#was on the same wavelength as him and now my stomach is churning

[chikoyama]

It was almost cozy Mahito would say as he lay repose on the metal beam. A pale leg — almost sickingly in its complexion — dangled over the edge, swinging idly as if pushed gently by the chill wind of the night.

The transfigured human that he'd tossed up in the air landed back into his palm. It was high up here, the scaffolding almost swaying against the curtain of darkness behind.

There was a bored expression on his face once he felt the presence of a sorcerer interrupting the moment, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head.

“Aaah-aaa, you humans always hold such attachments towards each other,” he sighed, his cadence light and airy despite the statement. “But have you ever considered the feelings of us curses?” Feigning despondency, Mahito dropped his head back as he raised a stitched hand to his forehead.

Beneath, amber eyes remained steady on him as she lifted her bag off her shoulder, movements slow and controlled. “Mhmm, I rather not consider that,” Chiyori returned, red-stained lips set into a straight line. “At least I doubt you have much feeling.”

“You humans truly are cold creatures and just no fun,” Mahito pouted, still clinging to the mask of peevish dramatics he’d put on — though, they both knew it was more in mock than sincere despair.

Tipping her head to the side, the sorceress tapped her sheathed weapon against the ground. A muscle tugged at the corner of her lip. “Well, why don’t you come down and play with me, then?”

With no small amount of modesty, perverse intrigue seemed to glisten in those dual-hued orbs as the curse shifted his gaze to the woman below. Then, his face split into a wicked grin. “If you insist.”

[bokutosbabe]

Oh please, can I request the first time s/o rubs her nose against tecchou’s nose?

You don’t have an idea how I love tecchou’s fluff, like, everyone agrees he’s the most affectionate guy😭how I love my baby

AAHFSHSHSVSV I LOVE TECCHOU SM THIS IS SO CUTE. i had a pretty bad mental health week recently so i’m sorry for not finishing this earlier!!

nose to nose–

tecchou suehiro x gn! reader

a/n – this ask was too cute and i actually sobbed bc i love tecchou more than words can describe 🫶🏼

content – tecchou fluff, fem! reader, really just cute relationship type stuff, tecchou calls reader ‘sweetheart’ and ‘ my love ’ ,added backstory for absolutely no reason,i think that’s it! lmk if i missed anything!

synopsis – cute lil nose bumps with tecchou :)

when tecchou had first met you, he didn’t understand why his stomach felt so queasy. was it the soy sauce he’d put in his coffee? no. it couldn’t be that– he’d drank it many times before, so what was different about today?

you–a new addition to the hunting dogs– you were the only new thing about today. his daily rituals of working out during meetings, going on his own little adventures after getting a mission done a little too quickly; all of that would now be thrown off balance because you were here.

this feeling in his stomach would go away sooner or later

or– that’s what he’d thought.

even then; two months after you’d arrived into their little group of strangely strong super freaks, the weird queasiness never subsided within tecchous stomach.

the way you smiled at jouno made his stomach churn in a way that could only be described as anger, but why would he get upset over two of his coworkers just chatting? he wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, so he went to the one member of the hunting dogs who hadn’t been so wrapped up in their space; tachihara.

tecchou went up to the fake ginger and asked him simply about why his stomach burned every time you were around him, yet it also burned with anger when you talked to anyone that wasn’t him.

“i dunno man, sounds like you like her to me-”the other male shrugged. which led to tecchou realizing that he did, in fact, like you.

and that’s what led to now, three months after tecchou had so bravely walked up to you the same day he’d found out that he actually liked you and asked you for “the honor of being his girlfriend” and who were you to tell the (arguably) cutest hunting dog no?

the two of you were sat on your couch, watching another stupid movie that tecchou had picked out. he refused to watch any high tense hostage or action movies; insisting that he “hated people getting tortured for no reason”

you’d been staring at your boyfriend for the past two minutes, trying to telepathically tell him that you absolutely did not want to watch this movie anymore, but he obviously couldn’t get your wavelengths.

the male kept shoving his face full of his buttered popcorn mixed with mustard– something that had his breath smelling disgusting and you avoiding every kiss he’d tried giving you.

“ ‘hiroooo ” you whined out towards your boyfriend, which made him finally turn his attention towards you, popcorn crumbs and mustard stained over his mouth and somehow even on his nose. you could never understand how your boyfriend got so messy while eating; it was a true mystery.

“ yes, my love? ” he’d chirped out, titling his hair so his fluffy hair that you could play with for hours upon hours. “can we change it? this is so boring!”you sighed, leaning closer to him, trying to take the remote that was placed on his lap.

“but i like this–”the males words stopped short when you got closer to him. try as he might, tecchou suehiro was the type of man to basically malfunction whenever you got closer to him. his hands found their way to your waist, moving the remote off his lap, causing you to let out a groan. you were so close and of course your puppy of a boyfriend couldn’t realize what you were doing!

the male moved you onto his lap with a ease, looking up at you as you stared down at him,“ you’re so pretty, y/n.”he leaned up, going to kiss you. and even though you loved your boyfriend, you weren’t going to kiss his popcorn and mustard filled mouth.

you slightly turned, shaking your head before putting your forehead on his, rubbing your nose against his. and let me tell you, tecchou was gobsmacked.

he looked up at you with a small frown, still staying close to you,“my love, do you not want to kiss me?” he asked as you let out a laugh. “you’re breath stinks, ‘hiro. ”

tecchou was never the type to complain, so he’d take the smallest of nose rubs from you, even if it confused him for the first six seconds it had happened.

“ if i go brush my teeth, can i kiss you?” he asked softly

you never did end up getting that remote.

the ending kinda sucked, i’m sorry! but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless!

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated, thank you!!

[itsonlyvegas]

Tartaglia Childe Ajax

a/n it seems like i write for myself more than anything now so i thought i'd pump out something that was inspired from my own personal fanfic :) INFO - Gender Neutral Reader, Dom!Childe, slight possessiveness if u squint. **NSFW**

Tartaglia always feels like he should help you. Schoolwork, fighting, eating, sleeping—you name it, and he'll help out. So if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask him. However, he can go a bit extreme with it. If you're not careful, he might end up helping you too much…

He knows it's weird, but he just doesn't know how to stop himself from doing so. He loves you so much that he doesn't even know how to put it into words or actions. He knows that sometimes you don't like to show sparring as a love language and sometimes you just want to be left alone, but he wants to do whatever he can to make sure everything is okay between the two of you. It's funny how something as small as a request for help can make him so happy. "Ajax, can you get me (x,y,z)?" You'd ask him to get you something and his heart would flutter at the fact you're dependent on him. He's so whipped so OBVIOUSLY he'd do it for you. Need help with a university homework question? He's got you. Need help sparring against a hard boss? Yep. He'll carry you. Those bags too heavy? Leave it to him. It gets a bit wild in bed, though. While he is helpful and loving outside of the bedroom, he's even more so in there. However… don't expect a handout when it comes down to the line. From hot kisses littering your skin in a desperate attempt to stay right there with you, to hugs that seem to last forever… He's bound to try and take charge eventually. You won't regret it. The heat radiating off his body will cause you to forget about anything else. He's whipped. He'd go faster and harder if you begged - deeper if possible. His balls ache for that sweet release and his stomach churns as he hears those buttery moans slip right past your puffy lips. "Need more?" He'd ask you. He has you in a missionary position so he can see your beautiful, flushed face in all its glory. Still. He can't resist the urge to give you a little push upwards, to watch you gasp as your hips rise off the bed from his strong, large (yet boney) hands. "Yes." You'll whimper, reaching back to grab him by his thick, soft hair. You're melting under him, twitching and moaning. His voice is hoarse. He's panting. Your legs are quivering underneath him. "Fuck me harder," you beg, begging as you bite your lip. In response, Tartaglia would pull out every trick in the book to please you. He'll pound into you harder. He'll fuck you harder. He'll taste you harder. He'll kiss you harder. He'll make you moan louder than you've ever moaned before… all for his precious love. And when it all comes to a spicy halt… He'll drill down deep inside of you. He'll curl his fingers around your hip bones as he does so. You'll squirm, trying to get closer to him so you can just feel the way his muscles twitch and relax under your touch. The way he holds you tight makes it feel like you're always on that same wavelength - always in sync and never faltered. And when he cums, he always seems to have his lips or mouth on you one way or another. A breathy gasp and throaty groan on your collarbone or a long sloppy kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, you'd look up at him, your entire body glowing from head to toe. He's never seen you more beautiful than you are right in this moment. Even those expensive clothes he knows you'd like or even that new book from the publishing house in Inazuma seem dull compared to the glow of your cheeks. "I'm yours…" You whisper. "Always. Even after we part ways." he replies. "Forever." you agree, smiling softly and cuddling close to him. And fate always plays in funny ways. Staying together right here in this moment - all with sweaty limbs and warm hearts - feels like it will last a lifetime. Your careful lover will always be one with you… even if you were to part ways.

[mothergayselle]

I Said... Hold Still // Obey Me // MC x Lucifer

rating: t words: 3.5k summary: takes place during the furry event, MC does the boys’ makeup for the video but takes *special care* with lucifer’s

xxx

“Stop squirming, Levi. You’re going to smear everything and then I’m going to get mad.”

Leviathan blushed, visibly racked with the desire to fidget in the chair. “I can’t help it,” he said, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, which clunked into hers. “You’re so close to my face.”

A scoff audibly sounded off in the background, and the unmistakable tenor of Mammon’s voice filled the dining room. 

“Yeah. A little too close, eh? Back off, Levi!”

Freya sighed. As long as Levi’s face was scrunched with annoyance, it’d be impossible to apply any more makeup to it. She paused, her hand a patient dove hovering in the air, coasting, while Levi replied.

“I’m not doing anything! You back off, stupid scumbag!”

“Hey! Ya gotta stop callin’ me that! Or else!”

“Or else, what? What are you going to do to me?”

The demon-princes were scattered throughout the entirety of the ornate, elaborate dining room, yet the collective sigh uttered by every mouth was a palpable hurricane churning in the air above them. A violent, fiery blush creeped into Levi’s neck, and Freya stilled her hand once more as he ducked his head in embarrassment.

She had to force herself not to sigh herself. “Relax, Levi. I’m not going to attack you.”

“Yes, hun, but that he wishes you would is the point,” said a voice from the opposite corner. A slash of daylight pierced through the window in front of him, illuminating the slender curve of his body. Even in that ridiculous costume. Asmodeus.

“If you know what I mean,” he finished. Freya didn’t have to look to know he was probably winking at them. The sunlight did nothing to illuminate the dripping sin of his voice.

Freya ignored the fresh wave of blood washing over Levi’s face, deepening the red even further. All that was needed was a quick blending of the brow-powder, and he’d be done, though if these idiots kept on rambling she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to get him to hold still.

Even now, he seemed to vibrate in place, although he managed to keep himself in place enough to refrain from fidgeting. Freya worked as fast as possible, working as casually as she could without smudging the lines. If they could keep their mouths shut for once in their goddamn life--

“If what you mean is kissing, then yes. We do get what you mean. Levi, at least attempt to not think about it.”

xxx

read on AO3

xxx

…..

SATAN, you motherFU--

“No one is kissin’ ANYONE, do ya hear me!?”

“Oo-oh, how scandalous!! I want to see someone kiss!”

“Okay, tell me I didn’t wake up from a nap just to hear about Freya kissing someone!”

“Relax, Belphie. No one is kissing.”

“Ya damn straight, no one is kissing. Not ever! If Freya is kissin’ anyone it’s gonna be m--”

“Me! It’d be me! After all, who wouldn’t want to kiss me?”

“Enough.”

As Lucifer silenced the room, Freya shot Satan a glare, who returned the gesture with a grin so warm you’d never know how on purpose that truly was. What an arsonist. Truly. It was practically art.

The dining room was momentarily cast in shadow -- Freya looked beyond a mortified Levi to see a thick wall of cloud oozing across the sky. A frown tugged the corners of her lips down.

“All right, you lot,” said Lucifer. His voice crawled into the spaces around them like congealed molasses. “Clear out. Diavolo wants to start shooting as soon as possible.”

The most awkward of silences left the dining room charged and heavy, and all but Levi and Lucifer started towards the main hall.

Meanwhile, Freya wanted to be conscientious of his personal boundaries -- as he so often said he didn’t like to be touched -- but Freya wasn’t just about to let Levi leave after that. 

“Hey, look up for me one more time before you go.”

She and Lucifer made zero comments about how dark his skin had become in embarrassment -- magenta would be too fitting for comfort. Freya, in her peripherals, saw how Lucifer pretended to preen himself in a corner away from them, adjusting and then readjusting his feline costume so it couldn’t possibly fall any straighter or more crisp on the lines of his body.

Levi complied, absolutely rock-frozen as he titled his eyes to the ceiling. Even the inner workings of his jaw were inert with strain. 

“Did you know,” Freya began, dabbing ice-silver highlighter to his waterline, “That giraffes throw up on a regular basis?”

She was momentarily met with silence as Levi made himself unclench his teeth. “Giraffes?”

“Mhm. An animal in the human realm. Really long neck. Think of a horse with a snake-neck.”

“Whoa. That sounds like a final boss or something. If their neck is so long, how do they not suffocate then?” 

It was working -- his skin was clearing of blush, returning to a lovely cream-shade which she always thought brought out the gold in his eyes so well. Freya, in an effort to dispel some of his shame, didn’t meet his eyes when they gazed at her out of curiosity. She prodded the outside corner of his eye with the same highlighter, tapping the glimmer into place.

“Well… that’s what I wanted to know, so I researched it for awhile. They have a bunch of spaces in their stomach so as they digest food, they puke it up into their mouth and then eat it all over again. Bizarre, right?”

Levi’s subsequent grin made itself onto her face as well, though she was careful to still avoid his direct gaze. And, was that Lucifer’s cheeks lifted in the over corner over there, or was that her own imagination?

“That sounds like Beel,” he said, beaming at her.

“They were my favorite animal for awhile after that, just because I would always laugh when I thought of it. In an environmental class back home we studied this, and as soon as it was brought up, I just couldn’t stop laughing. I got kicked out of class.”

“OMG,” Levi said. “That is hilarious! LOLOL, like, I totally would’ve lost it too.”

“It’s ridiculous. But it does make me smile, even to this day. Maybe it’ll help you too now.”

Levi’s answer was something soft in his eyes, like a window being opened.

Freya snapped the ridiculously expensive highlighter palette closed, absentmindedly making a note to somehow manipulate Asmo into getting her one just like it. 

She tried to refrain from kissing anyone in the academy but that palette… perhaps kissing was not beneath her after all...

“‘Kay. You’re good to go!”

The clogged energy tangibly evaporated as they both righted themselves in the chairs, widening the amount of space between them. Levi didn’t look fully recovered -- his movements were a little too fast, a bit too premature. 

However, as he stood up to join the others, the dread from earlier wasn’t etched onto the crevices of his face, and he smiled before heading out the door.

“Thanks, Freya! Seriously.” He dashed through the entryway, the joyful spring under his feet practically palpable.

The next breath was drawn in through the nose. Freya turned to the impromptu makeup station Asmodeus had set up for her earlier in the morning once more.

“Okay, lurker,” she called out. “Sit your butt down before I decide I don’t want to do this anymore and set fire to the building so Diavolo will send me away.”

The waxed, polished, impeccable hardwood floors clapped his shoes in greeting with every intentional footfall. Even from the side while she retrieved more eyeshadow, she could see the grimace on his mouth. He was staring straight through her.

“Not funny.”

Freya couldn’t help but grin as she swiveled the chair to face him.

“It was funny, but we both know you wouldn’t admit it even if you agreed so let’s get to business, shall we?” Freya held up a pen of liquid eyeliner for him to see.

Lucifer made no further comment, but she could’ve sworn his jaw looked like it wanted to come undone in a smile, just for a second. He nodded, burgundy eyes locked onto her face.

“Scoot closer. This always sucks the most.”

When he complied, their legs were utterly entangled, each thigh resting lightly against the other’s. Freya didn’t stop or make a comment -- she knew the rules of the game with him and wasn’t going to lose because of that.

If anything, the contact excited her. She’d be close enough to catch any reaction he made, scrutinize every inch of his visage for a sign of victory. When one edge of his mouth lazily pulled to the side in the faintest smirk she’d ever seen, an impish gesture, she knew he was on the same wavelength.

Freya leaned in, closing the distance between their faces until the warm billows of his breath collided gently over her cheeks.

“Don’t mind me,” she said, bringing a hand to cup the cheek opposite the eye she was going to start on. “I have to steady myself because I had a lot of coffee this morning and I can feel myself about to have a seizure.”

Lucifer did smile at that, and she mirrored him as her fingers slipped through the hair at the back of his head. Silk. Fresh rain. A bubble of clouds. There didn’t seem to be a description accurate enough to articulate the softness of each strand. Her palm came to rest on his jaw.

The dick part of her wanted to ask what kind of conditioner he used, to purposely destroy the playful tension, if only to mitigate the effect the intimacy had on her. It was certainly a go-to, and she had half a mind to blurt it out when his expression suddenly changed.

“That was kind of you,” Lucifer murmured, and she could practically feel the heat of his red gaze wash through her, “What you did for Levi. Comforting him so as to not embarrass him further.”

An unwanted softness expanded in the pit of her belly and her hand momentarily haltered all movement. She drew back to look at him, and felt her waggish expression melt into something more like his own.

Freya’s gaze tugged down at their legs, spidered out in a flamboyant web of limbs. “I’m all for a good roast, but they should be more mindful with how often they pick on him. He already has super bad self-esteem.”

Lucifer grimaced as pain, sympathetic, cracked across her face. “That he does.”

“Makes me want to punch him,” she mumbled, almost inaudibly. Exhaling, Freya lifted the eyeliner pen to Lucifer once more, tracing a thin cat-eye along the edge of his lashes. 

“If he says that he’s too gross to love one more time, I will use our pact to make him do daily affirmations until he stops. I’m not above that.”

It was a while before Lucifer reacted to that, and a few moments of silence soothed the spaces around them. When he seemed to smile, Freya kept wordless and leaned in further, cleaning up the sharp edge of the wing at his eye. If she leaned in any further, her lips would brush across his cheek. Adrenaline flooded her belly.

“Not the worst way to exploit your authority, I suppose.”

“Hell yeah. Call me the demon-whisperer, improving internal dialogue one Avatar at a time.”

She withdrew her hand just in time -- Lucifer’s cheeks avalanched in the expansion of a smile, twisting his mouth until the ivory-white of his teeth was exposed. Another grin, another victory.

“Sounds like quite the endeavor.”

“Quite right, Watson. Okay, done with that,” Freya said, ignoring his momentary confusion and scooting herself back to the pile of makeup. She exchanged the eyeliner for a pastel palette before picking up a small, fluffy brush.

“All Diavolo wanted was a mutuality between species, and here you are trying to rehabilitate the princes of Hell into developing a more healthy sense of self,” he mused. 

Lucifer’s warm eyes lowered and tracked Freya’s movements as she closed in and began dabbing at his eyelids with a pale lavender color, which accentuated the darkness of his burgundy irises so nicely it was obscene.

Did she look as beautiful to him as he did to her?

“Oh, dear,” he chuckled. “Where did you go?”

It was just then that Freya realized she hadn’t been applying the makeup on him so much as she was staring at it.

“What’s wrong? Did the artistry of your own handiwork distract you?” His full lips twisted into a more mocking version of his earlier grin.

“Or is it simply my natural beauty you find so interesting?”

A low, humming laugh churned in the bottom of his throat as Freya’s nose wrinkled itself at him.

“Actually, I was just thinking that if this film wins first place, the entire Devildom will be witness to you and all of your furry glory.”

All of the mirth fled from Lucifer’s face as she spoke. Dark strands of aura collected around the crown of his head before winking out of existence. 

“It’s an exciting thought, right?”

When his eyelids lowered, Freya leaned back in, blending in a blue pastel with the first. The air around him sizzled with tension that dripped off of his body. “As the film stands, there is almost a statistical impossibility that it will win the competition,” he drawled. So confident. 

“So, basically, it’s a non-issue.”

“You really believe Diavolo -- or Barbatos for that matter -- who are obsessed with this project, couldn’t or wouldn’t pull strings in our favor?” The hand on his jaw exploded with invisible flame as she shifted it for no other reason than she wanted to--

Lucifer froze. Freya pretended to be absorbed in her work and readjusted her fingers -- a mere twitch of the extremity -- slipping several of them in the hollow under his ear while anchoring her thumb so that the pad of the fingertip framed the corner of his mouth.

