#*shoves them down the hill but Affectionately*

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

behold! the Kings of Mega Gay!! they're Frolicking!

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three 

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Eddie goes home, you’re on tour, and the lines between you both continue to blur.

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Hawkins, Indiana, December 1990

Eddie listens to his walkman until it runs out of juice. Through the flight from California to Indianapolis, the hours-long bus ride that stops just short of Hawkins, and the final connecting bus on the outskirts. Some metalheads listen to strictly metal, but Eddie likes variety occasionally. Plus, he doesn’t think it’s possible to have ears and not love The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls. 

He has one girl on his mind the entire journey home. He tries not to think about you. He makes himself sick shoving you down into a crevice of his heart, so he admits defeat. His fingers twitch, eager to write about you. He has some lyrics in mind. Evil wretched girl with wicked sweet hands. Heart eater. Soft around the edges. 

He wants to write about your stupid chubby thighs and how they look in skirts. He wants to write about your wrists, your knees and their ever-present bruises. Metaphors for your sickly sweetness won’t stick; cruel becomes kind. Taunting turns teasing. 

It feels like it’s eating him alive, spine first. You’re gnawing on his ribs as he hikes the half a mile from the bus stop into Forest Hills trailer park. He can feel your thumb rubbing makeup off of his cheek as he drags his suitcase up the metal steps to Wayne’s —Eddie’s— front door. 

“Wayne?” he calls. It’s pitch fucking dark. He’s surprised he got all the way here without falling in some ditch. “Could you let me in? It’s freezing.”

He hears stirring from inside. He calls out again in case his uncle changes his mind. “Wayne, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s late. Please don’t leave me out here.”

He’s joking. Wayne would sooner shoot Eddie dead than put him in harm's way. He’s always been that kind of parent, hiding his deep rooted worry underneath a feigned reluctance. Footsteps shuffle and floorboards creak. The door opens between them, and Eddie shoves his suitcase and backpack inside without properly looking at his old man. 

“Eddie, what the fuck, kid?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, looking up. Wayne’s squinting at him. He’s wearing jeans with deep creases. He must’ve been sleeping in them. “I timed it all wrong. Started coming home and I didn’t think about it. I walked here, you know that?”

Wayne hugs him. Eddie isn’t expecting it. It’s not like Wayne isn’t affectionate, he doles out shoulder claps and hair ruffles like candy, but their hugs are usually one-armed back-slapping affairs. This is a loose encircling with a scratchy cheek against Eddie’s forehead. 

“I’ve been worrying about you.”

Guilt sinks like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. Eddie kind of feels like he might puke. He wraps his arms around his uncle and breathes in his smell. Diesel and grease, sure, but so much louder than that is his mint and rosemary soap. 

The weight of Wayne’s arms over Eddie’s shoulders is one of his favourite feelings. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it, but then… maybe he had. 

He wants to tell Wayne there’s no need to worry, but he’s never been good at lying to him. “Think I might have fallen off the wagon, Wayne.”

“Well. Happens to all of us.” He pats Eddie’s back and steps away. He doesn’t look any older than the last time Eddie saw him. In fact, he looks good. Puffy-eyed but healthy. “I thought for sure I’d have to come track you down and drag you back for Christmas myself.”

Eddie locks the door and Wayne shuffles into the kitchen promising coffee and cake. He should protest, tell Wayne he can go back to bed and they’ll catch up in the morning, but he missed the small stuff like this, when he’d get home late from band practice or a midnight premiere of a sci-fi flick and his uncle would be sitting up waiting. 

Eddie loves being home. There’s something to be said about living like the rich —he loves all the high ceilings and endless cushy carpeting— but nothing feels as good as coming home. His room is exactly how he left it minus a few ashtrays and his super unsecret pot stash. The poster wallpaper and the cheap paint. His raggedy bedspread and the corners tucked in haphazardly by tired hands. Eddie resists the want to dive under the covers and slide into the dip in his mattress. He knows every box spring in that fucker, and he missed it. 

Eddie drops his bags at the end of the bed. All the clothes in his suitcase smell like Coors Light, so he changes into rags he left behind, a too-big pair of plaid pyjamas that slip down his hips and a sleeveless Motörhead shirt. Maybe. The emblem is worn to nothing but black lines. 

He follows the smell of coffee through the hallway and into the Munson kitchen, tightening the drawstrings of his pants as he goes, chin tucked to his chest. “I’m losing weight, Wayne, I’m like a fucking twig.”

“Don’t tell me that shit. God knows I taught you how to take care of yourself.”

“I’m stupid. I’m really stupid, actually.”

Wayne whacks the coffee maker. It whirs. “Pick a mug, son.”

“You been cleaning? I don’t wanna look down and see a spider in my cup.”

“Have you been cleaning?” Wayne asks. 

“It’s insane how much I haven’t been cleaning.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“You fucker,” Eddie says, laughing up a storm as he picks out his favourite mug, the Garfield one with a big scratch down the left side. 

“You fucker,” Wayne snaps back. “I should send you packing for the bad language alone.”

“They don’t make you clean your hotel rooms, Wayne, that’s the point of them.”

“I raised you better than that.”

“You did. I keep it classy, I swear, I just,” —Eddie sits down in his chair, watching Wayne stir in milk and sugar just the way he likes it, and feels more than sees as a familiar contentedness like a Gaussian film settles over their easy conversation— “don’t clean up after Gareth. He’s a monster.”

“Do me a favour, Eds. Try and be the best you can be, alright?”

He swallows. He purses his lips. A peculiar lump grows in his throat, but he bites it back and squares himself up. “Yeah. I will.” He thinks about all the parties and powders and girls. He’s never done any cruel shit to anybody and he’s a sweetheart with the ladies, but  there are times when he’d known he was lying before he even said he’d call. He thinks about some of the shit he’s said to you and has to wipe his sweaty palms off on his shirt. 

“I know we didn’t have shit when you were growing up,” Wayne says, not tearful or resentful, just honest as he passes Eddie his mug of coffee and sits down. “And all that money must feel good–”

“It’s not like that,” Eddie says.

“When I see my nephew on TV smashing up equipment worth more than his house–”

“I already told you on the phone it was an accident. And it wouldn’t be worth more than this if you actually cashed the cheques I send you. I know they aren’t bouncing.”

“I don’t want your money, Eddie,” Wayne says gently. It’s odd but not uncommon to hear him speak in such dulcet tones. “That’s not what I raised you for.”

“I know, you–” He cuts his insult off at the stem and scratches his head instead.

Eddie isn’t hankering for a tongue lashing tonight and his scalp is too itchy to focus. He hasn’t washed his hair in a week. It’s obvious just looking at him, curls weighed down and straightened out from the sheer grossness of it. “Shit, I’m disgusting,” he says. 

“You’re gross,” Wayne agrees. “I’ll cash a cheque when the bank opens and get you a bottle of degreaser.”

Eddie hides his smile with a long sip of coffee. It’s hot and awful, ‘cause no matter how much love Wayne puts into it, dollar store coffee tastes like burnt grounds from the get go. Eddie missed it more than anything. Sometimes he’s in the back of the queasy tour bus or lying on the floor in his hotel room coming down off of something risky and all he can think about is Wayne’s coffee.

Wayne has a hard and fast rule about drugs: if it isn’t green, I don’t want you touching it. Eddie still remembers the gasket he blew when he found that little baggy of red and white pills shoved inside an altoids tin. He can’t imagine telling his uncle what he really meant when he said he fell off the wagon. 

Hey, Uncle Wayne, I have this weird love-hate relationship with a girl I don’t really know, and I got caught up doing party drugs (unrelated to our relationship) until I got so high I blacked out, and when I woke up she was there and she was looking at me like you look at a bird with a broken wing, you know? Anyway, the memory of her face won’t leave me alone. It makes me feel like crying. So I haven’t touched anything in two weeks and I thought coming home for Christmas would make up for all the secrets I’m keeping, but now—

Now Eddie doesn’t know what he was thinking. He can’t tell Wayne any of that shit. He wouldn’t even know where to start. 

Wayne would ask something like, It took a girl for you to realise drugs are bad news? And Eddie would say back, No, that’s not it, it wasn’t just her. 

“I’m sooooo fucked,” Eddie says slowly, mildly, scrubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He drags his hands down his face and blinks against the burning he’s left in his wake. 

“You’re not fucked, kid. Lemme cut you a slice of cake.”

Wayne cuts him a slice of cranberry coffee cake and Eddie eats it in two bites. Wayne makes him a burger after that. He doesn’t know what time it is, if it’s closer to night or morning, but Wayne doesn’t mention it until the burger’s gone and an alarm clock is ringing. Eddie watches his uncle truck into the living room and feels crestfallen though he doesn’t deserve to. Eddie hasn’t been home in months. He imagines Wayne alone at the kitchen table with an empty greasy plate waiting on him and wants to cry again. 

Wayne returns in coveralls. He gets a good look at Eddie’s face and sighs, dropping a heavy hand into Eddie’s dark hair. 

“It’ll be fine,” Wayne says. 

I’m sorry, Eddie thinks. For being a bad kid. 

He’d said that once. Wayne was sweeping up a smashed plate after a long shift and Eddie, thirteen and defeated with an ache where his mom should’ve been, had been trying to apologise. It had felt so crushing, that broken plate. The last straw. He’d had tears running down his pale cheeks, his hands in his hoodie pocket desperately grabbing at one another. 

And when he’d said it, Wayne had just looked at him. On his knees with a brush, glass shards shining on the linoleum between them. 

You think you’re a bad kid?

Wayne isn’t old and he definitely hadn’t been back then. Thirty something with a crying teenager and what felt like all the world's self-loathing crammed into a tiny kitchen. Eddie’s older now, and he knows how much Wayne gave up for him. Not just his bedroom, which had been relinquished with little more than a shoulder squeeze and five dollars for posters, but a life. Wayne could’ve done anything. Could’ve been a rockstar. 

I ruin everything, he’d said. Teenage angst, maybe, but Eddie felt it in his bones. 

You ain’t ruined anything. 

He hadn’t known what to say so he’d cried, waiting for that nice heavy hand that tussles his hair and pats his back to finally strike out. 

Eds, you’re not a bad kid. Said so quietly. With a steadiness that meant truth. You’re my kid. Could I make a bad kid?

And yeah, there had been a threshold of sincerity and they were passing it. It was the late 70’s. Boys really didn’t cry. At least, not in public. So Eddie wiped his snotty nose in his sleeve and laughed, and then he got on his knees to clean up. 

“Try and sleep,” Wayne says now, older but unchanged otherwise. Still ridiculously forgiving of his not-so-young sprog. He looks at Eddie with his lips pressed together. Eddie wonders if he’s going to hug him again, but Wayne shakes his head. “Shower, you animal. I’ll be back early.”

Eddie sleeps. He showers. He washes his hair three times and doesn’t use conditioner so his curls don’t really curl but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He had a moment in the shower where he swore he remembered something you said to him when he was blackout on sniff cut with procaine and booze. Your voice tentative, the heat of your hand on his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He moans into his damp hands, limp hair hanging either side of his head and dripping into his pyjama pants. He can’t forgive his younger self for all the sleeveless shirts, not when Hawkins feels colder than the arctic circle and the window seal in the kitchen has been leaky for the last five years.

He thinks about going shopping, because no matter what Wayne says about degreaser, Eddie’s starting to realise that his uncle won’t be cashing any of the cheques he sent home, and if he wants Wayne taken care of he’s gonna have to do this shit himself, but he doesn’t know where his key is. 

“I’m a fuck up,” he says, catching his eye in the mirror as he straightens out. 

His reflection frowns at him. 

He did manage to get Wayne some shit from California before he came home; a real brown leather jacket from the 60s with minimal wear, though if Wayne wears it is another thing entirely; a Roy Orbinson record that’s miraculously unwarped despite Eddie’s poor packing; more sweatshirts than his uncle could ever wear through. Eddie knows he’ll try. 

There’s some other stuff. CD’s and a nice edition of War of the World’s. Whatever he could stuff in his backpack. 

“Are you going home for Christmas?” you’d asked him. 

He sat on the bottom step of a huge staircase and you the one above him. People walked around you without notice. Two rocks in a stream bed.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? You aren’t sure?”

He’d got stuck looking at your cheek, the soft curve of it and the highest point, where light like a small star had kissed you and turned his stomach, that’s how sick with envy he was. 

“I get it,” you’d said, “things at home aren’t always easy.”

“Not that. My Uncle Wayne is my hero.”

“And you still don’t wanna go home?” you’d asked gently. 

“It’s not about what I want.” He remembers this part in detail. He’d stopped looking at you, laying back against the stairs, each step digging into his back. The ceiling had been far away. 

You’d inched into his frame of view, looking down at him with an expression unreadable to his mixed up head. You weren't quite smiling. He still isn’t sure what it meant. 

“It is. That’s the whole point,” you’d said. 

Eddie’s all memory this morning. The ones with Wayne had felt less memory and more story, because memory is unfaithful, and over time we start to break down on the details, putting want in place of fact. But your face hovering above his as the soft strands of your hair ghost against his jaw, all your glitters and the shiny pink sheen on your lips, that’s closer. He remembers how you smelled, and how your tongue peeked out to wet your lips uselessly between words. 

Jet lag and the general feeling of you keeps him lethargic, but he cleans the house (and he’s always said house, even if some people don’t agree, it houses him, fuck you Jenny P from eighth grade grade) and makes dinner ready for Wayne when he gets home. He puts the radio on and tunes into Roller FM. When one of Godless’ songs comes on, he’s not surprised. He listens with his head lolled against the kitchen wall, eyes closed, and tries not to think about your fingers choking the neck of your bass guitar. 

—

Indy Rock Centre, Indianapolis, January 1991

Whoever arranged the tour is a sadist. You can’t believe that a team of professionals sat around a long glossy table with their coffee cups and finger foods and thought, yeah, that will work. You feel like you’re being fucking yo-yo’d between states. 

When you’d joined godless as a stand in for Millyanna, your dates had been plentiful but never as disorganised. Nothing compares to this shit. You wonder if going crazy is a sign of making it big, or if maybe you’re not cut out for all of this after all. 

Jan 22, Kalamazoo, Missouri. Jan 23, Toledo, Ohio. Jan 25, Los Angeles, California. Jan 26, Philadelphia; Jan 28, Indiana, Jan 29, Wisconsin. February? Back in Missouri, back in Ohio, a couple more state dates and then bam — Canada. Don’t worry though, after a week in Canada, you’ll never guess where you’re playing. 

Fucking Florida. 

At least you aren’t alone in your torture. For starters, there’s Morgan, your singer, and Ananya, your drummer, who will also endure and suffer. Then there’s the roadies, the techies and the groupies. The opening acts. The managers, the assistants, the personal assistants, the boyfriends and girlfriends and wives and mistresses. 

And what’s more, you're one of the hundreds of bands touring in North America this year. Maybe thousands. You certainly aren’t the first musician to have to suck it up and tough it out. 

Still, you like to complain. 

It’s your right, for dealing with Morgan. And also— you aren’t getting paid for the tour until after the tour is over, so really complaining is the wealth of the soul. You do get a weekly allowance, which is awesome and not something you were getting beforehand, working instead on an invoice. You’d play a show, you’d get paid for the show. This time you’re getting a flat rate at the end of the tour that’s been contractually agreed upon. It’s more money than you’ll ever know what to do with. One of the more shameful ways you waste time in your little bus bunk is trying to figure out where to put it.

I want a house, you think. A mortgage on a small, pretty house where the weather isn't too hot or too cold. And a puppy. Probably. Maybe a fish tank. I want a bed that spans from one wall to another and… 

You wince. For a moment, you’d seen something stupid, a pale face hidden in the pillow across the way. 

Two puppies, you think forcefully. 

You’ve played four shows already this week. You have one tonight in Indy Rock Centre, and another tomorrow in Wisconsin. You got to stay in the warm, non-vibrating luxury of a hotel room last night, but tonight you have to play the show and get straight back on the bus. 

“You’re gonna glare holes in her. What did she do?”

You stop your mindless staring and come back down to earth. Ananya’s smiling at you, thick eyebrows lifted in wait for your answering gossip. You’d been staring at Morgan where she’s sitting across the room in a plush armchair, cucumbers over her eyes and swarmed by makeup artists and hairstylists with a pedicurist at her feet. 

Ananya does all her make up herself. You want to ask her to do yours, but you worry her messy sweetness won’t suit you. She overlines her already big lips with a sticky red-pink, giving her an effect of having just been kissed (a lot), and rings brown eyes with a slick black kohl. 

“She hasn’t done anything. Yet. Today.”

“She has been a monster, hasn’t she?” she asks, sinking down into the couch with a sigh. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her curls are so healthy they bounce.

You hum your agreement and slide down with her. Touring again, Ananya has remembered how much it sucks to be alone without allies. Morgan gets especially volatile from the stress and close quarters. She’s nicer when you’re alone. 

She’ll still ditch you at a moment's notice, but you get it. It’s like high school. 

You miss Dornie. 

It’s cruel to make a friend and suddenly lose them. You can’t help thinking he won’t want to be your friend again the next time you see him. It had been so nice… so peaceful, to know there was someone in your corner. Dornie doesn’t care how famous you are or how much money you’re making. He just wanted to make sure you got home safe and talk about old movies. 

“I’m gonna go find something to drink,” you say. 

Ananya nods. “Bring me back a coke?”

“Yeah.”

Morgan stops you on your way out with a foot in front of your legs. “Hey, killer, I gave one of your passes to a fan earlier. Is that cool?”

“Morgan, when have you ever cared about my opinion?”

“Ooh, meow,” she croons, taking a cucumber from her eye to squint at you. “What’s the matter, baby? I figured you weren’t using them.”

You smile at her. You can’t help yourself. She stopped hurting your feelings a long time ago. “You want a drink from the machine?”

“Sparkling water, serf.”

If you smudge her nail polish on the way past it isn’t your fault. It isn’t cool with you that she’s given away one of your passes, even though you ask your general manager Angel to give them out at the beginning of the show every night. It’s presumptuous! Normal people don’t do stuff like that without asking.

Serf…

Your nose wrinkles. The dressing room door closes at your back and you take a moment to recall where you’d seen the bank of vending machines in the maze of white hallways. Indy Rock Centre is one of the biggest venues in Indianapolis, and you’ve been here before countless times on the other side to see Black Sabbath, Metallica, The Stacey’s, Doorway to Cooperstown. It’s where all the biggest and best get to play. You wish they’d given you a map. 

You can still walk around without getting recognised. You’re not a superstar, just a guitarist. You smile at people who smile at you and avoid the rest, dodging past black polo shorts wheeling equipment and busybody higher ups barking orders. Someone stands in a corner talking on a brick of a handheld phone. You stare at him for a bit. You’ll never get used to it, phones without wires. Next there’ll be TVs without satellites and electric guitars without amps. 

The vending machine shines like a red beacon at the end of the hallway. You hurry to it, feeding the machine your crumpled per diem one dollar at a time. You get a coke for Ananya, sparkling water for Morgan. When it gets to your own drink, the machine starts to revolt. It spits your dollar out unsympathetically. You pull it from the mouth and flatten it against your thigh.

It doesn’t work again. You nibble your bottom lip. Dollar pulled taut between your two hands, you lift your knee and rub it against your stockings. 

“Fucking fuck,” you whisper, watching in mild horror as the machine accepts and then rejects your dollar for a third time. 

You tuck it back into your purse, a pretty leather thing that clasps shut and fits perfectly in the small pocket of your jacket. It’s your luck, but whatever. They’ll probably bring a couple of bottles of water to the dressing room in a bit. Maybe even a cocktail bar. 

“Hey.”

Your internal monologue chokes. You question your senses for the split second it takes you to meet his eyes — baby browns, soft and flush with gorgeously long lashes. If there’s one thing about Eddie Munson, it’s that he has very sweet eyes. Not the kind you can replicate in daydreams. 

He’s dressed like a bitch. You’re so sick of him. He has his jacket tied around his waist and his shirt has no sleeves, the alarmingly shapely stretch of his arms on full display. Black ink climbs the hills and ridges of his stark veins, his herd of bats jumping as he offers you a dollar. 

You take it. You aren’t sure what to say, so you bask in the almost-silence, every nerve aflame as you feed the vending machine and click the button for your drink. Equipment cages rattle. Radios chirp. Your drink thinks from behind the red Coca Cola panel down into the bottom of the machine for collection. 

“What’re you doing here?” you ask finally, squatting to grab your drink. 

You stand, train your eyes on the floor, shove your drink under your arm, and crack open your purse to give him your defective dollar in exchange. He takes it without fanfare. 

“Are you busy?” he asks. 

Regrettably, no. The majority of soundcheck is done, and the show doesn’t start for hours. He gestures to the left and you follow, stupidly, with no idea where he’s leading you to and not a clue what he wants, leaving Morgan and Ananya’s drinks for whoever finds them. Eddie’s jeans aren’t as loose on his hips as they were the last time you saw him. His distracting arms are bigger, biceps like a taunt as he holds a door open for you. You take a breath as you pass him, but he doesn’t smell like anything. No sweat or cologne, no cigarette smoke. 

“Is it mean if I say you look good with clean hair?” you ask, squinting in the sudden brightness. 

He’s led you outside to the back of the venue. Your tour bus stands imposing at the end of the lot, surrounded by Godless branded vans and fancy cars. A truck beeps as it loads into the receiving area backward. 

“Probably.”

“You do, though. Look good.”

“So people tell me.”

Fuck, you think. Fuck it. If he’s gonna be weird about it then you’re pulling the olive branch back in and snapping it in half. 

The sky is white as snow. It hurts to look at, the sun like a steaming egg yolk covered in its own whites, thick clouds shielding her warmth. You pull the sides of your jacket together and button up, uninterested in catching a cold when the next six months of your life are planned down to the hour. Eddie puts his jacket on and zips it tight. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks. 

“Why?”

He pushes his hands into his pockets. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he felt self conscious. “Why not?” he asks. 

You nod. You and Eddie aren’t friends, but you aren’t not friends, either. You’re being cold because you’re seized with embarrassment, not because he deserves it. You have memories of his hand on your cheek, and a cherry stem between his teeth, and you don’t know what you said exactly but you know it hadn’t been amicable small talk. You hate him for knowing stuff about you that you’d wanted to keep secret, and you hate yourself more for telling him in the first place. 

