandom time because the epic brainrot is coming to me.

Brainwashed! Soap meeting Ghost again after his supposed death.

Just imagine Ghost standing there opposite Soap, his mohawk was more grown out, his hair tied up in a bun. The stubble on his face had turned into a full grown beard, turning him almost unrecognisable.

But it was still Soap, still the person he had fallen in love with years prior.

The familiar spark of mischievous was still behind those blue eyes, the wrinkles around Johnny's eyes were still there, more prominent now. A reminder of the years lost between them. His frame seemed taller now, almost as tall as him. And yet all Ghost could think about was how much he wanted to kiss him.

Simon's eyes couldn't help but soften a little, his hands instinctively lowering his gun. He wants to reach out, to run his hands over Johnny's face, to call out his name and see the light in his world come back once more.

"Johnny? You good?"

Oh god, Simon hated how vulnerable he sounded, how meek his voice sounded as he called out, akin to a child calling out to the darkness for comfort.

And yet, for all it's worth, Simon could have sworn he saw a little light of familiarity flare up Johnny's eyes. The eyes he used to stare during moonlit nights flickering over his mask, attempting to find recognition to cling to.

Ghost couldn't really care about the consequences of his actions at this moment, and certainly not that fact that he was sacrificing his identity for the almost fruitless attempt of his Johnny coming back to him.

And there Simon stood bare, devoid of the identity he hides behind. He could feel the dirt and dust stuck on his face, his hair tousled from sweat. He could feel the wind around him, his eyes crinkling as he looked into Johnny opposite him.

"Johnny?"

His voice sounded as though he was gonna cry now, and yet he couldn't have cared about the vulnerability of his actions when Johnny's eyes softened a little more, bloodied lips opened apart, as though he was trying to whisper out a name long buried in his memories.

Simon ignored the static in his earpiece, hardly caring for the mission at large now. It was completed either way, and Price could go to hell for all he cared about at this moment. His gun dropped onto the ground next to him, hitting the concrete floor as he took a step forward.

"L.t?"

The gruff voice across from him called out, voice cracked from years of misuse. Simon could see Johnny staring at him, eyes tired and desperate. Johnny's fingers loosened on the trigger, his gun hanging loosely from his hands as he stared back into the freckled face of Simon.

It wasn't long before Simon was running towards him, embracing Johnny into his arms. He could feel the tears staining his cheeks as he held Johnny close to him. Simon could hear shaky breaths in his ears, though he couldn't tell whose it was, nor did he care. Johnny's hands were on him in the next moment, gripping at Simon's shoulders.

"Si?"

Johnny's words sounded like reassurance to him, familiarity and surprise in his tone as he held Simon against him.

"Yes?"

Simon's voice came out hoarse from crying, shakily pulling away to stare into the eyes of someone he once loved. Up close, Johnny's face looked different now, more ragged, harsher around the edge. In the years he was gone, his love's face had been scarred, and his nose possibly broken in many times if the way it was crooked was anything to go by.

But it was his Johnny, the same Johnny he had fallen in love with so many years prior. Still the same Johnny that adored him, still the Johnny he loved.

Relieve flooded his heart as Johnny's eyes filled in tears, staring up into the man he had dreams of, visions of a life that was robbed from him years ago.

Later, when Johnny sat in the medical office, being tested on over and over again to ensure his and the teams safety, Simon couldn't help the feeling of overwhelming comfort rising in his throat as he watches Johnny. His eyes watching every familiar movement of the Scot, how Johnny's accent was gradually coming back the more he spoke, how brash his words were becoming.

Finally, he thinks, his love was home.

[shouyuus]

host!bakugou who leans into the "bad boy" act for the host club but is actually kinda confused as to why so many girls like him, bc he's always been told that the way he speaks is kind of brash and lowkey offensive but he tries not to think about it too hard bc... well if it makes them happy, then it can't be that bad right?

host!deku who so badly wants to be a bit more badass but all his regulars tell him that they love his sweet personality and wide-eyed innocence, likes the way he blushes when they compliment his clothes or tell him he's cute; secretly, he wants ppl to see him as a bit more grown up, a bit more mature, so he constantly bugs bakugou for advice, only for bakugou to tell him that he actually thinks girls should be treated the way deku treats them -- sweetly, and with respect

host!shouto who is the classic "cool, aloof" type that all the girls go gaga for, and he's constantly in the top 5 (if not top 3) ranked hosts of the club on any given night, doesn't quite get it when everyone squeals when he rolls up his shirt sleeves to refill their drinks but doesn't mind it too much; he never forgets a birthday or a detail that his guests tell him, and makes a note to always send texts to his top regulars, wishing them good morning and goodnight

host!keigo who's the oldest and most experienced host, still in super high demand but happy to let the youngsters take the lead whenever they want to, but is still frequently requested by his most loyal clients; is a smooth talker and quick joker, so slick with his compliments that he's got the club record for most "swoon-worthy" moments, voted by the clients, of course; he's always down to share tips and knowledge with the younger hosts, happy to help out when he can, bc as seriously as he takes this job, he also knows that it's easy to let it go to your head, let it take over your life, so he tries to remind everyone to take it easy and just enjoy the process --

i mean, they're living the dream aren't they? making money while making people happy!

[fucking-solar]

Smooshed in a Kiss (NSFW)

Cybertronian x Reader, Rodimus x Reader x Drift, yada yada

// size difference, g/t, spit kink I guess?

Read below

It’s surprising how warm they were. It was something you couldn’t help but notice while squished between their chests. They almost didn’t seem to notice you at first, enraptured by each other. You listened to Rodimus’s whimpers and whines as Drift devoured his mouth with hunger, drool spilling out of the corners of their lips.

Fangs got caught in the light when they parted, Rodimus venting steam as he licked away his drool. He tilted forward, squishing you further, to do the same for Drift. A soft moan escaped him at the taste before he pressed another kiss to his lips. Drift nipped at him and he pulled back before he could get dragged into another kiss. Not that he would have minded.

Rodimus leaned back slightly, Drift following subconsciously, and you were lifted into their line of sight. An embarrassed flush flashed through your body at their gazes, still hungry and full of desire.

