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ethvn-torchio · 4 years ago

Note

Dom but kind Anakin and virgin reader? Nice and slow and Anakin is equally vocal?

HHSHHSHSSHDHSHDHSDHHSDHS???? OK MISS GIRL NOW IK U TRYNA KILL ME 🥵🥵 DAMN OKAY HERE WE GO

here ya go baebee, have an Anakin x fem! reader blurb 😏 (also taglist at le bottom;0)

warnings: smut (obv), cunnilingus (oh yes bitches, we’re goin there™), p in v sex, unprotected sex, soft!dom anakin

word count: 1238 ;)

Also yay for gifs this time!!

"But you've never-...are you sure? This is totally up to you-" he starts.

"I want this, Ani. I trust you," you say softly.

Anakin kisses you gently as his hands move around you, pulling you close.

The light kiss turns into something more, and you feel his hands move down to your hips. His hands grow more forceful, gripping you tightly.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers in a deep voice that makes you shiver. Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer to you. It feels right having him hold you. Anakin's lips move to yours, kissing you deeper.

He fumbles with the button on your pants, and you can feel his satisfied smile against your lips when he unbuttons the top button. He impatiently undresses you, unfastening your pants and sliding them off into the cold night air. He pulls away from you, peppering kisses from your neck to your torso. He kisses lower, dangerously close to the top of your exposed thigh.

"Please," you whisper.

"Please, what?" he asks, teasingly.

"Could you- I-" you struggle to get your meaning across. Thankfully, it seems as if he knows what you mean. He hooks his fingers in your underwear, sliding it off of you.

His finger circles your entrance, sliding a finger in with ease. “This okay?”

You weren’t a stranger to the sensation of being fingered - you had done it to yourself many times over the years. You were anxious to take it further. “Y-yes. More, please.” you keen.

"You're soaked," he mutters. "All because of me, hmm?"

"I….I need you to-" you trail off as he curls his finger.

"What was that, again? You didn't finish your sentence," he smiles wryly.

"M-more, please...I need more," you beg.

"More what?"

He wanted you to say it. You whine in frustration. "I...Maker, more fingers? O-or…" you trail off.

He slides a second finger in easily; curling and pumping them just right. "Or what? Go on, finish your sentence, Angel." He chuckles.

You blank on words for a solid moment there. "...I- you can read minds, I can't describe-!" you arch your back, squeezing your eyes shut as he hits your G-spot.

Anakin says nothing in reply. You can hear him moving, and when you open your eyes you see him between your legs.

You automatically part your legs for him more to allow him better access.

"So beautiful," he mutters, his voice becoming impossibly low. He presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, kissing the other one next, taking his time.

Finally, he presses a kiss directly on your clit. Your breath hitches.

He drags his tongue along your folds, tasting you.

You hiss, hands finding their way to his hair, and you accidentally pull on his hair in a silent demand for more, though he doesn’t seem to mind.

"You taste so good," he says, quickly resuming his exploration.

He plunges his fingers inside your cunt right as he sucks on your clit, and you swear you see stars from that alone. Your back is arched impossibly high, mouth wide open in a silent scream.

You attempt to buck your hips, but nothing happens. Confused, you glance down at Anakin, who has your lower half pinned with the Force.

Anakin Skywalker was going to be the death of you.

"I- Ani, faster, please," you babble.

You swear you hear him fucking chuckle - and you can feel the vibration. He swirls his tongue on your clit, faster and faster, electric waves of pleasure washing over you.

You clamp around his fingers, the distinct feeling of an orgasm approaching.

Your breath comes in quickened, frantic breaths. “Ani,” you whimper.

He merely winks at you. Anakin’s fingers move faster, hitting your G-spot every time.

He sucks on your clit once again, his mouth oh-so-hot and wet. He lightly grazes your clit with his teeth, and that action alone makes you cum, gripping at the sheets and cursing.

He helps you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm, greedily cleaning you with nothing but his tongue.

You pant as you come back to reality, so to speak. Your legs are still shaking.

“You did so good for me, Angel,” he praises. And then he kisses you and you can taste yourself on his lips.

You two begin lazily making out. At some point, he takes his pants off.

“Are we still…?” You ask.

“That’s totally up to you, baby. Are you feeling up to it?” he asks, sincerely.

Your cheeks redden. “I really want you to…”

“To…?” he prompts.

"Ani...I need..." you trail off.

“Say it, Angel,” Anakin purrs in your ear, fingertips ghosting over your still-oversensitive clit- far too little pressure to actually mean something. “Tell me what you need,”

You ache with need, and your cheeks burn hot with heat. “I...I need you,” you breathe.

“You need my what? "I need you to use your words," Anakin teases, his blue eyes fixed on you. “What do you need?”

"I...please fuck me, Ani," you relent, most of your sense of shame long thrown out the window. "Please, I n-need you to fuck my pussy."

"Good girl," Anakin praises, and you can feel the head of his cock at your entrance.

He pauses, presumably to keep you in suspense because of course, he would, and you’re just about to open your mouth to say something when he slowly, finally, enters you. You moan at the sensation; the delicious stretch. You had expected it to hurt; instead, you feel pleasantly full.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” he whispers in your ear, nipping at your earlobe. “You s-still with me?” You distantly hear him ask.

You nod, unable to form words at the moment.

He sets a rhythm of slow, deep thrusts. “I want to hear you, Baby. Use your words.” his voice drops to a near-growl.

You moan, your breath coming out in quick, short puffs. “Yes-!” you whine. “Anakin, yes,”

His metal hand finds your clit, and the contrast of the cold metal on your hot, aching, oversensitive clit made you clench around him. A strangled noise escapes your lips.

“Say it again. Say my name again,” he demands, and you can feel his breath on your neck, lips occasionally peppering kisses on your shoulder and neck.

You scream his name in reply.

“Fuck. My good girl. So wet for me. You’re- you’re taking me so well,” he murmurs filthy praises in your ear, his thrusts gradually becoming erratic.

His cool fingers circle your clit, and it doesn’t take long before you’re on the verge of orgasm for the second time today.

He moans your name as you clench around him once again, desperate for his touch.

His fingers circle your clit once again. “Y-you gonna cum again? Cum for me. Go ahead, Angel.” his fingers move at fast pace, rubbing tight circles.

“Cum,” he says simply, and your body reacts to his command. You cry out his name, your orgasm hitting you hard and fast.

He soon follows, muttering your name, kissing you any and everywhere he can, burying himself inside you.

He rolls off of you, and you quickly snuggle up to him. “Thank you,” you sigh.

“What for?”

“That was...really good.” you blurt. “I- I mean, I really liked it. I want to do it again sometime soon.”

Anakin presses a kiss to your forehead. “Any time, Angel.”

----------

whoops, i didn’t mean to make this as long as it ended up. it was just gonna b a lil blurb and then i went “pussy eating go brr”. oopsie ;)

taglist ;p

@soveryhowvery @cr-uelsummer @haydens-moles @anakinswhore @anakin-railme @hansonveggieclub @itsmentalillness @passable-talent @missyatrocious and also motherfuckingstargirl10, but she was the one who asked so she got notified anyway.

anyway damnb i really struggled to write the scene where anakin eats pussy and it probably shows won’t lie. like ohmygod i was stuck on the pussyeating scene for like a whole ass day bc i couldn’t figure out how to describe that feeling you get when ur about to cum???? and i’m too stupid to google??

thx for reading tho ;00 rb or comment if you enjoyed ;) and don’t forget requests are open, so send em over babes <3

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harryforvogue · 4 years ago

Note

omg could u write something about faye’s roots growing out bc of lockdown so she gets some dye and gets harry to help her dye it

warning: mentions of anxiety & depression

***

Harry’s chest is rising and falling, his head thrown back with a layer of sweat over his skin. He really hopes his grip on Faye’s hair isn’t as tight as it feels, but he really can’t stop himself or loosen it because of his rapidly approaching orgasm. His eyes are shut, letting the waves of pleasure roll over him, the tension released from his shoulder and his aching arm that he’s been overworking.

Faye slowly pulls off of him, biting down on his knee gently to get his attention. She’s wiping her mouth when he looks down at her. “Yeah, baby?” he mutters, swiping over her mouth. “Tired?”

She nods. “Can you take over?”

He sits up a bit. “Is that what you want? Don’t wanna be too pushy.”

Faye’s kind eyes brighten when she smiles. “Go ahead. My knees hurt a bit so can you get me the cushion behind you?”

He hands it over to her and she settles into it as Harry pumps himself slowly. Once she’s adjusted, he asks, “Good?”

“Yes.” She opens her mouth and takes him back in, and he gathers her hair into a ponytail again, bringing her back.

“Tell me when it gets too much.”

Her eyes slowly shut as he feeds himself into her mouth, slowly to set a rhythm. The impending orgasm returns as quickly as it had left, now at an alarming rate. “Fuck,” he whispers, pressing his teeth together when she places her hands on his calves, holding him for balance. At the soft swear, her eyes reopen to watch him, feeling how heavy he is on her tongue. She breathes softly through her nose, every groan music to her ears. She winces a bit at how hard he grabs her hair, but it’s all relieved when she hears him say under his breath, “Faye, I’m gonna cum, alright?”

She nods, putting in more effort to get him to reach his climax quicker, hollowing her cheeks. When he finally releases, it’s with a low groan and he stills her, her brows bunching together, focusing on what’s happening in her mouth. When she pulls off, she wipes her mouth and swallows down everything quickly.

Harry laughs, a hand on his stomach. “That gross huh?”

“Not gross!” she says, licking her lips, “just...warm. Why is it warm?”

He bends down to kiss her forehead. “Don’t have to swallow, my love. It’s not meant to be swallowed.”

“I know.” She only does it sometimes. “Just felt like giving it another go this time. You taste better than most guys.”

“Yeah? How do they usually taste?”

“Like battery acid.” Her quick answer makes him laugh harder, grabbing her waist to bring her back up.

“Come here, weirdo.”

“I won’t lie and say giving blow jobs was fun before I met you. I willingly do it now.”

This makes Harry falter suddenly, placing her beside him as he pulls his shorts back up. “You should only do it if you want to.”

“I know that Harry.” She gives him a smile. “I think I just learned that a bit too late. Just wanted to make people happy.”

Harry’s still learning about Faye. It seems like every time she talks, he learns something new, but this is something he really wishes he’d known sooner because his mind wanders to every other time he’s gotten a blow job from her, guilt coursing through him. “And everything we do? It’s not just to make me happy right?”

Faye smiles wider. “Harry, I could wink at you and you’d be happy instantly. I know my worth now.”

He nods, throwing an arm around her. “I could probably get a boner from that too.”

She giggles. “Exactly.”

“I was thinking about this the other night. I probably have a semi every time I’m with you. That’s a lot of boners.”

“You think about me at night?”

“Wait until you hear what I think about when I’m getting myself off, Cherry.”

“Ha! Funny. You don’t have a semi right now.”

Harry smirks. “Just give me a few minutes, baby.” When she pushes his head away, he laughs. “Let’s go do your hair?”

Faye’s brown roots were really showing so she was in the process of rebleaching when Harry showed up at her door. Currently, her roots are pale blonde and she looks silly, but he momentarily forgot about it during the blowie...for obvious reasons. She’s got the dye mixed up in the bathroom and everything is ready to go. The matter in Harry’s pants was a bit more pressing though.

“Yeah,” she hums, “let’s do that.”

They both walk to the bathroom and Harry sits on the closed toilet seat as Faye brushes her teeth, taking her time with it. They aren’t in any kind of rush. When she’s done, she sits on the counter and let’s Harry near her with the bowl of dye. She’s allowing him to do it this time just for practice, but she’s there to correct him if he needs guidance.

He mixes the dye once more before starting at the top of her head, moving down. By doing the bleach already, she’s done the easy part. He’s just bringing the color back to her head. She’s decided to keep the pink color, but it’ll be a little darker to make it seem less dull. The pastel looks nice on her hair, but it only seems to be fading, and she wants to give it’s light back.

A gentle hush falls over them as Harry works the dye into her hair, pausing a few times to fix his gloves because they’re designed for Faye’s smaller hands. She just swings her legs, letting him work on him with the utmost concentration. She’ll watch him for a few seconds before going back to picking at her nails.

Finally, she speaks up, “Hey Harry?”

“Yes?” He takes a step back. “What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

She shakes her head. “No. I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh.” He goes back to spreading dye in her hair. “What’s up?”

“Well, I wanted to have a conversation about how I’ve been doing recently. Mental health wise.”

“Of course, darling. Tell me.”

She takes a moment to pick her words carefully. This is something she’s been meaning to talk about for a while, but she always shies away from the topic. It’s not a fun discussion, and certainly not a romantic one, but he’s a part of her life and he has a right to know. Her mom has been pushing her to be more open with him about it, because it seems like she’s doing better when she’s with him, but that’s solely because he fixes everything momentarily. “Um, I don’t think this past month hasn’t really been that great. And I guess I just wanted to bring it up.” She twists her fingers, suddenly nervous as she always is.

His brows knit together. “What’s on your mind?”

She sighs as if she’s exhausted. “Well, I don’t know really. I mean, it’s not just one thing. It seems like everything's just...so much, you know? It’s hard to put into words. Everything is overwhelming.” Harry’s eyes widen with concern when her voice trembles, peeking down at her. “And it’s been good when we’re together and every time I’m with you, I’m happy. But at the same time, I feel like I’m spiraling.”

His insides sink a bit. “Baby, I’ve told you that I’m here so many times. Talk to me about it then.” He nudges his cheek against hers.

“I do! You know I do. And that makes me hopeful for the future. I think that the difference between then and now is so big, and that we can only go up from here as well. I think I’m improving, however...this seems to be the case only when I’m with you. And then when I’m not with you…” she trails off, looking at him when he pushes her head up, “I don’t feel good. I’m not happy with myself.”

He puts his brush down, biting the inside of his cheek. She’s discussed her feelings with him enough to be aware of how he’ll react. The thing that sucks, but something he’s very understanding about, is that when she talks about her feelings, she seems to be a little choked up. It’s not because she’s really sad about it. It’s just the prospect of opening up that makes her emotional. They’re superficial tears, and they need to be released in order for her to talk, so he’s grown accustomed to them. When her eyes well up, he knows she’s not really crying. It’s just the emotion coming out.

Faye isn’t exactly the happiest, and he’s known that since the days when they were only friends. After months of getting to know her, he’s only confirmed that she has trouble being alone and trusting herself because she’s never been that comfortable at it.

He places his hands on either side of her waist, no doubt staining the counter. “Okay,” he answers, listening. “Is there any way I can help?”

She blinks at him. “I guess I just wanted to explain myself. I feel like I haven’t really been myself recently and maybe you’ve noticed that.”

He has noticed, but he doesn’t think it’s his place to bring it up and criticize her for her actions. “Don’t have to explain yourself, my love. If you’re not feeling good, then I want to be there to help you.”

She nods. “I know. And like I said, you always help me. Every time I’m here, or even just texting you. Everything is perfect. You make me feel good about my body, you help me eat right, you’re there when I need you. The problem is when I get home and I’m alone with myself. I think I go to a dark place and I’m just overthinking and reconsidering my position in life, and I really don’t like it.” She takes a deep breath, rubbing her eyes to get rid of the tears. “And this isn’t to alarm you. I just wanted to tell you. I’m trying to be open.”

He presses a soft kiss to her nose. “Thank you for telling me. We’ve struggled with that a little bit, haven’t we?”

She nods again.

“I’m happy you talked to me about this. But can we do anything to help you while you’re alone? We talked about picking up a new hobby right?”

“I tried to do some painting. That helped a bit. And then some sewing. That was fun too, but I’m done with it. I’ve made things. Now what do I do? I can’t explain it, H. It’s just so dark where I am. It sounds so shitty, but I just-- I don’t know what else to say.”

“I know, darling. I understand you,” he says calmly. “We can look into other things, Cherry. There are so many more things. Yoga, pottery, designing, decorating, sports, going for a run. You like reading too, don’t you? And watching movies.”

“But Harry, it seems like I’m just distracting myself with those activities.” She kicks her legs a bit, swallowing harshly. “I like those things and I am willing to try them, but I think they’re just like taking a nap. When I come back to reality...I’m here again with my same problems and my same fears. I’m just ignoring them for the time being. I’m not arguing with you! Those things help. I’m happy you got me those art supplies and the yarn and everything. I’m just trying to explain--”

Harry bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth. “I see. So for the past month, what have you been doing to make yourself feel better besides these activities?”

“I’ve just been seeing you nearly every day.” She lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “And don’t get me started on my whole ‘you’ll get sick of me’ issue.” Harry already knows about that. It makes him feel nauseous every time because here is his beautiful and perfectly crafted girlfriend who thinks he’s going to get sick of her eventually. Every time he thinks of that possibility, he either wants to punch the wall and feel the pain she’s feeling for her or shrivel up and pretend this conversation never existed. “And I think I’ve been crying a lot.”

His stomach hurts. Faye’s eyes get all red and puffy when she cries and she always drags her hand down her face to wipe the tears away as if she’s angry at her body for betraying her. “You said you’d call me every time you wanted to cry!”

“I didn’t want to be calling all the time! Do you know how annoying that is?” She shakes her head, grabbing the bowl of hair dye, pushing it back into Harry’s hands to signal to continue. “I just feel a lot of emotions and I’m really sick of it, so last night I came up with a solution.”

Harry begins applying hair dye to her hair again. He says apprehensively, “And what’s the solution?”

“I emailed some therapists I found to be really interesting and asked them if I could come in for a consultation.”

His shoulders sag with relief. She definitely could have said something more destructive like she has in the past. Her last idea was to go on a camping trip all alone. He was supportive, he argues, but that wasn’t a good idea. Another idea she had was to turn her phone off and go hide in a cabin for a month. He laughed at it, but he knew that she wasn’t really joking. “What?! Baby, that’s really good! That makes me happy!” He bends down and excitedly pecks her mouth. “How are you feeling about it?”

“Nervous. And scared. But I’ve been feeling this way for 24 years now and I’m tired of it. I want a change.”

Harry nods, pressing more kisses to her lips. “Good!” He puts the bowl of dye down again and brings her into his chest, holding her tightly. Dye gets on his skin, but he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and enjoys her embrace, kissing her head where he hasn’t colored. “I love you so much,” he whispers. “You don’t know it, Faye. You really don’t know. I want you to be okay. If you’re okay, I’m okay. I’m really glad you’re taking this route.”

She nods, pressing her own kiss to his collarbone. “Thank you.” She pulls away. “I was, uh, actually also hoping you’d come with me to these appointments? For moral support and all that.”

“Of course. Thank you for talking to me about this. I’m ready to be of any use to you.”

“Thanks!” she repeats, lighter. “I think we should get a move on the dye though. You know you can just scoop it up into your hands and rub it in like shampoo right?”

He chuckles, grabbing a full fist of dye, throwing it on top of her head. “Fine! Have it your way!”

He massages the dye into her hair as she laughs, making sure to get every strand. When he’s all done, Faye sets a timer and then sits back on the counter. “What should we do while we wait?”

Harry expertly removes his gloves (having practice from the tattoo shop) and unbuttons her jeans, motioning her to lift her hips up to get them off. His eyes shine, bringing his mouth down to hers. “I’ve got an idea of how we can celebrate your achievement.”

#harry and faye #harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #tw depression #tw anxiety #harry styles writing #harry styles blurb #faye #Anonymous

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readerinsertfanfiction · 4 years ago

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Hiya 💖💫 I'm always trying to say something with my requests, bcs I think it's nice, but I'm really running out of ideas and I need to request a lot of things, sooo, next few asks will be a little plain 💖💫

Can I please get my fav boys (the same ones as before, I'm lazy to write it again xD 💖💫) with s/o who wakes up in middle of the night bcs of nightmare and get's scared of dark and comes running into their room at night? 💖💫 Thank you 💫💖💖

~ Leiia 💫💖

Welcome back, Leiia! ✨ You could also try to talk about your day, perhaps what made you smile today, or what inspired you to made a specific request! 😊😊😊

-- Though, I would appreciate it if you could list out the characters you want me to write. You’re in luck that I had saved your list from the last time, but I’m not going through the extra effort of digging it up every time. You’re requesting, so you will have to put in a little effort to specify what/who you wish to request.