“I came home for Christmas. I’m back in Los Angeles tomorrow night.”

“That’s convenient,” you say. 

“Just had to see you before I went,” he agrees. Deadpan humour is terrifying on him. 

He ducks under a low tree branch and holds it away from your face. Together, you begin to walk down the street and into the city, over patched sidewalks and past brand new stores. The mom and pop shops of your childhood are mostly gone. 

Conversations between you two have this odd oscillation between over familiarity and stilted nothings. You like over familiarity better, when you’re both prone to misunderstandings. You’d take snipping at one another over this strange quiet.  

“Is it nice? Being home?” he asks finally. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’ve been here for what, a month now? I just got here, and it wasn’t to see the ‘rents.”

Eddie lifts his chin to the sky a touch. Molasses of sunlight seep through the clouds now, racing to caress his waved hair and high cheekbones. “It’s been awesome,” he says, his eyes closed. His voice like tree bark, uneven but tough. “Makes me wonder what I liked about L.A. so much.”

“All the free stuff,” you offer. “And free girls.”

“The girls aren’t free,” he protests.

“You aren’t getting free girls?” you ask. 

“Are you?”

“Would that bother you?”

Close-lipped, his tongue pokes the skin under his bottom lip.

“You think stuff like that bothers me?” he asks. 

“It bothers some people.”

Eddie isn’t meeting your eyes consistently, but you don’t think he’s lying when he says, “No, it wouldn’t bother me. But my Uncle Wayne would fucking kill me if he heard me agree that the women are free.”

“How progressive.”

He visually bites back a laugh. He looks up from his shoes and sees you smiling and it breaks him, his laugh sputtering out in bits and pieces. “Shit, I’m just trying to be an okay person.”

You concede, “Fine, the girls aren’t free. They’re just very happy to sleep with you for very little reward.”

“Some might say the reward was, you know, pleasure–”

“Ew–”

“Don’t be childish. What did you want me to say? The reward is a long night of rough and tumble fucking–”

“I liked pleasure better,” you interject. You dance around a huge crack in the sidewalk and pause as you and Eddie reach a crossing. “All night? Really?”

“Want me to prove it?”

“I don’t think you could, Munson.”

“I could…” He rests his hand between your shoulder blades. “But I don’t think we’re there yet.”

He encourages you to cross the street, weaving and winding between parked cars, moving cyclists, and a small family bulldozing passers-bys with a twin stroller. When you’ve crossed to the other side uninjured, his hand falls away. The heat of his palm lingers.

“Good observation.”

“You’re sarcastic today. Or is being on the road making you cranky?”

“Being on the road is definitely making me cranky. It fucking sucks, I forgot how badly it sucks, and I don’t get paid day to day like I used to.”

“Oh, you’re getting a flat rate now? Go you, superstar.” Your walk is more of a crawl, the two of you turned to the left side of the street where children shriek and giggle in the outdoor seating of a restaurant. Eddie stops. “How’s the allowance?”

“You get one of those too?”

Eddie bumps his elbow into yours. “We’re kids. They know it. It’s pretty shitty considering how much money they make off of us in the end, but that’s an asshole thing to say, right? We’re lucky.”

You roll your shoulders. He’s more than right. Coming from nothing, a small town, with no college degree and no rich parents to float you, Eddie’s right. You might have talent and you might work hard but so do a lot of other people, and you’re here, and they’re working for minimum wage back home still hoping. 

You wish every kid like you could get to where you are, but they won’t. You’re more than lucky. You should buy a scratcher. 

“We’re fucking lucky,” Eddie says slowly. “And it’s awful anyways.” He grins. “Come to dinner with me?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dinner? I’ve been there before,” —he points to the restaurant you’d stopped across from— “and it’s nice.”

You’re insane and you agree. It’s not too fancy to feel like you’re on a date from the outside, and once you’re indoors you feel relaxed. With a glass of cider in your hands you feel positively giddy.

Eddie slouches back into a velvet booth seat that might’ve once been red. He keeps the jacket on and you’re grateful for it, lest you see his stupid nice arms and turn ditzy. His nose twitches as looks out over the restaurant floor toward the kitchen visible through a long window. It’s warm but not stuffy in here, the air fragrant with browning butter and minced garlic. 

The menus are sticky. You pretend to pour over one, not knowing what to say to break the silence. 

“I know I said you were being sarcastic,” Eddie says, “but I think I meant quiet. Even when you sound annoyed, I can barely hear you.”

“That’s dramatic,” you murmur, proving his point. 

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Well, in what way?”

“What way feels wrong to you?” he asks. 

Trapped. You sip your cold cider. He raps his knuckles against the table. “Come on, what have you got to lose? What did you say to me before?” His eyes soften. “Nobody would believe me if I told them.”

You tap your glass with your thumbnail. 

“I’m okay,” you say honestly. “Most of the time, I feel fine. Or, I forget what’s wrong.”

Eddie flicks his own glass. “Is this about feeling like nothing?”

“I don’t know why I told you that.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“And you were feeding me booze.”

“Don’t say that. You make it sound so shitty.”

“It wasn’t shitty,” you say. “Free drinks, right? What’s shitty about letting a pretty guy pay for you?”

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks.

You kick him under the table. You don’t know what comes over you, shy at your own honesty and irritated with his ridiculousness. I let you kiss me, you want to say. I’d let you do worse. Of course I think you’re pretty. You aren’t cruel — it’s more of a shove with the toe of your shoe. Eddie laughs through a gasp and kicks you back, heel of his converse flat to your calf. 

“You fucking–”

“Sweetheart?” he finishes. 

“No, fuck you. You string me around with your hot and cold act and now you’re coming to my shows taking me to dinner,” —your voice stiffens, thickens, as you glare at him from across the table— “asking me how I’m doing? And I’m the one who has to explain themselves? You tell me, Munson. Do I think that you’re pretty?”

Eddie’s sort of frozen, like a laugh got stuck in his throat and he really is surprised by your sudden anger. You might feel surprised yourself if you had the wherewithal. As it stands, your irritation and your want for an answer is too much.

He hits the toe of his shoe into yours. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry. I’m not… trying to string you around.” 

He doesn’t say anything else. You deflate, ashamed of your sudden outburst. Tired of all the games. 

“I think you’re pretty,” he says. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

The food arrives and saves him. You want him to explain —you want him to expand, needily, on what he means and how much he means it— and he clearly doesn’t. He grabs his fork and starts shovelling pasta into his mouth like it’ll magically turn the conversation to something more palatable for him. 

“I’d like to change my answer,” you say.

Eddie swallows harshly. “Can’t. All compliments have been locked in. Maybe at our next cat fight.”

—

Eddie’s heart isn’t pounding like he worried it might when he asked you to follow him into the bathroom. He pictured sweaty, shaking palms, his hands hesitant, a reminiscent picture of a past self who didn’t know how to make girls make noise. He thought the next time he was alone with you, it would be the tragic scene from the movies where the boy bears his heart and the girl can’t accept it. He’s not expecting you to understand. It’s getting to the point where the mean shit he said to you isn’t made up of words anymore but the image of you in the Prover Theatre with your sparkling dress and your dull eyes. He hates that he made you feel that way, and he should say sorry. He feels fucking sorry. 

“Don’t cut me,” you say, quiet so you won’t be caught together. 

“I won’t.”

“When was the last time you did this?” 

“It’s like riding a bike,” he insists. “I haven’t forgotten.”

You simper. Propped up on the sink’s counter, your skirt hiking up your thighs (imagine him covering his face with his hands, rocking his head from side to side, you’re wearing garters) and your jacket falling into the basin. You’ve turned one arm toward him trustingly, but apprehension plays clear as day over your mouth. He wants to remark that your mouth is pretty, but it’s not the right word. Perfect feels closer, but again, it’s not what he wants. He has a fascination with how you talk and when you don’t, how your lips have a mind of their own sometimes, nibbled and popped and pouting. 

“It’s easier if you take your shirt off.”

“How many girls believed that one?” you ask happily. He’s ecstatic. Dinner perked you up and now you’re all smiles and warm laughs. He doesn’t know why you’d been angry with him (he does) because you started it (not really), but you got something off your chest at least. 

“None,” he says. “I’m serious that it’s easier. But you really don’t have to take it off for me to make it look good.”

Eddie wields his small pen knife toward your arm. 

“I like my sleeves,” you say as he takes the hem of one such sleeve into his free hand. 

“Don’t be a baby.” He pulls it taut from your skin. You’re both smiling. Carbs are good like that.

“I have fat arms,” you try. 

He’s out of his mind. Eddie leans down and kisses the top of your arm quickly. “Shut up,” he says.

He doesn’t have time to think about what he’s done. It’ll torture him tonight when all he has for distraction are hotel sheets, and then tomorrow on the red eye back to L.A. He honestly doesn’t wanna look at you because if your nose is even slightly wrinkled he’ll have to turn to the gross toilet in the corner and chuck up, but he also doesn't want to freak you out. He looks up at you from under his lashes. 

You look flustered. 

Not disgusted. 

“I’m doing it,” he warns. 

“Yeah,” you say, nearly normal. “Fine. Make me look cool.”

“You admit that I look cool.”

“No.”

Eddie digs the tip of his pen knife into your sleeve and starts pulling. The fabric tears away in a jagged-lined but even circle around your arm, broadening a tantalising stretch. His stomach hurts a bit. To reach your second arm, the one furthest from him, he has to take up station between your spread legs. Or maybe he doesn’t have to, but he does, your thighs like two warm spots either side of him as he leans in close. 

“And this is what’s gonna make them all like me, right? This is the cement of my street cred?”

“Your street cred? No. And I don’t think anything you do could make them like you.” You lean back at his words. He pulls you back in, fingers braceleting your arm as he fakes taking a measurement. “If they don’t like you already, they won’t. Not your fault, not your problem. Who says you even like them?”

“I do, though. That’s my problem. I even like Little Miss Fleetwood,” you grumble. 

He raises his eyebrows to show he’s listening, stabbing at your sleeve and tearing slow. “She still tripping you up?”

“No. I’m just trying to make you laugh.”

He laughs under his breath. “Mission accomplished, baby,” he murmurs. 

Both sleeves sliced, Eddie steps away from you, ignoring the heat in his stomach to take you in. People who don’t know where they stand shouldn’t be so close to one another, he decides, ‘cause wishful thinking has him marking your hands as wanting. Your fingers move slowly as if through water, tip of your index on the left hand stroking down the back of your right marriage. Eddie pins salaciousness on everybody he meets —coke is falling out of fashion fast but sex is always in— but he can’t get a faithful read on you now. He wants you to want to be kissed. Doesn’t trust that you do. 

“You look edgy.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” you ask.

“An awful way.”

You go quiet, your hands go still. You raise your head until it’s too much, and he realises he’s been moving back in. He drops the penknife in the sink on top of your jacket, putting his hand on your freshly bared arm and bunching the sleeve up as much as he can without it pulling at you. He’s greedy and he wants to palm at your skin like an asshole, that’s not your problem. 

“That bad?” you ask. 

He angles his face over yours. He needs two inches maybe three, and you’d be kissing. His hand falls down your arm to your elbow, clasping weakly over your skin. 

“No,” he says. He can barely hear himself. 

Greedy. His second hand comes up to your face, waiting, and when you lift your jaw just so he slots his hand under it and holds you. 

“What are we doing?” you whisper. 

What are ‘we’ doing? 

“Nothing you don’t want to do.” He widens the gap between you. 

“I know– I know that.” Your arm ventured forward, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt. You tug it gently, pulling him forward again. “I just don’t understand it. You. I don’t get what’s happening, Eddie.”

“Well… I was going to kiss you.” Eddie fights to sound the way he feels, out of his element but so earnest his chest aches. “I really, really… want to kiss you.”

It doesn’t feel like admitting defeat, as he’d initially thought it might. Neither does it feel confessional. You can’t confess to a secret already known. 

He kisses you just once. A light brush of his lips against yours. Anymore than that and he knows he’ll start making promises like someone who has room for them. His eyes scrunch closed hard and he struggles not to squeeze your poor cheek as the pressure of your lips builds, as they part, as he pulls back and you chase him. He can’t kiss your mouth anymore than that, but your hands are grabbing at him, pleading and twitching and cold against the searing skin of his abdomen as they search underneath his shirt. Eddie feels the soft curve of your hip under his hand, knowing he can’t fuck you here, and undecided on whether that’ll be his ruin or his saviour. 

You shudder as he kisses down. His hands are hungry but his mouth is sweet, gentle like you deserve as he noses down the column of your throat. 

“I don’t get you,” you say, your fingertips sewn into his hair, scratching over his scalp lightly. Your breath catches as he parts his lips. His teeth scratch over the damp crescents of previous kisses. 

He loses himself in the ticklish feeling of your hand and the heat of your skin. “Hm?” he hums. 

“I understood you better when I thought you didn’t like me.”

He kisses up to the soft crook of your jaw before edging you away, just enough to see the sad set of your eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, utters, like you’re trading secrets. His thumb rubs your cheek, a rough touch. He’s never been much good at aligning his words with actions; his heart and his hands. 

He doesn’t know what to do to fix your sad frown. He kisses you again in case that’s what you wanted but couldn’t say, and it works for a handful of blessed, wretched seconds. You kiss back hard. Eddie has to break it to take a breath. 

You rest your forehead against his. It slides slowly to his nose, and eventually you’ve bowed your head, your hands slipping down to his elbows. 

“I feel sick all the time,” you say. Your hands flex against his skin. “The only time I feel alright is when I’m playing– when I’m making something.” You press your head to his chest. “Or when I’m with you.”

Eddie thinks of all the shitty decisions he’s made. His restlessness, his bad attitude. His propensity to assume the worst. How he’d taken your thumb rubbing a smudge off of his cheek in the Prover Theatre as a jab, rather than a helping hand. 

He wraps his arms around you. 

Your head fits under his rather well. 

“I know what you mean,” he says. And out of everything he’s told you today, that’s the hardest to say aloud. 

Eddie hugs you in the dim light of that dingy bathroom knowing he’s running on borrowed time. All too soon, you’re pulling apart and he’s helping you off of the counter unnecessarily. You don’t hold hands on the way back to Wings Stadium. He thought you might. You’re quiet. He tries to cheer you up, feeling more and more like he’s done something wrong the closer you get to the venue.

He doesn’t have anything to offer. You’re both on tour now. He doesn’t have a clue when he’ll see you next, or what he’ll say when he does. 

Miraculously, he gets you back to your dressing room. He gives your cheek a quick squeeze. 

“Play well tonight,” he says. 

“I always play well.”

You do. He watches you from the VIP section a couple of hours later, impressed. Mildly nauseous. His thumb worries the edge of the pass until it splits in his hand, paper coming apart from cardboard. Your singer might be a handful, but she knows when to be discreet. He slinks out before your set finishes through a side entrance, and his head races with your image. If it weren’t for your cut sleeves and the flank of your upper arm glowing under the stage lights, he’d put his kisses down to surreal delusion. 

Eddie doesn’t notice the lone photographer hiding in the eaves. 

The photographer notices him. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

!!! thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging, it helps so much! Let me know what you thought, what bits you liked and what you want to see next

can you feel another spat coming along 0.0 I honestly had so much fun writing this one especially the scene with Wayne and then the end scene in the bathroom <3 it’s always crazy to see hours and hours condensed into chapters like this but idc I’m having the time of my life and hope u guys r too! the word count is now at a solid 26k I believe though so it does feel rewarding in that way

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Cold Comforts: Thaw

hello! would it be possible for you to write a fluffy sanders side fic with the creativitwins and janus just messing around in the Imagination? thank you! :) - tabaxi-power

I literally stalk your blog (in an affectionate way) your writing keeps me going and I reread your fics constantly. That said I’ve been especially enjoying the Roman angst but there can’t be rain without a little bit of sun. Could you write a fluff fic where Roman is working on a big project or idea and he encounters issues along the way but his famILY helps him through it in their own special ways and it all turns out fine? Totally not me projecting or anything… - anon

Read on Ao3 Part 1 Part 2

Warnings: self-doubt, self-esteem issues

Pairings: darkside polycule

Word Count: 4954

"It'll always be ours, right?"

"Always."

    "Slow down, Remus," Janus calls as a very determined Remus hauls him through the door of the Imagination, "you're going to tear my arm off!"

"You're a liar," Remus retorts, even though he slows down slightly, "I can't do that! Everyone says I'd need to be a car or a big piece of heavy magickery to pull your arm all the way off!"

"It's 'machinery.'"

"That's what I said."

Up ahead, they can already see another tiny figure waving excitedly. If they listen closely enough, they can hear the squeals and shrieks over the rolling hills.

"Re! Re! Come on, I wanna get started!"

"Ro!"

Janus ends up letting go of Remus's arm and watching the two sprint across the field to almost tackle each other into the grass. When he gets close enough to see they've completely ruined their clothes with grass stains and dirt, still grinning from ear to ear, he has to pry them apart before they start to roll all the way down the hills.

"Alright, you two," he says, doing his best impression of the older kids that sometimes have to look after Thomas, "what are we doing today?"

"Oh, oh! We should play the prince game again!"

Roman bounces to his feet and suddenly the ground shifts around them, grass turning to smooth marble as walls rise up out of nowhere. Before they can blink, they're standing in the grand hall of a magnificent castle, complete with tapestries hanging on the walls, two impressive thrones at one end, and a truly massive crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Little bits of light refract through the crystals, sending bits of rainbows scattered about the floor as Roman's clothes shift into a princely costume.

"Wait, but there can't be two princes!"

"Sure there can, why not?"

"But you're the prince. I don't wanna steal your idea."

"Oh." Roman deflates for a second, tapping the end of his—thankfully—wooden sword against the floor. "What other royal positions are there?"

"He could be King," Janus suggests, only for both brothers to go eerily still and stare at him, "or not! Or not, there are, um—"

"Oh, I know!" Remus quickly changes into an outfit similar to Roman's, except the colors are different. "I'll be the Duke!"

"Perfect!" Roman raises his sword. "And now we fight!"

Janus watches as the two of them clash their wooden swords together, running up and down the length of the hall, even jumping on top of the thrones at times. There seems to be some ongoing dialogue that he can't quite make out—well, he can make out Roman yelling words that are probably supposed to sound like Shakespearian English and Remus just keeps chanting fight, fight, fight, but they're having fun, so who cares?—and Remus seems to be leaning into playing the…bad guy?

"I'll have your throne," Remus jeers as he thrusts the sword forward, "and then you'll have to clean all the toilets in the castle!"

"Never!" Roman's cry echoes dramatically off the walls. "I'll never clean your toilet!"

"Yes you will!"

"No I won't!"

"Yes you will!"

"No I won't!"

Remus rears back to strike with the sword but Roman gets there first, swatting the sword out of his hand and shoving Remus to the floor. "Hah! I win!"

Janus applauds as Remus makes his death scene as dramatic as possible until Roman's giggling too hard to hold the sword up anymore. "Well, my dear prince, what now?"

"New game," Roman declares, throwing the sword away, "that one's done now."

"What about pirates?" Remus is already reaching for the discarded sword, running his fingers over the wood. "We haven't done pirates in a while."

"Okay, where?"

"On a pirate ship. Obviously."

Roman rolls his eyes in a way that would make most teachers proud and the castle around them fades until they're standing on the deck of a pirate ship. The sail unfurls behind them in a long susurrus of canvas as Remus grins from under his broad pirate hat and eye patch. Roman pokes at his leg a few times before Janus realizes he's trying to figure out how to turn it into a peg leg.

"Why don't you just try not bending it," he suggests when Remus starts holding his sword a little too enthusiastically, "then it's like it's made of wood?"

"That's a great idea!"

"Wait, wait, I wanna try too!"

And so what was probably meant to be some epic pirate adventure—and don't get him wrong, there are still mermaids and krakens and leviathans aplenty—turns into a strange mix of helping each other learn how to be pirates without bending one of their legs and talking about the increasingly bizarre ways they lost their legs in the first place.

"And so I was just about to pry the jaws of the beast off me," Remus declares, throwing his arms up, "when the teeth were all snap! And then my leg was gone!"

"Never fear," Roman says just as loudly, brandishing his sword—sorry, cutlass, "I will avenge the ruin of your leg!"

"How?"

"I will tell you when I figure that out!"

Janus laughs from his position up by the wheel, steering the ship through the swells of the open ocean. "Captains, we've got a whale up ahead!"

"A whale?"

"I wanna see!"

A great whale breaches right next to the ship, its massive body twisting through the air for long suspended seconds, before crashing back down and sending a wave to soak all of them. The brothers shriek with delight as they wring themselves out.

"New game," Remus declares.

"Last one, okay? We gotta go eat soon."

"Aww, that's no fun!" Remus pouts up at him. "Why can't we just stay in here forever?"

"Because then the rest of us would miss you. What if we want to come visit and we can't find you?"

Remus sulks for a moment before Roman nudges him. "You wanna go monster hunting?"

In hindsight, perhaps Janus should've been suspicious about how quickly that makes Remus perk up.

"How do you play that one?"

Both brothers turn to look at him and the Imagination changes once more, rock walls rising up and covering them as the air grows colder, staler, a dark cave taking shape around them. Janus looks around at the rock walls and at the two of them a few feet away, practically vibrating with energy.

Ah.

"Run, run, little morsels," he calls, letting his shadow loom menacingly on the floor, "I'm hungry!"

"Wait, what's a 'morsel?'"

"I think it means 'food.'"

"Oh."

"Run!"

"Run!"

It's difficult to chase them through the caves without seeing them, their squeals echoing off the walls until he can't quite tell where they're coming from. Eventually, though, they run through a bigger passage at the same time and, well, his legs are just that little bit longer.

"Gotcha!"

"No," Roman shrieks as he's tackled—gently!—to the floor, wriggling around like some wild thing, "no! Re! Avenge me!"

"I'll save you," tiny Remus declares, summoning a pillow and hitting Janus with it, "get off my brother, you slippery snake!"

"Never!"

Soon it's an all-out pillow fight that ends when both little gremlins decide to just fall on top of him holding their pillows in front, smushing him into the floor. He throws his arms up.

