#though its better to stay dry in any case

[astralis-ortus]

care for you

✱ boyfriend!bc x gn!reader

— to keep you safe is my priority.

w.count → 1.1k genre → fluff warning → reader addressed as baby and love♡ a.n → based on this request! this was really sweet, even writing this made me feel safe and warmㅠ♡ ⋆ see masterlist

originally, your plan was to have a short date night with your boyfriend. just some dinner somewhere near his studio, maybe take short walk after, and he’ll wait with you until your usual bus—after skipping at least one or two—arrives and take you away from his grasp. that’s all, nothing much, just to recharge your love batteries until the next time you could see each other again.

that was your plan—but it seems like seoul’s early summer weather has its own plan against you.

dinner was great. you and chan decided to try out the new sushi place located somewhere in between his apartment and studio instead. his teammates have all gone, and you’re pretty sure the only reason why he hasn’t been there was to keep it as an option for your date nights. you appreciate the effort, of course; you could kind of imagine the teasing your boyfriend had to sit through when he decided to pass on their little team dinner—all the ‘ew you’re so lovesick’ and ‘wow so now we’re no longer your priority?’ kind of joke, so you made sure dinner was as fun as it could be.

it was during your walk, however, when things started to go south.

with your hand in his warm ones, you arrived at one of the smaller parks near chan’s apartment. the weather was nice, albeit admittedly rather chilly for a summer night. you didn’t pay much attention to it though—afterall, the weather forecast said that the day will end without any rain at sight, and more often than not, the weather forecast is rather accurate.

well, apparently that wasn’t the case today.

not even 5 minutes since you stepped within the park’s perimeters, the wind started to pick up its strength and blew everything within its vicinity. the drops of water then started shortly after, and what felt like nature’s warning soon developed into a full-blown thunderstorm. bringing you home was nothing short of chan’s instinct to keep you safe.

as soon as you arrived at chan’s shared apartment with 3 of his teammates—which fortunately was still out doing their own schedules and plans, chan immediately ushered you inside his bathroom for a warm shower while he put your (and his) drenched clothes in the washer, pulling out one of his hoodie and sweats for you to change into before taking his turn while you dry your now chan-scented hair.

you weren’t planning on staying the night—you’ve never stayed the night whenever you visited chan’s apartment, and neither did chan when he visited yours. it’s not that you didn’t want to—but for chan’s sake, you two decided it’s better not to. when the thunderstorms weren’t dying down as hours passed by, however, chan couldn’t in his right mind allow to you to even think about stepping out of his clothes.

so here you are, laying wide awake at 1 in the morning on chan’s bed, enveloped in chan’s scent, trying to think more about the fact that you’ll be spending your first ever night over at chan’s place rather than the roaring thunder outside the window.

chan, however, was nowhere near you.

after tucking you to bed around an hour ago, right around the time where his 3 teammates arrived home with his laptop on hand—all more surprised about the fact that chan left his laptop in his studio than how you’re all cozied up in their shared space, chan simply wished you a good night before he slipped outside, walking right into whatever hushed commotion between the 4 young men. you really wished he hadn’t, though.

a sudden loud thunder caught you off guard, allowing a rather loud yelp to slip past your lips before you could even stop yourself. it didn’t even take a second before you heard a crack from the direction of the door, soon followed by a dip on the mattress on your right as a hand gently patted your shoulder.

“i’m here, baby—are you okay?” chan’s voice were soft, trying his best not to sound too worried as you peeked from under his beige duvet, eyes glossy with a little pout. the weak shake of your head made him feel a little guilty—chan was just trying to make you feel comfortable since it’s your first time staying at his place, and he didn’t want to push you too far by sleeping right next to you.

maybe that wasn’t the right decision after all.

“i don’t like thunderstorms,” you quietly admitted, a little embarrassed about the fact. thunderstorms always scare you, but you never really found the need to tell anyone since you usually would just pop a melatonin gummy should these sorts of nights come around and sleep before the thunders rage. tonight, however, was something you never thought would ever happen to you—at least not any time soon.

“can you accompany me tonight?” your question came out more of a whisper—but for chan, it sounded a thousand times louder than any of the thunders he had heard tonight.

“of course, baby,” his lips formed into a smile as chan brought his lips on to your forehead, “give me 5 minutes, yeah? i’ll clean up my set up and join you in bed.”

as soon as you confirmed with a nod, chan was out the door, hurriedly packing up his emergency set up—much to han and changbin’s confusion, but he got no time to entertain the younger two’s questions. he was as speedy as he could be, and in less than 2 minutes, he’s already all cozied up under the duvet next to you, engulfing you in his warmth.

“all better, love?” he hummed, fingers tracing patterns on your back over your—his, hoodie. “i’m sorry, i thought you would be more comfortable if you slept alone. i had no idea you hated thunderstorms.”

“it’s okay, i didn’t think it would be this bad too,” you mumbled, burying your face into his clothed chest and contently sighed upon listening to his steady heartbeat—which unfortunately wasn’t much of a help when you flinched over another loud thunder.

chan, however, was quick to your rescue as he gently started humming to tenerife sea, drowning any remaining sounds outside while pulling you impossibly closer to him. as the song ends, he then swiftly started to another, slowly inviting sleep over your now heavy eyelids.

“thank you, channie. i love you,” you forced a mumble, allowing your legs to tangle with chan’s before you finally succumbed to sleep, all comfortable in your boyfriend’s embrace—and when chan was finally entirely sure your breathing had come into a steady exhale, only then his hums came to a halt, lips pressed onto your forehead as he drifted to sleep.

“sweet dreams, baby. i love you.”

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[imreidswifey]

Out of My League -S.R Fluff-

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid has spent months secretly crushing on you, a fellow BAU agent, but his insecurities convince him you could never feel the same way. One day, he overhears you confessing that you have feelings for someone and assumes it’s about someone else. Heartbroken, he begins to distance himself, convinced that staying away is better for both of you.

A/n: Hope you enjoy it was a very quick write

Warnings:

Emotional angst and hurt/comfort themes

Self-doubt and insecurity

Mentions of unintentional eavesdropping

Mild language (optional, depending on interpretation)

Fluff and mutual pining

Happy resolution

——————————————————————————- The BAU headquarters buzzed with its usual rhythm, agents navigating the organized chaos of paperwork, discussions, and analysis. Dr. Spencer Reid sat at his desk, his focus buried in a file, though his mind kept wandering. He tapped his pen absently against the desk, his thoughts elsewhere. Or rather, on someone else.

You.

You had joined the team months ago, quickly proving yourself not only an asset to the BAU but also someone who had seamlessly integrated into the close-knit team. For Spencer, it was more than your intelligence and dedication to the job. It was the way you smiled, the way you listened so intently when he rambled on about some obscure fact, and the way your kindness seemed effortless and genuine.

But Spencer was Spencer—socially awkward, uncertain of himself in any scenario involving emotions. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought about telling you how he felt. He’d imagined it countless times, but every scenario ended the same way: with him fumbling his words and you walking away, likely embarrassed or uninterested.

Still, hope was a persistent thing, and though Spencer tried to bury it, it remained—until the day he overheard you in the break room.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. The sound of your voice had caught his attention as he passed by, and before he realized what he was doing, he froze just outside the doorway.

“I just can’t help it,” you were saying, your tone light but tinged with something deeper. “I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s impossible. They’re just… brilliant. Kind. So completely out of my league it’s ridiculous.”

Spencer’s heart had leapt at the first few words, only to plummet just as quickly. His fingers tightened around the file he was holding, and his stomach twisted painfully. You weren’t talking about him. How could you be? You had to be talking about someone else on the team—someone confident and charismatic, someone who didn’t trip over their words or spend more time in books than the real world.

He left before he could hear the rest of what you said, retreating to his desk in a fog of heartache.

In the days that followed, Spencer convinced himself that the best thing he could do for you—and for himself—was to create distance. If you were in love with someone else, the last thing you needed was him hovering around, making things awkward. He started keeping his conversations with you strictly professional, avoided joining the team for coffee runs or after-work drinks, and buried himself in cases more than ever.

It hurt more than he cared to admit. Every time he saw you laugh with Derek or share a quiet moment with JJ, the ache in his chest deepened. But it was better this way. It had to be.

For your part, you couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. You’d always enjoyed your conversations with Spencer, the way his eyes lit up when he explained something he was passionate about, or the rare but endearing moments when his dry sense of humor caught you off guard. But now, he barely looked at you.

At first, you thought it was your imagination. Then, you assumed he was just busy. But as the weeks dragged on, it became impossible to ignore the distance he was putting between you.

Finally, after a particularly long case that left the entire team emotionally drained, you decided enough was enough. Most of the team had already gone home for the night, but you spotted Spencer still in the conference room, his long fingers flipping through a stack of photographs.

“Spencer,” you said, stepping inside and shutting the door softly behind you.

He looked up, startled, his pen pausing mid-note. “Oh. Hi.”

“Can we talk?”

He hesitated, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “Sure.”

You moved closer, your heart pounding. “Have I done something wrong?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What? No. Of course not.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he said too quickly, looking down at the papers in front of him as if they might shield him from the truth.

“Spencer,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “I know you have. If I’ve upset you somehow, please tell me. I’d rather know than keep guessing.”

He sighed, pushing the stack of papers aside and rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not you. It’s… complicated.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the table. “I overheard you in the break room a few weeks ago,” he admitted. “You were talking about someone you… care about.”

Your eyes widened. “You overheard that?”

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the table. “I just thought… I thought it would be easier for you if I kept my distance. I didn’t want to make things uncomfortable for you.”

Your heart clenched as understanding dawned. “Spencer,” you said softly, stepping closer. “Did it ever occur to you that I was talking about you?”

His head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”

“I was talking about you,” you repeated, your voice steady despite the nervous flutter in your chest. “You’re the one I have feelings for. Not someone else. You.”

Spencer stared at you, the words seeming too impossible to process. “But… why me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Why not you?” you countered, your tone gentle but insistent. “You’re brilliant, Spencer. You’re kind, thoughtful, and you make me feel like I matter in a way no one else ever has. And for the record, you’re not out of my league. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

He blinked, as if waiting for you to take it back or say it was a joke. When you didn’t, his lips parted, and the smallest, most vulnerable smile crossed his face. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you said. “Unless you don’t feel the same way, in which case, just tell me, and I’ll—”

“I feel the same way,” he blurted, his words tumbling over each other. “I’ve liked you for so long, and I just… I didn’t think I had a chance.”

A relieved laugh escaped you, and you took another step closer. “Well, you do. So what are you going to do about it?”

For a moment, Spencer seemed frozen, as if his mind was running through every possible response. Then, with a courage you hadn’t expected, he reached out, his fingers brushing yours. “I guess I could start by asking if you’d like to have dinner with me sometime.”

You smiled, your hand turning to intertwine with his. “I’d love to.”

Spencer’s face lit up, a warmth spreading through him that he hadn’t felt in years. And for the first time in weeks, the distance he’d created melted away, replaced by a quiet, tentative joy.

[wildflowerluver]

sharing 

aaron hotchner x fem!reader

3 times aaron shares his clothes with you

cw: nsfw mentions, aftercare, bau reader, injury, case details

wc: 1.4k

༺♡༻

suit jacket

aaron hotchner is rarely seen during work hours in anything other than a suit. 

there’s exceptions, of course, such as cases up north where he can be found dressed in jeans and a quarter zip. but then again, how often does the team get sent to a place like alaska. 

the team was sent up to vermont. the suspected unsub lived and hunted in the thick forests which made profiling extremely difficult. days later, when you finally had a suspect, you and the team wasted no time in speeding through the pouring rain to get to his location. 

arriving first, you and morgan shot off running after the unsub who had escaped out of the back of his rural house and into the woods. the team stayed behind to raid the home for one of the missing girls as well as setting up a base camp for the arrest. 

by the time you caught up with morgan who had already apprehended the unsub, you’re soaked from the rain. it doesn’t help that you have to walk up another hill to get back to where you hope the team is.

you’re absolutely drenched and can’t stop shivering. 

the bullet proof vest that sits across your chest has transformed from its normal navy blue to a near black; mud streaks across it to add to the mess.

once you appear in the sight of the team, emily is the one who reaches you and morgan first. 

you’re both a little out of it from a combination of the weather and the chase. her voice is muffled but the hands cupping your cheeks are easy to feel. they’re warm and seem to ground you. 

the warmth you’re feeling is leaving as quick as you registered it. emily’s soft hands are replaced with larger, more calloused ones. ones you know very well; aaron’s.

“honey, are you alright?” his voice is quiet.

it takes you a moment to meet his eyes.

“s’ cold,” you chatter.

aaron takes you being able to respond to that as a win. his expression shifts to relief as he places a tentative hand on your shoulder. “the ambulance is here. we should get you checked out.”

you allow him to guide you over. morgan���s already been cleared which is a good sign.  

the emt’s waste no time in bombarding you with questions. you’re still shivering.

not even thinking twice, aaron slides off his suit jacket to place it on your shoulders. you know you won’t be fully warm until you get out of the clothes that you’re in but the jacket is a kind gesture. 

aaron doesn’t care in the slightest that his jacket is getting wet. you, on the other hand, frown and try to push it back. you know how expensive his work clothes are. they’re the only thing in your shared closet that gets sent to a dry cleaner for special cleaning.

“y/n,” aaron scolds. “please take my jacket.”

you feel like a child at his words. his usual term of endearment had shifted into just your name for emphasis. 

you grumbled quietly before allowing aaron to readjust his jacket over your shoulders. it doesn’t just provide you with warmth from the material, but simply from knowing that it was aaron’s.

he stays seated next to you the entire time. His arm had snaked around your waist to hold you close.

aaron waits until the emt’s successfully clear you and move to check on some of the others before he raises his chin so you meet his eyes. 

he leans down to kiss you gently. it’s short and sweet. you barely have any time to process it before he’s pulling away. 

“all better.”

sweater

the house is slightly chilly when you wake up.

normally you would take this opportunity to roll over and bury yourself into aaron’s chest. he was a personal furnace.

instead of finding aaron beside you, you’re met with an empty bed. his covers are neatly tucked in and his pillow is fluffed. the mattress is cold too, a telltale sign aaron’s been out of bed for quite a bit. 

though tiredness courses throughout you, the urge to find aaron outweighs that. 

you shiver as your feet hit the hardwood floor. the shirt you decided to wear to bed seems like a bad choice. across the room, a grey article catches your eye.

the sweatshirt is soft in your hands once you pick it up. you know it’s aaron’s judging by the print on it. he had a habit of keeping his old college apparel.

the george washington university logo had faded and cracked from years of wear but it smells like aaron. you don’t think twice before sliding it on. 

you pad down the stairs and shuffle into the kitchen in search of your boyfriend. 

the sleeves of aaron’s sweatshirt go a bit past the tips of your fingers and you bring your hands up to your chest.

aaron is by the stove, humming along to the music that plays out of the record player as he cooks breakfast. he’s dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. you have no idea how he isn’t cold though you’re sure he’s planning on building a fire in the fireplace to combat the chill of the blowing snow outside. 

you waste no time in moving forward to wrap your arms around his midsection. your head finds a place between his shoulder blades as you squeeze him a little tighter. 

“good morning,” you smile.

aaron places his spatula to the side and turns the stove down. whatever he’s making can wait. 

he’s turning around to face you. your arms remain around his waist and his move up to cup your cheeks.

aaron moves down to kiss you deeply. your heart beats faster as your lips meet. despite the months of dating, you never get tired of kissing him.

“good morning, honey,” he mumbles against your lips.

aaron’s eyes leave yours and look down at your frame. you bite your lip. 

“is that my sweatshirt?” he asks.

you hide your face in his neck. “maybe,” you mumble. you know he’s not mad but the embarrassment of getting caught makes your face flush.

aaron kisses the crown of your head. 

“i don’t mind. looks much better on you anyway.”

shirt

you’re still breathing hard when your head finally hits the pillow.

aaron takes his time pulling out. you whimper at the empty feeling but he kisses you gently as if to combat the feeling.

