#part of it is him being loud as fuck at frankly inconsiderate times (WHAT are you moving around loudly at 3 AM?)

[visdiefje]

Upstairs neighbour has been home a suspicious amount lately

[kwiis]

MHA brain rot

2497 words. Slice of life-esque (i’m just having fun writing tbh, i think i’m reeaaallly funny)

Reader x someone in mha idk, reader works at some sort of firm.

Working in an office was bland.

You weren’t a secretary or anything, just a person in a glass box going through pages and pages of someone else’s finances.

Clients come and go, there’s the occasional gossip spread by a particularly mean group of middle aged women with the gall to hide daggers in their sleeves just to get ahead of everyone but other than that, there was nothing to do. If it wasn’t for the severe desperation for money that kept you going then you would’ve - A) turned into a Disney princess and live happily ever after with a bird on each shoulder, or B) turned into a hero (or a villain, they’re equally as enticing) ; however, neither of the options seemed likely.

Frankly, you as a whole just weren't that interesting. Your quirk, nullify - as they like to call it, literally doesn’t do anything other than prevent your body from being physically damaged by quirk related attacks, you can’t even control it for gods sake it was - and still is - always on as if you were a light with a broken switch. What are the odds that you manage to pull the most boring quirk from the genetic gacha machine - worst of all, neither of your parents carried this quirk so where the fuck did it come from? Were you a secret lovechild? Is mom and dad not telling you something? God knows. Thankfully, once you reached 17 your parents were kind enough to tell you whence your quirk came and that your grandma had the same quirk. Finally, one mystery solved.

Fast forward a few years and now here you are, working in an office, bound to four walls for - what feels like all eternity but is actually just 7 hours - a day. Excluding the regular overtime that your boss likes to indirectly inflict upon you. Calling him a menace would be an understatement, more like a 4 armed hell-raising demon. It’s like he flips a coin everyday and asks “should I be an asshole or a huge asshole today?”.

You’d been working at the office for a good couple of years yet you still lived in a shadier part of the city, you weren’t a thug of course but that college debt did some real damage to your sad, sad bank account, if a bank account could frown, yours would’ve been violently sobbing with its snot pooling on the floor. You could’ve chosen to live with your parents but the thought of burdening them for a few more years felt wrong ; so what better way is there to save money than to move into the cheapest, habitable apartment you can find and live off of plain pasta until you can afford to move out? And honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Sure there were loud inconsiderate neighbours, sporadic flickering lights and some unearthly being that you were convinced is the ghost of the past tenant living in your home but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

— — — — — — — — — —

You gather your documents and files into a small briefcase and leave the office. Yet again, your boss had piled more papers on your desk with a sly smile on his face and the words ‘good luck with your client’ leaving his lips. This man is the embodiment of all the reasons why you hate work. By the time you finished it all, it’d already been long past 11pm so no busses were running leaving you to walk back home with your briefcase clutched in your arms. Considering the whereabouts of your apartment, you knew better than to look back when you hear screams being ripped from some poor man’s throat during what you hope assume is a mugging.

Just a few more blocks until you reach home, all you have to do is turn right, walk straight, turn right again into the alleyway to the hidden entrance of your building and… Oh…

There lies your landlord, snivelling on the ground, begging for forgiveness and a…? man? Is that a man? With, what seems to be, strips of overcooked bacon stapled on his face and a parade of blue flames emanating from his palms, threatening to burn the whole building down if my landlord doesn’t pay up for owning a property in his territory. What a fucking joke - who does this man think he is? a magician? Can’t he take his burnt meat elsewhere and perform somewhere that isn’t directly in front of your building?

You're tired, agitated and overall exhausted, but you choose to turn back around the corner and pretend you didn’t see anything knowing that intruding would just make things worse for both you and your landlord. Unluckily for you, you hear the charred man say ‘What was that?’ and slow footsteps walking your way. Thinking under pressure was never your strong point and now, it will be the death of you. Your eyes dart around the dimly lit street for places to hide and then it hits you. You can't hide, not here in an empty street with trash cans full of trash, but you certainly refuse to die now. You start looking for escape routes and then the dark shape of the ladder to your building’s rooftop - which you caught a thief clambering up once - comes into view and bingo! Within a matter of seconds you’re gone, scuttling up the same ladder like a gravity-defying rat with a briefcase that threatens to fall with each movement you take to grab for the ladder.

Once you reach the summit and climb onto the roof, you peer down and see the same burnt-being squinting up your way. Triumphantly, you put both your middle fingers up and watch his brows furrow in pure anger at the sight of your smug expression. Ok maybe you shouldn’t have done that but whatever, you got back to your apartment in one piece, the contents of your briefcase made it home relatively intact and he didn’t follow you home.

In due time you’d come to find out that the lump of coal you had encountered was actually the infamous villain, Dabi, from an uprising villain group known as ‘the League Of Villains’.

— — — — — — — — — —

The following day, you had work, again. And once again, that demon your boss made his daily visit to your desk, dropping so many files onto your desk that you could practically hear the workload - thus, stripping you off the privilege of taking the bus back home. And once again, you took your regular stroll back home, unwillingly basking in the blearing lights from street lamps and police cars.

The moment you opened the door, something felt wrong.

But then again you were too tired and overworked to really care, all you wanted to do was plant your face in between your pillows and turn yourself into a bamboo shoot.

When you turned on the light, the unsightly figure of the man from last night came into focus. Dabi? Was it? You should’ve been fearing for your life and running at your fastest speed but instead, you let out an exasperated huff as you plop your briefcase down and look him straight in the eye. ‘What do you want? I’m exhausted so make it quick’.

Dabi’s eyebrows shot to his hairline at your reaction, he is a murderous criminal standing in your apartment and you’re carelessly worrying over your physical exhaustion, but then again, dressing up in a greasy wifebeater (what an ironic name because that’s exactly what he looks like he’d do to his wife) and a black trench coat that looks like it was sewn together by a 4th grader, makes him look like the weird mean kid from toy story (Sid, the kids name was Sid); he looked significantly less frightening than other villains.

‘how dare you talk to me like that.’ you hear him bellow.

In one swift motion his hand reaches for your wrist and a bright blue flame is pressed onto your skin, you don’t feel fear however, quite the contrary, after all, we all die eventually and frankly, you really didn’t mind dying at the hands of some brazen man with burnt flesh, at least it sounded like a cool and mysterious way to go. But then the stench of this man wafted into your nostrils, how can a man smell like both a wet dog and rotten milk simultaneously, his awful odours might as well be classified as one of the worlds many mysteries, gods, if this is the last thing you smell… and suddenly, your will to live has returned.

After a few seconds, you realise that the flames are taking no effect thanks to your quirk. You have never once been so grateful for your useless quirk. All you can feel is his warm wrinkled flesh on your skin, gross. A few more beats of silence later and some intense bewildered staring and you decide that tonight is gonna be a long night. Is he gonna keep holding your hand all night? Can't he find someone else to hold hands with? What a creep.

‘Who the fuck you calling a creep? I am Dabi, Japan’s best pyromaniac. My flames are more powerful than Endeavours.’ He replies.

‘Get a load of this guy’ you snort under your breath.

Fuck. You said that out loud.

His jaw slacks in awe and his grip loosens, you take the opportunity to squirm out of his grasp and make it run for it. As soon as you reach the outside, fresh, breathable air hits your nostrils and you find yourself apologising for ever saying the city stinks. Behind you were Dabi’s footsteps chasing after you hurriedly, you know this area like the back of your hand so it was no surprise that Dabi lost you eventually, although, by the end of the chase you definitely were hacking up an organ or two and most likely would’ve just dropped dead if it weren’t for the kind, sturdy trash can that gave you enough support to stand. You could hear his frustrated yelling from the main street as you stood catching your breath in an alley, take that sucker, one point to you.

— — — — — — — — — —

Great. Even though you managed to escape Dabi’s grimy hands, you were now in search of a place to sleep, obviously you can't go back to your apartment now because what if that abomination of a human-being was sitting there, waiting for you? Why must the gods target you, what heinous sin could you have possibly committed for them to test you so often, sure once you accidentally melted a whole box of your best friend’s Lego’s in your youth and every so often you succumb to certain human desires but that can’t possibly be the reasoning for your misfortune, why must they choose you and not some other yahoo living an equally miserable life to play with. As you contemplate your life choices, seeking refuge in a nearby hotel for a few days is the only option and thankfully, your area had tons, you just needed to find the right one. Easy enough right?