A triumphant fanfare burst in her head. She got him, caught him off-guard. Enchanted him. The world was correct once more.

“Diavolo is a noble man,” she started, sweeping away the fallout with her knuckles. She caressed the soft skin under his eyes gently, with care. “But men like him -- the ones who proclaim to uphold truth and transparency…”

Lucifer did not move, even as she playfully tapped the tip of his nose with the makeup brush.

“Those are the ones you can’t trust.”

A few short moments passed before Lucifer spoke again.

“I don’t know what demons you’ve been hanging around,” he began, leaning forward an inch. “But some of us are perfect gentlemen.” 

He was playing with her. 

Do not look at his lips, do not look at his lips.

The brush in her hand lowered as Freya also leaned in, matching Lucifer’s bluff, and the crimson glow of his eyes was soon all she could see, rather than the eyes themselves.

“I’ve only met one perfect gentleman in my entire life. He was a golden retriever.”

She saw the curve of his eyes when he smirked.

“You clearly need better friends.”

“How fortunate I was kidnapped and brought here, then.”

“How fortunate, indeed.”

“Hey, are you guys going to kiss?”

The shock of the intrusion jolted both Lucifer and Freya, nearly pressing them together, so… maybe?

Lucifer recovered first, smoothly straightening in his chair like a candle wick burning true.

“What do you want, Asmo?”

Of course it was Asmo.

When Freya settled, returning the makeup brush to the tray, she saw Asmodeus hovering in the dining room’s entrance, the gold of his hair casting ethereal arcs of color across the archway.

His eyes were wide with curiosity. “Well, first, I want to see you kiss, but I also came to tell you Diavolo wants to start filming now.” Asmo’s gaze flickered back and forth between them.

“Tell Diavolo we’re on our way,” Lucifer said, saying nothing of the lewd request. After a tense moment and a hard glare, Asmo drifted off, the whites of his eyes revealed in an impressive arc.

“He realizes he can just kiss people, right?”

She couldn’t help but grin at the blank expression coating over Lucifer’s visage.

“He realizes,” Lucifer said. “It seems as if voyeurism is a big interest of his, however.”

Freya accidentally snorted. “I don’t know what isn’t.”

“Manners, perhaps.”

Someone sighed. Freya wasn’t sure if it was her or Lucifer. Eventually, the two shared a glance and his eyebrows rose in question.

“Is my makeup adequate enough for filming?” The brows remained high on his forehead, now teasing more than anything else.

Freya instinctively raked his features, looking for any asymmetrical flaws or lopsided shadow. There was nothing but a fleeting suspicion that it was only Lucifer’s immaculate complexion which completed the makeup, rather than the other way around. He wore the makeup, rather than the makeup highlighting the beauty already there. How ridiculous.

“One more thing, actually.”

The lazy affect warped into confusion, narrowing his features, and then awe, expanding them back again. Freya had darted in the space between their bodies, one finger somehow already dipped into a cherry-colored lip stain, and she began tapping the pigment onto Lucifer’s bottom lip, ignoring the way his mouth parted with shock.

“To match your eyes.”

He remained silent while he composed himself, drawing back his eyebrows and lips to a close. Freya forced her face to remain stoic -- the relish of eliciting these kinds of reactions was a special sort of drug, but to keep him playing along, she had to forfeit a few her victories to soften the blow to his ego. Demon of Pride and all. She was more than happy to keep up with him. Her giant ego demanded it.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Lucifer probed her gaze with his own, scrutinizing the miniscule movements her every facial feature made, but she gave away nothing. He was content to hold still until she was finished with him, smiling politely, the warmth not touching his eyes.

“And none for yourself?” he chirped.

Freya’s gaze darted to the makeup tray at her side, but a warm hand had gripped her chin and forced her head back to Lucifer. A swarm of butterflies awoke in her diaphragm.

“You dote on all of us so much,” he pronounced slowly, casually, bringing his thumb to his mouth. “But it seems as if you are often left wanting, isn’t that right?”

Heat so hot it was ice overturned her nervous system, bringing it to a halt. “It isn’t that bad. Beel buys me food. Asmo gives me clothes. Luke and Barbatos bake me whatever I want.”

Freya frantically attempted to memorize the feeling of his thumb brushing over her lips. Did he feel this tense when she’d done this, like a worn outlet ready to spark? She waited until he was satisfied to speak.

“I’d say I have it pretty good.”

Lucifer smirked, clearly unconvinced. He reached over her, grabbing a wipe from the table and cleaning his hand. Their faces were momentarily close once again, and the cologne from his neck wafted over her skin. So rich, like sandalwood, but faint at the same time. Noncommittal. It was a perfect scent for him.

When his gaze lowered to her mouth and back up again, she thought her form would explode.

“Hm. I’m not sure all of that’s an equal exchange, though.” He stared at her in bewilderment.

“... What?” Suddenly, she was too conscious of herself. Why did he look at her like that? Was he unsatisfied with the color or something?

She heard the roll of his stool before registering he’d placed his palms on her shoulders. They felt like boulders and feathers and as if they should be there all the time, keeping her from floating away in her wild fantasies of abandoning the human world so she could stay there forever. It was just like giraffes. Ridiculous… right?

“Your hair.”

Eh?

Lucifer’s eyes were sure and steady as they raked over her again and again.

“It should be down for the fight scene. When you faint, it should cover your face, create some symbolism there.”

… Interesting. She didn’t know he thought about details like that. Wasn’t this more of Asmo’s territory? Still, Lucifer had a point. She’d only braided that morning because it was convenient, getting too long and too curly for comfort.

“How dramatic,” she replied, chuckling at his sincerity. “You’re right, though. Obscuring the face makes a much bigger statement to the audience. Creates lots of tension.”

Lucifer’s knees knocked against hers, two entities floating alone in the ocean, and he moved his hands to the hair-ties at the end of her french braids. 

They were dexterous, slipping off the rubber and untangling the curls without tugging on a single one. Goosebumps seeped through her skin, giving her a full-body euphoria. 

If she was being honest, even this simple gesture had her feeling pampered, taken care of. It resembled nothing of the food or retail items she was frequently gifted with, although those were of course, appreciated.

No, this was like... communion. A merging of two. Freya found that she couldn’t muster a smirk or a smart-ass retort as Lucifer slipped his fingers through her hair, arranging it in perfect pieces that cascaded over her jaw. She felt she wanted to sleep instead. Take a nap. Fall asleep to the sensation of him there, soothing her into unconsciousness. 

Ah. Any feeling of victory disappeared in an instant. This was too close to real intimacy to be a game.

Lucifer adjusted the curls one final time before gently extracting himself from her space. There wasn’t any trace of mischief on his face either, or deception, or avarice. 

She caught herself absently grooming herself of invisible lint or stray hair in the moments after. It seems as if their communion was finished, and they were to get on with their mission for the day.

“Well,” Freya said, steadily rising to her feet. She extended a hand in his direction. “Ready to go to war over me?”

Lucifer’s subsequent smile radiated mirth. “Of course.” He curled his fingers around her palm and rose to face her.

“I always defend what is mine. To the death.”

An unexpected giggle erupted from him at the shock rapidly freezing her expression.

“I’m joking, Freya. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

Lucifer jesting? How novel.

With her hand in his, they began making their way out of the dining room. The sun was out -- its light had finally defeated the storm clouds before it.

“Call me Helen, I guess.”

Their voices ricocheted off the elaborate carvings etched into the doorway.

“... You know the story of Troy, ri--”

“--Yes, Freya, I get the referen--”

“--Okay, cool. That would’ve been weird. I hate explaining jokes.”

[sadaboutniall]

Without Fear

masterlist | tag | wattpad

* Please note that this chapter contains smut. 18+ only. *

Chapter Seven. April, Continued. 

ever since the other night i’ve been thinking ‘bout the way you smile, golden; I wanna move inside of your light — what have i done, dermot kennedy

Two hours after kissing her for the first time, Niall insists on taking Luna on a proper date. Without an abundance of date-worth restaurants on the island, and with Niall wanting to avoid the prying eyes of quite literally everyone he’s ever known, he insists on cooking for her in her own flat, and setting up a romantic dinner there. 

Luna, cheeks red from sitting by the fireplace and making out like a teenager in the backseat of a car, can’t imagine a world in which she would say no. 

And so, exactly a week later, on a Saturday evening that smells of the coming spring, Niall shows up at Luna’s door with a bottle of red wine, a bag full of dinner ingredients, and a stupidly endearing smile on his face. He leans in for a quick kiss when she lets him in and Luna almost loses herself then and there, almost pulls him inside by the lapels of his coat and slams him up against the wall, she wants him so bad. But she holds it together, smiles into his gentle kiss hello, and lets him get to work. 

--

Halfway through the best dinner she’s had in ages, Luna comes to terms with the fact that Niall Horan is, actually, not bad at anything. She racks her brain as she eats, trying to think of one single thing he can’t do, one thing he’s messed up, one thing about him that doesn’t blow her away. 

She comes up empty. 

Instead, all she can do is think about the things he’s good at: the way sings like he’s bearing his soul, the way he coaches with compassion and humor, the way he makes small talk like he’s genuinely interested, the way he kisses so that Luna can’t even remember her own name, let alone what it ever felt like to kiss anyone else. She can’t think about anything else, really—nothing other than the way his forearms looked, sleeves rolled up as he chopped veg for dinner, the way his cheeks flushed from the heat on the stove, the way he poured her a glass of wine with a steady hand and a mischievous smile. In a flash, the room is hot, stuffy, and a little overwhelming, and it’s all she can do not to tell him to take his clothes off here and now. 

She makes it through dinner with a flush creeping down her own neck, but when Niall takes the plates over to the sink and insists on washing them himself, Luna feels her composure start to waver. A girl can only watch her sort-of-boyfriend be effortlessly sexy for so long without doing something about it, she figures. 

“Niall,” Luna makes the split second decision to honor her feelings—to embrace how badly she wants him, without fear. 

“Yeah, Lunes?” Niall turns around from his spot at the sink, sleeves rolled up again, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Luna realizes she must’ve worried him, and adjusts her tone of voice. 

“Come here,” she tells him, her stomach churning with a strangely nice kind of anxiety. “The dishes can wait.” 

“Right,” Niall takes a deep breath before crossing the room to Luna, still seated at the table. He stands in front of her, and, this close, Luna can see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the gentle shake of his hands.

She reaches out to grab one, bringing it up to her face and pressing her lips against the center of his palm. Standing above her, Niall makes a quiet whimper, and Luna looks up. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she tells him, interlocking her fingers with his. “I can wait as long as you want.”

“No, no,” Niall squeezes Luna’s hand, his free hand coming up to snake around the back of her neck, tangle up in her hair. “I want—I want you so bad. Just nervous,” he laughs, a little embarrassed, and Luna’s heart cramps inside her chest. “It’s been a while.” 

“That’s okay,” she whispers. “I don’t mind.” 

Looking back on it, Luna can’t quite tell which happened first: either Niall gently pushed her head forward, or she leaned in, or both, maybe, the two of them on the exact same wavelength, communicating without having to say a word. Any which way it happened, it happened like this: Luna leaned close enough to press her lips to Niall’s stomach over his shirt, to move her lips against the soft outline of his abs, and then a little lower, down to the flat space between his hip bones. 

Above her, Niall gasps, and, when Luna looks up at him through heavy lashes, he lets out a whimper that sets the butterflies in her stomach on fire. 

“Bed,” he says, voice raw, a new side of him that Luna’s never seen before. “Let me take you to bed, Lu.” 

And so she does. 

She lets Niall help her up and then lets herself get lost in it as he kisses her like he never has before—a level of hunger and possessiveness that she hasn’t experienced from him yet, that she didn’t know he was quite capable of. She lets him keep kissing her as he walks them both toward her bedroom, navigating her flat like an expert, like he’s always been here, always been part of her. She hangs off him, giggling, as he shoos Ruairí off the bed and out of the room, and feels her heart melt when he apologizes to the cat, a genuine “sorry, mate, but you don’t want to be in here for this,” as he shuts the bedroom door on him. 

Luna falls gently onto the bed in Ruairí’s place., the world spinning as if she’s dreaming. Holding himself up on his forearms, Niall hovers above her, bumping his nose against hers with a giggle before leaning in for another kiss. It’s like her insides are exploding, and she never wants it to stop. 

Niall, she discovers, is determined once he sets his mind to the task. He moves his lips down to Luna’s neck, hands sliding up her body as he does. It’s so easy to let herself melt into him, to let him take the reins and choose which direction things move in. She sighs dreamily as Niall sucks a hickey into her neck, whimpers when he finishes it off with a quick, tight bite to the spot. 

“You sound so gorgeous,” he says, hoisting himself up again to bump his nose against hers. “I like being able to hear you like that.” 

Luna tangles a hand up in Niall’s hair, noting the way his eyes glaze over a little when she tugs. She files that information away as important, then says, “I’ll be as loud or as quiet as you want.” 

“Loud,” he tells her, pressing his lips to hers one more time. “I like knowing.” 

And then he’s back to work, lips trailing along her neck, hands sliding up under her sweater. He grasps at her breasts over her bra, thumbs running over her nipples, and she doesn’t hold back the way it makes her gasp, the way she arches her back into his hands, desperate for more.

“Off?” He asks, tugging on the bottom of Luna’s sweater. She nods, her skin searing hot under the wool, sitting up just enough to help Niall peel the sweater off. Once it’s off, Niall stills, his eyes trailing over Luna’s body slowly, taking in her freckles and her dimples, the spots where her skin rolls, the pouch of her belly—but, under his eyes, Luna doesn’t feel self conscious the way she has in the past. She stretches out a little bit, watching the loving, hungry look on Niall’s face as she does. 

“Lu,” he slides his hand up her side, coming to rest at the band of her bra. “It’s, uh,” he blushes, cheeks fiery red, and says, “it’s been a long time since I’ve taken a bra off someone.” 

Luna laughs, her heart bouying in her chest, and Niall does, too, his flush spreading down his neck to his collarbone. He looks so beautiful this way, nervous but sure of himself, exposed, only for her. “No worries,” she tells him, reaching back to undo her clasp. “I’m an expert.” 

Easy, Lu takes off her bra and tosses it over the side of the bed. When she looks back up, Niall is a man mesmerized. The sight of his face is enough to make her giggle, to reach up and cup his cheek and pull him in for a gentle, reassuring kiss. He melts right into it, and from there, it’s natural. 

Natural, for Niall to kiss down Luna’s body, stopping to glance up at her for permission before he undoes her jeans and helps her shimmy them off. Natural, for Niall to kiss between her thighs, over her underwear, as Luna whimpers loudly, tangles her fingers up in his hair and tugs. Natural, for Niall to tell her it’s been a while since he’s done this, and then press his lips against her bare skin like a man starving, like he’s been waiting for his moment this entire life. And it’s natural for Luna, too, watching Niall’s head between her thighs, his blue eyes glinting when he looks up at her, to drop her head back, gasp out loud, and come for him, just as he presses two fingers alongside his tongue. 

He takes his time between her legs when he’s done, gentle kisses bringing her back down to Earth. When Luna opens her eyes he’s kissing back up her stomach, his face shiny and wet with the mess he made between her legs, his blue eyes brighter than she’s ever seen them before. He bumps his nose against hers again, pulling an exhausted giggle out of Luna, before gently pressing his lips to hers so she can taste herself on him. 

“I liked that,” he tells her, lips brushing hers as he speaks. 

“You and me both,” Luna laughs, fingers trailing over the back of Niall’s neck. He shivers at her touch, and Luna smiles. “My turn,” she tells him, pushing against his chest with her free hand to flip them both over, reversing positions. Niall is still fully dressed and that is far too much clothing for Luna, desperate to get her lips to his skin as immediately as humanly possible. 

Niall seems just as eager, pulling his own sweater over his head as Luna gets to work on the button of his jeans. Together, they have him stripped down to his boxers in seconds, his chest rising and falling rapidly as Luna palms at him through his underwear, already hard in her hand. He whimpers, cants his hips up, and lets Luna pull his boxers down. 

When Luna wraps her mouth around him, Niall makes a sound closer to crying than anything else. His hand tightens in her hair, encouraging her on, and Luna hikes Niall’s thighs up so they rest on her shoulders, giving her a better angle to take him deeper into her mouth. It’s overwhelming in the best way, Luna finds—being full of Niall and underneath Niall, knowing that every move she makes is dragging those desperately pleased sounds out of him, is pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Lu,” Niall chokes out her name, voice pained, and when Luna locks eyes with him he’s bright red, hair a mess, chest heaving. “I’m gonna—if you don’t stop, I won’t be able to fuck you, petal.” 

Luna laughs, letting Niall’s legs down and pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh. He whimpers a little more, hands coming up to rest on her waist as she leans over the side of the bed, rummaging into the drawer of her bedside table for the packet of condoms she ordered the night she and Niall first kissed, knowing this was inevitable. He moves his hand between her legs as she grabs the packet, one finger pressing into her, and Luna whimpers, skin breaking out in goosebumps. 

“So wet,” Niall says, another finger pressing against Luna as she comes back to him, condoms in hand. “Fucking hell, you’re beautiful, Lunes.” 

“Fuck,” Luna drops her chin to her chest as Niall scissors his fingers inside her, palm pressed against her clit. She lets him keep going, riding his fingers gently as he brings her closer and closer to where she wants to be. She feels better than she ever has, no insecurity about the way her body is bared above him, about the noises she makes when she comes, for the second time, on his fingers. 

“Good girl,” Niall says softly, gentle as he slides his fingers out of Luna, and moves to lay her back on the bed. He gets on top of her, bumps his nose against hers again, and presses his hips forward, his cock nudging against her. “Can you give me one more, pet?” 

Luna nods, not sure she can speak a coherent sentence, but sure she wants Niall. She reaches up to cup his cheek as he slips the condom on, gives her another kiss,  and presses himself into her.

Exhausted as she is, Luna knows immediately that she hasn’t had sex like this in a long, long time. It feels so right, the stretch of Niall inside her, the weight of his body above her. He sets the perfect pace for her, dropping down a bit to bury his face in her neck as he fucks her, one hand holding her thigh up for a better angle, the other groping at her love handles. It’s all Luna can do to tug at Niall’s hair and hold tight to his shoulder, crying out with every thrust, tugging Niall impossibly closer and closer. They move together seamlessly, Niall and Luna, like this was the universe’s plan all along. 

Luna comes first, already hypersensitive and worn out, but Niall’s right behind her, pushed over the edge by the way she moans his name, tightening herself around his cock. He stills for a second when he comes, mouth wide open, and Luna has a millisecond of time standing still to watch him, to think to herself that she’s never seen anyone so close to perfect. 

Done, Niall collapses on top of Luna, still inside her, and lays, hot and heavy, on top of her. She scratches gently at his scalp, his hair damp with sweat, and almost cries when he reaches down to pull out. 

“I know,” he tells her softly, kissing up Luna’s neck and then meeting her lips with his own. “Me too.” 

They make out gently, then, hands exploring each other, until Niall pulls away, all swollen lips and glassy eyes, his hair a mess of dark brown roots and bleached ends. “You should pee,” he tells Luna, though he doesn’t look like he wants to get up and let her off the bed. “I’ll get us both some water, yeah?”

Luna nods, though she makes no moves to get up either. “Should check on poor Ruairí too.” 

Niall giggles, another flush to his cheeks. “Poor little craythur.” 

“Niall?” 

“Hmm?” Niall burrows his face in Luna’s neck again, his lips warm against her skin. 

“Do you want to stay the night?” Luna notices she’s not nervous asking, the way she was the first time she asked Ida to sleep over. She already knows.

Niall lifts his head, a soft smile on his swollen lips. “Yeah,” he tells her. “There’s nothing I want more.”

####

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[who-gave-atlas-a-pencil]

out of the deep waters

A/N: Feel free to shoot me any comments/questions you might have about stuff!!! I love interacting with people and I’m gonna be writing more so I’m trying to stretch my legs a bit with drabbles and such. Either way, enjoy the story!

Read on AO3 for notes.

Summary: Crowley claws his way through the icy waters the way he once crawled out of hell, messy and desperate and using every ounce of his strength. His body aches, every muscle screaming for air or release or both. The moonlight glimmers through the water for an instant, just out of reach –

Then a hand breaks the surface and reaches down to save him.

