#like the box full of what i’ve sorted out that’s his is so small

[star-crossed-lizards]

well i really hate existing right now but hopefully itll be better in a couple days

[primalsouls]

your eyes

'malipo' kinich x m!reader

I don't care how long it takes As long as I'm with you I've got a smile on my face

theme: general, fluff

warning: none, i think, maybe a bit ooc?

summary: (name) has been crushing on a certain saurian hunter for a while already and wayna was getting tired of just watching him stare at the hunter with loving eyes with no plans of making a confession. just how long until kinich notices?

notes: got some inspiration lol i finally got kinich a couple of nights ago xD I was so happy, so I started writing this fic for him lol hope you like it! reblog & comments, any feedback is appreciated!

(colored) eyes stared at the back of a certain saurian hunter. he was talking to one of the tribe’s elders. (name) sighed. a longing gaze watching the dendro user walk away with a small bag of mora in his hands, his annoying companion yapping away beside him about any little trait he could use to berate the other. with kinich out of sight, (name) returned to sorting through a box full of gems but another figure blocked his way, startling the young seller.

“you keep staring at him like that, he’ll feel holes burning in the back of his head.” joked the tribe's chief Wayna, a playful smirk displayed on his features. (name)’s cheeks burned, a pinkish hue decorating across them. “c’mon, when are you going to tell him? you’ve been pinning him since the day you came from Inazuma.” wayna added with a tilt of his head and his arms crossed firmly over his chest. (name) glared at him lightly, smacking the chief’s arm while gesturing to shush. 

“shut up! you can’t say that aloud.” (name) huffed, walking over to the chief to return to his latest shipment. part of him regretted telling wayna about his secret crush on the dendro hunter. well, more like the older man found out within the first few weeks after (name) arrived in huitztlan and got rescued by kinich and the self-centered dragonlord k'uhul ajaw in a near-death attack by some of the wild saurians. Wayna, of course, teased the inazuman merchant for a while about his little secret crush on the hunter after promising not to spill it out to anyone else, especially on kinich, or worse, ajaw. but wayna was getting a little tired of the electro user just staring at the guy whenever he was around. it had been almost half a year since (name) came to natlan. he was surprised kinich didn’t sense those yearning glances… yet. maybe he already noticed but doesn’t bother looking into it. maybe he didn’t. wayna was curious now. 

wayna sighed, shaking his head. “young people these days.” he said, looking over the seller roamed through his shipment. “you two aren’t staying any younger. you should confess, (name).”

“and for what? to get rejected? get made fun of and berated by the oh-so-great dragonlord k’uhul ajaw?” (name) said through gritted teeth, annoyance sipping into his tone. “i’ve rather died in the night kingdom than confess my feelings to kinich.” wayna winced at the last part of (name)’s statement. not wanting to get electrocuted, wayna simply patted (name)’s head and walked away to attend to other matters in the tribe. the merchant clicked his tongue before moving around his little shop to display the new various gems he received from kirara. as he pulled out another small box with more gems stored inside it, (name) noticed a pretty gem that had a familiar color of a familiar pair of eyes. oh, great. now kinich was beginning to affect his line of work. maybe he should confess… but how? no, maybe he shouldn’t. his feelings are only going to get hurt and he would have no choice but to move back to inazuma. archons, his mind tends to be exaggerating. 

(name) shook his head. maybe next time. when he has enough courage to confess his pining feelings. 

the gem matching kinich’s eyes was too pretty. (name) had no choice but to make it into a bracelet. it looked beautiful. just like kinich. ugh. he just can’t get rid of him. The saurian hunter kept plaguing his mind every day and night. his heart raced at just the mention of his name. (name) frowned. he put the bracelet away in his pockets as he walked down the dirt path leading to the scions of the canopy. he was still a long way from home. (name) had a delivery he needed to do personally, to make the gems the customer asked for delivered safely and he did so by delivering them himself. he should have just hired kirara. it was a long walk. too long. 

“you pathetic, lizard-brain worm! you dared tried to defy the almighty dragonlord k’uhul ajaw!? you truly dared to invite the wrath of the almighty dragonlord k’uhul ajaw, a sovereign of the nation of flames!”

(name) paused. he recognized that voice. that aggravating voice. even from this distance, he could feel it getting under his skin. but if ajaw was nearby… does that mean he was too?

biting his lower lip back, (name) debated eavesdropping into their conversation. he shouldn’t but… archons, he sounded like a creep thinking this, he wanted to see kinich. it had been almost a week since he last saw him. it was just a little glance. that’s all. 

quietly walking over behind a tree, (name) peeked over the trunk. ah, there he was. standing tall with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as he let ajaw talk his ears off. but it wasn’t just him there. the legendary traveler and their companion paimon were there, too. (name) honestly didn’t pay attention to the other three. His longing gaze was set on the dark-haired dendro user. 

wow. how can a human being like him be so pretty and strong-willed?

(name) sighed with a heavy heart and blinked. but when he looked over to where kinich stood, said hunter was gone. oh, no. the other three were still arguing with one another, so where had kinich gone to?

“i’ve seen the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice.” a voice spoke lowly behind him. (name) let out a small, frightened shout at the sudden presence of kinich behind him. his eyes widened. his face flushed brightly. his words quickly registered into his mind before shaking his hands in defend. 

“wha-wha-what are you ta-talking about?” (name) cursed mentally for his nervous stutter, his (colored) eyes looked anywhere but at the saurian hunter. 

“that longing look in your eyes… noticed it for a while now.” kinich answered, uncrossing his arms as he took a step closer to (name), who instead took a step behind. and they continued for a bit until his back met the tree, kinich never breaking eye contact. 

(name)’s brows furrowed, his anxious gaze staring down at the ground beside him. a hand went into his pocket where the bracelet was, trying to see comfort from it. 

getting no response back, kinich tilted his head as he leaned his face closer to (name). he was a few inches taller than him, finding the little height difference endearing. “started noticing it after the first month you stayed in the canopy. the way you have this yearning look in your eyes. they’re always set on me. you wouldn’t even flinch whenever i caught your stare.” oh, no. (name) inwardly groaned. he must have zoned out as he stared openly at the claymore wielder. the merchant wanted to dig a hole and died in it out of embarrassment. so kinich knew for half a year. how humiliating. 

“i-i didn’t mean to… i’m sorry. i just, um.. I…” (name) was at a loss for words. he was sure his face was as red as those dendrobiums that appeared around the shipwrecks in nazuichi beach. his heart beat so fast, he was afraid it was going to burst out of his chest. part of him hoped so to avoid this worst-case scenario. 

kinich shook his head at the unfinished apology. “there’s no need to say that.” he started, his own gaze now looking at the tree behind (name)’s back. “i’ve…been having the same longing look, too… towards you. for a while now.” kinich said, pulling himself together to look into (name)’s eyes, after said seller found the courage to do so too. he stared down at the other with a small intense look in his eyes before shifting his gaze back towards the trio he left behind. “i’m not busy right now. ajaw is busy with a couple of behavioral teachers right now, so… would you like to take a walk back to the canopy?” kinich offered his arm towards (name). The electro user stared at him in shock before smiling timidly, taking his arm in his own. 

“that will be lovely.” (name) had a feeling wayna would be too surprised the moment they arrived at the tribe. his smile grew a bit, already feeling the teasing miles away. at the very least, things turned out in a good light, unlike what his overthinking mind had clouded inside his head. (name) was happy with this outcome.

[saturnville]

centavito, jude bellingham

pairing: jude bellingham x she (black fem oc/reader) warning: none. just short. content: he wants her back and the chance is small, but he bets on his lucky coin that it'll work in his favor. song reference: centavito by romeo santos. an: it's been over 6 years since I wrote a football-related fic, so please give me some grace lol. and ofc, when I saw that there weren't many jude fics with a black reader/oc, I had slide one in there.

“I learned my lesson and I have been miserable without you. Please…one more chance.” 

The coin he twirled in his pocket was warm. His hands had fisted it tightly the entire walk to her front door. When he spoke, he turned it between his index finger and thumb over and over. There was only one way that it could go and that was up. So he hoped. 

She heard the voice of her grandmother in her ears as he took in his words. “If he fools you once, that’s on him! But, if he fools you again, he can’t be solely responsible. So, some people do change and I’m not gonna tell you he hasn’t, but it’s up to you to discern that for yourself, baby.” 

He didn’t cheat on her. He wasn’t mean, conniving, or deceitful. He simply didn’t appreciate her. When his life turned upside down and he became the wonder boy of the world, he forgot about her. She was pushed into the shadows when he promised she’d always be in the light. 

Suddenly, her rants about university exams and assignments weren’t interesting. Her love for the arts wasn’t fascinating. Long nights watching La Casa de Papel in her living room weren’t fun. Their nights in the kitchen trying new recipes were no longer a priority. She was no longer a priority. 

So, she left. She slid the promise ring off her middle finger, dropped it on his nightstand, and with tears in her eyes (and her head held high), she gathered her purse and went back to her apartment. She gathered all he’d gifted her and placed it in the box meticulously. Clothes and jerseys, books and letters--all prepared to be put into storage until she figured out where she truly wanted them to go. 

And just as she prepared to move the boxes into the storage unit after they’d sat in her bedroom corner for 17 days (yes, she counted), he was on the other side of the door, stopping her in her tracks. 

He looked fatigued, which could be credited to being a high-profile professional athlete, or as he put it, “Sleepless nights without you.” 

At that moment, he appeared so small. Not physically, per se, but emotionally. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, were dull and glossy with an emotion she couldn’t quite identify. Regret?

And when he spoke, he sounded like a chile who was trying not to choke over his words as he fought back tears. 

“Jude…” she said quietly, blinking back tears. Her hand was still tight around the door knob. “I don’t know.” She wanted him, sure, but she wasn’t willing to put herself in the position through an even worse heartbreak. But, at the same time, she believed what she’d said. 

“I’ll be better for you. I can’t lose you forever. One more chance, darling…please.” She’s never heard him beg in such a way. It made her insides stir.

Her jaw shifted as her eyes darted across his face, searching for any hint of dishonesty. Nothing or the sort. His eyes spoke what his mouth didn’t and it overwhelmed her greatly. I’m sorry, darling. 

“You love me?” she questioned after some time, her thick eyebrows furrowing. She wiped away the fallen tear that sped down her cheek. 

Jude nodded quickly. “I do. More than you know and more than I’ve shown you.” 

Her eyes moved quickly—she was thinking. He continued to fiddle with the coin in his pocket. Except his movements grew quicker as the anticipation grew.

“One chance,” she said after some time. “And you earn it.” 

Jude released the breath he was unaware he held and thanked the heavens above. Slowly, she moved out of the way to allow his entrance into her apartment. He closed the door behind him and pulled the coin from his pocket. Heads. 

 He smiled small. Little cent. The odds were finally in his favor. 

[vinylfoxbooks]

June 7 - Welcome | @jegulus-microfic | wc: 994 This is part 1 of a five part series Part 2

“I’m going on break, Reg.” Remus calls after he finishes wiping down the counter, “I’ll be out back.”

“Yeah, go smoke. You’ve been grumpy all day.” Regulus hums, putting the box that he was just sorting through on the ground by his feet so he remembers to shelf them later. Remus flips him off as he’s walking by to get to the back room, which makes Regulus roll his eyes, “You’re just proving my point.” And with that, the door to the back room closes and Regulus is left alone in the shop. 

It’s been a slow day so far -- what else would you expect from a small shop like theirs on a Wednesday of all days, especially since school is in session now so most of their regulars are going to be busier -- so Regulus isn’t shocked when only one person comes in seven minutes into Remus’ break. 

So Regulus takes this as ample time to grab the box he placed by his feet and start shelving the books inside. And just his luck, as he’s doing that, the bell over the door rings.

Regulus groans, picks up the box from where he’s got it on the floor after putting the last book in his hands on the shelf, and walks out of the shelves and towards the front desk, “Welcome.” He says to the patron that had just walked in, “What can I do for yo-” 

Holy shit.

Who is this man?

Tan skin with dorky glasses sitting over wide eyes. Tousled dark brown, almost black, hair that is falling absolutely everywhere in messy curls. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a physique that is badly hidden by his satin red button up and a kind smile graces his face when he turns his warm gaze on Regulus.

“Hi, is Remus in right now?” The man asks, walking towards his desk, “I told him that I would run his cane.” He holds up his hand holding a cane -- Remus’ cane, “But I don’t see him.” “He’s on his break right now.” Regulus informs him, deciding that it’s his best option to turn his gaze onto something else before he says something he shouldn’t and setting the box on the counter in front of him, sorting the books inside into stacks, “Do you want me to give it to him for you so you can be on your way?”

The man shakes his head, “Nah, I don’t have anywhere to be today, so I’ll wait for him.” Then he leans forward, resting an elbow on the counter and his smile turns into something more of a smirk, “But I wanna know more about you? I didn’t know that Remus worked with such a beauty.”

“Well I’m glad Remus isn’t going around talking about my looks since he has a boyfriend.”

“I guess.” The man shrugs with one shoulder, “But I’ve been in here several times and I’ve never seen you here before, I’m James by the way.”

“Regulus.” Is all that Regulus feels like he can say. He was expecting someone that looks like that to be in a full-fledged relationship. But here this man is, leaning over a counter and flirting with Regulus. Then Regulus clears his throat and, still avoiding James’ eyes, “I don’t like to interact with people so I’m not usually at the counter.”

“Well you should be here more. I think everyone seeing your face when they walk in would really make their day.”

“You’re horrid at flirting.”

“And yet you’re blushing.” James remarks, smirking just a bit more and tilting his head. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he gets the chance, Remus walks out of the back room, “James, stop harassing Regulus.” 

James laughs and stands up properly, meeting Remus in the middle and handing him his cane, to which Remus looks at him with pure gratefulness, “If you had told me about him earlier, maybe I wouldn’t be coming on as strong.”

“I’m ninety percent sure that I’ve told you about him before. And so has Sirius, because that’s his brother.” 

James’ eyes go wide and he whips his head to Regulus, looking him up and down before humming, “I do see it. Well, either way.” Then he turns to Remus, checking his watch, “I should go. Lily asked me to pick up Harry for her.”

“Alright,” Remus shakes his head, “Stop flirting with my coworker and go get your son.” James laughs at him, swats his friend on the shoulder, and walks out of the shop with a called goodbye. 

As soon as Regulus can no longer see James through any of the glass in their store front, he leans towards his coworker in a way that’s almost conspiratorial, “Who was that?”

Remus laughs, “That’s Sirius’ best friend James. The person he moved in with when he moved out.”

Regulus balks, “That was James Potter? The guy that I’ve hated for years? Why didn’t you tell me he was exactly my type?” At that, Remus’ laughter turns into a full belly laugh and he leans against the counter, “Why would I know your type? I was specifically avoiding talking to you about him because I knew that you hated him.”

“Also, did you say that he has a son?”

“Yeah,” Remus says through his dying laughter. Eventually, he’s able to calm down enough to walk back over to the cafe counter, “He found this girl he really liked in school, married her almost as soon as they graduated, had a child with her, then they learned that both of them are gay so they split ways and now they co parent.”

“So I wouldn’t be breaking up a family if I started flirting with him?”

Remus snorts, “You might break up your family. I don’t imagine Sirius would be happy if you two started dating.”

“I don’t give a shit what Sirius thinks of my dating life.” Regulus rolls his eyes.

[vivwritesfics]

Keep On Rolling - MV1

Chapter Ten

Summary: Lando's best friend having feelings for anyone on the grid? Impossible, right? She worked with them, sharing her friendship with the grid with the world via the FormulaY/N youtube channel.

After film a video including... spicy water (alcohol), everything changes between her and a certain world champion. Good thing she hasn't had a crush on him since his F1 debut, right?

Right?

1.5K words

Series Masterlist

The first race back after the summer break. It was the Dutch Grand prix, Max’s home race. It had been months since Y/N and Max had last spoken and she was finally ready to sort things out.

So, she made her way up to her hotel room, after getting the floor and room number from Charles. Her bag was stuffed full of…

The elevator dinged and she stepped out. His hotel room was just three doors away. Knocking quickly, Y/N stepped to the side and waited for Max to open the door.

He heard the knocks. Standing from the bed, he walked over to the door and looked through the peephole, at who was on the other side. They were standing just out of view, with him only able to see their arm. But their arm had no tattoos, no kind of identifying features. So, Max pulled open the door.

Y/N stepped out in front of it and Max went to push the door shut. But Y/N got inside before he could. “Max, wait,” she said, pulling her bag forward and reaching inside. She pulled out a small, white box full of Stroopwafels.

Pulling them out, Y/N placed them down onto the circular table in the middle of the hotel room. “Just hear me out, okay?”

Max looked at the stroopwafels, picked them up and sat back on the bed, the box cradled in his lap. “Fine,” he said, his voice cold as he pulled the box open and began eating them.

And so, Y/N talked. She talked for a full ten minutes before stopping to take a breath. The whole time Max listened, his eyes never leaving her as she paced about the hotel room.

As soon as she had finished with the body of her rant, Y/N took a seat at the round table and let out a sigh, her hands moving through her hair. “I feel like you hate me and I don’t understand what I’ve done.”

Quiet filled the hotel room. Max stared at her and Y/N stared at him. Say something, please! she thought as they stared. But Max was still quiet. “Max-”

“When those pictures of us got released, I got a call from my father,” he confessed before Y/N could say anything more. “He was so angry with me for letting myself be distracted by you.” His fingers drummed against the top of the box.

Before those pictures were leaked, Max had won almost every race. Red Bull certainly had won everything, and he’d been the one stood on the top of the podium more time than not. “But, you-”

“I know. Trust me, I know. He went on, threatened me, the usual dad stuff. And I was ready to ignore it, until Lando came knocking on my door.”

Y/N’s head shot up. Her eyes were wide, eyebrows scrunched together as she stared at him. Lando hadn’t mentioned this. He’d had plenty of opportunity to, but he had never told her about it. “What happened when Lando came knocking on your door?” She asked, somewhat timidly, almost like she was afraid of the answer.

There was a moment before Max answered. He hadn’t yet eaten her stroopwafels, still tapping away at the side of the box. “He asked me to stay away from you. Well, actually he told me I needed to stay away from you.”

“And you listened to that?”

He nodded his head. “I couldn’t concentrate on driving when I had my father calling me, telling me I needed to forget about you, when I had Lando threatening me to stay away from you and then I had you there at every single race. I couldn’t concentrate. My favourite part of the weekend used to be the racing, but it became filming your videos.” And Max hated his media duties. I had to get my mind back on racing, so I pulled away from you. But it didn’t help. Suddenly I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. Any time I was sim racing I was crashing because I was thinking about you.”

Y/N stood from the table. She took two strides and sat herself on the end of the bed, facing him. Y/N placed the stroopwafels down onto the small table beside the bed and looked at Max. “You’ve been thinking about me?”

“Obviously I’ve been thinking about you,” Max replied quickly. “I haven’t done anything but think of you.”

Her hand was on his face as she leaned forward. Max let his arms fall to her waist as she leaned forward onto the bed and shut her eyes. She pressed her lips to his, waiting a moment for Max to kiss her back.

It took Max a moment, surprise clear on his face. But he kissed her back, his fingers running through her hair. His hand quickly moved from her hair to her waist, pulling her closer as Y/N pulled her face away from his.

She stared at him. For a full minute Y/N stared at Max. She didn’t say anything as she pulled her hand away from his face and pushed herself away. “I’m sorry,” she said, standing up. “I’m so sorry.”

But Max had a grip on her waist still. He easily pulled her back down onto the bed, almost pulling her onto his lap. “Stay,” he said, and Y/N folded her leg under her body.

Y/N didn’t kiss him again. She stayed where she was, sitting on one side of the bed while Max leaned back against the headboard. He grabbed the box of stroopwafels, offering Y/N one. “You kissed me back,” she said as she took one. “I kissed you and you kissed me back.”

“Yeah, I did.”