"I surrender! You've defeated me!"

"We won!"

"We beat the monster!"

They collapse giggling onto the floor two, half on top of each other in some strange tangle of limbs that makes sense to them. Janus picks himself up and dusts himself off as the cave fades, going back to the rolling grassy hills.

"Hey, Re?"

"Yeah?"

Roman's voice gets very soft and quiet. "Can we…do this forever?"

"Of course, Ro." Remus turns around and gives his brother a big hug. "We'll always be together. The Imagination's ours, remember? We're Creativity. No one gets to tell us what to do in here."

"It'll always be ours."

"Always."

----

As soon as the door to the Imagination shuts, Virgil lets go of Patton and Janus and reaches out to take Logan gently but firmly by the shoulder. "You've got some explaining to do, Logan."

"Wait, I have to—"

"They're not going to let anyone back in there for a while," Patton says, crossing his arms, "so we may as well go somewhere more comfortable to wait."

Logan sends one last glance at the door before allowing himself to be led to the living room. Everyone takes their places and he swallows the unexpected lump in his throat when he realizes the brothers won't be here to join them. He finds himself staring at the TV for much longer than he'd like to admit before Patton clears his throat.

"So," he says, voice low, "what is it that you want from me?"

"The truth, for a start." Janus waves a hand. "Perhaps why you chose to keep what you knew about the Split hidden for so long."

"And maybe why you let everyone believe it was me," Patton adds.

Logan frowns. "It was a logical conclusion. You are Morality, and thus you determine what is Right and Wrong—or what Thomas believes to be Right and Wrong, and so—"

"But Creativity wasn't Split into Right and Wrong," Virgil interjects, "it was Split into Bad and Not Bad. And Patton didn't—wait, did Patton get created because Creativity Split?"

"I don't know," Logan repeats, "I don't believe so."

"Oh, well, if you don't believe so—"

Irritation flares up in him and he glares at Janus. "You were also around, need I remind you, and so I don't think I should be the only one on the metaphorical chopping block for all that happened when Thomas was younger. You never told me why you left in the first place! For all we know, you could have something to do with Patton's genesis."

"Oh, and I certainly wouldn't be one to keep such a thing hidden," Janus retorts, sarcasm dripping from each word, "it's not as though I had direct contact with Creativity for an extended period of time or that the new Side that appeared was taken into my care without informing anyone else."

"Is that not what happened? You had Remus—"

"Exactly."

The sudden ice in Janus's tone is enough to make him falter. Janus takes a step forward, words hissing through his teeth.

"I found Remus out of nowhere. He was abandoned and alone on a rock in the middle of nowhere wrapped in a thin blanket. He was cold, Logan, and he was screaming for his other half. Do you know how long it took to assure him that he wasn't going to be left again? Do you have any idea how many nights I spent—we both spent—" he gestures to Virgil who nods— "just trying to keep his nightmares at bay?"

Logan glances between them and sees no reprieve from either.

"So yes, Logan," Janus continues, "I had Remus. I had a terrified and alone little Side who grew up thinking his brother hated him. Tell me, where in there does it seem like I had the ability to craft Morality?"

"He's right, Logan," Patton says softly, "I…I don't remember anything about him, Virgil or Remus until we were all much older. You…I just remember you and Roman."

Logan swallows and stares back at Janus. "I do not know what led to Patton's…creation as a Side. I don't know why it happened and that's the truth."

"J?"

"…he's not lying."

"Thank you," Logan sighs, "now if we could all just—"

"But you haven't answered my question."

"And what question was that?"

"Why didn't you tell anyone about the Split," Janus repeats, seemingly not daunted in the slightest, "and why you were happy to let everyone think it was Patton?"

"Who was I supposed to have told? You?" A humorless laugh leaves Logan's throat. "You were gone, Janus, you'd made it very clear that you didn't want to be around me anymore and the last thing I was about to do was seek you out for something like this."

"Why, because I didn't care about Creativity? He wasn't my friend too? I wasn't worth your time?"

"Because I was scared and a child! I didn't know what was going to happen! I didn't do it on purpose!"

"But you still did it! And you never told a single person!"

"If you are going to start lecturing me about keeping secrets, then—"

"Logan," Patton interrupts suddenly, "why do you think we're mad?"

"I assume because I caused the Split and didn't tell anyone about it, although I maintain there was no one to tell and I was a child who—"

"That's not why we're mad."

Logan stops. He blinks. "You're…not?"

"Oh, we're mad," Virgil says, "but not because you caused the Split when you were a kid and then didn't tell anyone 'cause you were a kid."

"Then why are you mad?"

"We're mad," Patton says in a voice that makes Logan's skin crawl, "because you've been using the fact that you know what caused the Split to hurt Roman and Remus as an adult."

Logan's mouth falls open. His gaze darts to Janus, to Virgil, back to Patton, and he still only manages to say: "what?"

"Remus was made because he wasn't wanted. Roman wasn't made, he was left, because he wasn't Remus. And you've been using those two things against them ever since."

"I haven't—"

"Don't lie," Janus interrupts, his voice hard, "you make Remus feel unwanted as a way to control him constantly. You claim he's unworthy of consideration, that his ideas are meaningless, that he's easily dismissed once you get to examine him. You don't want his ideas, and so it's easy to lump them all in as bad ideas. And if Roman isn't Remus, then he must be Good Ideas. If he's supposed to be everything Remus isn't, then he must be obedient. He must listen. He must be easy to control."

"Remus is the Creativity Logic didn't want," Patton continues, his voice slightly softer but no less pointed, "which means he's wild, unpredictable, he does things when he wants to, not when they make sense to do. With Roman…"

"Roman's your dancing monkey," Janus spits, disgust ringing in his voice, "he makes the ideas that are approved when you want them, how you want them. He's there for 0.5% of your day and then he's gone. And if he ever steps a toe out of line, you know exactly what buttons to push to make him behave again."

"Hang on," Virgil says, "we're not exactly blameless either. We're assholes to Princey too."

"But we don't have a convenient 'aim here to hurt Roman' guide we've been using for years."

"…that's true."

"Roman doesn't know what he can be except not-Remus," Patton finishes, "and if Remus is wrong…then Roman can't be wrong. That's—that's the Logic of it, right?"

Logan doesn't say a word. He's staring at the floor.

They're right.

They're right.

He didn't tell anyone about the Split when they were younger because he didn't know any better, but there came a time when he did. When he realized what had happened and how profoundly it affected both Roman and Remus, and how much the memory of him talking to Creativity still impacted them.

And what did he do?

He didn't tell anyone.

He kept it a secret. Because he knew he could use it. He could ensure that things were running efficiently and Thomas would have all the ideas he wanted and none of the ones he didn't. He could make sure that Creativity would be easy to control and not impact them negatively at all.

He knew how to make Remus go away and so he did.

He knew how to keep Roman in line and so he did.

He knew how to hurt Creativity and so he did.

It doesn't matter that he was only a child when he caused the Split. It matters that he's not a child anymore and he's still causing the Split. He never stopped to think about whether what he was doing was right, because it was working. And if it was working, then something must be correct.

Guilt presses heavily onto the back of his tongue. He feels sick.

What's worse is he knows that somewhere, wherever it was, he knew it was wrong from the start. If it wasn't, why would he have been so willing to let everyone believe it was Patton's fault? If he had truly believed he was doing nothing wrong, that he was guiltless, then he would've corrected them. Or at the very least, said something when he realized how hurt the brothers truly were.

But he didn't.

And now…

As if on cue, the Mindscape shudders.

"What…what have I done?"

----

He knew.

He knew.

He knew how afraid he was of being wrong. He knew how much it hurt to be dismissed. He knew how badly he wanted, just wanted and he lied.

How dare he?

How dare he stand there like he had anything to do with forgiveness, like he had any authority to act as though he was better, as though he could stand from some wronged, innocent, right place and bestow forgiveness?

When he was the one who'd done wrong, when he was the one who just hurt and hurt and hurt and it was wrong, it was wrong, it was wrong!

He'd been used. Been treated like a tool that misbehaves and breaks and is discarded. Been worked like a dog and thrown into the cold when his tricks weren't good enough. Been forced to dance exactly the right way and when he didn't…oh, when he didn't, he had open wounds all along his back for fingers to dig into.

No more.

No more.

The pain in his throat is an afterthought. Barely registers until he tries to swallow and realizes he can't swallow while he's screaming. The sound reaches his ears after miles and miles of faint ringing noises and even then he can't quite register that it's coming from him.

He screams and he screams and he screams because he's hurt and what else is he supposed to do?

He doesn't realize he's stopped either, not for a long while until he comes to realize that he's not standing up anymore. He's curled up on his side, his head pillowed in something soft. His throat is screaming still, but now only in pain. Somehow that's much louder.

"C'mon, Ro," he hears distantly, "open your eyes, Roro, please."

Remus. That's Remus.

"Roro? Roro, I know you can hear me, come on, eyes."

He opens his eyes.

Gone are the rolling hills of green grass. Gone are the remains of the tower. Gone is the bright blue sky.

In its place is nothing but scorched earth. Soot and ash fall from a grey sky, lifeless and crumbling against blackened dirt and cracked rock. His white prince costume streaks with grey, the red across his chest a gaping and infected slash. He blinks numbly as Remus's hands come into view. They're covered in ash too.

"It's gone," Remus is saying, "it's all gone. We did it. It's ours again. It's all ours."

Roman turns to look up at Remus and he swallows through his ruined throat. Remus just stares down at him as tears well in both of their eyes. A trembling hand touches another and shaking arms find their ways about shaking shoulders.

"He hurt you," Roman mumbles, voice strangled, "he hurt you."

"He hurt you too."

"I—I don't know how to not be hurt."

"I don't think I do either."

Ash continues to fall from the sky. The two curl around each other in the ruins of what was once a perfect world.

"We get to start over now," Roman mumbles, "we can—we can make it ours again."

"Don't leave me."

"Never."

"I want you, Roro, I always want you."

"Promise?"

"Always."

----

Sometime later, a lone door shimmers into the ash-filled air.

It opens slowly and the figure on the other side gasps at the destruction. His eyes land on the two Sides of Creativity, still huddled around each other in the middle of the ash.

He steps through the door but doesn't approach.

They stir as one, realizing someone else is in their domain. They stand as one, their arms slightly in front of each other, each protecting, each protected. In the ash, their costumes look the same shade of grey.

"I came to apologize," he croaks, overwhelmed at how much this place has been ruined, "I…I never meant to cause the Split. I never meant to force the two of you away into different bodies."

He adjusts his glasses.

"And…and I came to apologize for never telling you the truth. And for using what I knew to hurt you over and over again. It was petty and cruel and wrong of me to do and I—I'm sorry."

One of the brothers twitches.

"I want you both," he says, desperation leaking into his voice, "you're both—you're both wanted."

"Is it us you want," they say as one, "or just what we Create?"

"I want the singing at two in the morning even though I should be sleeping," he says as he stumbles forward, "I want the you that throws viscera at the wall because you like the way it splatters. I want the you that takes an hour to pick out what notebook you want because you're particular about what you write in. I want the you that watches horror clips until you figure out how to feed your Kraken."

He reaches the two of them and stops, hands trembling as he reaches out for them.

"I want you," he whispers as the ash falls down around them, "I don't want you because you're Creativity, I want Creativity because it's you."

For a long moment, neither brother moves. Then slowly one steps in front of the other.

"You promise," he asks, wary of getting too far away from his brother, "you won't hurt us anymore? Even if we want something you don't?"

"I promise," he says, "I promise. It's okay to want."

The one in front of him stares for another moment, before slowly, he reaches out too. "L-Logan?"

"Oh, little one," Logan breathes as Roman crashes into him, "my little one, it's okay. It's okay, now. I promise. No more. No more."

He reaches out for the other.

"Remus, come here. Please, Remus, let me hold you."

"…you want me too?"

"Yes. Yes, I want you, Remus, come here. Come here."

The last of the ash drifts down to the earth, leaving the world still and silent. A few paces away, just beyond the door, a single sprig of green emerges and reaches toward the sky.

----

Roman sits on the couch. His hands play with the hem of his sleeves. He needs to fix it.

Virgil just left. They'd sat together for a while, listening to music and keeping Roman out of his head. He'd said it was fine if he stayed longer, but Roman had sent him away.

"It's gonna be fine, Princey," he'd said—he always calls him Princey affectionately now—"you're gonna be okay. And if not, I'll kick his ass."

Janus had come by too. Helped to talk through everything and assured him that it would be okay. Even pulled him up and made him dance a little just to try moving around, see if that helped.

"You're going to be fine, my prince," he'd whispered when Roman couldn't quite bring himself to pull away, "it's going to be alright."

Even Patton had come by, not saying a word, just cuddling with him until Roman could lift his head up without being afraid.

"I've got you, sweetheart. We're all here for you, okay? Both of you."

He'd held onto Remus extra tight too.

"Just us, okay? Just us. Always."

Always.

It's been the same for a while now. Logan would ask what Roman had done to be productive that day, Roman would list them. It was simple, effective, and helped both of them realize the appearance of laziness did not always signify inaction. And it kept them both talking about what needed to get done and what they wanted to get done.

Typically, Roman was able to list at least one productive thing per day. Whether it had to do with the videos, or personal projects, or even helping someone else out with theirs. By and large, it had been easy to give at least one thing that would make Logan nod.

That isn't to say Logan's been unkind, no. He's been—he's been good. It's Roman's own fault he's still so afraid.

And to make matters worse, he knows he can talk to Logan. He could say that this isn't working for him, or that he's still scared, or that he just needs to not some days.

All things he could say.

Which brings him to now. Today had been hard. He'd struggled to make it past the grey fuzz in his head to get out of bed, only to choke down breakfast that tasted like nothing. For better or worse, he'd done everything he needed to do yesterday, or the day before, which meant he had even less motivation than normal to make his brain work.

He hadn't been able to do so much as make his bed, let alone work on the project.

He curls up tighter on the couch. Logan would be downstairs soon. Logan who wakes up and does things all day and then still has time to sit down and do this with him. Logan who would learn how unproductive he had been today and be so, so disappointed.

"Roman?"

He looks up. Logan comes down the stairs. "Hi."

"Hello. Are you hungry?"

"N-not really. Why, are you making dinner tonight? Do you want help?"

"Not at the moment, no." Roman watches as he gets himself situated, dread swirling in the pit of his stomach as he tries to remember the words from everyone else. He briefly wonders if it's too late to feign sickness. "Alright, I'm almost ready."

The moment comes when Logan sits down and pulls out a notebook.

"Now, then. What have you done today?"

Roman bites his lip and stares at the floor. He can't do it. He can't do this. He can't. He can feel his face burning and his eyes getting heavy with tears and he can't do this.

"Did you hear me?"

He takes a far-too-shaky breath and mumbles something.

"A little louder?"

"Nothing," he chokes out, "I—I didn't do anything."

The silence that follows feels like the slow rise of the executioner's blade. He bites his lip harder, trying not to sniffle. He can't stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks but he can be quiet.

"Did you get out of bed?"

"What?"

"Did you get out of bed?"

"…yeah."

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"N-not a lot."

"What about lunch?" He nods. "And we've yet to decide about dinner…alright, did you finish any more of those series that you said make you feel better?"

Roman nods again, shame morphing into confusion as Logan finishes writing something down. He keeps asking things like how much water did you drink, and did you get any more rest, things that…aren't productive. When he finishes, he runs the pen down the list, counting each one.

"That's twelve things," he says, tearing the page out and setting the notebook aside, "I'd say that's pretty productive."

He looks over and sees the tears streaming down Roman's face and his demeanor shifts, standing and coming to wrap his arms around Roman's shoulders.

"Hey," he says softly, "talk to me. What's the matter?"

"I don't—I don't—" he sniffles— "I don't understand."

"You took care of yourself," Logan says gently, "that's being productive too."

"You were gonna be mad…mad 'nd dis'ppointed that I didn't do anything."

"Oh, little one," Logan whispers, pulling him into a proper cuddle, "I'm always proud of you. It's okay."

"R-really?"

"Really." A kiss, pressed to his forehead as Logan tucks him under his chin. "It's alright, little one. You're okay."

"Oh, thank god, I thought we were gonna have to murder you."

Remus—and the others—appear out of nowhere and Logan grunts when Remus tackles them both onto the couch.

"I told you it was gonna be okay, Roro."

"I know."

"Come on," Patton says, "let's all get ready for movie night, okay? We'll just have pizza for dinner."

"Oh, hell yes," Virgil cheers, helping Logan coax Roman to the floor, "I've been craving pizza for ages."

Roman just blinks as the others get settled, Logan's arms still firmly around him as Janus turns out the lights.

"Can—can I go to sleep?"

"If you want to, little one, go ahead. I'll stay."

"You will?"

Logan smiles, ruffling his hair gently. "I'm right where I want to be."

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[release-the-mccracken]

Some Bob x Brian for the soul

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Established relationship, oral sex, come swallowing.

Words: 1,187

“It’s okay to be nervous. Everyone is the first couple of times,” Brian mused, leaning against the wall. It was a grimy brick wall that hurt his back as he pressed into it, but he couldn’t expect much more from the back alley of a music venue. 

Smoke billowed between himself and Bob as they smoked together, sharing the last cigarette in Brian’s pack and he mentally kicked himself for not being better prepared. He’d been so caught up with everything else that he hadn’t remembered to restock on his own things. Despite it being his last one, he still shared it with Bob. 

“I don’t think they feel this level of nervous,” Bob muttered back to him. He took another drag of the cigarette and Brian watched him. 

He was sure Bob had smoked most of it so far, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d already given so much for this band, what was a single cigarette in the grand scheme of it all? 

“I just keep worrying about fucking up. I’m gonna ruin it, Brian. I know I am,” Bob explained himself further and Brian felt grateful that he was comfortable opening up to him. He was usually so quiet, always keeping to himself, and he still was to an extent. But he was also being vulnerable now. “I really need this to go well,” He breathed, handing the cigarette back to Brian finally. 

“Things are going to go perfectly, I know they are. You trust me, right?” Brian finished off the cigarette, putting it out against the brick wall and holding onto it until he could find somewhere to dispose of it. Bob nodded at the words, although he looked at him a bit skeptically. 

Bob reminded him of an animal, he thought. One that was anxious around humans and getting ready to run off at the first opportunity, although still creeping closer to them. It made Brian smile and he turned towards the other man. 

“Good then trust me here. You’re going to kill it, baby. Come find me after, okay?” Brian still smiled up at Bob, grinning brighter when the other blushed a bit at the affectionate name. Bob nodded again, though. 

Brian leaned enough to give him a quick kiss. They didn’t have much time before the show was meant to start and their privacy level was questionable at best. He’d make up for it later. 

***

“How are you feeling now?” Brian grinned at Bob as soon as they were alone in his room. The show had gone just as well as Brian had expected it to and Bob himself seemed a lot more comfortable now. He’d really gotten into it as the night went on, losing the majority of his nerves and just enjoying himself. 

“Really good,” Bob grinned right back at him. It was his turn to go in for a kiss this time, feeling confident. It wasn’t as fast or as reserved as it had to be earlier. They both had time to savor it, staying close to one another. 

“You did so great,” Brian praised, breaking away just long enough to tell him that before kissing Bob again. Bob’s hands found his waist, a bit sore from drumming all night, but still clinging tightly to him. Brian’s own held onto Bob’s face, tilting his head at whatever angle worked best. 

They were both breathless when they finally pulled away. 

Brian’s hands caught Bob’s belt easily, fingers trembling a bit as he undid it. He knew this likely wasn’t a good idea. A lot could go wrong if he was sleeping with any of the band members he managed and that fragility felt doubled when it came to Bob. They both had concerns and yet, neither of them stopped the situation. 

Brian felt as though he was snowball rolling down a hill, building up size and speed with no sign of stopping until he inevitably crashed head-first into something solid. He’d fall apart the second he did, but for now, there was nothing even slowing him down. 

“I’m glad you were there,” Bob said, breaking him free from his thoughts. Brian’s hands shoved his jeans down the best he could, boxers following quickly after. 

“I’ll always be there,” Brian promised him, sinking down to his knees and he smiled when he heard Bob let out a breath above him. He thought it was likely Bob was entirely new to this. Brian himself had a bit more experience, but he was still excited to try everything with Bob for the first time. 

He didn’t try to push himself too much, just taking what he was comfortable with. He knew he didn’t have to try and impress Bob, the other wasn’t going anywhere. They were pretty stuck together by now and that was a comforting feeling. 

Bob sighed gently when Brian’s lips first wrapped around him, one hand moving down to hold onto the back of his head. He didn’t push or pull at Brian, he just held onto him. Bob’s hand was a solid warmth that kept him grounded and he let his mind run wild with where else Bob might hold him. All in good time, he promised himself. 

It didn’t last a remarkable amount of time. Honestly, Brian hadn’t really expected it to. Bob was already pumped full of adrenaline that still hadn’t worn off yet and likely wasn’t the most experienced when it came to this. And Brian didn’t like to brag, but he’d never gotten any complaints about his head ability. 

Bob had warned him that he was close before he got there and Brian smiled around him. He was a gentleman. He hadn’t bothered pulling away from Bob when he was warned, deciding he would swallow for him. It wasn’t something he minded a terrible amount and especially not when it came to the drummer. 

It had only taken a handful of bobs of his head after the warning before Bob was coming. The first spurt hit the back of his throat hard, catching him off guard. He stopped moving entirely when he realized Bob was coming, just holding him there and doing his best to swallow around him without embarrassing himself. It wasn’t an easy task after all, but he powered forward. 

The feeling of come sticking to the back of his throat felt like mucus getting caught there when he was sick and he barely fought the urge to gag. But he managed it, thankfully. He swallowed thickly around it and it went down, though. Bob’s hand had eased off his head, letting him pull off and wipe his mouth with the back of his own hand. A gross taste clung to the back of his tongue, but it was a small price to pay. 

He’d do it every night for the rest of their lives if he could. 

“You did so great,” Bob grinned down at him, parroting Brian’s own words from earlier right back at him. Brian rolled his eyes playfully, but still accepted the hand up when Bob reached down to help him back to his feet.