“so good for me,” he presses the words into your neck. “so perfect.”

aaron thumbs away a few stray tears, purely from pleasure, that have fallen down your cheeks. your eyes are still a little clouded and aaron notices almost immediately. 

“feeling okay?” he kisses your cheek, then your forehead, and finally your lips.

you nod, face flushing. “more than okay.”

aaron hums. aftercare after sex is one of the most important things to him but he first needed to make sure you were okay.

“c’mon, let's get cleaned up,” aaron snakes an arm around your waist to pull you flush to him. you keep your head in the crook of his neck as he helps you to your feet and into the bathroom.

aaron takes his time with you in the shower. he makes sure the water is just the right temperature before he pulls you in.

his hands are soft as they wash and massage your scalp. he’s mindful of your sensitivity and when you’re done, he wraps you up in a big fluffy white towel. 

“what can i get you?” aaron asks.

“bed,” you mumble, tiredness finally taking over.

aaron kisses your forehead. he squeezes your hip and leaves you to walk over to his drawer. he returns just a moment later with one of his t-shirts in hand.

“arms up,” aaron instructs gently.

you do as you’re told, the soft material concealing your body in the best way possible. the smile on your face tells aaron he made the right choice in his pick of pajamas for you. you can’t help it, there’s something so intimate about sharing clothes with a partner. 

you finally make it back to the bed. the sheets had been changed and the covers are pulled back to make it look extra inviting. 

aaron helps you before sliding in after you. 

you promptly curled into aaron’s side.

“goodnight honey,” he whispered.

you’re asleep before you have the chance to answer.

[mournings-stars]

i loved the adam with a fat!reader 🥹 so cute, id love to see lucifer with a reader similar? like maybe shorter like him and a bit on the chubby side 🙏

AHHH THATS SO CUTE

imagine you’re like a chef or baker or something, maybe hellborn, maybe a sinner, and you meet him at an event that he’s just required to go to, so he’s staying by the catering tables and just busying himself with food so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone

“i know it’s a buffet, darlin’, but you’re milking my lil’ supply dry.” and imagine you have the cutest lil accent like maybe it’s southern if you’re hellborn or soft, 50’s movie-type transatlantic if you’re a sinner (i kinda wanna write this now actually so tell me what u prefer…)

first he’d look up, just expecting you to be taller than him, but then he’d look down and see you and immediately try to hand his plate back because how could he take your business for granted when you’re standing right in front of his and so sweet… and beautiful — like he’s not blind, he can see that you’re gorgeous. and if he’s honest the food isn’t good enough to get so many plates, but your restaurant would certainly be popular when you’re the precious little face of it

but he has to stop himself because his thoughts are certainly bordering on rude now, so he’s scrambling to apologize like, “i’m sorry — i see why your food’s so popular now, HAHA, you’re gorgeous — i mean, your food is amazing, but—“

“but?” and then he just shuts up. “no keep going, but what, your majesty?” and he is fumbling, because he can’t tell you he thinks the food is mediocre when he’s been shoving it down his throat all night, but then you say, “i know it’s not my best; they had me here last minute, frettin’ over twenty trays each of my best dishes, which can’t be the best if they’re repeated twenty times,” and even though you’re talking on and on, he’s listening and nodding on and on because because you’re just speaking to him so naturally

“am i talking to much?” “yes — i mean, no! i could listen to you talk all night!”

the rest is literally history, like you tell him to come to your restaurant to see what your cooking is really like, and when he finds out its just a small little restaurant with a couple tables and an old kitchen, he’s amazed because it tastes even better than it did at the event

once he decides to ask you out, and he decides quick, he knows he can’t ask you out to eat, or to an event, or to his house, or to the movies, or—

“you wanna get somethin’ to eat sometime?” and you’re literally asking him before he can even think to ask. “maybe you could cook for me?” you suggest slyly and he’s too flustered to say anything so he just nods. “i’ll make sure i dress fancy for you then, majesty.” and this man is MELTING

and if there’s one thing he learns about you that night its that you are not insecure about anything — your first conversation of you doubting your cooking skills might’ve made him think otherwise, but now he knows it’s just not the case

and you have no reason to be insecure; about your cooking, about anything — hell, you look amazing all dolled up just to come to his home for his 8-minute spaghetti… at least he made homemade meatballs. and those were pretty good! you even complimented them, which gave him a very much needed ego boost to get through the night confidently

and when his confidence finally shows, you’re sure he’s what you want, so you don’t bother taking your time with leading up to kisses or anything past that. you take what you want, with permission, and give him what he wants

and he loves it about you, like, you’re so sure of yourself, confident, and carry yourself with so much charm that people just step out of your way, even with your short stature, which he also loves about you — it’s nice having someone shorter around for once, but he’d definitely shape-shift and let himself be shorter than you for a day or so if you wanted

along those lines, he would give you any and everything you wanted. even if you didn’t ask, he’d give it to you — he’ll get you a new restaurant, new equipment, appliances… hell, he’ll even get you a new apartment… that is, if you don’t move in with him

and he would ask, a million times he’d ask because he just loves being with you that much. whenever you come over, or he goes to your place, he’s stuck to you. he watches you cook, helps if you let him — he bakes! he can bake, but of course he finds out you can too, and he insists you’re much better, but you insist that you do it together since this was much less dangerous than letting him rummage through your spice cabinet

if he’s not helping you, he’s hugging you from behind and watching what you do, hands running all over you, feeling the soft plush of your thighs and hips, your stomach, anything you’ll let him touch which he kisses your cheeks and neck and shoulders — literally anything you’ll let him do because he just loves listening to your precious laughter as he loves on you, or your sighs when he marks your neck or shoulder

this man LOVES lying with his head on your lap or in between your thighs. literally anything to do with your thighs or resting his head on your stomach, like, he’s fully back in heaven

he also loves you on top of him, straddling him while you comb your fingers through his hair, legs across his lap as you read, cuddled up to him as you watch a movie or sleep, he can’t get enough of you

and don’t get me started on the nsfw like… head between your legs all fucking day, squeeze his head with your thighs — like actually do it because he will come undone

[forbiddensonoftheseagod]

◭ "And who cares to know anymore?" ◮ - Percy Jackson

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Many can recognize that when Percy tends to have thoughts, he’ll look into the distance and it’d be obvious as to where they’d wander off to. How his thoughts would darken to the same type of darkness that he’s seen back in Tartarus, twisting shadows bundling up to a robe that’ll tighten which each struggle he’d make. His struggles would falter to a point where he’s accepted that nobody could free him , could save him, could fix him.

Who’s to say that everyone didn’t bother to know anymore? Nobody’s bothered to understand what’s happened above the surface of Percy’s thoughts, overflowing with the sink running that not even he can swim in it anymore, for once he can’t swim. For once, Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon…

Can drown.

For once, Perseus Jackson can drown and sink to the bottom where he’s belonged all his life, deserved to drown and to lose everything and everyone around him. The life in his sea green eyes leaves him, leaving his broken body behind with his broken soul crumbling when leaving its crumbling shell, bound to break at some point. Because Percy isn’t immortal,

He rejected that offer, remember?

But it’s better to have stayed mortal and grow older, rather than stay sixteen [16] and outlive those who have helped him from himself. Because had that been the case, he wouldn’t have witnessed the fall from his friends, watching their lives be taken so heartlessly by Gaea. Five [5] of them, at least…

From Frank, to Piper, to Leo, to Hazel… To Annabeth. And he felt himself drop to his knees as the water as salty as the ocean pooled his eyes as the rain poured down his scarred cheeks, breath coming out sharp and shallow with his throat drying up, choking. How could the hero, the hero, let this happen again?

“No-“ he’d whisper shakily, shaking his head with his body trembling as Riptide clattered on the floor beside his knee, a hiccup leaving his bloodied lips. No, he’d think, lowering his head and holding it between his palms before hiccuping once more, again and again.

His nails dug into his skull, sobbing as his chest heaved up and down. This couldn’t happen again, don’t let it be true, please. Don’t tell him that he’s lost his friends again, please, don’t hurt him this way…

Please, please, dear gods- if you truly have a nice bone in your body, please, he is begging for his life at this point… Please, tell him that it’ll be okay, that some of the gods would be a bit generous and bring them back to him. Bring back those that have helped him on the way, saved him on the way.

Fucking hell- “Fucking hell!!” Percy sobbed once more, calloused and scarred fingers tugging on his black locks, pupils shrinking bit by bit, eyes squeezed shut. It’s not like it’d do much, though, it’s not like it’ll bring any of them back. Crying won’t bring them back, nothing could honestly, and that’s all thanks to him again.

It’s the same shit all over again, it’s the same damn shit all over again, all fucking over again.

Over and over.

And over and over.

And over and over.

He just keeps ruining it all the time, now look what he’s done. Look at the mess he’s created this time.

But who cares, hm? Who cares about how he feels, rather than what actually matters, who cares to know what the kid feels at the moment?

Who cares to know that the kid lost his friends and is now dealing with this misery, like per usual.

Oh who cares…

His chest felt so tight and it reminded him of the time he’s choked that goddess once, now he’s choking, he’s choking and god- Is this how much misery Misery took? Is this how it felt? Surely he’s felt miserable before, why does this surprise him? He’s grown so accustomed to these things, he’s witnessed them, heard them-

Done them.

The scream he let out was from bottled anguish he just couldn’t be bothered to release, he’s never let himself be above anything else, he could wait. But everyone else couldn’t, and everyone else is gone. So he screams… Perseus Jackson screams in anguish.

In anger.

In pain.

In fear.

Everything he’s felt through all these years came out in one blood curdling scream, how surprising it was that the ground didn’t shake the same his father would make it do. No surprise here, to be honest, because he may be the son of Poseidon… But Poseidon isn’t loyal, his son is, though. And because of this loyalty, this excessive personal loyalty that got them dead.

Stupid boy, stupid, pathetic boy. Thinking he could save his friends, his family, at that. Look at him, look at this pathetic excuse of a hero. Screaming turning to cries before resolving to pathetic sobs, crumbling like the overused piece of paper he was, eventually tearing apart until this was all that was left.

This mistake.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

@gh0st-king-nico @will-shoelaces

[collidescopeeyes]

Random Relationship Headcanons: Viego

- Wants to be near you literally all the time. Loves physical contact and will find any excuse to get it.

- He physically can't blush, which is a tragedy because otherwise you could see how flustered you make him :( you still catch him just staring at you with open adoration so it's ok though

- Gives you privacy if you ask for it but his default state is wanting to be around you. Kind of guy who would be thrilled to watch paint dry with you cuz it means you get to spend time together. Will follow you around until you pay attention to him, 100% sulks if neglected for too long but can't stay mad at you for long.

- Gets jealous easily but is working on not being so possessive, so he just gets clingy(er) if he's feeling insecure. It's kinda cute.

- Low key gets freaked out if he doesn't know where you are. His last love died painfully in front of him ok he's got Trauma

- Can tell immediately if there's something up with you, pls talk to him about it, he worries and he just wants to help

- Likes to read, from romance novels to historical texts. Goes through surviving texts from Camavor frequently, trying to jog his memory. Keeps a journal now, in case the mist takes any more memories. A lot of it is prose about how pretty you were today, a fair hand at sketching too.

- Likes animals, especially dogs and horses–royal hunts were a big family event growing up. Animals do not like him anymore, the mist makes them uneasy. It makes him sad sometimes :(

- Has strong opinions on wine and ballroom music. Will talk about the composition of a symphony for hours if you let him. Would love to teach you to dance.

- Used to care a lot about how he dressed, but those memories are still pretty fuzzy and he doesn't really think about it anymore–dying kinda puts vanity into perspective. Likes dressing you up though, and will definitely dress to match if you're going somewhere. He likes the idea of coordinated outfits.

- Gets moody occasionally, it all gets a bit much for him sometimes and he starts thinking about all his fuck ups. Alternates between sad and self-blaming to frustrated and kinda bitchy, but does his best not to take it out on anyone. Instantly feels bad and apologizes if he says anything out of line. Give him time, cuddles and reassurance and he'll start feeling better.

- Can't sleep without you in his arms. Doesn't choose to sleep often anyway (he gets bad nightmares), but will happily lay there all night watching you sleep. Doesn't like to admit that though bc he knows it's kinda weird.

- Doesn't need to eat or sleep or drink, but likes doing it anyway. The other wraiths in the isles are shadowy mist creatures because they're souls the mists have taken, and the bodies are somewhere else. Viego’s situation is closer to him ACTUALLY being the crown and just possessing his own body constantly, sort of like he'd possess anyone else’s. He's still technically undead though so his only real bodily need is the magic that's keeping him walking around

- The crown can't be moved, his head just moves with it. It's sort of like horns, except they're not actually attached to his head. Yank him around by it ;). He can demanifest it if he tries but it makes him feel numb and weirdly claustrophobic

- Speaking of, is claustrophobic. Man was trapped in a sword for like a thousand years; he was only quasi aware that whole time, kind of like having a nightmare or sleep paralysis, but it still makes him uncomfortable. Doesn't come up much since he just kinda mist teleports out if he starts feeling cramped. If it's ever for some reason necessary he will be holding you like an emotional support stuffy and you won't get a choice about it.

- His tears are black and dissipate into mist after a bit. It's very goth. Can control the amount of mist pouring from his heart; at its thickest it's almost like a small waterfall.

- Lets you put your fingers in his chest hole exactly one time. It was so cold you couldn't actually feel anything. He described it as akin to someone squeezing his heart.

- He can float but it takes concentration and he honestly prefers just walking. Also, he's tall asf. You need something off a high shelf, he's your man.

- His sense of temperature is fucked. He can tell if something's hot, but if you hand him an ice cube and a piece of wood he can't tell which ones colder without looking. Worries his hands are too cold for you since you always feel warm to him (they're not)

- Looking at his reflection weirds him out, and sometimes you catch him staring at his hands. Man doesn't have an introspective bone in his body though so he couldn't tell you why, but really he only sort of remembers what he used to look like and sometimes the dissonance gets to him.

- In the far far future of TIARW some of the restored shades will choose to stay in the kingdom, since apparently Viego was beloved by the people before his wife died and he went fully off the deep end. Viego gets the opportunity to redeem himself to his people and kingdom, and another shot at being king but older and wiser now. With you as his queen, he swears not to make the mistakes of his past and to rule with the best interests of Camavor in mind. Maybe I'll write an epilogue along those lines at some point.

NSFW (under cut)

- Look he's perma stuck in honeymoon phase he's Thirsty

- High libido. A menace if you let him be but 100% respects if you aren't feeling like it, he knows he can be a bit much. Does need lot of physical intimacy but that doesn't need to be sex necessarily, he just likes making you both feel good

- Despite this, doesn't jerk off much. It's being with you that gets him going, not that he specifically wants to get off

- He doesn't get tired. Like ever. 0 refractory, will just go until either you tap out or he's so overstimulated he can't anymore. Watching his cum drip out of you just gets him so worked up though so it's a vicious cycle

- He's got a filthy mind and will have you every which way he can think of, in every room you'll let him. Fav position is probably you riding him cowgirl though; he likes the view

- Likes leaving lovebites, but he lowkey feels bad if he bruises you by accident. He gets carried away and forgets his strength sometimes, you'll have to convince him you're fine. He heals too fast for you to leave marks on though, it's tragic :(

- He's touch starved, we all know this, he was trapped in a sword for a thousand years. In particular though, his neck is very sensitive, as well as his thighs and lower back. Doesn't like the area around his chest cavity being touched. Loves having his hair pulled.

- He's got experience. He was a heartbreaker in his youth and he figures out exactly what you like uncannily quickly

- Love love loves going down on you, he loves watching you and he gets to make you feel good, doesn't even care if he cums as long as he gets to eat you out

- Boss him around, he loves it when you take charge. Loves being both praised and degraded, will try so so hard to be good for you. Edge him until he cries, make him cum over and over, yank him around by the crown and tell him what a pathetic cum drunk slut he is, he'll take it all and beg for more <3

- Not specifically dommy so if you aren't taking the reigns he's the perfect combination of loving and so horny he can't think straight. Tells you how pretty and perfect you are while he makes a fucking mess of you.