Y/N let out a huff as she bit into the stroopwafel. Delicious, as always. “Want to tell me what that means for us?” She asked. “Like, are we friends again, or what?”

Why just be friends? Max wanted to say. Why can’t we be something more than friends? But he didn’t dare say it. Yes, she was the one that kissed him, but she’d regretted it instantly, it seemed. If she regretted just a kiss, what would she do if Max asked her to love him?

“Yeah, we’re friends again,” Max said, stopping himself from scoffing. Friends. He could live with being friends. It was going to be tough, but he could live with it. For the time being, at least.

Y/N pulled out her phone. “Lando and I are in the newest Quadrant video. Do you want to watch it with me?” She asked, opening up the Youtube app.

It was Y/N’s technical return to Youtube. She hadn’t posted a video in months, her summer break currently going through editing before it was uploaded.

Max nodded his head. He didn’t say anything as Y/N pulled up the video and propped the phone up in front of them.

It was strangely normal, something a two-time world champion didn’t get very often. He and Y/N sat together, closer than ordinary friends would, as they watched the video. It was funny, the Quadrant group and Y/N completing an obstacle course that ended in a karting track. Ria, Y/N and Max (Fewtrell) were on one team, and Lando, Aarav and Niran were on the other team.

Most of the obstacle course was inflatable. The video started with Y/N and Lando running towards the inflatable obstacle course, pushing each other as they went. Lando reached over and held Y/N pack as she tried to move through the inflatable poles. At the end of the inflatable obstacle course was a small bit they had to climb and then a slid that went down to karting track.

It really was good fun; Y/N couldn’t help but smile as she watched it. Quadrant videos were maybe one of Y/N’s favourite parts of being a Youtuber.

But Max (Verstappen) wasn’t laughing. Max wasn’t even watching the video. He couldn’t stop himself from staring at Y/N as she leaned against him. This. This was what he wanted. This was what he didn’t have.

She stayed for a little bit, but things were still not normal between them. She had kissed him, that was all Max could think about. He wanted to kiss her again, but it would only make things worse. She wanted to be friends, clearly, but then why did she kiss him.

Once the video ended, Y/N stretched her back and stood up. She grabbed her phone, slipped it into her pocket and grabbed her bag. “I better go,” she muttered and walked towards the door. Jumping up from the bed, Max followed her. He said nothing as he pulled open the door. Friends. They were just friends. That fucking sucked. Max let her out, watching her go as she headed towards the elevators.

As Y/N walked, she pulled out her phone.

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[puckpocketed]

So do you actually believe PLD is a good player or is that part of the bit?

The PLD Post

i spent a good 2 days giggling about this to friends. i cant tell if ur a curious caps fan, a person who knows me from my other teams, a disgruntled kings fan (i’ve mostly ruled this out because im pretty sure i know all of the active ones on here) or WHAT. but i’m laughing. the tone of this ask is hilarious and vaguely accusatory but i will take it in good faith and answer <3 tl;dr yes and no. he’s better than people think he is rn, but he’s likely never going to live up to the potential of his tools unless something . idk. recalibrates his entire being. who knows!

i was working on something longer and more complex but i thought about it for more than 5 seconds and i REFUSE to go hockey-bro mode and pull out the microstats and i don’t wanna make this into a full on PLD manifesto. so. caps girlies (gn) HERE are your adoption papers under the cut!

if you are looking at pierre luc dubois who is 6’4 + 220lb and thinking “Oh he’s a power forward” i have to inform you he is in fact THEEE smallest mouse to ever play hockey in the whole world and in all of history. he sips nectar out of a thimble and sleeps curled up in a match box and goes fishing in a boat made from nutshells and twigs . he’s big, but he sort of plays small.

this is not necessarily a bad thing — he relies on foot speed and skill over hitting.

he can throw hits but prefers to stick check. he leverages his big frame to guard the puck and to defend, and it makes him simultaneously VERY effective and very much what i like to call a Nexus Of Crime. he is either drawing ten thousand penalties because people have to do something to stop him from driving the net with speed OR he is taking ten thousand penalties because he gets eager in the corners.

PLUS he’s huge and refs do just assume he’s committing a crime when they can’t see what’s going on <3 hence, Nexus Of Crime! if there’s a penalty he’s probably involved LMAO

not a “dirty” player by any means. not physical unless he decides he wants to. and there is no violence inside of him unless he’s deeply horsebonded to his team <- IMPORTANT re; playoffs aspirations. you won’t see him put himself on the line simply for the love of the game, he HAS to be committed to the team.

to be committed to his team… i’m honestly not sure what that takes. i’d guess a combination of knowing his role on the ice and in the locker room (this was very unclear on lak) consistency of messaging from coaches (also seemed to be an issue on lak)

i know nothing about caps coaching or management or the team vibes but i’m sure you can fix him <3 i’m ready to fall in love and ride this team to the sunset

this failhorse will NOT shoot the puck and if he does it will be the saddest soggiest most pathetic shot you’ve ever seen. you will tear your hair out in chunks if you watch him expecting an elite goalscorer.

he’s a pass-first guy. likes to drop pass! likes to drive play from the middle but is also capable of getting pucks off the boards. he needs a finisher on his wing. i could pull up stats here, there are stats to be pulled up, but i know this in my HEART from watching dozens of kings games: he would have had 10-15 more points easily if he wasn’t stapled to the 3rd line and had better finishers. many times i watched him tee up a very good opportunity only for his guy to miss the net or fan or just get knocked off the puck

individually, he thrives in front of the net. his ass is fat and he’s about to use it to screen the goalie. hes good at catching loose pucks in the crease to send them home <3 see his performance at worlds. he scored basically all of his goals right up there!!

most media coverage/narratives will tell you his point production dropped off bc of effort (which is true) but even the MOST resentful kings watchers will say pld wasn’t given his best shot playing with inexperienced+fringe nhlers, being line shuffled the moment he got a bit comfortable, and also not getting ANY net front time on the lak pp. i factor this into all my judgements of his performance.

He’s def earned his diva rep LMAO!! this is personal opinion here but he seems like a sensitive and easily rattled little clam… like he will have a couple of bad shifts and if there’s nobody there to shake him out of it he’ll lose his grasp on the game and play like shit <3 a rolling joke on kingstwt was figuring out which PLD we were getting that game, and you could tell by his 5th if he was switched on or off!!

they hate him for this but EYE think this is nothing new for athletes and if he can consistently stay in the zone he’ll probably be pretty good. mental fortitude of a wet tissue my beloved….

moving onto the Vibes section!! he was always good humoured in media availability and didn’t shy away from scrums even when public opinion soured against him and critiques of both his hockey and his character had reached a fever pitch. i like this about him. he always gave authentic answers and tried his best to accomodate them, and never hid behind his captains.

he gets along quite well with teammates despite the narratives. no seriously!! some of the the kings had a hang out during off-season right before they went to worlds!! there’s bisexual lighting!!!!

there’s interviews from old jets teammates that are just like. “he used to turn up at my house with his dog and text IM HERE with no warning and that’s how we became friends” or “his obsession with euro soccer teams bewitched me”. he had control of the aux cord. he was a den mother and planned group gatherings. a genuine sweetheart to every teammate he’s ever had!!

I don’t think he’s some. idk. secret 100 point producing star 1C. but i truly believe with the right environment he’ll probably hit 60 points again.

thank you for your time if you made it this far and i hope to see you all in the trenches (caps lb) next season 👍

[buckyarchives]

MODERN OBI-WAN KENOBI BOYF HC

I haven’t ever done a head cannon post but with how busy / lazy I’ve been I might post more of these, they’re a lot of fun. probably one for Bucky and Luke skywalker. If you want any other characters just lmk! Make sure to check my request post!

warning: nsfw content (labeled so if you want to skip you totally can)

tea guy, like, it’s crazy. has so many drawers full of boxes and bags. always making you tea to fit whatever mood you’re in

landscaper or teacher, or both. I imagine him teaching younger kids but probably wishes to be a professor of some sort, maybe teaching environmental science.

just really likes plants and flowers but sometimes gets tired of having to craft and trim everything to be perfect so he thoroughly enjoys natural nature and the “overgrown’ aesthetic

Adding onto that, loves to hike, always takes you with and nerds out about the scenery and views.

definitely fosters dogs from the local shelter and takes them on hikes to help leash train them.

unintentionally a pretentious little prick

circle lens glasses and turtle neck combo 24/7

And of course you steal his sweaters ALL THE TIME

Smells like citrus, grass and rain. the warm sun rays and vanilla

Always watching some documentary, or the history channel.

All your friends lowkey want him because he’s. That Guy.

Whenever he blushes it goes straight to his nose, ears and neck.

Frequent at most coffee shops in town so when he started to bring you around it was a big deal for the workers lol, so much gossip. And mild disappointment from the staff knowing obi wan was official taken

Probably hates small talk, finds it tedious and shallow

The most supportive boyfriend in the world, he’s always the first person there to cheer you on

When you started dating him, his cousin/best friend, Anakin, came as a packaged deal. The younger one frequently trailing behind obi wan and now, as you’ve got too closer, you as he’s become a younger brother figure to you.

Not jealous at all, he’s very secure in your relationship and his trust in you is crazy strong. finds it quite amusing when men hit on you in front of him and kinda just lets you play it out.

That is unless you become uncomfortable, he mostly lets you stand up for yourself but if it becomes overbearing he definitely won’t hesitate to cause a small scene.

A big runner and boxer, you’re used to having to help his knuckles heal up from long sessions. As well as joining him on early morning runs if he can get you up and out of bed for it.

He loves art and mostly drew and painted landscapes but after meeting you this sketch book began to fill of pictures of you from every angle possible.

So naturally put together all the time it makes you insecure sometimes

Obviously, obi wan is the best at easing those insecurities. He always notices when you’re feeling off, sometimes even before yourself, so quick to embrace you and whisper exactly what you need to hear.

Another thing, so good with his words??? He always tell you what you need to hear, there’s rarely ever any miscommunication between the two of you because of this and even when they’re are, arguments are not common.

Crazy sarcastic, will say the funniest shit ever with the most monotone face and it just makes it 100% times funnier.

Really likes Taylor swift and David Bowie

Always getting you bouquets of flowers, even arranges them himself sometimes.

“This reminded me of you.”

Such a safe and non-judgemental aura, you’d struggle with asking for help or learning new / seemingly ‘common sense’ things with past relationships in fear of seeming dumb but you feel so safe around obi-wan that those thoughts never cross your mind, always learning new things from him and enjoying how helpful and supportive he is.

Definitely an impala driver, either 40s Chevy impala or the very sleek and fancy 2020 impala premier, probably black and rarely dirty

Not the biggest cuddler in the world but really enjoys naps together, will drape an arm over you but he tends to move around in his sleep so he’s just content with sleeping besides you rather than wrapping limbs

But when he is in the mood to cuddle, it’s mostly on the couch when you decides to binge shitty reality television. He’s usually on his back and you’re laying ontop of his stomach with your ear to his chest

You two constantly binge dating reality shows, always criticizing the other couple and mostly men LOL.

“He did not just say that! Maker, you would have broke up with me then and there.” “Damn right I would.”

You trace all the moles and freckles along his body, obi wan definitely had a skin care routine and moisturizes so I imagine his skin is always so soft

NSFW!

really likes nudes, like the grainy MacBook camera pictures with a matching cute set type nudes (iykyk). Hot and slightly artistic, his favorite.

Doesn’t like porn though, never enjoyed it and it never really got him off, doesn’t like the morals of it either

Also sexting, not his thing. He’s usually more on the serious end when it comes to intimacy but he cannot take sexting seriously LMAOO

lowkey the type to come home from a long day of work and look you in the eye with That Look and you just know what he needs

Thigh guy, the type to take breaks from eating you out by just resting his head fully on your inner thigh and just gaze up at you

Sir / master kink

Will jokingly come up behind you when you’re in the kitchen or something and press his groin to your behind

Just a little tease overall, always doing shit like that and acting all innocent about it

VERY VERY vocal during sex (cough, cough, shallow graves ending scene, COUGH)

[sparklewrites1]

So this is love?

Request: Ok hear me out.. Renfield having a loving partner?? And he's just.. soo not used to that? Like at all?? Someone giving /him/ attention??? Praising him? LOVING him? Not shooing him away? Not barking orders or shaming him for doing something wrong? I needs it!

Robert Montague Renfield x Reader

Warnings: romance?

Proofread? No

Word Count: 689

A/n: I pushed through writers block to write this.

-

“Surprise!” You shouted excitedly as you bounced excitedly in front of the dining table.

Robert stood in the entrance of his apartment. Dumbfounded as he gazed at the white cake that was placed upon the wooden surface. The top of it had the words 'Happy Birthday Robert!' spelled with blue frosting.

"What is this?" He raised his eyebrow in curiosity.

"It's for your birthday!" You exclaimed, barely able to control your volume.

Both of Robert's eyebrows rose in surprise and confusion. You didn't forget? You remembered? You remembered his birthday? Out of all the days to remember, you remembered the day that he was born? Why would you? It's certainly not important. 

Or at least that's what Dracula told him multiple times in the past century or so.

“You remembered?” He gave you an incredulous look.

“Of course I did!” You skipped over to him. “And, I’ve got some gifts for you! Just wait here.” You squealed before you sprinted off to his bedroom. Robert stayed in his spot, still shocked and confused at the fact that you actually remembered his birthday.  

After about a minute, you came out of the bedroom carrying two bags. One large pink one, and a smaller black one. You placed them both on the dining table next to the cake. You reached inside the pink one and pulled out an envelope that had Robert’s full name written on the back of it.

“This is from Rebecca. She couldn’t make it but she got you this.” You explained as you handed the envelope and pink bag to him.

Robert reached inside the bag and felt his fingers land on a hard surface. He pulled the unidentified object out and in his grasp was a book, with a title that read, 'Encyclopedia Of Bugs'.

"A Bug book! How nice!" You grinned.

Robert opened the envelope next, inside was a card that had the words,

"I know you have a "habit" of swallowing bugs. So you might as well know what you're eating when you order."

He didn't quite get the joke and frankly, neither did Rebecca when she wrote it.

"Ok! My turn!" You let out what felt like your hundredth squeal as you took the small white bag and handed it to him. "Ok, remember that time we went on that one walk and we passed by a really fancy jewelry store?" Robert thought for a moment.

"I think so."

"Great! Now open your gift!" You could barely contain your excitement as you urged him to do so.

Robert reached inside and pulled out a small, silver box. When he opened it, he gave you a curious look. Inside the box was a golden ring that had his full name engraved in it.

"This is for… me?" He nervously gestured toward himself.

"Who else?" You gave him a warm smile.

In this moment, the only thing Robert could think was that this had to be some sort of ruse. Why would you ever give such a gift to him of all people? How could something so nice belong to him? And how could someone so amazing be kind enough to give it to him?

“It’s… Beautiful.” He said, with an astonished expression on his face.

“I’m so glad you like it!” You squealed (AGAIN.) and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. Instead of speaking. Robert stood there in a dazed state for a solid minute.

You frowned.

 “Is something wrong?” You worriedly queried, afraid that he might have changed his mind about your gift within the span of a minute.

“No, no, I just… You- you did this for me?”

“Well it wasn’t just me, Rebecca helped. Although, yes I did pick out the ring by myself.”

“Why?” He questioned, genuinely confused as to why you did all of this, for him.

“Because we love you. I love you.” Just then Robert felt a tug at his heart. You loved him. You really did. You actually appreciate him. Not once, in the entire time he knew you, had you used him. That was when Robert knew.

You were the one for him.

[silvvermst]

THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT

SYNOPSIS :: It’s almost Christmas, and what better way to spend it with him.

NOTE :: as promised, i present a grahamfield fic. read the first part :))

TYPE :: fluff / light angst

Max turned on the lights in her dorm while Warren followed her behind. “I’m sorry for the mess. I wasn’t sure if I should leave for the holidays or not, so the boxes Dina lent me were lying around.”

“It’s okay.” His words were breathy from laughter “You should have seen my room when it’s finals. It looks like I had murder investigation goin’ on.”

“I remembered.” She joined in the laughing fit, remembering the time she brought him some food since she found he had been skipping his meals.

“At least yours looks messily beautiful!” He exclaims, looking around the room in amazement. “Your room looks straight up from a Ghibli film.” Although, the thing that made it stand out was the wall full of photographs.

Max was too preoccupied with cleaning out some used papers on the ground to make her room look more presentable. Yet she stopped when she caught Warren examining her Photo Memorial Wall. “This is amazing…”

She smiled from his compliment, even if it didn’t reach her eyes she was flattered. She knows he’s just making small talk and avoiding the elephant in the room, she knows him too well. “Do you, do you have any questions about the other timeline?”

Warren turned his body to face her, “If it’s alright with you, I have but let’s talk about it at breakfast. For now, I want you to have some rest.”

“Alright. Whatever you say, Doctor.” He grinned at the nickname.

“This feels like we’re kids again, even if we never met as children. I’ve never been into a sleepover before, this feels nice.”

“I hope we did. It would have been fun creating all sorts of trouble with you.” They both sat down at the edge of her bed. “Can you stay for the night? I’m sorry, I know I just told you it was a couple of minutes.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’d sleep on the couch. Then, we’ll go to some diner first thing in the morning. Sounds good?” She warmly smiled at him and nodded.

“Thanks, Warren. I’ll find a way to repay you.”

He immediately shook his head. “You don’t have to, just by being one of my closest friends is enough. Just keep being you, Max, that’s enough for me.”

The conversation ended when they both set the glass down by the sink and Warren sat at the couch. “Are you sure you’re okay with sleeping on the couch?”

“Yep! Believe me, I can’t count the times I slept on my gaming chair all night. So this couch is actually an upgrade.” His reassurance gave her a peace of mind. But she still grabbed some comforters and a blanket to make the couch at least comfortable to sleep in. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Mhm, I’m gonna get that pancake sausage combo.”

“Oh, ho! I’m gonna get that pancake sausage combo.”

With saying that in unison they both laugh at themselves until it dies down and the both of them had settled on their respective beds. Max turned to face Warren across the room, while he did the same. Even with the lights turned off, the moon’s light shining from the window is perfectly illuminating his pale face that she couldn’t help but smile in relief to know she wasn’t alone with her thoughts any more. “Good night, Warren.”

“Sleep well, Max.”

For the first time, she slept without nightmares where she wakes up soaked in her own sweat while she tries to breathe normally and avoid a panic attack. This time she was awakened by the sweet and citrusy smell of maple syrup suddenly making her eyes flutter, with the sun rays making its way past her curtains she couldn’t help but open up her eyes. Across from her is an empty couch with the comforters and a blanket neatly folded to the side. The said person who is missing is currently singing along a tune in a small chest of drawers by the foot of her bed.

“Are you awake? I couldn’t wake you up earlier, so I decided to order some take-out.” He somehow managed to tell she was wide awake by just the difference of her breathing.

“Shit, I must have been out as light.”

“You are, no matter how many times I rang your alarm clock right next to you, you just won’t get up. A sleeping beauty, through and through.”

“Oh, please. There’s no way I was sleeping beautifully.” She sat up on the bed and threw a small pillow to his face. The good thing is that he was able to catch it.

Though he was trying to hide it, the corners of his mouth were twitching upwards. He couldn't help but laugh out loud from her annoyed face. After preparing their breakfast, Max was done fixing her bed and joined Warren by the couch. “Here, your pancake-sausage combo!”

“Mhm, that’s why it smelled so good here.” She salivated from the meal in her hands, but she made sure that the maple syrup was evenly spread from each pancake. While Warren… well, he made sure that the sausages got maple syrup as well. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“What?” His words were distorted since he was holding the fork with his teeth as he spread a large amount of syrup over his food.

“You’re disgusting!” Max blurted out. “What kind of psycho puts syrup with sausages?”

He took the fork and knife and started eating his pancakes, the enjoyment in his face was obvious. That he is that kind of psycho who will put maple syrup with anything as if it was ketchup.