Always an initiator, Rodimus tilted to press his lips to your chest. Drift took the cue and did the same to your back, soft and gentle. It was different from how he was with Rodimus earlier but you didn’t mind. Hot lips moved up to tease along your neck, a gasp of surprise leaving your lips. The yellow hand holding you up tightened around your waist at the quiet noise.

A burning glossa ran over your neck and there was a stifled moan, but not from you. The bots’ lips, you realized, almost encased your neck. A kiss that was barely disrupted by your own body. Their glossa slid over your skin as they tried to seek each other out. Slobber and spit slid down your shirt, sticky and smelling almost metallic. You didn’t mind.

Your tiny hands grappled onto Rodimus’s hands to steady yourself as your body was rocked and pushed between their mouths. Drift shifted up and Rodimus chased after him, pushing his lips up against yours in a frantic kiss. He was too large to follow but the feeling of his hot lips and glossa against your’s made you shiver and moan. Drift tilted your head so Rodimus was more or less making out with your cheek, whining desperately, and chuckled.

The white mech pressed a kiss to your other cheek. It was still soft and careful, much too mindful of your small stature where Rodimus wasn’t. The Prime nipped at your skin gently then dragged his tongue along the side of your face, the heat rushing to your face making you feel dizzy. Drift copied the action to the other side and you choked on a whine. God, their mouths were so wet.

A digit slipped under your shirt as the two pressed their lips harder against your head, a gasp forced from your lips. Rodimus wasted no time pushing his glossa between them. It was cool, weirdly enough, as it moved over your tongue and barely began to stretch your lips out while it pushed deeper. Drift caressed your side and stomach with his digit while he kissed and marked your jaw lightly.

Primus, you could never get used to this.

[radiance1]

"Look into the beady little eyes your past self, and question if you wish to destroy him."

Dan did. There was obviously something wrong with his past self, because that's a literal teddy bear, looking at him with his beady little eyes. It would be so, so very easy to destroy his past self if he wanted to.

Instead, he just, sorta, picked him up.

Was he always so tiny and innocent? So, trusting? The boy didn't even move back when he reached for him, no, he walked forwards into his hands.

No survival instinct?! He has none! He's tiny, utterly defenseless and doesn't even have the basic instincts of self-preservation! Even a blob ghost has something akin to such instinct.

He lifted his past self up to eye level. Was I always this... cute and cuddly? He shook him, up, down, left, right, the only thing that caused was for the other him to laugh.

He squeezed his past self.

A loud sound- not unlike that of a squeaky toy, was what was produced as a result. Then he just, stood there, unmoving, his brain churning to try and provide understanding yet also trying to restart itself.

His past self tilted his head, reaching a paw forwards to poke him on the nose.

He blinked.

His younger self blinked as well.

He pulled back his lips, bearing his fangs as he snarled as his younger self.

The boy copied him, his mouth shifting as what were undoubtably the cutest little fangs he's ever seen were bared at him in a cute and less intimidating imitation of his own snarl.

That's it.

It's decided.

He's keeping him.

He no longer cares about going back to his timeline to repay his grudge against the Batclan, who he suffered humiliation after humiliation from because they just would not fall or submit.

He's content to stay with this version of himself. This, smaller, more unthreatening version of himself that seemed to have a crippling lack of fear.

Because he's undoubtedly felt the same sense of loss as he, himself did, in the future. This one has no family, no friends, and would most surely not survive with just himself and would be hit harder when he realizes that he's alone.

...

His timeline doesn't need or want him anyway.

===

A few heroes have travelled back in time from their ruined timeline, everything utterly destroyed and despair premating the very air and choking your lungs with every breath they took.

Either that or the dust, really.

The air in the past was fresh, clean, full of hope and new opportunities. They wouldn't waste it, they would protect it, this time. Prevent the fallen from falling, and having children not be bound under the protection of a ghost shield and parents living their lives in fear because they knew what was out there.

They just had to get rid of one man- no.

One monster.

Dan Phantom.

[ranx0]

Steve's liked cars since before he knew. He's just always liked them. He stared at the fancy ones people from across town drove, and he liked to admire the one his dad kept the the garage.

Ten years ago Steve Randle met Sodapop Curtis. Sodapop was six going on seven, and Steve was seven. The former was a loud outspoken kid with an average home life. Two loving parents and two brothers to keep him company. The latter wasn't so lucky, his parents were going through an ugly divorce and they didn't bother to make sure he was okay during any of it.

Steve, like any other little boy, craved attention. He knew Sodapop got attention, he knew it almost as soon as he became friends with the boy. He could tell from his jokes, his smile, the way he talked like everyone was listening, and his confidence that he was a boy everyone always noticed. Maybe that's why Steve stuck by him, copying his confident nature in a way that came off as cocky. Copying his loud volume in a way that made him annoying to most.

Soda figured that Steve liked cars one day a few months after they had just met. Steve always had a small toy car from home stuffed in his backpack hidden away from his parents in case they decided he was in trouble for the day. He had it out during recess, which immediately caught Soda's eyes. It was old and beaten up, but he could tell it used to be a model of those fancy bright red cars that looked like they had a mustache in the front.

Soda plopped down next to the boy, watching him zoom the car back and forth on the grass, opening and shutting the door then walking his hands with his fingers away from the car. Soda was amazed, the car looked fancy. Much more than any toys that Soda had, his were all one solid piece of plastic but Steve's- Steve's had functioning doors, fancy seats, and if you had something small enough you could probably stick it in one of the seats.

But its paint was chipped, there were a few dents in it and one of the car doors wouldn't close correctly. He learned that after observing Steve try and shut it a few times after playing with it for a while. The car was well-loved and had clearly been through a lot.

"That's a cool car." Soda stated, then Steve looked at him.

"It's my only one." The little boy mumbled, tightening his grip on it. Soda didn't understand why, he wasn't going to take it away from him or anything.

"What is it?" The blonde asked with a genuine curiosity that Steve couldn't help but fumble at. He picked the car up from off the ground and sat crisscrossed on the grass. Soda waited patiently for his response.

"It's, uhm, a Ford Convertible," Steve played with the car in his hands, then looked up at Soda. "You could see some around town if you look hard enough."

"I think I have," Soda replied quickly, "They look real fancy."

