#this has been in my drafts for a good months now

[wttcsms]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ hallmark holiday !!

ᝰ.ᐟ tis the season to sit by the fireplace and indulge in cheesy, cliche, ever-so-predictable hallmark movies where we know the main couple will always get their happily ever after. alternatively: a scenario post detailing the cliche holiday romance you and your fave would be ♡ྀི ( fem!reader & sfw )

starring keiji akaashi, atsumu miya, shoyo hinata, seishiro nagi, shoei barou, yoichi isagi, jinpachi ego, noel noa, rin itoshi, oliver aiku, kento nanami, naoya zenin, porco galliard, colt grice, levi ackerman

:¨ ·.· ¨: `· . haikyuu films coming to a theater near you ౨ৎ

⋆⁺₊❅. dedicated to you starring keiji akaashi synopsis keiji akaashi finally gets his dream promotion to the literature department — sort of. see, first he's given what the company calls a "trial run", where they're testing to see how well he'll do. if this book that he edits makes it to the bestseller's list within its first month of publication, he gets the position permanently. fail, and he doesn't just get demoted — he gets fired. this dream of his becomes a nightmare whenever he realizes the author they're assigning to him is you — famous literary critic turned author. well, almost an author. this will be your first book you're ever writing. see, you've got a bit of a reputation. your reviews of novels, whether they'e indie books available only on kindle unlimited or works considered to be modern classics, are nothing short of scathing. rarely is there ever a book that seems to impress you. and while your reviews are valid, a group of scorned writers (who are all beloved by the booktok community, which, in your opinion, invalidates everything they do by default) publicly challenge you: if their writing is so bad, why don't you publish a book and show them how it's done?

exclusive sneak peek! "so you're my editor?" you raise an eyebrow at the man sitting across from you. he's wearing a brown blazer, his hair neatly parted with gel, and he has such a mild-mannered aura about him that you want to groan in agony. of course, the only shmuck who'd be willing to touch your book (book is generous; you barely have half of a first draft) would be some dweeb who's probably been out of work for like, the last year. "yes. i'm keiji akaashi. we spoke over email." he reaches into his workbag, probably to hand you a business card that you'll end up tossing in the cafe's trashcan. "oh. from the tone of your emails, i was expecting someone..." you don't finish your sentence. "someone what?" he asks. "it's nothing." you wave your hand, as if to tell him that the comment was useless anyway. "listen, i'm sure i'm not your ideal client, but we don't have to keep meeting. i'll make your job easy by making sure you never have to edit or touch a single letter on my drafts. just let me handle this my own way, and i'm sure—" "no." you don't normally let people interrupt you, but the shift in his tone makes you pause. you stare at him curiously, only this time, you notice that keiji akaashi doesn't seem so mild-mannered right now. he continues. "i'm not sure where you got the bright idea that you would just write this book on your own, but you don't make a deal with a major publishing house just to go about the project like all the indie authors you criticize in your little column. the minute you signed that contract, you became my responsibility." akaashi looks you in the eyes as he tells you, "so from this point forward, your book is about to become our book. and i only plan on producing bestsellers." you smile at that, leaning forward and matching the intensity of his gaze. "good. because i only plan on writing a bestseller."

⋆⁺₊❅. make it to christmas starring atsumu miya synopsis break-ups can be tough. coming home for the holidays can be tougher. combine these two situations, and throw in the fact that no one can know about said break-up, and this might be the toughest situation to go through. here's the deal: you and atsumu, who've been together for the past four years, are deemed "most likely to get married". your friends, family, and even strangers on the internet all think you two are the couple that will make them believe in the power of love again. with this type of pressure, neither of you are willing to wreck the holiday spirit by announcing your break-up, and really, mama miya just got a particularly bad diagnosis. the last thing either of you want to do is break her heart some more. so, you both agree to pretend to still be together, all for the sake of "saving christmas", so to speak. but then, mama miya walks in on the two of you in the kitchen at the worst possible moment. atsumu is down on one knee, kneeling in front of you. finally, some good news this season: her baby boy is getting married to the love of his life.

exclusive sneak peak! "atsumu, this whole thing is a mess!" you whisper-shout at him, leaning down and examining the space beneath the floor kitchen cabinets in search of your missing earring. "well, you can't back out now!" he whisper-shouts back, crawling on all fours to help you look for the damn earrings osamu's new girlfriend gifted you. "what would we tell everybody?" "how about the truth?" "we will tell them the truth! right after christmas." "you idiot, your mom has her next appointment the day after christmas! the whole point i agreed to this was so that way we wouldn't crush her with a whole day of bad news!" "you're right." your back is turned to him, but even without looking, you know he's nodding his head. "we should just wait 'til the month's over then." "that's even worse!" now you finally do turn around, crossing your arms against your chest. "i really think this was a bad idea. we need to figure out how to come clean before this whole thing blows up in our faces." he sighs, knowing that you're right. you always are. it's what he loves — loved; he's not quite sure if he's still allowed to use the L-word concerning you — about you. then, he perks up, catching a glint of your missing earring. propping himself up on his good knee, he presents the ring to you earnestly. "oh!" you grin, happy that atsumu found the damn thing. now, osamu's girlfriend will be properly placated. before you can reach for it, three things happen in rapid succession. one: the kitchen door swings open. two: mama miya assesses the situation quickly, and lets out the biggest shriek of excitement heard 'round the world. three: this whole thing definitely just blew up in your faces.

⋆⁺₊❅. v for valentine starring shoyo hinata synopsis you hate valentine's day — after you found out your (former!) boyfriend of three years was cheating on you on this very special holiday, you see what the 14th is all about. commercialized "love": packaged in bright pink packaging and red hearts that get sold to unsuspecting fools. however, as a wedding planner, you still have to love love. it's just hard to whenever the wedding you're planning is set for feb. 14th... and it's to your ex-boyfriend and the girl he cheated on you with. you know it's petty and ridiculous and horribly immature, but you're plotting and scheming ways to ruin their wedding without it being tied directly back to you. the only obstacle in your way, though, is the bride-to-be's annoying cousin who immediately catches onto your plans and seems intent on putting a stop to you.

exclusive sneak peek! "what do you think you're doing?" you jump up, startled at the sudden intrusion. everyone else is supposed to be occupied, oohing and ahhing at bridezilla's reception dress reveal. "nothing." you say, in that tone of voice that makes it very, very obvious to anyone who can hear that you were definitely up to something. "really?" hinata asks. "because it looks like you're trying to convince the dog to tear up my cousin's high heels." busted. (you're too flustered and trying to come up with an excuse as to why there's peanut butter on his cousin's designer heels that you don't notice the way hinata looks like he's trying to hold back his laughter.)

:¨ ·.· ¨: `· . blue lock films coming to a theater near you ౨ৎ

⋆⁺₊❅. married by christmas starring seishiro nagi synopsis as the only daughter of the mikage business empire, not to mention having an older brother who could care less about the family business, you should be rightfully inheriting a good majority of mikage corp. on the day of your twenty-fifth birthday, you anticipate the metaphorical keys to your family's empire. instead, you receive the worst news of your life: reo's going to lead mikage corp starting on christmas day (a gift that he never asked for), and since you're still unmarried at the decrepit age of twenty-five, your grandparents are demanding you start going on blind dates with the men they've found for you. when you angrily confront your parents, wanting to know why everything will be handed to reo, who doesn't even want this responsibility, the answer is clear: they need a man to be the face of mikage. if you marry someone, even if you're the one pulling the strings from behind, you can still inherit the business by having your husband look like the one in control. your parents know that you don't want to get married, but what they don't know is that you're willing to do anything to get what you've worked so hard for. you didn't spend years abroad to study at the best business school in the world and to build connections all for it to go down the drain. but then you realize that all these men your grandparents found for you won't be willing to just sit back and let you do all the work. they want power of their own. where in the world could you possibly find someone you can trust to be married to in these conditions? and then it dawns on you: your older brother's best friend! from what you remember of him during high school, nagi wants nothing more in life than to just be able to make easy money and relax, left to his own devices. he's never taken advantage of reo, so he'll probably stay loyal to you. and a quick google search reveals that nagi's never even been in a public relationship. he's perfect.

exclusive sneak peek! "you bought me a ring?" you stare at the velvet box resting on your living room table, eyeing it like a bomb that might explode at any minute. "huh? oh yeah, why?" nagi's voice is cracking through the speaker of your phone. you're not sure where he is; you don't really know much about your husband-to-be, you realize. you should get him to email you his daily schedule. you plan on making note of that in your outlook calendar, after this call. "i didn't expect you to get me a ring." you frown. "forward me the invoice for it, and i will make sure to reimburse you. in the future, please refrain from making any purchases related to our relationship unless i clearly allow it and expect it. christmas in front of my family, and public birthday celebrations, for example, are occasions in which i'll allow gift-giving." "you're sayin' my future wife doesn't want gifts?" nagi wants to choke reo. he's the one who said you expected to be spoiled, and all the guys on his team seem to be adamant that buying gifts for your significant other is the way to go. if he knew you were going to start talking business around him, he wouldn't have gone through the hassle of finding a decent jeweler in this city. "this is a business partnership, nagi. not a romantic relationship. in business, you buy gifts only to bribe. are you trying to bribe me right now?" no, he thinks. he was only trying to make you happy.

⋆⁺₊❅. a king for christmas starring shoei barou synopsis serving as king but hated by a small, powerful group of witches, the ruler of the kingdom, shoei barou, is cursed and expelled to another world where his tyranny will not be tolerated. the only way to return back to his world is for him to learn benevolence and empathy. they certainly gave him a challenge; it'll be hard to be kind and empathetic whenever you're magically transported to the twenty-first century without a single clue as to how the world works. luckily, he ends up transported here, unconscious, on the front porch of a tired, overworked, graveyard shift ER nurse. you signed an oath to protect and save all lives, so you can't exactly kick the large man passed out by your front door, now can you?

exclusive sneak peek! "where is your horse?" barou asks you, following you around your house. him being your shadow is odd, considering how he towers over you so much, he's actually casting a shadow onto you. seriously, he's blocking the sunlight peeking through your blinds. "my horse? you think i'm a horse girl?" you whirl around to meet him, nearly bumping into his muscular chest as you do so. he makes a face, not sure what to make of your exclamation. "how will you travel into town?" "like everyone else. with a car." you hold up your key fob, and he immediately snatches it from your hands, staring at the fob curiously. "you travel using this?" he points to it, and you nod. "witch." he says. "what did you just call me?" you stare at him, stunned. "witch." he repeats, still holding onto your key fob. "to travel in a contraption so small... magic is the only reasonable explanation. you must be a witch. why didn't you tell me this sooner? we can use this—this car, and you can take me back to my kingdom at once!" he straightens his back, holding your key fob out of your reach. "witch, i demand you transport me back home." "i should've kicked you when i had the chance." you mutter, wondering how hard this stranger banged his head to forget what a car is.

⋆⁺₊❅. the perfect playbook starring yoichi isagi synopsis bastard munchen is forcing all of its players to dedicate their time during the holiday season to an approved community outreach initiative. isagi sees nothing better than to return to his hometown, and help volunteer to coach the local little league team that's 1) underfunded and 2) currently coached by the only person kind enough to volunteer: you, the fresh-out-of-college brand new, bubbly elementary school teacher. yoichi might not be the biggest believer in team work makes the dream work, but you don't make a bad teammate... not in the slightest.

exclusive sneak peek! "isagi," you frown as you stare at the whiteboard, trying to make sense of all the x's and o's and arrows he's scrawled on them. "you want to train this group of seven to nine year olds... to become strikers?" he nods, pleased that you're finally starting to see his vision. "yes, exactly!" "the recreational elementary-aged youth team... is going to undergo a simulation of what you went through as a high school boy?" "well, it'll be tweaked accordingly. with your guidance, of course! it'll be a more tame version, but i'm sure the results will be the same." when he smiles at you like that, you can't help but want to give in. "and besides, i'm proof that project blue lock is a very beneficial program. look how i turned out!" you think back to when you curiously searched him up on the internet. "top 10 isagi crash-outs on the field" was not the result you were expecting. but he's been nothing but kind and enthusiastic around you and the kids. it's not like he's some egotistical maniac who only cares about soccer, right? "okay." you nod slowly. "project baby blue lock it is, then."