“Eat your fill! Or I’ll take those lovely pancakes!” Warren said between mouthfuls. It prompted Max to eat as well, considering Warren is not typical to joke around food. He’s dead serious about eating others food if they don't want it.

After finishing your meals, he was the one who offered to clean it up. “I’ll be right back.” Once the door was shut, Max collapsed back to her bed. Every morning she has to remind herself that she did the right thing, but after she revealed everything to Warren. Her self-doubt and insecurity seems to dissolve as she remembers his words last night.

Warren’s words have no doubt behind them as well as his eyes that hold sincerity while he holds her close by the light house. He was giving her reassurance that she didn’t ask for, she wasn’t even sure if she deserves it. She sighed deeply, while trying to calm herself down she walked over to the foot of her bed and turned on her stereo.

The knock on her door pulled her back to reality, “Hey, since we didn’t get to that drive-in… want to go tonight?” Max smiled back at his suggestion and nodded her head.

“Fan of The Smiths, huh?” He asked, peering over to her shoulder to see her CD collection. “Oh, shit! Is that The Dark Side of the Moon?!”

“God, you’re the most geekest out of the geeks I’ve met.” She found amusement in his giddiness. “If you want I can lend you some CDs to play it on your car’s stereo.”

“Yes, please! You’re okay with me borrowing it?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have offered if I was against it. Well, if you did ask me I’m afraid I’d still let them borrow it.”

“I know, that’s why I asked. Max, I know it’s rich coming from me but you can always deny us of things that are precious to you. You don’t have to be a…”

“A pushover?” She abruptly finished his sentence for him.

“Yeah, that.” He fidgeted his fingers. “But I’m not saying that you are one!”

She was laughing so hard that she momentarily closed her eyes from how much laughter he could pull out of her. “Relax. I didn’t take any offense from it.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst.” He exhaled through his nose while he covered his face with his hands.

“Hey, Warren… you still had a few questions about what happened, right?” Warren gulped, it was obvious that this topic would be brought once again sooner or later, he just didn’t expect she was the one who'd bring it up first. They both sat at her bed, while Max held her teddy bear.

“Yeah, about that, I think you explained some of it pretty well. I’m more curious about what happened with us from that different timeline.” He can see the gears in her head processing his words just from her expression, a blush that slowly appeared in her cheeks.

“Oh, yeah. Just like today, we got closer within that week. You saved me a bunch of times from Nathan, heck, you even beat him up!” Warren’s eyes almost sparkled and his jaw dropped, unable to believe the story.

“No way! I beat up that asshole?!”

“You did, but once it was over you regretted it. You were afraid that somehow you ended like him. But you’re not like him, I know you’re not that kind of person to use your powers to abuse others.”

“Ha… I still can’t believe it. Shit, what other things happened?”

“I saved Kate from committing suicide… because of Victoria. But there was something more sinister that happened to Kate, as we know today, she was a victim of…”

“Mark.” Max slightly flinched at the mention of his name. “I can’t believe the school let someone like him inside!”

“Uhm, aside from Mister Jefferson getting arrested as well as Nathan. In the alternate, Nathan was killed by him, while Madsen was the one who shot Mark in the head. Though, at least in this current timeline, I prevented Victoria from being in the Dark Room…” She bit her lip remembering her own time in that disgusting place. She turned her head away from Warren, as she was so absorbed in fixing things in the current time that she disregarded her own fears and mental health. “I, I was also there, even if it didn’t happen technically, I still feel it. Everything, everyone, what happened during that week for them it’s not real but it is for me! Even if it was erased, I… I wish I had forgotten everything that would’ve been much more bearable than this.”

Max couldn’t feel the disgust and contempt from her own self. “I wish I could take away your pain…” He gently placed his hand on top of hers as his gaze held a warm intensity that whispered of deep affection. “But I’m so proud of you for being strong.”

She could feel her eyes sting again as ripples of tears flow to her cheeks. “I can’t believe I’ve cried twice in your arms today.” Max let herself open up and nuzzle her head by his shoulders, trying to hide her face as much as possible. “Look, your shirt is wet again!”

He managed to let out a quiet laugh before placing his arms around her, gently gliding his palms to her head to brush her hair. Though his action made her embrace him tighter as tears continue to well up in her eyes. For once, Max was able to cry herself to sleep with someone holding her close, to dry her tears with their hands, and to tuck her in.

“I really wish I also have some superpower to help you with what you’re feeling, Max.” He whispered, gently laying her on the bed.

“Warren…” Max softly called out to him, her arms reaching to be wrapped in his neck.

“Yeah?” They were both silent for a moment while her lips brushed against his, she kissed him with a slow tenderness that stopped the world around them like she used her powers once again. She was almost convinced that it was until his hand touched her cheek, his thumb softly caressing her as a small act of affection.

“I want you to know that it’s technically my second time kissing you.” She whispered after they parted. The blush that spread Warren’s cheeks flared more after her statement.

“So, you mean? We, We kissed? Before? Like in the alternate timeline.” Overwhelmed by emotion, his voice cracked as his heart beat only quickened when she nodded.

“I was also the one who initiated the kiss back then because I was afraid that I won’t be able to at least tell you my feelings since I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to come back.”

“But you did, you came back. That’s why if you’d let me, I want to share your burden and pain that you’ve been carrying for so long, and ease you so that you’d be able to have a sense of relief even if it’s just for a moment. In this universe, let us be the one to take care of you.” This time his voice held a strong determination as he professed his love that he once thought was unrequited. Hugging her with warmth as she reciprocated his embrace. Their breathing slowed as a sense of safety and belonging washed over them.

“Just being with you was enough for me, I was able to properly grieve people I’ve lost and unbottle the feeling I’ve been trying to hide that I can let it go without blaming myself…” She paused, her voice was shaky from overwhelming emotions that engulfed her. “I, I want you to know that…”

“I do, I love you so much, Maxine.” He placed a butterfly kiss right in her temple and held her closer. “You don’t have to be alone and in the dark anymore.” He beams at her, his brightness and warmth made her feel secure in his arms. Her sun, her lighthouse that leads her out of the dark.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Okay so touch of angst here. But I’ve kind of been thinking about the canon idea that Sephiroth holds no attachment to objects, and that his apartment is really sparse.

And I kind of thought, what if it’s not? What if it’s the opposite? We know he holds onto his mothers photo for dear life, so what if Sephiroth actually has a bit of an issue with getting rid of stuff because of the fact he wasn’t allowed to have many possessions as a child? What if Sephiroth’s apartment is an ordered mess of things that he’s squirrelled away from under Hojo.

I’ve got this idea that maybe Angeal and Genesis have tried to help him sort through it but they struggle to get him to let go of things because he seems to have a story and an attachment to everything. And their shocked because you wouldn’t think Sephiroth is a particularly sentimental person. In fact in everyday conversation he comes of as the exact opposite, but where his stuff is concerned, Sephiroth just cannot let go.

I dunno dude, I’m making myself sad. Thought I’d share.

Let me add my two cents, I hope I did this wonderful idea justice:

• Sephiroth's apartment is indeed minimalistic and neatly-kept at first glance. He has a few personal touches here and there, such as a nice, blue throw blanket on his couch that used to be Genesis's, a few of his favorite books scattered around, a potted plant Angeal gifted him that he takes care of, all normal things.

• But every drawer, closet and cupboard is packed, filled with things he tries to keep as organized as possible but ultimately fills due to the sheet amount of stuff.

• Items Sephiroth refuses to let go of include:

• Newspaper clippings of comic strips he accumulated. There was a brief time in his life where the only joy derived from his day was reading the funny pages in the newspaper every morning. So he saved each one of those moments of bliss in a shoebox under his bed.

• Various toys and trinkets in almost every drawer of his apartment. He is a compulsive buyer of toys he was never allowed when he was a child. He rarely plays with them. Yes he will keep buying them.

• A music box that has long stopped working. It was the first purchase he made with his paycheck that was made purely because he wanted it.

• A jar of candy wrappers that has been sitting in his nightstand for five years. It had been once filled with sweets, but he, Genesis and Angeal ate them all once one night, talking, laughing, and goofing around. It had been one of the first times Sephiroth felt like he truly belonged and was finally making friends. At the time, he had been convinced that he would never be as happy as he felt in that moment. So he kept every wrapper, and hangs onto that memory to this day.

• A pair of wool mittens he keeps in his glove drawer. They're a bit ripped and don't fit anymore, but professor Gast gave those to him. It was the first and only present the professor had given him.

• A broken, plastic hair clip. When he had begun growing his hair out, Genesis had just cut his shorter and no longer needed the clip, so he gave it to Sephiroth. Sephiroth naively tried to lay down with it and broke the clip upon impact. Though he never got to use it, their subsequent shared laughter was enough to make the hair clip special.

• A broken blender in his kitchen cupboard. It had broken long ago, Sephiroth had always meaned to get it fixed, but there is a small chicken wing sticker on the base of the blender that either Genesis or Angeal had gotten from a cereal box and placed there. After a particularly stressful week where he barely ate, Sephiroth looked at the chicken wing sticker and was suddenly struck by the craving for fried chicken. It was the only thing that got him to eat that week. He keeps it around in case it ever happens again.

• A drawer full of magazine clippings of women who vaguely look like that picture of his mother.

• Multiple sweaters and hoodies. The lab was cold and Hojo was stingy with layers, oftentimes insisting that Sephiroth was fine with that he had and reprimanding him for being so weak. As a result, Sephiroth has far too many sweaters, blankets, and layers. Far more than he will ever be able to use. Some of them don't even fit him anymore because of how much he's bulked up over the years.

• A yellow flower pressed and preserved in an old book. It's the very first flower he had seen as a young boy being sent out on a mission.

• An old, green baby blanket he's had since was young. Though Hojo would never admit it, he suspects it could have been given to him by his mother. It's certainly colorful enough, different from the sterile white ones he would've expected. He often wonders if she too held it like he holds it every night before he falls asleep.

[bowieandqueen11]

Give Me Your Heart / Jareth Imagine

Request: Hi im not sure if you're taking requests bit could you please do a Jareth x gn reader where he teaches his s/o how to dance. However it's just between them, no music, no guests, just them in an empty hall? Don't feel pressured to write this. Hope you're doing well :)

Ooh it’s been far too long since I’ve written for Jareth, and this idea is so sweet and romantic!! Thank you nonnie :)

Also sorry, this ended up being more teasing than I had set it out to be oopsie but I hope you enjoy anyway! ,3

(I do not own Labyrinth or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @ihadadutyovcare.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

‘Now darling, even you know by now that your hand goes on my waist.’

You try to stifle your laugh, instead pressing your growing smile against the itchy notched lapel of his jacket. Jareth’s warmth envelops you immediately, helped on by the tickle of his fringes as they brush over the glowing curve of your cheek. It’s a soothing, tender kind of gush that sweeps through your muscles as you feel his hand reposition its grip, safe within the knowledge that no matter how clunkily you stepped on the tips of his toes and scuffed the edges of his boots, he would hold you tightly against his chest and never let go.

You slide your hand back up to the rather tense muscle of his waist with a teasing sigh, enjoying the way the domineering sovereign before you is wrought with a rack of shivers from your sole touch alone. He groans as your fingers trace and scratch around the joint, his eyes rolling back slightly in his head as you take full advantage of his obviously flustering state.

‘Now Jareth, do I hold my arm up like this?’, you take a step back from him and ostentatiously draw your elbow away from his side and swing it up in the air, dragging his own arm along with it. ‘Or does it come round here...hmm, in this sort of position?’ You drop his fingertips that were gently resting on top of your own and swing forward, looping your arm around the Goblin King’s neck. His eyes widen in a fervent kind of shock as your palm flattens against the back of his neck and pulls the bewildered man down to reach your lips. 

Once he regains his composure and realises there’s nothing more delightful in this moment than relishing in the feeling of kissing the love of his life back, he tips one leather gloved finger under your chin and tilts you further up to meet him. With pliant lips, he slowly draws away and presses a last, lingering kiss against your top lip; despite the fact that you were the one to initiate the peck, you were also the one left breathless. Contently, he closes his eyes for a moment before sighing in bliss and smirking once again.

‘Now now, my diamond streaked star, if you keep teasing me so I shall have to reprimand you for such insolence. Perhaps I shall tie your hand to mine so you can never escape’, he tenderly takes your right wrist and drags the back of your hand down the side of his cheek. As he does so, he grips you back to him again. Without breaking the passionate eye contact that blazes a crimson shrine, a travailing opal blossoming in the minute space between your bodies, he begins the move the two of you a step backwards.

‘Or maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.’ He reaches an arm up, twirling you around until you’re gliding like a wound up music box figurine: porcelain, fated, pure perfection. His boot knocks against your own shoe, turning it to the side as he lodges his knee in-between your own; Jareth is almost carrying you at this point, guiding your feet backwards and to the left, whizzing over the gleaming marble stained tiles of the looming hall.

 ‘Perhaps, what is needed to succinctly convey the message, would be to capture your heart and keep it safely locked within mine forever.’ Before you can even take a breath, his hand has wound around the small of your back and he’s knocking you backwards. The gentle-stricken winged cherubs that are moulded to the corners of the gold crested ceiling are fleeting as they pass by your eyes; the crystal encrusted chandelier that beams haloes of light past your vision is soon replaced by the shimmering blue of the violet banked sky. The glory of the starlight that swirls pockets of alight silver over the upside-down edge of the outer stone balcony is only seconded by the feeling of Jareth leaning over you.

The soft groan that escapes your mouth elicits an amused hum from the man, who nuzzles his nose against yours like the cat who got the cream. While his left hand is busy holding your hips flush against his midriff, his right busies itself with running down your side slowly, setting every nerve in its path alight with anticipation. Eventually, after far too long a wait, your closed eyes grimace in bliss as you feel his lips brush feather soft, licking against the pulse point on your neck.

‘After all, it’s not so long at all, if only you can live without it’, he murmurs between nibbles against the curve of your shoulder. ‘For I know I could not. If you took your heart away from me, you would cause me to fall into ruination.’

This was going to be a long night indeed.

[timeagainreviews]

Doctor Who isn't Dead Yet

Last month “Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga,” made headlines for having the lowest box office numbers on Memorial Day weekend. This is in spite of also being number one at the box office, just beating out “The Garfield Movie.” The movie was a certified flop, which is a shame because it’s stupendous (seriously, watch it sometime if you haven’t.)  I saw it a week after its release and already it had been relegated to the smallest theatre in the complex with only two screenings on a Friday. This small theatre had maybe eight people in attendance. To look at it, you would have to agree with those who say cinema is dying. It’s ironic then that Sutekh’s gift of death is what appears to have breathed a lot of life into my local cinema over the weekend.

To celebrate the Doctor Who season one finale, the BBC opted to show it in theatres across the UK. The screening began at eleven o’clock with “The Legend of Ruby Sunday,” and followed into midnight with “Empire of Death.” As we arrived, I saw many happy Whovians in cosplay buzzing with excited energy. The lobby was full of people in Tom Baker scarves and blue TARDIS t-shirts chattering away about their fan theories while they loaded up on snacks. The person dressed like the Fourteenth Doctor sitting in front of me was bouncing in their seat so much that I kept getting glimpses of David Tennant hair in my periphery. Needless to say, people were very excited. I don’t know if it was the fact that it was nearly 1 AM, but I did not see that same energy on the way out. So what happened?

It’s no secret that the overall fan reaction to RTD’s finale episode is one of being very underwhelmed. I even used that exact word to my friends on the way out of the theatre. I chose that word carefully. I didn’t want to imply that I hated it, because I didn’t. But after an entire season of build-up, I expected certain conditions to have been met. I’ve mentioned in the past that one of the benefits of this new midnight release schedule is that I often watch the episodes more than once. I find this helpful because the second viewing always allows me the opportunity to view the story divorced from my own expectations. But I have to ask- were my expectations so unfounded to begin with? Where did they come from if not the show itself?

Recently in an interview, Russell T Davies stated that he has been writing Doctor Who in such a way that it would generate a buzz on the internet. If people were talking about it, then maybe people would start watching it. While I am sure this method can increase engagement, it also has its shortcomings. Trickling information is all well in good, but when is it not enough? There is a point where teasing becomes more tedious than tantalising. Just look at Steven Moffat and Trenzalore- a concept that got so dragged out that by the time we finally got there, it was hard to care. Another downside is that it also raises people’s expectations to such a degree that it can be hard to meet said expectations.

Had this episode been written by Steven Moffat, we wouldn’t have picked up right back where we had left off. We’d have probably begun the episode on Agua Santina with the Doctor receiving the spoon from the kind woman. But this is more of a classic Doctor Who-style episode where the cliffhanger continues along. Last week I had guessed that Sutekh was a sort of trinity of Susan Triad, his jackal aspect, and Ruby Sunday. But as we learn in this story, not only is Ruby not related to Sutekh, but Susan Triad is no more Sutekh than Harriet Argbinger. That is not to say that she is any less dangerous in this moment. She holds out her hand to spread the dust of death which quickly begins to envelop London, then the world, and eventually, the universe, or at least the places where the Doctor has visited.

I rather liked the getaway scene with the Doctor and Mel. It was great to see Mel taking control of the situation. The Doctor almost feels like the companion following her away from danger. Her “Come on, cowboy!” line was so good. Once again, I really like what they’re doing with Mel in this season. The fact that she could have been this person in classic Doctor Who really annoys me that she wasn’t. While I grew to appreciate classic Mel in her own right, I’ll take modern-day UNIT Mel over screaming Mel any day. Bonnie Langford is coming here to Glasgow Film and Comic Con in August and I fully expect her line to be longer than when I saw her in 2015. She has been a highlight of this season and I fully did not expect to love her return as much as I have.

As the dust spreads through London, UNIT is still reacting to the presence of Sutekh wrapped around the TARDIS. Last week my friend said to me about Morris’ segway “How much do you want to bet that thing shoots lasers?” And sure enough, it shoots something. The UNIT team unload holy hell on Sutekh and Harriet, but nothing lands. Before getting in a little reference to her father, Kate Lethbridge-Stewart and her team are reduced to dust. Even the Vlinx’s head pops off, so not even robots are safe. Once again, the RTD2 era has borrowed from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. As Sutekh’s dust of death spread across the globe causing people to disintegrate, I leaned over to my wife and said “Mister Stark, I don’t feel so good,” in reference to the Thanos snap. Whatever. Marvel doesn’t own disintegration.

We see Mrs Flood and Cherry get swept up in the dust. Before she dies, Mrs Flood delivers some cryptic words that lead me to think she’s more than just a Time Lord but something far more powerful. However, she’s not so powerful as to avoid Sutekh’s gift. It’s hard to say just what is happening there, so I am not even going to attempt it. The Doctor and Mel find their way through the dust back to UNIT HQ where Ruby is still standing in the time window. Last week I mentioned that the memory of a TARDIS could become the Memory TARDIS from “Tales of the TARDIS,” and boy was I right. I love being right, especially after being wrong all season. I still want someone to be the Rani. At this point, they’re just messing with me.

Before we move along, I do want to call out an aspect of the dust scene that bothers me, and that’s Carla. Last week we saw Ruby tell Carla that she needed to either help or get out of the way. Historically, this would be where someone like Jackie Tyler would find some way to be helpful. I half expected a moment where it feels like all is lost until Carla comes out of nowhere like Ric Flair with a steel chair, saving our heroes from certain doom. It could have even been a self-sacrifice moment where she is still turned to dust. It would have been tragic and fuelled the Doctor and Ruby’s resolve. Instead, we see her in a cab on her way home after having witnessed her daughter's memories invoke the devil. What was even the point of her saying “Well, if your mother's part of it then, Ruby, you can tell her your mother is too,” if they do nothing with it? It felt so out of character for her to up and leave Ruby behind like that, and I feel like that lies solely at Davies’ feet.

