#this could be executed better but i needed to get it out of my skull

[flygutz]

the passenger & giles corey lyrics (no one is ever going to want me + i'm going to do it)

[inkskinned]

for the longest time my family used to host one of the biggest haunted houses on my block: elaborate, themed amateur haunts that pearled out along our lawn for one-night-only. spinning circus wheel-of-terrors and walkthrough alien crash-landings and spiders that arched over our driveway, leaking venom onto your feet.

we didn't have a lot of money; and honestly i don't know how we afforded what we did have. there were not going to be pneumatics or projectors or any supply over 20 dollars - and even 20 was a stretch. we were lucky, and we lived in a town that had a "swap shed", where people would drop off any banged-up-but-usable items that they wanted to get rid of. the whole year, my family would pick over someone else's discarded fans and lights and weird decorations, asking each other - what do you think? for halloween?

we would strip the motors out of rusted fans and spraypaint vases and saw broom handles in half and apply a very thick coat of cardboard and duct tape to everything. for our pirate year, i made the mistake of individually drawing woodgrain onto each strip of cardboard that made up the ship. i then gently painted and distressed the "boards" so they'd each have lichen and cracks and unusual patterns. i hid eyes in the knots and shaped skulls. you couldn't see any of it in the dark, even under our "spotlight" (someone's target-branded workshop flashlight).

i have a lot of very strange skills as a result. i know how to make a flying ghost appear both physically and in the mirror. i know how to make a witch's brew that stirs itself. i know how to burn and cut and paint until there is an iron throne you can sit on, or an alien brushing your ankles, or a hearse trundling along. i can't say we ever made it beyond our local newspapers, but we tried so hard that the town would regularly shut down our street.

i can't put any of these skills on a resume, and i haven't been able to put them to use for a while. i live in an apartment, there's no lawn for me to decorate. for years i've wanted to do an alice in wonderland theme, and have been collecting ideas like coins in a fountain. at other houses, i am transfixed by 12 foot skeletons and paper mache spooky lanterns; easily wooed by the knowledge of how much time people put in.

someone asked me once - so what was the point? and why didn't you guys charge anything to show up?

in truth, we probably needed the money. for years there, we were a 1-meal-a-day kind of a family. i was being polite earlier up in this essay: we furnished both our house and our halloweens using things left a recycling center. we live in new england and still didn't turn on the heat until the end of november, no matter how low the temperature.

every year we would collect donations for unicef and other charities. on an average year, we would collect enough to pay for our food for weeks. every year, without fail: we donated every penny.

this endeavor took months to plan and design and execute. we had to organize any volunteers and check safety and hope-for-the-best. it took at least 24 hours to set up, a week to take down. the motors and fans and lights all had to be packed tight. the cardboard would scatter, pangea in the rain and sleet. i remember picking up a plank from that pirate ship, the paint blown clear off, all my hard work completely erased. a new kind of driftwood.

if this was a poem, and not a memory, i could wrap this up prettily. i could say that these skills landed me a cool job in the haunting industry or that it taught me the value of friendship and responsibility. but i actually think it's something better, something very pretty: there wasn't ever a moral to it.

the night was a long one. yes, there were assholes, people who broke stuff. but mostly it was just kids like us in cardboard costumes, dressed as an incredibly niche kind of truck. good parents who were friendly and laughing. teenagers who slunk in at late hours, wide-eyed and secretly delighted; who asked us can i help next year? like, do y'all take volunteers, or whatever? every year more people came, and told their friends, and offered to pay. and every year we said maybe next year and meant absolutely never.

we did it because it was enough to love something, and to make that love visible. we did it because there is very rarely an excuse to have fun. i think maybe especially, for me - we did it because every year, there was one first "customer" somewhere around 3-4PM, while we were still putting on the final touches. the sun would still be up, and we were frazzled and always-running-late, and these kids saw our vision unfinished in the bright light of day.

something about their parents murmuring say thank you and telling my mom this setup is so sweet while this little kid would grin up at us, dazzled by our artistic mediocrity. the fall air and the chill and their coat-over-a-panda-princess-costume. that first phrase of the night awkwardly managed over a pair of overly-large vampire teeth: a beautiful and excited trick or treat!

[wxxpingangxls]

WET

+synopsis; the hottest criminal solicitor is in town and she’s ready to fight tooth and nail to prove her new clients innocence. I wonder how he’ll thank her…

+content/warnings; black reader but little to no explicit detail, taboo relationships, stalking, peeping tom, death threats, begging, mentions of murder, graphic details, angst, cheating, reader smokes, semi public, oil massage, nasty and messy sex, squirting, brief toe sucking, running from him, pussy drunk Toji, mr munch, ass eating, Toji is grown and got stubble, face sitting, 69, mating press, doggy style, overstimulation

+pairings; Felon Toji x Lawyer!Fem Black Reader

+a/n; ending is rushed idk why 😞😞 but i hope you enjoy lovely’s!!!🩷

“So, Mr Fushi… Uh, so what exactly are we here to discuss today?” you stated, papers on the table and pen in your hand ready to note down.

He raised an eyebrow as his eyes wandered down to the bright diamond ring blinking at him on your finger. You were used to this behaviour. Felons and criminals acting cold and calloused as if you weren’t the one thing between them and their freedom.

“Look, I don’t want to be here either. But we have got to work together. There’s no point in you sitting on your arse, acting as if I don’t have better places to be. I could be on a trip to Barbados right now but I’m stuck here saving your arse-“

“You done?” he interrupted slyly.

“No, I’m not done. You’re wasting everybody’s time. It’s not my fault you decided to kill that guy at the bar. The court appointed me as your attorney and so I’m going to try my best to help you win this case but I can only do so much.” you huffed at the end of the long speech watching his eyes close in annoyance.

“Look lady, I’ve got a child to go back home to, I don’t have time for this. Can you get my case dismissed or not?”

“I was getting to that,” you stated with venom laced on your tongue. “We can always claim self defence. Given your history there’s not much else,” The question of whether he had a mental illness crossed your mind but quite frankly, you weren’t in the mood to converse with this fiend any longer.

“That’s a pretty ring ya got there… You married?” he questioned. His cuffed hands were lying in his lap. This man had stressed you so damn much that you hadn’t realised how, handsome, he was. Despite the ugly and completely unflattering appearance of the orange jumpsuit, you could see the tattoos that encapsulated his large biceps, big enough to crush your skull with. The man you were defending - or rather attempting to - had the meanest mug written all over his face. But you were a woman before you were a lawyer, and your heart was with another.

“Not yet, I’m engaged,” you huffed.

Toji scoffed before turning to face the large mirror. “Is that all Mr Fushiguro? If so, I’ll be on my way,” and without another word, you swiftly left the room, closing the door on the way out. The correctional officer walked out towards you. “Did he tell ya what ‘appened? Ya know with the guy?” You eyed the officer down, observing his hands that were stationed on his belt. “Exuse me? I’m not entitled to disclose that information,” you rolled your eyes as the click clacking of your heels echoed across the hallway.

“Hi baby, how was your day?” your fiancé kissed your temple as you looked down at the plate of food in front of you.

“It was okay,” you shrugged indifferently.

Your fiancé was the executive marketer of a large company. “I’m sorry to here that, I’ll be upstairs if you need me,”

You didn’t say a word as he walked away. In spite of the disturbing scene unfolding in front of your eyes on the TV whilst watching “The Perfection”, you couldn’t help but wonder how Mr Fushiguro was going. Sure he had a nasty mouth and the patience of a toothpick but there was something so intriguing about him. Maybe it’s because you were tired of you boring and plain life. You’ve always been like that.

It wasn’t anything new for you to leave something that was perfectly good to something subpar purely out of boredom and this was no exception.

The next few weeks consisted of you mostly signing papers, talking with your client, viewing crime scene photos and talking to detectives on the case.

The old Bailey loomed large and imposing, its grandeur echoing centuries of justice. Inside, the air was thick with anticipation and tension. You were a sharp and tenacious criminal lawyer, and this was no new information as you adjusted your barrister's wig, your eyes scanning the courtroom. Your reputation for winning impossible cases was well-earned, and today, your skills would be put to the test.

Toji Fushiguro, your client, sat at the defendant’s table. His presence was both magnetic and menacing, a dangerous mix that had everyone on edge. Accused of a brutal murder, his piercing green eyes betrayed no emotion as he watched the proceedings unfold.

Your first meeting had been fraught with silent judgments and unspoken words. You had read his file meticulously, aware of the gravity of the crime he was accused of. A single father found dead in at the bar, after a fight had broke out, all evidence pointing towards Toji. Yet, something about the case felt off to you, an instinct you couldn’t ignore.

You spent countless hours pouring over the evidence, every piece scrutinized under your critical gaze. Late nights at the office became routine, the flickering desk lamp being your only companion. Toji's file lay open before you, his eyes in the mugshot staring back with a challenge and scar in menacing smirk.

The interviews were intense. Toji, ever the enigma, offered little help. His answers were curt, often cloaked in sarcasm. But there was something beneath the surface, a flicker of vulnerability that intrigued you.

A ghost of a smile played on Toji’s lips. “You’re different from the others. They’ve all looked at me like I’m already convicted.”

"So? Why would you think I'm different? Let’s not forget why I’m here,” you stated.

Days turned into weeks, and your professional relationship took on a different hue. There was a dangerous allure in Toji’s defiance, a charisma that drew you in despite your better judgment. You guys would often find yourselves locked in heated debates, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day in court, you found yourself in a dimly lit pub, nursing a bourbon. The door creaked open, and Toji walked in, flanked by the ever-present guards. Their eyes met across the room, a silent understanding passing between them.

“What the hell are you doing here, Fushiguro?,” you said as he approached the table, your voice low.

“I needed a drink,” Toji shrugged, sitting opposite you. The guards stood discreetly nearby, giving them a semblance of privacy.

You arched an eyebrow. “Well then, get your damn drink and leave me be?”

Toji leaned forward, his eyes darkening. “I think you’re the only person who sees me as more than just a murderer.”

“Oh please, that’s my job as a defendant. You’re onto nothing,”

Your heart pounded in your chest. The line between right and wrong blurred, your connection undeniable and perilous. you knew you were treading dangerous waters, but something about Toji made it impossible to walk away.

As the trial progressed, your determination to uncover the truth deepened. You successfully discovered inconsistencies in the evidence, hidden motives that pointed towards another suspect. Each revelation brought you closer, your late-night strategy sessions charged with a mix of frustration and undeniable chemistry.

The day of the verdict arrived, tension palpable in the courtroom. You stood tall, closing arguments a masterclass in legal brilliance. You had laid out the evidence meticulously, casting doubt on the prosecution’s case.

As the jury filed back in, the room held its breath. The foreman stood, the verdict hanging in the balance.

“Not guilty.”

The words echoed, a collective sigh of relief from your team. Toji turned to you, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper in his eyes. You couldn’t show your true feelings, not here, not now. But the promise of something more lingered between the energy in the air.

As the two of you continued to stare, a bright blinding bling brought his attention back to the engagement right adorning your right finger.

A few weeks after the trial, life starts to return to normal. Your fiancé working hard to make you happy, however your client still plagued your mind.

Your routine became his script. He knew when you left for work, the route you took, where you got your morning coffee. You would catch glimpses of him sometimes—at least you think you do—a flash of his face in a crowd, the shape of his shoulders disappearing around a corner.

One evening, as you leave your office, you feel it again—that sensation of being watched. You quickened your pace, glancing over your shoulder, but the street is empty. You told yourself it’s just your imagination, but the fear lingers.

Toji followed at a distance, his footsteps silent. He knows how to blend into the shadows, how to remain unseen. Every time you turn around, he steps just out of sight, watching you with a predatory intensity. His mind races with thoughts of you, dark fantasies that he can't shake.

Despite the ever growing suspicion of a potential stalker, you decide to treat yourself to a massage at your favorite spa, hoping to find some peace. The soft music and dim lighting work their magic as you settle onto the table, your mind beginning to unwind. An all too familiar and soft female voice tickles your ear, “Hey honey, just give me five and I’ll be back to give you the massage of your life,”

“Hurry Tina, my back hurts,”

A few moments pass before the masseur enters. You hear the door close softly and the click of bottles being opened. Hands begin to work on your tense muscles, and you let out a sigh of relief. The touch is skilled, firm yet gentle, but there is something vaguely unfamiliar about it.

A whisper brushes against your ear. “Did you miss me?”

Your eyes snap open in shock. Toji’s voice is unmistakable. Your heart races as you realize the hands on your body belong to him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you hiss, trying to keep your voice steady.

Toji’s hands continue their work, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “I needed to see you. To feel you.”

“What the fuck does that even mean, you bastard? I thought you had a kid to go home to. Instead you’re here feeling me up. Have you no shame?” you whisper, torn between fear and a forbidden thrill.

“I know,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your ear. “But I can’t stay away from you. You’re in my blood, Y/N.”

“Bullshit, you bum,” you spit.

His words are intoxicating, and you find yourself caught in a web of desire and danger. Every stroke of his hands ignites a fire within you, a fire you thought you had extinguished.

You know this is wrong, that you should stop him, but your body betrays you, melting under his touch. The line between right and wrong, sanity and madness, blurs once more.

As Toji’s hands explore your body, you realize that you are no longer just in the shadow of doubt. You are in the shadow of obsession, and there is no turning back. Your mean words did nothing but further push him to make you his.

“If you want me to stop, you know the word,” he carefully caresses the skin of your lower back. You weighed out your options. You were going to be married soon, if you were going to live life you’d might as well do it now before it was too late.

You hummed in acknowledgment, before finally agreeing to his lingering touches. It was going to be a one time thing after all. He gently flipped you over so that you were lying on your back. “Just so you know, Toji, this is a one time thing. After all I’m engaged.” he ignored you as he grabbed your thighs so that they were touching your chest.

He watched as your cunt leaked out before he’d even touch you. His hands weren’t even that good. He figured it must’ve been a long while since you’ve been dicked down good.

He wasted no time before sucking on your bud, your moans being loudly ripped from your chest. “Fuck!” you knew it’d been a while since he’d had some pussy, but damn it couldn’t have been that long. He groaned out from your sweet taste. “My God, I didn’t think you’d taste this good…” he whined out.

He spat on your clit making sure his saliva ran down to your puckered hole, ultimately making a mess out of you. “Oh yes!” you moaned out before cupping your mouth. You had momentarily forgotten you were in public, but the shame of being too loud quickly left your soul as Toji continued to suck on your pussy.

His tongue entered your tight hole, expanding the tight rim. “You ever had your ass ate before?”

“Excuse me?” you sat up utterly shocked.

“N…No? What kind of question is that?”

“Huh…No wonder you’re such a tight ass…Literally…” he scoffed.

