#this is unproofread

[kisses4kaia]

patrick and degradation hi

you weren’t even thinking when you said it. he was pissing you off so fucking badly and there was so much happening, you couldn’t contain it.

“you’re such a fucking idiot, patrick. so fucking stupid, you’re such an asshole, god.” you grit out between groans. you’re straddling his meaty thighs, slamming yourself up and down on his obscenely hard cock, and he’s gone. his head isn’t on earth, his conscience a mere cloud of you and heat and you and pleasure and pain and you and you and you.

“fuuuuuck,” he groans out, face twisting up into an expression you’ve grown so familiar with. it’s a look of agony and desire, a red flush spreading like a forest fire from his cheeks down his neck and taking roots in his pecs. “oh please, fuck, gonna cum, baby, shit,” he’s sputtering out, abs flexing as his moans grow louder and more often reoccurring, and it’s not made any better by your biting.

dragging your teeth along his collarbone, biting down on the sweating sheen of his flesh, all the while growling the meanest fucking words that patrick is melting to hear.

“fucking pathetic, so dumb, got you brainless, don’t i? maybe i should get you like this more often, so you don’t say stupid shit anymore, hm? bet you’d like that, fucking freak,”

and he’s shaking through his orgasm, busting a gooey load into the latex of his condom as he praises your name, over and over. you slow down momentarily, allowing him a break, but a few seconds later, you’re back to chasing your high like your life depended on it. he lets you, lying whimpering and liquid for you as you meet your own peak. patrick’s limbs are tingling still, blotches of warmth making him a pied beauty underneath you for your eyes only.

less than a minute later, your gasping for air as your climax rams through you, biting your lip so patrick’s name doesn’t slip through and feed his everest comparable ego. “who knew you’d be so into me talking shit on you? you would love to hear what me and my friends say when you aren’t around,” you chuckle, still catching your breath as you fall down next to him.

“it’s my kind of dirty talk, baby.” he leans over to kiss you on the cheek, and you groan, pushing him off of you before dressing yourself and leaving him, alone in his hotel room. it’s almost like you were never even there.

[leashybebes]

i don't have a prompt to give you but like. thank you for all of your writing today, it really made me feel some kind of fantastic way. (did you have an idea for a prompt that hasn't been sent in? consider me asking for that.)

you are so kind and i am so late with this. HOWEVER. have 1.7k of...something.

5 times tommy kisses someone on the cheek, one time someone kisses him on the cheek

1.

His date to junior prom is called Michelle. She's his lab partner in chem class, and she has pretty brown hair, tumbling in curls to her shoulders. Tommy picks her up from her house, because Michelle's really sweet and there's no way he wants her anywhere near his asshole dad.

His friends are all talking in the run up about how they're gonna get laid, and Tommy jokes along because, well. It's not like he doesn't wanna have sex. Of course he does. Michelle's great.

So he picks her up from her house and he hands her a corsage and her mom takes photos and her dad gives him a hard glare that rolls easily off the shoulders of someone who's lived in Thomas Kinard's house all his life and Tommy's hands are sweating and his suit is uncomfortable and her dress is pretty and he doesn't know how to dance and he's so fucking relieved that someone spiked the punch and at the end of the night he walks her home and kisses her on the cheek.

He kisses her on the cheek and she does the same to him, leaving a peachy-orange smear of lipstick and Tommy walks around the neighbourhood until it's late enough that he doesn't think his dad will be awake to bust his balls for being home early, and he doesn't try to figure out whether the feeling rolling in his gut is relief or disappointment. 

2.

His mom won't look at him in the aftermath. It's the first time his dad's ever been on his side in an argument. Well, kinda. If shut up, Sarah, it'll make a man out of him and Christ knows I haven't been able to can really be called being on Tommy's side. His dad had signed the paperwork when his mom had refused, so they all knew this was coming, but his mom's been tearful and furious and a little drunk ever since. 

Tommy's seventeen and he leaves for basic in the morning and his mom still won't look at him.

"Mom, c'mon," he says, trying one last time. "I'll be fine."

"You don't know that," she says, and he hates and regrets how scared she sounds, but he just - he can't stay here.

"I'll write you," he promises. She still doesn't look at him, so he bends down and kisses her cheek. Her skin still smells of the same Nivea Creme it has his whole life, the stuff that comes in the little blue tin.

"I love you, mom."

He lets the door close quietly behind him, doesn't make the trip down to the den to say anything to his dad. Nothing left to say there.

3.

The first man Tommy fucks more than once is called James. They meet in a bar, Tommy blows him in the bathroom, and James suggests they get a motel. They do, and he proceeds to make Tommy see god for the rest of the night and into the early morning hours. They talk after - James works in finance (boring, he says, but I'm not complaining about the money. Tell me more about firefighting, though), he's lived in California his whole life. He tells Tommy how cute he is, how much he'd like to see him again.

He's maybe ten years older than Tommy and so handsome it makes him ache. Tommy's so caught up in it that he doesn't think twice about the fact that they either go to Tommy's little shithole apartment, or James says something about treating him and whisks Tommy away to a fancy hotel in San Francisco or Malibu or even Portland once, for a three night stay where they barely left the bed.

He doesn't think about it until he sees James at the grocery store one day and approaches with a smile, with his heart beating harder in his chest the way it always does when he sees that handsome profile, that scattering of salt through the thick pepper of his hair.

"Hey," he says, and in the aftermath, he can hear the excitement in his voice, the ridiculous way it dips and rises on a single syllable.

James's eyes widen for a split second and he says, "Oh, hey. Tommy, right?" and Tommy has a split second to be confused before he registers the woman at James's side, the way James is putting an arm around her waist, the way he's saying, "Honey, this is Tommy, we go to the same gym. Tommy, this is my wife Suzanne."

Tommy feels sick. He feels like he's going to pass out. He feels like he isn't real. James's eyes are wide and terrified, and Tommy can't believe - 

He smiles and shakes her hand, ducks his head to kiss the cheek she offers him (whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck). 

"It's lovely to meet you," he says, like he isn't in the middle of his own personal apocalypse, like fire isn't raining down on him from the sky.

Stupid, he thinks as he walks away from them, abandons his basket, has a panic attack in his truck. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He doesn't hear from James again.

4.

Tommy's been dating Jackson for three months. They haven't really defined it yet, haven't had the are we exclusive talk, because Jackson's a little younger and he hasn't been out for long. Not that Tommy has, either, but he's trying to be cool. And anyway, it's not often that Tommy gets to feel more experienced than the people he's dating, more knowledgeable, more settled, more queer.

The sex is crazy good, and Jackson's cool with Tommy's weird schedule - they met on a call, after all, so he knew right from the start - and more than anything, it's fun. They don't just fuck, which has been most of Tommy's relationships since James, and that's not - it's not a complaint. Tommy's pretty settled in his own company. But Jackson likes art, and karaoke, and baseball and hiking, so they date. They're dating. Tommy likes it a lot.

And then.

"I think I met someone," Jackson says, and his eyes are sparkling, his smile bringing out a dimple Tommy doesn't think he's ever seen before. Tommy can't even be mad. "I think he's really special," Jackson says, as though that needed saying, with the look on his face.

"I'm happy for you," Tommy says, and he is. He is. He's just also a little…wistful. Not all the way to sad, but…yeah. Wistful. A sense of oh, that could have been something.

They part outside the coffee shop which, on reflection, should have been a sign. They've never just met for coffee before.

"Hey," Tommy says, and gives Jackson a hug, kisses him on his soft cheek. "Don't be a stranger, okay? Good luck with your guy."

"You're so cool, Tommy," he says, and Tommy smiles like that's enough.

5.

Tommy was not expecting Evan Buckley.

Wasn't expecting him to capture so much of Tommy's attention as he's flying through the tail end of a literal hurricane. Wasn't expecting to spend so many hours dissecting that tour and their texts running up to it. (Was that flirting? Was that? Okay, but that had to be, right?) Wasn't expecting to kiss him in his bougie-ass kitchen and watch a softly stunned expression spread over his gorgeous face.

Wasn't expecting that mortifying first date to leave him feeling anything other than like he'd dodged a bullet. Wasn't expecting Evan to reach out again and look at him in the sunshine with so much hope on his face that it makes Tommy feel like he's turned completely transparent and Evan's looking right into the mess at the heart of him. He certainly wasn't expecting an invite to a wedding, of all things. And he definitely wasn't expecting Evan to kiss him - try to fucking inhale him - in the hospital lobby in front of god and everybody and then drag him into the wedding like he's the guest of honor or something.

He also wasn't expecting the enthusiasm, the abandon, the sheer confidence with which Evan took him home that night and took him to bed and took him apart. 

Oh god, Tommy thinks, once Evan's fallen asleep and Tommy's wide awake in the city lights that aren't muted at all by the decor appropriate but definitely not black out blinds on Evan's huge windows. This one's gonna hurt.

He kisses Evan's cheek, warm with sleep, rough with stubble. Evan turns towards Tommy in his sleep, one hand reaching out, a soft murmur leaving his parted lips.

Yeah. This one's gonna hurt real bad.

+1. 

Another coffee shop. Another hopeful smile. Another time that Tommy's heart turns over in his chest at the sight of Evan Buckley.

But everything is different now. Evan is different now. He's marked by grief, and he's more serious than Tommy's seen him, and he's so - he's so calm as he lays it out:

"Listen. I haven't stopped thinking about you. Through all - all this. Through everything before. I miss you. I really miss you, Tommy. I miss the way you see me. The way you know me. The way you like me. I miss your shitty sense of humor and your bitchy eyebrows and how kind you are. Tommy. God, Tommy, life is so short. I want to try again. What do you want?"

Tommy feels like the world is tilting under his chair, like the coffee is going to come back up, like he's on fire.

"That," he makes himself say through numb lips. "I want that. Evan, I want - "

"Okay," Evan says, and smiles, small and real. He leans across the table, big hand tilting Tommy's head, soft lips pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to the angle of his cheekbone. "Okay."

Tommy closes his eyes, tries to imprint every little part of his moment into his memory. Wants to go to his grave remembering exactly how that kiss felt, the smell of Evan's aftershave, the touch of his fingertips, the warmth of the sun.

Evan sits back in his chair and Tommy thinks be brave. Be brave for him. Be brave.

"Hey," he says, and fiddles with his cup. "I'm pretty sure you're the love of my life."

Evan smiles and catches hold of Tommy's hand, brings it to his lips and kisses it. "Well. That works out nicely."

[kitorin]

in which, itoshi rin expresses his love for you in, peculiar ways.

itoshi rin is wearily watching his opponent's highlights when you tug on the sleeve of his hoodie.

he almost rips his earbud out by the wire, contrariwise to the soft gaze he gives you, the slight tilt of his head accompanied by a quiet hum asks you what's wrong.

"were you busy? i can ask later."

"'course not." without hesitation he turns his phone off and tosses it somewhere onto his bed. "something wrong?"

you lean against the coffee table, where the two of you were studying; match analysis for rin and unfortunately an infuriating research task for your upcoming exam. your chin rests on both your palms, fingers cupping your own cheek.

"what's your favourite thing about me?"

owlishly, he stares, then blinks. you mimic his actions, waiting for a response.

"i have to pick?"

you nod eagerly. "it feels like a while since i've properly spoken to you. we don't have any classes together and i've been studying during break times. and i keep falling asleep on the bus."

rin nods with understanding. "then my favourite thing about you is that."

"is what?"