It took a while of course but eventually you stumbled across a decent looking hotel that looked the right amount of cheap and the right amount of liveable. You walked across the dust-covered carpet and up to the main counter where a woman who looked about her mid 50’s greeted you by looking up from her book, lifting her glasses and looking you up and down with an eyebrow raised to the roof. Well… the customer service might not be great but maybe the rooms will be okay… Upon requesting for a standard room, in which she replied with a silent nod, she gestured for you to follow her, walking up a series of staircases and down an uncomfortably narrow hallway to your room. It wasn’t a great room but it’s far better than what you expected. What you couldn’t understand, however, was why there was a king size bed?

‘I’ll let you know when your partner gets here’

Oh. OH.

By the time you compose yourself enough to respond she’s already halfway down the hallway, turning into the stairwell. Well, it’s better than nothing, who were you to complain about a bigger bed?

You didn’t bring any of your belongings with you but your wallet and phone were stashed in your pocket so you decided to order some takeout. Prices seemingly disappear when you’re running on nothing but the aftereffects of adrenaline coursing through your bloodstream, alas, you settled on 2 small dishes and 1 main dish.

As you leave your room and make your way down to the stairwell, another door swings open and a 5’9 male dressed in a black hoodie and some really worn down jeans walks directly into you (you note down his general appearance to make the police report quicker just incase). His frail frame knocks both of you over like a couple of bowling pins. You’re quick to apologise fearing that he may be some sort of hardened criminal with no mercy for poor, sweat covered people, standing up and going over to help him up, when you realise this man has absolutely no muscle. You’re surprised that he didn’t shrivel away and disintegrate into a pile of bones the moment your bodies collided with all things considered. You reach your hand out, wholly expecting him to accept it but instead he backhand slaps it away with a sharp tsk. He looks up at you and you take note of his features, scruffy white/blue-grey hair, a deep scowl painted over his features, red eyes burning with agitation - which is most definitely your fault, very very arid skin, a scar draped over the corner of his lips, giant eye bags and wrinkles, his neck littered in self-inflicted scratches, and in a sense, he had somewhat cat-like features - but then again who are you to judge, here you are drenched in sweat on your way to collect your greasy takeout.

‘Ah I’m really sorry about that’ you say apologetically, in all honesty this was actually his fault for walking into you so carelessly and yet you were the one apologising.

Before he can reply, a voice behind him calls. ‘What are you doing on the floor Shigaraki?’

Shigaraki…? Sounds familiar.

[yellowsuitcase]

Intertwined // Draco Malfoy

Request:  Hi, can i request an imagine where Y/N and Draco has been together for a long time but one time, Draco forgot to use protection and didn't care for Y/N in the next morning so she got reallll upset. At first Draco don't understand why Y/N acted like that so he gets angry back at her but then he realises the reason and they make every thing up. Start with rough smut, angst in the middle and end with fluff pleaseee. I'll patiently waiting for you sooo take your time and don't force yourself too much ❤

A/N: I don’t have much to say about this one, I really liked the request, I thought it was really real. Also this takes place after Hogwarts and Y/N + Draco live alone.

Summary: Draco is inconsiderate towards his girlfriend and Y/N is n o t happy about it.

Warning(s): SMUT!!! Unprotected sex, choking, swearing, angst, couple verbally fighting, fluff.

Word Count: 2k

Masterlist

{Not my gif also it’s so dramatic for this lol}

“That’s it, baby girl, ride my cock,” Draco purred as he gripped his girlfriend’s hips, slowly lifting her up and down on his dick. Y/N whimpered, they’d been at it for nearly thirty minutes now, and her pussy was painfully sensitive. Draco had already eaten her out as well as edged her with his fingers. But there she was, bouncing on his cock, wanting to please him. However, after a few more minutes of her riding him, Draco’s grip grew tighter, and he began slamming his hips upwards, pounding himself deep in her pussy.

“Fuck, Draco,” Y/N moaned as she let her legs go limp. Draco flipped them over and was now on top of her. His hand found her throat, and he held it firmly as his hips snapped into her mercilessly. He grabbed her legs and rested them against his shoulders. Y/N watched as he shut his eyes and let himself go, his pace getting even quicker. Loud squelching noises filled the couple’s bedroom, and Y/N could tell he was getting close.

“Such a good girl for me, my perfect little slut,” he grunted, making Y/N whine. She clenched her fingers in the bedsheets and warned him of her approaching orgasm. “Gonna cum again?” he teased. “Go on then, whore, cum on me,” he coaxed. Y/N closed her eyes and focused on the building pressure in her abdomen. But then, she felt Draco slap her clit and found herself cumming instantly from the stimulation. Draco laughed as she tightened her walls around him and scrunched her face in pleasure. He fucked her through her orgasm as his own was advancing. His thrusts became sloppy. Just as Y/N was beginning to whine about the sensitivity, Draco came inside her with a loud groan, his hips pressed flush against her ass. 

When he pulled out, Y/N quickly realized that Draco hadn’t used a condom. “Fuck baby girl, you look so pretty with my cum dripping from your cunt,” Draco breathed, his breath fanning over her swollen pussy. She wriggled her hips to get away from the cool air emerging from his lips, but then he yanked her close and licked a long stripe up her slit, pushing the semen back inside her with his tongue. A guttural moan left Y/N as she arched her back, the overstimulation sending sparks through her body. When Draco pulled away, Y/N expected him to help her into the shower, but she was wrong. Instead, he patted her pussy and flopped onto the bed beside her. 

“Goodnight darling,” he murmured before slipping underneath the covers and turning away from her. Y/N was shocked. This was rather uncharacteristic of Draco. Not using protection and now going to sleep right after sex. Quite frankly, it made her heart clench, and not in a good way. 

Slowly, she scooted herself off their king size mattress and trudged to the bathroom; the soreness between her legs made this a difficult task. Eventually, though, she got inside and immediately sat on the toilet. After she used it, she turned on the shower and sat back down, waiting for it to heat up. She couldn’t shake the confusion and the hurt from her mind. But ultimately, she decided to push those thoughts away and instead focused on cleaning her sweaty, bruised body. Draco’s always quite rough with her during sex, and she enjoyed it, but he had really done a number on her tonight. Maybe when he sees that tomorrow, he’ll apologize, she thought to herself as she rubbed the loofa up and down her arms.

When she eventually slid back into bed with Draco, she couldn’t help but lay her arm over his waist. Sure he’d been a bit inconsiderate tonight, but Y/N still wanted him close. So she stroked his stomach with her thumb as much needed sleep overtook her.

-----------

{The next morning}

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open as she yawned; the bright sunlight streaming from their windows was right on her face. She quickly shielded herself and looked to her left. Draco was still fast asleep. Y/N made sure not to wake him as she got up. Once on her feet, the memories of last night returned thanks to the pain between her legs. She hobbled down the hallway and stairs and made her way to the kitchen. She and Draco had no house elves per Y/N’s request, so they had to make their own meals. Y/N decided that today would be an omelet type of day. So she gathered all the necessary ingredients as well as a pan and began crafting the dish. 

While she was flipping the omelet, she heard Draco coming down the steps. She glanced over at him and watched as he settled into the cozy armchairs in their living room, not even bothering to greet her. Anger began to stir, but Y/N shoved it down and returned her eyes to the omelet, which she found was currently burning. “Shit!” she cursed as she quickly transferred it to a spare plate. 

The sound of a soft laugh caught her attention, and she turned her head to see Draco’s smiling face. Usually, this would amuse her, but not that morning. “Shut your trap,” she muttered as she started making a second omelet. 

“Excuse me?” Draco bellowed. Y/N instinctively tensed but held her ground. 

“You heard me. Shut up.” She heard Draco get to his feet and walk into the kitchen. Y/N’s anger was becoming unignorable now. But she kept her lips shut as he leaned on the counter beside her.

“What’s got you in such a foul mood?” he questioned. Y/N snapped, dropping her spatula on the marble countertop. Her head whipped towards Draco and his eyebrows jumped at the fury visible on her face.

“Why don’t you take a wild guess, Malfoy?” she spat, crossing her arms over her chest. Draco gave her a look of confusion. 

“Or you could just tell me what’s wrong,” he replied.

“Haha, no, I want you to figure it out.”

Draco couldn’t understand what his lover was getting at, and it was making him grow frustrated. “Y/N, I don’t have the patience for this bullshit; just spit it out,” he argued. Y/N shook her head in disbelief and flipped her omelet. 

“The fact that you won’t even stop and think for a second just proves how selfish you are.” This comment made Draco’s blood boil. He stood up straight and clenched his fists at his sides.

“Well, at least I’m not a fucking bitch like you,” he sneered. Y/N gasped, and Draco immediately regretted his words. He could see shiny tears in her eyes as she hurriedly turned off the stove and transferred the omelet to a plate. “Y/N, I didn’t mean that.” She shook her head and fled the kitchen, not even glancing at him as she stormed away. 