—---- The night he’s discorporated by a frightened Irish Catholic boy, the sky is black and wicked and churning with thick clouds that block out the stars. Of course, some of that might be Crowley’s fault, an unfortunate side-effect of his growing irritation with the omnipresent ache between his shoulderblades. It’s like that one stupid question about the chicken and the egg that humans find so fascinating, except this one goes more like ‘which comes first, the soul-sucking pain that storm fronts bring him or the storm fronts he brings because everything bloody hurts and he’s feeling vindictive?’

Not that it matters, really. What matters is that he’s forgotten his sunglasses and his snake eyes glow golden in the night without explanation. What matters is that a boy stands before him, wide-eyed and innocent and blocking his escape as he brandishes blessings and a cross with a shaking voice, stepping closer and closer, pushing Crowley toward the edge of the cliff and the waiting waters below.

What matters is, Crowley takes a step too far and the ground disappears beneath him. What matters is, he falls.

—–

If even a few hours later someone had asked him what he’d been doing on a boat beneath a cliff in Ireland in the dead of night, Aziraphale doesn’t think he would know the answer. All he knows is that he happens, by some miracle, to look up just in time to watch as a figure takes one step and then another and then plummets backwards off the cliff to the icy depths below.

Aziraphale gapes for a moment, too stunned to react. Then he drops the Dickens he’s been reading in favour of throwing out a hand, fingers spread wide in an attempt to slow the figure’s descent. With his other hand he fumbles for an oar and begins to row.

—–

It’s cold. Scratch that, it’s bloody freezing. Crowley hits the water with enough force to almost black out then and there, except that he doesn’t because he’s not that lucky. Instead, he’s wide awake as pins and needles jab into every inch of his body and force the air out of his lungs, replacing it with the cold clutch of the lake. The water burns in his eyes and his throat, thick and brackish as he starts to sink. He’s turned around by the impact, can’t tell which way is up, and the darkness hides away any hint of the moon but the fact is that he’s conscious and so he has to swim, has to try.

So he does. Crowley claws his way through the icy waters the way he once crawled out of hell, messy and desperate and using every ounce of his strength. His body aches, every muscle screaming for air or release or both. The moonlight glimmers through the water for an instant, just out of reach –

Then a hand breaks the surface and reaches down to save him.

——

The first thing that Aziraphale notices about the stranger he pulls out of the lake is that their hair is red, gloating in the water like a sopping wet flame. The second is that they are dressed in a manner utterly inappropriate for a late night swim in a half-frozen lake. The third thing he realises as he watches the figure sputter and wipe the water from a pair of brilliant gold eyes is that they aren’t really a stranger after all.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is too shocked to hide his surprise and so the word drips with it instead, much the same way Crowley is dripping on the bottom of the boat where the Dickens had been resting only moments before. Rather than responding, Crowley turns and retches over the side of the boat. The way he coughs reminds Aziraphale of plague victims, and he half-expects to see blood on Crowley’s lips when he finally, finally starts to breathe again.

Strands of vomit and salive hang from his mouth. Crowley spits over the side and wipes the remnants away with the back of a hand. Then he slumps against the side of the boat like an exhausted puppet and closes his eyes. “Hello angel,” he rasps. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, a bit dumbly. “What on Earth are you doing jumping off a cliff?”

Crowley makes a non-committal noise. “Wrong place, wrong time. Old habits die hard. You know.” Aziraphale’s just about to say that no, he doesn’t know, because Crowley’s making about as much sense as that whole manifest destiny business Americans got into a century back when he sees the demon shudder, pulling into himself and gripping his arms. His clothes are sopping wet and pasted to his skin, hugging the sharp angles of his body as he shivers and mutters something obscene.

Of course, Aziraphale thinks, mentally kicking himself. Snakes are cold-blooded. Crowley must be freezing. The thought’s barely crossed his mind when Crowley snaps his fingers and the water dissolves from what he’s wearing, leaving him visibly drier but still shivering, swearing under his breath.

Aziraphale flinches. It’s not the language that bothers him. It’s the look on Crowley’s face – pained and irritated and guarded to an almost entirely imperceptible degree. Aziraphale doesn’t quite recall the last time he’s looked like this, but he knows Crowley well enough to assume that the expression means he’s had a well and truly terrible night.

(On the other hand, he’s not entirely certain he has any right to make assumptions, not after London. He thinks of the Bentley peeling off into the bombed out night and swallows hard, pushing down the familiar and faint churn of guilt in his stomach.)

Where his hands have instinctively moved to take off his jacket and offer it to the figure shivering across from him, the fear of rejection makes them still, fingers fluttering like unhappy butterflies as Aziraphale lets them fall to his lap. Instead of offering anything, he clears his throat and attempts to sound authoritative. “If you don’t wish to answer my questions, then I insist you at least warm yourself up,” he says primly, and reaches for the oars again.

——

Evidently, Aziraphale’s idea of someplace warm is a tiny cottage not far from the lake shore where he says he’s staying, though Crowley can’t even begin to guess why he would be there, of all places. Not that he’s particularly trying, really. He’s too busy being cold and miserable and frankly a bit perplexed by the way the evening’s progressed to give too much thought to Aziraphale’s motivations. So long as he doesn’t end up on the receiving end of another attempted exorcism, this will be an improvement on the rest of the day.

He can only get away with silence for so long though. It’s one thing when they’re in a boat or walking or otherwise preoccupied, and quite another thing when they’re sitting still, mugs of tea in both their hands while the fire blazing in the hearth makes light dance across Aziraphale’s face, highlighting his poor attempts at studying Crowley subtly from across the room.

The angel clears his throat. “So. Are you around these parts for vacation or temptation?”

“Passing through,” Crowley says, and doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s hard, looking at Aziraphale without the sunglasses. After so many centuries, they’ve become a sort of safety net for him, a means of avoiding inconvenient encounters with crosses while also keeping him from revealing anything, from having to see his own damnation reflected back at him in the angel’s eyes.

He realises, perhaps belatedly, that this is the first time they’ve been in the same room since the whole debacle with the Germans in 1941. Back then, Crowley had driven Aziraphale home in a mostly awkward silence, tipped his hat in farewell at the door and disappeared into the Blitz without another word. He hadn’t known what to say then, and he still doesn’t know now. Fifteen years is practically a blink at their age, but in this moment it feels like millenia.

“So,” they both say, at the exact same time. Crowley gestures for Aziraphale to continue, making a face when they do that in sync too.

Aziraphale’s expression distorts into a delicate sort of embarrassment. “We seem to be rather on the same weight lane, I’m afraid,” he says, somewhat sheepish as Crowley clamps his jaw shut. “Would you like to speak first?”

Crowley closes his eyes for a moment and rests his head against the back of chair. Satan, give me strength. “It’s ‘same wavelength’, angel,” he mutters. “Honestly.” A wave of fondness surges in his chest at the mangled idiom, but he shoves it down before it can surface. “In any case, last I’d heard we have nothing in common. I’m fallen, remember?” Nearly a century has passed since St. James, and Crowley knows it’s a low blow to bring it up in the first place but he still can’t quite stop himself, can’t keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice.

Aziraphale flinches, though to his credit he makes no effort to excuse himself. Instead, he looks at his hands and studies them guiltily. “That was a rather callous thing for me to say, wasn’t it? It’s not as if you would have forgotten or… I don’t know, become an aardvark.” There is a nervous edge to the way the corners of his mouth quirk up with a quiver slight as a ladybug’s wings. When Crowley looks at him, their eyes meet only for a moment before Aziraphale blinks and returns to studying his hands with a truly inordinate degree of dedication. “I suppose I should, ah. Amend that statement. Apologise, perhaps.”

All at once, the anger that’s been boiling in Crowley’s veins all night falls away to a low, pathetic simmer. “Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago, and it’s not like you’re wrong.” Just that you’re the last person I expected to remind me, he adds mentally, though he’d never say it aloud. Probably for the best, anyway, leaving the conversation where it is. He’s not the type to grant anyone absolution.

The silence stretches between them, languid and threatening, a snake sizing them up and preparing to swallow them whole. There is an elephant in the room almost ninety years in the making and they both refuse to shoot it, even if they both know that ignoring it won’t make it go away.

Crowley breaks first. “So. Dickens in the dark. New hobby of yours?”

“Fortuitous accident, really. I was reading and rather lost track of time, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale smiles, a bit shyly. “Quite lucky in hindsight, don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” Crowley echoes, with the distinct sensation that he’s swallowing his own tongue. “Will heaven be upset that you…?” He waves a hand in vague indication to his very obviously not-drowned self and their current situation. “You know.”

“I should think not,” Aziraphale says, his smile just a bit too quick. “It’s not as if they would have any reason to suspect I’d specifically saved you. I didn’t expect it myself, after all.” He quiets, his smile dimming somewhat as his eyes settle once more on Crowley’s face, searching. “Why were you plummeting off a cliff, exactly? If I may ask.”

Crowley shrugs. “New hobby I thought I’d try. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Too late, he remembers Aziraphale’s accusation of the holy water suicide pill and he realises what he sounds like, wincing. “Not like a staggeringly good idea. I’ve definitely had better ones this century. Can’t all be winners.”

“I would hardly consider atomic bombs to be winners.”

“You don’t actually think I made those, do you?” Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face and catches a flash of guilt and suddenly the annoyance is back in full force. “You know, you could actually give me some credit now and then.”

“Well, how am I to know? You take credit for everything. It’s been fifteen years. People talk.” Aziraphale huffs, adjusting his suit jacket impatiently. “You can’t blame me for logical assumptions.”

“Logical assumptions? Of course.” Crowley glares, his muscles tensing as he bites down on a bitter laugh in favour of an even more bitter smile. “Why would you ever assume anything but the worst out of me?” Outside the window, rain has started to pour down and Crowley’s only just started to get warm but he stands anyway. A snappy retort hangs off the tip of his tongue, thanks loads for the rescue, see you in a century when you’ve finished cleaning your hands of me, and he opens his mouth to say just that.

Then Aziraphale stops him. “Crowley, wait,” he says, rising to his feet as well. “Please. I didn’t mean to insinuate – I’m sorry.” The apology stutters off his tongue like it’s tripping and Crowley looks at Aziraphale and curses himself for it a moment later. The expression on the angel’s face is the most horribly, frustratingly genuine thing Crowley’s ever seen. That’s the trouble with Aziraphale. It always has been. The only thing that’s ever been able to rival the scope of his brilliance and capacity for kindness is his immense talent for putting his foot in his mouth. In the worst, most horrible way, Crowley  has to admit he can relate.

He sits back down, settles himself on the chair again. After nearly a minute of awkward silence, Aziraphale clears his throat, delicate, and tries again. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He pauses a moment as if contemplating his next words very carefully. “What I meant to say is – well, you really are terribly clever, Crowley. I simply don’t understand why you didn’t use your wings.”

In the silence that follows, the rain lashes the window with a sudden, angry force. A bolt of lightning splits the night and Crowley doesn’t see it flash, doesn’t hear the thunder. For a single, horrible moment, he is not there anymore. He is in a different cramped space, and there are several people on each arm holding him down and a gag in his mouth that tastes like rot and mold and ash, and there is a horrible wet sensation and a pain not entirely unlike the lightning, flashing white and sharp against his eyelids as he screams and-

“Crowley?” He blinks, and Aziraphale is staring at him quizzically.

Shit. Perhaps a bit too obviously, he shakes himself free of the memory and smiles, quick and sharp. “Oh, you know,” he says smoothly, “I just don’t think it occurred to me. I mean, I was a little surprised at the whole exorcism bit, mostly. Can you believe people still do that? Been centuries since the last one. A century, I suppose. Century and a half? Right, that reminds me – you wouldn’t have a spare pair of glasses around that I could borrow? I’d like to avoid redoing all this.”

He’s rambling. More importantly, he’s deflecting, and he’s doing it far less smoothly than he usually does and far less subtly than he would like to. He sees Aziraphale frown and feels his fingers twitch nervously at his side. “I’m afraid I haven’t much need for sunglasses,” the angel says, studying him.

Feeling pinned, Crowley resists the urge to squirm, screwing his face up with disappointment. “Right. Too bad then.” He stretches out, his arms bending at night quite natural angles, then stands again, his heart suddenly racing. He needs to leave now, before the questions start. Before the problems begin. “I ought to get going. Hate to get between you and your Dickens.” He says it with the exact sort of mocking tone that he knows drives Aziraphale up the wall, hoping to get a rise out of him, to manipulate him into agreeance.

Instead, Aziraphale sputters indignantly. “Get in the way of-? Crowley, you nearly drowned! And that lake was –it was practically freezing. There is absolutely no way that you’ve fully warmed yourself.”

“Part snake, remember? I adjust fast.” The lie rolls easily off his tongue, and Crowley shoots off a quicksilver grin, sticking his hands in his pockets to hide the way they’re shaking like an addict’s. He starts to walk, ready to leave with or without Aziraphale’s blessing.

Then there’s a hand on his wrist, holding him in place. Crowley looks down, and Aziraphale is there, bright blue eyes blazing with determination. It’s been years since their eyes have met without the buffer of sunglasses, and Crowley isn’t quite prepared for it. He forgets sometimes, how beautiful Aziraphale’s eyes are, like a cloudless sky with everywhere to go and nothing to stand in the way.

He wants, more than almost anything, to stay. But he’s always been good at denying himself what he wants.

Crowley pulls his arm free. “Aziraphale, don’t.”

Aziraphale’s face twists with an almost comedic determination. “I know when I’m being lied to, and I would very much like you to know that I don’t appreciate it.”

Crowley snorts. “You almost got killed by a bunch of Nazis over a mutual interest in books, angel. You’re not what I’d call a divine lie detector.”

“I am when it comes to you,” Aziraphale retorts, and oh, there it is, the inevitable moment when he says something that hits Crowley like a knife stabbed deep into his guts. He does it so casually, Crowley wonders sometimes if he even knows that it’s happening, if he knows that it means something when he says things like that and it is not the sort of thing one can drop into a conversation without expecting it to blow up like a poorly timed atom bomb right in their face. Crowley looks, and Aziraphale is staring at him, his shoulders straightened in an obvious attempt at authority. “Now then. I must insist you tell me why you didn’t use your wings. Truthfully, this time. Please.”

Crowley can’t help it. “Or what? You’ll put me back the way you found me?”

“Put you back-? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what exactly are you going to hold against me?” The smart move, Crowley knows, would be to stop while he’s ahead before he says one too many smart remarks and they really don’t ever speak to each other again from now until the end of time. This whole conversation is a mess of foreign waters and he has no idea where he’s going or what he’ll do when he gets there, only that he’ll drown if he isn’t careful and Aziraphale won’t even know he’s the one holding him under.

Aziraphale’s shoulders fall, defeated. “I don’t intend to hold anything against you,” he says softly. “I had hoped you trusted me enough that I wouldn���t have to.”

Forget foreign waters. Forget drowning, forget swimming, forget all of it. Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s face, and he knows he’s already in too deep. This isn’t a story he wants to tell, isn’t the way he wanted this to come out. He hadn’t wanted it to come out at all, but if he doesn’t say it now he never will and if he doesn’t ever say it, he’s not sure Aziraphale will ever quite trust him again, and that thought hurts more than heaven or hell would ever get him to admit.

He wins this round.

Crowley lets the tension drain from his shoulders. In his pockets, his fingers still. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, angel,” he says, and waves a hand.

Aziraphale’s expression as his wings are summoned forth from the ether in which they normally rest is almost comedic. He squeaks like a startled mouse, wings shooting out to either side and nearly colliding with the furnishings. He immediately tucks them back in to a more reasonable position, then narrows his eyes at Crowley. “I know very well what my wings look like, thank you,” he huffs, waving a hand to dismiss them. “Why didn’t you summon yours? You’re the one in question.”

“That’s it, though. I did.” Crowley smiles, bitter and flat, and the fire crackles in the silence between them. He turns his back to Aziraphale and waits.

——

In the six thousand years of Aziraphale’s life time, the world has stopped moving on exactly three occasions. The first was in 48 BC, when he’d watched the library of Alexandria burn while nobody could even try to stop it. The second was in the 14th century, when he’d stood over a plague pit lined with bodies while a rainbow stretched overhead and the world drowned in grief instead of water. The third time is now, when Crowley turns away and understanding hits Aziraphale like a slap to the face as he finally sees Crowley’s wings.

There’s little left of them. Calling them wings feels generous, but Aziraphale can’t quite bring himself to refer to them as the stumps they are. The scapulae are little more than jagged edges of bone pierced through angry, infected skin. Tiny black feathers are speckled like ash around the base of the bones where a thick, ugly scar has started to form. Crowley shifts, and the skin of his back stretches nearly to the point of tearing, and it is all Aziraphale can do to hold in his nausea as he stares, and stares, and stares.

“’S not pretty, is it?” Crowley turns to face him with a strange, not-quite smile that does nothing to erase the memory of gore now emblazoned in Aziraphale’s mind.

A moment too late, Aziraphale snaps his jaw closed, blinking. He struggles briefly for an appropriate response, only to eventually settle on a somewhat inappropriate one as his eyes scan Crowley’s face like he’ll find an answer there. “What the hell happened to you?’

Crowley shrugs and barely hides a wince. “Hell, obviously. Who else do you think’s got handiwork like that? I’m not important enough for Gabriel to visit.”

“But how? Why? When?”

“Are you just going to work your way through all the question words?”

“This isn’t funny, Crowley.” Aziraphale takes a step forward and reaches out as if to touch him, stopping just short of contact with a sudden wariness. Maybe touching him will make things worse, and the last thing he wants to do is scare him away now. “Were they like this in the church?” The thought that they might have been and he was too wrapped up in himself to notice is almost sickening.

Crowley’s mouth curves, the expression lightless. “Nah. This was after.”

“How long after?”

“Oh, ages. Few years at least.”

“How long?”

“Four months,” Crowley admits. “Maybe five. Wasn’t really keeping track.”

Four months. Four months after he’d saved Aziraphale from a Nazi spy ring and a spared a collection of books from utter annihilation, something – someone – had sawed or ripped or burnt Crowley’s wings right off his back. It’s been fifteen years since the last time they spoke, and the wounds still look fresh. “I’ve always been under the impression that they were fond of you down there,” he says uselessly.

“They are. They were very impressed by all my hard work bombing churches, inspiring people to make camps for working and starving and gassing anyone they don’t like to death.” His voice is cynical, sharp and bitter like he’s chewing on a block of arsenic. “Thought they’d give me a special commendation to commemorate how far I’d fallen.”

“Surely you didn’t tell them you had-?”

“Of course not.”

“They just assumed you were responsible?”

“We’re demons. Assuming the worst is half the job.” Crowley reaches out with an entirely too casual grimace and pats Aziraphale twice on the side of his face, gently. “Chin up, angel. Could’ve been a lot worse if they’d had two brain cells to rub together and figured out I was slacking.”

Aziraphale catches his wrist and holds it in place. “Or if they’d figured out you were helping an angel.” His eyes lock onto Crowley’s, daring him to dissent.

Crowley’s smile vanishes. He clenches hi jaw, saying nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” Aziraphale makes the decision in an instant and squares his shoulders. “Turn around.” The demon opens his mouth to protest and Aziraphale cuts him off before he can utter a sound. “Turn around, Crowley.”

For a moment, he stares like an astonished fish. Then, slowly, he does as he’s been told.

Aziraphale steps forward and closes the gap between them. He catches his breath at the sudden proximity and stretches his fingers. “Now hold still. I’m sorry, but…this may sting a little.” Then he presses his hands flat against Crowley’s back and closes his eyes to focus.

There’s always something a bit cold about demonically created wounds, like a strange occult sludge that hangs about the site of the injury. Aziraphale feels it now, icy against his hands where the sensation has pooled at the junction between Crowley’s shoulderblades and his ruined wings. As if he’s engaged in a particularly complicated stitching project, Aziraphale envisions his own energy as a sort of golden thread and weaves it over the wounds like a warm blanket wrapping around the ice. He murmurs something under his breath (not a prayer, because he knows better than to pray for Crowley), but a request. Heal his pain, he begs, and hopes with all his might that She will hear him and listen.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, his hands pressed to his best friend’s back. All he knows is that when he opens his eyes, Crowley is relaxed and comfortably still beneath his touch, and his wings…

His wings are not recovered, and it’s as much a disappointment as it is a foregone conclusion. An angel’s wings are not unlike a badge of honour, and their loss is not meant to be easily undone. Though Crowley’s the only demon Aziraphale’s ever seen who possesses wings, he suspects they exist under similar restrictions. That doesn’t stop the surge of joy that pulses through him when he sees what progress has been made. The once-jagged edges of his bones are smooth now, the skin around them a faint pink instead of the enraged inferno of infection it had been before. What scarring had begun is cleaner now, less like mountainous ghosts of old wounds and more like a memory. Best of all are the feathers. Small and black, they cover the base of the bones with a soft, downy fuzz, like they’re ready to grow again.