- He's so loud. If he's not telling you how good you feel or how perfect you are, he's moaning and whimpering and swearing. Ask him a question and watch him struggle to put a coherent sentence together in real time.

- If you want to give him a task you know he'll fail, tell him to keep quiet. Fucks it up immediately and he gets SO upset, full tears in eyes begging to make it up to you.

- Will happily do whatever makes you both feel good, willing to try most things you want to. Hard limits, wouldn't like saying mean things or hurting you even as part of a scene (receiving tho, yes pls). Also, very mixed feelings about doing it anywhere anyone could ostensibly see you–on one hand everyone should know you're his and he's yours, on the other he'd have to kill them. It would be the only way, they gotta die.

- Aftercare is a must, whole nine yards, hot scented bath and cuddles and affirmations all around.

[chaotic-orphan]

hiii!! so i am asking (reaaaally nicely) if you are able to continue 'intoxicating fear'? its so good and your work is amazing. thanks for your time <333333

-athena (@andtheysaidspeaknoww

Intoxicating Fear — part X

ATHENA?! BADASS IN THE ARENA?! UNMATCHED, WITTY AND QUEEN OF THE BEST STRATEGIES WE’VE SEEN?!

I am honoured, I have always loved your work except for a couple questionable things with Medusa but I understand…

Of course! This is for you @andtheysaidspeaknoww I hope you enjoy it <3 I also want to dedicate this part to @xxgalgurlxx for making ART of the boys™️ which I’m attaching to the bottom because it is so cool and I love it a lot :;) ENJOY SOME FLUFF/comfort for Kit (Hero).

Also! In case you haven’t seen Hero and Villain have names now! Hero’s name is Kit, and Villain’s name is Ambrose. I will link their character descriptions here.

Read part one here

Continued from this part here

I hope you enjoy this part!

*~*~*~*~*

Kit cleaned his arms of the leftover blood, gritting his teeth and hissing when the water ran over his cuts. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to ignore them as much as possible, but it was hard to when they still hurt. When Kit stood from the bath his tracksuit bottoms clung uncomfortably to his legs. He stepped out with a squelch of his socks hitting the tile and dabbed the towel gently over his arms.

The towel came back with bright red streaks across it, and he wanted to scream. He can’t even have a towel in his own fucking house. Kit stormed out of his bathroom and straight into his room, slamming the door shut. Just for effect. Just to show Ambrose that he was pissed, and he would let him know it.

Though, now that he thought about it, the sadist probably got off on his anger or something.

Change out of those clothes.

The command echoed off the walls of Kit’s skull, but he just stood with his back against the door, hands on his knees. His breaths coming out laboured and rattly. Kit tightened his grip on his knees until his knuckles turned white, trying to hold himself back from obeying Ambrose’s command.

If he fought it long enough… when Superhero came back, he’d see.

Kit squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth as he felt his body fighting against his mind.

Come on, Kit pleaded with his limbs. Please. Listen to me, not Ambrose. Obey me.

Even if Kit wanted to disobey this particular command, he couldn’t fight the damp coldness permeating from the wet clothes. If he stayed in them any longer, he’d probably get sick for real. The sleeves on his shirt weren’t wet per se, just damp, cold and irritating. And his tracksuit clung to his legs awkwardly making Kit feel colder than he actually was.

Kit let out a sigh.

He would change, he decided, and that was important. That Kit decided to change, not Ambrose and his stupid power.

Kit took his hands off his knees and straightened up before stepping into the room and grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up over his head. Once his shirt was off, he already felt ten times better as he obeyed the command got out of his wet clothes. He quickly slipped out of his tracksuit; the soggy fabric slapping wetly against the wood. Kit took his socks off and dropped them on the dirty pile to bring to Ambrose.

He opened his wardrobe; eyes drifting lazily over the selection of clothes and froze. His eyes caught the multiple cuts on his inner wrist, and he wanted to throw up. Kit swallowed the dry lump in his throat as he reached over gingerly to run his finger down along one of the deeper cuts. He felt the ridges the knife created against his skin, the valleys between the flesh of his wrist and how much was cut away.

Kit stepped back, casting his eyes to the ceiling to stop the tears from falling. It wasn’t like they were the first scars Kit ever had, but it didn’t feel like a scar he got from fighting some random Villain. It was so much more personal than that.

So much more violating because Kit had done it to himself, but it was Ambrose’s marking. His brand. His sign of ownership over Kit his strings. Ambrose decided exactly how many cuts, the varying depth of each of them. A cruel, insidious reminder that Kit really was nothing except what Ambrose wanted him to be. That even if Kit fought tooth and nail against Ambrose, he would never be able to win.

A sudden, helpless fury overtook Kit, the energy coursing uncomfortably under his skin. Tight and wired and itching to be released. Kit drew his fist back and punched the wall of his wardrobe, and without waiting delivered a second harder punch.

“Kit?” Ambrose called from some other part of the apartment. “Everything okay in there?”

Kit swallowed a sob, a mix of anger and despair clogging his throat. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and swallowed again before calling back: “yeah fine.”

Kit pretended it didn’t come out as pathetic as it sounded, because that’s all he could do anymore. Pretend. Fool himself. Cower in his imagination away from Ambrose. Make himself appear more like a Hero and less like a… Fuck, what even was he anymore?

Kit grabbed a black crew neck jumper from his wardrobe and another pair of slate grey joggers. He slipped on another pair of socks before scooping up the wet clothes and walking out their door.

“Here,” Kit grumbled, handing Ambrose the wet clothes. Ambrose smiled down at him.

“Thank you, Christopher.”

“Don’t call me that,” Kit snapped. “It’s not my name.” Ambrose grinned and pinched his cheek like Kit was a child.

“But you did such a good job following orders,” Ambrose cooed. Kit slapped his hand away with a huff and turned on his heel towards his room again.

He hadn’t even taken a step forward when Ambrose spoke. “Ah, where are you going?”

Kit’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “To my room. Is that allowed?”

“Hmm… why don’t you ask nicely?”

Fury winded through Kit again as he turned, eyes blazing at Ambrose who stood with the wet clothes still in hand just smiling at Kit’s anger.

“Haven’t you humiliated me enough already today?” Kit demanded.

“Clearly not if you think you can take that tone with me,” Ambrose replied nonchalantly, cocking an eyebrow at Kit when he took a step forward.

“Please, just give me peace, for…” Kit said all anger leaking from his frame once he knew he wasn’t getting anywhere with it. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, licking his lips before continuing: “For an hour or two, I’ll be good I’ll just go into my room and make no noise or do anything bad I promise just please can I have a moment alone? Please?”

Ambrose said nothing for a minute. Instead, he just drank in the desperation oozing from Kit’s tired frame, his sunken shoulders and his hands out, palms facing up as if to show he was no threat.

Begging.

Maybe Ambrose’s lesson finally sunk in this time. Maybe he did crack a little of Kit’s usual steel resolve.

Ambrose inclined his head. “Fine. I didn’t really have anything else planned for the day anyways, so your time is yours.”

“Thank you,” Kit said with a breath. Closing his eyes and savouring the moment. Kit turned for his room again, walking towards it waiting for Ambrose to speak again. To laugh or say “gotcha” and force Kit to do another horrible thing to himself or…

Kit’s hand touched the handle of his bedroom. The cool metal beneath his palm and fingers a shock to his system, that Ambrose was actually allowing him to relax. Kit licked his lips in anticipation and opened the door. Before he walked in though, Kit looked over his shoulder at Ambrose. His dark eyes were following Kit the whole way, and when they met Kit’s the corner of his lips twitched up with amusement.

“Thank you,” Kit said again, forcing his gratitude and relief into his voice. Ambrose blinked, tilting his head slightly as if trying to see from what angle Kit was trying to get over him. “Really.”

Kit turned again and walked into his room after that, letting the door close behind him. Ambrose stood rooted to the spot, staring at the closed door where Kit had disappeared.

He swallowed, only remembering the wet clothes in his arms. Ambrose cleared his throat, ignoring whatever that was all about and focusing instead on getting the clothes out of his arms.

Perhaps he went too far… perhaps he did more than crack the little Hero. Ambrose’s gaze flickered back to the door.

Only time would tell.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

This is @xxgalgurlxx art for Kit and Ambrose. Which I love, thank you again <3

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) - @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom

[kaiso-woo]

Just Stay.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

-> Masterlist

PART 1 of my ‘Stay Series’ - a long hypothesised journey of a relationship between Bang Chan and Reader.

WC: 6.8k | Overall ‘Stay Series’ Synopsis: Bang Chan experiences the suic!des of Stays, so when you lot choose to die, he dies right along with you. Reader is the “antidote” to this condition.

Notes: Second Person Narration, Skz Fluent in English, Swearing, CaféOwner!Reader, Fem!Reader, Idol!Chan, Barista!Chan, Suic!de (Strong Descriptions), ANGST (LITERALLY EVERYWHERE, NO NEED TO SQUINT), Fluff (At the End)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

PART 1

!!Casual reminder this is entirely fictitious - Chris/Christopher in my work does not represent the actual Bang Chan - this is purely my imagination and nothing more - this goes for all other SKZ-Members too!!

-

What should you do when you witness the end of a life? Cry and wallow in the darkest corners of disconsolation? Feel your heart shatter, a million fractals of sharply glittering reflections exploding in a mere fraction of a second? Some believe time is nothing more than an illusion though – so should you instead decide to lie on your bed, a place of restless solace, and stare up at the empty ceiling?

If this were the case, could you then be compared to a lonely garden gnome, fated to ponder life’s every aspect through a single perspective? Would you shrivel away from the light, choose to accept the pitiful concept of simply existing and allow your garden to wither; green to grey, flesh to bones, petals to stems? Perhaps your coping mechanism is to simply scream. Shut the doors. Close your blinds. Block your ears. Scream. Dry your eyes. Breathe…

Scream.

He does none of those. Instead, his eyes flutter closed momentarily, chest heaving, hands shaking, before he pulls himself away and picks up the computer mouse again. They’re becoming more frequent, or maybe he’s becoming more attune to them.

He doesn’t witness these deaths, exactly. He feels them; what it’s like to have the frigid wind tug at your hair, howling in your ears, the moment of impact with the blistering ground causing him to flinch violently, hand clamped over his mouth in a desperation to quell any yell; what it’s like to have your vision swim, blotting in and out of darkness, your throat constrict as though a pressure is forcing its way from inside out, desperate, erratic gulps for sweet sweet oxygen achieving nothing; what it feels like to stand there, shivering, your heart rate increasing tenfold, breaths quickening to mere pants, as you will every instinct in your body to remain still – ‘do not move’, you think, ‘it’ll be over soon’, you remind yourself, ‘the lights are closer now, and they’re fast, they won’t stop’.

How dearly he wishes for them to stop. 

He’s better at dealing with them now, definitely more subtle. The panic that envelopes him every time he realises something is about to happen however, will never leave him. He’ll drop what he’s holding, frantically disappear into one of the empty rooms in the company building, lock the door and rake a hand through his hair. The number of times the stylists have grumbled at him for messing up his styled hair is limitless, but he doesn’t care, why should he?

The studio door clicks open, and his head snaps to the sound. Immediately, he attempts to steady his breath, and pulls his expression into his signature straight smile :] as Jisung enters the room, a plastic bag filled with takeaway containers in his hand.

“Eh? What’re you doing here…?” Chan grins, his eyes widening dramatically. Swiftly, he swipes his computer mouse to the top of the screen to check the time.

2.23am

“It’s so late Jisung, were you practicing choreo?” he continues, hitting save on his keyboard so he doesn’t accidentally delete his work while distracted. “I brought you food,” Jisung mumbles, lowering it onto the coffee table and carefully unpacking it all. Chan’s mouth begins to salivate excessively as the smell of chicken wafts towards him, but he rubs his face and resists the urge to sit down with Jisung and eat to his heart’s content.

Jisung plucks a drumstick from the box, “Why are you working here alone?” he questions, a sad pout on his chubby cheeks as he wanders over to the computer, careful not to drop any crumbs. Chan shrugs, hoping it’ll satiate Jisung’s concern. 

It doesn’t, of course, and his pout morphs into a small frown. Jisung tries to shove the chicken into Chan’s mouth, offering it to him demandingly. “You eat, you eat,” Chan waves it away and turns back to his computer, “You wanna listen? I think it’s almost finished, something’s just not right with the auto tune… I think. It sounds off,” he picks the headphones off the desk and holds them out for Jisung, who has taken a bite of the chicken happily and is munching away. Again, he tries to give Chan the chicken drumstick, and refuses to take the headphones until Chan is eating the chicken.

As Jisung listens to the song, Chan’s mind drifts back to the corners of his thoughts, the shadows that have been swirling there for a long while now. He doesn’t know when it first began, doesn’t want to remember it to be honest. He was in his room, dozing off into a comfortable sleep, the purple LEDS providing a soft glow to the darkness. 

-

It was abrupt, swinging into him out of nowhere, but he sat bolt upright, hands grappling with the sheets desperately. His vision swam, and he retched on dry air. He groaned and keeled forwards, hands suddenly clutching his chest as it tightened painfully – corkscrewing into his heart, but at the same time it was as though someone was trying to pry it open. He retched again, and he regretted in that moment that he had chosen purple to light his room earlier. The colour was making his head pound, his belongings swimming in and out of his vision, worsened by his unstable swaying.

In a panic, he crawled over to the side of his bed. Then with a last hacking cough, he vomited onto the floor, the acrid taste on his tongue causing him to recoil, the stinging burn in his throat making his eyes water. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t see shit anymore. A dry sob escaped his lips, as he desperately tried to fumble for something to ground him back to reality. He saw speckles – grainy, fuzzy, surreal. 

The world tilts, and maybe he falls off the bed too. And he’s gone.

-

“It’s not the auto tune effect – it’s the timing of the bridge,” Jisung drags Chan back to reality, his head bopping slightly to the music. Chan blinks and scoots aside to allow the younger to fiddle with the computer mouse, rewinding the audio so he can listen again. Chan is finishing off the chicken drumstick, so he hums in acknowledgement instead to Jisung’s feedback. “Yeah, it’s the bridge. The vocals need to be delayed a little,” Jisung concludes, “Want me to fix it up?”

In the silence of the room, Jisung pulls over another chair and gets to work. Chan watches him contentedly for a while, happy to absorb himself in the clicking and tapping of his first child’s proceedings - watching him edit and perfect the track they’ve been working on for the past few months. Jisung glances at Chan, his concentration breaking, “You’re unusually quiet.”

Chan reaches over and squeezes his shoulder comfortingly, “Just thinking.” “Right... well, eat more. And then go to bed,” Jisung insists, briefly squeezing the hand on his shoulder in return. Chan sighs and hoists himself out of his chair, sinking back onto the couch so he can easily dig into the food. “Thanks mate,” he mumbles, and when the man makes no move of acknowledgement, Chan smiles softly and nibbles on some more chicken.

-

He woke that time, on the floor of his bedroom, dangerously close to the stinking heap that was his vomit. His head pounded, a dull ache ringing in his skull as he mustered all his strength to simply stand up and pull over the blinds.

“What the fuck was that?” He groaned, resting his head on the window and basking in the warmth of the early morning sun, so comforting, so full of life – a steady presence. After he spent the next ten minutes gathering his wits and cleaning up the mess, he brushed it off as food poisoning; maybe something in the food Hannah cooked last night (he’d never tell her that, of course).

On another day, in another place, maybe a few weeks from then, he had returned to Korea, jumping straight back into his busy schedule. They were in the middle of an interview, not the first, and certainly not the last. In hindsight, he was thankful he had chosen to stand in the back row. At first he thought he merely needed to cough, a ticklish sensation wrapping around his throat, a ghost of a hand caressing his neck. He swayed dangerously when he felt it tighten harshly, so suddenly, and his heartbeat escalated, his legs becoming jelly. 

His head snapped back as his whole body teetered over the edge of the platform he was standing on. A searing pain blazed across his neck for a second, causing him to grapple with it in shock. Changbin grabbed his arm at that point, preventing him from completely falling over backwards.