"i love watching you sleep."

it takes a lot not to make a stupefied face.

of all answers you expected, it was clearly not that. rin's love languages centred around quality time and physical touch, but he's still fully capable of uttering sweet nothings. which was something you were desperately craving at the moment.

"rin that's so creepy—"

his typical stoicism melts away into bewilderment. "it is?"

oh my god, did your boyfriend have some sort of strange fetish?

"i don't get it." rin frowns. "it's been making me happy recently, why's it so bad?"

"but why's that?"

lithe fingers brush a few strands of hair behind your ears. "you're always so tired recently, it makes me feel at peace seeing you rest. i'm relieved knowing that you're getting a proper break." his aquamarine irises avoid eye contact, pink dusting his cheeks. "i like having you close to me, too."

guilt permeates your gut for having such assumptions. "sorry for assuming the worst, love." your hand cups his, bringing it to your lips for a kiss. "i'm just busy, with exams and stuff, y'know?"

"i know, and i get that. but i don't like the possibility of you collapsing from not sleeping enough, or burning out. and you deserve to sleep and eat properly, they're important for learning and improvement too."

and rin's right, it just feels as though there's not enough time, with so many exams being stuffed into such a little period. there's the fear of failing, falling behind peers and all the efforts you've put in amounting to nothing because of a mistake.

but as he said, rest is important, just as much as working hard. success cannot be attain with one without the other.

you settle yourself onto rin's lap, resting your head on his shoulder, and back against his chest, placing a small kiss on his cheek. "thanks for reminding me, i'm done for today. let's make the most of tonight."

he responds with a small smile, and wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into your neck.

"i must be really pretty then, if watching me sleep is that enjoyable." you throw out an attempt of teasing him, waiting for his reaction.

"nah. your face kinda squishes up on my shoulder."

"wow. okay. i see—"

"your neck also ends up in the weirdest positions so i usually have to move you around to make sure you don't have too much neck pain later."

"very sweet of you, that's enough though."

"did i mention you drool sometimes too?"

"rin—"

taglist (send ask to be added) : @yuzurins , @pokkomi , @chigirizzz

© kitorin : do not repost, plagiarize, change, or translate

[silverskye13]

Etho looks down quietly at his basket, making sure everything he needs is inside. He knows it is best to only make one trip down to the water. The water is treacherous. He is strong enough to withstand it, but of course, everyone who ever drowned thinks they're strong enough until their lungs are bursting. So. He double checks. He makes sure.

He has a week's worth of laundry. Some dishes he needs sand from the river to scour. A bucket, so he won't have to make this trip for another few days. There are a few pieces of leather armor in need of a quick rinse before they're polished. Also, he's thirsty. He tries not to drink his rain water. He needs it to last.

Finally, Etho belts on his sword, hefts the basket over one shoulder, and the empty bucket with his free hand. He looks to the short path that leads down to the dock. The water is blue as the diamond sky above, edged in gold from the slowly gathering sunset. Birds are singing. Breeze whispers through the willow branches and cattails. Across the river, a small herd of deer is moving through the rushes. One breaks apart from the others to drink. Etho sighs out a long breath, steels himself, and walks down the trail.

The water is cursed. Very few people still come to the river for chores. Most only dare to run down for a few buckets of water when the well is running dry.

_____

When Tango saw him gathering his things earlier, he'd shaken his head and made a warding gesture with his hand. Protection. For himself. For Etho. Or just to ward away the idea of evil.

"Scream, I guess," Tango had told him. "I doubt we'll make it in time, but yanno, we'll know what happened."

Etho had only offered a tense smile behind his mask. Everyone would know what happened, scream or not.

"I'll be fine," Etho said. "I've been fine before."

He said it a lot more confidently than he felt, and Tango wasn't reassured. Tango had a good nose for things like that. He sniffed the air, and made the chagrined expression of someone who could smell a coming thunderstorm.

"Yeah. Sure." Tango sniffed again, and then tapped the side of his nose with a knowing finger. "On second thought, maybe save your breath."

_____

Etho walks out onto the dock, his footsteps silent as he can make them. He took his boots off by the dock's edge. They're heavy when they're wet. He sets the basket down gently on the aged wood. He fills the bucket first. In the neat and tidy plan of his habits, he thinks the bucket is the one he least wants to be left last with. It's heavy and cumbersome, and requires leaning over the water's edge. So he fills it, trying to disturb the water as little as possible, and pads back to his boots to set it down gently beside them. Then he's back to his basket, and getting to the louder work, what he know will attract attention.

He grabs a shirt and dunks it into the water, wringing it out a few times before scrubbing it against the dock's edge. Someone nailed a washboard here, probably to make it easier for everyone else who needed to scrub up -- one less cumbersome thing to drag to the riverside. Beside it, Etho can see long scratches in the wood, vanishing off the side. He has large hands, so they don't line up to him, but the unmistakable look of nails scratching, clinging, is recognizable even still. He wonders idly who made them. Probably someone playing, before the water was cursed. Or an animal that swam across the bank and needed help scurrying out.

He is tempted to think it's something more sinister, but he knows better.

The water turns from diamond blue to sunflower yellow, then to blazing orange with rusted and bleeding edges. The herd of deer on the other side of the water wanders off, sated. A fox calls in the wood somewhere, an uncanny, very human scream. The bird calls twitter into silence, replaced by chirping frogsong. Etho wrings out the last of his clothes and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. He checks how far the sun has dipped in the sky, and decides he has an our yet before dark settles in.

With his clothes washed, he sets them back in the basket, neatly folded. They'll wrinkle probably, but when he puts them out on the line, the wind will straighten them out. His knees are sore from kneeling, his back from leaning. His armor will be easier to clean if he can settle in, brace it on his crossed legs.

Etho looks around the water, at the deceptive stillness. It's a slow, lazy river, hardly pushing the water fast enough to put ripples on it. There is one place near the opposite bank where a long shadow stretches from a stone, broken by the reflection of red sunset. It's the kind of image he would expect to see on a lake on a windless day. He's heard before that quiet rivers make for deadly waters, that there is a current in holes in the riverbed that will devour someone.

But Etho isn't in the water. He's on the dock, and the dock is safe. Nothing will drag him off it. Nothing in the water is strong enough. It doesn't have to be. There is some comfort in that, in knowing he can't be devoured against his will. It is why he still comes to the river. It is why he dares. Etho sits back and crosses his legs, bracing his leathers against his knees. He scoops a palm full of water onto them and scrubs, trying to get blood out of the small cracks where it will settle and rot. His chainmail is back at the fort up the hill, where its heaviness can't encumber him. It cleans itself reasonably well, all the links clattering together, just so long as he doesn't roll in any mud.

There is shuffling on the dock behind him, the creaking of old wood. Etho tilts his head, breathes in deeply through his nose. His pulse doesn't quicken. After a momentary pause, he resumes his work.

"Hey BDubs," he says conversationally. "Trying to sneak up on me?"

"Wh-- no. Of course not." There is mischief in BDub's answer, a grin in his voice. "The great Etho? Never. You probably heard me coming from a mile away."

"Maybe not a mile," Etho chuckles humbly. "You going to join me?"

"Well, I don't know," BDubs laughs, leaning over Etho's shoulder. "Is it safe?"

"I don't know why it wouldn't be."

"Water's cursed," BDubs reminds him. "There could be boogiemen about."

"You trying to tell me something BDubs?" Etho asks slyly, peering up at his friend.

"What? No of course not," BDubs laughs. He sits beside Etho, plunging his bare feet into the water beside the dock. "Even if I was, you know me Etho. You? Kill you? You'd kill me first."

"I don't know about that," Etho hums, splashing another palm full of water on a buckle clasp and scrubbing at a rusted stain with his thumb. "You made pretty efficient work of Grian."

"Grian had it coming," BDubs shrugs. "Got too caught up listening to the music."

Etho chuckles. "The music was very good."

BDubs kicks his feet in the water, humming the tune momentarily under his breath. It's a haunting sound, not really meant to be sung. Not by anything human. Etho shudders in spite of himself.

"Man, don't do that."

"Sorry! Haha! Sorry. Couldn't help it," BDubs grins a gap-tooth smile in Etho's direction, his eyes bright and gilded by the setting sun. "It's probably one of the coolest kills I've ever gotten."

"I'll make sure Tango knows you said that."

"Oh, Tango's fine." Bdubs waves a hand dismissively. "He's just upset 'cause I scared him."

"You did more than just scare him."

Dark room. Dark water. Tango screaming and running, scrabbling at the walls with his nails. If they ever went back to that little cave, Etho wondered if there would be marks on the walls like the docks, played, desperate fingers, digging.

"Well he's alive, isn't he?"

"I guess he is."

"Then he should get over it!"

Etho shakes his head, laughing. BDubs' voice is over-loud on the quiet lake, but its a good sound. Full of intensity and joy, and revelry. It made the silence between his words stark and empty, and Etho was always loathe to fill it.

Bdubs suddenly wraps an arm around Etho's shoulders, pulling him into a conspiratorial embrace. "Hey, I've been meaning to talk to you, by the way."

Etho suddenly has goosebumps on his neck, his spine, his arms. BDubs' arm is cold against his shoulders. He smells of bracken and standing water, and his eyes are bright as sunset. Etho takes a long, slow breath in and holds it for a moment.

"Uh... Yeah, BDubs?"

"I've got a plan, you know, for the others," Bdubs continues, his voice dropping to something near a whisper. There is something on the edge of his tone like the ringing of bells. Excitement. Thrill. Hunger. "But I'll need some help. I mean, I'm good at redstone, you know 'ol BDubs knows his stuff. But I need an expert. Someone good at traps."

"You know you've always got me Bdubs," Etho laughs, and it is hard to keep the nervousness from his voice. He's not sure he succeeds. "I'm happy to help. Just uh--" He shrugs his shoulders, and BDubs' arm falls away. "You know. Keep your distance."

"You're not scared of me, are you Etho?" Bdubs laughs, and it's loud and boisterous, and perfect. It echoes off the water like glass. Bells and ringing. He gives Etho a prideful, knowing look. "No, you're not scared of little 'ol BDubs. I know what you're scared of."

BDubs suddenly turns and slips into the water. Not all the way. His hands are still clinging to the wood, his elbows resting on the dock like it was a pool side. But the splash hits Etho's side and makes him shudder so hard, he drops the armor he'd been polishing. In a flash he's on his feet, backing away two, three steps. His movements feel too slow and heavy, and there's an instant of panic in him.

"Woah man!" Etho snaps, startled. He reaches for something, anything-- "I said keep your--!"

But BDubs is laughing, kicking his feet, stirring up the mud at the bottom of the river. "Oh come on Etho. It's water."

Etho takes three long breaths, filling his lungs to bursting before pushing the air out again heavy through his nose.

"You're fine you big baby," BDubs grins, resting his head on his crossed arms. His legs stop kicking, stop stirring up the mud, and Etho can see the water is shallow enough that he's standing on the bottom. He'd thought-- he'd thought-- "You'd think I tried to drown you, jeez."

He thought it was deeper.

Etho held his breath for a moment, counted slowly. He wanted to reach his hand to his neck, to check his pulse. To see how fast his heart was beating. He moved his hand to, and at a mocking glance from his friend, decides instead to stoop to pick up his dropped armor. He walks carefully to his basket and places it inside.

"Why'd you come down here, anyway?" BDubs asks. "If you're so scared, I mean."

"You know me, BDubs. I always come back," Etho answers, almost a reflex. A rehearsed answer. "Who else would I go to?"

