#numb isn’t the word. it’s almost indifferent

[freezer-bird]

1

[revelboo]

went through all of "everything is alright" and I'm far too attached to it already (and also heartbroken as of the current chapter 💔💔), thank you for the amazing writing and quick updates!!

(also you made me finally purchase some of the blokees I had my eye on🫶)

Thank you for reading my nonsense! The Blokees figures are some of my favorites- I love little figures

Everything is Alright Pt 80

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• “Everything.” One little word that sends cracks running through him, lets the ice seep in. The numb anger. Because he knows the things he’s done to further the Decepticon cause. Some of them of his own volition to enhance his position, others under Megatron’s name. Your eyes looking up at him, hurt and almost pleading with him to deny it. To tell you it’s all a lie, because you don’t want to know the truth of him. That he did the hard things, he did what was necessary. You hadn’t resisted when he’d picked you up. Maybe as broken as he feels. No matter how much he’d wanted to shield you from the reality of this war, to let it be something you don’t need to think too much on, there’s no hiding it anymore.

• “Now you know,” he growls, rasping voice colder than you’ve ever heard it. Wishing he’d denied it even if it was a lie. You’re not a child, it’s not like you don’t understand that they’re at war, but some of those things were just cruel. Violence for the sheer delight of causing pain and you don’t want that to be who he really is. Don’t want to love someone who could do that. Want to pretend that it’s still alright. That it’s just you and him learning each other, growing closer without reality slipping in. Because right now, your heart is breaking.

• Watching you hurts, because Soundwave can feel that despair, that aching sting of grief. And he doesn’t know how to fix this. If it even can be fixed. As Starscream turns to leave with you, he reaches out, catches his arm. “Wait,” he says. Wanting to take you, keep you with him, because right now he doesn’t trust the Seeker’s mindset at all. And Starscream rounds on him, denta bared and a cannon in his face. Realizes that the SIC has nothing left to lose, optics furious with hate. So it’s a surprise when Starscream lowers his arm and walks past. As if he’s not even worth the bother. Taking you away as his spark aches, because this isn’t what he wanted at all.

• It’s oddly freeing realizing it’s all gone, everything taken away from him. You’re still there in his hand, but that trust is broken. And he just wants to scream, to destroy something. Because having you with him and so distant and quiet is worse than just losing you. Wonders if you’ll be able to bear looking at him anymore. If you’ll speak to him or just hide from him. See only a monster. Entering his quarters, he looks down at you, meeting your eyes. Megatron said the words, but this is the culmination of a lifetime of his decisions. “Talk to me, please.” Those soft words make his spark ache. Cut through the indifference he wants to protect himself with. “Star?”

• “Do you want me to deny everything?” He asks. And you really do, but you just shake your head. “I made mistakes. I was cruel and ambitious,” he says slowly, a servo sliding against your hip as he keeps you trapped in his hand, standing in the middle of his habsuite. Like he’s afraid to put you down in case you try to get away. “And I’m not entirely sure I can be anything else at this point.” Jaw working like the admission cost him something, you close your eyes. But… That’s not exactly true is it? He’s been changing, softening every day. Those big hands capable of violence, but never towards you. If he’s been monstrous in his past, that’s not the him you know. Even if those horrors laid out for you can still hurt you, they’re not him anymore. Right? Because you need to believe that or you’ll come apart completely.

• “I want to hear it all from you. The truth, good and bad,” you whisper, a tear sliding down your cheek. Not pushing him away or abandoning him. Not yet and he doesn’t know what to make of you. You already know. Megatron would have told you in grisly detail, so why ask for more pain? Are you trying to understand him? Making an effort to reach out to him still? Servo sliding over your cheek to wipe away the tear, you touch his hand. Remembering your hesitant admission that you liked him what feels like forever ago. He’d never told you how he felt about you in return, though. Not really. Unable to bring himself to admit that he needs you beside him, to make himself vulnerable that way with words. That he can’t sleep without you there, that you’re everything now, his world narrowed down to you, tied to the beat of your heart, to your smiles. It’s why he’d bonded you to him without asking, because he needed you and he was afraid of being denied so he’d taken. Optics shuttering, he sits on the berth with you. And slowly, hesitantly, he begins to speak. To get all the awfulness out.

• It’s funny. Breaking the Seeker’s little pet didn’t give him the satisfaction Megatron expected. Only left him more exhausted than before. Sitting on the edge of his berth, he keeps picturing your eyes leaking. Your pain. And it doesn’t matter. You’re just a human, you’re nothing. But he keeps thinking about it all the same. Telling himself that he doesn’t care. That you’re one more casualty of the war and that those ghosts don’t bother him.

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[bardic-tales]

The Sound of Silence, a FF VII xReader Fic

Summary: In the aftermath of five tragic losses, the reader finds solace in Sephiroth's quiet, unwavering support as he comforts them through their grief on a cold night in Midgar.

Pairing: Sephiroth x Genderless Reader

Possible Trigger Warnings: Death, grief, mourning, loss of loved ones, emotional distress, isolation, crying, depression, self-doubt, existential despair, traumatic experiences, and implied emotional exhaustion.

The city never sleeps. Not even for the grieving.

You stood at the edge of the Sector 5 plate, staring into the neon-drenched abyss below, where slivers of artificial starlight blinked like fractured constellations on broken glass. The metal beneath your boots vibrated faintly with the hum of mako reactors in the distance. Midgar’s heartbeat. Cold. Relentless. Mechanical. Nothing like the warmth you'd lost.

Five names. Five faces.

Gone.

No matter how many times you tried to scream their names into the air, they were swallowed whole by the hiss of the wind through grates, the moan of the pipes, the clatter of distant lives continuing like yours never shattered. The city never slept.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your coat. The numbness had crept into your bones weeks ago. No, months. Grief was funny that way. It didn’t howl or burn anymore. It just hung, like smoke in your lungs. You learned to breathe it. You learned to try to function, but sometimes, the nights were too long. Too cold.

You didn’t hear him approach. Sephiroth rarely made a sound when he walked. The man was practically cloaked in silence, until he wanted to be known. And then he was gravity, as your orbit revolved around him.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, voice low, almost carried away by the wind. Calm. Always calm. Steady. Almost like a rock. Your rock.

You didn’t turn to face him.

“I’m not good company,” you murmured. Your voice was dry: brittle like worn parchment.

A pause.

“I didn’t come for company,” Sephiroth said quietly. “I came for you.”

Your breath caught. Not from shock. But from how gently he said it. As though you were a reason. A purpose. Something worth showing up for. You stared harder into the void below, trying not to let it mean too much. Failing.

He stepped closer. The faint rustle of leather and the soft chime of his materia-laced belt caught your ear. He never wore cologne. He didn’t need to. The subtle scent of mako and something clean and sharp clung to him.

“I remember the names you told me,” he said.

You tensed.

“You shouldn’t,” you muttered. “They were nothing to you.”

“That isn’t true,” Sephiroth said. “They mattered to you. So they matter.”

You finally looked at him. The soft green glow of the reactor far off cast shadows across his face, carving the sharp lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, and the slope of his nose. His eyes, bright cyan, slit pupils like a feline god, didn’t waver. They weren’t unreadable tonight. There was something in them. Stillness, yes, but not indifference.

“I’m tired,” you whispered, as your voice cracked like someone stepped on a twig. “Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of waking up and remembering they’re gone. Tired of holding everyone else together when I’m falling apart. Tired of being strong.”

How you hated that word. Strong. Strong meant that you couldn't grieve. That you had to shoulder the weight for your family. That you couldn't breathe and was stuck in the same place when your first loved one died.

Sephiroth stepped beside you. Not in front. Not behind. Beside.

His hand didn’t reach for you. Not right away. He stood in silence for a moment, as if choosing his next words with the same precision he chose every movement in battle.

"I’ve seen death,” he said at last. “I’ve caused it. Stared into the eyes of the fallen and wondered if they regretted being born. But nothing has ever left a mark like the death of someone you would have died for.”

You looked up at him, the tears in your eyes not yet shed, hanging like stars on the verge of falling.

He turned toward you fully now. His coat caught the breeze, as his silver hair rippled like a banner in the wind behind him. His expression didn’t change. But he held out one hand: palm out.

“I can’t give them back to you,” he said. “But I can carry the weight with you. For as long as it takes.”

That did it.

You reached for him, as you collided into his chest before you could think twice. The sound you made wasn’t a sob nor was it a scream. It was a quiet, guttural ache of someone who’d been strong too long.

Sephiroth didn’t flinch. He never did. His arms came around you slowly. Deliberately. Carefully, like he was afraid he might break something precious. One gloved hand rested at your back, between your shoulder blades. The other cradled your head, guiding your temple to his chest.

You could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Slow. Human.

That was what people forgot. Sephiroth was still human then, still could feel love and share in your grief, yet you never forgot.

The leather of his suspenders was cool against your cheek, and the faintest vibration of mako in his body almost imperceptible. But his embrace was solid. Real.

“I can’t move on,” you mumbled into him. “Everyone says I should, but I can’t. I watch them celebrate their birthdays, their children's births, but I'm stuck.”

“Then don’t,” he said, voice like velvet and steel. “Not yet. Stay here, in it, until it softens. I’ll be here when it does.”

Your shoulders shook. A tear hit his chest. Then another. And another. You were still standing, but only because he was holding you upright.

For a moment, he leaned down and bent his head. His lips brushed your temple.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t platonic either. It was something sacred. Something earned. Something he only reserved for you.

“You don’t have to be anything tonight,” he said. The words were spoken against your skin. His breath was warm. “Not strong. Not brave. Not okay.”

You clung to him like the only real thing in a world full of ghosts.

“I used to think no one saw me,” you whispered. “That I could vanish and it wouldn’t matter.”

“I see you,” Sephiroth replied, simply. “I see you.”

And god help you, you believed him.

Not because he was kind. But because Sephiroth didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

You don’t know how long you stood there. Two people carved out of loss, holding onto one another like a buoy in a sea. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The night didn’t seem to care.

Eventually, you felt your knees start to give, and Sephiroth moved as if he’d expected it. He eased down with you, pulling you to the floor of the platform, and back against the wall. He let you rest your head against his shoulder, the weight of his metal pauldrons bit into the back of your head. You didn't care. Pain meant you were alive. That you were with him.

For once, you let someone hold you together. You let him.

Sephiroth didn’t say anything else that night.

He didn’t need to.

But his silence wasn’t empty. It was full of the quiet strength you didn’t have left. He sat there with you until the first weak glow of morning pushed through the city's smog. Even then, he didn’t let go.

[bleue-flora]

Hi! For the wip Game: Only The Best Dream’s Come True

Oooo I don’t know if I’ve talked about this fic much. Basically it’s part of the Sweet Dreams series and it’s a compilation of nightmares Dream sucks people into while in prison. So it starts with Sam and ends with Sapnap camping outside the prison waiting to kill Dream… I’d post some of it but unfortunately I don’t have the chapters that come first written and I think I should post is in order. Anyways, here’s some of Sapnap’s chapter.

He’s not sure how he ended up standing, he could have sworn he was laying down a minute ago. And yet here he is and he feels exhausted as an ache encumbers his body.

Every part of him hurts like he’s standing on hot coals and his brain is telling him to get off of them, but he doesn’t. He continues standing on his legs that feel on fire.

“Why did you get out?!” An angered voice startles him.

It’s his voice.

He looks up and sure enough two brown eyes meet his.

And he finds himself peering at his own face like a 3D mirror. Except it’s obviously not a mirror, more likely a dream but he’s never seen himself in a dream before.

He feels his lips move in response, “Oh, you want me to rot—I was getting tortured. You want me to rot in prison forever?!”

The incredulous sound isn’t his voice though, it’s Dream’s. The all too recognizable tone he wishes he could forget.

Nothing in the situation makes sense. It’s all so inverted almost like he’s not in his mind but an outsiders.

Why is he Dream?

Shouldn’t he be himself?

The only answer he receives is his own words delivered callously back to him, “You’ve been tortured?… Who is torturing you?… You were getting tortured?” Despite the question the tone doesn’t sound curious just skeptical, like a disinterested parent indulging their kid’s wild story.

He never thought his voice would sound so indifferent and hardened in his ears. But facing it now he feels numb.

Did he really sound like that?

The contents intensifying the senselessness of the tone, the heinous words like poison to his ears. The words making it obvious that it’s the memory after the prison break.