Soda looked at Steve in awkward silence for a few more moments, and then Steve awkwardly held the car out for Soda to take. "Here," He mumbled, looking away from Soda as he gave him the toy. "You can play with it if you want."

Soda beamed, grabbing the car quickly and zooming it around the floor. Steve's hand almost followed after the car when Soda took it harshly, but he held it back when he saw the excited look on his face.

"Just be careful with it," Steve grumbled as he watched.

That day Soda forgot to give it back, it had just slipped his mind. Recess ended abruptly and everyone rushed inside to continue the school day.

When Steve got home that day he placed his bag down in his room, and later when his parents started fighting he retreated back to busy himself with his prized possession. He was scrounging through his bag trying to find it, and when he couldn't he almost started to cry.

He must have been making too much noise because then it alerted his dad. He doesn't know what necessarily ticked him off, the mess he made while throwing around everything in his bag or the crying from Steve. But his father gave him something reasonable to cry about after he found him.

The next day in school Steve's hands were balled up into fists, trying to distract himself from crying over something stupid again as he tried to confront his new friend. He'd told Soda how he must've accidentally taken the car home with him, and the other boy was extremely apologetic.

Despite how apologetic he was though, he didn't get that car back for a while. Soda kept forgetting. Steve would ask at least once a week, and Soda would always look so genuinely crushed every time he was reminded.

When he finally got the car back it was around December. He'd given the car to him in October.

Soda invited Steve to his house for the first time and was excited to introduce Steve as his best friend. Soda had claimed that if he'd just waited for his parents instead of getting on the bus like he usually did his parents would be happy to have him over.

They waited for Soda's parents outside the school, and when they pulled up they almost expected the little boy standing next to Sodapop. They introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, and they seemed like sweet people. They had the same genuine smile as Soda did, and they always spoke gently. The complete opposite of his own.

“So, Steve, you and Soda just met this year, right?” His mother asked, and Steve nodded in response. He regrettably wasn’t paying much attention to the questions, just nodding along to whatever his parents had said.

He was focusing on the car that they had, what condition it was in, and how much it would be worth. He was way off, but that was only because he was seven and didn’t understand the concept of capitalism much. It was some type of Ford, but he personally thought his model was better.

When they pulled up in front of the house he noticed some stark contrasts from his own, although the house looked poor enough it had a well-taken-care lawn, its front door was open and its screen door was closed, and it had a nice paint job.

When he entered the house it had this warm aura to it, comforting and happy.

"Soda, why don't you go get Steve that surprise you had for him?" His mother urged, and then Soda bounced up and down excitedly. The younger boy ran off into a room, slamming the door. Steve flinched slightly at the loud noise, then turned to look at Mrs. Curtis quizzically.

He didn't get a response before Soda came barreling in holding something in each of his hands. He held them out to Steve, smiling at him excitedly. There he was holding Steve's old busted-up red Model Ford Convertible and a second one that Steve recognized as a dark blue Model 1947 Cadillac.

Steve could almost cry.

"They're both for you! I told Mama about how I kept forgettin' your car and felt real bad," He said shyly as Steve took the cars from his hands, "So she helped me get another as an apology!"

Steve looked up at Mrs. Curtis, he wasn't stupid, and he knew Soda couldn't buy one himself. Obviously, Mrs. Curtis had done this. He tried to hold back tears and mouthed a quick thank you.

So yeah, you could say Steve Randle liked cars. He liked them a lot, actually.

[good-beanswrites]

es being in CONPLETE and utter denial that their prisoners care for them and vice versa. This could be humor and/or angst. Like the prisoners have a whole birthday for es, they bring them back to their room when they pass out, etc. And still, es is like "uhm. Yeah so my prisoners DEFINITELY hate me for the verdicts and stuff" while ignoring a letter on their desk that says "we care for you!!"

They really are the most in-denial child you've ever met -_- I really hope the give-your-warden-a-hug trend continues through the vds, but I'm doubtful 😅 I got hooked on the birthday idea, especially since they don't have an official-official one. I tried to keep a balance of angst and lightheartedness, with the ending ambiguous enough to satisfy either hehe... (Also featuring a quick reference to the last angst piece where Es came down with a fever, but not meaningfully a sequel)

Es awoke on their birthday cold, sore, and crying out in fear. 

They’d fallen asleep at their desk (which hadn’t been an issue the first few times when their neck and shoulders weren’t pinched up in pain.) Jackalope denied any fiddling with the prison’s temperature, but they still believed this chill wasn’t normal. Neither was their sharp increase in nightmares…

They shoved their notebooks aside, knocking against the desk’s lamp with a clatter. Es knew they had no right to feel so bitter. It wasn’t as if it was their real birthday. Today marked the day Milgram had begun, but they had joined the others scoffing at Mahiru’s suggestion that it could be considered the day “Es” was born.

And now, there was no one around to push it. 

They arrived for breakfast in their rumpled uniform. Sure enough, no one spoke a word as they picked at some cereal. Yuno was the only one to make an odd comment after they stood, heading to the hallway.

“Back to work already? Maybe you should take today off. It’s… a good day to relax.”

“I’m fine, Yuno. There’s a bit more to get done,” they lied. 

Milgram’s paperwork and logs had been turned in weeks ago. Everything currently strewn across their desk was there for personal use. It was better to continue their endeavors in the privacy of their own room rather than be an annoyance out here.

“If you say so…” her voice lilted with a lightness Es hadn’t heard in a long time. “Just try and take one break out here, okay? We don’t want a repeat of last time, hehe~”

They nodded, her cheery tone only plunging them deeper into shame. The prisoners had every right to ensure they didn’t overwork themselves again. It must have been infuriating to be expected to care for their own warden. They had to spend a whole week watching over some helpless child who’d dragged their prison into despair.

That night, Mikoto further drove in the knife by repeating the request cheerily. He brought them a plate of dinner, stopping the door with his foot when they tried to shrug off his comments.

“Just a little change of scenery,” he prodded. If even he was offering advice about overwork, the prisoners must have been desperate. 

“Alright.” Es glanced down at the plate, knowing it would be going straight to the garbage given their current appetite. Something sweet sounded more palatable, but that would only sound childish to admit. “I’ll come out to grab some tea in a minute.”