"Tango and Skizz?"

"They won't keep me safe like you will." Etho points out. He shudders again, the cold from BDub's touch had seeped into him more than he thought it had. He's acclimating though, like jumping into a pool. It's a cold that seeps out of him, warms as it settles. "It's me and you to the end, right buddy?"

"Of course Etho. I'd never betray you."

Etho looks through his things one last time, then frowns. He turns the basket with his foot. He glances at BDubs, who still watches him from the water's edge. Then he takes a chance and crouches down beside his basket, rifling through with both hands.

"Lose something?" BDubs asks, standing on his tiptoes to get a better look.

Etho looks around, checking first the dock, and then the water beyond. In the deeper water over the side, he sees the flash of a buckle in the dying rays of the sun.

"Oh, huh," BDubs hums disinterestedly. "Guess you'll have to get that."

"BDubs," Etho scowls.

"Fine! Fine. I get it. You don't wanna get wet." BDubs puts up his hands, as though surrendering. "The water really isn't all that bad." He offers Etho a quick little salute. "Be right back."

He takes an exaggerated breath and splashes beneath the dock, stirring up mud and river plants. He breaks the water's surface shortly after, holding up the fallen armor piece triumphantly. "Ta-da! Hold your applause. I know I'm great."

Etho, in spite of himself, chuckles. He shivers again -- the evening is getting cold -- and reaches a hand out. BDubs places the buckle in his hand, then reaches his other hand up to clasp Etho's gently. It's awkward and off-balance, Etho leaning precariously over the side of the dock, and BDubs on his tip-toes, holding him in place. It isn't a hard grasp. At any moment, Etho can take his hand away. He has always been stronger than BDubs.

"Hey, Etho, I really have missed you, man," BDubs says, smiling fondly, his voice soft. It isn't a whisper. It simply isn't loud and brash like he normally is. Heartfelt. The kind of tone that beckons, that wants to be listened to. "I mean-- I've missed us doing things together. It reminds me of the good 'ol days, you know? NHO and Mindcrack. We make a good team."

"We do," Etho agrees. He takes a long, slow breath. He shivers.

He frowns.

Etho pulls his hand out of BDubs, and BDubs offers no resistance. Etho looks down at his hand, at the wrinkled, waterlogged skin. He rubs his thumb across his forefingers, feeling the odd texture, grounding himself on it. Etho takes a deep breath in, lets it out again slowly.

"How long have I been in the water, BDubs?" Etho whispers.

Etho is still holding the belt buckle in one hand, still looking down at the wrinkled fingers of his other. BDubs is still in front of him, only his head and shoulders above the water. Etho looks back over his shoulder. The dock is startlingly far away, the basket sitting on the very edge. Beyond it, his boots and water bucket are sitting in the grass beside rushes and willow branches.

"Does it matter?" BDubs asks, smiling gently.

Etho takes a long, deep breath through his nose.

"Oh, don't be scared," BDubs says, moving silently closer. He reaches out his hands and grasps Etho's arms, a gentle touch, reassuring. A friend trying to assuage fear. His eyes are blazing red and orange with the setting sun, but the sky is black and salted with stars. "I didn't drag you down here, Etho. You came to me, remember?"

"BDubs--"

"You know I'd never betray you," BDubs continues, taking a slow step backwards. He pulls Etho with him, and Etho, by habit and familiarity, takes a step forward. The allure of BDubs' voice tilts his vision. He's on the dock, holding the buckle that fell in the water, and BDubs is clasping his hands, and the sun is setting. The water is up to his chest, and the world is dark star-filled, and BDubs is taking another step backwards, and Etho is following. "I could have betrayed you day one, and I didn't. I'm just asking for your help, Etho. You and me together, right?"

"BDubs--"

"It's the deep water, isn't it?" BDubs croons, like he's speaking to a child. "The deep water scares you? It's okay. You're fine."

Etho is fine. His breathing is slow, his heartbeat even. He wants to be scared. He should be scared. But BDubs is his friend.

BDubs reaches up to Etho's neck, not to strangle or to threaten, but to gently cup his hands around him. He pulls gently on Etho, not to drag Etho down, but to raise himself up, so they're nearly eye to eye. Etho feels water around his shoulders, and shivers.

"It's okay," BDubs says. "I would never hurt you, I promise. We don't have to go any deeper." His voice even and calm, inexorable. Etho's pulse doesn't quicken when he says, "You know how many people drown in shallow water? It's easy. I'll be with you the whole time."

The water is around Etho's neck, and BDubs is above him just slightly. One hand raises slowly to the back of Etho's head, fingers gently tangling in his hair. It is the caress of someone who cares for him deeply, someone who wants him to stay. The feeling is wholly dissonant from the words being spoken. Water? Drowning? How could someone who loves him so much drown him?

"You want to stay with me, right?" BDubs asks. "You and me together, we'd be unstoppable, Etho. The best duo the Life Series has ever seen."

BDub's hand on Etho's neck moves just slightly, the thumb pulling around to rest on his adam's apple. The hand in his hair clenches just a little. A warning. "You're not thinking about betraying me, are you?"

Etho shivers again. He wants to be afraid.

"You know, Grian said some things before he drowned," BDubs's hand on his neck tightened just a little. Etho could feel his pulse against BDub's thumb, finally, finally beginning to quicken. "He said you were a survivor. He said you'd leave me -- heh -- high and dry. You wouldn't do that, would you, Etho?"

Etho's pulse quickened more. There was a cold numbness in his limbs that he hadn't even noticed gathering, and his sluggishly awakening panic pushed it from him.

"BDubs," Etho said, his voice small and hoarse in his throat, "let me go."

"Etho..." BDubs said warningly.

"Let me go!" Etho shouted, planting his hands on BDub's chest and shoving backwards away. What he felt, in that brief second, was neither skin nor flesh, nor the softness of fabric. He felt tangled river weeds, and fish scales, slimy and cold against his skin. The cursed thing that looked like BDubs but wasn't, released Etho spitefully. His claws tore from Etho's neck, scraped along the back of his head to come free with pale strands of his hair. Suddenly there were arms around him, and Etho screamed and thrashed as he was dragged.

"I've got you dude! I've got you!"

It was Skizz, his voice a thunderous bellow in Etho's ear, his arms feverishly hot against him where they clamped like vices around his waist. Skizz dragged Etho from the water like he weighed nothing. Etho got his feet underneath himself and clung to Skizz, staggering out of the water as quick as he could. He heard feet pounding on the dock, and glanced over to watch Tango sprint across the wood. He stooped, grabbed up Etho's basket, and sprinted back with it, the reaching, clawed hand of the thing that looked like BDubs snapping for his ankles and missing.

"I got him!" Skizz shouted to Tango, scrambling onto the grass, refusing to let Etho go until they were well up the path. "Did you see how close he was?!"

"Yeah I saw!" Tango snapped, choking on his own fear, gulping in air and coughing it back out again. "It tried to drag me in!"

"Oh my god, are you okay dude?" Skizz demanded, and, when Tango nodded, he turned back to Etho. "Are you okay? I didn't see you go under. Can you breathe?"

Etho, who had collapsed into the grass the moment Skizz released him, lay there gasping like a hooked fish. He shivered, pale and cold from how long he spent in the water-- how long had he been in the water. He could still feel the thing's burning claws in streaks across his neck, and a tickling of blood at the back of his head.

"Etho?"

"I'm okay," Etho gasped, "I'm sorry I just-- I needed-- I wanted--"

"I know what you wanted!" Tango snapped angrily, the anger of someone who had risked his life. The anger of someone who thought a friend of his was dead, or dying. "But it's not him, Etho."

"It sounds like him," Etho whispered. He threw an arm over his eyes and shivered again. "It sounds like him, though."

"I know it does buddy, I know," Skizz said, his voice full of sympathy and pity. He waited with mountainous patience as Etho pulled himself together, and then helped Etho stand.

Together, they walked back to the fort.

Behind them, something cursed and hungry in the dark water, sang, and its voice was sweet and familiar.

[paynomind-iamnotreal]

You are not a real person.

You wear a face that is not your own. You were designed to die.

You wear a face that gets you recognized around the grounds of a school you are not enrolled at (you aren't enrolled at any school.) You live in the same house as the person you were supposed to be. She has the right voice, stands the right way, wears her clothes correctly. When you look like her, you feel wrong. You see all the parts of yourself that are wrong, the makeup you wear, your style, your mannerisms. You can only see all the parts of yourself that fall short of her, but, any closer, wouldn't feel like you.

You are at a party. You don't know anyone her besides her friends (they are the only people you have ever known, but they never know what to make of you.) They helped you enroll in your own school, one that won't know you, one that won't know her. The other day you were desperate, uncertain and panicked. You took a pregnancy test and it came back positive. She never had to worry about that. She never has to worry about disappearing. The steps were confusing, you could've done it wrong. There is a rumble in the ground and you all leap to action, you're loading cannons, healing people, sharing the blessing of her deity (you never really bothered to ask her about all that.)

You are needed on the roof. You can feel it. The storm is thick and choking, the spray of clouds forces your eyes partly closed. You take stumbling steps towards her. She is on her knees. You've seen her pray before, but something about this is different. You can't tell if its tears or mist pooling on her face. You can't tell if its the pains of combat or the strain of heartbreak contorting her expression. The prayer itself feels wrong too, less holy and more personal. You follow her gaze.

The words leave your lips before you realize, an automatic reaction to the mammoth mess of wind and cloud and hate: "Blimey." There is a face in the storm. Monumental, twisting, grotesque, but a face nonetheless. You are good at recognizing faces. She looks a bit... No. It is grotesque. Monstrous. The face you see in nightmares. Lightning cracks and whips around you. You feel something deep and heavy click in your chest as lighting cracks inside the storm. It looks exactly like her. It looks exactly like you.

And She is beautiful.

It was awe that clicked in your chest. Fear and hope. Awful and awesome. Sublime. Recognition of a power that is beyond yourself.

You don't know what will happen to you if you survive tonight. You don't know how long you live. You don't know where you go when you die.

But you need to reach Her. You place a hand on her shoulder and take a step towards the roiling clouds, towards It. You can reach her, that is all that is certain.

"I don't know if you heard me,"

The face contorts with rage and fear. It knows not what it is. It is everything that is wrong with Her. It will destroy you, when you return Her. That's O.K.

"But I said—"

You were designed to die.

Lightning envelops you as uncertainty replaces fear. It burns your hands, clasped in prayer, it singes your lips, forming the words of your impromptu, awestruck prayer. It's lightning is not what destroys you though. You feel the prayer work as a peace in all the chaos of your life becomes clear, waves of cool night and weighty cosmic power flow through you, calling you home.

You die a person.

Goodbye K2.