⋆⁺₊❅. cease and assist starring jinpachi ego synopsis former collegiate athlete with a professional career ahead of you, your dreams of becoming the world's best women's soccer player gets crushed the minute you suffer the worst injury possible. now, you spend your time trapped in an office, working for the japan football association, waiting for the decades to pass you by so you can finally retire and die. until the head of the association pulls you to his office and lets you know that you're going to be going undercover; apparently, jinpachi ego is creating a soccer program that's supposedly going to change japanese soccer, and he wants you to report back to him and the jfa so they can anticipate everything ego plans on throwing at them. hired to project blue lock as ego's personal assistant, you spend practically the whole day with him. he's annoying, never listens to your advice, mansplains everything, and refuses to eat anything resembling a vegetable unless you force it down his throat. he's also the only person to match your passion for the sport, and the only one to call you out for not continuing to chase your dreams. the more time you spend by his side, the less and less you want to report to the jfa...

exclusive sneak peek! "sir," you grit your teeth, clutching onto the files in your hand because you know if your hands are unoccupied, you'd be sprinting across the room so you could personally choke jinpachi ego out. "i have an mba from the top business school in this country. i've played soccer since i was a child, and was one of the most decorated d1 players back in college. i know i'm just your assistant, but i can promise you, i am capable of far more than heating up your cup ramen." he doesn't even turn around his chair so he can face you; instead, he's still laser focused on the massive monitor in front of him, his eyes occasionally flickering to the other dozen screens surrounding the room. he doesn't even acknowledge your words. "are you seriously going to ignore me?" you snap, strangling the poor papers in your grasp. "are you done speaking? last time i tried to answer back, you yelled at me for not letting you finish." he still isn't looking at you, but you're certain he sees the nasty scowl that crosses your face. somehow, ego is capable of seeing everything. "forget it. you're impossible." "and you're a failure of a player." he tells you, right before you can storm out. "excuse me?" "you keep talking about how good you were at soccer, yet you never even bothered to pursue it after you got out of physical therapy. good in college doesn't mean anything when it's been so long. that's why i don't listen to you." he turns his chair, finally staring at you. "when you prove to me that you're still as good as you claim you used to be, maybe i'll take your advice. until then, get out of my office until i call you back."

⋆⁺₊❅. the only exception starring noel noa synopsis at thirty-three years old with not a single serious romantic relationship for the past decade or so, and with society basically treating any single woman in her thirties like a cow put out to pasture, you have come to terms with the fact that you'll be a spinster. it's fine. you have a successful career in a male-dominated field, you're still as beautiful as ever, and it's not like romantic love is going to fill the void. you have a supportive family and even more supportive friends; you don't need anything else. at thirty-five years old, with a successful soccer career and a body still performing at peak physical fitness, noel noa is considered to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. the public considers him to be at his prime, even. and yet, he seems to want nothing to do with romance. he plays his sport, he does a damn good job of it, and then he goes back to his isolated home in the french countryside to spend his days and nights entirely and utterly alone. for two people content to spend the rest of their lives without a partner, the minute you walk into his life as the new assistant coach for bastard munchen, you both slowly start to realize that maybe, you both could just try being alone together.

exclusive sneak peek! he doesn’t pay you any attention whenever you enter the locker room; after all, this isn’t the first time one of his teammates’ girlfriends walked in here unannounced. he can only hope that your heated rant and accusations of cheating don’t take a long time because practice starts in ten minutes, and noel noa is known to be particularly anal when it comes to sticking to a strict schedule. “hey!” igor says, being the only one bold enough to block you from taking another step further in the locker room. “you can’t be in here, even if you are dating or related to one of the players.”  “well, that’s certainly a respectable rule, but it doesn’t apply to me.”  “i'm the vice captain of this team.” he replies, letting his title to do the rest of the talking. right now, in this room, he’s the authority, second only to noel. noel, who's too busy stretching his legs to really concern himself with something as silly as a female intruder in the men's locker room. the altercation between you two is nothing more than white noise to him. “oh? that’s nice.” you hum, before adjusting the lanyard around your neck so that the little ID card, the one that’s used to allow people entrance into the gym during practice, is showing. it must be brand new because it shines underneath the fluorescents of the locker room. “i’m your new assistant coach.”  well, you’ve certainly got noel's attention now.

⋆⁺₊❅. all in starring rin itoshi synopsis even with worldwide fame, rin itoshi still prefers to be left alone. deemed the "prodigal recluse" by the media, no one knows what he gets up to during the offseason. the truth is, rin returns back to his hometown and spends his free time training by himself in the frozen field he used to train in during middle school. he's never been found out here, and that's how he likes it. until you, an ambitious sports journalist visiting your parents during the holidays, gets lost and stumbles upon him playing soccer by himself. you're convinced that this is fate. no one else in your field has ever gotten this close to him, especially outside an official game, and you're begging him for an exclusive interview. you're persistent and annoying, and rin finally agrees, with one catch: you have to score against him on a one-on-one soccer match. (he just doesn't anticipate how persistent and annoying you can be. when you set your mind on a goal, you're going all in.)

exclusive sneak peek! "you have to admit, it's pretty impressive i even kept up this long." you're panting, the palms of your hands digging into your knees as you hunch over, struggling to catch your breath. the icy air makes every exhale visible. rin looks like he hasn't even broken a sweat. "a child could've kept up for even longer." he says, the soccer ball resting underneath his right foot. "if you're this tired already, you might as well just head home and go enjoy your vacation with your family." the and leave me alone goes without saying. "why? intimidated by my shocking athletic abilities already?" you think you've finally got your breathing situation figured out, and you straighten up. "i'm going to get that interview, itoshi." "if you say so." he shoves his hands in his pockets, his own breath visible in the icy air. "i'm ready for our rematch." you tighten your ponytail, giving rin such a fixed, determined stare that it surprises him. you really are serious about this, aren't you? "and don't think about going easy on me." the corners of his mouth nearly turn upwards. he matches your gaze, preparing to shoot the ball. "i never will."

⋆⁺₊❅. meet your match starring oliver aiku synopsis tired of cleaning up his messes and struggling to reform his playboy image, oliver aiku's publicist has to break out the business card locked away in her "in case of emergency" glass case. she's calling in the calvary — you, the celebrity world's most respected matchmaker. every celebrity couple you've set up has either dated for years (and more to come) or even got their happily ever afters by saying i do at the altar. you've got a one hundred percent success rate. you're making the perfect matches left and right. hinge who? when your publicist bestie calls you, begging to help her most troublesome client finally find love and quit playing around, you already know who she's referring to. oliver aiku. he's hellbent on ruining your perfect run, and you're hellbent on finding him the love of his life so he can finally settle down and stop causing your best friend to spend her whole paycheck on migraine medicine. in his hyper-competitive field, he's never quite met someone as obnoxiously stubborn as you — nor has he ever had as much fun playing games with anyone else. it looks like the two of you have finally met your respective match.

exclusive sneak peek! "what the hell is the matter with you?" you glare at him from across the table, but oliver doesn't seem the least bit ashamed. you're not shocked; you don't think he has the capacity for shame. "what are you talking about?" he tries to sound innocent, but it doesn't work. look at him — there's nothing innocent about the man sitting across from you. "i'm talking about you bringing another woman to the date i set up for you!" you hiss, trying to remain calm and not draw attention to the two of you. he takes a long sip of his coffee, dragging out the silence as you wait for his explanation as to why he wants to make things as difficult as possible. "i was just testing her." oliver is smiling. you want to punch him in his stupid face and see if he'll still be grinning at you. probably. he's annoying like that. "during a situation like that, you can tell if the girl's gonna be a struggle to deal with depending on her reaction." "you know what my reaction would be if you did that to me?" you lean forward, and he meets you halfway, also leaning in closer. he's still smiling. you hate his stupid smile. "oh? what would your reaction be?" "nothing. you'd never even get the chance to pull that shit on me. as if i'd ever be dumb enough to go on a date with the likes of you." you lean back in your seat, opening up your phone and furiously marking off girls from your list. the list gets smaller after every one of his failed dates. oliver sits back, too, watching the way your brows furrow as you stare at your screen, not even giving him the time of day. he never stops smiling; finds it hard not to smile when he's in your presence.

:¨ ·.· ¨: `· . jujutsu kaisen films coming to a theater near you ౨ৎ

⋆⁺₊❅. the roadtrippers starring kento nanami synopsis you're traveling solo for the first time ever after your fiancé breaks things off with you to date his 19 year old neighbor. kento nanami's a single father/investment banker trying to make it back home in time for his daughter's birthday. you're both trying to travel across the country, but when a massive snowstorm delays the same flight you two were going to take home, you decide to team up and just travel together to try to make it your respective destinations on time. from weirdos on the train, flat tires on scarily cheap rental cars, and posing as a married couple at a strict, christian-owned bed&breakfast, you go from strangers traveling cross-country together to being connected together in ways neither of you have ever connected with your previous partners before.

exclusive sneak peek! "whoa, you're doing this like it's nothing." you stare in awe as nanami rolls up the sleeves to his button-down, exposing his strong forearms as he turns the wrench, loosening the lug nuts of the flat tire of the rental car. "that's because it is nothing." he tells you, glancing up at you. you're wrapped up in his blazer, but the chill of the outside air still bites at you. "you should go back inside the car and wait for me. i'll be done in a second." "it wouldn't be fair." you explain to him. "you've been doing all the work this entire trip. braving the elements with you for a few minutes is the least i can do." "you don't have to do anything." he looks up at you, his stare bringing heat back into your body. "you don't owe me. i really don't mind helping you. if you really want to do me a favor, then go back inside the car and stay warm."

⋆⁺₊❅. snowed in starring naoya zenin synopsis you've never had great luck, but with your good attitude, you don't let life get you down. good karma finally comes your way when you win an all-expenses paid trip at a luxury ski lodge. this is where your good luck ends. apparently, the ski lodge accidentally double-booked the cabin: you're supposed to be staying there... and so is the rudest, most arrogant and condescending lawyer you've ever met. naoya zenin booked this place to get away from the city and work in peace, away from the incessant nagging of his family and employees. instead, he's met with even more inconveniences, the biggest one being you, some teacher from a small town he's never heard of and couldn't care less about. before either of you can head back to the main lodge to complain, a snowstorm comes rolling in, effectively leaving the two of you snowed in together for the time being. no cell service, no internet, and no one but each other. fantastic.

exclusive sneak peek! "where are you going?" he asks, eyeing your towel and pajamas in your hand. "to go shower?" you point to the bathroom door. after claiming he wants nothing to do with you, and then setting a ground rule that you can't speak to him unless he allows it, you figured he'd just leave you to your own devices. "unless i need permission from you to do that, too." "i checked the water tank. there's barely anything, and even less hot water." "and this is my problem because...?" "i need to shower, too. i know women have a tendency to take hour-long hot showers, but that isn't going to work here." somehow, you find it hard to believe any woman would want to be close enough to naoya to where he can track their shower-time. "fine. i'll take a lukewarm shower for fifty-five minutes then." you reach for the bathroom door handle. "will that satisfy you?" he's up in a flash, his body so close to your own. you've got nowhere to go but to back up against the closed door, trying to get some space between the two of you. "you don't want to know what'll satisfy me."

:¨ ·.· ¨: `· . attack on titan films coming to a theater near you ౨ৎ

⋆⁺₊❅. falling onto you starring porco galliard synopsis when you’re forced to return to your hometown to take care of your grandmother after her hip surgery, you’re roped into volunteering for the town’s fire department charity event. paired with the constant scowling firefighter who rescued you from a tree back when you two were kids and classmates, you’re tasked with organizing the firefighter calendar auction. between awkward photo shoots, bickering over decorations, and trying to outbid a local rival for the best auction spot, you start to see that maybe porco galliard isn't all scowls and shambles arrogance — after all, he's there to catch you every time you fall.

exclusive sneak peek! "no." "it's for charity, galliard." you toss him the santa hat, not the least bit shocked that he manages to catch it without batting an eye. "you're like, morally obligated to do this. unless you want to ruin christmas. that's fine by me, too." "i won't be ruining christmas. you're just a pervert." you gasp. "i'm not the one who came up with these positions!" "you're still going to buy the calendar." he points out. "yeah, for charity! not to actually look at it!" "you sure about that? because you seem pretty damn persistent that i should take off my shirt and let you take pictures of me in nothing but suspenders, my work pants, and this ridiculous hat." "that's the most stereotypical firefighter photoshoot for a sexy christmas calendar!" he pauses. "you callin' me sexy?"