“You okay?” he whispered, careful not to draw too much attention to the pair, professional as always. Chan corrected himself and tried to control his breathing, forcibly inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils. He pulled a face, his eyes wide, and waved his arms a little, “Thanks. Almost lost my balance there.”

Throughout the rest of the interview, he remained silent, thinking hard. What just happened? And why did it feel like… he had just been… hung?

It took him months to string two and two together, months of spontaneous moments of death, in which he remained alive. He’d be drowned countless times, be stabbed infinitely, shot in the head, electrocuted, run over by train… after train… after train, until he fully accepts that these were all connected.

As time wore on, he began to hear things too, inner monologues he supposed, of their voices. He figured if this condition, whatever it was, lasted long enough, he’d soon be able to see it too.

-

Stay. Just stay. Stay’s. It’s you. You’re not staying. He was burning in the middle of a fire. That much was obvious by the scorching pain on his skin, brutal enough that he just wished he couldn’t feel. He screamed into the couch pillows, knowing full well that the studio was soundproof, but paranoid all the same that any of his members would hear him. 

‘Thank you Stray Kids, for everything.’ 

Stay. He couldn’t tell at this point whether the pain was his or from the person who was dying. Both, perhaps. All this time, the people who were dying, the people who were killing themselves, were Stay’s. Or maybe this time was a coincidence, maybe this person just happened to be a part of the fandom.

It wasn’t though. 

More and more often, in the midst of some version of death, he heard thoughts, whispers:

“You got me this far Stray Kids.” “Skz you’re my everything.” “Keep fighting Stray Kids.”

“Chan, I love you.” “Thank you Chan.” “Life was good thanks to you, Chan.”

Fuck. This. Shit.

Stay.

-

His members were either dense, playing dumb or he was an incredible actor and the sneakiest being on all of planet earth. He had no idea how he had managed to hide this, for so long, and not hear a peep out of any of them.

Sure, he attributed his puffy eyes (from tears) to a lack of sleep, or too much time in front of a computer screen. Maybe his lack of sleep could be contributed to insomnia, not that he genuinely didn’t want to sleep with the fear that he might wake abruptly to a strangling death. Again.

More recently, in an attempt to be more cautious, when that panic settles in - a familiar feeling of fear, 'I can do this. I'm going to do it. I want to die. Do I want to die?' - he'd excuse himself to the bathroom.

“Chan hyung’s gone to the bathroom.” – posts Hyunjin.

Yeah. To die.

-

He yawns, stretching as he returns to the studio from a genuine bathroom break. He’s excited to return to his work; a sample he’d stumbled across waiting to be incorporated into a new song. After he shuts the door, he checks the time on his phone.

There’s an hour and a half until 12am– he needs to do Chan’s Room soon too, it’s Sunday. He was comforted by Chan’s Room, to see so many Stay’s on his lives, thankful to have them there, rather than at the top of a building, or sinking at the bottom of a river. He decides that the sample can wait – it’s saved anyway.

He flipped his black hood over the top of his cap, carefully adjusting it so it was presentable, and began to set up the live. He had a few songs in mind that he’d play for you all but was really hoping you’d contribute to the song suggestions too. He smiled, and he laughed, and he danced along to the songs, joyously reading your comments and responding with enthusiasm despite it getting later into the night.

Then the mood shifted when his eyes skimmed over a particular comment. He froze, and his bubble of security popped. He wasn’t sure if he had managed to blot you out, or if the fear had only crossed through after you had sent that message, but he was positive that the person who typed the question, was the person currently pressing a knife to his heart – a small, sharp prick on his chest.

Chan inhaled sharply and swivelled in his chair, “Yeah don’t… don’t hurt yourself, yeah?” The chat exploded with questions and comments, wondering why he was bringing it up and offering words of comfort. The sharp pain on his chest receded slightly, but the fear was still there, the emotional pain ever present. “Just because you have a lot of stress, it doesn’t mean that you have to relieve it by hurting yourself.”

There. Same user. New comment. ‘Your future isn’t worth living for’? Bullshit.

“If you think about the future… it’s best to just keep away from that and find different ways of relieving stress.” Self-consciously, he fiddles with his hoodie drawstrings and swivels in his chair again, desperate to hide the panic flicker across his features briefly. The knife was back.

“You never know what’s going to happen in the future. Something might go wrong, then there might be a turning point and then- from then on you feel really, really regretful,” he’s rambling at this point, thoughts unhinged, spluttering and mixing like mush in his brain. He just needs to get you to stay. 

He takes a deep breath, and drills his eyes into the camera, pleading with what little he could offer, “If you really, really can’t help it or if you really just don’t know what to do or you’re really- really lost, as I’ve always said,” he smiles, eyes shimmering, “come here; look for me, ask me, talk with me.” He waits, praying, fiddling his thumbs below the desk.

And the agonising feeling fades, leaving him deflated, relieved.

“I’ll try my best to relieve your stress,” he concludes, then spreads his arms wide. He knows Stay didn’t ask for it, but he was offering one of his hugs more for himself than them.

-

His relief would be short-lived. He can’t save everyone.

-

I guess, it’s about time I introduce you. You, not as one of those who have given up. Not as one of those who have caused Chan’s suffering. I introduce you, as simply you. You, who carefully pulls your keys out of the café door. You, who draws down some of the shutters with a soft smile. You, as wonderful, loving, bubbly you.

You make your rounds around your haven, your café. It’s a combination of everything you could possibly imagine to be creative. It’s been your dream to create a safe hub for the public that incorporates a library, a café, study area, art studio, computer labs, rehearsal room and even a recording studio.

Pets were welcome, of all kinds, as long as they wouldn’t fight with each other, and you were open from 7.30am in the morning until 1am the following day.

If anyone fell asleep studying, working on music or reading, you’d leave them where they were and pull out the blankets you kept in storage. The policy for this was simply a bond of trust. Customers could stay working for the night as long as they didn’t mind watching you drift around in the morning in your bedhead and PJ’s, slowly beginning to set up for a new day.

You would always offer them a morning hot chocolate, coffee or tea, free of charge, but more often than not, they’d leave their money on the counter when you turned away, refusing to let you best them in a game of generosity.

Books could be borrowed, studios and study rooms booked, pets left in the backyard day/night day care. Equipment was supplied in all the rooms, instruments for loan, computers to log into, art tools for perusal. The rule for these? Don’t break them. If customers break them, they pay for them.

If something run’s out, let you know. You only offered the basic necessities anyways, so you restocked them yourself. Anything else customers bring for themselves. It was safe. It was cosy. It was yours. Yours to give. Admittedly, you still had to pay off the loan you took out to set up the place, and if time grew short you were considering shutting down the recording studio – it was the least used area. 

You pushed the last few stray chairs in as you considered whether to make yourself a final cup of tea before settling down in your apartment upstairs. There were two people currently dozing in various locations of Café Studio, one of whom was a regular. A third customer was sipping the last dregs of his coffee, watching your humble movements out of the corner of his eye. 

“Mind if I call it a night on one of your couches?” he asks, scraping back his chair to place his mug on the counter by the coffee machine. That’s James. James fucking Jamison. Always here for whatever reason, never not here, where you wanted him to be. You withhold a sigh and the temptation to pinch the bridge of your nose, “Yeah, go for it. You know the drill.”

You welcome all customers, all are valuable guests. Except for him. He just won’t take a hint.

He saunters idly over to you, hands in his pockets, and clears his throat, “So… are you sure you won’t be free any time this week?” You can feel his eyes drilling into your back and scrunch your nose distastefully, pulling out your phone as if to check something, “I can’t, I run this place.”

He’s still staring at you, so you whisk your earphones out from a pocket in your apron and plug them into your ears. It doesn’t take you long to press shuffle on your playlist, and immediately your current favourite song begins to play, as if it knows exactly what would help you through this situation, or maybe they knew. 

“What if you just shut the place down for the day?” he asks with an awkward laugh, running his hand through his hair dramatically. So cool. You roll your eyes and turn around to face him, internally dancing to the song in your ears. You give him a once over, genuinely considering him, “I can’t shut down my only source of income for a day.” “Even for-”

“Especially not for you.” The two of you stare at each other and you can sense that somewhere in those blue eyes of his, you’ve angered him. He’s not pleased, and he never has been with your constant rejections, but so far he hasn’t tried anything. He would be stupid to do so, with surveillance cameras set up everywhere and two customers sleeping not far away.

Go kill yourself.

You wince as sharp pain crackles across your forehead, “Sorry what?”  James blinks at you quizzically, his sizzling demeanour vanishing at your confusing outburst. “I didn’t say anything.”

Go. Kill yourself.

You hiss, hand clutching your forehead, and stumble into the nearest table. James is onto you in a second (“Woah there”) trying to support you, when the table was doing just fine. “Back off,” you snap, pushing him away, which causes you to stumble back into the window, the last one without its shutter pulled down, “and shut up.” Again, he blinks at you, ever the stupid dolt he is.

‘Heh… funny.’ Why’d I say that?

Desperately, you swivel and press your forehead to the cool of the glass window, groaning in agony. The music playing in your earphones becomes too much, so you tug them out of your ears, your phone lighting up on the paused song of “Silent Cry”, by Stray Kids.

I wonder if it’ll still be funny after- if I-

You crack your eyes open and peer outside, dimly trying to discern whether this was a voice in your head, or a voice in real life. It spoke with a pained clarity, exhaustion numbing what could have been a voice of laughter and passion. How you knew this, you had no idea. 

“Hey, are you good? Are you on your period or something?” James piped up helpfully, and if you weren’t so heavily concentrated on scanning your surroundings outside you might have kicked him out of your store right then and there.

Then you spotted someone. A lone figure, shrouded in the hazy glow of a streetlight, leaning over the bridge railing. Café Studio was located on the banks of the local river, wide enough for boats to barge through, deep enough to be terrified of the unknown creatures writhing within.

You watched, the incessant pounding in your head diminishing the longer you stared at the figure. If he wasn’t standing in the middle of the light, you wouldn’t have spotted him in his completely black outfit. Someone certainly wasn’t one for colour. He leaned further over the railing, clutching his beanie to his head as though afraid it would fall off in the wind.

In seconds, you had ripped your phone and headphones from your apron, leaving it on one of the tables, and fumbled with the key to unlock the café door. It was chilly out, but you ignored the goosebumps speckling your skin, and James’ confused fucking shouts – like would the guy stitch his mouth shut please. 

That was him. The idiot leaning too far over the railing was the one whispering nonsense in your brain. How you came to this conclusion was to anyone’s guess, but it was him. In the seconds it had taken you to sprint over to him, he had clambered on top of the railing, balancing precariously, his hands in his hoodie pockets, gazing into the depths of the water.

Maybe in another life, if you weren’t out of breath trying to stop him from ending it all, you might have been enamoured by his features. As you drew closer, you could make out the defined cut of his jaw, his wide shoulders, plush lips tinged with pink from the cold, dark eyes alluringly intimidating. This wasn’t that life though, and you paid no attention to any of it really. 

A dawning realisation settled on your features however, after a brief assessment of his face caused you to realise that you knew him, perhaps not personally, but still knew him. “Bang Chan?” you whisper, the name falling from your lips in a panicked whisper, “Chan no…” your legs work harder, and you pray almost deliriously that he doesn’t do it. Don’t do it. He can’t.

“Bang Chan!” you yell, losing all sense of discipline as he sways gently, contemplating, “Chan!!” he doesn’t appear to hear you, absorbed in his own mind. You’re there, you’re right there, and this time, when you call desperately, “Christopher!” his eyes snap up to meet yours.

It’s this particular moment, that will be ingrained in your mind in the following years. The way his eyes spark in shock at the sight of you, then relax, as though he understands, and has complete control over everything in his life.

Without hesitating, you snatch at his clothes and tug him backwards. His heavy body crashes into yours, but you don’t care. You wrap your arms safely around his waist as you tumble to the paved path in a heaped mess of clothes and limbs. 

He wriggles around in your grasp, trying to position himself more comfortably, and eventually wind up staring each other dead in the face, blinking through your lashes up at him, his palms on either side of your head.

An uncomfortable silence settles between you, fizzing in the limited space between your faces. Then without warning, you roughly shove your hand behind his head and pull him down into a hug, tears beginning to stain your cheeks.

“What the fuck? What the fuck?” you croak, needlessly shoving your hand underneath his beanie so you can tangle it into his curled hair, “What the actual fuck, were you doing?!” you cling to him tighter, and your breath escapes in garbled gasps that quieten to silence when you feel the trickle of wet tears on your neck.

Gently, you remove your hand from his head and relax your body, allowing him to remove himself from you if he so wished. He burrows his face further however, his arms collapsing onto his elbows, and suddenly you can hear him sobbing.

The tears on your neck weren’t your own. He sounds so broken, crying his heart out as though he were a lost little child who dropped his ice cream. The raw emotion and lack of restraint in his sobbing scrapes at the threads of your heart, and again, you’re crying. Crying with him, for him – understanding everything, and nothing at the same time.

Eventually, you wipe the tears from your face, trying to figure out what to do next. You need to comfort him, talk to him, remind him that he’s worth this world, and the world doesn’t deserve him because by god- if anyone knew even a scrap of what this man meant- he’s laughing. Why is he laughing?

His warm breath tickles your neck as he chuckles, his sobs magically morphed into an amused laughter, which is the most concerning thing by far. Chan pulls away from you, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he laughs and hastily dries the tears on his face.

“Sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that,” he grins, and you frown at him. “Sorry I had to see what? You almost jump off a fucking bridge, or your tears? It better not be the latter Christopher, or I’ll gladly rewind time and push you over myself.” Almost immediately, you regret the words tumbling out of your mouth when his face crumbles again, “Would you really?” he whispers, sitting up beside you.

“No. No I was kidding. I was just- you’re allowed to cry, Chan,” you sit up too, and then it’s just the both of you, sitting alone, a strange pair, by the railing of a bridge. “So you know who I am then?” he dutifully asks, gingerly fixing his beanie and offering a small smile.

“Yeah,” you take note of the way his posture deflates, and add quickly, “But it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. What matters is that you tried to…” your words die in your throat at the reproachful glint in his eyes, shimmering eerily in the lamplight. Instead, you stand up and offer him a hand. He cautiously accepts it, allowing you to help him stand with you. “Y/N Y/L/N. Nice to meet you,” you smile, giving his hand a shake. He stares at you, bemused, and shakes your hand back. “Christopher Bahng. And… thanks.” You’re not sure if he’s thanking you for stopping his plummet to death, or for helping him sit up, or for letting him cry… he could be thanking you for a lot of things, so instead, you do the next best option.

“Want to head over to my café? I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” you offer, flicking your head to the still lit building, where fucking James is standing outside, ogling you from afar, his hands on his hips. “Sure… only… I assumed you’d know I don’t drink coffee,” he shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets again, and as your eyes slide from James and then back to the man in front of you, you suddenly struggle to process everything that’s just happened.

“Why would I? We just met,” you flash him a coy smile and lead the way. You stroll into the café, holding the door open for Chris so he can step through, his hands still in his pockets. James makes to follow, but you slam the door shut in his face and lock the door swiftly.

“Uh…” Chris begins, his eyes wide, asking for an explanation. “No questions. He won’t leave me alone, and that’s that,” you grin brightly, then rush to disappear behind the café bar and begin to prepare him a drink. He seats himself on a stool and tries to watch as you work. You grow uncomfortable in the silence, especially with him watching you so closely, so you instinctively begin to ramble.

“This is Café Studio. You might have noticed by the sign out front.”  He nods, indicating he’s paying attention. “I run this place entirely myself, and I live above…” You tell him everything you can think of, from the studios attached to the café, to your favourite pets that frequently get dropped off for day care or overnight stays. His eyes light up when you mention the recording studio, and you have a feeling he’ll go back to the topic after.

In no time, you have two hazelnut croissants prepared, a steaming mug of white hot chocolate for yourself, and a mug of caramel hot chocolate with a dusting of cinnamon for him (you refuse to tell him what’s in his drink, which makes him pout sadly because he loves it). You lapse into silence as you eat and drink, and you know you need to breach the topic again, somehow, you can’t just leave it unattended.