[sidneycarter]

love the idea that post The Situation thomas is just increasingly obtuse when it comes to jimmy's feelings.

so when one day mrs hughes mentions in passing at how much easier it is to handle james now he's settled down, thomas is incredibly confused. and a little bit heartbroken too of course.

it gets even stranger when on valentine's day alfred sulkily asks jimmy how many cards he's sent that year and jimmy merely shrugs and smirks. mrs patmore chastises them for gossiping and announces that surely, jimmy's only got one to be sending.

then one night, most of the staff are enjoying a rare night off in the pub. as usual, a host of pretty girls surround jimmy, and one particularly brave one asks jimmy if he's got any plans on one of his half days. jimmy throws her a cheeky wink and says "sorry, darling, but i'm spoken for."

thomas starts feeling really rather hurt. he's known all along that this would happen eventually - that jimmy would eventually move on and find a nice village lass, but it still stings to hear it. somehow, it hurts even more knowing that clearly jimmy has fallen for someone but he hasn't even told thomas.

thomas puts on a brave face and elbows daisy in the side. "d'ya hear that? jimmy's kept that quiet 'asn't he?"

daisy looks at him with a frown and cocks her head to the side. "well, not really--" but before she can say anything else she's swept up into the rowdy conversation of the table.

a few weeks later, thomas and jimmy are alone in the servants hall, with thomas reading the paper in his rocking chair and jimmy tapping out melodies on the piano. the tune he's playing is sweet and gentle, and thomas finds himself swaying his head along. as the song draws to a close, a gentle round of applause sounds from the doorway.

baxter stands smiling. "let me call you sweetheart is one of my favourites. it was beautiful, jimmy."

jimmy blushes prettily and stands, closing the piano lid. "thank you, mrs baxter. good night."

after he's gone from the room, baxter enters to fill herself a glass of water. she smiles fondly at thomas. "he's so smitten you know. head over heels." she rolls her eyes affectionately.

it takes months until thomas finally figures out the truth of what's going on. well, to say he figures it out is somewhat generous.

he's in the servants hall again, this time feeling a little despondent with a cup of tea. jimmy had gone to the pictures with alfred of all people, their friendship seemingly improved since jimmy's given up on chasing ivy's skirt. thomas is resolutely not waiting up to make sure jimmy gets home safe. anna is the only other person still up, and she sits opposite thomas stitching one of lady mary's hemlines in companionable silence.

thomas dwells on his own thoughts for a while, until anna rests her sewing on the table and fixes him with a worried look. "are you quite alright, mr barrow?"

"hm? oh, yes anna, i'm very well thank you." he takes a sip of his tea to hide his moue.

anna looks unconvinced. "thomas," she says seriously, "is it-- have you and jimmy had a falling out?"

that genuinely surprises thomas. for all his worry and sadness over jimmy's as yet unknown love interest, they'd never fallen out. "no, no, of course not. he's just busy, that's all, which is to be expected now he's, you know," thomas waves his cup vaguely in the air, "courting the mystery lady."

anna chokes on a laugh. "the mystery lady?"

"yes. he's-- he's courting someone, isn't he? everyone keeps saying that he's... or suggesting that he's taken with someone." Thomas adds somewhat bitterly, "seems quite serious if you ask me. not that he's told me anything about it of course."

anna stops giggling and looks at him oddly. "thomas you-- you can't mean--"

"-- do you know who she is, anna?" thomas interrupts a little desperately. he's becoming tired of it all and he just wants to know-- how bad it is, for how long he's going to have to tend to his broken heart.

"thomas. thomas, jimmy's sweetheart is-- well, it's you."

"me?" thomas has a brief, sickening memory of his feelings before, and how miss o'brien toyed with them so badly. but he knows in his gut, that anna would never, and could never do that. he knows she's being honest, as confusing and terrifying as the statement may be.

"yes." anna smiles. "he's like a little puppy when he's with you. surely you've noticed? he gazes at you with stars in his eyes. he wants to do everything you do, and it seems like every other conversation is all about what you've been telling him this week. he only ever plays love songs on the piano when you're in the room. he laughs at all your jokes and he's not even glanced in the direction of a girl since last year." anna shakes her head. "i thought you knew and were just letting him get used to it."

"no i didn't -- i didn't know, i thought," thomas can feel himself blushing, "i don't know what i thought."

anna stands with a stifled yawn. "you make each other very happy. if you really didn't know, i think you ought to talk to him. good night, mr barrow."

"good night anna. and thank you."

thomas is left in the still and quiet of the room, watching the steam spiral up from his cup. a private and hopeful smile spreads across his face. yes, he thinks, nodding his head, perhaps we should talk.

[lazythinking]

Part 2 of my friends to lovers drabble. Read part 1 here.

Patrick sits idly on your couch, uncharacteristically quiet. The sky is overcast, the autumn weather gently breezy—not that he would know because you always preferred to shut the windows, far too sensitive to the winds to ever properly enjoy them. He watches you through the shadow that projects onto the wall from the light above your stove. Even your silhouette moves so gracefully, carefully and considerately. He has always admired this quality of yours, the softness of your character compared to his rough, cruel boyishness.

Being around you, though, makes the boy in him dream of becoming a man. Yes, this thought comes to him fully fleshed now. It wasn’t the sex, as beautiful and gorgeous as it was, that has brought this indisputable fact to the forefront of his mind. That would be a misguided conclusion, one that lacks the context of your shared history. In your apartment, time seems to slow; the candles burn for an eternity, daylight forever present and filtering through your translucent curtains until he blinks and suddenly the last ray disappears behind the horizon.

Life is not tennis. How stupid that it took him so long to realise. Life is not tennis, and the change of pace your home provides lets him ponder over the facts of his life. To come back to that previous hypothesis: no, it is not the sex, not at all. Like stated before, that would be ahistorical to say. Rather it is the fact that you have loved him, adored him endlessly and unwaveringly for over half a lifetime now. Yes, you have your moments of anger and disappointment; you shed tears, you bite back sobs, you close your eyes and take in a deep breath so you don’t scream at him and say something more stupid that what he had said to you… But you could never bring yourself to say goodbye, to cut him out of your life. You stayed. You loved him. Platonically or romantically, that has never been clear. (Until now, it seems.)

Regardless, it is irrelevant. Ha! Patrick feels strangely at ease now, and he stretches his arms over the sides of the back of your couch comfortably. There’s no doubt in his mind now that he is in love with you. He won’t run away from that fact, the indisputable truth that he wishes to explore the untraversed waters of domesticity with you. Whether or not this is to be in a romantic sense is not important; even if you did not love him back, he would stay just to repay all your favours. Looking at your shadow still, he watches as you carefully nudge at the sides of the pancake, elbow sticking out as your spatula slowly starts to slip underneath the edges of the batter. Patrick feels rather inspired. Slowly, he rises to his feet, his socked toes pattering softly against your hardwood floor. He finds you at the stove, presses against your back as he places a hand on yours, wrapped around the spatula.

He speaks simply. “Let me?”

You snort, turning to face him—only to realise, at the sight of his gentle eyes, that he is dead serious. Your eyes widen. “Uh… Alright.”

Patrick nods. He wraps his hand around the part of the spatula’s handle where yours isn’t, and you slip out from where he is, settling near the stove as you watch him carefully peel the batter off the pan. He keeps the utensil underneath the pancake for a minute too long. You look at him, puzzled, and he seems to be thinking about something.

“Hmm,” he says, withdrawing the spatula. “Hold this.”

Still puzzled, you nod anyway, taking it from his extended hand as you watch him wrap both hands onto the handle of the pan. And then you realise immediately what he’s about to do, and before you can protest, Patrick’s done it already; he’s flipped the pancake perfectly, with a flick of the pan.

You chuckle to yourself, eyes creasing. Of course, you think. Of course it would work out this well for him. That boyish confidence, the assuredness in every action he takes, it ensures that everything would work out just fine for Patrick, always. “You’re a natural,” you say. “Who would’ve thought?”

He slips the pancake onto the stack you’ve already made, then turns to you with a playful smile. “Oh yeah?” Patrick says, beaming with the pride of a child who’s been praised. “Pour me some more batter, then.”

Of course, you oblige. The batter pours out of the ladle, hits the scalding hot surface of your iron pan. He pokes cautiously at its sides, eyebrows slightly furrowed, the tip of his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. He’s never been so beautiful to you before, you realise. He’s always been handsome, and everyone knows that. But right here, right now, he is truly, transcendently beautiful to you.

Tenderly you come closer, and Patrick seems to not notice this, too focused on his precious pancake to see. You press a kiss onto his cheek, and it sends him right back to being in bed with you, your arm thrown around him, your plush lips on his rough stubble. When you pull away, you notice the flush on his cheeks.

He has never been good at these things. Patrick finds it much easier to say the salacious than the tender, and you of all people would know this best. It certainly is not lost on him, then, that the declaration of your love comes not through words, but through an action. When you kiss him on the cheek, he knows exactly what it means. The words can come later. He’s busy making his girlfriend food.

[path777]

다른 생각 말고 (don’t think of anything else): from fantasy - iiso. as i said nipple piercing jeonghan needy whimpering desperate mewling all of that okay strap in 1.2k

-

“thank you for your hard work!” jeonghan is glowing as always, a professional smile hung on his lips. but it’s late, he’s tired, and you can tell. this variety show has just wrapped up taping, and your eyes follow him as he bows to the staff he passes by, ducking into the dressing rooms to get ready to leave. 

you stand outside, waiting. the evening is cold but you welcome the chill—it’s a nice difference from the stuffy, crowded warmth inside. 

[윤정한]

9:38 PM jeonghan-ssi 

9:38 PM the car is outside whenever you’re ready

9:51 PM it’s cold ㅠ

thirteen minutes isn’t a lot, all things considered. but knowing jeonghan…he’s usually in a hurry to go home, you think. so what was taking him so long? you check your phone one last time, just to make sure—still nothing. you apologize quickly to the staff driving, walking inside at a speed which can only be called brisk, making a beeline for the dressing room that he had been using. 

thirteen minutes wasn’t a lot—you should’ve waited longer. you should’ve come in sooner. or maybe you should’ve knocked. either way, you catch him putting on his jacket over a thin, white undershirt; as his…something, you swallow, unsure where to put your gaze. as his manager, you ask, “are those piercings?” 

you walk towards him, boots thumping loud on the floor with every step. you grab the front of his jacket, tugging it open. just as you thought—on either side of the faint outline of his nipples, two little bumps. 

“yoon jeonghan. what-” you start, his full name slipping out of your mouth, though you had really only been working for him for a couple of months. regardless you shouldn’t anyway, whether it be six months for six years, boundaries are important, and so are manners—

you notice that he’s been strangely silent. looking up at him finally, you sense something different about him; you decide to hold off on the piercing question. “what’s wrong?”

“hm?” he says, staring at you. he doesn’t seem to be looking though; it’s just a place to land his eyes. you feel overly aware of the rise and fall of his chest, virtually silent but crashingly loud to your ears, and his hands, all of a sudden, on your hips. “nothing.”

jeonghan doesn’t notice. he gets like this when he’s tired, a little softer, and more suggestible. easy might be another word for it. you try not to pay too much attention to his hands, hot over your clothed skin. “when did you get them done?” you ask, tilting your head in inspection. you don’t recall seeing them before, but then again, you can’t say you’ve paid much attention to his chest. that would change after today, of course. “also, what are you still doing here? don’t you want to go home? how about let’s talk about this in the car,” you turn away and start to head for the door, the tension in the air too heavy for you to breathe comfortably. 

jeonghan grabs your wrist; you turn back.

“like them?”

“sorry?”

his hand tightens around your wrist, just barely. “do you like them—the piercings,” he says. he drops his hand to his side, and for a second you breathe out a sigh of relief. but it’s too soon; he takes the hem of his shirt and pulls it upwards over his head. 

“jeonghan-ssi, what are you doing—” you say, your voice jumping an octave without meaning to. the shirt is in his hand, at his side. the first thing you notice is that he’s pale; the second thing you notice is that he’s thin. your gaze trails down, from the lines of his collarbones down to the angles of his hipbones, disappearing into his pants. finally, your eyes land on what he wanted to show you in the first place. 

his nipples are pale, like the rest of him, the areolas faintly pink, and the center just slightly darker. on either side of them, two simple, plain silver studs. how new are these, you find yourself thinking, without meaning to. how new are these and can i put my mouth around them. 