It’s funny to me that in the lead-up to “Empire of Death,” people were saying “I hope they explain how Sutekh escaped the time vortex.” Mostly because it hardly matters, but also because they rarely explain how the Master or Davros escape death time and time again. Why is Sutekh any different? What is funny is that Sutekh escapes dying of old age in the time vortex by hitching a ride through the time vortex for thousands of years. Instead of dying, this just makes him stronger. He goes from an Osiran to a full-blown Titan. Sutekh reveals to the Doctor that Susan Triad was an aspect of the Doctor’s granddaughter who he had learned about while integrating himself with the TARDIS. He peppers these aspects of Susan throughout the universe wherever the Doctor lands. However, other than sharing a name, I don’t understand what Susan Triad has to do with Susan Foreman. They’re both brilliant and kind, but is this implying that Susan Triad is what the Doctor’s granddaughter might regenerate into? It’s a bit confusing.

After using Ruby’s memory to fully materialise the Memory TARDIS, the Doctor and his two companions escape Sutekh’s grasp, but even the Doctor senses that maybe Sutekh is keeping them alive. The visual of Sutekh sitting atop the TARDIS in his silent empire of death is an arresting one. I appreciated the sound design allowing the audience to really feel that silence. No music. No people. Nothing. Though on a scientific level, it does strike me as a bit odd that the entire universe is now dead. The Doctor may have had thousands of adventures across time and space, but I have to imagine there are countless planets out there which remained untouched by Sutekh’s dust. But I’m willing to suspend disbelief in this instance. 

After tying the Memory TARDIS together with intelligent rope, the Doctor, Ruby, and Mel, drift aimlessly in the Memory TARDIS. It’s uncertain how long they travel this way, but they manage to fit a costume change for the Doctor and an entire episode of “Tales of the TARDIS,” in there. Carrying a television screen still linked with the time window, we learn that the time window is still obeying Ruby’s commands as it had last week. Originally I had suspected this was because she was some sort of aspect of Sutekh, but as we have now learned, it’s simply Sutekh aiding Ruby’s search for her mother. After using the screen to explain to Ruby who and what Sutekh is, the screen also begins to show the Doctor and Ruby a way forward in the form of Roger ap Gwilliam. Meanwhile, Mel is being tracked by Sutekh through the dead cells in her body.

The scene on Agua Santina with the Doctor and the Kind Woman played by Sian Clifford was one of the strongest moments in the episode for me. We had watched the death wave spread across the earth, but this was a way to see how it affected people on an individual basis. Because the death wave happened at multiple points in time, we were able to see how it manifests from multiple angles. Having established the analogous relationship between time and memory, we can see how memory may begin to fade before life. People may still exist, but they won’t remember the name of their birth city because the person who would have named it died before they were able. But even more chilling is how the death wave doesn’t just travel up through bloodlines, but backwards as well. There’s an undeniable cruelty to making a woman have to experience losing her child before experiencing the same fate. It’s evil for evil’s sake and proof that Sutekh isn’t just an arbiter of death, but a demon as well.

The Kind Woman gifts the Doctor a spoon which he promises her he will use to save the universe. Fans of the Twelfth Doctor will have gotten excited by this promise as we’ve seen what the Doctor can do with a spoon. Instead, the Doctor uses it for metal, and possibly not even for metal, but for the memories within the metal. I found this all very weird as they literally showed Mel holding the Thirteenth Doctor’s sonic screwdriver which is not only made of metal, but several spoons. Was there really nothing on the Memory TARDIS with enough memory to jam into that TV screen? It’s a weird series of events punctuated by yet another weird occurrence when the Memory TARDIS gifts the Doctor with a whistle like we’re supposed to know why it’s significant. Nothing in the history of Doctor Who has been controlled by a whistle other than K9. Yet the Doctor puts it around his neck like it makes total sense and isn’t just some non-sequitur moment.

I said last week that I was waiting for “Empire of Death,” before I could fully know how I felt about “The Legend of Ruby Sunday.” Sometimes, a follow-up episode can enrich the experience of a previous story, while other times it can sully it a bit. You can imagine then my surprise when the episode that was sullied wasn’t “The Legend of Ruby Sunday,” but rather “73 Yards,” instead. My takeaway from “73 Yards,” was that the Doctor stepped on the fairy ring, releasing Mad Jack and setting the events of the story into motion. Ruby would then use the semper distans woman to scare away Roger ap Gwilliam and then again to save the Doctor. The Doctor doesn’t stand on the fairy circle, and Mad Jack never escapes. So if Roger ap Gwilliam still exists in the future, what was the point of any of of “73 Yards”? This doesn’t feel “wibbly wobbly, timey wimey,” as much as it feels “wibbly wobbly, shitty witty.” It just feels messy.

The Doctor tells Ruby and Mel that in 2046, DNA cataloguing became compulsory to anyone living in the UK. It feels on brand with Roger ap Gwilliam’s xenophobic platform, so no problems there. Meanwhile, Mel is being used like a spy, but the Doctor has been wary of her since she started appearing exhausted on the Memory TARDIS. The Doctor takes a blood sample from Ruby but just as they get a match on the DNA database, Evil Mel takes the wheel and transports them back to UNIT HQ leaving the Memory TARDIS behind. Finally, Sutekh has the information he needs to learn the name of Ruby’s mother. He will now learn how this unknown person has been able to thwart his gift of death and avoid detection.

What happens next is probably the weakest part of the entire episode. The Doctor and Ruby manage to fool Sutekh into thinking they are about to tell him Ruby’s mother’s identity, but it’s only so Ruby can get close enough to slap some intelligent rope around his collar. Why this feels weak to me is that it means somehow the Doctor and Ruby managed to squirrel away intelligent rope before exiting the Memory TARDIS. This means they would have had to do this without Mel noticing. And while I get that it’s intelligent rope, they basically pull it out of their asses because it’s nowhere to be seen. The fact that intelligent rope is a McGuffin that’s a callback to a pair of gloves many of us will have forgotten since the Christmas episode makes this moment all the weaker. The Doctor then uses his whistle in yet another McGuffin moment that allows him to control the TARDIS and shoot Harriet out the door. With the TARDIS finally back in the Doctor’s control, it’s time to take doggo for walkies!

The Doctor drags Sutekh through the Time Vortex bringing death to death, which causes life. Miraculously, if not luckily, people who we had watched die to the dust are now alive again. Colonel Chidozie is back. The Vlinx’s head is reattached somehow. And Cherry whose final memory of Mrs Flood was of her being cryptic and creepy is so happy to be alive again that she’s hugging the creepy old freak regardless. Cool. Not weird at all. Just people acting like real people. I don’t understand Cherry. She thinks the Doctor is trouble, but Mrs Flood is totally normal. What is it with these last two episodes and getting both Carla and Cherry’s characters so wrong? What gives, Russell?

The Doctor then does the right thing and cuts the intelligent rope, causing Sutekh to burn away in the Time Vortex. I guess this time it’s deadly because he’s not integrated with the TARDIS. That’s my best bet. I’m also willing to bet that the reason it snowed around Ruby and played Christmas music in her presence was due to Sutekh’s influence. He wanted to know the answer so badly that the memory manifested around her any time she got close to it. This is just speculation on my behalf, but it makes enough sense.

Speaking of Ruby’s birth mother (and not her real mother as they kept calling her) UNIT is able to find out who Ruby’s mother is, and she’s just some lady. I know some people were mad about this and I guess I can see why. There was so much emphasis on who her mother was that for it to be nobody special must have been a disappointment. Personally, I thought it was the least interesting mystery of the entire season. I get that she wanted to know who her birth mother was, but I was never emotionally invested in the storyline. The only thing that made it sort of interesting was the idea that there was a reason it was a big deal. You can’t feign surprise when audiences expect something to be big when it’s you who told us to feel that way. 

What I find strangest about Ruby’s mother is the way she points at the sign that says Ruby Road. First of all, why the hell was she standing like that? As body language goes, she looks less like she’s naming her child, and more like she’s marking the Doctor for death. Furthermore, why is she dressed like she’s about to hitch a ride on Shai-Hulud? But even weirder is how Ruby even ended up with the name Ruby. Ruby says “I always thought I was called Ruby because the social workers chose it or the paramedics or whatever. But, no, it was her.” But literally the only person who would have seen her pointing was the Doctor, and he left immediately after. So it really was the social workers who chose it or the paramedics or whatever. It feels less like she was pointing to name Ruby, and more like she was pointing to get the internet rumour mill buzzing. It worked, but at what cost?

Ruby finally meets her birth mother in a coffee shop. She’s a nice woman named Louise Miller who looks a lot like Lucie Miller, but I’ve learned my lesson this season with getting my hopes up. While Ruby and Louise embrace for the first time, the Doctor looks on remembering the granddaughter he left behind. Divorced from the hype, I’m fine with Ruby’s mum being nobody special. While I wasn’t a huge fan of Rian Johnson’s “The Last Jedi,” one aspect I really enjoyed was that Rey’s parents were just a couple of nobodies. It reinforced the idea that a Jedi can come from anywhere. Ruby doesn’t have to be anyone special for us to care about her. Unfortunately, so much of her story was tied up in this because ultimately, it did hurt her character development. I’d like to think that this is all part of the growing pains in finding a new equilibrium of fan excitement and good storytelling.

The Doctor knows he and Ruby must part ways. She has a whole new chapter of her life to explore and he would only get in the way. I mentioned after “Rogue” that Ruby was reminding the Doctor to embrace his human side, and here it is all over again. She has reminded him of the importance of family. He lets Ruby go because he can see that her need for a place to belong is greater than his need to have a travelling companion. Even if Ruby can’t see it right away, the Doctor is right. Their time together has come to an end. While Ruby has left the TARDIS, you do get the impression that we’ll see her again. There have been rumours that Millie Gibson has filmed some of season two, so don’t be surprised if we do see more of Ruby Sunday.

On a second viewing, I liked this episode a lot more than the first time. Like I said, divorced from my own expectations, I could see the episode for what it is. But the audience’s underwhelmed reaction is partly the fault of Davies’ machinations to get the internet talking about Doctor Who. He spends an entire season talking about the Doctor’s granddaughter Susan, but the only time we see Carole Ann Ford is in a flashback of her face with zero dialogue. We’re led to believe Mrs Flood is going to be something, but every time we feel like she is about to reveal some more information, she gives us more of the same tired bullshit she’s been doing since the first time we saw her. It begins to feel like television done in the same model as live service games. Keep subscribing. Stick around for additional content. Things trickle out over a gruelling pace. They gave us answers, but it feels like they could have given us more. Who was the Boss the Meep referred to? Is it the same Boss as the one giving Rogue so much paperwork? Will Susan actually appear at some point? Who is Mrs Flood and why is she always dressing like the Doctor’s companions? Instead, we learned who Ruby’s birth mother was, which, as I said, was the least interesting mystery of them all.

I do hope that these are just Davies and Co. finding their footing. The previous first season with Christopher Eccleston had a lot of experimentation as well. I somewhat wish that they had waited to see fan reactions before filming so much of season two. It might have done them some good to see people’s reactions to some of their big changes. I’m as rainy day a fan as rainy day fans get and even I felt they missed the mark on occasion. I think in trying to court a younger audience they lost a little of the essence of what made the show so appealing in the first place. Good writing and unique situations are the bedrock of Doctor Who. It doesn’t need to be Star Wars or Marvel. The fact that Doctor Who isn’t those things is why I love it so much. I can’t be alone in that.

The Christmas special is next. Followed by season two. After that, who knows? While Doctor Who has been number five in streaming drama, it hasn’t quite done the numbers Disney and Davies were hoping for. The show haemorrhaged viewers during the Chibnall era and even more when culture war pissants cried foul over trans actors and Davros redesigns. But it’s also just a symptom of the times we live in. Television is changing. People prefer short-form videos in portrait mode. The glut of streaming services is pushing away consumers while AI threatens to replace writers and artists alike. I’m reminded of Alan Moore when he said “I believe that our culture is turning to steam.” It’s important now more than ever that we continue consuming art made by real people. Regardless of whether you felt underwhelmed with the finale, keep watching Doctor Who. Show it to your friends. Host watch parties. Go see it when they play it in the theatres. Rewatch it when you’re feeling blue. Keep making fan art. Keep writing fanfic. Keep voicing your reactions, good and bad. Get over petty fandom squabbles. Because there may come a day soon when there is no new Doctor Who to get upset over.

[inkykeiji]

i love it when i hear you breathing, i hope to god you’re never leaving

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut and angst

notes: aaaah oh my gosh!!! i can’t believe this series is finally finished! this is the third and final part of my tag you’re it series. thank you so much to everyone who stuck with me and this series throughout these two years; you all mean the world to me and i hope you enjoy this final piece! as always, please heed the warnings below and stay safe!! | title credit: tag you’re it by melanie martinez

part one | part two | part three

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, toxic relationships, drug use and abuse, overdosing, hospitals, blood, verbal fights, daddy kink, minimal prep, size kink/size difference, degradation/dumbification with a dose of praise, rough sex, biting/marking, dacryphilia, a hint of mindbreak

words: 14.9k

synopsis:

What is real? What is right? Does it exist in concrete terms, or is it some sort of continuum? Is it easily sorted and separated, like pans of paint on a palette, or is it all muddled and bleeding together, like strands of paint in a glass jar, irrevocably intertwined as they dissipate in the water and impossible to separate in any way, colour of the tainted water morphing depending on the angle the light hits it at?

Does it even matter at all, when your brother is in the hospital and your boyfriend, no matter how implicitly or explicitly, had a hand in putting him there?

It’s been three weeks since yours and Keigo’s accidental meeting on the track, three weeks since you’ve been meeting privately, behind Dabi’s back, three weeks that you’ve gotten absolutely nowhere in terms of any sort of ‘plan’.

It isn’t either of your faults, you think. Your time spent together is incredibly limited, which makes it incredibly precious, and neither of you particularly want to spend it discussing the difficult stuff—your brother’s addiction, and how to deal with it.

“I can buy my own food, you know,” Keigo jokes as you sit down across from him, crosslegged, knees bumping against his own.

“I know you can,” you say as you hand him a small bento, stuffed to the brim with rice and yakitori. “But you don’t.”

“Well—”

“And you don’t make your lunches, either,” you continue dryly. “I bet you haven’t made a single lunch for yourself since I moved out.”

“I mean—”

“Buying lunches from the convenience store doesn’t count,” you add, and Keigo has the decency to look sheepish, huffing out a soft chuckle as he regards you wearily through his lashes, a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck.

“You know me too well, songbird.”

“I’d hope so, I’ve only known you my entire life.”

Another laugh tickles his throat, this time sweeter, gentler, and his gaze softens a little, fondness melting his ire, a dirty finger reaching out to caress your cheek. Your head tilts instinctively, nuzzling into his touch, and his smile spreads, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You know you must talk about all of that difficult stuff eventually, can feel it all piling up at the back of your consciousness, growing larger and larger, heavier and heavier, as it slowly encroaches on the future, but it’s been so long since you’ve just been able to sit together.

It’s been so long since you’ve been afforded the luxury of just basking in each other’s presence, of just enjoying each other’s company, of just existing together that it now feels as though you must cherish every single moment, unwilling to waste even a second on something so unpleasant, so complicated and full of pain.

What used to be so regular, so routine for the both of you has now become something to be coveted and protected, each of you reluctant to break the delicate peace thinly glazing something hard.

“Thank you for this,” Keigo says as he looks down at the box in his palms. “It looks delicious.”

“It’s not much,” you shrug as you tug open your own lunch box, eyes focused on your actions and avoiding his own. “But it’s better than nothing.”

“It’s perfect, and I love it,” Keigo says warmly, his hand on your thigh prompting your gaze to his. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you murmur as you place a hand over his, a small grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’m glad you like it. I mean, it is your favourite, after all.”

“It is,” Keigo nods before craning his neck a little, peering into your lap. “And, uh, what’s in yours?”

You can’t help the fond little snort that barrels up your throat as you look down at your own lunch, a crude version of one of those picturesque bento boxes you’d find on Pinterest, the seaweed faces all muffed up, the heart-shaped rice balls lumpy and uneven, the small medley of vegetables messy and overflowing.

“Dabi made it,” you respond softly, still smiling down at the food, index finger tracing the plastic edge of the container. “They always look ugly, but they taste surprisingly good. He tries his best to make them look cute, but…”

“He’s too rough.”

“He doesn’t know how,” you correct. “But it doesn’t matter, I love them all the same.”

Keigo hums to himself, chopsticks clicking together before they dive into rice. “And he makes those for you every day?”

“Every single day. Even when he’s running late.”

“That’s…Uh, that’s really thoughtful of him,” Keigo chuckles a little, the sound drenched in incredulity, head tilting slightly. “Honestly, I’m surprised.”

“You don’t give him enough credit,” you say lightly, attempting to keep accusation from seeping into your voice.

Keigo scoffs at that, eyes rolling with a shake of his head. Yeah, sure, he doesn’t give the guy who emotionally manipulates his baby sister and dangles drugs in front of his face like he’s some sort of fucking dog ‘enough credit’.

“I’m serious,” you continue, an edge sharpening your voice. “He does a lot for me, Keigo.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t.”

“Really? Because that look in your eyes is telling me otherwise.”

“Look,” Keigo sighs, eyes closing briefly with the slow exhale of breath. “I don’t want to fight with you. Not here, not now. Let’s just…Can we talk about something else?”

Silence rings in the air, dense as it weights the atmosphere, and Keigo’s tongue sucks on his teeth as he waits, a desperate attempt to keep his criticisms safe in his throat.

It isn’t like he doesn’t recognize all that Dabi does for you; he does. He sees it, even it if makes his chest burn and his eyes sting and his heart ache, even if he wishes he didn’t. He can’t exactly deny that Dabi takes good care of you—in some respects, at least.

But that doesn’t negate all of the bad Dabi commits, too.

That doesn’t negate the fact that he’s a criminal, that doesn’t negate the fact that he’s highly and convincingly conniving, that doesn’t negate the fact that, while Dabi may take good care of you, Keigo takes great care of you.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, after a few moments of tense contemplation, chopsticks poking idly at your meal. “Yeah, sure.”

Reticence saturates your features, eyes forlorn and despondent as they watch your motions with idle disinterest, and guilt unfurls deep in the pit of Keigo’s stomach, thick and sticky like tar as it seeps through his tissues, encasing the surrounding organs in its suffocating embrace.

Swallowing thickly, Keigo pushes forward.

“Uh, so. How are your classes going? Are you sure you can be skipping class like this every week?”

“Oh, sure,” you shrug, eyes still downcast. “I’m ahead in this class. Actually, I’m ahead in all of my classes. Um, I’m doing better than I ever have been before.”

“You are?” Keigo asks, eyes wide, and it’s hard for him to stifle the notes of surprise ringing high in his voice.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Dabi really keeps on top of my schoolwork. I study every single night, all of my readings are done on time, I start all of my assignments early…” you trail off, chewing on the end of one of your chopsticks. “There isn’t really much else to do while—”

A frown laced with concern tugs at Keigo’s lips, his forehead wrinkling as he observes you carefully. “While what?”

“I—While Dabi works.”

“Works,” Keigo repeats slowly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “And what exactly does that entail?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about him.”

“Well now I do.”

“Keigo, please—”

“Does he take you out with him?”

“No!” you shake your head vehemently, voice glassy and thin. “He leaves me with Jin most of the time,” you say, defensive. “Jin is a friend—he owns the convenience store at the base of Dabi’s building, and, uh…”

“Go on.”

“And he takes me to The League a lot.”

“The diner?”

“Yeah, they…I mean, they have meetings there, and stuff,” you say slowly, unsure of how much you should reveal to Keigo, of how much you’re allowed to reveal to Keigo. “And so I—I just do my work while they do all that.”

“They?”

“His friends.”

“And what about your friends? Do you ever hang out with them anymore?”

“His friends are my friends,” you respond dutifully, though there’s genuine warmth in your tone, a sweet little smile cracking through the hard dejection coating your face.

“Songbird…” he begins slowly, eyebrows pushed together and forehead creased with concern, and you can hear it, can hear him gearing up to deliver one of his signature Big Brother Lectures, one of his I’m-Older-and-I-Know-Better speeches, piercing stare overflowing with worry dipped in disapproval.