There is silence. Aziraphale does not dare to move his hands for fear that all the work will be undone. For his part, Crowley remains still, breathing even and almost peaceful.

When he speaks, his voice is laced with a confused, hesitant wonder that makes Aziraphale wish more than anything that they were sitting in front of some reflective substance so he could see Crowley’s face. “Angel,” he says, the words reverberating warmly through his back and into Aziraphale’s hands, “what did you do?”

The least I could, Aziraphale doesn’t say. “Nothing much,” he says instead, letting his shoulders sink. His hands fall away from Crowley almost reluctantly, fingers trailing behind until they can’t anymore. “I think I mostly made it so you at least have a chance to heal.”

Crowley turns at that. Their eyes meet and without warning, Aziraphale finds himself captured, pinned in place by golden light. Crowley’s eyes may be the primary feature which marks him as a demon, but Aziraphale has always found them beautiful – the way they’d glinted in the light where they stood on Eden’s wall, flashing like lightning in the wake of the flood, always filled with feeling when he thought nobody was looking. Aziraphale can’t remember when he started looking, but he’s staring now, and he thinks it’s a bit like staring at the sun. Doing it too long will only lead to disaster, but that doesn’t make it any easier to look away.

“Won’t your side frown on you miracling a demon’s wings back on?” Crowley asks, slow and careful.

“No more than yours would question you miracling a collection of prophecy books out of extinction.” Aziraphale reaches out to straighten Crowley’s collar and tells himself it’s only by coincidence that his hand lingers. “We can consider ourselves even on the risk-taking front.”

Crowley’s mouth opens and shuts, his face adopting the wonderful, hilarious contortions it always performs when he’s not quite sure what to say before eventually, finally, he manages a nod. “Yeah, of course. Even score. Nothing owed anywhere.”

“Good. Then we’re settled.” Aziraphale lets his hands fall and smiles, more genuinely than he has in the entire month preceding. There are things he could say, things he knows he likely should say, but he cannot yet say them to himself and he cannot say them tonight. What he says instead is, “How do you fancy a nice drink?”

What Crowley says is, “I’m always in a drinking mood,” and Aziraphale goes for the glasses.

[midnightbedroom]

Law of Attraction

I don’t know how else to explain it to be honest.

I feel like everything is just falling into its rightful places without having to direct them anywhere. All the firsts, all the experiences, all the love, it felt outrageously insane to feel these types of emotions that I never knew I would ever feel in my life.

It’s safe to say I’m beyond blessed with all the blessings I’ve received so far in my life. I’m thankful for what has been given to me and what is yet to be in store for me. I always like to think of what is there to come rather than focusing on the present. Because once we find ourselves stuck in the now, we forget to treasure everything else coming for us.

Recently, I’ve been doing both: treasuring the future and reminiscing the past. 

Presley just had came by from Vegas to see me for the first time, and never has anyone done that for me before. Imagine having someone who’s as dedicated to travel more than two hundred miles to see you. Yeah, that’s him. Scratch that off his Rice Purity Test score. I can’t believe he actually pulled through. Throughout all the complications and obstacles we faced through, it was all worth it after the first hug we shared, which I should say, was completely wholesome. I would never forget the feeling I got from that hug. I was lost, but in the same time, found. He made me feel things that I couldn’t even comprehend myself, which was insane. He let me love, again. I never thought I would find this feeling but with such a deeper meaning into it.

We spent the first night chilling in the old park, warming each other up. I felt so safe in his arms. Right then at that moment, nothing else mattered, just us two. We talked for a while, shared the first puff from the Sour Apple, and just genuinely enjoyed the moment as it lasted. I felt beyond satisfied. I gave him a back massage, and we were just hanging onto each other as if our lives meant on it. Although after a long day, we both managed to get some food from Vallarta’s to eat. I finally shared a box of Christian Fries, and man did that hit differently. It tasted better than it did the few other times I’ve eaten it.

After that share of fries and puff sessions in the bathroom, we decided to go back to the new park, and that’s when we shared our first kiss. What a hungry, careful, obnoxious, and purest moment it was. It was everything. I loved how we read each other’s wavelength so perfectly. No words are needed to be exchanged; we knew exactly how the other felt. 

After that long session, he had to leave, but I wasn’t scared or mad. I knew that I was actually going to see him again the next day.

I woke up and got ready for our day. I left with his gifts and settled in the Lyft car. When finally reaching the AirBNB they were staying in, I was actually amazed on how big the place was. It had that vintage feel. I saw him standing on the side of the road, waiting for me. My heart warmed. We drove up to the drive way and I met his family. I was surprised on how openly they welcomed me. 

We exchanged gifts inside, but regardless of the amount of gifts he got me, I treasured being with him the most. Just spending some time with him made my entire year. It felt like that was the only missing thing I’ve been trying to pursue. 

They took us to a brunch place nearby, and man we ate too little. I felt bad because I didn’t really have an appetite in the morning. Then, we came to a consensus on whether we should stay in or leave to go to LA with his family. We both decided to stay in. And it was the best decision ever.

We did what all couples would do if they’re alone in a house. Cuddle. Hah, gottem. Yeah we did other stuff too, we’ll get there. We shared a glass of wine, and found our way to his bed. And I’ve never felt a bed that comfortable until I laid my body on it next to him. I felt like we’ve connected more than we already have. It was amazing. I knew that feeling couldn’t be reciprocated, so I treasured it as much as I possibly can. 

Leading up to that point, we went at it. Like hard. It was fucking mind blowing holy shit. I let him do it twice. T W I C E. Who the fuck??? I’ve never let anyone do that, let alone let them do it twice. It was crazy. Who the fuck am I to let that happen??? But then again, after all that I had no regrets. I enjoyed every moment of it.

I took him to my work and got him a Mango Snowbowl and my two specialty taiyakis: Meat Lover’s and an Oreo S’more. I enjoyed it more than all the times I’ve worked there with free shit. Seeing his reaction in real life and sharing the same food I eat is way different than just showing him how to make it. 

And, oh yeah, I destroyed him in pool. Surprising? Yeah, kinda, just a little bit. I didn’t really wanna show off, but I knew my pool ways. I remember trying that geometry shit and the split and that shit was s p i c y. That was my first time pulling dumb shit like that off, and I’m surprised it did pull through. Kinda reminded me of the time when I destroyed Owwen and broke his pride for a while. Good times.

Oh god, don’t remind me. The walk to Michael’s. That bitch took so long. We came all the way from PetCo to Michael’s, and I could NOT fucking do it. I was in my heels too jeez. We got nothing out of it, so we just picked up my stuff and left to go to the park until we said our goodbyes for our early day tomorrow.

And heck, it was early.

Imagine getting up at 5am during break. 

I left and packed all my shit up surprisingly that early. I left at six and got to his house around 6:50am. He woke up all of a sudden as I entered his room. I went to cuddle with him, and everything else was just set in place. The moment was perfect. Everything was just so pure. We tried to watch the sunset together, and lead off to going for an early morning session. I wish we could do that everyday if I’m going to be perfectly honest with you.

After it though, he showered and I just fell asleep on his bed countless times. We would always find ourselves cuddling right after, which was heart warming. I love the feeling of being next to him, or just by simply being in his arms. I felt like I was safe and warm without needing to worry about anything at all. I loved it.

We went to go get ramen to my go to place in Tajima, and fuck, again, that shit tasted so much better compared to the times I’ve been there. We walked to Up2You, and regardless of how full we are, we still managed to eat a whole ass loaf of toasted bread. That shit was amazing.

Even if our plans were a bit unorganized, we still got to Balboa and exchanged gifts. That was definitely a moment I can never forget. Being in a place filled with strangers and not giving a fuck about a single thing - that. THAT’s what mean. 

I gave him a nightlight jar, a painted treasure box, and a song. He gave me a bracelet with all our inside jokes and words I attempt to use as my comebacks. I can’t believe he actually remembered all this stuff just for me. I’m in complete utter awe.

Although that moment was short, I treasured it a lot. We shared a Bird back and damn was that an experience. Imagine traveling 2 miles in 5 mins, that’s insane. We drove to Fashion Valley and shopped a little, resulting to two matching caps, a beanie, and my first ever black bucket hat. 

We somehow found our way to Little Italy and got a black truffle lasagna and Extraordinary Desserts. It was really fulfilling, but not so much to my liking - you’ll understand it later. We walked around, got fooled by a stranger that there’s an ATM down the street, then drove back to the AirBNB. 

The ride home, we both passed out on each other, me being the first. I felt like I was just done for the day, but we just settled down and cuddled for a bit then rushed to being a kite. He and I both tried out a new cart, Forbidden Fruit, which will never be used again in my lifetime. When it hit, I was in another universe. I couldn’t feel my body, I could barely even move without putting 50% of my effort. I had no control.

With this sudden highness, I remembered to text my mom, which is honestly THE WORST FUCKING EXPERIENCE EVER. I had to settle my thoughts and say exactly what I wanted to say without sounding stupid, and it took so much out of me. I felt like the entire earth was crushing its weight against me, like damn. I was hyperventilating, and he was just supporting me. When I pressed send, a whole flush of relief just came and collapsed on me, and I felt so fucking tired. 

Of course, you already know what came next. That was a whole ass fucking experience. He ripped my jean zippers, and we laughed the fuck out. I was actually so relieved in some way, I knew that was going to happen somehow. We went at it, and I couldn’t stop myself from moaning so fucking loud. He even told me to shut the fuck up three times.

And that’s when I remembered to take my pill.

AAAAAAAAAAAAA

I couldn’t open my eyes to point directly where my bag was and where my pills were. He had to go through everything just to find it. My body was numb, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe prolly, I could’ve just passed out if I wanted to. He finally found it and gave me vitamin water, and yikes that was not a good combo with my current stomach.

I felt all the built up acid churning in my stomach, and before you knew it, I threw up. Jesus the mushrooms and acid from the truffles hhhhhhhhhh.

I just felt so fucking horrible afterwards so I proceed to sleep. lmfao.

Somehow, I found myself on him, naked, cuddled up, holding hands with the sunrise upon us. He woke up next to me, but we still passed out after a awhile. When we actually woke up for real this time, we washed up and took a shower. Yardy know what we did in the shower; something I never done ever for the first time. Shower sex. Imagine cumming inside for the third time but in the shower type beat.

We finished up and packed the rest of our stuff then made our way out. 

Then, I knew that it was our few moment actually together, and it kinda already drained me right then. He called my Lyft, and we said our goodbyes. I drove away and watched his frame grow smaller and smaller as the the distance between us grew.

I felt broken.

I never actually been with a guy four days straight in a row, and this shit slapped me real hard. I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know what to do either. I felt immensely lost. The Lyft driver’s starting conversations didn’t help as much either. 

I wanted to make a separate post of how I actually felt after. But for now, that was my first experience with my future husband.

[rkxsungwoon-blog]

☆ MGA5 EPISODE THREE ; JULY 11 #5008 HA SUNGWOON ; interview

once again, it feels like sungwoon barely has a chance to catch his breath after the performances before one of the mnet staff members call his name for the interviews. much like last week and the one before it, he’s ushered into prep first; the stylists on hand touch up his face and reapply the makeup that had worn off sometime during the day. they fix his carefully styled hair too (it’d gone awry during his stage with jaemin), and his favorite staff member is kind enough to compliment him on his new hair color.

sungwoon is quick to credit kenta for the success, since the last time he attempted purple was a disaster. with kenta’s help, he more or less managed to achieve the look he was going for. “no special reason for it,” he says, when the stylist teases him about wanting to look nice for a certain someone? she doesn’t believe him, but sungwoon insists that he just needed to change things up for one. “the certain someone didn’t even comment on it yet,” he adds in a stage whisper, before throwing the stylist a wink and a wave as he’s directed to the room for his post-performance interview.

it’s weird how normal this is starting to feel. the camera doesn’t faze him any longer, neither does the interviewer with her list of prepared questions. sungwoon greets her politely and asks how the cake recipe he gave her last week went over (well, apparently) before they get down to business. and business in this case means answering some difficult questions, as always, though sungwoon resolves to keep his answers brief this time.

what were your thoughts on last week’s results? did you feel the judges were being fair?

sungwoon taps his chin with a finger, deep in thought. for a predictable question, the answer to it is surprisingly hard to arrive at. “i think the eliminations made sense for the most part,” he begins slowly. “the judges’ criticisms seemed harsh, but ultimately, they know what they’re looking for. if you don’t manage to impress, then isn’t it better for them to rip the bandaid off early and let you know?”

privately, there are decisions sungwoon doesn’t agree with. moonbok’s departure, for one, still sits uneasily with him. joohyun’s elimination is a deeper, personal hurt, but one he can see the reason in even if he doesn’t like it. at the end of the day, he feels like trying to predict the judges’ decisions is a futile exercise, but trying to argue them is even more so. the best any of them can do is live with their pronouncements and do the best with what’s left.

“oh, but the top three in each category were well deserved, in my opinion. mason’s win—“ he pauses and tilts his head to the side. “can we call it that? but him being named the best rapper was no surprise. yeji has always stood out as a good dancer, so i wasn’t shocked at her being named the best in her skill either. and i’m a fan of heejin’s voice and the versatility she showed as a performer last week, so i’d have to agree with her as the best of the singers too.”

he’d hoped to hear his own name within the top three, but the fact that he didn’t only means sungwoon needs to try harder to improve and stand out. he takes it as a criticism, a note for future improvement. disappointment is an emotion only worth indulging in when you can channel it into something productive, and for sungwoon, it drives him to hone his skills further.

“and…” the elephant in the room, maybe. he made a personal vow to talk less about empty enigma during his interviews, but this seems too important not to mention. “i was relieved daniel’s gambit paid off. i thought switching from singing to rap was a risky move, but he knew what he was doing. i’m happy we get to stay in this competition together for a while longer.”

when you heard the challenge this week involved duos, was there anyone you immediately wanted to work with?

“oh man, a couple of people.” rubbing the back of his neck, sungwoon attempts to keep it brief. “obviously, i really wanted to work with minhyun or daniel. we have experience performing together and we’re attuned to one another. it’s easier to plan a stage like this when you’re used to sharing ideas and are mostly on the same wavelength.” working with either of them would’ve allowed sungwoon to skip the awkward ‘getting used to each other’ part of the week and jump straight into things.

“for vocalists, i think heejin or yuri would’ve been my choices to work with; both have voices i personally like a lot, so getting the chance to sing with them would’ve been great.” jeonghan would’ve been another one of his choices based on skill alone, but the man himself is… not empty enigma’s biggest fan—at least, that’s the impression sungwoon gets. “as for rappers, i think everyone wants to work with mason?” if not for skill, then for the screentime alone. “but changbin or sakura would’ve been my other picks. i feel like we could’ve pulled together a good performance.” he neglects to mention any dancers since sungwoon doesn’t even know how that collaboration would pan out.

your assigned duo partner was na jaemin, however. how was it like working with him?

how honest is too honest? as much as sungwoon wants to claim things fell into place perfectly from the beginning, he knows it isn’t true, and it feels like diminishing all the hard work they put into their performance to pretend like they didn’t struggle. “i only vaguely knew of jaemin in previous rounds,” he admits finally. “and when our pairing was first announced, i was pretty anxious. i didn’t know if we’d be able to work well or not. and admittedly, some of my fears were valid—i mean, we definitely clashed in the beginning. we both have strong opinions when it comes to music and we’re stubborn enough not to back down when we feel passionately about something. so that much was… new, and something we had to work through fast.”

he pauses and bites his lip before continuing. “i think it’s a good thing to have a partner who cares as much about putting together a good performance as you do. with jaemin, i never doubted his commitment or his drive for a second. we worked out our misunderstandings pretty quickly, and from then on, it was all about our stage. he did the arrangement on top of working on the rap, you know? and not only is he just that good, but i’ve also witnessed firsthand how he never settles and strives to reach perfection. that’s amazing.”

his cheeks turn pink; sungwoon is gushing, but he wants to express his admiration for his partner as clearly as possible. “i’m proud to have shared a stage with him,” he finishes. “and he’s officially one of my top picks in this competition now. if you have taste and want to support talent, make na jaemin one of your top picks too!”

how do you think you did today?

sungwoon isn’t sure how he did, to be honest. when he was on stage, he felt like he had the world at his fingertips. off stage, the doubts began creeping in a lot earlier than they normally do. maybe because his and jaemin’s survival both hinge on their performance. if they’re lacking in any way, they’ll both be punished for it. and as the hyung in this partnership, sungwoon is required to take responsibility for their failures. “we had fun on stage, and that’s really all i can say,” he grins, ignoring the churning in his stomach. “i hope for jaemin’s sake that our intent came across in our performance. he’s a talented kid who has much more to show.”

were there any performances you liked?

“i thought jinyoung and jeonghan did very well,” sungwoon responds. the song they performed was one of his favourites, and their chemistry onstage was one of the best of the day. “sia and vernon were cute together as well. oh, and sakura and ryujin had a exciting performance, in my opinion.” he wants to mentioned heejin & daniel’s band remix, or the way kenta and taeyang absolutely killed it with their stage, but sungwoon’s working on sounding less biased.

were there any performances you didn’t like?

“unfortunately, i don’t think hyejoo and youngjae’s performance was to my taste.” sungwoon commends the effort, but it wasn’t a stage he cared for in particular. it comes down to some questionable decisions on their part for him, but he’s sure with a different song choice and stage, they would’ve done perfectly fine. “but overall, i thought the caliber of performances was pretty high this week.”

which duo do you think complemented each other the most?

“wouldn’t that be suwoong and yukhei?” he says immediately, the duo in question popping into his mind as soon as the interviewer finishes speaking. “they have similar… vibes? energy? i think they match each other really well!” they genuinely seemed to like each other, which is always nice to see. “aside from that, i thought jinyoung and jeonghan were a partnership that ended up making a ton of sense, like i could see them as an actual act. yeji and junhee were also a powerful, appropriately-matched duo.”

was there anyone you think that brought their partner down?

“i don’t think that’s for me to say.” without knowing what goes on behind the scenes in any partnership, sungwoon is reluctant to comment. “but i will say that mason and nakyung were… unexpected? not necessarily in a bad way; i just didn’t expect to see them paired together.” he’ll leave it at that for now.

is there anyone you are certain will move onto the next phase of the mgas?

“last week’s psychic predictions did really well, so i bought myself a lottery ticket on my way home.” sungwoon chuckles as he thinks (with some pride) how his picks all moved on in the competition. “oh, but i didn’t win the lottery though, so i’m not quite on that level yet.” it gets tougher and tougher to be certain about who will advance with every week, and even his self-proclaimed sixth sense/third eye won’t give him any hints. sungwoon feels like his picks are a shot in the dark. “daniel and heejin,” he says finally. “heejin was named best singer last week, and she and daniel did a unique arrangement, so i would be… surprised if they didn’t immediately advance.”

is there anyone you are certain will be eliminated today?

i just hope it’s not us, he wants to say. instead, sungwoon shrugs. “anything can happen in this point of the competition.”

with that, sungwoon thanks the interviewer and the cameraman for their time before returning to his seat. not for the first time, he wishes he could reach over and grasp one of his friends’ hands so they can ride out the upcoming eliminations together but—

nothing like a duo round to drive home the fact that ultimately, sungwoon’s fighting alone here.

[patsythegreaser]

2nd Dec., 2287 

The chaos of the ambush had died down & my body had freed itself from the grasp of adrenaline, that's when I noticed the Pip-Boy was picking up a new & strong radio signal. The broadcast was a call for help by a man held captive by super mutants at Trinity Tower.

A burning feeling in my chest told me that I couldn't leave abandon this man. The location where he was being held was close by, practically across the street from the library. I reasoned that the super mutants I had just faced must be of the same force as the ones holding this man.

I could see something fall from the towering building when I approached. A man in camo-gear crashed hard into the concrete. Most likely a Gunner. But was it execution or suicide?