⋆⁺₊❅. the one starring colt grice synopsis colt grice has the worst luck known to man. when it comes to pay-it-forward chains, he always gets stuck in front of a minivan for a family of nine. naturally, the only people who crash into his car are the ones with no insurance. he felt bad for a coworker during a work potluck, stomached some of their disgusting food, only to end up getting food poisoning from it. the only thing colt ever seems to have good luck with is relationships... specifically, his good luck seems to transfer over to the girl he's currently dating. see, the thing is, every time colt gets dumped, his exes always end up finding the love of their lives. all his exes are happily married or in long-term relationships, with all of them finding their soulmates right after breaking up with him. he thinks no one else in the world has luck as terrible as his, but then he meets you. after a conversation exchange during a long line, you reveal that it seems like every ex you have has found their soulmate directly after breaking up with you! which is when you two hatch a plan: in order to help each other find "the one", you both agree to date each other for a period of time and then dump each other, all in the hopes of finally meeting your soulmate.

exclusive sneak peek! "your soulmate is super lucky, by the way." "what makes you say that?" colt turns to his side so he can look at you. you're still laying on your back, gazing up at the stars above. "just... i can't imagine why anyone would want to break up with you. you're honestly the best boyfriend i've ever had." colt's heart jumps at your words. he's glad it's so dark outside; otherwise, you might see the blush creeping on his cheeks. you continue on. "i'm going to be really sad when we have to breakup." he knows it's not in the agreement, but he can't help it. he thinks, then let's not. instead, he swallows hard and makes a half-hearted joke. "don't worry. you'll meet your soulmate soon, all thanks to me." you laugh, but you don't tell him how you're really hoping that he's the one for you.

⋆⁺₊❅. girls just wanna have fun! starring levi ackerman synopsis you're the prime minister's daughter wanting to get the proper college experience during your very last year of university. he's your marginally older, no-nonsense, militant bodyguard. you're determined to check things off your college girl bucket list (skip lecture, eat questionable dining hall food, go to a frat party), and he's determined to keep you safe.

exclusive sneak peek! you’ve been meticulously planning this all week. the perfect outfit is tucked under your oversized hoodie, and you’ve even plotted out the quietest route to avoid any of the creaky floorboards in your family’s massive home. all that’s left is to slip past levi, who seems to have an annoying sixth sense for every bad decision you attempt to make. sliding your shoes on, you tiptoe toward the front door, holding your breath as you slowly twist the handle. almost there. just a few more seconds, and— “you have exactly five seconds to explain what the hell you’re doing.” the deep, authoritative voice freezes you in place. slowly, you turn to find levi standing in the shadows, his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in disapproval. the flat line of his mouth isn't forming a frown or a scowl, but the disappointment is evident. “levi,” you start innocently, trying to cover your tracks. “i was just—” “if you're just going to lie, don't bother saying anything.” he interrupts, stepping into the light. his eyes flick to your shoes and back to your guilty expression. “where are you really going?” you sigh, crossing your arms defensively. “it’s just a party, okay? everyone’s going, and i’m not some teenager who needs her parent's permission to go out at night.” “you might not need your father's permission,” he says, his voice low and deliberate, “but you do need my protection. and if you think i'm letting you sneak off to some frat house full of drunk idiots without so much as telling me, then you’re dumber than i thought.” you glare at him, your frustration bubbling over. “you’re not my dad! i can take care of myself.” he leans against the doorframe, unflinching. “if you could take care of yourself, you wouldn’t have tried sneaking out like a common criminal." “ugh,” you groan, childishly stomping your foot. “why do you always have to ruin everything?” “why do you always have to make my job harder?” he counters, his tone sharp but his eyes softening just slightly. for a moment, the two of you just stare at each other. then levi exhales, rubbing his temples as if you’ve given him the worst headache of his life. “here’s the deal,” he finally says. “you stay home tonight, and i’ll consider letting you go to the next party — with me shadowing you the whole time.” your jaw drops. “you can’t be serious.” “correct. i never plan on letting you go to one of those idiotic parties.” he says. “now go change out of that ridiculous outfit you're wearing under your sweatshirt, and get some sleep. you've got class at eight.”

[lqfiles]

✰ dating lee donghyuck.

never a dull moment.

with donghyuck’s inability to stay silent for too long, there would never really be a boring moment with him. whether it be hours of conversation about the most random topics he can come up with, or unplanned adventures that he drags you along with such as getting on a bus and letting it take you anywhere, donghyuck would manage to make every single day one you won’t forget. his talent of turning the most boring activities into something you’d genuinely enjoy has you smiling for hours. donghyuck would feel a sense of accomplishment seeing you bend over from laughing as he told you a joke he had planned for a few minutes, feeling as if everything he has done up to that point was definitely worth it.

clingy… like REALLY clingy.

even though you were aware of how clingy donghyuck was, you never truly knew how clingy he was until you became his significant other. usual shoulder holds would turn into him slinging his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into his side. a quick hugs would turn into a full cuddle session as he buries his whole face into the crook of your neck. a small peck at the start of your relationship had changed into him pressing his lips against yours as hard as he can for a long period of time, you having to physically push him away to regain a bit of oxygen. his reasoning whenever you call him out on it is that he “didn’t want to turn you off and ruin his chances of getting you” and maybe you can excuse him for it, especially when hearing that makes your heart flutter.

donghyuck the jealous mess.

when it comes to donghyuck jealousy is something that gets different reactions out of him every single time. for instance, he could see you give your attention to one of his friends instead of him, and get all sulky and pouty, and when you try to divert your attention back to him, he would give you the silent treatment to “reflect on your actions” as he says himself. there is also that jealousy he has where he gets annoyed and upset and almost aggressive, such as that one time mark had accidentally bought too much chocolate, so he gave you one since he knew you liked the brand. unfortunately donghyuck hadn’t heard the full dialogue and mark almost went home with a swollen face that day. either way it’s very easy to notice when donghyuck gets jealous.

how he asked you out.

donghyuck probably didn’t like you at first, most likely because all his friends thought you were fun to be around, so his immediate thought was that you were competition and overrated. he would have a few opportunities to hang out with you and slowly realise that maybe, his friends were right and he judged you too quickly! then comes the part where he realises he has a crush on you and tries to come up with a way to confess to you. he would invite you over to his house and watch a movie with you before he would jokingly say something like “we would make an amazing couple haha” and when you seem to get flustered he would shoot his shot and admit that he was being serious and how he has liked you for a while! and surprise surprise you like him too! yippie!!

kisses.

kissing donghyuck is like being on the edge of your seat all the time, anticipating what comes next. donghyuck is… a tease for sure. he will rile you up until he has a feeling you want to kiss him badly, and as he slowly places his lips on yours… they’ll leave, just like that. though it isn’t for long as you’ll pull him back in and it just turns into one passionate make-out session! kissing donghyuck feels like you’re floating on cloud nine as he seems to know exactly what to do to make the kiss enjoyable. he’ll softly caress your face, take breaks in between and deepen the kiss if he feels like it’s the right moment. it manages to drive you insane every single time, no matter how used you get to it.

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

Danny bursting into the full batcave: Jason has ghost cancer

Batfam: wut

Danny fazing kryptonite out of the lead vault: Jason has ghost cancer.

Batfam: who tf are you?!

Danny already turning the corner into a dead end part of the cave: wouldn’t you like to know weather boy.

[megabuild]

2021: i dont know id like to see etho and bdubs interact more but i dont like it when people ship them :( theyre basically real people and idk its just really weird like whenever i think about it i feel like i need to do all sorts of terrible things to punish myself or a bunch of "objectively good" things to balance it out :(

2024 (medicated): i think bdubs and etho should meet up in an abandoned parking lot and have blindfolded sex in real life

[musouie]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃-𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 ⋮ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒

broadcasting announcement ⋮ the annual purge begins

DDDNE ⋮ toji fushiguro x fem!reader, explicit violence, gore, fear, purge au, reader in her 20s ﾉ toji in his 30s, attempted murder, bondage, referenced cannibalism, sadism wc: 8.5k

anthology masterlist . . . 𓅨 . . . ao3 version

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 was a smothering hush that only ever came before the Purge. That brought with it something primaeval — perverse and cunning — that slithered through the acrid air of the city.

You could almost taste it — hidden in the metallic twang on your tongue — the bloodlust, the horror...the desire. It came to you in flashes — caused your flesh to prickle and pull itself taut as you pictured an axe through your boss’ head, the bit lodged clean between his eyes as his body crumpled like a ragdoll, brain matter fanning out by your feet. Clinging to your shoes. Staining your trousers.

It was grotesque and inhumane and bestial (and oh-so-relieving), but that was what it always did. Corrupted then soothed. Infected then lingered. In the back of your skull, the spaces between your fingers, the tip of your tongue —

— until you thickly swallowed. Tried to force it down; render it inert. Store it where all the other ugly things hid. (By now they’ve coalesced with each other. Formed a monstrous fusion of rotten flesh, weeping boils, black tar.) 

But this… this was much more potent. More restless. With jagged edges and serrated claws and a syrupy scent that quickly turned sour as you tried to force it down the velvety walls of your throat, phlegm bubbling from the roof of your mouth. It needed to be known, known, known — like an ill-tempered child that hadn’t gotten its way, pulling and tugging, beating its fists against your insides until you bled.

So, you swallowed again. And again and again, until you could feel it begin to burn, burn, burn — like flames from a dragon’s maw — down your throat, warming your belly, and scorching up your oesophagus as it howled with its brethren. Subdued, for the moment, but eager and clawing. (Scratching at flesh, peeling skin back. Where all the other ugly things hid.)

When your lips parted in a sigh, your tongue passed over the backs of your teeth to swipe at the residue — ensure none was left behind.

And none was left, thankfully. No savoury remains lodged between canines and molars. No tinge of metal nor sharp sting of tang. 

...Nothing. 

Now, the only things to fear were those who could not so easily resist. That revelled in the taste — the sourness of it, the relief of it, the depravity of it — shamelessly. That drank in the screams and the terror as though they were the finest of wine, rich and deep, so rare they chose to exploit it:

…The weaker of man —

the purgers.

In the corner of your dim apartment, your dingy radio sputtered to life, broadcasting a morose, wailing tune before a scratchy voice began speaking through the crackling:

“In 5 minutes time,” it warbled, excitement evident even through the fissures in the signal. The buzzing, the low rumble, like the hum of bees swarming close and waiting to pierce skin and tear into muscle.

“I repeat, in 5 minutes time, the nation’s citizens will begin their annual purge, commencing the release of all tensions, frustrations, and violent urges deemed socially and criminally taboo. Caution: once the purge begins, all services — including police, fire, and emergency-medical — will be unavailable. All emergency services will re-operate when the purge ends.

May the odds be ever in your favour.

Happy purging to one and all.”

Happy Purging, happy purging, happy purging.

Happy… purging?

A scowl marred your face as the static petered out, silence trickling back in with the lack of audio to fill the absence. There was nothing happy about the Purge. Couldn’t be…no matter how prettily they tried to wrap it. (Red ribbon and all — bruised, foetid flesh at the centre, straining against its garnish as it was bound tight.)  

To dress it up and water it down — turn the carnage, the destruction, the sheer, animalistic violence into something that didn’t crawl along the underside of the tongue (up the spine, through the marrow), into a time for unwinding, a time of excitement, celebration — was despicable. Made you sick. Turned your stomach into writhing maggots and your throat to dried clay.

Your teeth grinded together as you checked the barrel of your pistol, slamming the magazine in with more force than what was probably necessary, on the verge of grating your teeth to dust. The metal whinged quietly, a high-pitched sound that soon gave way to a muffled groan when you holstered it at your hip, shrugging on a faded grey hoodie that was a size too large, frayed and bunched awkwardly about your wrists.

You then padded across the scuffed floor, heavy soles of your combat boots thudding mutedly across the wood as you made your way to your bed, snatching up a hunting knife you kept underneath your mattress. Carefully, you slipped it into your boot, nestled between leather and your lamb’s wool socks. Safe. Warm. Hidden . Like a babe in the womb.

And just like a babe in the womb, the blade would eventually be drawn forth, umbilical cord severed, and would be set loose. From one darkness to another of a different kind.

(Where all the ugly things hid.)

With a final cursory glance around your small apartment, you flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness as the siren sounded.

As if summoned, shadows seeped and formed. Intruded and flocked to each other as they always did, like greedy crows fed one too many times.

They crept forward, licking at the shabby, moth-eaten rug, and the rusted, bent, broken pipes that snaked across the ceiling, and the cracked, peeling paint on the walls. And then they moved to you, as if compelled. As though they’d just sniffed you out and couldn’t resist a bite.

They writhed and twisted and contorted, stretching their long, bony wisps-for-fingers out towards you. Beckoning, calling, crooning :

Come. Come. Come.

A poorly veiled request, but you saw it for what it was. A demand.

Long, inky fingers crawled across the room, dragged themselves down the walls, grabbed for you and quivered with anticipation.