He continued his ministrations on your sweet cunt. “If we had some privacy I’d eat your ass out so good,”

You couldn’t even keep your legs up anymore, your orgasm was coming closer. Toji knew this well and started sucking and pulling on your clit. Your face scrunched up in pure bliss. Bliss you hadn’t felt in ages. “Mphm! Toji!”

“Yeah, that’s what I like to hear.” he groaned out in the response.

“Right there Toji! M’ so close!”

A harsh knock interrupted his actions as your abruptly sat up. “Y/N? Oh my Goodness? Are you ok?” Tina asked from the other-side of the door. She shook the door handle multiple times before banging on the door again. “Did you lock the door? Open it please!”

“Did you seriously lock the damn door?” you knocked the upside of Toji’s head.

“I wanted us to have some privacy,” he shrugged indifferently.

You rolled your eyes before groaning, “Hello? Who are you talking to because I know it’s not me,” Tina huffed out annoyed.

“No one, give me a minute I’m coming.” You ushered Toji out to hide behind the cupboard door. The plan was when Tina wasn’t looking, you’d have Toji sneak out then back to the front door. From the minute you met your client you count tell he was a fool. Did you think he was that much of a fool? No. No one could’ve predicted this amount of foolishness. You silently scolded the man as he stood behind the door, waiting for the right moment to sneak out.

One night, after a long bath, you slipped into your favorite silk bathrobe, its softness a comforting embrace. The moonlight filtered through the curtains as you stood by your bedroom window, looking out into the night, wine glass in hand. The city lights twinkled in the distance, but your mind was far away, consumed by thoughts of Toji.

Unbeknownst to you, Toji was there, hidden in the shadows outside your window. His eyes were locked on you, a hunger burning within them. He watched the way the silk clings to your body, every movement a tantalizing tease.

You sighed, running a hand through your damp hair, oblivious to his presence. Toji’s heart raced as he imagined what it would be like to touch you again, to feel your warmth against him. The memory of your pussy haunts him, a forbidden pleasure that he craves more than anything.

He knew this was wrong, that he should stay away, but the pull is irresistible. You were in his blood, an obsession that consumed him. His eyes traced the curve of your neck, the way your robe parts slightly, revealing a glimpse of the cleavage beneath.

Inside, you closed your eyes, lost in thought. Your fiancé was a good man, but he didn’t ignite the same fire in you that Toji does. You tried to push the thoughts away, but they keep returning, relentless and unforgiving.

Toji’s breath hitched as you loosened the belt of your robe, letting it fall open slightly. He gripped the windowsill, fighting the urge to break in, to take what he so desperately desires. His mind raced with dark fantasies, each one more intoxicating than the last.

You stepped away from the window, the cool air brushing against your exposed skin. Toji watched every movement, his body tense with longing. He knew he should leave, but he couldn’t tear himself away. You were his obsession, a forbidden fruit that he was determined to possess.

As you disappeared from view, Toji lingered a moment longer, the image of you burned into his mind. He will find a way to have you, to make you his. In the shadow of obsession, he waits, his desire growing stronger with each passing night.

Your ever growing need for Toji’s mysteriousness pulled you further into a dark pit you knew it’ll be hard to get out of. And if your fiancé was to find out, you’d surely be casted away as a harlot. You had to choose between your pussy and your head, and you had to choose wisely. Will you do the right thing and stay true to your fiance, rejecting Toji’s advances and promises to eat you out so good or will you go behind your husband to be’s back and sleep with the same murderer you helped avoid jail time?

For a minute, one might’ve compared your mental turmoil to that of Hamlets distain and hesitation upon hearing that his father was killed and now he was set to avenge him by killing his uncle but these were two very different situations.

But alas, you believed that you could have many men in your head but as long as you had your true love in your heart then you’re a loyal woman.

That’s exactly how you found yourself with your mouth full of his thick and slimy cock whilst smothering his face with your cunt. Sucks and slurps filled the room as the two of you got on with such harshness of enemies. The gargling of his dick filled the room while he moved his head back momentarily to watch as you clenched on his fingers, holes begging to be filled. He smirked as a glimmer of an idea flicked in his eyes, as they peered up to your winking hole.

His tounge slowly lols out before giving the tight hole a small lick. He let out a boisterous laugh as he watched you shudder and mumble to no avail. His deft fingers moved to your clit as he found a rhythm for his tongue to moaned against your puckered hole. You grind your pussy against his face, moans muffled by his thick cock.

Your clit throbbed as his fingers moved faster, never loosing their grip and his tongue keeping its rhythm. You groaned loudly and clearly this time, his dick was now limp and his cum was scattered all over his thighs and your mouth. You squealed out his name and his onslaught on your slick pussy only got more overwhelming for you and you had no where to move.

Your back arched from the overstimulation and your hands clenched at the pleasure he was feeding you. What you had done to deserve such a treat, you had no idea, but you weren’t complaining. Toji’s hands came down on your cheeks, rubbing and massaging the muscle as he did.

Tears welled up in your eyes and your belly tightened and without a word, he knew you were about to cum. He quickly swapped his tongue and hands, sliding a finger into your asshole and placing his lips around your sweet clit. The spiky stubble of his hair added to your stimulation , adding to your pleasure.

There was no holding back with Toji . He was here to show you how to feel good. “Move,” without warning he turned his head to the side, tapping your arse twice. You blinked your confusion away as his hands guided you so that he was looming over you. You couldn’t say a single thing before you felt that familiar burning of his girth stretching you out. Drool seeped from your mouth as he reached deeper.

“Ah ha ha. Feels good, doesn’t it baby?” he boasted.

Nothing but babbles left your mouth as he gently lulled you to silence. With a firm grip on your hand, and his duck fully sheathed into your deep pussy, he began his rough thrust. Fap. Fap. Fap. Fast paced thrusting in and out, knocking the wind from you. He had rendered you completely speechless which was almost impossible given the type of person you were.

“Lights are on but no one’s home…” he chuckled to himself as he continued to slip in and out.

You whined and squealed as you felt his curved dick rub against your g-spot. It was far too much for you, your cheeks were hot and throbbing, lips bitten and bruised and your throat dry and sore. Tears flew from your eyes and his fast thrusting never faulted but instead intensified as he realised where he was hitting.

“I know you didn’t try to fucking run from me,” he comments sternly. For a second you feel yourself go numb. All you needed was a moment to collect yourself. It was far too much is what you tried telling him, begging for a semblance of a break.

“You ever try that shit on me again, I’ll tie you up,” He flips you over with a firm grip on your hip, pushing your legs up your ears. “Toji? Toji!” you whine in estxasy and his dick reach’s deep. “Wait! Toji, Please!”

“Please what, girl?”

You opened your mouth to speak , but before you could, he started moving again, impaling you on the hefty limb. He watched as your expressions contorted from bliss to shock, upon feeling a wet and slimy tongue between your toes. This man was nasty, downright sick, and you loved every second of it.

A fat thumb lingered down to the small bud, before rubbing vigorously, He watched as your moaning became high pitched and your hips bucked. Your stomach sucked itself in as you tried escaping his grasp, squirming in his nearly painful grips. “Oh my- Toji, Wait! I’m going to to-!”

Your loud plea was interrupted by an obscene squelch and a splashing ad a stream of juices left your sore cunt and aimed right for the mans chest. He jeers as he saw your o-face falling inlove even further. It didn’t take a while for him to pump you full of his thick hot cum, and it certainly didn’t take long for your fiance to get the picture Toji sent of him eating your used up and stuffed cunt out.

It also didn’t take long for Toji to send a video of him stuffing you again in full nelson this time, making you hold the phone.

It also didn’t take long for Toji to get in trouble again with the law. You too hadn’t seen each other since that eventful night and he couldn’t help but be grateful, for if you knew just how nasty he was, you would’ve killed him yourself and he wouldn’t blame you.

After the whole debacle was dealt with, he found himself yet again being arrested, and on the other side of the conjugal line was you. Sitting prettily in your work attire, brand new engagement ring sitting on your finger as you discussed his charges. “I miss you Y/N” he’d say. “I wonder what you’re up to these days,” he’d enquire, knowing full well, if he was free he wouldn’t have to.

And whether Toji turned himself in on purpose after everything he’s done just to see your bright face again, or whether it was a pure coincidence that he’d just so happened to be arrested for something he had gotten away with for so long, you had no idea.

All you knew is that you regretted that night.

Well, not entirely.

[stervrucht]

🧠🪱 Wiggly Wednesday 🧠 🪱

Thank you for the tag @just-my-latest-hyperfixation 🧡

Today I’m thinking about this ridiculous story of a friend of mine, who, after she thought she’d been ghosted, proceeded to hold a cremation by burning the guy’s picture, only to receive a text right after.

“Where are we going, Eddie?”

Dustin’s tone is starting to grate on his nerves and Eddie needs to take a deep breath to calm his voice before responding. 

“I told you, a small detour.”

“Through the woods? What about the guitar lessons?”

“Yes, through the woods," Eddie snaps. 

He doesn’t even have to look to his side to know Dustin is pouting. Despite that, the little guy still follows him, ducking underneath the brush as they make their way to Skull Rock. 

He didn’t tell Dustin—doesn’t think there’s an adequate way to explain that this was what he did whenever he was dealing with a serious bout of heartbreak. That—because Steve Harrington hadn’t been answering his phone and clearly dumped Eddie without the courage to say so to his face—Eddie now needed to initiate the Cremation Stage. 

Yeah, you heard that right.

It first happened three years ago, after Stacy Morgan landed on him during a game of spin-the-bottle and cried after kissing him. That one kinda stung. 

After a bit of dumb back and forth, he and Gareth decided to cut her picture from the yearbook and held a stupid little funeral—speeches and all. After they were done and said their goodbyes, they burned the picture. It made him feel better. So much so, that it became a dumb little habit.

One he hadn’t executed that often, really.

Which is why it sucks so much he is off to Skull Rock, the place he first kissed Steve Harrington against the expectations of everyone ever, to burn his stupid picture.

When they finally reach Skull Rock, Eddie digs through his pockets and pulls out his Zippo and Steve’s picture. Dustin leans over his shoulder, knees digging into the back of Eddie’s arm as he leans over to watch.

“Why do you have a picture of Steve?”

“Because.” Eddie strikes the Zippo, trying to make it catch flame, but the old thing is protesting.

“Because why?”

The stupid thing still won’t catch. Eddie strikes his thumb over the wheel with a little more aggression—pulls his lips into a thin line, frustration pulling at his gut. “Because I need to burn it.”

“Why?”

Eddie throws his hands. “Because I have to okay! Because—”

Because Steve’s finally realized Eddie was a mistake. And Eddie knew the day would come. He was just pushing his head in the sand like a fucking ostrich, hoping he could enjoy what little time Steve was willing to give him. He just hoped Steve would have had the guts to actually say so to his face.

He can’t tell Dustin any of that though. 

Finally, the Zippo produces flame and Eddie holds the corner of Steve’s yearbook picture near it. It takes a few seconds, but soon enough the picture engulfs into flames and Eddie has to drop it between the twigs and dried leaves. He allows it to burn for a few seconds until the leaves around it start to smolder. He quickly kills the flame with his shoes and once he removes his feet, only ash is left of what was once an image of Senior Steve.

Eddie pulls himself into a standing position and slips the Zippo back into his pocket.

“All done.”

“Dude, that was so weird.”

“No, it wasn’t. And don’t tell Steve about this.” 

Dustin raises an eyebrow at him but probably senses it’s best to not push it.

“Can we go play guitar now?”

“Yeah, man, whatever. Let’s go.”

A little while later, Eddie sits in Dustin’s bedroom, his guitar in his lap as he shows Dustin some chords to Metallica. The little dude learns fast, last week's chords already dexterously mastered. A little more and he’ll be playing his first full song. Now, just to get a feeling for it, he makes Dustin play the same five chords as base while Eddie plays the more complex parts of the song. 

He’s actually starting to get into it when the doorbell to the Henderson residence rings.

“Really, now?” Dustin lets out a frustrated sigh and puts his guitar down on his bed. “I’ll be right back.”

Eddie hums and continues picking at the snares. Mumbles along to the song until he hears Dustin return to the room.

“Oh, hey Eddie.”

Eddie looks up. That didn’t sound like Dustin. That sounded like—

“Steve.” Eddie is staring at Steve standing in Dustin’s doorframe. Can’t do anything else than stare because an hour ago, he cremated Steve. 

And now he’s here.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Steve lets out a little laugh. And it’s not the ‘oh shit I ran into my ex’ kind. It’s the genuine kind. The fond kind.

Dustin pushes himself past Steve into his bedroom. “I told you, I’d give it back to you on Monday,” he complains.

Steve rolls his eyes, watching with amusement as Dustin digs through his closet.

“W—where have you been?” Eddie hardly dares to ask. He tries to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“Ugh, my parents man. They took me on some campus visits to fancy universities. Didn’t give me any warning either. It sucked balls.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, not great. How have you been holding up with this asshat the past few days.” Steve looks back to where Dustin is now clearing the lower levels of his closet. 

“I heard that!” he calls back. 

“I…I’ve been doing just dandy.” Eddie shoots Steve a little smile, and yes, that’s definitely fondness in Steve’s face. God, he’s such an idiot.

A total overreaction. 

When Dustin rears his head from the closet, proudly holding a cassette tape, Eddie thinks he needs to make sure Dustin takes this little Skull Rock detour to the grave. 

---

No pressure tags for @sleepy-steve @spectrum-spectre @runninriot @wheneverfeasible @eddiethebrave

[starstruckkittensweets]

puppy love

Chuuya Nakahara x Reader

fandom: bungo stray dogs

My latest fixation, Chuuya with puppies! My precious boy deserves to be happy with a doggy of his own, so I decided to play into this little fantasy of mine (and his, probably). I'm planning on writing more parts to this lil series, I think it's helping me get out of my writing slump. Also parts of this fic are inspired by Shiloh, one of my all-time favorite books (so much nostalgia...) and a bit of a reference to that one puppy episode from Wan. And the panel I used for the banner is from the BSD manga (I think it's ch. 24) I hope you enjoy!

warnings: mentions of stray animals, Reader cries but it's in relief, mostly fluff, pet names (mostly "doll" but used only once in this part), the start of a slow burn perhaps? || words: 2k

Part I | Part II | Part III

He’s halfway through his usual trek home, muscles burning and head pounding from another successful night’s mission, when he realizes he has a shadow.

Chuuya doesn’t let up his pace; stay calm, don’t give anything away—but he has to wonder, who could be this stupid to try to follow a mafia executive? And they’re not being subtle about it either. Making no effort to conceal their breaths or their footsteps—

Wait a minute…that sounds too light to be footsteps…

He sucks in a breath and turns around to face the culprit. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, preparing for a fight—

“Woof!”

Staring up at him is perhaps one of the cutest fucking dogs he’s ever laid eyes on. (Not that he’s seen many dogs, but the point still stands.) Pointy ears, fuzzy orange fur, white paws and a belly that definitely looks too plump for a street dog.