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Characters: Ranmaru Mori, Kennyo, Kenshin Uesugi, Shingen Takeda, Ieyasu Tokugawa, Yukimura Sanada, Mitsuhide Akechi, Mitsunari Ishida

Prompt: Reader wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare and seeks comfort.

It was only natural that from such a dramatic shift in your world your nights were restless at best. And though you had grown more accustomed to it over time, the trauma stuck around as sometimes you still dreamt of the peaceful times you had once known and were ripped away from. You still dreamt of the first battle you had been thrown into, reliving the memory of the harsh reality in which you had been thrown. However, you knew you didn’t have to be alone as you crawled up in the dark, feet taking you down the corridors towards the room of one particular person from whom you knew you could get the comfort needed from.

Ranmaru Mori

Ranmaru was still up when you knocked on his door, a surprise crossing his fine features as he quickly allows you in. The male never slept much, no one truly did and with his role as a double agent there was little time to rest. However, that by no means meant that he had expected you to still be up. In fact, he had been certain that you were vast asleep until he found you in front of him.

“Everything alright?” he questions as he immediately kneels down next to you, a fresh cup of tea in hands and another hand onto your back. The expression on your face had been everything he needed to know earlier, but he still liked to ask, if only to determine what you needed at the moment.

Kennyo

Plagued by his own demons Kennyo often didn’t sleep well either and coincidentally he had just woken from a nightmare himself when he found you just outside of his room. Just as he had slid his door open to let in some fresh air he found your presence, a little sheltered, mostly upset. It didn’t take long for the monk to figure out what you needed.

“Sit with me,” he invited you, gently drawing you into his lap as he wraps an arm around you, guiding your head against his chest as he rubs your shoulder in the same rhythm his heart went. A calming technique as you both enjoyed the silence of the night.

Kenshin Uesugi

He never let you drift out of his sight, finding comfort in your presence being near and knowing how you were doing at all times. Perhaps that was how he instinctively seemed to know that you had a nightmare as he found himself next to you before you had even said anything.

“I will fight away anything that upsets you,” he promises, knowing that it is his promise to fight that is part of the fear and anxiety that holds you captive. “Together we will overcome,” he continues and you find yourself relaxing just a bit when he draws you in.

Shingen Takeda

Whether he had been sound asleep or not he wouldn’t tell you, but he was clear awake as soon as he saw your figure slip into his room, your expression downcast and in overall stiff and a little cold because of the cool night and the anxiety coursing through you. Immediately Shingen reached out to you, his hands rubbing over your arms to bring back some warmth into them as he sighs warmly at your figure leaning into his.

“What a blessed man I must be to have an angel grace me in bed,” he jests, and for once you don’t respond to his flirtations, none other than snuggling in closer as you try to soak up his warmth. Luckily, Shingen doesn’t need much encouragement to continue his words, easily filling up the night for you with more sweet nothings whispered in your ear.

Ieyasu Tokugawa

He was a little slow to react when you had knocked on his door, a groggy bed head peeking out of his blankets as he threw one side open for you to crawl in.

“Quickly, it is cold,” he grumbled, but pulls you close to him as soon as you crawl in. “Now stay quiet and just stick close to me,” the blond continues with another mumble, already drifting off, but the secure hold of his fingers on your back and the way his lips are just hovering inches away from your forehead gives away how Ieyasu isn’t entirely gone yet.

Yukimura Sanada

“Come here,” the brunet instructs, opening his arms as he invites you into his lap. As soon as you had entered his room the male sat up, knowing instinctively that something was wrong and that you needed some comfort.

The next thing he did was pat your head, fingers running through your hair as he admires your countenance up close, though it is clear from the way his eyes drift off that Yukimura had just woken up, not quite awake as of yet.

“Don’t worry about it. You can make it up to me in the morning,” he smiles at you when you try to point this out, his hold onto you tightening.

Mitsuhide Akechi

“What’s that?” The lilting voice of the warlord resonates as he leads you into the room, quick to set you down on his futon as fingers brush through your hair. “I seem to have caught a little mouse in my trap, and how upset she seems.”

Ever the type to talk a lot you let Mitsuhide to his own devices, allowing him to comfort you in the way he knew best to do. His voice was comforting as was his touch and that’s all you really wanted to focus on now as you leaned into the man.

Mitsunari Ishida

He was still half asleep when he allowed you into his room, but despite his state the warlord was quick to pull you down into bed with him, some incoherent murmurs escaping him as he snuggled in closer to you.

“Don’t worry, I’m here,” he whispers as his hands go over your head, patting you gently as he falls asleep again locking you tightly into place.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen kenshin #ikesen ranmaru #ikesen kennyo #ikesen shingen #ikesen ieyasu #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen mitsunari #ikesen yukimura

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slytherinbarnes · 4 years ago

Text

Sub Rosa [55]

x. die all, die merrily

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: I mean, the title says it all, people die, there is fighting and violence. also some light smut, a lil touch of kidnapping, and some language to finish it all up.

Summary: the final conclave begins, and 13 clans fight for the ultimate prize: surviving the apocalypse.

a/n: I AM NERVOUS TO POST THIS BC APPARENTLY THIS IS A LOT OF YALLS FAVORITE EPISODE EVER SO I HOPE I DID IT JUSTICE! the taglist for this series is open! I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think!!!

previous chapter // season masterlist // series masterlist

March 27th, 2150; Polis

You wake to the sounds of yelling outside.

Your eyes pull open slowly, blinking against the bright light of the sun that streams into the room from the balcony. You roll over, coming face to face with Bellamy, who is looking down at you and smiling. You give him a sleepy smile in return. “How long have you been up?”

He glances towards the balcony, before his eyes fall on you again. “An hour or so. Sounds like they’re prepping for the conclave.”

You hum in agreement. “Didn't Clarke say it starts tomorrow? I’m sure there’s a lot to be done and not much time to do it in.”

“Does that mean we have to help too?”

You laugh at the grimace on his face, clearly not excited about this prospect. “Probably.”

He sighs and starts to stand from the bed, but you grab his hand and pull him back down towards you. He looks at you in surprise as you give him a mischievous look, pulling him down even closer, until his face is inches from yours. “We can have some fun first though, don’t you think?”

He catches onto your line of thinking easily, and he gives you a look full of fire and passion. He answers your question with a searing kiss, your previous separation making you savor the kiss more than you usually do. His hands come to land on either side of your face, holding you in place as he kisses you like his life depends on it. Like he’s a drowning man and you’re a tank of oxygen sent to save him. His hands slide from your face, down to your body, sliding all over you, the feeling of his skin on yours electric.

He pulls you closer to his body, tugging until you move to straddle him, the fur blanket sliding off of you as you do. You run your hands down his already naked chest, his shirt on you, your favorite thing to sleep in, and he smiles up at you. You tug the shirt off and toss it to the side, and his eyes roam your body with appreciation, taking you in. You have to resist the urge to cover up, knowing how much he likes to look at you, but still, you whisper, “You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring. I’m drawing a detailed image of you in my brain for later, and I want to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

His fingers trace over a few of your scars, the one on your shoulder from the arrow, the one on your leg from Roan, and the one on your side from the assassin, and you can see his eyes mapping their location on your body. You copy the motion with him, carefully tracing the scar on his side, the one you stitched up. He glances down at it, the small, jagged little scar, shaped like an uneven lightning bolt. “It is crooked. Sorry about that.”

“Don't be, I like it. It reminds me of you.”

“It looks like lightning. The perfect scar for my stormy boyfriend.”

He gives you a peculiar look. “You think I'm stormy?”

You lean down and kiss him, chasing away the insecurity that seems to creep up. “Not in a bad way. Storms are powerful, forces to be reckoned with. Sometimes they rage and crackle, but they cleanse too, and help the Earth grow.”

He smiles up at you, his face softening and his earlier insecurity now gone. “And you are radiant. Breathtaking. Beautiful.”

He kisses you in between each compliment, lingering on the last one, making it long and slow. You open your mouth, granting his tongue access, and they dance and move together in a perfect symphony. As he kisses you, you both slide out of any remaining undergarments, both of you naked and warm against each other. The usual vulnerability, and fear, that comes with being naked around another person is lost on you, because Bellamy is careful to radiate nothing but love and adoration, wanting you to feel safe and secure.

He breaks the kiss to watch you as you sink onto him, both of you moaning with pleasure. He rolls you both, situating your body beneath his, his arms supporting his weight next to your head, caging you between them. Your eyes lock as you move together, finding your rhythm, and his other hand slips between your bodies to bring you closer to the edge. You fall first, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back in pleasure, and the sight of you sends Bellamy over right after.

He kisses you again as you come down from your high, the kiss lazy and sloppy, both of you feeling like jelly as your pleasure rolls through you. Bellamy eventually rolls off you, laying down at your side, turning to watch you. You turn to face him, smiling up at his freckled face and messy curls, “Tell me about the gods.”

He smiles, always ready to oblige, before launching into his story. “Persephone, better known as the goddess of the dead and Underworld, wasn’t always known that way…”

March 28th, 2150; Polis

Bellamy’s hand is held tight in your own, slick with sweat from nerves as he leads you down the hall, towards Octavia’s room. The tradition of the Final Conclave has now begun, and in mere minutes, Octavia will walk onto the stage in front of everyone, and accept the sigil of her clan, your clan, and fight until the death for Skaikru.

When Bellamy reaches the door, he turns and looks at you, nervous, and you nod your head, reassuring him. He lifts his hand and knocks, and Octavia looks his way, quickly looking away again when she realizes who it is. “You here to give me a pep talk?”

He drops your hand and steps into the room, settling onto the couch beside her. You linger in the doorway, here for emotional support more than anything, watching Bellamy make his last attempt to save his sister. “You don't have to do this. We can find someone else to fight. “

“If I die, I die. At least I go down fighting.”

“O-”

She cuts him off immediately, shutting down his argument. “Don't. This is my decision, Bell. I know what the odds are, I don't need you pointing them out.”

You hear footsteps from down the hall, and you peek behind you, watching as your twin approaches you. Her face is set in a grim expression, not optimistic at all, and as soon as she looks up and meets your eyes, she calls out, “It's time.”

You nod, turning to pass the message along to Octavia, but she must have heard because she is already standing and walking your way. You get a good look at her make up as she approaches, the dark war paint painted over each of her eyes in the shape of an upside down “L”. You realize immediately what her inspiration is, and as she stops in front of you, you whisper, “Lincoln’s tattoo.”

She nods once, confirming your suspicion, and you see a quick pass of nerves cross her features. You reach out and squeeze her shoulder, offering her comfort. “He’s always with you, especially now, and I know he's proud of you.”

She gives you a small smile before walking past you and out the door, walking down the long hallway to the stage. You and Bellamy follow her path until you meet up with Clarke, who leads you out a side door and into the crowd, just in time to watch Gaia, Indra’s daughter, announce, “Octavia kom Skaikru, step forward.”

Octavia steps up onto the stage and ducks her head, allowing Gaia to attach a necklace around her neck. “Accept the sigil of your clan and fight with honor as their champion.”

She walks across the stage and comes to a stop beside Roan, and you and Bellamy exchange a look as Gaia begins her final speech. “Soon will begin the Final Conclave, a battle to the death within the walls of Polis. These warriors will fight until only one remains. When that warrior collects all of the sigils from the fallen and delivers them to me, they will be declared the victor. This final champion alone will tell us which clan is meant to survive in the crypt of Bekka Pramheda, and which clans are meant to perish in Praimfaya. Osir koma op daun bilaik slip daun kom bleirona, ba mafta op Won bilaik hef em op mou beda.”

Kane translates for you and Bellamy, able to understand the words faster than both of you can. “We honor those who fall by the sword, but follow the One who wields it best.”

Somewhere behind you in the crowd, someone yells, “Daun bilaik ai!”

That would be me. You all turn and watch in shock as Luna stalks through the crowd, shoving people out of her way to get to the front, and you can sense trouble brewing as soon as you see her face. “Shit.”

Bellamy looks at you, not understanding what you mean, not aware of just how bad things got for Luna on Becca’s Island. She stalks onto the stage and comes to a stop in front of Gaia. “I'm Luna kom Floukru, and I'm the last of my clan.”

“We know who you are...The Natblida who ran from her conclave.”

“I'm not running from this one.”

Gaia turns and grabs the last necklace from the bowl, turning to face the angry Nightblood. “Accept this sigil, Luna kom Floukru. But with your clan gone, who will you fight for?”

“I fight for no one. I fight for death.” She snatches the necklace from Gaia’s hands and turns and holds it up for the crowd. “When I win, no one will be saved.”

Her words immediately send a wave of murmurs through the crowd, and Gaia quickly solves the problem by dispersing the crowd and sending the warriors down into the weapons room to arm up and prepare for the battle. You, Kane, Bellamy, Clarke, and Jaha all cluster in a circle, quietly discussing Luna's arrival when Gaia comes over to your group, voice full of authority. “Skaikru! Three advisors to the worgeda. The rest of you, report to your designated safe zone. Now.”

Kane gestures to you and Bellamy, “Come on. We have to get her ready.”

Jaha reaches out and grabs Kane’s arm, stopping him from leaving. “This conversation isn't over. The death wave will be here within three days, and here we are, risking the fate of our people on a blood sport?”

Clarke corrects him, “The fate of all people, You heard Luna.”

“She's just one of 13.”

You wince, remembering when you walked in a room to save Luna from at least 6 men, only to find that she had already saved herself. And that was after being repeatedly tortured. “You're wrong. She's a Nightblood novitiate, which means she trained in combat exactly like this.”

Bellamy looks at you, misunderstanding you. “You want us to cheat?”

“No.” You look at him, shaking your head. “I only mean that Luna is the walking definition of killer warrior, and that scares me.”

Kane adds, “Besides, you know the rules. If we break them, we lose, and if we lose, we die.”

“The rules are not the problem, Marcus. The game is. Even if we stop Luna, even if Octavia finds a way to win, does anyone truly believe that the Grounders will accept Skaikru as the lone survivors?”

“Yes. The conclave is sacred, they'll honor the winner. Like it or not, we're all Grounders now.” The words tug at a memory, Bellamy standing in the middle of a circle of delinquents, convincing all of you to fight the Grounders coming your way. But Kane pulls you from that memory when he looks at Jaha, and says, “You get our people to the safe zone, we'll have Octavia ready for the fight. The rest is up to her.”

You and Clarke nod at each other, knowing you’ll see each other again soon, after the Conclave. Either as the sole clan to survive Praimfaya, or as one of 13 clans left outside to perish. Bellamy walks close to you as you follow Kane into the weapons area, leading you over to Octavia. As you walk towards her, you eye the competition, taking notes on their weapons, their fighting, anything you can gather that might help her. Kane seems to have the same idea because as soon as he stops in front of her and you and Bellamy stop beside him, he starts, “All right, listen to me. The Blue Cliff Warrior, she has two corvo blades. I just saw her practicing. She's left handed, you go for her weak hand.”

“Okay.”

You add to his point, “Plains Rider and the warrior from Shallow Valley, they're strong, but slow. You can avoid them, not to mention the black rain, which could fall at any moment, so stay close to cover.”

Beside you, Bellamy fidgets in place, turning and looking away, which does not go unnoticed by you or Octavia. She snaps, “What, Bellamy? If you've got something to say, just say it.”

“You don't need any of this. When the starting horn blows, just stay out of sight and let the others thin out the competition.”

“You want me to hide?”

“You don't need to go up against the strongest warrior from every clan.”

“I came here to fight.”

Bellamy bends down a little, matching their heights, his voice almost pleading, “You were the girl under the floor. Use that, just like Mom taught us.”

Kane nods, “Bellamy's right. You don't have to kill all 12 warriors.”

“I just have to kill the last one.”

All of you exchange a nod, now on the same page in terms of strategy. Behind you, one of the Flamekeeper scouts announces, “Ambassadors and advisors, to the tower. Champions, to your flags.”

Kane and Octavia hug, quick and fierce, before she turns to Bellamy. They hover near each other, unsure whether they should hug, and eventually Octavia settles on, “May we meet again.”

“Damn right we will.”

Bellamy’s voice is sad, and he looks like he wants to hug her, but he’s so worried about upsetting her before the battle that he doesn’t. He just turns and starts to walk away, leaving you and Octavia alone. You don't hesitate to hug her, reaching out and grabbing her, squeezing her tight and passing along as much love and strength as you can through the hug. She hugs you back tight, almost desperate, and when you pull away, both of you have tears in your eyes, aware this might be your last goodbye. You smile through your tears, “You were my first friend on the ground, and the first person to see me as someone other than the Invisible Twin. Now you’re my people, my family, my sister. I am so incredibly proud of you.”

She smiles at you and you see her fighting back her tears, not wanting anyone to see her crying. She squeezes your arm and whispers, “I love you. Bellamy too.”

You nod, already aware, because you knew the siblings couldn't stay upset with each other long. Lincoln's death left a mark on their relationship, but that doesn't mean their relationship was irreparable. You start to answer when one of the Flamekeepers grabs your arms and pulls you away, pushing you towards the door to the tower. You turn and wave one last goodbye to Octavia, eyes watching the small girl melt into the crowd of warriors who have been fighting longer than she’s been alive. You meet Bellamy at the elevator, and his face is fallen, completely upset. You slip your hand in his and he looks over at you in surprise, so lost in his own head that he didn't even hear your approach. “What did she say?”

“She said she loves you.”

Surprise takes over his expression, then regret, and he immediately drops your hands and turns away, “I have to tell her I love her.”

But the Flamekeeper who pushed you out of the room blocks his path, pushing him back towards the elevator, not allowing him to leave. You can tell Bellamy wants to fight it and fight him, but you reach out and grab his hand again, pulling him towards the now waiting elevator. “She’s going to win, Bellamy. You can tell her afterwards.”

He nods and you ride the elevator to the top, meeting up with Kane in the throne room, just as the horn sounds, signaling the beginning of the conclave. You can hear the sounds of fighting immediately, and the tensions inside the room are high as you hear the clang of swords and the thud of fallen bodies. Minutes later, Gaia comes into the room and announces, “The first two champions have fallen.”

Everyone turns towards her, absolutely terrified that she will say the name of the warrior from their clan, and you, Kane, and Bellamy are no exception.

“Gael kom Ingranronakru, yu gonplei ste odon.”

One of the Flamekeepers walks over to the candle that represents the Plains Riders and puts the flame out, ending their battle for the bunker. You all watch the Flamekeeper turn away from the snuffed candle and walk towards the next one, and your heart drops as every step he takes brings him closer and closer to the Skaikru candle. Bellamy whispers, “Please don't be her.”

Luckily, but still heartbreaking, the Flamekeeper stops just shy, in front of the Trikru candle, as Gaia announces, “Fio kom Trikru, yu gonplei ste odon.”

Relieved, you turn to Bellamy. “Octavia's still out there.”

Bellamy’s eyes turn towards you, full of tears, his expression breaking your heart. “I couldn't tell her I loved her, even with the world ending.”

You squeeze his hand, still held tight in yours. “Trust me, Bellamy, she knows.”

He nods and his eyes drop to the floor, lost in his head again, and you and Kane share a look. With nothing else to do now, except wait, you and Bellamy head out to the balcony with your binoculars, watching the fights alongside Gaia. Kane comes out onto the balcony as you watch the Blue Cliff warrior kill the Sangedakru warrior, and Bellamy lets out a small gasp at the sight of the death. When you turn to look at him in confusion, he nods towards Kane, and you follow him as he leads you over to the Chancellor. Bellamy’s voice is low when he mutters, “We just saw the Blue Cliff warrior kill the Sangedakru warrior with a bow.”

“So?”