Draco kicked the cabinets, enraged with himself. He’d really done it now. And the worst part was he still couldn’t put his finger on why Y/N was so upset in the first place. Surely it wasn’t because of his laughter when she burnt the omelet. But if not that, then what else? Draco ran his hand through his hair as he began to pace in the kitchen. Eventually, though, he stopped himself, grabbed a plate, and started eating. The burnt texture was pretty awful, but Draco forced it down his throat anyway. 

Now with a full stomach, his head felt clear. He retraced his steps in his mind. He had come downstairs, then sat in the living room; that was it. But then he thought farther back, back to the previous night. And that’s when it hit him. “Fuck,” he muttered, dropping his face into his palms, feeling utterly terrible. Could he genuinely have just gone to bed right after sex? Now that he was thinking about it, Y/N’s neck was littered with love bites this morning, and she had looked exhausted. Yet he had done nothing for her, nothing at all. Draco felt sick to his stomach, and not because of the omelet. Without wasting another second, he jumped to his feet and hastily ran upstairs, but not before taking the second dish with him. 

A knock at Y/N’s door halted her tears. She sighed, not really wanting to face her boyfriend right then, but she still wiped her face and opened the door. There stood her blonde-haired boy, a guilty look on his face. “May I?” he asked. Y/N nodded and stepped back, allowing them into their shared bedroom. He set the plate in his hands on his desk and took hesitant steps towards her. It felt as though remorseful tension was in the air, and for a few moments, neither of them said a word. But then Draco lifted his hand and gently cradled her face, making her look up at him.

“I’m so sorry, love. I should have taken care of you last night instead of just falling asleep. And I shouldn’t have called you a bitch or been rude to you this morning. It was completely uncalled for, and I...I feel like an absolute dick, and I’m just really, really sorry.”

Y/N remained silent, simply letting her head rest in his hands. She could tell he was sincere. “I forgive you. But Draco," she started, "I could hardly hold myself up in the shower, and I really needed you. I wanted to cuddle with you like we usually do. And not to mention the fact you didn’t wear a condom, I could get pregnant…” she trailed off. Y/N wasn’t sure if she wanted a family so soon, or even at all. She didn’t think she nor Draco were even close to being ready for such a huge responsibility. But she was pulled from her thoughts by Draco stroking her cheek.

“Y/N, I promise you it will never happen again. You’re everything to me, and I will always take care of you and be there for you whenever you need me. I know I wasn’t last night. Last night I was reckless and a fucking git, but from now on I won't be, I swear it,” Draco declared. His eyes looked fearful as he waited for Y/N to reply. And she did, just not with words. She took a step forward and nestled herself against his chest. Draco immediately wrapped his arms around her and breathed in her scent, feeling at peace, knowing things were okay again. 

“I believe I am due for a cuddle appointment, Dr. Malfoy,” Y/N stated, breaking the silence with her playful tone. She giggled as Draco let her go and dragged her towards their bed. He then scooped her up, making her squeal, before he dropped her onto the bouncy mattress. Her bright smile was irresistible, and he scrambled onto the bed, smashing his lips onto hers. She kissed him back, passionately, happy to be reconciled. 

“Dr. Malfoy shall provide you with the necessary amount of cuddles to cure your ailment,” Draco stated in a funny voice, playing along with the bit. Y/N giggled and reconnected her lips with his, bringing his body close to hers.

And as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, the couple remained on the bed, legs intertwined with legs and fingers clutching palms. Their hearts were content. All was forgiven. And even when the moon took the sun’s place, they still hadn’t detached from one another. They ended up falling asleep like that. And in the morning, Draco carried his girl to the bathroom, pledging to never let her wash alone again. 

Taglist: @beiahadid @pastelpuffbar @cutie1365 @dracoxmgg @lumlfy @sambucky8 @emilianamason @raplinethereal @dracosdeathmark @xoxohollands @prongsandprancer @ch0kemedracomalfoy @avlauriaa @purpleskymalfoy @mariah-can-dream @drxcomvlfx @sydnee-kom-spacekru​ @dracosgoodgirl @voilawind @gloryekaterina

[rouiyan]

𝘕𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛𝘚 𝘓𝘐𝘒𝘌 𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘚𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘥𝘩 ]

⧏ part of the before i met you collective ⧐

synopsis: you hate donghyuck’s stupid, stupid temper and also his stupid, stupidly sincere apologies. and just when you think you can seamlessly quote every word to come from his jabbering mouth, he does the unthinkable.

✧ idol!lee donghyuck x (fem.) college student!reader ✧ established relationship au

✧ genres : fluff, angst, and then some Fluff ✧ word count : 3.4k ✧ disclaimers : minor swearing, like a three-worded phrase referring to sex

✧ author’s note — i was really invested in this at first and wrote the first three thousand words in one day but i lost motivation and finally finished it a week after haha.

“baby, i think we should talk about something.” 

donghyuck’s eyes peered quizzically down at yours, a slim anxiety shadowing his irises. “it’s nothing to worry about but…” he huffed a silent breath, a small smile easing across his features before gesturing for you to continue. his hair is mussed and his glasses are perched upon the bridge of his nose, a sight that you will always welcome with open arms. “well, after you come back from your tour, it’s gonna be our-“

“-second anniversary, i know, princess.” his face now donned a smirk akin to that of an angel’s. “yeah,” you breathed, taken aback a bit by your boyfriend’s straightforwardness, “it's just… i’m a bit tight on money right now so i was thinking we could do, like, thoughtful gifts? instead of something more expensive.” donghyuck’s eyes dimmed the slightest at the reason behind your suggestion, “if you’re ever tight on money, i could always lend you some, you know?” 

shuffling around the bed and positioning yourself so that you were on eye level with the boy, a chuckle seeped within your sigh, “that's ridiculous, hyuck. why would i borrow money from you to buy you a gift? then you’d just be buying yourself a gift.” laughing dryly along with him you settled down to bring the conversation back to the point, “i was thinking that when you come back, i could cook you up a big dinner of all your favorites. it’s been awhile since i last cooked for you. and i guess that could be my gift.”

“of course, baby, i’d love that,” his eyes bore into yours with so much love that it felt almost undeserving to be the one receiving it. he's always been one to give and forget to receive. shaking the thought that donghyuck’s love could ever be burdensome, you held his hands in yours, relief written in your expression. “and i’ll,” he continued with a playful lilt to his voice, “just have to find something that’s equally as heartfelt as a home- cooked meal.”

it’s nights like these that set your heart to peace, when he lets you be the big spoon for once and when his soft snores reverberate throughout your body, making you think of him and only him. your hand cards through his locks rhythmically and you wish for nothing to ever change the way he looks at you or the way your heart pulls for him.

your heartbeat is erratic, thumping wildly in your ears, as donghyuck’s yells resound through the phone. he’s not mad at you, per se, be he’s definitely mad at you. tears prickle at the edge of your eyes as you think, for the fifth time in the past hour, just how unfair he was being.

“y/n, look, i’m not asking much of you. just don’t bother me while i’m working.” you huff breaths because frankly, you find his attitude increasingly hard to deal with. he’s been on tour with nct 127 for almost three weeks now, and he’s decided, for whatever reason, that now was the perfect time to blow out his stresses upon you. it’s getting harder to suppress the oncoming hyperventilation so while he rambles about how inconvenient and how inconsiderate you’re proving to be, you hang up.

sitting down, you almost can feel your heart shrivel up like a dried fruit and you long to sink further into the sheets. the vibrations of your phone, lighting up again and again with his contact name, hyuck <3, make you feel even worse than it should. you pick up the call after his seventh try and without even letting him realize, you begin your pent up rant.

