#its so good and so angsty

[dirtytransmasc]

TW: VERY DARK AND SUICIDE ATTEMPT (kind of)

Prompt :

He was six

Norm found him with his wrist slit

“Why’d you do this kiddo?”

“I wanted to get rid of the demon blood”

Jakes reaction

Neytiri stitched him up with an unreadable expression

IF THIS MAKES YOU UNCOMY

I UNDERSTAND, PLEASE DO NOT MAKE THIS IF ITS TO DARK!!!😭

oh my fucking god... it hurts so bad, but its so good. I love dark angst, there aren't many places I won't go, so have no worries anon.

head the trigger warnings above, I don't get super graphic, but I don't skid over any details either. disclaimer, mama!neytiri brain worms are liquefying my brain, so this is a little (a lot) neytiri-centric, cause I can't help it, its the worms I swear.

also, there are like 0 resources on na'vi medicine, so I'm just fucking winging it man, I'm gonna pull some shit out of my literal ass and we're all gonna have to just be ok with that. ~~~

norm wishes he could say he was shocked, surprised that this little boy wanted to hurt himself, let alone went through with it. he should have been gutted, more than he was at least, angry, put off, something. but not that its happened, he saw it from a mile away, he should have noticed, should have stopped it. all he felt was guilt, burning up his heart and knotting up his stomach as he put pressure on spiders tiny wrists, holding his lulling body in his arms. spider was just a kid, a baby, but he's muttering about 'getting rid of demon blood' and 'not belonging' and it being 'better off' if he was gone. it was somehow worse in his childish wording, his perfect innocence and naivety only just beginning to crack as the pain in his little chest began to swell.

it had been the odd quietness from spider's 'room' back in the cave marui's that alerted him to something being wrong. spider was quiet, in a way; when he was out playing with the kids he was loud, laughing, face filled with light and joy, even if something cold still glinted in his eyes. but when he was on his own, having been left behind or told off by some adult, human or na'vi alike, for getting in the way, he would sulk off to the little marui by the shack. but even if he would sit amongst himself, playing with the few figures someone had put time aside to make, attempting to weave a new piece of jewelry or basket, mending the sad little knife he wore on his side. he was always doing something, could be heard humming or sniffling, the sound of his knife on the wetstone or the clunking of wooden figures on each other were a constant. so when norm heard nothing but silence, his gut ticked up, the hair on his neck bristled, his legs carried him much farther they would on the average day until he was staring at spider and his little bloody arms and his little bloody knife and his sad little eyes.

it took only a split second for norm to come back to himself, to rush and pick the boy up before he had enough 'sense' to try and back away (spider never wanted trouble, never wanted to get in the way or be a burden, the fact he didn't try and hide worried norm more then it would of if he did, which was even more concerning in its own right).

he just held spider as tight as he could, his big blue hands easily covering his human wrists, trying to think of what he should do. he should say something, other then "its ok" but what does he say? what do you say to a six-year-old who just tried to kill himself, no, no, "get rid of the demon blood" coursing through his veins?

he wasn't going to lecture him, spider made it clear why he did it, comfort wasn't his strong suit. he could just look at his puffy little cheeks, one side of his mask blooded as he had attempted to wipe his cheek on instinct. so he just repeated a mantra of "I'm here" and "it's ok" and "your ok" until he reached the infirmary, trying to prtend he didn't feel spider slipping further and further away with each passing second.

in the flash of just a few seconds fueled by adrenaline alone, he knew he regretted everything. he was spider's caretaker sure, but he was no father, jake wasn't either, and the boy didn't have a single maternal figure to his name. no mother to kiss his brow at night or admire his accomplishments. he had no one, not truly, and norm allowed to happen, was not only complicit in it, but played a direct role in it. now he may not get to make that up, may not be given the chance to step up, to fix this.

he carried spider to the infirmary hut, knowing he would find someone, anyone, there who could help. part of him knew that mo'at had seen something in the child that brought some sort of pity from her, that maybe just this once, spider wouldn't be so alone in her presence.

when he entered the pod, he found mo'at showing neytiri something, explaining different herbs to her, though he didn't pay enough attention to it the lesson to pull out any identifying features of the herbs in question. both turned to look at him when they heard his rapid breathing, their gaze then shifting to the bloody boy in his arms, the ever-so-faint fogging of the glass that made up most of his exopack, and the ghostly parlor of spider's skin.

