#my living space is about to be unbearably cold because I was forced to take down all my winterization cause 'it's warm and it'll stay warm'

[cosmic--marmalade]

Ran out of fire wood. Got what was thought to be a good cord of wood, passed all my tests. Got home, made a fire last night with the new wood and it wouldn't stay lit.

Spent 3 hours, ish, today splitting most of the wood. About 45 minutes in I start to notice a lot of the wood smells, feels, and looks wet when split, which is fine as long as it's only a little wet at the core! Nothing splitting and sitting for a few weeks won't fix! I then split 4 separate logs....which all had water in the middle. Not just wet and sappy. Literally like the water which came from christ's wound before the blood, like a fucking coconut. I didn't even know pine could do that. Meaning that the majority of the cord isn't just a little under seasoned, under dry.

The entire thing is just not seasoned period. No more fires for the rest of the year, and we're about to hit a huge cold spot for the next month or so...

[morelikeravenbore]

✨ Ominis Gaunt headcanons

This lovely anon (as well as a few others) asked if I'd consider writing my Sebastian Alphabets for our favourite Slytherin Heir, but as a girlie whose brain space is 99% dedicated to Sebastian Sallow and like, 1% dedicated to, I dunno, survival and stuff, I struggled lol. Instead, I'm here to offer you some of my personal Omnom headcanons based on how I write him as a seventh year in How to Make a Villain, post fifth-year events.

(trigger warning: he's sassy and traumatised because that's just how I imagine him.)

Enjoy under the cut! (SFW!)

✨ He's a Cancer sun, Libra rising, Capricorn moon.

Cancer sun: Hard outer shell, soft squishy middle; deeply emotional but retreats into his hidey hole when triggered, emotions shift as often as the moon phases; cares deeply.

Libra rising: refined, pretty, physically attractive, charismatic; focused on justice and fairness, right and wrong; drawn to refined pleasures: art, music, fine food and clothing.

Capricorn moon: practical, rigid, dutiful, committed; craves stability; can appear cold and unfeeling on the surface, prone to pessimism; does not take shortcuts, does not look for the easy way out.

✨ He plays piano. (Duh, that's practically considered canon by now). Without sight, music is how this li'l Libra rising bebe appreciates and creates beauty.

✨ Being a member of high pureblood society, he is fluent in French. As a child, he spent his summers in southern France with his family, who own a manor in by the ocean. (Later, after he befriended the Sallow twins, he spent his summers in Feldcroft instead.)

✨ It was fearless little Anne Sallow who reached out to Ominis in their first year, and thus Anne, not Sebastian, was the first friend Ominis ever made. This friendship signified a profound change in his life: he never expected to make a real friend, let alone have anyone show him the kindness, tolerance and companionship that Anne did. His friendship with Sebastian, though a by-product of his closeness with Anne, grew more slowly, but by the time their first year was over, the three were inseparable. His friendship with the Sallow's gave Ominis the first sense of belonging in his life.

✨ Due to his deep-seated abandonment and trust issues, the damage to his friendship with Sebastian after the events of fifth year are near irreversible; worse than Solomon's murder was the loss of Anne, which Ominis blamed solely on her brother. But beneath this resentment toward Sebastian, buried so deeply he never fully acknowledged it to himself, was a festering anger towards Anne for leaving him. She was the first person he ever loved (platonically or otherwise, it's up to you), and though he understood her reasons for leaving, her absence felt like another abandonment. It was easier to project this anger Sebastian than ever admit that he was angry at Anne, too.

✨ To keep Sebastian out of Azkaban after Solomon's murder, Ominis had to call upon his family for help. In exchange for their covering up the incident, he was forced to pledge his allegiance to furthering the Gaunt legacy. Thus, he gave up his dreams of freedom and living as his own person. He'd always harboured a secret desire to pursue music, perhaps study abroad in France, but instead had to promise to fulfil his "familial obligations" to the Gaunt's by marrying a woman of their choosing and working in whatever influencial Ministry role they assigned him.

✨ Romance. Given how cruel his family is, Ominis vows to never fall in love. The idea of condemning someone he actually cares about to the Gaunt name and legacy is unbearable — he'd sooner enter into a loveless, arranged marriage than inflict that sort of pain onto another innocent person. That's not to say he won't ever fall in love, but it would take a very, very special person to capture his attention and break through the many (many) defensive walls he's put in place around his heart.

And here's a little snippet of Sebastian and Ominis' dynamic in How to Make a Villain, which you can read on wattpad or ao3 if you like :)

[saninthebuilding]

"i want to walk this path with you"

summary: in which you have reached your breaking point after one too many hits from the universe, and jungkook is there to help you get back up

wc: 2.1k

warnings: swearing, emotions, angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, self-deprecating thoughts, mentions of family issues, an allusion to su!c!d3, rough head-space, verbal abuse-ish, mentions of weight and self-image, best friends to lovers, jungkook is the best-friend-turned-boyfriend alive

a/n: honestly, it's a self-indulgent long fic that i wrote for myself because these days haven't been too good. the fact that he went live today really boosted my mood, and this fic really shows how much of a lifesaver he is for me. without him, i don't know what i'd do. my life literally revolves around him. he is everything to me.

a/n 2.0: edited and wc updated!

~

today was not a good day.

when i woke up this morning i could already tell something was off. as if the universe were a chess player looking down at my pawn on the board, contemplating whether or not they should knock me down today, only to cackle aloud and tip me over.

and i had been right.

nothing had seemed to go my way today. my insecurities surrounding my image finally resurfaced due to the ongoing conversations my friend group has been having about weight and eating habits and fashion trends. my parents had been making it worse for the past few weeks, one day berating me for eating too much and the next scolding me for eating too little.

or really just yelling at me for random stuff every now and then. it was as though the stress they were dealing with at work (and from my younger brother who made it his life mission to make everyone miserable on a daily basis) was being taken out on me all the time.

of course, i couldn't forget the overflow of assignments and classwork i had to finish on a daily basis. with little to no motivation, it was proving to be really hard to start one thing, let alone complete everything.

and then there was fact that i was starting to feel more out of place in my own skin as the days went by.

it was like everything was too fast and too loud and too bright, but at the same time too slow and too quiet and too dull. it was as if one second everything mattered a little too much, and then suddenly nothing mattered at all.

at least there was no one around to witness me crumbling. my parents had left for a business trip earlier, and my younger brother was out with his friends. being a senior in high school, they had deemed me capable of looking after him for a few days, not knowing it was only adding more strain on my shoulders.

soon, i could feel the build-up of the multiple things i had been facing start to erupt, so when i stepped into the kitchen to try and make myself a quick dinner, i wasn't too surprised to find out that me dropping my bowl of ramen on the floor was my last straw.

then again, i suppose it had been a little too hot.

staring down at the now shattered china, my eyes watered as i took in the noodles splattered across the tiled kitchen floor.

"at least i didn't put too much broth this time" i choke out in an attempt to make myself feel better in this empty house.

it didn't work.

i felt the tightness in my chest grow, fuled off all the emotions i had been hiding for weeks now, begging to be let out. the pinching in my throat was unbearable as i felt the unavoidable onslaught of tears blur my vision.

please.

i give in.

sinking down to my knees by the mess of noodles and broth and china, in the daunting quiet of this house that no longer felt like a home, i heaved a shuddering breath.

and i cried.

sobs racked through my body with uncontrollable force as my tears streamed down my cheeks and into my lap. my hands began to shake, and i pressed my palms to the tiles, taking advantage of their ice-cold feel. my chest hurt to the point where i couldn't breathe, and i wasn't sure why eveything sounded so loud all of a sudden.

a shrill buzz jolted me out of my daze, and i sniffled, turning my head in its direction.

my...phone?

half-crawling, half-dragging myself across the kitchen, i pulled my phone off the counter.

i let out another sob seeing the caller id.

kookie

it was as if he knew.

i pick up as i try to get my breathing under control.

"jungkook" i whisper, my voice coming out shaky and strained.

"y/n?"

i let out another sob hearing his voice, quiet and concerned and oh so soft.

"hey, hey, what's going on? are you alright? where are you right now?"

he's panicking, and i hear rustling from the other end which tells me he's throwing a hoodie on.

"...in my kitchen" i mumble, eyes going back to my now-unedible dinner.

"just wait for me," he breathes, "i'll be there in 5 minutes. i'm gonna stay on the line, but just wait for me, ok? can you do that for me?"

"mhm."

i hear a door slamming, and then heavy footsteps. 

suddenly i realize how late it is- around 11:30pm. the fact that jungkook is leaving when it's this dark, that also to come see me, starts to worry me.

"kook it's really late. what if-"

my anxiety must have been evident in my voice, because he's instantly calming me down.

"baby, i'm perfectly fine. i see your house ok. i'll just use the spare key in your garage. i'll be right there."

my heart skips a beat at the pet name he occasionally uses for me. i'm sure he means it as a term of endearment, but it's hard to control myself when i've had feelings for him since we were kids.

and to make my situation even better, he's my best friend.

i let out a choked laugh at how i was crying one second and smiling the next.

"what's wrong? are you ok?"

although his voice comes through the phone, i suddenly hear muffled jangling of keys from the other side of the door, and a lock clicks open. i lift my head to the entrance, and see jeon jungkook standing in my doorway.

he takes in my defeated state, and the hand clutching his phone slowly slips down from where he was holding it to his ear, arm hanging loosely at his side.

he's silent, and i stay where i am, still crouched on the cold tiled floor. my eyes drift to his flushed cheeks and heaving chest, before noticing that his hair looked fluffier due to having faced the wind on his way here.

he's so beautiful.

"oh y/n" he whispers, before kicking his shoes off and rushing towards me. he drops down to his knees in front of me, before wrapping his arms around me and pulling me to his chest.

i cling onto him, biting on my bottom lip to keep my sobs under control as the tears start falling again. his hands are rubbing up and down my back, before he pulls back to hold my face in his hands.

"what happened?" he asks, voice shaky as i see his own eyes glistening. "who did this to you? what's wrong? talk to me, baby, i'm here now."

"i'm so tired jungkook" i whisper, the words twisting my gut. "i'm so fucking tired and i don't know how to fix it."

his fingers brush away the salt water streaming down my cheeks, and his face is mirroring the pain i feel in my heart.

"i've tried everything, i've done all i could for everyone in every possible way but it's never enough. nothing is enough, and it's only now that i realize that it will never be enough. i don't even know what they want from me anymore, jungkook, i-"

i let out a sob, and he instantly pulls me into his arms, rocking us gently. "shh y/n, i've got you."

"-and my parents keep yelling and my brother treats me like shit even though i try so hard to make sure he doesn't end up like me, and all anyone's talking about is their image and i'm so uncomfortable with myself, and then school is even more stressful-"

"hey, no no no, y/n, you're not-" jungkook tries to butt in, eyes wide and wet, but i just shake my head hard.

"it's too much jungkook" i plead, voice cracking, "it's too much and i don't know how much longer i can take it."

at this jungkook freezes, staring at me in what seems to be fear. a tear slips down his cheek, and i feel my heart break even more when i realize that i'm the reason he's crying.

"oh no, jungkook" i whisper, and this time it's me that wipes his tears, "please don't cry, i can't see you cry because of me."

he sniffles, rubbing a hand over his face and then over my own, before helping me stand up. holding my hand, he pulls me behind him as he grabs the broom, and keeps holding it as he shoves the mess on the floor into the dustpan and then the garbage. i grab the mop, still clutching his hand in mine, and swipe down the leftover broth that was still on the floor.

placing everything back, jungkook stands with me in the middle of the kitchen, quiet. i keep my gaze on our entwined fingers, unable to meet his gaze.

it's the first time i've broken down this bad in front of him, and i was afraid of what he would say next.

i don't know what i'd do if he walked away from me too.

eventually he breaks the silence.

"how long?" 

startled at the serious tone of his voice, i look up to see him staring at our hands. his jaw is clenched, and although his eyes are still shiny there's a sharpness in them.

"...a few weeks now" i whisper.

he's silent again, but this time when he looks at me his gaze is full of anger- for me.

"and your self-hate?"

i wince slightly, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"...long before that. it kinda just overflowed today..."

"did i..." jungkook swallows hard, as though the question he were trying to ask was hurting him.

"did i make you feel like that?"

my eyes go wide- how could he even think that? i pull him to me, hands covering his own as i shake my head.

"what- no! no, never! kook, sweetheart, you-" i breath out, upset that he even thought he had hurt me.

"if anything you're the only thing that keeps me going."

as soon as i say this, it's as though something in his gaze changes. suddenly his hands are on my waist, and he's lifting me up like i weigh nothing. gently resting me on the kitchen's marble countertop, he placed both hands on either side of my hips, before shifting closer to stand between my legs. when he speaks his voice comes out strained, as his fingers grip the counter edge so hard his knuckles turn white. as if he's holding himself back.

"give me permission" he breathes, and as he tilts his head down to face me fully, i can feel my breath catch in my throat.

"give me permission, and i will make you forget every fucked up thing you ever heard and every cruel thing you ever faced."

the intensity with which he holds my gaze makes my heartbeat speed up, and i realize that there's an emotion in his eyes that wasn't there before.

he leans closer, gently pressing his forehead against mine and closing his eyes.

"give me permission, y/n and i will show you how much you mean to me."

i think back to all the times he was there for me, high or low, night or day. i remember how he didn't hesitate to drop everything and come over the moment he heard me crying on the phone. i take in the sincerity and love in his voice, the way he was so close yet still just far enough to ensure that i wasn't uncomfortable.

and the fact that i knew he would respect my space without a second thought if i said no.

"jungkook" i whisper, my voice coming out breathless.

slowly, i raise my hands to cup his face, and feel him tense under my touch, awaiting my next words.

it was him.

it had always been him.

and it will always be him.

because he is everything to me.

"kiss me."

jungkook opens his eyes, meeting my gaze as his fingers grip my chin before he turns his head sideways, leaning in.

i meet him in the middle.

his lips are soft against mine, his touch gentle, as though i were the most precious thing around. placing a hand on the small of my back, he pulls me closer so that i'm flush against his chest, the warmth radiating off of him calming me down.

he pulls away after a while but stays close enough so that we're still face to face.

"i love you so fucking much" he breathes, emotion dripping from his words and his touch and his gaze.

i wrap my arms around his upper body and hug him to me, burying my face into the crook of his neck. he instantly hugs me back, placing a soft kiss to my temple before resting his chin on top of my head.

"i love you, jungkook." 

~

[141simonriley141]

Chapter: 2-“The nightmare has begun…”

❗️⚠️❗️POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS❗️⚠️❗️

Swearing

Lewd jokes 

Thoughts of suicide 

Panic attacks 

other worldly being 

Manipulation 

Death 

Guns

Y/N is a little emotional

“It’s been three months since the undead have started to take over the world, and no sign of my team has come about… I’m starting to loose hope, I’m hoping… praying, that one day my team will show up completely unharmed… but now I believe that day will never come. I’m on the brink of insanity. I contemplate suicide every. Single. Day. It’s always in my mind, it will be an easy way out of this hellhole! I can’t continue living all alone! The smell of the undead is getting unbearable! I feel like vomiting every second of every day! I’m starting to run low on food and water… I’ve fought off a few undead but I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt because I know these were real live human beings once, with feelings, and families… I think tomorrow I’m going to go out and try to get more food and water.”

After I was done writing in my journal, I close the book, put it away, and get some supplies for going out to get some much needed recourses. I grab a very heavy and thick jacket that ghost used to train the military dog, Riley. I put it on so the walkers can’t bite my arms, neck, or waist. Next I put on a few layers of cargo pants. and then I put on thick combat boots with steel toes. I then grab a hand gun, ammo, and a combat knife for protection. I knew I was going to be extremely hot, but I knew it would be worth it for protection. I told myself that I would rather be hot, than a walker. I then step foot out of base for the first time in over three months. The smell of the undead was putrid. I started to gag but I quickly snapped out of it knowing I had a mission to fulfill if I wanted to survive… but half of me just wanted to stay locked up in my room and rot away. But I pushed those thoughts aside as I grabbed a large backpack. I put my knife and gun in the bag so that way I have free hands to grab different and useful items. 

You stumbled upon a large container of military food rations. You knew it wasn’t the best tasting thing in the world but you knew it was easy to make, just add hot water and eat. But you also knew you had to save as much room in your bag as you possibly can…you decided to take the food. You grabbed the food rations and put them in your bag. You now have 75% of your bag space remaining… you wonder farther into the city, you come across a horde of hungry walkers. You decided to fight the zombies. You opened your bag and grabbed your hand gun. You start to fire at the undead. And after a few minutes they were all dead. When you came closer to inspect the zombies you saw one of them was holding a lot of ammo. You decided to take the ammo for your hand gun. You now have 70% of storage left in your bag.

You then heard footsteps coming from behind you. You turn around to see a very tall man, but he wasn’t facing you. He looked very familiar, then suddenly he turned around and you saw a man with an army vest on, the Task Force 141 logo, a helmet with night vision goggles, and… the iconic skull mask. You realized it was your lieutenant. When ghost saw you he ran to you. “C/N!!” He yells with relief and worry. You were so shocked at his outburst and at how worried Ghost was since he was always so withdrawn and cold towards you and the rest of the team. You then do something that you didn’t think about, you lunged to ghost and hugged him tightly as you started to sob into his chest.

“I was so lonely! I thought you all were dead! You guys were gone for months and I was going insane! I was about to commit suicide if i couldn’t find any resources when I went out scavenging today. I-I-I thought.. I-.. I-..” your words trailed into sobs as you clung to ghost tighter. ghost then said softly “I managed to get away from the undead unharmed… but I can’t say the same for the rest of the team. I had to shoot price and soap.” he said as his voice shook from the hard decision he had to make, he knew that soap was like a brother to me and price was like a dad to me. I screamed out in pure emotional agony and despair as I realized I would never see my family again. I buried my face in his chest as I sobbed hard. Ghost then did something that shocked you.

 He hugged you back. He wrapped his large arms around your smaller form, he hugged and he squeezed his eyes shut. Then you felt it… his tears hitting the top of your head. You never saw Ghost cry… you never saw ghost laugh, he’s always been so stern and emotionless… but after the first tear hit your head he composed himself. He continued to hold you for a few long minutes before he said “we need to get back to base before the walkers find us.” You nod and follow him, but on the way you found a small store that you didn’t see before. You ran to the store quietly so you don’t attract the undead. You then realized you stumbled upon a goldmine. You saw a lot of canned food and bottled water. You then grab fifteen cans of food, and  twenty bottles of water. Your bag is now 150% full… and overflowing. You then fill all your pockets with more army food rations, and some very filling, energy rich protein bars that’s meant for people who work out at the gym for hours, and that’s just what you need to survive an apocalypse. So you dump all of the bars into all your pockets and into some pockets in your bag. And after a few minutes you joined back with ghost, you then saw ghost had his own recourses with him, he had thirty bottles of water and somehow stuffed eighty high in protein army rations in his own backpack that you just now realized he was wearing. You both then walked back to base while he filled you in on his mission. He told you that he finally captured Makarov, but before Makarov was shot he released this deadly virus and that’s how the apocalypse started. He said that Makarov wanted to let out one last attack on the world before he was killed. You looked at ghost with pure rage and agony in your eyes knowing that you and your team’s biggest enemy released the virus and took your family away from you. “No, no… it can’t be… that- that bastard!!! He deserves to burn in hell!!” You cry out in rage and pain knowing he was the cause of all the innocent lives being taken… from the only family you’ve ever known and loved… being taken from you. Your biological mom and dad threw you into the ocean when you were  just a newborn baby. A man jumped into the ocean and saved you, you were given to the orphanage but no one wanted to adopt you because you never had that adorable sparkle or shine in your eyes that kids normally do, so you were thrown around from home to home until the people just stopped wanting to adopt you, so your only home was the orphanage. You were forced to leave the orphanage at eighteen years old. And the only family who ever truly loved you and took you in… was task force 141. And now the only person that was left was Ghost. The coldest man of them all. But suddenly you remembered what happened… ghost cried, he never cried. Not even when he had to shoot his team that were turned into zombies. 

Then you hear it… the little voice inside your head that tries to ruin your life, that tries to make you go absolutely insane. Typically you can mute the voice, but you can’t now. You’re to emotionally exhausted and drained… so now you have no choice but to listen. “Wait.. somethings different. This isn’t the same cold soldier you’ve fought beside. No. He’s changed. He’s gone soft. What have you done?” The voice says in a very deep and raspy way. His tone held mock and cruel intentions. You started to breath heavily. You can’t move, your frozen standing up. You can’t move, talk, think, or feel anything other than your other self, it’s like you’re trapped in a black endless void. And you can’t see anything… other than the little voice… they look like a shadowy figure, they have glowing red, fire like eyes, and a large sharp toothed grin.. they look like a horror character. “Who the hell are you?!” You screamed in fear. “Hello Y/N it’s me…. Demonio!!!” the being screamed in a loud, deep, and raspy was that sounded like nails in a chalkboard. You had to cover your ears from how loud he yelled his name. The being laughs in a strange, sadistic, mocking, and cruel way when he saw you so afraid.

(Here is a couple reference photos for Demonio.)