“lee donghyuck, for the love of god, can you put aside your inflated ego for just one second and realize how much of a dick you’re being? i checked the fucking time before i called you, you’re not working, you’re at your hotel, it’s eleven at night over there. i’m fed up with you taking out all your shit on me. i’m your girlfriend, not your punching bag, jesus christ.”

you stop to catch your breath when you realize the tears have unleashed themselves and are now running freely along the crevices of your face. you feel a sob bubbling up your throat and you willingly let it out, your phone dropping within the abyss of the bed. it’s sad, the way your body ricochets with ripples of wilting emotion, echoing the feelings that have waited too long and have expanded twofold in even the tiniest moments of weakness. clutching your chest, you crawl to where your phone landed, motions lacking energy and will. 

before you can reach your phone, a soft, “y/n,” fills the empty void of the room. it’s hard to hear but the second it fills your ears, your heart constricts in a way it never has before whenever donghyuck calls your name. your eyes are blurry and your head is suddenly so heavy, you doubt you’ll ever be able to lift it again. it takes you three tries before you successfully thumb the button to hang up.

it’s nights like these that set your heart on fire; the type of fire that burns and kills. the empty room, the empty apartment, engulfs your body as if it were a mere speck of dust, invisible to the naked eye. you feel tiny in ways that are so not cute and it’s that very thought that pierces your mind to the edge of exhaustion, your emotional escapade coming to an end.

with everything in consideration, donghyuck thinks he’s prepared, or as prepared as he could be, standing outside your apartment, waiting for you to open up. his heart is loud in his chest, almost begging for his attention, but he ignores the sensation and takes a deep breath. 

among all his hopes and dreams, he wishes the most to see you again. it’s not like he didn’t think he deserved it but the silent treatment had really taken a toll on him. and with the constant pang in his chest alerting him of his failures, he’s reminded that you’re feeling the same, if not double at the cost of his actions. so if you decide not to open up, despite him knowing deep down that you will, he understands.

donghyuck’s feet tap nervously on the ground, itching for him to do something, anything. to knock until his knuckles bleed or ram into the door with full force, he’s sure that would relieve the urges. his body aches to be in the same room as yours, the weeks apart tearing him inside out. he unlocks his phone, to pass the seconds or just to look at the last text he’d sent you three hours ago, still read and unreplied. i just landed. i’ll be at your place by 7.

he sighs, a deep and earthy tone to his voice, covered in the frustration and stresses that have been tensing his shoulders for the past two weeks, waiting for this day to come. he pockets his phone and rings the buzzer one more time before his hand drops limply down his side, now drumming a rapid beat upon his jeans. 

as the door before him swings open, he feels anything but ready. instead, he feels shy and embarrassed to show up at your door front. the many words he’d rehearsed over and over again on his flight back had escaped his memory altogether. you’re donned in a large tee that he recognizes as his, so large on you that he can’t see what shorts you’re wearing underneath or if you’re even wearing shorts. your hair is messy and unkempt, framing your face in a way that only he would think is cute. donghyuck suddenly feels overdressed in his jeans and an environmental awareness graphic tee that you had gifted him a while back, a black blazer carefully thrown over but then again, he only came here looking like this because it’s your second anniversary. he bites down on his lips as he realizes that instead, you may be feeling underdressed. 

the eye contact he holds is broken as you step aside to let him in and he notes the way your arms are folded over your middle indicating one of two things. either you really do feel underdressed or it’s a sign that you don’t want him touching you. he decides to play it safe and steps through the threshold of your apartment, walking right past you. he does, though, catch the brief look of expectancy followed by disappointment that creases your brows and he takes a subconscious step back as he tries to decide if he should go for the usual hug and kiss anyways. he immediately backtracks when he sees that the timing has already passed for a greeting, inwardly wincing at his awkwardness.

slipping his shoes off as you lock the door, donghyuck enters the living room beside you, eyes scanning the room that’s lit by only a singular standing lamp and the pinky orange hues of the sunset falling through your sheer curtains. he can smell food in the air, something on the stove or in the oven, and he takes a swerve to the kitchen, the table set aside brimming with an abundance side dishes and all his favorite meats, grilled to perfection. he also sees even more of the same food on the counter, packaged in stacks of tupperware, with the labels ‘127’ and ‘dream’ written on pastel post-its. of course, he thinks, even when your mad, you’re still as considerate as humanly possible.

he’s shifting on his weight, unsure of what to say or do to show you that he feels entirely undeserving of your kindness despite being undoubtedly upset at him. donghyuck wants to facepalm himself because you beat him to it.

“have you eaten yet?” your voice is light but laced with a solemness he wishes he could wash away. he watches as you clench and unclench the material of his shirt, an emotionally grounding mechanism of yours he’s noticed every time you're on the verge of breaking down. he clears his voice before answering, “no, let’s eat.”

he turns to sit at the table when he realizes that there’s only one serving of food on the table. one bowl of rice, one cup of water, cold without ice like he likes it, and enough side dishes for just one person. he knows you’re not petty enough to make him watch you eat all his favorite foods but he’s even more saddened by the fact that it’ll be the other way around. you don’t want to eat with him.

“are you not eating?” he questions, though he knows the answer. donghyuck is sure that all his past ancestors are frowning upon him. it’s only right that his eyes dim when you give him a shake of your head, taking steps to sit at the seat across from where he was to be seated. following suit, he sits down whilst asking, “why not?” 

“i’m not hungry, that’s all.”

“oh, i see.”

a thick silence follows and it feels almost suffocating for donghyuck to sit in. he wishes more than anything now to have the courage to tell you what he needs to say. the words are lodged too far down in his throat so he settles for a, “how have you been?” between consuming mouthfuls of rice and glancing up at you as he chews. he feels he can quite literally see the cogs turning in your head to figure out what to say and he thinks he also knows the answer you will conclude to. an, “i’ve been better,” confirms his thoughts, his years upon years experiences proving to be top notch. “how about you?” he hesitates before speaking and starts with a, “me too, been better,” but you knew that look like the back of your hand. he had something else to say.

the frown that sits upon your lips irritates donghyuck, having been his job to chase it away, so he hurries to finish his food, almost choking and deepening your frown. he inhales every last grain of rice, piece of meat, speck of crumb, and ounce of water before setting down the chopsticks, tummy full and mindset prepped, for real this time.

truth be told, it’s not everyday that you and him get into fights but he’s always the one that’s petty enough to start them, hence his adequate knowledge on what to say after, how to say it, when to say it. “y/n,” he starts and makes sure to give a pause to make sure your attention is all his; more or less you feel as if you already know his next words, slightly annoyed that your second anniversary will go down in history as just another of his many apologies. worst part was, you could never bring yourself to doubt his true intentions, no matter what he did.

“i’m not going to lie, i was annoyed at you for calling. i was frustrated and stressed from the workload but among all that i was also selfish, and inconsiderate. and yes, i was the biggest dick to the bestest girlfriend.” if anyone was to give the most sincere of apologies, you knew it was to be donghyuck. he had so many love languages, and people would usually interpret this as his touchy nature, but you knew more than anyone that his words seemed too poetic and too perfectly curated to be deemed inferior to his touches. 

donghyuck, himself, likes to think that all he knows about love is from you. he doesn’t just like to think but he knows, amongst the millions of other things he knows regarding his girlfriend, that you will be the only girl ever to make him want so much. you drag out his desires by a tenfold and equally bring out the best in him. it’s a fact he keeps to himself but ever so persistently, that you are the one that keeps him going, day and night. he’s never been much of a romanticist, but trust when he says that his love for you was slow and gradual in the most beautiful way. like honey and molasses dripping at a crawling pace only to sweeten up the surfaces it graces. his love for you ages like fine wine and savors like a setting sun against a backdrop of stars. you will never need a man more than you need donghyuck, and donghyuck, you.

with all above considered, heaving and placed in the most carefully constructed sentences, he almost bulldozes through the next speech he’s prepared, checking off the bullet points in his head as he’d goes. he’s a stuttering and leg-bouncing mess from the sheer nervousness of how to get this to play out exactly as it does in his head.

biting his lips, he dives in, “y/n, i know you. i really do. i’ve known you for almost a decade and i’ve spent most of that decade trying my best to get to know you, chasing after you until you saw me the way i saw you. the last two years have shown me that all the time i spent being hung up on you was beyond worth it. jeno told me i needed to move on because you’d never see me as more than a friend, renjun gave me a list of girls he thought would match with my personality better, and my managers honestly hated you. but for some reason, i never gave a fuck. and i think it’s because that i’ve always known that we were going to end up together somehow. but actually dating you, i think i’ve known, since exactly two years ago from today, that you were the one.”

your breath hitches, oh how wrong you were thinking you knew exactly what he was to say. you feel lightheaded and spontaneous at the same time, like a sickness birthed from sheer joy. it’s as if you could feel the blood coursing through your veins, suddenly hyper-aware of your surroundings, of him. your suspicions are there and your eyes start to widen in panic and doubt in place of your immediate happiness. donghyuck senses this and clears his throat to finish his long winded confession.