[pacifymebby]

My Bloody Valentine

Chapter One

Soft as Snow (but warm inside)

 I watched my breath condense in the air before me as I dawdled home beside my best friend's boyfriend. The October night had snook in suddenly with a chill that threatened frost and none of us were really dressed for the weather. 

Still, that didn't stop us from slow walking back along the main road trying to elongate the evening and preserve the last ten minutes of the night before we split at the cross roads and said goodnight. 

"Reet this is me by the way," I said holding back a little way from the lights. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my too big leather jacket to search for my cigarettes and a lighter, surveying the quiet roads and the warm glow of the streetlight flickering above us. 

"Oh shit," sighed Alys turning her head to take in her surroundings, finally realising where we were, "huh... You live closer than I remember..." She mused, sucking in her cheek as she turned to Johnny who looked just as surprised as she did. 

"Oh come on man..." I smirked at her dazed boyfriend, "you helped me move in like two months ago..." 

"Yeah..." He nodded rolling a cigarette between his fingers as he looked down the hill towards my house, "yeah I did didn't I..." 

"Yeah," I smirked shaking my head at them both in affectionate disbelief, trying to control my shivering. 

The chill hadn't been so bad when we'd been walking but now that we'd stopped I could feel the sting of the cold around my fingers. Inside my little ballet slippers my feet were being forced to regret the misjudged aesthetic id chosen to run with that night and I was beginning to grow inpatient for the warmth of my bed. 

We hadn't meant to stay out as late as we had, just one drink after Alys' birthday dinner, but of course one drink had done as it always does and several hours later we were all comfortably drunk, the last in the bar at kicking out time.

"Okay well I'll see you soon," said Alys throwing her arms around me, hugging me tight, promising that we'd see one another again before she went away. "Let me know when you get home safe... I know you won't but still..." 

"I'll try..." I smiled already guilty because we both knew I would forget. 

"See y'soon pet," yawned Johnny as he pulled me into a hug, rocking me dramatically from side to side before he let me go. "Don't try, do..."

I gave them a little salute as I stepped backwards into the road, one foot behind the other wobbling just a little as I shoved my hands back into the depths of my pockets and turned on my heel. I could hear their conversation fade as they walked away up the hill, leaving me alone to the quiet of the midnight street I wandered down. 

I took a cigarette of my own and lit it, captivated by the flame of my lighter as I flicked it on and off and on and off. It was pretty, the way it danced and flickered, licking at the tip of my cigarette. Pretty enough to distract me as I walked so that I wasn't really paying any attention to my surroundings. Wasn't really looking where I was going. Just dawdling the familiar route back to my flat on autopilot. 

I took a long drag on my cigarette and took pleasure in blowing out, watching the thin plume of smoke rise and dissipate into the night. 

I didn't notice anyone else on the street. Didn't notice the hoodie emerge from one of the alleys which connected the backs of all the restaurants and bars along the main road. Didn't notice their steps trailing mine. 

Not until it was too late. 

Not until their elbow was digging into my neck, one hand over my mouth, the other arm squeezing tight around my waist, lifting me just far enough from the floor for me to realise my helplessness. 

Even when it happened, even when the air had been snatched from my lungs so that screaming wasn't an option, I wasn't quite sure that it was really happening. 

"Give me your fuckin phone!" They growled, "your phone an your wallet yeah fuckin give me em now..." 

I tried to open my mouth to speak, panic gripping me when I realised that I still couldn't breathe. 

"I said give me your fuckin..." 

And then suddenly their grip went slack. Their arm went limp, their hand fell away from my mouth and my feet hit the floor as he let me go. 

I stumbled away from them, one foot tripping over the other from the momentum of my fall, turning just in time to see the hooded stranger shoved up against the wall by someone else. 

"Told you before mate," growled the stranger, the rest of his threat too hushed for me to hear as i stood watching in stunned silence. My saviour in a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt, effortlessly holding the hooded lad up off the floor by the neck of his shirt. He gave him a short sharp shake knocking his lolling head back against the concrete before sending him shoved into the street to scramble away. 

All I could do was stand and stare as the lad in the hoodie stumbled up the street, breaking out into a clumsy run and darting round a corner. He disappeared into the night just as quietly as he'd cut into it and as I gazed a little dizzied at the now empty patch of pavement he'd been stood, I pulled my jacket around my body a little tighter. 

"Are y'alreet Poppy?" 

I stood quietly, shivering with my arms wrapped tightly around myself. I wasn't exactly dazed just breathless. Stunned, my heart beating out of my chest, my senses working over time. 

It took me a second to realise what he'd said, the stranger who stood before me. He held one hand out to me, hesitant to take my arm and steady me. When I looked up at him closer however I was certain that's what he was, a stranger. 

"H..how do y'know my name?" I asked, trying not to stutter, failing miserably because now that he was so close to me it was him overwhelming my senses. 

He stood over me with one hand cupping my elbow, his body shielding me from the street. He was pale and his sharp features were unfamiliar to me, that I was certain of as I looked up into his brown eyes. They were dark, swallowing the light from the street lamp overhead, dark enough to send a shiver through me as I trembled beneath his touch. 

There was something about him which left me feeling weak, made it difficult to listen to the voice of reason in my head which told me to say thank you and flee as quickly as possible. 

"What?" he asked a small smirk tugging at his lips, "course I know your name," he said, brows tugging into an amused frown, "met before haven't we..." 

I mirrored his frown then, a cold wash of embarrassment rippling through me, sitting heavy and uncomfortable as a stone in my stomach as I looked up at him, studying his smirking expression desperate to recognise him and remember his name. 

"H...have we?" I asked softly, feeling guilty because if we had I really didn't remember him at all... and that struck me as odd because I was certain had I ever met him before I'd have remembered him - he wasn't exactly the kind of... "Oh..." I breathed softly as a name drifted into my head like a cork floating on the tide, "Sam?" 

I watched as his smile broke, grew wide and bright lighting those dark irises, leaving little creases in the corners of his eyes. 

"I'll put your forgetfulness down to the shock eh?" he asked shooting me a wink as he trailed his hand from my elbow down to my wrist, turning my palm up to reveal the keys I'd been clutching in my hands. The deep red imprints they'd left. His smile softened then, his fingers closing mine back around the keys, patting them closed and letting me go. It was strange, the way the absence of his touch left me feeling colder. How the sudden distance between us made me step forward, closing the gap between us again quicker than my brain could think to stop me embarrassing myself. 

He smirked down at me, pushing his dirty blonde hair from his face, scrunching it in his fist before letting it go. Reaching for my shoulder again. 

"Are y'alright Poppy?" he asked again, watched as this time I frowned again, shook my head. I closed my eyes for a second, my thoughts finally catching up to me, my confusion blurring every thought into the next so that it hurt to try and think about what had happened. 

"H... how did you... where did you come from?" I asked quietly, not the question I'd wanted to ask but the one I was left floundering with, a blush spreading across my cheeks as I shivered in the cold. 

"What dya mean where did I come from?" he chuckled gesturing vaguely across the street, "the offy like," he said holding a fresh packet of cigarettes up as if he needed to prove himself. Which of course he didn't because it had been a stupid question. 

"H... how did you..." 

"No offence poppet," he smirked cutting me off, stroking my shoulder with his thumb, "but a meant are you alright? Did he hurt ya?" he asked his words hushing me into a shy kind of quiet. I hadn't really thought about it, I'd been too shocked and then too relieved to consider whether I'd been hurt. 

"Uh," I caught my bottom lip between my teeth before I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head feeling exhaustion beginning to sneak up on me. "I don't know S...Sam..." in the back of my mind there was a hesitance to say his name, as if I still didn't quite believe that I knew him, "I don't think so.. I'm probably fine.. uh, thanks for.. I don't know..." I trailed off, blush burning my cheeks as I realised what I'd been about to say. 

"Savin you?" he asked brow raised, the way his smile felt like he was laughing at me only burning my blush deeper, "makes you sound like my damsel in distress that does..." 

I couldn't help but shy away then, tugging the sleeves of my jacket down over my hands, hugging my arms around my chest as I averted my gaze to the floor. 

"I..." I started, trailing off when he grinned again. 

"Long as you're alreet yeah?" he asked shocking me when he pushed my chin up with the side of his fingers, let his thumb linger on my jaw, "you're sure you're not hurt?" he asked again, his dark eyes locked with mine, making me think twice about my answer, making me want to be honest with him. 

"No," I said shaking my head, "no I'm fine Sam a promise... just.. just scared me I guess..." 

"Aye," he nodded, "am not surprised poppet," he said wrapping an arm around my shoulder steering me down the street towards my flat. I can only put it down to the shock, the shivers of adrenaline still racing through my body, senses wired, thoughts clouded, that I didn't stop to ask how he knew the way to my flat. 

"Don't wanna sound like 'yer da' lass, but what were y'doin walkin on y'own anyway like?" 

"I wasn't..." I said, losing my words to another blush, catching my thumb between my teeth when I realised what I'd said, "I mean... my friends were... I'd only just said goodbye to em and my flats like what, two minutes away... I guess I thought I'd be fine..." I said trying to defend myself, feeling suddenly like I needed to justify my mistake, "I walk this way all the time and it's usually..." 

"Fine?" he asked with a smirk, "y'know this end of towns proper rough lass, y'shouldn't be walking round at night alone.. specially not when you've been on the drink like..." 

"Wh.." I trailed off eyes widening as I turned my head away from him, mortified to think that he could smell the booze on my breath. I hadn't been that bad, we hadn't had that much...

"Don't look like that," he laughed, "were a lucky guess poppet, y'don't stink like a walkin brewery," he laughed at me, squeezing me back into his side where I'd tried to shrink away from him. 

"Wait.." I frowned, "if its so rough round here why were you out on your own?" my question only etching his smirk deeper. 

"Thats different," he shrugged. 

"Why cause you're a man?" I asked unimpressed eyebrow cocked, my confidence faltering when he grinned and shook his head. 

"No lass," he grinned but he didn't give me an answer, just trailed off, rubbed his hand over my shoulder and stopped walking. When I stopped too, looked up at the door we'd stopped in front of my breath caught in my throat. 

"Wait how... how do you know where I live?" I asked my brain fuzzing over with a sinister confusion, my heart beginning to race as that cold shiver ran through my body again. But when I turned away from my door back to him I found myself alone. Found myself frozen to the spot, shivering in the car park, thoughts jumbled in a cloudy panic as I starred at the empty car park, the quiet street. The shadows which were simply shadows. 

"Sam?" I called out, trying to keep the edge of fear from my voice, "Sam?" I asked again, a little louder though still only a mousy squeak as I fumbled with my house keys trying to find the right one to slip into the lock as quickly as I could. 

Because I hadn't been scared in his presence. Hadn't been scared to walk home with him. 

Was, in his absence, terrified. 

Suddenly I felt like the loneliest girl in the world. 

[druidx]

Directors commentary for havens ember

Hey Ray!

I am assuming you want commentary for the overarching series and not, like, something about all 21 completed fics within it 😅️ (Though having said that, I think you might be getting a bit of an essay anyway).

My Modern, No Powers, Everyone Lives AU, aka Haven's Ember series, came about while I was in the middle of having a crisis about My Blade for Thee, Your Son to Be (Martin is a Blade AU) and how much work that silly little idea was going to be.

@mishkakagehishka posted that she was craving some "Martin Lives" AU fic, so I - because I needed a distraction - said I would have a go. But, you know, the end of Oblivion is pretty definite. I couldn't see a way around it, so boom - we now have a Modern/ No Powers AU, because Martin is then saved by modern medicine and is not turned into a Godly avatar. Then @arcane-elder-scrolls requested some Bodyguard fluff be tucked in, so that became the basis for The Birthday Party.

In My Blade for Thee, the Prisoner wasn't going to feature much - that story was due to end as soon as Uriel took his last breath. Which meant that they could be recycled. Since I'm incapable of turning my brain off, I already had a good idea that this Prisoner would be young, chirpy but troublesome, and working for the Grey Fox.

When the Modern HoK first turned up, it was jumping out of a black Land Rover with the name Sophie Williams. The first The Birthday Party turned directly into angst, which was not the prompt, so it was scrapped. When I started re-writing The Birthday Party, the HoK was inexplicably called Aderyn Griffiths, but they were the same person: slender, auburn hair, devil-may-care attitude and, well, spoke like I do on the casual. I thought it would be interesting for this HoK to have a legal name and a preferred name that was completely different, so it stuck.

Why did you start writing the Main Quest line? Because I can't turn my brain off. After finishing The Birthday Party, I kept thinking about the final scene in Oblivion, and how it would translate into the Haven's Ember world. And, obviously, I couldn't just write the end and leave it at that. No, no. I had to write the whole damned lead-up to it as well, which has become The Ruby Falls. But I will say I had shove to do it from the above two, and @strosmkai-rum, otherwise I might not have attempted it.

Didn't The Ruby Falls start off called Haven's Ember? Yes, it did. To start with, the Main Quest story (that bastarding (affectionate) thing which is currently pushing 190K words) was called Haven's Ember, and for a very brief while the series was called Ruby Falls. But I was never happy with them like that. "Haven's Ember" is too cosy for a story about tragedy, and "Ruby Falls" sounds cataclysmic, right? So I swapped them over and now I think they're both spot on.

Why is Haven's Ember set in Great Britain and the EU? Because it's where I live. I thought about Americanising it, but it would have been the United States you get in the movies - Genericsville, IL/NY/CA/WTF. I know the UK; I do not know the States.

Why is it 'modern' as in Earth modern, not Nirn modern? *Cries in 'I didn't know it was an option'*. By the time I realised that was a possibility, I was already knee-deep in worldbuilding for The Ruby Falls and it was either commit or die. So I committed.

If it's set in GB, why is Baurus still American? I'm sorry, have you not heard Michael Mack's voice? One doesn't mess with perfection, darling.

If Baurus is American, why isn't Martin? Again, have you not heard Sean Bean? He's from Yorkshire; thus too is Martin, and this is a hill I will die on.

And why is Belisarius Bulgarian? Because @strosmkai-rum asked nicely. She also asked for someone to be Greek, but I never got that far down the list of Blades. Maybe it's Cyrus, IDK yet.

What sexualities have you got going on in this? Martin is bi, Baurus is gay, Caroline is lesbian, Aderyn is ace, Arcturus and Cyrus are queerplatonic. I think that's it off the top of my head.

What did you do with the Thieves Guild? They became GreyFox Securities (GFS), a digital and physical security firm. The Grey Fox is still called the Grey Fox (a la security personnel not giving their real names) and he still wears the hood. Aderyn is a Physical Penetration Tester, which is someone who put's a building's security through its paces and then reports back what needs to be changed. I have had so much fun researching this.

What's the most fun toy you've found that you want to give yourself Aderyn? Earrings that let you unlock handcuffs. There's also a bracelet that contains micro-lockpicking tools. And a kit that lets you scan RFID cards... Honestly, I shouldn't be let loose on TeamRed's webstore without supervision.

... I think I'm out of stuff to add. I, uh, hope that answers your ask? 😅️ Thank you so much for the opportunity to ramble about an AU that has been occupying my brain since 2020. I'm more than happy to carry on if you've got anything specific you want to know.

🫖️🌿️

[xxcallalillyxx]

Weirdcore/Fair Folk dreams are some of the best dreams a dreamer can dream.

I had one last night and I was on a quest to find 10 different things in the mortal realm, based off of a map I found hidden in my mama’s room. It took me all night and a stolen vehicle, but I found all ten teams. The three of the ten that I remember being a live goat that made goat noises, a bottle of fresh milk, and a blue fiddle hidden in the neck of a guitar. Considering it was the middle of the night and I’m a lot more city than country, it is, in fact, impressive that I managed to find these things. Anyhow, went to show my folks that I found all this neat stuff from this fun little map, proud as pie. Got as far as waving the fiddle at my mama before falling/getting sucked through a tiny window. I landed quite promptly in an enclosed pasture with vibrant green grass and no cows. The sky was an unnerving shade of blue, and the few clouds floating about felt unnatural. The whole thing felt like some non-human’s attempt at normal. In front of me, lounging on top of a wooden gate, was the window I had just fallen out of, nearly decorated with flowing pink curtains. I dashed across the pasture, exited, came back in, and shoved aside a fae girl trying to get back through the window (don’t do this). My mama fell through instead, told me we had to hurry, and exited the pasture though the gate across from the window. I followed her, but I instead vaulted over the fence beside the gate. As soon as I landed I said “I probably shouldn’t have done that”, and spun around and yelled a squeaky sorry at the amused looking girl while my mama wondered if she had secretly raised an idiot. We ran down the hill, and the grass, sky, and clouds turned into the sort of scenery you find in fairy tales. Grimm fairy tales, though, gnarled trees, rolling fog, hoards of wanderers bewitched by fae and time and promises. The usual sort of thing. We spotted one such hoard at the base of a mountain some ways away, so we hurried towards pine trees. We braced our backs against the trees and reached up to clutch bark-stripped limbs. I was warned not to let go until they left. The hoard of people appeared, conquering hundreds of miles in mere seconds. They were a beautiful group, entirely female, and white as marble. They wore masterful cloaks and battle tested gauntlets of tree bark. The cloaks were art, pure and simple, manipulated to look like a flowing trees, leaf patterns stitched into the fabric. The group took the stripped branches we held onto and quickly fastened them into swords and daggers, the white wood polished to a gleam. The leader got in my face and sprouted truly terrible poetry about marble, blood, bones, and trees before bounding off with the rest of her burly brood. A line of all the hikers lost to time filed past, one after another. Heavy backpacks and jumbo water bottles weighed down their everlasting journey, eyes glazed over, sweat dripping despite the lack of sunshine. The line stretched from North to South, an end nearly impossible to image. A newer hiker, one with a bit of humanity left in her, let my mother and I slide through the line. We bolted off the main path and into a dusty one surrounded by new yet tall trees, with sun drenched foliage. I don’t believe there was actually a sun, at least not in any conceivable way. In front of us two teenage boys were running frantically, one holding a purple, blue, and green stripped beach towel, the other wearing a maroon t-shirt. Behind us, Susie Myerson, who I affectionately called “Abby” for some reason, hollered at us to wait up. She carried a jumbo peach water bottle, and a backpack. I stopped and slung on the backpack she was wearing, which worriedly duplicated into two so we each had one. I woke up right after, so I may only assume that I was invoked into the ranks of the Lost Hikers.

[ruairimacarthy]

you'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling » solo.

TAGGING ― Ruairi Macarthy & Margaret Rourke ( NPC ). LOCATION ― Cardinal Hill. DATE & TIME ― 4 July 2024, afternoon. NOTES ― Ruairi runs into his ex at a local supermarket and has a breakdown in response that leads to a tentative truce. WORD COUNT & TRIGGERS ― 2121 & mentions of anxiety attacks and anxiety in general.

It’s a testament to how small Blue Harbor feels some days that when Maggie stops him in the supermarket he isn’t surprised so much as he’s tired― he can hardly spend ten minutes in her presence without feeling like he’s going to die in some quiet, miserable way on the spot and dramatic as the thought is, it’s the only one that occurs to him when he stills― the small handbasket curled in a death grip in one shaking hand. He still doesn’t know how to talk to her― years have gone by and some small, exhausted part of him wants it all to be over― wants everything to be fixed and comfortable, wants to be able to look at the girl he’d once loved so fiercely he could’ve written pages and pages about it, wants to see her face and not feel the urge to burst into tears on the spot. He wants all of that but he isn’t ready to communicate it and half the time he isn’t sure that he wants to― not when she seems to barrel through his boundaries some days like they don’t exist at all because she’s trying to mend a bridge he isn’t even ready to open. 

He opens and closes his mouth for several moments before he exhales sharply, tells himself silently to act like a goddamn adult and starts to walk past her without speaking before she grabs his wrist and he feels himself jerking to a stop, staring at her fingers wrapped around the space where he can still picture a small tan line where he’d used to wear one of his favorite gifts from her. He blinks, slow and placid, before his eyes shift up to meet hers and he feels his mouth twist into a frown. 

“Don’t touch me.” His voice is almost monotone but he pulls his hand away as gently as he can manage. His skin feels like it’s on fire where she’d touched him and he wonders when he’d come to feel so desperate for touch at all― he’s an affectionate person in general and he gets plenty of casual touch from his friends but this is different. Things with Maggie have always felt different and maybe that’s why it’s so difficult to let her go, as much as he wishes he could simply cut the string binding them together - they have a link, through Fionn, that can never be broken. As much as it pains him to keep it. 

“Ror,” Maggie’s voice is soft, pleading. 

It makes his stomach twist, makes his throat tighten even as he looks away and resists the urge to clench his fists— to dig his nails into his palms until they cut indelible patterns into his skin; a vicious, violent part of him wants it to hurt— but he isn’t certain who it would be for. Does he want to revel in the sting of it? In the knowledge that he hadn’t been enough on his own to make her want him? Does he want it to hurt her that he can hardly stand the sight of her these days? That it’s so deeply painful it makes him want to scream— to shout his throat raw and bleeding and offer the shattered bits of himself she left behind simply to demonstrate that there are consequences to the way she moves through the world. He shakes his head, sharp and displeased. 

“Don’t.” His voice is strained, tight to the point of snapping. “We’re not friends,” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, tips his head back and swallows so hard he can hear it. 

When he looks at her again his eyes are red-rimmed and too bright and she looks beautiful enough in the sharp fluorescent lighting that he wants to laugh— feels the hysteria of it rising in his chest until he shoves it down alongside every positive feeling he’s ever harbored for the woman in front of him. He doesn’t want to be doing this— doesn’t want to be speaking to her at all, especially not in the middle of the neighborhood fecking supermarket, and he knows it’s irrational; he knows he needs to figure out how to coexist with Maggie for Fionn’s sake and he tries. He tries so very, very hard. He agonizes about each and every one of their interactions for days afterwards as his thoughts drag him through all of the ‘what-if’s’ at play— what if he’d been good enough? What if they hadn’t fallen into parenthood so abruptly? What if anything at all had been different?

What if he could see her now without falling to pieces?