And the laugh, well… it sent shivers down your spine what was so intense you almost fell to the floor. Then you put it together, Demonio… it’s him, that voice in your head that likes to mock you, that likes to kill you from the inside out, likes to make you turn on yourself. He’s the very same one who ground suicide in your mind when you wrote in your journal this morning. That very same being walks up to you… and wraps his hands around your throat. His long black claws dug into your neck, it felt like your throat was on fire as you stared into his fiery eyes, your own eyes wide with pure fear and terror. You can’t breathe… you physically can’t take a breath. Your starting to choke as he gripped your throat tighter. Blood starts to drip down your neck and he just laughs. From an outside perspective it looks like you’re choking on nothing, looking at nothing with fear in your eyes. yet only you could see the blood running down your neck, or the claw marks on your neck. Let alone see the very thing doing it to you. Alarms are blaring in your mind to take a goddamn breath! But you physically can’t! Demonio laughs hysterically in a very evil and sadistic way. Then suddenly you hear the voice cutting through the darkness. “C/N? C/N?! Y/N!!! Snap out of it!!!” He says as he manages to pull you from the grips of an anxiety/panic attack. You try to catch your breath knowing you could have had the worst panic/anxiety attack of your life. “Are you alright C/N?” He asked in a concerned way. You swallow thickly as you nod your head quickly. “I’m, I’m fine sir… just got lost in thought…” you say softly, your voice was breaking slightly. “It’s fine C/N. It happens to the best of us.” He says in a calm, yet soothing way. He then leads you back to base. You both were chatting as you tried to calm yourself down from your encounter with the voice in your head. You knew it was never this bad, just a few bad thoughts here and there, but for your inner thoughts to choke you… that’s new, and you were terrified it would happen again.

 You knew what he did to make you choke, you knew he didn’t suffocate you, he just made your throat start to close on you like people with asthma when they run a long while without their inhaler. 

You then look up and see your back at base. Once you both disarm all the alarms and locks, the gate opens up to let you in. You both dump your resources on the table so you can organize them. After a few long minutes of organizing everything was put away neatly and orderly. “Well… we will need more water, but the food should last us a few weeks.” He says calmly. You nodded “all right, we can go back out tomorrow. You say as you started to take off all of your makeshift armor against the zombies. “Jeez… that stuff is hot!” You say as you put everything away. You then tell ghost your going to shower. “Okay. Don’t take too long though.” He says as he gently pats your back. “Hah, why? You wanna shower too?” You asked with a smirk “maybe, maybe not.” He says with a smile that you can hear in his voice. “Wanna shower with me?” You ask with a playful grin. “Hah!!! In your dreams rookie.” He says with a playful jab to my shoulder with his elbow. You just laughed and made your way to the bathroom.

 You turn the shower on and start to undress. After a few minutes you turned on some of your favorite music and hopped into the shower. You then let the warm water run down my face and back. As the water runs down your back it felt like it was washing away todays horrors and troubles. You then put some soap on my hands, you ran your soapy hands through your (H/L) (H/C) hair. After a few minutes of lathering my hair up I then washed my (S/C) skin. Once I was done I then rinsed my hair and body. 

(Optional!!): after I was done rinsing my body and hair I put conditioner in my (H/L) (H/C) hair, I let the conditioner set for a few minutes while i started to shave my body. Once I was done shaving I rinsed out my conditioner. Soon my hair was extremely soft.

 You squeezed the water out of your hair and dried off. You then walked to my room with the towel wrapped around your body. Once you were in your room you took the towel off, revealing your clean soft skin to yourself in the mirror. You then pick out a pair of short grey shorts and a white tank top. You walk out of your room and started to talk to ghost when suddenly you noticed the little skin he was showing, (the eye holds in his skull mask) was turning pale. You started to get nervous and asked. “Ghost? Are you alright?” He looks at you confused and said “yea, I am. Why do you ask?” You just shook your head trying to shake away the thoughts you were having. “Nothing, never mind. Forget what I said.” You say with a quiet mumble. As you walked away ghost had a confused look in his sad, dead, emotionless eyes.

[fullfiresiren]

beauty of the dawn

jujutsu kaisen

fushiguro toji x reader

The notion of a loving family was something foreign to Fushiguro Toji. Family, to him, was a bitter word -- full of hate and abhorrence. Abandonment and fear were a commonality in his own childhood. But in you, he finds a warmth he didn’t think he deserved – a home he craved, a love that makes him feel safe; full of gentle touches and soft kisses. But he’s scared. He's broken, and angry, and he knows the threat of his family is always lurking close, snapping at his heels, ready to devour. You bring the notion of family to his doorstep, and he spooks. He panics. He can’t let them find you, he can’t and he has to give up the only feeling of warmth he has ever known to do so.

It haunts him forever – leaving behind the only woman he ever loved, and a child he will never know.

word count: 3.8k.

notes: *inhales* ANGST— lmao but really, I live for it. Toji may be a bad person, but I suck dick, not morals, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ bro I fr don’t even know what came over me. This has been like the smallest headcannon for me and somehow it turned into this horribly sad piece, and although Toji is a dick, I also think he is an incredibly complex character that, at the end of it all, was just a desperate father trying to look out for his child. I think he deserves much more than he got, and he kinda gets shat on in this fic lmao I'm so fuCKING SORRY FOR THAT--

warnings: nsfw/18+, angst, hurt no comfort, abandonment, unplanned pregnancy, pregnant reader

“Take me,” he prays, panting secrets that fall from his lips onto your soft skin; promises of pleasure as he breeds you deep. “Take all of me.”

And you do – over, and over, and over again.

Hilting him to the deepest part of yourself, and holding him close, so close, his breath a hot ghost across your face as he leans his forehead against yours. You keep him there until he is finished, taking his seed like it was sacrament. He gives you everything he has to offer, and only when you have slipped into a light slumber does he pull away.

He never strays far, though, and he cannot stay away for long. You are like sweet honey and warm sunsets; the breathing embodiment of a life he was never before privy to – the promise of something better; a miracle. Far from the cold depravity and sharp pain of his own family, in you, he found only warm touches, and words of tender affection. Toji feels so overwhelmed by the amount of love he has for you, that sometimes it’s unbearable. He feels so happy he could die.

He is not an honest man, by any means. He kills for a vocation -- and enjoys it, too. It’s something he’s good at. It’s an easy way to make money, and it helps him pay for his half of the rent on the meagre apartment you share. It also lets him keep the fridge full, make sure you’re always warm, and that you’re never without. He doesn’t really care about himself or what he has to do – so long as you’re happy.

The weight of his body is always heavy between your thighs, his chest solid, thrusts slow and deep, stretching you, making a perfect fit for himself inside you. He likes drawing it out – each time he takes you. He enjoys seeing you beg for release, relishes the way your tears slide down your flushed cheeks, because he likes being the one to kiss them away, knowing he is the only one who ever makes you feel this good. His name sounds so perfect when it falls from your lips at your height of ecstasy, and the way you take him in has him swearing he can see heaven.

You see a side of him that no one else does, but he’s dark, he’s toxic. The amount of sadness in his soul is challenged only by the sheer force of his anger. He's sure that he wasn’t always like this, but... he can’t really remember a time when he wasn’t. Everyone and everything was his enemy. He’s never really told you much about his family, or his past. His childhood had been dark, you assumed, based on the way he flinched around children, and steered clear of any conversational topics that included them or parental figures.

Toji Fushiguro was untouchable to everyone, and only just tangible to you.

He wants to be able to give you everything. He wants to lay his head on your chest in the depths of the night when he’s feeling lost, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat to guide him home. He wants to come home every night, no matter what happens to him throughout the day, and be able to feel the brush of your soft lips; to taste your tongue with his – god – he wants to. But he’s afraid. He’s scared. If he gives you everything... if he shows you who he really is... what happens if you see something you don’t like? Will you pull away from him? Will you cast him out and abandon him – just like his family did? Toji isn’t feeble by any sense of the word, but he thinks that would be the one thing that would break him.

That’s why he’s only let you see glimpses... and only every now and then.

He’s just so miserable when he’s alone. He’s angry at the world, and you’re the only thing that soothes him. The only thing he has ever loved.

You’re staring at yourself in the mirror when he comes home, locked away in the too-small bathroom. You hear the keys turning in the lock; a signal of his arrival, and the door to your apartment opens, bringing with it sounds of paper bags crinkling, keys being tossed into their bowl, and huffing exhales as he struggles to kick his heavy boots off.

“Toji?”

“I’m home!” he calls, his voice a deep timbre in his chest, smooth like rich oak.

You follow it, leaving the safe space of your bathroom to find him, and when you pass the threshold into your small kitchen, he’s lifting bags of fresh groceries onto what little counter space you have. The movement carries with it droplets from an October rain that had caught him by surprise on his walk home, ones that hang from the edges of his black hair and drip down onto his damp black shirt.

“Toji,” you repeat, beaming as you bound into your small kitchen. “I have wonderful news!”

He spares you a glance between unpacking vegetables, dark eyes tracing the curve of your face, hands grasping at packets of food that need to be tossed in the fridge, and cans to be stacked in the shelves.

“Hmm?”

He offers you his face, leaning in close, pausing in his task to receive a small blessing of affection from you — a soft kiss against the scar on his lip that has his eyelashes fluttering closed, and then one more fully against yours – always greedy for any love you bestow, always chasing just one more, just once more, just another, my love, just one more...

He continues with his chore, but only when you giggle at the fluttering of kisses he peppers across your face, your jaw, suckling at your neck, your hands against his chest pushing him gently, urging him to finish his task – but not before you give him another deep kiss, all giddiness and mirth swimming in your gaze. He can’t help the deep chuckle that spills from his lips at seeing you so happy.

“Toji,” you begin, and he’s rummaging in the paper bags, brows furrowed because he could have sworn that he bought three carrots, and not two -- “I’m pregnant!”

He stills.

He can sense your beaming smile, almost feels the warmth of it on his cold skin, and it only makes him shiver.

The seconds tick by without any form of reaction, and the atmosphere grows horribly tense. Toji doesn’t look at you, but he can see from his peripheral vision that your smile slips at the same time that your shoulders round and you make yourself smaller, unconsciously closing off. You’re twisting something in your hands, suddenly nervous, and he has a nauseating feeling that settles in his gut, because he knows exactly what it is that you’re holding.

It’s proof.

“Are you... happy?” you ask, and you hate that you have to. It’s like a punch in the gut, and you’re afraid. This was not the reaction you were expecting at all.

“Are you sure?” he doesn’t know why he asks that.

He isn’t looking at you, and he isn’t moving – he’s not even blinking. You feel your hands becoming sweaty as you clutch the positive pregnancy test, mouth dry. A quickly increasing panic creeps over your skin, gripping you by the throat, and you honestly have no idea how to traverse this kind of response to your news. In the bathroom you only practiced scenarios in relation to a beaming, positive reaction.

Which room should we make into the baby’s room? Our baby can always sleep with us, though, and I know they’re definitely going to prefer you – I'm hopeless with kids... but I hope they look like you, Toji – a perfect combination of everything I love about you!

Do you want to pick names out? I hope it’s a girl... but a boy would be wonderful, too! I know the baby will adore you, no matter what! Do you have any names you like? We can name them after someone you love? If it’s a boy, I want to make his middle name yours...

Why didn’t you think he was going to show apprehension or reluctance? Why were you so idiotic to assume this is something he desired when he’s never given you any signs of wanting to start a family? He’s probably feeling entirely overwhelmed – and no wonder – you have no tact about this. Fuck, you’re stupid. You fucking idiot. Pathetic, dumb, worthless--

“Y-yes,” you reply, and your voice is a shadow of its former self. “I took three tests. I have one here--”

“How.”

You flinch a little under the curtness of his words.

“W-what—?”

“How did this happen?”

“Uhm...” your voice sounds so frail when you speak, and you can't help it. He’s making you feel like you’ve committed a horrendous sin. You’ve managed to combine the epitome of affection between the two of you into the creation of what will become a child – a perfect mix of the two of you, and yet, you’re beginning to hate yourself for doing so. You didn’t mean to... it was an accident... “We don’t... you know... use protection... and we... have sex... a lot...”

“I thought you were taking the pill.”

You feel like you want to throw up.

His entire body is unnaturally still, and he’s not looked at you once since you’ve told him. You are pretty sure that the can in his right hand is warping under the violent pressure of his grasp, and you wring your hands around the test nervously, the weight of it somehow heavy against your palms.

“I... don’t take the pill...” you remind, and then as an afterthought, you add, “I’m sorry.”

Words you never thought you would say in relation to this. You never though you would have to apologize in this kind of situation. You exhale a shaky breath, and it seems to bring him back to reality. He sets the can down on the countertop with more force than needed, and you try your best to blink back tears as you ask, “You’re... not happy... are you...?”

It’s more of a statement than a question, and it hurts to say – god, it hurts. The words sting when they leave your mouth, like a hard slap against your face, but the ache is not nearly as bad as the way his silence is wounding you. You feel like you’re about to collapse from the amount of pain you have in your heart.

“I need to go somewhere,” is the most he offers you, before he’s turning on his heels and striding past you, leaving the apartment you share.

The noise of the front door slamming shut echoes in your mind long after the sound itself has gone.

He never did come back.

  — — — 5 years later — — —

 In the end, you were blessed with a baby girl, all chubby with round, rosy cheeks. Dark hair and eyes like her father, but soft and gentle like her mother. She was an almost perfect child. She never cried, and she never fussed, content in just being close to her mother. She listened when you spoke, and learned fast, growing just as quick, and you would die for her. She was your blessing; Akemi – the beauty of a new dawn.

You’re sure that he would have loved her more than life itself, but you try not to spare any thoughts his way anymore.

Toji gambles his life away, blowing through anything he earns as quickly as he makes it, drowning himself night after night in heavy alcohol to dampen his senses until they are nothing more than a faint hum in the back of his brain.

With any luck, those things will kill him long before the guilt does.

He fucks faceless women, drunk beyond sense, and when he finishes, he leaves before they sleep.

“Hate me, (y/n),” he sneers, turning sharply to vomit up onto the wet asphalt, breath a shaky exhale as he stumbles into the cold night, thoughts only on you – only ever on you – unaware that he’s crying. “Hate me. I fucking deserve it.”

His face is smeared with bile and tears, and he is so fucking angry -- so desperately sad, and he cries, and cries. He wants to go home. He just wants to go home. He wants to meet her – his darling daughter – he wants to hold her, and kiss her forehead, and tuck her into bed. Fuck everything that he thought – he would have been a great father, he knows it – and you knew it, too. He’s so lost without you, and he wants to lay his head on your chest in the safety of your bedroom, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat to guide him home. He wants to feel the brush of your soft lips again; to taste your tongue with his, moan your name into your parted sigh, make you feel him again.

He screams, but it catches in his throat before he can, and he splits his knuckles open when he sends a furious punch against a brick wall.

He can protect you from a lot of things – but not the power of his family. Not that. He’s just one man, and they’re so many. He has a heavenly restriction, and they are all blessed with both innate and inherited techniques, passed down through eons. He knows what they’ll do if they ever found out about you – about the child, and Toji swears on everything he has, that he won’t let them touch you – or her. Even if he won’t be able to. Even if he’ll never be able to hold his daughter, to thank her for being born, to cradle her against his chest and feel her wrap her small fingers against his – he won’t let the Zen’in have her. He won’t.

But that doesn’t mean that he deprives himself from watching over her – or you. Eyes follow the two of you home from her pre-school, singing nursery rhymes to your hearts content, watching as she orders “up, up, mommy!”, squealing happily when you lift her onto your shoulders. He imagines himself in your place; lifting her to higher heights, hearing her giggle a chorus of happy songs as your hand finds his, lips on his scar as you tell him how much you love him.

But he always keeps his distance, dark baseball cap shielding his features, and leaves before you feel someone following you.

It becomes increasingly hard to keep it at that. He starts pushing the boundaries, testing how close he can get. He knows he shouldn’t -- he has no right to – but when she dropped her stuffed toy one time in the supermarket, and you were oblivious to it, he finds himself bending down to grasp the too-soft toy in his calloused hands, dropping it in your basket when your back is turned, and your brows are furrowed as you regard the price difference between her favorite flavor of juice compared to the off-brand ones.

The thrill of being so close, of doing something, anything fatherly, was like a fix – a short relief from the aching despair and loneliness constantly plaguing him, and he finds himself doing it more and more – always pushing, always testing the waters. He even smiled at her once when she caught him staring, and she sent her own toothy grin back at him. His heart soared.

His daughter’s name was Akemi, and he first heard it when it fell from your lips one warm afternoon. He wants to write her name on his heart – right beside yours.

He wants to give her something – a pretty gift, but he doesn’t know what. He was never good at buying presents, and would only ever bring you flowers, since it seemed like something that could never go wrong, and would always bring a bright smile to your face. Flowers would be strange for a child, though. He twists the dainty silver bracelet between his large fingers, thinking bitterly that this was the same way you held the pregnancy test all those years ago. He didn’t really care how much it cost him. He’s sure that the salesman added unnecessary tax and extras to the price just to give himself more commission, but Toji doesn’t care – he just wanted something pretty to give to his daughter.

When he finally sees her enter the park, small hand tugging yours happily, his mind goes empty, and he can’t stop staring. You are as beautiful as ever, and it’s no wonder his daughter is so ethereal when she has you for a mother.

She is perfect, he thinks -- too good for this life -- and even though it’s the worst thing he has ever done, he is reminded that pulling away from you was the only way to save her from his family. It looks like she escaped the curse of inheriting any of his bloodline's techniques, and what’s more so – it seems like she, too, is oblivious to curses; skipping past them as she chases leaves that skit about the dirt path of the park, her teddy in her arms. Toji dips his head down when she draws near the bench he’s sitting on, the brim of his baseball cap keeps his face hidden, and his sadness known only to himself.

“Excuse me?”

He bristles when her voice floats past his ears, so gentle and sweet.

“Hey, mister,” she pokes his knee with her slim finger, so tiny compared to the size of his body, and he jerks at the contact. “Is this yours?”

She’s holding the bracelet in her small hand, the silver glinting in the morning sun, offering it up to him with large eyes, so close to him. At this distance, he can see the true color of her eyes – exactly like his own – and the small freckles that dot her skin. The longer he stares, the more his chest constricts painfully, tightly – he’s finding it hard to breathe, and he exhales suddenly, sharply snatching it away from her.

The force of the movement causes her to stumble a little, tripping over her feet, and before she knows it, the man who was once sitting before her has entirely caught her in his large arms, scooping her up before the ground has a chance to harm her.

She blinks once... twice... swaddled in his arms, sitting against his broad chest, and Toji frantically looks for you, finding you caught up in talking to another mother, too busy to notice. He knows he would scold you for it if he was still in your life, but when his daughter laughs, he snaps his head back to look at her, forgetting what thoughts he had in his mind at the glinting sound of her happiness.

“Whoa!” she exclaims, “You’re fast! Thanks for catching me!”

He doesn’t know what to say – if he should say anything at all. His plan was to give her the bracelet, telling her that it was a late birthday gift from someone that loves her very much, and walking off before she (or you) has the chance to catch on or respond. But now that he’s inches away from her, holding her close as she peers up at him, he’s lost again. He’s lost, and he can’t breathe. He needs you to steady him, but you aren’t here, and he doesn’t know what to do, what should he do, what should he--?

“Where did you get that scar from?” she asks innocently, her large eyes suddenly trained on the mark beside his lips.

“F-from an accident,” he mumbles, “a long time ago.”

“Oh,” she hums, hands splayed against his broad chest, looking around her, swaying her legs absentmindedly. “Wow, you’re really tall! I can see everything from up here!” she exclaims happily, “My mommy’s not as tall as this, so when I sit on her shoulders, I can’t see nearly as much as I can now!”

“Oh,” he mutters, not really knowing what to say, “is that so?”

“Mhm,” she nods, “Mommy’s not as big as you are either.”

At this, he gives a genuine laugh – a sound he hasn’t heard fall from his lips in a long, long time, looking at her with quiet adoration.

“She’s not as fast as you either,” she continues, “you were super-fast!”

“She’s strong in her own ways, though,” he mutters, offering her a soft smile.

“Do you know my mommy?”

He bristles, actively avoiding her gaze. His heart is racing from this much interaction with his daughter, and he’s sure she can feel it under her small palm. It beats for her – if only she knew, and Toji contemplates, for the briefest of seconds, just telling her. The thought leaves his mind as soon as it enters. He doesn’t have that choice, and he doesn’t deserve it.

“Not really,” he mutters, dipping down slowly to set her footing on solid ground once more.

“She’s really pretty,” the little girl continues, playing with the soft fabric of his t-shirt in a small moment of fondness and familiarity, “and nice – and she makes great food!”

Toji realises only after the fact that his hand had settled on top of her head, and he’s stroking her hair softly, thumb caressing her cheek when he moves to cup her face. She doesn’t seem to mind at all, and Toji is overwhelmed with a plethora of emotions. Pride in you for doing all this by yourself and raising such a wonderful child, shame for abandoning you and his daughter, mirth, anger, warmth, sadness, love--

“Akemi!” you call, seeing her lift her head at the sound of your voice. “This way, honey!”

“Oh, I have to go now! My mommy is calling me!” she perks up, gripping her teddy a little tighter and offering the man a smile. “Bye-bye!”

“W-wait!” he calls, thrusting the gift into her small hands. “This is for you, uh... f-from me...”

She looks down at it, before her whole face lights up, and Toji is suddenly breathless – she looks so much like you when she’s surprised, happiness blossoming over her face the same way it would on yours.

Toji feels a deep-rooted emptiness inside his body when he watches his daughter retreat away from him; a living embodiment of all his failures to you, and yet, as he sees her long, black hair whip out behind her, he realizes something else — she was your promise delivered; a combination of everything good between the two of you, in itself a miracle. He might not be in her life, but he was also partly responsible for creating something so beautiful, so ethereal.