“Yeah, Quackity was torturing me.” His own mouth answers definitively and bitter, a shiver spreading through his body as the name leaves his lips.

And if he could laugh he would. He almost laughed back then too. He still can’t believe Dream tried to used his exfiancé as part of his manipulation. It’s actually so fucking ridiculous he wonders how Dream even came up with the idea. Prison must have made him insane because the idea that his cuddly warm fiancé tortured Dream and Sam allowed it is ludicrous.

Unsurprisingly, his reflection voices back the same disbelief, “Quackity was torturing you?… What do you mean he was torturing you? Like literally torturing you?”

“Yes!… He was trying to get the revival book and so he was torturing me.” His body huffs sounding furious as he crosses his arms across his chest.

Playing the other side of the memory feels odd in many ways. For one, his body seems to be playing the part so perfectly that actual desperation tightens his muscles in false affliction and betrayal. It’s like his body is in on the joke and Sapnap is the oblivious audience. But in reality the only hurt Dream felt then is that Sapnap didn’t fall for his lies.

They were lies right?

Right?

It was all a ruse. A play for pity to get his armor back so he could wreak havoc on the server. They were lies.

As if to counter his conviction entirely, he suddenly finds himself strapped to a chair. Where decorative stone was is now dripping obsidian. Where Sapnap was standing dressed in Nightmare, Quackity now stands with a hammer clutched tensely in his hand and blood stains soiling his typically pristine shirt.

“Give me the revival book Dream. Give me the fucking book or—or I swear I’m gonna break every tiny fucking bone in you hand one by one! Do you want me to do that Dream? Huh? You want me to do that? Then give me the goddamn revival book!” Quackity threatens and he feels his heart pound ecstatically in his ears.

An internal pain pulses in him, like every crevice of his body is soaked in liquid pain to the point of utter woeful weariness. Unimaginable suffering would be a tame description and yet apparently his brain has conjured the fantasy despite never having felt such agony in his life.

Through the torment taking the attention of his senses, he meets the scarred face of who’s most likely responsible given the context of his nightmare. At the sight, his mind goes wholly blank as he stares into the luscious chocolate eyes of his exfiancé and sees nothing but violent rage and malice. There’s no spec of love in them. No contagious joy. No life, just a soul eating darkness promising pain.

A strong desire curls in him, to hide. To yell. To crawl into a hole and cry. To clasp Quackity in a hug and fix what has been broken. Anything to avoid having to see those irises of oblivion again.

But he can’t move. He can’t do anything, all he can do is experience it with no control over anything, not even his own body. Well he supposes not his body anyways, but Dream’s body.

[seasidesandstarscapes]

Holiday Spirit

Summary: Don's just fine with his friendship with Bobby despite his yearning. Then he gets a couple of texts that definitely weren't meant for him.

Things can only get better from here.

Rating: Explicit

Genre: Modern AU, Pining, Getting Together, Accidental Pics, Holiday Theme (in the bg)

Words: 2526

A/N: for @b00ks1ut !! mery chrysler

-

AO3

or

Don should be used to this by now.

The bitter Seattle winter rolls in and he still doesn’t dress right for the first practice in an ice storm. His hands are numb, his hair is clumped in frozen chunks, and the thought of warming up is the only solace getting him through this.

That and Bobby.

Bobby is a shivering mess in front of him, not even allowed the grace of rowing to keep warm. But his eyes shine, his yells through the mic don’t falter. Don can’t help but admire his spirit and he lets his breath warm the cold air when Bobby smiles at him.

“On my go-ahead, Hume, baby.”

Don brings up the pace with ease at Bobby’s command, face flushed at the pet-name, the praise that follows after. Despite the pelting ice, the boys break their record from the day before and the cold air is a comfort as the fire burns low in Don’s chest.

He’s not sure why he keeps denying himself year after year. Bobby is a gentleman. If he doesn’t feel the same, their friendship will continue on like always. Yet. Don has settled into his longing, an old friend he’s not quite ready to get rid of yet.

“Can you come over for dinner?” Don asks as they change in the locker room.

Bobby’s smile is strained and he shakes his head. “Got other plans. But rain check?”

Don nods, curious to what could be so important for Bobby to not jump at the chance to hang out. Then again, the holidays are in full blast. Bobby is on every committee imaginable, planning multiple parties. The fact that they ever see each other at all during December is a miracle within itself.

So, Don ends up in his shared apartment with Chuck, the two playing video games as the night wears on.

“This gonna be the year?” Chuck asks, eyes glued to the screen.

“What do you mean?” Don’s focus wavers. He knows, but still he has to ask.

Chuck laughs a little, manages to score on Don in his moment of distraction. “Telling Bobby you want to date him, man. I don’t know why you keep putting it off.”

Don scowls as he mashes the buttons on his controller. Chuck had the upper hand and his usual combinations aren’t working.

“Look,” Chuck pauses the game and Don is left to stare at the stilted screen. “I know Bobby likes you. He hasn’t said it out loud, but the way he looks at you…the fact that he always makes time for you? That counts for a lot.”

Don hums in response, looks down at his hands. He can’t explain his indifference. He loves Bobby, desperately so, but he’s come to accept that they’ll just continue on like they always have. And that’s more than fine with him. They cuddle, he lets Bobby steal more than a few sweaters, and as far as friendship goes, Don has been truly lucky. Bobby knows him inside out, he’s the one person Don can confide in for everything.

Except this one glaring point.

Chuck sighs, defeated, and gets up to go to the kitchen. Don isn’t sure what to say, but it doesn’t matter as his phone pings and he sees a couple of messages from Bobby come in. Don is quick to open up his phone and ends up almost choking.

Bobby has sent a picture of himself lying on his bed. He’s on his stomach, the angle just enough to catch that Bobby isn’t wearing anything except red panties. The text underneath is even more teasing.

Wanna come over and open your gift?

Don’s eyes go wide and he grips onto his phone for dear life. This can’t be real, this is all a dream and then the onslaught occurs.

SHIT I’M SO SORRY DELETE FUCK

A part of Don wants to laugh. He’s been terrified of making the same mistake and it’s a bit of a relief that Bobby did it first.

“What’s got you all wired up?” Chuck asks as he comes back to the living room.

Don tries to think of a response but then his phone rings. With a shrug, Don all but sprints to the sanctuary of his bedroom, making sure the door is shut before answering.

“Don, I’m so sorry,” Bobby is breathless. “Just forget about what you saw. That was meant for someone else.”

“It’s alright,” Don smiles. There is an ache in his heart but he ignores it. “Totally forgotten. Won’t tell a soul.”

Bobby takes a few breaths and there’s a thump as if he’s fallen onto his bed. “Thanks. Must’ve been our shitty practice fucking up my fingers.”

“Shitty? I thought we did alright,” Don jokes and this makes Bobby laugh.

“Yeah, of course you did. You guys are amazing.”

Don’s chest warms and he leans back against his door. “So, you getting some tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Bobby sighs. “Kinda don’t want to send her the pic after all this.”

“Do it anyway. You looked cute.”

Don’s stomach drops as he realizes what just left his mouth. He stammers through an excuse but his mouth and brain refuse to work together.

“Hot—I mean, for her. I’m sure she thinks you’re great just like I do.”

Don slaps a hand over his face and slides down to the ground. He’s a walking disaster. The silence on the other end is deafening and Don’s panic rises to his chest.

“Are you at home?” Bobby asks at last.

“Yeah?” Don’s voice shakes as if he’s answered wrong question.

“Then get your ass over here.”

Don stares at his phone, making sure he’s still talking to Bobby and not some spam robot.

“Hume, swear to god, if you don’t come and fuck me right now, we’re no longer friends.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Don scrambles to his feet.

He’s a flurry as he shoves on his shoes and grabs his keys. All that runs through his head is Bobby. They’re about to do something ridiculous, he’s sure, but that makes it all the more exciting.

“Have fun,” Chuck calls from the living room with a shit-eating grin.

In response, Don flips him off before skidding out to his car. The roads are clear tonight, but Don still tries to keep his head on. He doesn’t need this to be his last moment on Earth.

When he reaches Bobby’s apartment, he digs out the spare key from its hiding place and enters into a dark room. There’s a sliver of light down the hall, beckoning, but now, Don’s nerves act up. Taking a deep breath, he toes off his shoes, makes his way to Bobby’s bedroom with quiet steps.

When he pushes open the door, the sight before him is all he could have wished for.

Bobby is scrolling through his phone, lying as he was in the picture and still dressed in nothing but that single piece of clothing. Don doesn’t know what he wants to do first as he soaks in the scene before him.

“Creep,” Bobby teases before looking over his shoulder at Don. “Are you just gonna stare or do something about this?”

It’s all the permission Don needs and he strides over to the bed, climbing on to hover over Bobby. On his back now, Bobby wraps his arms around Don’s shoulders, a soft smile on his face.

“Finally came around, huh?”

Don blinks, tilts his head.

“Fuck, Don,” Bobby laughs. “I was waiting for you to say something first. Do you know how hard these past few years have been?”

Elation and regret swarm through Don as he gives Bobby a small, apologetic smile. He was happy as they were, but knowing what he can have, what they can be, it’s overwhelming.

Don kisses Bobby, hopes this says what he needs for now.

Bobby is a tidal wave, crashing into Don and stealing the last of his breath. Their mouths move in tandem, Bobby’s hands knead into his shoulders. Don is drowning in Bobby and he couldn’t ask for anything more. His hands trace along Bobby’s sides until he grabs at his waist, squeezing.

The gasp that leaves Bobby stirs the embers and Don trails his mouth down, biting at Bobby’s neck and then at his chest. He needs to leave his mark, to know that this is real.

Bobby arches into Don’s touch, fingers tangling in his hair. The little tugs send sparks along Don’s spine and he grazes his teeth over Bobby’s nipples.

“Fuck, knew you’d be good,” Bobby sighs, head tipped back.

Amused, Don bites a nipple, just on the edge of too much and Bobby groans. Just hearing it once is not enough. Don teases the other nipple, reaches to rub Bobby through the panties. They’re lace, hardly hiding a thing at all and Don presses his palm down.

“Donny,” Bobby whines, his hands yanking at Don’s hair.

With a low moan, Don kisses down Bobby’s stomach until he has his mouth on the outline of Bobby’s cock. He teases as Bobby writhes on the bed and then slowly pulls off the panties.

Don swallows then. Bobby’s cock is red, weeping as it rests on his stomach but more than that is the green jeweled end of a plug he sees at Bobby’s hole.

“Was she going to peg you?” He can’t help but ask

Bobby snorts, gives Don a playful kick with his foot. “That was the plan until you came along.”

A streak of possession fills Don and he grabs Bobby’s cock, sucking at the head.

Bobby goes speechless then, mouth dropping open, eyes shut tight. Don grins a little before taking more of Bobby in his mouth, his other hand trailing to the plug. Fitting as much of Bobby as he can, Don holds Bobby there before giving the plug a small tug.

The whine that leaves Bobby sends a shiver down Don’s spine and he fiddles with the plug some more. He pulls it out to the part that’s widest, mouths along Bobby’s length as Bobby shakes and spasms.

“Don’t tease, baby,” Bobby begs. “I’m ready for you. I’m so ready.”

Biting his lip, Don shoves the plug back in, loses his breath at Bobby’s stuttered groan. His own cock is straining in his jeans and Don leans back to free himself. Disheveled and glowing, Bobby is a dream sprawled out on the bed. Not a part of him is hidden and Don struggles to get his jeans undone.

“Let me,” Bobby sits up and shuffles forward.

He does what Don can’t, slides the zipper down with a steady hand. Tugging Don’s jeans and boxers to his thighs, Bobby then takes Don in his hand, gives his cock a light stroke.

Don’s body is awash with pleasure and he bucks into Bobby’s hand. Just this alone would be enough.

“Come on, Donny,” Bobby lays back down. “Fill me up.”

Don doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes the plug out of Bobby, his thumb catching the rim to stretch him a little more. He can’t look away, never wants to as he watches Bobby’s hole clench and pulse around nothing.

“Don,” Bobby whines.

Eager doesn’t begin to cut it and Don is quick to find condoms and lube so conveniently on the bedside table. He’ll make a joke about it later but for now, he preps himself before lining his cock up with Bobby’s hole.

“Just put it all in,” Bobby buries his face in his pillow. “I’m good.”