Fear of heights or vertigo has never been an issue for me but facing off against giant green bodybuilders armed with guns & planks & even chunks of concrete on rebar within a crumbling skyscraper made my stomach churn. I found some peace in that I at least fought inside a power armor & would I fall off it made me at least have a chance at survival. And I'm thankful that Ada had the arm containing a laser rifle still attached to it.

The man was Rex Goodman, radio actor & fan of old theater. He had come willingly, seeking the super mutants, with hopes that reciting Shakespeare's works would sway them from violence. Mr. Goodman had a surprise for me. A super mutant called "Strong" was locked in with him & happy to fight against his own kind.

Lines from "Mack Beth" had convinced Strong that we humans held the secret of increased strength & had decided that in search of said power to temporarily ally with us. Frankly, at this point I felt too warped by this world to be able to tell who was the bigger idiot. Myself included.

Another radio message was broadcasted on the same wavelength Mr. Goodman had used in the cell. It was a member of "Recon Squad Gladius" of the Brotherhood of Steel that requested support over in Cambridge. Somehow this woman had learned of my recent exploit against the super mutants & practically ordered me to be their reinforcements. Climbing Trinity Tower was an ordeal & surely visible for miles, especially from a vertibird. I was only happy to oblige!

As I write this log I realize that the burning feeling in my chest & stomach churning hasn't been an effect of my conscience but actual physical symptoms. When I started writing it was only serious heartburn but now my entire stomach aches & it feels like parts of my innards are cramping. Me not having slept in close to 48 hours is also probably adding to it. So I shall finish this & focus on getting a moment’s rest.

Patrick Donahue, Survivor

[fifty-shades-of-matsu]

I'd love to have a match up i-if that's alright! I’m docile & a little shy, but very kind & gentle. I’m a vanilla bean who’s super easy to fluster & very reactive to touch, but I’d give all of my affection & do my very best to always make them feel good even though I'm not as bold as others! I love to bake & essentially do everything of a domestic housewife so I really would cherish getting to take care of them! I have simple tastes too so just being with them would make me really happy. ❤️

Hey! So, I ship you with all matsu! Spoil them! Spoil them all! They love it!

Jk, jk (sort of). I ship you with Osomatsu!❤️

I feel like you two are polar opposites on the same wavelength! He’s lazy and may not be the most determined, but he’s really loyal and will stand by you no matter what! And while he may not be the most cultured, he’d be happy to learn from you about different cultures and history.

Also, the boy just loves to be spoiled. Bake for him, cook for him; he’s soaking it all up. He’d also take absolute pleasure in your flustered reactions to his perverted and playful teasing. “You’re just the cutest, I love you!” He’d squeal and hug you tightly when you’re grumpy with him. He’d back off when he knows he went too far, but please be patient with the babe!

How you two meet:

“Do I have to?” Osomatsu complained as Mrs. Matsuyo dragged him.

“Yes! Since you want to eat so many sweets…” Mrs. Matsuyo growled. “You’ll bake them yourself!”

She stopped in front of “Le Cordon Bleu Tokyo” and spread her arms out angrily.

“Now, Osomatsu. I love you,” she hugged him and placed a kiss on his cheek. “But… See ya!” She ran away, leaving him his suitcases and bags.

“Man…” He groaned and scratched his head.

“Do you… need some help with those?” You asked behind him, causing him to jump slightly.

“Uh…” His face flushed, surprised to find you there. “Huh?”

You laughed and carefully grabbed a bag from the pile, “we should take you to the admission’s office and get you settled.”

“Oh… Y-yeah, right, thanks,” he followed behind you with his suitcases, grinning. “I’m Osomatsu!”

“Kabukii,” you replied, smiling softly.

How you two start dating:

Culinary school was tough.

Both you and Osomatsu had hit rough patches throughout the school year, but made time to support each other no matter the dilemma.

You two had grown pretty close… Yet, for some reason, Osomatsu seemed to grow uncomfortable around you at times.

You’d reach over him to grab something or would accidentally bump into him, and he’d be sent into a mess of stuttering and blushing even though he was usually so teasing and cool.

You decided to get to the bottom of it.

“Osomatsu. You’ve been acting strange!” You deadpanned, furrowing your eyebrows as enough had been enough. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t we just get back to studying?” He whined and laid his head on the table.

Not today. Not with a big test coming up. God, his stomach was churning just thinking about confessing to you.

“Nope,” you huffed and reached his eye level. “Please, tell me? I want us to go back to normal.”

His red eyes widened and he blushed, “well, I don’t!”

“Wh-what?”

“I like you, Kabukii. I don’t want to go back to normal… I want us to be something more,” he confessed, and smiled at you nervously while scratching his nose. “D'you want that?”

You hugged him and nodded happily, “yes, if you’ll have me!”

“Of course I’ll have you!” He chuckled and rested his forehead on yours. “All of you.”

-- Mod Daisy~

[tysonrunningfox]

Interruptions

I’m posting at lunch because I’m impatient and this chapter has a lot of good things in it and I’m excited.  

Tumblr | AO3

Aurelia’s sitting at the table in the chief’s house, surrounded by stacks of letters, Arvid sitting across from her and staring at her in a way that kind of makes my stomach hurt.  I can’t help but think of Ingrid earlier, because that look on Arvid’s face, well…he’s in the chief’s house for her, he’d die before he flew off without her. Aurelia waves with the end of her writing stick before scooting down in her chair to write another line.  

“How’s Ingrid?”  She asks, not really looking up and Arvid looks at me, interest piqued.  

“She’s uh…” I shrug, looking for a half decent lie, “coping.”  

“That bad, huh?” Aurelia looks up at Arvid and they have a silent conversation mostly made of eyebrows.  

“I was thinking,” Arvid says almost like he’s daring me to start a fight.  

“Yeah?”  

“About Ingrid.”  He continues like he wasn’t entirely sure he’d get this far and Aurelia’s the one with that disgusting fond face now.  “We could take shifts, maybe, staying with her.”

“That’s a good idea, in theory,” I pause there waiting for him to pick the fight and when it doesn’t happen I walk the rest of the way up to the table, hands on the back of an empty chair.  “But she’s pretty upset, she doesn’t want to feel like she has to comfort anyone else.”

He flexes his jaw and I half expect for him to kick my feet out from under me.  Aurelia looks at him, expectantly blinking, and he shrugs.  

“She doesn’t have to comfort me.”  He looks at the table, tracing the grain with a fingertip and not so expertly avoiding eye contact, but we’re talking and no one is bleeding so I’m going to take it as a win.  “I just wasn’t expecting—it’s Ingrid.”  

“I know.”  

“And…” He looks up like he’s debating with himself and Aureila stays out of it this time, writing away in neat little runes and making me really glad I convinced the chief to share that load.  “And I think she’s lying, it’s Ingrid, she’d never accidentally cut off half her hand. I don’t buy it.”  

It’s kind of a nice reminder of the days when Arvid and I used to operate on the same wavelength. I guess that’s true of Ingrid, in general, she left when we were still friends.  Maybe after he’d decided I wasn’t his brother anymore, but we were still trying to hold onto some part of that.  

Until I lashed out at him and called him stupid for not seeing what we both missed.  I hate looking back at that now, at that feeling that if I hurt him, somehow I’d have less hurt to deal with myself.  

“That’s a good guess,” I sigh, “don’t ask her about it, I’m hoping she’ll tell us all when she’s ready.”

“She told you?”  He doesn’t sound offended so much as left out and I get that entirely.  

“Not really by choice, it was right after she got back, she was really upset.”  I wince at the memory, “she cried.”  

“I saw that.”  

“No, she cried more than once.  But don’t tell her I told you that, because—”

“Got it,” Arvid crosses his arms and goes back to mostly ignoring me.  “I can be over there tonight.”  

“You—Dad—Er, your dad has been sleeping there, you can—not that I can tell you where to sleep or—”

“Can’t you?”  He snaps at me and Aurelia kicks his shin under the table.  He doesn’t quite flinch and I refuse to back off, but I get the feeling neither of us want to fight.  That fighting would just be clinging to the old newly established social order, that Ingrid is back and she’s hurt and everything feels different again.  Our parents are talking and we have to define our roles all over again and just thinking about it makes me exhausted.  

“I don’t want to.  Go sleep in your normal bed, if you want, ask your dad, I haven’t been forcing heart to hearts on him or anything.”

“Alright,” he drops it. For now.  I want it to be the final drop but I don’t feel particularly optimistic about it, even if Aurelia appears to be fully on my side for once.

“So you’ve got part of an afternoon off Ingrid watch,” Aurelia waggles her eyebrows at me in a way I really wish she wouldn’t in front of Arvid, “any plans?”  

“When have I ever had plans?”  

Arvid snorts then glares at the table, like he doesn’t want me to know I amused him even at my own expense.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, “I just thought you might like to start with someone who’d like to have plans with you.”  

I glare at her.  She looks up at me and grins, and it kind of looks like a threat.  At the same time, someone threatening me with Fuse, who happens to like me and who I’m only now realizing I haven’t seen since the middle of the night when she slipped out from under my arm.  My glare turns into something goofy and she raises her eyebrows.  

“I’ll see you guys later.”

I go back outside and get on Bang, urging him into the sky and coating in the direction of the Thorston house.  I don’t know where I’m going to go if she’s not there, because it’s Fuse and she’s building bombs and that could mean day trips off island looking for supplies, and as willing as I am to follow her, time is shorter than I’d like it to be. How have I gone days without thinking about it? About her?  About the fact that she kissed me and we talked and she fell asleep under my arm like she fit there.  

I guess I’ve been busy.

I get lucky and spy her pink tinted head and Hotgut outside of her shed just as they’re about to take off. I land and she stares at me for a second before smiling, a nervous smile like she’s happy to see me but is also worrying about what bad news that implies.  Bang whuffs at Hotgut, dragging his tail back and forth across the ground and Hotgut snorts.  

“Hey,” Fuse cocks her head and her hair is shinier than I remember it, “I figured you wouldn’t be around for a while.  How’s Ingrid?”  

“She’s doing as good as could be expected,” I sigh, “Arvid offered to take a shift without pummeling my face in though so…”

“I was going to eat at the mead hall, my mom’s not cooking because my brother stole a stink bomb and set it off in the kitchen.”  

“Long story?”  I laugh and I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing a different shirt than the last time I saw her which means she must have changed at some point and existed in that temporary unclothed state.  

“No, I just told you all of it.”  She frowns at me like I hit my head and I practically feel like I must have.  

“I haven’t eaten all day. I could go for some food.”  

“Ok, let’s go,” she swings onto Hotgut and takes off before I can say anything else.  She lands before I do but waits and I’m not sure what to do when I step away from Bang’s side.  I think about hugging her, but that seems sudden, but everything’s going to feel sudden when each and every new thought about her hits like a physical blow.  

“Should we uh...go inside?”

“What else would we do,” she laughs but it’s not really at me but she doesn’t wait for me either and I don’t realize until I see her cheeks flushing that she doesn’t know how to do this either, whatever this is.  

We get food and sit down at the end of a table across from each other and she stares at me for a weird, warm moment I don’t quite understand.  I wish it were dark, somehow, it was easier to talk to her then, when she wasn’t blinding me with all of her everything.  

“What have you been up to?”

She smiles down at the table, a little of that dangerous edge sneaking in, “collecting Meatlug’s spoils. My uncle never lets me use her, something about keeping the peace but…it’s looking good.”  She nods, trying to force her trademark pragmatism over genuine excitement.  Her eyes are almost too blue to be real and I want to tell her that but my mouth’s dry. “I could probably have it done in three weeks.”  She smiles at me then, an awkward, off center smile that looks like flirting and my face is so hot it could restart the forge.  “Two if you had any time to help.”  

“I don’t.  But I want to.”  I take my first bite of food and realize how fully hungry I am, shoveling in two more.  Fuse wrinkles her nose and I remember that girls don’t like that, for some reason, wiping my chin with the back of my hand.  “It’s crazy how close we are.”  

“If we’re right,” she frowns, “it’s all going off of my hunch about that thermal vent.”  

“Hey,” I reach across the table and set my hand on hers and she doesn’t move away, “you’re right. You’re always right.”  

She smiles.  I’m not sure what to do with my other hand or my food now that my stomach is churning, excited and nervous.  

“That’s not true,” she shrugs, “you must be biased.”

“I probably am.” I wish we were on the same side of the table.  Why’d I sit across from her?  Why would I ever purposefully put anything between us at all?  I wish it was dark again, I wish we were alone.  I try not to look as out of control as I suddenly feel but it doesn’t work because I jump about a foot in the air when someone’s hand lands on my shoulder.  

It’s the chief.  

“Hey, you two, how’s it going?”  

At least I jumped high enough that my hand came off of Fuse’s so he can’t tease me about that. I don’t really feel like dealing with the chief’s teasing on top of everything else.  

“Fine.”  I shrug.  Fuse takes a bite that’s almost disappointed and I realize that she’d rather be alone too. Her gray sweater sleeves are pushed halfway up her arms, showing skinny, freckled wrists and the chief is staring creepily at us, vague half smile on his face.  

“Just fine?”  

“Do you need something?” I huff and turn towards him, easily finding my most annoyed face.  

“How’s Ingrid?”  He asks with enough legitimate concern that I’d feel bad for glaring at him if it were anyone else.  

“Arvid’s with her.”  

“She still won’t let a healer look at it?”  He asks like he’s tired of asking and Mom’s probably been on his back about it even more than mine.  

“No, but I did convince her earlier to let Gobber look at it.  I thought Mom might take Gobber’s opinion as an answer even though she won’t take mine.”  

“She’s just worried, it’s not that she doesn’t trust you.”  He nods, “and Gobber, that’s a good idea.  What did he say?”  

“I couldn’t find him so he hasn’t seen her yet.”  

“I’ll let him know to come find you if I see him.”  

I look at Fuse and back at the chief, trying to silently tell him why I maybe don’t want Gobber finding me exactly right now.  He doesn’t get it, just awkwardly smiling at us when I don’t say anything immediately.

“Or maybe you could just tell him Mom wants him to look at Ingrid’s hand.”  

“I haven’t seen it myself,” the chief shakes his head, “I wouldn’t know what to prepare him for.”  

“It’s a hand without some of its fingers, I bet Gobber can figure it out.”  

“It’s better if you ask him.”  The chief almost orders and I sigh.  He’s probably right, Ingrid will be more likely to go along with it if it comes from me.

“Ok.  Sure.”  

“Also, just wanted to give you a heads up but Sven was asking me about that dam that’s apparently leaking over on Brinhild’s creek?”  The chief points in the vague direction he’s talking about and I can feel Fuse staring at the side of my face as he does and I wipe my chin again, self-conscious about being at the other end of her critical gaze.  Fuse could probably look at me long enough to talk herself out of the insanity of liking me and it’s going to be all the chief’s fault when it happens.  “I told him to come find you too, you just know more about it—”

“Sure.  Fine.”  

“Ok,” he looks between us again, that stupid smile like he has something to do with anything about this on his face, “well, you two have a good night.”  

“Bye, chief.”  I turn back to Fuse and look at her almost cautiously, “sorry about that.”  

“You’re busy,” she takes an almost dainty bite and she’s still just…looking at me and I try not to do anything weird with my face, but that’s probably impossible at this point. “I didn’t realize you were handling so much on your own.”  

“Not really on my own,” I shrug and do I always shrug like that?  Or does my shoulder usually move more normally?  I’m suddenly aware of how wide I am and it feels like the edge of my shoulder is really far out there and I’m not sure what to do with my hands because they feel limp and itchy just sitting on the table.  “Everyone’s been helping out but…”  

“But it sounds like the chief’s trusting you with some actual decisions.”  

“He didn’t really have a choice,” I snort, “someone had to step in when he was…you know, all…sad about—gods, that’s not a very cheerful conversation.  Why would I bring that up?  Sorry.”  

“It’s fine,” she smiles, “I’m used to your stream of consciousness word vomit routine by now.”

“Trust me, it’s not stream of consciousness.”  I look at her sweater again, like a tick, this time fixating on the point of her collarbone just barely visible outside of the stretched out collar and gods, I shouldn’t be in public, I’m making such a mess of this.  I especially shouldn’t be in public with Fuse, but that makes me think of the alternative of being in private with Fuse and I half expect her to read my mind and like…plant something deadly in my pocket.  

“You’re trying to tell me you have any kind of filter?” She laughs at me but it doesn’t feel mean, it’s like the Fuse version of a joke and I laugh too.  

“I’m filtering most of it right now.”  I tap my temple with my finger and it feels dorky and she looks at my arm like she’s not sure why I have to be so embarrassing and I wish I had an answer for her.  

“Why?”  She frowns and it’s the first time in my life I wish she weren’t so perfectly direct because now I have to tell her something that doesn’t make me sound like a pervert or an idiot.  

“Because you’re pretty.” I blurt, successfully sounding halfway between pervert and idiot.  “And I have a lot of thoughts about it.”  

Her expression doesn’t move but she turns red, redder than I’ve ever seen her, and I can’t help but wonder if it makes her skin feel hot to the touch.  And then I’m thinking about touching her face and how it’d fit in the palm of my hand and maybe I should ask for something to blow myself up before I dig any further into this pit.  

“Oh.”  She nods, still red but smiling slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards just enough that I relax.  

She likes being called pretty.  Ok. That’s good to know.  

“So uh…bombs?”  I fall back on something else I know she likes and she nods like she’s glad for the change of subject.  “What’s uh…what’s the coolest thing you’ve ever blown up?”  

“Probably that ice I cleared out of the harbor last year,” she grins at the memory and she’s so literal I want to hug her.  

“I didn’t mean coolest like…coldest,” I laugh and she turns red again, “but I remember that, that was pretty awesome, it made all that green snow.”  

“It was also one of the coolest.  I like the water ignited stuff, it’s so counter-intuitive.”  

“Because water should put out fire.”  It’s nice talking to her.  Like, actually talking to her.  Not her giving me advice, not planning something with her or clarifying some stupid misunderstanding, but getting her to share something.  She does that so little that everything she says feels like some secret she’s trusting me with.  I want to ask more about it, like if she has any idea how it works and I’m trying to figure out how to say it when Sven appears out of seemingly nowhere and interrupts.  

“Eret! Just the man I’m looking for,” he leans on the table between us, blocking half my view of Fuse and turning everything fun about this into torture, “the dam leak’s worse, too much water’s getting through to repair it with rubble from the new wood storage. It pushes those rocks down river before you can say flooded hanger.”  

“Did you tell the chief that?”  I ask, mostly to get rid of him and he shrugs, shaking the table.  

“He said you knew more about the problem.”  

“I’ll think about it and try and get some decision to you tomorrow, alright?”  

“Gustav wants us on it bright and early tomorrow morning, I wasn’t kidding about the flooded hanger, lad.” He looks a little awkward and lowers his voice, “not enough dragons in there right now for me to trust them to keep it dry.”  

“Is there a way to stem the flow up stream to slow it down enough for repairs?”  

“Not that I know of,” he shrugs, awkward again, “we used to use a whispering death to dig a new diversion trench but I haven’t caught any around yet.  It’s early season for them, though.”  

“Let me…oh!”  I draw with my fingertip on the table, “there’s that tributary halfway up the mountain, the one by that cave…do you know what I’m talking about?”  

“The cave,” he thinks for a second and I can feel Fuse looking at me again, her eyes hot on my face and I don’t know if I want to hide or look back at her.  “Right!  Just south of the point.”  

“Yes, that little creek flows into the bigger creek, but I bet it could be temporarily blocked with a boulder long enough for the repairs downstream.”  

“We can try that,” he stands up, nodding to himself like he’s thinking through it, “I’ll let Gustav know.”  

“You aren’t going to run it by the chief or anything?”  I don’t know why this decision feels more important than all those I made when I was alone, but somehow it does.  It feels like the first one of a new era, I guess, different because the chief could shut me down but won’t.  

“Don’t have time,” he shrugs, “I was lucky to find you before I had to bring another excuse back to Gustav.  I’ll let you get back to your meal,” he looks almost suspiciously at Fuse, who doesn’t seem to notice, and I sigh, relieved, when he leaves through the main doors.  

“Sorry, about that,” I gesture at the doors and Fuse shakes her head.  

“Don’t be,” she fiddles with the end of her braid, almost shy for a moment before that feeling that she can see straight into my thoughts comes across me, “just maybe next time we want to talk we should stay away from people who want you to make decisions.”  