He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but if he was ever fortunate enough to be granted a second, it would be a miracle; a holy gift.

A blessing that would accompany the beauty of dawn.

[k-atsukidayo]

━━ ✦ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜʏ ᴏғ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ (ɪ ᴍᴀʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴀʟʟᴇɴ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ғɪʀsᴛ)

He's tying together the pieces, the secret words and hidden touches, that all lead back to you. It is everything he knows, everything he does not, everything that he will. Whisked away in an inevitable conclusion, he lives his life in ways new, carries a heavy weight inside his chest; and with each moment he spends with you, he engraves it with a name called love.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ✦ bakugou katsuki x reader ɢᴇɴʀᴇ ✦  fluff, fluff, fluff, angst ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs ✦ none, unless fluff & angst are bad ♡ ᴡ.ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ✦ 5114

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ·s ɴᴏᴛᴇ ✦ tbh i didn’t have anything planned to post for bakugou’s 4/20 because i’m mentally rotting & trying so hard not to fall apart LMAO with my pea-sized brain, i’ve only been able to keep my focus on a different piece, which i may start sneak peeks soon!! sadly, my brain wouldn’t let me know true peace until i wrote for him. while working on this, i sort of imagined it to be in the same universe as another story. somewhere during and somewhere after. in a way, an unintentional-intentional sequel? side story? but, anyway, another full circle! & here’s to another year! happy birthday to my love above all loves, katsuki ♡

He wonders if there would be a moment you will wake up alone, thinking about him, needing him; bedsheets cold and foreign, bones in your fingers aching as they touch the space beside you, and nothing but this is not home screams in every corner of your mind. 

He wonders if you would ever look at him with the same flame in your eyes, the very one that burns his heart into black smoke and ashes, takes all the little remains, and restores them whole again only to repeat and repeat in a vicious cycle. He will not stop the fire because he has forced himself to add more fuel, consumes it every day as if it is a drug, replenishable, unbearably addictive. 

He wonders if kissing you would turn your world into a ticking time bomb; when his lips collide with yours, the oxygen in your lungs disappears, robbing you of the sanctuary of breathing, and all you know reaches that inevitable explosion. You, like stardust, float through the orbit in his universe. 

He wonders if he would be the one to make you question reality; have you fall, fall, fall deeply into the being that he is and struggle to taste the air in the way that he does, mouthing in broken inhales and exhales I want you, I want you, I want all of you. He finds great delight in the prospect of you denying everything good, everything you crave and hope for because he is and will never be that. His tongue is far from sweet, words like fangs and claws that may leave you red, raw, and bruised. He does not desire to be the perfect, soft-spoken embodiment of love you envision. He aspires to be the love that will suffocate you in soul-shaking hunger, the love that will not sing lullabies and cradle you in your sleep, but the love that will invade the private solar system inside your head and keep you awake at night. 

He wonders and wonders; spends too many seconds, minutes, hours attempting to decipher the mystery that clouds his head and pulls at the strings of his soul. There's something about you, something that you do, something that you are, and it always urges him to come back. He is inexplicably drawn to you, you, you. 

Perhaps, it's love, piercing yet full of sweet-talking, and it snakes along his arms, wraps itself around his neck until he begins to believe the emotion feels out of control and unpredictable like the oceans and full of possibility and starstruck beauty like the skies. Now, he’s drowning, flying, mumbling no, no; I can't, I don't love you.

The second Katsuki tries to convince himself he isn't in love is when he realizes he is.

It’s ten until twelve midnight, and he’s standing in front of the entrance to his new shared apartment with you. He stretches his arms and legs, faint pops in his joints with each step he takes inside, his mind laced with fatigue induced by hours and hours of labor.

His birthday is close to its end. Katsuki is tired from patrolling the city and apprehending a corrupt asshole or three or five. But, annoyance does not find a home in his bruised muscles and throbbing bones. He holds not a single ounce of frustration for letting the morning and nearly the whole night pass—it is an oath he swore after all.

He least expects you to be awake when he arrives, especially when exhaustion has been eating away at you too. Warmth seeps into his body, spreads like newfound wings, and ushers him into a sweet embrace as soon as he finds you standing in the hallway, hair disheveled, eyes barely open, a toothy smile appearing the longer he stares in surprise. 

A cupcake sits in your hands, candle unlit. Katsuki closes the distance, gauntlets long forgotten somewhere on the floor, and he leans in, breathing and not breathing, fighting the impulse to pull you into his body and kiss you with everything he has. 

"Happy birthday, Suki," you whisper. 

He brings a bare palm to the wick, secreting nitroglycerin-like sweat and releasing tiny sparks to set it alight. They say wishes come true on these days; when you look into the fire, speak with your heart, and let the wind carry the desire, the universe will show you miracles and magic beneath its sleeve. But, he doesn't need to hope for the unattainable—not anymore, no, since he already has you here. 

With your eyes reflecting the flickers of the candle, you appear as a saturated sunrise, divine paradise, the very life carefully created with clouds and celestial dust. He brushes your lips with his, grinning, inhaling your scent, taking the slightest of seconds to admire you closely before his next move. And, a long caress, mouth to mouth, entangled in quiet words dipped in warm syrup and drunk on its passion.

So, if someone were to ask him if he wished anything for the day to be different, he would rumble with laughter from the pit of his belly. Though, of course, not before cursing them to hell and back for questioning his choices because there is nothing more irresistible, more flawless than being home, being with you at this moment.

Time, he has learned, is valuable, often neglected of its worth. Humans, whose lives are written from beginning to end, finite in the gleam of their irises and the blood in their veins, don't realize the world will move on and bury what they once were. Very little time, while there's so much to do, and it's exactly why Katsuki is grateful for yours. 

He holds you against his chest, slow dancing in the middle of the living room, clad in his hero uniform, and you in oversized pajamas and sleep still peppered on your face. The room is dim, near dark save for the moon peeking through the curtains and sharing glimpses of gentle starlight. Silence, but every pitter-patter of your hearts echoes in an emotional song deep-seated within and composed only for you and him.

It’s five until twelve midnight, and he's thinking about love, how he can feel it in the curl of your fingers on the fabric of his top, how each inward draw of air shared between you both, he can almost hear the flutter beneath his ribcage say I love you more than love has ever allowed. He wants to say it, give himself to you, but he's terrified. Katsuki has never known this peace, this fragile yet powerful force for someone. And, as you nudge his arm up, press your lips to his hand, he's being smothered by pure bliss. 

There's a war between his head and his heart.

It's one until twelve midnight, and he's hopelessly falling, falling so hard into you. His skin feels on fire like he has swallowed the sun, but it doesn't blister and sear; it is otherworldly, a strange sensation of tenderness and intimacy he can only compare to a spot of brightness on a dark, cold day or the budding of tulips and roses in the spring.

For now, he stays unspoken. Pulse racing, core starving for more. He would continue to look at everyone with his usual chaos and exasperations. Although, as soon as his eyes catch you, he would reveal all the secrets he has locked and tucked away. Every time.

Little does he know, he has loved you before it came across his mind.

He loves you. Desperately, unconditionally. 

There is a boy who has risen to greatness. In his hands, he carries raw power; in his self, a stubborn resilience and a cutthroat ego to match, but loneliness, excruciating loneliness written on the lines and curves of his skin. He is equal parts heaven and hell, a strange human with the mind of an angel and lips and limbs of a devil, a perfect balance between pure and dangerous.

Highly respected, highly feared; he buries expectations that have gone in failure, blame and doubt and confusion, convinces himself of unrequited affection for particular individuals. These have been his bitter secrets, silent weaknesses carefully guarded behind walls stretching miles and miles from his heart. 

He hides himself to deny, to safeguard. To keep himself from shattering when he is on the verge of achieving the absolute best.

And so, this boy, with an impenetrable poker-face, lies here and now, in the dark, swallowing the aches he can never speak a word of, the regrets scarring the life beating below his chest. 

Katsuki is at a point in his life where he has grown familiar with the scoundrels monopolizing his mind. Though tonight, he finds them overwhelming; their hauntings creep to him, slithering through the shadows like venomous snakes and wrapping their bodies around his neck until he is cold, numb, desperate for air. 

He's quietly pleading for help, but he pounds his head, grips his hair, murmurs no, no, no; this is fine. There is something about the darkness, he ponders, that creates worlds and languages of its own, and maybe, he has discovered the wrong one at the wrong time. 

It is twisted, an unpleasant thought to have—what it would be like to run away from it all. Run, run, run until his bones fracture, his lungs crumble into powder, and he is nothing but a hazy spot in the background. A groan and a punch to the gut keep him at bay. He's not a coward; he's not one to surrender, not one to let the monsters bend him to their will. He is the Bakugou Katsuki. However, he can't be certain if he's feeling alive or not, especially when this moment calls for such a concern. 

Hot liquid prickles at the corner of his eyes, and his chest heaves harder; he bites the gummy wall of his mouth, teeth like sharpened fangs to draw specks of blood. The room is too loud, too silent, too much for him to handle. Katsuki loses his grip on reality, and with the sinister smirk of gravity, he takes a nosedive into the void. 

However, light emerges from the darkness, its brilliance growing and growing; a warmth grabbing hold of his wrists, pulling him into a pair of arms, and he is suddenly opening his eyes, seeing something, someone, that appears to him as—love?  

You come to him, singing words sweet and soft like the first bite of cotton candy or warm honey soothing a sore throat. In any other instance, Katsuki would be sick to his stomach for allowing his vulnerability to be so blatantly seen by you, except he finds his mind drifting elsewhere. Somehow, the darkness seems like a blanket. That his space is no longer empty because all he can feel is you, filling every corner, every crack, being the fiery sun within his frozen palms.

He parts his mouth, his upper lip beginning to tremble. He doesn't know what to say, what to do. The walls are breaking. Have been breaking. 

It's not that he doesn't expect you to be here. And, it's not the first you have slipped into his room. Although, he considers it to be a miracle that you chose this moonlight to be beside him. For whatever explanation, you understand the chaos creating cyclones inside his skull. You tell him all the right things, the things he desires to hear.

"You're not any of the things people have said about you. What I may have thought about you," you begin.

"Doesn't matter; they can say whatever they want," he growls, but there is grief marinating within his voice. Katsuki doesn't push you away. Instead, he pulls you closer, burying himself deeper, digs his fingers into your sweater and into your flesh. He's hurting so badly, and then thinly, "I don't need their damn validation." 

"Maybe you don't, or maybe you do, and it's okay. Regardless of what it is, you're more than the names and thoughts and words they associate you with," you persuade, drawing shapes on his back, grazing your nails gently over his scalp. "I don't expect you to change for them because you're fine the way you are. You're good, Katsuki. You are good." 

His heart restarts. The flow of his blood stops, only to pump in an entirely different direction, but it gives him the ability to live, to be so, so alive. He's breathing as if he has lost everything, breathing as if he has gained everything, breathing as if he can conquer the world, and he's gasping. 

He shuts and opens his eyes, forces out sleep like he has woken up from a nightmare. And, it is exactly that. A nightmare—a bad dream that does not exist, one that felt a little too real this night. However, he's in your embrace, safe and sound, away from the wicked dark and into a dark that now carries light; and he is okay, okay, okay. 

Sometimes, a heart is a heavy burden to bear, and sometimes, Katsuki doesn't believe he deserves to have such a delicate thing inside him. He's destructive, reckless, gets lost in a fight because aggression and indiscretion are his means of obtaining false refuge or uncertain atonement. You are his reminder that he is worthy of the excellence marked on his palms, worthy of tenderness from those he cares about, worthy of being part of a world that, in truth, needs someone like him. 

It's in this hour, he thinks, love is in the air. It has to be. 

But, what does he know? 

He has no experience of it, other than the belief he holds. He swears that, perhaps, this is what it tastes like. Him, you, here in this bedroom, in each other's arms, hidden in the farthest corners and set apart from prying eyes. And, he's curious, determined to find more, to see you, to feel you.

It's fifteen until seven in the morning, and he's steering apart from slumber, the chill of the blankets less than comfortable. His hand searches for warmth, for the body that was curled snug next to him. Eyes closed, he motions up and up, mindlessly, until the sound of paper crinkling beneath the weight of his palm quickly tempts him to check. 

An envelope, addressed to him, written in red ink: To, Katsuki. 

He holds it in his hands, lying on his back, quiet; his skin is heavy, feeling moisture-laden as if the room is somehow humid and sweltering. The air is drier, and his chest heaves a bit harder, a flavor of nervous curiosity at the tip of his tongue. There is little to know, little to expect since, inside, a folded letter carries uncertainty. 

Meticulously, he separates the contents from its shelter, peeling back the crisp corners with soft wonder that still once in a while comes to him as a daze or as an unfamiliar friend, but a friend nevertheless. 

Happy birthday is the first that he reads. 

It's eleven until four in the afternoon, and he's watching you scurry away with a smile that leaves him ripped open and overfilled with sunshine, and for whatever reason, he has found such perplexing tranquility in the burning. He has a letter, now the seventeenth—and still counting, it seems. 

Among the lines, periods, and exclamation points, he grows obsessed with the things floating in every nook of your skull, every vessel that loops and moves in a straight path to the substance beating under your ribs. You breathe love in all ways possible, and even after these years with you, he has yet to figure out how you manage to make him feel good, feel like you have plucked all the villains that have stapled themselves inside his head for more than a decade in a matter of seconds.

He believes your heart is too big for your body. 

The hours drift by, calmy, pleasantly, not dressed in a thrilling adventure as most would opt for in commemoration of another four seasons of health, another four seasons of life, and perhaps, in a separate instance, it would have piqued Katsuki's interest. However, in the meantime, he is content to settle indoors. For the gigglings that take his breath away, for the corny jokes followed by exaggerated groans like in those morning dramas, for the tender kisses he doesn't see coming, for the passionate kisses he silently demands, for the one with a beautiful face and a beautiful soul.

It's six until eight in the evening, and he's smiling at a letter you have written; it is the last among the twenty-something he has now piled next to him on the desk, celebrating each year of his birth. He places it down, tilts his neck back. Releasing a shaky breath, he contemplates what these mean to him.

Humanity. He thinks of its faults, associates humans with greediness and their wars, a language he hates yet knows well. As a hero, he's subject to remember the fallen, dirty his hands and swallow blood, sometimes being a little meaner than the demons roaming around. Yet, there is more to these beings, and it is with your horizons, he discovers beauty in the madness, the emotions in them that also inspire the stars to climb higher. There is a peculiar complexity to humans, to individuals like him, like you. 

When you stealthily crawl into his lap, poking and prodding your head to his arms, Katsuki can't but chuckle. He opens up, making room for you against him, and it is as soon as you fill the space, he sees the world through your eyes in a brand-new light.

"I miss you," he murmurs. A simple and forward declaration, though they convey a deeper, different meaning that you don’t catch. Unusual since you’re empathetically in tune to recognize these kinds of implications, but he’ll allow it.

Beneath the guise of his words, he tells you stories, his delicate daydreams of the present and the future, the things he has said, the things he will say.

He takes your fingers, colored like the crimson in his irises, closer to his mouth, his breath teasing the tips and igniting your pulse. You pause, let your thumb trace his cupid's bow, and in a cracked whisper, "Why are you saying that?" You bump your nose to his and smile, "It's only been a few minutes, and we've been together this whole day."

"I know,” a sigh, “but I still miss you," he insists, kissing one digit at a time. Love, love, love, he's drowning, being pulled into the center of a storm. It is through each letter, each phrase that you have etched onto paper, onto him, that he understands why hurricanes are named after people. You have so much power. He's desperate, aching to memorize you all over again; stain your lips with his, permanent like the pen you have used.

All he can think about is love, how love is you. 

There is a man who thinks so much, feels and feels more than he should. He is a living, breathing, impervious bubble with an endless stream of thoughts, emotions unwanted and wanted, troubled and relaxed. Though, every so often, he wonders if these qualities will eventually become lesser than benign because he, for some rationale, still holds the impression that fortune can only last so long. 

He is unkind to himself. 

Despite these years to sort his thoughts, he finds himself drowning in the ocean of his silence. Katsuki continues to fall—as much as he does fly. Every now and then, hopelessly, victim to the doubt and the fear he unwillingly married, and they have planted tiny seeds inside his head, flourished into branches that wait for the proper moment to catch him with their grip and choke him slowly. 

But, you exist in his soul, keeping his feet steady on the ground or pinning him back to the sky where he shines the brightest. Slashing away the vices around his throat, you are the hero to a hero. 

And, he comes back to life, back to reality once again. You are the first that he sees, always. This man is reminded of your compassion, your unshakeable willpower to be his pillar. It is your unadulterated loyalty and energy that he appreciates. Even when he doesn’t confess it often, he hopes you understand through his efforts. 

Katsuki thinks of you every minute, every hour, even now as he bursts through the city, unable to pay mind to the screeching honks of cars and trucks, the collective shouts and wonders of the civilians that watch him. He takes the atmosphere by storm, leaving trails of smoke and sonic booms vibrating the glass windows of business towers and apartment complexes. 

His eyes find you in the distance, past the tacky yellow hazardous tape barricading the area, standing among the dirt and damage that have smeared your cheeks, forehead, to the backs of your ears, and the ends of your hair.

People are not meant to be stars, yet the longer Katsuki looks at you, a halo brilliantly flashing above your head, he reckons you are an exception to that impossible rule.

The brightest and rarest body of light to exist within the universe is none other than you. 

As you both return home, he crawls into the box of his musings. You protect and fight because you are a champion, a defender for those unable and for what lies ahead. And, like you, he protects. He fights and fights, blemishes the tissue of his skin, splits fibers of his muscles, snaps lengths of his bones all for the sake of another tomorrow. But, he reaches a revelation (perhaps, selfish) as you guide him to the bedroom and lie down beside him: he does not want to, does not know if he can, fight if he cannot guarantee a tomorrow, a future, with you. 

When he reaches over, takes your hand, and entwines his callused digits with yours, he remembers there is warmth in the world, his world. He would swallow fire and lightning, rip himself at every edge, eat his own heart if it promises your presence. Katsuki drifts into a trance observing the mellow rise and fall of your chest, your breathing so serene. Oh, how he would tear and give limb for limb just for you. He's aware that no matter how far gone he is, no matter how broken he is—he is healing, will heal because every piece of him is safe with you.

"Am I dreaming?" you ask loudly, detaching him from his thoughts. He stares at you, notices your arm motioning up and down, and he follows your gaze, stopping at the end where you two are connected.

"No," he replies, dragging the word as he strokes his thumb over yours. Katsuki blinks, raises an eyebrow, "Why?" 

With the opposite hand, you tap your index finger against your chin, feigning deep contemplation and releasing a low hum before speaking again, "You're awfully sweet." 

He immediately props himself up on his elbow, scrunches his face in annoyance, "Hah? I can be sweet too. What do you mean—"

As soon as you cackle, there is a quick stifle to his outburst that leaves you very amused. Bringing your joined hands over your mouth, puffs of hot air and the point of your nose tickles the ridges of his knuckles; and your joy reveals miniature constellations that twinkle in your irises, "I love you."

Katsuki melts. As he always does. If only he could bottle your voice, your words, and listen to them until he's impossibly intoxicated. Whenever you tell him, it feels like the first, though better each time. 

"Mm, say that again," he breathes, drawing you in and placing his lips at the center of your wrist. One kiss, two kisses, and then gently squeezing as if to convey I love you more than you know. 

You lie on your side, quiet. Katsuki watches you, and you to him, and there is a peculiar tenderness in your eyes that mirrors the tenderness in his voice when he mutters your name. His heart beats faster, rattles along his ribcage. He could scoop you up, take you to a place where it is only you and him, lose himself in you again and again like he is now. 

The moment is intimate, profound. Nothing short of perfection. 

He has you, but he still wants you. God, he always wants you. He realizes you keep him on his toes, trembling, and dying for oxygen, the same way he does you. While he is far from ideal, far from soft-spoken, he is not incapable of such. He is everything he wants to be, everything he can be, everything you yearn for.  

He makes you ache and ache just like him. You are full, unbearably so, and you are catching your breath with all that he does, all that he speaks. He finds that the less he says, the more weight his words seem to carry. He recognizes his strength. 

Through you, he remembers it is okay to be kindhearted to his friends, his family. He remembers it is okay to desire things because he does, in fact, deserve them. He remembers it is okay to let himself be happy. You have him inside and out, and honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way. 

He loves you. He loves who he is. He loves who he is when he is with you.

That is what they mean when they talk about love.

It's twenty until six in the morning, and he's floating among the clouds, overcome by absolute weightlessness. He lies on his side, arm bent under his head for support, gaze entirely on you. 

Immaculate. 

His heart is in his throat, threatening to explode as he spends the quiet hour of the sunrise watching the air you draw in and out, the dreams that leave a sliver of drool, some dry, some wet, and an adorable, crooked smile on your face—and every bit of the moment echoes this, this is why I breathe.

There is nothing about you that he cannot imagine not loving with every fiber of his being. You are in all the marvels and miracles in the world. You are the sun he sees at the first light, the only star he watches at night. Something as simple as one or two strands of hair hanging against your forehead when the breeze hits or the croaks of laughter when a game or snarky remark tickles your fancy, or the way you speak his name, how it seems more like a call than a formal label to his person.