Don believes him but he still pushes in at an agonizing pace. For Bobby at any rate. Bobby cusses Don out, tries to push his hips down to make him go faster, but Don holds him in his place. If he doesn’t take it slow, he’ll come in an instant.

When he’s fully sheathed inside Bobby, Don’s head spins. So tight and warm, Don knows he won’t want anyone else on his cock after this.

“Please, please,” Bobby pitifully begs, his hands twisting in his pillows.

Breathing in, Don grabs hold of Bobby’s hips and starts fucking Bobby at a harsh pace. The bed moves with him, Bobby sliding back and forth on Don’s cock, the headboard thunking against the wall.

Bobby cries out Don’s name, swears and praises him in the same breath. He’s breathtaking like this and Don pulls Bobby up into his lap. With a quick adjustment, Bobby throws his arms around Don, buries his face in his neck as Don snaps his hips up into him.

“Don, Don,” Bobby begins to repeat, as if he’s praying.

Don would be Bobby’s deity if he could, and he crushes him in a tight grip, his release building as they move together. Bobby comes first with a sob, cum splattering both of them, rubbing into their skin as Don keeps his hips going. From Bobby biting along the shell of his ear, to the tight heat around his cock, Don can no longer hold back.

He slams into Bobby with a groan, savors the digging of nails into his back. He’s in their own personal heaven and he doesn’t want to leave so soon.

Bobby is the one to pull back first. The room is quiet, a fragile stillness that could be broken with a single breath. It’s then Bobby looks into Don’s eyes and his stare is pensive, soft.

“This isn’t just a one time thing, right?”

Don swallows, brushes a stray piece of hair away from Bobby’s face. “Not if you’ll have me.”

Bobby laughs a little at this before kissing Don’s cheek. “Such a gentleman. Of course I’ll have you. Any way I can.”

Don’s heart beats steadily in his chest and he hugs Bobby again. If it was possible he’d never let go.

“So, you meeting my folks over winter break?”

Don rolls his eyes with an amused huff. “They already know who I am, Bob.”

“Yeah but this time you’re my boyfriend,” Bobby grins.

Heat rises to Don’s cheeks and he ducks his head, trying to hide his shy smile. It’s all really happening. One minute friends, the next, lovers. Some kind of holiday miracle must be at work.

Don’s coyness only encourages Bobby and he brings Don into another passionate kiss.

“Alright, I’ll see what my parents have planned,” Don says when their kiss ends.

“Perfect,” Bobby whispers against his lips. Then he all but scrambles off of Don. “Come on, let’s shower. I’m feeling gross.”

Don’s wrist is snatched before he can say a thing and he’s dragged into the bathroom. One shower and the changing of sheets later, Don is settled against the headboard with Bobby cuddling into him. At their feet sits a laptop, playing a Christmas movie neither are paying attention to.

With a glance at the window, Don can see a few snowflakes beginning to fall, so stark and brilliant against the dark night. Don smiles to himself and pulls Bobby even closer, placing a kiss on top of his head.

He’s certainly going to have more than enough to keep him warm this winter.

[miloscozycorner]

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐

A series of conversations between the black sisters. View pt. 1 here.

Bellatrix Lestrange & Narcissa Malfoy.

• Bellatrix has a panic attack for the first time; Narcissa’s there to pick up the pieces.

cw/tw: panic attacks/disorder, heavy angst, hurt/comfort but no happy ending

( 863 Words )

The weight from the war always followed Bella around. Like a pressure on her chest, physically there. Bellatrix didn’t cry—sometimes a lump would rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down so fast it was as if it had never been there at all.

Bellatrix wasn’t weak— she was strong. A soldier. But suddenly, for the first time in her life, she didn’t have control.

She remembered the first time so vividly—she was at the Manor, talking to Cissy. It had been a month after the dark side had lost the war, and Bellatrix was still loyal to Voldemort at the time.

The afternoon sun reflected on Narcissa’s cheek while she sat in the chair, chattering to Bella. But the pressure, it formed. It started to hurt. More than it had before. Merlin, she just wanted it to stop. To go away.

She swallowed, and she watched as Narcissa’s brows furrowed.

“Bella? Bella, are you alright? Hey, hey—what—”Narcissa’s words were almost drowned out, like it was underwater.

“I don’t— I don’t feel well.” Bellatrix could barely force the words out, but something was wrong. The pressure was so heavy, and her heart was pounding: Her fingers and toes had gone numb, her breaths now quick.

Bellatrix was supposed to be strong. Narcissa wasn’t supposed to see her like this; wasn’t supposed to see her so weak and small.

Narcissa’s eyes were wide as Bellatrix frantically moved to sink on the floor, her back resting against the couch. “Bella, where does it hurt? What’s happening?”

Bellatrix shook her head, her breaths short and panted as she swatted away her sister’s hand. “It’s fine Cissy, it’s fine. I just—it’s the heat,” Bellatrix replied, but the laboured breaths didn’t stop. She just wished Narcissa would leave her, the way everyone else always did.

“Come on Bella, we need to get you to St Mungo’s right away, you’re not well—”Narcissa tried to grip Bellatrix’s elbow and floo her straight to the hospital and demand she be seen, but Bellatrix refused.

“No! Don’t touch me!”

Narcissa jumped back. She hadn’t seen Bellatrix so frightened since they had been children. But there she was, fighting back tears that had already spilled, swiping at her nose.

“It feels like I can’t breathe, and I don’t know what’s happening,” Bellatrix managed to pant out. Her voice was croaky and broken, and Narcissa almost felt she might as well start crying too.

Humiliation bloomed deep in Bellatrix’s chest as she watched her sister kneel in front of her with a crinkle in her forehead, her soft, vanilla scented hands cupping her cheeks.

“No, no, it’s fine, just don’t— don’t—” It was too much, the comfort. It felt foreign. Bellatrix was always the brave one. Why couldn’t she be that now?

“Bella, you need to breathe. Can you do that? Can you take a deep breath?” Narcissa’s voice was gentle and soothing, a stark difference from the cold indifference that Bellatrix had grown used to after Hogwarts.

“Cissy I can’t, I can’t do it—”

“Bellatrix, you’re safe,” Narcissa’s voice had grown a bit more urgent, “You’re safe and you’re with me, okay? Can you touch the floor, Trix? It’s cold, it’s cold and smooth, right?” Narcissa tried, worry lacing her tone as she watched Bellatrix’s palms hit the floor, her nails digging in so intensely the younger sister worried she may leave a mark— though, of course, that was the least of her worries.

Another sob escaped at the sound of the childhood nickname, broken and painful. “It’s cold. It’s cold, it’s wood,” Bellatrix panted, her eyes squeezed shut.

“You’re right Trixie, it is cold, isn’t it? We keep it cold in the Manor when it’s summer, right?” Narcissa encouraged, moving to scoot next to her sister and remove her hands from Bellatrix’s face.

“Yeah, yeah. You keep it cold because you prefer it, and so does Draco,” she replied, her breathing beginning to slow as Narcissa watched her carefully. The pressure on her chest started to fade, replaced by a deep shame.

“That’s right, Bella. Good. Very good.”

A silence passed over the women as Bellatrix stopped panting, instead drawing long breaths through her mouth. Narcissa almost moved to hold her hand, but jumped back in slight alarm when Bellatrix stood abruptly.

“Bella, let’s move to the couch, alright? We need to talk about what happened—”

“No.” Bellatrix’s reply was short and snapped as she brushed off her skirts, raising her chin with her signature look, any previous stress replaced with cool indifference.

She couldn’t let this softness stay. It would swallow her whole.

Narcissa’s face turned pained, and Bellatrix could vaguely see the face of her when she was just a girl, upset and wanting her older sister to hold her.

But she shoved that nostalgia and guilt down deep, refusing to meet her younger sister’s eyes.

Her voice was meek as she whispered, “Bella, please. Please don’t do this. Bellatrix, please, I love—”

Before Narcissa could say another word, Bellatrix walked through a pair of oak doors, slamming them behind her and leaving her younger sister still on the floor, tears of her own starting to pool.

[fishfingerpies]

Chapter 7 fic snippet

Just working on editing Chapter 7 of my fic Follow the Sun, thought I would post a little snippet of one of my favourite parts of it. Think this might be my favourite chapter of the fic so far :D

“It’s my fault,” he eventually manages, pushing the words past his lips like he’s tearing strips from his own skin. “I ruined it.”

George doesn’t so much as blink, though he does finally raise his dark gaze from the table to meet Paul’s. He remains silent, waiting.

“Me and John,” he stumbles on. “Why we’re not getting on. It’s ruined everything, and it’s my fault.” George’s eyes break away, dropping down again to watch his fingertips again, now tracing the patterns of the wood grains in the table. A muscle flexes in his jaw, face contorting a little as he burrows his teeth subtly into the flesh of his inner cheek. It’s been a long time since Paul has paid as much attention to George’s idiosyncrasies as he is now, but he recognizes just as easily as he once would have that he is furious, and the ball of anxiety in his stomach squeezes a little tighter. “What?”

There’s a pause, and Paul can feel the energy of the room twisting, shifting as George decides what to say. George’s deliberations usually end the same way – with him remaining stoic and cold, an emotionless façade hiding what Paul has recently realized is a growing resentment inside. He doesn’t feel ready to face George’s anger, but today, for the first time, he feels that indifference would be even more unbearable, so he presses where he normally wouldn’t. “Just say it, George.”

George’s hands flatten down against the table hard enough to rattle it as he shoves himself to his feet. “Christ, fuck you! Are you even capable of thinking of something other than yourself? Ever?” His tone is so uncharacteristically scathing that Paul can’t help but to flinch. George often speaks bluntly, shortly, snappishly, even, but never with such red hot rage as is rushing out of him now.

“Of course I –” George doesn’t let him defend himself, cutting him off before he can even begin his indignant denial.

“Oh, you love to think that you’re this bloody martyr, that you make all the sacrifices for everyone else, don’t you? You know what I see?”

“I have the feeling that you’re going to tell me.”

“An egotistical, greedy, self-absorbed prick who is completely incapable of understanding anything outside of his own restricted little worldview. That’s what I see.”

Paul is reeling, almost numb with the shock of the sudden confrontation that he’s somehow brought on. George pauses for a breath, and Paul should say something, he needs to say something, but he finds himself speechless at the worst possible time.

“It hasn’t even occurred to you, has it, that this isn’t all about you? Not all about you and John, for once?”

But he told me that he was in love with me, Paul thinks, desperate. And I ruined it.

“You’re just thinking about how wrong I am, aren’t you?” George snarls, somehow only growing angrier. “I’m fucking yelling at you and you still aren’t listening!”

Paul blinks, looks at him.

And oh. He’s right.

“You still can’t look far enough past yourself and John for even one second to see me standing right here, can you Paul?” George shakes his head slowly. The anger drops away and he just looks empty. “You never have been able to. Not since the day you met him.”

Paul feels like a gaping pit has opened up in his stomach. For one dizzying instant, anger rushes in to fill the space and he rises too, shoving his chair back so violently that it falls to the floor with a clatter. As he opens his mouth to snarl back, something hurtful and scathing, intended to make George feel small, his eyes snag on the twist of his mouth and a stray thought catches him, sends him staggering. George isn’t only mad, he’s hurt.

Paul takes a deep breath, steadies himself. Gathers his thoughts. “I’m – sorry, George. I’m listening now.”

[notyouraveragealoos-blog]

Lately, it feels like I’m unraveling in quiet ways. My world is quieter now—less interaction, fewer words, more silence that stretches out like a heavy fog. I’ve grown reclusive, not out of choice but out of necessity. It’s like my body and mind have issued a silent command: retreat, conserve, survive.

I’m not proud of how easily I snap these days. The smallest things unearth a frustration I can’t always name. I don’t have the energy to soften my edges anymore. I’m tired—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. The weight I carry isn’t always visible, but it’s there. It's in my posture, in the way I sigh too often, in how I cry almost daily without a specific trigger. Pain has become my shadow.

Hopelessness creeps in slowly, dressing itself up as indifference. I used to feel deeply—joy, sadness, excitement—but now there’s a numbness that coats everything. It's not that I don't care, it's that I can't afford to. Caring takes energy, and I have none to spare. I feel like I’m living each day on autopilot, just trying to make it through the next hour. Survival mode. That's what this is.

I know this version of me isn't who I really am. I know, logically, that I won't always feel like this—but knowing and believing are two very different things. And right now, belief is hard to come by.