Bellamy looks at you, and you remember your pre fight conversation with Octavia. You tell Kane, “So, we saw her before the fight. She didn't have a bow, she had two swords.”

“Yeah, the corvo blades.” He shrugs, not understanding your worry. “Well, she could have picked up a bow off the battlefield.”

You and Bellamy exchange a look, both of you aware that someone you know is exceptionally good with a bow, and exceptionally good at betrayal. You both step back inside the room, scanning for the Azgeda spy, shaking your head when you don't see her. Kane comes up beside you, looking between you in confusion. “What is it?”

“Echo's gone.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, Bellamy stalks out of the room, looking like a man on a mission, and you and Kane look at each other in panic before running after him. “Bellamy, wait!”

He spins around to face the two of you, annoyed at the interruption. “My sister is down there. Echo is cheating, and I'm gonna stop her.”

Kane shakes his head, “Let one of Gaia's scouts find her, and then Ice Nation will be punished.”

“They'll never catch her. Echo's a spy, this is what she does.”

He tries to walk away again but you grab his arm to stop him. “Listen to me, Bellamy, I’m with you. But running out there in broad daylight is not the way to fix this.”

“So, you think I should just stay here and do nothing?”

You shake your head, and Kane vocalizes a plan you were already starting to form in your head. “No. You wait until dark so you don't get caught. And then the two of you get her out of the fight and get back here without being seen. Clear?”

“Clear.”

The wait until nightfall is agonizingly long, and all you can do is hope that Octavia makes it until then, safely away from Echo’s arrows. When darkness finally blankets the city, only five lit candles remain. Floukru, Azgeda, Podakru, Louwoda Kliron, and Skaikru.

Bellamy leads you through the streets of Polis, heading towards the building Echo is hiding in, careful to keep the both of you hidden from the view of any warriors or Flamekeepers. You’re close to the building when Bellamy abruptly stops and pulls you back behind a wall, disguised in the shadows. You know it’s too dangerous to ask why, but you don't need to, because a second later the Shallow Valley warrior comes into view. He seems to see something in the distance that you can’t see, because you watch him brace himself before a scream breaks free from the unseen force, and Luna comes running into view. She kills him quickly, easily, and just like that, five lit candles becomes four.

Luna stalks out of view again, and as soon as Bellamy is sure it’s clear, he takes off running again, leading you the last few steps to the building. The two of you creep up the stairs slowly, remembering that Echo is up high, and when you reach the door to her hiding spot, Bellamy gives you two hand signals: push the door open and then immediately get down. You nod your head, letting him you know you understand, and then he counts you down from three. As soon as he puts his last finger down, you swing the door open as quickly and quietly as you can, before you immediately duck, Echo’s arrow landing in the door right above your head.

Bellamy runs forward and tackles her to the ground, and the two of them fight back and forth until he gets the upper hand, wrapping his hands around her neck and choking her. She is seconds away from death when you feel a knife to your throat and you freeze in place, voice frantic when you call out, “Bellamy.”

He turns and his face drops when he sees you, his hands instantly releasing Echo’s throat, allowing her to breathe. He steps away from her and the person at your back shoves you towards Bellamy, who catches you with ease, and when you turn around you really aren't surprised to see Roan standing there, sword pointed at you and Bellamy as he glares at you. “I should've known you three couldn't stay away. I heard you all the way down the street, you're lucky I wasn't a scout.”

Bellamy nods towards the Ice Nation spy. “We came to stop her.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I was only trying to help save our people.”

Roan sneers at her, “I am not my mother. I'm not willing to cast aside honor for power.”

“No one has to know.”

“You misunderstand. I will not allow your dishonor to give Luna an advantage, and you will not shame our clan ever again. You are Azgeda no more.”

Shock takes over Echo’s face, and you have to resist the urge to smirk at her. “Sire, wait.”

“You're banished, Echo, and when I win this conclave, make no mistake, there will be no place for you inside that bunker. Now get out of my sight, and off this battlefield without being seen, or know that you are the cause of the death of our people.”

She swallows hard, fighting back tears, before turning and leaving the room, sneaking out and off the battlefield, despite having nowhere else to go. Once you and Bellamy are alone with Roan, the sword comes back towards the two of you again, everything about the king threatening. “I take it by your presence here that your sister's still alive.”

“That's right.”

“If I call for a scout, she'll be executed right now.” He lowers the sword, leaving enough room for you to eventually pass. “But what fun would that be? You really think she can win, don't you?”

Bellamy smiles, looking proud. “I wouldn't count her out if I were you. She's survived harder things than this.”

“Before she dies, I'll tell her she's lucky to have you as a brother.”

“I got a better idea. After she guts you and before you die, you tell her I was the lucky one.”

Roan smirks at him and you feel Bellamy's hand slip into your own, letting you know it’s time to go. You step away first, pulling Bellamy behind you, both of you keeping your eyes on the Ice Nation King until you’re out of the room and back on the street. You begin the careful retreat back to the tower, taking a different path than before, just in case. It takes longer this way, but this path is darker, and easier to stay hidden in, and after a few minutes, you’re just outside the tower again. You and Bellamy look at each other and smile a little, relieved to have made it back without getting caught, but that relief is short lived.

Just as the two of you start towards the door of the tower, two people jump out of the shadows, each one of them grabbing each of you, holding a rag over your mouth. The substance smells awful, and you know without a doubt that you shouldn't be smelling it, but you don't have much time to process that. You and Bellamy look at each other, both of your eyes wide in panic when you see the other in danger, and you fight against your captives. But by then, it's too late. The chemical has kicked in and you feel unconsciousness seize you rapidly, pulling you under at an alarmingly fast rate.

The first thing you notice when you wake is the heaviness in your head.

It feels like someone popped open your skull, stuffed it full of rocks, and closed it up again. You try to pry your eyes open, but they feel heavy, weighed down by anchors. You groan and try again, prying them open with all your strength, closing them back again when they are met with a bright light. But then you hear someone next to you groan, and a hand brushes against yours, familiar and warm.

Bellamy.

This time when you get your eyes open, you turn his way, both of you looking at each other in shock before you confirm that each other is real. You reach towards each other, silently checking the other out, making sure you're okay. And as soon as you realize you are, you both turn and look around the room, realizing you must be in the bunker. Your eyes land on Clarke, standing at the desk in the room near Jaha, both of them looking towards you. You look between them, at the clench of Clarke’s jaw, the extra weight on her shoulders, and your stomach sinks. “What the hell did you do?”

Jaha is the one to answer, sounding unashamed of what he has to say. “If only one clan could survive, it might as well be ours.”

Bellamy turns to your twin, not believing what he’s hearing. “Clarke, you agreed to this?”

“It was her idea.”

You and Bellamy share an incredulous look, before you turn it on Clarke, in disbelief of what she’s done. She sets her jaw, trying to convince herself, and the two of you, of what she’s done. “We did what we had to do.”

next chapter

#the 100 #bellamy blake #bellamy blake x reader #the 100 rewrite #the 100 4x10

68 notes · View notes

redevenir · 4 years ago

Text

faintheart in the dark

hoshi x reader

wc : ~ 1800

a/n : @tearsofsyrup let’s just say it’s for you dear, since your tiger agenda blog inspired me. i wish you the best as usual, and hopefully this will feel like a little treat after a good day! not at all a horror au bc that dumb fucker doesn’t know what fear is anyway. Very self indulgent. Also I didn’t proofread so sorry for the faults!

The bus ride is quiet, a nice relief after Soonyoung’s busy day. Still, it’s not as satisfying as it would be to go home, cook up something quick and warm, drown himself under the shower and crash into his bed. He wonders when he became like that. Working for school after working for a minimum wage, and feeling like this is it. The bus stops pass one after the other until he finally reaches the humanities’ campus. Despite his fatigue and his hunger, he wastes no time in going to the cafeteria – it’s almost closing hour and he knows how annoying last minute customers are – and makes his way directly toward the library. He mindlessly watches the humanities’ building as he passes by. He notices the glass door of the library, goes in, allows himself a brief nod of the head to whoever is at the front desk – maybe a new one ? And they still haven’t fixed that broken ceiling light. He heads to the history of art section, he takes his things out of his bag and sets them up on a table, his pencil case, his notebook, takes out an imposing History of rural theater from the shelves and resumes to work. The pipes are unusually squeaky, but he manages to focus on his task, takes notes for his paper. There is a charm to his subject, he thinks. It is a nice change, to be able to talk about less conventional art, a more popular one. It reminds him of home. He allows himself a quick look over the rest of the tables. A usual, empty Tuesday night. The light flashes in irregular patterns. There are enough others so it’s far from dark, but it is annoying enough to distract Soonyoung from reading. Sighing, he scans the hall again, as a treat. Far away, in the medieval History section, he notices your bag and his lips twitch upward. It’s true you chose that Colors from the Middle-age class, but it’s so unexpected he keeps forgetting about it. Jun sometimes reminds him when he talks about whatever assignments the professor gives you. It’s still weird to think that you and Junhui see each other every week, regardless of Soonyoung, whereas he would go out of his way to go the same parties as you, to get a chance to see you. He closes his eyes, just for a bit. Once he’ll be done, he’ll come over and say hello. As a treat.

When Soonyoung wakes up, he is in the dark. He narrows his eyes in hopes of seeing through, and notices the flickering light by the entrance. Pressing his lips together, he rubs his fingers on his temples. There is no point in staying any longer. He doesn’t bother to look at the time on his phone, puts everything back in his back, leaves the history of theater on the table, and, before leaving, tries to remember where the bathrooms are. Following his foggy intuition, he slaloms among the tables, bumping a few chairs on the way. There is something unsettling about being there after hours. Libraries are supposed to be quiet places for sure, but the dark silence in which he is really far from his habit. He licks his lips, tries to be careful, and with a yawn he reaches the corridor. The soft green light of the emergency exit illuminates it. Here is his way out.

Dum. Dum. Dum. The sound of your heart is deafening. Your bronchi burn, yet you try to control the rhythm of your breathing, the sound of it, even though the alarm ringing in your head shrieks there is no time for this. From what are you even hiding yourself? Sweat runs cold down your spine, you smell it. You want to go home. You want to get out. You want to slap Soonyoung and you want him to pay for a fucking well-deserved brunch. No, you want him to ask you out on a brunch. In an attempt to get a hold of yourself you hide your face in your clammy hands, close to your nose to mute the sound of your fear. Nothing is heard but your restrained breath. One, inhale, one two three four five, six, exhale. You try to change the focus of your mind. You close the toilet seat and sit on it, swallowing saliva. You press your finger on your temple, all trace of sleepiness long forgotten.

Sometimes, Seungcheol says you’re dumb. It’s true. You are. You think back to where you left your belongings, earlier, and that essay on red pigments. Hopefully no one will steal it.

You were already in the last bus when he had called you, voice loud and way too urgent for your state of mind. Asking where you were, and if you had seen Soonyoung or not. You knew very well who Soonyoung was. Jun’s roommate, a theater kid. Phases out a lot, cute. Even though you’re both humanities’ students, you barely see him on campus – you assume it has to do with your respective part time jobs taking up most of the free time you have. But you meet at parties. It feels like whenever you go out, he’s always there, and you usually spend most of the night with him, talking until you stop feeling your head and catch yourself staring at him. That’s when you go home. Dizzy, happy, horny. The feelings linger a few days, until obligations push them out at the back of your brain again. Yet, every now and then, when you are free enough, you remember how vibrant it is to be with him and your skin becomes a boiling veil and your head is full of colors.

So when Seungcheol asked you if you had seen Soonyoung, you told him you had, he was working at the library tonight too. And when he asked when he left you told him you didn’t know – your bus line ends before the library closes, and he was asleep on his table when you left. You heard Junhui’s Oh my god in the back and began to chew on the inside of your lip. And sure enough, they had asked you to come back for him, just in case. And when you had arrived back at the library, all lights off and dark, you had known it was not going to go well. From breaking a window to get back in to the rush of adrenaline induced by the flashlights of the security agents you’d noticed outside, you felt your evening spiraling in a very wrong, irrational way. You didn’t know the library as well as you thought, lost your way of few times, until exhaustion, the fear of getting caught and and increasing worry about Soonyoung’s whereabouts had you disheveled and hiding in the bathroom for a lonely brainstorming session.

Until you hear the flush. The sound of falling water crushing your train of thoughts – you hadn’t even noticed someone came in. Noticing your little cry of surprised, a very tired voice asks who is there, and you give up. Trying to make up a story that wouldn’t make you look like a lunatic, you stand up and push the door open with your feet, wondering how high would the fine be for breaking into the library – and mostly breaking that window.

Only to face Soonyoung, eyes wide, drying his hands with toilet paper. Your mouth agape, you let out a sigh. Your heart skips a beat, maybe because of him, maybe because you’re dead. You feel the embarrassment soaking in. He watches as you close your eyes, lower your head, biting your lips with a little, uneasy smile. You twist your finger until your knuckles are white, licking your lips one last time before clearing your throat.

« Sorry, hum, sorry about… That, I guess. You don’t look at him. Apparently Jun got worried about you and they asked me to check if you were okay… So I-I hum, I, hum, I came back and got scared wandering in the building… Hum. »

You hear your name in a whisper. Two warm hands cup your face, their heat on your frozen ears. They pull you a bit until you gently bump against his chest. Soonyoung whispers your name again. You feel his warmth, and you smell the sweat of his day at work. The soft fabric of his sweater hugs your cheek and you restrain yourself from leaning in more.

« I’m alright, fell asleep, that’s all. His left thumb gently strokes your cheek. Don’t you work morning shifts ? » You shoot him a surprised look from his shoulder, long enough for him to meet your gaze.

« I do. Why do you ask? » He feels your uneven breathe on his lips, it’s warm and shaky. He should kiss you now, but there are fireworks in his head, still in awe at your apparition. His hand goes to your hips, hugging you for good. He then softly takes your hand.

« Let’s go home. You can crash at my place, he tugs at your hand and you hum in agreement. Quick, he makes sure you’re not looking at him as you both head out the bathroom. I’ll call for you tomorrow. To tell them you’re sick. » He avoids your eyes before you can meet his. You should ask him more. You should refuse. Both of his offers. You watch him as he opens the fire escape door – of course – and you watch his hand holding yours. You say nothing and you walk closer to him until you arrive to the bus stop. Sure enough, your bag’s still there, on the floor, where you’ve thrown it the same way you’ve thrown your hours of sleep away. You ponder and you ponder, and Soonyoung looks at you an your face doesn’t look too bad so he doesn’t push you.

« Okay then, let’s do that. I’ll sleep at your place, and before my shift you call them saying I’m sick or dead, as you please. » He smiles and it’s like dawn already.

« Don’t you want to go back ? After, I mean ? I mean, to keep working there ? »

« I’ll do it Jesus style then. » He laughs and you finally look at him again. Even now, as you sit on the bench and he stands right in front of you, he still has your hand in his. He shifts his balance, holding your gaze, and how many times did he get the occasion to kiss you ? Proper occasions, not intoxicated ones. His free hand reaches to cup your face once more, the tips of his fingers caressing greasy strands of your hair.

He really should kiss you now.

#seventeen scenarios #hoshi imagines #seventeen imagines #hoshi scenarios #hoshi fluff #my writings #ksy #hoshi

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watcher-ofthe-sky · 4 years ago

Note

“I’d like you to leave now” with erzajane bc it’s me hello

Of Veiled Everythings Behind Vague Nothings

Read on AO3 Summary: Now that she thought about it, she wondered how sinking and heavy this word must be: carrying the weight of all the feelings which we feel. Nothing, she had said that day, when in turn she had meant everything.

A/N: @gaymirajane Thank you for sending the request! <3 I am sorry for getting to this only now. I was going for a 5 sentence angst but I wanted a happy ending for them. Even though it is fast-paced, I hope you will like it. *** And that's the thing about longing stares It's born from just one single glance But it dies, and it dies, and it dies A million little times Taylor Swift - illicit affairs ***

Mirajane remembered the clear blue sky on that day like the back of her hand. She remembered the brightness of the day and golden glow of the leaves as the sunlight kissed them. She remembered the quiet, soft things because that's how the world had felt like when Erza had smiled at her and all the collective memories of their past and present had rushed in front of her like comets colliding with the atmosphere and burning bright, but oh so beautifully. The thudding of her heart had silenced all the sounds around them and the only thing that mattered was its rhythm whose tempo was set by the mere smile of the woman in front of her.

"Mirajane?" Erza had asked, waving a hand in front of her, trying to get her attention. "Shall we go?"

"Huh?" she had blinked, still in trance. Looking around at the bandits they had captured on the mission, she had finally said. "Yeah."

And then Erza had laughed. "What were you thinking?"

She had laughed and Mirajane couldn't stop hearing the echo of it. Everything felt warm suddenly and she didn't know what to do with this overwhelming wave of emotions crashing inside of her.

"N-Nothing," she had said and swallowed thickly. "I think I am a little tired after the fight."

Erza had looked at her again with her scrutinizing gaze, a flicker of concern rippling on her face before she had nodded and fallen back in pace with her as they took the culprits to the magic council.

And as they walked side by side, Mirajane couldn't help but notice the scarlet hair flying in the wind and soft skin cradled in the heavy armor.

Nothing, she had said that day. Now that she thought about it, she wondered how sinking and heavy this word must be: carrying the weight of all the feelings which we feel.

Nothing, she had said that day, when in turn she had meant everything.

***

From then on, it was a spiral down the path of pain and longing. A stolen glance here, a brush of hand there-- it was as if Mirajane was trying to collect the little moments, trying to get whatever she can and slip them into these envelopes inside her heart which were opened only in the solemn trust of night. This is how darkness makes space for us--by opening her palms and letting us unfurl ourselves; bit by bit; one secret at a time.

Her heart was a riot; torn apart between this blossom of new feelings and the warning signs flashing because of the ache that was tied along with these emotions.

Because if there was one thing that Mirajane Strauss knew, it was that Erza Scarlet won't ever look at her the way she looks at her.

***

It was during the return from one of the guild masters meetings where they had accompanied Master Makarov to help with the paperwork when they had met Jellal. Now that crime sorciere was an officially recognized guild, Queen Hisui had asked him to accompany his guild in all the official matters too.

"Jellal," Erza had smiled at him; soft and serene. "How have you been?"

Mirajane had moved away to give them privacy as they talked. From the distance, she looked at them; how they fell into a familiar pattern like pieces that fit together perfectly. Suddenly, she had felt nauseous, like a knife was gutted through her and was twisting her insides. She hated herself for feeling like this. Erza, after all, could never belong to her.

Jealousy is an ugly emotion that veils the reasoning and blinds us. It displays the intensity of our desires and how they tuck at the corners of our hearts, molding it into something darker. But that's what makes us human. What are we if stripped away from our desires and the limits that bind them?

Tears stinging her eyes, she looked away and focused on the sky, when a few droplets showered over her.

The sky wasn't clear and blue anymore.

"Here," she had heard a voice beside her. Erza stood by her side, holding an umbrella over their head. "Sorry, I had only one in my Requip space. We'll have to share."

Mirajane had sighed, trying to not let the tears drop. Another walk in silence, their shoulders bumped as they tried to fit together in the tiny space when the rain poured heavily around them.

As they headed home together, she had her wondered if Erza too had a longing tucked in her heart for Jellal. Did she too wait for him to come and silence the storm that brewed inside her core when she thought about him? Was she tired too?

A few more steps later, Mirajane had said, “Fuck it,” and yanked the umbrella from Erza’s hand closed. The Requip Mage had gawked at her. “What are you doing?”

“We are already soaked from the other side and this isn’t even helping. I would rather enjoy the rain,” she had said and spread her arms, palms open and eyes closed, as she inhaled the scent of the rain.

Water drops slowly trickled down her cheek and she didn’t know if it was rain or her tears which had tried so hard to swallow before. But the clog in her throat was settling down and her lips almost curled into a smile as she let herself soak in the pouring rain. Maybe the water was carrying away her pain, even if for a moment.