The prison felt oddly quiet when they finally honored their word. They crept from the corridor into the kitchen. Es thought Jackalope maintained control of the meals, but the new mess of dishes told them the prisoners had made something on their own. Es felt a pang of guilt for throwing out their dinner; it may not have been as fur-infested as they originally thought.

They made their tea as silently as possible. The ache had returned to their muscles and temples. All they wanted to do was curl up on the couch in their room, grab a blanket to stave off this chill, and cry as silently as they could manage into their tea.

As Es approached their quarters, they realized they wouldn’t be so lucky. 

The door to their quarters stood open a crack, voices of the prisoners rising up from inside. 

“Hurry up! They’ll be back any minute now.”

“I thought you told them to leave their room?”

“I don’t think they were really buying it...”

Es already figured out the motive was out of selfishness rather than concern, but the betrayal still stung. They were the Warden, after all – they should have been far above falling victim to some mutinous plot to ransack their bedroom.

They took a measured breath. Their plans would need to wait. Es placed their tea on the ground, straightening out their uniform. They mustered up all the authority they could by lifting their chin and making the most of their height. They closed the gap to the doorway and hoped the stomping of their boots announced their arrival with enough intimidation.

“And just what do you think you’re do–”

 “Surprise!”

Es’ mouth hung open, the rest of their lecture falling away into complete bafflement. Their room had been transformed with homemade materials: paper chains hung like party streamers above. Colored crafts were strewn about, in various shapes but with a clear rabbit theme. The books on their desk had been cleared away to make room for a cake, on which Kazui was hurriedly lighting some colorful candles. The icing displayed a shaky-handed drawing of Jackalope’s face. 

“Happy birthday!” Muu beamed at them, unwavering even through her horrid veil. She linked her arms through theirs to drag them forward. “Didn’t we do such a good job?”

“I – what? My birthday…?”

Mikoto shrugged. “It’s close enough.”

“We figured you’d had enough bad surprises lately.” Kazui gave a guilty laugh. “We thought we owed you a nice one.”

Es’ shoulders sank. “No. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s good,” Amane said, “because Fuuta-san completely ruined your cake.”

“It’s going to taste fine! If you actually helped with the icing, maybe it wouldn’t look so bad…”

“I was busy making the chain.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Muu said. “We couldn’t surprise you with gifts, since you see our requests. But it was fun making decorations. We still don’t really know what you like, but we know you and Jackalope get along, so we thought you might like rabbits.”

They blinked. “Ah. Where is Jackalope?” There was no way he’d allow all this. After all, he was the one who specifically told them that a Warden of Milgram has no birthday, or age, or anything else to call their own. It was easier that way, he said. Es had agreed, at the time.

The others looked away nervously, but Yuno kept up her bright smile. “Kotoko’s cell. She never does party stuff like this, but I think she still wanted to help. She’s looking after him a bit.”

That sounded like a terrible idea. Es should go make sure he was still in one piece. Then again, what were a few more minutes to understand the situation…?

They eyed the cake. Though the decoration wasn’t the highest quality, there seemed to be a lot of work put into the dessert. “I thought you all were above petty bribery.”

“I told you they’d be a baby about it.” Fuuta crossed his arms. “No kid likes their birthday to be a big deal.”

 Yuno flicked his ear. “Every kid likes that! You’re just the weird one.” Before he could complain, she turned the attention to the flickering candles. “Now, you should make your wish!” 

“Mm-hm. Muu won’t eat it if it gets gross candle wax in it.”

The Warden shouldn’t sit around and share a cake with the prisoners under them.

Kazui said, “it has berries in the filling – your favorite. At least, I thought you mentioned something like that to Shidou-san.”

The Warden should recall information about the prisoners, not the other way around. 

“How does that sound?”

“That sounds…” 

The Warden shouldn’t have a birthday, to begin with.

They tried to get a hold of their trembling voice. “That sounds…” Their throat squeezed itself tight. The others’ eyes widened. They started to cry.

“Oh, Warden-kun!”

“I told you, you’ve been working too hard!”

“Here, let’s get you some cake.”

“It’s okay!”

Es wanted to demand everyone stop with the coddling and the childishness. They didn’t need all this fake concern. But they were outnumbered – too many arms pulled them in and patted their back to fend off. Amane used a sheet of paper to blow out the candles, cutting a slice early.

Es was ushered over to the couch. With all the bodies around them, it felt warmer here. The plate of desert landed right into their hands.

“I… I don’t understand,” they said at last. “It’s not even my birthday. And even if it was, none of us are getting any older. After everything… I mean… You know I don’t deserve this.”

They hung their head. Yuno let out a drawn-out sigh, and they waited for her to agree with them. 

Instead, she nudged them playfully. “I know that everyone deserves something sweet on their birthday. And some company, no matter the homicidal status…” Es didn’t expect so many chuckles from the group. “And a wish.”

Amane reached over to place a half-melted candle into their slice. She lit it.  

It was mere flattery, they reminded themself. These prisoners had no reason to care, other than to get on Es’ good side in hopes of skewing their verdicts. There was nothing special about it – anyone would do the same.

They looked at the gazes surrounding them. Their smiles weren’t forced. But how could anyone tell what was real, anymore? They curled their legs up under them. 

Es closed their eyes, and made a wish.

[setmeatopthepyre]

Karma

[@118dailydrabble day 60] [part of antarct-fic | bucktommy | 118 words] [same scene as this]

Tommy's not sure he believes in karma.

If anything could convince him, it's this:

The desire to reach out to Evan, to crawl back to him despite the pain he knew would follow, the way he knew he'd be picking shrapnel out of his heart for years to come if he did, had sent him running to the farthest reaches of the earth.

And now, weeks later, he's found that isolation, that remoteness. Doesn't get much more remote than in the belly of a dead helo at the foot of a glacier. The only problem is, he's not alone. Because karma is a bitch and the man he's been running from all this time is right beside him.

[lamnwar]

MDNI 18+

Katsunori Harasawa loves beautiful things. That's why he's with you, and he doesn't hesitate one second to spoil you with the prettiest things.