Still, there’s a part of me—faint but present—that hopes. That wants to believe there’s more to life than just surviving it. That one day I’ll laugh without a lump in my throat, that I’ll wake up and not dread the hours ahead. That I’ll feel like myself again, or maybe even discover someone stronger.

But until then, I’ll be honest about where I am. I’ll sit with my pain, cry when I need to, retreat when I must, and try to forgive myself for not being okay.

[vivrantth1ng]

She Speaks Through Dreams

In one moment, I am submerged in a tranquil abyss of sleep, where thoughts do not stir and peace envelops every corner of my being. The next, I find myself hovering outside the shell of my own body, a distant observer to the silent convulsions of my heart—a heart that aches with wonder, yet stumbles blindly in its pursuit of clarity.

Our journey begins in a mountain town conjured from the ephemeral substance of dreams. The landscape is an illusion of perfection, a glittering facade that shimmers with an unnatural beauty. It is a place where every desire is catered to, yet beneath its surface, the seeds of division are already taking root. Though we travel together, he is conspicuously absent from my side. My gaze wanders, catching sight of a creature in the distance—a grotesque contradiction, a distortion of nature. Its form is tall, almost human, yet cloaked in fur the color of dying autumn leaves. Its legs are those of a man, strong and purposeful, but its hands end in claws, sharp and menacing. I name it a wolverine, though it is far more than that—a harbinger of the future, a thing deceptively soft yet capable of rending me to pieces in a heartbeat.

As the group fractures and splinters, my thoughts remain tethered to you. Initially, they are innocuous, drifting through mundane imaginings of your day. But as time stretches and your absence grows heavier, those thoughts begin to shift, taking on a more sinister hue. My consciousness, ever vigilant, forces me to confront the true nature of this dream—an unspoken dread, a reflection of the anxieties that coil around the fragile bond we share.

The memory of our recent conversation lingers like a shadow, its edges sharp and unresolved. You offered me a glimpse into the labyrinth of your thoughts, yet I know it was only that—a glimpse, a fraction of the truth. Even in your absence, your presence is inescapable, haunting both my dreams and waking life. A cold certainty settles over me—you have gone to her, with no regard for the wounds you leave behind. How could you be so indifferent, knowing the depth of my feelings? I wrestle with the ambiguity of it all—fact or fiction, fear or reality? Yet I cling to your words, your reassurances that you need time, that this other relationship is fleeting, inconsequential. But how can something so trivial overshadow the weight of our history?

Our history, to me, is not a burden but a testament—a narrative forged through the trials of life. We have endured death, grief, distance, trauma, and the slow, painful process of healing, only to emerge and find one another time and again. Isn’t there something profound in that? If you were not the right person, wouldn’t it have been easier to walk away during any one of these trials? Yet here we stand, our connection resilient, though frayed at the edges.

The dream warps and shifts, and I never see you return. The landscape transforms into a world steeped in ancient mythology, where the lines between reality and fantasy blur. A woman, faceless and eternal, writhes in agony on the cabin floor, the act of birth rendered in blood and whispers. Symbols emerge on her stomach, carved by an unseen hand—four sigils, two lines, all traced in crimson. My heart sinks with the weight of unspoken dread. These are the fears I have tried to bury, now laid bare before me. My anxieties, once abstract, have taken on a physical form, their reality undeniable.

What should I do with this knowledge? Should I rage against the betrayal, sever all ties, erase you from the narrative of my life? But no anger comes. Instead, I feel a detachment, a numbness as I leave the woman and her bloody prophecy behind. The scene shifts once more, this time to a dinner with a woman whose life I once watched from afar, who endured her own trials. Perhaps she is a motherly figure, or perhaps she is a reflection of my own psyche, a manifestation of the strength I seek within myself.

The only moment that lingers is when I embrace her, whispering words of solace, “I am proud of you.”

And in that moment, the meaning crystallizes—no matter the outcome, no matter the fears that gnaw at the edges of my mind, I have done all I can. And it will be enough. This dream is a lesson in relinquishing the illusion of control, in accepting that life’s currents cannot be mastered, only navigated with grace.

[misflung]

There’s something about her validation that catches him off guard. He’d expected her to dismiss him, to offer some journalistic platitude about hope and change. Instead, she sees him. Actually sees him. The realization makes him momentarily uncomfortable, like standing too close to a heat lamp. “‘Poetic,’” he echoes, with a short, humorless laugh. “That’s a first. Usually it’s just ‘shut up’ or ‘you’re killing the vibe.’” He shifts his weight, suddenly hyper-aware of their proximity after her shoulder brushes his. The contact is slight, barely there, yet somehow it feels like the most honest interaction he’s had in months. His instinct is to pull away, to diffuse the moment with something glib, but he finds himself strangely paralyzed. When she calls him real, something tightens in his chest. An unfamiliar sensation—not quite pain, not quite pleasure. Recognition, maybe. The thing he’s been chasing through countless bottles and beds and fights. Someone seeing past the chaos to whatever remains underneath. “Hurt,” he repeats, testing the word like it’s in a foreign language. His jaw tightens, eyes fixed on some distant point across the garden. “Isn’t everyone?” Her mention of ghosts pulls a genuine smile from him—small and crooked, nothing like the practiced charm he typically deploys. “Therapeutic, huh? Should put that on my business cards. ‘River Masten: Providing Free Demonstration Therapy Since Goodness Knows When.’” The joke lands softer than his usual barbs, almost self-deprecating. Her final words hit something raw in him, something he usually keeps buried under chemical numbness and practiced indifference. His eyes meet hers, unusually clear, searching for something he can’t name. “Maybe that’s the difference,” he says finally, voice low enough that only she can hear. “You’re fighting it. I’m just… decorating the corpse.” He runs a hand through his perfectly disheveled hair. “Makes for better headlines, at least.”

his words should irritate her. the nihilism, the dramatics, the way he spits out every sentiment like it's rotting in his mouth. but ariya doesn't flinch. she just watches him with that same unreadable calm like she's trying to separate the noise from the truth hiding somewhere inside it. "that's poetic," she murmurs after a moment of silence, letting the words hang just long enough to teeter between compliment and critique, "dramatic as hell. but poetic." she doesn't deny what he's saying. not outright anyway. because there's some truth to it. because there's a part of her that understands it. not the performance of it but the ache underneath. the bitterness that creeps in when things stop hurting enough to feel real. the way grief can curdle into detachment. maybe they're not that different in that way. maybe she just masks it better. her gaze drifts to the same laughing group he'd looked at before. the false mirth. a world too rich to collapse but too hollow to stand. her jaw tics, just slightly. "i'm not trying to fix the deadness," she says eventually, quiet but certain, "i'm just trying to name it." a gentle shake of her head. "people pretend that saying things out loud doesn't matter. like language doesn't shape how we understand the world. like calling something what it is can't be a kind of power too." she shrugs, lips curving into a soft, wry smile. "maybe it's naive. maybe it's not enough. but i still think there's something sacred about telling the truth — even if it's small. even if it only makes someone feel a little less alone when they hear it." her shoulder brushes his — a quiet thing, unintentional enough to be dismissed, intentional enough to linger. she doesn't look at him right away. instead, her gaze follows the glint of light catching on the edge of a champagne flute across the garden. then, softly, she says, "that's the realest i've heard you be." a pause. "i like it." it's said with such simplicity, like it's just a passing compliment about his suit rather than his character. as if the realness in question, in spite of all the bitterness laced within his statements, is an easy thing to like. "i like hearing what you actually think." then her voice dips lower, quieter. "but you don't exactly sound all that numb to me. you sound hurt." her fingers tighten around her purse, needing something to attach to, for her hands to busy themselves. she exhales slowly, steadying herself before she offers more, seemingly having decided he earned himself some honesty in return for his own. "you're not the only one with ghosts, you know?" her eyes remain facing forward. "i don't set fires, i don't cause trouble that lands me on front pages, but that doesn't mean i don't see how swinging at a paparazzo could be therapeutic. not that i'll admit to it if you try and quote me on that." there's the softest twitch of her lips. "the point is, we all come with baggage. it might be inevitable on this island, i can admit to that. i suppose mine just has me chasing something different than a high. but it does have me chasing something." then, finally, she glances at him — just long enough for it to feel like something. "maybe that's what keeps me trying to fight the deadness."

[shitpostingiris]

The last time

Part 2

Warnings-angst, loose mentions of Suicide, dark(ish)dream,

——————————————————

Y/n sat in her bathtub letting the shower run above her. The scalding hot water soaking through her clothes. The salty tears that ran down her red face mixing with the freshwater that rained down on her. She replayed everything in her mind as she sobbed quietly alone.

The last time she saw the man who ruined her. His words bit into her leaving a never closing wound on her soul. A man who possessed her entire being for the last few years. A man who she loved more than life itself. A man who she killed for. A man…no a being who was now her end.

Y/n remembered how Dream treated her like a queen the first years they spent together. His kind words and soft touches. Slowly disappeared into nothing but bitter words and cold behavior as the years passed. Y/n knew now she should’ve taken everyone’s warnings about him to heart. If only she could go back in time to warn herself. To be able to spare her from this hurt. She knew how quickly she fell in love with morpheus wasn’t normal. The word Love couldn’t come close to really describing how y/n felt for him. He possessed her entire being, she did and would do anything for him. He owned her truly and he knew that.

Y/n remembered the last conversation she had with the endless. She remembered how cold the marble floors were on her clad skin as she kneeled below dream. Tears falling so fast It was as if a dam had finally broken. Letting all the unshed tears it had blocked, building up as the years passed finally fall.

She remembered every word he spoke to her that night hanging onto them as if they were scripture. His smooth cold monotone voice never letting an ounce of emotion seep through as kneeled and took her face into his hands “I’m sorry your first heartbreak was from someone who was supposed to love you the most. You deserved to feel love as soon as you came to this earth. I’m sorry that you people who were supposed to take care of you couldn’t love you in the way you needed. I’m sorry that everyone you’ve ever loved has hurt you. I’m sorry that you find it hard to love knowing it always ends in heartbreak, but I hope one day you are loved the way you deserve to be and I hope you can love yourself like that too. And I am sorry that person isn’t me y/n. I’m sorry I hurt you again but this is always how it ends for you and me.” His voice almost sounded mocking as he spoke Maybe to y/n's imagination. Y/n died that night maybe not truly, but she might as well have.

Y/n couldn’t do anything but mull over that one quote he spoke to her. One he often said to her those last few months. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you again’ Y/n often wrote poetry and quotes. Her writing was fueled by dream. The words flowed beautifully as they were transcribed from her mind to paper.

Y/n's last piece of poetry she wrote shot through many people's hearts once they read it. Written in beautiful chillography and red ink on teardrop stained paper. Written in a journal gifted to her by Morpheus himself. A man she once called her lover, her soulmate. Now that version of him was only a distant memory.

He says:

I’m sorry I hurt you again

And I say:

let me collapse at your feet, let my body fold around you, let my legs go numb enough that I may understand how your heart feels

He looks at me with what I can only describe as indifference and I look at him with what can only be called worship.

And I think how nice it must feel to be loved. How nice it must feel to be him

Death visited y/n that night in the shower. The running water stained a light red as it was washed down the drain. Y/n couldn’t help as relief washed over her in seeing death. Their eyes spoke a thousand unspoken words and their hands clasped together. The only sound heard in the quiet room was the sound of deaths wings as y/n left the living plane.

——————————————————

As always feed back will always be appreciated!