Come. Come. Come.

But the lone source of light from beyond your window, seeping through the yellowed blinds, seemed to stop them short. Caused them to screech and fizzle and sear as they ghosted near where you were. Repulsed.

Outside, the sky had split open into nothing but the reds, oranges, and violets of hellish flames as the sun began to sink. As its rays trickled in one by one, the shadows shrank away, slinking back into the corners and the crevices and the cracks and the fissures and the holes and the tears.

(And the spaces between your fingers, and the tip of your tongue, and the back of your skull.)

And then finally…you heard the screams. The dreaded, dreaded screams.

The Purge had finally begun, and the beast had stirred.

You were now a mix of the most peculiar kind.

Half woman, half chair. Meshed and moulded and sewn with the worn wood of the seat, the armrests, the legs. Your spine curved in a similar manner to the back of the chair, and your arms were fused by sweat to the rests. Your elbows were locked and your wrists limp, clothed legs weaved into the wooden ones of your perch, right down to the toes.

Perhaps that was why you couldn’t feel a thing below your waist. No creeping tingles in your calves, nor a dull throb in your toes from the nippy autumn air, or even the lancing ache of having sat in one spot for a good couple of hours now.

Just… nothingness …

To stay like this was no good. You knew . You’d have to move eventually — whether by force or mere survival. (Like how birds flocked south, or deer bolted when a twig snapped, or mice scurried to corners, or frogs fled to ponds. Anything to get out of the chair, and out of the chair, and out of the chair.)

But you couldn’t move.

Refused to.

Somehow, you convinced yourself that the moment you rose, if only an inch, the monsters would come. They would smell the fresh blood pumping through your veins, the adrenaline, the fear, the fight . And they would descend upon you, ripping you limb from limb, tearing the meat from your bones, feasting on the innards, and leaving you a hollowed husk.

A shell of what once was.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the air, and you flinched . Torso violently jerking to the side as your head moved with it, legs still tethered, arms rigid. The cries grew in their intensity the farther along they drifted, until they were shrieking. Raw and untamed and enraged , and the only thing louder was the boom-crack of a gun firing. 

Yes ...you were much safer here. In the chair, in the chair, in the chair. Where even Rationality could not touch you. (After so long, it hardly ever tried.)

So in the chair you took root, like a stubborn mutt clinging to its master, unwilling to part. And in the chair your fingernails dug, leaving jagged crescent moons which left your flesh raw and stinging and throbbing . And in the chair you remained, situated between the window and your door, (between certain death) and waited. Listened.

And waited.

And listened.

And waited.

And listened.

Ignoring the slight pressure building in your bladder.

Your ears strained, trying to pick up any sound: the scrape of a shoe, the rustle of clothing, the click of a gun. It’d be comical, in almost any other situation, how desperate you were to hear a sound. Anything . How desperate you were for the presence of another. 

But there was nothing . Only the steady drip, drip, drip of the leaky tap in your kitchen, and the rustling of leaves as their shadows swam across your walls.

You pressed your thighs together.

It was tantalisingly slow, the water, how it seeped from the pipe, hung precariously — for seconds, hours — before eventually relinquishing its hold. A single bead trickling down, down, down the smooth mouth of your sink. Another then following. A second. A third. Each one stacking themselves atop the last like ants until the stream began in earnest.

The stream. Yes, the stream. You couldn’t help but notice it. Hone into it.

Its trickle became a gentle swell, and the gentle swell a rushing torrent — as if taunting, rubbing salt into a festering wound as the pressure against your bladder worsened. Begging you to rise, rise, rise and quell it, make it disappear.

It was a battle that lasted but a matter of moments, and one which you lost with ease, the discomfort and desperation finally outweighing the fear of discovery. (And the madness and the hysteria and the terror.)

You stumbled forward on shaky legs, aching limbs trembling at every step, a dull ringing filling your ears, drowning out any and all sound.

Except for the dripping.

The dripping, the dripping, the dripping.

You gripped onto anything you could as you dragged your anchors for legs across the floor, a tingling sensation peppering itself throughout your toes — your calves, your knees, your hips. A tickle at first, but soon enough, a sharp ache. A pain so excruciating, you were certain you would have screamed.

Drip, drip, drip.

With each step the drops grew harsher, sharper. No longer water but pellets of lead, bludgeoning against the drain as they tore down the steel. An avalanche; a horde. One after the other until they drowned the leaky faucet whole.

Drip, drip, drip.

It strung you along, fish to bait through the murky water, hooked itself straight through your bottom lip, past the molars, and back through the cartilage of your jaw. But even with the hooks and barbs, it wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to drag you to it, but only led, waiting, trusting — its stream ever-widening into a sea, the staccato thrum turning into a symphony of rolling, crashing waves as you reached the sink.

You were so close. So, so close, you nearly trembled, nearly sobbed. 

And—

A light push was all it took for the sea to cease. For it to go silent. It did not trickle, no. Its end was instantaneous. (A brush of fingers against steel. And then a squeak. A squeal. A screech. Dwindling to a creak as it fell silent.)

—Then,

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Your brows furrowed as you heard the drops sound once more. Hand still on the head of the faucet, you pressed down. Once, twice. The faucet was shut tight … so just what was that sound?

It changed the next time you heard it. One hesitant drip and two loud ones, bordering on that of a bang. You padded around your apartment, making sure to listen keenly. Hoping the monster didn’t follow the sounds of your footfalls, nor the pound of your heart, and instead, focused on the drips. On that incessant drip, drip, dripping —

You turned a corner.

— or the bang, bang, banging —

The sounds seemed stronger towards the front of your apartment. Past the guest bathroom, down the hallway, and…to the door?

— or the knock, knock, knocking.

...Knocking.

So close now, you finally realised what the sound was. And all that it wasn’t. Three quick knocks sounded again — more aggressive this time. Panicked. And after gnawing on the inside of your cheek, scraping at gum and flesh and veins, you relented ��� moving closer and craning your neck to peer through the peephole.

There were no eyes (white or dead or hollow) that greeted you; no sharp canines or silver claws or black tendrils; no miasmic smoke or smoky musk or any form or any colour at all.

It was just a woman .

A red woman — no . A woman drenched in red. The difference was palpable, almost to a ludicrous degree. While her clothing could very well have been a deep scarlet, or even brown, you knew — felt — the way it clung to her body: her skin, the gory bits. Knew the deep scarlet was as she would remain for all time, the bright and the red, because they were hers . Not the clotted, smeary crimson on your door, not the viscid red that slopped against wood with a wet schluck — but the viscid red which smeared her hands.

All her burden to bear.

“P-Please help!” she cried, as though she knew your eyes roamed over her. Curiously, warily. “My son…” She trailed off; opened her mouth a few times before closing it and frowning.

You watched as she attempted to compose herself, tucking her trembling lip behind her teeth and clenching a fist that no doubt smeared her wound an even deeper shade of crimson.

She was shaking. Trembling like a newborn foal. And through her fingers, and the gushing and gore, her lips peeled back, revealing white, jagged teeth, her breaths haggard as tears carved rivulets through the mess of it all.

As they trailed down her cheek, down her chin, down her neck.

Smearing, smearing.

(Staining.)

“T-They hurt my son…my —” Her voice cracked, a porcelain bowl to tile. “— my Johnny.” She pounded her fist against your door once more, and you briefly wondered how they weren’t bloodied. Down to a pulp. The bone. “I know you can hear me!” She tiptoed between hysteria. “P-please. He’s so young — doesn’t have much more time left. I-I can’t see my baby die. God , I don’t wanna see my baby die.”

Her head hit the wood of your door with an ungracious thump, as did her arm; a solid, decisive, finalisation to her words. One which almost forced you to respond, to crack your door a tad and peer through, if only to check whether her forehead remained intact. If only to assuage yourself with a pat on the back when it was.

“Please…” She croaked. “Please.”

Her hands slunk to the handle sluggishly, as though she did it in a state of near unconsciousness. When she tried turning it and felt the lack of give, she simply didn’t seem fazed. Instead, she whimpered, her forehead sliding down until her face was pressed against the cool, unforgiving metal — eyes squeezed tightly, brow screwed in concentration.

“My boy. My little Johnny. Please, my Johnny. I’m begging you…”

“It’s…the Purge, ” you finally whispered, albeit harshly, scolding her in what you thought was a subtle way.

She seemed shocked at first, that someone truly stood on the other side of the door, that she hadn’t been talking futilely to herself. But so quickly, as she registered your words, her expression melted into one of anguish, the tremor in her lip quickening.

“I kn-know it is,” she rasped. “B-but he’s dy—!”

“— It’s the Purge.”

She begun to wail. “Do you have no heart? My only son is –” there was a gurgle, like she was choking on the blood and phlegm that’d gathered in her mouth. “– dying! Have some humanity… s-some mercy! That’s all I ask.”

You scowled. She’d asked for so much more and didn’t even realise it, or perhaps didn’t care for it, for what you’d sacrifice if you opened the door. Something so irreplaceable, that you were content with playing the monster she so desperately tried to make you out to be. The monster she couldn’t recognise in herself.

“Where is your son?” 

Her face shot up, eyes dancing. There was a twitch in the muscle beneath them; a jolt, a quiver, and soon they widened. “He’s just down the corridor, i-in our apartment a few doors down. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t bring him, h-he was bleeding so much, I-”

“You left him there, unguarded and alone?”

“N-No! I’m protecting him.” Her eyes were wild now. Desperate. “A-Always, from the minute he was born. I’ve been a good mother. I ha- I have. I-I’d do anything to protect my Johnny, my sweet boy, that’s why you need to come, have to come help. Please, God, just open the door — open the goddamned door! S-So we can save him, so he won’t fucking die!”

There was silence then. Deafening, save for her choked, wet whimpers as she sagged against the door, holding onto the handle as though her life depended on it, on you. “Please…” she softly begged, for the umpteenth time, her voice a rasp and strained, scratchy from exertion.

From the angle of the peephole, you couldn’t see her any longer, but you knew she was still there by the faint sniffling that’d begun —crawled inward. That , and you could practically taste the desperation that oozed from her heap, in great, quivering waves. 

“My son…”

And, foolishly, with that and an easy lick, a sort of silent surrender — an indulgence — you swallowed it whole.

“...Where is he…your son?”

Her breath hitched. “I-In his room. They’d snuck in and... afterwards I told him to stay put.” 

“They left?”

She nodded. “Took some jewellery and money before stomping out the door like they owned the place. Fucking pigs.”

You nodded, a gesture unseen, as alarms sounded in your head, blaring even louder as your hand wrapped around your door handle, and her own slowly rotated it too, in return. How you two synched like a pair, almost in tandem, was a wonder (or a fright). (Her, now the mime, and you, the willing puppet, pulled along by another string of your making, and obliged to dance to the tune of another’s.) 

Nothing good could come from this, would come from this, you didn’t even know if she truly had a son — if it was truly blood that clung to her body. But just the thought of him bleeding out alone, paralysed with fear, squandered all doubts. You saw a piece of yourself in him — a piece that you’d long buried, that’d burrowed beneath dry soil as your father’s blood followed closely behind — perhaps to your detriment.

(The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy.)

Like an ouroboros, you began. Biting your tail, you began. An endless cycle of giving when you had no room to, until you were wrung out of all and everything. (You were a fool, a fool, a fool.) With a shaky breath, you slid the deadbolt and unlatched the chain.

And so easily, as though waiting on you, the door swung open.

Immediately, a rush of cold, rank, stifling air greeted you with a soured welcome, its rancid scent strong enough that you were almost tempted to shut the door once more (better safe than sorry, than dead and sorry, better safe and sorry). The red, all the red, slathered across the walls and floor, the grime and guts that trailed and decorated the corridor, was enough to send a foot backwards, inching towards your apartment — towards safety.

But the woman, the mother, with her motherly instinct and motherly resolve and motherly desperation, grabbed your arm, nails digging into the flesh and nearly tearing, the redness from her skin staining your own as she dragged you with an animalistic grip — with no grace, no hesitance, or awareness of her forcefulness. Only pulling — yanking.

Her clipped, gasping breaths rushed hot past your ear, urging you to hurry, to move — and move you did. To the rhythm of her desperation, and the thrumming of your heartbeat as the cold permeated deep to your core, to the muscle, until it turned rigid in a stiffened panic. Past the red, the grime and guts.

“This way,” she rushed, and you nearly tripped over your heavy feet, her fingers pulling and curling around your own before her other hand grasped your elbow, like she was guiding you through a throng of people as you moved onward.