When she had finally opened her eyes, Erza was looking at her. And there was such tenderness and fondness in her eyes that had set Mirajane's skin blaze. She had torn apart her gaze only to notice the droplets trickling down Erza's face, down to the crook of her neck and then lower still.

Cheeks heating up, she looked away again.

Walking through the rain, they had finally reached Staurass' house and it's only then Mirajane realized how close they were to her home before she pushed away the umbrella.

“It seems that you couldn't wait a little longer,” Erza had laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, I do feel silly now,” she had said, pushing down the embarrassment.

“No,” Erza had said, “I loved seeing you like this.”

It's then that their gaze met and the Requip mage had reached out to put away a strand behind Mirajane's ear.

She then smiled at her fondly again like she had before and it made Mirajane feel so weak because why, why, why Erza do this to her? Why does she open her heart like this and make her feel so warm?

What was Mirajane supposed to do with all of this love in her heart? Where was she supposed to put it down? She was an ocean of love crashing and flooding all over.

And sometimes, these floods and tides only cause destruction.

She had pulled Erza closer and threading her fingers in her scarlet locks, she had closed the gap between them, brushing her lips to hers.

In those mere moments, it had felt as if she was breathing after a long time. All the ache inside her bones ceased to exist and what was left was this longing melting into a gentle love.

Before the reality poured down over her like cold water, waking her out of her senses.

She jerked and pulled back, pushing Erza away from her who was looking at her with eyes widened in shock.

“Mi-Mira--”

“I am sorry,” she had blurted before she could stop herself. “It was nothing.”

Ah.

But it was everything.

“What?” Erza had swallowed. “What do you mean?”

I love you.

“You need to leave.”

“Mira--wait,”

So much.

“Erza,” she had pleased. “Go away. Please .”

And just like that, Mirajane had closed the gate and then slumped down on the ground, burying her head in her hands.

Such is the pain of love--how it can melt down the world into these soft things while in another moment, it can leave you shivering in its coldness. How it can make you soar but can too pull you down in the deepest trenches.

As Mira cried her heart out, a small part of her wondered about the time when she had almost felt Erza kissing her back.

***

As unlikely as it was, Mirajane didn’t go to the guildhall for the next few days to avoid Erza. She didn’t know what to say to her which won’t break their friendship or leave an awkwardness hanging thick in the air. There was no way it was nothing, even Erza must have known that.

Maybe the only thing left was to own and tell her the truth; to assure her that maybe one day this will pass.

Except she didn’t want it to pass.

Pushing herself out of her house, she had made her way to Fairy Hills to talk to Erza. She didn’t want the silence between them to give way to a fault.

Before she could have reached there, she had found Erza sitting on the log in the nearby clearing. Even from the distance, Mirajane could see the pained expressions on Erza’s face.

It had made her heart clench to think that she was the reason for her pain.

“Er--”

“Erza.”

Her voice was cut off by another. What Mirajane didn’t see was Jellal walking toward Erza and then sitting beside her.

“Jellal…” Erza had whispered before breaking down into sobs. The said man shifted closer and then pulled her into an embrace, arm thrown around her protectively. In a comfort.

Mirajane had wanted to puke.

She wanted her gut to stop feeling sick like this as she watched the two of them sitting like that.

Something dark had crawled inside her and then suddenly it had hit her why Erza had almost kissed her back that day.

Pity.

Maybe it was fucking pity that Erza had felt and she didn’t want to break her friend’s heart like that. So, she had shown mercy and gave in, possibly trying to humor her.

Because of course, there was only one person who can ever reside in Erza’s heart and that person can never be Mirajane. It was foolish to even think about it and get hopes up.

Erza couldn’t have found a worse way to reject her.

Turning back on her heel, Mira had walked away.

She was done.

***

Presently, Mirajane stared out at the trees from the window of the train, tiredness weighing her down. After that day, for the first time in forever after Lisanna’s supposed ‘death’, she had taken a two-week-long mission around the southern borders of Fiore, in the hope that she would be able to gather the broken pieces of her. She wanted to go as far as possible. But it has been a week now and she was only feeling worse than before.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Her love for Erza was something gentle and tender. It was like a warm sun on winter sun. It was soft whispers yet at the same time, it was a feeling for being sure. It was a strong foundation on which she had slowly built herself.

How then, such tenderness could turn into shards which sliced her heart?

The train came to a halt and she stepped down, pulling the paper from her pocket, she read the address of her client’s house.

When she finally reached the destination and stepped out of the ride, fingers were wrapped around her wrist and she was yanked into a corner.

“What the--”

In the darkness, under the pale moonlight, her eyes widened in shock as she saw Erza in front of her. Her hair was disheveled and her skin looked pale and grey and she looked so fragile.

“Erza? What are you doing here?” she asked, noticing the dark circles under the woman’s eyes.

But the Requip mage only shook her head and gritted, “Not. A. Word.”

It’s only then Mirajane noticed how infuriated the other woman was.

Finally releasing her grip, Erza too a step back and glared at her. “Do you even have the slightest idea how worried I was? You fucking disappeared. Just like that. Do you know how much I had to coax Lisanna into giving me the information about this job?”

Mirajane didn’t know what she was supposed to her. Her heart was broken and she had needed some space where Erza’s face won’t be a constant reminder of her pain. But running away hadn’t helped either. She was hurt.

“Why?” she said, voice thick and blunt, “Were you worried that I would get in some trouble and hurt myself? Were you feeling pity for me?”

Erza’s face crumpled into a mix of confusion and rage. “What are you even saying, Mira? You know I have never thought of you like that.”

And she knew. She knew that she didn’t mean the words she was spewing out, but it was also in the act of self-preservation. If she hurt Erza enough to make her go, maybe her own pain will hurt less. Seeing her in front of her only pulled apart the wounds she was trying so hard to close.

Eyes shut tight, she exhaled and said, “I’d like you to leave now.”

“No,” came the answer; strong and sure.

“I don’t need you here, Erza,” she did, “I took this mission because I wanted to be alone.”

“Mira--why are you being like this? We can talk about what happened,” Erza pleaded, sadness evident in her voice.

What was there to talk about? How was Mirajane supposed to say, “You came into my life and ruined my heart and now every soft thing in this world is a reminder of you.”

“Go. Away.”

“Not this time!” Erza shouted and Mirajane opened her eyes to see tears rolling down Erza’s face. “I am not going away this time. I won’t let you shut me away because I need you .”

All the hardness Mira had pulled to protect herself was crumbling down. “What do you want to talk about, Erza? You couldn’t have made it clearer already that you don’t feel the same. I know you love Jellal.”

“Wh--We--I do not love Jellal, Mira,” Erza said incredulously. “I fucking kissed you back before you pushed me away!”

“Didn’t you do that because you took pity on me?” Mirajane snarled.

“What?! No! I kissed you back because I love you.”

A tear slid down Mirajane’s cheek. “What?” she whispered.

“I love you,” Erza said softly, giving her a small smile through her tears. She stepped forward and cupped Mirajane’s face. “I kissed you back because I am in love with you and have been for a long time. I just...I love you and I don’t know what else to say except that I love you. I don’t know any other word which could tell what I feel for you. You make me feel so much and I want to spend my life feeling like this. When you kissed me I was shocked because I didn’t know it is was real.”

Mirajane broke down into sobs and it felt like she would burst open because how can a human contain so much love in such a tiny body?

“I love you too. So much, ” she cried.

Erza chuckled and relief washed over her face. She swiped her thumb across Mira’s face to wipe away the tears and Mirajane looked down at her lips and slowly leaned. Under the glowing moon and the stars who twinkled in a knowing wink and a sly smile as if they know the secrets of the lovers of the night, they slowly kissed; soft and shy.

In that moment, Mirajane existed only in the places where Erza touched her and holding her closer till no space existed between them, she kissed her deeper, deeper, deeper, till all her nothings became everything. *** [A/N]: Lol, it's dramatic than necessary but who cares? I was trying to get out of my writer's block for the reverse bb fic because I was ending up deleting everything I was writing so I went back to do the requests which I forget are still in my inbox... Thank you for reading! *** @femslashfairies @fuckyeaherzaxmirajane

#erzajane #erza x mirajane #erza scarlet #mirajane strauss #mirza #fairy tail #my writing #my fic #fic requests #asks #answered asks #gaymirajane #i have a test tomorrow #but I wanted to get this out of my system

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bitterlemonwater · 5 years ago

Note

Would you ever consider writing something with Stephen Strange and Peter? 🥺 The rarepair is truly lacking and I feel like you could make something perfectly smutty out of post-Endgame taking Peter under Stephen's (magical) wing, or doctor AU

Endg*me who? I don’t know her. Smutty non-powered doctor au (that’s much more of a club au than a proper doctor au) it is. I’ve only written Stephen x Peter once before so?? Hope you like it anon bby

Peter’s age is unspecified, Strange has post-Sorcerer Supreme facial hair bc I said so, hand jobs, non-graphic but explicitly mentioned violence (Peter gets mugged in the beginning), clubbing, inaccurate medical procedures?? i’m not a doctor and have never worked in a hospital lol. 5k

—-

Peter wakes up in a hospital bed.

He remembers leaving his apartment. He remembers zipping his wallet into one jacket pocket and slipping his phone into the other, his hand wrapped around it. He remembers turning all the right corners and dodging a cyclist and sniffling in the chilly weather.

He doesn’t remember why or how he—

Oh, no, wait. Yeah. He remembers that.

The three thugs that had caught him by the hood of his jacket and yanked him into a murky alleyway between two run down hole-in-the-walls, both of which were closed for the night by the time Peter finally had time to run his errands. Milk and printer paper from a 24/7 Target hadn’t seemed like they would be a problem, but. That’s a sketchy neighborhood in New York, he supposes.

He’d handed over his wallet without a fight (because contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t actually have a death wish) and was giving up his phone when May started calling him.

Apparently the buzzing and loud ringtone (what? He has unfortunately selective hearing—sometimes it just gets tuned out and he needs volume to catch his attention) and potential red alert freaked the guys out, because one swatted his phone out of his grip and before he could raise his hands in surrender, someone decked him in the face.

And now he’s in a hospital bed.

The window shades are half opened but there’s no light coming in, and the light in the room is off, only a dim lamp illuminating everything—so it must still be nighttime. Hopefully the same night, but Peter won’t push his luck.

His head throbs like hell and he sits up slowly. The chair beside his bed keeps his shoes and jacket in reassuring view, but other than that, he’s been blessed to keep his regular clothes on. (Definitely the same night, then. Maybe he’ll only have been out for a few hours?)

For a few minutes, Peter just sits still on the bed, breathing, rubbing his temples. He really hopes he doesn’t have a concussion. This one hospital visit is going to suck to pay off—especially if he was brought in by an ambulance—and he’d rather not add follow up appointments to the bill.

It’s not long before a nurse stops by. He turns on the lights and it makes Peter cringe, but not as awfully as he’s heard concussions usually make bright lights. There’s still hope, then.

The nurse asks him how he’s feeling and if he’s in any pain, then takes down his information, explains that he’s only been out for three hours and that it’s currently one in the morning. Peter tells him about getting mugged and he responds by saying they’ll have an officer come down to talk to him after he is released from care.

The nurse finishes by asking if there’s anyone Peter would like to call. Peter debates saying no, but he can already hear May yelling at him if he tries to walk himself home after this, so he gives them Ned’s number and lays back down.

“Alright. Doctor Strange will be here look you over in a moment.” The nurse says. Doctor Strange? Doctor, Strange. Strange. Why does that sound familiar?

While the nurse gives him two pills for the pain, Peter tries to recall where he’s heard that name before, wracking his brain and only coming up with incomplete thoughts and almost-resurrected memories. He knows he’s heard that before. He just can’t figure out where.

He’s already decided to awkwardly ask the doctor if they’ve met before when the door opens again.

In steps a man half turned away from him, tall and not quite broad but definitely fit and muscled under his white coat. He’s wearing pale blue scrubs and has a stethoscope around his neck, clipboard in his hands. His hair is brown with the slightest bit of grey, that much Peter can see, with killer cheekbones.

It’s not until the guy finishes whatever quiet conversation he was having and turns towards Peter, uncapping a pen and finally facing the younger that it clicks.

Shit.

Three weeks earlier

Usually after a rough week of classes and work, Peter is exhausted. He’s tired and he just wants to sleep for fourteen hours, then have food delivered directly to his bed so he doesn’t have to get up for a full twenty four.

This week it is the opposite. He’s keyed up and anxious to do something. He feels a little detached from himself, and he wants to do something outrageous. He wants an adrenaline rush that will take all his extra energy with it once it fades.

MJ suggests partaking in a protest somewhere, but a quick search tells him there aren’t any nearby that night, and not that Peter doesn’t feel just as passionate about good causes and taking action, but standing with a sign and chanting with a crowd isn’t really the thrill he’s looking for to vent how wound up he is.

Ned suggests clubbing. Peter likes that idea a lot better.

He loses his best friend within the first twenty minutes they spend at the bar. It’s not too high end that it actually requires an entrance fee, but it’s a respectable enough place that they definitely wouldn’t have been able to afford more than two drinks.

Which is why they got plenty tipsy before they went into the club.

Which is why after attractive strangers keep buying Peter shots and sweet bubbly things (as if he can’t handle his liquor, but whatever, he won’t say no to free alcohol) he’s hammered.

Not black-out wasted, of course. Peter knows his limits well enough to know exactly when he’s having fun, but not too clumsy or cloudy to get in real trouble. But he’s definitely drunk. Definitely, definitely drunk.

Normally Peter isn’t the type to be comfortable in a crowded club full of sweaty bodies, everyone in short dresses and tight button ups that show off all the round and firm parts.

On that note, he hadn’t really had much for a “sexy” outfit other than a blush pink satin t-shirt that MJ said made him look “fuckable” and fitted black chinos.

But normally Peter doesn’t feel like he’ll explode if he doesn’t find some way to work off pent up nerves. So when girls put their hands on his shoulders and roll and sway their hips, and random guys grab him by the waist and pull his ass flush to their fronts—he laughs and grinds back.

He flits between partners for the better part of an hour, really only stopping to get free water from the bar or have various old fashioned, rocks, shot, and cocktail glasses slid his way—or to go to the bathroom.

He sees Ned a couple times, always across the room with a girl practically melting into him. Ned’s always had a better sense of rhythm than Peter, but that’s the nice thing about club music.

You don’t really need rhythm. You just have to move and you’ll either fit the song anyways or someone else will help you along.

He only takes a few sips of each drink he’s offered, and some he does refuse with a cheeky smile about not getting drunk, even though he’s very drunk already.

Peter’s just left a man (and a half empty glass) at the bar, one who’s already bought him two very sparkling blue drinks and who definitely watches his ass each time he walks away, when he runs into someone. Literally, bumps into them, and though they’re barely thrown off balance and Peter is mid not-sexy-at-all apology, the person steadies both hands on his waist.

They’re nice hands. Firm but not uncomfortably possessive or rough, pliable enough to move with the way Peter shifts and sways without letting even an ounce of space get under his grip.

“Hello there,” the man says. Peter looks up and sees a goddamn devilishly handsome face, well trimmed facial hair and piercing grey-green eyes. Probably mid 30’s. Sharply defined cheekbones and jaw. Hot.

“Hi,” Peter giggles. Giggles like a ditzy idiot, but the man doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” He says, and he rakes his gaze up and down Peter’s body in the most shameless way. Peter grins and bites his lip, not shying away from eye contact when the man looks up again.

“You’re not too bad lookin’ yourself.”

The man grins, then tugs Peter forward by the waist. Peter doesn’t hesitate to grind forward, one hand on the guy’s chest and the other rising to a tall shoulder, swaying and stepping into the man’s space.

It earns him a pleased smirk, and the guy drags him closer, walks him back into the messy crowd so they can dance.

He’s hot, ok, and Peter’s been getting groped and felt up for the last hour and a half, so when he feels a sizable bulge press against him and moves flush with the solid body in front of, beside, behind him—sue him, he gets hard. Really hard.

Really, really fucking hard.

As in, he needs to get off in the bathroom right fucking now.

“Having fun, baby?” The guy asks. His mouth is right next to Peter’s ear, hips rubbing against Peter’s ass, and one hand reaches down to boldly cup Peter’s clothed dick.

Peter whines and nods, pulling off the guy, fully intending to abandon ship and jerk off in a hopefully not too gross toilet stall. The man grabs his wrist as he steps away, but doesn’t drag him back or try to guide him elsewhere. He just follows Peter through the crowd, landing them both in the bathroom.

When Peter turns around with the goal of seductively asking if the man wants to help him out or not, he’s met by plush lips rushing to his own. The guy tastes like hard alcohol, like whiskey and bourbon and nothing like the marshmallow vodka Peter and Ned used to get tipsy or the sweet bubbly things Peter’s been offered all night.

The man walks them through the bathroom door and locks it behind them, as if there aren’t stalls they could easily slip into. For some reason the lights are actually dimmer inside the restroom and the music has no problem slipping through the crack under the door, deafening outside but loud enough to mostly cover up the wet sounds of their kissing.

Peter kisses him hard and messy, wrapping his arms around the guy’s neck and grinding forward, trying to get some friction on his aching cock. The man smirks into the kiss, nipping at Peter’s bottom lip and licking from the bottom of his chin back into his mouth, one hand venturing downwards to cup his erection again.

The man’s hands are so steady, nothing sloppy or uncoordinated about him. He doesn’t tremble or slip up at all, doesn’t hold too tight, doesn’t move to fast but he doesn’t slow down for a second to let Peter breathe. He rubs at Peter’s dick through his slacks, fingers mapping out the shape and digging his palm right where the tip is, making Peter keen into the kiss.

It doesn’t take long for the guy to get tired with feeling him up over his pants. He unbuttons the chinos easily and tugs down the zipper, slipping his hand under Peter’s boxers too.

His hand isn’t particularly cold or hot but god does it feel good, having smooth, solid skin to rub against. The man strokes him with purpose a few times, not teasing him or trying to draw out any more of the moans that Peter graciously supplies. Flicking his wrist over the head, cupping and squeezing his balls, tight but not too tight, easing the way with precome.

And then he stops, just holding, and with a desperate moan Peter picks up where he left off, grinding into the man’s fist, thrusting his hips up and forward into the friction.

He gets close embarrassingly fast (or it would be embarrassing if he could care), his legs shaking and arms tense and abdominal clenched as pressure and pleasure quickly pool in the pit of his stomach.

Peter whimpers into the kiss, all tongue and want, threading his fingers in the older man’s brown (possibly black? It’s dark in here) hair while he’s squeezed tightly against hard muscle by an arm around his waist.

“Gonna-”

“Do it. Come on, baby, wanna see your pretty face when you do,” the man cuts him off. Peter nods, just nods and bites his lip and lets his head fall back, baring his neck and face to the world (or, really, just to the man jerking him off) as he tips over the edge.

He moans so loudly that if someone was waiting on the other side of the door they’d hear him over the music. He doesn’t care, though. It’s one of the best orgasms he’s ever had, the build up and being pushed over by such dexterous hands with that deep voice groaning and whispering praise in his ear.

He soaks his already precome-ruined boxers with release and slumps against the man, needing a second to breathe and collect himself. The guy lets him lean for a few moments, but then turns him around, drawing Peter’s back against him and pinning the smaller man between himself and the counter.

It’s probably a gross counter, classy bar or otherwise. Peter doesn’t care. He folds his arms on it and rests his forehead on the backs of his hands, letting the man behind him grind into his ass.

Bare, if Peter picks that up right, the hardly audible shuffle of a belt and zipper, the much more defined feeling cock rubbing against him. He doesn’t care about that, either. If his ass gets stained by this gorgeous Greek god’s come, then he can just borrow Ned’s jacket to wrap around his waist when they leave.

Will it be embarrassing? Yes. Will Ned let him live it down? Not likely.

Will it be worth it? Yes.

And it’s not that he’s not present and interested, but he’s definitely a little floaty and the songs outside get caught swimming in his head, and he has a feeling it takes the man longer to come than Peter thinks it does.