These quotes are not my own! found them on google when writing this

@nebulosa-reina

[margaretbjorgman-blog]

there’s an emptiness inside of her, hollow and dark, a wave of emotions she’d been riding out for the past few weeks. completely fine one moment and an absolute wreck the next. it’s as if that perfect crystal cage of fantasy has shattered beneath her, leaving her blooded and bruised. cuts so deep that leave her to wonder how its even worthwhile? fragments of a sunny disposition and endless optimism lay scattered, she’s stuck between wanting to believe the heartbreak was worth it and letting that void envelop her. would it be easier to grow cold and indifferent? she’s seen that look in others, the loneliness behind their eyes and how they shield themselves from feeling anything remotely genuine. it’s sad but more than anything, it’s safe. despite never being one to take risks, this was the one time safiya stepped onto the ledge, letting herself jump over and risk whatever it was that came with her ill fated decision. one that wasn’t suppose to end the way it did. 

perhaps it was the way it happened. the lack of explanation or reasoning that completely blindsided her. one day they were fine, the next they were done. all but a simple “this isn’t working out” as he left her standing there, alone as she watched him through tears fade into the horizon, trying to process what had just happened. yet it wasn’t necessarily the lack of reasoning that caused her to shut out the world, it was the search for an explanation that caused her to fade into the background. how she had tried to call and text, only to be left on read; how bitter and ruthless his words were when she pleaded for something more, anything to make sense. desperate and childish, pathetic and delusional. his words had made her feel so insignificantly small, a cruelness that echoed in her mind every time she closed her eyes

she doesn’t remember much after that. a haze taking over as he twisted the knife into her chest and watched her run away. the first few days were spent locked in her room crying, the next few just idly wandering around the house. it took a week for her to go out again, a facade of sunshine and warmth taking over as inside she felt absolutely numb. the mess she’d gotten herself tangled into being one she knew she couldn’t tell anyone about, not without risking any type of repercussion. so she carried it, silently with her as she’d constantly stop herself from bursting into tears. life returning to normal as days turned to weeks or at least, almost. the one place safiya couldn’t bring herself to step into was her finance class. she couldn’t see him, there was no way she could sit at her desk and watch him give a lesson to the rest of the class when all she wanted to do was scream. 

 an absence she was sure no one would notice until perhaps the most unlikely person did. danilo’s calls and text remained unanswered at first, it wasn’t hard to ignore him after all. except he was persistent and upon the mention of failing the course, safiya knew she had to sleep on the bed she made. she could ignore him forever and put her scholarship in jeopardy or cautiously take the help danilo was offering to help her get back on track. which, as much as safiya didn’t want to step foot into that classroom again, her studies were still a very important priority. she wasn’t about to lose a full-ride scholarship because of a man, no matter how stupid or broken she felt because of it.

as much as she didn’t want to take him up on his invitation to meet him at the restaurant, her options felt limited and she knew she’d soon run out of time to the point of no return if she wanted to pass finance. so she found herself in the back of the restaurant, sitting in a corner as she watched the rest of the world pass her by. laughter and voices ringing in her ears as they went on with their life as safiya felt like an absolute ghost. gaze empty as she focused on looking out at the window aimlessly, leg bouncing underneath her as tried to calm her nerves. she didn’t want to be there and with every second that passed, it only made the desire to get up and leave even greater. so what if she failed? what if she lost her scholarship? at least she’d never have to see the professor or danilo ever again. ( @conscientes​ )

he’s been turning at night. cream silk sheets lie tangled by his feet, on the floor. the black fur of a doberman shimmers against the moon’s light as she curls by the bed’s side– it must know something he ignores or perhaps avoids, because there’s the whisper of a name on his lips as he wakes and the taste of it he tries to wash away with water splashed on his face. 

his hand lingers by the plate’s side on the breakfast table. it fidgets with an unused silver fork and then reaches for a phone, for a text interaction he’s read far too many times in an app he doesn’t like but has to deal with anyways because of united states’ stubborn attachment. a sound leaves his mouth, one that can be classified as both a grunt and a sigh as his finger scrolls up and she refuses to respond. a finger stabs at the ‘lock’ bottom as if he could trick a security camera from catching the action. as if he could trick his brain into forgetting it even happened. he stares into a ceramic cup of espresso, beating it to a staring contest and jumps when his phone buzzes against the wooden table.

there’s a meditation technique that helps him sleep when a black mist plagues his thoughts. you’re supposed to keep your eyes closed as you begin with twin deep breaths and when you’re ready, you’re to imagine sunshine in a solid-esque form, one that can be absorbed into the skin on your toes and travel smoothly through your veins, up your legs and towards your head as it warms and settles a restless self. danilo can compare his particular predicament to it, but rather than sunlight being invited, it feels like a violation. his entire being can feel it but it escapes him for lack of a name, a label. it feels off, wrong; his mind rejects it with a strong “STOP” as it runs a finger down his stream of thought, his body attempts to expose it through finger tapping and neck cracking. it doesn’t feel like sunshine, it’s not warm though the origin of it somehow is. this thing, unfamiliar and almost spun by the moirai, it itches.

“the bristol, 7pm”

he was begging at that point, though he could not even question himself as to why. why, why why. somehow it’s always been about the very much unanswered ‘why’ with her. maybe he just likes the mystery of it all... though probably he just doesn’t like the buried answer. paper brushes against his fingertip as it slides down a page and edges a paper cut. his eyes scan the words printed on quality paper, his other hand holds the book open and taps its fingers against a black paperback cover. words are taken in, however remain unprocessed and danilo finds himself reading the same paragraph twice and then yet another time as his mind keeps wondering about the hour displayed on his watch. an ignorant spectator would mistakingly call him giddy, if they could feel the gaping void in the bottom of his stomach, they would know better. the time comes for him to grab the keys from the tall and slim table by his front door. when he takes a seat on the driver’s seat of his silver car, he lets out a sigh.

he’s known about this whole mess for a while now. he’s teased about it like a bored child, stuck in the back of a car for an hours-long roadtrip. holding it up in her face just to see how fast she’ll blush, how bright. such a precious contradiction she portrayed with her white dress and her mother’s bright red lipstick hidden in her purse. time and time again he wondered just for how long she’d be able to walk by the line that marked the division of two very different personas. he must’ve placed bets with the universe itself at least once or twice on exactly which side would prevail. with her ghostly silence, one could easily guess which way the air blew her to once the storm came. universe must be having a laugh now, it didn’t exactly please him. it’s still a guess, but one he acts on with foolish confidence. his plan as hasty as it is thoughtful.

danilo walks through the front door. his smile is polite as it nods to the hostess. he’s not been here too many times but the people that have paid bills of a certain amount have a way of being remembered in places like these. she nods towards a table in a corner and though she offers to guide him to it, he waves off the attempt with practiced charm. it’s not hard to spot her, in the sulking corner with a bouncing leg. the sight of it is bittersweet, though it lifts the corner of his mouth for a second as he wonders if she’d be able to recognize his own signs of unease. as he takes a seat, danilo clears his throat for a second– it’s been some time since he last used his voice in the day. there’s no need for senseless greetings, she probably wouldn’t care for one in her current state. 

“didn’t think you’d be early”, his shoulders give a shrug as they settle into his new surroundings, the knowledge of what’s to come adding force to gravity. any time now, too late to back down.

[after-witch]

Emotional Loan [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Title: Emotional Loan [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Synopsis: You shouldn’t be this nervous about telling your boyfriend that you want to transfer to a college out of state. Ransom is nothing if not generous with you--so why is your stomach in knots?

Word Count: 3144

notes: yandere, sexism, emotional abuse

You shouldn’t be this nervous. Really. Ransom has been nothing but generous with you, and in turn you’ve been patient--maybe too patient, maybe too forgiving, sometimes--with him. It’s only fair that he extends that patience to you, especially with something as serious, as important, as your future.

So why does the thought of telling him about your plan to switch to a new college make you feel like you’re going to throw up?

You puff out your cheeks and stretch your arms across the breakfast table, leaning down and wishing you could ask someone else to tell him in person. But the thought is ridiculous, and you push it away in favor of rehearsing what you’re going to say for the millionth time since you made up your mind.

You will tell him about the need to change your degree if you want to ever be in the contending for a museum curator position in the future. You will tell him about the fact that the best place to get this specific degree, the one that will put you right in the open arms of the internship that leads to your dream curator field, is in California. You will tell him about the apartments you’ve already inspected. You will tell him about the fact that he can visit anytime, that you will visit him, that you can text and video call and vacation together. You will tell him that you love him and you want to make this work.

You will tell him all these things… and yet. Yet while you can rehearse the words, rehearse how you’ll push your printed out papers showing exactly what you need to do and why towards him so he can see you’re telling the exact truth, you can’t rehearse how Ransom will react. You try to imagine, but all that comes up is a blurry, grey blank.

Is he going to freak out? Get pissed? Or worse--not care at all? Maybe you’ve overestimated how much Ransom has invested in this relationship. Maybe he’d rather cut you loose than deal with a long distance relationship. Maybe the second you mention that you’ll be moving to California, he’ll be mentally checking a list for someone local to hook up with the minute you’re gone.

You’re not sure which reaction would scare you more.

But you don’t have much time to think about it, because you hear him padding down the stairs, hear the din of some video he’s still watching, probably whatever he put on while he was in the shower. You can’t bear to look up, and you thumb aimlessly, nervously around your phone’s apps while you listen to the sound of him scraping the eggs and bacon you’d cooked onto a plate.

He plops down in the seat across from you and you glance up. He catches your eye and gives a tight-lipped, tired smile. He was out late. But he’d texted you about staying out late earlier in the evening, so you didn’t feel you had the right to be mad--that’s the condition you’d given him, after all, when he’d accused you of being controlling. When he’d called you a nag and accused you of being jealous of other women, women he had no feelings for.

“I just want to know when you’re going to be out late so I don’t stay up half the night thinking you’re dead somewhere.” And so he did--let you know--and you swallowed down your feelings of suspicion at his late night adventures.

Maybe… maybe this is a bad time to tell him. Maybe you should wait for a day when he’s had more sleep. Maybe you should run your thoughts by someone else, get a second opinion. You’re focusing on the table, on the light from the phone screen, anything to avoid looking up and starting the dreaded conversation.

“What’re those papers for, babe?”

Shit.

Your hands tremble just a bit when you set the phone down, and the way it vibrates against the table mimics the way your stomach feels right now. You suck in a breath and look up, but you can’t make eye contact just yet and you push the words out, stumbling and breathy and rapid, without stopping to breathe until you’ve said your peace.

“Ransom this is really hard for me but we need to talk about something and I don’t want you to be mad but I need to change schools if I’m ever going to get a shot at a curator position and the best school for this is in California and I know it’s going to be hard but I love you--I love you and we can make long distance work if you want and if you don’t want well--well I don’t know what I’ll do then but I just wanted to let you know now because I’ve got to turn in my application next week and please please try to see this from my point of view because it’s all I’ve ever wanted and you know that.”

You take a shaky breath and hold your hands together on top of the table, clasped and shaking from the adrenaline and anxiety coursing through you. You look up at Ransom with trepidation, hoping that he’s not mad--or indifferent.

But he’s neither. He simply looks… confused.

He simply stares at you for a moment, a dumbfounded expression on his face as he processes all of the words that just came rapid-fire out of your mouth.

“California?” Is all he says, finally.

You take the opportunity to push the stack of printed papers towards him. “These are… it’s… well, emails from people in the industry, some important articles about getting positions at museums. About where you have to go. Oh, there’s apartment listings there, too.” You even printed out detailed information about the qualifications for acceptance, and put them in a neat little table next to your own academic and experience record. You were a shoo-in, and you didn’t feel the need to be humble about it.

He grabs the stack and starts thumbing through, not saying another word as he seemingly thoroughly reads everything you’ve printed out. Your stomach feel like floating lead, heavy and flipping. You can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling, and he’s not giving you anything but a concentrated look at he looks through the statements, the listings, the plan you’ve outlined so neatly.

He finally sets the stack back down and simply stares at it for a few moments. Taking it in. Taking his thoughts in. Finally, Ransom looks up at you and the intensity in his eyes makes your stomach drop. He doesn’t look mad. He looks--and you hate it--disappointed, sad even.

“Look…” He sighs, eyebrows lifting as his gaze drifts away before settling back on you. “I’m not going to lie and pretend I’m okay with this. I’m not. Jesus, babe. California? Four years?”

“It’s no--” you interrupt, but he holds up his hand and you stop.

“But. But, but,” he lightly pounds his fist on the stack of tables, an almost nervous gesture in your eyes. “It’s what you want? What you need for your career? There’s no other way for you to get this--” he waves his hands around, “museum gig you’re after?”

You nod, unable--no, afraid--to speak, in case your voice is too tight with emotion.

“Then I guess I can deal with it.”

“What?” You blurt the words out.  You expected… an argument. Or for him to blow you off, make it seem like you weren’t serious. Or, as you’d admitted to yourself earlier, for him to throw you away and find someone who wouldn’t make him wait around. Not… acceptance.

He laughs at your reaction and your stomach feels lighter, the tension in your body starting to fizzle away. “

“It’s not like I have to worry about getting the money to come visit, right? And hey,” he continues, “if you need someone to put in a good word to this school… maybe throw some cash at a dean or something…” He raises his eyebrows, wiggling them a little in a way that makes you snort.