He stares at it. The dog stares back, pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.

“…Woof!”

It takes every ounce of strength he can muster not to melt right then and there on the sidewalk. A thousand squeals on the tip of his tongue, gloved hands itching to scratch under that fuzzy little chin of his.

Never mind any dog hair, fuck that. Who’s gonna try to turn their nose up at this little cutie?

Chuuya briefly scans the area—not a soul in sight, just him and his companion beneath the lamplights—before dropping to his knees. The dog paws at the ground, his curly tail swishing madly in the air.

“C’mere boy,” he keeps his voice soft, holding out a hand. But the dog doesn’t budge. He just stares at him with that big dumb smile of his.

That really adorable dumb smile.

He tries again. The dog tilts his head and refuses to move. So Chuuya tries another tactic: “C’mere, girl?”

Still doesn’t move a muscle. Although now the dog looks amused as he paces from side to side, just out of Chuuya’s reach.

Yeah, gotta be a boy with that kind of attitude.

Chuuya sighs before pushing himself off the ground. Ah well, guess he’s too nervous to approach humans. Can’t really blame him for that; this city’s got its fair share of unpleasant people. He deals with them all the time, so he can kinda relate.

He shoves his hands back into his pockets (try not to think about how soft the dog’s fur must be) and turns on his heel to head home. It’s getting late anyway, and he’s got to get an early start tomorrow morning. He can’t be spending all night moping around some stray puppy following him around.

Even if he is the cutest thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

But he only gets a few steps in before hearing the unmistakable click-click of the dog’s nails against the pavement. He stops, the dog stops too. He glances over his shoulder, biting back a smile at the dog’s happy face.

“What do you want, huh? I don’t have any food, so if that’s what you’re looking for…”

Not that he looks like he needs any treats to begin with. He’s seen a few of the dogs roaming around Yokohama, all skin and bones as they pick through tipped-over trash cans. And the stray cats are no better, ears flat against their skulls as they hiss and claw at everything in sight.

So why does this dog look so fucking proud of himself?

Chuuya sighs and whistles to himself—and suddenly the dog comes running.

Two dirty paws plant themselves on his dress pants, that’ll surely be hard to get out, but how can he get angry when the dog’s trying so hard to reach his face? He chuckles under his breath as he kneels down to his level, as the dog plants kiss after kiss on his face with his slobbery tongue.

“Who knew all it took was a whistle?” he says more to himself than to the pup. The dog’s tail is wagging so hard he thinks it’ll fall off, the tiny little thing that it is.

He slides one of his gloves off, letting the dog sniff his hand before scratching him behind the ears. He was right, his fur is so soft… And his smile only gets bigger when the dog licks him again, not even minding all the drool.

But then he stiffens, slipping his fingers through the dog’s fur, noticing a red band of leather fastened around his neck. A collar? No way he’s someone’s pet. Then again, he does look a little too spoiled to be wandering the streets for food.

He curls his finger around the golden tag dangling from the buckle. No name, only an address he thinks he recognizes. Right on the edge of Yokohama, where the scent of sea salt is the strongest. Is it someone’s house? Apartment? Maybe a  shelter of some kind?

Chuuya steals another look at the dog, at those sweet brown eyes and twitching wet nose, trying his best to ignore the icy clench of his stomach. Maybe it’s for the best, just to bring him back. What’s he gonna do with a dog, anyway? Not like his job allows for much time raising a puppy, anyway.

Even one so cute as this little guy.

“Alright,” he sighs, scooping the pup in his arms, “let’s get you home.” He tries not to dwell on how warm the puppy is, or how softly he nestles his face in the crook of his shoulder.

And definitely not the way he can feel the pup drifting off to sleep as he starts down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Gentle puffs against his skin, his curly tail twitching against his wrist.

“Kotaro! There you are!”

The engraving on the pup’s collar has led him to a tiny little shop a few minutes from the port. A bit shabby with a torn sign on the top and windows that have definitely seen better days, and he’s about to turn tail (no pun intended) until he sees someone nearly fly out through the set of double doors.

“Kotaro!” Your voice is strained, tears streaming down your cheeks as you sweep the puppy into your arms. Clutching him as tight as you can, smoothing down the fur on his head as he stirs awake from his little nap. “I was worried sick… How did you escape again?! I could’ve sworn I locked the doors… You’re just lucky I came back downstairs when I did—or else you would’ve been out there all night long!”

The puppy only wags his tail, staring up at you with those silly eyes and sweet little “smile.” He knows it’s your weakness, how could you be angry at a face like that?

Oh, well. As long as he’s safe, you can’t really hold a grudge against him. Not when he’s back in your arms, safe and sound, and it’s just the two of you, just as it always should be.

It’s only when you hear someone clear their throat that you realize you’re actually not alone. You hastily wipe your eyes with the back of your hand—it’s a little difficult with a nearly-twenty-pound dog in your arms—and stare up at the man before you. Kotaro’s savior, your savior. And suddenly you feel a fresh wave of tears surge forth.

“Thank you for bringing him back! I’m so sorry if he’s caused you any trouble, I know he has a habit of bothering people when he sneaks out—I thought I’d kept him inside this time! He just has a thing for running away like the little troublemaker he is. He’s still young, hopefully he’ll grow out of it when he’s older, maybe he’ll mellow out and settle down, and then…”

You bite your tongue and avert your eyes. No need to scare off the stranger with your incessant rambling, especially after he was so nice to bring Kotaro back to you. But he only shakes his head, a soft smile on his lips as he tips his hat over his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, he didn’t cause too much trouble.” He lifts a hand, allowing Kotaro to sniff him before scratching the fur beneath his chin. “Keep an eye on him, though. You don’t want him getting lost out there, especially this time of night.”

“I know… I swear, he’s gonna give me gray hairs before the end of the year. The other dogs aren’t even this mischievous, I don’t know where he got it from!”

Wait, other dogs?

He glances over your shoulder, towards the dingy windows of the shop. Pet supplies and part-time shelter, the sign plastered on the glass says. And sure enough, the closer he looks at your outfit, he can see little bits of dog fur clinging to the fabric—some gray, some brown, some white, and then a hint of orange thanks to Kotaro.

Just how many dogs do you have in there?

“Anyway, I just wanna say I really appreciate you bringing him back here. You didn’t have to, I know you’re probably busy. Let me just run inside and get my wallet, I think I have some left over if you want—”

But he’s quick to shut you down with a shake of his head, even a wave of his hands for emphasis. No money, he’s already got plenty of that to spare. And besides, it doesn’t sit right with him, paying him for something that should come naturally to any decent person.

And he doesn’t want to sound mean, but judging from the shape of that little shop of yours, you look like you can use every last cent you have.

“Oh, if you say so… But still, why don’t I make it up to you sometime?”

An uneasy silence settles in the air between you; Chuuya blinks as he watches you shift your weight, partially hiding your face in Kotaro’s fur.

“…I mean, you don’t have to—I just wanna pay you back some way! Maybe I can treat you to lunch one of these days? I don’t have many days off, but I can make it work! Or maybe…do you have a dog of your own? I can give you a discount on anything in the shop!” You throw an arm out to the double doors behind you, still holding Kotaro to your chest. “Name it and it’s yours! I really don’t mind, it’s just me here anyway. Well, me and the dogs, all nine of us.”

Wait, nine, including yourself…

“You have eight of them?!”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat at the look on Chuuya’s face. He reminds you of a child on Christmas morning, staring at the presents strewn around the glowing tree. He doesn’t seem one to enjoy the company of dogs, given his fancy attire and confident aura.

And yet, he still brought Kotaro back home, when he could’ve easily turned and walked the other way. You’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover, after all.

“Eight dogs, and hopefully more by the end of the year.” Your cheeks grow warm beneath his startling blue gaze. (His eyes are really pretty up close, aren’t they?) “…I can tell you all about them on our lunch date, if you’re interested.”

He blinks, eyes flitting back and forth between you and the dog in your arms. You’ve got guts, he’ll give you that; he can see it in the way you talk to him, the way you hold the puppy in your arms. Gentle as ever, but a fire brimming in your eyes. You love this dog, no doubt about it.

And you’ve got seven more inside? Do you love them all the same amount?

What breeds are they? How did you come to adopt so many dogs at once? Or did you adopt them at once, or sporadically over the years?

So many questions, and yet the night is crawling by. He shakes his head again, giving Kotaro one last scratch behind the ears, before meeting your gaze once more.

“Lunch sounds perfect, doll.”

Your lips pull up in a smile, and he can’t help but notice how it nearly matches the one on Kotaro’s face. Bright and eager, melting under the attention of the ones around you.

And yet your smile is infinitely prettier, and he finds himself thinking about it as he starts the familiar journey back home, as the night hours slowly tick by.

[lacunazai]

I get that tbh so let me give you this:

Drunk and clingy Chuuya who won't let anyone touch him besides his beloved <3

oh drunk clingy chuuya my roman empire ( while writing this I realised gradually that i was not at all prepared to write this evening. oops. ) (( it's fine the post won't get far I think ))

it's just a port mafia party, some celebratory banquet for completing a rather large tradeoff mission. of course chuuya is the one that cracks open the fanciest bottle. the one with a few too many digits and zeros for any normal person to glance twice at. but he's always been an extravagant guy, and the more expensive it tastes the better quality it is. that's what he thinks, anyway.

he doesn't particularly bother trying to limit the glasses he intakes, why should he? koyo was staying sober, so was hirotsu, enough people that he'd be perfectly fine if anything severe happened. might as well enjoy the night as it lasts.

It's when his vision starts to blur that the first problem arises. his movements are more staggered as he struggles to keep his balance - and he lets out an almost embarassingly high pitched whine of frustration to avoid when koyo reaches out a hand to try and help stabilise him.

chuuyas knees hit the ground, a few heads turn, but its nothing too interesting. the executive had been known for not bring able to handle his alcohol too well, after all. It's when koyo leans down to help him up, and her hand is slapped away - that more people have their eyes on the scene before them.

after all, nobody who'd responded to her with violence was treated kindly in the past.

but she knows different. chuuya wouldn't do that to her - the 15 year old she spent nights trying to teach basic table manners wouldn't hit her with aggression in mind. so it had to be something else.

she let's out a gentle sigh as she calls your cell. if anyone had noticed how chuuya has a painful softspot for you, it was her. if anyone could help with a situation like this, it'd be you.

the conversation doesn't last long. a simple polite request for you to come pick him up, to see if he'll let you pick him up. and when you arrive, he obviously sees you before you spot him, a slurred whiny call of your name cutting through the crowd. one that'd have a sober chuuya breaking brick walls with his skull to forget about it.

you move over to him, listening to his unintelligible blabbers as he clings to your leg. the gentle sobs as he nuzzles into the fabric of the trousers you'd lazily thrown on. the whimpers of "I missed you s'much.." "where were you?.." "my pretty thing.."

it takes a moment to get him onto his feet again, feeling his full weight lean into you as you do so. you call a thanks to koyo, hearing her gentle giggle as you lug your boyfriend out of the party. a response of "good luck with him!" rings past the music on the speakers.

getting him home was an effort. dragging him into bed with his entire damn weight on you should've got you an olympics medal. but seeing his hazy eyes search for you, a blubber of your name as he spots you. and those gloved hands reaching like you're the only thing he'll ever need in life. it's hard to stay mad.

you settle beside him in bed, letting him wrap around you like a koala. chosing to not comment on the smell of his breath as he whispers love to you for the simplest things. he's always been sweet to you like that.

you feel the way his hands still as he drifts to sleep. from idly fiddling with your clothes to completely stone on your side. listening to the way his breathing relaxes. he felt so safe around you. it'd always been you. that's how he liked it.

[thedepthsoffandomminds]

Episode six - Bully in the Alley

Masterlist

Jack Dawkins x fem reader

This is a long one

"Do you think he'll like it? I should have packed more macaroons. Rainsford loves macaroons." Fanny chatted away as the three of you walked towards the stairs. You stop when you see the head nurse.

" Nurse Baggett, is Dr. Dawkins here?" You ask.

" On a Friday night? He's paying a house call on the Cat and Bagpipes." She laughs. Disappointed you turn back to your sisters who were already making their way up the stairs.

"Should I give Sneed a peek? What would you say to that?" Fanny said.

"Nothing really. Sneed isn't suited for you. His interest in us is purely political. He just wants to marry a governor's daughter and secure Head Surgeon. And he's already proposed to me." Belle rambled.

"Oh." Fanny stops walking.

"Fanny, he would've married any member of the family, including Father or the dog." Belle says.

"Belle, there is no need to be turt. Fanny, Sneed is not for you. He would not be attentive enough for you." You try to comfort her.

" So, when is your happy day?" She spits her words at Belle.

"The happy day was when I declined him." She replied.

"I should just fill my pocket with stones and walk into the sea." Fanny said.

"Sea's that way." Belle pointed.

"Belle, will you both stop this, now." You demand.

"So, just to clarify. Sneed's still available, then?" Fanny asks finally.

"For now." Belle agrees. The three of you walk into his private room. Fanny quickly delves into unpacking her basket of goodies.

"We've also got coconut macaroons, fruitcake, jam drops. Ooh, and this is pepper jelly. I made it myself to help with your recovery."

"How lovely. Lady Belle, are you well?" Sneed asks her, attempting to ignore Fanny.

"But it's quite peppery." Fanny continues.

"Better than someone who fought a pointless duel." They continued the back and fourth between the three of them. Your attention was held by the window you could hardly see through.

"Quickly. This way. Come on, quickly." You hear Hetty shouting. A Bell rings below. Running out of the room you see people clamouring all around.

"Cold compress on her. Splint that. Some doctors would be nice!" You see Hetty shouting. Jack stumbles in with a man's arm around his shoulders.

" Dr. Dawkins." You rush up to him.

" Lady y/n. Can you take him to the ward?" He hands the man over to you draping his arm over your shoulder.

"Are you even sober?" You ask.

"Three sheets to the wind. One sheet better than Prof usually is." He waves his arms. "Get your sister. I need her in the ward. Aputi, bring him in here." Jack walks away from you.

In the swirl of the chaos you do your best to help the nurses with bandaging and comforting the wounded people of Port Victory. Morning rose up without anyone really noticing. Seeing Jack standing beside the bed of one man you walked up to him.

"There's nothing more we could have done. Not with bleeding like that." He lets out a shaky breath, "Hetty, have you eaten anything at all?" He asks the nurse that looks set to fall down.

" No time." She replies.

Heavy footsteps stomp through the halls and you see your sister rushing up to Gaines.

" Captain Gaines, I will be speaking to my father!" She growls.

" Have you come to finish them off? Blinded in one eye, a fractured skull, and a ruptured femoral artery!" Jack's grits his teeth.

"All the results of resisting lawful execution of a warrant. And that's young Alfie Wilderkins if I'm not mistaken. This is a very good day indeed." Gaines grins and it churns your stomach.