There’s an almost static feeling building at the base of his skull— it makes his face feel fuzzy and his thoughts, the store, Maggie herself— everything feels far away, the shift coming so abruptly it makes him feel dizzy with panic. He takes a deep breath— tries, anyway — feels like he’s sucking air in through a straw and the wheezing breath he manages brings Maggie even closer and he can’t muster the words to tell her not to touch him when he’s very clearly having an anxiety attack. It makes him feel sick to his stomach— his desire for comfort warring against his desire for self-preservation; he doesn’t want her to think any of this is okay— they aren’t okay and he isn’t okay and it’s taken him years to even admit that to himself and she won’t give him the space to move on and he feels like he’s drowning. His thoughts are racing and when she rests her hand on the back of his neck— when had she gotten so close? — he feels a noise rise in his chest that’s uncomfortably close to a sob. 

“Breathe, baby,” Her voice is soft and soothing and Ruairi reaches out blindly, intends to push her away until the moment his hand finds her hip and his fingers dig into her skin so hard he imagines he’ll leave the imprints of his fingers tattooed there. His eyes are stinging and the flush creeping into his face is equal parts embarrassment at the thought of crying in public and a result of the anxiety thrumming through him in that moment. He wants to beg her not to call him that— wants to explain that it makes him feel like he’s been punched in the chest— like he’ll never quite catch his breath as long as she holds onto him this way. 

He can’t bring himself to say any of it— forces himself to focus on the feeling of her hand on his neck and, before he can process it, the feeling of her pulling him down to press their foreheads together, grounding him in the moment in a way that’s always calmed him down. A physical reminder of the ways she still knows him better than so many people do— it only makes his urge to cry worsen and he hiccups during his next breath, swallowing against the lump in his throat. 

He’s certain people are staring at them but his anxiety only brings exhaustion and he can’t bring himself to care— his urge to flee has died a quiet death in the face of that same exhaustion and when he pulls back and opens his eyes again he wonders what Maggie sees when she looks at him. If he looks every bit the scared little boy he feels in that moment, distressed and unmoored and seeking comfort in a place he knows he shouldn’t; he wants to be stronger, wants to tell Maggie they can be friends, eventually, but they aren’t there and it’s going to take time and he isn’t ready to let her in like that again. 

He wants that but he can’t voice it and she’s looking at him with such warmth and concern that he wants to beg her not to— beg her to let him let her go, to let the ghost of their relationship finally pass so they can move on. They’ll never be out of each other’s lives, he knows that— he knows that Maggie wants to try to step back into the role she still doesn’t feel ready for, he knows that she doesn’t want to lose her relationship with their son altogether but it doesn’t change the fact that she’d left him, that she’d been willing to cast their life away because she’d been scared and the hurt of it still clings to him every time he sees her. Even now, he can’t bring himself to hate her or feel anything other than a profound sadness when he considers the abrupt, painful end to their relationship and he knows that one day they’ll talk about it properly - that one day they’ll both be able to lay their hurts and their hopes down on the table and be able to let go of the things that no longer serve them. 

It’s a long way off, he knows that - some days he can’t even imagine it happening because he can hardly bear to meet Maggie’s eyes for more than ten seconds without the profound urge to sick up but one day they’ll get there. He has to hold onto that or it’ll drive him mad. 

He clears his throat and realizes, all at once, that his fingers are still tangled in the fabric of her shirt and her hand is still resting on his neck and he needs to be anywhere but being held so intimately by his ex-girlfriend. “I have to finish my shopping,” He croaks, his voice raw and dull and tired. He feels like the day’s worth of energy has slipped out of him and he isn’t all that sure he’ll be able to get it back— a nap might be in order but he really does need things from the supermarket and he isn’t sure how to extricate himself from this situation but he needs to make at least half an effort. 

Maggie pulls away and he watches as she taps her fingers restlessly against her thighs and a smile tugs at the edge of his mouth before he leans in on impulse and kisses her forehead. “It’s… going to take me some time, Mags and it’s gonna hurt before it gets better and you need to be prepared for that,” Ruairi says, quiet and serious. “I don’t wanna hurt you unnecessarily but I can’t just… act like we’re mates after everything. We aren’t and it hurts to be around you more than it doesn’t and I’m— I wish I could let it go a bit faster but I can’t. If you can give me time then we’ll work on it, okay? I can promise that, at least. For Fionn’s sake.”

Maggie looks like she’s been struck and he feels the regret pooling in his belly, almost tastes the sharpness of it on the back of his throat but she needs to know that things aren’t okay and it’s going to take time before they even come close and he’s never been anything but honest with her— has never wanted to be anything but honest with her - even if he regrets it when it hurts her. He only exhales when she nods and takes a step back and when she crosses her arms over her chest he understands why that’s her reaction and he wishes he could bring himself to comfort her in some way. 

“I—” Maggie looks away from him, chewing on her lip for a long moment before she nods and seems to steel herself, straightens up and meets his eyes properly. “Whatever you need. I hate… how much I’ve hurt you and I know I can’t take any of it back and I’m… honestly surprised you’re even talking to me at all.” She pauses again and smiles, sad and beautiful. “I don’t deserve you but I’ll try to make it a little less miserable to be around me.” There’s a wryness to her voice that makes him laugh without thinking and he nods, “Miserable isn’t the word I’d use but aye, alright. We’ll sort it out. I’ll see you at the weekend, alright? Fionn’s been vibratin’ about seein’ you.”

Her next smile is so bright it makes his heart thump out of time and he ignores that feeling— knows it’s a vestige of happier times more than anything else but he doesn’t want to protest it, even in his own mind— not when they’ve reached a sort of tentative understanding that he feels reasonably comfortable with. He doesn’t say anything else— just reaches out to squeeze her shoulder as he steps around her and, for once, finds himself the one leaving her behind.

[into-the-voyd]

THE CLAWTHORNE TOURNAMENT: OBSTACLE COURSE

So the question was not: could Karen win the obstacle course? 

The question was: how could Karen make this the most fun? 

Because, honestly– no clue moving forward, but no obstacle course had ever been able to best Karen the Spectacular! Karen, Prince/ss of Pop-n-Dash! Here they be, there they go, where are they now, oh– near, far, wherever you are, there there there, it’s Karen at the finish line in record speed!

But that’d be too easy, eh, to just… void their way around/through the obstacles? Karen wasn’t here to win anyway. Karen was here to spy. And so as the bell ring-a-ding-dinged, Karen put their own arms up in a cat-like stretch while the rest of the opponents darted forward, deeper into the obstacle course. “Wait for me!” Karen called jokingly. Then jogged lightly inward, taking a random turn and then another and another until– 

Obstacle 1:  Sisyphus’s Day Off

Whoa! A boulder. Karen smirked. They cast a glance around, observing the others tackling their boulders with force and vigor. They saluted their comrade's efforts. “There’s an easier way to do this though, mates,” Karen said. (No one even turned back– someone grunted.) “Think smarter, not harder!” 

They cracked their knuckles and then tackled the boulder. They were tall and sinewy, plenty of lean muscle, but not made for boulder-rolling-up-a-hill, y’know? Good thing that wasn’t Karen’s plan. They gave a mighty shove and the boulder rolled up a few more inches. Just enough for Karen to summon the void that it rolled right into. 

Pop! The new void opened at the top of the hill and the boulder careened out. Karen jogged up to stop what little momentum it had gathered. “Nice and steady, Boulder boy,” Karen said, patting the boulder affectionately. They glanced down at their teammates still struggling. “Like I said– smarter, not harder.” With another salute, Karen skipped around the boulder and headed out.

Obstacle 2: Weight For Me! 

A long track stretched in front of Karen, recalling ye good ol days at gym class. Cept there was to be no running or hurdling by the looks of it. Those who had gotten to the obstacle before them were dragging a couple of weights along the course. Interesting. More strength tests, which wouldn’t be Karen’s strong suit (hardy har har, +5 for maximum puntimes), except that they could see clear-eyed to the finish line ahead. 

In the next blink of the eye, Karen had stepped through a void to the other end of the track and blinked back at the starting line. Several people gawked at them.

“Oi, that’s cheating!”

“Bit of a harsh term there. We are allowed to use magic,” said Karen. “But– you’re right, you’re right. We want it to be fun, eh? It’s my arm day anyway.” 

Zwppp. 

Karen appeared back at the start line. They picked up a weight in one hand and gave it a small toss. Not too too heavy, but would need a good-sized heave-ho. They stuck out their tongue and with their free hand threw up a void into the air. It hovered in place, crackling with teal-blue static. The loveliest little tear in the universe you ever did see. 

“Annnnd a heave!” Karen declared and then hurtled it through the portal. It dropped onto the finish line at the other end.

“Annnnnnd a ho!” Karen tossed the other. Clunk! It rattled as it hit the first weight at the other end. Karen laughed. “Oi, now this is fun, eh? Heave! Ho!”

Clunk! Clatter! Clonk! Clop! 

When all their weights were thrown, Karen stretched out their arms in front of them again, then took a few steps back. They darted into a sprint, pushing as much power as they could into their long, limber, swimmer’s legs. Then they leapt into the air, diving headfirst for their own void, which swallowed them whole, and dumped them onto the other side. They tucked their head and rolled, then popped up and threw their arms straight out by the side of their ears as if finishing a gymnastic move. “Tens all around! The crowd goes wild!” 

Karen kept whooping and cheering for themselves as they rounded the corner.

Obstacle 3: Don’t Be A Pansy

“Well now that’s just anti-climatic,” Karen commented as they looked out at the field of lovely pretty little flowers. Too pretty. Everyone knew that it was a mistake to stop and smell the roses. Clearly, a trap. 

Karen wasn’t sure about how to make fun out of this one. They glanced around, letting a few people go first just to see what the surprise might be. No lurking man-eating worms….disappointing. No hidden venus fly traps…. Sad. But what was making people freeze in place, eh? A spell? 

Not worth the risk, Karen decided. They unzipped another wonderful, weird door for themselves and stepped through the other side. Less than a second– less than a blink! Karen cleared the death daisies and they could see the finish line in front of them. 

No reason to wait any more! It was– Karen, the Spectacular! Prince/ss of the Pop-n-dash, here they be, there they go, where are they now– oh!! They zipzapzopped their way right across the finish line before you can say wham bam thank ya ma’am and come again! 

“Well then!” Karen grinned up at the judges. “Is there time to run it again?” 

[lovelybarnes]

ice cream- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader warnings: at the beginning, i say both sweater and hoodie. these are the same things i just don’t want to use the same word, reader being cold about: request! reader getting cold and bucky being warm a/n: completely unrelated but i watched all the twilight movies today for the first time and also i didnt mention it in the response but thank you so much for your input on warmth!! truly the most flattering thing you could say to me :')

tugging the thick fabric around your frame, the hills of your knuckles dig into the soft flesh of your sweatered arm. you ignore them, digits dancing in the crook of heat between jacket and skin. the tips of your other fingers round dark crevices in the hoodie, as if aching to be inside.

your nose is numb, the rises of your cheeks edging toward a hurting chill. the rain makes you feel humid, nearly sticky under the fabric, but the mist of water that bubbles minuscule droplets on your skin makes you shiver, tucking the ends of your hoodie between your arms.

sniffling, you frown, warily eyeing the jet in the wide expense of the otherwise empty field.

you’re pretty sure bucky was supposed to be out ten minutes ago, but you aren’t willing to risk the thin skin of your hands to the water to call him.

five minutes more, you decide in a lie, knowing too well you’d spend hours in the pouring rain waiting for bucky if you had to. with a shaky sigh and upset lines between your brows, you shift on your feet, squinting at the jet as the door opens to weary agents. 

you can’t help the smile that stretches across your face relievedly, straightening your shoulders with a roll. uselessly pushing up on your tiptoes, you risk slipping your hand from warmth to send a large wave to bucky when he steps out of the jet. you can’t see his face too well from the distance and sparkles of rain on your lashes, but his figure speeds up as it comes closer.

with hands shoved in his pockets and hair already dripping, he meets you at the lousy cover you’re shivering beneath. your name is laced wet and satisfied, blue glimmering in turn with the water that drips down his chin.

“what’re you doing here? it’s pouring out.”

“really?” you deadpan, but it’s affectionate, shuffling forward until you can press your nose to the crook of his neck and wrap your arms around his middle. he grunts with surprise, before it melts into an amused hum, his hands rubbing up and down your back.

“truly,” he answers, drily honest.

you huff something fond on the fragile skin above his pulse point, pressing ice lips to it in a sweet retaliation. he flinches only a little, shaking his head at you.

“let’s go inside. you’re freezing.” he pulls away to run his hands down your arms, lips puckering at the state of you.

“it’s pouring outside, didn’t you know?” you say.

he squints at you, running fingers up your skin until they can pinch at the lobe of your ear. you shake him off, looping your arm around his to pull him inside.

he’s frowning when he steps onto the mat in front of the doors, boots making an awful squelching sound when he hefts his weight onto his left foot. he’s somber in his groan, toeing off his shoes to leave him in wet socks.

“you’re whiny today,” you criticize, following his movements without the silent complaints.

“i don’t like wet socks,” he argues calmly.

“you say that as if anyone does.” you bite your lip when you struggle with your right, letting bucky support you before you topple over. satisfied with your dry socks, you put your foot down confidently, only to be lifted up and off the wet mat before you can stain your patterned socks with dark patches of water. “thank you,” you tell bucky, watching as his eyes skip over the mat and the clean floor.

he doesn’t answer, seemingly making up his mind when he doesn’t hesitate in leaving wet footprints on the smooth marble. you laugh, following after him as he walks to the elevator. you’re sure he’s imagining tony’s frustration when he bumps into the little trail you’ve left on his floor, a tiny smirk on his face.

he jams a finger into the button for your floor and leans on the railings, deciding that paperwork can wait until tomorrow. he has great memory anyway.

it’s juddery when you sigh, staring up at the screen above the elevator doors in frosty patience. bucky’s eyes flit over to you with concern, the sweet blue it turns into when his hair is wetly dark running over your still stature. “you’re cold?” it’s said like a question, but it’s obvious it isn’t honest when he straightens and walks over to you, stopping just a few inches behind you.

“no,” you say dishonestly. he barely acknowledges your answer, the warmth of him even beneath the biting sheen the rain has painted him in melting away the one on your own skin.

you can’t see him, but you can feel something fiery dragging over the slope of your neck, relaxing when his hands wrap around your arms. they begin at the bones of your wrist, his pinky brushing over the crests between your fingers as he drags them up.

hooking an index in each side of your sweater’s collar, he tugs it down until it hangs loose around your waist, ring and middle grasping it with a curl. 

up his hands go, then down again.

your skin is sticky with rain, but it’s smooth as he glides over your skin, creating friction in few seconds before it sparks into something balmy.

it’s hard to swallow when he stops suddenly, his nails light along your collarbone and palms heavy on your shoulders.

within a moment, he’s spun you around, the uninteresting sight of the blinking button and rising numbers replaced with him.

“still cold?”

you can barely tell.

your eyes flick to his lips inadvertently before you can realize your mistake, and his eyes alight in delight before there’s a soft click and the hiss of the doors parting again.

you step back, wiggling our fingers.

“i’m gonna change,” you tell him, one foot clumsily already out, ready to turn your body around once again. “get something warmer.”

he shrugs. “good idea.” his nonchalance drives you insane, you wish to stare and scrutinize until you find something akin to what you feel buzzing beneath your skin, but your fingertips numb and your nose aches.

your steps are silent as you walk to your room, hands wrung in each other.

-

a frown bends your lips as you lean against the kitchen island, popping kernels hushed in your stupor. you’re wrapped in another large sweater soft against your skin, brows tense and scrutinizing as you wait for your popcorn.

“s’up with this?” bucky asks when he steps intp your field of vision, some sort of stringy amusement pulling at his features as he eyes your face. he pushes his thumb into the tight space between your eyebrows to explain what he’s talking about, rubbing circles to soothe away the lines that stress your skin.

you swat his touch away clumsily, fingers wrapping loosely around his lone one to pull it away from your face. you don’t let go of it when it falls away, not yet ready to be brought fully back to reality.

“popcorn heats you, right?” you ask distantly, pinky slipping between his index and middle until you’re practically holding half of his hand. “warm,” you murmur, an observation meant only for you.

“if it’s hot.”

“it has to be to become popcorn,” you mumble, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“why don’t you just make some hot chocolate?” bucky suggests. you don’t miss that he still hasn’t let go of you.

you pout without meaning to, awareness slowly seeping the color of your irises. “peter drank it all last week.”

“so popcorn is the obvious next choice?”

“yes.” there’s no sarcasm in your answer, still a little far away from the conversation with the lowering red numbers on the small microwave window.

he doesn’t pry, pursing his lips at you. “when did you change?”

you finally meet his eyes, lids lifting as if surprised when you examine his expression. “too long ago to still be cold,” you answer, digging into what he means.

he hums as if angry at the fact.

“c’mere.” you follow without knowing what he wants you to do, watching as he takes your cold hands to his lips, blowing hot air on your fingers. your skin is still frigid, but the verglas that froze your lips melts away into a smile as you watch him, entirely tense eyebrows and serious eyes pulling your fingers so close to his lips you can feel their heat.

“you’re warm,” you compliment, tucking your hands further in between his palms.

“yeah?” he asks, taps a left thumb right below his right before pulling your hands down. you gasp when he ducks them under his shirt, scandalous when your winter fingers meet summer skin.

you stare up at him with rounded lips, tapping your fingers on his abdomen. “is this your official permission?”

he squints at you, knowing well what you mean. “no,” he lies, squeezing your wrist with contrast.

you grin.

-

“ice cream,” you mumble in distaste, turning your palms toward you to see them, as though evidence of the container you just set down would appear dark and marked on your skin. “ice cream,” you hiss.

“ice cream,” steve confirms cheerily, picking it up to put it away in the fridge.

you scowl at him, folding your fingers over the edges of your coat to pull it snug around your chest. “i can’t believe you made me go out into the cold for ice cream. something is deeply wrong with you.”

he sighs shortly, nonchalant in a way that tells you the insult is nothing new.

“who eats ice cream when it’s freezing outside? insane people, that’s who,” you ramble. “i was finally comfortable and—”

“is that ice cream?” bucky steps into the kitchen, hair tied back into a neat little bun and arms coveted in a navy sweatshirt. “why is there new ice cream in the fridge when it’s so—”

you gesture wildly at him. “bucky understands!”

steve nods along, shutting the freezer door closed and meaning to leave. “why don’t you two keep discussing this? obviously important.”

you set your lips into an unamused line and stare at him before turning toward bucky again, sighing from such a deep place that you sag, leaning against him.

he’s only somewhat startled at your intrusion, chuckling lightly when he wraps his arms around you to hold you up.

“very warm,” you comment, nosing your face into the worn material of his sweatshirt. your fingers sneak up along it until they find his neck, warmed and flanked by soft hair. he jolts at the sudden temperature change, laughing when he realizes what you’ve done.

“heathen,” he says.

“heaven,” you say back, deciding to have mercy. instead, you pull the bottom of his shirt up and press your hands flat against his back. he jolts again, a full laugh reverberating in his chest and echoing in yours this time.

[my-insanity-is-an-artform]

Oh So Warm

For @chainbakery and @melveres (and any other Four simps out there)

“No! You can’t take it off yet”

You laughed at Red’s urgent words as you tugged curiously at the blindfold and allowed him to take your hand away and use it to tug you along.

It had been a long cold day and all you wanted to do was eat, sleep and maybe have a few kisses. That vague plan was totally derailed the moment you had walked through the door and been near pounced on by Blue who had hustled you away into a warm bath.

There were also strange noises coming from the main room, but since there was no yelling, you let it go.

After your warm bath, you changed into the warm (and oh so horrifically ugly) sweater Red had knitted. It was blue, red, green, and purple and it clashed horribly, but you loved it to pieces.

A blindfold had been shoved into your hands as soon as you had tried to step out of the bathroom and Red had looked up at you with an expression you were helpless to fight against.

Which led you to being led through the home you shared with Four in the complete dark and hearing hushed whispers.

“Ok, you can take it off now,” Green said and you pulled off the blindfold. You dropped the blindfold and your jaw as you took in the completely transformed main room.

Candles were scattered everywhere, and the fireplace had been lit, encompassing the whole room in waves of warmth and casting a beautiful golden light. Hills of pillows were piled high and there was a sea of blankets scattered around them. The table had been piled with all of your favourite snacks and steam wafted up from five mugs, filled with your favourite warm drink.

And in the middle of it all was the most wonderful sight of them all.

Your beloved Four, split into Four and smiling at you like you were the greatest thing to walk the land of Hyrule.

“Guys…”

Red darted forward to pull you into a tight hug while Green was slower to join you.

Blue stood there looking supremely smug while Vio just smiled subtly and gestured to the nest.

“We noticed you were feeling a little burnt out. So we’re having a night in.”

Whatever tension that hadn’t drained during your bath fell away as you bent down and pressed your lips against Red’s then Green’s in a slow, easy kiss.

“You all…” You trailed off and dragged Blue into a kiss as well, “Are entirely…” You kissed Vio, slow and easily and looked at him with deep affection. “Far too good to me. Goddesses, I love you.”

All four of them blushed in sync. “We love you, too,” Blue said as he gently shoved you into the nest, flustered.

You laughed under your breath and let the four move around you, tucking a blanket over your hips and another one over your shoulders. Pillows and the bottom of the armchair were arranged perfectly to create the ultimate squishy floor throne for you. Green passed you a mug and you inhaled the scent deeply as they finally stopped moving around and dropped into what seemed to be pre-agreed spots.

(It probably was. They tended to rotate when you had cuddle piles.)

You sank into the affection as Green and Blue took spots next to you, Red laid his head on your leg and curled a hand over your ankle while Vio, blushingly, sat between your legs and leaned against your chest with a book.

You bent your head down and whispered in his ear. “So what are you reading tonight, love?”

Vio’s ears glowed in the firelight and you admired it as he stuttered out the title. You hummed and brought an arm around Blue, holding your mug carefully as he curled into your side.

Your other arm linked through Green’s and he sent you a soft smile then kissed your shoulder.

The weight of your boyfriends each pressed against you sent a curl of pleasure down your back. You were so unbelievably lucky to have such affectionate and loving partners.