You lean forward and nab one of the lukewarm pieces of scrambled eggs from his plate and pop it into your mouth. “Since you’re offering to help, I could use someone to check over my application…”

**

The envelope is too small. It’s way too small. Why did they make the envelope so damn small? Maybe the acceptance letter was sent on its own, and all of the other information--the giant packet telling you where to send payments and sign up for courses--would be sent to your email. But the thought of checking your email and seeing nothing makes you feel sick, so you keep your phone next to you on the table.

“You gotta open it,” Ransom says, soft and casual. He doesn’t move from his place beside you on the sofa, watching you with a neutral look. He probably knows why the envelope is too small, but he won’t say the words out loud--just like you won’t. If you say it out loud, then it’s true.

There's nothing else for you to do except confront the truth, and you rip open the envelope and pull out the folded paper with far too few printed words on the page.

Rejected. Outright. Completely. Not a fit for the school or the program.

If you weren’t sitting on the couch, you would have fallen over. As it is,  you feel like the world is collapsing, like the sofa underneath you is melting into the floor and taking you with it.

“I don’t understand.” You can only manage to whisper, voice small--reflecting the way the rest of you feels. Small and falling and stupid.

Ransom takes the paper from your hand, and you don’t bother keeping a grip on it. You register the fact that he’s put an arm around your shoulders, but you can barely feel it through the numbness of rejection.

“What the fuck,” he says, voice louder next to your ear. It makes you shrink in more, even though his anger isn’t directed at you. “What the fuck.”

It’s you want to say, what you would say, if you had the strength. The energy. But the absolute, complete way that your future has suddenly become an unknown blank has left you stuck and heavy.

It doesn’t make sense. Your transcript was perfect--should have been perfect. You should have gotten in. You got top grades and references from professors and a list of relevant experiences that most students wouldn’t have until the end of their degree.

“I’m going to call them and find out what-the-fuck,” Ransom says suddenly, getting up with a jerking motion and walking towards the kitchen, where his phone rests on the counter. “No,” he says, clicking his tongue. “Better yet. I’ll call my grandfather. He’ll know how to convince this so-called top school that they made a big mistake.”

The thought makes your head spin. “Ransom, don’t.” You’re not a child. But you feel like one, like you just failed a math quiz and your dad is calling to find out why the teacher doesn’t know the quiz answers from his ass. “You can’t just call a school and make them accept someone.”

Your legs feel wobbly when you stand up, and Ransom practically swoops back to your side to hold you steady. He leads you back down on the sofa and you feel yourself accepting the loss, accepting that your dream is gone, or at least altered.

He squeezes an arm around you when you finally begin to cry, and for the moment you feel better, less worthless, less hopeless. It was just one rejection. One egg. You can’t put every egg in one basket, as they say.

You rest your head against his shoulder and sigh into it, enjoying the warmth and closeness. A feeling of luck pings at your heart. You’re really lucky to have a guy like Ransom. He’s not perfect, and sometimes you fight, and sometimes he does things that hurt you, but--are you perfect? Do you do things that hurt him, too? Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, and don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

With comfort comes clarity. The world isn’t ending. Your future isn’t blank. There are other options.

You feel almost perked up when you speak: “I guess I can apply to other schools. Maybe it won’t be the exact one I wanted but… there’s some in Chicago, even Michigan, that might work.”

Ransom’s arm tightens around you, slightly but firmly enough to notice.

“Babe, you’re not serious.”

You pull back enough to look up at his face.

“What do you mean?”

You can see Ransom fighting with his annoyed expression, trying to soften it up. You dimly recognize that you should be grateful--you know how snarky he can get with others when he’s not putting on a filter.

“Your transcript was fucking impeccable. I saw it! I sent it in for you! And you still didn’t get in. You think these other schools are going to accept you….” He trails off, leaning his head back, looking disappointed of all things. Disappointed in you? Or the school?  You can’t tell. All you know is that it makes you feel low again, like you’re nothing, falling into the floor with a sense of worthlessness.

“I’m not tryin’ to be an asshole,” he says, and there’s a flicker of doubt in your mind about the truth of that statement. “I’m just trying to be honest. I don’t want you to have to deal with getting rejected from all those other schools, too. You know what I mean?”

You swallow down against the tightness in your throat. “Their standards might not be as strict. I know they’re not as strict. I could get in.”

He looks down at you, the same intense gaze from the morning that you told him about your plan on his face. The gaze that let you know he believed in you and would do anything--even go long distance for almost half a decade--for you. A gaze that let you know he was serious, honest, giving you his thoughts with an open heart. “Keyword. Could.”

It’s like a slap to the face.

“Are you saying I’m too stupid to get in anywhere?” You start to pull away, but his arms don’t let up and so all you can do is turn your head away, cheeks hot with humiliation. “Don’t you support me?”

“Jesus, no--and Jesus, yes.” Annoyance is bleeding into his voice and you wish you’d just ripped up the envelope and avoided the entire conversation. You keep your eyes on the floor, humiliating tears blurring your vision as you stare at the sliver of a stain from soda that you never got out of the cream colored rug.

“You are the smartest chick I know,” he says, voice a little softer, now. At least he’s trying to stop being an ass. “Seriously, you are. Maybe you’re just a--a different kind of smart. A  kind of smart these schools don’t give a shit about. Do something here with that smartness, then. Stay where you’re at. Fuck, talk to the dean and tell them you want to to an independent degree or something. But don’t get your heart broken a million times when you could just make the most of what you’ve got here.” He squeezes, affectionate. “What we’ve got here.”

It’s not what you want. It’s not viable. You can’t get to where you want to be if you stay where you are. But he’s right--he’s right, isn’t he, because if you can’t get into a school with a nearly picture-perfect record and recommendations and experience oozing out of your ears, will there be any school that accepts you?

And if you stay here, Ransom is here, and you’re already in school here, and maybe you won’t get anywhere near a curator position (but you want to, it’s your dream, why give up on your dream?) but you can do something else, surely. Ransom will help you, like he always does. You might fight and argue and sometimes it gets intense but he always lends you a shoulder to cry on, doesn’t he? He’s always honest with you, even when it hurts. Even when it hurts like this, crushing and disappointing and sharp.

He pulls you closer to him, and this time you don’t fight as you rest your head back on his shoulder.

“So?” He starts to gently stroke your hair, the way he knows you like it.

You nod, sniffling against the last of the tears, unable--afraid--to say anything. 

“That’s my girl,” he says, before gently flicking your forehead and reaching for his phone. “Hey, let’s go see a movie tonight. My treat.”

You nod against his shirt, unable to do more than mumble back, “Okay.” Okay, okay, okay. It’s a soft, unceremonious end to your California dreams.

[kodzukyan]

talking to the moon

notes: yoshiwara au featuring samurai!baji x courtesan!(fem)reader! some fluff? angst. tw death! song recommendation accompaniments: yoshiwara lament - teto kasane & talking to the moon - kream!

wc: 2.3k

summary: yoshiwara is not meant for love, but you think it's far too late for you when you meet baji keisuke.

For as long as you can remember, your world has been seen through the bars of the harimise. A display, a product, for hours you would merely sit there and hope someone buys you.

The endlessly same scenery: the temple up north, the colorful vibrancy of kimonos, the bridge that leads southwards. Yoshiwara is always the same hustle and bustle of the lively streets. A day of ethereal beauty and strategic deceit; a night of lust and hushed promises, a so-called love that dispels with the first rays of dawn.

Once upon a time, you wanted to be someone who blooms for one person only, to love unreservedly. A childish dream to be free, to love fiercely. But fate steals your freedom and leaves you in the embrace of men who look at you as just another woman who warms their beds. Each bleak night as you look wistfully beyond the faceless man above you, the moon and stars sparkle, despite your torment, almost as if it’s mocking you for being unable to shine as they do.

With each passing day as you stare at your dull reflection in the polished mirror, bitterness seeps into your hardened heart. As your lips become redder and redder with used paint, the light in your eyes becomes dimmer and dimmer with dull indifference.

As if Yoshiwara bears your profound grief, it’s raining tonight. On such a day, you encounter him under the deep veil of darkness. His navy kimono contrasts vividly against your crimson lips, and the rosy pink that dusts his blushing cheeks gently warms your heart. He’s adorable, you think, as he grumbles and his friend nudges him towards the birdcage. Your eyes meet his, and his friend laughs and jostles him again towards you.

“Sir, won’t you please purchase me?” you smile sweetly, softly.

“I -” he starts.

“He would love to!” a new voice injects. His enthusiastic friend with blonde highlights smiles wolfishly.

“Welcome, please come in.”

You escort him to a room upstairs as the rain pours outside. When he cautiously enters your room, it is nothing like you are used to. He stands there awkwardly and runs a hand through his long locks.

“Would you like to sit? Perhaps a drink first?” you politely ask as you pat to the spot next to you.

It catches you by surprise when you can see the grays in his eyes as he looks at you instead of past you. He sits gruffly beside you and starts promptly, “We don’t have to do anything.”

You tilt your head, not really sure how to naturally proceed from here. But you've merely learned to comply, to satisfy, so you nod affirmatively and agree politely.

“In that case, what would you like to do?” you ask softly.

In a night meant for lovers between the sheets, he tells you stories of his adventures under the moonlight. You learn his name is Baji Keisuke, and he’s a samurai serving his childhood friend and the young lord of the Sano family. The one who ushered him here is one of his dearest friends named Kazutora, and they’ve been together since they were little. He loves feeling the adrenaline in his blood when he fights and often feeds stray cats because he thinks they’re cute. He unintentionally made his mom cry once when he was younger, so he swears he will never make her cry again.

He has dazzling eyes that tell no lies and an enigmatical smile that illuminates your heart, especially when he flashes his sharp canines that strikingly resemble fangs in his boisterous mirth. Outside, the continuous rain slows to a drizzle before it promptly stops. In your heart, he ignites a small spark of attainable hope.

A free spirit that contrasts very deeply against your very being. Unlike a trapped bird, he flies through the unclouded skies and undoubtedly makes life his own. His hearty laugh and vibrant eyes gently remind you what it's like to have hope beyond these four walls, to dream of a life of consuming love. You smile softly as he makes wild gestures with his hands, and you feel every insistent beat of your heart fluttering, thundering as he smiles affectionately at you.

Over and over again, he returns and buys your time instead of your used body. Time and time again, he talks naturally to you like you are someone in this world and listens to you like you are still good enough to be heard. Like the sun that melts away the darkness in your heart, your days spark a little brighter when he’s nearby. Instead of staring bitterly at your reflection as you paint your lips, the girlish dream you abandoned returns back to you.

Love whispers in your ears and knocks on your heart.

"Will you return?" you ask softly into the luminous night when he visits again. Once, twice, countless times to where you think you know him enough to remember what it’s like to love again.

As soon as the night ends, he has to leave. He will soar into the skies beyond the scope of your vision, beyond realms of the world you can only dream of because he's meant for something grander.

Still, you yearn.

"Where else would I go?" he answers as his eyes meet yours.

He clasps his rough hand around yours, eyes earnest and heart genuine, as he brushes against your knuckles tenderly. A hand full of calluses and blood, a hand used to wield swords and destructive weapons, but he cradles your hand so gently, tenderly, fondly.

"I will always come back to you."

You breathe out a quivering breath. You’ve heard these careless words countless times before from many other men, but his affectionate eyes are constantly full of genuine promises and unmistakable sincerity. You know Yoshiwara is the land of foolish dreams and lies, that Yoshiwara is unmeant for lovers.

Yoshiwara is not meant for the undeniable truth that you are irrevocably in love with him.

Still, you hope. You want to believe him, so you trust. You trust him with your vulnerability; you trust him with your heart. Under the veil of the night with the moon as your sole witness, you cut off a strand of your hair.

"For safe-keeping," you tell him as you tie your hair around his pinky, "Until you safely return."

He blinks once, twice before he smiles radiantly, fangs glinting in the light. He tugs a strand of his hair out before he clumsily wraps it around your pinky.

“There is something important I have to take care of,” he starts hesitantly. His eyes are looking into the darkness of the night, and for a moment, you can see weariness cloud his eyes. You reach to cradle his cheek, and at your touch, he looks at you. He holds your hand and presses a soft kiss on your fingertips. Newly found resolve beams through the clouds of doubt in his eyes. “But after that… Will you come with me?”

You stare incredulity at him, wide eyes carefully looking into his promising ones. He squeezes your hand as he stares anxiously back at you. The world is silent, and all you see is his gray eyes that have been your silver lining since the very first day.