"put him down," mo'at commanded, before norm could even speak, clearing her pallet in an instant, "what happened to him?" her voice was firm, almost knowing.

"he...cut himself...intentionally...I don't know how long ago, but I found him in his pod alone and brought him right here."

"intentionally?" neytiri hissed, removing the boy from his arms when he couldn't get himself to comply with the order and holding him so she could listen to the weakening beat of his heart. she tied turniquotes around his upper forearm with the strands of clothing handed to her by her mother, absent-mindedly rocking the little thing where he rested held between her free-er arm and her chest, when the last bits of his consciousness were directed to fussing, no doubt from the pain. she couldn't bring herself to bind them too tight, just enough to control the bleeding, her hands and a bit of cloth could handle the rest.

(mo'at almost lectured her, but she saw that look in her daughter's eyes and knew it would be pointless, a mama bear gets what she wants)

norm had never seen the protective fire in her eyes, normally directed at her children, burn so bright for spider in the last few years she had known him. it scared him, it felt so unnatural that the very gaze he had learned to trust in most cases, froze him like a deer in headlights.

but that question, the tone of it, made his gut sink. how did he explain this, spider was just a baby, and he had slit his own wrists. that on its own was gut-wrenching, but the reason? Eywa have mercy.

"he said... he said he wanted to get rid of his demon blood, so he... he used his own knife and cut his wrists... its a common form of self harm back on earth, to cut yourself, but I don't even know how he would know to do that, why he would do it... I know why, but..." norm felt defeated. he should have seen something.

the look on neytiri's face made him want to tuck his tail between his legs and run off. she placed spider down as gently as one could, face scrunched up with pain and anger as she keeps pressure on both of spider's wrists.

"get jake, he is with the young hunters." she spoke quietly, her voice almost bitter. she didn't know if she blamed him, if she was angry with him, she barely understand how to feel about spider harming himself. all she knew is that he had just given her some of the most heartwrenching news she had heard in her life, so he was getting some of her mirth. norm nodded, racing off with his tail tucked between his legs, only hesitating to take another worried glance at the boy.

neytiri took a deep breath before turning to her mother. "he will need stitches, right?" she had never dealt with an injury quite like this before, the conscious effort in the wound made it clean and to the point, unlike a wound in battle. it strived to do quick, efficient damage, and now, either because she could barely let herself think straight, or because she genuinly didn't know, she couldn't think of the best way to treat it.

"yes, my daughter, but that is the least of his worries. he cut a large vein, those are very difficult to mend, stopping the bleeding will be difficult. he's already lost quite a bit of blood, so we need to be careful. the best thing would be to put a root paste to help clot the bleeding, wrap it up, and stitch it later." mo'at turned to her morter and pestle as she spoke, mixing different herbs, berries, and roots into a dark brown, almost purple, paste.

neytiri, nodded absently, while she picked through the basket at her side for bundles of lumped fibre and soft cloth to hold against his arms. luckily for him, while he did manage to do some damage and with the help of the tourniquets, one wrist had already stopped bleeding a fair bit, and the other was manageable.

in the silence of the hut, her mother working quietly behind her, turning every once and a while to check his breathing or giving her a tincture to clean his wounds with, neytiri was left to think.

demon blood.

he had done this because of the words she and so many spat at the sight of him. he had tried to rid himself of his sins, the sins of his father, the sins of his people; but were they really his to begin with? what had he done, in his six years of life, to have earned the hate he received? was the blood he carried in his veins enough to justify pushing a child to this?

no, she decided, no it was not.

seeing him so pale and lifeless in norms arms woke something in her, something deep in her gut, maternal rage coursing through her with something vicious, and even if she didn't deserve it after all she had done to him, pushed him to do, her heart was attempting to claim his as her own, and she didn't know what to do with that feeling. then she realized, that the maternal drive that prowled in her stomach like a thanator ready to pounce, not only saw the world as a threat, but saw her as a threat.

her mother handed her the salve and she was grateful for anything to do to take her mind off of the few revelations she managed to have while waiting.