Red was absently rubbing his thumb over the small jut of bone in your ankle while Green had decided to lay soft kisses over your knuckles with his fingers entwined with yours. Blue had closed his eyes and he nearly went boneless as you laid your head on top of his. Vio read quietly aloud and slumped easily on top of your chest.

You stayed like that, moving only to sip at your drink until Vio trailed off quietly.

You hummed a question sleepily and realised that both Blue and Red had fallen asleep.

“They’re going to get sore like this,” Green said as he moved away.

You murmured in protest. “Put my mug on the table. It’d be a shame not to put all of your hard work to use tonight.”

The sheer love in both Vio’s and Green’s eyes was only matched by the pure swell of emotion in your own.

Green quickly dumped all the mugs and the book onto the table while Vio moved. Your chest was cold and felt uncomfortably weightless as you eased Blue to lay next to you. Red let out a murmur of protest as you shuffled slowly around to lay down, but he settled once you were comfortable and latch onto your leg.

You laughed quietly as Green returned to your side and Vio moved to lay his head on your lap, blankets appropriately laid out to stop the cold.

“Wait.” Vio and Green paused and looked at you.

You smiled sleepily. “Kisses?”

Green smothered a laugh and kissed you like he had all the time in the world before letting Vio steal your lips, revelling in them like you were a fine wine. You hummed in sleepy delight and closed your eyes.

“Good night loves. Sweet dreams.”

You barely felt the kisses on your shoulder and hip as they both muttered a good night.

When you woke up the next morning and the sun had barely risen, there was only one body pressed against yours and you buried your face into Four's hair.

"Did you enjoy last night?" He looked up at you with soft eyes and a wide smile.

You pressed your lips against his and hummed. "It was perfect."

Then you pulled him in close and closed your eyes again.

It was cold outside, but Four always made you feel oh so warm.

[yanderenightmare]

dude I would kill for more DADDY DEKU, the last one gave me liffff, maybe like... "embarrassed to ask".... some anal?? plez and thank you Mizz Nightmare <3 I love all your work!

yandere dom ! MIDORIYA IZUKU

TIP-JAR

goodiebag WARNINGS: condescension, degradation, coercion, profanity, abuse, DUBCON/NONCON, yandere, manipulation, suggestive language, slight infantilization

BUNNYHOLE

She’d started to lose track of how much time passed during their session, forgotten what she’d done to get in the position she was in, forgotten what it was Deku felt the need to remind her of. Too much blood rushing to her head in her position of kneeling over his chest, her ass arched up and her face pushed down, cheek resting on his pelvis, running her tongue up and down the length of his cock nuzzling in her small palm, lips locked and sucking on the pulsating veins bulging from his erection. Or perhaps it was her way of forgetting where she was, her way of escaping, becoming numb to spare herself the humiliation, the frustration, the hopelessness and desperation of being subjugated, of being taken against her will, where becoming mindless was her only option when being in the hands of the madman.

Deku’s larger than life hands held onto her hips, held her in place, stroking the dome of her ass affectionately yet wantonly every now and again as his mouth swallowed down on the juices starting to spill drizzly down her thighs. Fat fingers, lined with muscle, coming to delve ghostly over her folds, with his tongue prodding at her entrance. She’d managed to block most of his praising and coos out of mind, focusing on coming, yet now… having lost count of how many times she’d done so on his experience dedicated tongue, with her oversensitivity blaring and buzzing in her lower abdomen, gnarling and crying for it to stop, it was getting harder by the minute to forget where she was and who she was with when he was still so very intent on lapping at her sensitive heat with his thick tongue again and again and again.

And he knew it.

“Such a good Bunny.” He cooed, slurping at her opening, the stiff pinching scratching of the beard on his chin an extra factor of teasing friction on the lips of her pussy, the action sending vibrations to simmer through her and a moan to spur from where she was nuzzling on the hill of his hairy thigh, her mouth guzzling down on one of his balls, letting go with a wet pop to allow the noise to leave her throat unstrained. “Getting so wet for her Daddy.” 

His sloppy tongue continuously licked up the ravine presented to him, making its way farther up than usual, playing with the other unused, and preferably so, tight hole.

She made a jump, hopping further down on his lap, face buried in his ball-sack, yet was quickly pulled back by the strong hands on her hips, cheek thoroughly smeared with a glistening mix of saliva and precum and tears.

As though understating yet not caring about her distress, his hands comforted by messaging circles on her ass-cheeks, perhaps in an effort to keep her at bay as well. “Just play with Daddy’s cock while he plays with your cute little butt, okay Bunny?” She’d gotten so very used to instructions, so used to bending her own will. 

His tongue found its way back to prodding at the tight hole, pummeling his fatness inside, seemingly trying to pry her open. “But, Daddy-” She tried, still in an effort to scramble away from his ongoing attack.

He would not have her disobedience, that time had passed long ago. His fingers starting to carve their presence into her midriff, stifling her attempt of escape. “Play with Daddy’s cock, just like I taught you.” He was firm in his demand this time, yet the same whine of condescension, of whiny patronizing correction, was still so disgustingly present in his tone. The voice that made her want to rip her hair out and strangle him with it. 

Yet, she obeyed. Mouth proceeding to slobber over his massive cock, suckling on every inch of his girth, licking paths over every enhanced vein, making him groan and buck his hips into her face, letting her head disappear between his strong thighs, massive thighs that could snap her neck if she made the wrong move. 

“Good little Bunny.” He drawled before he too continued. 

Mewls and adorable small whines escaping her focus on pleasing his cock, as his tongue crammed into the tight space of her butthole. More tears gathered at her eye-sockets, falling onto his cock, making her taste her own despair on her tongue gargling on his balls. 

“Bunny’s so hungry… sucking on Daddy’s balls like candy-apples.” She felt like gagging, not out of reflex, but out of disgust and wholehearted cringe for his words, but wasn’t given much space to feel anything but anxiety for too long, what with his thumbs making to spread her ass-cheeks further apart. He was happy to see she stayed in place, yet not surprised as the marks on her hips were already blooming with defined raw redness, evidence of just how intolerable hesitation and especially disobeying hesitation was in his cruel eyes. “Good girl.” He praised, hammering the thickness of his tongue inside her tight ass, now with the new easy access.

One hand shifted from its position of spreading her ass, pointer running over the budding hole curiously. 

She felt her guts churn at the act, fear riding her body full with goosebumps. “Daddy?” She squeaked uncertainly, sucking in a breath, relenting from her sloppy activity between his legs, fingers curling into the bedsheets in a manner of bracing herself.

“You’ve such a pretty little butt.” He stated, where the amount of adoration was terrifyingly present in his calm and collected voice. 

His finger quit its tormenting haunting and she sighed a relieved sigh, wet slicked face falling back onto his glistening manhood, tongue making to lick up his girth yet again. 

“Does Bunny want one of Daddy’s fingers inside?” Her fear rushed back, causing her to go all light-headed while his tongue lapped at the bud again, wriggling over the ring of muscle, drawing circles on it, ignoring her growing anxiousness fully. “Hmm, I bet Bunny would love Daddy’s finger inside her little butt.” She’d gotten used to his suggestive language, knowing what was best for her, but still she couldn’t help but way her options, even though deep down knowing how if Deku wanted something from her pliable little body, he was sure to get it no matter the struggle and fight she put up. “Filling her up-” His musings were cut off, the little girl on top of him fighting ever so slightly to move further away from his antagonizing mouth, pleading with her face shoved into his cock.

“No, Daddy please, I don’t-” He didn’t like that, holding her back with his harsh grip, keeping her ass well arched and presented for him to ravage.

“To me it sounds like Bunny is begging to be punished.” He warned, still playing his games, still with his disgusting tone masking the true sentiment of his words. “Do you want Daddy to punish you, Bunny?” One hand stroked over the plump flesh of her ass, threatening to strike the unprotected skin again and again until she complied with his wishes. She knew from experience she didn't  handle the pain well, always folding.

She backed down, better now than later with blooming bruises and a discomfort to sit for a week. “No, Daddy please, I’m sorry, I’ll behave.” She scurried back, scared into position, promptly sloshing over his cock with newfound devotion, moaning happily with his precum smeared on her face, anything to spare her from what cold hell he would show her if she didn’t.

He smiled, kissing the doughy flesh of her ass-cheek, welcoming her back. “Well then… tell Daddy how much you’d love his finger in your butt.” Hand returning. “Come on, don’t be shy.” Stroking over the bud of firm flesh, letting her feel the size of his fat finger, begging her to disobey him, begging her to cry and plead or to sob and force herself to obey his commands.

She chose the latter, knowing what other harsh torture awaited her was she not to comply like a good little girl. “Please, Daddy, please finger my ass.” He hummed contently in response, poking the hole ever so slightly, his fingertip sliding in the wetness of his drool. “I want your finger in my ass so badly, Daddy.” She whined, just like she knew he liked, wiggling her ass at him impatiently like the entitled brat he wanted her to be only for him to correct and humiliate.

“Bunny wants a finger up her little butt?” He spoke hurriedly in the spiked frenzied rush of her words, having them slur in drool as he kissed the hole sloppily, lightly biting the flesh of her one ass-cheek, again to scare her into playing the game.

“Yes please, Daddy.” She suckled on his girth desperately, letting false moans pass her lips as though she couldn’t get enough of his cock choking her throat. Playing the game, playing her part, surviving.

“This little butt right here?” He questioned, tongue flicking over the hole.

“Yes, Daddy please!” She started grinding her hips back into his mouth, knowing her enthusiasm is what his anticipation beckoned.

“Well, if you’re a good Bunny and play with Daddy’s cock then I’ll give this butt what it needs.” He needed her devotion, he needed her to understand just how under his thumb she was, he needed his ego satiated, his cruel sinister sadism fed.

“Thank you, Daddy…” She sobbed, fearing while knowing what he’d do if she were to disobey, resulting to dragging her tongue up and down his cock, hands working the base as she sucked, head bobbing up and down as she made cute little glugging sounds that had his stomach fluttering in utter bliss. “I love your cock, Daddy.” So sweet, just like he trained her.

He hummed at how precious she was, feeling somewhat proud of himself for having brought that out of her. “What do you love about it, Bunny?” His words pushed, but it wasn’t the only thing that was tormenting her. His tongue, burning and wet and forceful, dug into her backside, worming its way into her little hole as she tried her best, fighting with every nerve of her being, fear motivating her to stay perfectly still, though not managing to stifle the whimper.

Her breaths were shaky as she spoke to answer him before he grew impatient. “Daddy’s cock is so perfect and big, feels so good inside me.” He didn’t seem to care that she spoke with a cry in her voice.

His hand, having had rested on her ass as a warning, swung under, calloused textured rough fingers rubbed the bead of her clit, making her moan through her cries onto his cock. She was happy her position didn’t allow her to see his smirk. ��I think Bunny thinks Daddy’s cock is scary, hmm?” His finger swirled, sandpaper-fingertip dragging over the sensitive swollen pearl again and again with little regard to how her stomach was curling. “A little intimidating, perhaps?” She rested her head on his thigh, her own thighs shaking, though his other hand kept her steady as his mouth sucked on her tender ring of muscle. “But Daddy’s a hero, Daddy would never hurt you, Bunny. Daddy loves you. You understand that, don’t you?” He asked, knowing damn well her answer would be scattered with how ruthless he was being with his fingers in her clit, abusing what power they had to make her bow.

“I love-ve you too, Da- daddy…” She drooled and sobbed out on his lap, wanting so badly to wind her thighs shut, protect what was about to burst, eyes closing and fluttering as her one hand dug fingernails into where they held her steady in the thick stiff muscles of his thighs, her other hand holding his cock, trying her best to guide him into her mouth so she could do as he demanded and save herself being scolded for not listening even though he was the one making it almost impossible to do much of anything except lie there and take it.

He stuck one finger, on long thick finger, into her sopping wet folds, felt her writhe before she could control herself, another finger still held firmly on her clit, drawing careful patterns he knew would make her mewl. “Daddy knows exactly how to please his little girl… and Bunny knows exactly how to please her Daddy, doesn’t she?” He asked rhetorically, words still carrying even though they were muffled into her ass. “I taught you so well.” His finger pumped, curling, scraping, hooking up into her spongey walls, making her mew. “Do you think Daddy’s a good teacher?” She could feel the curl of his salacious smirk as his teeth grazed past the lips of her pussy, tongue flicking, zig-zagging through the wet tender folds.

“The b- best.” She strained, inching further back as he was dragging, hauling her with his finger clawing at her insides.

“Good girl…” He purred, licking up and up until he met with the bud that now seemed to pulsate, her fear so endearingly on display for him. “I think Bunny deserves her prize.” His voice lowered, and she sucked in a breath with caught in her throat as she felt his hand, scathed and scarred and strangely rough and angled with how many times he’d broken his fingers.

He gave her much time to prepare, finger swirling circles onto the hole before dipping the tip inside. She scrunched her eyes shut at the feel of the tight skin of her hole stretching, forced apart to accommodate for Deku’s fat finger. The tight ring feeling as though ripping at the intrusion, tearing as he drove the digit slowly inside, a digit that seemed foreverlasting, growing thicker the more it inched inside her, until he was finally knuckle-deep.

She sucked with fervor now, in a way to pacify herself, gobbling down on his cock gluttonously. “Does it feel good, Bunny?” He asked, voice like honey so sweet it was burning. “My finger in your cute little butt?” He whined and mocked as he wiggled the length inside her, churning her guts in the prosses, earning small cries of discomfort from her slobbering on his cock.

“Yes, Daddy.” It was barely audible as she whimpered it into his thigh.

“Speak up.” He ordered, stern and stoic voice, still with his finger pumped and prompted into her tight ass, with the other hand’s fingers rubbing circles and pinching her swollen clit between them.

“Yes, Daddy.” Her back sloped as she tipped her head up. “I’m sorry.” Her one hand steadying her, placed in support on his thigh as the other tugged on his cock, fingers not managing to enclose around his girth as she messaged his length in long tentative strokes. “Thank you, Daddy, you feel so good.” She wasn’t exactly lying, and it was clear by the slick dripping that coated her thighs.

“Are you proud to have Daddy’s finger in your ass?” He asked, making her scrunch her brows, strangling herself with how hard she was trying to keep from crying. “You should be.” She cursed her existence, wishing she could take back whatever it was that had his eyes locked on her in the first place, whatever had him kidnapping her only to torment and use her as some slave. “To have Daddy’s number one hero finger pleasing your little quirkless butt.” And there it was, the reminder of how crucially inferior she was, such a perfect quirkless toy to feed his superiority-complex. “Tell me how grateful you are, Bunny.”

This was her life. Subjugated to a mere ragdoll for someone who’d do whatever the fuck they wanted to her, a life of belonging to someone, a life of a pet. “I love you so much, Daddy…” He groaned at her words, yet his fingers dug even harder into her hips. “You take such good care of me.” She just needed to tell him what he wanted to hear. “I’m hopeless without you. Thank you, Daddy.” Seems she did a good job, because he was shifting beneath her, hands letting her go for a second only to pull her into the new desired position.

“Come here, turn around.” He ordered, still in his frenzy, turning her around on his lap, making her sit with his cock smearing drool and precum over her stomach, hot against her skin where it bobbed up between the two of them. His hand and fingers glossy with juices from her pussy, came to grab her chin, cupping her cheek to still her as he pushed his lips onto her face, kissing her with hunger, as though in a hurry, his finger finding her ass again, sinking knuckle-deep inside her once again while grabbing onto the soft doughy flesh of ass, making her yelp against his lips, before he parted once more, a string of spit connecting them. “Does Bunny want Daddy’s cock inside her ass?” He mushed her face between his rough finger-pads, her lips puckered like a fish at him, eyes glossy with tearful plead, her thighs beginning to quake against him as she sat uncomfortably with his finger spearing her in the wrong hole.

Her bottom lip quivered then, eyes wide and brimming. “No- please… Daddy.” She would at least try to sway his mind, bargain her way out of it.

His look hardened, cocking an eyebrow at her resistance. “Is Bunny disobeying Daddy?” His grip on her face was past painful now, bruising, nails marking their presence, close to breaching her skin.

“No, Daddy, please-” She started, scrambling for something to save her, trying to make his hold relent, but falling short of making any savory excuses, reduced to mere whimpering as she accepted a preferred compromise. “My pussy would feel so lonely without you filling me up…” His fingers detached, yet only barely, still holding her chin, still controlling, though looking fascinated by the turn of events, pleasured with his little pet openly submitting to him, all with that adorable sweet voice. “I want your big beautiful number one cock inside me, please, Daddy please, I want you in my pussy.” She pushed forward to brush her breasts against his chest, grinding up into him in the process, hands brazenly stroking his cock all on their own command, forehead pressed against his as she did her best to seem seductive, licking her lips and maintaining eye-contact even as his green orbs seemed crazed and fervent and so dangerously feral.

“Bunny wants to come on Daddy’s cock, doesn’t she?” His tone was weirdly condescending, like he was talking to a toddler about getting ice-cream, and though she despised it with every fiber of her being, feeling like the tone itself was gasoline to a roaring raging fire, she did her best to swallow the smoke, knowing it would get her nowhere.

“Yes, Daddy. Pretty please.” She begged, and he wrapped his one hand around the small of her back, pushing her against his chest, his other hand still not having left, with its main finger inside her butt, doing small curious pumps into the tight flesh.

He licked the shell of her ear, a small chuckle coming out as huffs as his hand moved once again away from her back, to line his cock up with her still slick with spit clit, rubbing his cockhead over the bead before sliding it down to push open her sopping hole. “Can Bunny take Daddy in her cute little pussy with his finger inside her pretty ass? Yeah?” Tapping his thickness into her tightness while watching her nod in agreement, only slightly disappointed she didn’t repeat what she said once more, especially when it sounded so delicious dripping from her defeated lips. “Good girl, sit down on Daddy's cock.”

She eased down like she’d done for the past couple weeks, always surprised by just how thick he is, how stingingly and fearfully painful it is, always thinking it couldn’t possibly be as bad as she made it out to be previously though always proven wrong, thinking she ought to have stretched out to accommodate his size to a comfortable fit, yet not having achieved the pleasure still with how many times he’d ripped her apart.

“Hop on that dick little Bunny.” He whispered as she eased herself all the way down, cock fully sleeved inside her, feeling as she was about to burst, so full, so blown, yet he hadn’t any mercy left to spare. She felt his finger wiggle where it penetrated her backside entrance, how his cock and it messaged the wall that separated her two holes, feeling a new type of dangerous, giving her another worry even as the anxiety for what pain treading herself over his cock was already overwhelming enough on its own. “Come on, little Bunny, hands on my shoulders and jump.”

She hadn’t the mind to hold back the whimper, letting her seductive mask slip as the pain mingled pleasure demanded her attention more, hands unsteady as they gripped his shoulder, fingers running over those deep healed scars on his skin she’d gotten so used to tracing. She folded her feet over his legs, given her better balance as she began sliding him in and out slowly, at a pace she could hope to handle and hope was fast enough to please him and his beastly member.

He hummed, free hand coming up to toy with her breasts, grabbing it with those labor-knuckled fingers. “Such a happy little girl bouncing on Daddy’s cock…” He licked over his toothy-grin, salacious green eyes glistening with drunk toxic love-sick madness as he felt her tight suction on his manhood, gliding up and down, in and out, full and hollow. “What do you say?” He decided to tease, decided to make the hurt worse.

A soft whine left her and he couldn’t describe the sick bliss that fluttered in his chest because of it. “Thank you, Daddy.” She forced out yet again, her voice all shaken and adorable.

And still he felt the wanton desire to push. “For what, Bunny? Be specific.”

She knew the drill, what he wanted to hear, but that didn’t make it any easier to force from her throat, even harder to relent from seething the words through grit teeth where she knew such aggression wouldn’t be tolerated, because nothing but her complete and full submission would be tolerated by Deku. “Thank you, Daddy, for giving me your big beautiful number one cock.” What was funny was that it was in a sense still true, despite her hating every word of it, despite her cursing the sentence, the praise, the gratitude. It did feel good, behind the pain, behind her disgust, it felt good. What more, Deku was the number one hero, not just the strongest man alive, but intelligent, knowledgeable and ruthless too, where it really would be unwise to not feel grateful for having been chosen by him, where people should be grateful he even chooses to be a hero at all, when he could just as easily be a villain, or a bloody tyrant. She should be grateful that she was given the honor of being his. Her body sure knows how to show its humility, doing its best to please him, showing him just how appreciated and welcome his touches are with how undeniably wet her pussy gets each time, clenching around his shaft as it drills deep into her, filling her out, completing her, pushing into that spongey spot deep within her, making her stomach flip, toes curl, clit buzz with pleasure, shamefully come all over him.

He made a moan of awe, patronizing in its nature. “Are you gonna come for me? All over Daddy’s cock.” She wanted to scream, throw herself off his lap, slap him, claw and bite and kick, but instead she was doing exactly what he said. “A happy little Bunny stuffed with Daddy's cock and his finger up her bum.” He whined, hand having glided down from holding her chin in favor of wrapping around her throat, nose touching nose, emerald steel-eyes keenly watching her every move, feeling her clench around him, making him hiss with pleasure like a snake.

“Yes, Daddy please.” She never liked snakes. Her new life was made of snakes. Snakes taking the form of ropes, tying her down, chaining her up, snakes in her guts, swirling and coiling and tickling that strange pleasure that had treacherous venom drip onto the snake that penetrated her, his arms like snakes around her waist, thick constrictors holding her still, keeping her trapped for devouring.

“Beg for it.”

She sucked in a beaten breath, forcing her will to comply to his wishes, swallowing her pride, subduing the fighter in favor of having her fall on her own sword, instead of digging her own grave. “Daddy, please can I come on your cock?” One would think the human soul gets used to humiliation after some time, but the ball in her chest hadn’t softened no matter how many times she’d offered up her dignity, no matter how many times Deku had forced her to her knees. “You feel so good inside me, Daddy.” She mewed in gratitude, moaning as he hit the right spot again and again, making her go blind as she tried focusing on what sweet nothings she needed to say. “I wanna come for you so badly, Daddy please.” He gave her a kiss to her nose then, meant to be sweet even though it would have revolted her had she been in the right mind to feel anything but forcibly good, all sweet with chasing her release, riding him, jumping on his length like a good bunny should.