Of course, it's all carefully selected. all his gifts chosen for the craftmanship, the small details that goes into making these pretty things.

So every now and then, you might come home to a box waiting for you, a smile on your face as you wonder how much more can you be spoiled. This time, you're welcomed by the finest lingerie set, something that might actually be too beautiful for you to wear.

An intricate marriage of lace and silk, ornated in flowers. The stitches, made by hand and the size, undoubtly catered to your exact proportions. You even wonder how he's got his hand on such a magnificent set -- you know from the tag that it isn't from any big household name, but from a specialist.

Your hands tremble when you decide to put it on. It's so delicate, such a fragile piece of art, and yet; it was made for you so how can you not try it? Your fingers trail on the delicate lace, tracing the gorgeous patterns that adorns it as you admire the way it clings to your body. The way the bra embraces the shapes of your breasts, your nipples strained against the lace -- ever so sensitive, as nothing turns you on quite like looking this pretty.

And those panties, the nicest pair you've ever owned, in all honesty, fitted perfectly to the shape of your body. The plump of your ass showcased beautifully, making you a true competition to these goddesses in Renaissance paintings.

Katsunori himself would say so. He can just sit there for hours and admire you; but he much rather touch you. Kiss you. Taste you. Consume every inch of your beautiful body till his desire for you is satiated. Fuck, does it make his dick hard to see his gorgeous girl.

You are art that is meant to be loved and you know so with every soft kiss he leaves on your skin, and the way his fingers strip you out of the set with reverance.

"Sorry, I've already spoiled them" you pout when he notices the damp spot on your new panties.

It makes him laugh -- what a silly thing to apologize for. He'd handwash them if needed, he doesn't care. As much as he likes the way your pussy looks dressed in such fancy fabric, nothing is as marvelous as the real thing. He can't resist the urge to admire your honey-glazed lips, and that sweet hole that asks for him.

Katsunori Harasawa likes pretty things so much that he worships you. You can feel it in the way he dives his acking cock in the embrace of your walls, all raw and needy, being able to feel you like that being his salvation. He prays to the sounds of your moans and he ravels in the way you look at him.

Oh you, pretty pretty girl, that Katsunori Harasawa can't help but love as if you were crafted by the gods.

[jayparked]

guess who just finished jay's version

[xxlady-lunaxx]

it had been completely run on by alcohol. unless the alcohol had only loosened his tongue, letting the words he’d reigned in finally slip free. it would make sense, really. sanemi had been acting more distant recently. even so, giyuu hadn’t paid it too much mind. until now. until sanemi had drunk one too many sips of sake and had laid his thoughts out on the table.

“i don’t think we can keep doing this,” he’d said, turning to look at giyuu. he spoke casually, a small smile playing on his lips. he looked half out of it.

“doing what?” giyuu gently pushed the sake away from sanemi’s reach.

“this. us.” sanemi waved vaguely between them. “us dating.”

giyuu froze. “what do you mean?”

“it’s not really working.” sanemi sighed, sitting back up and shifting on his chair to look at giyuu. he shrugged. “you know?” his hands tucked between his thighs, fiddling with his sleeve. “i feel like we clash badly. like colors. like, uhm… i dunno. what colors look bad together?”

“but… why?” giyuu pressed, ignoring sanemi’s ramble about colors.

sanemi leaned back—only to jolt up again as he realized there was only empty air behind him. he scrambled to turn, his back resting against the counter. his head tilted back and his hair made a show of swooping down. “why? ‘cause… you know. we’re both boys. we’re gonna die anyway. how many years…? two left? also we never worked well before, yeah?” sanemi mulled this over. “i used to hate you. ‘cause you were so annoying and i thought you were an arrogant piece of shit. i don’t hate you now, but still. don’t you hate me for hating you?”

he crossed his legs, sitting back up and cocking his head towards giyuu. “you’re not stupid, giyuu. i think.” he paused. “oh yeah. i’m the stupid one. you’re the educated one.”

he laughed. held out his hand. “where’s the sake?”

giyuu shook his head. he was in some state of shock, so it took him a moment to catch up with everything. “you’ve wanted to break up? for how long?” he asked, his voice hitching slightly. he reconsidered the questions. “why do you want…? i thought we were doing well?”

sanemi huffed, scanning the counter for the sake. his eyes lit up as he caught sight of it and he reached over. giyuu intercepted his attempt, holding him back and simultaneously shoving the sake away. sanemi shot him a look but gave up, apparently too tired to bother.

“are you going to answer me?” giyuu said with a slight frown. he had to ask before the alcohol left sanemi’s system.

“answer what?” sanemi slumped onto the counter, glowering at the sake that was much too far for his liking. somehow, he’d forgotten he could walk. so he resorted to resting his head in his arms. he closed his eyes, letting out a breath.

“why do you want to break up?”

“i do?” sanemi sat up, looking suddenly alarmed. he stared at giyuu. “since when?”

“oh. uhm. well, you were heavily implying it.”

sanemi thought that over. “i don’t want to break up. i just think we’re not gonna end up well. not a lot of relationships do. i’m just being realistic.”

“more like pessimistic,” giyuu mumbled. “how won’t we end up well, though? we’ve been fine.”

“it’s just…” sanemi hesitated. he shook his head. “my head doesn’t fucking make sense. can’t think.”

giyuu sighed. “sometimes, i don’t understand you.”

“me neither.” sanemi went back to resting on the counter. his eyes fluttered close again. “‘m just worried that i’ll fuck up and leave you with the consequences or something. never mind. gonna sleep, now. night.”

[fabbyf1]

You Were The Best (You Were The Worst)

“What do you want?” You. Only you. Always you. “Tell me what you want, Logan.” 

“Oscar, ple—”

“Tell me what you want, and you can have it.” 

“You,” Logan said, not looking away from his eyes. “I want you.” 

“Well, then I’m all yours, baby.”  OR: the angsty estranged-best-friends-to-lovers fic. They haven’t talked since Logan left the grid.

Oscar Piastri/Logan Sargeant | 15k | Read on AO3

[lighthouseshepard]

ahhh been too afraid to pm you but hi from a silent mutual!!

writing prompt: john and yorick chat while arthur sleeps :))

HI HELLO!! im also always too afraid to pm everyone! thank you so much for sending this in and so sorry it took me a while! been a very busy few days (:

"Is he fully asleep, my king?"