“we’re still young, baby, we have no need to rush into this. but i was thinking of what to give you for a two year anniversary that’s meaningful and conveys exactly how much i love you. the fight made it really clear for me though,” he tucks his hand into the inner pocket of his blazer and withdraws a simple tiffany blue box. “i was in new york, for just a night, but i was passing by the store and it just clicked. this-“ he opens the cased ring box to reveal a simple silver band, with the letters of his initials engraved along the inside, ”is a promise ring, from me to you. i promise you, that i will be the one to marry you. trust in me when i say that there is nothing else that comes to mind when i think of my future. my future is you, y/n, nothing can change that. not a petty fight, or my job and your education, or the media even. it’s me and you, baby, till the end of time.”

his eyes are shining with tears that mimic the ones spilling from your own tear ducts. a small laugh ruptured at the back of your throat at how he ended his little speech with such a cheesy line but you barely have time to recollect yourself before donghyuck takes the box in his hands and removes the ring from its hold. he slips your right hand into his with ease and tugs it closer to slide the ring onto your ring finger because, “we’re not actually engaged, more like pre-engaged.” his heart has such a close hold on yours as he reaches into his suit pocket again, your eyes widening at the prospect of yet another surprise. 

it’s another ring, the same fashion as the one on your finger except with your initials carved into the inner ring. at this point you can’t understand why donghyuck has such a nervous look on his face, you’d say yes to almost anything he asks of you in this state. “i would also like to know… if you would make the same promise to me.” you don’t even bother saying yes, just taking the ring into your own fingers and slotting it onto the ring finger on his right hand. his face flushes almost instantly at your bold actions, even if he was the one that practically proposed to you today.

it takes everything in you to suppress the smile that’s already washing over your face, worried you’ll ruin the moment by looking too gleeful. the man across from you looks about the same except he’s failing miserably at keeping the joy from lining his features, maybe on purpose. donghyuck may or may not be completely head over heels for you, now over the moon that the two of you were back on good terms. his chest is light and his head is a little sluggish, only thinking of you and you-related things, like he’s been drugged by … by your love. his head is reeling at the tight smile that is a dead giveaway to what you’re not expressing and the way your eyes glance down every two second at the ring on your finger. he takes a glance at it as well and his heart swells infinitely because he knows that there is one on his own finger as well. the internal dialogue that you’re having with him is clear as day. your eyes are sparkling as if to say ‘i love you,’ your toes are tapping lightly on his sock-clad ones as if to say ‘i love you,’ and he’s noticed that your position hasn’t changed in the last ten minutes despite your usually fidgety disposition; that itself, donghyuck reads as a giant ‘i fucking love you.’

needless to say, it’s nights like these that sear your heart with ecstasy every living, breathing moment. donghyuck doesn’t voice any opposition when you pull him to bed right after, not even bothering to place the dishes in the sink. naked in bed, his love for you is the closest thing he knows to home and your love for him, the same. you suppose that you may have been viewing the world through rose-tinted glasses that night, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to the day the love of your life gets down on one knee to fulfill his promise, the very same day you were to say yes to fulfill yours. 

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

[cannebady]

An obligatory Good Omens New Year’s Eve ficlet. Enjoy!

Here on AO3!

I realized that I need you, and I wondered if I could come home 

It ended up bring a surprise visit. With the lockdowns continuing through most of the year, Aziraphale had been stubbornly dedicated to leading by example and had refused Crowley on several occasions when he’d offered to keep him company. It was the right decision, Crowley supposed. While neither angel nor demon could get sick or transmit it to others, humans were always looking for a loophole to skirt the rules and, although Crowley would usually go out of his way to encourage them, this was starting to remind him all too much of his least favorite centuries so he didn’t push too hard.

The other benefit, was that the distance pushed Aziraphale to actually use the mobile Crowley had bought him months before all hell (side eye heavily implied) broke loose, which allowed them to communicate almost constantly. As it turns out, alcohol and texting really can be revealing and they’d continued to move, albeit at a glacial pace, towards something more.

This is all, however, a moot point because Crowley woke up on the 31st of December and immediately thought, “Ah, fuck it.” He donned his mask (not that he needs it, but it sets a good example and is a solid Look™) and drove on over to Soho to surprise an angel.

When he knocked at the bookshop door, he could already feel the air of displeasure coming from inside. He smirked, only visible by the crinkling at the corner of one eye. Lockdowns had allowed Aziraphale’s already shoddy business hours to become almost nonexistent, something the angel had nearly unbridled joy for.

When the door opened, he had to rein in actual tears of relief. He knew he missed Aziraphale something fierce, but actually seeing him made the wreck of Crowley’s heart swell and squeeze in a way he wasn’t used to.

Donning a pearlescent white mask that was very likely not of this world in origin, storm blue eyes connected with his and Crowley was warmed through to see the same, lovely, overwhelmed feeling mirrored back to him.

“My dear,” Aziraphale had whispered, looking Crowley over, “what are you doing here? It isn’t safe!”

Crowley, tired of waiting on the step while they goggled at each other, pushed inside while Aziraphale closed the door, locking it for good measure. “Well hello to you too, angel. Long time, no see.”

He snapped his fingers to place his mask in a pocket universe (he’s a bit embarrassed to admit that his earthly pockets wouldn’t exactly hold much more than his fingertips) and took care of Aziraphale’s as well.

“Crowley, we discussed this! I miss you terribly, of course I do, but we can’t just go breaking the rules willy-nilly!”

A year ago Crowley would’ve rolled his eyes at “willy-nilly”, but right now? Well, right now he’s so entranced he can’t breathe, never mind scoff.

“Angel-” He breaks off because there’s so much he wants to say, but Aziraphale is beautiful. He’s known it since Eden, but this is the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other in quite some time and he’s obsessing over the few extra inches of white blonde curls, not to mention the couple of extra inches on well-fed hips (courtesy of quarantine baking and fewer walks in parks, and for that Crowley would just like to say thank you), that are both likely to send Crowley into hysterics if he thinks about them too long.

“M’sorry angel, I just-” he sighs, “I know it’s wrong I just couldn’t wait longer. I can go, if you’d like.” He looks down, he’s not as sure that Aziraphale will kick him out as he once had been, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to watch it happen.

What he misses, is the very obvious once-over Aziraphale gives to his messy, much longer, curls and the longing look that speaks to ages of desire to cross those last few feet between them.

“Nonsense, my dear. You’re right, we cannot make this worse and you took precautions.” Crowley lifts his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s and is met with a brilliant smile. “And, of course, I am so happy to see you dearest.”

Dearest. Aziraphale called him that sometimes via text but this is the first time he’d heard it out loud. He was more attached to it than he’d like to examine.

“Well, in that case, I believe the humans have a tradition on this day that involves both day drinking and regular drinking.” He miracles a few choice vintages and a lovely bottle of Whispering Angel, because he’s still an arsehole sometimes, onto the table in the back room.

“If it’s tradition I suppose we must.” Aziraphale says with a smirk that’s not angelic at all.

Perhaps, Crowley thinks as Aziraphale leads him back to the squashy, infernally comfortable couch in the back room, this year may just end better than it started.

It’s been hours. They made it through Crowley’s initial bottles and have moved on decidedly to Aziraphale’s own, not inconsiderable, reserves. They’re encroaching on drunken territory they haven’t traversed since Armageddon first fell on their radar but this time, it’s so much better.

They’re laughing wildly while Aziraphale recounts, with requisite demonstrations, how he learned the gavotte and Crowley’s laughing so hard that his stomach hurts. He’s warm, and they’re safe together, and Aziraphale has a lovely blush high on his cheeks and Crowley’s sure he has the same, and he can’t remember being this happy for a long, long time.

“And, and-,” the angel trails off for a moment, “I couldn’t quite remember which way to turn,” he pantomimes turning in a graceless circle, “so I just, well, I rather tumbled directly into a bookshelf and realized I’d imbibed a bit too much.”

He looks at Crowley pointedly while he tries to smother a cackle. “You know, it’s not entirely dissimilar to now. I fear I’m quite completely rat-arsed.”

Crowley’s control breaks and he laughs loud and long while Aziraphale blushes more and then joins him, because they’re both completely arseholed and they have been during every century since the Beginning.

A glance at the clock shows it’s only a short time until the clock ticks over into the next year and a pit forms in Crowley’s stomach. He doesn’t want to lose this easy camaraderie and the soft love he’s feeling (it is love, he’s known it for a long time, and has accepted it for long enough) and he isn’t sure if he’ll be permitted to stay. There’s also a part of him that, for several decades now, has dreamed about employing another human tradition surrounding New Year’s Eve, but he’s even less sure of its welcome.

Aziraphale catches his eyeline and looks towards the old grandfather clock, obviously seeing the change is Crowley’s bright disposition.

“Not long now, it would seem.” He says quietly.

“Not long at all and we’ll be singing Auld Lang Syne and bidd-”, Crowley stops, his throat choking up.

“And what, dear?” Aziraphale thinks he knows where this was headed. Thinks he knows that the complicated string of emotions is on Crowley’s beloved face. He thinks he might just see everything he wants in arms reach of taking.

Crowley’s eyes are fully yellow, goldenrod and gorgeous, dark with drink or something more when he looks up to meet Aziraphale’s own. “I-, angel. Would I, ngk, what would you say if I stayed for a bit? Kept you company?”