" I want the men responsible court-martialled." You say.

"Well, that would be me. You'll need to tell the Governor his right hand is a criminal."

"Yes. That is a very good idea." You narrow your eyes at him.

" Arrest them. They're accomplices. All right. You, come with me." Gaines shouts and grabs one of the patients.

"They need medical care. I can't let you take these patients." You say putting your hands up across the ward door.

" They were never patients, Lady y/n. They're my prisoners. Stand aside." He moves close enough to you that you can smell the stink of his aftershave, "Your father indulges you. If you were my daughter..."

"I'd run away. Like your wife." You sneer at him. Gaines steps forward raising his hand ready to slap you but Jack catches him, wrenching him backward.

" Oi! Doc, you're needed over here." Fagin calls from the other side of the room. He drops Gaines' hand.

" Pity you didn't strike me, Dawkins." He growls at Jack before marching away.

"father can stop this!" You call to Belle.

"Where do you think I'm going?" She shouts back almost running from the hospital. You turn back to Jack.

"Are you alright?" He asks, you nod your head allowing him to take your hand.

"What do we do?" You ask.

"you've been here all night, go home and get some rest. Hetty you too. Neither of you are any good if you get sick as well." Hetty tries to protest but he shakes his head to her, "Go on, we'll be okay, come back later."

*_*_*_*

"Hold fire!" The Governor shouts as Belle wakes him by dropping. Heavy book onto the desk.

"Gaines has gone mad. People have lost their lives." Your sister tells him.

" No, surely not. I counselled moderation." He rebutes.

"Have you seen what's going on out there?" She asks.

"No, but... Oh, my word, that's lovely." He says taking a sip of congac.

" The hospital is overrun. Beaten by Gaines' men." She interrupts him.

"And I'm sorry you had to see that. The hospital really is no place for a lady. But I bear good news, Excellency." Gaines brushes past Belle. "Your operation has flushed out the notorious Kit Wilderkins."

" Oh, Gaines, that is wonderful news."your father chuckles.

" You ordered this, Father?" You ask storming into the room"

"Gaines is firm, darling, but there's a reason he kept our men alive in Africa."

"No, but he's maiming people. He's killing them." You protest.

" All regrettable incidents. Some were resisting arrest and attacking your men, Governor. I shall pray for their souls. Tell me, does your friend, Dr. Dawkins, ever cause a patient pain?" Gaines turns to you.

" Of course, in trying to help to... " You reply.

"Cure. Yes. And does Dr. Dawkins ever accidentally kill any of these patients?"

" Rarely." Belle interjects.

"And I'm sure he mourns it, as I do. You see, a colony is very much like a body..."

" Yes, I've read Hobbes." You cut him off.

"Then you will know that sometimes we must hurt in order to heal."

"A young man bled to death in the hospital overnight. What of his family?" You say.

"Ah, yes. Very sad. Alfie Wilderkins, only eighteen. Kit Wilderkins was his father. Together they held up the Murchings Bank stage coach last month, and killed three people. Corporal Hartmouth was begging for mercy when they shot him. Hartmouth had two dear little children, Rosie and William." Gaines pretended to feel remorse as he sat in a chair.

"Yes. Look, it's one thing to lose a man in battle, but to crime? It's hard to explain to the widow." The governor says.

"You see, my ladies, sometimes we need to cut a rotten part of the body politic in order to cure the whole." He speaks to you both.

"I know what part of the body politic I'd be removing." Belle bites back.

" Okay, thank you, Captain Gaines." The Governor dismisses his Captain before taking your and Belle's hands in his.

"Darlings... Darlings, I know you disapprove of Gaines and his methods. But I've been asked to turn a penal colony into a society. And I need men like him to make a prison into something better. Now, I'm not asking you to accept everything I do, but I am asking you both to support me and this family." He says.

"we will go back to the hospital and help." Belle says.

"No, we need to rest. Father, you should, perhaps put down your congac and take a good she's look at the people you surround yourself with. Come sister." You take her hand and lead her to the stairs.

"You're giving up?" She asks.

"No, Belle, Jack said we needed to sleep to rest, he sent Hetty away as well. He wants us at our best to help." You explain.

"And what will you do? Hold a few hands and get in the way?" She spat out the words.

You hold onto the emotions that threaten to spill out of your eyes.

*_*_*_*

"Belle, I may not be as smart as you are when it comes to medicine, but I am doing my best."

"You could be doing so much more, instead of wasting all your energy on a boy."

You push past her and storm up to your bedroom.

Three hours later you found yourself unable to sleep so you redressed in a simple cotton outfit, forgoing the hooped crinoline and opting for a smaller petticoat. You sneak back down stairs to the carriage that waited for you at the back of the house. Belle was already sat inside.

"took your time." She smiled. You say nothing, knocking on the carriage to signal the driver. Much to Belle's dismay you give her the cold shoulder all the way to the hospital. Choosing to keep your eyes on the trees going past.

She chased after you into the building when you arrived at the hospital.

"y/n please, I'm sorry." She calls after you. You ignore her finding Jack.

"What'd your father say? When's he going to stop this?" He asks you.

" Yes, I have spoken to my father. There are two sides to this. It's not as clear as..." you say walking through the corridors.

"He's dead. How much clearer could it be?" He almost shouts at you.

You stop and look at him for a moment, "Right, if you're to be like that, Jack..."

"I cannot believe you would give that man's story credence." He said. You turned once more marching god knows where as you spoke.

"I don't give a fig about Gaines, but I do trust my father's word on this."

"You can't agree with their methods?" He asked.

"Obviously not." You answered

" That boy bled to death in front of us."

"I know but, he was a bushranger, who killed one of Father's men."

"So they say."

" He's my father. He's many things, but he's not a liar. He's trying to bring peace to a colony you have to admit is out of control." You stomped through a closed door.

"Did you mean to walk into a cupboard?" Jack almost laughs.

" Obviously not!" You bit your lower lip to keep your emotions from bubbling over. "Gosh. You are incredibly irritating."

"So are you."

"'Cause you won't listen to anyone else's point of view. All I'm saying is it is not clear-cut."

"Look, you either want to be a help here, someone who cares for everybody, no matter how spotty their soul may be, or you are "milady," who gives six of the best to the peasants when we get uppity." He jibs you.

" Uppity? I know you had your past indiscretions, but these were bushrangers who killed three men, one a father." You reply.

" Some people need to thieve in order to eat." Jack sighs.

"And that can lead to death, too." It was getting harder to hold back your tears.

"Have you ever seen anybody dead on the streets from hunger?"

"No!" You agree.

"Have you ever paid for anything you've eaten? Or worn, or lived in?"

"That's a false syllogism." You say turning back toward the cupboard door. Jack runs up behind you.

"Whatever that is, it is not. If you can't see what is happening here, y/n, then you and I have big problems. This puts a wall between us." His arm is across You holding the door shut.

" You climbed it fine when you kissed me in the surgery." You say, a tear escaping down your face. Jack sighs, he knows he has pushed you too far. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"let me go, I should, I wish to leave." You whisper.

"Y/n-"

"I wish to leave."

You do not let any tears fall from your eyes until you reached your bedroom. Where you fling yourself upon your bed and cry until exhausted you fall asleep

*_*_*_*

The sound of Fagin's voice wakes you some time later and you tiptoe along behind him. With your arms crossed you wait at the door as he comes shuffling out of your father's office with a large Hessian bag.

"Stealing like a common thief again?" You say when he spots you.

"Yes, well only what was stolen from us in the first place." He raises his hands towards you in submission.

"Fine, take the lot. I no longer care."

"actually we could do with your help you know. Doc is getting your sister for an operation but you, you might be exactly what we need." His smile unnerved and intrigued you.

"Okay, take me there." You agree.

Belle and Dawkins come down the stairs discussing the procedure they are about to do. You pay them no mind as you step into the carriage.

"you're coming?" Jack asks hopeful.

"To help the people, not you." You say turning yourself away from them.

"Sorry about the pissing, Fagin, I just couldn't... Whoa! Hello, Your Majesty." Flashbang spoke when he saw you and Belle.

"Hello." You reply.

"Is this a criminal conspiracy?" Belle asks

"In a manner of speakin', yes."

"If you're going to the hospital, Belle, I'm coming to see Sneedy." Fanny pushes past Flashbang to get in beside Belle, forcing Jack to sit beside you. Fagin plonks himself on the luggage tray at the back and Flashbang hangs onto the side.

Jack glances at you occasionally, you are sure he wants to talk to you but you keep your eyes turned away only replying to Fanny.

At the hospital you follow them all inside. It's agreed that you'll go to the prof and distract him whilst the others got Red's baby out safely. When you were satisfied that he was deep enough into the second bottle you went up to Red's room. Fagin taking your place. Jack stands at the door.

"How is it going?" You ask keeping a distance from the doctor.

"Well I think, I'm not allowed in." He replies.

"Belle is operating alone?"

"she is more than capable."

"Of course she is, Belle would run rings around any trained man." You sit down beside Tim. "Red is strong, she'll be alright." You comfort him.

Jack watches you talk with the man, how he seems instantly at ease with you. All the people in Port Victory did. You held an air of kindness that spread out to those you spoke to. He had to admit to himself that having you here, speaking with the patients and holding their hands eased them. It made the wards feel lighter, as if death was not hanging over their heads. Taking in a long breath Jack turned back to his work opening the door just enough to call in.

" Nearly... I have it now." Belle says from.inside.

"How is it in there? Do you have the head yet?" He called.

"Now, pull up and out." Jack guides her.

" Just one more cut.* Hetty says as they clamp the umbilical chord, " She's out. Come on, Belle."

" Please breathe." Belle encourages the baby with a rub to its chest. The new born cries and everyone sighs with relief.

" Now stitch her, fascia first." Jack reminds her. "Is Red all right?" Tim pushing his way into the room.

"She's breathing steady, Tim." Belle reassures him, handing the now swaddled infant. With them all in the room you chose to stay out, waiting for Gaines to appear.

They managed to sneak the woman and the baby out of the room and secret her away in Jack's room.

Belle is cleaning away her equipment when Jack walks back in.

"We did it. Hetty and I, we kept them both alive." She smiles.

" In time for your father to hang her." Jack snaps back. Belle is about to argue when the door opens and Aputi and Flash bring a large basket into the room. You follow them in as they place the covered body on the bed.

"Well done."

"No! You're body snatching!" Belle rrmarks.

"Pretty standard in our line of work." Jack comments.

" You can't be serious."

"Belle,This is the only way to save her." You say.

" Clearly pregnant. Very good." Jack says before pulling the sheet back, "Clearly not pregnant. This a man." He chastises them.

" Big Kit's all we had in the deadhouse, Dr. Jack." Aputi explained as they left the room.

"This is madness! It can't work! And it's a capital offence!" Belle snapped

" So is killing a mother before she's even put her own child to her breast." You snap back.

"So, what's more important, milady?"

You are the first to hear Gaines approaching and slip out of the room. Jack follows you closing the door behind him.

"Captain," you pretend to feel sadness. "I fear the mother and baby died on the table. How does one bear this sort of loss, Captain?" You put a hand on his chest, keeping him from moving further. "I have never seen it, but perhaps you were right, darkness cannot birth light I suppose." You say. He nods.

"Yes, lady y/n, it is awful when the innocent are tard by the guilty." He pushes your hand away and attempts to step past you.

"You can't go in. Her body's undressed. For shame. And you, a Godly man. Have you no decency?" You pour every bit of heartache you had into the words.

"I need to see the body." He tells you.

" What are you going to do, Captain? Hang her corpse?" You ask.

" Have the Professor bring me the death certificate." The Captain hisses.

"Dr. Dawkins can sign it."

"No! I would find it much more reliable if the Professor signs it." He walks away. Turning yourself round to Jack you look up at him.

"Thank you." He says.

"I didn't do it for you." You drop your eyes to the ground.

"y/n, I-" you shake your head, "I'll see to the patient." He lets you walk away from him, wishing he hadn't.

Knocking on the door you step into the room, Red sat on the small bed by the window.

"How are you?" You ask.

"Better now. You know you are nothing like the rest of your family. There's a little crime in you." Red said with a chuckle, "would you like to hold her?"

You nod and come forward, sitting on the end of the bed. You take the bundle into your arms and rock her.

"She's beautiful." You say a wide smile on your face.

"it's suits you." Tim states.

"What is it, why didn't you follow society? Why ain't you married?" Red asked.

"oh, I.... I'm not well. I wouldn't make a man a widower or a child and orphan." You reply, keeping your eyes on the sleeping baby.

"Sorry." Red whispered. Not long after Fagin arrived and then Jack. At first you wanted to leave but you stayed at Tim's request. Jack poured you all a small glass of Fagin's stolen liqueur.

When at last Belle was done with her cleaning she came up to find you. Not wanting to speak to her you simply walked alongside to the carriage.

At home again you sat in your bed the blankets over knees when Belle and Fanny came giggling into her room. Belle climbed into the bed beside you and Fanny dropped her head to your lap.

"I shared my first kiss." She said looking UK at you.

"With Sneed?" You asked.

" And did you enjoy it?" Belle cuddled closer. "Mixed. At first, it was lovely. But then I think I hurt him rather badly. He was quite angry, actually." She screwed up her face.

"Someone'll sweep you off your feet when you least expect it in the most inconvenient of moments." You say brushing back her hair and stroking her face with the back of your hand.

" I had a thought." She said, flipping herself onto her stomach, "Considering your health, perhaps you and Dr. Dawkins could have a long, happily unconsummated love affair until he walks off, desolate, into the windswept moors..." she all but sings her fantasy, you feel a pang of gult.

"We don't have moors here." Belle reminded her.

"But yes, that is a nice thought." You agree. Your sisters cuddle into you and you all giggle over the day until your mother commands you all to bed.

*_*_*_*_*

Fagin and Dawkins sat at a table in the tavern, Rotty poured them both a drink I to the metal tankards.

"So, our old Cheekybones did well." Fagin grins. "Yeah. She did, didn't she?"

"And her sister, the older one, she is a boone, still, it's not really their world, is it? And you've got to remember, Dodge, theirs isn't yours." He reminded the younger man. Jack played with his cup and turned to the window. His heart leaps in his chest when he sees the nicest sight he had seen in days. Without saying a word to his companion, Jack walked outside.

"Milady. I must warn you I am a little bit drunk. In fact, I am approaching strutting pigeon."

You smile from below your cape, dropping the hood down. Reaching out you take the cup from his hand and swallow down the liquid.

" So am I, now." You smile, "The crime, it's not just for survival. You actually love it." You say.

"The worst parts of me do." Jack admits.

"well, I cannot say I did not enjoy getting one over on Gaines." You admit. Jack laughs.

" It's hopeless, isn't it?" You take a step toward him.

"Oh, yes. We are completely unsuited." He agrees matching your movement.