"put more of the salve where the bleeding is stronger, then wrap it tight, be careful to not make it so tight it takes off his hand." the older woman guided, watching over her daughters work.

neytiri scooped it out bit by bit, slowing rubbing it onto the wounds while her mother blotted away the blood, her ears dipping whenever the boy his with pain or tried to pull away. she just wanted to make him better, to take him up into her arms and tell him it was alright like she would if he was one of her own children. but she knew she couldn't, he would wake up and see the monster who filled his little mind with such awful thoughts of himself, that he would be just as scared of her as he always was, and that she could bring him no comfort. so he was extra gentle as she finished off the paste, and held him like delicately as she wrapped the bandage around his wrists, gushing him gently each time he cried out, combing back his hair when she felt she was finished.

then jake came barreling in, breaking up the delicate silence that for a single second allowed her to believe it was just a normal day, that the new found fantasy of just being able to mother this child was true, that allowed spider to lay in peaceful sleep with her shawl over him. norm was trying to hush him, before he woke the baby, but there was no stopping jake, not when his face was full of pain and anger, looking as if he would plow down a titanothere just to get to spider.

neytiri knew jake had taken to spider more than he had let on, but the beast in her belly screamed that he hadn't done enough either, that he didn't earn the right to worry either. but she hushed it, knowing neither had the right to claim anything, not even over each other.

"ma'jake, quiet, or you will wake him and... he will be in pain. so let him sleep while he can," she attempted to soothe quietly, resisting every urge to just scoop him up when jakes loud entry did in fact stir him.

jake sat across from her, his hand resting on spider's chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of the boy's chest. "did he really?" he asked, eyes begging for her to tell him it wasn't true. she knew he would much rather hear of a freak accident over this, but she couldn't give him that mercy.

"yes, it would seem so." her voice was short, worn, despite barely saying a word this whole time.

jake crumpled a little, much more on the inside then he attempted to let show on the outside. neytiri was used to it, jake dealing with it all on the inside, bottling it up till he burst. she placed her hands over his, both of them being reassured by spider's breathing.

"but he is still here, we can and will help him. we will make sure he never feels this way again. I will right my wrongs, I will treat him as he has always deserved, and I hope one day he can forgive me. you will do the same. for now we just have to wait." she spoke gently, still worried about waking spider. she was partly talking to herself, making the promise she had worked her mind to final, she swore it on eywa. she saw jakes eyes finally close, knocking the tears he had been fighting to keep in down his cheeks.

he nodded, slumping into a lazy, defeated-looking, criss-cross position, talking spider's little hand in his, using the wet cloth from mo'at to clean the blood from his finger, the calloused palms of his hands, his muscle-toughened arms.

jake was no stranger to this, to harming yourself, even if he had never taken a blade to his wrists. trying to imagine that pain in such a little body terrified him. how was he supposed to wrap his head around little spider, the stray cat amongst the village, always smiling and laughing, always trying to help everyone, always up in trees or tussling with his kids, his blonde hair like streaks of the sun running about the village, battling such demons. he tried to imagine what he must have been feeling when he took his knife to his wrist. was he scared? relieved? confused? was he desperate and looking for a way out?

no, no norm said that spider wanted to get rid of his "demon blood" which as somehow more nauseating. it was their faults, him, norm, neytiri, The People. they hurt this child or they let it happen. they expected him to take every glare, every spit of acid, everything he was forced to endure, and to still remain a happy child. jake never once stopped to think what effect that may have on him, and now he was paying for it.

he ached, spider was small, he could fit in jakes hands even at 6 years old. he was drowning in neytiri's shawl even if on her, it would barely cover her upper arms, he had just started fitting his exopack a little less than a year ago. he was still just a baby, and they almost let his life end. had norm not found him, he would be dead, still and cold in his makeshift marui, in a pool of his own blood. the image that accompanied the thought that flashed in his made him feel sick. even with all that he denied feeling about the boy, no matter how hard he tried to push him away, no matter what he let him go through, the thought of spider dying, especially like that, alone and scared and in pain, terrified him. to have a child die for any preventable reason, was a disgrace on The People, especially their chief of all people.

chief.

he should have been the example. he should have led his people to find love for a defenseless child who wanted only to be loved and accepted. he had failed.

he let a finger caress the side of spiders face, along the edge of spider's mask, lightly pulling at the curly baby hairs that rested there,

"will he be alright?" he didn't know who he was asking, norm or mo'at. both would have very different opinions, norm more literal, mo'at more spiritual. he didn't know which he wanted.

"physically, yes. he is lucky, his blade was simple, his hand faltered, and he didn't seem to have a death wish. he didn't do too much damage, its manageable. emotionally jakesuli? time will tell." mo'at was the one to speak, the look on norms face spoke the his fear of setting neytiri off like he almost had earlier.

neytiri looked to her mother with a pain expression, her tail beating nervously where is laid near spiders head, ears still folded back.