“Good Bunny.” He purred an she had not the mind to feel like cussing, only desperately waiting for him to allow her release. “You see? Things are so much easier when you do as you're told, when you do what Daddy tells you.” He bottomed out into her tight heat, filling her up to the hilt, felt her body spasm with half panic at how deep inside her he was and half pleasure with how dangerous it felt to have her cervix molded by the shape of his cock-head burying itself in the spongey spot. “Come on, come on Daddy’s cock, make Daddy feel good.” She couldn’t refuse, even if he’d told her to hold it, she couldn’t, couldn’t stop the lightning to shoot through her, pussy clenching around his cock like a death-grip, strangling his length, sucking on him, milking his shaft, unsure whether she wanted him to pull out or stay inside her warmth, but luckily that decision wasn’t up to her, all she needed to do was not forget her manners.

“Thank you, Daddy…” It dripped from her mouth like sweet-tasting poison, tongue dripping with thick drool as she panted and mewled with how he continued warming his cock inside her, trying to push further and deeper inside even though there was no more space to be filled, resulting to a deep thrusting that felt as though he was about to push through into her womb.

He kissed her cheek as she numbed down to a relaxed exhausted limp body in his arms. “You’re welcome, Bunny… but Daddy isn't finished with you yet.” She felt her stomach twist despite knowing how she wasn’t done until Deku shoots his thick cream and paints whatever part of her body he had the appetite for.

Pulled from her high by the knowledge of how it was a psychotic madman who had granted it, as she felt said green-haired man guide her to lay on her back. 

“There you go, Bunny… such a cute mess.” He licked his lips, where she only barely tried to scurry away from his hungry lips gaining on her sensitive raw orgasm-glossed sex. 

She whined when his tongue dragged up her slit to drink her juices, flicking over her tender swollen clit, hands in his hair, trying their best to refrain from yanking him away. 

“Oh, Bunny’s so sensitive… did Daddy make you feel too good.” She squirmed beneath him, convulsing as he teased with his tongue and his lips and the light grazing ghosting of his teeth. “Look at you… Daddy’s little Crybunny.” He snickered, smirking as he gorged himself beneath her legs, loving the whiny moans and whimpers she couldn’t hold back, and how her hands tried ever so sweetly to nudge him off, how she dug the balls of her feet into the mattress to try and shuffle away from his attack, but not allowed to go anywhere with his arms locked around her thighs, keeping her just where he wanted her, shivering beneath him and only seconds away from crying and begging him to stop. “Does the little Bunny need her pacifier?” He hummed in askance. “Don’t you move a muscle, Bunny, I have a treat for you...” 

He hopped off the bed with a speed that went unnoticed while she blinked to find him position behind her, hovering above her face, thick and fat and veined from hilt to tip, tidy shaven green-stubble above his strutting proud cock, a path of longer hairs trailing up to his belly-button and sprinkled into a pretty growth of chest-hair the higher up his chiseled abs it went. 

“Open up, Bunny.” He tapped the glossy mushroom-tip onto her lips, smearing what concoction of precum and juices had mingled together there. 

She did as commanded, parting her lips yet making sure to wrap her teeth, knowing how he didn’t appreciate being bitten either by accident or not, having little understanding to how hard it was to fit him in her mouth without letting her teeth graze his impressive girth. 

“Taste yourself.” He groaned. “Suck me clean, Bunny.” He lightly patted the side of her face, fingers drumming on her cheek, telling her to hollow them in and suck on him. “There you go.” He praised, watching her struggle not to gag as he began lightly fucking the back of her throat, pushing farther down, liking how her already tight tunnel began clenching around him, trying to hold back the coughs. “Be a good Bunny and swallow all of me.” 

Usually he’d enjoy the feel of her nose dipping into his pelvis, but now with her upside down, he could feel his balls being poked as they smothered her only remaining breathing option. Still, he took his time, knowing how she could take a few seconds without air, enjoying the look of his fat cock down her throat, his hand testing a daring stroke over her jugular, watching to see if she would convulse and gag and splutter out coughs like she did the first couple of times he ventured deep, yet was proud to see her stay in play with only a few panicked spams of her chest. He probed even further as he lightly pinched the outline of his shaft between his thumb and index-finger, listening to her begin to whine, a submissive little prayer to let her breathe again. 

“Good Bunny…” He pulled out, large hands cupping her cheeks, telling her to remain lying there as he bent over to kiss her spit-slicked lips, his hand reaching over to palm her breast while the other reached farther to rub rough patterns into her terribly oversensitive clit, making her gasp out a strangled uncontrolled moan into his receiving mouth. “Come on, one more time.” He straightened himself, taking the opportunity to push through her open-mouthed panting with his dripping cock. “Get me nice and wet for your little Bunny-butt…”

Her eyes shot open, hands flailing instead of holding onto his thighs. “No-” She tried protesting, as she lightly tapped at his firm muscled ass with the face of her palm, slapping to get her discomfort across.

“No, no, Bunny, do as you’re told, do what Daddy says.” Deku chastised, grabbing her bothersome hands by the wrist and holding them behind his back, feeling her try to recoil away, yet well-trained enough to not bite as his cock pushed down her throat again. “Be a good Bunny and suck on Daddy.” He rocked his hips slowly back and forth, jutting lightly into her mouth. “Just like Daddy taught you.” His voice remained sweetly stoic, like a teacher or a parent, made her want to throw up on him, yet knowing how he didn’t stop last time she did, he just kept fucking her skull, even with the bile and acidic liquid burning in her throat. “Wash out all those filthy protests.” She whimpered at how his hands tightened around her wrists, balls lightly clapping over the bridge of her nose, swinging into her face each time he pushed until his entire length was enclosed to the hilt. “Teach you some manners Bunny-girl.” 

Her eyes stung now, with the built-up tears that now flowed freely, dampening her hairline before dripping into the sheets. 

Deku moaned, releasing her hands, needing his own to reposition his toy in the new desired position. “Up on your knees.” He remained staining at the edge of the bed, helping his darling kneel. “Posture, Bunny.” He chastised. “Arch that ass up for Daddy.” 

His hand spread flat in the space between her shoulder blades, pushing her upper-body down into the sheets, gliding to enclose around the back of her neck to keep her still while the fingers of his other hand stroked chaffed fingertips up and down the tender lips of her pussy, diving between her folds to gather slick wetness he used to push into her sore hole, curling two digits into the spongey velvet walls, making her moan into the pillow she was forced against. 

“Stay.” He ordered, all his warmth leaving her as she remained clutching and balling up the fabric of the sheets in her tiny useless fists, keeping her ass presented in the air, waiting with eager horror for Deku to return. 

She heard him open a drawer, then click open a lid, the squirt of something she had an educated guess of what was, listened to the slick sounds of him messaging the liquid into his hands, before his heavy steps carried him back to his position behind her. 

“Look at this precious little bunny-hole.” His fingers felt slippery as they rubbed and palmed her ass-cheeks, left hand lifting the plump flesh on one side, whilst the other moved to slide up and down the ravine before hooking a finger inside the top tight little ring of muscle. “Bunny needs Daddy’s cock inside her little butt, doesn’t she?” He pushed it in with ease now with the lube covering his hands, preparing the tightness by pumping the digit in and out, tickling the unsuspecting nerves that had never been played with before, the feeling strange yet surprisingly pleasant as his finger scraped downward, rubbing against a spot that had her pussy gushing around nothing. “Bunny’s tight little butt is just begging to be filled with Daddy's cock isn’t it, Bunny?”

She wasn’t too sure anymore. “No…”

He stuck another finger in with the first one at her reply, making her whine out a wail, toes curling, her one leg thumping up and down into the mattress, trying to shake and crawl away but not allowed to go anywhere with his hand reaching to recover the position it held before, holding her down, pressured around the back of her neck. “Up until now Bunny has been enjoying herself, but this attitude… tch, tch, Bunny... perhaps she needs a little reminder of who she belongs to?” 

She whimpered at the feel of both his thick fingers gliding alongside each other in and out of her tight tender hole, as she clenched around them and around nothing where juices were dripping down her thighs. 

“And there is no punishment without a little pain.” 

He’d only been dipping his digits in halfway, and she realized this once he decided to go knuckle-deep inside her, making her jolt at the foreign feeling of something going inside, much deeper now. 

She was arching her back up like a cat, trying to hide her ass from his antagonizing hands. “What have I told you about posture, Bunny?” His hand let partially go of her neck to glide up her spine, resting on the small of her back. “Give Daddy your hands.” She hesitated, taking her time to breath, feeling his fingers sink in, making her knees tremble, before she listened and folded her arms behind her, again like he’d taught her. “Now, arch your little Bunny-butt up for me.” 

She took small shallow breaths as she readjusted her back into a slope again, knowing what was coming, however as she felt it, big and warm and slick and soft like velvet, riding up her drooling pussy, his fingers disappearing from playing with her hole to make room for what would soon take their place, something much bigger and much longer, both his hands grabbing each her wrists, but not before making a cross of her arms, perfectly immobile for him as he lined his aching eager cock up with her pulsating little hole, she couldn’t hold back.

“No, please, Daddy, I’ll be good.” She begged, trying to scramble away, but being to late as she was left simply sobbing into the mattress, unable to move to any other position without it hurting with how his hands had bent her arms behind her back, yet despite knowing this he still took it upon himself to raise his foot and place it down over the side of her face, stomping slightly on it as a warning to keep still. Her movement obliged, coming to a halt, though not able to contain the trembling. “Please…” She tried one last time, though knowing he had no mercy nor patience left to spare her.

“Don’t disobey Daddy.” He fit his cockhead into the dip of her back entrance again, lining up the attack. “Now Bunny, beg for Daddy to fill your little butt up.” She tried shaking her head beneath the pressure of his foot, feeling her heart in her throat, pouting and scrunching her eyes shut, sniffling so adorably, yet he couldn’t take any pity on her when this was a lesson she needed to learn. “I said beg.” He pulled her arms back, as she screamed with how her shoulder-blades were close to popping out, his foot mushing her face harder into the mattress.

“Pl- please Daddy… fill me u- up…” She blubbered, every inch of her quivering.

He quit his torture, leaving her to simply snivel. “Good girl.” And then he started pushing.

Big bulging mushroom head entering slowly as she whimpered, butthole seizing around it, swallowing it up. “You see, Bunny?” His movements stilled, letting her get used to the new feeling of having something so big fit in the firm taunt hole. “Your little butt is sucking on my cock like a lollipop.” 

He aimed a drop of spit at where he was cramming inside her, the cold wetness hitting her with surprise as she slightly jumped on her knees, bouncing in the soft sponge of the mattress, the movement inadvertently making his cock rock with shallow thrusts in and out of her, messaging her opening. 

He moaned at the cute gesture. “Bunny’s so eager to receive Daddy’s cock, isn’t she?” He slid farther in, making her moan as his cock dragged along the wall that separated from her pussy, making everything tighten up, her pussy feeling so empty, clenching on nothing at all, yet feeling his fat length in just the wrong place, teasing her, making her so unbelievably wet. “Tell Daddy how good it feels, Bunny.” He pulled out again, beginning a slow tempo of lolling halfway into her.

He looked to her face, flushed red and squished together beneath the sole and weight of his foot keeping her down, lips puckered and bloated, cheeks tear-stained, eyes sparkling as she mumbled on small bubbling purrs, unsure pleasure painting her face, looking like such an endearing hopeless mess as he squeezed into the tight fit of her perfect plump ass. “It feels good, Daddy.” She quavered, shaky breaths and small sniffles leaving her adorable expression.

He hummed in return, sinking just a little bit farther inside her, feeling her tense as he did, an open-mouthed whine leaving her, drool hanging like silver string from her lips. “I think Bunny can be more creative than that, can’t she?”

She knew better than to disobey, especially when he already had her in such a compromising postion, knowing he wasn’t far away from pushing all the way inside her still accommodating ass, make her scream and possibly bleed as he fucked her through yet another punishment. “Daddy’s cock feels so good. So good with your number one cock inside me. I love you, Daddy. I love Daddy’s cock. Thank you, Daddy.” She drooled out as sweetly as she could, which was sweeter than honey with how hard it was to breath in her position of being pushed into the pillow beneath her, body slunk with no way of getting up, a proper prayer-pose as Deku stuffed her even fuller, making her mew.

“That’s right…” He groaned, hips rocking slowly and carefully back and forth, opening her little butt with his thickness, messaging her insides, teasing all the sensitive provoked nerves, poking shallowly into the spot that usually had her coming were it not on the other side, in her other hole who was begging to be stimulated in a way that wasn’t half-way fulfilling and half-way terrifying. “And to think Bunny thought she didn’t want this. Daddy still hasn’t heard his apology…”

“You’re right, Daddy, I was wrong… I do want this…” Another moan was forced from her as he inched even further inside, pushing into uncharted and unsuspecting tender areas, making her bleat and sigh ever so sweetly, unable to do anything but lie there and feel every inch of him stuffing her full, taking his time enjoying her tight hole.

He moaned in awe at her words, nearly slobbering. “Daddy knows what’s best for you Bunny.” Another inch had her feeling even fuller, as though he was in her stomach. “Daddy knows what Bunny wants and needs.” He fucked with the added length for a short-lived while until pushing another full inch inside, having her whine out a moan, her ass shaking like a little tease, wiggling at him, her arms also trying ever so slightly on reflex to pull out of his grasp. “Daddy’s always right, Bunny only needs to please Daddy.” 

He started sinking in inch after inch, unbothered or perhaps coaxed by how she struggled now, opting to bottom out fully, have his balls squished against her glossy pussy, his cock completely enclosed by her tight spasming butt, grunting out a shuddering groan of potent pleasure while feeling her little futile struggles trying so desperately to make him stop or slow down as he filled her up completely. 

“You just need to listen… and obey.”

TIP-JAR

[pluviophile-imagines]

mmmm another soup for the soul excerpt!!! we hit 10k today with this exact scene lmfao; with a liiiiiiiittle luck and a lot of work i hope to post the first chapter on Friday 😳

in which bakugo katsuki is your next door neighbor, and he’s just gotten custody of two girls he’s far too young and far too inexperienced to be a father for—but he’s bakugo katsuki, so he’s damn well going to do it anyway

Riko gives Hayao a hug, wrapping arms around his waist and looking up with a bright grin to say, “Bye-bye!”

He seems to startle from it. He stares down at her with wide, baffled eyes and clearly has no clue what to do with his hands as he holds them both out wildly. “Uh, yeah, bye.” Then he looks up at her father with a strikingly nervous expression. “Good to—to meet you, Mr. Bakugo—Mr. Dynamight, sir.”

Ayame pulls her off him, hissing something like stop being weird before grabbing Hayao’s hand again and pulling him down the road all the more insistently. Riko is entirely unaffected as she stands with suspiciously innocent posture and waves as they head off.

She comes bounding up to where you’re hovering next to Bakugo with Tadeo still in your arms. You set the dog down as Ayame and Hayao disappear over the hill, and Riko sidles up next to her father.

“Did he notice?” he asks, still looking down the road.

“No, daddy,” she says sweetly, giggling like it’s the funniest joke she’s ever made. You glance down at her to find that she’s not-so-subtly trying to shove something into Bakugo’s hand.

“Nothing less from my best fuckin’ sidekick,” he responds gruffly as he takes whatever she’s trying to give him. You can only gape as he turns to you—no, your dog—and bends down to offer Tadeo the mystery item.

It’s a dog treat. You remember a jar full of them always on the kitchen counter back when your grandparents still lived in your current home; you’d asked them where they bought the things, because they looked fancy as hell and Tadeo always seemed to adore them—still does, clearly, judging by the way he barks and his whole lower half shakes with the force of his tail wagging—but you’d never gotten a straight answer. Now you think you might have found it.

“Played your part well, too, mutt.” It’s surprisingly affectionate—for Bakugo, anyway. He gives Tadeo a pat on the head as the dog snarfs down what you’re realizing is a homemade treat. You haven’t yet overcome your shock when he stands.

“What the fuck,” you’re saying before you can stop yourself. “Is that why he was being weird?”

“Used to love those things. Made ‘em for him all the time.” Bakugo stands to his full height before turning to his daughter. “Ready to go, bug?”

“Whoa, whoa, no you can’t just leave after that, I need an explanation.”

Bakugo doesn’t answer you at first; he lifts Riko with ease, resting her on his hip. She’s still acting incredibly self-satisfied.

“My dad asked me to put a dog treat in Hayao’s pocket,” she tells you smugly. “But I wasn’t supposed to let him find out.”

Her father frowns, turning to her and lifting his free hand to press a finger to his lips and shush her playfully. “Shhhh we agreed not to tell anyone. Secret mission, yeah?”

She pouts at the reprimand. You interrupt, slightly annoyed.

“Why, exactly?”

“Hayao’s not really interested in Ayame,” he tells you angrily. “Punk’s just some fuckin’ hero fan. Wanted to meet me, weasel his way into my good graces or some shit. If I tell Ayame she’ll just get pissed off at me. Trusts the mutt, though, so figured I’d use that.”

You roll your eyes. “You could’ve asked me, you know. She trusts me. And I told her yesterday that I didn’t think the kid was into her.”

[thunder-at-dawn]

October 3rd

word count: 1,535

prompt: distraction

summary: sapnap wants to show karl an extraordinary cave that he found. however, a creature lurks in the shadows, and it wants to thwart their plans… or does it?

I loved writing this one, might be one of my all time favorites. you guys are really in for a treat. :)

warning: this is a sfw tickle fic! don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable :]

If there was one thing that Karl knew about Sapnap, it was that he could be extremely unpredictable. It was almost like he had a different group of personality traits every day. Some days, he would be more affectionate. Sometimes, he was less confident and loud like normal. However, if Karl had to choose two traits to describe him in this very moment, they would be hyper and adventurous.

“I swear, you should’ve been there when me and George found it! It was so cool, I could’ve stayed there for hours.” Sapnap rambled on, walking in front of Karl. “You’re going to love it.”

“Wow, you seem really excited about this.” Karl, who was the calmer of the two currently, observed as he walked behind.

“Well, of course!” Sapnap grinned, a bounce in his steps. “I’m excited for you to see this!”

Karl smiled softly. Seeing his fiancé so happy made him happy in return. He looked at the trees, stretching high up in the air. If the woods they were walking through were beautiful, then this cave had to be breathtaking.

Suddenly, Sapnap stopped walking. Karl didn’t even notice until he bumped into him, and noticed that he was now standing still.

“Uh… Karl? Did you hear that?” Sapnap turned around, looking at the time traveler with nervous eyes.

“Hear what?”

“That noise. Did you not just hear that?”

“…No. I didn’t hear anything. What are you talking about?”

“I just heard a noise. It…” Sapnap paused. “It sounded like a monster.”

“A monster?” Karl asked, now a bit on edge. “What kind?”

“I dunno, it just…” The other sighed, looking onwards. “It’s probably nothing. Look, we’re almost at the cave entrance. Let’s just keep walking.”

The happy, bubbly mood in the air had suddenly shifted to a heavy, ominous one as the two lovers wandered through the woods. Sapnap would keep insisting that he was hearing a noise, but every time, Karl would hear nothing. It was honestly making him a little bit concerned.

“Alright… this is it.” Sapnap let out a shaky breath, the pep in his step completely gone.

Karl looked up, noticing the cave entrance. The entrance itself was a big hole in a hill, and it led down. There were a few torches on the walls at the entrance, but everything else beyond that was pitch black.

“Um…” Sapnap looked at the dark abyss, grabbing a torch from off the wall and handing it to Karl. “Is… Is it okay if you go in front?”

The other’s eyebrows furrowed with concern. Sapnap was so… happy, just a few moments ago, and now he was scared. Karl could tell he was trying to act calm, but he was clearly nervous.

If Karl could describe Sapnap today with a third word, it would be fearful.

“Yeah… I can.” He nodded, holding the torch in his hand, and lightly holding Sapnap’s hand with the other. The two of them walked gently down the steps of the cave, holding each other’s hands, making sure not to trip over anything. Karl, leading ahead of them, felt his partner’s hand slip away, and his heart skipped a beat. “Sapnap?”

“Sorry, I keep getting distracted.” Sapnap sighed. “Are you sure you don’t hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything!” Karl exclaimed, getting more uneasy by the minute. It was true, he really didn’t hear any sort of monster noise. He hadn’t once for this entire journey. What he did hear next, however, was the noise of Sapnap falling over.

“Sapnap?!” The traveler whipped around, running behind him to help his friend off of the ground. However, when he went to help him up, no one was there.

“Sap? Oh my honk, where did you go?”

He was behind him one second ago, and he wasn’t there anymore. Karl was alone in the deep, dark cave, with the torch as his only friend.

And then, he heard it.

A low, rumbling, growl.

A monster.

Karl didn’t know what to do in that moment, so he did the first thing that came to his mind.

Run.

He turned around, torch in hand, and ran back up to the entrance. He ran as fast as his legs could take him, and the light at the end of the tunnel showed more and more. He made it up to the top, sticking the torch to the wall and putting his hands on his knees, panting heavily. He couldn’t remember the last time he ran that fast. But where was Sapnap? He was right behind him. And now he wasn’t. He needed to find him, as soon as he could. It was the only thing on his mind, he couldn’t do anything else before he found-

“Karl!”

“AAH!”

Karl felt two hands grab onto his sides, and he turned around in a stumbled panic as he let out a loud scream. There was Sapnap, right behind him. And boy, did he find Karl’s reaction hilarious.

“Sapnap! What the honk?! You scared me!” Karl placed a heart on his chest.

Sapnap, on the other hand, was in hysterics. He clutched his stomach, laughing loudly. “Ihi’m sohorry, Ihi’m sohorry! Ihi cohouhuldn’t hehelp mysehelf!”

“I thought I was going to have a heart attack.” Karl sighed, stepping closer to Sapnap.

“Ihi cahan tehell! My mohonsteher nohoihise reheahally scahared yohou, huh?”

Karl looked at his giggling companion, confused, until it hit him, and his eyes went wide in realization. “That was you?! Sapnap!”

If Karl could describe Sapnap today with a fourth word, it would be mischievous.

He wanted to be annoyed at Sapnap, he really did. He wanted to discipline him for giving him the scare of his life, but he couldn’t do it when he was being so cute. His smile could light up any room.