"We should really never see each other socially." You offer up words you don't believe.

"No, that wouldn't be right." He said moving close enough to slide his hand around your waist. Crashing his lips to yours. Your heart fluttered in your chest. You spin him round so his back hits the wall.

" Holy hell, we're in trouble." You whisper.

"So much trouble." Jack he replies placing his lips to yours and you feel all your resolve disappearing.

"I'm sorry I hurt you." Jack speaks between kisses.

Everything had changed in that few seconds. Your life would never be the same.

Episode seven

@fandomfan-102

[angstea]

Auctober 2024 Masterlist

Day 1: Autism Plus

i'm trapped in my tiny human brain (and it's killing me) [FNAF Movie]

Day 2: Infinity

echoing where my ghosts all used to be [Doctor Who]

Day 3: AuDHD

it hurts me just to think and i don't do pain [Good Omens]

Day 4: Music

speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing [Doctor Who]

Day 5: Verbose

i could barely speak (i could only hum a tune) [FNAF Movie]

Day 6: Individuals

a brand new soul and a new set of clothes [Doctor Who]

Day 7: Nueroscope

i can try but i can't hide it from you [Doctor Who/Torchwood]

Day 8: Non-Speaking

sought and safe behind a wing [Doctor Who]

Day 9: Community

it's getting cold down here underneath the weather [FNAF Movie]

Day 10: Self Advocacy

fingers covered in thorns [Doctor Who]

Day 11: Unlearning Ableism

i can't fight it splitting my mind in two [Doctor Who/Torchwood]

Day 12: Differently Wired

going home [Torchwood]

Day 13: Vivid Imaginations

shadows tangle like a vine [Doctor Who]

Day 14: Hyperfixations

christmas time is buzzing in my skull [The Nightmare Before Christmas]

Day 15: Pebbling

baby, could you play along with me [FNAF Movie]

Day 16: Autistic Pride

save your convictions, they never will do [Ghostbusters]

Day 17: Repetition

sometimes i get nervous when i see an open door [Doctor Who]

Day 18: Self Regulating

your words so bitter (but i'll do better) [FNAF Movie]

Day 19: Comfort Items

how do i begin when the roof is ever changing? [FNAF]

Day 20: Executive Dysfunction

Not posted due to the fact I wasn't happy with it

Day 21: Queer

you can hold my hand when no one's home [Doctor Who/Torchwood]

Day 22: Disabled

i'll make a cup of coffee for your head [FNAF Movie]

Day 23: Synesthesia

stubborn hearted blue [Doctor Who/Torchwood]

Day 24: Genetic

i'm an expert just like you [Ghostbusters]

Day 25: Pets

Posted exclusively on AO3

Day 26: Fidgeting

crawl into bed (just bundle up and cry) [Doctor Who/Torchwood]

Day 27: Stimming

make me behave like an animal [Doctor Who]

Day 28: Safe Foods

i need to run, but i can't get out of bed for anyone [BBC Ghosts]

Day 29: Empathy

you've got a bleeding heart [Doctor Who]

Day 30: Accommodations

all my worthless rage [Doctor Who/Torchwood]

Day 31: Sensory Euphoria

i can't control thoughts of things i need [Doctor Who]

[secondtolastfr]

Predictions for the rest of the festival genes

Starfall - I have a couple ideas- obviously there's a meteor shower / falling star type thing they could do. The only issue would be making it better than Sparkle. They could also do some floaty rune-type stuff, but again, it would need to be different than just Runes. I'm rooting for the former, personally.

Obviously, Aethers will get Starfall, but for the second breed it could go to pretty much any of them. I'm betting on Aberrations, Undertides, or Veilspuns.

Rot (Or whatever they end up calling it) - This one is really hard to predict, mostly because of FR's rules on gore and the like. If the Plaguebringer is anything to go off of, I would say maybe a skull mask and sharp, uneven ridges down the back.

Aberrations will of course get it, and I'm betting on Sandsurges getting it too (and maybe Veilspuns and Gaolers).

Rockbreaker - If I had to guess, it'll be a lot of rocks and maybe gems, probably on the feet of the dragon (and maybe the crown? I'm honestly not sure, I'm basing everything off of the Earthshaker). Like with Starfall and Runes/Sparkle, it'll been to be better than just Gembond- which shouldn't be too hard, haha.

Since the Earth ancient won't be out for a while, I'm guessing Sandsurges and Gaolers will get Rockbreaker.

Crystalline - My guess will be icicles on the wings, a crown of ice and spines of ice leading down to the tip of the dragon's tail, kind of like what the Icewarden has going on:

The only other thing I can think of would be swirling snowflakes, but I don't know how well that would go over.

Gaolers will of course get it- maybe Aethers, or Veilspuns? Not sure.

Trickmurk - I have two ideas here: 1) Pooling shadows beneath the dragon (like with Shadowbinder), and 2) Floating, drifting, abstract shadows (like the Shadow aura). I have high hopes for this one, haha.

Veilspuns, of course, will get the gene. But I could see it going to any other breed, if it's anything like I'm predicting.

Mistral - I've heard people in Wind hope that their gene isn't generic clouds, but I honestly don't know what else the gene would be. I imagine the cloud placement would resemble the Windsinger:

I bet Aethers will get the gene, and Undertides too because they're noodles like the Windsinger.

Wavecrest - Again, looking at the Tidelord, I'm guessing lots of extra fins, bubbles at the feet (and/or maw), and general water-y things.

Besides Undertides, I could see Sandsurges getting it because of how shark-like they are.

Greenskeeper - There are a few options here. Vines, coming down the dragon's back. A small tree (or perhaps a bush), growing out of the dragon's back. Small plants coming out of the ground at the dragon's feet. There's a lot of ideas for execution.

Aequorin mentioned that the breed is "anticipated for late 2023," so hopefully the Nature ancient will be released by then. Like my Trickmurk prediction, I could see it going to any of the other ancients, depending on how it's executed.

Another thing I'm wondering: When we get the Light/Wind/Earth ancients, will they be able to get their elemental fest genes? I know that's way, way into the future, but I wonder how they'll go about that.

[kudzuoath]

Sundown Vows

In some ways, being kidnapped by mindflayers has been the best thing to ever happen to Temperance Crier. For the first time in more than a decade she has people to depend upon. But even being plucked from her own execution and dropped into a fight for the free will of Faerun cannot prevent the past from catching up to her at last.

*this is chapter one of a larger fic posted to ao3. Future chapters are probably not being posted to tumblr.

-----

Vengeful outrage arced through her before she was even fully awake.

Temperance was on her knees and clawing at the air in front of her until she recognized the sun on her face and the sensation of sand beneath her. The ever present whispers faded to a dull roar in the back of her mind. Like the tide rolling in and out of the harbor back in Neverwinter.

She swallowed hard and waited for the white sparks to clear from her vision. Grounding herself by touch and scent to the world around her.

Water, she thought. Something… green and astringent – mergrass? Good for potions of mind reading. Heightened mental awareness even from suspensions.

Heat, near her left hand.

She searched it out – and flinched back when it burned her. That was – yes, the sword, right? There was a vague impression left to her of a cambion with a flaming greatsword. And it was the same greatsword that she saw when her eyes cleared. It lay in a warped cradle of glass, fire licking merrily over its abstract creation.

Temperance set her hand on the hilt, wondering how in all the hells she was meant to carry the damned thing out of battle – only for the sword to bite her. Well – something sharp erupted under her palm. The weapon tasted her blood. And perhaps she was just infernal enough, for the flames calmed, and the teeth retreated.

“At least I didn’t wake unarmed,” she rasped to herself, a grim smile pulling at the crust of dried blood caking the side of her face. Terrible.

Heart in her throat, she stood, taking in the world around her. There was sand, yes. The water she’d smelled, festooned with greenery – mergrass included – and sandstone cliffs rising up around her. Some sort of canyon then?

She took a few careful steps into the water, trying to peer around the massive fleshy tentacle of the ship that had stolen her.

And saved me.

What grim luck indeed.

Absently, she harvested the mergrass. Centering herself with the sharp scent of broken fronds, and the fuzzy texture of the purple blooms nestled within the stalks. There were a few likely boulders farther out in the water. She could maybe scale them and get a better lay of the land. But if she was going into deep water she’d need to shed her armor if she didn’t want to drown herself…

Her heart calmed.

Then the tadpole squirmed to life behind her left eye, shattering her fragile peace. Temperance’s hands tightened around the mergrass until it cut at her already much scarred palms, pulverizing her meager bounty and bleeding it.

She felt sick, remembering the way the Mindflayer clamped psionic fingers around her skull and squeezed… wrenching her head to the side as everything inside her shrieked in outrage.

A gods damned mindflayer.

She’d heard of them, but only just. It was enough to make a woman laughing mad. How much more could fit inside her at this point?

Of course the real question is which of my guests are going to win, she thought, morbidly amused.

“My coin is on the Phylactery,” she muttered. Trying to put the horrible moment aside. To avoid thinking about why her eye was burning.

So she waded back onto the beach and took a look at the tentacles to either side boxing her in. They were disturbingly moist and not because of the water. It reminded her of a dead whale that had washed up in Neverwinter’s harbor a lifetime ago.

Gods, she didn’t want to imagine the stink of the ship could rot. And even though it was more object than adversary she really didn’t want to shed any layers around it.

So, if she wasn't going into the drink…

“One step. Then another. Come on.”

The flesh of the ship pulsed at her. Mockingly.

Her palms itched with disgust. She didn’t want to touch the thing. But as it was several times the size of her, she really had no choice. She was going to have to climb it.

“Not the worst thing you’ve done in the last ten years, Temp, Hop to.”

She flexed her fingers, bounced up and down on the balls of her feet a few times – then took a running leap at the wreckage. Hoping to clear as much of it as possible. But of course that would be too bloody lucky wouldn’t it? Her foot went right through the center of one of the suckers and the thing latched on. Warm and wet, like a horrible toothless mouth.

Gagging she wrenched her foot free. Only for the suckers she’d caught with her hands to turn and try to curl around them. She sliced at them with involuntary viciousness, claws digging in deep as she scrambled up and over the thing. Temperance didn’t even try to climb down the other side – simply leapt and hit the sand below with a teeth rattling thump.

Skin crawling, she looked over her shoulder and watched the tentacle shudder and begin to contract.

“I hate you,” she told it flatly.

Naturally, it didn’t much care about the hatred of a lone tiefling. But she felt a little better for saying it. And might have felt better still if she’d had the luxury of hacking at the thing with her new greatsword for a few minutes.

But there was no time to waste. Even though there was also no clear path forward.

The ravaged beach stretched out before her, sand gone to glass in places from the heat of the fires the wreck had started. And there were corpses too. One, just a few feet in front of her mangled and salted and face down in the water.

Though she was years and horrors away from her life in the temple, she paused above it, and said a prayer. Then Temperance went through the dead man’s belongings. A few gold, and a wine bottle, of all things. She pocketed both, and was lucky enough to find a pack near the next body. Not much of use besides the fishing line but a place to store things was a boon.

The third body was breathing. And familiar.

The woman from the pod. Shadowheart. Laid out on her back with her braid covering her eyes like a blindfold. Under one hand, the spiked box covered in unknown runes.

Just as before, when Temperance laid eyes on the woman a pale gold four pointed star painted itself over her torso.

Pale was good. Pale she could ignore. Unlike the sunburst that had turned the cambion on the ship into a vaguely person shaped gout of flame and burned all the will to resist and memory out of her.

(Her fingers itched nonetheless. The whispers in her ear grew louder. She could almost understand what they said.

She ignored them. Painting over the fire with everything she knew about balsam.)

The cleric remained unconscious in the sand. The only sign of life the regular movement of her shoulders signifying breath.

First thing first. Temperance carefully moved the woman’s braid out of her face, and set her fingertips at the cleric’s temple. Reaching for that thread of divine fire that she’d carried with her for the past thirteen years. For the part of it that cauterized, that healed.

Nothing. The powers granted by her oath slithered just beyond where she could fathom. Retreating along with the whispers. And the pale stars. The worm wriggled, making her head throb. It was impossible of course, yet somehow she imagined the thing was smug.

Your doing? She thought at it, fury simmering. Just you wait.

With her own healing magic beyond her, the cleric would simply have to heal herself if she needed it. So Temperance took the half-elf by the shoulders and shook her.

Shadowheart woke with a gasp, pushing up to her feet and staggering a few feet back. Her green eyes darted wildly around her before at last settling on the one who’d woken her.

Temperance waggled her fingers at her with a bland expression on her face, still crouched. “Good morning.”

“You’re alive –” Shadowheart said, disbelief painted across her face. “I’m alive. How is this possible?”

Temperance pushed to her feet. Dryly she said, “Divine intervention perhaps?”

“The divine tend to keep their interventions close to the chest,” Shadowheart replied, matching Temperance’s tone. “Though I suppose it’s not impossible.”

Silence stretched out between them as they eyed one another.

We’re both wondering who the other serves now that the blood’s calmed, Temperance thought. Or at least I am. She’s in for a shock should she ever find out.

Funnily enough her certainty in Shadowheart’s reaction would be a source of amusement to her in the not so distant future.

“I don’t suppose you have any better idea about where we are than I do?” asked Temperance.

“No,” said Shadowheart after another moment of looking around. “I don’t recognize this place. But anything’s an improvement over where we just came from.”

“I can’t say I’m fond of Avernus from what little I saw of it, no,” Temperance deadpanned.

Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed. “You played a dangerous game back there on the ship.”

Temperance stilled and tucked away any hint of expression. Eying the cleric with feigned calm. She worried at the hole in her memory after spotting the cambion. Prodding at the gap like it was a missing tooth. “Oh?”

“Picking a fight with that devil. You’re lucky to be alive. Both of us are. Had you taken any longer we’d be dead in the hells instead of stranded wherever here is.”

“I can’t say I recall picking a fight,” she said – entirely honestly, though her tone implied otherwise. “Do you really think that devil would have let any of us get past it to the transponder?”

Shadowheart looked at her, eyebrow raised. “If you say so.”

“Shall I grovel?” she said mildly.

“Hm,” Shadowheart huffed – though there was the faintest hint of a smile hiding at the corners of her lips. “No. I’d much rather you find us a healer. Which is the first thing we need to do, I hope you’re aware.”

“We?” Temperance asked, tilting her head.

“We need each other. We both know what’s at stake. I can’t imagine better company.”

Considering that the smartest course of action for anyone who wasn’t infected to take was a swift beheading – yes, Shadowheart was probably right. Not that Temperance had any particular objections to the other woman’s company. Insofar as strangers went, she was fine.

“Then we had best make use of daylight while we still have it.”

“Wait. You have my name,” said Shadowheart. “What am I to call you?”

Well, there was no avoiding it now. She closed her eyes and let out a soft sigh. Shepherds face painted on the back of her eyelids.