She didn’t seem fazed at all. Or to even notice. Instead, she walked with long, striding steps, pulling you behind her until you finally righted yourself and followed in her bloodied wake. She only stopped when she reached a door with ‘901’ on its front, a trio of numbers that were rusted and dull. 

The door was ajar a crack, just wide enough for a small, narrow sliver of darkness to slip through. A glimpse of the horrors within. But when you stared forward, for longer than you should have, you could hear the faint, lilting shushing sound, barely perceptible — like a rush of wind in the quiet, a rush of wings past ears. Until her panicked breaths filled your eardrums once more; a bird call of her own.

“His room is to the right,” she murmured, pushing on the door until it was wide enough for you both to fit past its threshold. You followed her finger to a closed door, the quiet darkness peeking past the crack inviting you. Comforting. She said something else, but you were beyond listening at that point. And far beyond listening, as a string was tugged and pulled, and you entered the hallway without a second glance.

Once you stepped inside, the air was oppressive. Stifling. Dense. Musty.

In the distance there was a long, deep cry; guttural, and forced. Caught somewhere between a shudder, a cough, a wail — a gasp. The further you stepped into the moon-lit room, you realised the sound was coming from beneath a bundle of sheets and blankets, where they pulsed and shook, as the wheezing grew softer, more hesitant. Almost on the cusp of ceasing.

You quickened your steps, coming to a stop by the foot of the bed — of a green dinosaur — placing a hand atop the mass of fabric. “Johnny?” you cooed, sang in some sort of way. You knew that he’d need coaxing to reveal himself, that, no doubt, he was more frightened than you. So, as he quivered and convulsed, you pulled up the corner of the sheet, and, very slowly, began to tug. 

But as the sheet began to slip away, an arm jerked out — or a leg — and swept it right back into place.

You frowned. “Johnny, I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend of your mommy, I just want to see if you’re alright.”

Silence.

Then a groan, low and wretched and throaty, was stifled beneath the fabric. The mass spasmed in turn.

Your shoulders tightened at his refusal to speak, and so your words came faster, tinged with a neediness which should’ve been absent in your voice. And so was the subtle command: “If you can just show me, it’ll be over in an instant, and I’ll leave.” Your lips quirked. “Pinky promise.”

And, when he made no effort to reply, you persisted. Pulling down the sheets slowly, carefully, inch by inch, a sort of sick amusement in it all. A curiosity, which was eclipsed only by your underlying urge to run.

But as the sheets began to fall, your heart thumped with some sort of triumph. A light lock of hair revealed itself, before another, and then another and another until a patch of skin and a forehead became visible. 

“Good,” you cooed again, breathing heavily through your nose as your heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. “Just a little bit more and I’ll leave you. Okay?”

A jaw came into view, then the curve of a cheekbone. As more and more were revealed, a pang of nausea coiled and wound itself up your chest like barbed wire. Tightly. Despite yourself, you leaned in closer, brows tightening as you gripped the edge of the blanket, preparing yourself to tear the fabric away completely. To tear and yank and see all and everything that you wished to and—

“Johnny…”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Something in you froze as a beady eye peeked up at you, regarding you coldly with a lash-coated glare, crow’s feet prominent and pulled taut in a derisive look that had you frozen on the spot.

“J-Johnny?”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Teeth revealed themselves next, pearlescent yet decayed, rotting and black in places, yellowed in others, canines pointed like the stab of daggers. Rows and rows and rows.

As you gasped and jerked away, he leaped, soaring right towards you, giggling all the while.

“Gotcha!” 

The man ensnared you in his arms, cradling you to him, clutching so tightly that your breath hitched at the sheer force of his embrace. 

“Mama’s boy!” He shrieked. And again: “Mama’s Boy!” And, as though that was the cue, two more men jumped out from the corners, leaping towards you with crooked grins.

You scrambled backwards, yelping in turn. But instead of escaping, you fell. Like a ball. Fast. Freely. Hurtling with no direction, no guide, no reason, into the depths of nothing, nothing, nothing, dragging the man with you, and—

Down below, a red rug laid. Plush. Thick. Quivering. It stretched infinitely, an impossible length, unnatural.

Even more so, as it curled and warped into a creature: a thing of myth and fantasy, as your head slammed against its leathery skin. You lurched forward with the impact, catching yourself as you dived face first onto the rippling crimson scales, and scrambled to right yourself and escape.

“Nuh uh, not so fast sweetheart.” The one with the emetic grin leered at you, smile still plastered across his face as he tightened his grip around your leg and pinned you to the ground. “We worked hard to get ya’. Waited so long for one of yous.” He brought his face close to your hair and inhaled deeply, sniffed like a hound – a beast. “A beaut. ”

From your left, one with a rotted face, mottled and grey like a half-eaten maggot-ridden fruit, grabbed your shoulders and wrenched them down, forcing you flat against the rug. They both hovered above you now, two pairs of eyes trained on you as you squirmed about atop your fleshy cushion,

(which rippled and thrived with your every movement)

as the third — with his ashen skin and long nose, like a snout or a hook — perched himself between them with a cheshire-like smile, thin-lipped and crudely forced. It curled into his eyes, crinkling them until it became nearly too wide — too inhuman. 

It went on like that for a terrifying minute: the staring, the breathing, the thumping of your heart and the trembling of your limbs (The horror, the horror.) It was only when you gasped at the hands on your shoulders, that began to move in a circular motion — as if to soothe — that the quietness severed.

“We’d never let ya’ go so quickly.” It was the rotten one that spoke, that rubbed. “Yer our lil’ prize after all. Can ya’ believe tha’ good fortune? That we get a taste a’one of yer kind? Pretty little things, damn near perfect . Nothin’ like the ones out in th’ country… a sour lot, all of ‘em.”

The hooked-nose man snickered at that. Cackled really, like a hyena. Like a madman. Clutching his ribs as though he’d never heard anything funnier — and soon enough, everyone had joined in on the chuckling. Everyone but you.

(The scales beneath you bunched and juddered and squirmed, moved along with their jerking motions as they shook with mirth.)

“Bonnie!” Mama’s Boy called out, amusement still rippling through him. “C’mere.”

You heard a faint shuffling, shoes against the hardwood floor, and before long, the red woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes widened as they flitted from Mama’s Boy to you, and her face screwed with a mixture of distaste and sorrow, like she’d just bitten into a fruit long past its ripeness, the rot souring her tongue. “I’m so sorry—” she began, before Mama’s Boy cut her off.

“—Fuck a’ ya’ sorry for, Bonnie? You done good. Got us a real treat, didn’t ‘spect that from ya’.”

“H-he threatened to kill my Johnny if I didn’t bring someone to him!”  She wildly gestured to her side, and it was then that you noticed the little boy clinging to her leg. He couldn’t have been more than seven, face pudgy and round, a tell-tale sign of youth — of innocence . And yet, your lip curled at them both, twisting into an ugly thing as you noticed he hid further behind his mother when your gaze settled on him. His red, red mother. “I couldn’t let him do that — couldn’t let anyone hurt my Johnny. I’m a good mother, I told you that. A good , good mother. I��”

“So it’s okay if I’m hurt?” You nearly growled, and the men that restricted your limbs began to whoop. 

“Feisty one too, ain’ she?”

“Love the ones that have a lil’ spunk to ‘em.” 

You ignored them, despite their nearness. Their intrusion.

“It doesn’t bother you that I’ll die in order for your son to live? That you dragged me out my home, to save your son that is perfectly fucking fine?!” By now you were shouting. Shouting and trembling and livid.

“Hey hey hey now,” the one on the right — Maggot Face — growled, slapping a dirty, bony hand across your cheek. You flinched. The sting had you seething. Teeth baring in a display you were sure looked pathetic. “She did what she had ta’ in order ta’ protect ‘er offspring. Yous a smart girlie, got no right gettin’ upset ‘bout somethin’ like this.”

“No — no right ?!” you sputtered, disbelief forcing a mirthless laugh from you. “I— You...I never agreed to being a fucking kill!”

In response to your outrage, he placed a dirty knuckle beneath your chin and lifted, forcing your face near his rotten one. “Aye, I got it. She’s all feisty ‘cause she don’ know what’s gonna’ happen to ‘er. Guess I’d be mad too, if I were a mere sow like ‘erself. Innit right, boys? Clueless bitch wouldn’t get it any other way.”

Hooknose nodded as Mama’s Boy stroked a hand through his oily hair, murmuring a “They never do I ‘spose. S’only their nature.”

Maggot Face leaned in closer to you, and this close, you could practically see insects crawling. Smell the decay — the death — and all the sourness it brought with it. “I’ll tell ya’ then, yer fate, since yous so damn upset over it.” He grinned, and it’s then you realised the difference between him and the others:

He truly was a rotten thing, no semblance of life in him. When he smiled, you saw that all his teeth were brown and had been sawed down to nubs. As if they too, had endured his wrath. 

“Ya’ ain’t just a kill to us, girly. Yous a…” He turned his head, looked to the others. “What’s the word again?”

Hooknose simply shrugged his shoulders, but Mama’s Boy chuckled. “Release.” 

Maggot Face digested the word. Chewed it between what little teeth he had in that big, burly maw of his, one of a beast, and nodded. “Aye, a release. Yous a release to us. Much more important than just some kill…kills we don’ care for. S’all ‘bout the fun, then. With you,” his knuckle moved up up up, pressing against the fat of your lip. “S’all about… savouring your taste. The perfect meal takes time don’ it? Even the Last Supper was built upon anticipation an’ longing. And I want to make sure all o’ ya’ has ta’ be ingested thoroughly and with relish.”

Your lip quivered as you wrangled to move out of his grasp, but oh-so-quickly — so terrifyingly — like a switch in him had been wrenched upwards, his grip grew harsh, fingers biting your skin enough to bruise. 

“So don’ be difficult , you spoilt lil’ city bitch. Yer special…ain’ that whatchya ’ want? To die a meanin’ful death?” 

You understood all that he left unsaid, it translated itself through the hunger in his gaze — the greed : Tonight, you were dying regardless. 

And so, you screamed. Screamed and screamed until a greasy hand moved to cover your mouth, muffle your wails, and you shook and sobbed.

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so, so sorry.” Your eyes shot up to the red woman, chin lifting just a little. You’d nearly forgotten her, presence closely akin to a coat rack; in your remembrance you screamed louder. Her trembling reached a near violent degree. “J-Johnny let’s go. Let’s go. Mama’s tired, let’s go.” 

You watched as she ushered the little boy out the room in a tight grip, prying his curious, wide eyes from your form with the twist of his head. Her apologies continued, reverberating throughout the apartment long after she’d exited. 

“Oh, don’ fuckin’ scream now. Shut yer fuckin’ trap or I’ll do it for ya’,” Mama’s Boy snarled, grip so cruel that he forced your skin to fold and lift, pushed your features together like you were nothing more than something for him to break.

But you only screamed louder, blood rushing to your ears. It sounded warped — distorted and deep. Nothing like your voice, but more a macabre mix between a deep gargle and an elongated squawk. You looked like an animal — were being treated as one, so why not behave as such? You’d scream. Yelp and hiss and bite and lash out if it meant giving them something other than a docile and obedient kill. You wanted to be the last meal they ate, the one that ruined the fun.

“Get the rope.” Mama’s Boy ordered over his shoulder, before turning back to you, teeth razor sharp and glinting in the moonlight. “You enjoy bein’ a stupid, bad girl, dontcha?  Fuckin’ city cunt wants to behave like a bitch, well she’ll get treated like one. Won’t ya’? Now gon’ look what you done.”

Your head lolled to the side as you watched Hooknose trek to the corner where he’d hid. There was a faint rustling, of fabric against fabric and a zipper being yanked before he shuffled back over, rope coiled in one hand and —

Your eyes bulged from your skull as a whimper escaped your lips, muffled by the palm of his hand, still pressed so tightly to your mouth. 

— a ball gag in the other.

“See, this is what ya’ made us do. This is what bein’ bad gets ya’,” Mama’s Boy cooed, but even with his gentler tone his grasp grew tighter. It had you whimpering more, body convulsing. The corners of your vision grew spotty and blackened — frothing darkness encroaching inwards and outwards at an alarming rate until it was nearly all you could see. Until nearly all of you had turned black and bruised. “Open wide now, pretty. ‘Fore I really gotta hurt ya’.”

You shook your head violently, defiantly, from side to side — to which his face morphed into something even more grotesque (if even possible), lips peeled back, expression almost savage, near rabid.  You were so focused on the vulgarity of it, ensnared by the sheer ugliness, that you didn’t register his hand drawing back, so far behind his head, until it connected with the tender flesh of your cheek and you let out a muffled screech, pain blossoming and leaving a dull throb in its wake. A pulse. Punctured by a “stupid girl.”