“yes,” he breathes out, and shit, you didn’t mean to say that out loud, but before you know it your hands are wrapped around his upper arms, leaning in to wrap your lips around a nipple. the metal is cold on your tongue, and experimentally you swirl it around with your tongue, feeling it slide down and against the wet muscle. jeonghan makes a noise then, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. it makes you pull away from his chest. his face is flushed, uncharacteristically so, and was his hair always this mussed? he looks down at his chest and so do you, cheeks heating at the sight of his nipple, shiny with your spit. 

“don’t stop,” he says, voice raspy, laden with desperation, “please.”

jeonghan looks so easy it borders on lewdness. the metal of his piercings glint around his nipples, the cold air making them harden into tight little buds. you bring your lips to his other nipple, licking at it with the tip of your tongue. kitten licks, small and teasing. “please,” he whispers again, and he sounds so needy that you can’t help but scrape your teeth against the skin, just lightly. the moan that escapes him is unlike anything you’ve heard from him so far, a whimpering and mewling little thing that has your head spinning, even though you were the one giving, not taking. 

“you have to go home,” you say, vision swirling. “you have an early schedule tomorrow.” what a hypocrite, you think to yourself as jeonghan wordlessly places a hand at the back of your head, pressing your face back towards his chest, meeting no resistance. 

inconspicuously, or so he thinks, he starts to palm at his cock through the fabric of his pants. “let me,” you say, turning him so that he faces himself in the mirror. tugging his pants off, your hand reaches around him to wrap around his cock, grabbing him at the base and jerking him off with the precum that he had been leaking. “look at yourself in the mirror.” your other hand comes up to his chest, pinching hard at a nipple. jeonghan cries out then, chest jolting under your touch. he’s practically naked now, with his pants and underwear pooled around his ankles, his shirt forgotten on the back of some chair. his hair smells like vanilla and you press your nose into the nape of his neck, your hand wrapping even tighter around his cock. he’s leaking almost excessively onto your hand, the sticky substance hot on your skin. you’re so close to him that you can hear every noise that he’s making, every noise he’s trying to hold back and every noise he lets escape. 

it’s only when you hear a small sniffle that you look up at him; his eyes are watery, rims brimming with unfallen tears. “i’m sorry,” you say, though you don’t know what for. “i’m sorry. you look beautiful.” your hand slows around his cock, and your other hand comes to a rest on his waist, instead. the tear falls, landing on his cheek delicately. “no, i’m sorry, it’s just—it’s just a lot,” he exhales shakily, sniffing again. “keep—please touch me.” he says, turning his head to look at you. “please.” 

your hand starts moving again, but this time it’s tender, almost, every touch like a confession falling from your lips. you are confessing—you are repenting. you savour every sensation, the slide of his wet skin against yours, his moans shaky and gasping near your ear. 

“come for me,” your thumb brushes over the head of his cock, “watch yourself come for me.” you say after a pause, “jeonghan-ssi.” he spills, all of a sudden, over your hand. you watch as he throws his head back, eyes closing as he moans, soft and quiet, lips falling open with the sound. 

[becauseplot]

Inktordem time :D Fluffier nonsense to make up for yesterday I promise. I’m using one of the prompts on a list of alt prompts @factorialsotherfandoms and I came up with. This word is one of his! The “alienígenas” prompt will go on the alt list in case I think of anything later down the line and want to use it.

Spoilers for basic OPD episode 1 stuff.

DAY 6 (ALT) — BELLS

It’s one of those rare lulls where reports of suspected paranormal activity have slowed down. As such Kaiser doesn’t have to spend his time in the computer room at base playing IT for investigation teams or helping put out fires when things go sideways. He’s done nothing but work on improving CRIS’ Twitter sweeping algorithm for the past two days.

Arthur came into the computer room at the Order about an hour ago and dragged Kaiser home, saying he and Ivete were planning on making a late lunch soon and yeah, Kaiser should probably have something other than takeout.

It is nice being home. Ivete threw on some talk show for background noise while she and Arthur sort out their ingredients, and Kaiser is flopped over the couch, letting the noise wash over him. He can feel how about every joint from his neck to his hips is decompressing after he’s spent so long hunched at his computer. It’s good. Here, at home, without the constant anxiety of being needed by the Order turning his nerves to live wires, Kaiser can finally do something like relax. The TV is droning in the background, Ivete and Arthur are murmuring to each other in the kitchen, filling pots with water, chopping things, and Kaiser is…

He’s…

Tired…

…and theRE IS SOMETHING ON HIS BACKHOLYSHIT—

“AI!”

“MEROW!”

Kaiser slams himself up on his elbows and kicks away, gasping. “What the f…”

Sitting up now, he just barely catches a glimpse of a black and white spotted tail disappearing over the arm of the couch.

“Kaiser?”

His eyes flick to the kitchen. Ivete and Arthur are staring at him.

“Are you alright?” Ivete asks. There’s a confused smile on her lips.

“I…” Kaiser watches Jennifer hop up onto one of the barstools, staring at him with her tail flicking. He swallows his heart back down his throat. “Yeah, jeez, I—I think Jennifer crawled on my back and it scared me.”

“Jennifer scared you?” Arthur says, laughter in his voice.

“Dude I was nearly asleep. I didn’t hear her coming.” Kaiser groans, scrubbing his faces up and down. “Holy shit, that got me. I swear my soul nearly left my body.”

“Mm, she’s lucky she’s quick,” Ivete notes, returning to her chopping. “You just about launched her clear across the couch, boy. That poor thing.”

“Poor her? Poor me!” Ivete is grinning now. “I’m the one who nearly died over here.”

“Hey, you know she’s skittish,” Arthur defends. “You really could’ve scared her.”

“Ugh!” Kaiser flops back onto the couch. “Fine! I’m sorry Jennifer! When’s food ready?”

“Twenty-five minutes” Ivete replies. “Twenty if you want to come in here and help with the chopping.”

Kaiser sighs. He might as well, seeing as he’s very awake now. Kaiser mourns the loss of his afternoon nap and gets off the couch.

~*~

“So we finally got the table re-assembled,” Arthur says, adjusting the guitar in his lap. “And well, that was a lot of work, obviously, but Marcos was still determined to have a game of pool tonight regardless.”

“But the pool balls hadn’t come in, right?” Kaiser asks. He’s got half his brain on this match of online chess, and it’s honestly going terribly, but he’s doing what he can. Sort of.

“Well, turns out it had changed from ‘delayed’ to ‘failed’. The order got lost somewhere, apparently.”

Kaiser scoffs. “How does that happen?”

“Don’t know! But it did. So Marcus of course is already looking up places where we can go buy them, and we find a games store down the street that has them—but it’s closing in about ten minutes.”

“Oh no,” Kaiser drawls. He hears Arthur that another cord on his guitar, fingers plucking idly, and watches him shift where he’s sitting on Kaiser’s bed. Kaiser puts his rook forward. “Because of course it’s closing.”

“Exactly. And the store isn’t far, but it’s far enough, and traffic is bad at that hour, you know?”

Kaiser watches the opponent take his bishop. Ah shit. He moves his pawn. “Soooo you ran.”

“Yep!” Kaiser snorts. “Sprinted all the way down the street, Marcus nearly got run over. It was great.”

“And did you—“ Check on his king. “Oops.”

“What?”

“Hold on I’m losing.” Kaiser moves his queen forward and knocks out their rook. Out of check. “So did you get there in time?”

“Well, kind of? The guy who owns the place was literally walking out when we got there. But then we started explaining—completely out of breath, to be clear—and the guy was so, uh, amused? With our sheer determination to play pool tonight that he let us in and sold us a set, with the long sticks too.”

“Well, that’s cool of him.” A little more out of check now. His opponent is really taking his time. Kaiser skims over the chess board for his options. “I’m glad Marcus didn’t get hit by a car, that would have WOAH—“

Kaiser jumps when he feels something touch his leg and slams his knee up into the top of the desk.

“Kaiser?”

“Ow ow ow ow—“ Kaiser hisses and rubs his knee with his hand. Fuck, he wasn’t even wearing his long pajama bottoms this time, ow.

“Mrow!” Jennifer slinks out from under his desk and jumps up onto Kaiser’s bed, padding over to Arthur.

“Shit,” Kaiser exhales. “She was under my chair. Brushed up against my leg and scared the shit out of me.”

“Oh yeah she just came in,” Arthur says, waving his hand at the bedroom door behind Kaiser. “Guess you didn’t hear her.”

Kaiser keeps rubbing his aching knee. “Man, she is always doing that. I swear she’s a ghost…”

Arthur puts his guitar aside to free up his lap, which Jennifer immediately crawls into and curls up in. “Awww sorry, baby,” Arthur murmurs. “Did Kaiser kick you?”

“I didn’t kick her.”

“Hm?” Arthur scratches her behind her ears. She leans into it, eyes closed. “Poor baby. He’s so mean, huh?”

“What.”

“You just want him to like you, right?”

“What the fuck.”

“Kaiser, why are you so mean to her?”

“I’m not mean to her! She just keeps giving me heart attacks!”

Arthur bends his head down, kissing her head and grinning. “I know, he’s so rude like that, isn’t he?”

Kaiser slumps back in his chair. “I can’t believe this.” Opponent’s queen towards his king. Checkmate. “Fuck.”

~*~

Fixing his sleep schedule, Kaiser has found, is a completely pointless endeavor when he knows that his work at the Order and his own habits will just upend it again within forty-eight hours.

Playing LoL at night while hungry, Kaiser has also found, is a good way to get angry and shout something and accidentally wake up the household because hey, he lives with other people now. And he’d much rather not do that.

Hence, the creation of 3 am cheese time.

Kaiser slips out of his room and tiptoes over to the kitchen. He slides in and navigates around the counter by touch and the dim glare of a distant streetlight through the window. With one hand braced on the side of the fridge, he eeeeeases the door open and nudges some containers aside.

Bag of cheese slices. Bingo. Kaiser holds the fridge door open with his hip and opens the package, peels out a slice of cheese, folds it up and half-shoves it in his mouth. Then, he closes the package, seals it up, leans out of the fridge, and closes the doo—

Two eyes staring at him in the darkness.

Kaiser gasps and inhales cheese. He chokes and spits and covers his loud coughing with his arm, eyes watering, what the fuck…

“Mrow!”

Oh you’re kidding.

There, sitting on the counter, eyes reflecting the light from the fridge, is Jennifer.

Kaiser coughs one last time and swallows roughly, panting. “When did you even get in here??” he hisses.

Jennifer tilts her head at him. She jumps down from the counter, silent as a shadow, and starts sniffing at the cheese he spit out onto the ground. After a moment, she nibbles it.

Kaiser stares at her. “Yeah you know what. Fine. You can have it.” Kaiser closes the fridge and heads off to bed.

~*~

Kaiser unlocks the door and shoulders it open, grocery back in his other hand. “Hey, I’m back!”

“Hey!” Arthur calls in the living room, waving from the couch. “You took a while, what happened?”

“Had to make an extra stop.” Kaiser hefts the grocery bag onto the counter. “Is Jennifer with you?”

“Uh yeah, she’s right here. Why?”

Kaiser pulls a little paper parcel out of the bag. He heads over to the couch and plonks himself down, right next to Jennifer, who “mrrp!”s unpleasantly at the disturbance.