“Can I ask…” you begin, but he interrupts you smoothly. “I just wanted to see what it would look like.”

Chan knew he could never tell you that he’d experienced death a hundred times over in the past months. You’d think him insane.

You knew you could never tell him you heard his voice, loud and clear in your head. He’d think you delusional.

“About that… recording studio… does anyone use it?” he inquisitively asks, and you shake your head sadly in response, wiping croissant crumbs off your face. “Not really… I’m considering selling it. I need to repay the loan I took out, and if the recording room is just dead weight then I don’t see why-” “Don’t. It won’t be dead weight,” he hurries, and is about to say more before he reconsiders, “Mind if I check it out?”

Of course you don’t.

--

Chris returns to his hotel later that morning. It’s 4am by the time you crawl into bed, recounting the events of the day in a sluggish fashion. Only 2 and a half hours ago you had pulled him away from certain death.

A shiver disturbs your spine as you replay the memory, and you curl tighter into your blankets. What if you hadn’t? His inner monologue certainly didn’t sound like he simply just “wanted to see what it looked like.”

-

Somehow, you manage to drag yourself through the rest of the morning, living off a few hours’ sleep at most. Thankfully, there aren’t many customers to begin with, giving you a chance to get organised a little later than usual. Chris had left with a small smile and a wave, and you watched him disappear down the street, a part of you worried he’d decide to try the bridge again.

He returns in the afternoon with the same small smile and wave, shocking you to the core. He’s got a cap pulled low over his eyes, hood pulled neatly up, and a black mask obscuring most of his face.

The only reason you recognise him this time is because of those actions, and the particular way his eyes crinkle, disappearing when he genuinely smiles. Quietly, he asks for the same drink you made him earlier that morning and asks to borrow the recording studio – “change of scenery,” he explains casually.

As the days go by, he visits as often as he can, always with those same twinkling eyes, and always still carefully covered up. You have no idea how he’s managed to convince his company to continuously let him out in public without staff, nor how long he’s staying here for.

He must be on vacation or something because this was certainly not Korea. You frequently check up on him too, never hesitating to ask whether he needs any support. He shakes his head every time and stares at you unblinkingly, trying to convey a message through only his eyes.

You’re already helping him. This haven, your haven, is helping him already. You don’t know this of course. Nor do you know that his odd connection to suicidal Stay’s has ceased. He hasn’t felt them in ages, and in a twisted way, he’s relieved – hasn’t felt this light in a while.

“Mind if I book the whole café out for a day?” he mumbles to you from your side, his hands nimbly working with the coffee machine to produce an order for a customer. One day he had asked if you could teach him a few things on the machine. Before long he knew how to make every drink, and happily watched underneath his mask as customers sipped his creations.

Every drink that is, except for the special one you made for him – it was actually your Mum’s recipe. You refused to teach him, but he could easily figure out the ingredients and method to make it for himself by now, if he really wanted to, which perplexed you every time he asked you to teach him.

Truthfully, he didn’t really want to know. He just liked seeing the tiny crease on your forehead and adorable smile whenever you refused. And now… he had even more reason to come back. For the hot chocolate. Definitely.

“The whole-? Library and everything?” you inquire, as you refill the jar of chai powder. “Mhm,” he hums, nodding to a regular as they float by, “Staff want us to film a Skz-Code Episode while we’re here, and they left it up to us to decide where.” “Oh. Sure. What do you need, for me to close up for the day?”

“I want you to stay though. Don’t disappear upstairs to your apartment… please. Can you stay and… watch?” he innocently asks, and you stare at him in surprise, clipping the jar in your hands shut with a snap, “Am I allowed to?”

-

It turns out that would be their last day. They returned to Korea on the following. In hindsight, you wish you had hugged Chris tighter when he tackled you with one before they left after filming, raising the eyes of several staff members and causing the Skz Members to chuckle with one another.

Chris was hugging you because he would miss you, and he was afraid that if he left, the traumatic episodes would return.

You were hugging him because you were full to the brim with Stray Kids’ warmth and happiness, but also because an unfamiliar safety nestled into your stomach as he hugged you, burying his face into your neck – the same place he had where he first met you.

“See ya soon, mate!” Felix called, carrying a box of your brownies. He had given you his recipe, and you eagerly followed its instructions while you watched them record their episode, smiling contentedly at their tinkering laughter, “These taste better than mine!” 

“No one can beat Felix’s brownies,” Hyunjin muttered through a smile, but he’s happily munching on one of yours all the same. Jisung also has his mouth stuffed, his chubby cheeks wobbling as he nods his head. Seungmin offered you a polite handshake, and Jeongin an energetic round of high fives.

Somewhere in the distance, Changbin calls out your name, and performs a half heart above his head. You complete it, sticking your tongue out playfully. Not surprisingly, you and Chris have to duck back inside the café to hunt down Minho, who’s been playing with the cats left in your care for the day.

You didn’t find out that Stray Kids were leaving until that night when you spotted a live of them on your YouTube at the airport, and your heart plummeted with a sadness you couldn’t explain.

-

What… a strange… dream. 

Everything become’s more surreal when you discover an envelope by the coffee machine the next morning, tucked neatly under the corner where Chris would usually stand to make his coffee’s. You pull it out carefully; there’s no name penned on the front. Curiously you pull out two sheets of paper. The first you open is in Chris’ handwriting (he had been leaving random notes and scribbling his signature wherever he could during his visits, so you were relatively familiar with it now), 

A B C D E F G I wanna send my code to you Eight letters is all it takes And I’m gonna let you know

Lyrics. You flip over the paper and stare in a daze at the phone number scribbled there. Further down the page, there’s more lyrics, but from a different song.

Together, I feel time has flown so fast In my time, memories are crowded I didn’t know the sky was so clear like this until I met you I thought the sun was only scorching Thank you for coming to me And becoming the same shadow as mine before approaching the light

“Chris you cheesy ass,” you laugh, heartbeat thumping loudly in your chest. 

You can STAY.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you almost forget about the second piece of paper. It’s a receipt. And on the bottom, are more words written in his handwriting.

The loan for Café Studio has been paid off, and the rent on your apartment. It’s all yours now. You can thank me when I come back.

Your eyes widen, and a small gasp leaves your lips. You fumble for your phone and add his number to your contacts. Then sparing no second, type out a message.

-

(A/N: When dialogue is in script format, it's meant to represent text messages)

You: “No you did not”

In the few seconds that you stare at your message, that you sent to Chris, disbelief written across your features, your phone buzzes with a response.

Chris: “Oh but I did”

You laugh, the sound gradually increasing as you throw your head back, giddy, a delicate pink tinge warming your cheeks.

“Something good happen?” James interrupts, rapping his knuckles on the counter to get your attention, “No side barista with you today? Who was he anyways, and what was with that mask?” “He’s… a good friend. Care for some tea?” “But I don’t like-” “Perfect.”

-

What should you do when you witness the end of a life? Cry and wallow in the darkest corners of disconsolation? Feel your heart shatter, a million fractals of sharply glittering reflections exploding in a mere fraction of a second? Some believe that time is nothing more than an illusion though – so should you instead decide to lie on your bed, a place of restless solace, and stare up at the empty ceiling?

If this were the case, could you then be compared to a lonely garden gnome, fated to ponder life’s every aspect through a single perspective? Would you shrivel away from the light, choose to accept the pitiful concept of simply existing and allow your garden to wither; green to grey, flesh to bones, petals to stems? Perhaps your coping mechanism is to simply scream. Shut the doors. Close your blinds. Block your ears. Scream. Dry your eyes. Breathe…

-

Chris: “Are you awake?” You: “I am now” Chris: “Sorry go back to sleep” You: “I was kidding Christopher” You: “Of course I’m awake” Chris: “That’s not a good thing” You: “Look who’s talking” You: “Are you all good? Can’t sleep?” Chris: “Just felt like a chat”

-

They only visited him in nightmares, he discovered, which was still an improvement from before. 

-

You: “Sure” You: “Care to explain your latest Insta post?” Chris: “No haha” You: “You burnt Stayville to the ground” You: “I think that deserves an explanation”

-

Chris smiles and flops back into his pillow. It certainly was an improvement from before. His mind was working over the possibilities, the many different choices he could make from here on out. Did you have something to do with this condition? Were you the solution to it all? What was it about you, exactly, that drew him to you?

You can thank me when I come back, he had written.

He thinks… he’ll be back for sure.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

-> PART 2 -> Masterlist

Yay! Milestone Event 1, Check!

Feedback is always appreciated, negative and positive alike. I apologise for any editing or formatting errors, I’m forever learning.

Until next read! - Kaisowoo

[flowerpotmage]

Tight Grip, Broken Dam (12)

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You don’t question it anymore, when Miguel appears in your bed at night. He’s not there for sex, no, you’ve never even kissed—though you would be lying if you said you weren’t open to the idea of kissing him. He’s there for comfort. For rest. If only it could stay so simple.

Pair: Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader

Notes: for series: slow burn, ambiguous relationship, found family dynamics, reader is in their late 20s. for chapter: sexual tension, injuries and injury aftercare, references and nightmares about 90s comic run canon events

Word Count: 2.4k

Read this chapter on Ao3 here. If you like my work, please consider leaving kudos there as well! You do not need an account to do so.

a/n: deepest apologies for this series' absence! i hope this (only slightly) shorter chapter and the knowledge that i am already working on the next and hope to return to semi-regular updates will tide you over.

Your brief trip across town leaves you more winded than you hoped and less tired than you feared.

Your apartment is empty but for the presence of warm midday sun and green leaves when you return, kicking your shoes off and carefully setting yourself down on the couch, bones heavy with the weight of grief and exhaustion. There’s nothing to do now but rest, and so you don’t resist the warm embrace of sleep when it curls around you like hungry arms.

Brrring brrring!

The ring of your phone wakes you, the light now coming more brightly through your balcony doors.

A disoriented grumble escapes your throat as you shift, lifting yourself back up to lean against the back of the couch and immediately checking your side.

Sore. Sore, mostly dry, and unopened. Good.

Brrring brrring!

You find your phone in your coat pocket, having fallen asleep still fully dressed. Karen’s name lights up the screen. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes and clearing your throat, you answer the call and hold the phone to your ear.

“Karen, hey.”

“Hey!” She chirps through the line. “Matt and Foggy just won a case today, and–”

“Come drink with us!” Comes Foggy’s voice, shouted from somewhere in the room Karen has called from.

“I’m assuming you caught that.” You can hear the bemused expression on her face.

You try to chuckle, and fail, body too tired to force any levity. “I shouldn't tonight,” you say, wrinkling your nose and trying to roll out the stiffness in your neck. “I, uh—sick. Not feeling great.”

“Oh no!” Karen says, sympathetic. “Are you okay?”

You can hear the sudden silence from Foggy.

“Yeah, just uh. Out of it. Probably gonna just rest up for a few days, it’s a little rough.” You wince.

“Do you need anything?” She asks. “I don’t think it’s too far out of our way if you need some food. Some soup?”

You smile, heart warming at her thoughtfulness. “No, no, I’m all set. That’s really sweet though, thank you Karen.”

“Of course,” she says. “Rest up. We’ll see you when you’re feeling better.”

“Take an extra shot for me tonight.”

“Not like Foggy needs the excuse,” Karen laughs.

“What? What don’t I need an excuse for?”

“Wow, nosy,” you joke, smiling. “I’ll see you all next time.”

“Alright. Text if you need anything. I mean it.”

“You’re too nice. And I will, I promise,” you can’t help but smile. “Now go celebrate.”

Farewells are exchanged and the call ends. You drop the phone onto the couch, a heavy breath leaving your lungs. You linger for a moment before finally mustering the will to pull yourself off the couch and trudge into your room to change into your loosest pajamas.

Sleep pulls you back under its currents again.

Something pulls you from your slumber hours later, your cheek stuck to the pillow with dried spit, your vision blurry.

You haven't been this tired or slept so much since the spider bite that changed your life.

Your spider-sense pings and seconds later your bedroom door cracks open, Miguel in the open sliver between door and wall. His eyes meet your own, your head lifted slightly off the pillow from the surprise ping moments before.

“When’d you get here?” You ask, voice muffled and slurred.

“About an hour ago,” he replies, opening the door further. “You needed groceries, and I know you weren't going to be getting them anytime soon.”

You groan, letting your head fall back to the pillow. “You didn't need to do that for me.”

He crosses his arms, leans on the doorframe.

Now, with the door open, the smell of cooking finally reaches you and you rub your eyes. “ And you cooked?”

“I did.” There it is, his disproportionately endearing, pleased little half smile. Miguel crosses the distance from the door to your bed to help you up. “ Vamos, come on.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, when your feet finally find the floor. And again, after you’ve eaten and you sit side by side on the couch, sleep dragging down your eyelids once more: “Thank you, Miguel. For dinner, and… everything.”

“Of course,” he murmurs, and you slip into dreams once more.

The next morning, thankfully, finds you less fatigued. Miguel changes your bandages again, makes you breakfast, again, before leaving to fulfill his self appointed duties.

It continues like this as you heal. When Miguel isn’t at Spider Society HQ he’s in your home, cooking your food and cleaning your dishes and changing your bandages (You try not to go insane from the feeling of his hand on your bare skin). You don't ask, but you’re fairly certain the only sleep he gets is in your bed—a place you have to yourself less often than ever before.

Not that you’re complaining. Neither of you mentions it, of course, that he's visiting more while the skin over your ribs heals. You both seem to immediately accept this new normal and move forward as if it has always been the way things are. For Miguel’s part, he knows you don't have anyone here to take care of you properly—he knows you’ve lost family and more friends than most Spider-People usually had to start with—and so he takes the responsibility of you upon himself, and does so happily.

And mostly things are the same… mostly.

He learns about your favorite color, the watering schedule of your plants, how you miss having a pet but with the life you lead it doesn't feel like the responsible thing to do. He tries not to think about how it feels like learning more about someone you’ve been with for years, because he already knew which spoon was your favorite out of the somewhat mix-and-match selection, already knew about your aunt and your aunt's girlfriend on the force who still checked in on you up until her own death, your personal ASM-97 event.

He starts to feel disconcerted about how little he's shared in return, and tries his best to give something back. He mentions Gabriel in passing when talking about his childhood one day, during lunch.

“Gabriel?” You prompt.

“Ah,” he pauses, lowering his fork. To his plate. “My brother.”

The two of you are sitting on your couch, the balcony doors open wide to let in the fresh afternoon air that meanders through the open glass. Miguel holds his plate in one hand, you rest yours on your lap and your feet on your coffee table.

“I didn't know you had a brother,” you say. You want to rest your arm on the back of the couch, but despite your wound being at less risk of opening and bleeding, you’ve still been advised not to stretch the skin. So you pick at the couch cushion by your thigh with your nail instead, glancing at him.

Miguel nods. “Gabriella was named after him.”

Your heart squeezes. “Is he…?”

“He’s alive and well,” Miguel gives a reassuring, if rueful, smile. “It's just us two now.”

You nod. “Older or younger?”

“Younger,” he says, smiling at you. He rests his plate on his lap now, like you, and rests an arm on the back of the couch to angle towards you.

“Ah, oldest brother,” you raise your eyebrows and nod sagely. “That explains a lot.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow back at you.

You gesture at him vaguely. “I mean. Come on.”

Miguel scoffs, smiling, and then he tells you more about his family. About Tyler Stone and the secret his mother kept, how he’s not a true O’Hara but still carries the name. You sense he’s still keeping some things to himself, but you don’t press the issue, happy enough to even be let in this small amount. You hope that your adoration doesn’t show on your face too much as you watch him talk, lit with warm afternoon light.

Miguel feels lucky when he wakes up and can’t remember his dreams, because the nights that he does…

Flesh torn and shredded under his fingertips as gravity pulls the arm from his grasp, the man attached dangles infinite stories up from the streets and even farther to Downtown. The writhing gasp and scream of a man in pain and Miguel trying to save him and only making it worse. His father, angry and raging and taking it out on his mother. The smell of rotting flesh from his Vulture’s pantry, rotting cadavers stored haphazardly in a dark room in the underbelly of downtown waiting for—

No. Even in dreams it’s too sick to name.