Your head snapped to the side, copper filling your mouth and causing it to part around a gasp. He took advantage of that, fingers crawling towards your jaw and tugging its hinges wide, stretching and straining and ripping without remorse until you were sore. Aching. Sourness welling inside your mouth — upon your tongue. 

“Go on. Shove it in der.” Hooknose moved closer to you at the command, eyes watery and quivering and eager and fixed on your mouth, gaze roaming as if just now he saw for the first time.

He offered you a pitying smile. Or perhaps, he intended it to be. But it was stiff — as though something in him found it difficult to contradict his nature, and fought against his feeble attempt at benevolence. 

He held your gaze as his fat, stubby fingers pressed against the seam of your lips, ghosting your tongue as he wedged the plastic ball into your mouth. He rubbed it gently across the wet muscle, and it grew firmer the wider he stretched your cheeks to make room for the intrusion; until eventually, he clicked the device into place and brought his thumb to wipe along your tears, soiling the salty fluid with grease. 

At the sound of the click, Mama’s Boy grunted with contentment. “Good. Good, she knows now. Learned . Learned we can make it all hurt, all nasty an’ painful, so she’ll do wha’ she’s ‘spose ta’, right?”

You blinked owlishly. He chortled.

“Get ‘er feet, boy. Don’t bind ‘em too tight, don’t wanna ruin tha’ soft skin of ‘er’s...then ya’d miss out on the finer parts, eh?”

Hooknose grunted. Moved around to grasp your legs, held onto them like prongs of a ladder as he uncoiled the rope in his hand, once, twice, three times. Three full rotations.

You noticed that his hands, coated in grime and black dirt, shook and trembled, and if the trembling weren’t so apparent and grossly prominent — so entirely aberrant and incongruous — you would have said that the hands on you were almost delicate.

Before you could think about it further, Mama’s Boy sighed. Almost wistfully. “M’boys ‘nd I… we ‘aven’t eaten in months. ‘Aven’t had a proper, satisfying fill in a real long while either. Course, none a’ the meat down at tha’ slaughterhouse tastes nothin’ like yer kind does, it won’t ever hold a candle to it neither. City pigs taste different, breed better than the ones we get out there. Small and lean and nice an’ tender. Just like you are right now. So fresh…so damned fresh.” 

“Aye,” Maggot Face chimed in, tone equally drenched that you tensed , bile flooding into your mouth as your limbs went rigid.“Ah’m nearly giddy. Haven’t tasted yer kind for so long. Missed it, missed it a lot. Ah bet yer meat ain’t hard t’eat none.”

“Bet it slides right off th’ bone.”

Maggot Face hummed. “An’d pair real nice with sum’ whiskey. Ain’t that right?”

Hooknose said nothing, just began to twine the rope about your ankles. Slowly, too slow, as though the languorous motion would cause his fingers not to tremble or waver, would make the shame dissipate from him and prevent his neck from reddening with his guilt.

(It would never do. It never did.)

As the other men busied themselves with fantasies of all you had to offer, all the pleasure your tender corpse would soon give, he shakily bound your ankles, began to crawl his hands up your calves and squeezed, encased.

(Did he see how your flesh bunched beneath his fingertips? The swell, the way the tendon protruded beneath his touch — because of his touch — like a mountain range, birthed?) 

You squeezed out a whimper, one filled with all the helplessness and agony you could muster,

(A storm, a deluge.)

and slowly — agonisingly so — he peered up at you with drooping eyes, eyelashes fanning his sockets like paper fans.

His mouth parted, grip slackened, and you knew you had a sliver of a second to act quickly. You drew your feet back, poised taut like a bowstring, before ramming the pointed edges of your heels right into his soft, fleshy abdomen. The impact drew a choked yelp from him, spit flying to land on your thighs, and he fell to the ground with a loud crash, gurgling wails ripping from him as he cried out the first word you’d heard from him all night:

“Fuck!”

All attention then shifted towards you, gazes accusing.

Angry.

From then on, it was all a whirlwind.

Screams atop of screams and filthy curses spat with their drool,

(Lips forming around the vulgar words — city bitch — again and again and again,

until the syllables lost their meaning and their sound turned to that of a skipping record)

and bony hands scuffling your hair, turning you onto your stomach

slamming your skull against the floorboards,

nails scraping your scalp as you fought their every attempt at restraining your arms.

If anything, the struggle spurred them on, snowballed their ever-growing lust for violence — and the thought frightened you to the point where you were nearly deaf to the scathing words whispered in your ear:

“Yous just prolonging yer inevitable end. No more ai’ght?  We gonna be gentle no more.” You heard a click. It was only when a cool metal pressed against your forehead that you registered just exactly what it was. “Thought a city bitch like ya’ would have a bit more manners. Coulda’ been a smooth, nice night for ya, really coulda’.”

(He was wrong; a lie that slipped from his tongue so easily he nearly fooled himself. You knew they meant every bit of the torture, were planning it in the seedy, gutters of their minds with relish.)

With a snarl, Mama’s boy clicked off the safety of the revolver. “Guess the only thing gonna get through yer thick fuckin’ skull is a bullet.”

You closed your eyes. He shook you.

“But don’t go an’ take yerself off to dreamland, girl. Ther’s a slow death comin’ to ya, no mercy for sows like yerself. Yer gonna feel everythin’. Every. Fucking. Thing. An yer gonna scream, scream real good, scream fer us. Ya hear me? Hear me, cunt? Open yer eyes an listen, goddamnit , or I swea r— I fuckin’ swear, I’ll put a bullet right between yer pretty lil’ eyes right now, an’ leave yer body to the maggots. I’ll let ‘em feast on yer rotten flesh, eat their way through yer bones ‘till yer nothin’.”

You wanted to laugh — hysterically, manically, deliriously, and tell him you wished he would. Wished he were to finish you off already, if only to put a stop to the gnawing emptiness swelling in the pits of your chest, the festering soreness in your jaw.

But you only kept your eyes closed.

There was a low growl, a series of them, a harmony. And then —

(Your heart beat and beat, wild and untamed and ferocious.)

— gunshots. Three. In quick succession.

Bang, bang, bang!

(Your ears began to ring.)

Before you could even draw a breath, gasp around the gag or bring your palms to clutch the scarlet drops above your lashes, a choked gurgle met your ears. It sounded of something gutted, eviscerated; or something drained of all life and then filled with water. And then so suddenly, without warning, a heavy weight slammed into your back, knocking the wind from your chest and causing your eyes to bulge.

Warmth spread through your hoodie, seeped and clung as something viscous splattered against your forehead, thick, almost clumped, in the shape of droplets. They rolled down your forehead and curved over your brow, down your cheek and tickled your chin,

(a trail of kisses — odious and slow and inching and —) 

and they hung from the precipice before severing their tether and dropping to the scales beneath you, undoubtedly marring the rug with red blotches, blossoming before you in uneven spatters.

(Petals unfurling at their own leisure, gory and fresh.)

You lifted a trembling hand to your forehead, intercepting a few drops that clung to your flesh, warm and syrupy like molasses, yet so different in nature, not nearly as enticing. The tremor in your hand caused them to smear beneath your touch — spread, fan out — and bile rose in your throat as you caught a whiff of their coppery stench. Pungent and stifling and intruding and not yours, not yours, not yours.

You gagged, dry-heaved, retched until your throat was just as sore as your jaw, your head just as strained as your legs, your sense gone, gone, gone — as you didn’t register just how this had happened. How , why, Mama’s Boy ended atop you, stiff and losing warmth, coating you in blood, limbs splayed and a hole probably the size of your finger in his skull.

Your hysteria didn’t cease until you heard heavy footsteps, boots clomping through a red sea, and then a gravelly voice. Coarse and abrasive, rock against rock.

“You okay? Can ya’ move?”

(Thousands of palms were on you. Or two. You couldn’t tell as they began to peel away the darkness — the death.)

Your lungs seized, an odd choking, croaking sound — not of death, not of the gunshot —  as the ball gag was swiftly unclipped and fell from your skull.

The only sounds after were heavy panting, grunts, and groans — of the human kind, and they were nearly indecipherable to you, enveloped within the throbbing pulses that spread throughout your body. A stuttering of breath. Pain finally swept you away.

You fought against the encroaching darkness.

— you saw a scarred lip, torn flesh like crinkled linen.

And to the darkness you lost.

No longer did your façade of sleep work on the man.

“How much longer are ya’ gonna lay there? S’been hours.”

You ignored him. Kept your eyes shut as you tried to regulate your breaths, slow and deep. In and out.

“Fuck, don’t ya’ gotta piss or somethin’?”

In and out.

“Never met someone s’eager to be around a bunch o’ bodies before.” He tried again, and you could imagine his lips pulling into a smirk. “Must be a real fucked up fetish.”

At the mention of bodies, your breath hitched; you heard a scoff.

“Knew you were awake.” He stomped from wherever he was, around the corpses and meaty chunks of flesh and brain matter, to make his way to your side. A leather boot gently nudged at your shoulder. “Ain’t gonna hurt you none, if that’s why your tail’s between your legs. They ain’t gonna hurt you none either.”

You peered up at him with a narrowed eye, and it strained against the swollen bruise around it, pulsated and quivered and fought to close. The mammoth of a man motioned a hand outwards, and your gaze followed his lazy gesture around the room, over the corpses that littered it, the gore that wasn’t there before (The teeth, the hair, the innards. Everything that belonged inside, outside.), and then back to him. The broadness, the solidity, of him.

His lip twitched. The linen ruffled.

“This…” you croaked, voice hoarse and throat dry, so you swallowed. Tried again. “This was all…you?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

His dark brows knitted together. “Why?”

“Why’d you help me?”

The man shrugged, broad shoulders rising just briefly before falling. “You were screamin’ like a banshee. It was loud and it was pissin’ me off a bit. Didn’ expect to see a group of men tryna kill a girl, though. Thought it was some kinky shit or somethin’. A bit disappointed, really.”

You blinked. Slowly, as not to bring too much pain upon yourself.

And then, you laughed.

It was a raspy, broken sound, and it sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. But it was laughter, and it was genuine, and it was the first time in a long while you had felt something so human. So real.

You smiled, and the skin on your cheek pulled and stung. “You’re an asshole.”

He smirked. “So I’ve heard.”

You pushed yourself upright, and the man took a step back, allowed you the space. Your hands shook, trembled, and your fingers were numb, and you brought them up to the sides of your face, covered your eyes and pressed hard, until white spots danced across the backs of your eyelids.

The man eyed you carefully, and then he turned his attention to the bodies.

They were strewn about the room, some in pieces, some still intact, and they were all dead. Their blood pooled and stained the floors, and their innards had spilled out, and their faces had been blown apart, and their limbs were bent and twisted and—

You dropped your hands, and you looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And then, he offered a gloved hand.

You stared at it.

It was large, and the leather was worn and torn and stained, and it was a nice contrast against the muted, olive brown of his skin. Skin littered with cuts and scars and bruises yet so inviting.

You stared at his hand, and you wondered what kind of person could kill three men, gut them and tear them apart without flinching, yet offer a hand so gently.

So kindly.

You stared at his hand, and slowly, you reached for it.

His fingers were warm when they wrapped around yours, despite the fabric that covered them, and he helped you stand, careful not to touch your bruises, brush against the cuts. 

“You live on this floor?”

You nodded.

He hummed and gripped your hand a little tighter. “You gonna show me where it is?”

Your brow furrowed and you winced, heart picking up if only slightly. “What?”

“You need help. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“But I can manage.”

“You can’t.”

“I’ve managed for this long.”

He snorted. “Not well.”

You frowned, the cut on your lip stung.

“C’mon.”

“I-I don’t even know your name.”

He paused, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. The linen ruffled again. “Toji.”

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

@madaqueue (●'◡'●)

[crow-aeris]

More of TBUBF :3

(ft. cuddle pollen and Tim angst)

=====

Tim hisses, his body wracking with shivers and trembles as he coughs. Chalky, dry, yellow pollen coated his entire face and the front of his body. Gods, he was cold- he was so fucking cold.

"Wraith," someone calls through the comline, their voice wavering, "Rreport."

"...Cold," he whines lowly, his feathers dragging uncomfortably against the grass as the abnormally large plant loomed over him, "It's so- s-so..."

"He's in Robinson Park," Duke's voice filters through the line, and Tim couldn't help the pathetic calling chirp that escapes his lips, "Anubis, you're closest."

"I'll cover your route, Annie," Steph's distinct voice flits through Tim's ears, "go bring the birdie home. Robin should be with Seraph."