Either way, when the guy does climax, he pulls away from Peter and catches it in his hands, washing it away in the sink beside the younger’s nearly collapsed body.

“You ok there?” The man asks. Even shouting over the music, his voice sounds soft and gentle. Peter nods.

“‘m fine. Better than fine. That felt great, erm, thanks,” he laughs, standing straight and looking at the guy again. The man smiles at him and pecks his cheeks, then his lips, then smirks.

“Made a mess of your underwear, though,” he quips.

Peter groans and wiggles around the guy, stealing some paper towels to try and clean up inside his pants (which would have been awkward and a little confusing, as for how much modesty he should take, if the guy didn’t plaster himself to Peter’s back once more, hook his chin over Peter’s shoulder and watch so intently that Peter started to get hard again) before zipping and buttoning back up.

“I’m Stephen, by the way. Doctor Stephen Strange.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Doctor? Wow, that’s really impressive,” he drawls, not really believing the man. One of the first guys to buy him a drink had also claimed to be a doctor, but a few minutes later when his girlfriend showed up, she happened to mention his job at a grocery store.

Not that Peter has anything against grocery store employees. Ned worked at Walmart before getting into his field and Peter has probably worked at every convenience store and gas station in Queens.

(And not because he couldn’t hold one down, but because he needed five jobs at once over the summer to be able to pay for his first year of room and board.)

The guy just smiles, not confessing to being a liar but not taking offense that Peter implies he is. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Peter hums. “Peter. I’m a photographer,” he winks at the man and unlocks the bathroom door. Stephen guides him by the wrist (and it would almost be annoying that he doesn’t hold Peter’s hand properly or let him walk on his own, if it wasn’t hot as fuck) back to the bar.

In place of ordering, Stephen just holds up two fingers towards the bartender. She nods at him and turns to grab two shot glasses, and Peter doesn’t have time to unpack why she knows what he wants.

“Photography, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Sounds riveting.”

“Oh, it is. Nothing as exciting as taking pictures of other people doing exciting things.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Doctor, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you a real doctor?”

“I am.”

Peter swivels on his bar stool, staring the man down. It would be more interrogating and honest to his attempt to read the man if simply looking at Stephen didn’t make his lips twitch in a smile. “Where’d you go to school?”

“Pre-med in NYU. The rest is a secret.” Stephen winks. Peter narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything else.

“So, is that Peter with a last name?” Stephen adds as the drinks are delivered to them. Honey colored with no bubbles and perfect circles of ice in each. Peter takes a sip and lets it roll around his mouth.

“How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”

“I told you I’m a doctor.”

“Perfect cover story,” Peter raises, making an exaggeratedly suspicious face. Stephen laughs at him, probably not because he’s actually amusing but because the man is also drunk.

“Ok, what about Peter with a phone number?”

Peter can’t stop from smiling. A phone number? Like, a ‘we could totally hook up again and get further than a hand job in a bathroom’ kind of phone number? He tries to keep up the game of not acting as enthusiastic as he is, though. “Well, since I still don’t know if you’re a serial killer, maybe you should give me your number.”

“Really? After I got you off like that?”

“Well, actually I got me off, thanks,” Peter muses cheekily, “but… yep. Precautions.”

That earns him a fond laugh. “Alright, alright. ‘Precautions’. Here,” Stephen snatches a napkin from under his drink and a pen from over the counter of the bar, confirming Peter’s theory that they man is definitely a regular.

“So you come here often?” Peter says. He realizes the joke a second later than Stephen does and blushes at his own cheesiness while the man shakes his head and laughs.

“I do, yes.”

“Hmm. Doctor’s salary and you go to bars that don’t overcharge you for everything? Sounds sketchy.” Peter quips. Stephen rolls his eyes and hands over the napkin, ten numbers in way too nice handwriting bleeding through.

“A friend of mine owns the place. I like to support her now and again.” He explains. Peter nods, accepting the reasoning.

“That doesn’t explain why you have nice handwriting, though.” He continues, examining the napkin. Stephen laughs at him.

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

Peter grins back.

They talk for almost an hour, broken up by breaks to dance or get more drinks—which are just water, for Peter. He knows when he’s hit his limit, thankfully—and by the time Ned is falling over Peter’s shoulder, leaning against the counter and saying he’s ready to go home and lament about the girl he’s just fallen in love with, Peter thinks he likes Stephen Strange quite a lot.

He says so, as he’s leaving, and waves the napkin with the man’s number for emphasis. Stephen just grins, tilts his head and raises his glass and shouts over the crowd that he expects to hear from Peter soon.

It’s only when Peter decides “soon” can totally be three in the morning of that same night that he realizes he somehow managed to lose the napkin.

He’s upset, but not devastated. Just disappointed. Ned tells him they can both get over their narrowly claimed soulmates (i.e. the girl he danced with all night who was leaving to go back to Germany the next morning) by having a star wars marathon and ordering take-out.

Which, yeah. Was a pretty good remedy, and after a few days, Peter completely (or, mostly completely) forgot about Stephen Strange.

Present time

Peter’s brain stops processing. God, just the sight of the other man makes him antsy to move, having to consciously stop his hips from shifting. He wants to kill the awkwardness. “Uh-”“Peter.” Stephen beats him to it. He cringes slightly.

“Um, h-hi. Hi? How, uh, how are you?”

That gets him a slightly confused, if amused, eyebrow raise. (Killer cheekbones and those lips Peter assumed he’d never see again) “The question is actually how are you, seeing as you’re the one in the hospital bed.”

“Oh! Right, right. I’m good. Fine.” This is too awkward. This is kind of painful, actually.

“Mhm,” the doctor couldn’t sound less convinced, “How’s your head? I’m sure the nurse told you, they did an emergency CT scan when you were first brought in, and you don’t seem to have any injuries beyond the couple of scrapes on your face and side. Let you keep your clothes on since the worst of it might be a minor concussion. Let’s check that over though, yeah?”

Peter just nods slowly. Stephen comes to sit beside him, using another chair opposite the one housing his jacket and shoes.

He watches as Stephen writes in a few boxes on the paper on his clipboard, but all Peter can think about is that those careful, nimble hands had given him one of the best orgasms ever.

“Are you in any pain? Any sensitivity to light, headache, confusion, dizziness? Are you nauseous at all? Any memory loss?”

Peter responds dutifully to the questions. He has a slight headache, and the lights bothered him when they first turned on but overall he’s feeling a lot better. An ache on his whole left side, but he assumes that’s from how he fell and landed when he got knocked out.

Stephen writes down all of his answers, checking and marking boxes. When he’s done, he sets the clipboard down and beckons Peter closer. He listens to the younger man’s heart, checks his eyes with a light, and peels off some bandages that Peter hadn’t even noticed on his cheek, reapplying fresh gauze and tape with a new layer of antibiotic cream.

“Well, I’d say you’re in the clear for a concussion, but you’ll definitely need to take it easy for a week or so. Lots of fluids, lots of rest, as low stress as you can manage. No rigorous physical activity. You’re a lucky kid, Peter Parker.”

Peter cringes, then lets his head loll to the side. He’s tired and the pain medication is making him a little loopy and he’d rather think about anything else than what his bill is going to be for all of this.

“Well shit. You know my last name now. Hope you don’t serial murder me.” He hums. He reaches for his jacket and slips it on. Stephen has the decency (especially impressive considering he probably thinks Peter ditched him) to humor him.

“Still on about that? I thought you’d be convinced of my authenticity by now. I’ve got a white lab coat and everything. I’m wearing scrubs.” The man says, whispering scandalized at the end. It makes Peter giggle. He’s a little amazed, actually.

The man he met at the bar was nice, sure, but he’d also very clearly had the goal of getting into Peter’s pants. It’s odd to see the same man, who’d later taken such a serious, confident tone at the club still being playful.

“Speaking of, I thought you said you were a surgeon? Very impressive, very renowned, etcetera. Why are you giving me a… non, surgical check up?” Peter asks. He looks longingly at his shoes, kind of wishing they would just float over to his feet without him having to put them on.

Stephen doesn’t seem off put by Peter’s phrasing. “All of our neurologists are swamped at the moment. They called in some off duty general practitioners to cover, but a personal friend of mine, Christine, was supposed to see you and couldn’t, so she asked me.” He leans back in his chair, then, studying Peter in the same shameless, confident way (albeit, not in the lustful way) he had at the bar.

“I must say, I certainly wasn’t expecting to see you here. Or again, at all.” His tone lilts, pressing Peter to explain why he never called after they hit it off (and got off).

“Yeah, about that,” Peter mumbles. He grabs his sneakers but doesn’t put them on yet, figuring it would be rude to get up or turn his back while he’s explaining. “I’m sorry. I was honestly going to call you but, I uhm..”

“Lost the napkin?”

Peter winces, then nods and hangs his head in defeat. “I lost the napkin.”

Stephen laughs, sitting forward again, and it surprises Peter. On the rare occasion he’s seen someone he’s (intentionally) turned down again, they’ve usually been… a lot more aggressive and unhappy.

His confusion must show, because Stephen looks at him, all sharp features and unapologetically confident and somehow just soft enough to be sincere. “I figured it was something like that, considering you had a pretty good incentive to contact me.”

Peter narrows his eyes, but it’s not real heat. “‘Pretty good incentive’ he says. My, you’re just full of yourself, huh? That’s gotta be some kind of doctor syndrome or something. There was a Criminal Minds episode like that.” Stephen groans at his response.

“Criminal minds?”

“What? It’s a good show!”

“It’s completely unrealistic. Every episode has the exact same plot.”

Peter gasps, offended. “They do not!” Stephen looks unimpressed.

“There’s a bad guy, he’s killed people in a particularly gruesome way and now he’s kidnapped some poor girl. Time crunch. He’s a white man between his 20’s and 40’s, one of the ‘agents’ has some dramatic personal tie, there are hints at a subplot, Reed says something quirky and beats them all at cards on the plane. Sound familiar?”

Peter gapes at him for a solid three seconds before composing himself, crossing his arms and huffing. “It’s still entertaining..” he pouts, petulant. Stephan rolls his eyes but chuckles at the display.

“Well, I’m sure it will keep you plenty entertained while you get your rest. And hydration. But try to steer clear of the strawberry daiquiris.” He says, smirking as he reorders the papers on his clipboard. Peter relents, sighing, and turns to put on his shoes.

“‘s not like I picked ‘em out and bought them all..” he grumbles quietly.

When he slowly rises from the bed, Stephen is still there. Standing on the opposite side of the cot, staring at him. Peter feels his cheeks flush and dear god, he cannot get hard thinking about the last time they were alone in a room together.

He’s trying to think of some way to diffuse the tension, ask about leaving or paperwork (or the bill, dear god), the police report he needs to file or about his friend picking him up—but Stephen beats him to it.

“Would you like to have dinner?”

Peter stares. What was that?

“Huh?”

“I said, would you like to have dinner?” Stephen repeats, patient and unflinching, nothing modest or humorous to lighten the air.

Peter stutters, then wets his lip and bites it, then shifts from foot to foot before nodding.

“Yes. I’d like to have dinner with you.”

Stephen smiles. “Great.” He steps around the bed just as Peter does, bringing them closer together. “Now, technically I have your whole file right here, and I could just get your phone number off of that. But that’d be wholly unprofessional of me.”

Peter snorts, having to step back and cover his mouth so he can laugh at the man’s utter brashness. “Yeah, you’re completely correct. That would be very unprofessional. And probably illegal, I think.”

“Oh, definitely illegal.”

Peter giggles, but then Stephen is handing him the pen he’d been writing with. Peter takes it, still grinning, yet furrows his brows in confusion. “I don’t have any paper.”

Stephen smirks. Then he holds out his hand, palm up. When it clicks what he’s requesting and Peter snaps up to look at him, there’s a very calm, controlled smile, carefully containing a wild amount of self-satisfaction on Stephen’s face.

“So I don’t lose it.”

Peter rolls his eyes so dramatically it hurts, but he takes Stephen’s hand, reluctantly flattered, holding it steady in one of his own and writing with the other. Though it’s more like the older man’s one palm holds both of his stable with how unwavering it is.

When he’s finished writing his number, he hands the pen back. “Make sure you don’t wash that hand,” he quips. Stephen hums, waving an arm past to guide Peter out of the room.

“I promise I’ll take good care of it. The nurse will deliver your paperwork to the waiting room, and there will be an officer there as well. You’re very welcome to stay until your ride arrives.” He says. Before Peter can answer, the man is swooping down, planting a gentle kiss to his temple, and then before he can react, Stephen is disappearing down the hallway.

Peter waits in a mildly comfortable chair and picks up his packet, report and bills and prescription of rest, all in a daze. He’s still in it when he files his report with officer Rogers and when he gets in Ned’s car around two thirty in the morning, answering a million questions and finally tipping his head back against the seat, relishing the dark and the busy quiet of New York late at night.

Two days later, after he’s got a new phone and a new wallet (and a loan in May’s good credit name to pay for his hospital visit), he gets a text that threatens to buzz out of the pocket which barely manages to muffle it.

Unknown: Dinner, Thursday. 8 o’clock. I’ll pick you up. Sound good?

Peter grins and makes a new contact.

You don’t know my address though?

Stephen: I’m sure you’ll tell me.

Fair enough. I can do Thursday at 8.

Stephen: Perfect.

Then, a moment later:

Stephen: Wear that pink shirt again, and I’ll let you pick the venue. Deal?

Peter blushes even though there’s no one there to see it, biting the inside of his cheek not to smile dumbly at his phone.

Deal.

#stephen strange x peter parker #stephen x peter #spideystrange #psa that marshmallow vodka is actually fucking disgusting #anon #lemon does prompts now I guess lol #tw: alcohol #tw: violence #tw: medical expenses #healthcare is expensive as fuck bc america sucks #tw: age gap

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cainfm · 5 years ago

Text

『BILL SKARSGARD ❙ NONBINARY』 ⟿ looks like CAIN ROMANOV is here for THEIR SENIOR year as a LITERATURE student. THEY are 25 years old & known to be RIGHTEOUS, TRUE, EVASIVE & GUARDED. They’re living in MORIS, so if you’re there, watch out for them. ⬳ JAMES. 21. EST. SHE/THEY.

hdsjnf hello all ... it is james again ... here with another ... replacing noelle with cain bt it’s fine im fine. i’ve hit muse limit u wn’t hear frm me again ... so hit tht like button .. this isnt the best intro ive done bt mostly bc im just kinda like ... taking an old one n rewriting it as i go

TW CULTS, HEROIN USE / ADDICTION, DRUG ADDICTION / USE, ABUSE, PSYCHOLOGICAL / EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, PTSD, ANXIETY, TRAUMA.

aesthetics.

dangling limbs from tree branches, yellowed book pages, opened bottles of vintage wine, oversized sweaters and deep under eyes, bleached denim, worn leather gloves, cat hair against black cloth, fields of wheat, broken windows, descending staircases, tight-lipped smiles during public appearances, golden skies, light spilling from windows, stumbling over one’s own words, wire-framed beds, linens, wool scarves, making the wrong decisions; running, from others and yourself.

basic info.

full name: cain alexei romanov

nickname(s): n/a

b.o.d. - feb 19th, pisces :) happy birthday!

label(s): the connard (previously), the escapist, the facade, the fallen, the lothario (previously), the pariah, the phoenix, the puppeteer (previously), the sybarite, etc.

height: 6′4″ ... bruv.

hometown: stratford, connecticut

sexuality: bisexual uwu?

stats

inspired by: i feel like i did ... have an inspiration for him but i don’t ... remember ... so ur not getting this one ... i might edit this later if smth pops into my head but. alas.

biography.

born to connecticut senator vaughn romanov and well known philanthropist adelaide romanov, they were born into a life of privilege in a very prominent new england family. they’re the eldest of five in a very nuclear, picture perfect, preppy chic family.

was brought up to be a class a, outstanding, perfect citizen. golden child to the all american family (willfully ignoring the fact that his father came from russian immigrants). cain listened, obeyed, never strayed outside the lines.

it was always intended for cain to take on after their father, to follow in his footsteps and become a politician too. there were several expectations for them, including joining model un, debate, deca, splitting time between soccer, track, basketball, lacrosse, becoming class president, and all while maintaining a valedictorian - worthy gpa.

even volunteered on the weekends at homeless shelters and food banks, proving to everybody in their community just how much of a gem they were, darling, perfect member of society.

always eager as a child, eager for approval, eager to impress and wow and dazzle authorities and adults alike - cain never really had a problem with any of it? always attended church on sundays and sometimes even wednesdays. participated in family dinners and christmas photoshoots and new years eve parties, easter egg hunts and family reunions.

born and raised in stratford, super close to lovell to the point where it’d always been expected that the romanov children would simply just go to radcliffe, as did their parents. their home in stratford is a big, fancy, seven bedroom eight bath house with two fireplaces and an expansive dining room. no pool, but a sturdy treehouse made by scratch.

however. their model citizen persona was just that, a persona - a charade. in the community and to his family, cain was a hardworking citizen who upheld standards, a leader. to classmates and peers, from elementary to college - cain was the devil themself.

arrogant, harrowing, an outright bully who tore down others when they felt like it, often unprovoked. they were the senator’s son, and a rich one at that - rules never applying because they simply never existed for them, the upmost privilege because of who their family happened to be and their place in society. tattlers of their behavior faced far more consequence than cain ever did, or would.

the sort of person who’d genuinely look down at someone if they had less than them - a narcissistic dickhead who cared about two or three people, tops, outside of their family. was never physically violent, nor did they raise their voice, but that’s what made them all the worse. made them all the scarier. spewed classist bullshit with ease and was addicted to the power high it gave them.

their only redeeming quality was their protectiveness over their family - never the best person, but family is family, and they thought it ought’d to be protected.

went into political science and business to please their father, mainly, every step they made - every path cain went down, every choice from the electives they took in high school to the brand of shoes they wore, was to build them into the ideal presidential candidate.

probably joined a frat though cain never participated in parties too often, known for keeping their composure even when others resorted to violence, or got too drunk, or caused any public commotion, because they didn’t like to leave a bad image for the press. did their drugs in private but left nothing to the imagination, publicly.

but alas. during college, two very important series of events occurred.

seeking thrills, searching for fun in all the wrong places - cain became a middle-man between dealers and producers. never dealt it, and never produced it, but simply transported it between one another; the less everybody knew about each other the better. it was always a very hushed operation. one that they could’ve profited much off of, though money was never the motive for them.

and then he met earl and may meyers, fellow volunteers at a thanksgiving food drive; an older couple immediately drawn to cain, reasonable considering just who their father was, and cain to them. they can’t tell you what about the couple was so appealing - the air around them was something else entirely; some called it unhinged, others would call it comforting. but they were kind folks, down to earth - very religious, and very warmhearted. liked his name, a lot - like in the bible, they’d say, and laugh, and pat his arm. they would say, on occasion, that they reminded them of their late son.

it’d happened towards the end of their junior year, a few years after they’d gotten involved in the drug business - and the meyers were volunteering more and more, always at the same places as cain. the same times, too, as if they were learning his schedule. in retrospect - it was odd, but cain’d never suspected a thing. they kept talking, and it became a genuine friendship - a secured vote in the next election.

it only took a few months into this that they’d begun to talk about religion more. the sin of wealth, and god choosing only a select few when he cleanses the earth. only the worthiest souls. they’d eventually get into the rhythm of telling cain they were special - that they could see they’d be selected, see it in their aura, in their dreams, god sending them messages, etc. most would find it to be absolutely ... bonkers.

but it was oddly appealing to cain - like, maybe i am being constrained by capitalism. maybe i am disappointing god - aren’t i a devoted follower? it felt nearly ridiculous, but it seeped into their mind. psychological manipulation, lasting over months and cain unsuspecting. as if they could ever be the one manipulated. but the meyers could ask cain to jump, and they’d simply say - how high?

soon enough, earl and may told them that they were moving. that there’d been so many more like them and that it was time to join them, time to prepare - to get ready for the rapture. cain held off at first, finishing up their first term of their senior year and their life planned right before their eyes. everything they’d ever worked for. their loyal companions and close-knit family, their side-business that’d only gotten stronger - a long-term girlfriend and the engagement ring that burnt in their pocket, made their heart beat twice as fast at the very thought. still the same as before, cruel without a cause, but still surrounded by those who loved them - who could find something in them to love.

but a month into their senior year, cain had a sudden change of heart. they were ready, now, if not now then never later. all because of a third event. a surprise. a shock. a betrayal.

they had discovered that they were not their father’s child - not at all, not even by an inch. they were someone else’s, completely. their mother had broken down and cracked, after a particularly straining christmas party. the discussion was long, and the heartbreak only grew. the anger only grew. the hurt - it grew. more and more, with each pitiful sob their mother gave them. it was a mistake - a one night stand in a fit of petty anger in the very early stages of their marriage. and only cain knew - like they had to carry this weight, now, that they never asked to have.

it was the kind of information that broke a person. cain idolized their parents, done everything they’d ever asked - ever expected, and beyond, let them mold them like putty into whatever form they wanted. only to find out that in the end, it didn’t matter. it never mattered, if cain wasn’t the blood child of vaughn. if their mother - a woman who hadn’t a bad bone in her body, was nothing but a cheat and a liar.

cain unraveled.

they spent the first week getting into an altercation with near anybody who looked at them wrong. physical, usually - though arguments arose frequently as well. with no explanation, only thrown fists - often drunk, or high, or sober too - it never mattered. they spent a night in county jail, it’d gotten so bad. it seemed to have no end.

right until new years, just after midnight, when cain had disappeared without a word. it was treated like a missing persons case, though there was no evidence of foul play or kidnapping, and not much could be done about it.