He moves in slowly, delicately, until he is a kiss-length away. With a finger, his touch ghosts a trail, back and forth, back and forth, just above the apple of your cheek, shy and apprehensive about disturbing your rest. A pang to his beating core makes him hesitate his motions, and now he's silently panting for oxygen, for anything that can stop his brain from flipping like coins in relentless heads or tails.

"I love you," he confesses and curls his tongue, takes a shallow breath, and repeats, though this time, barely speaking at all. Squeezing his eyelids tightly, the skin between his brows begins to wrinkle from pressure; his torso stutters, struggling and struggling to push away the lava from invading his lungs and forming him into charred flesh and liquid bones. 

How much he could only begin to confess—you are the source of great beauty, the promise to better days. 

It's nine until six in the morning, and he's sure, unequivocally sure he doesn't want to be without you. 

Katsuki recoils when you shift and stretch your limbs, hiding evidence that he may have woken you. A mute exchange from his vermilion pools to yours; the planets and nebulas flashing, laying bare the unspoken. He is aware that you are the one that makes him see galaxy after galaxy, the one that memorizes every curve and bump, every scar, every shiver of his body, the one that ruins him yet builds him. 

"Happy birthday, darling," you tell him, voice raspy; golden glints of sunrise at the rim of your drowsy eyes. He learns by heart the scrunch of your nose, your knuckles escaping the warmth of the blankets to rub off sleep from your lashes, your sideways gesture to scoot yourself further into his embrace. You are so sweet, so effortlessly sweet.

After a tender kiss to his neck, he cups your face, brushes his lips to yours, joining your mouths in short, innocent caresses, and it is through this act of affection, he expresses thank you. 

He is melting, spilling over into a single wave in the vast ocean as if his body can no longer contain him. He can't pick himself up, gather himself whole, stop himself from carrying this sensation that you will always, always, always uncover the means to push his blood into a raging tsunami as you did the first time.

It is three until six in the morning, and he's feeling alive, so very alive. You are real, and his to have; a precious soul that doesn't deserve to wait. Then, he is reminded of the small box covered by shirts and sweaters and folded socks inside the drawer. 

By now, he is used to having you in his world, be his world. You are his first thought at the crack of dawn, the last thought after the dusk and the moon has risen. He will never be tired of you, for he has given his heart to you ages ago. He wants you to stay with him and never leave. Katsuki can't bear the notion of spending a day in his life that does not have you in it. 

You know how he is with his actions, his words—you love them all the same, and that is enough to reassure him. Everything; the loud and the aggressive, the sharp and the witty, the cynical and the fearful, the intense and the passionate, the gentle and the true. These are him. This is how you remember him, how you keep him engraved in your heart, how he finds genuine peace and happiness.  

His gaze is steady. And so, he believes, it is time.

Even when this world comes to its conclusion, and it is nothing more than mere gravel and forgotten dust in the rivers of the universe, he loves you, will love you. 

He wants to be forever with you. 

© 2020-2021 k-atsukidayo ✦ all rights reserved. do not repost or modify in any way, shape, or form. 

[taeilskitty]

Hii

I noticed your request is open

I'd like to request celibate doyoung smut with arranged marriage au!

Would appreciate it if you could add a lot of nipple play!

Thanks!

Thank you so much for the request!! I really enjoyed writing this so I hope it was good enough. Enjoy love <33

You hadn’t known Doyoung for long.

He was nice enough, he was respectful and pretty funny, good company too. It wasn’t such an issue that you were going to have to be together for, well, ever.

Forever is a long time. In all honesty you’d always dreaded your wedding day because you knew there was no chance of marrying someone you actually loved; that’s a fantasy you knew you’d just have to live out in your next life. But the first time you were introduced to your future husband, you realised that maybe, just maybe, you could make the most of it.

You weren’t best friends by any means, let alone lovers, but at least you were on the same boat. Both living with parents who had a plan since before you were even born, a prophecy they’d already written out for you. Whatever.

Maybe the knowledge of your fate was the reason for it, but you were never overly concerned with love. Of course you wanted it, but you’d learned to be your own person too. And that was great. Doyoung had once admitted that he was relieved about that; “I was worried you’d be disappointed,” he’d told you, “because I can’t do… any of that.”

It sort of warmed your heart. He was fairly open with you, and for that reason was sure not to cross any of your boundaries. You liked that about him. You could certainly get used to seeing his face everyday. And honestly it helped that he was… really fucking hot.

Your wedding was actually really nice, what with all things considered. You made the most of the celebrations and he seemed really calm as opposed to you who was frankly scared shitless. His family liked you, your family liked him, and most importantly you liked each other - or at the very least you tolerated each other.

“I can’t believe you’re my husband,” you laughed once it was all over. “Thank you for making the day a little less scary.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Y/N. Honestly.”

You smiled at Doyoung and looked back out across the moonlit sky. It was proving to be an emotional night, a surreal one at that.

“Before we met I was scared you’d be some creep, like, a total weirdo.”

“You seriously think your parents would let someone treat their kid like shit?” Now he was the one laughing; you both knew your parents were a lot of things, but they’d never want to see you get hurt.

“Okay, fair,” you agreed, and turned back to face him. “I’m surprised they didn’t dump me with someone crazy ugly though.”

Doyoung smirked. “Oh?” His eyes darted away momentarily. “So you do like me. Huh.”

Something told you he was only half kidding, but the giddiness in your gut made you wonder if this was the feeling all the blockbuster romance movies tried to convey. You weren’t in love. But you sure were glad it was him next to you right then.

“Don’t get so cocky.” He gasped sarcastically in response to your playful rejection. “I’ll put up with you.”

“I give it a week before you’re head over heels in love with me.”

Standing up, he looked back sort of expectantly.

“You wish. I think you just want me to be in love with you.”

“You’re married to me,” Doyoung scoffed. “C’mon. Let’s head inside.”

You stood up and looked at him for a moment. He still had that glint in his eye that suggests something isn’t quite right, like he’s waiting for something.

His beauty is… almost unfair. There’s no way your parents’ taste in men was this good, especially when picking some guy out for you. It made no sense - how was he so attractive? You knew it wasn’t just the light because, let’s face it, anyone can see how hot he is.

You sighed, and you shook your head when he asked if something’s wrong.

Doyoung placed a hand on your shoulder. He seemed far more nervous than he did before, particularly when you stepped in just a little closer. He could practically feel your breath mixing with his; your lips almost brushing against each other.

“What?” You ask when he breaks eye contact. “Never kissed anyone before?”

“Actually, no…” He let out a nervous chuckle. “I wanted to wait till I was married. It just feels weird that now I am…”

You weren’t sure why this shocked you, but it kind of made sense. Of course he’d waited, he was so angelic. Not even necessarily innocent by any means, and honestly it wouldn’t have bothered you if he’d slept with 1 or 100 people before. But somehow this made him… cuter?

You vowed not to laugh. You wanted to, not because it was funny or anything, but because it was just kind of endearing. You smiled at him.

“That’s okay, I’m no expert at it.”

Doyoung was silent for a second, but he looked back down at you with confidence in his eyes.

“My parents made a good choice with you.”

The space between your lips finally closed.

-

Despite having no experience, Doyoung knew how to draw whines out of you and kiss you in a way that sent butterflies to your stomach. He tugged on your bottom lip and held you with just enough force to make you feel the perfect amount of helplessness. It came naturally. The kissing, the touching, the clothes coming off. He even took the time to admire your body. How the fuck did he get so perfect?

“You’re really gorgeous, Y/N…” he muttered against the skin of your neck, your hands wandering into his hair. “I’m so glad we found each other.”

“Mmh-” A gentle moan escaped you when he grazed his teeth over your sweet spot. “You’re - you’re so hot.”

Doyoung chuckled a little bit and lay back on your now-shared bed. You’d clambered on top of him nervously, adrenaline coursing through your body, excitement chasing after it. He couldn’t hide how hard he was, not in those boxers - and there was no way you could ignore how big his cock felt strained against you.

“I - are you okay with this?” He asked, pulling away for a moment. The look in his eyes was sincere.

You nod. “God yes.”

That’s when he pulls you back into the depths of his kisses and hisses when your hand tugs at his boxers. He’d waited so long for this moment, and it was happening with someone he couldn’t believe he was so lucky to marry. The pair of you were nervous of course, but the mutual understanding you had was enough. The fact that Doyoung had already asked if you were comfortable made you want him even more for some reason.

“Ride me,” he breathed. “Please.”

Doyoung’s cock felt so fucking good. It stretched you perfectly, which hurt a little more than you’d like to admit but the feeling of him inside you just felt… wow. He threw his head back as you moved on him slowly.

“God, fuck, keep doing that baby,” he moaned.

Baby. The pet name sounded incredible coming from him.

“Yes sir,” You mocked, but the way he cursed under his breath when you said that told you he was into it. “Oh you want me to call you that, don’t you?”

“Shut up.” He was blushing just a little, and brought your lips to his again. “Don’t try and tease me, I can’t take it. Not this time. Seriously.”

Something in Doyoung’s voice sounded desperate. You wanted to taunt him so badly, but despite the fact that he’d never done this before, it made you wince with pleasure to think of all the things he could do to you when you get more comfortable with sex. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed up and down your collarbones, bucking his hips up into you. He mentioned how tight you were, how good you felt around his cock and how bad he wanted to cum in you. The rasp in his voice sent you reeling, and you tried to reply but when he took your nipple into his mouth you almost started crying with pleasure.

“F-fuck!!”

It was one of the most incredible sensations, his tongue lolling around the bud paired with his cock deep inside you. The way his teeth nipped against the sensitive skin was enough to make you both cum. You felt… amazing. Clenching around his cock, you dug your nails into his back and whined far louder than you intended; a hand began to play with your other hardened bud and sent your mind into oblivion.

“So good…” He moaned, kissing along the width of your chest to switch sides. The sudden cold air against your spit-sodden nipple made you shudder but the coolness was a part of what made it feel so much better. Doyoung’s tongue flicked and played with you to an unconscious rhythm played by the fingers opposite, not at all in tune with his hips now snapping against you but fuck it felt good. He sort of whimpered, not in a submissive way but in a way that sounded overwhelmed with pleasure. He was clearly enjoying what he was doing, his cock buried in your hole and his mouth on your chest; it was like he’d dreamt of this moment. He’d never admit that he had, not yet anyway, but the anticipation leading up to him finally getting to fuck was a lot for him. As for you… you were no stranger to fantasising. You’d wanted sex for a long time. It felt so much better than you could have hoped; it sure helped that Doyoung actually took the time to focus on how you felt too, but really you were perfectly happy grinding on his huge cock alone.

It slowly built up. The friction was unbearably good. The sensation of his mouth against your chest, his hand gripping your waist for dear life, his cock sliding in and out of you -

“Fuck, fuck--”

You came, hard, clenching and panting and grabbing fistfuls of his hair as you did so. “That’s it,” Doyoung breathed, “cum for me baby.”

You rode your orgasm out on him and tried so hard not to let your entire body jerk with each thrust he made after you came, until finally he followed suit. He moaned into your skin and god, he sounded perfect. The noises that came from the man’s mouth were nothing short of beautiful. This was heaven, or at the very least Earth’s closest replica to it.

“Ah,” he panted, still inside you, allowing the both of you to come down from your high. “Thank you, love…”

“No, thank you,” you laughed. “That - I didn’t think it would feel so good.”

The smug look on his face was pretty hard for him to hide. “Hah. Well. Me neither, to be honest.”

The two of you looked into each other’s eyes once more and you just felt so comfortable. A kiss came so naturally once again, and you realised that maybe, just maybe, spending the foreseeable future together wouldn’t be so bad.

You hadn’t known Doyoung for long.

But it would be a lie if you said you couldn’t see yourself falling for him.

[griffintail]

The News

Summary: A part two to A Successful Test. Tommy reflects on the next few days after the incident. 

Pairings: Platonic! Tommy x F! Reader, Mentioned Wilbur x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of death, angst lotta angst, mentions of a panic attack

A/N: Just a side note, there’s a part where Tommy can touch Ghostbur. It’s my sort of headcanon where everyone can touch Ghostbur because he doesn’t have any other “abilities” of a ghost, he’s just super cold to the touch and is see through.

        Tommy slammed his axe into the side of the tree, his arm aching from the force.

        He didn’t care though.

        A few days had passed since…the test.

        Tommy couldn’t remember much that had happened directly after the explosion. He remembered yelling at Tubbo, he remembered being angry and upset and crying, but he can’t remember what happened after. Tubbo and Sam told him he ran off and Tubbo found him passed out in the snow, bringing Tommy back to his home. The older boy had run off and got Sam Nook, who got just Sam.

        He healed him up and bandaged the injuries Tommy hadn’t cared to notice he had gotten from being blown back from the explosion. The injuries were still there, it had been a little too long for the healing potions to heal everything completely. He had wrapped bandages on his entire left forearm and another on his upper right arm, there had been one around his forehead but he had taken it off two days ago, a scar formed.

        From there, they tried to help Tommy but he just wanted to be left alone. It was better if they stayed away anyways.

        Taking the axe out, he slammed it into the tree again, the sound echoing in the small wooded area.

        They had held a funeral.

        Almost every last SMP resident came.

        Tubbo had organized the event with the help of Eret and Sam.

        Tommy stood silently during the gathering. He saw everyone there, even the family that had betrayed him came out of respect for the woman that…that gave up everything for him. Slowly, people gave their words of respect for her. It wasn’t like Schlatt’s funeral, everyone cared and everyone was hurting.

        Tubbo had coaxed him into saying something, just at least as a final goodbye. Tommy hated the idea but he slowly came forward and stood in front of all the mourning people.

        Mourning because of him.

        “When the war first started…” Tommy spoke, everyone was frozen at his almost silent words. “When we fought for our independence of L’Manberg, (Y/N) stood with us against everything…She lost her first life…for Tubbo and me.”

        The memory always haunted the two boys. Dream and his goons had cornered them into a hole outside the walls and (Y/N) had rushed over the walls without a second thought. She stood as the perfect L’Manberg citizen, screaming at them, egging them on before dashing away, letting the boys escape to the wall.

        As she was making a b-line back for the safety of the walls, she had been shot in the back by Dream. Tommy remembered his scream then. He remembered screaming so loud at Dream, that Wilbur had come rushing out of the van. They drafted the Declaration of Independance the moment (Y/N) was back in the van.

        “She always fought with her words till there wasn’t room to do it anymore. …(Y/N) had stood for L’Manberg but she always sought people first. She tried for peace, for everyone’s freedom. And when…Tubbo was trapped…She gave up everything when I didn’t.”

        Tommy clenched his hands, remembering (Y/N) yelling at him and Wilbur.

        “Techno and Tubbo are alone down there! They’re our friends in case you forgot! If you’re not going, then I will!” She had shouted before ender pearling down, knocking Techno’s crossbow the other way, aiming directly at Schlatt as he pulled the trigger.

        She had pulled the panicking Tubbo out before the three of them booked it as best they could. When Schlatt came stumbling out of the white house screaming for blood, the crowd went into chaos, Wilbur trying to get down to the woman below. It had been Tommy’s fault then too…

        He said Techno and Tubbo had her back, they needed to get away before anyone knew where they were. When they got to base…(Y/N) was there first, she had respawned. She had lost in a fight; Techno, Tubbo, and her having been separated. Wilbur refused to let her out of his sight the next few days as Tommy had felt guilt rack up. (Y/N) assured him though, she was happy he left.

        The reason she had lost was because they stormed the tower and she became reckless thinking they were still in there so she fought to save people that weren’t there…Wilbur and Tommy would have most certainly had died if they had still been there. Or that was what (Y/N) always convinced him.

        It’s his fault she’s gone. It’s his fault she had no lives to spare.

        “She tried to stop Wilbur and prove we could still be the same L’Manberg.”

        (Y/N) had told him one day during his exile, when Ghostbur wasn’t there, that she had been in the button room when it had gone off. That’s how she had gotten Wilbur’s jacket he wore all the time during the era of PogTopia that she had worn till the end, a stitch in the middle of the back of the jacket however where…Phil had cut through. She told him how she pleaded with Wilbur, trying to convince him that they could make L’Manberg right again. Phil trying to help her and assure Wilbur.

        But Wilbur had been too far gone and told her that he loved her before pressing the button. It was one of the few times he had seen the strong woman cry. It was the first time Tommy comforted her instead of her comforting him.

        When the final fight came, she stood as the new spearhead for L’Manberg. In L’Manberg’s last moments, she tried to fight with her words, saying she’d bring the country back to its former days without the need for power but she had lost and they lost the last bit of their nation. From there, she simply just spent time with Tommy, Tubbo, and Ghostbur, doing research and loving them, still fighting for people’s freedom when they needed her.

        “She came to me almost every day in exile. She never gave me pity, she always made me smile, she always…she was always there.” Tommy gripped the end of his shirt as he gritted his teeth. “And the SMP couldn’t have lost someone so great.”

        After the speeches, it was a somber meal. Tommy was just angry at himself. Angry that this was his fault that he had lost the world such a great woman, that he made himself lose the best sister he never had. And his anger had only gotten worse when he had noticed that Ghostbur wasn’t there. Ghostbur was the one person that hadn’t appeared and Tommy started demanding to know where the ghost of his brother was.

        When questioning Ranboo if he had seen the ghost, he only got angrier.

        Tommy slammed his axe into the tree once more, having to let go of the axe from the pain. It brought anger to him now thinking about what Ranboo told him.

        “No, but I need to tell you something, Tommy.” He told him; his tone upset as he held his book. “I…I found (Y/N) before she went to save you. I forgot about it till I looked in my book.”

        “W-What?” Tommy questioned confused. “What do you mean found her?”

        “I was going to Eret’s when I heard her…I heard her screaming for someone. She was in an obsidian box. I broke her out and had to lead her out. She kept mumbling about you and another box. I-I don’t get what it meant…and her eyes were kind of unfocused.”

        Tommy had stood paralyzed in the room.

        “After a minute though, we heard Tubbo on the radio and she kind of shook herself out of it. She said…she said something about a traitor and you and just started running.”

        Someone had put her…

        There had been a second time when Tommy had to comfort his sister. She had fallen into a hole during Tommy’s exile, one of the various ones Dream had made. Tommy had laughed at first but took a moment and noticed how freaked out she was becoming. She was panicking.

        Tommy had quickly gotten her out and yelled for Ghostbur. The ghost had come over and noticed what was going on, quickly putting blue in the woman’s hands as Tommy tried to get her to relax. After, (Y/N) explained how she nearly lost and did lost so much to confided spaces, boxes, that she had developed a fear of them. Tommy understood what she meant, she lost both of her lives saving them from the confines of a box and she lost Wilbur and L’Manberg to the button room, a small space.

        As Ranboo was asking Tommy if he was ok, Tommy ran. He didn’t care about the protests of Phil, Sam, Tubbo, and some of the others. Someone in that room had trapped her. Someone had betrayed her and in her last moments, made her fearful, scared, and alone.

        It had been three days since then and his anger was unbearable. No one bothered him, scared of mood. The only ones that tried were Tubbo and Sam but they only got snapped at. But he wasn’t angry at either of them now, he was angry at himself, the traitor, Ghostbur, Dream. He was just angry.

        All of this is his fault.

        He put his hands on his knees as he felt the tears well up in his eyes again. He just wanted her back, he’d do anything to bring her back.

        …

        Sighing, he picked up the axe and left the tree. He didn’t really need the wood anyway. He trudged back to his house, ignoring the still in construction hotel as always as he came to his home. Coming to his house, he froze as he saw the last person he wanted to see.

        “What the hell are you doing here?!” Tommy shouted at the ghost of his brother.

        “Tommy!” Ghostbur float to him. “I have good news!”

        “Shut up!” The boy screamed. “Where the hell were you?! Where have you been?! (Y/N)’s gone and you didn’t come to her funeral or—or! Even pay respects to her! How could you do that to her memory?!”

        Ghostbur moved sheepishly, uncomfortable with the shouting. “Well…I…the good news.”

        “I don’t care.” Tommy scoffed going into his home. “I don’t want…”

        Tommy stopped as another transparent figure, wearing a large brown coat, turned around to look at him. The figure’s eyes lit up as they rushed in front of Tommy.

        “Tommy! I remember you! You remember me, right? I’m (Y/N)!” She smiled, as she stood in front of him.

        Tommy was paralyzed before tears poured down.

        “Oh dear, are you alright?” She asked coming closer.

        “Oh, here, have some blue!” Ghostbur smiled now, holding out the blue to his brother.

        Tommy didn’t grab it though and instead rushed forward, hugging the woman. He felt like he just fell into a freezing ocean but he didn’t care. She was here in some way…and he’d make everything right. 

         He’d make sure Dream brought her back too and he’d make everything right.

[usmsgutterson]

Certainly- Kaz Brekker

The reader is a bit of an astrology and astronomy alike geek for this, which I hope y’all don’t mind! Also, in this case, phones exist so lets pretend that phones exist in Ketterdam, making it a bit of a modern au, I guess!

Also, this’ll probably be a bit ooc for Kaz

Fic type- angsty fluff

Warnings- blood, mentions of death, and the reader is sick (nothing specific, I just kind of took random symptoms and made up a word for the sickness)

You were determined to see the stars before you went, and as you grew sicker, none of the crows knew when that would be, so, after a little convincing, the crows had gotten Colm to let you spend a couple of months at his farm in Novyi Zem, where the stars were the clearest at night, not burdened by light pollution or the screams of lively cities. 