"I'm on the way," Bruce grunts,

He curls into a tight ball, a desperate whine peeling from his lips as he tried to rub warmth into his skin. Why was he so cold? It was so. Cold.

Where was Kon? Kon would help, he was warm. He was always warm... But wasn't he up north with Clark?

"Wraith," a steady voice calls to him, both in and outside of his ears, "Can you stand?'"

Tim tries, but exhaustion pulls unforgivingly at his limbs.

"...Very well. Seraph, alert Agent A and have him prepare the showers. Wraith is covered in Pollen C901134."

"Just say cuddle pollen, jesus!"

Tim hisses with irritation as Damian helped him to his feet, shame burning in his chest. He was so pathetic and feeble. What would his mother say if she saw what he's become?

"I will not call it by such an improper name!" a familiar voice huffs, hooking his hands under Tim's armpits, "Seraph, link the cave."

"You mean, the Batcave?" Steph giggles, and Tim peels his eyes open to blink blearily into Damian's eyes.

He flinches at the sight of emerald before falling dangerously quiet and still.

"Wraith?"

He flinches, a fearful croon building in his throat as he tilts to the side and purposefully exposes his throat and a low whimper.

Wings flare out to blot out what little light there was. There was a sharp prick against his side, a chilling feeling spreading throughout his body, but not only did the warmth not work, it only seemed to exasperated the chilling, biting cold.

A strangled wail filled the air, and it took a few seconds for Tim to realize that, oh, the wailing was coming from him.

"What happened?!" a distant voice, distorted by the fog in his mind, shouted in worry.

"Report," growled a low, thundering voice followed by the flash charcoal-gray.

"Wraith is incapacitated," Damian bites out, "Cuddle Pollen. It appears to be a new strain, seeing as the general antidote not only hasn't taken effect, but has worsen Wraith's state. He is delirious."

Tim whined, feeling like he was once again a small child, seeking comfort under red-white wings that were always out of his reach.

"He'll be okay, Robin. Shadow, assist Anubis in bringing Wraith back to the cave, understood?"

"Got it."

The world spun by in a nonsensical haze, and it took everything Tim had in himself not to keel over and curl into ball.

He hears voices distantly curl around him, but he was unable to focus on anything other than fleeting names. Then, he was set down on a cold surface, and the warm hands left his side.

Suddenly, the chill returned with a vicious craze, tearing and clawing at his flesh like an untamed beast.

He yelps, whining as a wet object was rubbed across his maskless face, and the overwhelming cold began to recede ever so slightly.

"Is he okay?!"

"Calm yourself, Jason. Timothy will be fine, he is hardier than most."

"I mean yeah, it's not always that someone dies and gets better."

"Mast Jason, I requested you not make these sorts of jokes, especially when the subject of is currently indisposed."

"...Sorry, alfie."

Tim takes in a shaky breath, his eyes blinking blearily open as he clumsily surges toward the closest person with panicked and confused chirps falling from his lips.

"Timothy! Everything will be-"

"Dam-" Tim chokes burying his face in the crook of his brother's neck, relaxing at the reassuring and comforting flood of warmth that soaked his skin, "Damian."

"...I am here."

"D-Don't leave," Tim whines, unsheathing his claws and sinking them into the back of his brother's shirt, "please... please don't leave... I- I don't want to be alone."

"I won't leave you. I promise." "P-promise?"

"Yes, I promise."

And with a shaky nod, Tim feels himself fall boneless against his brother, wings drooping in relief, and he falls victim to sleep.

When he wakes up the next morning, he and Damian would both deny the happenings of the prior night as something that occurred under the pollen's influence.

(Though while Tim forces himself to think his words were true- and Damian believing it as such- all the other Bats know better.)

[crybaby-bkg]

Arranged marriage AU with Barbarian Bakugou who is so daunting to be around at first. He’s all gruff curses and broad shoulders and scarred cheeks and neck and jaw. He scowls constantly, stares at you while your parents auction you off like some show pig, but doesn’t say much to you besides a grunt of his name. You’re terrified, thinking that he’ll be cruel to you, that you’re being set up for a life full of unhappiness and terror and regret.

But he’s the exact opposite. Bakugou is gentle in ways a man of his size typically wouldn’t be, but he shrinks himself for you. Not in a way that diminishes his status as the newly appointed king, but to respect you, show you that you’re beside him instead of behind him.

He picks you berries on his hunts because he knows the smell of a fresh kill brings nausea to your stomach. You find him along with the other maidens and helpers around his village, sitting beside them, big fingers holding tiny little flowers that he weaves into a crown for you. When he sets it on your head, he purses his lips, mutters something under his breath in his language that you’re still not too familiar with, but sure it means something along the lines of pretty and soft.

And when he finds you bathing in the river only few have access to, he’s sweet the whole time. Doesn’t make a spectacle of you being naked, and is relieved when you don’t instantly cower when he wades his way over to you. You try not to stare at the clawed scars that decorate his pec and jaw when he stands above you, and it helps when he suddenly dumps water all over your head. He shushes you when you splutter, continues on with cupping his hands and letting the water run off of your hair and down your shoulders, scrubbing at your skin until your flesh squeaks. He doesn’t expect you to do the same for him, but he hums in satisfaction when you push him down a little lower so you can wash the crown of his head.

[andi-o-geyser]

“cody only has under an hour of screen time in all of star wars” maybe to you he does. to me he's the main character

[cheeriochat]

DMC HEADCANNONS 4!!!!!!! THE BRAIN WORMS ARE BACK AND IM HERE AGAIN

Disclaimer, this edition of headcannons will have darker content. if you don't feel comfortable with any of the topics I mention please don't read, I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable or upset. Not all will be bad but I just had some ideas and wanted to say them.

TW: CANNIBALISM, MANIPULATION

☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆

• Vergil has and will resort to cannibalism to get by. As a child if he couldn't steal or beg for food he'd starve til he came across demon attack sites and salvage what flesh he could off of people and other demons. Nowadays he doesn't need to worry since Dante makes sure he's well fed but I think when Vergil and Dante were in hell, Vergil was a little too quick to resort to eating demon carcass....

• Trish still definitely uses the fact she looks like Eva to get stuff out of Dante. From minor things like a small favour or lunch to bigger things like secrets and information Dante keeps under wrap from everyone. She feels bad about it sometimes.

• Lady hates cockroaches. Shes so scared of them to the point of almost pulling kalina-ann on a few. Dante also hates cockroaches but it's more gross-factor rather than fear (even through he looks like a cockroach in his dt)

• When Dante was younger, he often got gifted fancy cologne or other things by regular clients. He, of course, pawned these things off to help fund his rent and debilitating pizza addiction. This whole situation ended quite awkwardly when one of these clients found a bottle of Versace cologne in a pawn shop with a custom label reading "For Dante, as thanks for all your work!". He now keeps all client gifts well on display for them to see.

• Nero isn't actually a huge fan of video games. The closest he maybe got to ever playing one was doing the daily wordle. Kyrie however, LOVES video games and as soon as she was introduced to games from outside of fortuna she was hooked. She especially loves soulslike games. (She plays heavy weapons class builds)

• Going along the tech route, I feel like vergil would know how to use a computer, but only how to make Microsoft Excel spreadsheets and Word documents. You couldn't explain how to use the internet let alone how to use a website to him. (He would love a kindle though, I just know it.)

• Dante likes Microsoft solitaire.

• V headcanon??? Shock!!!!! In the short time V was alive, he gained penchant for sweet drinks or anything sweet in a cup really. Milkshakes, iced chocolates, parfaits, soft drinks and soda floats (he especially liked melon soda floats). Nothing was off the table. Things in tall glasses with straws or long spoons were easier to hold and consume with a more easily fatigued body and the sugars definitely helped him feel a bit better. This love of sweet things ended up transferring over to Vergil, who, when alone, now orders ridiculously sweet desserts and drinks.

[kanene-yaaay]

Bonds, Friendship and other strange things that are affected by it

Kanene’s notes: It’s been! A long time!! What a hello! :D Uhhhh, tbh, I am not sure when this is going to be posted because I haven’t finished writing the ending yet but at the same time I can’t think of an ending for it so dfgthyujuhygtffg let’s see which part of me will win when this comes out xD

(Edit: So, I came here to post it unfinished but !!! a suden lighting of inspiration striked me so!! dfhyujikjh yay! another fic! lets gooo)

Warnings: None. Around 1000 words of Lee!Percy and Ler!Grover because those two are incredibly fun and cool to be around and think about.

[~*~]

Grover cared about Percy. He really did. Of course. No one would create a bond that can possibily cost your life with someone that you didn’t trust as if the own Destiny had intertwined your existences to follow each other at the hardest times. Especially if that other person was a half-blood that was more into fights, problems and almost-death situations than most teenagers could admit.

So, yes, he loved Percy. He was his friend. His best friend. And maybe a brother, but this title was already well placed in Tyson and he was not about to fight a three foot tall cyclop for it. He had enough fighting and marrying cyclops for his life. Thank you very much.

Anyway. Love and Care. Yeah.

But this was starting to get ridiculous.

Happiness and joy exploded in his chest like fireworks being set off just under his skin, leaving his entire body with a buzzing, kind of tickly feeling running just about everywhere.

"My gods, Percy, I am not even touching you!!" He had to almost physically bite the giggles that threatened to spill from his throat.

Percy wasn't so lucky. His face was already beginning to be tainted with red by both the unstoppable onslaught of titters and snickers and the embarrassment of Grover being absolutely right.

"Shut up, shut up. You're so stupid, this is so stuhuhupid!"

"Really?" Grover rested his hands on the other's sides and almost jumped in surprise with the phantom feeling of ticklish shock that made his body want to curl in a ball of protection.

It was no surprise when the younger began kicking and crackling even before Grover squeezed the tickle spot as if his life depended on it.

"Pehercy! There is no way someone can be that ticklish!"

“Shuhut it!”

And that was the thing: Percy was actually NOT that ticklish. He swear that he wasn’t! If he crumbled just with the slightly hint of wiggly fingers and a couple of squeezes, Annabeth would have destroyed him on all their playful debates for now. Damn, if he was that sensitive, he wouldn't have survived his own childhood with a mother that was as sweet and as lovely as merciless during an attempt to cheer her son up.

But he couldn’t articulate this. Not when that dumb bond could make him feel not only his own butterflies flying and dancing crazy on his stomach, but also that sunny feeling of a playful joy that he was sure that came from Grover's pride making the Son of Poseidon, who survived two gigantic wars and another countless life-threatening fights, die with just some digging on his ribcage and oh, shit he was getting higher, nononono-

"Stohohohop!!" He arched his back, hands holding Grover's wrists but too much weak to push the scribbling fingers that were focusing too much in that awful space between each rib to be fair away. He was sure the entire world could hear the way his laughter got higher and louder even before Grover decided to close his hands in fists and drill his knuckles on the skin. 

For a moment Percy almost regreted embarassing his friend in front of Juniper, but the feeling almost as quick as it was gone. 

"I hahahahate this. I hate this so much!"

Grover didn't even falter for a second, barely stopping to acknowledge the happy warmth - like watching the sunrise in the beach with your favorite people around you - that definitely wasn't only his taking over his senses before answering. "Yes, Percy, of course you do. Just like fishes hate water, but you do."

"I'm serious!"

"I am literally agreeing with you, dude."

"No, you're not!"

"Now you're just making stuff up."

And before Percy could protest more Grover decide to finally end the other's suffering and worm his way to the armpits with ease pratice, barely fliching at the honest-to-the-gods scream that came out from his friend's mouth before he fell in silent laughter, his entire body shaking with every giggle and hands twitching between hiding his face every time another snort was fished from his throat or keep trying (and failing) in pry the offending fingers from their unfair, drilling attack on the ticklish pits.

A faintly sound of leaves moving was the only warning that they weren’t alone anymore. Grover smiled even before the so known amused voice called their attention.

"Oh, it's you. I thought the Stymphalian birds were back for revenge. Hi, seaweed brain."

“Hey, Annabeth!”

With all the noise, Grover was surprised Annabeth took as long as she did to appear.

Percy seemed to think otherwise.

"No!" Suddenly his efforts to escape got 10 times worse, which, since he really wasn't trying to truly get away from the very beginning, made it see like Grover was fighting against an old lazy chihuahua. "How did you find us!"

"Did he interrupt your date again?"

At the reminder, Grover fred the rest of his fingers to claw at Percy's belly - right above his bellybutton, wehere were storaged the best collection of snorts and shrieks, while his thumbs were still drumming on his armpits.