He can’t afford to buy you, you know, and the fear of the consequences of running away burrows into your heart. But he looks at you, clear and open, and Heaven is in his eyes. You squeeze his hand back and bring it towards your lips to place a tender kiss on his palm. You think you’re far too ruined to be this optimistic about it, to dream of happiness like this, but you grin and nod anyway.

“I would go anywhere if it’s with you,” you smile, eyes and words honest.

He instantly breaks into an infectious grin, and he hugs you in eager excitement. “Thank you. I’ll be back by the next full moon. Wait for me,” he whispers fiercely into your hair.

You nod again as you melt into his comforting embrace. The flutters of your heart bloom into warmth in your chest, and it feeds into your heating cheeks as you hold on to him. The moon that invariably seems to look down on you, the stars that always seem to twinkle in critical disappointment softens as the lights of dawn overtake the sky.

A new day, a new hope.

He holds his pinky up, your hair tied on and your heart in the palm of his hands, as he looks at you. When you meet his eyes, the first rays of light glows behind him. He looks beautiful, angelic, and he seems so ephemeral. You hook your pinky, with his hair tied around it, with his in hopes that these fleeting moments will last just a moment longer, that this will be more than just a dream when you wake up.

A lie, a promise, you’re not quite sure which it is.

(You hope it’s a promise. You want it to be a promise.)

So, you wait. Day after day, night after night, and all the moments in between. You miss him like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky, but he fuels a fire in your heart that keeps you warm on the nights he isn’t here. It hasn’t rained for a long time now, you think, as you glance at your pinky and sunshine fill your soul. During nights, you keep your promise close to your heart as you stare at the phases of the moon. Waxing and waning, but your heart holds steady as you dream of boisterous laughter and lively eyes.

On the day of the full moon, you wait anxiously as people pass by. You’re on high alert as your eyes eagerly scan the crowd for any signs of him - his navy blue kimono, his long hair, his hearty laughter. As the blue sky turns to brilliant orange before it fades into the darkness of the night, the crushing weight in your heart grows heavier and heavier before the numbing realization that he won’t come hits you.

When the full moon peaks in the unclouded sky, only silence surrounds you. You sit lifelessly in front of your mirror at the end of the night with the full moon as your sole company. You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting here as you mindlessly keep brushing your hair.

The overbearing heaviness finally breaks your heart and breaches the dam that restrains your tears. You muffle your cries in your kimono because you should have known better, should have known that dreams are unmeant for someone like you. You glance wistfully at your pinky before you clutch it close to your shattered heart, and all the energy in your body just comes out as silent sobs. As you bury your face in your knees and hug yourself, each fond memory comes back and replays in your head.

A mistake. This is a terrible mistake because you know Yoshiwara is built of lies like these. But when you think of his sincere eyes, your heart breaks again. Baji Keisuke is many things, but he is rarely a liar. You want to believe in him, want to believe in the dream of a life with him beyond these walls.

Maybe it’s not this full moon, you tell yourself, but he will return one day. The next full moon, the one after that, and all these other ones after, you’ll keep waiting. You believe in him, believe in love, so you will hold on steadfastly, stubbornly, desperately because you don’t think your heart can handle it otherwise. 

In just another day of waiting in the similar scenery, you catch glimpses of a spark from the temple northwards. A new sight, but among the lively streets of just another busy day, it’s not a sight you focus on. The sparks are nice, though, you think as you suppress a giggle, because it reminds you of the fire in his eyes.

When it reaches dusk, the scorching winds blow from the northeast. The direction you watch him go from the confines of your birdcage, and when you still see the sparks, a foreboding feeling, a bad omen sinks into your heart as the sun falls.

The initial flare grows bigger and bigger until it bursts into a firestorm and begins swallowing the town. You run frantically alongside the chaotic crowd as the screams fill the air and fear fills your blood. You run, run, run until your legs are burning - from the fire? From fatigue? You’re not sure.

Your heart breaks with every step you take because death comes knocking. You keep holding on stubbornly because you still believe in your promise. But soon, your legs only carry you so far amongst the fleeting crowd and falling buildings and smoke fills your lungs and chokes you.

As fire devours you, you glance at the waxing moon. It ruthlessly tears through your skin and burns, burns, burns, but the pain of breaking your promise rips through your heart.

All you can think about are the moonlit nights under the same skies within the four walls you call home and the man you know as love. You think of his starry gray eyes and the promise you couldn’t keep, and you clutch your hand over your heart. Close, so, so close, but not quite another full moon yet. With sorry repeated on your cracked lips and lament in your anguished heart, your uncontrollable tears fall hopelessly.

(The news of the tragic death of a singular samurai, holding his bleeding hand to his heart, in the Battle of Valhalla never reaches you.

After all, fire travels faster than words.)

The deafening sound of crackling fire plays your requiem and ends the unfulfilled dream of love.

end notes: harimise is a viewing cage where courtesans were placed in, like products on display at shops. they sit there the whole day until someone buys them.

the act of cutting off your hair and tying it around someone's pinky is a lover's pact. basically, it's a vow of love between a courtesan and their customers, where they offer their hair, nails, and blood to seal the deal. it could be used to extort more money from the customer, but it could also just be a promise of love.

also fun fact: historically, yoshiwara did end up burning in a huge fire that originated in a temple! :")

[pastelwitchling]

A little follow-up to the 3x06 malex sneak peek.

               Michael’s fingers should’ve gone numb from the cold hours ago, but he supposed that being an alien protected him from the elements, even as he stood alongside a radio tower, working on wires and satellite transmissions that would’ve been a lot easier with the help of a trained Air Force cyber-intelligence specialist for the better part of five hours.

               Michael’s jaw was clenched for more than the chill, his fingers cutting and typing and scribbling across a paper for more than the desire to be done as quickly as possible. Caught up here in the silence, nothing but the sound of howling wind and dead grass swaying to keep him company, Michael couldn’t stop replaying Alex’s words in his head.

               I just don’t want you anywhere near whatever it is I decide to do.

               After everything that had happened, everything Alex had told him, threatening to destroy the world if a hair on his head was hurt, Alex didn’t want him around now. Alex didn’t want him near him. Michael was supposed to be focused on finding Kyle, on waiting for the lab reports from Liz about the blood on that shovel and who it belonged to, but he was pretty sure he was losing his mind instead.

               When Alex had driven up, Michael had been unable to help but smile, even at how pale Alex had been. Because at least Alex was here. He always came when Michael called, and Michael was just starting to allow himself to be giddy about it. Then all hell had broken loose, and Alex had seemed indifferent to his best friend missing.

               Even Michael, who had never wanted Alex to forgive Kyle for their high school days, had felt betrayed. Betrayed even worse when Alex had refused him. Michael had asked specially, had kept Alex from leaving, and Alex had still gone. He couldn’t help but agonize over it.

               When Michael’s phone rang with Liz’s name, Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh. He picked up, and held the phone to his ear, his eyes closed.

               “Ortecho,” he said in lieu of a greeting, “you got a name for me?”

               “Michael,” she said, and Michael’s eyes opened at the barely-contained distress in her voice. “Did Alex show up? Please tell me he’s there with you.”

               Michael frowned. “No,” he swallowed, “no, he left. Why, what’s going on?”

               “The shovel’s gone,” Liz said, frantic now.

Michael straightened. “What?”

“So’s the blood sample! Michael, that was the strongest lead we had! What’re we going to do now?” He heard her mutter something in Spanish, too quickly and quietly to be coherent. “Do you have any idea where Alex is?”

“Not a clue,” Michael confessed, raking an angry hand through his curls. “Was the house broken into? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine!” she said impatiently. “No one broke in, whoever did this knew what they were doing!” She huffed shakily. “We have to find Kyle, we have to. Who could’ve taken it? Who else knew?”

“No one,” Michael pressed a fist to his forehead, thinking. “No one, just Max, you, me, and . . . and . . .”

“Where’s the shovel now?”

“Liz took it.”

Michael froze. His hand with the phone fell limp to his side and an incredulous, humorless laugh escaped his lips. There’s no way, he thought numbly. No way . . .

He muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

 Alex had barely stepped out of his car at a time far past midnight when Michael was there, shutting the door with his mind. Alex whipped around, startled, to find the cowboy there, glaring.

His lips were already curled around the question, about to ask what was going on, what had gotten into Michael, but Michael wasn’t about to humor his act. Not when it felt like his heart was breaking.

“Where’s the shovel, Alex?” he demanded. “What’d you do with the blood sample?”

Alex’s brows furrowed for a second before realization dawned, and his shoulders slumped. “It’s gone,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Then panic hit, “Is Liz okay?”

“You know damn well she’s not,” he growled, stepping into Alex’s space. For a horrifying second, Michael thought he might blast Alex back into the door of his house and demand answers. It had nothing to do with the shovel itself, but with the very idea that Alex – his Alex – had gone behind his back and hurt him like this. He’d never felt so betrayed, every part of him shattering.

“She’s scared out of her mind,” he said. “She wants to find Kyle, you know she does, and you took our only lead, so while I’m asking nicely –”

“While you’re asking nicely?”

“—where is the damn shovel?”

Alex searched Michael’s face, confused. Then he scoffed, the sound colored in disbelief. His next words were almost in a whisper. “You really think I took it.”

Doubt crept in, but Michael let his anger push it aside. “Don’t play stupid.”

Alex shrugged. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

“Where is it?”

Alex shook his head. He looked resigned. “I don’t know.” He turned to leave, but Michael grabbed his arm and turned him back around.

“Tell me, Alex,” he said, “before this gets worse.”

“Can it?” Alex asked, and Michael faltered when he saw Alex’s eyes were glassy. “Get worse?”

Michael squeezed Alex’s arm once, not knowing for a moment what to say, then he let go. “You’re the only other person who knew about the blood sample.”

He hummed. “Oh, and – uh – the kidnapper. Pretty big lead there, but I’m glad you came to me first.”

Michael’s face fell, and he shook his head. Without thinking, he blurted, “You’re – you’re lying.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them.

Alex looked like Michael had stabbed him in the heart. He looked away, swallowed, then turned back to Michael. “Even if I had taken it,” he said, “you really don’t trust me? You don’t trust it’d be for a good reason?” He huffed a miserable chuckle. Michael saw his hands curled to fists before he put them in his jacket pockets. “It’ll never be enough, will it? No matter what I do, no matter how much I love you, I’ll always be Jesse Manes’ son in your eyes.”

Michael opened his mouth. He clung to the anger, but found it was no longer there, replaced with shame and guilt. Even if Alex had taken it, even if he’d wiped it clean, even if he’d refused to help him find Kyle . . . wasn’t it all for something? Wasn’t everything Alex did for something?

He pushed the thought away. “I-It’s different.”

“Yeah, it is,” Alex said and sniffled, moving backwards. “The difference is that I actually believed in you.”

And without another word, Alex turned and went into his house, shutting the door and keeping Michael out.

 Michael had no idea what he was doing here. He told himself it was to check that Maria was okay, since Isobel had told him that she’d woken up, but when he saw her sitting up against her hospital bed pillows, he found there was no hint of surprise. He’d known she was going to be okay.

He sat down with a smile regardless. “Well, don’t you look good as new.”

“Shut up,” she groaned, and tilted her head over Michael’s shoulder at the door. She reached for the IV strip in the back of her hand. “Quick, before Is gets back, get me out of here.”

Michael only scoffed. “You’re kidding, right? We won’t even make it to the elevator.”

“What,” she said dryly, “are you scared of your own sister?”

“Completely.”

“Oh, come on, Guerin!” she whined, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed. “Can’t you just –” she put her hand on his arm and flinched back.

“Ow!” she hissed, waving her hand as if she’d been burned. “Oh, jeez, what’s with the aura?”

Michael’s smirk tightened. “I’m gonna tell you what I told Isobel. Stop reading my feelings.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said, “but they’re like” – she gestured wildly around Guerin – “everywhere. What’s happened with Alex?”

He faltered. “How’d you know it was about Alex?”

“Please,” she sighed. “You only ever get this loud around Alex. What’d you do?”

Michael gaped. “I didn’t do anything! I . . .” he huffed, and stood, pacing the length of the hospital room for a moment.

Maria rolled her eyes. “Today, Guerin, before the nurse comes in with more morphine and I have to fight her off again.”