It was the seven of you crammed into a basement, sharing beds, but none of them cared, and you were just glad to be with the people you called family. You were happy that they were with you, that Kaz was willing to wheel you everywhere when you got too weak to stand, that Jesper still made jokes, even despite watching you deteriorate. You were grateful for Inejs smile, Wylans music, Ninas impeccable tastes and Matthias and his big arms that could lift you and put you down without issue. 

The six of them had started taking shifts taking you outside. Nina took you outside Sunday nights, Matthias Mondays, Wylan Tuesdays, Jesper Thursdays, Inej Fridays and Kaz Saturdays. Wednesdays you rested up; ate when it was time to eat, used the bathroom when you needed, took a shower if it were the appropriate time, but other than that, you slept.

It was Kaz’s day to wheel you out, and you’d had a particularly rough day that day. Inej went with him, promising not to intrude on the time that you would spend together. She’d do backflips and run across the roof of the farm if you asked her to, but she’d not interrupt otherwise. 

“I love the stars,” you whispered, leaning back in your wheelchair and tightening the hold of the blanket over your lap. “Thank you both. For doing this.” 

“Don’t you worry, love,” Kaz murmured. “Just keep your eyes on the stars, okay?”

“We’re happy to do this,” Inej added. “All of us are. Really.” It was like both of them could sense it as well as you could. You had a feeling that the night would end terribly, just like the morning had begun.

You’d woken up only to need to rush to the toilet immediately, blood coming up your throat like bile, staining your skin and leaving your bottom lip red as a cherry. 

Kaz had been at your side in a minute, Nina and Wylan right behind him. Wylan kept your hair away from the sides of your face, Nina slowed your heartrate and Kaz wet a cloth with cold water to get your body temp down. 

Kaz had forced himself to stay in the moment, to not let his thoughts stray to the urge to sleep in the same bed as you to make sure that nothing happened while you slept--to be there in case something did--but to stay on the sun as it set and the faraway sound of Wylan playing his flute with the window open so that you’d be able to hear it. 

Once you’d gotten settled under a tree, Inej ran off, making her way inside and up to the barns roof, where she sat, keeping a watch from a distance as Kaz let you rest your head against his shoulder, gloved hand interlaced with yours. 

“I love you, Brekker,” you murmured. “Please don’t forget that. Ever.” 

“I won’t,” he whispered. “You’re gonna stay around and get better until we can spar again, and you can beat my ass even though I’ve my cane as a weapon.” 

“You know full well I can’t promise that,” you wished that you could. You desperately wished. “I’m going to die young, Kaz. I’m not gonna get to eighteen, much less eighty.” Kaz hated you for that.

He hated you because everything that you said somehow managed to be right. It was like you had a sixth sense for that kind of thing, and while, on missions, it proved useful, in that scenario, it just proved annoying. 

“You’re gonna make it to eighteen if it kills me,” he informed you. “I’ll take you around the globe if I need to, just to make sure you end up okay. I will not live a life without you in it, Y/N.” 

“You’re sweet,” you murmured. “Incredibly sweet.”

“Only to you, L/N.” That was the last bit of conversation for a long while as the sun set and the stars came out.

“Did you know that the moon isn’t circular?” You pointed lazily to it, bright and beautiful amongst the even brighter stars. “According to scientests, it’s actually shaped like a lemon!” Kaz didn’t fight his smile.

Of course you’d be spouting off the little factoids you knew about space. You loved it, how vast and crazy it all seemed. 

“And that the clouds at the center of the Milky Way smell like raspberries and rum?” Kaz snorted.

“Okay, now, theres no way that ones true!” 

“Oh,” you leaned up, booping his nose without a care in the world. “But it is! It’s in a study somewhere, I think! Look it up!” He laughed, pulling you closer to him as you rambled.

Inej had started doing running flips across the roof, spinning and dancing and no doubt laughing as she did. Kaz knew it was an elaborate effort to get you to smile, and it seemed to work as she moved; a delightful silhouette amongst a star filled sky. 

“I love you, Kaz Brekker,” you whispered. “You don’t need to say it back, but I really, truly do love you with every bone that exists in my body.”

“I love you too,” he said it without hesitation. “And I’ll love you until we’re old and grey, I swear it.”

“Don’t hold me to that promise,” you murmured. “You know how bad this is. Stop thinking that I’ll make it into the new year. I probably wont.”

“You will if it kills me, Y/N,” he gave your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ll drain the bank dry if I have to, I swear to Ghezen.”

You didn’t say anything after, too exhausted to even think about starting an argument with him, simply not wanting to. 

But then, an hour later, Kaz felt fear trickle into his stomach like it hadn’t ever in his life.

“And then theres Supernova. It’s like a star that’s dying having it’s last celebration. Like when we get a really big win, or when we get away with what we intended to get away with, and we all get shitfaced before we collapse onto our beds and sleep for the night? A supernova is a dying stars explosion. It’s the last celebration that the star has before it dies out.” you’d been rambling.

“Tonight is my... tonight is my...” Kaz had called for Nina right then and there, screaming her name while he felt you go slack against him.

“Zenik!” He screamed, not caring at all if he were to wake up Jespers father. “Zenik, call in that fucking favor with the bloody Ravkan prince!” Matthias came barreling out after her, phone in hand, already speaking to someone as Nina began working, steadying your heart and trying her hardest to keep you alive. 

Kaz had to force himself to walk away from it all, pushing his feet away after giving your shoulders one last squeeze and walking far out into the field. 

Once he was sure he was out of earshot, he couldn’t stop himself. Tears flooded his eyes and he found himself glaring at the sky, wanting to scream, wanting to shout, wishing that there was someone around that he could gut like a fish. 

“Saints,” he murmured through gritted teeth. “Sankt Ilya, Sankt Adrik, Sankta Alina of The Fold, I know I am a terrible person, but Y/N is not. They’re good, they smile, they laugh, they’re kind to others when those people probably don’t deserve their kindness. I know I’m damned, I know that you probably strongly dislike me, but they’re different.” He’d never asked the Saints for anything before, and he never would again.

“Please, just, let them live. Let them get the life that they deserve. I’ll do my best to make them happy, but you have to let me,” he wiped the tears from his eyes as they came. “They deserve the life that you’re so willing to take away, and all I ask is that you don’t take it.” He heard the sounds of the ambulance car and raced back to you, gripping your hand as they helped you onto a stretcher and out of the field, through the house and out the entrance. 

I won’t lose them, he told himself. A world without them is one that’s unbearable. 

O N E Y E A R L A T E R 

You laughed as Nina chased you through the halls of the Little Palace, running quickly through the endless corridors, your laughter carrying through them as you kept yourself in front of Nina.

Nikolai had kept you in the Os Altan palace since that night, where Inej laughed and danced and did her flips, whilst Wylan played the piano and Kaz sat beside you, listening to your ramblings without a care in the world. 

“You seem delighted,” Nikolai noticed as you stopped in front of his office. “I’ve never seen you walk without that Brekker boy at your side, much less run while Zenik is on your tail!” You shrugged, laughing as Ninas front crashed into your back.

“This is the best I’ve felt in a year,” you murmured. “I figured I’d see if Nina was up to chase me around this morning, and I haven’t stopped running since!” You peered in through the open office door, looking for that familliar mop of dark brown hair.

Nina wrapped her arms around you and gave you a gentle squeeze. “He’ll be here any minute,” she murmured. “He and the boys are just finishing up a job for Nik in East Ravka, but Matthias told me the second that they’d left!”

“Trust me. Y/N,” Nikolais smooth voice murmured. “I put them on one of my fastest boats. I knew how long it’d take them to get from here to east Ravka and back, and I promised him he’d be here when you finally awoke.” 

“Hows it feel, anyway?” Zoya appeared at his side. “Eighteen, I mean.” You shrugged.

“I miss Kaz,” you murmured bluntly. “I hate that I have to tell him that he was right, but I still miss him.” 

Nikolai took Zoyas hand, pulling her close as you and Nina watched, smiles on your faces. 

“Young love,” Zoya teased. “Zenik, let go of them so that they can turn around.” Nina obeyed, letting you go and moving to lean against the doorway with Nikolai and Zoya. 

You turned, and smiled when your gazes met. “You were right, Brekker,” you murmured, walking toward him as he held out your gift to you. “I’m better now, and the second that you’re ready to spar, I’m gonna beat your ass, even though you’ve your cane as a weapon.” He grabbed your pinky with his the moment you were within distance.

“How’d the heist go?” You murmured once the two of you had walked out of earshot. 

“Good,” Kaz let himself be close to you as you two moved, squeezing your pinky as you slowed your steps. “Plan went off without a hitch, for three idiots and a mastermind with a limp. I brought you this from it,” he held the gift out to you again, and you took it in your free hand, examining it.

“I had to ask permission for that,” he murmured. “I had to get the Ravkan kings seal of approval to steal that for you.” You laughed, looking it over.

It was a journal. Black and leather bound, pages crisp and untouched. A pen was tucked into the cover. 

“I promise, we’ll go home soon,” you responded. “I miss Ketterdam. I could go for some waffles.” 

“Don’t they have waffles here?” Kaz questioned.

“Not Ketterdam waffles, love. Ketterdam waffles are unlike any pathetic waffle from here! Doused in syrup and whip cream--” You let out a satisfied sigh. “So good it’s almost surreal!” Kaz smirked.

“Waffle date when you’re well enough to return home then?” 

“Certainly.”

[bewareofchris]

writing anxiety attacks

a follow up to a post I reblogged by @dearwriters which was a good resource for the physical symptoms you could describe.  This is less about the actual symptoms (mine are pretty similar) and more about how to use your words to convey some of the unease and dread without having to outright say its happening.

So consider how it starts, because it’s important to take note of just how mundane and normal everything seems at first.  You can use your narration the same way you have been up to this point because unlike some conditions where you feel it coming on, panic attacks have a tendency to arrive on fire.  Notice the structure of the paragraph is bland.  There’s not much here to see except what I’ve already been looking at for a while now.

It’s not a bullet.  It’s not a wrecking ball.  There’s no loud sounds.  It comes from inside where there’s no defense.  Your sentences are shorter now.  Everything is coming to a point.  Like the catch of breath in your throat, every clause is dry.

Think of a heartbeat, short and quick, using commas like periods, this sentence goes on like the universe stretching under your skin until your body feels like a bag of flesh you’re forced to carry around.  You’re on fire.  And you’re not.  

Your paragraphs are choppy.

You’re thinking, thinking, thinking about how it all started.  And you’re getting crushed under the things all around you.  Every sound is too loud and every touch is too rough and every sentence goes on and on and on and on, building on itself into a repetitive soup that leaves you almost breathless.  You can’t imagine having to say all of this out loud, at speed, because the longer the sentences, the easier they flow, you’re suddenly running to get to the end.  You’re thinking to yourself, I can’t keep this up, I can’t catch my breath.  

And you can’t.

You can barely remember you have to breath.  In between the sentences of street sounds like screams and worried faces like dancing ghouls you’re starting to weave in the memories of a thing from before.  The panic is always a memory (at least in a story), the echo of the very first thing that made you feel this way.  it’s a living beast crouch in the back of your mind, waiting until you’re trapped in this place, where your fingers are slick across the damp walls of your own mind, and it growls so loud it rumbles through your flesh.

And you’re just trying to breathe.

You’re just trying to get out.

The emphasis draws attention to a point, it sharpens the reader’s mind, it gives them a momentary pause so they can almost catch their breath.  But you’re back at it with the sentences that can’t end.  The immediacy of every single word like the warm pain of a fresh slap resonating across your cheek, mixed up with the shame of being struck and the anger that you can or cannot find a way to express.  There’s no space here for contractions or economy of words, because you’re capturing a thing that plays by no rules, it’s like a run on sentence making out with stream of consciousness.

And its so fucking unbearable that you think you’re going to die, and you just want to get the fuck out, you just want people to leave you the fuck alone, because there’s a scream in your chest that sticking to your ribs.  You’re so small and so cold and so lost and nobody can quite get to you because the thing

remember the thing?

The thing that lurks in the back of your brain is coming to eat you the way it did the last time and the time before and--

it stops.

And you stretch into a normal rhythm.  The way a runner stretches at the end of a marathon.  The reality of the moment starts to come back into the narration.  There’s no monsters in the room with you and there never were.  It’s okay to be breathless now and it’s okay to fall into normal grammar again.  You’re in the next phase, where you’re back into your body.

Of course things are coming into focus.  Other voices bleed into the scene, other things can happen now.  Clauses and sentences are calm.  

You are safe now.

[sleepwellmyprince]

hey everyone! here’s that little drabble i had talked about! i think it’s really cute, and i did try to keep johnny in character- somewhat. but it’s hard to write gruff characters like himself, and avoid putting my softer personality onto him. but i did my best! i hope you enjoy it :>

edit: i completely forgot!!! this fanfic does contain spoilers for the beginning of the game!! it is also written from the perspective of a street kid. sorry i didn’t place this here before!

Are you gonna watch me sleep, or join me?

Johnny x V / GN Reader

Night City had been exceptionally rough on you today, as it usually was. It didn’t help that a man who’d been dead for half a century was on your ass for a majority of the time. That was likely going to be the case for a long fucking time.

You’d finally gotten back to your apartment at about two in the morning. You were completely beat after running around all day, tryouts not to find a way to stop, or at least delay the process of your doom.

The door to your apartment slid open once you arrived, the lights inside switching on. As the door closed behind you, the flickering of the rockerboy you’d been forced to become familiarized with appeared by your wardrobe. He had his usual pose: arms crossed, leaning against a wall, hair slipping into his face, sunglasses threatening to fall off his nose, and that stoic, almost annoyed expression.

He looked at you through the red tint of his sunglasses, not saying anything for a moment. And you hoped that he would remain silent, god you prayed that he would, but he never really showed himself without having something to say.

“So, how was work today, sweetie?” Johnny sarcastically asked. You rolled your eyes as a response, not giving him the satisfaction of a vocal reply. You kicked your shoes off, setting them down beside your closet. He watched you closely, and as you glanced back at him, you could tell he was waiting for a true response.

For now, you wouldn’t give him one. You walked over to the bathroom, starting to run the sink. The mirror switched on, helping you to start cleaning your face. There was a small silence between you two for a moment, the only sound in the small apartment being the sound of running water.

After you shut the water off, he pressed on. “Are you gonna answer me?”

You let out a heavy sigh, continuing to stare at yourself in the mirror. Soon enough, he would appear behind you, still in that same pose. “I’m really not in the mood tonight,” you answered, reaching your hands up to rub the dark bags under your eyes.

“I don’t think you have much of a choice, V.” Johnny stared at you through the mirror, taking his glasses off and playing with one of the temples between his metal fingertips.

You moved your hands away from your tired eyes, now looking down at the sink’s countertop. You reached over to grab one of the pill bottles that Misty had given you weeks ago, specifically the blue colored one. Shaking it with your hand, you looked up to Johnny through the mirror. The sound of pills rattling must have caught his attention, because he looked up from his glasses. Though, he didn’t look concerned.

“I think I do, actually. I’m pretty sure you remember the last time I popped one of these, and wherever you went when I did.” You eyed him in the mirror as you spoke, catching one of his eyebrows raising. You’d turn around, leaning back against the counter while continuing to hold up the bottle. “Now, I won’t hesitate to take some more of these, if you won’t calm down on your own. You understand?”

Johnny stood there for a moment, keeping his gaze on you for a while. He didn’t say a word, staring relentlessly with his deep brown eyes. You eventually decided to break the almost unbearable silence for him, deeming this his lack of speech was his answer.

You gently shook the bottle a final time, and placed it down on the edge of the sink. He stood still, no longer playing with his sunglasses. Eventually, you ripped your eyes away from his gaze, and proceeded to walk over to your bed. A light yawn escaped your lips as you stepped over to your bed. Johnny would reappear beside the bed, standing in the spot where you first met him in. Well, technically you first met him in... your mind? His mind? You weren’t all too sure. It was after the heist after so many people died. Including those you were close to. God, poor T-bug, and Jackie...

You fell back into the bed, your legs drifting over the side. You could feel Johnny’s eyes still on you, which frankly, might be a bit more unnerving than him talking about how he wants to take your body for himself.

Setting your arms underneath your neck to prop your head up, you look up at him. “Are you gonna just watch me sleep? Or are you gonna join me?” You asked sarcastically. This certainly caught his attention, making him let out a scoff of a chuckle.

“You’re really offering a dead guy to sleep with you? That’s pretty fucking pathetic,” he insulted, looking over you with a puzzled, yet amused expression.

“Yeah, yeah. Take it or leave it, dickhead.” You hadn’t exactly planned for this to be the actual outcome of your sarcasm, but you know what? Fuck it. Some actual human interaction after about 50 years could do the fucker some good.

You shifted your body to the side, moving to face the wall. This provided some space for Johnny, if he actually chose to lay down. Of course, you didn’t expect that to be the case, so you closed your eyes and tried to sleep.

And you would have fallen asleep, if not for a slight weight appearing beside you. Obviously, you knew it was him, but you glanced over your shoulder to look at him anyway.

He had been looking at your back however he looked up to your eyes once you glanced over. He seemed much calmer now, like he wasn’t concerned with being so big and scary anymore. Or at least, for the time being.

You weren’t exactly sure if you should say anything at all, but your curiosity tugged at your mind.

“Do you ever sleep?” You asked, slowly shifting to face him. “Do you even need to sleep?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, his brown, near black hair slowly slipping in front of his eyes due to gravity. “Whenever you sleep, I get that energy. So I guess not.” His eyes dashed down to the blankets, analyzing the fabric without any real purpose. “I haven’t tried actually sleeping since I was... revived, or whatever you want to call it.”

You let out a quiet hum and gave a small nod as a response. As much as this bitter man was an absolute pain in your ass, you still felt kind of bad for him. He was stuck with you completely, and would either be forced to live again through your body, or be killed for a second time. Frankly, you weren’t sure which outcome would be worse.

With a bit of hesitance, you reached forward to set your hand on top of his cold, metal one. It was strange, how you could feel him, and how he could still make small impacts on the world, in a sense. He could pick up objects, make floors creak underneath the weight of his body, and of course, touch and affect you.

The warmth of your hand caused him to look up from the blankets, and to your hand on his. He appeared confused at first, glancing to your eyes for a reply, or at least some sort of explanation.

It took you a moment to put together words that had actual substance to them, but you pulled them together eventually. “I’m sorry that you have to go through this crap. It must be a lot to process all at once.” You paused, seeing him scoff quietly. “I mean that, Johnny.”

He shook his head after that, letting out a quiet sigh. His lips parted, as if he was going to say something. However, he remained silent. He seemed to be stumped, unsure of whether or not to believe you. But why would you lie? You had no reason to.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing. Ain’t exactly your fault that we’re stuck together.” Johnny spoke quietly, avoiding eye contact with you once again. He flipped his arm over, his metal palm now meeting with your own. You thought about intertwining your fingers with his, but he would end up doing that for you. “I’m sorry, V.”

To hear an apology that sounded genuine from Johnny fucking Silverhand... It seemed to good to be true. But he didn’t have a reason to lie either, or at least, you didn’t think so. Instead, you chalked it up to him being tired, as were you.

You both laid there, staring down at each other’s hands. Your hand was smaller than his, but only just. Even though his arm was cold, it was still oddly comforting. You hoped that your own touch had that same effect.

You gently squeezed his hand, looking back up to give him a faint, gentle smile. “Get some sleep, Johnny. It sounds like you need it.” He gave a small chuckle to that, shifting onto his back, but still holding your hand. You remained on your side, watching as Johnny settled onto his back.

No other words were spoken that night, and no words were necessary, either. The silence between you two was peaceful, and it worked to quickly put you both to sleep. Arms still linked by your hands, a restful slumber was given to you both, which was certainly needed and deserved.

[itstheimpossibledream]

Candlelight

Pairing: Geralt xOFC

Warning : Fluff w/Smut, unprotected sex, mention of bodliy fluids, size kink-ish, Oral ( female receiving)

Summary : Geralt rolls into town and the town’s brothel owner has to have him. I’m toying with the idea of Geralt having poor self-esteem or body image?? That’s right she’s giving you predictable tavern vibes with a twist. Let me know what you think! 

All mistakes are mine please do not use or post my fics without my permission!Also feel free to interact submit requests, prompts all dat !

Word count:2,896

He entered the tavern with a sort of brooding charm. The entire room slowed the second he stepped inside. He must be used to people looking at him, he walks past them slowly, setting a pouch of money on the counter.He was served his drink and the room exhaled in unison, as the other men began to return to their conversations.You worked the room sitting on a lap here, showing your bosom while pouring a pint there, a fairly normal night. You could feel him watching you as he drank his ale. You flitted around the tables as men spoke of how Witchers killed both monsters and men. How they were a made up people, capable of magic. In all honesty it seemed a little exaggerated. The man at the bar before you was very dull looking, with the exception of his bright eyes. He seemed strong but, most definitely in need of a bath and a laugh. He had a hard face and remained silent as you refilled his drink. The night wore on and one by one the few men left in the pub began to break off with one of your girls, moving to the rooms further upstairs and outside for quick hookups, to cherish the few hours left before the morning light. You filled the Witcher's drink again and silence crept over the room. As the only two left  in the pub there was an expectation of communication at some point and yet nothing was coming from his end.

"Rough day ?" you ask jokingly 

you notice his jaw clench as he fixes his lips to respond.

"Something like that ." he grumbles before taking another drink. If he didn't want to talk that was fine but, at the very least he had to remove himself from your establishment.

"I'll be gone in a hour."he states as if foreseeing your next comment. 

"Unfortunately, we're closed now." you retort. 