"his mind is plauged with pain and desperation, things no child should even be aware of. he was driven to harm himself, in ways that will be permanent. it will be our actions going forward that determine his future. I fear if we do not undo the damage now, we will lose him in the years to come... what I fear more and that the damage has been done and cannot be undone. we can only hope for the former/"

neytiri damn near let out a cry, turning from her mother, eyes clenched as tears welled up in them. she found jakes arms, both leaning over spider like a makeshift shelter. just like they should have his whole life, they should have shielded him from the world, protected him from the hate of others. spider stirred once more, and this time jake couldn't resist the urge to scoop him up.

spider looked up at both of them, his little eyes tired and glossy, something small and painful in his gaze. he began to wiggle out of jakes hold, balling up nervously, but when neytiri grazed fingers through his hair, he stopped. this was the one thing he had ever wanted, deep down. not to be accepted, not to be one with the people, not even to be na'vi. he just wanted to be held, loved, by a mother, any mother. with his judgment too clouded by all his emotions, the desperation, the pain, even the blood loss, and maybe and even simpler reason being just being a child; spider let her hold him. he couldn't think about her years of neglect, the harsh words, and harsher glares, not in that moment, that could come later. right now, he needed a mother, and neytiri was willing, so he sunk into her hold, welcoming the embrace of either parent.