“That bloody shovel Max found where Kyle was taken? It’s gone. Someone took it.” He hesitated, rubbing his hands together. “The only people that knew were us . . . and Alex.”

“Wow,” she had a hand on her chest. “Okay? And?”

When Michael didn’t answer, her eyes widened.

“You didn’t.” She leaned forward. “Guerin, you didn’t.”

“He asked where it was,” Michael defended. “And he wouldn’t help me find Kyle –”

She huffed an incredulous laugh. “Oh my God. You were so upset that he wouldn’t hang out with you that you accused him of stealing key evidence?”

“I –”

“And what if he did?” she demanded. “So he took it, so what? He must have a dangerous idea who’s behind all of this, and didn’t want anyone else to get involved! I don’t know, but it’s important! I know it is, you know it is! You know what he would do for Kyle! What he would do for any of us!”

A thought seemed to occur to her and her eyes widened. “Oh, poor Alex. Poor Alex, oh my God, this must be killing him!” She tried to step out of bed and swayed. Michael was at her side in an instant, but she was pushing him away. “How could you?!” she demanded. “After everything he’s done for you, how could you think he doesn’t care?!”

“Okay,” Michael tried, seating her back down. “I’m sorry, please, just –”

“You hurt him!” Michael fell silent. “You hurt Alex!” She shook her head. “We’ve already hurt him. You were supposed to be the one that protected him.”

Michael clenched his jaw and his eyes burned. He thought of Alex’s face, his resignation when Michael had accused him of not caring. He hadn’t been surprised at all. Even after the years of defending Michael, he hadn’t been surprised that Michael hadn’t defended him.

I just don’t want you anywhere near whatever it is I decide to do.

Now he heard the words for what they were. Now he heard the truth.

“Well,” he said quietly, “I didn’t.”

 Alex opened his front door at almost four in the morning to a miserable Michael slumped against his doorway.

“This is why you didn’t want me anywhere near whatever you decided to do, isn’t it?”

Alex leaned against his door and sighed. The corner of his lips tugged up for a split second. “I’ll put some coffee on.”

They sat there in silence for a while under the warm yellow light of the lamps, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Michael studied Alex, the way his shirt ran tight over his muscles, his flat stomach, his toned chest, his strong arms and pursed lips and long fingers. Then he noticed the smaller things; the dark circles around Alex’s eyes, the scratches on his fingers and faint bruises on his jaw, the hollow of his cheeks. He was tired. Exhausted. Michael had been so happy to see Alex back, to have him close, that he hadn’t even noticed.

“I hated that you didn’t want to work with me,” he said, and Alex looked up, meeting his gaze. “I hated that I had to convince you. I guess I always knew that you would do anything I wanted, and . . . I wanted . . . I want to do this with you. Because I don’t know how to be good for everyone without you.”

Michael exhaled shakily. “I trust you, Alex. You’re the only one in the world that I trust. Whatever you decide, I know it’s for a good reason. I just hate – I hate . . . I hate not being part of it. I hate that you’re doing it alone.”

Slowly, Alex leaned back against the couch, his finger tapping the mug in his hands.

“I left the Air Force.”

Michael almost dropped his cup. “W-What?”

“Full honors,” he said, smiling for the briefest second before something weary took its place. “What I’m doing now . . . I think I know how to find Kyle.”

Michael clenched his jaw. “You knew that he was missing.”

“Hours before you called. Even got his . . . what’d you call it? Suicide bat signal?”

“And the tower? You knew about that, too?”

Alex pursed his lips and nodded. “Let’s just say I’m not working with people that like to share information.”

Michael realized he’d known that. He’d always known, if he was being honest with himself. He’d known Alex had had his own lead, that something was different about him this time. It wasn’t like when he’d come back from war. Back then, it was like Alex had lost something and didn’t know what to do. Now he’d found it and had a plan to get it back.

“That’s why you didn’t want me working around it.”

Alex smiled sadly. “Would you believe that it’s for you? That everything I have and am is for you?”

Michael swallowed thickly. He didn’t need to say the words. Alex knew he believed it. “And you? When do you get a turn?”

Alex shrugged a tired shoulder and whispered, “I don’t know how to be good for everyone without you.”

Michael didn’t know what to say to that. His eyes burned and he wanted more than anything to take Alex in his arms and kiss his forehead and help him sleep. But they had work to do.

Alex sniffled and sat up, stretching an arm over his head. “You should go,” he said, his eyes on a hallway engulfed in shadows. “Keep looking for Kyle on your end.”

As he said the words, Michael heard the silent message beneath; And I’ll find him on mine.

Michael nodded him to himself, then stood. He stared at Alex, clenching his fists, and said, “You better enjoy these last moments going solo, Private. Because after we get Valenti back, whatever it takes” – he came in close until his lips brushed the shell of Alex’s ear – “I’m not letting anything come between us again.”

Without another word, Michael walked out, and as he left, he could’ve sworn he heard Alex’s resolute, “Neither am I.”

For the record, I think the fandom is being ridiculously dramatic, that teaser was wonderful and filled with delicious tension, so please don’t rant to me about it because I absolutely LOVED it and this little fic was just for fun.

[chaotic-noceur]

puppy therapy

pairing: Sukuna x reader (ft. Yuuji, Megumi, and Megumi's dogs)

summary: when Sukuna finds you in a slump of burn out, he calls in a favour from Yuuji in an attempt to help

universe: modern + roommates au ; same-ish universe as what's unspoken isn't unknown

warnings: depression/burn out symptoms, wearing his shirt, headphone usage, no-shoes-in-the-house living setting, kisses

a/n: i'm tired, probably going to fail something, and i really want to pet a dog so i self projected :) shoutout to @ezrasarm for being the bestest hooman ever and beta-ing this even though she has never read/watched jjk in her life 💕💕

Sukuna does a double take when he passes your room on his way for a coffee refill. The last thing he expected was to find you still curled up in bed, watching an episode of whatever it is you had borrowed his Netflix account for. As he takes in your figure, a frown forms on his features. He doesn't need to see the look of exhaustion on your face to recognise the sure signs of burnout. He knows the feeling all too well himself.

He knows the wave of indifference that washes over you every time you're reminded of your deadlines. He knows the hollowness in your chest that refuses to be filled, no matter how hard you try. He knows the heaviness in your limbs that are so worn down by fatigue that every move feels like a workout. He knows the insults that your mind hurls at itself for its own inability to push past this slump. And he refuses to let you wallow alone.

The sound of your door being nudged open catches your attention and you pause the show before glancing towards Sukuna, unamused at the interruption. “Get dressed,” he says as he tosses one of his shirts at you — knowing you find comfort in wearing them, “we’re going out.” You move to protest, instinctively drawing up an excuse about how you have work to do. But you stop yourself short, it’s not like you're going to get anything done anyway.

"Good morning to you too," you grumble instead as you move to pick up his shirt from where it had landed on your bed. Sukuna snorts in response and you roll your eyes before moving to usher him out of your room. Mechanically, you shrug out of your sleepwear, and get yourself into a semi-presentable state before meeting him at the door.

Sukuna hands you your keys as you walk up to him, his sunglasses pushed into his hair. You do a quick check to ensure you have everything you need as Sukuna does the laces of his boots. Putting your shoes on, you spare a glance at your reflection in the mirror before following Sukuna out the door.

You slip your hand into his when you catch up to him by the elevators and he brings it up to his lips before pressing a kiss to your knuckles. He smiles at you with a softness that you rarely see in public but when your eyes turn to meet his gaze, there's a tiredness behind them that makes his heart ache. Sensing his concern, you squeeze his hand in silent reassurance, and he returns the action.

As you step into the street, you're tempted to ask about his plan. But Sukuna was never one to reveal his surprises before they unfolded in natural order and you're in no mood to pry the answers from him. Instead, you connect your earphones to your phone, pass the other earbud to Sukuna and shuffle your shared playlist as he leads you through the streets.

You lose yourself in the melody as the pair of you make your way to the secret destination. Occasionally, Sukuna tugs on your arm to signal that you're turning but otherwise, you allow your mind to wander, trusting in him to keep you out of harm's way.

Your thoughts drift to the list of deadlines that should induce more stress than they currently do and a pang of guilt spreads across your chest. If you had any sense, you should've said no to this impromptu date. You don't deserve to take a break, not when your list of responsibilities continues to grow and your care for them dwindles by the day; not when you know you're setting yourself up for failure but don't have enough care left to give to change the ending; not when —

Something in your expression must have alluded to the thoughts swarming in your mind because Sukuna stops the pair of you then. He moves to stand in front of you before sliding his sunglasses into his hair. "Stop thinking so much," he says as he runs his thumb along your cheek, forcing you to meet his eyes, "just focus on me. Focus on us being here, okay?" You nod minutely and he sighs before bringing his lips to your forehead. He intertwines his fingers with yours again and continues his journey, hoping that his surprise will lighten your mood.

"Does this mean you'll tell me where we're going?" you ask after a moment. Sukuna snorts.

"No way in hell. Besides, we're almost there."

As the sound of laughter and barking fills the air, you perk up and glance around at your new surroundings. You turn to Sukuna, curious, but he's tapping away at his phone. He comes to a stop when he reaches a clearing, a sea of dogs running around before the pair of you. You're about to ask him what was going on when a head of strawberry hair enters your peripheral vision.

"Sukuna!" Yuuji cheers as he runs up to the pair of you, his phone clutched in one hand. Sukuna removes the earbud from his ear and passes it to you as you do the same.

"Brat," comes Sukuna's response before Yuuji turns to greet you. He moves to hug you but falters when Sukuna puts a hand on his shoulder, unsure of how your current state mixes with hugs from sweaty individuals. Yuuji seems to understand. He shrugs his brother's hand off before spinning around and guiding the pair of you to his picnic blanket.

You spot Megumi a little way away, Ghost and Shadow running in circles around him as they wait for the tennis ball in his hand to be released. When you notice the snacks and your favourite drink perched on the blanket, the pieces fall into place and your mouth falls open in shock. "Sukuna! You didn't have to trouble them into all this!"

Yuuji responds instead of his brother, waving off your exclamations. "It was no problem! We were planning on coming here anyway and the dogs love people!" As if on cue, Ghost and Shadow come bounding towards you, Megumi following after them. Sukuna lets go of your hand to kneel and pet the bundles of excitement that have huddled around your legs, a chuckle escaping him as Megumi settles into a seat beside his friend.

"You didn't have to do all this," you say to Megumi as you take your seat.

"It's fine," he shrugs. "The food was on the way and those two needed to expend their energy." He gestures towards his dogs as hints of a smile creep its way onto his face. Ghost detaches from Sukuna to come greet you then and settles his head into your lap once he'd given you several affectionate face licks. You giggle at the sensation as you ruffle his fur.

Yuuji and Megumi fall into conversation amongst themselves and you grab what you assume is yours and Sukuna's drinks from the cardboard holder. He seats himself beside you not long after, Shadow retreating back to Megumi's side. You offer him his drink once he's settled and he takes it with a quiet 'thanks' before falling naturally into the conversation between Yuuji and Megumi. Sipping from your drink, you bask in the air of joy around you as you rest your head against Sukuna's shoulder and let your eyes fall shut.

You chuckle as you watch Yuuji dote on Shadow, Megumi begrudgingly handing over yet another treat. They're far away enough that their voices are drowned out by the screams and barks of the others in the park but judging by their interaction, you imagine Megumi's saying something about spoiling the dog in question.

Sukuna returns from disposing the trash that you had collectively cumulated and slings his arm over your shoulder as he seats himself once more. Ghost stirs in your lap, blinks lazily at Sukuna before closing his eyes again. You lean into Sukuna's side, skin tingling when he places a kiss onto your temple.

"You really should stop taking advantage of your brother's kindness," you chastise after a moment, but there's no bite to your words. A soft smile lingers on your face as you card your fingers through Ghost's white fur.

Sukuna shrugs before running his thumb over the curve of your lip. "It made you smile again though didn't it?" The beginning of a smirk forms across his features and you refrain from rolling your eyes at him. Instead, you lean your forehead against his before connecting your lips together, a silent thank you exchanged.

The remnants of numbness still linger in your chest and your mind still drowns in a dizzying fog. There’s no guarantee that you won’t wake up tomorrow without an ounce of motivation. But, for now, it’s enough. For now, you relish in the warmth of the sun that beats against your skin, the sound of joy and bliss that filters into your ears, and the love that Sukuna envelops you in — safe and ever present. He is your light, and for now; that’s enough.