Take back the name your mother gave you for now, he’d said. Let Temperance Crier die.

“Surely it isn’t so difficult a question?” Shadowheart pressed, a hint of annoyance creeping into her tone. “I’ll have to call you something if we’re to fight together.”

“Odette,” said Temperance. “Just… call me Odette.”

–

“Tell me you aren’t about to touch that,” Shadowheart said.

The two of them had spent most of the day navigating the wreckage of the nautiloid and its dearth of broken trees, corpses, and horrible swollen little brain things. It was only now as the sun began to sink below the water that they’d found relatively flat ground lacking in the flesh structures of their captors.

Temperance had suggested a break almost as soon as they pulled themselves out of the wreckage. She hadn’t liked how pale Shadowheart’s lips had gone. And though she’d known her for all of a day, she also didn’t like how silently the cleric sank to the ground and set her head between her knees. Breathing hard long after Temperance had gotten her breath back.

It was only after a good twenty minutes of rest that they’d started their slow winding way down a dusty weathered road, rounded the corner and come across it.

A spitting whirling vortex of purple energy with a center of darkness so complete it seemed to suck the light of the setting sun into it. The energy crackled out of the rock face, obscuring all but the outer edge of some kind of rune circle. Clearly the thing was dangerous. And yet…

“I’m hardly going to stick my hand in,” she deadpanned. “I try to keep blindingly stupid actions down to once a day.”

“Ha,” said Shadowheart. “I suppose you’ve met that goal already then?”

Temperance bent and retried a long, gnarled stick from the brambles along the roadside, then strode forward and drove it into the maelstrom of magic. Immediately the stick vibrated against her palm – as if the end of it was caught in a riptide – and a massive purple spark leapt down the length of it to snap at her hand.

“Hells!” She dropped the stick and snatched her hand back, shaking it to dispel the lingering snarl of arcane energy. And then a moment later nearly fell ass over teakettle when an arm thrust itself out of the void and began to flail about blindly.

“A hand? Anyone?” called the owner of aforesaid limb.

Unable to help herself, she exchanged a look with Shadowheart. The cleric pursed her lips and lifted one shoulder, clearly no better equipped to understand rogue arms drifting out of black holes than she was. Though at least this meant they were both seeing the same thing.

Creeping closer, Temperance called, “Is there a person attached to the other end of this arm?”

“I should hope so! Or at least there was this morning in my tower. Pull me out and we’ll get properly introduced!”

The hand continued to snatch at the open air. She didn’t think she was imagining the air of panic to the motion.

“Shadowheart, would you –?”

The cleric sighed but obligingly took hold of the back of her belt with both hands. “I suppose I can’t complain about your rescuing of strangers seeing as it’s the only reason I’m not still in that bloody pod.”

Now anchored, Temperance took the stranger’s arm in both hands and started to pull. He immediately gripped her forearm and clung with a desperate, bruising grip. And the moment they were all connected, they began to jitter from the well of pressure tugging them toward the vortex. Both hers and Shadowheart’s feet began to slide through the dirt, leaving grooves behind. Alarmed, Temperance kicked up one foot and braced against the rock face.

“That’s it!” the stranger called. Sounding remarkably blase. “Go on, keep pulling!”

Taking a deep breath, she practically threw herself backwards, trying to wrench the man loose. So of course this was the moment the vortex decided to spit him out.

She, Shadowheart, and the purple-clad man all went flying backwards and hit the road. Hard. With the man who’d been trapped in the rock laying across them like a corpse. Or perhaps a very large stunned fish.

A stunned fish that smells like a library, Temperance thought.

Muffled swearing from Shadowheart (who had the misfortune to be at the bottom of the pile) followed by. “ – Would you get off of me!”

What followed was a deeply undignified scrambling as limbs went every which way. Someone stepped on her tail – which made her kick reflexively, catching someone else in a soft place that made them wheeze. But after a moment they were all on their feet again, with the wizard – because he had to be a wizard with an entrance like that – brushing off his robes.

Temperance opened her mouth to say something – only for the man to step forward and take her hand. Which he then shook enthusiastically. “Hello! I’m Gale of Waterdeep.”

“Odette,” she lied, bemused. He looked remarkably clean and possibly even well to do, considering where he’d just come from and their present surroundings. She was mildly annoyed to have to look up in order to meet his eyes. Wasn’t he a tall thing? Cut a rather excellent figure too.

“Apologies,” he went on. “I’m usually better at this.”

“Bludgeoning innocent passersby with your thick skull?” Said Shadowheart sweetly.

“Giving solid objects an identity crisis?” Temperance deadpanned.

“Ha! No and no again. Though all things considered you’re not too far off about changing the nature of things. What I mean is, better at magic.” He glanced behind him at what had once been a broken rune, almost… wistful.

“You’re still in one piece,” she said dryly. “So I’d say better is relative.”

She’d known a few wizards in her life. Enough to know that it wasn’t a question of ‘better’ so much as it was caution. Even the cleverest among them did tend to cause explosions now and again. Even the ones who dealt with magic that didn't seem remotely prone to combustion.

“Right you are! Though some of that is certainly due to your timely intervention. – Say but I know you don’t I?” Her blood ran cold. “In a manner of speaking. You were on the Nautiloid as well.”

And her blood thawed. Though she wearily noted that Shadowheart had spotted her flinch. Those green eyes marked her. Gods damn it. She really should be better at this by now.

“I had the misfortune, yes,” she said, intentionally putting her attention back on Gale. He was rather pretty, actually. With his thick, dark hair threaded with gray, and his expressive brown eyes. He was tattooed as well – though the purplish ink looked almost fresh where it cut into his clavicle and snaked up the side of his neck.

An arcane sigil? She wondered.

“Misfortune is a mild way of putting it. If you were indeed there I can only assume you too were on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the, ah… ocular region.” He made a gesture that was both simple, and terribly graphic at the same time by the side of his head. One of snapping teeth and slithering.

The memory of the tadpoles' entrance unfortunately remained to her. Temperance became eerily aware of the pressure behind one of her eyes. Her hands twitched as she fought the urge to claw at her face and start screaming. “I couldn’t have put it more repellently myself.”

“No use sugarcoating it, is there?” he said, brow raised. And a moment later, raised one finger too. “The insertee we speak of, this parasite - are you aware that after a period of excruciating gestation it will turn us into mind flayers? It's a process known as ceremorphosis, and let me assure you: it is to be avoided.”

This time Temperance couldn’t help a full body shudder. Remembering the other woman in the pod on the ship. The cracking of bones and rending of flesh… the screaming. If Shadowheart knew what had been risked to free her, perhaps she would be less grateful for Temperance’s interference.

“Now, not to diminish your considerable help already but I can’t help but ask… you don't happen to be a cleric, do you? A doctor? Surgeon? Uncannily adroit with a knitting needle?” And once more he made a rather terrible motion with his hand to illustrate that last bit. With a gleam in his eye too, as if he thought the last idea were rather funny.

“You seem to know enough about our condition to realize it is beyond most clerics' skills,” said Shadowheart.

Gale inclined his head toward her. “Most, no doubt. But I find myself hoping to be in the presence of the few. You don't happen to be one of them?”

Temperance watched Shadowheart’s eyes narrow and quickly stepped between the two of them. Just in case. “I’m afraid our skills lend themselves more toward pulling wayward Wizards out of rocks. And the healing of more… common ailments.”

“Ah, well.” He stroked his chin. “I suppose I can’t complain – though it would have been quite neat to have our problems mutually excised merely through the providence of meeting one another!”

“And yet that sounds awfully like complaining to me,” said Shadowheart.

“Friend, you haven’t even begun to experience what a wizard truly in a snit is capable of unleashing,” Gale returned. Never losing his smile and still seeming in surprisingly good humor.

“And I’d rather we didn’t,” said Temperance. “If it’s all the same to you.”

“I’d prefer a less contentious relationship myself,” he agreed, folding his hands behind his back and leaning forward a touch. “Speaking of, with as much danger as we’re in, having a wizard of my not inconsiderable talents along on the road would be to your benefit. To make no mention of my other areas of study coming in handy. One can never predict what needful things might be found through one's love affair with books!”

Temperance smiled faintly. He had no need to convince her – what sense would it make to reject help? Even quite talkative help. Not that she minded overmuch – he had a rather nice voice. “You’re welcome to join up, Gale.”

She watched him smile brightly at her and snatch his hand to his heart. He talked as much with his hands as his mouth, she’d noticed. “Most excellent! A parasite shared is a parasite… halved. Or something to that effect.”

And that actually got a snort out of her. “You’re in good spirits for a man in your position.”

“Well now, being maudlin isn’t likely to do any damage to the wee one. If it did I imagine few enough amongst us who have had the dubious joy of being infected by an illithid’s tadpole would ever transform. And truthfully I’m still rather glad not to be trapped between realms.”

“So I see,” she said. And turned her gaze skyward. There was very little light left, now. The blue shadows of dusk were creeping in around their feet. And so close to the water it was bound to get cold. Temperance frowned to herself, mentally cataloging what she and Shadowheart had scavenged thus far. “I don’t guess you know a place we might camp?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “I’ve been trapped since the crash. Ah, but speaking of! Before you think you're about to embark on a journey with most ill-mannered a man: thank you for pulling me out of that stone. It was an act of foresighted kindness I assure you, for I have the feeling ample opportunities will present themselves for me to return the favor.”

“You’re welcome?” she said, once more bemused. “I’ve made something of a habit of that today.”

“Oh –?”

“We should get moving,” said Shadowheart, interrupting before Gale could pursue his current line of thought. “Find some place to bed down before it's dark and our new wizard friend can’t see.”

“Ah, to be the only human,” he said, setting a hand to his heart in faux pain. “I shall make up for my inability to see in the dark with my skills at the cookfire. Providing we find a place to set one up, of course. Shall we go then?”

Temperance nodded, taking them both in. Shadowheart still seemed a little tired around the eyes – and Gale seemed a touch manic around his. But nothing was broken and no one was bleeding. And – yes. They were indeed both looking to her. She swallowed, heart lodging itself in her throat.

I’m keeping the both of you alive, she promised herself. It was almost unconscious. A thought that formed in the very bones of her, even though she knew neither of them well.

“Let’s keep moving away from the wreckage,” she said. “If anything is still kicking inside I don’t want to run into it.”

[surrealismhorror]

@ed you in the replies on my post then realized that was the worst possible way in the world to communicate with another person. Anyway did you say pathologic TLT AU 👀??

HEHE YES a lot of it is very loose thoughts but I think these series connect so well thematically that it's very fun for me to think about so far what I have is;

Second house: Necro: Aglaya, Cav: Block, not super solid on the placement of these two but the military format fits and I think the idea of a necromancer and cav who don't get along but are Super dedicated to their duty and are both top of their field would be an interesting dynamic

Third house: Stamatin twins, Peter as the necro and Andrey as the cav, these two are so Tridentarii coded it's ABSURD, I think the way they each view the polyhedron would be interesting to transfer towards necromancy, Peter is capable of insanely powerful necromancy but it takes a 'miracle' to achieve it, I also think the parallels between Naberius and Farkhad could be interesting as well so I'd like to throw him in there somewhere, maybe he met Bab's fate earlier on as a botched lytorhood attempt or perhaps Andrey wanted him out so he could be cavalier prime dunno. Not sure if they would become a lyctor or not, I feel like they'd both be all for the process but given how doomed all their projects are I feel like it just wouldn't end up working out, or at least not in the way they want it to

Fourth house: Capella, Khan, and Notkin are all kind of currently rotating positions for this one, I think Capella and Khan's idea that they need to start on this predestined path and be great leaders already despite being literally children and how this indirectly pushes Notkin into that as well is very 4th house like

Fifth House: I think I'm putting Necro Artemy and Cav Rubin here, I think Isidor was the necromancer prime with Rubin as his cav but when he died that got shifted to Artemy, I think his nature as a humble makes Rubin well suited for a cavalier but I think he'd have the same internal conflicts he does normally about Artemy being suddenly given Isidor's role, and Artemy having his same personal journey about his role. I do think Artemy becomes a lyctor though and the more I'm thinking about it is probably one of the better adjusted ones in this au?

Sixth House: Necro Daniil and Cav Eva, you KNOW Daniil would go crazy not only for necromancy in general but the concept of lyctorhood, complete and total mastery over death? Sounds great to him sure hope there aren't any tragic drawbacks! Ultimately I think Daniil isn't capable of becoming a lyctor without a push and I think Eva ends up sacrificing herself for that because she thinks it's their destiny so Daniil ends up getting what he originally wanted but with a lot of guilt attached. On a goofy silly note I think Eva's not actually that good of a cavalier she was just the only one Daniil could get along with

Seventh House: Necromancer Grace is here :) sorry despite this literally being my favorite house that's all I've got dfgdfgkh

Eighth House: Not sure for this one either honestly, leaning towards the Saburovs for their themes of judgement and religious control, regardless I think Katerina in this au is maybe not full on pretending to be a lyctor but definitely still has the issue of trying to seem more powerful than she is

Ninth House: Necromancer Clara and her Cavalier, her twin sister also named Clara isn't that crazy? Nobody's seen the 9th house twins in the same place at the same time and Clara does become a lyctor later on so was she always a lyctor? who's to say. I think in this au the locked tomb contains something more in line with The Powers That Be or perhaps even further The Ones That Executed The Whole Thing but I'm not sure beyond tying it in to Clara's meta awareness, plus she would Thrive in the 9th house's faux Catholicism environment, I know she goes hard with the skull paint

Other Misc Things:

Mark Immortell as John, what if god was a theather kid would that be fucked up or what

Simon was a lyctor and the Kains are definitely doing some fucked up shit to try and reachieve that

I'd like the blood of eden to be in this au somehow and I'd like the fellow traveler to be in this au somehow, that's as far as I've gotten with both those thoughts

I think Lara and Aspity both have a lot of good potential roles in this au I'm just not sure where to put them exactly

any sort of plot stuff is VERY vague rn, canaan house setup at the start I like thinking about and I'd like to tie the sand pest in Somehow

Maybe the polyhedron can host a soul for literal real this time

Anyways this is all extremely messy I just love the way these two series potentially blend together it's very fun for me dkgjdfjg

[thedragonholder]

The rogue shrai ryu Ch-1 🧡🖤

The storm was raging outside and the lightning stuck kuai was asleep after jise meeting with liu kang 'I can't let them get to bi-han' kuai thought as he was drifting to sleep 'I hope Tomas is okay' kuai thought before drifting off to sleep.

Kuai was in a large pit void he started to feel helpless keeping himself in the shadows his eyes widen as his gaze was on his brother getting executed his breath hitched as panic rose in his voice he ran towards his brother but he got held back by liu kang "no!!! Don't execute him!!" Kuai shouted in his dream but then bi-han's head got cut off by the executioner the blood splattered on the ground kuai was in shock.