"I'll blow out the candles when I leave." 

"No.You'll leave with me." you said matter-of-factly,covering yourself with your cloak and heading towards the door.

"Okay." he replied calmly, pushing back from the bar and retrieving his sword from the stool next to him. His large frame towered in front of you and you contemplated if this was actually a good idea or, if you had simply spoken to soon. He must have read the dumbfounded look on your face because he quickly made up the distance between the bar and the tavern door, opening it wide and letting in the slight crispness of the night air. He motioned his arm toward the door and you quickly finished blowing out the last of the candles,  graciously accepting his invitation into the night. 

"Do you lock up this way every night?" you wonder what made him ask that, did he plan to come back another night and break in?Or was he simply trying to make small talk ?

"No, usually the men tend to need the attention of a woman a bit earlier."

"Hmmm" you heard his deep voice grumble from behind.

“I imagine your presence here had them intrigued.” you offer politely.

"Why are you walking behind me and not with me?" you asked, turning back to look at him.

"For safety." he mumbled.

"Safety?" you ask through a laugh "I own a brothel."

"Exactly." he says, cocking an eyebrow in your direction.

"So because I own a brothel I must know nothing about protecting myself and-"

"Because you own the only brothel for miles and you offered a stranger to come home with you while paying no attention to the man who's been watching you since we started walking. " He said, turning to glare at the stalker.

You immediately turned and looked past him to see a man scrambling down the cobblestone streets. He was right, maybe you could have been a bit more careful. 

"So you know the location of every brothel?" you smirk up at him.  

"I'm not proud of that." the voice drills lowly

"What's that supposed to mean?" you respond poking him in the ribs. He doesn't laugh, or even smile 

"Means it's easier, as a witcher to live out of sight." you looked up at him much more serious this time. It hadn't even crossed your mind that a man so obviously special could consider himself an outsider.

"What are you looking at ?" his voice was deep and monotone.

You allow your hand up to his face to trace a fresh scratch on the side of his eyebrow. The finger slowly drags downward, over the hair on his chin. He lowers his mouth to you and before thinking about it you meet his lips. He immediately pulls back, before you even get the chance to breathe, you motion to the building behind you to let him know that you've arrived at your home. He lifts a strong, veiny hand to wipe his lips and your heart slightly sinks with the thought that he immediately regrets kissing you. He moves a handful of hair from his face, behind his ear and sighs.

"Look, I don't have money for this. And in any other situation I would give my last dime for your services but-"

" I wasn't offering my services." you retort coldly

"I'm sorry I wasn't trying to-" You could tell even despite the stone facade he was embarrassed now. 

"A completely reasonable misunderstanding ." you say opening the hard wooden door and stepping inside. You turn to look behind you "You coming witcher?" you ask tilting your head and allowing yourself to lend him your most seductive smile. 

"Mph" he grunts, stepping in and closing the door behind you. 

Your lodgings were small but accommodating. He began to work on making a fire as you whirled around the room collecting herbs and other ingredients for dinner. By now the fire was beginning to bring itself to a roar and you set the cold pot , filled with its contents into the hearth.Your mind swirled with ways to seduce the man, or perhaps magic beings like this were entirely incapable of having sex, maybe he knew where all those brothels were because he just longed for company. 

"I ate earlier,  at your establishment." he mumbled deeply, breaking you from your thoughts.

"I don't cook at my establishment." you say calmly "I don't eat there either." you resume pouring a dram and moving to take a seat at the table in the center of the room. You offer him the other glass and he accepts in silence, claiming a seat opposite of yours. You had never crossed a man who didn’t want something from you, that is what made this silence so unbearable. 

"You don't talk much do you ?" you ask smugly 

"Hm." he grunts as his lips turn up into a slight smile. "No."

"Guess it's up to me to force you to speak then." you say, tossing back the rest of your drink and moving towards his chair. There was a space between his legs and the table, you stood there and began undoing the buttons at the nape of your dress. With one last clasp, it was undone and joined the floor. You stood before him in your chemise, entirely visible but putting on the most sultry face you could muster.  He stared at you coldly, whether shocked or off put by your forwardness, no one could say. There was no inkling as to what he may be thinking as your heartbeat pounded in your ears. You looked down at yourself wondering if the grey haired gentleman in front of you had even been with a woman before, judging by his bone structure he must have. He was much too handsome to have remained a virgin, especially while frequenting brothels. But, the lack of light in his eyes made you quite sure he was void of interest. You brought your eyes back up to meet him as he ran a hand through his hair, golden eyes unmoved. 

You decide to remove all room for doubt and you pull at the strings of the chemise, letting it lightly float down to meet the rest of your dress. Delicately stepping out of the circle of dresses enshrining your ankles you further entreat into his space. You feel a cold hand slowly brush up your thigh. Finally some feedback, however silent it may be. 

" Still nothing to say?" you asked looking down at him, you could see him processing the fact that you were offering yourself up to him for free, that even the two of you being alone together would in no way be considered modest or preserving of your dignity.Then again how much did you really have left. You were after all a prostitute, turned business owner, now standing in front of a mythical man you weren’t even sure was capable of a sexual relationship. Moreover, tomorrow he would leave your home in daylight and everyone would speculate that you had had him that night anyway. 

Most of your girls lived in apartments above you, this was the hour in which they slept or serviced their own men. A ruckus you had learned to sleep through but, you doubted the man below you would be as capable. His hand works painfully slowly up your thigh. Goosebumps arise on your skin as his hand turns inside to cup the top of the thigh of your alternate leg. You feel your eyes flutter in anticipation before he presses a thumb perfectly onto your clit, his other fingers rub against the lips of your opening. His eyes shone brightly in the dimly lit room, intensely fixed on you and your pleasure. It was becoming increasingly apparent that he didn't have to say anything to make you want him. The fire crackling  from the hearth set a pace for the night’s festivities.As his hand worked your mound, you could feel yourself becoming wetter, you even allowed a small whimper to be released from your lips. You see the crease begin to deepen at the edge of his lips, could it be that this stone of a man was actually beginning to smile? You whimper again just to tease him, begging to see more of his smile. He doesn't give you what you want. He simply grunts and moves his hands, to lift you onto the wooden table behind you. For a moment you're actually embarrassed, ironic considering your history of selling yourself prior to being able to purchase the tavern but, it had been a while since you had actually been with a man; so focused on your entrepreneurial endeavors you had managed to leave bedroom endeavors entirely by the wayside. It had been good for you, resigning from that work but, the second he walked into your tavern you wanted him, that could not be denied. You clenched your legs together,in both shame and anticipation. You could feel yourself dripping onto the table below and willed it to stop, despite the knowledge that he now had complete control over you. He pushed your knee apart with one hand, when you didn't willingly open up for him, he forced you to with a more audible grunt. Your breath cuts short and you can tell he notices, despite your attempt to hide. He opens your legs wide for him and scrapes his chair loudly on the floor before you,moving closer. You can feel the heat creeping up your chest and neck as you hold your breath in anticipation. 

"Relax." He whispers into your sopping wet core. You look at him between your legs and he quickly averts his eyes, not allowing you the satisfaction of seeing into him. His tongue laps at your clit and instantly you are unable to contain your sounds. You begin to writhe swinging your hips on the wooden table as he sucks on your clit, bringing a finger to play at your opening. He pushes his finger in and out of you slowly, humming into your core. You can't help yourself anymore, reaching for a fistful of his silver hair pushing his lips closer to you as you grind into his mouth. You pull back on his hair slightly in an attempt to get him to slow down but, all it manages to do is make him return to you hungrier than ever. His fingers pump into you needlessly, as his mouth works you over. You become acutely aware of the volume of your breathing and the want to say his name, practically a need to say his name. To give him the satisfaction of hearing how successfully he is pleasing you. It dawned on you that you had never even asked his name and he hadn't bothered to learn yours. 

"Not yet." he says, pulling back from your heat and standing up.You watch as he pulls gingerly at the laces of his pants, fingers working dangerously quick to expose himself. In no time he is forcing himself inside of you moaning deeply and rutting into you with a dangerous ferocity. You use one arm to prop yourself up onto the table and another to dig your fingernails into his buttcheek. He lets out a low growl and you feel a wetness on your cheek as he forces himself into you, creating a space made perfectly for him. He moans into your ear again and you are forced to relish in the fact that you have finally elicited the desired response from this solid rock of a man. He fills you more and more, encroaching in on the space between your legs, pumping harder into you. He spills into you; overflowing out of you and onto the table. You wrap your legs around him a bit longer, holding him inside you, loving the fullness he’s granting you . A fullness you haven't felt in a long time.You throw your head back in complete release, unabashedly revelling in the comfort of this man. He rocks into you slowly, simply not wanting to stop but, you can feel him growing softer inside you, he would definitely need some time to recover. He pulls himself out of you and you can feel the essence of your  love-making drip from your core to the table. He places his palms on either side of you, focusing on steading his breathing in an attempt to recover some form of dignity and decorum.You peeked behind the chair to see his sword had been leaning up against it.

“I should go.” he says, dipping down to pull up his pants and fumbling with the laces.You quickly grab for his hand.

“Would you like to share a meal with me?”you asked earnestly. He seemed surprised by your willingness to continue spending time with him. You weren’t afraid of him .

“That’s fine.” he gruffed, sitting back down onto his seat. You nakedly grabbed dishes and served him from the pot, reclaiming your seat opposite him. 

“Do you normally do everything without clothes?” he asked not looking up from his bowl.

“Does it bother you?” you asked taking him in. He looks at you plainly.

“Only someone who is uncomfortable with themselves would be uncomfortable being naked around their own home.” you claimed cleaning the spoon in your mouth.

“If your body had as many scars as mine you might feel differently.” he said quietly 

“Do you not think you’re beautiful?” you asked, setting down your spoon, with serious intrigue. 

He chortled clearly confused by your question.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been described as such.” he mumbles shyly. 

“Well you are!” you press “ I don’t know why you can’t see it.” you smiled at him.

“I’m not hungry.” he said pushing himself back from the table.You looked at him in bewilderment, had you truly ruined the moment that much? He made his way over to your side of the table, gingerly lifting you from the chair and throwing you over his shoulder. It was terribly masculine and thrilling to be over his shoulder, to feel like his property. He walks you towards the drape that disguises your bedroom for the rest of the living space, pulling it back and laying you on the mattress below. You stare up at him planking above you on the mattress, jaw firm, eyes intensely glowing in the candlelight. He moves a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I think you’re beautiful too.” he says softly. 

“Well that’s all anyone notices about me.” you laugh

“No.” he tsks with his tongue. “You are brave, and smart, you go after what you want. I admire that.” he whispers as the white sheet lightly blows behind him over the mattress. 

You raise your mouth up to kiss him and he smiles into you. 

“I’d like to be more gentle this time,” he says, eyebrows furrowed,as if you would resist. You crane your neck up to kiss him again and he falls into you.This Witcher was nothing to be afraid of, and even if he could never be in a long term relationship, he was a moment of comfort. A moment in which it was good to know that there was someone out there like this who could fight all the monsters. 

[theredsuzuran]

Yandere Muzan x Reader

I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors, also for my crappy writing I hope It does not bore you lol. Slight mention of gore

It was the time of summer

A multitude of people hovering over one another in the vast space of the lively Asakusa city occupying the streets like tiny ants. Unfortunately it was same monotonous sight for kibutsuji Muzan progenitor of the morbid demon race, who seems to be roaming around uninterestingly looking for a suitable prey to hunt. The fleeting lives of mortals, their compassion, happiness, sorrow, pain held no value to him. They are pests who belong in the dirt or beneath his feet, inferior compare to a perfect being like himself. Nothing more than a tool that he won't hesitate to discard after his desires are fulfilled. All of a sudden his gaze felt upon a petite figure near a tailor shop, a large number of people gathering around her.

What's the matter, mister? Muzan inquired to a man next to him.

"if you are new definitely try her kimonos, now make way" the man said quickly as he rushed to the shop pushing all the people away. He was interested to know what the deal was about so he decided to stay for a while hoping it's worth the wait.

After a long delay muzan finally got the chance to view the women. As their eyes locked the dazzling city lights broader than the day itself felt dull in comparison for a moment, the once monochromatic world seems to change vibrantly with her luminous presence, As if goddess Amaterasu, the diety of sun herself have ascended from the heaven into the mortal realm. The demon lord stood there mesmerized by her breathtaking beauty, how can someone so close to perfection exist alongside those barbarians.

"How can I help you mister?" She questioned politely with her soft vocal. His endless thoughts were interrupted breaking the silence.

"Show me your kimonos"

And so his obsession started..

Days passed since his last encounter with the woman. He have come across numerous marvelous humans in everlasting lengthy life but never have his ruby eyes caught a glimpse of someone as alluring as her. The girl possesses an unique aura that differentiated her from the rest of the crowd, able to draw attention from the cold hearted creator of cannibalistic demons. At first muzan was just curious to know about that woman, possibly persuade her to become one of his underling because of the potentials she may carry. He frequently begun to visit her shop to but or sew different fabrics. Gaining basic information, like her name, likes and dislikes, etc. Her grandfather owned the tailor shop which sold finest quality garments from the beginning and were highly respected for their excellent tailoring. Continued by (y/n) at her family's will, who runs the shop with equal undying devotion.

She treated him with such kindness even though he was a ruthless demon not that she knew about it or let alone the existence of demons. The deepest corner of his dark heart illuminated with pure light whenever she was around and he came to the conclusion that she was the ray of sunshine he desires to perceive. Eversince he was cured from his fatal illness the only goal in his life was to conquer the sun which prevents him to achieve absolute perfection, in order to live an eternal and indestructible life or so he thought until that very day his eyes laid upon you. It would be stupid to think that demons are capable of experiencing love, concepts of feelings are completely foreign in their conciousness, it was more like obsession. His megalomania makes him believe he needs you no he wants you.

Alas, if only it was a fairytale. The king does not always gets what he desires and same goes for the demon lord when he finds out that his beloved darling already has a lover. As he witnessed the sight of you hugging your partner with passion. The way her eyes flutter infront of him when he caresses her cheeks making her turn away bashfully and how she hold his hand with her delicate ones while exchanging vows of love and loyalty towards each other made his blood boiled with fury. If anyone who can hold her fragile frame is none other but the demon lord himself yet there she was sharing intimacy with some filthy creature. His narcissistic self was put down with a lowlife, he cannot accept that his (y/n) was claimed someone else's. It was something he would never allow to happen.

"Kibutsuji san would you like to buy something today as well?" The women who now acknowledge his presence asked him cheerfully.

"Should I visit you later" a force smile graced on his pale features.

"Oh no, it's fine, let me introduce you to my fiancee" she said excitedly.

"Nice to meet you kibutsuji san" your fiancee said

"Pleasure to meet you as well" The demon scoffed under his breath but Kibutsuji was quite adamant he knew it was not hard to turn the tables anytime sooner as with a blink of an eye he can get rid of him by simply ordering his underlings without even hesitating to dirty his hands exclusive for his precious darling. But that was not what muzan was planning to do at all as his mind was engulfed with much sinister thoughts.

To insanity?

"You have been restless for a long time, what's wrong my child?" A man asked with a look of concern written all over his face looking straight at the figure of an anxious woman roaming around impatiently within the house.

"Its been a week father since he last wrote a letter to him" she mumbled softly disappointment painted across her features. The father could not help but laugh a little by her daughter's remark.

"Father please it is serious"

"I am sorry sweetheart but it might be that your fiancee is busy with wedding preparation" which made sense because the wedding would be taking place after three day and it was obvious that he was caught up with the arrangement. However there was a strange feeling inside her stomach which made her believe otherwise.

As the days passed the wedding day came close, with (y/n) still not receiving any message from her lover. Worried her to the core at this point all she wanted was to make sure of his safety as something constantly felt off. The guests came in one by one for the wedding ceremony but there was no sign of the groom.

It was getting unbearable for her to remain confined. Ignoring her father's request to stay inside she went outside in hope to check whether or not her lover was approaching but once again she was greeted with emptiness. Her eyes swell up with tears forming on both corners allowing her body to slowly hit the surface as she convinced herself that her lover will never come. The worst was yet to happen and before she could make any movement the ground beneath her feet started shaking and a shoji door opened consuming her into the darkness.

It was just the start of her miserable life under the demon's control.

"So you are finally awake", a sudden voice came echoing into her eyes as she slowly opened her eyes after regaining her consciousness. She moved her hands upwards in order to ease the headache only to find her hands tied up with shackles, a chilling sensation of overwhelming fear filled her entire senses as she remembered what happened prior.

"Where am I? Why am I chained?" Who are you?" she demanded furiously at the mysterious figure infront her which was now advancing at her direction from the dark corner of the dimly litted room.

"You are quite an impatient one?" The man gripped her chin roughly as her eyes protruded out with bewilderment.

"Can't even remember your daily customer?" A wicked smile curved across his countenance.

"K..Kibutsuji san" she parted her lips. Tears forming in her eyes once again. This made muzan even more irritated as he tightened his grip on her chin. (Y/n) whimpered with pain crying out loud.

"Your shouting won't help dear nobody apart from me can hear you scream" he said bluntly with his cold apathetic voice.

"Why?" (Y/n) lowered her head down holding his hand with her delicate ones trying her best to get a hold of him.

"Pardon?" Muzan inquired as he stared at your quivering form with his souless eyes there was no empathy in them or whatsoever although he felt pity. He cannot deny the fact that he was indeed attracted to her that's the reason why he put her into so much hassles.

"Where is my lover?" She asked sternly with her voice shaking a bit.

"Oh" muzan responded his hand still holding her chin tightly. This made her even more anxious she was unaware of the power he might possess and definitely she didn't had any intentions to risk her life.

"Why can't you humans move on and accept circumstances given before you?" it startled her as she cannot process what he meant.

"I don't.. u..understand" she said.

"Then you have to learn to accept me as your partner" muzan replied coldly (y/n) sat there looking at him with disbelief her heart and soul belonged to someone else and for a long time they have been together it's absolutely impossible to change the reality she was accustomed with just because some maniac wants to make her his partner.

"I can never" she murmured with disgust hinted in her voice. "I love him" throwing daggers in his direction not ready to submit her futile attempts of protest should pissed the demon lord even more but to her surprise she saw him smiling menacingly and in the corner of her eyes she saw the figure of her debilitate lover.

"Start from his fingers" muzan ordered one of his subordinate as they began chopping one of his finger making him scream in pain.

"No! please don't hurt him" trying to break free from the shackles she was tied with realizing it was fruitless she fell on the demon's knee begging with all the strength left within her in a last desperate attempt.

"You left me with no other choice, dear" he explained playing his sick games of manipulation on her. This was exactly what he needed to break her mind and she cannot help but rely on him pleading for his forgiveness feeding on his massive ego providing him ultimate satisfaction to witness the quivering frame of his darling clinging onto his knee in pure submission.

"Please I will do anything you say" she requested shaking like crazy.

"Anything?" Muzan questioned raising his eyebrow

"Yes" she replied without any hesitation.

"Be mine"

She already knew that he wanted this and she readily obliged in order to save her beloved, sacrificing her own life. Her only purpose was now to satisfy the demon lord, he was successful until the very end and it won't take long to make her completely his.

[ladyonfire28]

Came back from my little break for that new article ! Here is the translation of Adèle and Aïssa’s interview for Libération. It’s a very long, but very interesting one. So i recommend to read it. There may be a lot of incoherencies so please tell me if something doesn’t make sense ! 

Aïssa Maïga and Adèle Haenel : «Finally there’s something political happening»

They stood up together at the César and have since been striving to invent a common front against all forms of discrimination. For "Libération", actresses Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga retrace the journey of generational awareness.

Some kind of symbol. A large mural, in tribute to George Floyd, a 46-year-old black American who died on 25 May when he was arrested by a white policeman, and to Adama Traoré, who died at the age of 24 on the floor of the "caserne de Persan" (Val-d'Oise) following an arrest in 2016, was painted at the beginning of the week on the façade of a building in the 10th arrondissement of Paris. Close by, the Adama Committee organized a press conference on Tuesday. Words, demands and the announcement of a new march to fight against police violence. It takes place this Saturday in the capital, from the Place de la République to the Place de l'Opéra. The organizers dream of seeing a huge crowd come together. This demonstration comes at the heart of a tense period. Young people are demanding answers and action, while many police officers feel that the Minister of the Interior is letting his troops down in the face of the scolding.

In the street, we will find associations, politicians and many people. Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga will be there. Not a first. They were already present on  June 2nd at the rally in front of the Paris high court. The actresses didn't really know each other before the last César ceremony, marked by the speech of one and the shattering departure of the other. Since then, they have never left each other. Both describe the moment as a "turning point". The fights converge.

When the idea of a cross-exchange came on the table to put words to their commitments, they did not hesitate. On Thursday, in a roadstead near Belleville, Adèle Haenel arrived first, followed by Aïssa Maïga. They are not of the same generation, the journeys and paths are different. The styles too. The one who got up at the announcement of the prize awarded to Polanski goes up and down, talks with her body. The one who, at the same ceremony, invited to count the black people in the room appears calmer, stays seated on her chair, speaks in a low voice. Adèle Haenel and Aïssa Maïga complement each other.

From where are you speaking?

Adèle Haenel: I speak from my personal political background, rooted in feminism, a background that is shaken by the worldwide movement around police violence and by the French movement around the Adama Committee. I would say that taking charge of my own history has given me the ability to deal with other broader issues that do not immediately affect me. I'm talking about a kind of political awakening. This desire to show my support for the families of the victims, for the political movement against racism and police violence in France, and for the actors who take a stand. I'm thinking of Omar Sy, Camélia Jordana and you, Aïssa.