BEGINNING OF CULT / DRUG / MOST OF THE TRIGGER WARNINGS

the only people who knew of cain’s whereabouts were the meyers - because they had left together. a last minute decision that, if they had only waited a simple minute longer, would’ve never happened. a mistake they desperately wished they could take back. a mistake that led to another event - maybe the most important one of them all.

they’d gone only hours away from stratford, and lovell, the border between new york and connecticut and not as far as cain had initially thought, but deep, deep into the woods. that was where the cult’d been. they wore white linens and cotton, but never mixed. technology banned, prayers and daily chores. it was natural, at first. for the first three months, that was.

it could’ve been grand. it was peaceful, and mind-clearing, and they treated cain as if their birth was a sign from the angels. cain come to undo his past. a potential leader. but the longer they stayed, the more apparent it became that they weren’t all that the cult had wanted, so desperately, to believe. once they began to slip up, once members became displeased - that’s when the punishments began to occur.

sometimes once a week, but sometimes - and, later, much more so, multiple. the memories are suppressed, for the most part - but there are some things they simply can’t - the hands, they can’t forget. pulling, and tugging, and gripping - begging, asking him to repent, please, repent. their head held underwater, counting seconds until their vision’d eventually darken and go out, only to be pulled out gasping and sobbing. these memories stay - these memories repeat themselves, like a record stuck on repeat, days blurring into one another.

when they tried to fight back - they were subdued. heroin was the first step. little by little, everyday - enough to leave them in a high they wouldn’t remember; enough to burn a hole in their memory. and with these dimming memories, cain’d begin to sneak paper and pencil into their living arrangement, their room, writing everyday. wrote as much as they could remember from home - about their family, their life before it all - the people they loved. they couldn’t remember what they’d written, some days.

and when those notes were found, bound by thread taken from their own clothing to form a shabby book - that’d been the final straw. dragged, kicking and screaming - mind-numbingly high, into place. the twisted reenactment, retelling of cain’s demise. how exactly he’d gotten his scar. it would’ve been near perfect, if they had only stayed still and let them brand the mark into his forehead. but instead - they settled, eventually, for the chest. then - the left cain to die in the middle of the woods. in the middle of nowhere. no trails or campsites to follow, nothing at all. nothing but trees. nothing but his notes and the clothes on their back. they hadn’t even known what day it was - almost forgotten the year, too.

cain should’ve died there, but cain got up. and they ran. and ran. and ran. until they hit something, eventually. a road. it’d been pure luck that they’d found a car near immediately afterwards, whose driver wasn’t doubling as a murderer, who took them to the hospital - and who gave cain that chance to live. they were found on new years, a full cycle - a full year in the cult that’d changed their life.

END OF CULT / DRUG / MOST OF THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. STILL MENTIONS OF TRAUMA / MENTAL HEALTH / RECOVERY / ADDICTION BEYOND THIS POINT.

after being reunited with their family in the hospital - everything went by very fast. they couldn’t recognize their youngest sibling, but they also couldn’t remember why they’d left in the first place. couldn’t remember the name of their girlfriend, but the color of her hair and the way she smelled. they couldn’t give answers to their actions.

and after being put into therapy and recovery for their addiction - that’s when they find out that their father’s a presidential candidate, that they had been - that they used cain’s disappearance as a story for the press, one to garner votes. their return is national news, and their public opinion skyrockets. it’s supposed to be glorious, and a miracle, a blessing - but cain feels restrained. confined to the role they’d always been expected to play - expected to get up and continue with their life, as if nothing had happened.

but nothing didn’t happen - everything happened, and cain’s different now, vastly so - no longer who they thought they were. they change their major to literature, abandon politics. they get some cats, start working at the library, and they put on some leather gloves - their method of staying away, of keeping a comfortable distance. they are different, now, and simply only wish to focus on their recovery.

personality.

they’re no longer who they once were. a year of trauma does things to a person - and with memory loss that weighs heavy on their mind, they are near completely different. they remember parts of their old personality, their old lifestyle - enough to know they want to be better. they’re convinced that it’s karma, what happened to them. for being who they were - acting the way they did. just ... a bunch of self-blame.

even with the massive ego, cain’s always been a quiet person. but now - now cain’s even quieter. kinder, if not a little sarcastic, like a relic from the past. they’re distant - but it’s one of fear, restrictive and tense - not one made out of their own comfort.

smokes medical marijuana but rarely drinks ... as if that’d make a difference. in an effort to beat their heroin addiction, they’ve turned to prescriptions instead.

like i mentioned ... cain has four cats. it’s basically their entire personality. two of them were from before their disappearance, but two are new to their little (school-approved) family. there is: frank (big chungus when yelled. white and gray), brock (orange. fluffy. stoic. devours food), shoelace (black furred, missing an eye and half an ear), and crunchwrap supreme (crunch for short. calico with bent ears). yes, they have photos of their cats in their wallet.

cain’s memory is fucked - like, really fucked. they forget a lot of things. short term, long term. it’s a constant struggle. they managed to keep their notes from the cult, so those help - but not always. they forget dates and names and faces and events. sometimes they wake up and don’t know where they are. they don’t sleep often, anyways. with the trauma came night terrors, and in an attempt to avoid them they don’t ... sleep often. only a few hours a night if they can withstand it, because it’s frankly terrible.

they suffer from severe touch aversion. skin contact with anybody, of any sort, is enough to send cain into a full-blown panic attack. they were leather gloves more often than not in an attempt to combat this disadvantage, without hindering their dexterity too much. even with clothes, they’re not the biggest fan of physical contact. it won’t send him into a panic attack, but they visibly flinch away. they’re very clear from the get-go, if someone is too close to them, that they don’t like physical contact.

dealing with ptsd and attends therapy every week. their therapist recommended that they keep writing their notes, after reviewing them himself, so cain does. they keep an entire journal where they write, and sketch a little, because it helps them cope and de-stress. it means a lot to them, actually.

also dealing with ptsd and attends therapy every week - therapist recommended he kept writing after looking at his notes - so he does, keeps an entire journal where they write and like … sketch a little, because it helps them cope. means more to them than it would seem. but, unfortunately, part of their coping involves getting far too involved in their own mini-investigation of the cult they’d been part of. when the cult was tracked back to where cain’d been brought, they were already gone - and cain wants to know where. wants to know how to find them. wants justice, vengeance. wants nobody else to get hurt from them.

pretty blunt ... won’t go out of their way to announce that hey, they were part of a cult, and that’s why they’re gone and that’s why that’s the way they are now - but they also won’t lie about it, if the topic comes up in conversation. they don’t like delusions, don’t like secrets, nor do they like unnecessary attention.

being at radcliffe makes cain anxious because - well, they’re surrounded by people they’ve been doing wrong by for years now and they can’t even remember which ones. who, what, when, why - distant memories, if they’re even there at all. is constantly trying to figure out how to redeem themselves. they’d leave, if it hadn’t been their parents’ assistance that they stay there. so that someone always has an eye on them.

but like ...they screwed over a lot of people when they left. from plugs / customers to their ex-girlfriend, who they are, undeniably, still in love with (you can’t forget that feeling) - to their friends. like. everybody, pretty much KBJNSDFKSNLD

is often pretty high ... i’d say it’s just the medical weed but. alas :/ take a guess :/

hates cars & swimming & crowds. hates feeling trapped and will avoid it whenever possible. doesn’t want to be seen as unsociable, but it’s difficult.

they ... have a tendency to run away when they’re overwhelmed. likes to climb trees because they’re tall enough to. there’s a tree outside of their window that they climb out to frequently, even though it’s like a ~safety hazard~ or whatever. just really likes to hide out.

used to be in perkins when they last attended radcliffe, but they gave their spot to someone else and that was like - 100% fine w/ cain tbh. lives alone in moris now.

feels the need to redeem themself ... to like, everybody. like, they want to avoid conflict and be a better person, but it’s hard, and they don’t necessarily like confrontation either - and not everybody believes that cain’s changed. it wouldn’t be surprising if people were suspicious of cain, for whatever reason, because they don’t ... really have the best track record anymore.

developed a stutter as one of the results from their trauma. their voice is damaged from screaming and they’re self-conscious about it, but they’re working on it because there’s more important things to worry about. in general, cain looks ... gaunt, too thin, and generally sickly.

repeating senior year ... fr obvious reasons ... and probably won’t graduate anytime soon because they’ve changed their major so late.

can still hold a conversation & they’re not really afraid of socialization. it just takes a toll on them. they’re pretty lowkey, as a person. soft, sorta. quiet but they won’t be an asshole (on purpose). they like people! just. very low energy.

so like ... tldr ... not an asshole anymore ... dealing with a lot of trauma ... trying to be a good person ... yes ...

wanted connections.

locals... people they’ve grown up with their entire life. people they’ve wronged, people who idolized him, envied him, despised him, etc.

enemies... would love for a bunch of these just. a hoard of people who fucking hate cain. because it fits the bill. they could’ve bullied them, or wronged them, whatever. anything works. let’s make it happen.

exes... that they’ve dumped... old hookups, ex-friends, people they got into an argument with or fought before they disappeared last year...

ex girlfriend... that connection wld b rly neat!! i have it up as a wc rn but we can take that down ... will be holding intense american idol - esque auditions. remember that cain ws a fckn classist pig and probably only dated people who were also rich with influential families. (unless u present a very good case to me ... then maybe ... perhaps ...)

family friends... family rivals... people he knows mostly thru their family.

redeemable... people they’re trying to redeem themself to... trying to prove their worth, and that they’re a better person now, etc. etc.

old clients... :) angry clients. that they left in the dust.

perkins... people he knew from perkins ... old pals or maybe enemies idk he was pretty insufferable ... people he used to go to fancy parties with sometimes ...

angery... people so so so so fucking pissed at cain, for whatever reason.

reconciliation... reconnecting... used to be friends and we can be friends again :) and i will be better this time! i’m a slut for slowburns, especially slowburn friendships ... enemies to friends ... now THAT is sexy.

victims... of bullying ... :/ of their bullying specifically.

sof...t... wholesome content ... nothing but soft, understanding friendships ... or developing friendships ... make them feel welcomed again... forgive them...

an..g.st... friends to enemies. enemies to bigger enemies. miscommunication. betrayal. whatever u want.

no hookups!!! ... please only previous encounters. nothing in the present. because it just wldn’t make sense.

unless... eyes emoji. H DSJLFJKS just kidding! i’d accept MAYBE some kind of sexual tension but like ... the sort that hurts, because it just Cannot Happen (i will not let it happen). or maybe a fun, casual sexting thing but like. nothing physical. pleasthe.

fuck politics!... mayhaps, they hate mr. romanov and his politics or smth. he’s probably corrupt in some way, so! go at it!

aggression... i feel like a lot of the conversations between cain n other ppl start out rly ... angry bc theyre Mad. at them.

ok it’s bed time please plot with me.

#radintro #cult tw #heroin tw #drug abuse tw #addiction tw #trauma tw #ptsd tw #anxiety tw #manipulation tw #abuse tw #i think thts all ...

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asiryn · 4 years ago

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this post is going to be very rambly, so i apologize in advance. if you’re potentially interested in my liveblogs, and/or interested in hearing a bit about my current life and disability issues, tune in. if you aren’t, then....keep scrolling i guess XD

(if you just want the current liveblog schedule, scroll to the bottom)

[and this got predictably very long, so i’m gonna put it behind a cut for convenience]

up to recently, my main liveblogs have been about the pokemon anime, with a few other shows, books, and especially video games sprinkled in here and there. essentially, waaaay back in yonder year of 2014, netflix added the first season of pokemon, the indigo league, to their site, and i, in a fit of nostalgia, made the veeery questionable decision to watch all of the pokemon anime---rewatching the stuff i hadn’t touched since i was kid, and then continuing on into the unknown, and watching all the seasons from gen 3 onward that i had missed due to dropping out of pokemon. i only really started actually making liveblog posts once i hit gen 3, then i stayed consistent-ish from then onward. (for the curious, i’m up to sun & moon, and i have 44 episodes left until i finish it (i’m not ready ;;;; ), and then netflix actually just dropped the first 12 episodes of the newest series, pokemon journeys, so....56 until i’ve caught up with the dub XD)

so, all of y’all who climbed aboard with those liveblogs are probably already aware of Who I Am, at least a little. (....this is making it sound like i’m Some Big Name in liveblogging, but i’m not really anything of the sort, just so we’re all on the same page XD) at least, in terms of the fact that i’m physically disabled, suffer from chronic pain, etc. but recently, i’ve joined two new fandoms, and i’ve begun liveblogging spop and my next life as a villainess. and my spop posts in particular are already becoming some of the most popular posts i’ve ever done (like wow, you guys). and i think part of that popularity is due to the fact that these are two pretty recent, pretty popular fandoms (tho i do also like to think that i do make good content XP). but the point is that quite a lot of new ppl are coming across me, and idk how much, if any, of you have taken the time to look at my bio or anything. so i guess....part of this post is just some ruminations, but also my way of letting you know more of what you’re getting into.

so, for those who don’t know: hi, you can call me kiryn, i liveblog stuff sometimes, and i’m physically disabled. i suffer from intense, constant, chronic pain. it stems from a bone disease called HME, or hereditary multiple exostosis, if you’re curious (i have a severe case of it, joy of joys). the short version of what that means is that i have a lot of bone spurs everywhere on my body, and they....cause me a lot of pain. basically, i cannot do any kind of sustained activity without the already significant, never-ceasing pain that i feel cranking up to unbearable levels, and basically i’ll be rendered immobile. i do have pain meds that i take, and that very much help to take the edge off, and make it so that i can function at all (bc, believe fucking me, w/o them, i wouldn’t be able to achieve even the little i can do), but even with them, it only makes a dent in my pain levels, and again, sustained activity makes up that difference very quickly.

now, the gist of this stuff i’ll mention from time to time, but....i don’t usually go into much detail about it (and this post is probably the most detailed i’ve been about my condition in years). bc, quite frankly, it’s depressing. (and seeing as i also already have clinical depression, that’s definitely not something that i need more of XD) i participate in fandoms for escapism, and bc i don’t really want to think about that crushing mountain of reality. i’ve had this condition since birth, and i’ve literally lived my entire life in constant pain, and i honestly have no fucking idea what it even feels like to be painless. and what’s even worse is that it’s a degenerative disease---essentially, the bone spurs are wearing down my joints, so....my entire condition will just keep worsening as i get older. (and no, surgery to remove the spurs isn’t really an option.) i’ll be 29 next month, and i can already tell you, i’ve been feeling that decline sharply. when i was a kid, i could still run. by the time i was a teenager, i couldn’t even do that anymore; the best i could manage was a jog. now....i don’t think i could even do that.

i guess the main point in why i’m saying all this, is that for the last year especially, i’ve been dealing with the worst downward swing that i’ve had in years. in my late teens and early-mid 20s, i got into a pretty good rhythm, of knowing my body’s limits, how to budget spoons to accomplish things, etc. but now even that fragile equilibrium has been thrown out the window, and i’m currently struggling to learn the new limits and rhythm of this downward swing that is unfortunately now my reality. even before, i was pretty limited on what i could accomplish, but even that narrow window has shrunk even further. so basically, i’m in the testing zone still. and it’s a very slow process, bc once i exceed the limit, my body breaks down, and now it takes me even longer to recover. as an example, i used to know that i could wake up in the morning and get ready to leave the house in 20-30 mins. now? i need at least an hour, which involves me pushing through a wave of agony to be able to take my pain meds in the first place, and then wait for those meds to kick in and the pain to die down enough to move without feeling like i’m moving through a wall of spikes. (and that’s just the start of every day for me, and before even throwing in all of the other variables)

so, coming back to the liveblogs......obviously, that’s affected by all this too. if you’ve wondered why there’s been a gap between me finishing up spop s1 and starting s2....that’s why. partly, i didn’t expect how analysis-heavy i was going to get on spop; pokeani just doesn’t tend to be as consistently thematically deep, so those liveblogs took far less out of me than spop has, and pushing myself to finish 5 episodes in one day....well, it was too much. and the thing is, it’s obviously unhealthy for me to continually push myself to the point of total breakdown, so...that’s where learning my new limits comes in. so, these past few days, i’ve been thinking, and essentially trying to better figure out how to do liveblogs like this without pretty much killing myself in the process (bc i honestly do love making them....i mean, if i didn’t, then it really wouldn’t be worth the literal pain it takes to make them XD). and also there’s a component of managing my anxiety-brain, bc leaving things Unfinished stresses me out, and so when coming to terms with the fact that it’s going to take me awhile to finish one show....knowing that i’d be leaving others hanging....Doesn’t Help XD

so, here’s what i’ve got so far (and obvs, this is subject to much tweaking in the future XP)

currently, i’m watching 4 shows: pokeani, good omens, villainess, and spop. villainess rn is the least of my worries, bc 1 ep is coming out a week, so it’s not demanding a lot of my time.

for the other 3, here’s the preliminary schedule i’ve sort of hashed out:

- pokeani sm103-106

- spop s2

- pokeani sm107-110

- spop s3

- pokeani sm111-114

- spop s4

- pokeani sm115-118

- spop s5

- pokeani sm119-122

- good omens

- pokeani sm123-126

- [catch up block] (i don’t have a good track record in keeping up with ongoing shows, so if i fall behind on villainess, this is where i can catch up)

- finish pokeani sun & moon [sm127-146] (the league starts on ep 128, so i’d rather not experience any big interruptions in the battles XD)

basically, i’ve given myself a limit of 4 pokeani eps in a single session (bc as stated, they don’t take as much out of me), and with spop, the most i’ll let myself watch in a row will be 3 eps (s2 will probably be broken up into a 3/2/2 block, s3 a 3/3 block, and s4&5 will be a 3/3/3/2/2 block).

now, keep in mind that i’m very deliberately making no guarantees about specific days, bc who even knows, but at the very least, scheduling and talking it all out like this will help me to better manage my spoons, and if you’ve actually read this far, then you’ll know the method in the madness and why i’m doing things this way. XD the vague goal is to get in a least 1 liveblog session a week (plus a bonus of the new villainess ep on saturdays)---at least for the shows. i’m still having to working out what i’m going to do about video games....maybe i should just go on a ‘once a week’ model for all my hobbies across the board XDD

in the next couple of days, i’ll be posting that in-depth look into all the ships of villainess (it started as me just pecking down a few thoughts while i was taking a social media break due to the Current Events, but now i’m at the point where i’m like, i’ve put too much effort into this to not post it, damn it XP), and then depending on spoons, i’ll try to start in on that schedule this week, so stay tuned for some pokeani! (again....i’ll try to hit at least 1 liveblog a week before i start trying to get more ambitious XDD)

in any case, if you have stuck through to the end, thank you very much. your support means a lot to me 💖

#kiryn's adventures in liveblogging #kiryn watches pokemon #kiryn watches spop #kiryn watches she ra #kiryn watches my next life as a villainess #kiryn watches good omens #life updates #disability talk #scheduling

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sarinataylor · 6 years ago

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If you're up for that - more Joger hcs? Would they adopt a pet (or does Freddie have enough for all four of them)? What's their domestic life like? How well do they seperate work and private? Does one of them (try to) throw a surprise birthday party for the other one? Do they like the parents of the other one (and do they like their son's partner)? Do they get each other flowers?