Sometimes the horrors of his early days as Spider-Man blend with his life now. Gabriella’s rotting body in the pile in Vulture’s pantry. Gabriella, caught in an attack on his apartment, or in the crossfire between him and the Public Eye. You, hanging from his desperate grip after the lab explosion that changed him forever, your face twisted in fear and your arm shredded under his finger-pad talons as you slip from his grasp and fall to your death. You, in the pods for the long discontinued Corporate Raider program and killed in a fatal human-animal gene splicing test. You disappearing into the air, turning to less than ashes in his arms, or sometimes worse: You, holding Gabriella and reaching for him and the both of you disappearing when he reaches out, unable to so much as touch either of you one last time.

It’s not every night. Sometimes he dreams nonsense like everyone else, surreal landscapes with changing figures and storylines that mean nothing. Sometimes he dreams of happy memories or past almosts as if they had followed through on their potential. Schooldays with Xina or childhood games with Gabriel, or taking Gabriella to the Spider Society HQ like Peter does with May.

Sometimes he dreams about your skin, and your sheets, and your breath. Those ones always leave him distracted, off kilter and embarrassed through the rest of his day. He wishes he could bury them properly, leave them in his subconscious where they belong. Wishes he could keep himself from wanting to cross that line.

But tonight brings no dreams of pleasant pasts, no surreal landscapes, no ecstatic gasps and tangled sheets. Tonight he dreams of loss and pain.

A sudden jolt uproots you from sleep, dreams turn to evaporated particles in the air. At first you think there might be a threat, that perhaps your spider senses were what woke you, but the shallow and forcefully measured breaths in the bed next to you quickly inform you otherwise.

“Miguel?” Your voice is but a whisper as you prop yourself up, mindful of your ribs, your hand searching for him through the blankets. “Hey, hey, it's okay–”

He starts to say something, his voice dying in his throat before the first letter can even form on his tongue. His hand finds yours, wrapping tightly around palm and fingers alike. You scoot closer, doing your best with one hand now out of commission, and then you're partially hovering over him, your held hand supporting your weight.

“It's okay,” you whisper, and you begin to pet his hair back from his face. “You're okay.”

Even in the dark your eyes find each other. Before you can blink his arm is around you and you're pressed into his chest, his face hidden in your neck. You can feel each thundering beat of his heart through your chest as it slows, still beating too hard to fall into rhythm with your own.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

His arm tightens around your middle at that, a brief squeeze pulling you closer to him. His shuddered breath gusts across your skin where he’s buried his face.

“Bad dream?” you whisper into the hair above his ear, shifting above him to rest on his chest properly and rest one arm on the pillow by his head, the other sliding around his side to hold him in return.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ignoring your question, loosening his grip. “Your ribs-?”

“They’re fine, Miguel,” you say, your arm on the pillow by his head shifting.

As his heart slows, as his breath steadies and you wake fully, you become conscious of your body pressed into his. His face is still buried in your neck, and you feel his ribs expand under your body, raising you into the air.

His head falls back from your neck, resting on the pillow, and you lift your head to look at him in the dark.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

He pauses, eyes flitting between each of yours before he looks away. He pulls his arm back from around you, hand sliding to rest on your waist under your ribs.

“No.”

“Okay.” You prop yourself up further. “I’m here, though.”

He sighs, nods, closes his eyes.

Silence returns to the room, pressing in on your chest, squeezing your ribs like the bandages around your calf. You are too aware of your position nearly atop him, body pressed into the side of his chest with his hand still resting on your side, yours on his and your other bracing you above him on the pillow beside his head. You've been this close before, of course, and held one another much tighter in the dark. But something about this is different. Perhaps it's the way his fingers begin to unconsciously stroke your side and the way you've never gotten to look at him like this, above him, his eyes closed under you—

Your breath catches in your throat, and you lift your hand from his side to touch his face. His brow twitches, his hand tightens and relaxes on your side, and he sighs again as tension slowly drains from his body. You let your hand rest on his cheek more solidly, and his eyes flicker open to meet yours in the dark.

You hope he can’t feel the way your heart skips and then beats just that much harder. You swallow, hold your breath, and let your hand slide into his hair.

His eyes flutter shut, and everything freezes.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and the pressure of the air eases.

“Of course,” you finally say, your mouth dry, stroking your thumb back over his temple into his hair. You shift, settling down into his side.

His arms wrap around you once more. Neither of you speak, and you don't fall back asleep for a long while.

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[littlewalken]

~I think I posted this before, it might have got lost in the fog, so here it is again~

Citrus free Husbands, Aziraphale/Brother Frances comes to the rescue when Crowley/Nanny Ashteroth’s duties to Warlock cause some distress, woe be them if they are caught in a compromising position!

GOOD OMENS (Cold Nanny)

“Master Warlock I have told you to stay away from that pond! The ice is much too thin!” 

Aziraphale, in his guise of the gardener Brother Francis, hated scolding the boy, even if he was the Antichrist, but safety was safety, and he had heard the terrible sound of the ice breaking followed by a frantic splashing. 

I shall have to have a word with Nanny Ashtoreth about this, any excuse to see Crowley-eh? he chuckled to himself. “How about you make a snow fort? I’ll show you how…”

As Aziraphel neared the duck pond he saw Warlock and his friends running away from it. All for the better if you don’t want a scolding from your nanny! Where was she? Something was wrong.

At first the ice of the duck pond looked undisturbed. Then he saw the remote controlled vehicle Warlock had got for Christmas. Then he saw the umbrella.

“Oh help! Do help!” Aziraphale called as he made his way out on to the ice. “Someone help! The nanny’s fallen through the ice!”

Now, you should know there are a great many snakes who can swim. There are a great many demons who can swim. None of them however swim in icy water because none of them are the least bit built for the cold. For if you had taken any sort of notice in wildlife documentaries you would have noticed all the creatures of the arctic or antarctic are rather plump with a great covering of blubber. And if you were any sort of noticer of Crowley’s forms the words “plump” and “blubber” would not in the least bit apply to him.

It was by any and all means that Aziraphael managed to pull Crowley out of the icy water. “Oh! Poor nanny!” Aziraphael sighed, just in case anyone was watching. “You’ll catch your death a cold if you’re not warmed up!” 

The house was too far to take a human in wet quickly turning to ice clothes. The gardening supply shed was closer. Yes, get Crowley in there, put on the electric kettle, get him out of these wet things! So may wet things!

Aziraphale set Crowley on a pile of seed sacks in the gardening shed and plugged in the electric kettle. 

“Smudge pot,” he told himself. “I’ll light up a smidge pot!” Yes, even though that would be outside the door it would still put out a good amount of heat. “And then we’ll have to do something with getting you out of those wet clothes!” 

Always the angel was looking to see if someone else was coming, if anyone had heard his cries for help. How awful, just down right awful would it be to have the gardener be caught undressing the nanny!

Now you should assume two things about all of Crowley’s clothes, even in his guise of Nanny Ashtoreth. First they are all black, unless noted otherwise, and they are all made of artificial fabrics. That is, if they were made of natural fabrics such as wool, silk, cotton, or linen, their natural wicking motion might not have left the situation so cold and damp. 

To peel off the layers of the onion that made up Nanny Ashtoreth it was best to start with the outermost first. I hope we don’t have far to go, Aziraphale readied himself for the task ahead. First in removing all of Crowley’s wet things was the furry black muff with its red satin lining. This was hung up to dry. Finding a place to hang things up would soon become a problem of its own. 

Next came a felt cap, which didn’t look like a butter bowl, and a knitted scarf with just the slightest hint of red. The scarf was so wet it could be wrung out. Now it was time for the cloak with its little slits for one’s hands to poke through. The buttons for this were quite large and it seemed like each took a dreadfully long time. On being hung up upon a rake to dry the cloak began to drip as if it were going to worm a pond of its own.

“Here, now, miss Ashtoreth, have a nice warm cuppa.” Aziraphale said as he made a cup of instant tea for Crowley. He looked out the door at the flaming smudge pot. Oh please someone come and help me get her to the warmth of her bed. He put the cup in Crowley’s hand but the demon failed to grab it and the tea spilled to the floor.

The shoes had to come off. Leave it to Crowley to chose boots with countless eyes! The laces were quite frozen over and the boots were so tight the laces had to be pulled completely out to get them free and expose Crowley’s tosey-woseys clad in their stockings. 

One by one the fingers of the gloves were tugged on, loosening them up just enough so they could be removed. The removal of gloves could be a very sensual thing if done right. Done in a hurry they were bunched and pulled and dropped to the floor with a distinct splosh sound.

They were down to the winter version of the suit Nanny Ashtoreth always wore. Aziraphile liked the cut of the jacket, the slightly puffed sleeves, the wide cuffs, the little peplum in the back. It too was sopping wet. Fussing with the buttons the angel wondered if it was time to perform a miracle yet. 

Now it was time for the skirt. The cut of this Aziraphale didn’t like. It was too tight here, too full there, and the drape didn’t do any favors. Like the fasteners, who ever thought that a skirt needed a buckle? 

This would be the perfect time for someone to come upon us! Here is the gardener with the nanny bent over him as he fiddled with the zipper of her skirt! It would be nice if you could come to and help, dear Crowley. 

We must be nearing the end, the angel thought, how could you possibly be wearing much more? But Crowley was still wearing more. For being a demon and used to the fires of Hell he liked being warm and had been told the best way to keep a human body warm was to wear many layers. 

Aziraphale’s fingers went to the red silken bow of the scarf at Crowley’s neck. This was allowed to flutter to the floor because the blouse its self, wet, thin, see-through, and clinging to every inch of what lay underneath it, gave the impression of being real silk. 

“This I must be careful with,” the angel told himself as he cast a glance outside but no one except the smudge pot was watching. But by the third button he could tell the blouse wasn’t real silk and he allowed himself to rush along. 

By this time Nanny Ashtoreth was quite undressed but not completely. She sat on the pile of sacks, eyes presumably closed, looking half dead in a shimmering full length slip and stockings. If circumstances were different one might have found themselves distracted by the sight, admiring the human form that God had created in her own image. But a nearly naked and wet demon was turning a shade of blue that was not becoming to him. 

What few clothes that remained on Crowley’s body were somehow still soaking wet. The slip had to come off over his head, one of the satin ribbon straps was starting to fray, it would need to be replaced, that could be done tonight, nice and new by the morning. 

And still Crowley was wearing more! Under the slip there was a full and sensible brassiere and then some sort of girdle looking garment with suspenders that kept the stockings up. 

Knickers, were there knickers? Did Crowley even wear knickers? 

Yes, all these things seemed to be wet too but not as wet as the outer layers. These would have to remain on. As tempting as it would be to fuss with all the brassiere hooks and all the little clips holding up the stockings this layer of dainty underthings would have to remain.

Aziraphale quickly found a piece of burlap to wrap around Crowley. He thought he heard someone coming. If they were they’d find him outside at the smudge pot trying to dry his smock.

“How are you doing in there, miss Ashtoreth, feeling warmer yet?”

Warlock’s mother had come looking cold and quite worried, “Warlock said nanny Ashtoreth fell through the ice.”

“Oh, it’s not quite as bad as that but I’m afraid she’s quite cold,” Aziraphale said. “She should get promptly to bed though. I’ve been trying to warm her up, but slowly mind you, too fast might cause shock.”

***

Nanny Ashtoreth lay in her bed wearing a flannel nightgown under many layers of blankets. 

Brother Francis came in with a bouquet of winter flowers. “Feeling better are we, Miss Ashtoreth?”

“Yes, much warmer.” 

“I saw your clothes to the laundry for you.”

“Thank you, brother Francis.” 

Aziraphael looked around to see that they were indeed alone and leaned close to Crowley to whisper, “You could have lent us a hand with a few things there.”

“And deny you of all that fun?”

[ns-imagines]

Hurricane/Typhoon Prep

Platonic 141 x gn!reader

SFW | Word Count: About 500 |Headcannons/ Drabble

A/N: Its the Afternoon before the Typhoon (hurricane). There is currently a typhoon where i live in Japan. We rushed to get off work. Fingers crossed the power doesnt go off. This post is just for fun lol. Lemme know if I use too much military lingo. I’ll translate!

-Let's say everyone lived in the barracks. Even though Price, as Captain, would get base housing and Ghost would be in the officer barracks...anyways, you and the boys heard about the hurricane from Price. Apparently, this is going to be the worst storm the island has seen in a few years. They say that about every typhoon though.

-Ghost immediately went to the commissary (on-base grocery store), but he didn't get any good snacks. He just got stuff to meal prep in case the power went off. His idea of snacks is high protein snacks. The man loves to bulk up and maintain that muscle. Lots of protein bars... will 100% mention how he has to make up tonight at the gym.

-You and Gaz got stuck at work. "The typhoon doesn't dismiss you, I do." It's already starting to rain, and the wind is picking up. So much for staying dry. Gaz completely forgot to charge his portable batteries, even though you had a few days' warning before the storm. You’re pretty sure you have an extra!

-Price took his work home. He has a few mission reports to type up that can't wait. The commanding officer is waiting for them to review. #Officerthings So he took his laptop back to work until the power goes off. If it goes off.

-Soap managed to get off work before you and Gaz. He went straight to the gas station exchange (names of the stores on base) to stock up on snacks. There wasn't much left, but he grabbed everything that looked good. Some chips, ramen,and the last case of beer left!! Better than eating the MREs they hand out for typhoons. You’ll be constipated for days if you eat those…

-Finally, you and Gaz were let out of work and sped back to the barracks. You both took it upon yourselves to park really close to both sides of Soaps car. Don’t want the storm to blow it away! Changing into civilian attire, you both met in the hallway. Ghost and Soap were already together, hanging out in the room. They were quick to open the door as soon as they heard the knock.

-Soap definitely has the hangout room, along with Gaz. Gaz's room is more for drinking and playing cards all night, while Soap's is geared towards movie nights or typhoon campouts. The snacks lay displayed on his desk, and the fridge is full of beer and drinks. Not allowed to drink during a typhoon though. So soda and juice it is. Maybe one beer

-Price is the last to show up. He's been in the barracks for a while, but he wanted to finish that paper. All of you pick a spot on the couch or sit on Soap's bed to watch the movie. The wind howls outside, and the wind slaps the window. We'll definitely have tomorrow off.

-

This thing is literally edging us i want it to hit already so I can go outside!!!!!! Hopefully my motorcycle doesnt blow away or tip over….

Update: my motorcycle fell really hard and now im hiding it in my barracks room. Fml

[imtrashraccoon]

I was looking forward to this prompt for so long but I couldn't pick between them so I had to do both!

@scrambledmeggys

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Day 12: Pillow Fort & Pillow Talk

You were helping clean up the kitchen when Frisk tugged on your sleeve to get your attention. "What's up, kiddo?" you asked and glanced down at them.

They smiled and signed, "Can we have a sleepover? With everyone?"

You chuckled and ruffled their hair. "What, am I not enough? We have a sleepover together every night, don't we?" you asked teasingly.

"It's not the same..." they pouted and crossed their arms.

"Ask Papyrus and Sans. If they agree, then it's alright by me."

Frisk grinned and you watched them scamper over to the sink where Papyrus had just finished washing the dinner dishes. Frisk practically threw themselves at him and hugged his legs tightly.

Papyrus smiled and after drying his hands, gave Frisk an affectionate pat on the head. "What Do You Want, Sunshine?" he asked gently.

You couldn't help but smile at the cute nickname. It kind of made you wish you'd come up with a better one for Frisk rather than just 'kiddo'. Still, they'd never complained and so it had just become your thing.

After Frisk had explained their idea, Papyrus nodded. "I Suppose We Could Have A 'Sleepover' If You Want One So Badly. You Can Ask Sans If You Want But I Doubt He Would Turn Down Any Excuse To Sleep."

Frisk beamed and darted off, undoubtedly to go find Sans. Papyrus chuckled and shook his skull slightly. There was a brief moment of silence before he asked you a question. "I Have Never Had A Sleepover Before, Could You Explain It To Me?"