Aïssa Maïga: This intersectional awakening evoked by Adèle is a place where I have been for a long time without necessarily being able to name it. For a long time, the racial question in cinema was so pervasive in my life that it cannibalized everything else. I felt that it was less difficult to be a woman, in a world that discriminates women, than it was to be a black woman. The work done by Afrofeminists in France and abroad put the words in my mouth that I didn't have because I didn't have that heritage. I am speaking from a place that is on the move and that is not made up of certainties, that is made of interrogations, especially about the fact that I can implement changes on my own scale. And I'm also speaking from a place that is purely civic and is tinged with various influences. I didn't grow up in a poor suburb, I didn't live in financial precariousness, I come from a rather intellectual middle class, it gave me certain tools, and yet I haven't escaped this very French thing, a soft racism, rarely seen but which is haunting... because it's omnipresent.

Why did you get involved with the Adama Committee?

A.M.: Because this is a fight for justice. It was Assa Traoré who came to meet me during the release of the collective book Noire n'est pas mon métier ("Black is not my job"). I knew her from afar, I knew her struggle, and she appeared. The support became obvious and it has really taken shape in the last few months. I was immediately impressed by this woman, her quiet strength, and this ability to forge a bond, to think of her family drama in political terms. Her voice matters. She's not just an icon: she allows a movement to emerge.

A.H.: For me, it's even more recent, I had to go through a problem that was going through me, that involved my body in discrimination in order to mingle with other injustices. I was listening to what Assa Traoré was saying and I was struck by her determination and intelligence. But it is only very recently that I also became physically aware that I could not fail to support this woman and the whole fight against police violence and racism, in the same way that I am taking up the fight for feminism and against sexual violence. I can't have it two-tiered.

On June 2nd, more than 20,000 people gathered in front of the High Court of Paris, at the request of the Adama Committee. An unprecedented turnout, with many young people, why?

A.M.: The Adama Committee saw very well the link between George Floyd's drama and their own. The death of Adama Traoré, choked under three gendarmes, was materialized before our eyes with the unbearable images of Floyd's death. The French youth who look at these images cannot fail to make the connection, it is obvious. There is also a form of accessible activism that is developing via social networks. Activists will involve others through simple, accessible sentences: if you are not a POC, you are still involved, it is your responsibility to listen and take an active part, at your level, in the fight for equality. There is also the idea that we need to establish a link between police violence, the racism that can be found in other social spaces, the issue of gender equality, the environment, and the urgency of dealing with these problems now. There is also a form of anxiety among young people: they are told that in fifty years' time there will be no more water. And finally the feeling of injustice, which is omnipresent and linked to the circulation of images on social networks. Police violence follows one after the other, and this creates an accumulation effect. It is not just a dogmatic political vision, but a reality that is lived or perceived as real.

A.H.: There is a turning point in the effectiveness of the movement as well. This feeling carried by Assa Traoré that we are powerful. It's not just ideas that go around the world, it's ideas that make the world happen. It gives hope and responsibility to a whole generation.

During Aïssa's speech at the Césars, in which she confronts the profession with the near-invisibility of actors, filmmakers and producers from French overseas territories and African and Asian immigrants in French cinema, you are in the room, Adèle. You don't know each other yet. Do you understand her speech immediately?

A.H.: It's obvious, but it's not immediate, it takes a little time to understand the extent of the racist mechanism when you, yourself, haven't been forced to see how it works. I was brought back to particular assignments, but not to this one. So it takes a long time before it becomes unbearable evidence. When Aïssa takes the floor, it's courageous because the room is very cold and it's making it even colder. I thought it was funny and I thought "finally, something political is happening".

Did you both understand that people find it violent to count black people in the room, and even that they might find it paradoxical to split the audience?

A.M.: Counting isn't splitting, it's measuring the gap between us and equality. When it comes to inequality, to be blind to color is to be blind to the social burdens that come from our history and the imagination that flows from it. I am fighting for art and culture to deconstruct racial fictions. In our field, cinema, there is a tendency to believe that when a few exceptions appear, the problem of racial discrimination is solved. I do not think that my presence, that of Omar Sy, Ladj Ly or Frédéric Chau, Leïla Bekhti, for example, however gifted they may be, exonerates French cinema from an examination of conscience. There is always an over-representation of people perceived as non-white in roles with negative connotations - and it's not me saying this, it's the CSA, through its diversity barometer. There are still too few opportunities for younger people, who today in 2020 deplore what I deplored when I was starting out. Still too few non-whites behind the camera and almost no one in decision-making positions. I started this job when I was 20 years old. I am 45. A generation, not a few exceptions, should have risen. It hasn't. And it's unbearable as a citizen, a mother and an artist.

At the César ceremony, I deliberately used a inflammable symbol. If we refuse to measure differences in access to opportunities in terms of racial discrimination, perhaps we are accepting the status quo. Today, we need concrete action by decision-makers and numerical targets in order to measure progress. A few personal successes, however brilliant they may be, cannot justify the violence of large-scale unequal treatment.

A.H.: The substance of what Aïssa said to the César is relevant, it speaks to the moment, and being shocking has the virtue of awakening. The criticisms that followed were "I agree but"... In fact, it means that even when the substance is right, the form is never the right one. It's a form of censorship, there are people who have the right to speak and others who don't.

A.M.: Allowing oneself to express anger head-on is taboo because we are actresses and we are supposed to preserve the desire that others project on us. And also because it highlights the precarious nature of this profession: are you able to overcome your fear, to express your opinion, with the risk of losing something?

A.H.: From my point of view, that of a white woman - forgive me for putting myself in this position, but it's still unfortunately an assignment - I see that when I spoke about what happened to me personally, I received a lot of support, especially from people who are not especially on our side. However, as soon as I spoke up, politically, to say that giving the prize to a rapist fleeing from justice was an insult, all of a sudden I was really overstepping what I was entitled to do, what I could interfere in...

Do you think there's a "white privilege"?

A.M.: Words are so tricky...

A.H.: When Virginie Despentes uses the term "white privilege", it's a bit related to Aïssa's gesture when she counts the black people in the room. It's a question of pointing out, by calling up words that should be those of the past, the gap between the evolution of universalist ideals and the facts of manifest exclusion at work. Provocation points out this flaw and invites us to close it.

Is there state racism?

A.M.: I don't know about "state" racism, it would have to be written into the laws to say that. The right word is systemic: it means that there is something that does not allow for real equality, something in the established rules that allows a small number of people to discriminate without being worried. What also raises the question is the inertia of the state in the face of the continuation of systemic inequalities.

From what you say, we are at a turning point in the struggle against racial, gender, social and other forms of discrimination...

A.M.: I felt the turning point in 2018 with #MeToo, Time's Up, and when I saw all these women from such diverse backgrounds (in the streets) after Trump's election. It was an image I had never seen before in my generation. It was in the United States, and yet something happened to me in France, because I had been dreaming of this convergence for a long time. I'm not here to defend my chapel. I'm not going to be satisfied with a breakthrough if blacks have more roles while Arabs and Asians are still in a degraded situation in French cinema. The convergence I'm talking about didn't quite take place at the time of #MeToo, which quickly became a white women's movement in my eyes. In French cinema, there is also the "50-50 for 2020" movement [collective for parity and inclusion founded in 2018, editor's note] that I saw coming like the guerrilla movement we had been waiting for for a long time, pragmatic, quick, positively impatient, very constructive. The work done in favor of parity is colossal. On the other hand, I regret that diversity is the next program. But it cannot be the next program for me, that is the mistake. I've talked about it very openly, and frankly in a fairly relaxed way with some of them.

A.H.: Much more relaxed than I was, by the way!

A.M.: And then I said to myself that the battles are progressing on different levels and that we're going to have to find some kind of alignment. The fight for women's rights is not just a women's issue, it's a men's issue, just as the fight against racism is not just about POC. And it wasn't until 2020 and the murder of George Floyd that there were those voices, especially white voices, that said, "This is my problem too." Including in France, where this awakening of consciousness is made possible by the work done by the families of victims of police violence.

A.H.: In my political journey so far, I had forgotten to understand the places where I am not just in a situation of domination. I am also, as a white woman who is not in a precarious position, in a dominant position in certain aspects. Understanding that, feeling that, is essential. My political agenda was focused on feminism, and I didn't realize that it was implicitly white feminism, unintentionally excluding. What Aïssa says seems fundamental to me: the agenda that would order one cause after another is not conceivable and leads to inertia. It leagues us against each other in identity issues that are sterile, since they reiterate the terms of oppression. This is a major issue in the effectiveness of political struggles: how can we mobilize without reiterating the categorization we are fighting against? This implies understanding that there is a deep articulation between all systems of domination and that there is a need to defend these causes in a cross-cutting manner.

Aïssa's speech on June 2nd, during the demonstration initiated by the Adama Committee, called for a fair, dignified and positive representation of minorities in the media. But who can judge what is dignified and fair? Only the ones who are affected ?

A.H.: Today, in France, female characters in films are implicitly white women: I have a much wider range of possible jobs than that offered to a black actress. But in my field of so-called universal women, very often, women are offered satellite roles around male characters. These roles take up what is considered to be the normal white female nature, of restraint and reification. What appears natural here is a cultural construction of identity that is done precisely through stories. This is one of the reasons why the political stakes of representations in the cinema are so important.

Is this a criterion for assessing or rejecting a work? What should be done with existing works that have been reassessed as problematic?

A.H.: Works must be recontextualized. They are not created out of nowhere, out of time. Let's question them! That doesn't mean that we stop watching them, but that we ask ourselves what their political substratum is and what they convey. Questioning representations is a sign of vitality. And that does not mean that we would no longer have the right to see these works.

A.M.: With this waltz of statues of slavery figures in the United States or in the French overseas departments at the moment, the citizens gives their answer. Either the work must be contextualized, in a museum or in a place with a historical explanatory note, or it must stand out.

Is it women, more willingly than men, who carry this convergence of fights ?

A.M.: I feel a change in the scale of our lives, a major turning point in the way we perceive each other and allow ourselves to hybridize in these battles. Regarding the massive presence of women from cinema in front of the High Court on June 2, I wonder. In particular about my own capacity to build bridges... while guaranteeing the visibility of the fights against discrimination against women or POC. How do we ensure that the fight against discrimination, for equality and equity, is as visible as the rest? I am not at all sure how to do this. But it has to be done. When, the day after the César, I received a text message from Adèle, even though we don't know each other, and she writes to me to say "I heard you. I'm here. Let's meet", it can be as simple as that.

Why did you send that text?

A.H.: Because of the solitude in this room. And the brave gesture of saying what she said on stage. We'd met the same evening and maybe I hadn't caught the moment, I was captivated by our own event... That is, what had happened after we'd, let's say..., gone to get our coats a bit earlier in the dressing room... (Aïssa Maïga laughs) And I thought, let's not forget the constructed gesture, the political intentionality of Aïssa in there. I wanted to get closer to her courage. So I think that we shouldn't talk about masculinity by saying "men", that we should consider masculinity as a field of organization of power with its own complexities, and its intersectional repercussions. I refer to Angela Davis' book, Women, Race & Class, on the issue of the difficult articulation between the civil rights movement in the United States and the emerging white feminist movements where there was a lot of racism. Why don't we think of ourselves as spontaneous and necessary allies between categories of discrimination, racial, social and gendered? We need to take the history of this division seriously in order to work on it and overcome it. As Assa Traoré does in an ultra-intelligent way when she says "Whatever your religion, your sexual orientation, wherever you come from, whatever your skin color". It is an invitation to self-criticism of our own movement. This is my discovery at the beginning of this year: the self-criticism of my history as a white feminist.

When you get up during the César, is it thoughtful or impulsive?

A.H.: This award was a claim to the right to do whatever you want as long as you are at the top. That is to say: rich white men who don't feel concerned when we talk about violence. What it means beyond sexual violence is that there are people to whom repressive laws do not apply. It's as if the police and the laws shouldn't act against them, but around them... And that's what you feel in that moment in the room. What happened on César night was a dissolution of the status quo. Now it's either you stay in the room or you don't stay in the room.

A.M.: And it was important to be there at the César, because I read a lot about boycotting that evening, but for me there was no question of backing out. A boycott is not just staying at home behind your television, not being there without anyone really noticing. It was important to say that the home of cinema is also our home, our space, our place of expression. We are in a position to speak out and for that to have the virtue of provoking discussion. When that person wins that award, it's the time of the turkey, where someone praises the rapist grandfather, when everyone knows. And you're breathless, you can't move, time becomes elastic, everything is extremely heavy, it's unreal. You enter another dimension. And the fact that a person manages to regain possession of time, to become master of their time and master of their body by standing up and saying no, it put oxygen back in, it woke us up. Adèle and I looked at each other two or three times during the evening, we knew we were together. There was something like a physical experience. We boarded the ship together.

We're spotting the allies.

A.M.: That's right. And time returned to normal when Adèle, Céline Sciamma and others, including me, got up. It was a coherent political gesture in which many people recognized themselves.

Do you think that your political positions, formalized at the César, can have an impact on your career?

A.M.: The question is how do you break a family secret? Festen is one of my favorite films. (Laughs) I wasn't born at the time of the 2020 César, it's the result of a personal journey and a legacy. Others before me have spoken, for example Luc Saint-Eloy and Calixthe Beyala on the same issues at the Césars in 2000. When Canal + and the César invited me to come and give an award, I said "yes, but I want complete freedom". Blowing up a family secret is a movement for self-liberation, it's an essential meeting with yourself. Choosing to be on the side of silence, of the status quo and therefore of injustices with full knowledge of the facts is something I was quite incapable of doing. The consequences for one's profession are not that one doesn't care, but spitting out what one has to say is a top priority. The question of what it is going to cost behind it is resolved by the feeling of freeing the word, provoking debate, making a generational contribution to the fight for equality, which in essence concerns us all. I have an appointment with myself around 60, 65, the age when my children will be about the same age as I am today. There is something about transmission. I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror. I don't want to tell myself that I haven't taken advantage of my little privilege of being a POC exception in French cinema to the detriment of all those young people I meet on the street, who aren't white and who say to me with fear in their stomachs, "Do you think I can still do this job?"

What about you, Adèle?

A.H.: The message that was sent to me very clearly by a casting director is that I will never work again. Obviously, this person was very sure of himself, since he wrote it in print capital letters about a dozen times. What do you say when you ask for respect and silence? They say, "Don't speak out politically because it's not your role". But also: "Don't take the lead artistically either because you're an actress, you have to follow the genius of your director". This whole structure is part of this culture where you shouldn't listen to yourself but to submit. I don't know what the consequences will be for my job. What is certain is that I will never regret it. We did something that night that freed the voices of a lot of people. That is worth much more than all the threats to my career, which in any case is always fragile, because it is a precarious environment. If I totally respected the rules and said, "Yes, yes, you have to separate the man from the artist", that wouldn't stop me from being able to get out of the game. It's as much about inventing one's life as trying to open up the future.

Written by Cécile Daumas , Rachid Laïreche and Sandra Onana. Photo by Lucile Boiron

[tsuumu]

beautiful stranger.

oikawa x reader

a short piece in which oikawa tooru approaches you on a idyllic evening. it’s a little awkward though, since you’re trying to die.

word count: 3.3k

tw: indirect and direct implications of suicide.

your warm hands stay gripped onto the metal rails in front of you, applying enough force to watch your knuckles turn white. you find yourself doing it over and over until your fingers numb from the continued pressure. alone, you’re mulling over mundane affairs. you’d rather not be thinking about them but find this loop all too easy to fall into.

the shadow of the railing casts over a large canal, its water sifting freely, far beneath you. it laps over itself, slithers of fish break the transparent surface as they swim. some of their scales rise to kiss the sunlight in opaque relfections.

thin layers of petals scatter the ground beneath your feet that have slipped from overhead trees and continue to flutter down freely. glowers of dying sunlight seep through the shapes of them as they fall.

in this moment, autumn is alive.

it’s really lovely right now.

you’re here, all caught up in chasing that feeling of peace. safety in an open space. you have to cope with that fact that tranquility never comes easily for you.

there’s nothing that should be leaving you as deeply unsettled as you are. you’ve learnt to largely ignore feeling so overwhelmed, though it stirs and resurfaces times you wish it wouldn’t.

what’s bugging you is that you can’t quite get a grasp on your own life.

for starters, everything lacks coherent meaning. to you, there’s something constantly missing every single day. nothing purchasable, nothing attainable through hard-work and any level of perseverance. truly, it affects you so much so that even just standing here, feet glued to the very spot that is undeniably ‘lovely’, brings you nothing but unimaginable sadness.

earlier, you brushed it away as an off day but you know that’s not true. you’ve been feeling like this all the time.

it is, therefore, not at all abnormal to wonder: can a person have such thing as an off life?

you really don’t like to think about things like this too much. once you begin to muse over deep naysay you find yourself snowballing.

solutions are painfully unobtainable and it’s generally as productive as chasing pavements.

do i really enjoy being alone? or am i obsessed with the sensation loneliness brings?

“you know, if you stare long enough, you might end up wanting to jump in.”

at once, your vision snaps up, taken aback by the additional voice. you hadn’t realised that during your mindless lamenting, another person had quietly joined you by the evening canal-side.

fair skinned, dark eyed, chocolate curls brushed neatly over his features and cowlicks that bob against the light gusts of wind.

a boy offers you a smile, before shifting his feet towards the empty space to your left. you can’t seem to process him, staring at the empty spot he’d been in seconds earlier.

you’re not supposed to be here right now.

“i was totally kidding by the way.” he adds. “that was really dark, sorry.”

you’re silent in return, eyes casting back onto the running stream. the water is shallow and the fall long, so jumping in would certainly prove fatal. you know all of this too well. it’d disturb the fish who are just here to live, though, it’ll only be for a moment. they won’t know any better.

you don’t really know what to say. it’s troubling that he’s here and hearing it out loud disturbs you, like a direct call out. at no point were you prepared for any kind of conversation prior.

the two of you stand there in complete silence. it’s not particularly awkward, you just don’t know why he’s approached you so easily, talking to you like he’s known you well enough to make outlandish jokes.

asking directly for his intentions seems rude, so you’ll put up with it until he leaves.

“do you always come here?” the stranger pipes up once more, though his focus doesn’t leave the water. you breathe in deeply.

“sometimes.”

“oh, i see.”

his palms lay flat and he pushes gently off of the rails, only to fall back onto them with all his weight. he does it again, repeating the process over and over at a steady pace. you stay hunched over, keeping your distance. he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest though, clearly absorbed in his surroundings.

“it’s like a set out of a movie, this place. seems like somewhere i’d ask my girlfriend to marry me.”

your tongue rolls around in your mouth.

yes. you think. his girlfriend would most likely be thrilled-over the top-squealing if he did. that’s entirely his business.

you really don’t care to hear of other people’s romantic endeavours.

is it out of jealousy? you don’t know. maybe.

this conversation is meaningless. you wish he’d go away sooner so you could have this time to yourself.

also, jealousy is an ugly word. you hate it.

he stops his movement with a exhale of air, tilting his head back to blink up at the warm sky. the last touches daylight mingle with the oncoming darkness, creating a deep tinge of orangey-yellow.

“when’s your birthday?”

‎a petal lands on the bridge of your hand, sticking to your skin.

“do you want my social security number?” you deject.

“what? no!”

“are you sure? really, i’ll give it to you.”

“no!”

“then why are you asking for my personal information?”

‎

he falls silent for a moment, before mumbling out a small: “just wondering.”

a tinge of guilt creeps over you at his apologetic tone. you admit, your answers thus far must make you seem like a completely unapproachable asswipe. you’re not at all. you just aren’t all that sure how to make small talk with strangers when you’re trying to part with the world by dinner time.

it feels like an unexpected guest at your very lonesome party.

“it’s (insert birth month).” you fold.

he purses his lips, face contorting a little.

“i see.”

he doesn’t continue down that path after your response. the both of you return to a mutual silence, staring into the portrait scenery ahead. the stream fills the soundscape pleasantly. fallen leaves have gathered at the base of your shoes, brushing over the tip gently with the turn of the wind. you observe them quietly.

“can i ask you another question?”

he seems a tad more timid now.

he definitely thinks you’re the type to blow up and give him an earful about minding his own business, doesn’t he?

you’d never raise your voice. in general, but also because it’d break the comfort of the scenery the world has so generously given you.

“sure.”

“do you believe in soulmates?”

‎the question is a little random but not impossible to answer by any means.

“no.”

“what?”

“i said not really.”

“you said no.”

“that’s the same thing.”

“...fair enough.”

‎he exhales out, sounding a little disheartened by your curt response. perhaps to him, you were a tough nut to crack; an ambiguity for him to understand. were all people like that? you weren’t playing hard to get, in fact, you’d answered every single enquiry he has had to offer. his efforts are amusing, though.

you raise a brow at him.

“i’m sorry, was that the wrong answer?”

for a moment, he doesn’t reply, stuffing his hands into his pockets, gazing down at the head of his shoe. pivoting his ankle, he draws small circles with the tip of his foot into the ground, into the dead leaves.

“not at all.”

“your expression says otherwise.”

“um, it was just a bit bleak, i guess.”

you let your arms droop way over the railing, fingers wading through the autumn air. you’d never really taken the concepts of soulmates to heart. it was romantic bullshit put out by somebody looking for a fantasy to indulge in. out of seven billion people, there could hardly be a singular person made for you. people aren’t born for other people. if that were the case, it wouldn’t be a rose-tinted fantasy. it would be suffocating. where’s the freedom in love?