Kuai woke up gasping for air "it happened again" Kuai mumbled tears started coming out of his eyes "why can't the gods just let me live in peace!!!" Kuai shouted to himself he desperately wanted his brother back and wanted him to be on his side he needed both of his brothers alive they kept him sane kuai sighed if liu kang won't help him then no one could but there was one person someone who everyone was afraid off .

The nether realm was quite a dark place with unfertile grounds and red sky the heat was high but it didn't bother anyone there were small caves as homes and skulls of devoured creatures.

There was a obsidian built castle with red fire litting up from the ground the castle was majestic but old and only two people lived in the palace the king of the nether realm and the high mage of nether realm.

Inside the palat there was a study filled with ancient books a small table and a throne like chair the table consisted of orange and black ink and a black writing brush a man with tan skin and brown eyes sat on the throne working he wore

And wielded

The black armour was attached to his body and his helmet was off on the side he was hanzo hisashi king of the nether realm working on paper "this paper work is too much" Hanzo mumbled his chian scythe hung on the wall along side his sword suddenly the door opened it was a woman worh dark brown hair in pigtails in the front and let down at the back with pale skin and red eyes she wore

The white and red robes were attached to her body as the brown boots were knee lengths her bracelet on the left hand on her wrist she wielded a staff

The girl was hatsune and she wielded a staff in her hands her expression was emotionless "my lord-" "Hanzo just call me hanzo.." Hanzo said hatsune sighed "hanzo the disturbance has stopped more souls had been occupied in the nether realm at this point it might be full. Me and charon are worried about the condition they aren't going better the creatures blood lust are rising" Hatsune said "hatsune i need you to go and investigate this matter it's important to find out the source" Hanzo said hatsune nodded "you better not drink devils smile without me..." Hatsune said as she disappeared in red hell flame hanzo sighed the floor was covered with ashes.

Hanzo took out a bottle and was going to drink it until he heard a prayer

'Oh Lord of the nether realm please help me'

Hanzo wondered who was praying to him after all no one dared pray to hanzo hisahi

'I kuai liang leader of the shirai ryu pray to you for your help I have lost hope in the people trying to capture my corrupted brother. He may be evil but I know he can change so please help me'

Hanzo felt pity for the man by the name of kuai liang he then disappeared into black fire and decided to pay him a visit.

Kuai liang was on his knees on the floor thinking the God might have not listened to his prayer until shadows appeared swirling in front of him hanzo made out of the shadows wearing his helmet "you prayed to the God of the nether realm" Hanzo said in a deep voice "is this my punishment?" Kuai asked in fear Hanzo let out a laugh "punishment!?" Hanzo said towering the man kuai was in fear and confused about the mans behavior "you pray to me and expect punishment!!! I am here to help you fool!" Hanzo said in rage "your..." Kuai was in shock "hanzo hisashi king of the nether realm, slayer of shinnok at your service kuai liang" Hanzo hisashi said kuai started to faint but hanzo caught him in his arms and gently put him on his bed 'he looks like he needs sleep, what happened to you kuai liang' hanzo thought to himself as he sat on a comfortable arm chair and removed his helmet waiting for him to wake up.

[moondirti]

goodness

listen. i’ve been saving this for a rainy day because i knew how much it would do for me. ever since i saw those tags, i’d been thinking about friends-to-lovers and pining idiots with gaz. i mean, the man is built for it. he’s so boyfriend in a way that is also so personal to me, and no one could have executed this better than you lev. i love u. i love this. i feel like i’m both about to cry and choke because this is exactly what i needed today

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this. 

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him. 

the way this is built of feels so realistic and it makes the pay off so much more worth it. i was already in tears at this point – credit it to the parallels you’ve miraculously managed to draw to my life - and if that isn’t any indication of how devastated i was by the mid-point, idk what to tell ya.

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you. 

just a lil segment for this gorgeous piece of writing. i mean,, hello? I could bite into it and let it melt in my mouth

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort? 

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

something something best friends who understand each other on an intrinsic level and are drawn apart only by time and other priorities, yet always try to make time for each other regardless because the love is there and always will be. you’ve compartmentalised it and made all the complicated emotions that come with such a melancholic scenario comprehensive, and it healed me. truly.

i feel so strongly about these two based on 6k words alone. I need them to be happy forever. I’m gonna fund all their kebab exploits and live vicariously through all the fluff as a result

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—

you’ve nailed it on the head with this one. Please write gaz forever because i will never get enough of your characterisation. ITS CANON TO ME OKAY!

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts. 

highlighting this to let u know this is where i started sobbing uncontrollably

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you. 

frame this on my wall tattoo this on my skull. I’m gonna come back to this quote whenever i feel depressingly hollow with the same exact fear.

now where’s my mr. garrick to come and pull me out of it😞

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

i’m done. i’m dead. i simply cannot

i’d kiss him until my lips turn blue and flake off

thank u for this lev.

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him.  (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met. 

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really. 

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with. 

Stupid. 

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine. 

Because maybe you are, too. 

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent. 

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him. 

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you. 

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him. 

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married. 

And where does that leave you? 

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber. 

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both. 

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar. 

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet. 

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight. 

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush. 

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways. 

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape. 

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore. 

Moving on. Moving forward. 

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent. 

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this. 

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him. 

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness. 

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location. 

You send him your pin. 

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way. 

You met Kyle Garrick at university. 

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre. 

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met. 

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap. 

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care. 

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed. 

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth. 

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?" 

And that was that. 

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them. 

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him. 

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him. 

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain. 

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart. 

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square. 

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots. 

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring. 

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner. 

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots. 

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes. 

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest. 

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it." 

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you." 

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult. 

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes." 

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid." 

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it." 

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought. 

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot. 

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips. 

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain. 

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks. 

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all. 

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you. 

Except—

It isn’t. 

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes. 

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know? 

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips. 

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort? 

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him. 

He’d know, he said. 

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic. 

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around. 

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement. 

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken. 

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison. 

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat. 

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet. 

He seems to understand. 

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here." 

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance. 

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him. 

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it. 

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do. 

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area." 

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe." 

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—" 

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat. 

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame. 

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold? 

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish. 

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back. 

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy). 

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making. 

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away. 

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign. 

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now. 

Because you do. 

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts. 

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too. 

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin. 

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences. 

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same. 

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam. 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing. 

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it. 

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it. 

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always. 

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him. 

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun. 

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. 

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free. 

Confessing goes like this: 

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears. 

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands. 

"...and that's basically it." 

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you. 

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all. 

You want it. Want him. 

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam. 

But he isn't. 

He's here with you. Still. Still. 

"I just—," you say, or try to. 

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth. 

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated. 

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation. 

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence. 

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin. 

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain. 

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take. 

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air. 

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you. 

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind. 

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox. 

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke. 

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable. 

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames. 

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown. 

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home. 

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all. 

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it. 

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this. 

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration. 

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two. 

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food. 

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along. 

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling. 

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know? 

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

[nonhumen]

@autumnhaloed : Witnessing a kidnapping was already not a great start to somebody’s day. Witnessing the kidnapping of a 16-year-old Mafia executive & getting snagged trying to stop it? Definitely better, but not by much.

“Dazai, move!” Oda knocked the boy onto the ground, flat on his back as bullets whizzed right through where his head had been moments ago & burrowed into the wall. He saw a gleam out of the corner of his eye & threw his rope-bound arms up just as another man attacked him with a knife, allowing it to slice clean through his bindings, missing his skin entirely.

He grabbed the other’s wrist, twisting it until he dropped the knife in Oda’s waiting hand & countered the man with a savage blow to the face & turned back to find one of the kidnappers with a gun in Dazai’s face. Blue eyes darkened, narrowing in a barely concealed, ice cold anger.

Before anyone could blink, he had the tip of the blade pressed against the assailant’s spinal cord. “You can head to the hospital with a broken jaw, or as a quadriplegic—your choice.” Apparently whatever intel they’d been sent to gather wasn’t that important, because he dropped the gun.

Oda showed his gratitude by introducing his head to the concrete wall. Gently. Then he took his gun.

The redhead dropped down to his knee & made short work of the ropes bonding the teen before looking him over quickly for any other wounds. “You twisted your ankle when they grabbed you, can you walk?” He inquired. The former assassin pulled him up, hands already under the boy’s arms in preparation to support him. There were more people in this building, he wasn’t sure how many they’d need to get through, however.

he's been in the mafia for a little over two years now and an executive for one. his name has spread in the underground as the youngest executive in history. he is the child who can topple organizations with a single word and can have a picnic in the middle of a firefight without getting hit. dazai thinks these things are common knowledge by now and yet people still think they have the upper hand in kidnapping him. no matter what he does, there will always be idiots who see him as a weak, scrawny teenager. naturally, he uses that to his advantage.

what he didn't expect was that they would be so stupid as to try and grab him while he was with odasaku. this is going to make this whole mission just a little harder. dazai knows that his friend is lethal on his own but his own heart gets in the way of efficiency. saving dazai will always be more important than dispatching enemies. damn. maybe if it were the other way around, a bullet would have gone through his skull by now.

hollow gaze stares down the barrels of the guns and for a single moment he finally thinks he get what he wants. lips upturn into something close to childlike hope as he watches desperate men try to end his life. but odasaku's voice cuts through his bliss and before he knows it, dazai is falling to the floor. teeth sink into his lip as he bites back a noise of pain as fire shoots up his leg from his ankle. he hears the fighting in the background but only focuses on the man snatching the gun and aiming it at his face. " oh? are you the one to kill me? " voice is that of a shy child as he begs for death. " hurry, before my friend stops you. just pull the trigger and i can finally leave this world-- "

it's over. oda's threat to his would-be-killer feels like a heavy weight on the teen's shoulder. the glimmer in his unbandaged eye fades as he watches the violence. he doesn't flinch when the man hits the ground, unconscious. lips press into a thin line as oda unties dazai, expression veiled by unruly locks of brown hair. every time this happens dazai always wonders why him? why does someone like odasaku choose to save him?

" i'm alright, odasaku. " he allows his friend to help him stand but pushes him away with a gentle hand before any further aid. " i can't leave yet. there is something i have to find here first. " dazai crosses to the door, trying to keep his limp to a minimum. " well, since you're here, make sure no one bothers me, okay? " he opens the door and casually walks out as if he were in the mafia headquarters and not the derelict base of a rival gang.

[spacemagicandlaserswords]

*slams the reblog icon through my keyboard*

I crave this So. Hard. Give me feral Hunter. Completely unhinged, vengeance fueled, feral Hunter. He can go on his Joel Miller/John Wick/Liam Neeson in Taken arc, as a treat.

I've been trying to figure out why I love this idea so much. I think it's because we never see The Bad Batch actually, properly unleash. Sure, they're unconventional and a bit bonkers in their approach but they're still a very well oiled machine. When they're on a mission, they all know exactly what they're doing, what their roles are, and where their squad mates are. Even when they improvise on the fly, they all adapt fairly easily and smoothly. Everything is still rather professional, smooth, and efficient. Like they're all operating on muscle memory, which they basically are given how many countless times I'm sure they've trained and done missions together.

Even when the Batch is fighting their way through Kamino, they still operate with that same smooth, efficient, hyper competent professionalism. Despite their unorthodox approach, there's still this sense that they're contained. Never completely throwing off the shackles and going completely unrestrained. The full force of their capabilities and skills simmering just below the surface, waiting to be given free rein and just obliterate everything.

There's a little hint of this in the opening scene of episode 2x14 'Tipping Point', where the ARC trooper in Echo comes out to play. But oh how I would love to see more. From all of them really, but especially Hunter. Space Dad is on a warpath to get his ad'ika back, cutting a swathe through the Imperials, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake, and taking out anything and everything that even thinks about getting in his way.

Can you just imagine Wrecker properly unleashing? All of that strength and power finally unleashed, as he rips limbs off Stormtroopers, snaps necks and crushing skulls with his bare hands. We got a hint of how damaging Wrecker can be when his chip activated but that was chip controlled. This would just be pure Wrecker.

We see more of this in Crosshair's actions and you could also argue that this is chip controlled. But that unrestrained part of him is still there. The amount of rage and anger that must be building up and festering inside Crosshair is eventually going to explode. When he snaps like he did at the end of 'The Outpost' then there is not going to be a Stormtrooper left without a blaster bolt between their eyes. If Hemlock ends up dying (he better), my bet is on Crosshair getting revenge, and it won't be pretty. He'd shoot him execution style at the very least.

I'd love to see Tech (shut up he's alive) completely lose it and just absolutely unleash. I've written about this before but Tech's combat is exceptionally efficient and precise. He only ever uses the minimum number of shots or moves to take out an enemy because he doesn't need to expend anything beyond what is necessary. His combat style is very contained, almost like a mirror of his personality. Can you just imagine him snarling and growling like a beast, teeth bared, eyes dark and face distorted in rage, as he slams a Stormtrooper's head into a wall with enough force to crack their helmet.

I mentioned this above that we've seen a tiny bit of this from Echo. There's another little hint of it when they're in that training simulation on Kamino.

This gifset from @starqueensthings shows this perfectly, especially this gif. I love their line at the top of their post, which I'm going to quote in part here "I’d like to introduce my scomp arm TO YOUR JUGULAR WIRE." This captures the unhinged quality lurking in Echo perfectly. He's just leapt onto the back of what looks to be the Kaminoan version of a B2 super battle droid and then proceeds to flail and stab madly before plunging his scomp arm into the battle droids chest and ripping out the droid version of its jugular. Absolutely unhinged behaviour.

Now picture Echo finally snapping and doing this to a bunch of Imperials and just absolutely annihilating them. There's so much in him that definitely needs to be released. The general batshittery that comes with being an ARC Trooper. The insanity and chaos of coming from the 501st and Torrent Company. The unconventional, unorthodox and bonkers existence of The Bad Batch. Plus all that trauma, fury and rage of what has happened, and been done, to him. When the last frayed threads holding Echo back finally snap he is going to go completely postal.

Is it healthy? No. Is it "good"? Probably not. But my god, would I love to see it.

The Clone Wars has a history of tackling and portraying difficult topics and we've seen that in The Bad Batch as well. Recent Star Wars series, such as Andor and The Mandalorian, have also had a real focus on showing the murky areas that exist in and between the good (Republic) and bad (Imperial). There's been a particular focus on showing that there's a lot more grey between the obvious black and white. The whole 'deeply flawed parental figure seeking revenge and vengeance' is a popular trope at the moment so feral Hunter would make sense narratively for a number of reasons. Will we actually get it? Probably not. And even if we do, it'll probably still be a watered-down kids friendly version.

But oh, just imagine if we did.

I wanna see Hunter just going absolutely feral.