"Yes." He had to shout above the other's high pitched laughter. "And it's Kill Percy Thursday!"

“How could I forget?” The blonde started cracking her fingers, making bubbly excitment run so quickly and strongly in his senses that Grover had to stop the tickling to snicker, instinctively fliching away. Annabeth eyed both of them with a glint of fondness and amusement that did nothing to hide the pure mischieviousness taking over her expressions. “By the way, I think I am owned some revenge since someone decided to prank me with those fake books last week.”

“It was good knowing you, dude.”

Joy and warmth and pride and care chasing each other in his chest while he tried to keep the daughter of Athena away from his tickle spots with no sucess.

The things he had to put up with because of his friends, really.

[odysseys-blood]

no actually it is kind of a wonder to me how pb is operating with whb like it is bc. arent yall also hosted (i believe anyways im not sure if their partnership w/ erolabs goes beyond that) by another company w/ SEVERAL gachas under its belt. so whats goin on here. nobody taking notes? are we doing market research? is anyone even play testing. hello. its so dark in here

[jichanxo]

is it that time already? sunday six ✨

tagging @passthroughtime @four-white-trees @phantasy14 @skysquid22 @overdevelopedglasses

after spending a bunch of time away from senseific, i'm feeling refreshed and ready to start chipping away at it again. here's something old i've touched up and made a little more presentable

“I shouldn’t have let you.”

“Not into it?”

“You weren’t sober.”

“That’s all? I was sober enough.”

“You wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been drinking.”

“Maybe not.” Kitakata conceded. “But I’m sober and I’d still kiss you now, so what’s the difference?”

Yagami froze.

[strawberry-cow-smut]

Satan's Classroom Shenanigans

🌸Ageless + Minor = DNI🌸

Characters: Submissive, Top Satan (Obey Me)

Reader: Gender Neutral, Dominant, Bottom Reader

Exploring: Public Play, Secretive Play, Classroom Fucking, Blowjob, Exhibition (if you squint), Dick Riding, Overstimulation (Satan), Begging, Multiple Orgasms, Almost Getting Caught, Infirmary Fucking, Multiple Creampies, Abandonment of Restraint, Demon Form (though not playing a huge part)

Satan struggles to keep his head. Normally collected and focused, sharp as a knife in the classroom, he suddenly finds himself unable to think about anything aside from the menace hiding under his desk, prodding and rubbing at his cock during the last lecture of the day.

He's struggling to sit still. How could he when you're undoing his pants here of all places?! Do you have any idea how many people would see if he moved from his desk? What if the professor asks him to demonstrate a spell? You both would be exposed in a heartbeat.

You dig your nails into his thighs as his hips buck slightly, dick standing tall and proud before you. It's a miracle the tent in his pants didn't rip the fabric. He's leaking precum already and you've barely even touched him. He's so cute when he's this sensitive. You wish you could see his face right now, but that'd blow your cover, and you're going to be too busy blowing him.

His poor pen bears the weight of his restraint, teeth sinking into the cheap plastic covering and nearly puncturing the inkwell within the center. The professor's speaking. The class is entirely silent aside from them, and Satan couldn't stand to bear the embarrassment of moaning mid-lecture like Asmodeus had once done eons ago.

"Satan? Page 164, if you please."

Oh no.

He stands slowly, his left hand gripping the edge of his desk to the point his fingers turn white, his right hand shakily holding the textbook as he sucks in a sharp breath. The desk is at waist height, barely tall enough to hide you sucking his cock like it's the last source of water within an endless desert.

"Magical... Magical Creatures, Chapter Seventeen. The Gryffin is a-ah! A mythological beast whose body resembles that of a lion from the humAN world, and possesses the wings and head of an eagle. They range in size from as SMALL as ah... a mouse to as large as a small tank."

"Thank you, Satan. That will be enough. Are you alright?"

"Y-Yes! I'm perfectly fine! Just... a bit under the weather is all."

"Are you sure? I believe it would be in your best interest to see the nurse."

"I'll be j-just fine. I just need to relax a bit more."

Oh, he'll relax alright.

The professor dismisses him without another word, ending his lecture and instructing the class to continue reading the rest of the chapter on their own. Satan sits with a shaky sigh, cheeks flushed from embarrassment and sweat dripping down his face. He surely intends to show you who's in charge when the two of you get home, but as for now, you're the one holding the metaphorical leash.

As soon as he's relaxed enough, you decide it's time to up your game. Without any warning, your nose is pressed up against his torso, his dick down your throat as far as it can reach. It's a miracle how you can keep quiet with all the spit and the pace you're bobbing your head. He's digging his claws into the seat of his chair now, surely leaving deep cuts that go against the grain of the wood.

He's so fucking close to reaching a peak. Satan hides his head in his arms, forehead pressing against the cool lumber next to his open textbook. Tears prick the corners of his eyes as he struggles to resist coming undone. All he needs is just a bit more. He's torn between wanting to finish and wanting to maintain his dignity in front of his peers, but there's only so much he can do when you're sucking his soul out so feverously.

Satan gives up. He gives up almost completely as his body begins to shake and his claws dig further into the dark oak of his desk. He lets out a sharp whimper, filling your throat with a flowing white river. His classmates and professor look at him, concerned for his wellbeing.

Satan is panting, shaking, barely holding himself together at this point. He pants and takes a few deep breaths to catch his own before looking up at the professor.

"Satan? I do believe you'd better go to the nurse before your condition worsens."

You're quick to clean him up and fix his clothing. Satan's still shaky but agrees with the professor after noticing nothing would be amiss if he chose to stand, thanks to you.

"You're right, Professor. I'll be heading there at once. I-I apologize for concerning you all."

He gathers his belongings and shakily exits the classroom without another word. Some students utter words of concern as his legs threaten to give out with every step. You have no choice but to remain silent in place until the end of the lecture, only able to escape the room once all the other students and the professor have left first.

As the last of the students leave, you join the endless sea of demons and other magical beings flooding the halls between classes. You make your way to the nurse's office, deciding to check and see if your friend is "recovering" alright. Satan's in the third bed, closest to the wall and farthest from the door. The nurse is out for a moment, not an unusual circumstance considering it's their lunch hour.

"You! You almost got us caught with your little stunt in there! I can't believe you had the... the... the audacity to go that far! I didn't expect you to continue until I finished! We're unbelievably lucky the professor mistook me for being unwell."

Satan sighs as you draw closer and sit on the edge of his bed, taking his hand and bringing it to cup your cheek. He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone, sighing.

"Well... I suppose it wasn't all bad. That was... exhilarating, to say the least, even if it may be a bit troublesome to deal with the aftermath. Maybe this sort of thing wouldn't be bad every once in a while. I'm glad we got to explore this side of our relationship together."

He always gets so sweet and sappy after he's coming down from a high. It's sweet. He's always going on about how much he loves you and how he's so happy you both can be as rough or as gentle as the other needs them to be. Unfortunately for him, you're not ready to be sappy. There's still one more thing on your mind, and it's back in his pants.

You stand and pull the privacy curtain shut, closing the view of the bed off from the rest of the world. He stammers, questioning exactly what it is you're doing, a tiny glint of fear peaking through his normally collected demeanor. You turn towards him once more, staring him down as a cat does an injured mouse.

Your pants and undergarments hit the cold tile of the infirmary floor. You climb onto his bed, legs straddling his thighs as you pull his pants and boxers low enough to expose his half-hard cock. He's visibly excited, but his long refractory period prevents him from standing at full attention for a few more minutes. No matter, you reposition your core and take him in completely.

His growling and whining resurface and he lets out an unrestrained moan that fills the room. It's fortunate you two are the only ones in the infirmary, otherwise, there would have been no hiding exactly what's happening behind the thin white linen walls.

You grind against him with every drop of your hips, the pace unbearably fast as his erection continues to harden within you. Your nails dig into his chest, and his own claw at the sheets of the bed, eager to grab hold of something but not wanting to hurt you. He doesn't trust himself not to dig his claws into those thighs he loves so much when he can't even be bothered to restrain his voice for the moment.

Incoherent, muffled voices outside the door begin to grow louder as passing students flood the halls on their way to their dorms and extracurriculars. The only thing you're concerned with is riding him like the insatiable, cock-hungry animal you've become.

"Please! Ngh, fuck! I'm about to cum again! You need to slow down before-- Ah!"

Fuck his moans are beautiful. They start off melodic and end with an enticingly lewd growl. You didn't know he could be this expressive in bed before today. He's practically begging for mercy, still sensitive from the classroom shenanigans.

You do not grant it.

Satan's back arches and his hips thrust upward into you as he orgasms a second time. You're lifted up as his hips stutter beneath you, voice filling the room with lewd curses strung together as his eyes roll to the back of his head and the sheets begin to tear under his grip. He begins to still after a few moments, but you don't stop. You don't even slow down.

Satan's hands frantically look for anything to ground himself, worsening the tears in the fabric below him. His frantic gaze lands on the pillow lying underneath his head. He grabs at it, hoping for something to help relieve the intensity of the high you're pushing him towards, but in his overstimulated and careless state, he can't control his own strength. It takes mere seconds before there's a mess of feathery down and fabric scraps surrounding the head of the infirmary bed.

His eyes are starting to glow. Feathers are pushing out sporadically against the skin around his neck. Horns pierce through the golden hair on his crown His canines are growing sharper and his growls start sounding far less than human. There's not much left of his ability to control himself, though with you there was hardly ever any to begin with.

His claws slip from the mangled mess of a pillow and find their way to your hips, digging his nails into your sides and rutting up into your core; fucking his seed deeper without the restraint he desperately clung to before. His speed is almost unbearable. The way his cock drills into all the right places has you seeing stars and crying his name in response.

The thrusts are losing their regularity. Hips stuttering and nails threatening to pierce the soft skin of your hips, Satan bites down on his own lip until he's the one bleeding; filling you for a third time this afternoon.

It's almost unbearable. With the way his cum flows out of you like a river, you're mindlessly thanking yourself for having the foresight to make sure neither of you were still wearing your uniform pants.

With shaky legs and sweat covering both of your bodies, you fall to the side to catch your breath, grabbing some nearby tissues and cleaning the both of you up enough to at least redress before someone walks in and manages to put two and two together.

Satan's head flops to the side to gaze at you; chest heaving with every breath.

"Haah--that was... that was amazing." A hand comes up to push back his golden locks to unobscure bright green eyes, softening as they settle upon your glowing form.

His hand comes to rest gently against your cheek as he tilts your chin for a tender kiss, wanting to cherish this moment. As much as you want to indulge him and relish this moment, the growing sound of clicking heels interrupts the saccharine air of your post-orgasm bliss.

You shoot out of his infirmary bed, standing up straight and wiping the remaining sweat off your face in a flash, just in time for RAD's nurse to pull back the curtain and stick a thermometer in his mouth without a word. A minute passes silently without them acknowledging your presence. until the thermometer's beep cuts through the still air.

"Hm." The nurse pulls the thermometer out of his mouth and jots down the reading onto their clipboard.

"Professor called ahead for this one. Sweating, flushed cheeks, heavy breathing, abnormal behavior in class, sluggish and lethargic disposition. Sounds like a classic fever." The nurse turns towards you.

"You live in the same building, correct? Make sure he gets home safe and gets plenty of rest and fluids. He should be fine by Monday if he listens and takes some standard fever-reducing medicine from the drugstore. He's to stay strictly on bedrest until he can stand without losing his balance. "

"Oh don't worry. He'll definitely be getting that bedrest."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tags: @snowsnetwork

[asiandra-dash]

Since Childe doesn't know how to use chopsticks, Ayato decides to try and teach him. At first, Childe declines, saying that it's fine and he doesn't have to do that, but eventually, he lets him.

The Fatui know he can't properly use chopsticks, so when they see him actually using chopsticks the way they're supposed to, they question him because didn't he use to use those for anything other than their intended use?

Obviously, he can't say the Yashiro Commissioner helped him, even though the Fatui know he has some kind of business with Ayato, so Childe lies, saying Zhongli taught him how to use them during his previous trip to Liyue.

[breezypunk]

Vaughn: Adrenaline Junkie. Goro: Too old for this shit.

[seventh-district]

Well, I grew up wishin' I could close off the way my dad did 'Cause that man never felt a damn thing he didn't wanna feel But I've burned too many miles tryna ride out all the sadness But you can't outdrive pain, someday it's gonna take the wheel Can't be alone but don't wanna get close to anybody Don't wanna bare teeth but don't wanna look weak, it's a tough spot But I'm afraid you'll walk away when the tears start runnin' But I hope not 'Cause cowboys cry too

thinking about Sam...