He drops his head down again. Aziraphale hates that he looks like he’s bracing for bad news. Perhaps he has not done as well as he thought in letting Crowley know that the door was wide open now. Frankly off its hinges. Perhaps it’s time for extraordinary measures.He closes the distance between them, sitting next to the demon on the couch.

“Dearest, I think I’d like nothing more.” He reaches out and cups Crowley’s sharp jaw, tilting his head so that he can look into those stunning eyes again. He runs his thumb along his cheekbone and hears the sharp inhale.

This is the most skin-to-skin contact they’ve had since the Roman baths (there was an awkward side hug at one point that Crowley thought may actually discorporate him). But now, the simple contact of those soft, plump fingers on his jaw and his cheek are about to send him to his maker.

“Angel,” he reaches up and lays his hand over Aziraphale’s. Little to their knowledge, they’ve begun a countdown all their own. “are you sure?”

“I’m positive darling. Let me show you.” Aziraphale responds, allowing his thump to dip and run along Crowley’s luscious bottom lip. “Can I show you?”

“Please, angel”, Crowley nearly sobs and kind, giving, gracious Aziraphale takes a brief inhale of his own before laying his lips against the demon’s.

Crowley’s never really done this before. Sure there were humans here and there that thought to lay one on him, but he’s never taken the time to think about it. Why are lips so bloody sensitive? He thinks before he stops possessing higher order functioning and has only a mind to get Aziraphale closer, right the fuck now.

He reaches out and drags his hands down Aziraphale’s arms (both angelic hands now buried in his hair), delighting at the honest to God whimper he gets in response, and lets one hand tangle in ice blonde curls longer than he’s ever seen them, and lets the other drift from shoulder to waist, and finally to land on an ample hip that fits so perfectly into his hand that he thinks he might cry.

Their lips refuse to part and before long it’s gone from gently exploratory, to open and hot, tongues running along lips, tangling together, allowing them to taste each other for the first time.

They break apart briefly, speaking so close that each word is a sweet caress on the other’s lips; a placeholder while they work out their thoughts.

Aziraphale takes it upon himself to take the plunge here too, “I love you. I have loved you for so long that I don’t know what it is not to love you. I fear I was quiet for too long, but I will no longer abide. I will tell you I love you each time I think about how much I love you, until you’re sick to death of hearing it.”

While breathing is an option for both, Crowley is nearly hyperventilating. He thought, perhaps, Aziraphale may think of trying something with him. May even want to try out some more, erm, intimate, acts with him as the angel is always in such a rage for pleasure. But he never guessed that the haunting, creation-long devotion he felt would be reciprocated in the same way.

“Oh angel, I love you. I met you on the wall of Eden and thought ‘Oh, what’s that in my chest?’ and realized they didn’t take my heart when I Fell. I’m yours, if you’ll have me, if you’ll be mine as well.”

“Dearest, I’ve been yours for some time now.” And then words really aren’t important any more as Crowley lunges, pushing Aziraphale back into the squashy couch and running his hands over his coveted softness while angelic hands map his neck and his back and, Christ, his arse.

While the world nervously looks to a new year for peace and solice, two celestial beings have found it, at long last, right at home.

[artlessictoan]

ao3 req for femme sak/butch tema where they’re at a con and tema is a cosplayer with a big fuck off weapon. gotta admit, the biggest difficulty was who the fuck they’d be cosplaying as since it turns out I’m not familiar with many gigantic weapon wielding characters in any of the things I watch or play.. I was sorely tempted to have them cosplaying as themselves for a while there.

(requests open)

(ao3 mirror)

---

This place was too loud, and crowded, and she was sorely regretting wearing an outfit with quite so many frills and petticoats – no matter how cute she looked in it, the heat of a thousand bodies packed together in a poorly ventilated hall was just not worth it.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, what was the point in dressing up, I don't think anyone's even looked at me since we got here.”

Naruto was still waving goodbye to the kid who’d asked to have her picture taken with his particularly campy take on Aquaman, though her words quickly had him giving her a Look out of the corner of his eyes, a knowing smirk plastered across her face. “Your ego is showing,” he sang.

She was definitely not pouting. “Easy for you to say, how many photos have you been in so far?”

“Yeah, but I asked to be in most of those.” He had to jog to keep up with her long strides, but he still managed to throw out several compliments to some of the other cosplayers they passed by.

“Exactly! How are you so confident just walking up to complete strangers and asking that?”

“You just gotta be more like me,” he said, and it was a testament to their friendship that he knew exactly what she was going to say in response to that, because the second she opened her mouth, he interrupted her. “Loud and with absolutely zero shame!”

Well, she wasn’t going to argue with that.

Together, they navigated their way around a large group of very excited teens clustered around an artist’s stall, her friend still nattering at her side, “It's your first time at a con, of course it takes some getting used to, don't be so hard on yourself.”

He was right, annoyingly, but she’d always been something of a perfectionist and she’d put so much time and effort into her elaborate cosplay – hours of researching patterns and materials, practising various sewing techniques before she ever even touched the base dress she’d managed to discover hidden in a charity shop after almost two weeks of searching, hell, she’d even had to learn how to dye cloth in order to get the perfect colours for her grand idea – just a little appreciation of her work would be nice.

“I’m pretty sure no one is impressed with me,” she said, pulling at the ruffles lining her bodice, “I’ve seen at least six other Princess Peaches wondering around and they’re all way more convincing than I am.” And by convincing, what she really meant was slender and delicate.

Both things with she was decidedly not.

Naruto clearly saw her reasoning, because he was quick to try and pull her out of it. “You’re exaggerating!”

“No one wants to take a picture of a buff Princess Peach.”

“Hey-” he grabbed her gloved hand and pulled her away to a relatively quiet area, his voice and expression deadly serious “-you look amazing and I won’t hear another word otherwise, buff femmes are a gift to the world and you should be proud.”

Rolling her eyes, she pushed him back with a snort. “I know that dummy, I’m not feeling sad, I’m just pissed that no one here has any taste.”

Indeed, her body was another thing she worked very hard to perfect and she was absolutely not ashamed to show it off. Though it did make finding an equally – if not more – strapping butch who’d treat her like the princess she absolutely deserved to be a little difficult. She was a simple girl, with simple tastes, all she wanted was a handsome woman who could bench Sakura’s not inconsiderable bodyweight.

“You sure you’re not just sulking, because you’re not the most popular girl in town?”

“Do you want to get punched? Because that right there is the kind of talk that will get you pun…” Her voice cut out in a breathy gasp.

Samus Aran herself was casually waltzing down the aisle.

Sakura grabbed Naruto's arm for support, as every hopelessly gay bone in her body crumbled to dust.

His asking what was wrong went completely ignored, she could only stare at the vision marching between tables, the crowd instinctively parting before her, like minnows before a shark, all eyes turning to follow her strong, confident strides.

“Daaaaamn.” Naruto had apparently followed her hungry gaze, because he let out a long, appreciative whistle. “How long do you think that getup took to make?”

Unlike the handful of other Samus cosplays she'd seen today, this was the character as she was meant to be, fully armoured, shoulders wider than a bus, legs for days, well over six feet of pure Warrior. Her hand cannon was somewhat… exaggerated – compared to canon at least – but honestly, that just made Sakura's throat even drier.

And, just when she thought all air had long since vacated her body, Samus pulled off her helmet and the dark face with a roguish smirk and mess of blond curls pulled into a chaotic ponytail that was revealed stole the lingering gasp she didn’t know she still had in her.

“Hey. Sak. Sakura. Oi.” She vaguely heard the words coming from somewhere to her left, but could not bring herself to look away.

A rough hand slapped across her eyes.

“Hey!” she yelled – well, tried to yell, breathless as she was it came out more as a wheeze than anything even slightly intimidating – and whacked Naruto's hand away.

“Oh, good, you're still alive, you were starting to turn purple there, I was worried I'd lost you.”

Her glare was half-hearted at best, but it was probably a good thing he'd reminded her that she still had many important bodily functions that really shouldn’t be put on hold just because a pretty girl walked by. Though, now that she was thinking about it, she really wanted to sneak another peek at the vision of Raw Amazonian Energy that had left her in such a state to begin with.

The woman was now chatting to a very convincing Bayonetta, her wide grin showing off white teeth and crinkling her slightly crooked nose – it looked like it must've been broken at some point, but Sakura was very much into the rugged look, so frankly it just made her all the more mesmerised.

“You should go talk to her.”

She blinked out of her trance once more, as her head snapped around to stare at her best friend. “What? No. No way. How?”

Naruto, bless his heart, just smiled and said, “Walk up and tell her you really like her costume,” as though that wasn't such a monumentally impossible task that she wanted to weep just thinking about it.