You nodded, "Of course, Frisk and I used to have them a lot. We usually made a pillow fort and watched a movie, sometimes we even played games and had snacks."

He hummed thoughtfully, "I Suppose That Sounds Fun."

"It is, just give it a chance and I think you'll enjoy it," you said with a smile.

Unsurprisingly, Sans had agreed to participate as Papyrus had predicted he would. So under Frisk's supervision, the living room was transformed into by far the largest pillow fort you'd ever seen. The brothers had quite a few extra pillows and blankets, which when combined with having extra help, made the actual construction of the fort much easier than it ever had been on your own.

Sans plopped down in the nest of blankets and cushions that had been arranged on the floor. To your surprise, Frisk chose to settle down next to him which you found rather sweet. This left the couch to you and Papyrus, which was just fine with you.

You watched some sort crappy action movie together and while Sans seemed to fall asleep fairly quickly, Frisk persisted and managed to stay awake for half of the movie's run time. While the movie itself wasn't anything special to write home about, Papyrus held you close and once the others were asleep, you'd snuggled up closer to him as well.

When the movie was over, you reached for the remote and flicked off the tv. Rather than get up to put the disk back in its case though, you elected to do that later as you were pretty comfortable right now.

Papyrus seemed to silently agree and wrapped his arms around you in a gentle embrace. "You Were Right," he murmured as he gently nuzzled against your head. "This Was Fun."

"Right? I never did this sort of thing much as a kid but I started doing it with Frisk to give them something to look forward to," you said thoughtfully. "It's just nice to spend time with people I think."

Papyrus hummed quietly. "You Know What Would Make This Moment Even Better, Precious?"

"What?"

Instead of responding, Papyrus shifted his body to the side and tugged you with him. You went along with it since you were admittedly curious where this was going. He maneuvered your body in such a way so you were both laying down and facing each other on the couch.

For a moment, you both just laid there, gazing into each other's eyes. You found yourself admiring what a pretty shade of red his eyelights were and how they especially stood out in the now darkened living room. Part of you wondered if he could see any better than you could or if his eyelights just glowed for looks. That was something you should ask at some point.

"I Am Happy To Have Met You, Rihanna," Papyrus finally whispered. "Even Though We Are So Different, I Would Do Anything To Keep You And Frisk Safe."

You nearly let out an audible "aw" but restrained yourself for now. His words had touched you and you couldn't help but make a confession of your own.

"You want to know something? Of all the people I've met in life, you're the only one I've connected with this closely with before."

He smiled warmly and moved a few locks of hair out of your face. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something but then he didn't. You weren't sure why but the longer you two stayed there just gazing into each other's eyes, you had a realization.

You might actually love him.

Maybe he felt the same but you wouldn't know unless you asked. Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to admit it, not right now at least.

It wasn't meant to be. The King had ordered all humans to be killed and you were pretty sure he intended to wage war on humanity once the barrier was destroyed. Ever since you'd fallen down here, your death was inevitable, it was only a matter of time but you were going to die one day. Still, you could live in denial for a little bit longer.

"I guess I never told you much about myself, did I?" you asked quietly.

"No, But I Never Asked Either."

"I didn't think things would turn out like this, but there's some things I want you to know about me..."

You told Papyrus a little about what your life had been like on the surface. You told him about your parents and how growing up with an older brother had been. How you'd moved away from your small coastal town for college and met your best friend, Terence. You told him how you'd gotten a pretty good internship at a big corporate office but had been nearly working yourself to death. How Terence had passed away after a tragic climbing accident a few weeks before falling down into the Underground which nearly broke you. Then, you told him about your relationship with Frisk, how they had quickly become your world and you thought of them sort of like a younger sibling.

Papyrus listened rather intently as you spoke, absentmindedly tracing patterns across your back with his claws. He only asked a few questions to clarify some things but he was a bit surprised by what you'd said about Frisk. Apparently, he'd been under the impression that they were your biological kid, which while you could understand with how you'd been treating them, was a little embarrassing.

In return, Papyrus told you a little bit about himself, although you could tell he was a little hesitant at first. He told you how he'd grown up with only his brother and neither of them remembered who their parents were. How they'd had to be mean and scary in order to survive because of the "Kill or Be Killed" rule. He told you how it'd always been his dream to join the Royal Guard and one day become the Captain. Finally, he told you how he'd always wanted to have true friends, rather than having to make people afraid of him all the time, and how he'd always dreamed of seeing the surface one day.

It seemed like hours had passed while you'd both talked and when you'd finally laid everything out, you had the feeling that Papyrus was seeing you in a new light. In fact, you could see that he had more depth to him than you'd thought. Sure, he was still a powerful monster who had killed countless other people, but you felt empathy for how he'd struggled just to survive this long.

You didn't remember falling asleep but the last thing you did remember, was Papyrus pulling you slightly closer and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You wouldn't know how much more he admired you now either nor how his opinion of you had changed a bit. Where before he'd assumed you'd had an easy life on the surface, he now could see that you were also a strong person; maybe not physically but emotionally.

He so desperately wanted to say that he loved you...

[gaintsnowflake]

𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌

PAIRING - George Karim x Ex!gn!Reader

ONESHOT - in which george has a breakdown in the bathroom

SONG - michael in the bathroom by george salazar

TRIGGERS - drinking, mental breakdown, being left

A/N - please mind any typos or grammar mistakes, it is proof-read only by me so I won’t be able to catch everything

WORD COUNT - 1k

masterlist

THE WORLD is spinning. 

I knew it was a bad idea to come here, a even worse one to drink when I had seen them, hoping to just make the pain go away. I should have never listened to Lockwood. I should have stayed home. I could be home, curled up reading a book. I could be doing research about another case. I could be fighting a fucking ghost, that sounds better than being here right now.

I am crying in the bathroom at the biggest party of the fall. I could just sit right here and disappear, nobody'd even notice at all. Not Lockwood, not Lucy. Hell if I didn't know any better I would say they are snogging in a random corridor. I am a nobody to anybody here. 

Outside the door, people of high status fill the large rooms. Those who are not high status are the drunken agents who are partying like there is no tomorrow, probably because they may not have a tomorrow. But here is I am. I'm the creeper in the bathroom, because my buddies left me alone.

But I would rather fake pee than stand awkwardly staring at them from across the way. But it can't help but bring back the memories of the last party I had gone too. When everything felt fine, cause I was half of a pair. Though no fault of mine, there is no other half there. Because they left us. They left me. Not the other way around.

They left me, so now I am just, George in the bathroom. I am George in the bathroom at a party. God I forget how long it's been. And no one can come in. 

I will just sit here and cry, waiting for Lucy and Lockwood to come in get me or I'll wait it out 'til it's time to leave. This would leave me with hours of time to do nothing but sit, pout, and possibly pick at grout as I softly grieve. 

All because I'm just George, who you don't know. George whose flying solo. I am just George in the bathroom by himself. All by myself. I am hiding because their out their. I'm ignoring all our history. Trying to forget all the pain they brought me. I hope my memories get erased, maybe get replaced, with a newer cooler version of me. Because they deserve that. They deserve their second half, even if it isn't me. 

But now I hear a drunk girl, singing along to Whitney through  the door. "I wanna dance with somebody!" Her words are slurred, but it only bring backs memories of the good old days. But my feelings sink, cause it making me think, now there is no one to make fun of drunk girls with anymore. 

I am left alone, nobody to call my home. No one to bring me tea, when I am up late at night. No one to watch over me. I am just me.

Now it's just George in the bathroom, George in the bathroom at a party. Could I get any less pathetic, as I sit and choke on the sobs. The alcohol in my system only making my emotions worse. I half regret the beers, cause its making the tears flow harder and faster. All because I am just George in the bathroom, George in the bathroom at a party.

I can try and hide, choke back the tears, wait as long as I need, 'till my face is dry. My eyes are red from, how do I even try to cover that?I could wait until they become less flush, or maybe I'll just blame it on weed. Or something in my eye.

How would anyone know? I'm just George who no who they don't know. George flying solo. George in the bathroom by himself. The last person they think of when they think of cool. I am just an oddball who no one likes. 

As I continue to clean off my face, trying to hide the fact I am crying, hiding in the bathroom by myself. Just waiting it out, till I hear a knock. Maybe I'll be free. Then I hear a few more, knock, knock, knock. It is getting more aggressive as I prepare to leave. They are gonna start to shout soon, hell yeah, I'll be out soon. I won't be on my own, it sucks they left me here, all alone, here in this battle zone. 

The noises get louder as they pound harder. I can feel their anger, the pressure blowing up. I knew it was a mistake showing up. If I just splash, some water on my face, everything will be just okay. 

So I throw some water on my face, and now I am in a better place. But as I go to open up the door, I can't hear knocking anymore.

I missed my chance, I missed my escape. I can't help but yearn, for a different time. One where I can get out of here, make my presents clear, have the courage to stand for what's right. But then I look in the mirror, and it becomes much clearer. There is no denying, I'm just George in the bathroom at a party, is there a sadder sight than... George in the bathroom at a party. 

This is a heinous night, I wish I just stayed home instead. Maybe just lay in bed. Or I wished I offed myself in bed, wish I was never born. Then I wouldn't have to do this all again. No one would care, no one would notice. 

I am just George who's a loner, so he must be a stoner. I ride a PT cruiser, god I am such a loser. 

But what's worse is when I hear the creek of the door. The lock is gone. I look over my shoulder, to see their face. The memories coming back to me. This isn't worth the pain, as they look at me, heartbreak in their eyes. I am now who they think that they know. 

I am not the same old boy, so much has changed. They don't know me anymore, and that is their fault.

"Georgie?" Their voice is still the same, sending my heart fluttering at the name. 

But all they know about me is my name.

"AWESOME PARTY, I'M SO GLAD I CAME."

[starrabbitmedia]

Question about Gartha: Was Sunny born similar to a human baby, or do fables lay eggs like moths? If the latter, then did Sunny start as a larvae-like baby. Did sunny have to go into a cocoon to gain his wings?

So Fables do lay eggs, but considerably less than a normal moth. Only about 3-4 at most. Not all of them survive. Usually only 1-2 makes it, so it's a better omen if they lay 4 eggs. It means they'll for sure wind up with at least 1 healthy child. But the eggs are very fragile and are usually placed in special woven baskets with soft, comfortable material inside.

The eggs hatch within 4-10 days of being laid, and the babies are incredibly small at first. They aren't larvae-like, but they are very squishy and chubby looking. The laying basket can also be used to transport the babies in public, if need be, but one of the parents usually stays home with them to keep them protected until they are at least a couple of months old and the parents feel safer taking them out.

At that point, they are placed inside of special baby-wraps on the parent's chest. Though the wraps are tied in a way that keeps the parent's wings free and they can fly, they prefer not to fly with their little grubs until they're at least 6-8 months old.

ALSO, they have "baby colors." Fables start out the same color as whatever the caterpillar of the moth they're based on looks like. So they may start out with stripes and lose those stripes over time. Usually they have their adult colors by the age of 11. Kind of like a child losing its baby teeth and getting its adult teeth.

Sunny's case is... a little special. But yes, they do go into a cocoon to gain their wings. They grow incredibly tired to the point of not being able to function, their bodies grow sticky, and the stickiness turns into a hard shell around them. Essentially, they take a 1-3 day nap depending on the type of Moth the Fable is, and then when they wake up and break out of the shell, they have their wings.

The wings are delicate just for the first couple of hours while they dry, but after that are shockingly strong. They don't rip, they don't freeze (though it is considerably harder to fly in cold/freezing weather), and it doesn't hurt to lay back on them or if someone accidentally sits on one. It really only hurts when they're pulled on.

The Fables usually get their wings any age between 13-15, and it's essentially their version of puberty.

Being based off of bugs, their life expectancy is shorter than other beings in Gartha. They usually only last till about 50-60 years old. The oldest Fable in the world is 68, and he literally looks like he's going to keel over any second. Mans looks like he's made out of dust.

[navycat305]

hello this is only slightly terrifying but I wrote something for the first time and posted it publicly so here it is

Will also put it under the cut :)

It’s not until a week or so after the case that it catches him, like a thorn snagged in the material of a jumper, one that you only notice when it pulls you back, sudden and sharp as you hurry along. He’s flicking through his contacts, checking he’s got all the important ones he needs for mundane things - insurance, and his landlord, and the landlord for the office. The reset was inconvenient, sure, but it wasn’t horrible, not like the two small marks on his upper arm that Maya likes to bump against her own a little too gleefully whenever someone mentions the name Manfred von Karma. He’d have to track down Larry again, which could take months given the guy’s talent for doing multiple things on a whim without telling people between the somewhat brief times they met in person. There are still no names under the tab marked ‘E’. That hasn’t changed.

It’s only when he gets to ‘M’ that he stops. Thinks, briefly, until it sinks in. There is only one name under it that he has re-entered, and that is Maya Fey. He’d known it without asking her, a remnant of every single time he’d stared at the number between December and April, finger hovering over the call button until he’d inevitably sigh and turn away to other things, clients, business, who knows what else. Sometimes he’d talk to Charley about it, then panic when he remembered that he couldn’t recall how long it had been since he’d last watered him.

He supposes that it’s hard to remember everything when you’re building back up from nothing. Hell, he just went through amnesia, of course he should understand that. Still, it doesn’t hit less hard when he realises that he hasn’t put any other names under ‘M’. 

*

He remembers when she gave him her number, still hacking up nothing every so often and wheezing a little in odd moments that made conversation awkward. “To ensure that you stay out of trouble,” he recalls her saying, with that wry smile he’d come to know whenever she teased him. He didn’t really consider it at first, rushing around in a daze and picking up as many projects as possible, opening commissions, auditioning for the university’s summer play, heck even reading the paper for one of the first times in his life, enough that it meant he wouldn’t have time to slow down and start thinking again. His grades had never been better, and his professor had just invited him to exhibit one of his paintings in Ivy’s annual art show at the end of the semester.

That’s why he’d been busy in the art room, the afternoon sun lazily stretching through the skylights on the top floor of the building and gently warming his face each time he looked up from the canvas. He hadn’t read the article until a couple of days after it released, when it had found its way onto the floor in ripped sheets slightly stuck together with paint. That’s when he’d started thinking again, pacing up and down the halls until someone stuck their head out of their room and told him to be quieter, even though he hadn’t said a word. He’d looked at his own room with fresh eyes, seen the mess piling up in the middle instead of pushed to the corners as usual. His phone was on the desk amongst pencils, paints, a disembowelled sketchbook and a half-eaten chocolate bar that somehow hadn’t yet melted in the heat. He’d picked it up, taking a moment to recall her name, finding it there in all its clinical length: Mia Fey (lawyer).

Before he knew it, he’d hit the call button, mouth dry. Heard her voice after two rings, surprisingly quick at hiding slight confusion and just as friendly as it had been months ago. Asked her what he should do if he wanted to take the bar.

*

“Do you ever feel weird about still being able to talk to Mia?” It’s a stupid question, one he must’ve asked her so many times before. It has been a year, although they both know that doesn’t matter. He’s still staring up at the ceiling when he asks, so he doesn’t have to look at her and feel bad about bringing it up.

It doesn’t work, and he watches her out of the corner of his eye, fiddling with the limited edition Steel Samurai strap around her pink cell phone. “I mean, I guess. It’s weird that it’s Mia.” Her voice is level, but she also avoids his gaze. “I don’t know. It’s always been a thing.” 

He can’t remember the last time he texted Mia, or called. He supposes that Maya had to do it more often, being two hours away by train, while he was only a bike-ride from her for several years. Digital communication for them was smaller things, preludes to the uncountable meetings at restaurants, the courthouse or simply the old, battered couch in the office, where they’d pour over papers or chat over shitty coffee. Did she ever think, he wonders, of faraway Maya when she sat opposite him all those times? He reminds himself, after a while, that he can ask. He doesn’t know if he wants to. “Still can’t get my head around it.”

Maya laughs softly, tired. “Most people can’t.” The sound of the air conditioning whirrs as they ponder it. “To be fair, you didn’t question it too much. I was surprised sis didn’t tell you earlier. But it kinda makes sense given that it has literally nothing to do with the law.” They both know that isn’t true, which makes it easier to leave unsaid. Makes him wonder what else Mia never bothered with. 