“Look, it’s fine,” you say dismissively, a distinct note of protection ringing clear in your voice. “It isn’t like I really had any friends before anyway, not when I was too busy—”

Too busy taking care of you.

You kill the rest of the sentence before it can reach your tongue, but it doesn’t matter. He already knows exactly what you were going to say.

And he already knows you’re exactly right.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The time to broach the topic finally comes during the next week, after the two of you have cleaned out your simple bentos for the day, when you can no longer keep it locked up anymore, can no longer continue with this pretty facade no matter how nice it is, the winter wind whistling down the desolate subway tunnel, long forgotten beneath the grounds of the university.

“Let me check you into a program, or something,” you beg, beseeching eyes rapidly scanning his features, little fingers digging into his biceps, flexing in your fervour. “Let me help make you better! I want nothing more, Kei-nii, I swear.”

“I can’t go into treatment, songbird,” he responds, desperately trying to rid his voice of that frustrated tremor, to keep his voice even and calm. “You know I can’t. The moment they catch wind of my addiction, my scholarship is gone—”

“So!”

“—Along with all of the opportunities that had come with it,” he continues, eyes hard.

“Well I mean, can’t they cover it up or something?” You cry, distraught. “Your coaches, or the crooked sponsors who already know, the ones who keep this secret for you?”

Dryly, Keigo shoots you a glare. “It’ll be very difficult to cover up a sudden prolonged absence.”

Begrudgingly, he has a point.

“Well what, then?” you ask, whole body deflating, leaning against him in your defeat. “What’s our plan? You said we’d make one—to beat this, to make it all better, to make it all right again, but—”

“I’ll do it on my own,” he says resolutely, and his voice is so strong, so sure that you can’t help but believe him. “Okay? I’ll take a week—next week—and I’ll throw it all away. Flush it, pour it down the sink, do whatever I can to get rid of it for good, and then I’ll weather the withdrawal.”

“Really?” you gasp out, both hands clutching his arm in their excitement, wide eyes shining with potent hope as they search his face. “You—You’ll be okay doing it alone?”

“Yeah, songbird, really,” a thumb swipes across your cheek, eyes liquid amber as they gaze at you. “I can do it. For you.”

“For you, too,” you remind gently, Dabi’s words ringing out clearly against the walls of your skull. He has to want to get better for himself, baby, or it’ll never work. No one else can do it for him.

“Yeah, for me, too.”

And, for a moment, it appears as though he has done it. Two weeks later, he looks better, sounds better, feels better, curls shimmering bright and gold, cheeks rosy and full of health, muscles beginning to swell as they regain strength, twining themselves protectively around his sharp bones.

You’re so elated by his apparent success, so in awe of it all, that you insist the two of you tell Dabi right away, desperate to share the good news with your boyfriend.

But it isn’t a good idea, Keigo tells you. Not now, not yet.

“Dabi has to see it for himself—Dabi needs proof. Telling him prematurely not only outs our little meetings here, but I can almost guarantee it’ll be met with a hefty dose of doubt.”

Eyes lidded with carelessness, Keigo mimics Dabi, doing a surprisingly good job, his voice flat and apathetic, his stare bored and jaded.

“Yeah, sure, he’s clean for now. But will he be clean in a week from now? A month from now? A year from now?” Keigo shakes his head. “Dabi needs to see that I’m truly doing this, that I’m dedicated to doing this.”

You suppose that makes sense. And you don’t ever want to do anything to put your niisan in danger.

But you, God, you’re so proud of him, so proud of the progress you think he’s made, so proud of the commitment he’s displaying.

Maybe Dabi will finally allow the two of you to start meeting again, as soon as he sees the dedication Keigo has to getting better, you’re chattering on animatedly one afternoon, head resting dreamily on your big brother’s shoulder.

Maybe, Keigo shrugs.

Maybe not.

Because while Keigo is getting better, and slow progress is better than no progress, he isn’t exactly as clean as you think he is, and Dabi knows it all the same.

He masks it well, he thinks. The plan you had concocted together had been to choose a week where Keigo would finally quit, cold turkey, no assistance at all (because he adamantly refused it), and stay home ‘sick’ as the withdrawal took it’s vicious toll on his body.

And he did, for the most part. He did go through withdrawal, he did stay clean for a moment or two, but he didn’t stop shooting, hasn’t stopped shooting; not technically, not entirely.

He’s just shooting way less now, the dosage only a smidge of what his body was accustomed to. It barely gets him high, barely makes him feel anything at all—nothing more than a tingling, wispy warmth reminiscent of that unparalleled bliss he loved so much—but it’s better than nothing at all.

Dabi had been intrigued, impressed, it had seemed, by Keigo’s sudden urge to cut down drastically.  

“What’s up with you?” he finally asks, the third time they meet after Keigo’s so-called ‘purge’, the reduced dosage held securely in his rough hand.

“What d’ya mean?” Keigo murmurs distractedly as he cards through the money in his wallet, counting it under his breath.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Dabi snorts, shuffling the small packets in his palm, accentuating his words.

“Oh,” Keigo glances up, fingers stilling. “Uh, just trying to quit, that’s all.”  

“Quit?” Dabi blinks in shock or surprise, Keigo can’t be sure which. Sapphire rakes over his body, slow and methodical, a smile slithering across his face as his gaze drifts back to Keigo’s. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Keigo swallows, desperate to keep his voice calm. “I—I’m trying to do it slowly. Lower the dosage until my body doesn’t need it anymore.”

“You know, that’s not really how it works,” Dabi begins, suspicion bleeding into his voice, eyes narrowing as he regards Keigo with a sweeping gaze, fingers curling into a protective fist over the drugs. “Besides, that’s a slippery fucking slope, Keigo. Sure, you’re doing it now, but what happens when something triggers you, huh? What happens when you suddenly need a higher dose, just today, just this once, because you’re stressed, or sad, or whatever the fuck it is. Hmm? You need to have self-restraint made of platinum to quit in this fashion.”

Shrugging, Keigo looks away. “Yeah, well, I’m trying this first. If this doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.”

And he hates the way his words quiver slightly, hates the way his voice rings tinny and high with lies, with terror.

Tilting his head, Dabi hums, eyes performing another full-body scan of Keigo. “And why the sudden change of heart?”

“What?”

“Why now? Why are you unexpectedly deciding to quit now, instead of after all those instances of your sister begging you to quit; after I told you to quit how many times? What changed?”

Keigo’s palms prickle with sweat, and his hands ball into tight fists, a desperate attempt to halt the tingling, fingers flexing as they unfurl again.

“I—I miss her,” he manages to stutter out, blowing the confession from his mouth in a gust of breath. “And I, uh, I want to do this for her. Your combined pleads took a little while to set in, I guess,” he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling at the thin skin, feigning contemplation. “But I hear what you’ve both been saying now, loud and clear, and I’ve decided you’re right.”

“Really?” And although the question sounds genuine, something sharp and dangerous glints in Dabi’s gaze; piercing, penetrative. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He can tell Dabi doesn’t buy it for a fucking second, eyes attempting to dissect Keigo’s mind, to pry apart the tangle of tissue and neurons and synapses and peer inside for the truth.

But he can’t.

“Alright,” he says slowly, the word soaked in incredulity, as he exchanges powder for paper. “Good luck, then.

“Thanks,” Keigo says flatly, already beginning to back away, inching towards his car. “And uh, hey, don’t tell my sister.”

Dabi’s eyebrows push together, forehead wrinkled with confusion. “The fuck? Why not?”

“Because I want it to be a surprise, you know, when I’m fully clean. I don’t want her to know anything until I’ve made it.”

Dabi stares at him for a moment, another one of those invasive, assessing looks where he attempts to decipher Keigo through his expressions alone,

It’s only after Dabi’s car is long gone that Keigo can breathe normally again, heart abandoning its venture to shatter his ribs and flatten his lungs. His head drops in relief as the tension in his neck ebbs, his forehead pressed tight to the steering wheel.

He’s safe; for now, at least. He knows Dabi isn’t at risk of discovering yours and Keigo’s secret meetings, because you wouldn’t dare tell him and risk upsetting him—or, worse, getting yourself and your brother into some serious trouble—and he knows Dabi won’t tell you about Keigo continuing to purchase drugs from him, because you don’t ask—won’t ask, have no reason to ask, have no reason not to trust in your big brother’s truths—and Keigo trusts, for some inexplicable reason, that Dabi will not tell you about their questionable conversation today, not until he figures out what’s really going on, anyway.

And, sure, Keigo feels guilty lying to you, misleading you in such a manner, but it isn’t like he plans to keep this up forever. Besides, he’s nearly clean anyway, isn’t he? He may not be there in it’s entirety yet, but he is doing better and progress is progress, even if it isn’t as much progress as you’re giving him credit for. He will quit eventually, he swears it. He will kick the habit, permanently, he knows it.

He just needs a little more time.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

It’s always the most inconspicuous things that do it, that set something off, that give something away, that indicate that something isn’t quite right.

The question comes late one night, after you’ve both finished cleaning up the small kitchenette, as Dabi’s putting away Tupperware containers.

It’s asked innocuously enough, imbued with a touch of genuine curiosity, voice muffled by the cabinet his head is currently buried in.

“Where the hell are all our bento boxes disappearing off to?”

“Uh,” you blink, mind taking a moment to register the question, the shock—and stupidity—of you’re failing to realize that this might be a red flag numbing your brain. “What?”

“Our bento boxes?” Dabi repeats as he stands, turning to face you, eyes performing a singular sweep across your face. “We’ve gotta be missing like, half of them now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Dabi scoffs. “I bought them specially for you. They weren’t fuckin’ cheap, and I know how many I bought.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly, chest beginning to tingle with adrenaline. “I—I don’t know, Daddy, I didn’t even realize we had any missing. Maybe I left some in your car?”

“Pretty sure I would’ve noticed dirty containers in my car if there were any,” he retorts dryly.

“Um,” you hum, desperate to keep your expression from giving you away—to keep your mouth from trembling and eyes from widening—features scrunching in mock thought. “Well, then maybe I left some at school! I’ll check with each of my profs throughout the week and see if they remember finding any.”

Skepticism shines bright and blue in his narrowed eyes, stare steadily holding your own. It feels as though he’s trying to dissect you with his eyes as his sole tool, to tear the skin from your face and split your skull and peer inside, searching for the answer he’s looking for, searching for the truth.

“This isn’t like you, princess,” he says slowly, each word a deliberate thought, handpicked. “You aren’t usually forgetful. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you respond instantly, the word barely more than a huff of breath. “Nothing, I just—Maybe I’m just stressed, you know? Midterms are coming up and all that, so…”

“There’s been a lot of maybes peppered throughout your sentences today. Is there anything you know for certain?”

You know he can tell, can see it shimmering in your eyes, gaping and alert; can see it wavering in your smile, artificial and stretched too tight across your cheeks.

A lie.  

“Hmm?” he presses.

Shoulders raising in a defeated shrug, you shake your head, sucking on your tongue. He scrutinizes you for another moment more, sapphire performing one final sweep across your features, slow and thorough, before he nods to himself—just once, a sharp and short motion—and turns away.

If there’s anything he knows for certain, it’s that you’re hiding something. The only question is what.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

“Are you sure this is really necessary?” Tomura’s asking as he exhales steady streams of smoke from his nostrils, regarding Dabi blankly through the haze, crimson eyes watching through lidded lashes while Dabi paces the length of his car—back and forth, back and forth, a restless panther waiting and ready to strike—in the dimly lit diner parking lot.

“Yes,” Dabi snaps. “They’re both acting too weird; it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“It’s missing bento containers and a guy who’s cutting down on his drug use, actually. It’s entirely plausible the two have absolutely no connection to each other whatsoever.”

“You don’t get it,” Dabi nearly snarls, stride halted to whip around and face his friend. “Alright? You didn’t see the two of them, their eyes…There was something odd, wrong, in their eyes. And their voices, too. They sounded, I dunno, fake.” False. Off. Tinny and artificial and quivering ever-so-slightly with the restraint of hiding something.

“Are you…Did you take something?”

“You know I don’t do that anymore,” Dabi seethes.

“Yeah, yeah, right, but I just thought…” Tomura trails off, shrugging, the cashmere of his sweater catching on the brick wall behind him. “Dunno. Thought the stress might be getting to you, or something. Thought a few lines might take the edge off, maybe, but you know how coke can make you paranoid—”

“I’m not high, Tomura. I haven’t been high since—”

“Yeah, I know,” Tomura rolls his eyes. “But you’re acting a little weird, that’s all. Agitated. Jumpy. Could’ve been a possibility, whatever.” Flicking at the cigarette resting on his knuckle, Tomura disregards the idea, tendrils of smoke curling delicately in the air between them. “I still don’t see the correlation between these events, though.”

“You don’t need to see the correlation, for fuck’s sake,” Dabi finally explodes, throwing his arms in the air. “You only need to help me.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” Tomura warns, something sharp slashing through ruby irises. “You may be my best friend and all, but I’m still technically your fucking boss.”

“Your dad is my fucking boss, actually,” Dabi corrects, smugness temporarily melting his frustration, an eyebrow raised in playful challenge. “But details don’t matter, this has nothing to do with work. This is simply one friend asking another friend for a favour.”

Running his tongue along the front of his teeth, Tomura stares at the man in front of him, contemplating. After a moment, he pushes himself up from his slouching position, a resigned sigh heavy on his chest.

“Alright, fine. But when this turns out to be nothing, I get to tease you for being a fucking lunatic.”

It won’t be nothing. Dabi can feel it in his soul.

And, as always, he was right.

“That fucking bitch!” Dabi screams when Tomura delivers the news outside of one of his father’s warehouses, features screwing into a wince as his best friend’s fist collides with the closest car window, glass shattering upon impact. “I knew it! I knew she was hiding something from me!”

Dabi’s had enlisted in Tomura to tail you for roughly five days now, documenting every single thing you do from the moment you arrive on campus to the moment Dabi—or one of Dabi’s friends—picks you up.

And on the following Tuesday, this Tuesday, he hit the fucking jackpot.

“How dare she! After all I’ve done for her, you know? After everything I’ve done for her and that good-for-nothing pathetic brother of hers…” Dabi shakes his head, tufts of ink bouncing violently with the motion before sharp teeth pull a cigarette free from a weathered cardboard carton, the corners worn and fraying. “And this is how they repay me? By sneaking around behind my back and fucking lying to my face about it? By disobeying the most important rule I’ve set?”

Scarlet oozes from his knuckles, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. His skin sparkles as unsteady hands pat his body in search of an opening, microscopic shards of glass still embedded in his skin. Trembling fingers pull a silver Zippo free from his pocket and whip it open, thumb missing the flint wheel twice, a growled curse rumbling in his throat.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Tomura says as he sits perched on the hood of his parked Maybach, a burger in his lap and grease shining on his fingers. A nod of his head motions for Dabi to come closer, soft palms cupping Dabi’s blood streaked hand and igniting the Zippo with ease, steadying the flame as Dabi leans in to torch his cigarette. “You were right. I can’t fucking believe it.”

“Of course I was fucking right!” Dabi roars through a dense shroud of smoke.

“So, now what?” Tomura asks as he nibbles on his burger bun. “What do we do?”

“Oh, it’s a we now, is it?”

“Would you rather it not be a we?”

“No,” Dabi responds through a begrudging frown. “Your help is valuable.”

“Thank you.”

“Honestly, I should fucking kill him for everything he’s done, for such disrespect,” Dabi seethes, nostrils flaring, that tense fury unable to hide the distinct crack at the end of his words. “I should bash his fucking skull against a brick wall.”

“Sure,” Tomura says easily, examining a piece of wavy lettuce before pulling it free and throwing it to the dirt floor. “He deserves to be dead. But what would she think? How would she react?”

“She’d be better off if he just wasn’t in her life anymore.”

“Maybe,” Tomura agrees. “But that doesn’t change the fact that she’ll never forgive you if you kill her big brother.”

“I could make it look like an accident,” Dabi says.

“You could try,” Tomura corrects. “But you know just as well as I do that staging accidental deaths is no easy feat.”

“He’s a fucking junkie,” Dabi says, as if this is obviously the answer to all of his problems. “Slip some fentanyl in his smack and bam! Dead within minutes.”

“She’d know it was you.”

“How?”

Tomura sighs, index finger rubbing at one of his eyes.

“Dabi, for as well as you know her, she knows you, too. Do you really think you could look her straight in the eye at her brother’s funeral and tell her you didn’t have a hand in it? While she’s sobbing over the man you despise so much, the man who has caused her so much suffering—who still causes her so much suffering—do you honestly believe your eyes or your voice won’t betray you?”

A growl rattles his ribs, facial features crunched together in a tight glower. Holding his blazing stare with ease, Tomura raises an eyebrow in question, smugness tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Fine, fuck,” Dabi finally erupts with an exasperated gasp, viciously turning away from his best friend and raking both hands through his hair, nails audibly scraping against his scalp as his fingers curl, tugging at the roots.

“Well then, what, huh?” he’s asking as he spins back around, voice straining under desperation, sapphire frantic as it searches Tomura’s face for an answer. “What? Because I’m all out of fucking ideas.”

“Threatening him might work.”

Dabi shakes his head. “I’ve tried that. I even took away his most precious possession. Nothing seems to get through this motherfucker’s head.”

“Well, not quite.”

“What?”

“Not quite. You haven’t truly taken away his most precious possession, have you?”

“Heroin?”

“Yeah, cut him off or something. He told you he was trying to quit, didn’t he? That he was on the way, or whatever. Why don’t you help give him an extra push?”

“And if he goes to find it somewhere else?” Dabi questions.

“My father will know,” Tomura’s lips curl up into a sinister smile, crimson eyes practically glowing. “And so will we.”

    ✰          ✰          ✰        

Dabi doesn’t go home. Dabi can’t go home; not like this, not with the way his heart rages against his ribs and singes his chest, not without losing his entire fucking mind on you and spoiling his whole plan.

Instead, he pays Keigo a much-needed visit.

The terror-tinged surprise that saturates Keigo’s features when Dabi turns up on the other side of his front door is almost laughable—in fact, Dabi’s sure he would laugh if his insides weren’t boiling in his own rage—Keigo’s body gone loose and pliant in its shock, making it exceptionally easy for Dabi to wrap a hand around his bicep and yank him through the doorway of that godforsaken house.

“Get in the car,” he’s saying as he shoves Keigo towards the Eldorado, buckles of his boots jingling daintily as his heels collide with concrete.

“What?” Keigo asks as he stumbles to a stop, the question nothing more than an incredulous huff of breath.

“Get in the car,” Dabi repeats, slow, calm, cold, stare holding Keigo’s over the roof of the car. “Or I will put you in the fucking car.”

The drive isn’t long—maybe a mere twenty minutes or so—but it’s to an area of the city that Keigo has never visited before; an area with cracked asphalt and orange caps littering the dead grass, an areas with sun-washed plastic slides and rusted swing chains; untended, uncared for, and forgotten.

Rocks pop beneath the tires of the Eldorado as Dabi pulls into what might have been, once upon a time, a park, the lot full of faded concrete with peeling white paint and thorny weeds sprouting up through the fragmented cement, the field an unruly tangle of jade with a chain link fence that leads to nowhere.

“Get out,” Dabi instructs. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Using his teeth to pull a cigarette free from a veiny cardboard box, Dabi begins to stroll along the warped fence, Keigo starting a little in his haste to catch up to him. The sharp twinge of metal slicing against metal as Dabi whips his Zippo open makes Keigo cringe, the harsh sound piercing the thick atmosphere.

“So,” Dabi finally says, puffing the word out with a heavy cloud of smoke. “I know what you’ve been doing.”

Frowning, Keigo blinks at him, eyebrows furrowing slightly in confusion. “What are you—”

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me, Keigo. Not today. I don’t have the patience.”