John groans in annoyance among the relative darkness he'd been sulking within. Ever since Arthur's eyes shut once he fell into an exhausted, heavy slumber nearly thirty minutes prior, he'd been reluctant to try and exercise what little muscle control he possessed to squint them open again. Manipulating those muscles usually woke him regardless of how careful he was, leaving him with a splitting headache neither of them could explain. And at the moment, John couldn't bring himself to disturb the hard won sleep, as fitful as it was.

Yes, he's asleep, he hisses impatiently. Yorick's voice came from somewhere to their left, still attached by the chain threaded around their waist. Arthur's right arm twitches, fingers scrabbling for some imaginary thing, before falling still.

"Excellent," says the skull. "Our master requires much rest after that entire ordeal."

Our master? John snorts. The subtle stirrings of a cool night's breeze brush against the skin of his left hand, welcome after the wet, stale air of the cave. He's your master, not mine. 

"He is master to both of us!" Yorick exclaims, far too loudly. "Just as you are a king to him and myself. An inseparable pair, the dies irae, intertwined inexorably, dominion over one another and all else."

Jesus fucking Christ, John mutters, wishing he could wince. What does that even mean?

“Exactly as I said. Would you like me to repeat it?”

No, no. Can you quiet down? You're going to wake him.

“Certainly, my king.” His reply drops to a tone only slightly less loud than before. 

 And stop calling me that, he adds irritably. I'm not a king.

"You were once a king," Yorick states matter of fact, jaw clacking solidly as he speaks, a peculiarly troubling imitation of human life. "I do not see the issue with proclaiming this."

Once, he emphasizes. I'm not... I'm not that being any longer. I don't claim to be any kind of ruler anymore.

"Fair enough! What shall I call you if not a ruler, then?" 

John, he grinds out, the last droplet of water among the barren desert of his patience threatening to dissolve. John is fine.

"Alright," Yorick says, sounding pleased. "King John, how may I serve you?"

John heaves a haggard sigh. Unbelievable, he groans, and attempts to turn his attention away for a brief, blissful second to collect what surely remained of his sanity.

The thing that called itself vanguard spoke incessantly. Within the caves, climbing out into rain-damp earth and sky, walking to find shelter for nightfall in the hopes of catching at least a few hours sleep - it had not stopped talking the entire way. John had half a mind to untangle Yorick from Arthur's belt when he wasn't paying attention and throw him as far as his eyes could see. He'd never liked the thought of the vanguard anyway, had never wanted Arthur to take the head, keep the tooth. Something about a creature which existed simultaneously in the Dreamlands, the Dark World and their own reality never sat well with him. 

A hypocritical perspective, possibly, considering. Yet that similarity alone made him nervous, straddling a razor's cautious edge. He knew what he was capable of. Yorick remained a mystery.

They'd found an oak tree, its canopy stretching out far enough to provide cover from the last stray rain clouds rolling by, so long as Arthur kept curled at its trunk. He had fallen under almost immediately. One or two words exchanged between him and that damned skull, and he was out, John's name half formed on his lips in what sounded like the start of a question. It would likely be forgotten upon waking. Already Yorick was taking time meant for him.

Regardless, John knew him to be valuable, an asset they couldn't afford to get rid of. Certainly not now, with nothing to their names except the clothes Arthur wore and the bag he carried, no money, no food. If Yorick could be a wealth of information like he claimed, they'd have to put up with him a while longer. 

And then John could toss him into a lake.

In the stretch of thankful silence, Yorick apparently finally listening to his demands, he reaches over and inspects what remained of the wound. Dried blood coated Arthur's wrinkled shirt close to his heart, stiffening the fabric. Laying his palm flat and hesitantly across his chest, John takes solace in the flighty pulse tangibly felt there. Not too long ago there was none at all.

Arthur murmurs something wordless under his touch. John retracts his hand quickly, mildly guilty at having potentially disturbed him.

“You dislike when he sleeps,” Yorick says. Despite his position by Arthur's hip, rolled sideways where he'd come to rest as they laid down on dry grass, his voice still seemed to come from somewhere else around them. 

John waits a second for more to follow. Nothing comes - it's a statement, not an inquiry.

I don't dislike him sleeping, he huffs. He has to rest, obviously.

“Yet it troubles you regardless? The absence of him.”

I don't, John sputters out, struggling to keep his voice level. I'm not… lonely if that's what you're suggesting. Will you just shut up already? We're both going to wake him up at this rate.

“Our master is blind to the world in multiple senses of the word,” says Yorick. “Deep within a dream. He will not wake for some time.”

How do you know he's dreaming? he asks, perplexed. You can't… see into his mind, or-

“I know a great many things.” Another beat of silence, decorated by the cricket song in the surrounding brush shielding them from view. Again John waits for an explanation, growling agitatedly when none is forthcoming.

Such as? he prompts. What is he dreaming about? 

“I do not know the specifics,” clacks Yorick. “Yet I'm aware of the turmoil of his thoughts. There is a string of piano keys tied like wire around his ankles, a bathtub overflowing, a yellow sun-”

Okay, I get the specifics! John mutters. So a nightmare, clearly.

“Precisely! Excellent conclusion, King John.”

He was starting to immediately regret accidentally adding John to that title. Is there a way we can help him, then?

As if on cue, subconsciously aware he was being discussed, Arthur lets out a low, pained breath of air. Instinctively John’s hand jolts to attention, fingers delicately skimming the wound like he would find answers or assistance there. His legs were twitching, again his arm reaching and then recoiling from something John couldn’t see or understand. 

Nightmares were the only times he felt useful, whenever Arthur slept. Lingering in the corners of his mind, stuck between drifting into his own thoughts and keeping an active listen for anything that might hurt them while he was out - it wore him down in ways be couldn't explain. Yorick was right, even though John would rather revisit the Dark World than admit it. He did hate when Arthur had to sleep for the emptiness it left him with. Being able to wake him from a bad dream as soon as he caught the signs left him aware of a strange, disjointed sense of selfish pleasure. Even if it came at the risk of Arthur’s unhappiness, helping him out of a nightmare was one thing he could do consistently right.