……………………………………………………………………………………….

modern!/canon!joger au:

- yes to the pet. john wants a dog so they get a fuckin dog. it’s a cocker spaniel bc when they see it in the shelter roger’s like…. oh my god. it’s you! it’s official name is ‘deacon john’. it gets called steve. (yes, another one bites the dust is about steve the cocker spaniel. they get incredibly drunk one night and spin this incredibly long and detailed story about steve being an outlaw cowboy.)

- domestically? hmm. ok so as said before: if roger is up? he’s up. john can actually sleep the day away if given the chance. difference is that if john sets an alarm he Gets Up whereas roger can, and has, sleep through fire alarms. so. john likes fixing things? but also sometimes fixes things that did Not Need Fixing (he insists that their living room lightswitch is better now but roger quite liked it back when u could just. flip the switch). roger does the laundry. he doesn’t know how this became his job, but it did. he also refuses to take responsibility for steve (and pretends to be innocent when the vet tells them he’s overweight), there’s just something incredibly endearing about john shuffling about the garden with the pooper scooper in a threadbare jumper and platforms and nothing else.

- how well do they separate work and private? it depends really. they’re both incredibly musically inclined: they’re the fuckin’ rhythm section. but. they’re also very supportive of one another as well? but i can also see them getting fucking pissed about any “well you would back him up you’re his fucking husband” getting thrown around - as if they don’t respect one another enough to disagree? what is this, high school? fuck off.

- surprise party? john has tried to play off forgetting roger’s birthday as a “surprise! i got you….. shitty gas station flowers!” ala that 70s show.

- the inlaws! roger fucking loves john’s mom, and she loves him. how could she Not love him when she now gets a gift and card AND phone call every birthday? and mother’s day? and john loves roger’s mom too, but isn’t so keen on his dad.

- flowers? another roger thing, i think? this seems like im playing favourites but tbh. again i think john is someone who surprised roger with Functional things. like things he didn’t even think to want but then he’s like? oh. this is perfect, thanks babe! roger does sometimes just see flowers on his way home and is like :) surprise babe! (one of john’s gifts for roger is a vase).

#joger hc's #lo talks #do let me know if u want a specific timeline/au!#Anonymous

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words-writ-in-starlight · 6 years ago

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hi, it's the adhd anon again. according to the dsm-v, i think i have it, which is weird bc i've never seen myself as having more trouble than others. (my grades are better than almost anyone else in my grade.) (although that might just be bc i'm interested in what's being taught - when something's not interesting or too hard, i have a pretty hard time doing it.) anyway, if it's not too much trouble, what does feel like to stim/hyperfixtate for you? (i'm so sorry to bother you in advance)

Hey, dude, welcome back! So, okay, first things first: the stereotype of someone with ADHD automatically doing terribly in school is based heavily on the original diagnostic criteria, which categorized ADHD strictly in terms of “young hyperactive white boy who has violent outbursts and/or disciplinary problems and Just Doesn’t Do Well in academics.” And there are people who manifest ADHD like that, it’s a stereotype with roots in reality--a lot of people with ADHD either consistently struggle with academics or eventually reach a point where their previous focusing techniques fail them.

However.

I left high school for college two years early, and if I hadn’t, I would probably been valedictorian of the graduating class, because I had a GPA well above 4.0 due to my general habit of doing extra credit whenever it was offered. In college, I had a reputation for turning in beautifully complete lab reports and essays five pages over the minimum requirement. I got high honors on my thesis, graduated magna cum laude, and finished a pre-medical major in half the recommended time period. When I was a kid, the phrase “savant syndrome” got thrown around a lot, to give you some context.

On the other hand, I manifest a lot of those stereotypical ADHD symptoms: I’m loud, I interrupt people a lot, I have erratic and overwhelming mood swings that I struggle to control, I fidget incessantly and can’t stand silence, I have a tendency to get destructive when I’m angry, I have managed to seriously injure myself because I couldn’t resist a stupid impulse more than once, and if we’re all being honest, I would never have graduated high school at all, because I was on the brink of expulsion for getting into fights during class periods.

It’s easy to feel like “I never really struggled academically” is somehow a counterargument to any and all symptoms of ADHD that you might manifest, but it’s really not. (Heck, sometimes ADHD is even helpful--I finished my thesis a full week before anyone else and had time to fix my citations, mostly because my ADHD responds well to pressure and that crunch time hyperfocus Had My Back.) It might take time for you to come to terms with this idea, and that’s okay! But try to at least consider it.

All that being said, I am actually gonna answer your question, I just got distracted because the amount of time I spent making the statement “I’m faking having ADHD because I did well in school” is mindblowing and I have a Thing about it. Forgive my ramble.

Stimming: I’m going to answer this first because the answer is going to be the most useless. The ways I stim tend to be vocal/auditory stuff (I talk a lot when I’m alone, I sing and play music when I’m doing menial tasks, if I’m really anxious I’ll hum a single note until I calm down) or tactile stuff (sometimes destructive things like scratching my arms, sometimes neutral stuff like tapping my fingers in specific patterns or rubbing my palms over my jeans or the leather of a jacket or something). It’s mostly things that ‘pass’ for neurotypical with very few exceptions, because I trained myself out of a lot of my ‘non-passing’ stims (rocking back and forth, knocking into walls, hand-flapping, that sort of thing) really young. As for what it feels like to stim, it’s just...good. It’s sort of like the brain equivalent of running your hand the right way along velvet, and discovering that you’ve been rubbing it backwards all along. Or like the equivalent of stepping into a cool shower on a really hot day--it’s not that it’s miserable outside the shower, it’s just that the shower is extremely good. I have a playlist of music that, for whatever reason, hits the right combination of voice and rhythm and notes and words to make my brain suddenly get calm, and it’s not necessarily my favorite music or a cohesive collection of tunes or anything (featuring Six Shooter by Coyote Kisses and also Human by Rag’n’Bone Man, which have nothing in common), but it’s Good.

Hyperfocus: You didn’t actually mention this, but I think it’s worth mentioning because it’s one of the hallmarks of ADHD. It bears more than a passing resemblance to the concept of “flow”, but turned up to 11. Hyperfocus is the state of being so overwhelmingly tuned in to the thing you’re currently doing that everything else falls away--which is fine, unless you’re one of us folks who can hyperfocus ourselves right through meal times. It’s inexorable, it’s all-consuming, and it can feel pretty fucking great, which is why it’s important to be careful and find a way to hydrate yourself. The primary difference between hyperfocus and flow is that hyperfocus is generally involuntary and does not necessarily tune you into something you planned or wanted to pay attention to. If you ever see me publish a fic that includes a note about “I didn’t mean to write this but it’s 2 AM so here”, that’s code for “please validate me, I’ve been hyperfocused on this for two or three hours and I failed to do a lot of important things as a result.” The other thing about hyperfocus is that afterwards, the drop coming off it is a real bitch. It leaves me feeling hollowed out, exhausted, and kind of pettily disinterested in anything that would usually hold my attention. Being hyperfocused is like being a machine designed to do one thing and one thing only and doing that thing feels incredible; coming off hyperfocus is like being an overtired toddler.

Hyperfixation: Hyperfixations are the ADHD equivalent of a special interest, aka: that thing you’ve been struggling not to pester every single person you know about, every single second of every single day of the past two and a half weeks. Were you around, dear anon, when this blog was Only Animorphs, All The Time, and if you didn’t give a shit about morphin’ teens you just had to sit down, shut up, and learn some stuff, or else unfollow me? That’s what hyperfixating looks like. Sometimes it’s useful stuff--do you know how unbelievably useful having a hyperfixation on triage techniques is to me? I crushed my triage training, I owned that shit, I wrote a whole chapter of my thesis on it. Other times, it’s...well, Animorphs. Or the American Revolution. Or X-Men. Or dinosaurs. Some random shit like that. Learning about hyperfixations, talking about them, is generally pure unadulterated joy. On the other hand--oh, God, listen, I know how annoying I am, but I cannot stop myself. I know I haven’t talked about anything but Animorphs in three weeks, I know I’ve made forty-five TAZ posts today, whatever you’re about to complain about, I already know, okay, I am aware, and there is nothing more painful than to have a fucking out-of-body experience watching yourself rattle on about a hyperfixation while the other person obviously gets bored in front of you. And then you try to keep your mouth shut and it physically hurts not to talk about the thing. It��s hard to describe what it ‘feels’ like except that ADHD brains are magpies at their core and hyperfixations are the shiny, shiny objects your brain wants to take home.

Anyway, I’m not sure how useful ANY of this has been, but like. After a certain point, you kind of have to trust yourself enough to decide, once and for all, whether you really, truly believe you’re faking a neurological disorder for the attention. If the answer is no, then great! You have sussed out your symptoms and can start managing them accordingly, whether that’s some helpful apps on your phone or medication or something in between. If the answer is yes, then you probably need some therapy, and your therapist will be able to help you get to a point where you feel able to trust yourself.

Go with the neurodivergent gods, my dude.

#adventures in adhd #actually adhd #stimming #hyperfocus #hyperfixation #advice from starlight #HELLO FRIENDS THIS IS UNDER A CUT BECAUSE I RAMBLE #LIKE #CONSTITUTIONALLY UNABLE TO NOT RAMBLE #anyway ch'boy wrote some stuff today #and now i'm answering some asks #so really what i want is a pat on the damn back for getting shit done THANKS #idiot teenagers with a queue #anonymous #asked and answered

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lovelyirony · 7 years ago

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Livin’ Easy, Lovin’ Free

Since I wanna write about Tony being a fuckin nerd with a robot tie I’M DOIN’ IT and virtually none of u can stop me bc i love my idea (pt. 1??)

Steve Rogers was in a band. No one thought he would be in one because he was an art student in high school who was so asthmatic that he couldn’t even fast-walk without an inhaler at his side. And then in college he got big. Like, football big. But the man still had two left feet when it came to sports, so he was regretfully passed on.

It started when Bucky accidentally forgot to unlock him out of the dorm room and left for a two-hours-away concert with Clint. Steve had already sent him a text, and Sam would retrieve him in the morning. Maybe. But Steve had nothing to do besides read his textbooks (not likely), watch TV (he had just marathoned an auction show, so no) or learn something. He chose guitar.

He has to google it. He starts practicing. He likes it, even if the strings make his hands all rough. It’s rhythm. He just plays all night. Learns a couple of chords.

Steve starts getting pretty good.

He joins a band. It’s Bucky, Clint, and Sam. They’re called the Howling Commandos after Steve’s grandfather’s troop in World War II. “That’s bitchin’,” Clint comments. “We have to do that.” The group mutually agrees on it, and so it becomes.

It’s supposed to be a local college thing. They perform stuff from Led Zeppelin and AC/DC and all the classic rock stuff, occasional softie being thrown in there. Bucky’s voice is made for raspy singing and hard rock, something Steve can’t do. He cannot sing for shit. Like, at all. He can hum. But he can work the guitar. Bucky just jokes and says “yeah, he’s got artist hands.” Which is true. He does. His fingers are nimble and Steve can shred like nobody’s business.

They blow up after Sam, new member and all around Best Guy, releases a snippet on his Twitter to promote the band going to the pub. Way more people show up. “If you’re going to advertise, get a bigger bar,” Hill snipes as she wipes off spilled tequila. “Tequila’s coming out of your payment.”

“Better drink some then,” Clint says.

The Howling Commandos start performing at other venues. A record label picks them up. They’re the warm-up band for a bigger one. And it goes from there.

They become a household name overnight. People ask you who your favorite is, if you’re going to the concert. Steve doesn’t want to be stereotyped as the Apple Pie Lifestyle Dude. While he doesn’t mind it, he gets a feeling that’s what he’s gonna get all his life. So he mixes it up. Comes out on stage with eyeliner around his eyes, making already icy eyes explode. He wears his beat-up leather jacket and works on not smiling like Mr. Rogers. Bucky thinks it’s an improvement.

“Damn you look different,” Bucky says with a grin. “Like you’re actually gonna win a fight.”

“Aw, shaddup.”

Natasha Romanoff is not invincible when it comes to music she likes. She forced Tony to listen to classical music for a week straight because she was so moved by Tchaikovsky one day. She likes music. The Howling Commandos caught her eye because they’re right up her alley: classic rock without coming off as an asshole. Plus, it helps that both Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers have launched themselves into the audience to stop a pervert or to help someone who is having difficulty. They’re nice people. Natasha finds it adorably disgusting. (And if she has a thing for Barnes, then that’s her business.)

She knows Clint Barton. They went to high school together and kept in contact. She was one of the only classmates to think that he was worth something and that he wasn’t gonna end up as a hobo somewhere.

He got her in for free, front row. With a friend. So she chose Tony, naturally. If she brought anyone else, she wouldn’t have as much fun.

Of course, Tony comes as he is. “Hi!” He says brightly. They’re taking his flashy Maserati so they know that Natasha means business. (Also so she can look famous and badass while walking out of the car with her held-together-with-safety-pins shirt and her ripped jeans and scuffed boots. It’s thirteen year old her’s dream.)

Tony did not change into his Prescribed Hot Clothes. No, he’s still wearing his stupid “I’m Not Just a Businessman, I’m a Cool Businessman” attire, which meant he looked like a goofy teacher with a button-down and his robot tie.

“I’m gonna die of embarrassment,” Natasha says. “Where’s your AC/DC shirt?”

“In the wash,” Tony says with a shrug. “Rock isn’t about your outfit, it’s about your attitude.” Natasha snorts as she gets in the car.

“You’re such a dork.” Tony smiles. She plugs in the aux cord. He calls one song groovy and starts humming along to one she was playing earlier.

“I like this one.”

“It’s called Falling Off a Jet. I like it.”* Natasha is more nervous than she looks. She makes sure that she has her ticket and Tony’s in her purse more than once. They get in no problem. Tony smiles at the security guard. They get front seats with fancy drinks and food that Tony pays for.

The intro band is good. Natasha thinks they have potential. Tony keeps saying he likes one of the member’s neon pink shoes ironically. He dabs once. “I cannot believe I’m your friend,” Natasha groans.

“I’m in with the kids,” Tony says. “I’m a Cool Engineer. Peter told me so.”

“Peter would kill the president for you, his opinion means nothing.”

The band comes on. Natasha has to admit that Bucky Barnes’ Murder Strut makes her feel some type of way.

Tony...he’s in awe. Because here’s this blondie with icy eyes and a leather jacket, guitar slung across his body. He’s grinning as he looks out at the crowd.

“Nat, which one is that? Is that Clint?”

“No, Clint’s the one who just tripped,” Natasha says. “That’s Steve Rogers. He plays guitar. He’s scarily good at it.” Tony files the information away for later use.

Steve Rogers doesn’t notice Tony Stark at first. It’s only when he bends down to get the bottle of water that he hears someone laugh and it’s loud and sincere and he looks over and...

There’s a cute guy. He’s in a button-down and a tie with something on it. Steve kind of wants to see what’s on it. He moves a bit closer. He thinks they’re robots. Interesting.

The concert goes off without a hitch. Sharon’s interns have the lights downpat and Clint doesn’t trip again. Sam gets to sing quite a few songs, making some ladies and men scream as his mellow voice fills the stage. He keeps his eye on Cute Tie Dude.

After the concert, Clint tells them that some friends are dropping in to say hi and meet them.

It’s Cute Tie Dude!

Oh no.

Steve looks like shit. His eyes look like a raccoon's, he’s drenched in sweat, and is currently in a shirt that is advertising some stupid tourist attraction that Clint swears he saw a ghost at.

“This is Natasha Romanoff and Tony Stark,” Clint says. Natasha’s stare lingers a bit longer on Bucky. Steve already knows that’s gonna go well. Tony steps up.

“I uh, liked the guitar,” he says. “Oh no, I’m sure everyone says that...”

“It’s fine,” Steve offers. “Uh, thank you. That means a lot to me.” Clint and Sam snort.

“Loverboy,” Sam mouths at Steve.

“Asshole,” Steve mouths right back. “So...Stark. Happen to be affiliated with Stark Enterprises?”

“That’s my company,” Tony says. “That’s why I wore the robot tie today. I was giving tours to some schools.” Goddammit he’s too cute abort mission Steve--

“That’s so cool,” Steve says. “How were the tours?”

And this is how Tony eventually tunes Steve’s guitar to just the right notes and fixes Sharon’s wonky light (”I think I’m in love with you,” Sharon says seriously to him, and he blushes he motherfucking blushes) and also blushes whenever Steve compliments him.

“I had a great time talking to you,” Steve says. “You’re...great. Awesome.” Tony’s face turns red. He looks adorable.

“Well thank you,” he says, smiling. “You weren’t too bad yourself, Rogers. You have to tell me the story of how the band formed sometime, yeah?” Steve nods.

“Here’s my number,” He says, holding out his phone. “I...I’d like to talk to you some more, if you wouldn’t mind terribly.”

They’re such fucking dorks. They send each other dog memes and Tony calls him to tell him that he bought another vintage painting of flowers because “it reminded me of you Steven, don’t you dare scold me” and Steve sends him presents from wherever they perform with a handwritten card and Tony sends him flowers and postcards.

“You guys are such dorks,” Natasha says one night when they’re finally watching a movie together.

Steve smiles down at Tony.

They kind of are.

#guys if i got something wrong just don't tell me #please #i can't handle being wrong when i know i am #i know nothing about bands or guitars or rock #i just thought it was cute #anyway this had no direction so enjoy as i fling this to u #whoops it's bad plot writing #it's okay tho i do that with every fic so it's like my signature by now #tony stark #steve rogers #stony #they're such dorks #rockstar au

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prettylilparker · 7 years ago

Text

a snowman and a snow angel

my masterlist :)

summary: peter parker asks you, his very own snow angel, to meet him on the roof of your shared apartment building complex. but what does your dork of a boyfriend have in store for you?

warnings: wintertime fluff to make u hate cuffing season even more bc u have no one to do this with

word count: 1k

author’s note: in honor of it snowing where i live today, here's a cute fluffy fic of what i want in a bf exactly during wintertime. someone best cuff me soon. u hear me universe? mhm u sweetie! (ALSO, ASK ME TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST!)

You tugged on your knee-high boots, peering out over the open window leading to your fire escape. Snow almost covered the black metal entirely. You shivered, a gust of wind blowing into your tiny bedroom, prompting you to put on a warm winter coat, rub your cold hands together, and maneuver yourself onto the fire escape as swiftly as possible.

You smiled to yourself when your two feet planted firmly onto the white powder, the thought of him waiting for you tugging at every string in your heart.

“Y/n! You forgot your hat,” your mother called. You turned around, stunned, your lips parted and eyes wide.

“Mom, you weren’t supposed to s-“

She tossed the black beanie at your chest, turning around on her heel and grasping your room’s doorknob. She whipped her head around, grinning playfully. “Say ‘hi’ to Peter for me.”