the road to spider's recovery would be long and hard. jake and neytiri had a lot to make up for, to apologize for, holding onto their guilt for years as they waited for spider to reach an age were their apologies would actually mean something to him. he would have to be watched constantly, habits would be broken, tears would be cried. things would never be 100%, there would always scars and phantom pain, but that was ok.

~~~

a note for my regulars; I'm back, maybe sorta kinda. I've hit a rough patch with my adhd, I can't do thoughts, or social interaction really, but I'm starting to bounce back, so more regular posting may return shortly.

[masculinepeacock]

every once in a while someone will like every post in my kavalier & clay tag and i am so sorry to them bc if you're scrolling the kavalier & clay tag. oof.

[lorehappy83]

"Grant me your wrath, my dear. For I've become unworthy of your forgiveness"

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[s0fter-sin]

i need ghoap frantically making out against a door finally taking the leap on their feelings. need ghost grinding against soap, expecting to find him just as hard as him, only to feel nothing

and in all his wisdom and experience, he concludes soap was tortured and never told him

he’s trying to think of a delicate way to say he understands, that he’s been through it and it doesn’t change anything about how he feels (and who the fuck touched him so he can hunt them down and rend them limb from limb)

meanwhile trans!soap’s just trying to find the best angle to grind his cunt on ghost’s thigh

just it never even entering ghost’s head bc he’s never known a trans person but he has met plenty of people who’ve been tortured - himself included - so of course that’s his logical leap

soap takes off his shirt and he sees his top surgery scars and ghost asks if he wants him to kill the one who did it and soap just hums like, “actually, man did pretty good, they healed real well,” and ghost’s just teary-eyes with awe at how well he’s coping, “looking on the bright side, that’s my johnny.”

imagine he thinks johnny was fully castrated but sees he’s determined to still have a sex life with him so he buys packers and straps to help him bc hell yeah healing and soap’s just like, “holy shit i’ve never had such a thoughtful partner before, such a sweet man, lt.”

[runwhileyoucan]

Wood caving

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[unganseylike]

~

~

~

~ 

~

“Love Like Ghosts" // The Raven Cycle

When your true love is destined to die, is already dead, or will always be leaving. And other moments of ghostliness. 

[liauditore]

cw// implied character death, double life nonsense

because you are love itself.

[gt-daboss]

Teasing giants...

TEASING GIANTS YALL!

I feel like we are not realizing the full POTETNIAL of this! Like, instead of being all nice and gentle and 'Ooooh, I'll be so gentle the size difference will barely be noticeable!' NAH, SCREW THAT! Use those giant beautiful lips to blow a gust of wind that frazzles my hair, I'll get revenge by scaring you the next time you open the medicine cabinent! Jump on the bed and send me flying (uhhh, catch me tho ofc ofc...) and i'll hide in your morning coffee. like, the possibilities are ENDLESS, we should definitely be messing around with our giant/tiny friends more often like...

anyways, heres @entomolog-t 's characters from her story Bite Me who perfectly fit this idea (maybe even a little too good... but you should go check it out to find out for yourself!)

PS! Sorry if I didn't portray your characters right (artistically or otherwise) I was more going off of the general vibe of their interactions in a more lighthearted manner, maybe a post-trauma interaction xD?

[sweet-potato-42]

Sunnys admin is amazing like I love them so much. It might not be noticeable but htey are basically genuenlly 24/7 in character. Everything will have an impact on her character and its so cool to see. Its great since the tubblings love taking everything as cannon.

Sunny feels so mcuh like a luttle girl like so many can empathise with her since she reflects many peoples childhood so welll. I think thats part of why many people get super defensive over her

In general sunny's admin is great at rp and I love what they are doing and want to see more. I hope someday they can have a full arc like montelyson was.

Im amazed that sunnys admin saw the joke with lenay being a mermaid so they went and made a super dark adn depressing scene with it.

[riaki]

knitted hearts | kento nanami x reader

pt.3 of christmas event! i wrote this for u genie ily 🤍 cw: established relationship, he (over)works at that financing company from before, two (2) petnames

the lights are still on.

that's the first thing kento immediately notices when he gets back; the office clocked him overtime, and so he's late. regrettably, again.

in the past, whenever that's happened, he'd have sent you a text beforehand and came home to a dark apartment; eaten something quick before getting into bed and slipping beneath the soft covers where your resting warmth melts away the stress of the day between his shoulders and his eyebrows.

tonight is different, it seems. the city buzzes with a quiet hum, light snowfall blanketing the roofs and muffling the sound. the holiday season is in full swing; normally, he wouldn't care to know. or remember. if not for the lame decorations around his workplace and the chocolate advent calendar you've been diligently (force) feeding him every night, he wouldn't've noticed at all.

he closes the door quietly behind him, careful not to make excess noise in case you're asleep as he slips his shoes off and hangs his jacket up. after all, you might've just been absentminded or tired, and forgot to switch the lights off. and you blame him for being lost to time.

it's quiet in the house; not dead silent, though. there's soft, ambient winter jazz flowing from somewhere in the house, and the faint sound of the fridge humming, paired with something that's baking in the oven. the scent of soft vanilla and orange settles gently over his shoulders, as if to welcome him home. his half finished coffee sits in a porcelain mug on the stained counter; you'd accidentally made too much for him, leaving you with a puddle of bitter caffeine that couldn't even be finished with your combined efforts. you'd promised him you would chug it over text, but clearly that didn't happen.

he's ready to go through the motions of a quiet night spent unwinding alone when he hears your voice— after endless hours of aching at a desk, clacking away on a mechanical keyboard in the dreariest environment imaginable, it soothes him like no vacation fantasy he's ever known.

"nami? is that you?" you called. your voice is coming from the shared bedroom; you sound tired, and kento can just imagine the sleepy look on your face. he's never been inclined to use the words 'cute' or 'pretty' to describe someone before, but if he had to choose, then he'd use them for you.