He opens the package. A tinkling noise rings out. Kaiser unclips Jennifer’s collar and fastens on a new one—pink, with a little bow and a bell dangling on the end of it.

[maegalkarven]

Empty prayers

Logical continuation of the AU where everything flies off the rails at the Moonrise Towers:

https://www.tumblr.com/maegalkarven/731364247822598144/au-where-dark-urge-didnt-loose-memories-and-the?source=share

Following the derail of all of his plans by his own hands, Lord Enver Gortash contemplates the future. Luckily, he doesn't have to do it alone.

m!Dark Urge x Enver Gortash, Karlach.

"I don't think he will answer."

Enver doesn't turn around to look at the bhaalspawn. He hears the crunching of dead leaves and sticks under the man's boots and feels a familiar presence close to his shoulder.

Regardless of that, he does not turn.

There's a small, carefully constructed altar in front of him. Perfect, it looks like, perfect with the offering and the incense burning.

Yet his god is silent.

"Enver, really, I don't think Bane will-"

"He has to," comes out a little bit harshly, a little bit forcefully. There's a bitter taste of desperation on his tongue. He pushes it back. "I am his Chosen-"

"I don't think you are anymore."

"I am," he insists as his voice rings louder, pitching to a high, urgent note. "I am the Chosen of Bane, I am his Hand, I am his Voice, I am his Will; and he will answer me."

He feels Nemo's piercing stare burn into the side of his face, but does not look up. Does not meet the familiar honey of the gaze he thought he has lost.

Does not think of all the implications this gaze brings.

Nemo is alive, here, next to him; so close Enver can touch him.

Yet somehow everything is ruined.

A pair of firm hands lay on his shoulders gently and he almost flinches at the touch.

But it's just Nemo.

"No," his bhaalspawn whispers softly. "No, he will not. You have failed him, my dear, just the way I've failed father. You chose wrong," Enver tries to move away from the touch, but the man's fingers only dig in deeper.

"You should have pushed me into the pool. You should have taken Orin's side in the conflict or did not intervene at all. But you," a deep, heavy sigh and a weight of Nemo's body pressing against Gortash's back.

"You chose me. Consciously or not, but you put my survival above everything else; above our plan, above your alliance, above your god. And gods like your and mine do not tolerate disobedience."

"You created this plan with me," Enver tries. "We were brilliant together. Orin has ruined everything; she could not control herself. She was a liability-"

"She was the Chosen of Bhaal," Nemo whispers right into his ear, the breath coming out hot. "It was not your place to decide if she was liability or not. And anyway, I don't think this is why you did what you did."

"It was her own fault," he tries again and feels like a child trying to avoid the punishment. He remembers, long time ago, in a house he prefers to not think about, in a cell what was his home, he used to plead the same way.

Raphael never listened.

"And Ketheric's; they compromised the plan, they put everything in danger, I was just trying to fix it, to put things right-"

Nemo hums.

"Have you tried telling Bane that?" As the matter of fact, he did. "I doubt he'd take this as an excuse." He didn't. "Bhaal beneath, Ketheric was right, wasn't he? Gods only answer when they have something to say. I guess Bane has nothing to say to you anymore."

"He will answer me," Enver insists with the persistence of the damned. "He needs me."

"He really, really doesn't," Nemo presses himself closer and Gortash allows himself a moment to lean back into the touch, to seep out any comfort it provides and feed to his weary soul.

Nemo. Nemo. Alive.

And it only took everything to go to the hells for that to happen.

"I know he hears me," Enver tries again.

"Oh, I have no doubt he does. But Enver, darling, don't you think this whole...fiasco would look bad for Bane? Don't you think the most sensible thing he could do would be to wash his hands clean of this?"

Enver hates to admit Nemo is right; it would be the sensible thing to do. It would be what Gortash himself would do in Bane's place: abandon the lost cause and move on. Find another, better Chosen.

Only there's no better Chosen than him.

"I am the only one who can realize all of his plans," he tries not to think about it. About his Steel Watch, unstable with one of the stones in control of the Brain. Of the cult of Murder under the foot of a thrall of the said thing, of the prodigal murderer as a meat puppet of the entity beyond their comprehension. Of Ravengard, untadpoled, no doubt giving a speech at the inn right now.

Everything went to complete and utter shit. But he can fix it; he can. Surely Bane knows that.

Surely Nemo does.

Nemo lets out a dark, unkind type of a laugh.

"You just destroyed all of his plans," he murmurs almost lovingly. "All and every single one of them. There's no recovering from that, only moving forward."

Enver hates what Nemo is right. And he hates what he knows what Nemo is right. And he hates Bane, and he hates Orin, and stupid Ketheric with his stupid sacrifice for a bitch of a daughter who did not deserve it, and he hates Raphael - honestly, fuck Raphael; and he hates his parents, he hopes they'll die, and he hates Karlach and her big open heart what was ripped out yet is still somehow inside her ribcage-

And he hates Nemo for how much he cares for Nemo, and really, all of this is actually his fault, if not for him, then-

"Are you done with your pity party?" And speak of the devil. Oh, well, a tiefling with infernal engine for a heart. "Duke Ravengard is holding a council," typical. "And your presence is required."

His old friend gives him a short, bitter look.

"This is not a pity party," Nemo argues and the woman snorts.

"Sure looks like one. Gods, it truly is a sign, isn't it?" She whistles. "I used to think I want to see you dead, but seeing you like this, fallen from grace, demoted to what you have always been - that feels even better."

A bubbling, bitter anger raises in him and Enver moves to stand-

"Oh, cut out with this," Nemo interrupts, his hands still firmly on Enver's shoulders. "He saved my life."

"And this is what I still don't understand," Karlach argues. "But it doesn't really matter; this is me actually playing nice. Trust me, if I've decided to give him back the treatment he gave me, he would not be standing right here. Or, well, sitting right here."

"We are all in the same boat now," Nemo tries placidly. "Dealing with the consequences of-"

"-Enver Gortash's actions."

"Our actions. I was involved, remember?"

"You didn't have a choice," she argues. "Bhaal made you; cut from his very own flesh. You have known no life but what your evil father showed you. You were not acting on your own accord. He," an angry gesture at Gortash. "Acted on his own accord. And sold me to Zariel. So she could rip off my heart and make me an unwilling soldier in her war."

"Oh, stop playing the victim," Enver snarls. "I gave you a chance to be something greater than you were. I gave you a chance to be stronger, better, invincible. With this engine no one could touch you, no one could hurt you. It was practically a dream come true and you threw it away, the ungrateful brat you have always been."

Fire erupts from her engine, wrapping itself against Karlach's entire body. Her eyes blaze as she steps forward, and for a moment Enver almost feels...That can't be it, he is still wearing his coat.

He scrambles to his feet, reaching for the crossbow. Bane is silent, he will always be silent from now on, but Gortash doesn't really need him, he doesn't need anyone-

"I'll make you choke on these words," Karlach threatens and damn it, why does it take so long to fix up his damn crossbow, is it broken-

Then a small, thin figure moves to stand between them.

Nemo looks...so insignificant compared to Karlach; he has no fire engine running in his chest, he has no muscles to rival hers, he has no claws and no horns.

Just plain looking half-elf with a crooked dagger in his hand.

"No," he says firmly. "You will not kill each other. Either you two calm the fuck down or you'll have to kill me first. And," a quick glance behind. "I really don't think this is what either of you wants."

"Nemo," Karlach frowns. "Step away. He had it coming-"

"No."

"Nemo-"

"No," the bhaalspawn snarls and something sparks in his eyes, deep, dark and deadly. Bhaal is here. Bhaal has gone nowhere.

Orin was wrong.

"You are not killing him, you're not as much as harming him, Enver Gortash is mine."

Karlach actually looks taken aback at that.

"Yours to do what?"

"Mine to keep, and mine to torture and, if it comes to it, mine to kill. But he is mine and he will stay that way. Bane is finally out of the way, so don't think I'll let you interfere."

"Nemo, this is- You're not exactly-"

"He is the only fucking person who has ever got it," there's a bleeding desperation oozing from the spawn's voice.

"The only man to be my equal. The only true partner I had ever had. I went to the Moonrise Towers with the dreadful knowledge I'd die here, with the belief this man would stick a dagger so deep into my back it'll protrude from my chest. And instead," he is breathing heavily, his broken, pathetic mess of the murderer. Perfect.

"He saved me. He took my side in a fight what had nothing to do with him. He chose me when it was an an obviously stupid thing to do, he has forsaken everything by letting me live. You cannot have him."

They stand like that for a while in a complete silence.

Karlach, double axe in her hands and shock mixed with pity in her gaze.

Nemo, breathing heavily, hands trembling, his own blade digging deep into the flesh of his palm, a thin red string of blood trailing down into the dirt.

Enver, mesmerized, taking in every breath, every shift of his unlucky, broken, forsaken mistake of a lover. Elevated by the sheer force of his devotion.

They need no gods but the ones they create. They need no gods but themselves.

Finally Karlach sighs and lowers the axe.

"For you," she drops down, turning away. "Only for you, for everything you've done for me and the friendship we have. But make no mistake, I am watching him," a rude gesture Enver reciprocates. "And if he does one wrong step, his messy fucking head will come flying off."

"I'd like to see you try," Enver starts and immediately gets kicked into the ribs with Nemo's elbow. Brat.

"Alright," the bhaalspawn smiles. "Thank you. You said something about the council?"

And somehow the end of the world gets delayed for just one more day.

[kisses4kaia]

superbowl tn who loves football !! luke def does .

just imagining loser!luke get soo mad when his favorite team fumbles a touchdown, or when the ball is taken from his fav player and he just needs to calm down. and what a better time than halftime?

so like the sweet girl you are, you make no complaints when luke wordlessly and unexplainedly manhandles you onto your back spreading your legs. he kneels on the ground before you and throws your calves over his shoulders which are clad in a jersey reading his favorite tight end’s name on the back as he pulls your pretty little panties to the side.

usually, he would take his sweet time prepping you, teasing a little cruelly, but right now? right now he just wants to bury his face between your plush thighs, slobber a little mindlessly all over your pretty cunt. god, he’s so messy, too ! he’s paying little to no mind to your squeals and writhes as he just holds a strong arm to your pelvis, restraining you from trying to run away from him any further. “please, luke! slow down, sh-shit!” you moan in a high-pitched tone, the pop singer’s half-time performance on the tv now background static over the disgusting and bestial ways he’s devouring you like a wolf would prey.

everything is so primal and animalistic with the way his tongue fucks into you—because, its not because he’s desperate to drive you to pleasure, but because he’s found a vaguely familiar, warm, place for his worked tongue to dwell. he’s made you cum, what, thrice now? and not once has he stopped or even seemed to notice.

worse for you, he hasn’t resolved his anger yet, and as retribution for when you try to tug at his dark curls to dispel the achy overstimulation he’s caused, he slaps your agonized cunt and utters some filthy degradation before returning to his ministrations.

and when he realizes halftime has come to a conclusion and the game is back on, he simply presses a parting kiss to your sensitive little clit, sits back up onto the couch next to a heaving, crying, you, and glues his eyes back onto the screen in front of him; leaving you to limp off to take care of yourself.

“grab me another beer while you’re up, hm baby?”

[danisnotmyname]

Fandom: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)

Rated M, 2.1k words

Summary: Mary is surprised that Zelda doesn’t drag her down, but they’re not necessarily afloat, that much she knows.