And his laughter… could bring joy to anyone, no matter the situation.

“You found that funny, huh, Sapnap?” Karl asked, crossing his arms and stepping closer. Sapnap nodded, a snort coming from him as he still laughed. “Well, I’ve got something really funny to show you then!”

Sapnap giggled, raising an eyebrow out of curiosity. When he felt two hands grab onto his sides and furiously squeeze, he giggled more, a girlish squeal escaping his lips before he could stop it.

“DuhuHUDE! Nohohoho!!” He wriggled around, but Karl held onto him firmly, squeezing relentlessly.

“Dude, yes! You totally deserve this for scaring the honk outta me.” Karl responded, an equally wide smile on his face as his squeezes moved upwards, starting to now squeeze at Sapnap’s ribs.

“Noho I doHOHON’T!” He screamed out, sinking towards the ground. Karl only grinned and followed him down.

“Yes, you do! It was very mean.” Karl faked being upset, fingers bouncing along his fiancé’s ribs like a piano. Sapnap was in a giggling frenzy, shoving at his hands and attempting to hide his pink face.

“Y’know, it’s almost like you’re more ticklish when you’re already giggly. Which is very convenient right now.” He smiled.

“YeHEHEahah, fohor yoHOHOU!” Sapnap yelled out, the blush on his face growing deeper. Karl shook his head, stopping his fingers.

“You keep talking back to me, it’s so rude! Looks like I need to put you in your place, mister!” The time traveler had a soft smirk on his face, reaching a hand down and slowly pulling up Sapnap’s shirt. When he felt the fabric moving, Sapnap’s squirming increased drastically.

“WAIT! Wait! WahAHait! Dohon’t! Karl, Kaharl. Come ohon, dude.” He pleaded, the evil look on his fiancé’s face filling his stomach with butterflies. “Yohou dohon’t have to doho this. Kaharl. Karl. Wait. Wahait. KARL, DOHON’T! KAHAHARL-”

A high pitched scream cut Sapnap off, preventing him from saying any more as the feeling of a raspberry rippled through his tummy. After he screamed, high pitched, bubbly laughter spilled out of him like a waterfall. And just when he thought it was over, he felt another one and shrieked with laughter, throwing himself against the ground.

If Karl could describe Sapnap today with a fifth word, it would be adorable.

“KAHAHARL!! PLEHEHEAHAHASE! IHI CAHAHAN’T TAHAHAKE IHIHIT!” He screamed as his limit was being reached. Smaller raspberries started to be planted on his stomach instead, and then, they were reduced to small, slightly tickly kisses, each one accompanied with a “mwah!” sound.

“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!” Karl giggled along with Sapnap as he planted kisses all over his tummy. He finally finished, grabbing Sapnap’s hand and helping him off of the ground once he was rested up.

“Sooo… is there actually a cool cave around here? Or did you just bring yourself out here to scare the honk outta me?” Karl asked.

“No, there actually is a cave. I did want to show you, we just got distracted. You still wanna see?” Sapnap offered, grinning when Karl nodded.

Just as Karl had done before, Sapnap grabbed the torch from the wall with one hand, and held Karl’s own in the other. He excitedly led his lover down the cave path, reaching a railroad with two minecarts.

That day, Karl reaffirmed two things he knew about Sapnap.

One: He was definitely an unpredictable person.

Two: Karl wouldn’t change that trait for the world.

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: iii

(Mostly SFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii​​ (epilogue)

word count: ~2.2k

Nothing ever really ends. It just grows in different ways with different parts. 

warnings: description of post-injury, reader and hawks being traumatized but coping, a soft epilogue

the ending folks :’^) thank you for reading this far. here is something gentle for all of us, with some future, past, and the present for sweet starshine and keigo :’^)

enjoy loves 💞!!

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

Keigo doesn’t break promises. 

He loves white lies, the silly kind where he can rib you for a minute or two before soothing any ruffled feathers with quick kisses. He never leaves big wounds, nothing gaping or jagged, just loving pokes in your sides to get you to laugh and quip back at him.

He never goes back on his words that count.

His journeys out of the house remain short and rarely surprising. He never leaves without a goodbye, whether that’s a sleepy fuck or two, or a hand-written, tooth-rotting note on a scrap of paper next to a steaming cup of coffee on the kitchen island.

Keigo’s used to the open skies, rolling forever. The curve of the horizon is his primordial friend that he never got to say goodbye to, but he still chases it a few times a week. Little drives he takes by himself, hikes, and things that he let him feel a bit of that free wind in his shaggy hair. 

It takes you a while, but you don’t look forlornly at the door anymore.

The awareness that of his absence from your little bastion lingers as you move throughout your day, but you know he’s good for his word. He always returns, bearing a toothy grin, and usually an armload of snacks or takeout. 

It’s better, and you’re both a bit more alive. 

...

Spring in the mountains reminds you of something you can’t place. 

The memory of it is foggy, far-off and untouched. Probably a bit dampened from, you know, a year of trauma, but the feeling of it makes your quirk burst to light without fail.

It comes when you notice the little patches of wildflowers that spring up in new grass that rings around the porch. Heat flares in your eyes when you see the little seedlings you and Keigo planted into the window boxes begin to bud and flower. 

The days get longer, sweeter, and the summer comes easily.

...

The bad days never cease, but you both learn to cope to some degree.

Your scar... cracks one day. You’re doing some half-assed stretches in the living room (mostly arching your back so Keigo gets a good peek of your ass) when it happens. Your right leg bends at the knee, and a resounding ‘crack’ and shatter echo off the walls of the cabin. 

You both panic. 

Keigo instantly urges you on the couch, trying to soothe your own panic with little coos from the back of his throat. You feel numb as Keigo shoves up your pant leg, looking for any damage.

The scar looks relatively unchanged. It hasn’t writhed since your days at the hospital, and its edges have only faded a shade or two with time. It’s long, obtrusive, and something you still avoid looking at.

All the same, Keigo traces the gnarly flesh, nimble fingers searching for the source of the sound. Any bit of pain he can identify and soothe, ideally, remove. The pads of his fingers drift to the crook of your knee, pressing against the shiny, black seam of the scar.

His eyes go wide before awe shines through, without a lick of fear. 

He warns you to take a deep breath, ‘breath with him’, before pinching at the glassy center and pulling. There’s a bit of resistance as he pulls, you’re not sure what he’s doing, and you see ‘it’ before you really put it together.

Keigo holds ‘it’ up for you to see.

The inky glass of the scar.

Literal rock. Inky obsidian pulled from your flesh, about the size of your pinky and painfully jagged. 

“W-what is that?” You asked, grabbing his wrist to examine the bit. “That’s... the scar?”

Keigo nods his head, scrutinizing it with you, pinching at it, “Weirdest scab I’ve ever seen.”

Scab.

You have never thought about calling the ugly root of the scar a ‘scab’ but looking at the way it so easily was pulled away, it makes sense. After a bit of examination and tender prodding, the tissue around it looks healthy, albeit thick and burned. The scar goes deep into your flesh, feels raw to the touch, but the skin that’s beneath it is somewhat alive. Maybe too alive, given how sensitive it is.

Nonetheless, you marvel at the little piece of volcanic glass that Keigo had pulled from you like it’s the most precious stone in the world. 

...

It takes a long time to convince both of you.

Keigo never receives another call from Suits, ‘president’, what the fuck her name is. Thank fucking god. His snap seemed to have scared her and her crumbling organization away. You can only hope that it was for good.

The potential return comes from kindness rather than demands. 

Calls from both Endeavor and Miruko, ‘Enji’ and ‘Rumi’ as they insist you call them. Rumi chatters on the phone for hours with Keigo every few weeks, puts the phone on speaker, and has you give your piece as well. You like her, she’s funny and loud and Keigo smiles when he talks to her.

Enji actually visits. 

Once or twice, maybe more. You stop counting when the extra bodies in the cabin don’t have you breaking into a cold sweat anymore. It had taken a great bit of coaxing, but you opened your cabin up for the former pro and his entourage. 

He brings along his daughter and the ‘Three Musketeers,’ as the media calls them. The boys train in the mountains nearby, never lingering too far based on the shouting from the blond one that echoes against the hills. 

The rest of you settle into the walls of the cabin whenever they come to visit. It feels warmer than normal; it makes sweat gather under your arms and in droplets on your forehead. Even if you wanted to attribute the heat to the old flame hero’s presence, it wouldn’t account entirely for your thumping heart. 

You work through it, slowly. 

You like watching Keigo and Enji. They both look worn. Keigo’s a bit too young for grey hair, but Enji has more than his fair share around his temples. The beard around his jaw glints silver in the lowlight of the cabin whenever he tilts his head to sip at his tea.

They smile like old friends, talk like it too. 

You end up in the kitchen a lot during their talks, distantly cooking and observing. You’re always listening to their stories, the banter. It’s hard to keep up with, a lingering vestige of Keigo’s old persona that clings to him and his mannerisms.

You don’t mind it, even if it feels foreign.

...

“Can you pass me that honey, dear?” Fuyumi asks, voice sweet and close.

You nod, sliding her the jar across the corner top. She carefully spoons a glob of the thick liquid into the four waiting mugs, humming just under her breath. 

The cabin feels warm, and it’s not just the ambient heat Enji gives off. 

The ‘three musketeers’ plan to camp in the mountainside and ‘rough it’. You couldn’t imagine the freshly-greened hills giving them too much trouble. They bicker, you have found, constantly. Blunt jabs from Enji’s son, met by explosive remarks from the blond one (why is his hero name so long? You can never remember it well.) Consider your growing aversion to loud noise, you like Deku the best. He seems like the peacekeeper (and peacemaker) of the trio and compliments your cooking. What a gem.

The guest room has been polished into an actual guest room. Fuyumi takes it, and Enji, bless his heart, takes the creaky fold-out couch. He doesn’t mind, he tells you, something about enjoying tending to the hearth at night.

Keigo calls the nights where they fill the house ‘sleepovers’, and he adores them.

They’re a bit overwhelming for you if you’re being honest. But Enji is far less intimidating now that you’ve seen him nodding off and slack-faced on your couch. Fuyumi has patience you’ll never fully understand, and babies you a bit, which you don’t welcome but don’t refuse either. 

She does just that, scooping up three mugs after pushing your own toward you. You regather and sit next to Keigo at the kotatsu, slipping your legs under the thick blanket and sagging with the heat. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he presses you into his side, pressing a few kisses to the top of your head. It’s an idle action, habitual and welcomed as the conversation flows.

(Something about one of Keigo’s old sidekicks. Another about Endeavor’s agency, still chugging along with him at the helm, albeit not as an active hero. The new hero charts, the new rules established, legislation. Things are getting... safer, a semblance of order being re-established now that much of the League has been apprehended.)

(Things are settling, as horrifying as the change is.) 

The thought of so much makes you sleepy, long-standing exhaustion heavy in your bones. You nod off at some point to the kind, safe voices. 

Keigo coaxes you awake once the conversation dies down.

“Love,” he purrs, rubbing your side, “let’s get up now and get you to bed.”

You follow him, the way he rises and guides you to the bathroom to help you ready for bed. Enji is settling on the couch, tugging a few throws over himself on the futon. You give him a shallow wave with half-lidded eyes, meeting his own.

Eye contact feels hard, but you manage to hold it for a few seconds.

In the bathroom, you pop onto the counter and slowly brush your teeth. Sleep clings to you, and you know it’ll return quickly, but the process of moving and interacting wears you down so easily. Your toothbrush almost slips from your grip.

“Just a little more, and then you can rest, dove,” Keigo urges, reverent as he finishes his own routine in tandem. You watch as he splashes water on his face, wetting the tufts of hair that fall around his face.

The cabin feels warmer. 

You notice it as you enter the bedroom, Keigo already hopping into bed to assemble the ‘nest’ as both affectionately refer to it. The old throw, a few extra soft blankets, and a buttery soft duvet must be arranged just right before he is satisfied. 

 Keigo knows it’s a remnant.

He carries plenty of them, little chunks of him that are old and worn, old and unused. He can shake them, can’t bury them, they just simply are.

The birdish ones are nice, he thinks. He likes that he can preen you. He loves that you can preen him. That you’ll indulge him in that way, running your hands through his overgrown hair. You detangle any knots, soothe the snarls and rub at his neck until he’s liquid in your lap. 

He likes nesting. The cold of the cabin can be almost forgotten in the little nests he makes. The mountains of bedding and pillows that you both can settle in. It’s peaceful, and it's shared, and things are okay. 

It’s all slow, and a bit tedious, things that the remnants of ‘Hawks’ scream and thrash at. But, really? Keigo has no reason to listen to a ghost. He tries not to let himself be haunted. 

He indulges himself for the first time in his life, probably.

As Keigo nestles you into the sheets beside him, he gives you a bit of room to get comfortable. Adjusts your pillows how you like, tangle your legs together in the comfiest way. Your own version of nesting that makes his palms sweat and his words turn to mush.

You settle together, chest to chest, Keigo’s chin hooked over the top of your head. 

“Did you have a good day?” You ask, soft and sleepy.

Keigo nods easily, “I did. Enji doesn’t seem to quite as much of a square as he was a few years ago.”

You snort, muffling a giggle into his chest, “He’s definitely a little bit of a square. But I like him.”

“He offered to host us at the estate if we ever want to go back.”

You swallow, thick and slow, and try to bury yourself deeper in him, “... Do you want to go back?”

“No.” He pauses. “Maybe. Not yet, and not anytime soon. But the offer is on the table. It’s nice to have, even if we don’t take it.”

It’s insurance, somewhere else to tuck yourselves away if the mountains stop favoring you. 

The thought of the future makes your head spin, as it tends to. The scar aches, but maybe it’s a tad duller than it was a few months ago. The pains only last a few moments, only stab so deeply. The place where the little chunk of obsidian fell out doesn’t feel quite as tender. 

You lay your cheek on Keigo’s chest, your breath coming in time with his. 

“‘M tired,” You murmur into his chest. “Can I sleep?”

“Of course, starshine.” He pushes back your hair, clears your forehead to press his lips to the skin, lightly. Little kisses piling up on top of each other. “Get some rest.”

“You too, pretty eyes.”

You both need it. For more than just a day with the folks who stuck around. You and Keigo need more rest than a being can responsibly accumulate during a human life. There are things to be stitched, worn parts of you that need tending to, and burns that’ll need salve until the day you die. It’s not any less than it was in the month’s past.

But it’s easier to manage. 

You snuggle into Keigo’s chest, drifting off to the thought of fresh coffee and crackling heat.

✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧   ✧

thank you for reading!!💞

ko-fi

[ahkaahshi]

our place [fushiguro megumi x reader]

pairing: fushiguro megumi x gn reader

genre: fluff with sprinkles of moments that might make your heart go :’)

warning(s): n/a

word count: 1.7k

overview: you’re not particularly fond of mornings, but you think you could grow to love them if you spent every one of them with megumi

Through bleary eyes threatening to take shelter behind the comforting darkness of your own eyelids and give in to the fatigue weighing heavily in your body, you watch your feet lazily trudge through dewy grass that wets your shoes. Your palms are warm from the fresh cup of coffee you’re nursing, but your knuckles are slightly numb from the brisk air your clothing’s barely able to fend off. There’s a deafening silence in the air aside from the crunching of grass beneath four sets of feet—two of which are a set of four paws—and you ponder the oxymoron that the absence of sound somehow seems louder.

Your foot catching on the root of a large tree when your eyelids flutter shut for a moment brings you to attention and your boyfriend’s hand to your arm. It’s as if he knew in that moment you would stumble, but you figure the connection isn’t hard to make, given you’re a night owl being taken out of a warm nest for an unexpected flight in the cold, early hours of the morning. Your eyes meet for a moment, a subtle flash of gratitude in yours that he acknowledges with a nod before the two of you continue your trek through the forest.

“Megumi,” you sigh, “how is it I’ve downed half this cup of coffee and still don’t feel a thing yet?”

He shrugs. “Maybe because it’s decaf.”

His words have your jaw slackening and a small scoff of disbelief leaving your throat. The way he looks at you over his shoulder, a twinkle of mischief in his deep blue eyes that reflect what little light there is, shows he’s expecting the reaction you give him. “I trusted you.”

“Then why are you so shocked?” he asks, “I didn’t give you caffeine so you wouldn’t be too energized to nap again before classes start.”

Though you’ve felt too tired to show any emotion since you’d been awakened by the man walking by your side, you can’t help but smile and chuckle in response. “Fine. I’ll let it pass since it’s actually considerate of you—even if it’s in an indirect way. I’ll just make my students read or do something quiet while I wait for the caffeine from the next cup of coffee I make to kick in.”

“I’m sure they’ll love that.”

“I really hope you got me out of bed for a reason other than to frown upon my teaching methods.”

Megumi’s lips curl into a small smile and you swear he seems to glow just a bit amongst the silhouettes of the tall trees surrounding you, their branches heavy with leaves and moisture. His happiness is like a breath of fresh air filling your lungs; so much so that you’re reminded to take another deep one in an attempt at keeping yourself awake. His divine dogs—one a shock of white and the other seemingly its shadow—draw your attention when they approach him with a large branch in their mouths they’ve taken a shining to during your walk, and that he launches off into the forest for them to chase down again.

Something about the moment seems so surreal. Maybe it’s because the times the two of you get to spend together in peace outside of your home seem to be so few and far between, or maybe it’s because you normally scoff at the idea of being up and active before the sun rises. But, whatever it is, it creates an undeniable warmth in your chest that prompts you to push away any thoughts of yearning for the coziness of your bed, and reach out towards your partner instead.

“Try not to trip again, alright?” he murmurs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his joggers while you slot an arm between one of his and his torso, “I actually like this sweater and would prefer not to get coffee on it.”

“But it’s decaf!”

His lips pause in their action of forming a rebuttal presumably about how his sweater would stain, regardless of the presence of caffeine, and he simply shakes his head with a sigh upon realizing you’re joking.

The same silence that had once filled the crisp air returns, only interrupted by paws pounding the damp earth, but it feels more peaceful now. It’s calming, given the normally hectic lives you and your boyfriend lead as special grade sorcerers and teachers, and very much appreciated. Megumi’s pace is a bit slower and more relaxed than usual, as if he wants to stay immersed in the quietude with you and his dogs at his side. But you know he has a destination in mind with the definitive nature of his steps.

At the top of a hill whose grassy slopes had been decorated with worn stone steps that would indicate many a visitor had travelled up them, sits a stone bench you’ve never seen before. And, in front of it, a clearing where the leafy spires part just enough for you to see the small flicker of light burning at the edge of the horizon decorated with the distant buildings of Tokyo’s bustling cityscape. Your eyes remain fixated on the gentle colors the sun’s impending arrival starts painting across the dark canvas the sky provides as Megumi leads you over towards the bench so you can take a seat and bear witness to nature’s awakening.

You find yourself lost in it for what feels to be a long stretch of time until his voice brings your gaze to him instead. “Well, this is where I go.” The eyebrow you raise at his statement provided without any context coaxes him to elaborate, “You know, on those mornings I leave for a bit and come back, and you ask me where I went? This is where I go.” His long fingers card through the furry coats of his dogs where they sit on the grass between you.

Nodding slowly, you take another sip of the drink in your hand. “So, why’d you decide to take me here, considering it’s probably the only place where you can get away from the madness of everything?”

As the sun ascends skyward at what feels to be a faster pace than expected, you notice the most beautiful pools of cerulean form in his eyes more brilliant than you think you’ve ever seen them before. His hand finds yours, and your fingers intertwine. “Because I wanted you to be here with me.” There’s a pause, and his gaze shifts away from the sunrise to meet with yours instead. It’s an action that unwittingly reaffirms your importance given the beauty of the scene ahead. “I wanted it to be us here instead of just me.”

Gently, you squeeze his hand, relishing in the comfort of his touch that always brings a smile to your face. “So, what are you saying? That you think I’m actually gonna change my sleep schedule entirely just for you?” is your teasing reply.

“No,” he sighs, narrowing his eyes at your jest, “but maybe every now and then, we could go to sleep at a decent time so we can come here and watch the sunrise.”

Moving your face closer to his shortens the gap between your lips, but you stop before they can meet to answer, “We can do that.” Oftentimes, you find that Megumi’s straightforward manner of speaking doesn’t always match the true intensity of his emotions, but his kisses never betray how he’s feeling. They’re soft and tender, as if his intentions are to give you a few pecks and nothing more, but he’s always quick to chase your lips when they separate from his, even for a moment.

When your eyes flutter open once more, you watch his flit back and forth between each of yours in miniscule movements before pecking his cheek and resting your head on his shoulder. A long expanse of peaceful quietude follows, save for the chirping of newly awakened birds and the secretive whispers of the breeze through the trees.

“Do you think this could be our place?”

The sound of his deep voice reverberating in his chest sends subtle vibrations through your head, and his words bring small prickles of heat to your cheeks. “You want it to be?” A wet nose brushes against your unoccupied fingertips, guiding your hand onto a fuzzy, black snout that you give an affectionate rub.

Megumi nods and his cheek comes to rest against the crown of your head. “Yeah,” he answers, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to him.

“Better make sure none of your nosy students ever find out you’re coming up here, then,” is your warning delivered with a chuckle.

“They’re so desperate to be done with classes for the day that I doubt they’ll want to spend their free time tailing their teacher. Your students are the nosy ones, wanting to follow you on social media, or whatever.”

Each of your laughs permeate the cool air slowly becoming warmer with the sun’s expanding reach—from which you take shelter by burying your face in his neck.

“Megumi?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we just… stay here for a bit?”

You feel his arm move as he checks his phone. “Classes start in an hour.”

“Just a little bit longer?”

A notification appears on his screen, but he turns it off and tucks the device back into his pocket. “Sure,” he murmurs into your hair before pecking your temple.

He says it so nonchalantly, but you know he’s hoping whatever time he’s set in his head to leave doesn’t arrive for an eternity. Because it’s the same hope that settles deeply into your heart as the two of you hold onto one another and watch waves of light slowly wash over the dark sky, doing everything you can to cherish your company rather than agonize over the moment when you’ll have to let go.

In an exhale that tickles your skin, Megumi hums, “I’m glad you came here with me.”