he walks down the length of the hallway, undoing his tie and gently tugging it off his neck as he reaches the threshold to your room. the air is warm and soft; it seems so much easier to breathe the closer you are. like the crushing weight of work he puts on his lungs dissipates into a cloud of melting frost.

"i'm home, sweetheart." he's surprised at how rough his own voice sounds; it's almost unfamiliar. he needs your rejuvenating touch; at least, that's what he decides the instant he sees you. you're sitting right in the middle of the mattress, something lumpy, tacky, red and green bundled up in your lap. with something between a sinking realization and a fluttering in his chest he recognizes it as the sweater you've been making for him. you're finishing it up, it seems, from the formerly-wide bundle of soft thread that's been reduced to a meek little crimson string on the white sheets.

it's one of your new interests. you seem to be taking up a lot of those, lately; kento feels as though it's his fault, for never having the time to take you out. yet you're always so patient despite his busy schedule, adjusting to portion out a chunk of time from your own just to accommodate for him. it's unfair, and so one night he vowed to do more for you over a glass of red wine and a fancy white table cloth, freshly cleaned and pressed. that was one of the rare times he'd been able to take you out like you really deserved. "and don't call me by my last name. you're allowed to use my given," he sighs, rather exasperated, but you both know there's only affection behind it.

you perk up, a bright look in your eyes that melts the last of the frost buried in his chest and beneath his eyes. he crosses the room to stand at the foot of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt a few to let himself breathe. and he doesn't miss the way your eyes linger, so he clears his throat, and you spring to action.

"i finished your sweater, ken. can you put it on?" you ask eagerly, and he's briefly reminded of a young boy with pink hair like raspberry chocolate and a golden retriever demeanor. a soft feeling pushes at the back of his heart, sending mushy gushiness through his veins at the sight.

you scoot close, holding it up for him to examine. in all honesty, it's not terrible; you get an A for effort, at the very least. the five reindeer look more like those urban folklore creatures, and the tree looks as though it could use seven more centuries under the sun-- but other than that, it's a perfect first try.

"i'd love to, darling, but i..." he doesn't get to finish, because you seem to wilt a little, and it already feels like that crushing burden over his diaphragm is back, but this time it's exceedingly and guiltily unpleasant, so he retracts his words.

"alright." he succumbs with a tired sigh, letting his eyes flutter shut and removing his glasses to rub the spot where the frame has been digging into his skin; normally you'd do it for him, but you're busy adjusting the fluffy pom poms (he didn't see those before) on the sweater's cuffs, so he does it himself.

he hears the tell tale shift of the soft bedding and he opens his eyes again, only to be met with a very expectant look on your face.

"put your hands up."

"...pardon?" a small amount of resistance to your antics is always present, at first. by now he knows you expect it. but this time, it may be much worse.

"you heard me! arms to the sky." he likes your laugh, a lot. it jingles like a gentle wind chime.

"i can put it on myself. i'm not a child," he says, a little cross, but you're undeterred. as per usual. not like he minds.

"please?"

kento doesn't particularly view himself as a man with a great many ambitious, or zealous ideals. still, he isn't a pushover and has a strong resolve. unfortunately for him (fortunately for you), when it comes to you, it doesn't take much for him to crumble. if you willed it, he'd get down at your feet.

with resignation, he kneels down on one leg, as if you're about to knight him. he waits patiently, holding his arms up, and he can practically feel your giddy smile.

soon enough, you're slipping it over his tangled blonde hair— with a little bit of effort and a lot of scratchy fabric. it's too big here and too tight there, hanging off his shoulders oddly and the sleeves are uneven. but it's cute, too-- in the way that a toddler's crayon doodles are endearing, so are your amateur efforts. what matters to him the most, is that you've handmade it for him.

nothing an industry company factory could achieve.

"so? how do you like it?" you prompt as you start to mess with the collar, pinching and pulling the fabric so that it suits his form appropriately. he doesn't ever remember you asking for his size, but you seem to know it anyway.

"it's warm," is his only input. he knows you'll complain— but it's fun to hear you whine.

you frown. "is that all?" there it is— a small, sweet little pout; the minute down tilt of your lips. your fingers dance over his collarbone as you pull the collar of his button up over the rim, and his breath hitches in his throat. kento wonders if you can feel his heartbeat or notice the way his adam's apple bobs when he swallows.

before you— or he— knows it, he's pulling you down to sit on the knee that's still propped up, catching you by the rest and meeting you halfway to press a gentle kiss to your lips. he's met with a muffled sound of surprise that quickly melts into a laugh; he can feel you smile against his lips and he wants to devour it.

"so i take it you like it?" you whispered as you lean in, hands leaving the unwieldy sweater to thread through his hair, messing it up to your heart's content after he slicked it to the side. you taste sweet, like chocolate and caramel-- he must've missed the advent sweet for today.

his only response is a small hum— you can feel the vibration, so you chuckle again and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling away breathless from the kiss to knock your forehead against his, gazing into his eyes. there's an undeniable well of warmth behind your gorgeous irises; if he had the time, he'd get himself lost in them.

"good, because i have socks on the backburner and you'll be getting a scarf next."

whenever the lights are off, kento knows you've gone to bed already, without him. but he thinks he could get used to scratchy, hand-knit clothing if it means they'll always be on and waiting for him after a long day of dreaming in front of a desk, all about your smile.

not proofread my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

[sonknuxadow]

thinking about how sick and cool and awesome archie werehog is again

my friend archie werehog ^

[barb-l]

Just finished reading the Chaggie fic "Igual". I laughed, I cried. It was real damn guuuud

[holy-reference-in-a-username]

Can you do Tom and Tord. Being wholesome plz?

oh yeah sure. just give me a couple days....

^me holding the tomtord comic hostage

[bestjeanistmonster]

would also like to say that Surge and Kit are probably, like, the only sibling duo that have their shit together in dc au

like they met for the first time, vibed, grew attached and then they just kept on vibing