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“C'mon, it's not that hard," he said, dropping an arm across her shoulders. "I bet she gets it all the time, there's nothing to be embarrassed about!”

Sakura dug her heels into the floor as he gently, but determinedly, tried to push her forward. She might’ve had more success if she weren’t wearing such dainty pumps. “Exactly, she's probably sick of it and I should just leave her alone and admire her silently from afar.”

Naruto, bless his heart, looked at her like she was the stupidest person alive.

Honestly, she couldn't really say that she wasn't.

Before she could distract him by pointing out the stall selling ninja gear at the opposite end of the alley to where Samus was waving goodbye to Bayonetta, he was shoving her firmly in the direction of the beautiful thief of her heart, despite her legs’ adamant refusal to cooperate with his wishes.

“No, no, Naruto, don't you dare do this to me, I will end you, I will slit open your stomach and strangle you with your own intestines, I will-”

Her deranged muttering came to an abrupt halt when her friend carefully lifted her by the arms and threw her into the poor, unsuspecting woman’s chest.

The way she was caught wasn't half as suave and romantic as every period drama she'd ever watched had led her to believe it should be and the armour the woman was wearing was apparently made of steel, if the painful clanging of her forehead against it was anything to go by, but they both managed to stay standing and a deep, husky laugh was quickly washing away all memories of pain and embarrassment. And quite possibly her own name.

“Woah there, Princess,” a warm voice cooed softly, as Sakura finally managed to blink her vision back into place and stand up by herself. “You alright?”

She then made the terrible mistake of looking up, into the intense green eyes staring down at her, light curls of hair framing her strong, striking face like a halo – and that just had to be what she was, an angel, no earthly being had any right being so perfect – at which point she lost all higher brain functions. Perhaps she managed to make a strangled affirmative noise, because the woman gave a relieved smile and took a small step back, though her hand lingered against Sakura’s waist, ready to support her if needed.

“That’s good, the crowds can get a bit wild here, huh?”

Her mouth must’ve been acting on autopilot now, because she was speaking, before she even really processed the question, “Oh, it wasn’t the crowd it was-”

Naruto.

Flicking her gaze all around her, she searched for the tell-tale blond spikes of her best-friend-turned-worst-enemy, but, alas, he had melted away into the throng of people surrounding them, forever lost. Which was probably a smart idea, because when she next saw him, she was going to destroy the idiot.

“Never mind,” she said, giving one last glare to an innocent bystander, who very quickly turned around and started walking back the way they came, “just a friend being a dick.”

The woman’s brows furrowed slightly in confusion, but she quickly shrugged it away and lifted her ludicrous hand cannon to rest in the nook between her exaggerated shoulder pads and her neck. “Well, even if it was a bit violent, it’s nice to meet you; name’s Temari.”

Sakura just barely managed to stutter out her own name, before her eyes decided that this was the perfect time to greedily drink in her elaborately realistic cosplay while she was up close. The longer she looked, the more awed and – in the subtle way of a fellow creative witnessing a masterpiece – somewhat jealous she became. “That costume is just… amazing, are those actual LED lights or is it just glow paint? And how’d you work out the joints in the armour?”

“Not a damn clue! My brother’s the artist, I just model some of his work for him-” she flicked a glossy business card out of a small, hidden compartment in her arm cannon and held it out to her “-he does commissions if you’re interested.”

Well, shit. There went any hope of a common interest.

While Sakura was trying not to pout at the words ‘Black Ant Costuming’ and come up with a graceful escape route, Temari snorted. “And in return for doing all his advertising for him, I got him to make me a Samus costume, because no one else has the figure to do her justice.”

The wink she gave was at once both shamelessly theatrical and utterly devastating. Sakura was pretty sure that her brain had just melted into a puddle of love-struck goop and was no longer controlling her body’s actions – it was the only excuse she would accept for the breathless, swooning giggle she let out in response.

“Th-that you do,” Sakura said, only half aware of what she was even saying anymore.

Her extremely besotted state was probably clear to everyone in a ten-meter radius, but Temari had the grace not to point it out directly.

No, her eyes were too busy scanning up and down Sakura’s own outfit. “Not that you really need Kankuro’s help, you look super cute already.” Apparently Temari didn’t notice the blood rushing to her head fast enough to explode it, because she barrelled on without a care for her heart’s wellbeing, “That dress… are those the lesbian flag colours, or is my bi ass just reading into things again?”

Shit, she was definitely making a weird face by this point. “I-I wasn’t expecting anyone to notice-” she said, her voice sounding a million miles away.

Temari leaned down a little, the golden-brown skin of her cheeks turned just slightly red and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “You know, I actually ship Samus and Peach real fuckin’ hard, and you are straight-up adorable, mind if we take a cute shippy pic together? Just a hug is fine if you’re not comfortable wi-”

Sakura had spent many years trying to smother that loud, aggressive, unrestrained side of herself under layers of shy, demure femininity. How well it had historically worked was up for debate, but, now, in the face of a gorgeous woman who ticked every one of her boxes – and several she didn’t realise she had, she thought, once more eyeing up the oversized weapon Temari waved about with ease – her carefully constructed façade was immediately thrown out the window.

“NARUTO!”

All around her, people jumped, even Temari flinched and took a step back. Just as she was getting ready to yell again, she saw a familiar face peek up from behind an artist’s table; she knew he wouldn’t have gone far when there was the opportunity to watch Sakura fail at flirting to enjoy.

She pulled her phone out of her purse and threw it at him. “Hurry up and get over here, you’re taking pictures of us.”

Just barely saving her phone from an untimely meeting with the cold hard ground, he clambered over the table he was hiding behind, apologising profusely to the poor vendor whose stock he was rearranging.

Sakura paid him no mind, spinning back to face a slightly bewildered – but very amused – Temari. “Hold me bridal-style while I kiss your cheek.”

A single brow raised, before that smug grin that had so captivated Sakura in the first place returned and she was effortlessly hoisted in two strong arms. She was so thrilled to be there; she didn’t even think to complain about the hard plastic covering them. Especially not when Temari whispered in her ear, “As you wish, my Princess.”

---

[bloodkingdomrp]

♚SILAS.JAMES.MONROE-DUMONT

“ Where does seeking justice end and seeking vengeance begin? “

✚ AGE & DOB: Thirty-Four & September 19th, 1986 ✚ OCCUPATION: Emergency Room Doctor ✚ AFFILIATION: Unaffiliated

♛THE HISTORY♛

            Before he was Dr. Monroe-Dumont (Dr. MD, as his colleagues like to tease him), he was just a Monroe. One of three, actually; always linked with his siblings by  teachers and neighbors who neither took the time to get to know the family nor raise a finger to help them. Yet they never failed to shoot the pitiful trio sorrowful glances and whisper to each other about how terrible things must be for those poor, pinched Monroe children.

             Roe was the eldest, and, therefore, the only one who remembered what their mother had been like before.  He still had memories of a mother who patiently showed him over and over again how to tie his shoes, who would hum while she cleaned the house, and cut his sandwich into four perfect triangles if he asked nicely. A mother who’d remember she had three young children waiting for her and hurry home in order to tuck them into bed with a kiss, no matter how late she got off work. But that was all before she had become a walking list of tragic statistics: battered girlfriend, single mother; deadbeat, drug addict. No family, no education, and three kids under the age of ten, Miranda Monroe self-medicated herself out of a sea of anxiety until she was too fucked up to remember how to be stressed about anything at all. Dose after toxic dose, drugs became her only comfort, her entire identity. Eventually taking hold of her completely, leaving no room for trivial things like tenderness or parental instinct. So those became responsibilities Roe took on.

              Barely more than a child himself, Roe was a poor substitute for a parent, but he tried his best. Long nights spent tucked against Annie and Parker, whispering endless, made-up stories in their ears until they fell asleep. Anything to distract their minds and keep them from asking about where their mother was  or when she’d be coming home. The days were longer still, helping his siblings with their homework while his own sat in the bottom of his backpack, encouraging them to “eat up,” even as the powder-cheap mac n cheese stuck to the roof of his mouth as he tried to swallow it down for the fifth time that week. Good days were few and far between, but he had Annie and he had Parker, and in the end,  he would have traded anything to get that back, because far too soon the Monroe three became two.

Case number: 371209. Patient: Monroe, Parker. Age: 7. Cause of death: Arrhythmia resulting in ventricular fibrillation. Drug screening: positive screening for cocaine [benzoyl-methyl-ecgonine] and heroin [diacetylmorphine].

              Miranda lands herself with charges for felony homicide, abuse, and neglect of a child. The cruelest factor at all being that the withdrawal she faces in prison somehow ended up being a bigger demon to her than the loss of her youngest child. The neighborhood is a flurry of rumors and rehearsed sympathy—what a tragedy, if only we had known, if only we could have done something. A blessing in disguise, others dare to assume, for at least the two other children can be helped now. Roe and Annie did not take as kindly to their supposed rescue.