The sentence, while flat, has an edge of warning to it, complemented by Dabi’s look of caution, thrown at Keigo through the side of his eye.

Chest deflating, Keigo slumps forward, head hung shamefully between his shoulders. “How’d you find out?”

“Does it matter?” Dabi stops suddenly, turning to face him. His tone is bored, almost indifferent in a way, but Keigo can see it: that restrained anger, wavering sapphire flames burning bright in his eyes.

Lips pressed together, Keigo holds his blazing stare, waiting for him to continue.

“Surely you must’ve known I’d find out eventually,” Dabi laughs a little, and it’s cruel, mean, mocking. “Surely you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep such a secret from me for very long.”

Maybe Keigo did. Maybe, on some deeply subconscious level, Keigo knew this would happen, knew this would be the end result no matter which way they tried to spin it, because it’s the only result it could’ve ever ended with.

Maybe not. Maybe Keigo was foolish—he has always had a streak of dreamer in him, after all—maybe Keigo was hopeful, desperate, that this would all somehow work out in the end, that the power of your love and your hope and your sheer, steadfast belief in him would enable him to magically quit, to kick the habit forever without any assistance or hard work at all—and everything would go back to normal.

He answers with a shrug, expression saturated in a sort of ambivalent confusion, and Dabi’s nostrils twitch.

“Fucking look at me.”

With a flexing jaw, Keigo’s head lifts slowly, his stare nearly dead, exhausted, but there are cinders of anger, frustration, maybe even hatred smoldering in those golden eyes, flaring as they meet the flames licking along Dabi’s pupils.  

They’re extinguished almost as quickly as they’re ignited, though, weak flickers snuffed out by the smug smirk on Dabi’s face, and his features sag under the weight of dismal weariness.

“Just...Whatever you do, don’t hurt her, alright? It wasn’t her fault.”

His voice is quiet, resigned, though it isn’t enough to mask the delicate tremor sewn into his words—something full of defeated fury, of disquieted frustration as Dabi comes stomping through his life with his big black boots and crushes it all to dust, burns it all to ash, breaks it all again, because that’s what he’s best at.

“Hurt her?” Dabi’s voice raises in sincere surprise. “You know I’d never.”

“I don’t mean physically,” Keigo clarifies, topaz solidifying in his eyes; hard, gleaming.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dabi dismisses with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Because she isn’t going to know about this at all.”

“What?” Keigo spits, eyes narrowing with sharp suspicion. “What are you—”

“Because you and I,” Dabi continues, speaking over Keigo, voice clear and strong. “Are going to make a deal.”

Blood turns to ice in his veins, frost lacquering his bones, and Keigo’s body freezes, the hinges of his jaw creaking as he forces the word from his tongue.

“A-A deal?” Keigo pants out, breath trembling slightly.

“That’s right.”

Something vicious glints in Dabi’s eye—something sharp and dangerous, half-submerged in sapphire—and his mouth stretches into an abnormally large smile, spread so deep and tight across his face it looks as though it’s been carved into his cheeks.

A gust of wind tangles in the bare branches of a nearby tree, bark knocking together, and Keigo shudders, the breeze like a million little pinpricks piercing his clammy skin.

“You want to get clean, right? I mean, you’re trying to get clean, aren’t you? On the way to being completely sober and all that; that’s what you told me, is it not?”

“Yes,” Keigo says slowly, cautiously, as if the letters are navigating a field of landmines, one wrong intonation and he could trigger a fucking explosion.

“I’m going to help you.”

Dabi’s voice has suddenly turned amicable, as if it’s been shocked back to life from the indifferent, bland anger it contained only moments ago, now vibrant with this control, gleeful with this power.

“Help me?”

“I’ll allow you to keep seeing your sister on one condition,” Dabi pauses, and Keigo’s too petrified to ask, rooted in place, breath held stagnant in his lungs. “From this day forward, you will never take another drug for as long as you live.”

And, just like that, Keigo’s whole world, teetering precariously on the point of a needle, comes toppling down.

“One single slip-up, one teeny, tiny mistake—one shot, one snort, one swallow and I can promise you, you will never see your baby sister again.”

Frantic topaz flies across Dabi’s face, rapid as it searches his expression for any indication that this isn’t real, isn’t true, isn’t happening. His thoughts flow in hasty conjunction with his gaze, frenzied brain working desperately to figure out an immediate loophole.

His breath is coming faster now, short, sharp, uneven huffs shoved from his mouth as panic claws up his throat. No. No. This can’t be happening right now—there’s no way this is happening right now, because he’s not ready yet. He’s not ready to give it up yet, not ready to face reality without it yet, the thought of his addiction being prematurely ripped from his palms inspiring another bout of thick dread to course through his veins, drenching any remaining flickers of anger.

Keigo tries to tell Dabi this, to explain that this is all happening too quickly, too suddenly, that he needs more time, just a little more time, he swears—but his voice whimpers in his throat, sentiments rendered nothing more than pathetic squeaks of breath.

“If I find out you’ve purchased even one tenth of a fucking milligram of any narcotic I swear to the good Lord himself, I will take your sister so fucking far from this country that she won’t even know where the fuck she is. Do I make myself clear?” Dabi pauses, allowing Keigo a moment to respond with a mechanical nod.

“And I will find out, Keigo,” blue eyes shimmer with mirth, that sharp glint practically glowing now, so strikingly brilliant Keigo has to look away, a malicious laugh rattling around in Dabi’s mouth. “I own this fucking city now.”

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The front door swings open with a vigorous flourish, the fork between your fingers slipping from your grasp and clattering against the warped hardwood floor.

“Gosh, Daddy,” you breathe, a palm pressed to your racing heart, a hesitant smile tugging at your lips. “You scared me!”

He says nothing as he stalks towards you, a large grin stretched tightly across his face, sapphire eyes shimmering in the low light, irises seeming to swirl with something akin to delight, darkened with delirium.

“What’re you—”

Calloused hands seize your face the moment they’re close enough, slim fingers hooked behind the hinges of your jaw as they drag you toward their owner. Sharp teeth suck your bottom lip between their edges, sinking into your soft flesh and keeping it captive as Dabi’s tongue caresses it in slow, fat strokes.

Copper floods your mouth, the strength of the bite forcing a squeal from your throat into his, Dabi’s tongue dipping into the warm heat to soak up your blood—to stain his own flesh with it, to suck it in and swallow it down, to keep it inside of him; a small piece of you, infused in thick sticky crimson that seeps through his tissues and into his soul.

“Hi, princess,” he breathes as his forehead presses tightly to your own, eyes so brilliant and bright with exhilaration it’s almost as if they’re glowing.

“Hi,” you can’t help but laugh a little around the greeting, your gaze searching his face in happy confusion as your arms twine around his neck, pulling your body closer to his.

Breathy little giggles laced with mania waft across your face as his palms find your ass, fingers flexing against the supple flesh before he’s hefting you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, ankles hooked and heels digging into the dips at the base of his spine.

And then, he begins.

It’s almost elegant, the way he twirls your clinging bodies around the tiny kitchen to whatever invisible, silent tune is playing within the walls of his skull—something that you are not privy to, something that has him feeling elated—narrowly missing the corners of cabinets and the edges of counters as he goes, movements fluid and effortless.

But it doesn’t matter that you can’t hear the melody, the song in his head supplemented by your intertwined laughter, the sweetest music either of you could ever ask for, notes full of amusement and affection as it encases your conjoined forms, blanketing the atmosphere and filling it with the warmth of love.

The front door is still hanging open, dull yellow light from the hallway spilling into Dabi’s small apartment and alighting it with a hazy glow.

“Dabi, Dabi, the door!” you’re laughing out as he whirls toward it, skillfully using the ball of his foot to kick it shut as he ends his performance with a graceful spin and slots you up against the surface, trapping you between the cool metal and his body.

“What has gotten into you?” you’re asking as your chests heave together, eyes searching his face for any indication of an answer, residual amusement still tinging your words.

“I love you, that’s all,” he responds simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I love you, and I’m happy you’re mine.”

“I am happy to be yours,” you say softly, a hand moving to brush a strand of ink out of his eye.

“Good,” he whispers, nose nudging yours slightly. “That’s exactly how it should be.”

The claim is sealed with his lips, over and over as they stamp their claim across your flesh using broken blood vessels and thick saliva.

His teeth are ruthless as they mar your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving superficial splices across your soft skin, little slashes that weep blood. His lips are gentle as they kiss the blood away, murmuring affirmations of love into the wounds, strokes of scarlet staining his flesh.

Calloused hands explore the curves and contours of your body—the notches of your spine and the ridges of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts and the bends of your tummy, rough fingers dipping between your dress and your skin to tug at the material.

Daddy can’t wait but it seems, neither can you.  

“I need you, baby,” he nearly whines, pet name cracking in desperation. “I need you, I need you right now.”

“Take me,” you’re gasping, little hands pawing at his clothing, trying to pull him closer. “Take me, take me, I’m yours!”

“Get my cock out,” he’s demanding, your hands moving to obey before the order has fully left his lips.

It’s difficult, in the position that you’re in, to wiggle your hands down to his belt and pick away at the buckle, flakes of cracked white leather collecting under your nails as you claw at it.

But you succeed, of course, because you will always succeed when it’s him who’s asking, silver buckle clanking heavily as it hangs open and limp. A hiss of air rushes down your throat as one of your nails chips on the brass button of his jeans, but the injury doesn’t hinder you in the slightest, avid to please.

“Good girl,” Dabi’s purring as your dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock and finally pulls it free from the confines of his clothing. The simple praise inspires a dreamy little giggle, and you gaze at him, eyes lidded with lust and love, giving his cock a gentle squeeze before pumping it twice.

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, cobalt fading to navy as he crushes his lips to yours again.

It’s like he can’t get enough of you, like he’s been starved for you—your tongue and your attention and your cunt—for an eternity, calloused hands graceless as they ruck up your dress, fabric bunching around your hips. Removing your panties is deemed too time consuming, as is his usual method of tearing them to pieces, deft fingers shoving their way between your tightly pressed bodies to push the soaked lace aside, revealing your cute little hole.

It’s all so much, his tongue on your neck and his teeth in your flesh and his cock bumping against your ill-prepared hole, the whimpers spilling from his lips as his hips nudge forward with pathetic precursory mini-thrusts, the smoky sweet scent of smoldering hickory and spicy nicotine that’s invading your nose and mouth and lungs and brain like some sort of parasitic addiction: a haze that consumes your mind and body and soul, a haze you endlessly crave more of.

Everything aches as his cock splits you open, sensitive skin ripping while his cock carves itself into you.

“Da-Daddy,” you wail, head falling forward to bury your face in his shoulder, little fingers twisting in the tufts of hair at the base of his skull. “It’s—It’s so big!”

“Shh, shh,” he hushes you, but you can hear it, the sadistic smile in his voice, laced with a sick kind of pride. “Daddy’s almost in, you can take it for him, can’t you?”

You can, of course you can, he knows you can.

Usually, he shoves the whole thing in with one single thrust, hard and fast. But today he chooses to take his time, all of his previous urgency seemingly pacified the moment the head of his cock is inside of you, Dabi opting to savour every fucking inch as he pushes into your cunt, slow and steady.

It only prolongs the pain, fissured flesh tearing itself open more and more with each leisurely second that passes, and your head falls forward, face smushed tightly into his neck, the sweetest little whimpers spilling from your throat.

Tears burn your eyes as he finally bottoms out, heavy balls pressed flush to your bottom, your raw hole fluttering a little in pain, sending tiny stinging spears shooting through your gut.

“Look at that, huh? Such a good little whore for her Daddy, aren’t you?” he practically purrs, breath sweltering against your damp skin. “Crying like a little baby and acting like she can’t take it, when she fucking loves to take it,” he tsks, almost as if he’s admonishing you for such behaviour.

“Daddy,” you whine, the world garbled with spit, tears clinging to your lashes. A dull throb roots itself deep at the core of your body, beating in erratic rhythm with your heart.

“Go on,” he breathes as his hips begin to draw back torturously slow, tender cunt aching with the motion as his shaft grinds against the micro-cuts, velvet feeling as rough as sandpaper. “Tell me. Be honest, and tell me how much you love to take my cock.”

And despite how much it fucking hurts, his words inspire a small, dim spark in the pit of your stomach, veins beginning to tingle gently.

“I—I love to take your cock,”

“How much?”

The question is growled out through clenched teeth as he rams back into you with such force that it sends your body skidding up the door, head bouncing against the surface with the motion.

“So much!” you cry out instantly, eyes shut tight and face screwed up in pain. “So much, so so so much, Da-Daddy, I—”

“Open your eyes, princess,” he orders softly, your lids lifting to reveal brilliant sapphire gazing back at you, tremoring with excitement, with the power coursing through his veins, your Daddy already high and heady on the control he holds over you as you instantly obey. “Daddy wants you to look at him when you tell him how much you love taking his cock.”

Crystal teardrops roll down your cheeks, thick trails of salt water sparkling in their wake. Your nose twitches in your effort to calm down, to stop crying, a hitched affirmative stuttering in your throat.

His hips are pulling back again, unhurried in their movement as his bright gaze sears into your face, eyes unblinking and alight with twisted excitement.

“I love—I love taking your cock so much, Daddy, it—Ah!” you manage to hiccup out just as his hips slam forward again. With gritted teeth, your eyes close briefly and breathe out, slow and controlled, your throat stinging as you stubbornly swallow the tremble in your voice, a steely breathiness replacing it. “It’s my favourite thing to do, Daddy, wanna take your cock every day for the rest of my life, Daddy.”

“Christ,” he exhales, the curse infused with an airy chuckle, lips spreading into a grin, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you. “You’re so perfect, baby,”

Something warm and bright blossoms in your chest, ribs swelling with it.

“Jus’ wanna be good for you, Daddy,”

He laughs again, eyes darkening, something sinister glinting in his smile. “We both know that’s a lie,” he grunts as his hips rock again. “But that’s okay, because Daddy loves his perfect little brat so much. Besides,” he whispers, voice dropped to a smooth murmur as his lips caress your ear. “Brats are a helluva lot more fun than good girls, anyway.”

You aren’t given a moment to respond as his hips begin to piston, hard and fast and sudden, any answer to his remark morphing into a loud whine in your chest.

The pain has mostly faded now, any residual shocks promptly chased by flares of pleasure, cunt growing wetter and wetter with each drag of his cock.

Your chins slide against one another, slicked with thick saliva, and his front tooth catches on your bottom lip, hard enough to nick the flesh. Blood oozes from the wound instantly, but Dabi is sure not to waste a single drop, the tip of his tongue running along the fine line of scarlet and lapping it up.

Your mouth, licked raw and sliced up, doesn’t even hurt anymore, small cuts and bruised flesh buzzing as Dabi crushes his mouth to yours again, exhaling copper-tinged breath onto your tongue.

It’s all so potent, so intoxicating, so desperate as you gasp, viciously sucking air from his lungs into your own, gulping down his essence and holding it against your heart—bright and burning and blue, full of him—protected by a cage of ivory.

Your nails rip into his flesh through the thin cotton of his shirt, starved for him as they gorge on his shoulders, fingers digging deeper and deeper into the muscles with each ruthless piston of his hips.

He loves it, too, that thin, almost delicate streak of masochism that runs through his soul shimmering in the dim light as your vying hands force a deep groan from his chest, the sound vibrating in your mouth, rattling your teeth.

It’s so good, he’s so good, and you want more, because too much is never, and will never, be enough.

“More, Daddy, more, more!”

“My greedy fucking girl,” he pants, pupils cavernous and carnivorous as they devour your precious little expressions; the way your nose scrunches and eyes roll white and mouth hangs open, emitting sugary sweet sounds in hot little huffs of air. “So needy, huh? So fucking desperate for Daddy’s cock and Daddy’s cum, aren’t you?”

“S’all I want, Daddy,” you nearly sob, head nodding stupidly to accentuate your point. “S’all I ever want,”

“That’s all, yeah? That’s all that’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, isn’t it?”

“Jus’ wanna be your perfect lil slut, Da-Daddy!”

“Cum on my cock, then,” he demands, pace never slowing. “Show Daddy how good you are and cum on his cock.”

Each pump of his hips, each brush of his cockhead against that spot sends more sparks coursing through your body, little flares of ecstasy collecting in the crevices of your body and igniting a satisfying inferno that spreads through your veins, blood fizzing as it rushes through your body, alighting every nerve until it reaches the apex of your thighs, and then you’re obeying his order, cunt convulsing as you gush heat all over his thick cock, his title shattering on your tongue, shards melting into gasps of air.

The blaze has spread to your brain now, tissues melting to goo as the flames lick the walls of your skull, extreme pleasure the most potent shot of novocaine to your brain, everything gone numb, dumb, under its influence.

“Tell me,” he nearly whimpers, breathy voice fading into growl as it cuts through the thick haze. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You!” you cry instantly, the word fragmenting as he pounds into you. “You, you, Daddy, I belong to you, wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s, ever.”

“Mine,” he snarls, the word imbued with such brutal possessiveness it stings your skin, his eyes shining bright with the elation of owning something so special, with the comforting knowledge that it is yours and yours only. “Forever.”

“For eternity,” you mewl out, head nodding in quick little motions.

“You’re goddamn right,“ he rasps, hips starting to stutter. “Your cunt, your tits, your entire fucking body, it’s all—ah, Christ—it’s all mine. You belong to me.”

The proclamation is spit into your mouth just as his cock throbs, pumping you full of thick cum. Your thighs tighten around his waist, squeezing him closer, as if you’re trying to wring every last drop from his body, and he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A soft whimper vibrates in your throat the moment he begins to pull out of you, and Dabi laughs again, murmuring out pacifying remarks doused with condescension as he pushes back into your sopping cunt, carrying you toward the bed.

With grace and fluidity, he manages to maneuver your knotted bodies under the fluffy comforter, keeping his cock from slipping out of you even an inch. A sweet little hum of contentment spills from your lips as you snuggle into his neck, riding on the tails of a giggle, the precious sound seeping into his skin.

It sends a shock of warmth through his system, your intoxicating happiness like bubbles of sunshine in his blood, and he emits his own hum, deep and vibrating against your temple as he allows the clutches of unconsciousness close in around him, because you’re his, you’re his, you’re his.

Forever.  

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The early evening wind is cold but gentle as it plays with the hem of his shirt and the ends of his hair, softly caressing his bare skin as it passes. A shiver slithers up his spine, chills erupting across his flesh, and Keigo hugs his arms tighter, desperate to retain as much body heat as physically possible.

I’ll be surprised if you can keep up with this for more than a week or so, Dabi had hollered out the open window of his car as he backed out of the parking lot, voice overlaying the growling of the Eldorado. Go ahead, prove me wrong! Show me your pathetically weak self-restraint isn’t as pathetic as I think it is.

And then he was gone, leaving Keigo standing alone in the steadily setting sun, strokes of fuchsia tingeing his gold curls.

The walk home should’ve been sobering, Dabi’s threats and promises bouncing off the walls of his skull, their direness reverberating in Keigo’s very bones. The walk home should’ve scared him enough to quit for good, forever, used needles bestrewn across the dry, sickly yellow grass like some sort of cliché omen, men with bruised eyes and scabbed skin staring as he passed them, unbeknownst to the fact that he’s exactly like them, that he could be them, one day.

And it did. It did scare him.

But not enough. Not in the right way.

It starts with a small, almost tender tingle beneath his skin, something birthed in his chest, in his soul, maybe, complemented by the anxious fluttering of his heart and the haphazard racing of his thoughts.

It grows as they do, becomes bigger, stronger, fiercer, almost voracious in it’s need to be sated as it eats through the blood in his veins, as the tingles turn to itches turn to pricks—sharp, desperate, painful.

By the time he arrives home it’s bigger than he is; a dark, suffocating cloud that enshrouds his form, zaps of lightning striking his skin, urging him to act, to soothe the sting they leave behind.

He knows it’s dumb, even as he’s doing it. He knows Dabi will find out, knows Dabi’s words were not merely empty threats, knows Dabi can and will follow through on his promises.