*** She wishes she could swallow Zelda down, so she can keep that dark, sinister thing bottled inside her. But when she rolls herself up to prop over Zelda, her knee finding the hot juncture between Zelda’s thighs, she realizes she is the dark thing itself.

[kitorin]

misalignment (n).

/ˌmɪsəˈlʌɪnm(ə)nt/

the incorrect arrangement or position of something in relation to something else. "in which, mikage reo finds himself both asphyxiated and confined within the unfortunate circumstances of his first love."

contents. mikage reo x gn!reader, unrequited feelings, no happy ending, right person wrong time (i think), reader and reo borderline drunk / wasted, unproofread misery, tiny implication at gaslighting but nothing like that happens, never written unrequited love nor experienced it (can't get rejected if i never confess !!)

Despite the intelligence and academic prowess he had maintained throughout his entire lifetime, Mikage Reo is fundamentally a fool; one who unwisely but desperately deludes himself as a means to remain blind to the truth.

The 'wanna hang out tonight?' text was the flame to his moth, effortlessly attracting him whilst having the full capability to incinerate his very existence, to destroy every part of him.

If years of friendship accompanied by unreciprocated feelings could teach him anything, it was that, to spend time with you, lining up was a prerequisite for Reo.

Free time for you was defined by work's leniency (which seldom seems to happen, but at least you enjoyed it), and the occasional period where you weren't obsessing over a drama or book series.

After that section of the queue, was quite literally everyone else. An invitation from you meant that Yukimiya was too preoccupied with modelling, Rin's overseas, Nagi was too lazy to respond and left you on read, Isagi's busy training, Kunigami's at the gym, and Hiori didn't have the time to travel that far.

Finally there was Reo, back up plan Reo, the friend that you could go to when no one was available; the friend you liked enough to spend time with but not enough to prioritise.

He steals a glance at you as you keenly sip from your glass. Self-hatred chews at his conscience, but the livid, and tired part of him shoos it away.

It's not a very nice thing to accuse one of thinking of another so lowly, especially a close friend, however the explicit signs of him holding little significance in comparison to others seemed to validate it. You and he have been drinking for a while now, without much word other than the 'hello's and quiet greetings when you first saw each other.

It's normal, the silence. It's just how things worked between you and Reo. Neither of you were particularly social, words weren't necessary to enjoy time together, that was one of Reo's favourite things about you.

He's always tired of speaking, having to maintain flawless image, that included appearing as someone sociable and eager to speak with others.

But with you, that expectation was nowhere to be seen.

You're now adults, but this is nothing different from the quiet walks to the bus stop back in high school. The ones where he'd do his best to steal a glance of how you look, soaked within the sunlight while smiling.

Chatter permeates the bar's atmosphere gently a few clinks of glasses can be heard which followed hearty laughter and the occasional cheer.

You're first to talk. "How's university been?"

"Good." Was the workload horrendous? Yes, and so was adulthood in general. Reo knows he has it easy; he can afford it easily and could still live comfortably without working a day in his life. But he still yearns for the same feeling high school had. "Hakuho was fun though."

You place your drink down, swallowing. "I know right? Never thought I'd say this, but I miss high school. It sucked most of the time. But you and the others made it so much better.”

Reo nods, as he gulps down more alcohol. “I miss it too. How has studying been for you?”

You huff. “It’s a lot. I feel like I spend more time studying than doing anything else. But it’s good. I don’t mind since I’m actually studying something I’m passionate about, you know?”

“I’m glad, then.” Reo stares at his whisky, swirling the amber in his glass. “Proud of you. I really am. You’ve come so far, and I just know you’re going to do well.”

Growing from a clueless high schooler to a driven, impassioned, medical student. A lot has changed, years pass yet he remains unloved by you.

God there he goes again, lamenting on his paltriness. It must be a relative of masochism; he could be safe and secure at home with a good book and cup of tea, yet he’s here drinking with the source of his pain, while tethering on the border of being intoxicated with alcohol instead of heartbreak.

With each drink, a wave of euphoria swallows him up, licking up his misery as if it were sand on the shore. Rationality and emotion bicker like seagulls quarrelling over food.

You laugh at his sweet words. “You drunk? Thanks though.”

“Drunk or not, I mean it. Seriously.” Reo knows his limits, but doesn’t bother correcting you. His face feels hot, not because of the soju, but because of you.

You’ve always been pretty, to a ridiculous extent. But absurd how a few years changes you so much. Reo can’t even identify the changes, he just knows you’ve gotten prettier; that his heart races faster whenever he sees you.

“Seriously.” You echo, and nod, and smile. “I miss seeing you every day. School was so much fun with you around.”

Another hasty gulp of soju. Reo can’t stand hearing those words.

I hate you.

Is it directed to you, or himself? Not even Reo’s quite sure. He does his best to ignore your kindness, if it were true then he would’ve been addressed you with a smile in the same way you’d speak to anyone else; he would know how his name sounds off your tongue. He would mean more than a last option, and all those texts wouldn’t be left on read, viewed out of genuine care rather than basic manners.

Even though he can go on about unfair this feels, it’s ultimately his fault for still spending so much time with you. You’re supposed to cut off the people who don’t value you. You’re supposed to only care for the ones who’d do the same for you. Reo should’ve cut ties with you long ago, yet he clings onto your relationship as if it meant more than anything else.

I miss seeing you at school everyday. Your words echo, and he does his best not to choke on his drink.

Formalities, not affection. It's not love, it's your way of manners. If you truly did care you'd be spewing those sorts of words out constantly, like when you're with Chigiri, or Anri.

"Reo? You good?"

"Yeah. 'm fine." It's a reflex, he barely had time to register the words leaving his mouth. "Are you?"

"Yah. I'm not the drunk one here am I?" You chuckle to yourself, bringing the glass back to your lips, averting your gaze elsewhere. "Were you always a lightweight? Your face is so red."

"And yours is so pretty."

There he goes, ruining your night with something stupid.

"Yup. Definitely drunk. You're saying weird things now."

And with that, Reo commands, requests, pleads himself not to cry.

"You know." Another shot of soju is swallowed down by you, punctuated with a refreshed gasp. "The me a couple of years ago would've been overjoyed to hear that."

It feels as though every interaction with you accentuates his one-sided love and it stings; time with you is mere salt to the wound.

Neither of you say anything for a bit.

Reo can recall your confession, an awkward text sent after a couple of months the two of you actually spoke. There's an unspoken boundary between you two, to not being up the topic of each other's crushes or of your confession.

A fair rule, but it's harboured questions. Reo hasn't got a clue on your love life and crushes. He knows of your obsession with romantic dramas, always binging whatever's trending, screaming on social media about having to wait a full seven days for the next episode.

If only the two of you were a part of one. But even fiction would probably destine him for solitude woven of heartbreak.

"I think you're the drunk one. Why bring that up now?"

You've finally halted on drinking. "Dunno. That was my first confession."

And you're my first love—he wants to say it, it's at the tip of his tongue yet he can't muster it to say it aloud to himself or even to Nagi; let alone you.

"Well, it was an honour."

It wasn't. Because the thought always intrudes into his mind. What if you had confessed a couple of years later, or even at least two?

Or what if Reo hadn't taken his sweet time to fall in love with you, if he had told you he wanted to get to know you first instead of a simple rejection, would you be in his arms?

"Shut up. I was a stupid kid back then. I promise you, I have absolutely no feelings for you. Not anymore."

Reo scoffs, he can't even fantasise of the potential between you two. You liked Mikage you'd see in the hallways; rich and top of the school; not clingy old Reo who feels ever so slightly too much for everyone he cares for.

Whereas Reo couldn't care less about l/n that just transferred to his class, but would die for the y/n he discovered throughout the years.

"Yeah yeah, I know. Never thought you did." He knew you didn't.

It wouldn't've saved him from his doom of unrequited love, but the timing was terrible. The heavens should've made your infatuation and his adoration align, at the very least. Even if it meant Reo remaining unloved.

A hiccup follows a breathless giggle. "Who did you like in highschool? There had to be someone. Why didn't you ever tell me though? You had so many fans, you must've liked one of them."

Because it's you. "Because you never asked." Reo shrugs, almost impressed at his own feigned composure.

"Now I ammm." Now your words are beginning to slur. "Whooo?"

It's you. And still you. Reo could say it right here and now. You're essentially wasted and probably won't remember it. And if you did, he wouldn't mind crossing an ethical line and fibbing if it meant concealing his pathetic vulnerabilities.

Perhaps one day he'll tell you, if the uninterrupted storm ends, and the skies clear, if Mikage Reo's heart will one day stop aching for you.

"I'll tell ya some day. When I feel like it."

"What?! You're not allowed to add that much suspense—and not tell me in the end."

And perhaps in another universe, he and you can be of the same constellation, instead of being galaxies apart.

taglist (send ask to be added) : @yuzurins , @pokkomi , @chigirizzz

© kitorin : do not repost, plagiarize, change, or translate

[thedissociatives]

writing a film review that i probably should've done days ago but haven't been able to and i'm so tired i just want to go to bed rn but i'm not fucking leaving this unfinished

[mouse-wife]

couldnt sleep bc of poop disaster so i wrote abt mariomon

[pinacolada-posts]

this is late as hell but i was tagged by both @quigzahhutt and @alex-writes-stuff for a WIP wednesday monday tuesday!! :D ((also check out their works!! both their writings are just *chef's kiss*))

i won't tag anyone bc i'm not sure which of my lovely moots have wips

here's one that i recently added to! it fits into my 'Alex Albon and the Not Quite Human Williams Drivers' series that i am slowly but surely updating!! this is only the first part, a second part will be added to this whenever i can get around to it!

i will probably reblog this at some point with added design notes for future reference as I do try to keep anything related to my spn au under my 'motorsports au' tag. apologies if this comes across your dash twice in the future

quick cw! for some blood and possibly graphic imagery, typical vampire turning stuff ((it's not much by my standards but i tend to go big or go home))

~2.7k words

If you were to ask Alex how many times he had met Zak O’Sullivan, an F2 driver for Williams before this, he’d probably be able to count them on one hand. That’s not to say any of those times were unpleasant but… well, the boy wasn’t someone Alex ran into a lot. 

But they were at a Wiliams event in London—a large bustling city. Easy to get lost in, in more ways than one—and the much younger driver was sitting next to him, smiling such a wide smile that Alex thought his face might split. And it was nice. 

The event was half indoors-half outdoors and Alex can’t make up his mind if that had been a good decision as it was currently in an absolute downpour outside. The rain pelted the large, double-paned windows in the event hall with a howling gale, obscuring anything farther than the other side of the parking lot with a thick fog. And yet, Alex was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Zak like it was normal. 

“Wow,” Zak says, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head towards the window. “It’s really pouring out there isn’t it?” 

Alex leans back in his seat and glances at the downpour like he couldn’t hear it clearly banging on the roof above them. “Yeah, it really is, isn't it. You’ll have to be sure to get home safely.”

Zak laughs a small laugh, tipping his head back and eyebrows furrowing into an almost confused expression. His black pin-straight hair is slightly frazzled from how long they had been at this little get together—something to do with sponsors, no doubt. The Brit’s nose crinkles in such a way Alex can only chalk up to youth, and flashes another wide-toothed grin. “There’s nothing that’s going to hurt me out there. It’s just a little bit of rain, that’s all.”

Alex talks to him for quite a while longer, until Luke and Logan find them still tucked away from the bustle of reporters and people they had to speak to. The Thai driver catches Logan’s eyes as they glint a miraculous gold in the low light before the blonde blinks and they settle back into their normal seafoam green. 