              Roe doesn’t want to like the Dumonts. Their smiles are too kind, their house too big, and their lifestyle too perfect to be real. But they’re equal measures persistent and patient, whisking Roe to and from court-mandated therapy sessions, giving him space on his bad days, and tactfully pressing in during those brief moments when his walls begin to drop and he forgets that he doesn’t want to be a part of this family. It becomes hard to not want to be there. It’s the little things that start to break him; Peggy asking him what he wants to eat every time she goes to make a shopping list, Jonathan bringing home a new pair of shoes when he notices Roe’s are looking a little worn. Roe had forgotten what it felt like to be the one being taken care of, and no matter how much it felt like weaknesses to admit it, he didn’t want to lose that. He did not know if he could handle losing the first people, aside from his siblings, who looked at him like he was something more than a walking tragedy. And for a reason, that Roe still has trouble fathoming, the Dumonts did not want to lose him either. Three hundred and seventy-two days after being placed in their home, they finally broached the topic of adoption. Though, Peggy would later confess that it only took a week for her to be sure that Roe was meant to stay with them. And yet, that was still too soon. At that time, Roe was still a child grieving for a brother lost, mourning a family that would never be reunited, and it would be another year before any legal decisions were made to change his custody.

              Compared to the life Roe had lived within his first fourteen years, the Dumont’s home was near perfect. In all ways but one: Annie wasn’t there. Judges and family social workers all kept promising the same thing, “It’s only a temporary.” But temporary was a heavy weight on his shoulders as days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and nearly two years had passed with the siblings only getting to see each other every few weeks. Roe had fought against the decision, questioning the courts on why his sister couldn’t be placed where he was, attempting to force them to see reason and put them back together, pleading with them when nothing else had worked. But they remained unmoved. It had been deemed that Annalise Monroe required a certain level of care that her older brother did not. Where Roe had taken his upbringing as a cautionary tale—every decision a conscious effort to distance himself from his parents and the path they had walked—Annie was tragically and undeniably a product of her early home environment. Rebellious and chaotic, she was moved through several therapeutic foster homes before landing herself in a residential facility. Her case managers hoped that the structure would provide a safe environment for her to start to work through her trauma, but with Annie things were often one step forward and a fierce and destructive leap backwards. The Dumonts had offered to serve as a potential step down for Annie after she completed her treatment, but with a series of self-sabotaging behaviors, discharge was seeming farther and farther away.

              In the end, it was the move that forced the decision. Jonathan’s work transferred him from Chicago to St. Louis, and though Roe had already, inadvertently, come to think of the couple as his family, legally he was still in the state’s custody. As such his placement with the Dumonts would have been disrupted by their move to a new state. At this point it was no longer a question. The Dumonts calmly explained to Roe that they were going to adopt him so he could stay with them. Though some might have mistaken their actions as controlling, or inconsiderate not to ask Roe his opinion, it was a merciful decision. It offered Roe exactly what he wanted without having to say it out loud, lest he have to taste words coated with a sickening layer of betrayal towards the sister he was leaving behind. Guilt was a familiar companion and it travelled with him still, and  yet, though Roe would not admit it aloud, his first night in Missouri—over three hundred miles away from every terrible and cruel thing that had ever happened to him—he slept a little easier.

              Roe thrived in this new environment. Never bold or boisterous, his mark was one of quiet excellence. Given the time to actually focus on schoolwork, with the Dumont’s constant encouragement and praise, Roe developed a love of learning that promised nothing less than success when paired with his uninhibited determination. Supported and cherished, Roe learned what contentment truly felt like. If it was not for his steadfast communication with his sister, he could have written off his early life experiences as nothing more than an extended nightmare. He had finally seen what the world could be like, away from the pernicious streets of Chicago, and it was something he longed to share with his sister. To finally, finally, give her a new start as well.

              In the summer of 2008, Roe had just graduated with his degree is pre-med and was eagerly awaiting the start of his graduate classes at Washington University in St. Louis. Despite his excitement for his continuing education,  frankly, the only countdown that was on his radar was Annie’s eighteenth birthday. Released from the state’s custody at that point, she would be free to go where she wanted, and the Dumonts had already agreed to allow her to move into their spare bedroom while she figured out her next steps. He had expected his sister to share his elation, to turn away from the city that had practically held her captive all these years and never look back. But when he shared his plan with Annie she had simply shrugged and resolutely declared that she thought she would stay in Chicago for a while longer, and when Annie made up her mind about something there was no changing it.

              That was not to say Roe did not try. He spent the next four years of medical school and first three years of his residency periodically sending his sister different job opportunities or school possibilities; all of which were far outside the radius of the windy city. Occasionally Annie would feign interest, going as far as to apply for one of the jobs. At least that is what she would tell Roe whenever he pestered her on the subject, though somehow none of them ever seemed to work out.

              It was a Tuesday in May when Roe had called Annie, telling her about a secretary position that had opened up at a private practice where one of his friends from school was now working. The following Thursday he received an incoming call from an unknown number. The woman on the other end of the line explained that she was calling because he was listed as the emergency contact for Annalise Monroe, who was being rushed into surgery after receiving a gunshot wound to the head.  He’s later told it’s a miracle his sister survived the surgery and that they were able to get the bullet out. Unfortunately, said miracle did little to counter the bleeding that had already led to severe swelling inside of her brain. In a cruel form of irony, ultimately, Roe gets his wish and gets Annie out of Chicago. She’s transferred to an ICU in a Missouri hospital, only an hour away from the Dumont’s home. The hospital there is smaller, vastly different from the bustling hospitals in Chicago’s city limits, giving them more time to dedicate to monitoring and caring for coma patients.

              Unable now to call Annie, Roe instead spends the last year of his residency on the phone with her doctors and the investigators in charge of her case, her attacker never having been identified. No matter which he ends up calling the responses are always the same: there are no new updates. Annie remains alive—if you could call her pitiful state of existence that—and any leads towards finding who shot her remain dead and cold. Upon finishing his residency, St. Luke’s Hospital offers to hire Roe on as full-time staff. Much to the surprise, and clear dismay, of his adopted parents, Roe declines the position. Instead taking a job at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, putting himself back in the heart of the very city he had spent over a decade avoiding.

              Roes never been the best with using his words, and he has none to verbalize why he had to go back. He doesn’t think he has the answers even within himself. Perhaps he was desperate to gaze upon the city in a new light, attempt to see whatever Annie must have saw in it, that kept her resisting all of his efforts pull her away. Or perhaps it was just the inescapable noose of fate, that there must always be a Monroe suffering in Chicago’s streets. And some days he did suffer; especially in the beginning, moving around the city with a haunted look in his eye. Every nerve in his body on edge, the entire city serving as one large trauma reminder for the child he once was and the trials that he faced. Peggy calls him often; tells him he sounds tired and that she wishes he would take some time off work. It’s the only line she uses with him now, after the one time she had been bold enough to tell Roe he should move back, which resulted in the only true fight they’ve ever had.

He doesn’t take time off, instead he rides it out and faces the sense of foreboding headfirst, drives through his old neighborhood every day after work until his hand doesn’t tremble against the wheel anymore. It’s not great, and it doesn’t feel like home. After all, Parker and Annie were the only reasons Chicago ever felt like home. But Roe survives. He makes a handful of friends and invests deeply in his job at the hospital. He’s  just started to find some new semblance of normal when he receives the phone call that he’s been anticipating—dreading—for nearly three years.

They bury Annie on the Dumont’s family plot. “Your family is our family,” Jonathan tells him. And Roe knows that they believe that. The way Peggy cries, sorrow down to her very soul, is nothing less than a woman grieving the daughter that she never had a chance to take  in. She cups his face after the service, and whispers, so sincere that it breaks his heart a little, that she prays he can find peace now. But peace is not what Roe feels. Annie may be at rest, but his soul rages on— a flicker of something dark deep inside of himself that he had tried so hard to ignore. “Death can be a time for healing”, the pastor had said, black suit pressed to perfection, worn leather bible clutched in his hand, a picture of poetic reverie. Roe agrees with him, more than any of them will ever know. He knows it’s true. It’s death that will bring him comfort. It’s just not Annie’s death that he needs. He has no name, no face, barely any clues to go on, but it doesn’t matter. He knows he’ll find them. And when he does, they’ll pay for they did.

♜ THE DETAILS♜

(+): conscientious, +resourceful, +compassionate

(-): critical, -reticent, -penitent  

Face claim: Hugh Dancy

written by Bev | CST&EST