Bad batch spoilers, rated M

Imagine he gets to the planet Omega and Crosshair are on. He manages to get into the base somehow, and he doesn’t even wait for Echo and Wrecker. He doesn’t use the stun feature. The entire landing pad is gone by the time the other two join him.

He’s pushing on, through hallways. He shoots down storm troopers as he goes, paying attention to which ones are just troopers and which ones look like higher ups.

“Um, Hunter?” Echo asks, his blaster raised but still cold from disuse.

Hunter finally finds an officer. Grabs him by the throat, slams him into the wall. “Where’s Hemlock?” He growls, teeth bared.

Echo and Wrecker pause behind him, blasters raised at the ready for any back up this officer may call.

“I don’t know,” the officer chokes, hands uselessly clawing at Hunter’s arms. “But if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I believe you,” Hunter spits, and the blast in the officer’s stomach forces the man limp.

“Hunter?” Wrecker asks, eyes looking on worriedly.

Hunter doesn’t answer. He goes through a door. Another. Dead bodies pile up, never even had a chance to shoot back. Hunter doesn’t pause, doesn’t stop moving. He shoots as he goes.

Through another door. Down a flight of stairs. Another officer. He shoots everyone else, aims his blaster at the officer’s face. “Hemlock,” is all he says.

“I know where he is!” The officer says, hands raised in surrender. “I can take you to him!”

“Where is he?” Hunter growls.

“Floor -70. He’ll have heard the alarms by now. He’ll be in his bunker.”

Hunter shoves the man into Wrecker’s chest, who grabs him by the scruff of the neck and starts walking him to follow Hunter.

Elevators. Hunter fucking hates elevators. They’re slow, they force him to stand still. The officer won’t stop whimpering, face forced to look at the floor.

“Hunter,” Echo tries again.

Hunter works his jaw. Tilts his head just slightly to show he’s listening.

“What’s the plan?”

Hunter rolls his jaw again, looking back at the elevator doors. “Find Hemlock. Make him take us to Omega. Get out.”

“Are there any…in between steps?”

Hunter doesn’t answer. The door opens. He shoots down everyone running at him. Echo stuns the ones running away. Wrecker punches a few people in white coats standing in doorways.

“Take a left up here,” their captive whimpers out, refusing to look at the fallen teammates. “It’s a long hallway. His bunker will be at the very end.”

Hunter does. It’s only lab coats now. Hunter shoots them down, uncaring.

They reach the door, and Hunter kicks it in easily. It’s not a bunker. It’s an office. Hemlock isn’t there. He turns to their captive, fury turning his vision red.

“He’s supposed to be here!” The man cries, wincing as Wrecker’s hold tightens on his neck. “He said he would be here if there was ever an invasion.”

Hunter walks over to him, grabbing his chin. Wrecker lets go. The man whimpers, the words to beg for his life dying on his tongue. “I believe you,” Hunter says. For a second, a flicker of hope lights up the man’s eyes. But then those eyes go dull as Hunter quickly snaps his neck.

“Hunter!” Echo hisses, disapproval painting his voice.

Hunter ignores him. He pushes past them both, forcing his way back down the long corridor. He takes a right where he before took a left.

“Clones!” Wrecker yells, looking at the cells upon cells of locked up clones.

“I’ll let them out,” Echo says, something raw in his voice. “This must be where they’re taking the decommissioned clones. Rex was telling me about a mission to save-“

Hunter holds up a hand, indicating silence. Echo’s voice falters, stops.

Hunter listens. The prisoners are yelling, begging for release. Distractions. “Silence!” Hunter yells, after shooting three rounds into the ceiling.

Quiet. Good. He closes his eyes, focusing. “Wrecker, with me. Echo-go ahead.”

He feels more than sees Echo nod his affirmative, and he sets to work on unlocking the doors.

Hunter leads Wrecker down the hall. Left. Right. Another right. Through a door. Another left. Pauses, has to shoot a guard. Through a door.

Hunter raises the gun, aiming it at the woman in a white coat. “She looks important,” Wrecker says softly.

“My name is Emerie Karr,” she stutters out. “I’m the lead scientist.”

“And I care because?” Hunter growls, stepping forward and getting the blaster closer to her chest.

“I’m the one working on Omega and Crosshair.”

Hunter’s blood goes cold. He stops breathing. His hand shakes. “Where. Is. She?” He spits through gritted teeth.

“This way,” she says, but doesn’t indicate or move. She only stares at the blaster.

“Move!” Hunter yells, frightening her. She starts to back up, but realizes that’s not fast enough quickly. More rooms. Moor hallways. More doors. It takes no time at all and an eternity.

“She’s in this room,” Emerie says softly. “Hemlock is in there.”

“Open. The. Door.”

Wrecker moves closer, blaster trained on her. “I’ve got her, Hunter. You check it out.”

Hunter can barely hear over the blood pounding in his ears. The door opens. His blaster aims inward, no target yet. He looks around, his own breathing deafening him.

“Hunter!”

He almost breaks.

The high pitched voice is scared. Hunter momentarily worries he’s covered in blood. If he’s scaring her. But no; it’s not him. It’s Hemlock.

“Take one more step and I shoot her,” Hemlock’s low, soft voice lilts. As if he’s the one in control.

Hunter aims his blaster, teeth bared in aggression. “I won’t ask you twice,” Hunter spits.

Hemlock presses the gun more firmly into Omega’s temple, and the girl cries out in pain or fear. “You aren’t the one making demands here, Hunter.” His voice annoys Hunter, and the growl which rips through his throat is involuntary.

Hunter’s entire body is shaking with the desire to rip Hemlock apart. “Omega is too close,” Emerie whispers unhelpfully.

“Put the gun down, Hunter. It’s over. Put the gun down and let my scientist in the room. My guards will be here shortly.”

Hunter grins, too much teeth to be anything other than threatening. Any guards will be meeting the fury of countless decommissioned clones right about now.

Hemlock seems undeterred. “I’m only keeping her alive to control Nala Se. I don’t care if she lives or dies. Now that Nala Se has seen her, I can convince her Omega is safe and held in a cell. You’re the one who wants her alive.”

Hunter laughs, and it sounds so unlike anything he’s ever made before. “If you kill her, I will tear you apart, piece by piece, until you beg for mercy that won’t come.”

Hemlock has the sense to at least hesitate now. He looks between Hunter and Wrecker, whose gun is still aimed at Emerie.

Omega cries softly, not looking at Hunter anymore. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

Hunter fights back the urge to growl again. He works his jaw instead, eyes flicking from her to Hemlock. He sees movement behind the pair as he does; it takes everything inside of him to not focus on the body slowly inching towards them.

“You hear that?” Hemlock asks, voice somehow still calm and soft. Taunting. Hunter bares his teeth in rage, allowing Hemlock to think he took the bait. “She’s scared. Do you think she’s scared of me, or of you?”

Wrecker shifts behind him, and Hunter can practically see the excitement he’s trying to conceal. Hunter ignores them both. “Omega,” Hunter pleads, lowering his gun. “I’d never hurt you,” he promises.

Omega looks up, eyes full of tears. “Hunter,” she whines.

Hemlock pretends to coo, mockingly. “Hunter,” he copies, but a wicked smile distorts his face into something inhuman. Emerie’s breath catches as she notices, but Wrecker presses the blaster more firmly into the back of her neck. “Go ahead and put the gun down, Hunter. I win.”

Hunter holds his gun tighter, still lowered to point at the floor. He grits his teeth, pretending to fight himself on what to do. “It’s okay, Omega,” Hunter says softly. “Just look at me.”

Omega stares into Hunter’s eyes, her own full of tears. “I want to go home,” she says.

Hunter takes one hand off the gun, pretending to raise it in surrender. “I’m here, Omega. I’m here.”

Hemlock laughs in victory, aiming the gun instead at Hunter. Stupid, arrogant mistake. “That’s right. Put that gun down. Nice and slow.”

The blow is sudden, and hard. Hemlock loses consciousness immediately, and Omega sprints for Hunter’s arms. Hunter catches her easily, arms wrapping around her and holding her as tightly as he can.

“You lose,” Crosshair spits, swaying on his feet. He leans heavily on the bench Hemlock is now slouched over.

Wrecker hits Emerie over the back of the head with the handle of his blaster, and is pushing past Hunter and Omega before her body hits the floor. He throws Crosshair’s arm over his shoulder, using one arm to help support his weight. “I knew you were still in there somewhere,” Wrecker says lowly.

Hunter pets Omega’s hair, holding her to his chest. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m here now.”

“Hunter,” Omega cries, tiny fists clenching at his hair to keep him close.

“Hunter,” Echo calls from behind them. “Rex is on his way to get the decommissioned clones. Or…” his voice turns sad for a moment. “The ones who are left. There were a lot of guards here.”

Hunter raises himself from his kneeling position, bringing Omega with him. Her legs wrap around his waist, and he half rests her on his hip. “Good. Help Crosshair. Wrecker, grab Hemlock.” All three of his brothers hesitate, questions on the tip of their tongues. “Now,” Hunter growls.

Wrecker gently passes Crosshair to Echo, and then throws Hemlock over his shoulder. Omega buries her face in Hunter’s neck, quiet sobs breaking his heart.

They make their way to the elevator, and Hunter glares at the escapees so they won’t join them. There isn’t much room left anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Crosshair says after several minutes of silence.

Hunter looks to him, and for the first time since Ord Mantell, his face softens. He raises the hand not holding Omega to cup his shoulder, squeezing. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to. The sigh of relief Crosshair tries to hide is indicative of message received.

There’s a lot of questions which will be asked later. Later. Once they’re free from this hell planet. Once Omega is safe on their ship. Once he has time.

[manjiroscum]

HARUCHIYO SANZU KINKS

Warnings: f!reader, sexual themes, mature language, unprotected sex, consensual cuckolding, consensual non-con, overstimulation, use of sex toys, office sex, sound kink, roleplay, hints of gun play, degradation, and use of pet names. Minors do not interact.

Note: for my bby aly @sanzuchi💕 i hope this cheers u up

ROLEPLAY

Sanzu Haruchiyo wished he had his phone with him right now to record the glorious view in front of him. How could he easily forget that tonight you were gonna treat him to a little show? Of course, he wasn’t gonna stop you from bouncing on his thick cock, tits pressed against his face, rubbing his cheeks, to grab his gadget sitting by his pants discarded to the floor along with the plastic stethoscope you had as a prop. Playing as a sexy doctor threw him off when he entered the bedroom, bones exhausted from executing traitors of Bonten quickly amended themselves at the sight of you—black lace lingerie and stockings underneath the white coat. Coaxing him to come closer so you could administer a quick check-up that ended up with you sucking on his dick. Ruby red lips parting on his red tip, slowly inching your way down and feel him throb around your mouth.

It was truly a scene straight out of an erotic video and one Haruchiyo would completely rewatch if only he had the initiative to film this. Yet, even if he could, his azure pupils would be far too busy drinking up your form quivering above him, whimpering while questioning your supposed patient for the night about his well-being. Hands busy cupping your breasts free from the bra, squeezing and pinching the perk nipples. Only the lab coat was left on you.

“I-Is the treatment working, Mr. Sanzu? Ah, I pride myself in knowing what m-my patient needs, you see.”

“Doc, I think my dick still needs more of a squeezin’. I’ll probably feel a lot better if you let me cum inside your pretty pussy.”

CUCKOLDING

Screaming into the soft pillow soiled with your mascara, tears and drool, the huge cock drilling into your fluttering damp hole was too much to take. This was your sixth orgasm pulled from you, and you swore you couldn't even remember your own name. Rindou was far bigger, meatier, than your boyfriend. Bullying its way into your tight walls that was housing his throbbing shaft. Mind hazy at the absolute bliss, you almost failed to recall that Haruchiyo was in the same room, watching from the couch to see if Rindou was as good as the rumors set him out to be. And really, he wanted to see too if the younger Haitani could please your greedy pussy that was always aching to be wrapped around your boyfriend's cock.

“Shit, this cunt won't stop clenchin’ around me.” Rindou groaned, setting on a new pace that had you whimpering, fisting the sheet around you as if to hold onto yourself unless you get lost in the euphoric high Rindou’s cock was gracious to give. “She's like a cheap whore! Where did ‘ya find such a good pussy, huh?”

“A great magician never tell his tricks, Haitani. And even if I do tell you, my girl’s pussy is one of a kind.” Hand rubbing his leaking tip, Haruchiyo then sneered at Rindou. “So, I suggest you keep fucking her ‘til she's dumb ‘cause this will be the first and last time you ever will. Just remember, don’t cum inside her.”

SOUND KINK

The gun clicking loudly against his ear was close to nonexistent. The tip still drenched with your spit, having been lodged into your mouth seconds ago while you were kneeling on the floor. Glossy eyes silently begging for him to fuck you or at least use your throat like one of his pocket pussies. Haruchiyo would have to admit though, that no matter how many bullets he placed into people’s skulls and how addicting it was to listen to them scream, his hearing skills have never failed to pick up the slightest whine that escapes your lips when he rubbed your clothed clit with his shoe. The sound shot up his spine and to his nerves, creating a tingling sensation that had his cock twitching under his pants.

The buzzing of the pink egg-shaped vibrator pulled his gaze from your teary eyes, down at your panties soaked with your arousal. The toy he placed inside your pussy hard at work. According to him, you had to be a quiet beauty for you to be able to cum. Yet, Haruchiyo was making it hard for you to stay silent. Hard enough that you were close to calling it quits and just mewl aloud, letting the other members of Bonten know in the room next door that you just came on your underwear.

“Be a good slut and stay quiet, okay? You don’t wanna anger Mikey, do ‘ya? Don't wanna let them hear you cry out like a bitch in heat, yeah?”

CONSENSUAL NONCONSENT

Mourning at your Versace dress now resembling shredded paper by the fax machine, you sobbed into the mahogany desk that was damp with your tears as Haruchiyo ripped your panties off like it was band-aid. At the sight of your plush ass revealed to him like a gift for Christmas, a yelp escaped your lips when he spanked it, jiggling at the action. And soon, Haruchiyo entered your pussy without warning, moaning into the air unashamedly as his cock splits your folds in half. It stung a little, eliciting another sob from your lips that Haruchiyo was quick to scold you for by thrusting into you abruptly.

“Shut it, bitch. Cocksleeves are not supposed to be cowards especially towards cock!” He hissed, resuming his hips pistoning against yours. Papers were scattered around the floor and the desk underneath you was creaking like a squeaky floorboard while Bonten’s number two rammed his cock into your tight warm walls, cumming after a few seconds yet never ceased his onslaught. A whine bubbled out of your throat at the thick milky semen mixed with your slick running down your thighs and onto the floor, some staining your boyfriend’s paperwork. But Haruchiyo didn’t care.

Tonight, he'd rather paint your gummy walls purely white again and again than to do sign those papers. Would rather fuck you stupid, creaming around him, and have you slightly regretting that you offered him the chance to than to finish his work.

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