“Right,” I sigh, “we should have never left your work shed, honestly.”

“Next time,” she suggests. Her cheeks turn red again and I almost ask why until I realize that she’s talking about being alone in her work shed the next time we have a chance to talk.  

And that the idea is something to blush about and she’s been staring at me so long that she can’t hate it as much as I feared.  And I remember what kissing her felt like and the warmth of her under my arm and it feels like there’s not enough room in my chest when I think about being alone with the air as clear as it is between us.  She likes me.  I look down at her sweater again, remembering how soft she felt when she hugged me and the tips of my ears feel so hot I’m scared they’re about to spontaneously catch on fire.  

“Y-yeah,” I stutter out, ever eloquent under pressure.  She raises her eyebrows and breathes out a single laugh, almost relieved that I made a bigger fool out of myself than she did.  

Like she ever even makes a fool out of herself.  I can’t remember a time she didn’t come out of a conversation sparkling clean while I was an embarrassed mess.  I must have liked her longer than I knew to be so stupid around her for so long. Hel, maybe my body knew before me from the way I keep wanting to lean into her, like she’s a magnet pulling on me in particular.  

“Hey twerp,” Smitelout sits down beside me and I jump, glaring at her and hoping my red face makes me look as angry as I suddenly am and not embarrassed.  “Can I measure your hand?”  She holds out a piece of leather with a few marks on it at even intervals and I reflexively hold my hand to my chest.  

“What?  No.  Of course not.”  

“Ugh, they’re gigantic anyway,” she looks at my hands before doing the same to Fuse’s and it feels oddly violating in a way I don’t totally understand.  “And Thorston’s are too skinny.  You guys are no help at all, where’s your mom?”  

“I don’t know!”  I snap, “go find her yourself, it’s not that big of an island.”  

“Just asking,” she stands up, rocking the bench as she does so and making me feel even more off kilter. “Oh yeah, and Fuse.  I’ll have the uh…stuff,” she whispers as loudly as anyone has ever whispered, making it seem like she’s talking about something secret and also like she wants me to punch her, “ready pretty soon.”  

“Thanks Smitelout,” Fuse’s tone is clipped and she’s annoyed and that means she was thinking something that got cut off too.  

And she liked whatever she was thinking about enough that it’s annoying to have it truncated and I don’t know what to do with that.  Or any of this.  She likes me, that’s impossible enough.  Just look at her and it’s impossible and it just gets even more improbable when she opens her mouth.  

“Have a good rest of your date, nerds,” Smitelout just has to get in one more comment before walking away and of course it’s the worst of them all.  

“This isn’t—I mean, maybe it—”

“Does it matter?”  She shrugs, “I don’t care what you want to call it—”

“I mean, date is a word.” I cough and stutter over nothing because I can’t make anything not stupid come out of my mouth.  

“Yeah, I know that.” She laughs at me like she still somehow likes me and I have no idea how I haven’t messed this up yet.  

Someone else taps me on the shoulder.  Every bit of anxious hope in my chest instantly turns to intense frustration and I snap, loud enough that someone drops a plate across the room.  

“What?  What do you want?”  I look over my shoulder and it’s Gobber, eyebrows raised.  “Oh.  Hi Gobber.”

“Smitelout told me you were looking for me.”  

“That’s uncharacteristically helpful of her.”  

“Was it to apologize for yelling in my face?”  He asks, not quite annoyed, and I’m getting dragged into another conversation against my will, aren’t I?

“Sorry.  You just…uh, scared me.”  I look apologetically at Fuse and she shrugs like she somehow already accepts that this is just the stupid new order of things.  “What I actually wanted to talk to you about is—well, I, uh…” I struggle to think about anything other than Fuse and date and the fact that she blushes when she thinks about being alone with me, “Ingrid. Right.  I wanted to talk to you about Ingrid.”  

“I heard she’s back,” Gobber shrugs, “well, most of her.”  

“Yeah,” I hold up my right hand and mime cutting across three fingers, “that’s what I wanted your help with.  She won’t let any healers look at it because she’s as stubborn as a Rumblehorn with a yak carcass and my Mom doesn’t trust me that it’s not rotting off.  I was hoping you could look at it and reassure her.”

“Well, is it rotting off?”

“No.  No swelling either, no fever, no uh…signs of infection,” I try to say delicately, because it feels like a bad plan to say ‘pus’ in front of a girl on something that might be kind of a date, “since the first time I cleaned it right after she got back.”  

“Yeah, sure, I’ll take a look at it.”  Gobber holds up his hook, “my lifetime of experience should convince Astrid.”  

“Thank you, that’s what I was hoping for.”  

“Where is she?”  

“She’s up at my old house. My dad and Arvid are there if you want to drop by now.  Or tomorrow is fine but—”

“Let’s get it over with now, in case you did miss something and your Mom has reason to worry.”  He looks between me and Fuse and raises an eyebrow, “I don’t have Grump with me so you’ll have to give me a lift, if that’s not a problem...or is it?”  

I sigh and try to say sorry to Fuse with my eyes.  I’m lucky, because she gets it, even though she looks so disappointed it hurts when I stand up away from the table.  

“It’s not a problem. You’re right, we should do this now.” I take a second to look forlornly at my half eaten food before waving at Fuse, “I’ll…see you later.  Sorry it’s just—”

“I get it,” she’s so understanding I could kiss her.  If we weren’t here in the center of all annoying, interrupting people, I’d get to.

Gobber and I walk outside and I try to ignore his look, so he intensifies it as I help him onto Bang.

“What?”  

“Fuse Thorston, eh?”  

“Shut up,” I climb on Bang in front of him and kick off just fast enough that I can’t hear him tease me on the way to my old house.  

[webcricket]

Catch a Falling Star

Characters: CastielXReader

Word Count: 1832 (Part I)

A/N: Part I of a Soulmate AU mini-series, or as I have come to fondly refer to it, the 1K Follower Celebration request by @trexrambling with prompts for hurt/comfort, protectiveness, and reunion inspired by TKG poem #4 that outlined better for me as a series than a stand-alone drabble.

Summary: What if angels didn’t end up just anywhere when they are banished by sigils…what if sometimes they end up exactly where they need to be? Turns out you are Castiel’s grounding stone, and it’s more complicated than either of you realizes. Sparks fly when you meet a mysterious blue-eyed stranger in the most unexpected of places.

Completed series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/165166387163/catch-a-falling-star-masterlist

Few sensations exist in creation more unpleasant than the vision blurring stomach churning skin chaffing whirlwind spin of an angel’s vessel hurtling uncontrollably through physical space upon being banished by means of blood sigil. Few sensations, that is, save for the fireball crash landing which invariably follows such expulsions. There are archived plans for a Coney Island roller coaster gradually disintegrating in a drawer at the New York City Public Library which, if the project reached fruition, might have come close to replicating the experience. However, engineers could never work out adequate safety measures to protect the rocketing passengers from being jettisoned into oblivion at the kinetic peaks.

Castiel, like most vessel-bound wavelengths of celestial intent in his current predicament, hadn’t expected to find himself the equivalent of an angelic slingshot just now. Unfortunately, and also fortunately for him, the sensation was not entirely unfamiliar and he knew panicking would accomplish nothing. Practice taught him that accepting fate and relaxing usually made for a slightly softer landing.

Flung on an unknown trajectory, he spent the arduous milliseconds until the inevitable fiery finale pondering where he’d end up this time, in what depleted state he would find his grace from the strain of maintaining the posterity of his burning vessel, and how he would go about getting back to the Winchesters.

Dropping out of the sky near a bus stop was always a welcome convenience, albeit an unsettling occurrence for waiting passengers to witness. For starters, it made for extremely awkward conversation for an angel who already found small-talk especially burdensome. He spared one tenth of a nanosecond to roll his remarkable blue eyes cynically at the thought that at one time, before his wings were clipped, the sluggish prospect of taking a bus as a means of transport would have brought a disdainful snarl to his lips rather than a hopeful curl. He’d fallen far from Heaven indeed.

The ground rose up to greet him all at once and with unmitigated muddy enthusiasm. He lay there, vessel smoldering and hissing in the damp mossy slick of earth beside a nondescript lake, gathering his bearings and gazing up at the star spattered sky. A single bold cricket tentatively emerged from hiding after the holy shockwave and broke into song; others quickly joined to form a chorus.

Brashly throwing open the front door of the dilapidated clapboard-sided house outside Portland, Oregon a mere moment ago as Sam and Dean circled around to the rear, daylight still reigned overhead in the grey moisture-sodden clouds. He had time to observe little else except for the peeling faded one-time yellow scalloped wallpaper when the curse screeching raven-haired demon inside slammed her bloodied palm to a sigil painted thereupon, unceremoniously and frankly quite rudely cancelling the seraph out of the equation of her manifest demise.

It occurred to him from the dusky pitch of night hanging overhead and the position of the constellation humanity fondly dubbed Cassiopeia relative to the northern horizon that he presently reclined somewhere in upstate New York and would not be returning with any speed whatsoever to assist the Winchesters in this particular hunt.

The incessant buzz of his mud-caked inner trench coat pocket prompted him to sit up after several minutes to go fishing for his phone. The same pocket happened to also be mud-filled. He unsuccessfully smeared the screen with the back of his mud-soaked sleeve. Grunting in vexation, he located a pristine white expanse of shirt tucked below his left armpit and wiped the screen clean there.

Several texts from Dean lit up, in order:

Where are you? Demon is toast. Didn’t have the info we needed.

Saw the sigil. Not awesome.

If you’re somewhere sunny, send us a postcard. It’s raining here, again. Freaking Portland man. Heading home.

Hey, if you happen to be near a supermarket, I forgot the TP situation in the bunker reached critical levels before we left for this hunt. You’d be saving our actual asses if you get back there before us. Sam likes Charmin.

Seriously, where are you?

YOU OKAY?

“You okay?” your question simultaneously carried aloft on the evening breeze as the angel scanned the message from Dean.

“What?” Cas turned over his phone, perplexed at never having noticed this particular feature, and still somewhat disoriented by his involuntary voyage.

“I said, are you okay?”

The angel scrambled to stand on the slippery slope of the embankment to confront your seemingly disembodied voice emanating from the periphery of a nearby stand of cottonwood trees. He managed, with some effort and a lot of displaced gravel, to rise to one knee with the other leg splayed sideways, foot jutting out into the cool clear water, creating an ever-expanding series of ripples across the otherwise glassy surface of the lake. “I’m fine,” he sounded less pathetic than he appeared, but his husky inflection suggested he was not wholly convinced of his fineness.

“That’s great,” you laughed, gesturing in his general direction as you approached from the edge of trees, “because you look terrible.”

Chin collapsing to chest, he glanced contemplatively down at himself, the faintest glimmer of shared amusement at fathoming the full extent of his filthy state twinkling in his eyes and tickling at his throat to materialize as a light chuckle, “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“I didn’t think anyone was staying at the Holmes’ place this weekend.”

He followed your flitting gaze to the tiny cottage perched near the lake’s edge several hundred feet down the shore.

“So, how long you renting?” you prattled, nervous about the stranger and your isolation and not wanting your nerves to show.

Cas heard the apprehension in the rapid sing-song cadence of your words. He didn’t have a good answer. It didn’t occur to him to lie, so he didn’t. “I’m not,” he offered with the accompaniment of an apologetic shrug.

“What’d you do, drop out of the sky or something?” you joked, daring another step closer, deciding he didn’t look anything like the insane axe-wielding clown serial killers everyone talks about around late night campfires. He didn’t appear to be a threat to anything but the established conventions of cleanliness.

“Something like that,” he grunted, pressing a palm flat into the sticky mud and stumbling upright. Toes flexing within the sopping sock in his flooded right boot, he squinted at you in the dim light, endeavoring to place the familiarity of the warm radiance emanating from your soul. “Could you point me toward the nearest bus stop?” he inquired, choosing to suppress the nagging feeling of recognition in favor of a concrete concept he understood – getting home.

“Um,” mumbling, taken aback by the stunning shade of blue intensely aimed your way, you waved between the trees and the cottage behind you, “it’s a short hike up to the main road, and then a little over 16 miles north to town. There’s a depot by the post office.”

“Thank you,” he nodded politely, marching past you, every other footfall a sloshing wet squish.

“They won’t, uh, they won’t be open ‘til morning,” you stammered, ambling after him, all at once hit with an overwhelming desire for him to remain.

“I’m tremendously patient,” he murmured over his shoulder, abruptly stopping mid-stride to spin around, remembering Dean’s request. “By any chance, is there a supermarket in town? Or a drugstore?”

“You could stay the night with me,” you spat out, catching up with him, the proposition stunning both the angel and yourself to taciturn silence. The shadow of night concealed the glowing pink blush of your cheeks as you dug the point of your sneaker into the dirt, “I mean, you know, to get cleaned up and have somewhere dry to sleep. It’s my uncle’s place, I’m sure there’s something in the closet that will fit you.”

He nodded assent, feet magnetically following your lead before he was consciously aware he’d decided to accept your invitation.

After much convincing and promises not to misplace his trench coat as he’d lost one in a laundry incident in the past, he agreed to part with his soiled clothing for you to wash, donning a flannel shirt even a Winchester would consider too garish to wear in public and too snug-in-the-thighs dark brown corduroy pants after he showered.

Perched on the edge of the couch as though he was afraid to get comfortable, neatly stacked pile of sheets, blanket, and pillow beside him, he scrutinized the untouched cup of tea balanced in his fingertips.

“Did you see that meteor? I’ve never seen one like it!” you inquired from your vantage point on the chair opposite. “Lit up the whole horizon with this sonic sounding boom. I swear it fell right in the lake! I was out looking for it when I came across you.”

“I imagine it was quite a sight,” Cas brought the cup to his lips, swallowing his guilt with a sip of the tepid liquid, deflecting your indirect attempt to kindle conversation revolving around his reasons for being out at night on private property dressed in a suit and tie partaking of a mud bath. Regard shifting furtively to your stymied glare, he proceeded to empty the cup.

“Yes, quite,” you muttered. Huffing defeat at the run-around, you hopped up and reached for the cup. Your fingers caressed his, a spark igniting between you. You flinched at the electric surge rushing up your arm, eyes flashing wide to meet his startled blues.

The cup careened to the floor, bouncing without breaking on the thick pile of the carpet.

“Heh, static,” you laughed uneasily, bending to retrieve the errant cup, brushing the giddy stampeding of your heart and fluttering of your stomach off as the result of simple surprise, “must be a storm brewing outside.”

Curiously flexing his tingling fingers, Cas watched in rapt awe as you retreated to the kitchen.

“I can drive you to town in the morning,” you shouted from the sink, setting to work washing the dishes you’d deserted after dinner in favor of stargazing, “I have a few errands to run there myself.”

The sound of an engine turning over and revving in the driveway prompted your hasty return to the living room. The couch was vacant – your car keys notably missing from the whimsical key-shaped plaque mounted beside the open front door. By the time you ran out the door, the red glow of brake lights vanished into the dense woods over the top of the drive.

The next morning, when the police arrived to file a report for your stolen vehicle, you would discover the mysterious stranger with the captivating blue eyes had not fled so fast as to forget his precious half-dried trench coat. Luckily, he’d abandoned your car in town, parked in accordance with the strict odd-even parking laws directly across from the post office.

You decided not to press charges, explaining to the police it was all a silly misunderstanding – and after all, you didn’t even know his name.

Part 2:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/162675180755/catch-a-falling-star

[scribblindown]

Noctis finds out his S/O is a Phantom Thief

For this request

The other boys will be done soon, so please wait for that! 

Set: Here

Scenario: You are here

Headcanons: Here

Maybe it was a bit of a stretch for you—going this far for school, parading around as some masked marauder, living a double life. You were starting to think that you were doomed from the start. 

That was...until you met Noctis Lucis Caelum. 

The early morning bustle is not an easy thing for a sleepyhead like Noctis. He can barely pull himself out of bed before the twenty-minute mark hits and has to forcefully drag himself into the bathroom for an ice cold shower to finally get those blue eyes open. 

After that is a sloppy schedule of pulling on his uniform, wrestling with his tie, grabbing whatever Iggy left as breakfast, and snatching his phone to send you a good morning text. Sometime during this scuffle, he turns on the radio and puts the volume at full blast, thankful for the soundproof walls as he’s listening to half a thought. 

Just as he scrolls through the many selfies you send him during your morning commute, a small smile creeps onto his face unconsciously. His blue eyes gaze up at the clock for a mere second, and he curses, nearly falling out of his chair. He’s going to be late. Noctis jumps to his feet, grabbing his book bag, and tries to collect every stray book that he litters around the kitchen table and over the couches. 

“And now we have to interrupt your music for the morning news. The hacker group Medjed has sent yet another message to the Phantom Thieves late last week, and yet they continue to keep their silence. The--” 

Noctis shuts off the radio with a sigh as he puts on his shoes and makes it out the door. As he gives one last wave to the guard standing outside his door, his hand falls back inside his pants pocket and he begins his walk to school.

“Hey.” 

“Hey yourself,” Noctis answers, and even though his voice has the same airy, flat tone, as usual, you can practically hear his smile. “How was school today? Did something bad happen?” 

“Why did you suddenly jump to negative thoughts?” you ask, your voice lifting in questioning. You laugh, “Are you getting influenced by those council guys your father hangs around?” Makoto tugs on your arm unexpectedly when the pedestrian light turns green, and you’re forced to take your attention off your phone for a second.

“Hell no,” he says, and you can hear his voice lift as well. “But...Some girls were talking about the Phantom Thieves during school today...”  

“Phantom Thieves?” Your eyes grow wide and you mentally berated yourself for pausing so suspiciously. He never brings up the Phantom Thieves, not even when the name comes up on the radio. The thought makes you grip your phone tighter and your stomach churn. 

“Yeah, you must be tired of hearing about them too, but then your school’s name came up—”

“You mean the whole thing about Madarame?” you asked. You shook your head. “That happened ages ago, and I’m fine, he never touched me.” Unless being beat like a drum by his Shadow counted as touching, but you were sure that Noctis was thinking of something else. 

He lets out a sigh that sounded like a puff of air. “I’m glad. Are you coming over later?” 

You stop in your tracks. The realization finally hits you. “C-Coming over?” 

You can feel Noctis pause and press his lips together. He replies, but in a voice that is much more restrained than before. “Yeah,” he almost sighs. “It’s Friday, so I thought—”

“Oh my god, Noctis—I, uh, I completely forgot. Something came up. I have to study with my friends this weekend,” you quickly say. Your heart dropped when he sighed over the phone, as if he was expecting that answer. To think that you were too caught up with the whole Medjed and Alibaba thing that you forgot all about your plans with Noctis. 

“I have to go,” Noctis says. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

You wince pitifully when you hear the dial tone on your phone, and you let out a loud sigh that you didn’t know that you were holding in. You push open the door to Leblanc and listened halfheartedly as the little bell above the door dinged. 

“Hi guys...” you say as you walk through the door, greeting the other half of the Phantom Thieves. 

“Is something wrong, [Name]?” Makoto asks as you walk past her. You make your way to the table as Morgana leaps on top of it. 

“Was that just the prince you were talking to right now?” the cat said excitably. 

Ryuji nearly falls from his feet on the table position. “No way—the prince?! I thought you were just joking about that!” 

“Oooh,” Ann coos from her side of the table as you sit down. “What did he say?”

Instead of gushing about your boyfriend, you give her a solemn look and you shake your head.  

“...I hate lying to him,” you quietly admit, staring at your phone. “I mean I can handle the whole Shadows thing—I just...hate the lies.” You slowly slide down until your face hits the wooden table. 

Yusuke’s voice speaks up from beside you. He looks over his sketchbook. “Are you having relationship trouble? Maybe it is best if you just tell him the truth.” 

“Tell Noctis the truth?” You lift your head up, and stare at the blue-haired artist incredulously. You then turn to Akira, the Thieves’ leader. 

“Can I?” Your voice was full of disbelief, but there was that lining of hope. 

Your glasses-wearing leader pauses for a second, debating on the answer. He stands against the counter, half propping his hips on the bar stool and half resting his weight on his right leg. The Thieves wait in silence for his answer. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he finally says, his voice soft. Your hope dispels out of you like a deflated balloon.  

“You’re not serious, right?” Ryuji speaks up beside him. Morgana yells out a response that was on the same wavelength as the two. You huff and knit your eyebrows at your friend’s answers. Makoto puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder to ease your tension. 