“most people always answer like you these days anyway.”

“oh, sorry.”

he looks up at you, tilting his head.

“no, don’t be.”

back to a default mute, left with nothing but the faint chitter of overhead swallows and the odd rumble of cars passing by.

“tooru.” he states, after a while.

“what?”

“tooru. my name is tooru.”

“oh, okay.”

“oikawa tooru.”

‎your fingertips have become flushed. maybe you’d pressed a little too hard on that cold surface earlier. now that all your blood has come rushing back, the tingling sensation feels foreign.

his name slips of the tongue rather easily, don’t you think?

“nice to meet you, oikawa tooru.”

“it is nice, isn’t it?”

for the first time, your gazes meet properly and you offer him a crooked smile.

“i suppose so.”

off the side of the canal, almost right under the bridge, a small cluster of ducks have gathered. adult ducks tend to be considerably larger than its offspring —as is factual with any animal— so it’s easy for you to tell that there’s only one parent there, along with three of its ducklings.

people like to come to the canal to feed the ducks bread, though you’d heard somewhere that it’s actually quite bad for them.

you wonder. do ducks care particularly if one of its ducklings die? will it do something with the body, cry out, hurt?

or is grief exceptionally human?

“i don’t actually have a girlfriend, by the way.”

he sifts out his phone, tapping the screen and sliding it open. you watch him turn it to its side, before leaning over to take a picture of the depths below. you just watch.

“oh, okay.”

he doesn’t elaborate, focused intently on his current task. your attention returns to the shape of the birds, bobbing up and down rhythmically.

there’s only so much you can say about the canal. yeah, it’s beautiful. you don’t have the right vocabulary to describe the way it makes you feel. honestly, it feels abysmal to even try. you’re convinced though, that you’re in love with the way the water moves. you’ve always appriciated it whenever you walk past, told yourself jokingly that you could die there if you had to.

funny, that.

beautiful things tend to hurt in an unbearably amplified manner.

“say, tooru?”

“yeah?”

“if i climbed over the railing right now, would you stop me?”

you’re both fixated on the paddling now. his phone is back in his pocket, elbows propped up. he hums, taking his time to think over your question.

“most likely.”

your fingers meet one another and the tingling spreads to your palms.

“i’m thinking of jumping, actually.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“my joke earlier...”

“yeah.”

his fingers drum rhythmically on the slender poles under the rail top.

“then i’d jump right in with you.”

the corners of his mouth tug slightly at your perplexity, supressing a chortle. he’s not laughing at you, though. it’s more a gesture of understanding. this tooru doesn’t know you at all, yet he gets it. he gets it all too well.

you get that he gets it.

tooru clears his throat. “bad day?”

“that’s an understatement.”

“well, you’re not a bad person for feeling the way you do.”

by now, the ducks have swam away, you can make out the general shape of them, melding into the distant, mute colours of the bankside. the sky look minutes away from being set alight. time has never been your friend, you see.

“i feel crazy for trying.” you’re rather blunt about it.

“fair enough.”

“…is that all?”

“well, do you want me to tell you that you’re not crazy?”

you lull into silence.

“i don’t know.”

with that, you shift to angle yourself so that he’s in your immediate peripheral, the thought of gawking at him seems ridiculous but you want to look at him. you find it hard to do it up front for some reason.

“i’m no suicide expert, but it’d probably be lonely doing something like that by yourself. wouldn’t it be comforting to know someone’s falling with you?”

your fingers run absently across the jagged surface of the rails, the old paint has been chipped away at, after all its years of protecting. in all it’s history, had anyone else hitched themselves over this very rail?

were they asking for the same answers as you?

god. that’s awful. you don’t want to think about that.

you catch each others’ eyes for a second but you resign quickly, focusing as hard as you can on the flecks of black on your thumb.

“that would be selfish of me.”

“not if i’m offering.”

you scramble to look anywhere else, abruptly turning. you’re facing away from the canal, stomach fluttering a little as you fall onto the rail’s length.

in all your time by yourself, you’d never been given an irrefutable reason to ‘be’. it’d always been a live-for-the-day type of experience. if a day is good, you’re utterly blissed out by it, totally in love with life. if it’s bad, you have little reason to go on. nothing particularly interests you enough to dedicate your days persuing it. fame seems tedious, looks are temporary, a six figure career sounds like emotional jail-time, or a slow, schedule-filled trek to death. whichever description sounds more sufferable.

you see, in essence, we all get off at the same bus stop. some journeys are simply shorter than others.

“you’re guilt-tripping me out of it.”

“i’m not!”

you’ve never stopped to ask yourself what it is you want.

death interests you, you suppose. though, you don’t see the reason to wait around and pretend to ignore it until one day it drags you kicking and screaming.

“oikawa tooru, don’t you have better things to be doing than offering to jump off bridges with strangers?”

that coy smile tugs at his lips once more. nothing you say seems to phase him. it’s like he knows you. he’s thinking: yeah, this isn’t anything out of the ordinary for them.

“should i? you look at that water like it’s someone you hate. or love. maybe both. i got curious.”

“curious?”

“yes. and quite frankly, you’ve left me curious. practically starving. you haven’t even told me your name.”

“my name doesn’t matter.”

“boo. that’s not true at all.”

his tongue pokes out, tugging at the corner of his eye. you shake your head, genuinely unable to hide your amusement, turning to him properly this time.

and really, it’s like the canal side and oikawa tooru were made from the same stardust. he blends right into the picture, as effortlessly pretty as the rest of it.

the strands of hair out of place, a little disheveled from the breeze. the scarf buried into his nose, glasses a little misty from the heat of his own breath but when they clear, you see his eyes all too well.

you’d like to tuck those strands into place, they’re bothering you just a little.

“(y/n).”

your brows furrow a little.

really, this could all very well be some sort of fantastical dream. as nice as it all is, it feels painfully unreal. boys don’t look like that on autumn evenings or offer to die with you.

that’s it.

tooru must be a figment of your imagination.

no. wrong. not a dream.

this is a corner of your mind you haven’t ventured into yet, psychologically, some kind of safety net. a sliced off piece of reality you’ve come to hide in because you’ve utterly lost your mind. he is nothing but a part of you that makes you feel at ease as you come to terms with your self-destruction.

god, that bothers you more. you are crazy.

your hand extends, reaches out all on its own.

you just want to know if he’s real.

oikawa tooru glances down for a moment, he’s probably wondering about you, what’s left you in such a state. though, he’s happy to slide his palm against yours, latching onto it. he shakes once, twice. a little more. tightens his hold a bit.

the weight of his fingers as they brush lightly against your palm is fantastical. he’s so warm. you can feel it spread through you from the pads of your fingers.

he’s very real.

tooru has rather pretty hands.

the contact makes you feel kind of delirious, a produce of being utterly touch-starved. just a simple touch. you’re embarrassed to say it but it takes everything inside of you not to start weeping or hold on frantically in case he does disappear, do something bizzare that’ll scare him away forever.

hey, tooru. are you made of honey?

“well, (y/n), i’m offering you my life right now.”

the sun has set foot on the horizon, plunging in ever so slightly. as a child, the thought of night scared you, feeling largely betrayed by the sun’s farewell. now, it’s a unique kind of comfort to see the moon. it’s as lonely as those who lay their eyes upon it.

“i don’t want it.”

his fingers slip downwards against the dips of your palm.

“you don’t?”

“no, i mean... i don’t want death. not right now..”

you don’t even want to think about it anymore. funny, how things like that work. you were so sure of it. today was the day. your dark rendezvous. weren’t you itching for it?

this bastard.

this man you’ve never met. he clasps onto your hand once and suddenly he stops your nauseating rollercoaster of thoughts and leaves you wondering if, actually, you’d like to see the canal-side again tomorrow, or in fifty years.

who are you really, oikawa tooru?

“no?”

“yeah.”

“then what do you want to do?”

“stay right here, i think.”

your fingers curl, maintaining your hold on him. you should be shy or awkward about this whole ordeal but so you’re desperate for that warmth to continue.

you both stand there, facing one another, hands extended. it’s a little robotic looking. you’re pretty stiff but very sure this is what feels right.

to you, existence is based solely on feeling your way through stages of life. that sickeningly sweet innocence of youth. childhood memories that to you, are dwindled husks of gold, valuable in some aspects but almost meaningless in others. to laugh or to cry allows an individual to create a deep-set connection to the environment around them. it is no longer passing scenery but a moment in your life you once lived through.

that’s beautiful, isn’t it?

unfortunately, emotion provides both a living fantasy and the potential for agony. life is not sweet, nor innocent. it is what you make of it.

it is what your mind is forced to make of it.

and as much as one wishes they were as coddled and loved as they were children, life beyond those years is lonely, difficult and more than you were ever capable of.

were you weak? perhaps.

but maybe people aren’t built for life. we’re all weak.

and realistically, if you are unable to clamber over one obstacle after another -established by those before you- you’re doomed to fall behind.

that will hurt. you will hurt unforgivably because self-worth is no longer a beautiful gift of internal discovery and love but another way to be measured and downsized externally. a practice that leads to hatred. a desire to die.

that’s really where it all began for you. a romantic, a poet at heart, living inside your own, kinder world. that is until reality knocked on your door, invited itself in, just to set the entire thing on fire and leave you as vulnerable as the day you were born.

you aren’t allowed to hide. it comes looking for you eventually.

your stance on life hasn’t changed, afterall, you’ve spent nights mourning over how much it can hurt to live. to fall asleep exhausted with yourself, only to wake up and do it all over again. what you do know, however, is that droning, lonely feeling isn’t there right now. that ongoing, battering ruckus inside your head has ceased. tooru, the strange magician, has left you thoughtless and a little dumb.

you like being this stupid. for once, there’s nothing intrusive prodding the inside of your head.

it’s frightfully quiet, actually. you don’t know what you’re feeling right now. how much time has passed since he’d made that awful joke?

his gaze is on your lingering contact, before lightly pulling you closer, twisting his wrist down so you’re holding hands. your gaze moves to the bankside. you feel comforted. maybe it isn’t death, maybe all you want is a hand to hold.

probably not. that is a stupid, sappy thought. you’re still fanatic about ending your life.

you were so close to doing it, without even really understanding what you were doing. the canal scenery is overpowering, numbing, if you will. without oikawa tooru, you may well have kissed those fishs’ fluorescent scales with your own two lips, as cold as ice with some unfortunate early-morning runner discovering you by twilight.

“we can do that.” he hesitates. “if i’m honest, i would have been pretty scared to jump.”

“yet you still offered?”

tooru hums merrily in confirmation.

“why?”

“because you’re cute.”

you can’t believe your own ears.

“what? seriously?”

“yeah. originally, i wanted your number but things took a small turn.”

you burst out in gutteral laughter, free hand back onto the railing for support. for a moment, you look at him, shaking your head in utter amazement.

“you’re a piece of work, tooru, you know?”

“yeah, i know.”

he smiles back at you. the shadows cast by the setting sun only make him all the more enigmatic.

now that you think about it, you can’t figure this guy out at all. it’s like staring at a wordless piece of paper and trying to find something legible.

“how do you know i won’t come back and repeat all of this tomorrow?”

tooru tilts his head ever so slightly, observing you. his eyes flutter down to your lips, speaking like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“because you told me your name.”

“what does that have to do with anything?”

“well, now that i know that, you’re no longer just a beautiful stranger.”

you understood now. he hadn’t just offered you his life, he’d offered you him. by living on, you’d accepted graciously. he knows that if you visit the canal side again, you’ll only remember this moment.

a bad moment that he, in all his glory, turned into a good one. the day you two first met.

oh, clever boy. he saved you.

though you must say, oikawa tooru, you’re very much mistaken.

you are the beautiful stranger.

a tear runs down your cheek, a little warmer than you could’ve expected.

one turns into two, slipping more and more. eventually, you’re standing over the canal, hand in hand with oikawa tooru, sobbing quietly as the water runs peacefully below the both of you.

[jungleslang]

So I made a post the other day about Elain and Bryaxis becoming besties, and I couldn’t stop myself from writing it. You guys can thank @ladylochan for encouraging me to write this nonsense. I hope you enjoy some Elain and Bryaxis bonding time! Of course, there’s some Elriel at the end because I’m shameless. I regret nothing. 

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Word Count: 2,077

Elain was knee-deep in the rose bushes when she sensed a shadowy presence creeping up behind her. She didn't even bother turning around, as she already knew exactly who sought out her company.

"Hello, Bry," she cooed. 

Bryaxis didn't deign to respond, but she felt shadow and mist twining around her ankles, gentle and cool against her flushed skin. She stepped back from the roses and plopped herself down onto the grass, making sure to tuck her dress neatly underneath her. She surrendered herself to the friendly embrace of the creature of nightmares, allowing the shadows to circle the length of her arms and sift through her hair. 

"What kind of story shall I tell you today?" She hummed. "I doubt you should like me to bore you with another monologue about the life cycle of flowering plants." 

The shadows nudged her, as if reassuring her that they would never think her boring. Bryaxis was not a creature of many words, preferring to listen rather than speak. Elain understood that, just as she had come to understand the meaning behind their small gestures. 

She had come across Bryaxis in the garden one day, and she would be lying if she said she hadn't been frightened out of her wits. But she quickly realized that Bryaxis, this creature of nightmares that made even Cassian shrink as if he were one of her flowers, had simply been lonely. Seeking a companion to speak to them of life. Elain was intimately familiar with that loneliness, that craving for life and light. Just like that, she found herself taking up the position.

Talking to Bryaxis turned out to be the easiest thing in the world. They did not judge her or belittle her or dismiss her. Bryaxis found value in her words, was content to just sit beside her and listen. It felt nice to be valued, to be wanted and appreciated. She had come to value Bryaxis as well, for their thirst for knowledge and stories, and for their quiet support. 

Bryaxis had become her friend. 

With a start, she realized that she had never even verbalized that thought to her so-called friend before. So she leaned further into the darkness beside her and said, "You know you are a dear friend to me, right?"

She felt the darkness shifting around her, caressing the side of her throat and her cheek. A gesture of affection. She gazed into that darkness, trying to communicate every ounce of her gratitude and fondness through her stare. 

Yes, Fawn. You are my friend, too. 

She smiled broadly at the creature of pure nightmares lounging beside her like an overgrown cat. "You still haven't told me what kind of story you'd like to hear." 

What kind of story would you like to tell? 

Elain snorted. "There you go, answering questions with questions. Are you sure you aren't a faerie? Or are you just trying to uphold your air of mystery?" 

The darkness coalesced in front of her face and gave her a gentle poke on the forehead. She batted the touch away, understanding that Bryaxis wanted her to choose what story she wanted to tell. But she was afraid the story she chose wouldn't be a happy one. Lately, her mind had been occupied by thoughts of her mother, none of them pleasant. The anniversary of her death was approaching, and now, there were reminders of her everywhere. Especially the section of the garden where the plum blossoms, her mother's favorite flower, were proudly blooming. 

She didn't even like to think about her mother, let alone talk about her, but this was Bryaxis. Bryaxis, who she could talk to about anything. Who would simply listen and never judge. Bryaxis, who was her dear friend. 

"Would you like to hear about my mother?" The darkness coiled around her even more tightly than before at her hesitant question, as if Bryaxis was comforting her because they could sense what this meant for her. That this wasn't just an offer of a story, but of trust. The face of nightmares settled, the inky darkness going still around her, which Elain knew was an indication that Bryaxis was ready to listen and a prompt to begin her story. "She was dazzling, especially at parties. She was beautiful, too. Just like Feyre and Nesta. I always loved their eyes, the color of the sky before a storm. She was the life of every party, flitting around the room to talk to everyone, charming them before they'd even realized it. If you met her at a ball, you would think she was the most joyous and warm person you'd ever met. But she wasn't...she wasn't like that with us. With me and my sisters. She's dead now. She died of typhus when I was nine." 

She felt the weight of shadows on her palm, felt them slipping between her fingers until she curled them around the darkness that was now resting in her hand. 

She forced herself to take a deep breath and mumbled, "I was sad, of course, when she died. And I mourned her. But I...I didn't– I never really missed her. I was never attached to her like Nesta was. And sometimes, I don't think she ever really loved me. I heard the things she said about me. I knew what she thought of me. Her beautiful but useless daughter. Elain who had a face as lovely as the sunrise, but had no ambition, nothing in her head except flowers. Elain, who was good for nothing except securing a beneficial marriage with her pretty face." Her voice had taken on a bitter tone towards the end of her speech, and she had to remind herself that there was no need for such bitterness, nowhere for it to go. No one to direct it at. 

She had never in her life dared to voice these awful words, even if they were true. Her mother was not always a good one. She had valued Elain only for her gentleness and beauty and resented Feyre for her strangeness. For their mother, Elain was not a daughter but a clay doll, and Feyre...Feyre was not even that because she could not be shaped and molded. Because she refused to be pliable, unlike Elain. Feyre had always been her own person, something Elain greatly admired.

"I always feel guilty when the anniversary of her death approaches because I never really missed her the way a daughter should miss her mother," she admitted softly. "But then again, she never really treated me the way a mother should treat her daughter, either," she shrugged. 

It had been a hard lesson for Elain to learn as a young girl, that not every mother loved their children unconditionally. But she did learn it, and now she had no choice but to live with it. She felt the shadows curling tighter around her fingers, gently squeezing her hand. 

To her surprise, she suddenly found herself laughing. The hand that was not currently nestled in the soothing embrace of darkness was clutching her stomach as she laughed until tears formed in her eyes. It truly was ridiculous. If anyone had told her a year ago that she would be pouring her heart out to the face of nightmares while they held hands, she would have thought them insane. But here she was. "You know, Bry, I'm not entirely sure how we got here, but I'm glad we did," she said, twirling strands of darkness around her finger. 

As am I. 

The darkness coalesced once more, but this time, they coiled themselves firmly around her waist. Bryaxis was hugging her. She was contemplating how exactly she could return the gesture when she heard someone land hard in the grass behind her. Just as she was about to turn, she was roughly yanked onto her feet and out of her friend's comforting embrace. 

She came face to chest with Azriel, whose fingers were drilling into her upper arms as he demanded, "Elain, are you okay? Did that thing hurt you? What did it want from you?" His voice was as cold and sharp as his blade, and his shadows swarmed menacingly around him, ready to strike. She could see his eyes scanning every inch of her body, checking for injuries. She fought hard to restrain the blush threatening to paint her cheeks.

She shrugged out of his hold and placed a hand on his chest to calm him as she felt Bryaxis brush firmly against her side, a farewell that she returned with a nod, before vanishing into the wind. She tilted her face up to look into Azriel's furious hazel eyes. "Bryaxis is not an it or a thing, but a they. And no, Bry would never hurt me," she gently but firmly reassured him. 

"Bry?" His voice was as incredulous as she'd ever heard it, and he was staring at her like she had spontaneously grown two heads. She didn't think she'd ever witnessed such palpable shock on the Shadowsinger’s beautiful face before, and she resolved to engrave the expression into her memory. 

She huffed a soft laugh. "Yes, Az. Bryaxis is a friend. I found them in the garden one day. They wanted someone to tell them stories of life. We became quite close," she chirped. 

He shook his head at her as if she were an oddity. "Of course you would manage to become friends with a creature of pure darkness and nightmares," he grumbled, his shadows beginning to dissolve. 

"Well, I'm friends with you, aren't I?" She joked. 

He shot her a mock glare. "Not anymore," he teased, flicking her cheek before seemingly realizing what he had done and snatching his hand back as if she burned him. As if he could not bear to touch her. He directed his stare to the ground, refusing to even look at her. 

Her chest tightened, and she stepped back, letting her hand slide away from his chest. She left at least three feet of space between them. They had not spoken since that moment when they had nearly bridged the unbearable space between them that Elain was now constantly aware of. She had been so close to getting a small taste of what she desired, and now, nothing. And she understood, she really did. It was understandable that he did not want her. She could not, would not, blame him. But she assumed she would still have his friendship, and now it seemed he did not think her worthy of even that.

"It would seem that we truly aren't friends anymore. Since you can no longer stand to look me in the eyes," she blurted before her brain could tell her not to. 

She could see her words struck home by the way his spine stiffened. "That's not true," he bit out, still refusing to meet her eyes. "It's complicated, Elain." His hand reached up to brush the nape of his neck. 

"Then uncomplicate it. You can't avoid me and refuse to speak to me and then expect me to understand what you're thinking. If you don't want anything to do with me anymore, then say it. Just be honest with me. I can handle it," she forced herself to speak firmly, even though she probably couldn't handle it. Even though hearing those words from him would cleave her heart in two, shatter the part of her that he had helped her piece back together. But she had to know what he wanted, or didn't want, from her. The faster he rejected her entirely, the faster she could move on. It wasn't as if she hadn't been cruelly rejected before, anyway.  

He clenched his jaw, but he finally lifted his head to meet her eyes, some unreadable emotion swirling in his own. "Of course we're still friends, Elain," he murmured, and something inside her loosened. She opened her mouth, to say what, she didn't know, but his head turned towards the house before she could speak. "I have to go," he said, and there was something strained in his tone. 

"Okay. We'll talk later?" She cursed herself for being unable to keep the hope she felt from permeating her voice. He stared at her for a moment before simply nodding. Then he shot into the sky, leaving her to stand alone in the garden, staring after him until he disappeared from her sight completely. 

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Thank you guys so much for reading!