After three encounters with beings that were… not quite human like himself, Alex should have known to trust his gut better. 

He considers that moment, there on an uncomfortable bench, looking out at the rain, to be the last real moment he saw Zak O’Sullivan alive.

-

The rain was pouring down impossibly harder now and Alex half-regretted bringing his umbrella with him because it was doing jack shit to keep him dry. Beside him, Lily had pulled her thick coat over her head in an attempt to clear her vision through the haze of water clinging to the air he could see her squinting through the rain. 

Alex thinks that maybe he should’ve considered bringing the car. But honestly, he had been too lenient in his routines lately and what was a few blocks in the rain anyways? Hell—apparently—that’s what a few blocks was. 

Briefly, he wonders what Logan did when it rained—when the Everglades flooded. What did Logan do when his fur had been soaked through and all the prey had scattered for shelter? Did he go home? Could he go home? Alex guessed it wasn’t his place to ask—the same way it wasn’t his place to ask Luke about the Feywild. Perhaps there were just things humans shouldn’t know and he was alright with that. 

Lily suddenly stumbles in her steps, just a pace behind him, and inhales the most horrifying gasp of air Alex had ever heard from her. He whips around at the ready, for what he doesn’t know, but he’s quick enough to see her staring down a side alley, gaping widely at whatever was down it. 

The rain pelts at his back and his hair has long soaked to the root, bangs hanging low in his eyes, and there is a mantra playing in the back of his head that tells him over and over again to go home. That they didn’t have time for this. Alex wanted a warm shower and the fuzzy pajamas he packed specifically for relaxing after what was essentially an entire evening of press duty. 

He rolls his tongue over his teeth and the inside of his cheek where he’s sure the muscles will be sore from smiling all day. And yet, he still moves backwards to see what Lily was looking at. 

Sure enough, there was something spewn in the alleyway—a human figure, mostly collapsed against the ground and the old brick wall of the building next to them. It’s a sad sight that unfortunately wasn’t uncommon, especially in larger cities like London. Alex had been raised with money, and therefore hadn’t given much thought to the people stuck out in the cold and rain as a kid. Still, his mouth twists in sympathy as Lily nudges him forward. 

The rain was cold. There was no use in letting someone freeze. He passes the useless umbrella to Lily. 

The Thai driver is halfway down the alleyway, calling softly out to the collapsed figure, when he catches sight of a white ‘W’ embroidered on the figure's dark fleece jacket. Williams. Something clicks.

Logan? No, the American had already been halfway to sporting his fluffy winter coat when they left, canine teeth on display and hair course to fend against the weather. Luke? No, the young fey was staying… Alex didn’t actually know where Luke was staying, as true to his nature, he often talked himself in circles. But Alex knew it wasn’t out this way. Lia? Surely not, hair was too short and that girl’s hunting skills were exceptional—seal skin or not. Franco? No, couldn’t be—

“Oh, shit,” Alex cusses, a tight hiss of air as he cleans the dark hair from the face of the teenager in front of him. Sure enough, familiar eyebrows and long eyelashes greet him, mouth drenched in a thick liquid that Alex is sure isn’t rain. “Shit, shit, shit—Zak!”

He turns and shouts back to Lily, who even through the rain looked scared. “Get EMS! It’s Zak!”

Two fingers deftly push into the teen’s pulse point on his wrist, but a part of Alex knows he won’t find anything. Zak’s skin is so pale it almost looked blue. And his eyelids didn’t even flutter as Alex shoved his far too-limp shoulder despite the fact Alex is sure he can see the boy’s eyes through his thick veil of eyelashes. He isn’t as warm as he should be, even accounting for the rain. And the—the—

The polite thing to do would be to look away. Zak was a strong kid—barely nineteen. His birthday had only been a few months back—and had never so much as backed down from a challenge, on track or otherwise. But this? God, this wasn’t a challenge. 

Alex can’t tear his eyes away from the bloodied mess of a throat and mouth that sat on Zak’s proper shoulders. 

There’s something else, too, besides the blood. Something much darker and a little thicker. It didn’t mix with the rain like the blood did. 

He swallows back bile in the back of his mouth. Zak doesn’t move. His chest doesn't stir. 

Under the skin of his wrists, the teen’s veins are silent. Alex’s heart beats fast enough for both of them as he shakily slides his fingers from Zak’s arm to a patch of still intact arteries in the junction of his neck. 

Someone drops down to the ground next to him and Alex is ready to explain the situation to a paramedic when he sees it was Lily who had planted herself beside him. She’s halfway through shedding her coat and her hair was plastered with water. She catches his eyes and gives him a panicked look. “I couldn’t get a signal through the rain. I’m going to try to stop the bleeding.”

She drapes her long coat over Zak's body like a kid asleep at a party. It wouldn’t do him any good but Lily doesn’t know that, does she?

He opens his mouth to tell her… something—probably that there was no pulse. That he’d most likely been dead for a good while now and there’s no way they were saving him, paramedics or not—when there’s pressure on his wrist. There’s four, long, thin and cold pressures on his wrist. 

Lily gasps next to him, eyes wide and bordering on horror. “Oh my god, Alex, he’s alive! I thought he was dead—he’s alive!”

She rushes to wrap her thick fabric coat around Zak, struggling to get it over the broader shoulders of the Williams junior. She’s talking to him, shushing what is so obviously dead and silent, and reassuring him that everything was fine. Her hands gently folded the arms of the coat over the gaping wound in the boy’s neck, choking slightly as the still warm blood smeared on her fingers. 

Alex can only stare.

There’s still no pulse under his fingertips. There’s still no warmth in his skin. And as Alex looks down to where his wrist was held in a death grip, something looks back. 

Large, dark pupils blown wide and surrounded by the silver color of a waning moon. Just a sliver in the sky. Cavernous eyes empty with a look of desperation. Of something that looks far too much like hunger. 

Zak’s eyes weren’t silver. Were they?

Alex is granted the chance to swallow the spit in his mouth heavily before the dead teenager lunges—grabs at the fabric of his shirt and desperately claws at it, trying to tug him closer. Trying to drag him down. 

“What the fuck? What the fuck—” is all Alex can get out as he scrambles back against the brick. 

Zak follows him, eyes wide and glittering like liquid mercury, nails scrabbling along the lines of Alex’s rain-soaked clothes. His bloodied mouth opens in a noise that could only be known as a hiss. It’s fucking inhuman. 

Next to them, Lily lets out a shout and tugs on the fabric coat she had wrapped around the boy. Zak flails for a moment as it catches around his still dripping, gaping throat before he collapses back onto the ground with a wet thud. 

The young Brit’s chest heaves something deranged—like he couldn’t breathe right and Alex guessed he probably couldn’t because his fucking throat was missing. He thinks he’s going to puke. Instead, he stays plastered to the brick wall behind him as his limbs, paralyzed with fear, stay rooted to his side. 

“Oh god, oh shit.” Those are the only words Alex’s brain could seem to produce as his hand gently starts to gesture to Lily to get up and away from the poor boy. 

She stands, just as shaky as he was, and Zak lets out a wail from where he laid on the ground. 

It’s a soft noise. A quiet, desperate one. 

Something tugs in Alex’s chest. The teenager’s eyes are still huge and Alex doesn’t quite understand because Zak's eyes weren’t grey, were they? He racks his brain again and again for some semblance of recognition. He comes up blank. Were Zak’s eyes grey? 

The boy’s breath still rattled like old wind, and the wound in his throat had begun to leak something other than blood. But Zak’s hands still trembled—weakly reaching out like a child—and what had started as a hiss or growl had quieted down into almost a chirping. A cooing. A crying. 

He drops back down to his knees before rationality takes hold of him again and Zak doesn’t waste any time as his cold fingers twine themselves into Alex’s utterly soaked shirt. 

Zak’s black hair was stark against far too pale skin and it stuck flatly to his forehead. And he just… Alex’s hands quivered as he grabbed the coat that hung off Zak’s shoulders and tugged it higher up on his neck, covering the sticky wound that should definitely be affecting how the boy moved but for some reason simply didn’t. 

“Are you—Zak, are you okay?” Stupid question. Stupid, stupid question. Of course he wasn't okay because he was starting to bleed through the thick cotton fabric of Lily’s coat and it wasn't stopping. 

But Zak only clings to him tighter, pulling his body up closer to Alex’s chest and burying his face in his rain-soaked team kit. 

He looked too small when he was curled up like he was. Too thin. Frail like a corpse. Alex feels his beating heart stutter in his chest. 

Zak's eyes flick upwards not a moment later, eyeing him cautiously while letting out a small trilling noise from somewhere deep in his still gurgling throat. 

Yeah. Yeah, Alex thinks he's going to puke later. 

“Okay.” He finds himself saying, swallowing thickly around the sour taste of bile in his mouth. Alex thinks—or tries to at least, hies head still swims with a constant ‘what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck’. “Okay, we're going to get you to a hospital, Zak. Alright?” 

The teenager's grip on his shirt tightens in an instant. A grand display of strength as Zak twists his fists into the fabric and yanks until Alex is pinned. 

Death is not something Alex was familiar with seeing up close, but the clouded grey look in the younger drivers eyes shone with something other than life and, from this minute distance, he could smell the coppery scent of blood in the air. 

“No.” 

Alex blinks. Maybe he hadn’t heard right over the high noise of the rain. “No? No, what? No hospital?” 

Zak shakes his head, mouth working uselessly and dripping whatever wouldn't mix with the blood that drenched him. His pale skin stretches as he turns to the side and spits a large wad of whatever it was out of his mouth—the substance is thick and clings to the boy’s lips and chin. 

His eyes flutter shut and then open with a renewed vigor. “No. No hospital.” 

There's a long pause as Alex finds the strength in him to pull away from the death grip Zak had on him. The younger driver lets him go with only a little bit of resistance. 

A moment passes. All Alex can hear is the pouring rain around them and the wild rhythm of his heavy breathing. 

“Can we take him back to the hotel?” Lily shifts forward, away from the wall. Away from potential safety. She holds her hands out as she approaches closer, like she was approaching a spooked animal. Gently, Lily settles on the stone pavement beside them. 

Her eyes rake over the yawning wound for the umpteenth time. Alex sees her swallow and breathe in deep. “You're talking—that’s-that’s good! That means you aren't dying. But we need to get you out of this rain. We need to see how bad this actually is.” 

Zak’s body is cold where it's pressed up against Alex. His breathing had slowed to shallow gasps, spaced too far apart to survive, and as the Thai Brit presses his thumb to the boy’s wrist again—nothing beats against it. 

Something awful settles in his stomach.

“Hotel?” Zak asks, voice small and hoarse and bordering on some other noise that Alex wants to call a click. A sharp chirp. 

His now pale eyes drift over to Lily, still so wide and shaky. Zak squints like he can't see her all that well. She's not sitting far. 

Alex doesn't blame the kid, though. The rain still soaked them heavily, and kicked up mist so thick even Alex was struggling to see the street at the opening of the alleyway. 

He shivers.

Fuck. They need to move. 

“Yes, just for the night.” Lily reaches forward to reassure the teenager in front of them. “We go to see a doctor in the morning. You're going to get sick out in this rain, and so are we, so we need to get moving. We'll go to the hotel.” 

Zak blinked owlishly for a moment. Then, he nods. “Hotel.” 

Alex meets Lily's gaze over the boy’s shaggy dark hair as they stand and heave him up to his feet—Zak stumbles and leans closer into Alex’s flank.

She's just as scared as he is.