He knows this threatens everything. He knows.

And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Because this has grown out of control. This has engulfed him in its sickly sweet embrace, has invaded every single nook and dip and crevice in his body and filled it with an insatiable longing for poison, has overridden all of his thoughts and all of his feelings, all of his judgements and all of his impulses and corrupted his very sense of right and wrong, of permanent consequence; eaten through it like some sort of toxic acid and left emptiness in it’s place.

Emptiness that needs to be filled.

Just once more.

Just once more, he promises himself, fingers trembling as they scroll through his contacts, looking fruitlessly for someone Dabi might not know. Just once more, and then that’s it, he swears to it. Just once more, and then he’ll kick the habit for good, he promises.

He just needs it just once more; needs to feel that comforting rush of warmth embrace his veins and twine through his blood, his nerves, his tissues and bones and organs until he’s drowning in it, a sick, sweet paradise that’s all for him, that’s all his.

Just once more he needs to feel the safety of his lover as it bursts through his system, a feeling of euphoria, of pure bliss that saturates every bit of him until it’s all he is, until it’s all that matters.

It takes too long, whole body quivering with desire by the time Keigo secures a reliable supplier after fishing through a chain of people, the sun long gone below the horizon, his only source of light leaking from one sad lamp in the corner of his living room, pooling around the base in a greyish-yellow puddle.

Chisaki is the guy’s name, a friend had informed Keigo. He’s got good shit, but it’s gonna cost you.

Keigo’s never heard of him before, and in his hunger fuelled haze of addiction he can only hope this means Dabi hasn’t heard of him either. He knows he’s wrong, knows Dabi knows everyone in this fucking city by now, but he continues to hope anyway, as if the very act itself will somehow change the outcome.

In the moment, though, it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter that Dabi will inevitably find out, probably sooner rather than later. It doesn’t matter that this next fix may cost him you, permanently snatched form his grasp and whisked away to a secret land. It doesn’t matter that this could be the singular most fucked up mistake he’ll ever make in his life.

It doesn’t matter, because his true love is on it’s way, and it’s going to make everything alright again, even if only for a few hours.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

Tomura would be lying if he said the call that comes a mere few hours after Dabi’s supposed meeting with Keigo is surprising.

In a way, Tomura wishes it was.

It isn’t from him directly, and Tomura’s sure Keigo truly has no idea just how far reaching his—and now Dabi’s—drug empire reaches.

Tomura’s also sure Dabi warned Keigo of doing this exact thing and, just as they had predicted, Keigo hadn’t heeded that warning nearly as seriously as he should have.

It’s a request from one of their men stationed all the way on the other side of the city, a man Keigo must’ve played a torturous game of broken telephone to contact, a man reporting an order of two grams of China white to the good part of the city, the safe part of the city, the rich part of the city.

“This isn’t within my jurisdiction; I don’t even know how this guy got my number,” he says nervously, and Tomura can almost hear him fidgeting. “So I was wondering—I mean, should I do the delivery myself? Or do you have some other guy who’s a little closer? Not that I mind,” the man rushes to assure, and Tomura chuckles.

“Don’t worry about delivery. I’ve got just the person in mind,” he promises the man before hanging up.

Normally, Tomura would never handle a delivery himself, but this is a special case.

“Dabi, he broke,” Tomura’s saying as he climbs into his Maybach, phone held tightly between his ear and his shoulder, keys jingling in his palm. “Two grams of China white.”

“Fucking pathetic,” Dabi spits, though Tomura can hear the faint notes of disappointment cracking in his voice.

“We knew it would happen,” Tomura shrugs. “We knew he wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re doing the delivery yourself?” Dabi asks, voice high with surprise.

“Yeah, I…” Tomura trails off, chewing on his cheek. “I have a bad feeling.”

Dabi snorts. “A bad feeling? Since when are you superstitious? Since when do you give a fuck about any of our junkies—no, sorry, clients—at all?”

“Shut up,” Tomura snaps, and Dabi snickers. “Just have the shit ready, and don’t let her see.”

“Hit a nerve, did I? You goin’ soft for my girl?”

Tomura hangs up in response.

He can’t exactly explain it—or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it—but something thick and ominous has been sinking in his stomach since he first received that call; something heavy and toxic and full of sticky ink, something that feels very, very wrong.

Tomura isn’t stupid, and Dabi isn’t, either. Two grams is way too much smack for an addict that’s been cutting back as drastically as Keigo has been.

He hopes Keigo isn’t dumb enough to shoot it all at once, but he knows the way addiction roots itself in the mind, warping the brain into something illogical, something incomprehensible, something that craves only one thing and nothing else, no matter the cost.

He knows the way addicts work, the way addicts think, and the way these thought patterns are amplified by emotional triggers.

And as much as he’d never admit it, there is a tiny part of him buried deep within his soul that wished Dabi had refused the offer; that hoped that Dabi would go back on his word, decide this wasn’t worth it, that they’d get through to Keigo in a different, less dangerous way.

But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

Despite the fact that it’s where every ounce of his smack has come from, Keigo Takami doesn’t know the name Shigaraki.

He’s heard you mention a man named Tomura in passing every once in a while—nothing more than a sentence or two, about how he picks you up on the days Dabi can’t, about how he shares your penchant for sugar—but he has no idea what the man looks like, or what his last name is, or the legacy said last name carries.

So when Tomura Shigaraki shows up on his front doorstep with a palm full of pure China white, Keigo is none the wiser.

It doesn’t seem to matter that this man is very clearly not the man he spoke to on the phone, not the man he nearly lost his mind attempting to chase down.

All that matters is that he’s got drugs, and he’s here.

Finally.

A smooth palm trembles as it shoves money into Tomura’s waiting hands, fingers eager and vying to have that powdery ecstasy between them.

Keigo doesn’t even care that Tomura doesn’t leave immediately after receiving payment—barely notices the man standing near his front door, watching with soured disgust as Keigo frantically readies his paraphernalia.

And that sinking feeling, full of heavy ink and acid, finally takes root in Tomura’s stomach as he watches Keigo pile a tiny mountain of heroin on his blackened, warped spoon, trembling hands careful not to spill even a single granule on his denim-clad thigh.

“Uh,” Tomura begins, unsure how to proceed, voice painfully flat. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

“Nah,” Keigo mumbles past the rubber held between his tightly clenched teeth, not even bothering to spare Tomura a glance, hyper-focused on his actions. “This is what I always shoot.”

Tomura’s tongue is too slow, words fading to ghosts on his tongue, unable to trigger Keigo’s rational memory at all. Because then that brownish liquid is sinking into his veins, and his head is falling backwards, mouth hung open in pure bliss, and he’s gone.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

It would be a lie if Dabi said that he didn’t expect some sort of update call within the next few hours.

It would also be a lie if Dabi said he expected it to be from the Goddamn hospital.

It isn’t exactly surprising that Keigo had chosen to put you down as his next of kin instead of your adoptive parents—his own flesh and blood, his only flesh and blood, his precious baby sister.

Vibrations quiver gently though the mattress, a low whine of protest slipping from your lips as you grope around with halfhearted interest for your phone, buried within the ridges of Dabi’s comforter.

The bright light of the screen outshines the small flickering television a few feet away and your lids squint in retaliation, vision temporarily blurred and face scrunched with concentration as you attempt to make out the bleary letters written across the top.

The hospital.

The words give you a jolt of pure adrenaline, whole body shooting up suddenly despite your sore muscles aching in protest, tingling adrenaline eating through the fatigue like an urgent corrosive, alighting your limbs, alerting your mind.

“Who is it?” Dabi asks with sleepy disinterest, gaze never leaving the television, slim fingers still tracing mindless patterns on your bare skin.

“The hospital,” you breathe, voice sounding faint and far away even though you can feel it distinctly vibrating within your chest.

Your mouth has gone dry, like your tongue is a thick swab of cotton, soaking up all the saliva from the corners and crevices of your mouth.

“What?” Dabi says, but you don’t respond, everything feeling numb, muted, muffled as your thumb taps the ANSWER button.

And then, everything goes blank.

You barely remember saying hello. You barely remember responding to any of the nurses questions—about your brother, your relation to him, your identity. You only remember a single sentence with startling clarity, something that rings loud and lucid throughout your skull, bouncing off the thick walls of bone and reverberating endlessly.

“Your brother has overdosed on heroin.”

It’s so simple, so straightforward, and yet your mind can’t seem to comprehend it, can’t seem to deconstruct and absorb those six simple words.

And then, everything goes blank again, brainwaves flatlining, rushing blood a strong, steady ringing in your ears. You can feel your body going through the appropriate motions, can feel the expected questions bubbling up your throat and past your lips, frantic, urgent, leaving an unpleasant buzz on your tongue—Is he alive? Is he stable? Can you come see him?—but you have no control over them, consciousness curling in on itself as it attempts to create sense from the situation.

How could this be possible? Keigo had stopped, hadn’t he? At least, that’s what he had told you, what he had promised you…And you had been stupid enough to believe him.

Because you had wanted to believe him.

You had wanted it to be easy and effortless, clean and concise, void of all the pain and intricacies and work that usually comes with achieving such a feat.

You had wanted, so desperately, for it to be the truth, for everything to go back to normal, just like that, in a mere instant.

A block of disappointment, filled with shame and glazed with guilt, sinks heavy and sharp in your stomach. It cracks as it hits the pit, contents leaking into the bubbly acid and causing it to roil.

He lied to you.

But he isn’t fully to blame, either. You should’ve known better, a tickle at the back of your mind chides gently. You shouldn’t have taken it at face value. You should’ve pushed harder, done a shred of investigation yourself to verify his claims, asked for more concrete proof than the sheen in his hair and the glow in his cheeks.

But you hadn’t wanted to.

Because you had wanted it to all be better instantaneously. You had wanted Keigo to prove all of Dabi’s words wrong, had wanted Keigo to show Dabi how incredible your big brother is, how vivacious your big brother is, how he can always do what he sets his mind to, no matter what.

How utterly, devastatingly stupid you were.

“Hey!” Dabi’s voice, full of concern and garnished with a touch of fear, finally slices through the thick mist that has encrusted your brain. “What’s going on? Baby, please, talk to me, tell Daddy what’s wrong.”

“Did you know?”

The question is small, frail, nothing more than a wisp of breath, so fragile it’s as if a tone any louder would simply smash it to bits.

“What?” Dabi frowns, eyebrows drawn in confusion, sapphire rapidly searching your face as you stare dead over his shoulder, unblinking eyes focused on the drywall, those lithe fingers wrapped around your biceps flexing, blunt nails biting your flesh nothing more than a faint pressure, flesh gone numb.

“Did you know?”

The question is stronger now, harder now, firm with resolution and conviction. Finally, your gaze meet his, eyes blazing with a shield of watery glass, so fierce that he flinches a little, features crunching in irritation at his own surprised reaction a second later.

“Did I know what?”

“Did you know Keigo was still using?”

For a moment, it falls silent, the gears in Dabi’s head turning, whirring, clicking into place, his gaze methodically scanning your face, blazing in his scrutiny as his mind cards through all of his options, potential scenarios and possible outcomes, categorizing them in terms of likeliness.

Then he’s cold, hands dropping from your body, features hardened into that carefully crafted mask of incomprehensible passivity.

“Since when? Since you began meeting with him secretly, behind my back?” Dabi pauses, but your expression does not falter, stare solid as stone. “Yeah, I knew. Of course I fucking knew.”

Sapphire burns into your face and your molars grind together, glaring back at him just as fiercely. Viciousness brews in your chest, boiling as it singes your ribs.

“You know, I could’ve helped you,” Dabi continues, notes of accusation in his voice, “had you just told me what was going on instead of sneaking around like that.”

“Oh, don’t start. Don’t try to make this about you and how you feel left out. Don’t try to make me the bad guy.”

“And, so, what?” he shrugs, raising an eyebrow in mock question. “I’m the bad guy because I continued to supply your brother with exactly what he asked for without having even an inkling of the lies he had been feeding you? If you had just told me, we could’ve tag-teamed him. We could’ve beat him at his own game. We could’ve won! And then, maybe, none of this would’ve ever happened!”

“I couldn’t have told you, and you know it!” you cry, voice burning veraciously in your chest, words blistering your tongue. “You—You wouldn’t have helped, you would’ve put an end to everything straight away and locked me up like some sort of—some sort of prize, never letting me out of your sight for a fucking second ever again!”

“No, you are just assuming that,” he seethes, eyes narrowed sharply. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is help you—help you both. Do you—Do you really think I’d have reacted that way instead of offering to help?”

“Yeah! I do! I’m not the villain here!”

“Neither am I!” he roars, eyes alight with blue fire, surging forward to grasp your shoulders.

A surprised yelp hiccups past your lips and Dabi tugs you toward him roughly, your chest pressed to his as he leans over your face, so close your noses nearly bump together.

“Y’know, it isn’t my fault your brother’s a fucking junkie, alright?” His grip tightens, painting his fingertips into your flesh in splashes of blue and violet. “It isn’t my fault he lied to you, just like they always do, because it’s more important to him to keep heroin in his life than it is to keep you in his life. It isn’t my fault you just assumed the worst of me instead of being honest with me, coming to me, asking for help!”

“What else was I supposed to assume, Dabi?” your nose twitches with the threat of a sniffle, the ghost of a sob, and you exhale harshly, a feeble attempt to halt it. “How was I supposed to know any different, when this is the way you’ve been treating me?”

“Everything I’ve done—every single fucking thing—was done to protect you, I can promise you that. I love you more than anything in this world, can’t you see that?”

His voice fissures on the last word, breaking under the weight of authenticity, but you do not yield, holding steadfast as you force your next question from your mouth, slight tremors running through your words as your body trembles in his hands.

“If you love me more than anything then answer me honestly. Did you supply him with drugs tonight?” The sentence tapers off into a whisper, those tears that you had held so stubbornly behind your lashes finally spilling over, strolling down your cheeks in pairs.

The silence is stifling, your breath held stagnant in your lungs as you wait, vying eyes searching his face for any shreds of clues and finding nothing but truth.

“No,” he finally responds, but his voice is kinder, softer. “How could I, when I’ve been with you all night?”

“But they were your drugs, yes?”

“Sweetheart, every drug in this city is my drug,” he chuckles a little at your naivety. “All I can tell you is that I didn’t give them to him tonight. Besides, the amount he’d need to OD is more than what I’ve been selling him.”

“But…But you…”

Agony cracks your words into sharp shards that pierce your organs, and you cough around the pain, both palms pressed flat to your chest as you try and hold your body together.

What is the truth? Is there even a truth? One correct, indisputable answer?

“I don’t—I’m—I can’t—”

A dense blend of anguish and confusion drapes across your brain, burning holes through your thoughts and rendering them incomplete, incomprehensible, a tangle of half finished sentences.

Because none of this makes any sense anymore, trust and truth shattered to pieces, scattered among skepticism and deceit.

What is real? What is right? Does it exist in concrete terms, or is it some sort of continuum? Is it easily sorted and separated, like pans of paint on a palette, or is it all muddled and bleeding together, like strands of paint in a glass jar, irrevocably intertwined as they dissipate in the water and impossible to separate in any way, colour of the tainted water morphing depending on the angle the light hits it at?

Does it even matter at all, when your brother is in the hospital and your boyfriend, no matter how implicitly or explicitly, had a hand in putting him there?

It seems as though you can’t inhale enough air into your lungs, organs shrivelling up and rejecting the oxygen your broken, uneven gasps send rushing down your throat. Your body crumples in a heap on Dabi’s lap, and the air around him changes instantly, its suffocating heaviness eradicated as love dipped in guilt devours it.

Ferocious sobs slash through your chest, ribs creaking beneath their force as your whole form stutters, heavy sorrow weighting your heart. It aches, each dull pulse procuring another wave of spiked anguish, and you suck a hiss through your teeth, furling in further on yourself in a desperate attempt to quell the pain.

Gathering your limp body in his arms, Dabi hushes you gently, your tears seeming to have melted his hard exterior, dousing the flames raging in his eyes.

“Shh,” he murmurs, a palm rhythmically smoothing over your hair as you weep into his chest, little fingers scrabbling against his bare skin. “Shh, it’s alright, I’m here.”

His soothing voice calms the turmoil in your chest, his tender touches dimming the chaos in your skull, and you snuggle into him, seeking more of his solace.

“Listen to me,” he pulls back, taking your salt-sticky face between his palms. “I love you, you hear me? I love you, and all I want to do is protect you. From everything. I’m sorry that this has happened. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to keep you safe, I promise.”

A pause, a moment for his words to brand themselves into the tissues of your brain, steady sapphire boring into your face, bright with sincerity.

“Maybe I didn’t do the best job, or make the best choices, but they were all with your—with our—best intentions and interests in mind,” he continues, the edges of his voice rough, eroded by emotion. “I’m trying with all my might. I love you more than anything. We’re a team, right? Let’s solve this together. No more secrets, no more lies, from either of us. You don’t have to do this alone, not anymore.”  

“Neither do you,” you mumble, words knotted in strings of spit.

He laughs, and it sounds wet, large hands cradling your head to his body again. “You’re right. Neither do I. So let’s make it better, together, okay? You and me, always.”

“You and me, always,” you repeat.

“Always, baby,” calloused fingers brush back strands of sweat-soaked hair from your forehead, lidded eyes watching his actions with fondness. “Now,” he whispers, a sad little smile on his face. “I think we have a hospital to visit.”  

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The scent of Clorox burns your nose as you hurry down the dull white corridors, frantic eyes flying across each of the silver nameplates bolted to the wall outside each door until finally, you find the corresponding number the nurse had given you.

And although you knew the sight you were to be greeted with would hurt, you didn’t expect it to be quite so heart-wrenchingly gruesome.

Lilac encompasses his closed eyes, the tiny spider veins knotted across his eyelids a deep, sickening purple. Dried blood, well on it’s way to forming thick scabs, has pooled and oxidized in the lines of his lips, cracked open from dehydration.

Dim curls, matted with sweat and salt, stick to his forehead and his temples, their usual lively gold now dulled and void of their sheen. Sallow skin stretches across all his sharp edges—his knuckles and his wrists and his elbows and his collarbones—lacking that healthy, radiant glow Keigo had always seemed to emit before.

It’s hard to look at him like this, veins and nostrils hooked up to a tangle of clear tubes and whirring machines, the steady beep of his heart in direct juxtaposition to the erratic thumping of your own.

Nausea swells in your stomach, acidic bile burning up, up, up your esophagus, but you swallow against it, teeth clenched as your force a deep, calm breath out your nose.

“Is this the all-time-low you kept talking about?”

You don’t look at him as you speak, gaze still captivated by your feeble big brother, the question trembling with muted anger.

“Yeah,” Dabi says quietly. “This is it.“

This is it. This has to be it; there’s no where else for him to go from here, except into the ground—and that’s forever.

Your voice rouses Keigo, golden eyelashes fluttering open to reveal bloodshot topaz, filmy gaze taking a moment to clear before it focuses on you, recognition shocking clarity into his brain.

He exhales your name in a small, weak huff, fingers twitching against the threadbare bedspread, as if he yearns to reach out for you, to grab you and pull you towards him and never let go.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place, feet bolted to the floor, veins filled with something colder, sharper, than ice.

It’s Dabi who gives you the nudge you need, his gentle touch torching the frost coating your body and jumpstarting your limbs, finally allowing that familiar presence of your big brother draw you in, as it’s done so many times before.

And then you’re running to him, crossing the sterile room in a mere few strides and flinging yourself down on his hospital bed, arms latched tightly around his neck, face buried against his chest.

He’s saying something, you can feel his words vibrating against your cheek as his frail arms wrap around your waist, but it all sounds muffled to you, nothing more than a steady, hazy stream of his voice, sentiments drowning in your own ragged breaths and vicious sobs.

Those large hands skim across your form, patting and grabbing and kneading as if they can’t believe you’re here, as if they can’t believe you’re real, as if you’ll disappear from their grasp the moment they aren’t on you anymore.