“I understand that it must be hard on your relationship right now, and if he were any other person, we would’ve let him in on our secret, but…because he’s the prince, it’s too risky. You can’t let him know. I’m sorry, [Name],” she says softly. You shake your head. 

“No, it’s fine. I was silly thinking that was even an option.” You sit up straight and give your full attention to the meeting. Everyone stares at you with an unreadable expression. “We came here for a reason, right? What’s our next move?” 

“Trouble in paradise?” Prompto asks, leaning over from his arcade game as Noctis suddenly hangs up on your phone call. 

“...She canceled on me.” Again. That part didn't even need to be said. 

Prompto frowns when he sees his best friend’s downcast expression. He swings an arm over Noct’s shoulders, nearly knocking the prince over. “Come on now! I’m sure something important came up! Let’s go, I’ll buy you dinner, my treat.” 

Noctis lets out a small smile at Prompto’s attempts to liven his spirits. “You’ll buy me dinner?” he asks, his voice teasing.

Prompto falters slightly. “Well...Keep it within my budget, would ya?” 

Your relationship with the prince was an unexpected one, and yet that didn’t change the fact that you two were completely smitten with each other. 

It was easy at first, and despite being mostly long distance, the two of you kept your relationship healthy with numerous texts, calls, and weekend dates when your schedules were both free. 

However, as the Phantom Thieves became more popular—Oh, he needs to be stopped, she needs to be saved, he needs a change of heart—you suddenly feel yourself being pulled both ways as you try to juggle dating the prince of Lucis and your obligations with the Phantom Thieves. 

You were a Phantom Thief before you were a girlfriend, so you feel like your duty with them is just on the other side of the same coin that held Noct’s responsibility to the throne. Yet it seems like you are the only one canceling dates to scope out Palaces, Mementos, and stopping corruption. 

At the same time, Noctis felt tired. 

As the days went by, the times that he saw you became rarer. It was either this came up, or that came up. You had a study session, you had to watch your friend’s cat, your friends needed you. He couldn’t stop that inkling dread that seeps through his skin—That you’re bored of him. The idea that you might enjoy your friends’ presence more than his. 

Now there’s nothing wrong with that. He understands full well that when you two are dating he would still like to be with Prompto, so it was only right that you got to enjoy the same. 

Yet, he couldn’t help but feel inferior to them. This sense of insecurity and jealousy ate away at him. He wasn’t a model like the blonde girl you hang out with, nor was he the student council president, an artist, an athlete, or a natural-born leader like how you often gushed about your friends to him. 

Other than being a prince...he didn’t have much going for him. And even then, he heard you call one of your friends “Queen” once, and if that didn’t send a jolt of childish jealousy through him—You rarely called him “Prince,” and wouldn’t it make more sense if you called him King anyway?

It really did look like your love for your friends overshadowed your love for him.

It seems like being a masked marauder was really straining your relationship after all.

But despite your promises to yourself, you couldn’t make the date after that, or the date after that. Futaba’s Palace took control of the threshold of your mind, and for the next couple of weeks you were rescheduling, apologizing, and exhausted. You tried your best to juggle your relationship and being a Phantom Thief, and you even asked Akira multiple times to—

“Let’s not do that today. I, umm, I have a date with my boyfriend.”

Which made you cringe internally every time because of how much of a lovesick teenager you sounded like. Yet it seems like it is never enough. 

Little spats between you and Noctis escalated to blown out fights, much like the one you were locked in now. 

The two of you were standing in his apartment’s kitchen, ten meters of space wedged between the two of you. The two of you were yelling until you went hoarse, and you can tell that you both were getting frustrated with each other.  

“And for the last time, it has nothing to do with that! That’s what I keep on saying! If you don’t listen to reason then maybe I—maybe I...! Shit!” you shout, slamming your hand down on his countertop. You lift your eyes, brimming with fire as you stared at your boyfriend. 

Noctis was never good at expressing himself, and it frustrated you to no end, knowing that he was backing you against a corner like this. What do you do? Keep lying to him? 

It was late at night, and the group had given you the Saturday off to go back to Insomnia by metro before having to return the very next day to further discuss Futaba’s Palace. The deeper you went into the pyramid, the stronger the Shadows became, and you were tired, and your emotions jumped inside you like an active ball pit. Yet this proved to be nothing more than an arguing fest, a volley of going back and forth with harsh quips at the other. 

It is difficult going to school and having to hightail your way to Insomnia just to see your boyfriend for a couple hours after you’ve been sitting idle for who knows how many hours. Or you have the Metaverse to go to, but can barely keep your eyes awake after that. 

Noctis furrows his eyebrows, and his voice is gravely with all of the emotions spent tonight. You closed your eyes in tiredness and sighed softly, waiting for his next words before you set off a barrage of your own, and start it over again—

“I’m jealous,” he finally admits, his voice raw, yet soft. “I’m really jealous of your friends. I’m jealous of the way you care for them more than you do for me, and no matter what I do...I’m never your number one.” 

That makes you stop. As reserved of a man Noctis is, at this young age, his expression is as clear as day on his face. His lips are turned down, his blue eyes downcast, his eyebrows furrowed. He looks pained. 

You’re taken aback. Noctis shouts, he pushes blame, but above all, he avoids the truth. That’s all he ever does. He averts the topic of his ailing father, and doesn’t listen to logic, and he definitely doesn't come clean about his quelling emotions. 

He sees your shocked face, and that anger has returned in the moment of your hesitation. 

“There!” he shouts. “Are you happy?!” You give no answer, and he a frustrated sound exits from the back of his throat. He takes one of the black couch pillows and chucks it against the far wall. Some glass shatters, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

“Oh, Noctis...” you whisper. He’s still breathing heavy, eyes lit with a fire that almost tints his eyes red. You slowly make your way to him and you wrap your arms around his torso without hesitation. You can feel the stiffness of his muscles melt underneath you before he relaxes against your touch, and brings his arms around you to return the hug. 

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.” The realization of everything hits you. The fact that you couldn’t keep on pushing Noctis’ feelings aside for a cause that he doesn’t even know you partake in. Everything you do seems to be everything his insecurities lay out, and this makes your heart heavy at the thought. 

The two of you sway slightly, your former frustration forgotten. It’s hard to be mad when you’re both doing something tender like this. 

“Let me make it up to you.” You lift your eyes up to stare right into his. “I’ll spend an entire weekend with you. Friday night to Sunday night.” 

Noctis doesn’t answer for a while. He simply averts his eyes and pulls you in for a tighter hug. You smile in content when he buries his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Promise?” he asks, voice muffled. Your smile grows wider, he almost sounds like a kid. 

You hum. “Promise.” 

It takes a while to convince your friends that you’ll be out the entire weekend, but you all eventually agree on working twice as hard to get the Palace over with Sunday night, and hopefully finish it in time for August 21st. 

So here you were now, getting ready in Noct’s bathroom on a Friday night as he lazes around in bed. 

The prince is watching TV, yet that doesn’t muffle the sound of your phone chiming, notifying him that someone had just sent a text through. 

The Phantom Thieves type in rapid succession. It’s nothing but one after the other with these guys at top speed, so by the time Noctis manages to roll over on his king-sized bed to glance at your phone on the nightstand, your friends have already gone through multiple messages, before finally landing on the one that makes his heart drop to his stomach. 

[Name], you need to come over now.

His stomach is churning like a fortuneteller’s ball, and he keeps on glancing behind him to see if you’re still in the bathroom, or if the shower is still running. The prince feels frustrated beyond belief, out of all the times that you two had a date, your friends had to intrude during this one. 

His mind is spinning, and his palms feel sweaty from the bad idea that crossed his mind. He reaches out for your phone, and immediately dropped it on the bed right after, as if it was going to burn him. He quickly turns again to check on the bathroom door. 

He can’t let you see this, and have you run off with your friends again. 

No, this is wrong, Noctis shouldn’t be doing this. Hell, he shouldn’t have looked at your phone anyway because he respects your privacy and trusts you, but before he can fully stop himself, his fingers are already unlocking your screen and typing out the message, “I can’t make it, I don’t feel so well.” He doesn’t even read the past messages, and instead lets his rationality be thrown out the window as these incoherent feelings take over. 

He hears the shower shut off, and his heart starts speeding up double time. Noctis quickly shuts off your phone without waiting for your friends to reply and plugs it in the charger. 

You walk out of the bathroom not a second later, fully changed, and you leap on the bed to give your prince a tackle. He catches you and the two of you laugh together, the ice of your skin cooling the heat of his nervous body. 

In less than an hour, Noctis forgets all about his guilt. 

Teenage recklessness is a bad thing. 

You let out a loud exhale as you slide down the wall and collapse near Ryuji and Akira. The sound of volleyball could still be heard echoing around the gym even as you close your eyes and drift off. 

It was the Monday after your date with Noctis, and while you were content with it and the time you spent with him, there was something off that you couldn’t put your finger on. 

At the sound of the PE teacher’s whistle, you opened your eyes again and turned to your two teammates. 

“Hey guys—” You stopped midway and your eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, you look horrible!” The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could apply a filter. But there was no space for over exaggeration either. Deep and dark eye bags, messy hair, chapped lips mar their features. 

Ryuji clicks his tongue loudly. “Yeah! No thanks to you!” he says. He’s about to say more, but then a loud yawn that could snap his jaws stops him. 

You raise your eyebrow at what he says. 

Akira huffs softly. “How was your weekend?” he asks, moving you away from Ryuji’s flames. You tilt your head. 

“It was great,” you admit honestly. “I got to spend a lot of time with Noctis.” 

“Huh?” Ryuji’s eyes snap open at your response. “You said you weren’t feeling well!” 

You’re hit with confusion. “I...did?” 

“Yeah!” the blond athlete says. “Apparently we underestimated Futaba’s palace or somethin’ and there was no way that we could’ve finished everything up in time for August 21st. That’s why we spent all weekend clearing the place.” Ryuji lets out another loud yawn. “We only had nine hours of sleep in the last three days...” 

“You fought the shadow?” you ask, then without missing a beat, you continued. “You cleared the palace without me? You spent all weekend doing it?” 

“Getting past the shadows this time was a lot harder without that sneaky little trick that you use on them all the time,” the blond says.

“And you didn’t tell me, because...?” You’re feeling slightly insulted at this point. Did they think that you aren’t capable? 

“You said you weren’t feeling well,” Akira speaks up. You give him a confused look. 

“When have I ever—?” 

“Huh?” It’s Ryuji’s turn to raise his eyebrow. “You don’t remember or something?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up the group chat. “See? Here.” 

Instead of getting the answer that you needed, you only became more confused. You leaned closer to the screen and snatched it out of Ryuji’s hand. You look closer as you tapped on your message and it clearly displays the time. 

You swallow and clench the phone in your hands in a tight grip.

Noctis.

The door to his apartment slammed open, keys thrown onto the shelf beside it, and shoes kicked off in a flurry. 

“Why?” you demand, stomping closer to your prince. “Why, why, why?” Noctis sits up on the couch. His face flashes with fear and confusion. You grab his shirt collar and pull him close. “Why did you do that?!” 

You look betrayed, angry, but he looks bewildered, innocent. 

“Why what?” he asks. 

“Why did you text my friends?!” you demand. Your hand is gripping your phone and you keep it in a locked hold. 

Oh.

Noctis looks down and averts your eyes. You press your lips together and breathe out your nose. 

“That’s a serious thing, Noct! I can’t believe you did that! Do you even trust me?!” you rant. “I don’t think I can be around you anymore if you’re going to do this again—!” 

“Go then!” he finally says. Your gasp gets caught in your throat. His voice rings into silence, and you have to take an unsteady step back. His face contorts into an unreadable expression. He glares at his carpeted floors. “If that’s what you mean then...!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” you say, trying to keep your shaky voice to a minimum. “You don’t know—!” 

 “Know what? That you care more about your friends than you do about me—?!” 

“That I’m a Phantom Thief, Noctis!” 

“...What?” his voice came out as barely a whisper. 

...Shit.

[gastricpierrot]

Title: When Stars Align

Series: Daiya no Ace

Pairing: KuraRyou

Rating: T

Summary: Nothing good ever comes out of an intimate relationship between a human and a youkai, Ryousuke knows. He’s heard more than enough stories on betrayal, on disasters, on families being shunned. And being an onmyouji, he knows better than anyone else.

And yet, he lets himself fall.

Warning: i probably undermined the confrontation scene a bit but i?? tried??? _(:D

Also on AO3

[Ch.1][Ch.2][Ch.3][Ch. 4]

[Ch.5]

It’s like plunging face first into a pool of hot water.  

Ryousuke fights to breathe past the instant realization that she knows, she knows, she knows. Because even if she does if he can resist it won’t matter. He digs his fingernails into his palms, letting the sting keep him grounded. He can do this. There’s no other choice but to do this.

They kneel and bow before the minister present in place of the Emperor, going through some processes of formality before proceeding with their preparations. Ryousuke takes his position at the circle of onmyouji, resisting the earnest urge to punch himself in the chest to slow the beating of his heart and dislodge the lump in his throat. He mustn’t be this anxious, mustn’t let himself slip.

He keeps his gaze trained towards the floor as Tamamo no Mae is led to the centre of their circle, not wanting to risk any further contact with her because just being there is extremely risky as it is. He mentally blocks out the sound of her silky voice, the scent of her perfume, the weight of her currently suppressed aura that only he can perceive. It’s fine; confrontation isn’t the main purpose of this ceremony, even if it’s best if they’re able to somehow get rid of her in the process. Mostly everyone involved who’s from the Bureau are already certain that she’s the Nine-tailed Fox; the only thing they have to do now is to expose her true nature to the royal court that remains in denial. For now, all Ryousuke has to do is keep his calm and not mess up.

There’s a moment of tense silence once everyone’s ready, broken only by the knock of Abe no Yasunari’s tools to signify the beginning of the spell. Ryousuke clasps his hands together, pressing hard at where his fingertips meet as he recites the chant he’s long memorized but never found the need to use until then. He feels his stomach churn, and he takes a deep, careful breath. It’ll just take thirty minutes if it’s successful; he just has to pull through the next half hour.

“Boy.”

And there it is—the fox seeking her kind. Ryousuke decides to ignore her despite knowing he’s leaving his mind vulnerable; he can’t spare the focus to drive her out at the moment. She can dig up whatever fears or memories or even try waking it that’s already stirring to her presence, but Ryousuke can’t falter or else everyone else’s efforts will be for naught. He came all the way here fully prepared to be singled out; she won’t catch him off guard so easily.

“No need to be shy, I know you can hear me,” the fox continues, an icy undertone to her voice despite her friendly words. “Why don’t we have a quick chat? It’d be a moment before this whole thing is over and I’m getting rather bored.”

Ryousuke wills his thoughts to remain blank, only keeping the visualisation of the spell’s words clear. He senses her trying to interfere, trying to force him to acknowledge her.

“Ah, poor thing,” she speaks after a foreboding minute of silence, tone dripping with sympathy that sounded almost genuine, “Your parents left you as well, didn’t they? I understand, it was the same for me, too. I suppose it’s simply the fate of foxes born to humans to be abandoned—but worry not, I can assure you that the rest of our kind are much more accepting. So what do you say? Help me escape and I can make your life much easier. You won’t have to try so hard to hide your true nature anymore, and there’ll no longer be the need to work yourself to the bone every day. Oh, and you can bring your precious little brother along, if you wish!”

To tell the truth, Ryousuke stopped registering her words after she mentioned helping her escape. So she’s worried about the position she’s in despite her calm exterior—as she should because really, it’s her alone against a group of the best onmyouji in the country. Even if she’s to fight, she would no doubt sustain some degree of injury before she’d be able to make an escape. Just this purifying ritual  would weaken her significantly if successful.

But honestly, does she really think she can sway him with those pathetic suggestions? Either the records are wrong, or she’s really underestimating him.

“Ryousuke, don’t you think it’s rude to ignore the person talking to you face to face?”

Ryousuke nearly bites his tongue. That cursed kitsune—using his mother’s voice like that. He feels her smugness in  successfully finding the chink in his mental armour, feels her digging even deeper faster than he can consider how to react.

“I do wonder why you’re still willing to put up with everything up until now,” Tamamo no Mae speaks in the perfect imitation of Ryousuke’s mother. He’s sure that if he opens his eyes right then, he would see her sitting there before him in the flesh; her hair tucked behind her ear on one side, her smile almost a mirror of his own. The lady who gave birth to him, the lady whom his father took away along with Haruichi once after he almost harmed them due to his own incompetence. “Mother’s so, so sorry for what we did—you must be so tired after working so hard, dear. I promise we’ll make things return to how they were again, so why don’t you come with me?”

I don’t need you.

It’s a reflex thought, one he’s so deeply ingrained into himself that he doesn’t even realize his slip until it’s too late. Ryousuke inhales sharply, nearly missing a word and falling behind the incantation. He can’t decide who he wants to punch more; the wretched Fox, or himself for still being unconsciously hung up over something he’s so damned sure he’s gotten over long ago.

“Of course you do, silly. Every child needs their mother.”

And I need you to shut up and let me concentrate.

Might as well tell her to shove off now; Ryousuke figures he has nothing left to lose. He would’ve appreciated it if she could respect his wishes like a decent person, though, which she of course, insists on not being.

“You’ve always been like that, haven’t you? Putting on a strong front to hide how you really feel,” Tamamo no Mae coos sympathetically. Ryousuke could almost feel her hand caressing his cheek, touch devoid of any warmth. “Isn’t it exhausting to keep so many secrets at once? Don’t you think it’ll be much easier if you could just disappear?”

It’d be much easier for me if you’re the one who disappears, to be frank.

“I can show them too, you know.” The fox’s tone takes a sudden malicious change, seemingly growing steadily annoyed by Ryousuke’s retorts. She’s running out of time and she knows it. “You may be able to expose me with this ritual, but I can also show them what you really are, boy. Do you really want to be seen as a monster fit to be hunted down again?”

Ryousuke doesn’t answer to that, physically falling silent along with the others and leaving only Abe no Yasunari’s voice ring clear throughout the hall. Even with his eyes kept closed, he could perceive the harsh light coming from the centre of their circle. They’ve completed the first portion of the spell, that is inviting the gods to join them. The rest would be up to Abe no Yasunari; he’ll be the only one who can hear their voices and complete the ritual. The role of the other onmyouji now is to control and maintain the spiritual wavelength in the room so no one accidentally gets vaporized by the gods’ aura.

Ryousuke senses two—no, three divine entities present with them. His scalp tingles from the cluster of power radiating before him, but there’s also a certain calmness in the air that came with their arrival. The burn in Ryousuke’s gut slowly subsides, almost as if it’s intimidated back into submission.

He nearly breathes a sigh of relief. As much as he hates to admit, a tremor’s beginning to manifest in his hands from the strain of enduring so many sensations at once. He isn’t sure how much longer he would’ve been able to keep up his composure had the gods not indirectly given him that subtle boost.

“If you may, Tamamo no Mae-sama.”

The rustling of clothes follows Abe no Yasunari’s directive, as well as a blast of hostility so concentrated towards Ryousuke that it almost feels like he just got impaled through his temples.

“Traitor,” the fox hisses into his mind as if he ever saw her as kin in the first place, every word she says piercing into his consciousness like stakes. “You think you’re doing yourself any favours by going against me? You think you can suppress a fox’s power forever? You’re nothing but a fool.”

Ryousuke bites his lip; just a little more, just a little more. Just a little more until the moment of truth.

“And you think I’d let you off so easily after all I did to be nice? Mark my words, foolish onmyouji, that from now on you’ll—“

Her threat is cut off by a growl—her own when the spell reacts to her malevolence and, Ryousuke hopes, rebounds as some sort of damage on her being. Ryousuke simultaneously feels heat against his face, the gods vanish; and hears panic erupting from all around him. When he finally opens his eyes, Tamamo no Mae is no longer the beautiful young lady he saw earlier, in her place a fox as tall as an average adult human with golden fur and nine tails unfurling behind her back. Her teeth bared in a bloodthirsty snarl, her breathing slightly laboured.

Ryousuke isn’t spared from being awestruck by the Fox’s true form; time seems to in fact slow for a short moment after the revelation. The Nine-tailed Fox is almost on par with a god in her own right, and her regal appearance and aura only serves to bolster that. If she hadn’t been an enemy, Ryousuke couldn’t help thinking he might’ve one day come to admire her.