“Sorta like she’s a phone call away, if you want to look at it like that,” he grunts. Maya hums, a strange sound that shifts. She starts to speak, then stops again. 

“Like a phone call from the mountains….incredibly unreliable and hard to reach, but not impossible.” He snorts. “I always hated calling her from that phone booth. Usually Morgan was outside, glaring at me for about thirty minutes ‘cuz I’d spent too long in there. It was harder to find cell service though, so I kinda had to deal with it.”

He doesn’t have an answer to that, which is fine. He suspects that she’s happy for him to listen without comment. That is, until she offers it to him candidly for the first time. “I can channel her properly next time we’re in Kurain, if you want. Can’t get any worse than last time.” He thinks of the phone number he can’t remember, of the weight that still hangs over him, the feeling that the office is still hers after so long. 

“It’s alright. You don’t have to do that.”

*

The prison is nicer than he thought it would be, especially after the several visits to the detention centre he’s now had. They let him in surprisingly quickly, and there’s not much waiting before she’s led out to see him, or at the very least stare at him from the other side of the glass.

“Mr Wright,” Lana greets him, much more warmly than he is used to. She seems a little confused at first that he should come to see her after all has been said and done, but she is still kind. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

They chat a little, about his recent cases and how she’s adjusted, the most recent time she called Ema two days ago, all the way in Europe, beaming with pride at her progress in school and forensics. Once again, the similarities don’t help. She can tell that he’s tiptoeing around it. “You want to ask about Mia, don’t you? We do have all the time we need now, after all.” But first, she asks how Maya is doing, and laments the fact that she's never met her properly. This surprises him. She laughs. 

“She wanted to keep us separate, I think,” she muses airily. “Like two cats being slowly introduced to each other between a door, or something similar. It seems odd now I suppose, but it was very different for her in Kurain.” He still can’t reconcile her, so strong and full of cheek in the smart black suit, with a spirit medium in something Maya would wear. He can’t ever imagine her being pious - that’s a stretch too far. Lana smiles as she sees him try. “She used to tell me sometimes, about the village. Very rarely, you understand. Mostly she tried to make me forget that she was anything other than an LA native. It was frustrating for her a lot of the time.”

He wonders just how much Lana knows of Mia; what that ‘intellectual attraction’ had wrought from her. He can parrot her inflections, cheerful and serious, repeated every single trial: the only time a lawyer can cry is when it’s over. He’d never seen her cry at all. How long had she waited?

He asks her for Mia’s phone number. Lana repeats it automatically, and they stare at each other in silence. He lets it dissipate into the air, and watches the tiredness ebb into her eyes for the first time since he’d seen her in the defendant lobby before the last trial. There is nothing more to be said.

He still offers to get Maya to channel her. She looks more like the Lana he is familiar with when he does, with her February face that masks the pain. Her refusal is polite, and she thanks him for his consideration. He tells her he’ll come again soon, and hopes he means it.

*

Life goes on. He muddles through beside Maya and Pearls, taking a few small things on here and there for the money to fund an insatiable appetite for burgers. There’s been no progress on his contacts since August, nothing new to blindside him as it usually does. He watches the girls leave, once a month, each time the ghost of an offer to accompany them flailing before it gets very far. He sees Pearly’s shoulders slump when they return, and the way Maya bites her lip when she thinks nobody is looking. The days are getting longer.

“You should really get a new phone, Nick,” Maya says suddenly on one of those unremarkable evenings. Pearls is asleep on the couch, still with her coat on, and his heavy eyes envy her this small moment of peace, telling him he should’ve been asleep an hour ago. He turns around for a blanket instead of answering. “You’ve had that thing for, like, forever.”

It’s not that he’s putting it off. There’s not an issue with it really. Sure it’s still the first one he ever got, but there’s nothing wrong with that. 

She sees him when he turns back to lay the blanket over her cousin and shrugs. “Just a suggestion. Fresh start, y’know? Didn’t you say that Wellington smashed it up a bit when he tried to get it back from you?” He shushes her and points to the sleeping Pearly. She makes a face back, but slips into a frown not long afterwards. “You said you were considering getting a new one last December, that’s all.” She gives a little gasp when it catches up to her, just as he stiffens. Doesn’t stop him when he walks out of the room to bed, wordless. 

He doesn’t get up for several hours, and she burns next morning’s pancakes to show she is sorry.

*

“G’morning Nick,” Maya greets him groggily as he enters, breaking from her tussle with some wrapping paper and scrunching up her face in a yawn. “Do you know how to wrap presents?” He nods, kneeling down to take her place above the large set of coloured pencils, slowly reaching for the tape. “Is it too much? Or not enough? Aunt Morgan never did anything, so-”

“Maya,” he says, monotone with exhaustion, “it’s fine. It’s good, really. She deserves a nice Christmas and you’re giving her one. There’s nothing much more you can do. I’m proud of you.”

“Really?” He stops folding the corners of the paper. Her shoulders shake slightly against him, warm, until she springs up again, hastily swiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “Hey, I got those circus tickets too! I can’t believe we’re going to see Maximillion Galactica!” 

He turns the wrapped present to her and she gives him a thumbs up. It is nestled under the little fake tree Maya had insisted they get while at the mall a week or so ago. He’d just been planning to drape some lights over Charley, but now the miniature conifer sits on a spare table with a few small decorations picked out the same day while the old Cordyline stricta twinkles half-heartedly in the corner. Maya babbles about a Christmas display downtown as he blurs the lights and leaves with his stare.

Larry had called sometime around 2am, that stupid ringtone that Maya had picked out for him blaring into his ears and startling him awake. The man had barely even regarded his grudging answers, all in a tone begging him to take a hint. He’d heard the muffled sound of club music interrupted by faraway feminine laughter, and hung up before Larry managed to slur that he loved him one more time. He squints through the dark at the numbers of the digital clock and feels a creeping sense of defeat at knowing he’ll have to take a nap later. 

He grins a little guiltily when he only catches the tail-end of Maya’s reminiscences. “I asked to go every year after that, but…,” she sighs, and he puts it together far too quickly. 

This is not the first Christmas without her, nor will it be the last, for either of them. But when was there time to stop and think on that grey day a year ago, something within him asks. After all, they were so busy that he, at least, had nothing left to give. The only thing he needed was answers, a real adult to sort the puzzle pieces and put the edges together. She had only ever been an echo of a message left while he was on another line. He makes a mental note for them to find their way downtown later, after the main rush of the day is over.

“Oh, I got something for you too, Nick!” Maya is handing him a small, rectangular box that she has managed to badly attach some paper to. “If it helps, I see it as another way to stick it to Morgan.” It’s heavier than he thought it would be, and he automatically cups it in his palms before registering it. He peeks back the wrappings and lets them fall from his fingers almost as soon as he does. 

“Maya, I can’t take this.” 

She huffs a laugh. “Of course you can, stupid!” His face does not change. Hers does, rapidly, flickering through several different things and eventually settling on lightheartedness. “If you weren’t going to let me pay rent, I had to do something!” She reaches for it and lifts the lid off, rifling through the assorted ephemera until she finds it, shiny and new, and waves it at him. She drops her arms, and her smile, when he continues to stare.

“Nick. Take it from me, old guy. You need a new phone. That thing can’t still be working properly.” He has no answer to give. The corners of her eyes crinkle with frustration, and she stands up at full height, all of her 5’1 to his 6’0. She’s almost glaring at him, mouth set in a thin line. “You can't wallow like this forever. Not for Pearly,” she swallows, “and not for me either. They’re gone.” It’s as soft as she can make it but he still flinches, tightening his grip over his pocket. 

“I’ve broken so many rules for us, you know that? Calling Mia whenever we need her, outside of the candles, and altars and shit. We do that stuff for a reason. Because it’s just once, or twice, in order to help people find peace. Closure. And I can’t do that here. So I’m doing what I can.” She squints at him, fingers tangled tightly and voice trembling. “It has to happen, Nick.”

She raises her arms, holding out the phone, the glowing orange 4:59 of the digital clock morphing into 5:00am. He grasps it, fragile. He can hear her breathing, determinedly steady. Then, a sigh of relief as she tackles him by the waist. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. He holds her tightly and swears again, for good measure, to never let her go.

*

He shuts the box in his desk drawer amidst the nest of paper and happiness scattered around the living room hours after. Maya and Pearls lie sleeping on their mattress, curled into one another after a day of delight and exhaustion in equal measure. He tiptoes around them to make it to the couch and pinches his brow with two fingers, staring at the drawer like he can see through it. He runs his fingers over the scratched buttons on his old reliable and tries to hopscotch Mia’s number aimlessly, without success but also, to his surprise, without staggering remorse. Hopes Maya can be content with his acquiescence, that he will be able to set it up sooner or later.

Yeah, he thinks, watching the girls - his girls, his and Mia’s - breathe in tandem with one another, a soft smile falling onto his face. He can do that later.

(Later, he will get a call from Maya that Maximillion Galactica has been arrested from murder, and find himself knee-deep in another incredulous case that doesn’t feel entirely real.) 

(Later, he will be phoned by a smooth-voiced killer that leaves them fighting for their small existence and digs into his very core with each successive ring until there is nothing he can fight with anymore.)

(Later, he will limp from the courtroom while Pearl clings to him, hand her to a concerned bailiff and throw his phone on the ground so fiercely that it breaks into uncountable fragments, in both anger and relief.)

(Later, he will pass the new phone to Maya and she will gasp in delight and pick out the same old Steel Samurai ringtone that has bothered him for the last couple of years, and he will not change it.)

(Later, he will find a contact under ‘E’ and call it over and over again. As time goes on, it will move to ‘M’.)

(Later, Mia will stop answering Maya and Pearl, and he will be okay.)

But for now, there is peace. He closes his eyes, perhaps imagining that faint outline of the Chief in front of him just before he does. His phone slides from his hand and onto the cushion beside him. There is one contact under ‘M’. It is enough.

[sugarmapl]

wooo I've never done this before and I don't really have that good ideas but I still wanna try this :3 how about a jealous kazuscara one. Its up to you if you want to make it suggestive or not, but like imagine since kazuha is very friendly and nice with everyone one day scara gets jealous about it. Like in his usual 'scoff brush it off' kind of way but he does feel a little insecure about it and then kazuha comforts and reassures him (and also doesn't forget to tease him abt hjsdhgfk) stay safe love!!!! <3

This was a great idea, thank you so much @silentlydying ! I hope this is similar to what you were looking for, and thanks for requesting! :)

it’s a little over 1,000 words; mostly fluff with some minor hurt/comfort and humor! (poor heizou got dragged into it as well, but he’s just so flirty with everyone)

stay safe, and i hope you enjoy!! <3

Sometimes Scara forgot that Kazuha was from the present Inazuma, and therefore it made sense that he had friends still living within the country. All of Scara’s friends in Inazuma were long gone, so he merely accompanied Kazuha around the islands, greeting people here and there that recognized the infamous samurai.

It was always kind of awkward. Of course, no one would recognize Scara anymore, but the uncomfortable sensation of being back in his homeland never got any easier. Then add in the fact that Scara usually had to stand around like a third wheel while Kazuha met up with all his old friends, and Inazuma was securely at the bottom of the list of Scara’s favorite places to visit.

Though these days Scara took up the mantle of a wanderer, in truth it was a title that applied to the both of them. They often spent their days wandering from one destination to another, no end goal in mind. It was nice.

Except for on days like today, when Scara had to stand to the side while Kazuha met with a detective in Inazuma City. The redhead had called on Kazuha to assist with a case he was working on, and naturally Scara had also tagged along.

He just didn’t expect the detective to be so… flirty. Why was he so touchy? And the way he spoke so sensual? And why was he so damn pretty!? It was really pissing Scara off. He wasn’t normally the jealous type, but wasn’t the guy being way too overly familiar?

He felt his blood pressure rise with every touch and every lilted word. Scara had been standing some distance away for a while now, but he couldn’t watch any more. He stormed off to clear his head. Whatever. It’s not like Kazuha was paying him any attention anyway. He probably wouldn’t even notice Scara was gone.

The puppet walked and walked, taking in the landscape of his homeland that had once been familiar a long time ago. Though it was the land of eternity and hardly ever changed, it felt so different to him. He found a random hill and sat down, looking out over the waves and observing the sun as it slowly inched towards the horizon.

It would have been nice to watch the sunset with Kazuha, he found himself thinking bitterly. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he left. Time slipped through the puppet’s fingers just like a lot of other things tended to. Would Kazuha also be another one of those things?

As he was contemplating, he heard the crunch of footsteps through the dry grass, and knew instantly that Kazuha had come. The samurai could move as quietly as the breeze if he wanted to, but he was purposely making his presence known to Scara as he approached. Still, Scara refused to look up at him even as he felt the weight of Kazuha’s body plop down next to him.

They sat in silence for a while. Scara could feel those scarlet eyes on him, but his own never left the glowing sky. He was still mad. Sure, it was stupid, and maybe even childish, but he wanted Kazuha to know that he was upset. And if Kazuha didn’t care, it was easier and better to push him away in advance.

But most of him was sure that the samurai would immediately apologize and try to placate him. Scara didn’t like to brag (yes he did), but he had Kazuha pretty much wrapped around his finger. He would say sorry, Scara would act upset for a little bit longer, and then they would inevitably make up (which was Scara’s favorite part).

However, when Kazuha spoke it was entirely different from what he had expected.

“You’ll be happy to know we solved the case.”

Scara was dumbfounded. Was Kazuha actually that dumb, or that cold? He likely knew why the other was upset, and that’s what he chose to say to him?

The puppet threw his plan out the window. He gave up his indifference and turned to look at the samurai in astonishment, but when he saw the wide smirk on Kazuha’s face he realized that he’d been played. Kazuha had known just what to say to get Scara to look at him and acknowledge his presence, and it worked.

“You are such an ass,” Scara retorted.

He shoved Kazuha so that he fell on his side, and the samurai burst out laughing. Eventually, Kazuha caught his breath and righted himself again, poking a finger into Scara’s pouting cheek.

“You like to act tough, but you’re so easy to read,” he teased.

“Whatever. I hate you. Just go back to playing detective,” Scara grumbled, pushing his hand away.

“I’m sorry, you’re just so cute when you’re grumpy,” the samurai said.

He was smiling so wide it almost made Scara want to smile back, but he stopped himself. He still hadn’t apologized for what Scara wanted him to. He practically left him alone all day!

“Shut up,” Scara snapped.

“Okay, okay. I’m really sorry for today, I didn’t mean to leave you out. I just really wanted to help Heizou solve his case, and I might have gotten distracted,” Kazuha explained.

“Was all that flirting really crucial to solving the case?” Scara asked sarcastically.

“Flirting?” Kazuha questioned, genuinely sounding confused.

“You were practically hanging off each other the whole time! And why does he talk to you like that? It clearly sounded like he was trying to seduce you,” Scara ranted.

Kazuha stared at him blankly for a moment. “I… really didn’t notice any of that. I think Heizou is just like that.”

“You’re trying to say he acts that way with everyone?” Scara asked skeptically.

“Yeah, pretty much. I should have noticed it bothered you though, so I’ll make sure he tones it down in the future,” Kazuha promised.

Scara was still stunned. What is wrong with that detective? Who acts like that!? But Kazuha was looking at him so earnestly in that moment that Scara knew he was telling the truth.

“Ugh, now I just feel stupid,” Scara groaned, exasperated.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his arms. He had definitely made a fool out of himself. Now Kazuha probably thought he was a possessive dumbass!

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re not stupid,” Kazuha said soothingly.

Scara felt a hand beginning to rub comforting circles up and down his back while another one pried his face up from his arms.

“Look at me,” Kazuha instructed him gently, placing his fingers under Scara’s chin to make the other meet his eyes. “You are the only one I want to flirt with.”

“That is so lame,” the puppet responded, but he was smiling cheekily now. “Are we at the part where we make up yet?”

Kazuha smiled back at him, eyes full of adoration before something dark flashed in them briefly. “We can be.”

Then, he dove in for a kiss.