“He will not wake until the nightmare is complete,” Yorick says nonchalantly. “He is too deep.”

Which will take how long?

“I know a great many things,” he says for the second time. “Yet this, I do not.”

Another whimper, softer than the last. John taps the side of his head, tugs at his shirt collar, goes so far as to flick his nose multiple times in a row, as hard as he could manage. Nothing caused him to stir. He could slap him, sure, but in this state he might break apart altogether.

Great. John heaves a sigh. So we just have to listen to this, then? Until he’s, what, done dreaming?

“That is correct. We could always pass the time discussing, my King.”

Discussing what? He snorts. The maggots we just crawled through? No thanks.

“Or,” Yorick adds, “you could always return your hand to his chest.”

What? 

“Your hand,” he repeats, jaw clicking knowingly. “It is the one thing which calms the dreams. I’ve witnessed it many times before.”

You didn’t even have eyes, then, John says sardonically. What could you possibly have witnessed?

“I have no physical eyes now, but I can see you and the master. I was aware then, and in a way, I am aware now.”

In the shrouding blackness of Arthur’s slumber, John imagines the two points of white light where the prince’s eyes once rested staring sideways up at them, awash in tendrils of green smoke. Was this how Arthur felt all the time, kept in the dark, left to wonder how everyone was looking at him? 

Carefully, he puts his hand back in the center of Arthur’s chest. Fingers splay out, one wooden pinky, the rest a thin collection of bruises and scars and broken, chipped nails. That fidgety pulse returns, a bird’s caught wing under his palm. The rhythm remains so for nearly a minute, stuttering and jumping to some melody John couldn’t follow along, and he’s about ready to give it up for nonsensical, stupid advice before he hears Arthur sigh.

It’s not the same troubled exhale as before. This one comes calmer, more even-keeled. As he focuses on his heartbeat he notices it begins to slow, calming bit by bit into a steady, softer pattern. Arthur’s movements drift to a halt. He shifts among the roots, mumbling something too quiet to comprehend, and eventually falls silent.

“He sleeps much like the dead in appearance,” Yorick states thoughtfully. “I believe the dream has come to a close, for now.”

Good, remarks John, at a loss for anything else to say. He wasn’t going to tell Yorick thank you; but it was tempting. The gentle rise and fall of Arthur’s breathing is a placid current, subtler than the new rain beginning to break through the clouds overhead in the night. He could plainly picture him, sprawled out uncomfortably, breeze touseling sweat damp hair, a downward curve in a mouth which always seemed to be frowning lately. Protected just enough beneath the oak, protected enough beneath John’s palm.

Well, at least one of us is content.

“I am much content, King John.”

That makes a total of two. Can you please shut the hell up now? 

“If that is what you wish," the skull says amicably. "Then I will."

It is, John bites. Just thirty minutes of fucking silence. Please.

Yorick says nothing. Relief settles over him as the break distends. Minutes pass until he finally accepts his desire had been properly observed. Crickets sing around them once more.

Sleep well, he whispers, hand firmly over heart. Perhaps we can wait a little longer to get rid of him.

[owl127]

Can youuuu…mayyybe…please write something containing a 🗡️ character and a jockstrap. Ugh something about jockstraps, mouth guards, and feminine girls doing masculine things is so hot🥵

read on Ao3

Reading @lexa-griffins talk about wanheda’s dagger got me inspired, so… *throws confetti in the air*

Lexa’s boots kicked dirty on her way to the bus stop.

“Lexa!” The cries behind her continued, along with the annoying click of cleats against asphalt. “Lexa, wait!”

Ignoring the girl running after her, Lexa climbed onto the bus without looking back. The driver looked her pursuer and rolled her eyes, signaling for the dirty athlete to hop into the campus bus.

“Thanks, Carla!” Lexa heard, and of course she would be friends with the bus drivers, because apparently, Clarke Griffin is very friendly with people. Girls in particular.

Lexa looked straight ahead as Clarke Griffin, captain of the soccer team, president of the debate club, LGBTQ+ alliance vice-president, and a fucking player sat next to her. Clarke swore at the mud tracks following her and lowered her socks with a long sigh.

“Lexa—” Clarke tried, but Lexa mmf-ed and turned her back to the alpha. “Okay, this is getting ridiculous.”

“You’re the one tracking mud on school property.”

“Brittany is like, nothing, she’s—”

“Have you slept with her?” Lexa turned to look into Clarke’s eyes, searching for honesty, trust, anything that would make the last three months she dedicated to this woman worth it. She found honesty, yes, but regretted it immediately.

“Not recently!” Clarke defended. “She likes to cheer in every game, and she keeps saying we’re seeing each other, but Lex, I haven’t been with her since before I met you!”

Lexa squinted her eyes, watching a bead of sweat forming on Clarke’s forehead.

“Okay, maybe once after we met, but we weren’t exclusive back then!”

The logic part of Lexa’s brain argued that Clarke had a point, and even Lexa had been on a fruitless date after she met Clarke. Had she thought about Clarke all the time? Totally. Did it in the end help her see she was actually into the charming athlete? Yes, but irrelevant at the moment, since now the unreasonable part of Lexa’s brain kept replaying Brittany’s voice: “And that’s Clarke, number 10. She’s the captain. She’s also delicious.” A pink tongue over lipstick gloss had accompanied that statement, and a graphic image of that girl on her knees for Clarke had made Lexa escape the match as soon as she could.

Clarke had seen the iteration from the sidelines and had abandoned the bench in obvious pursuit.

“Are we exclusive?” Clarke asked when Lexa refrained from commenting. “I… I thought we were.” The girl swallowed, setting her face in the same hard angles as when she kicked a penalty. “I want us to be,” she said, extending a hand between them.

Lexa signed and took the offered hand in hers, feeling how warm it was, despite the fall leaves rushing past the bus window. She loved how warm Clarke’s hands were, a dichotomy to her always freezing extremities. Lexa mumbled something, and Clarke leaned closer, asking, “what was that?”

“Maybe I overreacted,” Lexa confessed, the almost empty bus a witness to the fact. “I hated seeing that girl talking about your dick like she owned it.”