His touch causes something to break, cracking wide open at the core of your soul, so deep, so dark you’re terrified it might swallow you whole. Your body crumples under the strain, curling into the warmth and comfort your big brother provides—that only your big brother can provide, that your big brother will always provide, no matter the circumstances.

Everything hurts, and you cling tighter to him, fingers twisting in his thin hospital gown as claws of despair shred your lungs and tear at your stomach, desperate to be felt, acknowledged, known.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Keigo croaks, his voice dense with spit. “It’s okay, it’s okay, niisan’s here, it’s okay.”  

Those roaming hands clutch you tighter, pressing you close to his heart and promising to keep you together, to keep you whole as those talons threaten to rip you apart. Nothing can hurt you anymore—not here, not now, not with Keigo wrapped around you.

You aren’t sure how long you stay like this, cuddled up in your big brother’s arms as silent tears leak from your eyes, his lips pressing routine kisses to the crown of your head as you cry, but it’s long enough for Dabi to leave, smoke, and then return, the scent of nicotine twined around his body, his reentrance bringing a whiff of it with him.

Finally, you lift your head, swollen eyes blinking slow and sticky, Keigo rendered as nothing more than a wavering blur through through the thick tears coating your vision.

“You can’t...” you begin, words fading to ghosts in your throat, weighing heavy and bitter on your tongue. “This has to stop, Keigo. We can’t just...We can’t just sit around waiting and hope it gets better on it’s own. We need help. You need help.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice grating on his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you’re murmuring out, pacifying palms rhythmically running over his matted curls, a fresh bout of tears shining in your eyes. “I’m just happy you’re alive, Keigo.”

“I should’ve never lied to you,” he whimpers, face screwed up as if the words are painful, barbed on his tongue. “I just—I wanted you—”

And, really, that’s it. He wanted you. He didn’t just want you to be proud of him, nor did he just want you to stop worrying so much. He wanted you, all of you, to himself again. He wanted you, safe and sound and at home, where you should’ve been all along, where you’ll always belong.

As it turns out, he’s just as selfish as Dabi.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I want you; I want you to get better, I want my big brother back.”

And it hurts to hear that, your voice so raw, so honest, cut open with a sharp razor as emotion spills out and washes over him in burning waves, his eyes glazing over as his bottom lip twitches.

“I miss you, Keigo. I miss all the things we used to do together, before this—this monster that you’re grappling with took root. I miss getting ice cream from that mom and pop shop a few streets over; I miss going for bike rides as the sun set, and I miss stargazing at the park after it sunk; I miss it all. Don’t you?”

The question cracks on your tongue, more tears dripping down your cheeks as your eyes search his face, begging him to see your sincerity, begging him to say yes, genuity written into the creases of your forehead.

His own tears, caught so artfully by his long lashes, finally break free from their confines, streaming in pairs across his hollowed face. Because, yeah, he does, he misses those moments more than anything in the world—because, really, nothing else matters more than those sweet little memories made with the one person he loves most, the one person he loves more than anything or anyone else.

Not even heroin.

“You can do it, Keigo. I know you can. You’re so—” A hiccup cuts you off but you swallow past it, powering on, voice thick with love, care, belief. “You’re so strong, niisan; you’re the strongest person I know, and you’re a hell of a long stronger than this addition, I’m absolutely sure of it.”

Both of his hands grip one of yours with such force it’s a marvel his sharp knuckles don’t slice right through the thin skin stretched tight and taut across them. You place your other hand atop his, dainty and gentle, thumb running across his flesh in soothing motions.

“I don’t want to watch you kill yourself slowly,” you tell him, resolution firm in your voice. “And I won’t. I won’t do it, niisan. Not anymore.”

Blood drains from his face at your statement, skin gone from sickly to ashen, and his body goes rigid, hands still as stone in your palms.

“Is this goodbye?”

“No,” Dabi cuts in before you can question him about what the heck that’s supposed to mean, coming to perch on the parallel edge of Keigo’s bed. “This is we’re here to help.”

That sentence should bring a rush of much-needed relief gushing through Keigo’s veins, loosening his tight muscles and unclenching his jaw and relieving the stress that has snuggled into his very soul. It should make him feel revitalized. It should make him feel elated.

But it doesn’t.

Because Dabi’s eyes are hard, and while his gaze is fiery, it holds no warmth, the flames of contempt blazing in his irises contradicting his flat words. A rough palm clamps itself over Keigo’s collarbone, a poor imitation of friendly, and Dabi leans forward.  

“Make no mistake,” he murmurs in Keigo’s ear, just loud enough for him to hear, the force of his grip tightening to bone crushing. “I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for her. Don’t you ever fucking forget that.”

Keigo’s shock must be evident on his face, shining in his eyes and trembling on his lips, because Dabi smirks—a small quirk up of his lips, arrogant and self-satisfied—before he pulls back completely.

This is the second time Dabi has surprised him, in all of Keigo’s years of knowing him. This is the second time Dabi has proven to him that he is, in come capacity, capable of thinking about people other than himself—even if Keigo’s sure this decision isn’t entirely separate from Dabi’s own agenda.

And while Keigo still can’t convince himself that Dabi has your best interests in mind, it’s abundantly clear that he has some of your interests in mind, this singular action speaking volumes.

Because Dabi rarely, if ever, goes back on his word; it’s a well known fact at this point that his threats are never empty threats, always containing some sort of meaning, some sort of promise, and that thought sends spikes of ice shooting up Keigo’s spine.

If you notice the odd interaction between the two of them, you don’t say anything, a gentle squeeze bringing Keigo’s dumbfounded attention back to you.

“I have some news,” you begin softly, a small, sad smile on your lips. “I’m coming back home.”

That belated elation finally floods his veins, warm and tingling as it rushes through his body and eradicates all of the desolation Dabi had just instilled in him, a genuine smile breaking through the hard trepidation coating his face.

“And Dabi’s coming with me.”

The bright happiness that had blossomed in his blood dries up instantly, veins shrivelled and parched, panic and despair bolting through his body like sharp spears of lightning, and Keigo’s expression withers, face screwed up with a certain sourness before it droops, giving in, giving up, features weighted and grim as he nods his understanding.

“Compromise,” Dabi says, and while his voice is amicable enough, something sharp glints in his eyes, something sinister tugging at his lips.

Still, it’s something. It’s a start. And Keigo will take anything he can get.

Compromise. Compromise.

Keigo supposes he can live with that.

[gabetheunknown]

@after-the-end-times

Ah, there it is! I saw a post like this the other day and I could not, for the life of me find it back, so I'm glad I get to share my thoughts about this after all (not that anything would've stopped me) Prepare for the essay, I never keep things short!

The Rockrose and the Thistle, is in my opinion a love song of sorts, but a different kind of love song that Extraordinary Things is, focused on the first part of it. Both songs are very similar in more ways than just recurring notes. Both songs are written in Dminor. (wheras Extraordinary Things has Minor Melodic elements that raises the 6th note to create the G major chord he plays when he sings the lyrics ‘extraordinary things’ and sings an A on top which sounds really pretty and immediately caught my ear) 

The notes everyone is referring to are in the intro of Extraordinary Things, D C D E F E F G A B♭ A G A  (I put it on a scale because I can and I’m a nerd. I also love the harmonies)

And it doesn’t just come back in the Rockrose and the Thistle, there’s two other songs written in Dminor in the Horror and the Wild and that is The Horror and the Wild, where the repetition of these tones are beautifully audible in Madeleine’s ‘You are the son of every dressing up box’ and Farewell Wanderlust, where they immediately accentuate that B♭ (which is the 6th note of the Dminor scale) in instrumentals. In Farewell Wanderlust they also play with more chromatic elements as they add a flat second note and a flat seven. The use of chromatic elements (half note distances) isn’t new for Joey and Madeleine and in my opinion it just adds a lot to the musicality of it all, it’s clever, it immediately catches my ear, it’s subtle things like that that make me keep coming back to their music. Rather than a melodic minor scale, Joey could’ve just added that half note distance to add a major G chord to his scale, because the use of major chords in minor scales is just chef’s kiss in my musical opinion, especially in combination with the words he sings. The notes he uses are not uncharacteristic for Joey’s music.

NOW LISTEN, I LOVE this ask because it means I can break down every aspect of what I love about Joey’s singing and what different things I love about Jaskier’s singing. Because oh my god the TALENT, to still make people go ‘wait I just found out that Joey Batey sings both in the Amazing Devil and as Jaskier in the Witcher’ to this day astonishes me and I’m never surprised when someone stumbles upon that realization. The breathiness he uses on his voice in both the Rockrose and the Thistle (and more TAD songs) and Extraordinary Things blows my mind. But there’s a difference to the way he uses it in both songs, let me try to explain. He sings with an aspirated voice (Which means to sing with a breathy voice) in The Rockrose and the Thistle, but in Extraordinary Things, it feels like sometimes he is just breathless and it’s so beautiful and small and soft and intimate, considering the words he’s singing. We, as singers at the conservatory, were taught to make our breaths as inaudible as possible, to remove as much breath from our voices as possible, when singing on record. So needless to say it is a DELIGHT to hear Joey just put his whole heart and soul into every breath he takes, he’s considerate of every syllable, the volume of his voice, the clearness or lack thereof, the shakiness of his breaths fucking kill me dead… ALSO what astonishes me the most about the difference between his TAD songs and his Jaskier songs is the change in vibrato. Jaskier uses more vibrato in his voice than Joey does in the Amazing Devil and I go INSANE about that because my teachers have always said that vibrato is a hard thing to control and requires a lot of training and he’s just out there, mending it to his will as if it is no big deal, like :-) King? I’m jealous, hello? 

I’ve nothing else to say about this for now (lies) it’s already become a full on essay, so I hope this satisfies your needs for now lmao

[mowiwow]

little imperfections (modern alkaid)

“What are you looking at?”

You lift your head, smiling when Alkaid approaches you curiously. He sits down on the couch that the two of you had bought together, comfortably finding his place next to you.

A quiet action that only naturally came to the anxiety-ridden man many years later. Up close, despite all of the wrinkles of time littered across his face, he still looks as handsome as the day you first saw him. Easily, you melt into his side and hold out your left hand.

“I was looking at my wedding ring.”

Alkaid tilts his head slightly, blonde hair tickling your cheeks. His own left hand extends and his hand is placed next to yours.

There’s the faintest hint of embarrassment in his voice as he speaks. “Are you remembering the time I proposed to you?”

“Naturally. It was just so memorable.”

“It was a disaster,” he says, with a mixture of embarrassment and fondness.

“It really was. You were shaking so badly. You even dropped the ring box.”

“I caught it though,” Alkaid defends himself, meeting your gaze. “I didn’t let it fall.”

“I’ll give you that,” you reply with a wry smile. “You have great reflexes.”

Alkaid coughs lightly, turning his eyes back to the two wedding rings reflecting the light of the falling sun. 

“Great reflexes won’t help me when my voice ends up cracking.”

The corners of your lips twitch. You withdraw your outstretched hand to pat Alkaid’s thigh pressed against your own consolingly.

“It was endearing because it wasn’t perfect.”

You pause, the numerous little scratches and nicks in your wedding ring catching your eye. You bring your hand closer to you, closer to your heart, and smile softly as you silently count the wear and tear your ring has gone through despite painstakingly meticulous care.

“Y’know, kind of like this ring,” you muse.

No matter how carefully something is maintained, imperfections will crop up eventually. Little nicks in the heart are impossible to avoid in life.

You’re glad you were able to go through this sort of life with Alkaid at your side. You’re glad you were able to be with Alkaid throughout some of the rougher times in his life.

“Even though there are all of these little scratches on my ring when I look at it closely, I wouldn’t ever want to remove them. They all lend themselves to the experiences I’ve had with you and I want to cherish each and every one of them,” you ramble. “So I wouldn’t ever want to try and erase these little scratches of ours.”

You can feel Alkaid’s lingering gaze on you, so you meet his eyes. Even though countless years have passed since the two of you got married, he still occasionally looks at you with intense longing, as though the two of you aren’t a married couple who have already vowed to remain together through life and death.

You think Alkaid has come a long way. But sometimes the ghosts of the past are particularly persistent and nobody can ever fully erase their past experiences from their mind.

“Alkaid?”

Slowly, his fingertips touch yours.

“I’m glad,” is all he whispers.

His eyes lower, fixated on both the scratches in your ring and his own.

Neither of you are perfect. The path of life is very rarely a smooth one. Full of conflict, big and small, full of grievances and grudges, full of the struggles that come with living...

But, when you get to walk along that path with Alkaid— well, it's not so bad.

[saintsenara]

happy birthday ginny, here's a fic with you and both of your dark-haired orphan simps.

Nerve

When she was five, Auntie Muriel had given her as a birthday present a small china figurine of a cow.

And, since she was five, and all she wanted to do was ride brooms and fall out of trees and throw gnomes at Percy, she had laughed derisively the second she opened the gift and called it ‘a bit rubbish’.

Mum had been furious, and the telling-off Ginny had received - as Muriel stormed out of the house with her nose in the air, ‘Weasley children are ungrateful whelps, the lot of them’ ringing around the Burrow - had managed to impress upon her an important lesson: no matter how shit a present is, pretend you like it.

---

- and Percy got a brand new owl when he was made a prefect, and that happened the day before I turned ten, but I didn’t get anything new that day, it was all second hand. Except my Auntie Muriel gave me a box of drawing pins. But who wants a thing like that?

That sounds ghastly.

It was! Obviously I wasn’t rude. I just -

I know it sounds really silly, but I just want my own things. I want to be special. I want everyone to notice me. Nobody notices me.

That doesn’t sound silly at all.

You’re sweet :) 

---

The lesson had held for ten years. It was fracturing today, as she turned fifteen and unwrapped Fleur’s gift to her - presented with a beatific, ‘I ‘ope you will like ‘ow it stops you being so - ‘ow you say - disorganised’ - and saw the embossed scarlet leather cover, her initials on it in gold, of an extremely beautiful and obviously stupendously expensive diary.

‘Oh,’ said Ginny.

Fleur seemed happy enough with that, leaning into Bill’s arm - wrapped around her shoulders - with a contented (read: smug) look on her face. Harry and Ron were both shovelling birthday cake into their mouths, but Hermione was looking at her with the sort of stricken, wobbly expression which made Ginny nervous.

‘Cheers. It’s great,’ she said to Fleur, in an effort to communicate to Hermione that she needed to keep fucking quiet and not bring up my previous diary-related fuck-ups at the dinner table. Fortunately she got the hint, although Ginny knew there’d be plenty of whispered nagging about whether she’d ‘properly dealt with everything’ later.

But she couldn’t help staring at Bill, as if to say, ‘thanks for not spilling my most embarrassing secret during your pillow talk’ and ‘hey, you know how there’s a war on? Maybe you should tell your fiancée that your sister was fucking possessed by You-Know-Who for a full year, so she knows exactly what sort of mess she’s getting into.’

He just looked at his cake instead.

---

- and I told mum I didn’t want a victoria sponge cake. But she made one anyway, because it’s dad’s favourite. But it was my birthday. I wanted a chocolate cake.

Does that make me sound really spoiled?

It does, doesn’t it?

What kind of birthday cakes did you have, when you were my age?

I have never had a birthday cake.

WHAT?

How???

I was born in an orphanage. That’s a Muggle institution for children whose parents are dead. There was hardly enough to go around normally. Birthdays were out of the question.  

Oh.

I’m sorry.

I survived.

Harry’s an orphan as well.

Is he indeed?

---

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Hermione later, bustling around Ginny’s room brandishing a hairbrush like a wand. ‘The nerve of her! She had no right to do something like that.’

‘She didn’t know.’

‘But Bill should have told her.’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’

Hermione sat on the end of Ginny’s bed and looked at her earnestly. ‘You can say if you’re upset, you know.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I mean, I’ve never thought you’ve ever properly dealt with everything, and I -’

‘I said it’s fine, Hermione. For fuck’s sake, give it a rest.’

---

Hermione was still in a mood the following morning.

The diary sat on Ginny’s bedside table, the cover shimmering softly at her.

‘I suppose the colour was meant to be nice - Gryffindor, you know - but it’s just ended up being another cruelty,’ sniffed Hermione, when she’d decided she was no longer angry with Ginny and she ought to have another go at nagging her about her life.

‘What d’you mean?’ said Ginny, round a mouthful of chocolate frog.

Hermione looked at her as if she was as dumb as Goyle. (Ginny could see why quite a few people didn’t like her). ‘Well, it’s like his eyes. Isn’t it?’

She looked so convinced she was onto something that Ginny didn’t have the heart to tell her that her him had eyes the same polished tortoiseshell brown as Hermione’s own.

---

I could make him a valentine’s card, couldn’t I?

You could.

I could say he has nice eyes. He does have nice eyes.

So you’ve said.

They’re very green. I could say that. ‘You have very green eyes.’

That’s not very romantic, is it?

I could say, ‘you have eyes so green they’re like…’

I dunno.

A fresh pickled toad.

Or an emerald.

Pick the emerald.

I like the toad.

Pick the emerald.

They aren’t emerald green, though. They’re fresh pickled toad green.

I just think -

I’m going to say that his eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad.

Or do you think he’d hate that? 

I think you should say his eyes are like emeralds.

He will hate it, won’t he?

Would it matter if he did?

YES.

Picture me rolling my eyes.

Tom. I’d DIE.

Imagine if he laughed at it. 

And if he didn’t?

That isn’t possible.

Ginny.

Anything is possible if you’ve got enough nerve.

---

She dropped a blob of ink onto the page and waited for the inevitable.

She realised she had been staring at it for hours when mum called her down for dinner.

---

She could never have explained to the other three why nothing happening was as much of a disappointment as a relief.

They were bound together so tightly you’d have thought they were one-and-the-same. It didn’t seem to occur to them that their friendship was abnormal. Or, maybe, that hers were. That, maybe, it isn’t normal for a fifteen-year-old to not see her boyfriend all summer, or not to have friends visit, or not to Floo off for house-parties and trips to Diagon Alley. That, maybe, her position in a clique of ‘popular’ girls was tenuous, something light and meaningless and easily discarded.

That, maybe, the best friend she’d ever had was a piece of disembodied soul which had very nearly succeeded in killing her.

---

I don’t think anyone understands me like you.

You’re my best friend in the whole world :) 

I’m delighted to hear that. The feeling is mutual.

Now. I need you to do me a favour.

Anything :)

You will walk down to the gamekeeper’s hut.

I will walk down to the gamekeeper’s hut.

---

‘I don’t think Harry will get back together with Cho,’ said Hermione one evening.

Ginny snorted. ‘Yeah, obviously. He fucked that right up.’

‘Dean’s nice.’

Ginny tried to ignore the jittery feeling in her stomach. ‘Yeah. Yeah, he’s brill.’

Fortunately Hermione was already yawning into her pillow. ‘Did you have a nice birthday, by the way?’

‘Yeah.’

There was a brightly-coloured bang from outside.

Hermione jumped up, brandishing her wand. ‘What on earth was that?’

---

I wish I was with mum and dad for Christmas. On New Year’s Eve we always have hot chocolate and watch the fireworks from the village. You can see them really well from our garden.

I spent all evening crying. And now I can’t sleep. 

Are you awake?

Is it New Year’s Eve today?

Yes.

Ah.

It doesn’t feel very festive though.

Go to the North Tower, and - just before the Divination classroom - you will see a painting of three house elves wearing a trench coat. Poke the middle one on the nose and the painting will swing open to reveal a window. Climb through the window and you will find yourself on a flat bit of roof, with an uninterrupted view towards Hogsmeade. At midnight, there will be fireworks to celebrate the new year. 

But there will be nobody else around, and they will feel as though they are for you.

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‘Relax, Hermione. It’s just someone letting off fireworks.’

‘God. I thought it was the Dark Mark or something. Honestly, who lets off fireworks in the middle of August?’

‘You never know. Maybe they’re for me.’