“Wha-“ the door closed while you stood there, still dumbstruck. “How did sh-“ You’re stopped midst your slight internal crisis as you feel your phone buzzing in your back pocket. You dug into the back of your jeans, pulling out the device to see a text from Peter.

Hurry up, loser. Your lips curved upwards at the grey bubble lighting up your screen, staring at it long enough for it to go black, your phone turning off by itself. You shove it back into your pocket, not caring to reply as you’d see the boy in a few seconds anyway.

You pulled on the hat that your mother had given you, trekking up the fire escape carefully as to not fall down the ten flights to the concrete ground.

You were almost at the top, your foot stepping up the last stair when your right heel slipped, jolting you backwards. You screamed, your hands fumbling to catch onto the rail, but proven hopeless as your fingers slip as well.

Quick hands gripped your forearms before any real damage could ensue, a flash of red and blue before you were tugged into a chest. Frantic breaths left Peter’s lips as his hand shakily cradled the back of your head.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god...” was all that he could manage to utter, stroking your hair as you clutched the grey fabric of the sweatshirt that he’d thrown lazily over his suit.

“Are you okay, beautiful?” Peter asked, shuffling backwards to get a good look at your face. He placed his hand against your cheek, then his eyes moved, taking a full body inspection of you, as if he’d be able to see any injuries through your heavy layers of clothing. He watched you intently while you stared at him blankly, the words swarming in your brain failing to leave your lips.

After a few minutes of Peter’s caring eyes not wavering, you gathered your thoughts, coherently saying them aloud. “Peter, I’m perfectly fine. I promise, just a little shaken up. Glad I had my very own superhero to save me is all.”

Peter nodded in response, rubbing a circle along your cheek bone with his thumb. You both simultaneously went in for a kiss, your lips melding into an odd warmth despite the frigid cold surrounding the two of you. He then remembered the surprise he had for you and pulled back gently. He thought that it would surely cheer you up, the previous worried grimace plastered on his face being replaced with a charming smile.

Just the sight of his coffee eyes turning into a bright caramel uplifted your mood, his expression changing yours as well. “So, what is it you wanted me up here for?” You asked, pulling down on the right string of Peter’s hoodie, trying to even out the length of the two pieces of dangling fabric.

Peter watched your fingers, grinning. Simple things like that, fixing the strings of his hoodie, was a constant reminder of his utter head-over-heals love for you. They were simple, minor things that reminded him of how lucky he was to have such an extraordinary (and sometimes very clumsy) girl be such a big part of his life. Hell, he’d even say his whole life. The thought of you being his and doing things like fixing his hoodie made him so damn grateful.

“Earth to Peter,” you chuckled, a blush rising to Peter’s cheeks as the realization hits him that he’d just been staring at you, beaming subconsciously, completely zoning out. How could he help himself? He was in love. The every-thought-consuming kind of love that made him lose track of the world around him when he got the chance to look into your gorgeous eyes.

“Right,” Peter said, intertwining his fingers with yours as he guided you across the snow-covered roof carefully. You had already slipped once tonight, and Peter was doing everything in his possibility to make sure you wouldn’t again, his steal-tight grip on your hand an indicator of this.

You saw a large packed-down ball of snow on the ground and you immediately knew the exact reason Peter was so desperate for you to meet him as soon as possible. The dork wanted to build a snowman together.

“Y/n, meet Bob. Bob, meet Y/n.” You shoved Peter’s shoulder playfully, before he grabbed your hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss the freezing skin. Soon, he was packing more snow onto the slowly growing pile, excitement coursing through him like a child playing in snow for the first time.

“You’re such a dork, Peter Benjamin Parker, you know that?”

“A dork who has an unhelpful girlfriend! We have a snowman to build, beautiful! Hurry up!”

“Okay, okay.”

After a day full of snowmen, snow angels, falling in the snow on top of one another, a snowball fight, snow being shoved down each other’s backs, and a whole lot more of snow, the two of you ended up on the couch in Peter’s living room, snuggled up together with cups of hot chocolate made by the one and only May Parker.

Your teeth were chattering slightly still and Peter saw this, wrapping his arms around your waist and tugging you to sit in between his legs, allowing you to lie down on his chest as he kissed the snowflakes melting in your hair. His hands soon found their way in the strands, lolling you to sleep, but before you were completely out cold you heard Peter whisper, “snow angel,” and you swore you could feel the two of your hearts beating the same rhythm.

tags: (ask if u want to be added) @darling-parker @augurydemon @spidey-schxyler @pillow223 @honeynutholland

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cookinguptales · 8 years ago

Note

If your still doing the fic asks, uh... Karabita? Number 5? If that's ok?

“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

(I was torn bc I’ve already written fic of Karamatsu being jealous of Chibita and a girl a few times, but I also just wrote a fic about Chibita being wildly jealous. Decided to try something just a little bit different. Warning for some awkward conversations and internalized homo/biphobia, but there’s a happy ending. Also very slightly NSFW.)

Tokyo was a big place, Karamatsu knew, and Tokyo had all types. It wasn’t like he’d never seen them around, those men who liked other men. He’d seen them standing around with their friends, gossiping or fixing their makeup, though he’d been informed, tartly enough, that you couldn’t always tell just by looking at a guy. Not all of them wore rainbow wigs on the streets of Shinjuku.

Some of them, it seemed, looked just like normal salarymen. Or were just normal salarymen, he supposed. He felt like something like that should show, in your face or in your clothes or in your mannerisms. He certainly felt like everyone could see him laid bare and open whenever he caught himself staring too long at another man’s rear end. He’d page through his magazines when no one was around and allow himself to run one slow finger over the toned bodies inside, staring long and hard at lean muscles rather than the clothes that covered them. He’d blush then, a deep, private scarlet. You had to be able to see it, right? He felt like a goddamn open book.

It was so much easier to look at girls, to swoon over soft curves and pouty lips. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like them. He felt unconflicted looking at a girly mag because he was pretty sure all five of his brothers had the exact same one. The men, though. The men. He was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to make his blood go just as hot as the girls did. He was definitely sure he wasn’t supposed to be looking. So he didn’t. Not outside.

Maybe it was because he was so careful about not looking too hard where others might see, or maybe he really was as dumb as everyone said. Or maybe there really was no way to tell just by looking at someone. Either way, he didn’t catch onto the wild double life of the salaryman sitting next to him for far too long. And maybe, just maybe, the real reason was that the man wasn’t bothering to live a double life at all.

He certainly wasn’t hiding the way he looked at Chibita, anyway.

Karamatsu noticed it between bites of chikuwa and he damn well nearly choked on it. The man was neat and clean-cut, the kind of guy that probably never ran out on a bill. And he was watching Chibita with open appreciation.

Karamatsu forced himself to keep chewing, and he shifted his attention to Chibita. He was humming as he worked, one of those silly little oden songs that Karamatsu didn’t understand, not for one minute, but that managed to make his heart do little flip-flops all the same. Karamatsu could see the way that his muscular shoulders shifted beneath that baggy shirt of his, and the way his hips swayed to his own music. His cheeks were rosy in the heat of the steam and his lips had that pleased little quirk to them that only seemed to come out when oden was involved.

No wonder the man was staring. Karamatsu was hard-pressed to keep from doing it himself. Instead, he dropped his eyes back to his plate. Safer that way.

He was so intent on his plate and the nervous rhythm his shoe was scuffing out against the pavement that he almost missed it. The thing. The big thing. As it was, he glanced up just in time to see the man leave – and just in time for him to slip something else in there along with the cash he owed for his meal. It took a second for Karamatsu to make sense of the little slip of paper and the bold strokes that had been written upon it. It was a phone number. The man had slipped Chibita his goddamn phone number, and he’d done it with a wink.

And Chibita, fuck, Chibita had smiled at him. There was no annoyance, no disgust. None of that famous temper. Just a little bit of playfulness to his grin as he’d taken his money and wished his (paying) customer goodnight.

They’d been flirting, Karamatsu realized, and right under his damn nose.

He didn’t even realize how he’d been gaping until Chibita gave him a pointed look. “Shut your mouth, idjit. You’ll get flies.”

He shut it quick, with an almost audible snap. He swallowed and tried to right the world even as it tilted. “But he…”

Chibita shrugged as he put the money away, and Karamatsu was dizzyingly, bewilderingly relieved to see him drop the slip of paper into the trash. “It happens sometimes. I don’t think they really mean anything by it,” he said.

Karamatsu sputtered a little. Only Chibita would get actual phone numbers and think they’d been anything other than an explicit invitation. “But he was undressing you with his eyes!” he burst out, and abruptly felt his cheeks heat. Fuck.

Chibita looked a little thrown by that one, but he just shrugged again, a little less sure this time, and closed the money box. His cheeks, Karamatsu noticed, had gone an especially fetching shade of pink. “It’s just because I’m so small,” he said, and his lips twisted even as he ducked his head. “Get a few beers into them, and they keep talking about how cute I am.”

Well, Karamatsu reasoned, that was probably because he was. Chibita was incredibly cute, and anyone with eyes could see it. Sure, his terrifying devotion to street food took the edge off of all that sweetness, but most of his customers probably didn’t know about that – or his experience with kidnapping. They just saw his soft lines and knew, just as surely as Karamatsu did, that he would fit perfectly in their arms.

Karamatsu swallowed. “This – this happens a lot?” he asked, but he knew even as he did what the answer was. Why the hell wouldn’t it? Why the hell hadn’t he ever considered this before, that everyone else could see the same damn thing that Karamatsu had been trying so hard to ignore?

Chibita hummed noncommittally. “Sometimes,” he said, and poked a skewer into one of the vats.

Karamatsu hesitated a moment, wondering if he really wanted to continue down this line of questioning. But the curiosity inside him would not be sated, not even with all the trepidation in the world. “Have you ever… Y’know…”

Chibita squinted at him. Then his eyes widened in understanding. “Called them? Fuck no. Wouldn’t want to scare off any customers,” he said.

Karamatsu bit at the inside of his lip and tried to ignore the way his stomach curled in on itself. That made sense. Chibita wouldn’t want to weird anyone out.

Chibita kept talking, seemingly ignorant to the storm clouds Karamatsu could hardly keep off his face. “Like what would I do if it was a shitty date or something? They’d never come back and I’d be out a paying customer. The trick, Karaboy, is to keep them hungry,” he said.

And then he winked.

Karamatsu nearly swallowed his damn tongue. When he’d retrieved it from its journey down his throat, he finally stammered out, “But– But you like girls. I saw you. With…” He trailed off again, and was barely able to tack a lame little “y’know.”

All at once, Chibita’s face shuttered. There was a reason why they never talked about her and why Karamatsu had always kept quiet about witnessing their brief tryst. He didn’t say anything for several long minutes. Instead, his busied himself with other things around the cart. Shuffling away some dirty dishes, wiping down the back counter.

Karamatsu felt even smaller. “Chibita–”

“I like both,” Chibita finally said, and there was something defiant in his voice, a strong backbone to cover up an old wound. “And that was a long time ago.”

Both…? Karamatsu felt like something that was hot and cold at the same time was trickling down his spine to pool in the pit of his stomach. “So you don’t mind when…?” he trailed off, not even sure how he wanted to finish that question.

Chibita’s eyebrow quirked. “Guys hit on me?” He gave Karamatsu a long, measuring look. Then, “Nope.”

The hot turned to fire. The cold turned to ice. Karamatsu trembled a little from the combination. His mind was full now, full. Of the way that man had looked at Chibita. Of the way Chibita had smiled back. Of the way his lips had curled around that little “nope”. Of what might happen, one day, if a man approached Chibita somewhere other than the cart.

There was a flash of something hot in his mind then, something steamy and sweet with far too much skin, and Karamatsu shook his head to dislodge those mental images from his head. Chibita might say yes one day, and his mind balked at that for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

It was just bizarre, he decided. And that was it. His fingers curled against the counter top, and he could feel his nails catch on the wooden grain. “But don’t you– Don’t you think that’s kind of obscene?” he asked.

Chibita’s eyebrows jumped and he settled back on his heels. “Not a question I ever thought I’d hear you ask,” he muttered. “What the hell do you mean, anyway?”

Karamatsu hesitated. That was a dangerous note in Chibita’s voice, and he knew it. He was going to have to tread softly here. “Just… Doing that out in the open like that? At work?” He paused, trying to force his tongue to be anything but tied. “I mean, all those men… They don’t come just because you flirt with them, do you?”

“Excuse me?” Both of Chibita’s hands landed flat against his workstation, and the sound was enough to make Karamatsu jump. “Are you trying to say my oden’s not reason enough?”

“No!” Karamatsu said, because he was confused but he wasn’t fucking suicidal. “But…” He thought about the way Chibita had smiled at that man, and the way the man’s answering grin had gone a little hot, a little dopey at the attention. Karamatsu knew he’d be no better off if Chibita looked at him that way. “Smiling at them like that can’t hurt. You must get a lot of guys who come back just for that.”

The rage was melting away from Chibita’s tiny body, leaving something like confusion in its wake. He looked at Karamatsu like he’d never seen him before, eyes roving up and down as if he were a puzzle that Chibita couldn’t quite sort out. “Karamatsu,” Chibita said slowly, “Are you jealous?”

Karamatsu froze, his stuttering foot going abruptly still. “No,” he said. No. Of course he wasn’t. Chibita was – was nice to look at, yeah. And Karamatsu knew that he wasn’t straight, not all the way. He couldn’t be. But that wasn’t the same thing as being jealous that other men maybe sort of had a chance with Chibita. He’d gotten through it okay when Chibita had dated that girl, hadn’t he? He’d had a brief, bewilderingly intense moment of I want that but then he’d tried to go out and get it, hadn’t he? And look where that had gotten him.

Karamatsu hadn’t felt jealous when Chibita was with the girl. He’d felt something else, something very different. He’d felt somewhere between pleased and resigned, probably. Happy that Chibita would no longer be alone, and sad that he was not in the same position. But not particularly surprised, either.

He didn’t feel like that now. He kind of felt like someone had been playing kickball with his stomach. And why the hell was this bothering him so much, anyway? Why did he care that Chibita was apparently gay catnip, or that his oden somehow, ineffably, brought all the boys to the yard? Why did he care that Chibita wasn’t straight? Why did he care that one day, Chibita might end up dating – fuck, he couldn’t even finish the thought without feeling vaguely sick.

He hadn’t thought that he was particularly homophobic before now. It was weird, certainly, and nothing he wanted to be. It was embarrassing. It was one of the many, many parts of himself that he wished he could cut away. But other people, well. Love was love, right?

So why the fuck was he so upset when he thought about Chibita having sex with some guy? Or worse, loving him? He’d been okay, for the most part, when Chibita had loved a girl.

But then Karamatsu chanced a look upward at Chibita, who still looked perplexed more than anything, and he felt a staggering pang of loss that he’d never felt before. And it finally clicked. Before now, he didn’t know that men were even an option for Chibita. He couldn’t lose Chibita because he never could have had him. He’d felt resigned when Chibita had dated the fairy because he’d accepted right from the start that Chibita was going to want a pretty girl, not a man like him. But now, against all odds, Chibita was flirting with men. Men very clearly were an option. It was just Karamatsu that he didn’t want.

Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking jealous. And he still had zero chance with the guy he wanted. Karamatsu gulped down the acid threatening to climb up his throat and tried to steady himself instead. He’d been quiet for too long, he abruptly realized. He had to say something to throw off the suspicions that were slowly coalescing on Chibita’s face. “No,” he finally said. “Why would I get jealous over you dating? You can do whatever you want,” he said, and then shrugged weakly. “It’s a free country. Have fun.”

He should say something about the beauty of love here, or desire, or – fuck, something – to make it sound genuine. He would’ve said something like that for anyone else. But he just couldn’t make his lips make the sounds. Instead, he just looked down into his lap.

“Karamatsu,” Chibita said, “I meant jealous of me. Not them.”

Fuck. That made so much more sense. Fuck. He absolutely could have passed this off as just being closeted. He was, wasn’t he? It would have been so easy to just make it seem like he was jealous of Chibita’s obvious way with men. It would have fucking sucked, and he probably would have gotten mocked for the rest of his life over it, but Chibita wouldn’t have known the truth. He wouldn’t have known that Chibita was the only man Karamatsu really cared about. Shit. Fuck.

He knew he was red now, and this wasn’t just shyness. He wasn’t just embarrassed. There was the sick roll of humiliation in his stomach, because shit, he’d really gone and done it now, hadn’t he? Chibita would definitely figure out Karamatsu’s stupid little crush. There was no way he wouldn’t.

So Karamatsu did what anyone else in his position would do. He fucking ran. “Thank you for the food,” he mumbled in one quick jumble of syllables, and he pushed himself to his feet. He’d had a beer before Mr. Hot Gay Salaryman had come to call, but he couldn’t blame the way his legs were wobbling now on just one beer.

“Karamatsu–”

He groped around in his pocket for some bills, then threw them on the counter. It was too much for the night’s meal, he knew, but maybe the extra cash would distract Chibita long enough that he could make his getaway. Besides, wasn’t as if he didn’t owe Chibita money anyway.

“Karamatsu, wait.”

“It’s late,” Karamatsu said. “I need to go–”

“I said wait, you goddamn idjit!”

Karamatsu stopped. Karamatsu waited. He still didn’t look at Chibita.

“You know why I flirt with those guys, Karamatsu?”

Karamatsu winced. Because they were attractive, confident, and successful? Because they didn’t hover back at the closet door? Because no one, definitely no one, called them ‘painful’?

“Because,” Chibita said meaningfully, “They tell me that they’re interested.”

What? What the goddamn hell? The statement was so bizarre, so pointed, so entirely absurd, that Karamatsu couldn’t help but look up at him. Chibita was looking at him flatly, but there was something expectant in his eyes. Like he actually expected Karamatsu to…

It didn’t make any sense. None whatsoever. But there was still a strange little bubble rising up inside him, and before he could think to stop himself, he said, “You mean…”

Chibita sighed, and there was that one look that Karamatsu loved more than almost any other, that fond sort of exasperation that he only seemed to direct at him. “I didn’t throw away your number, did I?” he asked.

And no. No, he hadn’t. He’d stolen Karamatsu’s phone away from him, in fact, two weeks after almost lighting him ablaze. Karamatsu had felt a fire that had nothing to do with torchlight back then, and he’d found himself wandering back to Chibita’s oden cart more often. It’d been the only place he didn’t feel his sorrows. And after that, after awkward visits and haphazard conversations, Chibita had snatched his phone away from him and typed in his own number – just in case he got kidnapped again. Chibita’d said he had a feeling there’d be more of that in Karamatsu’s future, and it wasn’t as if he could count on his family to help him. And Karamatsu had given Chibita his phone number, too. He’d watched Chibita program it into his phone himself.

Karamatsu stared at Chibita, and he could almost feel the gears creaking to life inside his head, unfettered by his own neuroses for the first time. Chibita, with that sweet smile and his fingers brushing against Karamatsu’s, had been flirting with him. Him! And he hadn’t even fucking noticed, too caught up in the simple joy of making a genuine connection.

He’d had a chance. He’d always had a chance. Had he missed it? He opened his mouth, but for once, he truly had no idea what to say. All the pretty words he’d thought to himself in rare moments of privacy, all the endearments and sweet nothings he’d imagined whispering to Chibita even as he’d taken himself in hand, all of them seemed to escape him then, leaving him silent and tongue-tied and wide-eyed in Chibita’s presence.

Chibita sighed and made a little tsk sound with his mouth, then he shook his head and pulled out his phone.

Karamatsu’s heart sank. “Chibita…” he started, begging his heart, pleading with it, to get its damn rear in gear and give him something meaningful to say.

Before he could summon anything up, though, he was interrupted by a soft chime from his pocket. He frowned, then pulled out his phone. He rarely got messages from anyone.

‘Call me. 💋🍢’

A shaky, almost disbelieving smile crooked at the corners of Karamatsu’s mouth, and with trembling fingers, he went to type his reply.

#karabita #fic stuff #aka 'why karamatsu started saying 'karamatsu girls! and! boys!'

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