Red crept into Clarke’s cheeks, making its way to her ears. “Well… she doesn’t,” Clarke said, one hand around Lexa’s waist. “You do,” she whispered, and Lexa’s face flushed with heat. “I want to be exclusive. If there’s any girl out there bragging about my dick, I want it to be you.”

“How romantic.”

“You’re into it,” Clarke argued, her bright eyes following Lexa’s scarf until it hid inside her jacket.

Logic once more piped up in Lexa’s mind that the girl had a point. The thong she had worn to celebrate Clarke’s game dampened with proof.

“You didn’t bring your phone or anything?” Lexa asked. “You just ran after me?”

“Of course. I couldn’t let you go looking pissed like that! And Octavia will pick up my shit.”

“So it’s not the first time you abandon your team celebration to pursue a girl?”

Panic flashed in Clarke’s eyes and Lexa felt merciful. “I guess from now on you’ll only be doing this for me.”

“Yeah.” Clarke kissed Lexa’s cheeks, sighing in relief. “My apartment is not far from here,” she said, the kiss lingering. “And I’m in desperate need of a shower.”

“Oh.” Lexa’s heart picked up, her cold hands warming up in her fingerless gloves. “If it’s out of desperation, we need to stop.”

“You’re so kind.”

With Octavia and the rest of the team still back at the football complex, there was no reservation for stripping as soon as they stumbled into Clarke’s apartment. The spare key with her neighbor was worth it (the assistant professor had looked the couple up and down and threw the key in their direction before closing the door and turning her TV colossally loud). Clarke’s shirt and cleats didn’t make it to the hallway, and Lexa’s pants puddled by the bathroom’s door. Lexa pulled the athletic shorts down and met the hard resistance of a jockstrap cup.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable?” she asked, drumming her fingers on top of the hard carbon fiber.

“Right now it’s pretty uncomfortable.” Clarke chuckled and kissed Lexa’s neck hard enough to bruise. “But that’s your fault.”

Lexa focused on Clarke’s high ponytail next, letting the blonde tresses free under the white light. “Yeah,” Lexa said, “it is.”

“Feeling possessive, huh?” Clarke nipped at the soft skin under Lexa’s chin while stepping out of her shorts, completely nude. Clarke moaned at the hands exploring her broad shoulders, digging into her trapezius, and scratching her deltoids. Lexa admired Clarke’s curves, but she salivated at her muscles.

A moan froze in a gasp as Lexa felt for Clarke’s erection, now free from the confines of jock straps and tight, athletic shorts. “Very possessive,” Lexa said, moving her hand in deliberate slowness, pushing eager hips back when Clarke tried to increase the pace. “You can be the leader of your team, but here” — a strong squeeze that made Clarke whine — “I’m captain.” The exhale on Lexa’s shoulder was nothing but a moan.

“Fuck,” Clarke said, her head surrendering to Lexa’s biceps as she mercifully started moving her hand.

Clarke smelled like sweat, and heat, and vetiver, and Lexa had it all for herself. She inhaled deeply, her brain creating a new pathway for that scent of love, need, and lust. Lexa prided herself on being an omega in full authority of her body and desires, but as Clarke groaned on her neck, Lexa surrendered to the primal need of control.

“Come for me, babe,” she said, softly albeit with a command, and poor Clarke followed like a trained puppy.

Lexa held her close as Clarke trembled, expending the last of her strength over Lexa’s olive skin. When Clarke’s knee threatened to buckle, Lexa guided the exhausted girl under the hot shower stream.

“I’m sorry.” Clarke mumbled as water covered her mouth. Lexa distracted herself with shampooing Clarke’s hair, and the fresh scent of mint and vetiver filled the fogging air.

“About what?”

Clarke turned to look Lexa in the eyes, all half-lidded and yawning. “I’m sorry for not being clear about being exclusive before. I was afraid.”

Lexa nuzzled the shampoo suds away from Clarke’s cheek. “Afraid?” she asked.

Clarke hugged her under the water, their wet bodies molding together. The water soothed Lexa’s skin, but Clarke remained her major source of warmth. “I was afraid you’d say no.”

“How could I not?” Lexa kissed her girlfriend — seemed safe to call her that way — until they were out of breath. “I hate sports, and you got me outside in a chilly morning just to watch you kicking some balls.”

“It’s one ball.”

“Whatever. Come here.”

Clarke obeyed, her hand sliding down beautiful curves to elicit a moan from Lexa. She responded in kind, hardening between them.

Octavia was pissed when she arrived home from their game and there was no hot water.

[miscellaneoussmp]

I am genuinely sad, so people get to be sad with me. I am sorry. Anyways, here's Roier and others making onto the boat (cw/tw: implied/referenced death and implied/referenced suicidal ideation):

It goes like this:

There are ten seconds left. Roier is on the boat. He can't see Cellbit. Where is he? Fit and Bagi make it on the boat.

>adios guapito.

No. No. Cellbit isn't doing this to him.

>no pendejo.

They aren't saying goodbye like this. Till death do they part. This isn't death. It can't be.

>te amo.

Don't do this to him. Roier can't take another heartbreak. Jaiden isn't on the boat. Nor is Richas or Leo. Roier doesn't know about Foolish or Vegetta either.

>donde estas?

Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Where is Cellbit? Where is the love of his life? Cellbit wouldn't do this to him, right? Cellbit promised he wouldn't betray Roier.

It goes like this:

The timer hits zero. The boat is moving. There is a shockwave and a large explosion. Roier reaches over the railing towards hell itself. Bagi and Fit keep him from falling overboard.

No Pac. No Tina. No Ramón.

No Cellbit.

It goes like this:

The boat is moving. There is no timer.

There are tears running down Fit's cheeks. Real tears. Bagi sobs. It's a mix of rage and genuine anguish. Tubbo is looking at his hands blankly. Philza has his arms around Tubbo. Roier screams as his heart finally shatters into a million little pieces.

It goes like this:

Roier knows how to get to the highest point of their castle. His wedding suit should still fit? He wants to be buried in it.

[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[ghastigiggles]

late night (super early morning) thinking out loud;

kind of depressing to largely be a womanliker blog but when i go back through my posts. the ones that get the most attention are always always always about men / mlm pairings