Then just as the moment passes and the onmyouji move to face her, she lets out a single ear-splitting yowl, and strikes out with her tails, catching everyone off guard with the sheer force of it. And in that few seconds of distraction, she lunges towards Ryousuke’s direction.

Ryousuke tenses for a second too long, his spell right at the point of release when she passes right through him and flees out the window behind him.

In that brief moment of contact, deep in the recesses of his mind, Ryousuke hears the sound of a nail being hammered down.

“Ryousuke!”

And the last thing he hears before the world goes black was the order to hunt down the Fox.

xXx

For a second, Youichi’s vision goes blank.

It’s the sensations that led up to it that worries him more, though. The thin thread of a link between Ryousuke’s mind and his own seemed to have strengthened dramatically at one point, so much so that it almost feels as if they’ve formed a literal emotional bond. Ryousuke’s stress and tension flooded to him full force without warning; pride was pretty much the only thing that kept Youichi from curling into a ball and do nothing but try to breathe until it’s all over.

And then there’s fear, annoyance, and something quite different that Youichi can’t pinpoint. It wasn’t as much of an emotion than it is a sort of…presence. It wasn’t the Fox, Youichi could tell that much due to the faintness of it. It was more like there’s something else inside Ryousuke’s mind, something right on the brink of waking from a deep slumber.

Youichi starts at the sudden realization. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s not impossible so what if...? It would explain his inhumanly powerful spiritual energy, to the very least. No pure-blooded human has ever been born with that sort of power for a long time; their bodies and souls have eventually became unable to produce that level of energy as the bond between humans and nature weakened over time. Youichi doesn’t know—and doesn’t think he’ll ever know, for that matter—how it came about, but Ryousuke must be, in some way, part youkai.

…Whoa.

Youichi has to sit back for a moment to let it sink in. Even though there’s never a short of conspiracy theories surrounding Ryousuke from the guys in the mountain, it’s still pretty wild. Youichi wonders if that’s partly the reason why he’s so unnerved about facing the kitsune. Maybe there’s something about her that gives her a sort of upper hand over him? He doesn’t know. It’s probably also not his place to know.

If anything, he should be concerned over Ryousuke’s current wellbeing rather than the truth of what he is. That sudden blackout was frankly bad news; it meant Ryousuke’s fallen unconscious for some reason. There are only so many possibilities since he’s supposed to be in the middle of work, and Youichi doesn’t like even one of them. Is he getting help from the other side? Can he… can he even still be helped?

“Ryou-san...?” Youichi reluctantly taps into the link that’s surprisingly still there. He half expects silence, half expects Ryousuke’s voice to pop up out of nowhere and casually toss him a snarky remark because he thinks he’s definitely capable of surprising him like that. “Ryou-san, hey, you there?”

Only this time it’s silence; an uneasy silence that does nothing but make Youichi’s unease worse as it stretches on by the second.

As much as Haruichi would want him to, as much as he himself genuinely thinks that maybe he should go check up on him or something, Youichi can’t leave. He can’t risk leaving the place defenceless because who knows what the heck happened in the Capital city? For all he knows, hordes of youkai might already be starting to run rampant across the country and he’d soon be so busy that he’d barely have the chance to catch his breath. Besides, Ryousuke entrusted the task of protecting his hometown to him; he’d definitely want him to prioritize that over his own safety. Youichi’s concern wouldn’t be appreciated where Ryousuke is.

He knows Ryousuke’s alive, at the very least. As long as he can still access their link, he’ll know that he’s alive. He repeats it to himself, clings on to it as his one reason to stay.

Yet it’s strange how less and less comfort that gradually brings him.

xXx

Haruichi knew something isn’t right when Ryousuke doesn’t return within the usual timespan.

The letter is painfully vague, disclosing nothing but the fact that the kitsune might’ve done something to his brother during her escape and that the Bureau is keeping him in the Capital for supervision a little longer. Haruichi could only imagine the worst. What if that’s just a pretence and they’re actually holding him there because the truth’s been revealed and they just haven’t decided what to do with him? What if facing the Fox had permanently damaged Ryousuke in some way or another? Haruichi watched his only family leave fearing the worst, and now that he’s staring right at it he feels a whole new sense of uselessness weigh down on his shoulders. Why can’t he ever do anything at times like this?

Haruichi takes a deep breath, balling his fists. This isn’t the time to wallow in self-hate. Think; there must be something even he’s capable of while he waits. If only he could figure out what’s going on in Ryousuke’s side now—he could perhaps prepare something that could be of help to him when he returns, something that perhaps he as one of the only few people who are fully aware of his circumstances can do.

There’s an old couple praying at Youichi’s shrine when Haruichi seeks him out. Not wanting to disturb them, he keeps himself out of sight and waits for them to leave, only emerging from his spot once their footsteps have faded into the distance. As he approaches, he offers a slight wave to Youichi, who, looks to have been expecting him.

“Good afternoon, Youichi-sama,” Haruichi greets, stopping a respectable distance from the tengu. Youichi nods, his efforts to keep the troubled look off his face not quite paying off because Haruichi could see his tension just fine. He’s heard from Eijun about Youichi’s link to Ryousuke. Haruichi really doesn’t fancy the idea of constantly bothering the local guardian with personal affairs, but since Youichi has practically gotten himself ankle-deep in said affairs anyway, he figures there’s little left for him to lose.

“Hey.” Youichi seems to hold his breath for a second before continuing. “I’ve got some news about Ryou-san that I think you should know.”

Straight to the point, huh. It’s funny, how the hundreds of worst case scenarios that occurred to him earlier have now simply blended into one blank thought. Haruichi swallows, and nods.

“I actually heard this from someone else but uh—“ Youichi moistens his lips and averts his gaze, searching the air for the right words— “I think he might’ve been cursed by the Nine-tailed Fox.”

“But he’s with the best onmyouji around; they should be able to do something, right?” Haruichi asks, mostly for his own sake because it’s that easy for a few words to send his mind reeling. If it’s something even they can’t do anything about then…then…

The hesitance doesn’t leave Youichi’s demeanour, his eyes refusing to meet his. “I’m…not too sure about that.”

Haruichi’s afraid to ask. And yet.

“What do you mean?”

A moment more of reluctance, then a resolute breath. And finally, Youichi looks at him.

“I don’t think they know about it.”

“Is that even possible?” They’re onmyouji; detecting and dispelling curses are supposed to be one of their specialities. It’s highly unlikely that they wouldn’t notice anything even if Ryousuke denies it (which, let’s face the fact—he probably would if he thinks it’s something he can deal with himself). Maybe Youichi’s misunderstanding something? Then again, nine-tailed foxes are borderline legendary creatures, so the odds aren’t completely improbable. If there's a type of youkai that can outsmart even the best onmyouji in the country, it'd be them.

Sometimes, Haruichi hates his own rationale.

“Curses aren’t exactly my thing, but that’s kinda what it feels like,” Youichi says, rubbing the back of his neck in thought. “His consciousness is pretty much back to normal as far as I can tell. As unreliable as it is, it’s just a bad feeling I’m still getting despite everything.”

“Then…then what’s there we could do?” Haruichi asks, the question directed more to himself than Youichi. If even full-fledged onmyouji are unable to take any action, what more can a self-learned fledgling and a youkai deity who specializes in combat do? Is there really nothing they can do apart from watching the curse take its effect and torment his brother until possibly the end of his days?

“I don’t know.” Youichi runs his fingers through his hair, exhaling in what seems to be exasperation. And for the first time since their conversation started, Haruichi notices the concern on the tengu’s face. Because despite what Youichi says and how he acts, Haruichi knows how he’s come to see Ryousuke as some sort of friend. He figures there should at least be a sort of special status granted to the ones you work with to protect something, after all.

And quite suddenly, Haruichi feels much less alone. He’s no longer the only one who has to fret himself restless over Ryousuke’s wellbeing. He hasn't been alone for a while now, much to his shameful realization. Some part of him has always been subconsciously blinded by the past, by the rejection Ryousuke unfairly faced all those years ago that left a huge impact on him at very impressionable age. It’s different now. There are more people who care now.

It’s at that moment that his long period of uncertainty comes to an abrupt end. He finally knows what he wants to do, even if it’d end with crushing expectations on his shoulders, even if he’s going to put his life at risk. Even if he’s going to have to train until he pukes blood like Ryousuke did because it’s the only way he can help directly, it’s always been the only way he knows that would make some sort of difference even if he’s been too cowardly to face it all this while.

“You have any ideas?”

Haruichi wonders if it’s really that obvious; all it took was one look at him from Youichi for him to ask. He allows himself just a second more of hesitance before nodding, resolute.

“If it ever comes to it, I’ll help him remove the curse.” He clenches his fists at his sides. “I’ll do whatever it takes to gain the skills to do that.”

And if Youichi thinks he’s being overambitious, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he seems impressed, to an extent. Pleased, even. If their situation hadn't been this solemn, Haruichi would've wondered with amusement how things have progressed to the point where he's become someone a local deity can feel proud of.

“Well, good luck with that, kid." Haruichi lurches a step forward  when Youichi pats his back in encouragement. "You're definitely gonna need it."

xXx

Unlike a good majority of the onmyouji around him, Ryousuke’s decided to stop trying to figure out if the kitsune’s done anything to him.

It’s five days before he’s allowed to leave. Five. Days. He’ll find out sooner or later anyway, so he really doesn’t see the point in him keeping him quarantined for so long. He just wants to go home, is that really such a difficult request? Really, it’s not like he was dying on the spot or anything. He’s sure he’ll figure something out if it’s going to be a prolonged curse—which, is turning out to be a rather likely possibility given the lack of immediate signs at the moment. Though, that’d only be true if the Fox truly had managed to make her move in time before she was forced to flee. With all these uncertainties, it’s difficult to decide what’s exactly going on.

Of course, as though being singled out by the Fox and being the subject of scrutiny for days aren’t bad enough, Kazuya’s assigned to accompany him back “just to be safe, for Ryousuke-dono’s sake”. To say neither of them were too keen on the arrangement might be quite an understatement, though Ryousuke has to admit appreciating the extra hand when it becomes apparent what the Fox’s escape has triggered among the youkai along the way. It isn’t exactly easy to keep swarms of unusually malicious youkai at bay while still recovering from the miasma of the city, not even for Ryousuke.

But Kazuya doesn’t need to know that, of course. Ryousuke decides his ego’s huge enough as it is.

“Heh, it’s been a while.”

Ryousuke says nothing as Kazuya marvels at the sight of his hometown once they're there, his usually cocky expression softened to something marginally resembling fondness. He used to drop by often back in the day, mostly to torment Eijun periodically and have surprisingly solemn chats with Tetsu about stuff Ryousuke never took an interest in finding out. Ryousuke’s never really expected him to be the sentimental type, so he’s careful to keep this observation in his memory for future blackmailing purposes.

“You’re free to go back now, you know.”

“Wow, not even an offer to stay for a meal?” Kazuya feigns a look of severe hurt at him. Ryousuke merely shrugs, nonchalant.

“Unlike you, I’m quite the busy person. I suppose you wouldn’t want to be waiting for me to get all my things sorted out before you get to eat?”

“...Point taken,” Kazuya admits after a second of thought, familiar enough with Ryousuke’s workaholic tendencies to believe his half-lie. Though, it’s not like anything’s going to be different even if he doesn’t, really. “Well. Guess I’ll be on my way, then.”

He flicks his wrist in a backhanded wave before walking off, heading towards the direction of marketplace with more purpose than Ryousuke's ever seen him have while at work. Ryousuke goes the opposite direction, soon strolling through the familiar streets, past familiar buildings. And Ryousuke-sama’s back, whispers are exchanged among the tiny street youkai who spot him, word of his return slowly spreading like a wave across the area. Ryousuke’s back.

And as he enters his own home, Ryousuke wonders if Haruichi’s prepared enough food for his share as well this time.

[lawofavgs]

In The After (Ginny/Mike, NC-17)

What better way to spend a Sunday than sinning with the Bawson fam? Enjoy!

Ginny hopes she’s being inconspicuous as her eyes scan the bar, clocking the whereabouts of her teammates. Padres litter the dimly lit space, occupying tables and bar stools and the dance floor. Everyone is present and accounted for.

Everyone except for their captain.  Former captain. Newly retired captain.

Ginny would be lying if she said his sudden absence from his own retirement party doesn’t sting her. The idea that he would leave without saying goodbye churns in her gut.  

She had thought, maybe somewhat foolishly, that their status as teammates was the only thing stopping them from becoming…something. The late night phone calls and the flirtatious behavior and the meaningful looks were always underscored by an unspoken rule.

Wait for me. Wait for this.

Except it’s his retirement party and he’s gone and he didn’t say anything.

She checks her phone again, clenching her jaw at the empty lock screen. No call, no text, no promise to catch up later when they’re alone and rested and ready to make a potentially life-altering decision. Silence.

She spots Blip meandering towards her, tipsy grin on his face. She wants to joke around and crack another beer with him, but her stomach is in knots and her chest is on fire.

“Where’d Lawson disappear to?” She aims for casual, unaffected. Whether she fails or Blip is just too good, she doesn’t know. Probably both. But his knowing smile kicks up as he shakes his head slightly.

“Made his escape about fifteen minutes ago. You know how old guys are, gotta get home before Matlock comes on.”

Her attempt to laugh sounds weak even to her own ears. As much as she tries to enjoy her teammates’ company, her head isn’t in it. It’s not long before she says her goodbyes, met with groans from the guys.

The Uber back to her apartment has her going over interactions, trying to figure out how she got this so wrong. Maybe it’s her lack of experience in the dating department that had her reading into things that weren’t there. Maybe they were never on the same page. Maybe-

Her train of thought is derailed as she steps off the elevator and spies the Padres’ former catcher sitting in front of her door.

At the ding of the elevator, Mike looks up, relief evident on his face. The groan he lets out as he stands is one of the most familiar sounds to Ginny.

“45 minutes Baker? Really? Wanted to make me sweat it out, did you?”

Her mouth is open, she knows it, but she can’t seem to clamp her jaw. All she manages to do is gape at him. “I’m sorry, am I psychic now? How was I supposed to know you were ditching your own party and coming over?”

His brow furrows in confusion. “I texted you.”

“You did not.”

“I did so.”

“Lawson, believe me, you didn’t text me. I checked my phone. I checked my phone an embarrassing number of times once I realized you were gone,” Ginny grits out, fishing for her keys. She can see Mike pulling his cell out of his pocket, flicking over the screen in a misguided effort to prove her wrong.

“See! I…oh.”

“Oh god, please tell me you didn’t send the text to the wrong person.” Her shoulders tense, mind immediately going to the worst case scenario.

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “No, I didn’t send it to the wrong person, I just didn’t see the fail to send notification.”

As if needing to prove the text exists, he shoves the device into her hands before crossing his arms across his broad chest.

Leave in 10 minutes. I’ll be at your place.

Oh.

Oh.

The look in his eyes is almost enough to swallow her whole. So much for misreading the signs. So much for not being on the same page. As always, pitcher and catcher occupy the same wavelength.

He advances on her, closes the small gap with measured steps. There’s no mistaking things now, not with his hand sliding into her hair. His thumb traces delicate stripes over her cheek as he searches her eyes.

She’s burning up from the inside out.

With no reservation or grace, she steps into him and slants her mouth over his. The faint tickling brush of his beard against the side of her lips is almost familiar. This time, there’s no phone calls to interrupt them. There’s no legitimate reason why they can’t cross that final boundary.

And cross it they do as he bodies her into the door, big hands framing her face. Her moan spurs him on as he licks into her mouth. Gripping his shirt with one hand, Ginny blindly attempts to get her key into the lock behind her. She feels as much as hears his laugh as he pulls back and snatches her key ring. With much less struggling, he manages to get the door open and stumble them both through the threshold. She damn near trips as she pulls and he pushes towards her bedroom. His chuckle against her lips and vibrating her chest floods her with a warmth and affection she’s never felt before.

She barely gives them a moment after they topple onto her mattress before she’s switching positions, rolling on top and straddling his waist. For the first time, she can openly and freely admire every inch of him. Her hands trail invisible paths over his shoulders and chest, down his stomach to the hem of his dress shirt. They have all the time in the world now, but impatience wins out at she separates both sides of his shirt with a forceful tug. She’ll be picking up buttons for days, but the turned on look in Mike’s eyes is totally worth it.

Taking in the bare skin, she traces over the faint freckles, sliding back to lay a kiss over the birthmark by his belly button. His hands are in her hair, over her shoulders, flexing and relaxing in pulses. She can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest under her forehead.

“Gin,” he grits out before clutching fistfuls of her shirt, pulling it over her head in haste. She swears she can feel the tremble in his fingers as they unclasp her bra and pull the fabric away from her body. She wants to make a smart remark about stories of his experience, but his hands cupping her breasts knock the words out of her brain. A quick pinch to an already pebbled nipple has her rocking forward, seeking friction against the obvious bulge in his jeans.

For a man newly retired, Mike moves with a surprising amount of speed as he rocks himself into a seated position before rolling her underneath him. He presses his hips down into the cradle of hers, groaning into the shared space between them. Lips seeking out hers, he steals the breath right from her lungs and his hand slides into the front of her leggings.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes out as his fingertips rub over her underwear, the damp fabric giving away how turned on she is. Sliding back up to the bare skin at her waist, she holds her breath as his fingers forge a new path under her panties. The touch of his fingers over her clit sends her hips rocking up, needy for more. He slides one finger inside her achingly empty pussy, thrusting gently. He gives her his palm to grind against and she happily accepts. A second finger joins the first, searching momentarily before running over the spot that has her moaning obscenely loud.

The feelings multiply, drenching her senses until all she can feel is him. His lips running over her face and his body half covering hers and his hand down her pants. Breath seems hard to come by as she finally peaks, muscles clenching as she comes around his fingers.

As if things couldn’t get any hotter, she watches him bring his fingers to his lips, sucking her juices off his skin. The look on his face is far from theatrical – he is truly and utterly wrecked.

She can’t take it anymore as she fumbles with his jeans and boxers. She barely gets them down over his ass before his mouth in on hers, hot and intense. She can feel him kick off the rest of his clothes before he reaches for hers. He moves off the bed, pulling the fabric down as he goes. Finally, she gets a few view of him naked.

What a view.

His cock lives up to the legend, long and thick. It bobs with his movements as he rummages through his discarded jeans. When he comes up with a condom, Ginny feels herself clench involuntarily. She can’t look away as he rolls the latex over his erection.

Coming back to cover her body with his, he drops gentle kisses over her jaw and cheek. One look in his eyes and she can see the weight of things unsaid.

“This isn’t,” he starts, clearing his throat before continuing, “this isn’t casual. This isn’t temporary for me. This is, god, this is everything. I need you to know that.”

She freezes for a beat, catches her breath before enveloping him in the tightest hug she can manage from this angle. “I know. Me too, old man.”

His warm laugh is music to her ears. Purposefully, his hand runs over her entrance. Before she can react, his fingers are gone, replaced by the head of his cock. He pushes in slowly, giving her a chance to adjust and savor every moment. She’s looking in his eyes as he bottoms out, and it’s the most fucking clichéd rom-com crap ever. Everything she could ever want or ask for is right here. Love, friendship, support, understanding, humor, it’s all packaged in this one frustrating man.

His slow rocking pulls her out of her thoughts, her head tipping back on her pillow as the feeling of being filled washes over her. Still reeling from her first orgasm, still dealing with the idea that this is forever, she knows it won’t be long before she comes again.

“Mike…fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long,” she sighs, hitching her leg up higher around his hip.

“Me too, sweetheart. Every fucking day.” His hand finds the apex of her thighs, rolling slow circles over her clit even as his thrusts speed up. The sensations overwhelm her and she digs her fingertips into his back. The feeling low in her belly expands until she’s coming hand, muscles fluttering around his dick.

Even though she knows his back must be killing him, he continues to pound into her, rhythm getting sloppy as he mumbles words against the skin above her breast. She feels when he finally lets go, when his muscles tense and he groans her name.

He pulls out gently before stumbling ungracefully into her bathroom. She can’t help but laugh as he lumbers about, discarding the condom and coming back with a warm cloth for her. He tries to huff indignantly, but it’s a tough look to pull off while naked and basking in the after-sex glow. Tucking them both in under the duvet, he cuddles in close to her. The warmth of his body and the familiar scent of him surround her, dragging her under into a peaceful sleep.

She could definitely do this every fucking day.